Phony
OV6-0307.
I still remember my phone number from when I was a little kid, five years old or less. The number was drilled into my brain because the phone was a lifeline for little lost kids. And I was such a ditzy kid, with such a poor sense of direction I got confused even in small, familiar restaurants on my way back to the table from the bathroom, the chance of me getting lost big time was always a realistic consideration. But I knew my phone number and my address (2042 Latexo Drive) better than I knew my own name. And this knowledge made me feel safe.
So I had a benevolent feeling for the telephone for many years, even when we lived in Bellville and were on a five-party line. Our ring was two shorts and a long, something our fellow party members didn’t always respect. There always seemed to be someone’s muffled breath on the line when we talked to friends. It drove my mom crazy to always have someone listening in on her conversations so she starting telling tall tales on the phone, tales spiced up with frequent cuss words. It wasn’t long before several kids at school said they heard my mother was running off to darkest Africa and my dad had an extra arm growing out his back and just where did mother learn to cuss so well? After a few years, we got a private line and the gossip dried up.
As a teenager growing up 10 zillion miles from anything besides our horse barn, the phone again became a lifeline, this time to a social life the “city” kids in Bellville enjoyed on a person-to-person basis. It was like my personal all-news radio station, especially in the summer. My friends kept me abreast of every detail of their togetherness: D’Anne put 23 grapes in her mouth at once and then choked on them; Tammy bought some blue mascara; Kyle was riding around with Diane; and John had a motorcycle wreck, wasn’t hurt, but threw up right in front of everyone. Crucial information for which the telephone was surely invented to disperse.
Now, with every passing year, the phone has become more of a burden than a blessing. Ours is out of order about a quarter of the time, a breakdown in communications I enjoy, but which pisses off people who are trying to reach us. “I tried to call all day yesterday,” they’ll say testily, “But your phone was out.” Like it’s our fault. Like they were trying to get hold of us for their organ transplant or something. I write and Richard sells watertanks: How urgent can it be? We have a modem, a fax machine, an answering machine, a beeper, and a mobile phone, but do you know what I do half the time when the phone does ring? I take off running down the cliff and sit by the creek.
I run from the phone because I know who’s on the other line. It’s either a) someone who mumbles terribly who wants to clean my carpets; b) a linguistic zombie who wants to sell me a subscription to the Statesman or c) one of the long distance phone companies. AT&T called us three times in one day. GTE calls every other day. Me, me, me, they say. MCI also calls even though they’re already our long distance carrier already. Talk about preaching to the choir. And it wasn’t easy to get onto MCI. When I tried to switch over last December, some off-the-wall long distance company called OAN Services, which is a “clearinghouse agent” for LDM Systems, snagged me as I tried to make the leap. All unbeknownst to me. Their charges were outrageous. Twenty-eight cents a minute, day or night. It took me three months and hours and hours on the phone to finally get switched to MCI. Now I got another bill for $2.50 from OAN for canceling my service with them.
Which I never asked for in the first place.
Come to find out OAN and LDM’s tactics are common and not illegal. It’s called “getting slammed.” Until they enact telecommunications legislation to prevent this scam from continuing, wary phone users should get a form from their long-distance carrier which they fill out and send in which says no one else besides the person paying the phone bill has the right to switch long-distance carriers for that number.
In the meantime, I’m learning to read smoke signals and can be reached creekside. Or go ahead, e-mail me at Suzebe@aol.com or write to P.O. Box 49066, Austin, Texas 78765.
This article appears in May 30 • 1997 and May 30 • 1997 (Cover).