I remember Ma Bell. She was a real woman, fully conscious, and perfectly human, who would actually help you make phone calls. Just like that. That was her job! Her phone number was “0.” Occasionally, when she was particularly busy, she would point out that a number was listed in your directory, just to keep you on your toes, but never in a snippy way. She waited while you got a pencil. She did not ask you to hold for your number, nor were you expected to continue to hold. She did not suggest that you avail yourself of the World Wide Web, or suggest that all your problems be shot off into cyberspace. Ma Bell did not attempt to impress you with her peculiar taste in pop music. She had never even heard of The Pussycat Dolls. She did not express automated appreciation for your using a pay phone, traveling with the Metropolitan Transit Authority, or shopping at Barneys New York. In fact, she had no idea what you were up to. She never pointed out, in a lengthy, verbose way that she was aware of the fact that your time was valuable, but in spite of this you must be very, very patient. She never asked you to say your name at the beep, or speak the Queen’s English into a voice-recognition machine; neither did she insist that you press anything, and after having pressed it, press more things. She did not attempt to charge you an extra seventy-five cents to dial the call by pressing the number one; she assumed that your short-term memory was in fine working order, told you the number, and left it at that. She knew you had your own finger. But that was then.
For the eighteenth time in three days I contact the ridiculously-named “Verizon” and wade through the myriad options for button-pressing which may have changed, by the way, since I phoned four minutes ago, having been cut off in the middle of complex negotiations with the repair department, just before confirmation codes, source codes, and case numbers were distributed. I must explain, all over again, that my new half-cubicle office I rent for only seven hundred dollars a month remains dial toneless, although “service” was installed twenty six days ago. Perhaps I am being recorded. They have hinted that this is a possibility, and I secretly hope it is true. I am probably being voice-printed, and look forward to being hunted down, tortured and executed, because Verizon doesn’t pull any punches. I am public enemy number one. I’m feeling litigious, violent and passionately Luddite. I’m out for blood. Verizon electronically assures me that I have a variety of phoning choices, and how thrilled and delighted they are to have alone been chosen among them, and that our relationship is everything to them, and how much they want to help me with my various problems, because we have something special, and how they have ever so many glamorous new service options with which to entice me, which they describe in florid detail. I have taken the eleven deep breaths required to ward off coronary thrombosis when a surprised humanoid responds, realizes its mistake, and cuts me off. I redial, and am given back to menu purgatory until I manage to disconnect myself from option three, sub-option eleven.
While on “hold”, a mysterious invoice captures my attention. It’s from VoiceStream, a cellular service provider. They have billed me for a hundred and sixty bucks, in spite of the fact that I don’t own a cell phone. It seems I’ve been sucked into their fascist database, after having had a brief flirtation/skirmish at their chic Fifth Avenue boutique. There I availed myself of personal option number one, viz, to tear up contracts and throw them on the floor, screaming invective in Yiddish after waiting forty-eight minutes for a sales rep to continue “processing” my order. She was on the phone, and phone people are more important than real people to phone people, you know. Perhaps it’s time for a cocktail. As the daughter of an alcoholic, my DNA and I feel it’s pointless to resist. Just a matter of time.
When I’m good and drunk, I call up Verizon again. The minute I get a human I ask it to hold as I have a very important call. In a convincing automated tone I swear, over the course of seventeen minutes, that I appreciate its patience, and I’ll be with it shortly. Then, suddenly, I insist on speaking to a machine. While holding my nose and feigning a heavy Staten Island accent, I ask it what the weather is like in Tennessee or whatever rural backwater it comes from, and if it answers I ask it if its parents are related or something like that. I then insist that it must be L.L. Bean and what does it mean it won’t personally monogram my bath towel? I order some waders and a tote bag, whistle piercingly into the mouthpiece, and hang up. Then I go to my other line and do the same thing all over again. I can keep this abuse going indefinitely, or at least until somebody wipes me down with a wet washcloth. I’m still waiting for those towels.
copyright 2007, Laurie Rosenwald
