Terry Dock's Den

I was thinking about phones the other day and decided to blog about them. But before I go any further, switch back to the title: I hate phones. And it’s true; I bloody hate phones, always have!

In the old days, when I was a child and then a teenager, I hated phones too. Back then, they had rotary dials. (If you don’t know what those are, check out those pictures.) It was very easy to mess up a number and end up on the phone with a bewildered stranger. I hated that. I’m very shy, and whenever I’m on the phone, I mumble, stumble on words, get the wrong ones out, and sound stupid. Add to the mix a bewildered stranger on the other end of the line, and it gets worse.

Most of the times, I would just hang up in panic (better rude than sounding stupid, huh?). And even when I got the number right, I was still at risk of ending up with my friend’s mom, dad, or retarded three-year-old brother (people just luuuuv having their demented kids answer the phone).

On top of that, I myself had to answer the phone at home. We had no answering machines back then, so not answering meant losing business. We couldn’t have that, obviously, so I was often on answering duty. And boy did I hate it as well. Same reasons: strangers, me stammering, humiliation, awful messes.

As I grew up and started living on my own, the phone became my sole responsibility. And by phone came a lot of bad news, a lot of problems manifesting over the line. I hated phones as a kid and as a teenager; as an twenty-something, I grew to fear them. Unpaid rents, unpaid credit card bills, my banker calling, because I had been in the red for months—you name it. It’s simply Pavlovian: it rings, my blood freezes.

Along the way, rotary dials died out and were replaced by keypads. But then came the really dreadful change: mobile phones. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

You can avoid the mailbox. You can ignore the landline. But you can’t pretend that the phone in your pocket is not blaring. People tend to notice. So, I developed new strategies. I muted the thing, I turned off the voice mail option (or simply never listened to the messages), and when it was just too much, I turned off the hellish device.

I know! I’m a neurotic social retard. That didn’t escaped my keen notice. But you have to admit mobile phones are the most obnoxious and intrusive invention humans have come up with since colonoscopy.

You cannot escape those things; you’ve got to have one, nowadays. And basically, you have to be available to everyone at any time. It doesn’t matter if you’re working, having a laugh, gardening, doing CPR on a hobo, or having sex with multiple partners—people fucking expect you to answer your fucking cell.

Turning off a mobile phone is the only act of rebellion a person from the 21st century could think up (that and maybe refraining from uploading a picture of their snotty, bleary-eyed toddlers to Facebook for the pedophiles of the world to masturbate to).

Don’t get me wrong (I’d hate that, too). I think mobile phones are very useful devices—to solve time-sensitive problems. “When can we meet up?” “I’m sorry I’m gonna be late.” “While you’re in the supermarket, could you please pick up some shit I forgot when I was there?” Those are legit reasons to pick up a mobile phone and intrude on whatever it is I am in the process of doing. For anything in the line of “I’m bored; I wanna talk to someone.” just fucking send an e-mail I can read and reply to on my own time. Or at least send a text ahead: “Are you busy. Can I call you?”

Oh well, maybe I’ve just turned into a bitter old coot. Or maybe I just miss the ability to be alone without having to cut myself off from y’all, whom I otherwise love very dearly. Contact is nice, constant contact not so much.

I’m a lone wolf; I only do pack once in a while. Blame rotary dials—I know I do.