The Telephone
The telephone is not my natural friend.
I think of this in my debrief session following my time covering the reception desk.
When a telephone rings, it is naturally urgent, because you have the space of four rings to answer.
But when three lines on the same telephone all ring at once...
A co-worker stopped by my desk on his lunch break to talk about his telephone usage. He spoke about how many minutes of day time and weekend he spent talking, how many thousands of text messages he sent a month, all the while fiddling with his insanely expensive phone and saying how he really didn't like it. But, he said, with a phone practically glued to his ear, he needed to have a super nice phone.
I wonder what it would be like to have that sort of attraction to phone dependence. As he walked away, merrily reading a text message, it occurred to me that the person I speak with most frequently on the phone is not my mother, nor any of my siblings, nor even best friends from college... it is a child I have never met who lives on the East Coast and decided eight months ago that I was his new friend.
He is just about the only person who uses my direct line at work. How he got it, no one knows, the receptionists all plead innocence. But when the outside line rings at my desk, I can just about guarantee that it is him.
"Good Afternoon. This is R_, how may I help you?"
"Hi, R_. This is J_"
"Oh, hello J. How are you today?"
"Oh, I'm just washing my hands, I just finished going to the bathroom."
Yes, dear Readers, with the innovation of the telephone, I can hang out with my buddy J_ as he washes his hands.
It is just too bad I must endure the urgency of the wailing phone to hear about it.
I think of this in my debrief session following my time covering the reception desk.
When a telephone rings, it is naturally urgent, because you have the space of four rings to answer.
But when three lines on the same telephone all ring at once...
A co-worker stopped by my desk on his lunch break to talk about his telephone usage. He spoke about how many minutes of day time and weekend he spent talking, how many thousands of text messages he sent a month, all the while fiddling with his insanely expensive phone and saying how he really didn't like it. But, he said, with a phone practically glued to his ear, he needed to have a super nice phone.
I wonder what it would be like to have that sort of attraction to phone dependence. As he walked away, merrily reading a text message, it occurred to me that the person I speak with most frequently on the phone is not my mother, nor any of my siblings, nor even best friends from college... it is a child I have never met who lives on the East Coast and decided eight months ago that I was his new friend.
He is just about the only person who uses my direct line at work. How he got it, no one knows, the receptionists all plead innocence. But when the outside line rings at my desk, I can just about guarantee that it is him.
"Good Afternoon. This is R_, how may I help you?"
"Hi, R_. This is J_"
"Oh, hello J. How are you today?"
"Oh, I'm just washing my hands, I just finished going to the bathroom."
Yes, dear Readers, with the innovation of the telephone, I can hang out with my buddy J_ as he washes his hands.
It is just too bad I must endure the urgency of the wailing phone to hear about it.
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