This Chol Hamoed, the house phone rang. And rang. And rang.
Despite about 60 people sitting around various tables (kids included), no one stirred.
It wasn’t always like that. Back when I was a kid, a ring evoked a reflex. There was an instinctive, magnetic pull some of us felt whenever the phone rang.
Our home phone, Cedarhurst 9 0555 (Yes! For those of you who don’t remember Elmwood 6 and so on, ask your parents if they are over 60), was one digit off from that of the local film house on Cedarhurst’s main drag, Central Avenue. And thus, when right in the middle of the Shabbos seudah the phone rang, as if it was a Shabbos zemirah, in unison, all of my sisters would ring out in unison, “Central Theater, how may I help you?”
Indeed, there was a time when the ring of the phone was a family event. Back in the day, when our kitchen wall proudly hosted a hulking rotary phone, its urgent drrrring-drrrring would set my father into motion. He didn’t just answer the phone. He answered the call. As if on the other end of the line was Moshiach himself, or at least someone who might need a favor. Or maybe it was one of the baalei batim. And if we kids dared ignore the ring, we got the look.
Today, not only is that phone ring ignored, but that type of phone evokes quite a number of question marks from the newer generation.
Recently, one of the moros in our yeshiva asked me to visit the first grade. They were learning the letter “R” and wanted a rov, the person the kinderlach call rosh yeshiva.
Never one to miss a chance to teach (or to put a smile on a child’s face), I agreed. Still a little mischievous, I brought along a few bonus “R” items: a rubber band, a ruler, and two cherished objects I keep on my desk as a memorial to my father zt”l—his Rolodex, from which millions of dollars and countless acts of chesed were generated, and his rotary phone, the tool that made those calls happen.
I invited some of the boys to figure out what they were. They were mystified, and I chuckled when I saw them poke their fingers into the small holes in the dialer, trying to evoke a tone.
But, over the years, the “ignore the phone syndrome” evolved. When I was first married, a ringing phone was still an event. Soon enough, I adopted the attitudes of my children and began ignoring the home phone. By now, I dropped two of the three lines we once had to accommodate a large number of yappers, and the house phone is more of a relic than a resource. It mostly rings when someone wants to extend my car warranty, sell me solar panels, or discuss Part A, B, C or D in Medicare, something I still don’t have much of a clue about.
For the rest of the world, if you know me, you have my cell number. I’m not as sought out as I’d like to be – until I am, and I know most of the numbers or at least area codes and prefixes from which worthy calls emanate. Otherwise, I assume you’re either a telemarketer, an election robocall, or someone trying to sell me a subscription to a publication I already write for.
But here’s the thing: Even though the devices have changed, the dynamic hasn’t.
Even today, when a phone vibrates in my pocket and familiar names flash on the screen, especially during an odd hour, there’s a jolt of concern. Maybe even a twinge of worry. The internal whisper: This might be important.
In a world where, all too often, the headlines on the news sites are not always ones of joy, maybe with the combination of the curse of a golus existence, there is an angst to the buzz of a late night or unexpected cell phone call.
And then there are the calls you are waiting on. It could be from a doctor, a lawyer, or the yeshiva that is weighing whether or not to accept your child.
Maybe the adult version of what psychologists call teen FOMO—Fear Of Missing Out—can be PHOMO. You don’t want to miss the one callback you waited three weeks for. You don’t want to ignore a potential yes to the favor you finally worked up the courage to ask for. And yes, you don’t want to let a plea for help ring into oblivion.
And yet, sometimes, the urge to answer goes overboard.
Often, if I misdial a number, within minutes, I get the inevitable call back. Not inquisitive. Not gentle. It’s more like, “Someone called me from this number…”
It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. Like I just hacked their home security system or barged into their private domain, unannounced. I owe them an explanation.
By now, I have matured past the urge to accost or accuse or even respond to what I believe is a misdialed number and the caller’s quick hang-up after the realization of the fact.
Once, I accidentally dialed someone I may have had in my phone. He didn’t have my number saved. When he called back, it wasn’t “Hi, who’s this?” or “I think you may have called me.” Rather, it was brusque: “I got a phone call from this number. What do you want?”
As if I had interrupted his Pesach cleaning to pitch him a bagel store franchise.
So I gave it back to him playfully. “Congratulations! You were this close to winning $5,000 from a radio station calling random numbers. All you had to do was answer and say a friendly ‘Hello!’… Better luck next time!”
He was stunned into silence. Then I dropped the act, identified myself, and offered some friendly advice: “If someone calls and hangs up, they’re probably not giving out cash. I’m sure if it’s important, they’ll call back.”
Of course, the worst is the call waiting or the ability to identify the next caller while you are in the middle of a conversation that you initiated but it’s meandering.
It is indeed annoying to get a friendly call from someone, and suddenly you hear epes a beep from his end. Abruptly, he stops and says, “I’ve got to take this call. Gotta go.”
And I look at the receiver thinking, “Hey. You called me.”
I’m sure that I have been the perpetrator of that, especially if I choose a long car ride to initiate courtesy calls to family members, only to be interrupted by call backs from certain philanthropists from whom I expect building dedications.
So if you are among them, I apologize.
And if I don’t know your number, please don’t call my house phone. Just saying.
