Unexpected Power

Yesterday I flew from Baltimore-Washington International Airport (BWI) to Manchester, NH. My conference in D.C. had ended and it was time to rejoin Sara in New England. But before I boarded the plane I had to fulfill the promise I made her: I have to call her from the airport before we take off.

I sally up to one of two pay phones next to gate B25 in BWI. I begin to punch in the phone number of our calling card and realize that the keypad is not working properly. By the time I press the keys hard enough to register, the little woman inside the payphone has given up on me and flips me off with her three-tone discordant beeps. "Your call cannot be completed as dialed." At first I think it's my fault. Had I entered the numbers improperly? What about the "1"? I can't tell anymore whether I need to punch in "1" before the "800," or if this is one of the counties where the unitarian prefix has been excommunicated. So I try again. Once again I get the three-tone wave from the witch in the box. (She really doesn't sound sorry that my call can't be completed. They need to get some voice-acting lessons for these things.) While I struggle with the keys, I notice two things. First, there's an 800-number to call for "Repairs" under the handset. Second, there's another phone right next to me; the more times I hear the shrill triple-tone, the shinier and more appealing the other phone gets.

I step over to the other phone, whose keypad works like a new Jaguar, and talk with Sara. I hang up the phone and my gaze falls to that 800-number marked "Repairs." I've got 45 minutes before my flight and I've been reading A.J. Jacobs' book, "The Year of Living Biblically," so I'm feeling morally inspired. I dial the number.

The automated system, with a voice as smooth and silky as HAL from 2001 but more seductive and less creepy, asks me why I'm calling. She gives me several choices, to which I respond verbally. She seems to understand. Slick. Here's a phone I can get along with. (Of course, slick and sexy is what I expect from a company whose name has a "V" and a "Z" in it.) I enter the phone number of the unit next to me.

"I've pulled up the records for this account," says EXI (HAL's cuter cousin), "and determined that you'll need the help of a customer service agent." I am struck by an inexplicable sadness; but there's no time to mourn. Maybe I'll call EXI another time. Two rings later, my customer service agent picks up.

"Thank you for calling V*****n. May I have your name?"

"Uh, yeah. Emrys: E, M, R, Y, S." Why did she need my name?

"Thank you. Now is this inquiry regarding phone number 410-805-9560?"

I look over at the plate under the handset holder. "Yes."

"How can I help you today, Mr. Esumrus?" Once again, good etiquette whose intentions have gone sour. I cringe as my name is butchered.

"I just tried to use the phone, and the keypad was not working properly."

"Hm. I'm looking at the records here, and there was just a service call to check that phone yesterday. We sent out a technician--was the phone serviced yesterday?"

I clearly needed to be more specific about the situation. "I don't know. This is a pay phone at the airport, so I can't say whether it was serviced yesterday."

"Well, the handset should have been fixed yesterday."

And even more specific. "Well, the handset worked fine for me. The keypad is the problem."

"Oh, the keypad." I hear typing at the other end. "And Mr. Ermphphns"--Mr. Bell clearly didn't anticipate Welsh names crossing the wires--"is the account in your name?"

The communication gap widens. I feel like Indiana Jones trying to make it out of the temple before the earthquake swallows him. "No. Actually, I'm in Baltimore Washington Airport, at a pay phone. I just tried to use the one next to me and it didn't work. That's why I'm calling."

"OK. You're at the airport. Can you tell me where you are?"

Did she do that intentionally? Is she yanking my chain? I look around for clandestine recording devices or a crew with Candid Camera hats on. I feel like I ought to be whispering into the phone. "I'm next to gate B25."

More typing. "Alright, Mr. Esumrus, I'm looking at sending a technician out tomorrow between 9 am and 8 pm. Would that be all right?"

I think we missed something here. Maybe where my agent is, they don't have airports. Or maybe individuals own their own airports and the phones therein. Strange--she doesn't have an accent like most customer service agents do.

And I'm holding unexpected power; I feel like Frodo in Mount Doom. The repair of this poor BWI payphone hangs by a single thread, dangled over the pit of oblivion, victim to the whim of a passer-by. I giggle with the sudden urge to tell her that I want it repaired only between 6 and 7 am on Sunday. The thought of a technician trying to get here with his gear before security is open tickles me. I look around again for cameras. "Um, I just stopped to use the pay phone. Anytime you come by will be fine with me." Thanks, A.J.

"All right, Mr. Emuphras, we're going to send a technician out tomorrow between 9 am and 8 pm to fix the keypad of that phone."

"Thank you, that will be perfect."

"Thank you for calling V*****n. Have a good day."

"No, thank you. You just made my day that much funnier." All right, I didn't say that. But I was thinking it. I'm glad pay phones have not totally succumbed to cell phones. They're still good for something.

~ emrys