As a child of the 1950s a telephone in every house was a miracle touted by our nation. My father worked for New England Telephone and our home was blessed with six phones. Only one line, but six phones including three svelte Princess phones. My older brother and I never spoke on those, but we occasionally eavesdropped on our sisters. Never our parents. Their conversation were either too serious or too boring.
My first phone in my name was for my East Village apartment. A black phone. I must have dropped it on the floor a thousand times. The abuse was acceptable. AT&T built their phones to survive an atomic blast.
Now I have an apartment in Ft. Greene.
No phone.
No intention of acquiring a land line.
My cellphone is my primary phone.
I can call my families in Thailand cheap thanks to phone cards marketed to immigrants. My friends can reach me. Few come to visit my new dwelling. Brooklyn is not the East Village. Of course the number isn't listed in the phone book. No one knows my address. Especially not my creditors. As far as they know I'm still in Thailand, languishing in a prison.
Why do they think that?
Because prior to my return to the USA I told them that I needed an extension on my exhausted credit line to avoid being sent to prison.
"We are not a bail bond service."
"But if I go to prison I can't pay my debt."
"Your debt will be there when you come out."
"Please." I begged for another five thousand dollars. The answer was no. I have never heard from them again.
Feeling safe?
A little but they're out there somewhere.
And so am I.
Scary monsters.
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