bad connection felt light. The receiver part was missing components. I unscrewed the mouthpiece section to check. The interior metal voice gadget had been removed. Vandalized. I got back in my cab and moved on.
After arriving at Fortieth Street on Third Avenue, seven-in-a-row non-working units later, I located an instrument that appeared functional - the hearing and listening parts were both okay. But it turned out that the push-button dialing mechanism didn’t work. Press any number other than zero and nothing happened. When I hit the zero by itself the operator came on and made the call for me.
Rodney’s office answered. But the person in the payroll department that I had needed to speak with twenty minutes before was unavailable, gone on a coffee break. The company receptionist twat hissed, ‘Call back later,’ then clicked off.
It was then that I yanked the hand piece with the cord completely out of the phone, flung it into a street garbage can and walked off.
Back sitting behind the wheel of cab number 7912, about to drive off, I remember having the thought: I hate the motherfucking fucking phone company!
Snapping on my taxi’s OFF-DUTY switch, I returned to the paybox I’d just disabled. On the front of the phone I located the unit’s stenciled pay phone number. I copied the number down.
As I found out, there are more than thirty pay phones between Forty-second and Eighty-sixth Street on Third Avenue. The main cross-town two-way streets, like Fifty-seventh and Seventy-second and Seventy-ninth and Eighty-sixth, have several units installed on each corner, not just two. I decided to report all the ones that didn’t work.
Because I was in the middle of the busiest part of midtown New York, it wasn’t that easy to stop, double park my cab, make my way to the phone stands, check each unit, then copy down the number along with a description of why each one of the damaged and vandalized cocksuckers was nonfunctioning. It took time. Over two hours. People would hail me, occasionally even try to get in when I’d be delayed at a red light. But I had my doors locked. I ignored all distractions.
When I got past Eighty-seventh Street on Third I considered the job done. The busy part of midtown technically ends at Eighty-sixth Street. I tallied the phone numbers I had written down then counted the torn-out handsets on the floorboard of my cab. The numbers corresponded. Eighteen.
I pulled over one final time, double parked at the next paybox stand. The unit was working okay. I punched zero. The operator answered, ‘Operator.’
‘There are eighteen non-working pay phones on Third Avenue in midtown,’ I announced. ‘I’ve copied the telephone numbers down and I want to report them.’
There was a funny interval of dead air but I could hear breathing on the other end. Finally I said, ‘Are you there? Hello?’
‘…Sir…I’m here. Go ahead.’
‘I’m trying to give you the numbers and information on out-of-order pay telephones on Third Avenue. Pay telephones that belong to your company. This is AT&T isn’t it? Are you with me here?’
Another pause, then, ‘Go ahead, sir.’
‘Should I be speaking to a supervisor or a repair person?’
‘…I’m okay…Report ‘em to me…How many you say?’
‘Eighteen. Are you ready?’
‘Go ahead, sir…I just say go ahead.’
‘Okay,’ I began, ‘at Forty-first and Third on the southeast corner is where your first non-operational piece of phone crap is located. I lifted the receiver off the hook and nothing happened. No tone. Dead air. Zip. The number on that piece-of-junk unit is 212-473-4407. Okay?’
Again dead air.
‘You there, operator?’
‘…Sir, go ahead.’
‘I didn’t know if you were still there. You should say something. That way I know you’re still there and I’m speaking to a living, alert homo sapien.’
‘…Next, sir.’
‘Next is number two. Number two follows number one and is also located at Forty-first and Third
After arriving at Fortieth Street on Third Avenue, seven-in-a-row non-working units later, I located an instrument that appeared functional - the hearing and listening parts were both okay. But it turned out that the push-button dialing mechanism didn’t work. Press any number other than zero and nothing happened. When I hit the zero by itself the operator came on and made the call for me.
Rodney’s office answered. But the person in the payroll department that I had needed to speak with twenty minutes before was unavailable, gone on a coffee break. The company receptionist twat hissed, ‘Call back later,’ then clicked off.
It was then that I yanked the hand piece with the cord completely out of the phone, flung it into a street garbage can and walked off.
Back sitting behind the wheel of cab number 7912, about to drive off, I remember having the thought: I hate the motherfucking fucking phone company!
Snapping on my taxi’s OFF-DUTY switch, I returned to the paybox I’d just disabled. On the front of the phone I located the unit’s stenciled pay phone number. I copied the number down.
As I found out, there are more than thirty pay phones between Forty-second and Eighty-sixth Street on Third Avenue. The main cross-town two-way streets, like Fifty-seventh and Seventy-second and Seventy-ninth and Eighty-sixth, have several units installed on each corner, not just two. I decided to report all the ones that didn’t work.
Because I was in the middle of the busiest part of midtown New York, it wasn’t that easy to stop, double park my cab, make my way to the phone stands, check each unit, then copy down the number along with a description of why each one of the damaged and vandalized cocksuckers was nonfunctioning. It took time. Over two hours. People would hail me, occasionally even try to get in when I’d be delayed at a red light. But I had my doors locked. I ignored all distractions.
When I got past Eighty-seventh Street on Third I considered the job done. The busy part of midtown technically ends at Eighty-sixth Street. I tallied the phone numbers I had written down then counted the torn-out handsets on the floorboard of my cab. The numbers corresponded. Eighteen.
I pulled over one final time, double parked at the next paybox stand. The unit was working okay. I punched zero. The operator answered, ‘Operator.’
‘There are eighteen non-working pay phones on Third Avenue in midtown,’ I announced. ‘I’ve copied the telephone numbers down and I want to report them.’
There was a funny interval of dead air but I could hear breathing on the other end. Finally I said, ‘Are you there? Hello?’
‘…Sir…I’m here. Go ahead.’
‘I’m trying to give you the numbers and information on out-of-order pay telephones on Third Avenue. Pay telephones that belong to your company. This is AT&T isn’t it? Are you with me here?’
Another pause, then, ‘Go ahead, sir.’
‘Should I be speaking to a supervisor or a repair person?’
‘…I’m okay…Report ‘em to me…How many you say?’
‘Eighteen. Are you ready?’
‘Go ahead, sir…I just say go ahead.’
‘Okay,’ I began, ‘at Forty-first and Third on the southeast corner is where your first non-operational piece of phone crap is located. I lifted the receiver off the hook and nothing happened. No tone. Dead air. Zip. The number on that piece-of-junk unit is 212-473-4407. Okay?’
Again dead air.
‘You there, operator?’
‘…Sir, go ahead.’
‘I didn’t know if you were still there. You should say something. That way I know you’re still there and I’m speaking to a living, alert homo sapien.’
‘…Next, sir.’
‘Next is number two. Number two follows number one and is also located at Forty-first and Third
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