The Lonely Phone Booth

One regret I have as a photographer is that I did not capture the drama of making a phone call in an outdoor “box”.  The cell phone and vandalism killed off the phone booth—the photo ops I remember  are gone.  I ‘m posting today’s twivel, The Lonely Phone Booth, at this site in honor of all those stories like Superman that needed a phone booth. You can read over 60  other twivels at http://twivelist.com/ .

The Lonely Phone Booth

The first phone booth on the Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel stood shrine-like in the pale yellow street light. It was nearly 10 p.m. and tens of thousands of people had driven by it that day, none had stopped. When people used it, they were usually dealing drugs or victims of car failure. On this night there would be one caller, John.

He opened the door and waited for the urine smell to subside, then dropped in a quarter. He listened to the unanswered rings. He dialed again and was shocked by the busy signal. Was she on the phone? Was someone calling her at the same time?

She had warned him she “might not be around” this evening; still, he drove 30 miles to Manhattan and waited three hours outside her building, hoping to see her. Then he decided to drive back to Jersey. After he emerged from the tunnel, he spotted the phone booth—he would try one last time.

If she answered, he wouldn’t admit to waiting outside her building or that he was on the wrong side of the tunnel and would have to pay another toll to go back. No, he’d tell her he was calling to say “hi” between pool games.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

A few minutes later he was roaring back through the tunnel.

The next morning John slowed his car down as he approached the phone booth—he’d call simply to hear her voice.  He squinted–the glare of the sunrise exposed the booth’s seediness. Maybe he’d call her tomorrow.