This "short" story (shared to me by a net friend) is a bit kilometric for
e-mail but ..... hope you'll like it.
INFORMATION PLEASE
by Paul Villard
When I was quite young, my family had one of the first telephones in our
neighborhood. I remember well the polished oak case fastened to the wall
on the lower stair landing. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.
I even remember the number-105. I was too little to reach the telephone,
but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked into it. Once she
lifted me up to speak to my father, who was away on business. Magic!
Then I discovered that somewhere inside that wonderful device lived an
amazing person-her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing
that she did not know. My mother could ask her for anybody's number, when
our clock ran down. Information Please immediately supplied the correct
time.
My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-receiver came one
day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool
bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was
terrible, but there didn't seem to be of much use crying because there was
no one home to offer sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my
throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.
The telephone! Quickly I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged
it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver and held it to my
ear. "Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A
click or two, and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information." "I hurt my fingerrr-" I wailed into the phone. The tears
came readily enough, now that I had an audience. "Isn't your mother
home?" came the question. "Nobody's at home but me," I blubbered. "Are you
bleeding?" "No," I replied. "I hit it with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a
little piece of ice and hold it on your finger. That will stop the hurt. Be
careful when you use the ice pick," she admonished. "And don't cry.
You'll be all right."
After that, I called Information Please for everything. I asked for help
with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was, and the
Orinoco - the romantic river I was going to explore when I grew up. She
helped me with my arithmetic, and she told me that a pet chipmunk I had
caught him in the park just that day before-would eat fruits and nuts.
And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary, died. I called
Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said
the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled: Why
was it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to whole
families, only to end as a heap of feathers feet up, on the bottom of a cage?
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she quietly said, "Paul,
always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt
better.
Another day I was at the telephone. "Information," said the now familiar
voice. How do you spell fix?" I asked. "Fix something? F-I-X."
At that instant my sister, who took unholy joy in scaring me, jumped off
the stairs at me with a banshee shriek - "Yaaaaaaaaaa!" I fell off the
stool, pulling the receiver out of the box by its roots. We were both
terrified - Information Please was no longer there, and I was not at all
sure that I hadn't hurt her when I pulled the receiver out.
Minutes later there was a man on the porch. "I'm a telephone repairman.
I was working down the street and the operator said there might be some
trouble at this number." He reached for the receiver in my hand. What
happened?" I told him.
"Well, we can fix that in a minute or two." He opened the telephone box,
exposing a maze of wires and coils, and fiddled for a while with the end
of the receiver cord, tightened things with a small screwdriver. He jiggled
the hook up and down a few times, then spoke into the phone. "Hi, this
is Pete. Everything's under control at 105. The kid's sister scared him and
he pulled the cord out of the box." He hung up, smiled, gave me a pat on
the head and walked out the door.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then, when
I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston - and I missed
my mentor acutely. Information Please belonged in that old wooden box back
at home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, skinny new phone
that sat on a small table in the hall.
Yet, as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood
conversation never really left me; often in moments of doubt and perplexity
I would recall the serene sense of security I had when I know that I could
Call Information Please and get the right answer. I appreciated now how
very patient, understanding and kind she was to have wasted her time on a
little boy.
A few years later, on my way back to college, my plane put down in
Seattle. I had about half an hour between plane connections, and I spent 15
minutes or so on the phone with my sister who lived there now, happily
mellowed by marriage and motherhood. Then, really without thinking what I
was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please."
Miraculously, I heard again the small, clear voice that I know so well:
"Information."
I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying,"Could you tell me,
please, how to spell the word 'fix'?" There was a long pause. Then came
the softly spoken answer. "I guess," said Information Please, "that your
finger must have healed by now." I laughed. "So it's really still you. I
wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during all that time .
. ." "I wonder," she replied, "if you know how much you meant to me? I
never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls. Silly,
wasn't it?" It didn't seem silly, but I didn't say so. Instead I told her
how often I had thought of her over the years, and I asked if I could call
her again when I came back to visit my sister the first semester was over.
"Please do. Just ask for Sally." "Good-bye Sally." It sounded strange
for Information Please to have a name. "If I run into any chipmunks, I'll
tell them to eat fruits and nuts." "Do that," she said. "And I expect one
of these days you'll be off for the Orinoco. Well, good-bye."
Just three months later I was back again at the Seattle airport. A
different voice answered,"Information," and I asked for Sally. "Are you
a friend?" "Yes," I said. "An old friend." "Then I'm sorry to have to tell
you. Sally had only been working part-time in the last few years because
she was ill. She died five weeks ago." But before I could hang up, she
said, " Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Villard?" "Yes." "Well,
Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down." "What was it?" I
asked, almost knowing in advance what it would be. "Here it is, I'll read
it-'Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what
I mean'." I thanked her and hung up. I did know what Sally meant.
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Hope you had a wonderful time reading this. Warm wishes!
Sincerely,
Alex
"There is always a better way of doing things, there is nothing best." -> A
motto for progress.