Ring...Ring....Ring

Ring…Ring…Ring

            “Hello,” Danny jumped on the seat in the phone booth that stood in the corner of his living room.  When his parents bought the place, the realtor told them that before they signed the deed, they would need to agree to never remove the phone booth.  It seemed strange, but they saw nothing wrong with the request.

“Hello,” Danny repeated himself, “this is the Reese residents.  Mommy it’s for you.”  She grabbed the phone and watched as he placed himself in front of the television to watch The Muppet Show.

“Hello,” she listened for an answer.  There was no one there. 

…

            Margret grabbed the rotary phone by the chord and yanked it from the holding place on the wall.  “Hello,” her voice skipped with excitement, “this is the Goodwin family.” Running over to her father who was watching Baywatch, she handed him the receiver.  After a few seconds of silence he handed it back.  She clambered onto the seat to put the phone back in its position.  Clang.  It began to ring again.

…

            “Mom, why is it that there is never anyone on the other end of that old phone when I answer it?”  Mark shuffled a large piece of apple cobbler around his plate.  The question had perplexed him since they moved into the house two weeks ago.

            “It’s old,” she took a bite of cobbler, “the speaker in the phone is probably dead.”  Some of the crumbs spurted from her mouth and speckled the tablecloth.  “Now eat your cobbler.”

            “But Billy says he can hear the people on the other end.” Mark could hear his brother in the other room watching cartoons and laughing each time the Animaniacs would break out of their water tower.  Since Mark entered high school, he would poke fun at the show, even though it was once his favorite.

            “He’s only a baby, probably is just hearing himself talk.”  She shoveled another bite of cobbler into her mouth.

…

            When moved into our new home.  It was a beautiful two story Colonial with white shutters, a red door, and a long steep driveway.  The realtor knew that my wife would fall in love with the place instantly.  I was suspicious.  It had been built in the fifties, and three families had occupied it before us.  There was some work to do in the bedrooms and the carpets were ugly shades of green, red, and yellow.  My biggest complaint about the house was the phone booth that stood in the living room.  The frame was build of stained oak, and the glass doors caught my son’s fingers in it while he tried to climb down from answering the old rotary phone.

            “This is perfect.”  My wife squealed.

            “What about the phone booth in our living room?”  I knew there was no use arguing.  She had her mind set on the house and could already see our grandkids playing in the back yard.

            “It add a nice touch, and Noah seems to like it.”  His little mouth moved a million miles an hour as he talked on the phone.

            Occasionally the old rotary phone will come to life and ring.  My son has designated himself the official phone answerer.  As the football game runs on the television, I can hear him talking with someone.  When I ask to talk to the person, he willingly gives me the phone, but there is no one there.