PHONE LINES - Enquiries

13 July 2014

Osaka, Japan

One day in 1967, I took the Ferry from New Orleans to Gretna, a pleasant experience enough. When I arrived on the opposite shore and disembarked, I needed to call my mother to come pick me up. 

Problem was: I lost the number of the people's house where she was visiting. Today, this might be a catastrophe, because there is no longer a way to look up people's cellphone numbers. Only HACKERS - and the GOVERNMENT can do that!

Back in 1967, a cellphone was a huge, clunky suitcase affair that cost a mint, and almost nobody had one except certain high-power corporate executives and government officials. 

What people had was what is now known as a "land-line." (This term was in use in the Sixties only by HAM radio operators.) The numbers were listed in a telephone book or directory, and these directories were distributed to every household and business in the nation.  

If a caller did not know or remember the telephone number of the person or business to be called, an entity called "INFORMATION" gave out the number free of charge. It was changed to "Directory Assistance" partly because of a large number of calls for all sorts of information other than for telephone numbers. That was the excuse. In reality, the phone companies wished to increase their profits by discouraging the use of the "INFORMATION" service (called Enquiries in the UK). It was not very long after the name change that a charge was made for the service.

I went to a phone booth, (a small cabin containing a telephone), and it would usually provide the customer with a phone book - buy today there was none to be found. Undaunted, I dialed INFORMATION only to hear for the first time the words "Directory Assistance". 

I asked for the number, only to hear: "That number is listed in your directory." 

Silence. 

"I'm sure it is, ma'am!" I replied politely, "but I'm at a pay phone, and someone had stolen the phone book, which is why I called you."

Within a few seconds the operator grudgingly gave me the number in that nasal monotone which only telephone operators had.  

I exited the booth, shaking my head at this bizarre experience. It was at this point in my life that recall that I first noticed slight, subtle changes in America, and how it's people and companies relate to one another. 

FACT: In this Brave New World in which we live, companies do not want to be in touch with its customers. They consider them annoyances which produce no revenue. 

Back in the Sixties, there was no such thing as a "Customer Service" limbo line, where potential customers, after being treated to a dozen or more prompts, recordings, strong suggestions to go away and don't bother with us - just go onto www.wedontwannatalktoyou.com, eventually may exit the electronic conundrum only to speak to a usually apathetic person who earns minimum wage, and whose sole desire in life at this point is to get the caller off their line as quickly as possible.

Assisting the customer is not in the equation. 

Amazingly, back in the Sixties and before that, EVERY phone call to ANY company large or small, was answered quickly and courteously, and whoever picked up the phone answered first with the company's name, then asked: "How can I help you?" They also did not ask the caller to put up with a long string of inane questions to "verify" whatever. Never mind that all your information shows up on their screen the minute you provide them with your number, and they see who is calling on Caller ID! 

By the time the caller of today finally gets to the reason for the call, it is already clear that he or she is by no means in control. This is done deliberately. It is meant to intimidate, baffle, and bewilder the caller and fool him or her into thinking that they are really being assisted. In reality, the so-called Customer Service" persons neither treat the caller as a customer, NOR has the called been given any service. The caller is antagonized and frustrated, and the problem or situation continues to exist!

As stated, a customer service line is a labyrinth - a deliberate circuitous process of intimidation, deflection, deception, and even lies, resulting in possibly only 10% of all callers actually receiving assistance to the extent that it RESOLVES the issue and actually assists the customer. 

Directory Assistance was, as far as I can tell, the first act by corporate America to separate themselves from their customers. Today, so-called "Customer Service" is outsourced to INDIA, (or to some other Third-World country) and those representatives are not even employees of the firm called - they are contract-personnel who have no interest in professionally representing the company, have minimum training, and are in reality not empowered to do much of anything but baffle and snow the caller. The truth is, the SOLE purpose for these people is to GET RID OF THE CALLER AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. 

Many of the calls are 100% AUTOMATED. Don't ask, don't question, and for God's sake do not complain. Just pay your bill in full and hang up.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmmmm.....

San Francisco

21 July 2014

Over a lifetime, you'll see just about everything… if you LIVE long enough!! Here are a few stories of the strange, the bizarre, and the unexpected that to this day cause me to wonder.

You Oughta Be In Pictures!

I was walking along the streets of Paris one evening. I was at the intersection of rue St. Charles and Émil Zola. Pangs of hunger were getting stronger, and I began to search amid the neon lights of the avenue for a restaurant. 

Down the block and across the street from where I was, I saw a lit sign saying: "COUSCOUS". Yes! I thought, this would be where I would eat tonight!

I walked briskly down the sidewalk, listening to my portable cassette player with earphones on. 

I was studying Arabic at the time, and I'd occasionally press the REWIND button to repeat a word or phrase. 

Upon entering, I was seated at a corner table, and immediately gazed all around me at the ornate décor of the place. 

It was Moroccan art at its finest! I continued to listen to my cassette. 

I was the only guest in the place when I came in, but a few minutes that changed. In walked a party of six people, and they were seated at a larger table in front of me. 

It was not very long after that when one of them arose from the table, and walked deliberately to my table.

He was a big man, as French men go. He had a T-shirt with BRASIL emblazoned on it, with a map of that country. 

"DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH ME??" the man shouted, in French. 

I was shocked beyond belief!! I took out my earphones and responded: "PROBLEM?? I don't know you!"

"That's the third time you've photographed me!" And with that, he returned to his table, and the whole group stood up and, with an air of total Gallic indignation, walked over to the other dining room! 

The waiter brought me my plate of couscous Merguez, looking at me in a strange way. 

"This is CRAZY!!" I told him in Arabic. What is the matter with those people?? I have no camera!!"

The man smiled politely, and left without saying a word. 

Had I been in the good ol' USA, I'd have gone into the other room and questioned the man. But I was a foreigner in a foreign country. To cause problems would mean the police would come, and they most assuredly take the Frenchman's side. 

Digression is the better part of valor. Although I was upset, I left without further adieu, although I told the waiter the food was good - but some of the clientele need to be put into a mental hospital. 

Again he smiled. 

 

I donned my coat and scarf, and walked out into the chilly Paris autumn air. My belly was full of warm, delicious couscous, and my head was still reeling from this bizarre experience!

I Left My I.D. In San Francisco

I had just come in from a two mile walk across town from an Ethiopian Restaurant. I entered the lobby and thought I'd check a few things in the computer. 

I asked the man behind the desk where the crew room was, and he gave me directions. I had just gotten into the elevator when the same man stopped me saying: "Sorry, sir, but I can't let you go down there." he told me, apologetically. "I was told that you are not air crew."

We got out of the elevator, and I asked indignantly: "Not air crew?? WHO says I'm not air crew?"

"The lady at the desk," he explained. This was going to be good.

"Might I speak to her, please?"

"Sure," and I was lead to the Reception Desk, where a white lady was apparently expecting.

"What seems to be the problem?" I asked. 

The lady replied: "You are not allowed access to the crew room, because you are not air crew."

"Oh, REALLY??!!" I exclaimed, "And just how did you come to that conclusion??" ( By now I was getting very agitated.)

"What air line are you with?" She asked, with a smirk.

"What air line am I NOT with?" I retorted angrily. "You seem to know a lot about me!"

"You're not being very co-operative!" She said accusingly.

"Would you like to see my I. D.??"

"I certainly WOULD!" She said emphatically. 

"I'll be right back!" I said, with a smile on my face, and with that I went up to my room, got the ID and descended to the lobby. 

I approached the lady and showed her my airline ID without saying a word. 

Her whole demeanor changed. Looking at the hotel key card in my hand, she asked: "You're already checked in?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am, and I already have the key to the crew room. I just wanted to know where it was!"

The lady apologized. 

"Let me ask you something: is there something about my appearance or my demeanor that caused you to treat me so poorly?"

She was unable to offer an explanation. Neither can I.

My Little Yellow Friend

I had an acquaintance from Switzerland who had a strange way with words. 

One day he came into the place with a coworker - a tall Japanese guy wearing a cowboy hat. I happened to know that man, too. 

Before I could say a word, my Swiss buddy says: "Ken! Say hello to my little yellow friend!"

All of a sudden it got real quiet in the place. Conversations ceased abruptly and all eyes were on these two men. 

The Japanese cowboy was unfazed. He immediately said: "Ken! Say hello to my little Swiss Miss!"

The Swiss guy got all flustered and upset. "I don't think that was very funny!!"  

If you don't like ethnic ridicule, don't do it yourself!

 

A Rock or a Stone?

Some people like to split hairs. One day a man asked for soda water. The only sparkling water we had that day was Seltzer, and I gave that to him. He got upset, saying he wanted Seltzer, NOT soda water. Up until then, I never knew there was a difference! He "educated" me, although I still don't know what that difference is.  

On a flight to Osaka, I asked a man it he wanted chicken or pasta. Being seated on the first row of the rear cabin, there are always "issues." The gentleman, not content with a simple chicken or pasta just HAD to get a complete run-down on the two. I explained that the pasta was a vegetarian lasagna. "That's not the same thing!" He chided; "lasagna is NOT PASTA!" I told him that a rock and a stone have different names, but are the same thing. 

ONE TOY SOLDIER STANDS ALONE

26 August 2014   Houston

I was six years old when I first saw a toy soldier. It was of a marksman, aiming his rifle at some distant target. He was sitting on a window ledge in the kitchen of a man my mother was dating at the time. I pointed at it and smiled, saying: "You have a toy soldier!"

That very instant, Herbie took the small plastic man down from his lofty perch and gently placed it into my hand. "It's yours, now!" he said, smiling, and so began a time in this little boys life when toy soldiers marched into my room and into my toybox.

Although toy soldiers have been around since Pharoah's time, they seem to have really caught on only during the last days of the 18th century. Made of wood, stone, lead, and other materials, it was not until after WWII that plastics began to be used for this purpose. Plastic was cheap, so the overwhelming majority of the population could afford to have at least some.

Shortly after receiving my small gift from Herbie, I went to the local Drug Fair drug store and with a small amount of pocket change I bought a bag or two of US soldiers, compatible in scale to my recent acquisition. Soon these little guys were everywhere.


We visited a military base, and I delighted in saluting every soldier I saw - be he officer or enlisted man - and every once in a while one of them would return the salute! I toured Quantico in Virginia, and watched with great fascination the radar and Nike missiles installations. On the way to our apartment from Quantico, I noticed the rotating signs at each gas station, and imagined they were radars, searching the skies for enemy aircraft.

This was during my military phase, where I loved everything Army! It was no coincidence that Herbie was in the Army, and he nicely provided me with a leather jacket onto which my mother lovingly sewed several Army patches. I was so proud of that jacket! Also I was periodically given a regulation "burr" haircut. I was a regular little GI!! I actually had a REAL (practice dummy) hand grenade.

Oddly enough, in my play with these little plastic military men, I never had them fight each other. Instead, I would have them all combine forces against a new and more deadly menace, such as a giant monster.

We attended military functions, such as dinners and dress marches. I loved to see soldiers march in formation, to a cadence. One day, on the Mall in Washington, D.C., there was just such a big event. Marching soldiers by the thousands were joined by jeeps pulling cannon, tanks, and other military vehicles. Suddenly a large artillery piece let loose with a tremendous roar.

BOOM!!!!!

The whole crowd was silent, and I blurted out, with my little voice that carried for blocks: "Did anybody get KILLED??"

Death was not at all anything that I could relate to - not at age 6. I did not associate hand grenades, bombs, missiles, tanks, guns - or even bayonets with anything unpleasant. I was invited to dinner by a friend of mine, and his father had lost his leg during the war. I was sorry, but really felt no empathy back then. Such is the innocence of a child, I suppose.

We moved to New Orleans, and my little military group came along with me, to have more adventures on the front steps of my grandparents' house. They were joined by spacemen and Indians and cowboys and Civil War soldiers - a very strange mix indeed, and even stranger were the enemies they faced.

Then somewhere along the way I must have grown, and the little men were relegated to cigar boxes and put up on shelves, forgotten. I had schoolwork and many other things on my mind. The country changed its attitude towards the military, and as a result, toy soldiers were no longer seen in the living room floors where little boys lived.

One day, my little cousin came down from Pittsburgh for a visit, and he had a ball playing toy soldiers with me. So, like Herbie before me, it was time to send the troops off to a new and distant land. My marksman would be among the ones to go.

Several years later I had gone up to Pittsburgh to help my aunt and uncle move. It was an arduous task especially moving the refrigerator! The move mostly done, now, we were making a sweep for anything left behind. In the dirt I saw my little plastic soldiers, left there some time ago by another little boy who now was a bit bigger. I decided to leave them there. If he had wanted them, he would have picked them up, or come back for them, I thought, and maybe he did so at a later date. I really don't know.

I walked away from the bush under the stairs that hid the little group of soldiers, and then I stopped, and turned back. I went searching through the sand, as if I was saving Private Ryan, and soon found the marksman soldier I had gotten as a gift from Herbie at age 6, picked it up and put it in my pocket. Yes, the soldiers were my gift to him, but this one was special to me, and so I cleaned him up and took him home.

The little marksman remains in a small, wooden cigar box loaded with many other things I treasure above all my other possessions. Once in awhile I take it out and it reminds me of days long gone - days of playtime and fun, when the world was innocent and good.

I know soon enough the time will come when I must pass on this little gift to one of my grandsons, but I somehow don't think this little bit of plastic will have the meaning for him that it had to me. To him, it will only be a little toy soldier in a cigar box.

One toy soldier stands alone.

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☟BELOW: A set of 60mm U. S. combat soldiers, 1950's vintage, by MARX.