Pay Phone Junkies

by James MacLaren

There’s a whole little subculture that does the pay phone. Day after day, it’s pretty much the same folks. My guess is they all know each other and god only knows what kind of social interaction or pecking order has evolved out there by the highway.

What’s the deal here? What makes people decide that hanging out, in the middle of the damn weather, milling around a pay phone is the thing to do? At least in the olden days, there was a damn booth you could get inside of to sorta ward off the worst that mother nature was gonna dish out at you.

But not now, no siree. Your butt’s hanging in it and that’s that.

Most of these folks look like they’ve already been out in the weather a little too much anyway.

Without a doubt, there’s a fair amount of dealing in various contraband commodities going on. But that can’t explain ALL of it. I’m guessing that some of these people just don’t have their own phone and also don’t have the mathematical smarts to figure out that even at a measly thirty-five cents a pop, it’s still costing ‘em twice as much as it would if they just bit the bullet and got a phone at home. I’ll bet they play the lottery, too. Scratch off people, no doubt. In fact, now that I think about it, that’s exactly the case. Same faces. Figures.

So there they are. Feeding the beast the last of the change they scrabbled out of the sofa cushions. Talking to somebody they don’t even like. Waiting around for a call, shivering in the cold. Edging away from that guy with the look in his eyes. Enduring the roar of the traffic as they attempt to decipher the drunken mumblings of whoever’s on the other end of the line. Standing there waiting like a goof while the derelict that’s hogging the phone yammers on and on.

And returning, ever returning for more the next day.

Fuck off, assholes.