Glutton For Punishment

It was next to the refrigerator in the kitchen. They always were. Most of the times they were yellow, and ours had an extra long cord. Our cord could reach over the Canadian border. As I recall, we only had one phone in the house. I know we only had one phone number (ESsex 5–4542), so my dad didn’t see any sense to having more than one phone; especially with one that you could sit at your neighbor’s house and still be on our phone in the kitchen.

We had names and numbers for our phone numbers. We were Essex (so, you would dial ES before the number). I also recall BEverly, SAginaw, HUdson, and there were a few more I don’t remember. (Feel free to include yours in the comment section. South Side of Chicago only, please).

The old time phone is not the topic of this entry.

My bedroom (we lived in a bungalow at 8111 S. Chappel) was right around the corner from the phone. So, generally I would be the one to answer the phone. When my brother, Alan, got a call from his high school girlfriend Vivian, he would come into my bedroom, and kick me out so he could have some privacy. Sometimes I went willingly…sometimes the evil in me couldn’t be contained.

The door of my bedroom was tricky, and my dad never had the time to fix it. I mean…never….had the time to fix it. So, as a result, my bedroom door could only be opened from the outside of the room. If you were in my room and the door shut…well, I kept a supply of packaged food in my room just in case. You needed someone from the outside to let you out.

Alan was once again beating the shit out of me, and the phone rang. I quickly picked up the phone. It was Vivian. He grabbed the phone receiver from me and went into my bedroom, sat on my bed, and changed the tone of his voice immediately.

Until I closed the bedroom door from the outside.

Even at 7 or 8 years old, I wasn’t an idiot. I knew I was gonna get my ass kicked eventually. I knew someone would be looking for the phone and trace the cord to my room. It was the only phone we had. I knew that, but I didn’t care.

I heard the scream from inside my room. “Charley, you better open this door!”

“No. If I do, you’re gonna beat me up!”

“You’re goddam right I’m gonna beat you up! Now open this door.”

I had to think about this one for a moment. “Why would I open the door if I know you’re gonna beat me up?”

“Open the door!”

“No! I’ll tell Dad!”

“That you locked me in your room?!”

He did have a good point.

“Tell you what. Open the door and we’ll forget the whole thing. I promise,” he said.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

I opened the door.

Out of the ashes, a sceptic was born.