The Landline Lament

Ring, ring.

"Hello? Johnson residence, this is Marjorie speaking."

"Marjorie! It’s Ruth. Did you just sit down? Because this is a doozy."

"Oh, Ruth, every time you call, it’s a doozy. Hold on, let me park myself in the recliner. All right, go on. What happened?"

"Marjorie, you’ll never believe it. My son—you know, Darren? The one who thinks every gadget that beeps is a gift from the Almighty—he tried to replace my landline. Said it’s obsolete. Obsolete, Marjorie! Can you imagine?"

"Replace it? With what?"

"A cell phone! He called it a smartphone, but let me tell you, it’s not very smart if it can’t stay plugged into the wall where it belongs."

"Oh, Ruth, I’ve heard about those. Carol down the street got one. She’s always yelling at it like a lunatic. 'Siri, find me a recipe for lemon bars!' Siri this, Siri that. Who is this Siri, anyway?"

"No idea, but she sounds like trouble. I told Darren, ‘What’s wrong with my landline? It’s been here since 1983, and it’s never let me down.’ He says, ‘Mom, the future is here.’ I told him, ‘The future can get lost. The past is perfectly fine.’"

"Good for you, Ruth. These kids don’t understand reliability. Did I ever tell you about the time my landline helped me catch Frank sneaking out to buy that motorcycle?"

"No, but now you have to!"

"Well, it was 1997. Frank thought he could be sneaky. But he didn’t count on my friend Caller ID. Saw the dealership’s name pop right up, so I picked up and said, 'You tell Frank his midlife crisis can wait until the kids’ tuition is paid.' Problem solved. Can your son’s smartphone do that?"

"Doubt it. Darren says his phone can do ‘everything.’ He spent ten minutes trying to show me how it works. He’s swiping and tapping, and I’m thinking, ‘Why would anyone want to play finger puppets with a phone?’"

"Ruth, that’s exactly it! Phones used to have dignity. They’d sit on the counter, they’d ring, you’d answer, and that was that. None of this… finger ballet."

"Exactly! And you know what else? He says the smartphone can take pictures. Pictures! I said, ‘If I wanted a camera, I’d buy a camera. This is a phone. Stick to your lane.’"

"Good for you. What’s next? A microwave that gives unsolicited life advice?"

"Oh, don’t give them ideas, Marjorie. These tech people are itching to stick a computer chip in everything. Anyway, I finally told Darren, ‘If you want to use your fancy pocket phone, fine, but this landline stays. And while you’re at it, fix the static on my answering machine.’"

"You still use an answering machine?"

"Of course! It’s a perfect system. If I’m not home, people leave a message. I get home, I listen to the message. Simple."

"Well, Ruth, you’re my hero. The way you’ve stuck to your guns is inspiring. Oh, wait… someone’s on my call waiting. Probably Carol wanting me to hear about Siri again. Let me go grab it."

"All right, but don’t let Siri replace you, Marjorie."

"Fat chance of that. Talk soon, Ruth!"

Click.

Later that evening, the landline sat in the warm glow of a nearby lamp, quietly basking in its enduring reliability. But the story didn’t end there. Ruth called back the next day.

Ring, ring.

"Hello, Ruth. Let me guess, Darren brought over a drone this time?"

"Worse! Marjorie, he set up something called a ‘smart speaker.’ It’s named Alexa. I think it might be possessed."

"Possessed? Ruth, don’t you think that’s a bit dramatic?"

"Oh, do I? Well, you tell me. I said, ‘Alexa, play some Glenn Miller.’ She responded, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t find Glenn Miller on Spotify.’ Spotify! I just want my music, not an argument. Then, when I got flustered and said, ‘Forget it,’ she answered, ‘I don’t know that one.’ I think she’s mocking me."

"Ruth, that’s chilling. Carol was telling me her Siri turned on by itself and started reciting the weather at 2 a.m. I’d have thrown it in the compost bin."

"I tried to unplug Alexa, but Darren said, ‘Mom, you’re not supposed to do that. You have to tell her to stop.’ I said, ‘Darren, I don’t negotiate with appliances.’"

"Ruth, you’re my hero."

"Well, the thing is, she won’t stop listening. Even when you’re not talking to her, she’s there. The little blue light flickers now and then. It’s unsettling. I was talking about rhubarb pie, and suddenly, Darren gets an email about a pie recipe. I’m telling you, she’s eavesdropping."

"You know what’s funny? We’ve had our landlines forever, and not once have they ever recorded our conversations for pie recipes. All my landline ever does is ring and deliver the news—no sneaky listening."

"Exactly! And let me tell you about yesterday. I accidentally called Alexa ‘Alyssa.’ She got all huffy and said, ‘I didn’t understand that.’ It’s like she’s emotionally fragile. Meanwhile, my landline just sits there, waiting patiently."

"Patience is a virtue, Ruth. Something these gadgets could learn."

"Amen to that, Marjorie. Also, remember my neighbor, Betty? Her grandson gave her one of those video doorbells. She told me the other day it recorded a squirrel eating a bagel. Now she’s convinced it’s entertainment. Can you believe it?"

"Honestly, Ruth, I can’t. Whatever happened to just peeking out the window?"

"That’s what I said! But no, she says it’s ‘modern convenience.’ I say it’s modern nonsense. Next thing you know, they’ll put a screen on my refrigerator to show me what’s inside."

"Oh, don’t joke, Ruth. Carol’s fridge already sends her grocery lists. She says it’s convenient. I say it’s creepy. I know what’s in my fridge—I don’t need a gadget tattling on me."

"Marjorie, I swear, this is how it starts. First, the gadgets tell you what’s in your fridge. Next thing you know, they’re locking you out of the house because you didn’t say ‘please.’"

"I don’t want to live in a world like that, Ruth."

"Me neither. That’s why I told Darren to take Alexa and her smug blue light back to his house. I’ll stick with my landline, thank you very much."

"Good for you, Ruth. And when the robots eventually take over, you and I will be safe. We’ll just pull the plug."

"Exactly! Now, Marjorie, what are you bringing to the church potluck this weekend? I’m thinking I’ll make my famous rhubarb pie."

"Oh, Ruth, that sounds wonderful. I was thinking deviled eggs."

"Perfect. And let’s not invite Alexa. She’d probably suggest store-bought pie and ruin the mood."

"Ruth, I don’t think Alexa’s getting an invite anywhere near me."

Click.

And so, the landline endured—faithful, reliable, and untouched by the modern madness of smart gadgets. Ruth and Marjorie? They had all they needed: a simple phone, good conversation, and a healthy skepticism of anything that came with an LED light.