WHERE'S ESTELLE?

      The skill set Joe Benson spent years mastering technology rendered obsolete in the 1980s. Because of his unique talent, Joe is in constant demand. Joe’s an expert at repairing Rotary Telephones. He could fix any rotary telephone.

 If you were born after the 1990s, likely, you never saw a rotary phone. Like the cellphone today, everyone had a rotary telephone. Through the repairs and consulting fees, Joe earned a comfortable living.

         Joe surveyed his shop and smiled. All models of Rotary adorned his shop. Joe took pride he could name all the phones and their history. How lucky he was, he thought to himself. To spend hours surrounded by the things he loved: rotary telephones. Friends and family worried about his obsession with his work. Occasionally, they would voice those concerns. Joe’d  scoff and change the subject. With no wife or children, his phones were his life. Why couldn’t people understand?.

         The desk phone rang.

         “Joe’s Rotary Telephone Repair Shop. Where we specialized in rotary telephone repairs. Joe Benson, the proprietor, speaking, how may I help you?”

         “Hi, Mr. Benson. My name is Ciro Borroni. I need a rotary phone repaired.” The man said matter-of-factly.

         Joe chuckled to himself, thinking, “Obviously, or you wouldn’t be calling me!”  

         Joe would’ve loved to say that to him, but it might cost him a potential customer.

         “Hello. Mr. Borroni, what type of rotary telephone needs repair?”

         “A 1949 B—”

         “Bell System’s Model 500. The standard for over a generation and the most widely produced phone ever!” Joe’s eyes fixed on the rotary phone displayed on the right side of the case.

         “Well, I’m impressed. I guess I called the right guy. Listen, for some reason, my Nonna’s phone stopped working. Do you think you can fix it?”

         “I’m sure I can. When can you bring it in?”

         “That’s the thing. My Nonna won’t let it out of her sight. Do you make house calls?”

         “I’m sorry. Normally-“

         “I’ll double your fee.”

         “I couldn’t—”

         “Mr. Benson, could you please make this one exception? I’ll triple your fee.”

“It’s not the monetary amount, Mr. Borroni. I just—”

“Listen, Mr. Benson. My Nonna is 95 years old. She is my heart. I don’t know how long she’s got to live. For whatever reason, this particular phone makes her happy; I will pay you any price if you’d please come out to our her house. Please.”

         “Hmm, a chance to work on the ol’ Model 500, huh? Okay, what’s the address.”

         An hour later, Joe rang the bell of an East Flatbush, Brooklyn sizeable Victorian house.  Through the stained glass door panels, he saw someone approaching.

         The man immediately opened the door and, while looking Joe up and down asked, “May I help you?”

         Joe read from a piece of paper. “I have an appointment with Mr. Ciro Borroni.”

         “Okay, who are you?”

         “I’m Joe Benson, the telephone repair person. Mr. Barronni asked me—”

         “Joe Benson? But you’re black!”

         Joe smiled as he looked at the back of his hands. “Yep, I’m still Black. Is that a problem?”

         “I didn’t know you were Black when I spoke with you.”

         “Is that a problem? Are you Mr. Borroni?”

         Mr. Borroni stepped out onto the porch.

         “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Benson, I could care less about your color. But my Nonna is suffering from dementia. She spends most of her time in the 1940s and ’50s.  Nonna was raised in a strict and prejudiced housedhold. During her youth, Blacks were not allowed in her house.”

         Borroni shook his head, then added, “I’m so sorry. Can you sit for a moment?”

         We sat on a bench near the front door.

         “You see, Mr. Benson, during World War II, my Nonna was 16 years old when she fell in love with a boy named Leonardo Borroni. Her parents disapproved of the relationship.  Leonardo lied about his age to join the Army. Before he left, Nonna and Leonardo secretly married. The boy would call Nonna every week using that phone. The phone she’s cradling now. A year overseas, the boy was killed in combat. My Nonna was pregnant with my dad. Growing up, we spent all our Summers here running and playing on this wrap-around porch. My grandmother was wonderful to my family and me. I promised my parents I would always look after her. “

          Borroni stood up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Now she won’t eat nor sleep. She believes that Leonardo still calls her every night on that phone. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what she believes.”

         “Well, let’s go fix that phone.”

         “Thank you, Mr. Benson, but I don’t know how Nonna’s going to react if a Black man in her house.”

         Borroni led Joe into the house and to his grandmother.  The woman sat in a rocking chair, clutching her phone.

         “Nonna. Nonna.”

         Slowly, she looked up and smiled at him

         “Nonna, this is Mr. Joe Benson. He’s here to fix your phone.”

         She held the phone tighter to her breast.

         Stiffly, she said, “e un uomo di colore!”

         Borroni nervously answered. “I know he’s black. He’s Sicilian, um, sicilano.”

         Nonna wrinkled her brow. “E siciliano?” She pursed her lips.

         Taking advantage of her brief confusion, Borroni said. “Nonna, Let Mr. Benson fix your phone. “

         The woman looked down at her phone.

         “You can fix?” She asked Joe.

         “Yes, I can.”

         After coaxing from Mr. Borroni, she reluctantly gave Joe the phone. As he worked on the phone, Mrs. Borroni kept watching Joe’s every move. She drew in a breath, stopped rocking when Joe placed the insides of the phone on a table. Joe smiled at her. But that didn’t relieve her anxiety.

         Joe tinkered with the phone for hours. Once or twice, he thought, he fixed it. But only to take it apart again. Joe sat back and thought for a moment.

         “Maybe, this will work,” murmured to himself.

 An hour later, he put the phone together again, plugged the phone’s wire into the wall jack. Placing the earpiece to his ear. he listened for a dial tone. Static. Staring at the phone, he was stumped that the phone wasn’t working. He banged the receiver against the heel of his hand out of frustration. Was he mistaken? Was that a faint dial tone? Placing the receiver to his ear, Joe smiled. Mr. Borroni knew from Joe’s smile. The phone was fixed.

         Joe presented the phone to Mrs. Borroni. She placed the receiver to her ear and listen for a moment. A smile eased across her face as she leaned back and closed her eyes.

         “Thank you, Mr. Benson,” Mr. Borroni said as he vigorously shook Joe’s hand. “Now, Nonna can have her imaginary conversations.”

Joe looked at Mrs. Borroni and said, “Yes. Glad I was able to help.”

“I’ll be right back. Mr. Benson. Let me get your check.”

Joe gathered up his tools as Mr. Borroni walked out of the living room.

Mrs. Borroni was rocking in her chair, chatting away into an empty line.

Suddenly, she looked up and reacted as if Joe had just entered the room. She motioned him over. As Joe approached, she offered him the phone.

“Oh, no,” Joe thought to himself, “the phones not working again.”

Joe reached out, grabbed the phone, and placed the receiver to his ear. Silence. Not even a dial tone. Mrs. Borroni urged him to speak on the phone.  

To humor her, Joe said. “Hello. Is this Leonardo Borroni?”

The line crackle, then a faint voice came through. “Wh-What are you saying?”

The voice became more explicit. “This I Leonardo Borroni. Where is Estelle?”

Mr. Borroni walked into the room. He was confused by Joe’s puzzled stare.