| PUBLISHER’S MESSAGE I was wrapping up an interview the other day when my phone vibrated. Glancing down, I could see it was my daughter, Geneva. Her text read, “Dad come pick me up at the gym.” Not happy to cut my conversation short, I mostly took exception to the tone of the message. There was no “Please,” no “Thank you,” and I was right in the middle of something. She was the only one there, and I spotted her black and yellow <strong>SLO</strong> High hoodie instantly as I rolled up to the curb. “Sorry about that, Dad,” she said as she climbed into the car. “Geneva, what? You don’t even bother to say, ‘Please’ anymore?” I asked. “I’m really sorry, Dad, but my phone was running out of power; it was at 1%. See, look,” she said showing me her phone, “it’s totally dead now—and I wanted to make sure the message went through.” “I doubt that typing out ‘Please’ would have drained the battery,” I retorted, which was also the opening salvo of my soapbox lecture. As I droned on about how busy my day had been, how I had to leave my interview early, how I still had 40,000 things remaining on my to-do list, blah, blah, blah, blah. Sometimes I even bore myself, and this was one of those times. It was almost as if I was watching the scene unfold, outside of my body from the back seat, as I droned on with my high-and-mighty self-righteousness. That’s when it hit me. Her message was nearly identical to the one I sent to my mom back in the day. Only it wasn’t an iPhone; it was 1-800-COLLECT. Up to that point, to summon a ride home, there were two options and both required a payphone. Either you could drop two dimes into the slot—money that could have been put to better use, like buying Kit Kats, or Whatchamacallits, or baseball cards—to place a call. Or, you could dial “0” and talk to the crotchety lady on the other end of the line to make a collect call. Considering the number of rides my younger sisters and I required to all of our various sports and activities, those expenses were stacking up. That’s when I found a workaround. After spelling “collect” with the touch-tone keypad, a chirpy recorded voice greeted me. “Thank you for calling 1-800-COLLECT, please enter the phone number you wish to call. Following the prompt, clearly state your name.” When the beep stopped, I rattled off as fast as I could, auctioneer-style, into a single amalgamated word: “Mom-come-pick-me-up-at-the-gym!” Seconds later, the rotary phone framed by the floral-print wallpaper above the kitchen table where my mom was grading English papers rang, startling her out of her flow. “Hello?” she answered. The chirpy recorded voice stated, “This is 1-800-COLLECT. You have a collect call from,” and there was a brief pause followed by my recording, “Momcome-pick-me-up-at-the-gym!” The voice then asked Mom if she agreed to the charges. That’s when she hung up, finished filling the essay with red ink, and grabbed her keys. I pulled the sweatshirt tight around my neck, doing my best to hold in my body heat, as I strained to see through the voracious Tule fog. Did she get the message? I wondered and worried. Every car that approached, I willed to morph into our old Volkswagen van. Knowing how much the German hippie mobile hated the cold, I whispered a prayer to myself, hoping it would start this time. The familiar putt-putt-putt gave it away. I heard the geriatric seven-seater before I saw it. Pulling hard twice to unstick the front door, I said, “I’m sorry, Mom. Practice got canceled.” That’s when she let me have it. “What about saying, ‘Please?’” she asked. “You know that this is my paper grading time. Do you know how busy I am? I’ve got 40,000 things to do today.” I don’t know where she came up with 40,000, but it was always 40,000, never 28,500 or “a ton of stuff ” or some other thing. What’s interesting to me now is that’s exactly how much I’ve got to do in any given day, at least that is what I tell my kids—40,000. “Mom, you don’t understand. That’s not how 1-800-COLLECT works. I’ve got to keep it super short, otherwise they will charge us for the call.” As if behind a drum kit, she lifted her right foot at the same time pressing down her left on the clutch while dropping the shifter from third to fourth. “Really? That’s how it works?” she wondered aloud. “Be sure to tell your sisters about it, okay.” I would like to take this opportunity to say “thank you” to everyone who has had a hand in producing this issue of <strong>SLO</strong> <strong>LIFE</strong> <strong>Magazine</strong> and, most of all, to our advertisers and subscribers—we couldn’t do it without you. Live the <strong>SLO</strong> Life! 1-800-COLLECT Tom Franciskovich tom@slolifemagazine.com Get the story within the story by going to GrowWithTom.com and subscribing to Tom’s Bombs to receive the next installment called “Decomposing Room.” 14 | <strong>SLO</strong> <strong>LIFE</strong> MAGAZINE | OCT/NOV <strong>2018</strong>
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