the black telephone

​When I was a boy, we had a telephone.
I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. There was nothing she did not know. “Information Please” was her name, and she could supply anyone’s number and the correct time.
My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting the neighbor next door. Houses in San Francisco are built up against each other.
Amusing myself in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, and there was no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.
I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the niche in the hallway.
I held the receiver to my ear, and said, “Information, please.”
A click or two and a small but clear voice spoke into my ear, “Information.”
“I hurt my finger.”
Tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
“Isn’t your mother home?”
“Nobody’s home except me.”
“Are you bleeding?” the voice asked.
“No,” I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.”
“Can you open the freezer?” she asked.
I said I could.
“Then hold an ice cube to your finger.”
After that, I called “Information Please” for everything.
I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was.
She helped me with my math.
She told me my pet chipmunk eats fruit and nuts.
Then there was the time, Petey, our parakeet, died.
I called “Information Please” and told her the sad story.
She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, “Why is it that birds sing so beautifully and bring joy to all the families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”
She must have sensed my deep concern and said quietly, “Bobby, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”
Somehow, I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone, “Information, please.”
“Information.”
“How do I spell fixed?”
As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often in moments of doubt, I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated how kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
My cousins, Nancy and Vickie, answered calls from The Black Telephone.