Abio 21: Hello, Operator for May 5 2024
Abio 21: Hello, Operator
There I stood on California soil engulfed in the departing exhaust of the Greyhound bus, my only home for the last six days.
“Modesto Water Wealth Contentment Health.” I crashed with Cheryl my ex and my best friend Alan her husband, Alan until I got my own studio apartment.
I became an O operator for AT&T. I know, college grad, I should have done better, but I thought being O was cool and I had fun with it.
With 60 women and three guys, one with a lisp, the phone company needed my special skills on the midnight shift, 10-6, to act as the baritone intercepting voice when drunks and perverts called the female operators at 3 a.m. with vulgar requests and salacious profanities. In my lowest register I would say, “Hello, this is the operator. What can I do for you.” I thought I sounded like Batman.
I horsed around. I hooked the Godfather Bar to Dial a Prayer. “Hello, Godfather Bar.” “Bless us lord for we are sinners. We know not what we do.” “Who the hell is this. Larry?” Click
Once at quitting time, I called the local Clocks Clocks Clocks and connected them to the time. The poor girl on the other end. “Hello, Clocks, Clocks, Clocks!”
“The time is six o’clock.”
“Ahh!” She started screaming and dropped the phone. “The time called me! The time called me!” Someone yelled, “Hurry, hang it up.”
I’ve fielded some bad calls. “Operator.”
“They just shot Joe. They just shot Joe. [bang in background] They are shooting Joe. They have run out. They are leaving.”
We didn’t have 911. That was my cue to dial Zenith 1200, a direct like to state police dispatch. “What is the location?” “Joe Rocha’s Bar.” According to the Modesto Bee the next day the killers were drunk, happy, and had money. They were leaving and ordered beer to go. Joe refused to sell it to them – too drunk. One guy shot Joe several times. They tried to flee, but were too drunk to drive and were apprehended.
My favorite after-hours call was a slurred “Connect me to the Los Angeles International Airport” coming from a pay phone in Graceada Park behind my house.
“Yes, Sir. What’s the phone number? I’ll dial it for you.”
“I don’t have the phone number.”
“Neither do I. You will have to dial 411 first. I am the O operator.”
“Just connect me! Damn it. ‘m trying to place a bomb threat.”
He was drunk. “A bomb threat?” I questioned back.
“There’s another bomb in Modesto at the FBI building.”
I quickly looked this up. Modesto has no FBI building. “OK, sir. No more bombs. What do you want?”
“I want ten million dollars.”
“OK. I can help you with that. Where do you want me to deliver it?”
“Bring it to the park, Graceda Park.”
“That’s a big park. Where exactly do you want me to put it?”
“Eh. Put it in the mail box.”
“But, Sir. The mailbox is locked. How will you get it out?”
“Oh, yeah. Put it under the mailbox.”
Then I said, “All right, buddy. I’ve kept you online long enough. We have traced this call. The cops are on their way.”
The guy dropped the receiver and took off running.
About three seconds later, a kid picked up the phone and said, “Hello, Operator. I know who that was. That was Harold Carson. He lives in my building. He’s crazy.”
“OK, Son, thank you for that information.” I kept the incident to myself. I’d chased another drunk off the streets without handcuffs. Life goes on for this public servant.
It was a month later. Slow night. Three o’clock. A little white light came on a resident line in front of me. I plugged in. “Operator, how can I help you?”
“Give me the Los Angeles International Airport.” The drunken slur was familiar.
“Do you have the phone number?”
“No. I don’t have the damn phone number. Just connect me.”
“Wait a minute,” I said like I was thinking. “Is this Herold Carson?”
He freaked completely out. He was yelling and screaming. “Ahhh! How did you know my name? How did you know my name? Are you following me?”
I said, “Harold, we are the phone company. We have been keeping our eye on you the whole time. Ma Bell cares and she wants you to hang up and sleep this off.”
“I don’t want to sleep it off. I want to place a bomb threat now.”
I said, “Harold. Look at the time. The airport is empty. It’s the middle of the night. You won’t even scare anybody. Wait until noon when the place is crowded. Now please Mother Bell is asking you to go to sleep.
He persisted. I asked him. “Why are you doing this?”
He said, “Because I want to go to a federal penitentiary.’
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I can’t stop drinking. These local lockups are filthy and dangerous. I want to go to a federal penitentiary where someone will help me. Connect me to the LA Airport NOW!” he yelled.
“OK, Harold. You win. I’ll connect you.” I plugged him into the Eternal Ring, a little port we have that just rings, goes nowhere, for just such occasions. And he can’t hang up his phone once I have him. Hang up 100 times. I’m still there. I figured he’d fall asleep eventually, and we both had all night.
About 90 minutes went by with no activity. No pickups. No lights. I figured he’d zonked out. I took a quick bathroom break and microwaved a baked potato. When I got back to my station, the cord was down from the Eternal Ring. A roaming supervisor likely saw Harold frantically hanging up his phone and pulled the cords. Oh, well. I tried.
Around 4 o’clock, the big phone rang at the superintendent’s desk. She jumped up and called everyone in the room to “LISTEN UP! This is the Los Angeles International Airport on the phone. A bomb threat has just been placed that they traced to the Modesto area before they lost it. If anyone has any information, please come forward.”
I raised my hand. The super waved me to come closer to the phone call to LA. I explained that his name is Harold Carson and there was no bomb. He was a local drunk who has done this before. He needed medical help. I told them what happened a month ago. They used their reverse directory, but they could not uncover a Harold Carson. We were all told to be on our toes.
It couldn’t have been five minutes. Ring. “Operator.”
“Give me the San Francisco International Airport.”
“Harold, haven’t you had enough? Why are you still calling in?” I waved my arm to the Super and the technicians and they went to work tracing my line.
Harold started to cry. “I told you. I can’t stop drinking. I need a federal penitentiary. These local jails aren’t nice. I’ve tried. Throw me in real prison. Even if I get beat up, at least I won’t be drinking.” About this time, the technicians give me the big OK sign that they have him.
Over the phone I can hear banging on Harold’s front door. “Who’s there?” Harold calls out. I said to him, “Harold, it’s the cops. You got your wish. They are coming to take you away. You have to go unlock your front door. Now.”
“No!” yelled Harold. “Go away. I don’t want you to take me anywhere.” Harold turned to me. “I’ll go sleep it off right now. I’ll go right to bed. Better to do it during the day anyhow. More people.”
“It’s too late for that.” I heard the door crash, a scuffle, and an officer picked up the line. “Thank you, Operator. We’ve got it from here.”
Next day in the Modesto Bee ran the article that Harold Carson was sent to a psychiatric institiue.
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