I remember not having a phone.
I remember putting my finger in the hole
And pushing the hole around until it stopped.
And I remember watching it slide back around
And hearing it go click, click, click.
I remember the buzzing busy signal.
I remember calling information
To get a friend’s phone number.
I remember being scolded
For making a long-distance call.
I remember being seven years old
Talking to my mother
Who was 830 miles away
And being told to hang up
Because our time was up.
I remember party lines,
A time when I would pick up the phone and listen,
Hoping no one was on the line.
And if I heard voices,
I would wait a while before picking it up again.
And sometimes, I would get yelled at
By one of the phone talkers.
I remember phone numbers that only had 4 digits
When you called someone in town.
I remember payphones
And huge yellow phone books.
I remember running from phone booth to phone booth downtown,
Clicking the receiver lever
Hoping to find change in the coin return slot.
I remember shivering at night,
Standing in a phone booth,
Talking to my girlfriend.
I remember looking up Montoya
In the Albuquerque phone book
And seeing two full pages,
And imagining that there were millions
Of Montoyas in Albuquerque.
I remember when my parents moved to Long Beach
And only seeing one Montoya in the phone book.
It was our phone.
I remember in the 70s,
There were 5 Montoyas
In the Long Beach phone book.
It was my parents', my siblings',
And my phone number that were listed.
I haven't seen a phone book in ages.
I remember the phone ringing
Inside our house
And my mother came running
From the front yard, yelling,
"Something happened to George!"
I remember her grabbing the phone.
"George are you OK?"
She asked her younger brother.
"I'm OK, but I just saw Florinda
Get hit by the bus!"
I remember wondering
How my mother knew it was George.
I remember being on my ship
Fighting a war I didn’t want
And not having a phone.
