His Name Was Rufus

Her name is, "Siri."

First of all, what kind of name is, "Siri?" It's not American, and it sure ain't Southern.

This computerized voice sits out there just waiting to tell us where the best Chinese restaurant is, or what's playing tonight down at the Fox Theater. Other than that, Siri leads a pretty empty, "existence."

On a day when the old sense of humor reared its ugly head, I asked Siri some personal questions. "Siri," what do you look like in a bathing suit?" I didn't think this cyber voice would even know what a bathing suit was. She quickly responded, "Shiny!" Then, I asked her if she would go out with me on a date. She said, "David, I suppose it's possible."

Siri reminds me of another telephone-related "person" that no one ever saw, but was very familiar with. And, she had a similar name. "Sarah."

Whenever Andy, Barney or Aunt Bea needed to make a phone call, "Sarah," was always there. I liked Sarah. My wife and I even named our firstborn after her.

Telephoning has sure changed since Mayberry days. There is no longer the old crank model on the kitchen wall. Every room has a phone. And, no more cranking and having to stand close to the wooden box on the wall. Now, people walk around just about anywhere and talk, often to a little earpiece. Sometimes it is hard to tell if they are on the phone or just talking to themselves.

One of the rudest things about modern telephoning is that people now-a-days take calls anywhere, anytime. In the grocery store line, in the dentist's waiting room, at a funeral home visitation, and even during church services. One lady was sitting down front in a rather small church auditorium during Sunday morning services when her phone went off. LOUDLY. Not only did she NOT quiet the boisterous ringtone and continue worshiping, she actually took the call! Rising ever-so-casually from her seat down front, she slowly made her way out of the pew, and up the side aisle - all the while carrying on a phone conversation as if she was the only one there.

One hopes there are no cell phones in heaven.

Us old-timers miss a lot of things from our past with the telephone.

First, there was the party-line. One hasn't really lived until they've gone to the country, snuck into a great aunt's living room while all the adults were on the porch visiting, and listened to two or three old, country women talk and gossip back and forth about all the neighbors. This writer's own experience with this was in the coal-mining, deeply rural, areas of northwest Alabama.

Second, there was the telephone itself. Old phones were large, black, and heavy. They carried the "Western Electric" seal just inside the handset. The cords were thick, coarse, and hard-wired to the wall. You could drag the phone away from the wall-plate only so far. There was no such thing as privacy. If the cord wasn't long enough to get you into the next room, then you had to endure everybody else in the room hearing your conversation. This was especially embarrassing if you were trying to talk sweet-nothings to a member of the opposite sex.

Third, there was the ring itself. Ringtones from every corner of the imagination hadn't been invented yet. There was one ring. It was a ringing sound - and, it was loud. The only variation involved the aforementioned party-lines. If you were on a party line, others on that same line might get an abbreviated ring, or a double-ring. This was your signal to leave the phone be. The call was somebody else's. That is, at least, until they got on the phone. Then, you could quietly pick up, cover the receiver with your hand, and listen.

One enduring memory with the telephones from yesteryear involves a construction job, a crusty old construction superintendent, and a fowl-mouthed subcontractor.

His name was Rufus. Rufus Marbut.

He was old, and as mean as a cross-eyed rattlesnake. My father worked as a carpenter on a job that Rufus ran as superintendent. The job involved the building of a public-housing subdivision of homes for low-income families. Rufus Marbut ran a tight ship, and took nothing off anybody. He was tough as a pine knot, and not afraid of Beelzebub himself. Rufus was probably already well into his seventies when the following episode took place.

One day, Rufus was in the job trailer on the phone. The phone in that trailer was one of the old-school varieties. The handset itself must have weighed four pounds.

Suddenly, in through the door of the construction trailer walked a boisterous sub-contractor. He was fighting mad about something, cursing to the top of his lungs, and obviously wanted a piece of somebody. He pounded on the metal desk where Rufus was sitting and demanded that he get off the phone. Rufus ignored him, and carried right on with his conversation. Angered even further by Rufus' ignoring his tantrum, the subcontractor kicked the front of the desk, and bellowed a stream of profanity that would have made a demon blush. He again demanded that Rufus get off the phone.

Having had quite enough of this uncouth display of cursing and temper, Rufus asked the person on the other end of the conversation to, "hold on just a minute."

Without saying a word, Rufus stood up and dropped the heavy, black handset. Just before it would have hit the desk's surface, Rufus grabbed the phone cord with his wiry old hand, gave the handset a swing, and landed a mighty blow to the subcontractor's right temple.

That red-faced, sewer-mouthed, bully went down like the Titanic. Rufus Marbut, the seventy-something year old construction superintendent, with the aid of Western Electric, had knocked him out cold. Stone-cold.

Rufus walked to the door of the trailer and summoned the young men who had been waiting in the truck for their subcontractor boss. They carried his lifeless body out of the trailer, laid him in the back of the truck, and humbly drove away. Rufus told them to never show their sorry faces on his job site ever again.

He went back to the desk, calmly picked up the phone, and finished his conversation.

Telephoning has never quite been the same since.