View source for 1984-01-02-sr-p14-17-digit-phone-number

'''January 02, 1984 Spokesman-Review Page 14:'''
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[[file:1984-01-02-sr-p14-17-digit-phone-number-1600.jpg|thumb|right|200px]]'''Are you ready for a 17-digit phone number?'''

DAVE WORKMAN

Olympia bureau

OLYMPIA — The people of Bryant Pond, Maine,
have my sympathies.

A couple of months ago, they were nudged into the
1980s—forced to give up their old-fashioned
hand-crank telephones to join the outside world in
computerized dialing.

Disciples of progress may say, “It’s about time!
How did they get left out this long?”

But I say it’s too bad
because the 1,000 or so
souls in Bryant Pond
lost more than antique
telephones and regular
elbow exercise.

They lost more than
the distinction of being
the only place where
crank calls are legal.

They also lost the distinction
of being one of
the last refuges of man’s
mastery of the world.

From now on, the people
of Bryant Pond will
have to face the fact
numbers, not people,
rule the earth.

You don’t think so?
Well, compare the
Bryant Pond of old with
the sophisticated
telecommunications
technology of today.

The folks in Bryant
Pond used to pick up the receiver, give the old crank
a twist, and ask Elden Hathaway (owner of the local
phone company) to ring somebody across town.

Hathaway, sitting at the switchboard in his living
room, would exchange pleasantries and put the call
through. If the person being called was busy, he could
finish what he was doing, then get back to Elden and
the original caller.

Now look at what I go through, using the new
technology.

Because my bosses lease my office space and
telephone service from state government, my business
phones are on the government's money-saving
statewide telephone network, called SCAN.

I like to save money, even if it’s not money in my
own pocket, so I willingly use the SCAN system. But
recently, Olympia’s wizards of technology added
another money-saving feature, which added six to eight
digits to every long-distance call I make — and I
make several a day.

Now, depending on whether I use my push-button
phone or my rotary-dial phone, I have to dial either
17 or 19 digits to make a long-distance call.

Recently, I decided to call Bryant Pond from my
office. I felt pretty silly sitting here punching 17 di-
gits to talk to somebody whose phone number used to
be “six-one, ring two” (translation: No. 61 with two
rings).

In case you've never seen a 17-digit phone number
all strung out in black and white, here’s what it looks
like: 8-123456-987-654-3210.

It makes your Social Security number or your driver’s
license or your bank account number look like a
piece of cake.

The first digit tells the state computer that somebody
wants to make a long-distance call. The next six
tell the computer it’s me.

The next three digits are the area code for the
place I’m calling. And the last seven digits are the
actual phone number.

Sometimes, by the time I pound out the first seven
digits, I’ve forgotten who I was calling (or what my
name is). So I have to start all over.

Mutter, mutter.

Other times, I breathlessly dial all 17 or 19 digits,
inhale and wait expectantly for the phone to ring.
And then a recorded voice says, “The SCAN system
cannot complete your call as dialed.”

Mutter, mutter, mutter.

And frequently, I dial all 17 or 19 digits flawlessly,
only to hear a recorded voice say, “Please wait. All
SCAN lines are busy.”

Mutter, mutter, mutter, mutter.

These are problems the folks in Bryant Pond didn’t
used to have to worry about.

John Freeman, principal of the elementary school
there, remembers chatting with Elden Hathaway to
place a call.

“It was kind of pleasant to get on the telephone and
have someone to talk to,” said the New Jersey native.

And he added, “It was interesting getting the bills
because they were handwritten, of course.”

Of course.

I remember the good old days, too, when I used to
be able to talk to the operator in Washington. It was
only a few months ago.

When away from home, I made long-distance
phone calls by asking the operator to bill my home
phone.

No more.

Now I have a 14-digit telephone credit card number
for away-from-home personal calls, plus another
14-digit number for away-from-the-office business
calls.

Even after I was assigned a credit card number, I
didn’t lose immediate contact with the operator.
When I made my long-distance call, an operator
would come on the line and ask how I wanted to bill
my call. And then I would give the operator my card
number.

The old system was a few seconds slower, I suppose,
but there were advantages to talking to an
human being. If I botched the number, I could apologize
and start over. If the operator botched it, he or
she could apologize and ask me to start over. If I felt
like it, I could ask what the weather was like in the
operator’s neck of the woods.

Then one day a few months ago, I dialed a credit-card
call, and instead of the operator coming on the
line, I heard a beep.

I tried again. The same result.

I didn’t know it, but that beep was my signal to
punch in my credit card number. No more operators.

Now I’m a trained seal. When I hear the beep, I
punch in the numbers. All 14 of them.

And if I’ve been a good boy (or a good seal) and
punched all 14 digits perfect y, an electronic voice
tells me, “Thank you.” Kind of like throwing me a
cold fish.

But if I delay for a split-second too long, or if I
punch a number wrong, an electronic voice tells me
to start over.

I sometimes tell the phony (no pun intended, of
course) voice, “Go suck an egg.” Doing this makes me
feel like a real tough-guy, but there’s probably a computer
file on me somewhere. Someday, a robot will
probably will get even by running me down while I’m
crossing the street.

One night a few months ago, I couldn’t get the computer
to put through a call on my business credit
card.

Over and over again, I tried posing in my number,
just to make sure I got it right. No dice. The
electronic voice kept calling me a failure.

Unbeknownst to me, my card number had been
changed. Now I had a new 14-digit number to memorize.
And I couldn’t find out what it was until next
day during business hours. That night, my business
call would have to wait.

Mutter, mutter.

Sometimes, halfway through a 19-digit phone call,
I have an impulse to slam the phone down, dial “O”
and say something like: “Operator, get me Dick Moody
in Spokane.”

Other times, I wonder if it would be easier just
mailing a letter.

Ah, but the Postal Service has plans for me, too,

This year, the postal wizards will add four numbers
to all our existing ZIP codes, making them nine
digits long.

The Postal Service says the new numbers will be
purely voluntary, that we can ignore them if we
want. But I have to wonder: Who will get my mail if
it’s not coded — and will it arrive during the
recipient’s lifetime?

And how will I find out the nine-number ZIP codes
of all the people I’ve been sending five-number ZIP-coded
letters to?

Not to worry, says the Postal Service. There will
be a toll-free “800” telephone information service.
(Oh, goodie, another number for me to be at the mercy of.)

When I called Bryant Pond recently, the school
principal deadpanned, “ZIP codes? We don’t have
those yet.”

He had me going. But unfortunately, he was only
kidding.

The little town in southwestern Maine has everything
the rest of the country has in the way of modern
communication. ZIP codes. And now computer phone
dialing.

But the town didn’t give up its crank phones
without a fight.

When the Oxford County Telephone Co. bought
Elden Hathaway’s little phone company and announced
plans to modernize it, a lot of locals formed the Don’t
Yank the Crank Committee.

They fought the computers all the way to Maine’s
public utilities commission before finally losing. The
commission decided that the company had a right to
install a more economical system.

I can agree with that. But still, I feel sorry for the
townfolk of Bryant Pond. One of these days, they’ll
probably be calling 17-digit phone numbers, too.

It’s reassuring, as Bryant Pond joins the rest of the
world in meek subservience to the digital tyrants, to
know there are still enclaves of modern-day heroes
elsewhere, hanging onto some of their individuality.

One is Newhalem, Wash., on the west slope of the
North Cascades, where people have four-digit phone
numbers and you have to call the operator to reach
them from the outside world.

But the hardiest heroes, in my book, are at White
Pass, Wash. — a small ski resort on the Cascade
Crest east of Mount Rainier. These mountain folks
have single-digit phone numbers.

When I call the ski lodge at White Pass, I have to
dial the operator and ask for White Pass No. 6.

Gosh, it feels good to do that.

It gives you the feeling that at White Pass, the people,
not the numbers, are in charge.
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