Once I noticed this dead police callbox over on 11th and H, NW, I started keeping my eyes out for others. So far the only other one I have seen is on 8th and I, SE, but I am sure there’s more. The light no longer lights to draw attention to itself, there’s no phone to use to call for help inside its door. There’s not even a back to the thing anymore – you can see right through it. It’s an artifact from the days before coin-operated payphones were ubiquitous.
Well, maybe we should start bringing them back. I was prattling annoyingly waxing poetic about the callboxes of yore, my girlfriend interjected with her recent experience at Lucky Strike. Her cellphone battery was dead, so she asked the bartender where the payphone was. “Somewhere out there,” she was told. No payphone on the premises.
I’m going to start looking for disabled payphones now, I think. And keeping my cell charged.
This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs
Well I used to say something in my profile about not quite being a “tinker, tailor, soldier, or spy” but Tom stole that for our about us page, so I guess I’ll have to find another way to express that I am a man of many interests.
Hmm, guess I just did.
My tastes run the gamut from sophomoric to Shakespeare and in my “professional” life I’ve sold things, served beer, written software, and carried heavy objects… sometimes at the same place. It’s that range of loves and activities that makes it so easy for me to love DC – we’ve got it all.
