Category Archives: Phone Company

Phone Company Legends

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Some people asked this question would most likely say, “Alexander Graham Bell!” And they would be wrong. My legend of the day is a guy named Samson. Sort of like Madonna. One name was all he needed. A real one of a kind…I first meet him when demoted to the prewire crew. Its where phonemen were sent to be straightened out for some reason. Foremen used it as a purgatory. Once you came around, you would ascend out of hell and get your phone truck back. No truck on prewire. You rode in vans with a bunch of other miscreants. Always in buildings under construction. Plus, you had to actually work all day. I wasn’t used to it. Big cables (1000 pair and up) need great big holes for ’em to go through. So, big drills and drill bits. I mean BIG! Three inch around bits and five foot long steel shafts…Also, another problem. Guys from other trades stealing your ladders constantly. Plumbers, electricians, carpenters, steel men, elevator men, tile guys, painters, gas company, all would grab your ladders if you weren’t actually on them. Off you would go on a ladder hunt. Usually talking to a tool belt and a butt crack of a guy twice your size ignoring you as you tried to get it back. It’s my first day and I’m sick of it. I was ready to shape up in four hours. At lunch, all of the phone guys take the stairs when lunch is over. I’m still a pariah, so, no one clues me in. I figure screw four flights of open stairs in a half completed building. I get in the large enclosed construction elevator that goes up the outside of the building to carry cement bags and such. Also, about fifteen, large, hot, sweaty guys. All in bad moods. The last guy in, Samson. He actually shoved his way in. About fifty, 375 lbs. No teeth. Five ten. Always wore the same clothes, EVERY DAY. Coveralls with a cut off sweat shirt. Had a monk style bald spot. Chewed tobacco 24 hours a day. He had one other thing that made him unique. We all found it out trapped on the way up for three more floors. The ability to fart the longest, greasyest, stinkyest, and wettest, farts you have ever had to experience. Accomplished by a play by play from Samson himself, “OHHH, boys, that part just ran down my leg!” “Here comes yesterday’s chili and peppers, this is gonna be goooood!” By the time the doors opened, it was a screaming mass of lunatics fighting to the death for fresh, clean, non toxic air. The next day, after lunch, ALL of the trades took the stairs. Some management types were being taken up in the large elevator for a look-see. Waiting his turn? Samson. A toothpick in his mouth and a big grin on his face. We all raced to the top floor to beat the doors opening…

Something about Mary [Part 4 of 4]

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“Sadly, if you are not of Africa, most soon will be. In the time it took our group of sixteen to secure our first bull elephant, six were dead. None over forty. Most younger. Two died fifteen minutes apart. All from illness. We had no penicillin in those days. A small rash could turn fatal in a day. It was a reversal of the problems your American Indians had with European disease. No imunities. Africa has fifty times the virulent diseases, plus, billions of ways to spread them almost instantly. Insects. From spiders you can eat like lobster, to twelve inch dragon flies, the insects would keep our Entomoligist busy twelve hours a day. We soon had species named after us in Latin. Now the mosquitos and other poisonous insects were nothing to laugh at. Where our new compound was located, there was a river cutting past one corner that swept into a wide, shallow area, before becoming shallow rapids about a half mile away…We had set up nearby these shallows for our soon to be procured elephants to bathe and cool off in. In our services were mahouts with two female cows to help gentle the new arrivals. They told us the running water was essential. I think this is what started all the sickness. Those horrid mosquitos would NEVER go away. Spraying kerosene from a hand pump seemed to work the best. Dilute it with mineral water first. Our tents had nets to keep them at bay, but there was no relief during the day. I would say I was spared for a couple of reasons. First, I became African. I ate what they ate, stayed away from things they stayed away from, and, most important, never ran myself down. Being lazy saved me, I’m positive. Since I was mainly an interpreter who picked up some dialects quickly, I would make sure I attended trips for supplies, meeting new arrivals, and things like that. I tried to never do any real work. Now, on the other hand, the men drove themselves constantly. Even while sick. They also stuck to European diets as much as they could. No African eats one hundreth of the staples of a white man. No refrigeration tends to do that to a people. Also, meat was a rarity. Too many people in a large village to share kills. Most made do with potato-like yams and garden grown squash and melons. Maily crops that insects couldn’t wipe out completely. Once our elephants were being trained, the pace accelerated to prove that the money being spent was viable. Alas, more died and the program failed. Oh, we had some elephants trained to pull logs, but, their main draw back was their size. They ate more money then they produced. Also, they were killers. We would constantly be searching for new mahouts to handle the beasts. Men were killed by normally placid animals for what seemed no reason at all. Also, that stretch of the river helped do us in. It was also a favorite sunning spot for the largest crocodiles I have ever seen in my life. Oh, just terrible animals. Finally one of our drivers brought back some cases of dynamite from the railroad men. When the villagers came to see what was making all the racket, they lept and danced in terrific gyrations. Using our small diesel tractor, we pulled some of the larger carcasses out and put them onto the tree refuse where the branchs were trimmed prior to stacking. The skins burst from the heat and huge sections of white flesh billowed out. A feast enough for the entire King’s compound and a smaller village across the river. It was about the best night I spent in all those years. Not long after this, our director died of a cobra bite. I was shipped to a Catholic school in Mozambique, then, spent the rest of my career walking from village to village, winning over the people that would listen to the Belgian propaganda. I would leave, but always went back. Now, here I am, the last one alive. Telling my tales and remembering my adventures!”



Mary of the Jungle [Part 3 of 4]

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“It was quite an experience, handling someone elses feet. Seeing as how my ‘patient’ was a King, didn’t make it any better. Prior to meeting the King of the Burundi, I had some things explained to me on proper etiquette in the royal household. First, NEVER, EVER, say your here to ‘change the Borundi’, or anything remotely like it. When the initial party from the Belgian government said something along these lines they were shown a large wicker basket, filled with dried penises and scrotums. The dignitaries were informed that this is what happens to those who try to change the Burundi. I kept it in mind as we walked the mats to the King’s chamber. Oh, the mats. The King is not allowed to touch bare dirt. Elaborate woven mats connect all the various buildings in the royal compound. The buildings were made of mud, covered with a type of clay rubbed smooth. People swept constantly it seemed…Fortunately, a young man who was supposed to be my assistant, had some medical history behind him, so I felt a bit more confident I could play out my part. The King’s chamber was one large room. A high ceiling with an aperture to let out smoke was the only opening. The windows were made of animal membranes stretched over narrow, tall slits in the walls to let in light. There were entrances leading to other rooms, but I never saw the interiors. I always came and went using the same pathway. The King was not a pleasant man. His face showed he was an absolute ruler. As I gave a low bow, he nodded at me while the translators did their jobs, then put out his right foot, wrapped in scented cloths for me to inspect. Oh my, I almost fainted. From first glance, I saw his problem immediately. In grown toes nails had been neglected. It looked like someone had tried to rectify the problem and only exasperated it. The toes were badly infected. To brighten my mood, the translator informs me the last ‘Doctors’, skeleton was still hanging on a post somewhere near by. I pointed to his left foot. He let me inspect it, but gave me a look that said, “Don’t even think about hurting me!” His toes were fine on this foot, but the skin was stretched to almost breaking from swelling. I attributed this to his weight. I lightly rewrapped them and gave a reassuring smile to the King, while telling the interpreter I would make a decision on his treatment and return later. The King shook his head no. I’m informed by the translator after the King spoke to him, that I am now a guest. I’m taken to a small chamber off the wives’ quarters. My attendant is not allowed. Females only. Many of the King’s wives were giving me freightening looks as they went past my open doorway. A younger one, a bit friendlier, asks me in broken English if I am a virgin. I shook my head no. She then beamed and ran off. It turned out, the King only married virgin brides. Now the wives treated me a lot better. Over the next few nights, with the real doctor doing the work, disinfectants and clean wraps, did wonders. Some basic petroleum jelly helped the swollen skin. It was from the Kings weight that most of his problems arose. He had to have been 500 pounds. Plus, he never exercised one bit. He was carried where ever he went. Oh, we had to wait until the King was passed out from drinking this potent native brew, before we could treat him. A suggestion by the young wife I had met earlier. Alas, she was killed later on the King’s order for some reason we weren’t privy too…Now in the good graces of the King, we got down to the business we traveled so far for. Secure a large tract of land, build a compound for the Belgian government, then, purchase ten African elephants of various ages to begin their grand experiment. Teach African elephants to do the same work their cousins the Asian elephants had been doing for thousands of years. Some one high up in the Belgian ruling family thought it could be done, thus, enabling the beasts to drag the large hardwood trees out of the thick, impenetrable jungle. It would save transporting fuel, equipment and vehicles. A rail line was also planned to ship the new lumber source. I wondered why I had never been informed of such a grand project. It seems that until I became the King’s nurse, no one trusted me to stay on past the translating stage. Funny. I never said one word to the King. You could only speak to him if he spoke to you and he never uttered one word to me. Only by his translators. Thus began almost five years of my life spent on elephants. It was facinating and sometimes rewardiing. On the bad side? Everyone started dying…




Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary [Part 2 of 4]

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…Mary now had about ten people listening. Some only had a couple of minutes, so, were standing, eating the last of their lunches, not wanting to leave. I grab a fresh little metal pot of hot water for Mary’s tea. She used the same tea bag. Just like my grandma Jewel Gates. I’ve known a lot of blind people. Never move stuff on them without giving them the low down…Mary fixed her tea, felt around for her cup, but didn’t pick it up, then went on with her story…”I was still in bad shape as far as walking went, so, I was carried by porters hired by my new boss. I swung quite comfortably between these two men who had their gaits down to make carrying a load a minimum effort. They were happy at my 140 pounds. I was still a bit plump from all the rich food and partying in Paris. I wouldn’t have to worry about that any more. After four months, I never weighed over 115 pounds…In a million years, I would have never dreamed that I would outlive all these handsome young men…(I asked her questions for my notes before I took off, so, more on this at the end)…I also found out we were to meet up with some trucks in about five days’ travel. Now, you think five days and shrug your shoulders. Not in Africa. Every breath there is different. The smells are like no other on earth. From a whiff of some fragrant flower, to overpowering rotten guts from a hidden kill you’re traveling past. Many times you won’t see the animal, you will smell it though. If not the beast itself, the smells it leaves around. There are huge rutting spots where Wildebeest or Zebra stallions unload their urine scented with their own particular oils, all mixed together. They will then roll in it and fight each other. Lions leave them alone they are so vicious in this state. And the smell, oh my, I can still recall it. Horrid. I would soon learn many worse. You may leave Africa, it never leaves your nostrils. Also, it is horribly hot and muggy, then, rain will blow in, pounding you so hard it hurts your skin, then, blue skies and you’re once again burning up in the sun. Most travel along well established trails that skirt the jungle. Not game trails, but human, village to village trails. Predators stay off them usually. Too many warriors with spears or rifles and they well know it. They will pick off the old and small though. Especially the wild dogs. Did you know that the wild dog packs kill most of the game you see the prides of lions eating? It’s true! They can bring down anything, just about. The lions let them do the work, then, kill or run off the dominant female and take the kill over. I’ve watched them for hours, over weeks at a time. Oh, I’m wandering. Once we were in the trucks, I wished I was back in my sling. Oh my god did they beat you up. These were in very bad shape. They were from the 1920’s and looked it. Always breaking down. Leave one behind? Never. A man with a truck rates just below a King in Africa. The exhaust fumes made me get back into walking shape. I had to get away from the smoke as it was giving me a pounding head ache. I would walk as far as I could, then, back into the smoke for awhile. When I heard some of the men laughing and calling out, I knew we were at our destination. The village of the King of the Burundi. Coming around a bend of the wide trail, I was a bit amazed at first sight of the King’s palace. It was gigantic! Smoke lazed upwards from at least one hundred cook fires inside the tall wooden walls. Everything was whitewashed white. Even the stones that marked the paths. Patterns and art work were only allowed on the Kings close family members’ areas. We stay stopped for about two hours. Village children kept a distance, unlike the smaller, rural villages. My new boss approaches me as I’m wiping off my face and reapplying a balm that helped keep the insects from biting somewhat. He has a request. It seems he has just left the King’s presence and my services are required. I was dumbstruck. What was he talking about? He soon filled me in. “Ahh, I told the King we had a nurse who could cure his swollen feet!” Oh, my, I wanted to run away. When I was in the presence of the King and unwrapped his feet, oh, I wished that I had…




Sister Mary [Part 1 of 4]

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It’s been raining all week. I’m goofing off at a Nuns’ rest home in North Pasadena. I’m replacing old cord pair switchboards with a newer system. I had been whining and crying for the last two days for some help, but, with the rain, forget it. Old cables and dial tones are out all over the city. I had the job about completed, but, it was raining out. I left the back off the last switchboard and some tools laying around, then headed for the cafeteria. The place was old and sort of decrepit, but it had a great cafeteria. Hal Roach, the guy from the ‘Our Gang’ movies, had donated the place to the church back in the forties, so, it retained most of that era’s look. High ceilings since no central air in those days, large, tall windows. Spacious. Colored tiles everywhere. I had been at the job for three days so all the staff knew me. Especially one of the cashiers I had been trying to get interested in me. I strike out again…I take my tray and sit down at one of the long, wooden tables set in rows with different style chairs to sit in. All donated I guess. I start eating my eggs. A chuckle comes from a big overstuffed chair four chairs past me. I had thought I was the only one at this table. I say to the unseen voice, “Are you laughing at me?” A tiny head pokes around the tall back and nods, then goes back out of sight. I figure to straighten her out. I slide my tray down and sit across from her. I can only see part of her. She’s wrapped up in a big multicolored blanket, She has her legs under her but a foot sticks out. I look harder at that foot. Its really tiny. It also has no toes. Naturally, being an idiot most of the time, I say, “Hey, what happened to your toes?” Thus began one of the most interesting days of my life…She told me her story. In a strange sort of English, mixed with words I didn’t understand at times. She would move her head when she spoke so you had no idea she was blind. About ninety. Very frail and small. Used up she called it…Sister Mary: “I was raised in Holland. My parents were Dutch and Belgian. My father was a customs man who worked for the Belgian government. I went to the very best schools. I have a knack for languages, so, a friend of my father who noticed this, set me up with an easy government job in the Belgian embassy in Paris. It was in the early thirties. No hint of the war to come in Paris. Plays, parties, men chasing me. It was grand. But, I was soon bored. One day, I’m looking at some papers at a fellow employees desk. Languages and dialects always interested me, so, the odd writings captivated me. My co worker wonders if I would like to take a shot at translating them. This is what started my fifty years in Africa!”…(Now, during the five hours I sat with her, a lot of nurses, nuns and friends of hers came by and sat to listen along with me. They all just nodded at me, sipped their coffees and enjoyed before going back to work)…”I studied on my own time and learned some basic Burundi. The Belgian government was investing a lot of money into a new project in Central Africa and desperately needed translators. Once a big shot found out about me, I was signed on with promises of promotions and you name it. Since I was only twenty, I fell for his lies. I also had to pretend to be a Catholic. Oh, I did all the motions and such, but, I never really believed in religions. I did it to appease my superiors. Now, once off the boat, I thought it would be cars, boats and planes to get us around. Not so. We walked. Yes, walked. I must have walked thousands of miles through terrain you would not believe. Its was the only way you could get to the out of the way villages. Some people say a rifle is your best weapon in Africa. Nonsense. A good pair of water proof hiking boots will do you far more good. You see, all the villages are just filthy. The people aren’t. The places they live are. They have to keep all their livestock inside these kraals at night to protect them from predators. There is horrible mud everywhere except the main village where the Burundi chief and his extended family reside. Now, my first month in what was to be called the Belgian Congo, I get these horrible parasites in my feet. They get beneath your skin, then lay eggs. Just terrible itching. Then, your feet swell up. I was going to be flown back to France for medical care when a Swahili medicine man informed my boss that he could heal me for five goats. I would have gone through anything to get rid of those things. He first puts my foot up onto his knee, then, lays out an assortment of very thin, sharp sticks. Actually, they were thorns from a bush I was to find out later. He is also stuffing his toothless mouth with a mixture of tobacco and herbs. Once he felt he had the correct mixture, he spits the mass onto my bare foot. It drove the heads of the parasitic worms out of my foot. As they wriggled in the juice, he would hook them with one of his thorns and extract them very slowly so as not to break their segments. It took him about an hour for one foot. After he completed my other foot, He gave my feet a liberal spitting and waved me away, cured. His young assistant later told me to keep putting tobacco juice on my feet for a few days to wipe out an residual egg cases. He told me the rest of the herbs and such were mostly for show and effect. I spent a few days resting, then, end up going off with a Belgian team who needed an interpreter for a big project they were conducting. It ended up taking up almost five years of my life. (to be continued…)




 

 

Hanna-Barbera

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Gave the best Christmas parties of ALL TIME!! Halloween a close second. EVERYONE got smashed! It was a company requirement to be able to drinks alot of booze at the drop of a hat…Their large complex was built on the former site of ‘Monkey Island’. That place folded prior to World War 2 when a couple hundred monkeys escaped and ran amok for a few weeks all over Cahuenga Blvd and Barham in the brushy hillsides. They expanded a few times, so, connected the buildings with a big bridge on the second floor. Mr. Hanna and Mr. Barbera had their offices on the second floor, right next to each other. I came into the picture after P.B.X. school. They had five old cord pair switch boards, side by side in their main lobby. They kept them long after most had been replaced all over town because they were LOYAL. Most of their switch board gals had been on the job since day one. As one retired, so would her switchboard…The main phone room had a common wall with Mr. Barbera’s office. Since I would go past his door all the time, he would start saying things to me to throw me off. I finally figured out he was just jerking me around for fun and gave it back to him. One party they gave would have to be the best I ever went to. All the illustrators were in hand made costumes they had worked on for weeks, drinking right out of blenders and running amok. Since no one really knew who was who, it was time to pull out all the stops. Security ended up locking the gates and calling cabs for about three hundred people. One gal had a Yogi bear painted on her using her giant breasts as Yogi’s eyes. There was food EVERYWHERE! Different departments had different music blasting. I got into a conga line that went up the stairs to corporate, smashing pictures off the walls from the giant paper mache heads they were wearing getting spun around and had them dancing blind. Finally, the cops show up. THEY PARTIED WITH US!!! I’ve been to HUNDREDS of big parties. None can ever top this one. My side hurt for days from laughing so hard. One gal did the best Fog Horn, Leg Horn using helium from a balloon. I heard later she made Mr. Barbera wet his pants while chasing him in costume with a giant dildo…

The Gettys get a new dog

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Let’s cut to the chase. Someone in the medical team monitoring coma man noticed some movement on one of his graphs, long after I had left. They trace back this glitch to my repair visit. Who knows why it glipped. Maybe he had indigestion the same time I was there. All’s I know, is I have a bunch of pissed off professionals giving me attitude when I arrive for my ‘therapy’ time with my new pal. It ended up being a double edged sword. On the crappy side, the medical team in place wanted me to drop dead. Physical therapists by the dozen, Specialists on every subject on his condition, care givers 24/7, and me, retard of the month, getting the spotlight. I made friends with the care givers, so, that was cool. Also, on the good side, being an on call system tech to these big shots let me run wild a bunch of times. I would have them call dispatch and need me somewhere, ‘Pow’, my pager went off…It had its perks. Alas, I did all sorts of things to bring back one of those glips in the monitor, it never happened again. I would read favorite parts of books to him. Tell him funny stuff I had seen on other jobs, things like that. I was NEVER alone with him though. Maybe that played into it. Being a ‘Dedicated’ tech started to get real boring. After a couple of months, they dump me as Mr. Wizard. Not as their phone gimp though. Someone in the Getty sphere sequed me into handling a bunch of their accounts. Nothing corporate. Always residential or Condos and such. First of all, I didn’t have the qualifications to work on some of their large account systems. Second, they had plans for me in an entirely different direction. I ran into some really odd things working for this real estate company that fronted for about thirty Getty holdings I did end up being a tech for. I’ll tell some of those stories along the line…I never saw the Getty guy again. I did hear that he came out of his coma…

Really Rich People

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I’m dispatched to a nice, single story home off of Sunset Plaza. I can see the top floors of the Playboy building past some neighbors’ roof tops. Sunset Plaza is a winding road that climbs up into the Hollywood Hills. Parking can be tough. Sometimes, at four am, drunks careen off of parked cars like pin balls. I once had Richard Dreyfuss knock down nine orange cones and my little metal fence around my manhole I was working in, but, another story. Anyhow, I’m ushered in by a medical looking guy. Laid back, but in a nurses outfit. He takes me right to the phone closet since all the phones are down. Sparing you tech talk, I find the room that’s the culprit and inform the nurse. He’s in the nice, wide open kitchen playing cards with three other nurses. One is a fantastic looking gal, just spilling out of this short cut, nurses skirt…Having mastered the Jedi booty glance, I pretend not to notice her and speak directly to my first contact person. He leads me to the master bedroom. Not that I’m some genius. When I pulled off the wire that was marked, ‘MASTER BED’, the system came back up…In this large, well lit but spartan room, is a big hospital type bed with the I.V. hookups and monitors next to it. I have to get behind the bed to reach the phone jack for the Multi-line Merlin set. The nurse says a quiet, “He’s in a coma, so, don’t worry about upsetting him!” I nod and he leaves me to my work. I look at the face of the man in the bed. Actually, more of a barely past teens man. He’s pale and thin. Maybe from the coma? I notice he’s missing an ear. I look at my dispatch order. Getty? It comes to me in a flash. Its Getty’s grandkid who was kidnapped and lost an ear because grandpa was slow on paying up. I also knew he had done an eight ball and had the lights go out on him at a party a while back. I look into his face from about a foot away. His eyes are moving around but out of control. One keeps rolling back into the upper regions of its socket, a life of its own. Having done Truman Capote’s phones for years, I had read a copy of, ‘JOHNNY GOT HIS GUN’. It was about a man turned into a living torso from a war injury. I wonder if I could communicate with him, like in the book. I stand in front of him and tell him who I am and what I’m doing. I then told him if I was in his shoes, I would take a dump in my pants every hour to get that hot nurse to clean me up. Stuff like that. I give up after a few minutes and fix the phone trouble, spilled water in the jack. I inform the nurse guy he’s all set, they have a maintenance contract, so, no bill, off I go…The next morning, my boss is shitting tacks. He informs me I’m to go to a certain address in Beverly Hills, “TEN FUCKING MINUTES AGO!” Huh? I roll for the pad. Oh man, a roller coaster ride had just begun I wasn’t going to get off of for quite awhile…

Rich People

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Most rich people are sad. Their homes and residences are usually unused mausoleums, or, temples to THEM. Oh man, Rudy Vallee. He was really famous in the silent movies. He had this trick driveway at his home up off Mulholland. It was twisting and narrow. Sort of a mini French oceanside with a big drop off past a small stone wall that ran along the drive. When you came to the end of the drive, there was a giant wooden Lazy Susan flush with the blacktop you pulled up onto. It had these little plastic deals to guide you. When it was time to leave, a houseman, or, Rudy himself, would hit a motor and spin you around facing down the drive. Sweet! Rudy’s house was built right into natural stone. When you climbed some stairs into his French countryside style home with the steep pitched roofs, covered in red tiles, potted plants surrounded you. Once inside the big, bolt studded door, you stood on a platform…Looking down into the living room and den. A tall natural rock face with fractures in it was opposite the stairs leading down. Every five inches, was a picture of Rudy doing something, or, nothing at all. Singing through his megaphone was his claim to fame. I also noticed all the people in the photos with him were long dead. I think he was about 95 when I worked on his phones. His phone wires were legendary for sucking ass. His main wire terminal was under his tennis courts. Yep. UNDER. He had a huge museum dedicated to more pictures of him. Some ten feet high with lights illuminating them. His wife was about fifty years younger then him. She spoke with a French accent. She would scrunch her face and speak French when I gave her the bill before leaving. If Rudy spun you around on your exit, he would give you a bottle of wine, covered in dust…I’m once again sent up to his place on a cable repair. I hadn’t been there in quite awhile. The place was, well, different. Once inside, I’m guided to Mrs. Vallee’s office. A tall, well built and tanned Italian looking guy is guiding me. He has really white teeth. No shirt and one of those romance novel hair styles that swept back like a mane. I also notice something else. Not one picture of good old Rudy. All had been replaced by ones of Mrs. Vallee. Some with her and the stud muffin doing party scenes and such. Something told me Rudy wasn’t around anymore. I’m informed by the new boss that my phones are going to be removed and to do an inventory. She then spins her chair away from me. I stand there with Mr. White teeth. I don’t think he understands a word of English. She finally spins her chair back towards me and says a snotty, “WELL?” I say a polite, “Gee lady, here’s where I usually get my bottle of wine!” I’m ushered out…

Death Valley

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I’m seventeen years old. It’s 1969. I’m rolling towards a three day stay in Death Valley. All paid for, compliments of Pacific Telephone. I’ve only been with the phone company five months, and I’ve done the Death Valley run consistently longer then any other tech. Our garage at 3636 Beverly took it over after some wheeling and dealing in the corporate towers. All’s I knew, was everyone else at my garage hated it. Except me. I LOVED it! This trip I have a new foreman with me, Larry Mall. He decides he’s going to know all of his crews routes, so, he books a room next to mine at the Golden Choya motel, gets a metal fold up seat from supply for his ass, and comes along…Now, Larry is wearing a Pac Bell blazer, a white shirt and black tie. Also, some loafers. Its five am and no one is there to wave us off. Now at Baker, I check in at our motel, then point the truck toward Tecopa Hot Springs, our first stop…At Tecopa, its now 115 and getting hotter by the second. No air in my Pac Bell coin box truck. It had a service body. One ton. Bad paint on the hood from me cooking eggs on the hood for tourists. This truck has twin radiators, a two way phone that never worked, and an overdrive that really kicked some ass. It also had no passenger seat. It had a lazy susan safe behind the spot that seat was supposed to be bolted. Larry sat in a temp folding seat, all METAL. His legs hunched into his chin like Quasimodo…As we head towards Furnace Creek Inn, we have some other stops. Shoshone, is next. I pull up to the emergency phone in its all glass booth with a pull shut glass door. Not one piece of glass in it with out a bullet hole in it. Ditto for the hand crank to operator phone. I have to use all hand tools to replace the glass and phone. Try drilling case hardened steel in 125 degree heat with no shade sometime, a real slice of heaven…I’m now am in my usual fashion statement, Levi 501’s full of holes, wing tips, and my t-shirt around my head, constantly soaked with water from my ice chest. Larry doesn’t approve of my attire. I ignore him. Its only eleven am. He ain’t seen noth’in yet…We roll to Death Valley junction and the air strip. Its now so hot, Larry has now stripped off his clothes and has his shirt over his head like mine, dipped in my ice chest without even asking me. I smirk to myself in my rear view mirror…I take Larry into the one woman ballet at the Junction. Since we’re the only ones in the small wooden structure, she does her dance right by us. A psycho, sure, but my family is circus, so, I tend to drift towards these sorts. Larry hides in the bathroom. Her fifty years of unchanged makeup is freaking him out…Its now about 250 degrees in the truck. We head towards Furnace Creek. It’s not even two pm…Once at Furnace Creek Inn, blessed relief from the blasting heat. They have air conditioning! They also have regular pay phones. Not like the hand crank, generating a ring to an operator phone like the armored emergency phones on the side roads and bus stops across Death Valley. I show Larry the usual tourist stuff, the pool that has one end that dumps down to water the date trees that Furnace Creek had made famous in their date nut bread, baked on site. The giant thirty mule team wagons parked in front of the old Borax mine entrance. Took a ride out to Scottys castle, then called it a day. First up, take the small paper disc out of the little machine mounted under the dash that records all of your stops and speeds you attain. Since I kicked it every time I climbed into my seat, it was totally screwed, every day. Learned that trick my first day on the job from a crazed nut case named Alan Stovall…Now, I have to tell the Stovall story, so bare with me…Stovall was a big bear of a guy who had a band, a hot babe, and hated the phone company. He finally gets a recording contract. I knew this because I was getting reamed by another supervisor when he stumbled in drunk as a skunk at four p.m., then, shoved me out of the way as he leaned forward over Denny Cross’s desk, laughing like a maniac, while tearing up his route cards. He then spoke. “Hey, Cross, guess what? YOU AND THIS COMPANY CAN KISS MY ASS”! He then spins, pulls down his pants and starts spanking this giant white ass. He then pulled them up, tossed his I.D. and truck keys on Dennys desk and strolled out the door…Now that we we’re technically off the clock, Larry wondered what I usually did on my own time. Since we had sort of bonded, I decided to trust him. I have him buy us some brews, more ice, then take him through the locked gate I had a key for at the Ranger Residence area to head up into the mountains. We end up about an hour before sunset overlooking some wrecked cars down in a gully. They we’re towed there from the highway patrol after big wrecks. I pull out my .270 mag from a side bin of service body and start to load it. Larry starts to freak out. “WHAT THE FUCK, YOU CAN’T HAVE THAT IN A COMPANY VEHICLE!” I tell him to lighten up and have another beer and to stop being such a sissy. I then tell him, “Check out the rear light on that red Chevy!” I jack in a round and blow it the hell away. Larry’s hand is shaking as he lights a smoke. I ask him for a couple. I then take off the filters and stick them in my ears. An old trick from Led Zepplin concerts. I ask Larry if he would like to take some shots. Before he can answer, some Ranger trucks come around the bend in the road, all their light bars lit. Larry looks like he’s going to have a heart attack. As his eyes are looking at me like I just destroyed his life, one of the five Rangers hops out and says, “Well, did it come through?” I nod, go to another bin, take out the two pounds of weed I’d promised them from my last trip…And so began Larry’s internship to the real Death Valley.