sometimes i hang out around the phone booth in town, watching people make their calls. there's a tiny little light there, that casts a weak-fallen-star glow onto their varied faces. in a phone booth, people look like mannequins in shop windows, simultaneously supremely on display and beautifully disinterested. the phone-lines suck away their attention, visualizing the invisible eyes of the contacted party. sometimes peoples' conversations are quick, low-toned and urgent. a huddle in the center of the little glass room, furtive drumming on the plastic coin receptacle, the frustrated bang of receiver and the vengeful trickle of quarter on quarter into oblivion. sometimes there's a lazy sprawl, legs akimbo or propped against the walls, a smile that drips down the glass like sly saliva, a piece of gum stuck in the "pizza" section of the yellowpages. i read about a blind man with perfect pitch, a man who could sing the telephone regulator into complacency and be in contact with anyone in the world. sometimes i pick up the receiver and hum into it, wondering if i'll strike the right tune, until a canned lady pleasantly informs me that if i'd like to make a call, i need to hang up and try again. sometimes i follow her advice, but more often i quit and leave the booth with its little stars to someone with extra quarters and someone to call.