For whatever reason, late November/early December regularly finds me in a state of flux wherein I’m getting pulled in multiple directions by work demands and familial obligations. I am in no way unique, in this capacity. As a result, new content here on Flaming Pablum, during these months, can be spare and/or comparatively lightweight in substance … or more lightweight than usual, I should say.
But triggered by today’s episode of Desperately Seeking the `80s (about the bizarre antics of the late Bess Myerson), I did remember an anecdote worth sharing.
Just real quick, for those not versed in the subject, Bess Myerson was a prominent political figure and former Miss America who suffered a pronounced fall from grace that only started when, in a fit of berserk jealousy and jilted rage, she mounted a persistent campaign of potty-mouthed harassment against the rival for the affections of a former boyfriend. This ultimately manifested in stalking, some poop-related home deliveries (I shit you not) and mailed threats. But it all started off as a round-the-clock battery of anonymous calls. Meg from DSTE prefaced the episode with the engagement question to Jessica as to whether she’d ever made “a prank call.” That’s what prompted the anecdote below.
That’s enough preamble.
Given the advanced state of telecommunications here in the 21st Century, the “prank call” -- a rudimentarily juvenile pastime for the very easily amused -- is all but extinct. But if you are of a certain age, you’ll doubtlessly remember having perpetrated one, participated in one or, at the very least, bore witness to a friend resorting to the telephone for a cheap laugh at someone else’s expense. If you didn’t, I can’t help you. You missed out.
In any case, the usual prank call just involved ringing up some random phone number and executing the lamest of possible gags at the hapless soul on the receiving end. Confusion and/or consternation would inevitably ensue which invariably prompted idiotic giggles and the customary hang-up. Mission accomplished. It was all too common a practice for shit-eating little punks of a certain sensibility.
But my grade school pal Peter (not his actual name) and I had an extra edge.
Peter was a classmate and best friend of mine, at the time (this being circa 1979 or so) and lived with his family in a lovely apartment on the southeast corner of East 96th Street and Madison Avenue. After being let out of our school on East 89th Street, Peter and I would routinely march up Madison Avenue to his place, usually after a few zealous rounds of whatever arcade games were on offer at any number of nearby pizza joints and candy stores along the way (one favorite being the “Missile Command” machine at the Sweet Suite on Madison Avenue between 90th and 91st – now a sedately genteel wine bar). By this stage of the proceedings, Peter and I were largely preoccupied with silly, age-appropriate crap like Advanced Dungeons & Dragons, “Star Wars” and Marvel Comics, but were gradually foregoing that sort of stuff in favor of an immersion in the music of the day. This all said, given that this was still well prior to the advent of the internet, let alone MTV, we regularly found ourselves looking for new ways to stave off boredom. This was when we turned, like many of our obnoxious little peers, …. to the telephone.
As it happened, Peter’s family lived on the second floor on the northernly corner of their building. Their dining room featured views to the north and to the west overlooking the expanse of East 96th Street and down Madison Avenue. For whatever reason (it seemed bizarre to me then as now), Peter’s family kept a telephone in that dining room. Said phone was very conveniently located on a small table in the very corner, in between two huge windows. This meant one could conduct calls while enjoying splendid views of whatever was happening down on the street. Directly below this window, on East 96th Street, there was a crosstown bus stop bookended by a – WAIT FOR IT – phone booth. That phone booth would have been just out of the shot in the right-hand side of this photograph below, taken in 1984 by one Todd Jacobsen, whose estimable Flicker feed I brazenly pilfered it from. That’s Peter’s building (and second-floor corner window right above the street sign) on the right-hand side of the photo.
You may already see where this is going.
Anyway, one of us would run downstairs and out onto that street to get the number to the (again, not pictured) phone booth, and then run back upstairs and into the dining room where the other was waiting, with telephone receiver in hand.
Having procured the phone number, we’d then start calling that phone booth.
At this point, I should also point out that just a little way down on the northwest side of Madison Avenue across the divide of East 96th Street (but in full view from Peter’s dining-room window) was a concern called K&D Wines & Spirits, a busy little neighborhood liquor store.
This was a game of patience, let’s remember, as not everyone was initially inclined to pick up a phone ringing in a phone booth.
But every now and then, … we hooked one.
Peering down like two shitty little gargoyles from that window, we watched as one luckless loner ambling down the sidewalk noticed the ringing phone. We watched him slowly stroll over to the booth. We could barely contain ourselves with anticipation. Would he do it? Was he going to pick it up?
Eventually, …. He succumbed, and we immediately snapped into serious execution mode.
HIM: “Ummmm… hello?”
US (speaking in a laughably unconvincing lower register to try disguise our small years): “CONGRATULATIONS!!! You have just won the K&D Liquors SWEEPSTAKES! Stand by for further instructions on HOW TO COLLECT YOUR PRIZE MONEY!!”
:::::CLICK::::::
At this point, we’d hang up and look for the reaction. On this one occasion, we knew we’d caught a live one. The gent had snapped out of his torpor and was practically twitching with excitement. We dialed down to him again.
:::riiiiiiing::::
He picked it up only nanoseconds into the first ring.
HIM: “Hello? HELLO? I’M HERE!”
US (again, not sounding credibly older than our twelve years at all ): “Is this the gentlemen I was just speaking to? Good, now listen closely – to collect the winnings of K&D’s special sweepstakes, all you need to do, right now, is cross East 96th Street, enter K&D Wines & Spirits and – as loud as you can – say the special winning password: ‘COTTAGE CHEESE’! Once again, that’s ‘COTTAGE CHEESE’ as LOUD AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN! HURRY! TIME IS LIMITED. DO IT NOW!”
::::CLICK:::::
We again hung up on this poor man and cackled maniacally as we saw him frantically dash across the street (in a moment of merciful synchronicity with the universe, the light was conveniently green, so he didn’t charge out into open traffic) and – oh my God, he’s actually doing it – into the doors of K&D Wines & Spirits.
By this point, Peter and I were both practically wetting ourselves laughing.
Moments later, we saw our gullible mark being politely ejected from K&D, having presumably scared the daylights out of everyone in the store, at the time. Still giggling, we watched from the cruel safety of Peter’s second-floor dining room as he shuffled around in front of K&D before glumly walking off down Madison Avenue.
Today, K&D Liquors is now up the road a couple of blocks in Carnegie Hill Towers. Their former space is now occupied by a daycare center called Playgarden. Peter and I sadly fell out of touch after we both graduated from our school on East 89th Street in 1981. If I am correct, in later life, Peter became a chef. As far as I know, his family no longer lives in that building on East 96th Street.
That phone booth below that second-floor dining-room window was permanently removed in 2011.
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