BB Grey–musings

 

Beep.

“Hey, this is Fred. I’m probably out dodging asteroids or something, so leave your message after the beep.”

Beep.

“Yo, Fred, it’s me. Pick up, dude! Freeeeeddd, oohhh Freeeeeedieeee… Oh, come on, man! Alright, fine. It’s me, give me a shout when you get this. Catch you later, space cowboy.”

Believe it or not, this is for real. It’s January 2025, and one of my childhood pals, the guy who used to race me on big-wheel tricycles down the street pretending we were in the Hells Angels, still clings to his ancient landline. And not just any landline—an off white, push button phone anchored to a message machine with a mini cassette player that still records. It’s like he’s living in a museum of ’80s tech, but hey, it’s Fred, so it’s kind of endearing.

I’ll confess, there’s a weird charm in this relic. After I get over the initial annoyance of not instantly getting through to him, there’s a soothing nostalgia in leaving a message. These days, we’ve become text message ninjas—silent, quick, and gone. If we do call, it’s like, “Oops, voicemail? Nah, I’ll text.” Now, even voicemails get turned into text, which is just… sad. With the flood of digital messages, sorting through them feels like sifting through a digital haystack. I’ve adopted the philosophy, “If it’s really important, they’ll text again or call, or better yet, send a carrier pigeon.”

But Fred’s setup? It’s like stepping back into a time machine. When I call, I hear that phone ringing, an off-white relic on the entry table, the same one where Fred’s parents answered calls about our teenage shenanigans. This phone has been through it all: the dramatic break-ups, the joyous news of new babies, and the sobering calls about lost loved ones.

As I leave my message, I picture my voice wafting through the house, mingling with the ghost of Fred’s mom’s cooking—always something simmering, cooling, or waiting to feed the next visitor. Once I’m done, that red light blinks like a beacon from the past, and my message is sent off into the void of Fred’s living room. No digital limbo here; it’s all tangible, physical, a bit like sending a message in a bottle.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my smartphone like it’s my own child, but sometimes, I yearn for the simplicity of turning it off and unplugging from the world. Being always connected is like having a superpower with too much responsibility. The pressure to respond instantly and brilliantly? Forget about it.

I get it, our current communication tech is necessary for this breakneck world, but man, sometimes I just want to slow down. I want to smell the pot roast on the stove, hear Fred’s voice from a recording made when we were still figuring out life, touch those memories that make me grin like a fool, and just… chill in the warm, safe embrace of the past for a minute.