Chinchilla Lucite
BEAR KOSIK
The woman was acting as though she was in a soundproof telephone booth. That analogy may be difficult to understand to some. In these times, telephone booths are so scarce they could be the giant pandas of communications technology, serving as a winsome, sad reminder of the days in which they could be found with ease. Not that giant pandas ever were found with ease except in zoological exhibits. Their natural environment of thick bamboo forests in mountainous areas of southwestern China could hide critters even more striking in appearance than those hefty, black and white fur balls. But the natural environment of telephone booths makes them relatively easy to spot, even though they are mostly made of glass.
It’s difficult to believe why the woman would think she couldn’t be heard. Telephone booths rarely are really soundproof. The glass somehow manages to distort and dampen the voice of the person using the thing, provided the person has closed tight the folding door. Those doors themselves are an underappreciated wonder. Unfortunately, there isn’t much that can be done about them now. And with the longtime obsolescence of hand fans, that pretty much leaves accordions and certain window blinds as examples of the commercial uses of folding material back and forth upon itself. Even then, some say accordions are losing ground quicker than giant pandas or telephone booths. (And yes, there is the way cardboard is constructed, but how many people have ever looked at cardboard crosswise to see that engineering marvel?) How will later generations get on after this mass extinction removes so many interesting creatures and creations from the scene?
A person standing just outside the booth has even more difficulty hearing what the caller is saying not only if the door is closed tight but also when the caller has the lapel of his trench coat turned up to cover the side of his face where he holds the receiver. That’s what they did in the movies before Technicolor. For some reason, people rarely use telephone booths in Technicolor movies. Trench coats are less observed, too. Being mostly glass, telephone booths presumably didn’t really add much to the scenic palette. Trench coats being taupe usually would have the same problem. The only television show that featured a telephone booth regularly was Get Smart. The booth was the entrance to Control Headquarters. It’s best to see the opening sequence to understand. Agent Smart wore a trench coat fairly often, too, but not in the opening sequence.
Getting back to the woman on her cell phone, she spoke as loudly as she deemed necessary despite the effect her voice had on the people within earshot. In the business class compartment behind the train’s café, that would be everyone. Of course, if she had actually been in a telephone booth, her voice would have been muffled by the glass if the folding door was closed tight and even more so if she also had the lapel of her trench coat raised over the receiver. Anyway, that’s what she acted as though she was doing: talking to someone on her cell phone as though she was in a telephone booth with the door closed tight, lapel up, and assuming she couldn’t be heard clearly by anyone around her. Or not caring if she was heard. We won’t go there.
The problem was she wasn’t in a telephone booth. And everyone around her was being deluged by comments about her last vacation (a cruise to Bermuda and back in five days—big deal!), the origins of pink sand and the sex appeal of Bermuda shorts (depends on how hairy the thigh of the wearer is, apparently), and a mysterious spot on her body that she claimed moved around, which her dermatologist told her couldn’t be, but she thought she ought to find a second opinion from a doctor who didn’t go to a state university medical school.
She was sharing just enough information that everyone couldn’t help but follow along, but not enough information that really made it worth the time to listen. Regardless, her words were the dominant elements in the soundscape. It was impossible to not hear her and equally impossible to listen with enough enthusiasm to keep one occupied.
Fortunately, cell phone reception is notoriously intermittent on Amtrak’s Empire Service between Albany-Rensselaer and Penn Station. At some point, she lost the connection. Everyone else in the train car sighed and thanked their higher powers.
Wouldn’t you know it, five minutes later the woman’s cell phone rang?
“Hello! … Yes, this is Chinchilla Lucite. … Yes, everyone tells me that. I always remind them that if Semolina Pilchard climbed up the Eiffel Tower, Chinchilla Lucite certainly can make a go of it. … Why thank you! … No, I haven’t eaten at a Bulgarian restaurant in years. … Great! … Yes, see you then! … Goodbye!”
Only this time, everyone who could swivel to look the woman in the eye—that is, everyone in the compartment—did so. When she ended the call, she looked up into the faces of seven or eight passengers whose looks could not be confused with amusement. Her eyes widened to the point of doe-like innocence, except there was no car coming.
“I’m sorry. Was I disturbing you?”
It’s difficult to believe why the woman would think she couldn’t be heard. Telephone booths rarely are really soundproof. The glass somehow manages to distort and dampen the voice of the person using the thing, provided the person has closed tight the folding door. Those doors themselves are an underappreciated wonder. Unfortunately, there isn’t much that can be done about them now. And with the longtime obsolescence of hand fans, that pretty much leaves accordions and certain window blinds as examples of the commercial uses of folding material back and forth upon itself. Even then, some say accordions are losing ground quicker than giant pandas or telephone booths. (And yes, there is the way cardboard is constructed, but how many people have ever looked at cardboard crosswise to see that engineering marvel?) How will later generations get on after this mass extinction removes so many interesting creatures and creations from the scene?
A person standing just outside the booth has even more difficulty hearing what the caller is saying not only if the door is closed tight but also when the caller has the lapel of his trench coat turned up to cover the side of his face where he holds the receiver. That’s what they did in the movies before Technicolor. For some reason, people rarely use telephone booths in Technicolor movies. Trench coats are less observed, too. Being mostly glass, telephone booths presumably didn’t really add much to the scenic palette. Trench coats being taupe usually would have the same problem. The only television show that featured a telephone booth regularly was Get Smart. The booth was the entrance to Control Headquarters. It’s best to see the opening sequence to understand. Agent Smart wore a trench coat fairly often, too, but not in the opening sequence.
Getting back to the woman on her cell phone, she spoke as loudly as she deemed necessary despite the effect her voice had on the people within earshot. In the business class compartment behind the train’s café, that would be everyone. Of course, if she had actually been in a telephone booth, her voice would have been muffled by the glass if the folding door was closed tight and even more so if she also had the lapel of her trench coat raised over the receiver. Anyway, that’s what she acted as though she was doing: talking to someone on her cell phone as though she was in a telephone booth with the door closed tight, lapel up, and assuming she couldn’t be heard clearly by anyone around her. Or not caring if she was heard. We won’t go there.
The problem was she wasn’t in a telephone booth. And everyone around her was being deluged by comments about her last vacation (a cruise to Bermuda and back in five days—big deal!), the origins of pink sand and the sex appeal of Bermuda shorts (depends on how hairy the thigh of the wearer is, apparently), and a mysterious spot on her body that she claimed moved around, which her dermatologist told her couldn’t be, but she thought she ought to find a second opinion from a doctor who didn’t go to a state university medical school.
She was sharing just enough information that everyone couldn’t help but follow along, but not enough information that really made it worth the time to listen. Regardless, her words were the dominant elements in the soundscape. It was impossible to not hear her and equally impossible to listen with enough enthusiasm to keep one occupied.
Fortunately, cell phone reception is notoriously intermittent on Amtrak’s Empire Service between Albany-Rensselaer and Penn Station. At some point, she lost the connection. Everyone else in the train car sighed and thanked their higher powers.
Wouldn’t you know it, five minutes later the woman’s cell phone rang?
“Hello! … Yes, this is Chinchilla Lucite. … Yes, everyone tells me that. I always remind them that if Semolina Pilchard climbed up the Eiffel Tower, Chinchilla Lucite certainly can make a go of it. … Why thank you! … No, I haven’t eaten at a Bulgarian restaurant in years. … Great! … Yes, see you then! … Goodbye!”
Only this time, everyone who could swivel to look the woman in the eye—that is, everyone in the compartment—did so. When she ended the call, she looked up into the faces of seven or eight passengers whose looks could not be confused with amusement. Her eyes widened to the point of doe-like innocence, except there was no car coming.
“I’m sorry. Was I disturbing you?”
Bear Kosik’s book Remaking Democracy in America was published in November 2018 by Stairway Press. He has authored science fiction novels (four to date), plays (six produced in Manhattan since 2016), and screenplays (over twelve laurels from competitions). Bear’s fiction, poetry, essays, and photos have been published by Third Flatiron Press, River & South Review, Calliope, Weasel Press, and others.