Party Line Telephone - My Life as a Brat

I remember that time before my sister passed away nearly twenty years ago when she told me I was brat as a child. I was ticked off and disagreed. That's a terrible thing to say to someone.  But it was partly true. You can judge me by what I did when I was about five or six years old.

Both of my parents worked. Before I went to elementary school I spent the days with Mr. and Mrs. Sorrentino who lived across the street. On warm days he would sit in his wood chair on the front porch watching not much of anything happen on our little street. He would place his hand on the arm rest and dare me to smash it with my powerful little fist. He would usually retract his arm faster than I could hit the top of his hand. He would let me hit his hand enough times not to discourage me however. I knew he let me win. 

One day a man drove his yellow couple car and parked it on the side of our house. We lived on a corner. The man was wearing a suit and fedora hat. This was the very early 1950s when just about every man wore a hat of some type. Mrs. Sorrentino came out to the porch. They either suggested that I go to my house to find out what the man wanted or I volunteered.

I went over to my house. The man asked me if I lived there. Yes, I said. He then said something to the effect that he was an investigator for the telephone company and that I had been on the telephone using very bad language. 

The phone was made of bake lite, a material that preceded plastic. The phone was heavy. It did not have a dial - that came a few years later. I do remember you had to give the telephone operator the phone number you wanted to call. Our telephone was on a "party line". This was a phone line shared by multiple users.  Anyone could pick up the phone and listen to whoever else was speaking. Users were encouraged to keep their phone messages short.

I guess it wasn't hard to figure out who the bad kid with the filthy mouth was. I can remember to this day that man scarred the hell out of little me. He did not threaten me. His being there at that moment accusing me of saying really bad words to women on the phone threatened my existence. My Sunday school boyishness was exposed to the nerve.

He then said that he wouldn't return to my house to tell my parents what I did if I promised not to go on the phone again and say bad words to the other telephone users. I promised!

He went back to his yellow car and left. I returned across the street to the Sorrentinos, both of whom were waiting to ask me who the man was and what he wanted. He was lost, I said - or some thing to that affect. My sister was probably correct. Not only was I a brat but also a liar.