"I like standing in phoneboxes. The red coffins of communication. Drinking in the silence. Absorbing the pointlessness. Relishing the delicious obsolescence. Just me and the box. Useless and unseen.
When I’m in the box I try to stand as still as I can. Like I’m part of the box itself. Or perhaps a rogue tree that has grown up through the floor, entwining my branches around the broken glass panels, gasping for light and sickly air. Actually, no. I’m nothing like a tree. If I was anything green, I’d be a vegetable. A swede maybe. But they are yellowish. Anyway, I do it for the privacy.
These monoliths are sadly no longer in use. I see people walk past through the clouded windows on their ‘devices’. Smudging glass against their sullen grey faces. Force-feeding their greedy, burnt retinas. The phonebox is real. I’m real. I’m real within real. They are fake. They are fake and they are dependant upon fake.
In here I’ve got the lost voices of a thousand real people. The clunk of a million loose metal coins. The twist and coil of faded plastic. I’ve got the pain, the ecstasy, the sadness, the excitement. Every conversation that occurred within these walls is imbued in the stale air that I breathe. I am a part of history and a connection to the vivid present. I’m part of the box and the box is part of me.
So here I am. In the phonebox. The tomb of technology. The grave of a fallen community. A shell of echoes. A cabinet of shadows. The red cage of the captive caller.
In the phonebox, I am truly alive.”
There was a minute of silence before a wheezing cough erupted from the handset.
"And that’s what gets you off is it?" said the husky voice on the end of the line.
I sighed. Hung up. And placed the dog-eared calling card back on the rack. Staring at the faded, photocopied tits, small black stars obscuring my view, I finished myself off and left.
I like standing in phoneboxes.