Estelle Calling

To be honest, I have, thus far, lived the majority of my life without a mobile device. These three by five machines are everything but mere phones. Telephones are for conversing and now the landscape of communicating involves e-mails, navigating programs, stock market applications and the short-charge blip akin to a grammatically-slaughtered smoke signal known as the text message. Longingly, I remember the days of going to dinner, a movie, or even church without the threat of a buzzing and vibrating piece of chrome being within a long arm's length. With the advent of the mobile device has come the demise of manners and common sense.

Although Estelle single-handedly runs a large business from her Blackberry, she still insists on the phone etiquette that served as the criterion of our lives during an era void of mobile devices. Thus, when the ringtone heralds after three rings, in a most pleasant voice you will hear, "Good day, Crisp residence." My voice is often so pleasant that it is mistaken for a sultry stay-at-home vixen. My sing-song lilt causes much gender confusion when I reply to the welcoming "I am glad I am speaking to the lady of the house" with "This is Mr. Crisp." The silence shields neither the confusion nor the embarrassment of the cold-calling solicitor.

"We make business or social calls between the hours of 10 a.m. and 10 p.m." Estelle reminded me of this mantra often during my teen years. To this day, a phone call after 9 p.m. starts to be socially questionable and implies an approaching lecherous nature while a call in the early morning hours is equated with natural disaster, family imprisonment, death or a combination of all.

Estelle is a firm believer that the phone is not appropriate for all conversations. As a teen, she often reminded me that "some conversations are not meant for the telephone and should be handled in person."

These constructions have served my family well. At times my friends are amazed at my phone etiquette that transfixes my baritone into a celestial paragon of home training. "Oh my God, you're always so pleasant on the phone. How did you learn that?" I raise my eyebrows and cock my head slightly implying the unspoken answer: Estelle. Longingly my friends' eyes widen as if tears would plead "Oh, if she were only my mother I could graciously avoid Craft-o-Matic Bed salesmen, stop those humiliating text messages and detour those late-night booty calls."

Although Estelle could offer a successful boot camp for manners and the mobile device, she wields her own Blackberry like a Samurai with a personally-crafted sword. Appropriately, she makes appointments, answers e-mails, and orders accessories from Neiman Marcus. Simply, used wisely, the mobile device has made life easier.

At the red light, Estelle unloaded her Blackberry while commenting, "Let's pick up soups and salads from 828 Cafe on the way home." Riding in the passenger's seat of the Navigator, she quickly dialed the restaurant and spoke like a descended angel. "Good evening Claire. This is Mrs. Crisp and I would like to place a dinner order for pick up. Yes, thank you. I will hold."

I accelerated the Navigator through the intersection as Estelle covered the receiver of the Blackberry as if she didn't want the Muzak version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" to be offended by her whispering to me during the conversation. "This will be so much easier than cooking." Her whisper was soft and angelic as a precaution to an unexpected return to the conversation.

South Asheville is plagued with frequent traffic lights. While stopped at the next intersection, Estelle was silent, smiling and swaying slightly to audible rendition of "Careless Whisper." The reminiscing of nostalgic '80's classics was interrupted with a very factual, "They must be busy. I am still holding."

Less than a half mile later we were stopped at another red light and accompanied by overly synthesized rendition, if there is such a thing of "Betty Davis' Eyes." Estelle's voice became audible and punctuated losing the angelic whisper and the concern for offending Kim Carnes. "This_is_a_long_time_to_hold."

"This_is_RIDICULOUS," blared from the passenger's seat. For a moment, I was confused if Estelle was barking about the wait time of the original version of Christopher Cross's "Sailing" muffling from the Blackberry. Naturally, I inquired, "Do you want to go somewhere else?" Apparently, to Estelle, this inquisition was equated to treason of Benedict Arnold proportion. She looked at the timer on the mobile device and roared, "SEVEN_MINUTES_AND_THIRTY_EIGHT_SECONDS. Oh no. We are going by there. This is NOT acceptable."

Gingerly, I steered the Navigator toward the restaurant and prayed that upon arriving we found 828 Cafe hard pressed with a commotion befitting the surprise visit of a foreign diplomat or horrific disaster. "No wonder they couldn't get back to the phone the delegation from Tonga is dining." Or it would soothe Estelle's growing temper to see the restaurant burned to ashes with the only surviving relic the still-connected telephone with line two blinking repetitiously.

I played the scenarios in my head while edging closer to the restaurant. Estelle was silent, her foot tapping rapidly while a saxophone clumsily bellowed Quiet Riot's "We're Not Gonna Take It" through the speaker of her Blackberry.

Pulling into the restaurant parking lot my fears were realized: the parking lot was virtually empty. Before I could engage the emergency brake, Estelle was making a straight shot to the front door with the Blackberry still adjacent to her ear. I quickly followed suit, starting my prayer "Turn around bright eyes. Every now and then you fall apart."

Burning turmoil and an Tongan delegation absent, the hostess cheerfully greeted Estelle with "Welcome to 828. I am Claire. How can I help you?" I prayed these would not be the young siren's last words. With Blackberry still glued to her ear, Estelle was strict and direct. "Claire, please get your manager now." The young woman's lips started to move but were stopped with Estelle's command that was long and louder, "NOW."

The stereo effect of the restaurant's speakers and the Blackberry simultaneously echoed a daunting acoustic version of "Another One Bites the Dust." Returning with a middle-aged man in a dark suit, Claire was rightfully silent and visibly frightened of the petite woman still holding the Blackberry.

The man began, "Good evening, Mad . . . "

Before the sentence could travel through the air Estelle inquired, "Where is your phone?"

This was met with silence and a confused look. Still holding the Blackberry, she asked again, "Where is your phone?"

The man looked to the phone adjacent to the hostess station. It was monolithic and silent. The only sign of operation was the white light repeatedly blinking. Curious about Estelle's refusal to retreat from her Blackberry, the manager stuttered, "the . .the . .the.. ph-phone is right over here. Do you need to use it?"

"Answer the phone," Estelle commanded.

Reluctantly, the manager pressed the blinking light and with the vulgar intonation of a used car salesman said, "Thank you for calling 828. How may I help you?"

Speaking into her Blackberry, Estelle's voice again became light and angelic. "Good evening." As she started, the manager looked her direction with a face that prayed for the floor to open allowing a safe passage across the River Styx as an escape from the fury that was yet to come. "This is Mrs. Crisp and I called for a take out order 17 minutes ago. When I called, I was put on hold and have been holding for a long time. As a business owner, I need to tell you this is NOT an appropriate way to treat a customer." At this point, I chuckled at the smile Estelle used while talking on her Blackberry and looking at the manager.

Stunned into silence, the manager was able to slur, "Mrs. Crisp. I am very sorry. I am going to get off the phone and help you."

"Well, thank you." This was the voice used frequently on phone calls. The same voice that is used at country club card games and garden parties. "Thank you for taking my call. I look forward to speaking with you again. Bye, bye." Her smile continued as she lowered the Blackberry.

"Uh, bye . . uh bye," fell out of the nervous manager's mouth as he dropped the phone. For the next few minutes the restaurant staff circled frantically assembling a take out order that was fit for the delegation from Tonga, or a queen. The other patrons, a sole elderly couple was amused. Bags were filled with salads, soups, bread, and a red velvet cake. "Please Mrs. Crisp allow us to treat you. There is no need to pay tonight."

"Well, thank you," Estelle sighed as she slipped a 20 bill in the tip jar. "And thank you for taking my phone call." I chuckled as I grabbed the two bags of food while the restaurants speakers chimed, "She's a maniac, maniac . . . "

Simply, some things cannot be handled on the phone.