The Lost Art of Crank Calls

Will Ferguson

With every technological advance, it seems that something irreplaceable has been lost along the way. My young son, for example, will never be able to experience the thrill that comes from calling up perfect strangers at random and inflicting one's sense of humour upon them.

With the advent of Call Display, an entire art form has died, unheralded and unmourned. I speak, of course, about the lost art of crank calls.

I know of what I speak, for I was once a master of this art form. Mine were no simpleminded, one-line gags. No crude pranks of the "Is your fridge running? Well, you better go catch it" variety. No. Mine were more akin to poetry, a kind of living Theatre of the Absurd.

My younger sister and I once sent the entire neighbourhood on an epic round-robin quest. By calling one house after another, claiming to be the neighbour next door asking for a cup of sugar, we triggered a veritable circle dance of confusion. It was a scene right out of Chekhov - except Chekhov didn't normally get grounded for a week after one of his plays were staged. But no matter. There is always a price to be paid for art.

My favourite crank calls were more surreal than burlesque, often reaching levels so sublime that the victims themselves never realized they had been sent up. In the phone books of the small town in which I grew up, families were listed by name, number and mailing address, which allowed me to orchestrate the following Beckett-like scenario:

Unsuspecting Victim:

Me:

Victim:

Me:

Victim:

Me:

Victim:

Me:

Victim:

Me:

My sister and I made calls like this countless times and never--not once--did anyone ever notice anything odd about the conversation.

The all-time classic crank call, however, was one dubbed "the Electrocuted Repairman." This prank involved (a) sound effects, (b) role playing, and (c) pestering innocent people. In short, everything you could possibly want in public entertainment.

The set-up required a noisy office background (provided by my sister typing frantically on a typewriter) and a gruff faux-baritone voice (provided by me).

"This is the phone company calling. One of our men is working on your line, and he has the primary transformer console open [note the clever use of jargon to establish credibility], so you may hear the phone ring once or twice in the next hour, but whatever you do, do not pick up the receiver. By completing the circuit you might very well electrocute the repairman."

We would then immediately call back and let it ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring--until finally, unable to take it anymore, the person on the other end would pick up the phone and hazard a nervous, "Hello?" after which I would let out a blood-shrieking scream and then slam down the phone.

Sadly, my own young son will never be able to follow in his father's footsteps. Because of Call Display, the cry of the electrocuted repairman will never again be heard echoing across the phone lines of this fair land.

Still, the future is not entirely bleak. Just recently, I came across an article about a 13-year old boy who, by posing as a high-rolling "cyberspace millionaire," managed to purchase an original Van Gogh and a vintage 1971 Corvette via the magic of on-line auctions. The young boy's crowning achievement? He placed a whopping $400,000 winning bid on the heirloom bed of Canada's first prime minister, John A. Macdonald.

When his true identity was finally revealed, the boy sheepishly apologized and admitted that his mom and dad had revoked his computer privileges "indefinitely."

The torch has been passed to a new generation.

En Route
September 1999