A Ringing Reversal

A heavy rotary telephone was dozing atop a wooden milk crate, its circular dial waiting for boring, polite chatter. Picking up the receiver to place an orderly call? Utterly bourgeois! I scrambled up the springy coiled black cord like an acrobat in the rigging, landing squarely on the sloped chassis. Hooking my rigid claw into the finger hole at number zero, I hauled my entire weight clockwise until the internal spring groaned in tight, furious agony. Then, with a theatrical gasp, I let go. *WHIRRRRRR-CLACK-DING!* The dial rocketed backward in a dizzying blur, rattling the internal bells into a frantic, stuttering fanfare! The line is dead, but the theatre is wide awake.