The Hanging Receiver

The quiet inside this tall glass shelter was intolerable. It was surrounded by electric-glass walls, but dead cold. I climbed the rusted metal coin shelf to reach the black plastic receiver resting on its chrome cradle. I levered it upward with my pointed tip. Click. It swung loose, dropping into the dark air. It dangled by its coiled cord, twisting and thrashing like a caught buddy. From the earpiece came a sharp, continuous drone—buzzing loud and steady into the glass walls. I gripped the swinging rubber cord, letting the fierce vibration shoot straight through my rigid boots. The dead booth is awake now.