During the heyday of Ronald Reagan's wistful return to 18th century laissez faire capitalism, Judge Harold Greene earned a place in history by his contrary, some would say perverse, decision that AT&T was a bullying monopoly. Death by dismemberment is the punishment Judge Greene decreed. While our attention was captured by the spectacle of Goliath being drawn and quartered, some smaller, and I think more sinister, changes slipped in unnoticed.

The American telephone system is a marvel and a wonder, and has been since that very first moment when Bell shouted in that tin cup at Watson. Imagine: I can pick up my phone and talk to someone on the other side of the world, or even Pittsburgh, as easy as you please. Or millions, maybe billions, of someones. But my Rolodex^" won't hold millions and billions of numbers. Which is why we have need of Directory Assistance from time to time. There has always been this need since Bell first misplaced Watson's number.

A call to Directory Assistance used to be a mini-conversation--two humans communing through a magic medium. A person on the other end of this wondrous technology talking with a person on this end. "Operator. May I help you?" "Yes, can you give me the number of Judge Harold Greene in Washington, I want to give him a piece of my mind." "Certainly sir." PAUSE. "That number is (202) 535-3448." "Gee, thanks." "You're welcome." CLICK. Now what was so tough about that? Was it broke? Which part? Why did we decide to fix it?

Then in the name of increased "competition" and its bastard cousin "greater efficiency," the operators started getting faster and faster. I began feeling like I was getting the high-tech "bum's rush." No sooner was the last digit out of the Operator's mouth than I heard the CLICK. As if the number were 535-3448CLICK. It seemed the operators were under pressure to terminate the calls as quickly as possible (less than 25 seconds is my local phone company's goal) in order to squeeze a few fractions of a second out of the exchange so they could hurry off and provide the same surly service to the next caller.

In Phase 1 of "The Plot" I still occasionally got an Operator who hadn't had their churlishness training yet and with whom I could still have an old-fashioned conversation, one in which the Operator allowed me the patient courtesy of not hanging up before I did. Phase 1 lasted for awhile, but I knew something was up.

In Phase 2 we found out what that something was. Synthesized computer voices! Now the "voice" I hear cutting me off short is that of a computer. I call Directory Assistance and ask for a number, the Operator punches the name into a computer and then terminates his/her involvement with me even before the number starts! The human conversation ends before I am even given the phone, that little "detail" being left to the machine. Thereby saving additional microseconds, which add up to so many person-hours, which translates into so many dollars saved, and which, I am sure the phone company will claim, will result in lower telephone rates.

Now my local phone company, the Chesapeake & Potomac Telephone Co., has boldly offered to introduce my neighbors and me to Phase 3, in which every collect and

third-party call can now be handled by the tin paws of a telephone robot. Better service, they say. More efficient. Besides which, they have already spent $42 million to make this marvel of modernity possible. (I wonder what conclusion they will come to as to the "customer acceptance" of their innovation?)

My fellow Baltimoreans, God love 'em, have one of the richest and most peculiar accents I have ever heard. And it is absolutely specific to the city of Baltimore--nobody else anywhere has an accent anything like it. In Phase 4 of "The Plot", I am convinced, the human telephone operator will disappear altogether, as soon as the phone company can figure out a way for a machine to understand a Baltimore native when they say: "Hon, can ya gimme the number of Take-o Bell Mexan restrant on Ba-lare Rude in East Bawl-mer?"

Something has been lost. Wondrous technologies like the telephone system require thoughtful care to ensure they serve us in ways that honor our humanity. The phone companies have long sought to cultivate this image of a beneficent technology. Recall AT&T's advertising theme: "Reach out and touch someone." And recall those wonderfully warm, misty-eyed commercials in which momma gets a call from her son "just because he loves me." But it is important that image and reality match. And it is in the little things--which sometimes mean a lot--that they can easily go astray.

So, to whomever is left at the phone company, I would like to reach out and touch them with this message: This customer still prefers to talk to people rather than machines; to take a moment longer if need be to acknowledge the polite courtesies; and yes, if need be, even to pay higher rates to retain a little old-fashioned service. And I am telling you all this, just because I love you.