There was a phone. It was a wind-up phone with a very particular foible. It would only keep the connection if a man was speaking to another man. I’d never heard of a sexist phone before, but the father said he’d demonstrate. He was arranging the next leg of our journey and had to make a phone call. He wound up the phone and dialed and started doing a passable impression of Barry White. But every time his voice went up, when asking a question or sounding incredulous, the line went dead. I realized I didn’t have the vocal range to make my Plan B call. I was stuck.
