Remember when Richard Allin’s column tickled Gazette readers with tales of Wad and Gudge Creek, Arkansas?

(Democrat-Gazette illustration/Celia Storey)
(Democrat-Gazette illustration/Celia Storey)

Editor's note: As an Independence Day treat, here is an Our Town column in which Richard Allin (1930-2007) has fun with his satirical towns Wad and Gudge Creek. This was the second column Allin wrote about the fictional Rep. Wallace Wad of the nonexistent Arkansas towns. Although he'd been joking about the towns for years, Allin had spelled Wad with two d's: Wadd. This was his first column using the canonical spelling, "Wad."

This essay first appeared Feb. 7, 1973.

A PHONE FOR WALLACE

Wallace Wad, the newly elected state legislator from Wad, Arkansas (pop. 9), a suburb of Gudge Creek (pop. 10), stayed as long as he could in a downtown Little Rock hotel. Then he decided he had to just rent himself a room.

He felt dizzy in the hotel. He had never been higher than the fourth [floor] of any building and here he was on the seventh floor. He was terrified at looking down into the street where the people looked like bugs and the cars looked like he didn't know what.

The residents of Wad were not height conscious. The highest structure in Wad was the DX sign until it blew down, whereupon it was replaced by the tin cone that served as steeple of Second Baptist Church. (Second Baptist was formed following a heresy scare at First Baptist.)

Wallace wanted just a furnished room near the ground, preferably with the plumbing inside (so he could brag when he got back home) and a chester-drawers to keep his other shirt and the change of BVDs in. By poring over morning and afternoon newspapers he found what he wanted, a room in a house with an old lady who didn't allow drinking or women in the room unless the door was open. That was more or less all right with Wallace, who was not infected with the ways of the big city. He also got kitchen privileges.

Only one overriding desire possessed Wallace. He wanted a telephone — a private personal telephone right in his room.

So one morning before Wallace had to be at his desk at the state Legislature, he called up the telephone company to ask about getting a telephone installed in his room. Wallace learned something about telephones during the next 20 minutes.

"Ah ... now let's see," said the nice lady in the telephone company business office. "What is the basic color scheme of your apartment?" Wallace couldn't remember. "Would you say it’s NEUtral?" asked the lady musically. That sounded near enough to Wallace. "Then let's plan on the 'Emerald Star Studded Colonial Model.'"

Wallace didn't ask if that cost extra. He thought they were giving it to him.

"And now as to service designed personally for you," the business girl said. "How many rooms do you have?"

Wallace didn't want to leave the impression he was trash, so he told the telephone girl, "Two." He counted the closet as a separate room.

"Well, you'll of course want an instrument in each room," she said briskly and firmly.

Wallace didn't see how he could possibly get much service out of a telephone in his closet since it wasn't big enough to walk into. He began regretting the upsurge of pride that had made him exaggerate the size of his living quarters.

The telephone saleslady assured Wallace that the 12-tone Carillon chime was what a person of his status needed. "It can be set to play several pieces," the lady said, "from 'The Old Rugged Cross' to 'Yellowbird.'" Wallace chose "Wildwood Flower."

"We are discouraging the use of dials," the nice lady said, "and surely only the newest Touch-Tone model would be adequate for your needs." Wallace acquiesced. If the phone company wanted to give him all this service, why, he wouldn't want to appear ungrateful.

Before the conversation ended, the lady at the phone company had fitted Wallace out with additional equipment, which included a Klaxon horn that blows in your backyard, a dimmer switch on the dial, a six months trial subscription to Muzak, a bold-face listing in the telephone directory, a 30-foot cord for Wallace's 12-foot by 12-foot room, a home answering device, a Card-Dialer, and MagiCall and a brass plaque for his door that read "A Telephone Honor Roll Home."

Later in the afternoon, eight telephone trucks and a crew of 96 technicians swarmed over Wallace's room installing-in the desired service. Two hours later they finished.

Wallace entered his room wide-eyed and happy. There were devices all over, little dials and lights, instruction booklets. He sat down proudly in his chair, gazing at the equipment. Then he lifted the receiver and dialed his first number.

He listened, eyes a-gleam: "Time 4:56, temperature 62."


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