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At least once a week, someone calls because he wants to
send me something. I begin to recite P.O. Box 548,
Salida, Colo. 81201,
but of late, I am seldom allowed
to finish the address.
Ed, you've got to see this right away. No time for
the mail. What's your fax number?
I don't have one.
The tone becomes conspiratorial. Hey, Ed, I
understand. I know you can't give out your fax number to
just anybody -- nobody wants to get buried in junk faxes --
but this is something you really need to see right away.
Just tell me the number, I'll use it just this once, and
then I'll forget it.
I wish I had a picture phone,
I reply.
Why?
Because then I could tell you to read my lips when I
say 'I don't have a fax machine.'
Then the tone gets condescending. Gee, and I thought
you were a professional, Quillen. Never mind. There must be
some place where you get faxes, though, isn't
there?
Granted, I have made arrangements with two friends who have fax machines. One operates five miles out of town, and the other doesn't dedicate a phone line to faxes. If you try sending me a fax via those numbers, the likely outcomes:
1. With the non-dedicated line, several days might pass before your fax gets through.
2. With the dedicated line, several days might pass before I venture out there or that proprietor comes to town.
Any other solution vexes both myself and my friends. They have more profitable things to do than fret about my faxes. Further, if you're someone of my less-than-genial disposition, friends are hard to come by, and should be cherished for their companionship, not for their willingness to be interrupted by my faxes.
I try to explain the above to the fax-happy caller, with
the further advice that we have excellent postal service in
Salida. Just mail it,
I say, and I'll get it in a
day or two, faster than I would if you faxed it.
The sensible callers agree; the others persist in faxing. In their offices, unlike mine, it must be easier to fax a letter than to mail one. For my part, the letter carrier comes by to fetch whatever I post; sending a fax means a trip across town, at least.
I have noticed one common trait in the faxes that do get through. Excepting only information I have requested, every other fax has consisted of information that could have arrived by ox cart from San Francisco after rounding Cape Horn on a garbage scow.
Some were of interest, but all were about as timely as an announcement from Gen. W.T. Sherman that he would not seek the presidency in 1876.
As the Information Age dawns, I'll help society adjust with Quillen's Law of the Inverse Speed/Content Ratio: The faster they want to get it to you, the less likely that it's anything you want right away.
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