Just Awaiting the Deluge of Fax Junk Mail

The first message I received over my new fax machine was writ in large, ominous letters:

WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT?

It had been sent by my older son over his fax machine, and it had the proper note of mysticism and divine presence.

It had begun with a brief ring, like the ring of an alarm clock; then the little machine on my desk began to stutter and I watched with fascination and dread as the paper began to creep out of the slot.

What hath God wrought indeed?

The telegraph and the telephone were both in common use long before I was born; but I have seen the coming of television, the videotape recorder and the computer--and now this latest so-called convenience.

Of course God had nothing to do with it. This infernal thing was invented by some man or woman, or more probably a committee, or three or four committees working competitively. Today’s electronic inventions suggest other inventions, which are soon forthcoming.

Of course my son’s message was not original. “What hath God wrought!” was the first long-distance message sent by Morse telegraph. It was sent from the courtroom of the Supreme Court in Washington to Baltimore on May 24, 1844. It is said to have been suggested by Anne Ellsworth, daughter of Henry L. Ellsworth, commissioner of patents.

Miss Ellsworth correctly foresaw the awesome possibilities of Samuel Morse’s instrument. It was soon in use by the railroads as they flung themselves across the continent, and it was soon to speed communications in the waging of the Civil War.

Reader Phil Marshall echoes my misgivings about the consequences of owning a fax. “Just think. While once you had to stick a stamp on a letter and drop it in the mailbox, now you can stand over the fax machine feeding it page by page. Be sure to bring an extra copy in case your letter misfeeds.”

Marshall also points out that the fax robs us of that old subterfuge of pretending we have not yet received a letter. “When someone sends you a fax, you get to drop everything and respond to it immediately !--since the sender knows exactly when you received it. No longer will you be tempted to open your mail and reply at your convenience. No longer will you be tempted by that easy white lie--’Gee, I didn’t get it yet. Maybe it’ll be in tomorrow’s mail.’ The fax machine is not only convenient, but morally uplifting.”

I am not so worried by the urgency of fax messages as by their inevitable proliferation. Already there are thousands of businesses just waiting to get my fax number on their lists. I can see the time when the machine will be ringing and buzzing night and day, spewing out yards and yards of ads for mail-order clothing, real estate opportunities, charitable agencies and God knows what else. Miles of paper will engulf us, and I will be paying for it.

But things are looking up. After that first message, I was delighted to receive a message from Dottie Furman, including some snapshots she made of my wife and me last summer at the Hollywood Bowl. They were charcoal black, but nevertheless it was fun to watch them materialize and be reminded of that pleasant evening.

Then came an extraordinary bonus: a series of pictures sent by David Hockney from his studio. Even without his vivid colors, they had his verve, imagination and exuberance, and I couldn’t help chortling in delight as they crept out of the slot--at least half a dozen of them in all. Hockney had got our fax number from mutual friends, Morry and Rita Pynoos.

So far my wife has used the machine more than I have. I wonder if that isn’t why she bought it for me. I don’t care so long as she doesn’t give our number to one of her mail-order houses. That would be like exposing ourselves to a virus.

I take comfort in knowing that, if I ever have need of its triumphant rhetoric and resounding assurances, I can ask the Library of Congress to send me the Declaration of Independence.

But I wonder if I could trust the library not to sell our number to Spiegel and Time/Life Books.