America's code war

We used to fear becoming a number. Now we'll just settle for having a familiar one.

Out There by Todd Pitock

When the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) assigned me (and more than a million of my neighbors) a new area code, I felt as though I'd been displaced.

We had a whole year to adjust. For 12 months, you could dial using the old area code and still get through. After that, you were out of luck. The FCC called it "a permissive dialing period," which sounded like a memoirist's description of an addiction to phone sex.

Calling outside the region, I'd keep getting the same response: "Where is that you're calling from?" In the beginning, when I'd say where I was, I'd get a suspicious "Uh-huh," as if I were really just a metropolitan-area wanna-be. Later, though, as the ranks of the telephonically displaced swelled, it changed to an empathic sigh: "You, too?"

You, too, indeed. Since 1995, the FCC has minted almost 80 new area codes. In the previous 33 years, it introduced just 15. The most commonly cited reason for the code boom is the exponential increase in cell phones, pagers, faxes, and modems, with households typically commanding from two to five phone numbers to accommodate their new communications demands. Seen from that viewpoint, the area-code boom tells the story of mass consumerism in America.

It would be a nifty little indicator -- if only it were true. The real reason for the boom, according to the International Communications Association, has more to do with the way the FCC allocates numbers to new phone carriers. Each time a telephone company enters the market, it orders phone numbers, which, because of FCC regulations, come in blocks of 10,000. To date, about 1.7 billion numbers have been stockpiled. Only 250 million are actually in use. We're suffering from artificial scarcity. And consumer groups are now trying to stem the tide of area codes by changing FCC rules.

This system explains why the United States is fighting the Code War almost by itself. Other countries have made changes on a much smaller scale. London divided against itself by splitting into two codes. France, which used to have one code for Paris and one for the rest of the country, added two more codes in 1996. They also added an eighth digit to phone numbers, while places such as Israel and South Africa added a seventh digit. Seven digits seems to be the threshold for any country aspiring to Industrial Nation status. The US has raised the bar -- many in-state calls now require a 10-digit phone number (including the area code) where before only seven digits were needed. As ever smaller area-code blocks continue to be created, some experts predict 12-digit numbers by 2010.

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We didn't really pay much attention to area codes before they mutated and spread like an inconvenient virus. The numbers, though, revealed some things. One of people's worst fears about living in a technological era was that they'd be reduced to a number. It's turned out that, at least in the case of area codes, numbers didn't depersonalize people but actually gave them an identity and a sense of place. Chicago was 312; San Francisco, 415; Boston, 617.

The new codes upset the geo-numerical permanence -- an American version of the breakup of the Soviet Union. Instead of satellite republics with unpronounceable names, we have a chaotic crush of numbers that has made long-distance phone calls almost as abstract as cyberspace. You just can't picture where the person is.

The change brought out in stark relief a class-like hierarchy among codes. Companies began paying a premium to keep a prestigious code. Suburbanites began to fight for their area codes. Belmont, a moneyed suburb whose residents pride themselves on saying they live "just outside of Boston," lost its collective mind when the phone company threatened to switch the town from the urbane 617 to the backwoods 781. Local politicians condemned the change, and Belmont eventually got to keep its tony area code. Arlington, just next door, had less clout and is now in 781.

Nationally, the Big Apple's 212 was -- and is -- the top of the heap. It was something to aspire to, not just a number but an image. Now, with the threat of 646 looming, New Yorkers (that is, people from Manhattan) are clinging to it. Indeed, fragrance designer Carolina Herrera named her new perfume 212.

Although the phobia is as yet unnamed, there is clearly a fear of area-code change. Seinfeld's Elaine Benes had it bad: assigned 646, she contemplated killing the installer. And the new area codes actually did present a real-life danger. When the tide of codes started in 1995, many institutional phone systems -- including those of numerous hospitals -- found that their phone-switching equipment couldn't put through calls to the new area codes. The equipment didn't recognize the new codes because of their middle integers.

That middle integer used to be either a one or a zero, a standard format. The new-generation codes, like rebellious teens, do not conform to tradition. Some, like north-of-Chicago's 847, sound more like a new generation of jet. Others, like North Carolina's 336, look like the beginning of someone's phone number. It's as though any trio of numbers can show up at your door and declare themselves an area code. It's a numeric free-for-all.

Quite a few upstart codes have quickly managed to establish themselves as prestigious. Or, to put it another way, the old code has found itself stripped of status. Los Angeles's 213, for example, now has the lowest median income of any code in the country, according to American Demographics magazine. The spin-offs, in contrast, cover hoity-toity Beverly Hills (310) and posh Orange County (714 and 949). This is not an isolated case, either. Of the 20 wealthiest US communities, 17 have new codes.

Not all Californians feel so fortunate. Some Chinese were upset when they got bumped from 818 to 626. In Chinese culture, the number 8 represents good fortune, while 6 is a bad-luck number.

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For many states that once had a single area code, the change is radical.

Colorado was scheduled to be fractured like a big pane of glass, with Denver International Airport having a separate code from Denver itself. In reaction, the state commissioned polls and held hearings where people spoke of the competitive advantages and psychological consequences of new codes.

Until now, it was not at all obvious that area codes promoted a sense of community. Some people, though, believe that new codes will lead to emotional fissures. Addressing the issue of western Pennsylvania's split between 412 and 724, Daniel J. Whelan, the chief executive of Bell Atlantic-Pennsylvania Inc., told the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette last year, "There are going to be communities . . . that are going to be divided."

Starting next year, some places will have an "overlay" system, meaning that new codes will be grafted onto existing ones. If you order new services, you could end up with separate codes within your own house. They may have to replace the term area code itself, since the original concept wasn't meant to refer to areas within a person's house.

Eventually people will adjust -- perhaps we'll even look back on the quaint days when "local" phone numbers had seven digits and a code designated a place. Meanwhile, though, some will panic. As they hyperventilate, let's hope one trio of numbers is still reliable -- 911.

Todd Pitock's essays have appeared in Salon, Hemispheres, and the Washington Post. He can be reached at toddpitock@aol.com.