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China’s plans to build a massive hydro project in Tibet have sparked fears about the environmental impacts on the world’s longest and deepest canyon. It has also alarmed neighboring India, which fears that China could hold back or even weaponize river water it depends on. Read more on E360 →

Humans are messy. We spill drinks, smudge screens, and bring our electronic devices into countless sticky situations. As anyone who has accidentally dropped their phone into a toilet or pool knows, moisture poses a particular problem. And it’s not a new one: From early telephones to modern cellphones, everyday liquids have frequently conflicted with devices that must stay dry. Consumers often take the blame when leaks and spills inevitably occur. Rachel Plotnick, an associate professor of cinema and media studies at Indiana University Bloomington, studies the relationship between technology and society. Last year, she spoke to IEEE Spectrum about her research on how people interact with buttons and tactile controls. In her new book, License to Spill: Where Dry Devices Meet Liquid Lives (The MIT Press, 2025), Plotnick explores the dynamic between everyday wetness and media devices through historical and contemporary examples, including cameras, vinyl records, and laptops. This adapted excerpt looks back at analog telephones of the 1910s through 1930s, the common practices that interrupted service, and the “trouble men” who were sent to repair phones and reform messy users. Boston Daily Globe in 1908 recounted, for instance, how a mother only learned her lesson about her baby’s cord chewing when the baby received a shock—or “got stung”—and the phone service went out. These youthful oral fixations rarely caused harm to the chewer, but were “injurious” to the telephone cord. License to Spill is Rachel Plotnick’s second book. Her first, Power Button: A History of Pleasure, Panic, and the Politics of Pushing (The MIT Press, 2018), explores the history and politics of push buttons. The MIT Press Telephony. Painters washed ceilings, which dripped; telephones sat near windows during storms; phone cords came in contact with moist radiators. A telephone chief operator who handled service complaints recounted that “a frequent combination in interior decoration is the canary bird and desk telephone occupying the same table. The canary bird includes the telephone in his morning bath,” thus leading to out-of-order service calls. housewife” who damaged wiring by scrubbing her telephone with water or cleaning fluid, and men in offices who dangerously propped their wet umbrellas against the wire. Wetness lurked everywhere in people’s spaces and habits; phone companies argued that one could hardly expect proper service under such circumstances—especially if users didn’t learn to accommodate the phone’s need for dryness. This differing appraisal of liquids caused problems when telephone customers expected service that would not falter and directed outrage at their provider when outages did occur. Consumers even sometimes admitted to swearing at the telephone receiver and haranguing operators. Telephone company employees, meanwhile, faced intense scrutiny and pressure to tend to telephone infrastructures. “Trouble” took two forms, then, in dealing with customers’ frustration over outages and in dealing with the damage from the wetness itself. The Original Troubleshooters Telephone breakdowns required determinations about the outage’s source. “Trouble men” and “trouble departments” hunted down the probable cause of the damage, which meant sussing out babies, sponges, damp locations, spills, and open windows. If customers wanted to lay blame at workers’ feet in these moments, then repairers labeled customers as abusers of the phone cord. One author attributed at least 50 percent of telephone trouble to cases where “someone has been careless or neglectful.” Trouble men employed medical metaphors to describe their work, as in “he is a physician, and he makes the ills that the telephone is heir to his life study.” Serge Bloch Even if a consumer knew the cord had gotten wet, they didn’t necessarily blame it as the cause of the outage. The repairer often used this as an opportunity to properly socialize the user about wetness and inappropriate telephone treatment. These conversations didn’t always go well: A 1918 article in Popular Science Monthly described an explosive argument between an infuriated woman and a phone company employee over a baby’s cord habits. The permissive mother and teething child had become emblematic of misuse, a photograph of them appearing in Bell Telephone News in 1917 as evidence of common trouble that a telephone (and its repairer) might encounter. However, no one blamed the baby; telephone workers unfailingly held mothers responsible as “bad” users. Teething babies and the mothers that let them play with phone cords were often blamed for telephone troubles. The Telephone Review/License to Spill Armed with such a tool, repairers glorified their own expertise. One wire chief was celebrated as the “original ‘find-out artist’” who could determine a telephone’s underlying troubles even in tricky cases. Telephone company employees leveraged themselves as experts who could attribute wetness’s causes to—in their estimation—uneducated (and even dimwitted) customers, who were often female. Women were often the earliest and most engaged phone users, adopting the device as a key mechanism for social relations, and so they became an easy target. Cost of Wet Phone Cord Repairs Though the phone industry and repairers were often framed as heroes, troubleshooting took its toll on overextended phone workers, and companies suffered a financial burden from repairs. One estimate by the American Telephone and Telegraph Company found that each time a company “clear[ed] wet cord trouble,” it cost a dollar. Phone companies portrayed the telephone as a fragile device that could be easily damaged by everyday life, aiming to make the subscriber a proactively “dry” and compliant user. Everyday sources of wetness, including mops and mustard, could cause hours of phone interruption. Telephony/License to Spill Moisture-Proofing Telephone Cords Although telephone companies put significant effort into reforming their subscribers, the increasing pervasiveness of telephony began to conflict with these abstinent aims. Thus, a new technological solution emerged that put the burden on moisture-proofing the wire. The Stromberg-Carlson Telephone Manufacturing Co. of Rochester, N.Y., began producing copper wire that featured an insulating enamel, two layers of silk, the company’s moisture-proof compound, and a layer of cotton. Called Duratex, the cord withstood a test in which the manufacturer submerged it in water for 48 hours. In its advertising, Stromberg-Carlson warned that many traditional cords—even if they seemed to dry out after wetting—had sustained interior damage so “gradual that it is seldom noticed until the subscriber complains of service.” Serge Bloch The Pickwick Papers, with his many layers of clothing. The product’s hardiness would allow the desk telephone to “withstand any climate,” even one hostile to communication technology. This subtle change meant that the burden to adapt fell to the device rather than the user. As telephone wires began to “penetrate everywhere,” they were imagined as fostering constant and unimpeded connectivity that not even saliva or a spilled drink could interrupt. The move to cord protection was not accompanied by a great deal of fanfare, however. As part of telephone infrastructure, cords faded into the background of conversations. Excerpted from License to Spill by Rachel Plotnick. Reprinted with permission from The MIT Press. Copyright 2025.

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