Whistleblowing

You wouldn't think that a camping supply store in Center City Philadelphia would do a lot of business, I Goldberg, which says it has the largest supply of military surplus items on the East Coast did in the 1990s. It's still around but it had to move a few years ago. 
I used to shop there sometimes in the 1990s, when I was new to the city. I got around by bicycle then, and I Goldberg had practical things for that before bike shops had them, like good bags.

A simple, Fox 40 distress whistle.

Once while there I saw the whistle in the photograph. It cost a dollar, maybe two. The label describing it said it made a sound that carried farther than any sound a human could make without using an explosive or electronic amplifier of some kind. The internationally recognized code for whistles is three blasts, each about three seconds long. It's good to have a bright light or something with which to make a fire with, of course, but a whistle will work during the day, and all you need beside the whistle is the ability to blow hard enough.
I lived in a small apartment building and didn't want to bother my neighbors so I only tried it once. I hung it where I could get to it quickly, the idea being that if there were a fire (I lived on the top floor of three) and I needed to alert people that I was trapped or something I'd be able to get it easily. When I moved to the suburbs seven years ago I put it in a box and forgot about it.
A few weeks ago, I found it and I keep it in my pocket now. It's not for help; I live on the first floor and there's always 911. I use it for telemarketers. I still have a landline, leftover from my parents' days and something I don't want to give up: It's been the same number since 1953. 
Telemarketers target such numbers, despite the blocks I have on it. They call, I blow the whistle, they hang up, hopefully with one ear ringing. Mean? Not really. They are, after all, trying to steal money from the elderly.