Now I Answer My Pocket |
| Aaaaah, the joys of carrying a cell phone. |
| My office recently got a cell phone for the newsroom staff to carry on assignments that take them out of the office for long periods of time. |
| But, since I’m usually the one everybody needs to get a hold of, I’ve been the one carrying the darn thing with me. And so far, it’s been nothing but a big pain. |
| My ear has not been tuned to listen for the something ringing in my pocket, so the first few times—actually every single time—someone has tried to call me, I’ve been spinning around, wondering where that funny noise was coming from. |
| To make matters worse, the phone came programmed to sing out a funny little tune, instead of a traditional telephone ring, when it wants your attention, so I had absolutely no idea that it was the phone. |
| I thought it was simply that little sound in your ear that you hear just before everybody around bursts into song, like in a musical. |
| In the theater or on the big screen, one person comes wandering along, minding his own business, when he is suddenly inspired to sing a song about whatever it is he’s thinking about or looking at. |
| Then, he’s surrounded by every villager for half a mile around, singing along with the leader, dancing, lifting people up and twirling them around. |
| Now really, when have you ever seen 25 random people at the mall suddenly break out singing “I love to shop at the mall?” |
| Nope. |
| And I used to think you never would, until the Association of People Who Want to Speak With You Wherever You Are started programming cell phones with show tunes instead of ringers. |
| For the last week I—not at all accustomed to having a phone in my pocket—figured it was only appropriate to start dancing when the music sprouted up again. What else would you do when music begins from out of nowhere? |
| I would dance, snap my fingers and shake my hips, expecting every moment that a whole bunch of other equally deranged and hallucinating souls would come up and start singing the glory of another rainy Monday at work. |
| And then, after a few catchy snaps of my fingers, I realized that nobody else was joining me, and about half the people had begun to back away as if I had turned into a wild boar—a wild boar with rhythm. |
| Then, when sense grabs me tightly by the forehead once again and reminds me that the sound seems to be coming from my bag and that I probably should investigate because it could be important or, at the very least, harmful, I pick up the phone and screech as quickly as I can: “Hello? Hello? ... Hello? I can’t hear anything? Hello? ... Oh, hi.” |
| Whoever it was who thought a phone the size of a bar of soap would be a great communication tool had mush for brains. |
| The phone stops somewhere near my upper jaw, so I have no idea how anybody on the opposite end can even comprehend what I’m saying. And I can’t hear anything out of the one-hole ear receiver, mostly because at this point everybody within earshot has formed a circle around me and started to kick their legs up high and sing a little ditty about staying in touch with friends. |
| Musicals are like cartoons for adults: They make the most ridiculous situations seem normal and entertaining. |
| And cell phones make the most ridiculous situations possible. |
| Between the two of them, the world will never be the same. |
| Maybe I should just leave the silly thing off. |
