When I was a kid, there were payphones everywhere. I would
get in, pick up the receiver, and dial 0. A recording would say, "Please
say your name" and I would say, "Come pick me up" and the
recording would say, "Please dial the num..." and I interrupt with my
mom's work number. Ring ring. (My mother's voice:) "Crown Home
Warranty..." and the recording would interrupt, "I have a collect
call from..." (My voice:) "Come pick me up." The recording asks,
"Will you accept the charges?" and my mom says, "no."
I got a cell phone because there are never any payphones
anymore. That and sometimes I have more to talk about than 3 seconds of
record-able message time. I got an e-mail when my bank went
"paperless." I bought a digital camera when I could find 35mm film
anymore. I buy umbrellas on rainy days. All at once realize that you are the
old model. Obsolete. 3...2...1... adapt.
Circuit boards and Bluetooth headsets were a bit of a
mystery to me but adaptation is a specialty of ours. I came back to the states
2 years ago.At the time my head still had that funny lump you get from wearing
an army helmet and I thought it would be there forever. Joining the military is
a bit like pressing "pause" on the VCR of technology, music, even
adolescence sometimes. You spend a few years running around Europe with a gun
outside of fashion, and movies, and pop stars, and Sunday night cable
programming, and when you get back don't be surprised if that flashing red
pause button on the VCR is gone. Its a Tivo now and by the way, good luck on
the outside.
When I met her, I worked at the only bar that didn't mind my
five o'clock shadow and still required a tie to eat dinner. Within a year I was
designing websites, recovering from operating system failures, updating virus
definitions, backing up friends' secure files, I even started a blog. She was a
natural, I guess, and I'm a bit like a sponge that way. I started taking her
shooting, naturally. At a cabin up north where my family used to stay. It
seemed like a fair trade; one skill for another.
I stayed at the bar for a long time, but she ran off to be a
detective. She still calls from time to time. She asks me to hold on to a box
for her or to sign for a package and drop it off somewhere else. Sometimes she
still meets clients at the bar. "You never know when one of them is gonna
be a psycho," she says, "Then I'll be glad you're here." We
still shoot sometimes to keep the skills sharp. I take my gun sometimes and
stand behind her when it looks like she's in trouble. But today. Today is the
first time she ever used the "Help" word.
From the bloody wooden floor of my family's old cabin up
north, I'm calling. Calling out to her. Calling for help and using the H- word
like a child, who can't even tie his shoes. I'm trying to scream and stay
calm at the same time. I'm pleading, "answer the phone..." I shout, "Can you hear me girl?" The blood is
sticky and my fingers leave little brown-red smootches where I press the
buttons on my brand new telephonic fashion accessory. ...3...2...9...send.
The line is quiet for a long time and all I can hear is my
own breath made digital and played back into my own ear with a short delay.
"Please," I say, and the phone whispers back into my ear,
"Please." My breath catches on the pain as I crawl on top of the dead man on the floor next to me to get an extra few inches toward the sky. Toward a doctor and stitches and a fresh gin and tonic with a lime. "Come pick me up," I say. And the phone says nothing. The screen
reads, "Signal Lost."
Technological capitalism has conspired against me, I think.
My cell phone has GPS navigation, MP3, internet, synchronized scheduling,
streaming video, downloadable applications, and a fully reactive touch
sensitive keyboard. There are SAT-Phones that work anywhere on Earth. I hear there's a Blackberry that can wipe your ass for an
extra $10/month. My cell phone has no bars and bloody keyboard smootches and
I'm lying on the floor covered in blood with my new phone held high in the air
like a white flag when I get a bar. I lower the phone to dial and a message reads: "Low Battery" The screen goes dark. All at once, realize that you are the old
model. Obsolete. 3...2...1... adapt.
