Did I mention on Twitter the other day that it took me three or four daze to fly from Virginia to Boise, Idaho?  “Sigh.”  Weather it was electrical problems or missing pilots or pure and simple negligence, the plain did not lift off the runway so I disembarked and sat at Gate 13 for ever—

and a day.

I noticed cell phones perched around me—plugged into outlets here, there and everywhere.  Some buzzed, some rang, some played tunes, others sat silent as if disconnected.  Most were unattended and all alone.  Their owners abandoned them for a fresh brew at Star Backs, beer at Steins, fries at Seven Guys, or maybe a sharp “Virginia is for Luvers” T shirt at a kiosk operated by someone from a long distance away from phone, I mean, home. 

Call it waiting, as I plugged in my stupid antique sell (my brilliant son insists I do not need a smarter one) and hoped for a charge.  No seats near my instrument, I called the shot and placed myself across the corridor some forty feet away, but within ear shot.  Myself, shot after all the waiting, started hearing “DING DONG/DING DONG/DING DONG and was annoyed, to say the least.  Heads around me turned and rolled and the nagging noise continued, then stopped.  Some poor hippie snoozed nearby as the racket replayed the same DING DONG message.   This time it woke him and he flipped his lid:

“Dude!  Answer this fuckin phone!”

I came to and realized my stupid cell phone had a caller and I should pick up.

I innocently sauntered over, ripped the plug out of the wall, and threw the little nuisance into the trash.

“No one can contact me anymore”

 I assured myself.

 Except the hippie who quipped—

“Shit woman–Wut’s this? My wake-up call?”

“So sorry”– I answered on the first ring.

“It was just a wrong number.”

Then somehow we connected as I tried to pick him up… 


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