Word After Word

On telephones. You could call someone at home and hear what he had to say. I thought it was working really well.

Now, you can’t call people’s houses—no one has phones at home. They’re phones are out slumbering in the car, off, comatose in the bottom of the purse, vibrating dysfunctionally under the sofa cushions.  You used to be able to call someone up on the telephone and it rang normally and the person answered. Now,  you have to go over to their house and help them search for their cell phone.

You used to be able to hear full sentences on the phone. Now, we don’t get all the words a person is saying. Some of our words are left out, as though we are all of the sudden redacted versions of our former selves.

Before, we got wherever our phone was to talk, and we talked. Maybe we were doing something else, too—typing, cooking, making a list—but mostly we were talking.  If someone wanted to know what we were doing they could easily see: We were on the phone. Now, everyone is driving and talking on the phone and walking and talking on the phone and the talking is a tic, a side-note, a by-product of other activity. It’s like being on the phone is holding our place, the place our whole self used to be, just fine, on its own.

I’m having trouble with the cell phones. We aren’t connecting at all.  If I have one on me, I feel like an tagged creature on Mutual of Omaha. I feel like a rhino when I try to use the tiny phone, too—it’s this whole seductive little sinister world in my palm and my paws are so big and clumsy.  I like a phone that has the same proportions as the human head. I like a phone booth, a conversation in a room designed for a conversation. I want all the words. And I want them in places designated for telephone conversations. So many cells, proliferating out of control.  I miss the nuclei. Cell phones are dismantling us, I’m afraid, syllable by syllable. I feel old and whole and calm, hello.