Archive
04/23/10
The Voice and the Air
What makes the shifty, too-anxious-for-this-early-an-a.m. guy, Sitting at a table not eight feet away from mine, Certain that the world of this restaurant is his Rockefellered oyster,
That he's entitled, by all ten Bill of Rights amendments, Nay, empowered, to broadcast everything adhering to his mind, By using his cell mega-micro-phone as a public-address system,
His mouth as a rock-concert-wattage speaker stack, To hyper-decibelize his pedal-to-the-metal vocalizations, Speaking in tongues that everyone around him understands?
It's just because he can, because there are no laws of the land Preventing such abusers from performing their patriotic duty To share the latest from their egos' news bureaus.
It sounds as though this impresario, this master of ceremonies, Is conducting business as deafeningly usual, With the absent half of some sort of esoteric partnership
In some black-ops agency of predatory actions and practices. "Charlie, I've told you a thousand times, if I've told you twice, That we gotta get Stu and Ed to sign off on the protocols
"If we're gonna keep this fucker under wraps! I mean, if we pooch this, we're history, toast, shit on a stick! We could even be talkin' three to five in Potosi!"
Even with mouthful after mouthful of my dry Frosted Flakes, I can't drown out the volume of the voice, Which keeps burrowing further, deeper into nefarious innuendos. Suddenly, a rush of air brisks past me, brushes my shoulder, Replies, "I'm not sure we can trust Stu and Ed, in this thing. They got too many skeletons walkin' around, in the cemetery."
The air turns out to be a virtual identical twin of the voice That, for the past half hour, has been loud, across from me. It, too, wielding a cell phone, is now unavoidable.
The voice and the air, not three feet separating them, Continue their plangent communication...via cell phone — An intimacy so confidential that neither dares speak in public.
04/23/10
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