Eye
contact was the first casualty. I haven’t made eye contact with another human
being for two years. It’s hard to know where to focus my clever, witty retorts
when all I see is the top of people’s heads as
they
. . .
The cheery sound
of tinny elevator music can be heard. Several fat minutes pass.
What
was I typing? Oh right.
. .
. hunch, as they hunch, over the glowing screen of their machines. They’re
probably checking out my clever, witty retorts on Facebook or beating up on birds.
I
blame the machines—also the birds.
The
second casualty has been my self-esteem. My two-year old granddaughter, who
does not speak any form of English that I recognize yet and still poops in her
pants, brought one of the machines to me and showed me how to sling birds from
a slingshot. I couldn’t do it. She laughed, took the machine and . . .
A clever
ringtone of “Afternoon Delight” wafts through the sizzling airwaves. You wait
impatiently for me to turn down the offer of free money from a bankrupt federal
government.
. .
. and with her tiny fingers flung birds about like artillery from the battle of
the Bulge. I felt like a big, fat fingered old person.
The
third casualty has been freedom: personal, private, individual, collective,
group, and institutional. Gone.
Once
we traveled long distances, through darkened streets, on rainy evenings without
the benefit of the “emergency cell phone.” Those were primitive times. We existed
by the seat of our pants, vulnerable to engine failure, flat tires, bad
directions, fender benders, and weirdoes in farm houses with telephones. But we
were free. Free to use two hands on the steering wheel. Free to use our
blinkers. Free to get the news about the cupcakes for the party when you arrived
at Sally’s house and not when you’re trying to merge onto I-4 at the Maitland
Exchange.
Like
I said those were . . .
I ignore you
and answer the phone call about the cupcakes. And you wait and wait and wait
and wait . . . and good news, Sally was able to get the Spider Man cupcakes on
sale!
. .
. primitive, primitive times.
I would finish
this but there’s this new APP that’s all the rage where you try to blow up
balloons with moose toots. It’s a scream. So let me just finish up this level,
and I’ll be right with you . . . no, no, no, no, oh no . . . come on get in
there, you moose toot, you . . .
Linda
(Answer That!) Zern
