Kudos to the evil genius who designed the i-phone just the right width to slip down between the car seat and console--a space too narrow for even a slender, artistic hand, like my own, to follow. This was my thought halfway through taking a left onto Main in Lava, Utah after dropping a colleague off after work. It must have slipped out of the pocket of my joggers. My son hates that I have a pair of joggers. He lets me know it is uncool for old people to wear joggers, but I will wear joggers if I please. I will wear pajamas in public if I please. I once did. Up north, to Provo, the big city. My children were horrified, but oh how comfortable I was. That is the great thing about getting old. You know that no matter how you dress, you won't be turning any heads. So you don't even try. It is great. The ultimate freedom. Happily married with a steady job, I can finally live the only place I ever wanted to live anyway--my head. To hell with what's on the outside. All I have to do is be comfortable in my clothes and dream.
Or so I thought until I rounded that corner and felt my i-phone quickly slide out of my joggers' right pocket. I reached to grab it, but it was too late. Other than the fact that I'd planned on plugging it into the cigarette lighter after McDonald's and blasting Dire Strait's Alchemy album on the 45 minute commute home, leaving it there wound't be such a big deal. Except it was. Marci might call. For some strange reason I feel obligated to answer whenever she calls. I expect the same from her. A small bubble of magma rises from deep within me every time I get her auto text-massage, "Sorry, I can't talk now." What I hate most is that it sounds nothing like her--even in text form. It should say something like, "Go away, I'm in the restroom," which would really mean, I'm hiding in here reading Facebook or doing a puzzle on my phone because I don't want to deal with you right now. That I could live with because I do live with it, and I'm a happy man. But, "Sorry, I can't talk now" infuriates me. How do I know my wife is on the other end when I receive such an anonymous message? What if she was abducted by aliens or ran off with some young college dropout to find peace and happiness in Portland? I don't mind that she would rather deal with a puzzle than me. I can be pretty difficult to live with. I want to quit my job and give away free ice cream the rest of my life (and yet, I have no mojo left, if there ever was any, to drive her libido to the point where she is ready leave reason behind and follow my crazy ambitions). No, what I mind is not knowing she is still there. That is what I'm addicted to: knowing she is there. I don't care if she is crocheting, playing Mahjong or on Facebook. I just care that she is there. "Sorry, I can't talk now" gives no hint her presence. It's empty. A vacuum. When I hear it, I feel like an astronaut floating alone out in space while David Bowie's "Space Oddity" plays in my head forever and ever.
I always assume everyone shares my emotional insecurities, so I thought What if she calls and I can't get to my phone? There I was midway through Main, panicking, trying to reach my hand down a crevice not big enough for my middle finger, which definitely wanted to show its angry juvenile head--no adult ego state here, and all I could think was, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone?
