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Cell text by Michael Peck |
MSP International Airport, Minn.—Mark Twain would’ve called it his conversation mill. Krusty the Klown, his pie hole. Either way, the guy next to me is working it, dialing and talking, dialing and talking. His grandma. His buddy. His brother. Another buddy and his other grandma. Or maybe it’s the same one. Both go by that name, I assume. Either way, he’s heading off whatever tragedy he appears to believe will occur should every loved one, acquaintance and colleague not be updated as to his location at 8:45 on a Saturday morning. That or it’s horrovacui, the fear of the void, of being alone with one’s thoughts. Or maybe the fear of letting the rest of us be alone with ours.
As far as where he is, it’s gate A8. I’m here waiting to board the second flight on my Chicago-North-Dakota-Winnipeg trip, which begins in Grand Forks. I attempt a Captain Kirk and go shields-up, bringing the iPod into play to ride a black-tea caffeine buzz with a mash-up playlist of mixed gems such as Pere Ubu’s “Nonalignment Pact” up against The Beach Boys’ “Waiting for the Day” and L’Trimm’s “The Cars with the Boom” expertly blended with Gary Numan’s “Cars” and the Beatles’ “Drive My Car.” Then the battery dies.
I thought it’d be nice to get away from the big city and the crowds and spend some long hours finding myself on a lonely highway. And it will be, once this guy stops talking.
He’s about to dial again when the gray-haired flight attendant behind the counter announces that it’s time to board. We’re slow to move. “OK, y’all,” she says, peering at us over her glasses with eyes that must’ve ridden herd over many a second-grader in a previous career. “Let’s get up, now.” Gabby hangs up.
Did I say I wanted to get away from other people? Not entirely true. I already miss my wife, and I’m sure going to miss this woman. — Michael Peck
September 7, 2008 at 9:18 am
Sadly, this guy is reproducing like tribbles, or perhaps gremlins. I see — or more accurately, HEAR — him in every airport, on every Amtrak train and, worst of all, on every Greyhound bus. There’s no stopping him. iPods and/or industrial strength earplugs are the only solution.
September 7, 2008 at 9:31 am
Too true, I’m afraid, though at one point I was seriously weighing the merits of having my ears removed. Not plugged, mind you, but taken out and off altogether just to make sure. I mean, one out of six senses–I’d still be operating at, what, 83-percent capacity, right? And to not have to hear anymore: “Hey … What’re you doin’? … Nothin’ … I’m at the airport … ”
Bliss, I tell you.
September 7, 2008 at 2:35 pm
A less drastic option might be to purchase a pair of those noise-canceling headphones. You know, the ones in the Sky Mall catalog, right next to the electronic King James Bible and the Vince Lombardi motivational poster.
September 7, 2008 at 5:36 pm
Battery life is finite. Ear removal is the only sure-fire solution.
September 8, 2008 at 10:07 am
Pere Ubu, wow. Not too many people I know, even know of Pere Ubu. Perfect antidote to cell phone man.