It was almost 7 PM on Sunday. My husband and I poured ourselves some wine and headed to the living room to watch the CNN broadcast of the Democratic debate. We were anxious to hear more from Mike Gravel and Dennis Kucinich. The media had essentially narrowed the contenders down to Obama, Clinton, Biden and Edwards with Richardson and Dodd enjoying a visible position on the periphery. But Gravel and Kucinich had been relegated to the shadows. Like the cooty kids in school, they were begrudgingly included in the activities but nobody really wanted them to be there.
Yet my husband and I remained hopeful. For us, Gravel and Kucinich were saying things that the American people (whose collective voice had been raised against the war in Iraq, whose concerns about the astronomical costs of health care coverage had gone unheeded by both parties) wanted to hear -- if someone would just hand the candidates a mike once in awhile. As we watched the debate unfold, it became apparent that Wolf Blitzer had already picked his favorites for the evening. Having been thrown a cursory question or two, Mike and Dennis stood at their podiums, strategically (and symbolically, perhaps) positioned on the outskirts, waiting like a pair of Oliver Twists for more gruel.
From his disadvantageous position, Kucinich, who is short ( a superficial drawback in his quest for the presidency but one, nevertheless, deemed considerable in our image-fixated culture), was captured by the CNN cameras, standing on a box behind his podium.
On the other end, Mike Gravel, who is old (another superficial drawback but one, nevertheless, deemed considerable in our youth-fixated culture), was given short-shrift by Blitzer and, when asked one of the few questions directed at him, was not encouraged to pursue his line of reasoning for more than a brief minute or two.
On the key issues (and I’m speaking from personal concerns), Iraq and universal health care, the two candidates have a far stronger platform than their more popular counterparts. But, deprived of airtime and exposure, they become waterboys in a major league game.
As my (dear) sister said to me, “You don’t want to give your vote to someone who isn’t going to win anyway.” But a loser becomes a loser only when relegated to the sidelines.
Why not correct the bias with a kitchen timer and a moderator who adheres to the standards of formal debate? “ ‘Ding!’ Senator Clinton, your time is up. We now go to Senator Gravel for his evaluation of the war in Iraq and how to address the current situation. Senator Gravel? You have fifteen minutes. ‘Ding!’ ”
Until then, our choices remain defined by the corporate media. If we want exposure for candidates who offer thoughtful and viable solutions to the critical issues facing America, we shall have to present a united front to the powers-that-be and demand that all individuals in the presidential race be given equitable coverage and the forum they deserve.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Braking Free: The Story of My First Bicycle
I was a late bloomer when it came to bicycles. My family was poor, we were living in a housing project in San Francisco and bicycles were a luxury they couldn’t afford.
When I bought my first bicycle, I was nine. I paid for it with the savings I’d accumulated from several months, or more, of allowances. Maybe my parents chipped in. I don’t remember now.
At five dollars, the bicycle was a bargain. I bought it from my friend, Joel Rimes, who also assured me that it was a bargain. The fact that it no longer had brakes and was missing both tires didn’t phase me. That bicycle was a wonderful machine -- it moved when I pedalled! The bare rims made for a bumpy and noisy ride but the sheer joy of feeling the wind rush past me as I made my way down the slope of the project courtyard made up for the bicycle’s defects.
At first, my joy was short-lived and inevitably gave way to anxiety. Where would I stop? How would I stop? The solution I came up with involved picking a grassy patch for my destination and then falling over onto the soft ground. A boy’s bike, its inconvenient bar made me nervous. I wasn’t about to hop off the seat and brake with my feet.
And so I pedalled and fell, pedalled and fell, pedalled and fell. After a few weeks, the routine became second-nature and even a little dull. I began to feel brave. I was ready to rise to a new challenge. I invited my little sister, who was four, to ride on the handle bars.
It was a sunny, Saturday morning. Our housing project fronted the street where the Fisherman’s Wharf cable car ended its run and turned around to make the trip downtown again. The tourists stood in happy groups, smiling and chatting. They carried bags full of sourdough bread and souvenirs for their relatives back home. As we headed down the street toward them, they smiled at us and waved. As we got closer, they stopped smiling. A few even looked alarmed. And then we plunged into the crowd. Minor hysteria ensued. My bicycle came to a stop. My sister fell off the handle bars.
Neither of us was hurt. We wheeled my bicycle out of the crowd and back down the street toward our apartment. My sister looked at her hand. It was bloody.
“Are you okay, Ellie?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said. “I’m okay. Did you see that man with the white package? I think it was something from the butcher’s. My hand went right through it and got stuck in the meat.”
“Oh, that’s okay, then,” I said.
After that, I decided that maybe my bicycle wasn’t the bargain I'd thought it was. It ended up against the wall outside our apartment where it became even rustier and was eventually wheeled away by the maintenance man.
When I bought my first bicycle, I was nine. I paid for it with the savings I’d accumulated from several months, or more, of allowances. Maybe my parents chipped in. I don’t remember now.
At five dollars, the bicycle was a bargain. I bought it from my friend, Joel Rimes, who also assured me that it was a bargain. The fact that it no longer had brakes and was missing both tires didn’t phase me. That bicycle was a wonderful machine -- it moved when I pedalled! The bare rims made for a bumpy and noisy ride but the sheer joy of feeling the wind rush past me as I made my way down the slope of the project courtyard made up for the bicycle’s defects.
At first, my joy was short-lived and inevitably gave way to anxiety. Where would I stop? How would I stop? The solution I came up with involved picking a grassy patch for my destination and then falling over onto the soft ground. A boy’s bike, its inconvenient bar made me nervous. I wasn’t about to hop off the seat and brake with my feet.
And so I pedalled and fell, pedalled and fell, pedalled and fell. After a few weeks, the routine became second-nature and even a little dull. I began to feel brave. I was ready to rise to a new challenge. I invited my little sister, who was four, to ride on the handle bars.
It was a sunny, Saturday morning. Our housing project fronted the street where the Fisherman’s Wharf cable car ended its run and turned around to make the trip downtown again. The tourists stood in happy groups, smiling and chatting. They carried bags full of sourdough bread and souvenirs for their relatives back home. As we headed down the street toward them, they smiled at us and waved. As we got closer, they stopped smiling. A few even looked alarmed. And then we plunged into the crowd. Minor hysteria ensued. My bicycle came to a stop. My sister fell off the handle bars.
Neither of us was hurt. We wheeled my bicycle out of the crowd and back down the street toward our apartment. My sister looked at her hand. It was bloody.
“Are you okay, Ellie?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said. “I’m okay. Did you see that man with the white package? I think it was something from the butcher’s. My hand went right through it and got stuck in the meat.”
“Oh, that’s okay, then,” I said.
After that, I decided that maybe my bicycle wasn’t the bargain I'd thought it was. It ended up against the wall outside our apartment where it became even rustier and was eventually wheeled away by the maintenance man.
Just Because It's 'Complimentary' Doesn't Mean It's Free
D and I were standing at the Clarins counter in Nordstrom’s. Her friend, Susan, worked for Clarins. I liked Susan. I liked Susan because she was different from most women who sell cosmetics. She wasn’t a college sophomore. She was in her fifties. She wasn’t anorexic. She was overweight. And she didn’t wear every available item she sold on her face. She was made-up, but you could still discern her features under the stuff. She also liked to joke about things like menopause, her job and the travails of middle age. I felt right at home.
“We’re going to have a skin-care specialist in the store tomorrow,” she said. “She’ll be giving facials. You girls want to sign up?”
D looked at me, “Yeah. Sign us up.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not sure yet. I have to think about it.” I was weighing the pros and cons. It wasn’t the facial itself that made me nervous. It was the fact that, after the facial, I’d have to walk out of Nordstrom’s completely as-is. Without any make-up at all. I wasn’t thinking about myself. I was considering the public. I wasn’t sure they could handle that situation.
“Oh, come on,” D, who rarely wears make-up and looks beautiful (despite the fact), said. “Look, Bec. Here’s the best part about it.” She pointed to the word “complimentary” on the flier we’d been given.
“All right,” I sighed.
“Great!” Susan put our names down for back-to-back appointments the following afternoon. “See you tomorrow, ladies!”
The next day, D and I planned our strategy before we entered the department store.
“This sort of thing is never ‘free.’ We’ll have to buy something,” D whispered, looking over her shoulder, as we loitered outside Nordstrom’s.
“Okay,” I whispered back. “Let’s make it some token item then. Something cheap.”
“Right. I’ll buy a manicure brush,” D decided.
“And I’ll get their concealer. That shouldn’t set us back much.”
I had faith in D. She had proven herself to be a Titan when it came to getting the most bang for her buck in the area of skincare and cosmetics. I'd seen her in action.
Lancome once offered a quilted pouch, filled with $50 worth of lipstick, eye shadows and creams, for free when you made a $20 purchase. After the young woman rang up D’s selections, the total came to $18.85. “I’m afraid you haven’t spent enough to qualify for our give-away,” she said, casting her glance at the shelves of moisturizers, age-defying emulsions and better-than-Botox serums.
D paused, momentarily confounded. “Let me see . . .”
“Lancome offers a terrific line of dermatologically-approved skincare products for the woman over 40,” the sales clerk suggested.
“Do you have a pencil sharpener?” asked D.
“A what?”
“A pencil sharpener. You know, for eyeliner.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Uh, sure. Yeah. We have those.”
“How much are they?”
“They’re $1.50. But . . .”
“Okay. I’ll take one. Just put it in the bag with my free gift and the other things,” smiled D.
As we took the escalator down to the Nordstrom's cosmetic department, I told myself that D and I were going to be fine. I just knew it.
A white folding screen had been set up in the Clarins section of the store. Behind the screen was a chair that looked like the kind of chair you sit in at the dentist’s and a rolling cart filled with a variety of lotions and creams.
“Hello, girls,” said Susan. “Who wants to go first?”
“You go, D, I’ll watch.” I hopped up on a high, cushioned stool nearby and made myself comfortable.
The “facialist” was a sweet and earnest dark-haired young woman, whose classic beauty reminded me of those movie stars from an era when classic beauty was the norm. She knew what she was doing. I could tell.
As she proceeded with the facial, she described the skin, its properties and the products she used in scientific and compelling terms.
“Bec,” called D, as she reclined in the chair, wearing a headband to keep the hair off her face, “This is SO relaxing. You’re going to love it.”
“Yes,” the young woman agreed, “it really gets rid of all that stress we build up during the course of a day. Now, when you apply this neck cream, you need to use a downward motion, going from the tip of the chin to the top of your breasts . . .”
“Really?” asked D. “I thought you were supposed to use upward strokes. To counteract gravity, the toll the years have taken, that sort of thing.”
“No, no, no. The circulation is stimulated by the motion of your hands toward the heart.”
“Wow. I’ll have to remember that. Does this method of application apply only to the neck cream?” D impressed me. She was even phonier than I’d given her credit for. I began to think that she’d missed her true calling by not going into the theater.
When the facial ended, D continued to recline. “My God, I feel wonderful! I don’t want to get up.”
“Well, you have to get up,” I said, a little peevishly. “It’s my turn.” I was now looking forward to a half-hour of bliss, even if I emerged bald-faced.
The woman slipped the headband over my bangs and began by massaging my temples. “My, you don’t have any visible pores,” she said. “You’re lucky.”
Soon I was experiencing the Nirvana that comes only when a you allow a total stranger complete tactile control over your head and neck. I felt as if I were one with the universe or, at the very least, the dentist's chair.
“You’re done!” a voice said. “Here’s a hand mirror. Take a look.”
“I don't need the mirror. . . I’m fine. I feel great. Thanks.”
“Oh, just a peek.”
I looked in the mirror. Apart from the fact that my bangs were now standing on end, I did look better. I was rosy. I was glowing.
Susan had arranged the products on the glass counter.
“How much is this?” I asked.
“The Line-Away? That’s $27.50. It virtually eliminates all your wrinkles and lasts for hours.” Susan smoothed some on my palm. My lifeline immediately disappeared.
“I’ll take some,” I said.
“You should get the neck cream, too,” advised D. “I did.”
I waited while Susan totaled my purchases. For some reason, it was taking longer than I’d expected. I looked around for D. She was peering out from behind one of the plaster Greek columns that lined the cosmetic department aisle.
“That will be $186.97. Will you be using your Nordstrom’s card or a credit card?”
“Oh. Oh no. I mean, um, my credit card,” I gave Susan, whose new merchant persona struck me as perfunctory and unfriendly, my Visa.
“I’ve put some free samples in the bag with your things.”
“Oh,” I said again.
As D and I walked away, I whispered, “I spent nearly $200.”
“Yeah,” confessed D. “So did I. Do you want to go somewhere and get lunch? My treat.”
“I think I want to walk around for a while. I’m still in shock.”
“Do you think they get you that relaxed on purpose?” D looked as if she’d just woken up.
“I don’t know. What I DO know is that I’ll never trust the word ‘complimentary’ again in my life.”
“Me either,” agreed D. “Hey, she said you didn’t have any pores. I can see a few.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“We’re going to have a skin-care specialist in the store tomorrow,” she said. “She’ll be giving facials. You girls want to sign up?”
D looked at me, “Yeah. Sign us up.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not sure yet. I have to think about it.” I was weighing the pros and cons. It wasn’t the facial itself that made me nervous. It was the fact that, after the facial, I’d have to walk out of Nordstrom’s completely as-is. Without any make-up at all. I wasn’t thinking about myself. I was considering the public. I wasn’t sure they could handle that situation.
“Oh, come on,” D, who rarely wears make-up and looks beautiful (despite the fact), said. “Look, Bec. Here’s the best part about it.” She pointed to the word “complimentary” on the flier we’d been given.
“All right,” I sighed.
“Great!” Susan put our names down for back-to-back appointments the following afternoon. “See you tomorrow, ladies!”
The next day, D and I planned our strategy before we entered the department store.
“This sort of thing is never ‘free.’ We’ll have to buy something,” D whispered, looking over her shoulder, as we loitered outside Nordstrom’s.
“Okay,” I whispered back. “Let’s make it some token item then. Something cheap.”
“Right. I’ll buy a manicure brush,” D decided.
“And I’ll get their concealer. That shouldn’t set us back much.”
I had faith in D. She had proven herself to be a Titan when it came to getting the most bang for her buck in the area of skincare and cosmetics. I'd seen her in action.
Lancome once offered a quilted pouch, filled with $50 worth of lipstick, eye shadows and creams, for free when you made a $20 purchase. After the young woman rang up D’s selections, the total came to $18.85. “I’m afraid you haven’t spent enough to qualify for our give-away,” she said, casting her glance at the shelves of moisturizers, age-defying emulsions and better-than-Botox serums.
D paused, momentarily confounded. “Let me see . . .”
“Lancome offers a terrific line of dermatologically-approved skincare products for the woman over 40,” the sales clerk suggested.
“Do you have a pencil sharpener?” asked D.
“A what?”
“A pencil sharpener. You know, for eyeliner.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Uh, sure. Yeah. We have those.”
“How much are they?”
“They’re $1.50. But . . .”
“Okay. I’ll take one. Just put it in the bag with my free gift and the other things,” smiled D.
As we took the escalator down to the Nordstrom's cosmetic department, I told myself that D and I were going to be fine. I just knew it.
A white folding screen had been set up in the Clarins section of the store. Behind the screen was a chair that looked like the kind of chair you sit in at the dentist’s and a rolling cart filled with a variety of lotions and creams.
“Hello, girls,” said Susan. “Who wants to go first?”
“You go, D, I’ll watch.” I hopped up on a high, cushioned stool nearby and made myself comfortable.
The “facialist” was a sweet and earnest dark-haired young woman, whose classic beauty reminded me of those movie stars from an era when classic beauty was the norm. She knew what she was doing. I could tell.
As she proceeded with the facial, she described the skin, its properties and the products she used in scientific and compelling terms.
“Bec,” called D, as she reclined in the chair, wearing a headband to keep the hair off her face, “This is SO relaxing. You’re going to love it.”
“Yes,” the young woman agreed, “it really gets rid of all that stress we build up during the course of a day. Now, when you apply this neck cream, you need to use a downward motion, going from the tip of the chin to the top of your breasts . . .”
“Really?” asked D. “I thought you were supposed to use upward strokes. To counteract gravity, the toll the years have taken, that sort of thing.”
“No, no, no. The circulation is stimulated by the motion of your hands toward the heart.”
“Wow. I’ll have to remember that. Does this method of application apply only to the neck cream?” D impressed me. She was even phonier than I’d given her credit for. I began to think that she’d missed her true calling by not going into the theater.
When the facial ended, D continued to recline. “My God, I feel wonderful! I don’t want to get up.”
“Well, you have to get up,” I said, a little peevishly. “It’s my turn.” I was now looking forward to a half-hour of bliss, even if I emerged bald-faced.
The woman slipped the headband over my bangs and began by massaging my temples. “My, you don’t have any visible pores,” she said. “You’re lucky.”
Soon I was experiencing the Nirvana that comes only when a you allow a total stranger complete tactile control over your head and neck. I felt as if I were one with the universe or, at the very least, the dentist's chair.
“You’re done!” a voice said. “Here’s a hand mirror. Take a look.”
“I don't need the mirror. . . I’m fine. I feel great. Thanks.”
“Oh, just a peek.”
I looked in the mirror. Apart from the fact that my bangs were now standing on end, I did look better. I was rosy. I was glowing.
Susan had arranged the products on the glass counter.
“How much is this?” I asked.
“The Line-Away? That’s $27.50. It virtually eliminates all your wrinkles and lasts for hours.” Susan smoothed some on my palm. My lifeline immediately disappeared.
“I’ll take some,” I said.
“You should get the neck cream, too,” advised D. “I did.”
I waited while Susan totaled my purchases. For some reason, it was taking longer than I’d expected. I looked around for D. She was peering out from behind one of the plaster Greek columns that lined the cosmetic department aisle.
“That will be $186.97. Will you be using your Nordstrom’s card or a credit card?”
“Oh. Oh no. I mean, um, my credit card,” I gave Susan, whose new merchant persona struck me as perfunctory and unfriendly, my Visa.
“I’ve put some free samples in the bag with your things.”
“Oh,” I said again.
As D and I walked away, I whispered, “I spent nearly $200.”
“Yeah,” confessed D. “So did I. Do you want to go somewhere and get lunch? My treat.”
“I think I want to walk around for a while. I’m still in shock.”
“Do you think they get you that relaxed on purpose?” D looked as if she’d just woken up.
“I don’t know. What I DO know is that I’ll never trust the word ‘complimentary’ again in my life.”
“Me either,” agreed D. “Hey, she said you didn’t have any pores. I can see a few.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Public Broadcasting: Cell Phones and the Accidental Eavesdropper
The woman was shouting into her cell phone. “We’re just going to have to make a temporary peace pact, goddamnit! You asked me to mail the documents but I’m on your side of town right now. Why can’t I drop off the lousy envelope? Okay, if not today, then when?”
I wasn’t eavesdropping. Eavesdropping implies active curiosity on the part of the listener. I wasn’t curious. I simply couldn’t get away from the conversation. Besides, I was afraid if I put my fingers in my ears, I’d hurt her feelings.
But wait a minute. She didn’t care about my feelings. She didn’t care about the guy behind her -- and in front of me -- in the Express Check-Out (10 Items or Less) line at Shop or Drop. And she obviously didn’t give a hoot about the cashier who was waiting for the phone call to end so she could take her cash.
Right now, the woman was using the wad of bills in her hand like a gavel, tapping them on the counter for emphasis.
I put my fingers in my ears and hummed. The first thing that came to mind was, “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain.”
She ended the conversation with “You’re full of crap. Goodbye!” and glared at the cashier. “How much do I owe you?”
Having paid for her Brie, water crackers and Chardonnay, she turned to me: “And what in the hell is that tune you’re humming? ‘She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain’? Are you trying to tell me something?”
I took my fingers out of my ears. “Nope. Just humming. Um, my mother used to sing that song to me when I was a kid and scared at night.”
“Well, you’re not scared NOW, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m fine. Thanks.”
This episode (imagined, I have to admit) points out the invasion of someone else's -- as well as our own -- privacy that is foisted upon us by public cell phone conversations. In other words, in the presence of a conversation that is NOT meant for our ears, we find our interior lives violated by the intrusion of a stranger’s problems. We’re reigned in to participate, as unwilling players, in dramas that have nothing to do with us.
I’m going to cite a few examples from real life. For some reason, these incidents usually occur in stores. Maybe because stores (at least in America) are the venue of choice for social interaction.
I was shopping one afternoon and heard someone carrying on over her cell phone: “I know we’re not talking to one another but I only want to leave it on your stoop. You don’t have to come to the door.” She, too, was yelling.
I wondered what she was referring to. A baby? A gift? And, if a gift (I was pretty sure it wasn’t a baby), why would she be leaving a token of her appreciation with someone she obviously couldn’t stand?
It was baffling. While there seems to be no code (tacit or otherwise) of decorum on the subject of cell phone conversations, I really didn’t feel comfortable asking her what she was talking about. “Excuse me, why AREN’T you talking to one another? What do you plan to leave on the doorstep? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Any probe into this woman’s private life was obviously taboo. But why was I allowed to glimpse the tip of the iceberg? And that’s another thing about these public dialogues. We’re privy to all sorts of personal details but follow-through is verboten.
On another afternoon, I heard the man behind me punch out a number on his keypad as I stood in line at the Rugged Warehouse. “Hi. Well, Arlene’s doing okay, given the circumstances. Yeah, she thought she was going to be a grandmother. But the tests showed that the kid isn’t Darren’s. Yup. She’s pretty upset about that.”
Did I need to know this? Did the guy behind me really have to share that information with the people standing in line?
For a moment, I paused, trying to think if I knew anyone named Darren. Uh-uh. But what if Darren were a co-worker or a friend?
Does that matter? Somewhere a guy named Darren is in love and having sex with a woman who is now pregnant but who, as it turns out, has been cheating on him. And what about Darren’s mother who had been looking forward to a grandchild? I wondered if she’d already bought a bassinet and baby booties and several months worth of diapers. Would she give them to Darren’s girlfriend, anyway? Probably not. All the baby paraphernalia would, most likely, end up in a closet until Darren met someone else, fell in love and, hopefully, became the father of her child.
Down the street, in the park where I like to walk, conversations take on a different tone. People using their cell phones are calmer. Their conversations are friendlier. And quieter. Maybe it has something to do with nature. Trees. Fresh air. In the park, I find myself responding to people on their cells because, particularly when they’re wearing that plug in their ears, I assume that they’re talking to me. I never learn.
“Excuse me?” I’ll say. “I didn’t catch that.” Or, “Hi! How are YOU?”
More often than not, I’m waved away with a cursory gesture and the person turns his or her back on me to continue the discussion. In private, I suppose.
It’s a funny world. My next-door neighbor doesn’t talk to me, even when I greet him with a “Good morning!” I don’t know much about the family across the street. And yet, these days, I’m learning plenty about people I’ll never come across again in life.
I wasn’t eavesdropping. Eavesdropping implies active curiosity on the part of the listener. I wasn’t curious. I simply couldn’t get away from the conversation. Besides, I was afraid if I put my fingers in my ears, I’d hurt her feelings.
But wait a minute. She didn’t care about my feelings. She didn’t care about the guy behind her -- and in front of me -- in the Express Check-Out (10 Items or Less) line at Shop or Drop. And she obviously didn’t give a hoot about the cashier who was waiting for the phone call to end so she could take her cash.
Right now, the woman was using the wad of bills in her hand like a gavel, tapping them on the counter for emphasis.
I put my fingers in my ears and hummed. The first thing that came to mind was, “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain.”
She ended the conversation with “You’re full of crap. Goodbye!” and glared at the cashier. “How much do I owe you?”
Having paid for her Brie, water crackers and Chardonnay, she turned to me: “And what in the hell is that tune you’re humming? ‘She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain’? Are you trying to tell me something?”
I took my fingers out of my ears. “Nope. Just humming. Um, my mother used to sing that song to me when I was a kid and scared at night.”
“Well, you’re not scared NOW, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m fine. Thanks.”
This episode (imagined, I have to admit) points out the invasion of someone else's -- as well as our own -- privacy that is foisted upon us by public cell phone conversations. In other words, in the presence of a conversation that is NOT meant for our ears, we find our interior lives violated by the intrusion of a stranger’s problems. We’re reigned in to participate, as unwilling players, in dramas that have nothing to do with us.
I’m going to cite a few examples from real life. For some reason, these incidents usually occur in stores. Maybe because stores (at least in America) are the venue of choice for social interaction.
I was shopping one afternoon and heard someone carrying on over her cell phone: “I know we’re not talking to one another but I only want to leave it on your stoop. You don’t have to come to the door.” She, too, was yelling.
I wondered what she was referring to. A baby? A gift? And, if a gift (I was pretty sure it wasn’t a baby), why would she be leaving a token of her appreciation with someone she obviously couldn’t stand?
It was baffling. While there seems to be no code (tacit or otherwise) of decorum on the subject of cell phone conversations, I really didn’t feel comfortable asking her what she was talking about. “Excuse me, why AREN’T you talking to one another? What do you plan to leave on the doorstep? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Any probe into this woman’s private life was obviously taboo. But why was I allowed to glimpse the tip of the iceberg? And that’s another thing about these public dialogues. We’re privy to all sorts of personal details but follow-through is verboten.
On another afternoon, I heard the man behind me punch out a number on his keypad as I stood in line at the Rugged Warehouse. “Hi. Well, Arlene’s doing okay, given the circumstances. Yeah, she thought she was going to be a grandmother. But the tests showed that the kid isn’t Darren’s. Yup. She’s pretty upset about that.”
Did I need to know this? Did the guy behind me really have to share that information with the people standing in line?
For a moment, I paused, trying to think if I knew anyone named Darren. Uh-uh. But what if Darren were a co-worker or a friend?
Does that matter? Somewhere a guy named Darren is in love and having sex with a woman who is now pregnant but who, as it turns out, has been cheating on him. And what about Darren’s mother who had been looking forward to a grandchild? I wondered if she’d already bought a bassinet and baby booties and several months worth of diapers. Would she give them to Darren’s girlfriend, anyway? Probably not. All the baby paraphernalia would, most likely, end up in a closet until Darren met someone else, fell in love and, hopefully, became the father of her child.
Down the street, in the park where I like to walk, conversations take on a different tone. People using their cell phones are calmer. Their conversations are friendlier. And quieter. Maybe it has something to do with nature. Trees. Fresh air. In the park, I find myself responding to people on their cells because, particularly when they’re wearing that plug in their ears, I assume that they’re talking to me. I never learn.
“Excuse me?” I’ll say. “I didn’t catch that.” Or, “Hi! How are YOU?”
More often than not, I’m waved away with a cursory gesture and the person turns his or her back on me to continue the discussion. In private, I suppose.
It’s a funny world. My next-door neighbor doesn’t talk to me, even when I greet him with a “Good morning!” I don’t know much about the family across the street. And yet, these days, I’m learning plenty about people I’ll never come across again in life.
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