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http://redclaydiary.com/
or read his story below…
TINKLING AT THE NEIGHBORHOOD DINER
Here I go again, digging down into piles of forgotten red clay diary entries from almost thirty years ago. HERE’S ONE: Looks like I jotted this down just about the time cellphones were beginning to take over the daily lives of us somnambulists. Well, we were somnambulists up until the time all of us became drones in an enormous humming hive of portable electronic devices. See if this stirs a memory or two…
TINKLEZZZ!
TINKLEZZZ!
I turn my head right and left to see where this ringy-rattly sound is coming from.
It is not a sound to be ignored. It requires action. Maybe.
TINKLEZZZ!
TINKLEZZZ!
My racing brain tries to determine whether a fire needs putting out, whether a door needs answering, whether a phone should be answered…
Suddenly, Billybobjimmyjack, the guy at the next booth, answers his cellphone.
We’re in the neighborhood diner, having breakfast.
I’m here in the diner to gain some meditative equilibrium in preparation for the daily doings at work. I have to assume that Billybobjimmyjack does not come here for the same purpose, since his breakfast is hardly meditative. Or quiet.
“SHELLO!”
Billybobjimmyjack mushes through his mouthful. He’s talking to the phone. “I’M EATIN’ BREAKFAST!” he says resonantly for the whole room to hear. “I’LL TALK TO YOU LATER,” he says, and disconnects, slamming the phone on the table.
I sink philosophically back into the op-ed page of the daily wrapper and resume enjoying my ham-and-eggs-and-grits breakfast.
TINKLEZZZ!
TINKLEZZZ!
Billybobjimmyjack says “HELLO,” since his mouth is temporarily bereft of southern penicillin (grits) and his voice is aboom once again.
“YEAH, I’M EATIN’ BREAKFAST! I’LL CALL YOU BACK.”
Slam.
Billybobjimmyjack is from a generation that reasons you have to shout into a phone because the person at the other end of the exchange is so far away.
This goes on a total of four times, each jangling of the phone jangling my nerves and causing my grits to go cold. Grits, as any gritslover knows, are no damned good if they are cold.
Don’t knock this bit of wisdom if you’ve never had grits. And when you do eat them, make sure you start off properly. They must be served steaming hot with a big puddle of butter in the center and unreasonably thick layers of salt and pepper atop. Go ahead, try it. If you like it you can add other stuff to taste, such as garlic and cheese.
Back to Billybobjimmyjack. Yes, we must bring closure to this anecdote.
Why did he bother to bring his phone into the diner, display it in plain view next to the catsup and pepper sauce and toothpick holder, if he didn’t intend to talk to anyone while eating?
Now he’s got to return four phone calls after he gets into his car, and you know what that will do to his digestive tract. Four incoming, four outgoing…double the pleasure, double the stress, a stomach full of cold grits.
Next time I spy Billybobjimmyjack at the diner, I plan to present him with a little gift of Pepto-Bismol. Or maybe I’ll just leave it on his windshield wiper outside and run like the dickens.
That way, I’ll be safe and he’ll find relief that can never come from receiving four and returning four totally necessary but annoying grits-chilling calls even before his workday begins
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