Buried deep in your cellular contract is a little-known clause requiring you to speak loudly into your phone, as if it were a tin can connected to another tin can with twine. See, you thought loud-talkers are rude. Not so. These are law-abiding citizens.
I was surrounded by a few of these good people on the subway the other night when, out the window, I noticed the horizon had caught fire.
It was the kind of sunset that winds up on postcards and flickr photostreams, the kind that makes you pity those who are too caught up in the incredibly important phone call about last week’s “Grey’s Anatomy” to see the natural splendor out the window WILL YOU HANG UP THE PHONE ALREADY.
The subway car pulled in to the Paulina stop and a young woman on the platform wearing a leopard-print fur coat, her hair swept tightly up into a bun, was transfixed by the spectacle. We were the only ones who had noticed; everyone else stared down the track, hoping for a glimpse of their train. Many wore their perpetual cell phone accessory, and I climbed up onto my self-righteous pedestal and frowned.
After a moment, the young woman began to fish around in her purse. Eventually she pulled out a cell phone.
Please take a picture, I thought. Don’t stare something that beautiful in the face only to get on the horn and order takeout. There are more important things than checking your voicemail at the office so PLEASE JUST TAKE A PICTURE.
She did.
I decided I was a sanctimonious snot, then quietly called Renate to let her know I’d be home soon.
