"Cell phones! Bah! The phone belongs at the house -- plugged into the wall!"
The old man leaned forward in his rocking chair and spat a wad of tobacco juice at a weathered spittoon, which it entered with a dull clang. Wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve, he resumed rocking.
"These dayum people," he grumbled. "They think the whole world's their livin' room. They carry those dayum phones around and talk everywhere -- at the store, at the pitcher show, in the cafe..."
He spat again. "Hell, they drive down the street yappin' on the dayum things. They'll run over you!"
His eyes narrowed. "In my day, you did your callin' in a phone booth, where no one could hear you. You could make a phone call for a nickel -- if you HAD a nickel."
"People were more considerate then," he mused. The old man's voice trailed off, and the only sound was the slow creaking of the rocking chair. He gazed at a long-ago horizon and sighed.
23 April 2014
