Treos

The desire to cave his fucking skull in was almost overwhelming. I pictured myself getting up from the table and walking to the front of the restaurant. Passing the hostess I cast her the thin-lipped smile and offer a barely audible, "How're you doing?" Like I give a shit. Opening the door, bending down to pick up one of the loose cobblestones I noticed as we entered the restaurant. Turning around, going through the same vacuous exchange with the same hostess. Continuing on to the soon-to-be-in-ICU-bastard's table, offering him the same "How're you doing" right before I drive the brick into the fucker's face.


As part of our anniversary celebration, Sam and I decided to eat at the Boulder Chophouse.It's a nice steakhouse with great service, fantastic atmosphere and amazing steaks. Seriously, the steaks melt in your mouth like butter.

But anyway, our server comes to the table to takes our drink order and gives us some time to peruse the menu. We decided to order an appetizer to enjoy while we sipped our drinks. Both arrived a short time later. Our server returned and took our dinner order. By the way, I'm making this part of the story intentionally vague. Sam and I discussed things that only lovers do, and it's not really anyone's business what we talked about. Thanks.

So anyway, towards the end of our amazing dinner, I hear a noise that seemed as out of place as a polar bear in Barbados. The noise rudely interrupted the elegant atmosphere. I couldn't place the noise at first. Then, it hit me.

It's a fucking cellphone. A cellphone--here. The fact that the phone rang was maddening enough. But this Dick and Mild smoking bastard answers the phone at the top of his lungs.

"Yeah!"

Sam and I exchange glances. The distance to him was about 6 feet.

"Okay, tell me what's going on,"he bellowed in a stentorian voice that caught me off guard. His wife excuses herself and goes to the restroom. I'm annoyed. Despite Sam's protests, I begin to stare. He looks to be in his mid 40's. He has a tonsure that only nature can grant. His clean shaven skin is over tan. He's dressed in a faded pink polo. A holdover from the 80's. Pink just came back into fashion favor. Not long enough to fade a shirt to this degree. His shorts were blue, and a bit too short. His shoes were hideous walking shoes. But I found his skin as repugnant as his behavior. It looked like it belonged on someone much larger. When he spoke, the skin on his neck shook. The skin on his face seemed to hang off. His arms shook as he gestured about like some ancient Roman senator.

The desire to cave his fucking skull in was almost overwhelming. Then, I noticed the phone. Really noticed. A Treo 600, 650, 700, whatever--I couldn't tell. But you've seen these phones. Usually, they're attached to a belt. The belt is typically worn by someone with an exaggerated sense of self-importance.

"I have to stay connected. I have to stay informed about what is going on in my company because I'm so important." You can almost hear the incessant repeating if you listen. You can almost see the rehearsing, if you look. It's funny, though, who you never see with these phones. The people that are actually integral to their company. The owners. The CEO's. Presidents. If you're truly important, you don't have one of these phones. You're the person other people worry about. People worry about staying connected to you. People worry about missing your call. People worry about having answers to the questions you ask. More importantly, people don't call you, you call them on their Treo...whatever. You hand out the Treos to the minions. You hand out the electronic bitch leash to the minions.

I snapped out of my homicidal fantasy and realized that this guy was someone's bitch. I smiled, chuckled and drained my drink. Cellphones as status symbols. And his phone symbolized his status as someone's bitch. Look around and see for yourself. I ain't making it up.