The Wake

A young man was on the phone and engaged in a heated fight with his girlfriend outside in the stairwell. Obscenities were screamed, curses were muttered, under-the breath-threats were offered and countered. And then…a faint beep. A meep really, to tell the truth. The hormonal young man had hung up on the words of the offending female. For the eavesdropper in the next room, this climax of the young lovers’ angst was terribly anti-climactic. The second meep through the wall indicated the temperamental young man to be equally unsatisfied as he pushed buttons in anger. But instead of inspiring images of the wronged lover fed up and taking his vengeance, were instead images of baby chicks. As the unsatisfied young man stormed down the stairs, one could not wonder whether the inability to offer a resounding click would finally be the end of the cell phone.

Where was the slamming of the phone into the receiver? The picking it up and slamming it down again—harder? Heck, where was the throwing of the base against the wall? Apparently, these images seem to be stuck somewhere back in the twentieth century, around the same time as leg warmers and heavy rock. The size of the phone has gotten increasingly smaller while its effectiveness in breaking-up couples has diminished exponentially. Convenience seems to have trumped the need for satisfactory fits of rage.

And what about the equally angry partner on the other end? Was she devastated by the gentle beep in her ear? Did she even know she had been hung up on? More likely she kept talking, while checking her reception bars. Only when they did not light up did it dawn on her that she had been the victim of the phone-slam. And then, did she offer up a silent prayer that he would call her back? More likely she attempted text-messaging her friends, but finding the tiny buttons unforgiving to her livid thumbs, she pushed the more convenient re-dial button instead. On the other end, he heard his phone ring, not the angry, sharp ring of old, but the peppy ring of Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” He beeps his phone again. She snaps her tastefully slim Nokia shut. They both sit, stare, and feel strangely un-vindicated.

But it is not the result of immediate melancholy or lustful thoughts. No, each lover is feeling unfulfilled by the transaction. The lack of something concrete to slam, the absence of a sharp click in the ear, and the clumsy execution (for when slamming a phone, one can hang up immediately; when cell-slamming one must remove the phone from the ear and look at it in order to locate the red button before hanging up and, alas, by this time, the point may in fact, be moot) are frankly against the very nature of the angry breakup. They separately contemplate throwing the itty bitty phone/calculator/camera/palm pilot/casino they hold in their sweaty hands, but are held back by the knowledge that they do not have sufficient funds to replace the broken life-line. No, for these star-crossed lovers drama does not come cheap.

As they realize this, perhaps they look down at their color-coded cellie and realize all the work it will be to re-program their rings, numbers, and pager numbers in order to de-program their former-flame out of their life. And perhaps at this moment, she gets into her SUV and he into his Benz, and they drive to the nearest Target. In the deserted and dusty phone-aisle as they both reach for the same rotary model, their eyes meet. He places the phone into her basket, grabs the one remaining phone for himself, and they walk off to the check-out. Determined, as young lovers are, that they will never fight again, but if they do, they will at least be able to execute it properly and with sufficient drama.

Alas, old fashioned lovers’ spats have triumphed over modern technology.