Can You See Me Now? (Part I)
The first installment of a mesmerizing two-part series on mobile telephones.
Rushing down the highway only saves about five minutes so my speedometer stays at a comfortable 70 mph, rarely straying beyond 78. The tink-tink turning signal perfectly syncs with the beat on the radio. I keep it quick and courteous, like Speedy Gonzales.
Another ten minutes and the Attleboro exit swoops me off and out of the flow. I pretend my old car is a gas-electric hybrid. All the energy from breaking is being stored as energy for the drive home, a couple trips down to Cape Cod, and the blenderizing of a mango smoothie. Mm, mango.
The long S-curve dramatically ends at a red light. This time my tink-tink is nowhere near a music beat. Poop. I look around to see if it mashes with any other sound or sight other than my tapping finger. A blinking yellow light. A crow's flapping wings. A jogger's steps. Nope. Nope. Nope. The rear-view mirror shows an approaching nondescript car. No beat. I look at the driver and spy dark hair parted down center where his nose would be. No eyes. Two hands clamp his noggin, which is slumped down like he's staring intently at fluffy belly button lint. No eyes? My finger stops mid-tap.
Behind me the brown car inches to a stop. I stare at Parted-Hair-Face with unflinching impoliteness and wonder. Wonder like, Am I witnessing a heretofore unknown pychic ability that steers, breaks, and controls a one-ton machine with nothing but... well, nothing? Parted-Hair-Face looks up. Eyes! And a real face—good looking, 20-something, and human. Except. Except there's a sticky little project going on back there. One of his hands clamps a mobile phone tightly to cheek and mouth while another set of busy white fingers clobber around his nose.
Adjusting my rearview mirror, I count his fingers. One. Nose. Three. Four. Five. The manicured #2 pointing finger—the second most important driving finger after the opposable thumb—has turned into a nose. Not by magic but the old fashioned way. Two-thousand pounds of metal are driven by a nose picker.
Talking on the phone, he's picking a winner while unconscious of the fact that he's driving a car. His finger is jammed so far up there that his sniffer crinkles up like an accordion, bent sideways into the capital letter C. Please let him have a short finger, I hope, because if he breaks through to brain I'm obligated to tell police and his family how he died.
Unsticking my eyes from the rearview mirror I double-check that my ten fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel. Our light turns goober green.
Stay tuned for Part II, our exciting conclusion!
Rushing down the highway only saves about five minutes so my speedometer stays at a comfortable 70 mph, rarely straying beyond 78. The tink-tink turning signal perfectly syncs with the beat on the radio. I keep it quick and courteous, like Speedy Gonzales.
Another ten minutes and the Attleboro exit swoops me off and out of the flow. I pretend my old car is a gas-electric hybrid. All the energy from breaking is being stored as energy for the drive home, a couple trips down to Cape Cod, and the blenderizing of a mango smoothie. Mm, mango.
The long S-curve dramatically ends at a red light. This time my tink-tink is nowhere near a music beat. Poop. I look around to see if it mashes with any other sound or sight other than my tapping finger. A blinking yellow light. A crow's flapping wings. A jogger's steps. Nope. Nope. Nope. The rear-view mirror shows an approaching nondescript car. No beat. I look at the driver and spy dark hair parted down center where his nose would be. No eyes. Two hands clamp his noggin, which is slumped down like he's staring intently at fluffy belly button lint. No eyes? My finger stops mid-tap.
Behind me the brown car inches to a stop. I stare at Parted-Hair-Face with unflinching impoliteness and wonder. Wonder like, Am I witnessing a heretofore unknown pychic ability that steers, breaks, and controls a one-ton machine with nothing but... well, nothing? Parted-Hair-Face looks up. Eyes! And a real face—good looking, 20-something, and human. Except. Except there's a sticky little project going on back there. One of his hands clamps a mobile phone tightly to cheek and mouth while another set of busy white fingers clobber around his nose.
Adjusting my rearview mirror, I count his fingers. One. Nose. Three. Four. Five. The manicured #2 pointing finger—the second most important driving finger after the opposable thumb—has turned into a nose. Not by magic but the old fashioned way. Two-thousand pounds of metal are driven by a nose picker.
Talking on the phone, he's picking a winner while unconscious of the fact that he's driving a car. His finger is jammed so far up there that his sniffer crinkles up like an accordion, bent sideways into the capital letter C. Please let him have a short finger, I hope, because if he breaks through to brain I'm obligated to tell police and his family how he died.
Unsticking my eyes from the rearview mirror I double-check that my ten fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel. Our light turns goober green.
Stay tuned for Part II, our exciting conclusion!
Comments
That's all I have to say.
See? "I'm With Sully" agrees that this is not an isolated incident. Get a hands-free phone! Talking this way may save you from causing or being in an accident. It'll also free up an extra hand to devote to your nose picking. We know how you love that.
Sincerely,
P.L. "Feeling Uncomplimentary Today" Frederick
P.S. If this posting starts a vicious rumor that "all drivers using mobile phones are nose pickers," so be it.
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