I will tell you up front that this rant will lose points for originality. Others have complained about these devil-devices, with much more creativity and vitriol than I’m about to exhibit. However, my latest encounter with these things and their brain-dead users left me wondering about the future of the human race.
I was at Tony’s, which is my favorite little hole-in-the-wall restaurant for lunch. (Note: This is the first in a number of literary licenses I’m going to take during this rant to heighten the effect. In actuality, I had never been to Tony’s before today. I only stepped in there because it was close to the barbershop. I wasn’t planning on eating lunch today, because I had a number of errands to run, one of which was getting my hair cut. When I was told the wait at the barbershop was 45 minutes, though, I ditched that errand and decided to eat lunch instead. So I wound up at Tony’s. I didn’t even know the place existed before 11:51 a.m. today.) Tony’s is a hot dog emporium, a cornucopia of gastric delights. I always have a hard time choosing my meal when I go there, because there are so many things on the menu that I have come to love over the years. (Note further literary license.) Finally I decided upon the chili-cheese dog with mustard and onions, fries, and a Diet Coke. Because even Dark Lords have to watch their waistlines.
So I get my food (Tony always hustles me through the line, since I’m one of his favorite customers) and sit down. I’ve got my book, I’ve got chili, I’ve got onions, I’ve got a processed tube of pig meat – what more could a man want?
Tony’s was crowded, as it almost always is on Thursdays. Tony catches my eye as I sit down, and gives his trademark shrug. Because of our long friendship, I know his shrug means “I’d rather be sitting on the beach, but since my brother the crooked accountant absconded with all of our profits for the last two years I have to run the business myself. It’s a cruel world, ain’t it?” I respond with my trademark wink, which he knows means “I understand and sympathize, my friend. When you do finally get to the beach, drink a pina colada for me; I can’t drink them myself, because coconut milk gives me gas.”
The preliminaries handled, I set myself to the task of consuming the chili-cheese dog with mustard and onions. Hardly had I read the first paragraph in my Dave Barry book before the shrill sound of a cricket being menaced and abruptly killed by a pneumatic drill interrupts my idyll.
Sitting at the table next to me is a small, round, sunburned man. He is accompanied by his wife and (I assume) their two small children. The man is apparently a contractor of some sort; his violently yellow knit shirt has a logo on it that identifies him as an employee (or perhaps the owner) of Wayne’s Contracting.
He has received an important message on his walkie-talkie phone.
“Would you tell Chris to stop calling my motherfucking cellphone!” The message is broadcast to the assembled patrons of Tony’s. “That sumbitch is calling me day and night, and I’m fucking tired of it!”
A few glances are exchanged among Tony’s regulars. We’re not accustomed to language like this … not at lunchtime, anyway. (Yet more literary license. Kids, don’t try this at home.) The usual buzz and rumble of conversation begins to taper off. Surely, we all think, this man is going to rebuke his co-worker/employee/country bumpkin cousin for using such language on a walkie-talkie phone. For all the guy on the other end knows, Wayne could be visiting with the Pope right now, and such language would be inappropriate for the Pope. (I assume so, anyway. Does anybody know if the Pope cusses?) At the very least, one would think, Wayne is going to tell the guy to cool the cussing because his wife and kids are with him.
Hah. One would have tapioca for brains. Wayne responds in a calm manner, yet says nothing about eating lunch with his family in a crowded restaurant. Apparently his partner/employee is named Ralph; Wayne calls him this when he responds.
Ralph is determined to be angry today. “Hey, Wayne, I just passed that Rite-Aid sign we did last month. Did those fuckers ever pay us for that damn job?”
Now almost all conversation in Tony’s has ceased. It’s so quiet, you can hear a french fry sizzle in the oil. We regulars share another glance. I look over at Tony, and he pulls his left earlobe. I know he means “I’m going to throw my spatula at that guy in a minute.”
Wayne’s wife sits stoically through the conversation. The kids, bless their little hearts, are eating quietly. Apparently they’ve been told that when Daddy is talking to foul-mouthed people who like to broadcast their diatribes, they have to remain silent so all of the swearing can be heard by everyone within a two-block radius.
Wayne is explaining to Ralph that no, they haven’t gotten paid for the Rite-Aid job yet, but they got a “2-2-1.” Ralph seems happy with that. “Thank God. I’d almost rather have the fuckin’ 2-2-1 instead of a shit-ass check. You know?”
Wayne replies that he knows.
And now we come to my favorite part of the story. An older gentleman is sitting in a booth directly behind Wayne, his wife, and his children. The older gentleman, who has long gray hair pulled into a ponytail and a full gray beard, is eating with a clean-cut young man. The older gentleman leans over the table, and says to his companion in a moderately quiet voice, “I hate those damn ‘beep-beep’ phones.” Had conversation in Tony’s been at a normal level, it would have been impossible to hear his comment. However, almost everyone else has stopped talking, and his opinion can be heard relatively well.
Wayne’s wife, who has been sitting like a bump on a log throughout Ralph’s expletive-laden comments, abruptly sits upright. She turns and glares at the older gentleman a moment, then swivels back to face Wayne. “Let’s finish up, dear,” she says loudly and forcefully. “Apparently we’re bothering some old foul-mouthed hippies in here.”
I would like to tell you that the patrons of Tony’s rose, en masse, and bludgeoned the woman and her husband to death with Polish sausages (on special, two for $2.99). I would like to tell you that we also tracked down Ralph, and washed his mouth out with week-old sauerkraut. I would like to tell you that we took the children and nurtured them, feeding them nothing but chili dogs and Mayfield Turtle Tracks ice cream until they grew tall and strong and proud and became productive members of society who cured cancer and stopped all wars.
Unfortunately, I don’t think any of that happened. To tell the truth, I don’t know what happened after she said that, because the top of my head blew off from the irony.
It only takes a couple of jerks to ruin your favorite little hole-in-the-wall restaurant for lunch, you know? Tony’s will never be the same for me again.