nextel
On the curb she barked over the traffic into a bit of black plastic that broadcast her words to a tower that networked with other towers to pinpoint their target.
“How many cigarettes you take this morning?”
An electronic chirp, then a distorted male voice: “What?”
“How many cigarettes you take this morning?”
Chirp. “Six. I got one left.” (It was three in the afternoon.)
“The carton’s empty.”
Chirp. “What?” An 18-wheeler trailing hot gray exhaust thundered by. Then the radio voice rose back, “Well, that’s all that was left.”
She raised her arms, looked around to see if the rest of the world believed it. I turned away. Heading down the sidewalk in her direction, an older fellow in khakis and a Yankees windbreaker also turned away.
Chirp. “I’ll get you some at the High’s.”
“You’re not even supposed to have that many,” she shot, seeming to choke the device. “You said you were cutting back.”
Chirp. “I’m not talking about this with you anymore.”
“Well, get us two cartons then.” She’d stopped at the intricate flowers in the refrigerated florist’s window. It was muggy, and in front of the glass she was using the fingers of her left hand and the black plastic in her right to fluff out her flattening bangs.
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copyright © 2004, michael w. hobson
