The cellular jungle
12:02 on Tuesday, April 23, 2002 • 7 responses
I got a new cell phone yesterday, 10 days after my last one decided to misplace itself. I continue to question why I have a cell phone, since I’m at home most of the time and have a perfectly functional landline. I used to hate cell phones, and to some extent I still do. I abhor talking on the phone while driving (I usually hang up or pull over), I hate it when people bring cell phones into movie theaters. I hate how people talk loudly on cell phones, especially when businessmen and high school girls make their “I just got in” calls as soon as the airplane touches down. And I absolutely detest the custom ringtones. You folks that have Beethoven or Mozart or Vivaldi as your ringtones deserve a special place in hell for loudly and publicly broadcasting in full casiotone quality the notion that you’re “cultured.” [ a David Tudor ringtone, though, could be interesting… ]
With all this hate swirling around my GSM/CDMA bands, one might ask, “so why do you have a cell phone?” Well, I’m leaving the house a lot more now. I have a few trips on the horizon, and they’re definitely handy when you’re out of town. Generally, I use it to make calls much more than I do to remain “reachable.”
Anyway, while I’m signing up for the standard 12-months-or-your-life cellular service contract, a petite twenty-something woman approaches the salesperson I was dealing with, Rob, to ask a question. She was purchasing a cell phone and several canvas CD binder-holder thingies. She says, “Hello, my name is Tamahhhhhra. I’d like to buy all this stuff.” She dumps her stash on the counter.
Rob, no doubt a senior in high school, taken by surprise, turns in her direction and manages to say “Hi Tamara…” before she interrupts.
“No, Tamaahhhhhra. Not Tamara. Ahhhrtist, not Camairo.”
He looks at me. I’m trying not to laugh, so I clear my throat. He gives me the phone and tells me I need to give the person on the line my billing information, and by the time I put the receiver to my ear, I’m on hold, listening to some tune undoubtedly written by Burt Bachrach.
“While he’s taking care of that,” says Rob, “I can ring you up.”
“Ooooh,” she says, almost orgasmically.
He pretends not to notice that a cute female has just flung a sexual innuendo in his direction. As he’s scanning barcodes for the three CD binders, he says, “120 CDs each. That’s a lot of CDs. Do you have that many CDs?”
Tamahhhhhra giggles. “Oh, yeah. I’m a dance instructor. I carry my CDs everywhere. They’re heavy. I use them in my classes.” For some reason, I automatically assume that all 360 CDs are Enya, Enya remixes, and Enya extended remixes. Peter Gabriel’s Passion is no doubt somewhere in there too.
“A dance instructor, hunh?” I get the feeling that Rob is taking his time ringing up her merchandise, hoping to prolong the conversation he’s having with someone I’m sure he’s made out to be a dancing nymphomaniac.
“Yeah. I buy larger CD holders than I need, because I learned from having pets that if you buy small aquariums then you’ll just end up buying more and more aquariums.”
“That makes sense, I guess,” says Rob.
“You know what else I take everywhere?” She says, reaching into the large duffelbag slung over her shoulder.
I’m sure Rob is hoping she’s going to pull out some handcuffs. She doesn’t.
“Simon!” She screams, excitedly. Her arm emerges from her bag with a very large boa constrictor wrapped around it. The bag falls to the floor, and I wonder how all 4 or so feet of snake fit in there. Simon has to be at least 4 inches thick and he probably weighs more than, well, 360 Enya CDs .
Rob apparently doesn’t like snakes. He takes a few steps back and I hear someone from the pickup counter ask, “what the fuck?”
She bends down and picks up the bag, quickly ushering Simon back into it. “Sorry…I never know whether to take out my snake in public,” she says.
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