It rings, in spite of the invitation to turn it off. It rings during a TV taping session. It rings in a memorial service, a funeral, a wedding, a concert. It rings and rings. Somehow a cell phone will triumph over all precautions.
It rings in the bowels of a handbag, hidden among keys and wallet and check books. It rings in one of the pockets of a jacket. When it finally surfaces it demands to reveal the caller’s ID. Before it is turned off, it gives off its last bit of sound. Whooosh. Goodbye. Ding-a-ling-ling.
Nicole Henares brought her high school English class to the Poets with Trees Reading. My nephew Jonathan was in her class. He arrived, to my delight, with his father (my step-brother John) to the Sutro Heights Park. Jonathan and his classmates picked out a tree, decorated it and began their reading. In the middle of Jonathan’s reading John’s cell phone began to ring.
“Hello.” He said. It was his wife. They spoke, trying to work out some logistics in transporting their other children from one activity to another.
Johnathan kept reading his poem. John kept talking on the phone. Father’s voice. Son’s voice.
“DADDY!” Jonathan, frustrated, stopped reading. We waited.
“Oh, I have to go now. Jonathan is reading.” Did John realize he had been seduced?
Yes. The cell phone has that kind of power.
