dave doesn't have a keypad lock on his cellphone.
sometimes, i'll be doing my own thing, minding my own business, when my phone will ring. i look at the tiny, tiny lcd screen and it tells me that it's my housemate calling. could it be something important? is rent due? has a pipe burst? has the house burned down?
so i answer it.
sometimes there'll actually be someone on the other end of the line, ready to be involved in a conversation with me. there'll be the standard greeting and he'll tell me that rent is due, or a pipe has burst, but fortunately he's never told me that the house has burnt down.
other times it'll just be a weird muffled conversation where i can't really make out any of the words, or it'll be whatever it sounds like from the inside of a pocket when he's walking down market street. the inside of one's pocket can sound deceptively like a wind-swept cliff during a fierce bout of rock climbing. this time it was a bar.
"DAVE!" i'd yell into the phone. maybe he'd hear me and realize that his phone is surreptitiously making calls without telling him. i hope i don't get the phone in trouble.
"PICK UP THE PHONE!" i was standing in the middle of the parking structure at the civic center. someone was probably in their car watching me scream into the phone. i'm sure i sounded like one of those homeless people who yell at their invisible enemies all day.
"DAVE! I'M IN YOUR PANTS! PICK UP THE PHONE!"
the bar-noise continued on. glasses clinked, girls giggled and conversations babbled. dave wasn't going to hear me from his pants.
i hung up. <8.14.00>
all words (c) filmfatale industries 2000