I left the following message for my father this morning:
“Dad,
Sorry to bother you in the middle of your heavenly gin game, but I need to vent.
I was leaving my meeting this morning…waiting to turn onto Chagrin…and, eyeing my phone, saw four calls I’d missed. Then it struck me. Again. And I put down the phone.
They’ve changed the rules, Dad.
Remember the time you drove up from Columbus to join me at the heart doctor’s? Our meeting was at the end of the day, upstairs at Mount Sinai; you didn’t want me to be alone. Recall how you lit your cigarette and like lightning the receptionist motioned passionately, pointing to the placard on her desk. Apropos to the times it read “Thank You For Not Smoking”. Remember the look you gave her while politely crushing your smoke?
I do. (Turning to me, under your breath you muttered: “Next they’ll go after all left-handed people).
The screwing with us again, Dad.
It’s not enough they make us wear seatbelts, but they’ve passed this new law…
in one of the suburbs I frequent…that prohibits phone use while driving. Can you imagine?
It’s unfair, Pop—much worse than your smoking.
Don’t get me wrong. I understand the texting thing; I get that. Driver inattention, like second-hand smoke, can injure others. But talking? Are they kidding? Are they serious? What’s next? Banning speech to a passenger? No shaving in cars? No ipods? (Maybe there should be a law that only people in the backseat can sing along? It could be standard equipment for new cars to come with ear plugs for drivers).
What about sporting events? Will there next be an ordinance requiring motor vehicle operators to turn off baseball after seven innings? They could pattern statute after the MLB save rule, where if it’s more than a three-run game it doesn’t count. This will allow drivers to safely listen to boring games.
It’s frustrating, Dad.
I got a taste of it last week, this intervention. My cross country drive was encumbered by the same nonsense just entering New York. There I was, looking for this bridge or that parkway, surrounded by honking maniacs posing as humans, and I couldn’t pick up the f’ing phone to call my son for directions.
(Michael, you should know, thinks it’s a good thing. I haven’t asked Stacy, frankly, since I know she likes Oprah, and Oprah campaigns for this nationally. Michael and Oprah both champion the law. He has a blue tooth; she’s got a driver. Go figure).
You can’t imagine, though, how it impacts me here. At home.
Just Wednesday, near day’s end…leaving the office… my phone rang. It was Harold. “You got a minute?” he asked.
We spoke for twenty, give or take. We dealt with his stuff, my stuff, and even Aunt Helen’s nonsense. Finally—politely— he cut me off.
“I’m on Brainard now…I’ll be home in a second,” he reported. (He’d been heading home from work as we spoke). Me? I was sitting like a schmuck in the same damn spot at La Place.
And that’s when it hit me, Dad—when I got up off the mat.
Beginning then, with my trip to the theater, I began routing myself—to the extent practicable—outside that suburb.
Gates Mills to Beachwood? Not a problem. I took Mayfield in, the longer way, and made a left at Richmond. Yesterday’s meeting at Van Aken & Warrensville? Not a problem. Bypassing Chagrin, nixing Green, Richmond and the like, I drove down Warrensville, swallowed some lights, made my right turn at Cedar and head toward the office.
Longer excursions, perhaps—but more efficient. My phone buzzed all the way.
It was at this point that the tape ran out. Redialing my father (to finish my rant), I couldn’t help but notice the phone was flashing. A voice mail’d come in, ten minutes ago…caller ID blocked.
I retrieved it, and the voice was familiar. Comforting and familiar.
“Got your call, little boy,” it said. “If this is the worst thing that happens to you today you’ll have a great day….And by the way, you’re crying with a loaf of bread under each arm.”
I hung up the phone and drove down Cedar.