The other day I was sitting in my car at a traffic light, minding my own business, listening to a J.J. Jackson tune on the radio, when I noticed the guy in the RX-7 next to me was talking on his car phone. I looked across the intersection and there, in a silver Lexus, was some guy talking on his car phone.
Forget that it's illegal in this state to talk on car phones wile driving. Forget that these guys were driving better cars than me. What I want to know is, who are these self important people who think their lives are marked by having such great significance, or consequence, in that they can't wait until they get back to the office to retrieve their phone message about the plumber not being able to make it until tomorrow because he is up to his armpits in an emergency?
I had to discover, for myself, what made these hand held symbols of the successful entrepreneurs so desirable. In other words, I wanted to look as cool as the guy next to me.
I shopped around to find the best deal on a car phone.
(Note: Those of the trillion of us who do not own one will be glad to know that you can possess this highly influential status symbol, if you can afford any combination of two body limbs.)
I told the salesman I was looking for the best budgeted piece of equipment he had. He said, “You mean, the cheapest.” How could I argue with a guy that was this incredibly perceptive?
The salesman, Chaz, told me the least expensive car phone, called the Alcoa and String Model, was not much less than the next higher priced model, The Junior Executive. The Junior Executive sounded like it was for a real up-and-comer, and even though, most of the time, I'm a down-and-outer, I decided to go with it.
Chaz then told me that I would probably want call waiting just in case that all important call came in from my Hollywood agent telling me that he got me a staff writing job on Sunrise Sermonette. I said, “Okay.” Then, he suggested I needed caller ID, just in case I wanted to make sure it was that all important call from Hollywood. Chaz then tried pushing a car phone answering machine on me, just in case that Hollywood call came in while I was using the men's room at the Texaco.
I must have really impressed this guy since he told me that he had installed car phones in everything from stretch limos to Winnebagos, but he had never had the opportunity to install one in a Dodge Dart.
At last, the day came. I made sure everybody I ever made eye contact with, in my life, had my car phone number. I drove around expecting, at any minute, to hear the important ring of my expensive play toy. Finally, I was going to look as impressive as those guys driving down the Garden State Parkway at sixty-five miles per hour, with their phones tucked under their chins, while taking extensive notes from their home offices, and steering the car with their knees.
So, I waited. And I waited. Sixteen hours and no calls. I stopped at a phone booth and called my car to see if it was working. It was. Three weeks went by and no calls. I even changed my car phone number to be very close to that of the neighborhood Chinese restaurant, just so I might get a call for a take-out order of Wor Shew Opp from a local dyslectic. Not even a wrong number.
Then, on the twenty-seventh day, the phone rang. I couldn't believe it. Just the sound of a friendly voice is all I wanted to hear. I listened intently to what the caller had to say. Eventually, I got to speak and am now the proud owner of a side of beef from the Meat of the Month Club.
I became despondent. I spent all day driving around and slept in the back seat, all night, in my driveway.
I finally got a call from someone I recognized. It was from Chaz, who told me my first payment was overdue and that he was going to have to repossess my Junior Executive with the call-waiting, the caller ID and the answering machine. I told him I would be there in the morning to have it uninstalled, or whatever they call it when they rip one of these babies out.
I still had the car phone for one more night. I was going to get some use out of it, or I was going to die trying. So, I found out where Chaz lived, parked my car at the end of his street and used my Junior Executive for the last time. First, I dialed information and got Chaz' phone number. Then I called him and disguised my voice and asked him if he had Prince Albert in the can. Then, I called again and asked him if his refrigerator was running. And then, a devilish grin crossed my lips as I watched those pizza delivery trucks pull up to Chaz' house every half hour for the next six hours.
