The Cell

Beep. Beep. Beep. Some asshat was typing a text message next to me while George Pelecanos was doing a reading from his new novel, The Way Home at Politics and Prose. His phone had gone off, and when he silenced it after four rings, I thought that would be the end of it. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Beep. Beep. Beep. I was wrong. The old man wore a cheap burgundy sports jacket and brown trousers. He accessorized this ensemble with his antiquated, ugly, candy bar, cell phone. Pelecanos looked dapper in his grey suit and neatly trimmed beard. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Beep. Beep. Beep. When he sat down next to me, he seemed polite enough. He had a warbly, watery voice, the very anti-thesis of the smooth baritone that Pelecanos possesses. Upon seeing my Kindle, he announced that he was a "paper man" himself, and we had a brief discussion about its relative merits. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Beep. Beep. Beep. This wasn't just rude. It was downright cruel. Two days ago, George Pelecanos lost his father, and the funeral was held this morning. I hope he didn't hear that cell phone. I couldn't help myself, I had to find out what the emergency was. I looked down at the cell phone. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"I'll call you later."