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What sound do modern phones make?

September 24, 2015

September 24, 2015

The trouble with writing is the trouble with writing. Some days I can say I did the right thing to leave it alone. I can’t seem to leave it alone. I don’t want to leave it alone. If so many people are writing these days, why can’t I seem to find them? I do read the paper. Our town has three: The Billings Gazette, The Outpost, and The Last Best News. Well, maybe even four or five “papers.” Some are online these days. I love them all. I subscribe to all three. I recommend them.
My kind of writing, well, isn’t really writing at all. Not in the grandest sense. Not in the way that I normally think about writing. Instead, mine is stupider. Something or other surprised me today. Life is like that. Something always happens.

My life and hard times.

My life and hard times.

The phone woke me at a quarter to 10 today. Phones don’t ring anymore. I don’t know what they do. Burble? Edward Barta said he had some posters for “Art Walk” for October 2 and wanted to bring them by my house. I didn’t want to admit I was still in bed, and I hoped I could go back to sleep. I lied and said I was just heading out but I’d be back this afternoon. Edward asked how soon I was heading out. I lied again and said, “Oh, in about half an hour.” Edward asked if I could pick up the posters at his house. He would wait for me.
He got me out of bed. Of course I muttered about the nerve of someone calling me. Without notifying me first. Wait. That makes no sense. I got dressed. Soon I was glad for Edward’s call.
Turns out the posters are beautiful. Rabbit Knows Gun is displaying art at our church. I got maybe six posters. Where will I put that many?
I headed over for gas at the Holiday Station. I pulled up head-to-head with a beat-up old black sedan. I figured I’d better write down the license plate number. I thought such a beat up looking car might run into mine when it pulled out. Wait, I thought. I never do that. Write down plate numbers. So I didn’t. After I’d filled the car a wispy white woman with a — I don’t know — five-year-old child, a boy, got into the car I didn’t write down the license plate of. By then, I was backing up to leave the station. I wondered if the child even had a car seat?
I got to Albertson’s. Picked up a bunch of meat. Sale: two for the price of one. That meant the butcher had to individually wrap the steaks into six packages. Took him a long time. We remarked about that, one to the other. Got corn. Got chips. Potato chips for my sister, who is visiting today. Normally I don’t buy potato chips. I doubt if my children ever eat them. I used to eat them when I was a child. So did my sister.
I looked for a bottle of sangria. Couldn’t find, so I grabbed a six-pack of Uberbrew “White Noise.” The guy who owns the brewery stopped me in the parking lot as I was putting the beer in the trunk. “Makes a lot of noise, does it?” he asked. I shrugged. Laughed. Thought, what the f—?

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