TEXTING

Ch. 23: How texting is changing my life.

I was never a master of catching an eye, but it was maybe the best of my decidedly lame late-night moves. Then, a few nights ago, sitting at the bar at an underground bistro, at a moment or two in approach of the witching hour, I began looking around the room, trying to catch a babe’s eye with that “I’ll come thither look,” and all the babes – all four of them – were face down, texting. Not an eye out of eight to be caught. Used to be I could rely on a woman being stuck with the clientele of the moment – the later the moment the better, of course -- and pretty much going through the same assessment as me: Would I be able to respect myself in the morning? (Probably not.) No more, Keem-o-sabe. Oh, for the bad ol’ days.

Ch. 24: How texting is changing my life.

So, I pull into a wind-blown gas station on a deserted stretch of I-59, between New Orleans and Houston and spot a group of motorcycle riders. They’ve got crotch rockets. They’ve got colors. They’re outfitted in leather. They’re all burly, all tall, and all of the African-American persuasion. In all, they might have struck a rather imposing air -- yes? And they’re all … texting, thumbs flying across mini-keys like teenage girls. So, what did I do? I pulled my robin’s egg blue Toyota Yaris right into their midst. Unintimidated. Unbent and bowed. The freedom to be me.