Lover boy
I ruined your day. I broke your heart.
I don’t know where I was going with those lines. Perhaps a poem or a song lyric.
It is Wednesday, December 3rd. The new phone is supposed to be delivered today. Other items were delivered last night after I had come in from the inclement weather in Hoboken, knowing that I could pick them up today, and that is my plan after work.
While Yancey was in the midst of my morning, I tried to find proper music that would be inoffensive and listenable for his sensitive ears. I started out with Towa Tei, followed it with Michelle and Me’Shell Ndegeocello, and some Luaka Bop.
After Yancy left, I played the Velvet Underground Live 1969, Cocteau Twins, and the Cure. The morning started off yesterday with Before and After Science by Brian Eno. Today it was Supertramp- Breakfast in America.
Demos, the very handsome UPS guy, delivered by phone; actually, I went and got it. I would have hopped in the back of a truck for him if he had asked. He knew me, at least remembered me. He was handsome enough for me to remember, but on this occasion, I didn’t.
It’s been a satisfactory day, mostly. Fun talk with Mike on the phone, a few laughs. Work was a breeze, relatively speaking. I had halal food from the truck on Sixth Avenue, which was good but not as good as the first time a few weeks ago.
Bill’s spirits were somewhat deflated. He thought he’d be on the road, but those plans shifted. So he’s housebound until the weekend, when a road trip is planned. A trip to East Orange, which isn’t a ‘fun’ road trip. It is a memorial followed by a repast. He mentioned it to me last week, and I begged off.
I regretted it and told him soon after that I would attend with him. I’m sure he appreciates it. He reserved a ZipCar, to which I will contribute. I’m not sure he knows about that. I certainly pointed him in that direction. His original plan was to take a ride share from Hoboken to East Orange, but that did not seem feasible. This seems affordable, especially with my own contribution.
The new phone seems cool. Some things are similar; the Pixel 9a is a definite update to the Pixel 6a. It’s been a few years since I had it. A few things were different: homescreen widgets had moved, and I did my best to remember where they were. New positions for some of those widgets.
I await the delivery of the phone case, which is expected on Friday. It’s not an official case as sanctioned by the Alphabet company. It’s the same model as I had for the Pixel 6a, and I like it very much. I’m being extra cautious with the Pixel 9a until the case is delivered. Not that I drop my phone frequently, but it does happen.
I’m on a plan with the price added to my bill, which I try to keep down. It’s a 2-year plan, $20 a month. Of course, it costs more than some of the cars I used to own.
The Pixel 6a has been a good and faithful servant.
A Google rewrite as a Dorothy Parker essay:
## A Few Little Ruins, and the Inevitable Phone
One truly does aim high. **”Lover boy, I ruined your day. I broke your heart.”** There, in a breath, is the whole tragic opera of a life lived for effect. I had hoped, perhaps, to chisel out a stanza worthy of a proper, gin-soaked sigh—a little trifle to pin on the world’s lapel. One is always going somewhere with a line, even if, upon sober review, that somewhere turns out to be precisely nowhere.
It is, as the almanac insists, Wednesday, the third of December. The meteorological conditions in Hoboken were, as usual, a sneer and a slap, but duty called—or rather, the post called. The new telephone, a matter of paramount, if tiresome, modern necessity, was due for delivery. Last evening, after fighting my way home through the elements like a shipwrecked survivor, I saw that a few lesser treasures had arrived, waiting for my attention like faithful, if dusty, dogs. They can wait a bit longer; a girl has standards, and a few small errands.
The morning ritual, that small, daily surrender to politeness, required music that wouldn’t send poor Yancey fleeing for the fire escape. One must cater to the *sensitive ears*, you understand. I attempted a few pleasantries—Towa Tei, then the smooth, earnest earnestness of Michelle and Me’Shell Ndegeocello, and a dash of Luaka Bop—all entirely inoffensive, which is to say, entirely forgettable. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, however, one was quite free to dive headfirst into the exquisite gloom. The Velvet Underground *Live 1969*, the Cocteau Twins, The Cure. Ah, a proper descent. Yesterday, it had been the cerebral chill of Brian Eno’s *Before and After Science*. Today, I had embraced the banal with Supertramp’s *Breakfast in America*. One does love a little irony with one’s coffee.
And then, the great event. **Demos**. The handsome UPS man, an Adonis in a brown uniform. I didn’t wait; I met him. If he’d asked me to abandon my life and hitch a ride on the back of his delivery truck, I dare say I’d have grabbed my coat. He *knew* me, or at least his memory was blessedly intact. Mine, alas, was less loyal—the poor dear was quite the picture, and yet I couldn’t place him at first. One’s brain simply cannot hold onto all the attractive things in the world.
The day, all told, was satisfactory, which is the highest praise a reasonable woman can offer. A lovely little chat with Mike, producing a few much-needed laughs. Work was a breeze, which is how work ought to be—a minor, temporary inconvenience. Lunch was Halal from a Sixth Avenue truck. It was *good*, yes, but it lacked the singular, transformative magic of the first time a few weeks ago. One is always chasing the first bite, the first kiss, the first delightful surprise—and one is always, always disappointed.
Poor Bill, though, his spirits were somewhat deflated. His travel plans, the things one makes to feel important, had dissolved into thin air. Now he’s a prisoner in his own home until the weekend, which promises a road trip to East Orange. East Orange. The name itself suggests a lack of *joie de vivre*. It is, of course, a memorial, followed by a repast, which is life’s polite way of saying ‘gloom and lukewarm catering.’ I had quite rightly begged off last week, but the regret arrived soon after, as it always does, and I promised to attend. He is, I am sure, duly appreciative. He’s managed to secure a ZipCar, to which I shall, of course, contribute. He doesn’t know that yet, but I certainly pointed his little feet in the right direction. An expensive ride-share from Hoboken was simply unthinkable. This way, it is *affordable*, especially with a little generous nudge from one’s own pocketbook.
The phone, the Pixel 9a, is here. It is cool, as the young people say. An upgrade from the 6a, which had served faithfully for years. A few things are different—the little widgets have rearranged themselves, as if they, too, are suffering from wanderlust. I await the case, which is expected Friday, a non-official model that I liked very much the first time around. Until then, I treat the Pixel 9a with the utmost caution—as one treats a new love, before the inevitable, careless drop.
It’s on a plan, twenty dollars a month for two years, tacked onto the ever-growing bill I constantly try to shrink. It costs more than some of the perfectly terrible little cars I’ve owned in the past. But what is money, really? Only something to be spent. And the Pixel 6a? It was a good and faithful servant. Now, of course, it’s just another relic, waiting for the junk drawer, where all good things eventually go to die.
***