The Phone

It was a rounded rectangle of gray plastic with a tiny pixel-divided screen and below that the classic 12 buttons, 1 through #. It was a Tracfone, a burner, a device giving me cellular network access one prepaid card at a time. And even in the year 2007 it was many years out of date.

This cell phone was in my pocket as I trudged down Concord Boulevard, which is a wide road with a 35 mile-per-hour speed limit and sidewalks but few crosswalks. Therefore I was more or less trapped, for about half of my mile-plus route from the bus stop to home, on a stretch of sidewalk that went past a long chain-link fence bordering a park under construction.

As I walked on this stretch of sidewalk, a large dude with long hair and black baggy pants came towards me from the other direction. Trudging, I scarcely noticed him until he was yards away. I prepared myself to take awkward teenage steps around him, but as he approached I was having a hard time getting out of his way. When we were within feet of each other it became clear this was intentional. He was blocking me.

I stopped walking. I stepped left; he stepped that way. Stepped right; same. Then he said, "Watchu got in your pockets?"

The cars zipped by in the daylight. I had nothing like the energy to run or fight, and I didn't feel up to finding out if he had a blade on him, so I reached into my pocket and produced the cell phone.

He took it, squinted at it, pressed a few buttons. The screen hardly lit up enough to be seen in the sunlight. Phone in hand, he looked back at me.

"Got any money?" he asked.

"Nah," I said.

He put the phone back in my hand. "Keep it," he said. Then went on his way.

That's a true story.

‍