“This is such a Mavie and Davie story,” said Davis, casually sliding his gaze around the room. He scanned every booth, and corner for his sister Mavis, just to be sure she had not silently infiltrated his one table-two-chair coffee shop kingdom.
“I mean,” he continued,” you know how she can be, more than little competitive, right? Between us we have our own rules about it, always have. Friendly, with love, looking out for each other. Well, mostly.
Remember last summer? When ever you came by we were fighting? We sent these nattering nasty little text-messages, sniping and snapping back and forth for weeks. The argument was stupid. Aren’t they all? It was about who’s phone was better. First I got this feature, thought it would be real handy.
You typed in six-six-six, you know, like hell and the devil and everything, then hit the pound sign. Put the phone under your cup, it would get real hot and reheat your coffee. Sounded good, but she would watch till I did it, then call me. Like a jerk I answered every time! We both got the optional cellphone fax feature that used the same little papers to rolled cigarettes too. Worthless. The faxes too small to read, and neither of us smoked. Then she got a retina scanner in her phone and I wore mirrored sunglasses day and night just to spite her. People assumed I was on drugs! Sure, we made up, always do eventually.”
I enjoyed hearing another one of their insane “Mavie & Davie” micro-dramas. Mavis told them better, but since she regarded me more as a friend of Davis, she was guarded in what she would share. I got an another coffee, and some half-caff-Tunisian-pumice-stone-soy-latte thing Davis favored at the time. By then he had finished checking the multiple blogs he followed and positioned his latest phone just so, displayed to its’ best advantage on our small table. With a smile and half a laugh, he shook his head theatrically and continued. “Crazy really, how we’ve been with new phones the past two years. We both like tech. And you know we both like showing off, and this is someplace we can do it on equal ground. Phones, we do need them. Well, you can’t really call them phones any more but all that personal digital assistant communication system stuff is all just so pretentious!” He seemed serious now, moving his chair closer to mine and sotto-voce continued.
“No mr.businessman-plain-jane-regular-blackberry-bluetooth stuff, that all get the raspberry far as we’re concerned. Custom stuff. All high end offshore limited edition genetically linked e-phones. We both got e-implants now, total interphase. Got ’em on our birthday. We had a party, had both been drinking, and worst of all, she dared me! So next day there we are, the two of us, with cartoon band aids behind our right ears, and all hung over. She had Smurfs and I had Yogi Bear. You know, for what it all cost they could do better than Hanna-Barbera. I think.
Anyway, all hotter than hot, these e-gen-phones. Nothing newer. Mine in “distressed asphalt”, hers in “acid-wash taupe”. Latest pre-production backdoor stuff. I hacked mine a little, and knew she would too on the side. I gotta laugh, you’ll like this part. So I follow this way cool bilget. Text messages from minor celebrities waiting in Hollywood traffic court. Defendant asks who ever is online, which possible excuse for their behavior will seem most plausible to the Judge! L.A. tabloid vibe, outrageously vapid!
So thinking I’m way cool, I drop by her place. Two quick knocks, and I stroll right in. There she was! Shaving her legs to summertime silky smoothness with her phone! A little implant jaw twitch, and her phone goes all still, and darkens. She blows the stubble-ash off the edge, looks at me real sly with her million dollar smile, and all innocent says,” “Oh, yours doesn’t do that?” “You know, I gotta say, she so had me there!