I know they’re in there, lurking with the hopelessly inadequate flash drives, mocking me by their very existence. They lie in technological purgatory, charging cords tangled, obsolete in their intended purpose, too important to abandon because of what THEY might know.
In the wrong kindergartner’s hands, why they could crack under pressure and spill the beans about my interactions with the world: doctor, dentist and the kind of liquor store I frequent, calls furtively made, received and ignored, rendezvous plotted in the morse code of texting, indiscreet ring tones loaded and then hastily regretted, the most elementary of digital games played very, very badly.
Yes, they are my wanton cell phones, those bastard children given up for brighter and shinier models with a qwerty sense of humor and a higher intelligence (which I apparently need since it took me over an hour to figure out how to wipe out my dark secrets and slip the SIM card away from an old dinosaur of a Tracfone.)
Evidently it is far easier to find the clandestine recycling drop-off than to make a cell phone forget.
Call me later.
Suburban Satsangs 