The kids in the breakfast joint are twenty-somethings, nice looking, and fit. The kind of people that belong in a running-shoe commercial. Or a beer commercial. Or a fragrance advertisement that takes place on a sailboat.
But something is off. They are taking pictures of their food. Each kid holds a phone above his or her plate.
CLICK! CLICK!
And something else. They aren’t talking to each other. They aren’t even making eye contact.
They stare at their devices, eating with one hand, holding a phone in the other.
After breakfast, my wife and I head across town. I have a busy day. I have a small-town radio interview at ten.
We arrive at the station where I sit in the waiting room. Everyone in the room is young. Nobody is conversing. Lots of phones.
“Nice weather today,” I say to one woman.
She taps on her device and says, “Hmm.”
“They’re calling for rain tomorrow,” I go on.
No answer.
“The building’s on fire,” I say. “We’re all gonna die a
horrible death.”
“Hmmm.”
I turn to the guy on my other side. “What’re you in for?”
But he’s listening to music on earphones.
And everyone else is gazing at electronic devices until their faces are slack-jawed and streams of drool fall from the corners of their mouths making puddles on the floor, which the custodian ought to be cleaning up, except he’s playing Fruit Ninja on his phone right now.
I’m invited into the sound-proof booth. We’re on the air. I wear headphones.
The host is not looking at me. Instead, he is looking at a phone. The engineer behind soundproof glass is playing on his phone, too. I could be wearing a taxidermied alligator skull for a hat and nobody would even notice.
This is getting bizarre, I’m thinking. I don’t think I’ve locked eyes with…