I was on the last flight back west on a Friday night, glad that it looked likely I was going to get home. Even better, I’d been upgraded. I flopped into my seat, pulling out the noise-canceling headphones, laptop power adapter, books, and all that other stuff that makes a long flight an oasis of irony.
The guy in the window seat was talking on the phone with the usual stuff you hear by people who are smart enough not to do business on the mobile. “Yeah, honey, I love you too.” “Good to be home this weekend.” That sort of washed over me as I thought, “Aww, that’s sweet.” (My SO and I text each other, and I was firing off a few equivalents, myself. Then he said something that jolted me out of my hearing-yet-not-paying-attention.
The music of his voice shifted from rubato and legato to marcato and strict tempo. “You tell Connor,” he said, “that when I get home, I don’t want the first words out of his mouth to be, ‘Where’s my iPod?'” I suppressed staring, but my eyes bounced off of the end of their swivel pins.
I thought, “Dude, you stole your kid’s iPod!” There was silence on his end, and I have no idea what she said. I just thought again, loudly, hoping his conscience might hear, “Guy! You stole your kid’s iPod! I mean, jeez, I can see “borrowing” it once to see if you like this whole digital music stuff, but DFW’s got a bleeding vending machine for the critters right at A19! Can’t you at least bury a Shuffle in your expenses?”
So Connor, if you read this because we’re 1337-ish, show this post to your dad. And if he’s still being cheap, install Limewire on his laptop and start sharing Sinatra or something. Maybe the RIAA will notice.
photo courtesy of Michael P. Whelan.