I was behind you in the checkout line at the grocery store. In a loud, authoritative voice, you were describing the plot to a movie you had just seen for the nice old woman at the register. Normally, she enjoys talking to her customers, so I was surprised when I saw she hardly seemed to pay attention to your insightful synopsis. When she picked up her phone to page another checker while you were still talking, I realized you hadn’t been talking to her at all. You were on your Bluetooth while looking right at her face the whole time. Then you continued your conversation out the door and into the parking lot, where you stood by yourself, talking even louder and waving your arms around in sweeping, outlandish gestures. Other than the nice clothes, nice car and sense of entitlement that could fill a hot-air balloon, you reminded me of the homeless lunatics who used to hang out on the corner of my old neighborhood, though they at least interrupted their internal conversations to thank me when I gave them a quarter. The next time I see you, I’ll try to resist the urge to take your damn Bluetooth and give you a quarter—and directions to the nearest pay phone.
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