The Old Blog in the Desert

I was driving home from the grocery store yesterday, minding my own business and arguing with the price of eggs, when I saw a sign nailed up by the roadside that declared in bold, hopeful letters: “Cash for Old Phones.”

Now I am a simple man. When a sign speaks plain English, I take it at its word. I do not consult a lawyer. I do not summon a committee. I believe it.

“Great,” I thought. “At last, a market that understands me.”

So this morning, on my way home from my air shift, I stopped in at the establishment advertising this generous bounty. I placed my phone upon the counter with the pride of a fisherman laying down a respectable catfish.

The clerk looked at it as though I had set down a fossil.

“What sort of phone is that?!” he asked, in the same tone one reserves for unexploded artillery.

“Rotary,” I replied, with modest confidence.

He stared at it a moment longer, perhaps waiting for it to hiss.

“We only buy old cell phones,” he said at last.

I glanced back at the sign in the window. It still read, with cheerful dishonesty, “Cash for Old Phones.”

“Well,” I told him, “you might consider revising your literature. That there is an old phone. In fact, it is so old it remembers when conversations were private and people hung up on each other with feeling.”

He did not laugh. That is the chief trouble with modern commerce. It has no sense of humor, only a charging port.

I carried my rotary back to the truck, unpurchased but unashamed. It may not fetch cash, but it has character. And in an age where everything is smart except the people, I consider that a fair exchange.

As for the sign, I expect it will remain as it is. We are a nation that prefers convenience over clarity.

We say “old phones” when we mean “not that old.” We say “unlimited” when we mean “until we notice.” We say “free” when we mean “almost.” And somewhere out there, I suspect, is a man trying to buy old typewriters, provided they have a USB.