Mr. Disconnected

as i walk to the subway during the morning rush, i wonder why everyone except me is furiously working their thumbs or gabbing into their cell phones. do my unmoving hands and lips mean that i am unpopular? i wasn't always so self-conscious about being behind the communications curve. when cell phones first came on the scene i was a holdout, telling everyone that modern technology was threatening social intercourse-a line that i hoped also explained why i still had a rotary phone. yet saying that i was sans cell phone became like admitting i was without a watch or a wallet, something usually only heard from ex-hippies suffering a '60s flashback. i was terrified of what it would do to my reputation if someone i knew caught me making a call from a phone booth. they'd probably think i was a drug dealer. owning a cell phone has made me face an embarrassing truth-i don't need one. last year i lost my mobile and bought a new one. i asked the salesperson to recommend a calling plan. "i see that the usage of your last phone was very low, so you should go for something basic," she said. "i'm always on my land line," i lied, lest she think i'm unsociable. not only do i rarely call anyone, but few people call me. this is convenient when i go to the movies or a funeral, since i don't have to remember to turn off my phone, but it otherwise makes me feel like a hermit. when i'm out to dinner with someone who is constantly interrupted by calls, i'll take my phone from my pocket and look at it, making believe that i'm checking my missed calls. "i keep my ringer on silent," i'll explain. recently i was at a work meeting when my phone rang. i excitedly removed it from my pocket and fumbled it to the floor, before pressing the correct button. "your time to consolidate your credit card debt is running out," the automated voice said. "i'm in a meeting, i'll call you back," i said, as if i were talking to a live person. the phone-free subway used to provide me a break from worrying that i looked like a loner. but ever since straphangers began typing away on their blackberrys, my underground respite has become another venue to advertise my unimpressive social life. (i'm convinced that because of all the texting, mobile emailing and twittering we do, future generations will be born with eyes under their chins and an extra thumb.) i wish i had enough friends to require a non-stop communications stream. but i can't imaging needing to email on the go any more than i can see myself talking on the phone while walking to my therapist's office-where i talk about why i don't have more friends to send text messages to. sometimes i wish i were elderly. walking down the street-eyes looking straight ahead, useless hands at my sides-passersby would assume that i was too set in my old-technology ways to use a blackberry or cell phone. "probably on his way to see his friends at the senior center," they'd think. until then, i have decided to walk around hooked up to an ipod. this way people will know that i'm too busy listening to beyoncé, bruce and bono to talk to anyone. to keep my thumbs occupied, i'll play air guitar. n

ben krull is a lawyer and essayist who lives on the upper east side.