CELL PHONE NOISE
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Weir here.”
“Hey, Bob. Irving. Getting ready for Purim?”
“That depends: is Purim the name of one of the Fellowship of the Ring?”
“No. Holiday. Jewish. It involves a specific cookie.”
“I am not preparing for that. Did you just send me a picture?”
“Yeah, what do you think?”
“I think your balls look exactly like Billy’s.”
“I didn’t send you a picture of my balls, Bob.”
“Oh. Then that was Billy. Makes sense. Your balls are circumcised. What is this thing, Irving?”
“It’s show biz!”
“It looks like you asked an engineer to build you a suicide machine.”
“It’s for the Fenway gigs. Band flies in, lands in the outfield.”
“We’d plummet in, crash in the river.”
“Probably not.”
“And, you know: that thing looks even less seaworthy than it is airworthy.”
“Bob, it is a perfectly functional busicopter.”
“That’s not a thing or a word.”
“Kids’ll love it.”
“Then let them get in it. Nope, nuh-uh.”
“You’re being unreasoable.”
“Wait’ll you float this by everyone else. I am the height of reasonableness compared to them.”
“Mickey loved the idea.”
“Mickey is planning on stealing it while we are in the air. Mickey thinks he can fly a helicopter.”
“Ah.”
“Besides, Chimenti’s hair would get sucked into the rotors.”
“He could wear a hat.”
“Crime to wear a hat with hair like his, Irv.”
“Sure.”
“And don’t even mention this to Josh.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll covert the Earthroamer into a rotary-blade craft, mark my words.”
“It would be easier to picture if someone Photoshopped it.”
“It would, yeah.”
“Bob, c’mon: what am I going to do with this thing?”
“Sell it to George Harrison’s kid so he can sell replicas.”
…
“I’ll call you back.”
“Sure.”
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