PRIVILEGE
by Thomas Ward
I’m telling you, cell phones kill more people than heroin.”
“Really?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No not really.”
“You’re serious?
“Yes.”
“Alright then…I’ll give you an example…the other morning, Tuesday I think, I was riding on my way to work, proper reflective gear, helmet with rear view mirror attached-
“So you’re properly equipped?”
“Yes I’m always properly equipped that’s not the point.”
“I didn’t mean to-
“Interrupt me?” Mr. Walter Young said as he raised his unsettling eyes and stared at the doctor. “I travel the same route every morning. In fact I know that area very well, every pot-hole and, anyway a beige van, a mini-van actually, sped out of a garage, one of those high end expensive garages, four five hundred a month these people pay,” Mr. Young said and rubbed his square jaw with pale right hand. “I locked up the brakes, yelled something obscene, and actually had to jump off the bike.”
“And this angered you?”
Mr. Young glanced up at the doctor, “This ogre of a woman was punching a number into her cell with her globular nose, munching a cruller, holding a quart of coffee, and attempting to steer the vehicle with the slab hanging off of her arm. Yes this behavior angered me.”
“A slight exaggeration perhaps,” The doctor said and raised his graying brow.
Mr. Young narrowed his eyes and said, “Whatever.”
The doctor paused, glanced down, and jotted down some notes. “What brand of bike?”
“What kind of bike? Kula Deluxe, eighteen-inch frame, top of the line. I buy everything from them; Konaworld…shop down on 5th.”
“I’m not familiar with that particular establishment.”
“Why would you be?”
The doctor sighed in that way of his, almost a whistle, re-crossed his legs, and rubbed his hand over his leather-bound notebook. “You seem out of sorts today,” he forced.
“Just today,” He asked and then continued, “It is very frustrating when I really try to do the right thing and on a regular basis and then get…ignored and fucked over for a lack of a better term.”
“When you say, ‘do the right thing’ you mean?”
“I ride a bike. I do not drive a car. I recycle every-damn-thing, conserve energy, don’t keep a dog alone in an apartment, play music at a reasonable volume, and divorce online. You know what I mean.”
“So you sacrifice for the good of others?”
Mr. Walter Young swung his legs up off of the carpet and rested his head back on the black leather sofa. “They have no consideration, simply obnoxious, rude, self absorbed ass’ all yammering away, like they’re relevant, on their damn cell phones.” He pinched his eyes tight with his thumb and forefinger.
Doctor Jason Weltman gazed down to straighten his cobalt-blue silk tie, “But you really do not know what these people you refer to…are saying or hearing? It could be important?” He said as he felt the tie with the palm of his hand.
Mr. Young glanced over at the doctor and hissed. “You wonder what the hell all these people did before they had cell phones glued to the side of their faces…And I love the ones who wear the earpiece, those blue things. Now they are priceless, Jesus.
The doctor allowed his tie to drop down against his shirt, glanced up, and asked, “But in truth, for the most part, you have no idea what these people are talking about?”
“In truth I have never been shot in the temple with a shot-gun but know it’s not something I want to experience.”
Doctor Weltman frowned. “Not an accurate analogy.”
“You’re still missing the point. Technology in this case, the cell phone, being used improperly causes accidents…kills people…and for what…convenience.”
Doctor Weltman with his eyes focused on his note pad, nodded. “How are things with your wife?”
Mr. Young glanced around the mauve painted office at the series of prints that were displayed evenly on each wall. “I’ve asked you before, this I know, but this artist you have dominating your office-
“Josef Albers.”
“Yes that’s right the German.”
“An artist and a teacher. He taught at the Bauhaus.”
Mr. Young nodded. “Looks like something I painted in the fifth grade.”
“Well his works are exhibited at the National Gallery of Art, the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston-”
“I bet he never used a cell phone.”
Doctor Weltman forced across a smile and wiped a piece of lint from his dark gray slacks. “I’m sure he didn’t.”
“I like the colors and the shapes,” Young said. “Squares?”
“Study for Homage to the Square to be specific.”
“You say The Bauhaus as if you attended.”
“The Nazi’s closed it in 1933 but thankfully Josef found safe haven here and interestingly went on to teach at Yale.”
“Why is that interesting to me?” Mr. Young asked.
“What is interesting about the fact he taught at Yale?” Mr. Young asked..
Doctor Weltman paused. “I attended Yale.”
“Well I didn’t.”
“I understand you attended West Point.”
“You know I did.”
“This all sounds familiar, Mr. Young. And you knew I graduated from Yale.”
Mr. Young shrugged and smirked.
Both men remained quiet for a time. Doctor Weltman uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again, straightened his tie, and then scribbled on his notepad. “You’re avoiding the question?”
“My wife? She made my favorite dinner last night.”
“That sounds encouraging…what did she make?”
“Chicken pot pie.”
“How was it?”
“I’ll never know. She cooked it in the rotisserie.”
Doctor Weltman adjusted is gold-rimmed glasses. “What do you think…fueled this recent annoyance with cellular phones?”
Mr. Young folded his arms across his chest and stared at the pale ceiling. “I think you know.”
Seeming annoyed Doctor Weltman replied, “I do? How is that? Please tell me.”
“What made Albers attracted to squares?”
Doctor Weltman shook his head slightly. “That has nothing to do with what we are discussing but it is not so much about the shape as it does the colors.”
“So you say.” Mr. Young breathed out. “I have issue with certain technological advances I suppose. These… items of convenience that do nothing to advance society beyond the fact they make people indolent.”
Doctor Weltman nodded as he wrote in the note pad. “I believe that art is truly in the eye of the beholder.”
“People won’t expend strength to open a car door never mind a garage door…you have men beating their children because the TV remote went missing for Christ sake. What added value to society does a god-damn cell phone create?”
“I see.”
Mr. Young turned his head and looked at Doctor Weltman. “What do you see?”
“Excuse me?”
Mr. Young sat up, swiveled his feet onto the tightly woven rug, and faced Doctor Weltman. “You just said, ‘I see.’”
“Active listening…Mr. Young.”
“And art is in the eye of the beholder.”
Doctor Weltman rubbed his finely trimmed salt and pepper beard with his left hand. “So, you are expressing or are you displacing annoyance? The cell phone in this instance could possibly be replacing-“
“My wife yes, you have mentioned such things to me before…you half-listen to whining, complaining, and bitching day in and day out. I know there are days when you want to jump out of your fifth floor office… head first.”
“Actually there are days, not unlike today, when I would prefer to slap my patient across the face…but of course only as a fantasy.”
This brought a slight smile to the weary face of Mr. Young. “Our fantasies differ, doctor…you don’t take into account what the artist indented at the time of his creation?”
“Do you still compete in competitive cycling?”
Mr. Young massaged his temples with his fingers and nodded. “Less now of course.”
“Time constraints?”
“Time constraints.”
“You mentioned, technology and your frustration with what you,” Doctor Weltman referred to his note pad. “As items of convenience.”
Mr. Young nodded. “Cells phones kill more people than heroin.”
“So you say but you must, in your profession, welcome some technology if not most?”
Mr. Young nodded. “My profession in many ways is driven by technology…and soon will be completely dependant on it.”
“And this troubles you?”
“And this scares the living shit out of me.”
“Interesting…but safeguards exist, no?”
Mr. Young pondered this question. “Yes, but the safeguards are the newest of the new technological advances…completely self-sufficient…technology is dependant on more technology.”
“You’ve been regarded as a leader in your field…in fact a pioneer,” Doctor Weltman said with slight concern. “Someone who has bridged-
“Please.” Mr. Young dropped his head into his hands. “My staff alone has been reduced by over seventy percent.”
Doctor Weltman removed his glasses. “I had no idea. That sounds like quite a bit, especially in your line of work…I don’t mean to sound alarmed-
Mr. Young leaned forward. “You should be alarmed, Doctor.”
A moment of silence ensued allowing both men an opportunity to reflect.
“Mr. Young should I be troubled by this?”
Mr. Young raised his voice. “I have raised my concerns to the highest authority…and I have been assured that the system in place is in fact, state of the art.”
“The system you speak of is of course state of the art? I mean considering where you work? It must be?”
“Well your voice displays some concern, doc.”
Doctor Weltman leaned back into his chair, affixed his glasses, and steadied his gaze on Mr. Young.
Mr. Young in turn mimicked the doctor’s movements and said. “I am aware of the situation that you now face. Decisions, ethics, and vows.”
“Should we be truly concerned, Mr. Young?”
Mr. Young leaned forward and looked directly into Doctor Weltman’s humble brown eyes. “I am.”
Doctor Weltman brushed back his tidy black hair with his left hand. He squinted and then begun to blink rapidly. “There must be…good reasons for the staff cuts and you have said that the system is in fact state of the art..”
“State of the art…Built by Zardous Industries.”
“Well of course I’ve heard of them-
“Number ten on the Fortune 500…big defense contractors.”
“Well I’m sure…its safe.”
“I’m glad you are…sure.”
The doctor rose from the black leather armless chair, crossed the burgundy rug, and stood in front of his cherry wood liquor table. He unscrewed the cap to a full bottle of Johnny Walker Black, turned and glanced at Mr. Young.. “Would you like a glass?”
Mr. Young nodded. “Sure why not.”
Doctor Weltman carefully poured two six-ounce glasses of the Scotch Whiskey, retraced his steps, and handed Mr. Young the glass. “This is highly unusual.”
Mr. Young accepted the drink and raised the glass, “Cheers.”
Both men sat in silence and sipped the Scotch when Doctor Weltman placed his glass onto the small circular glass table next to his chair. “Technology…I always attached a positive connotation to the term.”
“Stones were first used to build shelter and contain fire then adapted to smash the brains out of an enemy’s skull. One brilliant caveman, during the Upper Paleolithic time actually, developed a sling to shoot that stone faster and farther and with great accuracy…Killing without having to be up close and personal.”
Doctor Weltman rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Are you telling me something, Mr. Young?”
Mr. Young glanced at his wristwatch. “I believe our time is finished.”
Doctor Weltman rose. “Let me get you another drink?”
Mr. Young placed the empty glass on the table. “I can’t. Have to get back to work.”
“If you are trying to worry me, you have succeeded.”
Mr. Young walked past the doctor, reached for his tan overcoat, grabbed the brass door handle, turned, and said, “I’m your patient…If you haven’t noticed, well during the past four months…I’ve been scared, troubled, and worried…I hear things, see things…I tell you this because you are my doctor. In fact I’ve told you things that could land me in Federal Prison for the remainder of my life.”
“Yes but circumstances have changed.” The doctor said as he stood, pad and pen in hand.
“The only circumstance that has changed is that this danger I speak of, has found its way close to you.” Mr. Young pulled open the door and left the office.
“Mr. Young…?”
Two weeks later:
“Breaking News-An explosion rocked the United Nations Security Council at its East Forty-Second Street Headquarters this morning shortly after 10 AM, killing the newest member, Lauranne Church-Weltman the wife of noted New York City psychiatrist Doctor Jason Weltman.
“Here now is Chief of Security at the counsel, Mr. Walter Young; “this morning a small bomb exploded within the UN Security Council chamber, killing one and injuring three. Videotape surveillance footage…revealed that the bomb was placed inside one of the bi-lingual cellular telephone used by certain members of the counsel. This in no way is attributed to the State of the Art security system in place… It has become popular, for many reasons, among certain terrorist groups to use cellular telephone as weapons, especially explosive type weapons…I would like to reiterate that the system in place is not at fault here. It is in fact, state of the art. That is all at this time.”
Mr. Walter Young turned and walked back through the lobby, jogged up the staircase to the eighth floor, and entered the unnamed corner office shutting the door behind him.
“Come in Walter and take a seat.” Director of Operations - Jerry Nahaet said to his underling.
Mr. Young breathed out as he sat in the armless cushioned chair.
“Walter I believe you know Tom Kent from Zardous?”
Mr. Young nodded.
Nahaet smiled. “We hate to lose you, Walter.”
Mr. Young smiled ever so slightly.
“But our loss is Zardous’s gain.”
Kent uncrossed his legs from the corner sofa, displayed his oversized capped teeth. “Of course…after your four-week European sabbatical.”
The men stared blankly and then Nahaet adjusted himself in his high back executive chair. “Of course this is a terrible, terrible misfortune for all involved and we will get to the bottom if-
Kent interjected. “There is that one issue, the letter you wrote to Jerry..”
Mr. Young cleared his throat. Kent and Nahaet kept their gaze on him as he pondered. Nahaet stood, walked over, and handed Mr. Young the letter. Nahaet then sat on the edge of his desk, within touching distance of Mr. Young.
“All you need to do is turn over any other copies, disks that may…contain the particulars…you…outlined in that document. As misinformed as you may have been.”
“Misinformed?” Mr. Young shot back at Kent.
“Hey Walter, I mean three quarters of a million dollars a year…my god,” Nahaet said as he glanced over at the smug Kent as if to say ‘ease up..’
Mr. Young looked at the letter and then at both men. An uncomfortable silence fell across the room. Moments passed when Mr. Young looked at Nahaet. “I heard that Mrs. Weltman garnered support to vote against Resolution one-four-seven.”
‘Wouldn’t matter,” Kent said. “The votes should be there.”
“Maybe this time around…But Mrs. Weltman, in her short time here has gained respect.” Mr. Young said as he focused on Kent. “Germany, Canada, and Spain among them.”
“Yeah, I heard that as well…It’s a damn shame her liberal positions won’t be-
“Its amazing the technology these terrorist have in their arsenal,” Nahaet broke in with.
Mr. Young turned his gaze at Nahaet now said, “The video is missing almost three seconds. Someone else will notice.”
Nahaet glanced at Kent.
“You think her husband will accept whatever bull-shit you’ll serve him?” Mr. Young asked. “And the American people?” Mr. Young grimaced and torn the letter to threads. “You think I can ignore what I know, the facts I outlined to you weeks ago,” holding the torn pieces of paper, “in this letter?”
Nahaet raised both palms up. “Settle down, Walter.”
“Settle fucking down?”
Kent rose, walked over, stood next to Nahaet, and glared at Mr. Young. “I hear that cell phones kill more people than heroin.”