Have had a bad morning, which happens when one loses his phone.
Can’t find it anywhere. Looking all over the house. Up, down. Walked to where I throw out Norma’s poop bags, gazed inside. No phone. Panic, cursing, panic, cursing. Where’s the damn phone? Norma—where’s the damn phone?
Finally, I go to the iPhone finder site, and track down my phone on a map. “Crap,” I think. “Someone stole it.” The map (above) shows my phone somewhere near Hundley Ave. and Franklin Ave. in Los Angeles. I start having these imaginary scenes in my head. I follow the map and find myself staring down some obnoxious teen; some snooty adult; some gang banger. I’m standing up for myself, and righteousness. Yeah, I might get hurt (stabbed, even!), but I’m gettin’ what’s mine. Clint Eastwood. No, Denzel in Training Day. Bring it!
I call my wife to tell her about the theft. “Someone took it,” I say. “It’s in LA somewhere near Sepulveda. I’m gonna …”
She interrupts. “Are you kidding?” she says.
“No, why?”
“I’m at Sepulveda. You left your phone in the car again.”
