on The Good Ol' Days
I’m the first to admit that smartphones have their uses, like sending your friends memes while at the office or accessing your mobile banking app to find out which drunk charges from last night you will dispute.
But you know what I miss? The good old days when we weren’t running around with these little devils in our pockets, hooked up to “the cloud,” telling us exactly when to “wake up” and “leave for work” and “pay the tolls before the grace period ends” and “ask mom what time I should pick the kids up from daycare.” What kind of life is that? It’s prompt and punctual and stifling and oppressive!
Before smartphones, the clocks didn’t need to agree.
“Now” meant “soon.”
“Soon” meant “stop hassling me.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight” meant, “my car will be in your driveway when it’s kind of dark out or whatever.”
There was less stress. Start times weren’t a big deal. Your boss at Blockbuster Video couldn’t say shit. One person’s 8:30 was another person’s 10:52. And 10:52 was a suggestion, kind of like, “try the ceviche.” Also, times weren’t numbers back then; they were more like guitar chords or bucket hats—a state of mind, my friend.
Everything was more fun back then. Everything. You’d pull up to your bank to cash a check and realize it was already closed because, wait, what time was it again? But then the security guard would peek out from around the corner, all like, “Hey man, you holding?” Of course you were! And back then people still appreciated the inexplicable lifelong bond that forms between two strangers who smoke together once and never speak again. So you’d nod at this guy who doesn’t care about his job either and let him rip your wax pen a couple times. Then you’d remember you’re seeing Stone Temple Pilots live at the Huntington Bank Pavillion in a couple days, so it’d be like, “Life fuckin’ JAMS, dude!”
Before the clocks were synced, we had less bullshit and more time to spend driving up and down Lake Shore Drive with the windows down. We also had more sex and fewer meetings. Sure, we got more venereal diseases, but sooo whaaat. We were fine.
After work, you’d meet all your buds at Sinbad’s Hookah. You’d roll in with a bottle of Absolut Cintron and a couple Arnie Palmer tall boys at 10:00 p.m., or 1:30 a.m., or 3:00 p.m. the next day. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t some obnoxious work happy hour for 6:00 p.m. chodes. You’d show up whenever you felt like it, wearing your leather jacket even though you’d never ridden a motorcycle, a clove cigarette sticking out of each side of your mouth, another behind each ear, a few random cigs scattered throughout your jacket pocket. You’d high-five the boys and give your girlfriend a little smack on the ass. “What time is it, boys?” Who cares. iCloud? What’s that? Shut up and fire up the charcoals!
Life was amazing.
I remember it like it was yesterday: You’d shout, “Gotta go, boys, hot date with the GF tonight!”
Then the boys would hoot and holler and crack an imaginary whip for what seemed like way too long.
You’d stroll into Cheesecake Factory like a prince and say, “Hey, babe, let’s order a bunch of those crunchy spring rolls.”
And Kim would go, “Babe, you realize that you’re two hours and fifteen minutes late again?”
And you would go, “According to who? My watch says I’m right on time.”
And she would go, “According to the time that the rest of the world runs on, Christian.”
And you would just point to your Mickey Mouse watch that your Uncle Javi gave you as a kid in the mid-90’s.
And she would go, “That thing is broken. I think it’s a knock-off. Look at how the logo is peeling off—”
And you would go, “But my UNCLE gave this to me. He was a Green Beret.”
And she would go, “Look, can we PLEASE just get you a working watch?”
And you would go, “Well, excuse me for not calling the National Institute of Standards and Technology’s Atomic Clock Hotline on my rotary phone so I can live up to your impossible expectations.”
And she would go, “I feel like you’re not actually sorry, and you’re just mocking me for expecting a basic level of respect in this relationship.”
And you would realize that Kim is not the woman for you, never was. You’d storm out of the Cheesecake Factory, jump in your car, a few clove cigs spilling out of your leather jacket, never looking back.
You would be free: tethered to no one and nothing but the open road and the whims of your heart. The clocks in every Blockbuster and bank lobby in America could kiss your beautiful, bubble-round ass. None of them agreed anyway.
Then you’d remember you were late to pick up Bella and Diego from daycare. Your mom was gonna be pissed!
You’d turn around and haul ass. Man, those were the days.