“Go
where?”
“Spotify.
You put the client on your desktop and you can listen to anything.”
“That
sounds illegal. If I had a client on my desktop the only thing I would hear
would be the sound of their lawyer threatening to take my house.”
“Mom.
Get real. Nobody would willingly get on your desk.”
Kid
One is attempting to enlighten me on the endless musical possibilities the
Internet has to offer. I’m attempting to decipher how the Internet is
made up of enough nonsense words for Dr. Seuss to write a novel.
“I
was quite a catch in my day.”
“You
didn’t have a day. You had a decade of disco. Besides, nobody would fit
on your desk. You collect things.”
“I
need everything that’s on that desk.”
“Three
pencil cups?”
“They
all have special meaning. The elephant and the clown came from the circus
and your aunt stole the flowered cup from a yard sale just for me.”
“It’s
STOLEN?” He looks gleeful at the thought of a woman who wouldn’t take an after
dinner mint without asking bending the law.
“Well,
not technically. It was hidden inside a coat she bought.”
“My
life is a lie. I was raised in a den of thieves.”
“Thanks
for the memories.”
“So
what about that stack of ratty notebooks?”
“Those
are my journals. Everything from my first kiss to your first diaper is in
that stack.”
“Sounds libelous. Or slanderous. Or whatever means that if you show them to my friends I’ll have to join the witness protection program. They have to go.”
“No
way. I’d sooner part with my tiara.”
“That
reminds me. Why do you have a tiara on your desk?”
“Why
do you listen to Spotify?”
“So
I can hear anything I want. It takes me where ever I want to go.”
I
popped the tiara on my head and transported immediately to a faraway island
country where I reign as Queen and every inhabitant is over forty years of age
and wears an overcoat over their swimsuit. The only sound was that of sales clerks marking clearance prices on boxes of HoHos.
“And
with this I can hear what I want.”
“And
what’s that?”
“Quiet.”
