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Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

We could all use an upgrade.

I got a new cellphone. I was due for an upgrade. My old phone was old, something to be expected from an old phone. The new one was the same brand as my old electronic leash, so the learning curve was minimal.

There was a long line of starlings perched on a utility wire as I drove to town. Each bird had positioned itself just far enough from its neighbor to prevent being pecked. One of them, I didn’t know which one, sat in the middle seat, which was probably uncomfortable when they flew. If starlings used cellphones, other birds could peck them regardless of their position.

I sat at the Table of Infinite Knowledge at a small cafe. It’s a perch where men go to chew their cuds. I had tea and crumpets without the crumpets. None of the men were older than the hills, but they were gaining ground. In a dazzling display of humility, I didn’t mention my new phone, the Aggravator 3000.

The table talk was about baseball. If your attention span is working, you’re aware of the historically bad baseball team called the Chicago White Sox. They set a record for futility by losing more games in one year than any team in MLB history. The Mighty Whiteys didn’t excel at playing a kids’ game in a year when some people divided the population into two groups: billionaires and losers.

One loafer at the Table said that the Twins were a bunch of losers and had to work awfully hard to ruin a good season.

“How about the White Sox?” I asked.

“Total losers,” he said. Then he shared stories about his golf game, which had deteriorated from a high point where it had been merely miserable. I told him more swings meant more exercise. I never considered him a total loser or even an entry-level loser. He was a retired elementary school teacher who subbed whenever he had a hankering. He deserved to be paid way more than the shortstop of the Pale Sox. I’d read that the ballplayer made $4,300,000 this year. Most of us could get by on that.

The guys around the Table believed that if life gives you thistles, you’re obligated to dance barefooted on them. The Table’s consensus was that the price of everything had gone up. The blame was here and there. I attributed it to time because the price of things has been increasing all my life. I’d attended Ona Meyer’s 95th birthday party. I married into a long-lived clan featuring people like this wonderful lady. Ona was born in 1929. That was when the Great Depression started. A loaf of bread cost 8 cents, milk was 26 cents a gallon and gas dinged a wallet to the tune of 21 cents a gallon. Do you know what a cellphone cost in 1929? It sold for exactly zero dollars. Now, the Falcon Supernova iPhone 6 Pink Diamond commands a $48.5 million price tag. A large, flawless pink diamond adorns the device, which features meticulous craftsmanship. For $48.5 million, who would expect less? I hope it comes with a decent protection plan. From $0 to $48.5 million in just 95 years. That’s hyperinflation.

I hustled off to a funeral. I entered the church and a friendly fellow from the funeral home told me I’d missed a button on my shirt. Did I miss a button, a buttonhole or both? I’m tall. I have to stand up in shifts. There are days when buttoning every button is a significant accomplishment. I’m happy to get every button buttoned without losing my balance. I’ve been missing a button or a buttonhole all my life.

I upgraded and buttoned the free-range button. I needed to pay my respects to a friend who had lost his vertical hold.

I’d planned to get in and out quickly, as I was up to my clavicle in work. I had dirt to scratch and eggs to lay. I needed to slop proverbial hogs.

I talked to friends and family at the church. I didn’t hurry to leave. Never hurry to leave a funeral.

I checked my buttons before departing the church.

The buttoned ones were at maximum capacity.

Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday.