In New York City I have an early-morning appointment with a doctor to whom I have only been once, and realize the night before I don’t remember his exact location. I feel bad at having to wake my wife back home so she can look in my files, and when I do she can provide me only his phone number. Undaunted, I travel to his general neighborhood in the morning, and try the number twice over breakfast, but only get a recorded message. Then, ever resourceful, I think of calling directory information for the address. But I must be sure to spell his name right, so I reach into my wallet, where I know I carry… his business card!

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I like it when H—— isn’t home, because I get to hear the message that says, "Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you guys. Ciao!" which makes me think the obverse would be "Ragazzi. ragazzi, vi preghiamo di lasciare un messaggio, e risponderemo subito. See ya!"

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For a while, the message on our machine started with "Greetings!" until a colleague confided he didn’t like calling me because the previous time a communication had started with "Greetings!" it was from his draft board.(Will someone please translate for those under 35?)

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The train even has a fairly isolated area with a pay phone, but this can’t wait, and the cell phone comes whipping out. Within earshot of some two dozen strangers, the relationship is laid out on the butcher block. The parts printable in a family newspaper veer from "Well, that’s not my problem," to the "don’t you ever’s." Apparently the price of a train ticket includes a tryout to be in the audience of "The Jerry Springer Show." The lavatory is still equipped with a locking door, for privacy in intimate matters.

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Standing room only on the morning train, and I am by an exit with a young man to my left and a young woman opposite me. He features a button nose, trendy but not in-your-face duds, and spiky hair this side of punk still shower-wet. She’s freshly scrubbed and made up, glossy, gum-chewing, emanating indifference. The cell phone comes out immediately. "Hey, it’s me, I’m sorry about last night. Yeah, well I’m on the train trying not to throw up..." I step back as far as I can. Her eyes narrow and her gaze picks up a mountain range even less visible to the rest of us. The phone is back in the pocket, but the narrative continues. "I guess it wasn’t the bar that got me, but after I got home. I don’t usually do this." I see the gum-chewing take on an extra twist, and the mouth start to curve at the edges, and then the grin breaks out, and I’m happy for the men in her life, starting with her father. When the train pulls in, they disappoint me by going their separate ways.

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On the train, in the bus, on the subway, on the cell phone, the women rehearse the daily drama of their grievances. "So he sez... So I’m like, what is this sh—... So, you know, they can’t do that to me... " In their dreams. What’s in their prayers?