Payphone by Maroon 5.

When I hear this song, mostly when I see other people post it, I laugh. I’ll admit it.

I fucking laugh.

Because I wonder when the last time they used a payphone was. If they even know how hard it is to look for one, to go up and down corridors of old buildings hoping that they hadn’t ripped them off already due to obsolescence. To ask people if they knew and have them laugh at your face. If they know how it feels to fidget through your pockets, your purse for any spare change that aren’t pennies. When in the middle of one of the most intense conversations of your life the automatic message of “please insert twenty-five cents for one more minute” dooms you to thirty seconds of saying whatever the hell you need to say before you get kicked off. How it feels to just stand or sit there at the payphone booth, looking at a clock trying to beat that message to the punch. Hoping that your last three nickels can buy you those last few seconds to say three more words but all they do is drop down to the coin return.

More importantly how it feels to actually push buttons on a wall correlating to the ten digits that would connect you to me instead of a picture of your face and a name on a screen.

In a world of cellphones and Facebook and Twitter, this could all be so easy. But I wasn’t in this world anymore. The real world isn’t easy. But there I was, no change, just cash. Two singles and a five and a twenty. An arcade upstairs that won’t take dollar bills.

Forget lunch.

I came out with one hundred quarters and used every single one of them on you.