The other day, Phin walked into Madfish Willie's and sits down. After a few minutes, he starts dialing on the back of his hand as if it's a telephone. He then flips his hand over and starts talking into his palm. I walked over and tell Phinn "This a tough neighborhood and I doesn't need any trouble from weirdos."
"You don't understand," Phin says. "I'm very high tech. I've had a phone installed in my hand because I was tired of carrying a cell."
"Prove it!"
So Phin dials up a number and presents his hand to me. I talked into the hand and carried on a brief conversation.
"That's incredible," I said. "I would never have believed it!"
"Yeah," says Phin. "I can keep in touch with my broker, my wife, you name it. By the way, where is the men's room?"
I directed him to the men's room. Phin goes in and five, ten, twenty minutes go by. Fearing the worst given the violence in the neighborhood, I went into the men's room. Phinn is spread-eagled against the wall. His pants are pulled down and he has a roll of toilet paper shoved up his butt.
"Oh my god!" says I. "Did the locals rob you? Are you hurt?"
Phin casually turns around and says, "No, I'm OK. I'm just waiting for a fax."