It's a slow day. Fitz comes over and has lunch, and Fran has time to sit with him for a minute. They agree to walk home together; maybe they'll take the long way and see what ships are in. They might stop for a fish dinner at the docks, even.
"How are you feeling?" Fitz asked carefully.
Fran is startled. "Why are you asking that?"
"Well, darlin'," Fitz says, "you have that look."
"Oh," says Fran. "Oh, well. I'll just be careful.
And it's time for both of them to get back to work. Fitz goes off with a smile; he gives her a thumb's up at the door, which she returns.
And then Fran goes to inventory the cold stuff.
*************************
When she comes out of the cooler, there is a twitchy girl at the counter, maybe 14 years old, shifting, pulling at her hair. Fran goes over, smiling, and takes the girl's order: a salad and a fancy coffee drink.
While Fran fixes the simple meal, the girl rummages in a big cloth bag. She pulls out a sketch pad, produces a pencil, and begins to draw.
Fran puts the drink on a napkin just far enough away from the girl's sketchpad—we don't want any tragic art spills, she thinks,--and turns to make the salad. By the time she brings it over, the girl has calmed, engrossed in her drawing.
Fran looks at her work, and she's startled. There's a regal woman in an intricate gown on the page. The anatomy is just a little awkward: one arm bends like no healthy arm should quite bend, and the facial symmetry is a little off. But the sketch is striking. This girl has talent.
"Wow," says Fran. "That's amazing, honey."
The girl looks up and flushes.
"It's just a hobby," she says. "I don't really have time for this. It won't help me get into a good school."
And then here comes the mother,
Prow first, a ship's masthead, bustling forward in a suit that's a little too tight…and wearing a smile that is a little too tight, too.
"Salad," she says. "Good girl." She waves a hand at Fran. "I'll have one, too."
Then she notices the coffee drink and scowls.
"Just WATER for me," she says, and her daughter flushes.
Fran makes the salad while Masthead tells her daughter she has met with Ida. Ida thinks they can start the tutoring as early as next week.
When Fran brings the mama's salad, the girl has started twitching again. The Masthead is talking about the importance of the ACT while she tap tap taps on her phone.
She picks up her fork absently, and says to Fran, "We think she can get into Brown if she doubles down."
"Well," says Fran, "all the best." She notices that the sketchpad has disappeared into the girl's soft cloth bag, and the girl, too, is now on her phone.
**************************
There's a family of three—well, Fran assumes it's a family; father, mother, adult son---at the other end of the counter, menus spread in front of them. Fran takes their orders for grilled sandwiches and fries. By the time she brings their drinks, the older couple have their phones out; the young man has produced an IPad.
All are deep into their screens.
Fran fixes their plates, and, all the while, they say nothing to each other. They thank her absently when she delivers their food, and she pivots to smile at an older woman who has plumped herself down at the middle of the counter.
"My daughter's COMING," she says, heaving a heavy sigh. She orders an iced tea and pulls out a fancy new phone.
"I can get on the INTERNET with this," she tells Fran, "but my daughter needs to show me how." The woman puts the phone down flat on the counter and starts pushing buttons, muttering to herself.
While Fran pours the iced tea, the daughter arrives. They order, and then they tug and pull at the new phone, grabbing it and handing it back, as Fran fixes their food. By the time she has their plates ready, the mother has the phone all to herself, and she is tapping away.
The daughter absently picks up half of her sandwich, nods at Fran, and looks at her own phone.
Fran looks at the seven people at the counter. Here they all are, presumably with people they care about, and all of them have their attention on a small screen.
It's not right, she thinks.
She has that feeling, that inevitable feeling.
She turns to stack dirty dishes in the washer.
**********************
When she turns back, Fitz is there.
"Franny," he says. "My god."
She turns around. All seven people have their feet firmly beneath the counter. But something is wrong—very wrong. Their heads have ballooned, and their torsos have floated away from their feet, connected by a long, black, tube-like string.
The heads are bumping against the ceiling of the store…and the store's ceiling is at least 25 feet high.
And the people—they're not even aware. Their devices are in front of their faces, and they are tap, tap, tapping away.
She looks at Fitz.
"If only they'd look at each OTHER," she says, slowly. "They'd at least KNOW."
"Franny," says Fitz.
"I know," she says. "I know, Fitzie. But they should be where their feet are, shouldn't they?
They should be where their feet are."
***************************************
https://www.forbes.com/sites/ruthgotian/2021/06/01/too-distracted-learn-how-to-be-where-your-feet-are/
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