Like an old-time gun slinger, he entered the Starbuck's coffee house that I frequently patronize, and like about half the other patrons was talking (or perhaps in this instance, smooching) on a cell phone.

Actually, he had three cell phones, and on one was engaged in what sounded to me like a lovey-dovey conversation with whom I took to be his sweetie. I mean a man doesn't talk to his wife like that so what other conclusion could be drawn.

Frequently I see people with two cell phones, but never with three which aroused my busy-body curiosity.
“Sir,” I said, approaching his table when he sat down with a Frappuccino and still speaking and gushing and baby-talking on that particular phone.

He looked up and waved me off, and then interrupting the cell phone conversation told me impatiently to wait until he finished talking.

When he eventually rang off this conversation with what sounded like a smackeroo, and mentioned for me to approach the table, but before I got to him one of the cell phones on his belt rang and again I was waved off. This conversation was much more businesslike, I mean like he was continually saying, “Yes sir” and “I understand,” “Sir, that's the next thing on my list” and “I'll do my best sir and you can be certain of that.”

He then motioned me to his table again.

“What was it you wanted?” he asked.

“Well, I – I don't mean to bother you sir, and I realize it's none of my business, but you're the first person I've ever seen carrying three cell phones and I'm just wondering why.”

He studied me for a moment before asking: “You aren't a private investigator or anything like that?”

“No, just curious,” I assured him. “I spent my adult life in the newspaper business as a reporter and columnist and it bred a lot of curiosity.”

“You're not going to write about it for some paper, are you?”

“Oh, no,” I assured him, “I've been retired since 1989. I don't even have any connections in the business anymore. In fact, many of the people I worked with have passed on. Anyhow, no editor would be interested in this kind of a story.”

“I suppose not,” he agreed, “so why not. The telephone on the right side of my belt, the one I was talking on, is strictly for business. The one on the left side of my belt is more or less a family phone. There, does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Well, not really,” I told him. “What is the phone for that you were speaking on and laughing and baby-talking when you came in?”

He blushed as he ran my question through his mind as if uncertain he was going to answer. But then a glow appeared in his eyes and he smiled, but I knew immediately he was not smiling at me, and assumed it was to the sweetie on his mind.

“That phone, inquisitive old man,” he said, “is absolutely private and none of your business.”

“If you'll excuse me,” I replied, “you seemed to be gushing over it when you spoke.”

“I told you that's a private line. Not even my wife knows I have it and she'd either crown me one across the head or divorce me if she did.”

“How do you keep it secret? I mean you get a bill from the phone company every month don't you?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “but it goes to the post office box my wife also doesn't know I have.”

Well, I had a few more questions, but suddenly all three of his phones rang at the same time and I went back to my table and watched him stammer and sweat as he lamely attempted to answer one after the other before suddenly bolting from the doorway, ran to his car and beat his head on the steering wheel.

I'll never know for sure, but I think his number was up.

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