The cold night air nips at my face as I wait for my mom to pick me up from a coffee date with a friend in the city. I look around me and let the liveliness of the city become a part of me. Unfamiliar faces pass - some passive, some smiling. The bold taste of coffee lingers on my tongue. Looking off into the distance, I notice the romantic lighting of the city, which is just bright enough to watch one's step, but dim enough to cast a soft, simple glow. I tune into the soft purr of vehicles and the occasional honk of impatient drivers. My eyes eventually land on a battered and seriously outdated payphone a few feet from the coffee shop. I thought those were extinct. I get pulled out of the flow of the city by the incessant ring of the payphone. Ignoring the sound, I try to fall back into my appreciation of the city, but I can't help but to be drawn to the mysterious ringing. I decide that I have to pick it up. I mean, what do I have to lose?
"Hello?" I say.
"Hello there," says a man with a ridiculously thick accent.
... Silence on both parts ...
"Well, you called," I say. "Are you calling for someone at the coffee shop, or something?"
"Oh, yes!" strange man says whist clearing his throat. He continues on hesitantly, "Madame, what century dost thou liveth?"
"Um..." What the heck? Of course, this is probably just some stupid guy trying to play a prank.
"Bro," I say as I try to think of a smart remark. Instead I say, "The 21st century," trying to play along to appease him.
"Oh my! Tell me, maiden... Dost thou know of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?"
"Mozart? I thought everyone's heard of Mozart. You like his music, or something?" I ask, surprised at the random direction the conversation is going.
"Like his music? Maiden, I am the Mozart."
What the fudge? Yeah. Right. Although I obviously don't believe this guy, I entertain him for my entertainment.
"No way! As in the Mozart?!"
"Yea, Madame. So, um... Is my music still popular and widely known?" he asks unsuredly.
"Um... well you're definitely famous in the classical music realm, but we don't really listen to your music. But, don't worry! I'm pretty sure my grandma still listens to you!"
"Oh, well ok. Thank you for your time. Bye," he says both disappointedly and hurriedly.
"Wait!" I say. "You see, Mr. Mozart, music has drastically changed since your time. I mean... Now we have computers making soundtracks, not actual instruments - "
"Computers?" he asks without letting me finishing. "I do not follow what you are saying."
"It's a long story. How do I phrase this... In the 21st century, popular music isn't made by the instruments that you're used to, like the piano, violin, and harp. Music is now made by man-made electric concoctions that don't even sound natural. It's a bit hard to explain how music sounds and how it's made. All I can say is that music is not the same, Mozart."
"How dreadful. How utterly dreadful," says Mozart. "Tis a disgrace and mockery of my profession."
"I agree, sir. In fact... You're not going to believe this. The popular singers of the 21st century are auto-tuned, meaning if a singer makes a vocal mistake, it can be covered up without a problem. So now, anyone, even the worst singer on planet earth, could sing, sound decent, and make money. What do you think of that?"
"I believe that degrades the artistry of music. True artmanship takes time, effort, and mastery, not mere cover-ups and quick fixes, which in reality is no art at all. What type of society do you live in?" Mozart asks incredulously. "Your short-cut taking world of music, I believe, is indicative of the character of your society."
Wow. Mozart's making me think.
"Yes, sir," I say, not knowing what to add to this random, strange, yet entertaining conversation.
With that, our phone call literally dies... Figures.
I look around and notice my mom in her white van waiting impatiently. Even my mom is succumbing to this impatient society, which demands instant results and gratification. I drop the payphone, which is now sweaty from my grip. My feet pound the pavement as I sprint to the car for warmth and reality.