The man at the airport was just like everyone else. He kept his eyes down and on his iPhone. Or maybe he had a Samsung. He read, he texted, he interacted with the phone. All around him were people likewise fixated on their various devices. Some nodded in time to silent music or held murmured conversations with invisible colleagues. Occasionally, they glanced up, only to transfer their attention to an electronic device at some remove—an arrival notice, a gate number, or one of the ubiquitous wide-screens delivering an endless stream of infotainment.
Okay, it’s the airport. Not much to see. On the other hand, nothing alarms me as much as 
being in a crowd of indiscriminately inattentive people. What aren’t they seeing? What might they miss? What if something happens? I feel even worse about people who walk, run, bike, take out the dog, ride or, god forbid, drive with their heads down.
I get the appeal of a smart device. Timely information and instant connection in the palm of your hand. Directions and photos and messages and news. Yes, but also a false sense of control and an opportunity to disengage from the here and now.
We may avoid the ugly and stressful. We may also miss the unusual or the beautiful.
On board my flight, I found myself next to the same man. He offered a polite smile; then bent urgently over his phone, as if to squeeze in every last bit of data possible before the jet doors closed. As soon as we reached cruising altitude, my seat companion signed onto the Internet.
I’m not going to lie; I read from my tablet during the flight. But I didn’t bother to connect. What was going to happen while I was in the air and what was I going to do about it anyway? Occasionally I glanced out the window. It was a beautiful day for flying.
When the wheels hit the ground, I quickly turned on my cell phone, as did everyone else on the plane, scanning for important updates. Force of habit, I told myself, although in truth the habit is less than two decades old and I’ve been flying a lot longer than that. I wasn’t meeting anyone. I just wanted to be “reachable.”
I drove my rental car to the hotel on Key Largo, checked in, and went for a walk along the beach. I took my phone but kept it in my pocket.
At dinner that night, I sat alone with my food, a glass of wine and…my phone. It’s a terrific dinner companion for a single person; you never feel alone or disconnected and you look engaged, maybe even important. On the other hand, vacation is about getting away from the routine and into something new. Look up, I reminded myself.
The dining area was somewhat open-air, with floor to ceiling windows affording an ocean view. The smell of salt and jasmine mixed with the menu offerings. The balmy air felt like velvet.
At the next table, I noticed a group of middle-aged people saying grace. Quaint, I thought, but kind of sweet. No, wait; they each had phones and they were wrapped up in various efforts to reach out to someone or something that wasn’t at the table. Occasionally one of them tossed out a comment and there was a burst of conversation. Even then, no one made eye contact. It occurred to me that a group of strangers could sit down at their table and they might not even notice.
The next morning, I awoke before dawn and logged onto my tablet. After an hour, I pulled myself out of a digitally-induced torpor. Get out, I ordered myself. I took my phone but kept it in my pocket. Who needed to reach me? Who did I need to contact? What was the meaning of the word “relax” in our wired/wireless world anyway? And how was I going to get rid of the crick in my neck unless I lifted my head?
The tiny beach glistened in the early morning sun. I looked across the gulf and saw only water—no towers, cranes, cruise ships or high-rise buildings. A few people wandered about, including, to my surprise, my seat buddy from the flight down. He’d obviously reunited with his family—two small children, a boy and a girl and an attractive woman I took to be his wife.
Yet he remained tethered to his phone, perched on the edge of his chair, squinting at the small screen. A flock of pelicans swooped low to the water, delighting the little girl. “Daddy, daddy,” she cried to her multi-tasking father, “Look at the birds!” He waved, but never took his eyes off the phone.
I didn’t need to be told twice, however. I looked up. Watching the birds, warmed by the sun, I stretched my neck and eased into my surroundings.
I thought about my protagonist as I recently tuned into yet another show about what lies beyond. Television writers and producers appear fond of the idea that we can reach out to, talk with or even resurrect the dead. Every show features a skeptic (always a person of science), a believer (usually associated with a classic religion like Catholicism), a child (because they are more open to what is inexplicable—or maybe more easily manipulated) and some new age person who assures the ones who are grieving that their beloved is “happy.” Honestly, though, the focus isn’t about the comfort of the departed souls but about comforting the survivors. Once we let go of the idea the deceased might be suffering in some unspeakable place or wandering aimlessly about, the needs of those puzzling over life and death become paramount. They’re the ones left behind to hurt and also to fret about what happens next. The departed presumably already know.
