Friday, 14 November 2003 | Bandit

David left his cell phone in a cab (he thinks it was a cab) two nights ago. As part of his search for it, he called his own number repeatedly, waiting for someone to answer. Success. When he began to explain that the phone belonged to him, the person on the other end of the line immediately hung up.

He found a list of calls made from his phone since its disappearance; it shows that calls have been made literally non-stop for the last day-and-a-half—every few minutes, for one minute each, to a million different people in the Bronx. The phone's new owner apparently doesn't sleep; I imagine that's part of the reason he knows so many people—without the need for sleep, he has lots of time to socialize. He just threads his way through the city with bloodshot eyes in a shiny, yellow box, making Bronx telephones ring.

David cut him off today, disconnecting the phone. I wonder if this means the man with the phone will finally go to bed.