The smart phone is the cigarette of today’s generation. Always in hand, occupying a nervous moment, allowing us to escape the inevitable chatter of friends. I can think to times spent sitting in a bar with two of my closest female friends, each clasping a drink with the left hand, clicking through online landscapes with the right; content to remain silent, devoid of eye contact, sipping beer. I could bother to lift my chin and ask each to describe their day, find out why their boyfriends ditched their asses and left them with me—but I already know. Cynthia had some array of twitter updates rolling in through the hours of 1 and 4pm, and Rachel was emailing me on and off for the remainder of the day. No, we’d rather sit in silence and reach out to everyone else we’ve ever known. This is the essence of life today. Lived in and around the physical domain; experienced through the ends of our fingers on phones. Where the cigarette once occupied the void, pulling the person from their crowd with each inhale, now sits the harassment of data in the air. It’s the great irony of the social networking age, that as we become ever more connected, we become less physically present.
It’s interesting to consider the changed place of cigarettes within society. Once the bastion of social interaction, where the fuse centered on the man with the packet, or the girl with the light. Today they’ve become a social stigma, and an ill-considered attribute to any person. I remember my dad being a big smoker, and I can’t really think to a childhood photo that doesn’t have him shirtless with a fag draped from his lips. He’d smile, snap, converse, and cater to dinner; all the while that shifty white stick remained still, firmly planted. He’d have smoking friends too, these pals that would come over for dinner. At some point he’d whip out a box of Camels and light up, the packet passed hurriedly around the table, each man gruffly exclaiming, “Ah Brendan! You’re a gentleman and a scholar you are!” There’d be little talk once the light hit the tip. Silent reflection, and these passive faces that sat back in satisfaction as the smoke sucked in. Then at some point, years later, the teacher with a socialist agenda had the kids raise their hands in class, “If daddy’s been smoking around you, let me know!” Two months down and daddy’s sitting outside during smoking time, puffing away defiantly behind the glass doors—throwing his kids that knowing glare. But mom’s in on it too, pregnant for the fourth time, and reading articles about the dangers of second-hand smoke. Tells the dad this won’t do, “Not near our kids, not outside, not anywhere on this land. You’ve got to quit.” So dad finds himself in a bar, puffing away with society’s driftwood, making friends through shared misery and cold beer. This ain’t so bad, he thinks to himself. But the hand of political intervention slaps it from his mouth, tells him to step outside and exhale, “but not within fifteen feet of the premises, dear sir.” Dad’s upset, thinks his time might finally be up; he’s ready for the patch, or whatever fad the television slaps on. But what’s this? Attractive women, short skirts, and a social phenomenon the newspapers call, “smirting?” Flirting outside of bars while you smoke—“Ingenious”, he roars!
Luckily for my dad, today’s smokers weren’t pushed beyond the pavement. They remain outside, though a little more shifty in appearance, with social pressures having picked off the finest from their litter. For most of us however, the cigarette is obsolete, and smart phones now occupy that hand. Between breaths they sit stacked on a table in much the same way we’d leave cigarette packs, serving as a simple illustration of character. Back then the simplicity of boy meets girl began with a shared puff, the space between them illuminated with smoke and discovery, en route to flesh-on-flesh. In bars today that dynamic is familiar, but different. Now we have Bob looking at Jill, throwing a knowing glance between her iPhone and eyes, before adding, “I switched last month too. It’s just a better user-experience, isn’t it?” Jill smiles back, happy that Bob noticed her recent change of habit, and thinks this man might be worth a stalk. Pausing, she picks up her new purchase and checks through his profile on Facebook and Twitter. She’s pleased to discover he’s twenty-six and a Pisces, and that he works for a corporate think-tank and quotes Ayn Rand. Flicking through his photos she curls her mouth at the idea of his threatening lips and deep-set eyes, happily noting the lack of alcohol fueled endeavors so often the display of boys her own age. Feeling neglected, Bob pulls out his own phone and searches the internet for dear Jill—smiling as he stumbles across her picture from a party the night prior, happily noting how much better she looks online. Bob thinks he might be in with a solid shot till he stumbles upon her collection of “Summer pictures 2009!” There’s a God awful series with this man, Jimmy Rod; Harvard, MBA, and socialite twat. Good looking too, he reckons. Bob decides to forefit and run.
Where the cigarette made the holder seem aloof, the smart phone serves to sever their inclusion entirely. Leaving them to day-dream by way of status updates and conversation threading; every so often returning to the present to pull down some snapshot or textual treat. Cigarette smoke may have been an unfavourable imposition, but at least the person blowing it in your face would make eye-contact.
