Amish Porn

It’s the last day of August, 4:35 in the afternoon. I step out of the arctic cool of the air-conditioned business park into the blast furnace of the Austin sun. My quirky cabbie has shown up at the appointed hour to drive me back to the airport.

“Did you find your apartment?” I ask, picking up the thread of our last conversation.

He did. We fall silent.

“Are you a football fan?” he asks.

“Not an avid fan,” I reply, “ But I’m from the Bay Area, and it’s always been fun following the 49ers.”

He tells me his son is a big 49er fan, which surprises me because I know, from our last conversation, that his son lives in the local area. I ask about that, and he tells me that the attraction goes all the way back to the golden years of Joe Montana and Jerry Rice. That sends us both skipping down memory lane.

“I can’t believe the summer’s over and it’s fall already,” I muse.

“I know. It just seems to go by faster and faster, doesn’t it?”

“You know what really gets me,” I confide, “When I have to fill out an application on line that asks for date of birth. They often want you to enter the year with a scroll wheel, and I just keep scrolling and scrolling. It’s hard to believe it’s that long ago.”

“It’s amazing isn’t it?” He concurs, “Think of all the change we’ve lived through.”

“I know. I’m sitting here checking my flight on an iPhone, and I still remember what it was like buying my first answering machine. But I guess that’s no more extraordinary than the last generation that went from the horse and buggy to the automobile.”

“I remember when eight track was breakthrough technology,” he adds.

“In fact, I remember how exciting it was when I moved away from home to the city where I met my wife. She had a record player, and because things were a little more liberal down there, her folks didn’t throw it out of the house.”

That catches my attention.

“Are you saying that having a record player was taboo in your family?”

“You bet!” He laughs.

“Sounds like your folks were pretty religious.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” He says deeply surprised. “I thought that when you made that comment about the horse and buggy you knew. We were Amish.”

Turns out he was the youngest of thirteen kids. He has one brother who still lives in the community. All the rest have moved away.

Our conversation is interrupted when he picks up a call on his cell phone. It’s his son. He becomes quite agitated. Dish network had come to install their equipment, and his son had presented them with the flyer they had sent him that promised $199 off the initial setup. The installers refused to honor the deal over some technicality, and charged him $532 dollars. He finishes the call, and tells me that we are almost at the airport.

I yawn, starting to feel the accumulated exhaustion of this relentless schedule of travel and training.

“Sounds like you’ll be catching some shut eye,” he says.

“I sure hope so.”

“Don’t take any Nyquil,” he says laughing.

What I think he just said makes so little sense to me I’m not even sure I heard him correctly.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

He repeats it, and then explains.

“I heard about this girl who took Nyquil on her flight so she could sleep. Knocked her right out. When she wakes up she finds the guy sitting next to her has got his hand her pants.”

“Sounds like that guy’s going to jail the minute he walks off that plane.”

“Oh you bet,” he says emphatically, “that’s sexual harassment plain and simple. Although if you took it, it might not be so bad if you woke and found her hand in your pants.” He chortles.

“I don’t think that would sit very well with my wife.”

“Sorry. I was just joking. Certainly didn’t mean to offend.”

I obviously embarrassed him. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I tell him it’s fine, no offense taken. I wish I could tell him what a gift he’s given me: the perfect end to our little mutual adventure … Amish porn.