Overheard

When I go to The Whip, I don't even bother to turn off my phone because the village of Springdell tends to be a cell-free zone. (When Tony Young's ill-gotten furniture, prints, shotguns, etc. were auctioned off across the road a few years back, the auction company couldn't take phone bids for that very reason.)
So last night while sitting at the bar, I was surprised to hear my phone's trumpeting ring tone. I reached in my pocket and shut it off because I was in the middle of a riveting (to me, at least) conversation about a friend's upcoming surgery. She was describing the procedure in detail and, at my prompting, even drew me a little sketch of the planned incisions.
Well, it turns out I didn't shut the phone off; I actually answered it. My friend on the other end told me later he listened to about 20 seconds of graphic surgical details before becoming utterly grossed out and hanging up.
(I'm taking that with a grain of salt. When he phoned later that evening, he immediately launched into a tale of his own recent cataract surgery.)