“‘Jacked into your deck?’ That’s one-damn-thing-after-another thinking, Grandpa.” Snorting at me, she shakes her head, crossing the street with one thumb flying over the screen in her hand, the earbud near me dangling, bouncing against the strap of her messenger bag.
She’s not a messenger. Doesn’t even ride a bike. But everyone’s got one. And they’re all hooked to the Net 24/7.
Used to say 24/7/365 back in the day, but no one thinks in timescales that long anymore. Or that short. Kids today get millennia in a way we never did. Decades later and they’re walking like Egyptians, carefully placing their feet so as not to disturb the seventh seventh generation on.
My mind flinches at the mashup, but kohl eyes under Iroquois feathers wouldn’t ruffle this year’s class. Mudbloods and mongrels now, not monoculture.
Healthier for it too. In a world that changes this fast, xenophilia is a survival trait. You can see her kind know it too. They glide around the slow-movers, eyes and text flitting away from each stasis-symbol to each other, noting impending obsolescence.
Is she just dumpster-diving me? Eh, probably. And do I mind? No. Might as well get repurposed.