He is in the cereal aisle, holding his phone flat in front of his face like a waiter presenting a dish, and he is having a conversation at full volume. Not a private conversation that got loud — a public performance. We are all on this call now. The call includes a woman named Deb, and Deb is also on speaker, and Deb has opinions about the HOA.
The speakerphone zombie is a marvel of modern etiquette collapse. The phone has an earpiece. It has had one since before phones were smart. You can also buy headphones, wired, wireless, shaped like beans. Every path to privacy exists. And yet here we are, listening to both halves of a conversation nobody ordered, in a store, a waiting room, a bus, a restaurant where people are trying to have their own one-sided experiences.
The video call variant deserves its own wing in the museum. Now grandma is on the screen, being carried through a grocery store at tray height, seeing ceilings and strangers, while her grandson shouts product questions at her across three aisles. Grandma deserves better. Grandma deserves a chair and a normal phone call.
What fascinates me is the volume math. A private call can be quiet because the phone is against your ear. A speakerphone call must compete with the entire world, so the zombie shouts, the person on the other end shouts, and the rest of us get a surround-sound documentary about a car repair estimate.
And do not get me started on the public video watcher, sibling species. Same aisle, no headphones, phone playing a video at full brightness and full volume — sound effects, laugh track, dramatic stings — while the rest of us are just trying to buy oats in peace.
Here is the rule, and it is not complicated: if both sides of your conversation can be heard by people who did not consent to be in it, you are not on a phone call. You are doing street theater, and the reviews are in.
Put it to your ear. Use the little speaker it came with — the one by your face. That sucks less for everyone.