So, last night I went on yet another of Marlin's Midnight GardenTours. 

Marlin is this kid I keep running into on my evening perambulations in the neighborhood.  I'm not exactly a night owl, but most evenings of late have been so magical, I find myself out on the stoop enjoying them into the wee hours.

Marlin describes himself as "a little bit French, a little bit African, and a little bit Native American*."  His peerless cocoa skin is perfectly complemented by his hazelly-green eyes.  Built like a brick shit-house, lean, rippled — "pantherlike" pops to mind — but it's definitely the eyes that have it.  I haven't been this taken by a set of peepers since I don't know when. 

Marlin's give his slightly animal features a devilish cast as he prowls the Fenway on his bicycle.  We first met (remember the "handshake of the nineties"?) at the beginning of the summer one fine twilight, and have been carrying on whenever we happen to run into each other in the 'hood.  We exchanged numbers several times but planning our liaisons seemed to drain the charge from them.  Much better to leave it up to the stars, who obviously know what they're doing. 

It seemed obvious to me, at least.  I mean, who wants to spend endless hours texting back and forth trying to arrange a meeting for sometime you don't know if you'll even be in the mood for it or not?  And then you have to spend endless hours texting back and forth disingenuously rescheduling.

Marlin and I didn't do a whole lot of talking, and that was part of the charm.  I have plenty of people to talk to.  Talking is all most people are good for.  So when you find yourself a Marlin, why waste your breath nattering on about God knows what?  A mouth like that — those generous lips, that take-charge tongue — is not made for talking. 

Nor are those animal hands — that can read the flesh like a book — made for texting, pecking those tiny buttons like a pigeon on breadcrumbs, but a couple of weeks ago the texts started coming. 

I was a little surprised, I have to admit.  And, frankly, chagrined.  And not least because I have an ancient Star Trek-era flip-phone it takes me ten minutes to type in a tiny text on.  It's also, like, twenty cents a text!  And folks with unlimited texting lo-o-o-o-ove to text and text and text.  They can do it all day.  And then when you stop answering, you get one of these "???" texts.  It's still twenty cents, bitches.  I have to pay for that.

The first time we hooked up we exchanged numbers and he sent me a picture of himself to my phone afterward.  I didn't even know you could do such a thing with a phone.  I sure as hell can't with mine.  And if I could, Lord only knows how much that would cost me.  You better make it a money shot. 

So then he texts to ask if I got his pic.  I'm like, whuhh?  He's like, dude, you need to go to Metro PCS, and started quoted me service plans.  I'm thinking: does he work for them, or what?**

It wouldn't be a bad "guerrilla marketing" scheme, come to think of it.  "Metro PCS: Hook up and... hook up."

Anyway, it's been gnawing at me ever since.  Especially since my Virgin plan is not any cheaper than Metro PCS's cheapest plan when you factor in the constant top-ups for the texts. 

So my question for Friends of the Blog is "where you at?" with your cell phone plan?  And what do you recommend for a cheap old bastard who needs a serious upgrade if he's gonna be hooking up with text-crazy twentysomethings?
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*You know that type that has his lineage down to 1/18th Chippewa — I always thought it was funny and a little poignant.  I used to work with a crusty Irish broad who never failed to mention the fraction of "indian blood" she was convinced she had in her.  She may or may not, for all I know, but again, I find it somehow poignant that she cleaves to that bit of tragic nobility we associate with "indian blood".

**And no, I don't either — this is not a paid advertisement, I swear.