Richard Reiss

My wife, Paula, looks down at her phone. I do the same. She laughs. I cringe. We’re looking at different things. We’re definitely not talking. Dozens of people walk in and out of the restaurant, their plates stacked high from the breakfast buffet. We sip our orange juice and, when not looking at our phones, watch the palm trees bend with the wind. The Sea of Cortez, where 10 years ago I reeled in a 400-pound marlin, is shimmering from the shoreline to the horizon, an enormous blue diamond between mainland Mexico and Cabo San Lucas, where we have gone to escape the long Berkshire County winter.

At time of writing, it’s two days into our vacation and three days into America’s latest war. We try not to think about where we might be safer. Mexico has its cartels; we have our president. Violence seems as ubiquitous as cellphones which, whenever we’re not talking, is where we’re looking. There’s a lot to worry about, but not the lamp chops that have been cooked to perfection: brown on the outside and pink on the inside. I dip one into the mint chimichurri. A full moon, blood-red from the lunar eclipse, reflects off the sea. There’s a war going on? Right. My phone reminds me.

I worry that we’re running out of things to say. If that’s the case, then perhaps the phone is a blessing. It’s a good distraction from our inability to hold each other’s attention. Paula gets a text message. It’s our son. He had a job interview, and it went well. I get a text, too. It’s another son. He’s back from the dentist; but there’s more work to be done. The third son rarely texts or calls. How come? We put down our phones and begin to talk to each other. He should call more often.

Feeling lonely, I extend my hand across the dinner table and say, “Hello, my name is Rick.”

She smiles the same smile that drew me to her 45 years ago, and says, “Hello, my name is Paula. It’s nice to meet you.”

I look into her brown eyes. “You’re very pretty,” I say.

She feigns blushing and without missing a beat says, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Things are picking up.

The next day, we decide to take an Uber to a nearby arts district to check out the galleries. Art is our thing. Come to our house and I’ll prove it. We have too much.

We’re 10 minutes into a 40-minute drive when I realize my wallet is missing. I try not to panic because I know I had it with me before we entered the Uber. At least, I have my phone. The driver brings us back to our hotel. I rush to my room where my wallet is nowhere to be found. I’m about to leave the room when the phone rings. It’s not the phone in my pocket, but the one on the nightstand beside the bed.

I pick it up and a woman’s voice says, “Is this Mr. Reiss?”

My father, Mr. Reiss, is long deceased, but nonetheless I answer in the affirmative.

The voice continues: “Are you missing something?”

It’s an easy question. “Yes,” I blurt out.

“Then I think I have what you’re missing.”

Rush hour and construction turns our 40-minute ride into an hour and a half. But we’re happy and we’re talking. We’re on vacation, and my wallet — including my driver’s license, four credit cards, Medicare card and $162 in cash — rests securely in my pants pocket.

The San Jose del Cabo Art District exceeds our expectations. The contemporary art is right up our alley. We wander through the galleries and street art, trying to remember what we like. Eventually, we narrow it down to three pieces: a small sculpture and two paintings. One painting, we decide, is overpriced. And although I love the sculpture, Paula does not. The winner is the other painting, a Harlequin in funky sneakers. Where will we put it?