The With-It Police had hauled me in for questioning again, on suspicion of being criminally behind the times.
"We've had our eye on you a long time, buster," they snarled. "For years now, you have blatantly failed to get yourself a Facebook page."
It was true. I had kept avoiding Facebook, for fear it would show me how few friends I really had.
"And that's just the beginning," they continued. Grimly, they read off my rap sheet: No Twitter account. Not signed with Skype. Not linked to LinkedIn. Minus Google Plus. Hadn't given Tumblr a tumble.
Also true. I admitted to them that I have never emitted a tweet. Unless, I said, I had chili for dinner the night before. They didn't smile.
"What kind of American is he?" one cop asked the other.
"You won't believe this," the other replied, "but our informants on the street tell us he doesn't even send text messages."
I tried to defend myself. I did my duty as a 21st century citizen, I said, by spending hours each week staring at a computer screen. But under intense grilling, I confessed that much of it was spent looking for old Sydney Greenstreet movies to add to my Netflix queue.
"And how," they asked in an insinuating tone, "do you get these movies?"
In the mail, I said. You know, you get the DVDs in those red Netflix envelopes …
"DVDs!" They rolled their eyes. "He still uses the Postal Service!"
But, I added hastily, I write a lot of emails on my computer.
What? I thought Hulu was a Hawaiian dance and TiVo was one of the Jackson 5.
They had me dead to rights. My life is absent of apps. The only hand-held device I own that starts with an "i" is an ice cube tray. The last Droid I knew anything about was R2-D2. I am a filler of manila file folders in the age of The Cloud.
Oh, I had thought from time to time about putting my data in The Cloud, but every time it just started me humming Gershwin's "Kickin' the Clouds Away," and the feeling passed.
I asked to call my lawyer, and I pulled out my cell phone. If I thought the appearance of cellular technology would mollify them, I was wrong.
"What is that puny thing?" they sneered. "Doesn't look like a smart phone."
No, it was not a smart phone. It was a dumb phone. Except I don't like to call it that, it sounds so insensitive. Is there a p.c. way to describe it? An intellectually disadvantaged phone? A not-enrolled-in-the-gifted-and-talented-program phone?
I make phone calls with it just fine, I protested. They responded as if I had said I owned a fork with which I could only eat lima beans. I was afraid they would get a search warrant and check my home for unacceptably obsolete technology, and discover I still owned not just land-line phones, but an old (gasp) rotary-dial one!