At the Intersection of Crow and Buckthorn

I pushed my foot to the floor locking the wheels of the truck.  Coming to a complete halt the dust that followed me drifted past on the slight breeze of the hot desert air.  There was no traffic so I stepped out and the heat hit me like opening a furnace door.  It was oddly calm.  Nothing stirred, only the wind spoke.   My GPS and the street sign confirmed I was at the intersection of Crow and Buckthorn.  Something was wrong though.
  
I was late and expecting a tongue lashing, but no one was here. I took out my phone and dialed a number from memory.  No answer.  I tried again but was greeted with a no network beep.  I looked at the phone and saw that I had no bars.  I walked in a circle with the phone raised like some demented Olympic torch bearer.  Nothing.

I stood atop the hood of my truck and held my arm up as far as I could reach.  There it was, a bar.  With my free hand I grabbed the blue-tooth from my breast pocket and  stuck it in my ear.   The bar disappeared again.  Dammit.  I moved onto the roof of the cab and held the phone up, adjusted it slightly here and there and then, there it was, the bar again.

I quickly dialed and the phone on the other end rang.

“Hello,” came the voice.

“Hey, Where the hell are you?”  I asked with a little impatience.

“I'm still in the theater, where the hell are you?”

“I'm at the corner of Crow and Buckthorn, where you told me to go.”

“I told you to go get popcorn.”

“Shit!”