Cell-U-Litis
I’ve always had pretty good service from my cell phones, but that all changed a while ago. It’s no fault of the instruments, so I’m just going to call it a double dose of operator error.
After parking my car in a lot one day a few months back, I unknowingly let my old flip phone slip from my pocket and fall on the pavement. A while later I wanted to use it, but naturally it wasn’t to be found. I thought, well, I’ve left it in the car. Pretty close to right, because I found it on the pavement, only not in its original condition. Someone had inadvertently tun over it. It was still operational, sort of, but the display screen was cracked and would only show about half the desired image. I nursed it along for a week or so, but finally the screen turned entirely black, signaling that it was time to retire my antique phone.
I was not happy with this, because the Old Boy had reliably served my modest needs for many years. I reluctantly put it in my “stuff” drawer, along with other old useless relics that I knew would come in handy someday. And I went shopping for a new phone, blissfully unaware of the prices they want for the glitzy new models. I wasn’t ever going to use most of the features on these things, much less learn how to operate them, so I settled on a basic smart phone that would let me communicate with the outside world without costing a king’s ransom.
Now I’m not big on reading directions, always having been convinced that I am the master of any machine ever made. Translation: I can use the phone and get text messages, but the rest is still a mystery that will probably never be solved. But I can now carry an instrument that fills up any of my back pockets, and I look like I’m stylin’. That was my biggest misconception about modern smart phones. They always look so good in the back pockets of these young babes wearing tight jeans. All I could do was to appear like the nonagenarian that I’ve become, with bulges in all the wrong places. But enough of that for now.
I promptly lost my new phone, how and where I had no idea. After an appropriate period of sulking, I called the manufacturer and ordered a replacement phone. So much for saving money by buying a stripped-down model. But I made the changeover and finally began to use my new phone. After a couple of weeks, my first phone reappeared where I had left it, under a pile of mail that I would never read. Oh well, I’ll just have a backup, I thought, but I’ll probably never need to use it. Right?
Here the story becomes quite personal and more than slightly embarrassing. One morning, after dressing and inhaling my first cup of coffee, I ambled into the bathroom to answer nature’s regular morning call. I slipped my trousers to half-mast and did my impression of a swimmer taking the pre-race “set” position. And then I heard it. – the distinctive “plop” of a cell phone hitting water. Oh please don’t let it be, I begged to no avail. A perfunctory sweep of the floor confirmed that I hard heard the correct sound. So I disconnected my tush from the seat and peered inside. Yep, there she was, appearing to be thrashing around and flailing its skinny little arms, while making a sound something like R2D2 singing Pagliacci. After a final gurgle, it went silent, probably forever. Why had I hesitated for those few seconds before fishing it out of the biffy? Because, in my muddled state of mind, I could not remember if the water inside was pre-poop or post-poop. In the latter case, I would have probably just flushed the entire contents, but peering into the bowl, I could see that the only foreign object in there was the phone. Who knew?
I fished the now-drowned phone out gingerly, using only the tips of two fingers, and did my heroic best to administer artificial resuscitation. That is, I tapped the case against the counter to try to expel and fluid trapped therein. It actually yielded a pretty fair amount, but still showed no signs of life. I decided to let it dry for a time, after which I figured it was safe to turn the thing on without getting fried. It let out one last gurgle before passing on to cell phone heaven.
But then I remembered the spare phone, standing at the ready to save the day and let me believe I had actually done some planning ahead. I called the manufacturer’s service desk, and they talked me through a re-programming of the spare, which is now my main phone. Again. And we’ve lived happily ever after for the past five days. I consigned the drowned phone to the “stuff” drawer, thinking it might be useful after totally dryng out. The next day, of course, the whole “stuff” drawer began to issue forth a vile aroma, which smelled remarkably like stale pee. So much for my dreams of a backup.
What to do, in order to prevent a recurrence of my string of bad luck? I’ve thought about getting some really tight jeans, but then I’d just look like an old man trying to look like a young man. You just can’t iron out all those butt wrinkles. Then I considered getting a nice leather case that would hook to my trousers. Well, those things cost more than the damn phone, so my tightwad instinct has prevailed again. Right now I’m down to jamming the thing in my pocket sideways, and to hell with answering it at all. They’re just for show anyway, right?
George Thatcher
May 2023
George is an American Bad Ass. He grew up in Jersey, flew B-52s in Vietnam, taught English, Spanish and other languages to children around the world, makes his own salsa, has been known to enjoy a beer or two and has called Lubbock home for a few years, just to entertain the locals. Welcome to Raiderland, Major. We are going to feature some of his writings going forward. Some new, some old. Some rhyme, some don’t. When it comes to George, there’s no box. So… enjoy our friend and enjoy his writings! – Hyatt