The Worst Thing That Can Happen

Well, it’s not, of course. I mean, come on—I should know a thing or two about proportions. What have I lost in the last two years? My mother, my job, my mind.

Why do I think losing my cell phone is the worst tragedy?

Well it was there, and then it wasn’t. Happened two weeks ago, and I took desperate measures immediately.

Cleaned the house!

All right, just picked it up—there’s still dust everywhere. But that, sadly, was no help at all.

It’s not there.

Or rather, it’s not here. 

So maybe it was there. Internet café? Grocery store? Radio Shack, where I had gone to get new headphones? (Yeah, for a day I was without communication AND music!)

It’s neither here nor there.

Or rather, it’s not neither nor there. 

“I’d rather lose my wallet,” I said almost in tears to the kid at the café.

“Oh, I know,” he breathed. Short of cancer or AIDS, this plight evokes the maximum in hushed commiseration….

It’s not the phone—it’s the contact list.

For the phone, you see, is really nothing. It played a tune, I flipped it open, and somebody was there. Alternatively, I flipped it open, pressed contacts, keyed “R” and instantly came up with Raf.

Little beeping noises….

“Hey, waddya want for dinner?”

“I dunno, you decide.”

“Right, see you at six…”

And that was it.

So why do I miss it so much?

Because I don’t know Raf’s number. 

It’s actually a serious problem. Johnny told me the story of a friend who had her cell phone stolen. She was stuck, she needed to call someone, she needed money. People offered to lend her their phones but…

…whom to call? What number?

She finally recalled one number from her pre-cell phone days.

An ex-boyfriend.

Fortunately, they parted on good terms, or at least time had healed the wounds.

Fitting also that Johnny had told me the story, since he also got me into this mess. It drove him nuts, my refusal to join the rest of the world and get a cell phone. In utter exasperation at his Luddite brother, he dove into his closet and produced a cell phone. I offered to pay for it, he told me forget it. It was a family package, and his family is more nuclear than most.

Hey, a free cell phone!

Came in handy, too. I got to call Franny every morning and, at the end, most afternoons. I stuck in numbers into a contact list.

I once even texted!

Well, there it was—this little device that was such a dream when it was there, and such a nightmare when it went its separate way.

Well, I thought I was equal to this challenge. Google! So I typed in “where’s my cell phone?” And yes, you’ve got it….

wheresmycellphone.com

Well, why not? I tried it. Entered my number, then pressed the “make it ring!” button. Then went scurrying around my house, hoping to hear that familiar song.

And the only time that silence was not welcome?

Right. It’s gone. I’ll have to get a new one. I’m age 55, not poor, not rich. It’s time to join the rest of the world.

Oh, by the way—what’s your number?