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….
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?
