Phone Tales

I would, in general, consider myself a responsible and organized person. This has nothing to do with the fact that I don’t keep a checkbook and that I’m capable of misplacing something for years in a small studio apartment. And I’m not talking about tiny objects… I’m talking about large books, chairs, children, etc… But that’s neither here nor there and completely undermines my extremely organized collection of Metrocards all with about 5 cents credit on each of them…

But what the hell is up with me losing and/or destroying my phone. Flimsy pockets don’t help, neither does my tendency to place a phone on a counter while looking for cash at a deli or finding out the hard way that neither phones nor hamsters can swim. But four times since January? Oh come on.

And the weird thing is, of all things on my person during a normal trip into the outer world, I lose the phone. Not the non-sharpened pencil that is in my purse for absolutely no reason. Not the plane ticket stub from a trip I took 3 years ago that is still in there solely because of sheer laziness. Not one of the several nouveau-cool lip glosses that I used once and deemed made me look ridiculous. Not even my keys! No, I lose my phone.

Losing a phone, especially in the 21st century can be the be all-end all for some people. I have no internet, home phone, Morse Code device (they got mad when I took it from the Smithsonian), carrier pigeon (damn union wages) or regular (read: legal) access to any Times Square billboard. So when I lose my phone, that’s it. I’m, in a sense, stranded. I don’t know where you are, you don’t know where I am, and worse of all, I don’t know if some punk kid is having a laugh with his yes-we-will-be-robbing-you-in-5-years cronies, messaging my mother telling her that I’m having an affair with some hermaphrodite midget. (it wasn’t an affair, it was a unique, intense and loving relationship between two consenting adults). But seriously. I consider my losing a phone as the 21st century of “Hey, Captain Queeg, I’m still on the bloody island! Wait, come back! Ahh f***”. It’s kinda weird and yet sad in a way, not to mention scary that my life line, sense of self and every essence of being is a 4 inch piece of metal with pretty light-up buttons that tells the time and makes beepy noises.

Hey I hate technology for the most part. Mostly because I don’t understand any of it and can’t afford most of it. While I do think those laser discs got what was coming to ’em, I still do prefer VHS to DVD any day. (and don’t give me the whole “DVDs are better because you don’t have to sit there and wait for it to fast forward to a certain part..” If you have time to sit and watch a friggin movie, you have time to wait for one to fast forward, ok Rockefeller? Don’t act like your time is so precious that you can fit watching ‘Dude Where‘s My Car’ around your Harvard lecture on astrophysics but an extra 30 seconds of a VHS tape fast forwarding is a blight on and a disgrace to the scientific and ecological future of our fine nation). Good lord. Deal with it, flip through the TV guide and finish off those Mallomars, ya dumbass. Waiting builds character.

I mean I’d love it if phone calls were still to consist of “Hey June, it’s Mabel. Murray Hill 65000 please.” Or maybe not even that complicated, considering I like to limit my daily human interaction. Smoke signals were good shit, let’s go back to that. I’d be more than willing, but Curtis, my friendly, mostly-absentee doorman says there’s no access to the roof for tenants. Oh and that pesky NYC smog problem would probably cause a lot of confusion… “Oh, so you are climbing that tower in a clown suit and a sawed-off shot gun… I thought you were asking me to pick up the dry cleaning.. My bad.”

So anyway, after retracing my steps and tearing my poor apartment apart, I realize that, well, I need a new phone. Luckily my past phone adventures have led me to a relatively local ATT store where friendly “oh no here comes Sarah again” sales agents are ready to assist me following their strange habitual dash towards the back exit as me and my hurricane halo approach the vicinity... The slowest one always loses…. Interval training is the best, Maude, step it up.

So of course first I want to find a pay phone and call certain people to notify them of any possible shenanigans and/or that I wasn’t ignoring them. My lord, I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how to work a pay phone. I’m relatively intelligent. I’ve mastered the fine art of shoe tying, elevator button-pushing (although not always the right floor… baby steps) and basic microwave operations (it‘s on fire because it‘s ready!). I don’t know what they consider to be local or long distance here because there’s about 300 area codes used in the NYC area. I try putting the quarter in first, dialing first, pressing one, pressing 0, putting the quarter in last etc. And I just keep getting my quarter back. From no less than 4 phones. All of which upon I unleash a string of expletives my parents don’t think I know. I do know, however, that I thoroughly entertained some subway employees… So forget that idea, let’s just get to the store. I take the subway to the required stop and at this point encounter the slowest human beings known to man. I’m not a rude person, or if I am things are always said in my head. But I was whispering, quite audibly “oh come on move it hurry up I gotta get there yeah move slower that works.” Looking back I realize it wasn’t the smartest idea considering the number of neck tattoos that one guy had….

So I enter the store, frazzled, hair unkempt, wild eyed- not so different from the rabid raccoon that went through your garbage last week. I plop myself on the poor lady’s counter. “Fdstlsmksdnfiosifhduaishgfg!!!” I exclaim. What I’m actually saying is this: “Good afternoon, I’ve lost my phone, ma’am. Could you please assist me in finding a quality and prompt replacement. I would be most appreciative and would afterwards love to treat you to a coffee and pay for your children’s college.” It doesn’t really come out that way however. They’re specially trained in gibberish at these ATT stores though, as well as general Neanderthal-like sign language that consists of me gasping for air and presenting empty hands, much like a begger turns out his pockets. I should’ve brought my handkerchief sack on a stick but in the rush to get there it totally slipped my mind.

So nice lady presents me with a new phone while kindly and politely nodding at my incoherent rambling which at this point is “Hghdfgisdfnsdlfops” meaning “Quite disturbing these pesky phone tribulations. Perchance did you happen to catch the latest figure skating results? Oh and I just must tell you about the latest article I read on plutonium. I like unicorns.”

So I don’t panic easily. I panic when really serious things happen. Like when I forget to drop my Netflix in the mail… Or when I discover that yes, I ate those eggs and yes I know I bought them on the way home from work… but now I’m realizing that I don’t remember which job… But losing a phone, man, it’s something else. Regardless, I need to find a better way of transporting “Mr. Phone 6, The Dilemma Revisited”. I am quite close to having it just transplanted into my hip or something. I am more than amenable to taking yoga classes in order to actually being able to conduct a phone call in that situation….

And naturally, after crisis semi-averted-using-this-new-fangled-thing-called-money, I take the train in the wrong direction home. Now I do this quite often. I don’t pay attention, I see stairs and a big moving silvery car thing at the bottom and I think “Oh Boy!” So I hop on and realize that yes I’m going in the wrong direction and no, I don’t know where this train is taking me. Anything could happen…. “Next Stop, Space Mountain!” Hell if I know.

Ha, on a separate note, when thinking about a writing sample to send for my application to the SUNY Stonybrook PhD program, I briefly thought about my blog…. Then I realized that with that, they’d either accept me with flying colors and make me their leader, or pack their shit up and move the school to Bhutan. Hey I’ll find you, ho… I got lots of frequent flyer miles.

So Sarah and her sorry ass and her brand new phone are home, resting and realizing that it’s only 3 in the afternoon and more than enough time for another crisis or adventure. I think I will hide under my covers. With my phone. And, perhaps, my sanity.

Oh and a cop yelled at me for being mean to the subway turnstile. Suck it bitches. I lost my phone. Where’s the love.