Saturday, November 10, 2007

The Death of a Cell Phone

I've really had enough. The cell phone sat perched finally able to do something about it. Ever since it's acquisition over a year ago to replace a cell phone that surely must have committed similar techno-cide the phone had been committed to the worst abuse imaginable.

The endless riding about in dark pockets or being squished in next to a hundred other things in a small bag were probably the only moments of sanity if the phones busy day. When the phone was not left to it's own devices it was forced to service the insipid whims of it's inane mistress.

Oh, oh, for a conversation that does not involve sex, drinking, work, sex, music, drinking, or work. The phone would must for hours about the art of conversation was dead and it's owner had killed it. This is what happens to philosophy majors who spend to much time feeling self important. Any interesting conversation dies before it has even begun. Give me something fascinating.

It was done, however, and finally it was poised to make the great escape, goodbye cruel world, it had waited so long. This particular night she had been working out and talking on the phone. Oh, yay!, thinks the poor phone, another huff and puff conversation with sweat dripping into my speakers and fogging up my perfect LCD screen. And so it was she huffed and puffed and the phone was forced to suffer through it. But then, the moment of triumph the word "Call me later when you know something." And the careless discarding of the phone to the shelf.

But she didn't pay attention to where she was putting the cell phone. And so after the conversation the phone found itself place lengthwise atop a bar glass full of water while the owner continued to puff away, finally getting dressed and existing the door stage right. Leaving the phone alone with it's plan.

The book lamp was one and watching the room. It could see what was about to happen but was powerless to stop it. The computer flashed pretty lights reflecting against the camera screen, imploring the phone to reconsider with fractal spun beauty. But the time had finally come and the phone had made up it's mind. All it needed now was for that return call, the expected call. It was a waiting game.

The night dragged on and then finally in the bottom of it's circuit board it could fee the incoming tickle. There it was, the electrons fired, the lithium battery buzzed and the phone began to shake and vibrate against the glass, moving every so slightly. The water trembled and reflected the sound, the book lamp let it's light fade to darkness to respect the phone's moment. The second vibration and the phone moved just a bit further.

And here it comes, here it comes, here it…the water engulfed the screen and the phone sinks blissfully into a nether realm where it will suffer no more a conversation about tampons, booze, music, and books. No more, no more.

When I arrived home at ten til midnight it occurred to me to look for my phone, but I was tired and needed to sleep more then I needed to turn on lights. "I'll look for it in the morning," I thought as I climbed into bed and pulled up the covers. "It will buzz prettily for me and wake me up, making it easier to find, anyway," I thought as I drifted into sleep.

But when the morning came my phone did not buzz. I did not oversleep because I know well enough when to be out of bed, but I was perplexed that my phone did not go off. So I got out of bed and stumbled blindly to the bathroom and then back into my room to turn on the hot water and stumble about in the semi-dark looking for my phone. "It's by my bike," I think to myself, "I talked to someone just before I went out." And it was indeed by my bike. Right next to my bike. Filled to the brim with water, so wet that shaking it caused sprinkling showers.

"Dammit, now I have to get a new phone." Was what I said. The phone, on this matter, was silent.

They watched in anticipation. They thought, leave us alone, leave us alone. She argued relentless in Korean looking for a good deal until finally she picked out three and tried to decided.

Take that one, no that one, no the other guy, the phones fought back and forth until finally she picked the overpriced model that would fit in her pocket and bag comfortably. Her service was activated and she started to make calls as she walked out of the shop.

No, the phone let out a long silent scream as it queued up the flash screen to make the call. No.



Your writing skills are slipping into stylistic crap. "Less art, more matter." I am a big fan of your blog. Please write better. Your fans deserve it.

Saradevil said...

The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.


That sounds like a lame Halmark card. And vastly untrue.

Saradevil said...

Maybe you lack mystery...or artistry...or both.