Dropped Calls

As best as I can recall, I’ve owned 8 different cell phones.  Not all of them died horrible, unnecessary deaths, but most of them did.  Let me give you a brief summary to bring you up to date on some of the worst incidents:

Incident #1 – C sees a group of campers, cautiously dipping their toes in the pool.  In a burst of inspired goofiness, he takes off at a sprint in the direction of the pool, hoping to show these feeble campers that they had nothing to fear.  Without breaking stride he hurdles the fence surrounding the pool and in two more steps launches himself over the watery surface of the deep end. 

Suddenly the realization grips him that this was a terrible idea, and not just because of the 15 camp rules to which he just laid waste.  He claws at the air and instinctively tries to dodge the frigid waters that now have him in their grasp.  Finally as his toes hit the water he helplessly scrapes at his back pocket in an effort to retrieve his cell phone and throw it to safety.  Its too late.  All is lost.  There is only the smell of chlorine, the penetrating cold of the water, and the long walk home wearing wet jeans.

Incident #2 (two weeks later) – Our hero emerges from his cabin wearing only his spandex shorts, an equally lycra-laced jersey, and a smile.  He is about to embark on his first ride on a road bike.  An experienced mountain biker, he knows, confidently, that the trip will be both successful and enjoyable.  

He is wrong.

A car full of camp staff members approaches, startling C from his quiet confidence.  Embarrassed by his tightly-wrapped, lumpy physique, he quickly mounts the bike and begins his ride, if only to make his escape.

As he pedals downhill, he deftly shifts through the gears, learning the functions of the mechanism even has he rides.  Suddenly, the wind on his shoulders tells him something is wrong.  He looks up from his shifters to see trees on the side of the road.  Not trees, in fact, but tree lines – extended by the effects of perspective and speed, like stars as seen from the deck of the Millennium Falcon. 

It turns out road bikes go faster than mountain bikes.  It further turns out that the narrow tires of a road bike don’t have the stopping power of their wider, knobbier, cousins.  Perhaps most pertinently, it turns out that C is on a collision course with a mailbox.  After no more than 400 yards of riding, our hero has accelerated to over 25 miles per hour.

And for his next trick he will wrap himself around a metal pole. 

Out of breath, bleeding, and disoriented, C surveys the damage.  Not only did he fail to unclip his shoes from the bike’s clipless pedals, but in fact his shoes have come off, taking his socks and the bike with them into a heap 15 yards away.  His face is bleeding, and he feels a throbbing below his left eye.  Gently touching his face, he can tell everything is still attached.  With shaky hands he reaches for the cell phone in his jersey pocket.  As he goes to dial, he realizes he is only holding the keypad.  The phone’s screen dangles 5 inches below at the end of a set of colorful wires.  

It looks like he’s walking home.  And yeah.  The bike was borrowed.

Incident #3 – Fast forward 6 years and 3 rounds of successful phone ownership.  No longer concerned about his dark past, C wields, not just a phone, but an iPhone 4.  It’s sleek.  It’s attractive.  It’s intelligent.  Its over $500 to replace. 

No longer a jaunty youth, C is the director of a complex summer camp ministry.  On this day, he chooses to show his gritty toughness by joining the maintenance staff in the installation of a septic system for a new cabin.  Valiantly choosing the crappiest job, he picks up a shovel and begins digging up an old septic line to make a connection.  As he slings the foul smelling earth, he decides to indulge himself with some music to take his mind off the despondent slough into which he now burrows. 

Rather than set up some more robust listening device, Craig simply lays his iPhone beside the trench and turns the volume to “High.”  After long hours of work, and the offenses of black flies, New England soil, and vented sewage, Craig notices that the music has stopped. 

Tragically, as he searches for his iPhone, Craig recalls exactly where he left it.  In its place now stands a stinking pile of soil and rock.  Panicked, he gently draws a shovel through the pile.  Stainless steel glints through the rough surface of mulch and stone.  He reaches through the mess, and wonders if once again he has destroyed his phone.

The good news is, my phone is fine.  A little gritty in places, but back in business nonetheless.  The bad news, of course, is that my propensity to destroy cell phones is clearly not something I’m going to grow out of. 

I wish I had some witty conclusion here…  of how our hero overcame his tragic flaw to one day move on to personal responsibility and digital wireless independence.  I don’t.  I’m afraid to leave the house without sewing my iPhone to my chest.  Even if I could do that, I would wonder if it might leave me more vulnerable to chest injury.

 

Am I alone in this crisis?  Does anyone else have a tragic cell phone story to share?  Leave me your stories in the comments section, especially if they have to do with sports, the elements, or…  you know…  septicy things.