The day began just like any other. Little did I know when I climbed out of bed that my life would never again be the same. Isn't it funny how fate works? At the time, when something monumental occurs, you may not think twice about it. However it is always in retrospect that you trace backward thinking, ah-ha. That was where it all began.
On this day I poured my morning coffee, grabbed a doughnut, and went to work. Just like normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Around mid-morning I fumbled into my pocket to grab my cell phone. By this time, the day had shaped out to be rather lousy, and I was edgy and irritable. Having to make a call did not improve my mood. One could say, that at this point in my life, diplomatic relations between U.S. Cellular and me had all but failed. Let me explain:
I primarily used my cell phone on and around the farm. My farm is situated at the top of a hill, not four miles from Monroe. Without straining my eyes or standing on my tiptoes, I can see the city water tower. For that matter, from the farm I am within visual confirmation of the cellular tower. As the sun fades into the horizon, the first artificial light I see is the cellular tower. Despite this, and despite a new phone, I was constantly dropping calls.
But wait - there's more. Much to my monthly dismay, my proudly advertised $39.95 per month calling plan had ambiguously morphed into over $70. I would scan my bill in pure astonishment, and even produced a copy to a U.S. Cellular representative, demanding an explanation. Imagine Bill Lumbergh from "Office Space:" "Uh, yeah, we're going to have to go ahead and add on some user fees and local tower taxes, yeah. And I see you did some roaming, yeah, add to that your text messaging, and if you could just go ahead and pay that $72.45 that would be just great, OK? Thanks." Forgive me for thinking outside the box, but isn't the point of having a mobile telephone so that you can be mobile? Roaming charges? C'mon.
So there I was, on that day, attempting to place a call to the Monroe Veterinary Clinic. From my vantage point I could literally see the cellular tower. Halfway between the tower, hidden by the undulation of the countryside, and myself was the Monroe Veterinary Clinic. The friendly receptionist answered, and I spoke carefully and deliberately. Sure enough, static. Then, "Eh... ant... shhh.... oke... ack... ater?" I repeated what I had said, the atmospheric temperature rising at an exponential rate. Now, nothing. The phone beeped, indicating a dropped call.
Here is my problem. I can admit it. I have a tendency to take my anger and frustration out on inanimate objects. As I stood there in fury and disbelieve, I could swear that the little electronic device had an evil little soul, and was laughing at me. It was looking at me, smirking through that camera lens. Without saying a word I placed the phone down onto the cement, camera lens up. I wanted it to see what was about to happen.
Within arms reach of the phone was a sledgehammer. I reached out, wrapping my hands around the long wooden handle. Like an orchestra maestro, I gracefully brought my arms up, so that the hammerhead was just behind my shoulders. Every muscle in my upper body tightened as I brought my arms down. At the same time, I slid my hands together on the handle, for maximum leverage. A small shadow appeared on the face of the phone, growing larger by the nanosecond as the hammerhead drew closer. There - get a picture of this.
I stood, blinking. I was like Frodo, having just cast The Ring into the fire. A spell had been broken; I was now free. That's right - I was trying to call the vet. I walked into the shop, clearing the cobwebs from the landline. What was the number? I usually just searched under "V;" it was the third entry. I picked up the phone book, disturbing a thick layer of fine dust, like an object that has been submerged for a long time. I placed the call, and there was no static, no hiccups. The conversation ended, but only when I replaced the receiver. Is this possible?
This incident happened more than a year ago. I have not had a cell phone since, nor do I plan on getting one, ever again. Actually, I feel smarter - I can remember phone numbers, I can remember names. Before, contact information was arbitrarily entered into the little red trap. Now, I can remember it, almost as though I am using my brain.
I noticed something else. Before, whenever I would drive somewhere with my wife, I would inevitably catch up on missed calls. I would spend the commute listening to messages, returning calls. Now, we talk. It's weird, kind of like I am actually interacting with the person seated next to me, rather than via an electronic medium. Like I said, weird.
Even now, after 16 months, people come up to me, "Hey. I tried calling your cell phone, but got some girl's voicemail. Did you get a new number?"
No, I explain that I smashed my phone, it will never be rebuilt, and in order to get hold of me, call my house. They reply, in an obvious state of shock, "You don't have a cell phone? How do you live?"
Let me tell you, that it is liberating. I love leaving my house, knowing that as soon as that door slams shut I am unreachable barring actual physical contact. Plus, I must add with a degree of satisfaction that there is still a nice, neat star-shaped divot in the concrete floor of my workshop. Lest we forget.
On this day I poured my morning coffee, grabbed a doughnut, and went to work. Just like normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Around mid-morning I fumbled into my pocket to grab my cell phone. By this time, the day had shaped out to be rather lousy, and I was edgy and irritable. Having to make a call did not improve my mood. One could say, that at this point in my life, diplomatic relations between U.S. Cellular and me had all but failed. Let me explain:
I primarily used my cell phone on and around the farm. My farm is situated at the top of a hill, not four miles from Monroe. Without straining my eyes or standing on my tiptoes, I can see the city water tower. For that matter, from the farm I am within visual confirmation of the cellular tower. As the sun fades into the horizon, the first artificial light I see is the cellular tower. Despite this, and despite a new phone, I was constantly dropping calls.
But wait - there's more. Much to my monthly dismay, my proudly advertised $39.95 per month calling plan had ambiguously morphed into over $70. I would scan my bill in pure astonishment, and even produced a copy to a U.S. Cellular representative, demanding an explanation. Imagine Bill Lumbergh from "Office Space:" "Uh, yeah, we're going to have to go ahead and add on some user fees and local tower taxes, yeah. And I see you did some roaming, yeah, add to that your text messaging, and if you could just go ahead and pay that $72.45 that would be just great, OK? Thanks." Forgive me for thinking outside the box, but isn't the point of having a mobile telephone so that you can be mobile? Roaming charges? C'mon.
So there I was, on that day, attempting to place a call to the Monroe Veterinary Clinic. From my vantage point I could literally see the cellular tower. Halfway between the tower, hidden by the undulation of the countryside, and myself was the Monroe Veterinary Clinic. The friendly receptionist answered, and I spoke carefully and deliberately. Sure enough, static. Then, "Eh... ant... shhh.... oke... ack... ater?" I repeated what I had said, the atmospheric temperature rising at an exponential rate. Now, nothing. The phone beeped, indicating a dropped call.
Here is my problem. I can admit it. I have a tendency to take my anger and frustration out on inanimate objects. As I stood there in fury and disbelieve, I could swear that the little electronic device had an evil little soul, and was laughing at me. It was looking at me, smirking through that camera lens. Without saying a word I placed the phone down onto the cement, camera lens up. I wanted it to see what was about to happen.
Within arms reach of the phone was a sledgehammer. I reached out, wrapping my hands around the long wooden handle. Like an orchestra maestro, I gracefully brought my arms up, so that the hammerhead was just behind my shoulders. Every muscle in my upper body tightened as I brought my arms down. At the same time, I slid my hands together on the handle, for maximum leverage. A small shadow appeared on the face of the phone, growing larger by the nanosecond as the hammerhead drew closer. There - get a picture of this.
I stood, blinking. I was like Frodo, having just cast The Ring into the fire. A spell had been broken; I was now free. That's right - I was trying to call the vet. I walked into the shop, clearing the cobwebs from the landline. What was the number? I usually just searched under "V;" it was the third entry. I picked up the phone book, disturbing a thick layer of fine dust, like an object that has been submerged for a long time. I placed the call, and there was no static, no hiccups. The conversation ended, but only when I replaced the receiver. Is this possible?
This incident happened more than a year ago. I have not had a cell phone since, nor do I plan on getting one, ever again. Actually, I feel smarter - I can remember phone numbers, I can remember names. Before, contact information was arbitrarily entered into the little red trap. Now, I can remember it, almost as though I am using my brain.
I noticed something else. Before, whenever I would drive somewhere with my wife, I would inevitably catch up on missed calls. I would spend the commute listening to messages, returning calls. Now, we talk. It's weird, kind of like I am actually interacting with the person seated next to me, rather than via an electronic medium. Like I said, weird.
Even now, after 16 months, people come up to me, "Hey. I tried calling your cell phone, but got some girl's voicemail. Did you get a new number?"
No, I explain that I smashed my phone, it will never be rebuilt, and in order to get hold of me, call my house. They reply, in an obvious state of shock, "You don't have a cell phone? How do you live?"
Let me tell you, that it is liberating. I love leaving my house, knowing that as soon as that door slams shut I am unreachable barring actual physical contact. Plus, I must add with a degree of satisfaction that there is still a nice, neat star-shaped divot in the concrete floor of my workshop. Lest we forget.
