It was a short journey. Less than 5 miles. To drop off papers at our accountant’s office. But without a phone, it seemed like 5 lifetimes. Or slightly less time than it takes to play the average baseball game.
How did this happen? I take great pride in my seemingly endless ability to organize my world, at least as far as ‘what’ is supposed to go ‘where’. My keys are in the same place. My wallet is in the same place. My water-cup sits in the same spot in my studio. My morning routine is more predictable than a Swiss time-piece.
But this is not right. This can’t be.
I’m less than 5 minutes from my house when I realize my catastrophic error. The interior of the XTerra is filled with my howls of laughter. At myself. “How in the fuck did you forget your phone!?”
But somewhere amidst the behaviors that border on anal-retentive hysteria, those that might be so annoying to some as to prompt potential therapy-sessions, there’s a small sliver of something that prevents me from turning around and going back to get it. The same something that allows me to not have the most meticulously groomed studio, or that gives me permission to let a half-inch of dust survive on top of the DVR. (Or, as I look around, a car-interior that looks more appropriate for an episode of Hoarders.)
I like things to be in their place, and I expect them to be there when I need them. But I don’t think I have a clinical disorder.
So instead of exhibiting panic, I make a decision. To deal with it. “I can do this,” I mumble to myself, cruising down Market, past City Hospital. “I can survive this.”
I stop at the light in front of St. Mary-St. Vincent high school. I reach down to check email. But that’s impossible, because I don’t have a phone. I curse at myself again.
Further up the hill, I’m trapped at a light again. Normally, I would do one of a half-dozen different things. All of which are accomplished with a device. Weekend weather. Cavs schedule. ‘Beer Advocate’ review. Or sneaking a quick glance at Twitter. Surely the Indians have made another agreeable off-season move. But below me to the right, in my normally-occupied cubby-hole, all I grasp is air, my fingers slamming into the plastic console. No phone.
I arrive. Slightly hyper-ventilating. I run up on to the porch (the accountant’s office is actually an old colonial home, a huge, gorgeous structure) and bang on the door. Nobody answers. The door is kept locked because this area of west Akron is, well, not the most safe area. I could check the actual crime-statistics. I could even call the accountant’s number to have someone let me in. But I can do neither, because my device is sitting in its pre-ordained spot on the kitchen-bar, left side, face-up, next to the rectangular basket where I keep spare change and a partially-used Starbucks gift-card.
“Do you know if Donna left me the info I called about the other day,” Leslie says to me, while we’re finally standing in the lobby. This would be when I’d say, “Hold on, Les, let me text her real quick.” But I sheepishly explain my dilemma, and even the usually dour Leslie is a bit amused. “You…forgot your phone?” She asks this with the same expression that someone might ask, “You…forgot your name?
I re-trace my route to return home. Panic bubbles away inside of me. All of the lights are red for some reason. And apparently some asshole from the City Services department decided to litter Market Avenue with a plethora of these annoying “25 M.P.H.” signs. On this of all days.
Has a client tried to call? Has Donna tried to call? I race through downtown, past the Ohio Edison building, under a yellow light near the Art Museum. I inch towards the edge of campus. I didn’t know the University of Akron had so many students who enjoy taking their time crossing the street. “Hell, I didn’t even go to class on Friday!” I scream.
And if I hit one of them, how would I call for an ambulance? Or a lawyer?
Reason takes over, and I slow down. But it does cross my mind: if my coronary artery becomes suddenly defenseless against all of the plaque that’s surely there, how will I call Donna?
My car’s interior fills up with laughter once again. “You can’t survive 30 minutes without a phone!”
My end of town is within sight. ‘Withdrawal’ has been along for the ride back. To calm myself, I look for pay-phones, just for fun. I haven’t looked for a pay-phone in a decade or more. Never needed one. As I soar over Case Street and up the hill towards Goodyear, I finally spot one! Or, I should say, I spot the remnants of what used to be a pay-phone. Gang-tags saturate the outside of it, and a metal cord hangs down to the ground, a wire that was once connected to a receiver.
I’m in Goodyear Heights. Minutes from my driveway. The dump-truck in front of me, though, does not sense my irritation. Nor does it notice the rocks and pebbles that are seeping out of the back end as they dance on the pavement momentarily before they crash into my hood and windshield. Calling his dispatcher is, of course, impossible.
I slam into the driveway while pushing the button on the garage door-opener. The dogs bark at me as I sprint up the stairs, diving into the warm, enveloping arms of a Samsung Galaxy III.
But there are no calls. No important emails. I didn’t miss anything. Except the text that Donna sent. Less than 5 minutes ago, before I narrowly missed pushing the garage door in with the front end of my car.
YOU THERE?
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