My stress peaked a while back after we were issued new, state-of-the-art cell phones at work - this so we could be reached while out of the office.
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A phone from the days when a phone was a phone dwarfs today's phone
STAR PHOTO BY TONY BICKERT
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Problem was, the new phones were so tiny that I soon lost mine. I noticed this on a Saturday while driving to my buddy Erik's house in Anchorage to watch the big game. No doubt, the tiny thing had found its way into the black hole behind the seat of my pickup with the other items I intend to collect during spring cleaning: candy wrappers, money, dental floss, unopened mail, soda-soaked-and-now-frozen glove, overdue movie rental and that last bite of a Filet-O-Fish sandwich that must be back there because, though I could not prove it, I know I didn't eat it all.
Anyway, my first thought was to pull off the Glenn Highway and dig through the black hole to find my phone. I mean, what if I suddenly needed to call somebody? What if somebody decided they needed to call me? I should have the little phone handy. The tiny phone. The stupid, tiny, little phone!
ÒYou know, just because they can make a phone so small doesn't mean they should!Ó I shouted at my windshield.
But I didn't pull over just yet, for I had a new thought. Actually, it was more like an old thought. I began to think back to the days when a phone was a phone.
I'm talking about the big, black rotary phone of my youth.
Now there was a phone with some substance to it. It certainly couldn't slip between the seats of your pickup. For one, it was connected to the wall with cords so strong and thick that if you were determined to drive off with your phone you'd have to drag your house and a few telephone poles behind you.
Nobody desired to carry a phone in those days anyway, they were so heavy - unless you wanted to build up your arm muscles in which case you could do curls with your phone while you watched cartoons after school.
Anyway, phones back then were made for people who had only one task at hand. You didn't walk, play or drive while talking on the phone. You talked and that was it.
Indeed, in those days you had no choice but to talk when the phone rang (and they did actually ring as opposed to chirp, vibrate or whistle Dixie). You had to answer the phone because there was no Òcaller IDÓ or Òcall waitingÓ or call screening -- you couldn't Òlet the machine get it.Ó And you certainly couldn't use the excuse that you lost your phone.
Our phone was always in one location: on a stand built into the living room wall. That meant in most cases you had to talk while your family listened. I always feared the embarrassment if a girl happened to call me. Luckily, none ever did.
But my buddies and I called each other quite often. Sometimes it took a while to place the call because you had to dial each number first then wait for the rotary disc to come back around before you could dial the second number and so on. Even when you used your dialing finger in an attempt to force the slow-moving thing to turn more quickly, it still took time. I resented friends who had too many Ò8Ós and Ò9Ós in their phone numbers.
Anyway, I was nearly to Erik's house when I realized that my little trip down memory lane had distracted me from worrying. My phone stress was gone! And I didn't even have to pull over and dig through the black hole. I was satisfied with myself for not giving in. ÒI might just leave the thing back there until spring!Ó I said to the windshield.
But my satisfaction dissolved when I realized that I had forgotten where my buddy's house was located. Erik lives in a neighborhood featuring street after street of houses that look alike (another problem that never existed in the old days) and I had forgotten his address and even the name of his street.
And the game was about to start!
It was then I had another new thought. Actually it was an old thought. I pulled over and found my phone behind the seat. I also retrieved from the black hole last month's electric bill and the late movie rental. I called Erik, got directions and made it to his house before kickoff.
I was satisfied with myself again - not because I found my cell phone. I still hate the little thing and long for the days when phones were phones. The satisfaction came when I found that bite of Filet-O-Fish sandwich, proving that I was right: I knew I never ate the whole thing!
Tony Bickert is editor of The Star. His Being Human column appears monthly.
