July 4, 2007

Cell Phone Bandwagon

The last two cell phone holdouts in my acquaintance have finally succumbed. As my friend Zelda said, after announcing she had gone over to the dark side and purchased a phone and some pre-paid minutes, "Even the homeless guy on the corner has a cell phone."

Zelda was the second-to-the-last person on earth I thought would get a cell phone, a device considered by some to be an instrument of the devil. After a week in a rental property where she had to walk to the convenience store to make a call, she admitted to herself that "convenience" really meant having a phone in your pocket.

The very last person I thought would get a cell phone was Keeper. This is a guy who, when the phone rings at home, runs to his office so he can answer it on the phone with the big handset and the curly cord. No matter how many times I've told him that you can press any key to answer the cordless phone, he refuses. If I make him talk on it, he hands it to me to hang up for him.

So, imagine my surprise when he announced that he had gotten a cell phone. My mind raced with all sorts of reasons for this monumental change. Did he have a girlfriend who wanted to text him the location of their secret rendezvous? Was he supplementing his paycheck by betting on the horses? Had he gone mad and become a drug dealer?

"Why?" I asked, hoping my voice didn't betray my panic.

"They're making us use them for work," he answered.

"Well, let's see it!" I said.

"It's at the office, charging. How many days do you have to keep it plugged in?"

After I assured him that three days should do it, he brought it home and I taught him how to use it. After some ear-splintering conversations between his cell and mine, I convinced him that the microphone could pick up his voice even though it was nowhere near his mouth.

Having mastered the art of not shouting into the phone, he wanted to field test it. "You stay here," he said. "I'll walk Corky and call you."

I sat with the cordless on my lap and waited. When it rang, I could hear the pride in his voice, which was once again too loud, the way people sometimes still talk when they're calling long distance.

"We're turning the corner now," Keeper reported. "Corky just sniffed a pine cone. Now we're right across from that house they're building."

"That's nice," I said, already bored with the step-by-step account of their evening walk.

"Now she's squatting. Hold on while I get a bag ready."

"I'll just let you go so you can use both hands," I said.

"No, just hang on," said Keeper, and I held the phone a foot away from my ear as he crinkled the bag right next to the microphone.

When he got home (announcing his arrival via cell, as if I didn't see him at the door) I congratulated him on a successful first call. He grinned like a kid who had just learned to whistle.

He's not ready for web browsing just yet, but I may just teach him to text. At least it doesn't have sound effects.