As the Frontier Airlines pilot prepared for take off, I was instructed to turn my phone off. Hesitantly, I obeyed. For some reason, I’m always frightened that if I turn off my phone or my computer, it will never turn on again. My stomach churned as I pressed down on the power button upon landing in San Francisco. Thankfully, the screen filled with color as it yawned to life. Unfortunately, it settled upon blue and nothing on the screen could be read.

My phone is of the flipping variety, and has a little screen on the outside of it so that when it is closed, the owner can still see who’s calling. This screen alone seemed to be working fine. I flipped my phone open and closed, wondering when the blue was going to fade into the normal screen. When it didn’t fade, I began to panic.

Frantically, I began to turn my phone off and then on, hoping it would come out of its funk and be normal again. This didn’t happen, either, and after turning it on and off about twenty times, I proved to myself once and for all that I know absolutely nothing about phones.

Being that I was able to receive calls and identify the caller because the outer screen of my phone still worked, I waited for Sarah to call me when she arrived to pick me up. I waited for her outside and jumped into her car when it rolled up to the “Frontier Airlines” sign.

Immediately, I explained the problem with my phone to her.

“Give it here,” she said. She began to shake it vigorously. This seemed more absurd to me than turning the phone off and on, even dangerous to its welfare. It was as if she was shaking my sick baby, trying to cure it of colic through some primitive shaking ritual. I snatched the phone away from her.

“Stop! You’ll hurt it!” I yelled at her, holding my cell phone far away from her grasp and against the perspiring window.

Luckily, Sarah is a very patient person and told me that we’d take it to the Berizon store the next day. Berizon is my wireless provider. (names have been changed to protect involved parties.)

Before going to bed, I plugged my phone into its charger, turned it off, and laid it to rest on the oak dining room table in Sarah’s boyfriend’s house. I watched it for a few seconds while the screen on the front read, “Battery Charging.” Dotted lines ran beneath the words, reminding me of a pulse. My phone was still alive, just not feeling too well.

In the morning, Sarah dropped me off in downtown Palo Alto while she was at work. Apparently a Berizon store was near by. I massaged my phone in my hand with my thumb as I searched. I had five hours before Sarah would return, and I calmed myself by thinking my phone would be fixed before then and I’d have good news to share when she came to pick me up.

“God speed,” Sarah said before she floored her gas pedal and drove away, nearly running over two pedestrians on the crosswalk.

“Jesus Christ, lady!” One of them yelled after her. But I didn’t care; they were alive, and I was on a mission to save my phone.

I wandered up one side of the street and came down another, looking both ways so I wouldn’t miss a store sign, but I couldn’t find the Berizon store.

Finally, I asked a restaurant seating-hostess, stationed outside for outside seating. She pointed down the street cordoned off with yellow police tape.

“Was it burned down or something?” My heart jumped.

“No, Walgreens was. It is beyond the other side of the tape. You must first walk around the back of the buildings, through the alleyway. There is a man there, selling broken records – do not listen to him or you will be sucked in to his monotonous sales pitch. He will delay you for hours. Ignore him and keep going. He is harmless to you, but hazardous to your journey. Keep going. Turn right to return to the city-street. You will find yourself on the other side of the police tape.

On the left side of the street are two stores, Pingular and Berizon. Berizon will be the store on the left. There will be a giant phone in the window. Do not miss it; they close at five. You have four hours. Good luck. Would you like me to repeat this information?”

“No. Thank you for your help.” We shook hands and I departed.

I slipped into the alley immediately to the right of the restaurant. Soon I came to the man the hostess had spoken of, the one with the broken records. He began to speak to me and I tried to ignore him, though it was difficult to ignore him, as he spoke loudly and juggled three unbroken records in the air, “Record. Record. Record.” That was all he said, “Record. Record. Record.” I stuck my pointer fingers in my ears and ran as fast as my legs could carry me to the end of the alley.

I had made it through the alley, and was relieved to be among the storefronts once again. There were two stores with giant cardboard phones in their windows. Berizon was on the left, as promised. I entered.

To be Continued…

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