Were you aware, presumably tech-savvy reader, that some people still own and are content with third generation iPhones? Well, over Christmas those ranks dwindled by at least one, when I took time out of my busy schedule of impersonating Salvation Army bell-ringers (Christmas is my peak season!) to upgrade from the iPhone 3 to the iPhone R2D2 or something — puts finger to imaginary earpiece: “I’m just getting word it was in fact the 5S.”
Why make the switch if you have no complaints? A valid query. Not only are you tech-savvy, you’re an engaged and demanding reader. Well, have you ever been at a party, put your hand into your pants, pulled something out, and promptly been told, “No one wants to see that,” and “I didn’t know they made those that big”? Unless you’re Anthony Weiner, Brett Favre or that kind of quiet kid in my AP Lit class, you had probably produced an outdated phone. Countless times over the past year it felt like I had a scarlet number, and that number was three.
So, what choice does one have in the face of mounting social pressure but to cave and get the upgrade they’ve been eligible for since Obama’s first term? Walking into the AT&T store felt like every time I’ve ever drank beer: everyone else is doing it, and even though it tastes bitter, at least people will stop trying to chide you into accepting their well-meaning but hopelessly misplaced offers. Any cautious confidence about my decision was soon snuffed out by the map of the United States behind the service counter. Alaska was smaller than Texas. Maybe these people know cell service, but they definitely don’t know cartography.
After giving my name like I was waiting for a table at Outback Steakhouse, I was assigned a service rep, the Virgil to my Dante on this journey through Hell and back. She was petite (standing next to me, it looked like those “here is a human adult next to a giant squid” diagrams they use to show how massive something is; I am the squid in this example), clear of complexion, and had a warm but faded smile that seemed to suggest her natural good humor had been soiled one too many times in the line of retail duty. Let’s call her “Jim.”
Jim was helpful. Jim was kind. Jim listened and laughed at my bad jokes. Jim was looking pretty solid as a romantic partner at this point. Whoops, she just asked a question, but I was too busy daydreaming about us getting married and spending a romantic honeymoon on a Spanish beach. I could coyly feed her grapes as she lay there, strewn sensuously across the sand, telling me in sultry tones, “This plan allows you an upgrade after 18 months, and includes a Selfie-Stick.” Out of this pregnant pause emerged the funky afterbirth of the phone contract. The speed at which Jim rattled off the terms and conditions made me realize how cold and calculating she really is, and I flashed forward 15 years and two kids to the divorce proceedings. If Jim could rattle off a contract like this, she’d tear me to pieces in the custody hearing!
So, that was that. I got a new phone, and Jim took my heart and the imaginary kids. Thus far, the only thing that has changed about the way I use my phone is that I now utilize an even smaller percentage of the total capabilities. Unlike the pop psychology myth, I actually don’t use 90 percent of my (handheld) brain. Some days, it’s just an expensive watch. All this notwithstandinglyirregardless, there has been one perk. Now, when I go to the party, I’ve got a solo cup full of Gatorade and nobody asks if I want beer.
Peter Stebbins is a Humor writer.
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