Day 1: Sales Humped by AT&T, and Screw I-5 South
The first day without the phone was spent investigating methods of fixing and replacing the phone. My padre and I went out to the AT&T store to see if there was anything they could do. After all, the phone was no more than three weeks old.
We rolled into the @tsore, and it appeared as though we were the first people there. It felt like it too. The woman was all up in my business like I was a messiah: Arms outstretched, bright eyes, tone of reverence. I presented my bricked iPhone, and she inquired as to how the event occurred.
@T:’Did you wash it?’
Me:’Um… that’s close.’
@T:’Did you drop it in the toilet?’
Me:’That’s a little closer.’
Her tone and face contorted at the admission of my failure to keep my iPhone away from any and all moisture. She then presented an option as a fix, only after telling me that there’s nothing that can be done to help the phone. Her olive branch was in the form of starting a new line with @T, and purchasing a new 3GS for $400. I was astounded at how bleak this had become in a matter of hours. At this point, I was T-plus five hours since liftoff. She continued by adding how their store didn’t have any black 32GB 3GSacks of Glory, and that I would need to run to South Center in Seattle to retrieve one. It was a Sunday, my last day at home with the fam, and an additional 30 minute drive. I responded by saying I would wait until I was back home in Oregon before I made a decision.
And thus, my fate of incommunicado living had been sealed.
I enjoyed the rest of the day, kicking it with Pops, and kicking it with the fam. All good. Got to eat some axis deer, some asparagus, and free coffee. Definitely a change from badass bachelorhood. After dinner, kisses and hugs, then I was back on the road.
Naturally, Ma, as mothers do, had the most eloquent way of scaring the chocolate frosting out of me. Before leaving she gets the oracle look in her eyes. She’s going to convince me a clown car may try to cross four lanes of traffic, drunk, to get between my vehicle and a semi. A semi hauling a payload of caged, enraged pygmy rabbits from Madagascar. Only second in deadliness to running with scissors. And then the clown car slams on their brakes cause their ‘doo-bie’ fell into their lap. And of course, those neon, saggy seven-layer burritos they call pants are polyester, and they’re only seconds away from friggin’ inferno. So now you got the assploding furry Furbies of the Na’arthazan in front of you, and a car likely to be filled to its sphincter in rainbow-afro-wig wearing fools that got lost somewhere between Saturday Night Fever and the music video for 2 Legit 2 Quit; all of which are about to be a blazing Volkswagen missile of humor.
Oh, yes. And while all of this goes down? You don’t have a phone to call the cops, and let them know that there are ten people in a car in front of you, and none of them appear to be wearing their seatbelts.
The drive wasn’t nearly as eventful. But for those who know the I-5 corridor around here, they know that when it rains, it’s instant monsoon. Wiper blades can’t move fast enough to wick away all the blasted rain/superspray from your windshield. By the time I hit Vancouver, it was peachy. Again. No phone. A little trippy when you have had one for the better part of ten years, and it has pulled you out of a scrape or two. Then getting home, I sent an email to the folks to let them know I made it back without polyester shrapnel melting my chest hair off.
All was right with the world. But missed my iMonster.
Here I am at the end of the ordeal, and I’m finding that I want to revise my feelings toward not having a phone.