“I’m going for a walk. Will you watch my phone?” John eyes his Samsung as if it’s a hand grenade whose pin is ready to dislodge.
He has a handy-dandy pouch for his phone. It snaps onto his belt and hangs along his hip like a pistol holster. But he doesn’t like taking his device anywhere. He feels it’s safer at home.
Before I can comment, he’s out the door. I’m left alone to phone-sit.
His phone-baby is easy to care for. It seldom makes a sound and has a generic, app-less visage that mirrors John’s uncomplicated communication needs. I pick it up from the table and take it where I’m sitting.
There. It sits on the arm of the couch, right next to my own phone. I turn them both face-up, so I can react to their faintest buzz, ring or blink.
John’s is asleep; it usually is. The only time it stirs is to confirm doctor appointments, hawk scams, or alert John to a fresh photo of someone’s pet on Facebook.
His phone is a utility. A necessary evil that leads him to wrong destinations with its confusing maps, upsets him with “senseless” notifications to update this or that, and signaling notifications of voicemails whose possible messages panic him.
It’s no wonder he doesn’t want to take it with him when he leaves for a leisurely stroll. John would be happy if his phone was on the wall in the kitchen, where its long curly cord would keep it tethered to the spot.
I’ve tried to show him all the features his phone offers. It is a wonder of information and entertainment. From shopping to reading books to watching videos. His baby is so much fun, if he’d only take the time to bond with it.
After a few minutes of instruction, John declares his disinterest and smashes the “close” circle on the bottom of his screen. “I don’t need all that,” he mumbles, as he plops it, face-down, on the table.
Instead, he depends on my phone for all his needs. My apps are ready to find any bolt, paint, cord or fishing gear he may want. Every phone number he needs is a Google search away. Hours. Location. Price. It’s all up to my phone to help him navigate through life.
I don’t mind using mine for most things we need. Most of the time, I can find just what info he wants by the time he finishes telling me all about it; why he is looking for it, when he decided to look for it, how he will use the results I’m looking for.
But I can’t help feeling sorry for his little, neglected, empty memory, baby-phone. It is as innocent as a newborn, just waiting to be played with and filled with a digital history.
I wonder if John is thinking about his phone as he strolls through the park. Does he wonder if he’s missing some dire message? Does it seem he’s somehow incomplete without his communication appendage? Is he worried he should have brought it along in case he stumbled and needed assistance?
I doubt it. He isn’t like the rest of us who never let our phones out of our sight.
And even though he may be missing out on all the fun his phone holds, I can appreciate his independent spirit. I can’t imagine spending more than a few minutes without mine next to me.
I pat his phone on its sleepy back and pick up my own, opening an app at random. I can almost hear it coo in happiness.
Contact Robin at robinwrites@yahoo.com.
