roommate said, “Seriously? That’s a sorority-girl major. Why not just buy a MINI Cooper convertible, get a mani-pedi, and be done with it?” That was all it took. And could I get a real job in the business world? No. I relied on vague Bart nepotism and ended up in a basement surrounded by cell phones.
In Lost Cell Phones, your first job is charging the dead ones and finding out which ones are real goners, the permanent dead, the ones not lost so much as abandoned and mistaken for lost. There are tables filled with bins of phones and extension cords connected to outlet strips. I inspect the plugged-in phones. All of them are fully charged except for a half dozen or so that are still dark. I unplug all the phones and sort them into two boxes—one for the living, one for the dead. There are rows and rows of living bins, rows and rows of dead bins and rows and rows of unsorted bins. Every phone has been initially handled, stickered with a number and listed on a chart and—this is most crucial—set to vibrate. This department is always sorely understaffed, but whoever is in charge learns quickly to set them to vibrate, or else you’ve got bins of phones all going off in various ring tones. This will eventually make you insane. The vibrations are bad enough, all of the phones thrumming against each other. The vibrations are constant, though sometimes they seem to move in waves from one area to another. At certain times of the day—a mad rush at around 10 a.m., then again just after 3 p.m. until closing at 5 p.m.—the volume of calls shoots up and the basement office buzzes like a living thing.
I plug in a new batch of phones and sit down on a stool. I should be sorting through the living bins, listening to people’s voice mail messages. The smart cell phone owners call in and leave messages with new numbers where they can be reached. It’s depressing to listen to frantic message after frantic message, not to mention the calls left by friends, lovers, bosses—some of them angry, some desperately concerned. I’ve heard people getting dumped, being fired, being pleaded with, being cursed out, being coddled —it’s too much humanity boxed up into these voices that always seem tinny and distant.
The big influx of calls hasn’t started yet so I put my forehead down on the table and close my eyes. Am I doomed to become a lonesome perv? I’m already showing signs of a lack of dignity that will eventually manifest themselves as clumps of gel in my hair. Can that be fixed? I hear a cell phone jingle, the same exact ring tone as my own. Garrett missed one, what a jackass—and Chapman trusts him with the truck? I don’t move, although I know I’ll have to at some point. If I fall asleep like this, I’ll have a red circle on my forehead, and if anyone pops in—like Chapman, checking up—it’ll be undeniable. I wonder how many phones Garrett has missed. How many times this afternoon will I have to listen to little bits of “Hollaback Girl”?
On the third ring, however, I realize it’s my own phone ringing in my own pocket, a private embarrassment that seems worse because there’s no one I can kind of look at, shrug, and say, with a laugh, I’m such a dipshit . I shake my head by rolling it back and forth on the table while reaching into my pocket and answering.
“Dr. Chin’s office.” It’s the receptionist, Lisa. “Is this Godfrey Burkes?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a moment’s hesitation. “We have your wallet,” she finally says.
“Oh, thanks.” I lift my head. “Can I pick it up tonight? At around quarter to six?”
“That’s after hours. But someone will be here. You’ll have to knock.”
“Okay,” I say, “thank you.”
I hang up. Dr. Chin’s office has my wallet! I consider calling Madge and telling her my problem is solved—I’m not subconsciously cheap and I’ve found myself. All’s well, right? Happyish now, I listen to the vibrating phones. They remind me of
In Lost Cell Phones, your first job is charging the dead ones and finding out which ones are real goners, the permanent dead, the ones not lost so much as abandoned and mistaken for lost. There are tables filled with bins of phones and extension cords connected to outlet strips. I inspect the plugged-in phones. All of them are fully charged except for a half dozen or so that are still dark. I unplug all the phones and sort them into two boxes—one for the living, one for the dead. There are rows and rows of living bins, rows and rows of dead bins and rows and rows of unsorted bins. Every phone has been initially handled, stickered with a number and listed on a chart and—this is most crucial—set to vibrate. This department is always sorely understaffed, but whoever is in charge learns quickly to set them to vibrate, or else you’ve got bins of phones all going off in various ring tones. This will eventually make you insane. The vibrations are bad enough, all of the phones thrumming against each other. The vibrations are constant, though sometimes they seem to move in waves from one area to another. At certain times of the day—a mad rush at around 10 a.m., then again just after 3 p.m. until closing at 5 p.m.—the volume of calls shoots up and the basement office buzzes like a living thing.
I plug in a new batch of phones and sit down on a stool. I should be sorting through the living bins, listening to people’s voice mail messages. The smart cell phone owners call in and leave messages with new numbers where they can be reached. It’s depressing to listen to frantic message after frantic message, not to mention the calls left by friends, lovers, bosses—some of them angry, some desperately concerned. I’ve heard people getting dumped, being fired, being pleaded with, being cursed out, being coddled —it’s too much humanity boxed up into these voices that always seem tinny and distant.
The big influx of calls hasn’t started yet so I put my forehead down on the table and close my eyes. Am I doomed to become a lonesome perv? I’m already showing signs of a lack of dignity that will eventually manifest themselves as clumps of gel in my hair. Can that be fixed? I hear a cell phone jingle, the same exact ring tone as my own. Garrett missed one, what a jackass—and Chapman trusts him with the truck? I don’t move, although I know I’ll have to at some point. If I fall asleep like this, I’ll have a red circle on my forehead, and if anyone pops in—like Chapman, checking up—it’ll be undeniable. I wonder how many phones Garrett has missed. How many times this afternoon will I have to listen to little bits of “Hollaback Girl”?
On the third ring, however, I realize it’s my own phone ringing in my own pocket, a private embarrassment that seems worse because there’s no one I can kind of look at, shrug, and say, with a laugh, I’m such a dipshit . I shake my head by rolling it back and forth on the table while reaching into my pocket and answering.
“Dr. Chin’s office.” It’s the receptionist, Lisa. “Is this Godfrey Burkes?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a moment’s hesitation. “We have your wallet,” she finally says.
“Oh, thanks.” I lift my head. “Can I pick it up tonight? At around quarter to six?”
“That’s after hours. But someone will be here. You’ll have to knock.”
“Okay,” I say, “thank you.”
I hang up. Dr. Chin’s office has my wallet! I consider calling Madge and telling her my problem is solved—I’m not subconsciously cheap and I’ve found myself. All’s well, right? Happyish now, I listen to the vibrating phones. They remind me of
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