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Joyce Kiefer |
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CELLPHONE ADVENTURE Pictured Below: Miracles of 21st Century Technology The New JOYCEMATIC Cellphone  |
Joyce timidly tip-toes into
21st century technology
of TheColumnists.com
For my birthday my husband Bill decided to catapult me into the last years of the 20th century. He gave me a cell phone. Savanna, our 11 year-old granddaughter, advised him on the features.
My entire family watched me open this gift. Imbedded with cords and instruction manuals was a slim silver phone the size--do I sound dated?--of a cigarette case. Savanna, who serves as the family tech support, immediately set the ring tone, which she let me choose. “Watch out,” her dad warned, “she’ll change it to something outrageous when you’re not looking.” I knew this much: the ring should be set at full volume to play through the junk in my purse.
Everyone told me how lucky I was. My phone takes pictures. But why would I use my phone like a camera when I have a fine digital camera that I’m still trying to master? My new Motorola Razr phone also takes videos. But so does my digital camcorder - the one I use but can’t edit the results. Savanna is Ridley Scott when it comes to turning my shots of our trip to Safari West into a fast-moving action flick, complete with score and screen credits.
I sat on the couch, holding my new phone, wondering if I could decipher the two instruction manuals and the instructional CD.
“You just push these buttons,” someone said. Hands flew out from behind me to punch the phone’s tiny numbers and arrows. “Here’s how you can check voice mail and–wow–you can get news and sports from TV!” For another $15 a month, that is. I have a good analog TV and I’ve conquered the capricious VCR. I’ll just say “no” to this feature.
The same with text messaging. I like sitting down to a big computer screen and touching distinct, typewriter-like keys when I write to a friend.
The kids were impressed by their Granny’s new toy; I was intimidated.
I admit I did put out hints that I could use the convenience of a cell phone. But I envisioned just three functions: to make calls, to receive live calls, and to get voice mail. If I could, I’d pack my cordless home phone into my purse. Then I wouldn’t have to memorize another phone number.
My new cell phone is not my first. Stanford University paid for my first one a few years ago so my traveling boss could call me any time, anywhere. The phone was simple. It had an antenna, was fat, and required a protective case so the stuff in my purse wouldn’t punch out phone calls as it shifted around. When I left the job, I discontinued the service. Forty dollars a month, $480 per year–too expensive.
Then I attended a discussion of “The Tortilla Curtain,” T. Coraghessan Boyle’s novel about illegal immigrants. Someone in the group rose up with a criticism: “Great book but unreal. The characters should have had cell phones. All illegal immigrants do.”
And I don’t. A sense of deprivation began to grow.
The clincher was the day Bill was supposed to pick me up at the airport. I waited an hour but never saw him. On my way to finding a shuttle, I ran into him. He had been waiting behind some stairs at the place where we agreed to meet. If I had a cell phone AND he had one, too, and it was turned on . . .
A week after my birthday I flip open my phone and study the screen with its group photo of my grandkids in various states of restlessness. I needed instructions and a few tries to get that photo. I’m grateful that it’s not good enough to forward to anyone. How would I know if my friends’ phones could receive it? I also have a problem that might interfere. The battery is down to no little bars and I haven’t opened the phone for days. There must be a way to turn the thing off.
I page through the two manuals, wondering if the instructions in Spanish contain secrets that are held back from the English version. I need a human to help me out and Savanna is visiting Grand Canyon.
I throw the phone and the recharger into my purse and go to the store where Bill bought this gift. The place is buzzing with customers but I have no shame. I walk up to the young, neatly dressed man at the service desk and tell him the three things I want from the phone and ask how do I get there. But first, how about “on” and “off?” I dig through my purse to find the phone, tossing things here and there on the counter. He answers my questions with a straight face. He even programs quick access to my voice mail. I leave with a feeling of power.
Until I get home and realize I left the charger behind. I call the store and no one can find it. After dinner I return and only the manager is there. He searches in vain for my lost charger. I tell him I’ll buy a new one. Then he reaches under the counter, pulls out a charger, and winks. “Take it. I don’t want your first experience to be a bad one.”
I think my new cell phone and I are fighting a culture war. I know now why kids “get it” and I don’t when it comes to electronics. When I was a kid, I mastered each skill for life, like multiplication tables, and life was filled with absolutes. The only constant kids learn now is change. Upgrades and new features equal progress. There is no stopping point of “enough.” No one settles or decides to draw the line and remain content.
If I renew my two-year contract with Verizon, I’ll get a new phone for free. That will be just at the time when I’m tuned to the sound of the ringer, nimble enough to pick up the phone without squeezing the sides and cutting off the call, and quick enough to flip the cover and press the green button before the caller gives up. Content at last, I’ll want no more.
©2007 by Joyce Kiefer. The illustration, modified, is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column first posted Sept. 17, 2007.
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