The joy of being ‘unreachable’

Yesterday, my mobile phone and I called it quits.

The parting was bittersweet.

It was bitter because the termination of our relationship was abrupt, unannounced, unexpected, full and complete. We will never see each other again.

It was sweet because right after we parted, I was liberated and felt exhilaratingly cool and free. I discovered the joy of being unattached—and unreachable. If you don’t believe it, try breaking-up with your mobile phone without notice.

I was scurrying up the stairs to my fourth floor office along Sen. Gil J. Puyat Avenue when I felt that my hands were light—the left was holding my ubiquitous lighter and cigarette case, but my right was swinging, along with my sling bag, as I negotiate the flight of stairs, panting.

I just alighted from a taxi, coming from a late lunch with Ismael Fabicon, Romblon’s primus cultural warrior, at the UCC coffee shop in Robinson’s in Ermita, when this unthinkable happened. Cold sweat suddenly materialized in my forehead.

Upon reaching my desk, I emptied all my things, scattering them like mahjong pieces, thinking I may have placed my slim Nokia 2610 inside. She (my mobile phone was a female) was gone. I fished inside the sling bag’s pockets. Nothing but coins and a lone door key.

I sat down, called Rommel, my able ‘secretary-general’ and asked him to dial my number. It was closed, he said. No ringing. No tone. Not even the recorded, static message that mobile phone companies embed in their phones as standard reply: “The number you dialed is unavailable.” For a second, I was frantic. My phone left me. Or did I abandon her?

When one loses something of value, the first thing that comes as a reflexive response to the loss is to think where you lost it. You play back in the mind the scenes of your past action or activity involving the lost property, hoping there would be a hint or indication that would lead to a recovery.

I did that, viewing, like a movie trailer, my lunch with Uncle Ish, the things we talked about, the coming and going of the waitresses, the other guests, even the manner I toyed with my cigarette lighter—and the phone, oh, my phone. Where are you?

Gone, even as I scoured my memory for the peripheral things I did after standing up from my chair at the coffee shop—the parting handshake, the promise to see each other again, the waving of the guard at the exit, and finally, my boarding a taxi that will ferry me back to the office. All these were clear except the part where my phone surreptitiously ran away for nowhere, never to be seen again.

Aha! Suddenly, it dawned on me that my mobile phone decided to end our relationship by going away with the taxi driver. She eloped with him, for reasons I can only now discern.

She must have thought I was an uncaring lot. You know how phones are. They need to be baby-sat. They need to be pampered.

I realized I had never bought my phone a case—a bed—where she can cozily hide when not in use. She must have envied other phones which are neatly tucked in purses, in beautifully-crafted cases with colorful strings tied around the neck of their owners to ensure that people—and other phones—see them in their full splendor. Well, in the first place, I thought people with phones hanging around their necks are weird. They look like albatrosses to me.

Then, I also realized that my phone must have reeled from the abuse I heaped on her when she was still around. You know, I just toss her over the sofa, or at the table, after each use and she must have resented this.

Also, I realized that when she’s low on battery, I wait until she fully empties up before I recharge her. Phones must be like humans who need energy, but this didn’t occur to me. She must also have resented the idea that I use other people’s chargers to power her up at times when I forget to bring my own charger.

The reality that I have no longer a mobile phone took a little while to sink on me. When it did, I bewailed the loss of company—the phone numbers of people embedded in the phone’s memory as well as the experiences associated with having a mobile phone, such as the text messages of sweet endearments of my two daughters when I am away, or the admonition of the wife when I am late for dinner. Gone, too, were the numbers of my business contacts.

Also gone is the gadget I used to light myself around the house when, coming home late, I don’t want to wake up the maids, or the wife who will dutifully ask me a question where the hell I came from. The flashlight that is the mobile phone already belongs to I-don’t-know-who. I’ll return to using my cigarette lighter to find my way. Hah!

Now, I don’t have a mobile phone. Good. It’s only one day since we parted ways, but I only slightly miss her because of a new discovery.

I found out that it’s nice not to have a phone, too. I slept tightly last night because I have no phone. There were no text messages to answer, no irritating blips, and no chargers to worry about. No calls. I’m unattached and I relish the freedom. I feel light and never been better.

I am ‘unreachable’.