Who Knows Where the Phones Go?
I reach for my phone. It's not in my pocket where it belongs. I'd had it out earlier over where I was exercising, but it's not there either. It's not in the kitchen where I had breakfast. Weird. The damn phone isn't in any of the places I've been since I woke up. How does this kind of thing happen? And why does it happen so frequently?
I remember there's a button on my smart watch that — smartly — causes the phone to make the same aggressive tinkling sound a xylophone makes when you toss it down the stairs. (Right, like you've never done that.)
I push the button, and my watch tells me I stopped breathing fifteen times the night before, once for as long as 47 seconds. This is the same watch that sent me to the cardiologist for atrial fibrillation. A Timex would have been $400 cheaper and never felt the need to worry me. Pushing a few more buttons, I eventually hear xylophone tinkling. It sounds like the phone's right in front of me in the tall bureau. But I haven't opened that bureau in days. I hit the button on the watch again. Maybe the phone's behind the bureau? No, just a single sock and an unopened electric bill from 2018. Underneath the bureau? There's no opening. Could someone have lifted the bureau and put my phone underneath it?
Then I get it. Elementary, my dear Watson. The phone must be in the walk-in closet on the other side of the wall. In the closet, I hit the tinkle button again. (Now there's a sentence I never expected to write.) The phone must be in my other jeans, hanging from one of the hooks. I check. Nothing. I throw the jeans down and grab the next pair — still nothing. Tossing them to the floor, I hit the button again. Clearly, the phone is somewhere right in front of me. I grab the jeans with the hole in the butt. Empty. To the floor. A pair of shorts I haven't worn in months. No! I drop to my knees and check through them all again. I'm getting frantic because this is so strange. I ring the phone. It's still right in front of me!
Aha! Underneath where the pants were hanging, there's a jumble of footwear. The phone must have fallen from a pants pocket. I dig through the pile one by one, tossing each of them aside.
"What are you doing?" It's my wife, gazing in an unhappy wife manner at the scattered mess. I'm worked up and I know I sound mildly certifiable as I explain that the phone is right here somewhere, but it can't be found. To show her, I ring it again.
She convulses with laughter, doubling over. Unable to speak, she finally just points. The phone is halfway out of my right pants pocket. Not in my left pocket where it's supposed to be. My right pocket. Crammed halfway in there with my wallet. So every time it rang, the sound shot forward and bounced off whatever was in front of me. The tall bureau, the various areas in the closet. That would have confused anybody, right? Right!?!
Eventually, my wife asks, "Didn't your brother once call his assistant to ask her if she'd seen his phone — the one he was calling on?" She nods, expectations fulfilled.
You can contact Barry Maher or sign up for his Slightly Off-Kilter newsletter at www.barrymaher.com .
To find out more about Barry Maher and read features by other Single SparkleSyndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Single SparkleSyndicate website at www.Single Sparkle .
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