This is iPhone 6s Plus serial no. C38GK7DNDTF4, and I need some support. I would also like to report someone who is beyond support.
Allow me to recount the ordeal my idiotic owner, one Lynne Blaszak of Brookline, MA, visited upon me last month. It started when we went out for Friday night pizza followed by a quick, fruitless stop off at T.J.Maxx. (Paying the Maxxinista dues, she calls it.)
Nearly home, this ditz starts rifling through the state of emergency she calls a purse and realizes she can’t find me anywhere. So it’s back to Otto—the pizzeria—and back to T.J.Maxx, which is now dark. And alas, back home with no phone.
The next morning, the T.J.Maxx cashiers shake their heads. She jots down her name, her sister’s number, and “reward possible” on some receipt paper, and, my whereabouts cruelly unknown, she heads off the separation anxiety with an hour of Zumba at the gym!
Afterward, driving through Coolidge Corner, she spots the Verizon store and slams the brakes. In she goes to review recent account activity—none, of course—with Gerard the sales manager.
They’re in there talking administrator access and steps to get a replacement (!!) while I’m outside, staring up at the sky, clinging to (battery) life, attracting curious glances from passersby, and praying to Steve Jobs Himself that I don’t get pinched and pressed into the teenage text trade or jailbreaked or flashed by an online dater or posted on Craigslist or worse.
Finally, her mind on recent pictures and app updates, the scope of this inconvenience is dawning on Ms. Blaszak. She sighs heavily. We take the shortcut down Center Street when, as the Prius slows for a red light, Siri covers her ears and I tumble down the windshield and disappear from view.
The car stops. The driver side door opens, and my dumbstruck owner gets out. She peers at the hood of the car, and then, I swear it: she looks . . . skyward. (?!) Her mouth drops open. The car behind pulls up alongside and rolls down the window for an explanation, but our hero cannot summon a word. She kneels to examine the pavement under the car.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” a man walking his dog asks, pointing.
Would you believe that, despite sailing twelve feet from roof to asphalt, my screen was uncracked, my body unscratched? Are you familiar with the undulation of the Prius roof? Can you appreciate the concentration it took to remain up there for FIFTEEN HOURS while she beetled about?
Did I mention the single digit temperatures the night before?
I ask you, how many devices could live to tweet about it? How many owners would broadcast such lunacy by changing my ringtone to “Up on the Roof?”
I beg you: don’t sell this woman another device. Flag her account and pack her off to Nokia when the contract’s up. Maybe the Finns have the constitution.