This is iPhone 4S 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, the 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.
Saturday morning the T.J.Maxx cashiers shake their heads No. 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 shipped back to China or pressed into the teenage text trade or jailbreaked or posted on Craigslist or worse.
Finally, her mind on recent pictures and app updates, the scope of the 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 stopped. The driver side door opened, and my dumbstruck owner got out. She peered at the hood of the car, and then, I swear it: she looked skyward. Her mouth dropped open. The car behind pulled up alongside, rolled down the window, but the woman could not summon a coherent explanation. She knelt and examined the pavement under the car.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” a man walking his dog asked, 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 of the night before?
I ask you, how many like devices could live to tweet about it? How many owners would react to 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.