Katie Vents

My cell phone died, and although it's not a member of the family, a friend or even an acquaintance, the pain I have endured to replace it today nearly compared to a funeral, or at least a trip to sit Shiva on the sofa of a distant relative I never met. Forgive me if I'm over-reacting, but upon this writing I am a bundle of nerves, a pile of dust, a heap of broken glass.

When I entered the Verizon store on Broadway and 79th Street, I was welcomed by a female security guard with such bad body odor it filled the room. I took a number, sat down, and was literally in shock. How could anyone think it was acceptable in any way to leave this woman at the front door to greet people? A minute later I noticed that her odor was gone and so was she. Had she just been hired moments before and then, once the manager realized his mistake, was fired on the spot? Did a psychically inclined co-worker suddenly call her to the back room and ask could she please fix the problem? Or was she just on a break? In any case, as I continued to wait, I felt my blood pressure rising. Was it particularly noisy in the Verizon store? Or was I just overly stressed this morning, therefore making the normal sounds of the room seem amplified? I checked in with myself and decided, yes, the Verizon store, though quite small in size, was unnecessarily loud. There was music coming out of the speakers overhead, not elevator music, but a kin to it. It’s the kind of music you hear when you food shop, the kind of music that is bad and melancholy and reminds you of something unpleasant from your childhood. Like riding the school bus, the mean girl from across the street, or the sick feeling you had when you listened to great soul music and couldn’t understand why it affected you the way it did. (OK, so maybe that was just me). It's like Kenny G, Christopher Cross & Hall & Oats all mixed into one, but maybe I’m not describing it correctly. So, while that’s playing, a giant TV screen in the shape of a mobile phone displays Pamela Anderson, and she's talking and talking and talking about what to do if you have the need to see her every day but don’t have a TV or magazine handy … that now you can see her on your new video phone. And on and on she went, and soon I begin to notice the startling sounds, an orchestra if you will, of dying cell phone batteries around the room. And just then, as I lay my head in my hands and contemplated running out of the store and giving up my phone altogether, an unappealing young woman on crutches plops down on the seat beside me and seems to think that I'd be interested in hearing her talk and talk and talk about how she dropped her phone into the toilet, and how she should have just lied about it because her insurance doesn’t cover water damage, and could I believe that her phone costs $289 … and that was without the pink jewels! And while the music played, and the phones beeped, and Pamela yapped, and the unappealing woman croaked ... a customer left the store and set off the alarm. And security, (not the one with B.O.; she was still on break or fired or whatever) couldn’t manage to disengage it. And when I finally got my new phone and returned to the peace and quiet of home, my dear housekeeper Hanna greeted me at the front door, asked me what kind of cleaner should she use on her Plasma TV., (I’m not even sure what that is), and why don’t I buy a bigger apartment. She scolded me for working too much, alerted me to the fact that there was a blemish on the expensive dresser, told me I should call the manufacturer and complain immediately, and informed me of the best place to buy high thred-count, Italian sheets. Beep ... beep ... beep ...