Six Days Fourteen Hours and Twenty-Seven Minutes

[dropcap]W[/dropcap]ell, I finally did it. I ruined my phone. I was all the way in Midway, Georgia when it happened. I’m too embarrassed to tell you how. It wasn’t pretty. The motel plumber was even more embarrassed than me. The first thing he did was tell his assistant to bring him a monkey wrench and a whiskey sour.

Subsequently, I’ve been without a phone six days, fourteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes. But the withdrawals started after only a few seconds. I experienced cold sweats, and I kept hearing a faint ringing coming from my pocket.

Like my mother was calling.

The next day, nothing seemed right. I felt stuck in the dark ages. To read emails, I visited the local library. Their PC was ancient. The librarian used a pull-cord to fire the thing up before logging me in. But It didn’t work. The computer needed new spark plugs.

Then there’s navigation. Without a phone-GPS, it’s almost impossible. I pulled over for directions. The man working at the gas station was from Moscow. The only English he knew was, “My name is Vadim, which way for man bathrooms, please?”

I answered with the only bit of Russian I knew: Сделайте меня богатым.

The following morning, I awoke disoriented. I had no idea what time it was. I stumbled into the motel cafe, still half-asleep. I asked the waitress for a breakfast menu.

“Breakfast?” She gave me a funny look. “It’s three in the afternoon, sweet cheeks.”

“Just bring me anything,” I said.

She brought me a monkey wrench and a whiskey sour.

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