For those of you who have placed bets as to when (if ever) the day would arrive, the time has come at last either to pay up or to collect your winnings, depending on the accuracy of your guess. Appropriately enough, it was April 1 when we finally, finally surrendered to the pressure of the cosmos and acquired our first mobile (cell) phone. Wait, that’s not strictly accurate. We’ve had the phone here since last October (a hand-me-down from Kathryn’s aunt Bev), but it was not until April Fool’s Day that we charged up the battery, bought a SIM card, and purchased some $30 of calling time. I believe the sales lady said this will be sufficient credit to make one or two phone calls, providing we do it between 12:30 and 1:00 a.m., during the rainy season, to someone with the same hair color as me. Of course, if the person I’m calling actually picks up his phone and answers the call, then all bets are off and the mobile-service provider places a lien on our home back in the U.S.
I am not a big fan of mobile phones, and I believe we could have held out a while longer against the force of the cosmos, if we did not have to rent cars now and then to get out and see things. Most recently, we wanted to sample the eastern end of the Great Ocean Road, a magnificent highway running 363 kilometers (225 miles) along Australia’s southern coast, from Torquay to Portland.
We had reserved our car via the internet, and had arrived betimes at the rental office to pick it up. The paperwork was nearly done, when the agent concluded brightly, “Right. Now I just need your mobile number and you’re all set!” Notice the phrasing, which implies that a mobile phone is just part of the standard equipment for a would-be car renter—as indespensible as a driver’s license and a working pair of eyeballs.
“We haven’t got one,” Kathryn told her.
“Then I can’t give you the car,” the agent replied in the same perkily efficient tone.
“But you have our home phone,” Kathryn protested.
“Yes, but we require a mobile number, in case we need to contact you about something.” Presumably, this was in case of a national emergency, when the country’s entire fleet of rental vehicles might have to be commandeered to protect the homeland.
“But we haven’t got one,” Kathryn repeated.
“I can’t release the car unless I have two contact numbers, one of them a mobile, in case we need to contact you.” She was still perky, but I got the impression the agent rather enjoyed having an iron-clad rule she could fall back on to turn us out, carless and dejected.
“Ah, our mobile number,” I interjected. “Gosh, yes, I have that right here in my notebook. Let’s see. It’s 11-1111-111, ah, 1. Yes, that’s it.” And off we went with the car.
Actually, it didn’t quite play out like that. Kathryn, who is marginally more honest than I, proposed giving the agent aunt Bev’s mobile number. Would that suffice? Happily, it would. So Kathryn called her aunt, got the mobile number, and passed it to the agent. “But we won’t have that phone with us,” Kathryn warned her. You still won’t be able to contact us.” The agent didn’t give a tinker’s damn—she had her mobile-phone number, and the letter of the rule had been fulfilled: we had our car for the weekend. Outside the sun emerged from behind the clouds and the birds began singing once more.
We could foresee this scene playing out again and again, however, so we decided simply to take the plunge and activate the phone we already had at home. That was my project on April Fool’s Day. “What kind of plan do you want?” the lady at the mobile shop asked me.
“The kind that gives us a number that we can give to car-rental agencies.”
“How many calls will you be making per month?”
“On average? Zero, give or take.”
“SMS?”
“Oh, even less of that.”
“Ah, in that case, we have a product called the ‘Don’t Even Think of Using this Phone’ Plan. For a flat fee you get a SIM card, a number, and a small plastic bag.”
So I got out of the showroom down only $39, but I had a phone that was theoretically operational, and a small plastic bag to put it in. Moreover, I had a number, a real number that I could give to any petty fuss-budget who might ask for it.
We still are not thrilled to have a mobile, but friends assure us that soon we’ll wonder how we ever got by without it. “What if you’re out driving and you break down?” they ask. “What if you’re hiking and you’re attacked by a dingo?”
Well, I suppose they’re right. We’ve paid to activate the thing, so we might as well bring it along when we’re on a trip. That way, if we break down, we’ll at least have the phone to wedge under the back tire so the car doesn’t roll off down the hill while we wait for help. And if a dingo attacks, we’ll have something to throw at it. I guess that kind of peace of mind is worth $39.
--originally posted 4/2009
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