W. Bruce Cameron

I own one of those out-of-date, laughably obsolete cell phones that is two years old. When I purchased it, of course, it was the newest and greatest device available, and people would proudly point me out to their children and say: "I know that guy. See the phone he's talking on? Did you ever think I'd know somebody that important?" The children wouldn't believe such a boast, so I'd nod in their direction and their eyes would grow wide with amazement. The parents always gave me a grateful smile, because now their kids would love and respect them until they became teenagers.

The cell phone cost a lot of money — $400 — but it's worth it because it has a lot of special functions I don't know how to use. It also came with a special cable that enables it to talk to my computer.

Phone: Hey, I've got a lot of functions he's not using.

Computer: That's OK, he doesn't know how to use mine, either.

But here's the problem with cell phones: No matter how well they are engineered, eventually they will develop problems if you drop them off a balcony. Fortunately, there is a cell-phone store very close to my home, where the people were able to diagnose the technical issue with my phone. "It's broke," they said.

In the course of trying to go from "broke" to "fixed," I learned a number of things about cell-phone stores, which are both as numerous as Starbucks and just as useful when you need phone repair. It turns out that the "techs," as they are called, don't work in every store, but only the one that is most inconveniently located.

"So, did you drop this or something?" the tech guy asked me as he pushed buttons on my dead phone.

"Just normal use," I replied, thinking to myself that balconies are "normally" above the ground. "But I pay every month for a policy that will repair the phone no matter what I do to it, even if I fired it out of a cannon.

Oh, and I need a new cell-phone charger, because in the course of additional normal use my dog chewed mine and swallowed some of it."

"Well," the tech responded, "we don't carry chargers for this phone. Too old."

For a moment I thought he meant that my dog was too old, because it didn't seem possible that the cell-phone store would stop carrying chargers for telephones they'd sold just two years before.

"You really should get a new phone anyway," he advised. "The new ones are much better."

And they were better — better at generating sales for the store, which is why the whole operation exists in the first place. Most of the newer cell-phone functions — like using the tiny screens to view IMAX movies — were of no use to me. I just wanted a cell phone so that day or night, no matter where I was, if my children needed to they could always reach me to borrow more money.

The new phones were very expensive, but I could purchase one at a substantial discount if I agreed to extend my service contract for another two years, which somehow seemed ironic.

"What's the term for when a product is designed to become obsolete in a short period of time?" I asked.

"'Wonderful'?" he guessed.

"No, 'built-in obsolescence,'" I corrected.

"Speaking of built-in, the phone also has a breathalyzer function so that if you've had too much to drink it won't let you call your ex, or your boss, or anybody you feel resentment toward."

"Like my cell-phone company?" I suggested.

"Sure, if you want."

"Will the phone sense my dog's breath and tell it not to chew up the charger?"

"Maybe next year."

In the end, I elected to have my phone repaired, even though it made the tech very sad to think of one of his customers walking around with a phone that did not have cool new features like higher payments. It's in the shop now, and will be fixed soon.

Like maybe in two years.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate web page at www.creators.com.

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