Obituary: Nokia 6610

Not to get all personal with a post here, but amongst the 1000 things I wanted to get posted up here but haven't had the time is a story.

It is a story of a cell phone.

Saturday I took the plunge and went about buying a new phone. Some of you may or may not know what my cell phone looks like, but rest assured its at least 3 years old and in cell-phone terms, a total relic.

And with the new phone on the way from "corporate" (note: there is a total sidebar story here on the strange and completely counter-productive business practices of cell-phone companies, but anyway), there's a few days in here where my phone is sort of in this life-support stage, where I know and it knows its about to be put to sleep for good, but together we hang on for a little while longer.

You see, cell phones mean nothing to me, and I have no real reason to have an attachment to this one at all. Its ugly, awkward, the buttons rarely work, has a cracked screen, the battery is shot and it never got decent reception on a consistent basis the entire time I owned it.

Despite all of this, I admit I have some strange sentimental attachment to the thing.

It has bowling and parachute on it as games - games that I know shouldn't keep a 4 year old's attention for 5 minutes, but for some reason actually had enticed me to learn how to not just figure out the controls of each game, but how to beat it entirely.

It has the memory capacity for like 3 text messages at a time before it crashes. It wasn't something I ever really cared about until one day no one called each other - they only IMed each other using phones (i.e. texted). Still, I almost grew to like having to figure out how to text people without using the "r" "s" or "t" letters because the number 7 didn't work.

I'll also never forget the time that it wouldn't hang up - the end button stopped working - and I contemplated the notion that I could, theoretically, be on the phone forever one day unless the key decided to cooperate once again. I had secretly hoped one day I would call someone who had the same problem, and then we could keep our phone call going forever and see if those unlimited nights and weekends really were unlimited.

But that doesn't really match the time I lost the phone in school, and eventually found it laying in a corner of the ole' baseball house up on S. Fifth. Next to it was an empty dip-spit bottle, usually the most disgusting thing in the world. This time though, it was second. That's because I found the contents of that dip-spit bottle spilled all over the face of the phone.

Or how about the time I needed to put together furniture in my new apartment, and I had nails, I had wood, but I didn't have a hammer? I thought the phone doubled as an extremely useful one.

Could I count the number of times it had hit the ground? Heck, I couldn't even count the number of times I found it in a puddle.

And was there a trip I took with it where I actually remembered the charger? Was there anything funnier than coming home with another one, just to put it in a pile of chargers I had that all barely worked right and never actually made me remember to bring them with me the next time?

I guess some of these questions lead me to somewhat of an understanding. As bad as it was, the thing had been through a lot with me. I treated it terribly, but I couldn't shake it - like a bad habit. I needed that thing.

And so I guess someone could understand why I care. It was a trooper. It sucked, but it had been through a lot. That was worth a little something.

But really though, gimme a break. It's a cell phone. Why write about it, above 1000s of other topics? Respect is one thing, but why am I suddenly misty-eyed and sentimental? (tongue, meet cheek)

I guess, as they say, we have to go back to the start.

It was born the day I took the "phone that came before" it in hand while stuffing clothes into a gym bag. The "phone that came before" was in the hand with my gym towel, and after I managed to get all the clothes in the bag, it was time to stuff the towel in, too. As I typically do, I like to fit too many things in too small of a holder, and this was no different. There was no room for the towel unless I stuffed it in there. And stuff is what I did. As I swung my arm back for one last stuff, the "phone that came before" accidentally slipped from my grasp on the upswing. I felt "the phone that came before" release - and I turned my head and saw it sail through the air. It sailed gracefully through the open doorway and across the hall. The arc was magnificent, and so must have been the velocity, because it continued to sail all the way across the hall and through another open door - the bathroom door. Well, almost through the bathroom door. You see, had it gone cleanly through, the phone I am eulogizing today would never have been mine. Instead, "the phone that came before" gently glanced off the bathroom door and changed direction as it began its descent to the ground.

It would never meet the ground, however. The glance was enough to hurdle it towards the toilet, where it would find one final open door. The toilet seat was up, and provided no resistance to the "phone that came before"'s impending progress to a liquid doom.

SPLOOSH. It was in one sense horrific, in another sense immaculate.
The "phone that came before" never worked again, and it was buried with the honor of having the most tragic and fantastical death ever to strike a cell phone.

Until the phone we remember today. You see, this phone didn't just take a beating and keep on ticking, this phone took a deathlike plunge even more catastrophic and impossible.

It came the day after Halloween, and again there were many things to carry and not enough hands to hold them. Our heroic phone was joined by its late-brother, an equally heroic and memorable mega-wallet that held every business card, ID card, credit card and gift card a person could ever imagine all at the same time. The phone and the wallet were joined by some keys, and they were on a journey to watch the beloved Bears at a young rogue's abode. As harmless as this sounds, terror would strike the situation before anyone could even realize what had happened.

You see, two more elements were present on this journey of death. One was a half-filled case of Miller Light long necks. It was agreed that they would make the trip back to the young rogue's abode, and because of the state of it's fluid contents needed utmost care in its transportation - it required a whole index finger to carry it with.

In the other hand, a California Raisin costume that was donned by yours truly the night before was placed on a hanger and resting within a palm. It was requested by the merchant that loaned it to me - and because of the oppressive time restraints of our agreement required that the costume make the trip - and consequently take up much needed hand space.

So here we were, one costume, one beer case, one wallet, my keys, and our tragic hero. 11 floors up, no pockets to work with and time at a premium, there was no way to make two trips for this - this had to be taken care of in one mission. How to do it?

Evil is born. The idea of using the space in the half-empty case comes to me. I place the mega-wallet and our hero inside the space. Genius. Now the hanger is picked up with my left hand. The keys in my right palm, and the beer case in the steady crook of my right index finger. I open the door, lock it carefully and am on my way.


To doom. I hit the elevator button. The door opens - I get in and JUST as it is about to close, I hear a rustle and a hustle, and I lean forward quickly to try to stop the door from shutting.

Crash. The beer case has slipped free from its iron-like shackles.

Panic. Beer is spilling everywhere. Glass is strewn about the elevator floor. More mess is to come and something needs to be done - and fast.

Open the door, pick up the case. Panic. What to do? The beer is getting everywhere.

Eureka. I run to the left, down the hall. Full sprint now, I throw open the utility door and pull open the garbage chute.

I fire the case down the chute.
Relief.

As I walk back to the elevator, I begin to think about how I will clean up the beer, and how a small mess almost turned into a big one.


And that is the point when it hit me. Tragedy. Despair. Catastrophe.

The beer, the mega-wallet, and our hero - all plunged eleven floors, drowning in suds, helplessly to their doom.


Like a mourner in denial, I coerced management to look for the bodies. I somehow obtained a carcass removal device, and dug threw the disgusting wreckage until I found the physical remains of my beloved.

The mega-wallet and the tragic hero recovered, I cleaned up and took the costume and the keys to my car. I was a shell of a man, shocked and horrified, but somehow reluctantly glad that I got to see my friends one last time.


I started my car, and began to drive away. A few minutes passed, and I grabbed our hero to try to begin cleaning and grooming it for a proper burial.

Then it happened.

Remember how I said "deathlike"?

You see, "the phone that came before" has still taken the most fantastical and impossible death plunge in the history of phones.

That is because this phone, our hero, the one that I mourn today, SURVIVED.


Cracked screen and hops-coated, it miraculously lit up. With some intensive care and prayers - it plodded on.

And it was that moment, that miraculous second that I realized I didn't just respect this phone. I loved this thing.


Rest In Peace, NOKIA 6610. You have given me more than just crappy reception, poor battery life and complete lack of status with women and friends. You have given me inspiration - and for that I will never forget.