To Cover or Not To Cover (Just in Case)

Here’s my rough draft for today, Happy Monday, 01.24.22.


To Cover or Not To Cover
Remember the first time you damaged your phone dropping it?
I’d never dropped my phone at all ever, so the first time,
when the screen cracked, was a 10 on the phone ownership trauma scale.
This happened on a street in bustling downtown York, England.
It fell in slow motion; I remember a family of four watching me for the longest while.
My reflexes weren’t fast enough, my fingers nimble enough,
grabbing wildly multiple times and just missing always,
left and right hand swipes, like Daniel-san practicing karate poorly,
my baby losing its prolonged battle with gravity,
me batting it around for most unintentional dramatic effect.
The four sightseers, a mother, father, and two children, seemed mesmerized
by my failing extended juggling act, intuiting that I was obviously not a professional busker.
The expression of horror on their faces, I hope they were commiserating,
understanding to the marrow in their bones, all phone-carriers themselves, I noted,
what it is like when you drop your second brain, that instant sucking out of all hope from life,
praying like the Pope at the second coming that there is no damage,
and then, most horribly, there is, the bell has tolled for thee.
I cursed quite articulately for an extended period; I rarely do that.
We were all from the States, so I had no accent, British or otherwise,
to muddle my extensively comprehensive string of obscenities.
I hope I did not offend them, make them curse me as a prime example
of the Ugly American ruining it for all the others.
I had never dropped my phone; I’d lived a charmed life.
And I had never bought a case –
Ah, how I’d lived in a proverbial fool’s paradise,
isolated like a new-born babe from the horrors of real-world phone ownership.
I rushed my now flawed darling, dashing behind all the horses that had left the stable ahead of me,
to the very first place I spied selling cases, demanding the best that the British pound could buy.
That was an iPhone 8: Antarctica, Wisconsin, China, Norway, England twice, Scotland twice, with nary a scratch.
I’ve bought two since, the X and the 12.
Immediately upon delivery of each, I raced like Usain Bolt directly to the mall to buy cases.
You would not believe how many times I’ve dropped my phone since that first time in York.
Sometimes it feels like a daily occurrence, some sick calisthenic ritual to achieve a better executed drop each time ahead.
But neither of them have ever even been scratched.
Buy a cover, friends.
One day, like Ishmael finding Queequeg’s coffin, you may not regret having done so.

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