12 January 2001, 825 words
I do not have a cell phone.
Admitting this nowadays is like admitting you have a social disease, such as herpes or pubic lice. But that, it occurs to me, is exactly why I am indifferent to cell phone ownership: my social disease is that I am not social. But I'm cool with that. Not only is it not infectious, but it doesn't itch either.
Because I'm so anti-social, my circle of friends is so small they couldn't even surround one female UNC candidate for Laventille. I speak regularly to all of them (on normal phones, but mostly in person: the latter's usually cheaper, thanks to TSTT's monopolistic rates and my own loquacity). I have great affection for my friends, and I believe they find me not too obnoxious, but I don't think any of them feel any need to reach me no matter where I am or what I am doing. Yet even they are part of the fashion: only one of them doesn't own a cell.
Still, it didn't strike me until recently that I now belong to a minority. Well, another minority, to be precise. As a book-reading, liberal, atheistic, ethical, over-30-with-a-flat-stomach, naturally curly-haired male, I have had ample experience at belonging to minorities. So, when I think about it, my whole life has actually prepared me to not have a cell-phone.
It's not that I can't afford one. But my income is not so great that, if I did buy a cell, I would be able to afford other things, like books or running-shoes. It's a matter of priorities, you see: it is important for me to exercise my brain and my body. If I want to exercise my tongue, I don't need a cell-phone: I can just visit my female friends (to chat about intellectual issues, of course - get your mind out of the gutter, or whatever other similarly-shaped structure it was in).
Most other people have different priorities. Some months ago, I found myself behind a drifting car on the way to the gas station. When I pulled into the station and looked to see why the driver had been driving like a jackass, I saw that he was chatting away on his cell: rocked back in his seat, fingertips on the steering, pinkie stuck out. Have you ever seen a 300-pound man with his pinkie stuck out? Not a pretty sight.
Thing was, the car he was driving was about 25 years old, the fenders were dropping off, and the tyres were smoother than a baby's bottom. It didn't need a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that all his money went on KFC, Carib, and cell-phone bills.
I have several similar episodes since: women who flaunt their cell-phone as though it were a bilna; other women walking the public road in red-and-purple tracksuits chatting away as they "exercise"; men whose pockets are clearly empty save for the cell ringing there.
Here's what I don't get, though: what did all these people do before there were cell-phones? Were there all these urgent conversations/messages that they were just constantly missing? Was their life just one long round of regrets, missed opportunities and feeling lonely as they travelled on the bus?
I don't think that that can be the case. What I do think is that most people who have cells don't really need them. The paradox about the cell-phone is that, although it is not an exclusive item anymore, it is still a sign of status. That is the real reason so many people have one, and it is also the reason that I don't. I care about status, too: but I have naturally curly hair.
All of which is not to say that I may not buy a cell one day. After all, I still can't find a woman to marry or, better yet, live in sin with; and I am not sure why. But it's possible a cell-phone would help make me more attractive. All I am is fit and intelligent and curly-haired: Trini women seem to want a man to be sophisticated as well, which I admit I am not.
But even if I do get a cell, I will always bear in mind the true story of a writer who lived out in the backwoods but refused to get a telephone. His agent nagged him for years, extolling all the advantages of being reachable. Finally, the writer gave in and had a phone installed.
One day, the agent was visiting and, as they sat talking out on the porch, the phone inside began to ring. The writer just continued their conversation, making no move to get up.
"Aren't you going to answer that?" the agent asked, finally.
"John," said the writer deliberately. "I had that phone put in for my convenience."
Copyright ©2001 Kevin Baldeosingh