Royal Flush

A few years ago we were at a restaurant with some friends when our friend’s daughter came back to the table.

In tears.

She had just dropped her cell phone into the toilet.

And flushed.

Not necessarily in that order.

I could understand the drop.

I suppose.

Slip happens.

But that’s some serious kind of bad luck to drop your phone AND flush.

At the same time.

Or not in that order.

Or whatever.

The bottom line is the phone was gone.

She was devastated.

Her dad was fired up.

And I was amused.

On the inside.

People act like they care.

But if it’s not happening to them.

They don’t care.

Like being on a plane with a crying baby.

Somebody else’s crying baby.

Before becoming a parent, it might’ve driven me nuts.

Now...

I love it.

Really.

Of course, I don’t enjoy watching the baby cry.

But watching the parent scramble.

Priceless.

As long as its not you.

My friend’s daughter dropping her cell phone into the toilet a few years ago.

Funny.

My son dropping his cell phone into the toilet a few months ago.

Not so much.

Fortunately he didn’t flush.

After the splash, he did what any 11-year old boy would do when he drops his cell phone into the toilet.

Roll up your sleeves and.........

Well, you know the rest.

I took the phone to the local Verizon store to get a new one.

I tried to fib (and play dumb) that I had no idea what had really happened.

But that’s when I learned that these phones have little sensors on the inside that change from white to pink.

Or pink to white.

When the phone gets wet.

In essence, flushing the warranty right down the toilet.

In our case, the sensor was the wrong color.

The lady at Verizon acted like she cared.

But since it wasn’t her phone.

She didn’t care.

She claimed to be really sorry.

Then said, if we want a new phone we needed to pay for one.

Full price.

Now I was the one in tears.

Before writing that check, I decided to take the old one home to see if we could make it work.

One of my friends suggested putting all of the wet parts in a bag with dry white rice.

Seriously.

And somehow, through the magic of rice, the liquid from the phone would get sucked out.

Sure enough.

It worked.

Whether it was the rice.

Or a little hair dryer action.

Or some old fashioned good luck.

We brought the phone back to life.

Now if we could only get the boy to wash his hands.

The bottom line, when it’s your life, it matters.

When it’s not.

Not so much.

And I’m not just talking about cell phones and toilets.

The same week my son dropped his phone into the can, I got a call from my old boss.

Actually, my old bosses’ boss.

A big cheese, who drives a fancy car.

Well he told me that his good buddy was looking for a guy.

And I was the perfect guy to be that guy.

He just wanted to make sure I would be interested.

And then he would set us up.

In the Jewish world, it’s called a shidduch.

The gentiles call it eHarmony.

Either way, I was game.

And I let him know it.

And this big cheese was well aware of my situation.

Aware of my employment.

And the merger.

And the unemployment.

And the new job.

And the end of the new job.

And me being home again.

Without a job.

He knew it all.

And he sounded like he cared.

But clearly, he didn’t.

And why would he?

It wasn’t his life.

Or his family.

That phone call was nearly four months ago.

And while I’ve tried, I haven’t spoken to him or his guy.

Since.

I’m sure he’s busy.

But four months busy?

Really?

At least I know where I can flush that contact number.