Repairs
My cell phone freezes. I take the battery out and restart it. It works for a second, but when I open the text application it freezes again. I do this five more times and get the same result each time. I stop at a Sprint store on my way to work and speak with Gus, a customer service representative who obviously hates his job and everyone on planet Earth.
He says, “What’s the problem?” in a tone that makes me think he’ll probably kill himself by the end of the day.
I say, “Every time I try to read or send a text, the phone freezes.”
He says, “Did you try taking the battery out and restarting it?”
I say, “Several times.”
He takes the battery out and restarts it. He opens the text application and it freezes. He says, “Yeah, that didn’t work. So we’ll just reset it. That should fix the problem.”
“Won’t that erase everything I have on the phone?”
“Your contacts are saved to your Google account.”
“Right, but all of my text messages, my pictures, all of that’s gone if you reset it, right?”
“Did you save that stuff to the phone or to the memory card?”
“Some is saved to the phone and some to the memory card. Can you just back up everything and put it all back on the phone after the reset to be sure I get everything?”
“It takes a little more time, but I guess.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I wait while Gus goes into a back room and backs up everything on my phone. I’m positive this process will involve him getting to look at every photo Holly sent me of her ass and tits, as well as every filthy text message she sent me explaining what she was going to do to my cock. I’m also positive that Gus and all of the other assholes who work here see so much of this shit every day that it probably doesn’t faze them in the least. Unless they come across something extremely out of the ordinary, like a picture of a guy with a peanut butter jar up his ass or something, they probably don’t even take the time to show the other guys in the back room. I imagine a wall of pictures they’ve printed out that are kind of a hall of fame of the weirdest shit they’ve ever seen on customers’ phones. I convince myself that this photo hall of fame must exist in every cell-phone store in America.
I watch a woman with a baby in a stroller looking at phones while she’s waiting for hers to be fixed. She’s not attractive. I think about fucking her and blowing my load on her ample tits. I imagine a scenario in which she’s actually here to get her husband’s phone fixed and Gus and the guys in the back see all of the naked pictures of all of the chicks that her husband is cheating on her with but they don’t tell her. I wonder how many times that happens. I wonder how many times the wife does find out about her husband cheating through some discovery of a text message or Facebook post. I can’t decide if we’re better off or worse. It seems like all of this shit makes it much easier to fuck chicks, but it makes it much harder to keep any of it a secret.