Good People: 1, Douchebags: 0
I lost my iPhone. It took me the first half of today to come to terms with that idea, but that's the facts—and stay tuned, because the facts get weird fast.
Last night Grandma babysat and we joined some friends at their place for drinks. At midnight we called a cab, and a short way into the ride I realized I didn't have my iPhone on me. Since I had taken it out and was comparing iPhone stuff with friends, I assumed that I'd left it on the table, and would get it when we returned to pick up my car.
I phoned Charles this morning, and he hadn't seen my phone, but assured me that Betsy had cleaned up and would know where it was when she rose for her latte. Being smart, he suggested I call my number, which I did, and voicemail picked up immediately, as though it was turned off. That worried me, because I know I didn't turn it off. I emailed the other guests there too, just in case it ended up in a European man bag or something. No luck. We headed over there around midday, but alas—no phone. Two possibilies seemed likely: a friend had picked it up, or I'd dropped it in the cab. Scarily, the second option seemed more likely than the first.
We had lunch and shopped near Main, then headed home. Went right to my computer to check email, just in case a friend had it. The first thing I saw was a MobileMe alert telling me that syncing my computer would change more than 5% of my contacts. That was Newharting the issue severely, since exactly 100% of my contacts were about to be changed: all deleted, replaced by a handful of new contacts I've never heard of. For instance: "Mom," "Dads Work," "Ben," "Aari," "Bydan," "Cody," "Travis"…apparently my treasured phone was in the hands of a country and western singer. The game was on. I took some screenshots of the alerts, you know, just in case they came in handy, and I used MobileMe to send my iPhone an alert requesting that the person who had it call me on our land line.
I phoned "Mom." Got her voicemail, and made my voice as calm as I could as I said, "Hello, my name is Matt Anderson. Last night I lost my iPhone, and an Internet service I use to sync the contacts on my phone is telling me that all of my contacts have been deleted, and replaced with (here I rattle off Mom, Dads Work and the band members' names). Someone to whom you are 'Mom' has my iPhone, and if I don't get it back very soon I'll be calling the police." A few minutes later Mom phoned back. She told me that when you lose your cellphone you don't call the police. I told her that now that I knew who had the phone, if they didn't make an effort to get it back to me I would call the police. She told me that her daughter Cora had found my phone and had tried really hard to get it back to me: she phoned my "Home" contact a few times, leaving voicemails, and when no-one got back to her she figured she'd done her best. Had I checked my voicemails? Voice dripping with "You're an asshole," like I'm the bad guy here. I admitted I hadn't. She said she'd get Cora to call me. Later I checked our voicemail, and there were no messages. Nobody even called our house, unless they did it while we were in the cab. Right.
A few minutes later, Cora phoned. She was very apologetic (in retrospect clearly because she knew she was very caught), told me she was 16, and said she wanted to get the phone to me but she was going camping that day. I asked if there was any way to get to her to get the phone back before she left, and she told me to meet her in 10 at the gate to Hastings Racetrack, where I guess she works. I drove up there and went to all of the six or whatever gates, unfortunately not finding the main gate until about half an hour had passed. Missed her, tried to call her, waited a lot, asked people if they knew a Cora, gave up, drove home. Just as I was turning the corner to park at our house, my wife called (I had her cell) and told me Cora called, and my wife had instructed her to put my phone in an envelope and leave it with lost and found. I headed back up there and parked, and walked to the main Racetrack building. Checked with lost and found at the casino and the racetrack; nobody had heard of the lost phone or of Cora, for that matter. I'm hanging out at the racetrack as the cavalcade of mascots begins (Be Bop Beluga? WTF?), and I decide I'll try calling "Dads Work." That went well:
Matt: Hello, is Cora there?
Male voice: This is Cora.
M: No, sorry, I'm looking for a 16 year old girl named Cora.
MV: Oh, you're looking for a 16 year old girl eh?
M: She has my cellphone.
MV: She doesn't have your cellphone.
M: Well, someone has it and I've come here to get it back.
MV: Where are you?
M: Near the Paddock Grill at Hastings Racetrack, near the east gate (the security guy I talked to about lost and found referred to it as the east gate).
MV: I'll be right out.
If you haven't twigged yet, it was clear pretty fast that this guy was a douchebag. Anyway, no show, called "Dads Work" again after ten minutes. He made it clear that I was at the wrong gate: the REAL east gate was the main gate I came in to park. He told me he'd given the phone to the people there and all I had to do was go there and give them the $100 reward and they'd give it to me. Brain is racing: I'm thinking, "Your reward will be my boot up your ass," but I say, "OK, I'll be right there." Anyway, I'm wearing sandals. Head over there. There's nobody there—the booths are empty. I call again, but this time I get Grandpa Simpson on the phone and he has no idea about any cellphone; I start to think I'm about ready to throw in the towel when he puts douchebag on the phone again. He tells me exactly where to find the people with the phone: by the barns. I finally find them: Captain Douchebag, his friend Gonad, and some blonde chick. I guess they work the barns. That also went well:
Gonad: Are you the guy who's looking for a 16 year old girl?
Matt: If she's the one with my cellphone.
G: She's 13 actually.
M: She told me on the phone that she was 16.
Captain Douchebag (he's sitting on a bench playing with my phone): So the reward - $100 right?
M: I didn't offer a reward, and Cora really wanted to get the phone back to me, so there's no reward.
They keep the phone. At this point my wife phones and asks how it's going. She's been getting more and more worried as I updated her on my day. I tell her it's not going well. She asks me if I should call them again, and I tell her I'm talking to the guy who has my phone. She asks if she should dig out the receipt in case the police need it, and I tell her that would be a good idea.
M: That was my wife. She's going to get the receipt that proves that I own that phone, and I'm going to call the police.
G: OK, if that's the way you want to play it (walks away).
M: Yep, I do (I start dialing 911).
Gonad brings the phone over to me, I take it, turn and walk.
CD: Hey, we have your photo buddy (they don't—Cora cleared everything off the phone). It's going to be all over the Internet (it already is, idiot).
This day is going to stay with me like a bad stink for some time to come. Cora, instead of giving my phone to lost and found you gave it to some carny mouth-breathers. Why?
The lesson to be learned: That MobileMe account I thought about canceling several times saved my effing bacon. If you're an iPhone user, get one. Let's face it, the iPhone is the only cellphone you'll ever recover when it's found by dishonest people, but you need MobileMe to make that happen.
Many thanks to my wife for being there during all that bullshit. If her cellphone battery had died I don't know what I would have done.
Continue to Part II
Last night Grandma babysat and we joined some friends at their place for drinks. At midnight we called a cab, and a short way into the ride I realized I didn't have my iPhone on me. Since I had taken it out and was comparing iPhone stuff with friends, I assumed that I'd left it on the table, and would get it when we returned to pick up my car.
I phoned Charles this morning, and he hadn't seen my phone, but assured me that Betsy had cleaned up and would know where it was when she rose for her latte. Being smart, he suggested I call my number, which I did, and voicemail picked up immediately, as though it was turned off. That worried me, because I know I didn't turn it off. I emailed the other guests there too, just in case it ended up in a European man bag or something. No luck. We headed over there around midday, but alas—no phone. Two possibilies seemed likely: a friend had picked it up, or I'd dropped it in the cab. Scarily, the second option seemed more likely than the first.
We had lunch and shopped near Main, then headed home. Went right to my computer to check email, just in case a friend had it. The first thing I saw was a MobileMe alert telling me that syncing my computer would change more than 5% of my contacts. That was Newharting the issue severely, since exactly 100% of my contacts were about to be changed: all deleted, replaced by a handful of new contacts I've never heard of. For instance: "Mom," "Dads Work," "Ben," "Aari," "Bydan," "Cody," "Travis"…apparently my treasured phone was in the hands of a country and western singer. The game was on. I took some screenshots of the alerts, you know, just in case they came in handy, and I used MobileMe to send my iPhone an alert requesting that the person who had it call me on our land line.
I phoned "Mom." Got her voicemail, and made my voice as calm as I could as I said, "Hello, my name is Matt Anderson. Last night I lost my iPhone, and an Internet service I use to sync the contacts on my phone is telling me that all of my contacts have been deleted, and replaced with (here I rattle off Mom, Dads Work and the band members' names). Someone to whom you are 'Mom' has my iPhone, and if I don't get it back very soon I'll be calling the police." A few minutes later Mom phoned back. She told me that when you lose your cellphone you don't call the police. I told her that now that I knew who had the phone, if they didn't make an effort to get it back to me I would call the police. She told me that her daughter Cora had found my phone and had tried really hard to get it back to me: she phoned my "Home" contact a few times, leaving voicemails, and when no-one got back to her she figured she'd done her best. Had I checked my voicemails? Voice dripping with "You're an asshole," like I'm the bad guy here. I admitted I hadn't. She said she'd get Cora to call me. Later I checked our voicemail, and there were no messages. Nobody even called our house, unless they did it while we were in the cab. Right.
A few minutes later, Cora phoned. She was very apologetic (in retrospect clearly because she knew she was very caught), told me she was 16, and said she wanted to get the phone to me but she was going camping that day. I asked if there was any way to get to her to get the phone back before she left, and she told me to meet her in 10 at the gate to Hastings Racetrack, where I guess she works. I drove up there and went to all of the six or whatever gates, unfortunately not finding the main gate until about half an hour had passed. Missed her, tried to call her, waited a lot, asked people if they knew a Cora, gave up, drove home. Just as I was turning the corner to park at our house, my wife called (I had her cell) and told me Cora called, and my wife had instructed her to put my phone in an envelope and leave it with lost and found. I headed back up there and parked, and walked to the main Racetrack building. Checked with lost and found at the casino and the racetrack; nobody had heard of the lost phone or of Cora, for that matter. I'm hanging out at the racetrack as the cavalcade of mascots begins (Be Bop Beluga? WTF?), and I decide I'll try calling "Dads Work." That went well:
Matt: Hello, is Cora there?
Male voice: This is Cora.
M: No, sorry, I'm looking for a 16 year old girl named Cora.
MV: Oh, you're looking for a 16 year old girl eh?
M: She has my cellphone.
MV: She doesn't have your cellphone.
M: Well, someone has it and I've come here to get it back.
MV: Where are you?
M: Near the Paddock Grill at Hastings Racetrack, near the east gate (the security guy I talked to about lost and found referred to it as the east gate).
MV: I'll be right out.
If you haven't twigged yet, it was clear pretty fast that this guy was a douchebag. Anyway, no show, called "Dads Work" again after ten minutes. He made it clear that I was at the wrong gate: the REAL east gate was the main gate I came in to park. He told me he'd given the phone to the people there and all I had to do was go there and give them the $100 reward and they'd give it to me. Brain is racing: I'm thinking, "Your reward will be my boot up your ass," but I say, "OK, I'll be right there." Anyway, I'm wearing sandals. Head over there. There's nobody there—the booths are empty. I call again, but this time I get Grandpa Simpson on the phone and he has no idea about any cellphone; I start to think I'm about ready to throw in the towel when he puts douchebag on the phone again. He tells me exactly where to find the people with the phone: by the barns. I finally find them: Captain Douchebag, his friend Gonad, and some blonde chick. I guess they work the barns. That also went well:
Gonad: Are you the guy who's looking for a 16 year old girl?
Matt: If she's the one with my cellphone.
G: She's 13 actually.
M: She told me on the phone that she was 16.
Captain Douchebag (he's sitting on a bench playing with my phone): So the reward - $100 right?
M: I didn't offer a reward, and Cora really wanted to get the phone back to me, so there's no reward.
They keep the phone. At this point my wife phones and asks how it's going. She's been getting more and more worried as I updated her on my day. I tell her it's not going well. She asks me if I should call them again, and I tell her I'm talking to the guy who has my phone. She asks if she should dig out the receipt in case the police need it, and I tell her that would be a good idea.
M: That was my wife. She's going to get the receipt that proves that I own that phone, and I'm going to call the police.
G: OK, if that's the way you want to play it (walks away).
M: Yep, I do (I start dialing 911).
Gonad brings the phone over to me, I take it, turn and walk.
CD: Hey, we have your photo buddy (they don't—Cora cleared everything off the phone). It's going to be all over the Internet (it already is, idiot).
This day is going to stay with me like a bad stink for some time to come. Cora, instead of giving my phone to lost and found you gave it to some carny mouth-breathers. Why?
The lesson to be learned: That MobileMe account I thought about canceling several times saved my effing bacon. If you're an iPhone user, get one. Let's face it, the iPhone is the only cellphone you'll ever recover when it's found by dishonest people, but you need MobileMe to make that happen.
Many thanks to my wife for being there during all that bullshit. If her cellphone battery had died I don't know what I would have done.
Continue to Part II
posted by Todd Dremver at
9:02 PM
7 Comments:
Stories like this always start a little voice going in my head, whispering seductively, saying over and over:
"Buy a gun. Buy a gun. Your whole society is being overrun by pieces of evil demonic shit wearing the bodies of human beings. Buy a gun."
You handled it far better than I would have. Nobody should have to endure the torments of these ambulatory shitpieces, never mind for days. You're lucky to get it back.
I'm still a bit in shock that I got it back at all; I pinch myself now and then. If any time in the next few months I stop, stare into space like I've been hit with a pan, and mutter "What...the...fuck...", you'll know why.
Ya know what troubles me most? How badly most (decent) people are behind the 8-ball on understanding the scope of the problem: it isn't just that parents "aren't parenting" their kids: they are ENCOURAGING them to lead completely amoral lowlife thieving backstabbing lives. probably hoping they'll get a piece of the kind of action the Bacon Brothers' parents are getting some day.
I really want to believe that the people you had to endure (dishonest, manipulative, opportunistic assholes) are in the minority. Let's hope they are.
Pat
"Ten Percenters," Sheila calls 'em.
I call 'em 60-percenters. Guess that's the difference between Van and the burbs.
That. Is. Crazy.
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