He had no name. He was simply “Centro” and he almost lasted a year. In April of 2008 I was looking to get something new. Something fancy. My old Samsung (he didn’t have a name either) had become decrepit, almost speaking death with each call I would take. I was getting looks on the streets as I carried the clunker around talking in dark corners to avoid the stares.
And so he appeared from within the display case, a light house beaming as beacon of hope for a new phone and a new life on the train of tricked out technology. Palm Centro. Smooth and Black. I got a deal on him as I was reupping my contract. And from then on, we were best of friends. I carried him everywhere, depending on Google Maps, my mobile email and the connection to my parents I suddenly had with a powerful texting machine.
I dropped him on his head more than once. Yet Centro kept going, pushing onwards against the IPhones of the world. Like the little engine that could, The Palm never stopped chugging up that hill. And I never lost faith.
The first time he took a trip into water, it was old mildewy water that had failed to drain via the pump in the basement. A few keys went out, he tried to hotsync. Thankfully he came back from the first water baptism and continued to to fight on. Then winter came. He took a running leap into some street slush. I think he was tired of me by this point. Half the keys died. I was forced to use the touchscreen to message.
The phone was starting to show signs of sluggish behavior that would concern any mindful parent. I knew his time was coming. There was no question that Centro would either be struck by lightening (a la the story within Benjamin Button) or simply be taken up into cell heaven on a blingy chariot of fire and cell phone signals.
That moment came last Thursday as I was at the hospital. In a moment of weakness, Centro fell into a unmistakable puddle of after winter water. I dove after him and cradled him softly to my cheek as if to whisper, “It’s not time…don’t go towards the…”, at which point I mentally imagined a grandaddy cell phone from the eighties welcoming each heaven bound contraption.
It was his third encounter with the darkness known as liquid invasion. It was to be his last.
I looked odd cradling a Palm Centro and purring to it as if it was a child. Or a cat. Even a dog. People wondered if I had lost it. Those that know me will be saying right now, “That happened long ago.” I shook my head at their stares and wide eyes. They didn’t understand.
Moments passed as I watched as he began to have seizures of Hot Sync again and this time they didn’t stop. There was nothing to be done. The “battery charging” light had shorted and now stayed on all the time. It was the only sign of life from Centro. He was going fast.
I carried him to my car later that night in a funeral parade of one whistling eerily the dirge “Amazing Grace” as the parking garage provided great acoustics.
I called to have his casket carrier sent. His replacement…or “brother” as I’ve taken to calling him arrived a few days later and is already filling the space of Centro nicely. I will miss the old workhouse. It is unusual for a smart phone that endured such pain, abuse and such sarcrifice to last through the entire year.
To Centro…I will miss you. And if you can hear me beyond the signal grave…got any ideas for a good name for your brother?
