In which a broken cell phone is miraculously resurrected.

So Mr. B came home after work last night and said the guy at the US Cellular kiosk had managed to make him feel like a total moron.

“How on earth did that happen?” I asked, chopping tomatoes for salad and thinking of all the times the humanoids in the cell phone kiosks at Wal*Mart had made me feel like a fucking brain surgeon: namely, every time I’ve ever had to deal with them.

“Welllll…” he said, “I took my phone in to get it fixed, right? I handed it to the guy, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t just turn the fucker on.”

“What?!?” I put the knife down and turned to my sheepishly grinning husband.

“He took it, opened it and looked at the battery, then he just… turned it on. It calls out, it accepts calls. It works fine. I felt like an idiot.”

“Dude, no way. I tried to turn that thing on all weekend! I even took the battery from my phone and put it in there, and it still wouldn’t work!”

“I guess he had the touch. Because the fucker sure as hell wouldn’t work for me, and now it works just fine. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so stupid.”

“Oh,” I said. “I have. Don’t worry about it, because it’ll definitely happen again. I mean, cell phones, dude.”