Carrying a cell in my purse while out with Max can be awkward. Digging through the dark hole filled with wallet, small notebook, make-up, tissues, car keys and on occasion a doggie poop bag, empty of course, can take time. So much easier to slip that cell in the back pocket of my jeans. One quick pull and my Galaxy is retrieved, ringing and showing me a photo of the caller. That would be the norm.
Now everyone has a secret. A secret password, a secret identity, a secret friend. Even a secret bank account. Not to mention some very secret conversations. It seems that my back pocket is privy to all kinds of secrets. Some delicious, some strange, humorous or downright frightening.
Somewhere in my Galaxy there is a deviousness that I had not expected when I first purchased this gem. Oh so attractive, oh such a large screen. Brilliant color, a camera which would accommodate my moods when not carrying my Canon. There was nothing more my Galaxy wanted to do than please my fingers as a I tapped away the hours. Right.
Now, let’s talk about “Pocket Dialing.” It happens. Perhaps my phone is on vibrate so I never hear “hello” coming from my back pocket. But the person on the other end, if they decide to listen, will hear all kinds of sounds. Crunching through a gravel trail, encouraging the dog to ‘go potty’ – thinking aloud about the scenery, a conversation with my partner about the state of the country and what we might have for dinner. Pretty bland stuff so I doubt no one listens for long. But, you can bet I get a call at home from the recipient of the pocket dialing.
There have been times when someone pocket dials me. Do I listen, well on a few occasions after shouting into the phone and getting no response from the dialer.
A few years ago a client was in a motel with her young child and a male friend. To the best of my knowledge, she wasn’t supposed to be there but at our women’s shelter for victims of domestic violence.
My phone rang. I answered. Nothing but some background noise. Then I heard a small child’s voice, and the mother call her by name. I knew that the child was more than a handful. Then the fight started. Not between mother and child, but between my client and an unknown male. It raged on and on. I was helpless. I waited to see if either of them mentioned the name of the motel. Frustrated, I hung up and wished there had been away to record the fight. In the end, I found out that the child would take the cell phone out of her mother’s purse and punch numbers, I was on speed dial. They were both okay.
In another instance, my phone and I did the same tap dance. Within in seconds I heard a familiar male voice talking with someone else. I heard footsteps, a door closing and the sound of a zipper. You would be surprised how loud a zipper can sound when the cell is in your pocket. Click.
We have a friend who now lives in Mexico, just across the border from San Diego. He usually calls about every two or three weeks. With no caller ID on my landline, I never know who, or what is on the other end. This day I could hear a discussion about gas and how many pesos it would be. The sound of a metal hose, the whoosh of gas being released in the tank. More footsteps. It took a few moments to recognize our friend’s voice – speaking in another language. I was sorry there was no way to get his attention.
If you have a “Pocket Dialing” story, please share it with us. Don’t be bashful, just be gutsy and spill it.
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