I will never, ever again wonder why cellphones are glued to some people’s hands.
I’ve been one of those people of my generation who wondered, at times, how we ever managed to grow up successfully without being in constant communication with friends, family and strangers who aren’t shy about calling to chat.
As a teenager, getting our own number that stopped the eavesdropping on a party line was a major landmark in our world. We could phone from home or from a payphone if we had the correct change but phones in our pockets or in our hands as we walked and talked was unheard of.
But now I understand why people of every generation have a love for the cellphone.
This time of enlightenment came without warning one day recently — in a bathroom located in a dumpy motel in a strange city.
We were desperate to find a room in a city that had welcomed several thousand delegates to a religious convention and rooms in the better motels and hotels were already booked when I had to find a place to rest our heads for one weekend evening.
When we told family members where we had booked, there were raised eyebrows and looks exchanged that said to me I had made an extremely poor decision. We were told the various names the motel had previously been known as and one relative warned us to make sure the doors locked because she had had a scary experience there. “Wonderful,” I thought, as later we made our way to the motel which ironically was close to a cemetery. Someone should have buried this establishment years ago.
We were able to check in early and our spirits were lifted by that news as we had other places to be in short order. We were given a convoluted map to the parking area from which we could access the room. Use door E or G but not F, we were told. The key to E did not work but a staff person opened it for us.
Our room was small and had an odour about it like old socks and wet carpet or wet dog. We agreed not to walk around in bare feet, not to store anything in the dirty fridge, nor plug anything into any of the electrical outlets.
The urge to use the facilities could not be denied so off I went, leaving my phone on the desk. I shut the door behind me, but leaving it unlocked. I looked at the bath tub in horror, wondering how old it might be and if it have ever met Mr. Clean.
With business finished I tried to turn the knob to leave the premises. Nothing happened. The door would not open no matter how many times I wiggled and jiggled the knob. I pounded on the door. Housemate did not respond. I pounded again. “Surely he hadn’t gone out for a walk,” I thought.
So I shouted his name with some emphasis and heard his response that he was coming. But not fast enough for me not to realize I was locked in a bathroom and I had no phone to call 911, a family member, even the hotel’s front desk. I was stuck there with the dirty tub hoping Housemate remembered where I had gone.
My cellphone was out there with him rather than in my pocket where it normally resides when I’m away from home.
Finally he was there, outside the door, trying his best to let me out while I was doing what I could from the other side. Eventually the door opened and I escaped, being more flustered than I can ever remember.
I wondered what would have been the outcome if I had been travelling alone. I would have been stuck in there until maybe the cleaning crew showed up the next time. Judging from the dusty surfaces, and it being a weekend, that might have been a few days in the future.
Of course family members thought it was an amusing tale but it wasn’t them in the prison between commode and tub, with no food, water with an odour, and no means of communication. I might have been successful in breaking the window but I’m not sure the plunger would have worked — wait a minute — there wasn’t a plunger to be found. And a half roll of toilet tissue wouldn't have been of any use.
And so my cellphone is fully charged, and is in my pocket when not glued to my hand. I have learned a valuable lesson: don’t be so judgmental of others until I have walked a few steps in their shoes. Maybe they too have been unable to exit a bathroom and couldn’t call a friend.
I have a letter composed to the owners of the motel. I don’t expect a response. My online review has already disappeared. Perhaps I will send the motel a package of dust rags and a plunger.
Joyce Walter can be reached at ronjoy@sasktel.net
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the position of this publication.
