How To Upgrade Your Phone
The time has come to jump through these 22 easy hoops.
1) First thing’s first: if you wait about a year too long to do this, the process will be extra invigorating. I’m talking: the back is cracked from dropping it; the battery lasts about 4 hours (2 if it’s cold outside — enjoy winter!); the camera quality is moving suspiciously downhill by the day. It should be real last-thread-energy between you and the thing. It’ll make the next 21 steps feel a little sweeter.
2) Give in to the pressure to upgrade only because of impending tariffs. You think an iPhone is expensive now? Let’s see how coveted those puppies are once Donald Trump has a real say about it. I know that having a shitty phone has been somewhat of a point of pride as of late — look! look! I’m attempting to escape the jaws of thoughtless consumerism! — but it’s time to grow up. Nothing to encourage you to make an expensive purchase like the imminent threat of it becoming even more expensive. Bite the bullet: the time has come.
3) Decide all of this in one sitting, somewhat at random, on a Wednesday afternoon. Might as well tie it in with your side quest to finally go get a New York library card. The Apple store isn’t that far away, after all.
4) Ask the Geniuses at the bar all the right questions. Their shocking take? Go ahead and let yourself get the newest thing: all bright and shiny with the good camera and everything. Shoot, a woman says — we can’t take your old phone for trade in because the damage; it’s possible though that your carrier will. Shrug your shoulders — it’s only 17 minutes to the closest T-Mobile. Might as well check just in case.
5) Trek over to the next store. Ignore the shin splints. Have I mentioned that you have a typewriter in a tote bag and are wearing heeled boots? No matter: you’re a tough little cookie. Show up and bat your eyelashes. My old phone hardly works — help!
6) Let the guys look at it casually and decide it’s in pretty good shape, actually. The back is fucked up but it’s the screen that matters, they say. That’s amazing. The screen has some deep scratches but no real cracks. We can give you $300 for a trade-in, they say. That’s awesome and makes all of this worth it, you’d guess.
7) Go through the whole process, standing at the counter, giving all your right numbers and PINs. At the end of it, let them tell you: Oh shit, we’re out of stock of what you want. But we should get a shipment so just come back tomorrow.
8) This is where one might reasonably begin to give up, but you are the queen of sunk cost fallacy. You’ve gotta wear that crown proudly. Do you live anywhere near this store? Of course not. But it’s close enough to the park and so you can find an excuse to take your typewriter out there again tomorrow. Sure, it might snow — but look on the bright side: you might even earn some extra money! Basically, the phone pays for itself.
9) When tomorrow comes again, think smart: put the typewriter in your suitcase so your shoulders won’t ache with its weight. Think not smart enough: wear the heeled boots again. Look: you’re just testing your own spirit’s strength.
10) Your regular poem-writing spot is closed because they’re filming a movie there. Cool! Shrug again. Sit on a bench. Grit your teeth and tell yourself I will not freak out. What else were you going to do with this day, anyway?
11) Walk a mile to the T-Mobile store. Tell your feet to stop aching. The end is in sight. Arrive and ask about the shipment. Wish the guy from yesterday was still here when the new one says — Nah, we get our shipments on Mondays. This is very interesting news — will it break you? No: just shrug your shoulders again.
12) Call the store one mile up Third Avenue and ask about their stock. You’re in luck! they say. They’ve got what you want. Take a deep breath and get to walking again. Look again on the bright side: the snow stopped!
13) Wait in a long line at the new store. Start the inspection process for trade in over. Of course it’s the manager looking at the screen with a blue light and a close eye, missing nothing. There’s a hairline fracture, she says, and the factory wouldn’t accept this. You’ll have to replace the screen if you want the $300.
14) Don’t worry! There’s a repair place close by if you can only stomach walking for five more minutes! That’s totally fine. There’s a long line there too. No sweat. You wait and smile and stay polite. Get to the front: it will be $200. Close your eyes. Wonder what you’re supposed to be doing with your wild and precious life.
15) You might as well follow through with this. You’re here. Crown on. It’s the second day of the sought-after-upgrade. Fork over 20 10-dollar-bills and say you’ll be back in an hour.
16) Go next door to the bagel shop. Doesn’t that sound good? Some nice, warm, simple carbs. Take a little risk and get your everything bagel with scallion cream cheese. Regret it immediately. The scallions are wilted and bitter — they might have gone bad. Wonder if there is a god and if he’s fucking with you. Curse the part of you that is stubborn and frugal.
17) How will you know that an hour has passed? Don’t worry: you’ll know. Eavesdrop on everyone’s conversations. Feel it out. Keep reaching for your phone and then snatching back your hand. Write in your book. Does nowhere have a clock? Miss the pocket watch your parents gave you when you turned 10, welcoming you into your next decade. Think, It would be cool if they gave me another when I turn 30. Consider how you might plant this seed.
18) All at once, know it in your bones: It’s been exactly an hour. Before you leave, check your instinct with the woman you were eavesdropping on most. She was speaking too-loudly on the phone, in your defense, and switching ruthlessly between English and French. How exciting to understand most of what she had said. Say Excuse me too meekly for her to notice, then remember you’re in New York and just say What’s the time? Will her to say 6. When she does, give your spiteful god a little wink. Look at you, tethered phone-less to reality.
19) Get the phone. Backtrack. Wait again. The system’s down. Be friendly with the T-Mobile manager despite her frown, her sharp eye. Don’t charge it overnight — it kills the battery, she whispers. Look at you two, conspiring.
20) This has all taken so long that the store is now closing, so there’s no time to transfer the phone over. You’ll take the old phone with you, too, along with the new one, do the transfer, then bring the old one back soon. Don’t say what you want to, which is You’ve got to be kidding me. Just hope you don’t crack the new screen between Points A and B.
21) Get home, dissociate, staring at the ceiling. Do the transfer, then spin out because you can’t download Tik Tok. You don’t need it, but, you know, it’s a reminder of the fact your country is practicing fascism and censorship. Sleep tight!
22) Wake up and seriously — everything is fine. You saved $100 and the phone is on a payment plan, so your monthly bill is nine whole dollars less than it would have been. In the morning, consider the two phones, and your aching shins; in the afternoon, discover your typewriter at some point broke, getting hauled around. Shrug your shoulders and lay down, then indulge in some phone time. Nothing bad ever happens to a writer.