The trouble with newfangled, fancy cellular devices is that rarely is anything about them universal. Including, rather unfortunately, the cords we use to charge them. My friend Phil recently got one of these new "phones" complete with it's own charger... that Phil conveniently left in Chicago when he came to visit a few friends in Washington, DC. His phone could handle about two days without being charged. He was here for four days. This story begins on his third day here, in the frigid January air at roughly two in the morning somewhere, somewhere in the U Street corridor.
I spent my evening at a party billed as the Obama-rama Pajama Party in honor of our newly elected President Obama (he was a total no-show, but we figure he's a bit busy what with saving the world & all). Slippers and Obey t-shirt adorned, I was enjoying the ridiculousness that comes from seeing all your closest friends in bathrobes, boxers, and eye masks, imbibing the finest the kegs had to offer, which, quite honestly, was not all that fine, tho perfectly good for such an occasion. At some point in the evening I texted the address to Phil in hopes that he would join in the fun, not really realizing that every text just might be his last.
When the rest of the party was well into their fourth, fifth, or sixth beers, and I had long since switched to water in anticipation of driving a friend's car back to my house, I received the last phone call made on Phil's phone during his DC trip. He was lost somewhere on U Street, cabs were non-existent, and it was horribly, face-numbingly cold out. Just as I was describing which store I would meet him in front of on U Street, his cell phone gave up the ghost. We were officially incommunicado, and my only hope of finding him was to troll up and down the street in a borrowed SUV searching the sidewalk for his black puffy coat, the only identifying characteristic that might stand out against DC's constant stream of black and grey trench and pea coats.
I started my U Street reconnaissance mission around 11th Street, driving slowly towards 16th, and Phil's last known whereabouts. A group of young and obviously intoxicated brave souls who had more than likely shut down the bar were waving frantically for the only taxi in sight as I passed 16th Street. None of them had on a black puffy coat. I decided to pull over to make one final last ditch effort to call Phil's powerless phone. After a text message and a straight to voicemail call, I flicked my turn signal to pull back into the ever thinning traffic, only to see out of the corner of my eye a black puffy coat worn by the person walking past my passenger side door. It was Phil!
I honked the horn because there was no way I was getting out of the car in slippers and thin pajama pants, and Phil turned, ready to be mad at whoever was causing the unwelcome din. I waved frantically and rolled down the window, ripping my hat from my head in hopes that he would more easily recognize me. His annoyance turned to disbelief as he opened the door, peering inside to make sure it really was me. He stood there with the passenger door wide open, momentarily awed that I had actually found him, until I insisted he get in and shut the door because of the insanely cold draft the open door was letting into the car. As it turns out he had been considering the merits of finding an unoccupied park bench to sleep on because he had lost the slip of paper with where he was staying scrawled on it, just in case being completely lost and not remembering the address of my friend's party wasn't enough.
In the end, I drove us back to the now dying down Obama-rama Pajama party, made sure Phil had a beer, and enjoyed the rest of my evening, feeling mildly like a superhero. At least I saved one person from a chilly night fraught with the perils of a DC park bench, no thanks to cell phones!
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