*BEEEP*

I love my family. Truly. But when that phone rings, and I see “Home” or “Mom Cell” pop up as the caller identity, I let it ring. And ring. I could press “ignore” and let it go straight to voicemail, but then they know. You have to let it play itself out, play the game and don't blink first. If it's important, I'll check the voicemail and call back.

Sometimes the thought strikes me: perhaps I am a terrible son. Who ignores calls from a mother? Wretched scum and villainy! But picture the Cosby Show, and all the Huxtables leaving and returning to the family home, over and over, and you circle close to our family legacy. My mother, my uncle, myself, we all flung ourselves outward at some time or another and then gravitated back to my grandparents. Repeatedly. Even as an adult, I would be asked, “So you still live with your mother?”

No, with my grandfather. It's his house; Mom living there also is pure coincidence. I'm just carrying on a tradition.

Maybe I'm not a terrible son; maybe I'm a terrible person, all-around. I don't much like picking up the phone in any situation. When it rings, I think, “Why is this person calling?” Most of my friends know not to call without damn good reason, so I'll pick up, otherwise...

Cue my voice:

“Hi, you've reached Steve. I'm not here right now, or maybe I am and I just don't feel like picking up. In any event, leave a message. Bye.”

It's not the flashiest, kindest message out there. One supervisor commented, “Well, at least your honest.” Which is pretty much all I desire. This cell phone, bits of metal and plastic and tiny circuits, is a tool. I like tools. I like to use them.

I do not like being used by them.

It seems as if this little tyrant has wormed its way into supremecy overnight. Old landline phones had the advantage you could escape them just by leaving the house. And I can still remember me and a friend wandering the mall as teenagers almost fifteen years ago, with the dull beige, brick-like hammer of a phone that was newly “mobile.” Hot stuff. You had to carry it; no pocket would hide the sucker. At least its slavery was obvious and apparent.

Whenever my friend Seth calls me, at some point I'm bound to hear swearing as he swerves his car. He can't divorce his phone and the road. For me, if the phone rings in the pocket while driving, I don't pick up. The thought of it strikes me silly. Even dangerous.

So the phone, you see, is for me. It is for my convenience. It is, I must sadly inform you, not for the world's convenience. If it goes in my pocket, I regulate.

When I return a call home to see if something has happened, if Grandpa is in the hospital or anything, I do make a point to say hello to him. Let each other know we're still kicking. You can time it in under a minute or two. Neither of us really wants to ramble, just a hello, you good? Sure. Take care.

He never calls. And we like it that way. When I close my eyes and transport technology back two thousand years, for fun, I picture Jesus sitting around being tried by the Sanhedrin. Ringing all around him in black, they shout, “Why won't you answer our calls?”

Serenity fills his voice.

“Man was not made for the telephone; the telephone was made for man.”

Amen.