In Quest for Months-Old Voice Mail, it’s the Tic-Tac-Toe Key, Idiot

Mom on the Run

By LIANNE WILKENS

I’m on the phone with Clay, my Verizon service rep. Well, the Verizon service rep who answered the phone. He’s mine now, all mine.

I got my new smart phone, what, a few months ago? I don’t recall exactly, but it was about four days after I dropped my old, less intelligent phone into the toilet. Yes, it was in my back pocket. Yes, I realize that’s a classic rookie move. Anyway, once it became apparent that my less-intelligent phone was dead, or at least would never be the same, my boss suggested I take the opportunity to upgrade. He wasn’t a fan of my being “completely dark” when I left the office every night. So a smart phone it was.

It goes without saying that my phone turned out to be smarter than I need, and much, much smarter than I am. Now, several months later, I have gotten a handle on texting; taking and sending pictures; making and receiving calls (I admit it took about a week and somebody younger to show me how to answer it when it rang … slide the button, don’t tap!); and I have even figured out how to update Facebook.

However, I know there are probably 100 functions I haven’t even touched, much less mastered, a clue to their existence in the row of mysterious symbols at the top of my phone screen. I recognized the ones that meant I had text messages and Facebook updates waiting. I deduced that the little down arrow meant I had successfully downloaded something. But what were the little cars? And the envelope with an M in it? No clue. A message of some kind, right? An envelope? And once I recognized that I was missing some sort of correspondence, I realized: I hadn’t checked my voice mail since I got the new phone. At all. In fact, I had no idea whatsoever how to even reach my voice mail.

I confided in Jon, the IT guy at work, first. He may laugh at me behind my back but only rarely does it to my face. So, “I’ll show you later,” he had said, because he was busy. But then he stayed busy, and when my teammate Sandra called him for something else, he said, “I’ll do that for you if you show Lianne how to get to the voice mail on her cell phone.”

I heard Sandra’s gasp from a cube away. “Lianne doesn’t know how to get her voice mail?” The shock in her voice was unmistakable, and she turned to me, hand at her mouth, for verification. I nodded, and she promptly, immediately bawled with laughter. Sandra has a very loud laugh, too, so everyone heard it. She didn’t even hang up with Jon before giving me direction: “Just hold down the 1 button!” Then she reached out for my phone but, no thanks, I have some pride. I heard her. The 1 button, huh?

I opened my phone’s dial pad. I pressed 1, held it down. And: “Please enter your password.” Yes! Success! “Thanks, Sandra!”

Except … what’s my password? Dang. No clue. None. I typed in some likely passwords. But it wasn’t any of those. “Try 0000,” suggested Sandra. No. “How about ####?” Not that either. And then I was locked out. No more attempts possible; but the electronic voice helpfully recited the number for technical support.

And that’s how I got Clay. Patient Clay, who calls me back on the landline while I fiddle with my cell phone. “Try the last four digits of your phone number,” he says. “And after that, press the pound sign.” I don’t reply, I’m busy pressing numbers – and that’s more complicated than it sounds, because when I hold the phone at a certain angle the dial pad disappears, so I have to be still and swift to press in series of numbers – and because I don’t reply right away, Clay figures I’m having more technical difficulties. “That’s the tic-tac-toe sign button,” he offers helpfully.

I swallow. I almost say, “I know the pound sign is the tic-tac-toe button!” because I am not an idiot! And then I realize how I got here, and how many people it has taken to help me get my months-old voice mail, and that I have three or four other symbols to decrypt still, and it all happened because I let my old phone fall from my back pocket into toilet. Yeah, OK, I can’t really say I’m not an idiot. Quietly, happily, thankfully, I press the tic-tac-toe button.