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You didn’t mean for it happen.
You were just standing there on a Thursday afternoon, grande flat white in hand, waiting for the train while your 90s Jams Spotify playlist pulsed at a respectable decibel level in your earbuds. You heard the light, little ping of an incoming text and made the mistake of left-handedly pulling for your iPhone out of your back pocket. You tried to get a solid grip on it, even with that non-dominant hand. But you failed.
It slipped. You went to catch it, a horrified, slow-motion “dammit” coming out of your mouth as you watch that gold 6 Plus get ready to take a tumble. Briefly, you pray that your earbuds will stop the inevitable, but as they are violently yanked from your ears, you know that prayer was in vain. The fellow commuters around you give a “that sucks” nod in solidarity as you go to pick up the facedown iPhone, hoping you won’t see what you know is beneath.
It’s smashed. Not just a little corner crack. Full on. Spider web. Smashed.
You make it through the day with careful texting, thankfully avoiding getting Apple glass in your thumbs, and explaining about 1200 times that, “Nothing cool happened. I just dropped it,” before coming home and logging into your account to see what sort of insurance you have on your phone. They have to take this kind of thing into consideration, right?
A deductible of almost $200!? So AT&T just wants to screw you over. This is ridiculous. It’s just a screen; you can YouTube how to fix it yourself. You don’t need an entirely new phone, just fix the part that looks like it was attacked so you don’t have to worry about getting tiny cuts when you’re texting, and you can actually see the face on the person you’re swiping at on Tinder.
There has to be a better way.
You scroll around the Apple website, looking for a light at the end of that tunnel when you finally get to the right page. $109 for screen replacement; bingo. Obviously not ideal but better than having to wait 72 hours while struggling with a broken phone, deal with transferring all of your memory, all for double the price. You’ll just go to the Apple store, and they will take care of everything.
An appointment? What is this? This isn’t the dentist. How long do they need to take a sad excuse for a screen and replace it with one free from fingerprints and transgressions? Fine. 1:50 p.m. it is, Apple Store. See you then.
The next day rolls around; you knock out a chunk next to the home button when trying to turn off your alarm, so clearly, this needs to happen today. After a brunch where you get severely annoyed with having to keep explaining, “I know, I’m getting it fixed today,” you make your way to that white walled, glass doored, beacon of hope: The Apple Store.
What the hell? How many people are here? Are they all just not willing to buy their own iPads so they just come here on a Saturday afternoon to get their tablet fix? You sideways squeeze through the crowd, utterly baffled by the class of elderly people clearly out to learn how to use their shiny new phones, and make your way to the girl with a ponytail who seems to know where to point everyone.
“Hi, I have an appointment,” you manage to get out as you narrowly miss slamming into a rugrat in a JanSport running towards a tiny table labeled “Kids.”
Jenny, the concierge, takes you a corner table and says someone will be with you shortly. You wait, fighting the eye rolls as an employee explains to a woman in her early 40s that no, the phone doesn’t just automatically know every one of her fingerprints, and give every person in that blue polo who walks by a look of sheer hope that they will be your’s and your phone’s savior from this hell.
Thirty minutes have gone by. Why did you need to make an appointment if you were going to wait this long? If you had known you’d be spending the rest of your life at an Apple Store, you would have at least brought in a Slurpee with a few shots mixed in to take the edge off. This is actual torture.
Forty-five minutes. Is this why members of #TeamAndroid look so stupidly happy? Because they’ve never dealt with this 10th circle of hell?
Fifty minutes. You’re greeted by Adam who doesn’t seem to understand you are two seconds away from cursing both him and Tim Cook before smashing every Macbook in arm’s reach. How is he so chipper? Do they pump uppers into their Apple airwaves? Then he has the audacity to make a “You really did a number on this guy” joke before telling you it’ll be about another hour and a half, maybe two before your phone is ready.
Well, great. Apparently this is how you die.
It’s been a good ride, because now you’ll be sitting phone-less for two hours, with no way to text your family that you love them, but have died from malnutrition, lack of a buzz, and utter annoyance at your general surroundings. You could’ve made do with a broken phone for a little while, but you just felt judged by everyone saying, “What happened!?” and had to do it today. If anyone needs you they can send you a message via carrier pigeon to the chain restaurant next door where you will be drinking your sorrows away.
Two hours and four Red Robin Freckled Lemonades later, you go to retrieve your phone, silently promising that if it takes more than 15 minutes, you will make a scene. Remarkably, Adam is there and gets you in and out with a congratulatory look, a swipe of your debit, and a, “Hope we don’t see you again soon!”
Well don’t worry, Adam. This entire afternoon (aside from the eyelash batting and number exchanging you did with the Red Robin bartender) has been such a terrible experience you will be cradling your now fixed iPhone more gently than a first time mom who is still afraid of the soft spot.
See you soon? No. See you when the 7 comes out, Adam. And then the 11th circle of hell will be how long the line is. .
Image via Death To The Stock Photo