Underwear Party and Siri's NDE

Apparently, last night I was hosting an underwear party, although, it didn’t appear that way at first. I just had two friends over, Suzanne Reed and Martin Leon, and we were in my apartment. Suzanne was making me laugh with her quirky offbeat humor, and Martin was there to assist me with some technical issue.

Pretty early on, I realized that Suzanne was only wearing a T-shirt and panties. This had become obvious because of her casual seating position on the furniture.

(I’m suddenly reminded of a camel stool that my mother had when I was about five or six. It was a wooden stool with four legs and a carved protrusion in the shape of a camel's head on one end.)

I’m not going to say that Suzanne was straddling a camel stool like a saddle; that would just be me conflating the memory at this point. She was, however, flung or slung or strewn like laundry, casually draped across the furniture, legs akimbo, with her hand in close proximity to her crotch, in a pose reminiscent of Pink in her early days.

It was only after a while that I looked down and noticed that neither Martin nor myself were wearing any pants. So, an underwear party it was.

The house began to fill up with other young people, a lot of whom I did not know, and who appeared to just be hipsters looking for a place to party. I was not a big fan of their mumbly, hoodied vibe, but since I was enjoying Suzanne‘s company, I didn’t make a big deal of it.

"Do you know who you remind me of?" I asked Suzanne.

"No," she said, "who?"

"My friend, E____," I told her.

This was not on account of the saucy way in which she made use of the furniture, but because of her quick wit and readiness with a silly pun or metaphor.  Neither she nor Martin knew who E____was, so the reference was lost on them.

It began to dawn on my twisted little mind that perhaps Suzanne was in a rough patch with her husband, or perhaps their marriage had gone off the rails entirely, and she was here to have one of those liberating post-divorce experiences that one hears about. One could only hope.

Nothing actually transpired, but her off-brand, quirky sexuality was on full display. So although nothing untoward happened, my compass needle was definitely pointing toward untoward. (I have to work on the delivery of that one.)

I showed Martin to his sleeping area, where he and Suzanne were sitting on the bed talking. Well, he was talking. She was just kind of bouncing in her seat to some beat in her head. I had to check the comforter for cat barf before declaring it safe for human habitation.

I woke up at some point, as I typically do, and that was that.

----

It was shortly after 1:28 AM when I reached over to tap my iPhone’s screen, and I found it unresponsive. This had never happened before, but I assumed it had simply shut itself off, so I went to turn it back on with some fumbling around and pressing of side buttons.

It buzzed and beeped and sounded like it was in pain, emitting a that I had never heard and hope to never hear again. It sounded like a robot getting kicked in the groin. At some point, the little flashlight illuminated briefly, and then all went silent.

I may or may not have interrupted it during an update, I don’t know, but I pressed so many buttons and frantically swiped and touched the screen in such a fashion that I could’ve accidentally called emergency services.

I resigned myself to the idea that I would have to at the very least take it into the Apple Store if not replace it altogether.


I did a little online research--because that’s what you do in the middle of the night when your iPhone dies and you have immediate withdrawal panic--and after a two minute YouTube video prescription did not fix it, I went back to bed.

I attempted to meditate or some such nonsense, but this was not going to work, and I abandoned the idea after a minute or two. Just as I was about to delve into all the possible failure scenarios in earnest, I looked down at the screen, and it was alive again. Some message about iOS and SOS emergency services notification popped up.

I didn’t have any answers as to what initiated unresponsive black screen, but at that point, I didn’t care. I navigated out of the settings menu and set the phone aside.

It took me a while to fall back asleep, but when I did, I was treated to the silly dream of Suzanne straddling furniture and an apartment full of hipsters.

Perhaps my friend Martin will try to claim credit for remotely repairing my phone, and I'm OK with that. I’m just glad I didn’t have to spoil his Fourth of July with another annoying tech question. I’m certain that he already regrets selling me the iPhone, as I have been one of those type of customers.

----

I’m out walking, and the sun is just now rising above the mountain of my demise. Yes, I’m still eyeing it, and the stye factory in my right eye is reinforcing ideations of my eventual ascent and self-termination upon its summit. I am keeping in shape with the walking, in part, so it won’t become an impossibility, although I don’t know if I can keep this up until I’m 89.