Because of the large crowd, I sat in a relatively empty area not far from my boarding gate at the Las Vegas airport. Plugged into the wall a few feet away, my iPhone was gleefully receiving its daily power ration. I looked up and saw that my flight to Portland, Ore., was boarding, stuffed a book into my small pack and walked away, unwittingly abandoning my little electronic friend, whom I affectionately call 4G, pronounced phonetically: "forgee."
Fifteen minutes into the air and ensconced in my aisle seat, I reached into my small pack for some earphones and realized 4G wasn't with me. I emitted an audible gasp, which I believe awakened my slumbering seatmate.
At this point I had to suppress an overwhelming impulse to share my misery with someone. Luckily, one of the flight attendants came by. Breathing deeply and summoning a Zen Buddhist calming technique gleaned from a friend long ago, I explained my situation.
"All you can do is call Vegas' McCarran Airport lost and found when you get to Portland," she said. "I'll get you the number."
The airplane was ascending while my heart was sinking. Would my faithful little 4G survive two hours without being snatched up by someone who could make a modest return by removing the SIM card? Would an airline gate agent or some good Samaritan see it and turn it into the airlines, or lost and found? Couldn't they call Gate E-12 from the airplane and ask someone to walk 60 feet and get it? I bet they'd do it for Brad Pitt.
Disembarking from the airplane in Portland, I made a beeline to a store where I could get pay phone change. Calling from a pay phone seemed as foreign to me as using a typewriter. I soon got ahold of my wife in Alaska and again, reaching deeply for the calming technique, explained the situation. She was immediately on the case.
During a two-hour layover at Portland, I made calls to the airline, the airport lost and found, and airport security. The disheartening information was this: No airline gate agent in the area would pick up the phone. It was always left for night cleaning crews or security personnel to retrieve it and take it to lost and found.
Nearly four hours had passed, and I called my wife again. She said she had called my phone several times and it was ringing. Maybe it was still there, fully charged and waiting for its derelict owner to reclaim it. Crestfallen, I boarded my flight to Anchorage, not knowing 4G's fate.
Dreading the consequences: It wasn't the cost of replacing 4G that concerned me. And I'm not one of these people who are developing a Charles Laughton ("Hunchback of Notre Dame") hump on their back from constantly looking down at their iPhone. Along with personal use, I depend on the device for work. And having lost one before, I can attest to the fact my company doesn't take such losses lightly. Answering all of their questions about the phone's content and getting myself re-established in the system with passwords, etc., was akin to resurrecting oneself in the Internal Revenue Service system after being randomly declared dead by some errant computer.
I arrived home very late and found a note from my wife on the kitchen counter: "They found your phone and it's being FedEx-ed to you tomorrow."
I had hiked down and up the Grand Canyon's rim over the past two days and traveled more than 3,000 miles, but I was no longer tired. My spirits were soaring at the 737-400's cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. I wouldn't have to call the company and report the loss! I felt like celebrating -- quite ironic, since over the years I have ruthlessly poked fun at people who lapse into apoplectic seizures when separated from their iPhones.
The following morning my wife told me about the many calls she had made, in which she described the phone and its exact location. For proof it was my phone, the lost and found lady requested the number. It wouldn't work, however, because my wife had dutifully called the service provider (AT&T) and requested deactivation. Failing to get the phone to work, the now sympathetic lost and found lady capitulated: "I'm convinced it's your husband's. We'll FedEx it to you tomorrow."
The following afternoon I found the FedEx box on our doorstep. I anxiously tore it open and found 4G and cord packed neatly inside. After calling AT&T and getting the phone reactivated, I determined it was in good working order. I immediately telephoned McCarran Airport's lost and found and spoke with Gwenna, who coincidentally was the person who launched the search for my phone. I thanked her profusely and asked for her supervisor's name so I could properly complete the thank you loop and proffer some kudos, especially for Gwenna.
My lovely wife is now looking at options for me, perhaps having 4G surgically grafted to my forearm. It would probably involve pain and I doubt my shirts would fit over it very well, but it's worth considering. 4G's ring seems louder now and more melodious, and it seems to function better than ever. I think it's happy to be home.
Frank E. Baker is a freelance writer who lives in Eagle River.
The views expressed here are the writer's own and are not necessarily endorsed by Alaska Dispatch, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, e-mail commentary(at)alaskadispatch.com.