Hunting Lost Causes

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. I’m on my hands and knees, throwing dirty jeans and grey socks over my back, stopping only to paw at every sweater pocket I come across. Goddamn son of a bitch. I sit back on my heels, sigh and smack my thighs; it’s a lost cause and I know it. What is this, number fucking thirteen? This one cost me a fortune too; camera, mp3s and flat as a credit card. The first one, at least, had been just black and white.

****

We were on a mission and as wild as supervised, suburban fourteen-year-olds could want to be. No sprints, no push ups, no defensive drills; just dead balloons, yellow sunglasses and four and a half oranges. There I was, scavenging with the basketball girls, and my mom had let me borrow her cell phone. Jesus, was I ever freakin’ cool. I called the dollar store, touched base with the other girls and wouldn’t let the phone out of my hand. Coach wanted to find out where the rest of the team was? I was on it. We needed a twist tie? I’d call dad! I was in the zone and ready for anything.

Suddenly, a need to make dinner plans arose and my hand shot into my pocket, already imagining the smooth flick with which I would open my cellular device and the resulting marvel of my team mates. My hand hit cloth, and I panicked, scrambling to grasp at both empty pockets three or four times before I even got that the phone wasn’t there. Nor was it on the seat, on the floor, or in the snow bank under the back tire. Oh God. That piece of luxury had been entrusted to me by my very own mother and it was gone. I was going to be in a whole lot of shit.

I still remember the lecture I got once I dragged my feet through the front door, up one side and down the other, until my “lack of responsibility” sunk into my “thick skull.” She then shoved me into the car to take me wading through ankle-high snow at each one of the seventeen different locations me and my team mates had gone scavenging. It wasn’t anywhere to be found, of course, and I spent the next two weeks staring at the ceiling in my room, knowing I would never lose a phone again.

****

I get back to my feet and shuffle towards the bedroom door, kicking at my backpack one last time in a vain hope to see the little black thing come tumbling out of its pouches. Fuuuck; nothing. I’ve done this so many times now that I know the drill by heart. I lean into the hallway and ask loudly to borrow a phone from someone; I’ve got to make sure the local shop has my model – their cheapest – in stock so I can pick it up ASAP. Once I get it, I’ll call Mom and tell her I’ve been busy for the last couple of days.