Andrés Germán Otero Lazzari
he other day, I was discussing with my
father the most recent technological advances. He has always shown interest in this
subject, and stays up-to-date through magazines and specialized books. This is so
true, that for him, unlike most of his generation, including my mother, managing the
SONY 27 remote control is no indecipherable mystery. On that occasion, we
discussed all sorts of electronic products, including computers, video-telephones and
optic fiber cable. However, throughout our talk, he never, and I mean
never referred to one of the products which have revolutionized the
telecommunications world: the cellular phone. I had always asked myself why, if all
his friends had one, whether they actually understood how it worked or not, my
father had refused to purchase his "ridicullar", as he calls it. Therefore I
simply resolved to ask him: "Dad, why? His answer was quick: "Son, because I
donŝt feel like it". This caused me quite a surprise, since his intellectual capacity is
quite admirable, and his answers are usually filled with quotes, reasoning and
conclusions that are virtually irrefutable for any mortal. So I dared to ask him again:
"Dad, why?" Again, he was quick to answer: "Stupid boy, I already told you that its
because I donŝt feel like it". This made me ponder on the subject, until I reached
a level of abstraction that carried me out of my body for a journey into the wonderful
world of local cellular telephone services. For starters, I visited the country of sales
statistics, where I found the salesmen, a pseudo-engineers race. This race of
indigenous sociological characteristics was ready to help me dispel any doubts
through an authorized interlocutor/distributor, with the hidden purpose of converting
me into a pleased customer. "Sir, how many cellular phones are there in Venezuela?"
I asked-- "Well," I was answered, "considering the inflexibility of the demand and the
fact that half of the competitionŝs units donŝt work, about three hundred thousand,
but there are only about one hundred thousand available cells, but that doesnŝt
matter, here in Venezuela everyone can withstand anything, for example, if you are
interested I could offer you a bargain..." When I realized that I was about to
become a "hard-sale" victim, I decided to slip off unobtrusively and continue with my
journey. My next adventure was to land in the world of incomprehensible technical
departments, inhabited by the Microsoft clones race. The truth is that the only thing
I understood during my stay was that you are charged a fee from the moment you
hit the "send" button until you hit the "end" button; thus I understood the suicide of
my friend Eduardo, who exhausted one whole long-life battery because his "send"
button got stuck, while he went on international "roaming", probably in China. My
following stop was in the country of the operators/user information suppliers who,
similarly to the girls of the long-distance erotic hot line countries, weighed about
three hundred pounds each, and had voices that could melt the south pole. After
choosing the most amiable face in the lot, I say: "Good morning, miss. Would you
be so kind as to advise me on the rates scheme for your services? And she said:
"Certainly, sir; since you seem to be quite honorable I will offer you our special plan
for non-fugitive banking executives, but pray tell me, have you a credit card?" "Of
course", I said. "So letŝs continue", she said. "This special plan is based on average
daily usage of 87.3 minutes, at Bs. 47 per minute, plus a message box, plus double
call-in-line, plus call transfer, plus guarantee deposit, plus teleconference...
approximately Bs. 17,000 per month; of course, this excludes long-distance calls".
"Gee, Miss, donŝt you find that a bit expensive?" And she said: "Yes, but for a
young man of your standing it should be no problem and, since youŝre right here,
why donŝt you kiss me?" Alarmed by the weight of her arguments, I quickly
resumed my flight. Suddenly, Seven, my dog (or rather my sisterŝs dog) bit off a
chunk of my ankle, which hurt just like if I had plummeted from the heights were I
had been journeying. I saw my father in his wicker chair, his Sunday screwdriver in
hand, laughing at Sevenŝs trick and taking no notice of the blood that gushed over
my white sock, now turning red. After the usual first aid procedures, we sat down
to talk once more. He said: "I see you were in the forbidden world of unpayable
rates"; to which I retorted: "No, Dad: unfortunately, your cute little pet bit me
before I got there, and I was forced to land". "Then, son, you will never find the key
to my opposition... you must return, must return..." and I tried and tried to take off,
but the pain in may ankle would not allow me, since I could only see visions of
animal sacrificial rites. So I took a deep breath and asked for a third time: "Dad,
why?" But now, instead of an expected kick in the shins, he breathed deeply and
started on one of his accustomed monologues, so admired by many: "The world of
local cellular telephone services is classified into two kinds of users: those whose bills
are paid by someone else, and those who pay their bills..." And then he fell into a
trance, gazing at the canaries that were pecking the tangerines in the garden. There
was no way to catch his attention again; he had said all he had to say.
