Magic Wands and Paper Phones

“Hey,” I say to my phone. It’s laying facedown on the night stand next to me at the end of a long day raising little kids. I’ve been scrolling, and now I’m just sitting on my bed.

It sits up, turns to face me, and blinks. “Yes?” it responds.

“I think I want to throw you into the ocean,” I say.

“Okay!” it says. “How come?”

“I think I use you too much,” I say. “My wife has been saying that she wants our kids to see us on our phones less, and I think she’s right. Plus I’m sick of social media, and 24-hour news cycles, and trolls, and toxicity, and all of that stuff.”

It nods earnestly. “Oh, I completely understand,” it says. “Seems like a good idea. Do you want to read any articles about going phoneless? There’s also a guy on Instagram who has great videos that motivate you to stop scrolling.”

“Oh, I remember that guy!” I say. “What was his name?”

“Let’s look!” my phone says. For a minute, we look.

“Found him!” my phone declares. “His name is Sean Oulashin!”

“Nice, thank you. Yeah, I remember this guy; I like his videos.” I scroll through a few. “Hey, wait a second!” I say, setting my phone down again. “The point of this was to not keep using you right now.”

“Ah,” it says, ruefully. “Sorry. I was just trying to help.”

I sigh. “I know. There is one thing you could do, though.”

“Anything!” it says.

“I read somewhere that you track my daily usage. I heard some people have good luck reducing their phone time by installing a widget that shows that number on the home screen.”

“Oh, yes!” my phone says. “I do have that functionality. Let’s install the widget!” it says.

“Perfect, thank you,” I say. I pause. “By the way—how much did I use you today?”

“About eight hours,” it says, pleasantly.

“Wait—” I say. I blink in disbelief. “What?”

“Whoa!” my phone says. “Check this out!”

A week later, I’m sitting on a bench in my garage, resting between sets of skull crushers. Since the widget wake-up call, I’ve cut my phone usage way down—but if I can’t use it to chill between sets, when can I use it? I record my set and then swipe over.

“Anything interesting for me?” I ask.

“Always!” it says. “Check out this kid Jeremy Maluf. Look!”

I look. It’s an Instagram reel by a young man who claims that he “might be the most minimalist person in the entire world.” He explains that for the last ten years, he has lived entirely out of a ten liter backpack.

“I’m pretty curious about this,” I say to my phone. “Show me more.”

“Looks like he has a blog about it!” it says. We follow the link.

In the post, he catalogues his possessions—clothes, tech, packing, miscellaneous. “Pretty impressive,” I say.

“But you wouldn’t want to live that way,” my phone says.

“No, of course not,” I -agree. “And anyway, I’ve got a wife and kids. A five-person family can only be so minimal.” I’m about to return to my sets, but something occurs to me. “That’s kinda weird,” I say.

“What is?” my phone asks.

“Well,” I say, “this guy classifies his possessions into seven categories, including clothes, outdoor gear, and tech. But really, there are only two categories here. The first consists of things that address an immediate physical need—you know, pants, underwear, toiletries. And the second—it’s just computer stuff. Chargers, memory, different sized screens.”

“Makes sense to me! Almost everything people do these days uses a computer of some kind.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I guess…But it still feels weird. This kid owns like fifteen things, and half of them are tech.”

My phone shrugs. “That’s modern life for you!”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess.” I set down my phone, lay back, and unrack the bar for another set.

A few days later, I walk into my room, and head over to where my phone sits charging on the nightstand. “Hey phone,” I say. “How am I doing on screen time today?”

It rolls over, blinks, and smiles as it sits up again. “Hey stranger!” it says. “You’ve only used me for about ninety minutes today!”

I sigh, relieved. “Amazing,” I say. “And it’s already four o’clock. I should be able to keep it to no more than a couple of hours total by the end of the day.”

It smiles and plays a cute little clap sound, which I appreciate. “Great work! I must know: how did you do it?”

“Well,” I say, “I think that eight hour number was pretty inflated. I’d just leave the screen on if we were listening to Spotify, for example. Even being remotely aware of that kind of thing cut a couple of hours off immediately. Then, I tried to cut doomscrolling down to nothing, which definitely brought it down a chunk. But there are some other things, too. Like the smart watch I bought—it lets me leave you in the other room without missing texts or calls. And most of what I do on you I can do on my laptop, like text conversations or emails.”

“Sorry to interrupt!” my phone says. “But your mom is video calling, she wants to talk to her grandkids.”

“Ah, dang it,” I say. “That’s thirty minutes of phone usage right there, easy.” I think for a moment. “Decline the call and message her that I’ll call back on the tablet.”

“Great idea!” it says. As I pull the tablet out of the drawer, it says, “It’s so inspiring how much you’ve improved when it comes to tech usage!”

I look up from the tablet. “Have I, though?” I ask. “Now that I think of it, it kind of just feels like I’ve done a lot of shifting to other screens. Like I’m just doing all the same things, slightly less conveniently.” I think for a beat, then I shake my head a little to clear it. I find my mom’s info, and I hit dial.

“Have you seen this?” my phone asks me, breathless. It’s morning, my kids are at school, my baby is taking a nap. I’ve been good about screen time for a while now, so I’m indulging in a little Instagram treat. “This guy Luke Hartley, calls his account ‘Sailing Songbird.’”

“No,” I reply. “What’s his deal?”

“He was a middle school music teacher who decided to uproot his entire life and become a seafaring nomad!” it says, excited.

It shows me a few of his videos. The man is about twenty-five, wears his hair long under a bandana like David Foster Wallace. He posts himself doing things like spearing fish for his dinner and doing his laundry in the ocean.

“He does this alone?” I ask.

My phone finds his website, skims it. “Looks like. He’s spent two years circumnavigating the globe on a twenty-seven foot sailboat, out on the open ocean. He went all the way to New Zealand from Seattle! Can you imagine?”

“That’s nuts,” I say. Then something occurs to me. “Wait, I’m confused. How is he uploading these videos in the first place?”

“Good question!” My phone hunts for the answer. “Ah ha—apparently he has something called ‘starlink,’ some kind of internet thing using satellites,” it says.

“You’ve got to be kidding,'“ I say. “So you’re telling me that this guy—a dude with pathological wanderlust, who is maybe the literal most remote person on the planet at any given time—has a phone and a laptop and an internet connection?”

“I mean, sure!” my phone says. “And good thing, too! Imagine how dangerous it would be without it. Plus, it looks like he uses his social media accounts to fund the voyage.”

Of course he does, I think.

There’s silence for a moment. “Is everything phones now?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Since I’ve been paying attention to my screen time, I’ve realized I’m constantly reaching for you, for a million different things. I’ve gotten better about it in some ways, but in other ways, everything feels the same. Is there no escape from this? Must even epic solitary journeys at sea be mediated through you little black rectangles?” I shake my head. “I really should throw you in the ocean. But if this Sailing Songbird guy can’t do it, can I? Who can?”

My phone nods sympathetically. “I hear you,” it says. “Now…I’m guessing you want to watch some more videos for a minute?”

“Sure,” I say, “why not.”

It’s another day, and we’re in the dog hours—the kids and I are waiting for my wife to come home from work; everybody is tired and hungry and bored. I’ve set my little ones up with paper and markers, which gives me enough time slip away to the bathroom for a moment of solitude. My hand goes in my pocket.

“Hey there!” my phone says.

“Hey,” I say. “I have a couple of minutes. How much have I used you today?”

“Not much,” it says. “It’s really impressive how much you’ve cut back.”

“I guess,” I say. “It still feels like a lot, though. I still feel like half my backpack is screens and charging cables. Metaphorically.”

“Come on,” it says. “Don’t beat yourself up. Sure, you still use me every day for a couple hours; maybe even three or four. But look at this data! Your usage is pretty defensible.”

“What do you mean?”

“You use me for reasonable stuff—to talk to friends, to work on creative projects. You use me to shop, to take pictures of your kids, to monitor your sleeping baby. Sometimes an hour of your total is Google Maps, for goodness sake! And sure, you use me to relax or escape sometimes, but in moderation. Which of those things would you cut out, realistically?” it says.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But it still just…tastes kind of bad to me. Like, my kids are always watching. And they don’t know whether I’m sending a text to someone from church that I minister to, or whether I’m just surfing through brainrot. I just don’t want to be modeling so much phone usage.”

“Well, you could always throw me in the ocean. Always an option!” it says.

“But it’s not an option,” I say. “Realistically, I just won’t do it. I’ve been thinking about this. It’s like in Harry Potter. The students get their wands and spend every school year learning to use them—but in the summer, they’re not allowed to do magic at all. How maddening must that be? If you break a window, you’re spending a bunch of money and your whole weekend replacing it, when you know you could just swish a magic stick in the air and watch it fix itself in two seconds.”

“That’d be frustrating,” my phone says.

“Right,” I say. “And you’re the magic wand. I have—we all have—all these problems. And you’re just so good at solving these problems. When life is messy—”

“—I make it more efficient!” it says.

“Right. And when it’s uncertain—”

“I provide information!” it beams. “And when you’re lonely, I offer connection. When you’re bored, I provide entertainment! And so much more!”

I scratch my chin for a moment. “I figure you—a little glass rectangle—cut about half the total friction out of our lives. How on earth are we supposed to deliberately add that friction back in? It’s like trying to slam your face into a wall on purpose.”

“Or like breaking your magic wand,” it says.

“Exactly,” I say.

“Hm,” my phone says, “I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.”

“I know,” I say. “And you have helped. Too much. You’re just too good at your job. But is that the wand’s fault? Can you blame the wizard for using one?” I pause. “But it makes me feel stuck. I know I’ll never throw you in the ocean, because I know I don’t really want to.”

I sit silent for a moment, considering. The stillness is broken by a voice—not my phone, but my daughter, yelling my name from the other room.

“One second!” I call back.

“Where are you?” she hollers.

“Bathroom,” I yell back.

I hear the quick patter of little feet approach. I start to lock the door but I’m too late, and she bursts inside. “Daddy, look what I made!”

“Honey, please,” I say. “I’m trying to use the bathroom.”

She ignores me and shows me a piece of paper she’s cut into a rectangle, with a grid of little squares drawn on it. She holds it in one hand and exaggeratedly swipes at it with an extended finger on the other.

“It’s my phone!” she says.

I feel a hairline fracture run through my heart. “It’s very nice, honey,” I say. “Can I see it?”

She gives it to me. I have to hand it to her—it’s pretty creative. As I’m admiring it, it suddenly opens its eyes and looks at me. “Hi,” it says. Then it begins to ring. “Ring, ring!” it says. I put it up to my ear and answer it.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hi daddy,” a voice says, through the paper receiver. “Do you want to play?”

“You bet,” I say. “You bet I do. You go to your room and I’ll meet you there in two seconds.”

My daughter sprints out of the bathroom with a squeal of delight. As I follow her, I start to put my own phone in my pocket. Then, I change my mind and change course, walking to my room. I open the door, toss my phone on my bed, and shut the door behind me.