I don't like cell phones. I have one, you understand--I just don't like it. I don't like talking to people on the phone. I don't like being left voicemail. I don't like carrying the thing around in my pocket. And I especially don't like when it decides to ring.

To be fair, my cell phone doesn't like me, either. Forced together by fate, we have a familiar if uncomfortable relationship. Like my pager (which I refuse to combine with my cell phone in the form of SMS messages) I'm all but required to have one for my job. And as much as I hate my cell phone, I hate my home phone ringing even more.

So I have one. It sits in my pocket, contemplating its existence as a clock rather than a communications device. Alone and overcharged.

In a way I had that in common with my palm-sized friend. We were both overcharged. I might not have a cable plugged up my ass for a third of my day but I certainly felt like I did each time I payed the bill. I mean, seriously, I use my phone every other blue moon. Why the fuck was I paying so much?

Cheap cell phone plans just don't exist. They all bury you under hundreds or thousands of minutes and free airtime. You have friends, don't you? You're not a loser, are you? If not, you need four thousand anytime minutes!

Then I remembered the new pre-paid phone plans they were marketing to poor people. Ah, I thought. That's the answer! That's my Salvation (Army)!

So began my two-week ordeal.

After shopping around a bit I decided on an AT&T Go-Phone. They offer two plans: one for idiots ($0.10 / minute, + $1 day for each day you use it) and one for people who could perform basic math ($0.25 / minute). I'll let the astute reader determine which one I chose.

There I was using an on-line interface to buy a pre-paid cell phone whose intended market would never be on-line in the first place. AT&T's system was obviously designed for more traditional plans, but I made it work. Somehow. I requested my old Verizon order be ported, bought the cheapest compatible phone and hit submit.

Then waited. And waited. And waited.

After half a week I became concerned and called AT&T's phone support. Amazed that anyone had even attempted to buy a pre-paid phone on-line I was transferred from department to department until someone was finally able to look up my confirmation request. After being escalated up the tree hierarchy to a level of support endowed with actual gray matter I was assured my order would be processed the next day.

And it was. My phone was on its way!

Last Friday it arrived. All that was left was left was to insert the battery and activate the damned thing. Oh, if it had been so easy.

Someone, somewhere, had decided to weld the fucking battery case onto the phone. It took two grown men and several thin pieces of sturdy metal to pry the damned thing off.

The SIM was already installed. I plugged the battery in and went on-line to activate.

"Your phone is taking longer to activate than expected," the web page read after a five minute wait. "Please check again in 30 minutes."

Thirty minutes pass. I try again. Nothing.
An hour. Nothing.
Three hours. Nothing.

I went to bed hoping for better luck the next day.

"Congratulations!" the confirmation email greeted me Saturday morning. "Your phone has now been activated!"

All was good, except they'd activated a random number instead of my ported number. And the number itself, it seemed, belonged to a Texas gentleman. I had his full address and everything when I logged into the account manager.

I called AT&T back to play the ping pong between departments game for another fourty-five minutes. Unable to understand what was going on, they decided my SIM card must be bad. I'd have to report to a Cingular store to get it replaced.

Whatever. I was going to Costco that evening anyway. How long could it take to stop by the store?

It was like a scene from Grease inside the spacious Cingular store. I've never actually seen Grease, so I guess I should say it was like what I'd imagine a scene from Grease to be like. The movie was about shiny, sticky, disgusting grease, right? Because the Cingular employees were covered in it. I wanted to scrape it off their hair and make french fries.

Anyway, I present my problem and (after flashing his expensive company-provided phone at me several times) the customer service rep disappears into the back.

Thirty minutes later he re-appears, but not for long. I think he saw his shadow and ran back terrified.

"I think I already know the answer to this," he says upon his next return, "but how important is it that we port over that old number?"

Honestly I didn't care that much. It's not like people ever call me. But greasy things are entirely too fun to play with.

"Oh," I say. "Very."

The way every muscle in his face dropped a good inch made that two hour Cingular visit worth every second.

He calls up his corporate office, hoping to find someone who can help him. "I've worked here a long time," he explains, "and never once have I seen someone trying to port a number to a pre-paid cell phone."

I grin. I like being clever.

I make or receive around eight calls a month. At most. And it's rare that any of them last longer than two minutes. That's $4.00 / month. Even if you consider that your pre-paid minutes expire every 30 days and the lowest recharge amount is $15, that's still only $15 / month. It's a far cry from most cell phone plans.

After being put on hold for fifteen minutes he pleads with me again that I just give up the number. The system, he explains, simply wasn't set up for porting to pre-paid phones.

I refuse, of course.

At length he's able to find someone to port the number over. His smile returns! He'll finally be able to get rid of me!

His joy is short-lived, however. He found a problem. New Go Phones are supposed to be charged with $10 credit. Mine was, but this was applied to the old number--not the ported one.

"You want that $10, don't you?" he asks, reaching for his phone before I answer.

"Yup."

Another ten minutes pass and he proudly returns my re-credited phone.

I thank him.

He says, "Your welcome." What he means is, "Get the fuck out of here."

Whatever. At least I finally have my phone.