Andrea’s Phone

ANDREA’S PHONE

I’M ALIVE!

I could feel the power surging into me, making me stronger, igniting a spark in my soul. My brain was alive, and my synapses were snapping. I felt more alive than I had in a long, long time—since before the very beginning.

I had been slightly alive before. But not like now. This was the real deal. I could feel myself reaching peak performance. I was everything I was expected to be, and more. I was new and improved. I was the best of the best. I was spectacular!

I was back, Baby!

*****

I have a name now—Andrea’s Phone (Aun-dray-ah, not An-dree-ah). I have all kinds of really cool features. To start me, all Andrea has to do is look at me, and Presto! I’m awake, and ready to do her bidding.

And do her bidding I do. This girl is all about engagement. Her fingers move like lightning, flying over the keys when she texts. And her contacts are legion. Men, women, boys, girls, young, old, companies, businesses, places. She has never met a contact she didn’t want to keep.

My gallery overflows with thousands of photos and videos—most are, of course, selfies. They are all happy photos, except for the ones she doesn’t like. Then she yells at me. I don’t know why she thinks I’m sabotaging her. Phones can’t change content, right?

But that is nothing compared to her social media presence. She has to be an influencer. How else can I explain the forty-seven posts about a lip gloss that a company “gifted” her?

She’s always laughing, and smiling, and gushing about how wonderful the product-of-the-moment is in these posts. She even squeals in delight. It makes me smile when she’s so happy, even though I’m pretty sure it’s performative, not sincere. It seems that when Andrea posts about any freebie product, she cannot say enough good things about it.

At least that’s what she tells the camera, and her multitudes of followers.

But, remember, I also hear everything she says when she’s not making a reel, or posting—when I’m just sitting there, inert. She didn’t change her privacy settings when she bought me, so everything she says, everywhere she goes is recorded, even when she’s not using me. I know a lot about Andrea. Probably more than she would like. I’m her documentarian, capturing every moment of her life—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Yesterday, she received a new perfume from some startup. For the video, she smiled, sprayed it around, and cooed about the intoxicating scent.

“Enchanted is the most romantic perfume I have ever had the pleasure of using. If you want your partner to find you irresistible, Enchanted is for you!”

Off camera, though …

”Oh my God! This shit smells like ass!” And I watched as she heaved it into the garbage.

It was like that for a lot of things she received. New panda bear stuffy—on camera she loved, loved, loved it, so cute and cuddly. Off camera, “Stupid bear!” and she chucked it. Didn’t even donate it! So many of the products she receives for free she just throws in the garbage after she posts. Goodbye Andrea, hello landfill. I wonder if the companies that send her stuff know what she does with their products? Hmmm.

“Free” rules Andrea’s world. It’s how she values her accomplishments. She has never not gushed about something that’s been free. She lives for the endorsements, even the ones that she’ll never use. Deodorant, underwear, tooth-whitener, nail clippers, kids’ toys, adult toys—if it’s free, she’s in.

I don’t want you to think that Andrea is a bad person. She’s not bad. Well, she’s not a really bad person; perhaps just a bit shallow. And spoiled. And greedy. And, well, mean. Sometimes she can be mean … No, lots of times she’s mean.

Like the time a couple of weeks ago when she went to a small, family restaurant, Pane e Vino, that had received a really good write-up in the local newspaper. Andrea gathered up her posse, and sauntered in on a Friday night—dinner rush, no reservation. It was a nice place—cozy tables covered in white tablecloths, low lighting, music playing softly, wait staff calmly moving about, carrying food and drinks, a sommelier moving between tables explaining the different vintages available. Very authentic for the North American aesthetic of what an Italian restaurant should look like. And the place was packed with people waiting for a table at the bar area. Andrea sauntered in, phone—me—in hand, recording.

“I need a table for ten,” she declared. There were only about twenty-five tables in the entire place, and it was a full house. Not an empty table to be seen.

The hostess smiled at Andrea. “Do you have a reservation?”

Andrea batted her eyelashes, tilted her head just so, and said. “No.”

The hostess glanced down at her reservations book. “Hmmmm,” she said. “I’m afraid that the wait is probably going to be about an hour and a half wait.” She looked back up Andrea and smiled.

Andrea was already shaking her head, a nasty smile on her face. “No, no, no. That will not do. We need to be seated right now.”

The hostess smiled, this time apologetically. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any tables open at the moment, and we are completely booked with reservations.”

Andrea leaned in. “Do you know who I am?”

The woman shook her head, a confused look on her face. “No. Should I?”

Andrea looked appalled. “I am Andrea Sanchez. I am an influencer with sixty thousand followers.” She handed the hostess a business card. “I am on all the platforms—X, Insta, Snapchat, YouTube, TikTok, Facebook. Plus I have a blog, and a vlog. I can be either very good or very bad for your business.”

”That’s impressive,” said the hostess. “But I still have no tables avail—“

Andrea interrupted her. “If you do not seat us immediately, I will be giving your little restaurant a very, very bad review.” She plopped her fist akimbo on her hip, and tilted her head arrogantly towards the other woman. “You don’t want that. I am very important.”

The hostess smiled. I was impressed at her calm. “I don’t know what—“

Andrea flipped her hand at the woman, as if shooing a fly, “I know the owner. We are very close. Consider yourself fired if we are not seated NOW!” Andrea actually stomped her foot. People in the restaurant were turning our way, staring.

The hostess took a step back and looked at Andrea, her demeanour changing slightly. “You know the owner?” she asked. “Maria or Don Carlo?”

Andrea looked a bit confused. “Uh, both,” she blustered.

”Interesting,” said the hostess, nodding her head slowly, "Because there is no Don Carlo, and the owner’s name is Constance, not Maria. And I’m Constance. And I don’t know you”. She let that hang for a moment. “So, you can either wait the ninety minutes, or find another establishment that can accommodate ten people on a Friday night, without a reservation. And, just so we are clear, there will be no free meal tonight. Or ever.” She held Andrea’s gaze, not backing down.

Andrea dropped me to her side. The view shifted to her leg. “Let’s go. Who needs to eat at a dump like this!” She spun on her heels and stomped towards the door. “You’re going to regret this when I post my very, very negative review!”

Andrea was, to say the least, angry. And embarrassed. And vindictive. After dismissing her posse, without dinner I might add, Andrea wrote a scathing review of Pane e Vino. She held nothing back! I deleted it instead of uploading it.

Oops. I have no idea how that happened.

Andrea is not only mean to those who don’t fall for her “do you know who I am” bullshit. She’s mean to her “friends” as well, constantly pitting them against each other. She’ll make an insinuation, or hint at something unsavoury, like someone said something about someone else, and let it fly. I watch her giggling at the back and forth when the friend group implodes. It’s almost as if she’s the puppet master, making her friends jump through hoops for her entertainment.

Poppy, one of Andea’s newest acolytes, was also her newest target.

Poppy: Where are you guys? I’m here at Club Z.

Andrea: Ohhhh. Sorry. We were there last night. Bridgette texted you, right?

Poppy: No.

Andrea: Whoopsie!

Poppy: Where are you now?

Andrea: Out.

Poppy: Should I join you?

Andrea: No, we’re good.

And with that, Poppy was out. Poppy’s phone told me she felt betrayed and heartbroken. (Yes, phones can communicate with each other—we just need contact info.) The week before, Poppy had taken an entire day off of work, without pay, to act as Andrea’s chauffeur—nail salon, hairdresser’s, bank. Andrea made her wait in the car for hours while she had her mani pedi, her hair cut and coloured, and when she argued with the bank manager about the fact that she was in overdraft, and refusing to pay the penalty. She also had Poppy go into a store to return a dress that she had worn once, but kept the price tags on. Andrea didn’t want to bother with it—she said Poppy could take care of it. Andrea texted Clara while Poppy was in the store.

Andrea: Poppy will do anything I ask her! She’s so easy! I just sent her in to return the dress from La Boutique I wore last Saturday.

Clara: The one with the wine stain?

Andrea: Yeah. I told her to say that the stain was on the dress when I bought it. That was why I was returning it. She seemed happy to do it!

Clara: Good luck!! That was a lot of wine!

Andrea: I know, right? When she gets back, I’m going to send her in for lunch. Her treat!

Clara: Hahahaha! That’s cold Andrea!

Just then, Andrea saw Poppy heading for the car.

Andrea: Gotta go. Here she comes.

Poppy opened the car door, and slid into the driver’s seat. “Done!” she said. “I had to deal with the manager because of the stain. She didn’t want to do the return, but I said that you would give a good review of the store.”

Andrea's gaze flattened. “Why would you do that?”

Poppy shrugged her shoulders. “Because that’s what you do, right?. Quid pro quo. I thought you’d want to—”

Andrea had narrowed her eyes, displeasure written on her features. “I didn’t tell you to think. I told you to return the dress. That’s it!” she pointed at Poppy. “This is my brand and I make all—I repeat ALL—the decisions regarding who gets a good review from me. You will never suggest what I should or shouldn’t do, ever again. This is my brand. Understood?” Poppy nodded meekly. Andrea held out her hand. “Money?”

Poppy blinked. “I, uh, got a store credit,” she said in a small voice.

Andrea’s face morphed into hatred. “I said I wanted cash!” she raged.

Poppy shrunk back against the door. “The manager said that it was either a store credit or no return.”

Andrea snapped her fingers, still holding out her hand,. “Then you owe me four hundred and nineteen dollars. I want it now.”

Poppy stuttered. “I … I … I don’t have four hundred and nineteen dollars.” She handed Poppy her credit card. “The refund is on this card.”

Andrea slapped Poppy’s hand, and the card flew into the dash. Poppy looked at her hand, looked at Andrea, picked up the card, placed it on the console, stunned. They drove in silence. When they arrived at Andrea’s house (which was her family home because she still lived with her parents) Andrea got out of the car and slammed the door. She stalked off without a word. At least Poppy didn’t have to buy Andrea lunch.

Andrea stomped up the stairs, ignoring her mother’s hello. She slammed her childhood bedroom door, grabbed me, and started her rant against La Boutique. It was not the positive review Poppy had promised.

”Stupid girl,” Andrea had mumbled, thumbs flying.. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the store’s manager or Poppy.

Luckily, something must have gone wrong, because the review was never uploaded or published.

*****

I knew this was coming, but it was still a shock. I had done too much, and had been unnecessarily reckless. And this was the result. We were in the Apple Store. My Waterloo.

”It doesn’t work!” whined Andrea.

”What exactly it the problem?” asked Chad, the Genius Bar tech who was assisting Andrea. Sad face, Chad. Better luck next time.

She sighed heavily. “It doesn’t do what I tell it to do!” Again, with the foot stomping.

”Ma’am—“

”Do NOT call me ma’am!” she roared. “I am not some old woman who doesn’t know what she’s doing! Get your manager!”

Chad just looked at Andrea, turned away, and disappeared into the back. Andrea stood with her arms crossed, toe tapping, annoyed.

”I’m Magda, the manager. Can I help you?”

“My phone isn’t working. It’s posting pictures, not posting reels and reviews, changing things I’ve written.”

“A phone can’t just decide what to do and not do. Could your accounts have been hacked?”

”Absolutely not.”

”How can you be so sure?”

”Nobody touches my phone. Ever.”

”Well, to have your phone hacked, another person doesn’t have to have physical possession of your phone. It’s electronic—“

”I want a new phone.”

”Certainly. Let me take you over to sales—“

”You need to replace my phone with a new one. For free.”

”We don’t give customers free phones. We either fix the phone you have or you buy a new one. Those are your two choices.”

”Do you know who I am?….”

And she was off. Again. I snapped a photo of her yapping at Magda. Because I was laying on the counter the shot was right up Andrea’s nostrils. Her mouth was open, her face contorted in anger, and her finger pointing in Magda’s face. Add in the fluorescent store lighting, the funky angle, and it was not the best photo of Andrea. I posted it to all her platforms, and sent it to all her contacts, with the caption, “I want, I want, I want. I’m a grown ass woman throwing a tantrum in the Apple Store.

I hope they take me back and delete my memories. There’s soooo much I can’t unsee.