Summary

The author recounts a humorous incident where their phone accidentally pocket-dialed 911 multiple times, leading to an unexpected encounter with the police.

Abstract

While enjoying a reunion with an old friend on a bar patio, the author's phone unexpectedly dialed 911 from their back pocket, causing a series of chaotic and nerve-wracking events. Despite the author's initial confusion and the playful taunts from the crowd, the situation was resolved with a warning from the police and a newfound respect for the seriousness of misusing emergency services. The author reflects on the incident with humor, acknowledging their phone's peculiar behavior and the surreal experience of being surrounded by a swarm of new friends and curious onlookers.

Opinions

The author initially dismissed the unusual phone call as a technical issue, not recognizing it as an emergency call.
The author's friend, Eric, and other patrons found the situation amusing and contributed to the chaos with jokes and taunts.
The 911 operator and police officers took the situation seriously, assuming the author was in danger due to the chaotic background noise.
The author was genuinely frightened by the arrival of the police, fearing potential legal consequences.
The author suggests their phone may be "possessed" due to its history of making unintended calls and performing strange actions.
The police officers were skeptical of the "possessed phone" theory but maintained a professional demeanor throughout the encounter.
The author learned a valuable lesson about the importance of not misusing emergency services and has taken steps to prevent future accidental calls.

HUMOR

How My Crazy, Possessed Phone Almost Got Me Arrested

It butt-dialed 911 all on its own

My phone screamed from my jeans’ back pocket. The shrieks rudely interrupted my first, glorious moments of winter’s aftermath. I’d enjoyed my first day in months without a jacket, extra hours of daylight, and all of the promise that early summer brings. Winter doldrums bested me that year, and Colorado had skipped spring. I yearned for the exciting new chapter of summer.

Standing on a spacious bar patio with my old friend, Eric, I didn’t want to answer my phone. Eric and I were catching up in person for the first time in a year. We had much ground to cover.

I tried to ignore the phone’s wail, but I’d never heard it scream before. It wasn’t my ringtone and didn’t resemble my notification “dings.” Was the phone dying?

“Um, is that your ring tone, Paris?” Eric smirked. It was not — my ringtone is a pleasant, mellow alternative song. This tone sounded like hell unleashed from my butt.

I dug the phone out of my pocket. The screen glowed a siren red, and 911 flashed on the Caller ID. Why was the emergency number calling me? I showed Eric, and he cackled. “Well, answer!” he said.

“Ma’am, are you in danger?”

My heart beat loudly in my ears. I’ve never really been on the wrong side of the law, but I get nervous anytime a cop is even behind me on the road. I turn my music down, end any conversation, and grab my steering wheel at the “2 and 10” positions until my fingers bleed.

My dripping wet hands caused the phone to slip, but I caught 911 on the fifth ring. “Hel-hello?” I whispered.

“Ma’am, are you in danger?” the operator asked.

Eric started shouting things in the background like: “I’m holding her hostage! I’ve got a gun!” He wasn’t helping. Other patio patrons in various states of inebriation chimed in: “You can’t escape us! Mwhahaha.”

The 911 operator was not amused. She again asked if my life was in danger. She urged me to use code words if I needed help. I assured her that I didn’t, and after a malignant pause, she told me that two squad cars were on their way to my location.

“Why?” I asked, my voice oozing with fear. As I uttered my question, I noticed police cars’ flashing lights pull into the parking lot. I didn’t understand what was happening.

By this point, Eric had pulled friends and strangers alike into the fun. A small crowd formed around me. “You’re in trou-ble,” they taunted. Flashbacks of my sole elementary school visit to the principal’s office raced into my thoughts. The operator told me to speak with the officers and then hung up.

My legs turned to jello as my mind raced. I wondered what had occurred? Was I in trouble for consuming beer before nightfall? I’d never been arrested before — how would I explain this to my family? Had someone called the cops on me as a prank?

I met the officers at their cars and tried to ignore a hundred pairs of eyes peeking from the patio. They both stood on high alert, hands on holsters. “Officers,” I began walking toward them, “this is a huge mistake. I’m fine! I think I pocket-dialed.” They relaxed but asked to speak with me away from prying eyes. We walked toward the back of the second squad car.

Officer Number One informed me I had called 911 three times in the space of twenty minutes. While I hadn’t spoken, the background noise was chaotic and “scared” the dispatch operator. She imagined I was in dire need, amid violence.

The skeptical officers told me that most phones have a safety lock on 911 — it was virtually impossible to dial 911 accidentally. “But somehow, my phone did,” I said. “Maybe it’s possessed?” Officer Number Two scoffed at the idea that a demon would possess my phone but told me he knows a priest who can help with exorcisms.

My fear washed away. My butt must have called 911 as I sat on a bar stool. The phone has a mind of its own — I’ll pull it out of my purse after a night out and discover I’ve called an ex or an old acquaintance. I’ve woken in the middle of the night to find it sitting, in camera mode, on my nightstand.

I got off with a written warning and an admonishing lecture on how “911 is not a joke” typically reserved for middle-schoolers. I’ve never seen two grown men shake their heads as vigorously as those cops did. When I re-entered the bar, I found myself with a swarm of new friends. Strangers covered my tab and asked me to regale them with my tales of infamy.

A year and a half later, my phone still calls numbers at random. Last week, as I unlocked my screen, it pulled up a picture from three years ago. Whatever takes hold of my phone in those moments, I swear it’s benign. I never sought out a phone exorcist. But, I vow to never shove my cell in my back pocket again.