The other day, my cell phone died, rendering me incommunicado on the streets of Philadelphia.

I couldn’t call my self-adopted brother as I promised, to let him know, “Hey, come get me. I’m ready. We’re done. Let’s eat.”

Now, on John F. Kennedy Blvd., alone and powerless, I watched couples pose in front of the LOVE sculpture, passing cell phones to strangers who promised to horizontally, vertically, or panoramically, capture the moment of digital joy.

I scanned the corners I could see for a silver metal box with a blue and white sign on the top, a simple image of an old school phone receiver.

Nothing.

I don’t know when they’d removed the pay phones in Philly, but I remember when they’d pulled the last ones off the street in New York. Or was it Connecticut? Doesn’t matter. They’re all gone now. But what did they replace them with?

Nothing.

Nothing except a silent understanding, a social contract, a nod to the way things will be now and forevermore.

We understand you don’t need this anymore, so we’re taking it away. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.

I walked to the next street and peered east and west and north and south. Isn’t Alexander Graham Bell from Philadelphia? I didn’t know but thought something of technological importance happened here. How could they not have one pay phone?

I debated asking a stranger. I imagined if someone were to ask me, I probably would say no. After all, there are those stories of a deceitful youth running off with the phone after preying on one’s Good Samaritan tendencies. Did I look like shady?

I didn’t think so, but who knows for sure.

I’d pay good money - four quarters even - to make a call with a pay phone.

I didn’t have any change though. I figured I could charge the call to my mother. Or call collect? I’ve done that before. In the early 90s. The late 80s. That’s an emergency move but it works.

Zero for operator.

I don’t even know what happens if you press zero on a cell phone.

Not my cell phone because mine is dead.

And let’s be clear, dead is actually not the right terminology to describe a temporary loss of power.

A dead cell phone can always be brought back to life.

I decide to walk back to my car where my temperamental charger might resurrect my cell, just long enough for me to locate my bro and move on with my afternoon.

Back at the lot, I stand in the door jamb of my SUV, while my iPhone rests on my car seat. I wait. I wait. But nothing happens. The charger is shoddy. I hold the base of the charger and jiggle it. I remove and reinsert. I push at an angle, a smidge forward, a pinch back.

After 20 unelectric minutes, I remove the cell and the charger. Across the street, I see a T-Mobile store. If this is a store worth its bars in cell coverage, the display phones will be activated, not props with simulated images that don’t swipe in any direction.

Inside, the staff ignores me, thankfully. I must look like a youth will swipe a phone, or at least one with no means or intent on purchasing one.

At the back of the store, there are several iPhones on display. I choose the iPhone 6 Plus. I’ve been thinking about this phone anyway. There’s nothing wrong with my phone. It just seems so small and puny in comparison. But then I feel guilty. I’ve got all my old cell phones somewhere in a duffle bag. From my first black Nokia phone. That silver Sprint flip phone. God a flip phone. They clowned the hell out of Lindsey Graham for still having a flip phone. You can tell a lot about a person from the type of phone they have. In general, be leery of folks who use flip phones.

Lindsey destroyed the phone after Donald Trump gave out his number. He could have just changed his number but he probably really wanted the iPhone 6 anyway.

I read the fine print on the phone’s info card. $199.99 down.

Down? What’s this new you’re never finished paying for the phone shit? They’re trying to make you think it’s cheaper in the long run. I don’t know the breakdown but I’m sure it’s not. And what would I do with my old phone? I couldn’t throw it out. It still worked. It’d just go to a landfill and pollute the earth. I couldn’t recycle it; what if someone stole my identity from it? I mean, that could be a thing. The real reason I couldn’t part with any of the phones probably lies in how much of myself I see in each of them; the college boyfriend phone, the first job phone, the first phone without a credit deposit, the first phone with a Qwerty keyboard, the first smartphone.

Maybe the people with the flip phones are onto something. They’ve got no cellular trail. They commit. They’re not wooed by the next shiny iteration. They also probably still have landlines. And if they’d had any say in the matter, I’m sure they would have blocked the removal of the pay phones. At least, they would have left one standing, I’m positive.

I remind myself to delete Ike’s number after I make the call. I plug in my headset and dial my brother’s number, hoping he’ll answer.

A few rings. If he doesn’t answer, I will have to leave a message. Luckily, I don’t have to know the number I’m calling from. He’ll see it or hear it on his Caller ID. My first caller ID unit was a small gray box that had three buttons: left, right, and delete, and inputs for the telephone wire from the wall and one out to the phone.

After a few rings, I hear Ike.

“Hello,” he says, suspiciously.

“It’s me,” I say.

“Oh, what number is this?”

“I’m at the T-Mobile store.” I glance over my shoulder. The staff pow-wows at the counter about ten feet away. They’re used to this, I reckon.

“What the hell are you doing there?”

“My cell died. Meet me at the Reading Terminal. I’ll be on the corner in front of the hotel.”

We hang up. And I walk up 13th and take a right on Filbert St. Maybe, I have time to go into the Terminal and get a smoothie. I decide against it. I’ve only got one shot to get this right.

I find a spot under the hotel’s awning and stand in the shade, glancing eagerly at each white car that rounds the corner.

This is kind of like the old days. Where you made plans and just had to trust the person was going to show up. And after a decent amount of waiting, if for some reason he didn’t show up, you left, equal parts angry and worried, wondering if they were still alive, or dead and not coming back to life.

Several days later, wondering about Alexander Graham Bell, I google “phone history.” Google suggests:

Delete searches and browsing activity

View phone call history in Gmail

How to clear the internet browser history on your Android

Google brings your search history to your phone

How to quickly delete history on Android phone.

I google Alexander Graham Bell and learn he’s from Scotland and lived a bit in Canada and Boston. I’m too lazy to read his Wikipedia in detail but see no mention of Philadelphia.

I do not google pay phone.

I know the answer.