For the first time since the Pleistocene, I was without cellphone for a few days. It was both 19.6 on the Richter Hysterical Yuppie Sissy Scale, and, heaven.

I was North America’s last human to finally get a cell phone. Sneaking up on the 21st century, I finally relented. I bought a little white Motorola number. Smiling, I can still recall that teeny little nodule oh-so-slightly sticking out in the middle of the No. 5 key.

My Motorola was the size of a thin pack of cigarettes. You flip it open, and, without looking, rub your thumb over the keys and feel that tiny, smooth bump on No. 5. From there, eyes closed, you could dial anybody on the planet.

Remember those old flip phones? Back then, for you kids in the Pi-r-Squared or whatever generation you annoying people are, there was no such thing as the dreaded, “Butt Dial.” We were just entering the Apocalypse and you couldn’t even say, “Butt” in public without disapproving stares and stern “shushes!!”

I really didn’t want a darn phone. In everlasting shame, I finally succumbed to peer pressure. Friends, enemies, co-workers, telemarketers, they all complained that they had to wait until after 7 when I got back home to reach me, and, usually, when I got home, I wouldn’t answer the phone.

Why?

I had an answer machine and could screen calls. I still remember my outgoing message. It was the opening theme from the old Magilla Gorilla cartoon. Here. You hepcat daddy and mommas from my free-wheeling ’60s Summer Of Love Generation — sing it with me:

“We’ve got — a gorilla for sale! Magilla! Gorilla! For sale! Won’t you. Buy him. Take him home and try him! Gorilla for sale!!!”

Then, on the answer message, my breathless voice jumped in, as if I ran in from outside: “Hi! It’s John! If you’re calling about the large ape listed in The Signal classifieds we’re selling, or, you want to just leave a message, do so at the . . .”

There wasn’t a beep. I added a loud, ancient “AAAA-OOOO——GA!!” car horn sound effect.

Once, one of my mothers-in-law — I can’t remember which one — didn’t so much leave a message but rather an icy complaint that an alleged grown man shouldn’t represent themselves with such an immature recorded greeting. Coward, damnable coward and damn my wretched eyes, I axed Magilla and re-recorded something staid, vanilla, soulless and DMV-like. What I SHOULD-HAVE re-recorded is, “If you’re Satan, or my wife Brunhilda’s momma, don’t leave a message. Just fly over the ranch on your broom while leaving a flaming jet trail. I’ll see it and if I remember two months later, I’ll tell Brunnie you crashed into the barn and started a brush fire. Have a nice day and we STILL have that frigging giant monkey with the cute pork pie hat for sale. Not that he’d speak to you …”

The Motorola served me well for years. Then, all around me, people were mutating into the cultural phenomenon of — The Smart Phone. Today, you can watch movies or launch your own missile into Iran. All this techno-entertainment nonsense, by cracky, started innocently with the concept of, “texting.” Which, even today, I can’t understand. Back then, I figured, if you wanted to talk to me, then, like the old-fashioned days — call. This annoyed one of my closest friends because, according to him, he was “important” and “busy,” didn’t like people or talking to them and liked to communicate via scowls and grunts. Fed up, one Christmas, he bought me a brand new iPhone. I think it was the “1.”

OK. Fine. Now, I could text and look up stock prices and investigate what, exactly, was a stock. I knew it wasn’t a horsey. The problem? My phone bill for the now-ancient Motorola was like $6 a month. Now I had an iPhone where you could set it to stun or kill people like in Star Trek.

And?

My phone bill went up 10-fold. Sixty bucks a month. I’ve bought cars for $50. Total. All this for the pleasure of butt-dialing yet another and different psychologically complicated mother-in-law. You guys reading this in mixed company. You don’t have to nod or anything. Cripes. Certainly do not blurt out a guffaw if your mistress is standing next to you, tapping a toe. But, really? Aren’t ALL mothers-in-law the same?

Anywho.

I went just about a week without my beloved partner for life, my cellphone. I went through all five of the stages of dying: 1) Denial; 2) Anger; 3) Bargaining; 4) Depression; and, 5) Acceptance.

Step One? My phone could not be missing. Didn’t my cell know who I am? Step Two: Walking around in insane circles, punching innocent passers-by, including children, threatening, “OK. It’s not funny anymore. Give it back.” Step Three: If any interested saints and/or forest deities would only return my phone, I SWEAR I’d erase the app where you can type in “Zonta” and it creates images of all the women in the service organization with come-hither smiles and wearing no clothes; Step Four: Depression? Curled up in a fetal ball for three days; and, Step Five: Acceptance: I realized this was a beautiful thing.

No incoming calls. No frantic searching, of, “Where did I put it down?!?!?” No becoming unhinged every 20 minutes, reading headlines confirming how stupid Democrats are. No checking time or temperature every 15 minutes, here or in Montana. No entering friends’ vitals into Deathclock.com., then texting them the results. No using Mapquest.

(If I didn’t know how to get there, why do I have to go?)

After a couple days, it was heaven, not being spiritually connected to the T-Mobile mother ship, although, I do, cripes, miss the flashlight …

“Naked Came the Novelist,” John Boston’s long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” is on sale at JohnBoston-Books.com. So are other fine books, including his two-part “SCV Monsters” series. A lifelong SCV resident with 119 major writing awards and nearly 12,000 columns, Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist.

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