Published
Not long ago, I was seated on a quiet, relatively full train car on the 6 line. I was heading uptown when the car jolted to a stop in the pitch-black bowels under Manhattan somewhere between 33rd and 42nd Street. It took the conductor nearly five minutes to say anything to the passengers. A grumbled, scratched, nearly indecipherable voice said something about a train in our way having some sort of malfunction—a common occurrence on account of MTA using train cars that run nonstop and were built during the Cold War.
Anyway, there I was, stranded on a train; the minutes ticked by and by. Eventually, after a lengthy twenty minutes, we began to creep toward the light at the end of the tunnel. Twenty minutes was a long time to sit beneath the earth, but that’s not what actually struck a chord in me. You see, what really upset me was that as I sat there among the occasional coughs and sniffles, I found myself scrolling my unloaded Instagram feed as if I had service and was looking at anything but reload button after reload button. There was a new @veronikaiscool reel I wanted to watch but couldn’t. A post from _The New York Times piqued my interest, but I couldn’t load it; I wouldn’t be able to load it on their app either, but that didn’t stop me from trying. Nope, back to Instagram. A friend posted a picture with a giggle-provoking caption, but I couldn’t see it. All I could see was the reload button.
I sat there for multiple minutes—ashamed of how many minutes, frankly—just waiting so impatiently for my service and impending scroll to be restored. I had a book, Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac, in my backpack, so I pulled that out somewhat reluctantly. I was disgusted that I sat there for so long, waiting for my phone to function correctly when I could’ve been getting lost in the drunken reveries of Japhy Rider. I read the rest of the way home. Days later, I abandoned my smartphone for good.
There had been something on my mind lately: the impulse to dump my phone, a device that felt like an extension of my body. I was utterly addicted, as we all are. Let’s face it: most of us would probably be more distraught about leaving the apartment without The Scroll than without a pair of shoes in the summertime.
That’s why I took the risk. I dumped my smartphone and The Scroll for a simple flip phone, a Nokia 2780 Flip, to be exact. I didn’t toss my iPhone in the East River or anything cinematic like that. I simply shut it off, dead and forgotten in my closet.
Since my smartphone has been resting peacefully, I have had many realizations. It’s nothing grandiose or significant because iPhones aren’t that grandiose or significant, either. We’ve placed them on such a high pedestal that getting rid of our phones seems impossible, downright irresponsible, and flat-out dumb. But let’s take a step back and remove our social conditioning.
Do we need constant access to Venmo? Do we need a digital wallet when we all carry a physical one in our pockets or bags? Do we need to be able to check our email every instant of every day? Do we need Instagram? TikTok? Twitter? FanDuel? You name it, do we need it in our pocket or hand at all times?
The Scroll is no different than a scratch-off lottery ticket or a beer. A lottery ticket bought at your local corner store is all about the dopamine hit off the prospect of making a quick, lucky buck. A beer at a bar with friends is about allowing your brain a dopamine buzz. Likewise, The Scroll is about getting that same buzz. When your phone dings, boom, a hit of dopamine. When someone likes your post, boom, dopamine. When someone views your story, boom, another hit. Dopamine isn’t always a bad thing, but it should be noted that having an excess of dopamine can lead to impulsive and aggressive tendencies, as well as anxiety and difficulty sleeping. The smart device you’re most likely reading this on provides you with as much dopamine as your body can release.
Now that I don’t have access to these things, I can still get my dopamine hits, but they no longer come from notifications from Emily Sundberg dropping a new Feed Me newsletter or friends sending me pointless (albeit very funny) memes.
I’m still in detox—the Scroll still courses through my veins. Like any addict, it takes a while in rehab to kick the thing. Now and again, I’ll tap the small screen on the phone to turn it on like it’s my old iPhone 12 before I realize this phone is too dumb to understand that command. It’s simply muscle memory; old habits die hard.
I’ve not been able to listen to nearly as much music or podcasts as I once did. I used to have headphones in any chance I could get—my Spotify-wrapped numbers were nothing to scoff at, but now they are naught. On this new phone, I can only listen to the radio or download music, like the iPod Shuffle I had in elementary school. I haven’t tried this feature on my Nokia, however, because I don’t mind the absence of headphones.
The world feels less overwhelming and much quieter now. It’s hard to explain because you’d think that all the street, city, and subway noise would be much more of a nuisance without it being drowned out by The New Yorker Radio Hour or Mac DeMarco. Nowadays, when a wailing ambulance passes me, it’s just sirens, when before, it was a cacophony of wee-woo-wee-woo joining inharmoniously with whatever is already being blared directly into my cochleas.
Texting is probably the greatest nuisance of not using a smartphone anymore. It absolutely sucks, to put it blatantly, but you can still do it. I’ve found that texting on a flip phone is like smoking cigarettes with dud matches on a windy day. It may take much longer to do what you want, but you can still get the job done eventually. For example, it took me one minute and 42 seconds to say, “What do you want to do for dinner tonight?” over text.
It’s been pleasant living without my smartphone. I’m more aware. I enjoy the motion between places and events more by seeing them for what they are. The Scroll no longer acts as a teleportation device that takes me out of the present and injects me with copious amounts of dopamine. The detox is still ongoing—it is a process—but I almost have it out of my system. Sorry if I haven’t texted you back.
