I had been thinking about it for some time, brooding really, the way an idea can sometimes take hold of your imagination simply because it’s dangerous, or maybe just a little nasty, like watching the woman next door through her bedroom window. It was one of those things that took root in my head and just wouldn’t let go but went 'round and 'round, sometimes out of sight but always circling, a Haley’s comet of synaptic chemicals making the circuit in my mind. Each time around I would look at it more closely, would poke it and prod it the way kids will poke a dead bird found in the gutter. I would poke it and roll it over to look at the mottled feathers sticking together and grimace out of disgust and obscene interest. Then it would cycle away to the back of my subconscious and float there on its long orbit.

Risks aren’t part of my internal make-up. I don’t like them. Risk is what happens when we fail to plan, when we fail to appreciate in advance the opportunities or hazards. Some are unavoidable, like walking through any WalMart parking lot or eating organic spinach. I’m a fireman and taking chances is a big part of the job because we more or less promise that we will take risks. Walking up to a closed door in the middle of the night in a bad part of town is never a good idea, so I like to keep my life away from work as risk-free as possible. Still, once the notion of dangerous behavior takes hold, it’s like trying to pry an ice cream cone from a three year old's iron grip.

You know what I’m talking about too. A first kiss is full of danger. How many things can go wrong in the inch and a half after you close your eyes? Sex is another one. Nowadays a thoughtless dalliance can turn into an early grave. You’ve done it though, in spite of the risks because once it’s there, it’s there.

I was rushing out of my house like I always do, shepherding my son to the car so we could go run errands and try to get to the park before lunch and nap. We don’t ever go anywhere at a leisurely pace. We run. All the time. Always late, pushing some imaginary deadline on an equally artificial clock - and that’s when it struck me. At that moment as I turned the key and the engine spun to life it came full circle and was once again staring at me like a bulging eye from the other side of the front door peep hole. Risk. Chance. Uncertainty. It was right in front o f me and in the moment I grabbed it.

It wasn’t until my son and I got to the park that it really hit me. I had deliberately chosen to leave my cellphone at home. It was conscious, deliberate, and premeditated. I had decided to disconnect myself from the world, to be unreachable, to live a small piece of my life without any tether. My son was running around on the jungle gym and other kids were kicking soccer balls, sliding down slides, swinging, running, and screaming and I was there without my constant companion. I felt naked. Everyone was staring, looking at the guy with no phone, the one adult in the park without some kind of digital device stuck to his ear. The lady over by the ramada was talking on her phone. The teenage babysitter sitting on the picnic table was too. The two kids on skateboards were both talking on phones and one had an earphone plugged into his other ear: talk about wired. Even the homeless guy by the bathrooms was holding a camera phone.

What if my son fell and broke his neck? How would I call for help? I might actually have to shout in panic like you see in the movies. “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” What if I was in a car accident, a fender bender, on my way home? I might have to ask the person who hit me to call 911 on his phone. Suppose I was driving along and aliens landed on top of us. How would I tell someone? Worse, what would happen if all of a sudden I just wasn’t doing OK, wasn’t up to anything in particular? Who would I tell? It felt like trying to navigate a New York subway with no map and no watch. My palms got sweaty. My vision blurred. I had to sit down and hold on for dear life to keep the world from spinning out of control. I had no phone. My iPod was at home. My hand-held was charging on my desk safely docked to my lap top. I don’t even have satellite radio. I had nothing. I was alone with just the thoughts in my head. There was no constant buzzing on my hip, no annoying text messages from people I don’t really want to hear from but feel compelled to talk to anyway. It was just me and my son and I was going to have to talk to him! We were going to have to interact! Me and a three year old boy! What would we talk about? How would we make it the three miles home without some kind of electronic device to define our relationship? My God!

In a moment of clarity I grabbed my son off the slide and sprinted to the car. His bewildered eyes beseeched me from the confines of his car seat as I stuttered and stammered that we had to go home. Now! He started to cry because he could feel the fear pouring off of me in palpable waves, could taste its acid in his mouth and feel it crawl on his skin. In his cries I could hear him accuse me of risking his very life with my own thoughtlessness. The drive home was a blur. I mashed my foot down on the floor and the car sped down the twisted roads that had become dark and forbidding with danger. I blew past stop signs and ignored red lights. I tripled the posted limit and caromed down the serpentine asphalt all the way home.

I didn’t even try to get into the garage, just killed the ignition and yanked up the emergency brake, throwing us against our seat belts. My son’s cries from the back seat were screams of terror and confusion, doubtless wondering how I could ever have been allowed to be a father in the first place. I sprinted along the sidewalk and through the front door. It was on my desk, a talisman wrapped in brown leather perched like the crown of a cursed, ancient, and forgotten kingdom. I pushed off with both feet from the den doorway and sailed through the air in slow motion like a movie hero firing a gun at the bad guys. My hand fell on it and my fingers gripped the smooth leather case. I landed on my side with a loud whoosh of air. It was mine! I had it! I wasn’t alone anymore! I could call anyone I wanted to. I could send stupid little messages to my friends! It was as if God had granted me a second life, a chance to live again and to breathe yet that still sweet air.

It took several hours for the shakes to go away and my son was nearly catatonic for a week but we both survived. I’ve done some scary things in my line of work, seen things that have haunted me, driven me to my knees in despair.  Never, though, have I felt more abandoned, more alone, more frightened than for the two hours I walked around without my cellphone.

 Mark Mauldin is a freelance writer based in Prescott, Arizona.