I flew to Memphis for a Mississippi shoot with The Hives. The journalist picked me up at the airport. Suddenly my US mobile phone stops working. We find a T-Mobile store. The technician states that my phone is dead. Luckily he has spare parts - a while ago he disassembled a phone of the same model. He replaces the circuit board. And – my phone works. After, there are text messages in my inbox that I don't recognize? They come from the circuit board I got. They are not meant for me, but for the former owner of the circuit board…
"I really did fucker"
In May 2007 I flew from New York to Memphis. I was assigned a magazine shoot in Oxford, Mississippi, with the rock band – aswell as my fellow Swedes – The Hives. The journalist Håkan Steen picked me up in a rental car at Memphis International Airport.
A couple of miles south on Route 55 my US mobile phone stops working. We find our way to a T-Mobile store in Southaven, in the outer Memphis area.
The store owner slash technician states that my phone is completely dead. My heart races. Luckily, the guy has a few spare parts, since he a while ago had disassembled a phone of the same model. So he replaces the actual circuit board in my phone. And – it works.
We're back on Route 55, and I browse through my phone. I slowly realise there are a lot of text messages in my inbox, messages that I don't recognize. I must have inherited them from the former owner of the circuit board!
These messages are not meant for me. They were, a few months earlier, meant for the former owner of the circuit board.
For five years I've treasured this glimpse of someone else's life. Someone in the Memphis area, who once had the same phone model and the same phone operator as me. Someone with a completely different life.