It was supposed to be so easy.

It said so right on the box that the cute little cell phone came in at the department store. No hassles, no contracts. All I had to do was buy the airtime minutes I wished to use, and then add more to the phone as I needed them. “How simple,” I thought, as I brought my new phone home and went online to activate the thing, which would be a snap and have me up and running within a few minutes.

It said so right on the box.

“Activation failed,” I was informed after I’d spent about 10 minutes entering and re-entering long strings of registration code numbers into the appropriate spaces on the screen. I was told to call a toll-free number for technical support, which I did, only to hear that the technical support department was closed for the night.

So I called the next morning, confident that a knowledgeable and friendly tech person would walk me through the activation process in no time and have me gabbing away on my cute little cell phone like a technologically savvy man of the modern world.

The tech person introduced himself as Yanni, or Lanni, or something like that. I couldn’t make out his name or anything else he told me. It wasn’t so much his thick Indian accent or rapid speech that made him nearly incomprehensible as it was the annoyingly loud crackling over the line. It sounded like someone crumpling paper next to the phone’s mouthpiece. The tech person sounded harried, having to repeat all of his detailed instructions to me, so I thought a bit of levity might loosen him up a bit.

“I can’t hear you, Yanni,” I shouted. “It sounds like you’re crumpling paper next to the phone.”

After informing me politely that he would not do such a thing, we continued trying to activate my cell phone. After many frustrating minutes, I was informed that my long strings of assigned code numbers weren’t working correctly, that I needed a new circuit card to replace the one in the phone that was not compatible with my ZIP code, and that the gizmo would arrive in the mail the next day.

Yanni then gave me a case number, which I carefully jotted down on a legal pad next to the strings of numbers I would be asked to repeat several more times in order to finally get my reconfigured phone to operate. Yanni then thanked me for using his company’s phone service, which I had yet to do in any meaningful way.

Four days later, the circuit card finally arrived.

With renewed determination, I inserted the thing into the back of the cute little cell phone and went online once more to get activated. When that failed – Why was I not surprised? – I called the company again and got a woman whose name I couldn’t make out. It was not so much her thick Spanish accent or rapid speech that made her nearly incomprehensible as it was the terribly muffled phone connection. She sounded as if she were speaking to me through a gas mask. I didn’t dare mention that to her, however, in case she wasn’t in a joking mood.

After trying the tiresome old code thing once again without success, the woman issued me a muffled apology and yet another case number. Like Yanni, she thanked me for using her company’s phone service and then connected me to a pleasant man whose name might have been Toby, or maybe Dooby. I couldn’t be sure, not because of a thick accent this time but because of an irritating echo on the phone line that loudly repeated everything I said back to me and obscured all of Toby’s instructions.

Together, we punched in all the registration code numbers, which I’d almost memorized by that point. Then we performed a few more cryptic maneuvers to get my phone to work at last, but it was not meant to be. Toby finally declared that my cute little cell phone was a lost cause and offered to mail me another within five to 10 working days. I told him not to bother; I’d just go back to the store and get a refund.

Oddly enough, Toby then thanked me for using his company’s phone service. It sounded like the guy was teasing me, although I’m sure it was just a faulty connection.