Open Writing

Until I settled in the USA in the 1970’s, I had not heard the term disposable income. But I was delighted to learn that, for many people including myself, wages and salaries were such that, unless you were a profligate spender, you would have enough dough to buy a few luxuries after you had dealt with taxes and the essential expenses. Having come from a much more austere England of the time, I felt a twinge of guilt at being the beneficiary of this largesse, but I quickly and eagerly embraced the philosophy.

I had a lot of catching up to do before I could hold up my head in my neighborhood. The two-car garages of the houses around me were crammed with the accumulation of decades of disposable income purchases – bicycles for the whole family, perhaps a canoe or two, last year’s refrigerator, now used for just beer and coke, an ice cream maker, power tools for Dad, pogo sticks, lawn chairs, fishing rods, you name it. Meanwhile, the two or more family cars sat in the driveway.

On “big trash” pick-up day, usually once a month in my area, the stuff at the roadside was of high enough quality and variety that folks from the other side of the tracks, and even some of my neighbors, would be out on the evening before, picking over the discarded treasures. By morning there wasn’t much for the garbage company to collect, except for the occasional mattress or outmoded toilet seat.

Though my inborn English restraint and forty years of austerity living have saved me from the worst excesses, I have managed nevertheless to accumulate more goodies than I had ever dreamed of owning. Modesty dictates that I spare you the details; suffice it to say that I have done my bit for the US economy, and the Chinese, and the Japanese. In my own defense, I can still garage both cars, even though, I shamefacedly admit, my two boats have to be stored elsewhere!

The down side of all this conspicuous consumption is that with each year’s purchases, many of my gadgets and toys have become progressively more complex. The first time I was technically challenged it was a VCR, but fortunately I had an eight-year-old daughter at home who quickly mastered the machine. But as the years passed, and she became less tolerant of my technophobia, I had to get serious about reading user’s manuals for anything from a digital camera to a computer; though admittedly it takes a lot of the spontaneity out of candid photography if you have to keep thumbing through the manual before each shot.

I have actually become pretty self reliant until something goes wrong. Then my spirits sink at the prospect of trying to get help from the euphemistically named, “customer support services.” My choices are either to spend hours on the phone waiting for a “technician,” after running the gauntlet of the phone menu selections, or to communicate my distress via email. After several horrendous phone bills, now I use only email.

I’m pretty conscientious about providing all the necessary details: serial number, model number, date of purchase etc., and also about describing the problem as clinically and clearly as possible, but the responses sap my confidence in obtaining a solution. “Dearest mister Merchant, I am distraught at the problem you are having with our excellent product, but in order for us to help you, kindly please provide the serial and model number of your equipment, date of purchase and a full description of the problem, Sincerely Alphonzo.”

The second communication goes something like “Good gracious me, what a grave difficulty you are enduring. You have my deepest sympathy kind sir, but please conscientiously undertake the following remedy that will blow your mind,” Egbert entreats me. Presumably Alphonzo is off shift. Egbert includes a 15 point list of steps to be taken that are “guaranteed” to solve the problem, but my confidence level sinks when I realize that the list is identical to the one I had included in my original email to describe the procedures I had already followed.

As our email correspondence continues over a period of days and sometime weeks, I become fascinated by the quaint English and the ever-changing, and surely phony, signatures. Neither Alphonzo nor Egbert nor any of the subsequent correspondents are ever heard from more than once, and I have to wonder where they go to, or if in fact they are all the same person who keeps changing his name to give the impression that I’m dealing with a massive organization.

In my fascination I start to lose the thread of what I’m trying to achieve, rather like “It’s the journey that’s important, not the destination.” But I persist, as only a retired person can, and eventually the toy in question is restored to functionality. “Very many splendid congratulations blessed sir, and my undying thanks for your persistence and spiritual patience,” is the parting shot from William.

Living on a pension as I now do, my days of conspicuous consumption are somewhat behind me, but I’m consoled by the fact that I have enough toys to keep me and Alphonzo and Egbert and William busy for many a year.

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