Open Writing

I know a lap top has some limitations, battery life and theft for instance, but I wanted one. I wanted to be able to go where there were other people and continue to work when I could no longer stand looking at the walls of my office. So I saved my pennies and last September took this cute little laptop home.

Life and writing was great until one day, when the computer was six months old, it refused to print. It gave me a message that it didn't have enough something. Now the friendly salesman who sold me this gem assured me I could come back any time I had a problem so I read the manual, packed up my treasure and headed for the computer store.

Webster's says INVISIBLE means not perceptible by the eye. I say INVISIBLE is a woman with white hair in a computer store at lunch time. At first I thought there must be a reasonable explanation for the fact that no one seemed to notice me in the computer store. After I had stood unattended for what seemed hours, it probably was more like five minutes, a man walked in. A neatly dressed young man popped up and said brightly, 'Could I answer any questions?' to the newly-arrived man, of course, not to me. If he'd asked me, I'd probably asked something like, 'Yes, tell me what is the meaning of life?' or 'What makes me invisible?'
There was one other woman in the place. She was behind a large terminal, under a sign identifying her as the CASHIER. I moseyed over and asked for my salesman Roger Whatsiname, who had assured me six months ago as I purchased my laptop that he'd be there to solve any problems I had with my computer, 'however trivial'.

Not only was he no longer employed there, but no one was available to answer anything.

I did what I'd learned to do at Berkeley in the 60's (Berkeley--a University in California famous for its student sit-ins), only this time I was wearing shoes, using body language I threatened to do a sit-down right in front of the CASHIER. I'd figure out how to get up later.

A rather languid, six-foot-plus young man appeared, eyed the laptop case in my hand and volunteered to answer a 'quick' question. I haven't felt that unwanted since the first time I met my son-in-law to be.

'I seem to be out of something, It refuses to print.' I stuttered the way I used to when called to the principal's office for something I'd written in the school newspaper.

He looked down his nose and said, 'Did you turn off your rablefrasels?' (that's what it sounded like to me.)

Even though I believe reading computer manuals is for wimps, I'd read and read and read the manuals and found out they were speaking a different language. So determined not to stutter in front of this callow youth I said, 'I wish I could understand what you are saying.'

That broke up the CASHIER. The only two women in the place had formed an alliance.

'You are, of course, using Microsoft Word,' he intoned. 'It is so big, it'll take up all your RAM.' The sneer in his voice when he said 'How many megabytes of RAM?' was unmistakable.

'I'm using Microsoft such and such.'

He seemed surprised. Probably that I even knew which word processing program I was using. 'Well, bring it over here,' and pointed to a table with one chair.

I took the chair as befitting my age, gender and arthritis. Mistake, now he could look way down on me.

He opened the case and turned the screen so only he could see it and did a short concert of key strokes.

It was like watching the pediatrician examine your new born baby without saying a word. In fact, this computer was like my newborn in other ways. They were both firsts, first child of my own, first computer of my own. When our daughter was new, my husband would come home from work, give me a perfunctory greeting and go get his baby. They would coo, gurgle and giggle together until I fed them dinner. When I brought this new laptop home, he came in the front door, gave me a kiss and picked up the computer. I didn't hear too many giggles and coos but he displayed the same rapt attention. He played with the machine until I served dinner. But back to the computer store.

My 'salesman' stopped whatever he was doing, shut down the machine and closed the cover. 'There that will solve your problem.'

'But what did you do?' I protested.

'Turned off your raborframaswitch,' he responded. At least that sounded like what he said.

'But you aren't supposed to do that.' I said. I hadn't read all those manuals for nothing. A friend once said, 'The difference between a man and a woman with a new program is the woman wiill read the manual and agonize over each key stroke. The man will just punch buttons and see what happens. This salesman had the punch-button routine down.

His look was full of scorn. 'It'll work, Madam, unless you have a virus.'

Madam, me? A virus? 'But I'm not on the Internet.' I protested.

'Where did you get your software?'

'Oh, oh. I got it from my husband who got it from who knows where.'

My six-foot-plus "salesman" turned on his most forbidding face.

'Don't disc around,' he ordered and stalked away.

I waved at the CASHIER and exited. Next time I have a problem I'll integrate the men's room at the stadium or walk into a sports bar instead.

I took my baby laptop home. It refused to print. So I removed the program from my hard drive and reloaded it. It was a miracle cure, an old housewife's trick. It is what I do when I'm stuck on something, I clean the house. Why it works, I'll never know.

© Ellen Fisher

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Ellen writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au