McCleary
By INGRID McCLEARY
It still gives me the shivers, what happened with my beloved Apple IIe computer.
At first, I thought it was a prank. It's a lovely Saturday afternoon, and my husband must want me to come out of the office. He must be fiddling with the power switches. I came out all right, with my eyes bulging in panic.
"What did you do? My computer died!"
But no, he was innocent. As were the kids--this time.
I rushed back into the office and systematically took my computer apart. I cleaned it, blew softly on all the interface cards, jiggled every connection. Nada. I switched plugs and tried new outlets. Zip.
I was stumped. How could this be?
Just this morning, I'd decided, "Today I buy a new computer." I'd hit my 100th published credit and thought, "Reward Thyself!" Finish the column, then go out and dicker with computer salespeople. I'd been saving computer ads for months. I figured I'd strut in with an armload of computer ads as a negotiating tool.
It's uncanny; the moment I decide my trusty computer's obsolete, it dies.
Now, just because I was getting a new computer didn't mean I'd have no further use for my old one. I still needed to print out the old files and scan the text into my new one.
But somewhere in the Apple IIe motherboard, a personality had formed, one that took my decision personally and exacted revenge. It knew I wouldn't be able to transfer the Apple data onto IBM-formatted disks. It knew I couldn't just run to the store to get new parts. And it knew I had a deadline. Yep, it got me back--and good.
I felt betrayed. I'd invested a lot of time and energy on my Apple IIe and over the years. We'd cultivated our own language, just like the pet names, gestures or subtle head nods that two longtime friends might share. Heck, I understood all its quirks--and loved it, anyway.
I'm not the only one to develop a relationship with a computer. In this technological era--and especially living in Silicon Valley--people can't help but get emotionally attached to something so responsive, something so interactive.
In most homes I visit, the computer is set up in a prominent place. Friends introduce me to their latest family addition the same way they'd present their new puppy. They even show me the tricks it can do. I ran through the gamut of emotions: bewilderment, frustration, anger and resignation. Then I grabbed my husband and headed for the store. This may not be the way I'd planned it, but I needed a working computer--and fast.
Well, I'm now the proud new owner of a powerful computer, complete with a fancy scanner, a color printer and numerous doodads (until I learn what everything is, that's what they're called: doodads).
We're just getting acquainted, but I can feel its personality already. It likes to brag: "See what I can do?" It's bossy: "Do this next." Impatient: "No! Not that button!" And condescending: "Are you sure you want to delete this?" It beeps more often than cars during rush-hour traffic.
But I'm aboard the S.S. Computer Ship now, and I'm sailing into the horizon. Full speed ahead!
And what about my Apple IIe? I set it up in the sunroom. Every day, I flick its power button, hoping it's forgiven me. It hasn't yet, but I remain optimistic.
You never know--it might decide it's lonely on the island without me. Maybe it'll change its mind and come along for the ride.
This article appeared in the Sunnyvale Sun, October 9, 1996.
©1996 Metro Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved.