An Anecdote: The Bane of My Existence

My computer was acting up again. This time, the problem was senility. Less than a year had passed since it devoured thirty A4-sized pages of my document. I wanted to take this opportunity to update the 386 model to the newer 586, but the thought of having two sets of computers in the house was repugnant to me. Of course, the logical thing would have been to throw away the old computer or donate it to a worthy cause. But I didn’t think I could do that. It was because of the missing thirty pages. They were equivalent to three hundred handwritten pages on standard manuscript paper, but it was more than the sheer number of pages that concerned me. The missing portion made up a quarter of the novel I’d set out to write. Whether I’m writing a full-length novel or a short story, the first half is always the most difficult. In terms of time also, that part takes me forever. After writing the first quarter, writing the second quarter is infinitely easier. Finishing off the remaining half is like skipping downhill humming and whistling after a difficult climb to the top.

It was that precious first quarter that my computer had swallowed up. I called the manufacturer but all I got from the maintenance technician was a lecture about not backing up my work. I asked around and was referred to several computer gurus, but all they could retrieve was less than ten lines. At first, I was grateful even for that. My hope was to bring back the file little by little in that fashion. But no one was able to recover anything beyond that initial amount. I suppose one thing I gained from that experience was overcoming my dependence on that magical machine and adopting a more wary attitude. Sometimes I do miss the good old days of computer-free writing. It’s not easy to constantly back up my work, not to mention how tiring it is to distrust a partner—even if it is a machine—with which I spend countless working hours. But I know well that there is no turning back.

After the gurus made every attempt and came up empty-handed, I thought of bringing in torture experts. Torture presented a neat prospect for me, because what could not be teased or coaxed out could perhaps be wrung out. I remember distinctly the time I inadvertently kicked a broken radio and recovered its sound. So I pounded the computer with my fist, tapped on it here and there with my knuckles, cursed it as the bane of my existence, and threatened it with a heavy club. Still, it refused to budge, disclosing only the file name and not its contents. I wrestled with it for days, making myself sick. By the time I recovered, the bits of my writing stored in my short-term memory had also vanished. Thus, what might have been the greatest novel of my career was completely gone. Still, I couldn’t just trash the bane of my existence. For one thing, its word-processing capability was unaffected despite the abuse inflicted upon it. For another, I still maintained a relationship with it in the form of anger and resentment for having swallowed up the fruits of my labor, the pages begotten from my sweat, blood and tears. I am one of the few remaining writers from the old school who can claim with a straight face that the inspiration for writing comes from a hot-blooded heart and a noble conscience. That same person was now in a relationship from hell with a scrap of machine.

For the machine, it must have been the most human-like treatment it ever received. The latest problem I was having with the computer could only be explained by senility. That was the very human-like response I got for treating it like a person. After a few lines, the consonants and the vowels would refuse to come together, or the consonants would bounce off. For example, I’d type “go” but I would only see the letter “g.” Thinking I didn’t press down hard enough, I would retype the letter “o” several times to no avail. A closer inspection would reveal that the o’s had scattered randomly, latching onto other words and crippling them. In another instance, I’d type the word “river” and the second “r” would run off elsewhere. This kind of misbehavior occurred at unpredictable times and showed no detectable patterns, with the vowels and the consonants flying off in all directions. If you spit on your palm and slap on it, you never know which way it will splatter. My computer spewed out gibberish in the same manner. I began calling my gurus again. But these so-called gurus didn’t quite understand what I was saying, claiming never to have heard of such a problem. The diagnosis of senility was probably first suggested by one of them because it certainly didn’t come from me. Senility is said to be a nightmare of a disease for humans, and it proved to be just as maddening for computers. I was fed up with anything computer-related, but as luck would have it, I had a deadline to meet. A friend took pity and lent me a notebook.

The notebook proved to be far less satisfactory than the computer I had grown attached to. Yeah, right. Attached to a darn machine. An ancient machine that I couldn’t give away even if I tried. But as long as my next great masterpiece was hiding in that thing, it was for me an oyster containing a pearl. I couldn’t give it up. I called the manufacturer one last time and requested a house call. The young technician who showed up didn’t understand my explanation of senility, so I had to show him what I meant by typing. But the wretched machine refused to cooperate. It had always acted up every two or three lines, but with the technician over my shoulder, I typed a whole page without any glitches. I began to sweat. My typing was so clumsy and slow, and at that speed, it was impossible to tell whether I or the machine was at fault. After watching painfully, the technician spoke up.

“Who used this computer before you?”

“It’s not used. It’s been mine from the beginning.”

“So, you’re chatting on this thing with your computer skills?”

His face, which had been full of peeved derision suddenly assumed a brief and impish curiosity. Maybe it was a good thing that he hadn’t caught on to the fact that I was a writer whose work required the regular use of a computer. I always thought I had made a name for myself as a writer, but perhaps I was mistaken.

“I don’t do any chatting, whatever that is.”

“Then you must be into gaming.”

He became even more brazen, slimy in his insolence. Then he took over the keyboard. After his fingers danced adroitly over the keys, he declared that the computer was hopelessly infected by a virus.

I hurriedly grabbed the notebook sitting next to it and took it to another room.

“What are you doing? Why did you take that away?” “Didn’t you say the computer had a virus? I don’t want it spreading . . .”

“Ma’am, are you sure you’re the one using this computer?” The young man asked me in disbelief. Oh . . . I smiled sheepishly when I realized my mistake. Granted, I was technically challenged, but I wasn’t so ignorant to think that a computer virus could be transferred by air or by touch. My blunder was due to a reflex action to the word virus, an instinctive response to protect someone else.

“So is the virus responsible for jumbling my letters?” “I’ll fix what I can now. You can find out for yourself when you use it later.” Shoving the diskette he had brought with him into the computer, he replied brusquely. At my age, why had I given up the simple beauty of a pen in favor of this newfangled machine and thus made myself vulnerable to this kind of insolence? It was so frustrating. The technician said that he had finished repairing the computer and asked once again if I was the main user. The third time was not the charm in this case. I felt compelled to reveal what I did for a living.

“Young man, as it is your job is to repair this machine, mine is to type on it to write.”

He nodded his head in understanding, his face full of compassion.

“Ma’am, you live in a nice apartment like this. Why make life so difficult for yourself? With your typing skills, how much can you make a day? My mother is much younger than you. She gets a monthly allowance from us children, travels, and is enjoying her golden years. You should do the same.”

“So I should,” I sighed. Before I knew it, I was agreeing with him. One mistake after another with this guy.

“There are so many typists out there who can run circles around you. It’s a wonder that you even get jobs.”

The young man mumbled in a concerned voice and handed me a bill for seven dollars for the repair. Yes, it was a wonder for me as well.