Providing Tech Sarcasm since…1975?
Perhaps I should be more understanding. Perhaps he has spent decades fielding calls from computer-challenged people like me.
In the words of Louis Armstrong, his theme song could be:
Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen
Nobody knows my sorrow
Nowadays, everyone has an IT guy (usually a guy for some reason). You have one, and I do too. Let’s talk about my guy.
Whenever I need a reality check on just how stupid I am, he is the one to contact. Let’s call him Ray (as in Little Ray of Sunshine). I’m sure he doesn’t read my blog, so it should be safe. Likely, I will need him again.
I only call Ray when I have a serious problem with my computer and when I have worn out the goodwill of computer savvy friends. But calling Ray requires a bit of mental/spiritual preparation.
First off, he will answer with some light humour, such as:
Crisis Hotline
Suicide Prevention Line
Good morning. We put the SH in your IT (I think he has this on a t-shirt)
Oh, hello. You again? (drat that caller ID)
I typically dive in with a perky and generic “Hi! How are you today?”
To which he will reply:
“Now that you’ve called? Well… let’s see”.
Ray is a bit of a character. His age is hard to ascertain by looking at his features or clothing. Sometimes his cultural references in conversation give me the idea that he is in his 50s or 60s. I don’t know if he is married, but he might have been. For some reason I think he may have adult or college age children, but he’s never provided any details. He is very pale, and his skin reminds me of the belly of a fish that has been in ice just a little too long.
I have dealt with Ray by phone and in person for decades, yet I have no idea who he is. But that’s OK, we don’t have to be friends; I just need his help when my computer gives me vertigo. He’s always fixed my computer problems.
Typically, I will begin to describe my computer’s behaviour. He will wait silently for me to finish, and then ask the usual “is it plugged in?”.
One time, my printer was giving me trouble. After we had established that it was indeed plugged in, and attached with the proper cable, he suggested that I might consider replacing it with a box of paper and Crayola crayons. I then asked if he sold crayons, and did his supply include the box with the little built-in sharpener? I think I scored some minor respect with my attempt at witty repartee.
Ray dresses in the most forgettable clothing I have ever (not really) seen, aside from the odd t-shirt with jokes on them. His wardrobe palette is sombre, almost Puritan — putty coloured greys, muddy browns — not even black, let alone a smidgen of white. His shoes are plain with cushioned soles. No laces; the slip on type.
He is a little wanting in the personal grooming arena. Wherever he goes, there is a wafting undefinable odour of… I have no idea. It’s not precisely unclean or unwashed, but if I had to define it, I would have to say “eau de basement”.
On occasion, he also lets slip a silent one, which overpowers the aforementioned bouquet. Social graces are not his thing.
But, he gets the job done. And his fees are reasonable.
However, part of the process is a less than subtle bludgeoning of my ego. After the usual comment about the power cord being plugged in and after listening with poorly hidden disdain at my description of the problem (I don’t know all the jargon and tech terms), he will ask me a few questions. Usually those questions are framed in jargon he knows I’m unfamiliar with — I sense he has some secret joy in waiting for my predictable “What exactly is that?” question. I rarely disappoint.
Ray will then pause — at least 4 seconds during which time I feel my IQ plummeting. Then he will audibly exhale, and in a calm, measured voice that one would use with someone waking from a coma, he will explain in baby-layperson's terms what he is asking me.
My turn: I respond as best as I am able, where — paraphrasing Robert Benchley (1889 – 1945, American humorist, newspaper columnist and actor) — unable to draw on my usual fine command of language, I say little. This will typically generate another pause. During this oddly quiet game of verbal fencing (which I always, always lose), I begin to feel small and stupid like a doltish, sullen child.
I don’t even feel remarkably or exceptionally stupid — not a level of stupid one could even possibly 'admire' for its distinction — merely a level of dismally ordinary stupid. Ray sometimes looks at me the way someone might stare at a picture hung slightly askew.
Eventually he will ask me to do certain things, input certain commands (if we are doing a phone consult), or he will resettle his posterior in my chair (if we are doing the in-person thing) and start whizzing through screens I never knew my computer had: dark black screens with odd things like a Cmd-prompt (see! I did learn something), followed by mysterious series of letters and special characters, like a password generator’s wet dream. Watching him work on the computer is like observing a virtuoso pianist on the ivories.
I keep smiling a hideous rictus grin, knowing that eventually I will reach the last leg of this ego-bruising marathon. And he goes through my files, completely disinterested yet with an expression of mild distaste, as though he were watching the contents of a full trash bag empty through a wet tear on the bottom, spilling all over the floor.
Once he fixes everything, I have to restrain myself from crying out:
Nobody touch anything! Nobody move! Nobody breathe! Everything is working again!
Still, Ray is fascinating, possessing a sort of negative charisma. And oddly, I quite like him. I don’t know where he lives, who he lives with, where he went to school, what movies he enjoys, which books he’s read, whether he surfs the net for porn, whether he has pets, whether he collects stamps. I don’t know if he is a happy person or a desperately sad person, but I do know that his curated disdain is hilarious, that he is witty, clever, and astonishingly good with computers.
Does he like me? Maybe, maybe not. But that doesn’t really matter.
I like him.
There is no one who can make me feel as mentally challenged as he does. When occasionally he deigns to address me as a potential intellectual equal I am reminded of the immortal words of Mike Myers in Wayne’s World:
We’re Not Worthy!
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