I had no idea how dependent I’d become on
my computer until it stopped working last Friday. No, I wasn’t looking at porn
when it happened; Mrs. Chatterbox and I were checking a site showing the
controversial new portrait of Queen Elizabeth II when the screen suddenly went
blank. Incidentally, it’s not the worst painting of the Queen I’ve seen and I
disagree with critics who say she looks like Winston Churchill in drag.
CJ, our son and technical guru, struggled
to identify the problem, without success, and a technician at the Apple Repair
Center made an appointment for me. I hadn’t realized how heavy my 24 inch IMAC
was until I lugged it across a massive mall parking lot to the Apple Store.
Zak, the tattooed technician assigned to me, repeatedly stroked his Herman
Melville beard while trying to resuscitate my nonfunctioning baby. No go.
Eventually, Zak said, “More than likely
the problem is a damaged optical display cable. The cost of replacing it,
including labor, will be $48. If that doesn’t work the hard drive probably
needs to be replaced for around $500. Either way, parts for a computer this old
will need to be specially ordered. Turn around time will be about a week. You’ve
backed everything up on a portable USB drive disk, haven’t you?”
Not knowing what he was talking about, I
shook my head.
“Your data needs to be transferred and
stored outside of your computer while we make repairs.”
“How often does data get lost?”
“Approximately thirty percent of the
time.”
“What will that set me back?”
“Around a hundred bucks for the device and
around thirty for labor.”
I decided to take my chances and pass on
backing up my files, but at the last minute I called CJ for an opinion on
whether or not I should pay for the precaution of backing up my files. He
reminded me, “Aside from your novels and posts, all of the pictures from your
last five trips are stored in the computer. They could all be lost. Do you
think you’ll ever go back to India and climb on a camel again?”
Hell No! I paid for the back-up.
On Wednesday Zak called with good news and
bad news. “Which do you want first?” he asked.
“Give me the good news,” I said.
“It was a problem with the optical display cable. The hard drive doesn’t need
to be replaced.”
Sounded good. “Okay, give me the bad
news.”
“Well, it seems that one of our
technicians accidentally drove his screwdriver through your display panel. A
new one costs $600. But don’t worry. We’re going to replace it for free.”
I thought of a lot of snarky things I
could say, but I’d spent years in retail and hated it when customers tore me a
new one over something I didn’t do or had no control over. This wasn’t Zak’s
fault so I just asked when it would be ready.
“We’ve put a rush on the panel. It should
be delivered here tomorrow. You’ll have your computer repaired by Thursday at
the latest.”
I’m back now from picking up my computer
and it’s working fine. I just rebooted and the site I was looking at before being engulfed in this calamity
has just popped up on my screen. Now that I’ve had another chance to look at
it, the painting of Her Majesty does
look a bit like Winston Churchill in drag!
