A look back, to November, 2010.
Today I was forced to put down my elderly Macintosh laptop computer. It had begun showing signs of serious decomposition a few months before. For example, emerging columns would develop faint tremors; the text would inch toward the margin’s edges; re-centering was exasperatingly difficult, as it had trouble remembering the boundaries. Eventually the text itself would simply turn blue and vanish, then refuse to ‘Undo,’ which drove me nuts. Or, it would shrink. Over and over I’d reset the Times New Roman text size to 16. Over and over it would revert to a miniscule 8; my entire column would fit on the head of a pin. But then, unrepentant, it would summon full-sized ads for acne cures. Argghhhh!
Frequently it would indulge in too many commas, or open very large spaces between words, then slam them together. The hard drive would roar and pant, convinced that I was watching a video or skyping a friend, when I was just writing. Or, it would go to sleep unexpectedly, leaving me stranded on a narrative island.
I was washing dishes the other day when Mac piped up from the counter behind me. “Par-don me. My bat-ter-y is low; I will go into sleep mode in one min-ute to pre-serve the work done.” Its quasi-feminine monotone voice articulated each syllable precisely. But NO! The battery was fine! I tried to convince it by jiggling the plug and pointing the arrow at the charged battery sign. I was ignored. Then, thirty seconds later, exactly as promised, everything went black- except for the little glow-light, which continued to pulse bright and dim, simulating breathing. How annoying! Crossly I rebooted, which it resented. Bing! A vivid ad appeared, touting a cure for baldness that kept coming back no matter how many times I ‘x’ed it out. Gritting my teeth I tried to shut the machine down in the usual way. But no. It held its breath, waiting me out, before suddenly retrieving the balding guy still worriedly rubbing his pate. The ad’s bright red background shone with a fierce intensity. “Going Bald?” shrieked the text. “We Can Help!” Furious, I finally force-quit it by holding down the ‘On/Off’ button and counting slowly to 10 before stomping off.
Later, in a calmer state, I approached it again, thoughtfully. Mac had been through a lot in England, where I’d lived for many months through two awful winters trying to restore my deceased family’s flooded out cottage. The machine had stoically endured freezing cold, black mold, damp, and fireplace ash and soot, which would delicately coat the keys. The cottage’s belching kitchen wood stove had been my only source of warmth. I’d huddled next to it writing columns with only my computer screen to light the night. Mac had been so dependable.
Just look at the poor thing, I mused, gone to gray now, from a once-gleaming white. Most of the keypad letters were indecipherable. Furthermore, bits of the rim had broken off, giving it a mouse-nibbled look. I kept snagging my cuffs on the rag-and-bone plastic. When booted up it would groan, but comply. I was constantly tense; the unexpected was becoming disconcertingly routine.
Finally, when it wouldn’t accept my email password without a fight, I threw up my hands and bought another computer. I managed to transfer the most important files before my wormy Apple wandered into the virtual sunset flashing ads touting whitening toothpaste and erectile dysfunction cures. It did manage to gather its gaga-bytes one last time to offer the re-order page for tea and Fairy Soap from the British Delights online catalogue.
It was a funny, embarrassing last write from my elderly, demented servant.