Friday, March 15, 2002

In which I am a reluctant computer consultant

If it weren't for Steve's hardwood floors, I probably wouldn't be here at CompUSA at the wholly unreasonable hour of 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

I was awakened by a buzzing that sounds like locusts fighting inside an aluminum can. It takes a moment or so of sleep-fogged concentration to realize that my cell phone has vibrated its way from the bedside table where I scattered the contents of my pockets last night and landed on the floor, where it is now skittering across the slats toward the closet door. I shake my head and force my eyes to focus on the clock. It's just after 8.

Extracting myself from the tangled duvet, taking care not to wake Steve, I take a couple of steps from the bed and retrieve the animated phone. When I see the incoming number on the tiny display, I briefly consider resigning the call to voicemail. Instead, I stumble back to bed and flip open the phone, croaking a groggy hello.

On the other end of the line, Jeff sounds frantic. "Where are you?" he asks. "I need your help!"

There is an urgency in his voice, a tone that implies he's either suffered a mortal wound or just heard the announcement of a white sale at Famous and Barr. I am instantly fully awake.

"What's the matter?" I ask. "Are you all right?"

"My computer is dead. I need you to help me pick out a new one. Can you come right away?"

I hang up on him.

I know this is a short-term solution. I am not likely to be getting further sleep. Sure enough, the phone vibrates half a minute later and I answer immediately.

"For this, you interrupt the Lord's day?" I ask.

"Get real," Jeff says. "You are a godless man."

"As it happens," I reply, "I am in bed with one right now."

Steve is stirring now. "What happened?" I ask.

"I was IMing with this really hot guy last night -- well, this morning actually -- a totally rich number. You should see his GIF. We're talking a major packer."

"Jeff --"

"Anyway, he sends me his number. We're gonna hook up. And then another window opens up and the whole fucking thing just crashes. I try to start it up again and...nothing."

"Your computer died because you had two instant message windows open?"

Silence.

"Jeff?"

"Sixteen."

Steve rolls over and runs his hand along my stomach. "Sixteen," I repeat. "And a lot of pictures, too, right?"

"Yes," Jeff says, adding sadly, "They were on the hard drive."

"Call me back at a decent hour," I say, glancing down at Steve's head resting on my chest. "Two, maybe three."

"Wait, why aren't you at home?" Jeff asks, then answers his own question. "That guy from Clem's?"

"No comment."

"Meet me at the store at 10 sharp, sweetie. I want the dish and your electronic expertise. I'll buy you brunch after. Ta!"

I refold the phone and replace it on the nightstand, taking care to reactivate the ringer so the little critter doesn't scurry away again.

"What was that all about?" Steve asks.

"My friend Jeff," I say. "He was mutually messaging himself into a frenzy with some e-trick last night and fried his computer. He spends half of happy hour last week eschewing the bar scene and then goes home every night and cruises AOL for hours. Like that's any healthier."

Our eyes meet and Steve's mouth bends into the little grin that made me melt in the first place.

"What was your screenname again?" Steve asks.

"Shut up."