HUMAN WRECKAGE

Oh, Brother, I Can’t Afford a Smith-Corona

It’s not so easy to be me.

For the past fifteen years or more I’ve done virtually all of my writing (exclusive of medium ballpoints inside Hilroy exercise books or on pads of graph paper) on a second-hand Toshiba laptop. The machine was stripped down to its Windows XP operating system and a version of Microsoft’s WordPerfect. Nothing else on it except for my files. It was a sturdy unit, packing some weight and its large black keys withstood my hunt-and-pound typing technique. It was a utilitarian device that did its job.

One morning in late June I went downstairs to my writing area, seven bookshelves, a desk, a round table with a Cold War globe, three dictionaries and three style books, two notepads and a bulletin board, and pressed the Toshiba’s power button. Brian Eno’s (Roxy Music) Microsoft “sound” sounded. As usual. The screen did not illuminate. I could just make out my background image of Stonehenge on a sunny day but it was more midnight than noon. The cursor was invisible.

You will recall those instances in your life, and I dearly hope there haven’t been many, when something very bad for whatever reason has happened and your stomach, a sac, twists itself into a dagger and knifes through your small and large intestines seeking the most expedient exit?

My hi-tech troubleshooting skills are sharp, razor strop honed. I turned the machine off and walked away. Like faulty home appliances and required home repairs, sometimes problems just fix themselves. Faith is a powerful tool when wielded by the ignorant. The reboot manifested a miracle. I was blind, now I could see. I was savvy enough to back everything up on one of those little (although surprisingly large) memory sticks I never fail to insert incorrectly first try. I transferred all the current files to the Crooked 9’s big Mac upstairs in the den.

The Province of Alberta deregulated its electricity market late last century. Free market theory dictated that competition among providers would lower its consumer cost. We live in weird times and the market never fails to move in mysterious ways. Twice a year, when it’s time to change the clock, I’m reminded every appliance in the house is on, all the time. The coffee maker has to be reset. This constant low, slow drain of energy irks me; and modern appliances are difficult or near impossible to repair, designed to be replaced. My Toshiba workhorse could not be turned off, let alone recycled, before I was up and running on something else.

So, I put the word out: I need a new typewriter. Oh, and a mouse, I guess, because I’m a spaz with touch pads. Also, for reasons I can’t rationally explain, the “feel” of the keyboard is of importance. I don’t care about the brand or the machine’s features. Any recommendations?

My secret fret was whether new laptop cords came with two or three pronged plugs because the outlets and their various extension cords in this old house could be, but maybe not, one or the other. And my writing area, like my fiction, isn’t going anywhere.

My nephew Harry said he had an old MacBook Air that might suit me, gratis. I was intrigued. My friend Jim, an author at work on another book, had told me that’s what he does his work on. Harry said the machine had been too sluggish when he had too many windows open on screen. He’s a doctor and so I could imagine a mishmash of medical literature, original research papers, billing spreadsheets and knowing him as I do, a Jays or English football game running in the background. My typewriter application would not unduly distress the circuitry designed in California and assembled in China.

And I think we both thought that was that.

“Do you know how to set it up?”

“Set it up? Can’t I just turn it on and go? I just want to type on it.”

“Oh, Uncle Geoff.”

God bless Harry. I wasted hours of his life, but this machine, stripped down and lean as Apple will allow, is up and running. And if its second life rivals my used Toshiba’s, it should see me out. Its connection to its power source isn’t as discreet as I’d like, but I can turn the device off and even unplug it. Anyway, I’m not prepared to empty and shift three bookshelves to run a new, hidden extension cord; life’s too short.                 

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. My companion site www.megeoff.com has been refreshed, revamped, revitalized and otherwise reinvigorated. Watch and listen to songs I co-wrote with The Muster Point Project. Of course, you can still purchase my latest book Of Course You Did in your preferred format from your e-retailer.