the SESQUIPEDALIAN 				      Volume VI, No. 18
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Hawaii becomes US Territory (1900)		      February 22, 1995


		     THE NERD WHO ROMANCED MY COMPUTER

Most people who have computers don't understand them.  That's OK; most
people who have washing machines don't understand them, either.  If
your washing machine breaks, you call the washing machine repairman.
He's in the book.

But if your computer breaks, whom do you call?  There is no
infrastructure of computer repairpeople who make housecalls.  Instead
you have to schlep your precious machine into the shop and try to
explain what's the matter.  "It just kind of freezes," you say.  "It
cheeses?" says the man behind the counter.  English is not his first
language, or even his second.

"I have to reboot, and I lose data".  "Boot!  Boot!" he says, and
laughs wildly.  Then he makes a telephone call.  Then he walks away.

There is a more satisfying way to get your computer fixed, although
it's also fraught with peril.  You can call your local nerd.  Maybe
it's the kid up the street, or the woman you met at a party who RAMmed
and ROMmed you to death, or a freelance programmer you know from work.

Money is never involved.  Usually some elaborate form of barter is
proposed; the reality of the exchange is often problematic.  "If I
ever get to be president, I'll give you can unconditional pardon," you
say. "Smoking!" the nerd replies.  The nerd drives an easy bargain,
because nerds actually like to fix things.  You are providing them
with recreation and the satisfaction of being competent.  You are also
providing them with pizza, snack chips, and caffeine-laced
beverages--this is important.

Then the dialog begins.  Not the dialogue between you and the nerd;
the dialogue between the nerd and your computer.  You are merely a
bystander.  Often, it's like being the only child of a dysfunctional
marriage.

The nerd says, "OK, let's see what you've got.  Come on. Now this
should --- wait a minute.  Wait a minute!  What are you doing to me?
That can't be!  Brain-dead!  OK, OK, OK, this should work.  OK ---
what?  Oh yeah, right, fatal error.  Right".

At this point, like a timorous child, you ask, "Fatal error?  Is that
bad?"  "Happens all the time with this stupid system.  We'll find a
hack," he says.

It is a relief to know that in the computer world, "fatal" has come to
mean "briefly uncomfortable".

The nerd leans back in his chair.  You realize, suddenly, that he is
deeply satisfied.  This is actually amusing for him; this rage at the
machine is a sign of pleasure and love.

He plunges back into the system, losing all sense of your presence in
the room.  He grunts and moans; the machine pings and grinds. "Don't
do this to me, don't do this to me," he keeps repeating, like a lover
coaxing a suicidal partner off a ledge.  You have the feeling you
should not be watching, and you leave.  The nerd doesn't even notice.

He comes out of the room finally, fat and sleepy in the afterglow.
"Wrote a little code," he says mildly, the same way Caligula might
have said, "We had a little party."  He downs the last of his soda and
disappears into the night.

You go into your study and stare at your machine.  You know it loves
another more than you.  You decide to live with it anyway.

[John Carroll]