Crrrrrrraaaaaaap!

Me, window table, Cafe Sowohlalsauch, Sony Vaio.

Three times in a row I punched the On button. Blue and yellow keyboard lights danced odd flickery dances. The screen? Slept.

I tried again. Soothing three-cord boot-up music sounded. The screen lit up. Hurrah! Promptly faded. So dark, I could not read a thing. I turned it off. And tried again.

The seventh time I pressed the On button: NOTHING. No lights no music no screen. And the eighth. And ninth. And tenth. With battery, without. With power cord, without...

Stone-cold dead. That is what my laptop is.

The Vaio's been colicky and ill-tempered for months. Hot to the touch, blanking out suddenly.

My Serbo-Croation literary hot stuff friend has the same model. And two weeks ago: Exact same problem. Hard drive irretrievable, she was told. Apparently our model contains a drive so poorly situated it cannot NOT overheat. And die. Too soon.

I should be wrecked. Up in arms. Wailing.

I can't seem to manage. A busted heart body home makes a busted hard-drive so much less upsetting.

Also: Last week I re-saved everything on my external hard drive.

Let us be clear: I am not the kind of girl who owns an external hard-drive. I am not the kind of girl who even thinks of it. Supposing I were the kind to think of it, I would put off the buying of it for, oh, seven years.

The only hope for a girl like me is to date a man who says (eyes ripped wide open): "External hard drive!!!" (in German, natch)

No, that's not good enough. The man must bring me, via U-Bahn, all the way to the vast and buzzing techie store on Alexanderplatz. A Saturday, in March. He must, amidst all the whir and neon, locate the correct floor. Find the appropriate aisle. Lift the desired item from the rack. And walk me to the cash register. The paying for it I can do.

Still not enough. Thereafter, he must accompany me back to my sublet. Unpack the item on the dining room table. Plug in the multiple cords that mean nothing to me. And do the downloading. While I hover behind his left shoulder, sort of kind of paying attention.

Today I am calm. Today I have no single chapter of my memoir to mourn. No book outline, no journal entry, no short story, no scanned illo, no tenth resume draft, no old letter, no poem I wrote for my uncle's memorial.

It's all there, in the little black box.

Thus. Let us pause a moment. To thank the Ex.

Yes, Bayreuth Boy, if you are reading this, I mean YOU.

You wouldn't give me your heart. But you gave me that. 

Nothing much could matter more.

Comments

[RosemaryPosemary]

Whew!! Another tale of computer intrigue.
What relief to learn it's all there safe on your hard drive. Sorry about your Vaio. As you know, I've had bad times with one, too. Makes me think we'd better get back-up for ours at school!!

XO,

r