JULY 12, 2024 – After waking up this morning, I crept downstairs, and tiptoed into the dining where I’d left my “like new” MacBrook Pro overnight. It was on the dining room table and plugged in, but from six feet away I could see the charging light wasn’t on. Bad sign, and sure enough, when I raised the screen . . . I saw in the heart of darkness the all too familiar prompt,
[!] The version of macOS on the selected disk needs to be reinstalled. Use Recovery to reinstall macOS or select another startup disk.
I immediately packed up the ill-tempered machine and made yet another reservation at the local Apple store.
After making not one but two trips to the local office of the DMV to renew my driver’s license—a relatively painless process, all things considered, thanks to the cheerful and efficient service of the office staff, I proceeded with what has become my daily routine: meeting an “Apple Genius.”
There was a time when I visited that outlet so seldomly, I had to search for it on the mall directory. This week I’ve gotten so familiar with the place, I know exactly where to park on the sprawling lot that surrounds the mall and how to navigate most directly through Macy’s, one of the anchor tenants, to the Apple orchard just beyond Macy’s—first level. In record time with a minute to spare, I checked in with a staffer and was directed to the “Genius” table at the back of the store. I read only a page and a half of The Story of Russia before my “Genius” appeared. It was the same one who’d worked on my MacBook Pro yesterday.
After I explained, she said the machine would have to be sent out to the Super Geniuses—my term, not hers. While she was working on her tablet to make arrangements, her phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this. It’s about a medical emergency my mother is having.” With that the “Genius” stepped away and disappeared into the staff backroom. I pulled out The Story of Russia and read another two pages about the October Revolution.
When the “Genius” returned, she looked unsettled but being wholly professional, tried to hide her anxiety. The least I could do, I figured, was to show a modicum of empathy. “Everything okay?” I asked, intending to signal that she needn’t worry about impatience on my part.
“No,” she said. “I can’t believe all the hurdles I’m facing over my mom’s care. I know Minnesota has high standards compared with the rest of the country, but right now I’m dealing with so much B.S.”
In the course of two appointments with this particular “Genius,” I’d witness nothing but the best customer service—cheerful, efficient, and proficient. But here and now she’d revealed an outside stress, and having experienced the strain of elder care myself, I could easily relate to her anxiety. In a very compact sort of way, she revealed the extreme burden of her familial responsibility. I couldn’t offer a thimble’s worth of assistance, but I knew that I could—and should—lend an attentive ear, thereby allowing her to release pent-up frustration and discouragement. “I don’t mean to sound bitter or like a complainer,” she said, “but once I’d launched my kids I’d looked forward to traveling and engaging in a number of creative pursuits, but all that’s out the window now.”
I didn’t solicit details, and she didn’t offer them. Toward me and other customers (I noticed), she presented herself as an “Apple Genius,” a model employee of the company. Yet now I had a glimpse of her troubles. Next to her constant and inescapable responsibility for her mother, my computer problem seemed like a minor inconvenience.
All the way home and thereafter I pondered this contrast of woes. I promised myself to consider more often and more deeply the travails of others, and though often I haven’t the ability or capacity to give advice or assistance, I can always listen—long and hard—and teach myself to be more understanding and supportive of my fellow human beings.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
