JULY 8, 2024 – Among the innumerable micro-adventures of modern life is the smartphone, laptop or kindred device that up and dies—which is an odd idiom, since what thing, animate or inanimate, goes “up” then dies? I can think of things that either go down and die or die in place, but I’ve never heard of something that goes up and dies—except, of course, when it goes down after it’s gone up. In any event, yesterday evening my six-month-old laptop decided to give up the ghost. I viewed the machine as a mere 13-year-old in human years, assuming an average homo sapiens lifespan of 80 revolutions of earth around the sun and an average of three such revolutions for the life of a typical laptop. The lifeless laptop had not been abused or exposed to conditions that would explain its premature expiration.
Today I took my virtual office/office assistant; my library, writing desk, storehouse of records and writings; the extension of my heart, mind, and soul . . . to the local Apple Store. Was the laptop simply comatose? Was the problem a defective charging cord? Was the solution simply a battery replacement covered by the manufacturing warranty? Or was the issue much deeper—in the heart of the system? And how vulnerable to loss were all my files, especially the cache of blog entries of the past six months? As I weighed the possibilities of such a loss, I tsk-tsked myself for not having in place more comprehensive back up systems.
Despite the hi-tech method for notifying me of my turn with an Apple store techie, I wound up waiting well beyond my appointed time. The store was jammed with Apple staff, but it was also swamped with customers. My usual impatience, however, was tempered by a riveting battery-free book of ink-bearing papyrus—which book I’d grabbed on my way out of the house. In fact, I became so engrossed in the history of Russia under Catherine, Alexander I, and Nicholas I, that I was almost disappointed when a person wearing an Apple shirt interrupted my concentration. My attention was swiftly diverted, however, by the staffer’s head of hair, which was colored bright yellow on the right half of her head and bright blue on the left.
“Are you expressing solidarity with Ukraine?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I do get asked that a lot, but blue and yellow just happen to be my favorite colors.”
And the Swedish colors, I thought. I closed The Story of Russia by Orlando Figes, shoved it into my briefcase, and turned to the primary matter at hand: resuscitation of my MackBook not-so-Pro.
Just as the polite maître d‘ at a busy restaurant apologizes to famished diners in waiting, Ms. Not-Ukraine Apple Staffer assured me that despite my feeling of invisibility, I had not been overlooked. After requesting my name and looking me up on her tablet, she assured me that I was now third in line. Someone (else) would be with me shortly.
Good, I thought. My book—my real book—had been retired prematurely. I could return to it, which, I must add, sprang right to life when I flipped to the Atticus bookmark at page 149—faster than it would take for a laptop screen to light up; especially the screen of a dead laptop. Soon I was back in Russia at the end of the 18th century.
Long before emancipation of the serfs, another Apple staffer landed next to me. He plugged a house charger into the laptop, but this action made no difference. The machine was just as dark and lifeless as before. I’d have to wait for another staffer. While doing so I advanced to Napoleon’s ill-fated invasion of Russia. Before the Battle of Borodino (1812), a third Apple techie saddled up to my non-responsive laptop and hooked it up to a cable and computer equipped with a special app. Judging by the techie’s description of the app, I thought my MacBook Pro should be re-named, “Lazarus.”
“It takes a while for the app to run,” said the techie. “You stay here. I’ll be helping that woman over there,” she said, pointing into the crowd. “I’ll circle back in a few minutes, but if the screen of the house laptop shows an error message, that means you’ll need to consider some options. If you see the error message, come get me.”
I didn’t have to be a techie to know I didn’t want to see an error message or have to consider “some options.” In the present context, “options” sounded as ominous as “pulling the plug” on an ICU patient followed by a choice between cremation or burial. I returned to The Story of Russia. By the time the defenders of Moscow torched their city (so the invading French would starve and freeze), the slow-churning CPR app had ground to a halt. My laptop was no “Lazarus.” It was officially dead. The dreaded “options” now had to be faced.
Before the machine is rebuilt or replaced (under manufacturer’s warranty), I must send it to a data recovery firm at a cost of potentially thousands of dollars. In the course of my due diligence, however, I learned that if I go to the Apple store at the Mall of America (which I call, “Mauled in America”), I can twist an arm to get Apple to reimburse me for that cost. The challenge is to determine just how important a recovery is. The vast majority of files have been backed up, but a precious few, mostly “creative” writing, are not. Would I regret their loss? I don’t know the answer. Could I assign a monetary value to my sentimentality? Realistically, no. Can I justify the time and monkey business associated with recovery? Hmmm. Probably not.
All of which misses the larger lesson in today’s “micro-adventure” (apart from ensuring that everything is backed up redundantly and continuously): in the frustration of the moment there in that Apple store today, I faced a choice. I could easily succumb to expletive-laden anger and frustration OR with a modicum of self-control I could manipulate the circumstances into a combination time-machine of distraction and a gymnasium for exercising patience. I chose the latter course, but this was not pre-ordained. I’m not a naturally patient person nor have I always appreciated the silver linings in “micro-adventures.” But as I age, I realize that the most control I can exert over circumstances is my emotional reaction to them. Blow up, and I’ll singe my own eyebrows; react with calm thoughtfulness and even humor, and I’ll lower my stress level. And if I’m lucky, I can turn the lemon of a “micro-adventure” into the lemonade of a blog post.
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
