Recently I have spent HOURS over DAYS trying to get my Mac and Windows 10 to play nicely together, which isn’t going to happen, and now both have been sent to their respective rooms. Although, frustrated with the situation, I can’t say enough nice things about Terry from Apple Support. He’s been professional, patient, hopeful and funny while trying countless possibilities. Our ‘Last Supper’ time together, we knew that our intense, but short-lived relationship was coming to an end.
“Lisa, now listen carefully,” Terry coaches once again, “we’re gonna return your computer to your ‘before-Terry’ self. Just do what I say…”
“Terry, you know best, you’ve been great, but let’s just be done with this.”
We start. Terry asks, “Under the box, what’s the number?”
“Uh — 19.” I reply.
“Oh Lordy, 19 minutes! Your connection is slow, slow, slow. Y’all need to do something about that.”
We discuss our options and realize the best choice is to wait together while the computer returns to its original self. I asked him if he knows any jokes.
“Oh honey, they are all rude, crude and socially unacceptable and I CANNOT repeat them on this line.”
“We are being recorded, you know.” I reply. We both laugh.
“Um…Okay…So…I wrote a little story this morning, do you want me to read that? Or do you just want to breathe into the phone with each other.”
“Oh, that’s another phone line entirely.” He laughs. “Go ahead ’n read to me, sweetie.”
“S1,” I say. He stops me.
“F1? Like on our keyboards?”
“No, S1, as in Sam not Frank. If there’s a S1 on your keyboard then you’re playing different type of keyboard all together. It’s the S1 little square piece from the Scrabble game.”
“Oh, I get it now. Continue.” He rather sweetly commands, I can almost feel the swish of his hand movement through the phone. I feel as though I’m performing for the Queen. (Umm…it’s very possible that this is a different sort of queen.)
Several times he laughs out loud and a couple of times I try not to chuckle while reading. When I finish, he seriously says, “Sweetie, are you autistic?” Pause.
“Well, Terry, no. I like to think I’m artistic, not autistic.” He snort laughs.
“Why?” I ask.
“‘Cause that’s how autistic people are; you just can’t mess with their systems. If you were autistic, then I could understanding you and your computer problems much better.”
How do I respond to that?
“Terry, if you and I lived closer together, I just might have to take you out for a drink.”
“Darlin’ after this, we could both use one.”
I look at the computer screen, “Terry, we still have seven minutes to go…so…I don’t know…how’s your Mom?”
“She’s dead, yours?”
“I’m sorry. Mine’s gone too.”
We spend the next seven minutes telling stories about and on our Moms.
And my computer…ah, well, temperamental powerful little frustrating pile of bits ’n bytes that it is. I’m sure it’s only suffering from withdrawal symptoms as any artist is entitled to at this point.