Technology

I’m a Fu*king Computer Genius

Novice turns pro

A few weeks ago I was typing on the laptop on which I am now writing this essay and the “h” letter wouldn’t work. For the life of me and no matter how much I pressed, the key wouldn’t do its thing.

So I said to myself, don’t worry, there can’t be all that many words that use the letter “h.” Well I was shocked to discover how wrong I was. It seemed that every other word I was typing required an “h.” Words like “the,” “they,” “that,” and “those” crop up in everyday writing a lot more than I ever realized.

In the space of a few minutes my little problem of one malfunctioning letter had morphed into a mini-catastrophe. Still, I kept the faith, believing somehow that with calm use and slamming my finger down on the “h” key repetitively, I would correct the problem, and life would go on as before.

Wrong again. Not only did the “h” key persist as your classic pain-in-the-ass problem, but this strange infection which, out of the blue, had insinuated its way into my Lenova Laptop, was spreading. Soon it was not just the “h” key; it was the “n” and “w” keys too.

So I did what any other writer who uses a computer does: I panicked and carted the laptop to Office Depot for an evaluation, where the nice but clueless clerk told me I probably needed a whole new keyboard and her store wasn’t equipped to supply this service. What should I do? I said in a tremulous voice.

“Take it to Computer Pro on Woodland Avenue,” she said.

Well, I’m no neophyte when it comes to ministering to sick machines, so before I set out, I called the store to find out where they were, when they opened, and could they diagnose a machine with a keyboard gone bad. At the same time I googled “keyboards” and “Lenova” and learned that a new keyboard was one of the most popular cure-alls for keyboard maladies.

Off I went to Computer Pro with laptop in hand and a hopeful expression on my face. I anticipated that the computer expert’s prescription would be for a new keyboard, and he would take care of procuring and installing one.

Computer Pro was deserted at 10 am when I confronted the twenty-something clerk/expert who looked like he needed something to do. Not an auspicious beginning, I thought. Mr. Expert took a quick look at my computer, riffled his fingers over the keys, and within five minutes, declared my computer a hopeless mess. Not only was the keyboard a wreck, but he also informed me that my PC was loaded with viruses and malware. How he knew all this from a five-minute look-see, I’ll never know.

Then came the verdict. He said a keyboard probably wouldn’t solve the problem, and even if it did, it would cost me a lot in parts and labor. His conclusion? Buy a new one.

“But it’s only three years old,” I whined.

“Oh, that’s considered a dinosaur in the wonderful world of technology,” responded the expert.

I’d heard that line before from so-called pros so I was nonplussed. My computer doctor didn’t seem to be in a rush, so I asked his advice on what new laptop to try my luck with.

“Get a Lenova Thinkpad,” he offered. “Amazon is good or try Best Buy.”

Thanks for nothing, I thought to myself. Did I look that stupid that I didn’t know how to spend hard-earned money? Obviously, yes.

His silence implied dismissal, so I carted my laptop off to the car and began ruminating. The gloomy irritability of bipolar depression had already fogged over my features, leaving me pissed as well as puzzled as to how to proceed. Inside, however, emotions raged and competed for rational thought.``

First, I had to deal with my anger at this clerk, who by all appearances performed only a cursory evaluation of my laptop. Could I really trust his so-called expertise? He was a nice enough guy, but was he just too lazy to order and replace my keyboard and that’s why he suggested buying a new computer? Or maybe he was a salaried employee who wouldn’t make much money on this repair job since as a non-owner of Computer Pro, he wasn’t vested financially in the outcome?

Or, and this was a distinct possibility, was he actually trying to save me money in the long run and was dispensing honest counsel? Solving this multiple choice question was hard for me; trusting salespersons didn’t come naturally, which explained why my default reaction to what might actually be good advice was extreme skepticism with a dollop of cynicism.

When I returned home, I googled “Lenova” and “keyboard” again, but this time I scanned the first two pages of hits for practical information. I was serious about giving self-help a try. I discovered that between the extremes of ditching the computer or replacing the keyboard were a zillion or so useful hints on what you could do to tame your keyboard.

Surprisingly, just knowing that there was all this free advice out in cyberspace relaxed me. Since my one remaining option would be throwing the laptop into the trash, I became more aggressive with my self-help attempts and adopted a laissez-faire attitude. Let the fixes come, I intoned.

One by one I implemented the helpful hints, which included cleaning your keyboard with compressed air (which I didn’t have but improvised with a soft cloth and a lot of lung power). Another suggestion was to remove the problem keys, peek under, and see if you could clean any lint or what-have-you-crapola from under the tabs.

The tips to rehabilitating the Lenova keyboard ranged from simple to complicated. I favored the mid-range ones, such as pressing the shift-control keys several times. This didn’t seem to be destructive and the instructions were clear: Do this until the errant keys went from digital demons to finger flexible.

I began to feel empowered when I detached the infamous “h” key from its place and saw a gray puff of dust staring me in the face. Naturally I removed it, replaced the “h” tab and was rewarded by an improved, but not perfect, performance.

But the “h” key moment was my private epiphany. Not only was I inspired by actually fixing something I thought was destined to be buried at sea alongside the Titanic, I had a burst of self-confidence that spurred me to google even more tips. Pretty soon I was employing every reasonable band-aid that caught my fancy. I wasn’t even testing the keys — that’s how convinced I was that I was on the right track. Finally I reasoned that I had invested enough self-help time. If the keys weren’t okay by now, I’d have to move on to Plan B and the inimitable Amazon.

I gave the keys the final test: I typed “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” about 10 times. I saw flawless fonts flowing out of my Lenova. Still exhilarated, I decided to push the envelope and typed “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party” five times.

In high school I had been an ace typist, the one who typed 65 words a minute with no errors. Now I was a computer keyboarder inputting sentences I hadn’t typed in decades. But the cyber-gods had blessed me. I was still pushing the keys and reaping rewards.

It’s hard to describe the joy that overcame me thanks to this accomplishment. Not only had I saved about $700, the cost of a new Lenova, but I also had shown up that dastardly clerk at Computer Pro. I had salvaged what at first sight appeared to be a monstrous pandemic of a problem, and I had done it myself with no help from any other living breathing person.

At long last I was a fuc*ing computer genius!