Exiting the Computer World
I am no longer in the parade. I have dropped out. I plan to turn in my uniform and they can retire my number. This is voluntary. I have simply come to the cold conclusion that I cannot cope with automation and computers and their clacking retinues.
I first knew that I would soon be heading back to the field house some time ago, when they started to play music into the telephone after the tape that says, “All our operators are busy now. Do not hang up or you will lose your turn. Your call will be answered in the order in which it was received.”
One election day, I telephoned an insurance company and on the tape March Fong Eu, Secretary of State of California, sternly reminded me to vote.
This most recent annoyance came over the telephone, as well. My computer and its accompanying printer are 5 years old and cost more than $6,000. Recently, I called and asked the computer store about a tic it seemed to have developed. The man gave a pitying laugh and said, “That equipment is so old they don’t even make parts for it anymore.”
I called my good friend, Craig Hodges, whom I have known since he was a sophomore at Occidental College. He was graduated a year ago and works for a large company, but he still comes over and unsnarls the computer when I call him.
He told me I needed printer ribbons and suggested that I call an 800 number belonging to the very big computer company from which I bought the thing. The company, Craig said, would take my parts order over the telephone and charge it to a credit card number.
I dialed the number and it was one of those recorded messages that makes me twitch like a squirrel: “If you want to order, press 3 NOW.” Of course if you don’t have a push-button telephone, you cannot do business with companies like this.
One of the instructions gave me a number to push if I were a business. I pushed that number because I am self-employed as a free-lance writer and even the IRS admits it.
Then a woman answered and asked, “What kind of business is this?”
“I write a column for the Los Angeles Times.”
“What is your business address?”
I gave her my home address and she asked me the address of The Times. I gave it to her and she said, “But you do not have an address at the Los Angeles Times?”
“No, because I send my copy to my editor on a modem, which lives in the computer for which I need a ribbon for the wheel center.” That was the first time I had got that in. Then she asked, “How did you get this number?” in an accusing tone as if I had misrepresented myself in order to get the secret number.
“I am going to hang up now because we are making no progress, so goodby,” I said. “Oh, please don’t hang up,” she cried in the first natural tones I had heard.
“Why not?”
“I must indicate to the computer that you do not care to answer the questions.”
“Be brave,” I said heartily, and hung up.
I called the 800 number again and this time I said my computer was personal and we started with another woman and another set of questions. She asked, “Does this include printed material?”
I explained that I had no idea because it was my fondest wish that she send me something and I had no idea if it included printed material or perhaps a peanut butter sandwich.
When she asked me sternly what my order would be used for, I answered: “I am going to write illiterate material, full of misspelled words, incorrect punctuation and incomplete sentences and scatter it on the playgrounds of reading clinics.”
After a silence, she finally asked, “Would you like the address and telephone number of a place you can buy the item number you asked for?”
I told her yes. She then gave me two store names and telephone numbers and we hung up.
Both telephone numbers she had given me for the store in Pasadena were answered by a tape that said, “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please dial the number again or ask your operator for assistance.”
Do you think I should call her back and tell her the stores on her list have collapsed? They probably self-destructed after talking to the home office.
