Sigh. Tell me about the boot sector again?
It began on a Thursday afternoon. I was working in my home office when a red alert from my antivirus software appeared on my computer screen.
I went through the typical emotional stages: panic (Who? What?), anger (Get off my screen!), denial (No, not when I have a deadline), delusional euphoria (It will go away if I ignore it), guilt (It’s all that “free” music I downloaded in the ‘90s), to outright hysteria (I’ll never work in this town again!).
So I did what any rational person (who doesn’t have a co-worker to blame) would do -- I yelled at the stapler. And then I called for help. Two hours later, Andrei, a handsome computer technician arrived. After heaving a great sigh of relief at the sight of his ready smile and knapsack, I had to stifle a schoolgirl’s giggle.
I love these guys.
Like many people who work from home, I rely heavily on my computer. It houses my work files, tax records, every contact I’ll ever need. An attack by a virus is tantamount to a prowler breaking in to my home and stealing my most prized possessions. That’s why computer geeks are my superheroes.
On the most primal level, women are attracted to men who offer them security. It’s not an easy thing for me, a child of the feminist movement, to admit, but there’s something irresistible about a guy who can fight the battles I can’t. In pre-industrial times, the real catch was a man of muscle. Who better to bring home the bison or protect the hearth from threats of invading clans? But with enough buying power to bring home my own bison, and muscle tone from power yoga, there’s a new order of alpha male: the techie.
It took Andrei under an hour to remove a worm called Gaobot. I tried to tempt him with lemonade, but he was already adjusting his cape and setting off to rescue the next damsel (or major corporation) from virtual destruction.
But the next day Gaobot’s evil accomplice, Sasser, invaded. My stapler cowered at the corner of my desk. Instead of berating the closest inanimate object, I coolly dialed Andrei’s dispatcher. Apparently I was not the only person in Los Angeles with this problem -- Andrei wouldn’t be available until Monday. His dispatcher advised me to buy new antivirus software in the meantime.
Enter Perry. Perry worked in a nearby computer store and exhibited just the right combination of geek-speak and cool detachment to make me feel instantly at ease. I told him the history of my ailments, and he nodded slowly, with an expression I mistook for concern. But instead of offering his sympathy, he replied, “Cool!” Clearly he admired my assailants. “I’ll see what I can find out in the chat rooms. If you have problems installing your software, come back.”
Chat rooms? I’d heard that the really skilled tech guys were either former hackers or only one step from being one. Could it be that Perry was not just a geek but a bad boy too? Saucy.
I returned the next morning. The worm had shut down my computer before I could install the new software. There was a man ahead of me who looked like he’d walked off the set of “Baywatch.” Although his bronzed arms were heavily muscled, he slumped under the weight of the hard drive clutched to his chest. His girlfriend’s, he explained.
“So remember,” Perry said calmly, “Just shut it down, put it in safe mode, install the patch I gave you, and then re-install your software.”
“Right,” Baywatch repeated, “Shut the computer down, install Norto-”
“Safe mode!” Perry chimed, shaking his head.
Poor buff guy. If only he’d spent his late nights chatting with hackers instead of doing push-ups, he wouldn’t have had to suffer such humiliation.
As soon as I caught Perry’s eye, he smiled at me from behind uneven bangs. “Well if it isn’t my dream girl,” he drawled. I blushed, but it wasn’t the compliment that won me over. He’d had me at “safe mode.”
Perry’s research had paid off. He described how to disable the worm and protect my computer from future strains. Later he was on hand to provide me emotional support the four times I called with questions.
OK, so they’re not always the hippest dressers and their social skills can be, well, unconventional, but give me a D&D; guy over a D&G; poster boy any day. I’ll listen to you talk about code and wait patiently as you and your friends argue over who’s the coolest hobbit. Just promise me you won’t start bench-pressing your brains away.
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Hilary Hull can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.
