A Luddite enraptured by Geek love
I’M in love with a Geek.
No, not Bill Gates or one of the guys from “Flight of the Conchords.”
It’s Geek with a capital G, as in Geek Squad, and my “agent,” as they’re called, is now the stuff of this single girl’s dreams. I’ll never look at a clip-on tie, slightly high-water pants or white socks the same again.
The setup: A full-time freelancer now, I needed to finally catapult my Luddite self into ’07 with a wireless connection and quicker Internet service at my house. So I did what chicks do -- I sent up a flare. In this case, it was to the Geek Squad.
Disclosure: I’m not related to anyone who works in the technology industry (if only!), and I’m not receiving any benefits, discounts or favors from Best Buy for writing this. In fact, I suspect that if the company knew the depth and intensity of my passion for a particular Geek, it would never send him or any other employee to my house again. Not without a chaperon anyway.
For those of us who work at home, and our numbers are vast, our computers are often our livelihoods. Without a salaried techie available on demand, we can be hopelessly hamstrung when we have Internet problems. We’re dependent, then, on whoever can facilitate that all-important communication. That person, whether our little brother, neighbor or dad, is our savior.
Doctors and lawyers? It used to be vital to have them in your family or your social circle. Now geeks (see also: Geeks) are golden.
We all have those people we are effusive about -- we love our car mechanics, our Brazilian waxers, our dog walkers. Valley homeowners adore their air conditioner repairmen, and barflies are devoted to their beer tenders.
But this is a different degree of love, set apart from the ordinary affection I have for the myriad other service providers. My Geek, as I’ll now refer to him, surpassed the mere punch on the shoulder, “I love you, man” feeling with something much more palpable when he deftly dumped my Internet service without being thrown into the bottomless pit of customer retention hell.
I’d nearly been drawn into a verbal jousting match with the unnamed service (OK, Earthlink) when my Geek came to the rescue, gently snatching the phone and setting everything in motion, along with my heart on fire.
He was polite, yet he was all business. He was even chatty and cordial, but he was taking no prisoners. I wondered if he handled everything in his life that way, and I knew that the same conversation in my hands would have devolved into hysterical screaming (mine) in the face of cool indifference (customer rep in India). If this is the sound of being jilted, bring it on, Geekster.
He grew more appealing by the nanosecond. The only sign that he was exasperated with supervisor “Mandy” (like that’s her real name) was when he raked a hand through his thick, jet-black hair.
Swoon.
There he was, fibbing about my numerous attempts to come to terms with the company. (I hadn’t made them. I just wanted to save a buck with a competitor.) He was lying for me. Did that mean he’d ever lie to me? Oh please, who cares?
Then again, unlike most men, he comes with a guarantee. He promises to make it all better, for $159 (mind out of the gutter, folks).
Will I ever see my Geek again? Maybe if I buy that fancy printer. All those wires, instructions written in Mandarin, indecipherable diagrams. I’ll need help. Oh yeah, I’ll definitely need help.
