Lost Yarbles

Yes, my trusty Tecra laptop is out of commission. Indefinitely. I was sitting down to perform my ministrations Monday morning when I accidentally tipped over an old mug of triple-strength Yerba Mate. The liquid spread out over a thick sheaf of papers, and in my haste to save the manuscript, I neglected to save the machine. This is the Luddite's curse, I suppose. Rushing to preserve a couple antiquated paper-scraps while my only worthwhile possession stews in South American speed tea. Though if the damned thing never turned on again, I would probably be the better for it, and I'd still have my precious pile of chickenscratch.

That soggy splay of papers failed to comfort me, though, and I quickly turned desperate in the wi-fi wasteland, delicately hanging my laptop on the clothesline before trudging up the street to Yurick and Jane's to borrow their internet.

While I choose to live in primarily horizontal fashion, Jane and Yurick are decidedly vertical. Pushing through the towering stacks—the bookshelves and toolshelves and shelves labelled electronics dubbed tapes & miscellany—I finally made my way to the foot of their loft bed and got written directions to their computer, 20 feet away through dogs and debris. I had originally planned to do important research on vintage laptop dessication, but I ended up spending the next four hours posting missed connections to craigslist and re-reading my own website. Repeatedly.

With that out of the way, it took me about five minutes on google to determine that my clothesline method was a solid first step for drying the Tecra. I opened up a fresh Word document and began rummaging through my head for an idea. But before I could type a single word, the children discovered me, and focused their disarming attentions on the bridge of my nose. Now, I am not generally frightened by the little ones, but Carlos and Beto are quite different from your average American child. They crawl about on all fours, although they appear old enough to walk upright. They stare up at you with furrowed brows and saucer eyes, rarely speaking except when they erupt in pre-verbal yelps and growls. I would venture to say that they are feral, and I might be right, but I'd never think of asking their parents. Yurick and Jane have the best of intentions, I'm sure, adopting these underprivileged wee ones and raising them as their own. But I'm afraid that even the most civilized country in the world can't convert an animal overnight. It is an arduous process, and I'm sure that—glutted with the abundant food and love their parents provide—Beto and Carlos will eventually learn to restrain their natural and unchecked beggary.

Hours later, when I finally trudged back to the attic, I upended my Tecra, and watched while tobacco-brown juice dripped out from its intake fan. I cringed, and gently uncased the laptop; using a hair dryer I'd borrowed from Terese, I began to dehumidify its mechanical carcass. Afterward, I tried to sleep, but I was tormented by the imagined cost of repair—garish three-digit numbers went swimming through my head—and all the inhumane tasks I'd have to perform to afford even the simplest fix. I woke groggy and unrested, and I swore I'd never touch a computer again. Then I walked up to Yurick's, and wrote this post.