Skip to: Content
Skip to: Site Navigation
Skip to: Search


Launching a computer

By Elisavietta Ritchie / April 24, 1986



JUST read the directions,'' waved the computer installer. He had delivered two cartons to my house, unshackled computer and typewriter-printer from Styrofoam casing, connected one to another with a multi- colored interwoven plastic umbilical cord, jammed two regular rubberized cords into three-pronged plugs, thrust them into different wall sockets, and turned the switches on to prove the machines worked and the fuses wouldn't blow.

Skip to next paragraph

Then he had turned the switches off and departed, leaving me with six two-inch-thick individually boxed ring binders full of diagrams and directions.

Here we sit, computer and I, in my tiny study that barely used to hold a crib and a baby. That particular baby, whose name is Kirk, now stands 6 foot 4 and has moved to larger quarters.

This computer is more compact, sitting 1 foot by 1, studying me with its blank black screen.

I need to turn on the machines. In the computer store it was easy. The salesman flipped a switch, slipped in a disk, and green letters and numbers danced onto the screen. What else he demonstrated was more relevant to launching a missile, shooting a star, or checking inventory for General Motors than writing even a haiku.

I switch on the printer, which off-duty is also a typewriter. One red light blinks on, but immediately the machine starts up a galloping rhythm printing ggggg. I turn it off quickly.

I reach around behind the computer and flip a switch. I try the printer again. It sits silently, red-eyed, waiting.

Careful not to touch the vulnerable sections, I pick up a disk. The disk fits into its slot. Nothing happens.

Guilt at having spent so much money floods over me. To buy the computer, I went into debt. First time in my life.

I justified the investment by rationalizing that everyone else in our extended household would find it useful. ``But we'll never need it,'' they insisted. ``I hate machines.'' ``I've no time for computers.'' ``There are mainframes at work.'' ``I have a desk-top model with a brain the size of a planet.'' ``Buy it for yourself.''

So I did. The six thick manuals were included in the Super Special Price. Printer ribbons and packages of disks were Very Extra.

Disks need formating. The salesman told me something about that. ``Just read the directions'' echoes in my ears. I open one after another of the thick ring binders. The directions are unreadable, the diagrams undecipherable.

I think of long-ago Christmas Eves when we sat up trying to piece together foreign bicycles with which to surprise Kirk on Christmas morning when he awoke -- seldom later than 3 a.m. Alien sections of bicycle would lie scattered across the living room while we tried to decode instructions inscrutably translated from Japanese, Czech, German, Chinese.

A wonder Kirk ever had a new bicycle to grow up on. Also a wonder he ever got through school. Test after test would come back with the teacher's tidy red ink: ``Next time, follow directions.'' ``When will you learn to read the instructions first?'' ``How will you ever get through school if you don't read how . . . ?''

Kirk squeaked through several schools, going his own directions. He was not about to be taught much of anything by anyone. He prided himself on the most ragged Army-surplus clothes and wildest hair in the neighborhood. His garret was a pigpen. Et cetera. We were not sure any of us would survive his adolescence. After a couple of semesters away at college, he came home briefly, painted the walls, flew off to Malaysia, settled in San Francisco at various blue-collar jobs, lived off filet mignon one week, rice the next, called home seldom, never asked for help or advice.