Given that the lack of a reliable computer renders me unable to make a living in my chosen field, I bowed to the inevitable: it was time for a new computer. The old one, after all, was just over four years old; about 96 in people-years, by my calculations.
I dreaded the change. It’s not that I’m particularly attached to that computer, but that it held the accumulated intelligence, archives and programs of at least three computers before it. The last time I made that kind of switch, I had a computer guru come to the house and magically transfer all my enormous amounts of data quickly and efficiently. By the time he was done, that computer could have almost prepared a mean cup of coffee.
This time, I wanted not only a transfer of data, but also help setting up a two-monitor system.
As it turned out, Mr. Helpful Guru had sold his business to someone else. I made arrangements with his replacement and went out to buy my new computer. Not being enamored of the big box store near me, I tried a different location.
A cheerful young man (Justin) offered his help. He listened carefully, found the exact items I wanted - he even knew what a translator did. On my way out, the store’s general manager met me at the door and handed me a thank-you card with his direct email address for any complaints. Then he called someone over to carry my purchases to my car.
Two hours later, Mr. New Guru arrived. As is my wont, I stuck out my hand. He looked at it a little nervously, then held his out in the general vicinity of mine. You couldn't say we actually shook hands: he observed while I bobbed our hands up and down a couple of times.
Then he followed me back to the desk where my old and new computers sat waiting on his magic. I offered him a glass of water. He said no, but could I please turn off “that music”. I dutifully turned off Celtic Woman.
Surveying my new purchase, he sighed. Deeply. “I suppose you use Outlook,” he said and when I nodded, his eyes rolled slightly. Perhaps involuntarily, I couldn’t be sure.
“What other programs do you have?” he asked. I began listing the nearly two dozen programs I use on a regular basis. In an aggrieved voice, he then proceeded to list for me the reasons why my project was a Difficult Burden and basically Doomed: Outlook was always complicated, all of my weird programs would slow down the system, I had a lot of data to transfer and, by the way, “you can’t have two monitors with this inferior computer that you bought.”
When he was done, it took all the will power I could muster to ask what he recommended as a solution. He informed me that he did not make recommendations, but that my options were to have a second VGA port installed in my inferior computer, or buy a decent computer.
To his credit, as I walked him to the door the unhappy man did stick out his hand and watch curiously as I once again shook it. I managed to make sure he was safely in his car and driving away before my self-control broke and the laughter took over.
Mr. New Guru is now Mr. Old Guru, and I’m not sure which of us is happier about it.
Back at the big box store, a helpful attendant carried the hapless computer to Customer Service to await a verdict. Their tech on duty, Matt, listened to my woes. Then he grinned. “Yes, you could buy a more expensive computer or pay us to install a second VGA port... or you could pay about $30 for an adapter and use the HDI port.
He rummaged around and triumphantly produced the necessary adapter, conveniently marked down to $18. “Oh,” he added, “About that second monitor? Here’s how you do it.” The lesson took under 5 seconds. I could have hugged him.
Later that evening, I pondered the different manifestations of customer service (or lack thereof) and how future choices are directly and indirectly affected by such passing moments as a friendly smile or rolled eyes. Basking in the glow of dual screens, I turned up the volume on Celtic Woman and popped in another program.
Mrs. No Guru, at your service.
