Six Messages in My Inbox

I’m already tense as the phone rings. I’ve just listened to the prerecorded message relaying system outages on campus and hours that the computer help desk is open for what feels like the thirteenth time, but is more likely the fourth. At least this time there’s no hold music for ten minutes, replaying the same instrumental piece that is all at once familiar and impossible to place.

The phone clicks and a voice answers. It’s male, but I can’t tell if I’ve spoken to him before. A running narrative of my father telling me to write those things down runs through my head, but I ignore it as I once again repeat my computer problem.

I’m never sure if it’s because I’m female, or because the tech support people are prone to disbelieve my situation, but I’m sure when I say, “Yes, I reinstalled it. Twice,” that my voice sounds a little shrill.

The man on the other end, I think his name was Kyle (though that might have been the other one I talked to the night before) just sort of sighs. It’s a sound of confusion and half disbelief that you never want to hear from a tech support person. It means that your problem is not common and they have no idea how to fix it. I am really tired of hearing it.

“Can I put you on hold?” is even worse, but Kyle says it anyway, just a hint of tension that crackles over the phone line.

I resist the urge to slam my head into my laptop and just say as nicely as I can, “Sure.”

There is – thank goodness – no hold music this time. It takes him three minutes (or thirteen taps of my pencil and an exasperated look to my roommate who’s more tired of this than I am and only feigns pity at this point). Finally when he picks up again, my hopes rise. Kyle actually sounds nicer than the others, like he’s really trying to figure it out.

Then he says the worst words possible. “Did you try taking it to the Computer Commons?”

I can practically feel the start of his explanation of what that is on my skin and I just take a tight breath and say, “Yes. Three times. They had no idea what they were doing.”

Not unlike Kyle, but at least he seems less smug about his lack of knowledge and help for my situation.

We run through a few more things, really just time wasters and I know it’s wrapping up. All hope is gone. “I’m sorry,” Kyle says.

I believe it this time, but my voice is just as polite and choked as always when I say, “It’s okay, you tried. Thanks,” before I hang up.

I hold the phone for a moment before putting it back down and staring at my screen. I’ll have to go downstairs to use the internet on computers with greasy keyboards from other people’s fingers.

I just feel like sleeping instead, but I really want to check my mail before bed.