MACMELODIE

by Melodie Johnson Howe

My computer did what computers always end up doing. It threw a tizzy. Like a mean spirited soothsayer, it began to say that terrible things were going to happen to me if I didn’t escape. Then one day it freezes up. Like a child throwing a tantrum, it just stopped and held its breath. It had a great capacity for holding its breath. So I did what I always do in these situations, I yelled my husband’s name, “Bones!”

He saunters into my office with a mug of tea in one hand and a piece of toast slathered in marmalade in the other. Peering at the screen he says, “Reboot.”

“Is that the only answer there is to all of humanity’s problems?” I snap.

“Okay, it’s time for a new computer.”

I resolved if I was going to get a new computer I was going to make a major change. Seduced by my iPhone, I decided to buy a Mac.

On a Sunday afternoon Bones and I walked into the Apple store and entered a whole new world. There were more people in this store than all the churches, synagogues, mosques, and gyms in Santa Barbara put together.

We had crossed the threshold into the cult of iMac, iPod, iPad, iPhone, and iTunes. IIIIII! I yi yi.

For moment I thought Apple was doing a riff on the sci-fi short story collection, I, Robot. But then I was overwhelmed by the utter narcissism of it all. Making the letter I lowercase did not fool me.

There is a giant ego floating in the ether and I think its name is Jobs.

We had also stumbled into the cult of thinness. Every piece of equipment or gadgetry was thin. Determinedly thin. I felt like I needed to loose weight before I could even buy a Mac.

We paused, surveying cautiously one slender chic inviting screen, in which is also the computer, and stared at the dazzlingly sharp graphics floating on it.

I turned to my husband. ”What do you think?”

“Don’t ask me,” he replied. “I’m an old guy.”

This is a new phrase my husband uses when he doesn’t want to be bothered or doesn’t have a clue. I found it irritating.

One of the most handsome young nerds (notice how this word is edging toward the word turks) I have ever seen swayed toward us. I could tell he worked here because he was wearing a badge around his neck that announced he was Shawn.

“Can I help you?” He focused in on me immediately sensing I was the one interested, not the grumpy man standing behind me. Shawn’s voice is reserved and seductive. I’ve always been a sucker for that combination in a man.

My husband snorted and before he could say, “Don’t ask me, I’m an old guy”, I said, “Yes. I’m interested in buying a Mac.”

“Did you pick this one for a particular reason?” His broad shoulders shifted and youthful smile slipped sideways.

“Because it’s not too big and not too small.” I sounded like Goldilocks. My husband rolled his eyes. My face flushed.

The noise level in the store was beginning to permeate my brain. Odd sounds came from the computers lined up on table tops: bong, bong, thunk thunk, and the musical equivalent of Ta Da! People were talking on iPhones and poking at iPads and sticking white wires into their ears. And all the time some dreadful hiphop bleated over the yammering of the customers who were tapping keys like Ginzo chefs chopping tomatoes. It was a computerized tower of Babel.

“A good reason.” Shawn says nodding at me with approval. But I’d already forgotten the question that I seemed to have answered so well.

“Now watch this.” He begins to show me the magic of the Mac.

Suddenly I am catapulted into a labyrinth of large slightly goofy looking icons that every now and then do a little bouncy dance. He lines programs and files back to back into eternity. What’s-his-name (his badge has flipped over and I can’t see his name) pauses, flashing me another grin waiting for my response. But I have none because I can’t breath. I’m simply trying to get air.

My husband’s clear concise voice cuts in. “She’s a writer. She needs to see how Microsoft Word works on the Mac.”

“A writer? Microsoft?” What’s-his-name can barely utter the last word. For the first time he is off his game. His hyperkinetic energy level fizzles along with his seductiveness. His badge flips over again. Shawn! Shawn is crestfallen. “It’s not that much different than what you’re already using. “
He goes into the Word program. The screen turns gray and officious looking and I feel right at home.

“I don’t really know much about Word,” he says.

I take the iMouse and maneuver it around Word while Shawn talks to Bones.

Having learned he was once a record producer, Shawn asks him “So what do you listen to on iTunes?”

“I don’t use iTunes. I’m an old guy.””

“I turn and poke Bones in his very thin belly.

“What?” He demands

Shawn is now on another iMac showing Bones iTunes. There in all its glory is an Oldies icon. Shawn smiles. “Believe me once you start you’ll love it.”

“No I won’t,” Bones says.

iMelodie buys the iMac and a year’s worth of lessons.

iMelodie is beginning to wonder what she has done. Was she sabotaging herself in the middle of writing a novel and finishing short stories?

iMelodie goes to her first one-on-one, with a sweet girl named Mindy. Mindy has transferred iMelodie’s life and work off her fat ugly hard drive and put it on her sleek gorgeous iMac. Then Mindy begins to explain how to use the computer. iMelodie can’t remember anything. But she returns home with her Apple packed in a big white box and her old PC clunking around in the trunk of her car.

Bones and I begin to unpack it. The mouse comes in its own little soft white pouch like a strand of pearls. Everything is silver and white.

Bones glances at me, “It looks like a wedding present.”

He sets my iMac up for me.

Nervous, I sit down in front the imposingly stylish screen. The icons dazzlingly in their Disney-like color sit on their own sleek silver shelf at the bottom of the screen.

I hit the icon with a red curtain and an old fashion photo strip. Suddenly I am looking at myself. I let out a tiny scream.

“What have you done?’ Bones looks sharply at me.
“Nothing “I’m on the screen.”

“You mean you’re in a movie rerun?”

“No. I’m live. I wave at myself.”

He comes around to my chair and bends down. Now we’re both on the screen. He points the top of the monitors black frame. ‘There’s the camera.”

“Where?”

“There.”

“Maybe I am too old for this,” I say.

“No you’re not. “

He puts his arm around me and we stare at ourselves on the screen–together after all these years. Then he saunters out of my office, leaving me to plunge into WORD and my new novel. I tap my first key. iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii appears on the screen. For one not so crazy moment I think that this is the only letter in the alphabet Apple allows. Then I relax. The keyboard is just a little sensitive like all great beauties.

And the writer begins. Again.