A blank screen. AGAIN.
“Seriously?” I cried, jerking my hands from the keyboard and throwing them into the air in exasperation. I tell you, I must have been cursed at birth or something to always have bad luck with technology. Everything I touch seems to break or freeze up, and I can’t win a video game to save my life. But it can’t be completely my fault. After all, my old laptop was broken and faulty out of the factory. I had nothing to do with it suddenly deciding it no longer had the will to live.
But one would think, after just purchasing a brand-new laptop, that it would actually function. Brand-new laptops aren’t supposed to make disturbing clanking sounds, disconnect from the internet on their own, or go black while you’re in the middle of typing. Right?
“Uugh!” I dropped my head into my hands, giving the screen a death-stare, as if my intimidating look might somehow scare it into obedience. “You’re not supposed to do that! Why are you doing that in the first place? Everything’s right as rain one moment, the next, BAM! Oh, look at that, your laptop shut itself down. And you didn’t save your work. Pity. Well, rotten luck and condolences and all that.”
“Ouch. That was uncalled for.”
I jumped nearly a foot in my chair. I whipped around. My quiet little corner of Starbucks was empty. Had I overheard one of the employees? No, they were too far away. But that voice couldn’t have come from my laptop, could it? Wondering if I was losing my mind, I glanced at the screen. Decidedly blank. Another scan of my surroundings proved that I was alone. I then eyed my mocha-cookie-crumble suspiciously. My mind just simply couldn’t compute that my laptop had spoken to me. (pun very much intended.)
“Hellooooo? You there, grumpy pants? I said, that was uncalled for. It’s not my fault.”
“You’re…talking.” There was no denying it. That voice had come, inexplicably, from my laptop.
“No, really? That was me? I thought that was the invisible person behind you.”
Good grief. Not only was my laptop talking to me, but it was using sarcasm too. I was definitely going crazy.
“Uh, well, um, sorry, Mr. Laptop. I’m just going to leave you be and go call a psychiatrist. Bye.” Feeling somewhat dizzy, I stood up, but the laptop was having none of it.
“You’re not going anywhere!” it barked. “I’ve listened to you complain and whine all day. Now it’s my turn. Do you know how hard it is to be your laptop? To store all of your files, process all of your searches, fulfill every single one of your nitpicky demands?”
“Fulfill every one of my –” I broke off into a derisive snort. “You, Mr. Laptop, are a malfunctioning piece of junk. You never do what I want.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” the laptop screamed back. “You’re never satisfied! You’re so demanding! Save this, store that, search this, export that, give me results at the speed of light on a cheap Wi-Fi network, run this greedy program that is trying to send you notifications, personalize everything just the way I like it, keep working even though my battery is running out, blah blah blah blah blah! How would you like that, huh?”
“How would you like to be me?” I shouted, unaware of the curious looks the Starbucks employees were shooting my way. “How would you like to be a writer who values their work, and then all of a sudden, before they can save what they just wrote, their laptop goes on the fritz and all is lost, huh?”
“That’s what the auto-save is for,” the laptop muttered. “Besides, your petty complaints are nothing compared to what I go through. I’m bound to overheat one of these days with all your constant searching. What’s this? What’s that? Define this gigantic and misspelled word. Give me synonyms for this impossible adverb.”
“Stop making fun of me,” I snapped. No longer was I concerned with my mental stability. My own laptop had the nerve to insult me. I would not stand for it. Mr. Laptop must learn his place. “You are the tool. I am your owner. I control what apps you have, what upgrades you get, and when you get to recharge.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You’re darn right I am,” I snarled, planting my hands on my hips.
“Excuse me, miss, are you alright?” A barista tentatively approached me.
“No, I am not. My laptop has decided to rebel. Relax, I’m not on anything. I’m just trying to…what?”
The barista had a funny look on his face, like he was trying to judge whether to call an ambulance or the police. Or both. “Are you alright?” he repeated.
“No, I just told you that I am not. Jeez, doesn’t anyone listen to me?” I flung my hands in the air in exasperation. The Starbucks barista backed away to confer with his coworkers. I ignored him. I had bigger problems at the moment. “Look, Mr. Laptop, turn back on this instant or I swear, I will take you to a repair shop and have you disassembled. Or I’ll put you in a trash compactor. How do you like them apples?”
“Hmph,” the laptop grunted. “I know for a fact that you can’t afford a new laptop, so it looks like you’ll just have to surrender here and ease up on the reins if you want a functioning computer.”
“Fat chance.” I am not one to go down without a fight, especially not to a hunk of wiring and plastic. “You are my tool. If you don’t turn on, I’ll be forced to use Task Manager on you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” The laptop’s voice became whispery and menacing.
I grinned. I had found its weakness.
“I will,” I taunted. “I’ll jolt your system. I might even manually power you down. I’ve heard that always is a shock. You want that, huh?”
The laptop grumbled unintelligibly for a few moments, and then FINALLY my screen returned, displaying the short story I was currently writing. As I settled back down into my chair, I became aware of a couple of the employees watching me.
“Can I help you?” I inquired, barely concealing my ire. Were a few undisturbed minutes to write too much to ask?
“Are you alright, miss?”
“Good grief. Is that all you can say?” My manners were gone. Arguing with my laptop did nothing to improve my already short temper. A siren wailed outside. Suddenly, my hackles were up. Oh no. Did these people think I was crazy? On drugs? I mean, I would. My eyes leapt from face to face, and I knew suddenly that they were just trying to keep me calm until backup arrived. Blasted laptop! This was all its fault! I jumped to my feet, but one of the employees grabbed my arm and kept me from rushing out the door.
“Hang on, miss. You’re alright.”
“No I’m not!” I bellowed. “This is one of the worst days of my life. I am most definitely, assuredly, NOT ALRIGHT!”
The door opened. Policemen jogged in. I thrashed against the press of employees. A customer took a video. Another stared rudely.
And in the midst of it all, my eyes happened to land on my laptop. The screen was blank, all my meticulously-crafted words gone. Only three remained and they were not written by human hands.
VICTORY IS MINE.
Stupid laptop.
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