Looking out my Backdoor: The day my computer caught the delta variant COVID virus

I suppose it’s my own fault. I should have known when the toilet tank innards up and died and bled water all over the floor.

But no, I had nary a clue. Then a few days later I remained blissfully unaware when my washing machine puddled all over the bodega floor. Turned out a crack eroded in the tub which had to be replaced. I should have caught on that something was afoot more than the simple mechanical obvious.

The appropriate specialist doctors came out and applied the appropriate medications, in these cases, new innards. Life went onward.

Had I only known, I could have taken measures and stopped the infection before it raged out of control. It’s not rocket science. But it is health science. Wash hands, mask, apply liberal doses of disinfectant while going from place to place. Easy-peasy.

But, no, not me. I got careless, complacent, smug, self-satisfied.

Then my computer got sick. It simply didn’t respond to my pleas. Please, pleas, beg on knees pleas. Please. The wallpaper stuck to the screen but it would not let me through the door.

Years ago my son taught me two magical tricks that usually work. First, check all the connections. Check. Secondly, reboot. Check. Nada. Nothing.

I walked next door. “Do you have internet? Is Telmex down?” Nope, that wasn’t the problem.

Then I did the next best thing. I phoned my son, the computer genius. “HELP!”

My son knows me well. He knows that when my computer is down, I’m a mess. Panic might be a too strong a word for what I feel, but is there such a thing as “panic once removed?”

“I’ll call you when I get off work,” Ben said.

Meanwhile, disconnected from friends and family, isolated in middle Mexico, I began to build a worst-case scenario. By now I have figured out that my computer has caught the COVID virus. I’ll probably have to buy a new computer, which means Ben buys it for me and formats it for me and ships it to me which will take at least two months, given shipping time during the last COVID surge when there were not enough healthy drivers to keep the trucks on the roads.

Now I’m on a roll, masked and gloved, spray bottle of disinfectant in hand, I wipe down the refrigerator, the stove, the light fixtures and plug-ins.

I put my brand-new sewing machine, just delivered, into quarantine.

I look around for anything that could possibly get infected, break down and die. Electric toothbrush? Yikes! Electric teakettle — check. Blender — check. I live very simply so it does not take me long to isolate and reinstate all safety measures.

That left me idle hours to work on my paranoia and related conspiracy theories.

My son lives in the Pacific Time zone. I live in the Central Time zone. At 7:10 my time, the phone rang. “Here’s what I want you to do,” Ben said. “Reboot.”

“I already did, complete reboot twice, off at the surge protector, wait ten minutes or longer, turn it on. Same results.”

“Uh huh,” Ben said, “Do it again.” We were on the landline so when I turned off the computer at the surge protector, my phone service died. Computer and phone are a package. While I was calling him on my cellular phone, he called me back on the landline, just as I turned my computer back on. “Now do this and click that and hit ‘Enter.’ What do you get?”

Like magic, my computer came to life, lifted itself out of the grave, resurrected, and I embraced her.

“What went wrong?” I asked. Ben told me but when he speaks computer garble it is in language so foreign to me that I don’t even know when to nod and smile and pretend to understand.

I may not understand what Ben said, but I know what happened. My computer had contracted the dread pandemic virus. While I waited for his phone call, Ben gave my computer the electronic version of the vaccination.

He then advised me to tell my computer daily how much I appreciated its good work and to let it know I love it, you know, slobber on it a little.

Hey, whatever works, works. Thank you, Ben. I loved on him a little too.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].