Week 37 - Computer Aneurysms

It was a mediocre movie, and it was perhaps for this reason that it happened: My computer had simply had enough and, like the Mahayana Buddhist monks, chose self-immolation as a form of nonviolent protest.

That is to say, my computer caught fire, and it was its own damned fault.

Living in San Se gives a lot of time for personal reflection, and after the first few months, there really aren’t a lot of things left to reflect about; movies become a big part of my nightly routine.

On the particular night in question, it was Marley and Me, a middling movie with a squandered cast based off the book of the same name. It features a young blond couple in Miami trying to raise a dog, and later a family.

I didn’t get it; where were the live-in grandparents? The irregular water pressure? The tortillas? It was entirely unrelatable to my current situation.

Still, my computer seemed to be enjoying it just fine until the beginning of the third act, when a postpartum depressed Jennifer Aniston was yelling at her uncomfortable-with-his-literary-success husband, Owen Wilson. And right there the movie jumped the shark.

I mean, how could anyone find cause to yell at Owen Wilson?

My computer seems to pause, the screen becoming cloudy as it tries to rationalize Aniston’s irrational behavior.

Dark holes begin to appear in the right corner of the screen—my computer is having an aneurysm.

With a shriek that would put Wilhelm to shame, I lunge for the power button. In a few seconds it goes dark. My heart is thumping wildly. For a brief second I contemplate Peace Corps life without a laptop, and fear seeps over my chest, swelling my throat and face like air into a flaccid balloon.

I wait a few minutes. Usually these sorts of issues are the result of overheating, but the localized pixel dead zones have me worried. Like the brain cells after an aneurysm, a lot of times they don’t come back to life.

With a muted prayer to not punish me for cutting corners and buying a Dell, I depress the power button once again. The clicking and whirring of a normal computer boot-up greets me. The screen is still dark, but with a brilliant flash, my darkened room is painted in light.

Unfortunately none of it makes any sense. The pixels are working, but there’s no picture, just jumbled grayish lines of pixels swimming about without cohesion. On the right, the dead zones stay dead, and several more restarts improve nothing.

The fear turns to disappointment and deflation. I immediately start trying to recall the last time I backed up my files. Had I saved since the Tajumulco photos? The great cooking experiment? I had now way to check at that moment, and with little other recourse, I went to bed.

The next day I drank my coffee staring despondently into space rather than reading the New York Times.

Later, I rode into Huehue, hoping to get my computer examined and receive an estimate for its repair. It sounded like my internal hard drive was spinning, which was a good sign, and I felt fairly confident that if I connected my laptop to an external monitor I could back up the system once again before leaving it in a questionable condition in a questionable shop.

I got to the internet café, and was pleased to see my hunch was correct—the rest of the computer was working as it should. I spent the better part of the morning dragging and dropping files from one folder to another, ultimately confirming that the most important elements of my digital life had been salvaged.

Almost on a whim I went online and contacted Dell customer support. I expected no favorable solution as I got connected via their chat program with “Jaspreet,” a customer service representative.

“My, uh, computer recently caught fire while watching a movie, and now I want you to replace it.” I sounded lame and mildly deceitful even to me.

He replied with one of those cheerful nonsequitors that make you wonder if you’re connected to a person or an answering machine. “Hello, and welcome to Dell support! If it’s not too much trouble, may I have your service tag number?”

I humor him, though I’m already formulating my arguments for why this is everyone’s fault but my own, and the character assassination I will rain down upon Dell if they leave me unsatisfied.

As the conversation progresses, he actually seems like he can make something happen, and when he assures me that Dell will overnight the parts to a technician who will come to my house in San Se to replace them, I am pleasantly shocked. We end on a good note.

A few hours later I receive an email from him to that effect, along with the transcript of our conversation. The email tells me I need to contact Dell-Latin America, presumably to work out some final details or something.

They are not as helpful.

“I’m sorry sir, I know you have proof of our prior agreement, but you need to upgrade your warranty to include Latin America.”

“Then why did the other representative say I would be granted an exception and specifically do not need to upgrade the warranty?”

“…You need an upgraded warranty.”

I switched back to Dell-US to complain, and they seemed to split the difference. “We’ll ship you the parts, but you’ve got to install them yourself.”

I’m annoyed, but it’s still a better resolution than I originally hoped for. The problem is that I’m legitimately afraid that a big box marked “computer parts” will never make it to rural Guatemala. All of my care packages are sent with “family photos” and “history books” translated into Spanish and liberally scrawled across each face of the box. Even with these unprofitable sounding descriptions, they can get stolen or “mislaid” by the postal service.

I guess all I can do at this point is wait. I’m sure Marley and Me will still be there when I get back.