New Technology J.W. Wang
I turned on my computer one morning and it wouldn't boot up, so I
called and asked for someone to come and take a look. Half an hour
later a young man in a blue uniform knocked on my door. A badge over
his shirt pocket read, "Ed, Service Technician," and he held a gray
toolbox in one hand. "Hello," he said, "I understand you are having
trouble with your computer?" "Yes," I said, "this way," and
led him through the hallway and into the office. The computer sat on my
desk, silent and looking a little wan. "Let me see," Ed said, and bent
down to observe it. Gossamer strands of dust flitted from the case. A
trail of fingerprints converged in a smear across the top of the
screen. The keyboard bore splatters of spaghetti sauce like the weary
wounded. I hadn't noticed any of this until Ed walked in, and was
feeling a little embarrassed. "It wouldn't boot up," I said. "It just
died on me." Ed didn't say anything and went about opening up
the chassis while I leaned against the doorjamb and sweated. It must
have been nearly a hundred degrees outside. "There's an inordinate
amount of wax buildup in here," Ed said. His eyebrows furrowed and he
leered at me suspiciously. "Wax?" I said. Had I done something in those
moments of frustration? "And," he said, "loose hair and
fingernails and fecal matter. Classic signs of abuse and
neglect." His voice was somber, and very hard. "That's not
possible," I said, "I clean it every day with a foam sponge and apply
baby powder afterward with a cotton pom-pom." It wasn't true;
I didn't own a cotton pom-pom, nor any baby powder. "I'm afraid," Ed
said, looking up, "I'll have to report this to the abuse prevention
center." My hands balled into fists and the blood in my neck
throbbed. "That's no fault of mine," I said, "it didn't come with
instructions." Ed's eyes focused into black ball bearings.
"Of course it didn't," he said. "You didn't, either." But he
was wrong about that. I did. I saw it once sitting at the bottom of a
drawer, under a pile of my father's old underwear. The pages were hard
and crinkly, like newspapers set out on the porch too long.
J.W. Wang's fiction and poetry appeared most recently in The Barcelona Review
and Backwards City
Review. He lives in Tallahassee with four strangers and
two stray cats.
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