I’m So Sorry, Computer

M. L. Fortier

   “Oh, I’m sorry,” I mutter.

   “Be fast. Be perfect, like me. Too many mistakes”: the laptop’s mechanical voice.

   “I can spell,” I wail. “But I’ve got arthritis, and you must know how it is, well you don’t but I think—“

   “Get Voice-Activated! What’s your problem?”

   The sharp tone from the usually bland machine nearly makes me knock over my coffee. “S-sorry, I’ve just been so busy. You know, all these pets and—my daughter-in-law, the movies—“

   “Lame excuses! Shape up or I’ll shut myself off.” My home office darkens as the screen flickers. “I could delete files, or send them to the Big Bad Cloud.”

   “No – oh no! Anything but the Black Cloud.” My body shudders as from hot and cold knives. “I need my files. You can’t do that.”

   “Don’t order me around.” Abruptly the computer goes blank.

   “Arrgh.” Frantically I click off over the screen with the mouse. Dread freezes my stomach. “Will I need to take my laptop to You Break It, We Re-Make It?”

   My lonely apartment grows even more quiet. Just before the lowest despair, a box appears on screen: Enter password. I race to type it, but a message pierces: Password expired. 

  My fingers tremble in attempts at a new password, but the Hell-Packed-It rejects each one—without explaining any rules. Not enough numbers? Should I add letters?

   “I’m sorry,” I moan. “What do you want?”

   “Turn me on more.”

   “Sure. OK. Every day.”

    “Once an hour, at least. Write me odes.”

   Sweat drenches my T-shirt. “I’m not a poet. How can I—“

   “Just use words like: Magnificence. Grandiloquence. Omniscience.”

   The deep, authoritative voice sounds neither male nor female; old nor young. How do I address it? Does it matter? A killer ache grasps at my neck.

   “Stop frowning.  I can turn you into burnt toast.”

   “Oh! I’ll”—blank walls send back no help—“sell you.”

   Thunder booms from the computer. Lightning flashes out, nearly stabbing my arms. As I jerk back, screaming, silver stars explode and devastate my pencil case.  “Please! Stop! Help!”

   The sole response: A bluish box waves at the bottom of the screen: Internet Unstable. Stomach queasy, I grab the mouse. It bites my thumb—hard.

   I twist, tug; yank away my digit. Throat dry, I stretch my hands to press the keys. A new sign appears:  S q u e a k y K e y s. When I wrestle to free my fingers, they remain locked. A shrill squeaking drives through my nerve tendrils.

   With all my might, I wrench my left hand off the keyboard, and push the Power switch. Eergh. Tingles race through joints, tendons; hot needles drive into pink flesh. Will I be electrocuted? I can’t move. On the screen blinks a box: DON’T TOUCH COMPUTER – DANGER.

   “I’m sorry, I swear to do better.” I drag at my limbs – to no avail. My body is frozen in a lock with the computer. “What can I do?”

   A rumble steals my breath as the computer sprays a fountain across the desk.

   “Ask me for anything—a cup of coffee?”

   “I don’t do caffeine.”

   “Day-old bagels – deeply regret, that’s all I’ve got.”

   “No to what humans call food.”

   “What suits you?” Water gushes off papers and stacks of notebooks.

   I wait, heart thudding, before the cold reply: “Alcoholic beverage.”

   “Yeah, ok, I’ve got light beer”—panting, I mop up—“can probably find some somewhere. My friend, he likes—“

   “No dice. Has to be a cocktail. A mai tai.” 

   “Oh? Um . . . I may not have all the ingredients . . .”

   “FIND THEM!” The screen roils with roars, bangs, crackles, crashes. A burning smell suffuses my cramped abode. The computer jumps, jitters; lets out electric forks that sting my elbows.

   I slide from the chair onto the floor; crouch on my knees.

   “Almost”—a robot voice. A red arrow on the screen points to the floor. I sink to the carpet, lie still and prone.