I believe a name is immutable, immortal, and that said name is
given much more than taken upon one's self. Societies of old, including
Native Americans held this belief, and I certainly shall not be one to
disregard the wisdom of the ancients nor call into question the
traditions of our forefathers. The industrial band "Ministry" would
dearly like to pretend their first Pop album did not exist yet, their
name remained intact. Nor do U2, The Cure, Depeche Mode, nor other
bands of my lost youth change their name with their sound over the
years. Names belie change. Two decades have passed since I was
knighted with mine and I do not know that I have ever properly related
the tale of events that led to my three syllabled title. Perhaps I
shall finally take time to relate this tale of two decades past. I
trust not to do so on the web, with its condescensions, trolls, tracking
cookie and ads. We shall yet see, I hope I can trust the quiet solitude
of the gopher tunnels to tell my tale without incurring regret.
We begin our tale in the late nineties which were, indeed, a
different time. We had he internet, but it was vastly different than
the internet of today. We had computers, but they were vastly different
than those of today. And, we used both quite differently, incorporating
them into our lives, rather than our lives into them. Cellular phones
served only for voice, and the vast majority of young people did not
have them. Grunge was a not only dirt, but a genre of music. It was in
this age that I lay my scene, wherein I am set lost and directionless
upon the college scene.
Photoshop had always been a skill I wanted to learn and, given
that my first vocation was not working out, my aimless wandering somehow
found me in Photoshop class. I knew the program better than the
majority of the class and could do things they deemed "amazing" but, I
was soon to fall a bit behind in the class because I suffered from a
condition I like to refer to as "Art Deaf." It is much akin to the
musical "Tone Deaf" but applicable to the world of sight - I could put
feet at the end of arms just fine, but lacked any matter of
understanding or skill at composition. My teacher, a good hearted
perpetual enthusiast, was utterly oblivious to this fact and continually
urged me to take more of his classes. Yet, while photoshop served well
to occupy my time, and my silly compositions impressed both peers and
parents alike, it held no promise nor future. Now, youth, in general,
are quite adept at "procrastinating worry," a skill which, in some
certain situations, can be beneficial, such as when the scope of said
worry lies outside your purview. Thus I argue, even in the vice of
procrastination can virtue somtimes find merit. My procrastination
however, like most, was winding up its course as the next class was
"Illustrator" and I could not "Illustrate" in any shape, form or fashion
despite the teacher's insistence that any fool could.
Now, of this teacher, it might well be said, tongue in cheek,
that you could remove his entire left brain and he would be none the
wiser, for his world was entirely of the senses. Yet, he dearly, truly
loved teaching, and put his all into his class. Indeed, I think it is
fair to say we were all fond of him, despite his quirks, though he oft
set our eyes rolling at his "caffeinated water" infused babbling. (He
being the only person I have ever seen to drink caffeinated water) We
shall speak of him fondly, for this teacher was soon to play a vital
role in the steerage of my course. One particular day, whilst fervently
evangelizing a mile a minute, quite suddenly, looking off into the
distance, he drew completely mute. A puzzled look spread across his
face as we, equally puzzled, glanced at each other wondering what
had caused silence in this man who was never caught without words.
Then, as though some unseen fate had reached over and goosed him, he
abruptly blurted out, "Ohh! And, we have a lab monitor position open!!!
Would anybody be interested?" Then, there was again silence. A tired,
grumpy hamster awoke and slowly trundled to a wheel in the very attic
of my sleepy college mind which, as of yet, had not comprehended what he
said. "Anybody? Anybody?" he inquired, giving five whole seconds of
silence, this being not much short of roughly an hour in his manner of
existence. Still, the silence wore on unbroken.
"Well, if anybody is interested, let me know!" He then
immediately proceeded to continue his rambling, as afor mentioned hamster
finally began to churn the proverbial wheel in my sleepy college brain.
Thought began to materialize as wheels churned, gears ground, and cogs
rotated finally bringing upon consciousness, thus producing a cogent
thought: "I could get paid.... to play on computers....." Quite
suddenly, I sat straight up in my seat, raised my hand and exclaimed
"I'll do it!!" By this point, it had been a full twenty seconds since
he had brought up the subject which, in his sphere, might as well be
yesterday - he had no clue what I was talking about and it took two or
three sentences to remind him that they were, by his own admission,
needing a lab monitor. I had no idea the journey this would take me,
and I have oft wondered what I ever would have done if some other
schmuck had woken up before me and put forth his oar. Fate, with head
on palm and patience well worn, had finally gotten my attention.
Now, the process of BECOMING a lab monitor was slow, inane, and
mind boggling, it being my first introduction to things of a government
nature. (Government work being screwed up in entirely different ways
than private business) The teacher cared to fill the vacancy, yet all
else encountered in my journey to employment exhibited utter and
complete ambivalence, if not flat out annoyance that they had to "do
their job." But, my story waxes a bit winded in nature, so we shall
only sum up a weeks worth of seeking, searching, talking, and head
scratching down as thus:
And then I was a lab monitor.
The life of a lab monitor was a bit disappointing, firstly in
that I found that there actually could be such a thing as "Too much time
staring at a computer" and secondly in that I did not meet nearly as
many pretty girls as I had hoped. Always it was the pretty ones who
knew exactly what they were doing and the homely ones who needed to be
shown, for the fourth time, how to scan a simple photo. Stories there
are I've no time to tell, such as the time I put extensions on the
computers at Halloween to make them scream at random times or how I
would make the computer loudly chide those who were surfing for porn.
Well.... perhaps just one perplexing observation before moving on:
I worked in the mac lab. And one thing to be said of mac labs
in college is that in my day, they went largely unused. (I would
venture to say this trend has not changed, but admit no sure knowledge.
Indeed, this current age and the youth that inhabit it vary vastly from
mine, in so much that their world seems almost alien to me.) The PC lab
was often full to overflowing, but the mac lab was lucky to have 6
people. Often it was that people would wander in, look around confused for
a minute, and then quickly depart. However, once in a while, somebody would
enter, sit down at a computer, set down their bag, put their hand on
the mouse and then proceed to simply sit and stare at the computer in
utter perplexion.
In truth, for the better part of five minutes, these people
would sit there and stare at the Macintosh, wondering where the start
menu was! Think not that I jest, for I'll swear on the religious book
of your choosing, I saw this again, and again and again! In time, I
would take pity on them and wander over to inquire if I could be of
assistance. Firstly, they would question as to the location of the
start menu, whereupon I would explain that this was "a mac." At this
point, one could almost see a dim little light shine in their eyes as
they realized their folly. Yet, still willing to help, I would try to
dissuade the inevitable! Often, I would preface that mac explanation
with interrogation, such as "What do you need to do?" Always, it was
Email or web. Fervently, I would attempt to explain that the "Netscape
Navigator" icon would take them to the same internet on a mac which they
knew on a PC. I would click, explain, demonstrate, and all but stand on
my head in an exasperated effort to teach!
'Twas for naught; the "Macintosh" word set them packing every
time. Though, not for lack of trying; no small effort would I exert
as they stood to leave! "Really, look, you can get your Email right
here!" I would demonstrate, as they grabbed their bag, "Or your MS word
right here - they are the same programs!" Following the indifferent
youth out the door, I would yell after them, "Seriously, the porn in the
Mac lab is just as good as the PC lab!!" Never once -- not one time was
I successful. Every time, upon finally receiving direction to the PC
lab, they would get up, head to the PC lab, and often even wait in line
to use Windows. It boggles my mind to this day - it could have been
Mac, Linux, BSD, or BeOS, a web browser was a web browser in the
nineties! (Note, I am no longer a mac guy - I haven't used one since
discovering open source)
The stubborn refusal to learn was astounding! In fact, one
building had but a single lab, and amongst the PCs was one Macintosh
that sat unused. Time and time again, I would walk past a line of
people waiting for a PC to immediately sit at that Mac, which they would
rather bide 10 minutes to avoid that take 5 to learn! Now, I see this
tangent has veered far enough, and my story waxes long. Let us get back
on track.
As stated, life as a lab monitor was good at first, but it
quickly became boring. I made a couple friends, but not nearly as many
as hope had allowed my dreaming. It was dull work, and I aspired for
more yet, like so many in this world, I had no opportunity to do so.
This was no means to an end; at best, a temporary reprieve from abject
failure. I may never have escaped, but for one fateful day that begins
many variation of similar tales: "The regular guy was sick, and something
was not working."
And that story begins with a broken Mac. Peering through his
bifocals, an older man stared in perplexion at the broken machine. "I'm
not sure what the problem is." He proclaimed shaking his head. Now, I
had carefully placed myself nearby, but it was not my place to speak, so
I remained mute. Finally, he gave up and, shrugging his shoulders, he
proclaimed "Maybe it is a problem with the fat file system?" Here, I
could bide silence no longer. Turning, I spoke, "Actually, that is a
Macintosh which has basically two options for file systems, HFS, or HFS
plus. That Macintosh has a 2 gig hard drive and came out a while ago so
I'm guessing, unless it has been reformatted, that it is HFS. However,
you will notice that it goes through most of the bootup and then
crashes, hence I believe it is likely the finder file. You should try
to replace it with a known good copy." All this I spoke, in a rather
quick, flat yet direct tone, somewhat abbreviated, sans my fat16 to
fat32 comparison and a few other statements. I then politely, if not
downright awkwardly, offered a meek smile and waited for a response.
Now, what would said response be? At that time, I was a young
man, I knew not of pride and its dangers. I knew not that most
technicians, when caught in their ignorance, can not abide even the
slightest bit of perceived damage to their intellect, even when offered
in good will! How many foolish, stubborn and ignorant retorts I could
have incurred! What would the response to my bit of helpful knowledge
be that day?
Silence! The older man simply sat and stared at me. "Do you
want a job?" he finally inquired. Determined not to repeat the mistakes
of the past, I bided my time only a second before proclaiming, "Yes....
Yes, I do." Now, having said this in ear shot of the erratic teacher
that had previously been responsible for my employment, he now
identified me as the solution to every single problem ever built into
the late nineties Macintosh computer! This would soon serve as both
blessing and curse, firstly in that he set about making sure the offer
of employment was honored, just as he had done for me as a lab monitor.
That sealed, the curse would come in time. Thus summarizing:
And then I was a lab tech.
I made minimum wage, received but 30 hours a week, and had to
bide part of my time at the help desk that first summer of the job. The
teacher who had gotten me hired now incessantly pestered me with each
and every crash of mac os 8 which, under the aid of the security
software and misuse, was about as stable as the proverbial disgruntled
postman. I worked hard for not a penny more than the lab monitors, most
of whom worked not at all. (Unless you worked in the "Mac Lab," the
requirements of the lab monitor entailed being present and having a
pulse.) Furthermore, this elevated station did not yield any more
acquaintance of pretty girls than my previous. Worst of all, I soon
found myself doing much of the needed research for my position on unpaid
time.
Indeed, I think it is fair to say I loved every minute of it. I
loved the work, I loved the status, I loved the silly pager they gave
me, I loved the people I worked with, and I didn't even seem to notice
the red flags, beginning with the old man being pushed back into a tech
position and another non-technical lady assuming his place.
Unfortunately, this particular summer, I had enrolled in a Java
class, which I was forced to drop because I had absolutely zero
programming experience at the time and was utterly lost. This threw my
employment in jeopardy, so that I almost lost my job. Now, I am about
to say something that is so strange, so foreign, so alien to me now,
that I struggle to remember the concept: At the time, I was so
distraught at the prospect of losing this job that I actually considered
"working for free." A loophole was found yet, the perspective is
striking in retrospect: I really DID love that job. It stands as a lost
and alien frame of mind in present realities; in truth, were I, today,
able to obtain gainful employment (whose salary met my humble needs) for
which I felt half the zeal of that summer of two decades past, I would
indeed be a happy man. However, you, being a gopher reader and having
greater than average intelligence, could not have missed the
foreshadowing I have hitherto hinted at.
One fall day, I arrived at work to find my coworker absent. At
our daily meeting, reasons were given that appeared to be acceptable
backing for his dismissal, but it was disheartening to see my colleague
gone. Another tech, one who had personally spent time, teaching me the
inner workings of a computer and showing me how the red band determined
which way an un-notched IDE cable connects a drive, was soon gone by
similar means. Then, in the early spring, the old man, who had been
treated with surprising contempt, not even being allowed to perform
computer work despite his knowledge, was essentially forced to depart
himself. Another tech, talented enough to get another job, soon did so.
Now, I was still quite naive as to the ways of the world and the concept
of turnover. Yet, even I, slowly, became cognizant that, for a team of
less than a dozen techs, this simply was not normal.
As you well may know, there are some bosses in this world that
feel they must evenly divide their employees into predefined categories,
irregardless of skill or merit, from the proverbial "Golden Child"
who can do no wrong to the "Whipping Boy" who can do no right. The
frequent departures meant that the latter position was often vacant, but
never for long. Safety came into jeopardy with every departure, leaving
vacant the whipping boy position. Though I had enjoyed some time as a
golden child, my insistence on valuing former team members, combined
with my exuberant ignorance, eventually led me to the land on the
inevitable latter side of the scale.
See thus, I claim no great nor special knowledge on the subject,
yet, I shall argue with great conviction the following principle which I
have learned both through repeated observation and unfortunate
experience: There are surprisingly few ways to get in trouble at work
more quickly than "caring too much about your job." This unfortunate
affliction leads people to do all manner of brazen foolishness, ranging
from "Arguing with people who are hopelessly clueless," "Attempting to
fix things that are not your job" and "stress," just to name a few. As
for myself, above all, I cared deeply about the state of the computers
that the students and teachers used. Combine this attitude, now, with a
boss who understood almost nothing of computers and felt her authority
impugned, and you have a classic recipe for disaster.
(Note - we must pause here to explain that this noted ineptitude
is not a function of gender. Stupidity, much like beauty, respects no
boundaries of race nor sex. Nor are stupidity and beauty necessarily
linked; they each go their own way, sometimes humorously coupled, but
not often enough to reliably infer that one implies the other, despite
the plethora of "dumb blond" jokes. Furthermore, I would like to
briefly note that I have had more good women managers, than bad women
managers. To that credit, I mention that I have had more bad than good.)
Having yet to grasp the wonderful, powerful, healing power of
apathy, I was utterly distraught at being vehemently chastised for doing
nothing more than attempting to help teachers to the best of my ability.
(The correct answer was "I don't know" or, at least, so I was told.)
Soon, I found myself being vehemently accused of holding ill will
against my respected coworker which, given my youth and the pride held
for my work, I was not at all prepared to deal with.
In retrospect, what an opportunity, how advantageous to begin
learning these difficult concepts at that age! And, at a job I could
completely afford to leave! Some teachings are not to be found in text
books, and these lessons, which learning began in this job, serve to
guide my way to this very day. Ah, would that more perspective had been
available to me at that age though! Truly was it hard, in mine youth,
to deal with the realization that the job I had once loved was, in so
very few months, completely transformed. Like the proverbial cheese
moving tale, my cheese was now some place else - I simply needed to come
to that recognition. The realization can be brutal; the lessons --
invaluable!
Unfortunately, I had no one to give me advice, hence another
lesson was taught to me via the proverbial "Hard Way" which tale, I
hope, will put a smile on your brow and a palm to your forehead. I
inquired of my father who told me to give written notice I would be
leaving at the end of the semester, which was yet some time away.
Yes... yes I did hear your hand hit your forehead and for anybody who
did not get that - one NEVER gives so much as a day more than two weeks
notice, especially when good status with your boss is in doubt.
Quite soon, I noticed that I was no longer getting new tickets. Daft
though I was to the ways of the workplace, I could see what was going
on. I drug out my existing tickets as long as possible, helped other
techs as I could, till that tiny well was sucked completely dry. And
then, at last, I arrived at work one Monday morning to find my schedule
transformed: my boss had moved the entirety of my schedule to help desk.
Now, boss aside, I was quite fond of the rest of the people I
worked with, including the two help desk girls. One of them, being
married and able to rely on her husband, had finally escaped by doing
so. The other, however, had no other resource to lean on. She would,
betimes, coyly refer to me as "The good looking tech" and, though we
shared no romance, my sentence was lighter, in good part, thanks to her.
Recollection makes my writing hard, pricking my heart with questions not
inquired in many years, by which I mostly refer to that oft referenced
inquiry "I wonder what ever happened to her?" Nostalgia derails me,
onward with the tale.
Firstly, one thing must be unequivocally understood as to my
place at this time: I -- hated -- the help desk. It could be called
little more than a small cubicle, out in rather an open cube farm space
making any private communication require whispers, which was risky even
then. But for bathroom breaks, you were forbidden from leaving this
tiny space and, as there were but two of us, we could not risk a caller
going to "voice mail" which sin would have been utterly untenable by the
unforgiving boss. The very thought curled my coworker's lips, as she
clenched her fists, furled her brows and stared off into space saying,
"I don't know Dan... I just don't know...." She lived in continual fear
of "the boss" from whom she had little hope of escape. Periodically, I
would attempt silly feats to cheer her, such as beating my head against
the table while politely talking to the lady who required assistance
changing her password each and every month upon expiration or acting
overly aghast to hear at a problem, which I knew was likely nothing more
than "Printer out of paper." I dearly hoped I cheered her time at that
desk, and wish her well, where ever fate may have led her.
Meanwhile, during my tenure at the help desk, another fellow
student tech gave his two week notice, resulting in a departure much
near the same time as me. Despite this, the other tech received no
additional help desk duty. Anger and discontent began to brew in my
young mind. Then, one day, painfully aware of my predicament, a tech
checking in at the help desk imitated a trumpeting sound and announced
my arrival instead of his, sounding "Helpdeskdan!"
And then, I was Helpdeskdan.
"Hi Helpdeskdan!" "How's it going Helpdeskdan!" "Any tickets
for me Helpdeskdan?" Or, worst of all, "How's the help desk going,
Helpdeskdan?" At the time, I was mortified at the moniker - I was a
tech!! Yet, upon reflection, it stands as invaluable teaching. Fate
seemingly drove home these proverbial life lessons, thus chiding:
"Firstly, young man, stop taking yourself so seriously. Your fellow
techs seek but to cheer you in their merriment. And secondly, what have
we learned of giving two weeks notice?"
Long hour drug on, but the day of departing finally arrived. I
reluctantly handed in my pager which, to a young, insignificant college
kid, had long served as a badge of honor. There were hugs, there was a
ceremonial passing of the key to the secret cabinet, there was an
embrace and a tear from the help desk girl, there was one last trip
through "the bat cave" (the secret tunnels), there were stories and
reminiscing. And, then there was the departure of Helpdeskdan. I seemed
to see something; some slight manner of despair in the eyes of some of
the other techs. One last life lesson taught; here, my trial was at an
end; my situation was such that I could leave. They, however, lacking
degrees and/or experience necessary to escape, were stuck working for
this crazy, clueless, demeaning woman. To this very day, I periodically
consider my education, review my experience and consider additional
certification, asking myself "Is this sufficient to obtain new
employment when next I get a bad boss?" (For, as you well may know, bad
bosses are almost as inevitable as the proverbial death and taxes. If
you've not had one yet, simply be patient - you will. I would venture,
almost to a promise, you will.)
Quite crestfallen was I at this chain of events. The experience
was much akin to a breakup; full of pain, loss, regret and reflection.
Vitally... Vitally important to my education! Life lessons untaught in
classrooms, learning unseen, wisdom garnered from the school of hard
knocks who, with but one single swift slap, had let me off far easier
than custom usually allows! Circumstances allowed me to return to
studying, which I now did with renewed vigor, never forgetting the
lessons of that age.
I think it was not many years later, I found myself on the phone
with a tech at my internet service provider whom I had known when we
worked at the college. Reminiscing, he offered to set me up a free
Email address, though my account was not authorized to have one. (This
was desirable, as web based Email in those days was slow, heavily laden
with ads and lacked spam filters.) "Who would you like to be?" he
inquired at length. I thoughtfully mused for a few moments. The
correct answer was obvious.
"You know me, Mark" I said in a reply that would soon set him
laughing. "I am Helpdeskdan."
