In the past week -- the span of only about six or seven days -- I have fallen. Not as in "fallen down" or "fallen in love," but something much more devastating. I have fallen in the sense of great literature and tragic heroes. I have fallen so greatly that last week must now be considered "my downfall."
Beginning with a sad but somewhat routine-seeming computer malfunction, last week unfolded into a state of horror, leaving me as a fallen student, a once semi-respectable, relatively normal undergraduate left to wander the library as a nerd in taped-up glasses wading through the sludge of hell.
Perhaps my downfall will become one of the great. Indeed, I should reign with the most depressing of heroes, my tragic flaw debated for centuries to come. It may have been my confidence, my faith even, in something I do not understand or completely conceptualize: the god of computers. Perhaps it was my trust in the cleanliness of my fellow public-computer users and human beings. Or maybe a god of some sort was just sticking it to me for so callously complaining about the unusual number of eyeglass conversations I've witnessed so far this term.
No matter the cause, the effects have been great. Mine is a story to be read carefully and remembered, for maybe someday someone will be spared these tortures I have suffered. The events began on an ordinary Saturday, when my Dartmouth-issue laptop failed to start up properly. As I've encountered a fair share of odd behavior from the old computer, I didn't think too much of it. (However, I must say a grey screen fostering only a blinking question mark is not a soothing sight. Frightening, to say the least.)
The following actions in my progression to hell seemed only innocent bouts of nerdiness, as I spent several days in Berry, using the public computers to do my work and check e-mail. My laptop safe in the hands of the computer service people, I assumed the inconvenience would end shortly. And then I took a nap on Monday afternoon. Upon waking up, I was accused by the first three people I saw of being stoned. "What's with your eyes?" they asked. "Do you have pinkeye?"
"No," I told them, resentful of their taunting laughter. "I just fell asleep with my contacts in. Back off."
But, of course, as is the fate of all tragic heroes cursed with hubris, I ate my words. On Tuesday, I was diagnosed with and treated for conjunctivitis, commonly referred to as pinkeye. As I swallowed my pride and wiped away tears, the doctor sought to explain my case (clearly, she was unaware that it had already been written in the stars).
"Do you work out at the gym?" she asked me.
"Of course not."
"Do you use public computers?"
"Yeah, actually," I began. "I've been using them for three days because my stupid computer broke."
The doctor nodded, her face in a frown, and pulled some alcohol swabs from her drawer. "Use these to wipe them off before you use them," she said, handing me the supplies and searching for the words to describe the hotbed of germs living in public computers. (I like to think of them as Dartmouth's own Hot Zone, or Pink Zone, if you will.) "And don't wear your contacts for six days," she added, handing me a prescription. So I spent the week in the library, wiping off keyboards with medicated pads, wearing my only glasses -- which are two prescriptions behind and need to be held together with masking tape -- all the while saying, "No, I am not stoned. I have pinkeye."
Oh, as I moaned, I was sure I had hit rock bottom, awaiting notice from the computer service desk so I could pick up my revamped computer and begin to rebuild my pathetic life. I bought some new glasses, with the help of a friend who, though she does have a good sense of style, clearly has no sense of sympathy, as she poked fun at my story, and rolled her eyes at everyone I cornered into learning lessons from my suffering. And then the kicker. I heard from the angels of an unforgiving god, the messengers of the almighty computer. On Wednesday, I was informed that my computer's hard drive was no longer recognizable. My files, my writing, my saved e-mails, my Seinfeld icons, my old papers, everything: gone. In a virtual burning of my home, my possessions have been lost.
And thus, my friends, I have been left the skeleton of a person, a big nerd forced to wander the library, treated for a disgusting affliction, and completely displaced, still mourning the loss of my computer. Though I will soon be back in contacts and out of the library, I will never forget what I've seen. And I hope I won't be the only one to learn from last week.
Be warned. The angry god of computers may strike when you least expect it, leaving you weak and helpless in its path, left to live in the Pink Zone, the earthly, diseased realm of library dwellers. And please remember, as I always will, that when it rains it pours, especially when it's already written out for you in the stars.