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Description
Years ago, when I was still in single digits, my family owned a computer. It’s important you understand something about this computer:  it was most likely crafted by the devil. Even for the times (being ye old nineties), it was outdated. Absolutely everything had to be run in MS-DOS, and it took in excess three hours to install a game of Tetris. Even though my knowledge of computers was limited at the time, my mind was already astir with youthful cynicism; I knew this computer was, at best, a block of wires. And on the utmost wonderful days of peak performance? A block of wires that buzzed.

But this isn’t about that computer; it’s about its successor: he who inherited the digital throne. I say “he” because our new computer had a name: Princeton. I make an admittedly odd habit of naming my most treasured electronics. For example, the printer’s name was Charles, who has since been replaced by Bernard. Charles sits dejectedly in a pink trunk in the garage now, but I digress; this story isn’t about Charles either. In any case, Princeton arrived one day as I came home from school, a pristinely packaged present from my sister’s father. Within minutes, he was stripped of his cardboard coil. At some point I left the room, probably for popcorn or bubbly, considering the momentous occasion taking place in my basement. Upon my return, there sat Princeton, gleaming and proud atop our second-hand desk. He easily outshone any other object in the room. My eyes stretched saucer wide in astonishment and wonder. I may have even shed a tear.

That night, he and I met for the first time. Back then, Windows 98 was the pinnacle of modern technology. Dumbstruck grin plastered to my face, I explored Princeton’s shimmering grey vistas and menus. Though I did not know it, the scheme of Windows 98 would be something it pained me to look at in the future. Still, at the time I was happy, fascinated even. What wonders lay buried in this magic box? What mysteries crept silent and sinister in its folders? But I would not find out, at least not that night. My sister adored Princeton, her father’s gift, her personal property. I was scooted out of the chair before I had the chance to lose at Minesweeper. I left the room reluctant and vexed, eyes glued to the screen until it disappeared behind the door.

Days wore on, and weeks after that. Princeton’s box had been driven out and recycled, the packing peanuts thrown away. Mom went back to worrying about cable bills, my sister went back to Algebra homework. But within me a longing still lingered, a fire stoked by the promise of an obedient blinking cursor. Thus, as my sister eased her iron grip (only the slightest bit), Princeton and I grew better acquainted. He became a facet for learning:  through Princeton I discovered the Internet, Microsoft Word and the travesty of chat-speak. My hatred of Solitaire was revealed to me, as was my love of the Sims. Princeton taught with patience to cut and paste and, above all, never to click on websites with the word “busty” in them. He and I spent many a night together, but I never tired of him, nor did I grow tired until shuffled off to bed by my mom.

Unfortunately, Princeton was not perceived so fondly by all. In my sister’s last years of high school, his name (“that damn computer”) arose constantly in fights between she and my mother. Princeton was like a bad boyfriend:  “You spend too much time on that computer. Everyday when you get home from school, it’s straight to the on button,” said mom, a cool bite in her tone. “I don’t approve.” At the time I rarely knew or understood the many stupid things my mom and sister fought about, but I could always tell when they were bickering over Princeton.

When my sister moved out in 2001, Princeton suddenly became mine. Just as he had inherited the second-hand throne, I had inherited him. Around that time, new versions of Windows began to emerge on the market. I started seeing other computers. Of course, it wasn’t Princeton’s fault; it was mine:  I was entranced. The new versions had a rounded blue color scheme – radical and different. The spell these computers cast over me hearkened back to that fateful day years ago, as I sauntered into my basement and beheld Princeton in all his brand new glory. I realized then that I didn’t love him like I used to.

By 2002, Princeton began to match his surroundings: cumbersome, unsightly... outdated. He had ceased to glow with heavenly light; his boot-up was no longer the chorus of a thousand rosy-cheeked cherubs. Instead he just sort of blended into the background, lost among drywall and poorly painted cement floor. Not a year later he was an anachronism once again, but this time it was he who was left behind. The walls became a rich blue, the floor was blanketed in plush yellow carpet. Yet Princeton retained his grayish tinge, still packed to burst with wires all shoved between sharp plastic plates. He became the oldest in the room – the last mind standing.

It might sound strange, but I think he knew I was seeing him differently. Our relationship began to sour. Files took eons to download, games wouldn’t install, the screen would stutter and jerk as if seizing. By the end of his run, I’m sure Princeton housed a great many viruses, and electronic epilepsy was apparently among them. He deteriorated day by day, despite my efforts to keep him afloat. But it seemed he didn’t want to be fixed; spyware checks only triggered computer crashes.

Eventually I stopped trying to cure him clinically and attempted to coax him into health by other means. I spent entire nights poring over his sluggishness, his refusal to cooperate. Situations grew desperate as Princeton’s condition worsened. Some days I would unplug all his devices, heave him into my arms and chuck him mightily across the room. Others I would tip him on his side and rub circles on his inflexible hide like one might a dog’s belly or baby’s back. As I did this, I wept and cooed, begging – even bribing – him to work. I could’ve rubbed my hand raw doing it, and I would have if it worked. But the hours of cajoling and crying were fruitless, oft-times ending with a hardy kick before I stormed out of the room.

This dark time between Princeton and I stretched for years. It was perpetual give and take; I mostly gave while Princeton mostly took. My mother gave too, cheques to pay for his constant repairs and cleanings. I pleaded with her, presented case upon case upon case, evidence stacked on evidence that we needed a new computer. Despite her hatred of Princeton, she was firm that if he worked, even just so much that the on button’s light flickered feebly and then expired, he was salvageable. I think she remembered when he was new and my sister devoted all her waking time to his splendor. Perhaps she feared I might become similarly bewitched. Regardless, when the time came that we spent as much on Princeton as most do on an entirely new computer, we threw in the towel. Princeton’s days were drawing to an inevitable close.

As I entered tenth grade, Princeton was nearly an invalid. I still used him, but our sessions were a battle of will:  my will to hold my temper and not kick the crap out of him, and his will to stay marginally alive while still ticking me off every chance he got. The chances were many, and consequently so were my frustrated tears. To make matters worse, his infection was spreading. Maybe it was just bad luck, but it seemed that every device that touched Princeton met its end shortly thereafter. Keyboards short-circuited, printers refused to print, cursors froze still on the screen and mice had to be chucked. Not only was it a virtual epidemic, it was an insurgence.

That September, I left Princeton and his growing army of defects at home and went out for birthday dinner. Lately my troubles were abundant, all clearly stemming from one very obstinate piece of machinery. In order to enjoy an evening of Hunan Kun Pao at Earl’s, I attempted to leave my woe where it belonged – in the basement. Imagine my surprise when after years of pathetic pleading (with my mom, not Princeton), I was given the receipt of our new Dell computer. I was beside myself with joy. Again, my eyes stretched saucer wide in astonishment and wonder, but surprisingly no crystalline tear graced my cheek. Nevertheless, the boxed marvel arrived two weeks later, complete with glorious LCD screen and sleek black encasing.

But this isn’t about that computer.

The day after my birthday, I went downstairs. My feet fell slowly, a somber weight in my step. I pulled the plug on Princeton and carried him, with some difficulty, up the stairs and outside – it was his first and last glimpse of the great outdoors. The following scene could have been torn from a Hollywood epic:  I stood over him, my shadow cast long and thin onto his dusty shell. He sat lifeless on the concrete, and I took a moment to think fondly of Princeton. I knew Princeton, the real Princeton, had already perished. Before me, he was a ghost of his former self:  where once towered an emperor, now hunched a bitter old lump of buttons, grizzled by age. My shadow stretched as with a powerful swing I brought the hammer whizzing over my head. A crunch resonated, the sound of metal crushing plastic and circuitry.

That afternoon passed quickly. I worked. I smashed and tore and toiled there in the late summer sun. I let every venomous thought I’d honed for the past five years pour out of my brain, into my arm, into the hammer, and finally into Princeton. Before long I was alone; Princeton, or whatever incarnation of him it had been, was gone. In his place existed a pile of metal, plastic and wire. It did not steam. It did not fizzle or crackle tenaciously in retort. It simply slumped in defeated silence. Yet what lay strewn at my feet was not dead, because it occurred to me only then that it had never been alive.

Description
Years ago, when I was still in single digits, my family owned a computer. It’s important you understand something about this computer:  it was most likely crafted by the devil. Even for the times (being ye old nineties), it was outdated. Absolutely everything had to be run in MS-DOS, and it took in excess three hours to install a game of Tetris. Even though my knowledge of computers was limited at the time, my mind was already astir with youthful cynicism; I knew this computer was, at best, a block of wires. And on the utmost wonderful days of peak performance? A block of wires that buzzed.

But this isn’t about that computer; it’s about its successor: he who inherited the digital throne. I say “he” because our new computer had a name: Princeton. I make an admittedly odd habit of naming my most treasured electronics. For example, the printer’s name was Charles, who has since been replaced by Bernard. Charles sits dejectedly in a pink trunk in the garage now, but I digress; this story isn’t about Charles either. In any case, Princeton arrived one day as I came home from school, a pristinely packaged present from my sister’s father. Within minutes, he was stripped of his cardboard coil. At some point I left the room, probably for popcorn or bubbly, considering the momentous occasion taking place in my basement. Upon my return, there sat Princeton, gleaming and proud atop our second-hand desk. He easily outshone any other object in the room. My eyes stretched saucer wide in astonishment and wonder. I may have even shed a tear.

That night, he and I met for the first time. Back then, Windows 98 was the pinnacle of modern technology. Dumbstruck grin plastered to my face, I explored Princeton’s shimmering grey vistas and menus. Though I did not know it, the scheme of Windows 98 would be something it pained me to look at in the future. Still, at the time I was happy, fascinated even. What wonders lay buried in this magic box? What mysteries crept silent and sinister in its folders? But I would not find out, at least not that night. My sister adored Princeton, her father’s gift, her personal property. I was scooted out of the chair before I had the chance to lose at Minesweeper. I left the room reluctant and vexed, eyes glued to the screen until it disappeared behind the door.

Days wore on, and weeks after that. Princeton’s box had been driven out and recycled, the packing peanuts thrown away. Mom went back to worrying about cable bills, my sister went back to Algebra homework. But within me a longing still lingered, a fire stoked by the promise of an obedient blinking cursor. Thus, as my sister eased her iron grip (only the slightest bit), Princeton and I grew better acquainted. He became a facet for learning:  through Princeton I discovered the Internet, Microsoft Word and the travesty of chat-speak. My hatred of Solitaire was revealed to me, as was my love of the Sims. Princeton taught with patience to cut and paste and, above all, never to click on websites with the word “busty” in them. He and I spent many a night together, but I never tired of him, nor did I grow tired until shuffled off to bed by my mom.

Unfortunately, Princeton was not perceived so fondly by all. In my sister’s last years of high school, his name (“that damn computer”) arose constantly in fights between she and my mother. Princeton was like a bad boyfriend:  “You spend too much time on that computer. Everyday when you get home from school, it’s straight to the on button,” said mom, a cool bite in her tone. “I don’t approve.” At the time I rarely knew or understood the many stupid things my mom and sister fought about, but I could always tell when they were bickering over Princeton.

When my sister moved out in 2001, Princeton suddenly became mine. Just as he had inherited the second-hand throne, I had inherited him. Around that time, new versions of Windows began to emerge on the market. I started seeing other computers. Of course, it wasn’t Princeton’s fault; it was mine:  I was entranced. The new versions had a rounded blue color scheme – radical and different. The spell these computers cast over me hearkened back to that fateful day years ago, as I sauntered into my basement and beheld Princeton in all his brand new glory. I realized then that I didn’t love him like I used to.

By 2002, Princeton began to match his surroundings: cumbersome, unsightly... outdated. He had ceased to glow with heavenly light; his boot-up was no longer the chorus of a thousand rosy-cheeked cherubs. Instead he just sort of blended into the background, lost among drywall and poorly painted cement floor. Not a year later he was an anachronism once again, but this time it was he who was left behind. The walls became a rich blue, the floor was blanketed in plush yellow carpet. Yet Princeton retained his grayish tinge, still packed to burst with wires all shoved between sharp plastic plates. He became the oldest in the room – the last mind standing.

It might sound strange, but I think he knew I was seeing him differently. Our relationship began to sour. Files took eons to download, games wouldn’t install, the screen would stutter and jerk as if seizing. By the end of his run, I’m sure Princeton housed a great many viruses, and electronic epilepsy was apparently among them. He deteriorated day by day, despite my efforts to keep him afloat. But it seemed he didn’t want to be fixed; spyware checks only triggered computer crashes.

Eventually I stopped trying to cure him clinically and attempted to coax him into health by other means. I spent entire nights poring over his sluggishness, his refusal to cooperate. Situations grew desperate as Princeton’s condition worsened. Some days I would unplug all his devices, heave him into my arms and chuck him mightily across the room. Others I would tip him on his side and rub circles on his inflexible hide like one might a dog’s belly or baby’s back. As I did this, I wept and cooed, begging – even bribing – him to work. I could’ve rubbed my hand raw doing it, and I would have if it worked. But the hours of cajoling and crying were fruitless, oft-times ending with a hardy kick before I stormed out of the room.

This dark time between Princeton and I stretched for years. It was perpetual give and take; I mostly gave while Princeton mostly took. My mother gave too, cheques to pay for his constant repairs and cleanings. I pleaded with her, presented case upon case upon case, evidence stacked on evidence that we needed a new computer. Despite her hatred of Princeton, she was firm that if he worked, even just so much that the on button’s light flickered feebly and then expired, he was salvageable. I think she remembered when he was new and my sister devoted all her waking time to his splendor. Perhaps she feared I might become similarly bewitched. Regardless, when the time came that we spent as much on Princeton as most do on an entirely new computer, we threw in the towel. Princeton’s days were drawing to an inevitable close.

As I entered tenth grade, Princeton was nearly an invalid. I still used him, but our sessions were a battle of will:  my will to hold my temper and not kick the crap out of him, and his will to stay marginally alive while still ticking me off every chance he got. The chances were many, and consequently so were my frustrated tears. To make matters worse, his infection was spreading. Maybe it was just bad luck, but it seemed that every device that touched Princeton met its end shortly thereafter. Keyboards short-circuited, printers refused to print, cursors froze still on the screen and mice had to be chucked. Not only was it a virtual epidemic, it was an insurgence.

That September, I left Princeton and his growing army of defects at home and went out for birthday dinner. Lately my troubles were abundant, all clearly stemming from one very obstinate piece of machinery. In order to enjoy an evening of Hunan Kun Pao at Earl’s, I attempted to leave my woe where it belonged – in the basement. Imagine my surprise when after years of pathetic pleading (with my mom, not Princeton), I was given the receipt of our new Dell computer. I was beside myself with joy. Again, my eyes stretched saucer wide in astonishment and wonder, but surprisingly no crystalline tear graced my cheek. Nevertheless, the boxed marvel arrived two weeks later, complete with glorious LCD screen and sleek black encasing.

But this isn’t about that computer.

The day after my birthday, I went downstairs. My feet fell slowly, a somber weight in my step. I pulled the plug on Princeton and carried him, with some difficulty, up the stairs and outside – it was his first and last glimpse of the great outdoors. The following scene could have been torn from a Hollywood epic:  I stood over him, my shadow cast long and thin onto his dusty shell. He sat lifeless on the concrete, and I took a moment to think fondly of Princeton. I knew Princeton, the real Princeton, had already perished. Before me, he was a ghost of his former self:  where once towered an emperor, now hunched a bitter old lump of buttons, grizzled by age. My shadow stretched as with a powerful swing I brought the hammer whizzing over my head. A crunch resonated, the sound of metal crushing plastic and circuitry.

That afternoon passed quickly. I worked. I smashed and tore and toiled there in the late summer sun. I let every venomous thought I’d honed for the past five years pour out of my brain, into my arm, into the hammer, and finally into Princeton. Before long I was alone; Princeton, or whatever incarnation of him it had been, was gone. In his place existed a pile of metal, plastic and wire. It did not steam. It did not fizzle or crackle tenaciously in retort. It simply slumped in defeated silence. Yet what lay strewn at my feet was not dead, because it occurred to me only then that it had never been alive.