Terminal Illness

The Machine has crashed again and I know I am not the only one sitting here in this steamy nerve center who doesn't want it to "come up." Ever again. It is a wonderful excuse to stop thinking about all those problems that you can't solve anyway, about how you can't bring yourself to call your section leader again and how there is no way it is going to be done in time. If it was a TV screen you'd throw a beer bottle through it. Maybe you will anyway. CLASS=2   UNAVAILABLE

You wonder who invented this machine in the first place; this course, this school; Bill Bossert. I can feel the guy at the terminal next to me becoming existential too as we are engulfed by the black screen that has been saying "TRY LATER" for the past hour. Die. December 27: This is the day. The day that the reality of the project starts to sap the lifeblood out of your vacation. I see a friend in the city, a veteran of this madness who handed in half his project on notebook paper. He says, "I just could not stand in line waiting all the time, kid, it's a matter of integrity."

January 2: I am back, and before I even unpack I hit the terminal room. There is a line, a sign-up sheet, and an open slot, a creature headed for the endangered species list. Today I can't even remember how I got on the terminal the first time around. I can remember calling my section man and asking for help afterwards. That was before he began to answer the phone knowing it was me.

January 7: It has become dinner conversation. I turn around to the people at the table behind me and tell them that their constant use of the word terminal is turning my stomach. The one who has been doing all the talking turns to me and stares. He has black half-moons under his eyes that make him look like a high school football player. "It makes me sick too," he says, "I was just on for 14 hours straight." I look closer and realize his face is as puffy as a marshmallow; I assume that the machine has just punched him out. Either that or someone couldn't wait to get on his terminal.

January 9: This high is very unhealthy,' very scary--I think I have the solution to my major "bug." Now all I have to do is get on a terminal. Catching on to the rules of the game I have signed up for a slot, but I am a little anxious because there is no terminal watcher in the room to help me in case...Still I am very hopeful. Making the changes takes almost an hour; I keep forgetting to hit ")" or "(" or ";". Frustration grows, but suddenly my head clears, revived by a cherry, bold voice behind me saying gosh, gee, the wait isn't as bad as last year. It is Bill Bossert himself, here to check out the scene and cheer us up. Minutes after he leaves the room The Machine crashes again, and, having failed to perform the holy ritual of "writing the programs into a file" I suffer heavy casualties. Everything is lost. A freshman materializes at my elbow and says he has my terminal for the next hour. "Fair is fair," he tells me, and I have to agree.

January 10: The girl sitting next to me is getting relatively hysterical. The machine has just "gone down" --a euphemism like saying Grandpa has "passed away." But she doesn't see it this way. "The fucking machine, if it wasn't already dead, I'd kill it." Yes, yes, I know what she means but my head is down on the keyboard waiting for the half-hearted cheer and agitated, pathetic energy that greets The Machine's rebirth. A terminal watcher walks by and says 'I think we have a casualty," and I wonder he is referring to me or the terminal, whose plug I just undid when I crossed my legs. I make a mental note never to do that again in the computer's presence.

January 11: I have run my program. It definitely doesn't work. I show the contorted output to my friends. They laugh. I am not laughing. I am calling my section man again. What can I tell him? I just don't know what to do. So I say "I honestly don't know what to do to fix this thing." He is flustered for a second before having an epiphany and figuring out how to explain it to me.

"Lookit" he says. I look up. "Look," he begins earnestly, "the computer is not Descartes."

I do understand that he is trying to help.

January 12: This is the night, very stormy, ominous. I think I have the solution. The computer is "down," though, and I wait and wait with a hundred others--700 others--hoping it never revives and they call off the whole thing. My mind is exploring all the possibilities, hoping that I will miraculously pull myself out of the inner torment that endless hours of staring into a black hole has caused me. The black hole keeps saying "Syntax error" and "Improper number of arguments." Speak English.

It is very late at night so I ask the guy sitting next to me what it all means and he says "What? I don't know. I do know actually, but it's not this."

I try again.   CLASS=2

And it says:   AVAILABLE   GO (BEEP)

The moment of truth. I run it. It works. I should feel happy, ecstatic, even proud. Mostly I feel drained. I want to tell someone but I am afraid of unnerving them, especially the girl in the next room, whose breathing--long, deep, frustrated sighs-- is audible even among the respirator buzz of the terminals. So I turn to the comrade next to me and whisper "That's it... I just finished." He says "good for you," without looking up. sys. bye.