Sam I Am Not

by John Christmann

I have a new friend. His name is Sam. He lives in Bangalore. I got to know him over an 800 support line to India while I was waiting for Microsoft Windows to boot up.

This all took place the other day after I turned on my computer and was greeted with a highly descriptive message which read: “Error 0x000666. Unmountable Boot Volume”. Now I am by no means a computer expert, but I am smart enough to know that this is not something a shoe repair guy can fix. And I know from experience that whenever I get an error message that starts with 0x, my computer is not sending me hugs and kisses. So after a painful hour dredging up Frequently Asked Questions in an old User’s Manual and discovering that my specific question, “Why doesn’t my computer work?” was not frequent enough to make the list, I surrendered myself to the inevitable: a call to my computer manufacturer’s technical support center. This is how I met Sam.

Our initial introduction was a little hostile. He was very polite, but I had some difficulty understanding the lilting Vs and neatly trimmed Rs of his accent. Evidently he had trouble understanding me too. It took fifteen minutes just to communicate my name.
“OK, to start, may I please have your name, sir,” Sam began.
“John,” I said.
“Mister John?”
“Yes, John,” I repeated.
“Mister Yesjohn?”
“No, John is my name.”
“I see. Mister Nojohn is your name.”
“No. It’s John. Just John. Got it?”
“Yes, yes. I am sorry,” apologized Sam. “Mister Justjohn. And may I have your first name please?”

I didn’t bother to correct him after that. I didn’t see any reason given that he called himself Sam.

Next Sam wanted the service code located on the back of my computer. It was by the serial number he said, as if that would help. I had to crawl under the desk with a flashlight to find it. The space was dark and cramped and in need of a Dust Buster. But eventually I found the service code. It was on a small sticker and looked to be about seventy or eighty characters long. I couldn’t tell exactly; it was too small to read. So I backed out awkwardly from under the desk to retrieve a magnifying glass, and as I did I knelt on a thumb tack. This is when I hit my head on the underside of the desk the first time.

“Ouch” I yelled, and I let out some choice words which they probably don’t find amusing in India, or any other part of the world for that matter. From the speakerphone I heard Sam singing, “There is no need to be angry Mister Justjohn. I am only trying to help.”

But eventually I was able to explain my problem to Sam. I relayed how the computer would not start. I recited to him the error code I had carefully copied down. I explained all of the steps I had taken to isolate the problem. I told him of the hours I had spent searching for help manuals and diagnostic tools only to discover they were on the computer I couldn’t boot up. I spewed off acronym after acronym of computer terms I did not really understand to communicate in no uncertain terms that I really did understand what I was talking about. Then I told him I was ready to short stock in his company.

When I finished, Sam spoke.
“Mister Justjohn,” he said, “Is your computer plugged in?”
“Of course it is plugged in!” I yelled in frustration. “How do you think I know that it won’t start up?” As rhetorical questions go, it seemed to make sense.
“No, Mister Justjohn,” Sam said. “Is your computer plugged in now? If it is, please unplug it. I am going to help you fix it.”

A half hour later I again found myself under the desk, this time with the flashlight held firm in my teeth. The computer was open, naked and exposed to the world. Sam wanted me to reseat a cable on the motherboard. There didn’t seem to be a fatherboard; I assumed in this moment of crisis it was out playing golf.

I felt like I was dismantling an atomic bomb. Sweat was beading on my forehead. One slip and New Jersey would be wiped from the map. Or worse, I could be out a fifteen hundred dollar computer and six months worth of work that was not backed up. But step by step Sam guided me through the process. He was my Sir Edmund Hillary. I was his Tenzing Norgay. Together we scaled the mountain of three letter acronyms that rose up from the dust beneath my desk: the crags and footholds of CPUs, IDE cables, PCI boards, and USB ports. And then I secured the cable. Without a single explosion. I was on top of the world.

“I did it!” I called out to Sam who was on the speakerphone just above me.
“Good. Now, one last thing, Mister Justjohn,” Sam said confidently, “I want you to execute some software code.”
“Sure.” I said. “And where exactly do I shoot it?”
“No, I want you to install a patch.” He said it casually, as if software were showing through a hole in my jeans.
“Sam,” I said, “my computer is in pieces on the floor.”
“Yes, Mister Justjohn, please rebuild it now.”

Just then I heard my kids enter the office. I couldn’t see them. I was on my elbows and knees with my head still deep in the computer.
“Dad, why are you under the desk?” my daughter asked.
“I am rebuilding the computer.” I called out.
“Does Mom know?” asked her brother.
I didn’t answer, and briefly we all contemplated what this might mean.

Then my oldest broke in. I knew he was looking at my big bottom looming out from under the desk and calculating how best to take advantage of the target presented to him.
“Hey, here’s a thumbtack!” he cried to his brother and sister. “Let’s play Pin the Tail on the Donkey!”
This is when I yelled and hit my head on the underside of the desk for the second time. The kids scattered immediately. From atop the desk I could hear Sam. “Please Mr. Justjohn, there is no need to be angry, I am only trying to help.”

Over the next hour, with Sam’s expert guidance, I visited places on my computer that I never hope to see again; the boiler rooms and broom closets of system software. I rebooted my computer three separate times. And while I waited, I chatted with Sam. We talked about kids and work and life in our countries. He told me he was starting his own software company in India and was working at the service center to support his family while he secured venture capital. He is married and has two young children. He wanted to know about my kids—he heard them on the speakerphone he said. He was laughing.

And then, like magic, my computer came to life. The monitor popped and a blue screen littered with icons faded in, like credits to a bad move.
“It works!” I said, clapping my hands together.
“Congratulations, Mister Justjohn” said Sam. “Will there be anything else?”
“Yes,” I said. “Please call me John.”
A chuckle erupted from the speakerphone.
“Call me Sanjay,” he said.
And with that we said goodbye, while under the desk my computer purred like a well-fed cat.

A day later I got a courtesy email from Sam. It was a standard thank you note for calling the technical support center. But at the bottom of the email Sanjay had appended his own message. Among other things, he wanted to know how one plays Pin the Tail on the Donkey. I emailed him back immediately. Call me tonight. I will talk you through it.

I really look forward to hearing from him.