High Technology

The other day I was walking into the condo, having parked my ride in the lot after going to a meeting and picking up a sandwich at the local deli. Having not eaten for awhile I was an extremely hungry guy. I cut a b-line towards the walkway that lead to my parent's front door when I saw ol'-Alice smoking a butt on her porch. 'No cause for alarm' I thought, 'It's just good ol' Alice'.

'Hey Alice.'

'Hey Jamie'

Ol' Alice lives at the front of the building, facing the parking lot and is often outside smoking a cigarette. Probably some thin, long, 1920's prohibition-type, speak easy smokes. Her constant watch over the Pelican provides old, chubby hawk-like protection. She knows all. She single-handedly ruins my chances each weekend of throwing a Pelican-wide rocker ala Jeremy Piven in PCU.

After Alice said Hello I noticed the back of an old head toward the corner of the porch and it slowly creeked around and called my name. It was the nice, little, old lady, Trudy, who lives in the condo opposite Ol' Alice's so that, together, they form guard posts on either side of the walkway into my parents casa. Like two feeble, old lionesses. Little Ol' Trudy said 'Jamie I need your help'. So I asked her how I could help. Curiosity owned me by this point and I watched my delicious sandwich fading away into the distance:

Trudy: You are a computer expert, right?

I was not. Not by IT standards and not by anyone whose graduated from using a Commodore 64. So, yes, I have a lap top. But, no, this does not make me an expert.

Wondering where this could lead I asked 'Well, what do you need?', knowing there was no chance in hell she could ask something that I couldn't solve. 'I know about computers' I rambled. For no reason, I felt it my duty to impress Ol' Trudy with the depth of my IT knowledge. I could've gone into a dissertation about how I'm not a computer expert but know a little about computers but I figured there was little chance she could ask anything to discover my fraudulent implication. And according to Einstein, position and speed are relative to the observer. So for the intent of this conversation I was a screaming comet booming across Trudy's nose as she stood motionless on the porch.

'I'm having trouble with my TV' she said.

'TV? I thought you said computers? What do you need, lady? And at what point do you make the distinction between machine and computer? Stainless steel toaster oven? Welcome to the digital age, Silver Fox.' I thought.

'I can't turn it on.' she said.

'Uh?' I was mumbling. Old lady's don't know about the red button?

'My daughter said I have to press 4 and it should work. But it's not working. I press 4 and it doesn't work. My dog jumped up and changed the channel two nights ago and now it doesn't work. I press 4 and nothing happens.'

Ignoring my hunger and having already dug myself in too deep by professing my IT street-cred to Ol' Trudy, I committed myself to solving her TV conundrum while practically insuring my entrance into heaven. And, one day I could be in the same position, curious why my Flux Capacitor had quit Fluxing, in need of some consult. So I took a walk with her into her condo bedroom, where the TV was located. I thought about how, one day, if I make it to 80 years old, this very walk could be the start of a sexy, 'old man, good time' story that I leak out to the other old dudes at the weekly Bocci Ball match. After puking in my mouth a little bit, pondering just seconds too long on this wrinkle ridden storyline, I was struck by how old my parents are NOT. They are not as old as Trudy. In her condo there we're things for which you may need an Old Bitty license to possess. There we're throngs ornate pictures, gardens of beads and a ubiquitous, musty old lady scent. There were drink glasses smaller than my parents already miniscule drink glasses. There were pictures of kids who had kids whose kids had kids that we're now trying to get pregnant. My parents had not yet hit this kind of old age. Although they had trouble working their remote controls, their house still smelled of fresh humanity. So this means my parents could have years ahead of them... many interesting years by my guess.

Another thought entered my brain. When my generation reaches their Golden Years, 'Old Lady' aesthetic taste will not be what it is today. Old people taste changes with the times and trends. Unlike an actual physical Old Lady, the 'Old Lady' style is a roving target. I theorize that Old lady houses in 2057 will probably look like much Ikea, West Elm or Pottery Barn showrooms of today. And the young whipper-snappers of tomorrow will joke about our Krelja shelves and Derstuh couches and over-sized bean bag chairs. Old lady styles will have become more complex and splintered thanks to the marketing genius of a handful of today's mass-market, contemporary furniture designers. Maybe they should work on infusing some anti-granny-stink chemical into all of their textiles while they're at it.

I realized that Trudy's cable box was already on once I took a gnader. So I assumed the problem probably lived with the TV. I flipped on the TV meanwhile Trudy was talking away about the number four and something else about her dog's collar or gold coated something... So I pressed 0 then pressed 4. Immediately the TV popped on. Trudy cheered. I explained to her why it worked (pressing 4 instead of 0-4) but she glazed over as the words drifted off into the ether. She graciously thanked me and offered that 'maybe she could do me a favor one day', just like the Godfather. I pictured a Tiny Old Lady version of Marlon Brando rubbing her cheek, mumbling those words and how she could impose her own brand of fear into the underworld.

And as I took that first bite into my delicious sandwich, I felt the presence of an angel as God granted me entrance into heaven. Being surrounded by a gaggle of gray hairs does have its benefits.