Tech Support

© 2008 by Heather Klassen

“Dad, for the millionth time, you press control, alt, and delete,” I explain, hoisting myself off the couch. I head across the family room to where Dad sits, helpless, in front of the computer.

“Sorry, Joanie, I forgot,” he says. Then he adds, “Oh, and the printer doesn’t seem to be working again.”

“Honestly, Dad,” I groan, sinking to my knees to check out the latest printer problem. I feel like I spend half my time these days helping my parents with their computer crises. It’s getting old. Really old. “Can’t you and Pop do anything on your own? I can’t live with you two forever just to be tech support, you know. I don’t understand how either of you manage to get along at all in this world.”

“It’s not that bad,” Dad replies. “We somehow manage to survive.”

“Barely,” I mutter as I press the reset button on the printer. “There. It’s fixed.”

Dad doesn’t say thanks or respond at all. I look up at him and see that he’s staring off into space, obviously thinking hard about something.

“I have an idea,” he announces.

“Uh oh,” I reply.

“Let’s go visit my Aunt Lily this afternoon. I know she’d love to see us. Do you remember her, Joanie?”

“Isn’t she the one you can’t email because she doesn’t have a computer?”

“That’s her,” Dad answers. “Do you remember visiting her house?”

“Vaguely.”

“I’ll call her to let her know we’re coming,” Dad says. “You go get your shoes.”

“But why do I have to …” I start to ask, but Dad’s already out of range. Oh well, there’s no use resisting when Dad has one of his brainstorms. Besides, I had nothing else planned for this afternoon except for hanging around the house playing tech support.

Forty-five minutes later, as we pull up in front of Aunt Lily’s house, I have a flashback.

“I remember her house now,” I tell Dad. “She only has black-and-white TV and no garage door opener.”

“That’s right,” Dad says. “Aunt Lily’s house hasn’t changed at all since I was a teenager.”

Aunt Lily’s waiting at the door, and after she pounces on Dad, I brace myself for my turn.

“Joanie, you’re so tall,” she gushes as she wraps me up in a little old lady hug. “You need to come see me more often. Come in, both of you,” she says, waving a hand toward her living room. “My favorite program’s about to begin.”

This seems a little strange to me. We haven’t visited Aunt Lily in, like, years, and she wants to watch TV?

“Aunt Lily, why don’t you record the show and watch it later?” I ask.

Aunt Lily stares at me. “Do what, dear?”

“Aunt Lily doesn’t have a VCR, Joanie,” Dad explains. “Why don’t you turn on the set for her?”

“Okay.” I shrug and head for the end tables, first one, then the other. After checking those, I scope out the coffee table. No luck, so I start searching the couch cushions.

“What are you looking for, dear?” Aunt Lily asks.

“The remote. So I can turn on the TV.” I turn around. Seeing Aunt Lily’s expression again, I get it.

Dad strides across the room and turns a dial on the TV set. “This is how you turn on a TV, Joanie,” he explains.

Ha ha. Very funny.

Aunt Lily settles onto the couch, then looks at me. “I would just love some popcorn while I watch my program,” she tells me.

Dad plops into an armchair and looks at me, too. “Why don’t you make it for us, Joanie?”

“Sure,” I reply. Why not? As I head for the kitchen, Aunt Lily calls, “The popcorn’s in the cabinet to the right of the stove, dear.”

Okay, no problem. I reach the cabinet, yank it open, look inside. No boxes of microwave popcorn anywhere. Just a glass jar full of popcorn kernels.

Okay, I think, maybe you put these in your own bag and then put it in the microwave. I grab the jar, then glance around the kitchen to locate the microwave.

There’s no microwave in this kitchen.

“Joanie, what’s taking so long? I don’t hear any popping.” Dad’s standing in the doorway, watching me.

“There’s no microwave,” I explain. “And the popcorn is just like, here.”

“I’ll make the popcorn,” Dad offers, walking over and taking the jar from me. Then he pulls a big pot out of a cabinet, puts it on the stove, finds some oil, pours it into the pan, dumps some kernels in, adds a lid. “Joanie, Aunt Lily would like a cold drink, too. Could you put some ice in three glasses and pour us some lemonade, please?”

“Sure,” I reply, glad to be able to help. I open the freezer door. There’s no icemaker on the front, so I figure the icemaker’s inside, and I’ll grab the ice from the bin.

No bin. Just some trays full of frozen water, looking a lot like ice cubes. Okay, this time Dad’s not going to show me up. I pull one of the tray thingies out and then get three glasses from a cabinet, set it all on the counter.

Funny thing is, the ice isn’t popping out of the tray. And I can’t pry the cubes out with my fingers. I’m staring at the stubborn ice when my Dad butts in.

“I’ll do the ice, Joanie. You keep this pan moving.”

I trade places with Dad and shake the frying pan over the burner, the way he had been doing it. Popping sounds and the aroma of popcorn are starting to escape from under the lid.

I don’t want to watch Dad with the ice, but I can’t help it. He grabs the tray, and with a twist he has those cubes jumping out of there.

Dad finishes preparing the drinks, then returns to take over the pan. “Oh, Joanie,” he says. “I forgot to leave a note telling Pop where we went. Could you please call him? The phone’s over there.” He indicates a table with a twitch of his shoulder.

“Okay,” I say. No way can I mess this up. I stride over to the phone and … oh no. It’s one of those old-fashioned things with a wheel in the middle and numbers around the wheel. I pick up the receiver, refusing to give in. I stick my finger in the number seven hole, since that’s the first numeral in our phone number, but then what? Do I pull the wheel thingy all the way around or partway or what?

I’m staring at the phone when Dad announces, “Popcorn’s done.” Then looking over at me, he says, “Having trouble with the phone, Joanie? Here, let me make the call.”

Before I can protest, he’s taken the receiver from my hand. Then Aunt Lily’s in the kitchen, too.

“It’s a commercial break,” she says. “Now I don’t want to miss any of my program, but I just remembered that I need to leave a note for the postman. I wrote it out, but I like to leave him typed notes. Could you be a dear, Joanie, and type up the note? The typewriter’s on the desk in the corner. Oh, and I need two copies, so go ahead and use the carbon paper, dear.”

Aunt Lily’s back in the living room before I can say anything, and Dad’s busy talking on that stupid phone, so I shuffle over to the desk. Okay, how hard can this be? A typewriter’s basically just a prehistoric keyboard, so this should be no problem.

Problem, I think, as I stand in front of the ancient black machine. No printer, two copies needed, Aunt Lily mentioned carbon paper. What in the world is carbon paper?

“Need some help, Joanie?” Dad suddenly appears next to me. “Here’s the note she wants typed up.” He points to a piece of paper. Then Dad pulls two sheets of typing paper out of a box, takes this bluey-purpley kind of paper out of another box, stacks it all together somehow, sticks the stack under the roller thingy, pounds on the keys, and in a couple minutes has two copies of the postman note.

I’m still staring at the typewriter when Aunt Lily calls, “You both missed the whole program! Why don’t we listen to some music now?”

Music. That sounds good to me. I follow Dad back into the living room. He plops on the sofa again, leaving me standing in the middle of the room.

“My record player’s on the table by the window, dear,” Aunt Lily says. “I would just love to hear my 45 of Elvis singing ‘Love Me Tender.’ Would you put it on for us?”

“Sure,” I reply, and walk over to the record player. A 45, a 45, I’m thinking, knowing I’ve heard of those somewhere before, but this time I’m in luck. There’s a small round record laying on the table with a label reading ‘Love Me Tender.’ All right, I’m on my way now.

I pick up the 45 and turn to the record player. I look at the thin metal post thingy sticking up in the middle, and then I look back at the much huger hole in the middle of the 45. Okay, problem.

I’m staring at the huge hole and the skinny spindle when I hear Dad trying to stifle a laugh. I whirl around and almost catch him, but he manages to slap on a solemn expression just in time.

“Do you need some help with the turntable, Joanie?” he asks, oh so sweetly.

Then Aunt Lily laughs out loud, no stifling. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, turning to Dad. “I just couldn’t help it, Jim. The look on her face.”

“You guys are really enjoying this, aren’t you?” I ask.

“Feeling a little helpless, Joanie?” Dad asks.

“I haven’t been able to do one thing in this house, Dad,” I complain. “But you …”

“Could,” Dad finishes my sentence for me. “It’s all context, isn’t it, Joanie? Maybe I have a little trouble with your world, but I sure could manage the world I grew up in.”

“Okay, okay,” I say. “I get it. I’ll try to be a little more understanding. And I admit that you’re not totally helpless and hopeless.”

“Thank you,” Dad replies. “Now would you like some help with that 45?”

“Sure,” I answer, and Dad’s there in an instant, grabbing some little red do-hickey and inserting it into the hole in the 45, and then slipping the record onto the post thingy and placing the needle onto the record, all in like a minute, like an expert.

And then Elvis is crooning, and Aunt Lily’s humming along, and Dad says, “Hey, tech support, why don’t we sit down and enjoy the rest of our visit with Aunt Lily. There’s plenty of popcorn.”

“Sure,” I say, finding a space on the couch and digging into the popcorn bowl. Because, hey, popcorn tastes great even if it’s made the low tech way.

Heather Klassen lives with her family in Edmonds, Washington. She has been writing fiction for children and teenagers for the past twenty years and has had several books and hundreds of stories published in numerous magazines and anthologies. In addition to writing, she works part-time with children. Besides her favorite hobbies of reading and spending time with her family, she is an avid swimmer, having just learned how to swim four years ago.