Ty, Ty, the Computer Guy

I have never been very comfortable with computers. In my heyday as an award-winning journalist, I would write my newspaper stories by banging away on a manual typewriter, then making corrections with a pencil, all the while dealing with deadline pressures with a cigarette dangling from my lips. (Oh, yes, even an anti-smoking fanatic like me smoked back in the Dark Ages when phony doctors in TV ads assured you that cigarettes were kind to your throat.)



Then, Card Player told me I had better buy a computer because the editor was getting fed up with my scribbled stories sent in via pony express. Naturally, I looked for the cheapest model I could find. The one I eventually bought was the size of a small refrigerator, and it had the speed of a snail with two artificial hips and the memory of an old pothead. It was my fault. I should have known better than to buy anything from Frank Henderson. He assured me it was the top of the line. What line? A breadline?



Anyway, as time went by, the performance of the computer got worse and worse as it filled up with files and spyware and viruses. Eventually, it took a half-hour to boot up and the screen was always covered with error messages that I could neither decipher nor understand. Writing my columns was a challenge since two keys were missing. Sending e-mail was a hit-and-miss proposition, and trying to play poker online a nightmare. Not only was I always two hands behind in the play, but I got disconnected and thrown offline with regularity, seemingly every time that I had the nuts in a huge pot.



One day I was complaining to Vince Burgio about my computer woes. He was not too sympathetic: "First I have to listen to your bad-beat stories, and then your bad-computer stories? Get lost, Max."



But Vince, as everyone knows, is just too nice a guy to ignore anyone in distress, especially a fellow writer. "Tell you what," he said. "My best friend, John, has a son, Ty, who is a computer whiz. He fixed my computer when I was ready to toss it out. Why don't you give him a try? He even makes house calls at casinos and patches up people's laptops while they're playing poker."



"Does he charge much?"



"No, he's quite reasonable and doesn't charge anyone more than they can afford. In your case, that would have to be very little."



Ty's e-mail was clever: TechsOnTime.com. I tried sending him a message, but as usual my computer was balky, so I phoned him and explained my problem.



"What make and model is it?" Ty asked.



"I don't know. Everything on it is written in Chinese or something."



"Well, what year is it?"



"I don't know. I bought it 10 or 12 years ago, and it seemed kind of old then."



There was a long pause and a sigh. "Well OK, I like challenges," he said.



Since I would get a double hernia trying to lug the machine to a casino or to Ty's place, he agreed to come over to mine. As he examined the computer, he let out a whistle. "My God, it has a five-and-a-quarter-inch floppy drive. The last time I saw one of those was in a museum."



"What's a floppy drive?" I asked.



Ty looked at me to see if I was joking. When he decided that I wasn't, he realized that trying to explain would be a waste of time. "Well, let's turn it on and see what we have," he said.



"Uh … it takes a little while to start up," I warned him. "Why don't you go out for a cup of coffee and come back later?"



Ty wiped his brow. "I'll just wait here," he said with resignation. He dozed off waiting for the computer to turn on, then woke with a start when I yelled, "It's on! It's on."



Ty examined the operating system. "Windows 1954?" he cried in disbelief. "That was before Bill Gates was even born!"



"Oh, that must be a mistake," I assured him. "All the computer needs is a little tune-up, doesn't it?"



"A little tune-up? It needs new hard drives, a new processor, about 500 times more memory, an entirely new operating system, and a paint job. Look, Max, this is an antique, a relic. Why don't you trash it and buy a new computer?"



"I can't," I explained. "All of my columns are in there, and I need them for my second book."



"Why? Vince told me you never sold any copies of your first book."



"Look, Ty. Vince assured me that you could fix anything. Now go ahead and do so. How long do you figure it will take?"



"Oh, about six years, give or take a week or so."



"Quit joking and fix the damn thing!" I yelled.



Muttering something under his breath about getting even with Vince, Ty shrugged and got to work. "Boy, you've sure got a lot of viruses here," he exclaimed. "What sites have you been going to?"



"Only the ones necessary for my work," I assured him.



"Triple-X Hot Babes is necessary for your work?"



"Uh … I had to do research for those National Lampoon's Strip Poker stories I wrote about last year."



"Oh, yeah, I'm sure the Paris Hilton video you've got here was useful, too."



I was starting to get annoyed. "Look, Ty, never mind about the pictures. Just fix it so I can play poker online without getting thrown off every four minutes."



He asked which online site I played on.



"PikerPoker."



"PikerPoker? My friend has a 5-year-old daughter who plays there. The maximum bet is 7 cents."



"Barbara won't let me play any higher. Just be a pal and work on it and see what you can do, OK?"



Reluctantly, he agreed. I got a couple of neighbors to help, and we managed to wrestle the monstrosity into his car. A week later he called me. "It's no use, Max. They stopped making parts for your computer 25 years ago. What do you want me to do with it?"



I asked about selling it on eBay and he just laughed.



"Well, then, maybe I'll donate it to some charity and get a nice deduction."



"There's not a charity in the world who would accept it."



"OK, then just dump it."



"Can't, Max. That thing has so much toxic material in it that it would poison the entire neighborhood. Maybe you could leave it to the Smithsonian."



Hard to believe. Well, if any of you readers out there would like to buy a nice computer, let me know. Believe me, they don't make them like that anymore.