THE MOUSE IN THE SMOKING JACKET BECKONS

(or: On the Crab with a Suspect Line)

What follows is not the essay I had originally written for you good folk. I had prepared a neat little ode to books, a wistful appreciation of those bundles of bound pages, which, in a world as mad as ours has become, still unites us all through a common interest.

Apple Computers stopped me.

An eMac Apple computer, to be specific.

8PM. It was the perfect evening--the fireflies had taken to the twilit sky outside my office window like flares seen from the seashore; the raccoons were using their smoker's barks to chase my cats away so they could pilfer their food; the smell of wood smoke was in the air, blown to my nose from my neighbors' fire-pit, as they laughed and cheered at things unknown, and the birds sang the last of their songs.

A beautiful evening-- perfect for writing...

...Until my computer ran low on hard drive space, flashed me a brief warning, then crashed, taking 40,000 words of a novel-in-progress and my original Storytellers Unplugged essay with it. I sat there for a moment, looking like someone had just bonked me on the head with a mallet; then a long low groan came barreling up my throat. My hands found my hair and I removed enough of it in one tug to guarantee a comb-over will be a necessity in the very near future.

I hadn't saved, you see, and before the chorus of "You Moron!" begins, let me explain something about this incurable disease called writing some of us have to bear.

When you're writing, and I mean, when your fingers are dancing across the keys like a virtuoso at Carnegie Hall because the words are there, backing up in your head faster than you can get them out, when you're "on the crab"-- as the Alaskan fishermen say--and pot after pot is coming up full from that boundless ocean of the mind, it is extremely rare that you'll interrupt the torrent of thought-to-finger action to consider the safety of your file. Particularly if you've already set your Word program to contend with any eventualities, such as power outages, surges, or crashes. If anything happens, the computer is supposed to automatically save the last thing you wrote before Lights Out. Now, of course, there are wiser people than me out there, who can't write Word One without putting in place myriad safety nets to prevent the loss of their work. But I'm a sucker, and if the computer tells me everything's A-OK, then I assume it is and get on with things.

But apparently, if your hard drive gets full, you're screwed.

So I did what anyone else would do in my position. I rebooted the computer and prayed that it would start up without a hitch. Thankfully, it did. No warning signs, no animated faces bouncing across the screen in hysterics at my misfortune and/or naivety.

My work was gone.

I had images of standing on a railroad with a month of writing mooning me like a hobo from a fast-moving train.

A dog once ran out in front of me as I was taking a hairpin turn. With a car up my ass, I couldn't stop straight away and I hit the poor mutt. He survived, but neither of us were the same after that day. He hobbled; I got the jitters every time I sat into my car. I felt an awful hollowness and a sense of loss I don't think has ever left me. And while it may seem cold, callous and cruel to equate the loss of half a novel and an essay to hitting a dog, it's as close as I can come to describing how I felt last night as I realized the words were gone and there was no getting them back.

Frustration turned to fury.

I started up my backup folder--courtesy of good 'ol .Mac--and was promptly told my membership had expired in April. I didn't understand, but to my utter horror, quickly discovered that without warning, or notification, I had lost my virus scan, backup capability, email (which I never used anyway--I use AOHell--so didn't notice its absence), extra hard drive space (iDisk), and a boatload of other stuff I hadn't even realized I was using, or needed. When I tried to check the hard drive stats, I was duly informed that I had to be a member to (a) check the space and (b) buy more if I needed it.

Cue panic.

I visited the .Mac online store, did some digging and asked some questions while trying not to yowl like a horny tomcat at my misfortune. All I could think about was the computer, which I envisioned as a comic book illustration with a speech bubble containing the word NOOOOOOOOOO! sprouting from the screen.

It didn't take long for me to uncover the clandestine machinations of the Mac People.

When my wife and I purchased this computer, no one bothered to tell us that our "complimentary, comes with the package" .Mac membership would expire in a year, and that it would cost $100 to renew it. Nor were we told that when it expired, it would storm out like an angry spouse taking everything but the TV Guide and the goldfish with it.

Today, then, I must rewrite half a novel from memory (which, trust me, is even less dependable than the computer's), and try to summon smiles because it's Father's Day.

But I'm bitter, at both my own stupidity, and at technology as a whole.

Sure, it makes life easier, and in twenty years we'll be able to flush a toilet and contact Mars, or microwave food in our pockets while we speak into each other's noses in lieu of phones, but what will it cost us?

As I lay in bed last night, staring at the ceiling, an image of my very first typewriter floated into view. Suddenly, after not thinking about it forever, I felt an ache at the thought of it. A typewriter won't crash on you. Sure, it may bleed ink and smudge and eat your page, or perhaps on a bad day you'll break a key. But all of it can be fixed. When you write, the pages come out as a testament to your hard work, and they're yours--nothing can take them away from you (except maybe a gust and an open window).

That typewriter sits on a shelf in my childhood home back in Dungarvan, Ireland. No one uses it. It probably doesn't work anymore, but I'm guessing for the $100 it would cost me to renew my .Crap membership every year, I could get it looking spiffy again. My mother once called to tell me she'd found a mouse skeleton under its keys. I wasn't repulsed. Instead, I imagined the little guy sitting there in a smoking jacket, puffing on a pipe and consulting with his wife.

"He's bound to be back at some stage, dear."

And maybe I will.