What could be more fun than a company-paid trip to Detroit? I soon found out when Jane from IS came over and handed me a small shoulder bag. "This is your notebook computer, a Getaway 123456789d. The d stands for disk drive." Then she handed me a suitcase the size of Pittsburgh. "And these are the peripherals you'll need to use the notebook."
I eagerly arrived at the airport three hours before my flight, notebook, peripherals, and garment bag in hand. To let other business travelers know how important I was, I opened up the notebook and booted up. Immediately, everyone sitting next to me pulled out their cell phones. Feeling a little sheepish, I shut down the computer, removed my electric shaver from my garment bag, put it up to my face and pretended to have a conversation.
Finally, the time came to board. Unfortunately, one of the Luddites working for the airline objected to my three pieces of carry-on luggage, despite the fact that only one of those pieces was larger than a full-grown mastiff. Naturally, I demanded my rights with the full confidence of an important business executive addressing a mere uniformed peon. The suitcase full of peripherals was promptly taken away.
Once the plane was aloft and the seat belt sign off, it was time to do some work. No problem-my notebook was properly stored below the seat in front of me. So I opened my tray and bent down to get it.
Once my nose had recovered from the blow, I closed the tray, bent down, removed the notebook from its case, put it in my lap, opened the tray, tried to move the notebook from my lap to the top of the tray, closed the tray again and finally held the notebook high over my head with one hand while I opened the tray with the other. Computer finally on tray, I booted up and was prepared to start working.
"Chicken or fish?" I heard the flight attendant ask. So I held the notebook high over my head again as I closed the tray. Then I put away the notebook, opened the tray and ate my lunch.
After my feast, I finally got to work. Within two minutes, I had booted up. Within 10, I was writing a report that could give an important boost to my career. Within thirty, I had discovered the joys and challenges of playing Minesweeper with a one-inch touchpad. Then the notebook's battery died.
Bed, Bath, and Baud Rate
Batteries weren't a problem once I got to my hotel. I simply opened up the peripheral suitcase (which, amazingly, had arrived on the same flight as me) and found the AC adapter, a black box small enough to fit in Cleveland.
But could I go online? Why not? I confidently unplugged the telephone and plugged in the notebook. Then I booted the computer and gave the command to dial up the company's 800 network access number. I was immediately rewarded by popping and hissing sounds coming from the modem. It was on fire.
I shut off the computer and doused it with water. No damage done.
Then I remembered what Jane in IS had told me. The hotel would probably have a digital line, and wouldn't work without some sort of gadget in the suitcase.
But which gadget was it? I looked through the offerings to see if something would jog my memory. Could it be that thing that looked like a handset that you strapped to the handset? Or the paper, envelopes and stamps? Maybe the semaphore flags?
Then I remembered: It was the digital converter. To be more specific, the RoadKil 2000 Analog-to-Digital Modem/PBX Inbetweener. With a name like that, how could I forget it?
I unplugged the telephone's handset and plugged in the RoadKil. Then I plugged the handset into the RoadKil. Next I plugged the RoadKil into the modem. Finally, I plugged the modem into the phone via the RoadKil, creating a complete circular connection with absolutely no contact to the outside world. Half an hour later, everything was plugged in correctly.
Breathless, I gave the command to dial. The error message came back: "No dial tone."
Second try: I lifted the hand set, heard the dial tone, and gave the command to dial. "No dial tone."
I checked the documentation. It said, "You must tell your computer not to expect a dial tone."
I turned to the notebook. "Computer, don't expect a dial tone."
"No dial tone."
Through trial and error, I eventually got the computer to ignore the lack of a dial tone by reinstalling Windows, recreating the registry, and regretting my own birth. Then it was a simple matter of giving the command to go online, lifting the handset, letting the modem dial the 800 number, waiting until I heard the dial tone again because the phone couldn't care less what the modem was dialing, manually dialing the number, then hoping the connection was made before the modem gave up.
Triumphantly online and downloading an e--mail message with a file attachment the size of Windows 2000, I suddenly noticed that I had left the phone off the hook. Ever the neat office worker, I hung it up immediately, cutting off the connection.
Maybe I should try those semaphore flags.
Contributing Editor Lincoln Spector writes about the absurdities of computing life.
