My desktop machine, which I have named Ralph, sits chained to my workstation
wall all day, like a big white guard dog.
When I enter my office in the morning, I know it will be ready to get to
work--poor creature, pinned to that tiny patch of real estate all its life. It's
a great, eager, everyday beast, and I take care to lavish attention on it; you
don't want something that powerful, that volatile, going surly on you.
With the laptop, though, it's a different story. It is black, and smooth, and
very light.
I like the way it feels in my hands. I can throw it in the air and catch two
corners on the way down. It is lithe and twitchy and resourceful and
independent--like a cat. I call it Chloe.
It goes where it wants to, when it wants to. And when it doesn't want to go
anywhere, it folds itself spare and clean in an angular coil.
The dog is a work dog, an animal domesticated for repetitive tasks. The cat
makes me think of wandering and play, footloose and unleashed. The dog is always
in the way, always picking up dirt and crumbs and coffee spills. The cat is
immaculate in its chosen space.
What is nice is how it fits. Across my knees. In bed beside me. If I want to,
I can sit with it in a rocking chair, careful not to rock on the cable. Nimble
and light, it is surprisingly tough.
Once it slid from a kitchen chair and before I could grab it, fell to the
floor and landed squarely on a terry cloth dishtowel. It landed on its feet.
Another time I was carrying it in the case, and a bicyclist on the sidewalk
veered into us and gave it a smack. But it booted up again without a problem. I
wondered how many lives it had.
Sometimes I don't see it for a week at a time. I think I will find it in the
case that came with it. But it can be anywhere. On a bookshelf. In the back of
the closet. Sitting in a sunbeam by a cold cup of tea. It can sit perfectly still
for hours, intent on its mouse, to see who moves first. It's an ancient game.
If I turn it on and step away, it shuts down by itself and needs to be
reawakened.
If I leave it on but unplugged, it slips off into sleep again. It reminds me
it is there in subtle ways. I'll be working and thinking, and suddenly I feel the
cord rubbing against my leg.
Or its battery will be low, and I will hear the plaintive meow of its hard
drive spinning down.
When my wife gets into bed with me, she asks, "Did you put the laptop away?"
Because it is beautiful, it helps me make friends. I'll be at an airport
gate, feeling dazed from travel, and another traveler will sit beside me and ask
about its lineage. We sit, both looking at the screen, admiring the speed and
compactness. Words are unnecessary.
I have friends with regular jobs who sit all day at their desktop units. They
love their trusty dogs, and I can't blame them. I like Ralph, too.
When I tell them I can go anywhere with Chloe, even down to the river to jot
some notes, they poke fun. They ask what I can do with such a little thing; it's
so small, so self-involved--a little smug, even.
They don't understand the pleasure of sitting in the clear air, far from
clocks, alert to ideas, my clever friend purring in my hands.
Contributing Editor Mike Finley is America's Best-Loved Futurist.
