“I’m sorry,” my friend tells me. “That’s the one thing about this computer. It asks for a password that I don’t remember.” She sighs. “Okay. First try the basics. Welcome, user, admin. Stuff like that. If they don’t work, enter my initials, birthday, or house number. Fiddle with different combinations. Throw in some uppercase letters and the numeral 1. As in, Welcome1. cm2076ADMIN. Stuff like that.”
My computer is in the shop, where it could remain up to five days. My friend has lent me her old Mac.
Furiously, I’m writing this down.
“Yes,” my friend assures me. “It’s something like that.” Then, “If you run out of ideas, give me a call.”
“Okay,” I say. “But I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
The interesting thing is, I believe this. I believe there is no permutation too complex or obscure to elude me. Not because I think myself clever — I prove otherwise as naturally as I breathe — but because I’m pathologically focused, batshit compulsive, and known for courting futility.
At this moment, my BlackBerry is my sole technological bridge to the world. There are messages I’m not receiving. Statistics to which I have no access. Facebook “likes” I’m not on top of. And, because I’m unable to write posts or stories, my texts are becoming verbose.
A rat in a cage with a single lever, that which dispenses the very basics of survival, I continue to press. And press.
Could it be M1076welcomeuser1?
I will figure this out.