Vic

By David Victor Barth

My sister, Naoma, phoned me one day in 1980 to tell me that the following week her office would be getting a word processor. Although she was not very concerned about switching from her trusty typewriter to a computer, I decided to write her a tongue-in-cheek story about her "fear" of the new equipment.

Since Naoma is also a published author, her response to my story was to return it, marked up with red pencil, suggesting editing changes to improve the story. I have ignored her suggestions.

My name is Naoma. I was upset on that dreary Tuesday morning in the midtown Manhattan skyscraper where I worked as a secretary for a small organization. My boss had just announced that a word processor was being installed the next day, and I would have to learn to use it instead of my old, trusty typewriter.

At first, I didn't know what a word processor was, but I was against it from the beginning. It sounded threatening. And when I found out that it was a small computer that typed, I hated it. You see, I had never worked with a computer before, and I half-believed that the computers of the world were secretly linking up with each other to take over our lives.

After all, didn't the bank blame posting mistakes in my account on their computer? And wasn't it the IRS computer that told them to audit people's tax returns? Weren't computers responsible for terrible train wrecks when they goofed up?

Well, to say the least, I was distrustful of this intruder entering my neat and tidy work space. I did my job well. Why did my boss want to put in a computer that might take over my job? I knew people were smarter than computers, but what if it could type better than I could?

I fumed all day, dreading coming to work the next day to meet my "replacement." I almost felt like quitting right then and there, but I was just a little curious to see that little computer's devil like "eyes" light up when they plugged it in. I didn't let anyone know I was upset. Business as usual.

Wednesday it was drizzling as I boarded the bus for the first leg of my trip to the city that ended in a subway ride. The hour long ride gave me a chance to reflect on the day ahead of me. If my boss told me to show the new computer what I did, and then fired me, fine. I could get another job in the city easily, and probably for more money. Secretaries were scarce in the Big Apple. They were always marrying and leaving with their husbands for neat places like Denver and San Francisco. Not me. I loved working in New York. It was so alive.

I cautiously entered the office. Nothing new, yet. I worked right through my morning coffee break, not wanting to miss the arrival of my electronic adversary.

At eleven o'clock it was delivered. Two installers pushed it in on a dolly. It had a sheet of plastic covering it, but I could see strange knobs, buttons, and switches surrounding a common enough looking keyboard.

So, here it was. This . . . this little machine was going to do what I had done so well for over two years.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I ran out of the office to the ladies room down the hall, crying silently, hoping no one saw me. I was glad no other girls were there. I looked at my reddened face in the mirror, hoping my makeup hadn't streaked.

What was I to do about that little monster machine? I tried to regain my composure and blot away the tear marks on my face with tissue.

Finally, I walked back to the office, trying to look normal. The cry had made me feel better. When I entered, the two technicians were bent over the machine like doctors examining a sick patient. I hoped it had a terminal disease.

One of them stood up and turned to me. I hoped he was going to tell me that the machine had a problem. Like maybe it had been dropped at the factory and had a low I.Q. or downs syndrome or something. He said, "Well, Miss, it is running like a charm. Our phone number is taped to the console. Call if you have any problems. The instruction book is on the desk." They picked up their tools and left. Left me alone with that, that awful thing.

I cautiously walked toward it, half expecting it to light up and shout, "Boo!" It had a T.V. screen above the keyboard. It must be off, I thought. It made no noise, and the screen was blank. I bent over to peer at the keys and switches, keeping my hands behind me so as not to accidentally press a button or something.

I didn't hear my boss walk in, and he scared the daylights out of me when he said, "Well! I see you two have met!" I jumped, but he didn't seem to notice. He went on, "Naoma, I think you should read the directions before you turn it on." I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. No way was I planning on waking the machine up. As far I was concerned, it could play Rip Van Winkle for the next twenty years.

My boss continued, "Naoma, here is a letter to go out to our stockholders tomorrow. Why don't you do it on the new word processor? I have a meeting this afternoon over at the Savoy, so I'll see you tomorrow morning." I stammered something unintelligible as he walked out the door. I wanted to run after him and tell him I wasn't about to touch that machine, and he could do the letter himself, but I didn't.

I turned slowly toward the machine and stared at it. It stared back, its blank face seemingly mocking me as if it had already won round one and hadn't even been turned on yet.

I spent the next two hours reading the instruction booklet. I had expected a small type, single spaced, thesis written by some bored engineer. I was surprised to find easy to read instructions including pictures to explain the functions. I found that the machine was basically a typewriter that didn't type right away. Instead, you typed and it remembered everything you typed and even displayed the typing on the screen. The booklet said you could change anything on the screen, and when everything was correct, you pressed a button and the typewriter attached to it spit out the letter at 120 words a minute, a lot faster than I type.

I finally got up the nerve to turn it on. I had read the booklet twice, finding no excuses I could tell my boss why I had not used the word processing machine to type the letter. I stood as far from the machine as I could and still reach the "on" button, fearing something unexpected. Maybe sparks, like when my boyfriend had "fixed" the toaster and plugged it in. I pressed the button. Nothing happened. Then the screen slowly brightened like my T.V. set does when it is turned to a non existent channel.

I gingerly sat down in front of it. It didn't appear to be threatening. It seemed to smile at my caution, waiting patiently for me to do something. I typed in my name, deliberately misspelling it. I pushed the "type" button. It typed my name, misspelling and all. This machine isn't so mart, after all, I thought.

I keyed in the letter my boss had given me, making corrections and even changing from single to double spacing, centering the text, and justifying it. The typed result was beautiful, I had to admit. No painted out mistakes that I occasionally had on letters that I typed on my regular typewriter. Deep inside, I still worried that maybe the machine was capable of more than what the instruction booklet indicated; that maybe it was as powerful as I feared; that it would put me out of a job.

I became comfortable operating it during the next few weeks. I would come to work each morning and awaken it from its slumber. I decided to give it a name like I did for my car and my apartment. First, I had to determine its gender.

As I thought about its attributes, I decided it must be a male machine. It was logical, I'll say that for it. When I made a small procedural error, it would not let me continue until I had corrected my mistake, and a little red light would flash, nagging me the way my boyfriend does when I drive. It never made a mistake, at least none it would admit to. That was definitely a male trait. It was basically lazy and never did anything unless I gave it specific instructions just like my boyfriend ignores full trash cans around the house until I tell him to take them out.

So, I named the machine "Victor," after my oldest brother who thinks he is so smart. I called the machine "Vic" for short, and I made sure no one was listening when I talked to him.

Then one day my boy friend proposed to me. I was delighted! I was going to be a wife of the greatest guy in the world. I decided to change jobs. I would be leaving "Vic" forever.

Well, it has been a few years since I left "Vic." Sure enough, computers have linked up and taken over our lives, just as I suspected that they might.