download the May 2011 issue (PDF). - Inside Chappaqua

My Life as a Digilante
By Rick Reynolds
I’m quite sure my computer wants
to kill me.
My work laptop has one of those
security devices that reads your finger
print before loading your files.
Every single workday for the past
three years, I’ve carefully swiped my
forefinger across the little window
and the damn fingerprint reader
summarily dismisses that I am who
I purport to be. It’ll play with me a
while, saying I swiped too fast, too
slow, too soft, or too skewed—before
it outright accuses me of identity
theft. After 10 tries, it will flash
“Security Breech!” Once it decides
you’re a security risk, no amount of
finger pointing will succeed for 45
seconds, presumably to give it time
to calm down. It does everything
but point out that I’ve dribbled
coffee down my shirt (it knows my
wife does that).
So, after arriving at work at about
8 a.m., I must endure the indignity
of swiping my index finger at every
imaginable angle, at pressures ranging
from 1 to 26O psi, and after all
fails, presenting it with my middle
finger in order to heat up the
“dialogue.” Indeed, I am forced to
pass my “digitus secundus” over the
glass so many times, I’ve rubbed the
fingerprint right off my fingertip.
Thus, stripping me of my identity, it
continues having its way with me.
I’ve even resorted to licking my
finger in the hopes of making better
contact, but a question mark/
exclamation point prompt comes
up questioning (I’m guessing), if
I’m some kind of pervert. I’ve even
tried to fool it by Xeroxing my other
pointer finger, then flopping it and
passing it over the glass—to no
avail.
If I haven’t gotten into my computer
by 9:30, I must suffer the humiliation
of asking the IT guy to come
down, for the hundredth time, to
46 Inside Chappaqua May 2011
hold my finger to the reader, when,
of course, it suddenly works. I’ve
begged him to change the sensitivity
of the security settings, but
he tells me it wouldn’t work: the
machine, flat out, doesn’t like me
(literally and figuratively).
I have similar problems while driving
with my Tom Tom GPS navigator.
Madam Tom Tom, as I refer to
the device’s voice, is always sending
me down dubious routes, and when
I opt to ignore her, an edginess to
her voice becomes more and more
apparent. A slightly annoyed, “Turn
around at the next road,” I’ll hear
repeatedly until she finally gives up
and reroutes me around my “mistake.”
On a few occasions, when I’ve found
myself on a cow path—two dirt tire
tracks with grass in between—I’ve
had words with Madam Tom Tom.
I’m not proud of some of the things
I’ve said to her—especially when,
after making 15 lefts and rights on
trails traveled only by goat herders,
I emerge out onto a paved road
directly across from the restaurant
I’d been looking for. Then, once
Ilustration by Rick Reynolds
again, I must apologize profusely
to Madame Tom Tom for my lack of
faith and patronizing, misogynist
treatment.
Despite my wife’s many strengths,
map reading isn’t one of them, so
she credits Madam Tom Tom with
saving our marriage. As far as my
computer woes, my spouse calls me
a digital vigilante, or “digilante,”
who seeks trigger-finger vengeance
while operating outside the laws of
binary logic.
I don’t know why I can’t get along
better with my machines. Moreover,
I don’t know why they should
wish me harm. Sometimes I think
it’s because I’ve purchased them
discount at Amazon—or maybe it’s
the free, 3rd class shipping that’s
upsetting them. One thing is for
sure: both my machines and I feel
undervalued.
Chappaqua alumnus and 35-year
resident of Chappaqua, humorist Rick
Reynolds resides in southern New
Hampshire with his wife, daughter,
and two dogs.