within twelve months because the "wouldn't it be great?" crowd are at the helm of computer companies. My office has become not so much a graveyard for electronics as an orphanage.
I have three computers in my closet that I was simply forced to abandon when I discovered that their makers would no longer
supply me with replacement batteries. There are entire cars out there on the road putt-putting around that are older than
my parents, and I can't keep a computer operating for longer than the shelf-life of cold medicine.
God forbid that anyone should still own a tape deck or a VCR. When DVDs began slinking onto the shelves at my local Blockbuster,
just innocently presenting themselves in nonthreatening clusters beside the videos, my heart sank as I fingered the change
in my pocket. How long, I wondered sadly, how long until I had to buy a DVD player in order to see movies? How long until
I had to throw out all my cassettes because no car I rented would play anything but CDs?
There is a shift, I feel, and a wildly disconcerting one, between the days of being asked by wildly hopeful advertisers to
buy stupid things on late-night TV and a market that makes you spend new money on products by undermining the value of what you have. The market, and the choices, are ever so slowly
growing less free.
Let It All Come Down
Eight thirty at night and I've just received a call from Alba, who works for a credit card company.
"Patricia," she ventured, in a soft and almost tentative voice, "I'm concerned that you haven't made your minimum payment
this month, is everything all right?"
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it in puzzled disgust. The tone of her question was so intimate and so worried
that I imagined her asking for an update on my marriage.
Are you all right? Have robbers stolen your wallet? Did a tornado whirl through your house? Is there anything I can do?
"Oh. Right," I said. 'Til pay right away."
And I did. The next day I mailed a check. But still I received two more phone calls in as many days inquiring about my personal
state of mental health. By the weekend I lay in bed imagining the conversation I really ought to have had with Alba.
"I hesitate to be rude, Alba," I should have said, twirling the phone cord between my fingers as I felt my pulse speed up,
priming for the challenge, "but I feel like maybe you're behaving a bit oddly. Has that occurred to you? Do you not think
it's odd to phone someone at home, at night, whom you have never met, and inquire about her personal mental health? Is it
possible that you don't feel concern for me so much as for your job, which would at least render your concern plausible? Is
it okay for me to say that? Is your job at risk if I don't pay my minimum payment? Like, are you on a minimum-payment commission
or something? I could phone your manager and explain that you and I are concerned about each other and that we are going to
work this out privately. I could say: Back off, this is between me and Alba."
I imagined her falling silent for a time, and then stonily falling back upon her point: "It would be helpful if you made a
payment."
"Okay, Alba," I would say, sadly and reflectively. "Okay." I actually have no objection to paying my bills, although I sometimes
forget for a while. What alarms me, however, is the sequence of behaviors that credit card companies engage in as they transform
you from potential client to serf. Is it not slightly creepy? At first, they court you aggressively. The other day, for instance,
I was writing about being driven daft by consumer choices, when the phone rang, and incautiously I dared to answer it. Without
further ado, I found myself listening to an impenetrable monologue from a department store sales rep about some sort of insurance
plan that could be applied to my card right now, this minute, provided I digested everything he was babbling about on the spot, whereupon all I had to do
I have three computers in my closet that I was simply forced to abandon when I discovered that their makers would no longer
supply me with replacement batteries. There are entire cars out there on the road putt-putting around that are older than
my parents, and I can't keep a computer operating for longer than the shelf-life of cold medicine.
God forbid that anyone should still own a tape deck or a VCR. When DVDs began slinking onto the shelves at my local Blockbuster,
just innocently presenting themselves in nonthreatening clusters beside the videos, my heart sank as I fingered the change
in my pocket. How long, I wondered sadly, how long until I had to buy a DVD player in order to see movies? How long until
I had to throw out all my cassettes because no car I rented would play anything but CDs?
There is a shift, I feel, and a wildly disconcerting one, between the days of being asked by wildly hopeful advertisers to
buy stupid things on late-night TV and a market that makes you spend new money on products by undermining the value of what you have. The market, and the choices, are ever so slowly
growing less free.
Let It All Come Down
Eight thirty at night and I've just received a call from Alba, who works for a credit card company.
"Patricia," she ventured, in a soft and almost tentative voice, "I'm concerned that you haven't made your minimum payment
this month, is everything all right?"
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it in puzzled disgust. The tone of her question was so intimate and so worried
that I imagined her asking for an update on my marriage.
Are you all right? Have robbers stolen your wallet? Did a tornado whirl through your house? Is there anything I can do?
"Oh. Right," I said. 'Til pay right away."
And I did. The next day I mailed a check. But still I received two more phone calls in as many days inquiring about my personal
state of mental health. By the weekend I lay in bed imagining the conversation I really ought to have had with Alba.
"I hesitate to be rude, Alba," I should have said, twirling the phone cord between my fingers as I felt my pulse speed up,
priming for the challenge, "but I feel like maybe you're behaving a bit oddly. Has that occurred to you? Do you not think
it's odd to phone someone at home, at night, whom you have never met, and inquire about her personal mental health? Is it
possible that you don't feel concern for me so much as for your job, which would at least render your concern plausible? Is
it okay for me to say that? Is your job at risk if I don't pay my minimum payment? Like, are you on a minimum-payment commission
or something? I could phone your manager and explain that you and I are concerned about each other and that we are going to
work this out privately. I could say: Back off, this is between me and Alba."
I imagined her falling silent for a time, and then stonily falling back upon her point: "It would be helpful if you made a
payment."
"Okay, Alba," I would say, sadly and reflectively. "Okay." I actually have no objection to paying my bills, although I sometimes
forget for a while. What alarms me, however, is the sequence of behaviors that credit card companies engage in as they transform
you from potential client to serf. Is it not slightly creepy? At first, they court you aggressively. The other day, for instance,
I was writing about being driven daft by consumer choices, when the phone rang, and incautiously I dared to answer it. Without
further ado, I found myself listening to an impenetrable monologue from a department store sales rep about some sort of insurance
plan that could be applied to my card right now, this minute, provided I digested everything he was babbling about on the spot, whereupon all I had to do
Similar Books
