A few months ago I had the audacity to require some backup software on my PC, so I made the calculated mistake of calling our IS group. For some inexplicable reason all of our IS requests are handled by a “(so called) control center” 1500 miles away where presumably bulk telephone answering halfwits are cheaper, despite the fact that the IS people sit a mere 100 feet away on the other side of my building. Of course these people have no idea about who you are, where you are from, what system you are using or any foundation in technical terminology or system usage. But they’re cheap and they can answer a phone! Good enough for government work! As the saying goes…
So, accepting that I am imminently going to be doomed to a lifetime of suffering and confusion from making this call, I wearily dial the remote number. Now! As a precursor I should further explain my doomed feeling. I’d just read another of IS’s broadcast email messages telling us about a problem somewhere with something, or so we can only assume. True to form it went something like this.
“Due to climactic variations and a failing Strobe Rectifier in Flanger 3a (better known to some of you as “Kiki the curious frog”), Ack packets will be spherical for each alternate spectral millisecond until we bring the Mutharouter on line and diversify the bipolar anode. Those of you referencing ~FF3990.DLL will experience fruculation of the transponent and this of course results in an occlusion pattern. We’re sorry about this but expect to have it fixed during the annual IS clambake next August. It’s not our fault; it’s the manufacturer who the exec committee insisted we go with despite our protests. If you want to complain please feel free to Telex us at the usual code in Bahrain. Thank you, The IS Gods.”
AND THIS AFFECTS ME HOW EXACTLY? Whatever happened to: “The Network is down, no computer related work can happen until we fix it this afternoon.” No, that would be too simple and people might understand. Information is power in today’s world and those that have it want to keep it, usually because they have bad personal hygene and it’s their way of feeling adequate.
As a further precursor I’m also bearing in mind that IS people are basically egotistical incompetents who thrive on anarchy, hate all non-technical people and who’d basically rather be doing something else until they can convince an Engineering department to employ them. Thus the more cryptic the message the more they believe people think they’re clever as opposed to simply annoying and obstructive. You can tell I’ve been through this before can’t you!
Thus it is plain sailing from there to surmise that allowing them to have control of the system that puts users in touch with them (ie the phones) is a relatively bad plan. Anyhow, after a few rings, the phone is answered and a live recording of Tom Jones singing “It’s not unusual” at around 1000 decibels rips down the wire and causes the handset to start melting in a rush of feedback. But I’ve been here before and had the handset in a draw full of packing popcorn! You see, after a previous similar experience I captured a live IS person and after a couple of days of Spanish Inquisition style torture, extracted the secret keypad code to access the main inquiry menu. Punching in the code whilst wrapping the handset in a damp towel, I get to the voice mail system equivalent of the Arc of the Covenant, the Main Menu. Ha!
Navigating through an excruciating selection menu of questions based around Jupiter’s lunar cycle and average regional rainfall, a voice says thank you for calling the “I Jest Ye Not Madam IS Hotline, Goodbye” <click>. Drat! Clearly in the last menu option when they asked for the average annual rainfall figure for California, they wanted me to extrapolate the effects of El Nino for this year and then deduct likely drought areas to give the Urban average and not the State “combined” average. But it’s OK, like an adventure arcade game, once you’ve learned it, the basic moves don’t change.
So, like a kid with a Nintendo I hit go and start again. This time I get through to the right call queue and am informed that I have scored 100 extra bonus points for remembering the final move in Kasparovs last game (a lucky guess actually! Knight to Bishop 4). I’m then told that I’m first in the queue by a recorded voice (which sounds frankly surprised that I’ve got there at all) and sit and wait patiently, all the while looking through the window at the gamboling IS team playing darts and gorging on Pizza and Dr. Pepper in their office at the other side of the quadrant.
The usual half millenium passes and eventually I get a different message saying that (if I have the reflexes of a Ninja) I can press 0 to leave a message, which they guarantee will be returned within 24 working hours (exactly 3 terrestrial days). Now, a hell of a lot can happen in 3 days. Imagine if couldn’t log onto the network or something serious happened like my RAM imploded or my hard drive went through a worm hole or something. That’s OK, we’ve got a crack response team that can be starting to think about processing your request in 3 days. And we guarantee it! Well thank god for customer service!
Well, just as I’m slipping into a coma, a chirpy voice answers the phone. It’s the response center! Phew! I was about to call out for supplies. “Hi, I need some backup software for my laptop”. “Why, have you lost your original software? We can re-image you!”, comes the response. “Err… no! I need to automatically back up the data and documents on my laptop when I’m connected to the network, you see?” It didn’t. “We don’t backup terminals here, we don’t have the disk space on the server. Why don’t you buy a Zip Drive?”. At this stage I swear I can actually hear my hope fading like the last few seconds of a 70’s disco track. Anyhow, persistent as I am, I persisted, “Why don’t you buy some bigger drives then? A gig is about five bucks nowadays and a Zip drive and disks are about $170, for a 10th of the space and is a complete pain in the arse to use, oh and of course I’d have to organize media rotation and spend about $2K on a fire safe and remember to actually do all this on a daily basis”. Silence. Clearly this had stumped them. “We’ll send someone to see you. They should be with you in the next weeks (plural). <click>”
Immediately the following month, someone drifted past my cube while I was at lunch removed all of my PC equipment and pinned a cryptic and semi legible note to my chair. “It has come to our attention that your system is functioning correctly and therefore your computing privileges have been suspended until we rectify the situation. To find out more, email us (ha, ha, ha!) at: bastards@isdept.com or call the “Help” line. It further went on to mention something about “non-compliance leading to death” and what looked like “scribble… scribble… you weren’t here… on a rotisserie… scribble… the plague and painful excommunication, ha, ha, ha, ha!”, but I hoped I was wrong about the last bit. Usually I can tell they’ve been in my cube on an “IS stealth mission” (they only come when you’re not there) because I notice that someone has changed my Windows TM © (we’ve got you now!) desktop color scheme and also altered a myriad of my default desktop settings and preferences. The pastry crumbs on the floor by my desk will often confirm my worst fears.
Undaunted but severely irked, I checked the phone for plague carrying bacteria (always carry a pocket microscope!), and resolved to call them again. But a rebellious element rose within me and I thought NO! Escape the madness! I’m going over there and asking them myself, screw convention and company procedure, I need to work now… (Seriously, I know it’s unusual but I did!).
Furtively I crept over to the IS department, which is behind a locked door and waited behind a convenient mainframe for one of them to come out (it has been known around feeding and – god forbid – mating time!). An hour later I had grown impatient and had a brainwave. I knocked on the door and shouted “Pizza Delivery!” There was instantaneous sullen click as the lock disengaged and I wedged my foot in the door. Flinging the door open I strode in “sans Pizza” to the bemused looks of the pale and mid-frolic IS team. Clearly this breach of protocol was the last thing they were expecting so they scuttled for the safety of their electronic nests, panic stricken. With the air of people deliberately ignoring the gaping hole in the side of the Titanic, they picked up their phones and started muttering about TCPIP stacks and CHAP verification to fictitious geeks.
Not to be daunted, I strode for the door of Mr. Draconian the IS manager, feigning my best, extremely irritated and about to go mental smile. The door opened automatically to reveal an earily darkened windowless room where a barely visible figure sat silhouetted by a halo of scorching bright light. I couldn’t see his face, apparently no one ever had. “Ah! Montclair, we have been expecting you!”. Said a voice like silicon being dragged across a coffin lid, “Ah! Mr. Draconian”, “Oh! Call me Adolph please, Mercury. What can we do for you?” came the fawning but menacing response. I shuddered but thought of Garlic and explained my dilemma. “Have you ever thought of a career in IS Mercury? We’re all very close here, I think you’d like to come over to the Dork side.” came the inquisitive response. “No not really, I just want to get my PC…” Suddenly he called out, “Vidor! Come in here and take Mr. Bond… err… I mean Mr. Montclair, to his desk and rectify his err… problem for him, there’s a good chap”. I could swear I heard him chuckle before I felt the sharp pain in my head and then everything went black.
I awoke two days later in hospital with a pain radiating from my head and according to a nurse I had banged my head on a computer room door and was knocked unconscious. My recollections of those two days are still blank and I assume I must have dreamt the whole confrontation with Mr. Draconian, because he doesn’t exist. Apparently we don’t have an IS manager as such, they’re run as part of the operations group.
However, there are a few things I still can’t explain. When I was brought to hospital I was babbling incoherently about, “The eyes, the horrible eyes” and “Not the probe, I promise I won’t do it again.” I was also strangely anemic with two small puncture marks on my neck and I don’t think I can “feel the force” anymore. I’m thinking about a career in IS, but I can’t really explain why. I have my backup software and my PC back and it works as expected (rarely). Still, they’ve never really been able to explain how the bump got on the back of my head and on rare occasions when I see an IS person in the parking lot, they nod at me, grin conspiratorially at me and mutter something that sounds like, “Next time Montclair, next time”.
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