Infernally Yours

I saw this British cop show on TV years ago where the hero, a 19th Century detective, was investigating a series of bombings.

But rather than saying the word “bomb,” the detective used the archaic expression “infernal devices” when referring to the things causing all the havoc.

I recall staring at my TV in disbelief. Did people really say “infernal devices” back then?

And even if they did, the expression sounds so clunky that the show’s writers could probably be forgiven if they decided to update the dialog a little bit.

However, after a series of irritating machine-related experiences over the last few days, I’m starting to think “infernal devices” is an excellent expression—and it’s a certainly an improvement over the expletives I’ve been spewing since Friday morning.

It started with my smart phone, which decided it didn’t want to be charged anymore. I plugged in the power cord and saw the little green battery icon in the corner, but the energy level kept draining until it was in the red zone—and so was my blood pressure.

I finally had to rev the thing up by hooking it into my desktop computer, which solved the immediate problem, but it’s not going to work for the long haul.

I bought a new power cord at Best Buy near Lincoln Center yesterday after being assured there was nothing wrong with the phone, but as of this morning, the new cord wasn’t helping any.

I tried to Google up Apple’s support number this morning to make an appointment at the nearest Genius Bar, but my desktop wouldn’t connect to the internet.

“Seriously?” I shouted. “You’re a computer, for Christ’s sake, this is your job!”

Apparently, my computer decided that on the seventh day it would rest and all I got out of the thing was the twirling beach ball of doom, which has become such fixture in my life, that I half-expect Annette Funicello to spring out of the modem like Betty Boop and start singing “Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy.”

Bank Shout

All right, you bastard, I snarled, I’ll make the appointment with my Smartphone.

It seemed like a good time to blow off some steaming rage, so I zipped up to my gym for a brutal cycling class. On the way home, I stopped at a local bank branch I hardly ever use to deposit a check.

I slipped the defenseless piece of paper into the ATM and listening to a sadistic symphony of grinding and rumbling while the screen lit up the word “Processing” over and over.

“What are you processing?” I shouted. “It’s one sheet of paper!”

It seems that I had found the only cannibal cash machine in captivity.

The thing did everything but belch in my face before announcing that it could neither return nor deposit my check.

Is it possible to perform the Heimlich maneuver on an ATM?

I called the bank’s “support” number and got some loser in Bangladesh or some other distant location that American corporations go to for their slave labor and tried to get a straight answer.

This genius told me the bank has to “conduct an investigation” into the case of my missing check. An investigation? What the fuck is this—Colombo? My check is in your goddamn ATM.

“This is bullshit!” I shouted into my mobile phone.

I stormed home muttering cuss words like a rabid parrot. I go to banks to save money, not lose it.

In Kurt Vonnegut’s Player Piano, the people of the twisted future, get so fed up with the machinery controlling their lives that they attack any and every gadget they can get their hands on, including cash registers.

I’m not at the level of insanity just yet, but I can certainly understand what makes these devices infernal.