Bobbing Along

I hadn't fielded a telemarketing phone call all summer, but within a single hour this afternoon I took two.

"Is Emily there?"

"This is." I wasn't thinking. Generally when unfamiliar tones come across the wires, I play dumb; most people assume I'm about twelve on the telephone anyway, much too young to make decisions about loan consolidation or mortgage refinancing. By the second call, I had wised up. This one wasn't for me, but with a bland, "I'm not the owner of the house, and my parents aren't here," I extricated myself from the conversation much more smoothly. The skill always comes back to you in the end - it's just like riding a bike.

In part, I blame my laxity in sensing tele-spam on the fact that I bonded over the phone with Bob last week. Bob, of course, isn't a telemarketer. He's a "telephone representative" in technical services; usually you call him. Bob works for the company that sells my mother computer virus protection. It's a download-it-yourself operation, which always means trouble in these parts. You see, now that Ian has moved down to embrace his inner Iowegian, I reign supreme as the tech guru in the Lowther house. This is sad, but true. But sad. But true. But saaaaaaaad. (Admittedly, I did single-handedly - or rather, no-handedly [heh] - fix a DVD player over speakerphone for Pat, Ali, and Mal. That brilliant repair, however, hinged on my suggestion that the TV-in/audio-in three-pronged cable thingies were plugged into the wrong spots.)

Michal purchased and downloaded her virus protection update at the beginning of the month, but didn't have time to run the program. She left it on the desktop and blissfully went about her non-technical business, recalling it only when a reminder e-mail arrived: "If not installed, your download will expire." So she double-clicked on the icon... and got an error message.

"Ian," - he hadn't left yet - "can you install this?" Ian double-clicked on the icon... and ended up with the same message.

I figured I'd have a go. "Error communicating with server." With the expiration date looming, Michal did the only logical thing: she called Bob.

Of course, she didn't get through to him right away. Instead, she sat on hold for a good twenty minutes. You could tell by the righteous indignation that steamed around her as she sat playing Spider Solitaire that this upset her to no end. I don't know what she said when she finally got to speak to a real live human being, but whatever it was got her a priority number and Bob.

But when Bob started to walk her through some troubleshooting, she stopped him. "Operating system? How do I know what that is?"

"It's XP, Mom."

"Here, let me have you talk to my daughter." Michal got Bob, and Bob got me.

Bob started every sentence with, "Could you just..." They weren't questions, exactly; his voice didn't wander up inquisitively at the end of each phrase. His sentence construction turned his statements into requests, but his monotone plainly indicated that he had taken charge. His problem-solving would not by stymied by a technically ignorant woman or a precocious twelve-year-old.

Bob had to put me on hold once over the next half-hour plus, when all his normal fixes had failed to work. "Error communicating with server," the virus protection download stubbornly proclaimed in a yellow and white text box. We did all sorts of fun things - disabled the pop-up blocker, reinstated the default internet browser properties, uninstalled the old Norton software. But he still had to look for a new trick, and I had to listen to a tweedly hold MIDI while he did so.

Upon his return, Bob had me restart the computer in safe mode and then download and run the installation program. Success! As the installation began, he escaped: "Could you just write down this priority number again. If you have problems, call back and use it." Now, you'd think that spending a decent chunk of my afternoon on the phone with this man would make me more wary of telemarketers, more eager to ignore the unfamiliar disembodied voices that stream through the telephone wires.

But here's the thing: Bob called back.

As we were about to sit down to supper, I picked up a call in the kitchen. A now-familiar monotone reverberated through the receiver: "Hi, this is Bob. I'm just calling to make sure everything installed okay."

I hung up, clutching another scrawled copy of the priority number, unable to hide my astonishment. Michal watched me as I slid into my seat at the dining room table, tucking the small piece of notepaper under my plate. "Who was on the phone?" she asked, reaching for a bowl of broccoli.

From somewhere between incredulity and amusement, I replied, "That was Bob."

So, Bob, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to blame you for my afternoon woes. I'm over it now, of course, and have called to mind a host of stock responses to aid in immediate telemarketer avoidance. But don't worry - if a disembodied monotone begins its monologue with, "Could you just hold on a moment," I'll be sure to listen up.