If you can't beat 'em, learn from 'em

By Gene Weingarten, Washington Post
Published September 16, 2007

WASHINGTON - My laptop recently caught a virus that turned it from a computer into a vending machine for pop-up ads on behalf of casinos, personal enlargement devices, ladies who would like to make my acquaintance and, of course, protection against pop-up ads.

I phoned my antivirus provider, whose IT specialists appeared to be located somewhere on the Indo-Pakistani subcontinent. They informed me that they would be happy to fix my problem for $99. I protested that this seemed unfair, because I was already paying them to prevent exactly this sort of thing.

I compared this situation to a bodyguard leaning over his client, who has just been shot by a sniper, offering to pull him to safety for an additional C-note. They switched me to a supervisor who said her name was "Mary," only I'm pretty sure it wasn't, on the same general principle that someone who sounds like Jackie Mason is probably not named Jamaal.

Mary began talking very swiftly about how it was my fault and how I have to stop downloading bad software and how skilled their diagnostic services were, and nothing I said could get her to stop talking until I said I would pay the 99 clams, at which point she cut off in mid sentence and coolly asked for my credit card number.

The specialists worked on my computer remotely, then declared the infestation removed. And, indeed, when I rebooted it, there were no more annoying pop-ups. That is because the computer would no longer turn on. Faced with the prospect of another conversation with Mary, I bought a new laptop.

Mary had taught me something. Being implacable and obnoxious can be an effective tactic. I put this to good use the very next day, when I went to get my car inspected. Car inspections fill me with dread. That is because if my car flunks, I will have to buy a new one, because virtually any repair, however minor, will cost a lot more than my car is worth.

My car looks a lot older than it is, and it is 16 years old. It is the color of a bruise and has the luster of a cardboard box. It is so dented that it resembles an enormous walnut. The driver's seat back is upholstered with a T-shirt affixed with paper clips, under which is flaking industrial foam. This is the sort of car that might be owned by a man with misspelled tattoos and a tootpick in his mouf, and the only explanation I can give you for why I still have it is that I grew up in the South Bronx, and I kind of like the tootpick guy.

I keep the car in good running order, which is why inspectors hate it. They don't want to get in it, don't want to see it on the road and do their damnedest to fail it. So, I was really tense, and my tension escalated when I arrived at the inspection station and saw a line of cars wrapped around the block. The man in front of me kept his hood raised the whole time. He told me it was to keep the engine cool, explaining that the last time he waited in line so long his engine overheated and, at the moment he finally reached the inspectors, burst into flames.

Two hours and 15 minutes later, I reached the inspection station. I asked three inspectors outside the building why they were so backed up. One said it was the mayor's fault. Another said it was that their computers kept crashing. The third said it was the new testing equipment, which took longer to operate. None of these inspectors could agree on whose fault the delay was, as they sat outside, smoking cigarettes, idly watching the long line of cars.

As always, the inspectors spent a long time running and rerunning tests on my car. Finally, a man waved me over and said it had passed the "mechanical part." Then he pointed at a particularly sordid dent in my front fender and said, "but you're gonna have to get that fixed."

I asked him why. I did this in a tone I took to be polite and respectful, but which may have been a little . . . loud. Heads whipped around. Several other inspectors escorted the first guy away. A hushed discussion ensued, presumably over the ethics and precedent of failing a car merely because it resembles an excised tumor. Finally, one kindly looking man separated himself from the group, furtively went to a machine, printed out a sticker certifying I had passed, slapped it on my car and advised me, in a grandfatherly way, to get the hell out of there, fast.

I did.

Kept my mouf shut, too.

Gene Weingarten's e-mail address is weingarten@washpost.com.

[Last modified September 14, 2007, 16:26:03]