This afternoon, I was hijacked by an old lady.

I was leaving work as she was fishing for her key to get into the lobby. “Oh! Are you from Maintenance?”

Maintenance?, I thought to myself. I look like I’m from Maintenance? I can see how she’d think that, with my rolled up sleeves, manly demeanor, and tool belt full of…well, tools, I guess

I really should get a tool belt.

“Nope, I’m an IT guy,” said I.

“Oh, perfect! Here I am, waiting for a low-tech guy to hang a picture, and along comes a high-tech guy! Can you fix my computer? It needs more memory.”

And that’s how I found myself in an apartment on the sixth floor of our building, looking at a Pentium 333 MHz with 64 MB of RAM and Windows 98.

“Ma’am, you don’t need more memory. What you need is a shotgun.”


“You know, like for an injured horse.”

Or so it would have gone, if my wit were sharper.

After advising her to buy a new machine and call me to help her set it up, I was on my way home, wondering if I should really be giving strangers my cell phone number. Random crap like this tends to happen before I really have a chance to figure out what’s going on, but I suppose I can always use the money from the occasional house call*.

* Please don’t make that sound naughty when you read it.