Most of the stories I like to tell about my days as a high school teacher involve my students. The time a student turned in a research paper on the history of hamburgers for computer class is an obvious example. Still, a few stories involve my co-workers (i.e. my fellow teachers).

In an organization with mostly older individuals who were at best computer illiterate and at worst terrified computers would soon take over the world and enslave all humans, I was bestowed the title of resident, all-knowing “computer guy” when I came on board.

Now, some of you can already relate to my predicament. Perhaps you have a friend who is technologically challenged and who relies on you to help them whenever they need to send an e-mail attachment? Maybe you have a loved one who needs your help every time they have to print something? Or maybe you have a relative who calls you in a panic every time the words they type are “magically” displayed in all capital letters? Now, imagine if you had 100 such friends, relatives or loved ones.

The biggest problem with being “the computer guy” is you cannot walk from Point A to Point B without someone relaying a computer problem to you. The simple act of walking thirty yards to the restroom can take ten minutes. To remedy this, you either have to wait to go to the restroom when the hallway is empty or (my personal favorite) create a diversion. I was particularly fond of the Bob Saget Diversionary Tactic. For those who don’t remember or have never heard of it, this tactic has two parts:

• I ask, “hey…is that Bob Saget?” whenever someone is about to ask me a question, and
• I run away as soon as the person turns to look.

Now, to be fair, an overwhelming majority of the computer-related requests I received were valid and unavoidable. But then there were the other requests. The “I forgot my password again” requests. The “I know we’re two months into the school year, but remind me again how to record classroom attendance in the computer” requests. And, my favorite, the “my computer broke/died” requests.

The “my computer broke/died” requests took on many forms. Sometimes, a teacher would come up and verbally tell me their computer had “died.” It was only after I pressed them for more information would I discover that, to them, “died” meant they couldn’t print or check their e-mail.

Sometimes, these requests would be relayed to me in the form of sticky notes left on my classroom door. “Kevin, my computer broke, please come look at it when you get a chance. – Room 314.” In these instances, I would go see the teacher, ask a few follow-up questions, and eventually discover the issue dealt with their speakers not properly working.

My favorite “computer broke/died” moment came when I went back to my classroom after lunch to find a sticky note taped to my door. It said that the person’s computer had died. A frowny face was drawn in the corner. And no name or room number was anywhere to be found. Apparently, in addition to being the resident computer guy, this teacher believed I was also the resident psychic – capable of deciphering the authors of anonymous sticky notes.

Long story short, this time the computer really had died. If I had been able to get to the computer sooner (i.e. if I hadn’t had to waste time asking every teacher if they wrote the sticky note), maybe something could have been done to save it. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me as I consoled the teacher, who was weeping uncontrollably.

“We’ll get you another,” I said.

“Try not to kill this one.”