Life may come in regular doses called months and years; but memories are made of moments. For example, ask me to describe my college years and I can think of maybe three single events. Hundreds of days of driving to early morning classes, poring over literary journals, and cramming for exams — and three single memories is the best I can come up with. One such moment was my first email.
In the late 1980s, I was working my way through school as a computer system administrator. In one of my alma mater’s most serious missteps, they actually gave me a full ride tuition scholarship and paid me a salary just to run their IBM AS/400 computer system. (That administration has since been replaced.) So I was at once a university student and employee. It was an easy job and I felt like a thief, but they kept sending me paychecks, so, like any self-respecting capitalist, I kept cashing them.
This extra cash gave me plenty of chutzpah and I tried turning it to my advantage, particularly with a certain blonde who worked in Accounts Payable. Getting up the nerve, I finally approached her with my manly flirtatious designs and found her reception on the cool side. “Hard to get,” I thought. “I like that.” I had read somewhere that chicks like a guy with a sense of humor. So I tried every clever one-liner I knew, all delivered perfectly. Nothing.
I had all but given up when, browsing through the AS/400 manual one day, I ran across a method for sending messages across the wire to the computer’s various workstation users. A novel concept in the pre-Web days. The examples in the manual were along the lines of “The system will be down on Saturday for maintenance,” but my mind went straight to the blonde.
Still smitten, but still stinging from her icy stare, I decided to try the sympathetic approach. Using all of the compositional skills of a declared English major, I devised the perfect question that would manipulate just the response I wanted. Answering Yes would at least show that she felt something. Answering No would be to admit that I had a chance with her. So on Friday, November 4, 1988, I sent her my first ever email. An insightful, provocative question that read simply: Do you really hate me that much?
Her response: No, but I suppose I would if I ever thought of you.
Not what I was looking for, but you have to respect a girl who has the ability to crush your life in a dozen words or less.
Shortly thereafter, the university added a genuine network with PCs and routers, which enabled us to work email into our daily routine. We even wired the break room of each dormitory, so students could email each other as well. In the confines of a secure, spamless local area network in the early 1990s, email quickly became a part of our lives.
Then one of the more clever students showed me how I could send a message to a valid email address outside the LAN as long as I typed “INTERNET:” before the address. I tried it and it worked. I know because every time I sent a message over the Internet, I’d call the recipient on the phone to make sure the message went through. Sure, this defeated the use of the email entirely, but technology buffs are never discouraged when our devices are negated by a swift measure of common sense. The email worked, and that’s all that mattered. Pretty soon, the “INTERNET:” requirement was shortened to “I:” and then eliminated altogether. I’m not sure what became of that clever student, but my guess is that he’s serving six to ten somewhere for hacking.
Email has since become an important cog in America’s wheel. It keeps us in touch with friends and co-workers, and it has opened up a whole new avenue for peddlers of low-mortgage rates and “body”-enhancing supplements.
This morning, while arguing vehemently with Sweetie over whose turn it was to use our screaming new computer, I mindlessly blurted out “Do you really hate me that much?” Her reply: “No, but I suppose I would if I ever thought of you.”
Ouch. Some things never change.
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