DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

Most people, when they say they’re “wired,” speak of a caffeine high. In my case it may be more literally true — I may have PC boards and EEPROMs in my brain. That would explain my affinity for technology… the grace with which my existence is suffused when all my CPU-based possessions are functioning well, and the despair I suffer when even one of them is broken.

So when my wife’s Mac burned out a disk drive, I knew I’d have to fix it immediately, even though we were in the midst of a pre-vacation crush, hurrying to get a hundred things done (and packed) in the two days remaining before our departure.

The Mac in question had two disk drives — data and backups were stored on separate devices. Therefore I was confident we’d lost little, if any, important data, even though I was not initially sure which drive had seized. It turns out it was the refurbished boot/backup disk, which came with the (refurbished) system, and which bore a Drivesavers tag, as it had apparently seized once before. (To be clear: some Apple factory refurbs are fitted with “recovered” storage devices. I cannot recommend relying on them, for obvious reasons; it’s among the world’s worst ways to save $60.)

My goal was to restore the system to some basic level of functionality, enough that I could verify that the data drive was intact, for I would not sleep well until that was done. The limited amount of available time dictated the only possible source of a replacement boot drive. It is a store I loathe for its hostile design and untrained staff: Comp USA.

Entry to the store is via a glassed-in foyer. In one corner sits a rent-a-cop, gold-colored badge and navy uniform illustrating exactly what he is not — that is, neither authority nor law. I actively ignored him as I passed through the foyer into the store. My ears were immediately assaulted by the sound of the store’s alarm buzzer.

Reflexively, I turned back to see whether I’d done something wrong. This was a tactical mistake, for it gave the guard an excuse to address me. He was standing in the foyer, hand one one hip as if he was about to reach for a gun. I’m gratified that Comp USA has not so badly miscalculated what constitutes appropriate customer service that they feel the need to provide the doorman with a weapon; the guard’s posturing was just that, posturing.

He motioned for me to come back into the foyer and grunted something about surrendering my motorcycle jacket and courier bag. I couldn’t decide which would be less pleasant — setting my helmet down in the corner of the foyer, amid the dirt and gravel and stains of unknown origin, or handing it to the guard, who probably hadn’t washed his hands in recent memory. I opted for the floor.

The guard sent me back into the store. The alarm sounded again. A man who later was revealed to be the manager approached and with a manner that suggested that I’d done something wrong inquired what I’d come to the store to buy. What could it possibly matter? Was he searching for a reason to deny me entry?

Then the guard moved to interrogate me. “Do you have anything on you?” he asked. “Do I have anything on me?” I repeated more loudly for the benefit of the people who had stopped to stare. “Like what?” I asked. If he wanted to accuse me of carrying something illegal, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him by suggesting specifics.

“Like credit cards,” said the guard, quietly. I hope he was embarrassed. Clearly I hadn’t done anything wrong; I’d barely made it three feet into the store.

“‘Like credit cards?’” I repeated. “Are you telling me it’s illegal to carry credit cards?” I admit to playing to the audience here. I deserved that tiny bit of payback for the delay and harassment.

At this point there wasn’t much more to say, for either side. I’d done nothing wrong, so I picked up my helmet and bag and walked into the store. Many eyes tracked my passage. I fully expected the guard to accompany me through the store, as if the fact that the alarm had already gone off indicated that I intended to steal something.

But to their credit, they let me go. The alarm continued to sound. It was thoroughly annoying.

I was in a rush, even more so after the affair at the front door, so when I did not immediately see a display of disk drives I asked a staff member for assistance.

“‘Disk drives?’” he repeated. He walked uncertainly to the nearest set of shelves, which contained SCSI cards and the like, and began slowly scanning the rows of boxes. It was apparent both that this display did not contain any disk drives and that this staff person did not know what a disk drive is.

“What kind of disk drive?” he asked. “Internal, IDE,” I said, and continued, “Look, just point me to the display. You must have a thousand of them. I’ll find the one I need.” He chewed his lip for a second and then resolved that he couldn’t help me, nor even continue pretending to help me. He spied a more senior staffer and waved him down. “Do we sell disk drives?” he asked the senior guy.

“SURE,” boomed the senior guy, eager to make a sale. “WHAT KIND OF DISK DRIVE?” I repeated what I’d said before. “OH, YOU MEAN ‘HARD DRIVE’!” The younger guy echoed, hand to forehead, “Oh, hard drive.” Like they’d broken the code or something. They pointed to a wall not fifteen feet away.

I also picked out a baggie of cable ties, which the cashier tried to charge me $2 too much for.

Back in the foyer, the lack-of-security guard had been stewing all the while. He demanded to see my receipt. This is an inevitable step in the Comp USA dance routine, but unwelcome nonetheless. I handed him my receipt.

“Says here you have two sets of cable ties,” he accused. As if by only having one in my bag, I’d un-stolen one from the store. I’m trying to ascribe intentions to his thoughtlessness here, but really I can’t fit my mind in such a small place. “Read it again,” I encouraged him, “the first one rang up at the wrong price.” He then wanted to see the “hard drive” I’d bought, which again would prove only that I’d taken what I’d paid for, but not that I’d taken anything I hadn’t. Perhaps they get a lot of customers who claim they left the store without their goods? Otherwise I’d have to conclude that the guard was not entirely clear on the concept of guarding.

Then, to my shock and ultimate amusement, the guard came around from his desk and asked for my helmet, bag, and jacket. He wanted me to walk back through the scanner at the door! “I am not here to help you debug your alarm system,” I said with as much condescension as I could muster.

“But you have a positive charge,” said the guard plaintively.

“If I have a positive charge, I’ll need it to offset the enormous negative shopping experience I’ve just had.” Well, I didn’t say that exactly. Remember, I’m a writer… the snappy retorts don’t come until a few minutes later.

Then I left, accompanied by the fading sound of the Comp USA alarm system, which Dopplered away behind me as I crossed the parking lot.

Shortly after I arrived at home, I left a pointed voice message for the other manager of this Comp USA store. He has not yet called back.