The Tar-Stained Blanket Computer

In the early 2000s, I worked one summer for an electronics retailer in the small town that my parents had moved to. It was one of those "only electronics shop in town" sort of places; we sold satellite TV, cellphones for the provincial telecomm, high speed internet for that same telecomm, radio shack stuff, general electronics (consoles, TVs, digital cameras, etc), computers, and did tech support for the entire community, domestic and commercial. We did house calls for tech support, as well as doing in-store stuff, and that was how I met the tar-stained blanket computer.

The owner of the local bakeshop (we'll call him Bob) was an old pal of the owner of my shop of employment (anonyname: Frank), and they gave each other deals on things. They were also just down the street, so when my boss asked me to walk over and pick up Bob's computer for servicing, it was no big deal. Bob was complaining that it was running really slowly, and Frank, having built the thing a few years beforehand, figured we'd pitch some new RAM into it and call it a day.

I walked over to the bakeshop, walked up to the counter and introduced myself to the woman at the till (small town, yes, but I hadn't been there long). I was led back through the restaurant side, through the bakery itself, and into the dank, windowless hidey-hole that passed for Bob's office. I was not filled with hope. Bob's office was piled high with old paperwork and magazines on every available surface, except for a two-foot square space on his desk, which was covered in ashtrays overflowing with ash and cigarette butts. The entire room reeked of stale cigarette smoke, from years of obvious chain-smoking in a hotbox. The computer tower was pointed out to me, and I was left to my own devices. I mention specifically that the tower was pointed out because, while I would have found it on my own, it would have taken me a little while.

The tower was sitting on the floor, buried under magazines and paperwork, between the desk and the wall, pinned in one of the corners of the room. There were tall boots and a jacket piled in front of it. I had to excavate the thing. I appraised the situation and took in the almost brown colouration of the once light beige frontpiece, sighed, shut down the computer (which I was happy to see was running Win 98se, at least) and began to dig. When I had it clear, I noticed that there was a distinct line of colour around the edge of the case: the large portion that had been buried was much, much lighter than the two inches of case that had protruded. It was all grossly yellowed from years of second-hand smoke, but the front looked like someone had coloured it emphysema. It was tar-stained. I shuddered, but carried the thing back down the block to our workspace.

When I got it into the backroom, I grabbed a screwdriver and popped the case. A cloud left the tower as I pulled off the first side panel. It was like an old movie where an archaeologist opens a sarcophagus, except instead of mummy-rot, it was a pungent cloud of condensed cigarette smoke. Here, I discovered the blanket. There existed a good two inches of thick, layered dust lining the bottom of the case, forming a grotesque blanket of felt-like consistency. The fan on the back of the case had an inch of felt on it, and the air-intake on the front of the case had a similar accumulation, but with streamers of felt coming off of it where the air had continued to eke through, drawn by the work of the labouring, long-suffering case fan. I froze like a rabbit sensing a predator, stunned, disgusted, before I caught a lungful of the cigarette-cloud and coughed until tears stood in my eyes. I called over Frank and the assistant manager to have a look. We were a small shop, so it was just the three of us, most of the time. They laughed, having seen this, literally, this, from Bob before, and having sent me in as a bit of a hazing ritual.

With a smile and a chuckle, Frank handed me a pair of latex gloves and a fresh can of compressed air, and I suited up before carrying the case outside into the alleyway to begin my archaeological dig. Most of it, having the actual consistency of dryer lint, I simply removed by hand. I killed the can of air, but the internals of the case did come clean, and it really didn't even take that long. The rest of the upgrade went painlessly: new ram, defrag the hard drive, scan for malware and viruses, make sure it had all of the latest windows and antivirus updates, slap the side panels back onto the tar-tainted case, and I walked it back over.

Took it into the office, met Bob, and he hovered while I hooked everything back up and booted. He was a taciturn sort, so he more grunted at me than thanked me, handed me a box of donuts, and sat down to work. I left, ate a donut when I got back, and had a normal rest of my day. The donut was pretty good, actually; raspberry filled.

Butt out, baby.

Just had an interesting conversation with my roommate about smoking coming full circle - from cool to uncool (even disgusting) to kind of cool again.  I'm not sure how widespread that attitude is, but in our little city, it definitely seems to be happening.  I think that, here, it's because of a legislation that passed some time ago, banning smoking in any public building.

 Now that it's not in your face all of the time, literally, the acquired dislike that my contemporaries found concerning smoking has not been picked up by the new breed.  Such is my surmise.

Before the ban, when you went out for a night of drinking, to say nothing of being in a restaurant, you came back saturated, inundated, permeated, perforated with essence of smoke and sweat.  The clothes that you wore last night could not in any way be considered being worn again.  They were disgusting, they reeked.  There was a palpable aura of filth to them.  When you stepped into the shower, the moment the water hit your hair, you had to pray your stomach would handle the smell, because fuck. I mean, fuck.

When the ban was upcoming, people bitched.  People moaned, whined, cried, wailed and railed against the "injustice" of it all.  Even I thought it was needless establishment meddling.  Bar owners thought it would destroy their business.  Personally, I wondered how Bingo halls would survive, since, having worked several bingos in high school while raising money for our football team, I learned that a Bingo hall was secondhand smoke.  You went to a Bingo hall to sit, and smoke, and maybe, maybe win some money.  Mostly the first two.

 But that first night back from pubs, clubs and bars, no one complained.  Our hangovers were so less, and we smelled so much better, that the "inconvenience" of having to go outside to smoke paled by comparison.  All of my smoker friends agreed.  They also found that being limited to a small area outside while smoking made them a lot of new friends.

Bars lost no business.  In fact, business picked up.

The only thing I regretted about the smoking ban was the closure of a really cool little cigar bar some friends had introduced me to, only months before.  We'd made the decision to cultivate properly adult, properly refined vices.  Scotch, cigars, port, all that shit.  And so, they took me to this twenty-by-twenty, one room bar in one of the hotels here in town.  We dressed up a little, and enjoyed the hell out of ourselves.  But this was an enclosed room with amazing ventilation, built for the express purpose of enjoying a cigar.  And sadly, it had to close.  No loophole could be built into a legislation that banned smoking indoors, or everyone would take advantage of it.

I still think cigarettes are unappealing, though.  In fact, that's one of my personal dating rules - no smokers.  I don't like the smell, I don't like the taste in someone's mouth, and the money could be better wasted, if not better spent.