I needed to scan my liability insurance form to prove to another mental health insurance company clearinghouse that I had such insurance in case someone in their insurance pool wanted to sue me for malpractice. Apparently the insurance company needed reassurance that I was insured. Sure, I get that. I found the original policy behind my building insurance policy. From somewhere far off I heard echoes of Harry Chapin’s Taxi song playing; don’t know why the lyrics bubbled up…
Well another man might have been angry And another man might have been hurt, but another man never would have let her go, I stashed the bill in my shirt.
That song was about lost dreams and settling for much less. A blue opera in San Francisco. All I wanted was to scan a low drama black and white insurance policy face sheet.
In any event I slammed that face sheet on my printer and hit the scan button of my relatively new printer. It’s an HP Envy something or other. Envy, right? I don’t envy a machine that is nothing more than an automated mailman. I push the buttons around here, mate. The thing is a computer inside a printer, so I opened the command screen and selected SCAN. It asked me about computer information which I could not provide. So I hunted around the control panel, looking for other ways to command this insolent printer to scan my document, to do my bidding; so I could then upload it; so that the insurance company could rest assured that I had liability insurance in case one of its customers sued me for malpractice.
Now I’m thinking of Alice’s Restaurant Massacre saga, full of repetitions…
You can get anything you want at Alice’s restaurant. After the ordeal, we went back to the jail. Obie said he was going to put us in the cell. Said, “Kid, I’m going to put you in the cell, I want your wallet and your belt.” And I said, “Obie, I can understand you wanting my wallet so I don’t have any money to spend in the cell, but what do you want my belt for?” And he said, “Kid, we don’t want any hangings.”
Now all I wanted to do was upload a copy of my insurance policy’s face sheet that stated I have insurance coverage of $1,000,000 per incident and $3,000,000 cumulative coverage for the global insurance police to prove to local insurance companies that I work with that indeed I do have liability insurance in case I am sued for malpractice. Whew! I spent a while looking in my laptop menu for the magic command icon to click upon. (Who am I kidding? I felt like a virgin at a casino slot machine, desperate and trembling.) Sadly, I could not locate the icon. After much wasted time I texted my new son-in-law, who is an IT Houdini. Now, I just texted my plea to Zach, not realizing I sent it on a group message. As Zach was replying, my daughter Grace Face Timed me directly.
Laughingly she told me she knew I was in need of scanning advice. “How’d you know?”
“You sent it on a group text, and knowing you, I knew someone would have to talk you through it slowly.”
“You only say that cuz it’s true.”
I wielded the phone around to show the printer and laptop, glad that she already knows my shortcomings and continues to love me despite them.
“So, have you scanned on the printer before?”
“Is the computer new too?”
“It’s the one I bought last year after the bookshelf fell down and crushed the last one. Remember that day?”
“Oh, yeah. yeah. That was epic. You kept talking to your client on the cell phone under a pile of books…. So, open your control panel and look for devices or printers.”
“Okay. Got it.”
“Click on that twice.”
“You don’t have an Indian accent.”
“Ha ha. Do it, Dad. Deewww it mahn. Youuu cahn dooo it, mahn.”
“Ahhh, much better. I can see clearly now.”
I complied and went into the next level. Slowly the path to scandinavian scanirvana appeared out of my cognitive mists. “I see it, Grace. I’m clicking it now.” I felt a surge of technological rodent power in my mouse click. EEK EEK!!
Ground control to Major Tom. Ground control to Major Tom. Take your protein pills and put your helmet on…. Ground Control to Major Tom.
Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong.
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Okay, it was not nearly as dramatic as the David Bowie Space Odyssey song, but I’m trying to boost the emotional content of this technologically inspired post. More menus appeared and I had to actually read down the list of options. Frantically I searched, just wanting to see a button with SCAN on it. I wanted easy and simple in this overly complex world we live in. How naive. I wanted Ozzie and Harriet; I got Hewlett and Packard. I was Major Tom, lost in space.
“Here am I floating ’round my tin can
Far above the moon
Fortunately my NASA engineer daughter kept visual contact with me and helped me with my Lamaze breathing techniques. “Dad, stay with me. Visualize a llama or an alpaca high in the Andes. You have suffered a massive head injury, but the llama knows the way back to the village below. All you need to do is blow the feather, okay? Blow the feather.”
I tried to go with her imagery. I imagined a Condor’s feather, erring on the side of large rather than a sparrow’s tiny feather. “Okay, okay. I am blowing the Condor feather on my llama while we descend from Machu Picchu. I can sense more oxygenation reaching my brain.”
“Good, good. Now, if the cursor is pointing on the blue box labeled SCAN, using your right index finger, click the mouse twice.”
“Click.Click. I did it. I hear the printer scanning. I’m gonna be okay. Thank you!! But I still need that Indian accent to seal this moment.”
“Okay… Helloahw, my naihme is Sahhndrah. Youuu deeed it, mahn.”
“Thank you, Sahhndrah.”
“No problem, Dad. Have a scandalous day.”