Natasha stared at the cordless phone next to the row of answering machines and cellular walkie talkies.
"Da, dis von. I vant to buy."
"Ah, excellent choice madam! Has anyone shown you the features?"
"Nyet, it's okay. My friend–she has."
"Well then, may I suggest our extended warranty? This covers you for a full two years, and in the event of any problems, we'll replace it free of charge."
Natasha nodded. "Da, dis is good for me. Okay."
It was good for her. Natasha just walked away with the sweetest deal this side of the Ural Mountains. I figured the Good Guys just saved her about ten thousand rubles. I glanced at the little Code-a-Phone answering machine–a humble little job without any gizmos or flashing lights. I mentally calculated the number of rubles I would have to come up with.
As a longtime poverty aficionado and a fledgling welfare recipient, it wasn't my habit to spend much time in fancy electronics stores. I preferred to acquire my requisite technology through more creative means: garage sales, hand-me-downs, and theft. My stereo components all had wood cases, unlike the current rage of techno-gimickery, which was universally ensconced in burnished black aluminum. My stuff looked good. It fit in nicely with my wood crate furniture and my torn Mexican tapestries. No, I couldn't change stations while sitting on the toilet, but it worked.
I felt a certain satisfaction in owing recycled consumer goods. I possessed pride of ownership. This to me was far more virtuous than the flashy obsolescence of the VISA age. Unlike the clone-like components of the present day, my little system had character.
There was my turntable. You remember those things–they spun large warpy disks on something that resembled a Lazy Susan. Would repeat verses of your favorite song every time the needle hit a piece of dirt. Songs always had that nice "snap-crackle-pop" quality.
My tape deck I bought at a garage sale. It was actually a professional deck which resembled one of those fancy studio consoles. It had swinging needles and lots of flashing lights, plus lots of levers that you could slide up and down. I didn't have the slightest idea what any of them did, but it was loads of fun.
The crowning achievement of this ungainly ensemble were my speakers. The foam grills had long since deteriorated, leaving the woofers exposed. They were covered with a gooey, tar-like substance which had attracted all manner of debris over the years. Dust, cat hair, and old pieces of the Village Voice from my New York days.
Then one evening a young lady came to visit. I showed her around my apartment. "That's the entertainment center," she said in mocking disapproval. I felt a twinge of embarrassment, then realized it probably wouldn't work out. I showed her to the door. What I should have done was introduce her to my neighbors, Steven and Shane. That wouldn't have worked out either–Steven and Shane were gay. But she could have marveled at their entertainment center–a great mass of flashing L.E.D.'s and black aluminum cases that all but obliterated their living room wall.
Fortunately, I didn't live above their living room. I lived above their kitchen, which was only slightly less of an electronic nightmare. Blenders, food processors, can openers, and a trash compactor that could realistically re-create the effect of the Loma Priesta earthquake.
Steven and Shane were clean people. They ran their washing machine three times a day. Their vacuum cleaner orbited their apartment like the Strategic Air Command, seven days a week, its motor rarely cooling down. Steven and Shane weren't about to let the electronic age pass them by. Their electric meter revolved faster than the hydro-turbine at the Hetch-Hetchy Dam.
Steven and Shane also owned a Macintosh. You've heard of the "Mac," the prodigal son of the computer age. The Mac works with a little device called a "mouse," which you move back and forth on a rubber pad while chasing down incomprehensible symbols on a computer screen. If you make a mistake, the Mac lets you know by making cute little sounds–a ringing bell, a chirping bird, even a clanking tin can. Patronizing but ingenious.
Not to be outdone by the Cyborg Jones's, I've finally succumbed to the video dream I've never wanted–a TV/VCR. I ordered it through JC Penny, those kind folks who were crazy enough to give me a credit card. Penny's maintains, rather cleverly, a 24-hour, toll-free ordering line for those poor folks who get an attack of "materialitis" at three o'clock in the morning. Mine hit around twelve.
It was an agonizing decision–rent, food, or a combination TV/VCR? I only bought the thing so I could watch Julia Child's kitchen, plus a little Star Trek... and maybe a few dirty movies. I figured it was an investment in my education.
The VCR comes with a remote control that's sophisticated enough to launch a space probe. It even uses the very same commands. "Standby" (standby for stupidity), "Search" (allows the viewer to search the airwaves for anything resembling intelligent programming), and something called "OTR," which I figured stands for "Oy vay this is ridiculous!"
After all these years of living in a technological vacuum, I figured it was one small step for man, and one giant leap towards mental atrophy.