The Procession Of Death


   
I can see it now.

Geniuses, wearing their ceremonial garb of grey and blue, march out of the apple store. They hold the symbols of their order: A squat woman in the front holds an apple on a stick. She waves it high, announcing to the world this is a religious matter. Behind her comes the bearer of the iPhone and iPad, one held in each arm, ceremonially checking them every ten seconds for snapchats and tender updates.
After that, the elders arrive, the old MacBooks from the ancient times wheeled in on AV carts. Some say they can’t even process more that sixty-four bits. It’s just a legend, though. Surely, it is but folklore to scare the children. I must consult the geniuses later.

Behind them comes the effigy of Steve Jobs, rolling on a cart made of pure titanium and gold. Black turtlenecks burn in his honor. The effigy stands looking forwards to the future. Behind him comes the past.

My MacBook.

It is carried on a purple satin pillow. A black shroud hangs over it. Two geniuses in dark black robes carry the pillow. Their faces are concealed, but tears can clearly be seen staining their robes. In front of them, two similarly attired geniuses swing thuribles filled with the finest electronic components from the orient. They burn, releasing their toxic smoke so that the whole mall can smell it.

Mourners line the walkway to the exterior exit. They wail and gnash their teeth. They beat their chests and prostrate themselves on the ground. Why? They ask. What sort of god would do this?

What sort of god would ruin someone’s perfectly good MacBook with water damage?

No god of mine.

I take up the rear of the procession, dressed in all black, wearing a veil. I have already gone through one box of cleanex and, poor as I am, I hope my weeping will cease lest more money be put toward the tissue fund.

I am supported by my friends Stacy and Stephanie, as I can barely walk from the grief. They are sad too, though they could never hope of fathoming my pain.

To lose a MacBook…

It crushes your soul like a vice. It is an owner’s greatest fear to have to bury his MacBook. In an ideal world, my MacBook would have lived to a ripe old age while I am comfortably dead, but this is not an ideal world.

It is a dark one, full of terrors, full of things that go bump in the night and spill liquid on your MacBook when your not even there.
Damn whoever did this. Damn them to hell.

I weep as the procession finally reaches the dumpster. There are no dumpster women there today, and the only smell is the stench of death; the rot and decay of components; plastic wrap, burning.

The geniuses recant the five pillars of Agammom, and utter the sacred rhyme of Ulgoch, before they toss my MacBook in the dumpster. They reach for the compact button.

NO! I scream, breaking free of Stephanie and Stacy. My baby! My baby no! don’t put him down there! You can’t! You can’t!

I stroke its lid, running my hand over the humorous bumper stickers I stuck on it years ago. I can feel the air bubbles underneath the plastic. It’s comforting.

The geniuses try to pull me away.

I just need to say goodbye.

I wipe my eyes. My MacBook stares back at me, lifeless.

Remember London? I ask it. Belgium? France? Florida, remember that? The dorm room I brought you too after I picked you up from the student center? Remember the film school sets? The nights we drank together and spun dark tapestries? The rain on the windows of the old apartment? The rattle the air conditioner would make? Remember? Remember?

It remembers nothing, though. It’s hard drive is wiped. It’s dead.

I remember, though, and what is anything, if not a future memory?

I let the geniuses lead me away. I hear the compactor start, and they carry me to my car.

Stephanie drives. I’m in no state.

I write this to you know, gentle reader, on my old, old MacBook from 2008. The future is uncertain. 

What sort of computer will I procure? Will it even be a Mac? What will I do?

One thing is for certain, though.

My MacBook would have wanted me to go on.

So go on I shall.

 

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