Scene from the Irepair store some thirty minutes ago:
"How can I help you?"
I pull my MacBook from my computer bag.
"Well, I'm hoping you can fix my baby," I say, handing him the stainless steel shell that just yesterday hummed with life.
"What happened?" he asks.
"Well, I tripped and fell over the power cord and sent it crashing to the floor."
"Hmm..." he says, in the not-good kinda way.
He plugs the computer in and the power cord light flashes orange. Not a good kinda orange. The kind of orange that signals distress.
He tries to power it up. No go. He lifts the silver case to his ear.
"Is it breathing?" I ask.
"No. The hard drive isn't spinning," he says. "Do you have anything important on this hard drive?"
I sigh. "My whole life is on that computer."
"Hmm..." he mutters. "Well you'll have to leave it here for a diagnostic."
And so I leave it there for a diagnostic. I close up my empty laptop bag and choke back the tears as I leave the store.
It's not the 9,000 songs on my Itunes, or the 10,000 emails in my inbox or even the 6,000 photos in my Iphoto. It's that every piece of non-paper writing I've done in the past 4 years is on that hard drive.
I feel like a family member is about to die.