Invaded
By Mary Sharry
Sun contributor
Computer virus. The name sounds nasty, and it is. To use a non-technical term, my computer went haywire. The virus activity appeared gradually, subtly. A little pop-up here, an ad for something I didn’t want or need there. I deleted them every time they showed up. Over time, though, the appearance of these pesky things increased. I did have virus protection, which I had purchased from the computer manufacturer.
The final episode, the exasperating moment, came when I tried to access my email account. All sorts of garbage-like messages appeared on my monitor. It seemed as if each message was trying to outdo the other — little red hearts that wiggled back and forth enticing me to search for old high school class mates, animated purple and yellow insects crawling across the screen purveying automobile loans, a chorus line row of cartoonish, leg-kicking leprechauns in green hats offering a look at my credit score, a half dozen blue-suited male figures who jumped up and down in an effort to get my attention or distract me. I’m not sure what the blue suits wanted, I tried not to look at their inane dance. Sensational news stories began to appear — outrageous shark attack, father weds daughter, the earth is doomed, so is your money. It might as well have said, “And so is your computer.”
At last, when the monitor screen seemed overloaded with pop-ups and I could no longer access my email, I used the telephone to dial the service number of the computer manufacturer. I knew my warranty had expired and that I would have to pay for any on-line service. The voice of a kind gentleman in another land far from here tried to sell me a new warranty contract. He made a good case for why I should have this service. High-priced as it was, I politely declined. Friendly and charming, he asked if he could call me by my first name, and asked me to give him the reason for my decline. I told him I simply didn’t think I could afford the warranty. He then came up with a deal — down from $150 to just $29. “Just for you, Mary. Special. One time only.” Oh, boy! I was not to be persuaded, and again said no thank you, and pleaded that I only wanted to talk with a service technician who might be able to right the wrongs of my computer so that I could access my email. Again, the salesman offered his special-of-the-day. Again I declined, and then he became belligerent. Rude. He called me by my last name, reminded me that I would no longer be eligible for his best-deal rate, and then he connected me with a technician.
As I described to this new person, the technician, the problems with my computer he told me that indeed I had a virus and that for $129 he could correct my computer problem, or for $239 annually I could opt for repair service at any time. The technician told me I had a software problem and that among other things I had an invalid IP address, whatever that meant. I told the technician that I would like some time to ponder this issue, and he arranged to call me back in precisely 24 hours. The call never came. Three days later I contacted a local computer expert who came to the house, cleaned up my computer, and added a more substantial virus protection than that which I had bought from the computer manufacturer.
I’m not certain how I acquired the virus, but I’ve been told that a virus can enter your computer’s memory and hard drive via Internet browsing, downloading from the web, and through email communications. In all innocence a friend might forward a circulating email message, say a joke, with a request to share it with others. In the length of time it takes for you to read the message the virus begins to hack into your system. If you do forward the email, the virus has entered your address book, and you’ve sent forth the virus. It’s a vicious business and enough to make you feel as if you’d like to disconnect from the Internet, go back to the typewriter, or pen and paper, and postage stamps.
As for virus from sleazy ads, I asked the local specialist, a geek, he called himself, why people become purveyors of this sort of thing. “Money,” he said. “They’re in it for the money. And,” he went on, “they’re not high school hackers anymore. No. These are sophisticated crooks. This is organized crime. Specifically, they want your credit card.” Caveat Emptor!
The virus attack and the boorish behavior of the salesman from the far-off land made me feel violated. I was angry. Seething. That night I dreamt a wild nightmare. A man climbed through my window, which I now interpret as my Microsoft Window. He physically attacked me and pinned me down. I fought, fist pummeling and kicking. Pacifist that I think I am I awoke hollering, “Kill him. I want to kill him.” Good Grief! I’m glad the bedroom windows were closed that night. What wrath raged within me! I’ve never hollered words like that before.
The computer keyboard has become my writing instrument; I rarely use pen and paper any more. Writing time is sacred time to me. The room where I sit, the desk, the chair, the computer keyboard, they are holy ground; so when the trashy advertisements appeared on my computer screen, this sacred space seemed desecrated, my sanctuary turned to filth. I’m back on line now, emailing with friends and, obviously, writing about the experience. Hallelujah!! It’s good to be back.