Debra Pickett

"This is actually a great opportunity," I told myself, as the computer slowed down ominiously, crashed repeatedly, and developed a hacking cough.

R. and I had decided to clear all of our work stuff out of the second bedroom anyway and streamline our work-at-home operations. I could de-commission the bulky desktop and transfer the work-related files to my Sun-Times-issued laptop.

And the few personal things, like the early scribblings for what will surely, someday, be recognized as The Next Great American Novel, could be moved to a portable hard drive that I could use with R.'s computer.

Perhaps when the message from Dell -- "Your warranty expires in 10 days." -- popped up in its own, red-framed window, I should have had a greater sense of urgency.

But no. I was busy. And heading out of town on a mini-vacation. I never got around to buying that external drive.

The warranty expired on Monday the 14th.

On Tuesday the 15th, I turned on the computer (an operation that involves jiggling the on-off switch with a filet knife) to find that the drive was dead.

I called Dell and talked to "Andy" (unless this is a newly common name in Madras, I think it's safe to assume that this is a call center alias) in technical support.

Andy was very nice, I'm sure, and, anyway, was either completely immune to, or totally unfamiliar with, the concept of sarcasm. (Me: "Yes, thanks for pointing out that the warranty expired yesterday."; Him: "You're very welcome, ma'am.")

But Andy's job is really just to read through the pre-scripted index cards. He's not much on emotional support. And I seriously doubt he could even vaguely imagine the scene in my home office as he instructed me on how to test to see if this was really a hard drive failure or simply a problem with, say, a cable or connection.

I suppose that's for the best, actually.

As he told me how to open up the computer and move around various parts of its "guts," I was crouched on the carpet, hunched over the CPU, which sits in a cabinet inside my desk, trying to find some position in which my giant belly was not in the way. Within minutes, I was sweating profusely (I'd been out all day and the A/C had been turned down), so, keeping "Andy" on speaker phone, I stripped down to my underwear and kept working on the computer.

This, incidentally, is the scene that R. came home to last night: giant, half-naked pregnant woman disassembling computer. Surely that is the stuff of serious nightmares.

Anyway, "Andy's" job was to go through as many tests as possible to determine that this truly was a hard drive problem. My focus was really on the whole "I want my novel back!" issue.

After an hour on the phone, I was actually close to sobbing. "I just want to take the computer somewhere and have someone try to recover what's on the hard drive," I said.

"Andy" gave me a phone number to call for data recovery to call. Once we were done "troubleshooting."

After two hours on the phone, including about 10 minutes of hold time while "Andy" checked a few things with his supervisor, he declared, "Well, I have some good news for you."

Because I am a hopeless idiot, I actually got excited. "What's that?" I asked, sounding like a six year old.

"Even though the warranty has expired, we are sending you a new hard drive," he said. "You'll just need to replace this one and then re-install all the original software. You do still have the original software CDs, don't you?"

The good news might as well have been that he just saved a bundle on his car insurance.

I started explaining that I wasn't sure if I did have the original CDs and, actually, downloading the software (his proposed solution to that problem) was going to be a bit difficult, too, what with THE COMPUTER NOT WORKING and all.

Then my cell phone dropped the call.

R., who is no fool, had quickly vacated the premises and gone to a business dinner. So there I was: on the carpet, sweating, crying, cursing, holding various computer parts in my hand and reminding myself of all the actually-great writers who have lost manuscripts in fires and other catastrophes. With me, the scene was not so much tragic as just plain pathetic.

I put my clothes back on, stuffed the computer's remains into a big backpack and hiked down Clybourn Avenue to Best Buy, home of the Geek Squad.

I don't know that it's possible to retain any dignity while handing your hard drive over to the 19-year-old tech guy and telling him that your novel is in there -- no, really! -- and, um, no you hadn't been backing up the files regularly. Somehow, when this was a plot line on Sex and the City, Carrie Bradshaw managed to do it with a little more panache, but the whole hugely pregnant thing sort of detracts from one's ability to be cool.

Geek boy says he'll call in a few days to let me know what, if anything, can be recovered. In the meanwhile, I have decided not to open the drawer where the old drafts and hard copies are stored. I choose to believe that most everything is there and I'm not sure I could handle finding out otherwise.