Cantankerously Yours

The Brad Gene

By Wendell Abern

Dear Readers,

          As I wrote several years ago, I believe that scientists have yet to discover many “special” genes in our DNA profiles – particularly “exclusive-type” genes that go to only certain people.

          For example, while most of us were learning how to read at the age of five, Mozart was composing etudes. There has to be a special musical gene that gives birth to and nurtures talent such as Mozart’s, and I’m hoping that some day a geneticist will explain to me why Mozart got one and I didn’t.

          Now I was born and grew up Jewish, and I am convinced that certain genes eluded our race almost entirely.

          We definitely did not get the “handy man” gene.

          I mean, as I grew up, to me, the two most terrifying words in the English language were “mechanical” and “engineering.” To this day, of all my Jewish friends, I know of only one who has a toolbox.

          And with the current technology exploding exponentially every week, living in today’s world has become a nightmare to those of us who haven’t adapted. We haven’t kept up with modern new discoveries, let alone the language that accompanies them. Ask us what a cloud is, and we’ll say it’s a white fluffy thing in the sky.

          My ineptitude revealed itself last week when my printer died. I called Brad, my printer guru. Brad is not only a whiz with a computer, he is also honest.

          “It’s cheaper to just go buy a new one than to have me come to your place,” he said. “You can probably find one for around sixty bucks.”

          I went to Best Buy and found a printer for around sixty bucks. A very pleasant young lady named Sasha (clearly younger than my granddaughter) helped me.

          “Do you have wi-fi?” she asked.

          Busted already.

          What the hell is wi-fi anyway? Wireless something? What? Recovering as quickly as I could, I cleverly answered her question with a question.

          “Who doesn’t have wi-fi?” I asked.

          “The people who don’t have wi-fi don’t have wi-fi,” she said.

          Deftly, I changed the subject as I hefted a printer choice off the shelf, “The box says this one is wireless,” I said.

          “Yes,” Sasha said, “many of them are.”

          “You mean it doesn’t have any wires?”

          “Um, no. That means you can print in the kitchen while your computer is in another room altogether and you don’t need wires to connect them.”

          “Oh,” I said, pretending to understand, and thinking to myself that I am now living in Harry Potter’s world.

          I made a mental note to call my son that evening.

          I paid Sasha, thanked her and went home.

          As I unpacked my new printer, I thought this would work like buying a new toaster: you simply unplug the old one, then plug in the new one and turn it on.

          My new printer came with an illustrated instruction page bigger than a baby elephant, printing cartridges and a CD instruction disc. As I lifted each piece out of the box, I began to tremble. I called Brad.

          “Help!” I yelled.

          “Wendell. What’s wrong?”

          “Help!” I repeated. “I just took my new printer out of its box and it comes with – it comes with – there’s a – a sheet and a CD, a CD, Brad! It comes with a CD, for God’s sake!” I started to babble.“Bradbradinstructionscouldcoverawall-”

          “Wait, wait,” Brad said. “Just slow down. Breathe. Breathe slowly.” Brad has dealt with me many times.

          “Brad,” I rasped. “Quick. I need a gentile!”

          “Just slow down, okay? I’ll be there tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow.”

          I started breathing more slowly. I relaxed.

          That night I called my son, who lives far enough away (a Chicago suburb) that he can’t check me out personally for creeping senility.

          “How do I know if I have wi-fi?” I asked.

          “You have wi-fi because you have a router.”

          “What does a router do?”

          “It routs.”

          “You remind me of Sasha,” I said.

          “Who’s that?”

          “Never mind. How do I know if I have a router?”

          “Because you paid for it.”

          “I did?”

          “Da-ad!

          “I have a new printer,” I said. I have become very deft at changing subjects when threatened with technological tidbits.

          “You didn’t put it together yourself, did you?”

          “I managed to get it out of the box.”

          “Then you called someone, I hope.”

          My kids know me too well. Both my son and daughter put together new printers. All by themselves! I often wonder if it’s because they grew up with today’s technology (computers, apps, and all that), or if there has been some kind of worldwide genetic mutation that includes even Jewish DNA.

          “I just talked to my computer guy,” I said.

          “Dad, don’t touch anything. Wait ‘til he comes.”

          “Okay,” I agreed.

          However, the instructions were mostly pictures. I should be able to follow that! I assured myself. Piece of cake! I’ll just whip this together, then call Brad and tell him I don’t need him! Walk in the park!

          I had already completed Step Number One on my own, which consisted of taking all of the elements out of the box. Step Number Two included opening a little drawer into the printer. I started to tremble. Then I looked ahead to Step Number Three, which consisted of ominous-looking arrows and a written instruction that included the dreaded words, “USB Cable.”

          I was shivering all over by the time I turned off the light and went to bed.

          Brad came the next morning, looked at the instruction sheet for about four seconds, then put my printer together in four minutes.

          Before scientists do completely unravel the DNA structure, I’m going to write them and suggest they name one of their discoveries the “Brad Gene.”

Cantankerously Yours,

Wendell Abern