by
As a child, my siblings called me a barnacle; I always hung around them, never leaving them alone. But, as a barnacle, I have always held onto things, too.
My senior year of college, I bought an iBook to replace an iMac, only three years old. It is sitting in my childhood bedroom with lod clothes, books and stuffed animals. The iBook itself is dead, although it is in the bedroom of my apartment. It died right in the middle of my applying to graduate school, taking a number of college papers along with it.
My new iPod joined me on runs--up and down hills of Ohio, where I went to college, and now, around Central Park. I took it on long train rides upstate and to New Jersey, and on my rush hour commutes.
I had it a year-and-a-half when I dropped it the first time. The screen cracked and the display was obscured. Mac professionals suggested that I might be able to replace the screen, but they weren't sure that Apple still made the parts. My iPod was already what they now call the "Classic".
The accident happened a few days after my boyfriend went to Afghanistan. He went as a civilian to work on a road construction project--but I was afraid for him. And I missed him.
I decided that I did not want also to part with my iPod. It still worked. Sort of. I could still see the right edge of the screen, and after a while I learned navigate the various menus. It was a hassle to use, but I lived with it, still taking it on long trips. But for running, I dug my portable cassette and CD players out from under my bed. My giant, ear-covering headphones looks like they were right out of the 1990s, which they were. I am on my fourth walkman. Three broken ones lay in a drawer of my childhood desk.
I left my job last July, and enrolled in school. When I graduate, I will have to find a new job in a new field, possibly away from my life in New York, family, my friends here and my boyfriend. But the barnacle doesn't want to let go.
One morning this winter, I found myself singing "Wild Horses," and decided that I wanted to listen to it on my commute. The song was only on my iPod. I grabbed my iPod from my bedroom and set it on my couch, next to my backpack. Then, when I grabbed the backpack, it went crashing to the floor with a loud THWAK. It landed face-down. "Oh well," I thought, "how much *more* broken could it get?"
It looked bad. I saw yellowish liquid crystal leaking from the crack. The control dial and main center button were stuck. But, it still kind of worked.
Even so, I realized that this might be the last time I would be able to use it.
I walked to the subway, clicking forward through my playlist--that button still worked. The noise of traffic covered up the music. And once I reached the platform, subways did the same.
Finally, just as my train approached, the song came on. I strained my ears to hear it. I replayed it three times. The final time, I pressed the pause button. I pressed it again, but only silence.
So died the iPod.
I have considered replacing it, recycling its body, but I still hold onto the possibility that it may start working again. So it sits, a few feet from a camera, whose zoom lens is stuck extended. I keep it for the same reason.
But, I think it's time for it to go, and I feel good about the decision.
Maybe I will get rid of my other broken electronics, too. My mother and would be happy have them gone from the house and my boyfriend to get them out of my apartment.
If the barnacle finally lets go, it probably won't be the end of the world.