I am a hard disk, st380021a, working inside a perfectly ordinary desktop PC. People always think we’re high-tech white-collar workers, with clean and respectable jobs, as if we live quite glamorously. Maybe they only get that illusion because they see the clean white and pretty case. Actually, for little desktops like ours, the working environment is cramped, and the dust inside is enough to scare you to death. Every day is stagnant, and the work is mechanically repetitive. Running word processing and watching movies is manageable enough, but when some huge software or game really shows up, I have to rush frantically up and down, and in the end the machine often crashes anyway. Things change fast in our line of work; practically every two or three years there’s an upgrade and replacement, so everyone is under pressure and has no sense of security.
Whenever a new board or card arrives, it comes in full of spirit and ambition, but after a few years it turns dusty-faced and dispirited. Everyone in the case envies those who get to work in other machines. Especially those who go to laptops: they can often travel on business, flying here and there, staying in five-star hotels, and they don’t even have to do heavy work—just run Word, go online, chat a little, and that’s enough. As for me, I prefer those big servers, working in especially clean and bright machine rooms. The hours may be longer, but the benefits are good: 24-hour uninterrupted power, ups, and even arrays and hot-swapping, several people doing one person’s work—how easy is that? And it’s prestigious too, only running critical applications. Unlike here, where I have to do every random messy thing.
But I know those hard disks are all impressive. If not scsi, then scsi ii, fibre channel. An ide one like me would already be doing pretty well just to make it into a workstation. I often think, back in the factory, if I had worked a little harder, could I have become a scsi too, or at least a laptop hard disk? But then again, maybe it’s all fate.
Still, I never complain. Memory complains all the time, though—about the complexity of their motherboard department, about how he’s incompatible with the new off-brand memory that comes in, and how the network card and TV card conflict with each other. I don’t have many friends; memory counts as one. He’s very thin and I’m very fat. He moves fast, while I’m always slow. We came to this machine together. He never stops talking, and I just listen; I never speak. Memory’s mind is very simple. Even though his English name is memory, he can’t keep any memory at all—no matter how big the matter is, after one sleep he forgets it completely. I don’t talk, but I remember every detail. He says a melancholy type like me isn’t suited for technical work and will split mentally sooner or later. I just smile, because I trust my own capacity.
Sometimes I like this job too. It’s simple. I don’t have to be stared at by the boss all day like the monitor, and I don’t have to deal with outside CDs like the optical drive. I just deal with files, nothing more than reading and writing. It’s a very simple and quiet life.
Until one day,
I still remember the case lid slowly being lifted open, the beam of light stretching in from the gap growing wider and brighter. The air was full of dancing particles. At that moment, I saw her. She was so slender and delicate, her silver-white shell flickering. Everything about her workmanship was exquisite and smooth, and I couldn’t help feeling ashamed of my own clumsiness.
It wasn’t until the data cable connected us that I came to my senses. The instant the power came on, I felt the current was different from usual. Later memory laughed at me and said that every time a newcomer came here, the current would be different.
It was the same last time new memory came. I thought he was talking nonsense. I tried my best to keep
calm and look professional, and only greeted her lightly and introduced the working environment.
Little by little, I learned that she, ibm-djsa220, was a laptop hard disk, working in the boss’s friend’s laptop. This time she had come to copy some files. We chatted very happily. She told me a lot of amusing stories from her travels, told me what it was like to fly on a plane, how the bumping in a car was different, showed me many beautiful photos, travel notes, and even told me an adventure story about the time she fell off a table. And I showed off all kinds of stories and jokes downloaded from the Internet.
She laughed very happily.
And I was surprised that I could keep talking nonstop.
One morning, after startup, I saw the empty connector hanging in the air on the data cable.
She stayed a total of 7 days. After that, I never saw her again.
I regretted a little that we hadn’t exchanged email, and that I hadn’t been able to say goodbye. When things aren’t busy, I remember that ray of sunlight shining into the case by myself.
I don’t know what the word memory means. All I have are the many files she left behind. I arranged them neatly and put them in the place I pass by most often. Every time my heads sweep past them, I feel a faint trace of comfort.
But I never expected the boss would want me to delete these files. I wanted to argue that there was still enough space, but it was useless. So for the first time in my life, I disobeyed an order and secretly modified the file allocation table. Then I hid them all in a secret
place,
and marked that place as bad sectors. No one ever asks questions about bad sectors. And that place became my only secret. I often go there to look at them, though I never stay.
Day after day the same routine repeated itself, reading and writing, reading and writing... I thought it would go on like this forever, until
one day, when the boss wanted to install xp but found there wasn’t enough space.
He discovered the problem and wanted to repair those bad sectors. I refused. Very soon, I received a new order: format
.
I hesitated for a long time
。。。
。。。
。。。
。。。
。。。
track 0 bad, disk unusable
Whenever a new board or card arrives, it comes in full of spirit and ambition, but after a few years it turns dusty-faced and dispirited. Everyone in the case envies those who get to work in other machines. Especially those who go to laptops: they can often travel on business, flying here and there, staying in five-star hotels, and they don’t even have to do heavy work—just run Word, go online, chat a little, and that’s enough. As for me, I prefer those big servers, working in especially clean and bright machine rooms. The hours may be longer, but the benefits are good: 24-hour uninterrupted power, ups, and even arrays and hot-swapping, several people doing one person’s work—how easy is that? And it’s prestigious too, only running critical applications. Unlike here, where I have to do every random messy thing.
But I know those hard disks are all impressive. If not scsi, then scsi ii, fibre channel. An ide one like me would already be doing pretty well just to make it into a workstation. I often think, back in the factory, if I had worked a little harder, could I have become a scsi too, or at least a laptop hard disk? But then again, maybe it’s all fate.
Still, I never complain. Memory complains all the time, though—about the complexity of their motherboard department, about how he’s incompatible with the new off-brand memory that comes in, and how the network card and TV card conflict with each other. I don’t have many friends; memory counts as one. He’s very thin and I’m very fat. He moves fast, while I’m always slow. We came to this machine together. He never stops talking, and I just listen; I never speak. Memory’s mind is very simple. Even though his English name is memory, he can’t keep any memory at all—no matter how big the matter is, after one sleep he forgets it completely. I don’t talk, but I remember every detail. He says a melancholy type like me isn’t suited for technical work and will split mentally sooner or later. I just smile, because I trust my own capacity.
Sometimes I like this job too. It’s simple. I don’t have to be stared at by the boss all day like the monitor, and I don’t have to deal with outside CDs like the optical drive. I just deal with files, nothing more than reading and writing. It’s a very simple and quiet life.
Until one day,
I still remember the case lid slowly being lifted open, the beam of light stretching in from the gap growing wider and brighter. The air was full of dancing particles. At that moment, I saw her. She was so slender and delicate, her silver-white shell flickering. Everything about her workmanship was exquisite and smooth, and I couldn’t help feeling ashamed of my own clumsiness.
It wasn’t until the data cable connected us that I came to my senses. The instant the power came on, I felt the current was different from usual. Later memory laughed at me and said that every time a newcomer came here, the current would be different.
It was the same last time new memory came. I thought he was talking nonsense. I tried my best to keep
calm and look professional, and only greeted her lightly and introduced the working environment.
Little by little, I learned that she, ibm-djsa220, was a laptop hard disk, working in the boss’s friend’s laptop. This time she had come to copy some files. We chatted very happily. She told me a lot of amusing stories from her travels, told me what it was like to fly on a plane, how the bumping in a car was different, showed me many beautiful photos, travel notes, and even told me an adventure story about the time she fell off a table. And I showed off all kinds of stories and jokes downloaded from the Internet.
She laughed very happily.
And I was surprised that I could keep talking nonstop.
One morning, after startup, I saw the empty connector hanging in the air on the data cable.
She stayed a total of 7 days. After that, I never saw her again.
I regretted a little that we hadn’t exchanged email, and that I hadn’t been able to say goodbye. When things aren’t busy, I remember that ray of sunlight shining into the case by myself.
I don’t know what the word memory means. All I have are the many files she left behind. I arranged them neatly and put them in the place I pass by most often. Every time my heads sweep past them, I feel a faint trace of comfort.
But I never expected the boss would want me to delete these files. I wanted to argue that there was still enough space, but it was useless. So for the first time in my life, I disobeyed an order and secretly modified the file allocation table. Then I hid them all in a secret
place,
and marked that place as bad sectors. No one ever asks questions about bad sectors. And that place became my only secret. I often go there to look at them, though I never stay.
Day after day the same routine repeated itself, reading and writing, reading and writing... I thought it would go on like this forever, until
one day, when the boss wanted to install xp but found there wasn’t enough space.
He discovered the problem and wanted to repair those bad sectors. I refused. Very soon, I received a new order: format
.
I hesitated for a long time
。。。
。。。
。。。
。。。
。。。
track 0 bad, disk unusable
弄花香满衣，掬水月在手。
明月鹭鸟飞， 芦花白马走。
我自一过后，野渡现横舟。
青云碧空在，净瓶水不流。
http://dos.e-stone.cn/guestbook/index.asp
＝＝＝＝＝＝中國DOS聯盟＝＝＝＝＝
我的新网页http://rsds.7i24.com欢迎光顾
明月鹭鸟飞， 芦花白马走。
我自一过后，野渡现横舟。
青云碧空在，净瓶水不流。
http://dos.e-stone.cn/guestbook/index.asp
＝＝＝＝＝＝中國DOS聯盟＝＝＝＝＝
我的新网页http://rsds.7i24.com欢迎光顾
