Tech support. Two words that strike terror into the hearts of anyone who’s ever tried to, you know, use technology. If Dante were alive today, there’d be a 10th circle of hell, and it would be a never-ending loop of trying to fix your Wi-Fi with a tech support rep named “Kyle.”
It always begins the same way: hope. You’ve hit a snag—your printer’s spitting out blank pages, your internet’s slower than a carrier pigeon, or your smart fridge has decided it’s smarter than you. You think, I’ll just call tech support. They’ll help. Oh, sweet, naive optimism.
The first hurdle? The phone tree. “Please press 1 for account issues, press 2 for technical problems, press 3 if you’ve lost the will to live.” You press 2. “Please describe your problem in a few words.”
“My internet is down,” you say confidently.
The robotic voice responds, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Did you mean, ‘I need to upgrade my service?’”
“No!” you shout. “My internet. Is. Down!”
“Let me transfer you to someone who can help,” it says, as if this isn’t its job, and then—silence. You’re on hold. The music kicks in, a single loop of instrumental jazz that sounds like it was recorded in a dentist’s waiting room in 1987.
When you finally reach a human, they’re either way too chipper or so indifferent that you’re convinced they’re working from a bunker in another dimension. “Hi, this is Kyle! How can I assist you today?” Kyle, buddy, you know why I’m here.
“Have you tried restarting your device?” he asks. Oh, Kyle. Kyle, Kyle, Kyle. Of course, I’ve restarted it. That’s the only thing I’ve done. But I humor him because I need Kyle on my side.
Next, he tells me to unplug the router, count to ten, and plug it back in. This is when I start questioning everything. Why ten seconds? Is there a router fairy that needs a full ten to reset the system? Would five seconds work? What if I count in dog years?
While I’m crawling under my desk, Kyle starts typing furiously. I imagine he’s taking notes like: Customer may be unhinged. Recommend escalating.
And escalate they do. To “advanced support.” Now I’m in tech support purgatory, on hold again, listening to jazz so bad it should be illegal. Occasionally, a robotic voice chimes in to say, “Your call is very important to us.” Really? Because it feels like my call is a game of hot potato that nobody wants to catch.
When “advanced support” finally arrives, their first move is to repeat everything Kyle had me do. At this point, I’m considering setting my router on fire and living off the grid. Who needs Netflix when you can learn to churn butter?
But here’s the kicker: eventually, it works. Some random combination of unplugging, re-plugging, restarting, and threatening to cancel your service does the trick. Your internet springs to life like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
And yet, the victory is hollow. What changed? Was it the 19th reboot? Kyle’s prayers? The router fairy waking up? Nobody knows.
Still, I’m weirdly grateful for tech support. Sure, they’ve shaved years off my life and made me question my sanity, but they’ve also taught me patience. And by “patience,” I mean learning how to scream into a pillow without frightening the neighbors.
So here’s to you, Kyle. May your hold music always be short and your scripts slightly less patronizing. And may I never, ever have to call you again.