Nobody’s ever walked into a computer repair shop with a smile on their face. Distress is the only reason for being there. Computers are great until they fail, in which case they become one of the worst scourges to ever blacken human civilization, only taking a backseat to racism and plaid earmuffs.

So when I lumbered in and heard the cheery little ting of the bell above the door, I took it as one of life’s mocking ironies. The previous evening, my laptop had decided it was sick of TED Talk videos and scholarly articles on the mythology of Batman, and refused altogether to connect to my internet WiFi. What’s more, its capability to detect any wireless networks at all had been disabled. This was deeply troubling to me, because without the internet I can’t log onto Facebook to see thirdgrade buddies post pictures of cookies I’ll never eat.

Hunkered over a pile of switches and motherboards with a screwdriver in one hand was a man of about 30 who I’ll call “Boogerface.” He’d have gotten a nicer code name if he was a nicer guy. His repair shop was small – two adjoining rooms, one with chairs and magazine racks hemmed into a corner by an industrial vacuum cleaner, one with a work table and piles of gadgets in various states of dismemberment. I immediately felt silly with my little internet problem. Dude looked he was dismantling a bomb.

Initially he didn’t exhibit any red-flag behavior. I explained my problem and he assured me it would be a quick fix, directing me to take a seat in his waiting area, which had all the claustrophobic charm of a plastic Porta Potty.

The problems began when “Daffodil” entered the shop. Daffodil gets a sweet pseudonym because she was clearly a very sweet woman. Aged between 60 and 65, with bottle red curls and a precariously placed pair of Canasta glasses, she immediately exhibited the characteristics of a chronically pleasant lady: A quick smile, a friendly “Hello,” and the kind of delicate gait that suggests she likes her fun low-volume. A book club lady, a cribbageand Yahtzee lady. The kind of person you hope visits you on Christmas morning.

Boogerface apparently had a less favorable impression, because when he called Daffodil into his work area, he did so with the terseness of a drill sergeant holding in a fart. Apparently, Daffodil’s computer troubles were of a moderate-tosevere nature; she’d left hers at the shop overnight, and because I was shamelessly eavesdropping, I picked up on the fact that she’d had several of her important files backed up for their protection. Daffodil remarked at one point that she was having trouble navigating through her newly reorganized files.

“Have the new versions of these documents been saved?” she asked. “I guess I don’t understand how these are laid out.”

“How do you not understand?” Boogerface shot back with the petulance of a knowit all school bully. “They’re all right here.”

“Yes, but before I came in, they –”

“Can you let me finish? See here. They’re all in this folder, and –”

“Yes, but my question is –”

“Let me finish. They’re all in this folder, and when you look at ‘date modified,’ you see which version is the most recent.”

“Yes, but –”

“This is not very difficult.”

And on and on it went. It was mostly Boogerface’s tone that implied impatience and belligerence, to the extent that I half-expected him to rise to his feet and challenge Daffodil to a no-holds-barred steel cage match on pay-per-view. Keep in mind that this is a woman who likely knits mittens for her grandchildren.

The shopkeeper’s attitude suggested a deep lack of professionalism, but more than that, it betrayed a profound ignorance of how members of certain generations perceive all things digital. People in their 30s – like me and Boogerface – came of age at a time when computers and the internet were just getting off the runway. We were perfectly positioned to evolve along with the technology, and as such, we became familiar with the language and the skills necessary to incorporate it into our lives. Older generations, by contrast, grew up with gramophones and cars the size of humpback whales. You don’t see a lot of people over 50 logging into Playstation’s online network to play “Grand Theft Auto” against cyberhackers from Algeria.

Disrespect wasn’t Boogerface’s only transgression, though. He also made an inherently unpleasant situation worse.

Computer repair is a lot like car repair. We need these hunks of junk to remain in the flow of daily life, but we don’t really know how they work, and when they go on the fritz we rely on the expertise of professionals to get them back into fighting shape. That’s not easy. Not only do you have to cede control to someone else, but you’re inviting them into a strangely intimate corner of your life. If you doubt that, consider this: With computers, as with cars, it’s probably best to give the insides a good once-over just to make sure the guy with the wrench doesn’t stumble upon anything embarrassing. The last thing you need is some schmuck like Boogerface knowing you’re into X-rated videos of 7-foot-tall transgender bodybuilders named Bubba.

Since it’s so awkward for the customer, these repair folk have an obligation, it seems. To fix your device, yes, but also to make the process as smooth for the customer as possible. Maintenance is a stressful and often messy chore, and it helps to be tended to by someone with a soothing bedside manner. Otherwise, you end up bickering with a guy whose temperament is better suited to the trash-talking swagger of mixed martial arts.

Ironically, since Boogerface helped restore my laptop’s internet capability, I can leave his business a negative review on Yelp. And no one will be yelling at me to let them finish.

— Contact Jeff at jelagasse@gmail.com.