Chapter 1: First steps, baby steps

2. First “real” job

The year was 1995, and the internet had not yet become mainstream, at least in Europe. I was a 21-year-old girl with a passion for all things tech, using a whopping 1200 baud modem to connect with my BBS (Bulletin Board System) friends who shared my skills and interests. Little did I know that my affinity for computers would lead me to a job that was both easy and incredibly fun, with the exception of those users from hell.

With my unruly reddish hair, t-shirt and black pants, and a stride that was a mix of enthusiasm and defiance, I approached the work market with the only viable reason at that age: independence. I wanted my own house with my own rules, and I wanted them as soon as possible, so I searched for jobs that would make good use of my capabilities while giving the most money.

Now, you might be wondering what led me here. Well, it all started when I was a kid, taking apart my family’s VCR to see how it worked, and in general being the one that knows how to use technology in the house. My parents and elder boomer brother never understood my obsession, but they couldn’t deny that I had talent for all things tech related. So, naturally, I decided to make a career out of it.

I had always been aware that I didn’t exactly fit the typical mold of a computer whiz. Instead of being the classic bespectacled nerd, I was a young woman who embraced her uniqueness. My passion for technology was as fiery as my bright red hair, and I refused to let stereotypes or expectations define me.

Having now dropped out of computer science engineering at university, I found myself working at a software company that specialized in creating collaboration software for pharmaceutical representatives. My official title was “Customer Support Representative,” but in reality, my job encompassed a whole lot more. I helped users navigate our software, beta-tested new versions, and wrote user manuals. And oh, the tales I could tell from those early days in tech support.

 The technology

This was an American company that sold a framework to be customized by the local subsidiaries, not just with language but also with specific features. It was an old day’s collaboration software where the users would dial in via modem from their portable laptop (and portable meant 3-5kg weight for a Pentium processor with maybe 4Mb RAM!) to upload their client data and download updates and messages, via modem on the telephony line. The first versions had no GUI. The message server was internal only, typically a unix OS with a large DB, hosted on our company’s local servers (what we would now call private cloud), and not connected to the internet or to any other external mail server, so they could only communicate within the server and remote clients topology.

The job

My desk was a haven of tech gear, complete with the latest computers and gadgets, some personalization, and a coffee mug that declared “No, I won’t fix your computer”.

My coworkers were a mix of personalities. My cubicle neighbor, Mauro, a developer and dba, had the ultimate decorations: his dead tarantulas pinned into frames, where you could watch and observe these fascinating creatures without the fear of them jumping on you. This is where my love for spiders all started. I embraced my unique identity in the male-dominated tech world, and I was known for my sarcastic wit and love of all things geeky.

Some were tech-savvy and got my sense of humor, while others… well, let’s just say they were tech-challenged. But one thing was for sure: I could always count on my fellow geeks to make me laugh.

One day, I was sipping my coffee and browsing through a new beta version of our software when my phone rang. It was our receptionist, Lisa, who had a knack for spotting the “users from hell” before they even made it to my desk.

“Hey, there’s a user here who’s convinced their computer is possessed,” Lisa said, her voice laced with amusement.

I chuckled and grabbed my headset. “Send the call up, I’ll perform an exorcism.”

Moments later, I was speaking on the phone with a frazzled pharmaceutical rep named Mr. B. who talked as if he’d seen a ghost, and not the friendly Casper type.

“Please, you have to help me. It’s doing things on its own!” he exclaimed.

I tried to maintain a straight face (we were told to never laugh or even smile while on the phone as the receiving end might tell) but couldn’t help the smirk that crept in. “Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with poltergeist computers before.”

I asked him if the cursor was darting around the screen as if it had a mind of its own. I knew the culprit immediately: a malfunctioning trackpad. I guided him to discreetly disabled the trackpad, enabled it back, and the cursor finally obeyed commands. Mr. B was enthusiastic and promised to send the laptop for repairs along with flowers… I did not mention how I have always loathed flowers: they made a great gift for my female colleagues.

My colleagues overheard the commotion and joined in the fun. Stefano, a tennis player with a collection of famous players pictures on his desk, quipped, “If the touchpad acts up again, just sprinkle some holy water on it.” Mauro, who would be mocked forever for showing up in a complete blazer and vest suit on his first day of work, chimed in, “Or call the Ghostbusters. They’re good with all things supernatural.”

Days like these were the norm in my job, where I never knew what kind of tech-related escapade I’d encounter next. Some days, it meant helping a user understand the basics of copy-paste (yes, in 1995, not everyone had mastered it, especially on non-graphic operating systems). Other days, it was deciphering why a user’s keyboard was suddenly typing in hieroglyphics (language settings, folks).

My colleagues and I had a blast sharing stories of our most memorable interactions with users from hell. There was that time a user called because her computer was “smoking.” Turned out, it was just a dust bunny in the exhaust fan. Then, there was the infamous “any key” incident, where a user couldn’t find the “any key” to continue an installation.

This was also a time filled with pranks: when, finally, our computers donned the Windows GUI, we used to screenshot the desktop of an unaware colleague, hide all the icons and then use it as the background picture, measuring the time it took to realize why clicking on the icons had no effect.

As much as I enjoyed the camaraderie with my tech-savvy coworkers, I couldn’t escape the occasional frustration that came with dealing with users who had literally never seen a computer before and were forced by the company to use it on a daily basis to record all their interactions and work (free data entry!). But I reminded myself that patience was a virtue, and each interaction was an opportunity to educate and help someone in need.

Back in the realm of tech-savvy coworkers, we often engaged in friendly competitions of who could come up with the most sarcastic but helpful response to absurd user queries. It was a way to let off steam and share a laugh during those long days of troubleshooting.

One day, as we gathered around my desk, I received an email from a user named Robert. His message read, “My computer is making strange noises. It’s like a mix of beeping, buzzing, and quacking. Is it possessed?”

My colleagues erupted into laughter. Stefano, who had a vast collection of sci-fi novels, said, “Tell him it’s just a computer duck. They’re known to be quite mischievous.”

I couldn’t resist the temptation. I replied to Robert, “Don’t worry, it’s just your computer duck, a distant relative of the ghost mouse. They tend to get chatty when they’re hungry. Try feeding it some virtual breadcrumbs.”

My colleagues and I had a good laugh, but we also took our roles seriously. We were responsible for ensuring that our software worked seamlessly for the pharmaceutical representatives who relied on it for their daily tasks. We beta-tested new versions rigorously, squashing bugs, and provided valuable feedback to our development team.

As for the user manuals, I approached that task with my own unique flair. Instead of dry and technical instructions, I infused them with humor and relatable anecdotes. I wanted our users to feel like they were having a conversation with a friend, not wading through a dense technical document. It was a small touch, but it made a big difference in our users’ experience. In the world of tech support in 1995, sarcasm and humor were my allies. They helped me navigate the challenging waters of clueless users, and they brought joy and camaraderie to my interactions with fellow tech geeks. Every day brought a new adventure, a fresh challenge, and a tale that I was sure one day would be the subject of a book.

It’s 1995. internet is not mainstream yet in Europe. you are a 21-year-old girl with good computer skills, using a 1200 baud modem to connect with your BBS friends with similar skills. these people will become your best friends for life. You are hired by a software company that localizes a pharmaceutical collaboration sofwtare (or the grandfather of a crm) for reps. describe your workplace with wit and sarcasm as people act a bit funny seeing you are a woman and not the usual eye glassed nerd. Internet is not there yet, and your job is technical support to those poor reps, forced to use technology to ditch the daily paperwork for a free data entry. your job is customer care representative, helping users with the software, and beta test the new versions, and writing user manuals. The  job is super easy and fun, except when dealing with users from hell. write with witty and sarcastic tone, adding conversations with unskilled computer users and funny colleagues who get it.