It was a muggy evening, the wetness of the air like a coarse blanket smothering everything, even the sun's lingering rays, in its liquid embrace. I and my family, like fools, stood outside, as we watched the little drone I'd gotten for Christmas popping up and down pathetically. No matter what, it could not maintain its altitude. This is a problem for a flying machine.
The little drone had been ailing for some months, and I'd put off flying it because I didn't want to face the prospect that it might truly be broken. Its attempts to take off were half-hearted, and one rotor would only spin if given some initial impulse by my finger. It flew without speed, dropping a foot or more every time I tried to turn it. It looked tired.
The drone had no system of communicating what was wrong. It was up to me to observe it and infer the problem. After a few simple tests, I determined that the weak rotor was to blame, and all the others were exhausting themselves trying to make up for it. So I need to replace that rotor, no problem.
The copy machines where I work are filled with helpful advice on how to repair them when they break. They're so sure of themselves that they will force you to follow their instructions, and if you don't, they'll refuse to even try to make copies. Eighty percent of the time, the copiers are right, and the instructions they communicate resolve the issue. The remaining twenty percent are a real hassle. I'm usually left going through the motions to convince the machine that it was right about the problem, while fixing a completely different (unidentified) problem at the same time. It requires a lot of dexterity and subterfuge to fix a copier, unless you're just replacing a part entirely.
You (usually) can't just replace the parts of people that aren't operating at maximum efficiency. That goes for the parts of their personalities that might impair their efficiency, too. What's worse, people can be difficult to convince to tell you what's wrong, but once they do, they often have even less of an idea than those carefully programmed machines. They don't just get things wrong, either -- they might tell you the completely wrong problem on purpose, just to distract you from the true matter that's affecting them.
I want to be a cobbler, a mender of bad soles. I want to offer what solace I can to those in need. It's something that I've been driven towards since I was a very young child, since the first moment I realized others could feel pain, and I might have the power to help take it away. But I can't do it as a profession (can't, won't). And I've grown increasingly frustrated with the realization that there is so little I should do without any professional training. Is there really no more to it than to rub each others' shoulders, and be content?
I replaced the rotor. I took great care as I peeled back layer after layer of protective plastic coating and circuitry, unhooked slender wires from petite connectors, and untangled the mass of wires hiding within to remove the bad rotor. When I was done putting the new rotor in, it looked more like ivy running through a garden lattice than any cold work of technology. I sealed the drone up, inserted a battery, and watched with delight as its blinking blue and red lights reactivated, indicating its readiness to fly.
Tentatively, I lifted the remote control and nudged it to life. All four rotors spun up rapidly, and it lifted with a steadiness that I hadn't seen in months. Just like that, my drone was restored.
I wish I could help people as well as I helped that flying machine, but my hands will forever be too clumsy. So I will offer what comfort I can, during the unsteadying, the wobbling, the inevitable descent, and together we will find what heights there are, and more.
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