The Ubiquitous Y2K Piece

by A. E. O'Neill

[Originally published December 17, 1999]

When I first started working in this industry, in the fall of 1996, the Y2K Bug phenomenon hadn't really registered on the radar screen of public consciousness. When my hard-core techie coworkers debated the issue, my eyes would glaze over, and when they asked what I thought of the Problem, they might as well have been asking, "Would you like a complimentary copy of The Watchtower?"

Outside of work, I eventually became an expert on the subject by sheer virtue of being the only one in the room with any knowledge of the subject. If it came up at a party, I grudgingly rose to the occasion and presented the facts. Non-computer people inevitably concluded that it was all a money-making strategy cooked up by consultants, programmers and advertisers. I invariably found myself playing devil's advocate to this theory, spouting worst-case scenarios that even I found far-fetched, until everyone else was as exhausted with the subject as I was.

Over the years, the Problem has evolved in public perception from a slightly-more-credible-than-average conspiracy theory to what it finally is, in the last days of the Millennium: A Great Unknown.

It's eerie how we deal with Unknowns in the "Information Age," which is to say, terribly. Cynics and survivalists alike defend their positions so vehemently because it's the only way to assert control. You get the impression that survivalists would love nothing more than to see society come to a crashing halt (heh, get it?) at the stroke of midnight so they could turn to the terminally, technically unsavvy masses, and say, "I told you so." On the other hand, anyone sick and tired of watching the geeks inherit the earth will be filled with self-righteous glee if they can stagger home New Year's Morning, drunk and tired, but secure in the observation that the pillars of civilization are still intact.

My faith in the inviolability of capitalism, information and technology didn't waver until last week, when the management distributed a Y2K Information Sheet to the tenants of my building. The inoffensive little Xeroxed page began with soothing assurances that there will — probably — be no interruptions in electricity, heat, telephone or cable service, but here was a list of precautions... Just In Case.

Of course, any sensible person living in an earthquake-prone area already has these items stockpiled in a safe place: a three day supply of nonperishable food and bottled water, batteries, blankets, flashlights, candles, cash, etc. Each of the items on the list was prefaced with a gentle disclaimer: "It's unlikely that we will experience an interruption in power, but..."

It gave me flashbacks to that safety pamphlet I try to avoid when flying.

Let's face it, compared to the vivid mental image of a burning aircraft hurtling into the ocean, the words, "In the unlikely event of a water landing..." lack the power to convey how unlikely that event really is.

A level-headed, computer-literate friend called me the other night to tell me that she was finally getting scared; apparently these lists were making the rounds. The only thing I could think to say was something from the seldom-used "maternal wisdom" arsenal, along the lines of "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst." The worst, in this case, would be... what? Global economic collapse? Food shortages and power failures? Riots and looting as the lower classes rise up against their oppressors and the middle classes crack under decades of stress in a panic-stricken frenzy? Maybe the grey aliens, Jesus Christ and Elvis will all return at midnight to deliver humankind an unmistakable message about the meaning of life.

Or maybe, we will kiss feverishly and crowd together, dancing, screaming, laughing and spilling champagne as we share with every other living human being the one moment in our lifetimes when we will feel the most connected, taxing power grids the world over as we simultaneously honk our horns, email our friends, blast Prince's "1999" for the last time, marvel at the televised immortality of Dick Clark, watch streaming video of all the other parties we're missing, turn on every light and blender and video camera and vacuum cleaner and hair dryer in the house at the same time just because we can... and wake up to the first day of the new millennium nursing the mother of all hangovers. And maybe, we'll all go back to work Monday feeling a tiny, perverse, guilty, irrational sense of disappointment that the world didn't end after all.