A friend of mine died a few months ago, and I didn’t take it so well.

Granted, it was just an iPod, but in so many ways, it was more than that. I had spent two years — a century in MP3 player terms — carrying it everywhere I went. At first it was a prized possession, never leaving my protective fingertips. Eventually, though, it joined me in the gym, got tossed into my backpack at the start of class and was generally taken for granted. It joined me for study sessions at the library, kept me company on campus and helped me make it through regular car rides home. I got cocky and started thinking it was built to be handled however I wanted and that it would never cut out. This was my iPod, somehow supreme to others like it and impervious to my 20-something bouts of recklessness.

Of course, there was nothing special about my iPod. It just happened to be my first, a 4^th generation that was pretty nifty at the time. It had 30 gigs of memory, most of which were devoted to music and a handful of photo albums. I gave up Limewire and other illegal downloading services when I got the iPod. Somehow it seemed too dignified for all that. But there was no issue of morality with borrowing a CD here, copying a playlist there. Soon it was full of music I loved but never would have owned (William Shatner), music I hated to admit I had (Dashboard Confessional) and music I’d never admit to loving or having (Spice Girls). My collection was full and dynamic. It was perfect.

And then…it was gone.

It started one day when I turned it on and was met with a completely blank library. It was like I’d opened it for the first time. In a sweat of panic, I reset the iPod and exhaled deeply when I was met with all the familiar songs. I thought I dodged a bullet, but I was denying the inevitability of it all. Countless friends had told me horror stories of dead batteries and broken spinwheels. I told myself that couldn’t happen to me, not to what had become nothing short of a friend. Of course, I was wrong.

When it happened, when it was really all over, I knew it. There was no blank screen this time, just a frowning triangle that told me to visit www.apple.com. Adding to the depression of losing the iPod itself, I was also without most of the music that had once been stored on it. In a cruel twist of technological fate, my equally crappy computer had crashed a few months earlier, robbing me of all the music I had ripped, borrowed and stolen over the previous two years. Sure, there was my CD collection, but that only covered so much ground. It assured me I still had most of my Ben Folds, David Bowie and Counting Crows collections —not to mention the Worst of Weezer (meaning everything after Pinkerton) and no fewer than two Tim McGraw albums.

I went through all the stages of grief.

Denial. Maybe it will kick back on. Maybe if I leave it sitting here on the edge of my desk, give it time to breathe…

It didn’t make sense, but if it did, I couldn’t call it denial, could I?

Anger. Stupid cheap piece of crap. Why would they make something so worthless? Who would buy such a stupid worthless effing piece of…damn it.

I’m not proud of it, but I fantasized about disposing of the hunk of metal in a way that would be both dramatic and suitable. I fought the urge once or twice to toss it out my car window at 65 mph, only because I was afraid I couldn’t properly view its final demise while also keeping my eyes on the road.

Bargaining. If I buy a new one, I’ll start all over. I’ll buy all the music, I’ll back it up and things will be OK again.

Nevermind the fact that some of that music just couldn’t be replaced. I couldn’t even remember what I had.

Depression. I miss you so much. I loved you. You were my best friend.

That last one was a really weird phase.

And finally, there was acceptance. Sort of.

As a last ditch effort, I decided I would crack the back off of my iPod in an effort to replace the battery myself, just in case it would help me at least retrieve the music. It was next to hopeless, but I didn’t have much more to rely on. With the smallest blade on a Swiss Army knife, I dug into the metal casing, and as I pried it up, I heard a click I hadn’t heard in months.

It clicked on. The damn thing clicked on. As if nothing ever happened, the screen came on and I shouted with glee. I hooked it up to the Bose and started charging it, all while frantically handwriting playlists. I shouted again. My friend was back.

The music is all backed up now, temporarily, until I can bring myself to buy a new one. The old one comes with me still, to work, in my backpack and on treadmill runs. There’s nothing more than a small indentation at its base to remind me of the time when I almost lost it — and of course I’m right back to taking it for granted. It is my iPod, after all.

Leave a Reply