My Global Position

Copyright 2002 W. Bruce Cameron — Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

For my birthday this year, my family purchased me a GPS, which stands for "Global Positioning Unit," don't ask me how. It's a little hand-held device that communicates with a satellite overhead. "Where's Bruce?" the GPS asks. "Right there," the satellite responds. As I peer at the tiny display, I can locate where I am within forty feet of where I am. This can be useful if you're in a part of the house you don't recognize. Push a button and the display informs you of where you are in relationship to Denver , to the Konkoly Observatory in Budapest , and to the planet Neptune . Usually, Denver is closest.

There's a little graph at the bottom of the display. I have no idea what it is supposed to be tracking, but, like everything else in my life, it seems to be trending downward.

My GPS is shaped like a small brick and weighs about the same. I'm supposed to carry it in my pocket when I go hiking so I don't get lost. (I picture myself whipping out my GPS to calm my children. "See? We're not lost. The Konkoly Observatory is that way!") After walking for about ten minutes with this thing in my pocket, I'll have a Budapest-shaped bruise on my thigh and will have to lie down. So that's another way the GPS prevents you from getting lost, by causing you so much pain you never stray too far from your house.

It's supposed to be able to communicate with my computer, though what they are saying to each other I don't know. Probably the computer says, "What? You don't crash several times a day? Then how do you lose important files?" Using special software, I can download maps into my GPS, which is how I know that there is a Shell station in Atlanta , Georgia . This isn't a question I wanted to ask, I was just punching buttons at random and now I've got this Shell station I can't get rid of. I think I have to go there before my GPS will let me clear it off the screen. (If you're ever running out of gas in Atlanta , give me a call and I'll tell you the exact latitude and longitude of the place.).

If you're a woman, you probably think I ought to read the instructions to this thing. The owner's manual actually weighs more than the GPS. If you read the whole book cover to cover, you get a Ph.D. I've glanced through it and realized I can't read it because it is written in metric.

I guess I'm sort of concerned that the government spent the money to put up a satellite just to monitor my whereabouts in the first place. As I understand from the owner's manual, the satellite in question hangs in "geo-synchronous orbit", which means it doesn't ever move. So this thing must be sitting right above my house! With space junk falling out of the sky all the time, this just gives me another thing to worry about. I'm assuming my GPS will beep or something if its satellite becomes weary of holding itself up there and decides to plummet toward the house of Bruce, giving me and my family time to put on a helmet and maybe stand in the yard with a tennis racket. I called my insurance agent to ask him if my policy protected me from falling geo-synchronous satellites, and he just got irritated with me. He told me not to worry, which is easy for him to say-he's not the one with orbiting spacecraft stuck over his head 24 hours a day!

Punching buttons, I've come across a readout that tells me how far I've gone in life. Not very far, which means the GPS is in agreement with my father. It also tells me how long it has been since I've moved off the couch, which is something else I don't need because I get regular updates on this matter from certain other people. At least the GPS doesn't have a list of chores for me to do-or if it does, I haven't been able to find it.

So, if you're ever looking for me, give me a call and I'll be able to tell you where I am. Well, within 40 feet.

Write to Bruce.

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