The Ticket

On my first day, they gave me a laptop.

It was heavy with institutional intent. Not physically - though that too - but metaphysically, like a rulebook or a prophecy. A sticker on the lid declared GPU ENABLED, which felt less like a specification and more like a warning.

“You’ll need WSL,” my manager said, already in motion. “IT has instructions.”

IT always has instructions. They are how IT proves it exists.

The instructions arrived from IT Support - Core Platforms, a title suggesting bedrock, inevitability, and a complete absence of doors. The document was twelve pages long and began with a disclaimer explaining that deviations might cause unexpected behavior. This was a relief, as compliance caused nothing at all.

Step 1 worked. Step 2 considered it. Step 3 failed.

This operation could not be completed.

No reason was given. Reasons, I would learn, are a premium feature.

I opened a ticket.

The system required classification. Hardware. Software. Network. Other (Please Specify).

I selected Software. Then Other. Then wrote what had happened, carefully, humbly, as one does when addressing a shrine.

It assigned me a ticket number of ceremonial length.

Two days passed.

On the third day, IT asked:

> Dear User,

Have you tried rebooting your machine?

I rebooted. The error returned immediately, unbothered, like a cat reclaiming a chair.

I replied with evidence. Logs. Screenshots. Their own documentation, quoted reverently, like scripture.

The ticket entered In Progress, briefly, then Pending User, despite my reply, and finally Escalated.

Escalation is not a ladder. It is a fog.

Time slowed. Replies thinned. The ticket seemed to recede from the present into a mythic past where all unsolved tickets go to graze.

After a week, I asked a colleague.

“Oh,” she said. “Yeah. That image is broken.”

She explained the ritual: disable virtualization, install WSL, re-enable it, manually update the kernel, apply a registry patch. She spoke quickly, quietly, like someone reciting illegal magic.

“Could you show me?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“I really shouldn’t,” she said. “It’s… sensitive.”

This was not information. It was rank.

I returned to IT and suggested the solution without naming its source, phrasing it as a question, like a confession disguised as curiosity.

IT replied:

> Dear User,

This configuration is not supported.

We have escalated this to the vendor.

Weeks passed.

My manager asked how onboarding was going.

“Fine,” I said. “Still waiting on IT.”

He nodded, eyes drifting upward, as if the ceiling might file a report.

A senior manager overheard.

“Oh, WSL,” he said, laughing. “Classic.”

He walked away still laughing, like someone remembering an old war wound that had technically healed.

I tried alternatives. Remote servers. Emulations. Each required a form. Each form a system. Each system another polite refusal wearing a different hat.

The laptop hummed patiently. Its GPU sat idle, powerful and unemployed, like a wizard assigned to filing.

One morning, the ticket closed.

No explanation. No fix. Just a survey.

How satisfied are you with the support you received?

I selected Neutral, which felt like the only choice that wouldn’t follow me home.

Immediately, the ticket reopened.

IT called me. A real voice. This felt important.

“Yes,” the voice said. “WSL is tricky.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“We don’t really support that setup.”

“But you issued the laptop,” I said. “And the instructions.”

A pause.

“Well,” the voice said, “those are more… guidelines.”

“I just need it to work.”

Another pause.

“Have you considered,” the voice asked gently, “requesting a different role?”

The line went dead.

The ticket status changed to Resolved.

The laptop remained exactly as it had arrived: capable of everything except usefulness.

Somewhere, deep in the infrastructure, a system recorded that assistance had been successfully provided.

******

Addendum

I hear they’re hiring in IT again.

There’s been some illness. Some unfortunate accidents. Very sad. HR sent a tasteful email about resilience.

Lately, I’ve been dabbling in the dark arts. Nothing extravagant - just the usual rites. Candles. Salt. A carefully worded incantation copied from an archived forum post dated 2009. The ritual requires selling one’s soul to the nether regions of Hell, which sounds dramatic until you realize the paperwork is lighter and the SLAs are honest.

Besides, dealing with IT already means dealing with the same types. Demons, at least, are upfront about their terms. They tell you what they want, what they’ll take, and exactly how long you’ll scream. There’s a form, yes, but it has one field and it works.

What choice did I have?

The laptop still doesn’t run WSL. But sometimes, late at night, the error message flickers. Just for a moment. As if considering me. As if aware that I now have other channels of escalation.

I haven’t used them yet.

I’m not unreasonable.

But it’s comforting to know that somewhere below - far below - the ticket is already marked In Progress.