The Real Apple of His Eye

By Philip Faflick

How families come apart in the face of the micro invasion

When Advertising Executive Todd Lief, 47, gave up his four-pack-a-day cigarette habit a few years ago, he put aside his tobacco money to buy an Apple computer. His wife Jo, 44, a Chicago family therapist, supported the idea. At least at first. Then she discovered that computers, like cigarettes, can be habit forming. "He really got into it," she says. "After a while, I felt angry--abandoned. On a sunny, beautiful day he would sit at the computer for eight hours straight."

Fortunately, Jo has been able to adjust to her husband's obsession. While Todd fiddles with the keyboard, she goes out with friends, gabs on the phone or just immerses herself in a bubble bath. Says she: "It gives me more time to do what I want to do. I'm glad to have the independence." But their case may be a happy exception. Throughout the nation, thousands of couples who have survived Monday Night Football, jogging and the ERA debate are facing a trickier challenge. The computer that they were told would bring the family closer together may now be driving them apart. Says San Diego Psychologist Thomas McDonald: "They're beginning to realize they're losing their spouses to a machine."

McDonald has seen enough computer-related distress in the past two years to design psychological tests to sell to companies that want to spot victims of the new ailment. According to McDonald, the sufferers are trying to keep up with machines that never sleep and never deviate from perfect linear logic. "Since human relations are neither linear nor logical," he says, "they grow increasingly isolated from their families and the whole feeling world."

The complaint strikes hardest among top programmers and systems managers. Among the first signs: a cavalier attitude toward eating schedules and a leaning toward late-night emergencies at the office. "Often I'd tell my wife I'd be home for dinner at 5 o'clock, but the next thing I knew, it was 8," recalls Bob Fagan, a San Diego data-processing professional. "I was so locked into the technology, so out of touch with the emotional part of marriage, that when we finally separated, it was like a freight train coming through our living room. I was not prepared."

At times, Connie Washam, 32, has nearly given up on her husband Gary, marketing director for a San Diego com puter graphics firm. "We don't plan on him for dinner," she says. "We don't plan on him for anything. He's kind of a drop-in guest." Says Gary in his defense: "I'm in a double bind. The computer gives me immediate rewards. I get positive strokes every time I solve a problem. On the other hand, I enjoy being with my family. But if you spend too much time with them, you lose your edge in the computer industry."

Jerry Gallagher of White Plains, N.Y., finds himself, at 48, in the midst of divorce proceedings. He has been married 21 years, is the father of three children and vice president of a company that makes portable computers. He feels the complexity of the technology contributed to his alienation from his family: "It bothers me when I tell my wife we can go to 256K bytes of memory and it means nothing to her. I don't want to be sexist, but women don't understand."

Surprisingly, Gallagher's analysis is shared by many professionals. "Computers and video games are clearly sexist," says Stanford Psychologist Philip Zimbardo. "The programs feed into the learned differences between men and women, like mathematics and engineering." Zimbardo believes that increased sales of home computers could spread addiction and its attendant vexations. "As more people get involved with computers in their everyday lives," he warns, "we are likely to see more of these problems in the general population."

Right now there are almost 2 million personal and home computers in the U.S., and manufacturers will ship nearly 2 million more this year. One company alone, Timex, is turning out copies of its $99.95 computer at the rate of one machine every ten seconds. As a rule of thumb, Columnist Art Buchwald has suggested, "For every home computer sold in America, there is a computer widow somewhere."

"Sports widow, computer widow, you name it, that's me," says Actress Elaine Grant, 25. Three months ago, her husband brought home a $250 Commodore VIC 20. "I have to laugh sometimes," she says. "When friends come, Jerry immediately drags them over to show them the computer. Some may actually understand what's going on, but most just stand there and smile and can't wait to get away." Jerry, 42, a violinist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and his son David, 9, now while away the hours playing games, composing music and deciphering complex programs. "Jerry has begged me to show some interest," Elaine confesses, "but I can't. It's ugly. It makes obnoxious noises. It has about 80 zillion things stuck to the back of the TV. Hair dryers self-destruct in my hands, so why should I touch the computer?"

Many women, rather than join the computer revolution, have hammered out peace pacts with their mates. In Palo Alto, Calif., a woman who spent five years with an Atari programmer finally imposed a 15-minute limit on uninterrupted talk about his work. In Atlanta the wife of a former camera bug who switched to home computers uses travel to protect their relationship. Says she: "I insist that we go to our place at the lake every weekend to get him away from the computer."

That would not have stopped Bart Voyce. He takes his portable computer nearly everywhere, from a New Year's Eve party to the roof of his Newark apartment building, where he mixes programming with nude sunbathing. He threatened to bring it along on his honeymoon. "I'm kind of patient," says Lisa, his wife of two months, "but after a while, it gets annoying. He'll be programming for hours, and I'll be staring at his back. I finally got involved in computers just to keep up. You can't let a machine come between you."

Says Stanford's Zimbardo: "As corny as it sounds, we need to re-establish family rituals, such as family meals with meaningful conversation." Even the most hard-nosed software freak will agree in principle, but sometimes it is not easy. "I'd sell my computer before I'd sell my children," deadpans Atlantic Monthly Editor James Fallows, who happily traded in his typist for his word processor, "but the kids better watch their step."

--By Philip Faflick.

Reported by Robert T. Grieves/ New York and Joseph Pilcher/ Los Angeles

With reporting by Robert T. Grieves, Joseph Pilcher

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