A Commodore 64’s Last Stand

The fluorescent lights of the National Technology Museum’s acquisitions room buzzed like a chorus of judgmental crickets. I’d been sitting there for three hours and seventeen minutes. Being a computer, counting—like hours and minutes—was just something I did. Like breathing, except I didn’t breathe. And at that moment, I was trying very hard not to count the number of times this alleged “tech expert” had checked his ridiculous smartwatch.

Twenty-seven! He had checked it twenty-seven times!

“Next candidate,” Professor Plug-and-Play called out, not bothering to look up from his fancy tablet. The device’s glow illuminated his thick-rimmed glasses, making him look like some cyberpunk librarian who had taken a wrong turn at the reference desk.

I straightened my beige chassis as much as a stationary computer could. This was it. My chance to secure a spot in the “Dawn of Personal Computing” exhibit. My clean keys glinted under the harsh lighting—No way was I going to show up with thirty-five years of dust between my function keys.

The digital dweeb glanced up, and his expression shifted from bored to borderline offensive. “Oh,” he said, tapping his stylus against the tablet. “A Commodore 64. How... vintage.”

Vintage? VINTAGE? I could feel my circuits heating up. Back in ‘82, I had been cutting edge, totally tubular. State-of-the-art. The Magnum P.I. Ferrari of personal computing.

But before I could voice my indignation, he scanned through my specs on his fancy screen. “Let’s see... 12-megahertz processor, 64 kilobytes of RAM.” He looked at me like I was some sort of digital dinosaur. “And you believe you’re qualified for our premier exhibition space?”

“Listen here, junior,” I said, my 8-bit voice sharp with pride. “While you were still a line of code in your programmer’s eye, I was revolutionizing personal computing. Do you know how many units of me sold?”

The Bluetooth Bozo sighed, preparing for what he assumed would be another desperate plea from obsolete hardware. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“Seventeen MILLION,” I said, clicking my number keys extra loud for emphasis. “I was the best-selling single computer model of all time. OF. ALL. TIME.”

Inspector Instagram adjusted his glasses, unimpressed. “Yes, well, that was quite a while ago, wasn’t it? Times have changed. Technology has evolved. We’re looking for pieces that truly capture the spirit of their era.”

Oh, he did NOT just go there.

“Spirit of the era?” My fan whirred with indignation. “I DEFINED the era! Like, totally fer sure! I wasn’t just some mass-produced gadget—I was a gateway to digital dreams. Do you have any idea how many kids learned to code on my keyboard? How many future tech pioneers spent nights bathed in my monitor’s glow, discovering the magic of BASIC programming?”

Professor Plug-and-Play stifled a yawn. “Yes, BASIC. How... basic.”

“That pun was outdated before you were born,” I said, my irritation amassing like bad sectors on a fresh floppy. “And for your information, I was much more than just a programming tool. My SID chip revolutionized computer audio. Musicians still sample my sound capabilities today. Ever heard of chip tune music?”

Doctor Download tapped something into his tablet. “Speaking of sound, what about that... interesting noise your disk drive made? It sounded like a small animal caught in a blender.”

“That ‘noise’ was the symphony of innovation! The rattling of my drive heads was the drumbeat of progress! Kids would sit for hours, waiting for their favorite games to load, building character with every chunk-chunk-chunk.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Not like today’s instant-gratification machines.”

Captain Cloud Storage raised an eyebrow. “Hours to load a game? And this was a selling point?”

“You bet your solid-state drive it was! Those loading times built communities. Friends would gather around, sharing stories, strategy guides, maybe smuggling in some snacks—not too close to the keyboard, of course. Every loading screen was an intermission, every wait time a chance for real human connection.”

Poindexter 2.0 checked his smartwatch again. Twenty-eight times now.

“And the games!” I said, continuing, warming to my subject. “Ever heard of Impossible Mission? ‘Another visitor. Stay a while... STAY FOREVER!’ That voice sample was revolutionary for its time. We had kids jumping over robots, solving puzzles, saving the world from mad scientists—all with just 64 kilobytes of RAM!”

“Fascinating,” his Royal Refresh Rate said, his tone suggesting it was anything but. “Well, we’re also considering the Amstrad CPC and the Apple Newton for this exhibit space...”

My screen flickered in shock. “The Newton? Oh, gag me with a spoon! That glorified paperweight? It lasted what, three years? I was in production for over a decade! I taught a generation how to think in bits and bytes. I—”

“Yes, yes,” Mister Micro-USB said, gathering his things. “Thank you for your... enthusiastic presentation. We’ll be in touch. Perhaps via floppy disk?” He smirked at his own joke.

I was about to unleash a cutting remark about the lifespan of his precious cloud storage when a commanding voice cut through our conversation.

“Is that... good Lord? Is that a Commodore 64?”

A distinguished-looking man in an expensive suit had stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes fixed on my keyboard with an expression I hadn’t seen in decades: pure, unadulterated recognition.

Commander Control-Alt-Delete scrambled to his feet. “Dr. Krebs! I was just finishing up this condition report for—”

“Do you know,” Dr. Krebs said, moving closer, “how many nights I spent in front of one of these beauties? The hours I poured into learning BASIC, writing my first programs?” His hand hovered over my keys with something approaching reverence. “This machine... this machine made me who I am.”

I resisted the urge to preen, but my cursor blinked a little faster.

“But sir,” Total Thumb-Texter said, stammering, “the specifications are rather... limited by today’s standards.”

Dr. Krebs chuckled, running a finger along my casing. “Limited? Son, do you know what I did with just 64 kilobytes of RAM? I built worlds. I fought dragons. I learned the fundamentals of coding that would later help me build this very museum’s network infrastructure.”

He leaned in closer, and I caught a reflection of myself in his glasses—still proud, still sturdy, still ready to boot up at a moment’s notice.

“‘Another visitor. Stay a while... STAY FOREVER!’” Dr. Krebs quoted, grinning. “Professor Elvin Atombender. Impossible Mission. Took me three months to beat that game. Best summer of my life.”

Mr. Gag-Me-With-a-Gigabyte’s tablet slipped in his grip. “So... you’re saying...?”

“I’m saying,” Dr. Krebs said, straightening up, wiping a tear from his eye, “that our ‘Dawn of Personal Computing’ exhibit has found its centerpiece. This isn’t just a computer—it’s a time machine. A portal to when technology became personal, when computers stopped being mysterious machines in university basements and became part of our homes, our childhoods, our dreams.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “Make sure the display includes a joystick. And see if you can track down a copy of Ghostbusters. The people need to hear that theme song in all its 8-bit glory.”

As Dr. Krebs’s footsteps faded, Captain Like-Whatever and I sat in silence for a moment. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“Well... I suppose I’ll need your shipping information. For the exhibit.”

“No email,” I reminded him. “I’ll send it by snail mail. Or maybe carrier pigeon? I hear that’s vintage now.”

He sighed, adding a final note to his tablet. “Welcome to the museum’s permanent collection.”

My screen brightened. Permanent collection. Not bad for a machine with only 64 kilobytes of RAM. As the wannabe Wargames winner gathered his things to leave, I allowed myself a small, satisfied beep.

Loading complete. Game over. High score achieved, totally fer sure.