Federal IT
Part 6
Revenge of the Service Desk

PROLOGUE — THURSDAY BOOTS WITH AN IDENTITY CRISIS

Thursday began the way Federal IT days apparently prefer to begin: with a computer that had forgotten where the fuck it lived.

I arrived at work early. Early enough that, in theory, I should have been able to sit down, log in, drink coffee, check tickets, and enjoy a few peaceful minutes before the rest of the federal machine woke up.

Instead, Teams and Word were behaving like my government laptop had wandered away from the domain sometime during the night and joined a traveling circus.

Wonderful.

Iron Dork had arrived. The armor was powered. The coffee systems were nominal. The workstation?

Identity crisis.

So before the morning meeting even started, I rebooted.

Because in information technology, rebooting is simultaneously a troubleshooting technique, a religious ritual, and an admission that nobody really knows what the fuck Windows is doing.

The machine came back.

Good enough.

There were more important enemies approaching.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT I — THE MORNING BRIEFING

The group meeting began. Management discussed the important issues of the day.

Keep your tickets updated.

Close your tickets on time.

Document things.

Make sure things are current.

The ancient commandments of Federal IT.

Nothing particularly shocking there.

Then came another topic.

TRAVEL.

Apparently, there was an emphasis on technicians traveling more often.

Which immediately created a small philosophical problem inside Iron Dork’s helmet.

Because we have something called a Point of Duty.

POD.

A place where you are, theoretically, stationed to perform your duties.

Federal IT:

Here is your Point of Duty.

Also Federal IT:

Please leave it more often.

Sure.

Why the fuck not?

At this point the meeting continued speaking, but my brain had already transferred to another mission.

Because while everybody else discussed tickets, travel, documentation, and whatever other thrilling administrative adventures were occurring, I was attempting to understand...

CISCO JABBER.

This would prove to be a mistake.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT II — REVENGE OF THE POWERPOINT

There was a PowerPoint presentation. Supposedly, this PowerPoint existed to explain how to configure and use Jabber and Finesse.

That was the theory.

The presentation began normally enough.

Enter your identifier.

Enter credentials.

Go here.

Click this.

Install that.

Fine.

Iron Dork understands instructions.

Iron Dork has installed things before.

Iron Dork has survived Group Policy.

We can do this.

Then the presentation apparently suffered a head injury.

One slide seemed connected to the previous slide. The next slide appeared to have been written by someone working on a completely different mission.

Then we were in another system.

Then another login.

Then another request.

Then another process.

At some point I stopped feeling like I was configuring a softphone and started feeling like I was assembling the Infinity Gauntlet from spare enterprise applications.

Jabber.

Finesse.

Access requests.

Password requests.

Approval workflows.

Telework scripts.

Service Desk tools.

One system explaining another system that depended on a third system whose password was apparently controlled by a fourth system.

And the PowerPoint continued presenting this information with the confidence of a drunk GPS.

Turn left.

Recalculating.

Enter password.

Launch application.

Travel six miles.

Sacrifice printer.

Contact UCCE.

Good luck.

I started following the trail.

Because apparently that is what Iron Dork does.

Batdork investigates missing government assets. Franken Dork resurrects dead laptops. Iron Dork reads badly written enterprise documentation until one of them dies.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT III — THE JABBER QUEST

Eventually, I worked my way far enough through the mess to get the Jabber/Finesse configuration moving.

There were access-request pieces.

There was a telework configuration script.

There were backend requirements.

And eventually Jabber reached the point where it wanted credentials.

Progress.

Except I did not have the credentials.

Of course.

Somewhere in the workflow existed the password request necessary to finish the setup.

So I went hunting.

This led me into the Service Desk environment itself.

And suddenly the ridiculous PowerPoint began making slightly more sense.

Not much.

But slightly.

I could see how Jabber connected to Finesse. How Finesse connected to the ticketing environment. Where certain credential and recovery tools lived. How the overall machinery was supposed to fit together.

For several glorious minutes, Iron Dork actually began understanding the architecture.

Then I found the password requests.

Plural.

Because apparently one password request would have been too simple.

There were two.

One: DENIED.

The other: PENDING.

Waiting on approvers.

Naturally.

Somewhere inside a federal workflow, two nearly identical requests had gone on completely different spiritual journeys.

One had already been executed by bureaucracy.

The other remained in purgatory.

Iron Dork stared at the screen.

So basically...

I have successfully configured everything required to wait.

Excellent.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT IV — THE SERVICE DESK STRIKES BACK

And this is where the title of the day finally revealed itself.

REVENGE OF THE SERVICE DESK.

Because I was not fighting a broken computer.

I was not tracking down a missing laptop.

Nothing had caught fire.

No user had accidentally hidden an asset barcode from themselves.

The enemy was process.

Everything technically existed.

The software existed.

The documentation existed.

The account existed.

The request existed.

The approval workflow existed.

The password probably existed somewhere in the universe.

But between Iron Dork and that password stood the greatest firewall ever constructed:

SOMEBODY ELSE’S APPROVAL QUEUE.

You cannot troubleshoot that.

You cannot reboot it.

You cannot run Group Policy against it.

You cannot threaten it with replacement hardware.

You wait.

So I waited.

Around lunchtime, there were still no new tickets.

Nothing urgent.

No fresh catastrophe.

At 12:16 PM, the operational status of Federal IT Part 6 was essentially:

Password pending.

Tickets quiet.

Iron Dork trapped at DAMN-IT Tower.

Approximately four more fucking hours.

I considered this acceptable.

Not exciting.

But acceptable.

Sometimes the greatest victory in Federal IT is when nobody needs anything.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT V — ESCAPE FROM DAMN-IT TOWER

By approximately four o’clock, the workday was effectively over.

There was just one final obstacle between me and freedom.

RAIN.

Not drizzle.

Not polite rain.

The sky had apparently opened a change ticket without notifying anybody.

So I waited another fifteen or twenty minutes for the storm to calm down.

Eventually, the rain dropped from:

NOAH’S ARK DEPLOYMENT REQUIRED

to:

YOU CAN PROBABLY MAKE IT TO THE CAR WITHOUT DROWNING.

Good enough.

I escaped.

The Federal IT portion of the day should have ended there.

It did not.

Because earlier I had been expecting two Amazon deliveries.

One package contained sweatpants.

The other contained a Cricket Wireless SIM card.

Naturally, Amazon prioritized correctly.

The telecommunications equipment arrived.

The sweatpants vanished somewhere into the supply chain.

Apparently tonight’s mission required cellular infrastructure.

Pants were optional.

THE ZOMBIE HOTSPOT RESURRECTION PROGRAM

I had brought home one of the old hotspots from work for testing.

An AT&T-branded Nighthawk M7 Pro.

An ancient communications beast from the equipment graveyard.

Not officially dead.

Not exactly alive.

A technological corpse with excellent battery life.

Which meant Iron Dork had accidentally crossed into Franken Dork’s jurisdiction.

PROJECT: ZOMBIE HOTSPOT RESURRECTION

Earlier, Cricket’s compatibility system had already inspected the device.

Green result.

Compatible.

Physical SIM required.

Good.

There was still some uncertainty about carrier-unlock status, but that could wait.

I inserted the brand-new Cricket physical SIM.

The Nighthawk recognized it immediately.

It even automatically loaded a Cricket MHT APN profile.

Domestic data:

Enabled.

The hotspot knew Cricket.

The SIM knew Cricket.

Cricket’s compatibility checker knew the hotspot.

Everybody knew everybody.

Surely this would be simple.

The device searched for service.

Searching...

Searching...

Then:

REGISTRATION ERROR

ESM #33

Service request rejected by network.

Check APN or SIM subscription.

At first glance:

Well, shit.

But the SIM had not actually been activated yet.

So an unactivated SIM being rejected by the network was not particularly mysterious.

The zombie had moved.

It had not risen.

Proceed to activation.

And that was when Cricket Wireless entered the arena.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT VI — CRICKET WIRELESS: WHERE ACTIVATING A HOTSPOT REQUIRES EVERYTHING EXCEPT ACTIVATING A HOTSPOT

The mission:

Activate SIM.

Choose plan.

Pay.

Done.

Estimated human time:

Maybe fifteen minutes.

Estimated Cricket time:

Fuck you.

The first activation page wanted an order number.

I did not have one.

The SIM came from Amazon.

Different route.

Another Cricket page informed me that apparently I needed an eSIM-capable phone.

I looked at the Nighthawk.

The Nighthawk looked at me.

Physical SIM slot.

Physical SIM installed.

Mobile hotspot.

Cricket:

Please provide your eSIM smartphone.

Motherfucker, what smartphone?

Back.

Another route.

This one apparently thought I wanted to shop for phones.

No.

I already own phones.

I am attempting to activate the rectangular black object currently sitting in front of me whose entire purpose is to provide cellular data without being a fucking phone.

Back.

Eventually, I reached a page that finally understood reality.

Great news! Your Nighthawk M7 Pro Mobile Router is compatible with the Cricket network and requires a physical SIM.

YES.

Finally.

Civilization.

The website knows what the device is.

The website knows it is compatible.

The website knows what SIM it requires.

Click:

CHECK COMPATIBILITY

And Cricket sent me...

Back to the compatibility page.

Click again.

Compatibility page.

Again.

Compatibility page.

I had entered the Cricket Wireless Infinite Loop.

Somewhere, the website was probably earning achievement points every time I came back.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT VII — THE $90 WALLET INCIDENT

Eventually another route worked.

The system correctly identified the service option.

SIMPLY DATA

150 GB

$90 PER MONTH

My wallet immediately opened a ServiceNow ticket.

INCIDENT: Romeo attempting unauthorized monthly expenditure.

IMPACT: Financial.

URGENCY: Stop this motherfucker.

But at least the plan was correct.

Cricket assigned a new number.

Placed the service into the cart.

Everything finally looked right.

Then Cricket added...

Another physical SIM card.

I stared at the physical Cricket SIM already installed inside the Nighthawk.

The Nighthawk stared back.

The SIM remained silent, perhaps ashamed.

Why do I need another Cricket SIM?

I already have a Cricket SIM.

It says Cricket.

The hotspot recognizes Cricket.

The APN says Cricket.

Cricket says the device works on Cricket.

But apparently:

This Cricket SIM cannot be used to activate Cricket service on this Cricket-compatible hotspot through Cricket.

That sentence should not exist.

And yet here we were.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT VIII — PLEASE ENTER THE PHONE NUMBER YOU ARE CALLING TO CREATE

Fine.

Telephone support.

I called Cricket.

Automated voice:

Please enter your Cricket phone number.

I did not have a Cricket phone number.

Because I was calling...

to create a Cricket phone number.

Automated voice:

Please enter your Cricket phone number.

Me:

THAT IS WHY I’M FUCKING CALLING YOU.

Automated system:

I didn’t understand that.

Of course you didn’t.

Cricket had designed a support system with one beautiful rule:

To receive assistance becoming a customer, you must first already be a customer.

Federal IT looked at this workflow and whispered:

Damn.

That’s excessive.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT IX — LIVE CHAT REVEALS THE TRUTH

Eventually, I reached a human representative through live chat.

Finally, the mystery was explained.

The Cricket physical SIM I purchased through Amazon could not be used for the hotspot/data-plan activation process I was attempting.

For Simply Data, Cricket needed to issue another physical SIM through Cricket’s own hotspot ordering process.

Replacement SIM:

Approximately $9.99.

Service:

$90 per month for 150 GB.

I also confirmed something important.

The service period would not begin while Cricket’s SIM card traveled through the mail.

Activation and service would begin after delivery.

Good.

At least I would not pay ninety dollars to watch a SIM card enjoy a two-day vacation with the United States Postal Service.

Small victory.

My wallet remained conscious.

Barely.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT X — RETURN OF THE USELESS SIM

The Amazon SIM had now completed its heroic journey.

It had:

Arrived successfully.

Been inserted into the hotspot.

Been recognized by the hotspot.

Loaded Cricket’s APN.

Attempted network registration.

Triggered ESM #33.

Survived multiple Cricket webpages.

Been asked to become an eSIM phone.

Entered a compatibility loop.

And finally learned that Cricket did not want the Cricket SIM that Cricket sold for use on Cricket.

Its mission was complete.

I returned it through Amazon.

Amazon accepted the return.

Somewhere tonight, that tiny SIM card is probably reconsidering its career.

◆ ◆ ◆

ACT XI — COMMON SENSE LOGS IN

At this point, I had a choice.

Spend approximately ninety dollars tonight.

Order yet another SIM.

Wait approximately two days.

Or...

Do absolutely none of that shit.

Tomorrow, I can submit a legitimate request at work for an officially activated work hotspot.

Which raises the possibility that sometime tomorrow, Commissioner Peter may encounter a new request.

HOTSPOT

He may stare at it.

Then at my name.

Then back at the request.

And think:

What the fuck is Romeo doing now?

The explanation is legitimate.

I need reliable connectivity for equipment and work purposes, including the dummy tower environment.

The existing hotspot situation has left me trying to solve a connectivity problem.

So tomorrow:

Request official hotspot.

Then the universe chooses a timeline.

TIMELINE ONE — WALLET LIVES

Work approves it.

Official work hotspot.

Activated.

Functional.

Reliable.

No personal $90 plan.

No Cricket store.

No additional SIM.

My wallet survives.

Iron Dork wins.

This is clearly the best ending. Which means Federal IT will probably examine it very suspiciously.

TIMELINE TWO — CRICKET BACKUP

Work says no.

Fine.

Cricket remains Plan B.

If I still have enough connectivity to order online, I can order the correct SIM through Cricket.

Wait for it.

Activate it afterward.

Avoid the store activation charge.

Wallet takes damage.

But survives.

TIMELINE THREE — FUCK IT, GO TO THE STORE

Connectivity completely dies.

Service becomes immediately necessary.

Then I go directly to Cricket.

Proper SIM.

Proper hotspot plan.

Approximately $90 monthly service.

Plus approximately $25 store activation fee.

Hotspot resurrected.

Wallet pronounced dead on scene.

Franken Dork signs the certificate.

◆ ◆ ◆

EPILOGUE — END-OF-DAY INCIDENT REPORT

So what did I accomplish on Thursday, August 20, 2026?

I arrived early.

My government computer temporarily forgot how enterprise computing worked.

I rebooted it.

I attended a meeting reminding everyone to maintain tickets and apparently travel away from the Point of Duty where we are assigned to perform those duties.

I attempted to configure Cisco Jabber.

A PowerPoint sent me through enough disconnected enterprise systems to qualify as an RPG.

I found the Service Desk environment.

I began understanding how the pieces connected.

I located two password requests.

One was denied.

One was waiting for approval.

I discovered that the final technical troubleshooting step was:

Wait for another human being.

No new tickets arrived.

I waited out the afternoon.

Then I waited out a rainstorm.

I went home.

Amazon successfully delivered a SIM card but apparently considered sweatpants an unacceptable logistics challenge.

I attempted to resurrect a zombie hotspot.

The hardware worked.

The SIM was recognized.

The APN loaded.

The network correctly rejected an unactivated subscription.

Then Cricket Wireless transformed activation into a side quest involving:

Amazon.

Order numbers.

eSIMs.

Smartphone shopping.

Compatibility loops.

A $90 plan.

A $9.99 replacement SIM.

A phone-support system demanding the phone number I was calling to create.

Live chat.

A useless SIM return.

A possible $25 store activation fee.

And finally the realization that the most intelligent technical solution might be:

Ask my employer for the fucking hotspot.

That is where Thursday ends.

The zombie hotspot remains on the table.

Neither dead nor alive.

Just...

PENDING.

Which may be the most Federal IT condition anything can possibly achieve.

Tomorrow, Commissioner Peter may receive a request.

The password may finally arrive.

The hotspot may receive new life.

Or another ticket may show up and ruin the entire plan.

Nobody knows.

But somewhere inside DAMN-IT Tower, Iron Dork’s armor is charging.

And somewhere inside an Amazon warehouse...

my fucking sweatpants are still on a side quest.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Coffee anyone? ☕