The Program Management Office

1

 

“I need to see your passport.”

 

I handed my passport to the Delta ticket agent, feeling naked and exposed, as if somehow the story of my life was recorded in the passport for all to see.  I gave the woman a nervous smile.  She smiled back and nodded as she swiped the passport through a slot on the keyboard, placed the passport on the counter and typed on the computer terminal.

 

“And your final destination is Shannon?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Okay, I have you booked to Shannon, Ireland, through Atlanta, Georgia.  You’re flying out of Gate 6.  Here are your tickets and have a good flight.”

 

“Thanks!”

 

My first trip to Ireland.  I turned around and walked out of the ticketing area of the Huntsville airport and walked toward the escalator, towing my luggage behind me.  So far, so good.  No international thought police reading my mind and seeing that I had been bad when I was a boy, teenager and young adult.  And why did I even think that?  People traveled internationally every day, with backgrounds that were legally complicated.  I had no legal issues.  I was just this guy, traveling by himself to uncharted mental territory.  And maybe that was it.  It was my charted mental territory that I didn’t want to take with me on this new adventure.  I wanted to reinvent myself, land on the shores of the Emerald Isle as a new man.

As a message to myself that traveling to Ireland meant I could shed my outer trappings and attempt to be someone I’d never been before, I had dyed my hair red the previous night.

 

When I walked up to the HSV airport security counter, the HSV agent looked at my passport photo and then at me, a slightly puzzled look on his face, with just the slight turn of the corner of one side of his mouth to indicate a smirk, a smile or disappointment.

 

“I don’t know.  Your hair color might get you in trouble overseas.”

 

I looked and felt like I was as scared as the rabbit in the jaws of the Siamese cat that hunted the woods and field near my house.  I just hoped the HSV agent wasn’t going to bite down.

 

“Oh, sorry, sir.  I was just kidding.  You’ll be fine.”  The HSV agent handed my passport to me and waved me on through.

 

In the meantime, I knew I had hours to think upon and worry about the validity of the man’s comment.  Sure, the HSV agent probably saw people of all sorts of shapes and sizes who didn’t fit their five- to ten-year old passport photos.  He was probably in his 60s and had seen enough one-minute stories to make a one-hour, one-man show on Broadway about the lives of travelers.  But I only had myself and my one-life story to analyze for comic or tragic effects.

 

I contemplated taking my Tylenol PM tablets as soon as I found an empty seat in the waiting area around Gate 6.  Perhaps I could just sleep walk until I got off the flight in Shannon.  But no, the Atlanta airport, as simply as it was laid out, was not something to sleep walk through.

 

“Hey, Bruce!”

 

I peeled the film of self-fear fog away from my eyes to see an Irish Cumulo-Seven employee standing next to me.

 

“Oh, hey Edmund.  Whatcha doing here?”

 

“Well, I was over here with Mary.  We’re both flying back to Shannon today.  Where are you headed?”

 

Edmund Tandy.  He was probably in his mid-30s, of slim build with dirty blond hair mixed with a bit of gray.  I never could remember if Edmund worked in IT or in accounting.  He could pass for either one.  He was a level-headed fellow and not one to drink pints after work or crack off-color jokes like some of the other Irishmen I’d met.  Mary Nagle was just like Edmund, only female and red-headed.  If Edmund was in Accounting, then Mary was in IT, or vice versa.  They seemed to travel to Huntsville a lot.  They were peas in a pod.  I nodded at Mary as she joined us.

 

“Hey, Mary.”

 

“Hello, Bruce.  Are you travelin’ with us today?”

 

“I was just about to tell Edmund that I am.”

 

“Fabulous.  So you’re flyin’ through Atlanta, then?”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

“Of course.”  Mary looked at Edmund and then at me.  “Well, I guess we’ll be seein’ you along the way.”  Mary walked off.

 

Edmund looked at me and raised his eyebrows.  “Yes, Bruce, we’ll keep in touch.  Right now, I’ve got to work through emails before we hop on the plane to Atlanta.”

 

I nodded.  I decided not to pop the Tylenol PM.  I didn’t want straight-laced Edmund and Mary to think I was a pill popper or sound sluggish if we ended up sitting next to each other on the flights over.

 

We didn’t sit next to each other on the flight to Atlanta so I just closed my eyes and thought about nothing memorable, just replaying conversations I’d eavesdropped upon while sitting in the waiting area, and eavesdropped on the conversation behind me about the explosion of residential growth in and around Madison and west Huntsville.

 

I joined Edmund and Mary for a bite to eat at a TGI Friday’s restaurant in the Atlanta airport.  I had hoped I could figure out which one was in Accounting and which one in IT but no luck.  They talked about the rollout of some FITZ accounting software module that was not going well, a task which required skills and assistance from both groups.

 

We made our way to the airport terminal trains.  As we stepped off the stop for the international terminal, I saw another familiar face.

 

“David?”

 

“Ahh, Bruce.  Glad to see you.”

 

“David, this is Edmund Tandy and Mary Nagle. They work in the Shannon office.  Guys, this is David Katzenberg.  He heads up the group in Sunrise.”

 

David shook hands with each of them.

 

“Nice to meet you.”

 

“You, too.”

 

“I know you guys are busy.  I’ll leave you to it.”

 

Mary and Edmund nodded and walked on.

 

David turned to me.  “Bruce, I was just heading to the Delta Crown Room.  Wanna join me?”

 

“Sure.”

 

David and I walked through the Crown Room Club door and past a pretty Delta agent.

 

“Excuse me.”

 

David stopped and turned toward the agent.  “Huh?”

 

“I need to see your Crown Club membership card.”

 

“Oh, sure.”  David set down his briefcase and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.  He found the card and handed it to the agent.  “And your name is?”

 

“Debbie.”

 

“Debbie, thanks for keeping us safe.  We sure don’t want the riff-raff coming in here unnoticed, do we?”

 

“No, sir.  Oh, sir, I’m sorry but your card expired last month.”

 

“Huh?  What?”  David turned to me and smiled.  “I leave this sort of thing up to my assistant.  I guess she missed the renewal notice.  Do you have your card?”

 

“I don’t have a membership.  But I think I do have a one-day pass somewhere in my bag.”

 

“Oh, right.  Gotta be a VP to get Cumulo-Seven to pay the $150 annual fee.  Sorry about that.”

 

“No problem.  I’m just a Gold medallion member anyway.”

 

“Right.”  David turned back to the agent.  “So what can we do here?”

 

“Do you think you’ve maybe turned in your renewal but it hasn’t been processed yet?”

 

“Very likely.  Or it may be that the new card is sitting in my inbox at work and I haven’t dug through the pile to open that piece of mail.”

 

“In that case, I don’t see a problem with letting you go on in.  Next time, I hope you’ll have your new card with you, Mr. Katzenberg.”

 

“Thank you, Debbie.  You’re a kind host.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

We walked in and found the place packed.  We had to walk around to a back room and wait for a couple of seats to open up.  David sat his briefcase next to me and walked off.  As soon as a couple of folks left, I put David’s briefcase in one seat and sat down in the other, propping my suitcase against my leg.

 

David came back with a couple of drinks and handed me one.  “I hope you like bourbon.”

 

“Sure do.  Thanks!”

 

David pushed his briefcase against the back of the chair and sat down on the edge of the seat.  “No problem.  Say, what are you plans for your trip to Shannon?”

 

“Well, I’m supposed to meet with Donnagan and Nathaniel.”

 

“You are?  Hmm…”  David pulled his Treo out of a hip holster and thumbed through some emails.  “Yes, I see.”  He looked back up at me.  “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a good time.  If you excuse me, I have a phone call to make before we go.”  David sat his drink down on an adjacent table and walked out of the room.

 

I sipped my drink and watched the people in the room.  The room was clearly divided into two classes of business travelers, the young, 20-something class who rapid-fired emails on their Blackberrys or Treos while drinking raspberry chocoholic martinis or other rainbow-colored drinks and the older, 50-plus class who smoothly chatted on cellphones about multi-million dollar deals while gulping down brown-colored drinks.  A couple of college-aged kids sat in the corner playing games on their PSPs.  I felt out of place.  I picked up the only available reading material, a Life section of USAToday, and pretended to be interested in the latest arrest of a young movie star for DUI after she wrecked her car while avoiding paparazzi.  News?  There was nothing newsworthy about that article.  Something like four out of every 10 traffic fatalities is alcohol or drug related.  Just because the arrested party had starred in some forgettable film didn’t make the incident any more palatable.

 

Just as I was wondering if I should grab David’s bag and head out the door in order to make it to the gate on time, David returned.

 

“Sorry about that, Bruce.  The call took longer than I thought.”

 

“No problem.  Guess I’m heading to the gate.”

 

“Already?”

 

“Well, it is 30 minutes before the flight takes off.”

 

“You don’t have a boarding pass?”

 

“Yes, I do, but they’ll be calling my section pretty soon.”

 

“What’s the rush?  You can still board at the last minute.”

 

I didn’t want to tell David I was nervous about my first flight to Ireland.  “Well, I want to be sure I can store my suitcase somewhere near me.”

 

David looked at my bag.  “Good point.  Well, if I don’t see you again, have a safe flight.”

 

“Sure thing.  Maybe we’ll see each other on board.”

 

“You’re flying first class, too?”

 

“Oh, uh, no.  But I think I’m only a few rows back.”

 

“Very well.  See you.”  David looked down at his Treo.

 

I took the hint and walked out of the room.  It was after 6 p.m. Eastern Time but for David it was still working hours and as a VP, David was truly a busy man.

 

The flight from Atlanta to Shannon was fairly uneventful.  I popped a couple of Tylenol PM tablets after I sat in my seat, put my Bose QC2 headset on, ate my chicken dinner 30 minutes later and slept most of the way over, waking up occasionally to see a glimpse of a movie.

 

I was awakened by a general increase in noise and movement in the cabin and saw that breakfast was being served.  I could see light outside the cabin window.  With the increase in light came my increase in nervousness, knowing that I was going to land on foreign soil soon and be pointed out as an American, strung up, accused and convicted of international crimes committed by the current American presidential administration.

 

Instead, I was hardly noticed.

 

After stepping off the plane, I followed the crowd around a corner and down a set of stairs to an area cordoned off from baggage claim.  I tried to act nonchalant with the rest of the bleary-eyed, disheveled-hair folks standing there, all of us figuring out if we should form a line.  Two booths were open, one clearly marked for EU citizens only, through which a few Irish citizens and flight attendants walked.  The rest of us stood in a loose line in front of the other booth, waiting our turn to be motioned forward.

 

“Your passport please.”

 

I stepped across the red line on the floor and handed my passport through a plastic window to a young bald man in a blue uniform.

 

“Business or pleasure.”

 

“Business.  Maybe a little bit of both.”

 

The attendant looked up at me and smiled.

 

“How many days will you be stayin’ with us?”

 

“About a week.”

 

The attendant stamped my passport and wrote a departure date for 10 days later.

 

“Next.”

 

Mary and Edmund showed me how to walk through the declaration doorway, making sure I walked to the right where I had nothing to declare.

 

 

I parted company with my Irish coworkers, picked up the keys to my rental car with a portable GPS unit and walked out to the row of cars.  I was still shaking like a leaf internally.  I was in Ireland and knew no safe place to run to.  I found my rental car, a little Citroen Xsara Picasso wagon that looked like the automotive version of the Pushme-Pullyu from the film, Dr. Dolittle, a two-headed car that looked like it was going in two directions at once.  I laughed to myself to ease my nervousness and threw my suitcase in the back.  I started to get in on the left side of the car and remembered the driver’s seat was on the other side.  After I corrected my mistake, I sat in the car and adjusted the seat and mirrors.  I tried to dial my wife using my personal cell phone but couldn’t get through.  I was ready to panic but I told myself to calm down.  I could always call her or email her from the office.  I set the destination for Cumulo-Seven House and drove the five minutes it took to get to Cumulo-Seven from the airport.

 

At the office, I found my way to the front lobby, which was at the back of the building in relations to the road I drove in on but faced the main highway.  I wondered if the arrangement was part of Irish humor or Irish tradition.  You know, never let the front of the house or business face the lesser of two roads, or something like that.

 

“May I help you?”

 

“Yes, I’m Bruce Colline, I’m here to see Nathaniel O’Sullivan.”

 

“Are you to be expected?”

 

“I don’t know.  I hope so.”

 

As the receptionist dialed a number and quietly talked with someone on the phone, I looked around the two-story glass enclosure.  The lobby was rather cool but it was December, after all.  Despite being December, the grass on the lawn out front was bright green and some semi-tropical plants were growing in containers on both sides of the main entrance.

 

“He’ll be here shortly.”

 

I turned back around to face the receptionist.  “Thanks!”

 

“Oh, and you’ll be needing a badge while you’re here.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Do you think you’ll be visiting here often?”

 

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I have no idea.”

 

“Well, then, let’s give you a temporary badge.”  The receptionist opened a drawer and dug through a collection of plastic cards.  “This looks like a good one, nice and clean.”

 

I accepted the card and put it in my coat pocket.

 

“Oh, no, you can’t go on with it like that.”

 

I furrowed my brow.  “I can’t?”

 

“No, you must have a badge holder to go with your badge.  Here.”

 

I accepted a clear, hard plastic sleeve attached to a retractable wire attached to a clip.  I took the badge out of my pocket, inserted it in the sleeve and clipped the holder to my belt.

 

“Oh, no, you can’t walk around like that.”

 

I sighed, wondering what I’d done.

 

“Look, your badge must be displayed at all times.”

 

“Okay.”  I hooked the badge to the lapel of my coat.  “Is that better.”

 

“Yes, it is.  And by the way, my name’s Nualla.  If you need anything, just dial 1200.”

 

“Thanks, Nualla.”  I turned my head to walk away from the receptionist’s desk.

 

“Wait, you can’t go.”

 

“I can’t?”

 

“No, you haven’t signed the guest log book yet.”

 

“But I’m an Cumulo-Seven employee.”

 

“Yes, but you’re a guest here in Shannon.”

 

“Okay.”  I signed my name and wrote the date in the logbook.  I turned to walk over to a set of chairs against the far wall.

 

“Wait, you can’t go yet.”

 

“I can’t?”

 

“No, your badge is upside down.  No one’ll be able to read it.”

 

I looked at the badge in the holder.  The only distinguishing mark was a quarter-inch tall barcode at the top of the badge.  I pulled the badge out and flipped it around so the barcode was on the other side.  As I did so, I backed away from the desk.

 

“No, no, that won’t do.”

 

I rolled my eyes and looked at Nualla.  “I’m sorry, Nualla.  I have a bit of jet lag.  What is it that I can do to rectify this situation?”

 

“Well, for one thing, you can turn the badge back around and turn it rightside up.  The barcode’s supposed to be clearly displayed on the bottom of the badge.  It’s part of our new EU consistency compliance policy.  I just got the email today.  It says, ‘All characters, codes, numbers and numbers must be positioned in such a way that an average person should be able to clearly read the sign, signal, label or identification card within two meters distance without using special equipment or having to make undue stress or adjustment.’  Who’s going to be able to read your badge from two meters if it’s upside down?”

 

I looked from Nualla to the badge.  “Well, I don’t know about you but I can’t read barcode whether it’s rightside up or upside down.  Can you?”

 

Nualla giggled.  “I can’t, either, but we’ve got to be consistent, anyway, don’t you think?”

 

“But of course.”  And I had finally reached the nearest chair.  I stood for a couple of seconds to make sure Nualla didn’t find anything else out of place about my badge.  Maybe it was too high for the average person to read.  How tall was an average person in the EU, anyhow?  Was it shorter than the average person in the U.S.?  Was it taller than the average person in the world?  Was the average person measured on the day she wore high heels or flats?  Was she suffering from back pain and bent over a couple of inches.  What if she’d had back surgery as a child and had a couple of vertebras fused together, making her shorter than she would have been on an average basis?  What if…

 

My tired brain continued to fire off logical and illogical questions until a side door opened.

 

I stood up.  “Hey, Nathaniel.”

 

Nathaniel turned to face me.  “Oh, hello.  Welcome to Shannon.  How’re you feeling?”

 

“A little tired.”

 

“Well, me, too.  I don’t usually get in this early but had some work to do this morning.  How about we both go to the canteen for a cup of coffee?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Nathaniel looked at Nualla.  “Is he all checked in?”

 

“Well, yes, I think so.  He’s got his badge.”

 

“Good.  Did you issue him a phone number?”

 

“Phone number?”  Nualla gave Nathaniel a disapproving look.

 

“Oh, right.  That’s IT’s responsibility now, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, Nathaniel.  As of a couple of weeks ago, too.  I know you got the email announcin’ it.”

 

“Right.”  Nathaniel turned to me, slapped me on the back and led me out of the lobby.

 

As we walked down a corridor at the front of the building, I saw that except for three or four offices along the walls, everyone worked in cubicles.  A prairie dog farm in Ireland!

 

“So, Bruce, how was your trip.”

 

“Not very exciting.”

 

“I like those.  Say, why don’t we grab Donnagan?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Nathaniel led me through the cubicle maze to another major corridor.  Lined on both sides of the cubicle walls along the corridor were Christmas decorations.  They were all familiar in form and style except for the expression, “Happy Christmas,” which was plastered across the wall of a double cubicle.

 

Nathaniel leaned his head over the double cubicle wall.  “Ah, here we are.  Donnagan, you ready for some coffee?”

 

“Is he here already?” I heard a muffled voice say.

 

“Afraid so.”

 

Donnagan stepped outside of the cubicle.  “Very well.  Hello, Bruce.  How was your flight?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“’Fine,’” Donnagan mimicked in a John Wayne accent.  “’I reckon you cowboys have it pretty easy coming over here.  Eh, pardner?’”  Donnagan stuck out his hand and shook my hand vigorously.

 

“Sure.”

 

Donnagan returned to his regular voice.  “Well, welcome to Cumulo-Seven House.  Nathaniel, have you shown him around?”

 

“Not yet.  I figured with it being only 8 o’clock, we could grab a coffee and sit down to talk in the canteen before it got too crowded.”

 

Donnagan responded in a mock Oxford English accent.  “’Marvelous idea.  Simply brilliant.’”

 

I followed Donnagan and Nathaniel to the other side of the cube farm.  On the way, I noticed letters of the alphabet posted on columns, much the way row numbers are posted in shopping mall parking lots to help you find your way back.  I figured that was the only way the employees here could find their way around.  “Jack, come over to my place.  Just walk over to C, follow the wall until you get to L, take a right turn and walk down to W.  I’m three cubicle doors over.”

 

Inside the canteen, which was really nice, a much airier, friendlier version of the typical lunch rooms and cafeterias of businesses back home, a young man in a chef’s outfit bellowed at us.  “GOOD MORNING!  GOOD MORNING, GENTLEMEN!”  He walked from around the breakfast counter to shake my hand.  “Liam, glad to meet you.  Are you from the States?”

 

“Yes, I am.  Bruce Colline.”

 

“Well, Bruce Colline, I can sarve you a mighty breakfast to quench your tastebuds and have you askin’ for more.  What can I get fer you?”

 

“I…uh…I just ate on the plane.”

 

“Ah, that was nothing.  Fluff.  How about some fresh rashers, pork sausage, black puddin’ and soda bread to start your day?  You’ll be regrettin’ it in an hour or two if you don’t have a proper Irish breakfast.”

 

Donnagan nudged my shoulder.  “Go on, Bruce.  You only live once.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“FANTASTIC!”  Liam’s voice echoed inside the two-story canteen.  I took the tray of food that would feed a family of four and joined Donnagan and Nathaniel at the coffee station.

 

“’Well, pilgrim, what’ll it be?  Black or cappuccino?’”

 

“Black is fine.”

 

Donnagan pressed a button on a grinding machine and a freshly ground cup of black Brazilian coffee was poured for me.

 

There were a few other early birds sitting in the canteen near the coffee machine so Nathaniel led us to a deserted corner.

 

I swallowed hard and dug into my breakfast.  I wasn’t really hungry but I didn’t want to upset the over-ebullient chef.

 

“Well, Bruce, what do you think so far?”

 

Of course, Nathaniel asked the question just as I stuffed a fork of sausage in my mouth.  “Mmm-hmm,” was all I could manage.

 

Nathaniel laughed.  “Sorry about that.  Guess you’re hungrier than you thought, eh?”

 

I nodded.

 

“Very good.  Donnagan, anything to say to Bruce while he’s putting away breakfast?”

 

“Indeed, indeed.  Bruce, as you can see, we have lovely weather here.”  Donnagan pointed out the window to the cloudy sky and hard blowing wind which was bending all the bushes at a 45-degree angle.  “I suppose if I were you, I’d be wonderin’ why I came all the way over here just to increase my cholesterol count or have a heart attack in front of the likes of us.”

 

I nodded and smiled, trying not to open my mouth.

“See, I told you.  But seriously, Bruce.  We’ve got some news to share with you.  You’ve probably heard the good news about the Qwerty-Queue folks in Huntsville.”

 

I shook my head and took another bite.

 

“Well, Patrick Keating’s decided to absorb them into his group over there.  That’s good news for them but bad news for us.  It means that we’ve essentially lost six or eight engineers to work on Qwerty-Queue, and just when we’ve closed a bunch of deals with companies that have seats on the New York and London stock exchanges.”

 

I kept eating.

 

“In addition to the Qwerty-Queue product line, there’s another product line that the Shannon engineering team owns called TINZ.  Have you heard of it?”

 

“Through L3, yes,” I managed to say around a piece of bread in my left cheek.

 

“Right.  And it’s about time we renewed the TINZ software, too.”

 

“That’s right, Donnagan.”  Nathaniel sipped his coffee.  “Bruce, I’m guessing from the look on your face that you don’t understand the impact this has on our company.”

 

I cut a section of blood pudding in half and wondered why they called it blood pudding.  It looked like a piece of beef sausage that had been cooked too long.  I speared a piece and held it up to my nose.

 

Donnagan laughed.  “Don’t worry, Bruce, it won’t bite you!”

 

I ate the crumbly sausage.  It didn’t taste bad.  Just a little dry and crunchy.  I washed down the meal with a couple of gulps of coffee.

 

“No, I guess I don’t.”

 

“Just as I thought.”  Nathaniel looked at his watch.  “I have a conference call in a few minutes.  Why don’t you and Donnagan take a tour of the facilities and get back with me in half an hour.”

 

I looked at Donnagan and he nodded.   “Sure.”

 

As Nathaniel walked away, Donnagan leaned over the table to me.  “Bruce, as you’ll see, we like to have fun around here but don’t let exteriors fool you.  We’re very serious.”  He laughed and stood up.  “Have you been to the manufacturing area?”

 

“Uh, no.”

 

“Good, then let’s go for a tour.”

 

Donnagan led me out of the canteen.  I waved at Liam who was busy “sarving” other Cumulo-Seven employees.  He yelled over the tops of their heads. “DIDN’T I TELL YOU YOU’D ENJOY IT?!”

 

“YES!”

 

We walked down a side corridor and came upon a door with no handle or doorknob.  Donnagan held his badge up to a spot about three feet up the wall and the door popped open.  We stepped into an anteroom with another similar door on the other side.  Donnagan grabbed a couple of yellow-and-green straps from a bucket on the floor and handed me two of them.

 

“Here, you’ll have to put these on your feet.  We are very serious about static shock.”  Donnagan hooked the straps across the toes of his shoes and hooked them onto his trouser cuffs.  He then stepped on a metal pad and pressed a button on the wall.  He let go of the button after a green LED light came on.  I followed suit and then the far door opened automatically.

 

Donnagan looked at me and smiled.  “Amazing technology, isn’t it?”

 

We stepped out into a three-story tall manufacturing room.  There were rows of small work tables where employees were attaching circuit boards, faceplates and screws onto metal chassis.  With the concrete floor, metal walls and ceilings, the whole room buzzed with the sound of machinery.

 

Donnagan raised his voice.  “This is where we install our secret ingredients.”

 

I nodded and looked around the room.  Donnagan tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a caged-in area.  “Not here.  Over there.”

 

I followed Donnagan along the rightside wall but walked a few steps to his left to get a closer look at the workstations.  The strap on my left shoe let out a loud chirp.  Donnagan stopped and turned around.  He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back toward the wall as he pointed to the floor.  I had stepped across a red line on the floor.

 

“You’re not supposed to step out on the manufacturing floor unless you’ve had electrostatic discharge training.  Our straps are not certified for ESD-trained personnel.”

 

I nodded and followed Donnagan as he walked over to the caged-in area.

 

“Bruce, I know you’re not familiar with the innards of a TINZ 5000 but I’m certain that as a former test engineer, you’ll appreciate this part of our manufacturing process.”  Donnagan held his badge up to a box on the cage door and the door unlatched.  As Donnagan opened the door, I saw what appeared to be an optical illusion.  Before he had opened the door, I thought the cage was just that – an open mesh fence that allowed people outside the cage to see what was going on inside the cage but not able to step in.  The same fluorescent lighting that lit up the factory floor also lit up the caged-in area.  However, through the doorway, I saw that an entirely different room was inside the cage.  It was shrouded in darkness and the only light came from rows of large LCD monitors.

 

Donnagan pulled me inside and closed the door.

 

“Welcome to the Secret Ingredients Room.”  Donnagan spoke in a normal tone of voice but his voice seemed so loud in the enclosed space.

 

Ten or 12 technicians sat stooped over computer keyboards, typing furiously while simultaneously viewing several computer monitors at once.

 

I looked at Donnagan and gave him a questioning look.

 

“This, Bruce, is where the TINZ units are programmed.  And soon, we’ll be able to do the same thing for the Qwerty-Queue product line.  Well, at least I think that’s what we’re going to do.  Nathaniel’ll have to give you the technical details on that.  So what do you think?”

 

I watched the changing images of the screens.  Several of the displays seemed to be posting active stock market quotes.  Others were scrolling business and financial news.  Only a couple of the technicians seemed to be actively working on software or firmware code.

 

“Impressive.”

 

“We think so.  Well, we best be movin’ along.  I want to introduce you to a couple of folks in Marketing before we get with Nathaniel.”

 

 

When I met Donnagan’s two marketing assistants, two cute brunettes who were fresh out of college and working on a portable wooden platform that could hold a 42-inch plasma TV and three KVM switches, Donnagan also pointed out the empty cubicle nearby, emphasizing that there was room for one more person on his team.  I nodded, not saying anything, figuring that Donnagan was probing to see if I knew anyone that had applied for a Marketing job position in Shannon.

 

Nathaniel closed the door as we entered his office.

 

“Bruce, I hope we’re not wearing you out too much.  To be honest, I thought you’d be in the office after 10.  Most of you Americans check into the hotel and catch a nap.”

 

“Oh, really.  I didn’t know that.”

 

“Just as well.  We can get a lot done before everyone wanders in around 9.  So, did you get the tour?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Donnagan slapped me on the back.  “This guy really knows his stuff.  I could tell by the way he was taking it all in that he knows more about our manufacturing area than he’s willing to say.  Aren’t you, Bruce?”

 

I shrugged my shoulders and suppressed a yawn.

 

“Why do you think I invited him over here, Donnagan?”

 

Donnagan switched to his John Wayne voice.  “’I don’t suppose you’d think he was the next generation version of The Quiet Man, do ya?’”

 

I laughed.  Donnagan and Nathaniel looked at me.  “Well, if I find a fiery redhead to marry while I’m over here, my wife’ll kill me, if the redhead’s brother doesn’t kill me first.”

 

Donnagan and Nathaniel laughed.

 

Nathaniel motioned us to sit at the small conference table in his office.

 

“Bruce, now that you’ve seen the TINZ programming room, you’ll understand more about what we’re doing here.  And I hope you’ll understand the urgency we face in finding a replacement for the engineers we lost on the Qwerty-Queue line.  We’d hoped to get some of the Qwerty-Queue engineers over here on a temporary basis to help integrate its technology with that of TINZ.  Since Patrick is calling the shots, he decided that the Qwerty-Queue sales didn’t justify the expense of temporary employee relocation.  What Patrick doesn’t know but for some reason, you do, is that our sales of Qwerty-Queue to the financial markets is just a one-time investment that we’d be willing to pay to get our equipment in place.  Do you know what I’m saying?”

 

“Sort of.”

 

“What don’t you understand?”

 

“I know what you’re saying about Patrick.  He’s looking at this as purely an engineering decision whereas you’ve got a different picture in mind.”

 

“Precisely.  Patrick is an excellent engineering VP and I’m glad to be working for him.  At the same time, I’m still working for Geoffrey McCabe.  Geoffrey has more in mind for Qwerty-Queue than just a technological solution.  And that’s why he asked us to invite you here.  He’s heard that you’re familiar with every product that Cumulo-Seven makes and he’s assured me that you are very aware of the importance of the synergy our products bring to our major stockholders.”

 

I nodded.  Geoffrey had made a similar remark before.  He thought that as a real global L3 coordinator, I had access to all the engineering design teams around the world and was intimately familiar with current and future product capabilities.

 

Nathaniel stood up and started drawing a diagram on the white board behind him.  “You see, when we first created the TINZ product line, we thought we were just providing another elegant analog KVM switching solution.  But then, while Donnagan was demonstrating the TINZ to an IT department of a TV station in New York, it dawned on him that good analog reception wasn’t just good for IT departments, it would also be useful for TV broadcasters, filmmakers and financial analysts.  Donnagan came back to me to see if his idea made sense.”

 

Nathaniel drew several rows of cascading boxes, starting with a single controller box at the top, with each row below doubling the number of boxes.  “Now, as you move down the chain, the TINZ unit above can control the units in the network below it.  But, it can’t control the unit above it and can’t control units on the other side of the chain because of the unique ID structure embedded in the attached dongles.  We created this hierarchical structure for simplicity’s sake, giving IT department an easy way to configure TINZ installations.

 

“However, the limitation is artificial.  We found that if we inserted special code in the TINZ units, we could pass and store data in the TINZ units with ease, hardly even bumping up Ethernet traffic.  Our only hangup was how this traffic would look to network sniffers.”

 

“’The hunted becomes the hunter.’”

 

“That’s right, Donnagan.  We put our TINZ units on an artificial network with five of the best network sniffers logging the traffic on the TINZ network.  We found that by encoding the new TINZ data as junk on the end of the regular TINZ data, we could make it look like our TINZ network sent perfectly good analog signals despite the poor way we handled the sending and receiving of data traffic.  I don’t know how many times we flew a technician to the Star Lights Ranch film studio in California to demonstrate that our poorly written code could not be improved but was still causing no adverse effects on the server farm that was creating the latest CG movie.  However, it paid off.  With Star Lights Ranch in our pocket, we were able to sign on several big customers, including the four major TV broadcasters.  With the money from these customers, we hired several famous hackers to give us backdoor entry through any firewall.  Although we have no direct interest in the goings-on of the major media outlets, we still are able to watch raw unedited news feeds and quickly buy or sell company stock before their news hits the financial markets.”

 

It made sense and explained why I saw TV shows and stock market data being displayed in a hidden room.  Not something you wanted to let every employee know about.  Too much movement of a stock by one group of people before the stock tanked would draw undue attention.

 

“It was then that we stumbled upon the Qwerty-Queue product line.  You see, we’ve tried to get traction in the financial markets but although there is some need for large analog displays of stock market data, there is a lot of heavily-guarded secrecy about how the individual stock traders’ computers are managed.  None of the brokerages would let us into their trading rooms or even let us see their IT networks.  As luck would have it, the Qwerty-Queue sales team included an ex-trader named Katerina Karamazov.  She had emigrated to the U.S. after the collapse of the Soviet Union and had quickly ingrained herself into the denizens of Wall Street.  My guess is that she already had connections before she came here.  In any event, she contacted Paul O’Reilly a couple of years ago about being able to remotely monitor a digital computer display for security purposes.  Paul demonstrated the Qwerty-Queue technology and she fell in love with it.  She quit her job as a trader and became the top salesperson for that product.”

 

“Have you ever been to Paul O’Reilly’s estate?”

 

I shook my head.  “No, I haven’t.”

 

“Well, it’s obvious from the size of the place that he makes money other ways than just through Cumulo-Seven salary and stock options.”

 

“Interesting.”  I yawned.

 

“Donnagan, why don’t you get Bruce a cup of coffee?”

 

“Glad to!”  Donnagan got up and left the room.

 

“Bruce, how’s your financial situation?”

 

“Not bad.”

 

“Not bad as in…?”

 

“Well, our house is almost paid off and we have no credit card debt.  We really only have one outstanding loan, called a home equity line of credit.  I could pay it off now, if I wanted to.”

 

“What would you do if you had an endless spring of pure water?”

 

“Uh…”

 

“I mean, if you knew that you’d never run out of something as essential as water, what would you do with it?”

 

“I don’t know.  I suppose I’d always have a healthy stand of green trees in my yard.”

 

“You’d be rolling in green leaves, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

 

“Well, you see, that’s what the Qwerty-Queue product line does for you and me.  It could provide you with an endless supply of your American greenbacks and I mean endless.”

 

I thought Nathaniel was a down-to-earth engineering manager but he was starting to sound like a cheap salesman, making promises that the rusted-out Yugo I was about to buy would save me money and make me rich beyond compare.

 

I yawned and shook my head.  “Sorry.”

 

“Oh, that’s all right.  A good Irish breakfast will do that to you.  When Donnagan gets back, the coffee will do you good.”  Nathaniel walked over to his desk and checked email.  I closed my eyes for a quick power nap.

 

Donnagan burst through the door a few minutes later.  “Coffee for everyone!”  He handed the cups out and sat down at the conference table.  “So what did I miss?”

 

“Not much.  Bruce was just snoring me a little tune, weren’t you, Bruce?”  Nathaniel chuckled.

 

“Yeah, sure.”  I grinned.

 

“As I was telling Bruce, we’ve got a good handle on Qwerty-Queue sales.  I suppose you could go ahead and tell him about DUNZ while I finish this email.”

 

“Right, you are!  So, Bruce, you familiar with DUNZ?”

 

“Not a bit.”  I sipped the hot coffee and sat back in my chair, wondering if I was going to get another John Wayne impression.  I could see why Donnagan was sent out for a lot of sales cold calls.  His personality was very likeable and he knew his audience.

 

“Nathaniel, mind if I erase your drawing?”

 

Nathaniel looked up at the white board.  “Why do you need to erase it?  I think you’re going to need to use it.”

 

“Indeed.”  Donnagan stood up and walked to the white board.  “You’re familiar with TINZ now?”

 

I nodded.

 

“Well, Qwerty-Queue is different.  I’ll draw a little diagram over here to show you what I mean.  The Qwerty-Queue products work on a one-to-one relationship.  There’s a little board inside a PC that has a unique network address that is tied to a black box with the same unique network address.  The only way to change the one-to-one relationship is to reassign the unique network addresses.  Or at least, that’s how the remote digital display technology works.  It turns out that we can make the black boxes communicate with each other.  Instead of the normal way in which network devices communicate, where one device sends a piece of data and the receiving device sends a message back that the data was received, we found out that the Qwerty-Queue black boxes would just send data to each other but not acknowledge the receipt.  That way, the black boxes became a separate network backbone.”

 

The coffee was giving me the pickup I needed.  “But wouldn’t someone sniffing the network see it was pretty obvious that you were sending data back and forth between the black boxes?”

 

“It would, except the Qwerty-Queue team fell into a bit of luck.  They hired an engineer from UWB Designs.  The Qwerty-Queue team quizzed the new engineer about UWB Designs’ main product, a handheld device that can send high-speed signals, called ultra-wideband, over short distances.”

 

“Yeah, I know about UWB Designs.  I studied them in a business class.  From what I understand, ultra-wideband is a low-power pulse radio signal.”

 

“Simply put, yes.  But what was learned from the ex-UWB Designs employee was the secret way in which data is encoded.  Because there are a lot of frequencies that are available at low power and with ultra-wideband you can send a bit of data to a synchronized receiver on any frequency you want, a person trying to listen to an ultra-wideband transmission is going to have a difficult time catching all the bits in the right sequence.  The same technology was incorporated into the Qwerty-Queue product line.  To a network sniffer, it looks like a lot of random bits are being sent across a network.”

 

I liked what I heard.  “Very interesting.”

 

“Yes, it is.  Now you see why we were hoping to get a couple of the Qwerty-Queue engineers over here.”

 

I nodded and finished off my coffee.

 

“Since it won’t be happening, we’ve decided to take another tack.  Nathaniel has had all the Qwerty-Queue engineering files sent over here for analysis.  During the analysis, our lead design engineer, Oliver Sheridan, figured out a way to combine the best of TINZ and Qwerty-Queue technology into one product, unofficially, of course, because he’s supposed to be reworking the TINZ code for a couple of my customers.”  Donnagan stared at Nathaniel.

 

Nathaniel looked up from his computer.  “And we’re doing that, too!”

 

“Anyway, Geoffrey has authorized a few of Nathaniel’s engineers and one of my marketing guys to put together a plan for this next-generation product.  Right now, we’re calling it DUNZ.”

 

“Sounds very hip.”

 

“Thanks.  But in the meantime, we don’t want word of DUNZ development to leak out.  Since you’re the Qwerty-Queue program manager, we figured this is where you could step in and help us.  You see, Geoffrey has worked out a tentative deal to sublicense the Qwerty-Queue technology to a company in the UK called Round Tower.  Round Tower is headed up by a colleague of Geoffrey.  Do you know Morgana Cornwallis?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“Well, Morgana’s company is very active in the financial markets.  She sells a special keyboard design for stockbrokers.  She thinks the Qwerty-Queue technology will be a fine fit with her keyboards.  Also, because Morgana and Geoffrey go way back, they owe each other enough favors that we’re sure there will be no ‘accidental’ disclosure of the Qwerty-Queue technology, should Morgana’s engineering team figure out what it does.  But in case there is, Geoffrey has set up the preliminary contract with Round Tower so that Round Tower can take the fall in case the word gets out.”

 

I raised my eyebrows.  What exactly did they want me to do?

 

“You have a question?”

 

“Well…”  I swirled a drop a coffee around in my cup.  “You said that Cumulo-Seven is giving away Qwerty-Queue technology?”

 

Nathaniel stood up and walked over to the table.  “Not at all.  We’re licensing the technology to Round Tower.  And to be more specific, we’re only licensing the one-to-one relationship technology to them.  The ‘black box’ technology stays with us.”

 

“And how am I supposed to fit into all this?”

 

“Well, I guess you don’t know, do you?”  Nathaniel looked at Donnagan and smiled.

 

“Know what?”

 

“I thought not.  Well, it appears that Geoffrey has sold Morgana on the idea that you’re the key to the whole deal.  If you don’t get the contract to a state where Cumulo-Seven will sign it, then the whole deal’s off.”

 

I laughed through my nose.  I knew that Geoffrey was a persuasive person and at least on this side of the Atlantic he could call the shots he wanted so why did he set me up to be the linchpin for this contract?  Did he expect it to fail?  It would be easy to say that an American botched up an inter-EU agreement, especially with the way the U.S. was being perceived as a world-class bully.  Maybe I needed to talk with Geoffrey.

 

“So you say Geoffrey came up with this idea?”

 

“I believe so.”

 

“You guys don’t mind if I talk with him about this, do you?”

 

“Not at all.  Go right ahead.  In fact, I think he’d rather talk to you first before your conference call with Morgana tomorrow morning.”

 

“Conference call?  Are you going to be there?”

 

“No.  I believe this is a private call between you, Geoffrey and Morgana.  We’re not invited.”

 

“I see.”

 

“We’re just supposed to make sure you understand the technology in order to keep the contract, and us, out of trouble.”

 

I looked down into the coffee cup, hoping to find some kind of answer.  The cup was dry.  I wasn’t sure what that meant, other than I was thirsty and tired and could use another jolt of caffeine.

 

“Oh, I know all about the technology.  I’m all over it.”

 

“Very good.”  Nathaniel walked back to his desk and looked at an email message that was flashing.  “In that case, I’ve got work to do.  If you have any more questions, just ring Donnagan or me.”

 

“I do have one question.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Where am I going to sit?”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I thought Donnagan had taken care of that.  Donnagan?”

 

“Bruce, I thought you knew you were going to sit in my area.”

 

Was I so tired earlier that I missed Donnagan’s invitation?

 

“I thought you were just being polite.”

 

“’Us cowboys have to stick together.  You don’t want them Indians to catch us out on the plains alone.’”

 

I nodded at Donnagan and turned to Nathaniel.  “Well, thanks for the update, Nathaniel.  Maybe we can get together later this week.”

 

Nathaniel looked up and nodded.  “Yes, we do.  I want you to meet with the DUNZ team before you leave.”

 

Donnagan led me back through the maze to my temporary office.  It was part of a four-person cubicle office.  Each person sat facing a corner.  I had met the two young women earlier.  There was another cubicle but it was unoccupied at the time.

 

By the time I had unpacked my laptop bag, it was time for lunch.  I wasn’t particularly hungry so I spent the time catching up on emails.  I found out I had to dial 001 to get the U.S. and called my wife to let her know I had made it safely.

 

After lunch, I called Geoffrey’s secretary and asked for an appointment with Geoffrey.  She told me he would be busy all afternoon and that his meeting with Morgana and me had been postponed indefinitely.  She suggested that if I wasn’t busy, I should go ahead and leave and go out to enjoy the Irish countryside.  Try to catch the Cliffs of Moher, if I was up for the drive.

 

Before I left the building, I stopped by Donnagan’s office.  I told him about the postponed meeting with Morgana and the suggestion by Geoffrey’s secretary to drive out to see the Cliffs of Moher.   I had looked it up on a map and decided that it was a bit of a stretch to see on my first day.  I really needed a nap.

 

“Bruce, you know the secret to a good stay in Ireland?”

 

“No.”

 

“Stay up the whole day to reset your clock.”

 

I blinked my eyes.  “I don’t know about that.”

 

“Oh sure, you can make it.  Besides, you’ll want to go to the Cliffs of Moher as soon as possible.”

 

“Oh yeah.  Why’s that?”

 

Donnagan motioned me to follow him.

 

We walked down a side hallway and appeared in front of Geoffrey’s office.  Donnagan waved off Geoffrey’s secretary, knocked on the door and walked in.

 

“Geoffrey, Bruce’s here.”

 

Geoffrey looked up from his computer.  “Yes, I’m aware of that.  And I think I’ve arranged a meeting with him tomorrow.”

 

“Well, he’s got nothing to do today and your secretary advised him to visit the Cliffs of Moher.”

 

Geoffrey looked surprised.  “She did, did she?  Why would she do that?”

 

“Don’t know.  But I tink it’s a marvelous idea.”

 

“Indeed.”  Geoffrey adjusted his eyeglasses.  “Close the door.”

 

Donnagan closed the office door and turned the bolt.  He pulled the shade down over the window in the door.

 

Geoffrey stood up and shook my hand.  “Bruce, good to see you.  You have a good flight over, did ya?”

 

“Yes, thanks, I did.”

 

“That’s good.  So I hear you’re knowledgeable about all that’s going on?”

 

“As far as I know, yes.  I believe you’ve got me lined up to meet an old friend of yours?”

 

Geoffrey looked at Donnagan.

 

Donnagan cleared his throat.  “Morgana.”

 

Geoffrey turned back to me.  “Oh yes, Morgana.  Well, we can discuss that in our meeting tomorrow.  I suppose I’d better show you what you can and can’t see at the Cliffs of Moher.”

 

Geoffrey turned to the bookshelf behind his desk.  He pulled a book off the top shelf and set it on top of a book on the middle shelf.  The bookshelf made an audible clicking sound.  Geoffrey grabbed the side of the bookshelf and swung it open like a door.  On the wall behind the bookshelf was a flexible electronic display like a map.  Geoffrey pulled the display off the wall and set it down on his desk.  He nodded at Donnagan.  Donnagan stepped forward and maneuvered images on the display with his fingers.  Eventually he brought up a map of southwestern Ireland, with several large dots on it.  He tapped a dot on the coastline and a detailed coastline map appeared.  The words, “Cliffs of Moher”, highlighted a small portion of the map.

 

“Okay, Bruce, I’ll leave it up to you to get to the Cliffs.  The weather’s a bit rough right now but it’s supposed to clear up in a few hours.  Should be just about right by the time you get there, if you’re leaving anytime soon.  When you arrive, you’ll have to pull into this carpark and pay a fee, or you could keep driving up the road and park off to the side for free.  It doesn’t matter.  What you’ll need to do is go into the visitor’s center.  Now, if it’s after 5, I believe the visitor’s center will be closed and then you’ll just have to enjoy the cliffs the way everyone else does.  If you get there before then, go into the men’s toilet and step into the last stall.  There’s an automatic sensor on the wall.  Very quickly wave your hand over the sensor twice, pause for a second and then wave your hand over the sensor three times.  Repeat this sequence for a total of 23 times.  A door will open up on the wall.  You’ll find yourself in the entryway to an old set of caverns that have been hidden from public view.”

 

Donnagan tapped on the electronic map and it zoomed in to the Cliffs of Moher, popping up a 3D display.

 

“Now I can’t go with you today so I’ll have to send you with a personal message from me.”  Geoffrey leaned over and whispered a few words in my ear.  “You’ll want to tell this to everyone you meet but do it privately, not out loud.  There are those who are always waiting to hear things they shouldn’t.  Best to keep them from hearing it.  Right, Donnagan?”

 

Donnagan nodded.  He tapped the map and returned the electronic display to a picture of an Old World map.  He handed the display back to Geoffrey.  Geoffrey placed it back on the wall and closed the bookshelf against it.

 

“You don’t have to visit these caverns without me.  However, if you do, you’ll gain a level of respect that I with you couldn’t give.”  Geoffrey turned to Donnagan.  “Is that all?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“I’ve really got to get back to work then.”

 

Donnagan unlocked the door and ushered me out before I had a chance to say thanks.

 

The Cliffs of Moher, or Aillte an Mhothair, as the Irish call it.  Before I visited Ireland, I had never heard of the cliffs.  The first time I heard them mentioned in Ireland, I imagined something like the white cliffs of Dover, mainly because the names are so close in pronunciation.  Oh, but what a difference!  I have never visited the eastern shore of England and have only read about the white cliffs, which form a white, chalky outline visible to folks on French soil, and crumble away in chunks throughout the year.  They seem so soft and defenseless compared to the rocky fortress of the Cliffs of Moher.

Perhaps that’s why the Cliffs of Moher were chosen as one of the headquarters.  I don’t know for sure because no one will tell me.  But I do know that hidden behind, below and above the visitor’s center is a network of tunnels and caves not everyone is aware of, even those who say they’ve mapped the whole area.

I guess that’s why I began to believe in magic, even if there was nothing magical about the existence of 8^th, 9^th and other N^th dimensions.  I knew that scientific tools such as ground-penetrating radar and GPS should be able to assist 3D cartographers with their geographical information systems to map out underground cavities.  Yet, with all the modern methods available, the caves I crawled and walked through, the portholes I stuck my face up against and the meeting rooms that I’ve sat and slept through meetings in didn’t show up on any maps, paper or electronic.  The Google mapping system could give us bird’s-eye views and street-level views and even views of the universe around us yet it couldn’t point out the nook where a certain Atlantic puffin, which hated the cold-sounding name of Fratercula arctica, and preferred the name of O’Flaherty, sat on a nest which rested on a hatchway on Goat Island.

I met O’Flaherty that first evening on the Cliffs of Moher while watching the sun set.  I was sitting on a spot of grass at the top of the Cliffs, enjoying the fading colors of day and dreading the dark, twisty drive back to Ennis.  I shot a few pictures of the sunset and placed the camera in my lap.  The ocean waves looked like tiny, slow moving ripples in a bowl of water.  Lines of white spray coated the surface and reminded me of the writing of a garden spider.  Curious, how nature repeats itself in unusual ways.

As I lifted my leg to stand up, I heard a grunting sound.  I knew I hadn’t farted but wondered if someone behind me had burped or farted, instead.  I slowly turned around, hoping that no one had snuck up on me, since I was sitting in an area that was off-limits, the sheer edge of the cliff where loose soil and grass was known to slip off and plunge 600 feet to the sea.  There were a couple of photographers a few dozen yards away, bracing their long telephoto lenses on walking canes or camera monopods.  My hearing was poor so I doubted their bodily functions were audible from where I stood.  I put the camera strap around my neck and stood up.  The grunting continued.

Maybe the ground grunted as it shifted and slipped off the cliff?  I took a couple of steps back, just as a precaution.  I snapped a shot of the sun sinking below the horizon.  I wanted to get a silhouette shot of a lighthouse-like building, a watchtower called O’Brien’s Castle.  Before I could turn around, I felt something tugging on the left cuff of my trousers.  I didn’t remember any brambles or branches that could catch on clothing but I was never sure anymore what could happen after I was saved from falling by vines a while back.  After that, I had given in to the idea that I was permanently insane and stopped trying to separate fantasy from reality.  My sanity had gotten a lot better.

I looked down to see a 12-inch bird looking back up at me.  I looked back up the cliff and the photographers were gone so there was no one who could independently verify that a wild bird had personally gotten a hold of my attention without my coaxing it to me with food.

I hand-fed birds in my backyard back home but it took many weeks to show the birds I meant no harm – first, I filled up birdfeeders early in the morning, when the birds were less numerous and I wouldn’t upset so many of them at once.  After a few weeks of daily birdfeeder fillings, I would sit motionless near the birdfeeders for a while so birds would get used to my presence.  Then, on weekends I would sit in a chair on the back deck just a few feet from the birdfeeders and rest my arm on my lap with birdseed in an open palm.  The tickle of a bird’s feet clinging to your finger is one of the most rewarding sensations I know of.

The puffin spoke again.  It was the eeriest sound, like a performer in a haunted house slowly saying, “Ah-ha!”  I thought the bird was telling me that it was satisfied that it had finally captured my attention.  The bird shook its head, flexed it wings, waddled over to the edge of the cliff and flew to a spearhead shaped rock called Goat Island.

The bird flew back and handed me a note.  It was getting dark so I snapped a picture of the note and looked at the note in the camera’s LCD screen.  The note read, “Hi, my name is O’Flaherty.  Hold your hands by your sides.”  I looked at the bird and it nodded its head.  I stuffed the note in my pocket and put my hands by my sides.  A few minutes later, I was surrounded by all sorts of birds.  They seemed to pick and peck until I was all eaten up.  I went into an altered state of consciousness, a sort of out-of-body experience where I felt like I was still standing on the cliff’s edge but I was also stretched between the cliff and a spot in the middle of Goat Island.  This feeling lasted for a few minutes until I found myself standing in a small room surrounded by rock.  I could see out a small hatchway and barely make out the dark outline of the Cliffs of Moher.  Had I somehow been transported to Goat Island?

“Hello again, Bruce.”

I turned around to see Geoffrey hold a small lantern.

“Hello, Geoffrey.”

“Welcome to Branaunmore.”

I bowed to Geoffrey.  In the glow of the lantern, he looked like some ancient Irish god.

“Follow me.”

I walked behind Geoffrey as we descended a set of stairs.  At the bottom of the stairs was a small room, with elderly men and women sitting ceremoniously in throne-like seats covered with Celtic symbols carved into the rock walls.

“Bruce, today you were entrusted with information.  At no time during the relaying of this information did you act like you were afraid to learn secrets nor did your eyes say that you would betray us.  Your actions before you came to Ireland told us that you are trustworthy because of your ability to both look like you’re an open, honest person who wouldn’t keep a secret against anyone while at the same time you keep secrets to yourself that would tumble world leaders and crush the global market.  I have spoken with the Council and they agree that I should tentatively offer you the full program management role for the new DUNZ product line.  Do you accept this offer?”

 

I blinked heavily a few times.  It had been a long day.  I wasn’t even sure what time it was.  I nodded at Geoffrey, hoping he would keep talking so I could soak in all that I had just experienced.  And was there a bunch of bird droppings on my shoulder?

 

“Very well.  I know that you take this offer with solemnity and a sure sense of sincerity.  Your acceptance means that you are giving yourself to your Irish kindred spirits forever and always.  Your acceptance means that you have promised to protect your brothers and sisters in times of great troubles.  Your acceptance means that you and your family will always have a home.  Your acceptance is a commitment you must keep even when you have no money or time to give.  I ask you again – do you accept this offer?”

 

It seemed like an awful lot to ask of one person for a job that I hadn’t even figured out if a pay raise and relocation costs were going to be included.  But then again, I knew that Geoffrey had ties to old Limerick families.  There were rumors of connections to crime syndicates but no one knew for sure.  I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to stick with Geoffrey.

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

“In that case, I release you.  You are free to go as you please.  But don’t forget this offer.  Even at the bleakest moment when it looks like there’s no hope that you’ll actually get this job, the offer still stands.  Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

Geoffrey looked at the Council members individually.  They nodded to him in turn.  Geoffrey looked back at me and then blew out the lantern.

 

I found myself standing back on the edge of the cliff.  It was completely dark.  I looked up at the stars and could tell a fog was moving in from the ocean.  Using the flash of my camera, I snapped photos to help me find my way over the stone barrier and back down the walkway to the carpark.  I drove back to the hotel in Ennis, my head nodding back and forth in a half-sleepy state.

 

 

The next day, Donnagan invited me to visit his home in the country.  After I accepted the invitation, he gave me a hand-drawn map that led to “Chez Garrykennedy,” which, like the countryside lanes over which I dodged large lorries and farmers hopping across the roads in their tractors, left a lot to be desired, especially in the form of clearly visible or legible signs indicating which crooked road led to the next major intersection I was to look for.  I made a few wrong turns but didn’t complain to Donnagan about them.  Instead, I enjoyed the newness, seeing this part of southwestern Ireland for the first time.  As the famous postcard saying goes, “The weather is here.  Wish you were beautiful.”  Or is it the other way around?  In any case, the narrow lanes bordered by thick hedges became my guides, leading past old farmsteads, abandoned castles, new holiday homes, and just about all the same types of sights you’d see in the area of southeastern United States where I grew up.  Anywhere in the mountains, ravines, valleys, foothills and hollers of southwestern Virginia, western North Carolina, eastern Tennessee, southeastern Kentucky, northern Georgia or northeastern Alabama.  No wonder my ancestors settled down to help form an independent nation across the Atlantic Ocean.  Similar terrain and the right to practice any form of religion they took a fancy to.  In other words, I felt at home before I even got to Donnagan’s house.

 

When I finally arrived at the Garrykennedy hillside homestead, I knew I would enjoy the friendliness attributed to the Irish.  Much to my delight, Donnagan and his wife, Fiona, opened their home to me.  The modern, sharply-angled, purple stuccoed house, like some sort of Cubist grape dropped from the Picasso-painted hand of a god eating a snack on Mt. Olympus, with oil-filled pipes heating the concrete underneath our feet on the front floor, circular stairs providing a virtual flue piping heat to the second floor bedrooms from the turf-fed stove in the middle of the living room, and wireless networking providing multiple channels of music, television and Internet services to every room in the house, contrasted sharply against the piles of hay and old tires that delineated the fenceline dividing the pastureland for the curious cows of the neighboring farm from the Japanese garden surrounding Casa de la Garrykennedy.  No one seemed to mind the culture clash because they all enjoyed the panoramic view of Lough Derg, a lake that spread across the valley.

 

Even on the dreariest cloudy day, Lough Derg, the second-largest lake in the Republic of Ireland, brightens the landscape.  From the air, it resembles a child’s crayon drawing of a seahorse.

 

The day I pulled into their driveway, only a few clouds paraded across the sky, leaving the sun to have fun and use the surface of the lake to flash the two-legged, antlike creatures who tended gardens, repaired fences, sailed boats and took leisurely drives around the lake.

 

Donnagan and his family wanted to treat me to a view of their house from across the lake so we packed into their Range Rover and drove down to the village of Killaloe, the birthplace of one of Ireland’s heroes, Brian Boru, and a convenient crossing point at the southern end of Lough Derg.

 

Donnagan pointed out some of the traditional landmarks associated with the former emperor and Ard Ri Na hEireann, high king of Ireland.  We crossed the lake into the town of Ballina and pulled into a tourist carpark to look back at Killaloe.  Standing in front of a sign that said, “Cill Dalua ó Bhéal an Átha / Killaloe from Ballina,” Donnagan pulled Fiona and his eight-year old son, Cormac, up to him.  His ten-year old daughter, Brigid, had stayed in the car to finish reading a book.  Cormac kept playing a video game.

 

Huddled together with his family against a cool breeze, Donnagan looked at me.  “Funny, isn’t it, how easy it appears to us to be able to cross this lake and yet how difficult it must have been for our ancestors to cross.”

 

I looked down at the waterway and wondered what kind of boats they used to cross the lake.  A scene from the movie, Apocalyse Now, popped into my mind, where a boat crew passed through an area of the Nung River under attack.  Martin Sheen asked some soldiers on shore who was in charge and they weren’t sure but maybe thought he was.  The confusion of war.  How many times did the Irish attack each other in these waters because of the confusion of who was in charge?  But then, groups go to war over the question of supremacy all the time – water rights, land rights, oil rights, religious rights, government/leadership rights, or even just the right to brag about who won.

 

“Yeah, I guess so.  You know, the stone of that church is a dull gray.  Seems like a lot of churches look like that.”

 

Fiona looked at me.  “You mean Saint Flannan’s Cathedral?”

 

“I guess.”

 

Donnagan laughed.  “Well, if you move to Ireland, you better get used to it.  I think someone patented the look and this being Ireland, the Catholic Church isn’t moving too quickly to change it.  You may find a few newer churches in big towns like Limerick or Galway but the old churches always look like that…and always will.”

 

“Interesting.”

 

Fiona sighed.  “That is, if there’s still a Catholic Church around.  You know how much your Protestant churches are attended in the U.S.?  Well, over here, despite our being something like 85% Catholic, you get very few people actually attending Mass.  It’s a dying faith.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

Donnagan nodded.  He dropped his arms from around his family and pointed east.  “Yes, and it’s happening all over Europe.  That’s why we live out here, so our children can attend a parochial school out in the country where Catholicism still has a strong influence.  I bet you’d see two or three times as many people actively involved in the local parish around here than you’d see even in a town like Ennis.”

 

I cocked my head to one side, making a mental connection.  “Oh, that makes sense.  I’m staying in a hotel across the street from the big cathedral in Ennis and saw maybe a dozen or so people walking to church service.  I thought it just wasn’t the most popular time for mass.  Like back home, where you’ll have a church full of people attending a contemporary service but then only a few people showing up for the traditional service.”

 

“Okay, let’s get going.  I want to take you by the old family grounds before it gets dark.”

 

We drove up the east side of the lake, with Donnagan whipping the Rover around blind curves and not one word of shock or concern out of the occupants.  I never criticize a driver, assuming that she or he knows how to drive, but even I felt uneasiness at the way Donnagan seemed to put us in harm’s way potentially.  However, as we cruised along, it seemed Irish drivers coming at us also drove in the middle of the road, with cars jerking one wheel off the road at the last minute as they passed each other.  After two or three of these near misses, I relaxed, knowing that Donnagan had been driving in Ireland his whole life.  It was I, not him, who needed an attitude adjustment.

 

Donnagan pulled into an overlook.  He and I climbed out and left his wife and kids to keep singing along with a pop tune on the radio.

 

Misty, low clouds had blown in from nowhere, cutting off the tops of the mountains across the lake.  Donnagan and I walked to the edge of the lookout, admiring the green, hilly fields around that part of Tipperary North. 

 

“Bruce, here’s where I want you to pay attention.”  Donnagan pointed across the lake.  “If you squint, you can just see our house on the hill.”

 

I saw the place where it looked like someone had taken a purple pencil and gently dotted a spot on the mountain.

 

“That’s my castle.  I bet you can see why I chose that location for a house.”

 

“No.”

 

“Ah, well, see, that’s the point, isn’t it?  Not obvious, at all.”  Donnagan dropped into his John Wayne voice.  “Them Injuns’d have a mighty hard time paddling their canoes across the lake without being seen by my scouts.”

 

I frowned.  What was he talking about?  Indians?

 

“Scouts?” 

 

Donnagan returned to his normal voice.  “Yeah.  You see, and you’ll understand more of what I’m talking about when we get to Garrykennedy, there might not be real physical attacks like in the early days of Irish history but we now have to worry about virtual attacks on Ireland.  Foreigners coming over and changing the look of the Irish landscape, for instance.  See down there, where that old church ruin and graveyard is?”

 

Below us, a roofless church, with its complement of gray, lifeless stone, held sway over just as lifeless gravestones.  A parish church for a parish that no longer existed or no longer cared to hold lifeless Catholic services in that church.  Maybe the church had burned down and taken the parishioners with it?

 

I nodded.

 

“That’s the old Castletown Graveyard.  You’d be interested in knowin’ that was both a Catholic and a Protestant church.  Not at the same time, of course!”

 

I laughed with Donnagan at the thought of two strongly-opposed Christian organizations sharing the same sanctuary for the practice of their faith, knowing the groups would more likely have fought to the death than discuss any common beliefs in victory over death in the afterlife.

 

“Well, look just to the right and you can see where someone is building a house with a bright-blue roof.  Do you see any other house in this area with a roof like that?  No!  Well, then, we’ve got to call attention to this travesty before it gets completed.  We won’t let folks just come in and build houses like that and take away our Irishness!”

 

I laughed.  “You tell ‘em, Donnagan.”

 

Donnagan grinned like a drunken fool.  “Damn right!  If I won’t stand up for the Irish, who will?!”

 

“But you’ve got a pretty strange-looking house yourself.”

 

Donnagan mockingly shook his fist in the air, like an oldtime stump speaker on a roll.  “And I damn well am going to keep it!  Do you know how hard I fought the old biddies around us who still think Ireland should live in the 19^th Century!  Did they not once notice that I stuck to the tradition of a stuccoed house with a tile roof?  They fooking didn’t!  All they could go on about in the council meeting was the purple paint, the purple paint, the purple paint, as if paint color was going to spoil crops and make cow milk go sour.  Of course, now they all like to give directions to their places by way of the purple house.  I know the old ladies have painted their descriptions of us just as purple as our house.  You’d be surprised how many people will stop at my house on the pretense they’re lost, just to see how strange and weird we really are.  Now, for those hikers on the East Clare Way, that’s different but these old country folk just want to put a bug up my rear and…”

 

“East Clare Way?”

 

“Yeah, it’s an overland hiking route.  Sorry, I thought you knew about it.  I drew one of the East Clare Way signs on the map I gave you.  Where the trail crosses the road to my house.”

 

“I thought it was some sort of flag you drew.”

 

Donnagan snorted and turned.  I walked with Donnagan over to a sign labeled, TIOBRAID ÁRANN THUAIDH / TIPPERARY NORTH, which contained a map of the area surrounding Lough Derg.  “Here’s where we are now.  And over across the lake…there…is where I live.  Now, you can hike around the lake, follow the Lough Derg Way, and on around the East Clare Way, if you like and get to my place.  I much prefer the old underground trails myself, with entry points here and here.  And of course, the original one in Garrykennedy.  And speaking of which, we’d best be moving on.”

 

Donnagan and I jumped in the car.  Donnagan headed down the road at breakneck speed again.  The kids were asleep beside me in the back seat, Brigid with a comic book in her lap and Cormac with his Playstation Portable, or PSP as he called it.  Fiona thumbed through a ladies’ magazine.  I closed my eyes and caught a cat nap.

 

I fell into a dream.  I faintly remember being trapped inside a giant pocket watch and having no way to get out.  I had only a pocket knife with me and was in the process of shaving off the edges of a gear to change the time of the watch so someone would have to open the watch and fix it, hopefully freeing me at the same time.  I suppose the jostling and bumping along poorly-paved roads provided the sensation of being inside a giant ticking watch.  Just when I thought someone was going to open the watch…

 

Donnagan swung open his door and shouted. “Okay, let’s pile out!  We’re home!”

 

The rest of us followed Donnagan’s example, except instead of leaping enthusiastically out of the car, we sort of rolled and slid out, half-asleep or still sleeping.

 

A broken piece of rainbow, like the last cutoff section of a Christmas ribbon, hung in the sky across the lake.  Donnagan followed my gaze.

 

He used a fake lilty Irish accent.  “And don’t go tellin’ me that you’ve got me lucky charms or that you’re going to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!”

 

Fiona and I laughed so hard we had to hold each other up.  The kids rolled their eyes at our adult antics and strange humor.

 

Donnagan pointed across the carpark at a rundown cottage, made with stacked stones and heavily whitewashed.  The slate roofing sagged.  He motioned his family to gather with him in front of the cottage.  I walked beside them.  Upon closer inspection, I laughed to myself.  The cottage windows were no windows at all but a piece of wood painted with red stripes to simulate a window frame and black squares to simulate glass with a fake black painted sill to match.  Someone had added a box-frame wooden chimney and stuck it on top of the cottage.

 

My inner laugh twisted the corners of my mouth and eyes into a wicked smile.  Donnagan looked at me and laughed.

 

“I suppose, Bruce, you’re thinking this is one of my ancestor’s houses and laughing at our heritage, wondering why we take pride in coming from such squalid conditions.”

 

Donnagan didn’t often fall into the trap of Irish self-deprecation so I assumed my smile had given him a moment to make fun of Irish self-deprecated humor and not a revealed true streak of pride in him.

 

“No.  I’m just laughing at someone’s idea that a cottage is supposed to have perfectly square windows when the rest of it is as crooked as the house the ‘crooked little man’ had.”

 

Brigid and Cormac spoke up at the same time.

 

“There was a crooked man,

and he walked a crooked mile.

He found a crooked sixpence

upon a crooked stile.

He bought a crooked cat,

which caught a crooked mouse,

and they all lived together in a crooked little house.”

I patted the kids on the back.  “Very good!  I was just trying to remember that old ditty.”

Fiona looked astonished.  “So you have those same children’s nursery rhymes in the States?”

“Yes.”

She retorted.  “And all this time, I thought it was just another example of England’s eight-hundred years of oppressing the Irish, including forcing their silly little rhymes upon our children.  If your people had successfully kicked the English out of America and yet you still sing these same songs…”

Donnagan put his arms around Fiona and Fiona hugged him back.  Donnagan gazed into his wife’s eyes.  “Ah, Fiona, my dear.  We both speak the simpleton Queen’s English so it’s inevitable that some of their simpleton tales would come along with it.”

Fiona looked lovingly in Donnagan’s eyes.  “You’re right, I’m sure.”

They peck kissed and let go of each other.

“Well, Bruce, you know we didn’t come here just to show you that.  I want to show you the Garrykennedy castle and then we get grab a quick pint at Larkins Music pub.”  He pointed to a pub next to the carpark.  At one time, it probably stood out on its own but the affluent Irish economy had caught up with the lakeside tavern.  A row of similar-sized, two-story buildings, in various stages of construction, sat silently waiting for the next working day to continue growing.  Larkins Pub would soon have competition.

We walked a trail leading to the entrance of a forest walk, and out to a harbor big enough to pull in half a dozen bass buggies – pontoon boats that fishermen in the southeastern United States used to load up crates of beer and fishing gear on the pretense of catching fish.  At the lake side of the harbor, a raised walkway with gray stone walls about eight feet high jutted out and formed a protective barrier for boats.  A 25-foot tall chimney, that appeared to be left over from a large house, stood sentinel in the middle of the walkway.

Donnagan nodded his head for me to go with him over to the chimney.  Fiona and the kids stopped to watch a juvenile swan playing in the still water of the harbor.

We halted in front of a metal sign mounted on the chimney.

Donnagan held his hands up in the air.

“Welcome to the ruins of the Garrykennedy Castle!  Let me read you the grossly inaccurate history of this sacred ground…

“GARRYKENNEDY CASTLE WAS ONE OF MANY ERECTED ON THE SHORES OF LOUGH DERG DURING THE PERIOD 1450 – 1600 A.D.  THESE CASTLES,

(OR TOWER HOUSES) WERE BUILT FOR DEFENCE BY IMPORTANT LOCAL

LAND OWNERS SUCH AS BUTLER, O KENNEDYS, O’BRIEN OF ARRA.

GARRYKENNEDY CASTLE IS REFERRED TO IN THE CIVIL SURVEY OF 1654 A.D.  AS THE DEMOLISHED CASTLE OF CASTLEGARE AND TWO CENTURIES LATER AS SLANGER CASTLE, JOHN O’DONOVAN ESTIMATED THE DIMENSIONS OF THE RUIN IN 1840 AT 17’ BY 11’ AND 40’ IN HEIGHT.  MUCH OF THE STONE FROM THE CASTLE WAS USED TO CONSTRUCT THE EXISTING HARBOUR SO THE SKILLS OF THE MEDIEVAL CRAFTSMEN ARE STILL UTILISED BY THE PEOPLE TODAY”

“Excellent speech, Donnagan.  You brought tears to my eyes.”

“As well it should.  You should be bowing to honor my fallen ancestors!  Ha!”

I held my right hand out in front of me, pressed my left hand against my back and bowed to the heir to the Garrykennedy name.

“Thank you, thank you!”

“So, Donnagan, any of this yours?”

“No, and yes.  The castle belongs to the people now but the underground passages belong to me and my people and always will.”

Every time Donnagan mentioned underground passages, he looked around as if he was making sure no one was listening.  I stepped up close to him so I could find out more.

“What underground passages?”

“Well, you see, Bruce, I can’t show you right now but I can tell you about them.  A few hundred years before the reign of Brian Boru, a group of Irish folk were banished from the island.  No kingdom would take them because they were short, hairy and dark-skinned.  Think of a troll, for instance.  Well, these short people wouldn’t leave the land that they’d inhabited for longer than most folks, at least longer than the four kingdoms and probably longer than there’s been a language to record their history.  Anyway, they took to hiding among the reeds and bushes of Lough Derg.  As time went on, they carved themselves little hiding places, like big foxholes.  Each successive generation expanded the hiding places to the point where they had their own castles underground.  To keep their bloodline fresh, they’d steal babies from surrounding villages and raise them to think they were part of the same clan so the children would breed with the cave dwellers.  In order to keep their stealing from raising too many questions, young men would dress in wild clothing, with long strands of straw and reed for hair and wander the hills wailing, perpetuating the myth of the banshees.  That way, whenever a baby disappeared, the villagers would blame it on a banshee.  Very clever for such a backward people, eh?”

I nodded.

“Anyway, these people built an extensive set of tunnels underneath Lough Derg and created special, fortified entranceways that can’t be seen by regular folks.  You have to have ‘the eye’ in order to figure out where these entrances are placed.  As it turns out, an alliance was forged between the cave people and my bloodline.  My family were the official gatekeepers for many castles around the lake.  We had long since declared a neutral stance as it related to the whims and follies of kings and their claims on the land.  We were…that is, our reputation for complete silence, even under torture, for not giving away the secrets of one family to another…it served us well.  The fortunes of kings may come and go but there’s always a king that needs serving.  At some point in time, it became necessary for the cave people to make peace with some of the Irish.  The Gares as we called them.”

“Guerre as in the French word for war?”

No.  G-A-R-E.  Since you seem to know your languages, then you probably know that the word garrison comes from the old French word, garisun, meaning healing or maybe the German word, garir, to heal and protect.  I believe we probably called them the Garrison people to start with, because of our belief that they protected the people above ground from the beasts that lived in the underworld.  With time, we just shortened the word to Gare.  Anyway, the story goes that the Gares first approached the gatekeepers protecting the O’Kennedy family.  My ancestors often adopted the names of the families they guarded so I’m sure that the Gares called us the O’Kennedys.  We quickly understood the significance of the cavern system.  Not only could we continue to provide gatekeeping duties for families around the lake but we could also use the underground system to send messages between gatekeepers.  What better way to protect the general peace than to make sure that as one family decided to attack another, we could happenchance have fortified the castle under attack ahead of time?  With time, it became increasingly difficult for the Irish to keep attacking themselves and not a moment too soon.  We had done a pretty good job until the English and Scottish started pouring in.  Then, the whole system fell apart.  By then, the Gares and O’Kennedys had interbred so much that we took on the name Garrykennedy.  Not everyone in the Garrykennedy family line is aware of this history because as our family grew, some of them bred with lowlifes, half Vikings or even the fookin’ English, and lost their capacity to hold their tongues.”

I crossed my arms and puffed up my chest, emulating a condemning priest or minister.  “Rotten, good for nothing, and doomed for HELL!”

Donnagan laughed.  “Exactly!”

“So why can’t you show me the caverns?”

“Not in broad daylight.”

“Are these connected to the Cliffs of Moher?”

“Not at all.  These caves are not magical.  They’re just part of the Celtic myths.  I know for a fact that the Irish government is fully aware of these caves and put them to use during times of war.  The Garrykennedy clan may not be protecting the homes of prime ministers but we still protect the sanctity of the Gare caves.”

I nodded, not sure if Donnagan was pulling a joke on me.

“The reason I’ve let you in on the secret of the caves is that we need an international presence here.  Much like the times when we used to steal babies, we are at the point where too much insularity, too much inbreeding of Irish blood, if you will, has turned us into pale versions of our old selves.  We’re no longer interested in just protecting the caves for the caves’ sakes.  We need new blood to help us invent a reason for keeping these caves from the public conscience.  With folks like you involved, there’s a good possibility that we’ll invigorate the gatekeeper clan once again.  What do you say?  Are you interested?”

I looked around.  Fiona and the kids had wandered off.  The sun had set and shadows were stretching out into the lake.  I looked at Donnagan and he nodded.

“Bruce, it’s time.”

We walked around to the side of the chimney facing Lough Derg.  Donnagan pressed on a couple of stones with his hands and kicked another stone with his foot.  Nothing happened.  He tried again.  Nothing.  Donnagan tried pressing on different stones at the same time while kicking on the same stone at foot level.  Nothing.  Donnagan laughed nervously.  He looked out at the lake and then at me.

“Bruce, you see, this is part of what I was telling you.  Virtual attacks.  Someone has messed with this entrance.  I have opened this door more times than you’ve taken a leak.  I even opened it a few days ago.  Can you see the wire jutting out of the top of the tower?”

I stepped back and looked up at the top of the chimney.  Sure enough, there was a wire.  I had thought it was a lightning rod.

“That wire is part of a communication system around the lake.  I have a WiMAX connection at my house that relays a microwave signal across the lake to a spot not too far from where we stopped to look at the cathedral ruins.  From there, one of my Garrykennedy cousins monitors all the cave entrances.”

“WiMAX?  Here in Ireland.”

“Yeah.  We’re not as backwards as you thought, eh?  I not only run our TV and Internet through the WiMAX signal but my extended family uses WiMAX for cave protection.  If we hadn’t had a rerun of Eurovision on TV at the house for the kids, I would have shown you the monitoring system.  Very sophisticated.  Oh, hey, did you hear that the Chinese figured out how Eurovision and American Idol are really just covers for a test of a secret political voting system using the Internet?”

“No way!”

“Really, it’s true.  Right now, it’s only a two-fold system.  First, to test the usefulness of instantaneous voting of large masses of population and second, to see if the winners can be used to broadcast subliminal messages to influence future voting.  If it all works, politicians can hide their test marketing of hot political issues in television shows by having game show contestants who essentially look and act alike have a few seconds to describe themselves.  Then, one contestant could say he worked for an organization to promote universal health insurance while another contestant could say he worked for a private insurance company that wanted no interference from government.  The winner would tell the politicians which way to set their public posturing without sticking their necks out.  The Chinese are afraid the game shows could be manipulated by rich capitalists to sway public opinion and overthrow the Communist government.”

I laughed.

Donnagan looked up at the sky.  “Yeah, pretty funny.  A government of the people worried that the people don’t need governing.  Excuse me a moment.”

Donnagan stepped away to make a cell phone call.  I walked off to find Fiona.  Hunger and the desire for a drop of whiskey overtook my interest in Donnagan’s story, fictional or not.

Fiona saw the look on my face and knew what was going on.  She promised me to keep my mouth shut about what I’d heard from Donnagan.  We went to the pub and waited for Donnagan to join us.  He said nothing about our earlier conversation.  Instead, the talk turned to family matters, what the kids were doing in school and where they’d visited during their two-year stay in the States a while back.  While we talked, we enjoyed a good meal and drank good alcohol.  A band of young performers played a few songs in an adjacent room.  Overall, an excellent Irish evening.

 

 

 

 

2

 

When I returned to Huntsville, I rejoiced.  Home.  Familiar territory.  And yet…something acrid in the air, like a simmering mound of fresh manure and sawdust that a local chicken farmer used to dump at the end of our road.  Someone had tilted the world 12.5 degrees.  Northern Alabama was cockeyed.  Either that or it was the picture frame view out my airplane window as we landed.  I didn’t care.  I knew what I had to do.  I drove straight to the office and interrupted one of my boss’ ubiquitous conference calls. 

 

“Excuse me, Patrick.”

 

“Bruce.  I’m on a conference call right now.”

 

I looked down to see the Mute button was lit up.

 

“When was the last time you actually spoke or were spoken to on this call?”

 

“Today?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Nothing, yet.”

 

“I see.  Mind if I cut you off then?”  I held my finger over the Cancel button.

 

“No, just turn the volume down, willya?”

 

“Okay.”  I pressed the Down button a few times until the talker’s voice was like the 60 Hz hum of an old water pump my parents used to keep our basement dry.  Annoying but necessary.

 

“Whatcha need, Bruce?”

 

“Well, Patrick, I just got back from Ireland and…”

 

“You like the weather there?”

 

“What?  Oh yeah, it’s not bad.”

 

“I’m never sure.  They say it rains there almost every day.”

 

I nodded.

 

“You like rain, Bruce?”

 

“Uh, yeah, sure.  It’s good running weather.”

 

“You do much fishing or hunting?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Well, I like to hit the lake myself.  I’ll take a sunny morning on the water with beer in the cooler and fish takin’ the line over a day spent shivering and wet.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“They do much fishing in Ireland?”

 

“I know that some people do.”

 

“Well, I guess they like fishing in the rain, then.”

 

“Probably.  Anyway, speaking of the Irish, I’m interested in ‘going native’ there.”

 

“’Going native?’”

 

“Yeah, I’d like to move to Ireland and focus on program management there.”

 

“Is that so?  What about your lab here?”

 

I snapped out of a state of sleep deprivation to see Patrick’s fingers tapping on the computer keyboard.  While Patrick and I had been talking, my eyes had drifted over to his office window and turned circles with the buzzards catching a thermal above the parking lot.

 

I looked over his shoulders at what he was typing.  He was sending an instant message to someone named sue165: “CU@lunch. In mgt rite now.”  His wife’s name was Sherry, not Sue, but maybe Sue was her online name?  Or was it a colleague?  Or someone named Sam Ulysses Edminsten?  My overwrought mind was wandering again.  I looked back out the window.

 

Patrick pushed his chair away from the computer stand and stopped behind his desk.

 

“I’m not sure yet.”

 

“Do you think you could run the lab from Shannon?”

 

I spoke my thoughts.  “I could…but do I want to?”

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“I could use some coffee.”

 

Patrick nodded.  “Yeah, those circles under your eyes could be used as spare tires in a NASCAR race.  Why don’t you get a cup and come back here?”

 

“Not yet.  So you wouldn’t object to my moving to Ireland?”

 

“Bruce, you have my full support.  I know what needs to be done.  If you want to stay there for a few weeks and try it out first, I’m fine with that.  If you want to move to the Shannon area permanently, I’ll support you.  Just keep in mind that Cumulo-Seven has a stake in this.  I’m sure HR on both sides of the Atlantic will want to make this as cost-effective as possible.  In other words, you’re going to find that neither HR group will want to pay for the move.  If you need my help to ‘encourage’ them, let me know.”

 

“Thanks, Patrick.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Well, I was just thinking.”

 

“That’s always a healthy habit.  Anything useful?”

 

“Hugh Rowan has been performing a great job.”

 

“Yes, and I appreciate you bringing him with you.  He’s been a great asset.  His lab demos have been exactly what I expected when I first thought of the lab.”

 

“I was just thinking that since I plan to move to Ireland, I could go ahead and offer my resignation as Huntsville test lab manager to give Hugh a chance to be promoted to test lab manager.”

 

“Excellent idea.  But are you sure you want to resign before you move to Ireland?”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well, it’s certainly your choice.”

 

I sucked air into my lungs until the oxygen was filling the space between my shoulder blades.  I puffed up like Mr. Universe, veins bulging out of my neck, biceps growing so huge I couldn’t comb my hair, calf muscles ripped to the point I couldn’t squat on the toilet.  I held my breath until my heart quit pumping.  When I exhaled, Patrick rode the shock wave back to his computer desk like the Big Kahuna catching a wave at Pipeline Beach.

 

Patrick laughed.  “At least take the weekend to think it over.”

 

Assuming we were going to move to Ireland, Karen and I drove up to Nashville, Tennessee, for one last “fling” in the United States, spending a long weekend in “Music City USA.”

 

We got a room at the Hydrangea Retreat B&B in east Nashville, the Edgefield historic district.  When we arrived early Friday afternoon, the B&B hostess, Eva Levi, greeted us at the door.  Karen and I have stayed at many B&Bs because the owners surprise us with their eccentric personalities and personal touches they add to a vacation getaway.  Eva was no exception.

 

“Greetings.  Who are you?”  Eva held the door open but stood in the doorway.  She stood about 5’4” and wore an apron decorated with herbs and flowers.

 

“The Collines.”

 

“Colline?”  Eva frowned.  “I’m sorry.  Do I know you?”

 

“Yeah, we called in reservations.”

 

Eva scratched her head and looked at me.  “I’m terrible with last names.  What’s your first name?”

 

“Bruce.”

 

“Ohh!  Bruce and Karen, right?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Come on in.  You’re a little early.”

 

We walked into the bungalow-style house.  The walls were painted a pale olive and showcased a few dozen paintings.  The paintings varied in style from Southern primitive to abstract.  A picture next to me, although just a few squiggly lines, shimmered, as if a naked man and woman were grinding against each other to a tune playing in the privacy of their home.

 

Eva caught me staring.  “Oh, those are all for sale.  I love art in my house but can’t afford to buy it all so I’ve just offered up my walls to support local artists, instead.”

 

Karen admired a pair of paintings, a sun and a moon behind a silhouette of a tree.  “And they’re reasonably priced.”

 

“Yes, they are.  I don’t charge commissions like the galleries do.  And this is not a museum.  I’m not a curator.  If you see something you like, buy it!”

 

We laughed.

 

Eva looked at her watch.  “Well, the other guests don’t arrive for a couple of hours.  Are either one of you interested in a massage?”

 

Karen looked from me to Eva.  “I’d love one.”

 

“Me, too.”

 

“So which one of you wants to go first?”

 

I put my hand on Karen’s shoulder.  “Karen should go first.  She’s had a rough day at work.”

 

“In that case, Karen, just follow me.”  Eva reached into her apron and handed me a set of keys.  “These unlock the front door, back door and your room upstairs.  You can get the bags while your wife is getting a rubdown.  Right, Bruce?”

 

I walked outside to unload the car.  A middle-aged man and a little boy were flying down the sidewalk on roller blades.  At every car they encountered parked on the street, the two guys took turns pulling chewing gum out of their mouths and throwing it on the hood.  They saw me walking toward my car and skipped it, waving as they passed.  I walked around the car just to be sure they hadn’t hit it already.  Instead, I found a bumper sticker someone had placed on a side window.  It was a picture of a bicycle handle, with the slogan, “GET A GRIP! VOTE FOR ZIP!” – apparently, an advertisement for Zip “The Lip” Jackson, a candidate in the upcoming city mayoral election.  I pulled out my pocket knife to scrape the sticker off.  I found that the sticker had been stuck on top of another one.  Underneath Zip’s ad was a sticker that read, “Please be neat and wipe the seat / Portable Pottie, 317 King Street / 615-555-JOHN”.  I threw the stickers in the car trash bag and took one load of luggage to the room.

 

When I returned to the car, a neon-orange wad of gum was oozing and spreading out, bonding with the paint of the hood.  I looked up the road and sure enough the bubble gum bandits were racing up the other side of the street.  They waved at me and turned a corner.  I scraped the gum off the car and threw it in the car trash bag.  I opened the trunk to get out a cooler full of champagne and heard a screeching sound.  A group of teenage boys on bikes peddled down hill.  They grabbed something out of their backpacks as they approached me.  SPLAT!  SPLOOSH!  BAM!  They pounded me with water balloons as they passed by, shouting and waving on their journey toward downtown.

 

I would have chased after the boys but the cool liquid on my back and neck eased some of the heat-related tension.  I took off my shirt and wrung out the water, grabbed the cooler and headed back into the B&B.

 

I changed clothes and wandered the house.  Inside the front door, a framed copy of a newspaper review of the B&B mentioned Eva was a folk singer in the ‘70s and rock singer in the ‘80s but had settled down in Nashville to become a songwriter.  She opened the B&B as a way to make ends meet.  Next thing I knew, Karen woke me up from my nap on the living room sofa.

 

“Your turn!”  Karen shook me a little and ran up the stairs.  “I’m going to take a bath.  Have fun!”

 

I walked back to the kitchen where I could hear space music playing.  In my youth, I had attended several presentations at the Bays Mountain Planetarium.  Curious about the music that played in the background while we sat back in our chairs watching a red arrow point out visible stars, constellations and planets, I spoke to the park ranger who ran the place.  He told me that he had created the soundtrack using music by Klaus Schulze, Tangerine Dream and Synergy.  He showed me his record collection, which introduced me to the world of electronic music, including Kraftwerk, Jean-Michel Jarre, Walter Carlos, Tomita, Kitaro and Vangelis.  As an adult, I narrowed my enjoyment of that style of music to Philip Glass.  Sure, he’s a popular composer but his repetitive music brings back fond memories of listening to space music in the dark.  As I walked past the kitchen door, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

 

“This way, Bruce.”  Eva guided me past a curtained door and into a darkened room, dominated by a massage table, musk-scented candles and the aforementioned space music.

 

“You can take off your clothes and place them over there.  Go ahead and get under this towel.  I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

 

I stripped down and slid onto the table, placing my legs over a rolled-up towel.  I pulled the full-length towel over me as much as I could.

 

“I’m coming in.”  Eva opened the door, lit another candle and turned the music up a couple of notches.

 

“What kind of massage do you like?”

 

“Deep muscle,” I mumbled through the headrest.

 

“I thought so.  Just relax.”

 

Eva placed metal tips on my head and flipped a switch.  I felt a tingly sensation.  Then, the muscles in my face slackened followed by my neck muscles.

 

“How does that feel?”

 

“Mnnh.”  My lips were numb and I couldn’t move my tongue or close my mouth.

 

“Too strong?  Sorry, your wife needed the heavier dose.”

 

The tingling subsided and I could lift my head.

 

“That feels weird.”

 

“I hope so.  I came up with this design back when I lived in New York.  One of my friends broke his guitar on stage.  I leaned over to pick up the guitar and the bare metal edge scraped my scalp.  Oohee, what a jolt that was!  We played with it after the show and had a great time.  Later on, I figured out how to adjust his guitar amp to turn those guys into space cadets.  There, how does that feel?”

 

“Good.”

 

Eva took the contraption off my head and began to rub my shoulders.  “So, Bruce, your wife tells me you’re here on your anniversary.”

 

“That’s right.  Twenty-one years.”

 

“Time flies, doesn’t it?  You know, I bet when you two were dating, I was at the peak of my performing career.  I was a rocker in New York.  Did I tell you that?”

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah, we used to perform all over the city.  My favorite was CBGB’s.  You ever been there?”

 

“No.”

 

“That’s too bad.  It’s closed now, you know.  Hilly had to close it down.”

 

“He died.”

 

Eva stopped rubbing my shoulders.  “What?”

 

“Yeah, I saw it on the Internet a day or so ago.  I think it was real sudden.”

 

“No!”  Eva rested her weight on the middle of my back.  “I can’t believe it.”

 

“I can look it up for you, if you want.”

 

“Would you?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“That’d be great.  Well, anyway, he was a lot of fun.  I worked there from 1979 to 1981…three years.  Hilly really hated to see me go.  He liked me.  I played in bands and worked the place.  A lot of bands came and went through there…”  Eva sighed, pressing her elbow into my spine.

 

I coughed.  “Errgh.  Did you play punk?”

 

“Oh, no-o-o.  I was strictly rock.  But I did start out in folk.  But no punk.  And certainly no hip-hop or rap.  Just not my style.”

 

“Then I’ve got to look you up, too.  I’ve never heard of you.”

 

“Well, if you’re going to go to that trouble, make sure you search for Eve Levy.”

 

“Lee-vee?”

 

“Yeah, l-e-v-y.”

 

“I thought you spelled your last name, l-e-v-i?”

 

“I do.”

 

Eva worked on a knot in my middle back.  “Woo-ee.  You’ve got back problems.  You ever see a chiropractor?”

 

“No.”

 

“You oughta.  You’ve got some serious misalignment problems.  You’re almost out of my league here.”

 

“So why did you change your name?”

 

“Why did I change my name?  Well, my manager, Ben Guttenberg, convinced me that Levy was too Jewish for a stage name so he convinced me to change my name from Eve Levy to Eva Levi.”

 

I was about to laugh at the silliness of such a little name change when Eva dug into another knot in my back.  I groaned.

 

“Found another one, didn’t I?  I tell you, you need some therapy, you know that?  You ever go swimming?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, you should think about it.”

 

“So why this place?”

 

“I woke up one day and realized I wasn’t going to be a famous rock star.  I’d already been doing massage therapy for over 10 years.  So, about three years ago, I told my mother I was going to open a B&B.  And I knew nothing about it.  Not one thing.”

 

“Wow.  That takes guts.”

 

“No, it takes ignorance.  I was hoping to open this place so I could generate enough money to be able to put some away.  All this place does is eat up my money.  Well, I do make a little bit extra but all that goes toward my music business.  I tell you about my music business?”

 

“No.”

 

“I work with a lot of famous songwriters in the area.  Notice I said famous, not rich.  Songwriting is not a way to get rich.  Anyway, I’m working with a couple of guys to write individualized music for weddings.  We have packages for like $5000 and $7500.  You know anyone getting married?”

 

“No.”

 

“How about something for your 21^st wedding anniversary?”

 

“No.”

 

“You sure say ‘No’ a lot.  What are you, some kind of money lender?”

 

“No.”

 

“So what do you do?”

 

“I’m a program manager.”

 

“Yeah?  What’s that?”

 

“I make sure engineers make the products customers want and make sure the factories get the products to the customers on time.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I’m also working on a novel.”

 

“A novel?  What kind of novel?”

 

“It’s a satire about the corporate world.”

 

“Oh, you mean something like that show on TV?”

 

“’The Office’?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“I don’t know.  I haven’t seen it.  I don’t watch much television.”

 

Eva gave me a soft rub down my spine.  I closed my eyes and let her finish the massage in silence.

 

 

After I showered, we walked over to the local wine bar, City Scene, for a few glasses of wine.  Eva had told us that the bar opened at 4:30 p.m.  We got there around 10 till 5.  I jiggled the door handle and the door was locked.  We debated walking back to the B&B but decided it was just too hot to move.  We stood outside on the sidewalk in the humidity and heat, pondering what to do.  Finally, to get our minds off the trickles of sweat creeping down the napes of our necks, we picked up a couple of copies of the local entertainment newspapers, one weekly and one daily.

 

I leaned back against the doorway to shield myself from the direct sunlight.  Karen hid herself beside me, thumbing through pages absent-mindedly.  Eventually, the door opened and the chef stepped out, holding a cigarette in his hand.

 

“You all been trying to come inside?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Well, we’re closed.”

 

“Yeah, I figured that.”

 

“We don’t open until 5:30.”  The chef put the cigarette in his mouth.

 

I rubbed my sleeve against my brow, wiping sweat off my eyelids.  “I figured something like that.”

 

Karen stepped out from around me.  “But Eva told us you opened at 4:30.”

 

“Uh-huh.  I guess she saw that on our website.  We don’t open until 5:30.  You all wanna come inside?”  The chef held the door open with one hand while with the other hand he put a lighter up to the cigarette in his mouth.

 

I nodded.  “Oh yeah.”

 

We took the offer and settled into a couple of diner chairs at a table inside the dark restaurant.  Karen and I continued to flip through our newspapers, even though we could barely read them.

 

The chef walked back in a couple of minutes later.  “You all want something to drink?”

 

“Why not.”

 

“Whatcha want?”

 

I looked at Karen.  She turned to the chef.  “Maybe some wine.”

 

“I like you,” he said half-mockingly.  “Whatcha want?”

 

“You have a menu?”

 

“At the bar.”

 

“I don’t do bars.  The chairs are too tall for my short legs.”

 

The chef looked at me and I took the look in his eyes to mean he wanted me to follow him to the back of the restaurant where the bar was located.  I walked behind him, picked up a menu on the counter and took the menu back to Karen.

 

“Here you go, honey.”

 

“Thanks, dear.”

 

I stood next to Karen while she looked over the menu.

 

“You’re hovering over me is making me nervous.”

 

I sat back down at the table and thumbed through the newspaper, skimming over articles detailing the latest spat between two Nashville mayoral candidates.  The candidates were scolding local officials in the police and planning departments for the poor jobs they had performed under the current Nashville administration.  Neither candidate seemed to offer any solutions, only suggesting they’d improve the performance of city government.  I flipped on.

 

The chef yelled to us from the back of the restaurant.  “Well, I’ve gotta get back to prepping the food.  If you guys want, you can wait until the bartender gets here to order your wine.”

 

I nodded at the chef and he disappeared into the kitchen.  Karen kept looking at the wine menu.

 

“Have you found anything you like, darling?”

 

“Well…I don’t know.  I kinda like the Toasted Wheat Zinfandel.  How about you?”

 

“Can’t say.  I’ll wait until the bartender gets here, I guess.”

 

Karen set the menu aside and returned to reading the newspaper.

 

A few minutes later, a pretty young woman sashayed up to the table, almost popping her hips out of their sockets.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived.  Is there anything I can get for you?”

 

I looked at Karen.  “Darling?”

 

Karen picked up the wine menu.  “I’ll take a glass of the Toasted Wheat.  Unless you have a better suggestion.”

 

The woman flittered her eyes between Karen and me.  “Well, the Toasted Wheat is good but the Earth, Zin & Fire is good, too.”

 

“Well, whichever one you suggest will be fine with me.”

 

The woman turned to me.  “And you?”

 

“Oh, I guess I’ll try the Hope Estates Shiraz.”

 

“Hope Estates?  Okay, good.”

 

The woman walked away from us.  I watched her take a few steps.  She was wearing a slightly tight pair of spadiceous brown pants and a peacock-blue peasant shirt.  She was about 5’5” or 5’6” and weighed 125 pounds.  There was enough flesh on her bones not to make her look too skinny or too fat.  From the back, she’d almost pass for a blonde but the brunette roots showed at the top of her head.  I had already seen her from the front and her dark cherry bangs told me she was a true brunette, with chocolate brown eyes to boot.

 

While the bartender poured our wine, two women came into the restaurant and sat at the bar.  They chatted with the bartender, with only some of their conversation drifting my way.

 

“…thirty-eight years of marriage.”

 

“That’s sweet.  You know, I just turned twenty-nine myself.  I’m glad to hear there’s hope for the rest of us for such a long-lasting relationship.”

 

The bartender brought us our drinks.

 

I touched my fingers to the stem of the wine glass and held the wine up to the light.  “So that couple over there celebrated their twenty-ninth wedding anniversary?”

 

“No, it’s their thirty-eighth.”

 

“And you said you’re twenty-eight, then?”

 

“No, I just turned twenty-nine.”

 

“Wow, that’s great.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

My wife sat up proudly.  “And we’re celebrating our twenty-first anniversary.”

 

“Congratulations.”  The bartender turned from us when she heard the front door open.  “Welcome, you guys!”

 

“Hey, you, too.”  A couple of women sat at the table behind me.  I could barely see them out of my peripheral vision but they appeared to be in their late 30s.  “What’s on the menu tonight?”

 

“Some good food, of course.”  The bartender turned back to us.  “Is there anything else I can get you?”

 

“You have a food menu?”

 

“Oh yes.  I’ll be right back.”

 

Karen nodded at the women behind me.  “Hello.”

 

“Hey,” said a voice to the right of me.  “You all been here long?”

 

“No, we just got here a little while ago.”

 

“Yeah?  Well, we’re usually the first ones here.  We like to sit at the bar but it looks like it’s already occupied.”

 

Karen smiled.  “Uh-huh.  They just got here before you.”

 

The woman behind me continued talking.  “So, where are you from?  You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

 

“Where are we from originally or where do we live now?”

 

“Where do you live now?”

 

“Huntsville, Alabama.  We’re originally from east Tennessee.”

 

“Huntsville!  You’re kidding!  I’m from Huntsville.”

 

Karen looked at me and laughed.  We had a running tally of the number of people from Huntsville.  In our 20+ years in Huntsville, we’d counted about three dozen true Huntsville natives.

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Yeah.  Of course, I live in Nashville now.  What brings you to Nashville?”

 

“We’re on vacation.”

 

The other woman spoke up.  “Vacation?  Why did you decide to vacation in east Nashville?”  Her question had a bite to it, with a clear challenge in her tone.

 

Without turning around, I guessed the two women were together.  I flashed my eyes at Karen and she nodded.  She held her hands under the table, made fists and bumped the fists together so that only I could see her message.  Obvious lesbians.  I nodded in recognition.  I already guessed the second woman wanted to know why a married couple was hanging out in same-sex couple territory.

 

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don’t know.  We like to stay in places where you don’t get all the same hotel and restaurant chains.”

 

“I see.”

 

The first woman changed the subject.  “What part of Huntsville are you all from?”

 

“East, near Hampton Cove.”

 

“Yeah?  Gosh, my mother’s from Cove Creek.”

 

Karen shook her head.  “Amazing.  Practically just down the street from us.”

 

“Well, I’m glad to meet you all.  My name’s Sally.  And this is Suzanne.”

 

I twisted my upper body around and stuck out my hand.  “I’m Bruce.  And this is Karen.”

 

“I can’t believe it.  Two people from my hometown.  How long have you all been there?”

 

Karen took over the conversation.  “Since…well, my brother first came to Huntsville in ’74 so I guess it’s been at least 30 years that I’ve been in Huntsville.”

 

“Just about makes you a native, doesn’t it?”

 

“Almost.”

 

“I grew up off of Covemont, myself.  I’m 47 so it’s been a while back but I attended Randolph and Huntsville High.  I played tennis in high school.”

 

I looked between the two women.  They both had a tan so it was an easy guess they were physically active.  “And you still play?”

 

“Tennis?  Oh no.  I coach high school soccer now.”

 

The bartender walked up to us.  “Soccer?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“So do I!  Do you teach?”

 

“Not this year.”

 

“I teach science at a high school in the Hillwood area near Belle Meade.”

 

Sally and the bartender smiled at each other.

 

I looked at Suzanne.  “And you?”

 

“Me?  Nope.  I’m not from around here.  I grew up in Chicago.  North of Chicago, really.  In the suburbs.  No tennis or soccer for me.”

 

“I’m surprised.  You look pretty fit.”

 

Sally laughed.  “Oh, she’s active, all right.  How much do you run?”

 

Suzanne scooted back and forth in the barstool.  “Not a lot.  One or two miles a day.”

 

Karen spoke to Sally in a svelte tone.  “Oh, my husband runs.  He just ran a road race this past weekend.”

 

Sally beamed.  “Well, so did my…I mean, so did Suzanne.  So how far did you run?”

 

“Only five kilometers.”

 

Karen spoke louder.  “But he’s run in marathons and half marathons!”

 

Suzanne looked at me and nodded her approval.  “A long-distance runner.  I can respect that.  I know the discipline it takes.  I used to be a cross country runner in college.  I bet we could compare a lot of half-healed injuries.”

 

“You know it.”

 

“What training method do you use?  Is it the…”

 

The bartender cleared her throat and held up a small chalkboard.  “So I hope you’re hungry.  We’ve got a great selection tonight.”

 

We all turned our attention to the bartender.

 

“And by the way, my name’s Amy.  I’ll be serving both of your tables.  I’ve also got to serve drinks for the whole place.  If you don’t mind, I’ll just set the menu down on this chair here and come back to you in a few minutes.”

 

We agreed.

 

Sally pointed at Amy as she walked away.  “Amy doesn’t remember us from last week.  We were here last Friday and this place was packed.  How long are you guys staying?”

 

Karen looked over my shoulder at Sally.  “We’re here until Monday.”

 

“Oh, then that gives you plenty of time to try all the different places here.  Have you been to Margot’s?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’ve got to try it.  It’s at Woodland and 10th.  They have great dinners.  How about Marché?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh, they have the most delicious breakfast.”

 

Karen looked back down at the newspaper.

 

I could hear Sally scoot her seat closer to the table behind me.  “Sorry, you guys.  I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

 

Karen looked back up.  “Hnnh?  Oh, you know, I was just finishing a sentence.  Go on.”

 

“Have you all eaten here?”

 

“No.  This is our first time here.”

 

“Then you’ve got to meet the owner, Francesca.  HEY, FRANCESCA!”

 

An older worker wearing a crushed chef’s hat who I had assumed was an assistant of some kind stood up from her position of rearranging bottles of white wine in the cooler behind the bar.  “Yes?”

 

“Come over here, willya?”

 

The woman stood up and wiped her hands on her white apron.  She closed the cooler door and walked slowly over to our table, shaking hands with some of the other patrons that had come into the restaurant in the past few minutes.

 

“Yes, Sally?”

 

“Francesca, this is Bruce and…”

 

My wife volunteered her name.  “Karen.”

 

“…Karen.  They’re from my hometown, Huntsville.”

 

Francesca shook our hands.  “Thanks for coming to City Scene.  I haven’t seen you all before, have I?”

 

Sally laughed.  “I was thinking the same thing.  Bruce, you sure you weren’t here last week.  I swear you look just like a guy that was in here last week, except maybe the other guy’s hair wasn’t as blond as yours.”

 

“Not me,” I confessed.

 

Francesca pushed her glasses back up on her nose.  Her wrinkled face said she was probably in her late 40s or early 50s.

 

She stared at me intently, like she already knew me.  I wasn’t sure why.  “So, Francesca, why did you open this place?”

 

“Me?  Oh, I worked for the YMCA for 20 years, and heard this place was for sale…for lease, I mean…and already had a kitchen facility so I jumped at the chance, thinking I could just step right in and take it over.  There were a few renovations that cost more than I thought but…”

 

I snickered.  “I know what you mean.  Karen and I invested in a Japanese restaurant that had a few ‘extra’ costs…”

 

Karen grinned.  “Like a $50,000 air conditioner.”

 

Francesca put her hands on her hips.  “We’ve been open since April and I haven’t looked back.”

 

“Great attitude.”

 

“Only one to have.  Is everything all right tonight?”

 

“So far.”

 

“As good as last week?”

 

“I don’t know.  This is our first time here.”

 

“Is that right?  Are you sure you weren’t here with MORTIE last week?”  Francesca winked at me and then looked from me to Karen and back. “Well, before you get your mind set on one of our wines, let me tell you that our stock is a little short tonight.  I forgot to place an order earlier this week so we may be out of some of your favorite wines.  I apologize in advance and will make sure we make it up to you before the night is over.”

 

“Thanks, Francesca.”

 

“And be sure to tell all your friends about us.”

 

Sally blew a puff of air out of her nose.  “I already have!  And we’ll certainly be coming back.”

 

“That’s what I wanted to hear.  Well, I better get back to filling up the white wine cooler.  I’d hate to have you order a wine that’s at the wrong temperature.”

 

We all smiled at Francesca as she bowed and walked away.

 

Sally slid off her chair and leaned over to whisper in my ear.  Her first words were, “Pretend like I’m telling you a private joke about Francesca.”  I smirked and gave a guttural laugh.  She then gave me a secret message not to repeat.  I smiled at Karen.  She gave me a questioning look.  I held my smile which told Karen that we’d have to wait until later to discuss what I’d just heard.

 

Sally slapped me on the shoulder and spoke out loud.  “…And that’s why we enjoy hanging out here.  One unusual character after another.”  She got back on the stool.

 

I laughed loudly and nodded.

 

Amy returned, took our orders and left.  While we waited for our food, Karen and I read the newspapers.  I looked through the classified section and couldn’t believe the number of homes over a million dollars.  Did people really make that much money to pay for those houses or were those houses on the market because the homeowners were about to go bankrupt because they couldn’t pay the mortgages on their overpriced homes?

 

We ate our dinners in silence.  I enjoyed my baba ganoush, Karen enjoyed her parmesan-crusted chicken and the women behind me enjoyed their meals.

 

Amy came back to take our after-dinner orders.

 

Sally answered before I could speak up.  “Not for me, thanks!”

 

Suzanne joined her.  “Me, either.”

 

Amy looked at Karen.  “What about you?”

 

“I’ll take the pineapple tart.”

 

Amy looked at me.  “I’ll have the chocolate mousse and a cup of coffee.”

 

After Amy left, Suzanne got out of her chair and announced she had to go to the bathroom.  She leaned her head against mine and whispered.  “If you think you’re getting anything from Sally, you’re crazy.”

 

She walked away from me and didn’t see the big grin on my face.  I flashed my eyes at Karen to let her know I’d fill her in on all the whispering later on.

 

Suzanne returned just as Amy brought the desserts.  Sally paid for their meals and they said their good-byes to us, reminding us to eat at the other dining establishments in the area and to please come back to this side of town the next time we visited.

 

When Amy brought us our check, she told us about a local hip-hop band starring two kids, Ian and King Ty, whose girlfriend and girlfriend’s mother were sitting across the room from us, their bright red dresses heating up the already hot and sweaty room.  They were supposed to start performing in a few minutes.  We excused ourselves and left.  Amy told us she was sorry to see us leave so soon.

 

Back at the B&B, I prepared a whirlpool bubble bath for Karen and wrote down the poem I had written on the check receipt for Amy before we left the restaurant.

 

Pomme de Terre

 

True,

Parting is such sweet sorrow

But when a new friend arrives –

An Amy from upper New Amsterdam

Or a Suzanne from the Windy City –

Joy gets in the way.

And futbol makes it so much fun.  After all,

Have you dissected a worm?

Technology’ll get you every time.

The next time you stop for Vino

Let the hip-hop fiery fever flow.

Francesca’s flavors, Ian and King Ty and his groupies,

Thumping until the rhythm gets you.

It’s poetry, after all.

 

I read the poem to Karen after she got out of the bathroom.

 

“Wonderful, dear.”

 

Karen kissed me and pulled back the covers on the bed.  She patted the bed beside her and asked a question as nonchalantly as possible.  “While you’re snuggling up here beside me to rub my feet, why don’t you tell me what those women had to say to you that they couldn’t share with me?”

 

I took off my clothes and slipped into bed beside her.  I whispered the words to her.  She hugged me and kissed my cheek.  “It’s what they didn’t say that I’m happy to hear.”

 

 

3

 

You can look at life in one of two ways – your life is one coincidence after another, like a pinball machine or pachinko game, looking like you’re getting somewhere because your score in the game of life keeps going up (age, income, savings, debt, number of friends, number of enemies, number of enemas, etc.), or your life is predetermined and we’re all just robots dancing to the same silent song.  I watch the breeze blowing through the trees in my yard and think, yeah, we can create a computer simulation of the loquacious birds snapping up moths that dance between branches and the flittering trees dropping leaves that take hidden staircases to the ground but why would a Grand Being go to the trouble of creating a preplanned universe just to watch it play itself out?  Why have my brain maintain half a dozen trains of thought just so I can have the occasional “aha” moment and believe I’ve reached a universal revelation when in fact my thoughts were written down some billions and billions of years ago?  Why have me believe that the chickadee and golden finch looking for protein meals among the trees because they don’t have the usual supply of birdseed I place in the backyard, empty feeders giving away that I’ve been too lazy to stop at the birdseed supply, supply me with the pure pleasure of my own colorful aviary?

 

I believe in the randomness of life.  On a local scale, though, I don’t have the luxury of belief.  The dogged determination of weather patterns and castle builders can roll me up and smoke me, blowing my cantankerous smoke up somebody’s nose in a heartbeat.  Randomly, I could attract national attention, with someone willing to nominate me for president of the national political system.  In reality, I have less chance of being the president of a country than I have being hit by a presidential motorcade.

 

In the midst of finalizing the agreement to move me to Shannon, the country of Ireland completed its merger with the EU, effectively banning the hiring of non-EU nationals for EU-based jobs.  Actually, the law stated something to the effect that a job position had to be advertised to EU nationals and if the job didn’t attract a qualified person then the job position could be offered to, say, someone from Nigeria or the United States.  Unfortunately for me, the position of Program Manager would have attracted a lot of highly qualified job candidates, from inside Ireland as well as from other EU countries.  Geoffrey wanted me to continue the program management duties but if he wanted the duties performed in Ireland, he would have had to open the job to EU nationals.  He was confident I’d be a highly qualified candidate and would get the job but the possibility existed another candidate would apply, find out that I’d gotten the job and sue Cumulo-Seven, a risk Geoffrey didn’t want to take.  So, from a random place in the universe, from a random telescope on a random planet, I was observed randomly managing the lives of humans randomly living in Ireland from my random location in the randomly outlined area that had randomly taken the name the United States of America.  In other words, Geoffrey couldn’t move me to Shannon so I continued to run the program management duties from Huntsville.

4

 

When you have your heart set on moving to Ireland, don’t let “no” get in the way.  I fell in love with Ireland and refused to let EU membership keep me from eloping with my new girlfriend.  But Ireland is not an easy girl to go courting with.  She wants to see you make personal sacrifices before she’ll believe your heart aches the way your mouth says it does.

 

I flew to Shannon every few weeks.  My frequent visits earned me the right to find temporary housing instead of hotel or B&B.

 

Geoffrey authorized my use of a “holiday cottage,” a small house typically used as a short-length rental home for a summer holiday or vacation.  I drove around western Ireland on my days off to search for the right holiday cottage.  One day, while evading a speeding ticket – that is, while driving at a high rate of speed to avoid getting pulled over by one of the members of the Garda Síochána na hÉireann  or “guardians of the peace in Ireland” – I drove my rental car off the four-lane highway, or dual carriageway, as they call it, through a gap in the guardrail, down a steep embankment, through a trickle of a creek, up a small rise, onto the end of the road in a small housing estate and jerked to a halt behind other cars parked on the suburban street.  I could hear the sounds of the garda speeding on down the dual carriageway so I knew I was safe.

 

I threw my feet out of the car, a little Audi A4 now streaked with fresh mud, and put one foot in front of the other.  Had to burn off some adrenaline.  I looked at the mix of houses around me, the usual mishmash of semiDs.  A semiD, semi-d, or semi-detached is a house split in two, with the halves mirroring each other in look and layout.  Often, the overall effect of the building is a large, single family home.  They save on space and materials, giving the growing middle class an affordable housing option to anonymous-looking apartment complexes.

 

Hidden between two rows of semiDs, an old garden called my name.  Three-foot tall stone walls surrounded a narrow, one-hectare patch, forming a fancy entrance to the alleyway connecting the backsides of semiDs.  I lifted the rusty hasp on a decrepit metal gate and set foot in another time.  A thatch-covered hut squatted at the back of the garden like a heavy snail that long ago took a break from resisting gravity to spread its slimy goo along a country lane.

 

The yard in front of the cottage had once made a gentleman or lady gardener proud.  But no gardener had tended the intricate twists and turns of the flower beds in a long time.  Dark, molded, crippled, and twisted limbs of last year’s crop of weeds leaned against each other like lepers, holding up a handful of shriveled seeds, begging “alms for the poor” in their creaky voices as they swayed in a wind whipped up from the Atlantic Ocean.  My pants picked up a few passengers whose hooks and barbs waited for a furry passerby on which to hitch a ride.

 

Tacked over the small, round window in the front door, a piece of paper flapped and slapped the wooden sill.  I rubbed my eyes to better read the faded lettering of the advert.  “TO LET / Thomas O’Casey, Auctioneer / Knock to Enter,” the handwriting said.

 

I knocked on the door and waited a few seconds.  My knuckles, two inches from contacting wood, anticipated another reddening as they fell toward the graying wood, wondering if they’d scrape against old chips of red paint or just bang into the solid, two-inch boards again when the door creaked open.  I held my fist in check and pushed the door open with the other hand.

 

“Hello!”

 

My voice bounced around, looking for someone or something to ricochet it back to my ears.  Instead, dead silence.  On a white-washed wall inside the doorway to my right I felt two buttons of a lightswitch.  I pushed on the button not depressed and heard a doorbell ring.  Or rather, a cacophonous contraption pretending to be a doorbell buzzed, clicked, clanged like a bicycle bell, honked like a clown’s nose, and ended the symphonic performance with the booming resonance of a large cathedral church bell.  A lightbulb covered in dust woke up from all the noise, popped once, flickered twice as if warming up with a few morning stretches and then heated up to full strength, casting a tan glow over the hallway.

 

I pushed the door against the wall and looked at the floor.  Either solid stone or pounded-down Irish dirt, the floor hinted at no weakness.  I walked inside.

 

I had automatically thrown my laptop backpack on my shoulder when I got out of the car.  I set the bag down and closed the door.  For some strange reason, I felt like I was home.

 

The artificial light painted the walls a pastel yellow.  The ceiling was rounded, matching the shape of the front door.  An umbrella stand and coat rack propped up one side of the small room while three doors, one on each side and one at the rear, made me feel like a contestant on “The Price is Right,” a cheesy game show from my youth.

 

“Hello?”  A muffled Cork accent called back to me like an echo that had a sudden urge to run to the bathroom, take a leak, zip up and then in a state of forgetfulness, not sure which sex, nationality and locality had first spoken, selected the wrong reverb setting on the PZ81 Electronic Wow/Echo Synthesizer and send my voice back to me like a bad karaoke night at Buddy’s Bar and Grill near my house back home.

 

The rear door swung open.  A frumpy woman with purple cabbage hair stood before me.  She eyed me suspiciously, keeping her hand on the door as if she could, at a moment’s notice, rip the door from its hinges and use it as a weapon.

 

I nodded at her.

 

“Oh, sorry sir, I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

 

A teenage boy stepped up beside the woman.  His peanut butter colored hair flew in 20 different directions.  Either his hair was trying to escape the boy’s head like all the other hair of today’s youth, afraid to become infused with the latest synthetic party drugs, or the boy hadn’t slept or taken a bath in days.

 

“Ma, I thought you said we had the place to ourselves.”

 

The woman reached up and put her free arm on her son’s neck.  “We did, son.  We did.”  She let go of the door and pushed hair out of her son’s face.  After she patted his cheek, she fixed her stare on me again.

 

“Look, we’ll be out of your way.  We just needed a place to stay until we got on our feet.  My husband up and died without any notice ahead of time.  I…”

 

“That’s okay.”  I picked up my laptop bag.  “I can come back.”

 

“Oh, no sir.  We don’t want to intrude.”  The woman and her son retreated from the doorway, inviting me forward.

 

I walked ten paces to their defensive location, feeling like a Stratego game piece being pushed forward by unseen hands.  The deadened sound of my footsteps told me the floor was earthen.

 

The boy and his mother stood beside taped-up cardboard boxes.  A pile of clothes was thrown on top of a kitchen table.

 

“Like we said, sir, we have no home.  We were just shacking up here for a few days until we could find a place to stay.  My husband had no insurance.  What with me having no job and my son in school…”  The woman hugged her son.

 

And I really felt like this was my home, too.  Should I keep on feeling this way and act like it, too?

 

Later, I arranged with Cumulo-Seven to let the place on my behalf.  I gave the room behind the kitchen to the mother and boy to set up living quarters.  She offered to take care of the place for me.  I wasn’t one to refuse a person’s right to take a job nobody else was asking for.

 

Back at the office, a spectacled man with hair parted in the middle, stopped by my desk.

 

“Bruce?”

 

I looked up from my usual hunched-over position at the laptop computer.

 

“That’s me.”

 

“I’m Ivan Abrams.”

 

“Oh, yeah, Ivan.  Great to meet you in person.  I always look forward to putting faces to names and voices on the phone.”

 

“Really?  God, I hate it.  Especially when it’s a sexy voice on the phone and then I meet a dumpy, frumpy middle-aged woman.  Kinda deflates the fantasy life, if you know what I mean.”

 

I nodded.

 

“So how long are you here for?”

 

“Oh, I’m just here for one of my visits.”

 

“Yeah.  I heard you were moving here.”

 

“Well, I was but it’s getting more complicated than I thought.”

 

“Welcome to my world.  You know, I’m an American expatriate who’s been living in Shannon for about two years.”

 

“Lucky you.”

 

Ivan laughed.  “Well-l-l.  I could go into more detail but I can tell you’ve got work to do.  You got plans for tonight?”

 

“Not sure.  Probably find a good pub somewhere.”

 

“Well, how about joining me and my pals?  We’re making a pub crawl tonight.”

 

“What time?”

 

“What time do you usually get away?”

 

“Around eight or nine.”

 

“Bruce, don’t let them work you over like that.”

 

“Well, I figure it’s the least I can do to cover the cost of the trip.”

 

“Haha.  Like our CEO is putting in 60-hour weeks while he’s traveling.  You gotta learn to enjoy the local lifestyle.  That’s part of the reason you’re here, you know.  The cultural exchange.”

 

I could see the smart-ass crinkles in Ivan’s smile.  Another jokester.

 

“So what time do you suggest?”

 

“We like to get out of here around 5:30 or 6 o’clock.”

 

“See you then.”

 

“Yep.  I gotta get back to a meeting.  Just meet us in the parking lot.”

 

 

We drove into Limerick.  Ivan had suggested I park on the street but I didn’t trust my rental car to survive unscathed, what with drunks careening down sidewalks with keys in their hands and teens unknowingly recreating the San Francisco chase scene from Bullitt on the hilly streets of downtown Limerick.  I found a cheap carpark and left my car in the safe hands of a zitty-faced kid watching TV behind a Plexiglas window.

 

I met Ivan at the entrance of the White House Pub on O’Connell Street.  We walked through the haze of smoke coming from people who’d stepped outside to feed their body’s craving to fill the coffers of cigarette company stockholders.

 

We slipped in through the side door.  I joined Ivan’s band of merry revelers, who’d already availed themselves of the local brew.

 

“Everyone, this is Bruce.  Bruce, this is our night off, which means no talking about work.”

 

I nodded.

 

A short, bald-headed man stood up.  “I’m Seamus Boru.  And before you say anythin’, I am related to the famous Brian Boru so you better keep that in mind before you go sayin’ anythin’ against Ireland.”

 

Seamus grabbed my outstretched hand and squeezed tightly.  I squeezed back.  Seamus squeezed harder.  I squeezed back.  I lost the feeling in the ends of my fingers.  Seamus squeezed harder.  My whole hand went numb, like there was a lump of Alabama red clay stuck on the end of my wrist, not good for growing vegetables but packed into a ball it was still good for shaking hands.  I could see Seamus’ knuckles go from red to white.  We kept squeezing tighter.

 

“Nice to meet ya.”

 

“And this is Angela Browne.”

 

I let go of Seamus’ hand and shook the hand of a stocky woman with ponceau-colored hair, which made me think of a field of Hemerocallis ‘Carolina Cranberry’, rich, cranberry-red daylilies I’d seen on the banks of the French Broad River in east Tennessee the previous summer.

 

“And unlike Seamus, I’m related to no one famous, not even Angela’s ashes.”

 

The group laughed.

 

Ivan slapped my shoulder.  “Let’s not waste anymore time.  Which would you prefer? Heineken, Smith’ick’s or Guinness?”

 

“Guinness, I guess.”

 

“That’s right, you’re an American.  What else!”

 

Ivan shuttled through the crowd to the bar, his voice carrying loudly over the hubbub in the pub. “Excuse me.  Pardon me. I’m just going to take that spot right there.  Thanks.  Oops, sorry, didn’t mean to grab ass.  Oh, well, you’re welcome.  Anytime.  Nope, busy tonight.  Maybe another time.  Excuse me.  Mind if I slip into the bar here next to you?  Thanks.  No, I didn’t know who that woman was.  Your girlfriend?  Oh, well, yes, she has a lovely ass.  Yes, I enjoyed a squeeze.  No, I’m not interested in taking this outside for further discussion.  You’re a little drunk.  I’m sorry to hear your girlfriend just dumped you.  Barman, get this man another drink!  I’ll take two Guinness and I’ll be right back.  Yep, sorry to hear it, fellow.  Girls on this side of the Atlantic are a pain, too, I see.  Excuse me a minute, will you?  I promise I’ll be right back.  Hello, my name’s Ivan and yours?  Maureen, a lovely name.  Looks like I may be free later tonight.  Now?  Well, how about you come join me?  Great, I’m just over there with the gang by the door.  I’ll be right over.  You want a drink?  Heineken it is.  Excuse me.  Pardon me.  Barman, add a Heineken to my order.”

 

A replica of Cheryl Ladd walked up beside me.

 

“Hello there.  What’s your name?”

 

The crowd noise had grown long teeth and bitten down hard.  I leaned down to better hear what she said.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I’m Maureen.  What’s your name?”

 

“Bruce.”

 

“Glad to meet ya.  You here with Ivan?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Me, too.”

 

Something about Maureen made me want to hug her.  Packed together like we were, I patted her on the back, instead.

 

“So what are you up to, then?”

 

I looked over the heads of the folks between me and the bar.

 

“I’m waiting for Ivan to return with some beers.”

 

“Me, too.  You know, I came here with my boyfriend, Dana, but he’s just gotten drunk again.  I don’t mind a few drinks on a T’ursday night out but he’s like this every night.  I need something a little more.  Don’t you?”

 

I nodded, not sure if she was trying to be Ivan’s or my date for the evening.

 

“Thursday night out?”

 

Seamus looked at me.  “What did you say?”

 

“I was just asking Maureen about her going out on Thursday night.”

 

“Well, we all do.  You know that, don’t you?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“Just ask Ivan.”

 

Ivan returned with our beers a few minutes later.  As he approached us, the crowd got quiet.  I could hear a voice in the next room.

 

“Welcome.  Tonight, we have a special poet with us.  He’s all the way from Dublin.  Would you welcome George Shaw!”

 

The crowd gave George Shaw a raucous welcome.

 

Ivan yelled in my ear.  “Looks like they’re having a special White House Poets night tonight.  They usually run this show on Wednesday night.  Mind if we finish these beers and take off?”

 

I shook my head.

 

Ivan gulped down his beer in four or five swallows.  I finished a few gulps behind him and slammed my glass on the table.  The whole group shoved out the door in less time than it took Britney Spears to embarrass herself in a skimpy, post-baby, pre-anorexic diet bikini on national television.

 

As we walked down the street, Ivan had one hand around Maureen’s waist and one hand on my shoulder.

 

“So, Bruce, you were asking about ‘Thursday Night Out’?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well, it’s the one night of the week when one or another of a married couple…”

 

Maureen laughed.  “Or anyone!”

 

“Yes, or anyone.  But for married couples, it’s the one night of the week when you can go out and drink with your buddies, come home at any hour and not get reprimands from the spouse.  Goes for either spouse.  That way, the other spouse can stay home with the kids while you’re boozing it.”

 

Seamus put his arm around my neck.  “You gotta wife, Bruce?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Then, remember this.  We don’t talk about what we do on Thursday nights.”

 

Ivan nodded.  “That’s right.  You don’t mention it at work and you don’t mention it at home.  In other words, for you, what goes on in Ireland stays in Ireland.”

 

Seamus squeezed the back of my neck.  “You got it.”

 

I nodded.

 

“Good.  Ivan, I think he’s in.”

 

“Glad to hear it, Seamus.  Bruce, that means you’re now an official member of the Cumulo-Seven Thursday Night Out Club.”

 

Seamus unscrewed the vise grip on my neck and pounded my back.  “Way to go, Bruce.  It’s a privilege and honor.”

 

Angela had taken the lead out of the White House. She turned to face us.  “Bruce, I knew you’d get in.  Are you ready to pay your dues?”

 

“Dues?”

 

“Yes, you didn’t think we’d let you in for free, did you?”

 

I laughed, seeing how they’d conned me into a night of paying for drinks.  It wasn’t the first time someone had twisted a conversation into a bet or some other way of snookering a newcomer into footing the bill.

 

“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with my having a corporate credit card?”

 

“Actually, Bruce, no.  Most of these pubs don’t take American Express.  I hope you have plenty of cash.”

 

 

We walked into South’s pub, taking the side entrance, of course.  No use in announcing there were a couple of Americans in the group by taking the main front entrance.  For some strange reason, the pub was only half-full.  Or it was half-empty.  Or perhaps the pub had just been designed two times the size it needed to be.  In any case, we easily found seats at the bar.

 

Ivan held up a thumb and a forefinger.  Thinking he was only ordering a beer for himself, I flashed a peace sign at the barman.  The barman nodded and brought over five freshly poured glasses of Guinness.

 

Ivan looked at me over his glasses.  “Bruce, if you want to order two beers, you hold up your thumb and forefinger.”

 

“Oh, okay.”  I handed a couple of 20-Euro bills to the barman.  “Did I ever tell you about the first time I drank at a bar in Ireland?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Well, I got a room at the Bunratty Castle Hotel and wanted a beer to get my bearings so I walked into the hotel bar.  Seated next to me were what I thought were your typical Irish barflies, two old guys with bulbous noses and red, bloated faces.  They were watching the television behind the bar and commenting about the loss of the greatest football player in Irish history?”

 

“Football.  You mean soccer or rugby?”

 

“I don’t know.  Soccer, I guess.  Anyway, I watched the television with them.  They were having a funeral procession for George Best.  The commentator went on and on about this being the only ‘state funeral’ for a non-politician.  One of the guys turned to me and asked why I didn’t have a tear in my eye for him.  I told him I wasn’t familiar with George Best and he about bit my head off.”

 

Maureen shook her head in disbelief.  “You don’t know one of Ireland’s national heroes?!  Well, he should have taken your head off.”

 

“Yeah, well, it was close.  He then accused me of being a terrorist because it was George Bush who had introduced real terror in the world, not the ones who had attacked the World Trade Center, and anyone from America was sure to support their own president.  I told them I hadn’t voted for George Bush and then he laid into me for not being a supporter of my own country.  I couldn’t win for losing.”

 

Ivan nodded.  “I’ve been there.  So did you have to pound your fists into them to show you were a real red-blooded American or what?”

 

“No.  I told them I was just there to have a beer and I’d be on my way.  One of the fellows said, ‘What if all of us were like you and backed down from a fight?’  I started to get up.  Then, a fellow at the end of the bar spoke up.  ‘Are you an American, I hear?’  I told him yes.

 

“He said, ’Do you know the Mamas and the Papas?  Wait, I bet you’re too young to remember them.’

 

“I told him I remembered the band from the ‘60s.

 

“He then said, ’Well, do you remember Mama Cass, then?’

 

“I told him I remembered her, but from a movie called Pufnstuf, based on a Saturday morning TV show called H.R. Pufnstuf that I used to watch.

 

“He went on.  ‘Well, what if Mama Cass hadn’t eaten that sandwich and had given it to Karen Carpenter, instead, they’d both be alive today.’  Everyone at the bar laughed, including the two guys next to me.  The man arguing with me apologized and said he was just so moved by the funeral for Best that he’d let his emotions run away with him.  I thanked him and walked out of the bar.”

 

“That’s too bad, Bruce.  At that point, those were willing to buy you beers for the rest of the day.”

 

Angela nodded.  “Guys like that are the backbone of Ireland.  My father’s just like ‘em.  They remember Ireland the way it used to be, before we started letting all the immigrants in.  There’s no telling what our children are going to face but it won’t be the same as our fathers and mothers, I can tell you that.”

 

Ivan held up his glass.  “Cheers!”

 

I toasted with the rest of them and finished my beer, ordering another round by waving at the barman and pointing at the group.  He nodded and smiled, knowing I didn’t want to make a mistake with the wrong hand signal again.

 

I didn’t tell them that before I left the pub at the Bunratty Castle Hotel, I had run into a former school mate from the States, Lefty Lifkowitz.  Lefty and I had committed some juvenile crimes together, vandalizing homes under construction and stealing from local convenient stores, nothing serious mind you.  I hadn’t seen Lefty since high school.  He filled me in on his life as we walked out of the pub and over to a secluded corner of the hotel lobby.

 

Lefty had started college on a baseball scholarship but flunked out after the first year.  His father got him a job at a shipyard in Newport News, Virginia, where Lefty found his calling.  He could rivet in no time flat.  He also learned how to make tools at a local die shop.  Lefty’s father set up a tool-and-die shop in our hometown and invited Lefty to join him.  Lefty gladly left Virginia.

 

At his father’s shop in Tennessee, Lefty worked with his brother, Scout, to keep the work crews in shape.  In doing so, they figured out the power of intimidation, forcing many of the undocumented workers to pay them a kickback.  Lefty’s first wife enjoyed the money that Lefty brought home, buying herself a couple of fur coats and convincing Lefty to buy a Corvette.  Because of the cyclical nature of the car business, Lefty’s father worked hard to keep the company afloat half the year when few orders came in while they enjoyed a comfortable business the other two quarters of the year.  During the lean times, Lefty’s wife couldn’t stand not being able to buy what she wanted when she wanted and rode Lefty’s back relentlessly.  Lefty couldn’t squeeze the workers for much more money and instead turned to beating his wife to get her to stop bugging him.  After the inevitable divorce, Lefty struggled to keep up alimony payments and maintain the lifestyle he’d built up.

 

His brother never married, enjoyed the single life, and with his extra dough he bought several new computers and a couple of high-end color laser printers just for the hell of it.  Lefty and Scout played with the computers to make a die-cutting machine etch intricate patterns for Japanese text on the side of tools destined for an overseas manufacturing plant.  During their design work, Lefty created a template to print out 50 and 100-dollar bills.  When he and Scout compared their printed bills to the real thing, they realized they might have a fun side business, paying some of their workers in fake money and keeping the real money for themselves.  They made the mistake of discussing this business at a hole-in-the-wall dive where a server overheard their conversation.  She approached Lefty a few days later and told him that MORTIE was very interested in Lefty’s home-based business.  Lefty balked at first until the server brought him some of the fake money that she had bought from a Guatemalan she’d seen leaving the tool-and-die shop where Lefty worked.

 

Lefty asked to meet Mortie and the server laughed in his face.  She told him that Mortie was not a person but an organization – Mother Organization for Reconnaissance, Terrorism, Investigation and Extortion.  No one headed up MORTIE.  The story went that there probably was an original Mortie.   More than likely, though, Mortie was a name that someone in the service industry had made up because the name was generic enough to pass translation into any language.  In any case, most bartenders and servers belonged to the loose knit group, active observers of customers who met and drank in dark bars, pubs, clubs and restaurants.  That way, members of MORTIE could take advantage of the secrets of athletes, politicians and business leaders.  MORTIE gave the powerless workers hidden power and protection.  If one member of MORTIE was threatened, other members would provide backup.  With no membership list, no organized leadership, no recruiting practices, no dues or other means of tracking MORTIE, the police and government had no way to shut down the organization.  MORTIE didn’t just take from the powerful.  MORTIE also looked out for single men and women, married or divorce, who sought or needed simple, nonabusive conversations.  MORTIE acted as an informal dating service.  Members of MORTIE would lend a hand to lonely people looking for love or companions by matching likely pairs of loners, buying them flowers or paying for whole evenings out.

 

The server told Lefty that she wasn’t interested in turning Lefty over to the police.  She wanted him to keep his business going and she only required a small token of his appreciation for her silence.  The server didn’t believe in making agreements too uncomfortable for nice people like Lefty.  He could set the payment amount and the delivery schedule.  As an added bonus, his payment for keeping the counterfeit money scheme secret would never go up but if he ever stopped making payments, his scheme could, for instance, end up in the lap of some unsuspecting Secret Service agent caught rendezvousing with a female senator at a lesbian bar.  Then, MORTIE would not only own the Secret Service agent but also would own Lefty’s lucrative side business in the end.

 

Lefty asked me if I believed the Gay Mafia or Jewish Zionist Movement controlled the media.  I told him I didn’t believe in shadow organizations pulling hidden strings.  He laughed at me but his face showed no humor.  Sudden betrayal of his deepest fears turned his face ugly, his temple covered with pulsating veins, his nose growing varicose veins and his cheeks puffing up with years of sun damage, pores expanding into caverns.  A Halloween Grotesque.  He told me to keep playing innocent, that if I still believed our petty adolescent thievery resulted in no consequences for me, I would be lucky my whole life.  He was not so lucky.  After our childhood adventures in five-finger discounts, Lefty had to turn over all his stolen goods to his mother, who claimed she had to sell the cigarette packs, uneaten candy bars and Playboy magazines to pay a union steward in Detroit who had saved his father’s job at the auto factory when they lived in Michigan before they moved to east Tennessee.  She let her son keep the half-eaten candy bars, pocket flashlights, handi-wipes, Superfreak comic books and other useless items we pilfered at the checkout counter, items we put to good use in our secret clubhouse in the woods.

 

Lefty told me he knew someone somewhere was getting paid to protect me.  That’s just how the world worked.  Before we parted ways, Lefty warned me to never get involved with MORTIE because once you made a mistake, they had you for life.  Every crime syndicate, every local government, every well-oiled corporation and every money-lending institute had ties to MORTIE and could find you on this planet and probably other planets he didn’t even know about.  We shook hands.  He looked around the lobby and left by a side door.

 

After my sixth beer with Ivan and the others, I was feeling buoyant, like my head was a helium-filled balloon floating above my body, ready to break free and sail up to the heavens where all the balloons went that didn’t get stuck up against the ceiling and rafters of buildings.  I tugged on the ribbon holding my head in place and the room bounced a little too heavy.

 

Ivan ordered another round and insisted on paying for it, saying that I had done enough to earn my place in the group.

 

Seamus stood up and shuffled up behind Ivan.  “Well, shall we sing a song?”

 

“I don’t think it’s fair.  Bruce doesn’t know any of our songs.”

 

“Very well, then.  Maureen, you know any good pub songs you could join me in?”

 

Maureen stood up and put her arm around Seamus’ waist.  “Surely here’s one that Bruce knows…

 

“As I went out through Dublin City…”

I smiled and shook my head.  “I know the melody but not the words.”
Seamus, Angela and Ivan joined her.

“At the hour of twelve o’clock at night
Who should I see but the Spanish lady
Washing her feet by candlelight
First she washed them
Then she dried them
Over a fire of amber coals

“In all my life I ne’er did see
A maid so sweet about the soul

“Whack for the tooraloora laddy
Whack for the tooraloora lay
Whack for the tooraloora laddy
Whack for the tooraloora lay

“As I went our thru Dublin City
At the hour of half past eight
Who do I see but the Spanish lady
Combing her hair so trim and neat
First she brushed it
Then she combed it
On her lap was a silver comb

“In all my life I ne’er did see
A maid so sweet since I did roam

“Whack for the tooraloora laddy
Whack for the tooraloora lay
Whack for the tooraloora laddy
Whack for the tooraloora lay

“As I walked out through Dublin City
As the sun began to set
Who should I see but the Spanish lady
Catch a moth in her golden net
First she spied me then she fled me
Hitchin’ her petticoat over her knee

“In all my life ne’er did I see
A maid so fair as the Spanish Lady

“Whack for the tooraloora laddy
Whack for the tooraloora lay
Whack for the tooraloora laddy
Whack for the tooraloora lay”

 

As they sang, they put their arms around each other.  I pulled my Canon S1 camera out of my pocket and snapped a couple of pictures.  Ivan laughed and nodded.

 

Ivan held up his newly-filled pint glass.  “To bad singing that sounds glorious after a few pints!”

 

“To bad singing!”

 

“And bad breath!”

 

“Cheers!”

 

Ivan set his head on my left shoulder.  “What do you plan to do with those pictures?”

 

“I don’t know.  I just like taking pictures to remember where I’ve been and who I was with.”

 

“Well, I know you won’t be sharing those at work, right?”

 

“Uh, right.”

 

“Good.”  Ivan elbowed me to right himself on his barstool.

 

“Ivan…” Since we were in a talking mood, I thought I’d bounce something off Ivan and not worry about him sharing it with anyone else.

 

“Yes, Bruce.”

 

“When I first joined the Qwerty-Queue team, I…”

 

“You know, that is the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard.  Sounds like Curly Cue, Dippity Do, or some other silly hair product, doesn’t it?”

 

“Ummm…yeah, I suppose it does.  Anyway, when I joined the team, I got invited to this secret hideaway that looked like a fancy treehouse.  I got lost and ended up in some enchanted forest where the vines had arms and little plants talked to me.  Do you think I was dreaming it all up?  After all, the weird stuff only occurred after I was left alone for a while.  Maybe I fell asleep and dreamt it all up.”

 

Ivan nodded and smiled.  He whispered to me, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.  What goes on in Ireland stays in Ireland.”  Ivan patted me on the back, put a finger to his mouth and made a zipper-closing motion.

 

“But this didn’t occur in Ireland.  It happened in Huntsville.”

 

“What goes on in Huntsville stays in Huntsville, my man.  No need to tell me anything more.”

 

Ivan’s cell phone rang.

 

“Hello?  Yes, I know but it’s Thursday night.  I’m out with my friends.  What time did you say?  Oh, all right.  I’ll be there close to the time.”

 

Ivan turned to me.

 

“So, Bruce, how you planning to get home?”

 

“I’ll drive, I guess.  I left my car in a carpark down the street.”

 

“Carpark?  Hell, you aren’t getting your car out tonight, then.  They close at 7 o’clock.”

 

“Seven?”

 

“Yeah, man, hate to break it to you.  You’ll need a ride.  If you want a ride home now, I can take you but otherwise you better plan on getting a hotel room.”

 

“But the others…”

 

“No way.  They all live near Limerick.  None of these cats are going to waste their time driving you back.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Sorry, man.  So, you up for leaving?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Then let’s go.”

 

Ivan and I stood up, both of us wobbling a bit.  Ivan turned to his fellow Thursday Night Out Club members and held up his hand.

 

“We’re calling this meeting adjourned.  I gotta get Bruce back to his hotel because the fucker locked his car in a carpark.”

 

Angela and Seamus waved goodbye.  Maureen gave Ivan and me each an extra-strong hug.  I can still smell her perfume, a strong slap of artificial flavoring laced with sexual invitations and lustful drooling, and followed up by a hint of “I’ll respect you in the morning but don’t expect me to be waiting for you to call back.”

 

Ivan and I stumbled out of the pub.

 

“So, Bruce, what do you think?”

 

“You guys sure seem to have a lot of fun.”

 

“Actually, tonight was rather quiet.”

 

Pasted to a window of a building on the corner, a squash-yellow poster for an upcoming concert proclaimed, “NO CELTIC WOMEN HERE!  Catch the sounds you’ve always loved.  Carly Simon, Joni Mitchell, Janis Joplin, Joan Jett.  All your favorite rocking women from the ‘60s and ‘70s from one rock-and-roller, Eva Levi, the singer who’s famous for not being famous! Live, in concert, Eva Levi and the Levitones, Saturday @ 9 p.m.”

 

I called after Ivan who was crossing the street.  “Did you see that?”

 

Ivan spun around like a weeble-wobble toy.  I burst out laughing.  The advertising jingle, “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down!”, started playing in my head.

 

Ivan frowned.  “What?”

 

“This poster.  Have you ever heard of Eva Levi and the Levitones?”

 

“No, why?”

 

“Well, I swear that Eva Levi was the owner of a B&B I recently stayed in.”

 

“Good for you.  I’m standing in the middle of the street.  Let’s get to the car.”

 

I concentrated on the broken concrete sidewalk, stepping on the cracks to avoid tripping – breaking the backs of all the mothers in the world – and ran to catch up with Ivan as he opened the door to his car, a VW of some sort.

 

I opened the passenger door and leaned in.  “Are you okay to drive?”

 

“Me?  Hell, yeah.  I’ve driven out of Limerick so many times I could do it with me strapped to the top of a double-decker bus in London with only mind control to get my car home to Ennis from here.”

 

“If you say so…”

 

“Don’t worry.  Just get in the car and strap in.”

 

As Ivan maneuvered out of town, I closed my eyes.  A hidden pair of hands grabbed my skull just above my eye sockets and tightened.  My brain no longer fit in the scrunched-down skull and throbbed in protest.  My ears felt like they were being ignored so they ran out to the Body Parts store and bought a used gerbil cage, making sure they got a nice rusty old wheel.  Taking turns kicking the wheel with their anvil and stirrup, my left and right ear got the wheel spinning.  Creak, creak, creak, creak.  One of the hidden hands let go of my forehead and grabbed a sledgehammer, adding a bass beat to the creaking.  Creak, boom, creak, boom, creak, boom.  My neck muscles seized up, distorting my backbone, making my vertebrae pop out of joint.  Creak, boom, creak, boom, pop, creak boom.  A symphonic headache took over my consciousness.

 

“Bruce, you all right.  You look awful.”

 

I opened my eyes, which slowed down the spinning but the pounding and seizing continued.

 

“Unnh.  I don’t know.  Maybe.  Can you talk about something to help me get my mind off this headache?”

 

“Sure thing.  By the way, on the way to your hotel, I’ve got to make a stop.  I’ve got a friend of mine who needs a little help.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“If you see her, act surprised, like you’ve never met her before.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“Well, you might recognize her.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Anyway, despite what you’ve heard, she’s not my girlfriend.  I have a girlfriend back home in the U.S.  But since I’m not over but there very often…well, you know how lonely it can get when you travel.  A man’s got to have a little relaxation on the side.”

 

I nodded.

 

“You see, I used to be married but my ex was a real square.  She didn’t understand that guys have needs that can’t go unmet for very long.  She completely misinterpreted simple acts of sex as some kind of goddam relationship.  Not once have I cheated on a woman for love.  If I love a woman, it’s for good.  I don’t fall in love very easily.  But don’t let that woman know you’re having sex with someone else because the dinner at home isn’t exactly filling.  No-o-o-o.  Sure as hell don’t make any calls from your cell phone that you’ll have to explain.  You gotta a wife?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well, if you love her, keep the sex on the side quiet.  When the wrong kind of wife gets wind of what you’re doing, she’ll go nuts.  Berserk.  A prime candidate for the loony bin.  And she’ll keep getting crazier, even after the divorce.  And…I swear you better go into a marriage with the rules of sex clearly spelled out.  That’s the only way to have a fun marriage.  Or even a long-term relationship.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“You got kids?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, that just complicates matters even worse.  The bitch will make sure you’re painted as some kind of philandering lush so that no judge will want to let you have visitation without paying through your ass for alimony and child support. Fuck!”  Ivan slammed the steering wheel and sped up as we hit the dual carriageway.

 

“How many kids you got?”

 

“Two.  I wanted them to visit me while I was over here but the bitch has turned them against me.”

 

“Sorry to hear it.”

 

“Yeah, so am I.”

 

Ivan pulled off at the exit for the Radisson Hotel.  He parked the car and opened the door.

 

“I’ll be right back.”

 

I closed my eyes to take a nap.  The next thing I knew, Ivan was tapping me on the shoulder.

 

“Okay, Bruce, we’re here.”

 

We were parked at my hotel.

 

“Oh, wow, thanks.”

 

Ivan laughed.  “Well, I hope you learned your lesson.  Next time, take my word and park on the street.  Hey, when you get up in the morning, give me a call.  I’ll pick you up on my way to work.  I like to leave around 8 o’clock.”

 

“Thanks.  Will do.”

 

“Oh, and you can get a taxi from the office to take you to Limerick to get your car.”

 

“Okay.”

 

 

The next day, Ivan and I strolled into the Shannon office.  We stopped by Seamus’ desk to make sure he had made it in.

 

“Bruce!  Ivan!  You’re here early.”

 

Ivan laughed.  “You, too.”

 

My headache still held me in its grips, even though I’d downed a pot of coffee.  My thoughts were poorly organized.  I remembered the many times I had driven home drunk, pulling off the road to take a whizz or throw up.  I thought that our drive home the previous night should be something to be proud of.  “We even made it home on just one stop!”

 

“You did, did you?  That’s a surprise.  Ivan, I thought you were the world’s best drunk driver.  Or are you slippin’ in your old age?”

 

Ivan clenched his jaw and stared at me, his glistening, bloodshot eyes reminding me that I was to keep my mouth shut.  My headache took one look at Ivan and ran away.  I suddenly felt naked and alone, like a little kid called to the principal’s office not knowing what he’d done wrong.  I wanted to run away but adults don’t do that.  They stand in place and figuratively pee down their pants, instead.

 

Ivan turned to Seamus.  “I believe Bruce’s mistaken.  I dropped him off at his hotel and then drove back to my place.”

 

Duh.  My mistake.  What goes on in Ireland stays in Ireland.

 

“Of course, Ivan’s right.  To him, it’s only one stop in that he had to drop me off.”

 

Seamus smiled.  “That’s more like it.  I was beginning to be afraid that we could no longer trust you Americans to hold your drink.”

 

Ivan and Seamus exchanged a silent glance, telling each other that it was me they weren’t sure they could trust anymore.  Only later did I realize that I’d completely lost Seamus’ trust when he no longer spoke to me and only responded to questions from me when in the company of others.  Blackballed!

5

 

When I returned to Huntsville, I stopped by Patrick’s office to check in.

 

“Patrick.”

 

Patrick looked up from his  computer.  “Oh, hey, Bruce.  Come on in and close the door.”

 

Something serious again.  “Anything new going on?”

 

“Just an email to discuss with you.”

 

“Oh, okay.”  I closed the door and sat in the guest chair nearest his desk.  The stacks of paper on his desk had grown.  Obviously, Patrick was no longer interested in maintaining an uncluttered desk.  I didn’t know him well enough to gauge whether the paper meant he was too busy to review documents, had reviewed them and didn’t want to sign them, or wanted to build a bigger wall to separate him from his visitors.

 

“So, Bruce, anything new you want to share with me?”

 

Patrick was fishing again.  “Not really.  You might get a kick out of this, though.  They have a special night of the week in Ireland designated for folks to go out and drink.”

 

“You mean they don’t go out drinking every night?”

 

I laughed.  “No, contrary to popular myth, not every Irishman is an alcoholic.”

 

“So why the special night?  I mean, here we’ve got bowling leagues and pool leagues and dart leagues and all sorts of excuses for social drinking seven days a week.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  That’s why I thought it was funny that the Irish would be the ones that designated only one special night.  Anyway, Thursday nights you can go out drinking with your friends and not get in trouble with your wife.”

 

“Thanks for telling me.  That explains why some of the Shannon engineers laughed when I told them I had better catch a plane out of Ireland on Thursday instead of Friday.  I’ll have to remember to make a joke about it next time.”

 

“You can’t.”

 

“I can’t?”

 

“No, officially there is no special night out.”

 

“I see.  But we can laugh about it without talking about it.  Anyway, thanks Bruce.  It’s useful information.”

 

“No problem.”

 

“So, have you caught up on email this morning?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh, I thought that’s why you’re here.  Look at this email, then, and we can talk.”

 

I walked over to Patrick’s computer and read over his shoulder.

 

FROM: Cumulo-Seven Corporate

TO: Cumulo-Seven Employees

SUBJECT: Company reorganization

 

In an effort to optimize the efficiency of our operations, in line with our most recent organization announcement, we have consolidated the functions of the Qwerty-Queue division.  All members of the Qwerty-Queue engineering team have been assigned to other projects.  The functions of the Marketing, Sales and Program Management teams are under review for further optimization.

 

We thank the engineers for their efforts in the development of the Qwerty-Queue product line.  Without their contribution, the Qwerty-Queue products would never have achieved a level of success in the marketplace.

 

Please direct all questions to Human Resources.

 

“So what does this mean?”

 

“Well, I know you had planned to move to Ireland.  Had you made any changes in that direction?”

 

He was still fishing.  Trying a different lure.  “Uh, no.  I was told I was going to run the program management duties from Huntsville.”

 

“That’s right.  So have you talked to Donnagan recently?”

 

Last cast didn’t work.  Patrick had reeled in the line and tried another cast. “No.”

 

“I know he’ll want to talk with you but I’ll go ahead and let you know what the company is thinking.  The whole marketing, sales and program management department in Shannon is being eliminated.”

 

I took a step back, caught my foot on a roller and fell against a chair.

 

“You all right, Bruce?”

 

I blushed as I stood up.  “Oh, yeah, sorry.  Guess I still have jetlag.”

 

“Have a seat.”

 

I grabbed the chair and placed myself in it gingerly, my butt a little sore from the sudden fall.

 

“So what about my job?”

 

“I don’t know.  You’ll have to ask Donnagan.  If you’re up for it, I can call him from here.  I need to ask him a couple of questions anyway.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Patrick punched the speakerphone button and dialed Donnagan.

 

“Good afternoon, Cumulo-Seven.  Donnagan speaking.”

 

“Donnagan, it’s Patrick.”

 

“Patrick.  What a surprise.  What are you up to?”

 

“Not much.”

 

“Well, I’m up to 5’4” but that’s another story.  What can I do for you?”

 

“I’ve got Bruce here with me and…”

 

“Hello, Bruce!”

 

“Hey, Donnagan.”

 

“…And we thought we’d discuss the news with you.”

 

“Oh, news it is, isn’t it?  I don’t suppose you’re calling to offer me a job, are you?”  Donnagan laughed.

 

“Afraid not.  Unless you’re looking for a lab technician position.  I can’t seem to find a good candidate for the design lab.”

 

“As much as I’d love to get my hands on a soldering iron, I’m not in the market.  So what can I do for you, then?”

 

“Well, we’re wondering what this news has to do with Bruce.”

 

“You’re right.  Bruce, I’m sorry I haven’t called you about this myself.”

 

“No problem.”

 

“You see, Bruce, I’ve been trying to find a way to keep you in your current position but it looks like it won’t work out.  But I haven’t finished talking with everyone here so don’t give up hope!”

 

Hope.  Hope is a word for losers who don’t have a handle on the rudder of their ship of destiny.

 

“No problem.  I just got word of the announcement a few minutes ago.”

 

“Yeah?  Well, I’m sorry about that.  So, Patrick, think Bruce would be willing to solder a few engineering prototype boards?”

 

Patrick and Donnagan laughed.

 

Patrick looked me.  “Somehow, I don’t think so.  Bruce?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“And I wouldn’t ask him to.  He’s been through enough already.  So when do you think you’ll have the final word on this?”

 

“I’m not sure.  I’m still trying to find out if I have a job.  Once I get that sorted out, I’ll work more diligently on Bruce’s behalf.”

 

“Thanks, Donnagan.”

 

“Bruce, you’re quite welcome.  In the meantime, can you contact the U.S. sales team and see if they’re doing okay?”

 

“Will do.”

 

“Great.  Well, guys, if you don’t mind, I have a meeting to run off to.  Keep in touch.”  Donnagan hung up the phone.

 

Patrick leaned back in his chair.  “Bruce, I bet you wonder if we know what we’re doing.”

 

I laughed to push the tiredness out of my mind.  “Don’t worry.  I know you don’t.  I’m just here to do my job and support the team in this great big experiment we call business.”

 

“I like to hear that, Bruce.  Well, if you have nothing else to discuss, I, too, have a meeting to get to.”

 

“Nope.”

 

I walked out of Patrick’s office.

 

When I got to my office, the phone was ringing.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Bruce, it’s Greg Walters.  How’re you doing?”

 

Greg Walters?  He was a tall, long-haired guy I’d seen in the halls a few times.  His large frame reminded me of a person who had played high school or college football and not lifted weights since then.

 

“Hey, Greg.  Fine.”

 

“Good.  Hey, I hear you’re looking for a job.”

 

Word travels fast.  “Not really.”

 

“Are you sure?  Never mind.  You don’t have to answer that.  Hey, I spoke with Patrick and he thinks that you’re the perfect fit for a job in my department.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

“Yeah.  Good news, isn’t it?”  Greg spoke mockingly.  “In case you’re interested, let me tell you about my group and then we can talk in more details if you like.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You see, I run the branded program management team for Cumulo-Seven.  That means that any product we make that has the Cumulo-Seven label has to be managed by us.  Since you’ve been wrapped up in the Qwerty-Queue world, I’m sure you’re familiar with our products.”

 

“Of course.  I’ve also seen a lot of Cumulo-Seven products in the test lab.”

 

“I forgot.  You were the Huntsville test lab manager, weren’t you?  Yes, you were.  Well, anyway, I’ve been tasked by the OEM team to pull some of the OEM programs into my group.”

 

“OEM?”

 

“Yeah.  The OEM team operates mainly out of Austin and Redmond but they want more exposure at the corporate level so they thought that if some of the products were managed here in Huntsville then…”

 

“What do you mean by OEM?”

 

“Bad habit, Bruce.  The OEM programs are the products we make for other companies, putting their labels on our products and modifying the embedded firmware so that the other company’s name appears in place of ours, especially for any GUI stuff that pops up.”

 

“Uh, okay.”

 

“We’ve already got the Mimosa program manager here in Huntsville, even though Mimosa headquarters is based out of Houston.  It made more sense to me to base our Mimosa program management in Austin with the others but what can I say?  I’m just here to keep the programs on target.  Where you park your butt to run the programs shouldn’t affect profit, right?”

 

“If you say so.”

 

“That’s what I’m saying.  Anyway, give it some thought.  I know you’ll probably get offers from other groups, but before you do I want you to stop by my office and spend a few minutes with me and my crew.”

 

“Will do.”

 

“That’s all I can ask.  Anyway, I’ve got a meeting to get to.  Give me a call soon.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And one last thing, feel free to call anybody on my team, or even Carl Guyotte, the OEM VP based in Austin.”

 

“Who’s on your team?”

 

“My team consists of Carol Stone, Juan Johnson, Gigi Vioget and Leonard Gallagher.  They’ll be glad to fill you in on what they do.  Gotta go.  Bye!”

 

6

 

Next thing I knew, I was working for Greg Walters.  Greg sent me to Redmond, Washington, along with Juan Johnson, for an OEM program management meeting.   Greg told me Fawn Fresnel was moving to Europe to take over the EMEA sales position for the UDARA account so I was taking over most of Fawn’s programs, sharing the Geauxgetem program with Gerard. 

 

At the meeting, I met Constance once again, along with Tammy Pierce, Gerard Colquitt, and Fawn Fresnel.  During the meeting, Constance acted like she was in synch with me, giving me the impression she was flirting with me in her own Christian brother/sister sort of way.  I was confused and decided I’d take the conversation further at dinner.  Fawn was unable to join us that night.

 

On trips, I carry an old Gateway2000 Handbook, a subnotebook computer I had purchased at Unclaimed Baggage in Scottsboro, Alabama, many years ago.  No, subnotebook does not mean a book of notes about submarines or sub sandwiches.  Or a notebook that is under the surface, subversive or somehow lower than a regular notebook. The subnotebook had been owned by someone at Saudi Aramco.  The computer specialist at Unclaimed Baggage had deleted all the old Saudi Aramco data and programs off the hard drive, leaving only an empty spreadsheet with the header, Saudi Aramco.  Unfortunately, the computer had been infected with the Cascade virus which caused letters typed on the command line to fall to the bottom in an apparent pile.  Those computer users who have never used the command line probably do not understand the concept but back in the days of DOS and Windows 3.1, people actually typed white text on a black screen.  Instead of seeing a screen full of text that you could edit in a word processor, the command line screen allowed you to type and edit text on one line only.  Some junior high or high school prankster probably lost a few nights sleep dreaming up and creating the Cascade virus.  You see, back in the day, not all computer viruses were meant to take down computer networks or steal credit card information.  Some viruses simply functioned as pranks.  For a couple of days, I enjoyed typing words on the command line and watching them fall like chunks of ice in a snowstorm, crushing unsuspecting cars on the freeway of letters at the bottom of the screen.  Since I had paid $700 for a $2500 portable PC, I got bored with the novelty of the Cascade virus and decided to put my $1800 savings to better use.

 

It was pretty easy to find the Cascade virus and repair the system.  However, I wanted no chance that the leftover bits and bytes from the days of Saudi Aramco would affect me in any way so I had converted the subnotebook computer from Windows 3.1 to Linux, after changing the long-term memory from a hard disk to compact flash-based memory.  I had also replaced the coin battery and power supply batteries.  All in all, the Handbook has served as a great portable computer that can’t be beat for text typing.  I wouldn’t want to spend all day surfing the Web with it but I could use my OLPC laptop or Asus EEE PC for that, instead – beats the tiny iPhone screen any day.

 

I like taking notes when I’m sitting with colleagues.  Daydreams and conversations turn into fun.  Truth becomes lies and lies become friends, friends become lovers and lovers become partners, long-time partners learn the truth about long-term relationships and truth becomes lies again…

 

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

 

Violet View Café and wine bar.  Kirkland, Washington.  Table for 6.  7:17 p.m.  Sitting with four of my coworkers – Constance O’Connell, Tammy Pierce, Juan Johnson, and Gerard Colquitt.  The empty chair and place setting across from me keep calling my name, like a harpy beckoning me to reach over and shake hands with the invisible person who has been staring at me, her eyes begging me to open the menu so my imaginary friend can look at the selection of “fine” foods and dream of tasty morsels melting in her mouth.

My mind wanders.  I hate it when I’m tired.  Hard enough to concentrate when I’m fully awake and sober.  But now?  My God, I’m not even sure what I’m hearing.

Already living in some sort of fantasy world by day, where people talk of web aggregators, function sets, password requests and certification procedures (What the hell do those words mean, anyway?), I’m listening to a discussion of past trips to other fantasy realms called Disney World and Disneyland.  An “apple, walnut and stilton” salad is drying in front of me, the pieces long since plucked from wild ancestral roots and planted in civilization, cut down at their prime in order to feed my proper middle class mouth.  The conversation segues to motorcycle riding (went from finger scanning at Disney World entrance to the news story of an 18-year old boy genius who recently died in a motorbike accident in south Florida (he was also part of a family that had chips implanted under their skin)).

Chips planted in their skins?  What am I hearing?  I look at the white Christmas lights strung over a nearby doorway and flick my eyes back and forth.  The streaks of lights remain in my vision.  Do I hear anything but the conversation around me?  Do I see anything but the words bubbling up from people’s mouths into cartoon-like clouds above their heads?  Isn’t there music somewhere in the background?  Some sort of jazz tune.  No, it’s the Beatles.  Lucy.  Yeah, I hear the words all right, but I know it’s in my head, not coming from some Muzak channel.

I look over at my dinner companions.  They cannot see my invisible friend in the empty chair.  But the waitress does.  She doesn’t take away the glass of water, silverware or menu in front of my friend.  I give her a nod and a knowing look.  She gives me the knowing look in return.  No need for words.  Those who know, know.

Unbeknownst to my colleagues, I had stopped to shop in downtown Redmond earlier in the day, a Thai-Oaxaca herb store.  The week’s activities had turned my head into a mess.  Pounding headache and blurred vision.  The shopkeeper talked with me a few minutes about my current lifestyle and told me I had a mental block of some sort keeping me from seeing the other side of my world.  She gave me a few gelatin tablets that she told me contained pure cocoa, a ground-up variety of Capiscum frutescens known as Thai Dragon hot pepper, a mood enhancer herb called Sceletium Tortuosum, and a visionary herb known as Salvia divinorum. I told the old woman I was familiar with the salvia but didn’t know about the other plants.  She assured me that the mixture, known as Happy Dreamer, would calm my nerves and clear my head. I slipped the shamanistic herb mixture onto my tongue at the office at 6:05 p.m., before driving to the hotel to pick up Constance and meet them at the restaurant.

I don’t usually see tracers until 30 minutes have passed.  Luckily, it took a little longer, just enough time for me to find a parking space near the restaurant.  Thank goodness, Constance was clueless, especially since I kept talking about how tired I was and how it messed with my speech center, causing me to say the wrong things, like looking up the definition of a word in the dictionary, selecting a key word from the definition, looking up an antonym of that word in an thesaurus and then adding that word to the conversation.  You know, something like, while walking from the parking lot, through a shopping center to the restaurant, while taking the stairs from one level to the next, seeing a Christmas tree and bronze statues of kids pointing up at a tree…

“Hey, Constance.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s cool,” I said, pointing to the statues, realizing the artist meant to show that children are branches, twigs, limbs, leaves, bark, sapwood and everything else but the trunk.  Trunks belong to elephants, adult humans, carriages and cars.  Cars transport trunks within trunks, pieces of elephant trunks preserved in paleontologists’ trunks on the way to a geologist’s lecture about a petrified tree trunk that showed where an elephant calf crawled up inside a giant tree and died.  The baby passed up adulthood and branched into a trunk within a trunk, instead.

“What?  Oh yeah, my son would love taking pictures of that.  He’s so good at taking pictures.”

I thought about what Constance had said earlier.  Her son enjoyed photography, I knew, so he liked to play with gadgets, and Constance liked kitchen gadgets so something was cooking and there was a Japanese restaurant to my left and a crab restaurant to my right so Constance was crabby about cooking and liked to photograph dead trees with ornaments but no, she didn’t shoot pictures, she didn’t like to kill anything, and there’s a book store, and Constance likes to read, but she doesn’t read because she gets tired of finding the right reading glasses, so what type of glasses does she drink from when she’s cooking Christmas trees in hollow bronze statues in the middle of a cold night in Washington?

I looked from the statues to Constance. “So you use stainless steel?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, you like to cook?” I asked, not sure what I had said out loud.

“Right.  Yeah, J.C. is really good at taking pictures.  I think he’d enjoy shooting those kids.”

I wondered what kind of woman I was walking with who would encourage her son to murder other people.  Got to stay focused.  Got to remember what we’re here for.  “So where’s the restaurant?”

“I think it’s just across the street there.”

Giraffes?  Safaris?  What was Constance doing in Africa?  I thought her passport had expired earlier this year, or was it that her passport expired at the end of this year?  What year is it?  Wait, Constance had stayed at a hotel in the Disney Animal World, able to see giraffes from her hotel window.

Close my eyes.  Breathe.  Look back across the table.  My imaginary friend has gotten up and left.  Nothing but the empty chair facing me.  Look down.  I’m scrawling on a scrap of paper.  Tiny letters.  Too dark in the restaurant to read.  The others are laughing at me.  “Must be at least 3 point type there, Bruce!” Juan says, looking around Gerard to make eye contact with me.  Does he know I’m tripping?  Doesn’t give me the knowing look.  No, he doesn’t know.

Constance is smiling at me, but the smile is not comforting, more like a mother who’s bearing the situation for her children’s sake.  Does she still have her headache from earlier in the day?  Probably only needs a neck massage but who’s going to give it to her?  Someone should, but not me.  I’m not the “touchy feely” kind.

Beside me, Gerard’s voice grabs my left ear.  He’s saying something which reminds me he’s got two kids, age 7 and 5, I think.  He took his kids to Disneyland in 2005 during a particularly heavy rainy period, when lots of flooding was taking place in southern California.  His kids were able to ride the attractions over and over; in August 2006, during the Hurricane Ernesto scare, his kids got to ride over and over again at Disney World.  His kids don’t know what lines are like.  Or queues, as the British call them.  The British know how to queue, or so said Arthur Dent in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”  But aren’t we all good at forming formations, making foundations, floundering, frowning, frustrating, forgetting, spaghetti, spouting, spewing, mewing, mooing, booing, brewing, brooding, breeding, feeding, freeing, paying fees after standing for hours, shuffling our feet at the DMV?

Tammy’s conducting an interview.  “And what do you do?”  The words echo around the room, ‘and what do you do, do the Dew, the do, the dooo….”

Juan has always worked in the high tech industry, mainly manufacturing companies (SCI and the like); Gerard in medical business a long time.  Constance’s been a house parent, house mom, midwife, and cleaning lady.  She used computers for the first time, in 1991 or 1992, using floppy drive system.  Floppy?  Why not “flexible”?  Or “bendable”?

I like to write.  I’ve always liked to write.  I’m writing now or at least this pen in my hand likes to spread ink on the paper beneath my hand.

Gerard wrote a book in 8^th grade, chapters were episodes based on friends’ names and their quizzical questions, “When’s the next chapter?”  What is it with parents and their dreams of their kids?  Gerard’s father has locked Gerard’s book away in a safety deposit box.  What did they ever do wrong?  What do his words have to be forever imprisoned behind iron bars?  Guess they’ve been sentenced!

Aha!  Finally!  A hallucination worth writing about.  There, in the middle of the table is the concrete-encrusted fake tree from my childhood, based on the adventures of the Swiss Family Robinson, all covered with silk webbing.  But why?  Of course, reread the words floating about Tammy’s head.  Tammy remembers a book by Spider Robinson, recounting the adventures in a bar called Callahan’s Place.  Some of the writing was just recounting bad puns.

She turns the interview on herself, at last.  Answering the questions no one has specifically asked, Tammy turns the spigot, letting her life’s juicy details flow out.  She had trained as a vet tech but topped out at $11/hour, not enough to live on by herself.  Then she did something else.  I’m having difficulty hearing her.  A gigantic, blinding parabola is blocking my view, a shiny metal bowl is vibrating, echoing with the bong from the beat of oversized tongs.  Maybe she was in a wok band?  It’s hard to tell.  The aluminum disk shrinks and disappears.  Self-educated in computers, hired at Compaq with no degree and very little experience – Tammy got the job at Compaq because during interview, when asked why she felt she was more qualified than other guys with technical degrees and experience, she responded, “I don’t know.  I thought I was interviewing to take your job.”  Refreshing response.

I sigh.  Ahh…the pause that refreshes…

From parabolas to triangles, must be the math-magician, the majestic Constance talking.  She worked for a medical billing company on Dug Hill Road in Huntsville, went to school in Athens and lived in Decatur, plus had three little ones to raise at home.  Six, fifty an hour and no insurance, a caring mother’ll do anything to survive.

Tammy worked at 3 different veterinarian offices while going to school – Vancouver, extreme west Washington (isn’t that like in the ocean, or something?) and east Washington, 8-12 hours/week at each place, equivalent to fulltime job.

I like to draw pictures with words.  Tammy likes to draw pictures worth a thousand words.  She had a pet flat spider and has a drawing of it to prove it.  Or at least she thinks she has the picture.  I wonder if she’ll ever get the satisfaction of proving it.  “Just come to my office and you’ll see I like to draw,” she challenges.  Like she can’t see I remember our previous conversations together.  Like she can’t remember I edited a photograph of her, putting a praying mantis on her shoulder.  Like I didn’t even exist in her mind when I visited Redmond eight or nine months ago.  Like it’s obvious she’s a manager of the concept of ordering things in her head, matching reality almost all the time but not necessarily remembering everything she sees or hears, except when she wants to gather the stimulus, add it to the list, resort and categorize the items on the list, nod her head and smile in satisfaction.  She lived in Nigeria when she was 10 while her father taught school, doing research for 3 years.  She had to collect insects for him so she got to see interesting insects.  She saw how the local inhabitants of Nigeria lived and we know what that means.  What does that mean?

Constance learned DOS; software at her first high tech job was developed by a psychiatrist’s wife for her husband’s business.  If her husband all about reading people and prescribing therapy and drugs, then Constance’s responsible for a lot more of the mental lives of folks in Huntsville than she may realize.  Somewhere, there’s a guy saying, “If only I had paid that quack for one more session, I’d not be living under the I-565 bridge today.”  😉   She got hired at Cumulo-Seven by Marv Putter, who was head of engineering and technical support; hired after Victor Post and at lower pay, pay being an especially sensitive topic for a woman raising three kids on her own.  And what’s with the “on her own” bit, anyway?  Gotta find out that story some day?  At Cumulo-Seven, she soon saw that she and the other two technical support reps were keeping separate ways to track customers – she developed plan to buy software to track customers.  Cumulo-Seven had 90 employees at the time.  Maybe the third different location for the company, by that time.

The waitress stops by and leans over to grab a wine glass from in front of me.  “Have you had enough to soldier?” she whispers in my ear.  I feel my shoulders relax, realizing I’m not the only tripped out person in the world.  She smiles and walks away, her duty done, acknowledgement of another lost soul in the swirling, chaotic, commercial, Western world.  The soft side of MORTIE.

The ebb and flow of vocational talltales continues.  Tammy was hired as inside sales rep, even though she wanted to be program manager.  Tammy told Robert Solough she was going to work for him – he was livid, finding out after she was hired and assigned to him.  She didn’t call him back for several days.  Amazing, how the concept of “job” and “work” affect our human interactions.

My main course consists of drinking a “flight” of wine (four glasses half-filled with dark red wine) called the “teethstainer”, and eating a “flight” of cheese called “Ode to a musty French cave” (pierre robert. cows milk triple cream. France; mahone. cows milk. France; saint nectaire abbaye. cows milk. France; brique agour. sheeps milk. France).

Constance likes to listen to a CD of the musical, “Les Miserables” when she cleans her house every Saturday.  Tammy likes Eileen Ivers, a violin performer of Irish descent.  One Christmas, Tammy received a bright red electric Zeta violin (similar to the one Eileen has) on which she enjoys playing jazz, blues and Irish music (“peasant music”, as her mother calls it, pointing out that the caste system is not just limited to world of Constance’s college roommate).

Tammy remembers drinking morning and afternoon tea in Nigeria, but no lunch.

Juan was in the Army – served in various places, Central America, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain.  There, he drank 5 servings of tea a day (very small cups), following local customs.

Tammy , a born program manager and sketch artist.

Constance, an engineering project manager and math tutor.

Juan, a program manager who never likes to sit still at home or he falls asleep, unless the movie’s good enough to keep him awake.

Gerard, a program manager who has played on the same softball team for 10 years, in the Bellevue league.

Constance’s son is a photographer.  His school, Freed-Hardeman University in Henderson, TN, sponsored a dinner where Cal Ripken, Junior, was the speaker on Friday night.  Her son stayed late to photograph and talk with Cal.  He drove to Memphis to run in the St. Jude’s marathon on Saturday (I sponsored him for $50) and then drove to Nashville for his fiancé’s event on Sunday.

The war of words is almost over.  My amigos have paid the price and spilled their guts, the words of their lives staining the wine lists in my hands.  I close my eyes once more.  The spinning is still slow.  I’ll follow the others out of the restaurant and act “behaved”.  I’ll drive them to the hotel down the straight and narrow road.  The long and winding road of my mind will lead me back to the page after I have parked.

I step into the hotel room and drop the vestiges of my cultured self, giving in to the demands of the Wondering Wanderer inside, who wants randomness and disorganization to dominate the space around him for a while.  I let my mind drift.  Spacing out.  Chemically-induced, toxic tripping.  After all, aren’t there peace, quiet and tranquility to be found in the empty, white noise spaces on the radio dial?

 

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

 

The next day we found out Constance was called back to Sunrise for an emergency.

7

 

We broke up the next day’s meeting at noon so we could concentrate on separate issues.  I got with Fawn to go over her programs, including Geauxgetem, RRR and Pairuclaws.

 

A hiking route map of Mt. Kilimanjaro hung on the wall above Fawn’s desk.

 

“Wow, so you really climbed Mount Kilimanjaro?”

 

Fawn’s eyes lit up like a new fall harvest moon pushing a stubborn old summer cloud out of the way.  The office brightened from Fawn’s glow.  She got up and closed the door.

 

“Yes, all the way to the top of Kibo on Kili.  19,340 feet, eight friends and family and 41 porters.  How much do you know about Africa?”

 

I wasn’t sure what she wanted from me so I shrugged my shoulders, impersonating Darrell Hammond’s impression of Al Gore’s personification of his old boss, Bill Clinton.

 

Fawn then pulled a tiny gray tablet PC out of her purse.  She sat on the edge of the desk and unfolded the double palm-sized computer in front of me.

 

“Have you ever seen pictures of exotic animals like this before?”

 

“No.”  I watched as she thumbed through a slideshow of animals and insects that made the Island of Doctor Moreau look like a boring city zoo.  I shuddered while a dim memory from my youth flashed in front of my eyes.  Fawn’s photographs revealed turtles disguised as rocks with bits of dead lizards and shriveled human fingers sticking out as a warning not to pick up the rock, snakes that looked like gnarled tree limbs, flies that seemed to dance in and out of campfires as if they were eating the flames, ghost spiders that lay hidden in the flowers of Helichrysum newii and an unknown insect that resembled the long, curled-up green-and-purple leaf of Lobelia deckenii.    I shook my head when I saw a tree that had killed and hung a gazelle in its branches.

 

“You mean killer trees don’t just live in the dark forests of Europe?”

 

Fawn laughed.  “You silly.  That’s a leopard kill.”  Fawn nudged me.  “Of course, killer trees exist but we didn’t actually see the evidence of one.”

 

“Of course.  I was just playing with you.”

 

Fawn gave me a soft kick in my shin.  “I like the look in your eyes.  Like I can trust you.  I can trust you, can’t I?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Fawn put the tablet PC in my lap and dug through her purse.  She plugged an MP3 player into the USB port of the tablet PC.

 

“Take a look at this.”

 

Fawn brought up another slideshow.

 

“These are our porters.”

 

I nodded and smiled.

 

“After we climbed out of the rain forest, our guide and our porters led us on an alternate path they had promised would give better views of the mountain.  Better views!  I think he should have told us what kind of views.”

 

Fawn flipped to the next photo and made eye contact with me, her look asking me if I wanted to go on.  Holding the tablet PC below my chin, we faced each other a few inches apart, bending and breaking the invisible three-foot barrier around my body.

 

The photo was hard to see.  The photographer was sitting inside a tent and shooting a shot of naked or semi-naked people standing outside.  I assumed the people in the shot were the porters, with their dark skin blending into the darkness of the night.

 

“Some of us had gotten sick on the second day of the hike.  The guide blamed it on some food we’d probably eaten, which had contained beef broth by accident.  He produced some pills he brought with him for just such a situation.  As you know, I don’t do drugs or eat meat.  However, until you’re in the situation we were in, facing a climb that would produce altitude sickness, you don’t know how you’ll react.  In order for all of us to be physically capable of the climb, everyone in our group except for me took the pills.  These photos you see are what happened to us after they took the pills.”

 

Fawn flipped to the next photo.

 

I could clearly see members of Fawn’s hiking group mixed in with the porters.  They were standing in a circle, all of them stripped down to their underwear.

 

“Look closely at the people.  What do you see?  Do you believe they believe what they see?  Do you believe anything is possible?  Look beyond their physical appearances and put away your misconceptions, prejudices and biases about race, religion and education.  Imagine you are right there with them.  Imagine you have shed the trappings of your culture, removed the clothing of your economic stature.  Yet, you are still a scientist at the core.  Curiosity takes over and you become part of them.  You hold a camera to record the events around you, and see wonders beyond your imagination.”

 

Fawn flipped to the next photo.

 

The photographer stood with the others in the circle.  On the rocky ground in the middle of the circle the guide lay on his back, his arms and legs spread out.  His face cast a pale-green glow.  His eyes, normally a deep marble-brown, flickered like candlelight.

 

Fawn flipped to the next photo.

 

“These photos are not doctored.  I took them myself.  Keep in mind that I did not take the pill our guide had handed out.  But something they chanted…the rhythm of their singing…the Swahili language…I don’t know what it was but the group seemed to bring forth an energy in that place I’d never seen before.”  Fawn leaned in even closer, her nose barely touching mine.  “I know from a college psychology course that hypnosis and the power of suggestion will produce in people’s minds images, feelings and smells they never experienced.  I know that some people are more prone to hypnosis than others.  I have tried to be one of those people but always failed.  Yet, that night on the side of the mountain, with camera in hand, I watched…”  Fawn pressed her forehead to mine.  I felt heat from her skin, not as if Fawn had a fever, more like the inside of her skull blazed in an inferno.  I wanted to pull away but her skin seemed to melt into mine.

 

I broke eye contact and looked down between our cheeks at the photograph.  The guide floated above the group and the stars formed a miasmatic, kaleidoscopic, phlebophonic, gyrogistic galaxy that danced to the cacophony coming from the mouths of the faces swirling around the periphery of the photo.

 

I further slipped into Fawn’s mind.  Her thoughts became mine.  I stood in the group of Kili hikers, torn between taking more pictures or slipping off my clothes and joining in the stargazing head trip.  I held the camera up and snapped another picture, wanting to capture what my eyes didn’t believe.  The guide floated over me, blocking the sky.  His hands glommed onto my shoulders and lifted me up.  My eyes fell out of my head.  The camera grew wings and flew away.  Ensorcelled, I lost everything, even the sense of my bare necessities.  Naked and cold in a lunar landscape.

 

Like my feelings during a mystical experience with Helen in college many years before, I suddenly wanted to make love to Fawn.  In our mental union, we understood that we had already made love of the soul that no physical familiarity could touch.

 

Fawn wound down the telling of the story.  Together in mind, I lay on the rocky ground with her and watched the group dancing and chanting around me, like a bunch of kids I’d seen around a fire totally absorbed in the moment at a Lollapalooza concert, some holding hands, some slam-dancing, all of them pouring sweat to the music of Rage Against the Machine.  In the cold night air on the side of Mount Kilimanjaro, I burned with fever and fused with the stones beneath me…then I passed out from exhaustion.

 

I woke up some time later.  Seconds, perhaps.  Time didn’t matter.  In the moment my eyes were closed, the North American continent and Asian continent were one once again.  The Hawaiian islands disappeared under the earth’s mantle.  Two hundred million years had passed in an instant.  Human beings no longer existed.  Life had been wiped out on Earth several times.  I closed my eyelids to moisten my eyes, rolling my eyes inside my head, dust making small scratches on the inside of my eyelids, carving undecipherable patterns.  Slowly, I opened my lids, light from an overhead florescent fixture bursting through and exciting my retinas.  Fawn’s eyes filled my view.  Instead of her face, a reflection of me looked back, wrinkles, freckles and all.  I freaked out.  I wanted to pull away from her but Fawn’s eyes told me it was all right so I calmed down.

 

Fawn stood over me and held a finger to my lips.  She walked over and opened the door.

 

“I don’t think there is a lot more to tell you.  Have I shown you the story I wrote about my experience?”

 

I could hardly lift my head off the back of the chair.  I attempted to shake my head.

 

“No?  I guess I haven’t, have I.  It’s not what you think.  Pretty straightforward writing.  Here, let me show you.”

 

Fawn grabbed the PC out of my lap and opened a Word document.

 

The Unsung Heroes of Kilimanjaro by Fawn Fresnel (a/k/a A.P.)

“Porters!”  I heard the cry behind me as I ambled slowly up the trail, placing one dusty boot in front of the other.  I stepped to one side and watch the Motley Crew hired by our guide service, Tusker Trail, march by with our gear:  bright yellow North Face bags, folded aluminum armchairs, 5 gallon water pails, empty for now, and various and sundry other items including 150 eggs.  We would be on the mountain for 10 days, but it hadn’t yet occurred to me how much these men, the people of Kilimanjaro, would improve my journey.

When planning my trip to Tanzania to climb the tallest mountain in Africa, I gave the least thought to the idea of porters of any of the things I considered prior to my arrival.  I was careful in selecting a guide service with medical training and equipment.  I had double-checked the food options, trying to ensure there would enough calories to sustain me, and had hauled along a gallon-size Ziploc bag worth of Clif bars and Gu gels just in case I needed to stave off starvation.  I had checked and re-checked my gear, trying on my 800-fill Feathered Friends down jacket several times, before packing it lovingly in my carry-on bag.  When people asked me about the small detail of porters, though, I nodded carelessly.  “Yeah, there’ll be one per person – carrying up 20 pounds of our stuff.”

I had no idea.  I had no inkling that I’d be surrounded by 49 capable African men, 41 of them porters, who had been hired to escort me and my fellow climbers to the Roof of Africa.  49 men, each carrying a heavy load, who would sing, share games, tell stories and provide companionship for the long trek.

My climbing group consisted of my friend Veronica and I from Seattle, Washington, my friends Bertha, Linda and Jody from Minneapolis, Minnesota, and three siblings, Heather from Boca Raton, Florida, Terin from Chicago, Illinois and Luke, the lone male, from San Diego, California.  We’d come for a variety of reasons:  I had organized the trip to celebrate my thirtieth birthday and my friends eagerly joined the trek; Luke had just turned fifty; Terin was a new grandmother; Heather was celebrating two years free from breast cancer.  Together we looked forward to an adventure that would bring us to top of one of the world’s highest peaks.

We began our trip at the Lemosho Trailhead at 7,400 feet.  The Toyota Land Cruisers stopped in a small clearing to let us out and we watched as the porters piled out of the tall sturdy truck that carried them from Moshi, pushing off of the wooden side rails as they leapt down, some with gear in hand, others reaching up to their friends still standing in the truck bed, to unload bag after bag of tents, stakes, cooking fuel, food and other supplies.  Standing in the clearing at that first moment were 12 climbers, 5 guides, 3 cooks, 3 waiters, 2 medical support people and 63 porters!

One by one, the porters moved into a line in front of the scale where their loads were being weighed:  “Some guide services overload their porters, maybe 40 kilos” explained Honest, one of the assistant guides.  He shook his head.  “Not Tusker – 20 kilos – that’s the limit.”  20 kilograms, or 44 pounds, may seem lightweight to these guys, but for us, facing a 10 day climb up the tallest mountain in Africa to 19,340 feet if we are successful, it seemed like a formidable burden…and that’s even before we saw how they carried it.

On their heads!  In addition to their personal backpack, at whatever weight that happens to be.  No-hands style, with a cheerful stroll.  It’s a jaw-dropping moment.  “Doesn’t that hurt their necks?” we asked, naïve.  “Are they really going to carry all that stuff all the way to the top?”  “Why in the world are there so many people to carry our swill up the face of this mountain – isn’t that a bit excessive?”  We soon found out just what that excess would mean to our comfort and safety when we arrived at the first camp.

Big Tree Camp is the first stop on the mountain, and as its name suggests, is nestled under a sprawling canopy of giant trees.  We reached camp a good hour after the support crew, and could hear the voices, exchanging Swahili phrases and sharing laughter, ten minutes or so before we actually saw the camp.  The yellow North Face four-season tents, with thick red sleeping pads inside, and the tall green canvas dining tents covered most of the available cleared ground.  Four or more green canvas bathrooms with full zips and red or blue buckets to contain the human waste had been set up around the perimeter.  Our dining tent sat dead center and appeared to be the size of my living room, complete with an aluminum dining room table and nine aluminum armchairs with cushions.  Warm water and soap had been set out for us to rid ourselves of some of the dust from the first day’s travel, and a porter was pumping gallons of drinking water through a Katadyn filter into a large water cooler for our convenience.

Shortly after our arrival, Stanislas, our head waiter, announced “Tea time!  Maji moto!” (hot water!).  He repeated this greeting several times before we understood it as a directive to come to the dining tent right now.  I smelled popcorn, and sure enough – a huge tray of freshly popped popcorn and several cookies filled a large circular pan.  “Ahhhh,” I thought, “This is going to be the life!”

As we sat with our cups of tea, our three guides, Elias, Honest and Kombe approached with a small black object, several sheets of paper, and a pen.  It was our first encounter with the oxymeter that would measure our heart rate and our oxygen levels twice daily, letting the guides know if we needed special attention of some sort.  We found out later that the guides take care of the porters as carefully as they tend to the clients.  Each porter benefits from the same monitoring, ensuring a higher level of safety and success for the entire expedition party.  Tusker is one of the few outfits on the mountain to offer this service, and is known to other guide services as the experts to whom they should go should non-Tusker clients run into trouble.

As we hiked the next day, Day 2, we pressed our guides, Elias, Kombe and Honest, for Swahili translations of elementary English phrases, and eagerly practiced them with every porter that passed us on the trail.  For several hours, until the last porter has marched quickly by, we showed off our new-found knowledge:  “Jambo!” (hello!) “Mambo kaka?” (What’s up, brother?)  “Habari gani?” (How are you?).  Much to the amusement of ourselves and the porters—most chuckled cheerfully and responded back with “Poa!” (cool!) or “Asante sana” (very good) and the occasional “Zakwako” (and you?)—which we hadn’t learned yet so it completely threw us for a loop, and we laughed, with no reply.

Day 3 was our first acclimation day and designed to give us a better chance of summiting the mountain.  It turned out that it also gave us an opportunity for a small glimpse into the East African culture and the lives of the 41 men who had literally lightened our loads.  After a short hike in the morning, we sat out in the scrub grass on the moorland that comprised the Shira plateau.  We had just washed our hair and were feeling pretty good about ground we’d covered, the Protea Kilimanjarika that we photographed and euphoric after a first, pre-sunrise sighting of the summit we’d come to conquer.

As we sat in our armchairs, drying our hair in the sun, we saw the group of porters and guides marching excitedly toward us with big grins on their faces.  They’d come, Elias, the head guide, informed us, to give us a concert!  The entire support staff gathered around in a big semi-circle: Stanislas with a crisp white apron wrapped around his middle, Basco, our medical support staff, with his silver sunglasses firmly in place, Immanuel with his blue and magenta plaid shirt tucked behind the suspender straps of his yellow ski bibs, Gramma with his gray knit hat perched high on his head, next to him head cook Luka with this baseball cap pulled low, and behind them Benieli with his long tan trench coat and bright striped hat, ready to entertain us.  It was sung a cappella, beautifully done with the rich, male voices rising together, sometimes blending, sometimes separating to allow one voice to call above the rest:  “Hakuna matata!” (No problems!), and they’d repeat as one:  “Hakuna matata!”   One song would end and they would start again, after a brief discussion, into the next:  “Kilimanjaro, Kilimanjaro, Kilimanjaroooooooo!”  It was surprise and a gift – one they would give us upon our arrival to every camp from then forward.

At Moyr Camp, where we spent two days, we entertained ourselves and a willing group of porters with the “Newspaper Game.”  It was a game we’d learned as kids and consists of all the players but one sitting in a large circle, in this case on overturned five-gallon buckets and random rocks rolled into the edge of the ring.  One player is “up” and stands with a rolled up newspaper (gunnysack, whatever is available) in hand, waiting for the player sitting in front of him to say a name:  “George!”  The “up” person then tries to slap George on the knee before he can say:  “Basco!”  If George is successful, Basco has to attempt to spit out another player’s name before he gets swatted.  If not, George is “up.”  We played this game for hours, with much shared humor – they loved it!  It was a way for us to establish camaraderie:  where language was a barrier, names and laughter established a link.

Even at the Crater Camp, 18,400 feet above sea level with 50 percent of the oxygen to which were accustomed, the porters pulled through with support and song.  As we climbed over the edge of the crater rim, we saw two men, Stanislas and Immanuel, standing in front of the Funkwangler Glacier with thermoses of hot tea, mugs, and a few songs, softly sung, as the mist swirled around our tired, happy faces, up toward Kibo and the final summit climb.

Later, Luke, Jody and I made the long, slow trudge through the fine sand toward the ash pit, guided by Honest and three porters.  When I removed my jacket, Henry carried it for me.  When I left my orange Nalgene bottle behind at the edge of the ash pit in my excitement to forever capture the digital moment on my Nikon, Immanuel jogged back to pick it up so I could save my energy for the last day’s climb.

As we strolled back down to our tents, still in awe of the massive, sprawling cathedral beauty of the glaciers, Kibo peak in front of us, beckoning,  and Mount Meru floating on a broad expanse of marshmallow clouds in the distance, Jody and I sang to the porters:  “He’s got the whole world, in his hands…he’s got the mamas and the babas in his hands…he’s got the kakas and the dadas in his hands…” with Immanuel conducting up front and bouncing to the tune, until Honest told us to “save our breath for tomorrow!”

Our arrival to the summit of Kilimanjaro was a glorious moment.  Lead by Elias, we crested just as the sun rose above the peak, a burning orange that backlit the rocks near the summit sign and slowly brightened into a brilliant pale gold behind Kibo, casting the large shadow of Kilimanjaro across the horizon.  We’d made it!  We sang again here, inspired by the porters:  “I’m on the top of the world looking down on Creation…”  It was a song that fit the moment as we gazed out across the Serengeti Plain from the Roof of Africa – inspired, awestruck, and thankful for the 49 men who had aided us all the way and contributed so much to our experience.

 

She closed the PC and walked around the desk.

 

“Here, let me show you the names of the contacts at Geauxgetem and Pairuclaws that you’ll need to know.”  Fawn wrote down a list of names and made me promise to visit Geauxgetem with her soon.

 

The head of engineering in Redmond, William Exeter, stopped by to tell us that it was the last day of work for one of the longtime Redmond engineers and a valid excuse for drinking with buddies after work.  He invited all the OEM program managers to join the fun.  Juan, Gerard and Tammy backed out, saying they had too much work to do.  Fawn and I decided to join the engineers for dinner.

8

 

Fawn and I drove separate cars to the Red Hook Brewery, a brewpub in nearby Woodinville – she thought she might leave early and I gladly drove my rental car with the GPS satellite navigation system to see if the directions it gave would match the verbal directions that Fawn gave me.  Needless to say, they didn’t match because Fawn knew a shortcut that took her 10 minutes longer than the GPS directions.  Once again, I realized that technology can outwit even the most informed local expert, especially when the expert’s advice includes “turn off the paved road.”

 

“About time you got here.”  I stood on the top of the steps of the entrance to the restaurant with my hands on my hips, watching Fawn approach.

 

“Yeah?  You wouldn’t think you had me worried that you weren’t behind me.”

 

“I know you’re not.”

 

Fawn beamed.  “You’re right.  You’re a grownup with a GPS system.  What’s my excuse?”

 

“There’s no excuse for you.”  I patted Fawn on the back.

 

She put her arm around my waist and hugged me.  “But I’m glad you made it, anyway.  Too bad you missed the shortcut.  You would have seen one of the oldest men in the world struggle to pull a Rubus discolor bush out of the ground.”

 

“A what?”

 

“Himalayan blackberry.  They’re the scourge of this area.  Did you know they cover 12% of the public land in the Seattle area?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“They grow something like 30 feet a year.”

 

“Oh, like kudzu in the South, about 12 inches a day.”

 

“I guess.  Anyway, that old man was funny.”  Fawn snorted.  “He was so bent over he looked like a giant fern trying to grow out of the ground, unfurling as he stood up.  You really should have been there.  I would swear that he was attached to the plant, like one of those wooden windmill thingamadoodles you seem at craft fairs sometime.  Ha ha!”  Fawn laughed again, her teeth flashing as she let out a hearty laugh.

I smiled and opened the door for her.

 

Inside, about a dozen Cumulo-Seven employees sat casually on sofas next to a fireplace at the back.  Fawn and I joined them, staying in touch physically without making it obvious.  A knee lightly touching a knee.  An elbow loosely set on a shoulder.  A hip to a hip.  A back to a back.  Neither one of us consciously made these moves.  The merry-go-round conversation kept putting us back together after one of us got up off a jasmine circus horse of a chair or an aubergine snail of a love seat to move around and meet others.

 

As the evening progressed, we communicated with each another without touching, making eye contact across the room and having whole conversations.  In the slow uptake of her eyelid, Fawn told me about her recent trip to Munich.  I told her about my loving physical relationship with my wife in the deepening dimple of my left cheek at the start of a smile.  Fawn swallowed and her throat told me about her love for her father and how she wished her mother and siblings could come close to filling the void.

 

A couple of hours passed while I learned about a recent divorce that started because the wife wouldn’t get rid of the 200 three-legged, one-eyed, 20-pound, mangy cats in her house, a pending marriage between an Indian man and a Hawaiian woman with a combined Hindu-Polynesian ceremony planned, new kids and the art of shopping for cheap diapers, teenagers and parents’ attempt to censor the art of sneaking sexy pictures via camera phones, and the happiness of grandparenting.

 

Several folks stood up to leave.  I wondered if a hidden alarm clock had gone off and concluded that the scent of empty appetizer plates had triggered the innate migratory habits of engineers.  It was seven o’clock and engineers should drive home before their analytical minds pulled them back to the office to solve a new problem.

 

Thirty minutes later, the group had thinned out, leaving a few engineers with Fawn and me.  The time had come for us to decide if we wanted to part together.

 

Fawn did not hesitate to move the time forward.  “Are you okay?”

 

“Hnnh?”

 

“You’re leaning on me a little hard.  Have you had too much to drink?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Well, then, do you need to follow me home?”

 

I put my hand on Fawn’s shoulder.  “No.”

 

“No?”

 

I whispered in Fawn’s ear.  “I need to get more details out of William Exeter about what he knows about the Shannon operations.”

 

Fawn read my mind.  She understood I needed to feed the engineering side of me that night more than I needed to find out what waited for Fawn and me at her house.

 

Fawn stood up to leave.  “Call me if you change your mind.”

 

 

9

 

The next morning, we found out that Juan had to leave suddenly for Huntsville.  Gerard called in sick. 

 

Fawn put her arms around Tammy and me.  “Hey, since it’s just us, why don’t we go out to breakfast?”

 

“How about Uncle Eddy’s?”

 

Fawn slapped Tammy on the back.  “Great idea, Tammy.  Let’s go.  Besides, it’s not too far from my house.”

 

I sat in the backseat and tuned out Fawn and Tammy while we rode to the restaurant.  Jet lag and the previous night’s beers put me in a comfortable daze.

 

At the country-kitchen style restaurant located under a store, our server heard us talking about work and let us know her husband worked at the Cumulo-Seven office.  She quizzed us about the latest office gossip.  Tammy and Fawn filled her in as much as they could.  The server seemed to know everything she heard and left us alone after she delivered the food.  Even so, she kept looking at me from across the basement restaurant.  If it weren’t for the sleepiness, I might have felt paranoid.  Did MORTIE really exist?

 

After breakfast, Fawn drove us to her house.  I sat in the back of the car behind Fawn and stared at her eyes in the rearview mirror.  Sometimes she met my eyes and smiled.  She continued to drive and look around normally.  In my mind, I could see the layout of Fawn’s house as if she was leading me through it, having a telepathic conversation about her domestic life.

 

When we got to her house, Fawn took the time to describe the plants in the yard and her gardening style to Tammy and acted like I already knew.  I stood back a little bit, trying not to give away the secret connection between Fawn and me.  I glanced at Tammy’s face as she looked at the little box garden in Fawn’s front yard.  I could see that she understood something else was going on.

 

Without thinking about it, I lifted an old clay flower pot shoved in the dirt next to her front door step and pulled out a key hung on a wire glued to the inside of the pot.  I opened the screen door and inserted the key in the front door.

 

Tammy looked at me.  “How did you…”

 

I raised my eyebrows.  “I don’t know.  It just made sense.”

 

Fawn put her hand on Tammy’s shoulder.  “Bruce’s never been here.  He’s a good guesser, isn’t he?”

 

“Well-l-l.  If you say so.”  Tammy’s eyes said otherwise.

 

I opened the door and let the women in.

 

Fawn spoke in an intimate tone as she brushed past me.  “Don’t forget to put the key back.”

 

The house occupied 900 square feet, a no-nonsense place for a no-nonsense owner.  The front entryway consisted of a small pad of wood planking at the corner of the living room.

 

After I closed the front door, Fawn pointed to the door on the wall to the left of us, which could not be reached when the front door was open.  “This is where my roommate lived.  She’s in the process of getting her stuff out so I won’t bother showing the room to you.”

 

We took a few steps along the wall and Fawn opened another door on the left.  We peered into a small room, just big enough to hold a drafting table at the far wall and a couple of bookshelves on the righthand wall.  A row of four glass bricks in the wall above the drafting table fed the room a modicum of lemon-yellow light.

 

“This was where the closets of the two bedrooms existed.  I think the previous owner was smart to convert the closets to a small study.  In theory, I could call this a three-bedroom house and of course, my real estate agent wanted to but I think it stretches the limit a bit, don’t you?”

 

Tammy and I stepped into the room.  A folded-up running machine stood attention on the wall next to the door.

 

Tammy unfolded her arms and touched both sides of the room.  “What do you think, Bruce?”

 

“Well, it doesn’t stretch the word ‘cozy,’ that’s for sure.”

 

Fawn and Tammy laughed.

 

“All this coziness makes me want to pee.  Excuse me.”  Tammy pushed me against the wall and walked around Fawn.

 

After Tammy walked out, Fawn stepped into the room.

 

“I see you were studying my bookshelf.”

 

I nodded.

 

“I read a lot of books before and after the trip to Kili.”  Fawn turned her body to me and put one arm on the wall behind me.  She studied my eyes for a second or two.  Some people say eyes are “hazel” or “chestnut” or some other single color but when you stand in front of another person or face yourself in the mirror, you see within the stroma of the iris pigmented yellows and reds and blacks and whites no matter what the primary color may dominate.  Like dials on a safe trying to line up the tumblers to let a person inside, our eyes twisted back and forth looking for the right combination of veins and color lines to open our souls to each other in the confines of a converted closet.  Instead, the interplay of light and motion became a Rosetta stone, unlocking the language between two people unafraid to live outside conventional social expectations.  Our eyes told us that life is short, go with the moment, don’t forget the past and remember the future is always waiting and never truly exists.  Returning to the moment, Fawn searched my eyes for an answer.  Her voice confirmed her thoughts.  “So what do you think happened?”

 

“The brain can do all sorts of strange things.”

 

“But the photographs…”  Fawn furrowed her brows, letting me know she didn’t believe her sights, despite the supertropical visions.

 

“Did anyone borrow your camera while you were on the trip?”

 

“No.  We all had our own cameras.”

 

“Maybe while you slept?”

 

“I doubt it.  I didn’t sleep particularly well.  I would have felt someone going through my bag.”  Fawn placed one hand on her hip, twisted around and leaned her head against me, our heads focused on the books and papers stacked on the shelves.

 

“I don’t know, then.  Maybe it was real.  When was the last time you talked to a burning bush or communicated with a previous reincarnation?”

 

“Good point.”

 

“There are a lot of things that I’ve seen in my life that didn’t make sense.”

 

“Did you research them?”

 

“No.”

 

Fawn turned her face to study the side of my head, her breakfast breath pouring into my ear.  “But why not?  I know you want to know the truth.”

 

“Sure I do.  Sometimes the truth is just there.  Like us.”  I turned my face to Fawn.

 

Fawn stared at the corner of my eye.  “You know you have a mole.”  She put a finger on my left cheekbone.  “Right there.”

 

“Yep.  It appeared a few years ago.”

 

“You ought to have it examined.  Could be cancerous.”

 

“So could all the freckles on your face and neck.”  I poked Fawn in her right cheek.

 

“Stop it.”  Fawn brushed my hand away.  “So what do you think?”

 

I picked up a book titled, African Traditions and Customs Revisited for the 21^st Century.  “Of what?  You did a lot of research.”

 

Fawn grabbed the book from my hand and put it back on the shelf.  “Of all this!”  She spread her arms out.

 

I looked at Fawn’s body. “Well, you could probably lose a few pounds.”

 

“What!  No, not me.  My house.”

 

Tammy stepped up behind Fawn.  “What are you two talking about?  I could hear you with the bathroom door closed.”

 

“I’m trying to get Bruce’s opinion about my house but he keeps changing the subject.”

 

Tammy winked at me over Fawn’s shoulder.  “Yeah, Bruce, what gives?  You don’t like it or what?”

 

“I…uh…it’s wonderful so far.”

 

Fawn gave my shoulder a shove.  “Let’s go on, then.  Obviously, you haven’t made up your mind.”

 

Fawn turned around and pushed Tammy down the short hallway that extended past the living room.

 

“Bathroom’s on the right.”  Fawn flipped a light switch.  “Bruce, you need to go, too?”

 

“No, I’m fine.”  I glanced in the bathroom and scenes of Fawn getting ready for work flipped through my mind like a badly edited movie at an all-night showing of horror flicks in a rundown drive-in theater.  In the full-length mirror mounted next to the toilet, Fawn’s outfits ranged from perfectly-ironed slacks to wrinkled linen skirts.  In the mirror above the sink, Fawn would one day look at her nose and one day at her chin.  Some days, she applied a touch of eye shadow.  Some days, she dabbed light powder on her cheeks to cover a large zit.  She never covered her face with a mask of chemicals, always leaving the playful tease of freckles on her face and neck.  Her reversed image smiled back reassuringly at her every day, never once faltering or questioning what she was going to do that day.  Fawn knew herself.  One day led to another and added to the stack of days upon which she climbed to her next goal.

 

“And this is my bedroom on the left.”

 

I walked into the bedroom behind Fawn and Tammy.  A honey maple chest with two drawers and mirror held up the lefthand wall.  A double bed stood guard in the back corner.  Several moving boxes waited patiently on the wall to our right, knowing that Fawn would fill them soon.  They would receive an assignment of like items with an accompanying checklist, clearly-written label and strips of packing tape appropriate for the total weight.  The boxes even had an idea when they would be filled, privy to the conversations in Fawn’s bedroom.

 

“I apologize for the appearance of a mess.  I have packed most of my clothes and personal items and put them in storage at the local moving company.  I plan to pack up the remaining clothes before I move in two weeks.”

 

Tammy looked shocked.  “Two weeks?”

 

“Yes.  Didn’t I tell you?”

 

“Well, I suppose you did but…gosh, time has flown by, hasn’t it?”

 

“Okay, enough of my room.  Let’s see the rest of the house.”

 

I looked at the celeste walls.  As Fawn and Tammy walked past me, I caught a vision of myself as if I was Fawn lying down on the bed looking up at the metal frame of the ceiling light fixture where a sooty-yellow light flickered.  The source of the light came from the window above the bed.  My peripheral vision faded away and I saw only the staccato pattern reflecting on the mirror-like finish of the ceiling fixture, as if someone was sending a Morse code message.  The pattern swelled, intensity growing in brightness but not in frequency.  The reflection gained a voice, humming through the wires in the wall.  The humming filled the bottom of the room like a fog creeping into a mountain valley, undulating and flowing into the room from the light switch like sludge.  I lifted off the bed and floated on the subsonic waves.  High notes tickled my sides, causing me to giggle uncontrollably.  I floated closer to the ceiling, my body waving back and forth like a big tanker in a small harbor, gently, slowly, whole minutes passing between my tossing back-and-forth.  The reflection in the ceiling light grew bigger.  My anthropomorphic tendencies tried to make out a face.  The closer I got, the more my primal mind forced the flickering light to take on a life form.  My uncertain self asked if I should flee or fight.  My analytical self asked if I saw the reflection of a single candle, multiple candles or a large fire.  I sniffed the air and smelled citronella, the lemony scent of the grass plant, Cymbopogon nardus, whose oils are used ineffectively to thwart mosquito bites.  Was I experiencing another one of Fawn’s mystical, magical moments from Africa?

 

I floated up past the ceiling light, past the ceiling, into the musty attic and out above the roof.  My body twisted around and I faced downward, observing the layout of Fawn’s yard.  A path led from the back deck to a tree in the corner of the yard.  I tried paddling my arms to swim over to the tree.

 

“Bruce, come here!”

 

The vision disappeared and gravity once again held me firmly in place, standing in the entrance to Fawn’s bedroom.  I turned around, walked out and joined the tour in the living room.

 

“About time you showed up!  I was just telling Tammy that if you know anyone interested in this sofa or the drafting table or other furniture, let me know.  I’ve got to get rid of all of it.”

 

I looked around the room and realized there was no phone or TV.  “Have you already sold the TV?”

 

“Funny.  You know I don’t watch TV.”

 

“What about a phone?”

 

“There’s one in the kitchen.  And if you know a way to get Kool-Aid out of carpet, let me know.  I babysat my niece and nephew a few days ago and there was an accident.  I should get this red stain out of my white carpet before the agent comes back.”

 

“Agent?”

 

Fawn read my meaning.  “Not a federal agent.  My REAL ESTATE agent.”

 

Tammy laughed at the weak joke.  “Oh, yeah, it does sort of look like a blood stain.”

 

We walked past the sofa and looked into the kitchen/eating area.  An old Formica table served as an apparent staging area for packing, with its four chairs taking turns holding on to plates and packing material.

 

“Again, I apologize for the mess.  I just started packing up the kitchen last night.  It was so late to start with that I didn’t get very far.”

 

I looked at Fawn’s face and sure enough, she had dark half-circles under her eyes.  How had I missed them before?

 

Tammy pointed to a box on the floor next to the refrigerator.  “What’s that?”

 

A six-inch wide wooden mask stuck up out of the box.  Fawn pulled the mask and a roll of brown paper out of the box.

 

“I was given this mask by a lady at the end of our trip to Africa.  We stopped at a small town and bought some trinkets to give to family back home.  I saw the mask and liked the unusual shape of the carved-out eyes.”

 

Fawn held the mask up to her face and showed us how the eyeholes made her appear to have an African warrior woman head on upside down.  Tammy and I laughed.

 

“It is funny, isn’t it?  Like a devil clown or something.  When I set the mask down, the lady selling it told me to keep it.  She said the mask spoke to me so I must have it.  My Swahili was not good and I thought she was trying to get me to bargain for it.  I told her no and she repeated that the mask fit no other face but mine.  If she kept it, it would bring her and me bad luck so I had no choice but to take it with me.  I offered her money but she refused.  At least she did sell me this scroll so I wouldn’t feel so guilty.  They’re so poor, you know, that every day is a struggle to make enough money to buy food.  They don’t have the luxury of retirement accounts.”

 

I smirked, wondering if Fawn was serious or facetious.  “So has the mask brought you luck?”

 

“Well, I did get my dream job to work in Europe.  Who’s to say the mask did or didn’t help?”

 

“I’m not saying.”

 

“As well you shouldn’t!”

 

Fawn slipped the mask under her arm and partially unfurled the roll of brown paper.  The paint colors on the paper were vivid, bright-white, canary-yellow, azure-blue and emerald-green splashed on the paper between varying widths of black lines.  Although the paint stood out, the image didn’t reveal itself.

 

Tammy looked at me and then at Fawn.  “I’m afraid I don’t get it.”

 

I nodded.  “But the colors are so thick, they look fresh, almost alive.”

 

Fawn laughed and rolled up the scroll.  “You’re right.  The woman said she had just painted the picture the day I bought it.  She told me it was the tale of a giraffe that become a tree…or maybe it was the other way around?  I don’t remember.  Her English was better than my Swahili and that’s not saying much.”

 

Fawn set the mask and scroll on top of the box.  “One more thing to see.”  Fawn opened the back door between the kitchen and eating area and led us out to the back deck.

 

“This is where I like to go when my house gets too overbearing.”

 

I stepped onto the ash-gray wooden deck.  A row of Cornus kousa grew over the deck.

 

“When did you get the dogwoods?”

 

“Huh?  Oh, those.  I bought them at an end-of-year sale at the nursery a few years ago.  They promised me they wouldn’t grow very big and as you can see, big is a matter of interpretation.  I can’t use half my deck because of the branches.”

 

“Why don’t you trim them?”

 

Fawn smiled.  “Because I’m about to move.  Besides, why not let the next owner make that decision?  I hate to see trees get butchered just because we didn’t make wise decisions when we first planted trees.”

 

I nodded in agreement, remembering the city arborist in my hometown getting mad whenever he saw people plant trees under power lines at the front of their house.  He told them that his successor would come out in 30 years and have to shorten the life of the trees in order to top them off and save the power lines.  The trees would form scars around the cuts, leaving the middle of the tree open to the elements, to rot and get infested in their early adult years rather than when they were tall old trees and nature would take care of its own, striking down the trees by lightning or wind.

 

By the time we finished the tour of her house, I knew Fawn as intimately as I’d ever know her.  Did she know me, too?

 

While we stood on the back deck, left to our own thoughts, admiring the uncut grass, breathing in the moist, mossy air of the Pacific Northwest, Tammy’s cell phone rang.  She excused herself and stepped around the corner to take the call.

 

Fawn motioned me to quickly follow her inside her house to the kitchen.  She completely unrolled the African painting she had shown us only the top few inches before.  At the bottom of the painting, the likeness of Fawn and me stood in front of a doorway at the base of a large tree.

 

Fawn cupped her hand against my ear and whispered.  “Tonight.”

 

 

10

 

Tammy informed us that she had an important meeting she was missing.  We quickly returned to the Cumulo-Seven office, riding in silence.

 

Fawn and I sat down in her office.  We participated in a conference call with Geauxgetem the rest of the morning.

 

At lunchtime, we stayed in the office building and grabbed coffee in the breakroom.  Tammy ran into us and told us she had forgotten she had promised to eat dinner with her husband and in-laws, meaning that Fawn and I were on our own that evening.

 

Fawn had to finish up moving plans that afternoon, leaving me to conduct the conference calls with Pairuclaws and Brooch.

 

After work, I drove to the hotel, packed my suitcase, walked out of the hotel and headed to Fawn’s house.

 

She didn’t answer the front door so I walked around back.

 

A dim light shone from the corner of the backyard.

 

I walked through the thick, uncut grass and discovered the light was coming from a doorway at the base of a large spruce.  From a distance, the doorway looked like a botched job from someone cutting a huge twin tree in two.

 

I lifted the rusty metal clasp and pulled the heavy, moss-covered wooden door open.

 

Fawn leaned against the inside of the tree.

 

She held a book in her hand.

The Test Lab

1

 

My arms were tired and of no use.  How useless were they?  Imagine I’m a robot.  The scientists have removed the pins tying the artificial ligaments and tendons to my skeletal structure so there’s no way I can lift my arms; I can’t reach out to type on a keyboard – I can only dictate this story to my portable MP3 player using voice commands.  That’s how tired I felt.  Or at least how useless I looked, draped over my desk like a ragdoll while babbling to myself like an idiot.  In other words, a typical manager.

 

As head of the new Huntsville System Test Lab, my duties were many, including physical construction of lab benches.  I had hoped to have help putting the benches together.  However, at that point in time, I had only one employee, Hugh Rowan.

 

Hugh was an excellent worker while he worked for me at our previous employer, Elextronzia.  Despite first impressions, I had hired Hugh as a temporary subcontractor, working for me as a software test technician.  During the interview, I saw a grossly overweight man wearing a wrinkled dress shirt, his scruffy beard seeming to hide food crumbs from breakfast.  He rarely looked me in the eye.  Overall, his interview skills weren’t the best.  However, I was able to gather from our conversation that he truly had the technical skills outlined in his resume.  The other folks I asked to interview him agreed that Hugh could be what we were looking forward.  He proved us right.  After several months of subcontract work, I asked him if he was interested in become a fulltime employee.  He was thrilled.

 

For the next two years, Hugh never let me down.  Not only did he act as my left-hand man (I already had a right-hand man), covering any technical issues that came up, he was able to squeeze in night classes for a computer science degree while working overtime hours for me.  I was in the process of getting his title changed from software test technician to test engineer when we both found ourselves seeking new employment because Elextronzia had decided to shut down the Elextronzia-Huntsville Design Center.

 

Before the design center was closed, an Elextronzia colleague, Jerome Palermo, had introduced me to the new Huntsville engineering manager at Cumulo-Seven.  Jerome had been talking with Patrick Keating about their good ol’ days at POY/Holywells when Patrick mentioned that he was looking to start up an engineering test lab.  Jerome told me about the lab and asked if I was interested.  Facing certain unemployment, I told Jerome to get me an interview with Patrick.

 

Patrick and I met for lunch at Green Hills Grille, a local business eatery with a Southwestern décor.  I ordered a salmon salad, making sure my lunch appeared expensive, was light on the stomach and wouldn’t drip or make a mess on my clothes.

 

I had never participated in a lunchtime interview as the interviewee so I made sure that I gave all the positive cues and nuances that I expected from the interviewees that had sat across the table from me through the years and had subsequently been hired.

 

I could see Patrick was a sharp individual.  He not only touched on technical issues to make sure I was familiar with the high points on my résumé, he also made sure to avoid the appearance of testing me.  In other words, Patrick was a player.  Subtlety was not a game for him.  It was his M.O.  I appreciated that quality in him and still do.  Others accused him of having no original ideas of his own – stealing ideas from others when he found it convenient and not giving anyone else any credit when Patrick was rewarded for the ideas.  I knew better.  Patrick didn’t waste a lot of public face time with “thank you”s for every idea he presented to upper management, engineering committees or other group of peers.  Instead, Patrick protected those whose ideas were found useful.  Getting an attaboy may give most people the warm fuzzy they’re looking for in their daily work lives but it’s the protection of key management personnel that will help you keep your job or get a new one when needed.  Patrick would never come right out and tell people he was protecting them any more than he was going to tell me that he was verifying both my work skills and people skills during our interview.

 

A few months later, I landed the job at Cumulo-Seven with a promise that Cumulo-Seven’s HR department would at least look into hiring some of my test lab employees at Elextronzia.

 

I was excited about my new job, getting a window office on the top story of the corporate headquarters building.  The only downside was that my first paycheck didn’t get deposited in my bank account.  The accounting department blamed it on the HR department which stated it was the finance department’s responsibility to get me paid.  I was asked to wait until my second pay period when my paycheck would be doubled to compensate for the shortage.

 

In the meantime, I worked on building up my staff.

 

My right-hand man at Elextronzia, Dante Long, decided to take a job at Mahogany Technologies, a company founded by one of Huntsville’s favorite sons, Warren Brown.  Brown had quarterbacked some great teams at Alabama A&M University and enjoyed a good career in professional football so I couldn’t blame Dante for going to Mahogany for a life of fame and fortune.  He had been my first employee at Elextronzia and weathered chunks of changes under my command, having to suffer a lot of frustration while I came up to speed as a full-fledged manager of people.  In the end, despite my becoming a better people manager, I couldn’t protect our jobs at Elextronzia.  At least I made sure that Dante, Hugh and anyone else that was interested was able to advance their education while they worked for me at Elextronzia.

 

Elextronzia gave me the freedom to manage my way.  Therefore, I gave my temporary contract employees a little leeway with their work schedule if they were interested in taking college courses.  Some of them took the leeway offer as an excuse to show up late at work – in return, I gave them the opportunity to pursue this line of reasoning with other companies.  Out the door they went!

 

Not all of the temp employees were problems.  My favorite temp employee at Elextronzia was Wheaton Brand.  He had technical skills out the wazoo and no major quirks.  Well, he was 26 years old, had long hair and black-rimmed glasses, lived at home with his parents, maintained a couple of racks of computers and networking gear in his basement and competed in wireless networking games in the desert.  But he made up for those g33k trademarks by driving a cool old Caprice with a Corvette LT1 engine.

 

Wheaton and Hugh were the perfect tech members of a tech team.  Unfortunately, Wheaton’s previous employer before Elextronzia had been a man who was in the midst of a legal mess with Cumulo-Seven.  For the most part, Wheaton’s interview with Patrick Keating had gone well but Wheaton mentioned he was still friends with his former employer.  RED FLAG alert – Wheaton was a “no hire” – too much of a chance that Wheaton would be an industrial spy.

2

 

I sat in my windowed office and stared at the blueprints for the office.  Something seemed odd.  I had finished building half of the lab benches and then carefully measured the remaining space in the test lab.  The measurements weren’t adding up.

 

I picked up the phone and dialed my boss.  “Patrick, hey, it’s Bruce.”

 

“Yes, Bruce, what can I do for you?  I hope it’s a quick one ‘cause I have a meeting in five minutes.”

 

“Yeah, this is easy.  Are you sure the blueprints you gave me are to scale.”

 

“You’ve got the blueprints?”

 

“Yeah, I met our physical plant manager, Preston Carmichael, earlier today.  He stopped by to admire the progress on the test lab.  When he saw I was building the lab benches, he offered the assistance of Gerard Lay.  I told him that I wasn’t sure I needed any help from Gerard.  He said he understood why I wouldn’t want Gerard to get involved so he gave me a copy of the blueprints and told me I’d figured out how the benches were supposed to go.”

 

“Is there some reason you’re not using Gerard’s help?”

 

“Well, I don’t have a lot to do right now since HR won’t open up another job position for a few weeks so I thought I’d play handyman.  Kinda like a ship’s captain wants to get his hands dirty once in a while to prove to himself he still knows the ship’s layout.”

 

“Hmm…you’ve got a point there.  Even so, I’d use Gerard myself so that if you needed him in the future, he’d know how the benches were built.”

 

“Gerard did stop by afterward and loaned me his power tools.”

 

“He did?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Good.  Look, I’ve got meetings lined up all the rest of today and will be out of town the rest of this week.  Why don’t you build what you think is covered by the blueprints and I’ll get you some help by next week?  After all, there’s no reason to be in a rush to finish the benches.”

 

“Guess you’re right.  There are still a few construction subcontractors finishing up the flooring and air conditioning systems…”

 

“Uh-huh.  Bruce, I’ve really got to go.  If you need anything, send me an email.  I’ll try to respond when I can but I’ve got to fly to Switzerland to solve a problem for Nestle.”  Patrick hung up the phone.

 

I looked down at the blueprints again.  I placed my hand-drawn dimensions on the blueprints and held them up to the window behind me.  Comparing the two, it appeared that the blueprints showed an extra couple of feet of width but only for the back half of the test lab.  On my PC, I pulled up the photographs I had taken of the construction of the lab.  There was nothing obvious in the first few stages of construction.  But as the back half of the lab was being built, the spray-painted footprints for the office walls had been changed at some point.  Maybe the offices were bigger than what was shown on the blueprints.

 

I called Hugh.

 

“Yes, Bruce, what is it?”

 

“How are you coming along on the boilerplates for our test lab reports?”

 

“Pretty good.  I’ve inserted mail merge codes that I can tie to our ASCII reports that’ll be generated and stored on the test lab server.  The server should get here tomorrow and then I’ll be able to test the reports using the fake data I created yesterday.”

 

“That’s fantastic!  You’re going to put yourself out of a job if you’re not careful.”

 

“Not funny.”

 

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.  Hey, do you have a yardstick or ruler?”

 

“There’s a measuring tape in the network cable construction kit.”

 

“It’s not any hurry or anything but when you get a chance, could you measure the dimensions of your office?”

 

“Sure.  Whatcha lookin’ for?”

 

“Oh, I’m just making sure that I’ve measured the spacing between lab benches correctly and the blueprints don’t seem to match.”

 

Hugh laughed. “Obviously, you’ve not been in the construction business very much.  My dad builds houses and I don’t think I ever found a blueprint that matched the final dimensions of the house.”

 

“In that case, never mind.”

 

“No, I’ll get it for you.”

 

 

I checked email and found that HR had figured out what happened to my first few paychecks – they had been deposited in the wrong bank account.  Instead of being issued a new employee number, I had been assigned an employee ID of a former employee.  Our payroll system triggered paycheck deposits according to employee IDs, not social security numbers.  My checks were going to some guy living in Daytona Beach, Florida.  While he was basking in a tropical sun at my expense, my wife and I were adjusting our spending habits to avoid unnecessary credit card charges until our bank account was full again.

 

3

 

After Patrick returned from Switzerland, he sat down with me to review what I’d been spending my time doing in the first three months on the job.  He told me it wasn’t a 90-day review in the formal sense of whether he should keep me – in fact, he was more than pleased with my performance – he was just seeing if I was up to taking on more work.  I didn’t tell him I was bored to tears with practically nothing to do.  Instead, I outlined the variations I had added to the lab operation plan I had given to Patrick my second day on the job.

 

Because the engineering group was divided into geographic regions for customer access and disaster recovery reasons, all engineering projects were spread out according to the skill matrix in each region.  The Redmond, Washington, Engineering Design Center focused mainly on hardware development and testing.  The Sunrise, Florida, Engineering Design Center focused on software development and testing.  The Redmond test lab manager and Sunrise test lab managers had been courting me to try to convince me that their labs needed the most support.

 

Patrick reviewed my plan and decided that because the Huntsville developers were a mix of hardware, firmware and software experts, the Huntsville test lab should be able to accommodate all aspects of the development process.  Because Patrick was working from an older paper copy of the test plan, I showed him the latest copy on my laptop, where I had split our lab into fourths.  One fourth would be dedicated to supporting overflow work from Sunrise, one fourth from Redmond, and one fourth dedicated to Huntsville test projects.

 

“Why fourths?”

 

“I don’t know.  It just worked out that way.”

 

“Interesting.  What’s the other fourth for?”

 

“Nothing at this time.  I figured there would always be a need for extra test space so I reserved that area for ‘special projects.’”

 

“Bruce, that’s perfect.  I actually need a bench reserved for demonstrating new technology to our investors and other special guests.”

 

“Okay, that leaves us two more benches for expansion.”

 

“Make that one.”

 

“You need two benches for demonstrations?”

 

“No, there’s a group I haven’t told you about called Qwerty-Queue.  They have been bugging me for a dedicated test lab and I keep putting them off because I think they have plenty of space in their design lab for testing.”

 

“No problem.”

 

“Thanks.  When you meet them, you’ll find they are very persistent.  If they ask for more than one bench, let me know.”

 

“Will do.”

 

“Say, football season’s starting up this weekend.  Are you planning to attend any Bama games this year?”

 

“Uhh…actually, I’m a UT season football ticket holder.”

 

“Tennessee.  Well, that’s okay.  You think you’ll be needing any time off?”

 

“Not really.  We only attend home games and can pretty much get to Knoxville and back in one weekend.”

 

“Tell you what.  You’ve made such good progress on the test lab that I’m going to give you a couple of days off anyway.  Why don’t you take Thursday and Friday off and make this an extra long Labor Day weekend.”

 

“Uh, okay.  I don’t know if my wife can get off.”

 

“Well, do some work around the house or something.  You deserve a break.”

 

“Okay, thanks.”

 

“No problem.  Oh, one other thing.  One of my employees…well, do you know Constance O’Connell?”

 

“I think I know her.  Is she the Constance who’s always arranging the engineering birthday parties?”

 

“Yes.  Anyway, she’s taken a job with the Sunrise team.  She was performing a job for me called L3 Coordinator.  Based on your work schedule, I think you can handle both test lab manager and L3 coordinator.  What do you say?”

 

“Can I find out more about it and get back to you?”

 

“Absolutely.”  Patrick smiled and leaned back in his chair.  “Just give Constance a call.  I think she has an L3 meeting tomorrow so try to get a hold of her today.  I’d like her to introduce you tomorrow in case you’re interested in the job and decide to take it.”

 

4

 

In my spare time, when I’m not working or watching college football or NASCAR races on TV, I like to garden.  Both my parents grew up on farms so I guess I get my gardening skills from my grandparents.  My mother’s father kept a five-acre farm from which he was able to feed his three children.  He grew corn, green beans, strawberries, grapes, cabbages and potatoes.  He also grew flowers to attract bees, ward off insects and give something for his wife to decorate the table with.  My father lived with his grandparents and helped with his grandparents’ apple farm.  His mother ended up being an award-winning member of the Federated Garden Clubs, creating Japanese-style floral arrangements, built from driftwood and other material near her southern Florida home.

 

My wife and I live on a one-acre wooded lot.  Our subdivision was carved out of the edge between two large farms in eastern Madison County, Alabama.  Counting the rings of the tree stumps around our house when we first moved here and looking at the girth of the variety of trees growing around our house, it appears that these woods are no older than 60 or 70 years, meaning there was a forest fire or clear cut in the first part of the 20^th Century.

 

We moved out to a less densely populated area east of Huntsville so we commute back and forth to our high-tech jobs and not have to drive into the sun going both ways.  Moving west would have meant driving into the sun morning and afternoon and south was already too crowded.  Sure, we could have moved north but our real estate agent didn’t find any houses that matched the square footage and price range we were looking for.  Because of our location, our neighbors are interesting.  Many of them are high-tech workers like my wife and me, cooperating with other highly sociable, team-oriented coworkers to create rockets, missiles, computers and such.  At the same time, they like their privacy.  The woods, even in one-acre tracts, give one a sense of seclusion.

 

As soon as we settled in to our home, I started molding the master design for our yard.  The front yard belonged to my wife and thus I was a yard boy, serving her wishes for the curb appeal of our place.  The middle of the front yard was reserved for a patch of grass that covered the septic tank and field lines, and served as a formal lawn.  Surrounding the lawns were themed islands – one island for irises, one island for azaleas, one island for native plants and one island for hostas.

 

The backyard was mine.  Because we lived on the slope of a hill, I had grand plans for a cascading waterfall starting at the back of our property, trickling through a mountain stream and culminating in a garden pool at the edge of the house.  Finances and a lack of motivation got in the way of those plans.  I built the garden pool but instead of other water features, I set up a series of rock terraces and stone paths to show off the native plants that existed in our yard as well as others I transplanted from the area.

 

In an effort to build a garden to make my family proud, I attended gardening workshops, including ones sponsored by the Huntsville-Madison County Botanical Garden and others in the area.  My all-time favorite workshop lecturer continues to be Felder Rushing.  His attitude has always been to find a gardening style you like and if it pisses off the neighbors, all the better – you now know you’re unique.  He autographed a copy of his book, “Gardening Southern Style,” for me with the statement, “Perennials are the spice of the garden – try a new one and pass a piece along.”

 

Therefore, my rock terraces are not typical straight-edged walls with neatly spaced perennials and annuals flourishing in a symphony of year-round color.  Instead, metal sculptures stick up between the weeds.  You might find a broken off piece of plastic greetings that came with a basket of anniversary flowers that no longer proclaims, “I Love You,” but proudly says, “ve ou,” instead.  A Celtic cross and Buddha head vie for your spiritual attention.

 

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with the old worn-out tires from my Alfa Romeo Spider so I shoved them in our garage for while.  Then, after seeing a lecture by Felder Rushing, I sliced up the tires and turned them not into Felder’s favorite flower pot, but into the appearance of a Loch Ness monster, half tires giving the shape of a serpent’s body slithering out of the graveyard vine (periwinkle or Vinca major, a perennial that my mother in-law passed to me) that has overgrown many of the rock terraces.

 

I was digging in the garden during my long Labor Day weekend, attempting to cut a small ditch up into the woods for a buried PVC water line when I hit a big rock.  The rock was only a few inches below the level of the soil so I knew I needed to chop up the rock, cut a V in it or remove it in order to place the PVC pipe at least six inches deep in the ground, below the freeze line.  I hadn’t been exercising much lately so I decided to put my arm muscles to work and dig out the rock.

 

Two hours later, I found myself staring at a dome-shaped object.  At least three feet in diameter, the stone appeared too symmetrical and smooth to have been shaped by water.  But why would a man-made stone be buried in my backyard unless it was part of some other ancient culture?  I had not studied the lives of the native Americans who used to live in this valley but I had learned they once owned the land from just south of here all the way to the Tennessee River, forcing early settlers to have to carry a passport to get from their farms to the river.  But that was little less than 200 years ago.  This stone appeared much older.

 

That night, I had a stranger-than-normal dream.  I was sitting in front of the computer in our front bedroom that I preferred to call my study, typing up some of my old journal entries when I came upon a brittle, yellowed newspaper clipping.

 

The photo at the top of the clipping showed young people wandering through an open field.  The caption read, “Wandervogel, 1926”.   The folks walked out of the photo and hugged me.  I looked over their shoulders to see we were standing in an open grassy area.

 

“We call you ‘Friend,’” the tallest blond youth exclaimed in a German accent.  Everyone nodded.  “Friend, what are you doing?  Will you join us in our quest?”

 

“Umm…I don’t know.  Where are you going?”

 

“We are going nowhere and we are going everywhere.  We are traveling through time to find wandering youth like us.  You look wise, Friend.  Perhaps you know some wandering youth who are located here.”

 

“They are usually found at large rock concerts or sports gatherings like ESPN X-Games.”

 

“I do not know ‘rock concerts’ but we are looking for youth who wander forest and fields like ourselves, not the sports gatherers.”

 

“Then, young fellow, I can only point you to others.  The Alabama outdoor shop is located just over the mountain.  They would be able to point you to the outdoors types you’re looking for.”

 

“Thank you, Friend.  We do not expect commercial establishments to have what we are looking for but perhaps someone in the shop may be able to help us.  Wiedersehen, Friend!”  The young man turned and led the way up the mountain.

 

I turned around and found myself standing in the middle of the study holding the news article.  This startling sensation woke me up.

 

I slipped out of bed and went to the living room to turn on the main house computer.

 

I searched the Internet for “Wandervogel” and discovered the subculture world of hippiedom…

 

5

 

Ask most anyone you know to describe the history of the hippie movement and you’ll get a description of the hippies coming out of the Beatniks from the 1950s.  But I knew, without even researching it, that there is nothing in human history that hasn’t already been tried in one form or another, often in the form of opposites.

 

For every red “Commie” there is a red-blooded “American”.  For every woman, there is a man (statistically speaking, of course).  For every person who’s singing the praises of corporate life on national television, there’s another person who’s quietly teaching the ways of a simple life in the woods.

 

I first encountered the counterculture movement one night when my parents hired a brand-new babysitter to watch my sister and me so they could go square dancing at the local Eagles Club with my father’s management coworkers.  The babysitter took my sister and me to a summer solstice party outside of our hometown of Boone, North Carolina.  There, I met some of my babysitter’s teenage friends but I also saw adult friends of my parents.  They were dancing around a bonfire.  The women’s normally rolled-up hair was loose and woven with ribbons. The men’s conservatively-trimmed beards were adorned with beads and feathers.  Instead of suits and ties, I saw tie-dyed shirts.  Instead of pantsuits, I saw flowing robes.  I wasn’t sure what was going on so I asked the only man I knew by man, Mr. Ehrlichmann, if he could tell me what he was doing.

 

Mr. Ehrlichmann explained that he came from wonderful parents who followed the lebensreform or life reform movement.  His parents had rejected the harsh industrialization of the turn of the century.  He embraced industrialization because of all the good growth that had occurred that gave Germany such strength during the Second World War.  He had not supported the Nazi movement and had survived much harassment, his one blessing being that he was a brilliant engineer.  He moved to the United States in 1941 on the pretense he was going to establish a branch office in New York for the design firm he was working for at the time.  Instead, he came over and found much negativity toward Germans.  He found out about a colony of lebensreform followers hiding in the mountains of North Carolina.

 

Mr. Ehrlichmann introduced me to his teenage daughter, Fausta, so he could go back to the bonfire.  My sister and I sat with Fausta in the back of Mr. Ehrlichmann’s truck.  Fausta explained that her father enjoyed his engineering work at the secret missile factory with my father because he knew that we had to protect ourselves against real enemies of freedom.  At the same time, he knew he didn’t have to spend his after-work hours with his coworkers.  Instead, he wanted to enjoy his freedom, celebrating the life his parents had given him, showing them respect by teaching their rituals to his family and friends.  Fausta rolled her eyes when she repeated the words of her father.  She was not interested in getting the smell of burning wood in her hair and clothes, or scratching at bug bites in the woods because her father refused to let her use insect repellant.

 

We stayed with Fausta until our babysitter found us and took us back home.  We were asleep by the time my parents returned so I don’t know what our babysitter said when my parents asked why we smelled like smoke.  I figured it wasn’t a good answer because we never had her for a babysitter again.

 

The hippie movement had come and gone by the time I grew up so I missed the mass wave of young people who turned on to drugs and turned off to the Establishment.  It wasn’t until my college years that I got to enjoy the hippie movement, after it returned to its quiet, backwoods, grassroots self, hidden from view during the greedy excesses of the 1980s.  But that, as they say, is another story.

6

 

I woke up.  Perhaps one of these subculture groups landed in Big Cove, Alabama, and settled down here for a while.  Would they have had the wherewithal to build the dome-shaped rock?

 

The next morning, I used ropes and pulleys to turn the rock over, just to make sure the rock was in fact smoothed by water and/or wind and not a figment of my imagination.

 

Alas, my imagination won.  Or rather, I was not imagining anything.  Underneath the rock was a large hole about two feet in diameter, which went down for about a foot and then sloped back toward the hill.  I had discovered a secret hideaway of some sort.  I knew that back during the Civil War, on or about 27^th June 1864, during a skirmish in the Big Cove valley, while US forces were chasing some Confederates into the hills near Blevingtons Gap, a stash of weapons had been hidden from the Yankees so the locals could claim they had surrendered all their arms to the Federal Army.  They gave their rusty old rifles to the Federal troops and kept their good guns for themselves.  Perhaps this was the hiding place.

 

I went back to the house and grabbed a florescent bulb camp lantern.  I told my wife I had seen a small cave up in the woods and was checking it out.  She knew I had been looking for the source of bats that flew around our house, hoping to find a cave and not just a hole in a tree somewhere.  She wished me well and told me to be careful.

 

I stepped down into the hole and shone the light into the cave.  Centipedes and cave crickets were all over the place as well as a few very spindly spiders.  But no spider webs.  Very strange.  I debated whether to crawl on my butt and look down between my legs as I slid into the hole, with cave crickets only a few inches from my face or crawl on my stomach and see the centipedes up close and personal.  I went back to the house and grabbed a hat – I was going to slide on my butt and knock the cave crickets off the ceiling with the toes of my boots as I scooted along.  It was what I should have done the summer after 5^th grade when a neighborhood kid, Mike, and I explored a cave in the backside of a hill behind my house.  The opening was small but the two of us convinced each other to slide in, holding a candle up to scare the crickets and spiders away from us.  The spiders were easy to burn if they wouldn’t crawl away.  The crickets just bounced all over the place until they disappeared or made nice smudge marks on our pants.  We explored the first 20 or 30 feet of the five-foot high cave but never got up the nerve to scoot through the 8-inch high hole at the back of the cave because of the dozens of crickets that lined the hole.  I regretted it even more a few years later, after I’d grown too big to climb in the cave.  I was talking to Bobby, one of the community swimming pool lifeguards, whose older sister used to babysit us and sing songs from the latest albums she was listening to.  “I feel the earth move under my feet.  I feel the sky tumbling down, tumbling down, tumbling d-o-o-w-w-n.”  She was definitely a hippie.  Anyway, Bobby said that a large room, at least 15 feet high and 50 feet across, was on the other side of that hole.  Sadly, the cave was long ago crushed and filled in to make way for an expansion of our subdivision.  The road above the cave is old, formerly known as Dry Gap Pike, then Sunset Trail and finally changed to Ridgecrest Drive in my father’s youth.  Sometimes I wonder if the people living at 152 Ridgecrest Drive know they’re sitting on top of the remnants of a cave.  Will they one day go to open their front door and find it’s stuck because the hill shifted underneath them after an underground mudslide filled in the rest of the cave during a heavy rainstorm?

 

I’m not afraid of confined spaces.  At least, that’s what I kept telling myself as I got deeper and deeper into the cave.  It wasn’t so much the confined space that bothered me. It was the smell of crushed insects that wafted across my nose combined with the rotten smell of some sort of fungus I encountered after there were no more insects about 10 or 15 feet into the cave.  My pants were soaked through and the elbows of my work shirt were dripping wet.  It seemed that the sloping effect of the cave was exaggerated at the entrance.  Once inside, I realized the cave floor had almost a zero slope.  Therefore, a trail of very slow moving water seemed to trickle along the bottom of the cave.

 

After 50 feet of sliding into the cave, I had had enough.  There were no distinguishing features, nothing that defined the cave as either man-made or natural.  My wife did not know where I was exactly and I hadn’t bothered to look at the weather report so a popup rain shower could be hanging overhead, ready to wash me out to who-knows-where.

 

And that was the big question.  Where?  This cave must end up somewhere.  If the cave had been here all along, why hadn’t I noticed water flowing into or out of it during large rain events?  Surely the rock capping the hole wasn’t water tight?  Of course it wasn’t or how else were the insects getting in and out?

 

My neck was tired from holding my head up while I braced the lantern between my chin and my chest.  I rolled over on my side.  In my haste to get as far down the cave as I could before I chickened out, I had stopped paying attention to the cave walls.  Turned to my side, I examined the side of the cave.  There definitely appeared to be a seam.  I rolled over and looked at the other side.  Also a seam.  Hmm…well, there was no way that nature would have carved this cave and left a perfectly straight seam running along.  I was beginning to freak out.

 

I turned over on my hands and knees and scurried out of the cave like a large, frightened rat.  In my rush, I left the lantern behind but I didn’t know about that until much later.

 

7

 

At work on Tuesday, I checked email.  The finance department had a paycheck for me.  I walked down to see the head of Finance, Daisy Speers.  Daisy handed me a check and asked me to look it over.

 

The amount of the check looked wrong.  I was not getting enough money.

 

“Daisy, have withholding taxes gone up?”

 

“Why?”

 

I pointed to the check total.  “I thought I’d be making more than this on a biweekly basis.”

 

Daisy looked at the check and compared the total to the amount on the paycheck stub.  “Well, Bruce, my guess is that we’ve doubled the amount of money we’re supposed to take out for federal and state taxes.  If you’ll give me this check…”

 

I held on to the end of the check and wouldn’t let go.

 

“Bruce, if you’ll just let me have the check…”

 

I pulled on the check to try to get it out of Daisy’s hand.

 

“Bruce, we can issue you a new check by tomorrow.”

 

I got the check out of Daisy’s hand and almost fell to the floor.

“No, Daisy.  Why don’t you issue a check for the difference, instead?  I’ll get this cashed today so I can pay my car insurance.”

 

Daisy laughed.  “That bad, huh?”

 

I tried a weak smile.  “Three months without a check is catching up with me.”

 

Daisy mumbled.  “A problem with MORTIE?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

Not sure what Daisy said or meant, I turned and walked out.

 

 

I stopped by Hugh’s office to see how he was coming along on his assignments.

 

He gave me a puzzled look.

 

“I thought you knew.”

 

“Knew what?”

 

“While you were gone, I was assigned to help the Qwerty-Queue group set up their equipment.”

 

“You were?”

 

“Yeah, Patrick said he’d run it by you before you left.”

 

“Oh yeah,” I replied, knowing that Patrick expected Hugh to tell me what he just said and if I confronted Patrick, he could always claim he forgot to tell me before I left.  I played along.  “So did you guys finish up?”

 

Hugh looked nervous but he could look nervous about a lot of things, especially when I was interrupting something he was doing on his computer that he wasn’t supposed to, like playing Internet games or being engaged in an IM conversation.  Hugh gave me a quick look before he turned back to his computer.  “Well…”

 

I stood there with my hands crossed and didn’t blink an eye.

 

“Well, I guess you better ask them.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The Qwerty-Queue guys.”

 

“Okay.  Who are they?”

 

“The ones I talked with were Kevin Gambizi and Bud Jones.”

 

“Bud Jones?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Short, stocky, red-haired and red-faced, a sly remark or joke every few minutes?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding.  I didn’t even know he worked here.”

 

Hugh looked me like I’d lost my mind.

 

“Oh, sorry.  I used to work with Bud at A.L. Cohol Environmental Investments.  He was one of our technicians working on a skunk works project.”

 

“That sounds like the same one, then.”

 

“I’ll check in on him.  In the meantime, email your progress before you leave today.  I’ve got to report to Patrick and his boss tomorrow and want to make sure we are on schedule.”

 

“Okay.”

 

 

Back in my office, I looked up Bud’s phone number in our online global employee directory.

 

“Helloooo!”

 

“Bud.”

 

“Yes?” a Southern-fried voice replied.

 

“It’s me, Bruce Colline.”

“Well hello, Bruce Colline,” Bud finished with a snort of a laugh.  “Where have you been?  I was looking for you last week.”

 

“I took a couple of days off.”

 

“You just started working here a few months ago…”

 

“And what are you getting at?”

 

“Well, I’ve been here two years and haven’t had a day off yet.”

 

I laughed, never sure if Bud was pulling my leg.  “Well, we’ve got to keep you out of trouble.”

 

“I’m sure you do.  Hey, I met Hugh.  Great guy.  Where did you get him?”

 

“Under a cabbage leaf.  No seriously, he worked for me at Elextronzia.”

 

“Elextronzia?  I didn’t know you worked with Matthew and those guys.  Isn’t it funny how you never worked for POY or Holywells but somehow you seem to know or work with someone who did?”

 

“Yeah, I know what you mean.  Maybe POY was really a cloning factory and all you guys are engineers and technicians made from the same DNA.”

 

Bud gave a belly laugh that nearly deafened me.  “If you think that Mr. ‘Church of Christ’ Matthew and me are from the same DNA, then you’re out of your mind.  Then again…”

 

We both laughed.

 

“So, Bud, Hugh tells me that you wasted his time doing your work for you.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I did.  And he was great about it, too – not complaining once while I made him work 20-hour days trying to keep up with all the important work I do.”

 

“I bet.  Look, I just want to make sure you don’t need to borrow him again.  We’re on a tight schedule, what with there only being him and me in the test lab and I need to keep him focused on his assignments.”

 

“You mean, you’re the boss and you’ve only got one person to do the work, don’t you?”  Bud snickered.

 

“Sure, Bud.  That’s why I’m covered with sweat at the end of the day, worrying that he’s not doing my work.”

 

“I thought so.”

 

“Anyway, are you guys done?”

 

“From what I hear, Patrick Keating has got Hugh on a permanent, temporary loan to us.”

 

“That’s what I hear, too.”

 

“So if I was you, I’d take it up with your boss.”

 

“I plan to do that.  But are you guys done for now?”

 

“At least for today.  Or at least I am.  Kevin may have more work for Hugh.”

 

“Thanks. I’ll call Kevin.”

 

“But you really need to talk with Patrick.  I think he’s signed you up for more than you bargained for.”

 

“Well, I don’t think that Huntsville lab manager and L3 coordinator is all that much.”

 

“No, that’s not what I mean.  Have you heard about MORTIE?”  Bud stopped talking and I could hear voices in the background over the phone.  “Look, I’ve got to go.  Let’s get the old A.L. Cohol gang together and go out to eat some day.”

 

“Sounds good.  Bye.”

 

“Seeya.”

 

 

I called Kevin.  “It’s your dime,” shot back a voice in a New England accent of some sort.  I couldn’t tell if he was from Boston or Maine but it was a nasally accent all the same.

 

“Kevin?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Hey, this is Bruce Colline.  How are you doing?”

 

“Fine.  Howyadoin’?” Kevin added, mimicking the beer commercials.

 

“Fine.  I just spoke with Bud Jones and he suggested I call you.”

 

“He did?” Kevin’s voice was wavering a little.  “How ‘bout I come by the lab and talk?”

 

“If you want to, that’s fine.  I’ve got a meeting at 10 I’ve got to attend, though.”

 

“No prob.  I’ll be right over.  Gimme two minutes.”

 

I hung up the phone, walked down the short hallway, nodding at Hugh as I passed his office, and opened the lab door.  I had asked Hugh to use the doorjamb to keep the lab door propped open during working hours but he often forgot and left the door closed.

 

Standing inside the doorway at the other end of the lab was Kevin.  In size, he was about the spitting image of Hugh, rotund in a jolly sort of way.  Whereas Hugh’s hair was more gray than black, Kevin’s hair was jet black.  He was either young or dying his hair.  From across the lab, it was hard to tell.

 

Kevin motioned me to meet him at the other end of the lab.  As I walked across the rough concrete where the floor tiles had been laid and removed twice because of poor alignment, I watched Kevin walk behind the two rows of lab benches.  I changed directions and followed him.  We met at the bench designated for Qwerty-Queue.

 

I reached out and shook Kevin’s hand.  “Kevin, I’m Bruce.  Glad to meet you.”

 

“Likewise.”  Kevin looked around the bench and spread his arms wide.  “All this room!  Can you believe we covered up this whole bench in two days?”

 

I raised an eyebrow.  “Something tells me you’re wanting more space.”

 

“Well-l-l-l…”  Kevin slapped me on the back.  “I bet you have a couple of extra feet to spare.”  He gave me a real big wink.

 

“There is one more bench.”

 

Kevin slapped me on the back again.  “No, I mean don’t you have some extra room you’re not accounting for, some space that no one else is using?”

 

I thought about the blueprints.  Did Hugh or Patrick mention something to Kevin and Kevin was making fun of me?

 

“Yeah, maybe I do.  But who says you get to use it?”

 

Kevin leaned back with a startled look.  “Hmmph.  Says you.”  He leaned in close.  “You guys got the cameras up yet?”

 

I turned him around to face the wall and pointed to the large, red fire warning alarm/light.  “Yeah, and it’s pointed at you right now.”

 

“Fuck!” Kevin hissed.  “Well, look at the time.  I guess you got your meeting to go to.  Hey, me and Bud will be in and out of here for the next few days…”

 

“You think you’ll need the extra bench?”

 

“Bench?  What?  Oh yeah, count us in.  You’re right.  It’s the extra bench that we’ll be needing.”  Kevin patted me on the back and walked out.

 

I turned around and jumped.  Hugh was standing behind me, as if he’d appeared out of thin air.  “Whoa!  Hugh, when did you get here?”

 

“Oh, I heard you talking to Kevin and wanted to ask him a question.  Did he say anything to you about needing extra space?”

 

“Yeah.  I’ve offered him the bench.”

 

Hugh pursed his lips and stroked his beard, a habit I was used to seeing when Hugh was sorting something out in his mind.  “Did he ask for the bench?”

 

“He was rather odd about it but I think he was asking for the bench in a roundabout sort of way.”

 

“I see.  Well, if we…I mean, if he needs the bench, then can I help him set it up?”

 

“Sure.  Be sure you’re on schedule.”

 

“Oh, I’m all caught up.  I worked all weekend.”

 

“You what?”

 

“Yeah, I figured there would be a lot to do and…”

 

“Hugh, wait.  There will be plenty of opportunities for us to work late.  I don’t want to start the overtime habit now or upper management will be expecting me to work you guys overtime all the time.”

 

“You’re my manager.”

 

“So?”

 

“So do you expect me to work overtime all the time?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then I wouldn’t worry about it.  By the way, I missed Dragon Con this year.  It’s the first time I ever missed it, you know.”

 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m surprised you worked all weekend.”

 

“Well, I can honestly say that my work was a lot more interesting than Dragon Con.”

 

It was my turn to look surprised.  “Honestly, Hugh, I don’t see how setting up PCs and networking equipment for the Qwerty-Queue guys could compete with all the stuff you’ve shown me in pictures from Dragon Con.”

 

“Oh yeah…well…never mind.”  Hugh stroked his beard.  “I’ve got to retest those server scripts.  I’ll be sure to send you an update about my progress by close of business.”

 

“Thanks, Hugh.”  He turned and walked away.  I looked at my watch and I realized I was running late.  I ran back to my office, grabbed my laptop and caught up with Constance heading to the Discovery conference room.

 

8

 

“Bruce.”

 

“Yes,” I whispered, catching my breath.

 

“My, my.  Aren’t you in a hurry?  It’s just the L3 meeting, you know.”

 

I could tell Constance was getting short-timer’s disease.  “If you say so.”

 

We sat at the conference table.  Constance grabbed the Polycom SoundStation speakerphone and dialed the conference call number.  After she keyed in her passcode, she waited for the automated voice to ask for her name.

 

“Constance O’Connell…”

 

“…and Bruce Colline,” I blurted before she hit the pound key.

 

“Hello,” several voices said on the speakerphone.

 

“Hello, everybody.  I have Bruce Colline here with me today.  Since I am moving to Sunrise to take on an engineering project management position, Bruce has ‘volunteered’ to take on the L3 coordinator role.”

 

“Like she said, ‘volunteered,’” I added.

 

Several folks laughed, knowing all about corporate volunteerism.

 

“Anyway, we have a long list of L3 items to cover today.  Let’s start with case number 113.”

 

I tried to stay focused on the L3 call, knowing that in a couple of weeks, people would expect me to know as much about the L3 calls as Constance did.  In my short time at the company, I had heard about the good reputation Constance earned as an organized person, a person whose memory seemed infallible.  I tended to mentally doze off during uninteresting conference calls, even ones that I hosted, and doubted I would be able to keep up with the dozens of L3 issues open at any one time.

 

L3 issues.  When I worked as a technical support analyst in a previous lifetime, I learned there are generally three levels that a customer issue can achieve.  The first level, or L1 for short, was a customer issue that could be addressed during the customer’s first contact about the issue.  Sometimes a customer would send a description of the issue via email or by using a company’s Web-based customer problem report.  More often, a customer would call the company to register a complaint about the product he or she was using.  Most problems could be addressed and resolved by a person trained to know the operational details of the company’s products, the technical support analyst (or call center specialist, or highly-trained technician).  The second level, L2, meant the customer’s problem required a bit of research to better understand the customer’s problem, including how the customer was using the product and any special setup the customer had used that was not specifically called out in the owner’s manual.  Resolving an L2 issue could take a few days.  The third level, L3, was an issue that involved a failure of the product to meet design specifications.  In most cases, an L3 issue had to be reviewed by the company’s marketing department to make sure the failure truly exceeded or failed to meet design specifications and if so, then the engineering department had to fix the problem.

 

Cumulo-Seven used these same three levels, adding some subcategories to show whether a customer issue was actively being worked on or on hold.  In addition, Cumulo-Seven used software by FITZ to track customer issues via a CRM database, replacing the old Lotus Notes based customer issue database.

 

“Well, that just about covers it.  Bruce, do you have any questions?”

 

I looked from the phone to Constance.  “Yeah, are you sure you want to give this up?  You’re pretty good at it.”

 

“Thanks, Bruce, but I’m sure you’ll do fine.  Anybody else have any questions?”

 

“Bruce, Hugh Strong here.  I’m the Redmond test lab manager.  We met when you first started.”

 

“Yeah, I remember.  What’s up?”

 

“Well, have you completed your lab yet?”

 

“No.   There’s a problem with the flooring.”

 

“What about cooling?”

 

“What about it?”

 

“I hate to waste everyone’s time here but anyway do you think your cooling unit is sufficient for the size of your lab?”

 

“I’m pretty sure it is.”

 

“Is it located in the lab?”

 

“No, it’s up in the ceiling above the lab.  Why?”

 

“Well, the lab in Sunrise installed some sort of special air cooling unit that they had to put on the lab floor.  The sound it makes is like an airplane taking off.  I just wanted to be sure if you were putting the same unit in, you might consider putting it in a separate room or something.”

 

“Hugh, this is Woody Feathers, the Sunrise test lab manager.  Let’s take this conversation offline.”

 

“Oh hey, Woody.  I didn’t know you were there.  No problem.  I’ll give you a call.”

 

“Thanks, Hugh.  I’d appreciate it.”

 

Constance looked at me.  Although her skin was walnut brown, she had freckles.  She wore her hair long, which with her streaks of white hair, gave her the appearance of an Indian chief’s wife.  She smiled.  I smiled back.  “Okay, folks, thanks for calling in.  Remember that Bruce will be taking this over in a few weeks so get used to calling him instead of me.”  Constance laughed as she hung up the call.

 

I gave her a fake smile.  “Thanks for the reminder.  So when’s your last day?”

 

“Oh, soon.  It depends on how quickly I can get my projects wrapped up.  Why?  Are you ready to get rid of me?”

 

“Not at all.  Just friendly conversation.  I’m not ready to lose you yet – there’s still a lot of stuff I don’t know about L3.”

 

“Phh.  Nothing to worry about.  It’s all organized now.  You just have to make sure the ship doesn’t tip over and sink.  I’ve already done all the patching, all the dirty work.  You just make sure it can ride out the storms when you get hit with a burst of L3 calls.  Well, back to it.  See you in a couple of days.”  Like a good soldier, Constance got up and marched down the hall, leaving me sitting alone in the 25-person conference room.

 

 

While I was sitting there, I decided to call Hugh Strong to make sure the air conditioning capacity I had chosen was correct.

 

The phone rang three times before he picked up.  “Hello.”

 

“Hugh, it’s Bruce.”

 

“Oh, Bruce.  Glad you called.  I’ve got Woody Feathers on the other line.  Let me see if I can conference you in.”  The phone clicked, went dead, and then clicked again.

 

“Bruce, you there?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Woody?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay, Woody, continue what you were saying.”

 

“Bruce, as I was telling Hugh, there’s something funny going on.  Despite what you may have been hearing, I was specifically told to order the air cooling unit that we have and the only place they’d put it was on the lab floor because we’re located on the bottom floor of the building and the unit would overheat in a closet.”

 

Hugh cleared his throat.  “Uh-huh.  Bruce, have you heard anything about Woody’s setup?”

 

“Well, yeah.  Before I ordered the lab benches, I emailed Trevor Book, Woody’s assistant, for any information about the lab benches they use.  He mentioned the air conditioning unit and suggested I get headphones as if I was going to order the same unit.  That’s all I know.”

 

“And that’s it?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Okay, so Woody, why do you think they forced you to order that unit?”

 

“I wouldn’t want to wager a guess, Hugh.  There are a lot of things that go on around here that don’t make sense.  No different than any other place I’ve worked, including Eadienne.”

 

“You worked at Eadienne?”

 

“That’s correct.”

 

“Funny, isn’t it?”

 

“How’s that, Hugh?”

 

“Well, it seems that half the people here in Redmond have worked at Microsoft at some point in their career.  Many of the folks I’ve met from Sunrise have either worked for Eadienne or Holywells.”

 

“I suppose it does look funny but they are two of the biggest employers around here, or were.”

 

I jumped in.  “Well, Holywells folks are all over the Huntsville engineering department, too.  By the way, do any of you know anything about a person or program named ‘Mortie’?”

 

The phone was silent for several seconds.  “Hello?”

 

“Oh, sorry, Bruce, I got distracted.  Anyway, thanks for joining the call.  I’ve gotta go.”

 

“Me, too,” Woody curtly added and hung up.

 

I hung up the phone and walked out of the conference room.  Seemed like everywhere I went in this company, people were in a hurry.  Well, except for Bud Jones, he was never in a hurry.

 

 

9

 

A couple of weeks later, I got a paycheck deposit slip that showed the correct amount being deposited in my account.  However, the paycheck stub showed I was getting no vacation pay.  I stopped by Joyce’s office in HR.  Joyce had the look of a librarian to me – petite, past middle-age, single, and thick glasses.  The only way to get through to her was through logic and order.  I showed her the zero vacation pay and told her I hadn’t taken any vacation.

 

Joyce jumped right into the payroll database.  She looked over my electronic timecards to verify I had not submitted any vacation hours.  She struggled to work through the database after that, explaining that the software design was not laid out with the end user in mind.  Finally, she found an entry screen for my personal data.  Apparently, when she corrected the payroll system database to show I had zero dependents, she also zeroed out both the section in the database where my vacation pay was totaled and the field in the database where my vacation pay was calculated.  As our only HR payroll administrator, Joyce was overworked so I didn’t say anything.  I saw no reason to raise my voice or complain in any way that would upset her.  My nonresponse must have triggered something in her because she apologized and promised to get the database programming consultant to fix the error so the vacation pay calculation field could never be zeroed out.  However, she went on, the consultant only worked two days a week because she had an elderly parent named Mortie to take care of.  [That name again…]  Sometimes the consultant didn’t even show up at all and wouldn’t tell HR – it just showed up as a zero on her timesheet.  I told Joyce I sympathized with her problems with the consultants who were hired to work on the database but could she see that I was more concerned about getting the right vacation pay for me.  She promised to look into it.

 

 

Over the next couple of weeks, employee authorizations (EAs) were approved, meaning I could officially start hiring folks with approval from my management, so I quickly ran through job interviews, knowing one or two people I would probably hire and one or two gems I hoped to dig out of the pile of resumes given to me by J.B. Sudermann, HR recruiting manager, as he pulled likely candidates from the postings on the Spotless job recruitment management software.

 

Some of the interviewees were interesting.  One fellow – I’ll call him Otto to protect his name – anyway, Otto had an engineering degree that he had earned about 20 years ago; right after graduating, he got a job and worked for about six months but then his mother got sick so he quit his job to take care of her.  He didn’t return to the workforce until a couple of years ago and was disappointed that no one would hire him as an engineer just because he hadn’t worked in over 15 years.  Our shop floor manager hired Otto as a repair technician, figuring that although his engineering skills may be rusty, he’d still be able to troubleshoot and fix any customer-returned equipment.  Of course, as soon as any engineering position opened on the internal job posting site, Otto would post his resume.  Unfortunately, Otto was like the folks in the insane asylum in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.  He had been chewed up by the combine and spit out like chaff.

 

Another fellow, Chilton, I found working as a technician at a local electronics manufacturer.  He had an engineering degree but had decided that office jobs were for people who played politics and he wasn’t into those kind of games so he purposely took a technician’s job so he could work like a real man and not like some sort of puppet of the king’s court that had to dance whenever he was told.  He actually had a great understanding of engineering design and I considered hiring him but my boss was understandably put off by Chilton’s paranoia.

 

After running into the interesting personalities of Otto and Chilton while conducting office interviews, I decided that phone interviews might be an easier way to cut out the non-office types from the office workers I needed.  Now keep in mind that I’m conducting these interviews based on the resumes I received from HR.  I couldn’t even imagine the resumes I didn’t see.  The first phone interview took place with a young man out of southern Mississippi, Trent.  Trent had grown up in Huntsville and wanted to get back to northern Alabama but his mother had suddenly passed away, leaving only him to take care of his grandmother, who lived in a tiny hamlet of southern Mississippi where the only job Trent could get was as an LPN taking care of his grandmother.  He wanted my sympathy because he had earned his LPN from an online degree factory using a slow dial-up modem and ancient computer.  Sympathy, sure, but a job?  It was beginning to look like a trend with these guys.  You know, “sorry, I wanted to live in the office-based work world but family takes precedence.”  No problem, but how is someone like me supposed to figure out if you’re office worker material if you’ve been away for a long time?  The next guy actually called me.  Or rather, he called J.B. and J.B. forwarded the call to me.  Taggott was also from Mississippi, living up north near Iuka.  He was willing to drive to Huntsville for an interview.  I looked at his resume and saw that in the midst of his 40 years of experience, he had worked at POY/Holywells so I asked around the office and found out that several folks in Engineering had worked with him and insisted that Taggott ought to be on the top of my list.  However, folks higher up in Cumulo-Seven had already handed me some resumes for special consideration.  Weighing the skill set of the folks on the special resumes versus ones like Taggott made my job easier.

 

I ended up hiring a former coworker, Gerald Griffith, as a senior software test technician and a Cumulo-Seven employee, Brendan Best, as a software test technician.  That way, I had a small hierarchy to work with – Hugh at the top as the test engineer, Gerald underneath as Hugh’s go-to guy and test setup designer, and Brendan working with Gerald as the one who could build the test setups and run tests as needed.

 

I had just gotten my next set of EAs approved when Kevin came storming into my office.

 

“Bruce!”

 

I swiveled around to see a sweating Kevin leaning on the doorway of my office.

 

I gave him my usual buddy greeting, “Dude, wassup?”

 

“Hey, I don’t have much time.  Have you talked with Patrick about what I asked you about the other day?”

 

“No, Kevin, I haven’t.  Quite frankly, I’ve been too busy going through interviews.  I know, I know, it’s not ‘real’ work but it’s something that has to be…”

 

“In that case, is Hugh around?”

 

“Umm…” I looked at my watch.  “I believe he’s out to lunch.”

 

“Shit.  Well, I’ve got to see him and I can’t go back to my office or leave the building.”

 

I glared at Kevin.

 

“Sorry, I know it sounds dramatic but seriously, can you get in touch with him?”  Kevin dropped into one of my guest chairs.  The chair made a sharp cracking sound.  Kevin didn’t budge or show a sign of worry even though he probably had broken a strut or foot of the chair.

 

“I could call his personal cell number.”

 

“Would you?”

 

“Sure.”  I looked through my personal emails to find Hugh’s cell phone number and dialed it.  I pressed the speakerphone button.

 

A garbled voice came over the speaker.  “Hello?”

 

“Hugh, is that you?”

 

“Hey, Bruce, I’m out to lunch.  Can I call you back?”

 

“Hugh!  This is Kevin.  How soon do you think you’ll be back from lunch?”

 

“Oh hey, Kevin.  I got the bad news.”

 

Kevin locked his eyes on mine.  Sensing he was searching for some sign on my face, I just smiled and nodded for him to continue talking.

 

“Thanks, Hugh.  Look, Bruce doesn’t know about…I mean, those Qwerty-Queue test scripts we showed you.  I really need to go over them with you before I go.  Can you come back to the office?”

 

We heard Hugh speaking to someone and then return to talking with us.  “No problem.  I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

 

“Great!  Bye, Hugh.  I owe you.”

 

I hung up the call and looked at Kevin.  “So, bad news, eh?”

 

“Yeah.  I guess you’ve been holed up in here and missed all the excitement.”

 

I glanced at my email to see if any important news had popped up.  Nothing on the email radar screen so whatever Kevin was talking about wasn’t on the official public company communication channel yet.

 

“Looks like I’ve been canned.”

 

“What?!”

 

“Yeah, it’s a real bummer.  They’ve closed the whole Qwerty-Queue lab.”

 

“So you and Bud…”

 

“Yeah.  Wally and Simon, too.”

 

“Wow.  Sorry to hear it.”

 

“I heard a rumor that others are involved but I don’t dare walk the halls to find out.”

 

I shook my head and started to speak as the phone rang.  I picked it up and looked at Kevin grabbing the arms of the chair as if he was going to get up and run.

 

“This is Bruce.”

 

“Bruce, this is Patrick.  I’ve got to call a quick meeting of the engineering managers in my office.  You think you could stop by in say, five minutes?”

 

“Sure, no problem.  Anything I need to bring?”

 

“No.  I don’t think you’ll need to take any of your extensive notes in this meeting.”

 

“Okay, see you there.”

 

Kevin stood up and leaned over my desk, trying to read the caller ID as I hung up.  “Who was that?”

 

“Patrick Keating.”

 

“Damn.  Was he looking for me?”

 

I decided not to alarm Kevin.  “No.  It’s nothing.  So you wanna wait in Hugh’s office until he gets back?  You can keep the door closed until he arrives.”

 

“Great idea.”  Kevin turned toward the door.

 

“Hey, Kevin,” I called as I stepped around my desk.  I extended my hand.  “Whatever happens, I’ve enjoyed working with you.”

 

Kevin slumped his shoulders and sighed.  He turned back to face me.  “Thanks, Bruce,” he exhaled in a deep voice, “I’m thinking I’m the lucky one.”

 

I gave him a confused look.

 

“Oop…well, what I mean is that I’m the one who gets to enjoy life and not worry about deadlines.”

 

I nodded.  “I know what you mean.  Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.  I can provide a reference if you need it.”

 

“Thanks.  And one last thing.  If you ever get the chance, see the movie, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8^th Dimension.  It’ll explain a lot.”

 

“A lot about what?”

 

Kevin winked at me.  “I don’t know.  Maybe you’ll find out.  Just don’t ask for MORTIE.”

 

10

 

Patrick closed the door and stood next to his desk.  I looked at my fellow managers, Alan McClelland, hardware design manager, and Mark Crowe, software manager.  They both had a calm but alert look even though we were missing Ray Nielsson, firmware and patent portfolio manager.  Alan was wearing his daily uniform, short-sleeved plaid shirt (varying day-to-day from red to blue to brown) and khaki pants.  Mark tended to wear polo shirts although that day he was wearing a short-sleeved blue dress shirt and blue jeans.

 

“Thanks for coming on such short notice.  I know this is not part of our normal weekly engineering meeting so you must know that something important is up.  First of all, you see that Ray is not here.  Ray is working with HR on a personnel issue that I’ll get to in a minute.”  In his habit of showing his nervousness, Patrick cleared his throat and coughed slightly.  “As you know, we have not been meeting our numbers lately.  As head of global engineering, William Spock promised our CEO that engineering costs would not exceed 10% of our budget.  Right now, because of our low sales, it looks like we’ll hit 12.5% and are aiming for almost 14% next quarter already.  William has asked each of the regional engineering managers to make the tough decisions to cut back.  I have spoken to each of you…”  Sitting behind Alan and Mark, I raised my hand interrupting Patrick briefly.  “…each of you that I thought might have personnel not assigned to any current projects.  Yes, Bruce, I know I didn’t talk with you but my job was easy for your group.  You had three open EAs so I’ve eliminated two of them, meaning that I didn’t have to lay off any current employees but able to reduce the headcount by two.  Sorry.”

 

I shrugged my shoulders, knowing that’s how corporations worked.

 

“Anyway, I believe you know I was going to start inviting Andrew Hale and Paul O’Reilly to the engineering staff meetings but on a biweekly basis.  I have put that off to next week.”

 

Alan sat up from his usually crouched position in conference chairs.  “So, Patrick, do I understand that Ray is the only one who actually had to let someone go?”

 

“Good question.  William asked me to find up to 10 heads to cut out of the budget.  With Bruce’s two and one from Mark’s group, I was left with seven.  I have asked Ray Nielsson to combine his group with Mark’s so that the two of them can share resources.  I know that Ray’s group was only working on software maintenance tasks so…”

 

Alan leaned forward and tapped on the white board next to him.  “Sorry to interrupt you, Patrick, but I thought that Ray’s group was working on the Carnauba project.  Are you saying that project doesn’t exist anymore?”

 

“Alan, I’ll get to that in a minute.”

 

“Now, wait a minute, Patrick.  This reminds me of the episode on The Andy Griffith Show where a court inspector has a problem with Andy and Barney’s procedural policies.  I thought you were supposed to consult us if one of our projects was killed.  This just doesn’t sound like you’re following procedure to me.”

 

“Alan, you’re right and I apologize, but I promise I’ll get to that in a minute.”

 

I nodded at Patrick to get his attention.  “Bruce, can this wait?”

 

“I just wanted to say that Kevin stopped by my office to say he’d been canned so I’m guessing that more than one engineering group in Huntsville has been affected by the layoffs.”

 

“Actually, Bruce, that’s what I was about to get to.  As part of the headcount reduction, there has been a complete reorganization.  Qwerty-Queue now falls under my umbrella.  Therefore, Andrew and Paul completely work for me.  Paul had asked Andrew to submit four names for layoff and instead submitted his own and asked that he be the only one let go.  Andrew doesn’t understand that it’s not a matter of…”  Patrick cleared his throat in an attempt to show that stopping in mid-sentence was a dry throat issue and not his needing to stop what he was about to say.  “As I was saying, we needed a total of 10 removed from our payrolls.  I reviewed the Qwerty-Queue list with Paul and have found the four we needed.  As Bruce indicated, Kevin is one of them.”

 

Mark was the youngest member of our team.  He had started working at Cumulo-Seven as a stockboy when he was 15.  He kept working at Cumulo-Seven throughout his college career, for both his bachelor’s and master’s degree.  We often joked that he was Cumulo-Seven’s first successful cloning experiment.  Because of his youth, he tended to accept what management told him and rarely spoke up in anger.  He laughed.  “And I’m glad you told me about cutting out my EA.”

 

“Thanks, Mark.  I knew you’d understand.  Well, I’ve got to meet with William to finalize some issues.  Any questions before I go?”

 

Alan stood up and looked at the white board, mumbling to himself as he moved his finger down the list of projects on the white board.  “So, what other projects are affected by this reorganization and layoff?  I thought I was going to be able to hire two more people and now it looks like we’re going to be even more short-staffed than before.”  Like a little boy who was upset, Alan put his hands by his side and moped.  “I mean, who exactly did you lay off?”

 

Patrick stood next to Alan.  “Don’t worry about the projects.  We’ve been given a couple of days to reprioritize all work assignments.  With this extra time, I have asked the marketing department to tell us which projects are most important to them.”

 

“But who…”

 

“Okay, okay.  All of Ray Nielsson’s people are gone.  That means that Thomas Praeger, Gene Modell and Anthony Claiburn.”

 

“Gene?  But he was working on the new firmware for me.”

 

“Sorry, Alan, but as you said, the project’s dead.  I’ve got to go.  If you have any questions, stop by my office and I’ll try to address them.”  Patrick opened the door and walked out.

 

Alan looked at me.  “Bruce, I guess you’re lucky.  At least you didn’t have to let any of your new employees go.”

 

“But I don’t get to hire more than one, either.  You weren’t affected at all so I don’t know what you’re upset about.”

 

“Bruce, I’ve been here over 10 years.  In 10 years, we haven’t laid off one engineering employee.  Sure, we’ve fired a few but as far as I know, they had it coming, or should have known it was coming.  Here it’s our first engineering layoff and Patrick’s acting like it’s status quo.  It’s not right.”

 

Mark stood up.  “I agree with Alan.  This sets a precedent that won’t go over well with the rest of the engineering group.”

 

I smiled.  “I guess you guys aren’t used to the environments where Patrick and I came from.  Both Patrick and I were part of engineering design centers that were shut down.  Layoffs are just part of modern engineering teams.”

 

Alan shook his head and walked out.  Mark stared at me, his face blank.  “Okay, I see what you mean.  But if that’s the way things are around here, we’re going to see a completely different ‘team’ attitude.  I hope Patrick knows what he’s doing.”  Like a zombie, Mark turned and slowly walked out.

 

My cell phone had buzzed several times during the meeting.  I unlocked it and saw that Hugh had left me a couple of voice messages and one email.

 

I walked down the hall to Hugh’s office.

 

11

 

I knocked on Hugh’s door.

 

“Come in.”

 

Hugh was sitting at his desk, with the usual guilty look on his face.  I had probably caught him looking at another eBay auction for Star Wars costumes.

 

“Hey, Hugh.  You rang?”

 

“Yeah.  Kevin told me what happened and that you got a call from Patrick.  Is there anything I’m supposed to know?”

 

“Not sure yet.  As they say, ‘I can neither confirm nor deny’ that what you heard is fact.”

 

“Okay, can you tell me if I’ve still got a job?”  Since Hugh and I were less than a year away from a layoff from our last jobs, Hugh was still sensitive about job security.

 

“Yes, I can.  You still have a job.”

 

Hugh smiled over a few loud breaths.  “Well, that’s good.  Assuming that Kevin’s gone…” Hugh held up his hand as I started to speak.  “I know you can’t say anything but I’ve got to figure out what to do with the Qwerty-Queue stuff.  There’s a lot of things about their setup that’s not catalogued.  Do you think they’ll make Kevin leave today?”

 

I shook my head and raised my eyebrows, indicating I wasn’t saying one way or the other.

 

“Okay, do you think you could talk with Patrick and find out?”

 

“That much I can do.  I’ll talk with him later today and find out.”

 

Hugh pushed himself up out of the ‘big man’ office chair.   I had bought him the ‘big man’ office chair so that he didn’t have to try to squeeze his body into a regular office chair.  “Well, I’ve got Kevin in the lab trying to organize his stuff right now.  If you don’t mind, I’m going to take the rest of the day to go over the equipment with him so I know how it all works.”

 

“No problem.”  I stepped out of Hugh’s office and wandered into the lab.  I could hear Hugh shuffling into the lab behind me.

 

I walked over to Gerald’s cubicle and knocked on his cubicle wall, breaking his concentration.

 

Gerald blinked and turned to look up at me.  Gerald was 55 years old and going bald.  He was one of those guys who parted his hair on the side, despite the fact there wasn’t much hair to part.  From a distance, his white hair and white scalp made him look completely bald.  He was fortunate that the shape of his head was symmetrical and not unsightly.  I noticed the top of his head was covered with a lot of freckles.  He must have been hanging out in the sun lately.

 

“Oh hey, Bruce.  What can I do for you?  Do you need a progress update?  I was just wrapping up this first test plan but am stuck on the network diagram.  There seems to be a callout for equipment connections to a room we don’t have.”

 

“Dunno.  Maybe Hugh can help you.  He was talking to the guys in the design lab next door.  Could be the connections are over there.”

 

“Okay.  Is there anything else you need?”

 

I felt like telling Gerald about the layoffs, knowing that as a former manager himself, he’d sympathize with the tough decisions I almost had to make.  I knew that Gerald’s youngest daughter was in college and about to get married so Gerald was facing a large expenditure that I wasn’t sure he could afford.  After all, he was laid off longer than Hugh and me.  In fact, Hugh and I had only one week between our old jobs at Elextronzia and our new ones at Cumulo-Seven.  Gerald was out of work for a month or two, eating into his savings, I’m sure.

 

“Not really.  Just thought I’d stop by and say hello, do the ‘management by walking around’ routine.”

 

“Sure, Bruce.  Well, if you’ll let me get back to work, I might be able to finish this up by my deadline this afternoon.”

 

“No rush,” I mumbled.

 

“What?”

 

“I mean, I won’t be able to review the test plan for a couple of days.  I’m a little behind in my work so if you need tomorrow, don’t try to rush your work today.”

 

“I’ll do what I must.”

 

I nodded at Gerald and let him get back to work.  I was feeling a headache coming on and walked back to my office.

 

I shut the door and leaned my head against the wall.  I thought back to Patrick’s announcement and pictured his white board project list in my head.  Alan had mentioned a “Carnauba” project but there was no project with that name on the board.  I knew that Patrick liked to give us all at least one special project to work on but he tracked all projects on his board, marking the special ones with our names besides the ones assigned to us.  I could feel my blood pressure rising because of my trying to think clearly through the fog of my headache.  I pushed myself away from the wall and stumbled over to my chair, tripping into a sideways sitting position.  After a few minutes, I fell into a meditative trance, hearing the sounds out in the hallway meld with my breathing and heartbeat.  As I slipped into a dream world, I was trying to sort out the reorganization in my head.  Ray no longer worked as a functional manager, Paul was now reporting to Patrick and not directly to William, and Mark was…

 

An hour later, I woke up with a throbbing pain from the crick in my neck.  At least my headache was gone.

 

The phone rang.  It was Joyce.  She told me to look at my next paycheck to make sure the vacation hours were right.  She also asked me to check my 401(k) deduction.  It looked to her like the deduction didn’t line up with what the database said I’d originally requested but Joyce couldn’t be sure.  The paperwork I’d submitted when I first got hired was supposed to be scanned and stored along with my online personnel profile but it was missing, which meant that my W2 withholding document, my 401(k) deduction document and my NDA with Cumulo-Seven would have to be filled out again and resubmitted.  Therefore, Joyce had to rely on the information in my personnel profile as the correct data.  She said it was odd that someone in my position would only be taking out 1% of my pretax pay for 401(k).  I agreed, thinking it was more like 15% and would get that documentation to her as soon as I had time.  I could hear Joyce sigh as she hung up the phone.  I bet that time was something she wished she had, too.

 

12

 

I called Patrick’s office and got no answer.  Since William worked just around the corner, I decided to stop by William’s office and see if Patrick was still there.

 

William’s door was slightly cracked open.  I started to knock but decided to eavesdrop for a few seconds.  I could hear Patrick talking.

 

“…and it all appears to have gone smoothly.”

 

“Patrick, I think you did a fine job.  Just keep in mind that I never had to lay anyone off when I was in charge of the Huntsville engineers.  Therefore, I’m guessing you’re going to get some passive resistance if you try to push things in the next few weeks.  That’s why you’ve got a few days to sort things out.  Even if Marketing says that some tiny project is high priority, I’d take it off the list.  With this reorganization, we’ve probably only got two or three major projects we can handle right now.”

 

“What about…”

 

“What about what?”

 

“Well, I had hoped to complete the data dump from the Qwerty-Queue team.  A key component of their work has to be verified AND validated, if we’re to avoid any wrath from MORTIE.  I need Bruce’s team to be completely up-to-speed on what the Qwerty-Queue team is doing.”

 

“So Bruce’s team is not up-to-speed.  I thought you said…”

 

“No, I’ve…well, in fact, you’re the one who’s been taking so long to approve the EAs.  If we’d…well, it doesn’t matter.  I chose to eliminate the EAs myself.  I can’t afford to lose any more design engineers.”

 

“Patrick, it was the CEO, Robert Kerns himself, who fully approved the Huntsville test lab.  Are you saying that you eliminated some of the positions that Robert approved?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In that case, I can’t help you.  If Robert asks, I’ll have to tell him that you didn’t consult with me before you short-changed his pet project.”

 

It was odd but I detected a smile in William’s voice, as if he wasn’t being serious with Patrick but Patrick’s response was less jovial.

 

“If you want to be that way, that’s fine with me.  Unless we get Bruce’s current team on board, I won’t promise Robert that we’ll complete his project.”

 

William laughed.  “Patrick, it’s your call.  I’m going to step back on this on and tell Robert you’re in charge of his project now.  I’ve got enough on my plate that it won’t matter anyway.”

 

I stuck my head in the crack and caught William’s attention.  “Oh hey, Bruce!  Come on in.”  I pushed the door open and stepped in.  “Patrick and I were just discussing how well you handled losing some job positions.  While you’re here, I wanted to congratulate you.  Our president, Cyrill Carr, looked at your lab the other day and was quite impressed.  He couldn’t believe that you set the whole thing up yourself.”

 

I blushed, softened up by William’s obvious attempt to snowball me with compliments.  “Well, I…”

 

“No need to say anything else.  Anyway, I hope that you and Patrick will be able to sort out the change in testing priorities.”  William stood up.  “And as always, my door is open.  If there’s ever anything you have to say or need, just stop by.”

 

Patrick stood up and turned toward the door.

 

I stepped toward him.  “Patrick, before you go.  I have a question from one of my employees.”

 

Patrick looked at William and then at me.  “Have you already mentioned the layoff?”

 

“Not officially.  But as I said, Kevin had mentioned to me that he was being laid off.  He also told Hugh.”

 

“Hmm…sounds like Kevin could be a problem.  You think we should escort him out now?”

 

“Well, that’s why I’m here.  Hugh needs Kevin to stay at least through today so he can get Kevin to write down instructions for how everything works.”

 

“Oh, really?  Well, that sounds reasonable.  William, you think it’s all right for Kevin to stick around through the end of the day?”

 

William walked up beside me.  “Bruce, do you think Kevin will be a problem?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay, Patrick, let’s just play this by ear.  Make sure the guards are available in the morning.  We’ll let Kevin come back tomorrow to help Bruce’s team.  If there’s any sign of trouble, we can act quickly.  Bruce, that means you’ll need to stay around the lab tomorrow.  Is that okay with you?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“And Patrick, that means you’ll need to get all of Bruce’s team on board with this.”

 

Patrick nodded heavily.  “Absolutely.  Bruce, why don’t you have your team meet me in the morning, say at 8:15?”

 

“Will do.”

 

William motioned us toward the door.  “Sorry, guys, but I’ve got an important phone call coming up.  Let me know if you need any assistance tomorrow.  Otherwise, I’ll assume everything is under control.”

 

13

 

That evening, I stood on the front deck, ten feet above the weedy, overgrown lawn, rocking a bottle of beer on the railing.  The air was toasty – the temperature had reached 101 deg F and had only dropped to 90 deg F by 7 p.m.  The older neighbors drove by in their SUVs and large trucks.  The midlife-crisis ones stood out like a pair of silicone breasts at a nudist colony, driving Harley Davidson motorcycles or expensive convertibles.  Young kids announced their impending presence a quarter mile away, rattling windows and pounding the air with their 3000-pound boomboxes.

 

I watched the evening sky perform the daily rainbow light show, fading from blue and yellow…have you ever noticed the green shadows in the late afternoon?  Grab a white shirt and stand in the shade.  Hold the shirt up to a group of trees and the shirt will look green.  I sipped the beer and looked up at the sky.  The golden haze washed over me like a 200-dollar body rub.  I closed my eyes and smiled, the tension dripping off my body with my sweat and staining the old pine slats of the deck.  I opened my eyes and the sky was rusting, or dying like an old piece of meat on a cutting board in the kitchen, withering from pink to rust to dark gray.  The crickets and cicadas called the evening to order.  No tree frog croaking that night – just too hot and dry for mating.

 

Absent-mindedly I swatted mosquitoes away and kicked the carpenter ants from my shoes.  I concentrated on nothing in particular, meditating in my suburban Garden of Eden, with only tiny clouds of worry creeping into my consciousness, little voices asking questions, “Carpenter ants?  Doesn’t that mean you should spray insecticide or something?”, “Is West Nile virus prevalent in northern Alabama this year?”, “What brand of cigarette butts are most often slung into the ditch in my front yard?”  I knew how to keep my mind off work.  Oh, I could grab my Treo and skim emails on the deck if I wanted.

 

I felt like I was caught in a bad detective movie or TV show, an episode of CSI: Suburban Victims Unit.

 

“So, officer, give me a rundown of the situation.”

 

“Detective Bensen, we found him like this, frozen in that very position.  It’s unusual so we called you.”

 

“You were right to contact us.  We have exclusive TV rights to all irregular deaths in this area.  If you could stand to one side, officer, it will allow the TV crew to get a good closeup of my partner and me staring at the victim.”

 

“Oh, sorry.”

 

“No problem.  And if you could sign a waiver form for us to be able to use your real name, we’d appreciate it.  It saves us from having to spend extra time in the editing room clipping your on-screen shots to hide your ID tag.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Thank you.  What do you think, Detective Stabler?”

 

“Well, look at this mark on his leg. Apparently, from the quick onset of rigor mortis and the particular way the flesh has swelled up around the wound on his leg, I’d say this man was bitten by the Alabama variant of the African tsetse fly.  He probably never knew what bit him.  One moment, he was standing here enjoying the view of the…well, I can’t quite see what he was seeing except a lot of trees and vine…but anyway, a moment later his mind was shutting down and he was in a coma state within two minutes.  With no one to see his condition and administer the antidote, he was a goner in say…oh, I don’t know…probably 10 minutes, tops.  Based on the temperature of the beer in his hand, I’d say he’s been dead at least two hours.”

 

“You’re right.  Officer, you can bag him.  There’s no crime here.  We’ll not be able to use this on our highly popular Special Victims Unit show on NBC but regulate all of tonight’s footage to our lower-rated Suburban Victims Unit show on Discovery Channel.  Stabler, can you take the body to the lab and grab some shots of his blood?”

 

“Sure thing, Bensen.”

 

 

I stepped back into the house, pushing hard on the front door.  The house swelled up in the summer so all the doors had to shoved hard to close and be latched.

 

I winked at my wife.

 

She smiled.  “Honey, while you were outside, you got a call from Hugh.  I figured you didn’t want to be disturbed so I told him to talk with you tomorrow.”

 

“Thanks.”  I wondered why he called.  Hugh had never called our house before.  I checked the Treo but there was no email from Hugh, only emails from Henry Sun, a sales engineer in Singapore who treated every customer issue as if his life depended on it.  I had quickly learned that his crisis mode of operation was typical of Eastern technical troubleshooting – although customers did not expect a problem to be solved right away, they wanted an immediate response.  I emailed Henry telling him that his customer problems were of utmost importance to me and I would get an engineer or technician to look at it first thing in the morning.  Henry emailed me a “thank you” as I shut down the Treo.  No more emails for me that night.  I needed to spend time with family.

 

I called my parents.  “Hey, Mom.  Is Dad around?”

 

“Sure, dear.  He’s playing solitaire on the computer.  Let me get him for you.”

 

While I waited for my father to come to the phone, I noted my wife was watching one of her favorite home and garden porn shows.  You know, where decorators have an unlimited budget and two days to change a couple’s house from “ordinary to extraordinary!”

 

“Yes, son.”

 

“Oh, hey, Dad.  Sorry to bother you.”

 

“No problem.  I had just finished painting a balsa wood model of the F6F Hellcat.  Do you remember the Hellcat you and I built when you were a kid?  Well, I think I’ve recreated it down to the last stroke of paint.”

 

“That’s great.  Guess you won’t be winding up the rubber band on that one and letting it rip, eh?”

 

“No, I guess not.”

 

“I still have the scraps of the old one in a box in the study.  I’ve thought about rebuilding it.”

 

My father laughed.  “And I thought your grandmother was a pack rat!”

 

“Yes, well, anyway…Dad, I need your advice on something.”

 

“Is it work-related?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’ll do what I can.  You know it’s been years since I was wrapped up in office politics.  I really prefer this university teaching job I have.  Have you thought about teaching?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“You’ve always enjoyed watching your employees grow.  Watching college students become adults is even more rewarding.  Why, just last night, I was…”

 

“Dad.”

 

My father cleared his throat, irritated that I was interrupting him. “Yes, son.”

 

“I have an early morning meeting tomorrow and wondered if you had any thoughts on the matter.”

 

“Early morning meetings?  Gosh, son, when I was working at Sperry…”

 

“You mean, on the Redstone rocket?”

 

“…we had to be in the office at 6:30 a.m. six days a week for our daily briefings.  There was no wandering in at 8 or 9 o’clock like you kids do today.”

 

“Yes, well, times have changed.  Anyway, I get the feeling something’s going on that I don’t know about.  Do you think I should ask my boss what’s going on?”

 

“Son, in my day, we didn’t ask the boss anything.  He gave orders and we followed them.  That was that.  Oh sure, some guys would talk big at the water fountain but we knew we’d never talk back to the boss.  But there was always that one guy someone had known or had heard about who had stood up to the boss.  Funny, I never actually met that guy.  Of course, the way you guys dress these days, wearing casual shirts all the time, I’m sure you talk back to your boss all the time.”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Do you even have respect for the officers of the company anymore?  Why, I remember we’d walk in the front door and there would be the pictures of all the executives, past and present, right next to the bowling champion trophy case.  We all dreamed of having our pictures on the wall.  That was so long ago.  Some of us did get our names engraved on the bowling trophies, though...”

 

“I didn’t know you bowled.”

 

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, son, things that you may never know and some things I’ll carry to my grave.  ‘Loose lips sink ships.’”

 

“Sure, Dad.  Just like all the stuff you did in the Army you can’t talk about.  I know.  Anyway, thanks for the advice.”

 

“You’re welcome.  Let me know how the meeting goes tomorrow.”

 

“Will do.”

 

“You wanna talk with your mother?”

 

“That’s all right.  I’ve got to get to bed early.”

 

“You know, when I was your age, I was sharing the house duties with your mother, staying up late with you kids when you got sick.  And I still had to be at work at 6:30!  You’ve got it lucky, son, you know that?”

 

“Thanks, Dad.  Yes, I do.  I’ll talk with you soon.”

 

“Love you, son.  Good night.”

 

“Love you, too.”

 

14

 

On my way to work the next morning, I read an email sent by Patrick at 6 a.m.  “Plans have changed.  Cancel my meeting with your team and send my apologies.  I’ll be traveling the rest of the week.  We can catch up first thing Monday.”

 

I clipped the Treo back on my belt and drove through the light 6:15 a.m. traffic to work.  The majority of the commuters looked like factory line workers, their faces hardened by years of cigarette smoking as well as the suntans they enjoyed on their early afternoon exits from work.  The other commuters appeared to be doctors pulling off into the medical district in downtown Huntsville or high-level, highly-caffeinated executives driving their Jaguars and Porsches to work.

 

At the office parking lot, I ran into Brendan.  We walked toward the office building while we talked.

 

“Bruce, what’s this meeting all about?”

 

“Looks like it’s been cancelled.  Patrick’s been called out-of-town on another task.”

 

“That figures.  He always jetsetting to some part of the globe or other.  You know what that meeting was going to be about, anyway?”

 

“No.  I can only guess that it had something to do with Kevin and his group.”

 

“Yeah, I figured as much.  Anyway, you ready for football season to start?”  I nodded.  “I reckon everybody’s got their sights set on taking down Saban.  If we don’t lose more than three or four games this year, I’ll be happy.  But you know how us Bama fans are – if he don’t win the national championship in the next couple of years, his head will roll like Shula’s.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“You got UT season tickets again this year?”

 

“Oh yeah.  Like always.”

 

“I guess the Bama game will be huge, won’t it?”

 

“I suppose.  I haven’t looked at the schedule yet.”

 

“Third week in October!”

 

“Of course, I know the Bama game.  I just don’t know if our players will have been beaten up by the time we play you guys.  You got any tickets for the game?”

 

“Not yet.  Of course, if you wanna sell yours…”

 

“Maybe…NOT!  Haha!”  We both laughed as we entered the front lobby.  I nodded at the guard seated behind the receptionist desk as I talked to Brendan. “Well, I’ve got to check on a couple of things.  I’ll see you in the lab later today.  By the way, Kevin’s supposed to be around the lab today – I may not be able to help him out so if you could work with Hugh to help Kevin, I’d appreciate it.  And if there’s anything that comes up, feel free to give me a holler on my cell phone.”

 

“Sure thing, boss. ‘I’m just shaking the bushes,’” Brendan exclaimed, making one of his occasional references to his all-time favorite movie, Cool Hand Luke.

 

I walked to the break room and pressed a button to order one of the artificially flavored drinks from the coffee machine.  Although the flavors were interesting, none of them evoked an image of coffee beans maturing on coffee bushes or roasting over an open flame.  I stood and sipped the drink for a minute or two, making sure that Brendan had left the front lobby.  I returned to the lobby and talked to the guard.

 

“Hi there, are you here on special duty today?”

 

“Yes, sir.  What can I do for you?”

 

“Well, I’m Bruce Colline.  I’m in charge of the…”  I stopped talking because the guard stepped away from me to retrieve a piece of paper.

 

“Hmm…Bruce Colline.  Oh yeah, here you are.  Continue.”

 

“I understand you’ll be helping us today.”

 

“Well, sir, we’re kind of hoping we don’t have to help you, if you get my drift.  But we will be here and around the building, if you need our assistance.”

 

“Oh, of course.  Have a good day, then.”  I snapped around and walked to the elevator.

 

“And you, too, sir,” the guard spoke to my back.

 

The phone buzzed while I was in the elevator.  It was Constance calling me from Sunrise.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Bruce, is that you?”

 

“Yes.  Is this Constance?”

 

“Duh.  Of course.  Are you in your office?”

 

“No, I’m on the elevator.”

 

“Okay.  So you can talk, then.  I hear that there’s a big layoff in Huntsville today and it’s going to affect Engineering.”

 

“If that’s what you heard…” I started to say more but the elevator door opened and Cyrill Carr, company president was standing in front of me.  “Hey, Cyrill.”  Cyrill was a couple of inches shorter than me, wore thin, gold-rimmed glasses and walked and talked like a Southern farmer.

 

“Good mornin’, Bruce.  You’re in early this morning.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Are you catching up on a project?”

 

“No, I was supposed to have a meeting with Patrick and my team but Patrick had to cancel.”

 

“Yes, I heard he had to travel on short notice.  You know how our customers are.  So, how are things with your new lab?  Coming along nicely?”

 

Although he didn’t look at all like the character, I was suddenly struck by the resemblance of Cyrill’s tone of voice to the truancy officer from the movie, A Clockwork Orange.  I felt like Cyrill was checking in on me because I had performed an action unbecoming of a company manager.  Was I going to have to go to some sort of version of juvenile delinquency school?

 

“Oh, yes.”

 

“I see.  And do you anticipate any problems today?”

 

“I hope not.”

 

“That’s good to hear.  Well, I can see I’ve stepped into the middle of a phone conversation.  Please apologize to your friend for me.”  Cyrill and I exchanged positions.  We nodded at each other as the elevator door closed.

 

“Bruce, are you there?” a voice crackled on the phone.

 

“Oh, hey Constance, sorry.  That was Cyrill.”

 

“So he’s seen you?  Hmm…”

 

“What?”

 

“Oh, nothing.  Look, a while back, I had planned an L3 conference here in Sunrise for the rest of this week and I’m here with several folks and it looks like we completely forgot to invite you.  Is there any chance you could fly down this afternoon for a meeting tomorrow?”

 

“Uh…”

 

“It’s very important.  I’m sure your guys can handle the lab duties while you’re gone.  I’m sure you’ll have your Treo tethered to you like the rest of us so it’s not like you can’t keep in touch.”

 

I thought about telling Constance what was going on.  Even though I would trust her with my life, I didn’t think I needed to tell her the minor details of my work day, details that seemed very important to me but didn’t directly affect her.

 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Great!  I’ll tell the team.”

 

“Hold on.  I don’t have permission from Patrick yet.”

 

“Patrick?  Oh, he’s right here.  He’s already given you permission.  He would have called you himself but he’s on a conference call with Ireland this morning.”

 

“In that case, I’ll get the travel agent to get things booked.”

 

Constance gently laughed.  “Bruce, I hate to say it but I’ve already booked your flight and got you a hotel.  You’ll have to get the rental car, though.  You’re at the Hilton.”

 

I snorted.  “Oh, well, thanks for telling me so soon.  What if I had refused to come?”

 

Constance laughed again.  “As if!”

 

15

 

I left a note on Hugh’s door to call me when he got in and walked back out of the office, instructing the guard to coordinate any activities with Hugh.  The guard was satisfied that Hugh’s name was on the approved employee list and agreed to work with Hugh.

 

I rushed home to pack a suitcase.  My wife was not happy but accepted the abrupt change of plans.  It wouldn’t interfere with our upcoming anniversary and college football season hadn’t started so there wasn’t a home game I was going to miss.

 

When I arrived at Ft. Lauderdale Airport, I turned on my Treo and got a larger-than-normal barrage of emails.  About half of the emails were emails from Hugh that he had forwarded from Kevin and Bud describing step-by-step instructions for setting up the Qwerty-Queue test equipment.  I skipped over those and looked for any marked Urgent.  There were two, one from Joyce in HR and one from David Katzenberg.

 

Joyce informed me that she’d gotten my payroll documentation scanned in using the new automated OCR software module that had just been installed.  The module reported that my dental and medical insurance premiums had been miscalculated and I had been underpaying my monthly insurance by $1.00.  Because of this underpayment, my insurance was being cancelled.

 

I quickly called Joyce and asked her about the email.  She didn’t know what I was talking about so I forwarded the email back to her.  Joyce’s normally quiet voice got even quieter when she let me know that the new company-wide FITZ software upgrade had included a new email module that automatically completed internal company processes and generated emails to indicate the end results, thus increasing company efficiency.  Joyce lamented that it soon meant she’d be out of a job.  I reminded her that increased efficiency meant she had time to concentrate on important tasks and not repetitive menial ones.  In this case, her important task was making sure that my insurance shouldn’t be cancelled over a software error.  Joyce agreed and promised to manually fix the error for me.

 

David Katzenberg had asked me to call him as soon as I landed.  I hung up the phone with Joyce and called David.

 

“Hello?”  The crisp, clear South African accent stirred with just a twist of Israel.

 

“David, it’s Bruce Colline.”

 

“Ah, Bruce.  Glad you could come to Florida on such short notice.  We’re having a dinner at Bonefish Grill tonight and would like you to join us.  Where are you?”

 

“We’re still taxiing to the terminal.”

 

“Ah.  Well, do you plan to check in to the hotel?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Very good.  I’ll have someone email you instructions for how to get to the restaurant.  Come as soon as you can.  We’ll be leaving the office in about 30 minutes.  We’ll just sit and have hors d’œuvres and drinks until you come.”

 

“Okay.”

 

As luck would have it, traffic was not heavy so I was able to get from the airport to the hotel in 15 minutes and to the restaurant in another 10 minutes.  I stood outside the restaurant and waited for David, Patrick or Constance to arrive.

 

A few minutes later, I saw Nathaniel O’Sullivan pull up in a Honda CR-V.  Nathaniel was the engineering manager from the Cumulo-Seven office in Shannon, Ireland.  What was he doing here?  He didn’t seem to be part of the L3 process that I knew of.  I waved at Nathaniel.  He looked shocked but got out of the car and walked over to me.

 

“A bit of a surprise to see you here, Bruce.”

 

“Same to you.”

 

“What brings you to the sweltering swamps of southern Florida?”

 

“Well, I was about to ask you the same question.”  I saw that sweat was pouring off Nathaniel’s pale, round face.  Nathaniel had the complexion of what I expected an Irish person to look like, light pink flesh and rosy red cheeks.  His dark-amber bushy eyebrows contrasted with the thinning light-brown hair.  He was wearing a heavy, long-sleeved dress shirt and a T-shirt underneath.  He was obviously not used to the heat.

 

“I suppose we’re both here to discuss the current problems with the L3 process.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Very good.  Oh look, there’s Greg Walters.”

 

I had not yet met Greg Walters but had heard he was tall.  I turned to see a man about two inches taller than me.  He had a long stride and waved at both of us as he quickly approached.  His long, gray hair was pulled back in place by a large paper clip, barely hiding a bald spot.

 

“Nathaniel!  Long time no see.  Who’s this?”

 

“Hey, Greg.  This is Bruce Colline.”

 

I shook hands with Greg.  “Hi.  I’ve heard a lot about you, Greg.”

 

“And I’m sure some of it is good but don’t believe it.  I hope the bad parts were juicy.  And of course, all of them are true.”  Greg snickered.

 

I nodded.  Over Greg’s shoulder I could see Constance, Patrick and David walking toward us, along with another individual.  His pale complexion and long-sleeved shirt gave me a hint he was from Ireland.

 

David reached me first and patted me on the back.  “Bruce, thanks again for getting here so soon.  Let’s go inside.”

 

 

At the dinner table, David introduced all of us as we received our drinks.  The only person I hadn’t met was the other Irishman, Samuel Purcell.  Samuel seemed shier than the rest of us, looking down when someone spoke his name and not speaking unless spoken to.  However, his responses always sounded wise and well thought out.  I assumed he was a lead engineer or scientist.

 

Nathaniel raised his glass.  “To the L3 process!”

 

“To the L3 process!” everyone responded, raising their glasses and taking a drink.

 

Constance sat across the table from me.  She seemed quieter than normal.  I couldn’t tell if it was because of the combination of Cumulo-Seven employees, the restaurant or just a mood she was in.

 

I raised my glass again.  “To Constance, for creating the L3 process.”

 

Everyone looked at me but didn’t raise a glass.

 

Greg cleared his throat.  “Actually, Bruce, I created the L3 process.  Constance was kind enough to actually take the process and put it into action.”

 

With my glass still help up, I smiled.  “To Greg and Constance, for making our customers happy!”

 

“Cheers.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

“Ditto.”

 

We gulped down our drinks.

 

Patrick stood up.  “I’m sorry to have to do this but I’ve got to go.  Bruce, I’ll see you next week and will catch up on all the good work you’ll all get accomplished over the next couple of days.”

 

Couple of days?  I thought it was only a one-day deal.  “Sure thing.”

 

After Patrick left, I ordered a bottle of wine.  Nathaniel ordered one, too.  Constance asked for a refill of her water.

 

By the time the main course arrived, I was feeling pretty good.  Constance and Samuel were deeply engaged in a conversation I couldn’t hear.  Greg, David and Nathaniel were arguing about the strengths and weaknesses of rugby and American football.  I grabbed a couple of napkins and took notes.  I thought about turning the notes into a short story.  Unfortunately, while eating my fish, I spilled sauce on the napkins and ruined my writing.  After another bottle of wine, I forgot about the napkins and didn’t remember them until the middle of the night at the hotel, when I had to get up to pee and tripped over a piece of bed linen.

 

16

 

The L3 meeting was supposed to start at 8:30 a.m.  Everyone showed up, including Geoffrey McCabe, head of the Shannon office.  Everyone except Constance, that is.  She dragged in at 9 a.m.

 

“Sorry I’m late.”

 

I laughed.  “And you’re the one on Eastern Time.”

 

“Actually, I think I’m early.  I thought the meeting was supposed to start at 8:30 Central Time, so I’ve still got 30 minutes.”

 

“You might want to check your Outlook calendar.”

 

“No, look.”  Constance held her cell phone up for me to see.  “My Treo says it’s supposed to start in 30 minutes.”

 

“And didn’t you know that the IT department sent out a general software update to all handheld devices and in so doing, they screwed up all the calendars?”

 

“No.  When did that email go out?”

 

“About 15 minutes after the updates were made.”

 

“That figures.”

 

David stood up.  “All right.  All right.  We can discuss these issues at our first break.  Since we are already behind, let’s skip introductions and jump right into the agenda.  Constance, Greg, which one of you wants to go over the L3 process?”

 

Constance looked at Greg, who was looking down at his tablet PC.  Greg sipped his coffee and spoke up.  “I’ll go first.  As many of you know, before Cumulo-Seven was formed after the merger of the Windsor and Tudor companies, there was only a handful of people handling customer calls.  We didn’t have very many products so it was relatively easy for our technical support personnel to be familiar with the operation of our products.  Thus, they could answer most of the questions posed to them by customers.  After the merger, the number of products they had to support increased dramatically and with the increase in products came an increase in complexity as interoperability issues came into play.  Customers just assumed because the product had Cumulo-Seven, Windsor or Tudor on the label that it would plug up to another switch with one of those names.  I don’t think we fully comprehended what our customer base would try to do with our products.

 

“Fortunately, at that time, we were in the process of opening an office in Shannon, Ireland.  I discussed the possibility of expanding the Cumulo-Seven technical support department so that we not only had personnel in our three key U.S. locations, Huntsville, Sunrise, and Redmond, but we could support the European customer base with a technical support group in Ireland.

 

“Geoffrey accepted this challenge gladly.  The only concern he had was the lack of working instructions or procedures that he, as head of Quality at the time, could submit for ISO 9000 certification.

 

“I assigned Constance to use the skeletal structure I had created for technical support workflow and modify it to encompass all the technical support groups in the world, including some of the satellite offices in Russia, India and AsiaPac.  David, if you’ll hand me that plug, I’ll hook my tablet to the projector and show you some of the flowcharts I’m talking about.”  Greg took the video cable from David and plugged it into the side of his tablet PC.

 

“As you can see, we currently accept technical support issues from several sources, with telephone support being the one we’re most familiar with.  We also accept emails, Web submittals and field visits.

 

“In the old days of Windsor, we pretty much only had telephone support although emails were catching on in popularity.

 

“In any case, Constance and I worked closely with Geoffrey’s group to make sure everything was fully documented.  Of course, documenting the process is only half the battle.  We then had to go on a road tour to convince the various technical support groups to accept this new formal method for tracking customer issues.  Needless to say, there was a lot of resistance.”

 

Everyone laughed but me.  I just smiled, having not been at Cumulo-Seven during the “old days.”

 

“After we got the buy-in from the groups, our next task was to figure out how to record the information from these calls.  Just because we had merged into one company didn’t mean that we were all using the same software.  We settled on Lotus Notes, since at that time we were using Lotus Notes for our email service.  I’m sure several of you can agree that going to Lotus Notes improved our customer service tremendously.”

 

There were several nods around the room.

 

“Even with a consolidated database of technical support issues, we still were not where we needed to be.  We were in the ‘good enough’ stage but nowhere near the excellence stage.  That’s when Geoffrey came up with a brilliant idea.  Geoffrey, you want to elaborate?”

 

Geoffrey stood up.  “Greg, if you’ll hand me that cord…”  Greg unplugged the video cable and handed the end to Geoffrey.  “Thanks.”

 

“I had just attended the biennial EU convention on ISO process improvement and had learned several new ‘tools of the trade’ for improving customer service.  On this first slide, you’ll see some of the seminar titles I attended.

 

“’Avoiding Red Tape in the Red Square – Getting Repaired Equipment through Russian Customs.’”

 

“’How to Write Off Your Trip to the Bahamas as an Educational Trip’ – hmm, don’t know how that one got in there.  I don’t remember attending that seminar.”

 

“’Digging for Gold – Mine Your Data for Hidden Trends.’  Now that’s the one where I figured out what we were doing wrong.  I returned from the convention and called on my two computer experts, Nathaniel O’Sullivan and Samuel Purcell.”

 

“On this next slide, you’ll see the conclusions we reached.  Number one, ‘Don’t disrupt the current technical support process.’  Nathaniel believed that the process seemed to be working well at the time, with most of our customers in synch with our process, so he didn’t want to give the impression that we were making drastic changes.

 

“Number two, ‘Leave the driving to us.’  Nathaniel and I felt that we truly understood how a global technical support department should be run and that was to give the technical support personnel on the frontline the feeling they were in charge.  That is, they should be allowed to make some judgment calls and feel empowered.  In actuality, they were on a short leash and were being controlled and directed from one location.  Naturally, that location was Shannon, central to all world markets.”

 

I looked at Geoffrey to make sure I was hearing him correctly.  He almost sounded like he believed himself.  I looked at the other faces in the room, expecting a little skepticism but the looks I saw told me they were in complete agreement with Geoffrey.  I had never thought of Ireland as the center of the universe – it didn’t mean it was but it didn’t mean it wasn’t, either.

 

I raised my hand.

 

“Yes, Bruce, what is it?”

 

“Excuse me for my ignorance here but…”

 

“Bruce, I know where you’re going with your question and I’ll answer here in a moment.  Just bear with me.”

 

Geoffrey looked back up at the projector screen.  “And finally, number three, ‘Good luck is made, not found.’  Nathaniel and Samuel presented to me a plan to write a computer program that would scour the technical support database to find the hidden gems, the trends in our customer problem reports that revealed a need for a greater product.  In other words, our customers would be telling us what they wanted by what was not working with the current product lines.  By using this new computer program, we’d be able to hit the marketplace with brand-new products that seemed to come out of nowhere because we wouldn’t have to reveal our hand with market surveys, test marketing and product beta testing.  Well, David, that about covers what I was going to talk about.  Bruce, did that answer your question?”

 

I started to speak, wanting to know more about why Ireland was picked for this project but decided it wasn’t worth asking.  I nodded.

 

“Thanks, Geoffrey.  Well, that wraps up the central part of our discussion for this morning’s session.  Are there any questions?”

 

Constance raised her hand.

 

“Yes, Constance?”

 

“I had sent out a list of recent technical support issues before this meeting but I don’t see on the agenda where we’re going to discuss these.  I could swear there was an agenda item for this list.”

 

“Thanks for bringing that up, Constance.  Team, she brings up a good point.  I’d like to block off an hour this afternoon…”

 

Constance interrupted.  “Do you think an hour’s enough?”

 

“Well, Constance, if you feel there needs to be more time devoted to this list, I suggest you get in touch with Ray Cowen downstairs and call a separate meeting to discuss tactical issues.  This is a strategy meeting and I don’t want to get too wrapped up in day-to-day issues that we lose focus on why we’re here.  Lloyd, is that okay with you?”

 

Lloyd Philton was the head of Technical Support, at least in title.  He acted as a laissez-faire, hands-off type manager, allowing his regional technical support supervisors to run their shows independently.  Lloyd looked like a Mafia don.  He was about 5’6”, smoked cigarettes as often as the ‘no smoking’ policy at work would allow him to get outside and light up.  He always wore silk dress shirts, dark slacks with heavy creases and a dark-blue blazer.  His leather dress shoes were tasseled.

 

Lloyd cleared his throat and coughed with a smoker’s rattle.  “Yes, that’s fine with me, but I had thought we’d agreed to leave current issues out of this meeting altogether.  With the number of issues that come in every day, we could be here for the rest of our work lives talking about ‘important’ customer issues.”

 

“Agreed.  Constance, why don’t you wait until later this week and have a conference call with the regional L3 coordinators and technical support supervisors?”

 

Constance looked at me.  “Bruce, I guess I’m stepping on your toes here.  Do you want to hold this conference call?  I think it’s really important.”

 

I flipped through the papers in front of me, looking for the latest agenda.  I had printed it off at the hotel that morning and had thrown it in with my other stuff.

 

“Well…we’ve got the regular L3 meeting coming up in a couple of days.  Is there anything on your list that we won’t be covering then?”

 

“Not really.  I just wanted to see if there was anything we could do to categorize these issues.  The way the spreadsheet is laid out now, I can’t tell what’s what.”

 

I could sense a lot of unease and impatience.  I looked around the room and noticed everyone squirming in their seats.

 

“David, why don’t we take our break now?  I’ll consult with Constance and get this off our agenda.”

 

“Sounds good to me.  Team?”

 

Everyone nodded.

 

 

Constance and I stayed in the conference room.  I walked around the table and sat next to her.

 

“So, what’s the problem?”

 

“Bruce, I know you’re the new L3 coordinator but I still feel it’s my responsibility.  I really apologize for dominating the L3 process so much. It’s just…”

 

Constance reached down into her purse and grabbed a cellophane-wrapped snack.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“This?  Oh, I’m on a low-carb diet so I’m eating these diet bars instead of munching on the doughnuts over there.”

 

Doughnuts?  How did I miss the doughnuts when I walked in?  I’m not exactly Homer Simpson but I do love my doughnuts.  I prefer cake doughnuts but agree that fresh, hot Krispy Kreme doughnuts are hard to beat.  In south Florida, though, there was a Dunkin Donuts shop on every corner.  Thus, the doughnuts in the conference room were from Dunkin Donuts.  Maybe subconsciously I noted the difference and wrote them off.

 

“That’s good discipline of you.  I can resist anything but temptation, myself?”

 

“Hnnh?” Constance mumbled while biting into her bar.

 

“Nothing.  Just a pun.”

 

I liked and respected Constance tremendously, and would like to have become a friend of hers, sharing funny stories and acting as props for each other during tough times at work.  But there was something between us that just didn’t jive at times.  I wrote it off as the difference between her undying belief in her faith and her devotion to family and my jovial nature, where nothing was off-limits for a good joke, not even my family.  I could crack some off-color jokes but even my tame ones seemed to ruffle Constance’s feathers.

 

“I don’t get it.  Never mind.  Anyway, this spreadsheet you created.  It’s not like mine.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  I took an informal survey from those who actually look at the spreadsheet on a weekly basis and I found out that there’s a bunch of people outside Technical Support who review this, including Sales, Marketing and upper management.”

 

“So?  That’s nothing new.”

 

“Well, when I asked Buster Kergycki, the U.S. Sales VP, what he thought of the spreadsheet, he told me he couldn’t make heads or tails out of it.  I asked him what he wanted so he called his sales guys in the field about it.  Turns out they had a bunch of suggestions that they thought no one was ever going to listen to.  I took the suggestions that made the most sense and reworked the spreadsheet for Sales.  I passed it by Marketing and they said it looked okay.”

 

“Well, it looks strange to me.  You’ve highlighted the names of the customers and shortened the description of the actual problem.  How am supposed to figure out what the problem is?”

 

“Well, those who need to know details about the problem can look it up in the database.”

 

“But not everyone has access to the database.  I know for a fact that we didn’t allow Sales to…”

 

“But the folks in Sales don’t care about the problem details.  They just need to know the customers’ names so they can call them up or visit them and schmooze a little, praising the wonders of Cumulo-Seven technical support and how soon we’re going to fix their problems.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I know it will take getting used to.”

 

“Very well.  I’ve got to take a break.  I’ll be right back.”

 

As Constance left the room, Nathaniel O’Sullivan walked in.

 

“Bruce, good to see you again.  I guess you made it back to the hotel room all right last night.”

 

“Me?  I thought you were the one you kept ordering rounds of drinks.”

 

“That’s right.  But I also called a cab to take me back to the hotel.  David arranged for someone to drive the rental car back for me.  You really should have done the same thing.”

 

“I hadn’t thought of it.”

 

“I suppose it’s a little more common in Europe for that sort of thing.”

 

I nodded, not sure why Europe would have cornered the market in cab rides back to hotels.

 

“Speaking of Europe, do you have any plans for visiting Ireland?”

 

“Oh, I’d love to, but I don’t see a reason why.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well, I’ve got the lab in Huntsville to run, in addition to my L3 duties.”

 

“But that seems like a perfect reason for visiting the Cumulo-Seven office in Shannon.  You’d really understand why our test lab is considered a world-class operation.”

 

“Sorry, I didn’t know it had that reputation.”

 

“You didn’t.  Well, then, shame on us for not advertising it better in the States.  Yes, we’ve won a few awards.  You really ought to see it.  Let’s see.  You work for Patrick Keating, don’t you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  I give Patrick a ring this evening and see if we can’t arrange a trip for you to Ireland.  I think it would really open your eyes to what you can do with that lab of yours in Huntsville.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“No worries.”

 

“By the way, since it’s just the two of us here, have you heard of a program called ‘Mortie’?  Do you know if anyone in Shannon is working on it?  I mean…”

 

“Bruce, I wouldn’t go around askin’ about that program.  As far as I know, it’s a dead one.  And besides…oh, look, folks are coming back for the meeting now.  Maybe we can talk about it some other time.”

 

 

The rest of day was spent reviewing the input parameters for the computer program that Nathaniel and Samuel had outlined.  I laughed to myself seeing that the definition of strategic was relative.  It seemed like nailing down specifications for a computer program fell into a tactical category of some sort.  I shrugged it off.  Since my feedback was not asked for, I spent most of the time on my laptop PC going through emails and surfing the Web.

 

That evening, I excused myself from attending another group dinner.  There was a play at the Broward Performing Arts Center I wanted to see.  Called Casting My Line, the play involved the changing relationship between a father and son highlighted in their annual fishing trip to a Canadian lake.  The play reminded me that I missed some of the moments in my youth that I could have spent with my father.  We had gone fishing a couple of times when I was a little kid but I was not the outdoors fishing type at that age and my father didn’t have the patience to turn me into one.  Instead, he took me to more local car races than fishing holes.  We later found that attending motorsports events were in line with both our tastes, so when I became an adult we got together every few years at a race track or vintage car event.

 

At the end of the play, the son went back to his father’s favorite lake in Canada and spread his father’s ashes across the water.  He set the urn down in the bottom of the boat.  He turned around.  With one arm, he lifted his son out of a baby carrier.  He picked up a lure with the other hand.  “Son,” he said.  “Your grandfather made this lure for me when I was five years.  He cast my first line for me.”  He stopped for a moment and caught his breath.  “I’ve thrown your father in the water today.  I’m going to bring you back when you’re five years old and we’re going to cast your first line so your grandfather can see how much you’ve grown up.”  The man set the lure back down and wiped away a tear.  The stage lights faded.

 

With tears flowing down my face, I headed out of the theater and back to the hotel room.  I called my parents to tell them what a great time I was having in Florida.

 

 

17

 

Back in Huntsville, I made sure that Hugh, Gerald and Brendan were able to keep things going.  Hugh showed me that the upcoming slate of projects to be tested meant that our lab would soon have a backlog of eight weeks, well outside the two-week schedule slip that Patrick had allowed me to put into my master project plan.

 

I emailed Patrick and told him about the backlog.  He responded that I would just have to make do until he could review the plan more carefully.  In the meantime, Patrick was going to be on the road for a while so he expected me to work with the other engineering managers to keep the projects on schedule as much as possible.

 

I stopped by Alan’s office later that week.

 

“Hey, Alan.”

 

“Bruce!  Come on in.  Take a load off.  Have a seat.”  Alan was wearing a peach-colored plaid shirt that day.

 

I sat in his guest chair and propped my feet on a cardboard box leaning against his desk.

 

“So, what brings you here?” he asked while he continued to work on his computer, answering emails at the speed of light.

 

“Well, I guess you saw where Patrick’s out of the office for a few weeks.”

 

“Yeah, I saw that.  I figure he’s got his hands full, coming up-to-speed on all those companies we just acquired.  We’ll be lucky if we see him in the next year.”

 

“What companies?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know.  It’s in the company press releases, I’m sure.  You know I don’t keep up with that sort of thing too much.”

 

“You know more than I do.”

 

“I shouldn’t.  It was in one of those company announcements the other day.”

 

Oh yeah.  I had forgotten that I had set up a filter for official company emails from Cumulo-Seven.  Those emails were stored in a separate folder from the rest of my incoming email.  “Yeah, you’re right.  Guess I ought to pay more attention.”

 

“So what do you need from Patrick that you think you can get out of me today?”

 

“Nothing in particular.  I just wanted to tell you that the way things look right now, there may be an eight-week delay in getting some of the test reports for your projects.”

 

Alan took his hands off the keyboard and leaned back in his chair.  “Eight weeks.  Eight weeks.  Bruce, that doesn’t mean anything to me right now.  Is there a specific date that you’re talking about?”

 

“Not at this time.  I’m just giving you a heads-up that unless project priorities shuffled around, I won’t be able to test all the products in the timeframe that was originally allotted.  I’ve only got three guys and the headcount load on my project list requires at least seven or eight.”

 

Alan pulled his gaze away from the computer screen and looked at me.  “Well, Bruce, I don’t see how this is my problem.  As Andy Taylor once said, ‘When a man carries a gun all the time, the respect he thinks he’s getting might really be fear. So I don’t carry a gun because I don’t want the people of Mayberry to fear a gun. I’d rather they respect me.’  Sounds to me like you’re trying to scare me with this eight-week delay and what I’m telling you is that I’d rather hear you come to me with a solution to that problem so I can respect you.  Know what I mean?”

 

I nodded.  “Yep, Alan, I do.  I hate having a problem without a solution but I thought I could bounce this off of you for some ideas for a solution.  You’ve been here for a while so I thought…well, I thought you’d have seen something like this before.  I’d rather implement a solution that flows with the Cumulo-Seven culture than try to force something down everyone’s throat and get a lot of resistance.”

 

Alan folded his hands across his chest.  “You know, Bruce, you make more sense than I give you credit for.  Maybe there is a solution out there that neither one of us has thought of.  I think Barney Fife said it best.  ‘All I’m saying is that there are some things beyond the ken of mortal man that shouldn’t be tampered with. We don’t know everything, Andy. There’s plenty going on right now in the Twilight Zone that we don’t know anything about and I think we ought to stay clear.’  It could be that the solution we find is something totally brand-new and has never been tried at Cumulo-Seven before.  You know, we have been known to try new things.”  Alan grinned.

 

I have a short staccato laugh.  I shot it out at Alan.  “Alan, you’re right.  And I think the solution is right under my nose.  You think I could borrow one of your lab technicians for about a week or two?  I know your guys have completed most of the engineering work.  Think they’d be willing to do a little software testing for me?”

 

“See, Bruce, that’s what I’m talking about.”  Alan tapped his temple. “Respect.  You have come up with a solution that’s both old and new.  In the Windsor days, we had to borrow PCs from our engineers in order to run some of our full-scale lab simulations.  Here you’re doing the same thing, only you’re borrowing our engineers because you’ve already got a boatload of new PCs in your test lab.  You’re thinking outside the box inside the box.”

 

I nodded.  I paused a second before speaking in case Alan had another pearl of wisdom to share from The Andy Griffith Show.  “Thanks, Alan.  So does that mean I can borrow one of your technicians?”

 

Alan leaned forward and put his hands on the edge of his desk.  “Now, Bruce, you know perfectly well that I can’t see from here what my technicians are doing in the locked-up lab across the hall.”  He pushed himself away from the desk and stood up.  “Let’s just go see what they’re up to.  If someone hasn’t already grabbed them for some other piece of important company business then I’ll be more than glad to loan them to you for a few days, keeping in mind that it’s not a permanent loan, and subject to change at a moment’s notice.”

 

“But of course.”

 

18

 

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, by using two electronic technicians and one engineering co-op from Alan’s group, I was able to give Hugh and his team the breathing room they needed to develop robust software test plans.  I also gave Hugh some spare time in the evening to work on a couple of automated test software scripts he was interested in adding to our suite of test programs.

 

Gerald took Hugh’s programs and worked out details of the test plans.  Gerald was the key to Hugh’s success.  Gerald’s detailed planning allowed Hugh to focus on the big picture.  I was glad to see Hugh recognize his strengths and weaknesses.  I knew he had the potential for being a good team leader but was stymied by Hugh’s insistence on doing all the work himself, instead of learning to delegate the work to others.  By setting up the hierarchical project team, I hoped that Hugh would be forced to trust Gerald and Brendan to do some of the work Hugh was doing, especially since Gerald and Brendan were more than capable of planning and executing the work.

 

Brendan stopped by my office one morning, just as I was settling in to check emails.  He always arrived around 7 a.m. and because I wanted to be the boss who was always available, I rearranged my lifestyle so that I could arrive at work around 7:00 or 7:15.

 

Brendan knocked on the door.

 

“Hey, Bruce, sorry to bother you so early in the morning.”

 

I had placed my computer against the opposite wall from the door so passers-by could see what I was working on.  I maintained an open door policy and that included not hiding my computer screen from visitors.

 

I suppressed a yawn and turned to face Brendan.  “No problem.”

 

“Looks like you need a cup of coffee, boss.”

 

“Yeah, maybe.  What’s up?”

 

“Well, I was talking with some of the guys down on the manufacturing floor.  They usually have a pretty good idea how well our company is doing just by the number of switches they have to produce in a day.  If the number goes up or down by a whole lot, then they’ve got a pretty good idea something big’s been happening at work.”

 

I nodded.  I knew that it didn’t take a quarterly videoconference from our CEO for many of the longtime Cumulo-Seven employees to know how well or how poorly we’d been doing.

 

“Well, anyway, Scott’s been noticing that his production line…”

 

“The production line that makes some of our new products?”

 

“Yeah.  Well, Scott says we’ve practically cut back to zero.  I figured that ain’t good.  With you being a manager and all, I thought you might know the reason why.”

 

Several scenarios popped up in my mind.  We had oversold the new IrisFocus switches in the previous quarter and were having to burn through inventory this quarter, or we had misjudged the market and either introduced the product too early or too late or our CEO was changing the U.S.-only factory policy due to fluctuating values in the dollar or it was one of those freak quarters when older products were just selling better than the newer ones so our operations VP was moving personnel around on the factory floor to grab as much revenue as he could from the older products, knowing it would also increase our profit margins and give him a nice little bonus.

 

“And if I do?”

 

“Well, I know how you are.  If there’s something really important about to happen, I know’d you wouldn’t keep it from us.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Fer instance, if I was about to buy a brand-new truck for my after-hours landscaping business and you knew there was going to be a layoff or something, you’d probably tell me, wouldn’t you?”

 

“You make a good point, Brendan.  Not that there is anything about to happen, but what if there was and I couldn’t tell you?  What if I was forced or made not to say anything, even though you know I’d want to?”

 

“Well, you’d find a way or if you couldn’t, you’d find some way or other of getting the word to me.”

 

“So your guy downstairs.  Has he seen this type of production slowdown before every layoff?”

 

“Well, there ain’t been many layoffs, at least not up here.”

 

“I know.  But on the factory floor…I mean, are the operations team members let go during a slowdown?”

 

“Shoot, yeah.  All the time.”

 

“I see. And has anyone downstairs been let go yet?”

 

“Nope.  In fact, they’ve brought in some temps to work on another line.”

 

“Well, my guess, and it’s only a guess, is that one of the other product lines is being ramped up to meet an unusual demand and that your buddy Scott’s products are not worth the lower profit margin to keep making this quarter.  It could be that we’re trying to change our production mix to meet a certain target before quarterly announcements.  In other words, I have nothing concrete that tells me the company is doing badly.”

 

“Okay.  But you’d tell me if anything bad was about to happen?  I mean, before I bought my truck and all?”

 

“I’d do what I could.  How soon are you going to buy the truck?”

 

“Well, I figured I wait until my next paycheck or two, so I could put a good chunk down on the down payment.  Why?”

 

“Tell you what.  If you can put it off, why don’t you wait a couple of weeks until I can double-check what’s going on.”

 

Brendan slapped the glass top on my desk, making a wet popping sound, as if his hand had been sweating.  “You see, that’s what I like about you.  You’re not afraid to take a chance on your employees.  I mean, any other boss and I wouldn’t even be having this conversation with ya.  Like I’d not be able to mention problems with MORTIE or nothin’.”

 

I raised an eyebrow.

 

“Oops, sorry, boss.  Guess I better get back to work.”

 

“Sure thing, Brendan.”

 

I turned back to the computer as Brendan walked out.  Brendan thought I was doing him a favor by checking on the condition of the company.  He did me a bigger favor by keeping his ears to the ground and passing even the most outlandish rumor to me.  Most of the time the rumors were just idle gossip but even then I was able to use the gossip to let my fellow managers know that being a boss didn’t just mean issuing commands and sympathizing with your employees’ problems.  It also meant making sure they were covering your back by keeping rumors in check.  And there was that Mortie program again.  I couldn’t let Brendan know I was ignorant of its significance.  That is, if it had any more significance.

 

I looked over emails.  HR had sent out an announcement that we could now review our paychecks and payroll information online, without having to go through HR personnel.  I clicked on the website link in the email and looked over my paycheck stub data.  Information for our upcoming paycheck was available.  For once, all my deductions looked right but my total pay was wrong.  I double-checked the paycheck stub and saw that my travel expense money was going to be split across two bank accounts.  Just as I was about to curse an unknown person waxing his surfboard in Daytona Beach, I realized that the two bank accounts belonged to me.  One of them was my personal bank account, which was set up to handle travel expenses.  The other bank account was the one I shared with my wife, where my regular paycheck was deposited.  For some strange reason, instead of my travel expenses going to my personal account, $75 of it was going to my personal account, $1200 was going to my joint account and a “remainder” was being put in my personal account, although the remainder was zero.

 

I called Joyce and asked her about the odd deposits for my travel expenses.  Joyce told me she was pulling up a screen in the payroll system that employees still couldn’t see.  The screen showed the original scanned documents we had submitted on our first day on the job.  I reminded Joyce that my original documentation had been lost.  Joyce didn’t remember anything about that but she could see that the date next to my signature on the scanned documents lined up with my start date.  That meant to Joyce that my original documentation had not been lost.  She pulled up the section where I had requested my travel expenses be deposited in an account different than my regular paycheck.  Joyce explained that when I had made that request, the payroll software module couldn’t accommodate my request so it had stored my request into a software feature request database and assigned my software request item number 751200.  Apparently, whenever the database programmer had updated the new module and processed my request, the new module could handle up to two different accounts for travel expense deposits.  Since my original request did not have a “No” in the field for the second bank account, my software request item number was used to distinguish the amount of money to deposit in the two accounts.  Why it was split $75/$1200, Joyce didn’t know but she promised to get to the bottom of it.

 

I called my wife and warned her that an extra $1200 was going to show up in our joint account and I would transfer it to my personal account.  My wife reminded me what a mess it had been for her at my last job when my American Express travel expenses were deposited in our joint account and my wife couldn’t keep our checking account balanced because she’d see the extra cash, think it was a bonus from my company, record the amount and then write checks against the amount, only to find our banking account had bounced because I had written a check to American Express and zeroed out the bonus.

 

19

 

Patrick finally returned from his trip.  He emailed me from the airport and told me he wanted to meet me in his office as soon as he got in.  I gave him 15 minutes to get from the airport to Cumulo-Seven and then walked over to his office.

 

Patrick was sitting behind his desk thumbing through a magazine.

 

“Bruce, close the door.”

 

I closed the door behind me.  To allay my nervousness, I reverted to a humorous opening line for our conversation.

 

“Not exactly around the world in 80 days, was it?”

 

“No, it was more like 30 days, I’m afraid.”  He sounded weary but somewhat refreshed.

 

“I bet you’re tired.”

 

“I should be.  With trips like these, though, there’s a sense of newness that helps you overcome the jet lab.”

 

“I heard you were visiting some of our new engineering offices.”

 

“Yes, I was.”  Patrick sat upright in his chair and motioned for me to move closer.  “Grab one of the chairs in the corner and have a seat.  I’ve got to talk with you about an important matter…”

 

“Important enough that I’ve got to sit down?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

I swallowed several times, trying to wet my throat as I pulled the chair up to the front of his desk.  Unexpectedly, I grunted as I sat down.

 

Patrick cleared his throat and coughed.  “Are you all right?”

 

I crossed my legs and placed the toe of my shoe under the lip of Patrick’s desk.

 

“Yep.  Sorry, don’t know what that was.”

 

“No problems.  I think there’s a bug going around.  Anyway, I know you’re wondering why you’re in here.”

 

“I figured it had something to do with your trip.”

 

“Actually, no.  At least I don’t think so.”

 

“So how was your trip?”

 

“It was good.  I got to meet a lot of new Cumulo-Seven employees who are not sure why the VP of engineering was swooping down on them so soon after their company was acquired.  You can be sure there was a lot of uncertainty.”

 

“At least the head of HR wasn’t with you.  I’ve heard that there’s worse fear when Whitney and J.B. visit an office.”

 

“I’m sure there is.  I’ve told them they should go on a visit when they’re not laying off anybody or shutting a division down.  But as busy as they are hiring and letting people go, it’s hard for them just to make casual visits.  Anyway…”

 

“Yeah, I’ve said the same thing to J.B..”  I shut my mouth when I saw that Patrick raised his eyebrows and kept his mouth open to speak, making it as clear as possible that he had the floor, not me.

 

“Anyway, I’ll be glad to talk to you about my observations at another time.  Right now, I’ve got a more important manner.”

 

I swallowed again, almost gulping for air, turning my attention from the minute changes in Patrick’s facial expressions to his bookshelf to see if he had added any new books to his collection of college engineering texts and management how-tos.  Nothing new.  I looked back at Patrick and nodded.

 

Patrick looked at the computer screen on the side table and then looked at his watch.  “Hmm…this is taking longer than I thought.  Unfortunately, Bruce, I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes.  I hate to rush things so I’ll get right down to facts.  It looks like we’re not going to meet our numbers again.”

 

I gripped the arms of the chair, noticing that a hangnail on my left forefinger was bothering me.  I lifted my finger and looked at the hangnail, which was begging to be chewed off.  I ignored the pleas and looked up at Patrick again.

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Bruce, I’ve run the numbers several times and no matter how I look at it, the addition of engineering groups from these new companies we’ve bought is taking a toll on our group.”

 

I let out my breath.  “You mean more layoffs, then?”

 

“I even created a chart that clearly showed our group in Huntsville is the most productive of all the other groups.  We not only create the most number of products but we also create the most profitable products for the company.  AND we have the lowest cost basis for any group in the company except the one in Shannon and the one in our India office.”

 

“So I’m guessing that since I’m your only Huntsville manager in here that the layoffs are coming from my group.  You know, I only have three employees.”

 

“Don’t forget you have one open EA.”

 

“Still…”

 

“Bruce, I’m sorry to say but we’re closing down your lab.”

 

I tensed up but smiled.  I couldn’t say a word.  I thought about Gerald and his family situation.  I wondered if I would be able to face Brendan again.  I knew that Hugh and his wife depended solely on Hugh’s income.  I knew my wife would be hard hit by this.

 

“Bruce, I’ve done the best I can but this is out of my hands.  If I could have changed this, I would.  I looked at the other engineering groups and saw plenty of room for headcount reduction…there’s more redundancy than normal...but I was clearly told we had to give those groups an opportunity of at least a year to prove themselves.”

 

A year?  How long had my group been together?

 

“Umm…well…Patrick…how long do you think we have?”

 

“I know what you’re thinking.  You’ve got all these projects lined up and you’re worried you won’t get them tested before we close down the lab.  At this point, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

 

I burped from the bottom of my throat.  A little croak.  “Well, it’s not that I’m worried but…”

 

“Bruce, I’m as shocked as you are.  I know you’ve hardly had time to get your feet wet and now this.  But I’m serious, I’ll give your team a few weeks to get all the test projects documented and in place for the other labs to absorb.”

 

“So this isn’t immediate?”

 

“Oh no, Bruce, I wouldn’t do that to you.  I know your professional concern.  You want what’s right and I’m going to make sure you get it.  Of course, by telling you this so soon, I expect you’ll not tell any of your employees what’s going on.  If we’re going to transition your projects smoothly, I don’t want HR looking over our shoulders to see if any of your employees are planning something suspicious.  And speaking of suspicious, you don’t think there’s anyone in your group who would react negatively if word of this got out?”

 

I craned my head to the right and looked up at the ceiling.  I thought about Hugh and knew that he didn’t have a single thought of “going postal” – if he knew he was going to be laid off, he’d just work with his wife on their science fiction hobbies.  Gerald was too much of a family man to want to do anything vindictive.  Brendan…I liked Brendan but I hadn’t worked with him that long.  I didn’t suspect him of anything but neither did I have enough information about his life to judge his character when faced with adversity.

 

“I’m not sure.  I know Hugh and Gerald wouldn’t do anything.  After all, they just went through a layoff and were just fine.”

 

“Yes, I thought you’d know about them.”

 

“But Brendan…”

 

“Yes?  Is there something you know about him?”

 

“Well, no.  It’s just that I don’t know him.  The only program that concerns me is one called ‘Mortie.’”

 

“Really?”  Patrick cleared his throat.  “I don’t think there’s any program called ‘Mortie’ for you to worry about.  Anyway, I’ll ask around and see if anyone else might know something.  In the meantime, keep this under wraps.”

 

“And there’s nothing we can do to stop this?”

 

Patrick looked at his watch.  “No.  But there is something you can do.  I think all of your team members are qualified employees or I wouldn’t have approved you hiring them.  Talk to some of the other managers outside Engineering.  If there’s a position available, I’d like to see if we can get your guys into those positions.”

 

My tension eased, seeing that Patrick really was trying his best.

 

“Thanks, Patrick.  I appreciate it.”

 

“Not a problem at all.  I know this is none of your fault.  Your team continues to operate beyond full capacity without complaining one iota.  If all of the engineering teams were like yours, we’d be climbing to heights beyond our wildest imaginations.  Anyway, I really have to be going.  Let’s get together later today to discuss some of the details.”

 

I knew Patrick was telling me he had to meet with HR before he could talk with me again.

 

“Sure thing.”

 

“And let’s wait to say anything to the other engineering managers.  I know if I said something to them right now, so soon after I returned from my trip, that they’d suspect they’re next.  And there’s nothing that leads me to believe that is so.”

 

“Okay.”

 

I returned to my office and closed the door.  I wanted to call my wife and tell her about the layoff but with so few scant details, it would only confuse her and make us both upset.  I thought about the details I had – a few more weeks of work, the whole lab being shut down…which from my previous experience meant taking an inventory of the lab equipment and creating a list of all projects in progress, including test reports to be run and software test programs to be backed up, packing up my office and performing the “dead man walking” parade out of the building with my employees.

 

I had been with Cumulo-Seven for under a year so could I or should I keep the Cumulo-Seven job off of my resume?  So many questions and so little energy to look for answers.

20

 

Patrick gave me the details about the layoff – three more weeks of work, 10 weeks of severance pay for Brendan for his years of services to Cumulo-Seven, and eight weeks of severance pay for Hugh and Gerald, since Cumulo-Seven had brought them on and let them go in such a short timeframe.  Patrick gave me no details about me because HR was still finalizing the details.  Patrick told me not to worry about it but just to concentrate on the job at hand.

 

I negotiated a permanent temporary loan of Alan’s employees, getting Hugh to cross-train them to able to perform Hugh’s, Gerald’s or Brendan’s jobs as a part of the disaster recovery plan that J.B. in HR had promoted a couple of months before.  During the cross-training exercises, I got Brendan to take an inventory of all of our equipment and Gerald to create an intranet website containing all the software test program and test reports for the Huntsville test lab.

 

I got permission from Patrick to let Woody Feathers down in Sunrise know about the lab shutdown so I could get Woody to make sure that the intranet site contained all the information he needed to take over the testing.

 

Woody reviewed the intranet site and recommended I get the Shannon test lab involved because Woody was not prepared to test the Qwerty-Queue equipment.

 

I contacted the Shannon test lab and shared the intranet site with them.  They agreed to test the Qwerty-Queue equipment as long as I was personally willing to maintain the remote link between Huntsville and Shannon.  Being short-handed, I agreed.  I assigned Hugh the task of setting up the remote link and made sure he gave me all the setup parameters.

 

The day of the layoff ranks in the top 5 worst days of my life, right up there with the day I graduated from high school, knowing my free ride days on my parent’s nickel were over, and the day I signed the loan agreement on my first house, knowing I was resigning myself to 30 years of secured debt before I’d be a free man again.  I was helpless, out of control of the situation.

 

Patrick asked me to meet with William and Whitney at 7 in the morning.  We gathered at a small conference room near the test lab.  In the conference room, which served as the main HR conference, I noticed there was no glass wall and the door had a special push-button keyed lock.  Whitney unlocked the door and let us in.  Patrick stepped in to join us after we had sat down.

 

Whitney looked down at the set of blue folders next to her on the conference table.

 

“Bruce, I expect you’re a little nervous.”

 

“A little, sure.”

 

“Well, if you don’t want to be with us when we announce the layoff to your employees, you don’t have to.”

 

I shook my head.  “Oh, I want to be there and be able to face each one of them.  I have let them down and want to let them know…”

 

Whitney frowned.  “Bruce, you have not let them down.  This is a matter of economic downturn, not something you did or didn’t do.”

 

I looked at Patrick, then William and back at Whitney.  “Economic downturn?”

 

William sniffed and rubbed his nose with a knuckle.  “A turn of phrase, Bruce.”  William sniffed again and sneezed.  “Sorry about that – I’ve got this annoying cold.”  William grabbed a tissue from a tissue box on a corner table and blew his nose.  “ You see, we couldn’t bring G&A and R&D costs under control and without the ability to increase revenue to make up for it…well, in the current business climate, there’s just not enough room to hide our R&D costs.”

 

I wanted to ask him if “economic downturn” was really the phrase we wanted to use with my employees but rolled my eyes, instead.  Now was not the time for a semantics argument.

 

Whitney handed me a piece of paper.  “Bruce, make sure the names on this list are correct.”

 

I saw the names of my three employees as well as some other names that were striked through in black.  My name was not on the list.

 

“It looks right.  I don’t see my name, though.”

 

Whitney looked at William.  “Why would you see your name?”

 

I looked at Patrick.  “Well, if the lab is being shut down…”

 

Patrick looked at William.  “William?”

 

William looked from Whitney to Patrick to me.  “Bruce, I thought you knew.  We’re keeping you on.  At least as long as it takes to complete the lab closure. And then…”

 

Patrick interrupted.  “Bruce, what William is trying to say is that you’re an important part of Cumulo-Seven management.  We want you to stay with the company but don’t have a position for you right now.  We thought that if we kept you on board as the lab transition manager, it would give us time to find a meaningful job for you within the company.”

 

I was stunned.  I looked at Whitney.  “In that case, I guess the list is okay.”

 

Whitney took the paper back from me.  I stored away in the back of my mind that there were other people being laid off today but I was not being told.

 

Whitney looked at her watch.  “This has gone faster than I expected.  Bruce, you have any questions?”

 

“Not at this time.”

 

“Good.  William?  Patrick?”

 

They both shook their heads.

 

“Very well, I guess the ball’s in your court, Bruce.  When do you want to tell your employees?”

 

“I’ve got one assignment I need Brendan to wrap up.  He should have a report done by 9.”

 

“Then let’s meet with your employees in the lab at 9:30.  Is that enough time?”

 

I nodded.

 

21

 

My team stood at attention when I walked into the lab with Whitney, William and Patrick.  J.B. was already standing in the back corner of the lab, chatting amiably with one of the guards, as if they’d just happened to run into each other while taking a shortcut to another part of the building.

 

Patrick started talking to the test team before we were completely stopped in front of them.

 

“Thanks to you for getting together.”  We faced my team.  It reminded me of chess pieces, the image reinforced by the alternate beige and tan color of the floor tiles.  Patrick looked at William and William nodded for Patrick to continue.  “I believe that William was going to say a few words but he has a cold this morning.  I’m all too glad to address you in his place.  As you can see, this is an important meeting…”

 

I watched the faces in front of me.  None of my guys would look me in the eye.  They all had the “I know what’s coming next” look on their faces.  Hugh and Brendan seemed to be pretty accepting but Gerald was sweating, his face was bright red and he didn’t look happy.

 

“…and that’s why Whitney is here with us.  It’s my sad duty to inform you that the Huntsville Test Lab is being shut down.”

 

Brendan grunted, choked back a cough and licked his lips.  “Shut down?  What does that mean exactly?”

 

“What it means is that we’re going to have to let all of you go.”

 

Brendan laughed.  “Let go?  Hell, I just came up here from Technical Support a few months ago.  You can’t let me go.  Surely, you could transfer me back to Technical Support or something?”

 

Whitney shoved three blue folders under her arm.  “Brendan, I know this is a shock to you.  To all of you.  Patrick, you want to finish up so I can address some of the questions like Brendan’s?”

 

Patrick nodded.  “Anyway, as you know, the Cumulo-Seven engineering group has been tasked with bringing costs under control.  After several go-rounds with our finance department, we figured out that the only surefire way to align our costs with management targets was to trim back on some of the hiring we’d been doing in the last year.  It became painfully obvious that the highest percentage of new hires was concentrated here in the lab.  Believe me, it was not an easy decision.  I had hoped to give you more time to prove yourselves as a team before there was any consideration of cutbacks.  Unfortunately, economic conditions didn’t agree with my plans.  Do you have any questions?”

 

Hugh, Gerald and Brendan were just looking at the floor, dumbstruck.

 

“In that case, Whitney, I guess it’s all yours.”

 

“Thanks, Patrick.”  Whitney pulled the folders from under her arms.  “These folders summarize the benefits and insurance packages available to you as part of an involuntary layoff.  In addition, I’ve provided some common questions and answers that you will want to read tonight after you’ve had a little while to consider your options.”

 

Whitney read the typed-up names on the labels on the front of the folders and handed the folders to each recipient.

 

“Now, we’re going to have to ask you to grab what you can and come back here in five minutes.  J.B. will help you, if you need it.”

 

J.B. walked up to the group, leaving the guard in the corner.  Because Hugh, Gerald and Brendan were facing away from that corner of the lab, they were not conscious of the presence of security in the room.  They also weren’t aware that I had asked them to gather on the side of the lab under the security camera.  I didn’t want to make my guys any more nervous than I knew they would be.  I knew there would be no trouble but I also knew that the security team needed as many assurances as possible that all would go well.  I hoped that the guard in the room was all that we needed but just in case, the security camera gave Security the opportunity to remotely watch the actions of the team and bring in more guards at a moment’s notice.

22

 

  Brendan emailed me from his home later that day.  He had failed to ask me what my plans were.  I asked for his home or cell phone number so I could talk with him personally.  I stepped outside of the office and called him on my personal cell phone.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Brendan, it’s Bruce.”

 

“You sorry son of a bitch.  Didn’t I ask you to warn me?”

 

“Sorry, man.  I couldn’t.”

 

“Well, you’re just lucky I hadn’t bought that truck yet or I might actually be mad.”

 

“I kinda figured.  And hey, I really am sorry.”

 

“Tell me about it.  You’re a Tennessee fan and you’re in the unemployment line with me first thing tomorrow.  How much more sorrier can you get?”

 

“Mmm, actually I’m not.”

 

“You’re not what?  Have you changed allegiances and started cheering for a real football team?”

 

“No, I mean, I’m not in the unemployment line.  I’m still with Cumulo-Seven.”

 

“But Patrick said he was closing down…”

 

“Yeah, I know what he said.  And he is.  He’s keeping me on to finish up all the details of the shutdown.”

 

“Well, why didn’t he keep me, instead?  I’m cheaper than you and I sure know a lot more about the equipment in that lab than you do.”

 

“I dunno, Brendan.  It’s just what happened.  Until this morning, I thought I was joining you guys.”

 

“You sure about that?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Well, all right.  So how long do you think you got?”

 

“I don’t know, exactly.  I think Patrick’s just playing it by ear, making sure the other test labs can absorb the equipment without setting them back too far.”

 

“Yeah?  That’s the only thing that gets me.”

 

I braced myself for Brendan to finally let me have it.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I mean, we didn’t do nuthin wrong and it’s like we’re getting punished for it.”

 

I laughed, knowing full well that’s probably what everyone felt.  “Brendan, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

 

“Then if that’s the truth, why don’t you go to Patrick and tell him about it?  Maybe he’ll feel guilty enough to hire us back.”

 

“It doesn’t work that way.  This is a corporation.  There’s nothing personal about this.”

 

“That’s what you think.  I think that somebody had it out for us because we were a pet project of the CEO and they wanted to show the CEO who had the real power.”

 

“I see what you mean, Brendan, but in the big scheme of things, the Huntsville lab was really small potatoes.  I mean, sure, we did important work, but our cost to the company was not all that great.”

 

“That’s not the way I see it.  I did what you said and figured up the cost of the equipment in the lab this morning.  Between the lab benches, PCs, test equipment and the heating and air conditioning unit, I estimated the total around a million bucks.  That ain’t no pocket change.”

 

“A million dollars?  Wow.  In the rush this morning, I forgot to look at the spreadsheet.”

 

Brendan guffawed.  “Would it have made any difference if you had looked at it before they kicked us out the door?”

 

I laughed with him.  “To be frank, not really.  But I could have at least shown William and Patrick the cost of their decision.”

 

“Well, you still can, unless they’ve cut off your email, too.”

 

“I will.”

 

“Hey, speaking of email, can you do me a big favor?”

 

“Let’s see…for an insulting Bama fan?  Maybe.  What is it?”

 

“If I give you the password for my work PC, can you archive all my personal emails and give me a copy?  And can you answer all my unopened emails with something goody-two-shoes that says I’ve left the company and to address all future emails to my home email address?”

 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Cool.  If you caint, I understand, but let me know so I can bug J.B. to let me come back to the office and copy them off under his supervision.”

 

“Don’t call J.B. just yet.”

 

“I got to.  He told us to call him back to arrange getting our personal items.”

 

“I see.  Well, in that case, why don’t you just get the personal files yourself while you’re here.”

 

“Caint.  J.B. said all network access was completely off-limits, even if our user ID and passwords had already been cut off.”

 

“Okay, we’ll work something out.”

 

“That’s why you’re the boss, boss.”

 

“If you say so.  Hey, before I forget, can you tell me more about your part in the ‘Mortie’ program?  I haven’t gotten the chance to talk with the other engineering managers to see what you were working on.”

 

“Boss, you ain’t gonna get anything from them other managers about MORTIE.  Hell, I thought you knew that.  Well, I gotta go.  I can’t trust my severance check to show up on time so I better go mow some lawns in order to make some money before the rent comes due.”

 

“Sounds good to me.  At least you’ve got a good outdoors job to fall back on.”

 

“Outdoors?  Hell, you go out there and mow grass in this heat.  It ain’t no picnic.  Anyways, I’ll call you when I’m coming back.  If you could get me a disk of all my personal files, I’d owe you one.”

 

“What about your passwords?”

 

“Oh, I thought you already knew.  It’s just Cumulo-Seven spelled backwards with an 0-3 at the end.”

 

“Is that Cumulo-Seven-0-3 spelled backwards?”

 

“No, it’s like I said.  It’s Cumulo-Seven spelled backwards with an 0-3 at the end.”

 

“So, it’s 3-0 and then Cumulo-Seven spelled backwards?”

 

“Look, I fergot you spell Tennessee 10-E-C.  Why don’t I just email my password to you?”

 

“Okay, send it to my home email account.”

 

“Roger, boss.  Just keep shakin’ them bushes.  Talk at you later.”

 

23

 

After all the issues were settled with my former employees, Patrick decided to keep the lab open on a very limited basis.  He didn’t know that I had worked with my team to make our lab access transparent so that all the equipment could be operated remotely.  Therefore, there was no need to completely break down the lab.  All I had to do was maintain the lab equipment as it was set up, making sure there was not any downtime.

 

I showed Patrick the inventory list that Brendan had put together.  Patrick was impressed that we were able to spend so much money in so short amount of time without anyone questioning the expenditures.  I reminded Patrick that my approval was for only $1000 so I approved a lot of miscellaneous purchases.  For most of the small purchases, I had gotten Patrick to sign off, since he could approve up to $5000.  I had to go to William when the requests were for purchases up to $10,000 and to Cyrill for purchases above that.  Thus, no one person in management had the opportunity to make a mental count of the money I’d spent.  It was a happy accident that the request levels bounced around the three approval levels while the total reached $1,000,000.

 

Patrick approved me to purchase anything I needed to make the lab’s network connection faster and more robust since I was the only one running it but no other purchases were to be made unless it was to replace faulty equipment.  Even at that, since everything was less than a year old, Patrick assumed that warranties were still valid so I shouldn’t have to spend very much on replacement equipment.

 

I kept in touch with my former team via email to make sure they were not getting depressed and avoiding contact with the outside world.  They surprised me by the number of job interviews they were having.  Gerald had a line on a job with a company where a work colleague of ours had gone after Elextronzia let us go.  Brendan was busy with his landscape company, and squeezing interviews in where he could.  Hugh was working the online employment agencies.

 

They also surprised me by their willingness to help me figure out the lab setup when I would get stumped by the assumptions built into their network diagrams and work instructions.  Since Hugh was staying at home for the most part, he would work with me on the phone to sort through the inner working of the network server, which routed all the Internet/intranet traffic through our lab.

 

One day, I ran a software program called Nettrapfic that scanned the network traffic for any hiccups in the system.  The program pointed to two other software programs, NOTINFER and PRISMAGORIC, that were tagged as hidden.  I jumped on my computer and searched the Internet for the names of the programs but got no hits.  I called Hugh’s house and in an artificially pleasant voice, his wife said he was unavailable the rest of the afternoon.  I didn’t know if Hugh wasn’t available or his wife just didn’t want him to be available.  I knew this meant I was on my own.

 

I went back to the small side room in the lab we called the network closet, where the rack with the network server and interconnected network cables was installed.  While I had been gone from the room, Nettrapfic had popped up a message that the two hidden programs had been putting the network server under almost full capacity.

 

It didn’t make sense.  Nettrapfic showed a running history of program usage and the two hidden programs had never used that much bandwidth before.

 

I noted the IP address of the remote computer that was interfacing with NOTINFER and PRISMAGORIC.  I called our IT department and asked them if the IP address looked familiar.  They told me the IP address belonged to the laptop computer of Paul O’Reilly.

 

I called Paul from the phone in the network closet.

 

“This is Paul.  How may I be of service?”

 

“Paul, hey, this is Bruce Colline.”

 

“Bruce Colline.  Are you the Bruce Colline who’s the test lab wunderkind, the one-man band, the Jack-of-no-trades who’s trying to run a lab by himself that he’s completely clueless about?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

“So what can I do for you?  Or better yet, let me guess what you want.  You’ve got a bunch of Qwerty-Queue equipment in your lab and you’re wondering if you could clear it all out to make space for a bingo parlor.”

 

“How did you guess?”

 

“Well, if you’re like everyone else in this company, you’re wanting to push all the Qwerty-Queue knowledge out the back door and straight into the garbage.”

 

Paul was playing my game, keeping the conversation on a topic of his interest and away from what I wanted to talk about.  I played along to keep him thinking he was winning the game.

 

“Why would I want to do that?”

 

“You tell me.  I’ve never worked on a project that had so much promise but was thwarted at every point when success was just in reach.  In fact, I was just talking to William about the equipment in your lab and he was telling me how important the equipment is and…”

 

I decided to stop playing his game.  Paul could take this topic and make anyone bored enough to want to get off the phone and leave Paul alone to do whatever it was he wanted to do when he played this phone game.

 

“And I’m sure William is right.  However, that’s not why I called.”

 

“Well, then if that’s not why you called, then you probably meant to call someone else because the Qwerty-Queue program is the only reason you should be calling me.  Why don’t you figure out who you meant to call and get on with your life?”

 

“Funny.  Seriously, I meant to call you.”

 

“You did?  Why are you calling me?”

 

I noticed the bandwidth percentage of the two hidden programs had dropped to zero.  Paul had been stalling me in order to shut down his connection.

 

“Well, Patrick had asked me to increase the efficiency of the network server in the lab.  I have been able to sort out all of the programs running on the server and shut down the nonessential services.  However, there are two programs that have been running that I can’t figure out and I don’t want to shut them down until I do.”

 

“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.  You’re a smart guy.  I’m sure you can surf the Net the rest of the day and figure it out.  I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes or I’d love to be able to help you.”

 

“Well, Paul, you’ve already helped me.  With the assistance of IT today, I was able to figure out that you’re the only one who’s been using those programs.”

 

“That’s interesting, Bruce, but knowing how IT is, I bet they’ve given you the wrong information.”

 

“I don’t think so.  I tracked the IP address to your laptop.”

 

“Are you sure?  You know that IP addresses are not permanently assigned.  I bet there’s a high probability that an IP address I was assigned yesterday lost its lease overnight and that IP address is being used by someone else in the company.  IT just thinks it still belongs to me because they’re looking at a report that was generated sometime before they left the office yesterday and were just too lazy to run a new report today.”

 

“Maybe.  Or it could be that it’s really your IP address.  Or I could ask IT to check again, if it’ll make you happy.”

 

“No need to bother.  It was me.”

 

A chill ran down my spine.  Paul was too quick to admit defeat so he must have something else in mind.

 

“Okay.  Well, can you cut back on the usage of those programs, then?”

 

“Tell you what.  Why don’t I stop by the lab and show you what I was doing, instead?”

 

“Works for me.”

 

I hung the phone with Paul. I saved a backup of the Nettrapfic history file, which showed the high bandwidth and Paul’s IP address.  I pulled a USB flash drive out of my pocket, plugged it up to the network server and copied the backup file to the USB drive.  I changed the name of the file on the USB drive to AOL-download.bmp to make it look like a personal file.  I then deleted the history file and the backup from the network server and put the USB flash drive in my pocket.

 

I turned to open the network closet door and it opened toward me, with Paul holding the door handle.

 

“Bruce, you’re slow.  I thought you’d at least meet me at the main lab door.”

 

“Sorry, I was checking to see if there were any other programs that I should be monitoring.”

 

“Oh, there’s not.”  Paul stepped in and closed the door.  “I’ve made sure of that.”

 

“You have?”

 

Paul smiled.  “Yeah, I knew you’d be so busy with just keeping the lab from breaking down that you’d miss the little things like the main server for the lab.  It’s an easy thing to do.”

 

“So you say.”

 

“Anyway, I needed some CPU cycles to run a simulation and figured if you weren’t using the server in your lab, I’d put it to good use.”

 

“Well, that seems logical but maybe you could have asked me first?”

 

Paul slapped me on the back.  “Oh, it’s much more fun to ask for forgiveness.  You know that.”

 

I looked at the computer screen and saw that the two programs were up and running again, hogging about 20% of the network bandwidth and almost 90% of the CPU bandwidth.  I looked back at Paul and he was staring at the screen, too.

 

“So, Paul, what are you doing right now?”

 

“What am I doing?  Well, it looks like I’m running a simulation again, doesn’t it?”

 

“I don’t know.  If you say so, I’ll believe you, but you haven’t said.”

 

“Hmm…good point.”  Paul looked up at the ceiling and back at the computer screen.  “You know, I hadn’t really been paying attention to how much of the network server I’ve been using.”  He seemed to be thinking out loud.  “There’s almost no storage on the local hard drive that I’ve taken up…and I know that I’ve throttled back the RAM space so what am I doing that’s heating up this thing?”

 

Paul looked at me and shrugged.

 

“So, Paul, are you going to tell me what those programs are?”

 

“Should I?”

 

“Nothing says you have to.  But nothing says I have to keep them on this server.  I could cut off read-write access to the hard drive and force you to run these simulations of yours on your laptop.”

 

Paul frowned and shook his head.  “Don’t do that.  My laptop is way too slow.  I wouldn’t be able to get any results for weeks and William needs…”  Paul went quiet and gave me a fake smile.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me William was asking you to run these simulations?”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“But you…”

 

“Bruce, has Patrick told you about any organizational changes coming up?”

 

“The only thing he told me is that he hoped to have me in a new position before too long.”

 

Paul rocked his head back and forth, in a sideways nod.  “Yes, I could see him telling you that way.  Well, in the next couple of days, it’s going to be official so I don’t think telling you now is going to do any harm.  William has been promoted to head of Corporate Research.  His new title is CTO, which means that he’ll also be taking charge of the IT department.”

 

“Wow.  Guess that means William has a big organization under him now – Engineering, IT, and…”

 

“That’s not the only change.  William is moving out of Engineering.  Patrick has been informally running the global engineering structure for some time now while William negotiated this move.  With William’s promotion, Patrick is being promoted to Senior VP of Engineering.  All regional engineering offices report to him now.”

 

“That’s great for Patrick.  I guess I won’t be working for him anymore.  Do you know who’s taking over the Huntsville engineering group?”

 

“No idea.  But I can tell you that William offered me a job in his organization.  I accepted the job a couple of days ago.  From what I understand, the Qwerty-Queue group will be moved under Nathaniel O’Sullivan’s organization and will be based out of Shannon.”

 

I watched the computer screen.  I wasn’t sure if Paul was using this time for more delaying tactics.  I knew he was telling the truth but I also knew he had ways of using the truth to his advantage.  He hadn’t made his millions by waiting for things to happen to him.  I saw no change in the computer usage patterns.

 

“Sounds like even better news for you.  But what you still haven’t told me is what these programs are doing and why you have to use my network server.”

 

“You’re right.  And you can probably guess that I won’t tell you anything about them.  What I will tell you, since it’s not a secret anymore, is that, yes, I am running these programs for William.  You might call it a skunk works project or pure research or whatever but I’m pretty sure you have plenty of things to do in the lab than sit here and watch numbers go up and down.  Unless there’s an urgent reason why you have to delete these programs, why don’t you let them run for a couple of more days and then I’ll have them off of here without any reason to trouble you further?”

 

I grabbed the computer mouse and shut down Nettrapfic.  “Paul, you’ve made it clear.  I’ll tell Patrick that the server is as efficient as I can make it if you’ll tell me about a program called ‘Mortie.’”

 

“Perfect.”  Paul shook his head.  “Wait, what did you say?”

 

“So you know something about the ‘Mortie’ program?”

 

Paul laughed.  “Well, if you want to call MORTIE a program, then that’s your choice.  I don’t know that I would.  By the way, do you know much about RDP?”

 

“Sure.  Remote Desktop Protocol.  I’ve read about it.  It’s Microsoft’s way of competing with our remote access switches just like VNC or VMWare.”

 

“In a way, yes.  Do you think you could set up a remote desktop connection for me to play with on this server?”

 

“Right now?”

 

“No, just anytime before you leave would be fine.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Good.  And I wouldn’t bother telling anyone about the reorganization just yet.  You know how fluid these things are until they’re announced.  It’s…it’s…well, I guess you could say it’s somewhat associated with MORTIE.”

 

I nodded.

 

Paul slapped me on the back and opened the door.  “I give you credit for finding those programs.  I figured I’d be done and out of your way before you knew anything had happened.  Thanks for contacting me directly about it.”

 

I nodded again, letting silence speak for itself.

 

 

24

 

Patrick sent out an email that afternoon, calling for a general engineering meeting at 9:00 a.m. in the engineering design lab the next morning.  He asked the engineering managers to meet him in his office at 8:45 for a quick briefing beforehand.

 

We filed into his office.  Patrick sat behind his desk and wore a big smile on his face.

 

“Sit down.”

 

Knowing the meeting was going to be short, we avoided our usual playful arguments about who got which chair closest to the window and who got stuck with the chair with the broken arm, grabbed the nearest chairs and plopped down.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Patrick stood up and walked over to the window.  For a few seconds, he watched a hawk or buzzard circling in the distance.  He slowly turned to face us.

 

“Some of you are aware that changes have been taking place within the Cumulo-Seven organization, changes that, I might add, are quite beneficial to the long-term success of the company.  Some of these changes will affect you more than others.”

 

Patrick turned back to the window.

 

Mark spoke up.  “What kind of changes are you talking about?  Do you mean more layoffs?”

 

Patrick quickly spun around.

 

“As a matter of fact, no.  We’re actually going to be hiring more people.  One of the changes I made was to correct a previous error.  Bruce is back in charge of the test lab and will be able to hire a couple of folks.”

 

Mark patted me on the back.  “Way to go, Bruce!”

 

“And, I’ve put Alan in charge of the Huntsville engineering group.”

 

We looked at Alan.  He nodded to us in a form of taking a small bow.

 

“And I know you wonder what this means about me.  I have taken over the position of head of global engineering.  This is an exciting time for all of us in Huntsville and I’m excited for those of you taking on more responsibility.”

 

Mark furrowed his brow.  “So if you’ve moved into William’s old position, then…?”

 

“Ah yes.  Well, William is moving into the role of CTO.  He is now in charge of IT and a new department called Corporate Research.  With the important role that corporate research will take in our company, William wanted to avoid any distractions.  I offered to take some of the engineering management responsibilities from William and ended up with the whole global engineering team.  I’m sure you all can see this means the Huntsville group will be heavily involved in the evolution of changes for Engineering.  That’s why I called you here today.  I’ll help Alan learn the ropes of his new job.  I’ll also be depending on you guys to step up and accept more responsibility as well.  I expect you to be looking at new ways for Engineering to add value to our company.”

 

Patrick turned to look back out the window.

 

“Are there any questions?”

 

Mark looked at me.  “I guess Bruce already knows what’s ahead for him.  Do you have similar expectations for the rest of us?  I mean, have you already thought about our next quarterly goals and what we should be shooting for?”

 

“No, Mark.  I haven’t.  This is all very new and we’ll need to work these details out together.”

 

“Do you think there will be management advancement opportunities for the rest of us?”

 

“Mark, certainly there will be opportunities ahead.  Whether they involve job title changes or what, I cannot tell you.  In the near-term, we have to focus on keeping our numbers in line.  Anybody else?”

 

The only response was the sound of creaking chairs as we shifted in our seats.

 

“Okay, then, let’s meet the rest of the team in the lab in five minutes.  I have a quick call to make and then I’ll be right in there with you.”

 

25

 

 

After the news of the reorganization was announced, I worked with Patrick and J.B. to open up two EAs.  As soon as the EAs were approved, I called Hugh to see if he was still available.  He told me that he had not yet found a job but Gerald had.  I called Gerald to see if his job was good or if he was interested in returning to Cumulo-Seven.  I could tell Gerald tried not to laugh in my face.  He assured me that his new job was very good and very secure.  He was not interested in coming back to Cumulo-Seven.  He suggested I call Brendan to see if he had found a job.

 

Brendan was sitting at home emailing some friends when I got in touch with him.  He wasn’t a bit surprised to learn that Cumulo-Seven had reopened the test lab.  Since his severance was running short, he was all too glad to come back to work for me.  He still didn’t blame me for the layoff.  He blamed himself for not shaking the bushes a little harder.

 

I pushed the final paperwork through the approval process, completing the hiring of Hugh and Brendan in a record two weeks.

 

While I was working the signatures through flattery and bribery (“sign this while I’m here and I’ll make sure you’re nominated for the next ‘employee of the month’ bonus”), I inquired about the status of the Qwerty-Queue equipment.  I knew what Paul had told me about the Shannon engineering team absorbing what was left of the Qwerty-Queue group, but Patrick had not officially announced it and it did not show up in the org chart that was emailed to engineering distribution list.

 

Patrick suggested I contact Nathaniel O’Sullivan to see if the folks in Shannon were interested in helping me get the Qwerty-Queue equipment tested while I was still short-handed in the lab.

 

I emailed Nathaniel and summarized what I officially knew about the changes taking place within the organization.  Even though it was 11 in the evening over there, Nathaniel responded back and told me to call him as soon as I got in the office the next day.

 

I called Nathaniel at 7:00 a.m.

 

“Cumulo-Seven International.  This is Nathaniel.”

 

“Nathaniel, it’s Bruce Colline.”

 

“Very good of you to call me so promptly.  What time is it over there?”

 

“7:00 a.m.”

 

“Well, that’s certainly earlier than most folks arrive in Huntsville, from what I’ve seen on my visits there.”

 

“’The early bird gets the worm,’ I suppose.”

 

“Yes, indeed.  So I’ve got your email here in front of me, Bruce.  What is it about the Qwerty-Queue equipment that I can help you with?  Are you having trouble with a network collision or something?”

 

“No.  I just wanted to make sure that the equipment didn’t get lost in the shuffle.  I’ve got a bunch of new tests to be run on the new ‘Alleycat’ project and I may need the lab bench space.  In other words, I think I’ll need to box up the Qwerty-Queue equipment since there doesn’t appear to be a need to run any tests on it anytime soon.”

 

“Bruce, hold on minute.  Let me see if I can conference in our head of Marketing, Donnagan Garrykennedy.  I think he’s got some new information about a customer feature that may need to be implemented on Qwerty-Queue.”

 

The phone clicked and went dead.  I looked at the LCD display and saw I was sitting on CONF, a dead zone of sorts where calls were parked while a person was trying to make a three-way call.  If the third party was unavailable, the caller often made the mistake of hanging up the phone.  The phone clicked again and I thought that Nathaniel may have hung us up.

 

“Bruce, are you there?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Donnagan?”

 

“Yes, Nathaniel, I’m here,” came a voice that sounded like the “Lucky Charms” cartoon character from some breakfast cereal commercials of my youth.

 

“Okay, good.  I’ve got both of you on the phone.  Donnagan, Bruce is the head of the Huntsville Test Lab.  He’s run into a conflict with the use of his lab space and is wanting to push the Qwerty-Queue equipment out of the way.  Bruce, Donnagan is our head of Marketing here in Shannon.  He’s responsible for the TINZ, Qwerty-Queue and our new DUNZ product line.  Donnagan, have you any update for Bruce about Qwerty-Queue?”

 

“Bruce, glad to meet ya, or should I say, ‘Howdy, partner,’ like that great U.S. actor of yours, John Wayne, would say?”  Donnagan mimicked John Wayne’s voice.  “’I’ve heard an awful lot of good things about you, pilgrim.’”

 

“Howdy to you, too, Donnagan.”

 

“So you’re running into a little problem with our equipment?”

 

“Well, not really.  It’s just that the ‘Alleycat’ project requires about 64 server and client PCs to be hooked up at once and I’m running out of benches to stack up the computers.  I could really use those Qwerty-Queue benches.”

 

“’Alleycat’?  Well, I certainly know how those’ll get out of hand.  They say the plague was caused by rats but I say there weren’t enough cat reproduction going on to keep the rat population under control.  Sounds like you’ve got the opposite problem now, eh?”

 

I saw that Donnagan had a keen sense of humor, even if it was a bit odd-sounding to my American ears.

 

“I suppose.  Nathaniel said that you might need to use the Qwerty-Queue equipment, though?”

 

“He did, did he?  Nathaniel, are you trying to put words in my mouth?”

 

“What was that?”  Nathaniel sounded distracted.

 

“Bruce, Nathaniel’s always multitasking.  What he probably was trying to say for me was that I’ve gotten a request from one of our customers to see if we can add a feature or two to the next release of Qwerty-Queue firmware.  I haven’t decided if we’re going to update the firmware for that old product line or just make sure that the first release of DUNZ has those features in it.  Right, Nathaniel?”

 

“Mmm-huh,” Nathaniel mumbled.

 

I appreciated Donnagan’s straightforward answer but he wasn’t giving me the information I needed. 

 

“That’s fine, Donnagan.  Have you established a timeline for these decisions?”

 

“Timeline?”

 

“Yes, do you know when you’ll have decided which release you’re going to pursue?”

 

“Well, no.  It’s not a matter of timing, at this juncture.  Nathaniel, shall I elaborate?”

 

“What’s that?  Oh, I know what you were saying.  Bruce, I think we need to get you over to Shannon to meet our lab team over here.  Then, you could decide how you want to handle a situation like this.”

 

“I’m not sure I’ve got the time.  Right now, it’s just me running the lab and…”

 

“But Patrick assured us you had your full complement of lab personnel.”

 

“I will but I haven’t actually got them in here yet.”

 

“Bruce, hang on a second.”

 

Nathaniel put me on mute.  About 30 seconds later, he talked to me again.

 

“Bruce, it looks like Donnagan and I will be visiting Huntsville early next week.  Why don’t instead of you coming to Shannon, we visit with you first, see what it is you’re talking about and then we’ll work with you and Patrick to arrange a visit to Shannon for you?”

 

“Okay but I anticipate my team coming back to work for me on Monday.  I’ll have to work around my schedule with them to meet with you.”

 

Donnagan laughed.  “Monday?  Oh no, Bruce, we wouldn’t try to impose on you on the first day of the week.  Let’s say we’ll stop by your office sometime Tuesday.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Nathaniel sighed heavily over the phone.  “You won’t be needing to move the Qwerty-Queue equipment until then, will you?”

 

“Not if you are planning to visit.”

 

“Good deal.  Tuesday, it is.  Talk to you then, Bruce.”

 

26

 

 

Nathaniel knocked on my office door.

 

“Bruce, good morning to you!”

 

I yawned.  I hadn’t slept well the night before.  Between the harmonious snoring of my wife, me and our cats, I had probably woken up at least a dozen times.  Around 4 a.m., I went into the living room and curled up under an afghan on the sofa.  As usual, the cats joined me, thinking I was going to rest a few minutes before getting up to feed them or play with them.  We slept until the alarm went off at 5:30 in the bedroom.

 

“Oh, good morning, Nathaniel.  Come in.”

 

Nathaniel stepped in and shook my hand.  He gestured to the person who had stepped in with him.

 

“Bruce, this is Donnagan Garrykennedy.  Donnagan, Bruce Colline.”

 

Donnagan looked to be about 5’4” tall, had a slim build, black hair with a few white hairs thrown in for good measure to highlight the wrinkles around his eyes.  I guessed he was in his mid-30s.  Donnagan’s striped dress shirt was pressed, as was his ultralight wool blue slacks.  He looked European.

 

Donnagan grinned and stuck out his hand.  “At last, we meet, Bruce.”

 

“Same to you, Donnagan.”

 

We shook hands.  Donnagan sat down in the spare guest chair and I returned to my perch behind my L-shaped, “manager level” desk, with the bottom of the L up against the wall and serving as a place for my computer.

 

I turned to Nathaniel.

 

“Well, what brings you guys to Huntsville?”

 

“Oh, we have several projects to follow up on.  And I’ve got to get right back to them after this meeting.  First of all, Bruce…” Nathaniel nodded at Donnagan.  Donnagan leaned over and pushed my office door shut.  Nathaniel turned back to me after the door closed.  “…we need to know how much you’ve been involved in the Qwerty-Queue projects.”

 

“Not much.  I pretty much leave the testing to my guys.  Why?”

 

“Well, you’ve probably heard that the Qwerty-Queue group is being broken up.”

 

“No, I hadn’t.  Sorry to hear it.”

 

“It’s not a problem, Bruce, but thanks for saying it.  However, I’ve got a problem.  You see, I can’t run the Qwerty-Queue programs right now as it is and with the expected resignations of the Qwerty-Queue management team, I’ll have even more to worry about.”

 

“Yes, I can see that.  Does this mean you want me to hold off shipping the equipment to you?”

 

Nathaniel looked at Donnagan.

 

Donnagan leaned toward me.  “Well, Bruce, how would you like to be in charge of the Qwerty-Queue group?”

 

“Well, I don’t know.  I’ve still got the lab to run.”

 

“Oh, I don’t mean the whole thing.  Right now, Carol Stone is running the AaBbC cable program for the Qwerty-Queue team.  We were wonderin’ if you’d like to run the AaBbC cable program so that Carol can be freed up for some other programs she’s running.”

 

“How much work is involved?”

 

“You’ll have to keep track of the design and production of a few computer cables, that’s all.”

 

Nathaniel nodded.  “And if you’re concerned about Patrick’s approval, I’ve already spoken with him.  He’d be glad to let you get involved with this.  Thinks it’s a great opportunity for you to get your feet wet, as he said.”

 

I crossed my arms and looked up at the ceiling.  Was this what Patrick wanted me to do or was it just a coincidence that this job came up and Patrick took advantage of it?  It seemed like an interesting job.  I had called into a Qwerty-Queue weekly conference call one time when Hugh couldn’t attend.  I didn’t announce my name on the call and just sat quietly listening to what was said, in case any testing needs arose.  The only thing that was discussed was an AaBbC cable that Carol had gotten made at a local contract manufacturer.  The length of the cable was a few millimeters too short and Carol was going back and forth with the engineers to determine if the original design was wrong or if the contract manufacturer had cut the cable to the wrong length.  If that’s all I had to do, then the job couldn’t be too demanding.

 

“Sure.  I’ll give it a try.”

 

“Good.  Then you’ll need to call Carol and get all the information she has.  I suggest you call into a couple of the weekly meetings before you completely take over the position.”

 

“I’ve called into the meeting before.”

 

“Very well.  You should probably talk with Patrick, too.  Although he granted me permission to talk with you, I think he wanted to talk to you before you started.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And if you do take this job, I’d encourage you to visit us in Shannon.  If the Qwerty-Queue equipment is moved over there, you’ll want to see what the setup looks like.”

 

“I’d like to.”

 

Nathaniel stood up.  “I assume you know not to mention the shutdown of the Qwerty-Queue engineering team.  We’re working on the details while we’re here.  We assume you’ll want to be part of the new team.”

 

It was becoming obvious to me that Nathaniel knew something I didn’t.  Was Patrick shutting down the lab again?

 

 

After Nathaniel and Donnagan left, I sauntered over to Patrick’s office.  He was typing an email as I walked into his office.

 

“Oh hey, Bruce.  How’s it going?”

 

“Fine.  You got a moment?”

 

Patrick pushed away from his computer desk.  “Sure.  What can I do for you?”

 

“Well, I just talked with Nathaniel O’Sullivan and Donnagan Garrykennedy.”

 

“You did?  That’s great.  Were you able to work out anything about your lab equipment?”

 

“Yes and no.  It looks like I won’t be able to ship the Qwerty-Queue equipment to Shannon for a few weeks.”

 

“Uh-huh.  And how does that affect your test schedule?”

 

“I don’t know yet.”

 

“Any hunches?”

 

“I’d guess that we’re still pretty tight.”

 

“Well, there’s not much I can do right now.  We’re still watching the headcount.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  Anyway, I came over here for another reason.”

 

I looked out Patrick’s window.  Being so close to the door, my view out the window was only the tops of trees.  No chance to see birds flying overhead or the comings and goings of Cumulo-Seven employees’ vehicles down in the parking lot below.

 

“Go on.”

 

I shook my head.

 

“Sorry.  Well, it looks like Nathaniel wants me to manage one of his Qwerty-Queue programs.”

 

“Yes, he mentioned that.  So what are your thoughts?  Are you interested?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it.  This’ll be good for you.  Of course, if you think it’ll affect the lab, then don’t take it.”

 

“I don’t know yet.  Let me get with Carol Stone and see how much work is involved.”

 

“Good plan.”  Patrick looked at the computer screen.  “Well, Bruce, I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes and need to fire off a few emails beforehand.  If you run into any problems, let me know.”

 

“Will do.”