“Spencer,” Big Al returned, still in his cheery mood. “Do you know that we caught over 50 violators just this morning? That is not…”
“Listen!” I interrupted Big Al’s train of thought. “I’ve discovered our problem. Our waiting time is too long.”
“I saw the averages; they are not that bad.”
“But they peak during rush hour traffic in the morning. There can be as high as a 30-minute wait.”
“Is that what your wife said? You know you cannot trust women. I’m surprised she fooled you. You’re so naive.”
“I’ve done some research on the matter. I definitely need more staff and equipment for peak hours.”
Big Al chomped on his cigar with a worried look. “I was meaning to talk to you about that. We’re starting to experience a negative cash flow again. But it’s nothing serious.”
That was not difficult to believe. I saw some of the numbers from accounting. We were not a revenue-generating machine. It was mostly red-ink expenses and not enough green-ink income. And then there was our unreliable accounting system that would make a crooked car salesman blush. City money was fungible; our funds might end up anywhere, depending on how the city council voted.
“So, what about more people and equipment to fix this problem?” I felt confident pressuring Big Al. I knew the lingo of big-budget spenders. I knew he wanted to make our department grow larger than any business in Hemet, or California for that matter.
“The city treasurer said we need to cut back on spending. How about this—just hire more people but hold back on extra equipment?”
“We already have far more people than stations.”
Big Al stepped back and rubbed his chin. He seemed to be unable to figure out the problem.
I just folded my arms and waited. I knew he would come up with some harebrained idea. He always did.
“Ahh…well, I will find some way to get more equipment and personnel. Don’t I always find a way?”
With those few encouraging words, Big Al left for his extended lunch hour that was becoming longer than the weekend. I knew he would come up with something. His pay increased as more workers came aboard our money-leaking ship, but maybe that was how the system worked. If drivers could not call in, they had two choices, stay home and lose their job, or risk getting caught and paying a heftier fine. And with each additional fine, the city would get a little richer. I wondered if Mayor Quinn and the City Council knew about this rip-off. Maybe it was really their idea.
* * * * *
I had worked late that night and arrived home exhausted. Sarah had already cooked dinner and left me a hearty dish of leftovers in the refrigerator, which was a newly-instituted ritual. After I started eating, I noticed Natasha hiding under a chair, all scratched up and bloody. Usually, she avoided catfights as much as she shunned baths. But this time, after getting antiseptic and a little loving care, she was eager to go outside for another round. When I heard growling and hissing coming from the backyard, I decided never to let her out again. I held her in my arms and rocked her back and forth. If I liked it or not, she had become my baby.
“Listen to the cats screaming.” Sarah came into the kitchen wearing her thin nightgown. “Coming to bed?”
“Yeah,” I said distracted by Sarah’s almost see-through sleepwear. “Sounds like a battle out there.”
“Cats will be cats,” Sarah almost purred herself.
“I suppose so.”
Sarah moved closer to me. “I just wanted to say I was sorry. You know, about not calling the DED.”
I nodded and stared down at Natasha. “I should keep her inside tonight. Something is not right.”
“Oh, she’ll be fine.” Sarah leaned over Natasha and tried to pet her, but I stopped her. “You’re not supposed to do that. Remember? You’re allergic to cat hair.”
“I know,” Sarah said as she backed away. “I just forgot.”
Before I could figure out how Sarah could ever forget her cat allergies, Natasha acted up. She started to struggle and roll to get away from me. When I released her, she ran to the locked cat door and pawed frantically. She wanted out. I was positive she wanted to join the others and socialize. Yet, Natasha was mostly a house cat. She rarely ventured out at night.
“Let her out,” Sarah said, not understanding the problem
“She might hurt herself,” I replied. I somehow knew that if I opened the door, I would not see Natasha for days.
“Don’t be silly. She just wants some exercise,” Sarah insisted.
“No. She doesn’t get along with other cats.”
“Spencer, you’re anthropomorphizing. She’s just an ordinary cat. She is probably in heat. Just like me.” Sarah kissed my ear, walked a short distance, and wiggled her butt. “Females have to do something to get the attention of males.”
That was the best invitation I had had all day and I followed Sarah into our bedroom despite Natasha’s cries for freedom. Talk about being in heat. Sarah had turned into a wild pussycat in her own right, wanting every sexual gratification that I could ever fantasize.
Natasha continued to meow most of the night until the cat noise outside finally stopped. I had never seen her so resolved to go outside. Maybe it was just over mating. Maybe there was nothing wrong at all. And yet, I had this strange premonition that her odd behavior had something to do with our human problem. As I slowly fell into an exhausted sleep, I attributed it to my over-active sci-fi imagination.
Chapter 13
Sparks jumped around the office like a bursting star. Anger ignited the air with enough negative energy to collapse the office into a black hole. Nobody was happy. My day was speeding towards a broken bridge, and it seemed hopeless to stop the carnage. Our shiny new IBM System/390 mainframe was down. Our world had ended.
Our computer and its networking system had crashed for over two hours. To make matters worse, over a dozen workers failed to show up, and the phone lines were humming with a crackling noise. Then there was Big Al. He did not take this downtime lying down. His short fuse was burning bright, and I was looking for cover. I knew that the next explosive Big Bang was going to rock our office.
“Spencer!” Big Al barked from across the large room of dark computer screens and grumbling computer operators. I could hear his distinctively loud and raspy voice. As he searched for me in my vacant office, I had just reached the technicians assigned to fix the problem. I was actually doing something important; Big Al, meanwhile, was simply looking for a scapegoat.
As I peered from behind a technician’s shoulders, I discovered that a software glitch had spawned a nasty nest of ugly bugs. I was informed that our team of programmers had written dozens of sub-routines that not only failed to solve the original problem, but they had created a few additional ones. The prognosis wasn’t good.
“Too many quick fixes. The entire software program needs to be rewritten,” my best programmer, Howard Benson, carped.
“Just get it up. Downtime is killing us,” I carped back.
“If we fix it too quickly, it will just be another patchwork job,” Howard warned.
“Just so it works for a little bit longer.”
“How long?” Howard snapped. Normally, my best programmer manifested a polite and docile demeanor. Except today. He was evincing a defiant computer engineer with the means to settle scores.
“We’ll worry about that tomorrow,” I bellowed. I only cared about what worked this exact minute. Who cared about two hours from now? My first priority was real-time, not the distant future. I had to get the system running or a host of motorists might be subject to arrest, fines, or incarceration.
“So, we are fine here?” I asked cautiously.
“Yeah, if you don’t ever switch on the power,” Howard cracked. He turned away, peered down at his ancient monochrome monitor, and started to write more coding. For some reason, Howard loved his out-of-date green screen monitor. He simply lugged it to work like it was his child. Strange. Then again, his bedside m
anner was decent compared to the younger uber-dorks, geeks, and code monkeys. They had no patience with middle or upper management.
“You know,” he said, “trying to solve problems in these systems often creates worse problems. Nobody takes the time to figure out what is really causing these nonstop errors. We just have to rewrite new routines, compile them, and hope for the best.”
“Sounds messy,” I said, trying to placate him. Actually, I did not want to hear how or why software problems were so prevalent. I wanted results. Nor did I want to be told that programmers often blundered their way through the complexity. It was unsettling. It was alarming to think that nobody could handle all that might go wrong with computers. As I stared at my wristwatch impatiently, the system finally came back online. I closed my eyes and thanked the Big Kahuna of computers.
“You know what the old-timers call this problem?” Howard took off his thick-lensed eyeglasses and glanced up.
I shook my head. I really did not care.
“Spaghetti Loop. That’s when coders try to chart all the sub-routines on a blackboard to understand the big picture. The drawling resembles a thrown bowl of wet noodles plastered across a wall. You know, all contorted and jumbled. Cute term, Hah?”
I began to scratch my forearms. It was mildly humorous but in a sick, distorted way. Suddenly, it made me question the bigger picture. You know, how the world operates on a day-to-day basis. Maybe this Spaghetti Loop concept had bigger ramifications after all. Maybe our city had cooked up a hot pot of spaghetti and did not know how to handle it.
“I wouldn’t celebrate yet,” Howard said. “There’s just too many incompatible sub-routines. It’s bound to crash again. Real soon.” He shrugged as he started to wipe his dirty glasses on his sleeve. “And yet, solving such disparities keeps coders in business.”
Suddenly, an epiphany slapped me across the face. I look around the office, especially at the busy phone operators and computer-entry clerks. So many people spending so much energy to solve little problems. And yet nobody factored in the fact that humans and their decision-making capabilities are often faulty and imprecise. Complexity was a bitch. With so many people creating faulty computer sub-routines, inputting mountains of raw data, decreeing a host of inflexible controls, and then finally analyzing information of questionable accuracy, the results had to be less than spectacular. This scenario gave me a cold chill. Our local government could probably never isolate the real problem in order to mitigate it. They could only hope that what they threw at the problem might stick.
I trudged back to my office and slammed the door. I felt like hiding in a corner or some deep basement. Instead, I sat under my desk. I wanted to escape from the helter-skelter swirling around in a vortex of chaos. It was sucking all the oxygen like a firestorm. It seemed unstoppable, and yet I knew that all things must end; at some point, the critical mass would be reached and everything would implode. I sighed and rubbed my throbbing temples.
I began to appreciate the beauty of simplicity. Let natural systems do the work instead of foisting some artificial and arbitrary mandates. But how could anyone control things without resorting to brute force? Maybe that was the real problem, trying to control everything and everybody. Maybe the lesson of Spaghetti Loop was that control was fleeting.
“Where’s Spencer?” Big Al’s voice thundered throughout the office. I knew my time of pondering deep thoughts had ended. I quickly hid under my office’s desk.
I would have been safe except that I accidentally bumped my head. That caught Tommy’s attention. He came over and stared down, perplexed to find me on the floor. I immediately lied with a silly grin, explaining that I had dropped my best pen. Tommy seemed satisfied and relayed Big Al’s urgent message. My time was up.
I took my time to walk over to Big Al’s office. I was in no hurry to be chewed out.
“Where have you been?” Big Al clamored as I entered his office.
“Oh, you’re looking for me?” I asked.
He frowned and thumped his big fingers on his cluttered desktop. “Are you trying to avoid me?”
“You!” I scoffed.
“That’s right. I may run a taut ship but it’s an even-handed ship.”
“Amen.”
“Okay, so, where were you?”
“Software problems.”
“That’s all I keep hearing. Trouble this and low memory problems that. What is it now?”
“It’s technological. Even I’m not sure what is causing the system to crash and freeze up.”
“Well, just fix it! Besides, I have something more important to discuss. Did you notice the checkpoints across town?”
“Some.” I paused, remembering a memo saying that checkpoints would be rare and infrequent. “There can’t be many, though? Right?”
“You got it wrong again.” Big Al shook his head. “We plan to have roadblocks on every major street.”
“But our city doesn’t have the manpower.”
“Sure, we do. The local National Guard is assisting us.”
“But is that wise or even ethical?”
“Spencer, do you know that you’re a stick in the mud? Get with the program. We’re bringing in gobs of money from fines. But that is not our real problem.”
“Not our… real problem?” I almost slurred my speech. My mouth drooped into a bewildered frown.
“That’s right, we’re still dealing with a populace that refuses to listen to us. They are not following our instructions.”
“But they cannot get hold of us.” I was feeling sick. I moved next to the wall and leaned against it. “Because of our problems, we cannot provide drivers with proper information and authorization.
“No, I don’t mean that. That’s not what I am talking about. I’m talking about solving our initial problem of honesty. We just conducted some serious research and the results were shocking. Shocking.” Big Al eyed the last yellow Twinkie cake on his desk. His fingers began to slowly inch towards his sweet, vanilla-filled prize. He looked up at my disapproving face. He backed off.
“Go on.”
“Well, we instructed our police to follow dozens of vehicles in unmarked cars. We knew their destination beforehand. And guess what we found?”
“Well, maybe they got off track a little?”
“Boy, did they!” Big Al pounded the desk with his big hand. “Over 40% did not follow their own pre-approved destinations. They flouted the law like Machine Gun Kelly.”
“I see.”
“Put on your thinking hat. We need something better.” He looked down at the desktop, reached for the Twinkie, ripped off the wrappers, and stuffed some inside his mouth. “I know you’re good at that, very good,” he mumbled.
I was afraid to suggest anything. I remembered taking a brief seminar on brainstorming. We were told to say whatever came to our beady little minds on a particular subject, no matter how stupid or insane it might sound. Just let it all hang out. No gems of wisdom ever crossed my lips, but the others often had a few workable ideas. Well, I was not going to do any brainstorming session with Big Al. No way. My ideas were probably crazier than the average idiot’s, but he would still try to implement them.
“Ever heard of brainstorming?” Big Al hinted.
“I’m no good at that,” I said quickly. “Actually, I must get back to our software problem. The system’s been up and down for most of the morning.”
“Don’t worry about it. The city only makes more money when it’s down.”
“Isn’t that slightly…unfair?” I asked.
“Not if nobody knows about it.”
“Well, I still have my duties.”
“Fine. Go ahead. The morning rush hour has already peaked anyway.”
That was so big of Big Al. I was sure the citizenry would have appreciated his loving concern about their well-being. He had few worries when he traveled—he had an exemption permit like all of the city’s big honchos. In fact, all city workers had secured exemptions, right down to the pa
rt-time janitors, so why should we really care about the less fortunate? Let the public eat fines and ferment in jail cells.
“By the way,” Big Al said. “We have an outstanding plan to solve this problem.”
“Shoot! But keep it short.” I leaned forward, ready for another spasm of outrage.
“We’re thinking about making the decisions for them.”
I squinted my eyes and bit down on my tongue. I did not want to say anything that would sound negative. “Go on,” I said, trying to act civil.
“We’ll tell the drivers where and when to drive. Of course, they will give us some initial feedback, but we will be the ones to plan their destination and timelines. No-fuss, no muss.” Big Al slowly reclined in his chair. “It was Joe Maffini’s suggestion.”
“His suggestion?”
“Okay, it was my idea.” He grinned modestly. “It goes into effect tomorrow.”
“What are the fines?”
“This time they will be colossal. We upped it at $10,000. It will be a felony on the second violation, and a possible sentence up to fifteen years at the county or state prison. That ought to solve this problem in no time. Nobody will show contempt for the law again.”
“Yeah, that should solve something.”
“What else can we do? The death penalty seems a mite too stiff.” Big Al laughed and shoved the entire Twinkie into his mouth.
“Have you considered the unintended consequences?” I asked, looking straight at him.
Big Al eyed me with a confusing scowl. He wanted to reply, but one-half of the yellow cake still protruded from his mouth.
“I mean, what about our revenue stream?” I asked innocently. I enjoyed watching him struggle to talk. It seemed so unnatural to find Big Al constrained from mouthing his nonsense. Normally, If only I could find a warehouse large enough to supply Big Al’s appetite for his precious fat yellow pillows of heavenly delight.
Big Al rubbed his chin. “What do you mean?”
“If most violators end up in prison, who will pay the fines? And without increasing revenues, our budget will shrink.”
We Are Them Page 13