Headcrash

by Bruce Bethke

  I was the only one there.

  Clearly, the 7:30 department meeting with Melinda wasn’t going to happen. But the DIP marketing database mess was still waiting for a solution, and I didn’t have anything better to do, so I strapped on my videoshades, pulled on my datagloves, and dove into the files. As a result I missed it when Charles rolled in—sometime around eight, I think. I didn’t even think to check the back of his wheelchair for bumper stickers.

  T’shombe showed up around 8:20, wearing this absolutely gorgeous batik wrap sort of thing that was tight in all the right places, loose in all the right places, and left absolutely no doubt that she was not wearing any underwear. If Melinda had felt threatened by what T’shombe was wearing on Monday, I figured she was going to have an entire herd of Holsteins when she saw what T’shombe was wearing on Tuesday.

  Frank and Bubu strolled in around quarter to nine, seemingly still carrying on the argument they’d checked out with the night before. Frank was wearing a plaid shirt and polyester slacks. Bubu had on a moth-eaten sweater and some kind of jeans. Neither was wearing a tie, I noticed.

  Melinda finally came blasting in at about 9:30. It wasn’t so much an entrance as a flyby: the stairwell door blew open and Melinda came dashing in, juggling a purse, a briefcase, a Bruegger bagel, and a carry-out coffee in a styrofoam cup while she simultaneously tried to push a brush through her big blond hair and get another coat of red lipstick on her mouth. The cavitation of her passage pulled our heads out into the hallway, but she said not a word to us, opting instead to go straight into Hassan’s—sorry, her—office, and slam the door. The only sounds that emerged for a long while afterward were the beeping and clacking of Melinda beating hell out of her phone, and an occasional guttural phoneme or two that eluded the building’s ambient noise dampening system.

  About quarter to eleven, my NEC 1400xm Multi-Modal Desktop Audio Terminal—in other words, my phone—chirped. I glanced at the caller ID readout, saw it was an intercom call from Frank, and tapped the acknowledge button.

  “Pyle,” he said, “department meeting in Melinda’s office in five. And grab T’shombe, would you?” Oh, would I. But no, as always I behaved myself, recognized my impetuous and wild side for the gutless coward it really was, and politely informed Ms. Ryder of the meeting. On the way back to my cubicle I also popped in on Charles and made sure he knew.

  Five minutes later we were crowding into Melinda’s office with all the enthusiasm of a bunch of death-row convicts fighting over who’d be first to sit in the electric chair.

  Astonishing, actually. The facilities people must have pulled an all-nighter; from the looks of Melinda’s new office, you’d never have guessed that just twenty-four hours before it was decorated in Middle-Aged Ex-College Jock Moderne. Hassan’s office had been a study in functional clutter, with a battered generic black metal desk, a matching four-drawer filing cabinet, a tilt-a-whirl office chair (with one arm missing), several random heaps of books and papers on the floor, a matted and framed 1987 World Series Wheaties box on the wall, and a bunch of old computer parts sharing shelf space with wrestling trophies and photos of Hassan’s children and favorite caught fish.

  Melinda’s office, in contrast, was a model of overbudget elegance. With a satin mahogany desk, a worktable with hutch, and a matching two-drawer filing cabinet; a black cultured-marble slab on the desktop that, in a pinch, could have doubled as a heliport; and no fewer than three large, potted philodendrons. Her huge, plush, black leather chair looked like it’d been diverted from the CEO’s office, and the godawful ugly signed and serialized original lithograph on the wall behind the desk looked like clinical evidence of the artist’s final psychotic break. To the right of the desk, an entire wall was filled with plaques and framed certificates that looked very impressive, until I got close enough to realize they were for things like “Most Cheerful Volunteer, Minnetonka Junior League Rummage Sale, 2001.” I never knew you could get a diploma for having your colors done.

  There were exactly three small objects on top of that vast expanse of desk: a little carved ebony figurine, an ornate brass incense burner, and Melinda’s Personal Information Manager.

  (“Ethiopian fertility goddess,” T’shombe explained, pointing to the ebony figure.)

  Melinda was on the phone again, with her back to us, listening to the squabbling sound of someone else’s voice and nodding vigorously. “No,” she said to the phone, “not yet. I’ll keep trying.” There were two chairs for peons in the room: T’shombe had one, Bubu had the other, Charles didn’t need one, and Frank and I wound up standing. A thin plume smoke was rising from the incense burner.

  Rubin sniffed the air. (“What’s that smell?” he asked T’shombe. “Are we going to be listening to some Pink Floyd?”)

  “Right. Bye.” Melinda clacked the phone down into its cradle and spun around in her executive chair. “It’s burning sage,” she said to Bubu. “It dispels evil spirits.” Rubin’s jaw dropped, but Melinda was already working her Personal Information Manager like a pocket Nintendo and frowning as she read.

  At last, she set the PIM down and looked up. “Okay kids,” she said, “I’d wanted to make this a real friendly get-acquainted type meeting, but I’ve got an important offsite meeting in half an hour and a lot to do before then. So if you don’t mind, I’ll cut right to the chase.

  She set the PIM down on her desk. “Charles?” She glanced at him, then quickly looked away. “How’s the Sonderson project going?”

  PIM

  Personal Information Manager: A pocketsize electronic device that functions as a combination pager, datebook, phone list, and wireless fax. If you buy one, spend the extra money and get the polarized display. Melinda hadn’t, and as a result I could clearly read hers, even though it was upside-down. It said:

  11:30 Meet WLD @ hotel 4 Lnch & !! Bring xtra pnty hose, 2thbrsh & brethmnts

  Charles clicked, hummed, twitched nervously, and answered, “THERE MAY BE SOME DIFFICULTIES.” Oh, wonderful. He’d gone into Dalek mode again.

  Frank jumped in. “What Charles means to say,” he cleared his throat, “is that there are some serious problems with—”

  Melinda speared Frank with a sharp look. “I’m sure Charles can speak for himself, Frank.” Her smile was polite, but the tone underneath was pure hot oil, talons, and venom.

  “NO,” Charles said. Melinda tried her glare on him, but he just stared back at her with his bloodshot one good eye, and after a few seconds she blinked. “LET FRANK SPEAK.”

  Melinda looked back to Frank. “Well?”

  “It’s pretty technical,” Frank said, hoping she’d give up.

  “Try me,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Frank took a deep breath, blew it out, and ran a hand through his thinning black hair. “It’s a lot like the Wigman least-squares method,” he said at last. “Sonderson clearly evidences a genetic predisposition towards suboptimal cognition, with the resulting directives being—”

  Melinda waved a hand to cut him off. “What I’m hearing,” she said, “is that you don’t think it can be done the way Sonderson wants it done?”

  “Well, there is a significant gap between ideation and—”

  “I’m not interested in what you think,” she said in a dead flat voice. “Find a way. Make it work.” Frank tried to sputter something else, but Melinda went back to her PIM and fished up the next topic. “Next. Rubin.”

  She looked up, set the PIM down, and put her hands together. “Abraham,” she said, smiling, her voice all sweetness and light. “Are you terribly busy today?”

  Bubu shifted nervously in his chair and cleared his throat. “Well, uh, there’s the MRP analysis, of course, and, uh—”

  “But that could wait until tomorrow, couldn’t it?”

  “Ye-es, I suppose it could. Why? Is there—”

  She pursed her lips, and nodded. “Why, yes, there is.” She darted another glance at Frank, then turned the full force of her glare on Bubu. “I want yo
u to spend the rest of today analyzing every VMX error log for the past month. Clearly there is something wrong with the voice-mail system, as you and Frank obviously did not get the message I left yesterday afternoon.”

  “But—” Bubu tried to protest.

  “Every log,” she reinforced. “And I expect a full, written report by the time you leave tonight.”

  “But—”

  “Next,” she said, biting off the word. She stole a glance at her PIM, fastened her eyes on me, and gave me a long, slow look up and down. I twitched a little, but tried to project an aura of simulated confidence. After all, I’d read the damned book (well, skimmed a few chapters). I had the look. Navy slacks, black wingtip shoes, white oxford shirt with button-down collar, and a blue tie with diagonal red stripes.

  “Nice try, Pyle,” she said at last. “But let me introduce yon to a new concept. Ironing. And for God’s sake, tuck your shirt tails in in back.” I backed away from the group and tried to discreetly stuff my shirt into my waistband, while Melinda went back to her PIM. “Stick around after the meeting,” she said without looking up. “I have a special project for you.” Uh-oh.

  “But first,” she sat up straight, put the PIM down firmly on her desk, and glared icy daggers at T’shombe. “I don’t know what you think you are trying to pull, lady, but—”

  “Pull?” T’shombe said innocently. She smiled, lounged back in her chair, and somehow managed to shift her shoulders and hips so that even more of her cleavage was revealed. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Cut the crap. You know exactly—”

  “All that I’m doing,” T’shombe said sweetly, “is exercising my rights as stated in Section Three, Paragraph Six of the MDI Multi-Cultural Diversity Guidelines. Now, I could be wrong, but I do believe that passage says, ‘All employees are entitled to wear such articles of clothing and/or jewelry as are consistent with the employees’ cultural, religious, ethnic, or affectational orientational heritage, provided such clothing and/or jewelry does not constitute a safety hazard around machinery or an offensive textile/verbal communication directed at another MDE employee, customer, vendor, visitor, or random contact.’”

  By the time T’shombe was finished with her recitation, Melinda was red to the roots of her blond hair. “You—”

  “For example, this outfit,” T’shombe lifted her hands and looked at herself, “reflects my ethnic heritage, and is clearly not a safety hazard around the workstations or file servers.” T’shombe stood, turned around slowly as if modeling, and somehow managed to arrange to flash leg clear up to her hip. Frank’s eyes bugged out. Bubu’s mouth dropped. Even Charles started humming and vibrating like an old washing machine with an unbalanced load. I began to suspect that T’shombe could make her astonishingly prominent nipples erect on command.

  “And again,” T’shombe continued in the same innocent voice, “I could be mistaken, but I don’t think my coworkers find this clothing offensive.” She stopped turning and looked wide-eyed at Frank. “Do you?”

  “Oh no,” Frank gasped.

  “Not in the least,” Bubu added.

  T’shombe turned and faced Melinda again. “Of course, I have to admit this clothing isn’t quite culturally correct. Among my Tutsi ancestors, this fabric was worn as a simple skirt, and it was appropriate for women to go completely topless in the summer. Do you think my coworkers would object if I—”

  “Not at all,” Frank blurted out.

  “Don’t let us stop you,” Bubu added.

  Melinda finally lost it and jumped to her feet. “Enough!” she shouted. “Out! Out! All of you, get out!” We jumped for the door. “Not you, Pyle!” I stopped halfway out the door, spared a microsecond to curse my fate, then turned around and shuffled back in.

  (“Tutsi?” I heard Rubin asking T’shombe as they receded down the hall. “I didn’t know you were Tutsi.”

  (“My father was Tutsi,” T’shombe answered. “My mother was Watusi. I figure that makes me a Tutsi-Wutsi.” Bubu sputtered; Frank snickered. Even Charles emitted an organic sound that seemed a lot like a laugh.)

  Melinda was still standing there, a tight scowl on her face and a bit of steam rising from her ears. She was either hyperventilating or counting to a very high number, or both, but in time she managed to get her temper sort of under control. “Close the door, Pyle.” I did.

  She plopped into her black leather executive chair module I figured it was safe to take one of the peon chairs, and sat down. “Jack?” she said. Something in the tone of her voice made me want to start to stand up. “Is it okay if I call you Jack?”

  I relaxed a little, and sat down again. “Sure.”

  “Two things,” she said, stealing a quick glance at her PIM. “First off,” she kicked off and did an ExecuGlide back to her table, where she laid a hand on the workstation. “What’s this?”

  A strange question, I thought. I shrugged and said, “A Solaris Systems M-5 Multitronic—”

  “I know that,” she snapped. “What I mean is, what’s it doing here in my office?”

  I scratched my head. “Well, we figured you being the new manager of MIS and all, you’d want—”

  GUAVA 2000

  One of the last of the “fruit” computers. After the success of the original Apple™, the market was flooded with products seeking to exploit that concept. Orange™, Banana™, Apricot™, and of course, the sadly misnamed Lemon™: in time all spoiled, leaving only Guava to compete with Apple for the coveted “produce computing” market share.

  “Never mind what you figured,” she interrupted. “I want my Guava 2000 back, is what I want.”

  That got an arched eyebrow out of me. “That old piece of junk? I mean, no offense, Melinda, but that thing’s got to be pushing four years old. Now, granted the Solaris isn’t exactly state of the art, it’s still—”

  “I want you,” she said, as if talking to a particularly dim five-year-old, “to go back to my old office, get my old Guava 2000, and bring it here.”

  I shook my head, a little. “Melinda, believe me, the Solaris really is better. If there are any files or apps on the Guava’s local drive that you want I’m sure we can—”

  “And then,” she continued in the same voice, I want you to take this Solaris workstation, and return it to storage, and never mention it to me again. Is that clear?”

  Yup. I nodded. “Yes,” I said.

  “And after that,” she paused, a sweet little smile played across her lips, and for a few moments there I remembered just how delicately beautiful I thought she was, the first time I met her, before I actually got to know her.

  She scooted her chair back over to the desk, put her elbows on the desktop and her face in her hands, and leaned forward. “Jack?” she said sweetly.

  I leaned forward to match her. “Yes, Melinda?”

  “Remember, when you first started here? How we worked so closely together?”

  “Yes?”

  “Side by side, day after day?”

  “Yes?”

  “How sometimes our fingers would touch, by accident?”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember how you used to look at me, when you thought I wasn’t looking, and I’d catch you doing it, and you’d try to pretend you weren’t looking at me at all?”

  “Yes?”

  “It was kind of cute.” She smiled. “You were so shy.”

  “Yes?”

  “And then remember that silly business with the diskettes, the filing cabinet, and the refrigerator magnets?”

  “Yes!”

  “And how after that you told everyone in my department what a stupid blond twat I was?”

  Oh.

  “And how I promised myself that if I ever got the chance, I’d have your testicles for my key chain fob?”

  Actually, no, I didn’t remember that part at all.

  Melinda smiled at me: a sweet, soft, heart-melting smile. Then she dipped a hand into the pocket of her blazer, pulled out a ring of keys, and
jingled them gently.

  “You’ve had your chance,” she said softly. “You screw up just once more, and you’re mine. Got that?”

  A slow, terrified nod was about all I could manage.

  “Good.” Her smile flickered off. “Now get your worthless ass out of here and get back to work. I’ve got to get ready for this meeting.” Unconsciously, her left hand drifted up and undid the top button of her blouse. “I expect you to have my Guava 2000 down here and running by the time I get back, which will be about two o’clock.” She checked her PIM once more, then glanced at me. “Any questions?”

  I shook my head, stood, and backed out the door. “No, sir.”

  “Good. Close the door on your way out.” I did.

  I was definitely on my way out.

  DIGRESSION * DIGRESSION * DIGRESSION

  Now, there are several questions that might seem appropriate to ask at this point in the story, such as, “Egad, was she really like that?” And, “My God, boy, why did you stay there?” And of course there’s always my personal favorite, “What’s the matter, you stupid or something?”

  The answers to #1 and #3 being yes and no, respectively. The answer to #2 is a little more complicated. It comes down to a mix of factors—like my only having a bachelor’s degree, and only having about two years’ total private sector work experience, and only having about $32,000 in accumulated tuition loan debt. It also has to do with esoteric things like my having a Community Service Draft Board that was really eager to help me find ways to work off my debt to society (a debt which we are all compounding semiminutely by the very act of being eligible for National Health, even if we never actually get sick). And my having been working at MDE as a contract temp on the one day that my job was posted, and thus getting a chance to see the 299 other people who turned out to queue up in the rain and apply for my job.

  In short, I took what Melinda gave me because that’s life in the twenty-first century. There just aren’t jobs for undereducated people under thirty, unless you’re the kind of highly motivated entrepreneurial self-starter who can create a vacancy by assassination. As I’m told happens routinely in New York.