The Glitch_A Novel

by Elisabeth Cohen

  It was boring work, it was tedious, but the pay was not bad by Malay standards, or so he had said, and I chose to believe it. I had been assured that the apartment complex where these women lived, just down the road, was OK. We had never had a suicide. Not that that should be the standard, of course.

  It was so loud. It was hard to believe that these workers and all of us back in Mountain View were partners in the same enterprise, creating Conches together. It did of course occur to me that it would be very different if they worked at Conch headquarters in California. We could have the factory in one wing, the offices in another, the parking garage stretching underneath, and all of us crossing paths at Making Waves on the days they served their famous wild-caught, environmentally certified scallop scampi. I thought these women would like California, and they would definitely like Making Waves’ scampi. Who doesn’t? But of course it was not possible. The market doesn’t support those kinds of manufacturing costs.

  We retreated to Mr. Tengku’s office and shut the door. The quiet was a relief. So was not having to see the women working, watching me watching them. Soon I would be very far away, so absorbed in the day-to-day that it would be easy for these concerns, now so blatant, to deflate and get lost, like the beach ball we’d brought back from France in a pocket of Nova’s suitcase. Mr. Tengku and I talked more about our families and how happy we were to see each other. Delicately, I brought the conversation around to why I’d come.

  “We’ve been having some…issues,” I ventured.

  He watched my lips carefully. “Issues,” he repeated. He tilted his head.

  “Issues” was such an American bullshit word. I searched for a different word. Not problems. “Irregularities?” I suggested. “Not working as they are intended to work. We would like Conch to work correctly.” I had taken my Conch off, and I made a gesture with my hands, turning it first one way and then the other.

  He nodded slowly. “Problems,” he suggested dryly.

  I inclined my head. You might say that, I couldn’t. “Perhaps.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “We have not been able to determine the cause. Could there be something happening in the factory? This is what we wonder. That is why I have come here today.” For this friendly visit. I have come eight thousand miles across the Pacific, just to casually inquire. “Could it be a process, a chemical, different hardware? Some change, perhaps?”

  His voice was clipped and fast. “This is a very good factory.” He held my eyes for a moment, waiting to see if I disputed that. “Let’s talk about the good things about this factory.” We did, for a very long time, while I tried not to think about Phil and Powerplex and how likely it was that Cullen might solve the Clitch on his own if I failed. It’s my birthday tomorrow, I thought. What do I want for my birthday? That’s easy: no more glitches.

  There was a pause in our discussion of the factory’s cutting-edge technology and fast turnaround. I rushed to fill it. “Of course!” I said. “It is not the quality of the factory. I meant, forgive me, could it be the parts? Have there been any changes in components or suppliers? As our trusted partner”—he permitted himself a tiny smile of gratification—“what should we do?” Talking to him, I became stilted and unfluent, as if speaking English properly would seem like I was showing off.

  “We should have some refreshments. I’ll ask.”

  There were Conches lying in a bucket beside his desk, like shrimp from a day of fishing. “Are these the new guys? Can I grab one?” I said, reaching forward.

  I had asked as a formality and was surprised when he jerked the bucket aside. “Um, these are, perhaps not right. We’ll find you a good one later.” He moved the bucket under his desk, out of view. “Ms. Stone, we like your company.” He put his hand over his heart. “We are very proud to make the Conch.”

  I nodded encouragingly. “I am proud to be your partner.”

  “Sometimes things happen.” He spread his hands wide. He was sympathetic, but in a way that suggested it was impossible for me to understand.

  “Sure. Let’s talk about those things.”

  He sighed. “Have you ever opened a door thinking it would be one person, but it was someone else?”

  I thought about this. “Yes, I absolutely have.”

  “It’s like that.”

  I was pleased. We were making progress. “OK, great, tell me more.”

  He sighed. “Oh, look! This is very nice.” One of the women had brought in a tray with two glasses. He offered me one. It looked like coffee and I was taken aback when I sipped. It was a creamy tea, very sweet.

  “Delicious.”

  “Teh tarik.”

  We sipped our tea. There was a photo on Mr. Tengku’s desk of his two little daughters, each carrying a parasol and posed in front of a silver car.

  I risked a look at my watch. I’d been here forever and we’d hardly gotten started. I’d hoped to make this a quick in-and-out. He noticed and adjusted his own wristwatch. It dangled slightly off his wrist, and it made a surprisingly solid thwack when it hit his teacup.

  “Nice watch,” I said.

  He blushed and pushed it back into his sleeve. I noticed that he looked well turned out, much more than the last time I’d seen him.

  “You’re looking well,” I said. Then I sharpened my tone: “I need an answer.”

  Mr. Tengku suddenly stood up and called back the woman who had brought in the tea. She came in, looking a little annoyed that we needed her again so soon. Mr. Tengku spoke to her in a burst of Malay, or maybe Manglish, but it didn’t matter which because I couldn’t understand anyway. I picked words out from within a rapid stream of language: “Quality,” “OK,” “Conch.” Malay has an agreeable rounded sound, as if the person is being conciliatory—the words land and swing upward, and there are a lot of “OKs” thrown in. It seemed this way, anyway, until I once heard two cab drivers go at it.

  She hesitated, looked from him to me, and then began to speak in a language I couldn’t understand. At first it seemed to me that her face had that expressionless, taut quality that people’s faces get when they are trying very hard not to give anything away, and I kept looking at her, trying to make out a shadow of what was underneath. As she spoke, she grew absorbed in the intricacies of what she was saying, and she began gesturing, first toward the factory floor and then to Mr. Tengku, as if explaining two opposing positions. I could tell she was saying something that she thought was interesting or important, but I couldn’t decipher any of it. I hoped that through the intensity of my eye contact I could catch what she was saying. I thought, this is clearly a very analytical person, but you get the sense they aren’t using her in that capacity here.

  Mr. Tengku thanked her and she left. He turned to me with a look of triumph mingled with validation. “She says there are hantu infecting many factories in Penang, but they are less of a problem at Conch’s factory.”

  “Excuse me, what are hantu? Some kind of virus?”

  “They have gotten into the factory, but not to the extent they’ve gotten into other factories.”

  I was impatient but tried not to show it. “Sorry, what has?”

  “It is what you might call a delicate topic. Do you know werewolves?”

  I blinked rapidly. “Not personally.”

  “But you know what they are? They are men who turn into wolves?”

  I felt irritated that we were getting off-track. “Why not women also? I’m sure there are woman werewolves.”

  He considered this. “I don’t think women would make good werewolves.”

  “I firmly disagree.”

  “Well. It is not relevant here,” he said, even more decisively. “You see, hantu are not werewolves, they are were-tigers.”

  “Aha,” I said, doubtfully.

  “They infect tech factories. Very common in Kuala Langat. But especially here in Penang. They are a big problem at that factory.” He pointed out the window and I leaned to the side, to get a better view. I saw no werewolv
es.

  “So the, um, werewolves—were-tigers—they get in at night and eat the parts?”

  He stared at me. “They are spirits. They infect the workers and make them lazy.”

  “Ah! Low worker morale. My goodness.” This cross-cultural stuff was such a challenge. “Have you tried exercise breaks or improving the ergonomics of the workstations or varying tasks?”

  “Herbs usually work,” he said. “Also, injectable sedatives. We have a doctor who will come.”

  “I’m not comfortable with that.” I picked up my teacup, saw it was empty, and set it back down. “Are the herbs something you give as gifts, or serve as food…?”

  He shook his head. “The doctor comes to do the ceremony, and uses the herbs to banish the hantu that are living inside the workers. He brings a goat to sacrifice…” He made a throat-slitting gesture. “Then all is well again.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  He smiled as if he were being ironic. “That’s right. It is a problem you encounter everywhere here on Silicon Island. The work is difficult. Very boring. A man could not do it, the hours are too long and the work is too boring.” I considered arguing with this, but I was afraid there might be something to it. “Our workers are used to simple village life, and then they leave their families to come here.” He gestured toward the factory floor. “It is too much. Too exciting.”

  “It’s too exciting? The work is too boring for men but too exciting for women?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  I nodded, rocking back and forth in my chair, eyes cast down. I’m familiar with this body language from when I shoot down employees’ passionately held ideas, and they acquiesce to my decision knowing they can’t win.

  “Some are weak,” he said. “They are taken over by spirits.”

  “What’s it look like?” I asked. “When the overwork gets to them…I mean, the spirits?”

  “Oh, it depends, you know. They might see things that aren’t there. They may not be able to sleep, or have awful pain as the spirit tears into their chest. They go blind for a day, perhaps. They shake and tremble, go rigid or collapse, yell—”

  “That’s all?” I said.

  He looked hurt. “It’s quite bad.”

  I was expecting something more extreme. “Hm,” I said. “I’ve had that sort of thing.”

  “You’ve seen visions?”

  I shrugged, noncommittally. I’d seen objects wreathed in a violet haze. Would that count?

  “We had a worker a few months ago who was infected—three foremen could not hold her down during her affliction. Her eyes would not move, her body went hard. She began screaming”—he flailed his arms, in an oddly rigid way—“and then the fit came over her and she fell against a machine—” He pointed out of the office, toward the surface-mount technology component placement system.

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  “Right there. Her clothing caught in the machine. It short-circuited.” He nodded, somber. “Terrible problems. For her as well.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She could not work and went back to her village.”

  “Sorry, it’s the jet lag.” I had inadvertently yawned. “So what’s your proposed solution?”

  He held up his hands in surrender and smiled. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of it. We hire a healer, we pay the price. A ceremony. Just business.”

  “Just business,” I repeated. “That solves the problem?”

  He had a poker face, hard to read. “Of course.”

  I thought about the last time I had not had stomach problems, sleep problems, chest-pain problems, and sinus problems. Pre-Conch, certainly. At my last job, for the first couple of days—though I was pretty driven there too. I sighed and blew air up to elevate my bangs, the way I used to do and had borrowed back from Michelle. “OK,” I said, pressing my temples.

  “Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “Sometimes it is important to act. You traveled a long way to be here today, so I know that it is time to act.”

  This seemed like smart advice and a headache was taking root in my right temple and I had an overwhelming desire to get out of this place. “Sounds like the right call. Let’s do it. How soon can you arrange it?”

  * * *

  —

  My car was supposed to have waited for me, but when I went out to the parking lot I didn’t see it. I peeked into the windows of parked cars, trying to find my driver. A light, fine rain fell. I felt deficient in energy, stamina, and possibly zinc.

  My Conch was doing its little intermittent rat-a-tat to warn that it was about to run out of power. I rooted around in my bag for the Powerplex prototype. What an opportune moment to test it out. But when I pulled it out it felt warm in my hand, like a tiny baked potato, so I dropped it back in my bag to deal with later. My phone chirped, drawing my attention to a new text.

  Actually, I had a lot of texts. Mostly from work. I scrolled through:

  Rafe: Big news!

  Willow: Something’s happened back home, I might have to take off a day for personal reasons.

  Melissa: I can’t figure out how to send you a video.

  I didn’t reply.

  A bus squealed to a stop at the factory gate and several women carrying bags got off. A woman wearing a headcloth lugged a big bucket like the one I’d seen in Tengku’s office. I squinted at her, wondering what was going on.

  I did a little research on my phone, standing in the parking lot, and then called Brad to loop him in. “I’m making progress, but, bottom line up front, it’s tricky going. Processes look good, but there’s something happening I can’t put my finger on. Our guy here blames the whole thing on spirits. Add this to the problem list: we have evil spirits in the factory and we need to pay to expunge them.” I explained about the were-tigers. “There’s a ghost in the machine,” I intoned. “What’s that from?”

  “It’s a Police album,” Brad said. “I’d have thought you’d have known that. What’s your take, that you buy their trust by paying their friends off, and then they’re less likely to cheat you by using substandard parts?”

  The gray sky and the heat of the asphalt parking lot were exacerbating my headache.

  “More complicated than that,” I said to Brad. “It’s real to them. I guess? I can’t be sure it isn’t some kickback scheme. There are many psychological factors that affect productivity in the factory. That’s my background in organizational development talking. I’m fascinated by that. But I’m proposing we do it.”

  “Is this going to spur them to make the Conches correctly? Is the problem even embedded at point of manufacture? Couldn’t this just be a nice little werewolf-cleansing that happens to enrich somebody’s brother-in-law?”

  “Culture first,” I reminded him. Though that’s a total cliché, everyone says it now.

  Despite my phone confidence, I didn’t actually feel that confident. Did other companies pay spirit healers to come purify their factories? Did everyone? I might reach out to my network on this. Or not. I kept thinking of what Mr. Tengku had said about the workers’ symptoms. Stress gnawed my belly, and the dark star under my breastbone began its slow, forceful rotation. Would a spirit cleansing/goat sacrifice cure me, and if not, what would? Did men in my position feel the stress as acutely? Did they internalize it the same way? They must (where else would it go?), yet I wasn’t sure. You really only saw the same symptoms in the ones facing jail time.

  I walked out of the factory gate, past a group of people waiting at a bus stop. Across the street was a little thatched day care, its yard full of familiar plastic toys. The day care advertised, in English, its suitability for children both left and right brained. I thought of Nova and whether she missed me. We had never talked about it. I didn’t want to ask. Not that I want her to be racked with sadness, of course.

  My Conch and phone buzzed. More incoming messages:

  Willow: I’ll work late tonight.

  Willow: I was already planning to work this weekend, of
course.

  Rafe: Blazer walked!!!!

  I reread that one a couple of times.

  Melissa: Here’s a video for you to check out!

  Rafe: BOOM, we have a walker!

  Rafe: Are you getting these? It says you are.

  Every opportunity comes with transaction costs. Progress always involves pushing through pain points. I knew this well, of course. I steered my attention back to the present moment by noticing how the rain dripped into the crevasse between my jacket and the back of my neck. I registered that I was hungry and made a deal with myself that soon I would eat. Then I tried to imagine Blazer, upright, taking a step. I couldn’t. It was so inconceivable I couldn’t picture it. I could only picture a false, exaggerated, pigeon-toed Charlie Chaplin walk, with Blazer wearing a bowler hat.

  Rafe again: Of course it doesn’t really count till you see it.

  That sounded like something from a magazine: tips for making your workaholic spouse feel like part of the family. Not that Rafe read parenting magazines.

  The rain came down harder. The video wouldn’t load. I watched more messages accrue.

  Rafe: So how are you? Busy?

  Willow: Did I do something wrong? If I did, I’m so sorry. Please ping me back!!!

  A blue bus rounded the corner. The waiting people surged toward the curb.

  Rafe: How am I? I’m ok.

  Went for ice cream with your assistant and the kids.