Blind Tasting

by A. C. Houston

  Cory knows what the guy means, but he isn't going to go there. "I've written tens of thousands of lines of code."

  "By yourself?"

  "Yeah, it was my code."

  The interviewer nods appreciatively. "We're more interacting-type hackers here. We dual a lot in Briarpatch in real time. We think it's the fastest way to eliminate bugs. And egos don't get so involved. With collaboration. My colleague Daiquiri is an awesome Tachyon hacker."

  Cory taps his fingers, losing focus. "Cool."

  "We do put in a lot of hours here. We've got a cardio room and the angels arrange lunch and dinner brought in. It's a pretty hot place to work."

  Cory nods indifferently. The interviewer glances up at someone passing by in the hall, then looks at Cory. "Would you be willing to write us some code in 'Patch? I can get someone to dual with you. Maybe Roller is available."

  "Now?"

  "Yeah, we like to see peoples' problem-solving styles, you know?" The interviewer smiles supportively. "Don't freak, they're just sort of Zen physics puzzles."

  Cory shrugs. He likes problem solving and he's pretty confident about what they could throw at him here. He wrote code on the fly for his Ph.D. comprehensives, a program for a support vector machine. Tachyon is a wimpy little scripting language, in comparison.

  Cory is taken to a different room and introduced to Roller, a small guy with glasses who looks about fourteen. Roller is seated in front of a laptop and he is wearing a black T-shirt with 'OpenPhiles' in light blue lettering written across the chest, and with many more lines of arcane computer code in tiny lettering written below it.

  Cory scans the code on the shirt, it's lines of Tachyon that appear to be implementing a well-known encryption algorithm. Why use Tachyon for that, Cory wonders to himself as he sits down in front of a laptop across from Roller.

  "So," Roller announces in a thin, high voice, "We're going to do kind of a river crossing problem. A bit like the one where the farmer has to get the fox, goose and bag of beans across the river. But with a twist. Jump into the action when you're ready."

  Cory knows this puzzle well; it's hardly Zen and hardly physics. He watches his own screen while Roller begins typing on the other laptop. Then Cory types some lines of code, and Roller types more. Cory continues typing when, suddenly, his machine emits a shrill beeping noise.

  Roller, without looking up, announces in a scratchy, high-pitched voice, "You're in the Briarpatch."

  "What?"

  "The 'Patch! You've got a bug in your code. Press F-U, both keys, to abort."

  Annoyed, Cory presses the keys and the alarm stops.

  Roller gives him a patronizing frown. "We've hardly started here, and you already added a bug to the code I wrote. Um."

  "A bug? How? I only declared variables."

  "Variables? Why? I defined all the variables required to dual on this problem."

  Cory answers more assertively. "I thought this was collaboration. I wanted some variables."

  Roller begins to rock back and forth in his seat, staring at his own screen. His voice rises higher in pitch. "Soothsayer barfed on your types. Soothsayer doesn't recognize strings. They are too primitive as data types for Briarpatch."

  Cory looks straight at Roller, not believing what he just heard. "Strings are too primitive for your type checker?"

  The little guy keeps rocking. Cory feels a moment of paternal concern, but it passes quickly. Knowing that Roller will not appreciate the humor, he says anyway, "You know what, Roller? When 'Patch gets up to speed, give me a call."

  Cory leaves the room without another word. He doesn't stop to say goodbye to the interviewer on his way out.

  Chapter Ten

  Cory's Bedroom. It's a picture of Becca at Pescadero Beach. It's a sunny day, and she's looking into the camera, relaxed, beautiful, her hair tied to one side in a long white scarf. The picture fades and, in the next one, Cory is in the picture, too. He has his arm around her and they are smiling with the backdrop of Point Lobos behind them, south of Carmel. A stranger took the picture with Cory's digital camera. The next one is of Becca in a red jacket, walking across the Stanford Quad. Does he have any unflattering pictures of her? He doesn't think so.

  He leans back against the headboard of his bed, reaching for the glass of wine on the upright trunk that serves as a night stand. Snoots is curled up next to him, snuggled against a large pillow. In the past the dog wasn't allowed on the bed, but things are different now. Cory sips his wine, and strokes the soft dark fur of Snoot's back.

  The dog opens one eye to regard him, then shuts it again, in contented sleep.

  Cory reaches for the wine bottle on the makeshift night stand and refills his glass. It's an inexpensive malbec from Argentina, but surprisingly good. It's got deep, full-bodied fruit, with an expansive mouth and hints of leather. Gives the fruit a nice balance. It's a good wine for drinking alone in your bedroom late at night, looking at pictures of your ex-girlfriend.

  He sets aside the laptop with his slideshow of Becca photos, picks up his iPhone and calls her. He sighs when he hears her voicemail recording, and ends the call. Maybe her phone doesn't work in Shanghai. It's been over a week since the last time he saw her.

  He decides to look at her Facebook page. Becca is fairly obsessed with social networking and it's no surprise. Anyone with her kind of stunning, photogenic looks has a definite advantage in the digital societies of Twitter, Tumblr, and Facebook, where people can be seen, not just heard.

  Relieved, he realizes he can still access her site, she has not unfriended him. There are a couple of new smiling pictures of her posted from Shanghai. With Derek. Some breezy, non-specific chat about meetings and dinners.

  Cory studies the new photos carefully, jealously. She looks beautiful and happy in an exotic setting; if she's having second thoughts about breaking up, or she's missing him, Cory wouldn't guess it from these pictures.

  Feeling even more depressed now, he exits Facebook and goes to his favorite physics blog and skims a new memo on gamma ray bursts. It's interesting, but his mind is wandering tonight.

  He checks the readers' comments to the latest memo. A couple of the regulars have posted knowledgeable, relevant comments. But, there is also a rambling comment from some nut case who has posted more nonsense about his own theory of the 'aether' and pseudo-math mumbo jumbo. The guy who maintains this physics blog happens to be a real physicist, a string theorist, and Cory thinks he is generous and tolerant to not just delete the stuff that gets posted occasionally by such crackpots.

  Cory can't get Becca off his mind, the scent of her hair. He gives up on physics and Duncan crosses his mind. Jesus, it would be nice to talk to him right now.

  Earlier tonight he talked with Pradip for several hours over dinner at a falafel joint they both liked. Pradip said Jo was looking for another gig and he himself was now interviewing new hackers for Richard's mobile app project. Pradip said they mostly sucked and the project is ill-defined, but Pradip is going to push hard to make it work.

  Cory knows full well why; Pradip has no grace period if he loses his job at VisualAxioms. Without his H-1B status he'd have to leave the country the next day. And, if he finds other work, he loses his place in line for his green card.

  Cory goes to Leonard Pillar's wine blog and scans Pillar's Picks, which include a newly-released cabernet from a prominent Napa producer. It's out of Cory's price range, so he moves on to an article about wine tasting in Puglia, Italy.

  Is it because he quit VisualAxioms? Or, is it because Becca sees possibilities with her new boss. And Becca doesn't really like Snoots. How would that have worked, if she had moved in with him? A past hypothetical at this point.

  He looks over at his dog stretched out on the bed. He could never give up Snoots.

  Cory went to a local shelter a year ago and there was Snoots, thirty pounds thinner than now, half-starved. His teeth needed cleaning and he needed a bath. Badly. He was a family surrender, probably loved, but judging b
y his appearance, probably from a family that didn't have enough money for dog food. So they'd done right by the dog, let him go to find a better home.

  The shelter allowed him to take Snoots for a trial walk, and Cory immediately related to the dog's deep curiosity and his self-confidence with people and other animals. The shelter was vague about the dog's name, so Cory came up with 'Snoots'. It just fit; the dog had a lot of shepherd blood and because of this, an exquisite nose. Snoots would approach a tree or bush sniffing carefully, systematically, relishing his powers of analysis. He was Cory's kind of dog.

  His landlord agreed to a dog if he put down a month's rent as cleaning deposit on the animal. As it turned out, the house went into foreclosure six months ago and Cory, in a brash move, bought the little bungalow at the bank's fire sale price. It was a big expense for him, but it came with a garage with a small upstairs apartment that could be rented.

  Dawn and Snoots took to each other at once. Cory's previous tenant, a reclusive programmer in his early thirties, was a little afraid of the dog, but the guy moved out, and Rob is there now. And Rob loves Snoots, probably would be happy to take him off Cory's hands. It never occurred to him that he could have a girlfriend who wouldn't love his dog.

  What does Becca love? Not technology really, even though she has worked for two tech startups. She likes the idea of high tech, she especially likes associating with successful people in high tech. But what she really seems to love are expensive jewelry, high-end restaurants and getaway weekends. Satisfying her taste in these had consumed a significant portion of his budget the past six months.

  He drinks more of the malbec. Becca liked the idea of who she imagined he was, more than who he really is, he reflects, a little bitterly. She saw promising entrepreneurial material, a player, with a Stanford Ph.D., and stock options in a cutting-edge startup. Until the deal fell apart. Until he bailed without a plan.

  He knows that, at some basic level, she evaluates men as winners or losers, and that she has now moved him from the first to the second category.

  He shuts his eyes, hoping to feel drowsy. Instead, he just feels lonely.

  Chapter Eleven

  Santa Clara. Cory pulls up in front of Becca's apartment complex with deeply mixed feelings. More than two weeks have passed since his interview at OpenPhiles, the day she broke up with him. In addition to suddenly unfriending him a few days ago on her Facebook account, she has not responded to any of the messages he has sent, including email to iPhlox, reminding her that she left clothes and other things at his house. Now they are collected in the brown grocery bag sitting on the seat next to him.

  He hesitates before getting out of the black Honda. It's early Friday afternoon and there is a good chance she will not be home, even if she's back from China. He's feeling hurt and angry, and isn't sure he wants to confront her in person right now. But, it's painful to be constantly reminded of her with the white bathrobe and hairbrush and sexy little tops lying around his bedroom.

  He gets out of the car and walks along the row of stucco townhouses, carrying the bag of clothes. He stops in front of unit 12-B and rings the bell, unconsciously holding his breath. If she's not home, he'll leave the bag by the door with a note. It's not a bad neighborhood here.

  The front door opens. A stylish young woman with short black hair smiles at him, clearly a little shocked to see him.

  "Cory!"

  He smiles somberly at Becca's roommate, Muffy, and holds up the grocery bag. "This belongs to Becca. I thought she might want it."

  Muffy stares at it, without taking it from him. What should he do?

  "She's not...here right now."

  "Can I leave it with you?"

  "Okay, sure." She takes the bag tentatively and asks him, "So, is everything alright with you?"

  He sighs involuntarily. "I'm okay. Is she still in China?"

  "Oh no, she came back last week. I think she's at work."

  "Muffy, is Becca okay?"

  She darts her eyes around. "Yes! She's...fine."

  Cory realizes his question has agitated her and he decides to drop the conversation. He doesn't believe he's coming across as a weirded-out ex-boyfriend who can't handle rejection, but he has no idea what Becca has told her roommates about their split. If he had to bet money though, he'd guess that Muffy is hiding something from him.

  "Say ‘hi’ to Becca and Kate for me."

  With a heavy heart, he turns and heads back to his car.

  The Sage's Cask. "I really like the mouth," Dawn says, her eyes half-closed, swirling the glass of dark red wine in her hand.

  "Almost chewy, isn't it?" Cory remarks agreeably. It's predominately zinfandel with smaller traces of syrah and cabernet sauvignon. A proprietary blend from a small Rutherford winery.

  Dawn pours out the rest of her glass. She would have enjoyed drinking all of it, but she's going back to her lab, and there are still three more samples to try.

  She heard about the tasting at this tony Palo Alto wineshop through Helen at work and immediately decided that Cory needed to attend. Her treat. Usually, these events were free marketing efforts put on by the wineshops. But, the ticket for admission today is thirty dollars, because they are pouring a flight of high-end zinfandel blends from renowned California wineries and vintners.

  The unusual offerings intrigued Cory who, otherwise, has not been in a very social mood lately. Dawn is hoping that attractive, available women will show up, but it seems to be mostly couples. She observes two women in fancy spring dresses who might be looking.

  The pourer, whom Dawn decides looks like William Shakespeare, is filling glasses with the next sample. He has a courteous, grave expression, but his eyes are engaging, passionate. He has already flagged Cory as one of his most knowledgeable patrons and focuses his attention on him and Dawn.

  "See how this one compares to the first one you tried, the 'Midnight Sun' from Rookery." The pourer turns to answer a question from a silver-haired man in a black crew neck sweater.

  Dawn tries the new sample and smiles at Cory. "I love the names they come up with. They're even better than perfumes or nail polish colors."

  "Especially these blends," he tells her. "California used to be mostly about varietals, but the winemakers have become pretty creative with their cuvées. Pretty secretive, too.

  "How can anyone tell what's in one of them?"

  He smiles at her, enjoying the wine in his glass. "A good palate, m'dear."

  Shakespeare overhears their discussion and adds, "The one in your glass received 92 points from Pillar. Now there's a guy with a world class palate. Notice the overlay of cream on the peppery base. It's very well structured."

  "Which one is this?" Dawn asks him.

  "The '05 Vivace from Black Talon."

  She laughs. "Another name! Just imagine the names we could have in pharmaceuticals if we didn't need to sound so respectable, so medical. I should call Priapase something like The Inhibitor, or maybe OncoSlayer. Think the FDA would go for it?"

  "How's that going?" Cory asks, envious that she has her world of ideas to go off to each day.

  "The patent's filed and the preclinicals are underway at a testing firm in Mountain View. I'm supposed to have some results back today. It's why I'm going back to the lab."

  They are trying the fourth wine. Cory doesn't like it as much as either the Midnight Sun or the Black Talon offerings. Although it received 94 points from a prominent wine journal, Pillar gave it only 86.

  "What makes Pillar so special?" Dawn asks the pourer, who has been finding her increasingly interesting.

  He answers immediately. "Consistency." He continues as he pours the final wine of the flight into fresh glasses. "His palate has a phenomenal memory, recall. Best in the business. And he samples the wines over time as they develop, kind of multiple snapshots. It's like he's giving you a three-dimensional image of the wine's flavors. Even today with a hundred different angles on wine out there in the blogosphere, whose opinions do you find on plac
ards in every wineshop? Pillar's."

  "But he has his personal preferences, right?" she asks, swirling the dark, almost black liquid in her glass.

  "He does indeed." The pourer looks at her with a touch of flirtation. "But so do we all."

  She laughs. Too bad she doesn't have time for more chit chat with this guy. She glances at the two women in spring dresses. They are eagerly conversing with two men in suits. Not really Cory's type anyway. Rob crosses her mind suddenly.

  The pourer points to the last bottle of his flight. "So this is a 2007 Todd French Olympia. It won a gold medal at the California Wine Expo. 95 Pillar Points."

  Cory inhales the nose. "Wow."

  The pourer watches him take a long sip. "Nice, isn't it."

  "Amazing. Is there old vine zinfandel in this?"

  "Very likely. Todd French doesn't discuss his sources, I'm told. I don't think the appellation of the grapes has been disclosed."

  Cory thinks the wine is probably mostly zinfandel with a touch of syrah and something else, not cabernet. When he downs the last drop in his glass, Dawn offers him what's left of hers.

  "Really?"

  "It's wonderful, but I have hours of analysis-"

  "What do you do?" the pourer asks her.

  "I'm sort of a beachcomber. Of the human genome."

  "Very cool."

  "Very daunting at times." Dawn makes a quick decision. She looks at the pourer. "Do you have any bottles of this for sale?"

  "I have two left."

  "I'd like one."

  Cory looks at her, amused, but impressed. "Splurging for later, huh?"

  "Actually it's for you."

  "Dawn, you don't have to-"

  "I know that. But, I want to, okay?"

  "Wow, thanks. But-"

  The pourer shakes his head enviously. "Man, don't knock it when a beautiful woman wants to buy you a stellar bottle of wine."

  She smiles. "It's not like that. We're basically each other's twin."

  "Yeah, I'm the evil one," Cory adds.