Solving For Y

Solving For Y

Frederick Barrows

Lone Argonaut

Copyright © 2014 Frederick Barrows

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN (Hardcover): 978-0-9893729-6-1

ISBN (Digital Mobi): 978-0-9893729-7-8

ISBN (Digital ePub): 978-0-9893729-8-5

Library of Congress Registration Number: TX0007991371

Cover design by: M. Styborski

Originally published November 2014

ARGO015, rev. 2.0 (07/2024)

Printed in the United States of America

WANTED: Sales Assistant

Enthusiastic go-getter to assist Sales Managers with follow-ups on leads in fast-paced, technically cutting-edge environment; the meek shall inherit something of equal or lesser value.

IBM introduced the 8-inch 23FD in the early 1970s. It was read-only and held just under eighty kilobytes of information. That’s enough space for a handful of typewritten pages. For the more optimistically inclined, it’s the equivalent of several thousand punch cards. What’s irrefutable is the fact that eighty kilobytes is barely enough to contain the opening remarks of roommate Tallent Barker’s postgraduate thesis. That’s where the 5¼-inch floppy comes in. This flimsy piece of plastic dwarfs the antiquated 23FD, capable of storing fifteen times the information. A recent article in Yesterday’s Tomorrow explains the evolution of magnetic storage mediums in easy to read, non-technical detail.

Had Tallent submitted his thesis a decade or so back he would have needed numerous 23FDs to hold it. Now he gets by with a single floppy disk. Progress reductively encased in a convenient polymer sleeve. Projections indicate that by the mid-1990s, larger capacity, more durable 3½-inch successors will completely supersede the already fast-retreating 5¼-inch disks. The trend is unfailing (not to mention profoundly contrary to typical business models): Smaller, faster, cheaper, denser, and more reliable.

Storing Tallent’s intellectual feat is only part of the equation, however. It’s not like he can hand a floppy disk to his professor and announce, Here it is. Enjoy! No, Tallent needs to print the information contained on the disk. Move it from the murky world of bits and bytes to the more tangible realm of ink fused to pulp. Rather than lead to a paperless society, computers have afforded people the tools to generate more documentation than all the libraries across the world could capably hold.

Tallent explains why he didn’t print his thesis on campus printer in the library. It’s on the fritz, he’d said. Besides, don’t you work for a computer company?

That’s right, pushy roomie. FutureNow Concepts, a two year old startup born at the beginning of the 1990s by a nonverbal coding savant and hyper-ambitious Ivy League dropout, currently has twenty-two employees and aspires to corner the Personal Information Manager software market thanks to SideArm, the Only PIM You’ll Ever Need! Not that most people know they need software to manage their contacts, calendars, and to-do lists. That’s where sales assistants come in. Sales assistants pursue leads, be it the mail-in card variety requesting additional information or doggedly tracking vendor referrals. Sales assistants contact potential distributors, and flood offices with demo copies of the award winning product. We’re talking blind hope marketing at its most earnestly scattershot.

When a big target hits, though—say a fifty-plus user license—the salary bonuses more than make up for the endless drudgery of convincing people they need something they’ve gotten along just fine without until informed they can’t possibly get along without it.

Crucially, FutureNow Concepts is a temporary stopgap, being a sales assistant but a transitory means to a significantly better end. One of the tech support guys is graciously imparting wisdom, free of charge. What’s really needed, though, is a machine to work on, a chance for some hands-on exploration with the inner workings of the mysterious box.

Eagerness and hand-holding how-to articles can only take the ambitious novice so far.

The phone rings.

Have you printed it yet?

Lunchtime and Tallent’s right on cue.

Not yet. Busy day at the office.

Yeah, so…

Don’t worry. It’s just a matter of sending it to a network printer.

Will that be a problem?

It shouldn’t be.

Can one of the techs help?

Probably.

Okay.

Talk to you later.

Right… A pause. Remember: single-sided, no dot matrix, remember?

Yes. Laser quality exclusively for the world’s finest up-and-coming academic.

That’s right, working man. Brightest, whitest there is!

Later.

Valē.

Break connection with Latin-loving Tallent and punch in Dalton’s extension.

It’s time for a quick network printing refresher.

Wait three rings.

Dalton speaking.

Need to send a print job to a laser printer.

Oh, right, you mentioned that. Anyway, it’s a cinch. From a command prompt type PRNTLST.

Done.

Now, type printer number, followed by a dash, and then the printer type. The dot matrix printers have a DM suffix. For the laser models, just replace DM with LP. Most are located with Doris, in the shipping room, with others scattered around, typically in the offices of the big wigs. The lower numbers should be by Doris, the higher numbers elsewhere. Either way, a blue separator sheet listing who sent the job will help you find your document.

Gotcha.

So, when you know which one you want to use, type SET PRNT, followed by a space, and then the number, dash, and type suffix.

Number 01-LP should be safe.

Send something to it and you’ll be good to go.

Thanks, Dalton.

Hey, man, it’s what they pay me for.

Dalton has a theory regarding tech support workers. Either geeks or stoners, man, he says. You got your hardcore geeks who are deeply in tune with the machine at the expense of other stuff, like having a social life or sex on a regular basis. Then you have your potheads. Potheads have this Zen relationship with the machine, like I’m cool, you’re cool, let’s be friends. Geeks are born to it, stoners, like me, just sort of fall into it. Look around. You’ll see.

What if you don’t need the weed but still fall into it?

Now that would truly be a precedent establishing accomplishment.

What if you just want to make a decent living but not live for the work?

Slow down, man. Take it easy. Time reveals all things.

Via other roommate, Carlton, a reliable pot dealer who lives near campus contacted Dalton, whose regular supplier took a plea deal and is out of business for the next five to ten years. In exchange, Dalton provides off-hour training sessions with a vague promise to procure a mostly reliable machine to experiment on.

Today’s lesson: Network Printing 101.

Slide the floppy into the drive. Lock the bay. Send file to the laser printer.

Easy.

Print Master Ten Thousand.

Make Dalton proud.

A crumpled ball of paper flies over the cubicle partition and banks hard off the wall, caroming into a trash can.

Yeardley’s bullet-shaped head rises above the divider. Did I make it?

Dos puntos.

Sweet.

Hey, check this out! Man, you gotta see this, Manlow says, the wheels from his chair squeaking as he bounces.

Nice, Phan says, his normally sallow cheeks flushing.

No, I seen that one…

Yeardley attempts another blind bank shot, failing miserably.

I’m in love, Manlow says with absolute certainty.

How does she manage to… Phan’s words trail off.

Manlow gestures to the lone holdout. Hey, you in on this or not?

Sorry, got a print job to retrieve.

Pull up the one with the stacked redhead in the naughty nurse’s outfit, Yeardley says, rubbing his hands together.

Uh-uh, Manlow says. I got one saved here, somewhere, a certifiable classic involving chemically unstable ping pong balls and a self-aware vacuum cleaner pump. Gimme a sec…

As far as office mates go, it could be (marginally) worse.

In shipping, Doris is busy boxing copies of SideArm, the Styrofoam peanut dispenser hanging alarmingly close to the crown of her head.

There are five printers in the shipping room, two lasers and three dot matrixes. Both lasers and a dot matrix are spitting out jobs—the rest silent.

Remember the job separator prominently displaying both employee’s name and originating workstation in bold letters.

Hey there, champ, says an eternally unwelcome voice. Got a sec?

Andy Cruz, paradigmatic salesperson, moves down the hall, reality shaping around his every whim. Technically, the sales assistants work with a particular salesperson but, ultimately, all are property of any member of the team at any given time: busboys to their waiters.

Andy is young and cocky, always proposing new schemes in meetings and invariably irritating the boss. He delivers the numbers, though, grows the all-important install base. Leases expensive sports cars and wears sharp suits no one can see over the phone. It’s all about projection, though, and that’s something Andy does insanely well, projecting his assurances to anyone in his immediate sphere of influence.

Listen, champ, I’m a little worried about Phan’s cold call counts this month and wanted to know if you’d mind picking up the slack for him. It would be a huge help. His demo-send numbers are down 26% for the quarter. I just need someone who can make the quotas. You good to help me on this?

In the last sales meeting, Andy boldly proclaimed that by the year 2000 physical business cards would no longer exist. He then went on a fevered tangent about deep streams of information compressed to the size of a microdot. Have the curve chase you! is one of his favorite catchphrases.

Sure, Andy, it shouldn’t be a problem.

Great! I’ll bring you, say, a third of the leads I give Phan and we’ll see how it goes, okay?

Okay.

Fantastic, you da man! Well, have to blaze, meeting a client for lunch.

Do you know where laser printer numero uno is located?

Couldn’t tell ya, chief. Ask the techs.

Off he goes. No problem too difficult that edgewise-free verbal bullying can’t solve within five minutes.

No thesis found among the print jobs. Worse, the laser printers labels read 04 and 05. Not good.

Move it! Doris says.

Okay.

Plan B.

Find Dalton.

Dodge salespeople by maintaining an urgent pace down hallway to the tech support area. Dalton’s cubicle occupies the back left side corner. It’s the only cubicle with a lava lamp. Find Dalton and solve the mystery of the missing document. Find Dalton, retrieve the document, and then eat lunch. After that, coast until the end of the day. Friday means darts with the team. Semi-finals tonight at the Pug Ugly. Must work on frustrating tendency to push tosses to the left. Improvement via repetition. It’s just a matter of commitment and concentration.

Where’s Dalton?

Dalton’s at lunch, says head tech Enoch Fabers.

Enoch has little tolerance for salespeople, even less affection for their assistants. He especially can’t stand sales assistants in an area where actual work takes place.

Tread lightly.

Can I help you with something?

Sent a document to laser printer one. Did not see it in the shipping room.

Of course not, he says. LP-01 was recently replaced by a newer model and moved to the big man’s office.

Big man’s office?

That’s right. We weren’t even going to network it, but the boss insisted. Said, it’s all company equipment, no exceptions so long as the job’s accomplished.

Oh, right…

Say, you look a little flushed, Enoch says, carefully adjusting his boxy glasses. Anyway, if you still need to see Dalton, check back in an hour.

Thank you.

Sure thing.

Enoch walks over to an open system, adroitly twirling a screwdriver through his weirdly elongated fingers.

It can’t be that hard. It’s just fancier Lego blocks. All the hardcore engineering’s done. It’s just a matter of knowing what fits together with what. He’s like a mechanic. He might not be able to design a fuel injection system for a car, but he certainly knows how to put the parts together, to fix them if they break. Guys like Enoch are simply tech grease monkeys. Nothing more.

Stuck to the corkboard, near the entrance of the tech area, is a torn sheet of dot matrix paper. The following pseudo-code unwittingly mocks:

if (SurvivalInstinct = true) {

exec(Thrive);

}

else {

exec(BecomePlantMatter);

}

As if on cue, Yeardley, hunched over, hands cupping bowed knees, out of breath. Yo, boss man wants to see you, pronto.

Was his angry?

Nope. Pretty calm, actually. Kinda weird.

That’s even worse.

Probably. Yeardley extends a hand. Well, good luck, man, and just remember, whatever happens, don’t sell out your principles.

What?

Nothing. I just, uh, I heard that in a movie.

Thanks.

Keep the faith!

No one makes eye contact with a dead man walking. Hand stuffed in right pocket, reassuringly gripping an ancestral good luck charm, it’s a slow trudge to the gallows. Though there might be a reprieve. Anything’s possible. The boss might accept the document as a legitimate extracurricular activity. Educational advancement. The main problem with this theory is the name on the paper. Tallent Barker does not work for FutureNow Concepts. In that respect, he might soon have company. The important thing is to remain calm. Stay true. Don’t try to fabricate some convoluted excuse. Just own up to it. Let rectitude guide thee. The very reason the print job arrived at the boss man’s printer was to make it obvious that there’s nothing to hide. Full disclosure. Chopped down cherry tree honest.

Maintain eye contact. Minimize blink count. Curb excessive swallowing.

Go in. He’s expecting you, says Mrs. Harris, the big man’s sour-faced secretary.

Just as Yeardley described, the boss appears serene, unnaturally at ease, sitting behind his large, polished mahogany desk.

Have a seat, he says, gesturing to a functional chair near the door rather than either of the two comfy ones on the opposite side of his imposing desk.

The distance is disconcerting, an unbridgeable span.

Tell me something, do you like working here?

Yes.

Do you think you have a future here?

Yes?

He nods, ostensibly satisfied, and then lifts Tallent’s thesis from his desk.

Did you print this?

Distance doesn’t matter at this point.

Yes, sir.

Neither would 20/10 vision.

You’re fired.

Her First Time

That’s it?

Polly felt him shift his weight, half-flaccidly pulling out of her and rolling onto his back. He coughed and exhaled, mumbling something about being so wasted, and then turned on his side, his lean, muscular back to her, taking the extra pillow and folding it between his thighs.

There really should be more to it than that, she considered, exposed in the half-light, the door to the illuminated bathroom projecting a slanted rectangular shadow onto a gaudily wallpapered hotel wall.

Polly had felt a stabbing pressure as he pushed his way inside her and then whatever that warm, gooey stuff was that coated the condom helped loosen things up a bit. He thrust a few, moderately energetic times, his shadowy head bobbing back and forth above her grimacing face. He then grunted, tensed, and seemed to lose all momentum.

She’d expected more … a whole lot more.

It was a seriously disappointing three minutes.

At least Polly had someone to blame. That would be Sally Mossberg. It was Sally who had called at the last minute (a week prior) wondering if Polly—nearly three years removed from high school—would mind accompanying her baby brother, Clint, to his senior prom. Such an insult! Polly should have told fringe-friend Sally that she had far more interesting and important things to do on a Friday night than pretend to be Sally’s pathetic little brother’s date.

But that would have been a lie.

Polly was a nearly-twenty-one-year-old virgin obsessed with maintaining a near-4.0 GPA at the pricey college her parents agreeably bankrolled. They provided room, board, and absolutely no expectation whatsoever that their only child would let them down. She would go to the fancy private college, meet some straitlaced fraternity brother working toward a well-paying professional degree, settle down in a slightly more prestigious neighborhood than the one she had grown up in, squeeze out a few rugrats, develop a secret drinking problem (just like Mom), and wince her skeletal remains to whatever finish line awaited people who did sociably acceptable stuff in that restrained, vomitously well-mannered and WASPy way.

Polly had dated, of course. She had done some heavyish petting and even given the world’s clumsiest handjob to a boy who seemed perfectly (and swiftly) satisfied with her fretfully amateurish technique. The whole biology of sex, the messiness and secretions involved in the exchange, didn’t bother her in the slightest. She simply hadn’t found herself in situations where sex would have been a pressing option. She was more at home in a library than loud and smoky clubs; more prone to curling up on a couch and watching all-night horror movie marathons than playing co-ed Twister in her underwear.

Polly’s purity was a real novelty among her friends. But there was never any shame associated with maintaining her chastity or nagging pressure to get it over with. It simply hadn’t happened yet, and she was perfectly fine with that.

And then she agreed to go to the prom with Sally Mossberg’s brother. Clint was thrilled to escort an older woman. He made forgettable introductions to various people wearing ill-fitting, rented outfits, standing around punch bowls, and complaining about things Polly hadn’t complained about in years. There was no keyhole looking back into that world for her; no rapid-fire hallway locker gossip to chew or tricky cheerleader routines to master. No common ground at all.

Alcohol smuggled in by Clint’s buddies definitely elevated the experience. Thus, she confidently drank to excess. Poor, naive Clint, apparently convinced he had to keep pace if he wanted to score later that night, drank even more than she did. After leaving the prom, the beyond-tipsy couple followed a group of kids to an overpriced suburban hotel. Polly was more than ready to go home but felt obligated to stick with Clint until everyone had passed out or scattered to other post-prom soirees, allowing the smarmy twerp to fabricate whatever story he wanted to about this mystery woman none of them would probably ever see again to challenge the veracity of his claims with.

Polly lost track of Clint in a crowded suite filled with teens from other proms and older, more seasoned partygoers. She bumped into Mandy Cross and Annie Fettersmund, a pair of high school pals. It was like a spontaneous reunion. A grainy porno played on the television. Kegs of beer lined up three deep. Some purple concoction brewed in the bathtub. The entire situation was dark and sweaty, oppressively claustrophobic. Thanks in no small measure to a high alcohol content, Polly just wanted to laugh, dance, and enjoy herself.

Someone, probably Annie, recommended playing musical beds. Musical beds was like musical chairs but involved people pairing off with complete strangers at roughly ten minute intervals so that no one was ever stuck with an unwilling partner to canoodle with. Everybody won (or so the arrangement promised). Polly compliantly stumbled off to an unoccupied room and claimed a too-stiff queen mattress. She didn’t consider the implication that this action might actually lead to the surrendering of her virginity. As long as it wasn’t Clint, she didn’t mind who joined her in the room.

As it turned out, the mystery lover who would claim her maidenhood ensured no one else would get the opportunity by locking the room’s door. His only comment before promptly getting down to business was, No worries … got protection.

Polly didn’t recall having seen him earlier. Surely they had made eye contact at some point, she reasoned, perhaps in the main party room, a silent contract sealed with inaudible gestures masquerading as blind lust. She didn’t stop him, though, didn’t protest in the slightest. She had long since divorced herself from hyper-inflated romantic notions when it came to the breaking of her hymen. There were no religious observations to worry about, no deathbed promises to a favored grandparent. Tonight mattered as much as any other. Alcohol (along with thrice-cursed Sally Mossberg) could shoulder the blame of any nagging, post-coital regret. Besides, the guy was cute, attractively self-assured. He removed her panties, dropped trou, and mounted her. Easy as un, deux, trois.

Later, in the bathroom, she was surprised at the lack of blood. Friends had made it seem like an unnaturally heavy flow would accompany the first time. No transfusion necessary, thankfully. She had mild discomfort, would probably be sore the following morning, but otherwise felt just peachy. Mucho thanks fuzzy navels and cheap imported beers.

All done. Finis.

Polly cleaned herself, scanned her dress for tears (welcomely wholly stitched), and exited the bathroom.

Rapid Romeo was snoring, had completely checked out. She politely pulled the top sheet over him, grabbed her purse, and left the room.

In the hallway, Polly encountered Annie, barely covered in a too tiny bath towel, her gigantic boobs overwhelming the modest terrycloth fabric.

Oh, thank Jehovah… Annie exhaled. Listen, I have a problem.

Polly could only imagine.

My clothes are trapped beneath several hundred pounds of scrumptious male muscle.

Several hundred?

Three jocks sprawled across the bed in Annie’s room. Their bodies were Greek-carved gorgeous. Annie, apparently, just kept collecting new partners at ten minute intervals, perhaps even one who had tried, unsuccessfully, to enter Polly’s room.

"I really need to get out of here, Annie said. Save me?"

Polly did just that, handily shifting sculpted male flesh around while Annie wrenched her clothes free.

Thank you so much, Annie said, pulling on a figure-hugging sweater. You know, we really should stay in touch. What school are you at again?

Polly told her.

I’m at the city college, Annie said. It’s not so bad. But I bet they have better parties where you go, swankier and with better drinks.

Polly hadn’t a clue.

Either way, I’ve got to stop hanging out with these teenagers. Racehorse stamina, to be sure, but there’s absolutely nothing to talk about afterwards.

Afterwards? Polly stifled a giggle.

Outside, in the parking lot, Polly discovered Clint, passed out in the back seat of his father’s car.

What’d I miss? he said, rousing stiffly.

Everything, said Polly.

April 4, 1883

Something remarkable happened. Near dusk, finishing up in the orchard, a great stone came tearing across the sky, directly over me and Judson. It crashed about three hundred yards distant, carving a long, knee-deep trench where sturdy trees had formerly stood. What an amazing sight! How many folks can claim to have seen a falling star make landfall?

Judson had visited a college down near the coast as a boy and claimed he’d seen a space rock fixed behind thick glass. He noted it was big as his father’s fist and shiny black. The man who showed it to him swore it wasn’t dangerous, but Judson figured if that be the case, they wouldn’t have gone about safeguarding it so carefully.

Our space rock was undeniably bigger than the one Judson recalled seeing. Bigger than a bull calf by comparison. The rock didn’t appear to be hot, just dust-powdered, and firmly settled, like a ball wedged in a deep mudbank. Judson refused to chance it, however. He held back while I walked the length of the trench, coming within three steps of its resting place. The thing was rough and irregular, bore a melted countenance. Just the idea that it had come from beyond the heavens excited me more than anything. How far had this piece of rock adventured? How old was it? Was it older than the world, old as the sun on high?

Judson said it’d be best if we left the rock alone and headed back to town. I knew Mr. Miller and his boys were probably on their way out and that this would be our lone hope of getting a close look at the rock before a formal claim appeared. A selfish part of me wanted to keep it for myself, even though I knew this to be foolish.

Thankfully, providence did me a kind turn, for lying there, sheared off the stone, was an arrowhead-shaped wedge, small enough to secret in my palm. I knelt down and scooped it up, not even concerned about getting branded or frostbit or whatever strange affliction such a unique object might perpetrate on the overly curious. It was cool, felt heavy despite its modest size. Felt just right.

I tucked the keepsake in my pocket and climbed out of the trench, aligning with Judson as a group of men with lanterns and dogs made a rowdy approach.

Menander

Know thyself is a good saying, but not in all circumstances. In many, it is better to say: know others.

Don’t pretend you don’t know why I asked you over here Molly Chabalinski.

Molly hated it when Tallent used her full name in casual conversation.

Are you taping this? she said, looking at the compact tape recorder she’d recently purchased in his hand.

Posterity notwithstanding?

What is wrong with you?

Tallent moved the recorder uncomfortably close to his mouth. Molly Chabalinski is a beautiful, intelligent, teaching—

Stop it.

She regretted turning down the second wine cooler her roommate had offered earlier that evening.

Tallent stopped recording. He smiled at her; it was a great, attractive smile. Plus, he wasn’t wearing his glasses, allowing Molly to easily lose herself in those entrancing, greenish-blue eyes of his.

Ms. Chabalinski, would you kindly join me on the floor?

Tallent…

He tumbled onto a shag white rug, resting his head on a royal blue throw pillow.

Come… he said, and she rolled her eyes and docilely complied, resting her head against his pale, hairless chest.

She knew there were better options, somewhere, anywhere beyond Post-Graduate Tallent Barker’s limited sphere of desire. Tonight, she settled. Admitted as much to herself on the way over. She capitulated because she didn’t want to stay in with Dena and watch some cheesy romantic comedy and whine about how lame her social life was. Barker was a serviceable diversion, but she honestly felt a hip, (potentially) tenured professor was in her future. Someone firmly established though not entirely bereft of spontaneity. A bearded force!

Barker was training wheels for the budding academic romance ladder-climber.

You ’ave ze breastest bosoms, he said, squeezing her close.

I wish we were dancing… she said, absently running her fingers through his thick, chestnut brown hair.

Molly Chabalinski, my dancing queen.

Jerk.

Tallent kissed Molly’s neck and began worming his index finger under her bra strap. She exhaled and closed her eyes.

Key penetrating a deadbolt lock delayed the inevitable.

Tallent propped on elbows, frowning. Worst timing, ad infinitum.

What’s your roommate’s name again? Molly said, hoping she didn’t sound too curious.

Which one? He didn’t bother to mask his exasperation.

The door opened and a tall, lean, russet-haired figure shambled past, stumbling once, working with oblivious intent toward the back of the reasonably well-kept bachelors’ haunt.

Carlton I’ve met. Who’s that?

A sloppy drunk, Tallent said. "Also, an old friend inkblot mystery train