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xylieStill playing around with themes.
The police actually never talked to me. Having finished with Bobby and one or two of the guys, they were on their way. I wanted to stop them, to say something, but I felt weird. What had I seen exactly? Death? A joke? Surely if someone had dragged Christian out of the dope den, there'd have been marks. There would have been something.
Instead I had to drop what I was doing and help Bobby with some slides. He wanted to demonstrate our continued growth to the big fish, which made me wonder if we were trying to get them to buy our product or us, but I let it go. Making such slides took fudging, something that Bobby felt fell under my purview, even though he was quite good at it on his own.
"And I want you do do everything in OpenOffice. These geeks are big into open source."
Bobby doesn't mean geeks in a derogatory sense, anyone who attends Star Trek conventions probably can't pull that one off. Geeks are in his eyes uncompromising hassles who like a company, like say ours, that routinely uses Open Source to justify our taking of this or that from previous contributions to Open Source at other companies, to use more open source products.
This results in hell. Certain products are just as good without Microsoft. Others haven't reached it quite yet. OpenOffice in all its glory is still a second best in some of the basics.
But what Bobby wants, Bobby gets. Most of the time. I still hadn't moved my stuff over to git.
Instead of wandering back to my desk, I walked the long corridor down to the dope den. I passed Christian's desk and saw that the git tutorial book was still there. A Postit marked "Terrible"
was affixed to it in Christian's fussy hand. Absently, I picked up the book and headed into the den.
There is something of a light in there. Mitchell Thomspson, our resident crazy, was asleep on the couch to my right, a guitar still in his hands. Mitch is one of those sad characters who had fleeting moments of greatness back at college in Michigan, and then discovered LSD exacerbates his bi-polar tendencies. He never stopped doing LSD, he just uses weed to compensate.
Bobby would have liked nothing better than for Mitch to have been the one missing. He's been tying to replace him for months. Red won't hear of it. And to be honest, I don't see the harm in the guy.
"Mitch," I said, taking the guitar, "Mitch, you have to wake up."
Mitch did wake up, his eyes wild and unseeing in the blue-black light. "Oh man, I think I'm blind," he said to me. "Lissa, is that you?"
I was a bit skeptical about the blindness, but decided it was easier to accept it than listen to a lengthy and incoherent speech on the subject. From the way he smelled, he could have certainly blacked out. There were several beers on him in addition to the usual mix.
"I had this weird dream that there were these alien ships trying to attack the building while we were here on Saturday," Mitch continued, sitting up. "They came for you and me and Christian."
Ever had that feeling? That your blood is turning into lead? Cold, hard, but also brittle? I smiled as best I could and said, "Well, it's a good thing you don't work Saturdays."
"Or Mondays for that matter," Mitch said, feeling his way around. "I've had this before, I'll get my sight back in an hour or two. Think we can get Bobby to turn the lights off in the warehouse so I can work comfortably?"
A typical Mitch request. Another time we can go into the time he put a hammock in his cube.
"No, I think Bobby's really stressing over the new customer, Mitch," I said. "How about I bring you your laptop in here, and you can work?"
That made him smile and let me escape gracefully. I was still shaking at the idea that Mitch might have been in the building, and adding to his usual substances.
Not that I thought he was coordinated to kill Christian and dump the body in the back Bay. But I did make Max take him his laptop and power supply. Going back seemed like a bad idea.
The police actually never talked to me. Having finished with Bobby and one or two of the guys, they were on their way. I wanted to stop them, to say something, but I felt weird. What had I seen exactly? Death? A joke? Surely if someone had dragged Christian out of the dope den, there'd have been marks. There would have been something.
Instead I had to drop what I was doing and help Bobby with some slides. He wanted to demonstrate our continued growth to the big fish, which made me wonder if we were trying to get them to buy our product or us, but I let it go. Making such slides took fudging, something that Bobby felt fell under my purview, even though he was quite good at it on his own.
"And I want you do do everything in OpenOffice. These geeks are big into open source."
Bobby doesn't mean geeks in a derogatory sense, anyone who attends Star Trek conventions probably can't pull that one off. Geeks are in his eyes uncompromising hassles who like a company, like say ours, that routinely uses Open Source to justify our taking of this or that from previous contributions to Open Source at other companies, to use more open source products.
This results in hell. Certain products are just as good without Microsoft. Others haven't reached it quite yet. OpenOffice in all its glory is still a second best in some of the basics.
But what Bobby wants, Bobby gets. Most of the time. I still hadn't moved my stuff over to git.
Instead of wandering back to my desk, I walked the long corridor down to the dope den. I passed Christian's desk and saw that the git tutorial book was still there. A Postit marked "Terrible"
was affixed to it in Christian's fussy hand. Absently, I picked up the book and headed into the den.
There is something of a light in there. Mitchell Thomspson, our resident crazy, was asleep on the couch to my right, a guitar still in his hands. Mitch is one of those sad characters who had fleeting moments of greatness back at college in Michigan, and then discovered LSD exacerbates his bi-polar tendencies. He never stopped doing LSD, he just uses weed to compensate.
Bobby would have liked nothing better than for Mitch to have been the one missing. He's been tying to replace him for months. Red won't hear of it. And to be honest, I don't see the harm in the guy.
"Mitch," I said, taking the guitar, "Mitch, you have to wake up."
Mitch did wake up, his eyes wild and unseeing in the blue-black light. "Oh man, I think I'm blind," he said to me. "Lissa, is that you?"
I was a bit skeptical about the blindness, but decided it was easier to accept it than listen to a lengthy and incoherent speech on the subject. From the way he smelled, he could have certainly blacked out. There were several beers on him in addition to the usual mix.
"I had this weird dream that there were these alien ships trying to attack the building while we were here on Saturday," Mitch continued, sitting up. "They came for you and me and Christian."
Ever had that feeling? That your blood is turning into lead? Cold, hard, but also brittle? I smiled as best I could and said, "Well, it's a good thing you don't work Saturdays."
"Or Mondays for that matter," Mitch said, feeling his way around. "I've had this before, I'll get my sight back in an hour or two. Think we can get Bobby to turn the lights off in the warehouse so I can work comfortably?"
A typical Mitch request. Another time we can go into the time he put a hammock in his cube.
"No, I think Bobby's really stressing over the new customer, Mitch," I said. "How about I bring you your laptop in here, and you can work?"
That made him smile and let me escape gracefully. I was still shaking at the idea that Mitch might have been in the building, and adding to his usual substances.
Not that I thought he was coordinated to kill Christian and dump the body in the back Bay. But I did make Max take him his laptop and power supply. Going back seemed like a bad idea.
