A New Computer

It is lonely being the only tech geek in a company whose business is literally based on horse and buggy technology. The other day I came up with a new scheduling algorithm that optimizes the utilization by 10%. I was so excited when the new schedule popped up on the screen, I jumped up and ran around singing the theme from Rocky. I ran out to brag to the first person I found, one of the trainers. She listened politely and said, "That's nice, Jeff," and just walked away, leaving me to celebrate alone.
Fortunately, there is Gill's Tavern. Gill's is the kind of joint where you can lose yourself in a tall glass of draft beer and sing along to familiar 70's pop songs blaring from the juke box. Patrons snack on complementary peanuts and throw the shells recklessly to the floor. Hidden away in downtown Bingo, Washington, the tavern attracts a regular group of locals who provide a good income and company to the owner/bartender Gil, whose name is Art.
According to local rumors, Art isn't his real name either. When they think he isn't looking, one of the regulars will whisper to you that he made a fortune back in the 80's by investing in a scheme to import Columbian cocaine to suddenly wealthy New Yorker yuppies. When he tried to get out, the Columbian's cut off the pinky on his left hand before he could escape with enough money to buy the land around Highway 223 that would become Bingo.
Three businesses grew out of that land, the barbershop, Occam's Razor, a grocery store with no name, other than, The Store, and Gil's. These businesses were built to cater to the migrant farm workers who picked fruit in the Blackthorn Valley and the construction workers who were building the monuments to the east side economic boom.
Of course, things changed over the years. The working class moved on to the next hopeful spot, replaced by commuters who worked in the monuments and lived in middle class mansions that suburbanized the valley. Elmer, the barber had to hire a stream of recent cosmetology school graduates brimming with the latest styles. Ted at the store replaced canned vegetables and dried beans with fresh organic food. Recently, he changed again to supply the local foods fad that was taking hold.
Though it all, Gil's tavern managed to stay the same. Art poured cheep beer to quietly earnest drinkers until 11:00 on week nights and midnight on Saturdays. After closing, he shoved the regulars into a battered VW minibus and drove them home. Things finally changed about a year ago when the voters of Washington made it illegal for people to smoke in public places like bars and restaurants. On the first smoke free evening a new kind of crowd came in. Art found himself tapping kegs of microbrew and mixing top shelf drinks. The biggest surprise was that after a couple of drinks and a bowl or two of complementary peanuts, these folks actually paid their tab before getting themselves home. He was doing half the work and making twice the money.
In the dark bar, Art saw the light. The next day he opened the doors to air out ten years of tar and nicotine, replaced the Rubin's print behind the bar with a Neiman water color and ordered new tables and chairs from the local carpenter, WC. By the weekend most of the old crowd had been chased away by the prospect of having to stand outside in the cold to get their fix. A new crowd, with more disposable income, moved in.
I had stopped at the store to pick up a few things, so I was late to the bar. The usual suspects were already gathered at our table in the back. There was a pitcher of Bingo Creek Hefeweizen in the middle of the table along with two empty glasses for late comers. From the juke box, Stevie Nicks was assuring me that when the rain washes me clean, I'll know. Alan Kim the computer hardware wizard from MIT had his back to me and was making a speech about the myth that capitalism drives progress. OK, I couldn't hear what he was saying since I was deep in my Stevie Nicks fantasies, but I had head his speeches before and I could guess from his body language, which one he was doing.
Weird Chester had his back to the window and was contemplating his beer while he waited for Alan to wind down. WC, as he is sometimes known, makes furniture for very exclusive clients. While each piece he makes is undeniably a masterpiece, it requires a special aesthetic to have one of his creations in your home. WC finds that conventions like English measures or the Metric system inflict a paternal blandness on people forcing them into preconceptions and thoughtlessness. Instead he measures his work in thumb widths, legs and elbows. He says it puts his personal signature into the project. He also is not fond of right angles. The tables he made for Gil's are round and balance on various geometric shapes that intersect at every angle except 90 degrees. In the hands of a less skilled artist, these quirks would result in clunky jumbles of ugliness and impracticality. Somehow, WC makes it work. If you watch those shows on TV about celebrities and where they live, watch in the background for a leaning bookcase or a triangular couch. Odds are you will be looking at a WC original.
Next to WC, Jeanie Hunter looked attentively at Alan, waiting patiently for him to wind down. If I wasn't married to the perfect woman, I would be Stevie Nicks' love slave. If Stevie wouldn't have me, I'd pledge my life and love to the beauty of Jeanie Hunter. Jeanie is a software genius, true, but no one notices that until they try to figure out why this model is hanging out with a bunch of nerds with dorky glasses and butts flatten by years of sitting in front of a keyboard.
I got suspicious when Dreamer finished on the Juke box and another Fleetwood Mac song started up. Then I noticed a stack of festively wrapped packages next to WC and I knew someone had ratted me out. Probably Mike "Pistol93" Wilson, the fourth person at the table. He had a way with the internet that made him a person of interest whenever data went missing. I am not script kiddy when it comes to hacking and I had deleted all publically available records on myself years ago. Only someone with Mike's ability could have discovered when my birthday was.
Someone turned the juke down and everyone joined in an off-key chorus of Happy Birthday. The song screeched to a halt just as Art delivered a carrot cake with a candle in it. I blew out the candle knowing that resistance would be futile. At my age, I don't really need any more birthdays to mark my inevitable slide into old age. I also don't like being the center of attention, so while WC placed two of the packages on the table, I tried to make myself invisible. Unfortunately, that was not in my power. Everyone in the place was watching, waiting for me to open my presents. I had no choice but to get it over with. I tore off the paper to reveal two beautiful wooden sculptures. A keyboard and a monitor like I have never seen before. The curves and odd angles blended presently into pair of WC originals.
Jeanie leaned across the table and pressed a bit of ebony on each of the pieces. LEDs embedded in the wood lit up and the monitor flickered to life. The familiar layout of one of Jeanie's custom Linux implementations invited me to log in.
I was not surprised to find that Mike had already set up an account with my password. Alan explained that the third box had 8 64 bit processers, custom network and graphics systems, half a terabyte of storage... I stopped him there to ask what they expected me to do with all that computing power. It was a stupid question, easily answered, "Whatever you want!" they declared in chorus. I brought up my molecular modeling program and watched as the powerful machine churned through some of the more complex simulations. I clicked on the visualization mode and the stream of numbers changed into colorful charts that used to bring my old computer to its knees.
I looked up to see the faces of my nerd friends as excited as I was with the new toy. Fingers kept creeping over the keyboard to show off some feature. More pitchers of beer appeared and emptied. I can't remember any specific things that were said, all I can remember is laughing. Around 2:00 AM we packed the gear into Art's van and let him drive us home.
I was tired the next morning, my head ached and my tongue felt like felt, but I got up early, loaded the computer into my car and headed to work via Bingo Java. Tracy was working the window when I pulled up, "Name the original drummer for, Yes and get a free coffee," she said expectantly. I haven't paid for a coffee in over four years when I got the chief export of New Zealand wrong. I guessed lamb, but it turns out wool was the right answer, who knew? I told Tracy, Bill Bruford played with Yes from 1968 to 1972 and collected my free coffee and an astonished look from Tracy.
At the office, I had my new computer all hooked up by the time Randy arrived. "What's that?" he asked pointing at the CPU which looked like a Gauguin still life. I blurted out a description of the memory capacity, network throughput and a half a dozen other exciting features before I noticed the glazed over look in Randy's eyes. "I'm glad we have you around, Jeff. I could never understand all that technical stuff." He took a close look at the CPU, then placed the Stateline Tack catalog he had been carrying into a notch in the top. "Don't forget to run that month end feeding report."
Fortunately, there is Gill's Tavern.