by Robyn Guest
It’s another day in the office, and you stare mindlessly at the monitor before you, mesmerized by the dancing lights of the screensaver. You sigh. Life was supposed to begin once you hit the work force. This was what you went to college for, worked night shifts at fast food restaurants for, and now you’re here, the middle of the corporate ladder, many rungs to go, yet working your way up diligently, albeit slowly, from amidst the confines of your cubical.
You placently note that the morning hub is forming at the water cooler. You notice the new girl in the office standing around, chatting with the other gossips. What was her name? Joanne something-or-other. Red-head, natural color too. What does she work at? You can’t quite remember. Oh, wait. She’s from tech support. Poor girl. She’s a nice kid, always perky, and maybe you need some of that right now, but today you don’t feel like hearing the office gossip.
A sudden dispersion of the gossipers warns you that your boss, Mr. Lampson, has entered the room. You shake your mouse. The hypnotic lights disappear to the mystical language of computer coding. You sigh again as you begin your work.
Coding was once so fun: writing your own programs, tweaking an UNIX OS. Just a few years ago you would have rather spent a Friday night recompiling a Linux kernel than watching the newest Jim Carey comedy in theaters. Now, seeing the jumble of actions and commands brings forth groans as another Monday morning begins.
Mr. Lampson, now about seven cubicles away, is chatting rather friendly to the company alpha geek, Hans Schultz. You despise Hans yet secretly worship him. He wrote his own OS before the age of fifteen, and you wonder why a genius like Hans was not whisked away by Bill Gates years ago. But here he is, only seven cubicles away, laughing at some inane joke from the boss.
Then you hear the steps of Mr. Lampson’s wing-tipped shoes as they draw near. You try focusing on the monitor, typing furiously yet mindlessly.
“Hello, Colonel,” Mr. Lampson’s voice calls directly behind you.
“Good morning, sir,” you reply, turning around to meet Mr. Lampson’s smiling face.
The only thing you appreciate about Hans is the nickname he gave you: Colonel. You are a second leutinant in the Army reserves, with plans to one day be a colonel, but would never assume the rank without the stripes. However, Hans dubbed you this name at one of his own versions of an office party: a night drinking vodka with ten or so of his personal SGIs in a race to see who can compile a kernel fastest. After you beat his time by a whooping twenty seconds, Hans dubbed you your office nickname Colonel, or “Kernel.”
“Busy coding, I see,” Mr. Lampson says, nodding to your monitor. “Good job, Colonel. If you continue working like this, who knows? I see great promise in you, kid.”
You smile weakly. What boss calls a run-of-the-mill coder kid? Mr. Lampson gives you an overly friendly smile and turns down the row. You continue typing furiously, just in case he returns. The steps fade away, and your fingers slow to a gradual stop. You sigh in relief and wipe your glasses.
Coffee sounds good about now.