Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

Andy mumbled a reply to Tim’s complaint. Tim answered in incomprehensible computer talk, working himself up into a scary rage, his fair skin reddening. His blue and white rugby shirt climbed higher with the gesticulation of his thick arms, until it settled on a ridge above his ballooning stomach and he appeared to be a comical belly dancer in male drag. While Tim ranted, Andy looked down at the dissected computer on his desk, his glasses gradually slipping to the end of his nose, showing no reaction.

“You fuck with my shit again and I’ll break your head!” Tim shouted at the conclusion of his monologue, the first sentence I understood. He breathed loudly through his nose for several seconds, waiting. Andy, eyes on the machine, chewed his lips, apparently in deep thought. Finally, Andy reached into the jumble of boards, pulled off a cable from a raised ridge of copper wires, removed a circuit board smaller than his hand, moved it to the top one (later I was told that was the motherboard) and plugged it into the right corner. He yanked another cable from below and connected it to the tiny circuit. “Piggyback,” he said. “That clears the serial for a modem.”

“We’re doing an internal modem!” Tim screamed. And I mean screamed, so desperately that I reacted involuntarily, saying, “Whoa. Take it easy.”

They ignored me. Andy shook his head. “Modem’s frying the board.”

“’Cause the chips are shit!” Tim screamed again. His face was splotchy with red dots of rage. “Fucking Japanese shit!”

“Shit is what we’ve got. So start eating it.” Andy looked up at him for the first time. He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Piggyback,” he said softly.

Tim pulled his shirt down over his belly. Until then, I thought he was unaware of the exposure. He dropped to his wide knees to stare at the new arrangement. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and squinted. Groaning, a hand on the floor to power himself, he got to his feet. He looked at Andy. “I ain’t doing fuck-all until you tell the softies.” He walked out without waiting for an answer.

I laughed nervously, unsettled by Tim. Andy still didn’t seem bothered; he was focused on the prototype. “The softies?” I asked.

“Programmers. Operating software. He’s right. They might throw a shit fit and cry behind my back to Stick. If he takes their side …” Andy fell into his chair. The sudden drop propelled a white curl of stuffing into the air. Andy caught it, quick to protect the exposed boards.

“It’s wasted effort?” I tried to finish his sentence.

“Worse,” Andy said, carefully disposing the tiny feather into a plastic trash container that was filled to the brim by Coke cans. “It’s wasted time. We’re late. We’re designing, debugging and programming all at once. Doesn’t make sense. Gotta do it in stages.” He opened his hands to encompass the boards. “And it’s too big. You need a truck to carry this thing.” He laughed. Naturally, and with good humor, he laughed at the prototype.

“You handle stress well.”

“Thanks. But maybe I’m just cracking up. Anyway, this was Gene’s office. Pretty fancy for a VP, huh?”

“Are you a VP?”

“No. It’s a bullshit title,” he said with contempt. He seemed immediately embarrassed and added apologetically, “Meant something to Gene, I guess.”

“More money?”

Andy looked down modestly. “Not necessarily.”

“You make more than Gene did,” I said, not a question.

“I don’t know what Gene made,” Andy said. He covered his mouth with his left hand and looked at me as if checking whether I believed him. I didn’t. His mannerisms and answers had been straightforward until this conversation about salary.

“Did Gene have to stay in this office?”

“No. He liked it here. So do I.” He relaxed again, the hand uncovering his mouth, smiling easily. “Seems incredible to you? We’re nerds, Doctor. As kids, we were unpopular. As teenagers, we were hated. But here — this is home. We’re safe here.” Andy leaned forward, peering into his tower of circuits and wires. His glasses began another slide. “That’s why Gene didn’t move to the Glass Tower.”

“Would Tim scream at Gene like that?”

Andy peeked over his glasses at me. “You trying to make me feel bad?”

“I’m trying to understand why losing all this would make him want to stop living.”

Andy cocked his head, eyes straying to the fluorescent panel thoughtfully. “I never saw Gene lose his temper. He killed his wife, didn’t he? I mean he finally lost his temper — big-time. And then he killed himself. Right?”

“Did Tim scream at Gene like that?” I asked again. Andy ignored my question for the second time, leaning back in his chair. His glasses remained stuck on the end of his nose. “Did you scream at him?” I asked.

Andy laughed, again easily, enjoying the thoughts my question provoked. He swiveled in his chair, head thrown back, chuckling. When his amusement died out, he adjusted his glasses and then commented, “If someone fucked up, Gene came in and fixed it. He covered everybody’s ass. And he listened.” Andy straightened, sobering up. “He listened to everybody. He listened too much. He wasted time, he gave everybody too much slack. Part of the reason Tim screams at me is because Gene didn’t make the command chain clear. I’ve only been boss for six weeks. Some people haven’t accepted it.” He nodded at me earnestly. “They will.”

“I’m supposed to report to Stick what I find out from talking to you.”

Andy nodded as if that were a banal fact. “Me too.”

“I’m not going to,” I said. “You said something important, at least, important to a nutty shrink like me. It explains Gene’s grief at being fired. That’s what I came for. I’m not going to share it with Copley. And I’m certainly not going to tell him you’re in trouble—”

Andy shifted his weight forward abruptly. The spring squealed faintly and his chair thudded to an upright position. “I’m not in trouble—”

“—But I have a piece of advice for you,” I cut him off. “I know you think you’re shrewder than Gene, and maybe you think you’re stronger too. I made a mistake with Gene, I see that now. I assumed he would be rewarded for years of service. I assumed a talented man would always be valuable to a company. You see, my uncle was a businessman and he remained loyal to the people who did good work, well past their prime. My uncle wasn’t a sentimental man. That wasn’t why he was loyal. He knew that loyalty inspires the younger ones to work hard. Stick doesn’t believe that.”

“Nobody believes that anymore. This is the nineties. Haven’t you heard of downsizing?” Andy stood up. “Listen, I’m not in trouble.” He pointed to the smashed machine. “This may look like a mess to you, but it’s normal—”

Again, I interrupted. “I didn’t mean with the machine. I know nothing about it. I mean you can’t handle these men and you’re scared. You’re still a kid. You miss Gene. He controlled their egos so you could be the star. Now you’re having to do both jobs at once and you’re floundering.”

Andy stared at me through his spotted glasses, eyes half-closed. Their Asian slant lent the look a cold withdrawn aspect. In fact, he was furious. “I can build this machine alone,” he said in a whisper. He wasn’t attempting to conceal the remark. He was so clenched with anger he couldn’t give it volume. “I don’t need them.”

“You’re wrong,” I said. “You told me so yourself. They’re your family. They make you feel safe. You need them as badly as they need you.”

Andy was still. He watched me watch him for a while. A man with a high squeaky voice entered behind me, talking without introduction, something about access time to the hard drive.