Copyright 2009 Steven Jordan. All rights reserved.
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Denial of Service is so hot it needs lead-lined baggies! Everybody wants to know:
What’s the deal with Mike?
What’s the deal with Gail?
What’s the deal with Pete?
What’s the deal with Mike and Gail?
What’s the deal with Pete and Gail?
What’s the deal with Mike and Pete?
What’s the deal with Gail and Pete and Mike?
Was Veronica really that scary?
When’s Mike gonna buy a car?
What’s Pete’s favorite brand of beer?
Does Gail like cats? I have to travel to India for a year, and I don’t have anyone to take care of Lexie…
Okay, okay, enough! I promise, some of these questions will be answered… soon! For now: Corona; and No, she just has enthusiastic PR guys…
Episode 4: L.A. Conspiratorial, subtitle: Only DOS facts, ma’am!
By Steve Jordan
1: How I got boned
It was developing into one of those hot San Diego days… and it was only 6am. It was hot enough for me to open up the balcony door, to allow some of the last of the cool breeze to blow into Pete’s dining room, otherwise known these days as my Borg alcove, and at least attempt to cool off my Toughbook, the various and sundry electronic gear attached to it, and me. It wasn’t working well, though.
Despite the relative uncomfortable feel to the air (at least it was a dry heat… hey, I had to say it), I wasn’t going to stop working. I’d had an inspiration at about three in the morning. Actually, it was one of those cases when you have a dream, and it makes perfect sense to you during the dream, but the moment you wake up in the middle of the night, you realize it is complete crap. But before I fell back asleep, I realized the dream had actually hinted at something I hadn’t yet done in my investigations into the little incident I like to call “How I got boned.”
So I’d gotten up, booted up the alcove, and started working. It had been a little over two months since I’d been fired from my IT job in Baltimore under mysterious, spooky, and altogether ooky circumstances, and so far, the only hint I’d manage to dredge up from the other side of the continent was a few references to something called “Merc.” The exact nature of “Merc” had so far eluded me, though… and I’ll admit, my efforts probably weren’t helped by the regular distractions I experienced during my research. That is, if you can call an occasional opportunity to help out my girlfriend’s friends when they get into an IT-related jam, in-between running off with her and having the Best Sex Of My Life, a distraction. But back, reluctantly, to business… the inspiration from my non-sequitor dream was starting to look as if it might actually pay off.
But as I worked, my attention started to waver, and I had to stop to figure out why. Was it the heat? No, it wasn’t that bad, yet. Getting tired? No… I might need an early run to Starbucks soon, but I wasn’t that tired yet. Finally I realized what was wrong: The noise from my brother’s room had abruptly stopped.
I know this doesn’t sound like much of a distraction, but you don’t hang at my crib. My brother and his squeeze, Riley, can and frequently will have at each other for hours. The only couple I know that is capable of out-performing those two, in fact, is me and my squeeze, Gail… who, coincidentally, used to be my brother’s squeeze before I got here, though I’m not entirely sure why she wasn’t anymore, and… but that’s a story for another time. Anyway, between Pete and Riley, and me and Gail when we are here, we make enough noise during sex that it’s amazing the neighbors haven’t called the police on us yet. (Or Hustler.) While I’ve been staying here at my brother’s place, I’d gotten good at tuning out the noise… it really is like getting used to traffic. But when it abruptly stops, like when the TV gets turned off in the middle of an action program… well, it can be distracting.
At about the time all of this was occurring to me, the door to Pete’s bedroom opened. Out came Riley, dressed from the waist down but still pulling her top over her head, heading for the door. Riley has a big bag for a purse, and it looked like there was at least one piece of clothing dangling from it… I probably didn’t want to know which. She threw a quick glance at me in the alcove, but neither of us spoke. Then she had her top in place, yanked open the front door, and headed out.
About a minute later, Pete came out of the bedroom. He had pulled on some shorts, and he looked wired, maybe a little angry, as he shuffled towards the front door. Then he glanced at the dining room and saw me, peering back from behind my gear. Pete stopped, glanced at the front door, back at me… then shook his head, changed direction, and headed into the kitchen. A moment later, I heard the telltale sound of a beer bottle being opened. And the next moment, Pete shuffled out of the kitchen and approached the dining room.
“What are you doing up?” Pete asked, sliding himself into a chair opposite mine. “Got a pen pal in the Outback?”
“What’s wrong with Riley?” I asked, not that I was dodging the question.
Pete’s eyes quickly disappeared under beetling brows, and he threw back his beer. After a moment, he replied, “I, uh… hell… I said Gail’s name while—”
“Oh, for the love of,” I started. “Pete, you are certifiable! First you do… whatever you did… to drive Gail away, then you actually utter her name while doing it with a girl who pretty much worships the ground you walk on…”
“I know, I know!” Pete said. “Man, I guy just can’t get a break!” He took another hit from his beer. “It’s okay… I’ll patch it up with Riley. After all, we wouldn’t want to ruin your Starbucks connection, would we?”
“Pete…”
“So, c’mon, what’re you doing here, anyhow?” Pete asked, not that he wasn’t dodging the subject. Because he was.
After a moment, I shrugged. “Had an idea last night. I’ve been tapping into server logs at one of my old client’s offices. It occurred to me that I might be able to isolate this Merc thing by running some advanced search algorithms to find any connections between references to Merc, and any other documents on the servers. Then you create an interrelational digraph—”
“Whoa, flag on play!” Pete interrupted. “Unnecessary geekiness, five yard penalty!”
“You’re such a dude, bro,” I said lightly. After an appropriate sigh, I explained in non-geek terms, “I thought Merc might be some type of secret document or strategy that Byers & Mig, my ex-client, might be planning. So I’m trying to find references to a document that’s been moved around on their server logs… sort of a back-door way to find documents.”
“Could’a just said that,” Pete nodded, and took another hit from the beer. I glanced at my watch significantly. Yes, it was only six-ten in the morning. Pete, missing (or pretending to miss) my silent admonishment, continued: “And is it working?”
“Making progress,” I replied, “but nothing concrete yet.”
“Ah,” Pete said with little feigned interest. “Well, I’m gonna go back to bed… try not to make too much noise out here, ‘kay?”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, turning back to my work.
“Hey, bro?”
I looked up. Pete had stopped halfway to the bedroom, and was looking at me. “Is it really so bad here that you can’t imagine anything but going back to Baltimore?”
After a moment, I said, “Good night, bro.”
Pete turned back to the bedroom. Over his shoulder, he said, “Good morning.”
2: Connections
Once I’d gotten that recap of my present situation out of the way, I was able to get back to work. The Byers & Mig (whom I often thought of as B&M or, not-so-inappropriately, simply BM) server logs had been providing me with some clues, which I was still trying to make sense of… it may have been my need for coffee that was making it difficult to understand what I was looking at. And I repeatedly went back to the e-mail logs, hoping that someone would let something slip that would give me a vital clue as to what Merc was. As it is, my mind was constantly trying to think of synonyms, antonyms, acronyms, and any silly thing that might lead me in the right direction. But the only thing that stayed in my mind was the word “mercury,” or maybe “mercurial,” which made me think of fast, or chaotic, or angry. To me, that described American business in its totality, but didn’t suggest anything more specific.
When, by almost eight, I seemed to have hit another brick wall, I decided to take a break. I was ready for my trademark grande double-shot skim milk espresso with room from Starbucks, but after this morning, I had serious doubts that I’d be seeing Riley coming back with a few drinks for her favorite Schitzeiss brothers. So, I had the perfect excuse to get out, stretch my legs, and grab a drink for myself. So I went back to my bedroom in order to throw on some baggies and a shirt over my shorts, slip into some walking sandals, grabbed my personalized cup on my way out, and left the apartment.
You couldn’t say enough about my brother’s apartment: Located on Coronado Island, with a great view of San Diego across the bay, and hot-and-cold-running honeys all over the place, it was always enjoyable just to walk around and enjoy the sights. Especially the sights that exposed a lot of flesh. And as hot as it was developing today, there was no doubt that there would be plenty of flesh to see today. I ambled down the street, only a three-block walk to the nearest Starbucks, with plenty of eye-candy between here and there to keep the walk interesting. Speaking of eyes: A few caught mine as I walked by, and after the frustrating morning I’d had so far, the attention I was getting made me glad I was a man, which perked me up a bit and instilled me with fresh confidence. I’d get this Merc thing figured out. Just you wait.
I arrived at Starbucks and headed for the counter, only then remembering that this was the same Starbucks that Riley worked at. But before I had time to consider whether it might be a better idea to go find another place to nab a drink, I heard a familiar voice say, “Grande double-shot skim milk espresso with room, in a personal cup.” I looked up, and there was Riley, reaching across the bar to accept my cup and get my drink started. I smiled awkwardly and handed it over, reflecting that Riley had always been a very cool chick, and I had no reason to suspect she’d take an argument, between her and Pete, out on me.
I walked over to the cashier, and handed her my card. Then I waited. The place happened to be empty at the moment—an unusual moment for a weekday morning, but it happens—and quiet, so there was no way to get lost in the crowd or behind the noise. I just stood by, and let Riley work, not knowing what to say. When Riley had finished my drink, she came over and placed it on the receiving bar for me. “Thanks,” I muttered, sliding it off the bar quietly.
“Nothing for Pete today,” Riley said, breaking her usual habit of paying for a drink for one of us. She added, without rancor, “I think he’ll understand.”
I was sorry for Riley, and for Pete, because I thought the two of them were a good couple. Maybe a great couple. “Are you guys gonna by okay?” I asked finally.
Riley nodded. “I just need a break, that’s all.” Then she smiled, an embarrassed, apologetic smile if I ever saw one. “It’s no big. Have a great day, Mike.”
“Yeah, you too,” I said, and turned away with my drink.
I left the Starbucks in the general direction of the apartment, or maybe the beach if I decided to take a detour along the way. I was still seeing the occasional approving glance as I walked along, but this time each glance only made me think of Pete and Riley, and the hope that they’d be able to patch things up. And of course, thinking of Pete’s relationships naturally made me think of Gail, and how my brother could have possibly done anything to drive away a girl as incredible as her… not to mention how I could be so lucky to get her on the rebound. I had a feeling that, if those questions weren’t answered soon, there’d be Hell to pay somewhere… for someone… and I was pretty sure I knew for who… uh, whom.
I finally decided to go hang on the beach for awhile, not feeling ready to resume my research, but hoping a change of scenery, and maybe even another dream, might give me new inspiration. There was an area of Centennial Park that sported a number of benches facing the beach, and I headed for that, and the expectation of a nice spot to relax and enjoy the day. Unfortunately, I was surprised when the area came within view, to discover that it had already been taken over by a fairly extensive party shooting wedding photos… at a pretty early time of the day. They must have gotten married at sunrise, I presumed… and looking at them, I was not surprised: They were all young, with that trademark brown skintone and islander features that suggested they had most of their fun during the day; and the bride and groom were so incredibly beautiful that it would be a crying shame to deny these kids as much time in the light as humanly possible.
Unfortunately, this crowd was taking up all the available space and benches… and worse, they made me think of Pete and Riley, and Gail, and me, all over again. And my thoughts weren’t all that happy.
“You’re looking at a wedding party. How can your thoughts not be happy?”
Thought-leakage. Thank God. That meant this story should finally be getting underway! I turned around to see Gail behind me, smiling brightly as she regarded me in a business suit and bare feet.
3: Seeing Gail off
“Gail! Where’d you come from?”
“I happened to see you as I drove up to the apartment,” Gail replied. “I had to hurry and park, because I wasn’t sure where you were going.” I looked down at her hands, one of which held the three-inch heels that matched her suit. “Do you know the wedding party?”
“Hm?” I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, no. I just came over to find a bench to hang out on. But these guys have them all taken up.”
“That’s okay,” Gail shrugged. “C’mon, let’s head for Ferry Landing, and find a place to hang out there.”
We headed along the bikeway, which was medium-heavy with traffic that morning, and stayed on the beachward side to as not to be surprised by bikers whizzing up from behind. “Why are you out and about at this time of day?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to work?”
“I was,” Gail replied. She had put her heels back on, which she insisted was more comfortable for walking along a concrete pad than in her bare feet, and she was attracting plenty of looks as she sashayed leisurely down the path. “Then I got a call telling me I have to fly out of town for a business meeting today. They gave me the morning off to get my stuff together before my flight.”
“Where are you going?”
“San Francisco. I’ll be back by Thursday.” She wrapped her arms around mine. “Are you gonna miss me?”
“You know it,” I said.
“I don’t believe you, you know,” she said mock-seriously. “You’re just going to have to prove it to me, then. We have until—” she glanced at her watch “—two thirty. Think you’re up to it?”
I mock-sighed. “No rest for the wicked.”
“You can rest when you’re dead,” Gail responded. “Right now, you’re mine.”
So we hung out for awhile, just walking along and doing the sweet nothings bit, before we eventually went back to the apartment. A quick glance confirmed that Pete had apparently gone out—to smooth things out with Riley, I hoped—leaving the place to ourselves. And we took full advantage, quickly getting naked and frolicking (as it were) here and there in the apartment… even in my Borg alcove, though I was duly distracted by all the beeping and blinking electronics around us, not to mention the chance of smashing something caught in an orgasmic crossfire. We ended up in the shower, sort of killing two birds with one stone, and when we were done, I think Gail was convinced that I was indeed gonna miss her while she was gone.
Before we knew it, we were dressing again, Gail a bit more rushed than me. “I probably should’ve said two,” she mused as she straightened her skirt and pulled on her jacket. “I’m actually cutting it a bit close, here. Still have to park the car…”
“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I’ll drive you over, and bring back the car to pick you up when you get back.”
Gail looked at me. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Oh, no problem,” I said. “I’ll have a car to drive for a few days, you won’t have to pay for parking, and you won’t be rushed to get to your plane.”
Gail, who had slipped back into her heels, came over to me. “Schitz brothers are the best,” she said, giving me a loving kiss on the mouth. For a moment, she seemed likely to change her mind, and start undressing us all over again. Then she pulled back, showing a healthy dose of self-control, and said, “Oh, God, let’s just get going, please.”
I let Gail drive to the airport, since she still knew the San Diego streets better than I, and showed no reluctance to attack them at top speed whenever possible. We were there in a time that I simply couldn’t believe, and she was still only twenty minutes from her flight’s leaving. So she drove up to the departure area, brought it to a stop near the Southwest terminal, and hopped out quickly.
“Take your time, you’ll make it,” I said as I helped her pull her already-packed suitcase and work satchel out of the trunk. Once the suitcase was upright, handle extended, and satchel firmly attached, Gail turned to me, handed me the keys to the Eclipse, and took advantage of the moment to pull me close and give me a nice, burning goodbye kiss.
“See you soon, lover,” she said finally, before she turned and strode off into the terminal, and at full speed in those high heels, presented a sight that would have caused serious accidents if she had been in sight of air traffic control. I watched her go, the kiss still lingering on my mouth, the view of her firm backside receding into the depths of the airport, and wishing I was going with her… for obvious reasons.
Then I happened to notice a skycap nearby, who was also watching her as she headed inside. He looked at me, with obvious envy, and said, “Ah, wherever she’s goin’, you oughtta be goin’ too.”
Now that was a thought-leak I’d never argue with. “Amen, homes,” I said before turning and getting back into the car.
4: Back to work
By the time I got back to the apartment, Pete was back, hanging on the balcony with a beer in his hand. He turned when he heard me come in. “Hey, bro! Where you been all day?”
“Me?” I closed the door, stopped in the kitchen for a beer, and joined him on the balcony. “You’re the one who was out most of the day! I just went out to hit—” I started to say “Starbucks,” then thought I’d duck that one for now “—the store, then Gail came by, and we hung out here until I took her to the airport.”
Pete nodded. “I thought the place had a familiar smell to it. Where’s Gail going?”
“San Francisco,” I replied, sitting down and pointedly deciding to ignore the “smell” crack. (Oh, that was probably not the best way to put that…) “A business meeting.”
Pete nodded again. “Never liked it when they sent her on those business meetings. I always felt like… well.” He took a pull on his beer. “Listen, I’m going to take Riley out tonight for dinner, and we may end up back here afterward. You know, depending on how things go.”
“Good for you,” I said.
“Can you make yourself scarce, if we do come back here? I’ll call you if we’re on the way.”
“No problem,” I replied. “I’ll either hide in my room, or go find some all-night action somewhere.” I said that, knowing that I hadn’t even stopped to try to find any kind of “all-night action” since I’d come to San Diego. I’m an IT guy. An IT guy’s idea of all-night action was usually a session of WoW with a few friends spread across a few dozen time zones. And in fact, meeting Gail had turned out to be all the all-night action I ever needed. I realized I might really miss her tonight. All the same, I said, “Good luck, bro. Hope you get everything… fixed up.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t say ‘straightened out’,” Pete grinned.
Boy, even the comments I didn’t internally verbalize were leaking now. I really need to get that checked.
After we’d hung out and talked for awhile, I went back to my alcove, while Pete got himself duded up for a night on the town. I was fresh enough to dive back into my research, though I still didn’t really know where to go next. But I had a feeling I was getting close to some answers. I sure hoped I was getting somewhere: So far this particular episode (uh… of my life, of course… heh…) was running pretty weak.
About two hours came and went, during which Pete left, a pizza I’d ordered arrived, and I got pretty much nowhere with my server logs strategy. One of the logs chased me back into the e-mail database, trying to find a correlation between them, and before I knew it, I was poring through the e-mails yet again, and wishing I could think of somewhere else to waste my time.
Then I got a surprise, which I’d almost missed: An e-mail from two weeks back, mentioning that a certain Mel Cooley, a senior account executive of BM, was going to be in Los Angeles in a day, on business. I say “a certain Mel Cooley,” because I didn’t want this Mel Cooley to be confused with the selfsame Mel Cooley who was a fictional executive on a certain old sitcom… and because this particular Mel Cooley just happened to be involved in the “Merc” thing, whatever it was.
If this had been television, my eyes would’ve been twinkling right then. I instantly imagined finding this Mel Cooley and finding a way to get the details out of him. I might be able to do it clandestinely, too, since I was pretty sure I hadn’t met this guy. Even better… I had a car! So I could drive to L.A. overnight, and be there to grill the guy over lunch! Yes! The plot thickens! The game’s afoot! And it only took four chapters!
Hurriedly I started packing up my gear and loading it into my gear bag, stopping only to gnaw on another slice of pizza, before I closed the box. Then I went into my room to collect a few articles of clothing for the trip. I wanted to take the most professional-looking clothes I had with me, which actually didn’t amount to anything professional-looking at all; in fact, my “professional” clothes essentially included a pair of long jeans and polo shirt that I’d worn when I came to San Diego. I quickly ran into Pete’s room, to see if he had maybe a sportcoat I could take with me. To my delight (and surprise), I found one that didn’t clash with the jeans and shirt, and brought it back to my bag. I finished my packing, and returned to the Borg alcove, now looking noticeably un-Borg-like with most of my gear packed up. I started to sweep up the gear bag and pizza box… and stopped, deciding to leave a note for Pete. It took me a minute to find something to write on, finally finding a subscription coupon from one of his magazines with enough whitespace for a note. I jotted down:
Gone to L.A. for a few days....
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