Steel Buffalos and Sundry Presidential Thoughts

2099-02-18T13:36:00.000-08:00

beasts

2099-01-18T12:55:00.000-08:00

He had seven pin-mounted cubicle clips on his wall. Each one was blue. Twenty-one green, purple, and red pin-mounted cubicle clips could be seen in the waste bin carefully placed near his feet.

One could not tell from casual observation that underneath each item on his desk was a precise outline, in blue laboratory tape, of the item's footprint; nor was it apparent to the ill-informed that every pen, post-it notepad, and stamp bore a unique identifying number analogous to the lovingly stenciled numbers present on the blue-taped footprint. Of paramount importance was the orientation of the steel buffalo. It was named "Rutherford".

Rutherford, standing an impressive two and a half inches tall by four inches wide, was an excellent indicator of the cubicle occupant's demeanor. Those who had worked with him long enough knew how to decipher the code.

The steely gaze of Rutherford greeted all who entered his domain.

2007-01-21T14:00:00.000-08:00

socks

2007-01-19T16:46:00.000-08:00

Fourteen. Eighty-five point zero. Thirty-seven. Twelve ought seventy-three. Nineteen. Five. Three point seven. Twenty-three point six. Eighteen thirty-two. Ninety-one. Seven, again. Sixty-three. Forty-one. Twenty-two. Seventy-one. Fifty-four point eight. Fourteen, again.

His fingers flashed against the off-white keyboard with fury. Every tap on the number-pad brought with it an adrenaline-like surge of satisfaction.

He smiled at Rutherford.

Rutherford winked back.

2001-01-29T23:52:00.000-08:00

quantities

1999-01-17T13:26:00.000-08:00

Bearing documents requiring a signature, Sarah, a corporate employee of one-eighth of a year, cautiously approached Rutherford's lair. Every step closer to his cubicle brought on a wave of dizziness. She was lightheaded. Her coworkers' advice flashed through her head, quickly followed by images of her life-story.

She crossed the threshold.

There he was, his back to the entrance, typing rhythmically. Sarah stood tremulous, temporarily stricken dumb, and transfixed by the almost trance-inducing marathon of numbers appearing in successive Excel spreadsheet fields. He, also, appeared to be in a trance-like state.

Rutherford was facing away.

Wisely, Sarah recovered her bearings, turned around, and slowly skulked back to her own desk.

but why?

1998-08-20T02:33:00.000-07:00

He had a secret. A deep, dark secret.

His keyboard was mapped in German. Little did his coworkers know, but his Z key and Y key were transposed.

He giggled a bit thinking about his guilty excesses. Oh what hilarity it would amount to if they knew. If only they knew. If only they knew that the Y key and the Z key were transposed. And God forbid they find out that he sometimes uses commas instead of periods for his decimal marker!

A shooting pain shot through his head. This minor break from his work was not productive. Not effective. Not efficient.

Back to the number cascade. Two point four. Seven point three. Eighteen dot thirty-three. Zero point zero one. Twelve.

Warmth washed over his body and into his soul. The numbers. Happiness.

Rutherford nodded agreeably, turning to face him finally.

it wasn't to be

1996-01-29T23:38:00.000-08:00

It was only eight hours into his shift. It was only twelve-thousand entries into his excel spreadsheet. It was only twenty-nine years, seven-days and four and a half hours into his life; however, he felt as if it were an eternity. Why wasn't the exponential fit working?

The log-transform of his independent variable should have resulted in a linear dependency on the dependent variable, but it didn't. He had tried, over and over, to achieve this result to no avail.

He knew the old idiom, "the definition of insanity is doing the same thing again, expecting a different result". He recognized his weakness for formulaic solutions to his problems.

He opened his copy of Numerical Recipes and leaned toward his monitor. His scalp bumped the shelf. A book fell, nearly hitting the bison.

Rutherford, feeling the tremulous position he was in, glowered.

EverGlo IR sources

1995-01-28T13:27:00.000-08:00

She approached his cubical again. Absent were the rhythmic sounds of his numberpad. Missing was the strange sound of his arhythmic breathing; however, emanations of his presence could be felt. Cold spinal sensations brusqued her core being. What could he possibly be doing?

Her arms stiffened and her hands clasped the parcel she was to deliver. The envelope was eggshell-white, letter-sized, with a pre-printed return address on the back, and quite well-produced; strangely the envelope indicated it originated from the Ugandan embassy. The front was addressed in puce crayon:

To Rutherford C/O Bernard K. Rosenschmidt

She puzzled over his middle initial. For what name does the letter K stand?

She puzzled over why her legs weren't actually motivating her forward.

The problem resolved itself shortly, in its own way, as the room spun down, faster and faster. A slowly spreading ring of blackness rose from the center of her vision, engulfing everything. The vague sensation of acceleration from falling persisted until she again opened her eyes..

my unemployed friend earned $5432 last month from home and you can too

1994-10-12T21:41:00.000-07:00

A rhythmic breathing pattern echoed in her subconscious. Well, it wasn't really rhythmic; rather, it seemed to be a strange series of short gasps followed by long pauses. Gasp, gasp, gasp, pause, gasp, pause, gasp gasp gasp gasp, pause, gasp, pause, gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp, pause..

Wait a minute. Someone is breathing Pi!

Her eyes opened. Bernard was intensely peering down at her from his wheeled chair. Rutherford stared with equal intensity from his spot on the desk. She'd never noticed his breathing pattern before; however, she'd never interacted with him before, either.

They made eye contact.

The chair spun around and the rhythmic clicking of the numberpad keys resumed. From her supine body position she noticed a plastic recorder, they type of instrument on which children often begin to learn musical notes, sitting under his desk in a box. A loose puce bow was tied around the mouthpiece.

She immediately remembered the letter from the Ugandan embassy. Puce. Pi. What was the K in his name? Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing ever made sense about him, about that strange man in the cubicle. The only sense she could find lay in the swirling blackness quickly overcoming her vision, again.

black, again.