"How do you feel about 'Tangent?'"
The couple seated across the desk—the Taziks—were obviously nervous. The wife looked at the man, frowned slightly and looked away. The man returned her gaze, tugged at his soul patch and made a slight grunting sound. "We don't really like it," he said at length.
"What's wrong with it?" asked Linda. "It's a perfectly good name. It's strong, definitive, unique."
"It's a math word!" the wife, Teagan, blurted. "That's not a real name. It's a straight line that touches a point on a curve. Might as well name the kid 'Asymptote.'"
Linda made a mental note, thinking that she might be able to sell that one to some other young, hipster couple. "Just because it's an object doesn't mean it can't be a name. How many 'Bunny's do you know?" She realized that this was a bad example. Nobody had named a child 'Bunny' since the mid-1950s. She was dating herself. She had better be careful to keep herself relevant. She tried a different tack. "You know, if you don't like 'Tangent,' I'm sure we can come up with something different. 'Argent' maybe. Or 'Demetrius'—a good classic name for a strapping young lad, such as yours is sure to be."
"Are you sure you're qualified to be doing this?" asked the husband, Sage. "I mean, you've given us some pretty…unconventional…choices: 'Garton,' 'Laker,' 'Chain.' You wanted us to name the kid 'Mann Tazik' for God's sake!"
"Oh, yes. I named Chris and Gwyneth's baby. The Martins, you know. Gwynnie wanted to use a y—'Appyle'—but I convinced her that she wouldn't want to overdo it. 'Apple Martin' is exotic enough. She trusted my advice and now 'Apple' is rocketing up the charts. It's the name that gained the most mindshare during the 2004–05 season." This was a bit of an exaggeration. Not the part about the popularity of 'Apple,' but about her role in naming the baby. Truthfully, she was just one of several name consultants that had bid on the Martin contract. Linda had been the one to suggest 'Appyle' in her proposal, but Gwyneth had removed the y herself, and for the same reason Linda had just mentioned.
"That's all well and good, but—" Sage began.
"Maybe we should just try some alternate spellings," interrupted Linda. "That's a great way to make a unique name, but keep a link to the classics. How about…" She drew four letters on a yellow legal pad: D-A-A-N. "The double a's give the name a long vowel sound."
"Don?" asked Teagan. "No."
"Okay. You're really making me earn this paycheck," Linda joked. She began writing: A-I-R-E-C-K.
"Seriously? The 'Air' part makes it too close to 'Airyn,' which is widely known to be a girl's name," said Sage. "You get one more shot."
Linda fidgeted in her seat. Her clients always liked at least one of her suggestions, even if they had modified it. These two should have been the same. Like the rest of her clientele, the Taziks were both in their late 20s and part of the hipster scene. They clearly wanted their child's name to stand out from the pack, just like everyone else. She couldn't understand why these two were different. Regardless, it was time to break out her secret weapon. The name no self-respecting parent could refuse when playing this game of cross-generational one-upmanship.
Picking up the pen, Linda bit her bottom lip. This name combined the best of both naming conventions: it had both alternate spelling and the surprise of being untraditional. With no verbal introduction, she began to write.
She pushed the paper across the desk toward the waiting couple. T-R-E-W-B-E-D-O-R-R-E. The perfect name.
The Taziks looked at it, then at each other, and stood. "Thank you for your time," said Sage. He quickly scribbled a check for $200 and handed it to Linda. "Good day," he said.
As they exited the office, Linda heard Teagan speak. "Maybe we should just name him 'Travis…"
© 2007 Steve Gooch
(Thanks Gawker !)
Jun 27, 2007
Jun 20, 2007
MISSING PERSONS
Tired.
So tired. Eyes burning. I think I'm dying. I think this screen is killing my soul and eating my life. I can't tell you how long I've been sitting here. Time is nothing. Life is nothing. Yet, here I am, watching both go flying by. I'm supposed to be watching for…anomalies…for my employer. It's very secretive work. Both high-tech and high-stress. I'd tell you who I work for, but it wouldn't mean anything to you. You'd have never heard of them. We are what you'd call 'behind-the scenes.'
You know those cameras that you see everywhere? The ones that catch you speeding and stealing and cheating on your wives? That's not me. That's a cover. That's far to obvious for what we do. No, our methods are quite a bit more clandestine.
I've been awake for 43 of the last 48 hours. That sounds worse than it is. It's not all at one stretch—we can take breaks whenever we need to, but we're responsible for whatever we miss, and missing something is NOT something I want to do. There's this girl I know—Tessa. She does the same thing I do: feed monitoring. Well, she did until she disappeared last week. We all thought that she'd quit, but nobody can find her. Nobody can find any evidence that she had ever existed at all. She's just…gone. Rumor has it she missed…something (I'm not at liberty to say what). Not some basic little transgression that we always see, but something important. Something huge.
That's what we all fear. That we're going to fall asleep or look away and we're going to miss that one critical action that we needed to catch. They never say what'll happen if we miss an important occurance, but I'm pretty sure it's not good.
Hence, my five hours of sleep over two days. I don't want to take any chances. Sure, things quiet down in my observation sector between 10:00 and 13:00, and again between 20:00 and 23:00, but I don't really go offline even then. I really only sleep when I pass out, and even then I usually start awake after an hour or less.
That's the thing this job breeds more than any other: paranoia. Extreme paranoia. I mean, you know things are bad when you can't even sleep for fear of doing a poor job. The thoughts are the worst: can't sleep, I won't see the guy in a turban slip across the border; can't eat, I'll miss the atomic signature passing into the maglev station; can't run to the bathroom, the gun-nut in the chatroom will make a defiant statement and logout quickly. I keep two buckets in here next to my garbage can, for God's sake! Would a healthy person do that?
I shouldn't even be typing this to you, but I feel like you deserve an explanation. (Besides, I've set everything up to record for the few minutes I'll be
© 2007 Steve Gooch
( Ween - 12 Golden Country Greats )
So tired. Eyes burning. I think I'm dying. I think this screen is killing my soul and eating my life. I can't tell you how long I've been sitting here. Time is nothing. Life is nothing. Yet, here I am, watching both go flying by. I'm supposed to be watching for…anomalies…for my employer. It's very secretive work. Both high-tech and high-stress. I'd tell you who I work for, but it wouldn't mean anything to you. You'd have never heard of them. We are what you'd call 'behind-the scenes.'
You know those cameras that you see everywhere? The ones that catch you speeding and stealing and cheating on your wives? That's not me. That's a cover. That's far to obvious for what we do. No, our methods are quite a bit more clandestine.
I've been awake for 43 of the last 48 hours. That sounds worse than it is. It's not all at one stretch—we can take breaks whenever we need to, but we're responsible for whatever we miss, and missing something is NOT something I want to do. There's this girl I know—Tessa. She does the same thing I do: feed monitoring. Well, she did until she disappeared last week. We all thought that she'd quit, but nobody can find her. Nobody can find any evidence that she had ever existed at all. She's just…gone. Rumor has it she missed…something (I'm not at liberty to say what). Not some basic little transgression that we always see, but something important. Something huge.
That's what we all fear. That we're going to fall asleep or look away and we're going to miss that one critical action that we needed to catch. They never say what'll happen if we miss an important occurance, but I'm pretty sure it's not good.
Hence, my five hours of sleep over two days. I don't want to take any chances. Sure, things quiet down in my observation sector between 10:00 and 13:00, and again between 20:00 and 23:00, but I don't really go offline even then. I really only sleep when I pass out, and even then I usually start awake after an hour or less.
That's the thing this job breeds more than any other: paranoia. Extreme paranoia. I mean, you know things are bad when you can't even sleep for fear of doing a poor job. The thoughts are the worst: can't sleep, I won't see the guy in a turban slip across the border; can't eat, I'll miss the atomic signature passing into the maglev station; can't run to the bathroom, the gun-nut in the chatroom will make a defiant statement and logout quickly. I keep two buckets in here next to my garbage can, for God's sake! Would a healthy person do that?
I shouldn't even be typing this to you, but I feel like you deserve an explanation. (Besides, I've set everything up to record for the few minutes I'll be
© 2007 Steve Gooch
( Ween - 12 Golden Country Greats )
Jun 14, 2007
THE CREATION
With a click and a gush of steam, the mechanical man roared to life. The bent, old doctor stepped back, retracting his hand from the turnkey ignition embedded in his creation's chest. He was aghast that his life's work had actually been completed at long last.
"It's…alive?" he spoke in disbelief. Then, cackling with an aged, phlegmy laugh, cried, "It works! Ah ha! He lives!" He danced a little jig on the cobblestone, a light soft-shoe that kicked up dust and mortar that danced with him in motes on the air.
The thing's arm moved.
The doctor slowly ceased his dancing. He looked at the arm, thick and hollow, sheathed in the curved planks of a discarded barrel. He had caulked the seams with tar (and had done too poor a job, he thought, noticing the thin puffs of steam issuing from pin-size holes) and had nailed the planks together with bright copper nails. He had used barrels that had been filled with alcohols of different types in another time: oak whiskey barrels—charred black on the inside, but with a creamy tan exterior—and port wine casks—dark wood stained even darker and reddened by years of grape staining. This had given his creation a mottled, uneven look, though it was fitted together almost perfectly. A craftsman could not have done a finer job.
The arm moved again. The doctor could see the thing's clockwork innards whirring and spinning from between the chinks at its joints. Shiny bronze and brass cogs, sprockets, springs and flywheels all worked in tandem to the puff of the steam as it issued from a water-filled bladder sitting upon the robot's red-hot iron potbelly.
The robot turned its head—what passed for a head, really, for upon the mechanical man's wooden shoulders sat an upturned bucket, connected from within to its metal guts below. The head had no face. It was merely a bucket, scratched and dented from years of use moving grain, water, and household refuse.
Steam belched from a vent valve in the robot's back. It moved its head and arm, nearly in tandem. The head twisted to the right, toward the old doctor, and the arm flailed about. As its legs began to kick, the old man grasped the mechanical man's hand, lacing his fleshy fingers between the robot's wooden ones. He held the robot's hand against his chest.
"Everything's okay, my son. I'm here. We're going to be alright."
© 2007 Steve Gooch
( The Decemberists - The Crane Wife )
"It's…alive?" he spoke in disbelief. Then, cackling with an aged, phlegmy laugh, cried, "It works! Ah ha! He lives!" He danced a little jig on the cobblestone, a light soft-shoe that kicked up dust and mortar that danced with him in motes on the air.
The thing's arm moved.
The doctor slowly ceased his dancing. He looked at the arm, thick and hollow, sheathed in the curved planks of a discarded barrel. He had caulked the seams with tar (and had done too poor a job, he thought, noticing the thin puffs of steam issuing from pin-size holes) and had nailed the planks together with bright copper nails. He had used barrels that had been filled with alcohols of different types in another time: oak whiskey barrels—charred black on the inside, but with a creamy tan exterior—and port wine casks—dark wood stained even darker and reddened by years of grape staining. This had given his creation a mottled, uneven look, though it was fitted together almost perfectly. A craftsman could not have done a finer job.
The arm moved again. The doctor could see the thing's clockwork innards whirring and spinning from between the chinks at its joints. Shiny bronze and brass cogs, sprockets, springs and flywheels all worked in tandem to the puff of the steam as it issued from a water-filled bladder sitting upon the robot's red-hot iron potbelly.
The robot turned its head—what passed for a head, really, for upon the mechanical man's wooden shoulders sat an upturned bucket, connected from within to its metal guts below. The head had no face. It was merely a bucket, scratched and dented from years of use moving grain, water, and household refuse.
Steam belched from a vent valve in the robot's back. It moved its head and arm, nearly in tandem. The head twisted to the right, toward the old doctor, and the arm flailed about. As its legs began to kick, the old man grasped the mechanical man's hand, lacing his fleshy fingers between the robot's wooden ones. He held the robot's hand against his chest.
"Everything's okay, my son. I'm here. We're going to be alright."
© 2007 Steve Gooch
( The Decemberists - The Crane Wife )
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