Read Online Fool's Experiments by Edward M Lerner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward M Lerner
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bit much. Jim thought. He wasn't that computer illiterate. Many years ago, he had even taken a beginning programming class, coursework the University of Wisconsin had obligingly accepted as a foreign language. As far as he was concerned, computer languages were as foreign as they came. What else could you say about a language in which I = I + 1 was meaningful?
In any case, Jim knew the difference: Kumquats had seeds. He also knew how to get even. It involved hitting below the belt, but he was peeved enough not to mind. And it would be for Doug's own good.
"So, are you two kids going together?" Doug was predictably aghast. Before he could find his tongue, Jim added, "No, of course not. What was I thinking, expecting Saint Douglas to date, and someone from the office yet? He might disqualify himself from that seat he's been coveting on the Supreme Court."
The crack earned Jim an angry glare. It did not take telepathy to know what was crossing Doug's mind: dark thoughts about Holly. Lost Holly. When would he truly accept that that stage of his life was over? Sure, Doug dated occasionally, but it never worked out.
"I don't see people from work." Stereo answers came from Doug and Cheryl.
We'll just see about that, Doug. Nothing like pondering the loss of something to make you want it. Jim beamed at Cheryl. "An excellent policy, my dear, excellent. Did Doug ever mention that I can't tell a computer from a pistachio? Or was that an artichoke heart? Whatever. I have trouble with all this technical stuff. Some growing thing." He looped an arm through hers. "Allow me to introduce myself."
After an afternoon of window-shopping, Doug, Jim, and Cheryl wandered into a touristy area of Old Town Alexandria. Doug's stomach growled and he checked his watch for confirmation. "I could use some dinner."
They were outside a posh Italian restaurant. All three were in jeans; Doug wore a sweatshirt and Jim a faded Army surplus camouflage jacket. Cheryl scanned the menu in the front window, then gestured vaguely at her own casual clothes. "As though we're dressed for this place."
The men exchanged an amused look. "Follow me," Jim said. "I'm a friend of the owner." They went around the comer to a side entrance. The chef's effusive greetings made clear to Cheryl that Jim was the owner. The restaurateur pointed to a genuine butcher-block table in a corner of the bustling kitchen. Disappearing through the kitchen-side door to his office, where he kept a spare suit, Jim called, "Have a seat, folks. Gotta go schmooze with the paying clientele, but I'll be right back."
Jim was lying, but it was for a good cause.
Doug and Cheryl sat in silence—all the more obvious after Jim's ceaseless ebullience. "Quite an interesting guy," she finally offered.
Doug raised an eyebrow at the closed office door. "Rebel without a clue? Yeah, he is interesting, and it's reassuring that someone is still working to keep us out of Vietnam." She looked confused, but Doug didn't bother to admit: Jim isn't that old. When you have to explain 'em, they're not funny.
The silence stretched awkwardly. They jerked back as their legs accidentally touched beneath the small table.
By tacit agreement, Jim was a safe subject. "Where is he from?" Cheryl asked.
"Milwaukee. His dad works at a brewery Jim will only identify as producing 'the beer that made Milwaukee malodorous.' " As Doug spoke, a waiter spread a damask tablecloth over the butcher block. Three place settings and a wax-covered Chianti bottle with candle followed. When just Doug and Jim ate here, as they often did, Jim tossed dish towels over the wood—and they weren't always clean towels. Certainly he and Doug never had a candle. And now Jim had conveniently disappeared. Damn that man—first hitting on Cheryl, and then playing matchmaker. How transparent can you get?
They fell silent again. Somewhere behind them, a knife chopped maniacally on a cutting board. A voluble chef's assistant made a point by clanging
In any case, Jim knew the difference: Kumquats had seeds. He also knew how to get even. It involved hitting below the belt, but he was peeved enough not to mind. And it would be for Doug's own good.
"So, are you two kids going together?" Doug was predictably aghast. Before he could find his tongue, Jim added, "No, of course not. What was I thinking, expecting Saint Douglas to date, and someone from the office yet? He might disqualify himself from that seat he's been coveting on the Supreme Court."
The crack earned Jim an angry glare. It did not take telepathy to know what was crossing Doug's mind: dark thoughts about Holly. Lost Holly. When would he truly accept that that stage of his life was over? Sure, Doug dated occasionally, but it never worked out.
"I don't see people from work." Stereo answers came from Doug and Cheryl.
We'll just see about that, Doug. Nothing like pondering the loss of something to make you want it. Jim beamed at Cheryl. "An excellent policy, my dear, excellent. Did Doug ever mention that I can't tell a computer from a pistachio? Or was that an artichoke heart? Whatever. I have trouble with all this technical stuff. Some growing thing." He looped an arm through hers. "Allow me to introduce myself."
After an afternoon of window-shopping, Doug, Jim, and Cheryl wandered into a touristy area of Old Town Alexandria. Doug's stomach growled and he checked his watch for confirmation. "I could use some dinner."
They were outside a posh Italian restaurant. All three were in jeans; Doug wore a sweatshirt and Jim a faded Army surplus camouflage jacket. Cheryl scanned the menu in the front window, then gestured vaguely at her own casual clothes. "As though we're dressed for this place."
The men exchanged an amused look. "Follow me," Jim said. "I'm a friend of the owner." They went around the comer to a side entrance. The chef's effusive greetings made clear to Cheryl that Jim was the owner. The restaurateur pointed to a genuine butcher-block table in a corner of the bustling kitchen. Disappearing through the kitchen-side door to his office, where he kept a spare suit, Jim called, "Have a seat, folks. Gotta go schmooze with the paying clientele, but I'll be right back."
Jim was lying, but it was for a good cause.
Doug and Cheryl sat in silence—all the more obvious after Jim's ceaseless ebullience. "Quite an interesting guy," she finally offered.
Doug raised an eyebrow at the closed office door. "Rebel without a clue? Yeah, he is interesting, and it's reassuring that someone is still working to keep us out of Vietnam." She looked confused, but Doug didn't bother to admit: Jim isn't that old. When you have to explain 'em, they're not funny.
The silence stretched awkwardly. They jerked back as their legs accidentally touched beneath the small table.
By tacit agreement, Jim was a safe subject. "Where is he from?" Cheryl asked.
"Milwaukee. His dad works at a brewery Jim will only identify as producing 'the beer that made Milwaukee malodorous.' " As Doug spoke, a waiter spread a damask tablecloth over the butcher block. Three place settings and a wax-covered Chianti bottle with candle followed. When just Doug and Jim ate here, as they often did, Jim tossed dish towels over the wood—and they weren't always clean towels. Certainly he and Doug never had a candle. And now Jim had conveniently disappeared. Damn that man—first hitting on Cheryl, and then playing matchmaker. How transparent can you get?
They fell silent again. Somewhere behind them, a knife chopped maniacally on a cutting board. A voluble chef's assistant made a point by clanging
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