Watercooler

It took me a while to figure it out. I think they don't know I know. Or they know, and don't care.

I mean, I've been here a while, now. Ever since the company started. Four years. Not like the rest of you temps. And you know, you just notice things after a while.

Like Mr. Johnson -- oops, I mean, "Jerry" -- did he think I didn't see him change? Sure, it was gradual. Subtle. And it wasn't just the khakis, the polo shirts, the little nubbin of an earring. It was the hair, the wrinkles, everything. That's when I had my first inkling. Earthlings don't get... younger.

It happened to all of them. Andrea from Finance. Steve from Engineering. Youn-seo from Sales. They all just got younger. Funkier. At first it was awkward. All these respectable-looking middle-aged people morphing before my eyes. Walking around in five-hundred dollar bike outfits. Shooting each other, clumsily, with nerf guns. Well, clumsily at first. The one thing about these people is that they're very curious, and they learn fast. Can you nerf someone right between the eyes from forty feet away... every freaking time? I can't. Neither can you.

The bike outfits are a sham, of course. For one thing, these people are naturally aerodynamic. They don't need spandex. Ever checked out Julia? Up close, I mean? The planes of her face are too smooth, her cheekbones cut at at just too sharp an angle, don't you think? And there's no fine hair, no whorls, no little divots or pockmarks. There's just this healthy glow. And that fine layer of muscle beneath her skin... it twitches across her back, plays under your fingers. The thing is, there's nothing there there. She just looks at you the whole time, like, "Oh, isn't this interesting?"

Anyway, they don't even need the bike outfits. They don't commute, man. They don't sleep. I know. I used to come in late. They're always up. 10pm. 4am. It doesn't matter. No horseplay then, they just glide silently through the office, muttering in that indecipherable language of theirs. The zombies don't notice, they just clatter away at their keyboards.

You're wondering what they're working on, aren't you? The Product, right? Not me. It morphs too, you know. When I arrived, it was a revolutionary new chip. Then it was a handheld. Then it was a "solution". Now I think it's back to a handheld. But I don't know for sure. All I know is, every year it's something new. They bring in new engineers all the time. Chew them up in waves. First it was the old guys. You know, the guys just five years from retirement? Joe, the paranoid black-helicopter crank. Fred Berkowitz, the guy with a shelf of CP-M manuals. I was like a nephew to all those guys. Well, they got used up awful fast.

Then they brought in the college kids. Fresh out of Berkeley, Austin, Dartmouth. Man, those kids could work. I thought for a while that the kids weren't human either -- that they could go all night, just like them. The kids thought this was normal. They even had the cute little rollaway beds, so they could be more like the bosses. Oh, and they loved Julia. Like little puppy dogs. One smile from her, and it was like three cups of coffee, there they were banging away at the code again.

I don't think it was just the smile, though. A couple times I saw her with that little laser-pointer-looking thing in her hand. She was palming it, but I saw. A little flash of green light and boom! the little bunnies were going at it again.

But they couldn't keep it up forever. Their boundless energy just melted away. They couldn't keep coming in late, working under those fluorescent lights. Nope, the same thing happened to them as the old guys. Pale faces, sunken eyes... the works. Wax automatons at the end. Some of them were on anything and everything to keep up, and those kids actually held out the longest. But they all went out at the end. One kid's hair turned white. I shit you not.

So they were in a spot, 'cause most of the kids just flamed out at once. That was just after they got their third round of funding. It's easy for them. Like it grows on trees, you know? They just bring in the VCs, file into the office behind them like good little soldiers. They close the door, and then, two hours later... the VCs walk out, all smiles and handshakes. With slightly dazed looks on their faces. Oh, I've listened at the door on occasion. You know what I hear? Nothing. That's right, nothing. No mumble, mumble, "ramp up in Q3", mumble, mumble... just nothing. And the light under the door? It's dark, like they're giving a presentation... but every few minutes it flashes green. Think I'm kidding? I heard Bill Hambrecht's coming in next week. You can see for yourself.

Now it's almost all H1-Bs. Indian contractors. They work cheap, or so they say. Not that expense matters. Oh, they're keeping a low profile to be sure. Cutting costs. No more expensive parties. Less flying for the sales force. Did you know we don't have a single field office? Everyone's based locally. Oh, they say that it's more efficient that way. Teleconferencing and whatnot. The real reason? The victims have to be in the building. The turnover's just as bad in Sales as it is Engineering, by the way. Worse, even. And it's not just because we don't have anything in production yet.

I think whatever it is, it's in the overhead lights. You ever notice how when they flicker, there's this kind of... pulse that runs through the office? Everyone kind of winces in unison, like they just got a toothache. And if one of them is gliding through... they take in this quick little breath, and their eyes widen. And then it's gone again. No one ever notices it. Feels it. Except me. Yeah, I know, you've never seen it either. Well, I've seen you do it.

They're aging again, now. Most of them look forty again, although a well-preserved forty. I think it's by choice. Experience is in and all. And they've gotten more subtle. The Indians don't look quite as bad as the kids did at this stage. Oh, they're starting to look a little under-the-weather, but I think they're going easier on the latest batch. After all, the Merc mentioned the company by name in a tech industry expose. They don't want that to happen again. 'Cause I know they're close. They're not just here to feed. But what are they really building? And why do they keep starting over, seemingly at random? No one knows. No engineer has been here long enough to put the puzzle together.

How have I hung on this long? Good question. Glad you asked.

I don't come in at night. And I don't fucking write code anymore, man. I'm a receptionist. I work the front desk 8 to 5, in the sunlit lobby. I stay nice and unobtrusive. Surf the web, forward some emails. That's it. Yeah, I know I don't look so good. But my teeth haven't fallen out yet.

And I'm almost fully vested.

Commentary on Watercooler

I wrote Watercooler for the "Why I Hate Aliens" (WIHA) anthology. It's just a fun little piece that I wrote in a few hours. I started thinking, "Okay, why do we hate aliens? What do we know about them, anyway?" I was stuck for until I remembered the old writer's canard, "Write what you know." Watercooler just flowed right out. Can't explain it.