I've always considered myself a pretty good programmer. Aw, hell. Who am I kidding? I've always considered myself a genius in the art of computer programming. All programmers consider themselves great, and they consider every other programmer idiotic. The difference between me and all those other programmers, however, is that I really am great and all the other programmers in the world really are idiotic. Don't believe me? Just ask me. I'll corroborate my story.
In spite of the reality of my genius, however, it appears that I am not as skilled in virus fighting a teams of dozens of professionals who have been studying virus technology for years. My wife bought a well-known and highly-recommended anti-virus software and it was able to prevail where I failed miserably. Of course, it also rendered the computer incapable of connecting to the Internet, so, you know, none of us are perfect. I suppose that might be a preventative measure of protection, the not-able-to-connect-to-the-Internet thing, but it seems like overkill to me.
It was cold and clear on Saturday morning, and I was sitting in the backyard in my flannel coat and grey, wool flat cap sipping on coffee. I was waiting for the car dealership to open so I could take the car in for maintenance. There were chairs, but it seemed warmer to sit on the ground and lean back against the brick. It was one of those quiet moments of thoughtlessness that you can only have when you're alone and the world is largely still asleep. It was the smell of pipe tobacco that finally brought me back to the present.
"Oh, hello," I said, looking over to find him sitting beside me. He just grunted, a friendly enough grunt, and continued to puff on his pipe. Seeing his bare feet made me feel cold. I was pretty sure, however, that he didn't feel heat or cold in the same way. "Aren't your feet cold?" I asked, knowing that he wouldn't answer. So we just sat together in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the early morning, before I spoke again.
"Would you like some coffee, Chuck?" I asked him. Without a word, he reached into his vest and pulled out a tiny, brown cup. It had no handle, and looked like it was made of stone. I wondered if he kept it in his vest, or if he had just conjured it from thin air, but I knew better than to ask. I lowered my cup, thinking to pour some coffee into his cup, but, instead, he just dipped his cup into mine and filled it with coffee. I had a brief thought about cleanliness, but I dismissed it, and we drank coffee together. As we drank, I tried to tell him about the computer virus, and the strange way in which it had affected me.
When I finished the story he thought for a moment and said, "Sometime there are five mouths and only food for four."
"What?" I asked.
"Then there is cruelty," he added.
I thought about this. I wasn't quite sure how it connected with the issue, but I had an idea. Rather than belaboring it, however, I said, "Still, some good came of it. Without the virus, I wouldn't have gotten the cookies."
"What cookies?" he asked. "I didn't see any cookies."
"Oh, I don't have them yet," I said. Then I told him about all my Internet friends, and how they had decided to send me cookies in the mail to make me happy after the whole virus thing. "Isn't that nice?"
"What's the mail?" he asked. So, I explained the mail to him.
"Hmm," he said. "So the cookies will be arriving in the box in the front?"
Something about the tone of the question made me suspicious. "You know," I said, "It's a crime to take things from someone's mailbox."
He just sat for a minute, drawing off his pipe, and then said, "So, tomorrow night is when all the children dress up and go house to house."
The little bastard changed the subject! I had to chuckle. "Yes," I said, and we forgot about all of that and talked about other things for a long time.
Hello, friends. I hope you have a great day. Tell me how you are.
Later. Love.
