Do you believe in love at first sight? Before the personal computer and long before e-mail, life was a lot simpler. Here is a true story of how fate, a book and a friend brought two people together. Although they didn’t know at the time, the seed of love had been planted and the end result was inevitable. Only the names have been changed (sort of) to protect the trio in this story.

Our courtship was a rather whirl wind affair. My wife Rosie and I had met through my former girlfriend, Viola. Rosie and Viola were close university chums. Viola wanted to play a practical joke on Rosie and she enlisted my help. The plan was to meet Rosie after she finished her part time job at a major department store. It was the pre-Christmas shopping season and Rosie was short of cash and was too proud to let her parents know. So, being the independent person she was, she opted to work in the book department during the Christmas rush to earn some extra spending money. All this was in addition to her full time attendance at university.

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What is a western? Is it the cliche of a rider and his horse, a damsel in distress or the villain in black? What is it about western stories that keeps us enthralled, regardless of age? Perhaps it is a combination of the simplicity and harshness of life in that bygone era. We seem to be drawn to protagonists who have suffered and yet persevere. Examining the past may prove helpful in the present. Here is my version of a story of the old west.

The Present (1891)
The sunshine-encrusted mountains in south central Wyoming could have been a mirror of the Sea of Tranquility on the moon. The peaks were sharp and pointed, like shards of broken glass. They seemed eager to reach up into the heavens to touch or even surpass the serene wisps of cloud that drifted by. The mostly clear indigo sky was a painters palette ready for a sunset of colour. In the valley below, just west of Charlesburg, the dusty trail threaded its way through mesquite and boulders towards the horizon and Fort Laramie. Just below the farthest crest, a moving shadow could just be made out. A lone rider and his horse. At each step, gentle puffs of dust rose from the horses hooves and drifted lazily to the right. The horse, a beautiful pinto, lifted his legs proudly even as the rider slumped forward in obvious exhaustion.

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Rave parties are the latest rage, the 60′s rock festivals transplanted to the turn-of- the-century dance celebration. Ravers are typically mid-teen to late twenties oriented. The gatherings are usually large, sometimes running into the thousands. These dance music marathons can be fun, exciting and, if you are irresponsible, deadly.

My name is Rhonda Morgan. The first time I met Tom was 2:30 on a Sunday morning. It was at a rave party and most of the teenage dancers were not supposed to be there. Parents don’t understand these things. They get too caught up in the adverse publicity and notoriety of these rather clandestine, all night events. Because of my job, I attend regularly and enjoy the atmosphere, the music and the dancing. The mood of the rave is as much the music, with its throbbing bass beat, as it is the laser lights and the other-worldly look of streaking glow sticks.

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I have travelled to Italy on five previous occasions. For a variety of reasons I never visited the extreme south known as the Mezzogiorno. This region includes the Italian provinces of Puglia (the heel), Basilicata (the instep), Calabria (the toe), and Sicily (the football like island about to be kicked by the mainland boot). For the sixth visit, I determined to rectify this. Here is a synopsis of my thoughts and observations – a kind of travel diary with attitude.

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I have travelled to Italy on five previous occasions. For a variety of reasons, I never visited the extreme south known as the Mezzogiorno. This region includes the Italian provinces of Puglia (the heel), Basilicata (the instep), Calabria (the toe), and Sicily (the football like island about to be kicked by the mainland boot). For the sixth visit, I determined to rectify this. Here is a synopsis of my thoughts and observations: a kind of travel diary with attitude.

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The grandmother in the story below is based on the wonderful character actress Reizl Bozyk who played Bubbie in the 1988 film, Crossing Delancey. At the time of the film, she was about 74 years of age. She was a gifted and expressive actress in the Yiddish theatre and she was a scene-stealing delight in this, her only film.

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From prehistory to the present, belief in some sort of super being has been present in one form or another. Stone artifacts dating many millennia BC have been unearthed indicating this yearning for the unexplainable. The more sophisticated civilizations such as the Ming dynasty, Babylon, Egypt, Greece and Rome also catered to this mystical craving. In the 21st century when non-belief in such phenomena is widespread, the non-believer often exchanges the old notions for something new.

Future Deity

So, I just bought my new Sony Vaio IV portable with Intel’s Colossus chip. The gigahertz clock speed has so many zeros I’ve lost count. Maybe the PowerPC G25-XL chip by Motorola/IBM is faster, but what does it matter? With over 2000 GB of ram, blazingly fast doesn’t cut it anymore. Now, it has to be seriously warp fast. And yet, when I pose my question, I repeatedly get a warning message: The application unknown has quit. Save or restart the application. It’s a simple question and yet I feel betrayed by the technology I depend on. lt’s like being abandoned. You get a sinking feeling when you don’t know what to troubleshoot next and you feel helpless and alone.

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With a last name like Luciani, you would think I would have all the inside dope (oops) on a subject like the Mafia. However, strange as it may seem, I’ve learned about that organization mostly from books and the movies. With e-commerce gaining in popularity, it would not be too far-fetched to believe organized crime would find that avenue both intriguing and a new area of possible expansion.

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When I was a child, my mother instilled in me a love of opera. She rarely missed the Metropolitan Opera broadcast on Saturday afternoons. The house would reverberate with the strains of countless composers. On the rare occasion when the performance was not to her liking, I soon came to realize that the opera was not Italian. I would like to share this love of opera with the readers of My Mac Magazine. Let it not be said that this pioneering Internet publication offers class but not the classics.

The Marriage of Mela – by Joe Green

Cast in order of appearance:

Act I, Scene 1
Villa Courtyard of Count William Cancello
The townspeople and the peasants from the surrounding countryside have gathered to protest the Count’s tax on window glass. As the curtain rises they sing the melancholy and deeply moving, “Willie is a pain inna da neck.” William and his twin brother, Intello, enter the courtyard on horseback. The two are inseparable. Indeed, rumours of an unnatural relationship abound, but no one has the intestinal fortitude to confront them. Even Padre Pulito, their personal confessor, looks the other way, preferring to keep his lucrative position than to anger the brothers. They are enraged when they see the crowded courtyard. William venomously sings “I’m tho mad I cud thpit.” When he is finished, his brother Intello reprises with, “I’m tho mad I cud thpit, too.” They force their way through the throng and enter the villa with Padre Pulito following.

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What is all this hype about the Internet? Do you really have to be on the Net to be ‘with it’? The recent takeover of Time Warner by AOL threw the American news media into a frenzy of speculation over this latest and biggest merger. To hear the news reports, Big is good, Big is better, Big makes more dividends. Maybe. What it certainly will do is to act as a catalyst to cause more mega-mergers. This is a given. So, listen and learn, baby. This is money in your pocket.

“Pssst! Hey, buddy. I’ve got a stock tip for you on a sure thing. No bull. Buy Internet.

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Ian Fleming, writer of the James Bond adventure stories, never envisioned in his wildest imagination that the movie industry would out-Bond him in proficiency of story product. In fact, even James Bond himself, apparently, cannot last without a change of, at last count, 5 1/2 IDs. Continuing his quest to destroy world evil for her majesty’s government while maintaining a heated hormonal attraction to the opposite sex, his suave, cool manner under fire (no pun intended) is the envy of every red-blooded male. Hopefully, the ‘next’ Macintosh OS will mirror James’ panache under fire and its own built-in cool.

He drove through Picadilly Circus fast. Fast was normal for him. The intricate pattern of traffic and its congestion did not cause him to ease up on the accelerator. The silver Aston-Martin growled with almost sexual pleasure as it hurtled past the statue of the Angel of Christian Charity. The driver was one of Great Britain’s super sleuths, James Bondi, agent 010. The Aston-Martin screeched to a stop outside of #10 Downing Street at a parking area designated ‘PM’. He cut off the engine as its 12 cylinders died in complaint and he twisted his large torso out of the front seat with the agility of a contortionist. He walked past the Queen’s Guard in his flaming red tourist uniform and through the door.

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This month’s journey into fiction has to do with my favourite TV family comprising father, Boner O. Simpleton; his wife, Marg; son, Brat; daughter, Liza, and baby daughter, Meggie. In this week’s installment, the family buys its first home computer. Many thanks to the Coyote Television Network for their kind permission in allowing us to write about America’s favourite ‘toon’ family.

“Dad? Dad? Where are you?” Young Liza Simpleton rushed into the family home on Evergreen Crescent. She was full of excitement, her ever wide eyes looking more startled than usual. Her father, Boner, however, was not in his usual spot on the living room couch and, more mysterious, the TV was off.

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Christmases past seem to evoke an abundance of happy memories, perhaps because our nostalgia clouds over the less appetizing events. It may be wise to remember that. In the future, Christmas 1999 may be recalled as one of the best we enjoyed.

My dad passed away in 1992, but on many occasions the stories that he recounted of his youth still nudge at my memory. One such incident occurred in the lowlands of Oregon in the early 1920s. At the time my father was about eight years old and full of curiosity, a quality not unknown to youth of that age. Here is my recollection of his story:

We were just about ready for Christmas Eve turkey and my mouth was watering. Mama, your gramma Britta, was fussing in the kitchen. The cast iron stove was radiating great waves of heat. She was, after all, cooking the turkey in the main oven and fresh sourdough bread in the side oven. Up above, candied sweet potatoes simmered on burner one, brussel sprouts on burner two, cornmeal and gravy on the other two burners. Mama would have no one in the kitchen but herself. She was queen of her domain and, as she never tired of telling us, “menfolk just get in the way.”

I couldn’t resist poking my head around the kitchen swing door to get a look and to savour the sweet aromas that drifted out. Mama was perspiring profusely and was constantly brushing imaginary hair out of her eyes with the crook of her arm. Her rich auburn hair was upswept and rolled neatly in place. It was secured by innumerable pins and I thought she was the most beautiful creature in the world. Not even the damp stain on her white puffed sleeve where she had blotted the perspiration could detract from her beauty.

Papa came up behind me. The cooking aromas had also intoxicated him with their headiness. “Has she prepared the apples yet?” he asked, craning his neck and trying to get a look at the kitchen work table.

“Yes papa, she put the bowl of apples on the windowsill to cool.” In fact, the cold Oregon air blew into the overheated kitchen like a hot breath in an ice hut. “They look so gold and crimson I could take a bite out of them right now,” I said. The apples, all twelve of them, sat fat and steaming in the breeze. Mama had picked the very best she could find at the Bedford Falls General Store. Macintosh apples were the only ones she would consider because of their sweet taste and hearty flavour. She gently pierced the apple with a corn broom whisk until the fruit was peppered with evenly spaced holes. Then she added a thin paste of cinnamon and honey which she poured over the apples and into the holes. The twelve apples were lined up like toy soldiers in a shallow pan and baked for thirty minutes. When they emerged from the oven they seemed to have been transformed by an alchemist into apples of gold. She gently placed the apples into a large horizontally-striped bowl. The multi-coloured stripes added to the Christmas atmosphere and the apples themselves looked like ornaments that the Magi might have worn on their heads.

Outside the open kitchen window, light flurries were falling. Occasionally, one or two would drift into the kitchen with the breeze. Suddenly, I heard the clattering sound I had been waiting for since midmorning. “He’s here, mama! He’s here!” I shouted. My voice filled with excitement and all thoughts of the golden apples were wiped from my mind. I made a mad dash to the front hall, really a tiny vestibule, retrieved my red checked winter jacket from its peg and, with a quick three step motion. threw it onto my back and inserted one arm, then the other. I was out the front door in a flash. A warning thought passed through my head about forgetting my winter boots, but it was too late. I was already running down the front path through the newly fallen snow. At the front gate, where our path met Cupertino Road, sat the horse-driven wagon that I’d been waiting for, that the whole family had been waiting for.

“Hi, Steve. How come you’re so late?

“Steve Jobes at yer service, sir. That’s Jobes, rhymes with robes,” he said, while he saluted with mock military precision. His tight, brown jacket and well worn britches looked amazingly like my own attire. His laces, however, were brightly coloured where his britches met his long wool socks just below his knees. His mother would not berate him as would mine because he wisely wore his thick-soled black winter boots. “Where’s yer ol’ man?” he questioned, as he completed his salute with a flourish. “I got ya a load o’ parcels. Looks like the biggest one is yers. Gimme a hand and we’ll get ‘em in out o’ this snow.”

We hustled into the house carrying several parcels of various sizes and one large one. Papa and I helped Steve drive the horse and wagon into the barn out back. We unhitched his horse, Jezebel, and rubbed her down and dried her off. She snorted in pleasure and pushed her nose against me playfully but also with the wiles of one who knew that sugar lumps were quite likely to be found in a pocket or clenched fist.

When we returned to the house up the winding path from the barn, the windows were all lit up in bright yellow lights. My mama always had a lantern at the windows to welcome holiday visitors. She said it reminded her of Sweden when she was a child. But mama was not in a festive mood when she saw me walk in with my slippers sopping wet from the snow. She chided me for my forgetfulness, but this time seemed to be more tolerant.

“Oreste,” she said to papa, “get Steve some apple brandy to take the chill out of his bones and light the candles around the Christmas creche. Dinner is almost ready.”

Papa followed her instructions in his usual quiet way while he puffed contentedly on his pipe. The smell of the light tobacco mingled with the kitchen aromas. Our Christmas manger scene was made up of hand carved oak figures of the Christ Child, Mary, Joseph, and three shepherds with assorted animals. Each figure had been lovingly hand painted by artisans in Florence where papa was born. The long, tapered candles that surrounded the scene were mama’s contribution. It was the closest we got to celebrating St. Lucie and her crown of candles. It always amazed me how well my parents got on, in so far as their backgrounds were so different. As a youngster, I thought it was a miracle because some of my friends told me stories of unpleasant home situations with their parents. Perhaps, because of their differences, they tried harder, but I know that the one thing I realized, even when I was very young, was that they loved each other unconditionally. At the time, it made me feel warm inside and now, as I tell you so many years later, I see how right I was.

“Cheers to ya,” Steve said raising his brandy and looking at us one at a time. “Here’s a toast to ya for more warm and happy Christmases to come and I thank ya from my heart that ya include me in yer family.” He wanted to go on but I noticed his eyes glaze over and, before I could make sure, he turned away to inspect the creche. “No Wise Men?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“Oh no! Not until twelvth night, the Epiphany,” answered papa.

“That is little Christmas when gifts are exchanged in the old country,” mama explained. “Until then, the figures stay safely wrapped in cotton.”

“But did ya not exchange presents on Christmas Eve last year?” Steve looked and sounded somewhat perplexed.

“Yes, we did indeed,” mama laughed. “Oreste and I have accepted many changes since we came here from Europe, some difficult and some not as painful. The Christmas Eve gift exchange was an easy one.” Suddenly, without a word, she jumped up and rushed into the kitchen.

The smell of tender, golden turkey had wafted into the parlour since we came in. Papa got up and hurried after her. “Is it burned?” he asked in a low, worried voice. Visions of a blackened or scorched turkey appeared in our heads as we waited for the fateful verdict.

“No, not the turkey. It is my beautiful golden apples. They are ruined. I left them on the window sill too long and they have frozen.” Mama was upset and not to be consoled. Her golden apples were a Christmas specialty.

“Now, now, Britta, calm down,” Steve entered the kitchen, taking full charge of the situation. “Let’s have a taste.” He took the striped bowl from mama’s hands and placed it on the kitchen table. From where I stood, I could plainly see flakes of silver ice on the top of each apple. They were still golden in colour, but they now had an irridescent icy blue cap. He lifted one gingerly to his lips and took a nibble. We watched his eyes intently, but they revealed nothing. He took another bite and a wide smile spread across his face. “Delicious,” he proclaimed. “You topped yerself this year, Britta.” He appeared oblivious to any intended pun.

Mama seemed immensly relieved as she shooed us out of the kitchen and into the dining room. “It’s time for turkey dinner. Everyone get seated.” Before I could move, however, she caught my arm. “Take this hot food and bag of trinkets down the street to the Olsens. The large pot was very hot and mama had wrapped it in a thick blanket to keep it warm and to allow me to carry it safely. “Don’t dawdle and make sure you put your winter boots on. I won’t have you sneezing and coughing through the holidays.”

I nodded, put on my boots immediately and then my red checked coat. I picked up the food and bag of trinkets, as mama called them, and headed down the street.

The Olsens were a large family who had encountered what mama called a reversal of fortune. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but ever since last Christmas when Mr. Olsen lost his job, she had taken the family under her wing. The trinkets were small items that she had knitted for the six children. There were socks for the older children and hand puppets for the younger. When I saw the wide eyes of the Olsen children and the smile on Mrs Olsen’s face I knew mama had taught me an important lesson. After holiday best wishes, I returned home, running all the way, my heart bursting with the exertion or, on reflection later, perhaps with the pleasure of helping someone less fortunate. So that was what reversal of fortune was all about.

After dinner, our tummies were full of Christmas dinner. We had tasted and marvelled at the new found wonders of mama’s frosty golden apples. It was time to bundle up and set off for midnight mass at St. Joseph’s. That was our yearly routine, Christmas Eve at St. Joseph’s and Christmas day service at Emanuel Lutheran which was just around the corner. In this way, my parents wisely kept both families’ religious traditions intact. It worked beautifully and there was never a time of religious strife.

That night after church, while I was in bed contemplating the gift exchange and my new fire engine red sled, I heard a noise downstairs. The swish of mama’s long dress came from the parlour. She was blowing out the candles in each lantern and the smoke from the smoldering wicks drifted up towards the ceilings like strands of a spider’s web. Just before she blew out the last candle, I noticed one of her frosty golden apples in the yellow light. Mama had placed it in front of the manger as a gift to the Christ Child.

Ralph J. Luciani
ralph@mymac.com

In 1937 Scarlett O’Hara blazed her way to glory in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind. The book was an outstanding best seller and the 1939 film became an instant classic. On the threshold of the new millennium, perhaps Scarlett might react to today’s computer and internet world this way.

“Fiddlee dee. War, war, war. All yo two evah talk about is war. Macintosh, Windahs, Windahs and Macintosh, it’s always the same. Ashley darlin’, don’t yo all thank that Ah’m more interestin’ than that pokey Windahs?” Scarlett puffed up her crinoline and the pale green muslin dress billowed like a typhoon in the South China Sea.

“Scarlett, yo know Ah adore yor sweet smile. It positively melts my heart, but Ah am also devoted to Windahs. Ah can’t work without it and Ah need to have access to my email. Ah’d be lost ifen Ah stopped usin’ it.”

“Now that is a wishy-washy southern gentlemen for you.” Rhett’s Buttler’s cold, black eyes sparked with intensity while his upper lip curled in a mischievous grin. “What would you do, Scarlett, if you met a real man? Someone you couldn’t wrap around that ring finger of yours?”

“Yo all hush up, Rhett. Ah suppose yo thank just because yo use that funny Macintosh that yo could be that man?” She threw her head back and laughed out loud. It sounded not like a laugh but more like the tinkling of fine china. He was flirting with her as she was with him, but in her heart of hearts there was only one man for her, Ashley Wilkes. But Ashley was betrothed to that mealy-mouthed Melanie. All she did all day was scan recipes from the Mangia CD that Ashley gave her on their engagement. She shook her head as if to knock the thought of Melanie out of it.

“Ashley, darlin’, please pass me a fresh glass of iced tea. It’s so warm heah under the portico.” She flapped her fan vigorously, but it was to no avail.

“Would yo care to go indoors? Ah could show you a nifty new shoot-em-up game on ma computa. It’s called Cotton Ginny and it’s all about how thisen young sharecropper dupes a few dozen Yankees into investin’ their money…”

“Oh Ashley, Ah don’t wish to heah about yo computah games. Next to the war talk that is the most boring subject to me.” She turned her head to show her displeasure.

Suddenly, from the dirt road that led up to Tara, came two galloping riders in a flurry of hoof beats and a cloud of red dust. Rhett stood up as he recognized the Tarleton twins.

“It’s war! War!” they shouted over and over as the dust drifted by the Portico.

“Microsoft has finally declared war. They will no longer support any system other than Windahs. No Macintosh, no OS 2, and certainly not Solaris or Be. They also have declared that they will fight to the death against Unix and particularly Linux,” panted Terry Tarleton.

“Microsoft declared that to give away free software is ungentlemanly and contrary our southern ways,” added Jerry Tarleton.

“That can’t be true,” Rhett interjected. “They gave out millions of free copies of Internet Explorer hoping to bury Netscape, and then tied it into their non-monopolistic Windahs.” His sarcasm went unnoticed.

The news of war travelled quickly through the plantations and, inevitably, sides were chosen and decisions made. Because events were moving so quickly and the outcome of the war was clouded, Ashley and Melanie decided to marry and the wedding was held at his beloved Twelve Oaks. At their reception, Scarlett impulsively announced her own marriage to the elderly but wealthy lumber mill owner, Frank Kennedy. Frank was not dashing and he was not young, but he did have a good business in the mill and, of primary importance to Scarlet, a healthy bank account. She had already formulated a plan on how to bring the mill into the new century. In place of lumber, she would get Frank to invest his money in software development. He might balk at first, but Scarlett knew she had the means to get her own way.

Unfortunately, only two weeks after their marriage, old Frank Kennedy was gone.
People whispered, behind closed doors, that he died of a heart attack in bed. The residents of the area blamed Scarlett’s willful manner and her determination to change the business from lumber to software.

In desperation, the widow Kennedy, a description Scarlett despised almost as much as dressing in black, asked Ashley to manage the new company she named Mill Software. The company motto was “Software construction the way it should be”, a thinly veiled allusion to the bloated software from Microsoft.

“Ashley, if yo say yes, Ah promise to give you 50% of the company stock. Yo and Melanie will be secure forevah. Aftah the war,” she added her eyes wide with excitment, “Windahs application development ought to go sky high.”

The war, however, dragged on. Neither side would give in. To gain additional revenue for its war effort, Microsoft introduced a surcharge on all its products. It also issued a Windahs upgrade each month that, curiously, would not allow the user’s system to function unless each upgrade was installed and paid for.

Ashley accepted the managing position. All of Frank Kennedy’s funds had gone into converting the mill and hiring the engineers. Now Scarlet needed to secure more money to operate the company, but she was strapped for cash. There was only one possibility, Rhett Buttler. The program engineers were hard at work on the code for Mill’s first application, a program for drapery design called Curtains. The program gave Scarlett an outrageous idea. She would transform the parlor drapes into an ensemble that would mesmerize Rhett so he would give her the money she needed.

Rhett had moved on to Charleston, where he felt that honour of his beloved Macintosh needed to be protected, and gave all his effort to the destruction of Microsoft and Windahs. He started his own Mac company called Ex. When Scarlett waltzed into his small office in her new green velvet dress, compliments of her first Windahs program, he was mildly dismayed. When he learned of her real purpose, he became angry.

“Scarlett, will you never grow up? Don’t you realize that, as a Mac user, I could never lend you support, morally or financially?” He turned her down flat. After she left, he decided to return to Atlanta where the World Wide Computer Conference would convene to try to settle the dispute. His first stop, however, was to visit his old flame, Belle Watling, in her sweets shoppe on Decatur Street. Belle was warm and sympathetic and, after several days and nights, Rhett left reinforced in his determination to fight the evil empire.

Microsoft, its own worst enemy, shot itself in the foot with its nefarious software surcharge. The software industry collapsed under the surcharge assault. Many companies, including Mill Software, were forced into bankruptcy. Windahs users migrated in droves to Apple, Solaris, Be, OS2, Unix and Linux. Slowly but surely, the Microsoft stranglehold on the industry disintegrated.

Back at Tara, Scarlett stood in the ominous shadow of the gnarled two hundred-year old oak tree. The glow of the orange sunset cast a surrealistic look on the fields of Tara. She raised her arm and clenched fist to the sky. “As God is my witness, if Ah have to beg, steal or pirate software, if Ah have to wear my fingers to the bone keyboarding, as God is my witness, Ah’ll never use Windahs again.”

Intermission

Life in the bright new world after the War of the Operating Systems was not all goodness and light. Heated discussions still erupted frequently in the Internet bars and cafes on Peachtree Street in Atlanta. What was different, however, was the general camaraderie and team spirit that hovered over the reborn industry. A large and important mover had emerged after the cannon fire had ceased. The Atlanta Declaration was issued and supported overwhelmingly. Part of the Declaration had been the forming of the Operating Systems Manufacturers’ Association – OSMA for short. Its primary purpose was to integrate the most valuable and user friendly parts of the individual systems into one. There would be no proprietary code. The system would be open-sourced and would have input from the six signers, including the remnant of the former Windahs.

Scarlett had salvaged more than most from her former company. From the ashes of Mill Software was born Phoenix Technologies and their first OSMA application was a reworking of their original Curtains. It was the very first program to market and was snapped up like the proverbial hotcakes.

It was inevitable that Scarlett and Rhett would meet and rekindle their close friendship. Atlanta, although a thriving city, was still more like a small town. Although their differences during the war were diametrically opposite, with the Declaration and OSMA in operation, all that former baggage had disappeared. They met on Peachtree Street just outside of Software Heaven, the new mega software chain that bought out Best Buy and introduced a novelty that many thought they would never see‹a knowledgeable, helpful, non-teenaged staff.

“Is that you, Scarlett?” Rhett spoke in mock surprise, “I hardly recognized you. You must have found the fountain of youth.”

“Rhett, darlin’, how sweet. Yo shor know how to please a lady. I’m shor that Belle Watlin could tell me stories about yo. Isn’t that true?” She could not resist the jibe.

Within a month of their meeting, they had courted and announced their engagement. After less than three days, they eloped and were married on the Mississippi Maid making their way to New Orleans for their honeymoon. It was on their honeymoon, during one of their most intimate moments, that she inadvertently uttered Ashley’s name. The frostiness that settled over them was like the primary colour of the new iBook.

What should have been their most romantic time together ended with sharp volleys of anger and resentment. Their return to Atlanta a month later was made in studied silence. The silence was finally broken when Scarlett to her dismay found that she was pregnant. She had mixed feelings and did not know how to approach Rhett. When she finally summoned her courage and blurted out the news, she was pleasantly surprised at his reaction. Rhett was overjoyed and contemplated the great times he would have with his son. He was suddenly the perfect expectant father.

The months passed quickly. Ashley continued to manage Phoenix Technologies, and Rhett’s company, Ex, was also thriving. The software market was growing in leaps and bounds with no in fighting between software developers and OSMA. Finally there was commitment and rapport between the hardware and software factions of the computer industry.

When the baby was born, the expected boy suddenly emerged as a girl. Rhett promptly named her Bondi Blue and fell totally under her spell. He doted on his daughter with the excess befitting a man of wealth and success. There was nothing that he would deny her.

Scarlett was glad that Rhett had become such a loving father and it amused her to recall how different he had been when they first met. But that did not sway her from her determination not to have any more children. She disliked her “condition” during pregnancy almost as much as the time she was confined to widow’s black. Her decision drew still another wedge between them

For Bondi Blue’s 4th birthday, Rhett bought her a Shetland pony. It was the best and worst decision he could have made. The child showed amazing promise, even at that young age, of becoming an accomplished horsewoman. She reveled in her birthday present and began daily rides and jumping contests. Shortly after, on a day like many before, with her family and the household help watching, she trotted the tiny pony about the yard, and started for the jump. This time it ended in disaster. She fell from the animals back and hit her head. Two days later she was dead.

The desolation that enveloped Scarlett and Rhett with the death of their daughter also drove them more apart. They each blamed the other. They spoke less and less and no longer shared the same bed. The marriage was disintegrating before their very eyes and neither one made any effort to stop it.

She went to Ashley for consolation, but he was more concerned with Melanie who was feeling very sickly. In his confused and distraught state, he could not give Scarlett what she felt she needed from him. It was then that she realized that she did love Rhett. She had loved him all along and it was her misinterpretation of Ashley’s love for her that had kept her hopes alive.

She returned to her large comfortable home. She would tell Rhett and beg his forgiveness. All the success of her company, all the software sales in the world were not enough if she could not have personal happiness. She called out to him. The house sounded hollow and empty.

“Rhett,” she called again and at the same time heard the scuff of his shoes on the stair tread as he descended. “Rhett, where are you going?” she asked, noticing the suitcase in his hand.

“I’m leaving you, Scarlett, as I should have long ago.”

“But you can’t desert me. Ah love you.”

“That, my dear, is your misfortune”

“But Ah need you. Ashley is desolate about Melanie and can’t care for the business. Ah need you now more than ever. We can make it work. We did once, we can do it again. Ah tell you, Ah need you desperately. What will Ah do without you?”

Rhett reached for the door knob, pulled open the oak door and half turned to her, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.” And he was gone.

Scarlett was reeling from disbelief. He did still love her. She knew it. But she couldn’t think about it now. She would think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow she would devise some plan to lure him back. Perhaps a new internet program or 3D strategy game. Something.

“Ah’ll think about it,” she said teary-eyed, as her lip quivered, “tomorrow.””

Ralph J. Luciani
ralph@mymac.com

The poem “Casey at the Bat” was written by Ernest Thayer in 1888. However it was New York singer/monologist William de Wolf Hopper who after countless on-stage recitals was the catalyst that made the poem immortal. This is my revisionist non-poetic rendition.

It was autumn and World Series time. The two teams from the Processor League were meeting to determine once and for all who was the better team and which would take home the coveted Silicon Copper Cup. A sellout crowd at Tampa’s iDome was watching breathlessly as old timer Casey (nicknamed Pentium) was announced. It was the the final game and the bottom of the ninth inning. The score was PPC 4, Intel 3. The bases were loaded, two runners out and Casey, the old powerhouse, was up to bat. It was your classic, nail biting, suspense driven series finale, the type of finish the advertisers dreamed about as they sold their beer, deodorants, and widgets.

Casey had put on a lot of weight since his early rookie days. His dark, wavy hair of youth had become thin and speckled with gray and his flat stomach of had been replaced by a protrusion affectionately called a pixel belly. It was the dreaded dead weight gained as a result of sitting in one place too long and without processor activity. In his young days he could shift about with ease. In theory he was faster now, but in the old days he didn’t have the overhead of all the backward compatibility that he had to carry today. So his overall speed had in fact gone down. His doctor compared it to renting one of the new Mega cars from Hertz. The numbers looked impressive. Horsepower had jumped radically, but the reality was that the rental cars were actually slower now because of the added steel for protection, emission controls for clean air, and safety accoutrements such as air bags and ABS. He had also been drinking and smoking more. Hey, you gotta live, right? All that training and discipline was fine when you were a young hopeful, but after all those years of service it was time to let loose just like his third wife said (or was it his second… hmmm… maybe it was his first). Ah well, it didn’t matter ’cause he couldn’t remember what she said, anyway.

The Intel team was wearing its newly designed jet black uniform with white socks. The PPC opposition looked sort of dorky in an all white uniform and white socks. Who did they think they were, Horatio Alger? What did they think those uniforms would look like after sliding into home plate a few times? Yeah, he knew they were partially sponsored by Proctor and Gamble, but how much Tide could you carry in your back pocket? At least he could hold a couple of packs of Marlboros in his and even sneak a puff in the dugout when the cameras were off shooting the crowd. He started to laugh at the thought, but ended up coughing and wheezing. It took him awhile to catch his breath. That breeze blowing into the park from the ocean was a killer. Why did they spend all that money on a domed stadium and leave the sides open? He didn’t get it. So they were in Florida. Big deal. Someone had been paid under the table–or dome–as the case may be. When he was asked if he knew what the “i” in iDome stood for, he simply shrugged. Someone said it wasn’t for Internet; it was for Intel.

They announced his name over the loud speaker and he sauntered out from the dugout. There were wild cheers. He waved to the crowd in acknowledgement. “I still got it,” he thought. After all those years, maybe this wouldn’t be his swan song. He was forty-five, but he still felt like a kid. He picked up a bat and tried it out. Picked up another and then another. He settled on the third, handling and caressing it, deciding if the weight and balance felt right. He didn’t care what the experts said, he could tell the difference.

He walked up to the plate. The crowd was still hollering and then began to chant, “Pentium one, two three–we want a hit, yes-sir-ee.” It was his signature chant. They had started it in early ’99 when the Pentium III had come out. It was a love chant to the old pro. It felt like salve on a raw cut. He was deeply appreciative and became more determined and focused. The Florida sun was shining brightly through the ribbed and tinted plexiglass roof. Again he felt the ocean breeze blow in from the Gulf but it was still as hot as hell. He was perspiring so much that his shirt was drenched. His forehead, too. The PPC pitcher was getting set when the PPC manager called for a timeout. It was too critical a spot not to put in the new pitcher. The manager waved to the dugout. Casey shuddered, he knew what and who was coming. Sure enough, they were sending in the new kid on the block: Gefore Smith. The crowd went wild! It was exactly what they wanted.

Gefore was Casey’s nemesis. He had youth, recklessness, speed and power. He was small in stature–the smallest player in the league–but his size belied the power within. It only took one time to underestimate him and that would never happen again. Their mutual dislike was strong, but they still had a grudging respect for each other. Casey had to be careful because this guy was fast, very fast. His bullet-like throw and his ‘VE’ curves and fancy maneuvers were as startling and breathtaking to behold as was his pure, raw power. One second he was preparing for the pitch, the next second the catcher had the ball in his glove. He saw the start of the pitch and Gefore’s narrowed copper brown, determined eyes. He swung hard and knew instantly that he missed. There was no connection crack. No thrill of the vibrations running up the bat to his hands and fingers. “Steeee-rike one!” the umpire’s gravelly voice barked. The fans were on their feet in expectation of a hit. They did not appear disappointed that Casey had missed. They were caught up in the passion of the moment.

Casey stretched and tapped his cleats. Like baseball heroes have done for a hundred years, he cleared his throat and spit out a foul mixture of tobacco juice and saliva . He stood up to the plate, making sure to avoid the wet mess at his feet. The stadium spectators burst out into the Pentium chant again. “Pentium one, two three–we want a hit, yes-sir-ee.” The perspiration was dribbling down his forehead and he lifted his helmet off and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jersey. He could use an ice cold beer right now almost as much as a hit. He was ready though, and he could have all the beer or champagne he wanted if he got just one hit. He squinted his eyes to try to guess Gefore’s strategy. He wondered how such a little guy could manage to work up so much power and still seem so cool and relaxed.

He was gonna show that li’l runt what power really was. When he connected on the next pitch, he was gonna rip the hide off that ball and hit it into kingdom come. Gefore was about to wind up for the pitch but first he checked each of the runners on their respective bases and gave them an evil look. Then in a millisecond the ball was out of his hand and in the catcher’s glove again. The crowd was stunned at its blinding speed. Casey was stunned because he was still in the midst of his home plate swivel-hip maneuver. He couldn’t hear the cheering fans. All he heard was the umpire’s ringing voice crying out “Steeee-rike one!” He looked at the stands and saw the fans jumping up and down, waving their arms and they seemed to him to be a solid mass of movement and noise. But Casey heard none of it. The only sound that reverberated in his skull was the umpire’s call.

He let out a string of choice expletives until he had exhausted his entire collection of four, five, six and seven letter profanities. The sum total was extensive, befitting a twenty-six year professional baseball veteran. But fortunately no one heard him over the pandemonium that ensued. Finally the crowd began to quiet down and almost immediately an eerie calm settled over the iDome. The manager of the PPC team called for a short timeout to confer with Gefore. They only exchanged a few words. Gefore nodded in agreement, and then the manager slapped him on the rump and walked back to the dugout. All during the break the crowd maintained their unnatural quiet.

A heavy air of anticipation hovered over the iDome. It hung over the bleachers, the playing field and it could have engulfed the entire city. The fans knew they were about to see history happen before their very eyes. Could the old pro still manage to excel? Many of the throng were ready to shout his acclaim over this tiny newcomer. They felt a begrudging loyalty to the grizzled veteran, and recalled his and their glory days at the top of the heap. However, nothing remains the same. Life is change. Perhaps this very afternoon the new guy would exhibit more of the star power the old man had rekindled. The sun pierced the translucent roof of the iDome. Casey looked up, shifted his helmet yet again and ran his right hand over his handlebar mustache; first the left side then the right. His hand came away damp from the perspiration. He was riveted back to reality when he heard the umpire’s order to play ball. Only for a few seconds did a murmur of interest run through the crowd like the earlier breeze from the Gulf. But there was no breeze on the field–only the suffocating Florida heat. Someone in the vast sea of spectators tried to start the Pentium chant but no one else picked up on it and it died like a throttled chicken.

All eyes fell on the two protagonists. It was so quiet you could hear a pixel change colour. Casey was ready. He gripped the bat with such ferocity that his fingers were whitish-blue. Some brave soul in the crowd shouted out to change the pitcher. Gefore ignored or didn’t hear the shout. His concentration seemed to consume him entirely. He checked the bases one last time and made the final pitch of the game…

The special late edition of the Tampa Sun said it all. The huge black letter headline covered the entire front page of the tabloid:

Pentium I, II, III strikes and you’re out!!!

Ralph J. Luciani
ralph@mymac.com

Forrest Gump’s take on life, vis-a-vis his mama’s lighthearted simplifications, not only allowed Forrest to comprehend the more difficult aspects of the human condition, but the readers’ as well. Since, in the film version, it was learned that Forrest was the owner of Apple stock, I wonder what ending his mama might have given my title above?

About a year ago, I started writing this monthly column for My Mac Magazine after Tim Robertson, My Mac’s iCEO (i for Internet), read my email response to the then new iMac. I described the parallels between the first time I met my wife and the first time I saw an iMac. With the introduction of the iBook, the memories of that earlier article have triggered more thoughts that have, once again, flooded my overactive imagination.

Parallels II

I looked at my watch. She was late again. I was annoyed. For more than six months, at every major event, she either never showed up or was somehow delayed. Her excuse was that as a reporter for an Internet service, she was often asked to cover fast developing stories. Now, I am a patient man–at least I think so. I also think different(ly) from most, but my pet peeve about tardiness was beginning to affect our relationship. We talked it over, as we did everything, and we agreed to try once more. I was set to go to Macworld New York for the first time and she promised to be there, too. We would see.

Although this was the second recent New York Macworld, I had purposely not attended the first, but looked forward to this latest Mac love in. Personally, I loved visiting the big Apple at any time, but I felt a touch of disloyalty to my favourite Macworld site, Boston. I missed that comfortable city, and my loyalty to it was the reason I had boycotted last year’s Macworld. The one downside to Boston was the perennial disruption in the core for the new tunnel construction. In 1995 and 1996, it was intolerable; the chaos continued. Yet the rest of the city was a delight. I missed the Freedom Walk and reveled in the patriotic history it echoed. I would also miss the small restaurant in little Italy, not far from the Paul Revere house, where I became great friends with the owner, a warm and generous fellow, who served the tastiest linguine al mare this side of the Adriatic. I marveled at how the cradle of early America was now surrounded by an Italian ethic and how, in the future, it might again metamorphose into something different and yet the same.

Could New York compete? Obviously, Boston does not have a monopoly on downtown construction as Microsoft has in operating systems. New York could easily hold its lead in the construction sweepstakes. Another advantage would be its one stop shopping at the massive Javits Convention Center at 38th Street and Eleventh Avenue. It would also be numero uno in the expense category–in other words bring money, plenty of money and a couple of charge cards, too.

Boston’s Macworld had a split personality in that it was held in two different buildings located about 2 miles apart as the crow flies, but a hefty 6 miles when the route included a circuitous detour around the tunnel construction. I found that a trifle disconcerting at first, but was impressed by the enormity of both the World Trade Center and then the Bayside Expo Center. The free shuttle bus between the two was a chance to rest your feet and relax from the milling throngs; the close up view of the tunnel construction was a bonus.

It was with mixed expectations that I flew into LaGuardia. I couldn’t make it to the keynote address, so we had agreed to meet in front of the Apple exhibit. Would she be waiting at the appointed time? Would she be late? A no show? I was nervous, because, to be honest, I was already committed to her, show or no show. I couldn’t help myself–she was that appealing. But I kept cautioning myself to take it slow and not go off the deep end. Deep end? I was mentally off the diving board and headed straight toward the pool drain. Is that commitment? You got it!

I took a cab from LaGuardia to the Convention Center. First mistake. The yappy cab driver chuckled when I told him my destination. “You an Apple freak?” he asked, in disbelief, “I thought Apple folded two years ago.” And he didn’t shut up for the entire trip, waxing about how great Microsoft was and how his no name PC was so terrific. I could have drowned him in the Hudson River, but my saner Mac self told me not to pollute the river more than it was. I let him know how ‘terrific’ I thought the ride and his discourse had been by giving him a nickel tip and telling him why. I got away alive, nevertheless, and learned several new cuss words in the process. By the way, what’s a “flegin tarp?”

I had preregistered before leaving home to shorten check-in time, and had slipped my pass and badge over my head so that it hung neatly while the cab driver continued to berate me and my mother. I ignored him and headed through the Crystal Palace into my fantasy world come true. The Convention Center was as impressive as it was massive. You could not miss the Apple exhibit, and why would you? This was, after all, the temporary Center of the Cupertino universe. In the excitement of packing and rushing to the airport and the general upheaval of travel, I heard nothing of the keynote from the day before. But, as the cavernous innards of the Convention Center opened up, I saw the huge hanging banners and, almost at the same time, I saw her. She had dropped something onto the floor and had bent over to pick it up. It was at that moment, in that awkward body position, that her tangerine red hair and deep blue sparkling eyes came into view. She retrieved what had fallen and looked my way, a welcoming smile on her face. I rushed up and kissed her in front of the Apple exhibit, in front of the crowd, and in front of Steve Jobs.

“Do you believe it? I just got a quick interview with Steve plus I got his autograph too,” she laughed triumphantly. “And then I dropped it. I was petrified it would get lost or trampled.” Her face was flushed from the exertion, the excitement and, I hoped, from my kiss, as well.

“You’re here,” was all I could utter. I repeated it several times, still in a state of stupefied awe.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she winked. Still traumatized, I just stood there transfixed by the reality of finally being with her. Now I knew why I loved her. It was because of her inner strength, as well as her physical beauty. And, she was one smart woman.

“Isabella Book, you are as sexy as you are cool,” I said, finally coming alive. “I had the most tedious ride from the airport. Have you been waiting long?”

“Not long. I just got off the AGP bus about a half hour ago, came in, saw Steve on a surprise visit to the floor and managed, I don’t know how, to get close to him. Asked him a few questions and got his autograph. It was all a blur. I know about airports, though. They say they are fast but they have way too many strings attached. Personally, I prefer the no strings technology. Hey, how do you like this button I picked up at the Lucent exhibit?” She proudly pointed to the rounded oval button just below her registration badge with her name, I. Book, in large black letters. “Lucent and Apple have brought the no strings technology to the iBook. Imagine wireless connecting to the Internet.”

“Very cool. Any chance we can get a closeup view of the new wireless wonder?”

“Stay close to me. If I got Steve to talk, we sure should be able to see the 4th piece of the Apple product line up close and beautiful.” I followed, grasping her waist with both hands and feeling the smooth, curvy lines of her torso. She was wearing an attractive, frosty white miniskirt with tangerine highlights that accentuated her hair colour. The muted background pattern was made up of rounded silver squares which reminded me of the keys on a full-sized keyboard.

“Nice dress,” I said, as we eased our way Macintosh-style through the throng.

“$1,599.00,” she answered. “It cost me a month’s salary, but it’s worth it.”

“I guess it’s not expensive, if you get what you want, and it sure looks sleek and…”

“Yes, yes, I know, sexy.” Suddenly she stopped. “Darn! I lost the mike to my recorder. The wire must caught on something and fallen off. Another reason to be wireless,” she philosophized.

“You must be tired from your flight. Any problems or,” I grimaced, “gabby cabbies?”

“Not a one,” she answered. “All I need is a quick nap to recharge my batteries and then I’m ready for six hours of heavy duty work.”

We made our way over to one of the several displays showing off the iBook. Each display, however, had a thick crowd of Mac worshipers. Somehow Isabella maneuvered us to the front. A drowsy-eyed Apple employee hovered close by to answer questions and to make sure no one absconded with the show’s star attraction. It turned out that Jason was one of the iBook team of designers and, as he explained, he was in a state of nervous excitement and near collapse after the hours of overtime they had put in to meet this deadline. In spite of his weariness, he was most cooperative in answering questions from the crowd.

I asked Jason if I could pick up the iBook for a closer examination. From the top, the sweep of Blueberry colour was very attractive. The matching coloured Apple logo complimented the overall design. Colour is a subjective matter, and the tangerine iBook which was at the displays on each side of us did it for me. From the edge, it looked thick and rounded, yet eminently touchable. In fact, that seemed to be the main desire of most people. The iBook’s lines were indeed sexy and the curves and shape would have given Freud hours of analytical writing material. I noticed the hideaway carrying handle and the lack of a snap lock, but the spring closure worked smoothly and it shut easily and firmly.

“It’s a beautiful book,” I said, my fingers still lingering on the smooth rounded surface.

Isabella and I thanked Jason and made way for others to admire this cute new toy. Indeed, it was cute and, in many ways, looked like a toy. Since when does a computer have to be dull, beige, and square? After all, it isn’t a PC. As the second fastest portable computer in the world after the Apple PowerBook G3 models, Apple need apologize to no one. The industrial design carried on the theme of the #1 selling computer, the iMac, and placed that concept into the ultimate consumer portable.

Isabella Book and I agreed–the iBook was another Apple hit. We couldn’t wait to read the sour grapes (or tangerines and blueberries) from the PC press. I couldn’t wait to surprise Isabella with one as gift.

She turned to me, a twinkle in her eyes. “I’m going to buy you one for being so patient with me. Now, which colour would you like?’

Ralph J. Luciani
ralph@mymac.com

How would you feel if you were condemned, ostracized, and discriminated against? Survival in today’s office environment when your best friend is considered weird is tough. When you’re in love, God help you!

I had never met anyone quite like Sam before. I had transferred from the Atlanta head office of a multi-national soft drink company to Chicago. It was the first time I had been north of the Mason-Dixon line, and it was quite an eye opener. Perhaps life in the south had sheltered me, but if what happened to Sam and me was any indication, I guess I could have used a primer on lifestyles before venturing away from home.

The trauma of the move was unsettling enough, but I did not foresee problems at every step of the journey. At first, I was thrilled that I had won the new sales manager position. It was quite a feather in my cap, and the monetary gain was nothing short of breathtaking. Growing up in a lower middle class environment had not prepared me for the lavish excesses that an upwardly mobile person encountered. I had dreamed of them, of course, but this sudden catapult into the very milieu of my fantasies was a bigger adjustment than I had foreseen.

There is a very real difference between a southerner and a northerner, and I don’t mean just accent. I hate generalities, but I do think southerners are a friendlier and more easy going lot than the Yankee types I met. Talk about cold and aloof. That was, arguably, the most extreme difference that I noticed when I first moved to Chicago. Of course some of that early friction may have had to do with me, as a newcomer, being thrust upon my staff when they had mentally envisioned another chap for the job. I was savvy enough to keep a low profile at the beginning and not to push too hard until they got to know me and how I operated. It pleased me to see, after the first month, that my plan was working and that they had accepted me. Unfortunately for me, that was when Sam entered the scene.

Our office computer setup was not unlike most enterprise systems. Our computers were PCs, mostly late model Compaq Pentiums with the latest Intel Pentium number tacked on. We used Microsoft Office for work groups and we were generally happy campers. There were murmurs of switching to an NT network solution, but that was on hold for the moment. Normally, I just used whatever was in front of me, but I had heard rumours about NT that were unsettling.

In September of 1997, a database overflow in the ship’s NT system caused the USS Navy cruiser Yorktown’s propulsion system to fail for over two and a half hours. It seems the systems administrator entered a zero into the data field for the Database Manager program. This is not unlike using a three buck calculator and dividing a figure by zero and getting zero as your answer, but still being able to continue using the calculator. However, the NT operating system could not handle that simple function. The Yorktown had to be unceremoniously towed into port. I had visions of the enemies of the United States howling with laughter at the faux pas. For my part, I wondered if the long discontinued Commodore 64 couldn’t have done a better job.

The records showed that the Navy saved more than $2.8 million a year by using computers and reducing the Yorktown’s crew by 10 percent. They planned to expand this “Smart Ship Technology” to other ships. I feared what the expense of a disabled ship, like the Yorktown, would cost during hostile activity such as warfare?

Although well versed on our office computer setup, Sam was the epitome of the outsider. Outlandish dress, faint traces of weird makeup and odd color choices made heads turn and eyebrows rise. I, on the other hand, in my dark tailored suit and not too narrow nor too wide tie, was a conformist to the extreme, mirroring no doubt my ultra-conservative past. I thought Sam’s fashion statement was a crying out for attention and a need for a strong, guiding hand. I don’t know why I thought I should be that person, other than the fact that Sam was part of my sales team. More truthful, perhaps, was that there was a mutual attraction between us from the start. It was so strong that I had not considered what others might think.

I’ve had my share of flings, so I’m no neophyte to love and all its inherent intricacies, but Sam was a whole new experience. The physical attraction I felt was like no emotion I had experienced in the past. What made our relationship as confusing to me as to some outsiders was the extreme difference in our personalities.

The office gossip was precipitous. You could not, not notice Sam. Tongues wagged and vicious stories began to circulate about us. At the soft drink dispensers found on every floor, we were the talk of the office. Society seems to have a need to label someone who is different. In the past, it was the beatniks or flower children. Today it’s the skin heads. Whatever the moniker, one is not considered “normal” if you do not fit into a preconceived mold.

The final straw occurred after my first month’s transition when I felt my staff had accepted me. During that time, Sam and I had kept a low profile but, in the following weeks, we progressed to something more than sales manager and employee. It was Monday morning and Sam waltzed in a half hour late wearing an outlandish yellow polka dot headband. Below the band peeked out what appeared to be a new, rusty red hair color. Even more outrageous was what Sam carried. It was a grape iMac computer. The only item conceivably more controversial might have been Tinky-Winky, the odd ball, purse toting, male TeleTubby.

“Mike, I’m sick of having to use the office PC and that Windows garbage.” Sam said, loud enough to be heard by all the workstations in our immediate area, “so I brought in my personal computer from home.” The collective gasp from the surrounding staff was audible and it seemed that all eyes turned to me for my reaction.

“You’re incorrigible,” I said shaking my head but not masking the smile on my face. “As long as you keep on top of your work load, I have no objection.” I think that was the precise moment that my feelings for Sam were exposed for all to see. I had been outed! Still, I felt that we could withstand the assaults that would come, as long as we stuck together. I would find out sooner than I thought that I was naive to believe we could overcome the deep prejudice and hate that our relationship seemed to spark. But it also sparked a deeper personal intimacy between Sam and me. We became lovers shortly after, and I have always claimed that we were thrown together, not only by a mutual attraction, but by that grape iMac. My life was changed, and I would be forever grateful to that all-in-one beauty for bringing Sam and me closer together.

There were so many raised eyebrows in the office that morning that I felt we had to do something to stem the tide of viciousness. But it was to no avail. Now, as the weeks passed and our relationship was discussed openly, although not in our presence, I grasped at straws trying to salvage our reputations and still maintain a viable working rapport with my staff. Sam, however, bore the brunt of their displeasure. It was the flamboyance, most of all, that appeared to annoy them the most. Sam was just too different for them to accept and I came in a close second. I had betrayed them because they had thought me one of them and now they knew I was as different, in my way, as Sam was. They found it difficult to face us every day. They wanted things to be like they had been before we arrived on the scene. They didn’t want people who made waves; they wanted us to be ordinary, conventional and, yes, even banal. They did not want “different.”

It was not long before the head office in Atlanta heard the rumors. In fact, email had been sent anonymously pointing accusing fingers at Sam and me. Some of the stories that reached my boss, the vice president of sales, were so outlandish that they were almost laughable. But I can tell you now that, at the time, it was not a laughing matter to us. My job was on the line, and Sam’s was, too. The euphoria of my new position of only a couple of months was dropping faster then Compaq’s quarter loss after their Digital takeover. I had visions of working for McDonald’s since I figured, if we did lose our jobs, no one else would hire us. Notoriety is not what the corporate world craves. They want increased sales, period. Well, perhaps, they would accept the notoriety if they got increased sales too, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

Three days after the second email, Sam and I were summoned to the Vatican, the company euphemism for the head office. We flew down, both feeling extremely gloomy, but still trying to keep each other upbeat. It was not a happy experience. We took the first flight out of Chicago that morning in order to be in Atlanta by 9 a.m. The cab ride downtown was depressingly quiet. I don’t remember exchanging more than a few words. I had asked Sam to wear something a touch less elaborate than usual for both our sakes and, at least, the shade was subdued and there were no exotic accessories. But Sam refused my plea to change the rusty red hair color to a more natural, if staid, brown. The carrot top would stay.

At nine thirty, we were ushered into my boss’ plush corner-windowed office, with the oriental rug and the East Timor mahogany paneling. One day, I thought, I might have such an office, but not on this starkly gray morning.

“Good morning, Michael. Welcome back,” my boss said. He seemed in much better spirits than I had expected. “How was your flight down?”

“Uneventful and on time,” I answered, my hopes rising.

“And this must be . . .”

“Samantha Etherington,” I blurted out, “my fiance.”

“Hello, Samantha. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I believe we know someone in common, your father.”

“Yes,” Samantha answered in a mumble, looking down at the floor.

“Your father?” I said puzzled. “I don’t understand.” I looked at Samantha and back to my boss.

“Samantha’s father is the CEO of this company,” my boss spoke up. “I don’t believe Samantha wanted this to be generally known. She was afraid she might be accused of taking advantage of the family relationship.”

“Your father is Sterling Parker Etherington?” I was dumbfounded.

“Yes Michael, it’s true. I should have told you but I thought you would feel uncomfortable with the situation. I’m sorry.” She lowered her head again so that the carrot red hair appeared even more pronounced.

“Michael, because of the awkwardness of what happened at the Chicago office I have been asked by Sterling to offer you another position as our European Sales Manager in London. The position includes a furnished apartment and you will have an increased expense account.”

“You’re not buying me off. I won’t leave Samantha,” I replied adamantly.

“Don’t misunderstand, Michael. There are no strings attached to this offer. If you want the job, you have it. If you want Samantha to go with you,” he paused, “you will have to ask her.”

I turned to look at Samantha. “You mean it, you wouldn’t leave without me?” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I thought we decided weeks ago,” I answered. “From now on, it’s you and me, kid.”

Ralph J. Luciani
ralph@mymac.com