Fugato

It’s winter quarter 2000. I’m the TA for EE183, sitting alone in a lab in the brand-spanking new Packard building of EE at Stanford, preparing assignments for tomorrow’s lab session. It’s around midnight and the building is empty-ish.

Enter a somewhat unkempt man in his early forties, medium build, in overalls with a little paint on them. He wanders around the lab for a bit, contemplating the oscilloscopes.

The essence of our conversation is paraphrased here to the best of my ability, G representing me and D the Designer.

G: “Hi, uh, can I help you?”

D: “Yeah, I’m just taking a look around. I designed this building, you know.”

G: “Really?”

D: “Yeah, I did, my company did. I designed the Mac interface, too.” [gestures at my PC display]

G: “Wow. So you’re here to see how your creations turned out?” [still not sure whether he's joking]

D: “Yeah, well, I’m also having trouble with the department, they still haven’t paid for the design work.”

G: “Really? One would think they’d have that kind of thing in order.”

D: “Apple, too. They haven’t paid me for the Mac design work. These people owe me a lot of money, it’s pretty lousy, and I’ve had to take action about it.”

G: “Action?”

D: “Yeah, I’ve just sent this fax out, to the EE department, and to Apple, and several other places in the valley.”

He shows me a hand-written sheet, memorably ending with the words “Pay or be punished!”

I measure him out, as inconspicuously as I can. He has me a little worried, but he’s not that much bigger than me, and hasn’t seemed aggressive.

G: “Wow. You’re not mincing words there!”

D: “Heh, no. Can’t go too easy on these guys, or you just get them walking all over you.”

G: “I’ll bet. Well, best of luck with that. I hope they come around.”

D: “Hey thanks. It’s good talking to you.”

G: “See ya.”

He leaves the lab. Later that night, when leaving, I walk around and see D in the lunch area on the second floor, eating out of the common fridge. I nod to him, shrug and leave.

In the morning I mention this to Ed, the labs manager, and in about ten minutes a policeman arrives. I describe D as best I can, and then it hits me that he told me his name.

Policeman: “Oh, that guy, okay. He pops up around campus every few years, I think he was a student here once. He’s never gotten violent, but he hasn’t said anything threatening like this before either. I’ll have a little chat with him.”

That day, I notice copies of D’s handwritten fax posted on doors and flyer boards around campus. Never heard of him again.

I wonder if he ever got paid.

I sit, engrossed in flow, that exquisite state of mind where time and space cease to exist and the consciousness contains only my work, in sharp focus.

A knock on my shoulder. Guy from the department next door.

I disengross myself, switch to the media player, pause the music, take off my headphones, turn around, say hi with a question mark.

He says: “Oh, nothing, just, hi. How are you?”

I say: “Er, fine. And you?”

It turns out that he is fine as well. He absconds. I start working again, and eventually I’ll get into flow again. But I’m not in it now.

I feel like David Brent dropped by.

On Hector’s 55th birthday, in the evening, he sent out an invitation to a little impromptu coffee-and-cakes gathering at his place. “Waffles and other assorted goodies on the table here, for those who happen to drift in. Won’t be miffed at those who aren’t up for it. Welcome!”

Gallia received the message somewhat late, grabbed a bottle of red wine from her rack, decorated it with a package ornament, and set off.

Hector received Gallia with great cheer and kissed her and hugged her, and accepted the bottle with amicable reproach, admonishing her that gifts were wholly unnecessary and that she shouldn’t have.

Smiling brightly, he announced Gallia’s arrival to the other guests, noting with delight that of all his nieces and nephews, only Gallia had signalled her remembrance of his birthday with a message that morning … and therefore, only Gallia had been invited to the party that evening.

Hector beamed with joy for his niece having passed his subtle test, proving herself worthy of his hospitality that night. To an over-eager interpreter, his appreciation of her observance might even have seemed amplified by the others’ forgetfulness.

After all, if not for such simple but clever benchmarks, how might Hector possibly know for certain who really loves him and respects him? And thus whom he should love and respect the most?

And his love and respect was amply and sincerely bestowed on his guests. The waffles and other delicacies were exquisite; everyone present was well served by Hector’s impeccable hospitality. His good spirits were evident, and genuine.

Hector went to sleep that night satisfied by the success of his experiment, and by his renewed assurance of Gallia’s superior love and respect.

And Gallia went to sleep with a furrowed brow, deep in thought, about the appreciation of friends, about the significance of displayed tokens of caring, and about the value of Microsoft Outlook’s automatic birthday reminders.