Well, friends, this is the virgin post on PlasticPounder. My name is Timmy. You may well ask, "Timmy, what is a plastic pounder?" and well you may. And well may you ask. Well. A plastic pounder is a code-monkey, a desk jockey, a member of the swarming masses of information technologists. Since I have quite a lot of opinions, which most (sane) people don't seem to share, I decided to do the "blog thing". And so it begins... Wish me well. Godspeed, John Glenn.
Monday, February 26, 2007
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A Fish Story
"It was a dark, windy night", said Uncle Jeff, twisting his copy of the Atlantic Monthly nervously, eyeing the window. "I was working late on my computer, doing some odd contract work to pay the bills......you know, plastic pounding, for peanuts. When all of a sudden I heard this creaking sound- I could swear it was a ship of some sort. Well as you can imagine, living here on the Bay I'm always concerned about boats knocking into this or that-- so I ran up to the portico......you know the window up there" (he points to a small round window, high up at the top of a flight of stairs). "And you would not believe what I saw.
"Now I'm not the kind of person who regularly mistrusts my own eyes: I'm not a Genius, but I've always been fairly sure which way is left and right. Never had any problems knowing generally the time, or what town I'm living in. But looking out that night, I swear on my mother's red Chevy Blazer, I saw nothing but blank calm water stretching out there for miles. Maybe a few birds stirring? I wasn't sure. Suddenly however I had an odd feeling, and turned around quick- and there was the oddest looking man standing in my living room. How he got in, is my guess as good as yours.
"He was dressed from head to foot in the most expensive and outlandish looking clothes, and smelled Musty and damp, as if he just walked in out of a rainstorm. Although the thought occurred to me it was clear and dark out as today, not a cloud. The man was looking at me puzzled as if considering something gravely, then appeared to make up his mind.
"He walked toward me with a sort of loping gait, that reminded me of a wounded animal- but somehow, it was with dignity- the kind of class you only see in aristocracy in those late night movies, but would never expect a real person to have. Then he cleared his throat, coughed, and bowed curtly, saying his name was 'Scrod'. He had a strong accent from, I could never quite figure out where, but his manners were eccentric- and very polite. What exactly he looked like for some reason I can't quite describe, except to say that he appeared careworn and older than his years. He explained that his ship was docked out front but he was in a hurry, and that he had seen my light and wondered if I could do him a favour.
"Now I wasn't sure what exactly a person like this could want from somebody like me, who rarely even gets out of the house let alone having any connections of any sort, to help someone in need. But he ended that question immediately by pointing towards my computer with a sort of awe, as if it were a magic instrument. 'You know how to work that thing, Sir?' he said politely.
Surpressing the urge to say something negative or sarcastic, I bit my lip and just replied simply, "Yes.". Then he began fumbling in his front pockets with some surprising urgency, as if he had lost something. I might mention he had the most extraordinary red coat, covered with shiny brass buttons. And more pockets than I could count- so its no wonder he had trouble finding whatever he was looking for. After what seemed like ages, he pulled out a small, ordinary sheet of paper, almost a letdown after all that dramatic buildup. He shoved it into my hand with the air of the King of a small country.
I looked down to examine what he had passed, and found it was actually extraordinarily fine bleached parchment, too expensive even to use for a resume. I considered why anyone would waste paper like this on anything. But then I shivered, as if a draft had come in the room. I looked up, and he was gone! I hadn't heard a thing. I ran to the door (which was locked), pulled it open and saw the calm sea again, nothing out there but quiet. And again, maybe, more birds than usual, but that could have been my imagination. Somewhat confused, I closed the door, unfolded the note and saw in the most careful script and elegant lettering, the following:
---
Dear Sir,
I regret to trouble you with my Request, but you would be eternally in my best Graces to Honour me with the creation of a Website.
---
"He then left instructions as to the name, Fish4Tips, and numerous details as to how the website should work, claiming he wanted to atone for his past deeds by helping others to make money by helping the people. It certainly was a novel concept. At the end with a flourish of elaborate script he said the following:
---
Bearing mind my debt for your generous services, I promise to return soon with reward.
Yours Truly,
Captain James T. Scrod
---
"I never heard from this odd gentleman again. That was at least three years ago, and quite frankly I would wonder if it ever happened at all, except for the fact that I still have the parchment, which I've looked at numerous times." (he points towards a framed piece of small paper on the wall, with ornate lettering). "the only other clue I could find was some small printed letters at the bottom of the back, which were difficult to read but, and you'll laugh, I could swear they say something about 'boot topping', and I could make out the numbers, '52-G3-4K2'. Again your guess is as good as mine. Anyway, I finally got a long stretch out of work and decided to develop the site, which was no small task I can assure you. I consider it almost a tribute to the experience and this odd man. Perhaps one day, he WILL return."
Uncle Jeff
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