1-3-98
He was going to be fired if he kept this up. Neo walked out of his building with his suitcase in his teeth. The suitcase was empty, just for show-he never had to take work home with him, regardless of how little time he actually put into showing up at work-but it was still heavy. Grunting, he yanked on his suit jacket and backed his way out the door. Mrs. Conroy waved to him from where she stood, just coming out of her own door.
Sucker. You are such a sucker. He straightened his coat, took the briefcase from his mouth and walked back to her.
"Good morning, Thomas."
"Morning," he grunted, reaching for the bag at her feet without a word.
"Oh my, how sweet of you! I was just going to take it out," she smiled at him. He wondered if she really thought he hadn't caught onto this little charade by now. It was the fifth time since he'd made the mistake of helping her once. At least it wasn't ever heavy, but on mornings when he was running late--which were becoming more and more frequent--it was another five minutes for which he might be called to task. He'd hoped that being constantly late might mess up her schedule, but Mrs. Conroy did a pretty good job of watching out for him.
"No problem," he grated, dragging the bag out with him.
"Oh, Thomas, before I forget," she left the doorway to her apartment to hold the door for him.
"Something wrong?"
"You've been having some late visitors. Is everything all right, Thomas?"
Thomas grimaced, swallowing hard. Leave it to a snoop like his landlady to take all too keen a glance at his business partners. Old ladies were supposed to be in bed during the indecent hours of the morning in which Neo operated.
"Yes?"
"I was just wondering whether there was anything going on. Young lady perhaps?"
"Oh," Neo laughed, relieved, "no, nothing like that." Pathetic.
"I just keep hearing someone knocking pretty loudly for you..."
"Just a friend who works nights, Mrs. C," Neo explained. It was convenient for him to live on the first floor--he could achieve the basement-like darkness he preferred without too much modification, plus his customers didn't have too far to get lost, or, god forbid, too many intervening neighbors to ask for directions. On the other hand, every time Choi pounded on the door or one of his cronies was too loud in the hall, Mrs. Conroy could hear, and she would be listening.
"Would you mind telling him to keep it down, Thomas?"
"Sure," he nodded, escaping her by throwing himself out the door towards the dumpster. Winter had hit full force in Chicago, but he could barely feel it. Cold never bothered him; half the night he was awake with frozen fingers, typing away, keeping busy. It was better than the heat because heat and humidity could ruin his equipment. That was the way he thought about the weather--in terms of what would harm his setup, not about what he would find uncomfortable.
Still, the looks people gave him sometimes made him wish he could be bothered to take the time to play the part of someone who gave a damn. Neo wore anonymity like kevlar; he just wished he knew how to cultivate it in the public sector, especially at work. No doubt his boss knew who he was. The section head had been threatening to report him for his tardiness. Thus far, he'd managed to get away with it for the past quarter, but it was catching up with him. All his sick days were gone, devoted to blissful, nearly comatose stretches of making up lost sleep. The vacation days would go next. Still, even if he were penalized for every hour missed, it wouldn't be enough. It never mattered if you made up the time; Metacortex had this thing about schedules.
He debated the pros and cons of catching a cab versus walking. He didn't live too far away for walking to be problematic if he got out of the building in time. The El didn't pass near enough to his starting or ending destinations to make it a better option, and buses were not an option he could stomach. Fuck it, you're already late. Don't lose more money on a cab. Sighing, he took off at a brisk walk in the direction of the Metacortex building.
It was funny to think of things in terms of money. He really didn't care about money. If he wanted to, he could quit his job that morning and have enough to last him, on his modest budget, for the next year. More of a concern was not being nailed by the IRS for funds he shouldn't legally have possessed. That meant walking instead of cabs, his comfortable but dumpy place instead of anywhere with more amenities. Ultimately, it meant non-existing in a dead-end job as much as he could afford to without losing it, which was a challenge.
Neo breezed into the lobby, flashing his security badge. As he stepped into the elevator, he thumbed the picture. No one ever liked their pictures on these things, but he thought his was especially heinous. One of the few girls in his department had said he looked like Dopey from Snow White in it. Normally, that sort of comment didn't bother him; however, since he was rather used to attracting absolutely zero attention from the opposite sex, the particular notice she'd taken unnerved him. Most of the office folk didn't bother--he had a reputation of being too awkward for any physical appeal to rescue him. He knew he was vain, to an extent, to think himself fairly attractive, but it didn't change his outrage every time he looked at his stupid badge.
The elevator door dinged open to reveal a brand new banner that had been placed in reception. METACORTECHS. Haw-haw. Somebody's idea of a joke, and a lame one at that. Had to be, he knew all about being lame. 'Geeks of the world unite' summed up in a stupid pun on the company's name.
"Mr. Anderson," Jill, the receptionist beckoned him over with a finger whilst carrying on another conversation on her headphone set. She tapped a red lacquered fingernail on a pink slip titled WHILE YOU WERE OUT. He stared at it blankly. No one called him at work. He tried to remember if there was even a phone in his cubicle. He didn't think there was. The memo contained two words: big trouble. When he managed to stop rereading it stupidly, he looked up at Jill. She glanced significantly to her left; he followed her gaze. The section head, Derek Marrin, was talking to Mr. Rhineheardt, a vice-president who'd decided to fill his vacant schedule pretending he worked for human resources. He suppressed a groan as they both turned to look at him. Marrin nodded for him to come over.
"Mr. Rhineheardt, this is Thomas Anderson. Tommy, you know Mr. Rhineheardt?" So smooth. Neo wanted to give his cocky face a few dents with his fist. He hated that nickname--only his mother called him that. Well, until, despite his indignant protests, Choi had taken to reading his mail; somehow, telling him that he was technically committing a felony by so doing never really bother the drug-dealer. Choi was calling him "Tommy-boy" every chance he got because it clearly pissed him off. The last thing he needed was for Marrin-smarmy son of a bitch-to take it up like they were pals. Like he didn't only ever interact with the guy under less than pleasant circumstances.
"I hear we're having some problems, Mr. Anderson."
"Mother's going through a divorce, sir," the lie came easily to his lips. He hadn't talked to his mother in a dog's age and ignored her letters on his birthday. They'd had a falling out, and he didn't care enough to reforge the bonds of familial loyalty after she'd screamed herself blue over his decision to ignore her plans for his future. Her plans meant a house with a fence and a wife named Betty, the daughter of some bridge-playing friend of hers. His father only escaped Neo's attempts to pretend he'd been the result of a spontaneous generation of life by the simple fact that he was dead. Problem solved.
"I'm sorry to hear that. I hope that once matters have settled down, you'll consider joining us on company time? Hm?" Rhineheardt wasn't like Marrin; Marrin was a schmuck, Rhineheardt was a piece of work. Marrin would look exasperated and then go tattle. Rhineheardt played at subtle threats to his job security and smiled the whole while. He would kick Neo's ass out the door the second his productivity fell behind his attendance record, waving goodbye, wishing him well, and then blacklisting him in the industry.
"Yes, sir," he mumbled, backing up, head bowed to avoid displaying the full range of his fury, bound for his cubicle. He didn't look up when the janitor, emptying the trash bin along his row, half collided with him. It felt almost intentional, as if even the janitor knew he was in dire straits with regards to his job and that he couldn't afford an outburst even if he'd wanted to.
"Sorry," the other man muttered, sounding less sorry and more like he wished he had body-checked Neo instead. Neo ignored him, sinking into his chair, all but throwing his empty suitcase under the desk. As per his usual ritual, he stared at his black screen, hands placed flat on either side of the keyboard, just waiting. He was never quite sure what for, what distraction he thought might come that would mean he didn't have to turn it on for a while longer, that meant he had a little longer of a reprieve from shuffling codes back and forth. Coding wasn't bad, it was just too easy.
There was no point in putting it off any longer; he flicked on the surge protector strip and listened to the crisp static snapping as the machine came to life. He gave the Windows95 delay screen an ugly look but couldn't motivate himself to do anything else. His 'IN' tray was full of notices, modifications to be made to banking code software for one client, billing programs for another, the usual. Networking to machines, telling them to behave the way clients wanted. Neo had to laugh sometimes at that arrogance-exactly who was telling whom what to do? Maybe he could wire Marrin's paycheck to some charity a few days in advance of the next payday-giving time for the check to be cashed, irretrievably, before Marrin had the chance to wonder what happened to a sizable portion of his salary.
Practicing threats, running them over in his mind, always improved his mood, but he was always careful to limit them to flights of fancy. Don't piss in your own pond, Tommy-boy. His inner monologue was sounded like Choi these days. Funny that sage advice should find form in the voice of a drug-dealer. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, sleep usually interrupted by the lanky criminal pounding on his door with one or another of his floozies around.
"Ah, Tom, you got a second?"
He looked up to find Marrin leaning over the wall of his cubicle.
"Just getting started," he turned from his desktop, leaning back casually.
"New company policy," he shook his head. He seemed to be taking a page from Rhineheardt's "power management theory" book, playing friendly, the smile falser than his hairpiece. "About accessing private sites on company time."
"I heard."
"Well, seeing as you've been having problems making the most of your time here, I'm sure you wouldn't want to waste any more time, right?" Marrin laughed as if this were an extremely clever joke; Neo had never been one to laugh along because it was expected, so he just stared and waited. It usually produced the highly enjoyable effect of making the laughing party feel awkward, too, which it did now. Marrin coughed once, recovering, "Ha, what do I have to worry about, right? You're probably the only one not playing minesweeper when I turn my back, right?"
"I don't have any games installed on this machine." That was true. He'd un-installed them to kill time last week. He's also uninstalled Outlook-damn buggy piece of crap-most of the media players, and various other dead weight programs in the OS. When Metacortex upgraded to Windows98, if Microsoft ever got around to fixing the bugs in that, he could play around with punching holes in it, too.
"What I mean is, you're probably the last person I need to be worrying about wasting time on personal stuff at work, right?"
If subtlety were a race, Derek Marrin had come in last with a sprained ankle or had called in sick the day before. What Marrin imagined he was conveying was, "You don't want to get in any more trouble, right?" What he meant was, "You don't have any friends, right?" And the answer was, right, on both counts. But if he said "right?" one more time, Neo was going to slug him.
"Just thought I'd let you know. I guess I'll be seeing you here late again tonight, right?"
"Right," Neo nodded, too ready to be rid of this asshole, grinding his teeth and trying to think of what mundane things he would have to make up for himself in order to keep him later, again. Marrin strolled off whistling, a mile wide smirk spread over his face. It was unreal how someone like that could reach section head on ass-kissing alone. Manners over merits, he supposed. Derek Marrin. Merits: none. Natural talent: none. Sycophantic instinct: second to none. Neo cracked his knuckles over the keyboard, dreading the long hours ahead. If I'm lucky, he'll have to go 'client-developing.' Client-developing was code for 'playing golf for credit with partners.' It was a term his father had used way back in the day, when the man had been respectable and a lot less dead.
"Oh, ah, Tom?"
He didn't turn around. "Yeah?"
"Leave your logs in my office, will you? I'm out this afternoon."
He faltered, cocking his head to the side. "Sorry?"
"The Bolstrom Group is throwing a little fete for us on account of our help for their site development." Neo wanted to laugh-their section had almost nothing to do with common internet publishing, but somehow Marrin had secured himself a go-along invite anyway. Marrin waved a hand in front of his face as if Neo had congratulated him for this. "Any how, I'm going to take off after the luncheon, so just leave your logs with me, won't you?" Neo watched his face contort into an unpracticed I'm-on-your-side-and-I'm-here-to-help look. "Just want to be able to show Mr. Rhineheardt how serious you are about catching up. Right?"
"Sure."
He fixed on a spot on Marrin's retreating back but couldn't focus. Weird. Convenient, but weird. What side of whose bed had he woken up on for this to happen? Don't question minor miracles. His logs he could counterfeit in a heartbeat; he could get started on sending the record of his terminal use to Marrin now, and be gone when the boss was. Tricky, he grimaced, splitting hairs, aren't we, Tommy-boy? God, he hated that, that voice that sounded like a coked-up version of his conscience. It would be dangerous to try meddling so close to home, mostly for the precedent it set. Yet, if the modifications weren't outrageous-if they showed him leaving when expected instead of, say, on time or just a little early--and no one noticed him go...
A smile flickered over his lips for a scant moment. Absently, he reached for the stack of papers in his 'IN' tray, hefting them out as he entered his password for the Metacortex network. A single post-it note had been left behind, caught on the bottom of the wire mesh. Neo plucked it up, too, thoughtlessly affixing it to the upper corner of his monitor. When the memo came around that it belonged to, he'd pay it some attention. He glanced at it once to see what memo he was supposed to look for.
The single word on the post-it was written in large blue marker.
MATRIX