In a flash of inspiration, I had just written the best paragraph of my career. Funny, concise, absolutely on the mark. It was brilliant.

If you don’t know what happened next, you don’t use computers. Just as I was about to save my file, the screen went black. I rebooted as soon as my throat hurt gave out from excessive cursing. Nothing happened.

Sighing heavily, I took out my screwdriver, pushed aside two months of old magazines, fought my way through three miles of spaghetti cabling, and opened my computer. All of the connections looked good, but the on switch still didn’t do a thing.

"Bad power supply," I muttered. I ran down to the local Fried Electronics Computer Store and Coffee Emporium, bought a new silver box, and dashed home, hoping to get my system up and running while I could still remember my paragraph. I quickly installed the new power supply but, once again, the computer was as dead as OS/2.

I was banging my head against the wall when it hit me. I’d overlooked the one key hardware standard that makes or breaks modern computers. Was the damn thing plugged in?

I was under the desk, trying to find the power outlet that just had to be behind those boxes somewhere, when the doorbell rang. I jumped up, banging my head and knocking my keyboard across the room. Woozy, slipping on little letters scattered about the floor, I ripped the door open in a fury.

You guessed it. It was my neighbor Norman. You remember Norman, don’t you? CEO, Chief Programmer, Director of PR, and Vice President in Charge of Aspiring Interns for SoftPop Software?

"Hi, Lincoln. Mind if I come…hey, that’s a nasty bump on your head. You should put some ice on it." Before I could say anything, he was through the door, into the kitchen, and was opening the freezer. He handed me a large bag of frozen bagels. "Here, put this on the bump." Then he opened a carton a Ben and Jerry’s and started eating the contents.

"So," he said between slurps, "I was wondering if you could give me some advice."

"Sure," I responded, putting down the bagels when I realized they’d make lousy nunchaks. "Never eat ice cream with your fingers, don’t bother seeing Lost in Space, and never drop in on a writer while he’s working."

"Besides the obvious," he said, licking his fingers. "You see, I’m going into your business--computer journalism." This was good news. There was no one else in the world I’d rather have as a competitor.

Norman pulled a crumbled wad of paper from his pants pocket. "Here’s an opinion piece I’m hoping to get published. I’d like your opinion on the lead--that’s what they call the first paragraph."

I shook the birdseed off the page and began to read. "Many people are talking about Microsoft," it began, " about its monopoly, about its unfair business practices, and about its recent plan to get its own, complimentary articles and letters into newspapers. Well I say: Enough about Microsoft! Let’s talk about a company that’s producing really fine software for a change--SoftPop Software."

"Great, huh?" he said when I looked up. "I’m hoping to sell this to the Los Angeles Times. Maybe have it syndicated."

"Norman, the Times isn’t going to accept an article by you about your own company."

"That’s why I want you to send it to them."

"I can’t do that!"

"Why not? It’s a win-win situation. You get a byline without working for it, I get my company praised in print, and the Times gets a great article…I guess that’s a win-win-win situation. Oh, and since the readers find out about some great software, it’s a win-win-win-win situation. And even Microsoft gets a--"

"Norman, I am not letting my name appear on this ‘article’."

"I’ll give you free software."

"You’re always giving me free software."

"Free hardware?"

I paused a nanosecond. "No."

"Then I’ll give this to another writer. What about Jeff Bertolucci?"

"He won’t agree to it either."

"What if we don’t tell him?"

"Norman, no one you’ve ever heard of is going to let you put his or her name on this article."

He considered this for a moment. "What about letters to the editor?" he asked. "I’ve got plenty of those." He tossed the almost empty ice cream carton at the cat and pulled some more paper from his pocket. "How does this sound. ‘Dear Editor, how have you been? Me, I’m sick and tired of the way that the Department of Justice is treating SoftPop Software. How dare the government completely ignore this fine company. Doesn’t the DOJ realize that SoftPop owns a complete monopoly on all software programs shipped with the SoftPop logo? Yours truly, Bill Clinton.’ Pretty good, huh?"

"No, not really."

"Okay, how about this one? ‘Editor--I just had to write to say that SoftPop’s PopTart is hands down the best pastry tracking program I’ve ever used. Yours, Orson Welles.’"

That’s when I got the idea. "Look, Norman, I’d love to hear the rest of your letters, but I’m on deadline. I’m reviewing pastry tracking programs."

"Oh," he said. "In that case, I’d better FedEx you twelve pounds of chocolate and let you get back to work." He paused and thought for a moment as he headed for the door. "If you can get back to work. The power went out all over the block an hour ago."

© Copyright 1998 by Lincoln Spector

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