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Virus
J. K. Mason
J. K. Mason's work has appeared in numerous publications and last year
one of his short stories won the grand prize in the 73rd Annual Writer's Digest Writing
Competition. He holds a Master's degree in Computer Science. He is currently working on his second
novel entitled, NextLife.
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My twin sister Hanna
signals me for a chat.
I connect and send, "What's up?"
"Bad news. Last night at the park, a mosquito bit Bri. Then this
morning she woke up with a fever. I knew something was wrong when I saw the red rings around
the bite mark. Then she gets this terrible pain, so we drive her to the hospital, and they
tell us it could be serious, even fatal. She's asleep now, so I'm home for a few minutes."
Bri is Hanna's nine-year-old daughter, and right away I think
about the horse (two neighbours over) that died from the West Nile Virus three weeks ago. The
newspaper ran a cover story this morning saying the disease is transmitted via mosquitoes and
infects primarily horses and humans. Last week, it killed three mares in Wyoming.
Hanna and I own a consulting firm that subcontracts work on large
government proposals. Our clients are mostly engineering companies that cater specifically to
the government. We work from our home offices, coordinating the workload. We've been in business
roughly three years and are finally starting to see good money. Currently, we're preparing a
proposal for TelDyne (our largest client), and it needs to be postmarked by midnight, Friday.
We've contracted for the Introduction and Overview sections. Specifically, we're to establish
rapport and generate interest in the proposal--hook the government people.
The best part of this job is working from home. Hanna lives
twenty miles east. Each morning we hobnob online a few minutes, swapping info about our
schedules and whatever else is on the agenda for that day.
"Did they actually say she has West Nile Virus?" I type.
"No. The nurse called the CDC while I was there, and they
weren't positive since they haven't seen concentric rings in a West Nile case, but with how
the virus has been mutating, there's a chance this is an undocumented symptom. They've
also been seeing delirium in the elderly and severe rashing in infants. :-o"
As Hanna's message appears on my screen, I look up and notice
a large mosquito perched upside down on the ceiling. I can only imagine what's lurking in the
shadows of our house. This morning my husband had the front door propped open for an hour or
so while he installed a new deadbolt lock mechanism. A week ago it poured rain for two days
straight. This lurker above me probably hatched with the brood from that deluge.
A picture window in my home office frames the Crazy Mountains,
located twenty-seven miles west.
| "Hanna is a linguistics expert with a PhD in
English, so nits get under her skin. I handle the logic flow and overall document structure.
She proofs the grammar and graphics in the final document, and sometimes she can be a bit too
nut-and-bolty." |
At this time of year, small bugs take form over the field,
hovering and bouncing in the morning sunlight, shiny asides in the limpid backdrop of our
private coulee. Our property includes thirty acres of grassland where we pasture a Paint
and three Appaloosas. I've been watching them for signs. They seem anxious and fidgety, but
possibly, it's only me who's the nervous one. The valley's had a creepy feel since the
Palomino died, like a toxic mist is settling in around us. The virus didn't actually kill
her; her symptoms got so bad they put her down with a bullet.
"Did you get bitten at the park too?" I send.
"Yup, twice, but I feel fine."
"Well, I hope Bri's OK."
"What's on the schedule today?"
Before I can answer, I feel a pinprick on my shoulder. I look
over and see a mosquito attached to my shirt, slap at it but miss. It jitters away. "I'll be
working on the draft of the INTRO section first, which I plan to finish about eleven. After
that, I'll move into the graphics section until about noon, when I'll take lunch (at
the Stagecoach). Then I'll be back here imbedding the photographs in the INTRO. How about
yourself?"
"Bri is my priority today, obviously. Other than her, I'm still
in draft mode. Signal if you need me. Say, is there something wrong with your computer? Your
messages are coming through all messed up. :-/."
"No," I type. "What do you mean?"
"Here, I'll send back what you just sent me:
'I'll be working on the draftski of the INTRO section
first, which I plan to finish about eleven. After
thatski, I'll move into the graphics section
until about noonski, when I'll take lunchski (at the
Stagecoach). Then I'll be backski hereski imbedding the
photographs in the INTRO.'
If that's what you just sent," she sends, "what the heck are
you doing? :-/."
Hanna is a linguistics expert with a PhD in English, so nits
get under her skin. I handle the logic flow and overall document structure. She proofs the
grammar and graphics in the final document, and sometimes she can be a bit too nut-and-bolty.
She gets overly preoccupied with syntax and terminology. She forgets we're just human.
Government proposals are specific and detailed, true, but there's always room for humour,
so I handle the customer interface, the negotiations, the presentations and informal
communications.
"I definitely didn't type THAT mess ;-)," I send.
"Have your computer guy check it out," she sends. "It's really
annoying. :-( *:-O And with Friday almost here this worries me."
"We could always use cell phones if chat's not working," I type.
"Kidding! Kidding! *:o)"
"Whatever."
"Just what I need," I send. "Another service call from Monte
the computer geek , and speaking of Monte, what you just sent actually sounds like him.
That ski stuff. He calls me Debski. :-D."
The only bad thing about working from a home office is the crappy
computer help. In my prior life as a corporate proposal writer, I would report my computer
glitches before lunch and they were usually fixed by day's end. Now I'm eleven miles from
town (a very small town) on a river road (gravel), so I do my own support (yikes!). When I
reach my limit technically, I call M&M Computers, good old Monte Gloski, owner and sole
employee at M&M. Other than loading my computer into my hatchback and driving into town,
he's my only option in this low-tech landscape.
"You know," she sends. "Now that you mention it, lately I've
heard my kids talking like that too. This SKI business. Must be a new thing going around.
Maybe we're behind the times ;) or getting old. :-("
":-D :-D I think it has something to do with being a
computer geek. Monte talked weird the first day I met him. And I saw a special on the
Discovery Channel. That ski stuff is something they started out in California."
"Gotta go. Bye! ;-)" She disconnects.
Monte seldom returns my calls, and when he does, his cell
phone tends to die at the height of our conversation, usually when it's his turn to speak :-D.
He drives a rusty grey van that I often see parked in the dirt lot beside the Town Tavern
(guzzle guzzle %-| if you know what I mean). Sometimes it's sitting in the trees down by the
river.
I dial Monte's number--no answer, so I leave a message on his
answering machine.
* * *
It's night-time. I'm lying
in bed watching TV, drifting in and out, when I hear the vile drone of Monte Gloski's van
approaching on our gravel driveway. I put on my robe and hurry downstairs. My office is
attached to one end of the house and before I step into it, I part the curtains and glance
into the front yard. Monte is sitting in the driver's seat of his van, leaning toward the glove
box, foraging. The passenger door cracks and a dark bottle tumbles out, gurgling liquid onto
the gravel. I hear cussing as I let the curtains fall together.
Then I walk into my office and open the outside door. Monte is
standing on the porch. "Debski!" he says. "Sorry I'm late. I didn't get your message until just
now."
"Hurry. Get in. I'm trying to keep the mosquitoes out." As he
passes me, I smell stale smoke and beer. I close the door quickly.
"So what's your problem?" he says; then he smiles and gives me a
friendly tap on the arm, good buddy like.
"We're getting weirdo words in our chat messages."
| "I slide the Intro over and begin reading it. And
as I go through, the ski words jump out at me, like coloured twinkles splashing from the barren
white background of the page. And this all strikes me as humorous." |
"Yup." He sits down at my computer. "I don't even need to look
at it. You are getting skis on your wordskis, right?"
"Yeah, I--"
"I'm seeing this all over the place lately." He sets his
briefcase in his lap, pops it open, and removes a diskette labelled (in smudgy black felt pen)
with the words: "The Ski Virus."
He pushes the power button and boots the PC from the floppy. A
skull and crossbones appears. He clicks it. Coloured windows filled with text display on the
screen. Popup boxes slap down, overlapping each other, cascading across the glass, a hypnotic
display of red, green, and blue. It slows and finally stops. Inside the boxes are my chat
messages with Hanna, the text of my emails, the words of my recently updated documents--all
of it cluttered with skis.
"It was in our chat dialogs," I say.
"Actually, it's everywhere, nowski."
"Can you clean it up?"
"Yupski. But you'll need to buy a copy of my Riddit program. I
just happen to have one out in my vanski."
"Hey, how come you're talking like that?"
"You mean with skis? It's just a habit." He smiles at me
then turns back to the terminal. I watch as he types several cryptic commands.
"Takes practice," he says. "You can't just add a ski to any
wordski. Certain words sound better. Like brewski. Think about it." He types in more commands.
"The guy who wrote the virus is a genius." He laughs and slaps ENTER. "His skis are
perfect. He knows right where to put them."
"OK, whatever. Get me a copy of that Riddit program and let's
clean this mess up."
"Be right backski." He goes outside, and a moment later returns
carrying a small cardboard box. He opens it and removes a silver CD. "This will do the trick
for nowski. You're lucky it's not the Pig Latin virus or the Gang Banger. I don't have fixskis
for those."
* * *
The next morning I wake
scratching my shoulder. The sun is up and I realize I've slept late. In my office, I signal
Hanna for a chat.
"Good news," she sends. "Bri's out. :o) :o) I guess she rubbed
her leg against some cottonwood trees, and she's allergic to cottonwood, so they gave her a
shot. She's fine now. :-)"
"This IS good news. :-) I was up late with my computer expert; I
mean Monte, the computer geek. That damn 'ski' stuff was all over in my files. Now my PC is
clean, as you can probably see. :)"
"What was the problem?"
"The Ski virus. He said it adds 'ski' suffixes to words here and
there in your files."
"Ha!" she sends. "This morning we're sitting down to eat and what
comes up but this 'ski' subject. I mentioned our computer problems, and it turns out most of the
kids at school are 'skiing' now. It's something new going around. So now we're all doing it.
It's the big joke at our house today. How about some milkski? Turn out the lightski. Pass
the saltski. That sort of thing. :-D :-D"
"I hope that was on purpose," I type.
"Yupski. ;-)"
"What's on your schedule today?"
"We need to ship the proposal by 6:00 tomorrow, or we'll be
driving to Denver. I'll be done with my section this afternoon. How about you?"
"Sameski hereski. *:o) I'm almost finished. Let's chat this
afternoon. Upload it to the printers and pick it up tomorrow at noon. We'll meet for lunch at
the Stagecoach and go over everything. Then to the post office. Then brewskis? %-D Kidding!"
"Sounds good! brewskis, I mean. ;-)" She disconnects.
We do our best work under pressure, and all of our proposals come
down to the deadline, it seems. And don't ask me why everything still goes through snail mail.
Like they don't trust the Netski. Sheesh.
I finish about nine p.m., upload my document to the printers, and
send email to Hanna, telling her it's in vitro. She responds that her section has been
sentski.
* * *
It's Friday, noonski. I
walk into the Stagecoach and find Hanna at our table in the back section, the proposal binder
opened on the table in front of her.
"We've got problems," she says right off.
"Good morning," I say and sit down.
"Serious problems. That ski stuff got into our proposal somehow.
It's all over the introduction. Good morning."
The server appears. "Are you ready, or do you need a moment?"
she says.
"Give us a few minutes," Hanna tells her.
"Ok. Take your, uh, time." She smiles and walks off.
Hannah turns a page in the proposal. "Here, listen: 'The proposed
project involves the designski of an electronic system to meetski the needs of a specific
realtimeski application that consists of output devices paired with digital logic circuitry.
The flowchart is shown in Figure oneski.'" She closes the binder and pushes it to me. "It goes
all the way through the introduction like that," she says. "It's a mess."
"Well, let's be realistic. We can't get this cleaned up in time.
Not by fiveski. We're screwed on this one."
"We'll probably lose the bid," she says.
"Maybe."
I slide the Intro over and begin reading it. And as I go through,
the ski words jump out at me, like coloured twinkles splashing from the barren white background
of the page. And this all strikes me as humorous. "Not bad actually," I say. "It kind of has a
techy feel to it."
Hanna looks at me and shakes her head. "What are you saying?"
"The Intro is messed up. The rest is OK. In a way, it's humorous.
Maybe they'll take it as breath of fresh airski in all the crud they have to readski. I say we
send it in. At least we'll stand outski. What the heck else can we doski?"
"Hmmm," she says, looking down at the proposal.
"Have you decided yet?" the server asks. She is now standing
beside us.
"What the heck," Hanna says. "Let's splurge. Coffee and pieski."
* * *
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