Tweaker

Tweaker was the only person Buck knew who could take a perfectly smooth day and somehow wring an emergency from it.

The walls of the Mission Control Center (MCC) held the faint green hue of the status light. Sure, there were issues, but by and large things were going well. The tasks captured in the By-the-Minute schedule - an abomination born of project management practices gone horribly awry that our faithful readers will recognize as the primary deliverable for which our protagonist, the intrepid Buck 99, is unfortunately responsible – were systematically completing ahead of forecast in most cases, and well in advance of deadline dates in all other cases. This particular day had absolutely zero planned milestones of level “CRITICAL,” nor were there any tasks due for completion of levels “CRUCIAL,” “ESSENTIAL,” or even “MIND-BOGGLINGLY IMPORTANT.” And the only risk for which there was no contingency plan had not occurred (Risk ID 722568: “Sol goes supernova and destroys all customer records, and yeah, the world too”) and was deemed extremely unlikely to occur today, especially since Sol is well known to have insufficient mass to go nova, let alone supernova. No, the sun would not burn out, it would gradually (i.e., on an astrological time scale) fade away into white dwarf status followed tens of billions of years later by cold, dark oblivion. No explosions today. Today would be slow.

“Buck, when are you going to have the report ready?” she asked.

Buck looked up at the atomic digital clock on the wall. The time was precisely 11:25:42.0078 EST, which was exactly 2 hours 4 minutes and 17.0022 seconds prior to when the report was due to arrive in her in-box. Buck recalled, however, that the previous day he had promised her that today he would deliver the report a half hour earlier for her convenience (an extra 30 minutes to complete a 10-minute copy/paste exercise), but that still gave him 1 hour 36 minutes plus change. He re-confirmed his commitment by replying, “You’ll have the report at 1300 hours.”

His experience with Tweaker informed him that she was well on her way to freaking out about absolutely nothing, a daily occurrence since the beginning of the MCC execution phase. So in a vain attempt to head off that bit of nastiness at the pass, he had begun to prepare the report at 11:00:00, the moment of his arrival. Since there were no milestones to report, all he had to do was take the report that was published by the previous shift’s By-the-Minute Manager (whom Buck will hereafter refer to as Dr. Quack if he actually has reason to refer to him again), fix the erroneous details, and republish it. This would be a fifteen minute task, punctuated by numerous and various interruptions by other individuals eager to justify their existences by finding things to worry about.

At 12:15:07, Tweaker asked for an ETA on the report. “Almost ready,” responded Buck gruffly.

“Good. I need that by 1300 hours today, remember.”

Buck remembered and told her so. He was nearly certain that his tone of voice accurately conveyed his annoyance. Couldn’t she see the two people standing at his desk?

At 12:30:55 Buck glanced over at Tweaker. It was difficult to determine whether her ill coloring was a function of her anxiety or the lighting of the status indicator. He took no chances and tried to reassure her with an update. “Just a few more minutes.”

“I need it by 1330 hours, but it would be better if I had it by 1300. Will it be ready?” she asked.

At that moment the light in the room could have been any color at all, but all Buck saw was red.

Her tone spoke volumes about the degree to which she felt she was being put out by Buck’s perceived delay. Never mind that Buck had explained to her before his shift started that there were unlikely to be any changes since the morning report and she could go ahead and get started early by simply copying the morning report. They could always take the two minutes to reconcile the “deltas” (there were none) at 1300 or 1330, whichever she preferred.

Buck sensed her fear, could almost smell it like a dog, and toyed with the idea of capitalizing on it. If she failed to deliver her report by 14:15:00 EST, then in her mind she would stand out like a sore thumb as an incompetent who failed to deliver her report on time. Phone calls would be received and uncomfortable conversations would take place. A notation would be added to her dossier. This would not do at all.

Of course she would pin the blame on Buck, and Buck didn’t relish uncomfortable conversations any more than she did. He’d had his fair share over the years and knew that brand of torture too intimately. No, he would deliver exactly what he said he would deliver, and he would do it earlier than planned in accordance with the natural laws of consultancy.

Nevertheless, Tweaker chimed in again five minutes later, desperate for good news. Buck’s mouse pointer was hovering over the “Send” button even as she spoke. The time on the wall was 12:36:01, and Buck’s faith in the half-life of Cesium 133 convinced him of the accuracy of this measurement.

If Tweaker had been a contractor rather than a Cubopolis agent, then Buck would have immediately spoken the necessary words to embarrass her straight into early retirement. Unfortunately this was not the reality of the situation. If he berated this moron in the manner she merited, it could mean the end of his career as a consultant. He briefly wondered why this should concern him and enjoyed a brief, bright, inner glimpse into a possible future as a bulldozer operator, but in the end he meekly chose the path prescribed by the Doctrine of Middle Class Compliance (DMCC), the same path that would condemn him to remain contained “within the box.” He clicked “Send” and cheerfully informed her that the information was in her email.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as though in shock. “It’s early!”

Now Buck’s record had been consistent in this regard, and yet here she was publicly acting surprised. Clearly it was a poorly conceived power play designed to portray a contrast between the strong, dependable up-and-comer and the weak, unreliable consultant. Buck’s teeth clenched in fury, but after he thought about it for a moment he realized he had no cause for concern. The audience in the MCC had watched this same drama unfold every single day and were themselves historically prone to being tweaked themselves by this same tweaker. Besides, it was his job to make his client look good, even if it wasn’t really his client, just someone who worked for the same company as his client, which made her his client by proxy.

Tweaker ended up remaining appeased for all of ten minutes. Then the next hour was spent with Tweaker worrying over the format that Buck would use on the next day’s report. Naturally Buck couldn’t be trusted to handle these crucial details himself. As she hovered over him, peering over his shoulder, pointing at his screen and issuing instructions, she was completely unaware that the tiny MS Word icon entitled “Tweaker” on the bottom of his screen represented the minimized window of a blog entry exposing her inner essence to the world via cyberspace. Meanwhile Buck sighed in resignation and nodded periodically whenever he detected a pause in the cadence of her speech. He’d end up doing it all his own way tomorrow, just like he always did, because he’d tried it her way before, and her way sucked.