Chapter 3

The outer lobby of ALS, Inc was referred to as the ‘Fish Bowl’, and the moniker was dead on target. The HR offices were glassed in and viewed the waiting area, while managerial HR people labored behind glass that was opaque. As a ‘new’ and permament full-time employee, I had to do a repeat of the paperwork and processing drills. Dave had warned me that most of the day would be wasted among the wonderful Human Resources personnel. Oh joy.

All of the HR worker bees were very young females, none having significant hootage, but all were attractive. Visual appeal is a common property among most younger females, a common requirement of all animals to assure propagation of the species.

Although strangely enough, propagation was not, for once, on my mind. I was more than a bit concerned that the academic morons had brought my name to the attention of some national security goons. I already had a seven-year ‘statute’ on my ass, resulting from the stupid shit that comes from working on recon birds. I was determined to remain an anonymous serf, buried among the confines of the millions of Americans working for their coporate lords; but I’d rather work for a corporate mistress with big tits. Maybe propagation was on my mind. Whatever.

The HR twit smiled blankly as she issued the new employee package. The irony of her shirt did not escape me. The top three buttons of her blouse were strategically not buttoned, but the tactics of an unbuttoned blouse were wasted, as she had nothing of significance to display. What a waste; that is, this was mode of dress that a more ‘built’ woman should use. Nonetheless, I did look when she bent over to hand me my new ID badge. I could still appreciate a pair of small tits. That’s a misstatement. I can, and do, appreciate any pair of tits. So sue me.

“Sign here for reciept of employee handbook and your badge, Mark. I am told that the Test Manager wants to see once we finish your on-board. Would you like me to take you there?”

Yepper, little lady, take me there and ‘around the world’.

“Uh ... no, thanks. Bye.”

Once again, I handled another interaction in a suave and sophisticated manner. Not.

“Ah, Mark ... good to have you aboard full time.”

Jack Bern’s office did not appear as expected of a member of the managerial class. The office had nothing ornate or showy. It was the functional office of a technical manager. Jack had come up through the trenches. He was exacting and demanding, but during my short tenure, the man had never had appeared to be unreasonable. In some ways, Jack Bern reminded me of my gunny, but with out the jarhead coarseness and short hair and eternal coffee cup and smoking cigarretes. And Jack Bern seemed to be tight with Dave, which gave me his favor.

Glancing nervously to the others, a man and woman sitting on the small office couch, I decided that the official welcome to the Test Department was done, and it was time to get back to working-man’s territory.

“Uh, thanks, Mister Bern. Should I get down to the floor now?”

“Mark this is Bart Ashely, our Engineering Director, and Sarah Bailey, our VP of operations. We want you to know that we value talent. ALS has a history of using talent to its fullest potential.”

What the fuck? I’m here to listen to management platitudes? And a fuckin VP has to be here for this? She’s not bad looking for an old broad. She has those mature ‘heavy hangers’. I wouldn’t mind motor-boating that pair.

Nodding my head, I resigned myself to wasting some interval of time being indoctrinated into the company ‘philosophy’. But these fuckers were amateurs - they could not use any form of manipulative motivational speech that the Corps had not already done to me. And Marine Corps leadership were the master of Jedi mind-tricks and Darth-level control. But why the presence of heavy-hitters for my peon ass?

“Mark, Dave says that you are among the most productive test technicians to date. And the data supports his opinion.”

Well whoopty-fucking-do. Have the old lady give me a blow job and send me to work already.

“Do you have experience with training methodology and principles, and personnel motivational technique?”

Yeah, and so do most doggys and kittys. A good dog always motivates the fuck out of me. Who the fuck cares? Have the old lady whip her tits out or fucking send me to work. What a blow-hard.

“Yes, sir. A little.”

Jack Bern picked up a folder, and opened it to extract a stapled stack of papers.

“This is from your original application file from last year. It indicates some military instructional training, and that you tutored technical subjects at Fullerton State. Oh, and how far are you along in your engineering course-work?”

“Uh, was in my fourth semester. But I disenrolled.”

“Disenrolled? What course-work have you completed?”

What the fuck is going the fuck on? Get your dick in the dirt. Fucking bends and thrusts forever. Geez, why the fuck does life have to always get more weird?

“Just the basic stuff for an engineering degree.”

“Math? Science?”

“Yes, sir. Calc, linear algebra, discrete math, physics. And the general ed stuff.”

“Good. Good ... back to the subject at hand. We need people for long-term tech support. The Aegis program is now in full swing. The navy wants us to field people, both in the ship yards and docks, and for short periods, at sea. You have already mastered most of the LRU-level, we want you to work on the main floor in systems test. You up to that, Mark?”

Fuking-A-Skippy! Now you’re saying something. Systems! On the main floor with all of the production babes. Let it happen. I somehow had lost the ramifications, implications, and requirements of doing field work. But I was young, dumb, and full of cum; that is, I was young and dumb, having chosen the sweet bliss of ignorance.

“Not a problem, sir. Did a some systems test work a few months ago.”

“Excellant. Also, we assume that you had a secret clearance while in the military?”

Warning Will Robinson! Danger! Danger!

“Uh, sir ... I, uh, well, that stuff can’t be discussed. I had a T/S, but that was two years ago, so it’s not active.”

“Don’t worry, Mark. We’ll take care of that. It will be quite transparent at your level.”

What the fuck is ‘transparent at my level’? These fuckers had better not get my ass in a crack with those FBI goons. Fuck me. And when does the old broad finally show her tits? She’s been looking at me really weird.

“Uh, okay.”

“Thank you for your time, Mark. Please report to Dave.”

It was your time, Mister Management Moron. You’ve been paying me to wait around for almost five hours.

“ ... and you know Jenny, the lead tech for final test.”

Nodding to the short, slightly-built redhead, I wondered if anyone had ever mistaken her for a girl. Regardless of her physical features, she was worthy of my respect as she was decidely very competent, a core requirment for someone running final test and integration. Only the best techs work systems. And I had somehow fooled these idiots into thinking I was among the best. I’ll have to further master the art of bullshit before I’m found out.

“Mark, let’s get back to my office. Need to re-issue your stamp, and register you on the QC list.”

“Right behind you, Dave.”

“Jenny is sharp. You two get along when you subbed in systems last year?.”

“Never talked to her much. She’s okay ... Ya know your boss wants to use me in the field?”

“Yeah, we had a big pow-wow about that last night. The company has been promised a huge fucking chunk of change to train sailors and do tech support.”

“I dunno, Dave. Shouldn’t the squids be doing that shit in their ‘C’ schools?”

“I don’t know about that navy organizational shit, man. Look, go with the flow. It may end up being a low-friction gig. I think that you’re the right guy for the job. If not, I sure as shit can use you about anywhere in the department ... You need any time to get set up? I guess you need to get outa the dorms?”

“Mike, dude, I don’t want this to get outside of your office, but I’ve been living out of my truck this semester. I was set up for a sweet gig at the school, but they fucked around, so I bailed the fuck out. So, I’m gonna find a place this weekend.”

“Holy shit, man. Why didn’t you say something? All your shit in the truck?”

“Yep.”

“Duder, wanna be my bunky?”

“Really?”

“Damn straight. I’m all alone in a three-bedroom house. Ten-minute walk to the beach. Got your board?”

“Been in storage for a few months.”

“Fuck it. Take the rest of the day off. Get your shit. Here’s the address and my phone number.”

“Sounds sweet, man. But what’s the department gonna say?”

“Not a fucking thing, man. Jenny lived with me for about a year.”

“Jenny? Didn’t think she was your type.”

“No, not that, man. Her ol’ man was a dickhead, She got divorced and needed a place, and I needed her to stay employed during all of that shit. I’ve also had other techs live with me, but none were as cool as you. Its gonna be epic, dude.”

I had no idea why Dave thought me ‘cool’. As for ‘epic’, that was totally non sequitur. I had never done ‘epic’ well, and have never been part of the ‘epic’ crowd. But Dave, again, had saved my life. So I am not looking a gift horse in the mouth, and all of that shit.

“House rules. Drugs. No hard shit. A little weed and booze is okay. Just keep it to a dull roar. Women. No crazy or druggy. They steal shit and fuck things up. Money. We split food and utilities. Neighbors. Don’t take shit from them and don’t give them any shit. Mrs Markson is cool. Be extra nice to the ol’ gal. I try to help her when I have the time. Questions?”

“What’s the meaning of life?”

For the first time in the history of the Galactic Empire, I caught Dave flat-footed. He had a full, deep laugh that filled the area. He was among the coolest humans in existence. I had no idea what good karma I had ever earned to recieve his largess.

“Ever use a long one?”

“Why? I’m not a geezer.”

“Asshole. See tonight’s report? This shit is best for long boards.”

“Nope. Never done a long one. I guess its worth trying.”

“Do, or do not. There is no try ... I got another long in the garage. Let’s go, man.”

I had heard people talking about ‘soul’ surfing, but never payed much attention. I just fucking liked to surf. I avoided the complex navel-gazing philosophic bent that many of the older surfers like to indulge.

Dave had all of the marks of a ‘soul’ surfer. He avoided commercial gear. His boards were custom-built. He spent some mornings simply floating outside the surf zone in contemplation, only to ride a single wave in. Dave despised surfing competitions. Perhaps his most signature mark as a soul surfer was that Dave meditated every morning.

I bore few of these qualities and characteristics, but neither had I offered any support to the crass commercialization of surfing. I knew that my soul was not pure. A pure soul does not hate people, and a pure soul was not generally mistrustful of those that offered help or friendship. I had the makings of a surfing Darth Vader. Visualize that.

I loved the morning runs on the beach. The enviromental conditions were almost always perfect for long runs, and the sand increased the effort level of the workout. The morning runs had another benefit.

“Hi, Mark.”

“Hey Sharon, how ya doin?”

“Good. Dave out there surfing?”

I laughed at the woman’s self-evident question. I knew her question was intended as both satire and irony. Other than the once or twice daily exchanges of ten to twenty seconds, I knew little of Sharon, other than her physical characteristics. I seldom had the time or the situation to bother learning more than the obvious, publicly exposed bodily structures of females. Unfortunately, none of this physical data included any knowledge of the intimate elements of bodily structures. Whatever. Life sucks and then you die.

The warm July morning enabled the woman to dress with minimal body coverage. I approved of her clothes. Her thin white tank top and cut-off jeans was a well-designed exhibit of her body. Sharon’s body was a damn fine example of human physiology. She smiled knowing that I was enjoying the view.

“Mark, could you stop by on your way back?”

I could only think that it was an unusual request. I could not fathom what the early-thirtys beach-business owner-babe would need to discuss. Whatever.

I nodded to the woman before continuing down the beach, thinking that I needed to shorten my run, so I had time to whack off in the shower before work, the condition most likely had been inflicted by Sharon. This ‘infliction’ was indicative of the past several months; it had been a difficult period, adjusting to a work enviroment full of hot, non-stupid, and worldly women-folk. If the old edict of excessive jerking off had any truth, I would have been totally blind by now. I had proven that excess masturbation does not affect sight in any manner. My constant whacking off was, of course, part of an experiment, all for science.

I looped my morning run back to see Sharon, as promised.

“Mark, Dave invited me over for his Saturday-night thing.”

“Uh, okay.”

Nothing social, as usual, made sense to me. So what, lady? you’re always invited over when he does his weekend cooking extravaganzas, which I typically avoided. How fucking nice, lady. You’re stating the obvious, again.

“He sorta made the invitation in your name.”

“Say again? Not understood.”

I still had the bad habit of resorting to Marine-talk when caught in unexpected and contradictory situations. In any case, I did not like the idea of Dave throwing my name around to people that I did not know well.

“What? Oh, what I mean is that Dave said that I should ask you to come.”

What the fuck, over? Why the fuck do I need to be asked to an event at a place where I live? I hate complication and confusion in social matters. And Dave knew I was working Saturday night. What the fuck, over?

“Dave got his signals crossed, Sharon. I’m working a double shift on Saturday. We’re sorta in crunch mode at work.”

“Oh ... I see. What are you doing Sunday?”

I nervously laughed at the question, as I fully intended to spend Sunday unconscious, with the A/C blowing full blast, while I was in a deep slumber, recovering from another eighty-hour work-week.

“Nothing. I’ll be sleeping ... See ya, Sharon.”

Dave was my boss. How the fuck could he not know my schedule? And we lived in the same fucking house. What the fuck, over?

Turning to sprint away from the percieved chaos and illogic, after a one-second delay to allow my eyes to make an appreciative glance to the woman’s sans-bra chest. Her nipples were well-defined, projecting through the thin white material. The subject matter, referencing said tits, would be soon be specifically addressed during my morning shower.

The morning commute, all on surface streets, was not unreasonable before 0730 in the morning. Beach Blvd straight up to Ball, turn east for a few more miles, and I’m at work. But my recent purchase of a cheap used motorcycle did much to reduce my commute time, and increase my enjoyment of the trip. SoCal is meant for bikes.

Parking my bike and securing my helmet, I noted non-descript sedans with government plates in the visitor spots. Shit, probably a surprise DCAS inspector visit. I shrugged it off as the govie’s were Dave’s and Jenny’s problem. Us worker bees had a complete ship-set to test and integrate.

Walking past the board and inverter module lines, I noticed that the cute little clutch of Viet girls were all wearing denim and tight t-shirts. Denim coverings of a woman’s ass is, for me, the highest class of clothing. Their idle work-chatter stopped as I walked past. I had no idea what I was doing to make those girls paranoid of me. Probably sensing the disturbance that my dark side was inflecting onto The Force.

I was the first tech on the final systems floor, another tech entering the cordoned-off test floor after me. The other guy immediately picked up where he left off. I did the same, dragging an o-scope cart and my tool box over to the third, of four, ring-share boxes.

The ring-share units were intended to synchronize the four 400 hertz inverter stacks, each stack pumping out 670,000 watts of three-phase power. Any two stacks could run the ship, and any one stack could operate in a forced overload condition long enough to fire off all the missles in an ‘armegeddon’ mode. I had always thought that if things were at that stage, most of us were truly and totally fucked. But we were in the business of giving the Navy what they wanted, so I started final test on the sharing node, getting the box ready for final integration. At least until the powers that be decided production was of less importance.

“Hey Mark, Dave wants you to meet him at Bern’s office.”

Oh, shit. This cannot be good. What did I do? I was guessing that whatever it was, it was not a firing offense, otherwise, the HR twits would have walked me to the door.

“So what’s up, Jenny? I haven’t shot or stabbed anybody lately.”

Jenny had a wonderfully warped sense of humor. She was a joy to work for. When she did not laugh, I suspected that it was, in fact something serious.