Every year I try to come up with a clever post, that takes some classic poem and turns it into a bunch of stuff that has to do with all the Apple News we’ve seen over the previous year. And every year it turns into something like this:
Once upon a midnight dreary,
As I pondered weak and weary
Over many quaint and curious iPhone
Bought in days of yore
and then before I get to the part where they’ll get upgraded “nevermore” I realize that I’m supposed to be trying to do a Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/New Years/Saturnalia type poem, not a Halloween one. So then I try again with something like this:
The moon on the crest of the new-fallen snow
Glared like an iPad in in full sunlight below.
And Jobs in his kerchief, and Ive in his cap,
had just counted their money and an intern did slap
Which invariably gets pretty terrible.
I had good luck with the letters to Santa Jobs one year, which were fun to write and gave me a lot of latitude to make fun of all manner of people in concise and amusing ways. But doing that again would be basically admitting that I’m completely out of ideas.
So then I’ll try for the sentimental angle, thanking people for all their support over the past year, which really has been pretty great. Or I’ll drop hints about my upcoming “predictions for next year” post, which guarantees that said post will never get written. But I’ve decided I’m not going to do any of that this year.
Well, except for the “thank you” part. Seriously, thank you all for reading. You make this worth doing.
But other than that, I’m not doing any of the stuff I usually do. Instead, I’m trying something new this year. This year I’m going to write a short story. Like, just abandon the journalistic overtones and do some full-on fiction. It’ll be fun! And it doesn’t have to rhyme, which makes it better than poetry.
The Macwood Caper
Dirk Drake snubbed out his cigarette on the rain-slick bricks next to him and turned out of the alley, easing himself into the general flow of pedestrians practiced ease. There would be no way those goons could follow him now. He walked two blocks, then turned into a smoky, cheap bar on the corner. The other pedestrians were a little surprised, sure, but they lived in a detective-noir world. People spontaneously transformed into bars all the time here. Getting excited about something like that was a mug’s game. They kept walking, heads down in the rain.
Inside, Drake leaned on the bar and ignored the fact that if there was any continuity in this story from one paragraph to the next he’d be standing inside himself. He had some inner demons, sure, but he knew how to handle them.
“Next round’s on me, boys.” he said loudly, and everyone cheered, then came to the bar to place orders. In the din he was able to talk to the barkeeper quietly.
“Word on the street is, Mr. J ain’t to happy with you, Drake,” Pat the Barkeeper said. He really wished people would stop taking his name literally. His life was like an endless TSA screening process.
“I’m not here to make Mr. J happy. I got a job to do and I aim to do it.”
“What’d they offer you, that could make you switch sides like that?” Pat said.
“None of your business. Let’s just say they can make things easier on me. They got protection.”
“Come back, Dirk, and you won’t need protection. You know Mr. J can take care of you.”
Dirk didn’t say anything. He’d been offered quite a bit. Speed, Power, flexibility, and, of course, protection. He still wasn’t sure what he’d given up was worth it, though. He swallowed his drink in one gulp, made a face, then slapped a large wad of bills down on the counter.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Pat. Take care.”
Pat watched Dirk walk out of the bar, completely unconcerned that both the bar and everyone in it would cease to exist at the end of this paragraph. “If he hates the taste of Ginger Ale so much, why does he always order it?” Pat wondered aloud. But nobody answered. They all just stopped existing.
Dirk knew the way in. He slid silently down shadowed halls, drifted like a ghost through doors that should have set off more alarms than the announcement of an impending John Meyer concert–well, ghosts that weighed about 210 pounds and had a deep working knowledge of the type of security system used in this place– and at last was exactly where he wanted to be. Slowly he approached the dias in the middle of the room. Like most of the room itself, the dias was made of a single block of aluminum, elegantly carved and beautifully minimalist. And there, resting on a stand, which was resting on the dias, you see, I mean, not to detract from the action, but this should be made clear; on a stand on the dias was the object of his quest.
The Second Generation iPad Prototype.
Dirk knew this was the most dangerous part of the mission. He knew this because he’s not stupid. The most dangerous part is always the part where you’re in the middle of the building of the company you’re trying to rob. Knowing this, he spent fully two minutes straining his senses to catch every sound, every flicker of light, every possible indication of a trap. But he’d made it. The alarms were turned off, completely unaware that he was there, and he was free. He reached out, and just as his hand was closing around the edge of the iPad a great, tolling startup chime rolled through the room. One seemingly solid aluminum wall lit up, bathing the room in light, and in the wall next to it a face appeared on a screen that Dirk knew wasn’t there a moment ago.
“Well well, Mr. Drake. I wish I could say I was surprised. We always knew you would return. What a pity that it has to be in such…confrontational circumstances.”
“I didn’t choose to leave, and I’m not too thrilled about being back.”
“But the money was too good, huh?”
“Let’s just say that I could win those seven flaming dares and still make less than they offered me to pull this heist.”
The man in the screen laughed. “Very clever. And now I’m to guess who is paying you, is that right? ‘Win those seven’ you said, which sounds suspiciously like “Windows 7″, so perhaps it’s Mr. B himself. “Flaming dares” or Daring Fireballs? and the heist? Well, we both know that was just a red herring. a John “Red” Herring. Well, I don’t think I’ll play, Mr. Drake.”
Dirk looked at the screen, hope and fear fighting in his heart.
“So what now? You got me. What’s your move?”
“My move, Mr. Drake? Just this. You’ve seen it. You know what we’re planning, at least on the surface. Unfortunately, that’s all you’re going to get. You’re free to get what you can for that information on the outside. Nothing you say is going to hurt us, indeed, any publicity is good publicity. You didn’t get what you were sent for, but you may be able to get something out of this after all. Merry Christmas, Mr. Drake.”
Two large, well-muscled and inexplicably aluminum-colored men walked to the center of the room and guided Dirk out of the building. Once they were off the property they turned around and left him, having never spoken a word. Drake walked off into the night. He wished it was more like Chicago, but this was suddenly Cupertino. It was fairly warm, even with the rain. He turned up his collar anyway, just for the look of the thing.
He had more information than a lot of people, and he might be able to get something out of it. But who to sell to? Giz? DF? Pogue? Mentally he checked down the list. Finally he decided on a buyer. He knew someone who would want the information, and was in a position to pay for it.
Far away, a phone rang.
“Dickson residence. Who’s calling?”
“Listen, Dickson. I’ve got a scoop. What’s it worth to ya?”
