said. “I was just messing with you, taking
a wild guess. How the hell would I know if you’re thinking about piece of code
or a piece of ass?”
“You’re such a dick sometimes.”
“All the time, according to the girl I met at that club.”
“Which one?”
“The girl or club?”
“Both.”
“The girl was some chick I met there. She was all over me
and wanted to hang out 24/7. The club was the one with all the gargoyles and
freaks in black leather and shit.”
“I know the one you’re talking about. Vamps. I liked that
club. It had a good vibe. Better than some of the dives we’ve played in.”
“I don’t have a problem with shithole clubs. As long as I
can walk through the beer sludge to get to the stage, I’m happy. And if there
are hot chicks dying to get a piece of me after the show, I’m even happier.”
“I can’t believe there are girls that stupid to want to date
someone like you.”
Actually I could. When we started gaining an audience, the
three of us were overwhelmed with the attention we received from our female
fans. Our field is inundated with more men than women and the women we worked
with weren’t throwing themselves at the likes of us. Like most red-blooded
males, we responded enthusiastically to all the attention, having the wild
hotel parties and hooking up with different women every night. I had outgrown
it first. There was something so phony about a woman sleeping with me because I
was in a band that I found it distasteful.
John lost interest in the women soon after—well, to tell you
the truth, we were never very sure if he was interested in them to begin with.
John always seemed somewhat asexual. He never really spoke about girls and at
first we wondered if he was gay. His gestures could be effeminate and he
adopted the stage name Dorian Steele, saying it was in homage to his favorite
author, Oscar Wilde. But he didn’t seem to show interest in men either. What he
did care about was his collection of graphic novels and Samurai culture; he’d
amassed enough Samurai sword replicas to fill one wall in his apartment.
Eventually we stopped wondering or caring about his sexual
orientation or lack thereof. John was John. Our friend and bandmate. And if he
came out to tell us that he was into aliens one day, it wouldn’t surprise us
and it wouldn’t really change anything.
But Mike—he rode this rock star train for all it was worth.
“I’m not an asshole at first,” he said. “Sweet as candy.
What can I say—chicks like the bad boys. And besides, I’m a better bro than a
boyfriend."
“I’ve noticed.”
“And coworker?”
“I’ll give you that.”
“And bandmate?” He nudged me on the arm.
“Don’t push it.” I groaned. “It’s enough that I have to see
your ugly mug all day at work and then for practice too.”
“You’re calling this pretty face ugly?” He stroked his cheek
and gave a perfect model pout.
“Ugh, wipe it off.” I raised my hand in protest. “You’re
even uglier now.”
He chuckled. “So back to the topic you’re trying to shy away
from. Who is she? And why are you so distracted by her?”
“I, uh—I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay, relax. Jeez. Since when are you so tight-lipped about
females?”
Since I met this one. And I can’t stop thinking about
her.
“I’ve got a lot of shit to do,” I grumbled. “This program is
giving me hell.”
“What’s the problem?”
I explained the problem and how I’d gone over the code
repeatedly, but couldn’t see the issue.
“Let me take a look.”
Within a minute, he saw a typo within the code that threw my
program off.
Mike had been creating programs since he was nine and he’d become
a stellar programmer. By the age of ten he’d begun taking apart computers and
put his first one together by twelve. Throughout school, Mike was in a band.
Combined with his affection for Dungeons & Dragons and his tinkering with
computers, he solidified his nerd status.
a wild guess. How the hell would I know if you’re thinking about piece of code
or a piece of ass?”
“You’re such a dick sometimes.”
“All the time, according to the girl I met at that club.”
“Which one?”
“The girl or club?”
“Both.”
“The girl was some chick I met there. She was all over me
and wanted to hang out 24/7. The club was the one with all the gargoyles and
freaks in black leather and shit.”
“I know the one you’re talking about. Vamps. I liked that
club. It had a good vibe. Better than some of the dives we’ve played in.”
“I don’t have a problem with shithole clubs. As long as I
can walk through the beer sludge to get to the stage, I’m happy. And if there
are hot chicks dying to get a piece of me after the show, I’m even happier.”
“I can’t believe there are girls that stupid to want to date
someone like you.”
Actually I could. When we started gaining an audience, the
three of us were overwhelmed with the attention we received from our female
fans. Our field is inundated with more men than women and the women we worked
with weren’t throwing themselves at the likes of us. Like most red-blooded
males, we responded enthusiastically to all the attention, having the wild
hotel parties and hooking up with different women every night. I had outgrown
it first. There was something so phony about a woman sleeping with me because I
was in a band that I found it distasteful.
John lost interest in the women soon after—well, to tell you
the truth, we were never very sure if he was interested in them to begin with.
John always seemed somewhat asexual. He never really spoke about girls and at
first we wondered if he was gay. His gestures could be effeminate and he
adopted the stage name Dorian Steele, saying it was in homage to his favorite
author, Oscar Wilde. But he didn’t seem to show interest in men either. What he
did care about was his collection of graphic novels and Samurai culture; he’d
amassed enough Samurai sword replicas to fill one wall in his apartment.
Eventually we stopped wondering or caring about his sexual
orientation or lack thereof. John was John. Our friend and bandmate. And if he
came out to tell us that he was into aliens one day, it wouldn’t surprise us
and it wouldn’t really change anything.
But Mike—he rode this rock star train for all it was worth.
“I’m not an asshole at first,” he said. “Sweet as candy.
What can I say—chicks like the bad boys. And besides, I’m a better bro than a
boyfriend."
“I’ve noticed.”
“And coworker?”
“I’ll give you that.”
“And bandmate?” He nudged me on the arm.
“Don’t push it.” I groaned. “It’s enough that I have to see
your ugly mug all day at work and then for practice too.”
“You’re calling this pretty face ugly?” He stroked his cheek
and gave a perfect model pout.
“Ugh, wipe it off.” I raised my hand in protest. “You’re
even uglier now.”
He chuckled. “So back to the topic you’re trying to shy away
from. Who is she? And why are you so distracted by her?”
“I, uh—I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay, relax. Jeez. Since when are you so tight-lipped about
females?”
Since I met this one. And I can’t stop thinking about
her.
“I’ve got a lot of shit to do,” I grumbled. “This program is
giving me hell.”
“What’s the problem?”
I explained the problem and how I’d gone over the code
repeatedly, but couldn’t see the issue.
“Let me take a look.”
Within a minute, he saw a typo within the code that threw my
program off.
Mike had been creating programs since he was nine and he’d become
a stellar programmer. By the age of ten he’d begun taking apart computers and
put his first one together by twelve. Throughout school, Mike was in a band.
Combined with his affection for Dungeons & Dragons and his tinkering with
computers, he solidified his nerd status.
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