Evil Holiday

It had been a long day.

They were all long days, Bob muttered to himself as he piled unwashed dishes into the kitchen sink (a problem for tomorrow's Bob).

They kept him locked up in that office for nine hours each day, cramped him into an uncomfortable chair, and made him stare at a flickering blue screen for endless stretches.

You couldn't make this stuff up.

But when Bob pointed out the injustice of it all, people looked at him like he was crazy.

It had been a long day.

A long, bad day. Yes, in the calendar of bad days, today took special place, like some evil holiday you circle in red ink.

Robert Brown, junior quality assurance engineer, had cycled into the office that morning, wandered zombielike to his desk, clicked open his computer, and...

There it was. The Russian Trojan Turtle.

The Slackback Turtle, a messaging platform for tortoise and turtle enthusiasts, prided itself on its very wide and very specific range of reptile emojis. But now, one user complained, the Greek Tortoise emoji was mysteriously warping into the Russian Tortoise emoji.

"And just think," the user whined, with all the outrage of an expert on an obscure and meaningless topic, "my associates may even imagine that I can't tell the difference between the two of them. I'd be a pariah in the shelly community!"

Now Bob would freely admit to anyone and everyone that he could not tell the difference between the two emojis. In fact, Bob's first move had been to go straight to the emoji designer and ask him point-blank if the two emojis weren't just copies of each other.

Somehow (astonishingly) that hadn't earned Bob any good will. The designer had pointed out, with not a little irritation, that the Greek tortoise emoji was a shade smaller than its Russian counterpart and that its shell patches were golden-yellow as opposed to pure-yellow.

Only the obvious emotion in the designer's voice convinced Bob he wasn't being taken for a ride. He'd gone back to his desk, pulled out his ruler and tried measuring the emojis on his screen. Both were exactly four millimetres across. Maybe Bob's ruler just wasn't precise enough?

Still, Bob had guts and the desperate determination of a man who didn't want to have to job-hunt again. He thought of himself as rather a good QA. He had a creative mind and took an unhealthy pleasure in breaking features. He was even a little offended if a story got past him without a couple bug tickets. He could figure this out.

No. No, he couldn't.

Bob had invested the whole day plus overtime in a faithful attempt to reproduce the issue. And what did he have to show for it? Nothing. No steps to reproduce. No action items. Not even a wild guess.

Bob had failed. Bob had failed miserably.

He reckoned it was odds-on they would fire him. The user was already threatening to complain in the forums. The company was in jeopardy. Something had to be done. Somebody had to take the fall.

Bob crumpled onto the sofa. The grind followed you everywhere. Here he was, supposedly off-the-clock, and yet still obsessing over the bug ticket, still scrambling around for any conceivable flow he hadn't already tested half-a-dozen times. Work was like a parasite—a leech clamped down on the back of your neck slowly draining away the blood.

Thank god for George.

Bob slumped down beside his golden retriever and took the dog's head into his lap. Georgie-boy yawned charmingly and Bob smiled through the stinky dog breath. He stroked the soft patch at the back of the dog's neck and rubbed away that little eye gunk the dog always seemed to pick up somewhere.

There's something about your own dog. You can just tell he loves you. That he wants you to be there. That he misses you. There's something so pure and uncomplicated about a dog's love. There's nothing quite like it.

Bob started to feel better. Things were looking up. And he knew just what he was going to do next. He was headed for warmer and wetter pastures. The one true oasis in the scarred and ugly world of modern labour: the bath.

Yes, Bob would probably have given up all hope long ago and been ground down into one of those robot-people you see everywhere, if not for the rejuvenating and restorative efforts of a hot bath with a good book. Bob grabbed the paperback he was reading and made for his happy place.

He had to high-step over George, who had acquired the annoying and endearing habit of parking himself right in front of the bathroom door like some sleepy sentinel. He made a half-hearted attempt to close the door, but the dog shot him an annoyed look and Bob gave the thing up. George had never been very good at following instructions.

Enough of that. Enough of troubles and guilt. Enough of the world's ugliness. Let it all fade away. Listen to the soothing song of running water. Watch the warm, inviting steam curl up into the air.

Bob stripped down and stepped into the water's embrace. It was piping hot, just the way he liked it. Cloaked in a cloud of white mist, he sighed serenely. The day's troubles melted away. He let himself breathe out long and slow. He felt his muscles relax, his tensions smooth out.

Ah, this was the life...

Bob cracked open his paperback, Jonny the Man and the Kiwi Warriors. He was at a really good part and had spent most of the workday anticipating what would happen next. There was nothing quite like disappearing into another world, where a seemingly ordinary man discovers his potential and grows into the hero of ages.

Bob leaned back in the tub and moaned happily. At last his time had come. Finally, peace and quiet and joy. Bob rested his elbow on the rim of the tub and thumbed through, looking for the earmarked page. "Jonny, my old friend, glorious seeing you again."

Commencing System Integration Protocol...