A Project from Hell

                                                                                              copyright © 1999 by Robert L. Blau

  I think the horns and the tail were the first tip-off.  The place sure looked like work.  I couldn't swear that all the cubicles were in the same places, but I never could swear to that.  Then along comes this tall red dude with, as I said, horns and a tail.  Come to think of it, the red skin was kind of a give-away too.  That and the hooves.
    "Hi!" he said cheerily, extending his hand.  "Welcome aboard!  Or below-board!"
    Then he howled with laughter until his sides split.  It was a most unattractive habit, but, as I was to discover, he did heal up quite nicely afterwards.
    "Um, excuse me," I fumbled.  "But who are you, and what's going on?  What happened to my workplace?  Where are all my coworkers?  I have work to do, deadlines to meet..."
    "Relax," cooed the horned stranger.  "I'm your new boss.  You can call me Mr. Scratch.  It's all quite simple, really.  You've died and come to your infernal reward."
    Then he did the side-splitting thing again.
    "But I don't remember ..." I began.  Then I remembered.  "Oh, yeah.  Some joker ran a red light and broadsided me."
    "Red is very nice color," sniffed Mr. Scratch.
    "I didn't intend any disrespect for red," I said quickly, "but it does mean 'stop' on a traffic light."
    "It wasn't a very dark red."  Mr. Scratch seemed a bit testy for something that wasn't his fault.  On the other hand, he looked a bit familiar, as though I had once seen his face through a windshield.
    "Well, what's done is done, I guess.  But, um, how did I wind up here?  I think I deserved better.  No offense."
    Mr. Scratch looked at me quizzically.  "We had a deal," he said.  "I kept my end.  Now I'm collecting payment."
    "I beg your pardon!" I retorted huffily.  "I never made any deals with you!  Do you think I would forget something like that?"
    Mr. Scratch again howled uproariously.  This time, he laughed so hard that the tears began to roll down his face.
    "I like you!" he said.  "You crack me up."
    I winced at the possibilities.
    "Did you expect me to accost you in full horns and tail?" he continued.  "If I did that, I'd never get anybody.  No, no.  I work subtly through intermediaries, and I offer a complete benefits package, including bonuses and stock options."
    "I protest!  What did I ever do to deserve this?"
    "I'll give you an example," said Mr. Scratch, holding out a picture.
    It looked like there were four people in the picture, but a large, greasy thumb covered one of them.  The visible three were an attractive woman and two beautiful children, a boy and a girl.  They looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't ... put my finger on any of them.
    "What does this have to do with me?" I asked.
    Mr. Scratch moved his thumb.  I was the fourth person in the picture.
    "This was your last family picture," he said.
    "That was my family?  What happened to them?  Gee, they look nice enough."
    "You were living more at the office than at home. They left after a couple of years of that.  You never noticed.  Which did you answer first, your pager or your children?  Which had higher priority, your job or your wife?  Which did you value more, prestige or integrity?  No need to answer.  I know the answers already.  You had no balance in your life."
    "But a balanced life doesn't work!" I protested.  "They taught me that at my job.  I was living a blended life."
    Mr. Scratch laughed so hard, he was still putting himself back together ten minutes later.
    "Yes!  Yes!" he chortled triumphantly.  "You guys are buying that in droves!  Ever toss a bunch of stuff in a blender and taste the outcome?  You know, fourteen different kinds of fruit, maybe some ice cream, syrups and flavorings of all kinds.  All the clever touches you add disappear.  It all tastes like bananas in the end.  A blended life is just the same:  one flavor dominates.  And guess which one?  It's work! All the trivial, unimportant stuff, like family and fun and social responsibility, disappear in a torrent of wage slavery.  The blending thing was my idea, by the way."
    Mr. Scratch looked down almost modestly.  I think he blushed, but it was hard to tell.

    "But enough pleasantries," Mr. Scratch went on.  "We have work to do here.  Don't think this is going to be a free ride.  I have a project for you to do.  And here's your pager.  Everyone here carries a pager.  We call them Hell's Bells."
    "Why do I need a pager?  I suppose it has something to do with the project you're assigning me."
    "No, the one has nothing to do with the other."
    "But then, it must have something to do with one of my areas of expertise."
    "Oh, heavens (excuse the expression) no!  It'll be for things about which you're clueless.  You might say you're on call for the hell of it."  He laughed again.  He was a jolly sort.  "Here's how it works.  We used to page people every night at 2 a.m., plus or minus 15 minutes.  That wasn't satisfactory at all."
    "I should think not!" I said with relief.
    "Oh, no.  Some of you are night owls, and 2 a.m. wasn't nearly as annoying as it should have been.  But the technology has improved.  Now, we have it linked to deep REM sleep, so the beeper always goes off when you're in a deep sleep, whenever that may be.  In addition, we add a few random pages a day to keep you off balance."
    "But what do I have to do when I'm paged?"
    "Why, call in, of course."
    "Oh, then the person that paged me will explain what it is I have to do."
    "No."
    "Then I don't have to do anything?" I asked hopefully.
    "Of course you have to do something!  But it's up to you to figure out what.  You're the expert!"
    "I thought you said I'd be clueless."
    "Yes."
    "Then what am I supposed to do?"
    "Gee, don't ask me," said Mr. Scratch.  "You're the expert!  And you'd better do it fast.  You have 15 minutes to respond and 24 hours to fix the problem."
    "What problem?" I asked.
    "Don't ask meYou're the expert!"
    "What happens if I don't meet the deadline?"
    "Let's talk about your project," said Mr. Scratch.  "I see that, in life, you were a computer programmer working on the Millennium Project.  So, of course, I won't put you on anything like that.  Since you're new, I've decided to start you out with an easy one.  I want you to test tires."

    "Tires?"  I was flummoxed.  "I don't know anything about tires.  Why do you need tires, anyway?"
    "Why, of course we need tires," said Mr. Scratch affably.  "You'll find this, uh, place very much like the one you just left.  Maybe a little hotter.  Now, don't worry.  This is going to be an easy project.  We already have good tires.  Here's the problem:  our tires aren't certified for cold weather.  All you have to do is make sure they can handle the cold.  Most of them are probably fine as is."
    "It's never going to get cold here," I objected.
    "Now, now.  Never is a very long time.  What would happen if we had a cold snap and our vehicles started sliding into things?  Think of our vulnerability to law suits!"
    "You're joking, right?" I suggested.
    "Have I ever been less than honest with you?"  Mr. Scratch asked in an injured tone.  I thought it prudent not to answer.  "Look.  It's simple.  You test a type of tire for performance in snow, ice, and extreme cold.  If it passes, you're done with it and go on to the next type.  If it doesn't pass, you renovate it so that it does."
    "Renovate?  I don't know anything about tires," I repeated.
    "You'll be working with users who know all about it.  They'll tell you what to do."
    "How do I test for cold in hell?"
    "That will be taken care of for you.  We have a test environment.  More than one, in fact.  Come, I'll introduce you to the Demon in Charge for the 'Why Too Cold Project'.  We call it 'Y2Cold' for short."
    "Who or what is a 'Demon in Charge?'" I asked uneasily.
    "Oh, that's what we call a project manager around here.  'DIC' for short.  Better learn that.  You'll be working with a lot of DICs."

    Fang was the DIC for Y2Cold.  I could see where he got his name.  Nasty, protruding teeth were the dominant feature of his face.
    "Welcome to Y2Cold.  Hee, hee, hee," he giggled.  They certainly seemed to be a happy lot.  "And how are you doing today?"
    "Not too hot," I said.
    "Ah, a comedian!" Fang howled with laughter, then fixed me with a baleful glare.  "I hate comedians."
    "Sorry," I said.
    "Forget it," he said.  "You're going to be a lot sorrier."  And he giggled again.  Apparently, his hatred of comedians didn't extend to himself.  "Ok, here's the way it works.  You are one of a gazillion souls whose designated torment is Y2Cold.  It's too good an ordeal to restrict to a few.  You will test tires.  I am the ultimate tire certification authority.  Before you come to me for certification, you need to get user approval.  Just because the users approve your results, that doesn't mean that I will.  You will need voluminous documentation:  Functional Requirements Specifications, a design document, test plans, test results, and a few things I haven't thought of yet.  I will scour every letter and, more importantly, weigh each document.  Any document weighing less than 14 pounds will be thrown out automatically.  I will require proof that you have consumed at least one entire deciduous forest."
    "So, I need to prove that the tires will work in winter conditions."
    "Not really.  The point is to prove that you worked yourself into dithering lunacy.  No one cares if the stuff actually works."
    "So, exactly what am I supposed to be working on, and how long do I have?"
    "It will be too much to do in too little time.  And you'd better make that deadline!"
    "Mr. Scratch said this was going to be easy."
    "He lied.  As usual.  It's one of his most endearing qualities."
    "What happens if I don't make the deadline?"
    "Allow me to introduce you to the user DIC."

    The user DIC extended  a massive paw that bristled with sharp, exaggerated nails.
    "Hi," he said.  "My name is ..."
    "Claw?" I ventured.
    "Why, yes.  How did you know?"
    "Lucky guess," I said.
    "Glad to have you for Y2Cold," grinned Claw evilly.
    "Um, you mean 'glad to have me on the team?'" I asked shakily.
    "Something like that," he said.  He was looking at me the way a dog looks at kibble.
    "Mr. Scratch said you could tell me what I was supposed to do."
    "He lied.  I don't know squat about this stuff.  I'm relying on you to show me.  You'll have to explain everything.  But don't worry.  I'll nitpick every result you come up with."
    "But how am I supposed to do this?" I chirped.
    "I guess you need to talk to the testing DICs," said Claw.  "But you'd better hurry.  The deadline's right around the corner."
    "What happens if I don't make the deadline?"

    "How's the project coming?" asked Mr. Scratch with his usual good humor.
    "I'm completely lost," I admitted.  "I don't know what to do, whom to ask, or what tools to use."
    "Good, good.  You have a month left.  Figure a couple of weeks for user acceptance testing.  And you have to apply a week in advance for certification.  And allow at least another week for rework.  That gives you a good week to figure out what's going on and do all your testing.  But it's very simple.  I've dumped the tires in your cube.  Now all you need is the vehicles to test them."
    "And who can point me to the right vehicles?"
    "Well, you can't use any vehicle that's involved in real work.  Can't risk messing up production."
    "So, are there test vehicles I can use?" I asked hopefully.
    "There are lots of test vehicles!" said Mr. Scratch brightly.  "But you don't have rights to any of them."
    "How do I get rights?"
    "Oh, I wouldn't count on being able to do that."  Mr. Scratch looked suddenly serious.  "There are 214 system test environments, each owned by a Site DIC.  They don't take kindly to intrusion from outsiders.  It's very understandable, really.  Each site has been set up for a particular test group.  If you waltz in and start using their vehicles, you'll impact the reliability of their own tests.  Now, you might be able to borrow parts, provided that you don't damage them in any way."
    "Parts?"  I didn't like the sound of that.  "Why parts?"
    "Why, you're going to have to build your own vehicles to test the tires."
    "I thought you said I was just going to be testing tires."
    "I did.  And you are.  But isn't it obvious that you can't test a tire without a vehicle?"
    "But I don't know how to build ... vehicles.  Um, does that mean a car, cars, trucks, or what?"
    "Yes," he said.
    "Ok, let's put that aside for a moment.  Where am I supposed to get parts?"
    "They're lying around all over the place," said Mr. Scratch.
    "And are the parts standard?" I asked, knowing the answer in advance.
    "Absolutely not!  They aren't even the same from one Site to another.  Don't even think about the detritus you'll find lying about!  A tire that passes in Site testing may fail in production.  On the other hand, if your testing fails on a vehicle you've built, that's no guarantee that the tire won't be fine on a production vehicle."
    "Then why am I going through this?"
    "It's the only way to prove that the tires won't fail in Too Cold conditions."
    "But it doesn't prove that at all," I objected.
    "No, it doesn't," said Mr. Scratch.  "You'd better get on with it.  Time's running out!"
    "I don't think I can make that deadline."
    "Failure is not an option," said Mr. Scratch, laughing his head off.  It made a most unpleasant thump.

    The Hell's Bell went off on schedule, just as I was dropping off after another arduous day.
    "What is it this time?" I mumbled to the Demon Operator, or DO.
    "A piece of litter has been observed in your sector."
    "What, exactly, is it?" I asked.
    "A piece of paper."
    "Apparently, you saw it.  Couldn't you just pick it up?"
    "Goodness gracious, no!" replied the DO in a shocked voice.  "It's your responsibility.  Anyway, you can't just pick something up like that!  First, you have to open an Action Ticket.  Then you have to get your supervisor's approval.  Then you have to fill out a Clean-up Form and e-mail it to your Clean-up Support Demon.  And don't forget to include the Action Ticket number, or nothing can be done!  The Clean-up Support Demon then submits it to Clean-up Control for action.  But they still can't do anything until you submit another form telling them it's ok to proceed.
    "And one more thing," he continued.  "I've opened a trouble ticket on it.  Better get on it.  This is a Severity 2 problem.  You have four hours before it gets escalated to the next level."
    "How do I do all these ... ticket things?" I asked.
    "Why, on your computer, of course."
    "Is there any documentation on any of this?"
    "Of course not," said the DO.  "That would add unnecessary bureaucracy to the process.  Hell has zero tolerance for bureaucracy."

    I cranked up my PC.
    "Operation Interdit!" it replied.
    Now what?  My PC was talking French to me.  I called the Infernal Help Desk.
    "For hardware problems, press 1.  For software problems, press 2.  If your head is spinning around uncontrollably, press 3.  If you're calling to complain, tough luck.  For all other problems, press 4."
    I pressed 2.
    "Thank you for calling IHD.  Your queue time is approximately 8 hours.  Please stay on the line, as your call is important to us.  Just kidding."
    I was beginning to nod off when I finally got an answer.
    "Infernal Help Desk.  What can we do to you?"
    "My computer is speaking French to me," I complained.
    "So?"
    "I don't speak French!  How am I supposed to get anything done?"
    "Don't get so huffy.  We'll send a Demon Tech over in the morning.  What are you doing up at this hour, anyway?"

    It was only a few hours before the DT showed up.  He worked surprisingly quickly, and announced that the problem was fixed.
    "Thank you," I said.  "I must say, this is the best service I've seen since I got here."
    I cranked up my PC again.
    "Operation Verboten!" it replied.

    My deadline came and went with nothing more palpable than threats, dire warnings, and exhortations to work more and harder.  Well, and a few pokes with the ol' pitchfork, both literal and figurative.  But I was learning how to build a car from spare parts.  My first one collapsed in a pitiful heap.  The second one sort of held together, but wouldn't run.  The piece of paper was still ... wherever it was, too.  Other, similar, crises were piling up as well.  Mostly, they were fires in danger of going out, a reversal of my previous experience in which I spent all my time putting out fires.  My polyglot computer had gone through Russian, Urdu, Chinese, and Ibo and finally to something else.  My best guess is Tibetan or Burmese.
    My typical day began with chasing down parts and fighting with DICs for access to them.  Anytime I was making progress, my Hell's Bell would go off and lead me off on some other goose chase.  I can't say that I slept at all in the conventional sense.  Whenever I nodded off, I had nightmares about tire-testing.  Whenever I woke up, I had nightmares about tire-testing.  I can't say which I preferred.  I'm not even sure which was which.  It was pretty much a wash.
    Nevertheless, the day came at last.  After all the threats and all the abuse and all the rework, Ol' Fang finally certified me.  Then Mr. Scratch summoned me to his den.

    I found the old devil uncharacteristically serious.  I'm not sure what I was expecting.  Certainly not praise.  Perhaps my next assignment.
    "So, you finally finished," he growled.
    "Yes," I said, almost cheerily.  "It was an impossible assignment, but someone had to do it!"
    "You missed your deadlines."
    "Um, yes," I sputtered.  "Surely, you knew how unrealistic they were.  In any case, it's done now."
    "We have no tolerance for missed deadlines," said Mr. Scratch.  "You will have to be punished."
    I shuddered imperceptibly and forced myself to ask the necessary question.  "What will it be?  Flaying?  Slow roasting over hot coals?  Impaling?  Drawing and quartering?"
    "Nothing so mild," said Mr. Scratch.  "You will be returned forthwith to your former job."
    I screamed until I lost consciousness.

    When I awoke, I was in my old cube.  The dastard had made good on his nefarious scheme.  Since then, I have stepped in front of six buses, fourteen semis, and one Amtrak train.  (The latter experience was particularly unsuccessful.)  I have tried firearms, poison, drowning, leaping from high buildings, and starvation.  Oh, yes.  And resignation.  It's no good.  Never again will I be able to reach that oasis of comparative sanity and good sense.  It looks like I'll be here forever.