My bills were paid to the end of the month--hallelujah!--and junk food overstuffed the fridge. So when someone knocked on my door in that tentative fashion which says client rather than salesperson, Jojoba's Witness, or landlord, I got excited.
If some quick money sprinted my way, for once it could be squandered on something more fun than the utilities or frozen peas. Maybe that Iomega teragulp-drive I'd had my eye on...
None of my uncle's illegal equipment was poking up from the strategic debris so I yelled, "Come right in, door's not locked."
It was seldom locked. In this neighborhood (not hell, but you can smell it from here), a locked entrance speaks of vulnerable people or valuables inside; so my trick is to post "armed response" stickers, put convincing bullet-holes in the wall opposite my doorway, leave the door unbarred, and sink my good stuff in a sea of garbage.
With barely decent haste, I uncovered my work terminal and punched it into active mode. With my other hand, I lit a fresh stick of sandalwood incense. One look sent my dog, Little Mo, scurrying off to the bedroom. I needn't have rushed. Nothing happened for so long, I got tempted to ignore my bad knees and leap up to pull the procrastinator inside by force.
Finally, two strangers sidled nervously through the trashy high-tide and stood next to me blinking and squinting, struggling to pierce the sweet smog. The glare of my big, wall-mounted video membrane made the air even more opaque, transforming tendrils of incense-smoke into glowing tentacles.
As for me, it takes more than a little fug to screw up my vision. Besides, my visitors radiated desperation as vivid as a searchlight.
Married but not newlyweds, I guessed. The woman was pretty and trim and freckled and a pinch older than me, perhaps matching my computer monitor by being twenty-five. Years, in her case, not inches; she was of "normal" height--although compared to me she was a giant. The man was cute, blond, very tall, and looked twenty at most even with no-sleep bags under his eyes. He kept wiping sweat off his upper lip.
The curtain was up and I was putting on a show.
While I looked the prospective clients over, my fingers were typing 222 words per minute of genuine C-Quad-Plus code which I'd memorized for the purpose.
Two purposes, actually. For most people, it silently advertised my expertise. Equally important, if I looked busy, no one would expect me to stand up and shake hands. So new clients would swallow my competence before getting turned off by how short and young and female I was.
Here we be, ladies and gendermen, in the third decade of the twenty-first century and American society is as size-ist, age-ist, appearance-ist, anthropocentric, racist, and sexist as ever. Even here in supposedly cosmopolitan Detroit. Ah well, our species is still very young as species go, maybe someday we'll actually grow up...
Grow up! Would you listen to me? Even my metaphors are size-ist, and I'm only two and a half inches from being classified a freaking midget!
"Are you ... you must be Sharon Peabody?" The man observed.
"Who the hell gave you that name," I snarled, still typing like an Alternative American Standard Keyboard whirlwind.
"Uh, this superhacker we met at a computer swap-meet. We went there ... looking for advice."
"Superhacker. Might you be more specific?"
"Well ... he was skinny, had a droopy moustache like Buffalo Bill. Called you a genius and a 'free-lance heroine' when it comes to computer crimes. Said you salvage lives and money on, uh ... 'spec.' God, I hope it's true!"
"Long thin hair at the sides, but Mr. Scalp on top?"
"That's the guy. Said he was 'Grim,' but we're not sure if that was his name or his mood."
"Last name. His first happens to be Herman. Next time you see him, be sure to call him Herm; he loves that. And yes, I work on contingency. Sometimes. I can't give you an estimate until I know the score but I'll try to be reasonable. Meanwhile, I'm 'Emagia' to you two or 'E-Mage' if you want to get formal. You see, in here," I tapped my camouflaged CPU, "I'm a magician. Anyone who tries Sharon on me better move aside quick. Are we on the same home page?"
"Whatever you say ... Emagia. I'm Brian, Brian Feldman, and this is my wife Tricia. We'll pay whatever--whatever you think is fair. Provided you can get us our money back, of course. If not, I don't see how we can pay you at all. Christ! I guess you can tell we need help ... pretty damn bad."
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