Smartystan

Winnington walked the streets of what once was officially called Wilmington, Delaware. He shoved his hands in his pockets and braved the damp spring air which blew with an unseasonable chill. He looked down at his sneakers and kept a swift gait. What made the trek all the more important remained the fact that he sprinted towards something, not away from it. Once he found his apartment, he knew he could find solace and regroup.

His role as part of the Founders had been assigned to ideas man. The task for him presented no problem. He knew all he had to do consisted of coming up with new stratagems to further the for profit organization. Delaseer became his passion. As he sat at his desk, he looked at the blank sheet of paper and just started putting down words. They didn’t make sense. Everything flew like personal jets except in ink and in an almost haphazard way. To Winnington, this kind of thing struck him as powerful. He heard the door open and close.

“I was there in traffic for forty-five minutes. Can you believe that? I was trying to get around this car and this big SUV just juts out and almost sideswipes me,” Winnington’s girlfriend Evena Harlan spoke aloud. She crossed the room and saw her boyfriend working with an intensity and a drive that could only match the greatest perfectionists in the world.

“Hon’?”

“Yeah?” he replied.

“I’m here, now?”

“Right. How was your day?”

“I told you I was in traffic for an eternity!”

“Right. What are you going to do about dinner?”

“I was hoping I’d get more out of a meal from you again,” she retorted.

She slinked her way to him and leaned closer to his face and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll be done in a few moments,” he said.

“Moments, moments. How many moments?”

“I said ‘a few.’”

Evena exhaled sharply.

“I’m just going to order something. What do you want?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m working.”

“Oh, Mr. Big Shot Founders proxy is ‘working.’ Better leave him alone before he gets nasty.”

Evena retired to the bedroom and placed an order for an anchovy pizza with breadsticks and hot peppers. Winnington felt relieved. He closed his eyes and inhaled. He made sketches of different programs the organization could come up with over a span of a few months. Longer term ideas required a bit more brain horsepower. The intricacies of the various forms of thought he displayed on his board propelled him to achieve even more. He didn’t want to be the token white guy, magical white man, or the “White Savior” of the bunch. Instead, he wished to only be an asset and noble soul to the rest of the crew. It was like chipping away at ice. The ideas became clearer and clearer with every line.

“Okay, the pizza should be here in five minutes. I ordered from a synth. Did you know you’re not expected to tip them? I did though. I don’t want any disgruntled synth messing with my food.”

Winnington kept writing. Evena stood behind him and looked at his work.

“This is great, babe,” she admitted.

“Thank you. But I just need a little more time before I can finalize these designs and ideas. I’d appreciate it if you just find some diversion and sit in the kitchen and wait for the victuals.”

“Okay.”

Winnington said all of this in a cool, even tone, never raising his voice. Evena threw up her hands like she was showing she had no weapon and backed away, her heels clicking heels striking the wooden floors. Back to his vision. Winnington kept pressing for his own power and freedom with every word he wrote and every design he offered. As an engineer, he knew all about the inner workings of the projects Delaseer had already produced. When he thought about being in that lineage of designers, his mind warmed. It brought him great joy in better understanding what exactly the Founders wanted and that he just wasn’t a raised hand in a meeting.

When the pizza arrived, Evena ate slices by herself in their bedroom, careful not to get crumbs all over the place. She played games on VirtuVisual.

In the other room, Winnington kept at it. He drew strength from his own selfishness and pride and rejoiced in the name of productiveness. Each of his designs and wordings seemed to coalesce into one solid figure which gave him the chance to excel. For all of the accounts of Delaseer thinking about the university and the center, he had to keep up with those thoughts and revolutionize them into something radical. What he needed would keep him in good health. He ventured into the room where the pizza box sat on the end of the bed. So was Evena, asleep. The VirtuVisual played faintly in the background. He grabbed a slice and savored it. The salty anchovies and light spice of the jalepeńos drove his mind to do even more work, his way. When it came time to finish his food and get back to work, he felt a burst of energy and a ringing sense in his brain that he could challenge anything…and win. With his pen in hand, he was like a symphony conductor arranging various elements into a cohesive whole like the sound of the orchestra. It took him no time to realize the might he had with this utensil. How powerful it made him feel to be able to produce works that could be seen as beauties in his own mind.

By breaking down the lines that looked angular and clean, he knew that what he had to do boiled down to presenting these sketches after they of course received the polishing treatment. He would ensure that all the pieces fit together in such harmony and excellence that no one could say no to them. Not one line could be out of place. With this in mind he continued to work.