LJ Idol 9.23: The Fiction of the Fix...

I had expected the phone to ring several times, but it was picked up almost immediately.

"Spade here," said a man's voice. I'd have recognized the slight lisp anywhere.

"Sam!" I said. "It's me. Am I mistaken, or do you sound pretty chipper for it being the middle of the night?"

"For your information, it is the middle of the night, but I got up a little while ago, and just finished fixing myself an early breakfast," said Spade, and I heard the scrape of a match, and after a second or two, a long exhalation. "I've got to be on a stakeout in a bit, but I'll be glad to give you free advice."

"I'm in sort of a fix, Sam," I began, and then paused, "how'd you know I'd want advice?"

"You never call for any other reason, chum," said Sam, "but to the point: does this 'fix' you're in involve a dame named O'Shaughnessy and a bunch of people intent on finding a statue of a black bird?"

"No, but…"

"Have you become involved with dope fiends, looking for their next fix?"

"No, but…"

"Or with the kinds of people who, say, fix prize fights or wrestling matches?" interrupted Spade again.

"No, but…"

"See? If none of that's happening, you can't be in much of a fix, so things are already looking up," said Spade. "Don't tell me this problem of yours has to do with that Idol thing you yammer about from time to time."

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it does," I said. "I'm supposed to write something that has to do with 'the fiction of the fix' and I'm stuck."

"Not entirely, I see," observed Sam. "You're writing this entry, aren't you?"

"Okay, shamus, let me change my statement. Aside from writing this entry, I'm stuck."

"And this entry is an improvement over a goose egg and a sharp stick in the eye, ain't it?" said Spade, and a chuckle came over the instrument. "Say, what'd that 'Barney Google' thing of yours come up with? You did consult it, right?"

"The name is just 'Google', Sam," I said, "and of course I used it. The results didn't help me much at all, so what I ended up wanting to do was to write about something that happened to me about twenty years ago working at a company where newly hired managers kept coming up with ideas to fix the way business got done, except the fixes really just bollixed everything up and made things worse for everyone. The only problem was, I couldn't find an angle."

"To deal with the idiots, or to write about the situation for this Idol of yours?" asked Sam.

"Writing about it," I said. "I dealt with the situation by writing an essay criticizing management and distributing it to coworkers. I signed it 'Demosthenes'."

"Sweet Mother of… now I think I've heard it all," Sam said. He then sighed, another match sparked to life, and he inhaled so hard on his new cigarette, I could hear the tobacco turning into ash at its lit end. "You actually are as innocent as you seem, aren't you? I'll bet everyone who read your screed knew exactly who wrote it, and even more important, nothing changed, right?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked.

"I'll take that as a yes, and another yes," said Sam.

I took a deep breath. "Look, can you help me, or not?" I asked.

"Okay, hold your horses," said Spade. "As far as the writing goes, maybe you didn't have enough time or don't have enough material to properly fix your sights on the goal—and knowing what I do about you, I suspect it's the latter. After all, working for dimwits who cause problems by changing the way things get done is a pretty common complaint among us working stiffs. It's the main reason I was asked to hand in my badge to the San Francisco police department, back in the day."

"I didn't know that about you," I said.

"There's a lot you don't know, junior," said Sam, "and not just about me. But to get back to your problem, like I said, the activities of a bunch of corporate loblollies isn't something that by itself makes for a good story; you've got to add more, like about how people around them reacted to the situation. And personally, since I'm a sucker for happy endings, it's got to be about how the people around them not only reacted, but triumphed. Comeuppance is key!" A pause. "You getting all this, son, or am I talking too fast for you?"

"I've got it," I said.

"Well, I don't know if I helped you or not," said Spade, and sighed. "And I hate to break up our little party, but I've got to go to work. If nothing else, think about it this way—at least you have a piece of fiction that talks about a number of different kinds of 'fixes'."

"Most that I can think of," I agreed, "although it doesn't mention dogs that have been 'fixed' so they can't breed, does it?

"It does now," said Spade, and I could almost hear him smiling as he broke the connection.