The trouble with being an acknowledged expert in your field is that sometimes you get tapped for duties that you don't particularly want to do. I'm an analyst/programmer, involved in the design and writing of quite complex systems. We'd just finished writing a large financial system, tested it to death, and finally installed it for the client.
Everything was sweet. The conversion to the new system had been seamless and we were going to have the first full scale run. The trouble was that the big run was just part of a larger schedule of other applications, some of which interface with the new system before, during, and after the system ran. The client was nervous because it was really a big deal for them. Guess who got tapped to go and sit with the IT boys until the night's processing was complete.
That's right. Yours truly. If anything went wrong I'd be right there on site, ready to fix it. I bitched. My boss pointed out it would count as double time overtime (because he was charging the client) and I muttered under my breath and went along with the plan, even if it was a Friday night.
From six in the evening until four in the morning I had to sit around like a lump, waiting for something to go wrong. I was almost hoping that something would go wrong just so that I'd have something to do. I was bored and I have this unfortunate tendency to let loose with my creative propensities in such a situation.
I should point out that I work for a very large corporation. The client on this occasion was the finance department for the corporation. I didn't know very much about the finance department or how they operated internally but I certainly knew a lot about the IT department and how they operated. I turned my creative skills upon the IT department.
Basically I wrote an analysis of the IT department, highlighting areas that were inefficient or just plain stupid and recommended changes that should be considered. Where the Job Scheduling section was concerned I was particularly scathing, as they were twenty years behind the times. I carefully reviewed my recommendations, found them good, and sent them off to the IT department head.
Before I could get into any more flights of fancy the schedule for the night completed and I was free to go home. At four AM I summoned a taxi (work was paying) and went home to sleep the sleep of the fair and the just.
Ten o'clock the next morning I was awakened by a thunderous knock on the door. I fell out of bed, climbed to my feet, and staggered towards the door. That's when I remembered sending that damned letter. I peeped through the spyhole to see a couple of cops standing there. Relieved that it wasn't a lynch mob of schedulers after my blood I opened the door.
"Good morning, officers," I said, smiling. "Or at least it was, until someone started hammering on my door. I do have a doorbell, you know."
"A doorbell that you did not answer," came the dry reply. "Are you James Gantry?"
"I am, but whatever happened it wasn't me."
"Yes, sir. Are you the owner of a ford with registration xxx999," and he recited my registration number.
"Yes," I admitted. "As a matter of fact if you look yonder you'll see it parked out the front."
"We did notice a ford out the front, sir, and thought it was probably the vehicle we were interested in."
"Didn't you check the rego? And why are you interested in my car?"
"Were you driving your car around one o'clock this morning?"
"No. At one o'clock this morning my car was parked right where it is now. I, on the other hand, was in the city, with half a dozen witnesses who will testify that I was working until four AM, which is why I was asleep when you came pounding on my door. Would you care to tell me what this is about?"
They would not care to tell me. Not yet, anyway. They wanted proof of my alibi and I gave them the number for the computer room as there would still be operators there, and the number for the security section who would have the time I was booked out.
Satisfied that I appeared to have an alibi they explained. At one AM my car had come around a corner, swinging wide, and clipping a truck waiting for the light. It bounced off the truck and hit a car parked by the side of the road, off the car and onto the truck again, off the truck to collect a second car, and then continuing on its way.
"I assume the truck driver took down the registration number?" I asked, hoping that it was a mistake.
"Not exactly, sir. The rear bumper was ripped off, complete with number plate. Also, when the car hit the second car it lost the front bumper, also complete with plate."
"Excuse me," I said, pushing past the cops and heading out towards the front. I didn't even care that I had no shoes on. My poor car. The front was mangled and missing the bumper bar. The back was mangled and missing the bumper bar. The driver's side had scrapes and dints on every single panel. Ditto the passenger's side.
I turned to regard the fine officers of the law who'd followed me out to the car.
"I'd hazard a guess and say that this is the car you're looking for," I admitted. Fortunately, as far as I'm concerned, I have a solid alibi, insurance on the vehicle, and the knowledge that it wasn't worth very much in the first place. It's also not my real car but an old banger I happen to have. Had, I suppose I should say. If I find out who borrowed it I'll let you know what hospital they'll be in."
"We'll have to check out your alibi but you seem to be in the clear. I trust you're not going to take the law into your own hands if you do find out who the driver is."
"Probably not," I admitted. "I'll just tell the insurance company. They'll bleed the idiot for every cent he had for the next ten years."
The cops wandered off and I went back to bed to get some more sleep. I'd contact the insurance people and worry about paperwork after that.
By two o'clock I'd caught up on some sleep, spoken to the cops and got an incident report number, spoken to the insurance company and got a promise to have an assessor look at the car, and a request to take the car to a local panel beaters. The car was surprisingly drivable as all the damage was cosmetic and I dropped the car off and they obligingly ran me home. The mechanic who signed for the car had laughed and told me no way would the insurers pay to have it restored. Too much damage. That agreed with my assessment and I mentally kissed the wreck goodbye.
About three o'clock young Nat showed up. I'd been teaching her to drive and she wasn't too bad.
"Hi, James," she called as she headed up the drive, waving to me. "Um, where's your car?"
"Come in while I explain," I told her, holding the door open. "Ah, isn't it your birthday today?"
"Uh-huh. Eighteen, and just dying to get my license."
"Yes, well I'm afraid my car was involved in a little accident last night. Some low life swiped it and ran it into the side of a truck."
"Oh no. Was anyone hurt?"
"Not that I know of, but the car's a write-off.'
"That's terrible. Did they catch the driver?"
"Not yet, but they will. The truck had a dash-cam and the driver's face will show up on that once they clean up the image a bit."
