Tuesday, 2020: Barry sees something

Harry took his usual route into work, just the same as yesterday. He Stopped again at the coffee shop and asked for a coconut latte. When asked for his name, Harry said: “Barry”. The barista looked at him oddly. He’s been doing this for months now. Giving a different name every time he is asked. He does this kind of because it’s easier than explaining how to spell his actual name, or see how other people interpret the resulting pronunciation. He also does it because it makes him feel a little bit like a spy or undercover agent, because let’s face it, most of people need a little more excitement in their lives. He stands in the coffee shop scoping out the exits, assessing who in the coffee shop might be able to handle themselves in a fight, who might be carrying a gun. This makes him feel a little bit like Jason Bourne for a moment, which is a good feeling. But who are we kidding? If this guy got into a fight with anyone, there is only an average chance that he might come out better than any other average guy. And who would want to be Jason Bourne anyway? The guy gets battered and injured all the time, his girlfriends get murdered, and he has killed a whole bunch of people he doesn’t even know. No one in the coffee shop had a gun. Or at least that’s what Barry thought.

It was another standard day at work, accompanied by another bucket load of stress. Barry is a Cyber Security Director. “What does that entail?”, I hear you ask. Well, it depends™. This is where, if you asked Barry, Barry would spout out some pre-prepared and well-rehearsed spiel about how appropriate cyber security controls depend on the nature of the business, it’s “risk profile”, and it’s “risk appetite”. This is another way of saying that most companies simply don’t do things properly, cut loads of corners, take loads of risks, and never really make themselves accountable for anything. In a nutshell, that is what Barry is employed to do. He is employed to spout out that spiel whenever anyone asks why the company doesn’t patch all its things or know where all its data is. Oh, and it is Barry’s job to get fired if there is a major security incident. The work day passes as most others do without any major event taking place.

On Barry’s way home, walking to the station, he saw what looked like a familiar-looking blind man walking in the freezing cold wearing just a t-shirt again. The blind man was waving his stick in front of himself, but again his strides were just a little too fast and confident for some reason.

The train home was packed as is standard. It was standing-room only, with just enough room for a couple of underweight sardines. As the train went on, people got off at their stops freeing up space and then eventually seats. Barry held out until a front-facing seat inevitably became available. He sat and stared at his phone, ignoring the whizzing countryside until he got to his stop, which also happened to be the train’s final destination. As usual, he waited a good 10 minutes to allow everyone else to squeeze through the bottle neck exit gates, like sheep being herded through a sheep dip before disembarking himself. Barry was listening to another new pop song, “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor. No one ever seemed to notice or comment that the song started off with a jabbing guitar riff, and the second time the riff repeats, there was a skipped half-beat on one of the jabs. This piece of genius song-writing reflected the nature of sparring in boxing or martial arts. You see, when fighting, you try to fool your opponent in various ways, and one way is by attacking with a set rhythm that the opponent comes to expect. Then at some point you would break the rhythm, knowing that they will be anticipating your jab or cross at a given moment. As they move to block your promised attack, it does not materialise and instead you throw a powerful hit to their midriff or, depending on the style of fighting, the genitals. Barry noticed this subtlety every time he heard it. Eventually, Barry got up before the train left the station again and headed toward the exit. As he got to the toilet on the platform, a dark haired, hollow eyed man stumbled out coughing and spluttering. He looked like he had a broken nose, and he was covered in piss and shit from the face down. The man stared at Barry for a moment and then ran away, charging through the gates without swiping his card. A moment or two later, while Barry was trying to process what he has just witnessed, a blind guy also left the toilets. He had dark glasses. The blind guy appeared to smile directly at Barry, before walking off waving his stick around, but again looking far too confident.

What the hell had just happened? That guy certainly looked pretty familiar. Barry pondered for a moment about whether or not he report it to the police. Then he walked home.

Barry got home and told his wife what had happened. They sat and had dinner. She was beautiful, and intelligent. They put their child to bed. They talked for a while, and it was perfect. Easy. They switched on the TV. Ignoring what is on the screen, they talked instead about reports that too much TV decreases memory. They talked about how one could easily argue that this might be a really good thing for governments or large corporations. The advertising industry was a perfect working example, relentlessly distracting people with thoughts of things that they must own or do to improve their lives, improve their street cred, improve their happiness, while simultaneously reducing their savings and ownership of anything lasting. Ignorance is bliss.