An Alaskan serial adventure in IT...

The old kid gave a sad glance at his favorite action shoes. “Cross-trainer” is what the label at the store said. Mom called them sneakers, but that was a long time ago. Palin Warwick didn’t care what they were called, all he knew is his feet gushed with joy when they were on. Comfy and sleek, sky blue with a big silver “N” on the side, they weighed nothing and empowered him with imaginary fleet steps. They weren’t goretex, but that didn’t matter–it hardly rained in Juneau.

He wasn’t athletic, although “athletic heart” was the term the traveling health insurance guy had used when removing the blood pressure cuff. Palin, the pseudo-doctor accurately guessed, was coasting through his thirties on reserves left over from playing sports as a kid. “Pressure a little too high. Keep an eye on that. Otherwise a model employee, I’m sure.”

Any normal Monday he’d wear his action shoes with a black t-shirt and clean jeans. But today was not normal. Today there would be fancy people in the office—-people who thought the way someone dressed had something to do with the quality of their character. Palin agreed.

But it wasn’t a normal Monday. “The Board is coming! The Board is coming!” No one yelled while running down cubicle-lined hallways waving their arms in the air. But they might as well have been. Juneau, the capital of Alaska, was also the business and political terminus, and the GACIS Board of Directors, having flown in from all around, was on their way to meet with members of the legislature.

An email had come out early last week warning Palin and the other 4th-floor nerds that the Board will “get a tour and flawless demo of the robot, if you please.” The language reeked of Lord Stone’s prim British accent, even though the email came from his assistant Mandy. The only thing Mandy-ish about the email was the quote at the bottom below the emoticons: “All that we are is the result of what we have thought. -Buddha.”

Palin’s boss, Lord Stone, was far from a British Lord. Which came first? Palin wondered, the nickname or the accent. It was a question of subjectivity and Palin agreed not to think too hard on it.

Despite Stone’s propensity toward the dramatic, he was Palin’s boss and Lord over all the GACIS Managed Technology Services department. And so, as a good middle manager, when asked to “step up the appearance game, will ya lads?” Palin Warwick obliged.

He pushed the action shoes aside and reached for a pair of black leather Clarks.

GACIS headquarters was a cluster of buildings layered atop what used to be called Telephone Hill. A fitting location for Alaska’s statewide telecommunications conglomerate, it was the site of Juneau’s first telephone exchange, 142 years prior.

Palin walked up the hill and through double glass front doors, wiping dusty Clarks on the broad entry rug colored blue and gold with the state seal. GACIS wasn’t a state agency, technically, and the use of the seal was more a sign of homage than misappropriation.

The entry hall widened to surround a glass dome. Like a life-size snow globe, the dome encased a scene out of history: an ancient miner’s cabin surrounded by scraggly spruce trees. Not an homage—this, Palin knew, was contractual.

Shortly before GACIS acquired the land and permits, Juneau tried to convert the hilltop into affordable housing. Public outcry ruined the endeavor, but not before the trees and homes were razed and the foundations poured for a series of affordable apartment buildings. A loophole in state property and contract law, and help from the Governor’s new Department of Agriculture, gave an opening, and true to form, GACIS slipped in. Fresh off its largest merger to date, the company invested millions into the site and community.

The only restriction: preserving the small house.

Palin’s shoes squeaked on the polished concrete floor as he walked past the dome. A plaque on the outside, stamped bronze, read: “Here lies the Edward Webster House, the oldest residence in Juneau, 1882. The song still sings today and reminds us of the past.”

He skirted the past and swiped his fingerband across a security panel set in faux wood paneling. Light glinted in the facial recognition camera and elevator doors slid open. He stepped in and AI Jen whispered through his earband: “Welcome, Palin Warwick, employee ID# 8675309. Managed Technology Services. Floor 4.”

His fingerband vibrated on the way up, and he tapped to accept. Jen started describing a “priority” inbox bulletin. She was saying something about a new coffee maker when the doors slid open and a wave of chattering voices washed her out.

Fancy shoes and suits and pantsuits smelling of cologne and perfume and toxic optimism crowded the 2nd floor lobby. Today the GACIS Education Division was hosting its annual School Administrator Inservice, and first on their agenda: a tour of the building. Palin hadn’t forgotten, but he had been in denial.

“Damn you Jen,” he muttered.

“Priority rerouting from four to two initiated.” Her ping came after the fact, and was followed immediately by: “priority rerouting complete.”

“Oh good, they found you.” Gerry, Director of the Education Division, at the head of the tour group, flashed big white teeth and blocked the doors open. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is one of our MTS Team Leads. There are—” he counted on fingers “—six of y’all?”

Palin nodded.

“Six leads of the Managed Technology Services division,” Gerry announced. “Any problem you have? They fix it. They work up on the 4th floor, and statewide, what—” he waved Palin out of the elevator “—another twenty or thirty?”

Palin gave an amicable shrug.

Gerry leaned in and whispered, “say, a bit of Inservice on the new coffee maker after you’ve got it setup would be great.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but waved the tour group on.

Inservice was a fancy word schools used to describe adults spending time learning stuff. Palin wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to work in a field where learning new things every day wasn’t, as grandpa used to say, part-and-parcel.

“Each Lead runs a dynamic matrix-style team”—Gerry’s voice faded as his tour strolled down the hallway—“that may, depending on project, include any number of specialists. Oh, and on your left is the division manager’s lounge. Notice the new coffee maker, part of the FY36…”

It used to be Palin traveled enough he could schedule trips while fancy people like The Board and The Statewide School Administrators Council were visiting the office. On trips, especially to rural Alaska, he avoided any of that pomp and circumstance. On trips he rode in float planes and on the back of Sam’s uncle’s cousin’s snow machine. On trips he made decisions on his own, and wore sensible shoes. But over the years, as GACIS grew, there were fewer trips and more and more fancy people in the office.

“New ticket,” Jen announced in his ear. “Priority: High. Assigned by: R.Stone. Acceptance criteria: new coffee maker integrated on the network and fully functional.”