Working for a Software Company

Everyone should work for a software company for just a little while.


Those massive corporations that are almost entirely manned these days by coding slaves who have been liberated from the new age universities of the great Indian continent and all of whom are happy to be working for $15 an hour for 80 hours a week without holidays or sick leave.

Fatalistic Muslims from the Punjab who are bewildered by Sandra from Harbord who tugs away at her elastic knickers and who farts in public.

Morose and large eared Pathans pacing their long hours away under dim lights and who twitch with a longing of war and bloodspill as they listen to Nick and Simon bragging about their lunchtime game of squash.

And over in the corner office, in a darkened room and behind the closed door, Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce on an endless loop, sits Greg the South African.

Gun Coder.

Skeletal and gaunt, bearded, silent, and in no way a friend of any man; temporal and black-eyed, black-eyed and grimly lost to five years of a fabulous and daily LSD diet and the massive cathedral silence of the dozens of sleepless run-on hours of pure coding. His library consists of every work by Dr. Jacques Lacan.

He came to lunch one Sunday afternoon, at home, and confounded my good wife when he started talking to his salad.

My two little daughters were told to leave the table before he went nuts with the carving knife, and being northern beaches kids they still like to talk about the dark and moody hippie who was a friend of their old man.

Greg was numbers, logic, coding, data, answers, demons.

Wordless, silent and intense; he writhed with his flickering demons.

Greg was a full sail without a hull, a lull in the wind, an echo of a man.

Everyone should work for a software company for just a little while.