A Dish Best Eaten Cold
by Otis Black Barrington

Bobbie brayed, "You can call me Bob or Bob-ster, Bobbie or Bobber. Just don't call me Eddie or--"

"Late for dinner." I finished for him. Gillian looked over, surprised. Tarrington, the client we were wooing, sat stone-faced--they'd met before so why was Bobbie introducing himself? I hoped he didn't blow the Tarrington pitch after all my hard work. You'd think he'd realize that people never know quite how to take him--is he quirkily eccentric? nervous at public speaking? What?

Tarrington unconsciously caressed the deep dimple under his jaw; it looked like God Himself had pressed a thumb into the dough of his skin.

"You have surgery on your face?" Bobbie's grin bared his obscenely long teeth. Hard to imagine I'd once found him attractive in a weathered, older-guy-type way, envisioned myself the glam trophy wife.

"Cancerous mole. Had it--"

"It's a bad sign when a mole changes color."

Tarrington glanced downward, shuffled through our 'Don't Re-invent the Wheel...MagnaComm it!' folder. Bobbie, unfazed, rattled on about cancer, poorly written magazine articles, the fat content of croissants. And, as always, his verbal meanderings led back to his stupid blue moon theory.

"So. Your company ready for the Year 2BM?"

Tarrington looked confused.

"Two blue moons in nineteen ninety nine. Second one's the thirtieth. Nostradamas predicted..."

Soon after I'd joined the MagnaComm family I'd decided to make Bobbie my Boredom 101 professor. Analyzing what caused his boring-ness made him somewhat bearable. But it was rough going, his daily: "Working hard, or hardly working?" drove me nutzoid.

"The energy surge generated by the second full moon will cause electron interference with microwave frequencies which effect every aspect of civilized society. Computers won't..."

Bobbie's peculiar odor--a combination of aftershave and farts--wafted over. I'd developed a Boredom Index that I mentally checked off when he'd babble: bad puns, check; stream-of-consciousness word associations, check; self-conscious jocularity, check; the whole blue moon nonsense, double check.

One example: I'd handed him the Wright account paperwork, "Wright? Wilbur and Orville? Wright-o, let me wright your wrongs."

Plus, he's your typical Boomer technophobe. He'd brag he was "self taught on the computer" like it wasn't painfully obvious. Shoulders hunched, he spent hours peering at his monitor. Once he burst into my Portable Officing Unit and blurted, "You know you can attach Word files in e-mails?" You'd think the MagnaComm Management Motivators would realize what a liability he is to Account Facilitating, but no...oo.

Janelle of Supportive Services brought me back to the present. She knocked a crumbled wad of paper to the floor. I scooped it up and read, 'Gag me.' I turned the laugh/snort that honked from my nose into a cough.

"Since computer chips control traffic flow it will be completely disrupted. Airline flights won't..."

Janelle's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter; her cotton-candy hair floated around her face though there was no breeze. You can't open the windows at MagnaComm; it's a stable, clima-tized environment. Janelle's okay though she's ambition-impaired.

I, on the other hand, had learned to multi-task my downtime. I'd read up on Tarrington's business, his community involvement, and I'd developed a "Major Offensive" a la my newest fave book: Management Secrets of Sven the Impaler. I was secretly working on a comprehensive media marketing plan that would position Tarrington Investigative Services as the McDonald's of the P.I. industry. The problem as I see it is that Tarrington doesn't think of his business as sexy. But Bobbie's whole concept thrust was: "The most priceless commodity in the information age is information. So come to Tarrington..." Lame or what?

Tarrington finally cut Bobbie off, muttered several halfhearted questions, and the meeting, mercifully, ended.

The next afternoon after work, Marie, the Archival Associate; Terri, the Management Resources Expeditor, and I were chatting about Terri's upcoming Bermuda vacation.

"What? You're leaving on the thirtieth? You're going to brave the upcoming Blue Moon Destruction and be on a computer-dependent airplane?" They laughed and I went for it. My Bobbie-imitation was pitch-perfect, down to the fine spray of spit Marie wiped off her face.

"Stop! I'm going to pee!" Marie waved her arm, toppling a photo of her cat Mr. Whiskers.

"Pee? Did you know the average woman's urinary output is two liters a day? Pee, as in 'does that pee-que your curiosity about the upcoming Blue Moon Disaster?'"

Terri's face went as white as a dab of correction fluid. I didn't have to turn around to know that Bobbie had slithered in.

"Oh, hi. We were just talking about the dangers of the upcoming Blue Moon."

The oddest look crossed his face. At first he seemed almost heartbroken, and I had a light-bulb moment. He was obviously one of those people who glom onto some little, quirky something in order to make themselves seem more interesting to others. Terri shifted nervously; Marie's foot rat-ta-tatted against my desk's table leg. Then I noticed a steely, downright mean, glint in his eyes.

"You think the Year Two Blue Moon's just a big hoot, don't you? The Two Blue is a big two-do over nothing? Ah, yes, a big hoot says Ms. Big Hooters."

I couldn't help but smile; he'd sealed his fate with his dumb wordplay. And in front of witnesses yet. To think I'd once had a major crush on the stupid wuss. Even suggested we have a drink after work, but he'd sanctimoniously intoned, "I don't think it would be appropriate for me to socialize with a member of Supportive Staff Services." Your loss, loo-sah.

The next day, my voice trembled when I haltingly reported the unpleasant "Hooters" conversation to Gillian, my Immediate Management Motivator. I pretended I was too distraught to verbalize Bobbie's more...overt...behavior. Like it would make me have to relive the trauma or something.

After the mandated Grievance hearings, I realized how quickly I'd fast-tracked when I was asked to transition the Tarrington account. Moi?. I summarized what I'd named the "Tarrington Transformation."

"So you're comfortable pitch hitting for Bob--Mr. Bymaster? He's decided to, um, explore different career options."

I couldn't resist. "Career options? Surely a career will be superfluous after the dreaded 2BM meltdown? According to him, we'll be back in the Stone Age, fighting for water, digging up roots; we'll..."

Mr. Brennan chuckled and called me a "much-needed breath of fresh air." Of course, the party-pooping, number cruncher Stevens had to go and say, "The revenue's redlining this quarter; reeling in Tarrington would be just what the doctor ordered."

Translation: Don't blow it.

"I'm going to finesse this account 'til Tarrington wonders how he managed to stay in business without us."

But finesse doesn't begin to describe my Tarrington full court press. I researched the top ten P.I. firms nationwide, knew what their Venue Outreach budgets were, and decided to promise Tarrington twice the bang for half the bucks.

I drew up a penetration chart, did a couple Power Points, decided to use every bell and whistle I could think of. Even did a series of e-mails to Tarrington with movie trailer-type animation.

One night Janelle popped by. "You still around? Girlfriend, I'm beginning to think you live here."

"Tell me about it. Tomorrow's T-Day, my big Tarrington presentation. It's now or never."

"What? You take over the Tarrington account for our dearly departed Bob-a-rooni and you even absorb his paranoias? Tonight's blue moon got you spooked?"

"That's right! God, I've lost track of time. The Bob-meister is probably huddling in his fallout shelter as we speak."

I walked Janelle to her car, then grabbed some take-out from the Wok and Roll, definitely a nose-to-the-grindstone night. I still needed to re-do a spreadsheet, rewrite the "Transformation!" copy, fiddle with some graphics, print out and collate the packets.

I was sizing the Immersion/Reduction chart when the screen wavered, lightened, then went completely blank. No "exemption 06 has occurred" message, no "fatal spool error"--nothing. I pushed back my panic. Since Management Secrets advised: "Be prepared for the worst" I'd made a backup floppy. I popped it in and read: "Unable to Read Disk. Do You Want to Re-format?" My heart th-wumped faster. Then a blue circle slowly loaded onto the screen. The image coalesced into the distinctive craters and shadows of the moon. A blue moon.

"Congratulations!" a plain text window read. "You're the lucky recipient of the Blue Moon virus."

The next morning I stumbled into the Conferencing Unit. I breathed deeply and distributed the skinny packets, kicking myself for circulating the meeting's agenda in advance. Despite an all-nighter, I only had about a third of what I needed. I decided to put a positive spin on things.

"The packets are missing a few agenda items. What can I say? I had a bad BM experience last night."

Tarrington started, looked at me with an unreadable expression.

"I guess the old Bobman was right. About the Blue Moon thing? On the thirtieth? I'm blue 'cause my computer mooned me last night."

No one laughed.

Otis Black Barrington is the author of the fantasy novel: Scepter of ShiningIsle.