Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon(6)

    It also meant that when Liz was hitting the books, boning up for a complicated legal brief, as she had been for the last several days, I could usually see her, sitting atop a set of library steps, leafing through books from the topmost shelves, to which the legal reference works had been exiled. The lower shelves, of course, were packed with books on programming and military history, not to mention gaming magazines and obscure and incomprehensible comics and graphic novels.

    I could see that she had looked up from her book and her eyes were following something down the corridor Frankie would have taken. She glanced over at me with one eyebrow raised, as if to say, “What on earth did you let into the office?” I shrugged, and she rolled her eyes, shook her head, and returned to her book with a smile.

    I turned back to the switchboard, also smiling. Liz was one of the few other females at Mutant Wizards. Also one of the few other normal people. And at the risk of being accused of female chauvinism, I confess that I didn’t think this was a coincidence.

“I am a strong, self-reliant woman who makes her own decisions,” a voice said at my elbow. I frowned. Not that I didn’t approve of the sentiment, but it didn’t sound quite normal when uttered in a voice that sounded like a kiddie-show host on helium. Spike didn’t like it either, I deduced from the growl at my feet.

“Good morning, Dr. Brown,” I said, glancing first at the bubblegum pink plush teddy bear and only as an afterthought at the more nondescript woman holding it.

“How do you like my new invention?” she asked. “I call it an Affirmation Bear. Every time you press his tummy, he delivers another positive, affirming statement to his human friend.”

    She demonstrated.

“I take care of my body by practicing wellness and exercising regularly,” the bear squeaked. Spike began barking hysterically at the sound.

“Fascinating,” I said. And meant it, actually; though what really fascinated me was trying to figure out what strange pranks the programmers would play if - no, make that “when” - they got their hands on the Affirmation Bear. And was she just here to show me the bear, or was she about to lodge another complaint?

    Dr. Brown was one of the six therapists who had a pre-existing sublease on part of the office suite into which Mutant Wizards had just moved. Liz, the lawyer, had negotiated valiantly to have them kicked out or bought out, with no luck. Thanks to the surrounding county’s militant antigrowth policy, the office space market in Caerphilly was only slightly better than the housing market, and the therapists had no intention of giving up their quarters.

    They had whined and complained their way through the build-out, but back then only Liz, Rob, and the real estate broker had to listen to them. Last Monday’s moving day was a disaster. Liz had given the therapists ample warning and arranged to move as much stuff as possible over the weekend, to limit disruption during working hours. Maybe that helped a little. But moving day was the first time techies and therapists had to coexist in the same space. It was loathe at first sight.

    Last Monday was also when I’d realized that I’d suddenly acquired responsibility for keeping the peace between the two groups. They’d quickly gotten used to running to me with their complaints and outrageous requests, like squabbling children running to their mother. I was already sick and tired of it.

    But it’s temporary, I told myself, forcing a smile onto my face as I looked at the garish pink bear. I can leave as soon as I figure out what’s wrong, or reassure Rob that nothing’s wrong. Or, more likely, as soon as my hand gets better. How can Rob expect me to get to the bottom of some kind of. wrongdoing if I have to spend all day minding the switchboard, keeping the shrinks and the geeks from killing each other, and listening to people’s talking toys?

“Chill, Spike,” I said. “It’s only a bear.”

“Here, would you like to try it?” Dr. Brown asked, thrusting the bear into my hands. “Just tickle his tummy to make him talk.”

    I tickled. Nothing happened.

“You have to tickle a little harder.”

    I finally got the bear to talk. It took a bit more than tickling; I’d have called it a gut punch.

“I am a calm, rational person who never resorts to physical violence to solve my problems,” the bear reprimanded me. Spike settled for growling this time.

“Why don’t you keep that one and try it out for a few days?” Dr. Brown suggested. I glanced behind her and realized that she was dragging around a box larger than the one Dad’s new monster television had come in. And it was chock-full of Affirmation Bears - all, alas, in the same ghastly shade of pink.