Across My Rubicon

My name is Cynthia Alexander.  I think of myself as an independent, assertive, and sometimes a cold-calculating woman.  I usually know what I want and do what ever it takes to get it.  But how I got myself into this mess is a bit of a mystery to me.

Do I start with my childhood?  No, this isn’t analysis.  The lousy time I had at the high school prom?  No, just because that established my distrust for men in general and for Albert Hanson in particular doesn’t really have much to do with the mess I’m in now.  The regular beatings I got from my husband?  No, that’s a whole book in itself and the result is the same: I don't really trust men.

Let me start, one day seven months ago.  I got up early, put on my most expensive, tailored suit and took the bus downtown.  My briefcase was empty except for a Tiger’s Milk bar and three copies of my current resume.

It wasn’t that I had an interview or had even targeted a company, I just was ready to take on a new project.  I’d been freelancing as a Software Project Manager for about 10 years.  Taking only the offers that met my current list of challenges.  The last project took 80-hour weeks for 6 months and then several months of clean up.  That had ended about two weeks ago.  I was surprised to find that I was looking for another challenge so soon, but I’m not very happy when I don’t have a job.

I always trusted my instincts when looking for a new project.  I’d learned my trade at a major telecommunications company where the concept of efficiency was wasted on good-old boys in corner offices who remembered the business as manual switches and plug-boards.  This environment gave me the freedom to read all the books, take the classes, and experiment with projects that would be killed two months after implementation.

Anyway, once downtown, I sauntered through the financial district looking at the buildings and all the suited-brief-cases hustling to their offices.  I’d been working on construction sites too long to want to go back to the games boys in tailored suits play.

After the financial district came abandoned buildings and new construction.  I stood watching the cranes and hard hats, but didn’t seem even remotely compelled to go to the project office and offer to set up a decent computer tracking system for them,

As usual, because I had left the house with perfect hair, the Seattle mist turned to light rain.  Swell, must be the perfect day to get a job, I mumbled to myself.

After the hard-hat district was an area I’d never thought of as a job market.  The storefronts were full of hand painted clothing, wood art, Disney prints, and so many galleries it was hard to believe there could be any more art in the back room.

My saunter slowed to a curious, window-shoppers pace.  The stores were just opening.  I stood in front of one shop watching a petite brunette rearranging hand polished silver jewelry.

“Nice pieces, huh?”  A man’s smooth tenor voice behind me startled me out of my stupor.  “I come in to work early several mornings a week, just so I can see what’s new.”

I simply nodded, without looking at him, I think I might have pretended to smile.  He grunted and said, “You don’t look like you are a serious window shopper.  I’ve never seen you in the square before.”  I looked down at my feet and kept my mouth shut.  “What do you do?”  His persistence was charming.  Irritating, but charming.

When I looked up, I saw a man in his early 40’s dressed in faded jeans and a black leather biker’s jacket.  His attire didn’t match his $500 brief case and the Rolex peaking out from under the sleeves of his jacket, but that’s the thing about truly wealthy people, they dress however they please.

“I’m an efficiency expert.”  I lied, but he’s a total stranger so I couldn’t see the harm.  “I am hired to cut out the excess, get the job done better, faster, cheaper.  You got anything you need chopped off?”  I let my eyes slowly lower to just below his belt.  He didn’t even flinch.

“Know anything about computers?”  The corners of his mouth turned up.

“Some.”  There was a short silence, while we both reloaded.

“Ever work with KIDS – computer geeks that have the social skills of a kindergarten play ground?  I’ve got a pigpen I can’t count on, because they speak a language that is foreign to me.”  He looked at me, licked his lips, and added, “Interested?”

So we headed up the stairs; above the jewelry store, to his office.  Gregg Sullivan owned a software development company called Software Anonymous.  He seemed genuinely pleased that I’d never heard of them.  I’d only worked in the Seattle area for a couple years, so I wasn’t surprised.  His philosophy was that the really interesting software was written to make something else work and when it did its job well, it never got noticed.  There were awards and plaques on the walls that told me someone noticed the product Gregg produced; and they liked it.

As we walked through the maze of desks, I became intrigued by the atmosphere; jeans and T-shirt