Timestruck

By

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Copyright © 2000, by Flora Speer

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In the late 1990’s, people began to wonder
what would happen when the date rolled around to midnight on
December 31, 1999 – January 1, 2000. Most computers were not
programmed to automatically reset their dates to a new millennium.
Wild news stories were published, suggesting that computers would
crash, destroying valuable data and ruining the stock markets and
banks, that airplanes would fall out of the sky when their on-board
computers failed at the stroke of midnight. In short, a world-wide
disaster was feared.

Rather quickly, a new industry was launched.
Computer “experts” would repair the so-called Y2K (Year 2000)
problem in advance, resetting the inner clocks of computers, thus
preventing the feared crashes….

New York City

7.45 A.M.

Friday, December 31, 1999

“Not so fast!” The landlady planted herself
squarely in front of her tenant, blocking Gina’s rush through the
hall of the old house to the outside door.

“I can’t stop to chat right now,” Gina said,
even though she was certain that conversation was not on Mrs.
Benson’s mind. “If I do, I’ll be late for work.”

“Your rent is due.” Mrs. Benson’s manner was
decidedly hostile. She was a short woman on the far side of middle
age, and at the moment she looked like an angry little bulldog.

“Legally speaking, I don’t have to pay you
until the first of the month,” Gina said.

“Legally speaking,” Mrs. Benson snarled right
back at her, “tomorrow is a holiday. The banks will be closed all
weekend, and from what I’ve heard, they won’t open again until the
end of next week. If we’re lucky, that is. Some say this here XYZ
problem will stop all the computers. That means, on the stroke of
midnight there’ll be no electricity, no water, and probably no food
in the stores. I got shoppin’ to do before then.”

“It’s Y2K,” Gina said. “Actually, I don’t
think there will be much of a problem at all. Most large
corporations, including banks and public utilities, have made the
necessary corrections to their computer programs. It’s only small
companies and individuals who are expected to run into trouble with
their computers.”

“You sound just like them government agents I
been seein’ on the TV talk shows,” Mrs. Benson said. “You don’t
believe them, do you? Or maybe you do, since you work on computers
all day, every day. But I don’t trust the government, not here in
the city, not the people in Albany, nor the folks in Washington,
neither. And I sure as hell don’t trust them infernal computer
machines. Disaster – maybe even the end of civilization – is comin’
at midnight tonight, and I expect you to pay your rent today. In
cash.”

Gina resisted the urge to ask what Mrs.
Benson was planning to do with cash if she really expected
civilization to end. The woman’s attitude was so illogical and so
ill-informed that Gina wanted to laugh. She shivered instead, as an
odd, chilling sensation crept over her.

No wonder she was cold. The old brownstone
building that Mrs. Benson had turned into a boardinghouse, renting
out sparsely furnished rooms with bathroom down the hall to a
motley collection of tenants, was always chilly, and the front
vestibule, where Mrs. Benson had cornered Gina, was the coldest
place of all, thanks to the door opening and closing so often.

“Mrs. Benson.” Gina said, straining for
patience, “if you want the rent money, you’ll have to let me out of
here so I can go to work. I’ll be paid at noon, and I promise I
will cash my check at the credit union right there at Y2K Computer
Systems. The moment I get home this evening, I will knock on your
door and hand you the cash. I’ve never been late before, have
I?”

“There’s always a first time,” said Mrs.
Benson. She squinted at Gina, screwing up her wrinkled face as if
to make herself appear even fiercer.

“Not this time,” Gina retorted sharply. She
ventured a step in the direction of the front door, and Mrs.
Benson, making no secret of her reluctance, moved out of the way,
letting Gina finally make good her escape.

“Home, sweet home,” Gina muttered
sarcastically as the door slammed behind her. “The kind every woman
dreams of.” She paused on the front step to turn up the collar of
her hip-length black leather coat before she stepped off briskly in
the direction of the subway. She told herself the sudden moisture
in her eyes was caused by the cold and the city’s gritty, sooty
wind.

“You’re late,” said Gina’s boss, frowning at
her. She was a tough woman who seldom smiled. Gina sometimes
wondered if she slept in her dark, severe business suit.

“My landlady imagines civilization is going
to end on the stroke of midnight,” Gina explained, “I had to
reassure her that she will get my rent money before that
happens.”

“Ignorant fools,” grumbled the boss. “I’m
sick to death of these millennialists and their end-of-the-world
scenarios, and even sicker of all the publicity about tonight.”

“I guess it’s natural to be afraid of
something you don’t understand.”

“If you say so.” The boss handed Gina a sheet
of paper. “Here’s the printout on the list of calls you’re to make
today. If you’re efficient and don’t run into too many problems,
you ought to be finished by six or seven. That’ll give you plenty
of time to celebrate the New Year. At least I and my employees
won’t be expected to work all weekend long, unlike the people in
some companies I could mention.”

“You are planning to hand out the paychecks
today, aren’t you?” Gina asked, ignoring the comment about
celebrating. She had nothing to celebrate, and she wanted to be
sure she hadn’t made a mistake in promising to have the rent money
by the end of the day. Sometimes the holidays messed up even the
most basic routines of everyday life.

“Scared the computer will go down?” asked the
boss.

“I’m not,” Gina said. “Mrs. Benson is.”

“Stop back here at lunchtime, and you can
pick up your check then. But don’t be late; I’m leaving early.”

“I’ll be here.”

The first two names and addresses on the
printout were located in midtown Manhattan. Both were fairly simple
problems with personal computers, and Gina made short work of them.
The third address was on the Lower East Side. Gina took the subway,
which seemed to be running at half speed. One of the passengers
loudly complained that the Y2K problem was already beginning to
affect the subway machinery, which would shut down completely at
midnight, if it didn’t grind to a halt before then. Other
passengers looked uneasy. Gina shrugged and kept her mouth
shut.

The nearest subway stop was several blocks
from her destination, so she had to walk. By the time she reached
the address it was almost noon, and she was hungry and irritable.
She’d had only a quick cup of coffee for breakfast, and if she
didn’t get back to Y2K Computer Systems, Inc. in time to pick up
her paycheck and cash it before the credit union office closed for
the day, she wouldn’t have money for lunch. Or for dinner. Or a
place to live, if Mrs. Benson had anything to say about it.

“It’s just plain stupid,” Gina muttered to
herself as she checked the address again before pulling open the
door of a decrepit office building. “Everybody has known about this
problem for years, even people who don’t have computers. Why would
anyone wait so long to fix it?”

She jabbed the Up button for the elevator,
then waited impatiently. Down in the basement a loud, rumbling
sound began and drew slowly nearer.

Gina glanced around the dreary lobby, alert
as only someone bred in a large city can be to the possibility of
an intruder intent upon robbery, or worse. The lobby was empty.
There weren’t even any pedestrians to be seen on the street beyond
the smudged glass door. But then, as Gina was uncomfortably aware
after the last fifteen minutes of walking, the day was so cold and
windy that no one who didn’t need to be would be outdoors.

She heaved a long, irritated sigh. The world
outside was typical of late December, all gray and bleak. Inside
the office building wasn’t much better. The lobby was decorated –
if decorated was the right word – in dull brown and beige, without
even a holiday wreath. It wasn’t a place where anyone would want to
linger.

“Come on, come on,” Gina said to the
lumbering elevator. She tapped the toe of one high-heeled,
fake-suede boot on the dingy linoleum floor. “I haven’t got all
day.”

As if in response to her words, the door slid
open to reveal a grubby-looking elevator.

“Doesn’t anybody ever clean this dump?” Gina
grumbled. She stepped inside, taking care not to brush against the
walls. Her coat was secondhand, but it had cost a week’s wages, and
she knew she was going to have to wear it for years.

Three stories above street level the elevator
stopped with a jolt that almost unbalanced its lone passenger. When
the door opened Gina discovered she would have to step up a good
ten inches to floor level. The realization did nothing to alter her
growing conviction that the last, miserable day of the old year was
going from bad to worse in a hurry.

“There must be a law about elevator safety,”
she said under her breath as she planted one foot on the floor and
hauled herself upward. “I bet the owner pays off the inspector so
he doesn’t have to fix this machine or buy a new one.”

There were only three doors in the
third-floor hallway. One of them bore a stenciled sign announcing
her destination: THE BROWN DETECTIVE AGENCY. Gina turned the knob
and walked into a small, cluttered office.

It looked exactly as she expected, a sleazy
place where the majority of clients were probably women who wanted
to hire detectives to dig up information about their adulterous
husbands. Gina was glad she didn’t have a husband to worry
about.

After a quick glance around the unkempt room,
she understood why the computer had been neglected until the last
possible moment. Obviously, nobody cared about the office equipment
– or the appearance of the employees.

“Well, hello there.” A man wearing a stained
sweatshirt and sporting an untidy beard looked up from the tabloid
spread across the reception desk. Behind him a door stood ajar. It
looked as if a larger office lay back there, with gray midwinter
light coming through a couple of windows.

“What can I do for you, pretty lady?” asked
the bearded man, letting his gaze sweep over Gina in a way that was
all too familiar to her.

She wished she had worn trousers instead of a
short black leather skirt and opaque black pantyhose. In fact, she
wished she had worn an old-fashioned nun’s habit that covered her
from head to toe. Gina hated it when men looked at her the way Mr.
Hairy-Face was doing. She was glad she was through with men. No one
was ever going to break her heart again. Or empty her bank account
and max out her one and only credit card, either.

“Virginia McCain,” she said crisply, and
deliberately did not offer her hand to shake. She didn’t want to
touch him; she was sure his palm would be sweaty, and he’d try to
hang on to her fingers too long. “I’m from Y2K Computer Systems,
here to fix your equipment.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Mr. Hairy-Face
leered at her. “You look as if you could have another reason for
being here. I’ll be glad to help you.”

“Do you have a problem with women?” Gina
demanded, making her voice hard and cold. When the man’s eyebrows
rose in surprise, she continued, “Having ignored the issue of Y2K
until much too late, you called last week, begging for our
help.”

“Not me,” said Mr. Hairy-Face. “That must’ve
been Bob Brown who called. But he’s not here. He’s taking a few
days off.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Gina bestowed her
best icy glare on the man. “Do you want me to fix the computer or
not?”

“Yeah, sure, go ahead. I can’t send out the
January bills till it’s fixed. It’s in there.” Not bothering to
rise from his chair, Mr. Hairy-Face tilted his head in the
direction of the inner office. His next words were filled with
insinuation. “Are you going to need anything special from me,
honey?”