Failure to Launch

"Come in Collin. Close the door behind you." Fred Linden was sitting behind his desk in shirtsleeves, the paisley tie pulled away at his throat. The middle-aged man was short and broad, more muscular than flabby, with a shock of unkempt sandy hair that fell down over his blue eyes. The fair skin tones were offset by ruddy cheeks and a fleshy nose - the general impression that of a mischievous adolescent trapped in a man's body, Peter Pan masquerading as a hospital administrator replete with designer shirt and thirty-dollar, silk tie.

"A hypothetical situation," Fred spoke in a haphazard, disorganized fashion. "What if you had to choose between two unethical propositions?" This was vintage Fred Linden. You thought the meeting was to discuss routine hospital business - some eighty-year-old Alzheimer's patient complaining that the skinny-as-a-rail homemaker stole her size 38, double-D bra - and Fred walloped you upside the head with some totally unrelated, incidental nonsense.

“How serious are the issues involved?"

"Enough to blow a career you spent the better part of a lifetime building."

Collin glanced over his shoulder. Yes, the door was shut, the muffled sounds in the hospital corridor dampened away to nil – nothing useable in a court of law. "I'd need more specifics."

“One of our nurse's aides in the home care unit, Gwen Santos, hasn’t attended a single continuing education workshop all year.”

The home care aide was ministering to a nineteen-year-old paraplegic woman injured in a car accident. Split shift seven days a week, Gwen visited the invalid, who had been discharged eight months earlier and lived in subsidized, handicapped housing. She cleaned the colostomy bag, bathed and dressed the crippled girl before transferring her to a motorized wheelchair. Early on, Collin visited the home to do the initial, activities-of-daily-living assessment. In her late thirties, the caregiver never called out sick. In the dead of winter with a foot of fresh-packed snow on the ground, Gwen fishtailed down the icy-strewn, Route 95 interstate in her beat-up Subaru with bald tires and a blown muffler to bath and feed the paralyzed woman.

“The Department of Health could cite Gwen for non-compliance,” Collin replied. “Revoke her license.”

Fred pushed a messy clump of papers across the desk. “Which is why I forged her signature on all ten, CEU attendance sheets.”

Collin felt a cramping sensation in his stomach. When Fred Linden finally raised his eyes from the desk, the perennial jokester wasn't smiling anymore. "So which is the lesser of two evils?"

The lesser of two evils... A young girl with withered legs, spastic bladder and no control whatsoever over the lower portion of her body loses a devoted caregiver, because the state, in its bureaucratic wisdom, mandates that Gwen Santos waste her time sitting in a classroom learning what she already knew from ten years earlier!

"I duplicated the signature on her employment application." Fred thumped the topmost sheet with a stubby forefinger. “Judging by the old-fashioned, cursive ‘r’s and bulky capitol 'G's', I’m guessing Gwen attended a parochial school run by ninety-year-old nuns in black habits and wimples.” Gathering up the papers, he tossed them in a manila folder. "But that's not really why I called you here." He pointed at a computer laptop lying on a workstation near the window. "There's a database program I'd like you to look at."

Still frazzled by the earlier revelation, Collin sat down at the workstation and reached for the mouse. "Where's the cursor?"

"Professional File System predates the mouse." Fred replied, "It doesn't even know what a Window’s operating system is much less a mouse."

For the second time in less than five minutes Fred Linden had rendered the younger man mildly disoriented. But that was typical. The administrator threw you a curve - more like a screwball - then, just as abruptly, shifted gears, lurching off on a totally unrelated tangent. Collin pulled his hand away from the keyboard. "How do I navigate the main menu?"

"Up and down arrows in conjunction with the Enter key."

Collin depressed the down arrow and the screen came alive. Tapping lightly on the Enter key, the prehistoric program navigated to a crude search menu with four, separate options.

"Have you had coffee?" Collin shook his head. The older man rose and reached for his jacket. "Let’s grab something, and over lattes I'll explain what we're doing with this stone-age relic."

* * * * *

A mile from the hospital they passed a Dunkin' Donuts. In bright spirits, Fred was jibber-jabbering away about everything under the sun with the exception of Gwen Santos and fossilized computer programs. "How's your love life?"

"Temporarily on hold," Collin replied.

"I thought you were dating that freckle-faced X-ray technician?"

"Only briefly. Didn't work out," he muttered noncommittally.

"Well that's a good thing."

"How do you figure it?"

"Unless you're in the market for long-term relationships, you don't want to get in too deep. Feelings get bruised. Things get ugly." On the left-hand side of the road a Tim Horton's coffee shop with a parking lot full of cars came into view, but Fred continued along at a moderate clip. "My wife and I just celebrated our silver wedding anniversary... a partnership of twenty-five years and still going strong! That's what you want in a marriage."

They were supposed to be discussing antiquated, computer software not marital bliss. Collin was having trouble following the administrator’s verbal perambulations. A Honey-Dew Donut loomed directly ahead, but the car never slowed down. When they reached Brandenberg center, Fred turned into Ryan's Diner. "I changed my mind," he blurted. "I don't want coffee. I need breakfast… a full meal."

Once inside, the older man chose a booth near the back of the restaurant. They ordered breakfast specials, and the waitress, a plump brunette with a pear-shaped torso, hurried off to fetch their drinks. "The PFS computer program resembles a hobbled horse with blinders. It limps along unable to take in much of anything except what's directly within its restricted line of vision."

The coffee arrived. Collin added a splash of cream and sugar."Why the heck would anyone want to use such a limited program?"

"We need it exclusively for one application: updating client invoices."

"What about Microsoft XL or one of the hospital's more sophisticated billing programs?"
As the administrator explained the dilemma, he already sampled a dozen similar programs, each of which contained a fatal flaw; either they couldn't perform multiple field searches or the complex, design templates resisted modification. "What we have here is an absurdly obsolete computer program that does exactly what we need, quicker and better than anything else on the market."

Collin shrugged. "So what's the problem?"

"Most college-educated professionals would balk at using such a shabby product." Fred's massive face dissolved in a conspiratorial smirk. "That's where you come in. I want you to learn the PFS program and show one or two enlightened souls in your department how the software works. That way, if I'm out sick or away on conference, there's no break in continuity."

Their food arrived. The waitress set the dishes down and freshened their coffee. They ate in silence. When the meal was done, Fred reached across the table and thumped him playfully on the forearm. "What about marriage?" As with everything else, the question seemed to drop out of nowhere. "Ever think about settling down?"

"Until I find a potential soul mate, it's all wishful thinking."

Fred waved a fist vaguely in the direction of the main counter. "How about that one over there? Could you picture yourself married to that cute blonde?"

Fifty feet away, a woman dressed in a white waitress's uniform was leaning against the Formica counter. Slouched at an angle, she was gazing out the window with a sultry expression, her flax-colored hair tied back in a pig tail that petered out about the nape of the neck.

"She's probably already got a husband and a bun in the oven."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Collin gazed intently at the woman a second time. "Yeah, with those plump breasts and cupid’s bow lips, she's pretty as hell. Despite the fact that I don't even know the woman, I could fantasize all sorts of intriguing possibilities."

Fred took a final swig of coffee and rose to his feet. "Don't go anywhere."

Lumbering to the counter, he tapped the waitress on the shoulder and began a rather vigorous monologue. Nonplussed, the girl only seemed to be half listening. Fred Linden gestured with both hands as he flicked his eyes in the direction of the booth where Collin was sitting, and the blonde gave him a perfunctory once over before turning away. After a series of animated exchanges, Fred returned to the booth.

"Saturday night… a dinner date followed by a movie of her choosing." He paid the bill, placing the tip separately to one side. "Dress to impress and make formal dinner reservations so you're not kept waiting to be seated."

Collin gawked again at the blonde. She was still rooted in the same place, peering out the window with a look of haughty indifference. "She agreed to go out with me on your recommendation?" Fred smiled his goofball, little-boy smile. "I don't even know the woman's name, where she lives or telephone number."

"No matter," Fred rose to his feet and was already half way to the door. "Her father can supply you with all that miscellaneous information."

* * * * *

Later that night, Collin was sitting in front of his computer console. He had just loaded the PFS database program into the C drive and brought up the navy blue main menu. Arrow up, arrow down, enter and F-10 to save information - that was it, the whole kit and caboodle. It was so simple it bordered on the idiotic. But the program was infinitely more coherent than any other for organizing client data. A case in point: Gwen Santos took care of three other homemaking clients in addition to the crippled girl. The PFS program allowed staff to print pay slips by assigned worker. So Gwen got all her client invoices printed on continuous feed forms in one uninterrupted run before proceeding on to the next worker straight through the alphabet, A to Z. It seemed logical enough, but no other program could negotiate the multiple-client stumbling block.

Fred Linden and his daughter, Alison, were not exactly on the coziest terms, which is why, when he entered the diner the father purposely chose a booth away from the front. "Ali was valedictorian of her senior class," Fred boasted on the drive back from Ryan's Diner. "She went off to Brandeis on full academic scholarship and got her degree two years ago."

"So how come she's waiting tables?"

"Perfectly reasonable question," Fred pulled up at a stoplight. The hospital was three blocks down on the right. "Take the laptop home over the weekend,” he blurted shifting gears. “You can familiarize yourself with the new database program and I'll bring you up to speed on print drivers and other incidentals as we get closer to payroll."

The freckle-faced X-ray Technician had psychological 'issues', and Collin had no desire to be blindsided by another ditsy dame. "Does your daughter have a mental aberration?"

Fred wagged his head emphatically from side to side. "With Alison it's more a matter of…" He snapped his fingers repeatedly, trying to conjure up the proper term. "Failure to launch, that's it. Alison's been in a bit of a holding pattern since completing her studies."

Failure to launch – the term suggested an ineffectual nudnik who couldn’t get out of her own way. The explanation made no sense. In the parking lot, the stocky man turned off the engine and sat pensively for the longest time. "There are third world countries where parents decide a suitable match for their children."

A cardiologist Collin recognized pulled into a parking space several rows down. "You're not my father and we don't live in a third world country. Where does romance factor into the equation?"

"Yeah, that too," Fred blustered. He suddenly reached out and patted Collin on the shoulder. "I got a good feeling about this… a real good feeling."

"What did your daughter study in college?"

“Philosophy with a minor in comparative lit.”

“Four years of Schopenhauer and Nathaniel Hawthorne, and now she waits tables in a greasy spoon?”

“Not to worry!” Fred undid the seatbelt and reached for the door. "Saturday night, Alison will bring you up to speed."

Collin didn't have to wait. On Wednesday in the late morning, Alison Linden paid Collin a visit at the hospital. “My father put us both in an awkward situation at the diner the other day. You’re not obligated to go out with me if you don’t want.” Collin, who was updating the client roster, leaned back in the swivel chair. She really was quite pretty. The family was of Dutch origin, which would explain the generous, full-lipped face, fleshy nose and watery blue eyes.
“I already made dinner reservations... the Blue Grotto on Federal Hill. Seven o’clock.” He cleared his throat and looked her full in the face. “You had a change of heart?”
“No, not at all,” Alison blustered. “It’s just my father’s got this nutty notion that we’re going directly from the Blue Grotto to marriage altar with nothing in between.”
Collin turned off the computer and stepped out from behind the desk. “Come with me.” Poking his head in an adjoining office, he informed a coworker he was taking early lunch and, with Alison Linden in tow, headed for the elevator.

Three blocks down was a dog park that snaked through a wooded grove of densely packed maples, oaks and aromatic pines. Directly ahead an older woman was walking a brown and white shih-tzu. The dog, which was off the leash, scampered erratically among the dead leaves and pine needles. When they reached the gravel footpath, Collin turned to Alison. “Earlier this week I learned your father has been forging signatures so one of our aides wouldn’t lose her accreditation.”

Collin told her about the incident with the counterfeited signatures. “The Department of Health doesn’t give a rat’s ass if a paraplegic teenager wallows in her own shit; all they care about are a hodgepodge of state-mandated, training regulations. Your father did the right thing, even if it meant putting his own job in jeopardy.”

It had been a hard New England winter and everyone they passed seemed buoyed by the sun and the unseasonable warmth. “What would you have done?” Alison asked.
“I don’t follow you?”

“With the training credits.”

Collin made a disgruntled face, blowing out his cheeks in exasperation. “I would have drawn the shades, locked the door to my office and wedged the back of a sturdy chair under the doorknob as an added precaution before forging the necessary signatures." The jaunty little Shih-tzu doubled back to where they were standing. Collin squatted down on his haunches and scratched the dog with the pushed-in face behind the ear. "In the future your father won't be put in such a bind."

"How that?"

"In cases where employees can't attend in-house training, they can still gain credit by viewing medical videos and having an administrator countersign the paperwork." The shih-tzu suddenly lifted a hind leg and peed into the leaves. The dog had a pronounced overbite, the bottom teeth extending well in front of the uppers. "I already put together a packet of six videos that I'm mailing out to Gwen Santos this afternoon. I'll meet with her sometime next month to quiz her on the topics and collect signatures." Standing no more than four inches off the ground, the dog with the pushed-in face scampered off again, his massive head held perfectly erect and plumed tail arched over the barrel-shaped back. “Your father wants me to marry you in the worst way.”

“He’s not terribly subtle with affairs of the heart.” Alison cracked a wan smile.

* * * * *

Saturday night the phone rang. “Regarding the new invoicing program...” Fred Linden was on the other end of the line.

“It’s almost midnight,” Collin groused. “I’m getting ready for bed.”

“The F-1 key opens up a series of ‘help’ boxes with step-by-step instructions.”

Collin was standing barefoot on the kitchen tiles. “You called to tell me that?”

“How did your first date go?”

“Why don’t you ask your daughter?”

“Already did and she referred me back to you.” When there was no immediate reply, Fred asked, “Are you going to ask Alison out again?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“In a day or so.”

Dead silence. “There’s no help menu, in the conventional sense.” Fred’s over-stimulated brain seemed to be in reflective free fall. “You’ll need to navigate to the place in a specific submenu where confusion arises before depressing the F-1 tab.”

“Goodnight, Fred.”

“Alison’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?”

“Goodnight.”