“He’s snoring,” Jared complained. “Like loud snoring.”

“Wait,” Kent asked. “Don’t the two of you share an office?”

“What of it? It’s not like he gives a crap about the job. It’s almost as if he’s hoping they fire him. Can’t figure it out to save my life.”

“What do you guys do over there anyway?”

“Me?” Jared stared back at Kent. “I don’t know anymore. I’m so bored all the time. I think I sort and shift data around. At least that what the job description is.”

“And what does your office mate do?”

“He’s a researcher. I think.”

“Researching what, exactly? How much sleep crusties can he build up in his eyes?”

“I guess.” Jared stabbed his straw at the ice of his old fashion. Jared worked at Sysoden Data Refining, a data refining center. The electronic movement of data was his job, which required him to press the right keys at the right time. If he didn’t manage to push them at the right time, an alarm would sound. Well, not precisely blurt out he missed, just a little red light indicating he missed one. Then he’d have to press that key twice to compensate for it. The truth was all of it could be automated. But Sysoden Data Refining wanted a human to say they weren’t trying to take away jobs from real people.

Jared sighed, and Kent laughed, loud enough to disturb other patrons at Embers, the best jazz club in the area. At this time of day, the white-collar accountants and bankers came in, ordering their vodkas, bourbons, and a few beers before going home to kiss their wives, girlfriends, and kids. Kent’s wife knew better than to call him after work on a Thursday, knowing he’d be at Embers for two drinks, then straight home. If there was one thing Kent was, it was reliable.

“What if, and you know I’m saying this as a friend,” Kent giggled, “but what if your mate, Owen, right?”

“Yeah, Owen.”

“Well, yeah. What if Owen,” he could hardly contain his laughter at this point, “what if he was a corporate spy? Trying to get intel on SDR?” Kent lost it, laughing so hard his face turned a bright crimson red.

Jared shook his empty glass at Nancy, the bartender, an older woman in her late forties. “Get you another one there, Jared?”

“Just one more.” He laid his head down on the bar.

“Corporate spy, huh, Kent?”

Kent pointed a finger gun at Nancy, pulled the trigger, and winked at her. “You got it.”

“Owen’s a putz. He couldn’t track enough intel for anyone to buy it, much less a competitor of SDR. Speaking of which,” Nancy asked, “who are their competitors?”

Jared lifted his head long enough to lift the drink to his lips and take a sip. “Maybe that’s the biggest of mystery of all.”

“Could have something to do with all those Cheetos trucks,” an old guy at the end of the bar muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Kent asked.

“Nuthin’ kid.” He finished his beer and stood up, stumbling to the restroom at the end of the bar where Kent and Jared sat.

“Don’t you start with your conspiracy theories again, Rogers.”

“Blow it out your ear, Nan.”

“You best cool it Rogers if you want another one.”

“Wasn’t nothin’ meant by it, Nan. Just give me a break, will ya? I’m old.”

“Whatever, Rogers.”