Ikon!

By G. F. Kaye

Denis Halliday has an avatar. No big deal. Everyone has them. They're almost universal. People use them for e-mail, chat rooms, on the social networking pages, and even as game pieces. The difference between those and his, however, is that, unbeknownst to him, his avatar has an agenda of its very own. Not only that, but it is using his lack of attention to make its own place in his world, and he almost doesn't realize it in time.
Denis Halliday is about to learn that the click of a mouse can, indeed, be a dangerous thing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. F. Kaye
• Release date: Oct 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310225727

G. F. Kaye

G. F. Kaye lives in Grand Rapids, MI, in a lovingly restored 1839 farmhouse. The work was all done personally, including the exterior, which is shaked in the traditional New England style. This has been listed as a "dying American Art Form. The author also paints in most media, and is a neighborhood preservation activist and avid gardener. Of Eastern European descent, the author has always felt a close affinity with the soil and growing things. Writing has been a lifelong off and on affair, with serious efforts being made since 2002. The author has since completed numerous works, and is in the process of final editing them and publishing them as e-books. "I only write when I'm having fun doing it," is the author's credo. The belief is that if the author is having fun writing the works, then people will also have fun reading them. This is reflected in the author's 'tongue in cheek' style, which has been referred to as a cross between the works of John Steinbeck and Mickey Spillane.

Book preview

Ikon!

G. F. Kaye

A click of a mouse can be a dangerous thing.

* * * * *

This is a work of fiction.

All physical locations are fictional, as are the events described, and exist only in the mind of the author.

Any resemblance of characters contained herein to any specific person, persons, or beings, living, dead is purely coincidental.

Ikon!

Copyright 2015, G. F. Kaye

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means; mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission from the author.

In plain English, this ebook is licensed for the original buyer’s personal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book, and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased solely for your use, then please go to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

First Published by G. F. Kaye at Smashwords

* * * * *

Ikon!

You know? It’s a hell of a thing to realize you’re not the guy you used to be.

- anon.

Chapter One: Just what the hell was the question, anyway?

I studied the pretty brunette. She studied me in turn; big, hazel eyes made to look even bigger by artfully applied mascara, liner, and subtly blended shadow. I slowly shook my head before pulling my eyes away from hers with some difficulty. A guy could get lost in those eyes. Her brows might be a little on the heavy side, but those eyes more than made up for them. The entire package was emphasized by a classic ‘peaches and cream’ complexion. It was incredibly smooth and flawless, all by itself, with just a light dusting of very fine mineral powder. Despite myself, my gaze was irresistibly drawn back to her face. Bright coral lipstick set off full lips to perfection. She had a fineness of features that belonged in a painting. Sighing, I dropped my gaze to the figure below. She was wearing a deeply U-necked, bright teal, cable knit sweater, showing just a demure amount of cleavage, accentuated by a Celtic knot charm on a very fine, silvery chain that didn’t quite hang into it. Matching charms on relatively short drop earrings peeked from a full mane of loose curls that were the color of strong untainted coffee.

She was absolutely stunning!

Letting a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escape, I wondered, offhand, how long I’d been holding it. Taking another, smiling a little dazedly, I waved. All things considered, I think I was actually a bit surprised when she mirrored my gesture. Finally, taking another deep breath, closing my eyes, I turned away. As interesting as the young woman was, I’d more pressing things on my mind just then. Well, the inescapable fact was that she was very definitely on my mind, too. There were several things about her on my mind, in fact. Glancing over my shoulder at that cleavage, quickly turning away again, I shook my head very slowly. Apparently, I needed to consider them soon, too, before what was left of me or my world slipped completely from my grasp. I mean, what I’d thought was my life was suddenly smoke in my hands, quickly dispersing, even as my fingers clutched at tenuous wisps. The evidence was right behind me.

I shuddered. I needed to get a grip; preferably on something a bit more solid than my sense of self. Failing a more tangible solution, turning, I placed my hands firmly atop a chair back. Taking a white-knuckled grasp, Take deep breaths! I told myself. Like before exercising! In your nose with a ten count! Count to ten again as you exhale from your mouth. Repeat! Steady!

Okay! I snickered, answering, rolling my eyes inanely. Right! I was steady as a mad person can be! I frowned, considering. Was I mad? I closed my eyes again, my mind racing. They say reality is largely what it’s perceived to be. I shrugged. I guess there could be some valid points made to support that line of thinking. I suppose it’s kind of like that exercise of existentiality that simply maintains that any person, when you get down to basics, is nothing more than the sum total of their experience.

Right! I giggled, inanely. How many existentialists does it take to change a light bulb? a little voice in my head queried. It was a joke I’d first heard a long time ago, in high school philosophy class. Eyes still closed, gripping the chair for all it was worth, I shook my head as the answer came, unbidden. A true existentialist would never change a lightbulb! He or she would fully experience the darkness!

I shook my head, still giggling, as it occurred to me I’d been doing a lot of that, lately. Well, shaking my head and giggling, both. The one, I supposed, was a gut reaction to my own life experiences, especially of late. I snorted. Most especially the last couple hours - if it’d even been that long. The other?

I shrugged, thinking I may as well get used to it. Immediately after that earth-shattering decision, however, I seriously began wondering if the ease with which my train of thought seemed to be derailing, lately, was symptomatic of something. There’s another old joke that puts forth the premise that every person, as they get older, has an increasing preoccupation with the hereafter; the punch line, of course, being, that you go into the very next room and wonder what you’re ‘here after.’

I frowned, shaking my head. That particular saying had nothing at all to do with my current situation, but it’d brought up another observation. To wit: It seemed the reason I hadn’t realized what was going on was simply that I just hadn’t realized what was going on. In that existentialist manner, I’d perceived everything to be just hunky-dory, so it was. Simple as that. That realization just opened another can of worms, howsomever. Throwing my hands in the air, I began pacing, my head spinning even more, if that were even possible. ‘They’ say that a person’s perceptions probably define a great deal of their reality. Now, the theory of reality being perception is all fine and dandy - but - was it your perception this nebulous They were talking about?

Was it?

Still shaking my head, I paused, hands on hips.

Or was it theirs? Hmm?

I felt my eyebrow head up as another thought drifted through. Who the hell is this They, anyway? I mean, who the hell are these people? I giggled, despite my inner turmoil, as what was more likely a profound thought than not drifted by. Could that ever-present, mysterious they simply be a congress of all those little voices? You know, like the one clamoring for attention in my head at the moment? Shaking my head, I realized I was digressing. Immediately upon that realization, however, I wondered if it was even possible to digress while talking to oneself.

I quickly shook my head again, chucking the whole idea. Not too far, though. It definitely bore returning to. I did return to the question of perception, and whose. The short form of that exercise in logic was simple, on the face of it. In brief, there are many that argue that your world is at least partly shaped by the way you, yourself, see it.

Sounds quite reasonable, on the face of things, doesn’t it? Suppose, for a moment, however, that your perception isn’t the one shaping the world around you? I mean, you do exist in the same reality as many others, don’t you? A great many others, in fact. So it stands to reason that the world probably doesn’t rely very much on your perception of it at all. That, of course, must beg the next question, and it was enough to cause me to pause in my pacing again.

If it doesn’t - rely on your own perception, that is - whose reality is it? Really?

This time I laughed aloud, shaking my head and wildly throwing my hands in the air. I mean, just who the hell do you blame it on? All of which, finally, brought me back to my present conundrum. Namely: I believe my world - such as it’s suddenly become, anyway - was perceived by a lunatic! That immediately brought to mind, of course - to no one’s surprise, I imagine - the next thought: Is it me?

Taking a deep breath, I nodded, and my eye was caught by the brunette; the source of all this introspection.

No. I couldn’t face her. Not yet. Closing my eyes, taking a sharp breath, I quickly looked away.

It was a damned good question. Then again, or so it seemed to my trained, analytical mind; if I were truly insane, the world I was perceiving should seem perfectly normal to me. I frowned. Shouldn’t it? Thus, the problem, I realized, beginning to pace, again, shaking my head even more violently. It definitely does not! It used to. I think it did, anyway, but one day, I was only now realizing, it just - didn’t.

I paused in my pacing, willfully collecting my thoughts. It didn’t! Not any more. I shook my head. Not really. It wasn’t like it was anything major, and it didn’t seem to affect much of anything else. The rest of the world hadn’t even seemed to notice anything was amiss. It was confined, apparently, to my perception of my tiny portion of it; it being, of course, my perception of - well - it.

Oh, an analyst woud have a field day with me! I muttered. Firmly gripping the bridge of my nose, I shook my head again. Or still. I’d lost track. After all, it did sound a bit neurotic.

I rolled my eyes. A bit? Okay. Maybe more than a bit. As I’d observed earlier, however, if I were actually insane, it would’ve been okay. Wouldn’t it? I mean, whatever the world seemed like to me, however I perceived it, would’ve been just fine. However, there was a teeny-tiny nagging little problem. I stopped shaking my head, staring, instead, at the ceiling for a change of pace. I mean, it was just a feeling. You know? Sighing loudly and long, flinging my arms out to nowhere in particular, I verbalized, I’m really beginning to suspect that it isn’t. Anyway, to my thinking - even in hindsight - whatever it was, it definitely couldn’t have been right. I simply hadn’t pinned it down, yet. I mean, as I’ve said, it wasn’t anything major. It was more like waking up one morning and discovering your skin didn’t quite fit. Or glancing in a mirror, one day, and wondering, Who the hell is that person, and why the hell is he, I shrugged, or she - wearing my clothes?

I don’t necessarily mean it in a philosophical sense, either. I shook my head. Not anymore. I mean, I used to know who I was and had a pretty good idea where I was going. Or, I think I did. I kind of have the feeling I did. Once. Now, however, looking at things with brand new eyes, as it were, I’m not really so sure, or I think I’m not so sure, anyway, all of which brings me back to the original question - well - more or less.

I think I am. Thus, I must be. Right?

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I murmured aloud, I think. Stopping my pacing, leaning against what I sincerely hoped was a solid wall, I shook my head again. I never thought, before ending up here, that I’d end up here; wherever here was. With that thought in mind, I let my mind travel back to where it’d started. Or, probably more accurately, all things considered, back to where I think it all started.

# # #

Chapter Two: If it’s not me and you, then it must be two other people.

For some time I’d been laboring under a delusion, apparently, that I was one of the better engineers in Research & Development. In fact, I was convinced of it. Not only did I do my job, I did everything expected of me; doing it all with an excruciating attention to detail, which is not a bad trait in an engineer. In my mind, I was an ideal employee. In my mind, also, it just never occurred to me that the budget trimming that was freely going on in the rest of the firm could affect what I’d always considered to be its most crucial part - namely: new product development. Even when they did decide, to my surprise, to downsize R&D, I still didn’t worry. I was really that good at my job. As it turned out, though, I wasn’t the ideal guy, after all. Strangely enough, it had nothing to do with the quality of my work. What they said was that they needed people with more imagination than I’d demonstrated. People willing to take chances; willing to take long shots, then stand up for them.

Great! I’d thought at the time. They’d wanted a troublemaker; a squeaky wheel; a malcontent. The ironic thing was, they’d had one all along, but hadn’t known it. I’d actually been that squeaky wheel in a previous position. It was what’d gotten me let go. Briefly, I’d squeaked, my supervisor squawked, and I’d been shown the door. Here, however, it seemed the opposite had been true. My Herculean efforts to keep my big mouth shut, this time, just doing whatever they wanted me to, wasn’t what they’d wanted. They’d actually wanted the rebellious upstart they’d heard about. I just wish they’d told me that.

So, my butt was out the door again, for diametrically opposed reasons, but out, nonetheless. They had, however, offered me a position elsewhere in the firm. It was one where my fastidious attention to detail, as they so snidely - or so I thought at the time, anyway - put it, would be appreciated.

It was in text services.

Text services? Needless to say, I’d been appalled. In plain English, it’s word crunching. What a comedown - and the ultimate putdown, whether they’d intended it to be or not. Sure, it was the department that assembled all the firm’s catalogs, sales flyers, brochures, and such, and, all things considered, it was very important to day to day operations, but in order to understand my attitude, let’s just call it what I perceived it to be at the time. It was what they used to call the ‘steno pool’ in days long past.

Get it? Steno pool? Dizzy blondes with vacuous smiles, attired in high heels, tight skirts, and too much makeup? Okay. That’s a bit over the top, but it’s what occurred to my film noir thinking, at the time. As I may have mentioned, I was appalled, but, times being what they were, and recognizing my need for some refresher courses to update my engineering resume to where I could even begin to think about competing with the fresh, young faces the engineering schools keep churning out, I decided - after judicious prodding from my sister - that a paycheck would be nice to have while I looked. Swallowing my professional pride, I found a shirt with no ink stains around the pocket and reported several floors down to a woman named Carol the following morning. In case I’m sounding terribly unenthusiastic, I don’t think she was that happy to see me, either. At least, that was my immediate impression. Uh, she’d begun after I’d introduced myself. Her tone, accompanied by a perplexed expression hadn’t helped the situation. Ri-i-ight, I’d thought, a stony feeling quickly gathering in my gut. Confusion. Always a good start. However, Silly me, she’d giggled a moment later, gamely trying, I recall thinking, to superimpose some form of welcoming face over the clearly startled one that’d greeted my announcement of who I was and why I was there. All things considered, I was expecting a woman named Denise. I thought ‘Denis’ was a simple misspell.

Misspell, huh? Well, it wasn’t the first time that’d happened. Thanks, mom, for deciding to spell my name the French way - with just one ‘n’, just to be different. It’d been the bane of my existence. Not like it was actually a curse, mind you, but it was usually the first thing people asked about. Not: What are your qualifications? Not: Can you do the job? Why the odd spelling of your name? I will admit, however, it’d been the first time I’d been expected to be female. Then again, I suppose I could’ve researched my new home a bit, too. All things considered, she’d said. One quick peek in the company directory, and forty-two women and zero males working in one big room might’ve made it less of a surprise. After very brief, and somewhat tense, small talk - or so I’d thought, especially on her part - she’d escorted me through an inter-office door into a very well lit, spacious, quietly carpeted, otherwise extremely pleasant corner office. I say office, but the space was huge. About the size of a small auditorium, in fact, though, I’ll have to admit, once you were out in it, it just didn’t seem that way. A lot of the bright cheeriness came from the windows down the length of both outer walls - typical for a modern glass and steel office structure. What took me by surprise was they were literally filled with plants! Both on unexpectedly wide sills that had to have been added later, and suspended from the ceiling. Lots and lots of plants. More plants, in fact - flowering and otherwise - than I’d ever seen in a single space before, except maybe a greenhouse, filled the room. Work stations seemed placed, willy-nilly, among them. Then again, on second glance, I’d realized that they were arranged in some sort of rhyme or reason, though it’d still looked pretty random to me. Most were clustered in the type of conversation groupings you saw in many dining rooms or nightclubs. These clusters of workstations were divided by bigger plants - trees, I’d have called them. The spaces between those were separated by planters of every shape, size, and description. It had to be in lieu of the standard office dividers, I’d quickly realized. Tucked into all this greenery, too, were comfortable looking chairs, arranged in what had to be actual conversation groupings of varying sizes. This conjecture was supported by the fact that there seemed to be a meeting currently going on in one such grouping, judging by the number of folders and charts and the animated conversation. The meeting quickly ground to a halt, however, as first one, then the other participants - all female, I couldn’t help notice - spotted us. Any other time, I’d have welcomed being the center of so much feminine attention. At the moment, I’ll have to admit, I couldn’t help but feel a little like a lab specimen.

I swallowed nervously.

Just a bit different from what you expected. Isn’t it? Carol had giggled merrily, misreading my initial reaction at first, I’d thought. Despite the haphazard appearance, everything’s arranged by teams, she’d explained, however, immediately negating that theory. That group, she’d pointed at the curious gathering, meeting suspended, apparently, as they wondered who I was, no doubt, is working on the next catalog for your former department. I’d waved from somewhere near my belt with what I’d hoped was a cheerful smile. That’d be the annual project update catalog. That, of course, explained why some of the faces looked familiar, and if they were familiar to me, it also explained their curiosity. Offhandedly, I wondered, at the time, when was the last time anyone from R & D had actually come down here.

This team, she’d waved at an openly curious pair, who typically worked on their projects together, judging by the desks facing each other at an angle, a largish drafting table across the third side of their triangular space. This is the happy-go-lucky crew that puts out the monthly corporate newsletter, which explains their curiosity. She’d grinned merrily, facing me. If I were you, Denis, I’d expect many questions from Cynthia and Margo. Likely soon. She’d waved at each while speaking their names, by way of introduction. They’d cheerfully waved back. Newsletter! I’d repeated, smiling, nodding, and desperately trying to picture it. We had a newsletter? I’d failed to recall ever having seen one. They do a very fine job of it, too, I’d lied, still smiling, of course, even while realizing that, up until then, I was sure I’d never seen it, or heard of it, come to think of it. It was politic, however, to make nice at my future co-workers. Besides, they’d easily been within earshot, and, like most of the room’s occupants not actually on a call or otherwise involved, by now, they’d proceeded to eye me up as I’d stood there with their department head.

Keeping my smile firmly plastered in place, I’d begun to wonder which of the groups I’d be assigned to. As if reading my mind, something I’d never, even after all this time, be sure she couldn’t do, Carol had pointed to a group of loosely arranged desks in a corner. I’d immediately noted, as my gut began churning, a suspiciously tidy, empty desk among them. Walking, she finger waved me to follow.

This’ll be your team, she almost giggled, I swear, leading me to what I quickly realized was easily the youngest looking group in the room, with only a couple exceptions. My team, I’d smiled, trying to make it nonchalant. Okay. Hi, team. What’ll I be doing? I’d wondered aloud, waving at the crew that’d stopped whatever they were doing and drifted around us. Yikes! I’m surrounded! I recalled thinking, my smile broadening while inwardly I came close to panicking. Don’t let them sense fear, a wacky inner voice had thrown in, but Carol had continued speaking, so I’d told it to shut the hell up and paid attention.

I know you’ve really been with the firm for a while, Mr. Halliday, but, in this department, this is where everyone starts, she’d announced, spinning on her heel and leaning against the empty desk, placing her hands back onto it. Not to denigrate what gets done here, of course, she’d added hurriedly as a couple of the older women had openly rolled their eyes. This is where the piles of correspondence the people upstairs generate - apparently without using any of their spell checkers, she’d laughed, shaking her head, a couple of the crew giggling merrily in accompaniment, and with apparently wild abandon, comes. She waved, loosely, around the work area. It gets checked, edited, formatted, addressed . . . all that nit-picky, nonsensical sort of thing no one up there pays any attention to, or realizes is even being done, probably, she’d snorted, rolling her own eyes, waving her hands in the air. Finally, it’s printed, stuffed, otherwise readied for mailing, or whatever else it’s being prepared for, and off it goes.

Oh, Christ, I’d thought, continuing to listen while very carefully maintaining my smile. It really was the steno pool, but, while getting somewhat less than half my former salary, I’d still have full benefits, I’d reminded myself at that point, which was why my sister had practically twisted my arm the night before, saying, Take it, you putz! Even if you hate it, it’s a job! You’ll get paid while you send out resumes! I’d balked, of course, but finally decided to give it a shot. After all, she’s an ER nurse, and definitely knows the benefits of good medical coverage. I’ll swear on anything anyone presents for the purpose, too, that