“So what’s the best story you’ve ever written?” I ask. It works: she stops and thinks about it, and there’s a public answer and a private answer, which is always good. She tells me about the story she won awards for, the one she sends to magazine editors when she pitches them — a two-month investigation into the shady dealings surrounding a lucrative waterfront development contract, involving the ambitious son of a casual-footwear magnate, a mayoral aide, and the aide’s partner, who was running for DA. (Even I was vaguely aware of this when it broke: there were headlines in the Chronicle, and people lost their jobs.) But then she tells me about the story that meant the most to her, the one that she remembers when she gets discouraged: a story about a Catholic church in Ingleside whose priest made some odious remarks about gay marriage, and the activists who picketed outside the church dressed as nuns.
“It was supposed to be a quickie,” she says of the story. “Get a couple of quotes from each side, a photo of these wacky transvestite nuns. But I wound up spending three days talking to people in the congregation, watching them feed soup to homeless people, going to services, understanding what it meant to them to have, you know, guys in nun costumes outside their church every day. And once I’d done that, I had to spend time with the nuns too, and they were the coolest, funniest, most sincere people I’d ever met. Most of them had grown up Catholic and been terrorized by it. And I was so nervous while I was writing it, because all these people on both sides had really opened up to me, had taken me into their lives, and now I was trying to do right by all of them, except they hated each other.”
“How did it turn out?”
“I totally obsessed over it,” she says. “Right up to the last minute I was adding things and taking things out and counting the number of words quoting each side, trying to make it balanced. I got a little carried away. And then the day it came out, I got to the office and there were two messages. I’m always so worried the day a big story comes out, I dread checking the messages because it’s usually someone threatening to sue. But that day there were two messages. One was from the priest and the other was from the head of the protesters, and they both said, basically, Thank you.”
“That’s awesome,” I say, because it is in fact awesome, and because I have a huge crush on her and am glad to be able to tell her that I think she’s awesome by pretending I’m talking about her story.
“So what about you?” she says. “Do you get obsessed over your work that way? Do you have a, like, a favorite program that you wrote or anything like that?”
The answer to both questions is yes, of course. But the joy of hacking doesn’t translate. If she’s like most people, computers are alien to her, mysterious electronic totems that require the ministrations of a shamanic caste of surly gnomes who live in the basement of her office building.
“I get pretty deep into it,” I say. “And the work I did for the startup, the interface I designed, I’m proud of that. I mean, I think it’s a good solution to a particular set of problems. But talking about it gets really boring to a non-programmer.”
“You worry a lot about keeping people on your side, huh?” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“If you were to answer my question, what’s the worst thing that could happen? I don’t think I’d be bored, but what if, worst case scenario, what if I was bored for a minute? Would that be the end of the world?”
I have to think about this. “Well, I don’t want to bore you. I mean…” This is hard, because the reason I don’t want to bore her is that I want her to like me, and obviously I can’t say that directly.
“I know, you don’t want to bore me, because you want me to like you,” she says. Whoa. “But you know, I’m going to make up my own mind about whether I like you, just like you’re going to make up your mind about whether you like me. And anyway, liking you is different from liking a TV show. The reason I like people is not that they never bore me. So why don’t you tell me about it, and if I don’t understand I’ll stop you and ask questions, which is what I do all day in my job, and if I get bored I’ll try to hide it until we’ve moved on to something else. OK?”
She drains the end of her drink, sets down the glass, and turns to face me. I look at her, and she looks at me, and that thing happens when you look at each other and realize, Hey, here we are. I ride it out, and then I jump in.
I try to describe what it’s like to get deep inside a really hard problem: loading all the pieces into my mind, seeing the relationships between abstract concepts as though they were the physical features of a landscape. I tell her about the marathon hacking runs I used to go on, first when I was a teenager and again in the desperate early days of Demo1, spending twenty hours at a stretch making a program more sprawling and complex and powerful but also more elegant, more beautiful. (It feels risky, using the word beautiful, but there’s no other way to say it.) I try to convey the experience of settling into hack mode, the way the cruft and chatter of consciousness quiet down, stripping away the self’s topsoil and allowing the deeper, truer self to emerge. We are most ourselves when we subsume ourselves in something greater is a paradox at the heart of every mystical practice, programming not excepted. This experience of logical-reasoning-as-metaphysical-transcendence has been observed in older vocations like chess and mathematics. A mathematician presented with a clever proof, or a grandmaster lighting on a devastating move, might replay the sequence in his head just to savor it, as though humming a passage from a Mozart concerto. I feel the same thing when I read or write a well-constructed chunk of code: this is logic so artful it’s indistinguishable from art.
While I put this into words, Maya listens carefully and says “Uh-huh” and occasionally shuts her eyes and nods as if swallowing an idea, in what appears to be a kind of mental note-taking. If she’s bored, she’s good at disguising it.
“Thanks,” she says. “Now I know something important about you.”
“No problem,” I say. I’m not used to being reassured like this.
“This is going pretty good, huh?” she says. At first I don’t understand what she’s referring to, and then I get it and I desperately want to kiss her.
“I think so, yeah,” I say. “Ha! I’ve never tried evaluating a date while it’s still in progress.” By introducing the word date I’m trying to match her audacity.
“It’s such an artificial thing,” she says, resting an elbow on the bar and propping her chin in her palm. “We both know what we’re doing, but we’re not allowed to talk about it.”
“No, you’re totally right,” I say. “I love it. Listen, if we’re going to externalize: you have reminded me of an anecdote. Are you interested in hearing an anecdote at this juncture, or would you rather the conversation progressed in a different direction?”
“An anecdote would be terrific,” she says. “Let me order another drink, and then you can tell me the anecdote. Is it funny?”
“Oh, I can’t answer that,” I say. “Starting an anecdote with This is a really funny anecdote would be a gross violation of sound anecdote technique.” We are both grinning.
“You’re right, you’re right,” she says, holding up her glass in Freya’s direction. Freya gives me an interrogative look, and I respond with an affirmative nod.