💾 Archived View for republic.circumlunar.space › ~luminar › text › ximxom › ximxom_part_1.md captured on 2021-12-17 at 13:26:06.
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# Part I # I was tightening the lid back on the jar of peanut butter when a young woman walked into my office holding a letter. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, holding back tears. “I just can’t do this anymore.” I looked down at myself, my dress shirt and slacks covered in globs of creamy Jif, and adjusted my tie. “I’m sorry, who are you again?” “I’m Lydia, sir. I’m your assistant.” I smiled and nodded. “Your longtime assistant.” Pursing my lips and squinting as if to summon any memory of whomever I was speaking to, before breaking into a shrug, smiling and nodding once more, peanut butter clinging to my eyelashes as I blinked cheerfully. “I hope you’ll accept my resignation, effective immediately,” she said, placing the letter on my desk. Completely taken by surprise, I asked her to explain. Lydia went on to illustrate the history of our 10-year professional relationship, which I remembered nothing of. Nothing at all. That being said, it was fascinating stuff. Apparently I had accumulated a great deal of wealth over the years through a combination of ruthless business tactics and various cut throat strategies that were extremely effective. I had more money than almost anyone. Everyone needed my help. Mayors, Governors, captains of industry, and Presidents of many nations were always asking in the most polite and flattering ways possible for me to pitch in on their exciting new projects, which I did, like the elite businessman that I was and currently am, whenever it was worth my while. “I could read you your Wikipedia page if that would be helpful,” Lydia offered reluctantly. I waved a hand at her dismissively. “No, that won’t be necessary.” Lydia nodded and looked down at her shoes. “Well, then I’ll be going. It’s been an honor, sir.” I nodded and rose to stroll over to the window behind my desk, tracking peanut butter on the carpet behind me. Floor to ceiling, it revealed a glorious view of the San Francisco Bay. “Lydia, wait.” She halted in the doorway. “Do I have a dog?” Lydia paused. “A dog, sir? No dog, no.” I folded my arms and let out a sigh. “I see. Lydia, if I may have one last favor.” “Certainly, sir.” “We’re going to need to do something about that dog situation.” Lydia nodded and returned to the seat across my desk, beginning to type a note into her phone. “Is there a specific kind of dog you’re interested in?” she asked. “I don’t think so, no. Why would that matter?” I replied. Lydia gave me a confused look. “Well, it doesn’t… Of course not… So you want me to just get you a dog.” I nodded and smiled. “Any dog?” “Yes, any dog will do,” I said, smiling wider. About an hour later, Lydia returned with a small orange puppy wriggling in her arms. “My goodness, Lydia. What is that?!” I exclaimed. “This is the dog you wanted, sir?” “Well of course! And what a little dog it is!” Lydia nodded. “What is it called?” I asked. “The breed is Akita Inu, sir. It’s an Akita/Shiba Inu mix.” I stared at her blankly. “Vladimir Putin has an Akita,” she said matter of factly. “Is that something I would be interested in under usual circumstances?” I asked. “Yes, you share a mutual admiration for one another,” she said. “And the Shiba part?” “That’s like a smaller version of an Akita. Akita’s grow to be very large dogs.” “So my dog will be smaller than Vladimir Putin’s?” I asked. “Yes, but cuter.” “Oh!” I exclaimed. “Good call, Lydia.” She smiled professionally and set the puppy down on the floor, turning to leave. “And what is his name?” I asked. “Well, she is a girl,” Lydia replied. “And I thought you would like to name her, sir.” “Will she need a name?” I asked. “For practical purposes, yes sir. You’ll need to call her, otherwise she won’t know when she’s needed.” “Right,” I nodded, “of course.” I stood and thought for a moment. “Lydia, I don’t know any dog names.” “That’s ok, sir,” she said. We stood in silence for a moment. “We could name her ’Sir’,” I suggested. Lydia frowned. “No, that’s stupid,” I said. “Come back tomorrow, I’ll have figured out something by then,” I told her, gesturing toward the door. Lydia began to protest, but seeing I was serious about this dog naming business, acquiesced, nodding and leaving a small bowl of water and puppy chow on her way out. At 7 a.m. the next morning, she returned to find me diligently researching dog names on my laptop, dried flakes of peanut butter still attached to my graying temples. "Lady Von Champion," I declared. "Sir?" "That's it, that's the dog's name. I've done my due diligence and that's what she will be called." Lydia winced and approached me carefully. “Sir, I’ve been trying to be discreet about this, but are you feeling alright?” “Lydia?” “I feel like I bear a great deal of responsibility for your current… condition. It wouldn’t be right of me to leave you in this state. Have you been in an accident of some kind?” she asked. “Why, am I bleeding?” I searched myself for wounds. “No… Sir, I’ve brought someone with me that I’d like you to meet,” Lydia said. “Is it another dog?” I asked. The puppy jumped up against my leg, letting out a little whimper. I put my hands on my hips and examined the small dog. “Lydia, why is it doing that?” “I think she may want to go outside. Maybe she just wants attention. I don’t know.” “It would be nice if she could just tell us what was on her mind, wouldn’t it?” I asked. “Yes sir, it would be,” Lydia acknowledged. “Sir,” she pressed on, “there is a physician from Saint Francis in the hallway. I took the liberty of having him stop by to visit with you.”