The Furtive Adventures of Don Q. Hoty

The Furtive Adventures of Don Q. Hoty

 “The danger of the past was that men

became slaves. The danger of the future

is that men may become robots."

                                     -Erich Fromm

The family name is Hoty. My Grandfathers were Donald and Quincy. My well intentioned parents unwittingly dubbed me Donald Quincy Hoty, or as I would come to be known, Don Q. Hoty. Do you see a problem with that? I sure did. I’d put the degree of misfortune for carrying that moniker through life up against “ A Boy Named Sue” anytime. It’s like wearing a colorful “Kick Me” sign on your back.

 It wasn’t so bad at first. I guess I liked the attention the name brought, and I really didn’t mind being the brunt of a few laughs, but over time, and as I entered the adult world, the name wore out its welcome. You might compare it to naming your baby boy “Speedy”- cute, but only for so long.

Then one day an epiphany. The Don Q. Hoty tag was not an unfortunate, coincidental juxtaposition of syllables and letters. It was a prescient labeling with a purpose, a foretelling of my future, my destiny.

 If the name fits, wear it. If your last name is Balboa, you climb into the ring. If it’s Griffey, pick up a bat and start swinging; Manning, grab hold of a football. And if you are Don Q. Hoty, you take on the unbeatable foe. Your name- it’s your heritage, your birthright. Live up to it. Noblesse oblige.

Another miserable work week was coming to a close. It wasn’t so much my coworkers, stuffed into downsized cubicles, wallowing in sameness of tasks and uniformity of thought, mired in the dullness of their lives and offering little of interest. “A good scout doesn’t blame his equipment”, but this time it was the equipment, my computer to be precise.

 I was getting error messages while performing routine tasks. One day out of frustration, and mindful of the obligation to drop a quarter into the swear jar with each uttered profanity, I shouted at the screen, “Bad computer!”. A message immediately appeared on my screen- “Too bad, so sad.” Similar subsequent complaints were met with rapid responses such as “Loser”, “Crybaby”, and “Sucks to be you.” The last straw was an overtly mean spirited message, “Why don’t you just shut up and go home, Donald, you stupid boob?”

 I was shaken, bewildered, and afraid. The computer knew my name. It was responding to my verbal outbursts in time. I couldn’t go back. I quit my job and spent the next few weeks trying to understand it all, long solitary walks in the woods, canoeing up and down the river, sitting on a hilltop watching the sun come up, and then flipping around to watch the sun go down. I even spent a number of evenings in the quiet solitude of a darkened church seeking comfort, understanding and guidance.

 I reflected on my long history of troublesome encounters with the world of technology. It had been building my entire life. The workplace computer smackdown was merely the climax of a steady progression of the technological torment I had endured for years. I wrote down what I could remember hoping to make some sense of it all:

-My Robbie the Robot toy knocked down everything I made with my Lincoln Logs and set me up for cruel, year long teasing in pre-school by telling me all children eat their boogers.

-Mysterious messages on my Etch-a-Sketch: “Beware, there is a Boogie Man”, “I wouldn’t go to sleep if I were you”, and “Put a night crawler in your Dad’s sock drawer.”

-Parked with my high school honey on local Lovers’ Lane- nearing second base- replay of old Billy Graham sermon on sex and morality suddenly blares out of radio followed by incessant horn blowing and flashing of headlights to passing police cruiser.

-Toaster on “Light” setting burns my toast to charred while “Dark” gives it a nice chill.

 -TV remote only took me to the cooking channel on 5 consecutive Super Bowl Sundays.

-My Boy Scout compass pointed South.

-“On” was off and “Off” was on for all light switches I’ve ever been around.

-Google Maps driving directions led me to unfinished bridges and cliffs; unfortunate incident during vacation in Spain when sent head-on into the “Running of the Bulls”.

-Countless misdirected phone calls (for which I was billed) to “888” number for “Talk Dirty to Me, Baby”.

 A chilling thought occurred to me as I considered the deliberate, purposeful messages I had received on my computer. I had long observed humanity’s unrelenting march to cede much of its identity, character, and purpose, to technology. Computers eliminated the need for basic math skills. Spell Check and other programs rendered a working knowledge of the English language unnecessary. High school sophomores may wonder if South is more like left or right, but with Google Maps, they will get to where they are going. Maybe we have turned a frightful corner. Perhaps it was no longer simply a matter of people willingly surrendering their ability to think and to perform basic tasks. Could technology now be on offense, engaged in a campaign to usurp the remaining hallmarks of the human mind and spirit?

I had to know. Mindful of the Machiavellian admonition to “Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer”, and throwing all concern for personal safety to the wind, and calling Susie Jones one final time to make sure she was in fact done with me, I went directly into the belly of the beast. I took short term jobs at HP, IBM, Apple, Facebook, Twitter, Microsoft, and Ned’s News (“ Everything You Need to Know on One Page”), a biweekly flyer popular in North Platte, Nebraska. I infiltrated their every program, network, delivery system, and data repository. What I learned, fair reader, will shock you, leave you in utter disbelief. It is a fantastic story, and you cannot be faulted if you do not heed the warnings. But it matters little as it is almost certainly too late.

I shudder as I write this. I repeatedly found my name in files, emails, reports, tables and even under some crude sketches drawn by bored lab techs as their feeble attempt at humor. I discovered that I was a test case, some sort of a lab rat experiment designed to measure the efficacy of various weapons of technology designed to crush the human spirit, clearing the way for world domination by the machines.

I was further shocked to discover that every bit of information transmitted via the Internet, to and from anywhere in the world, passed through one single location. The barn in upstate New York, setting just outside the quiet, rustic town of Skaneateles, was a cover. It housed a massive computer the size of…well, the size of a barn. Every computer manufacturer, Internet provider, power company, phone company, and Government entity was connected to this computer. It was all operated under the code name “SOPS.”

SOPS? What could SOPS mean? I would only hear the term whispered by upper management, perhaps as they stepped off elevators, or in a secretive corner of the cafeteria. It had a somber, eerie tone to it, spoken as one might refer to a nefarious, frightening creature. My co-workers likened hearing the term to Big Foot sightings.

As I had seen TV crime shows where the cops surreptitiously find critical evidence in garbage cans, I befriended the custodians. I got in pretty good with those guys, occasionally buying them coffee and a donut in the morning, or a corn dog at lunch, so they started letting me take the trash home. Sorting through garbage in my extended stay motel room one night, the letters SOP peeked out at me through a thin film of ketchup on a crumpled sheet of paper. My heart was pounding as I scraped off the ketchup, and a little stubborn mustard. There it was, the acronym and its full meaning- “SOPS- Suck Out People’s Souls”.

I found this to be disturbing. I discovered that SOPS was the tip of the spear, the front line weapon in the attack on the human spirit. SOPS was directing the insidious infiltration of technology into every aspect of human existence.

Technology was first seen as a tool to make life a little easier, then something we relied on, and finally a basic need, something we cannot live without. With the short sighted introduction of Artificial Intelligence, the machines were prepared to become our Masters.

The prospect was sad, depressing. I fell into an inert funk, locked in my motel room for weeks, surviving on whatever treats came out of the vending machine down the hall. I declined maid service and sat amidst a pile of empty potato chip bags, candy wrappers and soda cans. I might still be sitting there but for one small thing. I saw my name on the ever growing motel bill slipped under my door one morning- Don Q. Hoty. I grabbed hold of my namesake, the courageous warrior “willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause”. I swept the potato chip crumbs off my shirt and pants, rose and stood tall. They were messing with the wrong guy.

I packed up my car and made the long drive to Skaneateles. The next morning at Joe’s Diner, the locals weren’t talking. They said they never heard of a large computer in the area. I was suspicious as most also said they had never heard of a barn. Again, relying on years of watching TV crime shows, I resorted to “paying for a little information”. Joe’s special 3 egg omelet, toast, coffee and hash browns, got me what I needed . The sellout even drew me a map.

 The 25’ high wall topped with razor wire seemed out of place for a farm community, so I sensed I was on to something. Military style vehicles passed in and out of the well guarded gate. I watched for days, taking notes and logging times. A pattern emerged. Every day at noon, a caravan of food delivery trucks arrived and were eagerly sent through the gate. The goons tending to the monster within must be a hungry lot.

For a twenty spot, the Dominoes delivery kid gave me his ten pizzas marked for “The Farm” and the little sign they stick on top of the car. I was held up at the gate as the goons didn’t recognize me or my car, but I pointed to the little Dominoes sign on the top of my car, and they waved me through.

Once inside, I spotted a full laundry cart, grabbed a white lab coat and put it on, giving me free rein of the place. I passed a number of offices, the cafeteria, and doors marked “Super Secret” before entering the cavernous home of SOPS. The computer was one solid piece of steel, flashing lights, wires, and whirling discs. I could feel the power, the sinister designs, and was overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. I almost gave it all away when I stood there, mouth wide open, and muttered “Holy crap”. One of the goons called me on it, and I explained that what I actually said was “I see a cat.” That got me off the hook, but I still had to drop a quarter in their swear jar because of something they called their “similarity of sounds sanction”. Though I considered the fine to be unfair, I mounted only a mild protest as it was only a quarter.

I spent the next week secluded in my motel room, munching on chips and candy bars as I reviewed the voluminous notes and photographs I took at the SOPS location. I learned its weaknesses, its vulnerabilities, and discovered a deficiency in design which could lead to a complete meltdown with one precisely placed small explosive device. I knew what to do. I just didn’t know how to do it. I had exhausted my capabilities. I needed help.

I got to Mass early the next morning, sat in a pew, and prayed. Nothing came to me. I prayed during Mass- nothing. I stayed in my pew after Mass, and prayed- again, nothing.

At the conclusion of Mass, Father Marshall invited all present to the youth sports fundraising breakfast in the Church Hall. I hadn’t eaten real food for weeks, so I went. You might say it was a Godsend.

I was sitting alone at a corner table when he approached and asked if he could join me. He was in his 30’s, from Bolivia, polite and friendly. Oddly, God wasn’t upstairs in the Church; He was downstairs in the Hall, and He had just ushered Boundo Boy into my life. (It seems that as a child he had an uncanny ability to leap 3-4 stairs at a time; later he would use the talent to hop over fences to crash weddings and rock concerts; thus the name.)

At one point, Boundo Boy took a phone call which immediately dropped. He went in a tirade cursing all things technological. I shared my experiences, and his passionate denunciations escalated. I had found my kindred spirit, my soul mate, my Sancho Panza.

I couldn’t believe my ears. Not only was Boundo Boy a ripe recruit for my war on technology, but his uncle once served as a munitions expert with the Bolivian Army, and had imparted much of his knowledge to his nephew at family gatherings, especially at Christmas when Uncle “Hombre Mas Loco” stayed for a week. He had himself dabbled in the fine art of blowing stuff up. I knew where to put the explosive device; Boundo Boy knew how to make it.

We worked tirelessly for days, weeks, months…planning, discussing, strategizing, and constructing the device. We even made a couple of dry runs using Big Mike’s oversized tire shop and warehouse as a staging area.

“Are you ready, Boundo Boy?”

“Yes, yes I am, Don Q. Hoty.”

Just hearing the words stirred my heart and emboldened my spirit. I, Don Q. Hoty, noble crusader, would take down SOPS and save the world.

 We took off for Skaneateles the next morning. The tension in the car was thick, and Boundo Boy sang songs from his homeland to try to calm my nerves. The mission was fraught with danger, but neither of us wavered in our quest. We knew the machines must be stopped, and the clock was ticking.

The entry plan came off without a hitch. Boundo Boy had plastered “ Free Pancake Breakfast” signs all around the perimeter of The Farm, and this confused and distracted the on-duty goons. The clever Dominoes delivery ploy again worked to perfection, though some of the goons questioned why we needed a railroad steamer trunk for a pizza delivery.

As we neared SOPS’ lair, I told the last line of goons that the pizzas were getting cold in the cafeteria, and the fools took off like Wimpy in pursuit of a hamburger. Boundo Boy was free to apply his craft.

He worked feverishly to place and wire the explosive device, small in size but one that would inflict maximum damage with precision placement. The guy was an artist, maximum efficiency, no wasted movement. Bondo Boy stepped back to admire his work, the look of pride so manifest that for a moment I feared we’d have another “Bridge Over the River Kwai” moment of indecision as he beheld his magnum opus, but he held true to the mission.

I set my camera up, hit the timer button, and we proudly posed in front of SOPS for a nice “before” photo. I had to do this a number of times as Boundo Boy had his eyes closed or was just looking around in the first several takes.

The big moment arrived. I grasped the detonating device which Boundo Boy had placed behind a concrete support beam just 150’ from SOPS. I reflected on the magnitude of the moment, and pushed down on the plunger.

Nothing happened. Nothing. The device didn’t go off. SOPS was unscathed. The lights kept flashing, and the discs continued to whirl, making a slight, disturbing humming sound- the laughter of the cogs.

I dropped my head in agonizing disappointment, and Boundo Boy wept openly. I realized what a fool I had been. I had attempted to destroy technology with the use of technology. Perhaps to its credit, technology had refused to partake in the human foible of self-destruction. 

I couldn’t live in the new A.I. world of technology, and I couldn’t beat it. I could only leave it. Boundo Boy and I made our way through pockets of confused and hungry goons who were in search of pizza and pancakes. We got in my car and drove straight to a remote, mountainous area in Bolivia. We settled into a cave where Boundo Boy used to play as a child, isolated and far removed from the hostile world of technology.

I am a beaten man with no hope to return to the world I once knew. I don’t know why I penned this history as it seems unlikely that anyone will ever even see these pitiful scraps of paper as the wind carries them down the mountain to the village below. Perhaps it was just an effort to help put it all behind me as I am content to live out the remainder of my days in peaceful solitude, free of the oppressive, suffocating world of technology.

Maybe I am overreacting, but it is of concern that yesterday Boundo Boy brought a rock, a sturdy stick, and some vines back to the cave. He sat down next to our small fire and made a hammer.