My heart only beats faster when I see the name and number on my screen.
“Brady.” Nash's voice has none of its usual gruff impatience. He sounds breathless and maybe even a little panicked.
“Hi. Everything okay?”
“I need you. I’m so fucked right now.”
He gives me an address for a condo downtown, not far from the festival office. I don’t own a car, and normally I would take transit, but he sounded so unlike himself that I call an Uber instead.
When I arrive, Nash has his front door open, and he’s wide-eyed and messy haired.
“It’s gone,” he says, not wasting time on greetings. Once I’m close enough, he lets go of the door and strides up the hall, leaving me to catch the damn thing as it swings toward me.
“It’s fine. I’m sure we can get it back.” Or at least part of it. I’ve set up all the festival computers to autosave every few minutes, but God knows what will happen if the computer really did manage to melt down in some kind of surge.
The condo is nice, if a little stark. If you asked me—but why would anyone ask me—I’d say Nash probably lived in a townhouse on the waterfront. I’d have expected a lot of chrome and leather. Granite countertops. I know running a queer film festival probably doesn’t pay anywhere near as much as working on Bay Street, but I’d have thought Nash was one of those people who likes the finer things in life.
By comparison, this place is basically builder’s beige. The countertops are whatever people make countertops out of these days when they can’t afford granite, and the furniture must have come straight out of an IKEA catalogue. Not that it looks bad; just not as upscale as I would have expected.
Nash is pacing by the laptop that’s currently on the dining room table. At least it’s one of mine and not his personal computer. If he fried it completely, it’s still under warranty, and I can get a new one.
He’s pressing the power button over and over and shaking his head. “See? Totally done. I have to be at the conference in less than ten hours. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Okay. Okay.” I drape my wet rain jacket over the back of a chair, since he obviously isn’t in a state to offer to hang it up. Nash’s isn’t the first emergency call I’ve responded to on a Friday night. Most of the time I can find a way to work around the problem. “So the lights flickered, and then the laptop died?”
“Just gone. All my slides. Gone.”
I step in front of him, trying to claim some space between him and the laptop. Nash doesn’t really take the hint. He’s set up the computer on the side of the table closest to the wall, and we could probably both fit in the space if he pressed himself against the drywall and didn’t mind my ass in his crotch.
Despite his distress, I can’t say I’d mind that very much, but that’s not what I’m here for. If I get done fast enough, maybe I’ll see if I can find someone online who is looking to let off some steam tonight. It’s not the classiest way to get laid, but with the schedule I keep, it’s the most expedient one.
I start with the power button, ignoring Nash's growled, “I already did that,” behind me, because really, truly 90 percent of IT consulting is asking, “Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?” When in doubt, reset. In this case, though, nothing happens.
Another 8 percent of IT is unplugging the device and plugging it back in again. Most users don’t know how many functions need more than a quick ten count to reset. I shimmy onto my knees, trying to maintain some dignity, and unplug the cord from the wall.
“You should really have a surge protector, even for a laptop,” I say, mostly to make conversation.
“Well, you can order me one on Monday, can’t you?”
I chuckle softly to myself, hoping he can’t see my smile down here. I feel for him. Almost everything can be recovered these days, but there is the occasional situation where work is lost and not even my wizardry can salvage it. And while I might like to poke Nash occasionally to watch him scowl, I know he takes his work seriously, and I can sympathize with the amount of effort he puts into something he’s clearly passionate about.
Which is why I’m going to save his presentation for him.
After giving it a solid minute to reset, I plug the cord back in.
“Try it now?” I say as I stand, brushing nonexistent dirt off my knees. Nash’s apartment may not be as fancy as I would have expected, but it is immaculate. Not a dust bunny to be seen.
Nash swears softly. “Still nothing. Oh my God.” His hands are in his hair as I straighten fully. “This can’t be happening. First time I ever get asked to speak at one of these and—”
“Okay. Okay.” I press a palm to his chest. He’s still in his button-down from work, although at least he’s taken off his tie. His heart is pounding under my hand, and his eyes are bouncing around the room in budding panic. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”
I press the power button again. Still black. It really is possible that the storm short-circuited something, but it seems so unlikely with a modern unit and in a building this size. What are the odds that only his computer would have died? There should be malfunctioning kitchen appliances or a larger power outage.
I run my hands along the unit, trying to think. Nash is still too close, muttering and cursing. I almost wish he’d pace so I could have a little breathing room, but he’s rooted to the spot.
My heart skips when I bump against the charger in the back corner of the laptop. My fingers barely brush it, but it falls to the table with a soft sound.
No. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?
I keep my hands where they are, trying to stay calm. If I laugh, Nash might deck me; he’s that wound up.
“Could, uh—” I clear my throat while my lips tremble. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“What?”
My fingers tighten. “A glass of water?”
He pauses, and he’s so close I can almost feel the tail end of his exhale as he sighs. “Yeah.”
I wait until he’s in the kitchen before I sit up. Quietly, I plug the cord back into the port and wait. Within a few seconds, the small light that indicates the unit is charging begins to flash.
Oh my God. What are the odds? But Nash has the right kind of single-minded intensity that he very well could dismiss all of the warnings letting him know he needs to plug in his computer. The timing that would finally shut it down right at the height of an electrical storm is a little too precious, but if it’s something else, all my other solutions involve taking the laptop back to my place, and I don’t think he’s going to appreciate that option.
“Well?” he says. He’s got a glass in each hand.
I randomly press a couple keys on the keyboard. “Just doing a reset, and then we’ll see.”
“What?” Nash nearly drops the glasses as he sets them down. “No. A reset? No. You can’t reset it, I need my slides!”
“I know. I’m doing my best. This will clear whatever you were working on so we can get it turned on again. We might have to revert to an auto-recovered version, but better than losing the whole thing, right?” In truth, when I look down, I’m holding the Function and L keys. I don’t think that does anything, but Nash is still so strung out. I shouldn’t laugh at him.