The Rosie Result Page 16

  Later, reviewing the conversation, I noted the implication that I might have thought she would not be okay. But for the moment, I was processing my reaction to her husband. Though he had said only a few words, I felt an immediate primitive response, as I had when Blue House Fan criticised Hudson at the swimming carnival. It took me a few moments to realise that it was the same voice.

  I shared my discovery with Rosie, omitting unnecessary detail. She was not happy.

  ‘This guy…Are you sure Hudson’s safe there?’

  ‘I’m a poor judge of character. Dangerous people are often superficially pleasant; presumably many superficially unpleasant people are not dangerous. He apologised to Phil at the swimming event. Blanche is also Hudson’s only friend—’

  ‘I know that.’ Rosie was sounding annoyed.

  ‘I recommend we interrogate Hudson about his experiences.’

  ‘And add our adult judgement.’

  ‘What are Blanche’s parents like?’ Rosie asked Hudson as we ate breakfast.

  ‘Ask Dad. He’s the one who’s always talking to her mum.’

  ‘Right.’ Rosie looked at me. ‘I could have found out all about her without bothering Hudson.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So, what’s she like?’

  ‘Slim, extremely attractive, a number of anti-science views which I’m working on changing.’

  ‘I wasn’t really interested in what she looks like, but… What about the father? Is he slim and attractive too?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him,’ I said.

  ‘He’s mainly in his room,’ said Hudson. ‘He comes out sometimes, obviously. He’s not slim, more chunky. I can’t tell if he’s attractive, but I don’t think so. He’s pretty bald.’

  ‘Is he nice?’ said Rosie.

  ‘He’s okay to me. He was a little weird the first time: he was a bit obsessed with the swimming race. But then he congratulated me.’

  I argued that on the balance of evidence, and taking into account the relative risks and benefits, Hudson should be allowed to continue visiting Blanche after school. Rosie argued, based on the same information, that we should remain alert for signs of trouble and insist on all four parents meeting if he wanted to stay there longer or participate in excursions involving Blanche’s father. We agreed to implement all the proposals.

  I saw Allannah the next day when I collected Hudson from school.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay while Hudson visits,’ she said.

  ‘Your husband objected to you…touching me?’

  ‘He wasn’t happy. I guess most husbands wouldn’t be. You seemed pretty unhappy, too. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘No apology required. I was surprised. I’m likely to be surprised anytime somebody does that to me, so I would advise against it in future.’

  ‘It wasn’t because you don’t like me?’

  ‘Obviously I like you. Otherwise, I would have made an excuse to avoid conversations.’

  She smiled. ‘But I can’t give you a hug now to say thank you? Now that you’re prepared?’

  ‘No need. The thank-you message has been successfully delivered. Have you told Blanche? About the diagnosis?’

  ‘I told her on the way to school. She’s very happy, but I’m sure she’ll want to thank you herself.’

  ‘What about your husband? Is he also happy? Presumably he has some belief in science. Or he wouldn’t trust the security camera to deliver an accurate image.’

  Allannah laughed. ‘That’s technology, not the medical industry. We’re not Amish.’

  ‘But you believe the test results? Blanche’s genetic test?’

  ‘I do. Thank you again. But Gary would have gone troppo if I’d told him.’

  ‘He appears highly susceptible to anger.’

  ‘Only when he’s protecting his family. He’d have seen it as me not trusting him to do that. I had to make up a reason for hugging you, so I told him that you were having another baby. I hope that’s not too weird.’

  ‘Incredibly clever.’

  ‘You think so?’ She laughed. ‘And…if I get here ten minutes early to pick up Blanche, and you do too, we can still talk.’

  26

  ‘Get out there on email, social media. Invite all your friends,’ said Amghad. ‘We’re off the street, so customers aren’t going to find us by accident.’ He wanted the bar to be full on opening night to create an impression of popularity for the two journalists who had accepted his invitation to attend.

  I didn’t need social media to invite all my Melbourne friends. I told Carl (not available, working) and Eugenie (sorry, you should have told me earlier). Claudia had a conference in Sydney. Dave and Sonia were committed to a school function for Zina. Phil would be taking care of Hudson. Which left Laszlo. He agreed to contribute, despite having the same objections to crowded bars as I did.

  Opening was at 6.30 p.m., and one of the journalists, named Sylvie, arrived exactly on time. She was outnumbered by Amghad, Rosie, Minh and three casual staff.

  ‘Can you make me a margarita?’ Sylvie asked me.

  ‘Of course. But I recommend using the app.’

  Amghad was shaking his head. The bar’s first drink would be ordered in the conventional manner, bypassing our most important ‘point of difference’.

  ‘Salt?’ I asked.

  ‘No, thanks. And thanks for asking.’

  I pulled the liquor from the twenty-five-degrees-below-zero freezer, and the lime juice and water from the fridge.

  ‘Pre-squeezed?’ said Sylvie.

  ‘Correct. Aged for four hours to allow enzymatic bittering, resulting in a more complex flavour.’

  ‘I guess we’ll see.’

  I poured the ingredients into the shaker.

  ‘Blood Orange Cointreau?’ said Sylvie.

  ‘Eighteen per cent of the orange-liqueur component. Optional if you prefer the conventional form.’

  ‘Your call. But a house margarita is my benchmark.’

  ‘Excellent approach to evaluation,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Sylvie, pointing to the water flask.

  ‘Water.’

  ‘You’re watering down my benchmark drink? In front of me?’

  ‘Correct. I’m adding the optimum amount. Conventional margaritas are diluted by the melting of ice, but the dilution is dependent on the temperature of the ingredients, the quantity and size of the ice units, and the shaking time and intensity. Hence uncontrolled. This one is precisely controlled, so if it’s too strong or weak we can vary it and record your preference in the database.’

  I handed the shaker to Rosie.

  ‘No ice?’ said Sylvie.

  ‘Correct.’

  Rosie agitated the shaker to mix the citrus and the liquor, and poured the drink.

  We all watched as Sylvie tasted it.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Excuse me, but this wasn’t what I was expecting.’

  ‘You don’t approve? I can—’

  ‘It’s excellent. What tequila did you use?’

  ‘The tequila is a basic hundred-per-cent agave silver. The taste is more influenced by the limes. It’s cheaper to buy high-quality key limes than prestigious tequila.’

  ‘Well, you had me fooled. Better make me a Negroni and tell me about this thing at the university. If you don’t mind.’

  I told her the story of the Genetics Lecture Outrage and she appeared sympathetic. She wanted a photo at the bar, and we posed with Rosie in front and Minh and Amghad either side of me.

  ‘Put your arms around them,’ said Sylvie. I complied. I couldn’t risk a bad review because of an aversion to doing something that was generally considered easy.

  When she had left, Amghad looked around the bar. Still zero customers. ‘Don’t know. She loved the drinks and that’s a big deal for her, but…’

  ‘Relax,’ said Minh. ‘We always knew this was going to be a word-of-mouth thing. Give it time.’

  ‘I can’t remember see
ing you so stressed,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I wasn’t stressed,’ I said.

  ‘What was Sylvie’s BMI?’

  I had no idea.

  Then a single customer walked in. For a moment I thought, from his costume, that he must be a homeless person. Then I recognised Laszlo.

  ‘Laszlo is here,’ he said. ‘And he has brought two friends.’ He reopened the door at the top of the stairs to let in his partner, Frances the Occasional Smoker, and another woman. Laszlo made some signal to Frances and she said, ‘I am here. And I have brought two friends.’ She opened the door and summoned a man and a woman.

  People continued to enter, and Laszlo continued to conduct their introductions in what was obviously a geometric progression.

  I had a moment of fear. ‘Did you limit the number of iterations?’

  ‘Of course. The total will be one hundred and twenty-seven.’

  It was a challenging test, with so many arriving at once and the systems being designed for seated customers. Amghad solved the problem with trays of drinks offered at zero cost.

  Laszlo’s friends and friends of friends and friends of friends of friends drank, talked, browsed the bookshelves and watched Star Trek. Several people from Minh’s company arrived. It was noisier than I had hoped it would be but much quieter than a typical bar, especially considering the number of customers.

  I found Laszlo finishing a drink. ‘Excellent lemon juice.’

  ‘You’re drinking lemon juice?’

  ‘I have Asperger’s,’ he said. ‘So I drink fruit juice. But I am also Hungarian. So I have some vodka in it.’

  ‘I’ll order you another. Free.’

  ‘No. You are running a business and I am making a small contribution, as you asked.’

  Brendan, the second journalist, arrived at 9.13 p.m. He was in his mid-fifties and overweight—BMI approximately thirty-two.

  This time, I made a more forceful effort to demonstrate the advantages of online ordering. Brendan began entering details, but it was apparent he had a short concentration span.

  ‘I haven’t got time to read terms and conditions.’

  ‘Just hit OK,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Allergies?’ said Brendan. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘Do you have any?’ I asked.

  ‘None that affect my drinking.’

  ‘Select Nil. Then you can submit your credit-card details.’

  ‘Forget it. Just make me an Old Fashioned. Can you do that, or do you need to know my Medicare number?’

  Amghad nodded violently.

  I made Brendan an Old Fashioned, then a second, while I explained the design of the bar and the advantages of the app. He took his third drink into the crowd and began a conversation with Laszlo, which continued until he returned to the bar to order ‘one for the road’. He was the last to leave, at 10.34 p.m.

  ‘Older crowd, finish early,’ said Amghad. ‘But we’ve done well.’

  Amghad argued that ‘all publicity is good publicity’. On that basis, the articles that Sylvie and Brendan wrote were ‘good publicity’. On any other basis, I would have evaluated them as ‘bad publicity’.

  Sylvie’s article was published eight days later in the newspaper that had defended my professional conduct. Her thesis was that ‘the smartest man in Melbourne’ was using his skills to make ‘possibly the best margarita you’ll find anywhere’, but that it would be better if my talents were employed in curing cancer. The remainder of the article criticised the university and the complainant, and was illustrated with the picture Sylvie had taken of us, captioned: Accused racist Prof. Don Tillman and wife Rosie with business partners Amghad Karim and Dang Minh. Mr Karim was born in Egypt and Dr Dang is Vietnamese.

  Professor Lawrence phoned to say that she hoped the bar was prospering, as the review had ‘stirred the pot’. It was not, to the extent that I was able to run it without assistance. Most nights we had only two customers—a male couple in their twenties who read books and consumed soft drinks.

  Brendan’s article appeared in an online ‘lifestyle’ publication a week later. It was entirely negative, with the possible exception of his mention of a ‘special’ Old Fashioned, and was titled The Place to Drink if You’re Not the Full Bottle.

  On the second reading, I understood what Brendan was saying: he considered people who preferred non-intrusive surroundings and enjoyed science fiction to be ‘nerds’, ‘on the spectrum’, and ‘the kids at school who always did their homework’. All of these terms, even the last, were employed in a negative sense. It was apparent he considered that Minh and I both fell into that category, though he had barely spoken to Minh.

  My immediate thought was to confront him to correct his misunderstandings about the bar and the people whom it was intended to attract. Amghad dissuaded me.

  ‘He just came up with an angle and ran with it. It may not even be what he thinks.’

  I scheduled an extra workout at the dojo, and, as my anger dissipated, I realised that it was largely due to my own misunderstanding of the category of people that Brendan had vilified. I had thought they would want to drink in my bar.

  27

  It was Minh who drew my attention to a ‘tweet storm’ related to Brendan’s article. A Twitter user identified as @TazzaTheGeek had suggested that Brendan be fired. The tweet had been widely circulated and commented on by sci-fi fans and people who identified as autistic. There appeared to be some overlap between the two groups.

  Tazza the Geek had suggested that the autism community show its solidarity by patronising The Library. Amghad believed that advertising on social media was ineffective, so I did not expect any results.

  At 8.06 p.m. that evening, I called Rosie. ‘Come in immediately. We have customers. Thirty-seven.’

  ‘Call Minh.’

  ‘She’s on her way. But it’s incredibly exciting.’

  ‘Someone has to look after Hudson.’

  ‘Bring him. With his book and his sleeping bag.’

  Rosie arrived with Hudson and also Dave. ‘Rosie said you were desperate,’ he said. ‘You look like you’re doing okay.’

  Rosie directed him to the order screen.

  A problem immediately became apparent. A significant percentage of customers were not prepared to use the app.

  ‘I don’t know what temperature and dilution factor I want: can you just make me a normal Cosmopolitan?’ said a woman in a grey tracksuit.

  ‘No problem,’ said Rosie, before I could object.

  ‘You think we could be losing custom because of the app?’ she said to me as she made the drink.

  ‘It’s our most important feature.’

  ‘What about the décor and the refrigeration and—’

  ‘We tested it thoroughly for user-friendliness.’

  ‘You, Hudson, Blanche and…’

  ‘Laszlo. Expert testers.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘But not exactly average bar patrons.’

  Hudson had been listening.

  ‘Do we have a marker pen?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Top-left drawer.’

  He fetched a red marker. ‘Write on my head: App Help.’

  ‘Don…’ said Rosie, but I was already writing.

  About an hour later, Rosie drew my attention to Hudson, who was engaged in conversation at the bookshelves with a male of approximately forty, estimated BMI thirty-two.

  ‘He’s been talking to that guy too long.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ said Dave.

  ‘Is there some problem with him?’

  ‘Just a bit creepy, if you know what I mean,’ said Dave.

  The customer was partly bald, with his remaining hair longer than average, a beard and glasses. He was wearing a heavy-metal T-shirt, slacks and running shoes. Carl had criticised me for wearing running shoes with formal trousers, but the combination was popular this evening.

  ‘Stereotypical science-fiction fan. Or scientist,�
�� I said.

  ‘Or creep,’ said Dave. ‘Not saying he is. But he’s what people think a creep looks like. And he’s hanging out with an eleven-year-old.’

  Before we could take any action, one of our two regular customers, the tall thin male with glasses, long hair and an insubstantial beard, approached Hudson. His companion, who was shorter with dark curly hair, joined them and the older customer moved away.

  After a few minutes, the taller male came to the bar and spoke to Rosie.

  ‘Excuse me, but are you Hudson’s mother? Rosie?’

  Rosie confirmed her identity.

  ‘I’m Merlin. I thought you might be worried about us hanging with Hudson. There was a guy talking to him and we thought he was a bit creepy, so we stepped in, and then I thought you might think the same about us.’

  ‘Well, thanks for making yourself known. He’s only eleven. He’s still at primary school.’

  ‘We know. But he’s got both his parents looking out for him. Which is more than most kids have. Anyway, I think you know my friend Tazza’s mother. Katerina.’

  Rosie smiled, hugely. ‘Tell Anast…Tazza to come over. I haven’t seen him since he was eight.’

  ‘He’s a bit shy. But I thought someone should let you know who Hudson was talking to.’

  Rosie explained the connections. Katerina was the school friend with the autistic son who was ‘doing well’. But I recognised the name: Tazza the Geek, who had called for Brendan the Offensive Journalist to be fired and thus generated the bar’s most successful night.

  Hudson needed the sleeping bag. Before he went to sleep in what had once been Minh’s office, he said, ‘Can I come again tomorrow? I can go to bed late and wake up at the old time. We need to fix the app.’

  ‘You can fix the app at home,’ I said.

  ‘Der,’ said Hudson. ‘I need to find out what people want it to do. You can’t specify software without user input.’

  There was no point in upgrading the app if the improvement in custom was not sustained. I explained that to Hudson. ‘If we don’t fix the app, it definitely won’t be…sustained.’

  The improvement was sustained: Brendan’s article had mobilised a community of people who became habitual customers and recommended the bar to their friends.