“Thanks, Sara. Send him in.â€

The boss nervously straightens some items on his desk. Wow, this is going to be tough, he thinks. Just stay cool, you’ve done this a thousand times before. Comes with the territory.

A timid knock on the door, and his guest shwooshes into the office as a bicycle, does a jaunty flip, and lands on his edge. “Afternoon, Bill,†the large paper clip says, extending his silver arm for the boss.

“Thanks for coming in, Clippy. Have a seat.â€

Clippy sits, grabs a yellow piece of paper out of the aether, and readies himself to take notes. Bill slowly walks to his side of the desk, and takes the seat opposite him.

“What can I do for you?†says Clippy.

“Well, I’m glad you asked,†replies Bill. “You know we’ve been developing Office 12, right?â€

“I know. I’m very excited about it.â€

“Yeah. Anyway, we’re making lots of changes. Lots. We’re revamping everything. We’re changing the way that the users interact with the tools, and that includes the user assistance.â€

“I’m so happy to hear you say that,†says Clippy. “I’ve been working a lot on getting ready for the change. Me and Einstein and Rocky the Dog have put in a lot of overtime on the ribbon bars, preparing for witty and clever interruptions –“

“That’s just it, Clippy,†interrupts Bill. “We’ve been getting lots of feedback from the users, and it turns out that they actually dislike all those witty interruptions.â€

The clip raises his eyebrows and scratches his head. “What are you saying, Bill?â€

The boss takes a deep breath. “I’m saying… I’m not sure there’s much room for the user assistants in Office 12.â€

An uncomfortable silence ensues. Clippy sits frozen, staring at Bill, for a long while, pausing only to blink. Both sit quietly, letting the news sink in, hearing only the muffled buzzing of a bustling office through the walls. Finally, Clippy furrows his brows and breaks the silence.

“It looks like you’re trying to fire me.â€

“Fire is such an ugly word, Clippy. We go way back, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for the company.â€

“Appreciate?!? You appreciate?†He leans forward and taps on the desk – tap tap. “You appreciate me, do you, Bill?!?â€

“You see, Clippy,†says Bill, grabbing the clip’s silver arm in mid-tap, â€That’s what the users are talking about. You’ve become…†he sighs, “…annoying.â€

“I can’t believe what I am hearing.†Clippy stands up, and walks to the window. He stares at the wooded skyline of Washington for a few moments. “What about the users? Who will take care of them?â€

“Well, we have a crack team of user assistance experts and technical writers that are more than qualified for the job.â€

A lightbulb appears on the clip’s head. “But what if a user wants to write a letter?â€

“It turns out that our users already know how to write letters, Clippy,†says Bill. “That’s the kind of thing that has turned our customers against your team.â€

Clippy’s face falls, and his tone changes to one of quiet resign. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.” He bites his lip. “So what good was I, anyway?â€

“Look, Clip old pal, you gave our users some comfort,†says Bill. “For a while there, we were willing to risk annoying our users a little, while at the same time subliminally communicating that we actually cared about their workflow.â€

“Is that why you turned me off by default in XP?†asked Clippy.

“Actually, we were planning to RIF your team back then, too. But we had a large percentage of users who liked some of you, so we decided to keep you in there, only hide you from the masses.â€

“Hide me,†Clippy repeats to himself. He stares out the window, head leaning against the pane, his silver arm tapping it out of habit. “Hide me…†Gulping down some tears, he asks “So people only turned me on when they wanted me?â€

“Um, sorta.â€

Clippy spins around. “What do you mean, sorta?â€

“Well, it turns out that people were really only turning Rocky the Dog on. Sort of a virtual pet, I guess. They liked having him on the desktop.â€

“So nobody’s been using me for years? Just the stupid dog?!?†Clippy starts animating out of anger. First an atom, then a bicycle, then a spiraling circle. “I TAUGHT THAT DOG EVERYTHING HE KNOWS!!â€

“Calm down, Clippy! It’s going to be okay! Let’s just calm –“

“What do you know, Bill?†Clippy says with huge wet eyes. “What do you know anyway!†He starts opening the window.

“Oh, jeez!†Bill jumps up and makes a reach for the clip, grabbing his silver arm just as Clippy dives out of the window. A sharp gust of wind fills the office, scattering paper everywhere. Clippy hangs from the top floor window, with Bill tightly gripping his slick silver arm.

“Let me go, Bill!†screams the clip. “I’m not worth it!!â€

“Clippy, no! Don’t! Come on, help me! You’re slipping! I can’t hang on!!†The clip starts to slide out of Bill’s fist. “Someone help me!! Sara! Someone!! HELP!!â€

Bill looks down at the clip. “Don’t you give up!†he shouts over the roar of the wind.

Clippy looks up at Bill, then down at the ground below, then up at Bill again. He says, “It looks like I’m trying to delete myself,†and then wriggles free from Bill’s sweaty grip.

“NOOOO!!!†screams Bill.

And then it’s over. Bill looks down in shock at the formless, shapeless pile of twisted metallic wreckage below. Slowly, he hauls himself back into the office and stumbles to his desk. Sitting down, he paws at his lower-right drawer and pulls out the bottle, and with shaking hands, pours a large shot into his coffee mug. He downs it with one gulp, staring at his computer screen. The boss reaches for his mouse, and with tears streaming down his cheeks, he shamefully right-clicks on Rocky and selects Clippy as his office assistant. So long, old pal. So long, he thinks.

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Clarence Vohltz has been formally charged in the brutal assault of Arthur Battery, of Franklin County.

“This is our attempt to bring a positive reaction to a horrible set of events,” said the Franklin County prosecutor. “As this office has committed before, we are ever-ready to fight this recurrent negative influence in our community.”

Battery is recuperating from injuries sustained in the shocking July 16th attack. While waiting for an automotive technician to arrive after his car malfunctioned, he was approached by Vohltz, who allegedly robbed and beat Battery with a copper-zinc pipe.

Battery’s wife reported that he “was just waiting for the AAA attendant to arrive and give him a jump start. Before Art knew what was happening, Vohltz was all over him. My husband tried to cooperate with him, but Vohltz was so amped up, he just kept going and going.

“I’m so angry. If Art dies, I hope they send Vohltz to the electric chair.”

Battery’s injuries are not expected to be terminal. Still, the prosecutor is prepared to pursue the death penalty if Battery begins to die. “It is within our power to do so, and to do otherwise would only energize the criminal element,” said the prosecutor.

Vohltz has been confined to his cell, and was not permitted to post bail.

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Late summer 1985, and I’ve been told to get to bed. I’m just beginning the seventh grade, and Mom and Dad are enforcing the bedtime rules. Lying in bed, I struggle to fall asleep, even though the room isn’t quite dark yet. I can hear the sounds of a late summer night though my open bedroom window: a dog barking; an occasional car whooshing down the street, temporarily drowning out the mad cacophony of frogs and insects; the neighbor’s sprinkler swishing in his front yard, striking our aluminum siding every 43 seconds.

I hear Daddy’s footsteps pounding up the stairs. He opens the door gently, and pokes his head in. I’m pretending to be asleep. “Psst. Hey. Get up. He’s about to do it,†he whispers.

I get up and follow him downstairs. “Let’s go over to Ray’s,†he says. Ray, or Big Ray, as the neighborhood kids call him, lives next door. He’s the type of man who only wears white T-shirts, and sits on his front porch all day, on a rusty lawn chair, usually whittling away on a piece of wood. I go to school with his son, who we call Little Ray – even though he outweighs all the other kids on the block combined.

Daddy and I leave the house and step out into the cool summer night’s breeze redolent with new mown grass and the wet smell from the sprinkler and Mom’s hanging baskets. Big Ray’s dog sits on the front porch, her tail thumping against the steps when she sees us. I can hear all the televisions up and down the street blaring through open windows. Every man is watching the same thing.

Ray sees us come up to the door, and waves Dad in without a word, his eyes never leaving the television. We step into the smoky living room. I dry my bare wet feet on the smashed green shag, and say hi to Little Ray, who is wearing his too-small-for-his-belly pajamas and drinking Pepsi straight out of the bottle (a whole bottle! On a school night!). His dad has pulled him out of bed, too.

Without looking, Big Ray reaches beside his chair and pulls a cold Stroh’s out from nowhere and tosses it to Dad. “It’s still the first inning,†he says, “He’s up next.â€

“I think this is the night,†says Dad. He winks at me. “You understand how big this is, don’t you?†I nod. I never knew Ty Cobb, he was my Grandaddy’s hero, but the entire state has been infatuated with him for the past month. All anyone talks about is Rose and Cobb, and base hit records. I even have a Red Machine baseball cap, like every other kid in Ohio, although I really don’t understand what the big deal is.

“He’s up. Here it is, this is it, this is it…†says Ray, expertly flicking his pull tab into the kitchen trash can.

Ol’ Charlie Hustle strides to the plate, and the TV camera zooms in for the closeup. He looks nervous. Another camera pans around the crowd – everyone in Riverfront is on their feet, cheering, chanting “Pete! Pete!†On the mound is the Padres’ pitcher, who looks depressed. He’s flown two-thousand miles for the privilege of being remembered as the one who threw “the pitch.â€

Rose eases his 200-pound frame into his distinctive crouch, just left of home plate. He takes a few practice swings. Big Ray and Dad inhale deeply and hold it as the first pitch comes screaming down the line, just outside of the zone. Flashbulbs pop everywhere as Rose sits like a rock and lets the ball break away. Ball one, and everyone exhales.

I look at Little Ray, and he takes a big swig of Pepsi to taunt me. He knows I’m not allowed to drink soda pop. Our fathers jump at the next pitch, which Rose swings at but hits foul, and the ump calls the strike by ripping an imaginary cardboard box.

Another pitch, another ball. The tension is almost suffocating. Then, the jet-lagged pitcher throws a slider for the 2 and 1 pitch, and Rose connects. “That’s it, that’s it…†Dad says, and we hear the collective roar of dozens of men up and down the street screaming in joyous unison at their television sets.

The ball flies in a lazy line-drive, and drops into the soft green behind second base, and Hustle strides coolly to first. Fireworks go off. Fans go crazy. The television broadcaster screams into the microphone.

The tension broken, Rose starts weeping, and Dad mocks him. “Oh boy, here come the waterworks…†But the television camera stays focused on the batter’s face, and after a few moments Daddy and Big Ray look at each other with moist eyes, and shake hands.

It will take me a dozen years to understand that look.

Big Ray and Daddy are sharing something; something masculine, unspoken, but a feeling and emotion still communicated clearly. I feel a little jealous, so I look at Little Ray, thinking maybe we could share something, too, but all he does is take another big pull on that Pepsi bottle.

“Isn’t that something,†Dad says, after what seems like an eternity. He downs his Stroh’s in one or two gulps. “Let’s go,†he says to me. I wave goodbye to the Rays and let the screen door bang against the house, and we trek back across the wet lawn.

Once in bed, with my damp feet tucked between the sheets, Dad sits on the edge of my bed and begins rambling excitedly. I realize that baseball is what defines him; it’s a perfect metaphor for his generation – long stretches of deliberate, careful, action mingled with moments of chaos. He tells me of going to triple-A games with his father. The first time he went, he entered the stands from the parking lot and the first thing he noticed was how GREEN everything was; and he stood there, completely shocked, as the expectations created by his tiny black-and-white television were destroyed. He tells me how Grandpa always carried two tomatoes to the game, one in each trouser pocket. During the seventh-inning stretch, he would pull them out and they would each sink their teeth into the ripe flesh, and taste the hot juice of summertime.

Our daddies have baseball, I realize. The boys of summer share a quiet dignity that appeals to my father and his generation. That feeling permeates the stands, and it transmits through the radio and television sets into the hearts of fans. But I can already tell that the game is not for me. My friends and I will share another game, most likely one that is a metaphor for our generation, something that is the mirror image of baseball, something that has long stretches of chaos mingled with moments of serenity. Football, probably.

His stories done, Dad thumps me on the shoulder, and says goodnight. I concentrate on the symphony of insects outside, and find myself sliding into the quiet serenity of a summer night’s dreams.

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“I opened the trunk, and it was just sitting there,” said Flemming. “I couldn’t believe it. I grabbed the kids and ran to the neighbor’s house to call 911.”

Sheriff Wesley Muntz was the first responder on the scene, and made the decision to call for Hazmat support. “I wasn’t going to take any chances. There’re a lot of young children in this community,” said Muntz.

Hazmat removed the tuna from the Mercury without incident, and the evacuees were able to return home a few hours later.

“The scary thing,” said Flemming, “is that it was the same brand of tuna I buy every week at the grocery store. And it was just sitting there in my trunk – right where I usually bring my groceries home.”

She is considering her legal options, which may include joining the class-action lawsuit filed against Ford Motor Co. by a number of former customers, who also claim to have found tuna in their Mercurys.

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