Zombie baby [LJ Idol season 9, week 5]
I sat at the conference table, a smile fixed on my face while the man across from me enthusiastically talked about how he'd gutted my baby.
My “baby” was a piece of software I'd worked on for four years. I'd written it completely from scratch. I knew it inside and out, backwards and forwards. I knew how to make it work, how to cajole the right answers out of it when its internal math came up short. It wasn't perfect. There were kludges and “fudge factors” and oversimplifications. But it worked. It had served us just fine for years.
Now there was this guy. They'd brought him in specifically to upgrade the code. “You've been too busy,” they told me. “You have other priorities. He'll be able to focus on this.”
I didn't like it, but I didn't get a say in the matter. I handed over my code and walked the guy through it. “This is really great!” he said afterwards. “I'm super impressed. I look forward to working with you to make these upgrades.”
Two months later, we sat down and he told me all about the upgrades he'd made. (So much for working together on it.) A lot of the upgrades were things specifically requested by the customer - things that I'd always said I'd get to “when I could.” Now they were done, and of course they were way better than anything I could have done. Worse, though, were the upgrades that hadn't been requested. “Your math was pretty simple,” he told me. “It worked, obviously! But I figured while I was in there, I'd improve it. We want things as high-fidelity as possible, after all.”
The math he was referring to was the driving piece of code. It was the entire point of the software. Everything else was built around it. And he'd replaced it. Fixed it. Upgraded it. “That's great!” I said enthusiastically. I'm good at faking enthusiasm.
I only let my real feelings surface that night when I talked to a friend. “He gutted it,” I seethed. “He ripped out its brain and replaced it with a new one. He took apart its insides. He changed everything except the name. And he still says it's mine! Like taking away your baby and changing its brain doesn't matter. Now it's a freaking zombie baby!”
My friend laughed, presumably at the image and not at my anger. She seemed sympathetic, at least. “I'm sorry. That sucks.”
“It really does.” I sort of deflated. “And of course, I can't do anything about it. The guy just did his job, you know? And he did it right. The code is better.” I sighed. “I shouldn't be upset. This is stupid.”
My friend considered that for a second. “I don't know,” she said. “I think it's normal to be upset. Like you said, he stole your baby. I'd be mad, too.”
That made me feel better. At least someone understood.
Other than venting and griping, there really was nothing I could do. Nothing I even should do. So I gritted my teeth through the meetings where he talked about his improvements and how great everything was now, and I smiled and laughed through conversations with him on the subject. And if I spent some of those conversations imagining what it would be like to set his hair on fire, well, there didn't seem to be any harm in that.
My “baby” was a piece of software I'd worked on for four years. I'd written it completely from scratch. I knew it inside and out, backwards and forwards. I knew how to make it work, how to cajole the right answers out of it when its internal math came up short. It wasn't perfect. There were kludges and “fudge factors” and oversimplifications. But it worked. It had served us just fine for years.
Now there was this guy. They'd brought him in specifically to upgrade the code. “You've been too busy,” they told me. “You have other priorities. He'll be able to focus on this.”
I didn't like it, but I didn't get a say in the matter. I handed over my code and walked the guy through it. “This is really great!” he said afterwards. “I'm super impressed. I look forward to working with you to make these upgrades.”
Two months later, we sat down and he told me all about the upgrades he'd made. (So much for working together on it.) A lot of the upgrades were things specifically requested by the customer - things that I'd always said I'd get to “when I could.” Now they were done, and of course they were way better than anything I could have done. Worse, though, were the upgrades that hadn't been requested. “Your math was pretty simple,” he told me. “It worked, obviously! But I figured while I was in there, I'd improve it. We want things as high-fidelity as possible, after all.”
The math he was referring to was the driving piece of code. It was the entire point of the software. Everything else was built around it. And he'd replaced it. Fixed it. Upgraded it. “That's great!” I said enthusiastically. I'm good at faking enthusiasm.
I only let my real feelings surface that night when I talked to a friend. “He gutted it,” I seethed. “He ripped out its brain and replaced it with a new one. He took apart its insides. He changed everything except the name. And he still says it's mine! Like taking away your baby and changing its brain doesn't matter. Now it's a freaking zombie baby!”
My friend laughed, presumably at the image and not at my anger. She seemed sympathetic, at least. “I'm sorry. That sucks.”
“It really does.” I sort of deflated. “And of course, I can't do anything about it. The guy just did his job, you know? And he did it right. The code is better.” I sighed. “I shouldn't be upset. This is stupid.”
My friend considered that for a second. “I don't know,” she said. “I think it's normal to be upset. Like you said, he stole your baby. I'd be mad, too.”
That made me feel better. At least someone understood.
Other than venting and griping, there really was nothing I could do. Nothing I even should do. So I gritted my teeth through the meetings where he talked about his improvements and how great everything was now, and I smiled and laughed through conversations with him on the subject. And if I spent some of those conversations imagining what it would be like to set his hair on fire, well, there didn't seem to be any harm in that.