Chapter 24. Creating a Workable Environment

for RuBoard

Undiluted concentration is key to building good software. Interruptions lead to bugs and poor code.

Kim Kokkonen

My first day at my first programming job was a humbling one. The secretary led me down one passageway after another through the bowels of the building until we wound up in the middle of the computer room, and there wasn't another human in sight. "This is your spot," she said, motioning toward an armless chair at a folding table next to a large chain printer angrily churning out paper and print at that very moment. She noticed the look of bewilderment on my face. Although I hadn't even hoped to have my own office, I'd never guessed that I'd be sharing my space with a noisy , temperamental machine.

Over time, I developed a certain tolerance for the machine-gun rattle-tat-tap of the printer, but I still found it hard to concentrate. We kept our distance from one another, and I went about trying to learn to program by reading books and studying other people's code. Many times, the noise was just too much. I wasn't going crazy from it, but I also wasn't learning as quickly as I wanted and needed to. There were no other offices. I was the low man on the totem pole, and there was little or no chance of finding a place more conducive to deep thought and learning.

The one respite I would sometimes get came after hours. Occasionally, late in the evenings, the printer would stop. Normally, it ran pretty much all the time. On a rare occasion, though, it would run out of things to print and would rest for a bit. I came to cherish those moments. When they came, it almost almost seemed like I had a real job, something that might have a future. Then, just about the time I'd begun to relax and dig into my studies, the furious, jack- hammer -like racket would start all over again, leaving my concentration in shambles.

I often worked late into the evening in those days. One night, as I walked back through the maze of offices that populated the building, I happened upon a door I'd never noticed before. I checked under the door. No light was on, so I opened it slowly. I was surprised at what I found. It was a storeroom, about two meters across and three or four deep. To one side was a set of stairs leading up to an attic area. On the other side were a table, a chair, and a couple of retired computer terminals, their keyboards stacked on top of their CRTs. The entire room was covered in dust. It appeared that no one had been in there in years . I closed the door gently and was heading back toward the salt mine when a thought hit me: What a great office that would make! I returned, opened the door, and peered into the storeroom once more. I flipped on the lighta single, bare 60-Watt bulb hanging from a wire in the center of the room. This place has possibilities, I thought. I could concentrate here.

So, immediately I retrieved my books and printouts and bid my noisy officemate farewell for the evening. For the next several hours, I sat in the chair in the little storeroom, studying in the sheer ecstasy of silence, euphoric in my discovery.

I repeated my evening visits to the storeroom every weeknight for the next several weeks, each time being careful to return my books to my desk and leave the storeroom just as I'd found it. In time, I managed to piece together a working terminal from the parts I'd found there, then ran a cable through the attic over to the mainframe, and, with a certain youthful audaciousness, plugged it in. Much to my surprise and relief, it worked. Now, I had a computer from which to work. I had my books, a quiet place to work, and a workable, although ancient, terminal. Life was good.

I continued on in my blissful subterfuge until one evening a couple of hours after everyone had left, I heard a knock at the door. Startled, I nearly fell out of my chair as my body tried simultaneously to answer the door and run the other way. Finally, after another knock, the door opened on its own. It was my boss. "What are you doing in here?" he asked, the vein in his forehead bulging. "I'm working," I said sheepishly, "I couldn't concentrate out there." "Where did you get all this stuff?" he asked, motioning toward the terminal I'd built. "It was already in here," I replied, "I just put it together." He stood there for a moment, contemplating what I'd just said, the wheels in his head whirling silently. "I didn't think it would hurt anything," I offered . He looked at me. "We'll have to see about that," he replied, the look of a disappointed father on his face. "For now, you'd just better go home. It's late."

So, I returned my books and materials to my table, my boss looking on incredulously as I lugged one mainframe manual after another back to their homes on the folding table that was my desk. Then I walked out the back door of the office, not knowing whether I had a job anymore.

It was dark outside, and I decided to walk around downtown a bit before going home. Across the street from the office was a row of movie theaters, their marquees lighting up the street like neon candy . I walked up and down each street of the old part of town repeatedly as I contemplated what had just happened at the office. Did I still have a job? What was really wrong with what I'd done? Should I have just asked for permission in the first place? What would I do now? How will I pay my rent?

Eventually, I took a seat on the steps of the old bank building next door to the office where I had a clear view of the moviegoers entering and leaving the theaters. I watched them come and go, their cares seemingly suspended for the moment. According to the plaque on the front of the bank, it had been erected in the 1920s. Its Gothic trappings and granite columns harkened back to ages long past, to prosperity and history long since gone. I sat there and pondered my fate while gargoyles and griffons gaped down from the ledges above.

As I thought things over, I came to the conclusion that it was I who'd been wronged, that even to expect me to work in such a teeth-rattling atmosphere had been inconsiderate on the part of the company. I decided that if they fired me for trying to compensate for this unfairness, well, I guess I'd have to find another job. I had loved the peace and quiet I'd found in the storeroom. It was sublime while it lastedmy sanctum sanctorum. It wasn't much, but it was enough that I could at least concentrate and do the job for which they were paying me. I decided they could fire me if they wanted, but I had to have a quiet place to work. If they let me go, then I'd just leave. It would be time to find another storeroom.

for RuBoard