Short Story: Very Rare Sand
In which I do a little Steve Jobs fan fiction and play around with Checkov's light table
Very Rare Sand
The year was 2010?
“Mr. Jobs?” said Yan.
Mr. Jobs didn’t respond.
Yan cradled an iPad prototype in his arms. Every now and then, he would risk the iPad’s well-being by freeing one of his hands and scratching at the bare spot on his scalp. He’d created the bare spot by scratching there compulsively for his entire life. He’d learned to hide it by parting his hair just so.
Yan didn’t like that he was taller than Steve Jobs—yes, that Steve Jobs—who was famously taller than you might imagine someone like Steve Jobs would be. Yan hunched himself down to stand level set with his boss at 6’2”.
Jobs raked his fingers through a waist-high plane of glowing green sand on a giant rectilinear light table in the center of the Light Table Chamber at Apple HQ.
Steve Jobs looked exactly like Steve Jobs.
”Mr. Jobs?” said Yan.
“Alec,” said Steve Jobs, “It’ll take some getting used to, but I need you to call me Alec from now on.”
“Alec?” said Yan.
“Olivine crystals,” said Steve Jobs.
“Sir?” said Yan.
“The mossy green sand on this light table,” said Steve Jobs, “is aggressively and inescapably calming. Olivine crystals. Very rare sand.”
“I see, Mr. Jobs,” said Yan.
“It’s Alec now,” said Steve Jobs, “Call me Alec iPhone. I need you to call me Alec iPhone now. I need that.”
“Okay,” said Yan.
“Try it,” said Steve Jobs. “Touch the sand. Find something. Take something. Lose something. If you’re blocked, give it to the sand. Why not?”
Yan looked all around. The airy, tennis-court-sized Light Table Chamber, with the exception of the floor and the ceiling, was somehow made entirely of glass.
But none of the glass walls were windows to the outside world. They were windows to other rooms with names. They were windows to hallways.
Alec iPhone née Steve Jobs had noticed that his assistant Yan, when prompted to touch the sand, didn’t seem to know where to safely set down the iPad prototype he’d been cradling. Mr. iPhone sighed.
“You can lay it down on the light table,” he said. “On the sand. That’s fine. It’ll be fine. What we’re working on now is much bigger than a tablet, Yan.”
Yan looked at the iPad prototype. Then he looked at the giant light table covered in the special green sand. Then he looked at his boss.
Resigned, he set the iPad prototype down on the sandy table as though it were an infant—as though he, Yan, were its au pair—as though he and Steve Jobs were on a deeply uncomfortable vacation together.
“Okay,” said Yan. “Alec. Sir. Mr. iPhone.”
“Olivine crystals,” said Alec iPhone.
“Olivine crystals,” said Yan.
“This, Yan” said Alec iPhone, “is some of the rarest sand in the world.”
“Yes,” said Yan. “I can see how central that is now.”
Yan ran his fingers through the sand. He watched as light from the table peaked through the little valleys that he’d created. The sand felt like sand. The light looked like light. It felt nice to touch the sand and to see the light. But why did the sand need to be rare? Or green? Was he missing something?
“Wow,” said Yan.
“Yeah, wow,” said Alec iPhone.
There was a sci-fi-movie-spaceship-door-opening sound—a pink whoosh—as a sci-fi movie spaceship door opened on the far end of the Light Table Chamber from Alec and Yan.
Rana walked in with great purpose. She had her own iPad prototype. Hers was slightly slimmer and had a slightly less noticeable bevel than the one Yan had set down in the rare green sand. She adjusted the horn-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose.
“Alec,” she said, “It’s time.”
“Time,” said Alec iPhone.
He used his index finger to draw an equal sign followed by an open parens in the rare green sand in an untouched spot on the giant light table just a few feet away from where Yan was sorting out his constitution.
“We're two and a half minutes behind,” said Rana. “Rounding up, that’s three minutes, really. You’ll take the stage for the keynote at 11:03 a.m. Cupertino time. That pushes Pixies back to 12:03. The time slip is my fault, Mr. iPhone. I am to blame. You have my sincerest apologies.”
Alec iPhone flattened his palm and extended his fingers. He smoothed over the frowny face he’d drawn in the sand moments earlier.
“Well,” he said. “I’ll just have to speak for three fewer minutes. We can’t push Pixies back. Not an option. I called this in as a personal favor from Joey Santiago.”
“Of course,” said Rana. “From Joey Santiago. The guitar one.”
“Yan?” said Mr. iPhone.
“Sir?” said Yan.
“Are you coming with us?” said Mr. iPhone. “Do you want to come see the keynote, or do you want to play with the sand? This is a sincere question. There is no right answer. Each is a means to an end.”
As Alec iPhone and Rana had been speaking with one another, Yan had been casually writing the Preamble to the United States Constitution with his fingertips in the very rare sand.
But he’d gotten stuck. Something had gone wrong.
After “provide for the common defense” he’d written “promote the general welfare” eight times—nine now.
He looked at Steve. Or was it Alec now? Sure. Okay, whatever. He looked at Alec.
“If it’s all the same to you, Alec iPhone, Sir,” said Yan, “I have some things I’d like to work through with the sand.”
“Great,” said Alec iPhone. “That settles it then.”
After the keynote, as the applause began to die down, Alec iPhone looked around the stage. He looked at the drum set and the guitars and the bass and the amplifiers that were all set up behind him. Then he looked out and met eyes with members of the audience. He tried to spend a few silent moments with a few people he’d never met before. He tried to give an extra moment to the ones with the brightest eyes and the bushiest tails. He smiled. He stopped. He smiled again. He winced in pain.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “Pixies!”
The audience stood and erupted as the band entered stage right. The lights dimmed. Alec iPhone exited stage left and watched from the wings. Pixies launched into a blistering version of “Alec Eiffel”. Rana had negotiated a few clumsy alterations to the lyrics.
Little iPhone stands in the archway
(Little iPhone, Little iPhone)
By the time the janitorial staff found Yan, it was too late. The police would treat it as a crime scene. They would photograph the giant light table from above.
Promote the general welfare.
Promote the general welfare.
Over.
And over.
Promote the general welfare.
Promote the general welfare.
Yan had crashed through the middle of the glass surface. His body had settled down into the light table’s smoldering, sparking core. The aggressively and inescapably calm sand had filled the void. Most of Yan was a mossy green monument now.
In the autopsy report, the coroner had noted several severe contusions and lacerations but had declared “electrocution and a sustained, environmentally induced inability to derive meaning” as the official causes of death.
In an addendum, the coroner noted the rarity and the composition of the mossy green sand but would ultimately come to question whether it held any inherent value.
hell yeah // sand UP / sand over and OUT