Remembering Ian

I was just going through my notes from previous jobs. I keep a work journal and I ran across Ian's name. I remember Ian...

From the journal...

Ian is our QA (Quality Assurance) guy for the project. He tests all our integrated programs. He sits in his cube waiting for the latest release of software modules. Robert will yell to him that some latest release of MarinerTables is available for testing. I think Robert figures he's a happy a junk yard dog eager to snap up scraps tossed to him over the cube walls. Since John came, Ian's life has been easier. John has implemented lots of QA docs and versions and built release directories which help Ian retrieve the latest releases and do his tests. (Robert, John and myself are the C++ programming team.)

Ian's got a tough guy exterior. He wears jean shorts, T-shirts and gym shoes. His socks are the kind that peak just above his hightops but short enough to reveal a Japanese tattoo on the inside of his left leg. He talks under his breath as if to himself when he addresses you. His eyes shift to the side as he talks like he's letting you in on a secret that he hasn't leaked to anyone else. He kind of swaggers as he walks. He takes his time getting to where he's going. No hurry. He reminds me of a cowboy in a Western that's packin' a colt strapped to his thigh. He'd be a good Hawaiian replacement for Hans Solo. His voice quality is typical of local guys, soft and gentle and easy to listen to. There's a lilt that he adds to the front of his sentences but then he drops his volume as if to telegraph to you that you don't have to listen if you've got other things to do.

You can't see the color of his cube walls for all the paper pinned up inside. He never cleans his desk nor does he throw away any paper. In fact, I've never seen his trashcan have anything in it but the liner. I once commented about the piles of paper on his desk top but he claims he can fetch any paper I ask for: "What do you want me to find?" he once challenged me.

He's very health aware and uses free weights for exercise. He reads labels of food products for a hobby. He tells me what the ingredients do to the human body. "Do you really know what you are eating?" he asked me as I scarfed down a hot dog.

He makes fun of the "Big Dog" polo shirts I wear and askes if I stitched the insignia on myself. He feels a guy with my lite frame size has no business wearing "Big Dog" polo shirts. Since I know all about his exercise program, it's best I don't disagree.

...dave
Traveling through hyperspace isn't like dusting crops, boy! - Hans Solo