His name was and is ‘The Professor’. I kinda like him but I hate myself for it. I’m not alone in this. I feel the same about Murray @ Midnight but that’s for another time, this is the time to share the legend of the ‘knowledge-glow’.
Many years ago he was considered the knower of all things audiovisual. He then moved from being a hands-on knower into a sales type role that didn’t really require him to shoulder the burden of actually knowing as such, but more looking like he knew. One in fact could argue that truly knowing may have hindered the process he now filled. That’s his story anyway, all I know was the transformation was quick.
He developed the ‘knowledge-glow’ and as he made his way over the years the glow got brighter as the details got that little more fuzzy. Those of his generation, like me, slowly drifted away, seeking a sense of substance and an overwhelming desire to avoid the broad cheesy smile and constant winking that punctuated his shared joke that was never spoken. His audience lay elsewhere. The constant stream of newbies or wannabe’s that were forever entering the industry however loved the glow. It was warm and comforting and the knowledge was more bite size and instantly gratifying for the now-generation.
The marketing dweebs within the company we both had worked for was led by a very talented fellow who loved to share with everyone that he once drove taxi cabs until the founder of the business hopped in one fateful morning. The boss instantly liked the dweeb – he knew where he was going and importantly knew how to get there. He was hired at the end of the fare as the new marketing director. The boss was big on hiring people who knew where they were and specifically where they were going. He hired people with a plan in mind or in this particular case – a roadmap. Disturbing but sadly very true.
The marketing guy, let’s call him Donnie Dweeb, learnt quickly his trade and to be fair was pretty good… despite the fact he curiously talked like ‘Krusty the Clown’ (I kid you not) while shooting index fingers extended back and forth at you to underline a point. What-a-dweeb! That Donnie the dweeb.
Donnie traveled around the country visiting various offices, handing out brochures and talking about being on-brand and focusing on the message. We were never sure what message it exactly was other than there was only one hence the emphasis he always made on ‘THE’.
The Donnie tours served no other real purpose other than he had a really unreasonably large expense account that the poor bugger needed to seriously extinguish each month. On the tour he eventually crossed the threshold of one office and saw the glow. He too loved the glow and being in marketing he loved the fact that the ‘knowledge-glow’ that The Professor put forth as he glided about was not tainted with… well knowledge. It promised a sense of happiness. Like a can of ‘black gold’ soft drink – full of the promise but shy on the substance. A little inner tickle, a bit of mental and emotional lift, a strange giddiness that you can’t help but crave for more. Much like sugared almonds or freshly released breasts.
Donnie sensed it and wanted to share it. A widely distributed newsletter sent to clients and staff alike had found it’s new glowing star. A dedicated ‘help’ column was quickly created, a Dear Abby for the tech-set. It was called ‘From the Desk of The Professor’. His smiling face peered out each month, captured in mid-wink, as he ‘answered a series of ‘Dorothy Dixon’ (unknown sister of Joanne) questions put to him.
Of course the knowledge part of those answers were provided by two backroom techie guys that were always locked up in the little glass-sided room found just to the right of the loading dock. Strange and terrible things happened in this room. Usually at night or just before lunch. Fish curry brewed over a bunsen burner, crackers slathered with gherkin dip stood always at the ready, and all the while the room was filled with the soothing tunes of Carol King before she got cranky. Just horrible.
The two occupants were a very very strange couple. They were fond of each other despite regularly wanting to do each other real physical harm. Like most couples. They were both small nugget like men. Tall dwarves in effect. Not like most couples.
One was called Jensen and the other was called Gordon.
Gordon was a mass of connecting freckles, bald except for a few long knotted wisps of hair around his ears, reeked of ‘Old Spice’ splashon, and occasional wore a tattered old spiked dog collar ‘cause it was ‘streetwear’ man and it could possibly one day ‘pull’ a chick…. Gordon was very positive most days.
He liked pulling things apart and then declaring them broken. This was of course a side diversion to his ‘real’ job of spending half his day playing the stock market online. Buying and selling and discussing the merits of ‘Puts’ and ‘Options’ and the like. The remainder of the day was spent ‘repairing’ things, cussing about the poor workmanship of things these days, and of course grandly informing his workmate Jensen of his most cunning deals and indicating that the several millions of dollars he had under management were real and all his. All of it. Perhaps it was, but Jensen or for that matter anyone else didn’t actually believed him. Unless of course you desperately needed old ‘Gordo’ to fix that something that I swear didn’t work before I took it up into the rigging and kinda dropped it. The retelling of the Gordo legends was the price one had to pay to have Gordo take responsibility for that very expensive item you’ve recently broken and now Gordo will ‘finish’ the job well good.
Urban lore would have it that Gordon used to be a telephone lineman before an unfortunate communication exchange. The difference between the concept of ‘on’ and ‘off’ saw Gordo propelled from off the top of an old school telephone pole, streaking heavenwards across two suburban housing estates, body hair on fire, before landing in a nest of shopping trolleys. He was pensioned out and now happily spends his days tottering about within his little three sided glass playpen tinkering and massing a great virtual fortune.
The door to this sealed workroom had a sign marked out in thick red texta ‘Gordo’s Grotto’. Underneath it Jensen had added ‘Just Bugger Off’. Jensen was a little prickly to those that didn’t know him. Here he worked tirelessly and seemingly happily on repairing all the faulty and damaged equipment that the crew presented in addition to all those items that Gordo had so helpfully ‘prepared’.
Jensen was very very dark skinned handsome Dutch man in his late sixties. His tight curly hair had only recently started to attract a little grey frosting but he was still a fit muscular man. He liked to show people that lingered at the workshop door his nipple rings. Gordon was well over it as no one but him was ever there to linger.
Jensen often liked working in just his ‘Just Do It’ singlet and his ‘lucky’ pair of ancient steel caped black special forces boots. And if the complaints really escalated on any given day to the point that they reached Mrs. Lillylingtope on the fourth floor in HR, she would waddle with clipboard in hand down to make a special Jensen-in-person visit. The fact that he declared that he was Dutch and proud of it made little difference and he would reluctantly agree to wear some shorts or trousers if she didn’t linger too much longer. Gordo loved those days when she lingered. He loved lingering. She smelt like freshly iced lamingtons, and he really liked Mrs. Lillylingtope’s full bottom and that nasty disapproving sour stare that only HR and cashiers at cafes seem to so readily offer.
Despite the Dutchness of it all, Jensen was perfectly suited to working with complex circuitry and things that made little sparks and brightly blinked when nudged. He was deadly dull and comfortable with it. He may not know a thing about horses (other than his ex-wife but that’s a different story that the police are still investigating) but he was without a doubt the premier ‘technology-whisperer’. Certainly within this small dark nook of the world.
Jensen loved his job and all he asked was that he and his faithful minion Gordo were left to get on with it in their little sealed workshop. Many wondered about Jensen’s affection for Gordo… but apparently they had an unfortunate shared experience concerning a switching issue and Jensen’s heavy accent. This quiet room can suddenly become very loud and animated as both man suddenly stand and yell at each other confirmations and re-confirmations that something was about to be turned ‘on’ at the wall. The standoff runs for a number of minutes before one or the other grits their teeth and throws the switch. And most times everything works out just fine.
Jensen did like Gordo. He felt a sense of guilt about Gordo. He swears it wasn’t ‘on’. A big black bird called ‘Beaky’ did it. Truth be told he also needed Gordo. If Jensen’s plan for world domination in a James-Bond-villain style was ever to succeed he would need a number of key items. His minion Gordo, some bratwurst, a severe climate change, and possession of the growing power of the knowledge-glow generated by ‘The Professor’ up in sales.
The Professor always looked middle age. When he was young he had huge oversized perfectly round glasses, little hair on top and deep facial lines. Now that he is middle aged he looks a little more weathered, a little more worldly, a little more knowledgeable. He glowed more. He had also changed his spectacle shape to a more current Nazi Doctor rectangle shape with no visible frames around the glass and wire ear hooks. Life was good and he loved living the glow.
As the years had passed, small impromptu shrines started to evolve in various production warehouses. The steady stream of newskins to the trade would enter and the elder statesman would regale them with the great feats of ‘The Professor’ and refer the very inquisitive to the archives copies of the company newsletter. The lore demanded that those that feared disaster out on a job would be best served by visiting one of the shrines and paying their dues so that ‘The Professor’ would share his ‘knowledge-glow’. Small little moments such as ‘if the client hasn’t noticed, the problem never existed’ or ‘tag your cables my son’.
The shrines would feature at its heart a photo of ‘The Professor’ propped up against an old broken lamp or tired old projector that had seen better days. Good luck offerings and tokens of respect and gratitude were made regularly around his image. A roll of electrical tape, a packet of batteries, a copy of Enya’s greatest hits, a sweaty bag of old cashew nuts, a number of half guzzled and now flat syrupy cans of Coke, and of course a scattering of various metallic widgets and connector barrels. Invariably one of the newskins would also leave loose change that the old hands lurking nearby would secure…. for safety… for later.
The young lads would spend their time either loading or unloading into the back of impatient trucks a huge number of various shaped and very heavy roadcases. And occasionally, very very occasionally ‘The Professor’ may pop downstairs and glide past. Stopping to slap one of the lucky lads on the back and declare him a ‘Champ’. If one lad showed real promise or effort he’d be knighted a ‘Champion’ before ‘The Professor’ continued his glide-a-tour that always ended in the cafe across the street.
These times were an incredible experience for those witnessing it and could only ever really be destroyed by some knucklehead accidentally wandering into ‘Gordo’s Grotto’ during the curry feeding.
It’s now many many years later and I have returned to Queensland to work for a small event management company that prides itself on a small but A-list staff roster. Sitting behind me is ‘The Professor’ who glides in and out of the office at will smiling and winking as he goes. He’s looking at retiring soon and is slowing down. His ‘knowledge-glow’ is a little less yellow, not as bright, and he seems to leave thin swirling vapor trails behind but the glow is still there.
Over a mug of muddy coffee we chat about the past month. The highs and the lows. He’s inclined to run out a couple of ‘Champs’ which is kinda irritating and is surely destroying my line of thought. I talk of one show that had more than its fair share of the unexpected and the annoying when he stops me with a single finger waving steadily back an forth across my chin. He’s not so big these days. Once he is confident he has my undivided if not somewhat startled attention he smile broadens and he says “Sorry to hear that… would you like me to BASH you?”
A bit taken back I responded “Bash? What - as in smack me about?”
“Yup. Bash you right in the face if I have to” he smiled winningly back at me.
“Um… No I’m good” I stepped back once, twice and a third time. He followed me footstep for footstep. It was like a very awkward moment on ‘Dancing with the Stars’ but without the stars… or the dancing.
The Professor quickly reaches across me and gives me a sound smack across the back (I couldn’t help but flinch a little) and he declares “Ok then. See it’s not all so bad then is it.’
He smiles again, winks twice at me and then knowingly taps the side of his head as though that says it all. Perhaps it does. I just hope that at my age I don’t have to find myself leaving loose change or a handful of batteries or electrical tape at his desk each morning. Still the ‘knowledge-glow’ is still warm and let’s be frank, it helps me read better in the late afternoons when the owner, wanting to save on overheads, randomly turns the office lights out.
The ‘knowledge-glow’ is good and has served The Professor well. But times are a-changing and as he takes his shoes off, and rubs his eyes, the glow seems to thin again.
***
Jensen turned the switch from ‘off’ to ‘on’ and Gordo accidentally let’s out a muffled ‘eep!’.
The warehouse lights dim the blink out as one. The sound of secret underground turbines loudly wined into action. Gordo pulls his pants up just that little bit higher and returns to monitor all the buttons flash on and off. Jensen tweaks his nipple ring and smiles.
In the nearby gated community of Ellensgrove ‘The Professor’ suddenly sits upright in bed. Covered in sweat, head pounding he searches for his glasses. As focus comes to him he turns to look out of his window towards the warehouse. It’s not dark anymore. It is very pretty. Like fingers of God. His lens has cracked and his smile drops away.
Like light sabers, a collection of very bright yellow lights cut through the blinds and across the room. The two house cats perched on the windowsill loudly pass wind, and I roll over and continue to sleep and dream of soft spidery pink cotton candy. Hmmm yum.
Gordo asks Jensen “You did say ‘on’ yes?’
Jensen bats away the question “We have much to do tonight my strange freckled goat-boy”
“Don’t call me Goat-boy” Gordo replied.
“Ok, sorry about that, nothing personal” and with that Jensen started to put the special yellow and silver flight suite on and Gordo wipes his dripping nose with his shirt sleeve.
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