Those imbeciles of the sidewalk were obvious. They were the ones frantically punching the walk button, angered that their command had not been obeyed immediately. Regardless of the time or other pedestrians present, they were determined to force the red ‘don’t walk’ sign to turn green, no matter what. But it was their relentless button-pressing that always disturbed the peace and tranquility of us normal folk. Those of us with patience and knowledge knew that only one light tap was ever needed. We tried to ignore them and occasionally offered a ‘knowing’ smile to each other.
On more than one occasion, I wanted to educate them and explain that adding more power and pressure and persistence to the press (PxPxP) did not make any difference to the final outcome. Noting that many of them looked bigger, tougher, and more aggressive than me, I chose to accept their stupidity; it seemed safest to let them remain in their own simple world.
Wise is the person who just accepts. I recall a lady—the pompous-looking one—chastising one of these sidewalk nasties, only to be immediately assaulted by such verbal force that I had to turn away from the scene. Her statement was innocent enough: ‘You only need to press the button once.’ Well, that opened the floodgates of hell. From the mouth of that sidewalk cretin, blasphemous and filthy words of scorn spewed across the crosswalk. She even used the good Lord’s name in such a fashion that it caused some of us to walk against the flashing ‘don’t walk’ sign. In hindsight, had we all been hit by cars, I wonder who’d have been at fault—the verbose one, the Lord, or us? But that’s a question for another time.
Whilst most of the staff at Gibson and Flinch arrived in good health, I sometimes showed up on edge—and needed more than one coffee to settle my good self. Mr Gibson had, on occasion, remarked that I looked a tad dishevelled. I’d never had the nerve to tell him about the footpath ruffians. I’d appeared a whinger of the first order. No, sir, this senior accountant took life on the chin (not like others). Anyway, telling him would have put me in a dilemma, as I was claiming mileage allowance for the car and also renting out my company’s car space. If he had put two and two together, he might have asked questions. The upper echelons did not need to know things they were, almost for certain, doing themselves. As I have always said: ‘less is better’.
It seems like a lifetime ago that Mr Gibson, completely out of nowhere, chastised me. He suggested I show more initiative and try not to see everything so negatively. Of course, he praised me to the hilt and back first (typical management tactics before slashing with an axe). It was like polishing the finest trophy to a gleaming shine, only to spit on it as a final touch. He’d put me in such a mood that I needed to clear my mind. So, I walked. And it was on this very walk that inspiration arrived—from the most unexpected of quarters.
The more I walked the blocks, the more I noticed these troublesome push fiends, and I was determined not to let them ruin an already painful day. I often reminded myself of that age-old wisdom about seeing things from another’s point of view (something I read in a book Mr Gibson gave me—the idiot did something right), and set out on a quest that became a full-blown obsession. Instead of avoiding the button pushers, I actively sought them out, even standing beside them. I had to uncover their raison d’être. And it was here I experienced my first awakening. I tell you, it was like a crash on the head from an orchestral drummer. Could it be that these sidewalk champions were, in fact, musicians? I mulled over this flash of genius for quite some time.
I recalled that musical masterpiece, ‘Popcorn’ from the ’70s. I tried for ages to sync its beat with their relentless button thumping, but beat and thump refused to align. After another month of testing every genre of music, it became clear there was no rhythm or tune known to man that matched their bashing at the button. It had to be something else—something secret, hidden, known only to a select few. My walk to work was no longer educational; it was delusional. I had to stop this madness. But stop never came—another flash of inspiration propelled me into a course of action that would change my life. Seek and you will find, was a phrase I invented for this exact mission. And with that, I knew I had to ‘ask’ one of them.
I recall that day vividly. It was a bright morning with a drizzle of rain—not that it made any difference. The lady beside me tapped away furiously. In that single minute of waiting, she slammed that cylindrical button well over fifty times. She looked normal, as far as normal went, but her behaviour separated her from the rest—who all seemed a tad annoyed at her relentless pressing. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, her eyebrows slanted down, crunching her forehead into wrinkles as her eyes fixed intently down her long nose, focused on the button. Her expression was that of an Olympian attempting to set a world record for the number of pushes she could get in before the green ‘walk’ appeared. She was a perfect candidate for my inquisitive self.
As the red ‘don’t walk’ changed to green, we all obeyed as commanded.
“Excuse me, Ma’am, why did you press the button so many times?” (I called her Ma’am, hoping she wouldn’t see me as the enemy.) “You know, more than one press makes no difference. One is enough to let the system know you’re waiting.”
I was flabbergasted when she snapped back, asking how I knew that. Was it simply assumed knowledge, or had I actually studied the system? She had me there. I’d just assumed.
“Why do you press it so many times, then?” My politeness was so thick it could have dripped off a spoon.
In any group of ladies who know each other, you’ll always spot the ‘cock of the walk’—the one whose body language and strut suggests she’s the Queen of the city. But our group, mere pedestrian plebs, were strangers to each other; yet this lady had that walk—they always have that walk. Her posture was soldier-straight, her pace showed authority, and she looked straight ahead. No smile, but a slight nod of her head showed she was open to questions. She was the leader of her universe as she led our troupe across the road. I’m certain that if any car had dared to encroach on her crossing, she would have picked it up and hurled it into the nearest building without breaking stride. She was that kind of pedestrian. Fearless.
On the other side of the road, she slowed to fully answer my question. She gave me the look of a professor about to explain the intricacies of the traffic light system to an eager student. I played along—I needed her answer.
“It’s to do with climate change,” she replied.
That answer only confused me further, but it had opened a door I couldn’t very well close. She came to a halt, and I stopped with her as other pedestrians moved around us. I had wrongly assumed she was completely whacko. In hindsight, she was forcing me to think, to explore.
“It’s all about joules. Joules of energy. Do you realise that each press of the walk button uses approximately 0.01 joules of energy?” I couldn’t quite tell if it was a statement or a question, so I simply nodded—and thank goodness I did. I almost called her Julie. How embarrassing that would have been; she’d have probably chewed me up for lunch.
She spoke with such intent and confidence that I feared laughing. If it had been a friend telling me this, I’d have rolled my eyes. Of course, I enjoy the occasional bit of merriment, but I felt that here I’d only be encouraging someone with a touch of instability. What if she had a gun in her purse? Or suddenly screamed out some sexual perversion? But something held me there. It was my determination to find an answer. I had to know why she was so intent on hitting that button.
“Each time the button is pushed, it collects the energy spent. So, each fraction of a joule adds up to watt-hours. This helps add power to the grid.”
I mulled that idea and on a side note mentioned my earlier research into music, beats, and drums. She laughed hysterically, which was unexpected. And then she looked at me as if I were an idiot. We both stood looking at each other and it was such a long pregnant pause that I became uncomfortable and even polished the toe of my shoes on the back of my trousers.
“I’m sorry, but I do not know what a joule of energy is.”
She told me it was a lot and I could make money. All I had to do was register and I would enter a world of financial independence. This appealed to my clever accounting mind. And being a man of numbers, I inquired further.
“My fingerprint is registered with the government and then each press I make, while adding my energy to the grid, is also matched to my push account and then into my bank account. And it is tax free. Plus, if I need more money than usual, I just press the button harder and faster.”
This was extraordinary. Now I knew why some slammed that button super hard. It was not anger, but it was an innocent soul doing their bit for financial independence, plus building the growth of push energy as an alternative power source. What a winner.
“To open an account, you just need to send your fingerprint to the government and they connect it all up,” she explained.
Well, this was news to me. For too long, I had looked down my nose at these sweet people. It just goes to show, doesn’t it? Then I asked how much money she made per day. I think that upset her. At speed she answered her phone (I didn’t hear it ring) and left at haste. Maybe she was being silenced by her superiors? If the system was in development she’d be in serious trouble. Her problem, not mine.
After my brief encounter with the lady, I took it upon myself to thank these guardians of the push for doing their bit to help with climate change. I became a more appreciative pedestrian and, honestly, went out of my way to greet them. Perhaps I was being selfish, but I needed more answers. I didn’t really care about climate change but I wanted to be financially independent.
You guessed it: when I wanted the pushers, they were nowhere to be found. So, I pounded those streets day and night.
During this research period, I discovered that many of her ilk (who I now called ‘Joulies’) appeared quite aggressive—none would share any information about their income. Some were downright rude. I suppose when you’re making a bundle, you don’t want to share the source. Then it hit me: there were countless traffic lights without any Joulies at the helm. Was this an opportunity? You bet! I could see bags of gold hanging off the traffic lights.
With my accountant’s sharp mind, I ran some calculations—this was bigger than me. So, I presented the idea to our boss, Mr Gibson, who was always eager to increase profits. I explained how we could encourage lazy and unfit staff to walk and press traffic light buttons. It was easy enough to outline, but, like many in management, Gibson was out of his depth with true innovation.
The following day, I cornered him in the lift, and with only twenty seconds between floors, I launched into my elevator pitch. “Mr Gibson, this opportunity will give us unlimited wealth with minimal investment. I’ve done the figures. We can multiply the number of traffic lights by how often they change per day, then by the number of presses pedestrians make to activate the walk sign. We’d be capturing joules from every repeated press. It involves climate change, an unknown source of energy, and a hole in the market. It’s a no-brainer.”
For the second time, he looked at me, utterly confused, so I presented my chart, which made it much easier. I even stressed the word ‘millions’. That got his attention. You bet.
“Mr Gibson, E is the total and is calculated by multiplying 500 x 720 x 50 x 1, which equals 18,000,000 joules per day.”
I told him my estimate was conservative, and the world was waiting. What if we expanded to India and China? This was an entrepreneur’s dream. Mr Gibson left the lift, deep in thought, clutching my chart. As with any proposal, I’d exaggerated and upped the force to one full joule per press—if people smell money, they’ll bash that button with such force that it’ll climb to a full joule and beyond, I’m sure of it.
Unfortunately the doors had closed before I could expand on the potential. Like the times when the grid needed more power the walk buttons would automatically become harder to press. Double the joules in an instant. Of course some cranks would try and blame the system for RSI, but the legal department would handle that.
I didn’t hear back from Gibson, but I suspected he was conferring with the board or our international partners. True entrepreneurs can’t wait. And I needed to be the first in the company, so I sent off my fingerprint to the government and asked them to enrol me in the joules program. In anticipation of the ‘nod,’ I packed my bags, certain that Mr Gibson, as founder, would soon send me off to open international markets.
Unfortunately, the police arrived and arrested me at work. I was charged with a robbery from some twenty years ago—back when I was young and foolish. I should have worn gloves. How stupid. Fingerprints!
My time in gaol was tedious—but, if I’m honest, not nearly as tedious as my years at Gibson and Finch. Not a single one of those bastards bothered to visit. Even at trial, that moron Gibson sunk the boot in. I’ll get him one day. Just you wait, Gibson, you PHONEY!
After all the publicity, Julie visited me in gaol. I was so surprised to see that queen of the lights again. She said evil had infiltrated the push-power network, her cheques had stopped, and she wondered if I could loan her some money. I mulled it over and agreed—but on one condition. She had to kill Gibson first.
“No worries,” she said.
