Site of Alberto Ferrero

Meeting in room 8080

2019-03-25T00:00:00Z

Room 8080 was on the second floor, in the office called Localhost. I had a meeting there at 10:30. I remember that day I was wearing a white shirt, new shoes, and socks without holes.

I went up to the second floor and looked for room 8080. By that time, 10:17, the shoes were already hurting me, or maybe it was the socks without holes. Room 8080 was closed, and after trying to open the door, I found that I didn't have access.

I went to get a coffee to pass the time. I went up one floor to the office called Code Freeze. There I grabbed a long coffee and then went down the stairs, slowly because the shoes were killing me. Room 8080 was still closed, and there was no one inside. It was 10:22.

I checked the schedule and decided to sit in the hall to wait calmly. I took the opportunity to unlace my shoes and discreetly slip out my heel to reduce the suffering, the pain I was immersed in caused by the new shoes.

There were people walking quickly past me. They were going here and there, probably stressed, to their respective meetings. They wore white shirts. I noticed their shoes, polished, impeccable, probably new as well. But by the way they walked, polished, impeccable, those people did not seem to suffer from shoe pain.

Then I understood what I had to do. I took my socks and began to make holes in them. I put the socks back on and felt the pleasure of my toes slipping through the holes. I put on the shoes, my dear new shoes, and stood up like a spring.

Room 8080 lit up when I approached its door, and I was able to enter. It was 10:30.

David Hasselford

2019-03-30T00:00:00Z

The junior developer leaves his screens to grab a coffee or two, and maybe start meeting new colleagues. The mid senior developer notices that the newby hasn't blocked his session, so he places a photo of David Hasselford in all his screens

The dev manager always laughs with jokes, specially when seeing a photo of David Hasselford in somebody's screens, but at that moment his face was serious, even worried I would say. He just got back from a meeting, from a meeting in the dark room

The junior developer comes back to his dock and sees the David Hasselford photo. He starts shouting and pushing the keyboard like a crazy young man. I quit, he cries, I quit

Later that day, the dev manager is throwing a ball to the mid senior developer. Both of them are connected in a video call with a third person: Mr. DH

Mr. DH, says the dev manager, we have to stop doing this, there has been a meeting this morning in the dark room. Mr. DH answers: Meetings in the dark room are not important, code is important, blocking our screens is important. Ok, keeps saying Mr. DH, I think we are ready, no more new developers, we are going to upgrade. The mid senior developer smiles. The software will be released, concludes Mr. DH

In another part of the world, inside an office building, a young woman starts running her computer. She installs the new software and discovers the photo of David Hasselford when starting her duties

Eight hours later the young woman will be leaving the office with a smile in her face, she will run to her car and drive to the beach, she will throw away her clothes and get into the sea and she will have freedom and happiness

Course to kill Mosquitoes

2020-06-15T00:00:00Z

As a neighbor of the river, I'm used to suffering from mosquitoes. They wake me up in the middle of a nap, in the middle of the night, and during restless sleep.

I can be zen and move on, sleep less, fight more, but the issue is that mosquitoes invade my privacy and bother my children. My wife sighs more and more, like that dubious judge who still hasn't made a decision.

Solutions found on Google:

Insect repellent for bugs
Mosquito nets on the windows of our castle
Online course on killing mosquitoes
Anti-mosquito air freshener
Hermetic isolation

I have enrolled in the online course for killing mosquitoes, there are still spots available, in case you're interested.

Micro trip

2020-06-27T00:00:00Z

I was born in the state of inebriation, north of Aragon.

For 20 years I read books and magazines.

I crossed the Ebro many times, above, like the birds, but without wetting my beak.

I speak 3 languages but only use 2.

I have 10 shoes but only wear 2.

I have a single phone, a single family, and a single God.

Today an alarm went off: 40 years ago I was born in the state of inebriation.

It's been 20 years since I read. I no longer cross the Ebro. I travel south, The birds say.

Pair programming with Scott Joplin

2020-07-22T00:00:00Z

The nerves of the junior. You know things, but the lack of experience tells you that you don't know things.

Suddenly, right at the start of a pair programming session, you are assigned to work with someone named Scott Joplin.

Scott Joplin has a lush, dense, dark mustache, ending in curves.

He shares his screen and shows me the structure of the repository and the flow of calls between services, then asks me if I want coffee.

If I want to become a senior, I have to obey the coffee, I write in my notes, while he leaves the screen.

When he returns, Scott Joplin looks at me intently, he had black eyes.

After looking to one side and the other, he shows me the playlist of songs prepared for the next PBI in the backlog.

A certain Scott Joplin sounds on the other side of the screen and another Scott Joplin begins to type.

That's how I discovered the reason for that nickname, that enigmatic developer, whose name circulated in all areas of the company. Scott Joplin the developer listened to Scott Joplin the musician to develop, that's how it was.

Listening to his music, to the rhythm of ragtime, Scott Joplin the developer makes a note of something relevant, like a syntax, and goes back to typing.

I stir my coffee, on the other side of the screen.

In a clumsy act, my spoon falls, and I fall to my knees on the floor, spilling a little coffee on the floorboard, and I look up at the ceiling.

But there is no ceiling, only sky, and ragtime plays, and there are clouds that you can see but not touch.

We are all juniors except You, I write in my notes.

Cat on a hot tin keyboard

2020-12-19T00:00:00Z

Juan posted the comment "the cat on the zinc keyboard" on the channel. Someone asked him about the movie, maybe the novel by Tennessee Williams?

Jenny wrote about her husband, with whom she shares a desk, about pounding the keyboard like a Led Zeppelin drum set.

Luis is somewhat older and brings up the example of a colleague of his who wrote code like one of the Marx Brothers, the middle one, the one who played the piano with his index fingers.

Maxi is Latino and plays salsa music in the background, which can be heard through his microphone when he's not muted. Maxi presses the enter key as if he were a gunslinger.

Shooting at the enter key with the index and thumb extended, Sam Peckinpah and his wild keyboard.

The wrestling fighter thinks about climbing onto the office chair, making a guttural sound, and tensing his muscles to then jump onto the table and hit the enter key with his elbow to send the form.

Or those movies where the Nazis are seen typing with their leather gloves.

On the keyboard, the F and J keys have notches that make these keys more inclusive and thus easier for typists to locate.

They are like two nipples.

It's as if the Psalms of St. Matthew, key F8, function 11, help us to move forward when debugging and finding our mistakes.

And Pink Floyd always ends up playing, and you turn the keyboard over for the first time and see that it's made in California with love.

And you can't help but feel nostalgic, just like David Hasselhoff. His wallpaper will be present on everyone in the office who doesn't lock their computer. And Ctrl+Alt+Del Ctrl+A Ctrl+C Ctrl+V Ctrl+Z.

Dorothy searching for the way of the yellow key road.

Two keyboards per hand like a prodigious musician.

It's a matter of using nostalgia and typing forward.

And meeting with Google, with Siri, with Alexa, and telling them no, no voice control, you pay for their coffee and leave.

And you're smiling under the mask.

And that's what matters.

Poetría

2020-12-26T00:00:00Z

Sam Sullivan flirted with StackOverflow, fixing errors for developers and then inviting them to dinner.

Lindsey June wrote poems based on strings of comments on GitHub.

Roberto Cucciello painted oil canvases by attaching the brush to a programmed drone.

Alejandra Vázquez, Melinda Smith, Kai Wolfgang, there are many more.

They are out there, making websites.

Do not feed the ducks

2022-05-11T00:00:00Z

If you feed the ducks in the Manzanares, you run the risk of being confronted by Ramon who will reproach you with open arms as follows:

Oye amigo, if you feed the ducks, you will get a bill from the police.

He pulls out a supermarket receipt from his pocket and waves it in the air.

You will have to pay, lo pagarás.

Look at the river, it's kind of charming, with its leaves over there and the plants that grew from nowhere.

There are birds that flew to reach this place of nature.

They are cool birds, like ducks.

Ducks have their own businesses.

Ducks with one head, ducks that don't like being fed.

Because ducks with 3 heads don't pay bills.

They always run away, with their 3 heads thinking 3 thoughts. Or more.

Then Ramon closes his arms and leaves.

Vultures in Autumn

2023-02-04T00:00:00Z

Vultures are boys and men who walk along the river promenade, offering their jackets or coats to girls who are cold.

It's common at the onset of the first cold to walk carelessly in short sleeves or even in tank tops.

We can see a vulture who focuses his attention; a girl walks briskly, somewhat hunched over and rubbing her arms.

The vulture approaches, his hands extended upwards, smiling, bowing his head, looking into her eyes. When the vulture gets the girl to accept his outerwear, he says goodbye like a gentleman. The girl puts on the jacket over her clothes and leaves under the vulture's gaze, who, despite having finished his mission, remains attentive. She lets her guard down and thinks of gentlemen from classic French cinema, of handsome men. Not all vultures are bad, she thinks.

When the girl gives in to the cold and fully puts on the jacket, sliding her arms into the sleeves, she realizes her mistake. The girl turns around in desperation, pleading with the vulture, but he slowly walks away from the place, as if in a procession. The girl resigns herself and lowers her head, then the jacket begins to move its sleeves vigorously, up and down, and rapidly taking off, flies beyond the promenade, with the girl inside.

Next to the river promenade, the tops of some pine trees watch the girl in the jacket soar through the sky; the pines follow her trajectory with their gaze as if they were sunflowers. Under the shade of these pines, there are many terraces; it's pleasant to have a drink after walking by the river. But in autumn it's not advisable, the wind makes the pines shiver and they throw needles. It's the way these trees warn of the danger of the vultures.

The terraces in the area usually serve coffee with sugar in a packet that says: The dessert doesn't let you see the dessert.

The wild researchers

2023-09-16T00:00:00Z

He told me that his favorite book was 'Los investigadores salvajes', 'The Wild Researchers.' It turns out that the writer of this novel, Roberto Bolaños, worked during the summers in a parking lot. That left him time to dedicate to his poems.

Sometimes, when leaving the parking lot after work, it would be raining, but since he didn't have an umbrella, he would splash through puddles.

The red hooded lady

2023-10-07T00:00:00Z

At night, I often go down to smoke near the entrance to the M30, across the river. There are a couple of benches always empty, three little trees always empty, and no cars around.

One night, while puffing away, a girl on a motorcycle stopped in front of me. The girl in the red hood stopped her bike and asked me if this was the river street, or how she could get to a place. I looked towards the end of the street and extended my arm towards there, showing her that at that point, she had to turn right. But the girl wasn't looking at the spot; she was staring into my eyes, not at my extended arm, not at my pointing finger, she was holding my gaze.

I moved my arm, still extended, and even took out not one but two pointing fingers. But the girl kept looking into my eyes.

What did this smiling girl want? I thought. Obviously, she didn't want directions; she wanted me. It wasn't that I had combed my hair that morning or anything like that; the girl wanted me.

We were under the streetlamp, so the scene wasn't mysterious or anything like that, there was no darkness or anything hidden, we had no secrets.

It wasn't like the wolf and Little Red Riding Hood, or the ghost biker or anything like that; it was a scene of recruitment, of creating bonds.

Meanwhile, we were still there, the girl in the red hood, my extended arm, my pointing fingers.

I had to make a quick decision.

At the end of the street, to the right, I suddenly said, and I took out my third pointing finger, like someone releasing their hunting dogs in a chase.

The girl, still smiling, smiled a little more, just a little bit more, enough to finish the scene. Then she accelerated her motorcycle and disappeared.

It was curious, as the motorcycle engine faded away, it sounded like my grandmother's breathing.

Jimmy Backface Visibility

2023-10-08T00:00:00Z

When you meet Jimmy, you realize that there are things in life worth cherishing.

At his workplace, Jimmy tells you that his girl introduced him to the world of programming and good practices for writing quality code. His girl used to sit three desks to the left of Jimmy. You might wonder, dear reader, whose left I am referring to—your left, dear reader, or the left of Jimmy Backface Visibility. Well, it's the same left.

Jimmy's girl changed jobs, cities, and left Jimmy. This broke our friend's heart.

While driving home from work, Jimmy confides in me about some things. He would have done a rollback of everything, to go back to a previous, stable version, without knowing the world of programming, good practices, or her. But then he always says that one must look forward and plays some music and accelerates.

Otis, technical assistant

2023-12-24T00:00:00Z

I was invited to the meeting of the new Product Managers. It had been 5 months since I last visited the office. That morning, about 6 large clouds and a multitude of small, frothy ones covered the sky. I ignited my sixth sense: the car. I used it for a while. M30, A1 towards Burgos, and I parked easily. It had rained a bit the night before.

In the meeting room, as per the agenda, they were having breakfast. I learned of the catering's content: dark chocolate, pure, 100% cocoa. Later, the roadmap would be discussed, in which I was to intervene punctually. To conclude the agenda, there would be a brief team game.

It took two attempts for my fingerprint to open the door of the room. On the second attempt, I shivered, looked up towards the air conditioning outlet, towards the grille, there was something written on a piece, barely perceptible. Perhaps it was the name of the air conditioning technician, as in elevators where we can read the name of the last technician. In the bathrooms, it is also common to see a list of names of the people responsible for cleaning and their schedules. The point is, the door opened.

Inside, the atmosphere was festive, and the dark chocolate had left its mark on the meeting members, all smiling or talking with their mouths showing their stained, dark teeth, looking as if they were missing teeth.

I took a deep breath, tried to smile, greeted as I went to the projector and left my equipment. It was very hot, and the long sleeves were bothering me. The chocolate, on its trays, was starting to melt. People kept eating, leaving their dark fingers with which they would then type on their dark laptops.

They laughed with their mouths open, grotesquely, showing their stained teeth. I began to sweat, so I decided to roll up my shirt sleeves.

Then it happened. My arm began to grow, as if in a Fu Manchu movie, as if by magic or something supernatural. Under the shirt, my arm stretched, grew.

At first, I was astonished, I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. Later, when I saw my arm growing towards the chocolate tray, I was terrified. My arm wanted the chocolate, to seize it.

The product managers noticed and began to scream in terror at my growing arm. Not because I was going to take their chocolate, but because my arm was terrifying. They screamed with their mouths open, showing their stained teeth.

The scene was tense, it was hot, there was dark blood on the trays. Fortunately, just when my arm must have measured about 3 meters, the door opened and in came Otis, the air conditioning technician, with a typical smile of someone who knows they are going to solve the problem.

The Lizard King delivery

2024-01-10T00:00:00Z

"I am The Lizard King. I can do anything," says Jim Morrison, manager of the transportation company.

His vans are visually elegant, the logo, the slogan, everything is suitable.

But it wasn't all a path filled with roses, Jim Morrison tells us, at the beginning there were only thorns.

During the early deliveries of The Lizard King, it was Jim Morrison himself who was behind the wheel of his van, Pam.

Those were very hard working days, many hours within hours.

Jim would leave Pam double-parked while making deliveries. In the loading and unloading zone, on the sidewalk. Jim always separated from Pam.

Those were days of elevators and stairs, of ambulances and buses annoyed at finding Pam, Jim's van, in the middle of the street, blocking the way. Those were days of broken windows and stolen goods. Those were days of sex during delivery.

"Now I have a consolidated business," Jim Morrison tells us.

During dusk, the vans return to the garages, where they regain the shine of their logos, fill their bellies with packages to deliver, and wait for dawn, like a lizard resting on a rock to absorb heat.

Jim locks the garage with a padlock and invites us to order packages from The Lizard King to check what he says.

We will go home, at night we will close the curtains and blinds, and order something from Amazon. Inside our homes, we will be safe. But what will happen when someone rings the intercom? Will it be The Lizard King Delivery? The one who can do anything?

The sedentary

2024-06-01T00:00:00Z

At the sedentary worker's station, there are two screens with dark backgrounds and many lines of code like the sky. Everything else is under the sky, that is, everything on the desk, like in a card game. Like mountains or groups of hills, the coffee cups, all of them empty, like cattle skeletons in the meadow.

Descending the mountains, there seems to be a stream, which is actually a USB-C cable. In the heart of the valley, the mechanical, wireless, white keyboard. To its right, with the authority that implies, the ergonomic mouse, also white.

The programmer’s hands are typing code to expand the application's functionality. Deer are running after the cursor, jumping over each key, laughing as only a deer knows how to laugh.

The mountaineer with a backpack on his back, the heavier it is, the greater the effort, the greater the reward. There is always a path out there, within reach.

Suddenly the mountaineer trips over a protruding root. A message arrives or someone knocks on the door or something from Amazon is delivered. The point is, the work is interrupted. Concentration is lost. The good song ends.

The noise of the doorbell, shrill and untimely, causes an avalanche of rocks on the eastern side of the mountain. The programmer gets scared and throws the coffee cups onto the keyboard, hitting keys that do not correspond to reality.

The deer are crushed by the rocks, screaming heart-wrenchingly, as only deer know how to scream. And the mountaineer will not be able to sleep peacefully at night because the ghosts of the deer will visit him.

The programmer returns to his swivel chair; the message speaks of a failure in the application deployment. The user cannot perform a task. A tragedy.

Something from Amazon has arrived, covered in a cardboard skin, waiting to be opened.

For the sedentary it works like this.

Sooner or later, the programmer will resolve the bug in the application, they will make another deployment, and everything will work fine.

The programmer will recline in his swivel chair and remain like that for 200 years, looking at the hills made of coffee cups and the deer grazing in the meadow. Until the next bug.

Fly, umbrellas

2024-07-08T00:00:00Z

July, a summer month. In the souvenir shop, there was a cardboard tag hanging ominously from a beach umbrella. The tag had a price marked in euros. A bad omen.

And then the sudden wind arrived at the beach, a hurricane-like wind with a supernatural appearance. The sand flew, blinding the sunbathers, many of whom were struck by flying umbrellas.

The elderly ladies screamed, the children cried, and the parents protected them with their sun lotion-covered bodies. They tried to hug, but due to the tanning oil, their bodies slipped instead of embracing.

And the umbrellas kept hitting the bathers at high speed. Cries of pain were heard, and people were lying on the ground, writhing from the blows.

The wind didn't stop; it continued to the next beach, leaving the same scene. From beach to beach.

And the sky was covered with flying beach umbrellas, all heading toward the sun. Umbrellas that would never return.

Then, everything calmed down.

And on the beaches, people helped each other. Some helped others to stand. The children were comforted with hugs. The elderly ladies were fanned. They dried each other's sun lotion-covered skin to be able to embrace, but by doing this, they left themselves unprotected against the rays.

And the sun, at its midday peak, was going to melt the bathers who no longer had their umbrellas. It was just a matter of time. It was hot, and sweat drops kept pouring out.

And the people went into the water, and the water reluctantly embraced them for the moment.

And the lord of the clouds, who lives next to the souvenir shop, suddenly whistled, and suddenly, the clouds appeared, as if they were pets.

Then, everything calmed down.

The Nicht

2024-07-21T00:00:00Z

My career as a software developer began at an Austrian company located in the heart of our old continent. The corporate language was English. The code, the documentation. Everything was in English, but the bosses spoke to each other in German. Deutsch. You have to say it with discipline, making sure to pronounce each of the letters, especially the end. Deutsch. So many consonants lined up waiting to be mentioned. Long words like deserts in that language, conjugations and a different order, that's Deutsch, my friends.

Learning that language was the key to being able to communicate properly with the other workers, with my bosses, with the bosses of my bosses, etc.

I started German classes with enthusiasm, like someone going to drink from a stream. I usually find it easy to learn things, but with German, I caught the fish on the first try. I quickly noticed the changing order of their expressions, essential conjugations that had to be memorized, and one word that became my ally from that moment on: Nicht.

I started speaking always saying Nicht at the end of each sentence, not as a filler but as a communication pattern, even as a life philosophy. Nicht.

You know? I used to say in meetings in English, disappointing myself and having to lower my head. That was before, before Nicht. In German meetings, I felt more in my element. It had nothing to do with you know. I had left them behind, they were part of my past.

From that moment on, I was invited to more meetings. I received questions constantly, and my opinion was taken into account when making decisions.

Nicht was my wildcard word, filling in my lack of vocabulary and grammar. It allowed me to communicate with others in their language, as if I were one of them, just another fish in the stream.

They asked me everything from technical issues to the number of tickets that could be completed in the next Q3, to reassign other colleagues, although some of them only spoke English.

I answered with my German sentences and my Nicht always at the end. Sometimes they smiled, sometimes they laughed, sometimes they nodded, the reaction varied depending on the level of responsibility of those present. The point is that my Nicht worked.

Nicht. Always said at the end of each sentence. No need to shout it. It had to be said softly, like stroking a horse's back before riding through the valleys and feeling the fresh wind slapping your face.

Obviously, I improved my German; I knew what I was talking about, no longer had vocabulary gaps or grammatical errors. Nevertheless, I kept my Nicht in each of my German sentences, always at the end, like the climax of a movie or the socks on a leg.

That Nicht brought me success, not my skills with algorithms or my ability to design components. That Nicht carried me to departments of the company that even many Germans didn't know about.

Here I am now, teleworking with my legs crossed on the table, fans flying over the devices, cups of coffee full, and my shoes lying around somewhere in the field.

Jazz shoes

2024-08-29T00:00:00Z

My old shoes left new footprints, which the trackers of Miles Davies could easily follow. The trackers were the advanced group, the ones who went back and forth until they found the right path for Miles Davies to hunt me down.

I bought those shoes some time ago for 20 euros and started walking to wear them out. On one occasion, I even stepped, unintentionally, on a 50-euro bill with my 20-euro shoes.

The footprints remained new, and the trackers were hot on my heels.

I began to walk in circles, retracing my steps, creating old footprints. Some of Miles Davies' trackers would lose the trail, but not all of them—it would be difficult because there were too many.

There were dozens, hundreds, miles of Davies.

The sweaty ones

2024-09-08T00:00:00Z

When the Sweaty Ones start sharing their stories, they turn up the air conditioning. The environment must be col. The heat is on the inside, just like volcanoes would say.

One of the sweatiest usually kicks off the round of dialogue.

I don’t have a car, so I take public transport, says one.

I get to the bus stop five minutes early, stub out my cigarette, and I’m one of the first to board. There are people who cut it close, running down the sidewalk in a frenzy. They get on the bus and grab a bar to hold onto, like Tarzan with his vines.

The Sweaty One lifts his head, runs a hand through his hair, and, shaking his head, continues, They get on the bus without sweating. Not a drop in sight.

It’s true, says another. The Sweaty Ones nod, and someone raises their palms upward.

Another Sweaty One, burly, with a well-groomed beard and a colorful t-shirt, continues. I love sports; I need it, he says. But I can only swim; it’s the only discipline where I don’t sweat. My friends go running, play tennis, have fun. I can’t, he says, clenching his fists.

I can’t sit on plastic chairs, another interrupts.

Pillows.

Cushions.

Each one shares their experience.

The meetings are short, about an hour; the Sweaty Ones keep it concise, get straight to the point, and pay close attention to each other, seeking comfort.

The best part of the meetings happens at the end: the hugs. They all hug and pat each other on the back; they never shake hands when saying goodbye.

Reader, if you ever run into someone you haven’t seen in at least five years, you recognize each other and smile, and if, when they reach out to shake your hand, you see them subtly dry their palm on the leg of their pants, don’t be alarmed, they are probably one of the Sweaty Ones.

Say nothing, act naturally, shake their hand, ask about their family, tell them about yours, give them a hug.

Friday's deployment

2024-10-27T00:00:00Z

In the project documentation, someone, an unknown user, added a story about the production deployment that took place last Friday, the day of the earthquake.

The story explains the causes of the incident during that fateful deployment. Its protagonist is a developer, an unknown developer, working in a makeshift office set up in his living room.

The developer works remotely and holds meetings with colleagues in other parts of Europe. He is proactive and responsible, and he enjoys his work, so he works diligently. And he drinks coffee.

“You have to stay active” his grandfather would tell him when they went hunting wild boar on the family estate over the weekends. He’d take out his steaming thermos of coffee and offer it to his grandson, who years later would specialize in software development and leave wild boar hunting behind.

The developer doesn’t have time to go down to a coffee shop. Instead, he goes to the kitchen and prepares coffee with his Italian stovetop coffee maker. He types a bit of code until he hears the coffee brewing.

The most important thing is to have a saucer for the coffee cup. With one hand, you hold the saucer, and with the other, the cup. That’s how coffee is drunk. You lift the cup lovingly and bring it to your lips. The lips should touch the coffee, which may cause a drop to escape and fall, potentially staining the floor tile. That’s where the saucer comes in; the drops rest there.

And so, calmly, in a state that could last all day, you can gaze out the window while sipping coffee and observing things. But one must stay active.

The developer’s next task was due shortly. The meeting topic was the production deployment of the new web app. He needed to update the configuration, nothing out of the ordinary for deployments.

The developer had everything ready: the portal was open, the chat session was active, and his inbox was clear, awaiting any message or issue that might arise. His chair was properly centered, with his back comfortably reclined, and the coffee next to the keyboard, within reach.

It was a sunny Friday. And then the time for deployment arrived—12:00 p.m. Just when the sun was at its peak.

The developer entered the command in the terminal. Everything was fine, according to the machine. Everything was fine, according to the chat statuses. Everything was fine, according to the emails.

The developer extended his arm as if reaching for a flower, picked up his coffee cup, and brought it to smiling lips. “All good,” he said to himself.

Then it happened. According to the documentation, Friday's earthquake was mild. Without specifying the magnitude, it notes this as the cause of the failed deployment.

When the ground moved beneath him, the developer was startled. There had never been an earthquake in his neighborhood. The lamps swung, some glasses fell, and the developer spilled his coffee outside the saucer. Clumsily, the developer tabbed on his keyboard and accessed the delete command. This is how the entire project repository and content were erased.

This last detail isn’t in the project documentation, but I managed to include it here thanks to a pull request review where the developer admitted to his mishap.

In any case, the deployment was a failure. The client couldn’t test their application, and the company lost that contract. Many users complained, left negative comments on social media, and advised other clients to end their negotiations with the company.

Then, the company went on its knees and explained they had chosen to deploy that Friday for the users' convenience, so the app would be ready for testing first thing Monday morning. The company truly cared about the users. Were they to blame for causing an earthquake?

The clients and users accepted this and gave the company a second chance. They’d reflect over the weekend; some would go boar hunting, others would go to the movies with their families. And they’d return on Monday morning to test the application, with loaded shotguns.