Chapter 1

Why in the hell did I ever want to be a patent clerk? Gerald McManner thought to himself as he pretended to listen to yet another idiot “inventor.” He asked himself this question at least thirty-five times a day.

   “. . . and they let you zip around like magic!” the idiot proclaimed. “Come on, seriously. Who isn’t going to want a pair of these babies?”

   “You’re right, Mr . . . uh, Holman. This would appeal to a lot of people. Unfortunately, roller skates were invented kind of a long time ago,” Gerald said, trying not to sound too patronizing. He had already sat through too many lectures from his boss about speaking down to the applicants. He didn’t do it intentionally, but when at least twenty people a week tried to get a patent on something like roller skates or dental floss, feigning sincerity became quite difficult.

   Mr. Holman’s jaw dropped. “Whoa . . . seriously?”

   Gerald swallowed, took a deep breath, replied, “Yes. Actually,” he paused, typing on his computer, “it appears a Belgian man first patented them in 1760. Two hundred and fifty years ago.”

   “Well I’ll be damned. Two hundred fifty years ago? How the hell was I supposed to know he did that?”

   Gerald took another deep breath and pretended to be busy concentrating on his computer monitor while counting to ten in his head. “Well, Mr. Holman, I would recommend Wikipedia. Or at least a cursory Google search.”

   Mr. Holman appeared slightly angry. “When am I supposed to do that? Can’t work a computer. I’m too busy inventing things.” He sounded angry, as well. Not as angry as last week, though, when Gerald had denied his waterproof matches, which were in fact ordinary matches dipped in wax. Nor was he as angry as the week before that, when he had brought in two Sharpie markers—one red, one black—taped together end to end, and Gerald had shown Mr. Holman his four-color pen.

   “As I’ve recommended in the past, it may behoove you to spend a few minutes on research the next time you have an idea.” Despite his familiarity with Mr. Holman, Gerald was still astonished every time the guy dismissed the notion of research, no matter how many times his “ideas” got kicked in the teeth.

   “I don’t know, Gerald . . . I get an idea, I gotta jump on it. Remember that kid, traded a paperclip for a house? What if he’d stopped to research? Some other bastard with a paperclip would’ve wound up with his house.” Mr. Holman sniffed and rubbed his nose. “You see where I’m coming from?”

   Gerald forced himself not to roll his eyes. “Think of all the time you spend pitching me your inventions, and all the time I spend denying you patents, and explaining, sometimes several times, why. Couldn’t that time be better spent doing a search for ‘wheel shoes’ or ‘waterproof matches’?”

   The hurt on Mr. Holman’s face was unmistakable. His expression hardened. He retrieved his crudely fashioned skates from Gerald’s desk and put them back in his canvas knapsack. “Okay. I won’t take up any more of your time.” His voice had an air of professionalism previously missing. “Besides, I had an excellent idea on the way here this morning I’d like to work on. I was eating an ice cream bar, and when I was done, I couldn’t find a good place to put the stick. I was thinking about some sort of edible ice cream holder—”

   “Like a cone?”

   Mr. Holman’s eyes reddened and Gerald swore he saw a tear form in one of them. “Good day, Gerald,” he said, turning and walking out the door.

   “Take it easy, Mr. Holman. Better luck next time.” Gerald’s fake smile receded as his head sunk toward his desktop. He punched the intercom button on his phone.

   “Yes, Gerald?” Matilda, his secretary, answered.

   “Can you keep everyone out of here for forty-five minutes? I need a nap.”

   “Will do. Anything else, Gerald?”

   “Not now. Just the nap.” Gerald let his head rest on the desktop and shut his eyes. Matilda was a good secretary. Perhaps a bit more familiar with him than tradition would dictate, but good nonetheless. Gerald drifted off to sleep with images of Mr. Holman’s head popping up from a Whack-A-Mole game and Gerald smacking him with a mallet running rampant through his mind.