Overall Impressions

It isn't the overt racism that cuts the deepest, though I still sport some nice scars. No, it's the casual racism, the off-hand comment, that twists and burns. Some African-Americans have gone on record as preferring the South to the North because in the South, the racism was in the open. In the north, politeness and social mores cloaked it.

Most of my life has been spent around the Mason-Dixon line, the traditional demarcation between North and South. I have never really had to deal with one extreme or the other. Or, if I had, I was too oblivious to notice. For a while, I even exploited it myself, using Chinese-accented English to throw people off-guard. I understand Dave Chapelle's dilemma when he left the set of his show. You cross a fine line using stereotypes for humorous purposes.

There was no one moment when I suddenly realized not everyone laughed with me. It was a slow roll, a boulder gathering downhill speed. Yet another piece of my childhood eroded by the rough seas of the real world.

Did I contribute? Yes, and I was wrong. But this is the world I have to live in. It reminds me of an occasion when I went to Taiwan. At first glance, I fit in. So disconcerting, yet so invigorating. I knew it would take about 10 seconds of talking to me for me to be outed, but at least I could walk down the street and not have to worry about why someone was staring at me.

In a department store, I think it was Carrefour, there was an old African man walking around in overalls. A blanched-white ring of hair crowned his head, much as a monk would submit to a tonsure. Everyone, me included, stared at him. Again, I failed. But the way he carried himself. He went about his business without thought or care as to everyone around him. Whether or not our stares tore him up inside, we would never see.

It bothers me that I cannot bear this millstone. It bothers me that I think I have to bear the racism like a millstone. It bothers me that I cannot cocnfront it.

And really, the incident that inspired this post could have been an incidence of comfort more than racism. I went to Sam's Club for bulk provisions. While leaving and waiting for the employee to cross-check my receipt against the contents of my cart, three African-American women in front of me were ushered right on through. The employee, also an African-American woman, barely glanced at the one cart, and each of their separate receipts. Even joked with them. Then, I came up, and the counted and checked each of the seven items in my cart to make sure I hadn't stolen anything.

Yes, it might have just been she felt more comfortable with the women than me. I sometimes furrow my brows when lost in thought, as I was while waiting with nothing to do. It could also be that I've gotten overly sensitive and need thicker skin. It could be she saw me and noticed something that made her suspect I was dishonest. I don't know. I have been wrong plenty of times. But can I really have been wrong every single time?

(This really isn't an April Fool's Day joke, unless you approach it from the vector that racism is a horrible joke. In which case, I am the (April) Fool somehow.)

Inspection Expectation

Once again, I fail at game theory. I really need to start studying it, because this would help me avoid sitting outside an inspections bay at 7:00 A.M. with no one behind me, and probably no one behind me at all when the bay opens at 7:30 A.M.

I wanted to try to get here to be first in line, so I could get to work not much later after 8:30 A.M. Since I sat around with nothing to do, I figure I would just drive up and sit. However, after 10 minutes, still the only person in line. I wish I was not swayed by the last Saturday I drove up, when four cars were waiting. To be fair, the bay probably has multiple garages, allow for multiple simultaneous inspections, but the signs imply there is only one inspector.

This is part of my reliance on vehicles. It's roughly ten miles to work now. If I were to receive a bicycle from a random source, would it be feasible to bike there and back? If there were a shower, I'd rush that down like a fighting game champion.

What about running to work? Lot of training required, and not something I could do both ways in a day, or more than a few times a week.

I'm still a fan of the point-to-point catapult system. Pay your $20, strap some padding on, and launch to waypoint. Unfortunately, any catapult strong enough to hop me to LockMart would also likely constitute a blight upon the landscape.

I suppose flying might be an option, except first I would have to drive to Dulles International Airport, then fly out of Dulles International, fly into Dulles International, and drive to work. Somehow counterproductive, again. Not quite what I intended.

7:20, still no one behind me. Better safe than sorry, but better rested than safe.

***

I've been toying with getting inked. Nothing elaborate, just a lower-case X on my left shoulder, toner-black, Times New Roman, 12 point font. It would be pretty small, and from a distance, might even resemble a birthmark or other identifying market. But it wouldn't be one of those meaningless tattoos that people get.

So the joke goes, do you see people in Asian countries get tattoos of random words in English, since people in America get random Chinese words tattooed on their bodies? I could be a semi-punch line, and at least I would know what the damn thing stood for (the 24th letter of the alphabet).

I sign my name on occasion with an X where my middle initial would go. As my cousin A.L. told me all those years ago, X stands for "no middle name."

X is the unknown.

X marks the spot, here there be pirate booty. Though mine doesn't quite rise to the level of pirate booty, I'd like to think the junk I carry in my trunk is not a bad substitute.

X fits into so many of my favorite words. Exasperate. Exit. Excellent. Exactly. Exacting. Annex. Extemporaneous. Ax. Axe. Exult. Exalt. Maximum.

I'm a fan of the lower-case letters. None of the excessive capitalization that German touts.

X is a simple design, two line segments intersecting at the midpoint.

X is also a universal design. We all call it different names, but we are all familiar with it.

You can form an X with your forearms. You can form an X with your legs. You can form an X anywhere.

I probably won't get it, but it's something to toy with if I have too much time on my hands.

Speak, and Ye Shall Be Healed

Strange that I think words are impotent, especially now, because one of my life's goals is to speak at Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park (London, England). At this point, it would likely be a "day trip." Fly in to Heathrow Airport, get directions to Hyde Park, walk or catch a cab (a lorry? Hugh Laurie?), give the speech, probably record it on a tape recorder in my pocket, rush back to Heathrow, fly back stateside.

Why do I want to do this? I don't really know. Wanderlust factors in. So does anglophilia. But I hate public speaking. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I would have rather (and metaphorically have) died than speak to groups greater than one.

And yet, there's something historic about Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park. Granted, my sophomoric rantings wouldn't compare to the classic speeches given there, but they would be my rantings. I would be all alone, no support. In the past, I have shined in those all-too-rare instances where I stood alone against "the mob." Even more, it would symbolize my growth, my ability to break out beyond the narrow margins my youth and childhood charted about me.

I have never spoken in front of others without some sort of prodding. But the few speeches I have given turned out gangbusters. The last time I spoke in public, my hands shook so hard they went numb, turned a pale blue. At the same time, several strangers commented favorably, stating it was the greatest wedding speech they'd ever heard.

Do i expect everything to fall together like a game of Tetris, eliminating blocks left and right, if I go to Speaker's Corner? No. But maybe, just maybe, I can forget this painful shyness that plagues me, even for a few scant moments.

Don't even ask what I would talk about. Once I purchase the ticket, I'll decide, but not until then. To be fair, though I've toyed with a lot of topics, one that I keep coming back to is love. Why? Damned if I know.

For Being a Wordy Bastard...

I've lately been pondering just how weak words actually are. A bit sad, and mildly sobering, for a man plying his trade and spending his leisure with words. But when you really start thinking (as with a sustained analysis of anything), you come to the realization that words are at best a clumsy simulacrum representing the ideas underlying them. At worst, they are little more than guttural grunts.

My strength in writing, if you can call it that, is crazy imagery and original similes/metaphors, fueled by an ever-ticking imagination, always five seconds from explosion. My weaknesses are the words, and the inability to finish longer stories. We'll concentrate on the words right now.

Saturday morning, I had to drive at 7:30 A.M. Apparently, I was traveling eastward, for the silken sunlight draped over my car, engulfing me in a golden fleeced blindness. Just as Jason lulled the ram to sleep, so too did I find myself blinded and drifting off.

Now, I experienced the sunrise. It is no different from sunset, save being in reverse. I think that people only say you should watch a sunrise because it's more the effect of waking up while it's still quiet, and being alone, isolated, in your thoughts. If we lived in the 17th century, no one would tell you to watch a sunrise. you'd be up with the sun anyway, and too busy to have to deal with such romantic nonsense. (Standard disclaimer: I still love sunrises.) And, as usual, I digress.

My conveyance to you of the sunrise rings imperfect. There is no way, short of merging with you, casual reader, heart and soul, that I can properly set to words the sunscape. And this isn't limited to nature. Science, math, business processes, all of these I fail, for my words also fail them. There is no justice. There is just ice.

Part of this is the degradation of my vocabulary from my halcyon college days, when I could spin phrases in casual conversation that would send people to the dictionaries to look for the definition. Keep in mind I have higher standards for my own speaking abilities than what I expect from others, but I do not live up to those standards in everyday conversation anymore. You've heard me speak, if you're reading this. I sound like a buffoon, and my word choice is that of a lobotomized chimpanzee. The words fail me, and I fail the words.

Hearty Travel

(Written on March 20)

Rush hour, what a misnomer. You go nowhere fast. You also really can't avoid it if you work a nine-to-five. Today I was forced to come late, due to an all-day meeting scheduled from 9:30 to 5:30. Tomorrow is a redux. Thus, I may have to continue rising before the cock crows, if cocks crow in Virginia. Heaven only knows who I will have to deny thrice.

It is disorienting just how adaptable the human condition truly is. I moved from MD to VA for convenience. Before then, if I needed to, I could have driven 2.5-3.5 hours a day. Yes, it was a miserable coil of misery wrapped around a bar of despair, and a horrid current of shock jolted throughout, inducing pain. Yes, I've butchered that electromagnetic metaphor, what a shock to the system.

Side note: I'm sitting in Wendy's eating dinner, and a facial dead ringer for Super Bowl MVP Peyton Manning just drove up in an Iowa-registered Chevy Cavalier. Beyond that, I know it is not Peyton because he rode his offense everywhere in the playoffs, not a Chevy. (This is our country....)

I also don't know how it happened, but traffic just now mysteriously lightened. Seven ticked by on my watch, and the rush hour just lifted. Inexplicable.

Peyton-two has just seated himself across from me, likely to watch his car, parked next to mine. I somehow feel inadequate just being so near a man that marginally resembles American royalty.

And it's strange how that works, isn't it? Britain has their royal family, America tolerates Hollyweird. We laud gridiron football, while the rest of the world follows the Champions' league. GW meddles in Iraq for oil, and the rest of the world just shakes their head.

Is America so contrarian because of its roots? It takes a certain brand of person to up and travel off for several weeks to the unknown frontier. It's hard for me to envision, since I can fly to anywhere on the planet within a day. I guess the modern equivalent would be tripping the light fantastic to Alpha Centauri at relativistic speeds.

Hell, you would really be leaving everything. Mail could take months to reach the "New World." Gunning it to Alpha-C would separate you from your loved ones. You really would fall out of synchronization with Earth. Several months for you, years for them. From the terran baseline, it would be time travel, and they would bid you fare well, but would your trip be that well-fared?

What kinds of people would make that trip willingly, assuming we possessed the arcane technologies required (and also assuming that any technology sufficiently advanced will appear magical)? What people would the authorities willingly send on such a lonesome travail? And the crazy thing? They would probably survive, maybe even thrive. Sure, their world might be morbidly different, and they would have to make a wealth of concessions, but barring catastrophe, those stolid survivors would find a way.

Side note: How worthless was that last statement? I think it may be a side effect of L-school, forcing me to couch my statements in generalities so as to render them correct, even if they become worthless and devoid of meaning. Here, I use render in the fashion of rendering pork lard, if only because I feel greasy after L-school. I make these worthless statements a lot, or I'm more conscious of it now. Either way, damn your black soul L-school.

The point is that I have finally traveled just far enough in my life to be without a readily-accessible support net. It is a planned venture to visit people in MD, a significant effort and expenditure of time and energy. There had better be a damned good reason to get me and the Lady Surfer up there.

I am not on my own. I will never be on my own. The people that matter, I carry them in my heart whereever I go. When I hug them, it leaves a little indent on my heart. These worn creases actually hold the damned thing together. Even in my darkest moments (L-school), when it felt like I was alone and abandoned, deep down, their love kept me going. I only now have the emotional distance to accept this. Back then, it was just walking down a dark corridor with no light at the end, walking because I had to trust others could see what I couldn't.

I still wonder if they saw a mirage.

Most of them are now at least 45 minutes away. However, they are still right beside me, within me, part of me, bridging that gap in the span of a heart beat. I've moved to VA, but have not evicted them from my heart.

I'm sure when I reread this, the diabetes will require an insulin shot or three. Also, Vanilla Sky ruined "Good Vibrations" for me. Every time I hear it, like now, it fills me with caution and fear. What a screwed-up movie. "Tech support!"

A Time to Laugh

I like to think there is humor in every situation, though it could just be that I am trying to what is not there. Chasing phantoms wearing goofy teeth. This may also be why I don't tell people I have a Juris Doctorate (among many other reasons). After a couple of months (and really not wanting to have to cart it around with me when I moved to Virginia), I finally took my bar admission certificate to LockMart. (Oh, i've decided to ease up on the complete anonymity and plausible deniability. I'm not that important, and really it just gets frustrating after a while. The words are supposed to work for me, not the other way around.) Granted, I also took two Nerf revolver handguns (Mavericks, not Gooses). It is amazing how alluring Nerf weaponry is to the IT field.

People come in, look at the guns, talk for a bit, then see the cert. Their eyes bulge as they read the tiny script, and ignorance dusks, falls dim. I sit and wait. They star, not comprehending. What does it mean? I'll tell you what it means: I'm a lawyer.

The looks are classic.

Then the questions roll on in. Why are you a lawyer? It sucks. What are you doing here? Change of pace. Are you insane? Do you want me to be?

I will grant this, there have been two times in my life now where I felt the Juris Doctorate actually might come in handy. One is for the humor/shock factor. People just don't expect it.

***

As you may or may not know, I'm in the process of becoming a Virginian. The two-and-a-half to
four hours of commute time a day just got the better of me. Now, today, I've spent that time writing, and feel so much better about life, even if I'm still sick and the whole Virginian conversion seems pretty daunting. [Ed. Note: I wrote this longhand the Monday after I moved. It turns out I now have allergy-induced asthma in the spring and the fall. -K] But if J.R. can do it, and if J.L. can do it, then I can do it. (Not to say that I can do everything those two have done. Hell, there are probably very few things they can do I can also. Just that if they could persevere, so can I, I think.)

On average, I was spending fifteen hours a week commuting. Almost two-thirds of a day every week. During the peak, one week I spent eighteen hours in a car. A vehicular vagabond, really. Eighty miles a day, four hundred miles a week. I've been commuting since October. About sixteen hundred miles a month. Roughly eight thousand miles in all, or two oil changes, and a third due very soon.

Now that I've moved, the commute on day one totaled less than an hour. Plus, the Lady Surfer is doing much better. She was starting to squeal at 65 miles per hour. Now, I can limit her to much less driving. Twenty to twenty-five miles per day with luck. Stretch a few more years out of her. [Ed. note - Turned out the Lady Surfer just had a run-down brake pad. No surprise, what with the amount of stop and go traffic I had to put her through. I'm so sorry, Lady. -K]

Not that I won't miss the ridiculous amounts of alone time, me and a million other workers, isolated and completely alone in our own little worlds. [Ed. Note - I found out the hard way that you're really not alone, but that's a story for another day. -K] Time to day dream and envision storylines. But now, I can do that in an apartment, and not be exhausted. Now, I feel rejuvenated. It's also kind of nice not having regular internet access or cable television. Living a stripped down, spartan lifestyle. If they weren't necessary evils, I might end up living without them. At least I got the Playstation 2 and a stack of DVDs. [Ed. Note - As you can tell by this posting, I did end up getting the goods. However, and I'm kind of proud of this, I've been taking care of business for the past few hours without having the television on in the background. Slowly stripping away the extraneous, left with the essentials. Boy, I've got to work on that concept. -K]

Movies

Well, not really. I use the term as I would "drinkies" or "eaties." For example, "Gonna have good drinkies later." "Nice long sleepies tonight."

Hopefully, I'll have good movies this weekend. Also, don't know if/when I'm going to order cable internets, so I'll be limited to internets at work, and I'm definitely not going to spend work time answering emails. So, consider this my vacation from cyberspace, unintended as it is.

Digital House Fire

I lost my hard drive on Saturday night. Fare thee well, Prism, fare thee well.

Having slowly but surely shed my reliance on technology, for the most part, my losses were minimal. I had backups on my thumb drive of a few pictures and five text files, which were the most important of my writings. Had I lost those, there would be much gnashing and wailing of teeth. The remainder of the lost information was just music, random pictures, random documents, and my out-of-date resume. They were the powdered milk, and can be reconstituted fairly easily. The thumb drive backups, those are the powdered water: just add water.

If you don't get it, don't worry. I don't either. It's been a long weekend.

For a few minutes, I felt like my house had burned down. The ratcheting and grinding from within my computer, the error message/Blue Screen of Death, that i was able to make it work for a little while by flipping the entire laptop on it's side, but not to the point where I could salvage the information. That was it. My digital life, gone not in a poof of smoke, but a burst gear.

It's silly, I know, the peculiar chill I felt, as I sat there, put my arms around myself, and wondered what I was going to do. Everyone I care about is OK. I had my health, and all my stuff was intact. I even had an old hard drive (which I re-christened Faith once I got it working in this laptop). All that was lost were ones and zeroes, and we all know how much I love numbers. And yet, somehow, like a prism, our lives have splintered; we possess so many facets to our lives now. Our online life. Our offline life. Our personal life. Our public life. Our family life. Our social life. Our leisure life. Our work life. Our sleep... You get the idea.

It isn't as if I lost my digital persona. But on some level, I lost the digital representation of myself. And the infamous cyber-luddite, much as he doesn't want to be defined with narrow concepts, cannot deny this part of himself. It hurts just enough that denial only makes it worse. And I'm not really changed by this. It took less than a day to get Faith up and running. But still.

Good gracious I'm tiring and rambly. Maybe when I can get some distance I'll discuss what else happened. Yes, and then I'll touch the light, as if it were a coherent item, tangible and frangible and audible and all sorts of other lies. Boy I need to sleep.

The Runup to the Rundown, Part 5

The decision was made for me, as so many others have been. I just had to accept it, and that day of acceptance was when I drove seven hours over two days in winter traffic, solely commuting to and from work. The act of submitting an application was not painful. Indeed, in keeping in line with my casual nature, it was the only place I applied to, or visited, but it was also pretty impressive (i.e. it did not require taking interstate four-ninety-five to get to work). Also an expensive pho restaurant nearby, which is better than nothing, I suppose.

Wednesday of that week, I needed to take in some papers to complete the application process. I decided to take them during my lunch break, and to drive on the toll road. Now, because of the age of my car (almost ten years), plus all the salt and snow on the ground, the exhaust mid pipe on my car had rusted through, to the point where one part of it fell off, creating a horrific grinding sound. This at sixty miles an hour freaked me out. I got to the apartment complex as quick as I could, then called for a towing company. Yes, I could have driven, but with those sounds, and the strong possibility I was trailing sparks, why should I have risked it?

The car was fixed just fine. My wallet gently weeps, but the car is fine again. I even returned to work that night, only five hours later, to put in an hour so I could work a nine hour day the next day, instead of a ten hour day. That more or less brings us up to date work wise.

Yesterday, I talked with a friend of Aunt K.C., W.X. It was a nice dinner at the R.S., though I wish I’d not ordered the oysters. Why didn’t I go for the crabcakes? When in doubt, get the crabcakes! The talk was enlightening, and further affirmed my conjoined twin desire to pursue a doctorate of philosophy in literature (or a masters of fine arts in creative writing) and publish a novel (or at least get a short story published nationally). This leads us to today, which has been inundated with me writing, aside from two short breaks, one to take a run, the other to drive for an hour and a half. This is how far I’ve gone off the deep end, that my day wasn’t complete until I went and drove for an hour and a half and just thought about stuff. Like restarting the blog, and people.

Is this going to be a regular thing, again? Probably not. Definitely not for a while, as the move is upcoming. However, shit is starting to happen in my life again. I’m starting to forge a new path, take new chances, do new things, meet new people. Unlike the past three-and-a-half insular years, focused on surviving law school, now I can work on thriving in this personal space of my own making. The story I was working on this morning, oh Lord it felt so right. I hope it reads as well as I thought it did when I applied pen to paper. I think it’s got legs, and once I get it typed and edited, might post some parts of it. Short story length, definitely. Novella, possibly. Novel? Well, we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?

The Runup to the Rundown, Part 4

That Monday was chock full of snowy goodness, as well as a hellacious commute in on Interstate four-ninety-five. For those of you not in on the cosmic joke, that road is a trail that passes through the most congested parts of hell. The driving has given me plenty of time to think about what I will write about later and daydream, but it has also driven (haha) me to take steps to move down to Virginia, just so I will have time to myself not in a car.

When I arrived, half the staff had called out, the roads were so bad. I rang the front door, and D.S., who did not know me, said that he could not let me in, and I should wait until someone that did know me let me in. I waited a poor forty-five minutes in the lobby before I.S. came to get me. That was when I first learned about the core hours of ten until four.

The first couple of days were fairly slow, just getting the workspace set up and learning to play with one of the systems. Then, Wednesday, I got a task. Help desk script. Woo. Busted that out, nervous as all hell, but it was a good start, nothing too complex. I.S. said it was good work. I felt buoyed. I was ready for the next task.

The next week, on Thursday, it dropped right into my lap. They stuck me on the new contract at four in the afternoon, and I learned about the horrors of all day meetings on Friday. I want to word this carefully, as I’ve obtained a security clearance that disallows me from talking about the specifics, but I hate all day meetings. I think I can state that without contravening the requirements of the clearance. All day meetings are all day wastes of time (yes J.R. you were right). I want to rise up out of my chair and start screaming every time we have an all day meeting. They’re bad enough that every Thursday, when we have one, I long for the days of N.C.I., partly because I miss the voice writing crew, and partly because I could get work done.

Yes, I could just consider the possibility that I’m getting paid for this time, and so should suck it up, but if my life were all roses and candy, what would be the point of me living it? It’s not the ease with which we identify in literature, it’s the struggle. The grinding edges (thank you M.O.) of society. It’s through the pain, and how we react, that shapes us, makes our lives, our stories, interesting. And so, for now, since I have no real pain to speak of, I suffer with these all day meetings.

It turns out that I am not the only one that thinks I will return to N.C.I. They have yet to delete my information from the network, should I decide to return. Oh, I want to, but I cannot, for I have decided to move down to VA, and cannot subsist on the N.C.I. salary if I do so.

The Runup to the Rundown, Part 3

Called up my mom after lunch to tell her the good news.

K.T.: Mom, I got the job.
B.T.: That’s great, what’s the company?
K.T.: L.M.
B.T.: Oh.
[PAUSE]
B.T.: Spell that?
[K.T. STARTS SPELLING]
B.T.: Wait, what?
[K.T. CONTINUES SPELLING]
B.T.: Oh, OK, I can ask coworkers about it.
How much do you make?
K.T.: X.
B.T.: Oh, that’s wonderful!

Five minutes later, she calls back.

B.T.: K.T., that’s wonderful, L.M. is a good company, everyone has heard about it.
I thought you were working in a tiny place.

That’s my mom.

I wore my button down shirt and jeans in to work. This immediately made everyone suspicious. E.N. asked me if I had known not to wear what I wore into the interview, thank you for having so little faith in my abilities. I told her, J.R., Z.M., and A.M. the news. Most people, whether they meant it or not, tendered congratulations. J.R., however, had written technically in the past. Her warnings and words of wisdom have not gone unheeded. For the most part, her predictions were correct. I just didn’t have that many choices. She also stated several times that maybe I wouldn’t like it and I would return to N.C.I. If it were feasible, I’d do so. Oh, would I ever.

The last few weeks played out with them putting me on emergency live captioning and transcribing soap operas until letters squeezed their way out of my nostrils. Also fond farewells from good people, and promises to keep in touch. On my final weeks, I even volunteered for treat duty and baked some rice krispie squares at seven in the morning. This was so disorienting to A.W., he actually wondered whether I was baking, or he was developing a brain tumor.

The weirdest thing about saying goodbye, aside from having to do so, and that I still visit every other week to say hello and waste their time, is that we all work on different shifts. In effect, this drew out my farewell over three days. Wednesday’s set of farewells were the first, and since my week wasn’t over, didn’t feel real. Friday’s, I was just anxious to get out and get out now, because, like an idiot, I’d decided to start work the following Monday, and needed to get acclimated to my new nine to five schedule immediately. Thursday’s was the worst, as that was pretty much the only day where it really felt like I was saying goodbye.

The Runup to the Rundown, Part 2

Strangely, L.M. was, is, only five minutes from N.C.I. I arrived oh-so-early, sat and waited, but I.S. decided to start the meeting half an hour early since I was there. While I was waiting, I watched people entering the office proper, and noticed the receptionist standing before a plate on the wall and having her retinas scanned. Yes, there is a retinal scanner for the front door, and according to everyone in the office, it is a piece of donkey dump. I have yet to get signed up for it, two months later.

We went to the Dugout conference room, so named because there’s some wag baseball fan responsible for naming the conference rooms. I.S. looks at my resume and starts off, “I guess the first question is.” Then he stops and smiles. I stare back at him, his dark hair combed to either side, a smile on his face. I should know this, but I’m so tired that the obvious isn’t coming up. What is it? I’m wracking my brain for several awkward seconds before he finally asks, “Why don’t you want to be a lawyer?” Right, right. I give him automatic answer number four, the tedium and the hours did not appeal to me.

We start talking about my background, before he launches into a series of questions about databases and applications. Some of his questions, I answer intelligently. Some I do not. Some I just have to admit I do not know the answer to. At some point, J.T. joined in, having been told that the meeting was at half past ten, but not being informed we had started early. Most of the questions are just blanks to me, but I do remember the oddest one: If you owned a candy machine, how would you test it to make sure it was working properly? Seeing as how I’ve abused candy machines in the past, I just listed everything I’ve ever done to a candy machine to bend it to my will. Nearly hit every single answer they had.

Thereafter, I met M.M., the head of the department. I did not realize who he was at the time. We talked for another half hour, bringing the total interrogation time up to ninety minutes. Soon after, I met E.B., and we went out to lunch. I was not confident, but he was, as most interviewees did not meet M.M., unless something good was going to happen.

We went to Chili’s, which E.B. despises for the horrid food. I can barely taste mine, it’s like ashes in my mouth. About forty minutes in, I get another phone call from “No Number.” It’s I.S. He wants to offer me a position with X salary. I’m so dumbfounded, I accept on the spot. Really, I should have tried to negotiate, but this meant an out, an actual out, for me from the golden shackles of the legal profession. I had to jump on it. It was a liferaft.

Twenty-three hours had elapsed from talking to E.B. to getting the job.

The Runup to the Rundown, Part 1

When last we checked in with our fearful hero, he was forging a half-assed New Year’s resolution that he thought would take six months to complete. He was captioning television programs and about a month away from doing it live, for real, when it counted. Two months later, he’s entrenched in the world of technical writing. He’s about ready to take a big step and move out on his own, without the aid of a school residential housing system. He’s trying to learn more about people. And he’s still writing, still pursuing his dreams. So, what happened?

Let’s assume I’ll live for seventy-five years, a safe assumption, average life span. The first third of my life ended when I was admitted to the bar on December thirteenth. At what cost this legal training? At least it provided a nice dovetail to my childhood. Now begins phase two of my childhood, or as we like to call it by it’s proper name, “middle-age.”

Middle-aged people have bills to pay. So it was when I decided that I had to make more money, but was not yet ready to give in to the hell of the legal profession. I told myself all throughout the run up to the new year that it was time to get a new job, so I could actually support myself without exhausting my savings, or myself. I’d started to get an idea of what types of jobs I wanted to apply for, when E.B. asked if I wanted to become a technical writer at L.M. He had assumed that me, as a lawyer, would not be interested in plumbing the depths of documentation. What he did not count on was my view that this would be a step up from plumbing the depths of statutes. I e-mailed him my resume and left for work. He later told me that he handed the resume to I.S., the hiring supervisor, who stated something to the effect of “Interesting, this might work out.”

I’d arrived at work for a few hours when I received a phone call, source listed as “No Number.” Peculiar. I answer, and lo and behold, it is I.S., asking me if I can come in for an interview. Like a fool, I say I’m game, what time? He says he is free from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon. Without much thought (I am somewhat shocked), I say half past ten. Now, keep in mind that only three hours have elapsed since I first talked to E.B. January third.

I tell him later what’s going on, and he recommends I learn right quick about what the job required, based on the solicitation. Due to the nature of the division, ratherh than ask fora technical writer, they were forced to solicit for a systems engineer. Yes, a systems engineer. A person that engineers systems. Yes, I’m a systems engineer. For a living.

This takes place around ten at night. A little later, I receive an e-mail that asks if I could fill out several forms and bring them in tomorrow. You know, because things like the actual job application are necessary for application to a job. I figure this would be no big deal. Just fill it out, learn about the systems engineering, get six hours of sleep, get going. Ah, optimistic K.T., how little you realize, you naive fool. Once I finished all that, it was around two in the morning, so six hours wasn’t out of the question. However, I was so nervous that I couldn’t sleep. Not until five in the morning. Scenarios of doom and gloom kept running through my head. By the time I left, I was exhausted, wired, caffeinated, and unable to remember what was going on, or what I had studied.

Who didn't see this coming?

No update this week, because last week was somewhat insane. I told myself that starting on January 1, I would find a new job. I had a new job on January 4. Most of my time since then has been spent preparing for this job, filling out forms, peeing in cups, the normal deal. It does surprise me how much your life can change in the span of days. Hell, it surprises me how much your life can change in ten years. When I was 16, I thought I'd be a novelist by now. Instead, I'm an almost-systems analyst and barred-to-practice-law-in-Maryland-but-do-not-want-to-practice-lawyer. I've done things, both positive and negative, that I never thought I would, like ride rollercoasters, go to law school, flirt with people of the opposite sex. It is stunning and scary what has happened, and I must say, though I never expected to live this long, I can't wait to see what's yet to come. Continued personal growth... man that's scary.

Sixth Sentence, Part 1

Lena sipped her merlot and asked Bart, “So, what is it that you do?”

Bart glanced up from behind his maroon tonic, smirked. “Oh, I’m a Righter, and during the day, I work in the mailroom at the Chronicle.”

“Oh.” She swigged a mouthful from the glass, then for good measure, took another drink. “How long have you been doing it?”

He set down the wine, picked up his water glass. “Oh, couple of years now. I needed to pay the bills, a friend introduced me.”

“And how long have you been working at the Chronicle?”

He smiled. “It’s been my childhood dream. I’ve been Righting since before I can remember. My parents have pictures of me with crayons and construction paper, scrawling fat, backwards letters out, giant circles ending my sentences.” Bart took a long pull from the water.

“Well. Anything I’ve heard of?”

He swirled the wine, more to find his next word than to aerate it. “Probably not. I mostly Right small incidents. It usually doesn’t pay well, but each time, I get a little more noticed.” He shrugged, part apology, part devil-may-care. “Who knows? The other day, I Righted a cat in a tree. Someday, maybe I’ll make a living out of it.”

“Isn’t that mundane?” Lena drained the glass and reached for the bottle. Bart intercepted it first and filled her glass three-fourths filled.

“Righting?”

“No, cats in trees. Really, you could write about anything, couldn’t you?”

“Maybe, but how often do we get the chance to choose what we Right? You show up, something grabs your attention, you’re needed, you grab the opportunity, dash off a few sentences.”

Lena dipped half a breadstick in her merlot. “So, you freelance?”

“Sort of, yeah. I prefer to think of it as mercenary, except with less money. But enough about me, for now. What do you do?”

Marco appeared at their table, balancing a wide circular tray. “The filet mignon for madam, and the vegetarian paella for sir. Can I bring you anything else, some more merlot perhaps?”

Bart shook the bottle as Lena said “Yes.” She downed the remainder of her glass in a gulp. “Please.”

“Very well.” Marco bowed his head in the almost-so-subtle-as-to-be-unnoticed manner, then disappeared. The tray followed soon after.

“I see you like the wine.” Bart tilted the remainder into Lena’s glass, careful not to let the sediment tumble in. As if he’d practiced his whole life, the residue remained within the bottle.

“Takes a lot to get me drunk.” Lena shrugged, then drank. “Well, let’s eat.”

The next few minutes, they consumed their dishes, background static filling the space between them. Marco reappeared, replaced the empty bottle with a fresh victim, and poofed out of existence.

“So, I didn’t get an answer. What do you do?”

Lena sighed. “I work in Reality.” She bit her lip for a few seconds, then forked a bit of bacon perched atop a rare slice of steak into her mouth, chewed it like cud.

“You must be doing well, lots of the houses around here are going up. Seems like a seller’s market.” Bart poured himself a second glass of merlot, smacked his lips at the sweeter bouquet from this bottle.

“I work in corporate, mostly. Not too concerned with the lives of individuals. Small potatoes, really.”

“Really.” He stirred the rice, as if expecting to create a vortex to another dimension that would suck him through. “If it’s not a violation of confidentiality, could I ask what businesses you’ve worked with?”

“Biotech recently. GenForth, DNAtoZ, ChromeGenome.” She waved her hand, then looked down at her hip. “Excuse me.” She removed a hand-held device, started pecking away with her thumbs.

Bart took this opening to remove the notepad from his pocket. He flipped to the entry dated for today, read the two sentences he’d committed. “Lena accepted Bart’s dinner invitation with an open mind and a willing heart. The early part of the meal went swimmingly, filled with intriguing conversation and light flirting.” He looked at this frowning woman, still pecking away, oblivious to everything around her. With a graphite stub, Bart committed a third sentence: “Despite Lena’s initial reticence, Bart’s charm and personality won her over by the time dessert arrived at the table.” He thought a moment, then scratched out the words “at the table.”

He slipped the notepad back into his right pocket, and the pencil in the left, so as not to have it drop through the hole in the right pocket. Looked back at Lena, still thumbing away, though her pace slowed to half-jittery.

“That’s interesting, haven’t all those companies gone broke recently?”

She placed the hand-held on the table, squaring it alongside her knife. “And that’s why they needed to sell their buildings.”

“I had some stock in them, they seemed to be doing great for the long run.”

“That’s a shame, I hope you didn’t have too much.”

“Who wants to retire at 85 anyway?” He scooped some more brown rice into his mouth, scooping a grain away from the corner of his mouth.

They continued their monotonous chewing. Every time Bart tried to say something thereafter, an invisible needle sewed his lips shut, and he mouthed more paella in to keep from choking on the unsaid words. Meanwhile, Lena toyed with yet another glass of wine and her BlackBerry.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Bart started, but Lena was lost in the tiny screen. At the bar, he dashed off a quick sentence, spoke to a married couple, and got both their phone numbers. Clearly, it wasn’t his defect, so what was going wrong?

He splashed cold water in his face, then tried drying it off with multiple paper towels. Each one kept tearing. How was she counteracting his Righting? Yes, this wasn’t the most philanthropic purpose, but still, it should have had some effect on her. He took out the notepad. Two more sentences for the night. Mustard had him covered, so he could play around, but what to Right? He tapped the pencil against the sink, then against the mirror, then started with the following statement: “As if a sign from the heavens, the dessert tray hit her, breaking her BlackBerry, and leaving her vulnerable to Bart’s advances.” He suspected that device fouled up his Righting somehow. Halfway through the sentence, he cracked the pencil point, leaving an errant period right after the second “her.”

This happened a few times before, mostly with pens running out of ink or jamming. This was why he switched to wooden pencils, because mechanical pencil leads were too fragile. Would he have to start using charcoal? Bart ran the water and washed his hands over and over, waiting. More and more handsoap, more and more water. His hands started to chap, but still he rubbed and cleansed. The scream never came.

Bart nudged the bathroom door open, peered out, then stepped into the restaurant proper. Smartly dressed waiters bustled around the tables, popping in and out to leave food, only to disappear just as quickly. Lena pecked away at her BlackBerry, still seated at the table. Somehow, two dessert trays wandered through the room, but neither came near her, like electrons around a nucleus.

Bart went back to the bathroom and shook the notepad, as if something would tumble out. He blew through the pages to clear out dirt, then flipped through them as if something would reveal itself. What the hell was going on? And then it hit him, like a pie to the face. The sour face, the cryptic statements, the constant typing on the BlackBerry, as if she were issuing long-winded commands. They were Righting each other. They were wronging each other.

This had only happened a couple of times before. The stakes were higher then, but Bart shivered more now. It had been a long time since he’d interacted with someone without the Right. The person that he wanted to be, the person that he could be, existed only in the pad of paper. Six sentences a day, imbued with the weight of the world. Six sentences to reshape the world in his graven image. The power of a god in sixty words a day. And now, it was lost to an angry woman with a BlackBerry.

And then, he thought about it a little more. Running his hands beneath the water, blood ready to squeeze from his fingers, he thought about her statements, and the broken companies. She was about ready to leave, if she had not done so already. Bart felt safe in assuming she would not leave until he paid the bill. Peeking out again, sure enough, a black tray lay waiting on the table as Lena poked away.

He knew nothing about her power, but everything about her. At least, everything she was willing to reveal over this mockery of a date, or that Mustard did and did not tell him. Damn Mustard. The only thing he knew was that it didn’t work on her, directly or indirectly. What was this, another test? What was he doing that he needed her distracted, and didn’t want to tell him? So many questions for the mentor; they would have to be answered later. God damn his tests.


Could one sentence save a night? He was about to find out. Not that she would have noticed, but he couldn’t stay hidden inside the bathroom for much longer without drawing her attention. Bart rotated the pencil on his back molars, grinding out a graphite stub. The splinters lodged between his teeth and in his cheek, but he didn’t care. They would dissolve soon enough; they always did. He scrawled out the last sentence for the night, then checked his watch. Nine-thirty, wow. Only another one hundred and fifty minutes until the reset.

He smoothed out his greying hair, the water beading, dribbling down his forehead. No matter how much he tried to Right them away, the crow’s feet and forehead wrinkles continued creasing his visage. Patted down the suit, as if looking for contraband, then went back out to the table. Before sitting down, Bart patted the notepad in his pants pocket, as if for good luck, then sat back down.

***

Part 2 next week. Somewhat substandard, I think I wanted to start this as a short scene from a play, then lost my way for a bit. Dialogue needs work.

More Daffodils

Bruce hadn't slept in two months. He watched fifty-seven moonsets and fifty-eight moonrises. Some of them, he'd viewed through the frost-narrowed panes in his bedroom window. Others he’d driven through, radio blaring, windows rolled down, moonshine dappling the quiet road. In an old life, he'd dreamt of having the time to watch these supposed modern miracles. Sadly, like so many other things these days, nature proved itself mundane and persistent. Precious few miracles on this never-ending day.

During these moments in his eternal vigil, Bruce had very little to do, except perhaps climb the naked trees. Odds favored him being the only person awake within fifty miles. Only the city denizens remained up or woke up now. He drew a deep breath, relished the self-imposed More Daffodil solitude. Bruce hawked up a forest green phlegm clot, reached for one pill box, then the other. Passed a few nondescript pills into his hand, then chewed them into a dry paste. It scraped his throat like a trowel. Another second awake meant another second to stave off blank eternity.

Modafinil. More Daffodils prized your nocturnal hibernation from your body, and illuminated your life with an everlasting daytime. Bruce needed it to cheat nature of its due, by living every last waking second he could steal. He could sleep when the minions of forever indoctrinated him into their rank and file. Bruce leaned back, chair squalling in protest. Winter slumped silent outside the window, save an occasional crisp wind boosting dry leaves skyward. Bruce's heartbeat punctuated the settled still. So long as it beat, he remained in the game. Bruce ticked off most of the The List, but there were still tasks to complete, weren’t there?

The List haunts everyone, whether conscious of it or not. The List of dreams that bestow worth and meaning unto one’s personal life. The List you make a slow, concerted effort towards completing over your natural lifespan. The List that, more often than not, ends unfulfilled, regrets distilled into “if only.” The List so intertwined with your existence, it tolls meaningless for everyone save you. The List exists as an independent entity unto itself; whether or not you appease it will not change whether or not it follows you.

Bruce’s first experience with The List came from group therapy. At Dr. Williams’s behest, four months ago, they invited him for a session. After all, pain shared is pain halved, no? Bruce milled on into the room a few minutes before the session began. The members sat in a wide circle. Stress-gaunt cheeks, even on the pudgy faces, stretched taut. He sat in the only empty chair, trying not to think about the previous occupant, where they were, if they still were. The rest of them smoothed crinkled papers on their laps. They ran their cracked and weathered fingers down their lists, comparing with each other, housewives sharing morbid recipes. Their cotton-mouthed words, imbued with flinty resolve, told of their unique losses. Hair. Bodily control. Cars. Families. Song. Hope.

It wasn’t until Bruce heard about The List that he realized his remained sorely incomplete. Lifelong goals can wait until middle-age, when youthful power and vitality dissipate, and it falls upon you to devise a new purpose for existing. However, terminal cancer imparts a stark knowledge and a subtle blessing. Bruce, unlike most, knew with unreasonable certainty, and reasonable fear, the day of his death. Here in the twilight of his spirit, moments removed from a subtle fade into virtual old-age, now was the time to complete The List he’d not even known about ten minutes previous.

Their simple words washed over Bruce as easily as sunlight. He opened his eyes, daydreaming of what he would do if given unlimited resources and limited time. The road receded behind him; the road rose to meet him. Littered fast-food wrappers, mostly McDonalds with congealed morning sandwich grease, papered all around him. The upholstered metal shell of his ten year-old Mitsubishi creaked, while he streaked across the country. The answer floated itself to the forefront. On the back of the daily agenda, he scrawled out the only concrete version of The List he would ever need. All around the contiguous U.S., there awaited landmarks, cities, points of interest. He totaled eighty-five locales. Once memorialized, Bruce sat attentive, enthralled by their words, his leg shaking as he itched to get started.

As they spoke, Bruce looked his fellow patients/victims/sufferers in the eyes. Purpled caution and bleak sclera mirrored back. None of them appeared to have slept well. How could they? The drugs crippled their internal systems to barely functioning levels, just so they could continue their half-lives, ticking away double-time. Right before he left group therapy, he borrowed another pen, this one blue-inked, and block-printed a last challenge. Whistling as he opened the doors, skipping to his car, laughing as he backed out of the parking lot, Bruce never returned to group therapy. Their group mentality helped him more than they could have suspected.

Back in his room, still slumped in his chair, he reached for The (crease-worn) List. His capacity to drive all night, coffee-infused nervous system jittering the entire time, conquered site after site. Ticks and cross-outs graffitied the wrinkled landscape. Everything had been completed, save one final blue-penned entry, in stark contrast to the dark black ink. That last-second bastard addition. "Get a good night's sleep.” When he got back from group therapy, Bruce scanned the list, laughed at number eighty-six, and decided to knock out numero uno: "All night road trip." Bruce found some friends willing to give it a go, and off they went. Ubiquitous Starbucks provided checkpoints betwixt goals. 7-11 provided the beef jerky and Doritos. His strange Latin-named drugs staved off tumor growth. Long periods of natural silence provided a soundtrack to their journey, but in the end, Bruce had dirt from Pikes Peak and Four Corners. He’d even urinated on both, the smell of steamy coffee rising to meet the group.

Bruce returned with the cheapest tchotchkes he could find, a tile puzzle with four tiles, and a branch carved to look like the mountain. In his backyard, he spread the dirt by opening the water bottle and upending it, first a slow pour, then a full-on deluge. Much of it ended up on his already dirt-stained slacks. The man in him knew there was no way these actions could ward off the cancer, or grant him more time. The boy in him kept collecting talismans and dirt and going through with the motions.

The trips did not satiate his hunger; they turned out to be tantalizing appetizers for a main course he could not return to the chef. One five-day road trip gave them all a break and a good opportunity to celebrate a life too short. Three and four trips ground on them, an escape they could not afford. What none of them admitted out loud, least of all himself, they had to continue living their lives, and he wanted them to live what remained of his. To the rest of his compatriots, life was a luxury, so abundant as to be wasted. To Bruce, it was an essential need, dwindling away. He could not spare even the seconds it took to stop the car by the side of the road and force Margie to squat in an open field. What he longed to say was that neither could they, not that he ever did. He wasn’t sure they would believe him, he, their modern Cassandra.

In the end, as we all do in the end, he went it alone. Stocked up on instant coffee crystals and sugar, a bittersweet crystalline trail mix. Townships, cities, backwater locations, nothing more than checkpoints. His brief interludes at home coincided with so-called “dead time,” slipped in between every other existence, no one to talk or relate to. Each return home required multiple little white pills (to help him live) and one little white lie (it’s all ok, as long as you have The List).

The worst came in an Alabama, at the seedy Motel 6. The creaking bed had seen more action on its own than many brothels. It was a wonder the thing hadn’t split down the middle. Seventy-one hours awake, his mind swimming across a hazy sea, Bruce had to stop here and rest. He leaned back, carefully, on the love bed, plastic shopping bags from the Piggly-Wiggly draped unartfully across the surface. Sleep brushed his forehead lightly, inviting him to embrace her. All he need do was close his eyes.

A throwaway thought, the kind normally forgotten when you stumble into sleep, scraped his thoughts: “What if I go in my sleep?” Despite the flat black painting the room, you could almost see his eyes crack open, flashing beneath the moonlight. That night, he lay atop the bags, rolling back and forth, the crunching and crackling keeping him frustrated, but awake. Oh, so awake, and so alive. It hurt so good.

At seven in the morning, Bruce stumbled into the nearest greasy spoon and bought a coffee pot. He kept it at the table and drank from the plastic spout, settling it down on an earthenware plate. Dumped in thirty packs of sugar after he finished about a third, swirled it around to dissolve it. It scorched deep burns onto his tongue; he had yet to taste correctly since. Laden with caffeine, he called Dr. Williams, explained the situation in thirty seconds, then slowed down and tried to explain it in a coherent fashion. Dr. Williams faxed the prescription to the local pharmacy. Thirty minutes later, he jittered into the pharmacy and asked for More Daffodils. Bruce went back to the diner, where they comped him a cup of joe. The napkin holder rattled as he sat there, watching the clock. An hour later, he went back to the pharmacy, procured three month supply of More Daffodils, bought a pack of adult diapers, large, and popped four of the new pills as soon as he reached the parking lot. On that ride towards Kansas, he stopped twice in nineteen hours to change his diapers, sopping to the brim with cycled coffee. Each diaper he left on the road left a smile on his face. Soon, the permanent coffee odors would be nothing more than a plausibly deniable memory. He squished a little more and went back to the long dark road.

Medical science conquered all but the mundane common cold and common death. At the hospital, three days after Alabama, Dr. Williams showed him around. Bruce smelled the antiseptic bed, and the old flatulence burned into the foam rubber. Damned if his final mark on this planet would turn someone's nose. They filled his cradled arms with medicines and prescriptions he couldn't pronounce, much less care about, and his new friends, More Daffodils, and his morphine, and set him loose. Not that they loved him, nor did they suspect he would come back. He discharged himself, and was no longer their, or anyone else’s, responsibility.

And he drove, he drove so far away. And he drove, he drove all night and day. And he listened to a lot of songs on the radio. And The List collapsed in on itself. And now, it taunted him with that one singular note, one night’s sleep. Bruce hadn’t slept in so long. He’d stopped with More Daffodils for two days now, and still couldn’t sleep. A perverse side effect that they didn’t tell you about, because it wasn’t really life-threatening. Bruce yawned. He blinked to wash the sleep from his eyes. Finally, it was about time. Checked the empty pill bottle, modafinil. Opened the other bottle, morphine, and emptied a few more pills into his hand, then into his mouth. Pain, background chatter, with enough pills, you could ignore it all. Two months since he'd left the hospital, when the doctors told him he'd had three months of life.

He slipped beneath his bedsheets and farted. Pulling the cover back down from his head, gasping for fresh air, another throwaway thought touched him. Assume a person wakes for sixteen hours, and sleeps for eight. Two-thirds of every day is spent “living.” Dr. Williams said he had three months to live, that was his best guess. Fine, but if that was true, he'd lived his allotted three months, crammed into the past two, pushing sleep back further and further. Had to complete The List. But it all passed so quick. Bruce found himself daydreaming, wondering what he could have done with another month, when everyone was awake. Now, while everyone had just slipped the bonds of waking usefulness, or were ready to put them back on, he would sleep, just out of touch with everyone else.

Panic coursed through him, much as it had in Alabama. He tried to stand, say something to the empty house, call someone, but the morphine kicked in. Yawned again, a giant jaw-dislocating bite. The room wavered (or did he?) and the desk lamp dimmed. All around, details faded, as if an artiste were deconstructing his world, stripping it to its bare essentials. One by one, the accoutrements of The (hastily planned, short-lived) List, dissolved into static, replaced with a warm, uncomforting blackness. It floated away on the sea of his future.

Bruce ended up staring at the light, spotlighting the twinned pill bottles. The light ebbed, and each bottle winked out, leaving little more than a pinprick of light amidst bleakness. Each of his blinks lasted longer, each thought slowed. All the games he played these past two months, and he'd not even gotten a good night's sleep. Breath soft, heart weak, Bruce closed his eyes.

For the last time in two months, Bruce finally dreamt.

***

I'd like to think this is one of the better items I've written as of late, perhaps because I've spent so much time editing it. Editing is the key to writing. Writing is easy, and if you'd read the first draft, you'd know what I mean. This has changed a lot, and I think (I hope) for the better.

Also, I know the story is kind of a downer, but I guess it's my gift to all of you reading this. Merry Christmas!

Demean Yourself, Part 5

Veidt: Jon, wait, before you leave... I did the right thing, didn’t I? It all worked out in the end.
Dr. Manhattan: “In the end?” Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends.
-Alan Moore, Watchmen, Chapter 12

You might ask yourself, what did he mean when he said, “I thought it was all over”? I direct you to Dr. Manhattan’s words: “Nothing ever ends.” As I grow older, it becomes harder and harder to cloak myself in an immature exterior and personality (not that I won’t keep trying). I cannot hide this legal status from people so easily. It all comes out. At work, the day after my admission, I met the newhire working in my office. We exchanged hellos, and the first thing she said thereafter was, “So, I heard you were admitted to the bar yesterday.” Though I have appended “Esq.” to my nameplate as a joke, I am now a lawyer. Living, breathing lawyer. I took that oath. I took that oath seriously. Damn me for taking that oath seriously.

This is my white whale. It will dog me. I can squirrel this information away and move to a faraway land. Nonetheless, people will ferret it out and see me differently for it, because of it, in spite of it. I could shout myself horse belaboring the animal puns, but you get the idea. To those given much, much is expected. And really, I was just trying to pick up my life as if I had never been to law school, never passed the bar, never been admitted to the bar. Trying to live a life that would have followed fairly naturally from my graduation, if I had more free reign over my choices.

It’s not something I can do forever, or even much longer. “Waste,” they cry out in their stolid body language. “Shame,” the undertones of their voices float to me. And to an extent, I agree. All I ever wanted to do was make peoples’ lives a little better. Now, I could do so in a way that most people could only dream about (though their dreams rest on a cracked foundation of misguided information and half-truths). The system is still a barrelling juggernaut, unstoppable due to the momentum it’s gained from its own ponderous weight. People pay lawyers to explain the inexplicable. My “people” are the most mundane heroes on earth. My “people” are the most insidious villains on earth. Our battles play out without bright drawings of spandex, without snappy dialogue, without supplements purchasable for three dollars a pop. Still, the battles rage on, whether I choose to take up arms or not.

Have I ever changed my position, that I do not want to be a lawyer? No, oh no. Do I feel compelled to suck it up and try to do something with the degree and the bar membership? Yes, oh yes. It is only a matter of time now before guilt drives me into doing legal work. And that depresses me, because in addition to doing almost everything I ever wanted, I can do almost everything I never wanted, and it makes me laugh.

***

Back to the Sunday only posting next week. Why is fiction so much harder to get right?

Demean Yourself, Part 4

Finally, we are herded into the court room. Right before we enter, they check our names one more time. They rattle off our serial numbers, and we parrot back our last names. So worried the wrong people might take the oath? Really, anyone that’s going to illegally practice law isn’t going to take this oath. They’re just going to set up shop and forge some documents, much easier.

The courtroom’s overall effect is to leave you feeling exposed, which I assume is the ideal sensation for a locale intended to strip away the layers of lies to reach the Truth. Rich mahogany tones dominate the carpeting, while the walls are strong earthy tones. Above, where a supplicant’s gaze might fall when they pray for succor, bright whites converge upon a false domed center. As we shuttle in, flash bulbs sparkle and erupt. For this moment in our lives, we are superstars. For some of us, it is not the first time. For most of us, I hope, it will not be the last. A series of small chairs await us, all lined up edge to edge, about two and a half feet tall, five rows worth. We sidle in, as they plan to cram two hundred of us into this room that might comfortably hold one hundred and forty. In front of me, the back of a chair is patched with a thick stripe of electrical tape. Further, several of my erstwhile classmates, now colleagues, carry with them the stresses and expectations of their legal careers, as well as several extra pounds. Directly in front of me, two of my fellow almost-lawyers are seated neatly betwixt chairs, due to the substantial girth of others in the line.

As I peruse the pictures now, I see that a largish man, over six feet tall, pushing two-fifty, is positioned between myself and my mother the camerawoman. Thus, random giant, know I have many pictures of you, and that you present a striking figure. Also, my mom hates you, and tells you to lose some weight, fatty.

The judges are introduced, and file in to fill the seven crimson seats on the bench. They are introduced individually, and judges Battaglia and Greene, the bookenders, actually whisper congratulations to us. Chief Judge Bell gives his opening remarks, and throws it over to a speaker, whose inability to keep his place in the text and nervous stuttering nonetheless keep us rapt with silence, if only because we must sit through his words to get to the prize.

When he concludes his remarks, we are directed to stand and introduce ourselves individually to the court. Many of my cohort are rather soft-spoken, and the courtroom lacks optimized operatic acoustics. Their words fall short of even my ears, two rows back. When it comes to me, I falter for a second, gathering my thoughts. Really, these consisted of “Speak loud” and “Your name is K.T, not James Chang.” I fairly yell my name at the bench, then sit back down. I learn Tetris’ name, which I have already forgotten. The trend continues.

Judge Greene gives his speech. From the moment he walked in, I had him pegged as a severe man, with his rigid countenance and the fact that he’s a judge. Yet again, the first impression rule fails me, and my inability to read people remains curiously intact. He discusses that we must better the legal community, and implicit, we must better society. Judge Greene relays to us his top five list for getting mentioned in the Daily Record, Maryland’s legal periodical. Get romantically involved with emotionally vulnerable clients. Never return client phone calls; never do what they ask. His number one method for notoriety, never listen to your client. I reproduce/paraphrase his anecdote, taken straight from court proceedings.

Judge: Before I sentence you, have you any words for the court?
Accused: I want a new lawyer.
Judge: Why?
Accused: He doesn’t listen to a word I say.
Judge: Counselor, what do you have to say about that?
Lawyer: I’m sorry, Your Honor, I wasn’t paying attention.

Judge Greene leaves us with sage advice, gleaned from a jar of mayonnaise: “Keep cool, but do not freeze.”

Chief Judge Bell asks for objections to our admission to the bar. No one objects. He tells us he has yet to get any takers. For a fleet moment, I consider raising my hand. Now, to trip myself up like, to demean myself in such a fashion, mere moments before taking the oath, would have been the K.T. thing to do, but perhaps not the most prudent thing to do.

We stand and face to our right, and repeat the oath. "I, [K.T.], do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will at all times demean myself fairly and honorably as an attorney and practitioner at law; that I will bear true allegiance to the State of Maryland, and support the laws and Constitution thereof, and that I will bear true allegiance to the United States, and that I will support, protect and defend the Constitution, laws and government thereof as the supreme law of the land; any law or ordinance of this or any State to the contrary notwithstanding."

For those of you that have fallen behind in your studies on the archaic meanings of words, demean here takes the meaning of “to carry oneself.” In today’s parlance, it means “to insult another.” As the clerk of the court spoke the oath aloud for us to repeat, half of us balked on “demean.” We actually skipped over it, as one might hop over a curse when speaking to a respected individual. The other half just went ahead and said it. I was one of the hoppers.

And that was that. I took the oath. Chief Judge Bell thanked our parents on our behalf for their support. Several of us (lawyers) started laughing. He wondered what the joke was, and thanked them again. We filed out to applause and accolades, and signed the book with the signatures of all new admittees. Number Thirty-three got lost, and so had to cram her name in the tiny gap between Thirty-two and Thirty-four. Of course, she came up right before I got to sign, holding me up just that little bit longer.

Right after, I received the certificate. My mom took a picture of this, and I’ve got the biggest grin on my face. You’ve never seen me so happy in a picture. There are only two pictures where I look so unselfconsciously gleeful, after the age of eight. This is one of them, because at the moment, I thought it was all over. There were a few other packets, and I learn that I have to pay one hundred and thirty dollars a year to the client protection fund. Why? I will probably need to dip into that fund at the rate I’m going. I’m poor, don’t take my money.

Demean Yourself, Part 3

Sometimes I feel, oh yes, I could do
Almost everything I wanted
And it makes me cry – Tomoko Tane, “Flying Teapot”

I [state your name] do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will at all times demean myself fairly and honorably as an attorney and practitioner at law; that I will bear true allegiance to the State of Maryland, and support the laws and Constitution thereof, and that I will bear true allegiance to the United States, and that I will support, protect and defend the Constitution, laws and government thereof as the supreme law of the land; any law or ordinance of this or any State to the contrary notwithstanding. – Oath of Attorney at Law

How many oaths have I sworn in my life? Millions, every one inconsequential. How many promises lay broken, by the wayside, because I did not take them seriously? More than I can count, more than I will admit to myself. Why is this one, an oath that I still can’t believe I took, one that may impact my life only peripherally, now the world upon my shoulders?

There was nothing special about that Wednesday morning; there never is on special days. It’s weather, nothing more. Rain? Cleared up later. My parents were convinced it was because I was going to be admitted to the bar, but what about the earlier ceremonies that day? Are they less worthy than me?

I met up with them and we drove down to Annapolis. We got lost on the way to the Court of Appeals (Maryland’s highest court), but after a few minutes, we still made it there in time. Only forty-five minutes to spare. I lost the instructions on where to park. Based on the directions we received, we parked at the Calvary church across from the court house, as opposed to the actual pay lot ten minutes away. Outside, I met M.R., one of my classmates. She had just been admitted, and was absolutely paranoid about anyone touching her certificate. Not even her mother was allowed to touch it. At this point, she informed me that one of our classmates, J.H., died the week before. I did not know him well, but whenever we saw each other, we would talk a little and joke around. He had a wife and two kids (at the time, I only knew of one). J.H. was a good guy. He seemed set, and now this. What a cruel joke life is.

Soon thereafter, a red car from the eighties (boxy corners) jumped the curb, then slammed back down onto the street, right in front of us. I wanted to say something along the lines of, “Wow, what an idiot, there’s no one else anywhere on the road.” Thankfully, I did not, because a second later, I saw it was M.R.’s father.

A little later, I saw V.S., nee V.B. Just married, her biggest worry was that when we announced our names, she would announce her maiden name. No doubt this would not disqualify her from admission, but you have to understand our collective mindset. To suffer everything we have, only to be stopped for misstating your name, would be the height of absurdity, and legal mitigation for manslaughter. (No, I am not advocating manslaughter or mocking legal justification, just saying.)

Since we arrived so early, we had time to wait. The Court of Appeals building has a wonderful lobby, circular, two-tiered, centering about a bronzed plaque of a woman. I did not have time to inspect it closely, but it appeared that she was topless. Now, this could just be me seeing what I wanted to, and it probably was. I’m not sure why I mentioned that, but the quavering in my legs (not my loins) started, and I guess my mind was wandering.

Finally, we were told to go up to the fourth floor, tender our twenty dollars to sign in, and receive our preassigned numbers. Before the ceremony, we were to line up in the hallway in numerical order, beneath the numbers they posted along the wall. I got thirty-nine. A good, strong number, full of character and heart. On the way back down, I met C.S. He was in the elevator with a very cute girl that we’d seen in our professionalism course. We both commented on this later. She got forty, he got thirty-two. Both also strong numbers. And, what’s that, she’s right behind me?

Back downstairs, I met C.S.’s mom and he met my parents. His mom and my mom hit it off like gangbusters. My dad, on the other hand, was nodding off in a leather-upholstered chair. I don’t blame him, I would have taken a nap if I was sitting around with nothing to do.

As C.S. and I were talking about what was about to happen, the unnamed one came up to us. No, he’s not a leper. I have had several classes with him, he’s a good guy, it just happens that we do not know each others’ names. Further, I believe that we both know we do not know each others’ names, and that it is embarrassing after three and a half years, we do not know each others’ names. Neither of us knows how to break that awkwardness, so we always refer to each other without names. In lieu of introducing him to everyone (which several people commented on later), I merely slid my body between him and everyone else. Passed him my Nintendo DS to play, so as to help with that awkwardness. Tetris DS is as good a name as any, so from here on out, he is Tetris.

Finally, we leave our loved ones and ascend to the fourth floor. Line up in the cattle call assembly line, stripped of every identifier but our “unique” numbers, repeated only thirteen other times during the past two days. We learn that due to the numbers of admittees, they have this ceremony fourteen times over the past couple of days. We are session thirteen of fourteen. If not for the work we put in, it would almost seem like a diploma mill.

I talk a bit with the cute girl, but really do not know what to say. In addition to the normal awkwardness associated with talking to complete strangers and pretty women, I also have that additional fear that she’ll ask me where I’m working. Already, I told the professionalism course small group that I was James Chang, and I worked in entertainment, but was interested in admiralty. Not that she would have remembered, but how many more lies would I have to tell? How many more lies will I tell?

Demean Yourself, Part 2

Several speakers welcome us to their little shindig. Words are spoken that cannot be unspoken. I sort of feel bad at not remembering the exact words, but the gist revolved around having pride in yourself since you've almost made it, and not being a complete jackass. Chief Judge Bell, of the Maryland Court of Appeals (the highest court in the state) also speaks. This will not be the last time I hear him in my life, in this week even. Hopefully I will never have to appear before him in a legal capacity, client or counselor. His mustache is so bushy, it may be mistaken for a small woodland animal, perhaps a squirrel?

They have divided us up into fifteen small groups, and we are sent forth to our rooms. If you want to skip the next few paragraphs, I will sum up the day's lessons right here, right now. It is ok, the words will continue to inhabit this space, whether you read them or not. You can skip down to the bold lettering: CONTINUE READING HERE.

-Be nice to everyone.
-Treat your fellow lawyers with respect.
-Do not lie.
-Always talk to your clients.
-Do not be a jackass.

There, I saved you five hours of my life.

Our first speaker held the title of "Master." This is apparently some reference to juvenile court, according to C.S. Based on the link, he is correct. I do not know, and cared not enough to find out. He showed us a video on how to comport yourself during litigation. This video is so old, the term "little darlin'" is used to refer to a female lawyer.

The second session duo were fairly nondescript. The judge was quite elderly, hair whiter than clean linoleum. They did make us introduce ourselves by stating our names, where we attended school, and what we practiced. Naturally, since this is a professionalism course, and I will be working with these people for the rest of my life, here is what I said: "Hi, I'm James Chang [not my real name]. I graduated from Maryland. I currently work in entertainment, but I hope to get into admiralty."

Our third lecture, the duo dated themselves. Not in the homosexual fashion of holding hands and dancing, but in the chronological fashion of showing how elderly they are. They showed us a clip from the movie "Nuts," starring Barbara Streisand and Richard Dreyfuss. What elevated this beyond normal embarrassment to the realm of cringing embarrassment was the portrayal of a legal system long since outdated. Lawyers were more freelancers, relying on judges to apportion out cases for them. Today’s discerning litigator will be hired directly by the client. If you work for the indigent, you will be assigned cases, but will also be paid a regular salary by the state. All this set up to ask us, "Who is the client?"

Further, one of our duo flashed a big, dripping smile when he started talking about the "secret" of the movie, that (spoiler) Barbara Streisand's character was molested by her father, and that was why she was having mental and emotional problems. (spoiler ends)
This is not funny. There are a great many things in this world you can, and should, laugh at. Child abuse, no. I like children, and am in many ways still a child. I identify with children. There is nothing fun about tearing away a child's naivete and innocence through sexual abuse. Why did our group leader smile so? Damned if I know.

At half past eleven, most normal gatherings would have given us lunch. The bar instead barraged us with several spiels about pro bono work and malpractice insurance for solo practitioners. Did you know that when your caseload is the lightest, malpractice insurance is the least expensive? I certainly did not. Intriguing, isn’t it?

Finally, the last class consisted of the topic of community. Somehow, both of our assigned speakers could not make it, so we had a completely unprepared balding man come in and give us the Socratic Method for forty minutes. (I am not trying to say that his bare pate meant he was unqualified to present to us. I am merely trying to say that he was both unprepared and balding, and that is coincidental. He could have been sporting a clown wig, poofed up to the ceiling, boasting all the colors of the rainbow. This would not change his uselessness. This is what our sixty-five dollars went towards? You, sir, shame yourself, and you shame us.)

“What does it mean to be involved in the community?” You tell us, you're the speaker. Even with fifteen minutes to prep, you should be able to come up with something, anything, better than what you did. At one point, he asked someone how they would help the community, and they responded by mentoring students. The jackass further asked how he would do that, and the guy responded, by mentoring students. It was sad, depressing, and a waste of all our time.

CONTINUE READING HERE.

The Bar Association claimed this professionalism course was necessary. All it taught me was that they could only find the arrogant few to come talk to us, and that the law really does consume your life. Several times we were warned to not let the law become the driving force in our life, as if the speakers had succumbed to that unholy thrill.

Before we left, we had to sign our names again. They made it clear if we did not sign, we would not receive credit. You can bet your sweet bippy I signed their sheet. As I stepped outside, pocket full of oranges, I looked back at the mighty throng, talking, discussing their futures. I know they will be just fine. Why? Because they will continue on with their lawyering, whether I acknowledge it or not. Whether or not I give it a second thought, they will continue to thrive.

Demean Yourself, Part 1

Oh, I could hide, ‘neath the wings
Of the bluebird as she sings.
The six o’clock alarm would never ring.
But it rings and I rise,
Wipe the sleep out of my eyes.
My shaving razor’s cold and it stings. – John Stewart, “Daydream Believer”

I know from a logical standpoint that five ante meridian exists. I know that just because I am not conscious of it does not mean that it never happens. There are many things I do not experience that still happen. Stars supernova. Life perpetuates. Clocks tick. These things I know. Still, it does not give me joy to prove five in the morning exists, especially when I wake up to see that terse message on my alarm clock. “5:00.”

I hopped over the side of my metal futon, over the pile of books, magazines and legal pads piled beneath, and clicked off the little plastic nub. Plastic pet silenced, I stumbled into the shower, adjusted the knobs until warm water steamed the bathroom, and showered. No, I will not describe specifics. Most of you can envision it just fine without help. Finish, dry myself off, brush teeth, insert contacts, and get changed into my suit. This is how a professional starts his day. Heaven only knows why I'm doing this.

The professionalism course was slated to start at half past eight. This did not mean it would start on time. These things never do; for all their attempts at organization and promptness, legal meetings tend to run at least five minutes late. Can I explain it? No. All I can do is show up when they tell me to, and zone out.

The hook-like worry that kept fishing me out of sleep was a dead car battery. The night previous, I had trouble getting the ignition to turn over, and feared that the battery might be ready to give out. Of course, as I write this a week later, that battery still powers the Lady Surfer, despite the daily need to attend work being so much more important. As I tightened my gunmetal grey tie around my neck for the sixth time (half-Windsor knots are not my friend), I kept looking outside to Lady Surfer. (She was re-dubbed after I found out naming it Silver Surfer implied masculinity, and you are supposed to name cars after females. Why? I don't know. Sure, there's some sort of rudimentary return-to-the-womb argument you could make, or some psychosocial arguments on the injustices visited upon women by men in everything we do. Or, you could say "Because," and you would probably be just as correct.)

Pockets crammed full of Nutrigrain bars, I tightened my shoelaces and headed outside. Everything slowed down, like drifting through mineral oil. Images left wavy afterimages, the frigid morning air muted every color. Even Lady Surfer felt unreal when I unlocked the door, sat down, and turned the ignition. Of course, it started up without a hitch. It always does, except when it doesn't.

I leave around seven. There is a good possibility I may have fallen asleep after five, before I woke up for real, and just do not recall. There is also a good possibility that I do not want to pay the Maryland State Bar Association sixty-five dollars. Also a good possibility I am exhausted and driving on auto-pilot. Also, that I will choose the wrong auto-pilot schema and end up anywhere but Baltimore. That I am not the only car on the road surprises me. It should not, traffic continues whether I am or am not there. It does not require my validation.

I take Ninety-Five North to Baltimore, get off at exit fifty-three towards downtown, and park about a block away from the Baltimore Convention Center, the exciting locale where we will spend five hours learning how to be professionals. If we had not learned it by now, a five-hour class certainly will not teach us what we need to know. Consider this: if you are already versed in the ways of professionalism, the class wastes your time. It is akin to the preacher preaching to the congregation, when those absentees are the ones that would most benefit from the message. If you have crafted a master plan to cheat the system, embezzle from your clients, treat your compatriots as inferiors, and generally contravene the moral requirements that we all hope are implied in being a lawyer, how will a five-hour course move you? We numbered about one thousand strong that Saturday. Could even five of our cohort want to be professionals, yet not already learned the thrust of the day's simplistic kindergarten messages?

Now half past seven, I am half past pissed off. They are oh-so-graciously providing us with coffee and tea and donuts, but the cynic in me wonders if we have to pay for it. I stumble off, my fingers starting to crack and freeze in the cold, looking for an open food establishment. I find a Dunkin Donuts, briefly toy with going to the walk-up window, and decide to just go inside, get my bagel sandwich.

I promised to meet C.S. at eight, so we would not have to suffer through the day alone. Pain shared is pain doubled, so the saying should go. I munch on the bagel. That the cooking process could leach taste out of such diverse ingredients as bacon, eggs, and american cheese, and leave naught, save the dull, pasty flavors of neutral cardboard, shocked me. Yes, the ingredients did burn my tongue, so I knew at some point it might have been full of taste. Now, not so much.

At this point, I watch people enter the center. There is also a gymnastics exhibition this morning. It is easy to tell the groups apart. Those coming for the professionalism course are dressed to the hilt, carrying expensive suitcases and satchels and thick legal texts. Those for the gymnastics exhibition, young girls and their mothers and coaches dressed in warm up suits. A Venn Diagram showing the members of these two groups would overlap at a slice thin enough to pass through a needle's eye. I would like to meet said overlap; that might be hot.

C.S. arrives around ten minutes after eight. I marvel at his fortitude; he has trudged for twenty minutes in the arctic chill garbed only in his suit. We register, sign our names, and go into the main conference room. Before the dais up front, our kind hosts set up enough long tables to seat everyone, perhaps ten rows worth, eight or nine tables across. Beautiful thick white tablecloths drape each table, which leads me to wonder just how plywoody the tables were. After selecting seats, we go to the food aisle. They've erected several coffee services. Beneath each spigot is a small plate covered with coffee beans. I ask C.S. if we're expected to let the coffee run over the beans, then hold our cups below the plates and catch it as we might catch a waterfall. Both of us are dumbfounded at this little sign of gratuity and excess. Since the bagel threatens to tear its way out directly through my navel, I pick up three navel oranges, in case the opportunity to a) juggle, or b) peg someone in the head, presents itself. Yes, these thoughts are about as unprofessional as you get. Yes, I am about as unprofessional as I can get.

Angelic Remembrance

People ask why I limp. I tell them it's none of their concern. That’s enough to stop most people from asking further. Still, there are those ignorant few that can't stand their ignorance. They've got to know. My next statement goes along these lines: "You know how when you clap, an angel gets its wings? I limp because I killed an angel."

Once, I was walking with my mother, my chubby hand raised to grasp her dry, steady seamstress hand. I didn’t really know then that she sewed. I just knew the only thing I ever had to shop for, clothing-wise, were shoes and hats, and that was fine with me. Actually, I think that’s why we were going out that day, to get me a new pair of shoes. Had to be, I started limping after that day. Although, there were other reasons for it.

It must have been Harbor Street. There was so much traffic, and the pedestrians crowded onto the sidewalks, a thick briar patch of overcoats and caps that entrapped you, but still kept you moving, very slowly. Mom held my hand tight, just to the point of it starting to hurt. I tried to wriggle my now-white fingers free, but she just wouldn’t let go. Then, she stopped walking, but I kept going a few more steps. I looked back, and she just had this look on her face. Her mouth guppy-gaped, eyes fixed on something past the sky-high group of jackets. Like a basket of apples, she swung me into her arms, held me tight, turned my head in the opposite direction as she backed us towards the street. Her heart pounded so fast, it felt like she’d trapped a hummingbird beneath her coat. The cars had also stopped, and not because of traffic lights. A few of those drivers, passengers too, they all shared my mom’s stupefied look.

What she didn’t realize was that I could see in some of the car and windows a warped reflection. The indistinct sun hung overhead, casting a subtle glow over everything. Tens of misaligned images reflected in the windows and mirrors, all at different angles. Most of them just showed me the backs of people on the street. A tantalizing few hinted at something more alluring, though I didn’t know then what those giant sleep-black feathers portended.

Even though I was five or six, I was still just a fussy baby. I squirmed and struggled in mom’s grasp, trying to gain purchase against her shoulder to spin around. Her thin arms usually grappled with spindles and jammed sewing machines; I was little more than a fidgety annoyance she would have none of. Mom took another step back, and her feet balanced half over the curb. Somehow, she’d managed to stand at the gap between two parked cars, and I thought she was going to start running soon, but she didn’t. I kept shifting.

All you have to do to realize I was a big kid is look at my fingers. I’ll never be a small guy, and that’s fine. At the same time, I’ve shed a lot of weight, and with it, a lot of insecurity. Still, I hate showing people my hands, or holding peoples’ hands. It feels like, when Jenny runs her fingers over mine, she’s lingering on the pudge, thinking about what a “cute kid” I must have been. Looking at me, looking in my eyes, and envisioning a fatter version of me. What if.

What if things were different? I hate that game, but let's play for a little while. There was a parking meter to my left, and my right leg swung loose while I sat in the crook of her arm. Let's say I didn't kick off of that meter. Suppose I hadn't pushed with both my arms against my mother. If she wasn't backing up, if you change any detail, would that have been enough to throw her into the street? It was my foot, my fault, my foot-fault. Trouble is, we don't get a second serve.

When she landed, the crack sounded like the world rent in two. Now that I look back, maybe it really did. It almost hurts more now than it did then. Back then, all I knew was that I broke my foot. Today, I realize that set in motion the destruction of a people. I looked around, fire streaking through my poor foot. Mom started undoing the shoelace, her fingers unweaving the chunky knots my stubby fingers barely laced together. Those giant child crocodile tears streamed down my face, and everything went blurry, but I looked back into the sidewalk, at all the faces looking back at me. Most of them, men and women bundled tight, also doing their shopping, their day ruined. Two of them had to be policemen performing their civic duty. Dark uniforms, blue caps, and they were leading the winged man by the hand. He happened to be walking past at that moment, and people drew their own conclusions.

Him. Alison Gerald Murphy. Yeah, I was there. I couldn’t really see his face then, but I’ve seen the pictures now. Well, the pictures after his arrest. Objective viewpoint, he looked pitiful. Thinning black hair, a once-wide face losing its fat stores, now starting to sag like a pitbull. A thick nose, almost clownishly red, blood vessels boiled to the surface. Eagle-wide eyes, pale grey. Tattered clothing that he seemed to wear only because no one else could bear to take it. The only things that saved him from being consigned to historical irrelevance were those magnificent dark angel’s wings.

Even now, I can see how they ruffled, how each feather gleamed, despite his tattered coat and unwashed form, despite the lack of sunlight. Those sharp feathers seemed to catch every last bolt of sunshine and throw it back into the world with ten times the intensity. They looked like they could carve thick wedges from clouds, and the cloudlets would tumble downwards, falling cotton balls. Despite the elephant-thick manacles banded around the base of his wings, Alison looked innocent. He was innocent, at least where I was concerned.

A man stepped out from the crowd, took me and Mom into the street, through the tangled traffic, around the block, away from the event. Mom pressed my head into her breast, her hand muffling any sounds from the outside world. Still, I heard three things as we went away. The hummingbird trapped beneath mom’s coat. My high-pitched screams. Al’s last words: “No, please, mercy,” and a scream, fading as simply as a forgotten dream. Too bad I can’t forget him that easily. Every time I stumble when I get out of the car, or walking up the stairs, or dancing, I remember how easy it was to kill an angel.

***

I'm not enamored with the title, but felt I should put something down. Ideally this would lead into a longer interlude concerning how our narrator's life continued to intersect with the wild, soaring path these angels also took. Really, it's just a story about hating those different from you, and we've got so many historical instances, you can tell where this is all going.

As of late, I've been starting and stopping multiple short stories, and editing intermittently (both my own work and the more academic work of others). The net result is that there's very little publishable (postable?) work. Since I basically get one shot at you reading what I write, I'd rather polish it a bit than just slap up whatever. For now, we're going to aim for a weekly posting during Sunday Night (Football).