The Garbage Man

He was just a lowly garbage man, but as a father, he had the right stuff.
Oakland, California has never been what you’d call a garden spot. Yes, it is across the bay from one of the world’s most beautiful cities but, if San Francisco is Cinderella, Oakland is her ugly stepsister. I know. I was born there in 1963 to Otis and Gladys Dove. So were my sisters, Tamara and Whitney, and the neighborhood where we grew up was the wart on the ugly stepsister’s nose.

My parents were proud, honest, poor, and very religious. We attended Good Shepherd Baptist Church, and of all the Sunday school teachers I’ve had in my life, Mrs. Watson’s the one I’ll never forget. She was larger than life and infused right down to her toes with the Holy Spirit. Her personality resided precisely between sternness and hilarity, could scold or belly laugh on a dime. I remember my first day in her class as if it were yesterday. I was transfixed on an image of Jesus in a frame on the wall. Everybody around me was black except for Jesus, and I wanted to know why.

I raised my hand and asked, "Mrs. Watson, was Jesus white?"
She must have been caught off guard because for a minute she had that do-I-really-want-to-go-there look in her eyes, but to her credit, she answered me. "I don’t believe he was white or black, Mitchell," she said.

"Well what color was he?" I asked, thinking he could be just about any color he wanted to be.

Mrs. Watson said she believed his skin was a swarthy tone, seeing as how he was born in the Middle East, and Middle-Eastern people have that type of complexion. Then I asked what color swarthy was and could my mama buy me a swarthy shirt.

Placing a hand on each of her generous hips, she shot me a look as if I’d asked the dumbest question she’d ever heard. But then, just as fast, her faced transformed into a smile, as if she suddenly remembered she was talking to a six-year-old, and she explained that swarthy was a dark brown color that only pertained to skin tone and no, my mother could not by me a swarthy shirt.

"Then Jesus was closer to black than white, right?" I asked.

"I think swarthy is a combination of all skin colors," she said. "Just the right tone God meant his son to be. But much more important than his color, you must remember Jesus means love. When we think of him we should not think of skin color, we should think of love, understanding and redemption. And the same is true with him. When Jesus looks at his children, which all humans are, he doesn’t notice skin color."

Mrs. Watson was ready to put the conversation to rest, but I had one more question. "Why is Jesus white in that picture?"

"Little Mitchell Micah Dove," she said (she addressed us by our full names when she became irritated), "if you had to guess, who would you say painted that picture?"

Without hesitation, I said, "A white person, Mrs. Watson."

To learn at age six that Jesus’ face is a mosaic of every ethnicity and that I am not excluded, left an impression on my soul that drives me to this day.

Another major ah-ha moment occurred in the sixth grade, on the day I was suspended from school. A mixed-race group of friends and I were horsing around with a soccer ball during recess. I stole the ball and shot down the field toward the goal, intent on scoring. Ten yards from the net, a big white kid ran across the field from nowhere and knocked me off my feet.

Lying on the ground, groaning from aching ribs, I looked up into the snarling face of what looked like a giant. The sun, positioned behind the kid’s red head, created the illusion of fire.

"You think you’re hot shit, don’t you, nigger?" He said.

With considerable effort I picked myself up, tired of turning the other cheek. Especially to Derek Bork. This made the third time. "Why don’t you leave us real people alone?" I said. "Go hang out with your small-minded pals and watch the grass grow."

Derek telegraphed his punch with a grunt, and I ducked under it. Much quicker than the slow-moving bully, I meted out turn-the-other-cheek frustrations on him until the playground monitor broke up the fight and escorted us to the principal’s office.

Head down, shoulder’s slumped, I trudged along the sidewalk past run down, graffiti-marred, low-income shacks toward my house. The principal’s office had called my mother to pick me up, but she didn’t have a car or, for that matter a driver’s license. Even though it was just a few blocks, it was the longest walk of my life. Suspended for a day, I was in real trouble. Dad would be crushed.

I crept onto our ramshackle house’s front porch and carefully creaked open the tattered screen door. So much for sneaking in. Mother stood in the center of the living room pointing like a traffic cop down the hall toward my bedroom. I slinked past the sternest stare I’d ever received to my temporary sanctuary and dove into my schoolwork.

I couldn’t read, my mind too filled with dread, but I figured my nose stuck in a book presented a helpful image. In a way, I wished Dad would resort to violence instead of tongue-lashing me in his particular way. I think he had a little preacher in him. When we messed up, he could make us kids feel like dog squeeze without raising his voice or a finger.

He entered the house a little after five-thirty and conversed with Mother. Then silence, and in this particular instance it was not golden. This was eye-of-the-storm quiet, a mere interlude before the winds of fury would start to blow. The bedroom door inched open and my stomach flipped. Whew… my sister, Tamara. She stuck her head in and announced dinner was ready. I listened to the small talk during dinner, waiting for the hammer.

Dad bit into a chicken leg, chewing slowly, waiting until he swallowed to speak. "How was your day at school, Whitney?" he asked.

I squirmed in my seat.

Whitney, mouth full of cornbread, said, "Jush --."

"Honey, you know better than to speak with a full mouth," Dad said.

Whitney nodded, swallowed, then said, "Sorry, Daddy. I had a real good day at school."

"Go on, tell your mama and me what made it so good."

"Well… I got an ‘A’ on a quiz about the flag."

Dad, a big smile splitting his face, put his fork down and clapped and everybody followed suit. "Now," he said, shifting his eyes to Tamara. "What about you, Lovebug?"

Tamara shrugged.

Dad shrugged back. "What’s that mean?"

Tears welled in her eyes. "I got a C plus on my quiz, Daddy. I’m sorry."

"Did you give your best effort?"

"Yes, Daddy."

Dad clapped. "Then it’s my fault. You did the best you knew how. Next time you’ll be better prepared."

Here it comes, my turn, I thought.

"Mama," Dad said, "nobody fries chicken like you. Not the Colonel, not Popeye, and not that old Mrs. Winner. If I had the money to open a restaurant, we’d make millions."

Flustered, Mother replied, "Oh, Daddy, you just go on and eat before it gets cold."

Now, here it comes, the roof is about to fall in on me.

Dad finished with his main course, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and waited while Mother dished out peach cobbler to his kids. In pure agony, I focused on a tiny piece of cornbread he’d missed at the corner of his mouth.

Mother beckoned, and he passed his plate. "You need to do something about that hinge on the fence gate. The thing’s about to fall off," she said while dishing out a generous helping of piping hot cobbler.

Dad nodded. "I know baby. I’ll get to it after I tune up the Chevy. Been meaning to fix the front door too. Never seems to be enough time."

I pushed my dessert around my plate, my appetite but a memory.

"You gonna eat that, boy, or play hockey with it?" Dad asked.
I took a bite, swallowing hard, while Tamara and Whitney shot furtive looks and knowing little smiles at me. Nothing wrong with their appetites, they were eating this up.

Finally, Dad fixed his big brown eyes on me. "Son, join me on the porch after dinner."

"Yes, sir," I managed in a higher pitch than normal. Thunder and lightning on the front porch.

Dad opened the door and I slipped past him, intending to sit in Mother’s rocking chair.

"No, son," he said. "Sit right here beside me on the stoop. I want you to hear what I have to say."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you listen to me when I speak to you?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I don’t mean listen with your ears, I mean listen with your heart. Do you do that?"

"I think so," I said. My heart could hear?

"Do you know what I mean?"

"Not exactly."

"First, listen to what I have to say and let it sink in. Then, strongly consider what I’ve said. Don’t just let it flit in one ear and out the other. Live with the words and the emotions they evoke."
He paused for a moment, big hands interlocked, soft brown eyes set on me like spotlights. "When I was a young boy in Mississippi, our family was dirt poor. Daddy was a farmer. Scratched at a small piece of hand-me-down, hardscrabble land for days and years on end. Wasn’t worth much, but to him it was a chunk of gold. My great grandfather got the parcel from his owner. Daddy couldn’t read or write, barely could count. During bad growing years, we all suffered because he couldn’t do anything else. Without an education, he was unarmed. Back then, blacks in the South weren’t offered much, but those given menial jobs could at least read and do arithmetic." He paused again, eyes far off.

"Go on, Dad," I said.

"I never told you how your granddaddy died, Mitchell. I just said he passed on, and that’s not true. He killed himself… put a gun to his head out in the barn and pulled the trigger… bullet went clean through his head and killed our plow mule too."

I gulped. "Why?"

"We were having another bad growing year. Mama was sick all year too, and Daddy couldn’t buy medicine. Didn’t have money. Here’s a proud man, can’t take care of his bride or his children. On top of all that, he had the burden of bigotry on his back. His dignity was depleted and he just couldn’t take it no more." Tears, like diamonds on black satin, trekked down his ample cheeks.

"Are you okay, Dad?" I asked.

"I’m fine, son. I loved and respected my daddy. He was a good man and father but just unprepared to live in this world."

"What happened after Grandpa died?"

"I had to drop out of tenth grade. Daddy was determined that I get a good education, but someone had to take care of Mama and my sisters. I worked the farm and studied on my own at night. Read dictionaries cover to cover. Somehow, by God’s grace, we made it. Never got a diploma, but I read real well and use good grammar. The point, Mitchell, is your granddaddy agonized over not being able to be self-sufficient. Felt like less of a man because he didn’t have the tools to provide for his own. He preached endlessly about the importance of being well educated, just as I preach to you. His suicide ended his life, his sermons on education, his dreams for me, and my dream of a better life." He paused, looked at me. "What are you doing?"

"Just looking at the stars, thinking about Grandpa," I said. "Go on, I’m listening."

"The day you were born I looked to the sky, much like you’re doing now, and made a promise to God in heaven that I would do everything in my power to see that you graduate from college… look at me son, this is very important."

My eyes locked with his.

He said, "I will do nothing to impede and everything to help you, but you have to want that diploma bad, son. Striking back at idiots hurts no one but you. Even though you didn’t pick the fight, you were punished. Life isn’t fair and that’s just the way it is. Nowhere in your records will it say ‘Mitchell was suspended but it wasn’t his fault’. Promise me you will stay focused on what’s important."

"I promise. I’ll do my best, sir."

Dad placed a hand on my knee. "From now on, you and me are gonna meet on this porch a couple times a week. How’s that sound?"

"Why?" I asked.

"Just to talk. Get things off our chests. Men need to do that now and then."

Men. My chest expanded. "Sounds good to me, sir."

Dad gazed up at the stars. "Did you know that one of the most powerful men to ever live was also one of the kindest and most enlightened? He had the power to turn thousands upon thousands of people against his enemies and destroy America’s great cities but chose a different path."

"Who was that, sir?" I asked.

"Dr. Martin Luther King. He had a dream… so do I, and you should have a dream too."

I wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words, so I just moved to his lap and hugged him.
***

I proclaim loud and proud that my dad toiled as a garbage man for thirty years. Cut lawns part time too. The money he earned from mowing white folks’ yards on Saturdays and Sundays went into a college fund for his children. I learned at a very young age that my school career would span at least seventeen years. There was never any question about it. My daily priorities were: school, homework, recreation (if time), dinner, and then bed. There was seldom any deviation.

Dad was big on dispensing advice. One day, while helping him work on our old Chevy, I revealed that my friends were beginning to shun me. Seemed the better I did at school, the more I was isolated and called names like Uncle Tom and lackey to whites. I didn’t understand. How could they translate academic excellence into tools of the white establishment? Whites didn’t have an exclusive patent on intelligence. In short, I asked my dad why they were being such jerks.

He rose from the engine well, swiped grease from the bridge of his nose, and said, "People like that can’t see past their own noses, son. I read somewhere about this sickness where people abuse themselves by cuttin’ or gougin’ or some such way."

"Why would they do that?" I asked.

"‘Cause something happened real bad to them in their childhood," he said. "It’s a mental thing. Makes ‘em feel good to hurt themselves. It’s called self-mutilation, and I think some of our people suffer from something similar. Those who have it are eaten up with bitterness and hatred and have no hope. They’re gonna show the white man by mutilating their lives, if that makes any sense."

"I don’t understand, Dad," I said.

"I don’t either, Mitchell. Education is the road map to the horizon. Who in their right mind would want a future of this?" He waved an arm in a wide arc toward the dilapidated houses across the street. "A future of ghetto, drugs, and filth." Then he glared at the fence surrounding our front yard. "It’s just not right for a man to have to build a six-foot slat fence around his front yard to protect his family. Just over two years ago it was a knee-high picket fence. This neighborhood’s rot is because of attitudes like your friends’."

"Ex-friends, Dad," I said. "I won’t be one of those self-mutilators." My chest filled with pride, as I watched him install the last of the spark plugs into the Chevy. The old blue wagon was diseased with reddish spots and springs were beginning to push through its vinyl seats, but he continued to drive it. He wouldn’t take it to the repair shop or buy a new one; instead he saved the money for his children’s education. If not for Otis Dove, I would most likely be on a street corner selling drugs, or worse, an urban violence statistic.
***

Dad imparted another pearl of wisdom when I was fourteen and my hormones zooming around like accelerated atoms. During one of our bi-monthly porch sessions two jabbering fourteen-year-old neighborhood girls, sporting tattoos, cigarettes, and distended bellies, walked past the open fence gate and he asked, "What you think about all these girls have babies, son?"

I shrugged, not really knowing what to say, but confident that I was about to hear his take on the situation.

"Well, I’ll tell you what I think," he said. "Girls around here are using their bodies and saving their minds. Should be the other way around. You can’t save your mind like money under the mattress. You got to invest it; make it work for you just like you do money. Invest your mind in books and school and your money in stocks and bonds and watch them both grow. Fifty dollars under the mattress today will be fifty dollars under the mattress twenty years from now. Same with a mind. Let yours stagnate today, and you’ll have a kid’s mind when you’re thirty. Those girls have no one to blame for their predicaments but themselves. I haven’t noticed any flying white penises flittin’ around the neighborhood pollinatin’ young black females, have you?"

"Uhhh… no sir," I said, and he continued.

"Let that be an example of what can happen if you’re irresponsible with your manhood. Invest in your body that way and your return is babies, mouths to feed, diapers to change, and dead dreams. Premature responsibility poisons the future; careful preparation nourishes it. There’s a time and place for everything, boy."

I think it’s fair to say the garbage man had a way with words.
***

I won’t lie. As big a positive influence on me as my father was, a party and jock school is where I wanted to go for higher learning. I was a pretty good wide receiver in high school and carried a 3.85 GPA, thus full-ride athletic scholarship offers were plentiful. Dad preferred that I accept the scholastic scholarship offered by the Colorado School of Mines, even though it was less than full-ride. I ended up attending CSM and again, his advice was right on. I played on a second-rate football team at a prestigious, first-rate academic school. It very easily could have been the other way around.

The CSM curriculum was tougher than I ever imagined. For four years, I spent almost all of my spare time studying in my dorm room or in the library, although I do remember taking occasional breaks for sustenance. I dated twice, once each with the two black female students attending CSM. A school for geologists and petroleum engineers was far from a favorite destination for college-bound African American girls, especially in the early eighties.

I was always lonely, and at times depressed, and called Dad weekly, sometimes twice weekly. He kept me going via the phone lines until graduation day arrived.

I’ll never forget that day. At the time, it seemed like a mirage. Was all of my sacrifice and hard work finally paying dividends? I was valedictorian of my class, and as I approached the podium to deliver my speech, I locked eyes with the Garbage Man in the front row.

His face displayed tears and a look of pure unadulterated satisfaction tinged with relief. For that instant we were the only two people in Colorado. I remember that night as if it happened yesterday. The ceremony took place outdoors, and it seemed even the trees, mountains, and stars were in awe over my triumph. Feelings of pride and accomplishment welled up inside me, and to this day they have not ebbed. Every kid should have that experience.

Happy Birthday (To Me)

Nobody remembered my birthday this year... Nobody except ME!
SCRIBBLED ALMOST INCOHERENTLY ONTO A NAPKIN AT RED LOBSTER:

"Well, today's my birthday and what a horrendous birthday it was. I work the graveyard shift and so naturally, I slept until 5pm. I rose from my bed, which just happens to be a couch, and staggered into the kitchen to prepare my birthday dinner. Because of the fact that no one besides myself knows of my birthday today, I celebrate it in the privacy of my own home, often times weeping hysterically and gulping whiskey until I'm lost in a blind stupor. This year, however, I have to go to work at 8pm, so I was forced to exclude the crying part of my ritual. After all, I don't want my co-workers seeing my tear-stained face when I report for duty. I like to portray the essence of a tough, manly man at all times when I'm on the clock. I digress.

I stumbled into the kitchen, still half asleep, with hardened yellow crust still in the corners of my bloodshot eyes, to prepare my birthday feast. I poured the remainder of an old box of generic corn flakes into a bowl and doused it with what looked more like cottage cheese than milk. After consuming the cereal, I pulled a large bottle of Jamison Whiskey out of the cupboard. I began to guzzle the sweet whiskey; much like a thirsty young Rhodesian lad guzzles water on a hot afternoon. Ah, sweet relief.

Over an hour later, the bottle of Jamison had long been emptied, as well as a pint of tequila, half a bottle of cheap wine, and four beers. I looked at my watch... I couldn't quite make out the time. The hands on my watch seemed ever so blurry. After closer inspection, I realized that my watch was, in fact, digital. No matter though, as I still couldn't make out what time it was. I figured it was probably getting close to the time I had to be at work... I lumbered into my closet and pulled on my uniform. Then I promptly passed out, violently smashing my forehead on the corner of the dresser as I fell.

When I awoke, it was dark outside. My head was bleeding and I was still very drunk. I got out of my clothes and into my bathrobe. Then I headed out the door. I needed to find a bar of some kind.

The closest bar to me just happens to be at a Red Lobster across the street. I walked through the doors and pushed aside the hostess who was trying politely to seat me. I made a beeline to the bar. And by beeline, I mean I made a trip to the bathroom to vomit first. I reached the bar and ordered a tall glass of whiskey, which they declined to serve me. Angrily, I demanded a glass of whiskey but my request was met with a cold glare from the bartender. He then poured me a small juice-glass of the cheapest, dirtiest whiskey I've ever tasted.

As I sat there sipping my fourth glass of atrocious whiskey, I realized that I had neglected to bring my wallet.

So here I am, sitting at the bar, drinking terrible liquor, and contemplating my escape. I suppose I could just leap from the bar stool like a giant baboon, and then dash for the exit, hoping my drunkenness will not hinder my escape, but I fear I am being watched from all sides and the detestable staff of this establishment probably expects something of this nature. I could always soil myself and then pretend to have a massive heart attack, hoping to be rushed out in an ambulance, whereupon I experience a miraculous recovery during the drive to the hospital. On second thought... the previous gentleman who was sitting to the right of me seems to have left a 20 dollar bill sitting under his empty glass. Yoink!"

The Purpose Of Life

I should be on medication.
Have you ever had a moment when everything seems to fall perfectly in place, and it gives you a sliver of understanding about your purpose in life. Me neither, but last Wednesday came close.

When I opened my eyes, Mary was sleeping beside me and splinters of golden light were shining through the blinds. I had to elbow her three times before she woke up.

"What's for breakfast?" I asked.

"Whatever you make," she replied.

Easing out of bed, I stepped to the window and inhaled a chestful of smoggy city air. You can't help but cough.

I was interrupted from scratching myself by the BlackBerry vibrating on the dresser. The clinic where I work nights was calling to see if I could come in and help out. The day shift Tech had called out sick.

"Give me an hour, and I'll try to make it," I said.

With prices for everything going up, I needed the extra money. Why I ever entered the health care field is a mystery. You will never get rich, and the hours are long and unrewarding.

The clinic is located in downtown Tucson, and I always enjoy the scenery during the ten minute drive. The dealers are already on the corners, and there's always a few hookers headed for breakfast at T-J's after a busy night. If you are interested in paying for sex, Tucson has the best rates in the country.

Walking into the clinic, I observed two fat guys and one old lady seated in the waiting area. I should have stayed the fuck home. Stelazine Rivers, the RN on duty was drawing blood from a young man in the triage room. She waved me over.

"Morning Alan," she said. "There's one patient in with the doctor, and Mr. Silver is next." She nodded toward the young man while grabbing a blue top tube.

I guess it was too much effort for her to say thanks for coming in on my day off. She acted like I didn't have a choice.

"Where do you want me to start?" I grumbled. After years of working on the night shift, I was unfamiliar with the daytime routine.

Stelazine pointed toward the grey-haired woman in the waiting area. "Start getting that woman's info, and we will go from there."

RN's love to flaunt their authority, and I hoped that Stelazine would leave me alone for the rest of the day. The old woman in the waiting room was staring at me as if waiting for something.

"Good morning," I said, while holding out my hand. "My name's Alan, and I'm one of the Medical Technicians. If you will follow me to the exam room, I have some questions to ask you."

"You seem like a nice young man," she said, while struggling to rise from the low sofa. "My name is Helen Oliver."

Mrs. Oliver's breath smelled like last weeks fritters, and it took all my strength to avoid gagging. Old people tend to depress me.

Mrs. Oliver was eventually able to stand up. I grasped her thin arm and guided her toward the exam room adjacent to the triage room. I estimated her age to be around 104, but she seemed to be ambulating without difficulty. She appeared frail as a feather, but there was something annoying about her piercing blue eyes, and they remain fixed on me as I pushed her down on the exam table.

"Stop staring at me," I muttered.

"Thank you dear," she said.

When people can't hear what you are saying, it gives you options.

"You're welcome," I replied. "I'm going to ask you for some basic information, and then you will see the nurse or doctor."

"What ever you decide dear."

It's hard to remain professional when you don't give a fuck, but I managed. It turned out that Mrs Oliver was eighty-nine years old. She must have had a rough life because she had more wrinkles than my cat's ass. After filling out the required information on the nursing form, I was finally able to ask the important question.

"What brings you into the clinic today?"

Her sparkling blue eyes searched my face, and she reached out to grab my hand. If I had been faster, I could have avoided her touch. Her fingers were ice cold, and the translucent skin on the back of her hand revealed some ugly blue veins. Her hand was rough enough to sand my porch railing.

"I was next door at the Wal-Mart looking for a pot holder, and somehow I ended up in the sporting goods aisle," she explained. "My husband Arthur loved to fish, and seeing the poles brought back so many memories."

By this time, I was wondering what the fuck she was talking about and waiting for her to pull out pictures of Bobo the cat. I was hoping she might pass out so I could move on to the next patient. I took her blood pressure and pulse, and both were within normal ranges.

"Are you feeling weak or dizzy? I asked.

"Oh no, I'm just fine sitting here talking to you," she replied. "You look like my husband when he was young. Arthur died five months ago, and now he's with Jesus."

Good old Arthur might be with Jesus, but there are other possibilities.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I get so lonely," she continued. "Arthur and I never had any children, and sometimes you just need to talk with somebody. I saw the clinic, and thought it might be a safe place."

Health care facilities in America are not safe places.

"You aren't feeling ill?" I asked.

"Heavens no dear. Thinking about Arthur just made me wish I had a friend to talk with. You have been very kind listening to an old woman's troubles."

Mrs. Oliver's comment left me wondering how the fuck I turned into Dr. Phil. There was nothing physically wrong with her, but I needed Stelazine to check her out. Minions are not allowed to make decisions. She agreed that the old woman just needed someone to talk to. That's what the internet is for.

Stelazine ordered me to walk Mrs. Oliver to her car. People that old should not be operating a motor vehicle. I watched her drive out of The Wal-Mart parking lot without killing anybody.

Last Friday, Mary and I were sitting outside at the corner café drinking coffee when I noticed a familiar figure at one of the tables.

"Alan is that you?" Mrs. Oliver screeched.

I was doing a good job of pretending not to hear her when Mary got involved.

"Isn't that lady calling you?" my wife asked.

Only your spouse can manage to fuck up a good day. We spent the next hour listening to a woman with senile dementia ramble on about Arthur. While watching a pretty young lady in red shorts walking past the café, I reminded myself to find another coffee shop.

The next thing I knew, Mary was tugging on my arm and screaming, "Something's wrong with Helen."

Helen Oliver was slumped over on the table, and my wife was struggling to keep her from falling on the ground. There's really no need for heroic measures when the victim is over sixty. I checked her pulse, and it was fast, weak, and thready. I would have called a time out, but some idiot had already called 911.

The ambulance was there quickly, and they lifted Mrs Oliver onto a gurney while administering oxygen. She had regained consciousness, and was striving to speak. In an attempt to hear her, I bent over the stretcher and placed my ear at a sanitary distance from her mouth.

"I'm going to join Arthur with Jesus," she croaked, and closed her eyes.

Helen Oliver actually went to the Densmore Funeral Home. This is Tucson so there's a excellent possibility that Jesus works there in some capacity.

Made in India

I wrote this a very long time back..
I was sitting in my bedroom, reading a book when I heard a blood curdling scream, followed by wails of anguish.

I rushed toward the source of the scream and then stopped short. Instead of confronting the gruesome and bloody scene I had envisioned, I found my older sister standing beside a foot-high pile of clothes on her bed holding a revolting frilly lavender coloured top in her hands.

I made a quick check. Everything was in place, cupboards safely closed, books neatly arranged, and my sister unmolested. Yes, everything, according to me at least, was just fine.

"What happened?" I asked anxiously, for I really couldn't fathom why she had screamed.

It’s torn!" my sister, Puja, howled, Holding up the blouse and looking at it distastefully. "And I haven't even worn it yet!"

My brother Sam came bounding into the room, and having overheard Puja said laconically, "It was probably torn when you picked it up in the shop, you just didn't look at it properly, and then added somewhat maliciously, "Or you tore it as you unpacked it."

"No I didn't!" Puja said shrilly, looking at him contemptuously. "It is made of such terrible material that it just falls apart; and to think I paid two months' allowance for…for this," she said holding up the offending garment.

I fingered the material and said, "Yes, although, I object to the style rather than the material."

"Can you even breathe with all those frills?" Sam sniggered, earning a dirtier look from my sister than I’d got.

"This," my sister informed us acidly, "happens to be the latest fashion. This was made in India , that’s why it’s so awful. If it was one of those imported pieces it would be so much better."

"I doubt it," said Sam, glaring at the top with undisguised revulsion. "And don't belittle Indian clothes. If not anything else, at least speak respectfully of your own country’s products."

"When my own country makes things as awful as this, I think belittling it is perfectly okay," Puja said haughtily.

"Well, I suppose I shall have to buy a new blouse now," she went on petulantly, "and maybe I can convince mum and dad to pay for it this time." With that Puja flounced out of the room, blouse in hand.

Suddenly she stopped and turned to look at me. I stood perfectly still, knowing what was coming. My sister could be extremely intimidating sometimes.

"Payal, you will come shopping with me," she said imperiously, "it will be a learning experience for you."

I looked at her with horror on my face. Shopping, with Puja! It would be learning experience certainly, a learning experience in temper tantrums.

"Well, don't just stand there." she said. "Get dressed and we'll leave shortly."

With that, she went downstairs, to terrorize mum and dad until they gave her what she wanted.

"Shopping with Puja!" I whispered in a strangled voice, looking down at my old, comfortable T-shirt and worn jeans.

"Oh, you'll survive." Sam said, patting me good-naturedly on the shoulder. "It can't be all that bad."

"Its all right for you," I moaned, "you won't be going shopping with her."

He shrugged, gave me a cheerful grin, and retreated from the room.

"So much for brotherly affection and support," I thought wretchedly.

* * * * * * *
Six hours, twelve shops and a dozen tantrums later, Puja finally found what in her opinion the perfect top was. We were in one of those fancy international boutiques in the mall, and Puja had at last found a blouse identical to the one that had been torn that morning.

She held up the lavender monstrosity and squealed with delight, attracting several startled glances our way from other customers. Embarrassed I shrank behind the numerous shopping bags I was holding.

"This is exactly the same style!" she told me excitedly. "And the material is definitely superior. Of course, it has to be, it’s imported!" she said smugly

"Pack this please" she told the store assistant haughtily and went on to the next rack of clothes, leaving me to collect, and pay, for her expensive and completely disgusting blouse. The store assistant packed it carefully, treating it as though it was a priceless diamond and not a blouse.

After she had wrapped it to her satisfaction, she slipped it into a box and handed me a voucher.

"What’s this for?" I asked, holding up the small pink booklet.

"It’s the washing and maintenance instructions of course," the assistant replied, her nose in the air as she looked down at me contemptuously.

"Oh!" I said as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. After receiving the oh-so-precious parcel, I went to look for Puja, and finding her, with difficulty I dragged her away from another horrible piece of violent pink clothing and out of the store.

* * * * * * * *
Arriving home Puja was ecstatic with her purchases and the chance of showing them off. She dragged my unwilling parents and an extremely indignant Sam to the dining table and started displaying her purchases. When she got to the top, she was practically bouncing up and down like a kangaroo, she was so excited.

"And this" she announced, holding up the top, "is the best purchase I've made today. Yes, it was a bit expensive, but it is imported and will last me a long, long while."

While my parents examined the top dubiously, Sam and I read the voucher.

Suddenly, we both stopped, and turned to look at each other. We were both struggling not to burst into laughter.

"Puja, you should take a look at this." Sam sniggered, waving the voucher in her face. I tried to take it away from him, but he easily held me at bay.

Puja, unaware of what was in store for her, cheerfully took the little booklet and began to read it. I watched, fascinated, still trying not to laugh.

Puja's eyes widened, her face stiffened, she dropped the voucher, and stood there as if paralyzed.

My mother, puzzled, picked up the voucher and read it, trying to find out what had affected her daughter so dramatically.

There she saw, in small, black script, these instructions. "Please hand wash, to prevent loss of color. Also, only sun dry, for the material is very delicate. This top is made of pure cotton;" and then came the three words, "Made in India ."

We all burst into laughter as a mortified Puja stormed out of the room.

The Life of an Extraordinary High School Student

A short comedy about a high school boy who has an extraordinary family of extreme proportions.
As I stepped into the bright sunlight of the early summer afternoon, I could not have known what laid ahead of me. School had just ended and it was Friday. On my way home, I usually stop by the park to do my homework where it’s peaceful. If I try to do it at home my father will probably drag me out of my room and trough me in the pool. You’d think a father of five, with ages ranging from 33 to 17, would be more mature, but he’s a little crazy and childish. I should explain our family, or try to since I don’t really understand it myself.

My father is a retired grand master in martial arts of all sorts. My brothers are quite unique. Tristan is an artist that lives in the basement of an old abandoned building. He says it inspires him to be more organic, but personally I think he’s hiding from his ex- wives. My second brother, Kyle, is a little odd. He’s a circus freak. He thinks he’s a bat who has to save the world from butterflies. Seth is a little more normal. Okay, I lied. He is a knight that saves me from dangerous people. I think that’s just an excuse to follow me to school and check out the girls. Jayson is so scary that I think he can kill a tax collector with an eyebrow. I am a high school student who has been trained to be a deadly weapon.
I was sitting on the ridge above the playground, when my father attached me with his lethal chopsticks. I dodged his attach and he looked at me with such frustration that I thought he might pop his last brain cell. "You shall never win, young sapling!" he shouted.

Too late I realised that Seth had snuck up behind me and now had me in a chokehold. Kyle and Tristan were tickling me so hard I thought I’d evaporate. My father was laughing so hard that he fell off the ridge, bounced off the wall, landed on the jungle gym and fell to the ground. By the time he hit the ground we were laughing so hard the entire town could hear us, the police even came to investigate.

After that, my father and brothers took me home, if you can call being through over a shoulder taking a person home. My father put me down on the couch and sat down on the floor. He had such a perplexing look of concentration that I thought he was trying to lift me with his mind. "Alex, are you outgrowing me?" he asked. I laughed so hard that I fell off the couch. My father thought I was going crazy, so he called the mental institution. They actually showed up and they wanted to take my father away. Jayson arrived just as they were loading him in the van. He gave them one look and they scattered, literally. My father tried to get out of the stray jacket himself, he fell in the pond and a fish got into the stray jacket. He was hopping around so much that he looked like a jumping jack.

By the time we got him out of the jacket our stomach muscles had gotten a very good workout. "I suppose you think this was very funny?" my father asked. "Of course, seeing as this was all planned by yours truly", I replied. I will never forget how he reacted. "That was an excellent display of your mental capacity," He said. "Now you just need to learn sedulity!" We all laughed at that as we went inside.

I took a shower and strangely there were no bugs in the shower. They were in the shampoo bottle instead. Having earth worms make a nest in your hair isn’t exactly pleasant. When I finally got the worms out of my hair, I went downstairs to have supper with everyone. Turns out I had to take another shower since we had a food fight. This started went Jayson, of all people, dumped gravy on my head. I in turn trough salad in his face and then everyone started toughing food. This is how it usually is in our house. I don’t think we’d fit in anywhere else, anyway. The thing that makes it even more baffling is that we’re all adopted.

Escape from the Nerd Herd

Part 1: Humor and advice for business travel.

I spotted them on my way out of the hotel and ducked behind a plastic palm. I’d fallen in with this awkward flock of squawking birds at the same conference a year before, and still blush at the memory. You know the group. They gather in the lobby after the seminar, wearing nametags they forgot to remove (or, awful as it seems, they did not forget). Yes, you know them, and unless I miss my guess, you too have run with this herd.

Then as now, they wore Bermuda shorts, street shoes, and print shirts. Though it was evening, Bernie and the professor sported straw hats and aviator sunglasses. We were a techno-geek tour d’ force when we hit the streets that night. I remember toddlers tugging on sleeves and pointing, dogs dancing circles on their leashes, and panhandlers on park benches sitting up to bellow.

We rambled up a sidewalk and reversed direction at the street corner. Bernie and the professor were arguing about equilibrium reactions and missed the turnabout. They wandered up half a block, then spooked and scurried back. Our reunited group started across a street, but then the light changed, sending startled birds darting back and forth in traffic. There was cursing, honking, and pointing, and we wound up partitioned into four groups at each corner of the intersection. We reunited and went on, squabbling like ostriches in search of feeding grounds. Finally, Rebecca, our adventurous and nearsighted organizer, stuck her neck into a crowded tourist trap. More followed, and then we all rushed in to wait two hours for tables. We spent the evening dining on mediocre food and talking about all of the same things we’d discussed that day.

That outing culminated a three-day ordeal complete with all the indignities of business travel. Though calamitous, it taught me a few lessons. I would shield myself on future trips with headphones and low expectations. Headphones to repel the relentless waves of tip-seekers, hands extended like an army of zombies. Headphones to see me through eternal and excruciating seminars. Low expectations to keep me smiling through flight delays and gate changes, and the crushing humiliation of airport security. Then, at the end of the day, low expectations to lull me to sleep, and flush away worries of a hotel bed and its recent history.

Next time I’d wear a blanket of apathy against the outrages of travel. And if that didn’t work, I’d counter each assault with creative cynicism. Nothing would get to me. In the past I had played it safe and hung with the herd; planned every move in an effort to minimize the pain. The next trip would be different. The next time I’d break away and seek out adventure.

Part 2: Getting There

If you are like me, trouble begins the night before a trip. Fear of forgetting something essential drives me to pack channel lock pliers and pastry brushes, super glue and toenail clippers - all in a futile attempt to fend off the inevitable. After a few hours of anguish, the only thing my suitcase lacks is its own license plate. I leave the house prepared for automotive repairs, pedicures and part-time work in a bakery. When I look for my toothbrush the first night, however …

Not this time. I packed ten minutes before departure and left the rest to fate. Sure, I would later find myself wandering the unfamiliar streets of a strange city late at night searching for an all night convenience store, but I’d embrace that adventure.

An interstate commute lies between me the nearest airport. This drive began pleasantly - a journey through a mid-western pastoral landscape of ranches and cornfields. Traffic was light and mostly local except for an occasional livestock transport crammed full of cattle on their final voyage. It is a good idea to get ahead and upwind of these trucks, lest things get too pastoral. I passed one and saw dozens of beef cows cramped into fetid compartments. They turned dark chocolate eyes to me, full of pity, as if they somehow knew that I’d be flying later.

It was the end of morning rush hour when I got near the airport, well after the peak traffic, when chronically late manic-frantic lane weavers rule the road. Only one vehicle to remained in its lane for more than ten seconds: a big new BMW, piloted by a cell phone-talker doing fifty in the left lane. He smiled and cruised, oblivious to the parade of thundering eighteen-wheelers and light-flashing lane darters he held in tow.

I suppressed the impulse to fly into a finger-waving, red-faced rage. That would have set the wrong mood for my trip. Instead, I passed on the right, shot the driver a concerned look, and pointed at his rear tire, knowing that he’d either worry for miles or pull off the highway to check things out. You may think it petty, but he invited it. Besides, it is important to find ways to enjoy the annoyances.

I checked bags and secured a boarding pass at the terminal, then joined a procession shuffling through the security checkpoint. I knew from recent trips that some items you must leave behind - notably, pocket knifes, personal dignity, and your privileged status as customer (or even as a human, for that matter). We dutifully removed belts and shoes, laptops and change, watches and hand-held devices, and fed it all into the gaping jaws of a conveyor while TSA agents tormented us for their pleasure. The station supervisor reminded us repeatedly that liquids and gels in more than three-ounce quantities are prohibited.

"Yes, that does include your make-up, your suntan lotion and your toothpaste."

I know you’re thinking that I should be grateful for the service and security that they provide, and should suffer these annoyances gladly. I did. I fought to remain patient, and then thanked him for keeping us safe from well-groomed terrorists.

A travel day is a vacation to anonymity. You spend a day in the company of strangers that expect nothing of you except to remain anonymous. Some foolish travelers shun the escape, clinging to their responsibilities via cell phones and hand-helds. Avoid that trap - embrace your reprieve. Certainly, you will encounter gabby travelers determined to rob you of the experience, but looking around and saying something like, "Hey! Did you hear that?" usually thwarts them. For the more determined, though, the headphones mentioned earlier are quite effective. It is not necessary that your device be turned on, or even that the headphones be attached to anything. They work just as well all on their own.

No, you are not being aloof – just guarding your refuge.

Owing to a personal phobia of missing my flight, I typically arrive at the gate long hour before boarding and in need a way to amuse myself. A man with a booming voice seated next to me provided it in the form of a cell phone conversation. It was a half story with no point, plot or drama - the half conversation of someone I do not know, talking to someone else I don’t know about something that is none of my business. None of my business, that is, until he chose to thrust his personal business upon everyone within earshot.

This offense justified a game in which I tried to disrupt him. I flipped open my own phone (not turned on) and started a mock conversation - synchronized and related to the target’s.

Target: "I should be there about six, I’ll meet you in the lobby."

I said to my phone, "I may be running a few minutes late, so wait for me."

Target glanced at me, lowered his voice a notch, and said to his phone, " I was thinking of Adolpho’s for dinner."

Me: "The steaks are good, but kind of pricey."

I knew he was looking at me, but paid no attention. Soon, target got up and wandered off frowning.

We boarded the commuter jet but I missed my seat on the first pass and had to recheck aisle numbers. Dismayed, I discovered the truth - the man in the adjacent seat spilled over and filled both of our spaces. I wedged into my assigned nook, silently fuming about carry-ons with more allotted space than that available to me, but then remembered my credo.

Let the winds of discomfiture howl. I pulled the blanket of apathy tighter.

Early into the flight, I find reason to suspect my neighbor of clandestine flatulence. Before we reached cruising altitude, I was sure of it. Some forty summers ago my friends and I would compete to see who could stay longest at the bottom of a swimming pool. No one could touch me – I once made it two minutes. On this flight, I found that some of that ability remains. Even without prior notice or preparation, I was able to suspend breathing for about forty-five seconds. Unfortunately, the mean time for dispersion of a cloud of intestinal gas in an aircraft cabin is about one minute. Fifteen seconds can be an eternity. Staying true to the theme of adapting and overcoming, I learned to construct a wind tunnel around myself using the overhead turbo vents.

My ticket indicated one stop with no change of planes. When we stopped in Atlanta, the flight attendant shooed us all off. I tried to explain that my flight did not include a change of planes, but she had no time, desire, nor patience to take up the matter.

"Sir, you’ll have to take it up with the gate agent, now please exit the craft." Only the words denoted any attempt at politeness - her tone and manner screamed contempt.

The gate for the connecting flight was in another concourse, so a group of us treated ourselves to an unscheduled aerobic workout – a jog-race with luggage. When I stepped through the door into the cabin of the connecting flight, I was startled to see the same stewardess wearing the same alligator smile. The young man ahead of me removed his I-pod earphones and looked back at me.

"How did she do that? Is she a witch?" he whispered.

I suggested a phonetically similar, but different name.

We were re-seated, strapped in, and listening to the mandatory safety lecture when it hit me. This was the same jet. I confirmed it by checking the air-zine crossword puzzle in the seat pocket. They had dumped us off at one concourse, taxied to another, then picked us up again. I knew very well that the flight crew would meet later in some private club to hoot and howl about this grand prank.

I explained the prank to the traveler seated next to me, but he returned only a silent glance. Apparently, he never realized that his seat cushion could be used as a flotation device, and found the whole safety lecture too enthralling to bother responding. Then I remembered: he probably thought I was trying to disrupt his anonymity. I spent the rest of the flight trying to imagine some intricacy of air carrier logic that might account for the dump and shuffle.

We landed and I retrieved bags and made my way via shuttle to the rental car outpost with my aplomb worn, but intact. A line at the counter afforded me the opportunity to contemplate the age of the universe. I finally climbed into my mid-size warthog, turned the key and unleashed an explosion of ear splitting head-banger rock. I waited another eternity at the exit gate before setting out to get lost. Getting lost is a good thing; it is a first introduction to a new locality. More on that later.

A Chorus of Pigs

A management consultant firm tries to peddle their process to a seasoned and cynical staff, but finds that it is like trying to teach pigs to sing. This consulting firm, however, has a secret and sinister agenda, and has gained a toe-hold in the business world.

Thoughts often pop up unexpectedly. This was of those - it flashed up on the screen, stark and sudden, then streaked naked across my mental stage shouting something about singing pigs. The thought was really a memory; a recollection of a famous homily imparted to me by a friend back in Texas, about the futility of teaching pigs to sing. You don’t do it, he said, for two reasons: it frustrates you, and it annoys the pig. The thought distracted me during the introduction. I tuned back in just as Howard, the facilitator, was wrapping up his personal bio.

"Then I worked for ten years as an HR manager at a large architectural engineering firm before taking a three year sabbatical to run a non-profit. Two years ago, on a flight to Denver, I met Jeremiah Charles, the founder and president of THRUST. I had signed on by the time the plane landed."

Howard’s seminar was the kick-off for yet another new corporate initiative - a revolutionary management model certain to change the culture of our workforce. It had been almost a year since the last one, so we were overdue. All of the middle management ladder climbers sat up front and so did many of the new employees, like Tray. He sat up on the edge of his seat waving an arm for attention and chirping like a hungry chick.

I nudged the guy next to me and pointed to Tray. Ben looked at me over his bifocals and followed my own "over-the-bifocals" gaze down to Tray. He smiled and shook his head.

"Oh, he’s okay" Ben said around a mouthful of donut. "I actually have high hopes for him. It’s fun to watch those eager and ambitious ones finally turn cynical." He looked up wistfully. "Sure, it’s a cheap pleasure, but it sustains me."

The main conference room is the only one large enough for these all employee sessions. It is of the lecture hall design, semi-circular and tiered. Howard looked up from his speaker's podium at the point down in front.

"We have some empty seats in the front if anyone wants to come down closer", he said.

No one stirred. Ben glanced my way, and then back at the tables lined up against the rear wall loaded with coffee, donuts, and pastries. He looked back to me and shook his gray head solemnly. I checked around. None of the veterans in the rear seats stirred. Back here we could fortify ourselves with caffeine and sugar, or just doze off unnoticed. We'd weathered dozens of these fads and knew the ropes. Yet here we were again – annoyed pigs suffering another singing lesson, and trying to make the most of it.

Bart, a manager in the front row, rose and turned.

"Come on guys … let’s fill the seats down here."

A silent battle of wills ensued. Bart folded his arms and faced a sea of receding hairlines, gray heads, and blank stares, dotted with a few younger faces. He picked out a couple of new hires in back and fixed a hairy eyebrow on them. They mostly looked down or away, or checked for text messages. The oldsters just smiled back down at Bart. A couple of new guys finally broke and skulked down to end the impasse.

THRUST emerged on the management consultant scene only recently, but struck quick gold with their very own copyrighted method. They called the model Focused Custodians, and sold it to several large corporate clients early on. Then the snowball effect took over. Our senior leaders saw the thing taking off and, frightened of missing the boat, quickly jumped aboard.

Howard concluded the introduction with an explanation of how their model was turning the business world upside down.

"Your company will soon join dozens of others that will see efficiency and profitability take a step change. Teamwork and accountability will flourish, walls will come down, and employee morale will skyrocket. Now, let's take a five minutes bio break and then we'll dive right into a team building exercise."

I headed for the snack table, but Josh and Ben beat me there. Josh balanced a teetering pastry monument on a six-inch paper plate.

"Whoa Josh. I know you farmers love a hand-out, but that plate won't take much more."

Josh farms three hundred acres of river-bottom land in his off time.

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny. I’ll tell you one thing, Steve. If I ran my farm like they run this place, I'd be out of business in a season. I can't believe they are paying good money for all this pasture pudding, and paying us to sit here and listen to it on top of that. Get right down to it, all this crap, it's nothing' but hanging' another crank on the do-nothing machine."

Ben chuckled around a mouthful of donut.

"Josh, I always say there are two kinds of people in the world: those that believe in nothing, and those that believe in crap."

Josh snapped his fingers. "Wait a minute. That's not what you said last week. Didn't you say that the two kinds of people were, uh ... oh, what was it now?"

Ben nodded and said, "Fools and liars - with a lot of overlap, but that was a different aphorism, an alternate bifurcation of our silly species."

Josh frowned and turned to me. "Did you get any of that"

"No but I’m sure it was profound."

Ben continued, "Anyway, if we weren't solidly in the fool camp, we'd come up with our own formula to peddle to the business world. Looks pretty simple. Start with a couple of blatantly obvious truths and dress them up in clever metaphors so they look profound. Then you package it all as a way for CEOs to drive their companies to the front - without the bother of having to think or work hard. The fat boys can retire to their country clubs, and the business guides itself."

Josh and I nodded our agreement. I explained to Ben how we were just pigs that couldn’t even sing along, much less compose our own tune. He laughed hard and almost choked.

Howard rapped a spoon on a drinking glass. "Okay everybody, if you'll return to your seats now we can get started." He allowed a moment for people to settle and conversations to die before continuing.

"We will start this session with an exercise to demonstrate the principles of teamwork and custodianship. We are going to build a mission statement for a hypothetical company, a shipping company, and we'll do it as a team."

Before this seminar, you would have had a hard time convincing me that there was anything more empty and bogus than a corporate mission statement. Howard intended to take up that challenge with the production of a faux mission statement – one created just for training purposes.

Howard fingered a remote and a power point slide flashed up on the big screen behind him.

"Let's start by dissecting a mission statement. What is it made of – what are the essential elements?"

I was never involved in producing one but, judging from context, I would have guessed it to be a three-part process. Stuff as many cliches as possible into a single paragraph, polish to a sheen, and, finally, trim it with spiritual and solemn words to evoke a sense of reverence. Words like "quest, "crusade" and "destiny" often turn up in mission statements. The idea is to obscure the real mission, the one common to all businesses: Make More Money.

We spent the first half of the day constructing our mission statement, engaged in heated debates over utterly meaningless words and phrases. By mid-morning, the coffee and pastries started to wear off and the oldsters in the back began to grunt and grumble, as bored pigs are prone to do. The facilitator saw the crisis brewing and countered with the tried-and-true technique of engaging the audience with questions.

He looked up and squinted to read a name placard. "So, Ben, what do we need to add?"

Ben has been around forever. Some say they dug him up when they started excavating the site back during construction. He is one of our brightest and most cynical engineers, with a quick wit and razor sharp mind. Clearly, that mind had left the room this morning. Howard caught Ben off guard.

"Uh... what ... I mean, could you repeat the question?"

Howard flashed a smug little grin. He pointed to the mission statement written on the dry erase board. "What's missing, what do we need to add?"

"Ben thought a moment and said flatly to the dead air, "And the skies are not cloudy all day?"

The burst of laughter was spontaneous. Up front, Howard doused it quickly with a stern and offended look. The rear didn't hold back - we all had a good belly laugh. Josh got caught being the last one laughing, but not because he was being intentionally rebellious. Just the opposite, he is normally quiet enough, and in a way that warns others to let him be. No, once again, he was simply a half step out of synch with the moment.

Howard laced his fingers in front of his chest and tilted his head to address Josh.

"On a serious note, just so that we can get something useful out of this session, Mr. Ruffner, what would you suggest we do to wrap up this mission statement?"

I looked over and saw Josh's nostrils flare and his face turn red.

"Well how about we all just cut the crap and get back to work."

Howard was ready. He donned a mask of indignation, glanced at Bart, and addressed a question to Josh.

"Then you think that all the corporate leaders that have decided to institute this process are just wasting everyone's time?"

Those of us that knew Josh settled back for the ranting tantrum that was certain to follow.

"Yeah, and meanwhile all the jobs are shipping out overseas. The rest of the world has already figured out that they don't need us to make things anymore, and pretty soon they won't even need us to consume. Hell, we won't even be able to. Instead of innovating, our business leaders sit around pleasuring themselves with mission statements, expectations, and every damn gimmick that comes down the pike. Hell, look around right now -you gotta be blind not to see it. The wheels are comin' off. We all know where this thing is going'. One way or another, we're gonna have to dump all this bunk and get back to work. I've heard all this manure about a service economy for over two decades. Well, they got that part right - we've just been sitting around over here servicing ourselves."

Josh blew a fine spray of spittle when he said, "...servicing ourselves." It scintillated, hung in the air for an instant, and then vanished.

Howard lifted his brows and made a silent appeal to the managers in the first row. They exchanged uneasy glances until finally, Fred Helgrom, the manager of Josh's department, turned around in his seat to speak.

"Let's all just stay on track and see what we can take away from this class."

He turned back to Howard and nodded for him to continue.

When we broke for lunch, I made my way over to Ben. He was near the front of a line forming at the tables, where stainless steel chafing dishes had replaced coffee urns and pastry platters.

"Hey, that "Home on the Range" line was pretty good, but you might want to be a little more careful. I think these clowns are in tight with the V.P.s" I said.

Ben shrugged. "I know, but it's like some kind of demonic possession. The words come out, and it sounds like my voice, but before I can do anything, it's already too late."

The speaker came up and joined us in line. He was about to engage Ben, so I tossed him a question to set a block.

"Howard, what was the non-profit you worked with?"

He cut a quick glance around and dropped his voice. " The F.P.G.C."

"Never heard of it - what does that stand for?" I said.

He leaned closer and kept his voice low, like he was excited about telling me, but cautious too.

"It's the Foundation for Personal and Global Cooperation."

"Oh," I said, "some kind of political group?"

He grew circumspect. "No, they focus on community outreach and education."

I could tell from his change in tone that he had decided not to go any further.

Remarkably, the lunch was quite tasty: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, dinner salad, rolls and two desserts. Everyone took a plate and returned to their seats for a working lunch. In the back, we had easy access to seconds and took full advantage.

Howard spent the last half of the session describing in tedious detail how organizations should rank their priorities and commit resources to the most important ones. This is one of the basic THRUST principles - identify the key priorities, then hit them hard and fast with a lot of resources. Such insight, what genius! Often these management fads employ some elementary mathematical formulation to lend credibility. THRUST used a simple scheme to rank priorities, assign weighting factors, and distribute resources accordingly.

Naps and reading glasses are inevitable consequences of the late forties and beyond. After lunch, a silent, invisible cloud of sleeping gas settled over the back rows. Heads bobbed and eyelids fluttered. The big meal strained our ability to fend off sleep and the monkey math sealed the deal. Many of us slept soundly through the next two hours. Howard must have noticed, but probably relished a reprieve from the cynicism and decided to just let us slumber.

At home that evening, I went on line and spotted a headline that reminded me of Howard's non-profit. I googled F.P.C.G, got something completely unrelated, then caught my mistake and tried F.P.G.C. It was a largely uninformative and sanitized site, centered on a theme of connecting with your personal core values and changing the world. One page talked about the organization's history, and sure enough, old Howard had been the director right up until two years ago.

I returned to the query results page, tried another link, and found a story about some religious cult, The Defenders of the Faith, out in an eastern Arizona desert. About four hundred people living communally on a compound ran into conflict with local authorities over rustling livestock from the locals for ritualistic sacrifices. There were earlier disputes over taxes, firearms, and scattered accusations of child abuse and polygamy. At first, it wasn't obvious why this story came up, but then I found a single line about Howard's foundation arranging legal support for the group.

I was into it now, and searched for information on the cult. Their newsletter, The Conclusion, came up and I read a couple of recent issues. They believe that the end of days is here already, and the Beast is out there now and gathering the troops. The catch is that he is not just one guy, he is a system, and the system is global corporate capitalism. The mission of the Defenders is to expose and destroy the system.

I made one last query and found the THRUST Website. The president and founder, Jeremiah Charles, had his face plastered all over the front-page and watermarked on the others. The site linked to another NPO that, in turn, linked to the F.P.G.C. Something about Terry's face clicked, and I went back to The Conclusion. The February issue reported on a big gathering held at the compound over the holidays. The celebration featured music, feasts, and inspirational speeches. On one of the grainy images, standing next to the bearded cult leader, I spotted a man that I am certain was Jeremiah Charles.

Before class the next morning a group of us veterans met in the hallway to talk about work rumors, politics, and last night's game. Josh excused himself and ducked into the restroom.

Darryl, a controls engineer, watched him go and remarked, "I bet he's in for an attitude adjustment - after that tirade yesterday."

Ben added, "Yeah, the managers will get him in an office, close the door, and gang coach him. We've all been there - not a pretty sight."

We all nodded solemnly. When the others left I told Ben about my investigation the night before.

"Seriously, THRUST is a front for the Defenders and secretly funds them", I said.

Ben grinned and answered, "Why Steve, I had no idea you were into conspiracy theories".

"No, no, really. Remember how ol' Howard acted when I asked him about the F.P.G.C.?"

A bemused far-away look settled on Ben's face.

"Now wouldn't that be choice. An anti-establishment group, bent on destroying capitalism, launches an attack on the system from the inside." He laughed once and added, "No surprise they've gained a toe-hold. After all, it's a cult selling a culture - they're bound to be good at it."

The second day passed without much excitement. The site vice president showed up for the last half-hour and sat in the back with us. Howard closed and the VP went up front to thank him. Then he turned to the students.

"Now that you've all been introduced to the Focused Accountability model, I have an announcement. Howard will be taking a temporary position in our organization as manager of a new department, Organizational Accountability. In that role, he will facilitate all departments as they incorporate the THRUST model and develop strategies to attack their priorities."

Ben looked over and flashed me a broad smile, gave the thumbs up, and mouthed a silent message. My blackberry vibrated silently a moment later and I checked my messages. A new one from Ben popped up that read:

Good news: The Beast is here to free us from the pig farm.
Bad news: He has a taste for pork.

It's a Secret - Don't Tell

A story about a five year old playing hide and seek. He hides so well, no one finds him until he comes out several hours later.

Oh boy! Time for a game of tag. Oldest brother is the seeker so I have to hide extra good cuz he’s smart and will find me just like that. I gotta hide, but where? Behind the garage won’t work cuz he’ll find me quick. The barn is too easy. Maybe the chicken coop? Nope, it stinks like chickens in there. Wait, I know. The door leading under the porch is perfect. No one would think to look for me under there.

Pee-yew, it stinks under this porch. Momma was right about the cats using this as a sandbox. Wish I had picked another place to hide. Stinky cats! Too late now, I can hear brother seeking everyone out. I’ll just sit here quiet as a mouse. Hah hah hah! I can hear you out by the chicken coop brother! You thought I was there didn’t you? You’ll never find me over there!

It’s been a while and he hasn’t found me yet. What’s that I hear? Now all my siblings are looking for me. They’ve all been caught, but not me. They’ll never trick me into coming out to catch me. Wait, is that Dad I hear calling my name? Oh no, now I hear someone going to call Grandpa to help look for me. I’m not coming out now cuz I’m in really big trouble.

What to do… what to do? If I come out and say I heard them calling me, I’ll be in big trouble. Think, think! How do I get out of trouble. I know what to do! I’ll tell them I fell asleep while waiting. Now to put on the big act. Is that Grandpa’s voice? Heh heh heh! Now’s my chance. I’ll crawl out slowly and rub my eyes oh so sneakily. Now that I see Grandpa ambling towards me quickly, it’s time to say my line, "I feel asleep."

"Oh my, tator boy! You had us all worried!" says Grandpa. "You little devil, I’m just glad you’re alright, but next time try not to fall asleep and scare us like that okay?" says Dad. Whew! I pulled it off. Now to keep my mouth shut. And I did, for over 42 years. All the way up to this very day, I’ve kept the secret. When I hear telling of the story about how I crawled under the porch and feel asleep while playing hide and seek, I just nod my head in approval. When I hear how Grandpa found me crawling out from under the porch, half asleep, I just nod in approval. Once in a while, a kid pulls the wool over people’s eyes. So that’s one of my little secrets I’ve never revealed before. Don’t tell anyone now!

The Odd Short Story

A lost piece of literature I dug up. This was written a long time ago, and never saw the light of day. Don't expect anything typical.

CRASH! I looked out my window to see an evil clown purloining my tricycle! I ran outside to try and stop him, but I slipped on a sumptuous-looking pie. I watched as he escaped with my only means of transportation.

Later that day I saw a news story about an evil clown that covets tricycles and hijacks them. I was shocked, but then I knew what he was up to. So I decided to set up a ploy by my friend's house, who also owned a tricycle.

I hid in the bush and waited for the clown. I hoped my stratagem would work on him. Even if it didn't work, I had a backup plan to barter with him to get my tricycle back. Suddenly I heard someone tapping on a window. I looked up to see the clown inside my friend's house, sassily sticking his tongue out at me. Then I realized that I hid in my friend's back yard! I rushed out front, but when I got there the window was broken and the tricycle was nowhere to be found! My plan was in vain. I should have tried something bigger than a mousetrap.

Later that day the clown was reportedly still at large and still hijacking tricycles. He had to be stopped. But I needed someone to help me out. A benefactor of sorts. I decided that my friend would be the best person to help me stop this fiend. Besides, he's very savvy with undercover business. I'm not sure why, though.
Our first stop on our investigation was Detective Hankleston's office. When we arrived the secretary was waiting for us.
"Hello. How may I help you?" she asked.

"Yes, we're here to see Detective Hankleston," I said.
"I'm sorry, he's far to busy right now."
I looked around the room. There were several pictures portraying tricycles. Suspicious.

"Umm...your hair looks inviting!" the secretary blurted. "...If it's not to rude to ask...my lunch break is in a few minutes."

Why was the secretary being so coquettish? Why were there pictures of tricycles? Why was Detective Hankleston tied up in the corner? Wait a minute...
"You! You're the clown!" he said to the secretary. The detective jumped up and spit out the huge wad of gum he was chewing on.

"Wow! It took long enough!" he said. The secretary grabbed her face and ripped it off to reveal the face of a clown. She...he...it...stood in a pugnacious stance, ready to attack. Suddenly the printer came alive and ate everyone.

Jim and His Chin

A story of a boy and his facial structures.
"What we have here is a traumatic bone cyst," said Dr. Xid as he gestured to an area of the X-Ray, near, actually inside, the chin.

"These can be formed by very hard, painful contact with the chin. Fortunately, this can be easily fixed by an oral surgeon, which is not me, but I can give you his card." He handed Jim a small card-like object that said:

Dr. Samuel Quazipuke
777-383-1925
81 Faceman St.

"So should this be taken care of immediately, or can this wait?" said Jim's mom with a look that said "I'm supposed to be concerned, aren't I?"

"It doesn't have to be looked at immediately. You can even do it after he gets his braces off," said Dr. Xid.

Jim and his mom left the orthodontist's office after. In the car Jim's mom asked, "So do you remember ever hitting your chin that hard?"
"Nope," said Jim. "Hopefully this isn't too serious."
Ha.

Jim's mom seemed to want to procrastinate as long as possible. She waited two months after the orthodontist appointment to call the surgeon guy. Then they had to wait two weeks until they could get an appointment in at a reasonable time before Jim's bedtime of six-thirty (on the weekends).

This "surgeon" seemed creepily fond of chocolate and things involving chocolate or even the word chocolate. He was about five foot-seven inches tall. He frequently referred to himself as "chicken man", and used the excuse of "I have to go pee forever" to get out of uncomfortable confrontations or outings.

He had written an entire book about himself that he strongly recommended be read before embarking on an appointment with him. This book was about three hundred pages long and consisted of eighty chapters.

All of this useless information will likely be cut from the final version of this story and should never be uttered in any language again.

Jim arrived at the surgeon's office at three o'clock. His appointment was at three fifteen, so they would be forced to experience the waiting room for fifteen minutes.
They signed in at the front desk and sat down in one of the chairs. Only one other person was in the waiting room. He was a thin man with an interesting facial hair pattern and a small mouth but fat lips. He fidgeted uncomfortably every minute or so, before sticking his hand in his pants.

After about fifteen minutes of waiting in the lobby/waiting room/public bathroom they were called in. Dr. Quazipuke was in a room with a bed thing with paper on it so the cooties didn't spread. There were a couple of stools, a counter with a sink and some stool samples, and a tray with some instruments of torture.

"Hello. I am Doctor Quazipuke. Today we'll be looking at this bone cyst and determining if you need surgery or not. Now, we won't have to cut you open just yet. I can tell what it is just by feeling your chin."

"Umm...okay," said Jim.
Quazipuke put on a pair of latex gloves and grasped Jim's chin.

"Hmm...there definitely is something there...Certainly hollow...Filled with fluid..." he said in an occupied voice. "I think we are going to have to perform surgery. Don't worry though, it should be very quick. All we have to do is make an incision, drill a small hole in the cyst, and suck the fluid out!"

"Oh. All right then. Let's get this over with," said Jim. So they injected his chin with a secret painkilling drug and began the process. After about fifteen minutes of careful surgery, Dr. Quazipuke said, "Oh. That's not normal. It—it seems to be porous and...well...pulsating. What is this?"

"Umm...is this something that I should be concerned about?" asked Jim nervously.
"Well...I'm not sure. This—this thing—it's not human. It seems...alien."
Suddenly the sac ripped open and a tiny being crawled from the womb.

"Merciful Neptune! What is this abomination?!" screamed Dr. Quazipuke.
The creature leapt into his mouth and ate him from the inside out. Jim got up and, in his drug induced half-consciousness, stumbled out the door and escaped into the waiting room.

"Aagh! Eberybody wun! Dere is a munster on de loose!" He flapped his arms around in warning. Everybody stood up and started yelling and running around, as if it would protect them from the horror.

The creature found its way into the lobby. It had grown twice its original size since it ate Dr. Quazipuke. It searched around for a helpless victim who didn't take a good course on surviving sudden alien attacks.

One man had a magazine placed over his face and he was curled up in the middle of the lobby. The alien gave the magazine a good stare and it evaporated, exposing the man to the cruel wilderness. He was rudely grabbed by the nose and carried away.
"I think he was in the wrong place," said some guy.

"Yeah. I don't think it was an orthodontist he needed."
"But did you see its teeth? They were hideous!"

"Does it matter? What if he goes on a reckless rampage across town?"
"Wait—where am I?"

"Yeah, we should try and stop it before it kills everybody!"
"Why do I feel like I've done this before?" said Kevin.

It turned out the drug was fairly short-term, so it wore off quickly and pain seeped into Jim's chin like water into a sponge. There was still an open cavity where the egg had been growing. This must be repaired before some sort of infection sunk in, like all the professional doctors would tell you.

So hence this event aroused some complications that must be righted. First, how did an egg manage to grow itself inside Jim's chin. Secondly, what is this alien doing here and what does it want? And last, how could this spawn of Satan be stopped before it took over the world?

"Buying some gauze eh? Whaddya plan on doin with it?" asked the cashier, periodically glancing at the gaping pit in Jim's chin.

"Are you...authorized to ask me that?" said Jim, who wasn't familiar with the bold responsibilities of the cashier and what they were capable of doing.
"Is that a threat?"

"Well...no. I mean...why do you care?"

"I...uhh...just noticed that you seem to have some kind of...dent...in your...jaw."
"I don't see why you should judge my buying decisions based on my facial features."
The cashier sighed. "Yeah...never mind. That'll be $1.50."
So Jim purchased this gauze and then bandaged his wound, after cleaning it of course. Now that that was taken care of, he decided he would talk to a few of his friends about hunting down a maniac alien. But he didn't know that a new development had been made in the investigation that followed the Ortho Incident.
He turned on the news in case the alien had already been killed or captured.
"And now we go to Beck Feckinridge, our extraterrestrial relations expert. Beck?"
"What? Yep...uhh...so it seems that the alien has found a way to breed. Recently another alien was spotted near the Timmiestown dump. No information has been released on how the creature reproduces and how many children one will have, but if they can breed here, getting rid of them will be a whole lot harder in a few weeks."

Jim knocked on Willison's door. He heard violent thumping from within the house, before Willison's mom opened the door.

"Oh hey Jim! Willison is up in his room." she said. Jim headed up the stairs to Willison's room. He knocked on the door.

"Come in!" yelled Willison from within. Jim walked in and gasped.
"Darn! You taped yourself to the wall again?" he exclaimed.
"Yeah. This time I was trying to tie my shoes. Can you help me down?"
Jim freed Willison from his restraints.

"Hey dude, listen. Um, you wanna hunt down some aliens? They're kinda on the loose and I need some help."

"Golly gee! Would I? I'll gather up some weapons right now!" he went to his closet and pulled out a baseball bat, a rubber beating chicken, some grenades, (only, they were the dumb generic Hannaford's kind) and a rather large flamethrower.
"Smashing! Who else should we get?"

"Hmm...well, Hordenburg is pretty good with explosives, and Fiblybob is a great guy when it comes to hunting down things that smell like poop."
"Alright, I'll tell them. We've gotta get as many people as possible if we want to succeed." said Jim.

Over the next three days Jim gathered everyone he could who was willing to try and stop this creature before it was too late. They had ten people who were going to fight with them, so Jim decided that they should start the operation now before the situation got any worse.

"Okay, the local news station said that another alien had been spotted by the Timmiestown dump, so I think we should start there and fan out until we find where they are hiding." It had been five days since the Ortho Incident and no new reports of new aliens had surfaced. If the new aliens had bred, they would encounter some trouble.

They arrived at the dump late at night. It seemed abandoned and uninhabited. The aliens had probably migrated to a more suitable climate. The hills of dump concealed the rest of the dump and didn't allow for a far line of sight. An advantageous spot for an ambush. The team spread out in groups of two. They were connected on a walkie-talkie channel, ready to alert the rest if any hostile was encountered.

Team Echo was supposed to scour the northeast side of the dump. The two rubber beating chicken-armed children made their way through the garbage-constructed maze, meandering through the rubbish-assembled labyrinth, every step could mean their end. All of a sudden they heard a strange noise, like a newborn baby seeing Big Bird from Sesame Street take a dump in the middle of the street in broad daylight while someone filmed it and planned to put it on the Internet, claiming it was teaching you the alphabet. They turned a corner and saw an alien crouching over a pile of goo, stroking it gently. A small hand outstretched from the muck, reaching for its parental figure. The larger alien pulled it out. A hideous being emerged, coated in a thick layer of sludge. Its eye met one of the kid's from Team Echo. It proceeded to squeal and shriek with a ferocious intensity they had never encountered.

One kid from Team Echo grabbed his walkie-talkie. "Hey...uhh...guys...there's something here...Yep...No, it's definitely trying to...yep, it's eaten the other guy...no, wait...he's been pooped out...he's still alive...certainly...alright...it's been nice talking with you...oh yeah...uhh...we might need some help here." The alien roared and smacked the communications device from the feeble and vulnerable hand of the kid not covered in poop. He raised his rubber beating chicken, prepared to strike. The alien saw the chicken and elongated his tongue, panting like a furry animal. This could be used to an advantage. The kid (He actually doesn't have a name) threw the chicken over the fence. The alien attempted to bark, then leapt over the fence, pursuing the chicken as if it were his life long goal.

The kid went over to the other kid and swept away some of the dung. "Why'd he eat me if he was only going to poop me out? I mean, did he get any nutrients from that?" said the kid.

"I'm not too sure myself. Let us carry out the mission and not dwindle on this deranged subject that plagues our minds."
"I concur with this statement."

The rest of the group arrived there and they hopped over the fence where the alien had fled. They ran straight forward. The alien wouldn't be too far from them. After a few minutes of running, a strange scent floated through the nostrils of the team. They followed the scent until they came upon a ditch in which the three aliens had taken refuge. They noticed the approaching squad and threw their dung over at them with pinpoint accuracy. It smelled so bad that they all passed out. When they woke up they all had eggs in their chins.

The Man in the Suit

Mr. Teloni has place the wrong bet. Very short.
In the middle of this park the grass is a dark healthy green. Here sits an idle bench with a man, Mr. Teloni, he is a big name in the gambling business. He sits alone, reading the newspaper. A man in a black suit walks up to him at the bench, "Excuse me, may I sit here?" Mr. Teloni doesn't look up and only nods. There is an uneasy silence in the air between these two.

"Perfect weather here today, birds chirping and the sun is shining. Life is more than what we deserve, we take it for granted. However, Mr. Teloni, it's a beautiful day to be alive." Mr. Teloni looks back and at the man in the suit, he doesn't know what to think, "How do you know my name?" The man in the suit looks at him and says, "I know more than you think Mr. Teloni. I know you were an orphan as a child, and grew up in the rather rough parts of Chicago. I know how frustrated you are with life, your wife, and you children, along with everything else in your worthless existence."

Mr. Teloni is starting to get nervous, "L... Listen I know this is a joke, who is doing this?" The man in the suit looks at him, "You prefer your house to be heated at exactly 68 degrees." Mr. Teloni stands up and starts to leave the parks, and the man in the suit starts to talk loudly, "I know that you fix horse races at the track downtown. That way you and the other rich bastards can steal money from every average man that bets. You're making money off the unsuspecting public. Stealing money form unsuspecting, honest men like me." Mr. Teloni fearfully starts to run towards the exit. The suit man starts to yell, "This time, Mr. Teloni, you screwed over the wrong person!" The man in the suit slowly stands and starts after Mr. Teloni, and he reaches into his pocket grabbing the gun.

The Bank Card

My short story fiction will address the issues of older adults coming of age in the twenty first century. In short the old facing the challenges of the new.
Plastic," Dad mutters to himself, looking down at the small rectangular card he holds in his hands, "It’s plastic son." "Yes dad, and it’s the key to your checking account," the confused look on his face taking on a new dimension. My frustration, standing in front of the ATM machine trying to explain the operation of the card reaches a level I have become familiar with helping him. "Dad it’s simple, pay attention, take the card insert it into the slot and follow the instructions on the screen, see a little T.V." "Well, in my day,,," "Oh no dad, we’re not going there today, I’m to busy for that and I’ve heard that story a thousand times." Standing in the hot sun in front of the ATM outside the bank is not what I had planned on a Saturday afternoon trying to teach my dad on the formalities of his ATM card.

It all started with a phone call early this morning, dad received his ATM card from the band. Opening the envelope from the bank and struggling through the letter explaining the bank card attributes dad immediately calls me claiming confusion. An easy way out for him, to lazy to try to understand the letter he thought I would straighten him out. "Okay dad, tell you what," after I answered the phone call and dad explains the situation, "meet me at the bank and I’ll clear up the confusion for you, I‘ll be there in an hour." I’ve got to start checking my caller I.D. before I answer the phone, I think to myself.

My Saturday afternoon’s are usually reserved for my interests alone. Being a writer for a local newspaper, the sports section, I cover the little league games played on Saturday. I see no problem today with helping dad and still making it to my assignments. Looking around my apartment for something to wear, I’d better do my laundry soon, tomorrow comes to mind. The nice part of living down town everything I need or want is within walking distance, the bus is only needed for work for my daily commutes to the office. Looking at my watch while getting dressed, I’d better hurry I still have a twenty minute walk to the bank to meet dad.

Thinking a little further I realize that after the bank I can walk three blocks and be at the park where the ballgame is being played, perfect. Maybe with a little coaxing dad will join me, I know he likes baseball. Finally dressed I grab my keys from the counter and leave my apartment, I jog down the two flights of stairs and out the front door of my apartment building, the warm day greets me as I step out onto the sidewalk. Standing in front of the building the first thing that comes to mind, coffee to go, the little coffee shop on the corner will provide those needs. Walking toward the coffee shop thoughts of dad and his bank card dilemma come to mind. If he cooperates, this little lesson in banking transactions shouldn’t take to long. With that thought a dark cloud forms in my mind, his stubbornness has always won out turning a simple problem into a major production.

"Good morning Greg, what can I do for you on this beautiful day?" A little surprised by the greeting I just realized that I’m standing at the counter of the coffee shop. Boy, I must have been really lost in thought, I don’t even remember walking in here. "Fine, fine Phil, coffee please, just coffee, to go." I answer his request. "Busy today Greg," Phil asks? "Yea, meeting dad at the bank then to a baseball game at the park."

Phil shuttles off toward the large coffee urn located half way down the counter, my attention divided by thoughts of the ball game and the bank card. "Working today," Phil asks while handing the Styrofoam cup to me, "careful it’s a hot buddy," offering a concerned look. "The baseball game, it‘s little league, I’ll hand in a short article for the newspaper on the game, name a few names, the kids get a kick out of it, seeing their team mentioned in the newspaper, you know." "What’s up with your dad,’ Phil asked with concern?

"Oh, he received an ATM card from the bank, his first, and has no clue what to do with it, I told him I would meet him there and bring him up to speed at banking this afternoon, I’d better get going," looking at my watch, "it’s getting late." "Have a good day Greg, and take it easy with your old man this new technology throws me a curve ever now and then," Phil slides in the baseball term for my benefit and smiles. "Yea right, you don’t know my dad, his claim of ignorance to me is just a form of protest to changing times, he likes to hang on to the old ways, torturing me because of my youth I guess." Phil give me a nod and smile as I turn to leave. "I’ll stop in later and fill you in with my progress with dad, it’ll give you something to laugh about," as I walk out of the coffee shop I hear him laugh. Since moving into the neighborhood three years ago Phil and his coffee shop has come to my morning rescue with coffee many times, to the point of us becoming good friends, sharing the trials and tribulations with each other about our families. Phil usually on the receiving end more then me.

Back on the street shifting the hot cup of liquid from hand to hand to dissipate the heat, I start for the bank just a few blocks away, I hope he’s there when I get there I want to get to the park early to get a good seat for the game. On my way to the bank and my befuddled father my thoughts start to congeal, why can’t mom and dad join the rest of society, it seems that they’re deliberately holding onto the past? Writing checks and snail mail is dead all they would have to do is get a computer and get connected. A thunder clap goes off in my head, oh no, I don’t have the time to become a full time teacher for that project. My coffee half gone and half a block to go dad comes into view, he is easy to recognize in his ’60’s style clothes, standing in front of the ATM machine, at least he’s at the right place.

"Dad, hi, how are you doing?" I surprise him and his head jerks toward the sound of my voice. "Oh, hello Greg,,,, son I’m fine," dad looks back at the ATM in disgust. "I just don’t get it son, I’m completely lost." "Well dad that’s why I’m here, to help you get it figured out." "First things first dad where’s the letter you received from the bank?" "At home, why?" a confused look follows his answer. "Here is the card," he shows me in defense of what ever I’m going to blame him for forgetting at home. "What do you need that letter for anyway," he starts his offensive. "Well did you call and have the bank assign you a pin number." Again a confused look follows my question. "A what number, pen number, why do I need a number for a pen?" "No dad, a pin number," I spell pin for him and explain it’s a personnel identification number used by the bank to access his account.

"Well, I never had to have it before, I just walked into the bank gave them my bank book and they took care of it for me, you remember Cindy don’t you, she handled all that for me."

"Yea dad, you belonged to that bank every since you were a kid, I’m sure they know you by sight." "Dad, face it, you’re going to have to let go of the past, step into the twenty-first century, this is the way things are done today." "Tell you what, there will be time for this later if you would like to come to a baseball game with me, take it easy, enjoy the rest of the day, I’ll get you and mom straightened out on this bank business later." His confused look is replaced by a smile, "sounds like a good idea to me son, lets go." Following dad to his car I assure him that I will leave work a couple of hours early on Monday and go to the bank with him and get this matter straightened out, bring him into the twenty-first century of banking.

On our drive to the park, dad, no worse for the experience at the ATM machine breathes a sigh of relief, "it was such a relief to see you coming to my rescue, son" dad complimented me while pulling into the parking lot of the park. "That’s alright dad," I say with a smile, I’m always glad to step in when needed, makes me feel wanted." "With this new technology son, your mother and me need you a lot, you’ve bailed us out more then you know." dad gets the car parked and shuts off the engine, "Everything is changing son, right before my eyes, seems like what is new today is obsolete tomorrow, not like the good old days, nothing ever changed." "Dad, it’s just the way you perceive things around you, when you were my age you didn’t notice the change as much, busy with the responsibilities of work and family. Now that your retired you have more time to see the changes, I agree it’s a little scary but you’ll do fine." From the car dad and I watch the teams take to the field, "dad, let’s get going their starting the game," I nudge dad with my elbow and smile. A worried look on his face breaks to a slight smile, "I’m sure you’re right son, I’m sure you’re right."

"This is one thing that I hope they never change, sports," dad informs me while walking to the stands, "I love watching baseball just as it is, plain and simple, a ball and a bat and a beautiful Saturday afternoon." I let out a mild laugh, "dad, we got to sit down and have a long talk someday about inter-active video games, you’re still lost in the past somewhere," turning my head toward him and catching that same confused look he had on his face at the bank. "Or not."