Written for the Friday Challenge due July 16. The challenge is to take a well known story and turn it on its head; make the good guy bad or the bad guy good.
It is liberating to write your own obituary, to be the man who writes words that will announce your death to the world. It's something I would recommend to you in person, were I still alive to do so. Of course, far more people are going actually read my obituary than yours, so it's of the utmost importance that my obituary says what must be said.
Let's get the obligatory personal history out of the way so I can move on the important part of this obituary. I was born into poverty in the worst slum in Metropolis. My father was an abusive alcoholic who had little education and even less intellect. My mother must have been intelligent at one time but my father had beaten that out of her before I was born. I learned quickly to avoid my father and to never display my vast intelligence around him. Unfortunately, Miss Perkins, my first school teacher did not know my father.
I still remember her showing up at the door late one afternoon, her face shining with suppressed excitement as my mother let her into our tiny apartment. Miss Perkins told my parents how bright I was and how much I had already learned before even entering her class. She never noticed my father's face going red as she told of the IQ tests she had given me. She never noticed my mother shrinking into the corner as she told them my IQ was just over 200. She never noticed me sidling toward the apartment door as she told them I was probably twice as smart as anyone in the class. She never noticed my father grinding his teeth as she told them I should probably skip straight to the fifth grade. She smiled as she told this to my father, who was 13 before he ever made it to the fifth grade.
As soon as she was out the door, my father visited Hell on my mother and me, Hell as he had never visited on us before. As he chased me around the apartment, as his fists pummeled me, as his feet lashed out at me, I swore I would never been like him. I swore I would never be a stupid, unthinking brute. I swore I would use my brains to make my way in the world.
Of course, my father was hardly the only anti-intellectual I ran across during my childhood. As an advanced student, I was regularly in classes filled with children several years older than myself. They would struggle with subjects I found absurdly easy. They would always know who had ruined the curve on the latest test, usually because some clueless teacher had held my test score up as an example of true scholarship. And they would always be waiting for me in the hallway, the bathroom or the gym, trying to do with their fists what they could not do with their brains -- claim superiority to me.
Of course, I graduated at the top of my high school class. Not that it was much of a challenge. I was thirteen and set on having the last laugh. Instead of the typical valedictorian speech, I issued a warning to my "fellow" classmates. I told them their days of lording over me were finished. They laughed. I smiled and was about to offer an example. That's when the principal's hand landed on my shoulder and I was pulled away from the microphone. In a voice that carried throughout the auditorium, he proclaimed my speech was over. Grabbing his tie, I pulled him down to my level and spoke softly for a few seconds. The principal's face went pale and I went back to the microphone. No, I'm not going to tell you what I said to the principal. I told him I would only reveal my knowledge if I was not allowed to continue my speech and I always keep my word.
This time I spoke to an absolutely quiet audience. This time, I had a predator's smile as I pointed out my greatest nemesis in the school. He was, of course, a football player. Big, strong, stupid. And a five star football recruit for a college powerhouse. All he needed was a halfway decent score on his latest attempt to pass the SAT and he was set. You should have seen his face when I announced that he had threatened me physically if I didn't take the SAT for him. You should have seen his face when I announced I had recorded all of his threats. You should have seen his face when I announced that I had sent those recordings to major newspapers and the NCAA. You should have seen his face twisted with rage as he charged at me. You should have seen his face as I dropped him in his tracks with a stun gun of my own design. As he lay twitching on the floor, I calmly turned and strode from the auditorium. I never looked back.
At this point, you probably think I've become exactly what I despised; a bully, albeit one who used his brain rather than his brawn. And you would be right. For the next several years, I was consumed by the need to get revenge on those who wronged me. And I succeeded in every case, yet my revenge was hollow. There was no challenge in this pursuit and little satisfaction in attaining it. Enlightenment finally came, however. I cast aside my goals of petty revenge and chose, instead, to work for the benefit of all humanity. Since that moment, I have spent my entire life pursuing that goal.
Even from the grave, I can hear the snorts of disbelief at this claim. Lex Luthor, the arch villain, working to benefit humanity? This is the final proof that, in life, I was insane, right? Wrong!
Every state in this country has at least one school for academically gifted founded and supported by the Luthor Foundation. Every hospital in the country has several major medical devices designed, manufactured and sold at cost by Luthor Industries. I could go on -- quite extensively -- but I know why none of you will believe me. Because of him. Because of Superman.
When Superman first appeared on the scene, I was as excited to see him as any of you. Imagine, an alien from an advanced civilization right here on earth! Just think of what he could teach us! Just think of what we could accomplish with his advanced intellect to guide us! Just think of what he could accomplish all by himself! Oh, the possibilities were endless! I decided then and there to put all of the vast resources of Luthor Industries at Superman's disposal. Together, we would design a better future for all of mankind! Together, we would discover mankind's true potential!
Alas, my dream for a better world had one fatal flaw. That flaw was Superman, himself. Rather than devote himself to intellectual pursuits that would have saved millions and benefited billions, Superman chose to devote himself to physical pursuits that saved a mere handful. Rather than design a new and better world, Superman chose to fight to preserve the world we already had.
Devastated, I was forced to see the truth about Superman. I had envisioned a god among men, leading all of us -- even me -- in pursuit of knowledge. Faced with the choice between brains and brawn, Superman chose brawn. Instead of the ultimate intellect, Superman chose to be the ultimate jock.
Oh, he's a nice jock, certainly. He's always saving the innocent and helping the helpless. He never dunked a nerd's head in the toilet or gave him a wedgie. But that doesn't make him any less of a jock.
Superman uses his body to shield people from bullets and everyone cheers. I used my brain to create Lexar; a thin, flexible, bulletproof cloth used by our military and police forces around the country. No one notices.
Superman flies and people are amazed. I design a small, inexpensive jet pack and fly, too. People are unimpressed.
In every way, Superman has come to personify this country's love of the physical and disdain of the intellectual. With Superman leading our research efforts, it's entirely possible we could have cured cancer or HIV or heart disease or even the common cold! With Superman leading our research efforts... Well, we'll never know what could have happened because the big guy with the cape chose the physical over the intellectual.
I could have accepted many things from Superman, but not that. I could not accept a being who could have shown the world the value of knowledge, the value of science, the value of technology but chose, instead, to show the world the value of big muscles. I could not accept a being who had so much to offer yet gave so little.
That is why I made the destruction of Superman my life's work. I dedicated myself to the proposition that brains were mightier than brawn. I dedicated myself to proving that a determined, intelligent man could defeat an alien god who had chosen to live among us.
I lost the company I spent my life building to this pursuit. I lost my fortune to this pursuit. At times, I lost my freedom to this pursuit. And, now, I've lost my life to this pursuit. But it will not have been in vain if just a few of you rise above the vast flock of human sheep to stand where I stood. My sacrifices will have been worth all they cost me, if just a handful of you rise to take my place.
Superman, you have won this round, but it was only the first round. Humanity has some fight left in them yet. Humanity has a few champions who will take up my torch. Someday, Superman, those who follow will succeed where I have failed. Someday, Superman, you will regret your foolish infatuation with your physique. Someday, Superman, you will wish you had expanded your intellect. Someday, Superman, mankind will destroy you.
And then I will know peace.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Memorial Day
On September 16, 1943, my father turned 18. Shortly after that, he was drafted into the U.S. Army and accepted into the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP).
The ASTP is one of the lesser known programs from World War II. Its goal was to produce highly trained specialists to fill vital technical roles within the army. My father was to receive training as a meteorologist. Entrance requirements for the ASTP were more stringent than those required for Officer Candidate School. ASTP candidates took the same test as officer candidates -- essentially an IQ test -- but were required to score higher; a minimum IQ of 120 for the ASTP versus a minimum IQ of 110 for OCS. Soldiers in the ASTP would spend 13 weeks in basic training then be sent to a college campus for accelerated training in their assigned field.
My grandparents were very relieved when Dad ended up in the ASTP. What parents wouldn't be relieved to know their child was safe on an American university campus rather than fighting in France? Their relief was short-lived. By late 1943, the army had a severe shortage of infantry men. With over 250,000 men enrolled in the ASTP, all of whom had taken basic training, the solution was obvious. By February, 1944, the ASTP was officially cancelled. America's best and brightest, including my father, were off to war.
Dad spoke very little about his time in combat, even in his later years when he started attending reunions for his army company and battalion. When I was young, he told me of the time his platoon found themselves in a mine field. They discovered it when the three men directly in front of him were killed by a mine. The platoon very carefully turned around and walked back out of the field by stepping exactly where they had stepped coming in.
Another time, he and two other members of his platoon got separated from the rest of the platoon after a German ambush. They wandered for two days, trying to find their way back to allied lines. Finally, they spotted three soldiers in the distance. Overjoyed to finally be safe, they waved and shouted and walked towards the other soldiers. The other soldiers looked just as happy to see my father and his buddies, waving and shouting back. It was only when the two groups were closer to each other that both groups realized the truth. Those other soldiers were German. Afraid they were close to German lines, Dad and his buddies turned and ran. The German soldiers ran, also. No shots were fired. Later, Dad figured the three German soldiers were probably just as lost as he was and ran for the same reason.
My favorite story, which Dad didn't tell me until sometime in the late 1990s, was about the liberation of the French town of Bitche. Approaching the city, the American soldiers speculated that the town's name must have a French sound to it. Most figured it was pronounced "beech." It wasn't. The name is pronounced "bitch," as in a female dog. Yes, the pronunciation is important to the story.
The 100th Infantry Division attacked German forces holed up within a citadel overlooking Bitche. Built in the 17th century, the stone citadel had never been fallen to any attack or seige, not even during the German blitzkrieg of France. The 100th Infantry Division broke the streak, taking it after a three month seige. In appreciation, the town immediately adopted the 100th, naming them the "Sons of Bitche," a title the 100th Infantry Division flag carries to this day. From that point on, the 100th had a great time telling everyone who would listen that they were the meanest Sons of Bitche in Europe. I could see why Dad didn't mention that while I was growing up. He also somehow failed to mention it in his letters home to his parents, either. My grandfather kept every single letter sent by my father and I've read them all. Not once does he refer to himself as a Son of Bitche!
On April 20, around 5:30 PM -- only 18 days before the end of the war in Europe -- a German howitzer shell exploded near my father. Later, Dad said he never heard the explosion, just remembered finding himself in a ditch and trying to raise himself up on his knees. A German soldier who had just surrendered knelt and offered his first aid kit. That was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in an army hospital.
On May 5, the telegram arrived at my grandparents' house in Greenville, SC. My grandfather was at work and my grandmother was out shopping. Only my father's grandmother, who died years before my birth, was at home. Understandably, she was terrified about what news the telegram contained. She dithered for almost half and hour before finally opening the telegram. The telegram was terse, only informing them that my father had been "seriously wounded" on April 20. Through my uncle, who was in a military clerical position in Greenville, they learned that "seriously wounded" meant wounds that would require hospitalization for at least one week.
On the same day my grandparents received the telegram, a second telegram was dispatched to them. It arrived nine days later, on May 14. This one informed them Dad was "making normal improvement" from his "wound of right thigh." While the telegram was terse, my grandparents considered its words more beautiful than anything they'd ever read. My grandmother carried the telegram with her so she could show it to anyone and everyone who even remotely knew my father had been wounded.
The stated "wound of right thigh" was only the most serious of Dad's wounds. Two pieces of shrapnel went right through his right thigh. More shrapnel deeply slashed his back, right buttocks and chest. Another piece of shrapnel cut off the upper half of his left middle finger. The slashes on his back and buttocks required skin grafts to heal properly. The skin for the grafts was taken from his left thigh and unwounded areas of his right thigh. Removing the skin for grafting left large scars; in reality more like indentations in his thighs. The scars were five to six inches long, about two inches wide and maybe a quarter of an inch deep. They were only visible when Dad wore a bathing suit. His left middle finger was the only wound always visible.
Dad's been gone for nearly four years as I post this. It's Memorial Day, a day that seems to have lost its original meaning in this overly-commercialized culture of ours. Memorial Day means many things to me, none of them having anything to do with "big sales events" at the mall.
On Memorial Day, I remember the missing half of my father's left middle finger. I remember the scars on my father's legs. I remember the Purple Heart he was so proud of. I remember his surprise when, at the age of 66 he found out he had been awarded the Bronze Star 46 years earlier and never known it. I remember his pride at having performed the toughest, most dangerous job in the army -- infantryman -- to the best of his ability. I remember crying as Taps was played at his funeral.
On Memorial Day, I remember the Son of Bitche who taught me to be the man I am today.
On Memorial Day, I remember visiting Arlington National Cemetery and looking upon row after row after row of simple, white headstones, overcome by awe and wonder at the enormous sacrifices they represent.
On Memorial Day, I remember those who died so I could live free.
The ASTP is one of the lesser known programs from World War II. Its goal was to produce highly trained specialists to fill vital technical roles within the army. My father was to receive training as a meteorologist. Entrance requirements for the ASTP were more stringent than those required for Officer Candidate School. ASTP candidates took the same test as officer candidates -- essentially an IQ test -- but were required to score higher; a minimum IQ of 120 for the ASTP versus a minimum IQ of 110 for OCS. Soldiers in the ASTP would spend 13 weeks in basic training then be sent to a college campus for accelerated training in their assigned field.
My grandparents were very relieved when Dad ended up in the ASTP. What parents wouldn't be relieved to know their child was safe on an American university campus rather than fighting in France? Their relief was short-lived. By late 1943, the army had a severe shortage of infantry men. With over 250,000 men enrolled in the ASTP, all of whom had taken basic training, the solution was obvious. By February, 1944, the ASTP was officially cancelled. America's best and brightest, including my father, were off to war.
Dad spoke very little about his time in combat, even in his later years when he started attending reunions for his army company and battalion. When I was young, he told me of the time his platoon found themselves in a mine field. They discovered it when the three men directly in front of him were killed by a mine. The platoon very carefully turned around and walked back out of the field by stepping exactly where they had stepped coming in.
Another time, he and two other members of his platoon got separated from the rest of the platoon after a German ambush. They wandered for two days, trying to find their way back to allied lines. Finally, they spotted three soldiers in the distance. Overjoyed to finally be safe, they waved and shouted and walked towards the other soldiers. The other soldiers looked just as happy to see my father and his buddies, waving and shouting back. It was only when the two groups were closer to each other that both groups realized the truth. Those other soldiers were German. Afraid they were close to German lines, Dad and his buddies turned and ran. The German soldiers ran, also. No shots were fired. Later, Dad figured the three German soldiers were probably just as lost as he was and ran for the same reason.
My favorite story, which Dad didn't tell me until sometime in the late 1990s, was about the liberation of the French town of Bitche. Approaching the city, the American soldiers speculated that the town's name must have a French sound to it. Most figured it was pronounced "beech." It wasn't. The name is pronounced "bitch," as in a female dog. Yes, the pronunciation is important to the story.
The 100th Infantry Division attacked German forces holed up within a citadel overlooking Bitche. Built in the 17th century, the stone citadel had never been fallen to any attack or seige, not even during the German blitzkrieg of France. The 100th Infantry Division broke the streak, taking it after a three month seige. In appreciation, the town immediately adopted the 100th, naming them the "Sons of Bitche," a title the 100th Infantry Division flag carries to this day. From that point on, the 100th had a great time telling everyone who would listen that they were the meanest Sons of Bitche in Europe. I could see why Dad didn't mention that while I was growing up. He also somehow failed to mention it in his letters home to his parents, either. My grandfather kept every single letter sent by my father and I've read them all. Not once does he refer to himself as a Son of Bitche!
On April 20, around 5:30 PM -- only 18 days before the end of the war in Europe -- a German howitzer shell exploded near my father. Later, Dad said he never heard the explosion, just remembered finding himself in a ditch and trying to raise himself up on his knees. A German soldier who had just surrendered knelt and offered his first aid kit. That was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in an army hospital.
On May 5, the telegram arrived at my grandparents' house in Greenville, SC. My grandfather was at work and my grandmother was out shopping. Only my father's grandmother, who died years before my birth, was at home. Understandably, she was terrified about what news the telegram contained. She dithered for almost half and hour before finally opening the telegram. The telegram was terse, only informing them that my father had been "seriously wounded" on April 20. Through my uncle, who was in a military clerical position in Greenville, they learned that "seriously wounded" meant wounds that would require hospitalization for at least one week.
On the same day my grandparents received the telegram, a second telegram was dispatched to them. It arrived nine days later, on May 14. This one informed them Dad was "making normal improvement" from his "wound of right thigh." While the telegram was terse, my grandparents considered its words more beautiful than anything they'd ever read. My grandmother carried the telegram with her so she could show it to anyone and everyone who even remotely knew my father had been wounded.
The stated "wound of right thigh" was only the most serious of Dad's wounds. Two pieces of shrapnel went right through his right thigh. More shrapnel deeply slashed his back, right buttocks and chest. Another piece of shrapnel cut off the upper half of his left middle finger. The slashes on his back and buttocks required skin grafts to heal properly. The skin for the grafts was taken from his left thigh and unwounded areas of his right thigh. Removing the skin for grafting left large scars; in reality more like indentations in his thighs. The scars were five to six inches long, about two inches wide and maybe a quarter of an inch deep. They were only visible when Dad wore a bathing suit. His left middle finger was the only wound always visible.
Dad's been gone for nearly four years as I post this. It's Memorial Day, a day that seems to have lost its original meaning in this overly-commercialized culture of ours. Memorial Day means many things to me, none of them having anything to do with "big sales events" at the mall.
On Memorial Day, I remember the missing half of my father's left middle finger. I remember the scars on my father's legs. I remember the Purple Heart he was so proud of. I remember his surprise when, at the age of 66 he found out he had been awarded the Bronze Star 46 years earlier and never known it. I remember his pride at having performed the toughest, most dangerous job in the army -- infantryman -- to the best of his ability. I remember crying as Taps was played at his funeral.
On Memorial Day, I remember the Son of Bitche who taught me to be the man I am today.
On Memorial Day, I remember visiting Arlington National Cemetery and looking upon row after row after row of simple, white headstones, overcome by awe and wonder at the enormous sacrifices they represent.
On Memorial Day, I remember those who died so I could live free.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Writer's Day: The Petition Drive For a New Holiday
"Hello," I said to the man on the street. "Would you like to sign a petition in favor of the creation of a new holiday, Writer's Day?"
"Righter's Day?" the man asked. "No, I'm left handed. You righties have it easy enough without getting a holiday, too! I'm part of a persecuted minority-"
"No, no, I don't mean 'right' as in the opposite of 'left,'" I said. "I mean 'write' as in to use words to convey a message or story, such as writing a novel."
"Oh. That's different," the man said. "Still, why do we need a special holiday just for writers?"
"An excellent question!" I said. "On Writer's Day we would remember the wonder and joy we receive from the written word and celebrate those who bring the written word to us! And we'd mail cards to our favorite writers, wishing them a happy Writer's Day."
"Ugh. You mean I'd have to celebrate Lenny, the CFO, who keeps sending us long-winded memos about using pens until they run out of ink, tells us ten paper clips a week should be a gracious plenty or says we should print out our emails and read them with the computer off to save power?" the man asked.
"Um, no. Lenny isn't the kind of writer I had in mind," I answered. "I meant to celebrate the giants of literature such as William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Bruce Bethke."
"Aren't those guys all dead?" the man asked.
"Bethke's not," I answered.
"But I've never read anything by him," the man said, "so why would I send him a card?"
"It doesn't have to be just one of those writers," I said. "You can send cards to any writer whose work you enjoy!"
"Maybe, but I don't read novels," the man said. "I don't see what I'd have to celebrate."
"Do you read comic strips?" I asked.
"Sure! That's my favorite part of reading the paper on the subway," the man said.
"Then send a card to writer of your favorite comic strip," I said.
"Wait, someone actually writes those things?" he asked.
"The words have to come from somewhere," I answered.
"Imagine that," the man said.
"Or you could send cards to the writers of your favorite TV shows or movies," I suggested.
"You're telling me someone writes those, too?" the man asked. "I thought the actors made it all up!"
"Have you ever read anything written by an actor?" I asked.
"Yeah... It was kind of stupid," the man said.
"I rest my case," I said. "So, how about signing the petition?"
"I'm still not sure," the man said. "What kinds of cards would people send to their favorite writers?"
"Ah! I have a couple of samples with me right here!" I said.
"Here's another one," I said.
"Those don't seem very friendly," the man said.
"Friendly? No, you've got the wrong idea! They're funny!" I said. "See, we give our favorite writers a chuckle. Just like the chuckle they give unpublished geniuses every time we ask them to critique our work. Yes, exactly like that! Now the ingrates will get a chance to see just what it's like to have no-talent hacks telling them their work sucks! Oh, yes, I can see it- Hey, where are you going?"
"I'm, uh... I'm late for a meeting. Or something. Got to run!" the man said, all the while backing slowly away from me.
"Don't you want to sign the petition?" I asked.
"Maybe some other time," the man said before turning and scurrying away.
"Some people..." I said before turning to another passerby. "Ma'am? Would you sign a petition?"
"Righter's Day?" the man asked. "No, I'm left handed. You righties have it easy enough without getting a holiday, too! I'm part of a persecuted minority-"
"No, no, I don't mean 'right' as in the opposite of 'left,'" I said. "I mean 'write' as in to use words to convey a message or story, such as writing a novel."
"Oh. That's different," the man said. "Still, why do we need a special holiday just for writers?"
"An excellent question!" I said. "On Writer's Day we would remember the wonder and joy we receive from the written word and celebrate those who bring the written word to us! And we'd mail cards to our favorite writers, wishing them a happy Writer's Day."
"Ugh. You mean I'd have to celebrate Lenny, the CFO, who keeps sending us long-winded memos about using pens until they run out of ink, tells us ten paper clips a week should be a gracious plenty or says we should print out our emails and read them with the computer off to save power?" the man asked.
"Um, no. Lenny isn't the kind of writer I had in mind," I answered. "I meant to celebrate the giants of literature such as William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Bruce Bethke."
"Aren't those guys all dead?" the man asked.
"Bethke's not," I answered.
"But I've never read anything by him," the man said, "so why would I send him a card?"
"It doesn't have to be just one of those writers," I said. "You can send cards to any writer whose work you enjoy!"
"Maybe, but I don't read novels," the man said. "I don't see what I'd have to celebrate."
"Do you read comic strips?" I asked.
"Sure! That's my favorite part of reading the paper on the subway," the man said.
"Then send a card to writer of your favorite comic strip," I said.
"Wait, someone actually writes those things?" he asked.
"The words have to come from somewhere," I answered.
"Imagine that," the man said.
"Or you could send cards to the writers of your favorite TV shows or movies," I suggested.
"You're telling me someone writes those, too?" the man asked. "I thought the actors made it all up!"
"Have you ever read anything written by an actor?" I asked.
"Yeah... It was kind of stupid," the man said.
"I rest my case," I said. "So, how about signing the petition?"
"I'm still not sure," the man said. "What kinds of cards would people send to their favorite writers?"
"Ah! I have a couple of samples with me right here!" I said.
"Here's another one," I said.
"Those don't seem very friendly," the man said.
"Friendly? No, you've got the wrong idea! They're funny!" I said. "See, we give our favorite writers a chuckle. Just like the chuckle they give unpublished geniuses every time we ask them to critique our work. Yes, exactly like that! Now the ingrates will get a chance to see just what it's like to have no-talent hacks telling them their work sucks! Oh, yes, I can see it- Hey, where are you going?"
"I'm, uh... I'm late for a meeting. Or something. Got to run!" the man said, all the while backing slowly away from me.
"Don't you want to sign the petition?" I asked.
"Maybe some other time," the man said before turning and scurrying away.
"Some people..." I said before turning to another passerby. "Ma'am? Would you sign a petition?"
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Slay the Princess, Rescue the Dragon, And--
This is my entry in the Friday Challenge. The text in italics is the opening provided by Bruce Bethke. The challenge is to finish the story.
Icehawk the Barbarian would never admit to feeling fear, but his mood as he traced the ancient, rock-strewn path through the barren wilderness was...unsettled. Once again, his wanderings had brought him back to this place: to the domain of the Seer, the Prophetess, the Mad Spinner of Fate. And once again he would rather be walking this path as a warrior, with a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, than like a peddler, with a large black box under one arm and a small white sack thrown over the other shoulder.
Dusk had fallen by the time he crested the last ridge. The rock-strewn valley below was already in deep shadow, but a weird, flickering light emanated from within the ruins of the Temple of Otogu. The unearthly light was as nothing, though, compared to the stench that assailed his nostrils as his footsteps drew him closer. It was a complex, many-layered, ever-shifting reek composed of a great many foul and unspeakable things: of rot, and corruption; of scorched flesh, and burnt offerings; of bitter potions, and vile philters; and of many, many, cats, badly housebroken.
Icehawk paused a moment, at the foot of the great ruined stone staircase—
But it was already too late. She stood there, at the top of the stairs, in tattered rags and long, greasy, tangled gray hair, smiling at him with blackened stubs of teeth. "Welcome, Icehawk, great warrior of the north!"
"You—you knew I was coming?"
"Of course. I'm a Seer. And you have brought my price?"
"I thought you were a Seer."
"It's more fun this way. Have you brought my price?"
Icehawk juggled the black box and the white sack awkwardly, then held forth the black box. "Oh Great Priestess of Otogu!" he cried. "Behold, I bring you a flawless black kitten, without a single white hair, sealed for seven days within a black box without a single hole!"
The Seer nodded, smiling. "I see. And is the kitten alive or dead?"
Icehawk considered the box nervously. "I, er—"
"Is the kitten alive or dead?"
Icehawk grimmaced. "Well, it stopped yowling about four days ago, but without air holes—"
The Seer grinned that ghastly, gummy, black-stubbed grin again. "The point is, you don't know for certain, do you?"
"Well, not as such..."
"Perfect!" She pointed to the sack. "And in the sack?"
Icehawk juggled the black box and white sack again, and then held forth the white sack. "Oh Great Priestess of Otogu!" he cried again. "Behold, I bring you a flawless white dove, without a single dark feather, whose feet have never touched the ground!"
"Perfect!" She darted down the stairs, snatched the sack from Icehawk's hand, and started back up. "Come along!" Halfway up the stairs she paused, to turn and look back at Icehawk, who still stood at the foot of the stairs with the black box in his hands and a puzzled expression on his face. "Oh, just dump it over there with the other ones." She pointed to the stack of reeking black boxes that Icehawk hadn't noticed before off to the side of the stairs. He tossed the box on the heap and followed her.
The interior of the ruined temple was thick with smoke and stink, lit by many guttering candles and a small fireplace, and crawling with cats. The Seer set the white sack on the altar, thrust her hand inside, and pulled out the white dove. "Ooh, how beautiful!" she exclaimed, as she examined the struggling, blinking bird. "Not a flaw, not a mark on it!" She held the bird high before the fire, as if reenacting some ancient and forgotten ritual.
"Look, my pretties! Mommy's got dinner!" And in one swift motion she twisted the dove's head off, slapped the carcass down on the altar, and disemboweled it with a small stone knife. With no further regard for the bird she cast the small feathered corpse aside, where it was immediately seized upon and fought over by a gathering crowd of cats.
Icehawk was dumbfounded. "I went through all that just to feed your cats? What about my destiny?"
"Oh, that's clear enough," said the Seer, as she prodded the entrails on the altar with a grimy finger. "You must slay the princess, rescue the dragon, and—"
Icehawk found an expression beyond dumbfounded. "Excuse me?"
The Seer looked up. "What?"
"Don't you mean, 'slay the dragon, rescue the princess?'"
"If I'd meant that, I'd have said it. No, it's all right here." She turned back to the entrails. "Slay the princess, rescue the dragon, and—"
"Are you sure you're reading that right?"
"Read it yourself. Plain as day." The seer tapped the pancreas. "Slay the princess." She batted a cat away from the liver. "Rescue the dragon." She stirred the intestines with her finger. "And—"
"Oh, now that is interesting," muttered the Seer. She stirred the intestines again. "But there's no doubt about it!"
"No doubt about what, old woman," Icehawk asked.
"You must slay the princess, rescue the dragon and..." the Seer paused.
"And what?" Icehawk shouted.
"Don't you recognize a dramatic pause when you hear one? Gah, you barbarians are all alike!" the Seer muttered. "All blood and boinking and no sense of drama or culture."
Rolling her eyes upward, she cried out, "Great Otogu, why do I even bother?"
"Gods," said Icehawk, "you sound like my mother!"
"Sensible woman, your mother," the Seer said. "We both agree your life went straight to the crapper after she died."
"You spoke to my Mommy?" Icehawk asked.
The Seer looked imperiously at the barbarian, "The veil between life and death is no barrier for one who wields the power Otogu!"
"Is she doing okay?" he asked. "Besides being dead, I mean?"
"Your mother is quite happy," the Seer replied. "Beyond the veil, she has been reunited with your father!"
"Strange," said Icehawk, "Daddy isn't dead."
"Oh, er, ahem, where were we?" stammered the Seer. "Oh, yes. You must slay the princess, rescue the dragon and-"
Once again the Seer paused. This time Icehawk was silent.
"-marry the dragon, lie with her and be fruitful!" finished the Seer.
"Wait just a minute!" Icehawk said. "I'm supposed to marry the dragon?"
"Yes."
"And lie with her?"
"Yes."
"And be fruitful with her?"
"Yes."
"And that means we... You know. And then the dragon has children. Right?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Come now, an experienced barbarian warrior such as yourself must know-"
"With a human woman, yes! But a dragon?" Icehawk asked. "But she'll be so big and-"
"Oh ho!" laughed the Seer. "You fear your organ is too small to play in her divine temple?"
"Huh?" asked a clearly puzzled Icehawk.
"Performance anxiety?" asked the Seer.
"With human women..." Icehawk's face reddened. "Let's just say they've never had cause to complain! But a dragon?"
"You don't have to follow the prophesy, Icehawk," the Seer said.
"I don't?"
"Of course not!" the Seer replied. "If you don't, you'll die within the year and your wild country will be conquered, tamed and civilized within a generation. But it's your choice."
Icehawk's shoulders slumped. "Where do I find this princess to slay and dragon to rescue?"
The Seer smiled, "That's a different question, Icehawk. You know the price of an answer."
One flawless black kitten, without a single white hair, sealed for seven days within a black box without a single hole and one flawless white dove, without a single dark feather, whose feet have never touched the ground later...
"...And that's where you'll find the Depths of Doom, along with the princess and the dragon," the seer said.
Without another word, Icehawk turned and walked away.
And so Icehawk journeyed onward, ever onward toward his goal. Icehawk trekked through the Forest of Fear, forded the River of Rage, slogged through the Bog of Bones, crossed the Pit of Peril, scaled the Cliffs of Catastrophe, swam the Lake of Leeches and ascended the Mountains of Madness before finally reaching the Depths of Doom! During his journey, Icehawk had many adventures and bested many foes. Later, this would be put into song and Icehawk's Epic Journey Through the Forest of Fear, the River of Rage, the Bog of Bones, the Pit of Peril, the Cliffs of Catastrophe, the Lake of Leeches and the Mountains of Madness Before Descending Into the Depths of Doom would be sung in the taverns, inns and mead halls of Icehawk's land.
Though a small part of Icehawk's mind was already composing verses for the epic song, most of his cunning, warrior's brain concentrated on the task at hand. Gripping his trusty sword in one hand and his mighty axe in the other, Icehawk strode into the Depths of Doom! Icehawk was barely thirty feet inside the Depths of Doom when he stubbed his toe on a rock.
"Blast it all!" Icehawk said. "How can I stride forth to battle in such Stygian darkness? I must needs light a torch! But which weapon shall I sheath?"
Icehawk looked to his sword, then to his axe, then back again. And again. And again. Forty minutes passed and still Icehawk looked back and forth between his sword and axe. Then, inspiration! Minutes later Icehawk, gripping his sword in one hand and his axe in the other, strode in the Depths of Doom, his way lit by flickering torchlight.
Down, down, down strode Icehawk Though the way was long, never once did Icehawk pause. Though the cave walls around him were laced with gold and precious gens, never once did Icehawk's steely gaze stray from the path. Though the descent was boring, never once did his razor sharp mind wander from the task ahead. Except for the time he spent wondering whether it was acceptable to use "throwed" to rhyme with "toad" and what the bards would say if he did. Okay, rarely did his razor sharp mind wander from the task ahead. As the descent ended, the mighty Icehawk had composed the first thirty-eight verses of the epic song about his adventures. So, really, his razor sharp mind rarely considered the task ahead.
At last, Icehawk stepped out of the cave into a vast cavern. The floor of the cavern was littered with the bones and broken armor of many men. Running toward him was a beautiful young woman in a diaphanous white gown, her ample chest heaving. Behind the young woman loomed a great wurm!
"Oh, mighty warrior!" called the young woman in a sweet, pure voice. "Why do you have a torch stuck into your helmet?" Without waiting for a reply, she continued, "You have come to rescue me! Once we are free from this foul wurm, I will shower my thanks upon you in-"
With one swing of his axe, Icehawk lopped off the young woman's head. Stepping past the body, Icehawk strode toward the dragon, who seemed taken aback by the turn of events. Only when he gave the dragon his full concentration did Icehawk notice the shimmering metal muzzle over the dragon's snout, the solid metal collar around the dragon's throat with a sturdy chain connecting it to the cavern wall. Icehawk was relieved to see the dragon was a prisoner. Perhaps the Seer had been right all along!
But, as Icehawk drew close to the dragon, she raised a mighty claw as if to strike! With reflexes born of battle, Icehawk dove and rolled clear of the dragon's strike. A strike that never came. As Icehawk rose to his feet poised to lay into the dragon, he realised her claw wasn't raised to attack. It was raise to point behind Icehawk!
Icehawk spun about just in time to deflect a descending dagger held by the beautiful young woman who he had so recently decapitated. The lovely head was back atop the lithesome body!
"How dare you strike a lady with your axe!" snarled the young woman. "That is no way to treat a princess, you moro-"
Icehawk's sword thrust deep, piercing the princess's heart. Turning back to the dragon, Icehawk examined the muzzle. Finding the mechanism too intricate, he smashed it with his axe.
As the muzzle slid off the dragon's mouth, she roared, "Duck!"
As he ducked, Icehawk felt a blade pass just where his neck had been. Turning, he found the princess alive again, now with a sword in hand.
"Powerful magic protects her," the dragon called. "The same magic which forces me to do her bidding!"
"Indeed!" cackled the princess, pressing her attack. "You're about to be dragon bait, buddy boy!"
"Is there no way to end her power?" Icehawk called to the dragon, desperately parrying the princess's slashing blade. "No way to free you?"
"As she has not known a man," the dragon called, "she knows great power! But there's no time-"
Icehawk blocked another attack. "Well why didn't you say so earlier!"
There came the ripping of clothing, an outraged cry from the princess and a satisfied grunt from Icehawk.
The dragon cocked her head to one side and commented, "That was...fast."
"Time was of the essence," Icehawk said. "Are you hungry?"
"Ravenous," the dragon replied. "She barely fed me enough to keep me alive!"
Icehawk pushed the still dazed princess toward the dragon. "Enjoy."
Moments later, Icehawk had removed the collar, freeing the dragon. Now he stood before her rather uncomfortably.
"I, uh, came here because of this prophesy," he said. "It, um, instructed me to kill the princess. You think it's okay that you handled that end of it?"
"That depends on the rest of the prophesy," the dragon replied.
"Ah, right. Then I was supposed to rescue the dragon," he continued. "Which I've done."
"Quite nicely, I might add," the dragon said.
"And, um, then I am supposed to, uh... To, um, marry the dragon, lie with her and be fruitful with her," Icehawk said quickly.
"Oh, that prophesy," said the dragon. "That's a relief. I was afraid there was some other prophesy involved."
"So," said Icehawk, "you're prepared to marry me, lie with me and be fruitful with me?"
"Most definitely, my warrior," the dragon replied. "If I do not, my people will be enslaved for all time."
"Good. That's good! The, uh, marriage part should be pretty easy. But the part about lying together and being fruitful..." Icehawk looked along the entire length of the dragon. "Well, I hope you've got some ideas!"
The dragon laughed, "You are not familiar with my kind, are you warrior?"
"You're the first dragon I've ever seen," Icehawk told her.
"Well..." There was a bright flash of light. "Does this help?"
The dragon had vanished. In her place stood a stunningly beautiful human woman. And she was naked.
"Oh yes," Icehawk said. "That will do nicely!"
Icehawk the Barbarian would never admit to feeling fear, but his mood as he traced the ancient, rock-strewn path through the barren wilderness was...unsettled. Once again, his wanderings had brought him back to this place: to the domain of the Seer, the Prophetess, the Mad Spinner of Fate. And once again he would rather be walking this path as a warrior, with a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, than like a peddler, with a large black box under one arm and a small white sack thrown over the other shoulder.
Dusk had fallen by the time he crested the last ridge. The rock-strewn valley below was already in deep shadow, but a weird, flickering light emanated from within the ruins of the Temple of Otogu. The unearthly light was as nothing, though, compared to the stench that assailed his nostrils as his footsteps drew him closer. It was a complex, many-layered, ever-shifting reek composed of a great many foul and unspeakable things: of rot, and corruption; of scorched flesh, and burnt offerings; of bitter potions, and vile philters; and of many, many, cats, badly housebroken.
Icehawk paused a moment, at the foot of the great ruined stone staircase—
But it was already too late. She stood there, at the top of the stairs, in tattered rags and long, greasy, tangled gray hair, smiling at him with blackened stubs of teeth. "Welcome, Icehawk, great warrior of the north!"
"You—you knew I was coming?"
"Of course. I'm a Seer. And you have brought my price?"
"I thought you were a Seer."
"It's more fun this way. Have you brought my price?"
Icehawk juggled the black box and the white sack awkwardly, then held forth the black box. "Oh Great Priestess of Otogu!" he cried. "Behold, I bring you a flawless black kitten, without a single white hair, sealed for seven days within a black box without a single hole!"
The Seer nodded, smiling. "I see. And is the kitten alive or dead?"
Icehawk considered the box nervously. "I, er—"
"Is the kitten alive or dead?"
Icehawk grimmaced. "Well, it stopped yowling about four days ago, but without air holes—"
The Seer grinned that ghastly, gummy, black-stubbed grin again. "The point is, you don't know for certain, do you?"
"Well, not as such..."
"Perfect!" She pointed to the sack. "And in the sack?"
Icehawk juggled the black box and white sack again, and then held forth the white sack. "Oh Great Priestess of Otogu!" he cried again. "Behold, I bring you a flawless white dove, without a single dark feather, whose feet have never touched the ground!"
"Perfect!" She darted down the stairs, snatched the sack from Icehawk's hand, and started back up. "Come along!" Halfway up the stairs she paused, to turn and look back at Icehawk, who still stood at the foot of the stairs with the black box in his hands and a puzzled expression on his face. "Oh, just dump it over there with the other ones." She pointed to the stack of reeking black boxes that Icehawk hadn't noticed before off to the side of the stairs. He tossed the box on the heap and followed her.
The interior of the ruined temple was thick with smoke and stink, lit by many guttering candles and a small fireplace, and crawling with cats. The Seer set the white sack on the altar, thrust her hand inside, and pulled out the white dove. "Ooh, how beautiful!" she exclaimed, as she examined the struggling, blinking bird. "Not a flaw, not a mark on it!" She held the bird high before the fire, as if reenacting some ancient and forgotten ritual.
"Look, my pretties! Mommy's got dinner!" And in one swift motion she twisted the dove's head off, slapped the carcass down on the altar, and disemboweled it with a small stone knife. With no further regard for the bird she cast the small feathered corpse aside, where it was immediately seized upon and fought over by a gathering crowd of cats.
Icehawk was dumbfounded. "I went through all that just to feed your cats? What about my destiny?"
"Oh, that's clear enough," said the Seer, as she prodded the entrails on the altar with a grimy finger. "You must slay the princess, rescue the dragon, and—"
Icehawk found an expression beyond dumbfounded. "Excuse me?"
The Seer looked up. "What?"
"Don't you mean, 'slay the dragon, rescue the princess?'"
"If I'd meant that, I'd have said it. No, it's all right here." She turned back to the entrails. "Slay the princess, rescue the dragon, and—"
"Are you sure you're reading that right?"
"Read it yourself. Plain as day." The seer tapped the pancreas. "Slay the princess." She batted a cat away from the liver. "Rescue the dragon." She stirred the intestines with her finger. "And—"
"Oh, now that is interesting," muttered the Seer. She stirred the intestines again. "But there's no doubt about it!"
"No doubt about what, old woman," Icehawk asked.
"You must slay the princess, rescue the dragon and..." the Seer paused.
"And what?" Icehawk shouted.
"Don't you recognize a dramatic pause when you hear one? Gah, you barbarians are all alike!" the Seer muttered. "All blood and boinking and no sense of drama or culture."
Rolling her eyes upward, she cried out, "Great Otogu, why do I even bother?"
"Gods," said Icehawk, "you sound like my mother!"
"Sensible woman, your mother," the Seer said. "We both agree your life went straight to the crapper after she died."
"You spoke to my Mommy?" Icehawk asked.
The Seer looked imperiously at the barbarian, "The veil between life and death is no barrier for one who wields the power Otogu!"
"Is she doing okay?" he asked. "Besides being dead, I mean?"
"Your mother is quite happy," the Seer replied. "Beyond the veil, she has been reunited with your father!"
"Strange," said Icehawk, "Daddy isn't dead."
"Oh, er, ahem, where were we?" stammered the Seer. "Oh, yes. You must slay the princess, rescue the dragon and-"
Once again the Seer paused. This time Icehawk was silent.
"-marry the dragon, lie with her and be fruitful!" finished the Seer.
"Wait just a minute!" Icehawk said. "I'm supposed to marry the dragon?"
"Yes."
"And lie with her?"
"Yes."
"And be fruitful with her?"
"Yes."
"And that means we... You know. And then the dragon has children. Right?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Come now, an experienced barbarian warrior such as yourself must know-"
"With a human woman, yes! But a dragon?" Icehawk asked. "But she'll be so big and-"
"Oh ho!" laughed the Seer. "You fear your organ is too small to play in her divine temple?"
"Huh?" asked a clearly puzzled Icehawk.
"Performance anxiety?" asked the Seer.
"With human women..." Icehawk's face reddened. "Let's just say they've never had cause to complain! But a dragon?"
"You don't have to follow the prophesy, Icehawk," the Seer said.
"I don't?"
"Of course not!" the Seer replied. "If you don't, you'll die within the year and your wild country will be conquered, tamed and civilized within a generation. But it's your choice."
Icehawk's shoulders slumped. "Where do I find this princess to slay and dragon to rescue?"
The Seer smiled, "That's a different question, Icehawk. You know the price of an answer."
One flawless black kitten, without a single white hair, sealed for seven days within a black box without a single hole and one flawless white dove, without a single dark feather, whose feet have never touched the ground later...
"...And that's where you'll find the Depths of Doom, along with the princess and the dragon," the seer said.
Without another word, Icehawk turned and walked away.
And so Icehawk journeyed onward, ever onward toward his goal. Icehawk trekked through the Forest of Fear, forded the River of Rage, slogged through the Bog of Bones, crossed the Pit of Peril, scaled the Cliffs of Catastrophe, swam the Lake of Leeches and ascended the Mountains of Madness before finally reaching the Depths of Doom! During his journey, Icehawk had many adventures and bested many foes. Later, this would be put into song and Icehawk's Epic Journey Through the Forest of Fear, the River of Rage, the Bog of Bones, the Pit of Peril, the Cliffs of Catastrophe, the Lake of Leeches and the Mountains of Madness Before Descending Into the Depths of Doom would be sung in the taverns, inns and mead halls of Icehawk's land.
Though a small part of Icehawk's mind was already composing verses for the epic song, most of his cunning, warrior's brain concentrated on the task at hand. Gripping his trusty sword in one hand and his mighty axe in the other, Icehawk strode into the Depths of Doom! Icehawk was barely thirty feet inside the Depths of Doom when he stubbed his toe on a rock.
"Blast it all!" Icehawk said. "How can I stride forth to battle in such Stygian darkness? I must needs light a torch! But which weapon shall I sheath?"
Icehawk looked to his sword, then to his axe, then back again. And again. And again. Forty minutes passed and still Icehawk looked back and forth between his sword and axe. Then, inspiration! Minutes later Icehawk, gripping his sword in one hand and his axe in the other, strode in the Depths of Doom, his way lit by flickering torchlight.
Down, down, down strode Icehawk Though the way was long, never once did Icehawk pause. Though the cave walls around him were laced with gold and precious gens, never once did Icehawk's steely gaze stray from the path. Though the descent was boring, never once did his razor sharp mind wander from the task ahead. Except for the time he spent wondering whether it was acceptable to use "throwed" to rhyme with "toad" and what the bards would say if he did. Okay, rarely did his razor sharp mind wander from the task ahead. As the descent ended, the mighty Icehawk had composed the first thirty-eight verses of the epic song about his adventures. So, really, his razor sharp mind rarely considered the task ahead.
At last, Icehawk stepped out of the cave into a vast cavern. The floor of the cavern was littered with the bones and broken armor of many men. Running toward him was a beautiful young woman in a diaphanous white gown, her ample chest heaving. Behind the young woman loomed a great wurm!
"Oh, mighty warrior!" called the young woman in a sweet, pure voice. "Why do you have a torch stuck into your helmet?" Without waiting for a reply, she continued, "You have come to rescue me! Once we are free from this foul wurm, I will shower my thanks upon you in-"
With one swing of his axe, Icehawk lopped off the young woman's head. Stepping past the body, Icehawk strode toward the dragon, who seemed taken aback by the turn of events. Only when he gave the dragon his full concentration did Icehawk notice the shimmering metal muzzle over the dragon's snout, the solid metal collar around the dragon's throat with a sturdy chain connecting it to the cavern wall. Icehawk was relieved to see the dragon was a prisoner. Perhaps the Seer had been right all along!
But, as Icehawk drew close to the dragon, she raised a mighty claw as if to strike! With reflexes born of battle, Icehawk dove and rolled clear of the dragon's strike. A strike that never came. As Icehawk rose to his feet poised to lay into the dragon, he realised her claw wasn't raised to attack. It was raise to point behind Icehawk!
Icehawk spun about just in time to deflect a descending dagger held by the beautiful young woman who he had so recently decapitated. The lovely head was back atop the lithesome body!
"How dare you strike a lady with your axe!" snarled the young woman. "That is no way to treat a princess, you moro-"
Icehawk's sword thrust deep, piercing the princess's heart. Turning back to the dragon, Icehawk examined the muzzle. Finding the mechanism too intricate, he smashed it with his axe.
As the muzzle slid off the dragon's mouth, she roared, "Duck!"
As he ducked, Icehawk felt a blade pass just where his neck had been. Turning, he found the princess alive again, now with a sword in hand.
"Powerful magic protects her," the dragon called. "The same magic which forces me to do her bidding!"
"Indeed!" cackled the princess, pressing her attack. "You're about to be dragon bait, buddy boy!"
"Is there no way to end her power?" Icehawk called to the dragon, desperately parrying the princess's slashing blade. "No way to free you?"
"As she has not known a man," the dragon called, "she knows great power! But there's no time-"
Icehawk blocked another attack. "Well why didn't you say so earlier!"
There came the ripping of clothing, an outraged cry from the princess and a satisfied grunt from Icehawk.
The dragon cocked her head to one side and commented, "That was...fast."
"Time was of the essence," Icehawk said. "Are you hungry?"
"Ravenous," the dragon replied. "She barely fed me enough to keep me alive!"
Icehawk pushed the still dazed princess toward the dragon. "Enjoy."
Moments later, Icehawk had removed the collar, freeing the dragon. Now he stood before her rather uncomfortably.
"I, uh, came here because of this prophesy," he said. "It, um, instructed me to kill the princess. You think it's okay that you handled that end of it?"
"That depends on the rest of the prophesy," the dragon replied.
"Ah, right. Then I was supposed to rescue the dragon," he continued. "Which I've done."
"Quite nicely, I might add," the dragon said.
"And, um, then I am supposed to, uh... To, um, marry the dragon, lie with her and be fruitful with her," Icehawk said quickly.
"Oh, that prophesy," said the dragon. "That's a relief. I was afraid there was some other prophesy involved."
"So," said Icehawk, "you're prepared to marry me, lie with me and be fruitful with me?"
"Most definitely, my warrior," the dragon replied. "If I do not, my people will be enslaved for all time."
"Good. That's good! The, uh, marriage part should be pretty easy. But the part about lying together and being fruitful..." Icehawk looked along the entire length of the dragon. "Well, I hope you've got some ideas!"
The dragon laughed, "You are not familiar with my kind, are you warrior?"
"You're the first dragon I've ever seen," Icehawk told her.
"Well..." There was a bright flash of light. "Does this help?"
The dragon had vanished. In her place stood a stunningly beautiful human woman. And she was naked.
"Oh yes," Icehawk said. "That will do nicely!"
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Writing What You Know
Writers are always told, "Write what you know." Here's what you'd get to read if we really did that.
The Battle
The chiming clock woke me from my restless slumber. Wrapping myself against the chill morn, I busied myself with typical morning tasks. It did not work. The more I tried to direct my thoughts away from the coming battle, the more the battle came to dominate those thoughts.
As I bathed, the warm water did not have its normal soothing effect. My mind continued to dwell on the fight that lay before me.
I dressed slowly, pretending to consider various garments before selecting my clothing for the day. All too soon, I was clothed and could delay no longer.
I went to where my wife sat, kissed her and said, "Once more into the breach, my dear."
With that, I set forth to do battle. Shortly, the darkened threshold lay before me. Pausing briefly, I took a deep breath and then entered. Though it was dark beyond the portal, I could make out the form of my adversary laying before me. I could delay no longer.
"Time to get up, son!" I said.
"Five more minutes, Dad!" my son murmured from beneath the covers.
And so the battle was joined.
The chiming clock woke me from my restless slumber. Wrapping myself against the chill morn, I busied myself with typical morning tasks. It did not work. The more I tried to direct my thoughts away from the coming battle, the more the battle came to dominate those thoughts.
As I bathed, the warm water did not have its normal soothing effect. My mind continued to dwell on the fight that lay before me.
I dressed slowly, pretending to consider various garments before selecting my clothing for the day. All too soon, I was clothed and could delay no longer.
I went to where my wife sat, kissed her and said, "Once more into the breach, my dear."
With that, I set forth to do battle. Shortly, the darkened threshold lay before me. Pausing briefly, I took a deep breath and then entered. Though it was dark beyond the portal, I could make out the form of my adversary laying before me. I could delay no longer.
"Time to get up, son!" I said.
"Five more minutes, Dad!" my son murmured from beneath the covers.
And so the battle was joined.
The Journey
As was my wont in those days, I frequently journeyed away from hearth and home, away from kith and kin. These trips were fraught with peril as my very life was in the hands of others. Just as, briefly, their lives were in my hands. It was for that reason I always kept my head clear and my hands free as I traveled.
The roaring beasts that conveyed us all on our journeys were fickle creatures. Left unattended for but a scant few seconds, our beasts would turn upon one another, biting deeply into another beast's flanks or rear haunches; sometimes even challenging other beasts head on. Those last were the worst as many beasts died in the challenges, maiming or even killing their riders in the process.
Today was no different. I guided my aging beast in and among younger, larger, stronger beasts as best I could. Hemmed in on all sides, I kept careful control of my beast while hoping the riders around me would do the same. At times, smaller, faster, more agile beasts darted in and out among those who towered above them. I knew not whether to admire those riders for the daring and curse them for fear their sudden movements might spook the larger beasts into attacking me.
By the grace of the gods, once again I reached my destination unscathed. Tethering my beast, I stood on my own two feet. I was pleased. Once again I had arrived at work early enough to get one of the good parking spaces.
As was my wont in those days, I frequently journeyed away from hearth and home, away from kith and kin. These trips were fraught with peril as my very life was in the hands of others. Just as, briefly, their lives were in my hands. It was for that reason I always kept my head clear and my hands free as I traveled.
The roaring beasts that conveyed us all on our journeys were fickle creatures. Left unattended for but a scant few seconds, our beasts would turn upon one another, biting deeply into another beast's flanks or rear haunches; sometimes even challenging other beasts head on. Those last were the worst as many beasts died in the challenges, maiming or even killing their riders in the process.
Today was no different. I guided my aging beast in and among younger, larger, stronger beasts as best I could. Hemmed in on all sides, I kept careful control of my beast while hoping the riders around me would do the same. At times, smaller, faster, more agile beasts darted in and out among those who towered above them. I knew not whether to admire those riders for the daring and curse them for fear their sudden movements might spook the larger beasts into attacking me.
By the grace of the gods, once again I reached my destination unscathed. Tethering my beast, I stood on my own two feet. I was pleased. Once again I had arrived at work early enough to get one of the good parking spaces.
The Escape
I sat hunched in my cubicell, pretending full concentration on a menial task. In truth, my attention lay elsewhere. Furtive glances confirmed that the other inmates in my cubicell block had been been summoned before the warden. I would not have to deal with pleas of "Take me with you!" or fear one of them might alert the authorities. I was determined not to serve my full sentence. Unlike my fellow inmates, I would break out rather than wait for the authorities to release me!
With the first part of my escape path clear, I stood. Pretending to stretch, my gaze swept over the tops of the cubicell walls to the rest of the facility. The way was clear! It was time to go.
Slipping out of my cubicell, I stole from the cubicell block towards an unguarded exit. The last few feet were the most dangerous as I was forced to pass the guards' primary place of gathering. The door was closed, which was good, but voices issued from the room beyond the door. Feigning nonchalance, I attempted to slip past the door.
Suddenly, the door was flung open wide, a guard silhouetted in the doorway.
"Henry, just the man I was looking for!" he said. "We need you in here to explain some of these bugs you reported. You can work late tonight, right?
I sat hunched in my cubicell, pretending full concentration on a menial task. In truth, my attention lay elsewhere. Furtive glances confirmed that the other inmates in my cubicell block had been been summoned before the warden. I would not have to deal with pleas of "Take me with you!" or fear one of them might alert the authorities. I was determined not to serve my full sentence. Unlike my fellow inmates, I would break out rather than wait for the authorities to release me!
With the first part of my escape path clear, I stood. Pretending to stretch, my gaze swept over the tops of the cubicell walls to the rest of the facility. The way was clear! It was time to go.
Slipping out of my cubicell, I stole from the cubicell block towards an unguarded exit. The last few feet were the most dangerous as I was forced to pass the guards' primary place of gathering. The door was closed, which was good, but voices issued from the room beyond the door. Feigning nonchalance, I attempted to slip past the door.
Suddenly, the door was flung open wide, a guard silhouetted in the doorway.
"Henry, just the man I was looking for!" he said. "We need you in here to explain some of these bugs you reported. You can work late tonight, right?
A Trip To the Library
After a fruitless search for interesting reading material, I approached the librarian for suggestions.
"Can I help you?" she asked, smiling.
I refrained from correcting her grammar. After all, I was the one requesting help.
"Yes, please," I replied. "I'm looking for something good to read, preferably something epic."
"Ah, I have just the thing!" she said. "Have you read anything by J. R. R. Tolkien?"
"Never heard of him," I replied.
"Then let me recommend his Professor of English Literature trilogy," she said. "It's all about the fourteen years Tolkien spent teaching English Literature at Oxford!"
"That sounds...boring," I said.
"Boring?" she asked. "You think a trilogy filled with battles to bring knowledge to undisciplined youth, duels of wit at tea time with the rest of the faculty and the ultimate quest for tenure sounds boring?"
"Yes."
"You're right," she signed. "It's deadly dull. So, something exciting, you say. Hm... How about a biography? Stephen Decatur led quite an exciting military life."
"I've read it," I said. "I've read all the biographies that are interesting. Don't you have anything different?"
"Different how?" she asked.
"I don't know," I replied. "Something...made up, perhaps?"
"What an appalling thought!" she exclaimed. "Writers can't just make things up! They must write what they know!"
As I turned away, I heard her muttering, "Make things up? The very idea is ridiculous!"
Okay, I made that last up. Librarians the world over are appalled.
After a fruitless search for interesting reading material, I approached the librarian for suggestions.
"Can I help you?" she asked, smiling.
I refrained from correcting her grammar. After all, I was the one requesting help.
"Yes, please," I replied. "I'm looking for something good to read, preferably something epic."
"Ah, I have just the thing!" she said. "Have you read anything by J. R. R. Tolkien?"
"Never heard of him," I replied.
"Then let me recommend his Professor of English Literature trilogy," she said. "It's all about the fourteen years Tolkien spent teaching English Literature at Oxford!"
"That sounds...boring," I said.
"Boring?" she asked. "You think a trilogy filled with battles to bring knowledge to undisciplined youth, duels of wit at tea time with the rest of the faculty and the ultimate quest for tenure sounds boring?"
"Yes."
"You're right," she signed. "It's deadly dull. So, something exciting, you say. Hm... How about a biography? Stephen Decatur led quite an exciting military life."
"I've read it," I said. "I've read all the biographies that are interesting. Don't you have anything different?"
"Different how?" she asked.
"I don't know," I replied. "Something...made up, perhaps?"
"What an appalling thought!" she exclaimed. "Writers can't just make things up! They must write what they know!"
As I turned away, I heard her muttering, "Make things up? The very idea is ridiculous!"
The End
Okay, I made that last up. Librarians the world over are appalled.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Nihilists In Spaaaaaaaaaaaaace!
Note: This is written for the Friday Challenge found here.
I rose on a column of flame above the speck of dust we humans call home. I rose into the vast Nothing of the universe. I gazed out at the Nothingness and it called to me. I came from Nothing. I go toward Nothing. All mankind's emotions are as Nothing against the emptiness that is our universe.
We are but a chance spark in the never ending darkness of Nothing, brief and ephemeral. Our lives are Nothing. My life is Nothing. And so I chose to give myself over to Nothing here and now.
After all, what could stop me? Nothing!
I stopped, confusion intruding on my thoughts. Perhaps I should try that again.
I would return to the Nothing that was my source and my destiny! Nothing could stop me!
Damn! There is was again. If Nothing could stop me, did that make Nothing Something? But if Nothing was Something, it could not be Nothing. By its very definition, Nothing is, well, nothing. There is no way Nothing can be both Nothing and Something at the same time.
Oh, wait! Obviously the overwhelming presence of Nothing had affected my mind. No, no, no! That couldn't be right, either. Nothing cannot have presence! To be surrounded by Nothing is to have, um, you know, nothing around you. So if there was some overwhelming presence, that would further indicate that there was Something.
That couldn't be right! Nihilism, mankind's greatest philosophical discovery, shows that everything is Nothing. And if everything is Nothing, there can't be Something getting in the way and screwing up my plan to embrace Nothing!
Wait! Embrace Nothing? That's another impossibility! You can embrace Something but not Nothing. What is going on here? All of my carefully laid plans for this journey to Nowhere to embrace Nothing are falling apart around me.
And while I'm at it, how can I journey to Nowhere? How would I know when I got There? Argh! There it is again! If you're Nowhere, there can't be any There there.
No, this is all becoming too complicated! I must take a few deep breaths, calm myself and realize I have Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear? Nothing to Fear? NOTHING TO FEAR? There I go again! Here I am, on a journey to Nowhere to embrace Nothing and now suddenly I discover I fear Nothing? How can I give myself up to Nothing if it scares me so much? That would take courage. Which is Something. Which is the exact opposite of Nothing. Which I want to embrace or which I fear or...or...or...Something.
C-c-could it be that my philosophy is wrong? But that would mean that Nihilism is Nothing. Which makes a weird kind of sense, actually. Nihilism says everything is Nothing, mankind is Nothing and all of mankind's works are Nothing. And nihilism is a discovery of mankind. By nihilism's own philosophy, that mean nihilism is Nothing as well!
Ah ha! I believe I've made a breakthrough! Nihilism is Nothing! And I have Nothing to fear. So I must fear nihilism. To fear a philosophy is to reject the philosophy. So I must reject nihilism and embrace Something! I wonder what it will be?
In awe, I look out the view port in search of Something to embrace. I see the moon. Hm... Should it really be as close as-
I rose on a column of flame above the speck of dust we humans call home. I rose into the vast Nothing of the universe. I gazed out at the Nothingness and it called to me. I came from Nothing. I go toward Nothing. All mankind's emotions are as Nothing against the emptiness that is our universe.
We are but a chance spark in the never ending darkness of Nothing, brief and ephemeral. Our lives are Nothing. My life is Nothing. And so I chose to give myself over to Nothing here and now.
After all, what could stop me? Nothing!
I stopped, confusion intruding on my thoughts. Perhaps I should try that again.
I would return to the Nothing that was my source and my destiny! Nothing could stop me!
Damn! There is was again. If Nothing could stop me, did that make Nothing Something? But if Nothing was Something, it could not be Nothing. By its very definition, Nothing is, well, nothing. There is no way Nothing can be both Nothing and Something at the same time.
Oh, wait! Obviously the overwhelming presence of Nothing had affected my mind. No, no, no! That couldn't be right, either. Nothing cannot have presence! To be surrounded by Nothing is to have, um, you know, nothing around you. So if there was some overwhelming presence, that would further indicate that there was Something.
That couldn't be right! Nihilism, mankind's greatest philosophical discovery, shows that everything is Nothing. And if everything is Nothing, there can't be Something getting in the way and screwing up my plan to embrace Nothing!
Wait! Embrace Nothing? That's another impossibility! You can embrace Something but not Nothing. What is going on here? All of my carefully laid plans for this journey to Nowhere to embrace Nothing are falling apart around me.
And while I'm at it, how can I journey to Nowhere? How would I know when I got There? Argh! There it is again! If you're Nowhere, there can't be any There there.
No, this is all becoming too complicated! I must take a few deep breaths, calm myself and realize I have Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear? Nothing to Fear? NOTHING TO FEAR? There I go again! Here I am, on a journey to Nowhere to embrace Nothing and now suddenly I discover I fear Nothing? How can I give myself up to Nothing if it scares me so much? That would take courage. Which is Something. Which is the exact opposite of Nothing. Which I want to embrace or which I fear or...or...or...Something.
C-c-could it be that my philosophy is wrong? But that would mean that Nihilism is Nothing. Which makes a weird kind of sense, actually. Nihilism says everything is Nothing, mankind is Nothing and all of mankind's works are Nothing. And nihilism is a discovery of mankind. By nihilism's own philosophy, that mean nihilism is Nothing as well!
Ah ha! I believe I've made a breakthrough! Nihilism is Nothing! And I have Nothing to fear. So I must fear nihilism. To fear a philosophy is to reject the philosophy. So I must reject nihilism and embrace Something! I wonder what it will be?
In awe, I look out the view port in search of Something to embrace. I see the moon. Hm... Should it really be as close as-
Monday, December 22, 2008
Joy to the World - a Christmas Retail Rant
December 23, 1989. 7:45 AM. The Saturday before Christmas.
The mall is already packed, meaning one of the big anchor stores opened at 6:00 or something. I get to the store and raise the gate just enough to get into the store. Four customers duck under the gate before I can start lowering it again.
“We don’t open until 8:00,” I say.
Holding up a game, one of the customers asks, “Have you got this for the Commodore 64?”
“We aren’t open yet,” I repeat. “You can come back in at 8:00.”
Three of the customers leave. The C-64 guy is still holding the Atari game, ignoring me and looking on the PC compatible section.
“We aren’t open yet,” I say in my best I’m-being-patient-because-you’re-a-moron voice. I use that voice a lot during the Christmas sales season. “You can’t stay in store right now.”
“Huh?” the guy says, looking up.
“Leave. Now.” The store hasn’t even opened and I’m already out of patience.
The C-64 guy slips the Atari game onto the PC shelf. “All you had to do was say so. No need to be rude. You’re not the only software store in the mall, you know.”
“Yeah. There’s a Babbage's at the bottom of those stairs over there,” I say, pointing. “Their sales guy is just showing up. If you hurry, maybe you can duck under his gate and see how he reacts.”
I slam the gate shut and finally start getting everything ready to open the store.
Joy to the world.
8:25 AM
I land my first babysitting job of the season when a mother instructs her two boys to stay in the store and play games until she’s finished. The boys are maybe 11 and nine.
Looking across the store at me, she says, “Keep an eye on them, for me. They aren’t allowed to wander around the mall by themselves.” Then she’s gone, reabsorbed by the amorphous multi-celled blob known as Christmas shoppers.
She goes right to the top of my Mother of the Year list. Competition for the top spot had been tough this season, but I’m confident this display of maternal instinct will prove well nigh unbeatable.
I finish with the customer I was assisting and look for the two boys. Oh, bliss, They’ve decided to be helpful! They’ve taken all of the software in the Amiga section and scattered it on the floor. I tell them to leave the software alone.
The nine year old looks to the 11 year old. The 11 year old says, “We’re bored.”
“Not my problem,” I tell them.
“Mom told us to stay here and play games but you don’t have any games to play!” he accuses.
I start putting the Amiga shelf back together again. “Correct.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” I tell him.
“When she gets back, I’m going to tell my mom!” he threatens.
I bend down, look him directly in the eyes and hiss “So am I.”
I don’t have any more trouble from the two boys.
Joy to the world.
9:40 AM
The first complainer shows up. He's right on schedule.
“It took me twenty-five minutes to find a parking place,” he snarls at me.
I don’t say anything. Besides, he probably doesn’t want to hear that I’m required to park half a mile away from the mall so more spaces will be available for the customers.
“And that was after I spent 30 minutes crawling through the traffic just to get here!”
I’ve had to fight that traffic for the last seven days. I doubt he’s interested.
“All just to pick up this damned game for my kid,” he waves something for a PC compatible around.
I know the game and ask, “Do you have a VGA card in your computer?”
“A what?”
“A VGA graphics card,” I repeat. “The game requires a VGA graphics card to run.”
“How the hell should I know?” He’s back to snarling.
“If you could tell me what kind of computer you have I-“
“It’s an IBM,” he says.
“Actually made by IBM?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answers.
“If you can tell me what model it is, maybe I can help you figure out if you’ve got a VGA card,” I tell him. It looks like I’m starting to get him calmed down.
“I know that! It’s a PC, Jr.”
Crap. I’m about to have the nothing-you-actually-want-will-run-on-a-PC-Jr. conversation.
Joy to the world.
10:15 AM
The Mother of the Year returns. I’m busy juggling questions from four different customers and don’t notice her return until she plants herself right in front of me.
“My boys tell me you didn’t let them play any games!” she says.
I signal the customer I was returning to that I’ll be just a minute. He nods sympathetically.
“We don’t have any machines set up in this store,” I tell her.
“You could have set one up!” she demands.
Snap!
“And you could have taken them with you,” I retort, “or left them at home! I am not a babysitter nor is it my job to entertain your children. That, madam, is your job. Now, take your children and leave my store!”
Now the Mother of the Year is truly furious. Like I care.
“I’m going to file a complaint with your manager!” she threatens.
“Go ahead!” I hiss back. What the hell, hissing worked on her boys, maybe it will work on her, too. "She hates people who treat us like babysitters as much as I do!"
“Hmph! Well, I can tell you we’ll never shop in this store again!” she says.
Joy to the world!
11:00 AM
Support finally arrives in the person of my co-worker, Bob. Thank God! I've got to piss like you wouldn't believe.
"Been busy?" he asks.
Our store is all of 500 square feet. There are at least two dozen customers in the store. It took Bob half a minute to get from the store entrance to the register at the back of the store. And he has to ask if it's been busy?
"Yes," I say. "Hurry up and sign in so I can use the can!"
Bob laughs. I'll give him that one. I'd have laughed in his place, too. It takes all of 15 seconds to sign in and grab a name tag. It only takes 10 seconds for a customer to approach me. She's holding at least half a dozen different computer games and looks completely confused. A typical customer, in other words.
She holds out all of the games, "Which of these would be a good game for a 13 year old boy?"
Feeling as if my eyeballs are starting to float, I take a look at what she's got. The Bard's Tale. M.U.L.E. Gauntlet. Skate or Die. California Games.
"Any of those would be fine," I answer and start edging toward the back office.
She's a pro, though, and not going to be deterred by my evasion. "But which one would be best?"
I'm tempted to just tell her to get M.U.L.E. But just because I think it's the best computer game ever designed doesn't mean the boy she's buying for will agree.
"What are some other games he likes to play?" I ask, cursing myself for taking my job more seriously than my bladder.
"I don't know," she answers. "It's for my nephew. My sister said he liked computer games and to get him one."
Uh oh, I'm stuck with a customer who's even more ignorant than normal! Experience has taught me what to do now, but I'm going to be stuck with this one customer for a while.
"But you're sure he has a Commodore 64?" I ask, positive she will be anything but sure.
"A what?" she asks.
"His computer. Is it a Commodore 64?"
"I don't know. My sister just said they had a computer. Does it matter?"
"Yes. If the game isn't for the right computer it won't work," I tell her, just as I've told countless other clueless customers this season.
I'm amazed my bladder has exploded yet. I also know what's coming next.
"That's stupid," she tells me. "Why would people make computers that are different like that?"
"I'd suggest you call your sister and find out what kind of computer they have. Then we should be able to help you pick the right game for your nephew," I say, starting to turn away. But she's not done quite yet.
"Can I use your phone to call her?" she asks.
We're not supposed to do that but I figure I can run back to the can while she's on the phone. "Sure."
I hand her the phone, dial the number, make sure it's ringing and then head for the can.
"Hi, Ellen, it's Sarah," she says. "I've got a sales guy who has some questions for you!"
Smiling, she holds the phone out to me.
Joy to the world.
11:18 AM
I finally get to the can.
Joy to the world.
12:30 PM
Lunch. I get an entire 30 minutes during which I don't have to answer any questions for any customers! I find the shortest line in the food court and wait to order my lunch.
Joy to the world.
12:57 PM
I finally get my lunch and have a whole three minutes before I'm due back at the store. I get to grab bites in between customers!
Joy to the world.
1:53 PM
I finally finish my lunch. Cold fries suck.
Joy to the world.
4:30 PM
There are three of us working the store now; Bob, Mike and me. But Mike's seasonal help so he doesn't really count. Unless saying, "Let me ask Henry" or "I'll ask Bob" counts as help.
The afternoon has been a lot like the morning. I've had the drunk, the shoplifter (complete with parents who don't believe their angel is a thief), the father who simply watched as his three children totally wrecked the Apple shelves (a strong candidate for my new Father of the Year contest) and the usual asortment of complainers.
But now my shift is over. I get to leave!
Joy to the world!
5:15 PM
After a 10 minute walk to my car, I find traffic is pretty light. It only takes me 35 minutes to make the 13 minute drive home. I stagger into the apartment and am greeted by my wife and the cats.
"Tough day?" Audrey asks.
"About like normal," I respond.
Audrey smiles, "I thought so. I got beer."
Joy to the world!
Afterword
Every customer mentioned in this story was real, though they probably didn't all hit on the same day. Rest assured there were other idiots who filled in for them. The Christmas of 1989 was the last one during which I worked in retail. It was also the last time I entered a mall at the height of the Christmas sales season.
Now that really is joy to the world!
The mall is already packed, meaning one of the big anchor stores opened at 6:00 or something. I get to the store and raise the gate just enough to get into the store. Four customers duck under the gate before I can start lowering it again.
“We don’t open until 8:00,” I say.
Holding up a game, one of the customers asks, “Have you got this for the Commodore 64?”
“We aren’t open yet,” I repeat. “You can come back in at 8:00.”
Three of the customers leave. The C-64 guy is still holding the Atari game, ignoring me and looking on the PC compatible section.
“We aren’t open yet,” I say in my best I’m-being-patient-because-you’re-a-moron voice. I use that voice a lot during the Christmas sales season. “You can’t stay in store right now.”
“Huh?” the guy says, looking up.
“Leave. Now.” The store hasn’t even opened and I’m already out of patience.
The C-64 guy slips the Atari game onto the PC shelf. “All you had to do was say so. No need to be rude. You’re not the only software store in the mall, you know.”
“Yeah. There’s a Babbage's at the bottom of those stairs over there,” I say, pointing. “Their sales guy is just showing up. If you hurry, maybe you can duck under his gate and see how he reacts.”
I slam the gate shut and finally start getting everything ready to open the store.
Joy to the world.
8:25 AM
I land my first babysitting job of the season when a mother instructs her two boys to stay in the store and play games until she’s finished. The boys are maybe 11 and nine.
Looking across the store at me, she says, “Keep an eye on them, for me. They aren’t allowed to wander around the mall by themselves.” Then she’s gone, reabsorbed by the amorphous multi-celled blob known as Christmas shoppers.
She goes right to the top of my Mother of the Year list. Competition for the top spot had been tough this season, but I’m confident this display of maternal instinct will prove well nigh unbeatable.
I finish with the customer I was assisting and look for the two boys. Oh, bliss, They’ve decided to be helpful! They’ve taken all of the software in the Amiga section and scattered it on the floor. I tell them to leave the software alone.
The nine year old looks to the 11 year old. The 11 year old says, “We’re bored.”
“Not my problem,” I tell them.
“Mom told us to stay here and play games but you don’t have any games to play!” he accuses.
I start putting the Amiga shelf back together again. “Correct.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” I tell him.
“When she gets back, I’m going to tell my mom!” he threatens.
I bend down, look him directly in the eyes and hiss “So am I.”
I don’t have any more trouble from the two boys.
Joy to the world.
9:40 AM
The first complainer shows up. He's right on schedule.
“It took me twenty-five minutes to find a parking place,” he snarls at me.
I don’t say anything. Besides, he probably doesn’t want to hear that I’m required to park half a mile away from the mall so more spaces will be available for the customers.
“And that was after I spent 30 minutes crawling through the traffic just to get here!”
I’ve had to fight that traffic for the last seven days. I doubt he’s interested.
“All just to pick up this damned game for my kid,” he waves something for a PC compatible around.
I know the game and ask, “Do you have a VGA card in your computer?”
“A what?”
“A VGA graphics card,” I repeat. “The game requires a VGA graphics card to run.”
“How the hell should I know?” He’s back to snarling.
“If you could tell me what kind of computer you have I-“
“It’s an IBM,” he says.
“Actually made by IBM?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answers.
“If you can tell me what model it is, maybe I can help you figure out if you’ve got a VGA card,” I tell him. It looks like I’m starting to get him calmed down.
“I know that! It’s a PC, Jr.”
Crap. I’m about to have the nothing-you-actually-want-will-run-on-a-PC-Jr. conversation.
Joy to the world.
10:15 AM
The Mother of the Year returns. I’m busy juggling questions from four different customers and don’t notice her return until she plants herself right in front of me.
“My boys tell me you didn’t let them play any games!” she says.
I signal the customer I was returning to that I’ll be just a minute. He nods sympathetically.
“We don’t have any machines set up in this store,” I tell her.
“You could have set one up!” she demands.
Snap!
“And you could have taken them with you,” I retort, “or left them at home! I am not a babysitter nor is it my job to entertain your children. That, madam, is your job. Now, take your children and leave my store!”
Now the Mother of the Year is truly furious. Like I care.
“I’m going to file a complaint with your manager!” she threatens.
“Go ahead!” I hiss back. What the hell, hissing worked on her boys, maybe it will work on her, too. "She hates people who treat us like babysitters as much as I do!"
“Hmph! Well, I can tell you we’ll never shop in this store again!” she says.
Joy to the world!
11:00 AM
Support finally arrives in the person of my co-worker, Bob. Thank God! I've got to piss like you wouldn't believe.
"Been busy?" he asks.
Our store is all of 500 square feet. There are at least two dozen customers in the store. It took Bob half a minute to get from the store entrance to the register at the back of the store. And he has to ask if it's been busy?
"Yes," I say. "Hurry up and sign in so I can use the can!"
Bob laughs. I'll give him that one. I'd have laughed in his place, too. It takes all of 15 seconds to sign in and grab a name tag. It only takes 10 seconds for a customer to approach me. She's holding at least half a dozen different computer games and looks completely confused. A typical customer, in other words.
She holds out all of the games, "Which of these would be a good game for a 13 year old boy?"
Feeling as if my eyeballs are starting to float, I take a look at what she's got. The Bard's Tale. M.U.L.E. Gauntlet. Skate or Die. California Games.
"Any of those would be fine," I answer and start edging toward the back office.
She's a pro, though, and not going to be deterred by my evasion. "But which one would be best?"
I'm tempted to just tell her to get M.U.L.E. But just because I think it's the best computer game ever designed doesn't mean the boy she's buying for will agree.
"What are some other games he likes to play?" I ask, cursing myself for taking my job more seriously than my bladder.
"I don't know," she answers. "It's for my nephew. My sister said he liked computer games and to get him one."
Uh oh, I'm stuck with a customer who's even more ignorant than normal! Experience has taught me what to do now, but I'm going to be stuck with this one customer for a while.
"But you're sure he has a Commodore 64?" I ask, positive she will be anything but sure.
"A what?" she asks.
"His computer. Is it a Commodore 64?"
"I don't know. My sister just said they had a computer. Does it matter?"
"Yes. If the game isn't for the right computer it won't work," I tell her, just as I've told countless other clueless customers this season.
I'm amazed my bladder has exploded yet. I also know what's coming next.
"That's stupid," she tells me. "Why would people make computers that are different like that?"
"I'd suggest you call your sister and find out what kind of computer they have. Then we should be able to help you pick the right game for your nephew," I say, starting to turn away. But she's not done quite yet.
"Can I use your phone to call her?" she asks.
We're not supposed to do that but I figure I can run back to the can while she's on the phone. "Sure."
I hand her the phone, dial the number, make sure it's ringing and then head for the can.
"Hi, Ellen, it's Sarah," she says. "I've got a sales guy who has some questions for you!"
Smiling, she holds the phone out to me.
Joy to the world.
11:18 AM
I finally get to the can.
Joy to the world.
12:30 PM
Lunch. I get an entire 30 minutes during which I don't have to answer any questions for any customers! I find the shortest line in the food court and wait to order my lunch.
Joy to the world.
12:57 PM
I finally get my lunch and have a whole three minutes before I'm due back at the store. I get to grab bites in between customers!
Joy to the world.
1:53 PM
I finally finish my lunch. Cold fries suck.
Joy to the world.
4:30 PM
There are three of us working the store now; Bob, Mike and me. But Mike's seasonal help so he doesn't really count. Unless saying, "Let me ask Henry" or "I'll ask Bob" counts as help.
The afternoon has been a lot like the morning. I've had the drunk, the shoplifter (complete with parents who don't believe their angel is a thief), the father who simply watched as his three children totally wrecked the Apple shelves (a strong candidate for my new Father of the Year contest) and the usual asortment of complainers.
But now my shift is over. I get to leave!
Joy to the world!
5:15 PM
After a 10 minute walk to my car, I find traffic is pretty light. It only takes me 35 minutes to make the 13 minute drive home. I stagger into the apartment and am greeted by my wife and the cats.
"Tough day?" Audrey asks.
"About like normal," I respond.
Audrey smiles, "I thought so. I got beer."
Joy to the world!
Afterword
Every customer mentioned in this story was real, though they probably didn't all hit on the same day. Rest assured there were other idiots who filled in for them. The Christmas of 1989 was the last one during which I worked in retail. It was also the last time I entered a mall at the height of the Christmas sales season.
Now that really is joy to the world!
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