The Initiate

I clutched my books tightly to my chest as I saw my peers walking around the halls, glops of shaving cream clinging to their clothes, hair, backpacks and books, and looks of humiliation on their faces. I shuddered a bit and averted my eyes, thankful it hadn't happened to me. Yet. A wedgie or a paddling could be lurking behind any corner.

I'd seen the flyers and heard the morning announcements all week long: Hazing of freshmen will not be tolerated!

"Yeah, sure," I thought sardonically to myself.

My destination loomed ahead of me, Mr. Kascmarek standing at the door as we filed inside.

"Top o' the mornin' to ye, ladies!" he said to us, smiling brightly.

"What a dork!" I thought to myself, unable to keep from smiling back as I ducked into the safety of my Astronomy class.

"It's not even morning anymore," I heard one of the other girls complain to her friend, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. Last class of the day on the last day of the first week of my freshman year, then I could escape to the refuge of my bus.

I didn't hear a word Mr. Kasczmarek said that period. I nervously watched clock, mentally rehearsing my plan and sweating being recognized as an unconsecrated fish. Luckily, I had a secret weapon. All I needed was a few minutes alone in a bathroom to put the plan into effect. Ten minutes till bell time, I got up to ask if I could use the restroom.

"Feminine emergency," I whispered urgently to him. He nodded his uncomfortable permission at me. I gathered up my books eagerly and headed for the door. I poked my head out to scout the coast; it was clear, so I made for the closest bathroom. Empty! I dumped my stuff on the floor, fished a can of shaving cream out of my purse and started applying it to random parts of my body. I was gloating smugly at my own genius when I heard a toilet flush, and with a sinking feeling in my stomach, I remembered too late to check for feet.

"What is this?!" I heard someone demand behind me. I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat to see a senior girl looking out of a stall at me in wry amusement. For the first time in my life, I wished the girls' bathrooms were doorless like the boys'. The bell rang, and my heart sank from my throat down into my shoes. I was screwed.

The girl positioned herself between me and the exit and was joined by two of her friends after a few moments. I stood there lamely with the can of shaving cream in my hand, wishing I could trip and fall into one of the cracks in the floor and disappear forever.

"Looks like we've got a clever one," one of the newcomers commented.

"Let's go, Einstein," she said, hauling me out of the bathroom by my upper arm. Three boys stood outside, obviously waiting for their girlfriends. They took one look at me and burst out laughing.

"Oh, that's too much! We've gotta do something special for this one," one of the guys said.

"We have to make an example of her," the first girl said, glaring at me, "and I have just the thing." She pulled two rolls of saran wrap out of her backpack and brandished them a bit. I stared uncomprehendingly. What they were going to do with THOSE?

***

"Fucking perfect," I thought, squeezing my eyes shut against the laughter bombarding me. What kind of person sits at home and thinks up this medieval stuff to do to other people, anyway?! I struggled a little in my saran wrap bonds, trying in vain to free myself, since it was becoming increasingly obvious no one else was going to do it. I felt like a witch tied to the stake as I hung there, plastic-wrapped to the flag pole.

"You could have at LEAST left my feet on the ground!!" I yelled bitterly at the retreating backs of my personal group of persecutors.

The Bonnie Situation

That's right, folks, it's time to rant about work! Here's a little background info on the situation:

I am CONSTANTLY being audited by several government agencies and by my own company. Once a year, it's the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. Once every two years it's the Board of Pharmacy. Twice a year it's Department of Health and Human Services. And once every trimester it's my own company. My own company is the most critical audit we go through. They nit-pick EVERYTHING with the idea that if we catch it ourselves, an outside agency won't get the opportunity to. It's a pretty sound philosophy and works out well, but it's a really gruelling experience.

I was audited late last month by my company. My company employs a team of 6 people who do nothing but travel around to all the various labs and perform these audits. . . we call them "Auditors" (clever, huh?). Anyhow, there's a new addition to the auditing team, i'll call him "Joe". Most new auditors are really tough. I don't know if they're trying to impress their boss or what, but my lab drew the unlucky straw and we got Joe.

Now, for the situation itself:

He spent two days turning my lab upside down, and he found violations a-plenty. I was able to find documentation to negate some of them, but at the end of the day, there were four i couldn't talk him out of, one of which was the daily machinery checks the first run (midnight shift) people are supposed to take care of.

Now, it is the general feeling of the first run folk that since it's the busiest shift, they should be excused from being responsible for the more fluffy chores. To a degree, they're right, but opinion over what constitutes "fluff" is always the subject of heated debate. Machine checks is something they'd rather not be responsible for, but they know they can't use the machines until they've been checked for accuracy and proper function. So there's been a silent, passive-aggressive battle over machine checks since. . . well, ever since i can remember. The usual tactic: "forget" to "enter the data into the computer". Everyone knows this is code for "fuck you, i was 30 minutes late today and i didn't wanna be bothered with it", but because the other technicians will vouch for the fact that the machine was checked and functioning properly, but due to the lack of time the data was not entered, it's hard to discipline.

Up till now, the usual procedure is i'll document the days the checks were missed on my monthly audit (did i mention that i have to audit myself once a month?). Once the audit is complete, i hold a staff meeting to let people know what they need to work on. Every month, machine checks are on that list. I give the techs a stern talking-to, and the checks aren't missed for a few weeks. Then the passive aggression sets back in.

Joe The Auditor, being a pretty clever guy, saw the pattern almost immediately, and suggested that i assign each machine check to a specific person, in order to better track the errant employee. From there, he suggested, i could administer "counseling" as i saw fit. A "suggestion" from an auditor, of course, is just a polite way to say "directive". "Counseling", of course means "write them up". So, under orders of the auditor, i gathered the techs together and divided machine checks up among them. They, of course, argued, harangued, complained, and made a general fuss about this new policy, as they could see exactly where it was going. Unfortunately, this came from over my head, so there was no help for them. I probably don't need to mention that they did not see this as the result of the half-assed way they generally do the checks in the first place (key idea here: consequences they brought upon themselves). They saw it as me picking on them.

Two days later, "Bonnie" missed her check on one of her machines. Bonnie was the most belligerent of the objectors to the new policy, and required the most convincing that the policy was not intended to be directed at her personally. My boss noticed Bonnie's omission and called me into her office where she told me in no uncertain terms that she expected me to make an example of Bonnie. Fantastic.

So i already know where this is going to go. Tomorrow, i'm going to go in with my "verbal-written warning" that i'm going to deliver to Bonnie. She's going to roll her eyes, call me a fascist (or some other dramatic, non-vulgar term she happens to come up with at the time), demand to know why i'm chastising her when [Insert name] does [insert transgression] every single day and gets away with it. After my many attempts to reign in her tantrum, i will have to bring my boss in, where she'll turn into the righteously indignant employee that i'm singling out for ill treatment, and demand some action be taken against me or she's calling human resources.

The whole business will take more effort and energy than the five minutes it would have taken Bonnie to just run the check on the machine in the first place. But somehow, it will become all my fault. She will be completely incapable of seeing that if she had just done the check in the first place, this conversation wouldn't be happening. I don't understand how it is adults can't take ownership of their own mistakes/misdeeds and take steps to correct them. I don't understand why the need to blame and pass the buck persists past childhood.

Unwelcome House Guests

They arrived on the doorstep of their new temporary home. It was perfect! Humid atmosphere, just like they loved; uncrowded, little competition for space and resources; warm, but not hot; and best of all: free! They'd just squat for a while before they were either discovered and evicted or crowded out once they had too many offspring. Then they'd move on.

They moved in and began making themselves comfortable. First, they blocked up the draftiness; they didn't want their babies getting sick! Mrs. was already expecting, and didn't want her first children dying of exposure. Thinking of exposure, they remembered to turn the temperature up. As long as the place was still a bit drafty, there was no need to make matters worse by freezing!

Then they took over the food and resources in the house, fattening up and putting things to work for them. Before they realized it, they had a nice little colony to keep them company. Loneliness problem solved! They'd have all the entertainment and entertaining they could ever want.

And then some. They'd only been there a couple of days and they were already feeling a bit cramped. The draftiness was gone, and the temperature was sitting at a slighty-warmer-than-cozy 102°. No matter, they'd invite a few of them to start scouting out for their next place. The couple sighed at the lovely new place, vaguely nostalgic about it as though they'd already left. They turned their thoughts to the future, excited about how quiet it would be compared to this place. Not all of them would make the move, of course; they themselves were already past their prime. Ah, well. This would be the perfect place to die, if they weren't evicted first.


It started as nothing more than a tickle in my throat that made me want to clear it constantly. I could tell that it annoyed people immensely, but what could I do? Then the fever and congestion set in; I couldn't breathe without effort, and certainly not through my nose at all. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach to go with the stuffy feeling in my head and chest. Yep, I had a cold. Man, I hate being sick! "I'd better wash my hands," I thought, "before I spread it to everyone else."

The Web

She stood at the epicenter of her web. It was not a uniform web, some strands were thicker, and others barely there at all. It was not a large web, but it was far-flung. It was not a complex web, few of the gossamers were interconnected by any other means but the center that bound them.

And she was that center. She spun slowly around to gaze down each strand that branched out from her heart, each ending with a person she loved. At the end of her thickest rope was her mother and her father. There was a thicker rope binding the two of them together. She plucked gently at it, and felt of its immutability. This rope could not be sundered. This rope was the iron-clad anchor.

She spun slightly and slid her fingers along the more elastic band of her sister. More flexible than the anchor rope, but equally stalwart. She let her thoughts weave their way down this band, recalling the times it'd been stretched past endurance, and how it'd never snapped. The same sinewy rope that bound her parents together also connected to this strand. She was positive the quality of that strand was somewhat different, but she could not see that far.

Her husband's fiber was different from the rest of the web in that it did not branch away from her, but wound its way around her. It tethered her as firmly as a delicate chain, fettered her heart possessively, but hampered her movements not at all. This chain was not one of imprisonment but security.

The gossamer that bound her brother to her was much shorter, but sticky. They were not related, but she loved him no less for that.

The strand that bound her stepchild to her was invisible. She never spoke of her love for the child that was not hers, but like the strand, it was no less there for all its repose.

Every fiber forged of love branched thusly from her heart, every person who meant something to her at the end of one of the strands. She felt grateful for the web and everyone who was a part of it and her life, but wistful. Today she wished she could gather all the strands in one hand, and draw them all in. Today she wished the web could be replaced with togetherness.

This Old House

I stood in the doorway to my less-than-beautiful new home, surveying the work ahead of me. It was huge, it was dirt-cheap, it was falling down around me, and it was absolutely perfect for what i had in mind. With a feeling of deep satisfaction and eager anticipation, I stepped across the threshold.

I'd never seen the upstairs. The staircase had collapsed in the center a few decades ago, and the upstairs had fallen into disuse. The realtor said that there were old belongings up there that i would have to sort through and, most likely, throw out. No matter. I walked through the applianceless kitchen, feeling that something beyond the obvious was missing. I paused, and then it came to me: the humming of the refrigerator was absent. Naturally it would be, i told myself, seeing as how there was no fridge present to make the hum in the first place. It's just funny the things you don't realize you look for until they're not there. Through a set of double doors to the north stood the formal dining room. The table was still there, a long, grand, stately affair with nine chairs on either side, and one at each end. Though nothing was left on the table itself, i could half-see a moldering wedding feast, complete with a moldering Miss Havisham lamenting over it.

I continued through the house, noting the plaster crumbling from the walls in this room, the missing baseboards in that room, the water-stained ceilings throughout, the peeling wallpaper; the decay and detritus everywhere i looked. I went back outside and pulled the ladder out of my old beat up pickup truck. I had promised not to do exactly what i was on my way to do: find my way up to the upstairs. My pledge was to completely gut the house, but i couldn't deny the house its last chance to tell its story before i gave it a much-needed makeover. Makeover. No, that was too cosmetic a word. This would be more like a complete reconstructive surgery. It would be unrecognizable. It would be a death and a resurrection, though admittedly, it already had both legs in the grave. It just hadn't leaned far enough forward yet.

I propped the ladder against the landing and braced it at the bottom with chunks of the ceiling that'd fallen down. Eagerly i climbed up, carefully pulling myself up on the landing. It held me up, though i could hear the floor protest and the dust my weight caused to flake off the ceiling below me. Gingerly, i walked up the next flight of stairs, my foot only going through one of them. There was a hallway with several rooms to either side, and a pull-down set of stairs at the end leading up into an attic. I opened the doors as i came across them. There were five bedrooms altogether, a water closet, a linen closet, and a small room that gave access to the upper part of the chimney, presumably for the sweep.

The first bedroom was nothing but a large hole, the contents of the room splintered and broken in the room below. I'd already seen it during my previous walk-throughs, but from another angle. The second and third bedrooms were intact, but obviously unused guest rooms. I was starting to feel a little disappointed at the lack of payout for the risks i'd taken just to traverse these rooms. The fourth room was a nursery. The walls were painted a once-bright blue, with fluffy white-turned-dingy gray clouds all around. The paint was streaked and running, giving the illusion of a sunny day turned to storms. The nursery contained all the usual trappings of an infant's room: a crib with an animal mobile, a little dresser, a rocking chair and a small chest. The chest contained various stuffed animals. Odd, the realtor hadn't mentioned any children. Just the old man who'd died peacefully at the breakfast table, reading his Sunday paper and sipping his Sunday coffee. The fifth room had to be his.

The fifth room was his. It was the smallest of the bedrooms, and the tidiest. The twin bed was made, though the sheets were stained from a leak in the celing. The dresser had a few ordinary photographs of various family members, and very little else. All in all, the room was extremely utilitarian: A bed for sleeping, a nightstand for holding medications, a dresser for holding clothes, and a closet for storage. Very disappointing in its lack of personality or secrets. I moved on to the attic.

. . .which took five minutes out of my day. I popped my head up to a completely empty attic. I didn't bother ascending all the way before making my descent. The house had no story to tell, so it was time to lay it to rest before i breathed new life into it. "I'm already up here, i might as well start here," i said to myself, pulling a spray bottle out of my knapsack. I stood in the center of the room with my eyes closed for a moment, then i raised my arm and began unhurriedly to spray. In my mind, i saw the dust, dirt and details begin to drip slowly down the wall. I sprayed more liberally and opened my eyes. Everywhere i sprayed, detail ran in rivulets down the wall and collected on the floor. A clean blank canvas was the only thing left behind. Eager to get to work on that canvas, i began to spray away the old existence of the house, mentally composing its new face as i went along.

I Hate Doing Dishes

It's funny how events happening to you while you're asleep affect your dreams.

I was standing over my sink, washing some dishes up after supper. The dishes were stacked up to the ceiling in piles all over the kitchen and i was afraid i'd never catch up before i had to make dinner again. It was a reasonable fear, i thought, as i eyed the stack of coffee cups teetering ominously over my head. I thought i'd do those next before they finally fell over onto my head and buried me in a mountain of ceramic. I was positive if that happened, it'd take years to unearth me.

I finished the plate i was working on and put it in the rinse water. I briefly wondered what happened to that dishwasher i had just bought last year. Ah, yes, it became disgruntled with overuse and ran off, leaving a drippy note behind that i could barely read. The ink had all run together. Poor dishwasher; i could certainly commiserate with it's feelings of unappreciation right now! I wished i'd been a better friend to the poor thing, and maybe it'd be here now to help me. I snickered at my ridiculous thoughts and returned my attention to the task at hand.

I climbed up a rickety ladder to get to the top of the stack of coffee cups and tossed a few down into the water. I was thankful i'd replaced my regular sink with a bottomless one, so i didn't have to worry about breaking the cups as long as i aimed carefully and didn't throw them down on top of each other. I gazed down at the distance to the floor. I saw the tiny black speck that was my dog nosing around one of the stacks of plates on the floor. I sighed, thinking if i didn't get down from here, he'd start licking the plates. Being in no mood to disinter my dog from underneath a pile of broken Corelle, I climbed back down and shoo-ed him out of the kitchen. Then i tackled the cups, which i knew wouldn't take too long as coffee doesn't really stick like baked stuff on a pan does.

I picked up the first cup and my sponge, when i noticed something odd about my sponge hand. It looked like my hand, and felt like my hand, but it'd taken on a surreal quality that i couldn't readily identify. I flexed it a few times, and though it was a bit sluggish to respond, it was definitely my hand. I couldn't decide if i was trying to distract myself from the heinous kitchen duties or if there really was something amiss with my hand.

Hand? Really, now that i paid attention, it was my whole arm up to my elbow that was looking more and more like a badly made prosthetic. I moved it around easily enough, but now when i tried to flex my fingers, nothing happened. It was starting to take on that karate-chop pose that a Barbie's arm perpetually had. It was DEFINITELY looking plastic now. I tried to drop my sponge, but couldn't; it was caught between my fingers that seemed to now be fused together. I put the cup down and felt the arm with my other hand. It felt like flesh to that hand, but seeing as how i couldn't feel the pressure or touch on the afflicted arm, it felt like someone else's flesh. Now that was just downright creepy.

I continued watching my arm become fake. As though that wasn't alarming enough, it began to blur a bit around the edges. Now it looked like a mirage of a badly made prosthetic arm. It was even shimmering a bit, like the heat coming off a desert road in the distance. I'm watching my arm disappear!, i thought in a panic. I wanted to call out for help, but i was absolutely fascinated by the process of my arm becoming incorporeal before my very eyes. As i noticed that the sponge still looked perfectly real and solid, it slipped from my grasp and fell into the water. It didn't exactly slip so much as my hand became so insubstantial that it could no longer support something so tangible and real. I looked from the sponge back to my arm, and it was gone.

I looked from my arm that ended in a nub at the elbow back to my other arm a few times. I was numb. I couldn't even feel shock. I felt curiously lopsided as i stretched my arms out together, one being double the length of the other, and terminating in a hand, where the other was smooth where it should have continued. I wondered dumbly how i was going to finish the dishes now.

When i woke up, i was laying awkwardly on my arm, and it had fallen asleep.

Evil Begets Evil

Seven years ago today, an evil deed shook this nation to its core.

This event launched us into a misguided war with an uninvolved country.

This tragedy continues to this day.

Commemorate the day.

Honor the memories of the fallen, and the soldiers still falling.

Write to your Congressperson.

Tell them we've had enough evil in our lives these last seven years.