Upgrade: Part II of II

Days passed and Kenny counted them down with glee. Each hour that fell brought him closer to his full potential, to his destiny.  

            He was in the break room at work eating a bologna sandwich and playing a game on his phone that required the matching of like-colored jewels to score points. Kenny liked seeing the shapes and colors line up. He liked seeing order triumph over chaos.  

            “Kenny, Kenny look!”

            Kenny looked up to see a few of his coworkers gawking at the television screen mounted in the corner. One of his colleagues, Vern; a fat man with only a thin wisp of hair smattered over his noggin was hollering his name.

            “Are you seeing this? This nutjob who just got upgraded last week is going on a rampage downtown!”

            On the screen he saw a woman with robotic legs repeatedly kicking an ATM. One kick, two and then three, before she had punched through the ATMs exterior and knocked it from its base. The machine toppled over and crashed to the ground with a thud as its display went dim. The fair-haired woman had a dark green blouse and was red with anger. She had on a tight black skirt that seemed to accentuate the robotic contours of her legs. Peeking out from the skirt were two shiny steel “feet” covered in flimsy matching green pumps. If you listened closely, and could separate the sounds around her you could hear the electronic whir of gears and mechanisms operating within her legs.

            “Insufficient funds! I’ll show you insufficient funds! You piece of shit!”

            In front of the bank, police parted the crowd the woman had attracted and leveled their service weapons. “Stand down ma’am.”

            The woman paid no attention and front kicked the bank’s brick wall with her robotic left foot. As she pulled it away the gears in her leg whined, but the brick bore a noticeable mark as chunks of rubble fell to the sidewalk.

             “Ma’am we need you to calm down!” an officer yelled.

            The woman turned now, finally facing the officers. “Calm down! Don’t you tell me to calm down! You’re just afraid of me!” She walked towards the police, in spite of the fact that their guns were trained on her. As she did this her left foot rolled under her. Machinery somewhere inside snapped, but the woman kept coming, only this time with a severe limp. “No, not afraid of what I am, but afraid of what you aren’t.

            Another warning from the police, “Ma’am if you do not yield we will open fire.”

            The woman didn’t slow in the least.

            “Ma’am this is your final warning!” On the screen the camera’s view pivoted from the police to the woman and quickly back again. Shots rang out as the muzzles of the officer’s weapons lit up.

            The camera feed was terminated and the view was back to the station’s newsroom where a blushing reporter nervously searched for words. “Ladies and gentlemen as you can see this upgraded individual has seemingly…umm…she has been…umm…halted by law enforcement. We will continue to collaborate with authorities to determine if her…umm…mental faculties were at all affected by her upgrade.”

            “Did you see her eyes?” one of the women in front of Kenny asked the room.

            Vern called out, “Definitely bat-shit. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts like a lot.”

            “That’s some scary stuff right there man,” offered an older gentleman sitting at the table opposite Kenny.

            “Kenny did I see one of those Astir pamphlets on your desk the other day?” Vern asked, and suddenly the entire room’s eyes were on Kenny.

            Kenny, finally managing to take his eyes from the screen, didn’t seem to notice a large blob of partially chewed bologna leaving his mouth to fall on the table before him.

* * *

            A few hours later, Kenny found himself in a bar near work, in a half-assed attempt to relax. The establishment was decorated in the late 70’s and hadn’t seen much in the way of upgrades since then. High back leather-bound bar stools matched the padded leather elbow guard that ran along the bar. Plastic plants and dull orange paint were smattered in every conceivable part of the room. Kenny thought the barroom’s look matched its smell; that of self-loathing.

            As Kenny drank he continued to mull over one idea. He had found it strange that between he and his co-workers had viewed the news broadcast as if they were watching two completely different programs.

            Even as Kenny took a long pull on the beer before him, the news replayed the incident with the woman and the ATM. Following the tape a newscaster addressed the viewers. With a critical look straight into camera the newscaster spoke solemnly. “It seems regarding recipients of Astir upgrades it is not a matter of if they will descend into rage and violence, but when.”

            “Insane, right? If you woulda asked me 20 years ago whether or not I would ever live to see the day when people were walking around with Terminator legs, I woulda said ‘hell no’.” A few stools down from Kenny, the man who had spoke the unsolicited statement did so over an empty rocks glass, and was now looking expectantly to Kenny for commentary.

            Kenny took a breath, his eyes flicked from the television set mounted above the bar to the man a few feet from him. “Have you ever seen Godzilla?”

            The man nodded and simultaneously shook his empty glass at the bartender.

            “You know how the people in those movies are always running around, frantically screaming as they stare up at the monster?” Kenny asked.

            Again, the man nodded.

            “So you can understand what it’s like to be vulnerable, to feel afraid. Something you’ve never seen before just set your whole world view on fire. Something powerful, something you have no control over. But tell me friend, how would you feel if you were Godzilla?”

            Kenny took more than a tiny bit of pleasure from the dumbfounded look on the man’s face, and then rose to leave. He set a few dollars down on the bar, leaving his half finished beer to sweat along with the man.

THE END?

The Less Ordinary Life of Harold - Introduction

Intro

Are you as bummed as I am that you can’t fly? That aliens don’t exist but Trump does? That you don’t have millions of dollars in your bank account? That zombies only really show up on AMC and SyFy?

Well then you’ll be happy to meet Harold. Every once and again we will pop in to check on good ole’ Harry and see just what he’s got going on in his less oridinary- maybe even extraordinary- life.

Harold may be lucky to live in a world where superpowers exist, or where he’s suddenly asked to command a rescue mission into the jungle. Or its quite possible that Harold may merely have an impeccable imagination.

You won’t know unless you drop by and see what Harold is up to!

*

Hi all! I have been toying with the idea of doing a semi-weekly-if-and-when-I-feel-like-it series about a guy that can sort of out-think the parameters of *ugh* reality.

Harold’s adventures are going to be loosely based on the concept of the fantastic meeting the realistic and how those two things might coexist within a certain context.

So here’s hoping you tune in as I get this new idea rolling. I hope you stick with me as Harold and his stories are fleshed out into something more substaintial.

As always, thank you for reading, sharing and enjoying my work. I appreciate everyone stopping by to read the crazy ideas that nest in my brain, and end up on the page.

Thank you!

- David

Why?

                She is locked in a room. All white, all consuming. Walls cannot be defined from floors; floors cannot be defined from ceilings.

Just her, no one else. She hears voices, sees things, and feels emotions. All of these are familiar. She breathes them in, consumes them, they are her only sustenance.  Then they are gone. Just gone.

Then, before her is a box. It floats there in the room. She inspects with her eyes, her fingertips, it is a puzzle labeled Past. She examines it, the more she sees the more foreign the pieces become. Few fit. Many fit. Nothing fits.

She twists and turns, contorts into knots and through it all she wonders how her body doesn’t break, snap like taffy stretched too thin, and pulled apart harshly.

Then she swirls and bends, her mind is a puzzle, melting and changing, then she is the puzzle. Only now she is one of those multi-colored cubes. Her face on one square, her hand on another, covering each space. Other parts spread across its façade, enveloping it. Making her one dimensional, thin, like the taffy. She turns to turn herself, into herself, moving and arranging the pieces into something, anything. But it’s futile.

The word Why echoes through her mind. She then fades into pixels, they gradually become smaller and smaller, until she is no more.

 But she’s not over.

 Why continues to thump and boom like it’s part of a simplistic techno beat. The word plays over and over again, the reverberations of its noise vibrating her, finding her, crawling across her flesh even though she no longer exists on this plane.

WHY? WHY? WHY?

She wakes, struggles out from the covers and begins her day. The same day she lived yesterday, and the day before.

WHY?

How I Got to Sunset

It rarely rains here, but when it does the sky opens up over the mountains you see behind us there. The downpour reaches like tendrils over the rock, and the clouds hang low becoming cobwebs draped across the peaks. This is a forgotten place, tucked like a macabre oasis in lonesome desert.

This is my home, but how I got here is much more interesting.

To say that I had become disenchanted with life would be an understatement. To describe how I felt would be a tale already told by countless scoundrels, but one that is rarely understood.

My days were filled with vicious acts and I was surrounded by ill tempered men that would kill with little provocation. I was a thief, a rustler and on more nights than I would like to admit, I resorted to taking men’s lives as well.

At first these things were merely methods by which survival was accomplished, or so I told myself. This was necessary in order to deal with the darker days on which my conscious caught up with my wandering mind. Contrary to popular belief most killers may be able to justify their acts in the moment, but the images of the past live on in the mind-in some cases more persistently than others.

For me it wasn’t one act that forced me to face what I had become, it was their accumulation.  I realized one day while staring into a campfire that the evil in me had reached a level that was beyond justification. As my campmates (other damned men like me lay sleeping) the fire told me a story through its dancing embers.

Flickering waves of orange swirled and through my drunkard’s stare I saw them recount what I had done. Faces began to swirl in the fire, those that I had harmed. Gradually they changed, molding themselves into others, upon which I had visited other crimes. There were no angry faces as I bathed in that orange glow. To me they only looked meek, and I thought I had reached my depths when my mind fell upon how cruel I was to take advantage of them. By the end of all this, I was crouched, stupefied, likely drooling. And I am thankful that none of the other men saw me in this state, for it would’ve meant grave humiliation.

When the sun found us earlier than we would’ve liked I made no mention of what I had been reminded of last night. The men who didn’t care would’ve only shot me queer looks, and those that did would tell me to not to partake in tonight’s share of the whiskey.

I felt different though. I had a small shaving mirror that an uncle had given me but I couldn’t bring myself to use it that morning. I feared that I might drag the razor across my own throat at the sight of myself. It was as if the marrow had been steeped from my bones and replaced with a tepid form of compunction. This unfamiliar inner chill had taken hold of my heart with a cold palm and its icy fingers skittered towards my brain.

I couldn’t even pretend to be myself. All day on the trail I hung behind the others. I was never much of a talker, and as such, my silence didn’t strike anyone in the party as unusual.

I thought about the people’s lives I had taken, and in turn the lives that I had forever changed. I mourned for them but I could only wonder what this revelation meant for me.

By the time the sun was done beating down on us I had strayed from the bulk of the group by over a mile. As the sun faded so did their silhouettes against the backdrop of the dusty landscape. It was then that I knew what I’d do.

Mine had been a life of lawlessness and thievery, immorality. It took many years for the guilt to catch up to me, nesting irrevocably in my soul. I hadn’t had a change of heart; I was experiencing a change of perspective.  I was going to go out on my terms and I was going to take some of these monsters in arms I had once called friends with me.

I’ll set the record straight by saying that I certainly wasn’t trying to do a few last good deeds to try and buy my way into heaven. And beyond that even a religious dullard such as me knew that assassinating men- even bad ones- wasn’t liable to scrawl a smile across the face of God.

Night fell and we made camp about 20 miles south of Tucson. We’d be far enough away from town that the law wouldn’t be able to interfere with my loosely laid plan.

There were seven of them and I knew I needed to have the opportunity to perform two crucial tasks: hit and kill every man with one shot, for I knew I would not have the chance to reload after the dust had been kicked up. I had also realized I would have to take out one of them silently without the use of a bullet.

Frank Harrison, the runt of the group was first. I had seen him force himself on women, time after time during raids within small towns and villages along the border. I had not assisted in this travesty, but I had been silent. Now to me, these things were one in the same.

I coaxed him away from camp telling him I had a bottle of whiskey that I’d share with him on the sly. When Frank neared a small clearing about a mile away from the camp, I was there standing under the moonlight with a glass bottle that held only piss. I held it out and when Frank’s hand reached forward, pulled it away, and I spoke to him.

“You won’t tell the others that I been holdin’ out on em’?”

“Nah, not even. Mum’s the word, just hand me some o’ that rye.”

He reached out again, and at the same time I met him in a forward lunge. His right hand was busy grasping the bottle, so my left hand locked onto that same wrist. My straight razor worked in a quick arc slashing a ragged crimson smile across his throat. He belched blood and fell forward, his body rolling away into the dark. I tossed the piss-filled whiskey bottle towards where his body lay. I felt it a suitable burial. With my blade deposited back into my breast pocket, I made my way back to camp.

Five of the remaining men were telling lies around the campfire, bragging about who was the most ruthless, or who had committed superior acts of cruelty. There was one man missing. I looked around, trying to see passed the gang’s immobile horses, gear and the smoky glare from the group’s fire.

“Where’d Jimmy get off to?” I asked.

The oldest man, who only went by ‘Murphy’ spoke up, “Went down the way to relieve himself I s’pse.” I saw an image of Murphy from when we joined up. He had shot a Wells Fargo officer and his wife at a train station in Laredo. The officer hadn’t even been on duty. Murph’ had overheard him state his profession during a poker game at a saloon. He had murdered him in cold blood the next morning.

Murphy didn’t point to whatever direction he had left from. I stared long and low at the ground. Jimmy was the only one I was worried about. He was quicker than me with a pistol and now had the night on his side. I tried not to think about the fact that of the cretins I had recently been running with, he also had a bit of intellect to him.

I drew my six shooter and pretended to examine and give it a quick cleaning with my shirt.

Another man, Ken Kerns looked up from the fire, he spit tobacco before speaking to me. I remembered him doing that often. There was a night when he had forced a family of Indians into their tent, and then set fire to their home. Each time one of them tried to rush out to escape the flames, he’d shoot them. The last three got the message, refused to take a step outside and were burned alive. “What’s eatin’ you anyhow?” Ken had his pistol holstered. I had no doubt it was loaded.

Ken’s brother, Paul had often made a living jumping claims. In one of these instances the owner had left his 14 year old son in charge while he went to town for supplies. Ken had robbed and beaten the boy. And then made him to jump down the mine head first. His prospector father had found him two days later, dead in the bottom of his own mine. Ken joined in, “You, you’re looking all nervy. Like before a shoot out.”

Lem the youngest was cleaning his rifle on a low sitting rock. He was new to the group and therefore eager to handle any of the most unsavory acts. Rumor had it that he’d often scavenged the victims of those we had killed or robbed. In one case he had stolen a locket off a child. Inside there had been a picture of the girl’s folks. Lem had ridden into town and under the premise of returning the locket, found them and robbed them as well. He looked up, and studied me for a second before saying, “You look like something’s on your mind.”

 Bill Hamm, the man we looked to as leader was reading from a book. He had perched himself in the crook of an old tree. “You got an idea for our next job?” He spoke without looking up. His guns were thrown haphazardly to one side.

Words that weren’t mine tumbled from my mouth, “My own misery won’t let me rest but my newfound insanity won’t help me sleep.”

The words were the definition of a rant, but very nature of their strangeness caught my victims off guard. I spun the cylinder of my revolver and time stopped. The moon hinted at the six bullets that would soon leave the barrel. From the hip, I fired at Ken who was closest. The shot hit him squarely between the eyes. His head slumped down against his bedroll. It was the most peaceful death I reckon I have ever witnessed.

A second later I was fully trained on Lem. He died, with a bullet in the brain and his mouth hanging open. Shocked at being murdered by a fellow rider. Someone he had considered a friend.

Murphy rolled over quickly, defying his age. He had been a shark at cards. But even he had losing nights. Those less stellar tales began with Murphy losing badly, only to meet the man who had bested him outside of the saloon after the game. He had shot a few, and reclaimed his money. He also had no qualms about keeping the gambler’s other winnings as well. Murphy was able to grip his coach gun in both hands but his aim was off because of old eyes.

Buckshot kissed the lower portion of my left leg and I returned fire. He lay still, but the night didn’t reveal where the bullet had hit him.

I staggered on a partially shredded leg, but falling saved my life. Bill Hamm had reached his gun belt and had fired both pistols without removing them from their holster.

Hastily, Bill had rolled too close to the fire. I let another bullet loose. But because of my fall it was rushed and ill timed. It missed Bill, while still serving a purpose. Reacting to the wild shot Bill went to stand and unknowingly went shooting hand down, right along with his pistol in the burning embers. He cursed as his skin sizzled, dropping his one free gun in the flames.

In the raucous, Paul took a chance and tried to grab me from behind as I struggled to stand. His bowie knife felt cool against my throat, especially when weighed against the heat of the campfire. I recalled how Paul had a fondness for whores. And stronger proclivity for cutting on them with his favorite blade. I fired over my shoulder and blew out my eardrum, as I blew out his brains. Ken’s body crumpled in a heap, bringing up a cloud of dust. 

 Hobbling, I made my way to Bill, who was nursing his hand and trying to find his gun belt in the chaos. He sifted through the sand frantically, brushing past the book he had been reading. Until today, I didn’t even know the man was literate. Bill was a man who never got his hands dirty but had orchestrated every scheme we had carried out. We had always done what he asked without hesitation. I fell on him. Straddling him, I pushed my gun deep within the flesh of his temple. He whispered no, but this time I didn’t listen.

“What in God’s name?” Jimmy came hurdling towards the campsite, hitching his britches and drawing his gun.

“Well it’s a little late to bring him into this now don’t ya think?” I was hot and tired, bleeding badly. Jimmy looked newly sharpened, focused.

Jimmy gawked, taking in the scene. “You did all this?” He cinched his pants, cocked his Colt, and aimed it at my face all with the same hand, and all in one fluid motion.

I pointed as well, pulling the trigger.

Click

Jimmy heard the sound. He showed me a smile that was all black spaces and yellow teeth. He holstered his gun, sauntering towards me as he did it.

“So before I let you die slow,” Jimmy looked around again, seeing the bodies cast in orange firelight, “Just what in the hell was all this about?”

I thought for a moment that I could explain this to Jimmy, get my point across, and make him understand. I shook my head not believing what was in my own head. I wasn’t even sure why I had gone through with it, not entirely. That- plus, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to get into a position where Jimmy, or any of these types could interpret my explanation as begging for mercy.

When I didn’t answer, Jimmy suggested, “Money?”

“You wouldn’t get it son.”

Jimmy approached me slowly, studying. I felt him looking over the leg that Murphy’s buckshot had chewed up. I saw him looking at my ruptured ear, I wondered if any telltale blood had given it away.

“Jus’ tell me.” Jimmy’s voice had taken on an eager, tinny tone.

“Ya Jimmy it was the money. Do what needs to be done.” I held up my hands, not in surrender but in more of gesture that demonstrated I don’t know.

The initial curiosity faded from Jimmy’s timbre. He became angry, demanding. “Tell me or its goin’ to take you a long time to die.”

I backed up; he pushed forward, placing the barrel of his gun on my brow. “Tell me dammit!” he screamed in my face. I was close enough to pick up his foul breath. I threw a punch to his midsection which he absorbed. Jimmy then countered by easily sweeping my bad leg out from under me. I hit the dirt, gasping on hot campfire air and desert dust.

Jimmy knelt, shooting me a cold glance. His eyes were storm clouds in the distance. Briefly, I toyed with the idea that maybe Jimmy was carrying around some of the same demons I had recently become acquainted with.

With as much speed as my battered body could muster I tore free my straight razor.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it since then. In that moment I had thought that luck had been holding that knife, fate had carried it into Jimmy’s neck. I am no longer so naïve. Karma held that razor, and the devil used it to kill Jimmy.

At the expense of yet another life I had still had breath.  I musta looked like a drunk after a long night at the saloon when I finally attempted to get on my feet. The leg was likely worthless, if I made it to town, it would have to be cut off. My ear throbbed and it was because of that, I didn’t hear Murphy let loose with the second barrel of his coach gun.

Arms peeling back behind my body, chest colliding with the gravel. These were the last things I felt. I didn’t turn to see Murphy’s eyes. I had no idea if he were expressing glee or distaste at having to kill me. More than likely he was just happy to have survived, even if he had to play possum to do it.

Because I had been such a low man in life, I crawled to my death much the same. I was able to pull myself to the crook of Bill Hamm’s reading tree. I propped myself in the Y shaped hold. Life left me.

But I stayed.

One hundred and thirty one years have passed since that night. I’ve been here ever since.

It took them about six weeks to find the bodies. Some poor bastard was tasked with burying us. And a poorer one still had to try and figure out what happened at that campfire.

So here I am at Sunset Cemetery, confined  to its rusty gates. My days I am forced to see only the skeletons of ancient tombstones. Grave sites that have been forgotten by even the most loyal of families. At night, the coyotes howl a mournful tune. I don’t see anyone, not even the men that shed blood with me on that night long ago.

Here I am at Sunset Cemetery. I know not of eternal rest, but I am no stranger to regret. 

D.I.P.S.H.

“So Captain Accelo it’s been a year and I thank you for your service to our company.”

A man in a red full length bodysuit featuring crisscrossing white electrical bolts across its front sits casually in front of a giant desk. The get up looks to be made of a tight fitting Lycra.  “Thanks it's been--”

The Director holds up a hand, stopping Captain Accelo’s response. He then turns his chair away from his desk, and looks out of the large picture window behind him. He wears a pair of reflective chrome sunglasses, the type that a state trooper might wear.  The Director does not remove them to further enjoy the view.

From the window, a huge city scape can be seen; towering skyscrapers, a bay filled with watercraft, and a huge grassy area that appears to be a city park.

Captain Accelo sits, quietly confused for several moments. Finally, he speaks; “I’m sorry what are we doing here?”

“Ha, why I’m practicing ‘authoritative superiority’ of course! It's from my book; The Director: Managing People with Personalities that are Just the Worst.” Without facing forward, The Director stands, adjusts what appears to the Captain to be a rather expensive suit, and walks away from his desk. In a hush, “Ah yes, nearly forgot, I need to establish dominance by standing as my inferior remains seated. Finally The Director turns back to Captain Accelo, “Please have a seat…” a hand extends to the Captain.

“I’m already sitting…?” Captain Accelo reminds The Director.

The Director doesn’t acknowledge the comment, instead he begins a diatribe, “We here at Department of International Professional Society of Heroes, a registered trademark of Maximum Corporation, a subsidiary of Maximum Media, believe that at the one year anniversary of a team member, we should conduct an assessment of the member’s behavior and work performance that will determine both an overall rating and any increase levels of compensation for the coming year.” As he speaks, The Director continues to wander around the room.

Captain Accelo leans forward, “Are you saying it’s my annual review?”

“Yes, yes but so much more,” The Director has an odd air about him, he seems excited, and perhaps proud, but his stance, diction and rhetoric make one wonder if he’s not just playing some off-putting gag.

“What else does it entail then?”

“Glad you asked!” The Director rushes back to his desk, and sits, “You aren’t just getting evaluated, you get the opportunity to rate yourself!”

“Ok.” followed by an eye roll.

“Go ahead, give it a try,” The Director seems overly enthusiastic.

A bit uneasy, Captain Acccelo takes a few seconds to look for the right words,  “Umm...well I was instrumental in all of the team missions this year, I’ve saved 223 civilians to date since being with the company, and I bake a cake for everyone in the office on their birthday. Well, except for Castigator, he’s diabetic and all.”

“That really is great, really.” The Director takes a deep breath. So on a scale from one to ten, ten being the best team member you could be, where would you place yourself?”

“Hmm, that’s a tough one, we have so much talent on the team…”

Accelo is thinking it over, as The Director speaks with ignorant disregard, “So much talent, yes so many other talented team members, you should keep that in mind as you answer.”

“I’d say umm, I dunno, 8 i guess?”

The Director lets out a powerful belly laugh, following by a machine gun of smaller, stunted laughter. He slams a fist down on his desk, and tries to catch his breath. “You an 8! Are you for real right now?”

Red faced now to match his outfit, Captain Accelo reconsiders, “7?”

More laughter from The Director.

“Geesh, umm, 6?”

Pausing for breaths between chuckles The Director gets out the following, “You...think...you’re...a 6?”

“Sweet Jesus,” Captain Accelo throws his hands up in disbelief.

“You can’t even fly!”

“I’m super fast! ‘Accelo’ you know as in ‘accelerate’!”

“We have to chauffeur you around in the DIPSH Jet! Do you know how much fuel costs for that thing? Not to mention it’s adverse effects on the environment.”

Accelo is clearly beside himself, “‘Chauffeur me around’! What the hell!”

Still recovering from his laughing fit, The Director adds, “Besides, do you know what kind of pay grade you’d be in if you could learn to fly?”

“But I can’t fly. I’m the speedster of the group.”

“You’d wanna learn to fly, if i could tell you,” tauts The Director.

Accelo seems a bit desperate, “But that’s not my power! Remember the whole struck by lightning during the lunar eclipse when I was doing routine janitorial work on the military base after they tested that nuclear bomb?”

“That doesn’t ring a bell. Anyway, I’ll tell you what your pay would be if you could just learn to fly…Do you wanna know?”

“I can’t ‘learn to fly’” whines Accelo.

“675,000 dollars more a year!”

Accelo perks up, “Wow, really that much?”

“Ya but you can’t fly…” reminds The Director.

“Maybe I could get lessons from Extraordinary Storckman?”

“Maybe...but without the whole flying thing…”

“I’m a five?”

“Solid five, with the potential to be a seven-maybe even an eight!” The Director adds.

Somewhat disappointed, Accelo asks, “And what about a merit raise?”

The Director simply folds his hands into the shape of a bird, and makes a flapping motion.

Captain Accelo stands, head drawn down to his chin and slinks out of the office.

The Director stretches out in his chair. He giggles absently while shaking his head, “Seriously, the guy thought he was an 8…”

Disconnected (Part 2 of 2)

“Thanks for calling honey, it’s good to hear from you.”

June, her gold-blonde curls defying her age, sat smoking a cigarette in her kitchen. A cell phone balanced loosely between her ear and palm. She’s shaking mildly, and her eyes are red and swollen.

“Well, I told him we were going to see Grandma Hale because he thinks she’s still in the hospital,” the woman sniffs back a sob, “He was angry with me that I woke him up. But instead of telling me something, he just stared at me, his eyes going all blank… he couldn’t even tell that the coffee was too hot, or let me know that he had burnt his tongue.” This time June couldn’t help herself, the tears came.

“Sorry honey. Yes I’m ok, in fact I probably need to get it off my chest. No, on the car ride he was just as distant, only a blank stare out the window. Although, the off and on spark in his eye, gave away the fact that I think deep down he knew we weren’t going to St. Joseph’s.”

“And as silly as it sounds I took Abbey along so he could say goodbye. Oh no, I think she knew, she was whining the whole way there, and you should’ve seen her once we got to the room!”

“No I just couldn’t bear to stay. The attending physician said that with his condition he would probably benefit from a clean break, he would adjust more quickly without my hovering over him.”

“Yes, I’ll visit him on Wednesday, I guess they recommended a transition period of at least 72 hours. I just hope the adjustment is a smooth one. I pray he isn’t lonely or scared. Oh, and I found the strangest thing yesterday when I was cleaning the spare room-” June laughed, and the miserable strain on her face lifted for just a brief moment. “Yes, okay your room. Anyway, your father must’ve been hoarding his drawings in there for who knows how long. Tucked away in one of the computer desk drawers were dozens of scribbles of orange and white stick figures of elephants. I don’t know why he would’ve been fixated on such a thing.”

June paused to let out a sigh before beginning to speak again.

“You know what I find myself wondering most of all?” The daughter on the opposite end of the phone caught the sadness in her mother’s voice. She remained quiet, only listening, knowing her mother needed to let it out, all of it. June’s voice audibly cracked from the emotional strain, but the words were genuine, and she forced herself to see them through. “I wonder, when he slips away, and his eyes get that glassy distance in them, what he sees when he no longer sees me?”

 

   

 

Disconnected (Part 1 of 2)

I woke Sunday morning to the gentle reminder of my wife June, saying that we were going to visit her grandmother in the hospital. I didn’t take it well. I was grumpy, maybe even irate with her, for some reason I couldn’t control myself. I yelled at her because I wanted to sleep in, it was Sunday after all. Admittedly, after I admonished her for waking me up, I felt guilty, but when I tried to tell her the words just wouldn’t come. I even felt bad, maybe even confused by that. If I was being honest, it might’ve scared me.

With her insistence, I got up and got ready, the coffee she made me was too hot. Though due to my outburst when she woke me I let it slide, unfortunately this upset her when I inexplicably burned my tongue. Again, I found myself unable to communicate this to her quickly enough, even as I could feel the liquid searing my taste buds.

The car ride to the hospital was quiet, June seemed troubled. I suspect she was upset with me because of my shenanigans earlier that morning.  I wanted to ask her about it, but I was too ashamed, so I kept to myself, mostly watching the scenery fly by outside. Fields of tall light green grasses swayed in the wind. I watched this occur for miles at a stretch as we sped along the highway.       

Distantly, I recollected that this was not in fact the way to St. Joseph’s. For a moment there was a fleeting feeling that I should tell June that she was headed the wrong way. Again, my self-confidence didn’t allow for this, and instead I returned to my window watching.

I also thought it was strange that she had loaded Abbey, our golden retriever into the backseat. I didn’t make it out to hospitals much anymore, but I thought the medical community generally frowned upon dogs in hospices. This I did end up asking June about, but much to my surprise, all my mouth could muster was, “Abbey’s here?”

“Yes dear,” she replied, “she’s coming with us.” Her eyes went immediately back to the road, but she gently stroked her hand across mine. It was her way of reassuring me, letting me know that everything would be alright.

The drive ended later than I expected and when we arrived at St. Joseph’s it looked drastically different than what I’d remembered. “This is it?”, I asked June while trying to disguise the confusion in my voice.

Again I felt her rub my hand with hers. She didn’t say anything. Together, along with Abbey, we walked hand in hand to the front door. June had me wait with the dog in the entryway while she went inside to chat with the young woman at the front desk. Briefly, I glanced around the place. If I had to describe it in a word, it would’ve been ‘drab’. If I’d been allowed two words, the second would’ve been ‘depressing’. The lobby was that stale yellow wallpaper that hadn’t been seen since that the seventies, and with good reason. Fake plants had taken root, flanking the reception desk on either side. It was dim inside, as if the day’s full sun hadn’t yet made its way past the walls here. It looked a lot like the hospital in which my father had passed nearly two decades ago.

I didn’t like it.

June came back after a few moments and we all followed a woman in pink and purple scrubs to a small waiting room. She told us someone would be right with us and smiled as she shut the door.  Inside, was a small two-seater couch and a coffee table with a stack of six month old magazines speed across its surface.  Abbey curled up at our feet, and looked up at me with those expressive eyes of hers. I stroked her neck like she liked and turned to June, “Abbey seems concerned, you see the way she’s looking at me?” Staring back at Abbey, I began in a sing-songy voice, “I’m okay girl, everything’s fine! You’re a good girl!”

When I turned my gaze back to June her eyes looked heavy. After thirty-seven years of marriage, I knew when something was weighing on her. Experience also told me that it was futile to ask, she wouldn’t budge in telling me what she was hiding behind those eyes until she was good and ready.

We continued to wait, the silence similar to that of the car ride over. I thought June might be concerned to see her grandmother in less than good health. I attributed her silence to that fact. My silence however, was inexplicable to even me. Normally, I was pretty jovial, making comments about our surroundings, cracking jokes, or even bringing up news or current events. For some reason I couldn’t muster it this day. Then again, I tried real hard and couldn’t come up with the last time I had done any of those things.

I was pulled from my thoughts as June excused herself she said he needed to use the restroom and she was going to check with the staff, as we had been waiting for a long while.

I stayed back with Abbey wishing we had brought something to help keep her entertained.   Regardless, I repeated the ridiculous baby talk that parents and pet owners say to their respective kids and rubbed her belly to make sure she wouldn’t get restless.

The downside was, I was the one that ended up getting restless. It seemed June was taking a long time to find help from the staff. I didn’t want to seem impatient or show that I didn’t think she could handle it herself so I waited about an hour before it occurred to me to go check on her. I left Abbey in the waiting room, closing the door behind me as I went.

I wondered the halls, noting that the layout seemed different than before. I didn’t see the drab yellow wallpaper, the front desk was no longer where I had left it upon arriving. This frightened me, I wanted to find June right away. The young woman who had been attending the front desk was no longer there, now a dark haired man with a thin mustache waved and smiled at me as I approached.

“Where’s June?” I quickly realized he wouldn’t have known who she was, and added, “My wife; glasses, gold-blonde hair?”

The man nodded as if he didn’t understand what I had said, and replied with a strange follow-up, “Good morning would you like to take a walk outside Mr. Turner?”

This idea appealed to me greatly, and proved distracting. What had I come out here for to begin with? “Yes, let me go get my dog.” I trotted back to the waiting room, thinking that Abbey might need to stretch her legs.

When I returned to the waiting room, it appeared empty. Abbey was gone. There was no trace of her, not even her leash. I paused, grappling with my own bewilderment. I was too weak to even call out her name, as the chill of fear stiffened my veins. I stood still, only to find myself rocking back and forth. I wasn’t entirely voluntary. I wanted June to be there with me.  Where had she gone? Why wasn’t she back yet?  

“Mr. Turner?” a few quick knocks against the open door frame behind me. It was that little mustached man. “Still want to go outside and take a stroll?”

I felt myself nodding, despite the fact that I knew there was something I should be doing, someone I should be looking for…

“Are you ready?”

I nodded, and the mustached man took my arm, and led me outside.  As we exited I saw a grand outdoor stage, currently draped in a luxurious velvet curtain. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I asked the mustached man, “Will they have a show today?”

I saw him try to look around, to see what I was seeing, as if the stage wasn’t even there. Eventually he said, “Yes, Mr. Turner they’ll be something going on later this morning on the lawn. We usually hold a brunch there under the gazebo for residents and their visitors.”

I took my cell phone from my pocket and snapped a picture. I nodded, even though I felt his answer was not to my question. “June is missing out! Pretty fancy stage, for a hosp-” Where was I again?   I wanted to ask the mustached man, but to ask the question seemed somehow embarrassing. I should know where I’m at. But I couldn’t focus on that for long, as I turned I saw the magnificent gardens, the fancy landscaping stretched on for miles. At the side of the walkway every so often was a flag, showing what I could only assume was the logo of the place. It was white, with an orange border and had what resembled a simple drawing of an elephant in its center.

I didn’t know what to make of this, but was quickly captivated by the lush flowers that made up the garden beds all around me. It was beautiful, and well maintained to boot. I couldn’t recall the last time I had seen so many varieties of roses, and so many colors, colors that I never realized roses even came in; traditional reds and pinks, but as I continued to look, I noted blues and yellows, purples and blacks. All of them adorning the ground in arranged waves of color, like a rainbow had fallen from the sky.

I went for my cell phone again, snapping as many pictures as I could. Thinking that I knew someone that would want to see this gorgeous site. I paused trying to remember who it was I wanted to share this experience with, but found it beyond me.

Regardless, I carried on taking in the vast grounds. Just above the rows of flowers was a large stone fountain, its centerpiece a wonderfully sculpted copper lizard that had developed its own striking patina. It didn’t spray water from its mouth, but its feet sat within the small collecting pool at the base of the fountain. It was lovely. When I went to snap its picture, I thought my eyes might be playing tricks. While looking through the viewfinder on my phone, I saw the lizard ripple and shake as though it was an image reflected on the surface of a pond. I lowered the phone from view, and everything returned to normal. When I finally snapped the picture, the phenomenon had ended.

Continuing to take it all in I noticed the courtyard began to climb up a gradual hill. Abbey would’ve loved this. Which led to wondering where she was. I looked to the sky, which had just started to cloud. This led to thinking of June, and how she loved the rain. I wondered where she had gotten off to.

TO BE CONTINUED

Knowledge is Pricey

                Max walked through the promenade for only the second time. He was still in awe. Surrounding Max were students just like him, bright eyed wonder lit up their faces as they strode to their destination- to their destiny he presumed. Banners flew brightly on the old style lampposts that flanked the wide cobblestone walk. They displayed bold words designed to motivate, empower and drive new students from all over the world; Success!, Determination!, Discipline!. Beneath each one was the school’s logo in bright yellow; SDU.

                 In the main courtyard the lampposts and their banners followed the pavement in a more intimate circle. In its center was a statue of the school’s mascot, the powerful T-Rex. Max paused and inhaled deeply as he took in its majesty. He didn’t seem to notice that the copper creature’s arms were ridiculously exaggerated, looking more like the arms of a grizzly bear with a bicep fetish than the upper appendages of the extinct lizard king. Instead of noticing this obvious flaw, Max found himself swelling with pride again, and smiling even brighter than before.  He was now a T Rex as well; he still could hardly believe that they accepted him, even with his outstanding grades. He just needed to find a way to pay for it all.

                After allowing himself a moment to reflect, Max pushed on towards the conglomeration of administrative buildings just a few yards ahead. As he took them in, he had but a brief and ominous view of them. Max could’ve sworn that despite the rest of campus being lit up by the autumn sunshine, the admin buildings had a foreboding look to them, as if the sky just beyond them was about to break loose with a terrible and dark storm that would solely lash out at those buildings. The vision, though fleeting, made him weak in the knees for just a moment.

                Max shrugged it off and giggled at his own silliness. With another deep breath he regained his confidence and marched inside. At the front desk he approached the young woman seated behind it, “Hi there, I’m Max Herring, I have an appointment with Martha Nunez at 9 o’ clock.”

                “Good morning Max, Martha’s prior appointment is running a little long, but she’ll be right with you.” The receptionist was bubbly and smiled, Max thought her demeanor was genuine, he immediately liked her. “Go ahead and sign in.” the young lady pushed a small clipboard towards him.

                Max gladly picked up the pen that was attached by a long spiraling cord and filled in the following:

Name	Appt W/	Date	IN	OUT
Max Herring	Financial Advisor	8/8/37	8:59

                Max took a seat on the fashionable chairs in the lobby, red leather cushions with ample back and rear space, but no arm rests. Max figured they were expensive by the looks of them. Heck, not having any arm rests made them extremely fancy as it was, he could only imagine their cost! The rest of the waiting area looked pristine and glowed with newness. As Max looked around at the tall glass walls and sleek, modern furnishings he thought it might resemble a swanky fish bowl.

                After a few minutes a polished older women in a pants suit strode out from the catacombs of offices behind the receptionist. “Max Herring?” she let her voice go, although pleasant, the sound resonated through the room. Max didn’t find it odd that she did this despite the fact that he was the only one waiting.

                He stood, “That’s me.”

                The woman came forward, hand extended, as Max shook it, she said, “Welcome to State of Disparity University. I’m Martha.”

                “It’s a pleasure to be here ma’am- and to meet you.”

                Martha smiled and led Max behind the reception area and down the hall to her office. Max walked in and saw that it was decorated with SDU memorabilia to the point of near clutter; foam fingers, posters, plaques, tiny T-Rex dolls, the collection’s centerpiece was a red football helmet emblazoned with a yellow T Rex silhouette; it had an autograph scrawled across it as well. Max recognized it immediately; it was SDUs famed coach of several decades, Rick Mostly.  The T Rex’s dominated the NCAA football rankings; it had been that way since time immemorial. They only recruited the best.

                “Go ahead and have a seat Max.”

                Blushing a bit, Max sat realizing he had been slightly distracted by Martha’s display of knick-knacks.

                “Alright,” Martha grabbed a paper file and laid it before her on her desk. “We are here to try and figure out what sort of financial options we have available for your tuition.”

                As Martha opened the file Max asked meekly, “Oh my parents couldn’t be here, but they wanted to make sure I ask about Direct Data Download?”

                Martha visibly winced at the question, “Oh Max, unfortunately DDD is not covered by your financial aid or any of your scholarship dollars.”

                Max seemed stunned, “Oh why not?”

                “Well SDU has to adhere to federal laws concerning direct data download- as you know students that receive DDD gain the ability to learn in real time, by having the knowledge directly input and interpreted via a computer chip that is implanted in the occipital lobe of the skull. This of course guarantees the receiving student will retain the knowledge at a rate of 97% or higher. Because of recent legislature concerning the implant portion of DDD the government ruled that neither financial aid, or scholarships may be used towards Direct Data Download as it was classified as a medical procedure, rather than a pursuit of higher education.”

                “I see, so what does that mean for me?” Max now seemed a bit anxious.

                Martha paused for just a moment, when she finally spoke she had this to say, “Well Max, DDD is still available to students like you at the standard tuition rate of $2000 per credit hour,” Martha snickered like a hog, “of course that’s for you as an undergrad. The rate is much higher for master’s students, and even steeper for doctoral candidates.”

                Max was stunned. “Oh well neither myself or my folks can afford that, what are my other options?”

                “My suggestion for you would be to enroll in the standard courses at $1000 a credit hour- that’s a savings of fifty percent! Those would qualify you to use that pesky financial aid as well as your modest scholarship dollars. Then identify any courses you think you might struggle with and utilize direct data download for those credits. So for instance, I can see the math scores on your transcript are less than stellar, I’d think about possibly using DDD for those. What do you think?”

                Max’s eyes narrowed, he felt it was time to get serious. “I am prepared to accept a rate of no more than $750 per credit hour.”

                A squeaky laugh escaped Martha’s lips, “Why Mr. Herring are you haggling with me? I think you’ll find our pricing more than fair.”

                Max’s face hardened, “Well I can go down the street to your competitor and get a guaranteed rate of $725. You’ll find I’ve already done my research.”

                “Pish posh Mr. Herring. I’ll tell you one thing of the utmost importance, these days the quality of your university is just as important as the curricula that makes up that education. If you settle for less to save a buck, it will cost you in the end on your resume, because simply put employers want to see that degree from SDU. Anything else is viewed as subpar.”

                “Alright, well I guess we have nothing further to discuss,” Max abruptly rose from his chair and headed for the door.

                Martha moved with the speed of a jungle cat, and stepped in front of him before he could exit. “Now let’s not be hasty Max,” she looked him in the eye, “What do I have to do to get you into classes at SDU?”

                “Well I’d really like to try out that direct data download for a few of those math courses you mentioned.”

                Martha sighed, but her reply was as chipper as ever, “Okay, okay. Let me go talk to my boss and I’ll have him run some numbers and see what we can do.”

                Martha was gone for several minutes, when she returned a man with a wrinkled suit and bad hair plugs returned with her. “Max this is my manager, Ken Glenn.”

                “Max, pleased to meet you, have a seat, relax please. Ken Glenn, director of credit hour sales for SDU,” he extended a hand. Max shook it. “Thank you for stopping by today. Martha discussed with me some of your educational needs and I believe we can get you out the door today for around $70,000 – that package includes 15 credit hours of DDD- a bargain at $1200 each, so we gave you deep discounts there. Not to mention if you purchase today you’re eligible for a free meal voucher good for $100 of food at the school café (offer expires at the end of fall semester). And finally, once we take your scholarship dollars as trade you’ll only be looking at just over 60k.”

                Ken remained standing, but slid a towering stack of papers in front of Max’s nose. “Have a look-see; I believe you’ll find that contract very appealing. Martha and I really had to dig deep to get it to work on paper but I’m sure you’ll be excited to see the results. We want you at SDU- not the competition. What do you say future SDU alumni?”

                Max gave the contract a cursory flip through. Doubt had etched the young man’s face, but nonetheless he looked up at Ken and Martha who’s faces were eager and anxious. “Ok yes, I’ll do it! I’m an SDU man all the way! Where do I sign?”