Dumpy’s boss snorted in disgust, noting the projectile on her screen, but he did grasp what had happened and was glad that he had stopped by. He was always looking to reduce the department’s headcount, but doing it that way always struck him as extreme. He questioned April about what had happened and confirmed that she was now fine. He ran to get her a bottle of water. He also grabbed the Windex and paper towels so she could see through her monitor again.
Death was beside himself. Inconsolable. Not only would April live to play again another day, BUT she was on guard now- might be pondering that someone really is out to get her. Plus, he may as well hang up his scythe right now, and he didn’t t even want to think about what Deader was going to do to him in retaliation for interrupting her favorite recreational activity of an island hopping golf scramble. She could be so mean when her month-long binges were disturbed—especially if she thought the reason for the disruption was lame. And there was no doubt that she would think that, because it was Death’s sheer incompetence that would be interrupting her. Again. She had sworn to him last time that if his ineptitude cost her any more of her hard-earned time off, he would pay dearly and forever.
Death sulked in the window. He blotted out all hints of the brilliant sunshine without, making the pane black as night. While he was not visible to the naked eye—nor the clothed one—the river of tears flowing from what would be his eyes if he were in traditional human form, were visible. April headed over to investigate why water was pouring from the windowsill like a mountain waterfall during spring runoff. Death was so distraught that he did not even notice that April was kneeling directly in front of him floating a paper boat in the unexplained, indoor river—within strangling distance. Since he had given up all pretense of subtly, strangling her would have easily accomplished his goal of ending her life, and his quest. But, alas, he missed the easiest opportunity of the day. Story of his post-death life.
By the time he realized the opportunity before him, it was a memory. He began trying to pull himself together so he was somewhat presentable when Deader arrived. He would need his wits about him; else, she would eviscerate him on the spot. She might well do that anyway, it was a crapshoot.
April was thanking her lucky stars, and coming to the realization that maybe it was not her lucky day, as she had almost knowingly died twice within the past two hours. She realized the possibility that she could have unknowingly cheated death a few more times already and then sat down heavily to ponder this. However, maybe it was her luckiest day, after all. Maybe she could not die today. Testing that theory would require much more thought, not to mention a level of courage that she doubted she possessed. She’ would put that one on the back burner and come back to it later. No, she would banish the entire concept- she was just having a bad day, no invisible force was trying to kill her. Accepting that possibility, that someone/something was trying to kill her opened up doors in her mind that led down hallways that she refused to acknowledge. It was not possible. She was just unlucky followed by unbelievably lucky. Twice. That is all there was to it. It was all there could be.
A startling sound from the windows interrupted her reverie. Thunderclaps echoed throughout the cube farm. The sounds came from the darkened window and April swore that she saw several lightning bolts, but she knew she was indoors and that it was a beautiful day outside. April’s mind raced. It was overloaded with emotion from the two near death incidents and now from sights and sounds coming from inside the window. She collapsed in her chair in a dead faint.
Death missed this opportunity also, as he was being ‘schooled’ by Deader in how to do his job. It appears that she was midway though the twelfth round of the tournament, which with Deader means twelve cases of beer into the festival (it was a weeklong tournament that started early), and that hole was on Maui. She loved Maui and was not the least bit happy at being summoned to do the job of a worthless minion. She let Death know if no uncertain terms that he would be her caddy for eternity for this one. She carried a lot of clubs, and beer. And, she took them everywhere, not just to the golf course. She liked to be ready at all times, for all things, and thus had a host of demoted minions following her around as she flounced about the world pretending to do spot checks and train those of her staff who needed it. The minion carrying the golf/beer bag was ecstatic. He could not thrust the gargantuan golf bag onto Death’s back soon enough. Then he pranced around doing a happy dance that would have energized the most lifeless of the Buffalo Bills offensive players. Death, physically burdened on top of the mental anguish he had been suffering collapsed in the corner sniveling.
Deader got right to work. She filleted Death for his incompetence and then squared her drunken and quite broad shoulders, cape flying overhead. She pounced over to April, still passed out. She towered over her chair screeching her frustration at Death’s incompetence and April’s resilience in infrasonic waves that April could not hear, but would definitely have felt, were she awake and not hopped up on Benadryl and snickers bars. Heck, she should have felt it anyway.
Deader, used to her minions and every human she encountered quailing in front of her when she spoke, though they never had any idea why they were trembling in fear, was taken aback. April was non-responsive. Her breath came in a steady rhythm, but she was not absorbing anything that Deader was sending her way. This was unusual and made Deader stop to think. Normally, even when they were sleeping, Deader could see the fright on the faces and bodies of the folks receiving her less-than-welcome attentions, but this time there was no response.
Deader waved the back of her hand at April, backhanding April’s head. Nothing. That should have snapped her neck instantly. But it did not. Maybe it was not purely incompetence at work here. Deader kicked April in the shin- the most accessible part of her, as she was still in her chair. No response. No sign of any physical pain whatsoever. Death ventured over, dragging Deader’s golf clubs behind him. As a minion, he had little physical power over his consignees, that is why he had to manipulate their worldly circumstances to kill them. However, he could, if he really, really concentrated, hurt people physically from within his realm. Death picked up a stapler, wound up like a beefed-up Roger Clemens, and pitched it at April’s body. It glanced off before it even struck her.
This was something that he had never seen before, but that did not mean much. He did not get out much and only knew the things that happened to him (and those he killed) by rote. But Deader had seen a lot more than he, frankly had been around a lot longer, though she hated when he pointed that out. She did not like what she was not seeing here.
Deader gave it one last try- she pulled out her 189-iron (bigger course and much more powerful players than we humans are used to) and she whacked April’s sleeping form with it. Sparks flew as the club ricocheted off April’s motionless form and back at Deader with more force than she had swung it with and she screamed as she let it go. The last that they saw of the 189-iron, it was sailing through the air high over the parking lot. April, in blissful repose on her chair, smiled, just a tiny bit, at the corners of her mouth.
Deader and Death huddled over by the window, careful, despite not being in physical forms, to avoid the puddles that remained of Death’s earlier uncontrollable crying jag. They spoke briefly about what they were seeing. Deader had to go to her home base to do some research on deathipedia to try to figure out why April could not be touched. In addition, she had to ask some of the elders if they had any ideas or if they had seen such a thing before. Deader dissipated and Death, dragging Deader’s clubs behind him, as though they were some kind of dead animal, followed meekly.
April sat up and smiled. She felt refreshed.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
The Stalker, Part III
April was halfway to a two Snickers sugar buzz and was grateful to be alive. She was pounding through her work in record time, replying to three month's worth of e-mail-all at once in one mass, slightly hysterical rambling e-mail-and had changed her e-mail signature to read "Today is the greatest day of your life. Trust me, I know". She spouted about how she was saved by the Benadryl, and encouraged everyone she knew to set up their own personal Benadryl alter at their desks in order to properly worship the god that had inadvertently saved her. There was much snickering by the recipients in the Cube Farm, but April didn't care, so was high on life and Snickers bars.
Death sat on the windowsill fuming. His nebulous black presence filtered out all light, making it look like it was dusk. But only in the window in which he sat. Through the other windows, it looked like the brilliant summer morning that it was. Some of April's coworkers noticed this, but no one was motivated enough to hoist themselves from their chairs to try to figure out why one the view from window was nearly black and the others not. Some of her more industrious coworkers tried to look the phenomenon up on wikipedia.com, but since they didn't have a concrete name for it, it made searching it out a challenge. Some spent hours trying to come up with answers, but death, though technically invisible must still have given off some eerie vibe, as no one moseyed over to see what he looked like close up.
Death could not believe that she could get that lucky. Again. It was getting old, and now his beach plans were shot to hell, as well as his weekend frisbee football tournament plans. There was no way to recover and stay within his proscribed forty-hour workweek. Now he was going to have to get his supervisor to sign off on his working of the weekend, and at this point, that was the best-case scenario. The worst- case scenario would be to have to hand this case over to his boss and let her finish April off. Asking for that kind of assistance was for the losers-nobody wanted to escalate to Deader, that kind of thing had a way of coming back to haunt you at performance evaluation time. Not to mention raise time. CRAP! It was time to get mean and ugly and to work smarter, not harder. If only he could figure out what that meant, he might be able to pull it off.....
Death skulked in the window looking for answers, sending tiny black clouds soaring across the ceiling of the cube farm, further puzzling the Wikkies who struggled to find meaning for them, while taking video of the scuttling clouds on their cell phones and calling CNN to report their weird indoor weather. How could she die? It had to be fast-like now. It had to be painful, as she was really starting to piss him off and it had to let him dissipate so he could move on to his next stop. He still had eighteen people to knock off by his department's next update meeting, which would be Monday meeting. It was now Friday, near lunchtime for those who could still ingest solid foods.
Lunchtime.... Somehow April's lunch was going to kill her. This was Plan D and he couldn't go any farther than that, so it had to work. That was it- wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she would choke to death, it would be lonely and painful and she's be conscious for two to three minutes, so she'd get to look in his face as she checked out and he would triumph. He drifted back toward her desk to figure out what she had planned for lunch.
April, who usually walked for an hour on her lunch, was trying to figure out the same thing. She was feeling lazy, did she want to get her three miles in today, making over fifteen miles for the week? Or did she want to go nap in the car and try to get close to the recommended eight hours of sleep that she was three hours short on for last night alone? She wasn't that hungry, since the celebratory Snickers infusion, so she grabbed her apple and put her coat on. She would decide once she got outside if she was walking just to her car, or out to the "Nature Trail", which mostly portrayed the ills of human nature over any other kind, but underneath the flotsam of litter, running water was visible flowing through the creek bed.
She grabbed an apple from her fruit bowl. April hated to shop and hated to run out of things even more, so when she did finally shop, she bough in quantity and she bought two of everything, so that she had a full supply of food at work. This worked fine for bagels and small quantities of fruit to be eaten quickly, but sometimes the bowl of rapidly decomposing fruit and its accompanying flies was an issue in the Cube Farm. Today, however, there were just a few items of barely ripe and still firm fruit, so there had been no protestors about. A few more days, however...and they'd all be out there circling with their signs and chanting in front of her cube in support of the decaying fruit.
April bit into her apple, just as her e-mail notification dinged. She sat back down to read the e-mail while chewing a too-large bite of apple. Or trying to chew. Death, perched on her desk next to her monitor screen smirked as he watched each movement of her jaw muscles. He was counting down. NOW. April swallowed, realizing too late that she hadn't chewed that chunk of Granny Smith's bitter apple nearly enough. The chunk lodged in her throat and shut down her airway. She was beginning to panic, she realized that she could not 'cough, speak or breathe', like the posters all say and would dearly love some intervention. But everyone else was at lunch. Those folks are never late to a meal, and no one was around. She quickly traipsed through the cubes, looking for just one hard working person who didn't run off to lunch at the stroke of noon (or, knowing her co-workers, half an hour before noon.) She found no one.
Her eyes started to bulge out of their sockets and their watering sent salty tears cascading down her face. She thought it ironic that while she was choking to death, she could still taste the salt of her own tears. She thought about calling 9-1-1, but realized that they couldn't arrive soon enough to save her. She recognized that she was down to a minute, maybe thirty seconds left. She hurled herself against the wall, but this resulted in the apple wedging itself deeper yet and breaking her left radius, not that that would matter much longer.
April couldn't believe that it could end this way. She touched up her lipstick and brushed her hair. She was aware that a whole bunch of people would soon be staring at her lifeless body, for the last time in fact, so she may as well look as good as possible under the circumstances. Her final thought was of her dogs waiting for her at home. Death's leer could practically be heard from a mile away and his celebratory dance-a combination of the moonwalk, the cabbage patch and a little bit of the bus stop-was inspired.
April didn't hear the door open, nor feel the resonant booming voice of Dumpy's boss as he strolled into the farm. He came up behind her, assuming that she was reading the e-mail still open on her screen and heartily whacked her on the back a few times in his typical hello gesture. This was his normal greeting, and while she had come to hate it and mastered avoiding interacting with him after the last time when he broke three ribs and she bit off and swallowed the tip of her tongue, this time she could not resist.
Death, watching the events unfold, screamed "NO!" He formed dark circling clouds and tried to blot out Dumpy's boss, but to no avail.
Dumpy's boss hid his surprise at the resulting violent explosion of air and still recognizable apple that splattered across her monitor, as he glanced at her slick, reddened face her eyes popped open (she had closed them- she didn't want everyone to see her body with bulging eyes and was worried that closing a dead person's eyes wasn't as easy as they made it look on TV.) He stepped back. She breathed deeply, aware that for the second time in barely as many hours, she had escaped death. As her brain's oxygen supply returned to normal, she was beginning to notice a pattern. And she didn't like it.
Death was reduced to hysterical tears, sobbing and screaming and thinking about how this woman clearly has one hell of a guardian angel looking out for her. What the hell was he going to do now? Time to call in help, even if it means a demotion. There could be other powers at work here, powers that he didn't even know about, much less have any idea how to defeat...
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Death sat on the windowsill fuming. His nebulous black presence filtered out all light, making it look like it was dusk. But only in the window in which he sat. Through the other windows, it looked like the brilliant summer morning that it was. Some of April's coworkers noticed this, but no one was motivated enough to hoist themselves from their chairs to try to figure out why one the view from window was nearly black and the others not. Some of her more industrious coworkers tried to look the phenomenon up on wikipedia.com, but since they didn't have a concrete name for it, it made searching it out a challenge. Some spent hours trying to come up with answers, but death, though technically invisible must still have given off some eerie vibe, as no one moseyed over to see what he looked like close up.
Death could not believe that she could get that lucky. Again. It was getting old, and now his beach plans were shot to hell, as well as his weekend frisbee football tournament plans. There was no way to recover and stay within his proscribed forty-hour workweek. Now he was going to have to get his supervisor to sign off on his working of the weekend, and at this point, that was the best-case scenario. The worst- case scenario would be to have to hand this case over to his boss and let her finish April off. Asking for that kind of assistance was for the losers-nobody wanted to escalate to Deader, that kind of thing had a way of coming back to haunt you at performance evaluation time. Not to mention raise time. CRAP! It was time to get mean and ugly and to work smarter, not harder. If only he could figure out what that meant, he might be able to pull it off.....
Death skulked in the window looking for answers, sending tiny black clouds soaring across the ceiling of the cube farm, further puzzling the Wikkies who struggled to find meaning for them, while taking video of the scuttling clouds on their cell phones and calling CNN to report their weird indoor weather. How could she die? It had to be fast-like now. It had to be painful, as she was really starting to piss him off and it had to let him dissipate so he could move on to his next stop. He still had eighteen people to knock off by his department's next update meeting, which would be Monday meeting. It was now Friday, near lunchtime for those who could still ingest solid foods.
Lunchtime.... Somehow April's lunch was going to kill her. This was Plan D and he couldn't go any farther than that, so it had to work. That was it- wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she would choke to death, it would be lonely and painful and she's be conscious for two to three minutes, so she'd get to look in his face as she checked out and he would triumph. He drifted back toward her desk to figure out what she had planned for lunch.
April, who usually walked for an hour on her lunch, was trying to figure out the same thing. She was feeling lazy, did she want to get her three miles in today, making over fifteen miles for the week? Or did she want to go nap in the car and try to get close to the recommended eight hours of sleep that she was three hours short on for last night alone? She wasn't that hungry, since the celebratory Snickers infusion, so she grabbed her apple and put her coat on. She would decide once she got outside if she was walking just to her car, or out to the "Nature Trail", which mostly portrayed the ills of human nature over any other kind, but underneath the flotsam of litter, running water was visible flowing through the creek bed.
She grabbed an apple from her fruit bowl. April hated to shop and hated to run out of things even more, so when she did finally shop, she bough in quantity and she bought two of everything, so that she had a full supply of food at work. This worked fine for bagels and small quantities of fruit to be eaten quickly, but sometimes the bowl of rapidly decomposing fruit and its accompanying flies was an issue in the Cube Farm. Today, however, there were just a few items of barely ripe and still firm fruit, so there had been no protestors about. A few more days, however...and they'd all be out there circling with their signs and chanting in front of her cube in support of the decaying fruit.
April bit into her apple, just as her e-mail notification dinged. She sat back down to read the e-mail while chewing a too-large bite of apple. Or trying to chew. Death, perched on her desk next to her monitor screen smirked as he watched each movement of her jaw muscles. He was counting down. NOW. April swallowed, realizing too late that she hadn't chewed that chunk of Granny Smith's bitter apple nearly enough. The chunk lodged in her throat and shut down her airway. She was beginning to panic, she realized that she could not 'cough, speak or breathe', like the posters all say and would dearly love some intervention. But everyone else was at lunch. Those folks are never late to a meal, and no one was around. She quickly traipsed through the cubes, looking for just one hard working person who didn't run off to lunch at the stroke of noon (or, knowing her co-workers, half an hour before noon.) She found no one.
Her eyes started to bulge out of their sockets and their watering sent salty tears cascading down her face. She thought it ironic that while she was choking to death, she could still taste the salt of her own tears. She thought about calling 9-1-1, but realized that they couldn't arrive soon enough to save her. She recognized that she was down to a minute, maybe thirty seconds left. She hurled herself against the wall, but this resulted in the apple wedging itself deeper yet and breaking her left radius, not that that would matter much longer.
April couldn't believe that it could end this way. She touched up her lipstick and brushed her hair. She was aware that a whole bunch of people would soon be staring at her lifeless body, for the last time in fact, so she may as well look as good as possible under the circumstances. Her final thought was of her dogs waiting for her at home. Death's leer could practically be heard from a mile away and his celebratory dance-a combination of the moonwalk, the cabbage patch and a little bit of the bus stop-was inspired.
April didn't hear the door open, nor feel the resonant booming voice of Dumpy's boss as he strolled into the farm. He came up behind her, assuming that she was reading the e-mail still open on her screen and heartily whacked her on the back a few times in his typical hello gesture. This was his normal greeting, and while she had come to hate it and mastered avoiding interacting with him after the last time when he broke three ribs and she bit off and swallowed the tip of her tongue, this time she could not resist.
Death, watching the events unfold, screamed "NO!" He formed dark circling clouds and tried to blot out Dumpy's boss, but to no avail.
Dumpy's boss hid his surprise at the resulting violent explosion of air and still recognizable apple that splattered across her monitor, as he glanced at her slick, reddened face her eyes popped open (she had closed them- she didn't want everyone to see her body with bulging eyes and was worried that closing a dead person's eyes wasn't as easy as they made it look on TV.) He stepped back. She breathed deeply, aware that for the second time in barely as many hours, she had escaped death. As her brain's oxygen supply returned to normal, she was beginning to notice a pattern. And she didn't like it.
Death was reduced to hysterical tears, sobbing and screaming and thinking about how this woman clearly has one hell of a guardian angel looking out for her. What the hell was he going to do now? Time to call in help, even if it means a demotion. There could be other powers at work here, powers that he didn't even know about, much less have any idea how to defeat...
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Friday, November 16, 2007
The Stalker, continued
Continued from 11/8/07:
Death couldn’t believe the dumb luck. It must be April’s lucky day. Too bad she would not get to appreciate it for long.
Death sighed. Actually, he swore a blue streak. He could not believe that this idiot was going to ruin his afternoon at the beach! Not only that, but he was already behind on his claims for the day and he may never get a chance to catch up. He may have to work on the weekend and there was nothing that Death’s minions hated more than working on the weekend. He was getting mad and as such, he was taking off the gloves. So much for quick and painless- this time she would know what hit her. She would feel the pain and know that her last moments were ebbing from her soon to be lifeless body and that there was nothing she could do about it.
Upon her hurried arrival at work, April ran for the door, hoping to get to her cube unnoticed. Once there, with the computer on, she could pretend that she had been there for an hour already, and then casually go out to get a coffee refill. No one would realize that it was her first cup and that every cell of her being was screaming for its morning caffeine fix.
Death was way ahead of her. What are the best ways to die at work? Scalded to death by coffee? Too messy. Lightning strike through the window? Seems farfetched but he may be able to swing it. A raging pack of pit bulls? Maybe later, on her lunch break, but this had to be over by then. Electrocuted by a chamomile tea-dipped iPod headphone? Not sure that would do anything but make her ear sticky. Carbon monoxide leak? That would work, if he wanted big numbers, but frankly it seemed wasteful to take so many when you just want the one. Something creative. He was mad and now he wanted to get even with the pain of her death. THINK.
April was sitting quietly at her desk, after getting her coffee and downing some Benadryl for a runny nose. She was a hypochondriac and kept a drawer full of medicine at her desk, just in case. This made her popular with the meth-making cleaning crowd, as they could no longer buy some of the drugs, but they could lift hers when they were ready to cook a new batch. She had noticed the disappearance of her drugs, and had taken to buying in bulk and having a secret, backup drug drawer to make sure she always had whatever she could possibly need.
After carefully reviewing her Human Resources and medical records, Death saw the perfect solution. The file cabinets were dusty and everyone in HR was asleep at their desks (though frankly it was hard to tell the difference), so no one noticed the ball of shadows moving stealthily through the department and then rifling through the personnel files. Because he had once, still in human form, been fired by HR, he took the opportunity of their ‘team meeting’ to draw mustaches on each of their faces with different colored sharpies.
April was pretending to work, while actually surfing the Entertainment Tonight site. She was addicted; she was willing to admit it. But she wouldn’t admit it to her boss. And when she heard his polyester pant legs rubbing together as he waddled in her direction, she hit Alt + Tab so fast that the spreadsheet she flipped to was dizzy. She heard a buzzing coming toward her, as well as the polyester pants and she smelled smoke- probably from all of those polyesters being tormented by the friction of the round dwarf’s forward motion.
Between the buzzing and the wisp of smoke, April froze for a moment, trying to piece together what was going on. Only as she watched the bee sting her hand, leave its stinger and fall dead to her desk, did she realize that the sensory overload was brought on by independent events. Once she determined that, she wondered how a bee got in the office in December. Only then did she remember that she is allergic to bee stings. And she started to panic.
She had heard and read all the warnings about bee stings and anaphylaxis and made it a habit to never go outside in the summer during daytime in order to avoid the possibility of meeting up with a stinging insect that could kill her. As her mind raced, her body acted in slow motion, or more accurately no motion at all. April could see her funeral, she could see how sad her dogs would be without her to bake cookies for them each night and she could see her parents spending her life insurance policy on a combination of cruises and TV infomercials. Her breath was ragged, she was struggling to breathe, it was getting harder and harder to get the air into her lungs, when he boss (known as Dumpy in the coffee room) rounded the corner and stared at her.
“Why are you sitting at your desk sobbing when there’s work to do? That spreadsheet isn’t going to fill itself in with useless numbers, you know.”
April blinked. She realized she couldn’t breathe because she was crying while trying to vocalize her will (she had never written one down), in case anyone was recording her last moments, not because her airway had swelled up. Her hand had hardly swelled from the sting and she removed the stinger, still unable to believe that she had been stung and lived to tell about it. She was definitely going to get a Snickers bar to celebrate her good fortune. Maybe two. And she would definitely make Benadryl part of the daily preventative cocktail- apparently you can never be too careful.
Death sat steaming in the window. Trying to figure out why this woman just could not be killed. The stakes were getting higher and she just would not cooperate. Die already, dammitt! I have things to do- I don’t have all day to spend trying to kill your sorry self. He wished he had the power to speak, maybe if he could explain it to her, she’d let him take her. But alas, in exchange for omnipotence and the power to take life, one had to give up assuming a visible form and the gift of speech.
Death reviewed the options. Are we up to Plan D now? He had almost never had to go to Plan C before, and now he had to think of Plan D? Plan D had better work, as Death, never a good student, wasn’t sure which letter followed D in the alphabet and just might have to give up after this attempt if he couldn’t figure it out.
April sat at her desk, eyes and cheeks still red, but now with chocolate smeared on her chin. She was counting her blessings and swearing to herself that she wouldn’t take anything for granted anymore. She would be a better person. She would stop kicking the homeless guy in front of her house each morning as she headed out. She would stop baiting the neighbor’s cats into her garage so her dogs could play with them. Really she would be a better person with her new lease on life….
To be continued…………………………………..
Copyright Antigone Lett. All rights reserved, etc. etc......
Death couldn’t believe the dumb luck. It must be April’s lucky day. Too bad she would not get to appreciate it for long.
Death sighed. Actually, he swore a blue streak. He could not believe that this idiot was going to ruin his afternoon at the beach! Not only that, but he was already behind on his claims for the day and he may never get a chance to catch up. He may have to work on the weekend and there was nothing that Death’s minions hated more than working on the weekend. He was getting mad and as such, he was taking off the gloves. So much for quick and painless- this time she would know what hit her. She would feel the pain and know that her last moments were ebbing from her soon to be lifeless body and that there was nothing she could do about it.
Upon her hurried arrival at work, April ran for the door, hoping to get to her cube unnoticed. Once there, with the computer on, she could pretend that she had been there for an hour already, and then casually go out to get a coffee refill. No one would realize that it was her first cup and that every cell of her being was screaming for its morning caffeine fix.
Death was way ahead of her. What are the best ways to die at work? Scalded to death by coffee? Too messy. Lightning strike through the window? Seems farfetched but he may be able to swing it. A raging pack of pit bulls? Maybe later, on her lunch break, but this had to be over by then. Electrocuted by a chamomile tea-dipped iPod headphone? Not sure that would do anything but make her ear sticky. Carbon monoxide leak? That would work, if he wanted big numbers, but frankly it seemed wasteful to take so many when you just want the one. Something creative. He was mad and now he wanted to get even with the pain of her death. THINK.
April was sitting quietly at her desk, after getting her coffee and downing some Benadryl for a runny nose. She was a hypochondriac and kept a drawer full of medicine at her desk, just in case. This made her popular with the meth-making cleaning crowd, as they could no longer buy some of the drugs, but they could lift hers when they were ready to cook a new batch. She had noticed the disappearance of her drugs, and had taken to buying in bulk and having a secret, backup drug drawer to make sure she always had whatever she could possibly need.
After carefully reviewing her Human Resources and medical records, Death saw the perfect solution. The file cabinets were dusty and everyone in HR was asleep at their desks (though frankly it was hard to tell the difference), so no one noticed the ball of shadows moving stealthily through the department and then rifling through the personnel files. Because he had once, still in human form, been fired by HR, he took the opportunity of their ‘team meeting’ to draw mustaches on each of their faces with different colored sharpies.
April was pretending to work, while actually surfing the Entertainment Tonight site. She was addicted; she was willing to admit it. But she wouldn’t admit it to her boss. And when she heard his polyester pant legs rubbing together as he waddled in her direction, she hit Alt + Tab so fast that the spreadsheet she flipped to was dizzy. She heard a buzzing coming toward her, as well as the polyester pants and she smelled smoke- probably from all of those polyesters being tormented by the friction of the round dwarf’s forward motion.
Between the buzzing and the wisp of smoke, April froze for a moment, trying to piece together what was going on. Only as she watched the bee sting her hand, leave its stinger and fall dead to her desk, did she realize that the sensory overload was brought on by independent events. Once she determined that, she wondered how a bee got in the office in December. Only then did she remember that she is allergic to bee stings. And she started to panic.
She had heard and read all the warnings about bee stings and anaphylaxis and made it a habit to never go outside in the summer during daytime in order to avoid the possibility of meeting up with a stinging insect that could kill her. As her mind raced, her body acted in slow motion, or more accurately no motion at all. April could see her funeral, she could see how sad her dogs would be without her to bake cookies for them each night and she could see her parents spending her life insurance policy on a combination of cruises and TV infomercials. Her breath was ragged, she was struggling to breathe, it was getting harder and harder to get the air into her lungs, when he boss (known as Dumpy in the coffee room) rounded the corner and stared at her.
“Why are you sitting at your desk sobbing when there’s work to do? That spreadsheet isn’t going to fill itself in with useless numbers, you know.”
April blinked. She realized she couldn’t breathe because she was crying while trying to vocalize her will (she had never written one down), in case anyone was recording her last moments, not because her airway had swelled up. Her hand had hardly swelled from the sting and she removed the stinger, still unable to believe that she had been stung and lived to tell about it. She was definitely going to get a Snickers bar to celebrate her good fortune. Maybe two. And she would definitely make Benadryl part of the daily preventative cocktail- apparently you can never be too careful.
Death sat steaming in the window. Trying to figure out why this woman just could not be killed. The stakes were getting higher and she just would not cooperate. Die already, dammitt! I have things to do- I don’t have all day to spend trying to kill your sorry self. He wished he had the power to speak, maybe if he could explain it to her, she’d let him take her. But alas, in exchange for omnipotence and the power to take life, one had to give up assuming a visible form and the gift of speech.
Death reviewed the options. Are we up to Plan D now? He had almost never had to go to Plan C before, and now he had to think of Plan D? Plan D had better work, as Death, never a good student, wasn’t sure which letter followed D in the alphabet and just might have to give up after this attempt if he couldn’t figure it out.
April sat at her desk, eyes and cheeks still red, but now with chocolate smeared on her chin. She was counting her blessings and swearing to herself that she wouldn’t take anything for granted anymore. She would be a better person. She would stop kicking the homeless guy in front of her house each morning as she headed out. She would stop baiting the neighbor’s cats into her garage so her dogs could play with them. Really she would be a better person with her new lease on life….
To be continued…………………………………..
Copyright Antigone Lett. All rights reserved, etc. etc......
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Stalker
As the morning light filtered into the room, the shadows in the unlit corners appeared darker still. Eyes still unfocused, April glanced in the direction of the darkest corner and thought she saw the shadows move. She blinked, assuring herself that it was too early and her eyes were playing tricks on her. She looked again and this time saw only the silhouette of the plant hanging from the mantel and the cat-less kitty condo behind it.
In the instant in which she was blinking, the shadow gathered itself up into a little ball and rolled under the door into the bathroom. In the bathroom, the shadow made the arrangements- involving the power cord of the hair dryer and leaking pipes.
You see, today was April’s day to die. Her number had come up, and death was here to claim her. But, death had until midnight to claim her and if he couldn’t claim her by then, she would live forever. Poor April would have no idea that it was her last day on earth. She was but a pawn in the interminable battle between life and death and, like the rest of us, she had no idea how capricious either could be at any given moment.
April dragged herself out of bed, let the dogs out and only then realized that while heading toward the back door with eyes semi-open, she had stepped in, and tracked, some of the Ranier-sized pile of dog vomit that was awaiting her on the oak floor. While she had been known to leave such a mess to: worst case dry out some; and best case to be re-ingested by a hungry dog; a mess like that would surely leave a mark on the wood floor. With a disgusted sigh, she got out the paper towels, swearing all the while.
After the cleanup and much cursing at the dog who felt the need to eat the roll of toilet paper, April took the world’s fastest shower. She noticed the puddle on the floor of the bathroom, just in front of the sink, but didn’t have time to ponder it, or clean it up. She also didn’t have time for the blow dryer either, and thus left the room with dripping wet hair, which she never did. She let the dogs in, swore at them some more as she handed over their treats and ran out the door.
Death couldn’t believe it. All she had to do was turn on the hairdryer and she was his……how could the stupid dogs have foiled his plan. He always went for the easiest way out- it was easiest for the claimee, and also for him. If he claimed her early, he could crank through his list and then, if done before 2PM, he would have had the rest of the afternoon to spend at the beach. He loved the beach and always tried to get his work done early in order to spend a few hours lulled into the blissful nothingness that enveloped him there. That and the smell of salt water, which took him back to happier days and times.
April ran out of the house in a hurry, breakfast would have to be the three saltines that she found shoved down deep in the seat of the passenger seat. Not having children, only dogs, she didn’t want to think about how they got there. The important thing is that they were there and they didn’t break any teeth on the way down.
Death, meanwhile, had to resort to plan B. A car accident- they happen every day, especially in this town. He flew out over the highway, looking for the idea location. There it was, a curve in the road, at the peak of a hill, with traffic backing up for the exit on the blind down-side of the hill. He hated car accidents. They were loud and scary and lot of people were involved in one way or another. Granted he got a bonus for every extra soul that he brought in, but he hated to do it that way. He much preferred either the singular fluke accident that resulted in just the one death, or a large-scale natural disaster to rack up his numbers that couldn’t be foreseen by the victims. He had already spent too much time on April, so car accident it was and he had it all figured out.
April left the house, snarfed down the saltines in the first block and only then realized that she did not have her card-key for the office. Without it, she couldn’t get in the building, couldn’t fire up her computer and most importantly, couldn’t get into the cafeteria for lunch. Crap! She drove around the block and ran back into the house to get it. She lost maybe a minute to her forgetfulness, then was back on the road, speeding to make up for yet more lost time.
Death had it all figured out, a tractor-trailer—the driver distracted as he called a radio station repeatedly on his cell in order to win Huey Lewis concert tickets—would crest the hill on the wet road and see the backlog ahead and slam on the brakes. He would then jackknife, cross all there lanes of traffic, taking out only April as the rig came to rest against April’s squashed car and the median. The concrete median was only fifty feet long of on each side of the highway at the pivotal point, so it had to end there. Outside that fifty foot range and the rig would wind up in the median or in the opposing traffic.
He would begin by going left and sheering along the median until the trailer of the rig joined in the fun, passing the cab, and then, together, they would swerve right across all traffic lanes, ending with a squished April and her 1985 Ford Escort-with no side impact air bags.
Death was waiting for the accident. It was all figured out down to the last second. He had the tractor-trailer in his radar and there was April. But she was in the wrong spot. She was too far behind. Dammit!
He watched her watching the jackknife unfold. Or more accurately watching the jackknife fold. She was in the right hand lane, she was thirty feet behind where he needed her to be. She saw or heard the truck’s distress, sensed that it was in trouble and slowed accordingly. The truck came to rest just a few feet in front of her. She stopped without incident and ran to the cab of the truck, concerned that the driver was hurt. She saw no motion from the truck excepting the lonely wipers continuing their intermittent sweeping of the windshield, unknowing and uncaring that the truck’s forward motion had ended.
As April climbed the steps to the cab, heart racing, unsure of what she would find when she got there, the driver gave her a thumbs-up. She presumed that it meant that he was okay, and never dreamt that he had just scored the Huey Lewis tickets. Death snorted disgustedly, now wishing that he had taken the truck driver out after all. He deserved it. April climbed back in her car and continued on her journey to work, even later than she was five minutes ago but with her heart beating a million miles an hour and the adrenaline flowing.
Death couldn’t believe the dumb luck. It must be April’s lucky day. Too bad she would never know it.
To be continued on Thursday 11/15/07…………………..
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
In the instant in which she was blinking, the shadow gathered itself up into a little ball and rolled under the door into the bathroom. In the bathroom, the shadow made the arrangements- involving the power cord of the hair dryer and leaking pipes.
You see, today was April’s day to die. Her number had come up, and death was here to claim her. But, death had until midnight to claim her and if he couldn’t claim her by then, she would live forever. Poor April would have no idea that it was her last day on earth. She was but a pawn in the interminable battle between life and death and, like the rest of us, she had no idea how capricious either could be at any given moment.
April dragged herself out of bed, let the dogs out and only then realized that while heading toward the back door with eyes semi-open, she had stepped in, and tracked, some of the Ranier-sized pile of dog vomit that was awaiting her on the oak floor. While she had been known to leave such a mess to: worst case dry out some; and best case to be re-ingested by a hungry dog; a mess like that would surely leave a mark on the wood floor. With a disgusted sigh, she got out the paper towels, swearing all the while.
After the cleanup and much cursing at the dog who felt the need to eat the roll of toilet paper, April took the world’s fastest shower. She noticed the puddle on the floor of the bathroom, just in front of the sink, but didn’t have time to ponder it, or clean it up. She also didn’t have time for the blow dryer either, and thus left the room with dripping wet hair, which she never did. She let the dogs in, swore at them some more as she handed over their treats and ran out the door.
Death couldn’t believe it. All she had to do was turn on the hairdryer and she was his……how could the stupid dogs have foiled his plan. He always went for the easiest way out- it was easiest for the claimee, and also for him. If he claimed her early, he could crank through his list and then, if done before 2PM, he would have had the rest of the afternoon to spend at the beach. He loved the beach and always tried to get his work done early in order to spend a few hours lulled into the blissful nothingness that enveloped him there. That and the smell of salt water, which took him back to happier days and times.
April ran out of the house in a hurry, breakfast would have to be the three saltines that she found shoved down deep in the seat of the passenger seat. Not having children, only dogs, she didn’t want to think about how they got there. The important thing is that they were there and they didn’t break any teeth on the way down.
Death, meanwhile, had to resort to plan B. A car accident- they happen every day, especially in this town. He flew out over the highway, looking for the idea location. There it was, a curve in the road, at the peak of a hill, with traffic backing up for the exit on the blind down-side of the hill. He hated car accidents. They were loud and scary and lot of people were involved in one way or another. Granted he got a bonus for every extra soul that he brought in, but he hated to do it that way. He much preferred either the singular fluke accident that resulted in just the one death, or a large-scale natural disaster to rack up his numbers that couldn’t be foreseen by the victims. He had already spent too much time on April, so car accident it was and he had it all figured out.
April left the house, snarfed down the saltines in the first block and only then realized that she did not have her card-key for the office. Without it, she couldn’t get in the building, couldn’t fire up her computer and most importantly, couldn’t get into the cafeteria for lunch. Crap! She drove around the block and ran back into the house to get it. She lost maybe a minute to her forgetfulness, then was back on the road, speeding to make up for yet more lost time.
Death had it all figured out, a tractor-trailer—the driver distracted as he called a radio station repeatedly on his cell in order to win Huey Lewis concert tickets—would crest the hill on the wet road and see the backlog ahead and slam on the brakes. He would then jackknife, cross all there lanes of traffic, taking out only April as the rig came to rest against April’s squashed car and the median. The concrete median was only fifty feet long of on each side of the highway at the pivotal point, so it had to end there. Outside that fifty foot range and the rig would wind up in the median or in the opposing traffic.
He would begin by going left and sheering along the median until the trailer of the rig joined in the fun, passing the cab, and then, together, they would swerve right across all traffic lanes, ending with a squished April and her 1985 Ford Escort-with no side impact air bags.
Death was waiting for the accident. It was all figured out down to the last second. He had the tractor-trailer in his radar and there was April. But she was in the wrong spot. She was too far behind. Dammit!
He watched her watching the jackknife unfold. Or more accurately watching the jackknife fold. She was in the right hand lane, she was thirty feet behind where he needed her to be. She saw or heard the truck’s distress, sensed that it was in trouble and slowed accordingly. The truck came to rest just a few feet in front of her. She stopped without incident and ran to the cab of the truck, concerned that the driver was hurt. She saw no motion from the truck excepting the lonely wipers continuing their intermittent sweeping of the windshield, unknowing and uncaring that the truck’s forward motion had ended.
As April climbed the steps to the cab, heart racing, unsure of what she would find when she got there, the driver gave her a thumbs-up. She presumed that it meant that he was okay, and never dreamt that he had just scored the Huey Lewis tickets. Death snorted disgustedly, now wishing that he had taken the truck driver out after all. He deserved it. April climbed back in her car and continued on her journey to work, even later than she was five minutes ago but with her heart beating a million miles an hour and the adrenaline flowing.
Death couldn’t believe the dumb luck. It must be April’s lucky day. Too bad she would never know it.
To be continued on Thursday 11/15/07…………………..
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The Mission
It was time. The clock was ticking. Fifteen minutes, starting NOW. It was now or never. I steeled myself for what was to come. Even though I had done it a million times before and this had become a routine patrol, I still ran through the checklist every time. Success is in the training. And luck. And being prepared—like a boy scout. Hell, whatever works, right?. As long as the mission is successfully accomplished, does it really matter how it gets accomplished?
Despite doing this exact same drill for months, I still run through the checklist each and every time. For precision missions like this, it is of the utmost importance. It is automatic now, which was good. A mistake now would be life changing at the very least. In addition, it would destroy the last several months of careful planning, reducing all of my efforts to wasted time. All of that intelligence lost.
Time is of the essence, so they say. I duck into the broom closet to don my camouflage gear. I used to use the bathroom to change, like normal people, but due to recent headlines, the popularity of the stalls has skyrocketed and you have to reserve in advance. Plus, you never know when a Republican Senator—or just a poseur Republican Senator—will decide to make some headlines of his own. Who needs that? The broom closet is less crowded and less complicated. No reservations are required. And, I can store my stuff there in a box marked “cleaning supplies”. No one will ever look in that box. They haven’t yet.
I get geared up. The face paint is a little hard without a mirror, but I make do with the stainless steel mop bucket. Kneeling on the floor to apply the paint is tough on the knees—they are not as young as they used to be. Three minutes down. I am ready to go, only twelve minutes left.
Peering out of the closet, I see no one- GO, GO, GO. Stealth and invisibility are the key to success. And training. I slink down the hall, down the stairs and out the side door. I wedge the door open. I edge around the building, blending in all the way. Step by step.
Eleven minutes left. I come to the parking lot. This is where the camouflage comes in. I commando-crawl to the first row of cars. Once there, I weave in between the cars, invisible to human eyes on the third floor. I hit the dirt in between the rows and crawl to the next row. I dodge and feint through the parking lot, undetected. I get to my car, climb in and breathe a deep sigh of relief. I drive off.
Ten minutes left. I can do this. I steady my nerves, take deep breaths. Drive carefully. The parking lot speed limit is ten miles an hour. The last thing I want to do is attract attention. Slowly I cruise out of the lot to my clandestine destination. Once I arrive there, I attract some attention, due to the camo, but I shake it off. I have a mission to accomplish and I must accomplish it. This is what it is all about.
Five minutes left. This is cutting it closer than I am comfortable with. Once the goal is achieved, and I am back safe inside, my heart will resume a normal heartbeat. Even thought it’s routine, I still get worked up every time. The adrenaline flows. I drive back, obeying the traffic laws. Back to the parking lot, I park in the same place, so as not to attract undue attention.
Three minutes left. I carefully carry the plunder, balanced on my head, as I crawl into the next row of cars on my way back to the building. More dodging and feinting back to the building. More blending along the side of the building, still balancing the stuff on my head. In through the door that I left ajar. Back up the stairs to the broom closet.
One minute left, I hastily change back into my work clothes, stashing the camo gear in the box.
Zero minutes left. I emerge, victorious and undetected, from the closet, heart still pounding. I forgot to remove the face paint. But I have Starbucks double mochachinos for the gang.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Despite doing this exact same drill for months, I still run through the checklist each and every time. For precision missions like this, it is of the utmost importance. It is automatic now, which was good. A mistake now would be life changing at the very least. In addition, it would destroy the last several months of careful planning, reducing all of my efforts to wasted time. All of that intelligence lost.
Time is of the essence, so they say. I duck into the broom closet to don my camouflage gear. I used to use the bathroom to change, like normal people, but due to recent headlines, the popularity of the stalls has skyrocketed and you have to reserve in advance. Plus, you never know when a Republican Senator—or just a poseur Republican Senator—will decide to make some headlines of his own. Who needs that? The broom closet is less crowded and less complicated. No reservations are required. And, I can store my stuff there in a box marked “cleaning supplies”. No one will ever look in that box. They haven’t yet.
I get geared up. The face paint is a little hard without a mirror, but I make do with the stainless steel mop bucket. Kneeling on the floor to apply the paint is tough on the knees—they are not as young as they used to be. Three minutes down. I am ready to go, only twelve minutes left.
Peering out of the closet, I see no one- GO, GO, GO. Stealth and invisibility are the key to success. And training. I slink down the hall, down the stairs and out the side door. I wedge the door open. I edge around the building, blending in all the way. Step by step.
Eleven minutes left. I come to the parking lot. This is where the camouflage comes in. I commando-crawl to the first row of cars. Once there, I weave in between the cars, invisible to human eyes on the third floor. I hit the dirt in between the rows and crawl to the next row. I dodge and feint through the parking lot, undetected. I get to my car, climb in and breathe a deep sigh of relief. I drive off.
Ten minutes left. I can do this. I steady my nerves, take deep breaths. Drive carefully. The parking lot speed limit is ten miles an hour. The last thing I want to do is attract attention. Slowly I cruise out of the lot to my clandestine destination. Once I arrive there, I attract some attention, due to the camo, but I shake it off. I have a mission to accomplish and I must accomplish it. This is what it is all about.
Five minutes left. This is cutting it closer than I am comfortable with. Once the goal is achieved, and I am back safe inside, my heart will resume a normal heartbeat. Even thought it’s routine, I still get worked up every time. The adrenaline flows. I drive back, obeying the traffic laws. Back to the parking lot, I park in the same place, so as not to attract undue attention.
Three minutes left. I carefully carry the plunder, balanced on my head, as I crawl into the next row of cars on my way back to the building. More dodging and feinting back to the building. More blending along the side of the building, still balancing the stuff on my head. In through the door that I left ajar. Back up the stairs to the broom closet.
One minute left, I hastily change back into my work clothes, stashing the camo gear in the box.
Zero minutes left. I emerge, victorious and undetected, from the closet, heart still pounding. I forgot to remove the face paint. But I have Starbucks double mochachinos for the gang.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
At the Farm
Trixie and I had no sooner started exploring the filthiest parts of the farm immediately after our arrival when Grandma called us.
“Come on, we’re going to the store. Now. And leave that filthy dog here; it can’t ride in my car.” She said.
Thus began that summer’s momentous events and Grandma’s begrudging acceptance of Trixie and me in her life. And her house. I suppose anything new and different at nine years old qualifies as momentous. Even having a new neighbor is momentous, whether it is someone my age—a new playmate—or, someone older, but still in need of a thorough vetting for the neighborhood grapevine. Being abandoned here at the farm with my crazy grandparents and my sane dog definitely qualified as momentous.
According to Grandma, though the farm was self sufficient, there were still some things that we had to get in the village. Things like toilet paper, chocolate, flour, salt and sugar. And gossip. We were making a chocolate run, so Grandma could make her world famous chocolate cake to celebrate my arrival. Or incarceration, as I saw it. But, I do like the cake, so it was worth tying Trixie to the garage for a look around our new home. While we were there, Grandma could get the village scoop from Gladys.
We headed to IGA, which doubles as the coffee counter and information center of the town. Grandma methodically crossed things off her list, forgetting all about me as soon as she was in her element. She looked at the display nearest the register and began laughing until tears coursed down her face.
Wiping her eyes, she asked Gladys “Where in the name of Jezebel did you get the idea to sell rocks? And how much of Howie’s money did you waste on boxes of rocks with hair on them?”
Gladys sniffed ”I ordered 10 boxes of those Pet Rocks and you mark my words, they’ll be gone in two weeks.”
“I don’t see what fool would buy a rock—even if it does have hair on it—when there’s a quarry just half a mile away where you can get them for free.” Said Grandma. Then she remembered the tourists. “I am sorry I offended you Gladys, I sold you short. But instead of $1.50, I think you should price them at $3.00 and make a sign that says that they are hand-made in the village by local needy children and you can sell a boatload more than 10 boxes in the next twelve weeks. You could make enough to retire on.”
Gladys pondered this and said, “I think you may be right Mrs. Browne. Hey you- shortstuff- are you here for the summer? Do you need a job? I’ll pay you a percentage. Or a flat fee per rock-person. What do you think?”
I was browsing through the musky lures, deciding which one I’d hit on if I had a brain the size of a balled up staple and paying no attention to the adults, when grandma whacked me with her cane and told me to mind my manners. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that phrase, I would mind my manners a lot less.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, were you talking to me?” I said.
“Yes, shortstuff, I was. I was asking if you would like a job for the summer, as your grandma tells me you’re here until school starts and she’d welcome you having something to do with yourself aside from annoying her and the animals up at the farm. You’re Margaret’s kid, aren’t you? What’s your name anyway?” Gladys asked.
“My name is Hermia, after a Shakespeare play, but everyone calls me Hermy. And I guess I would like a job for the summer.” I answered, having no idea what I was getting into in my first hours in town.
“Well, Hermy, how ‘bout you come back this afternoon and we’ll come up with a plan for your summer job. I’ll provide the glue and the hair.” Said Gladys.
We left the store, me still more than baffled about what was going on. She explained that I would be making pet rocks for Gladys to sell to the tourists—who will buy absolutely anything—while they were on vacation at the Lake in the summer. Still unsure of what this might entail, I decided not to worry about it until I had to. On the way to the car, I noticed an old woman with a hawk-like face scowling out of the library window at us. I asked Grandma who that was and why she was staring at us and she told me to mind my business. I thought I was.
Once we got back to the farm, I freed Trixie from her confinement, which was a joke, as the hundred pound Newfoundland mix could have pulled free of the door handle anytime she wanted to. Grandma was starting on dinner and the cake so we picked up our exploring where we left off, until she called us. She reminded me that I said I would go back to meet with Gladys. She said that Uncle Ned’s old bike was in the milkhouse and to help myself.
I went to the milkhouse and found a rusty bike with a pink banana seat and a clown’s horn attached. It wasn’t pretty, but it looked like it might work. It even gave the impression of having air in the tires. I got on and started pedaling, with Trixie running ahead of me. It had not occurred to me to check the brakes before getting on the bike and I was rudely surprised near the bottom of the big hill when I could not slow down and achieved what I assumed to be warp speed before losing contact with the ground.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
“Come on, we’re going to the store. Now. And leave that filthy dog here; it can’t ride in my car.” She said.
Thus began that summer’s momentous events and Grandma’s begrudging acceptance of Trixie and me in her life. And her house. I suppose anything new and different at nine years old qualifies as momentous. Even having a new neighbor is momentous, whether it is someone my age—a new playmate—or, someone older, but still in need of a thorough vetting for the neighborhood grapevine. Being abandoned here at the farm with my crazy grandparents and my sane dog definitely qualified as momentous.
According to Grandma, though the farm was self sufficient, there were still some things that we had to get in the village. Things like toilet paper, chocolate, flour, salt and sugar. And gossip. We were making a chocolate run, so Grandma could make her world famous chocolate cake to celebrate my arrival. Or incarceration, as I saw it. But, I do like the cake, so it was worth tying Trixie to the garage for a look around our new home. While we were there, Grandma could get the village scoop from Gladys.
We headed to IGA, which doubles as the coffee counter and information center of the town. Grandma methodically crossed things off her list, forgetting all about me as soon as she was in her element. She looked at the display nearest the register and began laughing until tears coursed down her face.
Wiping her eyes, she asked Gladys “Where in the name of Jezebel did you get the idea to sell rocks? And how much of Howie’s money did you waste on boxes of rocks with hair on them?”
Gladys sniffed ”I ordered 10 boxes of those Pet Rocks and you mark my words, they’ll be gone in two weeks.”
“I don’t see what fool would buy a rock—even if it does have hair on it—when there’s a quarry just half a mile away where you can get them for free.” Said Grandma. Then she remembered the tourists. “I am sorry I offended you Gladys, I sold you short. But instead of $1.50, I think you should price them at $3.00 and make a sign that says that they are hand-made in the village by local needy children and you can sell a boatload more than 10 boxes in the next twelve weeks. You could make enough to retire on.”
Gladys pondered this and said, “I think you may be right Mrs. Browne. Hey you- shortstuff- are you here for the summer? Do you need a job? I’ll pay you a percentage. Or a flat fee per rock-person. What do you think?”
I was browsing through the musky lures, deciding which one I’d hit on if I had a brain the size of a balled up staple and paying no attention to the adults, when grandma whacked me with her cane and told me to mind my manners. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that phrase, I would mind my manners a lot less.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, were you talking to me?” I said.
“Yes, shortstuff, I was. I was asking if you would like a job for the summer, as your grandma tells me you’re here until school starts and she’d welcome you having something to do with yourself aside from annoying her and the animals up at the farm. You’re Margaret’s kid, aren’t you? What’s your name anyway?” Gladys asked.
“My name is Hermia, after a Shakespeare play, but everyone calls me Hermy. And I guess I would like a job for the summer.” I answered, having no idea what I was getting into in my first hours in town.
“Well, Hermy, how ‘bout you come back this afternoon and we’ll come up with a plan for your summer job. I’ll provide the glue and the hair.” Said Gladys.
We left the store, me still more than baffled about what was going on. She explained that I would be making pet rocks for Gladys to sell to the tourists—who will buy absolutely anything—while they were on vacation at the Lake in the summer. Still unsure of what this might entail, I decided not to worry about it until I had to. On the way to the car, I noticed an old woman with a hawk-like face scowling out of the library window at us. I asked Grandma who that was and why she was staring at us and she told me to mind my business. I thought I was.
Once we got back to the farm, I freed Trixie from her confinement, which was a joke, as the hundred pound Newfoundland mix could have pulled free of the door handle anytime she wanted to. Grandma was starting on dinner and the cake so we picked up our exploring where we left off, until she called us. She reminded me that I said I would go back to meet with Gladys. She said that Uncle Ned’s old bike was in the milkhouse and to help myself.
I went to the milkhouse and found a rusty bike with a pink banana seat and a clown’s horn attached. It wasn’t pretty, but it looked like it might work. It even gave the impression of having air in the tires. I got on and started pedaling, with Trixie running ahead of me. It had not occurred to me to check the brakes before getting on the bike and I was rudely surprised near the bottom of the big hill when I could not slow down and achieved what I assumed to be warp speed before losing contact with the ground.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Friday, September 14, 2007
The Big Moment Was Finally Here
The big moment was finally here. The ultimate test of all of my training, not to mention my willpower. I have trained for this race for six months. Every day, grinding it out, forcing myself to hit the trail. Or the treadmill, depending on what was on TV that night. No one would expect me to miss Grey’s Anatomy for some stupid run up hills around my neighborhood.
It seemed like such a good idea when I signed up. Of course, that was in the dead of winter, which I usually spend as a full time resident of couch-potato-land. Therefore, the idea that in a few months I would be forced to run 26.2 miles should be awesome motivation for getting lots of exercise and more than a little hard-core training. You would think, anyway. I know I did.
We all envision a more perfect future then we actually achieve. I am sure about that now. Well, at least I do. Cause I pictured me, fifty pounds lighter, super fit, cranking through this race like a dog after a squirrel. Not an old dog or a three-legged squirrel, but a silly energetic pup and a fully functional squirrel that lived to taunt the dog. That is what I really thought it would be like. Not so much, at least not so far. There is still time.
The start line was pretty exciting, all those people, mostly hopping up and down because it’s damn cold out at 7 AM and they’re dressed for the state they’ll be in twenty minutes after the gun goes off and the body starts to keep itself warm. Standing around in the morning is not that fun, but there was a lot of excitement in the air. It was palpable. There was even a host of giant bunnies there. They were people in bunny costumes and they all had different times posted on their over-sized ears. These were the pace bunnies. Apparently a bunch of people who had no larger goal in life than to run 26.2 miles at the exact speed that they claim, wearing a bunny costume. Lord, save me from the world’s overachievers, especially the ones with ginormous furry feet.
There must have been five thousand people here to run this race. Some of them, actually most of them, looked like they knew what they were doing and that they were about to kick some butt. I looked like I slept through 6 months of training and showed up to get my t-shirt. After all, I had paid $75 for that t-shirt. I was not leaving without it- that is true.
However, I was here to run this race. To challenge myself, mentally and physically for the first time. I could do this. I had trained and I had read everything I could find about running a marathon on-line while watching TV and carbing up- do you start that five months in advance? I wanted to be sure, so I did. King size Snickers count as carbs, right? Anyway…. I was as prepared as I would ever be. I had done what the books said, gotten in line for the bathroom upon arrival. Then, once I cleared the lovely porta-potty, I got right back in line, as that is what they say you should do. I have been hydrating for a few weeks now too, so you can imagine the results.
After a few trips through the “john”, I moseyed over to the other runners. They were stretching and prancing, preening even. They were all showing off as if they expected a pre-race talent scout to swoop down out of nowhere and offer them a contract on a new running reality show. Maybe called “Road to Nowhere”, or maybe “Roads Scholar”. That would be a good title. I would watch that. Maybe there were running scouts around; I guess you never know who is watching you.
I was trying not to get nervous. Trying to ignore the pressure building in my stomach. I have always been prone to the super-athlete’s curse of throwing up before a big event and while I had hoped that this would be different, I was not so sure. Remembering that running is 90% mental and 10% mental, I tried not to think of it, as though shutting out the symptoms would make the urge to purge go away. Don’t think about it….think of my happy place- a beach in Maui.
That’s better, maybe it will pass. And then it passed all right, passed right through my mouth and maybe even my nose and onto the shoes of all of the runners around me. And I’m pretty sure that my semi-digested breakfast soiled at least half of the pace bunnies’ furry feet, as I had eaten- still carbing up- a dozen scrambled eggs, ¾ of a pound of bacon (I could have eaten it all, but that seemed piggish), several slices of toast and half a gallon of OJ (hydrating). Those bunnies did not look at all amused and everyone moved away from me at warp speed. I took it personally. Like I had any control over that specific bodily function.
Anyway, it was time for the race to start. We all stood ready to go at the crack of the gun. Well, guns aren’t politically correct at races anymore, so they literally cracked a whip. Except the whip-cracker did not seem to have done it before and thus made several lame attempts before the runners just ran over him and his whip en masse. Maybe, if he recovers from 5,000 people running over him, he will think about perfecting his skills before the next marathon.
We were off. How exciting. I turned my iPod up- I like to hear my Barry Manilow loud when I am running- it helps me keep the tempo. So Barry was singing- it is possible that I was also, at least until I had to choose between breathing and singing. Then I chose breathing. The first several minutes I settled into a rhythm and my legs just pumped along. It was good. Many people were passing me, but I had expected that. I had not expected to be at the front of the pack, but rather the back and that’s okay. I am comfortable with my own pace.
Hours passed. Time slowed. It stood still. My mouth was dry, not to mention foul-tasting. Every step was a victory, as my muscles were starting to scream. I expected resistance eventually from my leg muscles, but was surprised that my feet hurt as much as they did and even more surprised when my arm muscles joined the chorus. My stomach was growling, as it has no source of energy whatsoever and it was not happy.
Remembering that it is all in my head helped. I ignored the torturous screaming of my body and instead focused on the tortuous screaming of Barry. I just kept plugging along- moving forward- one foot in front of the other. After what must have been several hours, I spied something in the distance. At last. I knew I could do this. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and soon I will be at the finish line. I approached, ready for the celebration. I wondered where the tents and all of the runners were. I hadn’t seen anyone for a while, but surely they haven’t all gone home already?
Just a hundred more feet. I cannot read the sign yet, but I know what it says. Just keep laying one exhausted foot in front of the other. Never mind the legs that feel like rubber- that feel like they’re part of someone else’s body, as they’re not something that I have control over any longer. They‘re still moving but I have not felt them for the last 2 hours.
I am close enough to read the sign. Mile 1.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
It seemed like such a good idea when I signed up. Of course, that was in the dead of winter, which I usually spend as a full time resident of couch-potato-land. Therefore, the idea that in a few months I would be forced to run 26.2 miles should be awesome motivation for getting lots of exercise and more than a little hard-core training. You would think, anyway. I know I did.
We all envision a more perfect future then we actually achieve. I am sure about that now. Well, at least I do. Cause I pictured me, fifty pounds lighter, super fit, cranking through this race like a dog after a squirrel. Not an old dog or a three-legged squirrel, but a silly energetic pup and a fully functional squirrel that lived to taunt the dog. That is what I really thought it would be like. Not so much, at least not so far. There is still time.
The start line was pretty exciting, all those people, mostly hopping up and down because it’s damn cold out at 7 AM and they’re dressed for the state they’ll be in twenty minutes after the gun goes off and the body starts to keep itself warm. Standing around in the morning is not that fun, but there was a lot of excitement in the air. It was palpable. There was even a host of giant bunnies there. They were people in bunny costumes and they all had different times posted on their over-sized ears. These were the pace bunnies. Apparently a bunch of people who had no larger goal in life than to run 26.2 miles at the exact speed that they claim, wearing a bunny costume. Lord, save me from the world’s overachievers, especially the ones with ginormous furry feet.
There must have been five thousand people here to run this race. Some of them, actually most of them, looked like they knew what they were doing and that they were about to kick some butt. I looked like I slept through 6 months of training and showed up to get my t-shirt. After all, I had paid $75 for that t-shirt. I was not leaving without it- that is true.
However, I was here to run this race. To challenge myself, mentally and physically for the first time. I could do this. I had trained and I had read everything I could find about running a marathon on-line while watching TV and carbing up- do you start that five months in advance? I wanted to be sure, so I did. King size Snickers count as carbs, right? Anyway…. I was as prepared as I would ever be. I had done what the books said, gotten in line for the bathroom upon arrival. Then, once I cleared the lovely porta-potty, I got right back in line, as that is what they say you should do. I have been hydrating for a few weeks now too, so you can imagine the results.
After a few trips through the “john”, I moseyed over to the other runners. They were stretching and prancing, preening even. They were all showing off as if they expected a pre-race talent scout to swoop down out of nowhere and offer them a contract on a new running reality show. Maybe called “Road to Nowhere”, or maybe “Roads Scholar”. That would be a good title. I would watch that. Maybe there were running scouts around; I guess you never know who is watching you.
I was trying not to get nervous. Trying to ignore the pressure building in my stomach. I have always been prone to the super-athlete’s curse of throwing up before a big event and while I had hoped that this would be different, I was not so sure. Remembering that running is 90% mental and 10% mental, I tried not to think of it, as though shutting out the symptoms would make the urge to purge go away. Don’t think about it….think of my happy place- a beach in Maui.
That’s better, maybe it will pass. And then it passed all right, passed right through my mouth and maybe even my nose and onto the shoes of all of the runners around me. And I’m pretty sure that my semi-digested breakfast soiled at least half of the pace bunnies’ furry feet, as I had eaten- still carbing up- a dozen scrambled eggs, ¾ of a pound of bacon (I could have eaten it all, but that seemed piggish), several slices of toast and half a gallon of OJ (hydrating). Those bunnies did not look at all amused and everyone moved away from me at warp speed. I took it personally. Like I had any control over that specific bodily function.
Anyway, it was time for the race to start. We all stood ready to go at the crack of the gun. Well, guns aren’t politically correct at races anymore, so they literally cracked a whip. Except the whip-cracker did not seem to have done it before and thus made several lame attempts before the runners just ran over him and his whip en masse. Maybe, if he recovers from 5,000 people running over him, he will think about perfecting his skills before the next marathon.
We were off. How exciting. I turned my iPod up- I like to hear my Barry Manilow loud when I am running- it helps me keep the tempo. So Barry was singing- it is possible that I was also, at least until I had to choose between breathing and singing. Then I chose breathing. The first several minutes I settled into a rhythm and my legs just pumped along. It was good. Many people were passing me, but I had expected that. I had not expected to be at the front of the pack, but rather the back and that’s okay. I am comfortable with my own pace.
Hours passed. Time slowed. It stood still. My mouth was dry, not to mention foul-tasting. Every step was a victory, as my muscles were starting to scream. I expected resistance eventually from my leg muscles, but was surprised that my feet hurt as much as they did and even more surprised when my arm muscles joined the chorus. My stomach was growling, as it has no source of energy whatsoever and it was not happy.
Remembering that it is all in my head helped. I ignored the torturous screaming of my body and instead focused on the tortuous screaming of Barry. I just kept plugging along- moving forward- one foot in front of the other. After what must have been several hours, I spied something in the distance. At last. I knew I could do this. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and soon I will be at the finish line. I approached, ready for the celebration. I wondered where the tents and all of the runners were. I hadn’t seen anyone for a while, but surely they haven’t all gone home already?
Just a hundred more feet. I cannot read the sign yet, but I know what it says. Just keep laying one exhausted foot in front of the other. Never mind the legs that feel like rubber- that feel like they’re part of someone else’s body, as they’re not something that I have control over any longer. They‘re still moving but I have not felt them for the last 2 hours.
I am close enough to read the sign. Mile 1.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Ironman? Tinman? Strawman
Some people wouldn’t think that a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride—up and down 6,000-foot mountains—and a full marathon would be a great personal challenge. Maybe they’re the crazy ones. Maybe not.
In order to thoroughly test my endurance, I travel 3,000 miles and three time zones in a little metal cylinder at 35,000 feet, subject to the whims of about a million people wearing uniforms of some type and tiny earphones. Earphones that are probably playing SnoopyDoggieDoo or whatever, but which they pretend are life support systems through which the airport god is whispering about what planes are currently allowed to board and which planes can take off. And which planes should be boarded while the flight crew pretends they will take off, but really will not.
Oh yeah, and I bring the family along because if everyone is not part of this feat, then it is no fun at all. Not to mention it’s not a significant accomplishment. It really is more of a weeklong logistical endurance test. I don’t know if you’ve traveled lately, but that alone is a test to one’s endurance, not to mention willpower in not whacking at least a dozen airline employees who have yet more bad news to share regarding getting to one’s destination. Or not getting there, as is more often the case.
Before it is time to squeeze the family into cramped seats on planes that are not actually going anywhere, I have to ship my bike 3,000 miles. I watch the UPS dude like a hawk to make sure that the bike actually makes it on the truck. For one thing, the bike is worth $8,000USD. And I’m thinking that the UPS dude will have it sold on eBay and out the door at the end of the day, just not to Penticton for the race. With a new shipping label (but me still paying for the shipping). As they load it, I run over to make sure that it is still addressed to the real venue and not the highest bidder. That was a full day’s vigilance. Training, if you will.
If my bike went AWOL, my backup is about two feet tall and has training wheels, streamers on the handlebars and noisemakers in the spokes. I am certain that a) I would not win and b) the other riders would mock me, at least until they thundered out of hearing distance. Therefore, the bike is a crucial element of these festivities.
Okay, the bike was on its way. Now to worry about the rest of the equipment—the bathing cap. I asked my son to get me a bathing cap out of the bathing cap drawer and throw it in my bag. I did not look to see what he chose, as I thought we had only normal, twentieth- century bathing caps. I could not have been more wrong. I spent seventeen-plus hours on race day wearing a bathing cap that most closely resembles a hideous multi-colored flower bouquet that couldn’t possibly have been attractive—nor comfortable—even back when it was made at the turn of the eighteenth century.
Upon arrival in Vancouver, after setting up our own tent city in two different airports as we await news of the next cancellation, the family passes out for some much-needed rest in the rental car. Life is good. And relaxing. Until I am awakened by blaring horns. It seems that someone, namely me, is snoozing while driving on the wrong side of the road (it IS part of the commonwealth- anyone could make that mistake). Crap. Well, everyone is wide-awake now. Double Crap.
Eventually, after a drive nearly as long as some legendary seventh day, we arrive at our destination, Ironman, 2007, Penticton, BC (that is in Canada). This is where it all happens. This is where the ironmen—and women—will be crowned. Some sooner than others. Much, much sooner. Time to relax a bit, explore the town, find a grocery store. Have some lunch and absorb the vibe of the race.
In the store, I am completely baffled by the labels. Everything is in French. How am I supposed to find the Kraft Dinner if I can’t read the box? Overhearing me swearing aloud, some helpful Canadian lady (is there any other kind?) shows me the dual language labels and thus the English side. Apparently some Ironman-hating (American hating?) Francophile employee has turned all products in the store to the French labels just to mess with the Americans. You do not need to speak or read a second language if you are an American. We use volume. We will pump it up until we cannot be ignored. Turns out American is THE International Language after all.
Shopping was done, naps taken, swings pushed and exploring was underway. Playing at the beach was a highlight for everyone. Something tells me that no one else in the family will fully appreciate the sixty-seven degree water for the couple of hours it will take me for a two-plus mile swim. Sure, it looks like fun, but it really is not. Really. Not. Fun.
Time for the mandatory athletes' meeting—the make up one. The one for those who missed the mandatory, mandatory meeting. At least I wasn’t alone. First thing of interest that I learned: be sure to show up at the correct lake. Apparently, there are two lakes, with Penticton between them. The Athletic Supporter (who wore his title proudly, BTW) said if you show up at the lake and you are the only one there, it is either the wrong lake or the wrong day. Mental note- follow the other 2,399 athletes and I couldn’t go wrong.
Second thing of interest that I learned: ALL THREE EVENTS ARE HELD ON THE SAME DAY, BACK TO BACK. No rest breaks, much less rest days, between them. I really have to start reading the fine print. We are here for a week, because someone told me that the events took place throughout the week. CRAP. This is so going to hurt. Maybe I can get started now?
What can I do? If I die en route, then the problem is solved. If I die on the bike ride, maybe a bear will drag me into the woods and I will become part of the ecosystem. I would be okay with that. If I do not die on the bike ride, then I will keep chugging along and hoping. Odds are good that I will die at some point out there and then the pain will end. Sooner would be so much better than later.
The morning dawns. It’s cool. We are in the BC interior in August, usually it sizzles here—a dry heat. However, we are lucky. It is going to be cool, cloudy. Perfect weather for an insane event like this
I am up at four AM. I cleverly planned for classical conditioning all night long in preparation for the full contact swim. Getting kicked and punched all night long by a sleeping but still unbelievably active five-year-old sharing my bed was excellent preparation for getting hit, beaten and kicked by 2,399 other swimmers. My stimulus response has been worn down to nothing. Makes for a great night’s sleep too. I now look and feel my very best. Too bad that the swimming is first, it will be hard to sneak under a bush to take a nap and keep breathing. If we started with the ride or the run, I would be sound asleep under the first bush like a monkey on crack.
Before even getting to the start, I get in a queue of 2,400 of my closest friends in order to get our numbers written on our bodies. Apparently they need to write our race numbers on our arms AND legs. In the (likely?) event that we are separated from one or the other, “they” will know to whom the appendage belongs.
In order to get our numbers, we first have to go through an “inspector” who sends us to one of the two lines, apparently based on how furry we are. Women are inspected and graded also. This guy was excessively cheery for five AM. He must have had a Tim Horton’s IV hooked up to his arm. In addition, I am guessing that he must be using the swimmers/riders bathroom. I was careful not to step in the puddle next to him. There would be plenty of time for that later.
The inspector sent me to the left with the furless crowd so I could have my number written in waterproof, raspberry-scented magic marker on my right arm and calf. The furry people went to the right, where they shaved their numbers into the fur covered arms and calves with a straight razor. I was glad that I had been practicing a fur-free lifestyle for the last few years and did not have to face the razor.
Finally, I get to the swimming start, where the “professionals” get a head start. Apparently, they need it, lest we common folk show them up or get ahead of them. They get their precious fifteen-minute head start, and then we get to go. Let the wrestling match begin. I adjust my bathing cap so the flowers point north and take a deep breath.
It is a beach start, so after the starting gun we move en masse, surging into the water as one body with many, many unsynchronized arms and legs. It is not deep enough to swim and we are moving forward solely by pushing off the bodies nearby. Until they flow forward by pushing back against us. It is an ugly system and no one really seems to gain any ground. And it doesn’t change once we’re fully engulfed in the water. This goes on for an hour and thirty minutes or so. For me anyway. Full contact distance swimming. Good thing I wore my cup. Several people tried to steal my bathing cap. I fought off their attacks, and one person claimed that he thought it was a life preserver, but I did not believe him.
There is absolutely no way to prepare for this event, unless you can get to a seal or penguin filled beach when a school f herring stops by for a visit. Even that will not work, because they can all dive deep and I just drifted along like the flotsam that I am. For lack of options, I devoted many evenings in the bathtub practicing my dog paddle. Turns out, this is NOT adequate training for this event.
Finally, I think I can see people walking….I can feel the ground under my knees. Luckily, I didn’t have my glasses on—that would be odd, wouldn’t it? Therefore, I could not see anything through my goggles except for the blurry outline of the people whom I was hitting the most and the hardest. I don’t want to recognize them later, as I might hold a grudge. Or they might. It is just as well we are essentially anonymous in the water, except for the bathing caps.
I stagger out of the water. There is a one-armed guy is just ahead of me- I cannot believe that he have beat me. I really, really hate that. You would think that the one armed guy would at least swim slower than most of us two armed folks, but no. Huffing and puffing, I make my way into the transition area to find my bag. Funny, here the glasses would come in handy… but I have to find my bag to find my glasses.
A sympathetic volunteer, not the Francophile from Safeway, helps me find my bag. Then he takes me in a tent and tries to molest me. He is trying to take advantage of my exhaustion by removing my wetsuit and bathing suit. Pervert! This was NOT in the brochure and I cannot believe that the Athletic Supporters condone this perversion. Remarkably, I am too tired to care, so I let him do whatever he wants to me as I grab a catnap in the chair. Then he is shaking me awake and holding my shorts for me to step onto, just as I do for my son. I will not think about it, just do what everyone else is doing and let him pull my shorts up on me. They are tight biker shorts—you know the type. I do not think they will even let you in a race like this without spandex and lots of it. He neglects to remove my bathing cap and because I am now used to it, I do not even notice.
I follow the crowd to the bikes. I can see now, and can easily pick out “Black Beauty”. I can pick her out because she has a neon pink frame and electric green tire rims. I’m no fool, you know. Plus, if someone stole it…who am I kidding, no one would even consider stealing it. So I grab "Black Beauty” and take off. Sidesaddle. I’m tired, what can I tell you. If you have never tried to ride a bike sidesaddle, it CAN be done, carefully. You have to have the hoof holders on the pedals, though. Of course, the millions of spectators watching the bikes leave the transition zone are endlessly amused. Like they have never seen that before. They are exceedingly creative in their insults, especially for Canadians. Must be a mostly American crowd, that would explain it.
Almost eight painful hours later, the bike ride is nearing completion. I have not yet died, but am still hopeful. The flowers on my head are wilting. The winner has finished the marathon and set a record for 8:32:45. I am not even done with the bike yet. However, I have seen the one-armed guy—he ran by me on his way out in the run, as I was still fifty miles from the end of the bike ride. I am really starting to hate that guy. Showoff.
End of the bike ride. Hooray!! I couldn’t be happier. I can feel the flowers on my bathing cap perking up. At least now I’m less likely to hurt myself, as it’s not so far to fall, and it certainly won’t be at any significant speed. I can walk, or hobble 26.2 miles, I don’t know of I can do it by the end of the week, but as long as I keep moving forward, keep hoping to die, one or the other will happen.
It is a closed course, so I will not even have the opportunity to be hit by a car. I cannot hope to die that way in the next five hours. I guess I could take a wrong turn, find some traffic and hurl myself in front of it, but that sounds like a lot of work, and isn’t that promising. With my luck, I would be surrounded by helpful and friendly locals who would guide me back and make sure I did not get hurt. They would probably even feed me some TimBits. I would prefer Tiny Tim’s cinnamon doughnuts. This is when I wish I were racing in New York City. Those bastards would run me down in a heartbeat without spilling their mochachinos, or even pausing in their cell phone conversations.
I am making my final approach. I think I will actually make it and I am not yet crawling. The rules say crawling is an acceptable method of moving forward, though apparently rolling is not. I saw a few folks trying it and they got steamrolled.
I am 100 yards out….for the very first time, I think that I may actually make it. I’m very happy. And damn tired too. I have actually passed someone. The first time all friggin’ day. Of course, that “runner” was crawling, but that’s not important right now.
The cameras are on the runners, as we approach the finish line. I am now ten yards away and about to pass someone else. The crowd is going wild, and while I am not remotely sure why they are so excited for me, I am caught up in it. I am in a little clump of runners and as I raise my fists to celebrate with the crowd that clearly loves me, it is possible that I may have knocked over the tiny little woman on my left. I cross the finish line just as she hits the ground. I may have heard relics snapping like twigs. But I might not have. The crowd sours instantly and while I am still celebrating, they are now throwing all sorts of dangerous things at me, and I do not know why. Moreover, I am way too tired to duck.
I hear an announcement that the seventy-nine year Sister Mary Therese Maria Mary Patience, is down. I stop and turn back horrified. The crowd cheers and weeps as Sister Mary crawls on her broken legs across the finish line and they announce her time of 16:40:29. They do not announce my time.
I slither under the bleachers and stay there for three days.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
In order to thoroughly test my endurance, I travel 3,000 miles and three time zones in a little metal cylinder at 35,000 feet, subject to the whims of about a million people wearing uniforms of some type and tiny earphones. Earphones that are probably playing SnoopyDoggieDoo or whatever, but which they pretend are life support systems through which the airport god is whispering about what planes are currently allowed to board and which planes can take off. And which planes should be boarded while the flight crew pretends they will take off, but really will not.
Oh yeah, and I bring the family along because if everyone is not part of this feat, then it is no fun at all. Not to mention it’s not a significant accomplishment. It really is more of a weeklong logistical endurance test. I don’t know if you’ve traveled lately, but that alone is a test to one’s endurance, not to mention willpower in not whacking at least a dozen airline employees who have yet more bad news to share regarding getting to one’s destination. Or not getting there, as is more often the case.
Before it is time to squeeze the family into cramped seats on planes that are not actually going anywhere, I have to ship my bike 3,000 miles. I watch the UPS dude like a hawk to make sure that the bike actually makes it on the truck. For one thing, the bike is worth $8,000USD. And I’m thinking that the UPS dude will have it sold on eBay and out the door at the end of the day, just not to Penticton for the race. With a new shipping label (but me still paying for the shipping). As they load it, I run over to make sure that it is still addressed to the real venue and not the highest bidder. That was a full day’s vigilance. Training, if you will.
If my bike went AWOL, my backup is about two feet tall and has training wheels, streamers on the handlebars and noisemakers in the spokes. I am certain that a) I would not win and b) the other riders would mock me, at least until they thundered out of hearing distance. Therefore, the bike is a crucial element of these festivities.
Okay, the bike was on its way. Now to worry about the rest of the equipment—the bathing cap. I asked my son to get me a bathing cap out of the bathing cap drawer and throw it in my bag. I did not look to see what he chose, as I thought we had only normal, twentieth- century bathing caps. I could not have been more wrong. I spent seventeen-plus hours on race day wearing a bathing cap that most closely resembles a hideous multi-colored flower bouquet that couldn’t possibly have been attractive—nor comfortable—even back when it was made at the turn of the eighteenth century.
Upon arrival in Vancouver, after setting up our own tent city in two different airports as we await news of the next cancellation, the family passes out for some much-needed rest in the rental car. Life is good. And relaxing. Until I am awakened by blaring horns. It seems that someone, namely me, is snoozing while driving on the wrong side of the road (it IS part of the commonwealth- anyone could make that mistake). Crap. Well, everyone is wide-awake now. Double Crap.
Eventually, after a drive nearly as long as some legendary seventh day, we arrive at our destination, Ironman, 2007, Penticton, BC (that is in Canada). This is where it all happens. This is where the ironmen—and women—will be crowned. Some sooner than others. Much, much sooner. Time to relax a bit, explore the town, find a grocery store. Have some lunch and absorb the vibe of the race.
In the store, I am completely baffled by the labels. Everything is in French. How am I supposed to find the Kraft Dinner if I can’t read the box? Overhearing me swearing aloud, some helpful Canadian lady (is there any other kind?) shows me the dual language labels and thus the English side. Apparently some Ironman-hating (American hating?) Francophile employee has turned all products in the store to the French labels just to mess with the Americans. You do not need to speak or read a second language if you are an American. We use volume. We will pump it up until we cannot be ignored. Turns out American is THE International Language after all.
Shopping was done, naps taken, swings pushed and exploring was underway. Playing at the beach was a highlight for everyone. Something tells me that no one else in the family will fully appreciate the sixty-seven degree water for the couple of hours it will take me for a two-plus mile swim. Sure, it looks like fun, but it really is not. Really. Not. Fun.
Time for the mandatory athletes' meeting—the make up one. The one for those who missed the mandatory, mandatory meeting. At least I wasn’t alone. First thing of interest that I learned: be sure to show up at the correct lake. Apparently, there are two lakes, with Penticton between them. The Athletic Supporter (who wore his title proudly, BTW) said if you show up at the lake and you are the only one there, it is either the wrong lake or the wrong day. Mental note- follow the other 2,399 athletes and I couldn’t go wrong.
Second thing of interest that I learned: ALL THREE EVENTS ARE HELD ON THE SAME DAY, BACK TO BACK. No rest breaks, much less rest days, between them. I really have to start reading the fine print. We are here for a week, because someone told me that the events took place throughout the week. CRAP. This is so going to hurt. Maybe I can get started now?
What can I do? If I die en route, then the problem is solved. If I die on the bike ride, maybe a bear will drag me into the woods and I will become part of the ecosystem. I would be okay with that. If I do not die on the bike ride, then I will keep chugging along and hoping. Odds are good that I will die at some point out there and then the pain will end. Sooner would be so much better than later.
The morning dawns. It’s cool. We are in the BC interior in August, usually it sizzles here—a dry heat. However, we are lucky. It is going to be cool, cloudy. Perfect weather for an insane event like this
I am up at four AM. I cleverly planned for classical conditioning all night long in preparation for the full contact swim. Getting kicked and punched all night long by a sleeping but still unbelievably active five-year-old sharing my bed was excellent preparation for getting hit, beaten and kicked by 2,399 other swimmers. My stimulus response has been worn down to nothing. Makes for a great night’s sleep too. I now look and feel my very best. Too bad that the swimming is first, it will be hard to sneak under a bush to take a nap and keep breathing. If we started with the ride or the run, I would be sound asleep under the first bush like a monkey on crack.
Before even getting to the start, I get in a queue of 2,400 of my closest friends in order to get our numbers written on our bodies. Apparently they need to write our race numbers on our arms AND legs. In the (likely?) event that we are separated from one or the other, “they” will know to whom the appendage belongs.
In order to get our numbers, we first have to go through an “inspector” who sends us to one of the two lines, apparently based on how furry we are. Women are inspected and graded also. This guy was excessively cheery for five AM. He must have had a Tim Horton’s IV hooked up to his arm. In addition, I am guessing that he must be using the swimmers/riders bathroom. I was careful not to step in the puddle next to him. There would be plenty of time for that later.
The inspector sent me to the left with the furless crowd so I could have my number written in waterproof, raspberry-scented magic marker on my right arm and calf. The furry people went to the right, where they shaved their numbers into the fur covered arms and calves with a straight razor. I was glad that I had been practicing a fur-free lifestyle for the last few years and did not have to face the razor.
Finally, I get to the swimming start, where the “professionals” get a head start. Apparently, they need it, lest we common folk show them up or get ahead of them. They get their precious fifteen-minute head start, and then we get to go. Let the wrestling match begin. I adjust my bathing cap so the flowers point north and take a deep breath.
It is a beach start, so after the starting gun we move en masse, surging into the water as one body with many, many unsynchronized arms and legs. It is not deep enough to swim and we are moving forward solely by pushing off the bodies nearby. Until they flow forward by pushing back against us. It is an ugly system and no one really seems to gain any ground. And it doesn’t change once we’re fully engulfed in the water. This goes on for an hour and thirty minutes or so. For me anyway. Full contact distance swimming. Good thing I wore my cup. Several people tried to steal my bathing cap. I fought off their attacks, and one person claimed that he thought it was a life preserver, but I did not believe him.
There is absolutely no way to prepare for this event, unless you can get to a seal or penguin filled beach when a school f herring stops by for a visit. Even that will not work, because they can all dive deep and I just drifted along like the flotsam that I am. For lack of options, I devoted many evenings in the bathtub practicing my dog paddle. Turns out, this is NOT adequate training for this event.
Finally, I think I can see people walking….I can feel the ground under my knees. Luckily, I didn’t have my glasses on—that would be odd, wouldn’t it? Therefore, I could not see anything through my goggles except for the blurry outline of the people whom I was hitting the most and the hardest. I don’t want to recognize them later, as I might hold a grudge. Or they might. It is just as well we are essentially anonymous in the water, except for the bathing caps.
I stagger out of the water. There is a one-armed guy is just ahead of me- I cannot believe that he have beat me. I really, really hate that. You would think that the one armed guy would at least swim slower than most of us two armed folks, but no. Huffing and puffing, I make my way into the transition area to find my bag. Funny, here the glasses would come in handy… but I have to find my bag to find my glasses.
A sympathetic volunteer, not the Francophile from Safeway, helps me find my bag. Then he takes me in a tent and tries to molest me. He is trying to take advantage of my exhaustion by removing my wetsuit and bathing suit. Pervert! This was NOT in the brochure and I cannot believe that the Athletic Supporters condone this perversion. Remarkably, I am too tired to care, so I let him do whatever he wants to me as I grab a catnap in the chair. Then he is shaking me awake and holding my shorts for me to step onto, just as I do for my son. I will not think about it, just do what everyone else is doing and let him pull my shorts up on me. They are tight biker shorts—you know the type. I do not think they will even let you in a race like this without spandex and lots of it. He neglects to remove my bathing cap and because I am now used to it, I do not even notice.
I follow the crowd to the bikes. I can see now, and can easily pick out “Black Beauty”. I can pick her out because she has a neon pink frame and electric green tire rims. I’m no fool, you know. Plus, if someone stole it…who am I kidding, no one would even consider stealing it. So I grab "Black Beauty” and take off. Sidesaddle. I’m tired, what can I tell you. If you have never tried to ride a bike sidesaddle, it CAN be done, carefully. You have to have the hoof holders on the pedals, though. Of course, the millions of spectators watching the bikes leave the transition zone are endlessly amused. Like they have never seen that before. They are exceedingly creative in their insults, especially for Canadians. Must be a mostly American crowd, that would explain it.
Almost eight painful hours later, the bike ride is nearing completion. I have not yet died, but am still hopeful. The flowers on my head are wilting. The winner has finished the marathon and set a record for 8:32:45. I am not even done with the bike yet. However, I have seen the one-armed guy—he ran by me on his way out in the run, as I was still fifty miles from the end of the bike ride. I am really starting to hate that guy. Showoff.
End of the bike ride. Hooray!! I couldn’t be happier. I can feel the flowers on my bathing cap perking up. At least now I’m less likely to hurt myself, as it’s not so far to fall, and it certainly won’t be at any significant speed. I can walk, or hobble 26.2 miles, I don’t know of I can do it by the end of the week, but as long as I keep moving forward, keep hoping to die, one or the other will happen.
It is a closed course, so I will not even have the opportunity to be hit by a car. I cannot hope to die that way in the next five hours. I guess I could take a wrong turn, find some traffic and hurl myself in front of it, but that sounds like a lot of work, and isn’t that promising. With my luck, I would be surrounded by helpful and friendly locals who would guide me back and make sure I did not get hurt. They would probably even feed me some TimBits. I would prefer Tiny Tim’s cinnamon doughnuts. This is when I wish I were racing in New York City. Those bastards would run me down in a heartbeat without spilling their mochachinos, or even pausing in their cell phone conversations.
I am making my final approach. I think I will actually make it and I am not yet crawling. The rules say crawling is an acceptable method of moving forward, though apparently rolling is not. I saw a few folks trying it and they got steamrolled.
I am 100 yards out….for the very first time, I think that I may actually make it. I’m very happy. And damn tired too. I have actually passed someone. The first time all friggin’ day. Of course, that “runner” was crawling, but that’s not important right now.
The cameras are on the runners, as we approach the finish line. I am now ten yards away and about to pass someone else. The crowd is going wild, and while I am not remotely sure why they are so excited for me, I am caught up in it. I am in a little clump of runners and as I raise my fists to celebrate with the crowd that clearly loves me, it is possible that I may have knocked over the tiny little woman on my left. I cross the finish line just as she hits the ground. I may have heard relics snapping like twigs. But I might not have. The crowd sours instantly and while I am still celebrating, they are now throwing all sorts of dangerous things at me, and I do not know why. Moreover, I am way too tired to duck.
I hear an announcement that the seventy-nine year Sister Mary Therese Maria Mary Patience, is down. I stop and turn back horrified. The crowd cheers and weeps as Sister Mary crawls on her broken legs across the finish line and they announce her time of 16:40:29. They do not announce my time.
I slither under the bleachers and stay there for three days.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
My Hat
My hat got stuck as I limped into the elevator. Again. And people were staring. You would think that they had never seen a man who limped before. It’s called a cane, it’s really not that novel.
As I walked out of the elevator, hitting my hat on the top of the doorframe, I noticed funny looks from people. But no one was rude enough to say anything, they just kept pointing and whispering and I tried not to acknowledge their rudeness. I cannot believe, in today’s climate, that a gentleman with a bad limp and a cane is cause for that much attention. It is a bit disturbing, I must say.
I reached the appointed room and signed in, receiving a guilty smile from the receptionist. I wondered what she was thinking? Apparently, she had also never seen a man with a bad limp and a cane.
I took my seat and began the painful process of waiting. Hoping that my name will be called next, so I could escape the purgatory that is the waiting room. No such luck. Luckily, I brought food and reading material, as I expected it to be a long, miserable wait. What I did not count on was the constant droning of Sally Jesse Raphael, Judge Judy and Montel Williams. When enveloped in my own little world, these programs simply do not exist, and it is always a rude awakening when I am forcefully subjected to them in a public place. The realization of their existence -and worse yet popularity- never cease to amaze me. I have surveyed all of my friends; I don’t know anyone who would go on one of those shows, so I can never figure out from where they get their ‘guests.’ And who watches this crap? I don’t know that either. Just further proof of the decline of civilization as we know it. Knew it.
After sitting for three hours, someone new came in with a list of names. I was hopeful that I was on the list. I was not so lucky. At the end of the day, they announced that if we were still there, and had not heard our names, we had to come back tomorrow. Talk about horror. I could not imagine going through that agony again, but I had no choice.
The second day started much the same as the first. People staring at the guy with the cane. Hitting my hat on the elevator followed by being unfairly subjected to the lowest possible denominator on TV and in the chairs around me. Nay, lower than the lowest common denominator. Though they were all common, that’s for sure, but they had little in common with me. And these are the people pointing and staring at me, because I have a cane.
I decided to bite the bullet, and asked my neighbor “How long are you in for?”
He said, “I’ve been here for 3 days so far. That guy snoring over there started with me. He was twenty years younger then, of course.”
“Doesn’t the TV blaring that crap bother you?” I asked.
He replied “It used to, but my IQ has decreased by at least fifty points since I’ve been coming here. I rather like it now. My worst fear is that they will call my name before Judge Judy has ruled. You’d be amazed at what you can get used to.”
I looked around. It was like a herd of cattle in there. We had been herded into our individual corrals and encouraged to stay there. If we got up from the chairs, as we had been neatly organized alphabetically and also by size and color, the attendant yelled out to sit back down. I saw one guy get up; it looked like he was pondering escape. The attendant ran over (I would not have thought a creature that big could be so nimble) and sat him back down. His shoes came off in the impact. It looked like the attendant was thinking of strapping him down, but the poor man help up his hands in supplication, and the attendant relented.
Oh….someone new with a list of names. Everyone sat at attention, hoping for sweet release.
Low and behold, they finally called my name. I was about to go into the inner sanctum, leaving Sally, Judy and Montel behind (I hoped). I was allowed to get up, and headed toward the door, to yet more whispering and snickering. I am still struck by the gall of these people. But they may be close personal friends of Judy, Sally and Montel and I certainly have them beat there.
I was told to go sit in a box along with a few fellow travelers. We were asked a series of questions. Others were taking notes. This was important stuff. We were being videotaped as well, so I tried to keep my good side to the camera. That was hard, because the camera was on the left side of the room, and my best side is definitely my right. I sat owl-like, with my head turned as close to 180 degrees as possible.
When it came my turn, it was very hard to answer their questions, while facing the camera with my good side, but I did my best. I think they appreciated my efforts. They asked if I had ever been on a jury before, did I study law (I am fairly certain that excepted Judge Judy in the waiting room), did I have any relatives who were law enforcement officers? They also asked about the nature of my disability, though I am not sure why. Why is everyone so interested in my cane? I gave them the short version, which included a dog, stairs, a hair dryer, cocoa butter and a rocking chair. It did not include hemp plants, doorknobs or sheet metal. They didn’t even flinch.
It appears that I was selected, but then I was asked if I would permit being sworn in on the King James Bible. Reaching under my wizard hat (which of course matched my magnificent robes), I pulled out my bible….Aqualung by Jethro Tull. And asked them to proceed.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
As I walked out of the elevator, hitting my hat on the top of the doorframe, I noticed funny looks from people. But no one was rude enough to say anything, they just kept pointing and whispering and I tried not to acknowledge their rudeness. I cannot believe, in today’s climate, that a gentleman with a bad limp and a cane is cause for that much attention. It is a bit disturbing, I must say.
I reached the appointed room and signed in, receiving a guilty smile from the receptionist. I wondered what she was thinking? Apparently, she had also never seen a man with a bad limp and a cane.
I took my seat and began the painful process of waiting. Hoping that my name will be called next, so I could escape the purgatory that is the waiting room. No such luck. Luckily, I brought food and reading material, as I expected it to be a long, miserable wait. What I did not count on was the constant droning of Sally Jesse Raphael, Judge Judy and Montel Williams. When enveloped in my own little world, these programs simply do not exist, and it is always a rude awakening when I am forcefully subjected to them in a public place. The realization of their existence -and worse yet popularity- never cease to amaze me. I have surveyed all of my friends; I don’t know anyone who would go on one of those shows, so I can never figure out from where they get their ‘guests.’ And who watches this crap? I don’t know that either. Just further proof of the decline of civilization as we know it. Knew it.
After sitting for three hours, someone new came in with a list of names. I was hopeful that I was on the list. I was not so lucky. At the end of the day, they announced that if we were still there, and had not heard our names, we had to come back tomorrow. Talk about horror. I could not imagine going through that agony again, but I had no choice.
The second day started much the same as the first. People staring at the guy with the cane. Hitting my hat on the elevator followed by being unfairly subjected to the lowest possible denominator on TV and in the chairs around me. Nay, lower than the lowest common denominator. Though they were all common, that’s for sure, but they had little in common with me. And these are the people pointing and staring at me, because I have a cane.
I decided to bite the bullet, and asked my neighbor “How long are you in for?”
He said, “I’ve been here for 3 days so far. That guy snoring over there started with me. He was twenty years younger then, of course.”
“Doesn’t the TV blaring that crap bother you?” I asked.
He replied “It used to, but my IQ has decreased by at least fifty points since I’ve been coming here. I rather like it now. My worst fear is that they will call my name before Judge Judy has ruled. You’d be amazed at what you can get used to.”
I looked around. It was like a herd of cattle in there. We had been herded into our individual corrals and encouraged to stay there. If we got up from the chairs, as we had been neatly organized alphabetically and also by size and color, the attendant yelled out to sit back down. I saw one guy get up; it looked like he was pondering escape. The attendant ran over (I would not have thought a creature that big could be so nimble) and sat him back down. His shoes came off in the impact. It looked like the attendant was thinking of strapping him down, but the poor man help up his hands in supplication, and the attendant relented.
Oh….someone new with a list of names. Everyone sat at attention, hoping for sweet release.
Low and behold, they finally called my name. I was about to go into the inner sanctum, leaving Sally, Judy and Montel behind (I hoped). I was allowed to get up, and headed toward the door, to yet more whispering and snickering. I am still struck by the gall of these people. But they may be close personal friends of Judy, Sally and Montel and I certainly have them beat there.
I was told to go sit in a box along with a few fellow travelers. We were asked a series of questions. Others were taking notes. This was important stuff. We were being videotaped as well, so I tried to keep my good side to the camera. That was hard, because the camera was on the left side of the room, and my best side is definitely my right. I sat owl-like, with my head turned as close to 180 degrees as possible.
When it came my turn, it was very hard to answer their questions, while facing the camera with my good side, but I did my best. I think they appreciated my efforts. They asked if I had ever been on a jury before, did I study law (I am fairly certain that excepted Judge Judy in the waiting room), did I have any relatives who were law enforcement officers? They also asked about the nature of my disability, though I am not sure why. Why is everyone so interested in my cane? I gave them the short version, which included a dog, stairs, a hair dryer, cocoa butter and a rocking chair. It did not include hemp plants, doorknobs or sheet metal. They didn’t even flinch.
It appears that I was selected, but then I was asked if I would permit being sworn in on the King James Bible. Reaching under my wizard hat (which of course matched my magnificent robes), I pulled out my bible….Aqualung by Jethro Tull. And asked them to proceed.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Capture
Harry rounded the corner. He knew his quarry was just ahead of him. He was sure he would catch him this time. He couldn’t stay hidden forever. He saw a shadow flit through his peripheral vision and heard the slapping of flip-flops on the concrete sidewalk. Bingo.
Harry froze, holding his breath, trying to see in the fog that enveloped him. Trying to hear the vermin that he was pursuing. The vermin froze too. This one is too smart—it’s going to be a long night, he could tell already. A career in law enforcement requires more dedication than most people realize. And self sacrifice, too.
Most of these hardened criminals, once Harry started after them, started to cry for their mommies and he could cuff them and take them down. However, this was a wily one. He might even have to miss his hourly doughnut break. He hated when that happened. If he didn’t have his hourly infusion of chocolate syrup, sickly sweet whipped cream, and bad coffee, he got the shakes. Never a good thing when one is packing heat.
Usually, the afternoons were quiet and he could nap uninterrupted in the car or in a carrel. He always had his tiny Curious George pillow with him, just in case he got to sneak in a four-hour nap. He tried napping without it, but it is hard to explain the imprint of the seatbelt on your cheek. Therefore, he had taken to bringing George with him everywhere he went. He had also taken to thinking of George as his partner, which just could prove to be a dangerous assumption.
He had also taken to asking George what he though ‘they’ should do. George was at best a listener, not a thinker. Of course, Harry wasn’t a much better thinker, but he was definitely a better speaker.
Harry was about to ask George what he thought they should do, but realized just in time that would give their position away to the hunted. Bad idea. They remained frozen in their tracks, until they heard it, the unmistakable pitter pat of flip-flops tiptoeing down the hall. They leaned around the corner and took aim. Still couldn’t see a damn thing.
Harry tried tiptoeing too. He fell over instantly. He always got confused about which side of his toes he should be walking on to tiptoe successfully. He had new sympathy for the ballerinas who were always standing on their toes- not that he had actually seen one up close and personal, but he had seen pictures. He gathered his wits together, no small feat, as you can imagine, and clambered back upright. Since he crashed to the ground, there was little need to be stealthy, so he sprinted after the culprit.
He sprinted at least fifteen feet before he collapsed against the wall, chest heaving, unable to get enough oxygen. His legs refused to carry his doughnut-riddled body one more step without his lungs. He watched his prey increase the distance. That guy probably thinks he’s seen the last of Harry, but he wasn’t counting on Harry’s secret weapon.
Harry steadied his breathing, closed his eyes, focused his energies and took a step. Then another. He pulled an inhaler-like apparatus out of his pocket. He took a hit. Then another. One more good one and he was ready to carry on. Much better. He took off running after his quarry, with nearly super-human strength. At least super-Harry strength. He closed the gap, not even breathing hard. And, he had his lime-green crocs on, with the little loop across the heel, so they stayed snug, even when running. The flip-flops didn’t stand a chance against the turbo-charged Harry and his crocs. And George (but he was Harry’s little secret). Harry could not lose.
He was so close now; he could see the terror in the perp’s eyes. They reflected a crazed, sweat-covered mini-Harry with white stuff all over his mouth and Harry—though unnerved by the sight—kept his cool. He slapped the cuffs on just as he had a million times before. Except that, he wound up with one on him and one on the perp. Okay, that had only happened about 200,000 times before, not every time. He still got so excited at cuffing someone that his gross motor skills stalled sometimes.
At least he was in control, which was the important thing. He slammed the perp into the wall, nearly breaking his wrist in doing so as he realized too late that he was still wearing the other cuff. He had lost the key the other day, while practicing cuffing the dog. Well, he didn’t really lose it- the dog ate it in retribution and he hadn’t had the time, nor the inclination, to look for it yet. Luckily, Fluffy lacked wrists and was able to shed the cuffs without difficulty.
Once he had the vermin up against a car, he frisked him as well as he could with one hand. Apparently a bit too roughly, as suddenly the horn began a desperate chorus and the headlights started flashing frantically. Damn. He half ran, half dragged the perp to another car so that he could pretend to have no idea why the car’s alarm was going off.
Finally, Harry completed his left-handed search and found all the evidence that he needed. George read the perp his rights, while Harry looked on. The perp looked scared. Harry held up the cell phone in his cuffed hand, asking the perp if he knew the penalty for taking a call in the library (and waking Harry from a perfectly sound nap). The penalty is being escorted from the library, and, one’s name put on a watch list.
With his other hand, he brought up his inhaler, marked “powdered doughnuts” and inhaled deeply.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Harry froze, holding his breath, trying to see in the fog that enveloped him. Trying to hear the vermin that he was pursuing. The vermin froze too. This one is too smart—it’s going to be a long night, he could tell already. A career in law enforcement requires more dedication than most people realize. And self sacrifice, too.
Most of these hardened criminals, once Harry started after them, started to cry for their mommies and he could cuff them and take them down. However, this was a wily one. He might even have to miss his hourly doughnut break. He hated when that happened. If he didn’t have his hourly infusion of chocolate syrup, sickly sweet whipped cream, and bad coffee, he got the shakes. Never a good thing when one is packing heat.
Usually, the afternoons were quiet and he could nap uninterrupted in the car or in a carrel. He always had his tiny Curious George pillow with him, just in case he got to sneak in a four-hour nap. He tried napping without it, but it is hard to explain the imprint of the seatbelt on your cheek. Therefore, he had taken to bringing George with him everywhere he went. He had also taken to thinking of George as his partner, which just could prove to be a dangerous assumption.
He had also taken to asking George what he though ‘they’ should do. George was at best a listener, not a thinker. Of course, Harry wasn’t a much better thinker, but he was definitely a better speaker.
Harry was about to ask George what he thought they should do, but realized just in time that would give their position away to the hunted. Bad idea. They remained frozen in their tracks, until they heard it, the unmistakable pitter pat of flip-flops tiptoeing down the hall. They leaned around the corner and took aim. Still couldn’t see a damn thing.
Harry tried tiptoeing too. He fell over instantly. He always got confused about which side of his toes he should be walking on to tiptoe successfully. He had new sympathy for the ballerinas who were always standing on their toes- not that he had actually seen one up close and personal, but he had seen pictures. He gathered his wits together, no small feat, as you can imagine, and clambered back upright. Since he crashed to the ground, there was little need to be stealthy, so he sprinted after the culprit.
He sprinted at least fifteen feet before he collapsed against the wall, chest heaving, unable to get enough oxygen. His legs refused to carry his doughnut-riddled body one more step without his lungs. He watched his prey increase the distance. That guy probably thinks he’s seen the last of Harry, but he wasn’t counting on Harry’s secret weapon.
Harry steadied his breathing, closed his eyes, focused his energies and took a step. Then another. He pulled an inhaler-like apparatus out of his pocket. He took a hit. Then another. One more good one and he was ready to carry on. Much better. He took off running after his quarry, with nearly super-human strength. At least super-Harry strength. He closed the gap, not even breathing hard. And, he had his lime-green crocs on, with the little loop across the heel, so they stayed snug, even when running. The flip-flops didn’t stand a chance against the turbo-charged Harry and his crocs. And George (but he was Harry’s little secret). Harry could not lose.
He was so close now; he could see the terror in the perp’s eyes. They reflected a crazed, sweat-covered mini-Harry with white stuff all over his mouth and Harry—though unnerved by the sight—kept his cool. He slapped the cuffs on just as he had a million times before. Except that, he wound up with one on him and one on the perp. Okay, that had only happened about 200,000 times before, not every time. He still got so excited at cuffing someone that his gross motor skills stalled sometimes.
At least he was in control, which was the important thing. He slammed the perp into the wall, nearly breaking his wrist in doing so as he realized too late that he was still wearing the other cuff. He had lost the key the other day, while practicing cuffing the dog. Well, he didn’t really lose it- the dog ate it in retribution and he hadn’t had the time, nor the inclination, to look for it yet. Luckily, Fluffy lacked wrists and was able to shed the cuffs without difficulty.
Once he had the vermin up against a car, he frisked him as well as he could with one hand. Apparently a bit too roughly, as suddenly the horn began a desperate chorus and the headlights started flashing frantically. Damn. He half ran, half dragged the perp to another car so that he could pretend to have no idea why the car’s alarm was going off.
Finally, Harry completed his left-handed search and found all the evidence that he needed. George read the perp his rights, while Harry looked on. The perp looked scared. Harry held up the cell phone in his cuffed hand, asking the perp if he knew the penalty for taking a call in the library (and waking Harry from a perfectly sound nap). The penalty is being escorted from the library, and, one’s name put on a watch list.
With his other hand, he brought up his inhaler, marked “powdered doughnuts” and inhaled deeply.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Stud
Septimus S. Schwartz looked all around him as he scurried from his car to the door. He was convinced that someone was watching, that someone was plotting against him, even now. There is no way that anyone could know, but he still felt the piercing of others’ eyes boring into his skull. Even when he couldn’t see anyone at all.
He kept his coat close around him, hands clenched in his pockets in his mad dash for the apartment. Many of his neighbors were out in the hall, as the mail carrier had just delivered their social security checks. There was already wagering going on, and from what he heard, and the vast amount of cat food the cat-less Mr. Murphy brought home in the later half of each month, the high stakes card games were just about to start. He had heard that some folks never even cashed their checks; they just signed them right over at morning’s light.
One might think that 2 weeks of eating Friskies (by the box, not the fancy, expensive canned stuff—would be a lesson in restraint, but it doesn’t appear so. Each month it was the same old crunchy story.
Except this month, he ran right into it just before the evening’s festivities got under way. The last thing he wanted was a boatload of seniors watching his every move tonight. Damn. He should pay more attention to when the checks come out and the corresponding craziness of the seniors. In addition, it was a full moon tonight, which meant double the fun. May as well call the ambulance now, as someone is bound to choke on their teeth at the very least.
Someone was taking odds that Mrs. Simone will snarf down Mr. Pudgele’s nitro pills again—she can’t see for crap and keeps mistaking them for Mikes & Ikes, despite the pill bottle. Mrs. Simone even bet on herself eating the nitro. Once she’s downed a few of those, the muumuu comes off and that usually ends the party. Especially for the ambulance people. There’s no way they get paid nearly enough to carry ancient, 400 pound, naked, hallucinating ladies down 4 flights of stairs.
Septimus realized that the seniors, of whom he wasn’t nearly one, were his best defense. Now that he had finally bit the bullet, and was carrying the priceless package around, he found comfort and safety in their ranks. As long as Mrs. Muller didn’t try to feel him up, no one would know what he had. And they would both be safe for the night. No one would think to look for him amidst a poker-playing, feeding-frenzy of Metamucil popping, horny seniors. They were the best camouflage ever and he would have to keep that in mind for future reference.
He stopped through his apartment to lose his coat, and put the package somewhere that no one but Mrs. Muller would think to look. If she felt for it there, well, she might have a heart attack, and if she didn’t, she would never stop leering or groping him. However, she wouldn’t risk sharing her prize, so she wouldn’t mention it to anyone.
He got his quarters out and a few bills, grabbed a coke and headed out to the poker table. He soon found out that these folks played hardball and that they would not coddle the inexperienced youth. He had been around, had played the tables in Vegas plenty, but that did not prepare him for the viciousness that was the senior’s tour. The first table was $20 a hand. He had to go get more money, and as he didn’t have a social security check to hand over, he had to use cold, hard cash.
When he lost his initial stake of $200, he started auctioning items from his apartment, as he could not afford the risk of going back out, especially at night. His nightlights sold for the most money. They were hot commodities. Ditto the magnifying glass, the fuzzy slippers and robe that was not yet ensconced in old-lady-smell. His books didn’t sell, just a few for paperweights. They kept asking if he wanted to sell his teeth, not grasping, no matter how much he told them, and then showed them, that they were still attached to his body. No one wanted his brush, comb or any other personal hygiene products. He had eyeglasses, those magnifiers you can get in the drugstore; those bought him some extra time at the table.
The card sharks played him like a marlin. They hunted as a group and never missed an opportunity to rip a chunk out of him. You might think that peer pressure would have faded by the time folks are 90, but they knew how to pour it on. Poor Septimus, only forty years their junior, could not believe that he could lose, nor that they could be so bloodthirsty. It became a mob, and progressed to a hungry mob.
In order to score one more hand, one that he was sure he could win, he handed over his keys and they had his freezer cleaned out in no time. Mrs. Shufler could eat ice cream by the gallon without teeth to slow her down. He lost again. There was nothing left, but the clothes on his back and his favorite Jackson Browne CD, Lawyers in Love. He decided to part with the clothes first, forgetting his package. He just could not part with the album, it brought back memories of such happy times. They wanted the clothes more anyway, as they had been washed in the past year and weren’t yet threadbare.
They stripped him down in order to give him one last chance and he began to wonder if Meow Mix was better than 9-Lives. He realized that he may find out.
It was his last chance, last hand. They had discovered the package (and had all done way too much groping in the process). He was now playing for his wife. If he lost this hand of five-card-stud, then they would have a runoff to see whom he won. If one could call that winning. They had placed the ring in with the ante and were chanting--a freakish sound that scared him more than anything he had ever heard. He crossed his fingers as his cards were dealt. Everything else was already crossed. He peeked. Jack-high.
He knew it was over, knew he had lost everything. Then a voice in his head, a voice borne of a thousand generations of survivors spoke to him. He lunged for the ring in the middle of the table and did the only logical thing left to do- he swallowed it. He was too quick for them, by the time they realized what he had done, it was on its way down.
He began to gag, softly at first and then with feeling. The seniors watched curiously. They called dibs on who got to dig the ring out of his throat after he was done. As he lay on his back, still not believing this could be his fate, he saw the large mirror over the table. It all made sense. Maybe it wasn’t the voice of a thousand generations of survivors after all.
He clutched the broken CD case tighter.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
He kept his coat close around him, hands clenched in his pockets in his mad dash for the apartment. Many of his neighbors were out in the hall, as the mail carrier had just delivered their social security checks. There was already wagering going on, and from what he heard, and the vast amount of cat food the cat-less Mr. Murphy brought home in the later half of each month, the high stakes card games were just about to start. He had heard that some folks never even cashed their checks; they just signed them right over at morning’s light.
One might think that 2 weeks of eating Friskies (by the box, not the fancy, expensive canned stuff—would be a lesson in restraint, but it doesn’t appear so. Each month it was the same old crunchy story.
Except this month, he ran right into it just before the evening’s festivities got under way. The last thing he wanted was a boatload of seniors watching his every move tonight. Damn. He should pay more attention to when the checks come out and the corresponding craziness of the seniors. In addition, it was a full moon tonight, which meant double the fun. May as well call the ambulance now, as someone is bound to choke on their teeth at the very least.
Someone was taking odds that Mrs. Simone will snarf down Mr. Pudgele’s nitro pills again—she can’t see for crap and keeps mistaking them for Mikes & Ikes, despite the pill bottle. Mrs. Simone even bet on herself eating the nitro. Once she’s downed a few of those, the muumuu comes off and that usually ends the party. Especially for the ambulance people. There’s no way they get paid nearly enough to carry ancient, 400 pound, naked, hallucinating ladies down 4 flights of stairs.
Septimus realized that the seniors, of whom he wasn’t nearly one, were his best defense. Now that he had finally bit the bullet, and was carrying the priceless package around, he found comfort and safety in their ranks. As long as Mrs. Muller didn’t try to feel him up, no one would know what he had. And they would both be safe for the night. No one would think to look for him amidst a poker-playing, feeding-frenzy of Metamucil popping, horny seniors. They were the best camouflage ever and he would have to keep that in mind for future reference.
He stopped through his apartment to lose his coat, and put the package somewhere that no one but Mrs. Muller would think to look. If she felt for it there, well, she might have a heart attack, and if she didn’t, she would never stop leering or groping him. However, she wouldn’t risk sharing her prize, so she wouldn’t mention it to anyone.
He got his quarters out and a few bills, grabbed a coke and headed out to the poker table. He soon found out that these folks played hardball and that they would not coddle the inexperienced youth. He had been around, had played the tables in Vegas plenty, but that did not prepare him for the viciousness that was the senior’s tour. The first table was $20 a hand. He had to go get more money, and as he didn’t have a social security check to hand over, he had to use cold, hard cash.
When he lost his initial stake of $200, he started auctioning items from his apartment, as he could not afford the risk of going back out, especially at night. His nightlights sold for the most money. They were hot commodities. Ditto the magnifying glass, the fuzzy slippers and robe that was not yet ensconced in old-lady-smell. His books didn’t sell, just a few for paperweights. They kept asking if he wanted to sell his teeth, not grasping, no matter how much he told them, and then showed them, that they were still attached to his body. No one wanted his brush, comb or any other personal hygiene products. He had eyeglasses, those magnifiers you can get in the drugstore; those bought him some extra time at the table.
The card sharks played him like a marlin. They hunted as a group and never missed an opportunity to rip a chunk out of him. You might think that peer pressure would have faded by the time folks are 90, but they knew how to pour it on. Poor Septimus, only forty years their junior, could not believe that he could lose, nor that they could be so bloodthirsty. It became a mob, and progressed to a hungry mob.
In order to score one more hand, one that he was sure he could win, he handed over his keys and they had his freezer cleaned out in no time. Mrs. Shufler could eat ice cream by the gallon without teeth to slow her down. He lost again. There was nothing left, but the clothes on his back and his favorite Jackson Browne CD, Lawyers in Love. He decided to part with the clothes first, forgetting his package. He just could not part with the album, it brought back memories of such happy times. They wanted the clothes more anyway, as they had been washed in the past year and weren’t yet threadbare.
They stripped him down in order to give him one last chance and he began to wonder if Meow Mix was better than 9-Lives. He realized that he may find out.
It was his last chance, last hand. They had discovered the package (and had all done way too much groping in the process). He was now playing for his wife. If he lost this hand of five-card-stud, then they would have a runoff to see whom he won. If one could call that winning. They had placed the ring in with the ante and were chanting--a freakish sound that scared him more than anything he had ever heard. He crossed his fingers as his cards were dealt. Everything else was already crossed. He peeked. Jack-high.
He knew it was over, knew he had lost everything. Then a voice in his head, a voice borne of a thousand generations of survivors spoke to him. He lunged for the ring in the middle of the table and did the only logical thing left to do- he swallowed it. He was too quick for them, by the time they realized what he had done, it was on its way down.
He began to gag, softly at first and then with feeling. The seniors watched curiously. They called dibs on who got to dig the ring out of his throat after he was done. As he lay on his back, still not believing this could be his fate, he saw the large mirror over the table. It all made sense. Maybe it wasn’t the voice of a thousand generations of survivors after all.
He clutched the broken CD case tighter.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
The Herd
The herd ran in unison. Manes flew behind them as they stampeded in their panic. There was no way to tell where one animal began and another ended, the herd had become one. One large, frightened pack of animals that was unsure which way to turn. Which way to safety. Those in the lead took their best guess, but they had no real idea and they were oft overtaken by those whose terror was greater than their own. It was bedlam. Smaller and slower animals were being left behind. A fine example of the survival of the fittest. Those less fit may not last long enough to pass their genes on.
The invader moved closer. He could feel the ground shake with each crescendo in their symphony of flight. He got braver after seeing the herd’s response to the initial thrust. Now for the parry. He watched as the herd flowed back and forth across the field, unsure how to escape. Aware that they were trapped, like animals. Oh. Realizing they were trapped, their panic abated, mostly because they tired of running across the field, then wheeling and tearing back, only to do it all over again, with no well-defined goals.
The invader studied their pattern. Their anarchy. This should be an easy score. They are far too panicked to even try to defend themselves. Yet they could. If they had the appropriate leadership, they could use their strength of numbers to easily defend against the invader. Maybe an experienced animal, someone to serve as a coach to the rest, especially the flighty younger ones would help. A captain. But the invader wasn’t up for giving teambuilding advice to his prey.
The young ones, those who perceive and then propagate even a hint of a rumor to make it larger than life and thus scare the crap out of themselves and everyone else in the herd. They were the problem. Well, not for the invader. The elders in the herd still spooked, but not as readily and they were more likely to stand their ground. They were after all, veterans of at least a few campaigns and were much better at gathering and weighing evidence, as opposed to running willy-nilly around the enclosure for the next hour after someone got nervous.
One thing the herd members never learned in school about a stampede was that once it started, if you were anywhere near it, you had to run too, as though your life depended on it. It does. If you are staring up looking for a Sasquatch formation in the clouds when it starts, then you’ll be pavement after the concrete wall of the herd hits you. The old timers knew this, and thus tried to leave a safe distance between the spastic youth and themselves so they could avoid the false starts. But there were limits. If the spaces in the herd were too big, the invaders could start picking off individuals. This defeated the herd mentality entirely.
The elders have found, through trial, errors and more than a little attrition, that you had to try to contain the youngsters, keep them occupied, so that they weren’t reacting to every leaf that fell in their paths. They had to try to maintain order in the ranks. Easier said than done, but they had limited options out there on the battlefield.
The herd grew tired of the dance, so they stopped. Almost all at once. Except the littlest member. She had been running with her head down, determined to keep up with the others and she didn’t stop until she slammed full force into one of the biggest members, then bounced off and fell to the ground. She lay there for a moment stunned. No one came to her aid. With quiet cries, she picked herself back up and held her head high, as the rest of the herd averted their eyes. They could not bear to acknowledge weakness. Then they all melded together and she was lost in the sea of anonymity.
Now that they had stopped, and were tired, they took the time to reassess the threat. The invader was still there, and nowhere near as tired as they were. Apparently, the invader was better at planning. And waiting. They had taken the bait and fell for the feint, exhausting themselves before the game was even underway. The invader preferred a bit more sport than this, as he hardly had to do anything. Nevertheless, he had thoroughly enjoyed the show and pondered letting them rest up in order to do it again, but the clock was ticking and he was getting hungry. It was time to strike.
The invader started to run. Hard. The herd, too tired to stampede, scattered instead. Then, borne of a thousand generations, an ancient voice deep in their minds, told them to be proactive. To attack their attacker. To make his game plan their own. The plan was communicated telepathically between them and suddenly, the invader found himself surrounded by the herd. They were kicking at him. All of them at once. Ouch, that hurts.
He saw some daylight through the circle and he dashed for it. But as they were all still kicking him with their rubber tipped feet, they tripped him. As he fell, his life flashed before his eyes, certain that the end was as near as the feet whistling by his head.
He was surprised when the herd evaporated. The kicking stopped. He raised his head, sure that he couldn’t be dead, as there had been little pain.
And then he saw it, the ball had come loose when he fell, and the other team, both teams,
actually, had converged on the ball twenty feet away and it was another scrum of five year old future David Beckhams. Or not.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
The invader moved closer. He could feel the ground shake with each crescendo in their symphony of flight. He got braver after seeing the herd’s response to the initial thrust. Now for the parry. He watched as the herd flowed back and forth across the field, unsure how to escape. Aware that they were trapped, like animals. Oh. Realizing they were trapped, their panic abated, mostly because they tired of running across the field, then wheeling and tearing back, only to do it all over again, with no well-defined goals.
The invader studied their pattern. Their anarchy. This should be an easy score. They are far too panicked to even try to defend themselves. Yet they could. If they had the appropriate leadership, they could use their strength of numbers to easily defend against the invader. Maybe an experienced animal, someone to serve as a coach to the rest, especially the flighty younger ones would help. A captain. But the invader wasn’t up for giving teambuilding advice to his prey.
The young ones, those who perceive and then propagate even a hint of a rumor to make it larger than life and thus scare the crap out of themselves and everyone else in the herd. They were the problem. Well, not for the invader. The elders in the herd still spooked, but not as readily and they were more likely to stand their ground. They were after all, veterans of at least a few campaigns and were much better at gathering and weighing evidence, as opposed to running willy-nilly around the enclosure for the next hour after someone got nervous.
One thing the herd members never learned in school about a stampede was that once it started, if you were anywhere near it, you had to run too, as though your life depended on it. It does. If you are staring up looking for a Sasquatch formation in the clouds when it starts, then you’ll be pavement after the concrete wall of the herd hits you. The old timers knew this, and thus tried to leave a safe distance between the spastic youth and themselves so they could avoid the false starts. But there were limits. If the spaces in the herd were too big, the invaders could start picking off individuals. This defeated the herd mentality entirely.
The elders have found, through trial, errors and more than a little attrition, that you had to try to contain the youngsters, keep them occupied, so that they weren’t reacting to every leaf that fell in their paths. They had to try to maintain order in the ranks. Easier said than done, but they had limited options out there on the battlefield.
The herd grew tired of the dance, so they stopped. Almost all at once. Except the littlest member. She had been running with her head down, determined to keep up with the others and she didn’t stop until she slammed full force into one of the biggest members, then bounced off and fell to the ground. She lay there for a moment stunned. No one came to her aid. With quiet cries, she picked herself back up and held her head high, as the rest of the herd averted their eyes. They could not bear to acknowledge weakness. Then they all melded together and she was lost in the sea of anonymity.
Now that they had stopped, and were tired, they took the time to reassess the threat. The invader was still there, and nowhere near as tired as they were. Apparently, the invader was better at planning. And waiting. They had taken the bait and fell for the feint, exhausting themselves before the game was even underway. The invader preferred a bit more sport than this, as he hardly had to do anything. Nevertheless, he had thoroughly enjoyed the show and pondered letting them rest up in order to do it again, but the clock was ticking and he was getting hungry. It was time to strike.
The invader started to run. Hard. The herd, too tired to stampede, scattered instead. Then, borne of a thousand generations, an ancient voice deep in their minds, told them to be proactive. To attack their attacker. To make his game plan their own. The plan was communicated telepathically between them and suddenly, the invader found himself surrounded by the herd. They were kicking at him. All of them at once. Ouch, that hurts.
He saw some daylight through the circle and he dashed for it. But as they were all still kicking him with their rubber tipped feet, they tripped him. As he fell, his life flashed before his eyes, certain that the end was as near as the feet whistling by his head.
He was surprised when the herd evaporated. The kicking stopped. He raised his head, sure that he couldn’t be dead, as there had been little pain.
And then he saw it, the ball had come loose when he fell, and the other team, both teams,
actually, had converged on the ball twenty feet away and it was another scrum of five year old future David Beckhams. Or not.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
A Nasty Business
The rain fell so hard that each drop left its imprint in the sand. After a few minutes, the drops in the sand turned to rivers flowing down the hill. The rivers carried the sand and the carnage left from a life poorly lived.
As today intersected with tomorrow, Filbert, or what was left of Filbert, dribbled away bit by bit. All that remained, when tomorrow dawned, was the imprint Filbert’s soles left on his coworkers. There wasn’t enough rain in the universe to wash that stain away.
It had started innocently enough--Filbert filching quarters for the pop machine from the admin’s desk. He grew bold branching out to other desks; he grew comfortable with the rest of the department funding his caffeine habit. Then, like an addict in need of a higher dose, he escalated to chocolate. You would be surprised at how many folks have chocolate and other great snacks in their drawers. Filbert was.
From there it morphed to open season. Once Filbert realized that he was the first one in the office by at least an hour, he became empowered. He realized that he could do whatever he wanted in that hour and that the cleaning staff would always get the blame.
He developed a system. He would start on the far side of the department and work his way through all of the cubicles over a period of a few weeks. Each morning was a different cubicle. He became intimately familiar with everyone’s personal life. He would scout out all of their drawers, fondle their family photos and then he would spin around in their chair until he barfed. He usually selected a file at the back in the bottom drawer for that act. That way they had all of the benefits without the mess. Initially, it took at least a week for them to figure out the source of the stench. Except during heat waves, they figured it out much faster then.
Just to allay suspicion, he was forced to occasionally ‘sit and spin’ in his own cubicle as well. However, he didn’t wait for the telltale signs as the others did. After a month or so, people were catching on. They would check their drawers as soon as they arrived. The winner, or rather the loser, would be the person whose folder had been barfed in. Everyone else would clap and cheer—thrilled that it wasn’t their useless documents that had been victimized by the barfer. It was team building, in a new and interesting way.
Filbert grew tired of that game, and of gorging himself to the point of retching every morning. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Nevertheless, his constant and whiny calls to the cleaning agency were endlessly entertaining. He had their number on speed dial and he would call them every hour with an update on who was barfed on and any other detail he could make up.
In order to keep people on their toes, he frequently strayed into other departments to do his work. This was riskier, but if only the engineering department suffered from the puker, someone, somewhere, may eventually see a pattern. You know how engineers are.
Eventually, folks tired of his games and started their own. One person set up a camera. Filbert never saw it coming. Late one afternoon, he got an anonymous e-mail with a link to a ‘hysterical YouTube clip.’ He was horrified to see himself sitting naked in Margaret’s cube, snarfing down her pretzels with both hands and then spinning and spinning and spinning, followed by barfing in her drawer. That was Filbert’s second last ‘sit and spin’- the last having taken place that very morning. It was the highest viewed clip on YouTube that week. It even made it on CNN and the Today Show.
The next morning, Filbert arrived as usual, but he was worried that the axe would fall. Figuratively, anyway. He had reason to worry, as he pulled into the lot, his co-workers surrounded him. They all wore gloves and were wearing haz-mat suits. He thought that was odd. And may not be a good sign. Then he realized that they were all armed with desk supplies. Realization that he wouldn’t be laughing this off with his co-workers set in.
They advanced. He saw staplers, tape dispensers, a wall mounted pencil sharpener (without the wall), heavy-duty file folders, and then some sharp implements- scissors, letter openers and paper cutters with rotary blades. Ouch.
Luckily, after the paper cuts across his chest and the stapling of his fingers to the bottoms of his feet, he lost consciousness. He didn’t even get to see the grand finale with the paper shredder.
He would have been impressed with their creativity.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
As today intersected with tomorrow, Filbert, or what was left of Filbert, dribbled away bit by bit. All that remained, when tomorrow dawned, was the imprint Filbert’s soles left on his coworkers. There wasn’t enough rain in the universe to wash that stain away.
It had started innocently enough--Filbert filching quarters for the pop machine from the admin’s desk. He grew bold branching out to other desks; he grew comfortable with the rest of the department funding his caffeine habit. Then, like an addict in need of a higher dose, he escalated to chocolate. You would be surprised at how many folks have chocolate and other great snacks in their drawers. Filbert was.
From there it morphed to open season. Once Filbert realized that he was the first one in the office by at least an hour, he became empowered. He realized that he could do whatever he wanted in that hour and that the cleaning staff would always get the blame.
He developed a system. He would start on the far side of the department and work his way through all of the cubicles over a period of a few weeks. Each morning was a different cubicle. He became intimately familiar with everyone’s personal life. He would scout out all of their drawers, fondle their family photos and then he would spin around in their chair until he barfed. He usually selected a file at the back in the bottom drawer for that act. That way they had all of the benefits without the mess. Initially, it took at least a week for them to figure out the source of the stench. Except during heat waves, they figured it out much faster then.
Just to allay suspicion, he was forced to occasionally ‘sit and spin’ in his own cubicle as well. However, he didn’t wait for the telltale signs as the others did. After a month or so, people were catching on. They would check their drawers as soon as they arrived. The winner, or rather the loser, would be the person whose folder had been barfed in. Everyone else would clap and cheer—thrilled that it wasn’t their useless documents that had been victimized by the barfer. It was team building, in a new and interesting way.
Filbert grew tired of that game, and of gorging himself to the point of retching every morning. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Nevertheless, his constant and whiny calls to the cleaning agency were endlessly entertaining. He had their number on speed dial and he would call them every hour with an update on who was barfed on and any other detail he could make up.
In order to keep people on their toes, he frequently strayed into other departments to do his work. This was riskier, but if only the engineering department suffered from the puker, someone, somewhere, may eventually see a pattern. You know how engineers are.
Eventually, folks tired of his games and started their own. One person set up a camera. Filbert never saw it coming. Late one afternoon, he got an anonymous e-mail with a link to a ‘hysterical YouTube clip.’ He was horrified to see himself sitting naked in Margaret’s cube, snarfing down her pretzels with both hands and then spinning and spinning and spinning, followed by barfing in her drawer. That was Filbert’s second last ‘sit and spin’- the last having taken place that very morning. It was the highest viewed clip on YouTube that week. It even made it on CNN and the Today Show.
The next morning, Filbert arrived as usual, but he was worried that the axe would fall. Figuratively, anyway. He had reason to worry, as he pulled into the lot, his co-workers surrounded him. They all wore gloves and were wearing haz-mat suits. He thought that was odd. And may not be a good sign. Then he realized that they were all armed with desk supplies. Realization that he wouldn’t be laughing this off with his co-workers set in.
They advanced. He saw staplers, tape dispensers, a wall mounted pencil sharpener (without the wall), heavy-duty file folders, and then some sharp implements- scissors, letter openers and paper cutters with rotary blades. Ouch.
Luckily, after the paper cuts across his chest and the stapling of his fingers to the bottoms of his feet, he lost consciousness. He didn’t even get to see the grand finale with the paper shredder.
He would have been impressed with their creativity.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Rain
I admit that we had our moments of excess. We had an extravagant house and more than a few wild parties. Really, if you can’t have both Barnum and Bailey and all of their animals at your kid’s birthday party, then what exactly is the point? I squirreled money away--lots of money--for a rainy day, as I knew one day I would be damn grateful for an impenetrable umbrella. I’ve been watching the weather channel and it’s calling for rain. In fact, it just might be a monsoon.
I just had to act normally through one last dinner party. Just one more evening of expressing interest on the lives of the rich, vapid and empty “friends” with whom we surrounded ourselves in this hick town in the Rockies. Luckily it was a hick town that only the wealthiest could afford to play in, so they were wealthy hicks. All the better.
Acting perfectly normal when such a momentous event is at hand is quite difficult, especially when the goal is to arouse no suspicions. Not even my wife’s. They say money can’t buy happiness, but I’m guessing that ‘they’ don’t have any money or they would never say such a thing. Not only can it buy happiness, even by the hour when necessary, but it can also buy creative solutions to problems. Even life’s biggest problems. Talk about thinking outside the box.
Everything and everyone has their price and the reason most folks get nowhere all their lives is that they cannot pay the price. Can’t or won’t, I’m not sure which. That and they don’t have the drive to succeed at all costs, like me. I wasn’t born filthy rich. I worked extremely hard all my life to get where I am. That money wasn’t going to steal itself and migrate to my bank account, you know. Someone had to be out there, actively stealing nest eggs from those little old ladies and socking it away in Swiss bank accounts. And Cayman Island accounts. And anywhere else I could think of. Call them insurance policies. Call them whatever you like, just as long as there’s no paper trail, not that anyone will be looking for one.
So tonight is the big score. I am to be on the plane at 2:05 at the private airstrip and the plane will fly me to the aforementioned Cayman Islands. But, I have to walk through the woods, as I can’t be seen. And I can’t take more than a briefcase of passports, identities and bank account numbers and passwords. Of course, I won’t need anything else, and if I do, there’s American Express. In the name of my new identity.
From the Caymans, I will pick up my new boat and start a new life. It does sound appealing, doesn’t it? Everyone should get the chance to start over with a clean slate (and lots of dough in the bank). After all, think of all the mistakes you’ve made in your first 64 years. Tons of them, right? So, if you have half a brain, then you’ve learned from them and wouldn’t make those same mistakes again. And having all that cash to begin again….it boggles the mind to think of it.
Anyway, I digress. At about midnight, with a little help from his friends, my newest friend will ingest a fatal dose of nitroglycerine in his nightly shot of whiskey. It will be enough to throw his heart into a fatal arrhythmia and though help will be called, in this podunk town, that means an ambulance that mostly serves to scrape up road kill. There will be no chance of revival. They will try, but two electrodes attached to a car battery probably won’t help anyone, not even the road kill, unless you’re ready to cook it. But it will look quite convincing. Hell, a 64 year old man, tons of stress over the last few years, horrible diet, no exercise. Men like that drop dead every day. And today will be no different. Except that, I will be an extremely wealthy man because of this one man’s date with my destiny.
I am already insanely wealthy, but the gods are fickle and my fortune is at risk. So is my freedom. This is my way out. This is the only way to be sure that the money I have so carefully stolen and hidden all of these years remains with its rightful owner- me.
I have made the necessary arrangements, made the elaborate plans that allowed for contingencies. I had a back up plan- another “victim” the following night if for some reason this didn’t go according to the plan. And I am on my way to the Caymans.
Me, and that guy, what’s-his-name, are both on our final journeys. Mine is a nicer place, however. His ashes will conveniently be scattered in my stead where no DNA can ever be recovered -in the ocean- from my favorite yacht by my favorite wife. But he won’t get an obituary, only I will. Mine will be on the front page of every newspaper in the world, as it is not every day that one of America’s most creative, most reviled thieves dies. Especially after being convicted but before being sentenced. It’s almost like dying in a state of grace.
Actually it turns out that it IS dying in a state of grace. Just ask my extraordinarily well-paid lawyers. They will soon argue that Ken Lay, since he died before he could exhaust the appeals process, deserved to have his name cleared posthumously, and thus the government does not have a right to his estate as restitution for his crimes. And, they will win.
And, if someday, I were to appear on US soil again, I am merely a dead man, and I'm not even a felon. And even if my picture were on the front page of every paper, how many of you would recognize me when you pass me on the street? I’m just another white haired old coot in plaid pants sporting a great tan.
My old friend Jeffrey Skilling will spend the next two and a half decades in prison. I bet he was ticked when he read the news--I always was one step ahead of the game and at least three steps ahead of that pinhead. That would be why I was CEO and he wasn’t. Maybe I’ll pay him a visit in a few years- THAT would be fun.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
I just had to act normally through one last dinner party. Just one more evening of expressing interest on the lives of the rich, vapid and empty “friends” with whom we surrounded ourselves in this hick town in the Rockies. Luckily it was a hick town that only the wealthiest could afford to play in, so they were wealthy hicks. All the better.
Acting perfectly normal when such a momentous event is at hand is quite difficult, especially when the goal is to arouse no suspicions. Not even my wife’s. They say money can’t buy happiness, but I’m guessing that ‘they’ don’t have any money or they would never say such a thing. Not only can it buy happiness, even by the hour when necessary, but it can also buy creative solutions to problems. Even life’s biggest problems. Talk about thinking outside the box.
Everything and everyone has their price and the reason most folks get nowhere all their lives is that they cannot pay the price. Can’t or won’t, I’m not sure which. That and they don’t have the drive to succeed at all costs, like me. I wasn’t born filthy rich. I worked extremely hard all my life to get where I am. That money wasn’t going to steal itself and migrate to my bank account, you know. Someone had to be out there, actively stealing nest eggs from those little old ladies and socking it away in Swiss bank accounts. And Cayman Island accounts. And anywhere else I could think of. Call them insurance policies. Call them whatever you like, just as long as there’s no paper trail, not that anyone will be looking for one.
So tonight is the big score. I am to be on the plane at 2:05 at the private airstrip and the plane will fly me to the aforementioned Cayman Islands. But, I have to walk through the woods, as I can’t be seen. And I can’t take more than a briefcase of passports, identities and bank account numbers and passwords. Of course, I won’t need anything else, and if I do, there’s American Express. In the name of my new identity.
From the Caymans, I will pick up my new boat and start a new life. It does sound appealing, doesn’t it? Everyone should get the chance to start over with a clean slate (and lots of dough in the bank). After all, think of all the mistakes you’ve made in your first 64 years. Tons of them, right? So, if you have half a brain, then you’ve learned from them and wouldn’t make those same mistakes again. And having all that cash to begin again….it boggles the mind to think of it.
Anyway, I digress. At about midnight, with a little help from his friends, my newest friend will ingest a fatal dose of nitroglycerine in his nightly shot of whiskey. It will be enough to throw his heart into a fatal arrhythmia and though help will be called, in this podunk town, that means an ambulance that mostly serves to scrape up road kill. There will be no chance of revival. They will try, but two electrodes attached to a car battery probably won’t help anyone, not even the road kill, unless you’re ready to cook it. But it will look quite convincing. Hell, a 64 year old man, tons of stress over the last few years, horrible diet, no exercise. Men like that drop dead every day. And today will be no different. Except that, I will be an extremely wealthy man because of this one man’s date with my destiny.
I am already insanely wealthy, but the gods are fickle and my fortune is at risk. So is my freedom. This is my way out. This is the only way to be sure that the money I have so carefully stolen and hidden all of these years remains with its rightful owner- me.
I have made the necessary arrangements, made the elaborate plans that allowed for contingencies. I had a back up plan- another “victim” the following night if for some reason this didn’t go according to the plan. And I am on my way to the Caymans.
Me, and that guy, what’s-his-name, are both on our final journeys. Mine is a nicer place, however. His ashes will conveniently be scattered in my stead where no DNA can ever be recovered -in the ocean- from my favorite yacht by my favorite wife. But he won’t get an obituary, only I will. Mine will be on the front page of every newspaper in the world, as it is not every day that one of America’s most creative, most reviled thieves dies. Especially after being convicted but before being sentenced. It’s almost like dying in a state of grace.
Actually it turns out that it IS dying in a state of grace. Just ask my extraordinarily well-paid lawyers. They will soon argue that Ken Lay, since he died before he could exhaust the appeals process, deserved to have his name cleared posthumously, and thus the government does not have a right to his estate as restitution for his crimes. And, they will win.
And, if someday, I were to appear on US soil again, I am merely a dead man, and I'm not even a felon. And even if my picture were on the front page of every paper, how many of you would recognize me when you pass me on the street? I’m just another white haired old coot in plaid pants sporting a great tan.
My old friend Jeffrey Skilling will spend the next two and a half decades in prison. I bet he was ticked when he read the news--I always was one step ahead of the game and at least three steps ahead of that pinhead. That would be why I was CEO and he wasn’t. Maybe I’ll pay him a visit in a few years- THAT would be fun.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The Dream
The long awaited day had finally arrived. I could not wait to get home to check the mailbox. The results would be there, just waiting for me. For all us. It’s really cruel that they send the results out via snail mail. What’s wrong with e-mail? A phone call?
Months of waiting followed months and months of jumping through hoops. All of the testing. It was unreal what we had to go through. There were appointments with medical doctors, psychiatrists, financial planners, sociologists (I still don’t know what they had to do with anything, but there they were, collecting their $500/hour fee).
It started as a wisp of an idea. We want the best for our family- who doesn’t? And, because our best is so much better than anyone else’s, that should qualify us right there. We overheard some super-achievers at the park talking about the school and we thought we should check it out. So we did. Of course, we had absolutely no idea how competitive it is to get into the “BEST” school. Not schools. There’s only one.
We got caught up in the dream, sure that the school was perfect for us. How could we not be perfect candidates for the school? We’re rich. We give money away like candy, and we fill the pool with crystal champagne-- a little unorthodox, but hey, why not? We’re snooty and elitist- we have a staff. I can’t see how they wouldn’t pick us. There is no way. We funded the new wing- the entire sensory deprivation wing came from us at the very beginning of the process.
The testing was extreme. And thorough. Talk about leaving no stone unturned… think about leaving no body part unturned. We had to undergo more testing than Jack did. That seemed a little weird. It was a feat of endurance to make it though all of their hoops. Literally. We trained as if to run a marathon, as that was part of the application process. The very first step was for the adults to run in the next marathon. We had to qualify for the Boston Marathon in order for our prodigy to even be considered. That means we had to do it in under 3:25. I now saw why people started their training long before they even had their candidate. You can’t apply prior to the arrival of the candidate, but immediately upon their arrival, the calls, e-mails and appointments begin. The application process itself takes over a year.
With a little (okay, a lot) of help from the local subway, we barely managed to qualify for the Boston marathon. We didn’t actually have to run Boston, but we had to qualify for it. We thought about running it after all, being as we qualified, but I’m not as familiar with the rapid transit system in relation to the marathon course in Boston, so it seemed risky. But, they had many other things in store for us anyway.
There was hypno-regression for those of us who could speak. It wasn’t enough to prove that we were ridiculously rich in this lifetime, but we had to be regressed to make sure we came from elite stock going back generations. I had heard, but did not have confirmed, that if you weren’t a 500-head slave holder with a plantation in a previous life, you may as well quit right then. Because your little bundle of joy doesn’t stand a chance. Which could be a relief, but what would the neighbors say? Not to mention the genteel folks at the club. Can you imagine the snubbing? It would probably make the Queen’s response to Diana look like a friggin tea party.
After the marathon came the intelligence tests. Because it was too early to test Jack’s IQ accurately, they tested ours. We both had to score in the top 5 percentile of the Mensa crowd. Lucky for us, we worked day and night for weeks to find the answers on-line and thus were well prepared. I figured if you’re smart enough to cheat your way in, the IQ question is moot.
Then came the financial inspection. If it was anyone other than Ken Lay researching us, I would be confident that we could snow our way out of that one. Luckily, if there’s one thing Ken Lay understands, it is secret bank accounts in remote locations. I guess that was lucky for all of us—mostly for him, as I believe Ken has had the opportunity to draw on that account now that he’s been re-born. Or un-dead, if you prefer.
Next up, the mental stress tests. Well, frankly, if we could find a way to maneuver though the rest of the minefield, this part was a cakewalk. All we had to do was some exhaustive research on the Psychiatrists. Just a boatload of cash and some plane tickets to an investigator and our psych tests were the shortest in history. We walked in, threw some pictures taken from his most recent Thailand vaca on his desk and walked out with stellar psych references.
That was everything. Well, aside from some plastic surgery--as the candidate had to look his very best for the interviews and tests. Just a little cosmetic work and some implants and he was ready to go. We actually got the family plan- Tony and I had the works- pretty ,much everything was lifted, separated, and suctioned and Jack had whatever was needed to make him more appealing.
We all lived at the clinic for 3 months. We told everyone we were all in rehab- that’s so much more respectable than showing up with stitches and bruises all over. Of course, no one recognized us when we came out, but that’s okay. We didn’t like most of those people anyway, so we’ll just befriend the younger ultra-rich set.
After almost a solid year of jumping though these hoops and being scrutinized within an inch of our lives, we were finished. Now we waited to see what the executive committee had to say. I wonder how they felt sitting in judgment of us. And all of the loser families that were also trying to get a leg up for their prodigies by getting them into the country’s most exclusive academy.
We had discovered that the right school, even at one year old, can make all the difference. The right connections for later in life. The right past for future schools. There is no way anyone would not be impressed- he would travel with the elitist of the elite and never look back. The very basis of his career would rest on the school that he attends, and if we were to chose poorly (or if the selection committee chose poorly), his entire career and thus his entire life would be ruined long before it even starts.
The only problem that we couldn’t solve was bribing the selection committee. Turns out those amoral bastards will take everyone’s bribe and lie through their teeth about their allegiance. If you don’t bribe them, you get the thin letter that says “We regret to inform you…” immediately, instead of waiting 3 months with everyone else. The only way we could deal with the jury was to put a contract out on all of them, in the event that we weren’t deemed good enough of their school. We did do that, however, it didn’t help us to get Jack in.
The day arrived. They told us when to look for the letters. I whipped the maid so she would hurry to get the mail. She waited at the mailbox for three hours; I think she didn’t want to spend any more time with me and the whip than she had to. I was breathless. I had to steel myself with a few bottles of Jack Daniels in order to stay conscious. Then it was even harder. Jack and I snuggled up to await the news of his future. He did not seem to realize the importance of this event, despite my repeated and slurred explanations. I think he was tuning me out.
Finally, the maid drove up the driveway. I was all-atwitter. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t sit. I ran out to meet her and ripped the mail from her arms. I tried to focus on return addresses, throwing letters, catalogs and other detritus in the rosebushes in my desperation. There it was. I had it. It seemed thin, but I was actually seeing three of them so that may not have been a reliable observation. Jack wasn’t even out there with me. I think this meant far more to me than to him.
I had the maid open it and read it to me. “We regret to inform you that YuppyPuppy Elitist Academy has determined that you and your pet do not meet the standards for the incoming class….”
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Months of waiting followed months and months of jumping through hoops. All of the testing. It was unreal what we had to go through. There were appointments with medical doctors, psychiatrists, financial planners, sociologists (I still don’t know what they had to do with anything, but there they were, collecting their $500/hour fee).
It started as a wisp of an idea. We want the best for our family- who doesn’t? And, because our best is so much better than anyone else’s, that should qualify us right there. We overheard some super-achievers at the park talking about the school and we thought we should check it out. So we did. Of course, we had absolutely no idea how competitive it is to get into the “BEST” school. Not schools. There’s only one.
We got caught up in the dream, sure that the school was perfect for us. How could we not be perfect candidates for the school? We’re rich. We give money away like candy, and we fill the pool with crystal champagne-- a little unorthodox, but hey, why not? We’re snooty and elitist- we have a staff. I can’t see how they wouldn’t pick us. There is no way. We funded the new wing- the entire sensory deprivation wing came from us at the very beginning of the process.
The testing was extreme. And thorough. Talk about leaving no stone unturned… think about leaving no body part unturned. We had to undergo more testing than Jack did. That seemed a little weird. It was a feat of endurance to make it though all of their hoops. Literally. We trained as if to run a marathon, as that was part of the application process. The very first step was for the adults to run in the next marathon. We had to qualify for the Boston Marathon in order for our prodigy to even be considered. That means we had to do it in under 3:25. I now saw why people started their training long before they even had their candidate. You can’t apply prior to the arrival of the candidate, but immediately upon their arrival, the calls, e-mails and appointments begin. The application process itself takes over a year.
With a little (okay, a lot) of help from the local subway, we barely managed to qualify for the Boston marathon. We didn’t actually have to run Boston, but we had to qualify for it. We thought about running it after all, being as we qualified, but I’m not as familiar with the rapid transit system in relation to the marathon course in Boston, so it seemed risky. But, they had many other things in store for us anyway.
There was hypno-regression for those of us who could speak. It wasn’t enough to prove that we were ridiculously rich in this lifetime, but we had to be regressed to make sure we came from elite stock going back generations. I had heard, but did not have confirmed, that if you weren’t a 500-head slave holder with a plantation in a previous life, you may as well quit right then. Because your little bundle of joy doesn’t stand a chance. Which could be a relief, but what would the neighbors say? Not to mention the genteel folks at the club. Can you imagine the snubbing? It would probably make the Queen’s response to Diana look like a friggin tea party.
After the marathon came the intelligence tests. Because it was too early to test Jack’s IQ accurately, they tested ours. We both had to score in the top 5 percentile of the Mensa crowd. Lucky for us, we worked day and night for weeks to find the answers on-line and thus were well prepared. I figured if you’re smart enough to cheat your way in, the IQ question is moot.
Then came the financial inspection. If it was anyone other than Ken Lay researching us, I would be confident that we could snow our way out of that one. Luckily, if there’s one thing Ken Lay understands, it is secret bank accounts in remote locations. I guess that was lucky for all of us—mostly for him, as I believe Ken has had the opportunity to draw on that account now that he’s been re-born. Or un-dead, if you prefer.
Next up, the mental stress tests. Well, frankly, if we could find a way to maneuver though the rest of the minefield, this part was a cakewalk. All we had to do was some exhaustive research on the Psychiatrists. Just a boatload of cash and some plane tickets to an investigator and our psych tests were the shortest in history. We walked in, threw some pictures taken from his most recent Thailand vaca on his desk and walked out with stellar psych references.
That was everything. Well, aside from some plastic surgery--as the candidate had to look his very best for the interviews and tests. Just a little cosmetic work and some implants and he was ready to go. We actually got the family plan- Tony and I had the works- pretty ,much everything was lifted, separated, and suctioned and Jack had whatever was needed to make him more appealing.
We all lived at the clinic for 3 months. We told everyone we were all in rehab- that’s so much more respectable than showing up with stitches and bruises all over. Of course, no one recognized us when we came out, but that’s okay. We didn’t like most of those people anyway, so we’ll just befriend the younger ultra-rich set.
After almost a solid year of jumping though these hoops and being scrutinized within an inch of our lives, we were finished. Now we waited to see what the executive committee had to say. I wonder how they felt sitting in judgment of us. And all of the loser families that were also trying to get a leg up for their prodigies by getting them into the country’s most exclusive academy.
We had discovered that the right school, even at one year old, can make all the difference. The right connections for later in life. The right past for future schools. There is no way anyone would not be impressed- he would travel with the elitist of the elite and never look back. The very basis of his career would rest on the school that he attends, and if we were to chose poorly (or if the selection committee chose poorly), his entire career and thus his entire life would be ruined long before it even starts.
The only problem that we couldn’t solve was bribing the selection committee. Turns out those amoral bastards will take everyone’s bribe and lie through their teeth about their allegiance. If you don’t bribe them, you get the thin letter that says “We regret to inform you…” immediately, instead of waiting 3 months with everyone else. The only way we could deal with the jury was to put a contract out on all of them, in the event that we weren’t deemed good enough of their school. We did do that, however, it didn’t help us to get Jack in.
The day arrived. They told us when to look for the letters. I whipped the maid so she would hurry to get the mail. She waited at the mailbox for three hours; I think she didn’t want to spend any more time with me and the whip than she had to. I was breathless. I had to steel myself with a few bottles of Jack Daniels in order to stay conscious. Then it was even harder. Jack and I snuggled up to await the news of his future. He did not seem to realize the importance of this event, despite my repeated and slurred explanations. I think he was tuning me out.
Finally, the maid drove up the driveway. I was all-atwitter. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t sit. I ran out to meet her and ripped the mail from her arms. I tried to focus on return addresses, throwing letters, catalogs and other detritus in the rosebushes in my desperation. There it was. I had it. It seemed thin, but I was actually seeing three of them so that may not have been a reliable observation. Jack wasn’t even out there with me. I think this meant far more to me than to him.
I had the maid open it and read it to me. “We regret to inform you that YuppyPuppy Elitist Academy has determined that you and your pet do not meet the standards for the incoming class….”
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
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