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.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
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.
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