Deader immediately manifested in the only place she knew where to find answers. Well, second to her friendly neighborhood watering hole, where she has an extra large chair engraved, in blood, of course, in her name and a cold beer always in front of it, despite the fact that she’s there once a week at best.
Trailing behind her as she appeared in the Library of Death (located underneath what mortals know as the Library of Congress in Washington, DC), were Death and a host of Deader’s minions. All were confused initially, as none had ever been in this place before. Indeed, they had only heard whispers of the existence of such a place and even then dismissed it as being improbable. And way too expensive, as the netherworld had seen escalating costs in recent years and were cutting back everywhere. So even if they believed that such a place once existed, they assumed that its contents, both physical and metaphysical, had long ago been sold off to the lowest bidder and or taken up residence in the homes/chalets/palaces of those who make the netherworld go down. Not that they wanted to know too much about those folks. But that was what they figured would happen IF the library of Death had ever actually existed.
But it does and here they are. The only sound in the chamber was the sound of running water. On closer inspection, it wasn’t water. The floors were rivers of liquid gold flowing beneath their feet. As they were dead and didn’t have physical bodies, this wasn’t a problem for them. But it was difficult to tear their eyes away from the molten gold passing beneath them to look around. They were in the narrow galley with two opposing walls, as you might expect from a portrait gallery, and the walls went on for as far as they could see in both directions. The walls were lined with incredible tapestries, with yet more liquid gold running from floor to ceiling. And vice versa. And across the ceiling. The subterranean room was lit entirely by the flowing gold, though Death couldn’t begin to explain the physics of this phenomenon.
Death was awed. Never had he seen such splendor. Even when retrieving from the Palace of Versailles—those out of shape tourists who are sure they can climb all the stairs—he had not seen such breathtaking beauty. He would probably be considered a cynic by you and I, considering what he does for a (non) living, and his jaw hit the floor as he absorbed what was around him. Eventually, Death was able to focus on the portraits snuggled in amongst the gilt.
The enormous portraits of Deadom’s greats wedged about the walls made it evident that this chamber was the Portrait Gallery of the Dead. Who knew there was such a thing? Deader was swearing loudly about finding a map so she could get to the Library itself, oblivious to the marvels of the chamber.
While Deader was trying to find a way out, Death was looking closely at the portrait nearest him. It appeared to be an oil painting of Benjamin Franklin. But he was, well, clearly dead in the painting. And a very old man. A very dead, and, a very old man.
The artistry made it clear that the subjects were dead when the portrait was done—that would take a lot of pressure off the artist—no hurry as long as they didn’t actually paint the wriggling maggots. In many cases, they also made it clear how they died, he concluded after studying a few.
Death had no idea who the victims in many of the portraits were, however, each bore a plaque listing their name, and the date they entered the state of Death, though the dates didn’t all make sense to him, they weren’t even always numbers. On the wall nearest him, next to Ben, was “Lucy”. The rest of the tag was gibberish, but he recognized her from schoolbooks as the Australopithecus afarensis bones found in the 70s in Ethiopia. She looked like a bit more apelike than he’d ever realized. Yikes. He couldn’t tell how she died. She had a lot of fur that could cover a lot of wounds. He looked closer….an arrowhead was lying beside her. Hmmmm.
There was Anne Boleyn, and while her head was (mostly) attached in her portrait, the artist included a gash across her neck along with a few drops of blood. Lest anyone question how she died. Ohh, a portrait of Julius Caesar. The artist made sure you could see the hilt of the knife sticking out over his shoulder. Nice touch.
Joan of Arc’s portrait was stunning. She was beautiful and young and also charred all around the edges, with some, but not all, melted hair around her head. Death had never seen a portrait quite like it (despite perusing portraits of the dead for several minutes). Her eyes were open and she looked angry.
There was Benito Mussolini. His artist had painted bullet wounds all over his chest and added rope burns to his ankles for effect.
Holy crap, was that Ted Bundy? The plaque said it was. He looked like he had been singed all over. I guess the electric chair would do that to you. There’s John Denver. With a piece of the plane sticking out of his chest. Sonny Bono, with a tree branch stuck to his head. Alexander Hamilton—minus Aaron Burr’s bullet, but with the trace of the bullet wound evident.
And then that one—she looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. The name, Jane Doe didn’t help either. She was bruised all over, and the date was 1595, which made it unlikely that he and she was compadres, as he entered the realm only ten short years ago, in 1996. But he had definitely seen that face before.
William Wallace, that Scots Braveheart guy from the movie. He did not look good, as he was covered in bruises. He also had a scar running the length of his neck and he had several seams noted along his body, apparently identifying his quarters. That’s when men were men, that’s for sure. Even Death, who killed people for a living, was disturbed by the brutality alluded to in the Portrait Gallery of the Dead.
He was still making his way down the hallway. Which had a horizon line—he could not see the end of the hallway, nor of the room. As far as he could tell, the Portrait Gallery went on forever. He has many questions about this place, but his reverie was interrupted by Deader.
“Let’s go. I found the way to the Library.” She said.
Death followed her, and the rest of the minions gathered together and they all floated across the floor to the door in the floor that led somewhere else. One by one they descended through the floor into the halls below.
Deader was getting cranky, it had now been several hours since she had her last beer and she still had no answers as to why April was immune to her “charms.” This was NOT how she planned to spend her week and in her tizzy, she hadn’t noticed anything about the Portrait Gallery, the liquid gold, the eerie and disturbing portraits themselves. She was on a mission, and, as Deader was not used to losing, she wasn’t about to start now.
Copyright 2008 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
The 'Holiday" Party
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Let me preface this by saying that this is a departure from my usual Epic. All epics to date have been fiction- something made up from the depths of my twisted mind. This epic, despite being funny, is NON-FICTION. Nothing in this epic is spun form thin air, or even exaggerated. I want to make that very, very clear. The only thing that is not 100% true is the actual timing of the events…I did not track how long each segment lasted, so those times are approximations only. Everything else really happened as I described it.
It was my first year with the company so I did not know what to expect. There were some warning signs, signs that I blithely ignored. I ignored all of the warnings until it was too late. Much too late. I really have to learn to listen to my intuition. And my co-workers.
The first e-mail said the ‘Holiday’ party would be held in mid-January. DING! DING! DING!!! What??? Maybe they picked that date so that they could get the Christmas favors on sale at 75% off? It seems likely, knowing this firm. Maybe the January dates were half-price? That was the first clue to which I should have paid more attention. I should have surveyed my friends to see if they had ever had their company Christmas parties in January. If none of them said yes, I should have RSVP’d NO. I should have heeded the alarm bells. However, it was a free dinner, with two free drinks per person and it was just ten minutes from home. We really did not have anything better to do. At least that’s what we thought. We were wrong.
The second e-mail gave us five pages of complicated instructions for the casino games. Seriously? Holy crap, how hard is it to play name that tune? Or trivia? And are they kidding….are you smarter than a fifth grader. They need five pages of instructions for these games. I am not sure that the folks putting it all together ARE smarter than a fifth grader. That was another warning that I ignored at my peril. DING! DING! DING!
A few weeks ago, I heard that my co-worker, a member on the organizing committee was going cube to cube trying to get people to sign up for the party. Apparently, there was not a crush of folks signing up for the January ‘Holiday’ party (it was close to Martin Luther King’s birthday, they could have changed the theme). I was hoping that the strong-arm tactic was working, because I did not want to be the only one at the party. By the week of the party, I heard that a full one-third of my fellow employees could fit our annual holiday event into their January schedules. DING! DING! DING!!! As far as my ever-dwindling department went, seven out of ten of us were planning to attend. Of course, of those seven, one left the company the Friday before and one was headed to the middle east on a temporary assignment on Monday, so that makes it five of eight folks, so way more than half. One boss would be there, one had found something better to do. But at least I would know people there.
A veteran co-worker (meaning a veteran of previous “Holiday parties”) told me that the grand prize in the employee raffle (must be present to win) was two airline tickets to Europe. Have you priced European travel lately? That would be worth winning, of that there is no doubt. I decided that I would be very lucky that night and win the tickets.
Upon arrival at the fancy hotel ballroom, I realized they did not choose this date for the sale-priced festive decorations, as there are no decorations at all. But, we did get our two drink tickets per person—pooled together, those tickets saved at least one of our lives and possibly a marriage. Luckily, the company sprung for as much water and juice as we could drink, on top of the two beers/alcoholic drinks each. That was nice of them. Ever the faithful spouse, I promptly hand my tickets over.
I sought out my coworkers and we grabbed a spot at a table. The buffet dinner was on, so we dug in. The food was good and though we did not have the gift of foresight to know that this was definitely the highlight of the evening. One ticket gone. From there, while eating, we could peruse the sparse crowd to see who was present. I saw my boss making the rounds, much like a used car salesman. I even heard him, when introduced to someone’s daughter, make the comment that they looked like sisters... Really. I asked about the company president, as I had not seen him. The reason I had not seen him was…..because he was not there. DING! DING! DING!!!! WHAT? The company ‘Holiday’ party and the friggin President of the company could not be bothered to attend! That is unbelievable. What the hell is going on here and why are we here again? Two drink tickets down.
After dinner, which was good, as I said, we decided to check out the extremely complicated casino games to see if they were playable despite the extensive rules. We landed at the Name That Tune table and despite the rules, we were able to catch on and have a good time. And we won. One of the big draws for the casino games was to get extra tickets for the games raffle, which would allegedly take place between 8:30 and 9:15. After I won the final round, for $40,000, we pooled our winnings and scored eight tickets for the raffle. We were feeling lucky. We had no way of knowing that our luck had just run out. Three drink tickets gone.
An announcement was made, and people settled down at their tables, expecting something to happen. Nothing did. No desserts filled the dessert table, nothing was going on on the stage, we all sat down and looked around. This awkward silence lasted for several minutes. Nothing. We did not appreciate the nothingness nearly enough, as what followed, when it followed, was just painful.
After a lull, two senior folks at the firm appeared with socks on their heads, introduced as Howie and Mandell accompanied by a video game projection of the game show “Deal or No Deal”. I do not know about most people, but I have never seen the show, though I wrote it off as soon as I heard of it, as it sounded really stupid. I hate Howie Mandell, and anything he has ever done. So I was not thrilled by this segment of the evening’s entertainment. They selected five “winners” from the game raffle tickets pot. If they had called my number, I would have eaten that ticket and not claimed my spot. This segment went on for at least thirty minutes, likely much longer. It felt like a week of looking at our tablemates asking who thought this would be funny and why. We had not yet hit the low point. This was just the midpoint, though we did not know it then.
Some of the rowdier (more drunk and/or more obnoxious) folks kept yelling DEAL whenever they had the chance in order to encourage our five co-workers up there to take the deal, any deal, just to MAKE IT STOP. They even had a prop phone on which to ‘call’ the banker, which I presume is a big part of the show. The DEAL yelling at the contestants didn’t work at all- those contestants were greedy, they were holding out for a better deal (after wasting more than half an hour of everyone’s lives- time we will never get back- they eventually settled for $40 each. We got nothing.). Our table considered passing the hat around the one hundred or so folks still in the room in order to raise enough money for the greedy contestants so that we could MAKE IT STOP.
Here is what the schedule said: 8:30-9:15- Welcome, Table Game Prizes, SNC "Roast", & All-Employee Raffle Drawings. It should have said: Hopefully you have had several drinks by now and will laugh at anything. In addition, the waiters have removed all sharp implements, including glasses, as you may be tempted to break one to slit your own throat if there isn’t a butter knife within reach. It will be that bad.
There began the longest, most painful part of the evening. We could have only hoped for a better option like Novocain-free root canals in the corner. That would have been a lot funnier that what we had to face. We were still sticking it out for the promise of the airlines tickets and additional raffle tickets. How bad could it be? Actually, it could be really, really bad.
One of the old-timers at the firm, he’s probably been there since the very beginning got up and stage and the paid emcee handed him a microphone (mental note- the professionals should NEVER hand the mic over to an amateur. Never.). That was a terrible mistake and we all paid for it for an hour or so. He cracked a few okay jokes- mostly inside jokes that a small number of people laughed at while most spouses (and many additional employees) just looked bewildered.
Then he pulled up a chair and settled in. Apparently, someone, somewhere, had told him that he was a funny guy and he took it to heart. He had several pages of prepared material that he read, despite the tepid reaction/non-reaction of the crowd. One must applaud his tenacity, as he did not let the lack of interest, or humor, stop him for a second. He kept right on, reading old jokes, inside jokes, and even….a religious joke, with a peppering of offensive (to someone, there is no doubt) material thrown in now and again to keep up appearances, or something. Fourth ticket gone.
The emcee, (the only entertaining person who was ever NEAR the stage) sought out the head of Human Resources and his spouse and made them come sit directly in front of the stage. I think this was after the religious joke. He must have thought they should have ringside seats to the off-color commentary that could result in one, or several, lawsuits. They were stuck sitting there for over an hour. Despite being HR people, I felt for them.
After three lifetimes of this torment, it ended…..when someone told him he had a phone call and he left via stage right. We could only hope that whatever it was that he was setting up for was better than the previous part of the act, but had no reason to think that it would be. Our low expectations were met, as he came out as Carnac the Magnificent. Yes, that OLD Johnny Carson persona. Now, half of the folks at the party were probably born after 1975 and might have heard of Johnny Carson….but they probably never heard of Carnac the Magnificent. Frankly, those skits were not funny even when Johnny was doing them, but because he was Johnny Carson and spent much of his time laughing at himself, they were watchable. Not so much for the imposter fifteen years after he went off the air. However, people hung in there to win the tickets to Europe. That was the thread that we were all clinging to. Our reason for not poking our eyes out with the stray forks, or running screaming from the banquet room. That took a lot of discipline on all of our parts.
Now, we were out of drink coupons and the only alternative was to pony up $7 for a beer to survive the next leg of the ‘entertainment’. Trust me, there was nothing this evening that anyone would have wanted to pay for. Unless you were a pal of the AWOL President’s administrative assistant, as she was, subtly, I am sure she thought, handing out extra drink coupons like candy to her friends. I was sitting with my back to her (and I do not know her), but was facing her back for any part of the entertainment that I could bear to watch and I saw many tickets change hands. So I asked my co-worker (who had already given away her tickets) to ask her for some, as she knew her. She did, and while giving them to me she told me that the admin apparently was not very happy about it. Hmmmmm. How could that problem have been avoided? Let me think…. One of the new tickets gone.
So, now Carnac is finishing his painful episode and we all applaud that he is on the last joke. We applauded heartily as the torture is about to end. Then someone else gets up and says they are going to draw for the employee prizes (different from the prizes we can win with the tickets we won from the casino games). They draw three names; no one at my table wins any of the prizes. The folks that do are now happy that they spent the last hour and a half being tortured, as they have something to show for it. The rest of us start the stampede to the doors. Some people hold out for the door prize drawings, as we have many tickets, and now drink tickets too.
The folks who did not just win a trip to Europe are now wondering why this was a better option than staying home and braiding the dogs’ hair after giving them flea baths. The rest of us await the drawing of the other raffle tickets. The invite said: You can cash in your chips at anytime to redeem raffle tickets to win one of the door prizes: 5,000 in chips can be traded for 1 raffle ticket. Come early, play the tables... and double or triple your chances of winning one of the prizes! We had eight tickets, and by now had picked up a few more from folks who had fled in pain.
Shortly after 10, the music started and the dancing began. The very first song that they played was Celebration by Kool and the Gang. At least we laughed for the first time in the past 3 weeks. Now the DJ had been here all night and I suspect that he was paid for every hour he was present. So, the logic of paying them not to play music while the amateurs spent over an hour and a half torturing us, I have no idea. Doesn’t seem like the best business decision to me but that is why I am a lowly peon and now making the big bucks…….
Once the music started, those who did not flee the building after they did not win the airline tickets flocked to the dance floor. There were many folks out there for the initial songs, which included the requisite “YMCA”. The emcee (he had been drinking free all night to ease his pain and was quite funny) pointed out that he had never seen an event before where folks insisted on dancing in a big circle. All the time. For some reason, soon after, the circle broke up and people seemed to be dancing in the more traditional groupings.
We stuck it out for a little longer, hopeful that someone will remember the container full of door prize ticket stubs. At least to finish off yet another drink coupon. Most everyone was gone by now, so if they ever do the drawings, the three people left will do quite well. We headed out and my spouse no longer thought that I was exaggerating when I told him some of the unbelievable things that happen (or don’t happen) at work all of the time. It all made sense to him now, as the party was a perfect example of our corporate culture.
And, I guess, if you do the math, that we did triple our chances of winning the door prizes- since they NEVER drew any raffle tickets and 3x0=0 and our chance of winning without the additional tickets was 0, so hell, we increased our chances of winning the door prizes by infinity. We still left empty handed. With a blood-sworn vow that we would NOT make the mistake of attending such a train-wreck of an event again.
The moral of the story is: listen to your intuition and your co-workers (and all accompanying alarm bells). I was very jealous of those of you who had better things to do. Or, who did not want to go and never claimed to have better things to do, because, no matter what you were doing, you had more fun and far less pain than we did.
It was my first year with the company so I did not know what to expect. There were some warning signs, signs that I blithely ignored. I ignored all of the warnings until it was too late. Much too late. I really have to learn to listen to my intuition. And my co-workers.
The first e-mail said the ‘Holiday’ party would be held in mid-January. DING! DING! DING!!! What??? Maybe they picked that date so that they could get the Christmas favors on sale at 75% off? It seems likely, knowing this firm. Maybe the January dates were half-price? That was the first clue to which I should have paid more attention. I should have surveyed my friends to see if they had ever had their company Christmas parties in January. If none of them said yes, I should have RSVP’d NO. I should have heeded the alarm bells. However, it was a free dinner, with two free drinks per person and it was just ten minutes from home. We really did not have anything better to do. At least that’s what we thought. We were wrong.
The second e-mail gave us five pages of complicated instructions for the casino games. Seriously? Holy crap, how hard is it to play name that tune? Or trivia? And are they kidding….are you smarter than a fifth grader. They need five pages of instructions for these games. I am not sure that the folks putting it all together ARE smarter than a fifth grader. That was another warning that I ignored at my peril. DING! DING! DING!
A few weeks ago, I heard that my co-worker, a member on the organizing committee was going cube to cube trying to get people to sign up for the party. Apparently, there was not a crush of folks signing up for the January ‘Holiday’ party (it was close to Martin Luther King’s birthday, they could have changed the theme). I was hoping that the strong-arm tactic was working, because I did not want to be the only one at the party. By the week of the party, I heard that a full one-third of my fellow employees could fit our annual holiday event into their January schedules. DING! DING! DING!!! As far as my ever-dwindling department went, seven out of ten of us were planning to attend. Of course, of those seven, one left the company the Friday before and one was headed to the middle east on a temporary assignment on Monday, so that makes it five of eight folks, so way more than half. One boss would be there, one had found something better to do. But at least I would know people there.
A veteran co-worker (meaning a veteran of previous “Holiday parties”) told me that the grand prize in the employee raffle (must be present to win) was two airline tickets to Europe. Have you priced European travel lately? That would be worth winning, of that there is no doubt. I decided that I would be very lucky that night and win the tickets.
Upon arrival at the fancy hotel ballroom, I realized they did not choose this date for the sale-priced festive decorations, as there are no decorations at all. But, we did get our two drink tickets per person—pooled together, those tickets saved at least one of our lives and possibly a marriage. Luckily, the company sprung for as much water and juice as we could drink, on top of the two beers/alcoholic drinks each. That was nice of them. Ever the faithful spouse, I promptly hand my tickets over.
I sought out my coworkers and we grabbed a spot at a table. The buffet dinner was on, so we dug in. The food was good and though we did not have the gift of foresight to know that this was definitely the highlight of the evening. One ticket gone. From there, while eating, we could peruse the sparse crowd to see who was present. I saw my boss making the rounds, much like a used car salesman. I even heard him, when introduced to someone’s daughter, make the comment that they looked like sisters... Really. I asked about the company president, as I had not seen him. The reason I had not seen him was…..because he was not there. DING! DING! DING!!!! WHAT? The company ‘Holiday’ party and the friggin President of the company could not be bothered to attend! That is unbelievable. What the hell is going on here and why are we here again? Two drink tickets down.
After dinner, which was good, as I said, we decided to check out the extremely complicated casino games to see if they were playable despite the extensive rules. We landed at the Name That Tune table and despite the rules, we were able to catch on and have a good time. And we won. One of the big draws for the casino games was to get extra tickets for the games raffle, which would allegedly take place between 8:30 and 9:15. After I won the final round, for $40,000, we pooled our winnings and scored eight tickets for the raffle. We were feeling lucky. We had no way of knowing that our luck had just run out. Three drink tickets gone.
An announcement was made, and people settled down at their tables, expecting something to happen. Nothing did. No desserts filled the dessert table, nothing was going on on the stage, we all sat down and looked around. This awkward silence lasted for several minutes. Nothing. We did not appreciate the nothingness nearly enough, as what followed, when it followed, was just painful.
After a lull, two senior folks at the firm appeared with socks on their heads, introduced as Howie and Mandell accompanied by a video game projection of the game show “Deal or No Deal”. I do not know about most people, but I have never seen the show, though I wrote it off as soon as I heard of it, as it sounded really stupid. I hate Howie Mandell, and anything he has ever done. So I was not thrilled by this segment of the evening’s entertainment. They selected five “winners” from the game raffle tickets pot. If they had called my number, I would have eaten that ticket and not claimed my spot. This segment went on for at least thirty minutes, likely much longer. It felt like a week of looking at our tablemates asking who thought this would be funny and why. We had not yet hit the low point. This was just the midpoint, though we did not know it then.
Some of the rowdier (more drunk and/or more obnoxious) folks kept yelling DEAL whenever they had the chance in order to encourage our five co-workers up there to take the deal, any deal, just to MAKE IT STOP. They even had a prop phone on which to ‘call’ the banker, which I presume is a big part of the show. The DEAL yelling at the contestants didn’t work at all- those contestants were greedy, they were holding out for a better deal (after wasting more than half an hour of everyone’s lives- time we will never get back- they eventually settled for $40 each. We got nothing.). Our table considered passing the hat around the one hundred or so folks still in the room in order to raise enough money for the greedy contestants so that we could MAKE IT STOP.
Here is what the schedule said: 8:30-9:15- Welcome, Table Game Prizes, SNC "Roast", & All-Employee Raffle Drawings. It should have said: Hopefully you have had several drinks by now and will laugh at anything. In addition, the waiters have removed all sharp implements, including glasses, as you may be tempted to break one to slit your own throat if there isn’t a butter knife within reach. It will be that bad.
There began the longest, most painful part of the evening. We could have only hoped for a better option like Novocain-free root canals in the corner. That would have been a lot funnier that what we had to face. We were still sticking it out for the promise of the airlines tickets and additional raffle tickets. How bad could it be? Actually, it could be really, really bad.
One of the old-timers at the firm, he’s probably been there since the very beginning got up and stage and the paid emcee handed him a microphone (mental note- the professionals should NEVER hand the mic over to an amateur. Never.). That was a terrible mistake and we all paid for it for an hour or so. He cracked a few okay jokes- mostly inside jokes that a small number of people laughed at while most spouses (and many additional employees) just looked bewildered.
Then he pulled up a chair and settled in. Apparently, someone, somewhere, had told him that he was a funny guy and he took it to heart. He had several pages of prepared material that he read, despite the tepid reaction/non-reaction of the crowd. One must applaud his tenacity, as he did not let the lack of interest, or humor, stop him for a second. He kept right on, reading old jokes, inside jokes, and even….a religious joke, with a peppering of offensive (to someone, there is no doubt) material thrown in now and again to keep up appearances, or something. Fourth ticket gone.
The emcee, (the only entertaining person who was ever NEAR the stage) sought out the head of Human Resources and his spouse and made them come sit directly in front of the stage. I think this was after the religious joke. He must have thought they should have ringside seats to the off-color commentary that could result in one, or several, lawsuits. They were stuck sitting there for over an hour. Despite being HR people, I felt for them.
After three lifetimes of this torment, it ended…..when someone told him he had a phone call and he left via stage right. We could only hope that whatever it was that he was setting up for was better than the previous part of the act, but had no reason to think that it would be. Our low expectations were met, as he came out as Carnac the Magnificent. Yes, that OLD Johnny Carson persona. Now, half of the folks at the party were probably born after 1975 and might have heard of Johnny Carson….but they probably never heard of Carnac the Magnificent. Frankly, those skits were not funny even when Johnny was doing them, but because he was Johnny Carson and spent much of his time laughing at himself, they were watchable. Not so much for the imposter fifteen years after he went off the air. However, people hung in there to win the tickets to Europe. That was the thread that we were all clinging to. Our reason for not poking our eyes out with the stray forks, or running screaming from the banquet room. That took a lot of discipline on all of our parts.
Now, we were out of drink coupons and the only alternative was to pony up $7 for a beer to survive the next leg of the ‘entertainment’. Trust me, there was nothing this evening that anyone would have wanted to pay for. Unless you were a pal of the AWOL President’s administrative assistant, as she was, subtly, I am sure she thought, handing out extra drink coupons like candy to her friends. I was sitting with my back to her (and I do not know her), but was facing her back for any part of the entertainment that I could bear to watch and I saw many tickets change hands. So I asked my co-worker (who had already given away her tickets) to ask her for some, as she knew her. She did, and while giving them to me she told me that the admin apparently was not very happy about it. Hmmmmm. How could that problem have been avoided? Let me think…. One of the new tickets gone.
So, now Carnac is finishing his painful episode and we all applaud that he is on the last joke. We applauded heartily as the torture is about to end. Then someone else gets up and says they are going to draw for the employee prizes (different from the prizes we can win with the tickets we won from the casino games). They draw three names; no one at my table wins any of the prizes. The folks that do are now happy that they spent the last hour and a half being tortured, as they have something to show for it. The rest of us start the stampede to the doors. Some people hold out for the door prize drawings, as we have many tickets, and now drink tickets too.
The folks who did not just win a trip to Europe are now wondering why this was a better option than staying home and braiding the dogs’ hair after giving them flea baths. The rest of us await the drawing of the other raffle tickets. The invite said: You can cash in your chips at anytime to redeem raffle tickets to win one of the door prizes: 5,000 in chips can be traded for 1 raffle ticket. Come early, play the tables... and double or triple your chances of winning one of the prizes! We had eight tickets, and by now had picked up a few more from folks who had fled in pain.
Shortly after 10, the music started and the dancing began. The very first song that they played was Celebration by Kool and the Gang. At least we laughed for the first time in the past 3 weeks. Now the DJ had been here all night and I suspect that he was paid for every hour he was present. So, the logic of paying them not to play music while the amateurs spent over an hour and a half torturing us, I have no idea. Doesn’t seem like the best business decision to me but that is why I am a lowly peon and now making the big bucks…….
Once the music started, those who did not flee the building after they did not win the airline tickets flocked to the dance floor. There were many folks out there for the initial songs, which included the requisite “YMCA”. The emcee (he had been drinking free all night to ease his pain and was quite funny) pointed out that he had never seen an event before where folks insisted on dancing in a big circle. All the time. For some reason, soon after, the circle broke up and people seemed to be dancing in the more traditional groupings.
We stuck it out for a little longer, hopeful that someone will remember the container full of door prize ticket stubs. At least to finish off yet another drink coupon. Most everyone was gone by now, so if they ever do the drawings, the three people left will do quite well. We headed out and my spouse no longer thought that I was exaggerating when I told him some of the unbelievable things that happen (or don’t happen) at work all of the time. It all made sense to him now, as the party was a perfect example of our corporate culture.
And, I guess, if you do the math, that we did triple our chances of winning the door prizes- since they NEVER drew any raffle tickets and 3x0=0 and our chance of winning without the additional tickets was 0, so hell, we increased our chances of winning the door prizes by infinity. We still left empty handed. With a blood-sworn vow that we would NOT make the mistake of attending such a train-wreck of an event again.
The moral of the story is: listen to your intuition and your co-workers (and all accompanying alarm bells). I was very jealous of those of you who had better things to do. Or, who did not want to go and never claimed to have better things to do, because, no matter what you were doing, you had more fun and far less pain than we did.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
The Stalker, Part 4
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.
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.
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.
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