Parts
By Robin Rues
A4216 looked around. No one seemed to be looking. Father was a few seats over, talking to F3764 about last week’s teevee shows. Old Effie loved “Celebrity Dogpile” which came on the teevee every Day9 after lastmeal. Everybody loved the teevee because all the people looked so strange.
A4216 took a moment longer just to make sure nobody was observing him, and then palmed the pink pill. Leaning over casually, he tucked it in his sock. He wasn’t trying to be disobedient, he just hated the aftertaste of the pink ones. They said all the pills were essential to health, but there were so many, and A4216 figured it would be ok if he skipped a few pinks.
He got up from the table where several others were drinking water, swallowing pills, and talking. Looking around, he took a moment to decide what to do with the rest of the evening. There was still over an hour until darktime.
Directly in front of him was the hallway that lead to the teevee room, where he knew he would find a dozen or so friends watching “Malibu Fever.” It was a popular show that came on every Day3 after lastmeal. Everyone loved it because the whole show was set in a fantastic alien landscape where everything was crazy. The only thing weirder than the piles and piles of sand was the ridiculously huge pool of water beyond. There was water for as far as the eye could see. A few weeks ago, he and his best friend, B1475, had been talking about how stupid it was to haul all that sand and spread it around, then pump all that water, just so those weird looking people could run around and swim. But it was a good show, because someone was always drowning, or trying to steal something. Funniest of all, there were really weird looking people with large pillowy lumps on their chests, and the other weirdos were always trying to touch and kiss them. Whenever that happened, the whole room would erupt with sounds of disgust and laughter.
He had once asked his dad why the people on the show were so mean to each other, why they looked so weird, and why there was always so much conflict.
His dad had said, “They’re not Chosen, son. They don’t got the religion. See how every one of them has all their body parts? If you can’t sacrifice for God, then what’s the point of life?” Dad was right of course. Sure, those people had all their body parts, but they lived lives of conflict and violence and drama. Fun to watch... but you wouldn’t want to live like that.
It was a good show, but he didn’t really feel like watching right now for some reason.
To the right, through the sliding glass doors, was the pool and exercise area, where he knew he would find more friends running, playing, lounging, splashing and so forth.
He sighed. Nothing seemed interesting today. Turning left, he absently wandered into the chapel. The center aisle stretched all the way to the alter, with pews lining both sides. A statue of the Great One, A1, was standing behind the alter, smiling benevolently. A4216 moved to a middle pew and sat down. He usually got a lot of satisfaction coming to the temple. He had always been proud that he shared the same first name as the Great One. But today was somehow different.
As he bowed his head in prayer, he tried to find the peace of A1 in his heart. But he could not. Frowning, he looked up and rubbed his chin. What was wrong? For a moment, he thought about the fact that he had not eaten a pink pill in three days. But what would food have to do with it? No, he was just feeling a little odd.
He stood up and walked to the alter, where the Book of Sacrifice was lying open. The great leather-bound tome was the most sacred artifact of The Chosen Ones. A1 had brought the book down from Heaven, and in it were written the rules they all lived by, as well as the names of the Martyrs of God. Every night, the book would sink into a compartment inside the alter, and every morning it would rise again, with new names inscribed upon its sacred pages. Sometimes there were no names. Sometimes several. The High Priest would read the book afresh every morning, and call the new names at firstmeal. There would be a great celebration for the lucky Few, and they would receive the sacred meal of the Chosen. The meal was special and holy, and only those who were due to sacrifice for God could sample its forbidden delight. A4216’s father had told him once a little about the sacred meal. It was not like pills at all. The food had to be chewed first, and then swallowed. Although it took some getting used to, it was really quite amazing. Father had said it was the most remarkable experience of his life.
It was all part of a moving and powerful ceremony. At firstmeal time, the Chosen Few were taken to the chapel, where their meal would be waiting for them. After eating the delightful sacred food, their names would be called to everyone, and they would then pass through the door behind the statue of A1. His father had told him that he thought there was a magical serpent guarding God’s Home, because he heard hissing after he’d gone through the door, and then he remembered nothing more. When he returned the next day through the same door, his right arm had been cleanly removed at the shoulder, with only a fully healed scar to testify that there had ever been an arm there at all. For the next month, father had received special treatment in the community, as one of the Martyrs of God. Even though most people had sacrificed at least once, the first month was considered a sacred time of reflection and meditation, and those Martyrs were treated with respect and honor.
A4216 took a moment to think about how he would feel when his name was called. In two weeks, he would be old enough to be a Martyr. For the first time in his life, the thought sent a chill up his spine. He sat down in the front row to gather his thoughts. What was he feeling? This was a completely new sensation. His breath was short, and his heart was beating fast, and he felt all trembly and weak. What the hell?
After a moment of sitting and breathing deep, the feeling started to pass. But he found that every time he thought of losing a body part to Martyrdom, the strange feeling returned.
He bowed his head and prayed, “Oh Great One, please steady my heart. Help me to know the truth and give me strength to face what I must do.”
A4216 gasped and sat up quick, his eyes wide open. Something had happened. For the first time in his life, he actually felt like his prayer had been heard on a deeper level. He had seen an image in his mind’s eye. Just for a flash, he had seen a gentle faced man with a light beard. It was gone so fast he could not even be sure he had seen it, but he could swear the man was wearing something on his head, some strange band of sharp and dangerous looking spikes. What was going on? Was he going crazy? Prayers were for saying, not for seeing. And worst of all, the man he had seen was not A1! This was terrible... sacrilegious.
He sat alone in the Chapel, trembling and holding his head. Soon the darktime bell sounded, and he stood up mechanically and left. He walked like a zombie to the sleeping quarters. Several friends called out to him, but he only nodded absently. He found his bunk and climbed up to the fourth level.
Even after the lights had gone out, he stayed awake, thinking. After a long while, he fell into a fitful sleep.
The next morning, he felt a little better, and the strange feeling of yesterday had receded. It was still there, in the back of his mind, but he found he could ignore it. He resolved to have a completely normal day today. He sat up and looked around, reassured by the routine sight of everyone climbing down from their beds. Just like every other morning. He too climbed down and joined the line to firstmeal. He found B1475 and sat with him. As they sat and waited for their pill cups, they talked. B’ was going on and on about yesterday’s episode of “Malibu Fever.” He was talking about the pillow-chest people on the show again. B’ couldn’t get over how weird
they were. Not only did they have the strange growths on their chests, but when they wore the skimpy outfits, you could see that they had almost nothing between their legs. “They must have really small peepees.” said B1475 with a stupid grin.
A4216 looked at his friend. The alien feeling was back. Why did his friend seem so slow and dense? And why was he slurring his words? In fact, as he looked around and listened to conversations around him, he could tell that everyone was slurring their words a little. Why had he never noticed before? Insanity!
He interrupted B’ in the middle of a description, “Do you feel ok, buddy?”
His friend looked at him with a slack smile. “Sure. Um, why?”
“No reason, just asking.”
“Ask not, want not,” said B1475, quoting a popular phrase from The Book of Sacrifice.
Soon the pill cups were passed out and everyone started popping and chasing with water. A4216 gulped down one, two, three pills, and suddenly he was looking down at the pink capsule in his palm. Should he? Something was strange with him lately, and it seemed possible that it had to do with not taking this pill. Could it be he was suffering from some strange disease that the pill was designed to repel? Or was something else going on? His curiosity won out, and he palmed the pill once again, faking a popping motion. Soon the new Martyrs were announced, only two today. They’d already had their meal and were now being led away to be prepared.
After firstmeal, he walked with B’ into the teevee room. Each morning cartoons were shown, and there was already a large group of people in there, laughing and shouting at the giant screen. Recent amputees were seated closest and were surrounded by loving friends. On the teevee, a big stupid looking dog was hopping on one foot, while the other burned. Several matches were stuck between his toes, and a sneaky looking cat was smiling mischievously.
B1475 started laughing almost immediately, and didn’t stop for the next hour. As much as he tried, A4216 could not enjoy what he was seeing. It all seemed so trivial and stupid. He knew the same cartoons had seemed hilarious to him just a few days ago, but he couldn’t remember why. Things were just getting weirder and weirder.
After teevee time, the group filed into the chapel to witness the Martyrdom of the new Chosen. A4216 happened to be in front today, as he had been among the first out of the teevee room.
The High Priest read from The Book, and A4216 was startled to hear that even the Priest was slurring his words slightly. After a drawn out and boring ceremony, the two Martyrs were led to the door behind the statue. From his seat, he could clearly see the metal door. He sat forward in his seat.
The metal door slid quietly to the side and the Chosen walked placidly into the room. A4216 could see that there was another door on the far side of the room, shut. Interesting. He just glimpsed little holes around the perimeter of the room before the door once again slid shut, hiding the room. He thought he could detect a strange odor, but it was gone almost before he could register it.
After the chosen had been accepted into martyrdom, everyone was dismissed and directed out of the chapel. Dad and Old Effie were talking in low, respectful tones about the beauty of the ceremony.
As the day continued, A4216 tried all of the things that had brought him joy or entertainment in the past, but he found it all hollow and boring. Even splashing around in the pool became a boor after a while. Everyone was shouting “Marco” and “Polo” but no one knew why. Nor did they care - they were having great fun shouting and yelling. But not A4216.
He was to get the biggest shock of all after lastmeal. He had once again palmed his pink pill (why, oh why?) and went with his father to the teevee room. The big screen was alive with a new show, “Reality Chocolate Wrestling.” So far it seemed to be a big hit with everyone. But then again they were all big hits, weren’t they?
There. That’s just the kind of alien thought I never used to think. What the heck?
But soon his attention was stolen away by yet another surprise. They were bringing out two new contestants, who would soon be doused in chocolate syrup and encouraged to pretend wrestle in a large plastic lined ring. What captured A4216’s attention were the contestants. They were the strange pillow chested people, and they were wearing very skimpy outfits. Even skimpier than “Malibu Fever,” if that was possible.
What shocked A4216 was his reaction to these odd people. He was fascinated. And not in the old, freakshow kind of way, either. He was downright mesmerized. He heard B’ saying something and felt an elbow digging his ribs, but he completely ignored it. He could not take his eyes off the magnificent creatures. They did not seem odd at all anymore, but alluring... mysterious. He felt an attraction the likes of which he had never known. He watched how their chest pillows moved and jiggled, and found himself captivated by the curve of their hips. He looked around. How come no one around here looked like that?
Another thing occurred to him at that moment. Why did all the people on teevee look different from each other? What had always seemed funny and a little stupid now puzzled him profoundly. He looked around. Everyone looked exactly the same. Except for age differences and missing limbs, they were identical.
Of course, that was natural. That’s just the way people looked. Everyone knew that. But why didn’t the teevee people look the same? And why had he never wondered this in the past? It seemed a pretty obvious question.
He glanced around once again, and saw how everyone was laughing and pointing at the two strange people, who were now covered in chocolate and were rolling around on the mat. A4216 once again felt the strange titillation and quickly looked away. He had to get out, and quick.
A few friends called out to him as he left, but he ignored them. He walked through the dining hall and out to the pool area. The sky was blue and billowy clouds floated aimlessly about. Strange how the sky was always normal in all the teevee shows, but everything else was different. The landscape, the people, even the buildings were strange and alien. Why?
He spent the rest of the evening sitting by the pool, looking up at the sky, thinking. Something was terribly wrong.
After a while, he went back inside where the others were filing into the sleep rooms. He joined the line and was soon lying on his back in his bed.
Yet sleep would not come. He could not shake the feeling that something terrible was happening. He felt as if his whole world was coming apart. Once again, he thought of the little pink pills. Surely there was some connection between what he was feeling and the lack of those pills. But physically, he felt fine. Other than the strange sense of dread, he felt ok mentally, too. In fact, he felt sharp and focused in a way he never had before.
An hour passed, then two, and still he could not sleep. Another first. He’d never heard of anyone having this problem. Sleep simply came.
After a while, he sat up and climbed down. He looked around. Everyone was fast asleep.
He walked out to the dining hall and sat down, head in hands. What was happening to him? Worse, what was happening to the world around him? Everything suddenly seemed off kilter and odd.
He raised his head and sat back.
Ok, take it easy. Just think. What exactly is it that’s bothering you?
He took a deep breath.
One: Suddenly everyone around him seemed stupid and shallow.
Two: Suddenly those strange people on teevee were no longer funny looking but were compellingly attractive.
Three: Suddenly he did not want to sacrifice. He did not want to be a Martyr. In fact, the very thought of it made him feel all weird.
Four: Suddenly he was cripplingly bored. He could find no satisfaction in the things that had entertained him in the past.
There might have been more, but this was more than enough to think about for now. Clearly, the pink pills were related, but how? How could stupid little pills change so much? There was no way food could alter reality in the way his reality had been altered. There had to be some other answer.
He walked into the chapel. A1 smiled benignly at him. A4216 walked over to the metal door behind the statue. He sensed that part of the answer could be found behind this door. He slid his hand over the smooth, cool surface. He rapped his knuckles. Tong, tong, tong. He looked around the perimeter of the door. Nothing.
He walked around the statue and walked up to the altar. The book was gone, and there were only cracks to outline the trapdoor through which the book had sunk. He tried to get his fingernails into the crack but could find no purchase. He looked around the sides of the altar and under the top slab of it. Nothing.
He left the chapel and turned to enter the teevee room. He walked around the couches and plush chairs until he was directly in front of the giant screen. He found the control panel to the right of the screen. On the panel were three buttons: On/off, volume up, and volume down. He pressed the on/off button. The words “Manual override mode” flashed briefly on the screen before it returned to black.
Again, he searched the area, all around the screen and control panel. Nothing. He did notice an inch gap around the screen, which led him to believe that the screen itself was more than a flat surface, but instead part of a larger mechanism that was recessed into the wall. By placing the fingers of both hands into the gap and pulling, he found that he could move it, ever so slightly.
He spent the next hour or so working at moving the screen outward. At times he would sit on the floor, bracing both feet against the wall while pulling on the screen console. Sometimes he would stand, one foot up and braced against the wall, pulling with desperate jerking motions.
Very quickly into his exertions, he found that there was more to the screen than a flat surface. His work had shown that the console, made of a flat black material, indeed went back another two feet or so. After two hours of heavy work and pulling, he’d pulled the screen out enough to reveal a foot wide gap behind the back of the console.
He paused a moment, looking into the darkness behind the screen. Once again, he felt that strange sensation... quick breath, accelerated heartbeat, shaky hands... what was happening to him?
It appeared to be very dark in there. No dimmed wall lights.
Because no one is supposed to be in there, idiot!
He ignored the voice in his head, took a deep breath, and squeezed into the darkness. By reaching out his arms, he was able to tell that he was in a rather large area.
After a few minutes, his eyes adjusted enough to see dim forms around him. Eventually, he found a switch and turned it on. He found himself in a sizable little nook. It was the same width as the teevee room, and perhaps fifteen or twenty feet deep. He could see the back side of the teevee screen. From this side it was a giant, flat black box. There was a thick cable coming out its back. A4216 saw that it led to a large metal box hanging on the wall.
He saw also that there was a gray metal door on the back wall. He moved immediately to the door and tried it, but to no avail. He could find no way to open it. He returned his attention to the gray metal box where the cable from the teevee terminated.
Walking over to it, he saw that there was some sort of handle. After a few minutes, he figured out the latch and opened it.
What he saw inside made no sense at all to him. Hundreds of bright metal screws held down a snake’s nest of little wires. He tried to trace one of the small wires, but soon gave up. All he could tell was that a large wire entered through the top of the box, split into hundreds of smaller wires, made a crazy maze, and then somehow came back together at the bottom of the box, formed into a big cable again, and went on to the teevee.
There were a dozen or so switches in the panel, similar to the light switches he was familiar with. Each had a small label under it with printed letters or numbers. Again, he could make no sense of them.
He felt frustrated because he had come so far, and found such strange machinery, only to discover that ultimately it was worthless. What good was it to find something mysterious if you could not penetrate the mystery?
Suddenly, he thought of something he had not included on his earlier list of new, odd things happening lately. He had not listed his brief vision of the bearded man. That was probably the strangest event yet, and the most unsettling. How could he have forgotten?
Thinking about him now, he had a sudden inspiration. He felt a little silly, but there was no one here to see. Now, what had he said? Something about the truth... He spoke aloud into the darkness.
“Um, I’m praying now... hello?” No reply.
“Well, this is A4216, maybe you remember me from yesterday? I asked for the truth and you showed your face to me. I don’t know who you are, but would you please help me? I just felt like you were, well... nice...”
A4216 couldn’t think of anything else, so he just closed his eyes and said “Amen.”
When he opened them, nothing was different. Heck, he hadn’t even seen a vision this time. All he had seen when he opened his eyes was a switch that read ‘MOM.’
MOM? What a strange word. He mouthed it. Mom. Sounded like something a baby would say. Again he felt disappointment washing over him, but he fought it.
Hold on. If the Kindman showed me that switch, there must be a reason. Just think!
Suddenly his eyes lit up and his mouth opened in a perfect ‘O.’
Manual Override Mode! It was what was on the teevee screen!
With a quick prayer to his new guardian spirit, he flipped the switch.
Nothing happened.
With a groan, he looked around the room once more. Nothing else to see. Maybe he would come back some other time and see if he could get that metal door open, but for now he was getting tired. Time to get to bed. Firstmeal was now only a few hours away.
He spent the next few minutes pushing the screen back in place, which was much easier now, since he was not struggling to find purchase for his fingers on a slick edge. He simply braced his back against the edge of the screen and pushed with his legs. Soon everything was back in place.
He was about to go back to bed, when on a whim, he pushed the on/off button once again.
The screen flickered to full color life.
A4216 took a step back as two strange looking people filled the screen. This wasn’t like any of the other shows he had seen. No one was arguing, or kissing, or throwing things. They were just talking. He quickly lowered the volume so as not to wake anyone, and walked to the couch to listen.
A strange looking man was sitting behind a desk and talking to a pillow chest person. There were little boxes under each person with letters. The man behind the desk had a box that said, “James Orgen, Host, Late Night Talk.” The pillow person’s box said, “Ambra Ledgerman, Clone Advocate.”
None of this made any sense to A4216 - why not list their names? But then he remembered how people on teevee often took strange word names instead of normal number names. He figured there was plenty he did not understand, so simply sat quietly and listened to their conversation.
Ambra was speaking passionately. “But don’t you see, Jim, they are human beings!”
The man answered, “Surely you are not suggesting they have souls! Come on Ambra, this ground has been covered over and over. The Union of Churches has proclaimed that artificially created beings do not have souls. The United Congress has formally declared that they have no rights or privileges under law. Your argument fails on both a spiritual and legal level. Give it up!”
Ambra shook her head. “I will not. As long as the medical establishment continues to farm clones for body parts, I will not give up. Every life is precious, Jim, even those lives that are begot in a laboratory. And just because the government and the Union of Churches finds them inhuman does not make it so. You know as well as I that both of those organizations have received billions from clone farm interest groups. Jim, let me ask you... have you ever met a clone?”
The man seemed taken aback. “Well, no, its not allowed.”
“Have you ever wondered why the farms never allow it? Its because once you meet one face-to-face, you will know in your heart that they are real, valid humans. Not animals that we can use for grafts and transplants.”
A4216 was starting to get very uncomfortable. What were they talking about? Something about this conversation was ringing a bell...
“Well, listen,” said the man, “all of that is moot. The clones are treated very well. They live full and pleasant lives. They’re given plenty of exercise, entertainment, and nutritious sustenance. Heck, a lot of real humans don’t have it that good.”
“You forget the regular amputations and surgeries!” shouted Ambre, “Don’t try to pull that ‘well treated’ crap. They are treated like cattle, but they’re human beings!”
“Well,” said Jim, “that’s debatable. What’s not debatable is the outcome. Let’s see the final result of your evil clone farms, shall we Ambre?”
With that, a young boy trotted from behind a curtain to stand next to the man’s desk. The strange creature named Ambre seemed outraged, but the man didn’t notice. He said, “What’s your name, little boy?”
“Timmy.”
“And what do you know about the farms?”
“Well,” said the adorable little lad, “alls I know is I was gonna die, and my church raised enough money for me to get a new liver from a farm. Um, I guess I would be dead right now if it wasn’t for them farms.”
The boy looked back behind the curtains and added, “I love the clone farms!”
“Well, there you have it, Ambre. How can you argue with that?
“I know good things come of it,” she replied through clenched teeth, “but that doesn’t make it right, dammit!”
“Well, that’s easy for you to say, Ambre. I happen to know you don’t have any children. I think you would change your tune if someone you loved needed the farms.”
“I sincerely hope not, Jim.”
The man turned towards the teevee and said, “Well, now you’ve heard what the wacko left says... what do you think?”
The teevee speakers erupted with the sound of a large audience booing and laughing. Ambre was trying to say something, but she could no longer be heard. She stood up, mutely screaming, and was finally pulled bodily off the stage by uniformed men. The crowd continued to jeer and laugh at full volume. Soon the scene changed, and a commercial came on.
A4216 sat in his plush chair, a single tear trailing down his left cheek. Now he understood. Now it all made sense. The holy ceremony of Martyrdom was simply a harvest of body parts. The pool and physical exercise were meant to keep their bodies healthy and viable as transplants. And the pink pills... the pink pills were not for nutrition or sustenance. They were to keep the clones happy. To keep them from asking obvious questions. To repress normal desires. To make their daily routine tolerable and even enjoyable. To help them sleep. To keep them from revolting.
A4216 sat for another hour, until some of his friends found him the next morning.
“Hey A’ what are you doing in here? Its time for firstmeal!” said one friend.
“Yeah, and afterwards, we’re going outside to play marco-pollo!” said another.
A4216 looked up at their happy, simple faces and began to weep.
Oh, the terrible tragedy...
They were confused by his behavior, but nothing could bring them down, and they ushered him into the dining hall. Everyone was popping pills, laughing, singing, telling stupid jokes and generally having way too much fun.
His friends put his pill cup in his hand and gave him a glass of water.
A4216 looked around. Everyone was so happy. So carefree.
He took the pills.
All of them.
After a while, he started to feel much better.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Guns and the Settlers
The American identity is founded on individuality. I get it. The first settlers had only themselves and family to count on. That kind of rugged persistance is at the heart of the American psyche. I've got it in me too. It's a really good thing.
But the world is different now. No one lives expressly on their own merit. How many people had something to do with the manufacture of your car? How many people are involved in extracting and processing the fuel that powers it? How many people put your computer together? How many people make sure you have the electricity to run it? Extract the coal... transport it... run the plants?
We're not pioneers... okay? We are not primitive homesteaders, as romantic and admirable as that notion might be. We are part of a sophisticated and highly complex society. We are interconnected in ways unimagined in human history. Money is becoming more liquid, transportation cheaper, and technological communication more tightly woven. I for one like it that way.
As an aside, if you go for the frontier thing, you can still do it. Alaska is the best place, but the deep West is still good for it. Wyoming, Idaho...
But the rest of us know that as a society gets more complex, it requires more laws. With cars come speed limits. With the internet comes new child porn laws. Its the nature of human organization. Please, frontier people... get over it. Laws really are necissary, not because YOU need to be told what to do, but because some other dumb fuck does. Hell, I dream of the day handguns are outlawed because I shudder at the fact of some 80 IQ asshole who's mama didn't love him has a fucking 45 with hollow-points. Doesn't that bother you? Are you a parent? I am.
I'm willing to give up my FREEDOM to carry a gun in exchange for the RIGHT to live in a country were dumb fucking assholes can't get guns. I grew up in Kansas City, Missouri. My best friend growing up was in a gang at age 15 and owned a sawed-off shotgun. Others in the gang had handguns. Are you hearing me? 13, 14 year-olds with lethal weaponry. I'm a city boy. I hated knowing someone might have death up their sleeve at any moment. I've had three guns pulled on me. Twice shown a gun, which gets the fucking point across, I guarentee. And once pulled and pointed. That one sucked. I faced my mortality in that moment. I really thought I was going to die. Because that's what handguns do: kill people.
Here's the big difference again, for those who missed it the first time: If I live alone on a prarie, you'd better not even try to take my gun. But if I live in a city with millions of inhabitants, I would way rather have no guns. Its a game of odds. If one in 100,000 is an out of control crazy fuck, that means Manhattan has 16 serial-killer crazy fucks right now. Just walking around on that tiny island. What is it? Six miles by two?
I look at a country like Great Britan. Once one of the greatest empires known to man. They subjigated entire other cultures to work and pay taxes to them. India. Africa. Australia. The United States. Canada. All over the world, England has left its mark. It remains a world power, although diminished by WWII and the passing of the 'age of empires.'
Now they have a modern, prosperous nation. But without guns. No one has guns. Not even the cops. They don't need them. Gun deaths are so much lower it's rediculous. Rediculous. Like 13 to 15,347 kind of rediculous. No one dies from gunshot. There just aren't that many guns around. They're highly illegal. (In the US any random terrorist jackass can buy a gun at a gun show.) Pawn shops have slightly higher requirements, but just barely.
Can I remind you that we're talking about the UK, who once bragged that "The sun never set on the British Empire?" They subjigated entire cultures at gunpoint, yet... kept guns out of their own personal lives.
Now, let's go that last mile. Let's look deep inside and see that England represents the very boogey-man that modern conservatives fear when they talk about 'government.'
England never feared its own government. They have strict gun laws. As it was establishing colonies across the world with the liberal use of musketry, it was keeping the lethal consequences of gunpowder away from its own citizens.
So along comes the American Revolution. We can't stand the British government's heavy handed rule anymore. We vow to never again be subjigated in such a way. We write gun ownership into our founding document, since guns were essential to our overthrowing the tyrants.
But what an irony. Our own neurosis leftover from British domination has led us into a love affair with guns that has now killed more Americans than all the wars we've been in combined.
Yet people still hold on to their guns, claiming that if you take them away, only criminals will have them. Ignoring the fact that if you stop making them, and destroy all you find, eventually even criminals will no longer have them, with the exception of the criminal elite. The criminal elite do not rob convenience stores. They do not shoot up schools.
By the way, most police support this idea. The only people who do not are the ones who somehow feel that a handgun makes them safer. In other words, delusional cowards.
Owning a gun does not make you safer. It is more likely to be used against you or discovered by a child. Furthermore, your right to own that gun puts millions of guns on the streets and into the hands of every strung out 15 year old crack head out there. The presence of handguns makes us all more unsafe. Period.
I almost feel foolish arguing this, it is so obvious. Get rid of handguns. Stop making them. They are an unnecessary hazard.
Plus... they don't make your dick any bigger.
But the world is different now. No one lives expressly on their own merit. How many people had something to do with the manufacture of your car? How many people are involved in extracting and processing the fuel that powers it? How many people put your computer together? How many people make sure you have the electricity to run it? Extract the coal... transport it... run the plants?
We're not pioneers... okay? We are not primitive homesteaders, as romantic and admirable as that notion might be. We are part of a sophisticated and highly complex society. We are interconnected in ways unimagined in human history. Money is becoming more liquid, transportation cheaper, and technological communication more tightly woven. I for one like it that way.
As an aside, if you go for the frontier thing, you can still do it. Alaska is the best place, but the deep West is still good for it. Wyoming, Idaho...
But the rest of us know that as a society gets more complex, it requires more laws. With cars come speed limits. With the internet comes new child porn laws. Its the nature of human organization. Please, frontier people... get over it. Laws really are necissary, not because YOU need to be told what to do, but because some other dumb fuck does. Hell, I dream of the day handguns are outlawed because I shudder at the fact of some 80 IQ asshole who's mama didn't love him has a fucking 45 with hollow-points. Doesn't that bother you? Are you a parent? I am.
I'm willing to give up my FREEDOM to carry a gun in exchange for the RIGHT to live in a country were dumb fucking assholes can't get guns. I grew up in Kansas City, Missouri. My best friend growing up was in a gang at age 15 and owned a sawed-off shotgun. Others in the gang had handguns. Are you hearing me? 13, 14 year-olds with lethal weaponry. I'm a city boy. I hated knowing someone might have death up their sleeve at any moment. I've had three guns pulled on me. Twice shown a gun, which gets the fucking point across, I guarentee. And once pulled and pointed. That one sucked. I faced my mortality in that moment. I really thought I was going to die. Because that's what handguns do: kill people.
Here's the big difference again, for those who missed it the first time: If I live alone on a prarie, you'd better not even try to take my gun. But if I live in a city with millions of inhabitants, I would way rather have no guns. Its a game of odds. If one in 100,000 is an out of control crazy fuck, that means Manhattan has 16 serial-killer crazy fucks right now. Just walking around on that tiny island. What is it? Six miles by two?
I look at a country like Great Britan. Once one of the greatest empires known to man. They subjigated entire other cultures to work and pay taxes to them. India. Africa. Australia. The United States. Canada. All over the world, England has left its mark. It remains a world power, although diminished by WWII and the passing of the 'age of empires.'
Now they have a modern, prosperous nation. But without guns. No one has guns. Not even the cops. They don't need them. Gun deaths are so much lower it's rediculous. Rediculous. Like 13 to 15,347 kind of rediculous. No one dies from gunshot. There just aren't that many guns around. They're highly illegal. (In the US any random terrorist jackass can buy a gun at a gun show.) Pawn shops have slightly higher requirements, but just barely.
Can I remind you that we're talking about the UK, who once bragged that "The sun never set on the British Empire?" They subjigated entire cultures at gunpoint, yet... kept guns out of their own personal lives.
Now, let's go that last mile. Let's look deep inside and see that England represents the very boogey-man that modern conservatives fear when they talk about 'government.'
England never feared its own government. They have strict gun laws. As it was establishing colonies across the world with the liberal use of musketry, it was keeping the lethal consequences of gunpowder away from its own citizens.
So along comes the American Revolution. We can't stand the British government's heavy handed rule anymore. We vow to never again be subjigated in such a way. We write gun ownership into our founding document, since guns were essential to our overthrowing the tyrants.
But what an irony. Our own neurosis leftover from British domination has led us into a love affair with guns that has now killed more Americans than all the wars we've been in combined.
Yet people still hold on to their guns, claiming that if you take them away, only criminals will have them. Ignoring the fact that if you stop making them, and destroy all you find, eventually even criminals will no longer have them, with the exception of the criminal elite. The criminal elite do not rob convenience stores. They do not shoot up schools.
By the way, most police support this idea. The only people who do not are the ones who somehow feel that a handgun makes them safer. In other words, delusional cowards.
Owning a gun does not make you safer. It is more likely to be used against you or discovered by a child. Furthermore, your right to own that gun puts millions of guns on the streets and into the hands of every strung out 15 year old crack head out there. The presence of handguns makes us all more unsafe. Period.
I almost feel foolish arguing this, it is so obvious. Get rid of handguns. Stop making them. They are an unnecessary hazard.
Plus... they don't make your dick any bigger.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Daddy, what's a conservative?
A Man and his Daughter:
Bedtime arrives, and it’s time for the young man to put his wise little daughter to sleep...
“Goodnight, honey, I hope your day was good. Before you go to sleep, is there anything you want to talk about?”
“Yes, daddy, what’s a conservative?”
“Well, I guess, strictly speaking its a person who likes to conserve his resources. Think of the root word, honey.”
“So they probably get along good with the conservationists.”
“Well, er, no honey, they aren’t really into conserving our habitat. They believe in a free market... without things that get in the way, like pollution controls and regulations. Conservatives like big business and sometimes those corporations do naughty things that really mess the environment up.”
* * *
“I guess what I meant to say is that conservatives are more conservative in the way they view America. They wish that things could be like they were before the world got so crazy.”
“So they want the world to be like before we had fast food, TV, that stuff?”
“Yeah. That’s it. They don’t like change.”
“I remember how gramma B said that in her day, nothing was wasted.”
“Well, that’s true...”
“Grandpa made tin cups out of old cans, and they even composted for their garden. They never wasted or threw away anything. The only people I know who are living like that are your hippie friends. Are they conservatives?”
“Er, no honey, I, er... give me a moment here. You’re right of course.”
* * *
“I guess what I meant to say is that conservatives want to conserve the public dollar. They speak for accountability in the public sector, and they just want to lower taxes for the working people.”
“Silly daddy. Remember last night? Your bedtime story was about how defense accounted for more than half the national budget during the Reagan years. You told about how Reagan accrued four times the debt of all the presidents before him combined. Less than a trillion in, over four trillion out. You said he was the most popular conservative president of our time.”
“Well, I’m glad you were listening, honey, but...”
* * *
“I guess what I meant to say is that conservatives want to conserve family life. They want the American family to return to the way it used to be: A married man and woman living together with two to four children."
“But daddy, didn’t you tell me that in grandma’s day the whole family lived in the same house - aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins?”
“Well, yes, before the industrial revolution, that’s the way most families lived. Its called the ‘extended family.’ Sometimes I think that’s where we went wrong - when we separated the children from daily contact with their grandparents.”
“So the conservatives want us to go back to whole extended families all living in a farmhouse together?”
“Well, er, no... they advocate what we call a ‘nuclear family.’ The mother, the father, and kids.”
“How long did that kind of family exist?”
“Hmmm, I’ve never thought about it, but I guess from after the Great Depression until around the 1970’s when the nuclear family started to unravel. I guess that kind of family was dominant for about twenty or thirty years before it started to get in trouble.”
“So they don’t really want a traditional American family. They just want the kind of family that they knew when they were growing up?"
“Er, well...”
“And, if I understand you correctly, that kind of family was the first step in the eventual unraveling of the American family. Once they removed the elders from family life, things went
downhill fast.”
“Uh, well, yes. I guess I never really thought of it that way.”
* * *
“I guess what I meant to say is that conservatives want to conserve legislation. They feel that the free market works best without artificial controls. That’s what the whole ‘Reagan revolution’ was about. Reagan was a great visionary that came up with the idea that a market self corrects. He said that if you just leave the market alone, it will always stay healthy. What’s good for business is good for America.”
“Um, daddy? Don’t you remember telling me how a long time ago people used to believe the same thing? Before the great depression?”
“Well, yes... now that I think about it. It was called the Classical model of economics.”
“And wasn’t that school of thought proven wrong by the big stock market crash?”
“Hmm... yes it was... but I’m sure that Reagan had some new ideas, he was great at cutting taxes and saving people money.”
“But didn’t you tell me that Reagan entered office with less than a trillion dollars in national debt, and left office with over four trillion?”
“Yes...”
“So he pretended to give us money, but we ended up owing more in the end?”
“Well, I guess you could put it that way...”
“Where did all that money go?”
“Well, aside from enormous defense spending, Reagan gave tax breaks to large corporations so they could re-tool and build new factories. The US was still operating with World War II machinery, and other countries like Japan and Germany had an advantage over us.”
“Didn’t those companies use that tax break money to build new factories overseas?”
“Well, I guess that did happen a lot.”
“So the American people paid to have their own jobs taken away?”
“Well, it’s more complicated than that, honey...”
“But daddy, you said that what’s good for business is good for America - that doesn’t seem true here.”
“Well, I guess you’re right, honey.
* * *
“I guess what I really meant was that the word ‘conservative’ is very misleading. Now go to sleep, dear.”
“Good night, daddy.”
Bedtime arrives, and it’s time for the young man to put his wise little daughter to sleep...
“Goodnight, honey, I hope your day was good. Before you go to sleep, is there anything you want to talk about?”
“Yes, daddy, what’s a conservative?”
“Well, I guess, strictly speaking its a person who likes to conserve his resources. Think of the root word, honey.”
“So they probably get along good with the conservationists.”
“Well, er, no honey, they aren’t really into conserving our habitat. They believe in a free market... without things that get in the way, like pollution controls and regulations. Conservatives like big business and sometimes those corporations do naughty things that really mess the environment up.”
* * *
“I guess what I meant to say is that conservatives are more conservative in the way they view America. They wish that things could be like they were before the world got so crazy.”
“So they want the world to be like before we had fast food, TV, that stuff?”
“Yeah. That’s it. They don’t like change.”
“I remember how gramma B said that in her day, nothing was wasted.”
“Well, that’s true...”
“Grandpa made tin cups out of old cans, and they even composted for their garden. They never wasted or threw away anything. The only people I know who are living like that are your hippie friends. Are they conservatives?”
“Er, no honey, I, er... give me a moment here. You’re right of course.”
* * *
“I guess what I meant to say is that conservatives want to conserve the public dollar. They speak for accountability in the public sector, and they just want to lower taxes for the working people.”
“Silly daddy. Remember last night? Your bedtime story was about how defense accounted for more than half the national budget during the Reagan years. You told about how Reagan accrued four times the debt of all the presidents before him combined. Less than a trillion in, over four trillion out. You said he was the most popular conservative president of our time.”
“Well, I’m glad you were listening, honey, but...”
* * *
“I guess what I meant to say is that conservatives want to conserve family life. They want the American family to return to the way it used to be: A married man and woman living together with two to four children."
“But daddy, didn’t you tell me that in grandma’s day the whole family lived in the same house - aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins?”
“Well, yes, before the industrial revolution, that’s the way most families lived. Its called the ‘extended family.’ Sometimes I think that’s where we went wrong - when we separated the children from daily contact with their grandparents.”
“So the conservatives want us to go back to whole extended families all living in a farmhouse together?”
“Well, er, no... they advocate what we call a ‘nuclear family.’ The mother, the father, and kids.”
“How long did that kind of family exist?”
“Hmmm, I’ve never thought about it, but I guess from after the Great Depression until around the 1970’s when the nuclear family started to unravel. I guess that kind of family was dominant for about twenty or thirty years before it started to get in trouble.”
“So they don’t really want a traditional American family. They just want the kind of family that they knew when they were growing up?"
“Er, well...”
“And, if I understand you correctly, that kind of family was the first step in the eventual unraveling of the American family. Once they removed the elders from family life, things went
downhill fast.”
“Uh, well, yes. I guess I never really thought of it that way.”
* * *
“I guess what I meant to say is that conservatives want to conserve legislation. They feel that the free market works best without artificial controls. That’s what the whole ‘Reagan revolution’ was about. Reagan was a great visionary that came up with the idea that a market self corrects. He said that if you just leave the market alone, it will always stay healthy. What’s good for business is good for America.”
“Um, daddy? Don’t you remember telling me how a long time ago people used to believe the same thing? Before the great depression?”
“Well, yes... now that I think about it. It was called the Classical model of economics.”
“And wasn’t that school of thought proven wrong by the big stock market crash?”
“Hmm... yes it was... but I’m sure that Reagan had some new ideas, he was great at cutting taxes and saving people money.”
“But didn’t you tell me that Reagan entered office with less than a trillion dollars in national debt, and left office with over four trillion?”
“Yes...”
“So he pretended to give us money, but we ended up owing more in the end?”
“Well, I guess you could put it that way...”
“Where did all that money go?”
“Well, aside from enormous defense spending, Reagan gave tax breaks to large corporations so they could re-tool and build new factories. The US was still operating with World War II machinery, and other countries like Japan and Germany had an advantage over us.”
“Didn’t those companies use that tax break money to build new factories overseas?”
“Well, I guess that did happen a lot.”
“So the American people paid to have their own jobs taken away?”
“Well, it’s more complicated than that, honey...”
“But daddy, you said that what’s good for business is good for America - that doesn’t seem true here.”
“Well, I guess you’re right, honey.
* * *
“I guess what I really meant was that the word ‘conservative’ is very misleading. Now go to sleep, dear.”
“Good night, daddy.”
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Health Care Blues 2
Lately I've been thinking about health care as a right. We don't tend to think of health care as a "right," but is it? Should it be?
What if we had to have insurance just in case someone mugged us and we had to call a cop? What if the cops charged $200 processing fee and $150 an hour for their time? What if Detectives cost an extra $300 an hour because of their expertise? What if people went broke from the cost of a police response? That never happens, because we long ago decided that we wanted personal safety to be an automatic right. We all pay the police (not enough, by the way) to look after us. There is no additional cost.
OH NO! SOCIALIZED POLICE FORCE!!! I can't believe they got this past us. You mean the public pays for everyone to be safe and free from crime? What kind of crap is that??? You should have insurance that pays in the event you need a police visit. For security, we should just hire private security firms to protect our houses and families. I can't believe they got that one past us...
By the way, did you know the term "Socialized Medicine" was developed by a PR firm back in the 40's? This is a documented fact. Source: http://www.slate.com/id/2175477/ See also http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Socialized_medicine or just google it yourself.
Then president Harry Truman, seen by history as one of the most industrious, hard working and honorable men to ever sit the Oval Office, was making a go of health care reform. His opponents, the insurance interests, the pharmaceutical interests, and various other groups that were profiting from inflating costs, began using the term "Socialized Medicine" as a way of villifying attempts to cut out the insurance interests and let the public pay directly for health costs. In that McCarthy-era battlefield, the slur won out.
People continued to pay into a system that milked the many to pay high costs for the few. A system that made sure if you were not getting milked, you were getting #@&$'d!
Let me just say it now. Insurance is a parasitic enterprise. Its supposed purpose is to take the resources of many and use it to help the few who need it. Instead, by making every cost accessible to every American, it ensures that costs will continue to rise. As the costs rise, insurance premiums rise. This is always the case with parasites. The host suffers in a downward spiral.
How many times have you heard some pundit talking about the "Mysterious, continuous climb in health care costs?" How many decades in a row has health care cost outstripped inflation? Three? Four? Come on... Truman was fighting this sixty years ago.
I say we reject the rhetoric. I am one of those Americans who has no health insurance. I'm a teacher. My insurance charges over $800 a month to insure my family. As a one-income family, we simply cannot afford it. Yet I make little enough as a teacher that my kids are covered by public health care for children. All I can say is, "Thank God for public health care for my kids," and... "I hope nothing happens to me."
I guess its easier to be 'socialistic' for kids... they're just so cute, how can you resist?
Speaking of 'socialized medicine,' the most popular health care system in American history is Medicare/Medicaid. No politician dares threaten them. Why? Because people love them, and because they work so good!
Can we stop falling prey to the stupid 'socialized medicine' propaganda and just think about what we, as Americans, decide our inalienable rights to be? I think the definition of what those rights are will shift throughout our history, with changes in technology, theology, and philosophy. All we have to do is decide that health is an American right, and the whole debate changes. The slur "Socialized Medicine" becomes as ridiculous as "Socialized Police" or "Socialized Mail Delivery." Once we decide we want to live in a society where health is considered an inalienable right, then the only question is how. This is still a big, daunting question, but at least one that can be approached intelligently once the fear tactics are left behind.
Other countries do not have it figured out, either. They continue to debate and change and try to find a way to provide care for everyone. Interestingly, as they debate how to improve their systems, they all agree that they want to avoid a corporate pay-for-service system like America's. They are in universal agreement on that point. We are the only developed country on the planet that does not consider health care a right of our citizens. That is a sad fact, in my opinion.
So, before we debate the kind of health care we support, let's answer the more fundamental question of rights. If we decide that we want to have the right to health care, no matter what our station in life, or what our personal situation is, then let's move forward from that point. I think having clarity on that one issue will help focus the debate. I also think we need to acknowledge that insurance is the key reason for soaring health care costs. Insurance skews the free market by artificially inflating the consumer's ability to pay for certain services, while at the same time removing the consumer from the actual purchase. Normal market forces are bypassed, allowing for out of control inflation.
The solution?
You tell me.
What if we had to have insurance just in case someone mugged us and we had to call a cop? What if the cops charged $200 processing fee and $150 an hour for their time? What if Detectives cost an extra $300 an hour because of their expertise? What if people went broke from the cost of a police response? That never happens, because we long ago decided that we wanted personal safety to be an automatic right. We all pay the police (not enough, by the way) to look after us. There is no additional cost.
OH NO! SOCIALIZED POLICE FORCE!!! I can't believe they got this past us. You mean the public pays for everyone to be safe and free from crime? What kind of crap is that??? You should have insurance that pays in the event you need a police visit. For security, we should just hire private security firms to protect our houses and families. I can't believe they got that one past us...
By the way, did you know the term "Socialized Medicine" was developed by a PR firm back in the 40's? This is a documented fact. Source: http://www.slate.com/id/2175477/ See also http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Socialized_medicine or just google it yourself.
Then president Harry Truman, seen by history as one of the most industrious, hard working and honorable men to ever sit the Oval Office, was making a go of health care reform. His opponents, the insurance interests, the pharmaceutical interests, and various other groups that were profiting from inflating costs, began using the term "Socialized Medicine" as a way of villifying attempts to cut out the insurance interests and let the public pay directly for health costs. In that McCarthy-era battlefield, the slur won out.
People continued to pay into a system that milked the many to pay high costs for the few. A system that made sure if you were not getting milked, you were getting #@&$'d!
Let me just say it now. Insurance is a parasitic enterprise. Its supposed purpose is to take the resources of many and use it to help the few who need it. Instead, by making every cost accessible to every American, it ensures that costs will continue to rise. As the costs rise, insurance premiums rise. This is always the case with parasites. The host suffers in a downward spiral.
How many times have you heard some pundit talking about the "Mysterious, continuous climb in health care costs?" How many decades in a row has health care cost outstripped inflation? Three? Four? Come on... Truman was fighting this sixty years ago.
I say we reject the rhetoric. I am one of those Americans who has no health insurance. I'm a teacher. My insurance charges over $800 a month to insure my family. As a one-income family, we simply cannot afford it. Yet I make little enough as a teacher that my kids are covered by public health care for children. All I can say is, "Thank God for public health care for my kids," and... "I hope nothing happens to me."
I guess its easier to be 'socialistic' for kids... they're just so cute, how can you resist?
Speaking of 'socialized medicine,' the most popular health care system in American history is Medicare/Medicaid. No politician dares threaten them. Why? Because people love them, and because they work so good!
Can we stop falling prey to the stupid 'socialized medicine' propaganda and just think about what we, as Americans, decide our inalienable rights to be? I think the definition of what those rights are will shift throughout our history, with changes in technology, theology, and philosophy. All we have to do is decide that health is an American right, and the whole debate changes. The slur "Socialized Medicine" becomes as ridiculous as "Socialized Police" or "Socialized Mail Delivery." Once we decide we want to live in a society where health is considered an inalienable right, then the only question is how. This is still a big, daunting question, but at least one that can be approached intelligently once the fear tactics are left behind.
Other countries do not have it figured out, either. They continue to debate and change and try to find a way to provide care for everyone. Interestingly, as they debate how to improve their systems, they all agree that they want to avoid a corporate pay-for-service system like America's. They are in universal agreement on that point. We are the only developed country on the planet that does not consider health care a right of our citizens. That is a sad fact, in my opinion.
So, before we debate the kind of health care we support, let's answer the more fundamental question of rights. If we decide that we want to have the right to health care, no matter what our station in life, or what our personal situation is, then let's move forward from that point. I think having clarity on that one issue will help focus the debate. I also think we need to acknowledge that insurance is the key reason for soaring health care costs. Insurance skews the free market by artificially inflating the consumer's ability to pay for certain services, while at the same time removing the consumer from the actual purchase. Normal market forces are bypassed, allowing for out of control inflation.
The solution?
You tell me.
I watched a child get hit by a car yesterday.
Its true. God help me, its true.
Yesterday I took my seven year old daughter to a morning event at the UofA. It was a sort of "Fun Run for Fitness." We parked in the Track Building lot, crossed Razorback road, and met the other families in a large empty parking lot. We could see the running course laid out with construction barrels.
When it happened, we had just been told the run would begin in ten minutes. People were still arriving and streaming across the street. My daughter, Blue, was saying that she didn't want to compete, and I was telling her something about the idea that we are really competing against ourselves, or some such notion.
Then it happened.
I heard a screech and a thumping sound. I turned to see what had happened. Everything was happening at once, women around me were screaming "Oh my God!" and men were running towards the street. I grabbed Blue and pulled her close to me as I craned my neck towards the street. I saw an SUV stopped in the middle of the street, and about 15 feet away, the crumpled body of a young girl. She looked about 10 or 11 years old. She wasn't moving.
A crowd of people had gathered around her, and I could see people calling on their cell phones. Blue was struggling to see what was happening, but I held her close. I told her a child had been hit by a car, and I told her I didn't want her to see. From where we were, I couldn't tell how bad things were, but Blue has excellent vision, and I really didn't want her to see anything that might scar her or cause her to have nightmares.
A few minutes passed, and soon cop cars arrived. Shortly after, two ambulances arrived, and the paramedics got the girl on a gurney and rushed her away.
In the minutes that followed, Blue and I talked about why there were two ambulances, a fire truck, a police truck, and three police cars. I told her that when a child is injured, everyone rushes to help. She asked me, "What if I was hit by a car?"
Biting back tears, I told her, "You would not be hit, because you always look both ways before crossing the street."
But she persisted. "But what if I did?"
I told her there would be probably fifteen emergency vehicles, because she is even younger. I don't know why I told her such a silly thing. I just wanted her to believe that she lives in a safe world, where the adults have things under control. She then asked me how many emergency vehicles there would be for a four-year-old. Then for a two-month-old.
I was desperately looking for a way to steer the conversation away from children of ever-decreasing ages getting hit by cars when a prayer circle formed. People were calling us to participate if we wanted to.
I wanted to.
We prayed. As a large group and as individuals. We prayed that God would be with that child. We prayed that He would be with the paramedics, nurses, and doctors who would treat her. We prayed that He would comfort her parents and give them strength. We even prayed that the young man who hit the child would find some peace.
After the group prayer was over, I asked Blue to pray a special prayer. I told her, and I believe it, that a child's prayer is a precious thing. She did. That sweet little girl sent up the most beautiful and thoughtful prayer I've ever heard come from a child's lips. When she was done, I knew that God must have heard. I knew He would listen and respond.
Instead of racing, the sponsors decided it would be more appropriate to have a family walk. We were to walk with our loved ones, and pray and talk about what had happened. We were lucky that we hadn't actually seen the poor girl be thrown 20 feet through the air, but many of the adults and children there were not so lucky. In my heart of hearts, I believe that young girl had probably seen a friend and was running to join her. What did that friend see?
They told us they thought the girl was going to make it, and I thought that would be the end of it for me. I heard a man next to me say, "Well, we'll read about it in tomorrow's paper," but I knew I wouldn't. I never read the paper, and I don't have a television. However, I felt pretty sure the girl would be okay. I did worry that she might have permanent damage, but I didn't fear for her life.
* * *
Today I went to Arsaga's to work on my novel, "The Long Dark." I was sitting at the front table with my laptop, sipping on an Arsagaccino when I noticed a newspaper on the table beside me. A heading caught my eye. It said "Young girl killed by car."
My blood went cold. I knew, but I desperately hoped it was some other incident. As if it would be any less a tragedy! But as I read, the time and place matched. She died on the operating table a few hours after she was hit.
I wept right there in Arsaga's.
What are the odds that section "C" would be right there, and the paper turned just right so I would happen to notice? It was a small headline, off to one side in the middle of the page, yet I saw it. Was I meant to see it? Am I supposed to learn a lesson? It certainly has gotten me thinking.
I'd lied to Blue. The world is not safe. We adults don't have it figured out. And God doesn't always answer prayers. Even a child's prayers.
I think about Blue and my other daughter, Rainy, and I don't know what I would do if I lost them. I'm just so sad right now. I've cried through this entire blog.
A little girl died yesterday. An innocent child. She died on an operating table while I was playing in the park with Blue. Why? Oh God, why?
Yesterday I took my seven year old daughter to a morning event at the UofA. It was a sort of "Fun Run for Fitness." We parked in the Track Building lot, crossed Razorback road, and met the other families in a large empty parking lot. We could see the running course laid out with construction barrels.
When it happened, we had just been told the run would begin in ten minutes. People were still arriving and streaming across the street. My daughter, Blue, was saying that she didn't want to compete, and I was telling her something about the idea that we are really competing against ourselves, or some such notion.
Then it happened.
I heard a screech and a thumping sound. I turned to see what had happened. Everything was happening at once, women around me were screaming "Oh my God!" and men were running towards the street. I grabbed Blue and pulled her close to me as I craned my neck towards the street. I saw an SUV stopped in the middle of the street, and about 15 feet away, the crumpled body of a young girl. She looked about 10 or 11 years old. She wasn't moving.
A crowd of people had gathered around her, and I could see people calling on their cell phones. Blue was struggling to see what was happening, but I held her close. I told her a child had been hit by a car, and I told her I didn't want her to see. From where we were, I couldn't tell how bad things were, but Blue has excellent vision, and I really didn't want her to see anything that might scar her or cause her to have nightmares.
A few minutes passed, and soon cop cars arrived. Shortly after, two ambulances arrived, and the paramedics got the girl on a gurney and rushed her away.
In the minutes that followed, Blue and I talked about why there were two ambulances, a fire truck, a police truck, and three police cars. I told her that when a child is injured, everyone rushes to help. She asked me, "What if I was hit by a car?"
Biting back tears, I told her, "You would not be hit, because you always look both ways before crossing the street."
But she persisted. "But what if I did?"
I told her there would be probably fifteen emergency vehicles, because she is even younger. I don't know why I told her such a silly thing. I just wanted her to believe that she lives in a safe world, where the adults have things under control. She then asked me how many emergency vehicles there would be for a four-year-old. Then for a two-month-old.
I was desperately looking for a way to steer the conversation away from children of ever-decreasing ages getting hit by cars when a prayer circle formed. People were calling us to participate if we wanted to.
I wanted to.
We prayed. As a large group and as individuals. We prayed that God would be with that child. We prayed that He would be with the paramedics, nurses, and doctors who would treat her. We prayed that He would comfort her parents and give them strength. We even prayed that the young man who hit the child would find some peace.
After the group prayer was over, I asked Blue to pray a special prayer. I told her, and I believe it, that a child's prayer is a precious thing. She did. That sweet little girl sent up the most beautiful and thoughtful prayer I've ever heard come from a child's lips. When she was done, I knew that God must have heard. I knew He would listen and respond.
Instead of racing, the sponsors decided it would be more appropriate to have a family walk. We were to walk with our loved ones, and pray and talk about what had happened. We were lucky that we hadn't actually seen the poor girl be thrown 20 feet through the air, but many of the adults and children there were not so lucky. In my heart of hearts, I believe that young girl had probably seen a friend and was running to join her. What did that friend see?
They told us they thought the girl was going to make it, and I thought that would be the end of it for me. I heard a man next to me say, "Well, we'll read about it in tomorrow's paper," but I knew I wouldn't. I never read the paper, and I don't have a television. However, I felt pretty sure the girl would be okay. I did worry that she might have permanent damage, but I didn't fear for her life.
* * *
Today I went to Arsaga's to work on my novel, "The Long Dark." I was sitting at the front table with my laptop, sipping on an Arsagaccino when I noticed a newspaper on the table beside me. A heading caught my eye. It said "Young girl killed by car."
My blood went cold. I knew, but I desperately hoped it was some other incident. As if it would be any less a tragedy! But as I read, the time and place matched. She died on the operating table a few hours after she was hit.
I wept right there in Arsaga's.
What are the odds that section "C" would be right there, and the paper turned just right so I would happen to notice? It was a small headline, off to one side in the middle of the page, yet I saw it. Was I meant to see it? Am I supposed to learn a lesson? It certainly has gotten me thinking.
I'd lied to Blue. The world is not safe. We adults don't have it figured out. And God doesn't always answer prayers. Even a child's prayers.
I think about Blue and my other daughter, Rainy, and I don't know what I would do if I lost them. I'm just so sad right now. I've cried through this entire blog.
A little girl died yesterday. An innocent child. She died on an operating table while I was playing in the park with Blue. Why? Oh God, why?
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Short Story - The Postman
By Robin Rues
Barry groaned as a new bag was brought in. Hundreds... heck, who was he kidding? Thousands more envelopes. He looked down at the sorting table and sighed. That many letters and more were already scattered across the surface, waiting to be sorted.
His eyes red-rimmed, he took a swig of cold coffee and went back to work. Each envelope was exactly the same: a crisp white rectangle with bold black calligraphy on the front. Every envelope had a name, and a few words below it. For the thousandth time, he prayed for a little diversity. Even the slightest varitation in size or coloration would be bliss. As usual, he caught the prayer before it was finished and snuffed it. No use making things that much worse...
He had talked to Elvis about it last decade, and he'd recieved assurances that it would be looked in to. Yeah right. He shook his head and lit a cigarette. Beaurocracy. What could you do? Not a damn thing, that's what.
His mind on autopilot, he scanned the envelopes and placed them, one at a time, in large bins behind the sorting table. This one in Finances, that one in Illness, the next in Family... on and on and on...
Would they never quit whining?
Barry shrugged, and some ashes from his cig fell to the table. He paused a moment to brush them away.
At least here they came to him already sorted by religion. He shuddered as he thought about the old days when he was in Faith Sorting. What a fiasco that had been. He could never get the different religions straight. Was it Muslim or Hindi that prayed to Shiva? Which one couldn't eat fish... or was it pork? How anyone could keep track was beyond him.
After that mixup in Poland, he'd been sent over to Topic Sorting, where he did much better. He cringed a little thinking about that last snafu. Due to his misfiling, a young Jewish boy had been visited by an image of a six-armed, blue-skinned, elephant-headed East Indian tribal diety. Barry massaged his temples. He still got a sinking feeling remembering that one. The poor boy had ended up shaving his head and joining the Hari-Krishnas. Even after years of therapy, he had frequent relapses. He would disappear, later to be found at a zoo, talking to the elephants. As far as Barry knew, the elephants never reciprocated.
Barry shook his head. The Big Guy had sure been pissed. He took a long drag. Was it his fault people down there insisted on putting different faces on the same being? For the millionth time, Barry thought about how easy things would be if there were only one world faith. Elvis had tried to explain it to Barry one time on break, but it had all gone over his head. Something about cultural differences and free will. Whatever. More work is what it amounted to.
But the mail all went to the same place. That's what Barry didn't get. Why sort it if it was headed to the same Guy? He shook his head. It was kind of like moving piles of sand around.
He tossed the next one into a bin marked "Unclear" for later sorting. The words below the name were jumbled and nonsensical. He'd come back to it later. Barry usually spent the first part of his day sorting, then the second part going through that misfit bin. If it were up to him, he'd just toss the whole lot. After all, if you can't ask coherently, why should you expect an answer?
He mashed out his cigarette and read the next envelope.
Jim Baskin
Personal wealth and power
Barry sighed and threw it in the trash, absentmindedly flipping an ash after it. These were the Christians, the ones who followed the Master. Barry rolled his eyes. How many times had Jesus talked about selflessness and service to others? Yet they continued to think only of themselves. He reflected gloomily that this could be a heartbreaking job. Especially now that he knew The Truth - it was hard watching all those people floundering around. Sometimes he wanted to scream, "Idiots! Its all so simple!" Sometimes he actually did. For all the good...
Why did they insist on wasting all their time thinking of themselves? The Truth was right there, yet they were blind, mesmerized by their own damn selves...
Not that Christians had the corner on the selfish market. Last decade at the Postal picnic, he had shared a few flat, warm beers with some guys from the other Faith Sort departments: Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu, and so forth. Man - they'd had a few laughs, sharing stories about the requests they sorted. It seemed every faith had its fair share of self centered doofuses. Jules over in Miscleaneous had won the prize with a story about a sheep herder in Central Asia. Barry blushed a little remembering that one...
He started chuckling under his breath. Soon it built to a full scale laugh-attack. He just kept picturing that crazy shepherd and his flock of nervous sheep. If sheep could pray, he suspected there would be quite a few white envelopes littering the table from them... After a while, his chuckles died, and he got back to work sorting.
He didn't notice in his hillarity that he had brushed an envelope off the table. It fluttered to the ground and swished under the sorting table, out of sight. In Hell, every bit of joy makes little ripples of misfortune. Barry went on sorting, humming an ABBA tune, which in itself was very unfortunate.
After a while, the noon chimes struck and Barry got up and walked to the break room. Elvis was there, eating a sweet potato pie. Again. Barry slowed, wishing he could just turn around and go outside to eat, but Elvis had already spotted him and was calling his name.
"Barry! Hey little buddy!" Barry hated it when he called him that. "Listen amigo, I've got some overtime work for you. Can you cover it?"
Barry rolled his eyes. What a joker. When you live outside time, its all overtime. Elvis was just being a jerk.
"Jimmy in cube 732,625 got moved up a level," he continued, "and we need you to cover his work load until I can talk to Saint Peter."
Barry's shoulders slumped. "And when might that be?"
"Well, a decade or two, I'm sure. So, can I count on you?"
"Uggh... I guess," he slurred, knowing he had no choice whatsoever.
Elvis smiled, his teeth flashing like the sequins on his jumpsuit. "Thank you, thank you very much."
Barry sat down and opened his lunch bag. Egg salad sandwich. Again. He really hated this place. He looked over at Elvis, chewing heartily and cutting another piece of pie. What a jerk. King of Rock and Roll my ass. More like Thief of Rock and Roll. He remembered when Chuck Berry had died. He'd come looking for Elvis, but the "king" had hid out until he left. Now Chuck was on a different level and Elvis was back to his cocky, fat, Las Vegas self. What an a-hole.
Barry took the last bite of sandwich, finished his plain rice cake, and crumpled his bag. He stood and threw the bag at the trash can and missed. Again. He still had a few minutes of break, but around here what difference did it make? He shuffled out of the room, lighting a cigarette.
"Those things'll kill you!" shouted Elvis from behind.
Barry rolled his eyes. Cretin.
When Barry got back to his cubicle, he took a moment to look around. Grey walls, a brushed metal table, a dozen plasti-cardboard mail bins. Only two things hung on the drab walls of his cubicle. One, near the doorway, was a stained metal plaque with "Topic Sort Cubicle 732,624" stamped on it. The other was just across from the sorting table. It was a 8x10 glossy, framed, autographed photo of Elvis. In full, sweaty, Vegas splendor. It was signed, "To my little buddy." Barry had removed it several times, only to find it back in place the next day. After a while he gave up. What's the use?
On a whim, he wandered over to Jimmy's cubicle next door. It was exactly the same as his, but instead of a photo on the wall, there was a plaque which simply read, "THIMK!" Jimmy had once confided to Barry that he hated that brainless little saying more than anything in the world. He had nightmares about how stupid it was.
Barry looked around dreamily. So old Jimmy got promoted, did he? There were only a few ways to advance around here. A supervisor could recommend advancement (which never happened), an angel or saint could intervene (again, never happened), God himself could promote someone (happened like clockwork; one level every thousand years), or someone on Earth could pray. Barry thought the last option the most likely. He really couldn't imagine old Elvis saying one good thing about anyone, and most of the saints and angels were busy playing harps and going to keg parties and whatnot up above.
He shook his head again. Good old Jimmy. He wondered who had prayed for him. A family member? A friend? An associate? He also wondered how high he had been promoted. The stronger the prayer, the bigger the promotion. That's the rule. He remembered talking to a guy a while back who had been promoted from the lower levels. Someone had been researching their geneology and had discovered him in their family tree. After learning a little about his life, the kind soul had offered a prayer for him. It was almost an afterthought, but that intercession had rescued him from his old job of cleaning Hell's toilets.
Learning that there were toilets in Hell was just one of the big surprises that Barry got after his massive heart attack. Hell was nothing like they said.
Barry took one last look around Jimmy's cubicle and left. He was chuckling a little at the plaque on the wall. It said, "THIMK!" - hillarious! It's supposed to say "THINK!" but someone wasn't following their own advice. Or something like that. He chuckled some more. Good stuff. Goooood stuff.
He remembered being a little surprised that laughter was permitted here. After all, he'd been taught that this was a place of eternal torture. Elvis had been happy to explain, with a swivel of his hips, that those little moments of joy were an important contrast to the boredom and misery of day-to-day life here. It gave texture and definition to the suffering. Apparently, without a touch of happiness, misery can eventually become bearable.
Barry wandered back to his cubicle and sat down in front of the "Unclear" bin. It was time to sort the prayers that had not been clearly addressed or were in some other way incomprehensible. He looked up and saw glossy Elvis sweating. An elevatorized version of "Stairway to Heaven" began to play over the loudspeakers.
He thought: "Ok, well. Now I know I'm in Hell."
Again.
He began opening the envelopes and pulling out the white cards, quickly scanning them for info. Many were clear and easy to understand, and simply had not been designated properly. One thing Barry wished he could tell the living: At the beginning of each prayer, say who you're praying to, and give a general gist of the prayer. An outline would be nice. Or maybe a synopsis.
But that would make my job easier, and we can't have that, can we?
Naturally, a lot of the "Unclears" came from slackers up in Labeling. Just because they were on a higher level, they thought they could pass the buck to the schmucks in Sorting. Many of the "Unclears" he read were pretty obvious if the Label idiots would just dig a little. But no. They just skimmed, and if the topic didn't jump off the page at them, they scribbled some nonsense below the name and went on to the next.
Over the next few hours, he went through the bin and sorted the stray prayers. Some went into the sorting bins, others went into the trash, and quite a few went into the interdepartmental bin. Those would be sent back to the Faith Sorters for reprocessing. Some of the "Unclears" turned out to be non-Christian in origin. From time to time Barry would mis-sort just for chuckles. In Hell, everyone's a jerk.
Barry lit yet another cigarette. He took a deep drag, found no satisfaction whatsoever in it, and picked up the next envelope. The writing on the card was a childish scrawl. Barry perked up. Real prayers from children were hopelessly rare. Most children's prayers were vague and undirected, and usually quite selfish. Occasionally, one would come through with the right combination of focus and selfless love, and, POW! Big stuff happened. Barry had heard talk of entire wars ending as the direct result of a child's selfless prayer.
His hands shook a little as he looked down at the simple writing. He could be holding one of the most powerful forces in the universe right here in his hands! He let the anticipation wash over him as he took another sip of cold, brackish coffee.
Gulping it down with a grimace, he began reading: "Dear Jesus, please give my big brother pimples."
That was it. Pimples. Barry let his head drop into his hands. How depressing. Every time he thought there might be a gleaning of hope for humanity, he was proven wrong.
He thought, "Man, this sucks."
Again.
Elvis was right. Wasn't the disappointment just that much more abusive for the hope he had held for that moment? Bastards!
He shook his head, throwing the card into the trash.
Within a few hours, he was done with the "Unclears" and ready to call it a day. He punched out at 6pm on the dot.
He sulked out of the building and down to the bus stop. It was drizzling and gray outside. Again. The kiosk had no roof, and Barry had no umbrella. Six busses came and left, headed elsewhere. After three hours, his bus arrived and he boarded.
Several hours later, he was home again and sitting in front of the television. Full House reruns. Again. Barry's left eye twitched.
After a few hours of amusing Olsen Twins hyjinx, he went to bed.
The water bed was leaking. There was warm, offensive smelling liquid all over the sheets.
Again.
Barry Jones fell asleep, and began to dream. In his dream he was promoted up to the 538th layer of Hell. He felt so excited and happy. It was a false joy of course, one that would be ripped away from him when he awoke, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.
Back in cubicle 732,624, under the sorting table, a white envelope rested in the shadows. It would not be found until the next cleaning, more than 357 years in the future.
Inside the envelope was a crisp white card. On the card, in the sloppy, carefree writing of a child, a prayer was plainly printed.
It said, "Dear Jesus, please forgive my great -great-grandpa Barry. I know he did bad things, but granddad has been telling me about him, and I think he was good deep inside. I hope and pray with all my heart that you will have mercy on his soul. I will give up Birthday and Christmas presents for ten years if you do. Your friend, Benny Jones."
At the bottom, written very small, was one word.
"Amen."
Post Scripts to Reader:
Don't worry. 357 years in Hell is nothing. Compared to eternity, it only seems like 294 years.
3, 5, and 7 are the first three prime numbers.
The name Barry was chosen because it is the funniest and saddest name in the world. Except for Nanook, which was ruled out because the postal worker is not an Eskimo. But an Eskimo in Hell has comic possibilities... (I feel a sequel coming on)
2, 9, and 4 are trademarked, Robin Rues, 2004. All rights reserved.
Barry groaned as a new bag was brought in. Hundreds... heck, who was he kidding? Thousands more envelopes. He looked down at the sorting table and sighed. That many letters and more were already scattered across the surface, waiting to be sorted.
His eyes red-rimmed, he took a swig of cold coffee and went back to work. Each envelope was exactly the same: a crisp white rectangle with bold black calligraphy on the front. Every envelope had a name, and a few words below it. For the thousandth time, he prayed for a little diversity. Even the slightest varitation in size or coloration would be bliss. As usual, he caught the prayer before it was finished and snuffed it. No use making things that much worse...
He had talked to Elvis about it last decade, and he'd recieved assurances that it would be looked in to. Yeah right. He shook his head and lit a cigarette. Beaurocracy. What could you do? Not a damn thing, that's what.
His mind on autopilot, he scanned the envelopes and placed them, one at a time, in large bins behind the sorting table. This one in Finances, that one in Illness, the next in Family... on and on and on...
Would they never quit whining?
Barry shrugged, and some ashes from his cig fell to the table. He paused a moment to brush them away.
At least here they came to him already sorted by religion. He shuddered as he thought about the old days when he was in Faith Sorting. What a fiasco that had been. He could never get the different religions straight. Was it Muslim or Hindi that prayed to Shiva? Which one couldn't eat fish... or was it pork? How anyone could keep track was beyond him.
After that mixup in Poland, he'd been sent over to Topic Sorting, where he did much better. He cringed a little thinking about that last snafu. Due to his misfiling, a young Jewish boy had been visited by an image of a six-armed, blue-skinned, elephant-headed East Indian tribal diety. Barry massaged his temples. He still got a sinking feeling remembering that one. The poor boy had ended up shaving his head and joining the Hari-Krishnas. Even after years of therapy, he had frequent relapses. He would disappear, later to be found at a zoo, talking to the elephants. As far as Barry knew, the elephants never reciprocated.
Barry shook his head. The Big Guy had sure been pissed. He took a long drag. Was it his fault people down there insisted on putting different faces on the same being? For the millionth time, Barry thought about how easy things would be if there were only one world faith. Elvis had tried to explain it to Barry one time on break, but it had all gone over his head. Something about cultural differences and free will. Whatever. More work is what it amounted to.
But the mail all went to the same place. That's what Barry didn't get. Why sort it if it was headed to the same Guy? He shook his head. It was kind of like moving piles of sand around.
He tossed the next one into a bin marked "Unclear" for later sorting. The words below the name were jumbled and nonsensical. He'd come back to it later. Barry usually spent the first part of his day sorting, then the second part going through that misfit bin. If it were up to him, he'd just toss the whole lot. After all, if you can't ask coherently, why should you expect an answer?
He mashed out his cigarette and read the next envelope.
Jim Baskin
Personal wealth and power
Barry sighed and threw it in the trash, absentmindedly flipping an ash after it. These were the Christians, the ones who followed the Master. Barry rolled his eyes. How many times had Jesus talked about selflessness and service to others? Yet they continued to think only of themselves. He reflected gloomily that this could be a heartbreaking job. Especially now that he knew The Truth - it was hard watching all those people floundering around. Sometimes he wanted to scream, "Idiots! Its all so simple!" Sometimes he actually did. For all the good...
Why did they insist on wasting all their time thinking of themselves? The Truth was right there, yet they were blind, mesmerized by their own damn selves...
Not that Christians had the corner on the selfish market. Last decade at the Postal picnic, he had shared a few flat, warm beers with some guys from the other Faith Sort departments: Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu, and so forth. Man - they'd had a few laughs, sharing stories about the requests they sorted. It seemed every faith had its fair share of self centered doofuses. Jules over in Miscleaneous had won the prize with a story about a sheep herder in Central Asia. Barry blushed a little remembering that one...
He started chuckling under his breath. Soon it built to a full scale laugh-attack. He just kept picturing that crazy shepherd and his flock of nervous sheep. If sheep could pray, he suspected there would be quite a few white envelopes littering the table from them... After a while, his chuckles died, and he got back to work sorting.
He didn't notice in his hillarity that he had brushed an envelope off the table. It fluttered to the ground and swished under the sorting table, out of sight. In Hell, every bit of joy makes little ripples of misfortune. Barry went on sorting, humming an ABBA tune, which in itself was very unfortunate.
After a while, the noon chimes struck and Barry got up and walked to the break room. Elvis was there, eating a sweet potato pie. Again. Barry slowed, wishing he could just turn around and go outside to eat, but Elvis had already spotted him and was calling his name.
"Barry! Hey little buddy!" Barry hated it when he called him that. "Listen amigo, I've got some overtime work for you. Can you cover it?"
Barry rolled his eyes. What a joker. When you live outside time, its all overtime. Elvis was just being a jerk.
"Jimmy in cube 732,625 got moved up a level," he continued, "and we need you to cover his work load until I can talk to Saint Peter."
Barry's shoulders slumped. "And when might that be?"
"Well, a decade or two, I'm sure. So, can I count on you?"
"Uggh... I guess," he slurred, knowing he had no choice whatsoever.
Elvis smiled, his teeth flashing like the sequins on his jumpsuit. "Thank you, thank you very much."
Barry sat down and opened his lunch bag. Egg salad sandwich. Again. He really hated this place. He looked over at Elvis, chewing heartily and cutting another piece of pie. What a jerk. King of Rock and Roll my ass. More like Thief of Rock and Roll. He remembered when Chuck Berry had died. He'd come looking for Elvis, but the "king" had hid out until he left. Now Chuck was on a different level and Elvis was back to his cocky, fat, Las Vegas self. What an a-hole.
Barry took the last bite of sandwich, finished his plain rice cake, and crumpled his bag. He stood and threw the bag at the trash can and missed. Again. He still had a few minutes of break, but around here what difference did it make? He shuffled out of the room, lighting a cigarette.
"Those things'll kill you!" shouted Elvis from behind.
Barry rolled his eyes. Cretin.
When Barry got back to his cubicle, he took a moment to look around. Grey walls, a brushed metal table, a dozen plasti-cardboard mail bins. Only two things hung on the drab walls of his cubicle. One, near the doorway, was a stained metal plaque with "Topic Sort Cubicle 732,624" stamped on it. The other was just across from the sorting table. It was a 8x10 glossy, framed, autographed photo of Elvis. In full, sweaty, Vegas splendor. It was signed, "To my little buddy." Barry had removed it several times, only to find it back in place the next day. After a while he gave up. What's the use?
On a whim, he wandered over to Jimmy's cubicle next door. It was exactly the same as his, but instead of a photo on the wall, there was a plaque which simply read, "THIMK!" Jimmy had once confided to Barry that he hated that brainless little saying more than anything in the world. He had nightmares about how stupid it was.
Barry looked around dreamily. So old Jimmy got promoted, did he? There were only a few ways to advance around here. A supervisor could recommend advancement (which never happened), an angel or saint could intervene (again, never happened), God himself could promote someone (happened like clockwork; one level every thousand years), or someone on Earth could pray. Barry thought the last option the most likely. He really couldn't imagine old Elvis saying one good thing about anyone, and most of the saints and angels were busy playing harps and going to keg parties and whatnot up above.
He shook his head again. Good old Jimmy. He wondered who had prayed for him. A family member? A friend? An associate? He also wondered how high he had been promoted. The stronger the prayer, the bigger the promotion. That's the rule. He remembered talking to a guy a while back who had been promoted from the lower levels. Someone had been researching their geneology and had discovered him in their family tree. After learning a little about his life, the kind soul had offered a prayer for him. It was almost an afterthought, but that intercession had rescued him from his old job of cleaning Hell's toilets.
Learning that there were toilets in Hell was just one of the big surprises that Barry got after his massive heart attack. Hell was nothing like they said.
Barry took one last look around Jimmy's cubicle and left. He was chuckling a little at the plaque on the wall. It said, "THIMK!" - hillarious! It's supposed to say "THINK!" but someone wasn't following their own advice. Or something like that. He chuckled some more. Good stuff. Goooood stuff.
He remembered being a little surprised that laughter was permitted here. After all, he'd been taught that this was a place of eternal torture. Elvis had been happy to explain, with a swivel of his hips, that those little moments of joy were an important contrast to the boredom and misery of day-to-day life here. It gave texture and definition to the suffering. Apparently, without a touch of happiness, misery can eventually become bearable.
Barry wandered back to his cubicle and sat down in front of the "Unclear" bin. It was time to sort the prayers that had not been clearly addressed or were in some other way incomprehensible. He looked up and saw glossy Elvis sweating. An elevatorized version of "Stairway to Heaven" began to play over the loudspeakers.
He thought: "Ok, well. Now I know I'm in Hell."
Again.
He began opening the envelopes and pulling out the white cards, quickly scanning them for info. Many were clear and easy to understand, and simply had not been designated properly. One thing Barry wished he could tell the living: At the beginning of each prayer, say who you're praying to, and give a general gist of the prayer. An outline would be nice. Or maybe a synopsis.
But that would make my job easier, and we can't have that, can we?
Naturally, a lot of the "Unclears" came from slackers up in Labeling. Just because they were on a higher level, they thought they could pass the buck to the schmucks in Sorting. Many of the "Unclears" he read were pretty obvious if the Label idiots would just dig a little. But no. They just skimmed, and if the topic didn't jump off the page at them, they scribbled some nonsense below the name and went on to the next.
Over the next few hours, he went through the bin and sorted the stray prayers. Some went into the sorting bins, others went into the trash, and quite a few went into the interdepartmental bin. Those would be sent back to the Faith Sorters for reprocessing. Some of the "Unclears" turned out to be non-Christian in origin. From time to time Barry would mis-sort just for chuckles. In Hell, everyone's a jerk.
Barry lit yet another cigarette. He took a deep drag, found no satisfaction whatsoever in it, and picked up the next envelope. The writing on the card was a childish scrawl. Barry perked up. Real prayers from children were hopelessly rare. Most children's prayers were vague and undirected, and usually quite selfish. Occasionally, one would come through with the right combination of focus and selfless love, and, POW! Big stuff happened. Barry had heard talk of entire wars ending as the direct result of a child's selfless prayer.
His hands shook a little as he looked down at the simple writing. He could be holding one of the most powerful forces in the universe right here in his hands! He let the anticipation wash over him as he took another sip of cold, brackish coffee.
Gulping it down with a grimace, he began reading: "Dear Jesus, please give my big brother pimples."
That was it. Pimples. Barry let his head drop into his hands. How depressing. Every time he thought there might be a gleaning of hope for humanity, he was proven wrong.
He thought, "Man, this sucks."
Again.
Elvis was right. Wasn't the disappointment just that much more abusive for the hope he had held for that moment? Bastards!
He shook his head, throwing the card into the trash.
Within a few hours, he was done with the "Unclears" and ready to call it a day. He punched out at 6pm on the dot.
He sulked out of the building and down to the bus stop. It was drizzling and gray outside. Again. The kiosk had no roof, and Barry had no umbrella. Six busses came and left, headed elsewhere. After three hours, his bus arrived and he boarded.
Several hours later, he was home again and sitting in front of the television. Full House reruns. Again. Barry's left eye twitched.
After a few hours of amusing Olsen Twins hyjinx, he went to bed.
The water bed was leaking. There was warm, offensive smelling liquid all over the sheets.
Again.
Barry Jones fell asleep, and began to dream. In his dream he was promoted up to the 538th layer of Hell. He felt so excited and happy. It was a false joy of course, one that would be ripped away from him when he awoke, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.
Back in cubicle 732,624, under the sorting table, a white envelope rested in the shadows. It would not be found until the next cleaning, more than 357 years in the future.
Inside the envelope was a crisp white card. On the card, in the sloppy, carefree writing of a child, a prayer was plainly printed.
It said, "Dear Jesus, please forgive my great -great-grandpa Barry. I know he did bad things, but granddad has been telling me about him, and I think he was good deep inside. I hope and pray with all my heart that you will have mercy on his soul. I will give up Birthday and Christmas presents for ten years if you do. Your friend, Benny Jones."
At the bottom, written very small, was one word.
"Amen."
Post Scripts to Reader:
Don't worry. 357 years in Hell is nothing. Compared to eternity, it only seems like 294 years.
3, 5, and 7 are the first three prime numbers.
The name Barry was chosen because it is the funniest and saddest name in the world. Except for Nanook, which was ruled out because the postal worker is not an Eskimo. But an Eskimo in Hell has comic possibilities... (I feel a sequel coming on)
2, 9, and 4 are trademarked, Robin Rues, 2004. All rights reserved.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Health Care Blues
Look, I keep saying this out loud to people, and it never registers. So maybe if I blog it, someone will hear.
High health care costs are a direct result of the insurance industry.
Think about it. What if some surgeon/hospital/pharmacy tried to charge a certain amount for a procedure/admittance/medicine and no one could afford to pay? What do you think that would do to the cost? This is not rocket science. If no one could pay $25,000 for a procedure, or $325 dollars a week for a prescription, then market forces would drive the price down. Period.
However, insurance artificially inflates the buying power of the consumer, and removes the consumer one place from the actual purchase. This is a presription for rising cost.
Think about it: What would happen to the price of apples if you gave everyone in the nation an 'apple coupon' worth five dollars towards the purchase of apples? Every Economics student knows that price is fixed not only by demand, but by consumer wealth. If everyone in the nation holds an 'apple coupon' worth five dollars, the price of apples will go up. Dramatically. Costs go up until the market self-corrects. As long as every American keeps getting an 'apple coupon' worth five dollars, the price of apples will probably stablize at just over five dollars. It becomes something we could not afford without the coupon. Now let's say we take away the coupon from 10% of the people. They would be unable to afford apples at their inflated cost.
The point? Insurance is that 'apple coupon,' We pay in every month... more and more each year... so that we can afford possible medical expences beyond our normal means. Think about the crippling costs of health care without insurance. Its everyone's nightmare, we know those costs would break us financially. So we shoulder ever increasing health insurance premiums.
We seem to miss the point that if none of us could afford it, then it wouldn't cost that much! Basic Economics. Only the fact that we have insurance makes it possible for them to charge that much.
Its true. Its actually rather simple.
But you have to ask, how can the insurance companies pay inflated costs, yet turn a profit? The math is simple. If you can draw funds from a large group of people, as long as you keep the ratio of healthy to sick as high as possible, you will turn a massive profit. This gives the insurance companies a mathematical imperative to insure more healthy people than sick. You tell me what that does to the sick consumer... But that's a whole different blog. Also remember that high health care costs are good for insurance companies. The more unaffordable costs are, the more necessary they are.
The solution? I really don't know. But at least knowing the problem should help us to think about things. My opinion is that mandating insurance is not the answer. It will only entrench the problem. I have some ideas, but you'll have to wait until the second installment of this series.
Do you have any ideas? I'd love to hear them.
High health care costs are a direct result of the insurance industry.
Think about it. What if some surgeon/hospital/pharmacy tried to charge a certain amount for a procedure/admittance/medicine and no one could afford to pay? What do you think that would do to the cost? This is not rocket science. If no one could pay $25,000 for a procedure, or $325 dollars a week for a prescription, then market forces would drive the price down. Period.
However, insurance artificially inflates the buying power of the consumer, and removes the consumer one place from the actual purchase. This is a presription for rising cost.
Think about it: What would happen to the price of apples if you gave everyone in the nation an 'apple coupon' worth five dollars towards the purchase of apples? Every Economics student knows that price is fixed not only by demand, but by consumer wealth. If everyone in the nation holds an 'apple coupon' worth five dollars, the price of apples will go up. Dramatically. Costs go up until the market self-corrects. As long as every American keeps getting an 'apple coupon' worth five dollars, the price of apples will probably stablize at just over five dollars. It becomes something we could not afford without the coupon. Now let's say we take away the coupon from 10% of the people. They would be unable to afford apples at their inflated cost.
The point? Insurance is that 'apple coupon,' We pay in every month... more and more each year... so that we can afford possible medical expences beyond our normal means. Think about the crippling costs of health care without insurance. Its everyone's nightmare, we know those costs would break us financially. So we shoulder ever increasing health insurance premiums.
We seem to miss the point that if none of us could afford it, then it wouldn't cost that much! Basic Economics. Only the fact that we have insurance makes it possible for them to charge that much.
Its true. Its actually rather simple.
But you have to ask, how can the insurance companies pay inflated costs, yet turn a profit? The math is simple. If you can draw funds from a large group of people, as long as you keep the ratio of healthy to sick as high as possible, you will turn a massive profit. This gives the insurance companies a mathematical imperative to insure more healthy people than sick. You tell me what that does to the sick consumer... But that's a whole different blog. Also remember that high health care costs are good for insurance companies. The more unaffordable costs are, the more necessary they are.
The solution? I really don't know. But at least knowing the problem should help us to think about things. My opinion is that mandating insurance is not the answer. It will only entrench the problem. I have some ideas, but you'll have to wait until the second installment of this series.
Do you have any ideas? I'd love to hear them.
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