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.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
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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