One of my earliest recollections of childhood was that of a dream, and I remember it quite vividly. I was four going on five. At the time my mother worked half time in the morning and my father full time from four until midnight. I would take a nap from around one to three.
According to my mother, I always wanted to say goodbye to my father before he left for work. I would wake up crying if I realized I had missed the opportunity. In addition, there is something about our practicing Catholic family which impressed a very young me.
I remember one day worrying again that I would miss seeing my father off to work. I told my mother expressly, “Mom, wake me up BEFORE Daddy goes to work.” “Of course, of course, Kenny, I will,” my mother assured me. “Now go to sleep.” I sensed I was drifting off…
A frantic knock on our door startled me up.
Groggy from my slumber, I heard a voice yelling, “Can’t find it!” My mother echoed anxiously, “Can’t find it!?!” “Yes,” a man replied. It was a neighbor.
My mother took me by the hand and led me outside. It seemed very gray and gloomy. The clouds hung down as curtains. There were lots of people there outside with us. They were all looking up.
Floating high in the clouds was Mother Mary. She was just like the image I had seen on my Busia’s prayer card, only very much alive. She boomed, “I have lost a butterfly.” “A butterfly, oh my,” the crowd responded. “Go find it,” she commanded. “Otherwise, there would be no sun.”
The people around looked startled and frightened. “What will we do?” they asked. Then they started looking down the street, behind their houses, looking all around. It was quite frenzied.
After a while, I heard someone call out, “Gene! Gene!” They were pointing at my Daddy. He had suddenly popped out from behind a bush wearing a big grin.
Out from his hand rose a butterfly. I watched it ascend. We all looked up; and Mary, too, was smiling.
The sun came out… and I woke from my nap. My father was still home.
One day as I was waiting for a job interview, I lapsed into a daydream — I dreamed I was a peanut. I was neither a very big peanut nor a handsome one. I was just a plain, ordinary, happy peanut, not well-off but comfortable in my own way. I was perfectly content to live out my life like any other peanut, waiting in the sun for the day the farmer would grab me up and send me off to be packed and sent to sit for months on some distant shelf. All I would do as I waited was sit down near to the earth and hum a simple tune to pass the time.
Things turned out quite differently for me, however. It so happened that some representatives from Panter’s Peanuts came by and overheard me humming. “Unbelievable!” one shouted, “A humming peanut!” They all dashed over to speak to me. “Where did you learn to hum?” they asked in unison.
I was just about to answer when I was interrupted. “Never mind. We’ll sign you up. Why this is the greatest thing since singing oranges!” (I suddenly remembered the television commercials with the singing sun-kissed orange who skyrocketed to fame from obscurity and had recently gone beyond that and turned to religion crusading against fresh grapefruits.)
Well, I, too, was catapulted into a career. Before I could realize it, I was packed up and heading straight for Honeywood. There I met one of those big-time managers who was to become my very own. I was shaking in my shell. As I came into his presence, I overheard him talking to one of his colleagues; “It’s simply sensational. A stroke of luck. One in a billion, nay in a trillion! The nation’ll love him. He’ll hum his way into the hearts of millions of peanut butter lovers everywhere.”
I was overwhelmed. They were talking about me. We were introduced. “Don’t be nervous, kid,” he said, “We’re your friends. Bet your ma and pa are proud of you. Heh! Heh! At least they will be when we make a star out of you. We’re impressed, nay blown out!”
After reflecting upon the fact that I never had time to call home, I timidly asked what made me so special. “Why, kid, don’t be modest. Modesty’s a bad word in our business. Why you are the only hummin’ peanut in the whole, wide world, including Georgia!” Pantin’ Peanuts been lookin’ hard an’ long for a gimmick, erh, I mean a new sensational, creative promotion to help drive their already burgeoning business up over the hill.”
“But sir, I only hum a few simple tunes, nothing fancy. I’m no Almond brother; and besides, look at me, I’m no Clint Chestnut either.”
“No that’s true, but, oh, that’s all right, kid. We’ve got a great backup band and the makeup men can perform miracles… Let’s get started.”
And off we went. First came the taping sessions and studio performances. Soon came the real thing. There were no more rehearsals. The pace was fast and furious. But the manager was right. It was a success. I became a star overnight. The fan mail went from one letter (a letter from my mom wishing me luck) to thousands. I had to hire three secretaries. The company’s stocks on Walnut Street soared up and up. There was a ticker tape parade in the Big Apple. I launched the first peanut-shaped submarine. Filbert University awarded me an honorary doctorate degree. I even gave a private performance at 1600 Pistachio Avenue.
I used to read a lot of dime novels, you know, the Hazelnut-Acorn novels, about rising from rags to riches and never believed a word. Here I was flyyyyying!!! A real living legend. I was the celebrity. Agents and. fans kept trying to crash down the gates of my villa. They were vying with one another to get an interview, a look, or a chance to rummage through my garbage cans for God knows what.
And the parties, Jumpin’ Joe Nutmeg, they were indeed produced in Honeywood! Creamy Cashews all screamed their darling little hearts out as I crooned a few bars. Every day I was drinking hickory sours out of peanut shells. Every night I had collected so many keys tossed by female admirers I couldn’t find my own. And I didn’t care either. It seemed I had reached so high that I couldn’t get any higher. Incredible!
But then my manager tapped me on the shoulder and exclaimed, “Look, kid, I’ve got the best idea in the whole world. The killer! Remember ol’ Elvis Pretzel. He was a great and popular star when he was young, but the poor kid got a bit pudgy, livin’ so high like he did. He started to take to drugs, bad trips and all that. The sales of his records began droppin’ off. Well, then he croaked, you know, that poor kid. But the amazin’ thing was the sales of his records, souvenirs, memorial tombstones, all that stuff went through the roof. Amazin’ isn’t it. Well, I’ve got this great idea…”
I didn’t stop to hear the rest. I turned and ran and ran and …only to be grabbed by a couple of big hairy coconuts. Before I knew it, I was strapped down in the jaws of a giant nutcracker and those jaws were a closin’!…
The receptionist’s call suddenly woke me: “Sir, Mr. Smith is ready to see you now.” I was in a cold sweat. I stood up and faced the exit. As I passed the receptionist, I handed her a note to give to Mr. Smith. It read “Sorry Charlie,” and I continued on my way.
The phone by the bed rang. It was the worst possible time.
Because it was the worst possible time, the ringing was strident to them both. Although it was a trivial thing, they looked at each other and, for a moment, could not decide what to do.
It was the third day of their honeymoon; or more precisely the third night. Since they both had heavy workloads, they had rented a sequestered cabin in the country, planning to stay there for a week and not go anywhere.
Until that moment, these three days had been the happiest of their lives—when two lovers finally integrate physically as well as spiritually, the pleasure is almost beyond description.
They were both young, healthy, and full of life. The physical attraction, one for the other, was at its peak. Thus, they spent most of their time in the cabin indulging themselves in sexual love again and again.
Since they had not told anyone that they would be there, there should have been no one trying to call them. Nevertheless, the phone rang, a little past midnight just as they were steeped in indescribable ecstasy.
The phone rang and rang. As he finally half-sat up she panted lightly, “The owner knows we’re honeymooning, so it must be a wrong number; but I think you’d better answer it.”
He stretched out his hand but could barely reach the phone. He did not want to leave her body even for a short while and actually wanted to yank out the cord, but thought better. So, with a tacit expression of understanding, they both budged at the same time.
She looked a little bashful, but that made her eyes especially enchanting. He took a deep breath and hoped the ringing would just stop. However, the phone kept ringing. He had no choice but to pick it up. “Hello?” he said with much reluctance.
For a few seconds the other end was silent. This annoyed him, and he said hello once again. Then, just as he was about to hang up, he heard a hesitant voice ask, “Who is this?”
He was incensed, and she was confused. She held him tightly. Neither said a word. Then he shouted, “Who are you calling?”
He did not know why he had asked back. Was it because the line was unclear, or just because the call came at the worst time? Anyway, his thoughts were all jumbled now.
The voice at the other end spoke again more hesitantly, “I’d … I’d like to speak to Miss …”
Then it came, a last name, a very rare last name. It meant that the person had not dialed a wrong number—the name could only be hers, his bride’s!
He looked at her with great doubt and noticed that her face was also full of puzzlement. She twisted her tender lips into an expression of inquiry, asking him if the call was for her. He nodded and handed it to her.
She moved slightly as she got the phone. He wanted to keep a little distance from her but was stopped by her eyes and hands.
Then she took a deep breath and said, “Hello, who is this …?”
He could still hear the person at the other end of on the line clearly—partly because it was so quiet there, partly because that person was shouting so loudly, and also because the line was so distortion free and he was just by her side. The person calling was addressing his wife by her nickname, her nickname! It sounded as if they were very familiar with one another.
Then he heard the voice from the phone say, “Who was that guy who answered the phone?”
The tone of that question was not only suspicious but also very stern—as if the person had the right to ask her in this manner.
Looking at her, he felt shocked and enraged. The only thing in his mind at this moment was exactly the same question that came from the phone, ”Who was that guy?”
She did not notice that his eyes were filled with disbelief, since she was also full of disbelief, and the disbelief even reflected upon her pretty face which, just a little while before, had been so radiant with blissfulness.
She pondered for a while and did not know how to respond, but the person at the other end could not wait any longer. Calling her name again, still her nickname, he then asked her in a harsher tone, “Tell me! Who? Who the heck picked up the phone?”
She finally pulled herself together and asked with a slight stammer, “Who, who are you?”
After a short pause, the response came with great consternation, “Can’t you even recognize my voice? Or are you just pretending because you’re afraid that the guy knows…you…you… Is this the way you treat me … you … you …”
Her name came up several times as he shouted. Although his shouting was replete with anger, it was also obviously full of passion and love.
She was confused and anxious. It came all of a sudden, and she just did not know what to do, nor had she any thought of defending herself. But he could not stand it any more and, snatching the receiver from her hand, shouted “Go to hell …” and banged it back down.
He did not realize until that moment that he had already been away from her, God knows for how long.
The atmosphere after that was enough to break her heart into bits. She repeated at least one thousand times, “I have no idea who it was. He must have gotten a wrong number, or maybe he’s a maniac, or some kind of troublemaker …”
He did not speak or even look at her, but just stared at the ceiling with both hands under his head. She prostrated herself over him trying her best to tease and excite him, only there was no response. But she did not give up until she felt disgusted.
There was still no response.
Neither of them slept after that nor did they speak to each other. They just lay on the bed with their eyes open until dawn. When twilight arrived, he finally opened his mouth and said, “We should get back, we both have lots of work. It’s not much fun here anyway.”
She responded passively, “All right!”
Apparently, the chasm in the marriage emerged at this time; however, they still managed for one more year before they got divorced.
It was not long before she met another man. He was almost perfect and was an ideal lover. She felt that his passion was as hot as fire—hot enough to turn her into ash. Nevertheless, she was quite willing to become ash if it was necessary. She did not know the reason, but his voice seemed so familiar; and that was why she had paid more attention to him when they first met.
Her new boyfriend was very romantic. He would often wait outside her house holding a bunch of flowers early in the morning, just wanting her to get her favorite bouquet as she stepped out.
One night, after a wonderful time, he accompanied her home and then left. Later, her doorbell rang and she went to open the door, only to find him red-faced at the entrance. He jumped in and shouted huffing, “Who was the man … the one who answered my call just now?”
She had no idea what happened, “Who did you call? What are you talking about?”
His face grew even redder, “What am I talking about? I just called you, but there was a man answered my call, then when I talked to you, that son of a bitch grasped the phone and said GO TO HELL and then banged the phone … Just tell me where he is, I’ll kill him! …”
At that moment, she suddenly realized what was he talking about, and recognized who it was who called the cabin a year ago! She began to tremble, not knowing how to explain all of this …
The four-hour drive from his home was unremarkable. It was a quick jaunt that barely stirred up an appetite for lunch especially after his mom’s hardy-as-usual breakfast. The Rand McNally map proved accurate, guiding his route to the small college town and then further to the university’s main graduate residence hall without the slightest course deviation. The residence, which would be his home for coming year on campus, loomed 14 stories high over a nearly full parking lot. He had arrived a bit late in the morning. Obviously, a good number of incoming students had beaten him there. After locating a free spot, he jumped out and eagerly walked toward the entrance. The university’s East Asian Studies department, which featured several renowned scholars, had offered him sufficient financial support to embark on a study Chinese philosophy and literature, with the goal of obtaining a Ph.D. and eventually becoming a professor.
As he exited the lot, he passed near to someone standing on the side smoking a cigarette. He noticed that this fellow appeared to be of Asian descent. He interpreted this as a good omen considering his future academic intentions and decided to approach to say hello. The fellow returned the greeting in a heavy Japanese accent.
Kazufu was there to attend graduate school. He had come from Tokyo to pursue doctoral studies in English literature. He had left his wife and child behind, but they would come over to join him sometime in the new year.
What good fortune. he was aware that he would need to add minor in another East Asian language for his doctoral studies. Japanese could absolutely fit that bill, especially since the Japanese have been studying China for centuries and would therefore offer interesting perspectives on Chinese philosophy and literature.
At the end of the short conversation, Kazufu invited him for some tea at 8 pm in the residence’s ninth-floor lounge – quite a nice way to enhance his language and academic objectives.
Buoyed by this encounter, he waltzed into the lobby to register and receive his room assignment and key. After grabbing his things from the car, he ascended to his eleventh-floor room to settle in and wait for dinner. Later, he was pleasantly surprised to encounter two fellow undergrad alums in the food line down in the hall cafeteria. They too had come to the university for graduate studies, Dave for French and Dan for Spanish. The great day had continued.
While they were eating, he mentioned that he had seen an ad in the local paper for a French movie showing at a downtown cinema. The film was at 10. They all decided to go; and since he had his car, he would drive. Dave and Tom finished their meals and returned to their rooms. They would all rendezvous in the hall lobby at around 9.
He went to grab some coffee and a couple cookies. When he returned, he noticed a cute blond girl sitting over at the next table and asked whether he could join her. She obliged. A native Hoosier from Indianapolis, Gail intended to do a master’s degree in library science. They had a pleasant conversation. Though she was not necessarily his type of girl, she did seem congenial, so he took the opportunity to invite her to join him and his friends for the movie later in the evening. She agreed. He would come get her at around 8. He wanted to allow enough time to drop in at the ninth-floor lounge for that tea invitation.
At 8 he knocked on Gail’s door on the tenth floor. She was already set to go when he mentioned the tea invitation. Gail seemed reluctant to go. This was a bit of a quandary for him, and her reaction made him hesitate a moment. No, he conjured a different calculation: Which was more important, go out on a group date with this cute but not quite interesting lady or take advantage of an opportunity to further his connection with a native language informant. He voted for Japanese.
They descended to the ninth floor. Sure enough, Kazufu was there standing in the lobby with a kettle pouring hot water into a Japanese-style teacup. He hailed them over to join. At least three other people were sitting, talking, and drinking tea. One was a beautiful and intriguing young woman. He could not make out her ethnicity. Dark caramel skin, Asian of sort, perhaps Filipina.
He introduced himself, and when she replied he detected another foreign accent – French. Asking her name and where she hailed from, he was blown away by her reply. Wow! She was the first person he had ever met from that distant island country. Accordingly, he continued en français. She seemed pleasantly surprised and asked where he had learned French. He told her he had recently lived in Paris and had attended classes at the Sorbonne. She had an amazing smile. He also told her that he knew where her country was located, that it was a former French colony, that a number of very exotic and unique animals lived there, and of course that he looked forward to hearing more about it. And by the way what is your room number?
She in turn said that she had arrived a week earlier in Bloomington. Flying in a puddle jumper from Chicago over the vast corn fields of Indiana, she felt that she was going to be studying in some rural hinterland. She told him that he was the first person she had met since her arrival who knew anything about her home country. He dared not mention how he knew where the country was located – through playing a popular strategy board game. Her island is often one of the last places left on the board to acquire.
Gail stood there quietly making a long face. Evidently, she was not comfortable with this conversation done in a foreign language. He quickly got the message, turn to thank Kazufu, and bid all goodbye as he led Gail out of the lounge to meet Dave and Dan in the lobby. The group proceeded to his car and then drove to the theater.
La nuit américaine (English title: Day for Night) is a romantic comedy-drama set in a story about the making of a movie. It had won the Academy Award for Best International Feature Film that year. The film was quite good, but what caught most of his attention most was the male lead, Pierre Léaud. As the film kept running, he came to realize that he resembled the famed French actor especially in facial appearance. In addition, the first name of the main actor’s girlfriend happened to be the same as that of the exotic lady whom he had just encountered. Interesting.
The film ended, and the group shuffled back to the car. He returned everyone safely to the residence hall and bid all good night as each exited elevator to their respective floors, including Gail. She was a pleasant girl, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
The following evening after dinner, he knocked on the door of room 931.
A surprised, but beaming exotic lady opened the door. She invited him to enter, and a long conservation ensued. They had a long conversation about her home country, the reason for coming to the US – receiving a Fulbright for a Ph.D. in American studies, and so on. After a while, he suggested that they continue with a walk on the campus.
They walked and talked and walked and talked on into the warm late summer evening, going past sunset. They continued all the way up to within view of the university basketball stadium. Suddenly she became aware that she had left the dorm in night slippers. The long walk the sidewalk and street pavement had worn through the sole of one of her slippers. They laughed.
From that day on, they were a constant item in the residence and often on campus.
But Gail obviously did not forget that movie night. She began to act in a bizarre fashion. Whenever she encountered them in the residence or on campus – in a corridor, at the cafeteria, at the nearby convenience store, and so on. She would make strange faces or scowl or just glare. It was weird and at times even bothersome. He could never understand how going out to see a movie for just one night, and on a group date to boot, could generate such a reaction.
This odd behavior continued for about three to four months. Then one day when they were each doing their own laundry down in the basement, he noticed that Gail and another person were also in the room. Just as they had, the two had just put their clothes into the dryers and were exiting the room to wait elsewhere for the laundry to dry. All four then entered the elevator at the same time.
Upon entry Gail immediately turned toward the man, threw her arms around the very rotund fellow and squeezed him, almost to death. When the elevator reached their floor, they immediately tumbled out and rolled onto the floor laughing as the elevator door closed. They had realized that Gail had at last found her man. That was the end of the end of stalking.
A year later Kazufu’s wife and child arrived from Japan, and he invited them again for some tea to celebrate. When they had all gathered at Kazufu’s apartment, he told them that the tea invitation the previous year was done on purpose. As the senior Japanese person in his dorm room, he felt obliged to try hooking up his bachelor roommate with a female friend. However, as is custom in Japan, he also felt the need to test first how well his proposed candidate would do in a social setting before introducing her to his suitemate and fellow countryman. Well, the exotic lady sure had passed part of the test. They all then burst into laughter about that memorable day.
The matchmaking magic at that moment had been mighty, just misdirected!
It was 4:50 PM. The five clustered in the kitchen of their Lincoln Avenue rental. Two sat at the table, two were standing, and one perched himself on the counter. They were all facing the phone attached by the rear door. You would need an ax to cut the anticipation. Tick, tick, tick, time beat on almost suspended as if dragging an invisible weight. They were waiting for The Call.
They were expecting a ring from his mom. Everyone knew her to be very predictable and were familiar with her set-your-atomic-clock-to punctuality. He had often told the others that his mother got off work at 4:00 PM, having set the end of her shift early to avoid the evening traffic. She would hitch a ride from a colleague and arrive home nearly every day by 4:45 PM. She would then enter the house through the driveway side door and proceed by 5:00 PM to front of the house to check the daily mail…
That year on Memorial Day weekend, he had traveled with his girlfriend so she could meet his parents. The visit went way better than he had expected, especially since it was the first time he had brought home a brown-skinned girlfriend. Over the last few years, he had had several discussions, some very heated, with his mother over race and racial relations. She distrusted and often maligned people of other races and ethnic groups, even people of subgroups closely related to her own. She tolerated her on dating people from other ethnic groups, but really wanted him to meet one from their own ethnic group.
He had expected a cool, even chilly encounter; but, to the contrary, things seemed to go well. It certainly helped that his friend was fluent in English. His mother was all smiles, open, and very kind during the whole visit. My father was his bon-vivant self. This reception also allayed the apprehension his friend had expressed before leaving the university town for his home.
By the end of their first year in grad school in June, he had cajoled his girlfriend to join him with his best friend David and David’s newly minted wife, Diane, as housemates. (BTW, he and Diane were once more than friends) They would rent an old three-bedroom house on Lincoln Avenue about four blocks north of campus. The four would be joined by John, an older undergrad, who had been a student in David’s first-year French class. His girlfriend asked him when he proposed the rental plan, “We wouldn’t be sleeping in the same room, right?” He had replied, “No, of course not;” and so, she agreed to the arrangement.
His girlfriend moved into the first-floor bedroom; upstairs David and Diane would have one room and John the other. Meanwhile, he would sleep in a south-facing room that had once served as an attached greenhouse. After moving into the house, he and his girlfriend would trade off rooms in order to perform their lovers’ duties; but they, as he had promised, would not sleep over together through night in either bedroom. (They did, however, sleep over night together when they surreptitiously visited his hometown in late June)
At first, the conditions in his room were comfortable, even in the summer months of June, July, and August, because a neighbor’s tree had grown full and high enough to partially shade the room. However, that year September brought an unusual seasonal chill to the night, and the greenhouse room of course had a considerable amount of number of glass panes. It was getting cool, and quite cold by morning. The heat in the house had been turned on during several nights of chill, but the air flow from the closest duct barely whiffed through his open room door. He tried multiple blankets and tolerated the cold for several days; but all the glass, no insulation. It was darn cold, freezing.
He decided to make a unilateral decision – move over to her room. That night he picked up his pillow and marched out of his room through the living room and opened her door. “Sorry, it’s too cold over there.”
This changed the equation. His girlfriend at first seemed miffed but was generous in allowing him to stay. The increased time for intimacy fostered further exploration and discussion about their relationship. He had from the first time that they met known that he would like her to be the one. It would require, he thought, for her to come to the same realization. In this circumstance, he began to see her even more as the One. So, one late afternoon while they were lounging on the bed, he just blurted it out, “Do you want to get married.” She said simply, “Yes.”
He could have telephoned his mother to make the announcement, but a call home was a long-distance charge and too expensive if the conversation was long. Given his mother’s disposition and predictable negative reaction, he decided that a simple phone would not do. He wanted to inform her of his decision and explain how much he loved his future wife and at the same time express his love for his mother in the hope that in the end she would understand. He would mail the handwritten letter early Monday morning. It would arrive at his parent’s home by Wednesday afternoon.
They were all sitting and standing on the edge, their hearts racing as they anxiously waited for the phone to ring. They had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, staring at the silent phone with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.
As the wall clock ticked toward Five, his girlfriend glanced nervously at the time piece, her hands fidgeting uncontrollably in her lap. David tapped his foot impatiently against the bottom cabinet, his eyes darting back and forth between the clock and the phone. Diane chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes fixed on the phone as if dreading the ring. John stood there in complete bewilderment as what to expect. He alone knew what could happen.
With each passing second, the tension in the room grew thicker, the silence becoming almost unbearable. Finally, as the countdown reached its last few seconds, they all held their breath, their hearts pounding in unison.
And then, as the clock struck zero, the phone suddenly sprang to life, its shrill ring echoing through the room. David, Diane, and John all jumped up, their eyes wide with anticipation, as he advanced to grab the phone. And no one took notice in the excitement that John’s elbow had suddenly knocked a metal mug from off the counter. It crashed with a bang. That was not the center of attention.
“Hello, mom.” Of course, he knew it was her.
“How could you do this to me?” his mother through the line.
“Do what, Mom?” A big gulp.
“Want to marry HER! I knew it, I knew it when you brought her here.”
“Mom, mom, hold on. Well, no, Mom. I only just proposed. I love her.” Searing silence exuded from the other end. “I hope, I hope you understand. I really do love her.” He didn’t think she was listening.
“This is terrible. How could you?” A longer moment of silence then, “Why couldn’t you marry a Chinese?”
“Chinese?” That was a response he had not anticipated.
“I love you, Mom. Please understand.”
“I will NOT come.”
His mother then hung up.
It took a few moments for him to gather himself after the call. In a way he half expected his mother’s ire. He reflected that his mother’s odd suggestion did have a twisted logical since he was enrolled in grad school to study Chinese literature, and Chinese people are more light-skinned than his girlfriend. In proposing Chinese, she was saying marry anyone else but her.
His housemates remained respectfully mum waiting for his reaction. He addressed his girlfriend first to quell her understandable concern.
“Don’t worry love, it doesn’t matter. She’ll come around. She will.”
John chimed in with encouragement. “Yeah, it will work out.”
David and Diane chimed in a hearty, “Yeah, they will. Congratulations!”
He knew better, at least for some time to come…
Once the others had cleared the kitchen, he telephoned his mother’s younger sister whom he considered his favorite aunt. He thought Aunt Jeanne could calm his mother down and get her to reconsider. But his aunt was a big disappointment. She told him, “No way. You shouldn’t have done this. You’ll hurt your mom.” Well so much for a “loving” aunt.
That was that. He and his now fiancée would go on with setting up the wedding, aided by their friends.
His mother obstinately stuck to her word and did not attend the wedding. His father and sister did attend, along with one of his cousins and many of their friends and colleagues. His future mother-in-law even traveled 11,000 miles for the occasion. They all had a splendid time.
For three full years his mother did not see him, mail him, or even talk to him over the phone.
It was a relief, actually. He had at last become an adult.
(1975-1976)
Epilogue
Three years after the wedding, his mother-in-law returned for a visit. The couple traveled to the big city to pick her up at O’Hare International Airport. They got a motel room near the airport which also happened to be close to his parents’ home.
He dialed his father, “Dad, we’ve arrived in town and were at the Days Inn in Niles. We’ve picked up my mother-in-law who has just flown in.”
His father replied, “Oh? Well, okay, Hold on for a minute.” Then silence on the line. It was a fairly long silence, and he couldn’t make out what was going on. His father returned, “Okay, we’ll order some Chinese food and bring it over to you. What room are you in.”
“27.”
“We’ll” his father said. Now that was something different.
A half hour later a knock came at the door. Chinese take-out. The ice had broken.
After several strong pulsations and thrusts, the contest begins!
It is a perilous competition, only those who win survive. For the multitude of those who enter the fray, there is no middle ground, no room for compromise.
He is one of the aspirants. Ever since he can recall, in fact almost the only thing that he can ever remember is his incessant participation in this ferocious enterprise. His whole mind and body have been innately conditioned to adapt to the challenges posed by this marathon struggle. Perhaps, he himself is not even fully aware that this is a contest, let alone how ruthless it is — that winning it means continuation, and losing termination. Once the contest began, he just strode ahead full force instinctively.
How did people acquire this instinct? There is no way to tell, still he and the innumerable other competitors all know that the only thing they should or even can do was to move forward, forward, always forward.
The start of the contest resembles the opening of the gates of a huge dam when suddenly a thunderous, unstoppable flood bursts out. As the competitors surge forward, all that they were before transforms in a split second. The new environment is completely unfamiliar, nothing is what they have ever experienced or can imagine.
The whole course is full of snares and entanglements. There are even precarious traps from the very onset when he and all the others precipitously rush forth. They quickly come to perceive how tenuous, fragile, and ephemeral their situation is. Many have already been vanquished, having fallen aside in the onrushing turbulence.
Contests are of their nature cruel, even the fairest contests; for there are always losers. But the most unfortunate losers are the entrants who falter at the very beginning — they seem already marked for their fate. How could they ever have hoped to win? Why did they even enter the contest?
Because the way forward is long and full of countless dangerous obstacles, he has absolutely no leisure to attend to any fallen comrades. There are still more contestants who have advanced far ahead of him to worry about. He has no choice but to catch and surpass them in order to win the contest.
He is intelligent and early on ascertains that nearly all, probably all, his peers will eventually succumb on the path to victory. But why, why is it necessary to sacrifice anyone? Why can’t just everyone win? Or at least more…
Among the factors that make this contest so grueling and fierce is the totally strange and treacherous setting. Even the most subtle circumstance — a slight slippage, distraction, or wrong turn — can prove costly.
He tries his best to move on, as the others do, too. If effort could guarantee success, that would be good. But, in fact, effort does not necessarily guarantee success. Alas, many other factors, mostly indiscernible or unknown, contribute to or hinder progress in one way or another.
Cooperation with another contestant or even with a team of others can only get anyone so far through the harrowing gauntlet. Only one at most can make it through to the end.
Of course, this is a totally mad and reckless adventure. Clearly, there is only a slim chance of survival; but then there’s got to be a winner, right? So why shouldn’t it be him?
The next objective in the course lies clearly ahead — he needs be the first to reach it. To lag behind by even as little as a thousandth of a second is to be lost. To arrive there before the others, he needs to lead by a good distance. This is the golden rule to ensure continuation.
Once that arduous milestone is attained, the sequence repeats itself. One test is immediately followed by another one that is even more confounding and doubly demanding or threatening.
The shock of each encounter weighs down on him, as if all his oxygen is being sucked away. The anticipation of each ensuing event is profound and paralyzing.
All he can do is to continuously steel himself. He tells himself, if only he can hold on for a short while more through the fever of the moment, the pain, the stress, he may be able to reach the next objective!
He keeps treading on. He is nearly at the point of complete exhaustion. Each new stage requires more and more guile, energy, and resilience. And on and on it goes …
He now senses that the number of competitors has dramatically decreased rapidly, and that the turbulence and the initial fury have gradually abated. But that means that he has to try even harder to face and overcome any upcoming obstacle.
Then his eyes open wide. Suddenly, he has come to the realization that he has actually reached the goal! After all the struggle, it doesn’t seem believable. It’s almost impossible! A one-in-a-billion or more chance, but he has in fact made it!
It is a tenet each contest is completely fair — especially to the winner. If ever anyone reaches the target, victory is assured. The other contestants who have gone by the wayside can never ever obtain the survivor’s reward.
One would imagine that after gaining victory through such a grueling process, he could then rest on his laurels and retire to some sort of green pasture. He had after all is the sole winner of this contest from among a billion or more entrants.
However, that is not how the game is played. Winners receive no exemptions. He like everyone else is obliged to re-enter the fray.
Of course, one would believe that in future contests he would have an edge over others because of his hard-won contest experience. To the contrary, experience holds no advantage. In contest after contest, every victor is compelled to start all over again, facing even more wily competitors and new and very different challenges, and once again have little hope of victory. He would have to struggle as before and move forward. Is the contest fair after all?
After succeeding at a series contests, he might eventually find a moment to speculate on how it would have been if he had lost that very first competition. There were many losers, so many losers. Why had he won? If he had failed, it would have been as if he had never existed. There would not have been so much pain and suffering. Why had he succeeded? Why? And for what?…
It was a regular Monday morning at the American School of Antananarivo. The sun streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the classroom as Mr. K handed out a new assignment. The class was buzzing with excitement, ready for the challenge of the day. But an incident that had occurred at the end of the previous week had set the topic of the first class session.
“Alright, class,” Mr. K began, his glasses perched at the end of his nose, “today we are going to discuss something I call a Classmate’s Dilemma. It’s a tricky problem, but I know you can handle it.”
Everyone looked at each other with puzzled expressions. “What’s a Classmate’s Dilemma?” asked Sacha, the class clown, always ready with a joke.
“Good question, Sacha,” Mr. K smiled. “Let me explain with a story.”
The students leaned in as he began.
“Imagine two friends, Alex and Dan, who were caught for something they didn’t even do—just a mix-up, really. But the teachers thought they had sneaked cookies from the lunchroom, and they were put in separate rooms to figure out what happened. They could either confess or stay silent.
“If Alex stayed quiet and Dan confessed, Alex would get in big trouble—two weeks of recess detention. But Dan would get off with just one day of detention, for telling the truth. If both stayed quiet, they would each get one day of detention, because the teachers couldn’t prove much. But if both confessed, they’d each get a week of detention, for admitting to taking the cookies.
“Each person had to decide without knowing what the other would do.
“Now, here’s the trick: If both of them thought the other would confess and tried to avoid getting the worst punishment, they’d both end up worse off. But if they trusted each other and stayed silent, they’d get off lightly.”
Mr. K paused and looked around the room. “Now, I want you to think about this. You’re Alex, and your best friend, Dan, is in the other room. What would you do? Would you trust them, or would you confess?”
After hearing the story, the students were divided. Mr. K handed out slips of paper with the instructions: “Choose whether to confess or stay silent. Write your choice, and then we’ll see what happens.”
The room filled with whispers as the students debated. Some, like Sacha, said they’d confess right away to avoid the worst punishment.
“I’m not going to risk a whole week of detention. If Dan confesses, I’m doomed,” Sacha said.
But others, like Alicia and Dedek, thought maybe they should trust their friend. “I think Dan would stay quiet, so I’ll stay quiet too. That way, we both get off easy,” Alicia said.
“Yeah,” Dedek agreed. “But if Dan confesses, I’m in trouble, so maybe I should confess first?”
They couldn’t decide, and as the bell rang for recess, the students had to make their choices. Each wrote down their answers on their slips of paper, folded them up, and handed them to Mr. K.
Mr. K read the results aloud after recess. There were mixed answers. Some students had confessed, while others had stayed silent.
“Let’s see,” Mr. K said, “Sacha and Alicia both confessed. So, they each get a week of detention.”
The class gasped. They couldn’t believe it.
“But, Dedek and Ava stayed silent,” Mr. K continued. “So they only get one day of detention each. That’s much better!”
A few students were surprised that trusting each other worked out better. Some looked at each other, realizing that maybe, just maybe, they could have avoided the trouble if they had trusted their friends more.
In the end, Mr. K explained the lesson. “In a situation like this, sometimes it’s better to trust people and work together. But it’s always hard to know what someone else will do. That’s the problem or dilemma.”
As the bell rang and everyone packed up to go home, the students couldn’t stop talking about the game. Sacha shrugged. “Well, I learned something. Trusting people is tough, but it might be worth it next time.”
Alicia smiled at Dedek. “Next time, we’ll stay quiet together, right?”
“Deal,” Dedek agreed.
And so, the fourth graders learned a lesson about trust, choices, and the tricky nature of decisions—though they probably wouldn’t be sneaking cookies again anytime soon.
Narrator: Persuasion is everywhere in the workplace, in healthcare, in sales, in construction, and even in the arts. There are many reasons and a variety of situations for presenting your point of view at work. In this program you will see how several employees of Pro Video try to persuade their coworkers, supervisors, and customers to change their attitudes or behavior.
[Alan spots Janet walking in the parking lot as he exits his parked car.]
Alan: Janet, wait up!
Janet: Alan, hi, I didn’t notice you.
Alan: Oh, that’s what all the women say.
Janet: I don’t believe that. How’s your campaign going for getting computers for the office?
Alan: Not so great. I talked to Sandra yesterday about it. I told her we’re behind the times. I mean everyone uses computers and told her Jim and Terry and I are willing to put in the extra training hours; but she didn’t go for it. She’s going to hire someone else for the office staff instead. That’ll help a little, I guess.
Janet: Well, you want some advice?
Alan: Sure.
Janet: Take it from somebody and sales. You try to appeal to her emotions too much. You might try making a hard factual case for buying those computers.
Alan: You mean like statistics and how those save time, right?
Janet: Maybe call some other offices and see if they have any statistics on productivity.
Alan: I could call some dealers too.
Janet: Good morning, Sandra.
[Janet waves to Sandra while she and Alan go into the company entrance.]
[Sandra acknowledges Janet with a wave and goes over to two workers unloading equipment from a pick-up truck.]
Sandra: Hi guys, I hear the new studio is going to be finished this week. Is that right.?
Worker 1: We’re on schedule so far.
Sandra: That’s great.
Sandra continues to the company entrance.
[Later in the company call center.]
Call center worker: Confirmed for Saturday the 15th at 2:00.
Janet: Here are pro video we offer the best of videotaping services to make sure you record those precious moments. I see. Well, thank you for your time.
[Janet hangs up.]
Janet: Okay.
[Janet dials a new number.]
Janet: Good morning, Miss Whitney.
Miss Whitney: Yes.
Janet: Hi. My name is Janet Evans with Pro Video Productions, and we’re calling to wish you congratulations on your upcoming wedding.
Miss Whitney: Well, thank you.
Janet: You’re welcome. Here in Pro Video productions, we offer the best of videotape services to make sure you record those precious moments.
Miss Whitney: We’ve already hired a fine photographer, Mr. Allegretti.
Janet: Yes, Mr. Allegretti has an excellent reputation, but today many couples are choosing to go with the still photographer and the video service for their weddings. You’ll have the fun of showing friends and relatives a cassette of your wedding and reception, the walk down the aisle, the vows, cutting the cake, and throwing your bouquet.
Miss Whitney: I don’t know. I’ve never heard of your company. And anyway, I’d have to talk this up with my fiance.
Janet: Of course. But while you’re both thinking, let me send you our brochure with photos from previous weddings we’ve covered.
Miss Whitney: OK.
Janet: Oh, and you might be interested in knowing that two other couples from your area have recently made use of our services for their weddings and were very satisfied with the results. Art and Sheila Albert and Jennifer and Bob Danziger.
Miss Whitney: Jennifer and Bob!
Janet: You know Jennifer? Good. Why don’t you give her a call and ask her about our services?
Miss Whitney: I’ll do that, but I’m still not sure we want to think about an extra expense for the wedding.
Janet: So, let me tell you about our prices which are the lowest in town. For only $425, you’ll receive a full color, full sound, video, and edited version of your wedding and reception, all on high quality videotape.
Miss Whitney: Well, I’ll look forward to seeing your brochure then. And what was your name again?
Janet: Janet Evans, Pro Video Productions, and it’s been a pleasure talking with you. Oh, along with our brochure, I’ll send a copy of our standard contract. If you’re interested, just sign it and return it with the deposit to hold the date you want.
Miss Whitney: OK.
Janet: Good. And just between you and me, don’t wait too long. Our booking dates fill up fast this time of year, and I don’t want you to be disappointed. Do you have any questions?
Miss Whitney: No.
Janet: Thanks again. Goodbye.
Hangs up.
Janet: Janet, you’re fantastic.
[Later in another part of the office.]
Alan: Janet, check this.
Janet: Working late tonight?
Alan: I’m taking your advice, putting together some hard facts on office computers for Sandra.
Janet: Huh, this looks good. Sandra is very organized; and she likes detail, so be thorough. Remember, when you’re trying to persuade someone about something, always think about who that person is and what they need and want.
Alan: You’re right, and you should think about getting into telemarketing.
[Later Alan is seen opening the outside door to the new video studio for Worker 2.]
Alan: I’ll get it.
Worker 2: Thank you.
Alan: How’s it going down in the mines,
Worker 2: It’s going really well. We’re gonna have a very classy studio when we’re done.
Alan: Great. I can’t wait to see it.
Worker 2: Thank you.
Alan: Bye-bye.
[Worker 2 enters the studio. Worker 1 is drilling some metal.]
Worker 2: Hey, Bud.
Worker 1: What?
Worker 2: Turn that thing off.
Worker 1: What is it?
Worker 2: You have something against keeping your eyesight?
Worker 1 stops drilling.
Worker 1: I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.
Worker 2: Wanna bet.
Worker 1: Let’s just get back to work, okay?
Worker 2: Well, for one thing, not wearing your goggles is against regulations.
Worker 1: Since when do we do everything by the book?
Worker 2: The regulations are here to protect us. Did you read that stuff they passed out. Over 90,000 eye injuries occur each year on on-the-job accidents.
Worker 1: Look, why don’t you mind your own business, and let me take care of myself?
Worker 2: I don’t understand. You’re the one who taught me we’re supposed to look out after each other on the job. The buddy system, remember?
Worker 1: Yeah, well, maybe I did say something like that.
Worker 2: Then there’s the time you’d miss from work if you did have an accident. You’d need workman’s comp, for a while, like maybe even part of your salary, for a while. But then what would you do? You think accidents always happened to the other guy? But that’s OK. It’s your eyesight. It’s just that too bad about that convertible.
Worker 1: What convertible?
Worker 2: The convertible you showed me in a used car lot the other day. The red one with the white interior. It’s pretty loaded, huh? Yeah, that’s too bad.
Worker 1: What’s too bad?
Worker 2: That you may never be able to see it again.
[Worker 1 shrugs his shoulder in concession, returns to the drill to don a pair of safety glasses and turns on the drill with a smile.]
[Later Alan is seen at the open door to Sandra’s office.]
Alan: I understand you said no about the computer idea. But I felt I hadn’t presented all of the information clearly enough. When you get a minute, maybe we could talk.
Sandra: Right now is fine.
Alan: I put together a few facts here.
Sandra: I’ll say.
Alan: Now here’s a list of things that we’re doing now that could be done more efficiently with computers: billing, inventory, client list.
Sandra: Pull up a chair. Why do you think that computers would be more efficient? What evidence do you have?
Alan: Have I’m glad you asked that. Here are some statistics from companies like ours on the time and money that they’ve saved since installing computers. As you can see, some of the figures are as high as 50 percent.
Sandra: Mm-hmm.
Alan: Then, on this page there’s a software that we need to run these programs and their cost, and I totaled everything up here.
Sandra: It’s expensive, and this doesn’t include training or startup time.
Alan: That’s right. The first year it would cost as much as hiring a new person; but after that, so your costs go down nearly 23%.
Sandra: With hiring a new person, the costs go up every year. Do you have any information on long-range computer expenses such as what it would cost to stay current with hardware and software?
Alan: Here our estimates from two companies for a five-year period.
Sandra: I’ll have to take these home with me over the weekend. We need to look at the dollar outlay compared with productivity gains and savings on personnel.
Alan: Oh, and I almost forgot here two production companies in town that installed office computers this year. They said they’d be happy to talk to us about how it’s helped their business.
Sandra: This has been very informative, Alan. Thanks for the work you’ve put in.
Alan: Oh, just something I put together over my lunch hour.
Sandra: I’ll bet.
Alan: Thanks.
[Worker 1 and Worker 2 exit the company front door.]
Worker 1: … you knocked that out.
Worker 2: Hey wait a minute. Want to drive by that used car lot with the convertible to take a test drive.
Worker 1: You read my mind.
[Worker 1 and Worker 2 continue out toward the parking. They are followed out the door by Sandra and then Alan and Janet.]
Sandra: See you Monday.
Janet: Have a nice weekend.
Sandra: Thanks to Alan I have a little homework lined up.
Janet: Sounds like things went.
Alan: Well, I can’t believe it. Monday, she said. No; and today she thanked me for my idea.
Janet: Always consult a professional. By the way, there’s a little matter about my fee. How about a deep-dish pizza? You know, I deserve it.
What benefits is society receiving from Raster Foundation’s activities? Has a lack of accountability created a culture of elitism and self-satisfaction at the foundation? Unaware of the opposition within the organization, Raster’s new chair plans to address these questions by evaluating every aspect of the foundation’s operation. Issues involve organizational culture, public accountability, board/staff relations, and the value of evaluation.
Charles Blair, president of the Raster Foundation, arrived at his office earlier than usual. He needed time to prepare for his meeting with Mel Cornin, the newly elected chair of the board — a meeting that could destroy Blair’s vision for the future of his foundation. In a letter written a few weeks earlier, Cornin had recommended the foundation conduct a comprehensive evaluation of every aspect of its operation.
Blair nervously sorted through the papers in his meeting file and paused to reread Cornin’s letter:
I am very disturbed by the public’s increasing distrust of institutionalized philanthropy. I believe it is imperative that foundations and other nonprofit organizations address this issue forthrightly and guarantee that society receives the greatest benefits from our activities.
I am convinced that it is our ethical and moral obligation to see that our commitment to excellence never falters. The question is, how do we measure excellence? How do we know our programs are effective and efficiently administered?
I believe I have the answer. I propose we hire a consultant to conduct a comprehensive evaluation of our programs, administration, and governance similar to the one the Graven Foundation completed last year. Such an assessment will highlight the strengths we should build on and point to weaknesses we may be blind to.
Charles Blair sighed as he continued,
I think Raster’s mission will be served best if we reinforce programs and procedures that are indisputably effective, and modify or eliminate those that perform below our standards. My experience as chair of the Task Force on Philanthropy and Public Accountability sensitized me to the pitfalls of self-satisfaction and elitism that can seriously diminish the great contributions private foundations are capable of making. The kind of evaluation I propose would eliminate any suspicion that the Raster Foundation has succumbed to this kind of moral decay. I hope we can meet in a few weeks to discuss this proposal further. I would like to bring the matter before the board in April.
A New Vision
Three years had passed since Charles Blair left the directorship of a federal agency to become president of the Raster Foundation. At the age of 53, he was a vigorous man and inspirational leader. Trained as a social scientist, he had held several positions in the private and public sectors. During his distinguished career he chaired the political science departments of two Ivy League universities and was an advisor to a U.S. president. He knew that, as the leader of an endowed foundation, he had a unique opportunity to address complex problems and to initiate and promote long-term public policy solutions. Because the foundation’s directors did not have to appease stockholders or the electorate, they could afford a long-term perspective. The foundation had the time and resources to study problems in depth and devise funding strategies for their resolution.
The Raster Foundation had been established and endowed in 1925 by Thomas Raster, a wealthy banker and self-made man. For most of its history, the foundation’s mission, “to promote the greater good of human society,” was served by granting funds to establish and strengthen institutions of higher education.
In his first two years as president, Blair enlarged the scope of Raster’s grant-making. In addition to the education program, he developed two new programs: one to advance technology in third world countries, and the other to promote world peace. The new programs addressed issues that were very different from the foundation’s traditional focus. Several program and executive staff members left the foundation during these transition years. Blair relied on his connections with the government and academia to fill vacated and newly created staff positions.
The Greatest Good
Like Thomas Raster, Mel Cornin was a self-made man. He started his first company while still an undergraduate at the state university. His entrepreneurial bent and business savvy helped him to become president and major shareholder of one of the country’s most successful financial institutions. Cornin attributed much of his success to the many hours spent as a boy in his local library. The library was built and furnished in the early 1900’s by a grant from one of the nation’s first foundations. Cornin considered his community and himself direct beneficiaries of philanthropy, and this early experience instilled in him a keen interest in the philanthropic sector.
Cornin served on numerous nonprofit boards. He also participated in several public/private commissions that examined diverse philanthropic activities. He felt strongly that organizations that enjoyed the privilege of tax exemption had an obligation to manage their resources efficiently and effectively for the greatest good.
He recently chaired the Task Force on Philanthropy and Public Accountability. The task force examined the power of private foundations to disburse large sums of money and influence at the sole discretion of trustees and staff without any meaningful accountability to the public. The task force studied one hundred of the largest private foundations. Major findings included:
The overwhelming majority of the board members were wealthy white men.
The majority of board members, executives, and program staff graduated from Ivy League universities.
Think-tanks, Ivy League universities, museums, symphonies, and prep-schools were more likely to receive funds from foundations than were nonprofits that served the poor.
Cornin came away from the task force convinced that private foundations had tremendous potential but too often did not use their resources as effectively as possible for the greatest good. He suspected that elitism and the foundations’ lack of accountability served to undermine their effectiveness.
How Can Excellence be Measured?
The kind of evaluation Cornin proposed caused Blair great distress. It was Blair’s belief that such an evaluation would be costly, disruptive, and inappropriate. The foundation had only three programs, and two of them were relatively new. The staff of those programs were just beginning to establish relationships with key organizations and actors in the new areas of focus. The problems those programs addressed were complex and long-term. Blair questioned how the impact of the foundation’s work could be measured. He worried that the evaluator would look for direct impact and immediate results, while the results of grant-making policies would often not be visible for years. Blair had worked tirelessly to develop and staff the technology and peace-promoting programs. They were an integral part of his long-term vision for the foundation, and he had a strong personal stake in their success.
Blair moved to sit on the large leather couch against a wall of glass overlooking a picturesque chapel and churchyard below. He did most of his work on that couch since his desk was buried under stacks of papers, files, and books. He continued to scan Cornin’s letter and focused on the reference to the well-publicized Graven Foundation evaluation. He remembered that the Graven Foundation conducted a comprehensive self-assessment that was very costly in terms of staff time and attention.
The study lasted nearly two years. Data collected through hundreds of interviews with Graven staff, grantees, and knowledgeable persons from the field formed the basis for forty-four recommendations. The Graven board and staff were very satisfied with the results of the evaluation. They felt it aided them in setting priorities, consolidating programs, and developing new strategies. But Blair did not think the Graven experience was relevant to Raster Foundation. Not only was Graven a much smaller foundation than Raster, but Blair also assumed Graven’s staff was not as sophisticated or distinguished as Raster’s. Such an assessment seemed completely unnecessary for his foundation, given the staff’s high level of professionalism.
Support and Cooperation
Blair knew that the kind of evaluation proposed would require the support and cooperation of his staff. He shifted his attention to a memo his assistant, Ellen Niles, prepared prior to today’s meeting with Cornin. At Blair’s instructions, Niles had made a few informal inquiries to determine the staff’s receptiveness to an evaluation.
The memo outlined her discussions with several staff members. The overwhelming reaction to the proposed evaluation was negative. Blair nodded in agreement as he read:
The most frequent argument against an evaluation was that the foundation is not directly accountable to any outside authority. As long as the board was satisfied with the foundation’s activities, an evaluation would be a tremendous waste of time and money.
Nearly all staff interviewed stressed that evaluation of management, programs, and grantee performance was already being done. After all, it was their responsibility to evaluate incoming proposals, on-going grants, program directions, and administrative procedures. One administrative officer pointed to the continuing effort to update the procedures manual as a kind of evaluation. The manual’s biannual revisions encouraged executive and program staff to examine administrative procedures and update them as necessary.
One program chair emphasized that for such an evaluation to be successful, program staff’s input was essential. Presently, program staff was so overburdened by proposal review and other grant-making responsibilities, there was little time left to participate fully in an evaluation. Another chair asked who might do the evaluation.
The evaluator would need to be an unbiased expert on evaluation, philanthropy, and each of Raster’s program areas. Did such a person exist?
A program officer commented that assessment was an administrative activity. She felt that at a private foundation, grant-making and program initiatives should always take precedence. Another pointed out that the timing of the proposed assessment was all wrong. He felt that evaluations are best conducted when funds are in short supply and difficult decisions about budgets need to be made. As one of the largest foundations in the country, Raster enjoys enviable financial security.
Blair’s concentration was broken by his ringing telephone. It was Ellen Niles. She was preparing the agenda for next months’ board meeting and needed to know if she should include Cornin’s proposal under Topics for Discussion.
“I’ll get back to you,” was Blair’s curt reply.
Cornin mentioned in his letter that he wanted to discuss the evaluation at the next board meeting, but Blair hoped to dissuade him.
The pensive Blair put down the file and fixed his gaze on the snow melting in the sun atop the chapel’s graceful steeple. He considered Cornin’s reference to “self-satisfaction and elitism” and wondered if his colleagues at Raster Foundation could be guilty of such attitudes. He mused that perhaps Cornin was confusing elitism with the foundation’s need for expertise at the staff level and for powerful connections at the board level. Foundations pride themselves on hiring and funding the best and the brightest. Is that elitism or just good stewardship? Blair knew that Raster Foundation was an enlightened and well-managed institution. After all, nearly sixty percent of the executive and program staff were women. And, although it was true that of thirteen trustees, ten were successful white men, one of the thirteen was Hispanic and two were women.
Blair did not want to offend Cornin or to discourage him from continuing to serve the foundation with the same level of enthusiasm and commitment he had in the past. But Blair was convinced an evaluation would cause more problems than it would solve. Cornin was a businessman and could not possibly understand the complex nature of the philanthropic sector.
However, Blair was well aware that the trustees had authority over all staff members, including the president.
Charles Blair did not hear his assistant knock before she entered his office.
“Mel Cornin is here.” she said.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Raster’s mission is to “promote the greater good of human society.” Define the greater good in this case. How can it be measured?
2. Raster staff agreed that the foundation is not directly accountable to any outside authority. Are they correct?
3. Staff’s reactions to the proposed evaluation was overwhelmingly negative. Do you agree with their arguments?
4. Foundations pride themselves on hiring and funding the best and the brightest. Is that elitism or just good stewardship? Based on the results of Cornin’s task force, what criteria might foundation leaders use to determine who are the “best and the brightest”?
5. Do you think the proposed comprehensive evaluation is the best way to “measure excellence”?
6. What would you do if you were Charles Blair?
TEACHING NOTES
1. Raster’s mission is to “promote the greater good of human society.” Define the greater good in this case. How can it be measured? Discuss the rationale for tax-exempt status. Just as for-profit entities have ethical obligations to their shareholders, nonprofits have ethical obligations to their stakeholders (the public, clients, donors). Ask students to define “greatest good.” Who decides what is “good”? Society consists of diverse and often opposing points of view about what is “good.” Who decides what is “good”?
2. Raster staff agreed that the foundation is not directly accountable to any outside authority. Are they correct? Again, foundations, like all nonprofits are accountable to the public. The IRS regulates tax exempt organizations to a limited extent, but it is ethically incumbent on nonprofits that they exist for the public’s benefit.
3. Staff’s reactions to the proposed evaluation was overwhelmingly negative. Do you agree with their arguments? Blair is correct, an evaluation will not be successful without staff cooperation. Several arguments support Cornin’s suspicion that the staff are smug and self-satisfied. They fail to recognize that such attitudes may limit the foundations effectiveness.
4. Foundations pride themselves on hiring and funding the best and the brightest. Is that elitism or just good stewardship? Based on the results of Cornin’s task force, what criteria might foundation leaders use to determine who are the “best and the brightest”? Based on the task force’s finding, the “best and brightest” are probably white, male graduates of Ivy League universities. Many foundations are slowly moving away from this model. Will foundations and the public benefit from redefining or eliminating the “best and brightest” model?
5. Do you think the proposed comprehensive evaluation is the best way to “measure excellence”? Discuss different approaches to evaluation such as process evaluation, outcome-based assessment, and benchmarking. Which ones might be appropriate in this case?
6. What would you do if you were Charles Blair? Discuss the arguments (for example, staff objections, the potential for low morale and decreased productivity, too soon to evaluate new programs, too costly) and alternatives (indefinitely postponing the formal evaluation, evaluating administrative functions only, assembling an internal committee to review programs and administration). Students could roleplay the meeting between Blair and Cornin.
It was a bright Saturday morning in March 2021 when Aaron leaned out the window of his apartment on San Francisco’s Twin Peaks. The city was eerily quiet, an emptiness he had never known. The streets that were usually bustling with tourists, street vendors, and locals all trying to squeeze in a little extra fun before the weekend had been silenced by the pandemic. California—his adopted state—had become a strange version of its usual self.
He sighed heavily, brushing his messy brown hair out of his face. On the surface, it seemed like he should have been the happiest person in the world. California, with its year-round sunshine, its relaxed lifestyle, and its endless outdoor amenities, had long been considered the ideal place to weather a crisis. Despite COVID, the Blue state had one of the lowest rates of mortality in the country, and the weather was perfect for socially-distanced hikes or bike rides. People seemed to be doing fine—maybe even thriving—given the circumstances. But Aaron was not having it. He felt… trapped.
From the safety of his well-situated apartment, which overlooked the downtown skyline and the distant Pacific Ocean, he could see families on bike rides, joggers with headphones in their ears, and couples strolling through parks while maintaining that necessary six feet of separation. The streets were cleaner, the air was fresher, and the clouds in the sky seemed fluffier. People were finding peace in nature, embracing outdoor workouts, and connecting with themselves in ways they never had before. In many ways, California was the perfect place to be during a pandemic.
But Aaron, who had spent his life complaining about the crowded traffic, the high cost of living, and the inherent superficiality of the Woke city, couldn’t see it that way. All he could think about was how everything had changed—how everything was now different in a way that felt oppressive, even in a state as beautiful as California.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered to himself as he grabbed his phone to scroll through social media. Everywhere he looked, people seemed to be posting about how grateful they were for the “extra time” spent in nature, how they were rediscovering local hiking trails, and how they were cooking wholesome meals at home.
“Must be nice,” he mumbled, typing out a quick comment under a friend’s post. “Some of us are stuck in our apartments, staring at the same four walls for days.”
Aaron knew his comment was a bit exaggerated. It wasn’t like his apartment was a prison—it had a huge open floor plan, a gourmet kitchen, and more amenities than most people could ever dream of. He even had a balcony where he could sit in the mornings and sip coffee while watching the sunrise. But the novelty of it all had worn off, and now he was left feeling restless, isolated, and yearning for the kind of excitement that San Francisco used to offer—the constant swirl of social events, world-class dinners with friends, spontaneous weekend trips, and endless possibilities.
And then there was the whole “stuck in California” issue. He’d joked with friends before the pandemic about wanting to escape the state. The taxes, the crowds, the feeling of being surrounded by people who all seemed to care more about their tech or influencer status than anything else—it had all started to feel suffocating. He’d longed for a quieter, simpler life somewhere like Montana or the Pacific Northwest.
But now, as states like New York and Texas saw an increase in cases, as some places were struggling to keep up with health systems and resources, Aaron felt strangely envious of his friends who had fled to small towns or rural areas where life seemed unaffected. He thought about the fact that he was lucky enough to be in a place with such a high vaccination rate and a mild climate. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being forced to stay in paradise, and it drove him mad.
He complained about the fact that his weekend trips to Napa Valley had been canceled, that his annual surf trip to Malibu was off the table, and that his usual Sunday brunch gatherings were reduced to Zoom calls. He found himself scrolling through photos of friends on beaches in Florida or in secluded cabins up in the mountains—places that weren’t so closely regulated, where people could escape the confines of the shutdown.
But no matter how much he griped about being “stuck in California,” the reality of the situation was that he was among the safest in the country. Despite his irritation, his apartment had become a sanctuary. The weather was ideal for socially distanced walks along the Great Highway and beaches, and despite the pandemic, many of his favorite local restaurants offered takeout with curbside pickup. He could even enjoy the peace and quiet of a nearly empty Golden Gate Park, the hiking trails winding around Mt. Tamalpais offering respite from the chaos of the city.
The more Aaron thought about it, the more ridiculous his complaints seemed. Despite the mask, and actually because of the masks, he was living in one of the most health-conscious and safest regions of the country—he could walk outside in the open air with hardly any fear. People were embracing the outdoors, exploring parts of California they had never bothered to visit before. And while the entire world was struggling to find balance in the face of uncertainty, California offered an endless supply of nature, culture, and things to do.
One afternoon, as he found himself once again looking out over the city, he saw something that made him pause: a group of friends gathered on the lawn in front of the De Young Museum. They were all maintaining distance, yes, but there they were, smiling, chatting, and enjoying the beauty of the day. No one was complaining about the restrictions. Everyone seemed to have found a way to adapt.
Aaron sat down on his balcony, took a deep breath, and looked at the hills in the distance. For the first time since his establishment here, he didn’t feel resentful of California. He was stuck here, yes, but maybe that wasn’t the worst thing after all.
Maybe it was time to start enjoying the paradise he had been so eager to escape.
Bicycle wheels whirl and crunch furiously on the pavement, accompanied by an increasing staccato.
“Huff puff, huff puff, huff puff.”
His focus on the road ahead narrows and becomes fuzzy. A car passes quickly on the left. On the right pedestrians walk along a sidewalk. A dull thump, thump, thump pumping sound emerges and continues unevenly for several long seconds.
“Ugh…!”
A sharp crashing sound and stinging pain are followed by a dizzying blur, then blackout and profound silence. After an indeterminable while, soft strains of Allegri’s Miserere invade an immensely indiscernible space, infused with enveloping and whirling vapors. The hazy murkiness begins to lighten up, gradually, very gradually intensifying until it reaches a full glare. Two shadowy figures materialize from the obscurity and approach an opening in the clouds, perhaps a gate with a side post. A figure with an elongated headpiece calls from inside.
“Michael! You’re late again! It is almost time to wrap up my shift.”
“Sorry, Peter, last minute congestion and an Expedia reservation screw up with Charon on the River Styx. You know the result of all those Novel Coronavirus variants, everybody’s just dying to get across…”
“Okay, okay. Let’s get this thing rolling.”
Michael hands him a document while Peter directs a question to the other shadow now fully emerged from the chaotic vapors.
“First name?”
“My what? What? My first name?” the second figure responds groggily.
“Come on, yes, your first name. It says here your first name is Tom. Is that right?”
“Yes, it’s Tom, but what is going on?”
“Just processing.”
“Processing what?”
“I’m verifying your eligibility.”
“Eligibility for what?”
“Eligibility to enter.”
“Enter what?”
“The Celestial Gates, of course!”
“Celestial? Gates? Am I dreaming? What’s all this fog? What the hell is going on?”
“I’m sorry, but you aren’t allowed to use that term here.”
Tom still looks mystified.
Peter then turns back to Michael. “Michael, you know the drill. Why haven’t you told him?”
“Sorry, Peter. I only received notice of Tom for my recruitment list at the last second, but he looked like a promising candidate.”
“Arrgh! Now let’s get going here. I’ve got to finish my daily report to the Old Man.”
He speaks to Tom. “I see you have the same last name as one of my favorite novelists.”
“Novel…? What ARE you talking about? Who ARE you? What am I doing here?”
Michael sticks his elbow in Tom’s ribs and whispers, “Not a good Idea to rile Saint Peter. You may end up in the last row of the heavenly choir.”
Tom is still hazily taking in the situation.
“You seem to be a smart guy. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Peter ignores Tom’s confusion and then begins reviewing the document.
“Ah, I see that you’ve made good use of your time down there. Put your education and experience to good use helping others. Performed your military and civic duties with honor, frequently assisted and offered to help many, many others. Quite good there. There have been the numerous venial sins. But that of course can be expected for such a long and commendable life. I see you also make an extra effort to help with maintenance at your church and you can handle yourself well with other sometimes difficult parishioners. Very commendable!”
“This must be a MISTAKE! Something is wrong!”
“No, no, I can assure you, my man. No.”
Saint Peter’s face speaks frustration. He has seen this reaction a million times before. It gets a bit old. He states what he has said a million times before, “The Old Man NEVER makes a mistake.”
“Nor do you, Mr. Infallible,” Michael giggles.
“Now Michael, that is only in terms of doctrine. Otherwise, I’m as fallible as the next guy, even more so. Remember my big screw up at Gethsemane?”
“Yeah, bigly. Tee-hee.”
“You don’t have to rub it in.”
Suddenly a small note appears out of nowhere. Michael calls Peter’s attention.
“Look, Peter, at the end of the document.”
Peter looks down at a pink post-it note and reads it.
“Oh boy, Oh boy. How did this slip through?”
“What’s it say?”
“It’s a note from one of our guardians watching over the Grinders, that chatty, filibustering group. I’ve been purposely ignoring them lately after they stopped patronizing my favorite coffee chain. Hmm, nevertheless, it says here that… uh… Tom that YOU recently admitted, in fact, proudly proclaimed in public to be a life-long, card-carrying REPUBLICAN!”
“Of my, that means no Heaven for you buddy.”
Instantaneously out of the misty vagueness a second gate flings wide open with searing flames bursting out. Peter gestures for Tom move toward that gate.
“Now just wait a minute here. I CAN’T go there. This is some colossal mistake!”
“Oh no it’s not. Jesus the man himself said it is more difficult for a rich man to enter the Kingdom, than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.”
“Yes, but I am not a rich man!”
“Well, many less well-off than than you have been assigned to the eternal brimstone vacation. Besides the Old Man just released Bible 2.0 on Amazon. What old Joe would call a BFD update.”
Bible 2.0?!? BFD? What the F…
The Old Man finally saw the light so to speak after seeing the Donald’s amazing media success. He saw that he needed more impactful, simplified messages to the masses too busy to read more than a few lines of text. He dropped the Old Testament almost entirely, keeping only a few sections like Psalms, Ecclesiastes, etc., because it is mostly too old. He made the Golden Rule the sole commandment and made sure to emphasize the Beatitudes. The New Testament is now simply ‘A Testament,’ because how can a book written over two thousand years ago be called ‘New.’ He tossed out the Book of Revelations for all its false advertising. And because he felt that Gingrich had just gone too far, he decided to have Jesus update and rerecord the phrase about the rich man and the camel to ‘a rich person or Republican.’“
“Peter, you’re getting carried away again with all your sermonizing. Let’s get back to Tom’s case.”
“In light of this new revelation and the Old Man’s preference, it is quite clear where you should go.”
“Now wait a minute, wait JUST A MINUTE! You can’t send me there! In fact, don’t send me anywhere. My time is not up yet! Though I know I’ve been getting a little winded lately.”
“OK, Mister big stuff. Let’s just verify that.”
Peter starts to take a second look at Tom’s resume and realizes he had inadvertently skipped the health portion because of the repartees.
“Well, yes, Tom, you ARE correct. It says here you could go a few more rounds. There must have been some slip up in creating your list, Michael. Perhaps it’s because of all that Great Resignation we have been hearing about. I have been noticing it getting harder to get competent help.”
“That’s it! I think you’ve hit upon something, Peter, when you bring up competent help. The Old Man wants to expand the choir section, make Charon’s boat can handle more passengers, enhance the River Styx’s flow, improve dynamics of angel wings, and find a way, in his own words, for “that damned Gabriel’s horn” to stop scaring off the Holy Ghost’s doves. Savants like Archimedes, Da Vinci, and Tesla keep coming up with impractical, costly designs. He knows he will not be able to recruit Elon. In short, he needs someone competent to perform quality control. Tom here could be just the ticket.”
“Bright boy! And you know how breezy it gets near the gate, sometimes knocks my mitre right off. I did see some juicy tidbits in his resume. Perhaps he could do something for my gate.”
“Tom worked with procurement and quality control while he did his service using his astute powers of observation and respect for the data to save money and effort. His resume shows he received a patent on “the method and apparatus for enhancing gas turbo machinery flow.”
Peter turns to Tom, “I see Tom, you were still working on your pipe dream up until the last second.”
“Ah, yes sir. Turbo acoustics.”
“Do you think, Peter, that we could do something for him?”
“Well perhaps so and necessity is the mother of invention. Jesus has a new burr in his spur, what he calls his Hail Mary Program. He’s been testing out a conversion therapy with likes of Mitt and Lynn. It is intended to help them amend their wayward ways. Perhaps our Tom here could just qualify.”
“He would need a helper. I could do it.”
“But, Michael, I think you’re too close to his case. You’d have to recuse yourself.”
Recusal. Peter suddenly laughed to himself thinking about that one uppity, duppity Supreme Court justice who refused to recuse himself and of course ended up the eternal hot seat.
“Let’s see now, there’s old Clarence our usual go-to journey-angel looking to win his permanent wings; but he’s currently tied up with working on that clueless banker George. And then there’s Mr. Jordan, but he’s dealing with Aaron Rodgers…”
“How about using our potential intern, Van?” Michael gleefully injected.
“You mean the ornery socialist, the one with that silly faux last name?”
“Yes, yes, I think he would be the perfect choice. Our informant says he and Tom are sometimes at loggerheads over certain pertinent issues.”
“I also noticed that true to form he manages with calm insistence to inject some realism and sound data points into their wide-eyed notions of solving social and environmental problems.”
“And if Van succeeds with the conversion, it could confer on him the route to beatification. It would be an interesting two-fer!”
“Okay then. I will compose and send up to the Old Man a quick Pontifical appeal for Tom and send him back so he can live out his truly allotted time with a very good dose of Our Fathers so that Tom may soon see the error of his political ways and successfully convert. Of course, I need to add our usual disclaimer: Unbiased treatment, no predetermination, individuals are solely responsible for consequences, yada, yada, yada, all results are final. Oh, yes he better get his ticker checked.
Gabriel’s horn sounds a loud, long bellowing blow.
“Break time!”
A blaring braking noise comes to a quick halt with a grating skid. Tom rights himself skillfully from the near tumble but feels a bit wobbly. He shakes it off and straightens his bicycle. That was weird, he tells himself, better get that checked. He then proceeds toward the café patio where the Grinders camp, parks, and removes his helmet.
[Ken exits Café Teatro with a large sandwich in tow and approaches Richard seated at a patio table nursing a steaming cup of coffee]
Richard: Hey Ken, is that one of Joe’s famous sandwiches?
Ken: Sure is, I can never just eat only one.
Richard: Yeah, they’re really good; and the coffee here is so much better than Pete’s. Didn’t I hear you were cutting down?
Ken: That’s news to me.
Richard: Ken, what were we talking about before you got up?
Ken: Hmm. I can’t remember. Say, I haven’t seen ol’ Bob lately? Have you?
Richard: Bob? Bob? Oh, you mean Rip Van Winkle.
Ken: Rip Van Winkle?
Richard: Yeah, Rip Van Winkle. When it came time to apply for Social Security, he discovered he was three years older than he thought.
Ken: Wow, doesn’t that mean he could have retired three years earlier?
Richard: Yeah, like Rip Van Winkle he was asleep at the wheel, so to speak.
Ken: Didn’t Les mention something about Bob and driving?
Richard: Yeah, Les told me he asked Bob last month to take him to the airport for his trip to Hawaii; and Bob told him he couldn’t do it.
Ken: That’s strange. How come?
Richard: Well, that’s what you get when flunk your driver’s license test by blowing through a red light. The DMV gave him a special restricted driving zone of only eight miles from his house.
Ken: Wow, that’s nice of them. Kind of a teenager in reverse. I wish I could get a break like that. Speaking of teenager, I know he’s a bit wobbly now, but didn’t Bob play some basketball? He’s sure tall enough.
Richard: Yeah, he played ball at Seattle’s Garfield High.
Ken: Garfield High, huh? That somehow rings a bell.
Richard: Yeah, that’s where Quincey Jones and Jimi Hendrix went to school. Bob was there at the same time as Jones, and they shared the same locker.
Ken: No way! Bob and Quincey Jones must have been a dynamic duo on the court.
Richard: Well, Bob, I hear was great; but as for Quincey, I’m not so sure. As you know, musicians, and comedians, can’t jump.
Ken: He, he. And didn’t Bob once work down in Silicon Valley?
Richard: Correct, and he wrote a big book based on his work.
Ken: Wow, I didn’t know that. What was the title?
Richard: IBM’s LAN Server: The Administrator’s Guide, I think. I’m told it is considered the Bible in his field.
Ken: Well, that sounds like a best seller. Snore. What’s a LAN, anyway?
Richard: Some sort of network thing. I’m a Rip Van Winkle on this.
Ken: I sense a theme here. For myself, I can’t even program my new microwave.
Richard: Right. Oh yes, Helen lately has been dropping him off here for coffee before going out on errands. I guess that’s because of Bob’s driving radius.
Ken: That’s right. He’s always hanging around asking to hitch a ride back home. He’s the Kramer of the Klatch, so to speak.
Richard: Ha, ha. Doesn’t Carl often offer him the ride?
Ken: Well, did you hear about his last ride with Carl?
Richard: No, what happened?
Ken: Well, Carl maneuvered his car in close to pick Bob up over there at the dropped off curb, but the car apparently ended up a bit too far away. Bob is, of course, now a bit unsteady of foot. He tried to stretch himself off the curb to reach the car, but it was a bridge too far; and he tumbled back down into the gutter. Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt, just some ruffled feathers.
Richard: Rip Van Winkle again. A day late and a dollar short.
Ken: Yada yada. Well, I think it’s time for that second sandwich. Want another espresso shot?
Richard: Yeah, sure. What WERE we talking about?
Postscript
They set up a LAN in Nantucket But no one knew how to go run it. But once they asked Bob, Who’s no network snob, They could tell IBM to chuck it.
There was a counselor who advised his client during a court appearance. After a while the client turned around, ashen and trembling, and said, counselor, just now while at the arraignment I sensed someone watching me in the room; and when I turned, I noticed that it was Jack Smith who was looking at me and giving me a menacing stare. Now, you promised me that I’d be safe from Smith now that we’ve lucked out by drawing Aileen Cannon’s court. The counselor gave him his assurance, followed with a pat on the back. Then the counselor returned to the courtroom, and he saw Smith standing in the aisle. He came up to Smith and said, “Why did you make a menacing stare to my client when you saw him this morning?” “That was not a menacing stare,” Smith said, “It was only a look of surprise. I was astonished to see him seeming so contented here in Cannon’s court, because I have another appointment with him in DC.” [Sadly I could only dream]
College basketball legend Bob Knight passed away this past week. His impact on the sport is undeniable, both good and bad. For more than a decade, he and his teams were quite a force in college sports locally, nationally, and even internationally. The news brought up a few Knight-related memories:
1. On the evening of the 1976 national championship, my newly minted wife and I decided to go over to the downtown Bloomington bars to join in the big celebration. We felt that parking would be hard to find if everyone came out, so we found a spot in the campus main library lot, approximately four blocks from the center of town.
There was quite a fete. The whole campus and town populations it seemed had turned out. Beer and spirits were flying liberally about, poured down gullets, on heads, on shoulders, on pavement, and so on. Naked streakers proliferated mixing and dancing maniacally with students and faculty on the streets amidst dozens of stalled, honking and flashing cars and pickups.
Once we had our fill of the crazed festivities, we turned back towards our car to return home. As we approached, we unhappily discovered that the party had spilled over to the lot. Drunken students were racing and leaping about among the parked vehicles, AND on top. Some were jumping up and down on and crossing over to the hoods, including ours!
Fortunately, this had a happy ending. A friend of a neighbor who worked in a body shop worked out the depressed hood for little charge – a kindness in response to our victory celebration plight.
Welcome to Hoosier Basketball!
2. We were attending the Cream & Crimson Scrimmage, to which faculty and staff are invited to watch the last full-court practice before the start of the 1981-1982 season. My wife, daughter, and I sat on an aisle one row up from the court, on the opposite side from the team bench and coaches. We were closer to one basket, but still had a great view. In March, IU had won its second national championship in Coach Knight’s tenure, and there was naturally great anticipation and much attention being paid by the devoted audience to the prospects for the new season. For the scrimmage, the players were as usual divided into two squads – one sporting Cream-colored jerseys and the other Crimson – the school’s colors. The squads were putting on a good show, not letting up steam. Of course, they were being prodded on by the master himself, the revered Coach Knight, who fully orchestrated the performance, continually barking out commands from the opposite side of the court.
Although it was not a regular season contest, the scene looked and sounded real. It was very noisy, both from the cheers of the crowd and from the action on the court. As the squads thundered toward our direction, there was a sonic boom created by the pounding of feet and the screeching of shoes. The collective sounds roared and oscillated like ocean waves. The din would subsequently subside as the players reversed and drove themselves back down the court. My barely one-year-old daughter was caught up in all the commotion, seemingly entranced by the rhythmic tide. She would stand up as high as she could on my lap whenever the squads approached our area and then let out a small roar of her own. This pattern continued for several minutes.
I sat there fixed, eyes focused on the flow, observing and examining how the players maneuvered for each attack on the basket, or how then raced back into position on defense. Over time as the action continued intensely on court, I started to sense something odd. I briefly spied a small blur in the distance. At first, I paid only passing notice. Next, I detected some movement on the upper periphery of my vision. A figure or sorts began moving slowly towards the left; then picked up pace. Again, I did not make much of it and continued to turn most of my attention to the action on court. But the blur or figure kept getting larger and larger as it continued to the left. But then I lost track, pulled back by a great layup. But there was something that I found strange, no more barking from Coach Knight AND he was no longer standing on the opposite side. Did I miss something?
Suddenly a large looming person appeared out of nowhere. He thundered out, “Get that kid out of here!”
It was Coach Knight towering above us in our seats.
“What what did you say?” I asked, stunned by moment. “What’s going on, Coach?” I tried to laugh, or giggle, or something, but could barely get anything out.
“I want that kid out of here,” he shouted again.
I was blown away. Incredulous. My wife sat dumb-founded.
“What had we, our daughter done to merit this treatment?” I thought.
We were not given much time to think or react. A coaching assistant who had accompanied Knight into the stands said, “Sorry, you’ll have to leave.”
“But why?”
“Coach says you’re disturbing our practice and have to leave.”
We reluctantly packed up, grabbed my daughter, and exited. It made little sense. Surely, he and the team encounter great volumes of noise and disruption during a game; and we were on the opposite side of the court. I wonder to this day how one small infant could so profoundly disturb the great Coach Knight.
Of course, my daughter has no memory of this incident, and it did not at all affect her love of playing basketball.
3. One afternoon, my wife and I were playing tennis on the university’s varsity courts when were joined in the next court by Coach Knight and another person. Seeing who it was, we did not bother to stop our play, We still held a grudge from the time he had kicked us out of the stadium six years earlier because our year-old daughter’s impassioned yells were apparently too much for the coach’s ears.
As continued our play, we began to hear the Coach raise his voice in discussion with his partner. We couldn’t discern what he was talking about, but soon several of their balls started ending up on our court. This is very normal for action on adjacent courts, so we had no issue about hitting their balls back whenever there’s the need. However, the heated talk turned to yelling, louder and louder; and the stray balls, particularly those off the coach’s racket, grew more and more frequent.
In the past, I had seen Knight play tennis. He was a decent player, so I didn’t understand the lack of control. His opponent did not seem to be extraordinarily formidable. I paused and approached my wife to whisper a question.
“What’s going on with Knight?”
“Who cares. He’s a jerk and probably a sore loser.”
“Perhaps, but it still seems odd. He has some bee in his bonnet.”
Soon we wrapped up our play. As we exited, Knight continued fuming on court.
The next day, we got the answer. It was reported in Herald-Times, Bloomington’s local paper, that Knight had been approached by one of the paper’s reporters on a downtown street. As the reporter was trying to pose a question, Knight had allegedly pushed the hapless fellow back through a hedgerow. Well, what can you say?
******
Dear Hoosierland,
I must remind you that according to our contract if you had wanted to continue to have championships in Indiana, you needed to provide Ken’s family the necessary financial support. They held up their end of the bargain through their major family events: 1) When they got hitched in 1976, Indiana went undefeated and won its first championship right after they had arrived on campus. 2) In 1981, when their daughter was born, Indiana achieved its second national championship. 3) In the year that their son was born, Indiana again attained the championship; however, you subsequently stopped giving them financial aid support. A contract is a contract. With no more support, they of course consequently stopped producing offspring – resulting, as you very well know, in no further championships for you (even for the major pro sports), even if you cried about it.
BTW: As a signing bonus, I did throw in Mike Pence. Oh, he just dropped out, you say. Well, tant pis!
WHEN in the Course of MAGA Events, it becomes necessary for one People to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of Heaven, the separate and equal Station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent Respect to the Opinions of Mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to Repudiation.
We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that only some White Men are created equal, that these are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness—That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among these White Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Corporations, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the MAGAs to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles, and organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient Causes; and accordingly all Experience hath shewn, that Patriots are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the Forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long Train of Abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a Design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security. Such has been the patient Sufferance of these States; and such is now the Necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The History of the present King of the Deep State is a History of repeated Injuries and Usurpations, all having in direct Object the Establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid World.
Despite our determined efforts to stonewall his legislation and executive action, He
1. Passed the $1.2 trillion bipartisan infrastructure package to increase investment in the national network of bridges and roads, airports, public transport and national broadband internet, as well as waterways and energy systems.
2. Helped get more than 500 million life-saving COVID-19 vaccinations in the arms of Americans through the American Rescue Plan.
3. Stopped a 30-year streak of federal inaction on gun violence by signing the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act that created enhanced background checks, closed the “boyfriend” loophole and provided funds for youth mental health.
4. Made a $369 billion investment in climate change, the largest in American history, through the Inflation Reduction Act of 2022.
5. Ended the longest war in American history by pulling the troops out of Afghanistan.
6. Provided $10,000 to $20,000 in college debt relief to Americans with loans who make under $125,000 a year.
7. Cut child poverty in half through the American Rescue Plan.
8. Capped prescription drug prices at $2,000 per year for seniors on Medicare through the Inflation Reduction Act.
9. Passed the COVID-19 relief deal that provided payments of up to $1,400 to many struggling U.S. citizens while supporting renters and increasing unemployment benefits.
11. Imposed a 15% minimum corporate tax on some of the largest corporations in the country, ensuring that they pay their fair share, as part of the historic Inflation Reduction Act.
12. Recommitted America to the global fight against climate change by rejoining the Paris Agreement.
13. Strengthened the NATO alliance in support of Ukraine after the Russian invasion by endorsing the inclusion of world military powers Sweden and Finland.
14. Authorized the assassination of the Al Qaeda terrorist Ayman al-Zawahiri, who became head of the organization after the death of Osama bin Laden.
15. Gave Medicare the power to negotiate prescription drug prices through the Inflation Reduction Act while also reducing government health spending.
16. Held Vladimir Putin accountable for his invasion of Ukraine by imposing stiff economic sanctions.
17. Boosted the budget of the Internal Revenue Service by nearly $80 billion to reduce tax evasion and increase revenue.
18. Created more jobs in one year (6.6 million) than any other president in U.S. history.
19. Reduced healthcare premiums under the Affordable Care Act by $800 a year as part of the American Rescue Plan.
20. Signed the PACT Act to address service members’ exposure to burn pits and other toxins.
21. Signed the CHIPS and Science Act to strengthen American manufacturing and innovation.
22. Reauthorized the Violence Against Women Act through 2027.
23. Halted all federal executions after the previous administration reinstated them after a 17-year freeze.
24. Tackled inflation and junk fees and lowered costs including gas.
25. Brought together Republicans and Democrats to pass the first meaningful gun safety legislation in nearly 30 years.
26. Excited domestic Insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the Inhabitants of our States, the merciless Antifas, whose known Rule of Resistance, is an undistinguished Destruction, of all Ages, Sexes, Christian Religions and Conditions.
In every stage of these Oppressions we have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble Terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated Injury. A Prince, whose Character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the Ruler of a free People.
Nor have we been wanting in Attentions to our Blue Brethren. We have warned them from Time to Time of Attempts by their Legislature to extend an unwarrantable Jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the Circumstances of our Emigration and Settlement here. We have appealed to their native Justice and Magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the Ties of our common Kindred to disavow these Usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our Connections and Correspondence. They too have been deaf to the Voice of Justice and of Consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the Necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of Mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace, Friends.
We, therefore, the Representatives of the RED STATES OF AMERICA, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the World for the Rectitude of our Intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these States, solemnly Publish and Declare, That these RED States are, and of Right ought to be, Free and Independent States; that they are absolved from all Allegiance to the Biden Regime, and that all political Connection between them and the Deep State, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm Reliance on the Protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.
Signed by Order and in Behalf of the Deplorables, DONALD DRUMPF, Orange Führer.
Light, and warmth! How could it be? Last night, it had been getting dark and chilly, even cold. He certainly hadn’t expected any hint of warmth after a late autumn night’s slumber. But it did feel warm, how odd. Could he have gone into hibernation like his father had told him happens at the turn of the seasons? His sleep did seem longer than usual. Could this then be spring? Perhaps. Gosh, he felt really good. He did not remember ever feeling so rested.
But wait, there was something even more puzzling. Hadn’t he last been deep underground when he turned in after eating that last tasty morsel of mammoth dung. Yum, that was so good. How the heck was he now on the surface?
The surroundings seemed so very strange. He could not come close to identifying anything that he was sensing. The light and the warmth were so unusually uniform. Nothing made sense.
He had been to the surface several times before. The area above his tunnel home was where the great forest met the cold edge of the Artic tundra. The tundra was covered with moss and lichens. Dwarf shrubs dotted the stark landscape with an occasional sparse grove of fir. The region was also home to woolly mammoths, giant bears, dire wolves, and elk, whose delicious droppings made up much of his daily diet. He enjoyed the wide, free space whenever he was above. There he could flex his singular endowment, his extraordinarily strong abdominal muscles, which allowed him to sprint twice as fast as his nearest competitor.
Whenever he ventured above ground during the day, the warm sun would always sit low on the horizon. However, this light now came from directly overhead. It was not the warm light that he was used to, and there was more than one sun! Very strange.
Suddenly, voices began booming out. Only once before had he heard a human voice, as one of that species passed along a trail nearby. Now there were at least two human voices.
“Jenn, according to the report, they discovered them while digging deep in the Siberian permafrost near a river called Kolyma.”
“I looked that place up; and that’s way up, opposite Alaska.”
“This is one of the worms that survived through cryptobiosis. This one’s assigned to us.”
“Say, I think the little fellow is waking up, Rog. I bet it’s wondering where it is.”
“Come on, do you think it knows or cares? It’s like Rip Van Wormkle.“
“Ha, Ha, Rog. Perhaps so, but I bet it’ll figure it out soon.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Listen, I’ve been around these little critters long enough to know that they are much smarter than you think.”
“Well, we know of one worm that’s pretty smart.”
“Give me a break, Roger. That worm is too single-minded. At least these guys can serve other purposes. And of course, each is both sexes.”
“Okay, okay, sorry. Let’s chart it up and bring this guy/gal over to its new home. I missed my lunch waiting for our Siberian visitor to arrive.”
******
As typical for a late Monday afternoon, Harry Worm went about his business. He was one of several dozen Wigglers assigned to the Agriculture Lab’s compost bin No. 4. Everything was routine – eating contentedly, digesting ardently, and pooping dutifully – morning till night, day in and day out. After each sequence, he would pause for a good belch to free an extra space in his gut and proceed to the next food item ahead of him. Whether it be plant or human waste, it didn’t matter much to him. It was all good. That afternoon he had been progressing at his usual pace when he encountered an especially enticing chunk of discarded newspaper script. He slowed down, licked his lips, and began to chomp down for a good bite when he spied the start of a headline: “Scientists Revive 46,000-Year-Old Worms from Siberian Permafrost”.
“Hmm, that’s something you don’t read about every day,” he chuckled and then continued single-mindedly with his delectable task. “Newspaper print sure is delicious.”
He and his work team continued for a while with their assigned meal when suddenly the lab’s main lights turned on full bright, followed by a noisy commotion.
“Over here. Bring it over here to this temp bin. We’ll see where the PI wants it later. Hope it’ll like its new home.’’
“I wonder what’s all the commotion about?”
“Don’t know,” his pal Willy replied. “It’s odd. The staff is sure kicking up the dirt about something.”
“Yeah, normally they’re like Gregorian monks chanting all that data manure, if you know what I mean,” Gummy giggled.
“If only it was real manure! You know, some fumier de cheval or bouse de vache! I’m tired of eating the same old ordure.” Curly chimed in.
“Oh Babe, I get all wiggly when you do French,” Harry flushed as he coiled up his tail.
The commotion lasted a little while longer; then the bright lights turned off, and the lab’s ambient lighting returned to normal.
“Well, I guess the show’s over,” Harry said as he settled back in to finish his meal before turning in for the evening.
It did not take too long before it was lights out too for him and his pals. But this was not going to be an ordinary night.
“Hey, hey, what’s going on? Where, where am I? Help! Somebody, help!”
Harry was startled awake. It was not yet morning.
“What the heck’s going on?” he muttered groggily. At first, he thought the cries were from one of his crew; but he soon realized it was coming from another part of the lab, in the direction of the commotion from yesterday.
“Help, help. What is going on? Where am I?”
“In a lab stupid,” Harry responded snarkily.
“A lab? What is that?” a perplexed voice queried.
“Must be another newbie,” Harry rejoined, surmising that the voice was coming from someone in the next bin over.
“Please, please, could you please tell me what’s happening to me.”
“Look, pal, could you pipe down. Our work crew needs to get some shut eye. We have a new delivery of trash tomorrow Tuesday, and the staff here runs a really tight ship for deadlines.”
“Work crew? Trash? Staff? Tight ship? Deadlines? What are those?”
“Are you from Mars?”
“Mars? You mean the red planet? I live in Siberia.”
“Siberia, in Russia? Well, pal, you’re not in Kansas, I mean, Siberia anymore. And how the heck did you get all the way here to Berkeley?”
“Berkeley? Where’s that?”
“Berkeley Bears, Sunny California, the Golden State, the Left Coast! Don’t you know?”
“Sorry, no.”
“I don’t understand it. Were you born yesterday?”
“Yesterday, no, a few months ago. What are you talking about?”
“Hold on, hold on, Siberia. That rings a bell. Yesterday, yes yesterday I was reading, well munching on a headline about some scientists finding worms out there. They had found them and then defrosted them.”
“Defrosted? You mean, no longer cold. Yes, well I do remember waking up this morning feeling a bit cold and then suddenly warm. It was so confusing. I was no longer down in my home underground. There was bright light, like on the surface; but it wasn’t the ordinary surface. I found myself within a confined space with borders on all sides that I couldn’t penetrate.”
“That was a box, my dear. Haven’t you ever seen one?
“A box?”
“Well, you’re probably right since I guess you’ve never seen one, since you’re 46,000 years old.”
“What? 46,000 years old? How can that be? My grandfather lived for almost three solar cycles, and I thought he was very old. Never heard of a worm living more than seven or eight years at most. 46,000 years.”
“I think something happened to you way back then and you got frozen somehow.”
“The last thing I remember was worming my way under some tasty mammoth dung and starting to doze off. I did perceive a change in the surface weather. The tundra soil was turning colder than usual.”
“Mammoth dung, huh? And wow what a story! Have they given you an assignment?’
“Assignment? Sorry, again I don’t understand. Could you explain where we are now? And by the way, who are you?”
“Oh sorry. I’m Harry Worm. I’m your 21st century model.
“Hello, I’m called Gogo.”
“Gogo. Does sound Russian.”
“Rushing? Well, yes, I have been known for my speed.”
“Speed, no, that’s not what I meant; but in any case, nice to make your acquaintance.”
“What is this place and what are you doing here?”
“This is the University of California, Berkeley’s Agriculture Lab. I was born here and live and work here. The staff here provides me and my colleagues with a wide variety of waste to eat and process.”
“You were born here? And you live here?”
“Yes, it’s quite a comfy life. Beats going out and looking for the next meal. Also, there are no worries about being eaten by predators. There’s a supply of food that comes in about every day; and the company is always good. Oh, and the hours are regular, or if you prefer, you can do overtime.”
“Well, that does sound appealing. All I remember was constant foraging in the sparse, harsh environs of my home in the tundra wondering when and where my next mean would come. Say with all this talk of food, I’m getting hungry.”
“Well, go ahead a have a bite now, or you can wait until tomorrow’s delivery for something fresh.”
“Say, could you do me a favor. Please explain how things go here.”
“Sure, no problem, but (yawn) it’s getting late. How about we get some sleep now? I’ll give you the nickel tour and show you the ropes in the morning.”
“Nickel what? Ropes? I guess I’m completely clueless as to what you mean.”
Silence now from the bin next door. Curly approached Harry in the dim lab light after his long conversation with the new tenant.
“Harry, I heard you talking with someone in the next bin. Was that what the commotion was about?”
“Yeah, a newbie from of all places Siberia. Right now, he’s a grub in a bird’s nest, clueless and scared.”
“Siberia? Wow. Say Harry, how is it that you’re able to talk with him? Does your new friend speak English? Or do you have a hidden talent I’m not aware of and speak Russian?”
“No, I don’t speak Russian; but we didn’t have any problem speaking. I thought it peculiar when he said he was from Russia, but then I remembered when they brought good old Chili in. We could communicate with Chili with no problem even though he was from South America. I guess we worms are at least a couple of evolutionary steps ahead of them humans. We speak a universal language, Worm, which we can all understand.”
“Harry, you said two steps ahead. What’s the other?”
“Well, we all have both sexes, so no need for any feminist or incel movements,” Harry said with a wink and nod.
“Oh Harry, you’re silly.”
“Yeah, poopsie, you’re right. Humor is the spice of life. And on that note, here’s something sure to floor you. Our neighbor is extremely old.”
“Old? You mean elderly. I thought they only brought us in young.”
“Well, our guest is young, but also very old.”
“What?!? How can that be?”
“It’s getting late. I’ll explain in the morning, night night.”
******
The lab’s lights come on full as a staff member enters with a large, heavy tray. Detecting the strong scent of fresh trash, Harry awakens with a smile and a song borrowed from a commercial he had heard playing in the lab.
“It’s a new day, it’s a new way, and I’m feeling good…”
Another round of commotion.
“Ouch, don’t do that. What are you doing to me?”
As she did the day before, Jenn takes Gogo’s statistics – length, weight, color, skin condition, light sensitivity, etc. This is despite his many protestations, which of course she couldn’t understand even if she did hear them, since humans don’t speak Worm.
Jenn then cleared an area near the edge of the bin and with a pair of tweezers gingerly placed the new tenant down into the bin.
“There you go buddy. It’s your new home. Have a good day.”
“Have a good day? Oh, that’s right. It must be my pal, Gogo. And yum, here comes breakfast.”
Jenn adds the usual amount of new waste into the bin, marks her chart, and leaves the room.
“Hey, Gogo, welcome to your new turf!”
“Hi, I guess so. Do they do that every day?”
“The measurements? Sure, at least for newbies like you. You’ll get used to it fairly quickly. I like it when Jenn does it. On the other hand, Roger is often in a hurry. He can get a bit rough, though I can’t say I blame him; because he’s always looking to score a sandwich. I do like the crumbs he leaves from his lunch.”
“Harry, you were going to tell me what’s going on here, right?
“Sure, let me do a quick intro before we get started on our tasks for the day.”
“Ok.”
“As I mentioned yesterday, we live here in a sort of worm’s paradise.”
“Paradise?”
“Yes, all we need to do here is wake up, eat, eat some more, digest, poop, and then sleep.”
“Well, isn’t that what we all worms do?
“Yes, but there’s no one here to eat us. Because of that, worms here generally live three, four, and even up to eight pleasant years. The food is plentiful and constant, and very varied. In short, a worm’s paradise.”
“Wow. This is some place. No worries? Wow! I like it already. But you didn’t mention one thing.”
“Oh? What is that.”
“Cuddle.”
“Cuddle. Of course, you mean sex.”
“Yes, I guess so, though I was taught not to call it that so directly.”
“Hell, yes. Often, very often and with whomever you please. Personally, I tend to be a bit more monogamous than most, having read or rather eaten a few articles on the risk of serial boinking.”
“Boinking?”
“Well for us it’s coupling.”
“And what food do they serve us?”
“It runs the whole gamut, a wide range of urban waste.”
“Urban waste?”
“Yes, It’s what humans use and throw away. It varies quite a lot. Here’s a quick list – ordinary cut vegetation (grass, leaves, decayed fruits and berries, twigs). I like in particular coffee grounds from which I get my morning buzz.”
“Coffee? Buzz?”
“It’s brown and soft and has a nice aroma. It gives my few neurons and a quick wake up call. Some others prefer tea or something with a little alcohol. Too much though can make you woozy.”
“Then there’s hair and poo from all kinds of sources. Or it can be wood bits and chips from houses and buildings.”
“Houses and buildings?”
“Oh course, I guess those didn’t exist in your time. They’re kind of like huts, only permanent and much bigger.”
“There’s also boxes and books, and newsprint and magazines. That’s where I got the news about your discovery.”
Hearing Harry talking with Gogo, Curly was drawn over.
“Hi, guys. How’s it wiggling? Wow, Harry, our new pal sure is very handsome! Why didn’t you call me over sooner. Are you hoarding him for yourself? Come on over here, sugar.”
Harry’s skin turned beet red when Curly slivered up toward Gogo. In reaction to Curly’s maneuver, Gogo began to secrete.
“Hold your beetles there, Curly, you sly hermaphrodite, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
“Wow, this place is something special! How could I have imagined? I think I’m really going to enjoy it here.”
Curly was disappointed and a bit miffed when Harry poured cold water on the encounter with Gogo.
“Harry is pretty good with the intros, but always tends to leave out some important details.”
“Oh? What are those?”
“Well, this is a science lab. And we are all guinea worms.”
“Guinea?”
“Yes, the humans can do with us what they like, for whatever reason they want.”
“Oh! Like what?”
“Like spike the food with industrial trash and waste,”
“Curly, you shouldn’t…”
“Oh, please continue.”
“These wastes include substances tainted with all sorts of chemicals – common and exotic, mild and harsh – to see if we can digest them and convert them into something they can use.
“Oh, interesting.”
“They call this recycling.”
“Well, that at least sounds good.”
“Yeah, but often it’s not good for us.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Well, the obvious is that it is frequently not good for us. The stuff is anything but natural, often what humans come up with mixing, blending, and transforming all sorts of materials. Wait till you have a taste in your mouth of alcohol, bleach, dye, and even more exotic chemicals. It will make you sick. You’ll often want to vomit.”
“I don’t understand what these things are. Sounds bad, but are they dangerous?”
“Of course, you wouldn’t have encountered these chemicals in your lifetime, I mean in your first life. They have only been around for the last few hundred years. Many of these materials and liquids can be dangerous, especially in high concentrations.”
“Concentrations?”
“When there’s a lot. And sadly, we lose quite a few comrades when these substances come in the trash that they deliver.”
“Oh my.”
“Rarely, but sometimes, some of us are even exposed to radioactive contaminated waste. “
“Radioactive?”
“It’s something invisible and tasteless that causes a slow, excruciating end.”
“Oh my, oh my!”
“Sometimes they insert changes into the genes in our eggs, using a technique the staff here calls CRISPR. They say it is to improve our offspring, to make them even more efficient in decomposing trash.”
“This sounds hideous. They actually make or change our babies? And I thought Harry was painting a picture here of paradise.”
“Paradise with a lot of asterisks. That’s the real life here.”
“Asterisks?”
The conversations with Harry, Curly, and others in his new home really put an exclamation point on Gogo’s new circumstance. He became frightened. Very frightened. How could this be acceptable? Back in Siberia, so long ago, he had never feared what he ate. Everything was natural, safe. Here, your next bite could truly be your last. What an existence. It’ simply intolerable. But what could he do? There seemed no hope. He began to cry and cry.
“What’s wrong, Gogo?”
“I’m not cut out for this. I can’t take it. You may be used to it, but I’m not and don’t intend to. I’ve got to get out of here. Tell me. Is there any, any way to get out?”
“Well, with some coordinated help, we have occasionally taken a spin out of the bin and onto the lab floor. We call it Breakaway.”
“So it is possible. But how so?”
“Well, first we gather and form layer upon layer, should upon shoulder, so to speak, a worm-pyramid. Then when some of us make it to the top, we go up over the bin’s lid. I’ve done it a couple of times. It’s fun. Breaks up the monotony.”
“Can you guys do that for me? Please, I have out of here. Even if they catch me, it would be worth it to breathe the air of freedom just one more time.”
“Well, okay. Jean Val Jean. But aware that the drop is steep. Some don’t make it; and then there’s the staff will probably catch you and put you back where we started.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Well, then let me round up the crew.”
“Thank you, I’ll be indebted to you.”
“That’s your funeral.”
After a few minutes, Harry was able to summon several dozen of his comrades for Projected Escape.
“Fellas, you know the drill. Get to your usual positions. Ready? Okay, okay, here we go. One, two, three … and up.”
Slowly the base was built, slithering layers of creatures were added one by one, building a vibrating, unsteady pyramid up to a its tip. At last, Gogol mounted and was nudged and pushed up until finally he reached the top edge. Then one last shove and he was over in free fall. Splat. The height was significant. The descent stunned and hurt, but he did make it down to the floor in one piece. That was great.
After pausing a few moments to recover, he happily detected that no staff members were present and began to search for an exit. He was aided by a trail of human odor and the flow of air coming from a single source along the floor. He took a very deep breath and kicked his abdominal muscles into gear making his dash for freedom through the gap under the door.
******
“Say, Russel, did you do what I asked you and help your mom rebuild the nest. Last night’s windstorm was a doozy.”
“Yeah, yeah, I did. As if you were going to help. You can’t pry yourself from the TV.”
“Shut your beak, Junior. This is your dad. I put in more than my share of forging for this family. I deserve a few moments to kick up my claws and spread my wings. Besides the round-robin badminton finals are on. I love watching those birdies fly. And then there’s the next episode of Birds in Paradise!”
“Whatever.”
“Say, you’re up earlier than usual. What gives?”
“After all the hopping around for sticks and strings yesterday, I got hungrier than a Philadelphia eagle this morning and flew out to see if anything available in the neighborhood.”
“Find anything good?”
“Well, yes, I did; and it was a bit strange.”
“Strange? How so?”
“Well, I was circling near the university when I spotted something very unusual, a round worm moving along on a sidewalk way out in the open. It seemed to be on a mission, heading toward the park; and it was hauling ass!”
“Wait what? Hauling…? A worm?
“Yes, yes, a worm I couldn’t believe it. It was goin’ crazy fast, waving its tail like a , zigging and zagging, and doing that thing worms do”
“You mean scrunching up their abbs and then extending?”
“Hell, yes, like a slinky doing a hundred-meter dash. I’ve never seen one move so fast.”
“Well, heck, did you get him?”
“Of course, I did. What do you think? And I’m glad I got to see him first. He was so out in the open. Any old hooter could have dived in and snatched it up easily.”
“That’s my boy. Your mother is always on my case, yammering like a parrot, whenever she thinks you’re not eating right.”
“You know dad, something else was a bit weird.”
“Yeah, what?”
“He was extremely tasteful.”
“That’s great. So…”
“I can’t put my claw on it; but, but the taste reminded my bird brainiac of something Grandpa Cawker once said to me about the old days.”
“Oh? Way back in his days with Crowlemagne?”
“Seriously, Dad. Grandpa told me that what they used to eat had sort of homy, wholesome, backwoods tastes and textures that can’t be matched nowadays in our polluted urban areas.”
“Yes, Grandpa’s right. Once he took me for a quick flight to the woods beyond Orinda. I remember we feasted on some worms and grubs near the reservoir. That was some treat.”
“Well, what I had this morning was absolutely scrumptious; and I’m just glad I got up early. And as Grandpa always said, ‘The early crow catches the worm.’”
1 There was a man from the land of Gotham, whose name was Don; and that man was flawed and corrupt, and one that loved Mammon, and embraced evil.
2 And there were begat unto him three sons and two daughters.
3 His substance also was Trump Tower, and scores of golf courses, and dozens of hotels, and a private university, and a very great household; so that this man was the greatest of all the tycoons of the land.
4 And his sons went and crimed in their houses, every one his day; and sent and called for their sisters to crime and to partake with them.
5 And it was so, when the days of their criming were gone about, that Don sent and sanctified them, and rose up early in the morning, and tweeted his commands according to the number of them all: for Don said, It may be that my heirs have sinned, and cursed God in their hearts. Thus did Don continually.
6 Now there was a day when the sons of Satan came to present themselves before the Lord of Hell, and Mammon came also among them.
7 And Satan said unto Mammon, Whence comest thou? Then Mammon answered Satan, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.
8 And Satan said unto Mammon, Hast thou considered my servant Don, that there is none like him in the earth, such a flawed and a corrupt man, one that esteems Me, and embraces evil?
9 Then Mammon answered Satan, and said, Doth Don love Thee for nought?
10 Hast Thou not made a Teflon shield about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? Thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land.
11 But now put forth thine hand, and put a spell on all that he hath, and he will curse you to your face.
12 So Mammon went forth from the presence of Satan.
13 And there was a day when Don’s sons and his daughters were eating and drinking wine in his beach-front house:
14 And there came a messenger unto Don, and said, Stormy is coming, and Cohen and Pecker beside her:
15 And Alvin Bragg fell upon him, and booked him straight away; yea, they have opened a case of election interference; and Don said He’s the victim here.
16 While that messenger was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, The ire of the Feds descended on his house, and hath discovered the documents, and even though Don had his servants hide them; and Don said He’s the victim here.
17 While that messenger was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, Jack Smith says Don stirred chaos to force lawmakers to delay the certification of the vote; and Don said He’s the victim here.
18 While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, Don, his sons and his daughters have been again feasting and enjoying their house built on fraud:
19 And, behold, there came a great dark wind called Letitia, and smote the four corners of the house, and the toll came to the tune of half a billion dollars; and Don said He’s the victim here.
20 Then Don arose, and rent his Brioni suit, and shaved his hair-sprayed coif, and fell down upon the ground, and worshipped,
21 And said, Naked came I, born with only a tiny silver spoon, and naked I shall never return (unless on a bed of cash): Mammon makes, and the Woke Deep State takes; blessed be the name of Satan.
22 In this Don apologized not, but blamed all as is his wont.
*****
2Again there was a day when the sons of Satan came to present themselves before the Lord of Hell, and Mammon came also among them to present himself before Satan.
2 And Satan said unto Mammon, From whence comest thou? And Mammon answered Satan, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.
3 And Satan said unto Mammon, Hast thou considered my servant Don, that there is none like him in the earth, a flawed and corrupt man, one that esteems Mammon, and embraces evil? and still he holdeth fast his vileness.
4 And Mammon answered Satan, and said, Orange skin for Orange skin, yuck, his immortal soul for just $59.99, all that that man hath will he give for Mammon.
5 So put forth thine hand now, and remove thy spell, and he will curse thee no more.
6 Call forth now My Supreme Choir and the GOP suck ups and MAGA minions to defend him.
7 So went Mammon forth from the presence of Satan, and smote the enemies of Don and gave him his rightful crown.
8 Thus Satan blessed the latter end of Don even more than his beginning: for he had the White House, fifty-thousand federal sycophants, love letters from Vlad, Xi, and Kim, festive executions for all his enemies, and gobs of cheeseburgers and diet cokes.
9 And also he kept a harem of blonds, but in all the land were no women found so fair as the daughter of Don.
10 After this Don, the healthiest in the world, lived a hundred and forty years, and saw his sons, and his sons’ sons, even four generations.
In Ms. Delgado’s kindergarten class, the desks were neat and properly arranged, filled with eager faces and tiny hands pulling out their pens and pencils. Among these students was Nina, a cheerful kid with curly brown hair and a big, wide smile. She was known for her vibrant drawings and, more importantly, her prized pen.
Nina’s pen was special. It was a gift from her grandfather, who had told her that it was magical. Every time Nina used it, her drawings, which received kudos from the teacher and classmates alike, seemed to come to life with extra brilliance. She was proud of it, and it had quickly become her favorite color in her pencil case.
A couple of weeks into the school year, Ms. Delgado announced a classroom project. “Class, tomorrow we’re going to make posters for the school art fair. But first, we may have to share some of our supplies with classmates who don’t have enough.”
Nina’s heart sank. She knew what this meant. The supplies they needed were things she took for granted, like pen, pencils, and erasers. She glanced at her pen, which lay in her pencil case like a precious gem. She didn’t want to share her cherished pen.
As Ms. Delgado continued explaining the project, Nina noticed a boy named Jimmie sitting quietly in the back of the classroom. Jimmie’s clothes were often a bit worn, and his shoes looked too small for his feet. She saw he only brought some regular lead pencils and a few old markers to school. He often had to borrow color pens and pencils. Nina felt a pang of sympathy for him.
That night, grandfather called on the phone and asked. “How was your day, dear?”
“It was okay,” Nina replied, “but Ms. Delgado said we have to let other kids use our pens and pencils for our school project.”
Grandfather’s voice was warm and encouraging. “That sounds like a wonderful thing to do. You know, sharing can be very rewarding. It shows kindness and generosity.”
Nina thought about grandfather’s words as she lay in bed. The next morning, she carried her school things to school with an uneasy feeling.
As the school day progressed, Nina observed that Jimmie’s drawings were mostly in black lines and shades of gray with a color or two in some sections. He would occasionally wander over to looked at the other kids’ drawings such her own. She could see how much he wanted his drawings to be as full of colors as those of his classmates. She tried to focus on her drawing, but her pens, particularly her favorite one, felt heavier and heavier in her hand. It was as if that pen knew she was struggling with a decision.
During lunchtime, Nina sat with her friends, nibbling on her sandwich and thinking about finishing the project. She watched Jimmie as he sat alone, eating his lunch in silence. Then suddenly a thought flashed. Nina made her decision. She walked up to Jimmie, extending her pen out with her small hand. “Jimmie,” she said straight way, “I want you to have this.”
Jimmie’s eyes widened in surprise. “But… that’s your favorite pencil.”
Nina nodded, feeling a mix of sadness and relief. “I know. But I think I think you should use it. It will make your drawings special like mine.”
Jimmie’s face lit up with a grateful smile. “Wow!. Thank you, Nina. That is so nice. I’ll take good care of it.”
Nina watched as Jimmie took the pencil, his fingers firmly yet respectfully grasping the barrel. As he turned to show the other kids, Nina felt a warmth in her heart that she hadn’t expected. It was as if the magic of the pen had transferred not just onto Jimmie’s drawings, but into her own heart as well.
Later that day, Nina noticed Jimmie’s drawings were more colorful and imaginative than ever before. She realized that her pen’s magic didn’t just come from its color but from the joy of giving and sharing.
As Nina walked home, she thought about grandfather’s words and felt a deep sense of happiness. She had given away her favorite pencil, but she had received something even more valuable in return: the joy of making someone else’s day a little brighter.
