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.
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.’”
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]
[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.
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.
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.
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.
The main purpose of this bibliography is to offer a fairly comprehensive list of novels and short stories written in English or available in translation that teachers can use to help students at the secondary and college level think critically about the world of work. The works included in this bibliography articulate the lives of men and women who run the machines, plow the fields, sign the contracts, sew the clothes, and work the assembly lines. It is hoped that these stories will be enjoyable, informative, thought provoking, and maybe even a little unsettling. Some stories focus on the laudable side of work, while others criticize or satirize the more unpleasant or burdensome aspects–“I hate my job,” “I’m the only human being in this place,” and so on. Some works represent efforts to defy what they see as a conspiracy on the part of business and government to dehumanize or to 1 2 6 characterize businesspeople as Babbitts or unlettered Philistines (Holt, 1989). Others attempt to right a perceived prejudice against labor and labor leaders.
The bibliographic entries contain the original publication date as well as a citation for editions published that were available mainly through the use of the University of California library system. These editions do not represent the only publication source for many of these works.
The annotations are of two kind. First, up to three major work-related subjects are listed as they apply to the contents of each work. Second, this is followed by a short description, usually about the plot, that further explains each story’s connection to the world of work. The subjects listed represent some of the major work-related topics contained in these literary pieces and are not exclusive, for many of these works cover multiple aspects of the work experience. The following is a list of the subjects used in this bibliography:
Agriculture Business Career (career choices, paths, and obstacles) Customer Relations (how service is rendered to customers and clients) Discrimination (race, gender, and so on) Entrepreneurship (starting work on one’s own) Ethics (affect of work on ethical fabric of society) International Business Management Marketing Performance (evaluation of the quality of a person’s work) Technology (how technology affects the workplace) Unions Value of Work (the reasons why one works, its human worth) Women and Work Working Conditions (mainly the physical environment) Work Relations (how one gets along with coworkers and supervisors) Work Skills (what is needed or lacking to be an effective worker)
No bibliographic list of this type, of course, can ever be considered complete, for the more one looks the more one discovers the rich diversity of literature. As for the selection of these works, the overriding criterion is whether work plays a significant part in the development of the plot or the characters, even though the work activities may also be tightly interwoven with other psychological, social, and cultural elements of life.
Another major criterion of this bibliography is to provide a large range of work experiences particularly in areas that interested vocational educators–industry, business, agriculture, and home and health care. Thus, work as experienced by the characters in these stories covers a wide range from that of homemakers to space-age technologists, from blue-collar workers to white-collars ones, from street messengers and peasants to corporate executives. For the most part, work in these stories is paid employment, but the bibliography also contains stories of homemakers and other workers who receive no direct compensation.
Again, for the sake of variety, some care has been taken to include works by women writers, writers of ethnic minorities, and writers from other continents (available in English) that pertain to work experiences. In regard to women writers, the existence of several anthologies devoted to their work has made the task of identification easier than ever before. As can be seen from the literature, the major roles women have performed in fiction are (1) farm work (an overwhelming number), (2) jobs that are extensions of their nurturing roles like nursing and teaching, (3) factory work especially in the early textile mills (these offered the first major industrial jobs for women), and (4) housework (though women are rarely protagonists if they are solely homemakers) (Hornbostel, 1986).
The prominence of agrarian literature which constitutes the majority of the world corpus of literary pieces in the world about work in the development of American culture cannot be overestimated. It has spawned such important concepts as an ideal society of independent property owners, and the cultivation of the soil as instilling honor, self-reliance, courage, moral integrity, sense of family, and hospitality (Inge, 1969). However, on account of limitations of space, only a relatively small selection of representative works is included.
Likewise, this bibliographic list contains few works by “working-class” writers the Chartist novelists of the 1840s, the socialist novelists of the 1880s through the 1920s, the “proletarian” writers of the 1930s, the working-class “angry young men” of the late 1950s and early 1960s, and current worker-writers. Again, time constraints and the sheer number of such works preclude a coherent listing at this time. For more information about these it is best to consult such studies as Klaus (1985) and N. Coles (1986).
Novels in this list are primarily about work and the major characters’ reactions to it. There are, however, a few examples where the main story does not directly concern work, but work does act prominently in a chapter or section of a work. The paint factory chapters of Ralph Ellison’s The Invisible Man and the introductory chapter, “The Custom House,” of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter are good examples. The reason for including such works is to point out that many pieces of literature, even those of the canon, hold important observations about work that could be included in designing the curriculum.
In addition, care has also been taken to include works that covet a range of reading levels. Several of these fictional works are labeled “easy reading.” These represent, in general, contributions from the realm of adolescent novels.
Classroom Use
There are few examples of curriculum material designed to teach the literature of work. Hence, teachers may have to develop their own plans using books and bibliographies and other materials at hand. One possibility is to structure a course to revolve around the theme of work and its many facets–personal, social, and economic. For example, when studying a major work such as Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, students could explore the whole work–how the parts (like recruiting the crew and the details of life aboard ship) fit into the major theme (obsession with revenge for a perceived evil) and the book as a whole. After all, Melville conceived of his work as a whole, not merely as the simple story of a man versus a whale.
In dealing with these and other works, instructors should require students to look at the world of work critically to examine and pose questions about the nature and politics of work, its necessity, its rewards, and its pitfalls. For instance, in George Orwell’s Animal Farm, students may at first be sympathetic to the cause of the animals against a farmer who exploits them so he can gain the maximum profit. However, students eventually learn further on in the work that applications of the socialist -like society the animals devise are difficult (O’Neill, 1985).
Attention should be given to open discussion about the merits and demerits of the author’s interpretation of the work reality, about that of the author’s contemporaries, and about what historical insight has contributed. One should be critical of a Babbitt but also be able to see what positive lessons can be drawn from the piece of fiction (e.g., the importance of integrity in business dealings) for work and life.
Moreover, writing about work and the lives of real people usually requires a realistic style. These stories and other types of work literature often contain language of their experience, which may at times be quite raw and explicit (Hoffman, 1990, p. 55). Discussion of these pieces of fiction should then focus on the living and working conditions of the characters and traits that enable them to endure adversity and relish personal triumphs.
One should be fairly attentive in selecting works that balance a number of factors about both the author and characters: gender, ethnic/cultural background, socioeconomic status, political/religious perspective, geographic location, and historical period. The following are some examples of combinations of works which teachers could consider:
For a high school unit focusing on literature and technology, an instructor could select from among these works:
Asimov, I, Robot Brontë, Shirley, A Tale Brown, “Virus” Morris, Motor City Norris, Octopus; a tale of California Vonnegut, Player Piano
For a high school short story unit focusing on international working conditions, an instructor could select from among these works:
Baranskaia, A Week Like Any Other Calvino, Marcovaldo: Or Seasons in the Snow Chavez, “Last of the Menu Girls” Conroy, The Weed King and Other Stories Hayama, “Letter Found in a Cement Barrel” Matshoba, “A Glimpse of Slavery” Narayan, Malgudi Days O’Rourke, “The Maggot Principle” Yokomitsu, “The Machine” Zimpel, “Foundry Foreman”
For a one-semester community college course focusing on literature and unions, an instructor could select from among these works:
Bimba, Molly MaGuires Conroy, The Disinherited Fast, Power Kobayashi, Cannery Boat Sinclair, The Jungle Stead, “The Azhdanov Tailors” Steinbeck, “The Raid” Ward, Red Baker
For a one-semester community college course focusing on literature and migrant workers, an instructor could select from among these works:
Anaya, Heart of Aztlan Barrio, The Plum Plum Pickers Bell, Out of This Furnace Olsen, Yonnondio: From the Thirties Steinbeck, Grapes of Wrath
For a one-semester four-year college course in women’s literature focusing on work novels, an instructor could select from among these works:
Bullard, Comrade Yetta Canfield, The Home-Maker Cather, My Antonia Glasgow, Barren Ground Jewett, A Country Doctor Kelley, Weeds Peattie, The Precipice Phelps, The Silent Partner Savage, Factory Girl
Finally, the annotated bibliography is followed by a teaching resource section that includes books and articles that can provide assistance for the teaching of literature that is related to work. The first section covers studies of work literature and how this type and other types of nontraditional literature can be incorporated in the English classroom and curriculum. The second section contains selected titles on the subject of work. These latter works provide a background for the discussion of an author’s insights on the work setting.
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.
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?…
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 …
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.
