Lines

He stared at the screen and saw nothing, Not because there was nothing on the screen but because he had been staring at the screen for the past 16 hours. He wasn’t finished, though. And he probably wouldn’t be finished for another 16 hours. Except it was due in 8. ‘Work smarter, not harder,’ flashed through his brain, a recommendation from a former boss who spoke in clichés. ‘Because when the going gets tough…’ He banged his head on the desk; it reverberated throughout the empty office. Well, not completely empty.

‘You okay in there?’ the IA asked disinterestedly.

‘Yep,’ he responded a little too gleefully. The IA decided it might be best to check on Bernard visually. Although brilliant, Bernard was a bit unstable.

He stuck his head into the office and noticed Bernard’s head on the desk; his left cheek lay flat against the faux cherry, and his eyes were wide open. He had heard the story of the first IA in charge of Bernard; the IA initially thought Bernard had died and moved in closer to see if he was breathing. When the IA noticed very shallow breaths, he tapped lightly on Bernard’s shoulder. At that slightest touch, Bernard grabbed the man’s arm, broke it, and then slammed the man into the ground, breaking his nose in the process.

‘Bernard, have you finished?’ The IA kept his distance.

‘Nope. I’ve got 16 hours of work to do in eight. How’s that for ridiculous?’

‘I’m certain you will do your best.’

‘I’m certain I will too.’ Bernard lifted his head and looked back at the screen.

To many, the imaginary lines he drew seemed arbitrary, cutting through countries and towns with neither rhyme nor reason. But the algorithm would save humanity, so he said. He had convinced countless scientists and world leaders of the plan’s efficacy. Though there was significant opposition, when it came time to make the decision the vote to proceed was nearly unanimous. The three dissenters threatened to take the plan public, but the world’s leaders had little stomach for trying to explain the plan – never mind defend it – to the world. They therefore completely discredited those dissenters and sent them hurtling to their deaths in an unfortunate accident blamed on terrorists.

Bernard had already requested one extension, but these world leaders were not people that should be kept waiting. Not to mention the world situation wasn’t getting any better. Class wars – the likes of which had not been seen in over a hundred years – erupted in rich and poor countries alike. The lower and lower middle classes declared war first on the rich and then on the upper middle class not because of the latter’s belongings but because of their food. Former maids ransacked their employers’ pantries. Illegal immigrants fought with wolves and coyotes for stray cattle.

Bernard dragged a line south from Minneapolis, down through St. Louis, and then around New Orleans. Half of most cities would survive, according to his plan. Others like New Orleans would disappear entirely. To be clear, the city itself would not disappear but the inhabitants would. They’d disintegrate at the push of a button.

The microchip hadn’t been Bernard’s idea. They had preceded his idea by more than a year. For safety’s sake, everyone in the world – as agreed in the Tehran Accord – would have a microchip inserted in order to ensure the knowledge of their whereabouts at all times. Of course, no one knew that the microchip carried a lethal toxin that could kill more quickly than a King Cobra. There were a few mishaps, i.e. the toxin was accidentally released, but the microchip certainly achieved close to a six sigma rating in terms of effectiveness. And the released toxin simulated a heart attack so well that very few doctors ever suspected anything. Those doctors that did either voluntarily or involuntarily did not speak.

Bernard dragged a line that surgically dissected Japan. Tokyo and Osaka were on the wrong side of the line. He included London but excluded Paris. Manhattan survived; the other four boroughs weren’t as lucky. Most of East Africa fell by the wayside. As did Cape Town. But Johannesburg stayed in tact. Little by little, Bernard carved the world into the haves and have-nots. What was more remarkable was that he did so objectively without any consideration for humanity. He simply wanted to test his hypothesis that he could efficiently and effectively reduce the surplus population in order to protect the dwindling food supply.

Approximately eight hours later, he completed his first draft. He washed his face and hands in the office restroom; he did not change his clothes. At approximately 9 a.m. he and the IA were in the Town Car on their way to the United Nations to change the course of world history.

With Hobos

The subway squealed to a halt; the doors slid open. With my luggage in tow, I entered the last car of the train and immediately detected the stench of the hobos. I glanced to the far end of the car and noticed 2 bums flanking the car. By the time I had made the decision to exit and sprint to another car, a familiar voice warned, ‘Stand clear of the closing doors.’ The doors slid shut unceremoniously.

I had the choice to try my luck at passing through the via de los vagabondos or to hold my breath and wait patiently. I adjusted my sports coat and sat on the blue plastic bench. To take my mind from the stench I extracted my Blackberry from my left jacket pocket and unlocked it with some quick thumb work. Although I had no service in the subway car, I noticed two emails that had arrived just minutes before I descended the stairs to the subway. The first was spam, some message detailing the benefits of Viagra. The second was an epistle from my boss explaining that an issue for which I was responsible had been escalated to none other than the president of the company. The last two words of the email were ‘Call immediately!’

One of the bums stirred and made a noise akin to coughing that seemed a mix of yodeling and choking. The other bum slipped off his ragged shoe and flung it at his counterpart, hitting him in the shoulder. Bum one emerged from his gray parka revealing a sanguine complexion beneath a scraggly silver beard. Our eyes met briefly; in his I saw no sign of recognition. But I vaguely remembered him. Or perhaps remembered is not the right word. He was familiar to me, a person I had encountered long ago. I couldn’t place him. Bum Two settled back under his Steelers jacket and pulled the hood over his head. His shoe remained in the middle of the car.

I brought my attention back to the Blackberry and reread the message more carefully. In the ramblings of my boss’s writing, I determined that the latest catalogue we had sent for our spring line excluded all clothing from our most lucrative designers. I cursed my uselessly antiquated boss under my breath. I had fought tooth and nail with her to ditch the catalogue and increase our presence on the web. And I had wanted to wait until I returned from this business trip to send out the catalogues. But no, she had to have her way and get the spring catalogues out the second week of February because that’s the way it had always been done. I felt my blood pressure rising.

We reached the first stop. I considered exiting the train and calling my boss, but I knew better than to attempt an intelligent conversation while fuming. I didn’t even consider trying to escape the hobo car until I heard ‘Stand clear of the closing doors’ at which point it was too late.

I locked the Blackberry keypad and put it into my pocket. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of ten year old moldy cheese. My eyes actually began to water. I reverted to mouth breathing and glanced down at the bums with disdain. To my surprise, Bum One was staring at me. It was a wooden stare from a defeated man. It would have been creepy had there not been melancholy in his eyes. I averted my eyes to one of the many posters contrasting the Knickerbockers of yesterday to the Knicks of today and regretted that my reading material was tucked in my suitcase.

Bum One began to cough again; he gasped and gurgled as if afflicted by the final stages of consumption. Bum Two awoke suddenly, stood, and yelled, ‘Find your own fuckin way home, shithead’ and stalked into the next car leaving me and Bum One – now just Bum – occupying the car.

The subway stopped again. My anger was subsiding, but I wasn’t quite ready for my boss. And I could always use the excuse that I was on the subway, primarily because I was. Meanwhile, a young Asian woman and an older white gentleman entered the car. They both sat down near me after spying Bum wrapped in his gray parka. When Bum commenced with his death rattle soon after departing the station, both Asian Lady and Old Guy decided to try their luck in the next car, leaving me and Bum together again.

I began to feel calmer, more willing and able to volley with my boss. I already had a plan brewing. I would call each of the designers who hadn’t been included in the catalogue and explain that we had planned for two catalogues. The first, I’d explain, was our more traditional catalogue meant for the old guard. The second, however, would be bold. Released closer to spring, these designers would break molds and set trends and fulfill whatever other clichés he could imagine. I began planning the party at an exclusive club with a private unmarked entrance. There will be hundreds of martinis and living statues displaying the clothing.

A few more stops passed as I contemplated the fabulous success I would extract from my boss’s incompetence.

In the midst of my daydream, Bum began anew. I tried to ignore the incessant cough, but something about the sound struck me at my core. I noticed that he had extracted the parka to reveal a black thermal shirt and disgustingly muddy jeans. Unlike his previous fits, Bum wasn’t letting up. I considered going to see if he was okay, but decided against it in case he was a nutjob with a knife. The train slowed to a stop, and the automated voice announced that because of train traffic ahead, we were being delayed.

I tried to return to my thoughts of designer victory, but Bum’s cacophony was not to be overcome. I glanced back over and saw him fall the short distance from the plastic blue bench to the sticky black floor of the car. I obeyed the instinct to stand but froze as soon as I had. I watched as Bum curled into a fetal position, trying desperately to regain his breath. He wasn’t succeeding. I wanted to help, but couldn’t find the courage to help.

Bum ceased for a moment. He craned his neck and stared into my eyes. In a low, gravelly voice he said, ‘I’m sorry Brian.’

I cocked my head like a confused dog. His death rattle commenced for the last time. It was not as loud this time, but it was final. The train moved ahead into the next station. I grabbed my luggage and stood in front of the doors. As soon as they opened, I exited and ran through the turn style and up the stairs. I took a deep breath and grabbed for my Blackberry.

Sunday Scribblings: Political Rhetoric

Ray listened intently to one side of the conversation through the paper-thin walls. His brother spoke plainly, remorselessly. ‘She should die,’ he heard the animated voice declare into his cell phone. ‘She’s a traitor to all mankind. Everything she says is a lie. I wish someone would just kill her. Damn liberals.’

Paul had changed significantly since going to college. No longer was he the gregarious star athlete of a small Kansas town. Instead, he had become an angry, almost belligerent young man. A small fish in a giant pond at the University of Texas, he had channeled his fierce competitiveness into politics. He attended rallies and stood on corners in Austin distributing pamphlets to passerby.

‘It’s about damn time that someone sends a warning shot across her bow. She doesn’t listen. She does whatever she damn well pleases. She won’t be held accountable for her actions, and others protect her blindly because they are deluded enough to think that she’s the future of this country.’ Ray heard his brother pause. A tennis ball began to thump on the wall arrhythmically. ‘They make it look like it’s a walk in the park. You have an opinion, then spin it into it being un-American. You try to do what’s good for the country, and you are a enemy of patriotism. Well, sometimes there’s a place for an eye for an eye,’ he retorted. ‘The tree of liberty must be fertilized by the blood of terrorists.’ The thumping became louder. ‘Terrorists, tyrants, same difference.’

Ray had not just looked up to his older brother; he wanted to be his older brother. The star quarterback, the star pitcher, the prom king, the town hero. But Ray didn’t have the talent. Too skinny and socially awkward, he found his place in running and playing the trumpet. Teachers in the high school almost seemed disappointed when they called ‘Raymond Green’ and saw him sitting quietly in the back of the room trying desperately not to be noticed. Mr. Horner, the gym teacher, commented, ‘You sure you’re Paul’s brother?’ when Ray tried to throw a football. Suffice it to say, Ray avoided throwing anything in front of anyone.

‘Bullshit. She is the stupidest person I’ve ever heard. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And yet people listen and follow her direction as if she’s reciting the Bible in the voice of Moses.’ The thumping ceased; the floorboards began to creak. Paul had a habit of pacing the room as he became more intense, which caused a strange Doppler effect in the conversation. ‘We’re too damn cowardly to play by their rules. It’s time for us to unite, to stand against them, to shed a little blood.’

Ray felt impassioned by his brother’s speech. He imagined himself marching alongside his brother down a dirt road to meet an evil posse with red bandanas – he had just recently seen Tombstone with his father. He heard himself mimic his brother. ‘You worthless know-nothings; you stupid angry anti-Americans. We’re gonna put you were you shoulda gone a long time ago.’ And he’d pull his six-shooter from the holster and gun them down for the good of the country. Ray glanced out the window and noticed his father had arrived home from work. The front door opened and closed quietly. His father’s boots clicked on each stair as he ascended.

‘I’d do it if I could, but who am I kidding? It’s a pipe dream. They’ll never have balls enough to try character assassination, never mind actual assassination. Nope, she’ll grow more and more powerful. And she’ll do it for American, not knowing that she’s destroying the country. Maybe she’s the antichrist.’

Ray heard his brother’s door open. ‘Paul, I’m home. You wanna talk about that shit, go outside; you know my rules.’ The door closed abruptly.

Ray’s door opened suddenly. His father was annoyed. He commented cryptically, ‘Ray, let me just give you one piece of advice. College ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Just remember your family, will you?’

‘Yeah, dad. Okay,’ Ray answered, wanting to please his father. The door closed, and his father’s footsteps descended the stairs.

Ray strained to hear his brother’s final words. ‘Yeah, I gotta go. My father…’ His voice faded. ‘… defends her… wish he’d wake up to… almost vice president.’

Sunday Scribblings (Progress): Not That Guy

Brian grabbed the green ink. Across the front of the black bottle in flowing gold script was the word ‘Emerald’. His older brothers always confiscated the black – ‘Raven’ – and blue – ‘Cobalt’ – leaving him to opt for some other more adventurous hue. He dipped the Waterman pen into the ink bottle and sloppily sucked some of the dark green ink into the miniature tube. The rest he carelessly sprayed on the old wooden table.

Each of the boys had received a Waterman pen from their maternal grandfather at the age of ten. In each case, the pen and accompanying ink had been delivered with a note explaining the family New Years Eve tradition. Dating back to the mid-19th century all members of the Grossman family had recorded their New Year’s resolutions in special journals with ink from a fountain pen. According to his grandfather, the tradition dated back longer – he claims back to the 17th century – but a fire had destroyed the library containing those journals in the small German town from whence the Grossman’s had emigrated.

At the age of 16, Brian suddenly decided that he couldn’t care less about resolutions. They were, as he so eloquently stated to his mother, retarded and a waste of his life. In addition, he claimed he wasn’t going to abide by the resolutions anyway, making them irrelevant and not worth the ink he was using to write them. Brian’s mother was patient as she listened to her indignant son. Each time he complained, she patiently told the same story about her father and her father’s father. They weren’t rich men, she explained, because they understood that resolutions were about being true to one’s self. But they were successful men who lived life fully and had no regrets.

He rolled his eyes as far as they could roll and tried to argue his point anew. When his mother started in again on the reasons for the resolutions, he stormed upstairs with pen, ink, and journal in tow. The door slammed loudly; he fell into his bed and pouted. A short time later, his mother ascended the stairs and knocked at the door to tell him that the family was on their way to celebrate the New Year at her parents’ house. He told her to go away, that he didn’t feel like celebrating. She told him to suit himself but suggested strongly that he write the resolutions. When, after a minute, she heard no response, she walked back down the stairs smiling to herself. She told her husband not to worry about anything. They packed up the lasagna and salad she had made and locked the front door. Within a couple minutes, their Datsun took them off to the other side of town.

Meanwhile Brian decided he wasn’t going spend another minute in the house. He dialed Jim’s number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Then he grabbed his jacket and snuck out the back door in an attempt to avoid the Wassermans, who liked to keep an eye on their neighbors. When he was confident that he had was clear, he took off at a slow jog through his backyard and jumped a small fence into the Brinkley’s yard. He slunk along the side of the house until he came to the front sidewalk. He turned left and started walking slowly. Soon, he noticed a pair of headlights coming up behind him. The car pulled to the side of the road, and the door swung open. He heard a raspy voice – Jim’s voice – tell him to get in. Brian obliged and shut the door.

‘What’s up, man? Long time, no see,’ Jim crooned.

‘You alright, man? You sound terrible. Don’t get that shit on me,’ Brian replied. There were no street lights; he could see only the road in front of them

‘So you ready for tonight? Ready to have some fun?’

‘Yeah, where we goin anways?’

‘To Bill’s. Where else would we go?’

‘Bill’s? Who the hell is Bill?’

‘He’s the owner of the bar on Main. You know, the place we go every friggin night,’ he replied sarcastically.

‘How are we gonna get into a bar? I ain’t gotta fake ID on me.’

‘Since when did you need a fake ID?’ Jim laughed a wheezing laugh that turned into a hacking cough.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Brian asked, disgusted at his friend’s obvious sickness.

‘The doctor says it’s the smoking; screw him.’ He laugh-coughed again.

Brian wasn’t always the most observant person, but he started to survey his surroundings. The digital greenish blue hue of the clock was the first thing to catch his attention. ‘What kinda clock is that?’

‘What the hell are you talking about? It’s a friggin clock? What’s wrong with you? You’re acting a fool.’

Brian turned toward Jim for the first time and felt something akin to electricity run through him. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Alright, Bri, I don’t know what the deal is, but something ain’t right.’

‘You’re tellin me,’ he yelled back. ‘Let me outta this car, asshole.’

‘Whoa, now I know you didn’t just call me a asshole.’

Brian found the handle and pulled but nothing happened. He tried again, to no avail.

‘Power doors, asshole.‘ Jim swerved off the road onto the shoulder. He switched on the overhead light. ‘Alright, Brian, what’s the deal? You doin heroin again?’

Brian looked into the older man’s face and at the white hair that used to be a dark red. He stared at him, saying nothing. Instead, his eyes searched. And somewhere beneath the façade, he recognized someone who used to be his friend.

‘Aww, shit, dude. Tell me you ain’t doin heroin again. You know I can’t be around you if you’re gonna steal my shit.’

‘What are you talking about? I’ve never done heroin,’ Brian retorted. He changed the subject haphazardly, ‘Why are you so old?’

Jim responded indignantly, ‘I’m only six months older than you, asshole. And I don’t look that bad.’ He turned the light off and eased back onto the road.

They sat in silence as Jim turned the car around.

‘Where are we going now?’ Brian asked.

‘I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to the bar to get good and hammered. I think you need to go back into rehab.’

Jim soon passed through Brian’s neighborhood.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m bringing you back to your apartment. Maybe it’s better this way anyway. You’ll actually spend some time with your girlfriend and kids.’

‘What girlfriend and kids?’

‘You know, the girlfriend you’ve put in the hospital a couple times, accidentally,’ he exaggerated the final word in a cynical tone, ‘but who stays with you for God knows what reason. And your kid. He’s gotta be like in his mid teens.’

‘No, I want to go home.’

‘That is your home.’

‘No, to my parent’s house. You just passed it.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure. Or you can let me out right here and I’ll walk.’

‘Alright, Brian,’ he gradually spoke to Brian as if he were a child, ‘okay, I’ll take you home.’

The car pulled up to his parent’s house. Jim disengaged the doors and Brian exited. Without a word he walked up the driveway. Jim drove off into the night to avoid his own wife and kids.

Brian walked behind back and extracted the house key from his pocket. He tried the door, but the key didn’t work. He heard people inside, so he knocked. The door opened; a small child in pajamas sporting a large sponge with eyes and a mouth said hello and waved. Brian awkwardly said hi and climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, of the familiar stairs, he saw a completely unfamiliar sight. In the family room was a huge flat television with all kinds of black boxes sporting digital displays. The furniture and carpeting were all completely different. A few more startled kids looked up at him. Soon, a husky gentleman with salt and pepper hair peeked in from the kitchen.

‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. You have a lot of nerve coming back here, Brian.’

Brian had no problem recognizing the voice of his oldest brother, John.

A plump woman in blue stepped in behind John. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed.

‘Kids, go downstairs.’

‘But dad,’ they replied in unison.

‘Now!’ he bellowed.

They descended the stairs quickly as they had never heard that tone from their father.

‘What are you doing here? You know that no one wants to see you after what you did.’

Brian stood motionless, unable to form words.

‘I see the drugs are still working. I want you to get out of my house now.’

‘Your house?’

‘Yeah, the house I got after you killed mom and dad.’

‘Killed?’

‘Well, they tried to support you through your heroin habit, but they just happened to go bankrupt. Not that you know or care. I wish I could just deck you right here and now.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Brian whispered half to his aged brother, half to himself.

‘You’ve fried every brain cell in that brain, haven’t you? You’re a complete deadbeat. I don’t want you here around my wife and kids. I don’t want you around me. I want you gone now. Get out!’

‘But, John…’

‘Get out. Before I throw you out.’

Brian heard the finality in John’s voice and walked back down the stairs. John followed closely. When Brian was out the door, he heard John virtually slam and lock the door behind him.

Brian walked through the back yard and hopped the fence into what was once the Brinkley’s yard. He took a left and started walking down the sidewalk unsure where he was going. He said to himself aloud, ‘I’m not this guy. I don’t want to be this guy.’

He saw two headlights approaching. The car slowed and the door swung open. ‘Get in. We’re already late.’

Brian stared into the car at the bright red hair of his friend, Jim. He paused a moment and then replied, ‘I don’t think I’m gonna go tonight. I’m gonna go back home.’

Jim tried to coax him for a little while but gave up and drove away.

Brian walked around the block and up to his front door. He entered and walked up to his room. In his journal written in dark green ink was the line, ‘I’m not going to be that guy.’

Brian fell into a deep sleep; he didn’t hear his parents come home. He also didn’t hear his mother peek inside to check on him. She closed the door gently and smiled knowingly as she readied herself for bed.

Poetricity: New Years Haiku

Light blue eyes drooping,
Another New Year passes.
She barely made it.

My resolution:
Focus on priorities.
Let’s have some ice cream.

It was just Orange
Before sponsors took over.
Now, it’s Discover.