As a single guy, I carry within me an aversion to those items which may excite in me some semblance of happiness. I speak more specifically what might be more commonly known as “Hollywood Happiness,” that good feeling that is relentlessly served us on a silver platter. My aversion, of course, owes its existence to the comparative degrees that such happiness leaves behind. The aftertaste, so to speak, when the lights come back up and I realize with crushing finality that I am an entity quite divisible from the winning hero on his unlikely yet deserved wedding day. Whereas the watching of the film encourages the idea that his victories are my victories, that his hopes are my hopes, the reality of my plight is that when all is said and done, the character has nothing to do with me, and furthermore has not the ability to return the sympathy which I so freely lavish upon him. And the lights do go up. I suppose if we could entertain the idea of a never-ending movie reel, stretching on into the future as far as the “eye” can see, we might enjoy an endless fantasy from which we would never wake. But it is a ghostly filmstrip for ghostly prospects. In order for this fantasy world to exist, it would necessitate our compliance with the script—and though it might on occasion give us cause to feel, it could never offer us the cause to be. We would be nothing more than stifled animals, forced (by our own choice, no less) to relinquish what it is that makes us human and adopt a cookie-cutter cavalcade of a recipe for happiness, eradicating any claim to individuality, and thus any claim to a rightful existence. This, I am sure you can see, will not do. Thus, the aversion mentioned at my first timid scribbles.
The medium is not flawed in such a way that it affects all people the same—far from it. It is only the man who is in danger of succumbing to this fantasy, who vividly perceives it as real and good, who endangers himself. He who looks on mindlessly looks on with less a mind. As a single guy with a mind worn ever thinner, mindlessness becomes all too familiar, and it causes me to stumble.
I’m tired, exhausted, and frustrated with the world because it won’t do and be the things I want it to, and only rarely calling myself out for not doing anything about it.
We’re good people, aren’t we?
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
In Branches and Leaves
In Branches and Leaves
“You know, when I was your age, I made the greatest tree fort known to man. Mmhm. I’m sure you hear all sorts of folk talking that way, but when I tell you I did it, by God did I do it.” My grandpa was going off on a tangent. Again. I paid as little mind as possible while maintaining the illusion of attentiveness. My parents were, after all, paying me to spend [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa - not to play with my Game Boy (Which they still believed was hidden in the back of the pots and pans drawer. Come on, really? I was going into middle school the very next year, not kindergarten.).
“Nursing homes are a scary place for old people,” my dad would say. “Especially someone with memory problems like Grandpa. How would you like to end up all alone in a strange place? Strangers at breakfast, strangers at lunch, and strangers changing your bedsheets?” So every Saturday from noon to five I would grab my Game Boy, hop in the van, and ride off to Sunset Valley Nursing Homes to meet Grandpa. My parents usually went out for dinner or dancing - what did I care really? It was like being baby-sat, except I got paid instead of Grandpa. He got what he wanted and I got what I wanted. Of course, it all depended on his on his testimony as to the evening’s events. Usually the reports came back well.
“Tommy’s such a nice young man,” he would say when they came to pick me up. The fact that he knew my name at all times sparked a lot of chatter by itself. I mentioned that Grandpa had memory problems, right? Well I was told that he didn’t remember anyone that well any more, but he sure had a handle on me. It got my dad absolutely beaming, like that look a dog gets when you pat him on the head, you know? And every week it was the same reaction, the same shock and surprise, like somehow they thought he was getting better and next week it would be “Hi Mark and Marilyn Kensey. How are things at the Post Office Marilyn? Did you enjoy that card I sent last week?” And maybe the next week he’d get out of his wheelchair and do a dance! Completely unrealistic, of course. The name he remembered was mine, and mine alone. I suppose I should have been glad of it, maybe even proud of the fact that amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces, mine was the beacon of light that guided him home, but honestly? I just want my money. At the time there was this nice red sports car in the used papers, and my dad said that if I could save up for half of it... well, you know. Five more weeks of [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa and that ride was mine.
“This was no ordinary tree fort, I can guarantee.” Grandpa may have had memory problems, but he could stick to a story like gum to a school desk. This was unfortunate for me of course, because this week’s story was unusually lame. I grew up in the [i]city[/i], get it? Not only had I never made a tree fort, but I was completely content never to do so. Our backyard (if it could be called that) consisted of 20 square feet and a single poplar tree. Not the best for fort making. Anyway, I had no problem letting Grandpa run his course. He might ask a question every now and then, but other than that I could just shut down, relax, and dream about that sports car... just five weeks until I had it for myself, and a mere four years until I was taking it through hairpin turns, catching air off of giant city hills, just like in the movies, and then bursting through a ring of-
“Have you ever built a tree fort Tommy?” I hated it when he snapped me out of daydreams like that. It was such a delicate operation, and no matter how hard I tried I felt that car sputter and die before it faded away, waiting for the next dream.
“No sir, I haven’t.” I answered. Simple answers were the best. They let me get off without saying much and opened a world of possibilities for him to keep the conversation moving.
“A damn shame,” he said in response. I chuckled and shook my head. Of all the things to miss in the world, tree forts?
“Well anyway, this tree fort was special. The first thing you’ve gotta know about tree forts is what constitutes a good tree, and then you check the branches, see, and you’ve gotta do that step, it’s the most important one...” And I was driving through the countryside, wheat grass waving in the wind… And what better to complete the picture than a dazzling blonde in the passenger seat? She asked me where we were going but I wouldn’t tell her. ‘Just a bit farther,’ I’d say, and she’d get that mysterious smile on her face...
Grandpa was still rambling on. I nodded every now and then, making sure he saw that I was paying attention (I did feel bad from time to time), and after a few more minutes dismissed myself to the bathroom. At least, that’s where I told him I was going every week. I usually waited in the hall and pulled out my Game Boy for a solid half hour. Race Rock 3 - Expert mode. It was hard, but what made it even harder was the fact that no matter which car was best for the track, I always took the red sports car... and there was my dream girl, waving the flag at the finish...
This week was different. No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than Grandpa decided to come with me. Horrified, I stammered for a response. You know that feeling you get when you’ve been building something up, something you’ve been waiting on for so long, and then you realize that you won’t be able to do it?
“I can go by myself,” I told him calmly. But I could see he wasn’t going to back down.
“Nonsense. I’ve only gotten to the best part.” I sighed inwardly and agreed. Inside of the bathroom I waited two or three minutes, then ran the water pretending to wash my hands. Then, thinking about the nursing home I washed them anyway. Another week without Race Rock 3... What was Grandpa so excited about that he would follow me to the bathroom to talk for all of the 30 seconds it took to get there?
When I came out of the bathroom, he was down the hall, looking out the back window. Across the patio and the lawn was a small forest, the same one which bordered the river. It wrapped itself along 4th and Sprague and died out near Town Hall. I lived across the river to the North, where city streets and sidewalks left only those trees which served an aesthetic purpose. And Grandpa just sat there at that window, looking out. I remember that something felt different, almost foreign about him when I approached him.
“There.” He pointed, making me squint. His voice was softer than usual. Soft but strong.
“There what?” I asked
“There he is. Trent.” He brought his shaking hand up to cover his mouth and a small sob escaped his lips. It escaped me then, but looking back I should have been more surprised. Whereas his delicate memory sensors could only previously recall “Tommy,” there had been another name in there, another name waiting to come out.
“Trent?” I asked again, not seeing anyone among the trees.
“My best friend. The tree.” And tears rolled from his eyes. “We haven’t talked since I was 13. And I promised him and he remembered.” His sobs grew louder and I remember I was afraid. I thought maybe something was happening to him, or even worse, that a nurse would come by and think that I had done something wrong.
“Do you think we could... do you think we could go out and see him? One last time?” It occurred to me that he wasn’t asking. He was begging.
“Grandpa, I don’t understand.” I whispered close. “Who is Trent?” And I’ll never forget the look he gave me, completely defeated but at the same time valiant. All he said was please.
So I got a nurse and we made our way out the back onto the trails, into the forested area. Grandpa surveyed the area from his wheelchair like a king over his loving subjects. We’d gone maybe fifteen feet when he asked her to stop.
“Tommy,” he said. “That one right there.” He pointed with a shaky hand. “Could you roll me up next to it?” I looked at the nurse and she nodded.
It was difficult placing the wheels among the roots, but I did it well enough so that Grandpa could reach out and touch the bark with his hand.
“Trent...” he said softly. “Trent, I’m back.” The nurse gave Grandpa an odd look. “Remember, I promised and I came back.” He gave a small laugh. “Here’s us at the end then, huh old buddy?” He patted the trunk and looked around. “We were always getting into trouble, weren’t we? Staying up late, skipping dinner.” And then he smiled a deep smile and looked at me.
“Did you hear him?” He asked me. His eyes seemed to look [i]through[/i] me, and I didn’t know what to do. The nurse looked at the sky and saw clouds gathering.
“Mr. Kensey, it looks like it’s going to start raining soon. We should go back inside.” Grandpa ignored her. He went on muttering to the tree and the nurse looked around helplessly.
“Mr. Kensey, we need to go back inside.” She said again, a bit louder.
“No...” Grandpa answered softly. “No...”
“Mr. Kensey, I must insist. It is getting far too cold out here and I will not have it be the death of you, now come along.” She moved forward as to grab the wheelchair.
“NO!” Grandpa shouted. “Tell her Tommy, tell her! You can hear him, can’t you Tommy? You can hear him, listen to him speak!”
“Now Mr. Kensey, this really is too much.” She grabbed the wheelchair and made as to pull it back onto the path, but grabbing the bark my Grandpa lurched forward and fell at the foot of the tree.
“Mr. Kensey!” The nurse yelled in shock.
“Tommy.” Grandpa said softly, beckoning me forward while hugging the tree as a sailor would hold onto a mainmast on a stormy night. “Tommy, can you hear him? He says I’m going to live forever Tommy. He says I’m going to live in him. I’m going to grow in him and... and I’ll be in his branches, and his leaves and...” his voice dropped lower. “And I’ll never be alone again.” He reached out with his right hand and grabbed mine, and I knew that it was the end.
His eyes closed and he saw no more.
The nurse rushed him back into the home but nothing could be done. I cried that day, for the first time in a long while. My parents had never seen me so depressed. The funeral came and went, and that next year I entered middle school. I was afraid and anxious (not to mention five weeks short of my sports car) so I was really put off of the whole idea of school. Grandpa talked me through it though. I talk to him a lot now, as often as I can spare time to sit under the tree in my backyard. And every time I look up at the branches and the leaves I whisper “I’m sorry. I should have listened more.”
“Forget about it,” he says. “Let’s talk about getting you that sports car...”
“You know, when I was your age, I made the greatest tree fort known to man. Mmhm. I’m sure you hear all sorts of folk talking that way, but when I tell you I did it, by God did I do it.” My grandpa was going off on a tangent. Again. I paid as little mind as possible while maintaining the illusion of attentiveness. My parents were, after all, paying me to spend [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa - not to play with my Game Boy (Which they still believed was hidden in the back of the pots and pans drawer. Come on, really? I was going into middle school the very next year, not kindergarten.).
“Nursing homes are a scary place for old people,” my dad would say. “Especially someone with memory problems like Grandpa. How would you like to end up all alone in a strange place? Strangers at breakfast, strangers at lunch, and strangers changing your bedsheets?” So every Saturday from noon to five I would grab my Game Boy, hop in the van, and ride off to Sunset Valley Nursing Homes to meet Grandpa. My parents usually went out for dinner or dancing - what did I care really? It was like being baby-sat, except I got paid instead of Grandpa. He got what he wanted and I got what I wanted. Of course, it all depended on his on his testimony as to the evening’s events. Usually the reports came back well.
“Tommy’s such a nice young man,” he would say when they came to pick me up. The fact that he knew my name at all times sparked a lot of chatter by itself. I mentioned that Grandpa had memory problems, right? Well I was told that he didn’t remember anyone that well any more, but he sure had a handle on me. It got my dad absolutely beaming, like that look a dog gets when you pat him on the head, you know? And every week it was the same reaction, the same shock and surprise, like somehow they thought he was getting better and next week it would be “Hi Mark and Marilyn Kensey. How are things at the Post Office Marilyn? Did you enjoy that card I sent last week?” And maybe the next week he’d get out of his wheelchair and do a dance! Completely unrealistic, of course. The name he remembered was mine, and mine alone. I suppose I should have been glad of it, maybe even proud of the fact that amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces, mine was the beacon of light that guided him home, but honestly? I just want my money. At the time there was this nice red sports car in the used papers, and my dad said that if I could save up for half of it... well, you know. Five more weeks of [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa and that ride was mine.
“This was no ordinary tree fort, I can guarantee.” Grandpa may have had memory problems, but he could stick to a story like gum to a school desk. This was unfortunate for me of course, because this week’s story was unusually lame. I grew up in the [i]city[/i], get it? Not only had I never made a tree fort, but I was completely content never to do so. Our backyard (if it could be called that) consisted of 20 square feet and a single poplar tree. Not the best for fort making. Anyway, I had no problem letting Grandpa run his course. He might ask a question every now and then, but other than that I could just shut down, relax, and dream about that sports car... just five weeks until I had it for myself, and a mere four years until I was taking it through hairpin turns, catching air off of giant city hills, just like in the movies, and then bursting through a ring of-
“Have you ever built a tree fort Tommy?” I hated it when he snapped me out of daydreams like that. It was such a delicate operation, and no matter how hard I tried I felt that car sputter and die before it faded away, waiting for the next dream.
“No sir, I haven’t.” I answered. Simple answers were the best. They let me get off without saying much and opened a world of possibilities for him to keep the conversation moving.
“A damn shame,” he said in response. I chuckled and shook my head. Of all the things to miss in the world, tree forts?
“Well anyway, this tree fort was special. The first thing you’ve gotta know about tree forts is what constitutes a good tree, and then you check the branches, see, and you’ve gotta do that step, it’s the most important one...” And I was driving through the countryside, wheat grass waving in the wind… And what better to complete the picture than a dazzling blonde in the passenger seat? She asked me where we were going but I wouldn’t tell her. ‘Just a bit farther,’ I’d say, and she’d get that mysterious smile on her face...
Grandpa was still rambling on. I nodded every now and then, making sure he saw that I was paying attention (I did feel bad from time to time), and after a few more minutes dismissed myself to the bathroom. At least, that’s where I told him I was going every week. I usually waited in the hall and pulled out my Game Boy for a solid half hour. Race Rock 3 - Expert mode. It was hard, but what made it even harder was the fact that no matter which car was best for the track, I always took the red sports car... and there was my dream girl, waving the flag at the finish...
This week was different. No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than Grandpa decided to come with me. Horrified, I stammered for a response. You know that feeling you get when you’ve been building something up, something you’ve been waiting on for so long, and then you realize that you won’t be able to do it?
“I can go by myself,” I told him calmly. But I could see he wasn’t going to back down.
“Nonsense. I’ve only gotten to the best part.” I sighed inwardly and agreed. Inside of the bathroom I waited two or three minutes, then ran the water pretending to wash my hands. Then, thinking about the nursing home I washed them anyway. Another week without Race Rock 3... What was Grandpa so excited about that he would follow me to the bathroom to talk for all of the 30 seconds it took to get there?
When I came out of the bathroom, he was down the hall, looking out the back window. Across the patio and the lawn was a small forest, the same one which bordered the river. It wrapped itself along 4th and Sprague and died out near Town Hall. I lived across the river to the North, where city streets and sidewalks left only those trees which served an aesthetic purpose. And Grandpa just sat there at that window, looking out. I remember that something felt different, almost foreign about him when I approached him.
“There.” He pointed, making me squint. His voice was softer than usual. Soft but strong.
“There what?” I asked
“There he is. Trent.” He brought his shaking hand up to cover his mouth and a small sob escaped his lips. It escaped me then, but looking back I should have been more surprised. Whereas his delicate memory sensors could only previously recall “Tommy,” there had been another name in there, another name waiting to come out.
“Trent?” I asked again, not seeing anyone among the trees.
“My best friend. The tree.” And tears rolled from his eyes. “We haven’t talked since I was 13. And I promised him and he remembered.” His sobs grew louder and I remember I was afraid. I thought maybe something was happening to him, or even worse, that a nurse would come by and think that I had done something wrong.
“Do you think we could... do you think we could go out and see him? One last time?” It occurred to me that he wasn’t asking. He was begging.
“Grandpa, I don’t understand.” I whispered close. “Who is Trent?” And I’ll never forget the look he gave me, completely defeated but at the same time valiant. All he said was please.
So I got a nurse and we made our way out the back onto the trails, into the forested area. Grandpa surveyed the area from his wheelchair like a king over his loving subjects. We’d gone maybe fifteen feet when he asked her to stop.
“Tommy,” he said. “That one right there.” He pointed with a shaky hand. “Could you roll me up next to it?” I looked at the nurse and she nodded.
It was difficult placing the wheels among the roots, but I did it well enough so that Grandpa could reach out and touch the bark with his hand.
“Trent...” he said softly. “Trent, I’m back.” The nurse gave Grandpa an odd look. “Remember, I promised and I came back.” He gave a small laugh. “Here’s us at the end then, huh old buddy?” He patted the trunk and looked around. “We were always getting into trouble, weren’t we? Staying up late, skipping dinner.” And then he smiled a deep smile and looked at me.
“Did you hear him?” He asked me. His eyes seemed to look [i]through[/i] me, and I didn’t know what to do. The nurse looked at the sky and saw clouds gathering.
“Mr. Kensey, it looks like it’s going to start raining soon. We should go back inside.” Grandpa ignored her. He went on muttering to the tree and the nurse looked around helplessly.
“Mr. Kensey, we need to go back inside.” She said again, a bit louder.
“No...” Grandpa answered softly. “No...”
“Mr. Kensey, I must insist. It is getting far too cold out here and I will not have it be the death of you, now come along.” She moved forward as to grab the wheelchair.
“NO!” Grandpa shouted. “Tell her Tommy, tell her! You can hear him, can’t you Tommy? You can hear him, listen to him speak!”
“Now Mr. Kensey, this really is too much.” She grabbed the wheelchair and made as to pull it back onto the path, but grabbing the bark my Grandpa lurched forward and fell at the foot of the tree.
“Mr. Kensey!” The nurse yelled in shock.
“Tommy.” Grandpa said softly, beckoning me forward while hugging the tree as a sailor would hold onto a mainmast on a stormy night. “Tommy, can you hear him? He says I’m going to live forever Tommy. He says I’m going to live in him. I’m going to grow in him and... and I’ll be in his branches, and his leaves and...” his voice dropped lower. “And I’ll never be alone again.” He reached out with his right hand and grabbed mine, and I knew that it was the end.
His eyes closed and he saw no more.
The nurse rushed him back into the home but nothing could be done. I cried that day, for the first time in a long while. My parents had never seen me so depressed. The funeral came and went, and that next year I entered middle school. I was afraid and anxious (not to mention five weeks short of my sports car) so I was really put off of the whole idea of school. Grandpa talked me through it though. I talk to him a lot now, as often as I can spare time to sit under the tree in my backyard. And every time I look up at the branches and the leaves I whisper “I’m sorry. I should have listened more.”
“Forget about it,” he says. “Let’s talk about getting you that sports car...”
Meltdown Imminent
Zale walked to the lab every day. He would take the scenic routes along the bay, and through the city. Sometimes he would stop to rest at a cafe, or maybe stay a while with a homeless man. His path always came in from the north, past the old nuclear power plant which was connected to the lab where he worked.
He had to wake early, of course, but it didn’t bother him. He always arrived on time, and he never tired of the exercise. There was transportation available, of course, but he never took it. People speculated that he wanted the exercise. Others said that he had a profound love for all things in life, and didn’t want to pass them by. Beyond that, his coworkers jokingly suggested that Zale was in fact a robot, and that the magnetic rails underneath the trolley would interfere with his internal systems.
They were right.
One would expect that some sort of story detailing the creation and maintenance of such an android would follow, but this story cannot be told, because there is no man living who knows it. Questions of where Zale came from, and indeed [i]why[/i] remain a mystery to this day.
The lab where Zale worked was connected to a nuclear power plant that was thought to have been shut down for years. Had it not been for this plant, nobody would even know that Zale was any different from anyone else.
It was a day like any other. Zale arrived at the lab, perfectly conditioned and without any wear from his three-mile hike. His co-workers snickered behind his back, feeding their insecurities as they called him a loner and a freak. Zale paid them no mind as he walked into his personal lab and locked the door. While there, Zale talked to nobody and nobody talked to him. The only exception was his first day of work, when he tried to make friends with Jonah Cayle in the zygology offices.
Jonah, like Zale, was something of an outcast. He was always looked down on as an engineer in the place of “real scientists,” as they called themselves. “A waste of funding,” he had heard as well, along with other names not pleasant to repeat. Jonah didn’t know what to think about that. At first he had dismissed the reluctance of his coworkers as simple ignorance, a case for the proof of the human condition. Everybody, Jonah felt, needed someone to pick on, someone to feel better than. And in the world of science, where there was no distinction between better or worse, how could he as a simple engineer stand up? [i]Don’t let it bother you,[/i] he always said, but it still got to him. They were right, to a degree. At any given moment, Jonah knew that there were hundreds of “real scientists” out there making a difference in the world: saving lives, finding resources, inventing new ways to simplify life. He made connections.
“Nuts, bolts, screws, rivets, hinges, you name it,” Jonah had said when Zale inquired as to his profession. “We find new ways every day to keep stuff together. Better ways. Next thing you know, we’ll have a world of metal, through and through. Nothing to break, nothing to fix.” That was Jonah’s dream. Zale took a long look around the office and the workrooms, taking in every sight (which he did quite literally) before turning to leave.
“Don’t forget the flowers,” Zale said in a mournful voice.
“What’s that?” Jonah had asked.
“In your world of metal,” Zale said, “don’t forget the flowers.” Everyone was right when they said that Zale had a deep appreciation for the arts. In his private lab there were paintings of flowing rivers and majestic landscapes, sculptures of animals and people, and flowers as well. Some in the corners, in amongst his machines - anywhere and everywhere one could find some small facet of art or expression.
There were, of course, his work materials. Machines, tools, capsules, electronics. Nobody knew what happened in that office, and nobody really cared to find out. They were so engrossed in their own tasks that they gave no heed to the workings of Zale. They did notice, however, that there was an unusual silence in his workspace that day. Whereas before there had been poundings of metal and the hiss of welding equipment, now there was only an eerie silence, the kind which raises hairs and makes skin crawl.
Zale had been there for an hour, no more, when he left again, abruptly. This was another oddity, and more workers began to take notice. Jonah, feeling some connection to Zale from day one, decided to forsake his lunch break and follow him out of the building.
Zale went straight for the power plant. Jonah didn’t know why anyone would go there, and his curiosity deepened when Zale passed the security doors without missing a beat. The plant had been locked down for years, and Jonah knew that it shouldn’t be intruded upon so easily. Thinking that something dangerous was going on, he rushed back into the lab, grabbed a Geiger counter, and was back in front of the plant inside of five minutes.
By then, he saw no sign of Zale. He passed the outer and inner gates and stood with bated breath outside of the heavy doors. [i]Why not just turn back?[/i] he remembered thinking. A million things could be awaiting him inside - a druglord hideout, a murder suicide, a contamination... But then, [i]No. I’ll show them.[/i]. He was, of course, referring to the scientists back at the lab, to whom Jonah thought he had something to prove.
He slowly edged the door outward and was met by a wave of heat, so intense that he stumbled backwards. The Geiger counter began to tick wildly and Jonah knew that something was wrong. He forced the door shut with all of his might and ran back to call for help.
The radiation levels in the power plant were off of the charts. It seemed that there was a section of the facility which had not been properly shut down all those years ago, and a small leak there had allowed a buildup, to dangerous levels.
They found Zale’s body next to one of the generators. His skin had melted away, revealing the wire frame and frayed circuitry inside. On the floor next to him had been scrawled the words “Meltdown imminent. I’m sorry.” Jonah identified him and asked for a proper burial, but they left his body there. His entire workings emitted radiation, and even the workers in the suits could stay in the building for no longer than ten minutes. That meant that even a scientific study of the android would be impossible until the area cooled down, which caused a minor uproar amongst the robotics scientist community.
Everyone stood outside watching the commotion and trying to find their way onto local news, but inside of the laboratory one body still stirred. It opened the capsule wherein it had rested until Zale’s signal had terminated. Outside it found a note and a flower. The note read, quite simply,
[i]Dear Zale2,
They were mean to us, but I saved them.
Don’t give them our secrets.
Tell Jonah.
Zale1[/i]
Zale2 left a note for Jonah and left the building, never to be seen or heard from again.
He had to wake early, of course, but it didn’t bother him. He always arrived on time, and he never tired of the exercise. There was transportation available, of course, but he never took it. People speculated that he wanted the exercise. Others said that he had a profound love for all things in life, and didn’t want to pass them by. Beyond that, his coworkers jokingly suggested that Zale was in fact a robot, and that the magnetic rails underneath the trolley would interfere with his internal systems.
They were right.
One would expect that some sort of story detailing the creation and maintenance of such an android would follow, but this story cannot be told, because there is no man living who knows it. Questions of where Zale came from, and indeed [i]why[/i] remain a mystery to this day.
The lab where Zale worked was connected to a nuclear power plant that was thought to have been shut down for years. Had it not been for this plant, nobody would even know that Zale was any different from anyone else.
It was a day like any other. Zale arrived at the lab, perfectly conditioned and without any wear from his three-mile hike. His co-workers snickered behind his back, feeding their insecurities as they called him a loner and a freak. Zale paid them no mind as he walked into his personal lab and locked the door. While there, Zale talked to nobody and nobody talked to him. The only exception was his first day of work, when he tried to make friends with Jonah Cayle in the zygology offices.
Jonah, like Zale, was something of an outcast. He was always looked down on as an engineer in the place of “real scientists,” as they called themselves. “A waste of funding,” he had heard as well, along with other names not pleasant to repeat. Jonah didn’t know what to think about that. At first he had dismissed the reluctance of his coworkers as simple ignorance, a case for the proof of the human condition. Everybody, Jonah felt, needed someone to pick on, someone to feel better than. And in the world of science, where there was no distinction between better or worse, how could he as a simple engineer stand up? [i]Don’t let it bother you,[/i] he always said, but it still got to him. They were right, to a degree. At any given moment, Jonah knew that there were hundreds of “real scientists” out there making a difference in the world: saving lives, finding resources, inventing new ways to simplify life. He made connections.
“Nuts, bolts, screws, rivets, hinges, you name it,” Jonah had said when Zale inquired as to his profession. “We find new ways every day to keep stuff together. Better ways. Next thing you know, we’ll have a world of metal, through and through. Nothing to break, nothing to fix.” That was Jonah’s dream. Zale took a long look around the office and the workrooms, taking in every sight (which he did quite literally) before turning to leave.
“Don’t forget the flowers,” Zale said in a mournful voice.
“What’s that?” Jonah had asked.
“In your world of metal,” Zale said, “don’t forget the flowers.” Everyone was right when they said that Zale had a deep appreciation for the arts. In his private lab there were paintings of flowing rivers and majestic landscapes, sculptures of animals and people, and flowers as well. Some in the corners, in amongst his machines - anywhere and everywhere one could find some small facet of art or expression.
There were, of course, his work materials. Machines, tools, capsules, electronics. Nobody knew what happened in that office, and nobody really cared to find out. They were so engrossed in their own tasks that they gave no heed to the workings of Zale. They did notice, however, that there was an unusual silence in his workspace that day. Whereas before there had been poundings of metal and the hiss of welding equipment, now there was only an eerie silence, the kind which raises hairs and makes skin crawl.
Zale had been there for an hour, no more, when he left again, abruptly. This was another oddity, and more workers began to take notice. Jonah, feeling some connection to Zale from day one, decided to forsake his lunch break and follow him out of the building.
Zale went straight for the power plant. Jonah didn’t know why anyone would go there, and his curiosity deepened when Zale passed the security doors without missing a beat. The plant had been locked down for years, and Jonah knew that it shouldn’t be intruded upon so easily. Thinking that something dangerous was going on, he rushed back into the lab, grabbed a Geiger counter, and was back in front of the plant inside of five minutes.
By then, he saw no sign of Zale. He passed the outer and inner gates and stood with bated breath outside of the heavy doors. [i]Why not just turn back?[/i] he remembered thinking. A million things could be awaiting him inside - a druglord hideout, a murder suicide, a contamination... But then, [i]No. I’ll show them.[/i]. He was, of course, referring to the scientists back at the lab, to whom Jonah thought he had something to prove.
He slowly edged the door outward and was met by a wave of heat, so intense that he stumbled backwards. The Geiger counter began to tick wildly and Jonah knew that something was wrong. He forced the door shut with all of his might and ran back to call for help.
The radiation levels in the power plant were off of the charts. It seemed that there was a section of the facility which had not been properly shut down all those years ago, and a small leak there had allowed a buildup, to dangerous levels.
They found Zale’s body next to one of the generators. His skin had melted away, revealing the wire frame and frayed circuitry inside. On the floor next to him had been scrawled the words “Meltdown imminent. I’m sorry.” Jonah identified him and asked for a proper burial, but they left his body there. His entire workings emitted radiation, and even the workers in the suits could stay in the building for no longer than ten minutes. That meant that even a scientific study of the android would be impossible until the area cooled down, which caused a minor uproar amongst the robotics scientist community.
Everyone stood outside watching the commotion and trying to find their way onto local news, but inside of the laboratory one body still stirred. It opened the capsule wherein it had rested until Zale’s signal had terminated. Outside it found a note and a flower. The note read, quite simply,
[i]Dear Zale2,
They were mean to us, but I saved them.
Don’t give them our secrets.
Tell Jonah.
Zale1[/i]
Zale2 left a note for Jonah and left the building, never to be seen or heard from again.
For Misha
Captain William Braxford:
My dear friend, if you are reading this letter then I am sure you have killed me. I congratulate you. I don’t know what day it is, but I hope it reads well on my gravestone. You always see those people there who have had the bad luck to die on some odd sounding day of the year, like January 23rd, 2507. Too many syllables. Give me a May 1st any day.
Will, I want you to understand that I never once wished any harm to the Confederacy. Truly, I had no choice in the matter, and I spent every waking moment trying to think of a plan to turn things around. I hope you can see that... I will not say that you would have done the same in my place, but know that I leave you not with regret, not with anger - but with joy. Joy because my threat is no more.
All these years we served under the flag. The brown, blue, and green. The Star and the Key. Did we ever figure out what it meant? What we stood for? What we fought for? I never did. But absence of reason, I’ve found, is no cause to abandon belief. I hope that you find the same.
I say [i]served under the flag[/i], but in your case perhaps I should say [i]will continue to serve[/i]. I pray you will. But nevertheless, you will go your way, and I of course, mine. I’m hoping I’ll see you after this life, but if fate has it that we split ways, I hope that it is you who finds an eternity in the presence of God. I know you never bought into that “religious crap,” but humor a dead man.
I am sure that I owe you my account of the past few months. Rather, you owe it to [i]yourself[/i] to read my explanation.
They came in the early days of the year. Black suits and the whole routine. One of them was tall, dark skinned, short black hair and all that. The other was medium height, but solid as a rock. Well, they wore the badges of the Confederacy and asked if I was alone. I said yes and invited them in. Misha was at that dancing convention - you remember, we went clubbing the night after she left. Stupid idea. Was it mine or yours? My God, I do ramble on. Well, I figured that these men were going to give me some sort of special mission. A chance to move up in the ranks, maybe make Captain. I remember thinking how you would react. The both of us, Captains in the Corps...
So I invited the fellows in, thought maybe I’d bring out some drinks or something. My invitation, it seemed, went completely unheeded. They pushed right by me and started checking the entire place out. They asked me, of all things, if my place was wired. That made me wonder. It’s down in our constitution somewhere that we have the right to record whatever we want in our own homes. I know, I looked into it afterwards. Thought maybe I could find a legal loophole.
‘Standard security system is all,’ I answer. And apparently that’s some sort of indication that they need to close all my shades and shut down my power hub. Well, by now I’m a bit upset as I’m sure you can understand. I’ve never been one to be pushed around by anyone, unless clear reason can be shown, and Misha was supposed to return from dance class at any minute.
‘What’s the meaning of all this?’ I say finally losing my temper. I find myself sprawled out on the floor in response, the mark of the raygun still burning in my side. I don’t remember which one did it, but I wanted the bastard dead. But they throw this file next to my face, even as I writhe there, and ask me to open it. The tall one moves off to inspect the rest of my house, and starts fiddling with the trinkets on my mantelpiece. Then he’s off somewhere else, waving a sensor around like a madman and pushing buttons into its display.
I opened the file, expecting some sort of fabricated criminal evidence against me. Why else would Confederate officers assault their own soldiers? But it wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t a mission briefing either, as I had thought earlier. They were pictures.
You have to understand, Will. They had Misha. The whole time, they had Misha. What was I supposed to do? I tried to think of a way to let HQ know that I was under the thumb, but they put a patch on my system. Anything wired to me was forwarded to them. Anything recorded by me as well. And I couldn’t risk it. My Misha! She had asked me to go with her that week. To the dance thing. But I wanted to party with the guys. I could have protected her, done something...
So they lay it out for me, plain and simple. I give them HQ schematics, they give me Misha. They must have thought me a moron. I bring them the schematics and they let me go? Please.
They ask me if everything’s clear. I lie and say yes. They hit me with the raygun anyway. And that was the last I saw of them. They always sent two new guys, or had me meet at this restaurant, or that diner.
I got the names of a few. Pseudonyms, of course, but I hope they help. I hope you neutralize the bastards.
Jonah, dark skinned, a little over 6 feet tall, slim build, short black hair.
Barry, medium build, maybe 5’8”, short brown curls.
Sean, medium build, maybe 5’10”, short blonde curls.
Hunt, 5’4”, bald
Walsh, 5’8”, large dragon tattoo on right wrist, probably all the way up his arm too.
Charlie, unknown height (I only saw him seated), but a scar on his nose, left side.
I regret to say that you were too late. I already gave them the schematics to HQ. I doctored them up a bit, enough for you to lay a trap in the East wing, but they’re getting a lot of free information with it as is. I’m sorry. If you take a look at the eastern underground access tunnel, it has a checkpoint in it. In the fakes I gave them, I edited it out. That’s where they’ll go, I know it. If you set up a post you should be able at least to detain anyone with the characteristics I mentioned above. Hopefully you get them.
If you find Misha, tell her that I love her and I’m sorry. And if you could, friend, lay a single white rose on my grave so that I’ll know she’s well. Trust me, I’ll know. I doubt I’ll be buried with any honors, but I’m okay with that. You’ll have to try and get me in the Rosewood Cemetery. You know, the one close by, with the poplar trees.
You were always a brother to me, Will. You were a saint. Whatever you do, don’t feel bad for taking my life - it had to be done. Even God can understand that.
Your brother in arms,
Michael
P.S. “I pray you, in your reports, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak of one that loved not wisely but too well.” It’s Shakespeare. You always did love Shakespeare
My dear friend, if you are reading this letter then I am sure you have killed me. I congratulate you. I don’t know what day it is, but I hope it reads well on my gravestone. You always see those people there who have had the bad luck to die on some odd sounding day of the year, like January 23rd, 2507. Too many syllables. Give me a May 1st any day.
Will, I want you to understand that I never once wished any harm to the Confederacy. Truly, I had no choice in the matter, and I spent every waking moment trying to think of a plan to turn things around. I hope you can see that... I will not say that you would have done the same in my place, but know that I leave you not with regret, not with anger - but with joy. Joy because my threat is no more.
All these years we served under the flag. The brown, blue, and green. The Star and the Key. Did we ever figure out what it meant? What we stood for? What we fought for? I never did. But absence of reason, I’ve found, is no cause to abandon belief. I hope that you find the same.
I say [i]served under the flag[/i], but in your case perhaps I should say [i]will continue to serve[/i]. I pray you will. But nevertheless, you will go your way, and I of course, mine. I’m hoping I’ll see you after this life, but if fate has it that we split ways, I hope that it is you who finds an eternity in the presence of God. I know you never bought into that “religious crap,” but humor a dead man.
I am sure that I owe you my account of the past few months. Rather, you owe it to [i]yourself[/i] to read my explanation.
They came in the early days of the year. Black suits and the whole routine. One of them was tall, dark skinned, short black hair and all that. The other was medium height, but solid as a rock. Well, they wore the badges of the Confederacy and asked if I was alone. I said yes and invited them in. Misha was at that dancing convention - you remember, we went clubbing the night after she left. Stupid idea. Was it mine or yours? My God, I do ramble on. Well, I figured that these men were going to give me some sort of special mission. A chance to move up in the ranks, maybe make Captain. I remember thinking how you would react. The both of us, Captains in the Corps...
So I invited the fellows in, thought maybe I’d bring out some drinks or something. My invitation, it seemed, went completely unheeded. They pushed right by me and started checking the entire place out. They asked me, of all things, if my place was wired. That made me wonder. It’s down in our constitution somewhere that we have the right to record whatever we want in our own homes. I know, I looked into it afterwards. Thought maybe I could find a legal loophole.
‘Standard security system is all,’ I answer. And apparently that’s some sort of indication that they need to close all my shades and shut down my power hub. Well, by now I’m a bit upset as I’m sure you can understand. I’ve never been one to be pushed around by anyone, unless clear reason can be shown, and Misha was supposed to return from dance class at any minute.
‘What’s the meaning of all this?’ I say finally losing my temper. I find myself sprawled out on the floor in response, the mark of the raygun still burning in my side. I don’t remember which one did it, but I wanted the bastard dead. But they throw this file next to my face, even as I writhe there, and ask me to open it. The tall one moves off to inspect the rest of my house, and starts fiddling with the trinkets on my mantelpiece. Then he’s off somewhere else, waving a sensor around like a madman and pushing buttons into its display.
I opened the file, expecting some sort of fabricated criminal evidence against me. Why else would Confederate officers assault their own soldiers? But it wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t a mission briefing either, as I had thought earlier. They were pictures.
You have to understand, Will. They had Misha. The whole time, they had Misha. What was I supposed to do? I tried to think of a way to let HQ know that I was under the thumb, but they put a patch on my system. Anything wired to me was forwarded to them. Anything recorded by me as well. And I couldn’t risk it. My Misha! She had asked me to go with her that week. To the dance thing. But I wanted to party with the guys. I could have protected her, done something...
So they lay it out for me, plain and simple. I give them HQ schematics, they give me Misha. They must have thought me a moron. I bring them the schematics and they let me go? Please.
They ask me if everything’s clear. I lie and say yes. They hit me with the raygun anyway. And that was the last I saw of them. They always sent two new guys, or had me meet at this restaurant, or that diner.
I got the names of a few. Pseudonyms, of course, but I hope they help. I hope you neutralize the bastards.
Jonah, dark skinned, a little over 6 feet tall, slim build, short black hair.
Barry, medium build, maybe 5’8”, short brown curls.
Sean, medium build, maybe 5’10”, short blonde curls.
Hunt, 5’4”, bald
Walsh, 5’8”, large dragon tattoo on right wrist, probably all the way up his arm too.
Charlie, unknown height (I only saw him seated), but a scar on his nose, left side.
I regret to say that you were too late. I already gave them the schematics to HQ. I doctored them up a bit, enough for you to lay a trap in the East wing, but they’re getting a lot of free information with it as is. I’m sorry. If you take a look at the eastern underground access tunnel, it has a checkpoint in it. In the fakes I gave them, I edited it out. That’s where they’ll go, I know it. If you set up a post you should be able at least to detain anyone with the characteristics I mentioned above. Hopefully you get them.
If you find Misha, tell her that I love her and I’m sorry. And if you could, friend, lay a single white rose on my grave so that I’ll know she’s well. Trust me, I’ll know. I doubt I’ll be buried with any honors, but I’m okay with that. You’ll have to try and get me in the Rosewood Cemetery. You know, the one close by, with the poplar trees.
You were always a brother to me, Will. You were a saint. Whatever you do, don’t feel bad for taking my life - it had to be done. Even God can understand that.
Your brother in arms,
Michael
P.S. “I pray you, in your reports, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak of one that loved not wisely but too well.” It’s Shakespeare. You always did love Shakespeare
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
One Last Shot
The rungs of the ladder that I used to climb
fall away as I wonder if going up was right
not that I have the time to think
that I did growing up as a child
it’s all wasted...
and intellect, it lasts as long as love lives on
but not before creation flows,
a fee that’s paid for by your landlord.
Waiting is an invitation to all your vices
shake their hands and roll the dice,
decide your fate in a game of chance
but not before you wave goodbye
and hope that with your one last shot
you clear the way for the future,
not the one you thought you’d choose
but good enough to keep you clean.
fall away as I wonder if going up was right
not that I have the time to think
that I did growing up as a child
it’s all wasted...
and intellect, it lasts as long as love lives on
but not before creation flows,
a fee that’s paid for by your landlord.
Waiting is an invitation to all your vices
shake their hands and roll the dice,
decide your fate in a game of chance
but not before you wave goodbye
and hope that with your one last shot
you clear the way for the future,
not the one you thought you’d choose
but good enough to keep you clean.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
My Worst Trait
As if this pen could fix a thing
This pad, it is nothing but the means to an end
As every opportunity wasted serves to attest
that I, when at my lonliest have nothing
nothing to say--and nothing said, I settle
in my pillowed bed
awaiting a morning no more bright
And though the sun may rise
it sinks as well.
Litturae sends my soul to hell
I look up from below to see
the faces I once knew surpassing me
in life. They flew a little higher,
avoiding situations dire as mine.
Encapsulated by this tomb I scratch these rocks
but it's too late. Indifference.
It's my worst trait.
This pad, it is nothing but the means to an end
As every opportunity wasted serves to attest
that I, when at my lonliest have nothing
nothing to say--and nothing said, I settle
in my pillowed bed
awaiting a morning no more bright
And though the sun may rise
it sinks as well.
Litturae sends my soul to hell
I look up from below to see
the faces I once knew surpassing me
in life. They flew a little higher,
avoiding situations dire as mine.
Encapsulated by this tomb I scratch these rocks
but it's too late. Indifference.
It's my worst trait.
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