Pickup for the Errand Boy

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I pedaled my bike through the maze of narrow streets, my eyes running over the numbers printed on the sides and doorways of the buildings as I whizzed past.  Occasionally, my turning and meandering path would veer me out into traffic, but I ignored the honks and occasional shouts.

Where the hell was this place?

Still pedaling, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the little scrap of paper my boss had handed me.  No, I still had the address correct in my memory.

“1408 Shining Ave,” I read off aloud.  No other directions…

I was on Shining Avenue right now, so finding this place ought to be easy.  But I hadn’t figured on Shining running right into Chinatown – and promptly beginning to weave back and forth, worse than a drunken sailor with a full stomach of whiskey.

Hell, half of the little shops along both sides of this street didn’t even have numbers up on their doorways!  And although I spoke a few pidgin words of Mandarin and Cantonese, they were mainly choice terms for insulting someone’s mother – not so good for navigating.

What sort of shop did a cake decoration place have, anyway?  My boss had sent me out here to get some sort of “specialty wedding topper” for one of our orders.  And like an idiot, I’d gone ahead to grab it, hopping on my bike without asking for any further information.

A few houses down, I spotted an ancient little Asian woman, sitting on the steps to one of these shops and smoking a long-stemmed pipe.  Figuring that I was down to my last option, I hit the brakes and coasted to a stop.

“Excuse me,” I called out, and her hooded eyes rolled over to me.  “Do you know where 1408 Shining-“

Before I’d finished talking, the woman rose up laboriously to her feet.  Without even speaking a word, she reached behind her and opened up the door.

“Oh.  It’s here?” I asked, surprised and a little suspicious of this sudden reversal of my bad luck.

Still, the old woman didn’t speak – she just nodded towards the open door, as if urging me to just get it over with already.

Pausing only to lock my bike to a nearby sapling, I stepped into the doorway.  The shop inside was pitch black, and I couldn’t see my nose in front of my own face.  “Hello?  Is anyone there?”

There was no answer – except for the door behind me swinging shut with a click.

For just an instant, I was lost in blackness.  And then, seconds later, a bright light clicked on, shining into my face and making me lift up my hands to try and shield my eyes.

“Do you have it?”  The voice was strong, deep, authoritative, and rolling out of the darkness beyond the spotlight shining into my face.

“Do I have it – what?” I echoed back, confused.  “Do you have it?”  Had I been supposed to bring something to exchange for this pickup?

The voice didn’t speak – but a rattle sounded, and a battered metal suitcase slid across the floor to land at my feet.

I reached down and picked up the case, not pausing to even glance at the contents.  “Uh, thanks?” I called out into the darkness as I reached behind me for the doorknob out of this place.  I was definitely not going to go on my boss’s next pickup mission!

“Wait!” the voice called out of the darkness.  “And what about what we require?”

Maybe they needed the receipt?  I pulled it out of my pocket and tossed it out beyond the circle of light.  The voice said something else, but I had already opened the door and stepped back outside.

Out on the street, the elderly little Asian woman was gone, but at least my bike was still there.  I tossed the metal briefcase (who delivered cake toppers in a briefcase?) into the basket on the back of my bike, unlocked it, and pedaled off.

From behind me, I suddenly heard the door burst open, and shouting in some language I didn’t understand.  I glanced back over my shoulder as I started to pedal away – and saw several shadowy men wearing what looked like top hats and long yellow trench coats running out, pointing after me and yelling something guttural.

“Dammit,” I cursed, pedaling harder.  Maybe I had been supposed to bring payment after all – but my boss could figure that out.

A couple of the men went running after me, but I veered down Semetary, made an illegal left turn onto Pennywise Boulevard, and cut through a yellow light to merge over to Gilead Street.  I doubted the men would be able to follow that.

But even as I pedaled, I felt doubt and suspicion start to creep up into my mind.  Veering over to a parking lot, I glanced back at the metal case behind me as I slowed to a stop.

I had wondered who would hand over a cake topper in a metal briefcase.  Now, as I set my bike down and lifted the case out of the basket, I could feel my doubt growing.  The case felt wrong, different.

I set the case down on the ground and popped the latches.  Hesitantly, I lifted the lid.

“Dammit,” I muttered again as I stared at the contents.

From inside the case, carefully set into a leather interior, two long, heavy, blued steel revolvers glinted up at me…

Danni California: Part 4

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Continued from Part 3, here.
Start the story here.

* * *

As the man in black paused in the retelling of his story, Jenny felt herself rise back up to the present.  She had been sitting and listening for far too long, she suddenly realized.  The bar was still as empty as always, but if her boss came out and spotted her lounging and listening to this story, she’d be in for an earful.

Next to her, Old Hillpaw also started as the young waitress rose up abruptly from her seat.  “Figure I ought to wet your whistle, if you’re gonna keep going,” he commented to the man in black, who answered this with a slow nod.

The man in black didn’t say anything as the two members of his small audience left his table.  He simply returned his attention back to the typewriter, once again slowly pecking out word after word.

Ten minutes later, a scrape across from him made the man in black look up.

His audience had returned, it seemed.  Jenny was once again perching on the edge of her chair, sparrow-like, all the empty tables now glistening after a fresh wipe-down from her rag.  Old Hillpaw was also slowly lowering himself into his own chair, taking pains not to spill the mug of frothy pale beer he held.

A similar mug had been placed in front of him, just outside the swing of his arms as he worked his typewriter, the man in black noted with a faint but undeniable note of satisfaction.  He picked it up, taking a sip and letting the liquid splash across his tongue.

Once he had slaked his thirst, the man in black resumed telling his story.  Despite her apprehension, Jenny couldn’t help but find herself drawn back in.

* * *

The bell was loud and insistent, ringing repeatedly.  Even as she squirmed and turned on the thin, hard mattress, trying to pull the itchy blanket up to cover her ears, Danni couldn’t block out the noise.

Around her, voicing similar grunts and groans of displeasure, she could hear the men waking up and crawling out of their own cots.  None of them wanted to leave the relative comfort of their bedding, but they all knew the punishment for being last.

As the sounds of activity grew louder, the bell still tolling, Danni finally pulled back the blanket with a hiss.  Even at the early hour, the sunlight was streaming into the ramshackle building.  It reflected off of the frost on the few remaining pieces of glass in the windows, and highlighted the motes of dust floating in the air.

The bell finally stopped ringing as Danni fumbled for her boots on the floor.  It was replaced, however, with a voice no more pleasant.  “Up and at ’em, you lazy lugs!” the foreman thundered, stomping into the barracks.  “We got honest work for y’all – maybe the first honest work y’all have done in your lives!”

They all knew better than to rise to the bait in those barbed words.  Danni tightened her frayed coat around her slim body, flexed her fingers in the ragged gloves to try and send some heat into her digits.  Alabama might be the Deep South, but it was still bitingly cold in the mornings.

Once he had roused his reluctant charges from their beds, the foreman’s booming voice switched over to calling off the roles for the day.  Danni kept her head down, focusing on stretching out her stiff limbs, one ear listening for her name.

There – roofing crew.

It was no surprise, she figured, that she ended up on the roof most of the time.  Unlike most of the men around her, she was light and nimble on her feet, with a head for heights.  Up in the rafters, balancing on those thin beams of wood, agility was just as important as strength.

Carl, a disagreeable little man with a face like a rat, sniggered at her as she fell into line for the breakfast slop.  “Watch yer step, missy,” he called out to her.  “Don’t wanna see yuh fall and break nothin’, need a big strong man to take care’ah yuh.”

“Let me know if you see one,” Danni shot back, and the rough laughter of the other workers turned on Carl.  He flushed crimson, but shut his mouth with a click.

Just another day of long, grueling, back-breaking work.  Most of the time, Danni didn’t let herself think too much.  Thinking, she had learned, could very quickly get someone in trouble.  Especially a girl like her.

But when she was standing up in the rafters of that day’s construction project, feeling the breezes rustling her fiery red hair, she couldn’t keep her mind quiet.  Between hammering in nails, Danni would stare off at the horizon, watching the brilliant colors flare as the sun rose up from below the trees.

Sometimes, she could even catch a glimpse of what she imagined was light reflecting from the ocean, the Gulf.

She had never been anything but poor, and she knew that she’d never be anything more.  But still, up above the ground, she could feel the yearning, so strong it was like a physical hook in her stomach, tugging her onward.

To be continued…

Book 10 of 52: "Think Like a Freak" by Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner

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The authors of this book might be recognizable – they’re the same two guys who wrote Freakonomics, followed by the sequel, Superfreakonomics.  They are great at showing how a lot of behavior that, on its face seems irrational, is actually totally logical and can be explained.  They also show how sometimes, making a decision that seems crazy might be the best possible option to do.

Now, in their third book, Think Like a Freak, Levitt and Dubner claim to be able to teach all of us rubes how to think in the same way as them; how to take a situation and turn it on its head, looking at an unusual approach as a solution that might work better than the old “tried and true” method.

So, how do they fare?

In terms of getting all of us to think like Freaks, I have to admit that I’m not super impressed.  A lot of the actual lessons in this book are more “try things and see what happens,” and “don’t be afraid to try something new, even if your boss doesn’t immediately agree.”  Good lessons, sure, but nothing groundbreaking.

But despite the lack of a full, coherent message, the book is very good at doing what Levitt and Dubner do best – providing tons of real-life detailed examples of how people have used strange solutions to solve complex problems.  They discuss:

  • Zappos, the shoe company that gets thousands of applications for each $11/hour position;
  • A “one-and-done” mailing that provides a huge boost in charity donations;
  • A ban on cobras – that resulted in a lot more cobras;
  • Why kids are bad audiences for magicians;
And many more fun topics.
The book is short and fluffy, but it’s still a definitely fun read, and evokes a lot of great conversations, if nothing else.
Time to read: 2 hours.  Seriously, it’s short, and even shorter than it initially feels thanks to a lengthy list of citations.  

"We’re made of star stuff."

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I stared down at the control panel spread out in front of me.  Even now, as the entire floor shuddered beneath my chair, I couldn’t help but notice how, well, homemade the whole thing looked.
Over there, wasn’t that lever off of the lawnmower bot that had used to rumble around my backyard?  And I recognized the steering handle in front of me, the one that controlled the angle of the main thrusters, as coming from that old decommissioned hover-junker that had been abandoned in my back yard a few years back after I gave up on it as a side project.
Of course, this craft was a side project, too.  
But this was one that wasn’t a fleeting passion, wasn’t a passing fancy.  I had wanted this for as long as I can remember, ever since my grandfather bounced me on his lap.
“Don’t forget, kid,” he had told me, as his wrinkled hands gripped me firmly and his knee bounced lightly beneath my bottom.  “You’re made of star stuff.”
It wasn’t until I was older, until my grandfather was no longer alive, that I’d really come to understand what his quote truly meant.  But even before I knew the meaning behind the words, it fascinated me.
Our molecules, the very building blocks of our bodies, had been forged in the crucible of stars, stars long since gone in fiery explosions.  We were all created out of those remains, hydrogen atoms compressed into more complex and elaborate structures in the aftermath of their original hosts’ destruction.  We were all forged from molecules, atoms, that had once been part of a fiery fission drive within the wilderness of space.
My father, of course, had reacted in typical protective fashion, ordering me to ignore the wild words of my grandfather.  “Don’t get cocky, kid,” he’d tell me, ruffling my hair, when I tried to ask him questions about stars and the worlds beyond our own.  “The universe is no place to be cocky.  It’s dangerous, and can get you killed.  Better to keep your head down.”
I looked around me at the hand-constructed vehicle in which I sat, my finger poised over the key.  I was definitely not keeping my head down.
I heard a shout, faint but still audible even through this vehicle’s thick shielding.  “Harry!  Come out of there!”
I stood up from the seat with a grunt, pushing aside the unbuckled harness designed to hold me in place if I ever found the courage to fire up the engine.  I climbed down, navigating with difficulty along the wall that was intended to be the floor.  Moving inside the vehicle was tough with it pointed up at the sky, but a few minutes later, I managed to emerge out into the sunlight.
My mother stood out in the field behind our house, staring with her usual doubtfulness at my creation.  “Harry, when are you going to give up on all this craziness?” she asked, with a sigh.  “You’ve had your fun putting it together, but you’ll never actually launch, will you?  I mean, there’s no need!”
“There’s always a need!” I exulted back at her, going through the same steps of the same argument we’d had dozens of times before.  “Mom, we never explored all that’s out there!  We just used a shortcut, dodging around the whole problem instead of facing the challenge head-on!”
“But the portals are safer,” my mother argued, as she’d done so many times before.  “No need to go into space – just hop from our planet to another through the nethers, without needing to wait for travel time, or having to risk riding on top of a giant explosion!  What you’re proposing is so dangerous, so foolhardy-“
“But portals will never show us everything!” I insisted.  “Mom, portals can take us to another planet, but will they ever let us come close to a star, to truly see all that’s out there beyond the places we can comfortably rest?”
My mom crossed her arms.  “The portals protect us from that danger,” she concluded, and I could tell that she refused to hear any more.
But even as I headed inside for dinner, I couldn’t risk one last look back at the big, clunky machine, its nose cone pointed up at the dusky sky.  I had worked hard to wire it all together, to make every weld that held its body intact, to attach the old but reliable fusion engines that were now being sold off cheaply since the entire mode of travel had been abandoned.
The portals were safer, were easier.  They took us straight to our destinations without any fuss of the trip there.  
But they were never going to truly carry us to the stars.  
My grandfather’s words echoed in my head, and I mentally resolved that tomorrow, as soon as the sun rose, I would launch.  
We were made of star stuff, and I was going to see my creator.

The ‘Doubt’ Theory of God

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The devil sitting across the table from me leaned back, one hand lazily twirling a finger about an inch above the brim of his coffee cup.  Even though there was nothing physically extending down into the cup itself, the liquid beneath his finger seemed to be moving along with his motions.

In front of me, both of my hands were wrapped around my own coffee cup.  Even after years of working here, of pouring coffee every day for the angels, both holy and fallen, that wandered in here, I still got nervous when talking to them.  Call it mortal nerves, maybe.  I waited for the devil in front of me to respond.

“See, here’s my theory,” the devil across from me finally started.  His voice was cultured, with only the very faintest little hint of a sneer giving any sort of allusion to his true nature.  “We all know that God exists, somewhere, in some form.  Right?  We,” and he waved one hand around in a little circle to encompass the two of us, the coffee shop, the world in general, “wouldn’t be here if He didn’t exist.”

“But we never see him,” I countered.  “And even the angels and devils I’ve talked to haven’t ever spoken with him directly.”

It was true.  Ever since I’d started working here, since I had realized who the real customers of this coffee shop were, I’d begun asking around.  My inquiries were surreptitious at first, but as I grew more comfortable with the immortal agents of Heaven and Hell who filed through here every morning, grumpy and in search of their caffeine fix, I grew bolder.

The devil across from me held up a finger, as if I’d just made his point for him.  “Ah, but that’s just it, isn’t it?” he announced triumphantly, as if he’d scored a point.  “We know that He exists – but at the same time, we don’t know!  We’re doubtful!”

I narrowed my eyes at the man.  Was he just trying to be flippant with me?  He did look the type – if it weren’t for the black clothes that marked him as a fallen angel, he could have fit in at a fraternity house, dressed in a polo with a popped collar and hollering for shots.  His blonde hair was pushed back in a loose curl across his forehead that would generally take hours in front of a mirror.

“What’s your point?” I said shortly.

The devil crossed his arms and looked smug.  “Doubt,” he announced.

“Doubt?”

“Yeah, isn’t that what I just said?  See, I think that this God guy lives on doubt.  He exists, but He can’t demonstrate that He exists, or else He removes all the doubt.  And He must need us to be doubtful for some reason!”

I didn’t feel convinced.  “So God exists… but He is powered by doubt?” I reiterated.

“Yup.  And if He was to start messing around directly, throwing lightning bolts and such, well, that would remove all the doubt!”  The devil looked pleased as punch with this theory.

“Okay…” I paused, trying to decide where to go next.  I still didn’t feel convinced, but I didn’t see how this devil could help me any further.  He was a fairly low ranking devil, but he had been one of the few that seemed agreeable to talking with me.  I was stuck with the customers who seemed friendly, low-powered as they might be.

We sat there in silence for a couple more minutes – I was trying to digest this theory, and the devil was gloating, apparently believing he’d landed another convert.

“So, what does this mean for us?” I finally asked.

“It means we can do whatever we want!” the devil exclaimed.  I almost expected him to add a ‘bro’ onto the end of that sentence.  “See, God can’t jump in and stop us, or else it would prove that He exists – and He can’t do that!”

“But what if He intervenes indirectly?” I countered.  “Like, God doesn’t appear and throw lightning bolts, but there happens to be a thunderstorm in that same place that struck just then.”

The devil across the table frowned.  “Nah, that wouldn’t work, would it?” he mused, looking a little rattled.

“Remember the general who got shot by a cannon after mocking the enemy’s ability to hit anything?” I countered.

The devil looked a little ill.  He lifted up his coffee, but slopped a little as it rose up to his mouth.  “Uh, maybe my theory needs a little detailing,” he stammered, as he rose up quickly from his seat, brushing drops of hot liquid off his black clothes.  “Maybe I’ll let you know once I’ve worked it all out.”

I watched the devil scurry away, and sighed.  Another servant of God who didn’t even know if his boss existed.  Sometimes, I despaired that I’d get anywhere on this.

The bell above the door jangled, jolting me out of my reverie.  Well, at least I could serve coffee.  I hopped up and hurried back behind the counter, putting on a smile as the newest angels entered.

Book 9 of 52: "The C Student’s Guide to Success" by Ron Bliwas

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I would like to preface this little review by saying that, despite the title of this book, I am not a C student.  I am, in fact, an A student (at least on a good day), and so I wasn’t sure how useful some of the advice in this book would be.  However, I firmly believed that it was a good idea to know what strategies these C students were using to get ahead of me – so I can crush them at that as well!

Just kidding.  Mostly.

As for the advice of the book itself, a lot of it is rather common sense (although perhaps that’s just my “A student” mentality speaking, and many “C students” don’t realize this stuff).  Common advice in the book includes taking over jobs that no one else wants, going for the challenging risk when others hang back, not being afraid to throw yourself into new experiences, and making sure to learn some new skill at every job.

Bliwas takes a lighter hand with attacking A students, but he does state that many of them, thanks to the connections of success or money, don’t bother with many of these tidbits of advice.  However, many of these suggestions sounded familiar.  Why is that…

…oh yes, because they’re also in every other management and career advice book I’ve read.

For a student who didn’t score the highest grades and is struggling to find a way to connect or succeed in a job, the tips and suggestions given in “The C Student’s Guide to Success” are good.  But don’t let that student believe that they’ve found some hidden secret, some inside track.

Everyone out there is going for these same moves – and that includes many A students.  Sure, some of them believe that connections and grades will get them all the way, but most A students tend to be overachievers – and that comes to their devotion to a job as well as their devotion to studying classroom material.  Those A students were willing to take on the workload of extra credit in their classes, and they’re just as willing to take on the workload of a challenging project or long hours in a career.  Even here, I suspect that many C students will find themselves outflanked.

Overall, Bliwas wrote a decent book.  My two big complaints, in the end, are as such:

1. Bliwas has several “rags to riches” success stories of various friends and business contacts.  These are good stories, and reflect a wide range of viewpoints – but the author always has to use the person’s full name every time they’re referenced!  For some reason, this strikes me as shoddy writing (by 100 pages in, we should remember someone named “Art Frigo”!).  It gets annoying and distracts from the message of the book.

2. As you can see above, the cover of this book features the title, “The C Student’s Guide to Success,” in very big, easy to read letters.  While this is great for advertising the book, it does make me feel a bit uncomfortable about carrying the book around.  “Look at me, I have bad grades!” it shouts out to passerby.

Time to read: 10 hours.  This was a “bedside read” that I struggled to get through, mainly due to the author’s habit of consistently referencing the same individuals over and over, always by their full names, giving me deja vu and making me think I’d already read that section.

Just Like Their Father

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“Hey there, you two.  How are you guys holding up?”

The oldest’s wine glass shook a little in his hand as he approached his two brothers.  Nerves, he told himself.  He willed his hand to cease, to hold still.  It was a fine vintage, after all.  No need to spill even a drop.

“Hey.  I’m doing all right.  Your flight get in all right?”

“Yeah.  Little rough coming in with the storm and all, but the pilot handled it.  I’m just glad I was able to book a hotel room last-minute and all.”

“Hotel?  You could have stayed here with the two of us.”

The oldest shook his head.  “Nah.  Late night work to do.  Always more business to attend to, even at times like this.”

The oldest cast his eye over his two brothers.  The youngest looked even paler than he remembered.  Was he sick, or was it just the stress of their father’s death piled on top of everything else?  He’d been staying at home with Father in the final days, so maybe he was most affected by the loss.  Unlike the other two, his wine glass held only water.

“Any word on the will yet?”

“Lawyer’s bringing it over tomorrow.”  At least the youngest seemed to know what was going on there.  No surprise – he was probably worried about losing his room, being thrown out of the manor.

The middle brother paused.  “Wait – I thought it was in the safe?”

“Safe?”  The oldest had been away too long.  He didn’t remember a safe.

“Yeah, down in the study.  Father had it put in a few months ago.”  The middle paused.  “But I don’t know the combination.  Do you-?”

They both shook their heads.  “Birthday?” suggested the oldest.

“Nah, easier way.  We’ve got a sledge hammer out in the shed, back behind the manor.  We could duck out now while everyone else is upstairs, go grab it, knock the thing open.”

“Now?” said the youngest in surprise.  “It’s snowing out there – and it’s not like he’ll come back.”

“Might as well do it now,” the middle insisted.  “Come on, you two, don’t make me do this on my own.”  He tossed back the rest of his wine and set the glass over on a side table.

The oldest shrugged, lifting up his wine glass in turn and gulping down the remainder.  “Damn good wine,” he said, slightly unsteadily.  He glanced at the youngest.  “Good find in the cellars, man.”

The three started for the back door, but the oldest paused.  “Gimme a moment, I have to make a call for a moment,” he told the other two.  “I’ll be right out after you, promise.”

The middle paused for a moment, looking uncertain.  He had already slid his hand into his jacket pocket, and looked like he was gripping something inside.  Maybe it was some lucky charm, for inner strength?  But after a minute, he nodded and headed out the door after the youngest.

The oldest waited until they had both left the manor, the door closing behind them, before he dialed.  “Yeah, it’s me,” he said into the receiver.  “They’ll both be staying at the manor tonight.  Just them, too.  Should be easy to make it look like a suicide.”

After the voice on the other end of the line confirmed this, the oldest hung up.  He felt a little unsteady on his feet, but put it up to the stress of the evening.  More stress than his brothers felt, that was certain.

It wasn’t anything personal against them.  But Father had been hoarding away his wealth for decades, money that the oldest could use to save his struggling business.  But in order to do that, he had to get the entire inheritance – and that meant getting rid of the other two heirs.

Outside, as they trudged through the snow, the middle brother kept his hand in his pocket, feeling the sleek metal of the wicked little device within.  He’d practiced for several hours, shooting tin cans off the fences at the edge of the manor.

Of course, he didn’t plan on shooting tin cans.  But how much different could it be?

He felt a small twinge of regret, but he steeled himself, committing to this choice.    He didn’t have the business of the oldest, the sympathy of the youngest.  He had always been forced to fight and claw to hold his own.

Soon, he’d be done having to fight these other two any longer.

Furthest out, the youngest felt the cold stinging at his slim frame, and tried not to shiver.  Just go along with them for a little while longer, he told himself.  He’d watched as they had both gulped down the wine he had “found,” and now it was just a matter of waiting.  He had been patient so long – it would just take a little longer, now.

He had always been last in line, trapped at home with the dying man while his brothers went out into the world, made advancements.  He had been forgotten, abandoned.  But he wasn’t going to lose out once more on this inheritance.

The wind howled as it blew the snow around the manor.  It was a cold night, and there was no warmth, no heat to be found out in that dark land.

Danni California: Part 3

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Continued from Part 2, here.
Start the story here.

Three months later, as Carson strolled back towards his police station, he could sense that something was wrong.

The building, even before he reached the heavy, weathered front door, somehow felt emptier.  Even before he laid his hand on the handle, he felt like it was colder than usual, like the absence of life within meant that less heat was spreading out into the building itself.

Even so, he had to open the door.  Carson braced himself, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

Her departure had been surprisingly orderly, he saw.

There was no mess, no wild disarray of belongings scattered across the desks in the room.  The furniture was still all in its normal places, the chairs pushed in at the desks, the papers all in neat stacks.  Even in her last hours, California had kept things tidy.

The only detail out of place was the wide open door to the jail cell.  Inside the cell, the bed was made up, the sheets neatly tucked beneath the thin mattress and the pillow carefully placed at the head of the bed.

Aside from the sterile bed, the cell was completely empty.

The sight was jarring – it wasn’t how Carson had left it, just a couple hours earlier, when he went out to do his patrol rounds.  When he had left the station, there had been a nice braided rug down on top of the cell’s concrete floor.  Posters had been stuck up to the concrete walls, along with a pair of hand-made flowery curtains.  A knitted throw blanket, with intricate stitching that left Carson speechless at its complexity, had been spread across the bed.

All of that was now gone.

But more importantly, the cell was empty.  In fact, so was the entire station.  The female presence, the girl that Carson had come to think of as an almost permanent structure in his life, was absent.

“California?” Carson called out as he stepped inside, even though he doubted he would get any answer.  He used the nickname he’d grown fond of, not using the girl’s real name.

But sure enough, there was no answer.  Carson made his way over to his desk and sank down into the chair, one hand coming up to cushion his head.  He tried to think about what had just happened, just hoping to figure out how he felt.

He’d always known that California wouldn’t stick around forever.  Like a small bird, she had hesitantly emerged from her shell, especially as she came to realize that no one was coming for her, no one posting bail to get her out of this cell.  She was stuck there, and Carson was her only contact.

At first, she had been dismissive, contemptuous towards him.  But slowly, she had opened up, until he finally felt comfortable letting her out.  She was still a captive bird, but she could be free to move around her cage.

And then, last night, as he got ready to leave, she had asked him to stay.

The night had been wild, amazing, almost otherworldly.  Whenever he closed his eyes, Carson still felt the hot brush of her bare skin against him.  He could still hear her faint moans breathed into his ear as he shifted and moved on top of her, pressing down to squeeze her between his body and the cell’s thin mattress.  He vividly remembered how she had given one last, fulfilled cry as she arched her back on top of him, squeezing down on him inside of her as they both finished together.

When Carson had opened his eyes that morning, he had found her curled up against him, her body tucked up against him and pressing against his chest, his crotch, her legs slid in between his.  She had shifted a little as he rose and dressed himself, turning to give him a glimpse of her naked torso.  The sight nearly tempted him back to bed, but his duty called him away.  He spread the blanket back over her and, with a smile, left the station.

That had been his last sight of her.

Carson thought of putting out a call, of filling out a report.  But what could he say?  She was technically free to go, and he had no real claim on her.  He could go chasing after her, but he didn’t even know which direction she had chosen.

Like a bird, California had flitted into his home, graced him with a taste of her presence, and then gone on her way.

For a long time, Carson just sat at his desk, breathing slowly, doing nothing.

And then, he slowly rose back up to his feet.  He closed the door of the empty cell.  And then, hat in hand, he headed down to the diner to get a cup of coffee.

Book 8 of 52: "Art of the Sale" by Philip Delves Broughton

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Is it strange that I really like reading books about sales, even though I’m not in a sales position?  As a graduate student, the most “sales” I have to do is selling my PI on some idea as the best approach, while secretly biting at my fingernails and hoping I’m not overlooking some obvious blunder.  I’m definitely not out cold-calling clients or making commissions.

But even so, I think some of the case studies in Philip Broughton’s narrative, “Art of the Sale”, are applicable to just about everyone who interacts with another person.

A lot of the lessons of this book are very similar to those that I’ve read in other sales books (again, this is a favorite area of mine).  It’s important to not be bothered by rejection, to always be optimistic, to truly have a passion for what you’re selling, to have a powerful intrinsic drive to be the best.  I’ve heard these tips before.

Yet even though most of the advice of “Art of the Sale” is fairly common, the way that these lessons are presented makes the book a very appealing read.  Instead of simply telling us these rules, Broughton takes us around the globe, showing us how master salesmen in different cultures and locations succeed.

And most interestingly, it’s not always the same path to success.

In fact, most of the salesmen profiled in Broughton’s book have found their own unique way to sell, to succeed.  But even though they vary their methods a lot, they all still find success, and Broughton concludes that, depending on the company and market, wildly different methods of sales can all work.

For example, for a company that sells huge pieces of power machinery to just a few clients, culturing client relationships is super important.  But for another company that sells thousands of products on low margin, relying on volume, pure speed and volume is all that matters.  And both of these approaches are correct – for their target market.

In conclusion, the most important lesson of this book for salesmen is not to adapt a strict set of rules or beliefs – but to understand how to best interact with your customers.  An interesting perspective.

Time to read: probably around 8 hours.  I read most of this book in small chunks before bed.

Sparing a life in WW1

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After the first mortar explosion, we didn’t bother with the slow crawl across the muddy ground any longer.

As the mortar shells kept on dropping around us, the nearer hits throwing huge explosions of dirt up into the air to rain down on us like stinging hail, we all rose up to our feet and ran, a ragged charge across the battlefield.  There was no time to think of strategy, of keeping a low profile, of anything.  All we knew was that there was danger, that we were on the brink of death-

-and our only shot at safety was in the trenches that lay ahead of us.

We were lucky.  One of our own shells had hit the nearest machine gun nest, and one of the German mortars had misfired and taken out another.  Ahead of us, we could hear cries of surprise and fear, but only our bullets whizzed through the air.

But that didn’t last long.

With a loud staccato roar, like a car rolling over a pile of sticks, a nearby machine gun opened up on us.  Ahead of me and half a dozen paces to my left, I saw Johnny, my bunk mate, stagger and convulse as half a dozen lead hornets ripped through his body.  Tears stung at my eyes, but I couldn’t stop.  I had to keep going forward.

The enemy trench was just ahead of us.  I could see it.  But I didn’t think I was going to make it.

A head popped up over the trench, the face going slack with surprise as it saw us.  I managed to pull my rifle around as I ran and pulled the trigger, the metal slippery beneath my fingers.  The expression of surprise on the head in front of me froze as its forehead exploded.

Behind me, I could hear more cries, but I was so close.  I threw myself forward, feeling my feet lose purchase below me in the slippery mud.  I tumbled – and kept on tumbling, dropping down into the trench.

I rolled up, scrambling to my feet, covered from head to toe in the mud – and found myself face to face with two more Krauts.

I dropped the useless rifle.  I wouldn’t be able to get it up in time.  I instead grabbed for my Webley at my waist.  For once, the holster didn’t catch, and I pulled the trigger feverishly.

Both of the men dropped to the ground, only one of them even managing to make a gurgle.  I straightened up into a crouch, holding the revolver in front of me, my heart pounding like a jackrabbit’s in my chest.

Which way?  I was totally lost and disoriented.  But I couldn’t stand still.   I had to move.  I picked a direction – but paused as I heard a sound behind me.

Slowly, I turned, back to the two fallen German soldiers.  I looked down at them, the gun held out in front of me at arm’s length like a wand.

The man who had fallen on top was definitely dead.  The .455 had blown out most of his chest cavity, scattering gore in a circle around him.

But the man beneath was still alive.  I could see his face sticking out from beneath his fallen companion, eyes wide with shock and fear.

I forced my eyes to not stare back at his, instead looking at the rest of him.  My shot had grazed his arm, I saw, but he looked to be otherwise unharmed.  The bullet had cut a tendon or something, forcing his right arm to go straight, like he was reaching out for something.

I lowered the gun, pointing it at the scared, bloodless face sticking out from beneath his companion.  I could feel my hand trembling, making the Webley’s barrel shake.  In my ears, I could hear the roaring of machine guns, the shouts and cries of my companions as they fought and died.

My index finger felt the trigger resisting beneath it.  I should shoot – the man had been prepared to do the same to me.

But I couldn’t do it.

“Don’t you bloody try anything, or I swear to god I’ll shoot you,” I told the man angrily, even though I doubted he could understand.  “I mean it, I swear.”

The man just stared back at me, blinking but uncomprehending.  I sighed, trying to stop the shaking in my limbs.  I managed to re-holster the Webley on the third attempt – and then reached down, hauling the corpse of his companion off of the German.

I half expected the man to leap up, to make some heroic attempt to fight back.  But he didn’t move, even once he was in the clear – he just stared up at me.  Only when I held out my own hand did he accept my help, letting me pull him over into a sitting position leaning against the side of the trench.  I could see the grimace on his face at the pain of his injured arm bumping against the ground, but I couldn’t do much about that.

Around me, I could hear the sounds of battle growing fainter.  Maybe the rest of my squad had taken the trench – or maybe I was the last one left alive.  But right now, I didn’t want to think about that.

I reached up and patted the pocket of my jacket, feeling the crumpled rectangular packet inside.  I fished it out, pulling out one of the treasured white tubes.  After a minute’s consideration, I also grabbed a second, offering it to the Kraut beside me.

The man looked over at me, but then shakily reached up with his good hand and accepted the offer.  He stuck it between his lips, and then reached down to his own belt.  I watched with caution, but he pulled out a lighter, offering it to me first.

“Well, this is bloody awful,” I commented, after I had managed to light my cigarette.  I glanced over at the Kraut, who still looked like he couldn’t understand a word I said.  “Wilfred,” I said clearly, patting my chest.  “Wilfred Owen.”

After I repeated this gesture again, the man finally seemed to understand.  “Adolf,” he responded, tapping his own chest.  “Hitler.  Adolf Hitler.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Adolf,” I said, taking a puff on my cigarette and leaning back against the mud behind my head.  “I guess you’re my prisoner – or, if it turns out that all my buddies are dead, I’ll happily be yours.  Either way, beats getting up again.”

Next to me, Adolf’s eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell as he puffed on his cigarette.  I kept one hand on my revolver’s butt, but I did the same.  For just a moment, as I closed my eyes, I could believe that I wasn’t in the midst of Hell.