UNEMPLOYMENT NOVEL

Chapter 1
April 28

"Huh?" Rob said, although he sensed immediately this answer would be insufficient. "I mean
uh--Christ, I don't know. Aren't there any other questions? Any easier questions?"
Rob was a little nervous. That was obvious even to me, and I was just listening in from the
hall. The guys asking Rob the questions were likely to pick up on the other subtle clues--the
pouring sweat, the unfortunate facial tick--that Rob was not in his element. His troubles
began with his neckwear. The act of donning a tie made Rob feel as though he was choking, a
phobia that, oddly, extended to clip-ons.
"You want an easier question than 'Why do you want to work for Johnston Brothers?'"
"Yea, you know, something more like the first question." Rob said.
Rob's inquisitor--clean cut, 28 years old, and smartly dressed in a gray pinstripe suit--
exchanged a quick glance with his colleague, the equally clean-cut, equally 28-year-old
individual occupying the office chair and gray pinstripe suit immediately to his left. I feel
confident in saying that neither of these men ever had felt the slightest bit uncomfortable in a
necktie, even as children in church when it was very hot and their shirt collars itched. I've
gotten to know many of their sort since that day, and truth be told, they tend to feel a bit
squeamish when they're without their ties, unless it's a casual Friday, which is, of course,
completely different.
"Something more like 'How are you this morning?'"
"Yea. I was ready for that one. I figured you'd ask something like that one."
"And you didn't figure that you'd be asked to explain why you want to come work for our
company?"
"Well, no, actually. My dad said just to show up and you'd give me the job…I mean, he is on
the board."
"Good point," the gray-pinstripe-suit occupants conceded in unison.
It was, in fact, a hell of a point. Largely on the strength of this single point, the minutes that
followed were destined to be Rob's best interview to date. Easily his best. The only one that
didn't end with either childish name calling or ill-fated bribery attempts--or on one
particularly disastrous occasion, both. After those tense early moments, today's conversation
centered mostly on how much Rob would be paid (plenty) and whether he might be willing to
put in a good word with his father on the interviewers' behalf (he was).
Fifteen minutes later Rob strode from room 210 of Founders' Hall a confident man. His
pores had stopped sweating; his face had stopped twitching. And if the continued presence of
a tie on his person caused a certain lingering restiveness, then so be it. Rob Johnston's future
was secure.
Very few of my fellow classmates could say the same. Like all good college students, we had
studiously avoided news of the outside world for nearly four years, particularly when it came
to news of that sub-sector of the outside world in charge of making money and offering
employment. Instead, we had concentrated on such weighty issues as fraternity pledge hazing
and campus liquor policy. But as the spring of senior year approached, a troubling detail had
caught our attention: for some reason, none of us had jobs.
We knew what jobs we wanted, of course. We wanted challenging, interesting, exciting jobs.
We wanted inspiring, fulfilling, life-changing jobs. But since these didn't seem to exist, more
than a few of us were willing to settle for Wall Street jobs. We would have been particularly
willing to settle for Johnston Brothers jobs, since Johnston Brothers paid some of the highest
salaries a graduating college senior could hope to earn through any legal endeavor, and most
illegal ones besides. At the time, a first year Johnston Brothers associate could expect to
receive a base salary in the neighborhood of $70,000, plus a year-end bonus that could have,
in a pinch, passed for an annual income on its own. And although it has been shown
scientifically that this is more money than any 22-year old who can neither dunk a basketball
nor program a computer deserves, it was only the beginning. Second- and third-year Johnston
Brothers employees were considered failures if their compensation didn't reach well into six
figures. After that the real money would start to roll in, with real in this context meaning "in
amounts that any impartial observer would consider unreal."
Yes, we decided, we would be willing to take such jobs. That was when a second troubling
detail entered our consciousness: such jobs were not being offered to us. Much to our
surprise, times were tough. Not 1930's tough, maybe, but tougher than the average coddled
college student with enough toughness left over to floor Gerry Cooney in six. It was a poor
time to be an investment banker, and a downright lousy time to be a would-be investment
banker. If Wall Street was uneasy, economics grads were scared witless.
By late April, most of us Bucklin College seniors had endured our fair share of interviews--
and more than a few had endured an equal number of rejections. Rejection, at least of the
non-sexual sort, was something new to our group. And most of us agreed that we didn't much
care for it. We were beginning to suspect that our future lives might look less like something
out of The Great Gatsby, and more like something out of that last bit of The Great Gatsby
where Gatsby takes a bullet he doesn't deserve. But we plowed on. Whatever slim chance we
had of landing truly plum jobs would soon be gone altogether. After all, students about to
graduate from top colleges are attractive candidates to many fine employers. Students already
graduated from college without jobs lined up are damaged goods. The logic is inescapable: if
we were such attractive employees, why hadn't anyone else employed us?
So a month earlier, when the Bucklin College career services office announced that Johnston
Brothers would be interviewing students right there in room 210 of Founders Hall, everyone
and his English major roommate had submitted a resume. We all knew what we were up
against. In a good year Johnston Brothers might have hired three or four candidates from a
school the caliber of Bucklin College. This year, they certainly wouldn't take more than one.
But however dim our prospects, we all wanted the interview. Hope, like a tenured professor,
tends to cling to life much longer than it should.
Yes, I remember that very moment. I remember I saw Rob Johnston exit the interview room
not fidgeting, not itching, not even fighting to remove his tie. I was right there on a bench in
the corridor waiting my turn, and catching a word or two of Rob's interview through the door-
-unintentionally, of course. The picture came into focus rather quickly. I suppose I should
have seen it coming, considering Rob's last name, the company's name, and a piece of
information about Rob's pedigree that had been kicking around somewhere in the back of my
mind for the past few years.
You see, Bucklin is a small school; students tend to know scraps of information about most
of their classmates, even those who are not the closest of friends. Usually these tid-bits have
to do with academic majors, perceived intelligence, common acquaintances, or, most often,
past romantic encounters. One might, for example, speak to a classmate for the very first time
and already know that, say, she majored in English, she spoke intelligently in class, she hung
out with that Sally DiCostella that no one else could stand, and she had gone down on half of
Delta Psi.
In the case of Rob Johnston, I found that I knew something that at that moment seemed even
more important than sex. The implications were obvious, and while there were details of
Rob's interview that I had not picked up through the door with total clarity, I was able to
review the relevant facts before Rob crossed the ten feet to my bench:
(1) There was no longer one job available.
(2) There was in fact no job available.
(3) Fuck.
That was the moment my hope truly died. In retrospect, that also was the moment that first
drew me into a rather unusual series of events, a few elements of which you might have seen
mentioned here and there in the press, although the articles never mentioned my name, Bob
Gwafin.
My goal here is to set the record straight on everything that summer. I've done my best to
retell the story exactly as it occurred. Some of the scenes, you will note, took place outside of
my presence. Those events have been recreated through a painstaking series of interviews
with the other parties involved.
Where that was not possible, I've made stuff up.

"Hey Gwaf, you've got the next interview, right?" Rob asked. "They told me to give them a
minute then send you in."
"Thanks, Rob. How'd your interview go?" I asked, more to be polite than because I wanted
to hear the answer.
"Good…Better than my last one."
"I figured as much when the cops didn't show up."
Rob's smile flickered for a moment. He considered pointing out that it had been, in fact, only
campus security, not the actual police, but decided this observation would not help his case
much. "Yea," he said instead. "You'd better head in."
I nearly chucked the whole futile, humiliating experience right then, but thought better of it.
Maybe there were two jobs. None of the other investment banks had hired two, but Johnston
Brothers was one of the largest. Or maybe Rob had screwed up his interview so badly that
even nepotism couldn't bail him out. Or maybe Rob's death could be arranged somehow.
Anyway, what was one more humiliating interview?
"You have quite a resume for an undergrad, Mr. Gwafin," one of the matched set of
interviewers allowed some minutes into the session, after the usual back-and-forth had
concluded. "Summa Cum Laude, President of the Campus Economics Society, a summer
interning at an investment bank--oh, at a branch of our investment bank--I have just one last
question for you: 'Why do you want to work on Wall Street?'"
"That's a question I've had to answer more than once in the past four years," I began. "As I'm
sure you know, life on a college campus has little to do with the real world. Most of my
fellow students are more interested in ancient literature and abstract theories than the
workings of the financial sector. But the markets appeal to me. It's the logic, the rationality.
On Wall Street, success is rewarded; good ideas profit. Fools are found out. I want to join a
world where things make that kind of sense."
I'd aced the interview. I knew it. The interviewers knew it. That guy with the next interview
and the prematurely receding hairline eavesdropping from the hall knew it. I had expounded
intelligently on economic theory, subtly mentioned each of my qualifications, and even
managed to work in a pithy quote from Johnston Brothers' founder--in its original Latin.
Okay, looking back on it, maybe that last bit was slightly over the top. But it was still a great
interview.
"Well, thanks for coming in and meeting with us. You're certainly an attractive candidate."
I got up to leave. But after a semester's worth of disappointments, I just had to know. Against
protocol though it was, I asked the big question. "So what do you say? Do I have a shot?"
The interviewers shuffled the papers in front of them for a few moments, uncomfortable.
Perhaps, I thought, asking had been a mistake. But in a fit of honesty, the suit occupant on the
left decided to give it to me straight. "No, I'm afraid not. It's nothing personal. But we only
have enough openings for relatives of board members this year."
"Then why the hell did you come to campus and make us go through this?"
"Are you kidding?" asked the suit occupant on the right. "If we stopped doing interviews,
they might lay off the whole personnel department."
"Actually, we were wondering if you'd be willing to come down to New York for a second
interview," said the left. "You'd have to pay your own travel expenses, but it sure would help
us out down in personnel."

I saw Jack Howell on the waiting-room bench when I left the interview room. Three months
ago Jack and I hardly had known each other. But as we'd both been interviewing for the same
non-existent jobs of late, a certain bond had developed between us, albeit one tempered by
competition. It was the sort of relationship two people stranded on the same desert island
might enjoy--happy to have a fellow lost soul with whom to commiserate, but well aware that
each would be more than willing to kill and eat his opposite number when the coconuts ran
out.
"Hey, Jack, are you up next? They want you to give them a minute then head in." I checked
Jack's hairline. You could almost see the damn thing moving.
"Right. How'd your interview go?" Jack of course knew the answer to this, having listened to
most of it through the transom.
"Better than last time, anyway."
"You mean there's actually a job available?"
"No. But at least these guys didn't laugh when they told me."
"Yea, I'd heard this was a class outfit," said Howell, actually meaning it.
"Tell me about it. I still can't believe I got an interview. Well see you later."
Howell and I moved for our respective doors, but he called after me. "Hey, Gwaf, what are
you doing later?"
"I got a paper to write."
"A paper? You know, I can't believe they still expect us to do school work now that we're in
the middle of something as important as Wall Street interviews."
"I know what you mean. Hey, you better head in."
"Right. Wish me luck."
I did. And I meant it. More or less.

Chapter 2
Home was 23 Sanders Avenue, a dilapidated two-bedroom house a minute or two from
campus if one drove, ten minutes by foot. Back when my car had been running, I'd driven.
Since January, I'd walked. They just didn't make 1980 AMC Pacers like they used to.
Actually, they hadn't made them at all since 1980, and in hindsight it had been something of a
mistake even then.
It wasn't a bad walk. Across the small ivy-covered campus, past the historic homes of
Federal Street, over the undeniably charming wooden bridge, take a right on Sanders and
keep walking until you came to the eyesore. 23 Sanders Ave was a unique structure in the
otherwise picturesque town of Bridgeton, Maine. It didn't look good. It didn't smell good. It
was currently for sale, and had been for at least a decade. I strongly suspected that if the
building hadn't been near a college campus where it could attract undiscriminating students in
search of affordable housing it would have been torn down long ago. Or at very least been
allowed to fall down.
"Interview?" Dave Orr, my roommate, asked when I walked through the door. Dave was
lying on the living room couch. As near as I could tell, he had been staring blankly into space
before I returned. Staring blankly into space was Dave's greatest passion.
"No, I wore a suit to class today, asshole."
"Don't yell at me. It's not my fault you can't get a job."
"Actually, it is."
"Get off it. I did not cost you that job."
"Dave, you told the recruiter from Mornall & Swain to go fuck herself."
"That wasn't my fault. I always answer the phone 'Go fuck yourself.'"
"And that's not your fault?"
"Not as I see it, no. Anyway, she still gave you the interview, didn't she?
"Yea. I told her you had Turret's Syndrome, but I'm not sure she bought it."
"Fuck it. Come on, I'll buy you a beer."
"Can't. I've got a paper to write."
"So write it later. It's only one o'clock in the afternoon."
"But if we start drinking now we won't stop until we're both drunk."
"So?"
"So I can't write a paper drunk."
"You can't? Haven't you learned anything in four years?"
I was heading up the stairs to take off my suit and write my paper. But despite his easy-going
reputation, Dave could be tenacious when he believed he was right.
"Just tell the professor you need an extension," he called up the stairs.
"Can't. He'll need a reason."
"Tell him you got sick."
"I did that with my last paper."
"Then tell him there was a death in your family."
I paused on the top step. "That'll work."
An hour later, I had changed out of my suit and was well on my way to drunk.
Ernie's Pub was a dilapidated establishment a minute or two from the edge of campus. It
didn't look good. It didn't smell good. It was currently for sale, and had been for at least a
decade. If it wasn't for the waitresses, I commented often in those days, I would have had
trouble telling it apart from my apartment. The waitresses, on the other hand, apparently had
little trouble spotting the difference, as they had not once accepted my oft-repeated
invitations to visit the tavern's residential equivalent. But I prided myself on being a happy
drunk, and never took the refusals personally, even when that's clearly how they were
intended. On this particular afternoon, the beer did not cheer me up, and the waitress wasn't
worth the effort.
"Dave, it's just not fair," I remember complaining. "We're at a good school. I got good
grades. I majored in economics. I give a good interview. I spent last summer interning at an
investment bank. I even look good in a suit. Six, seven years ago, firms would have been
begging for me. This year, shit."
"You got good grades?"
"I mean, I just figured that even with the tough market, someone out there would just love to
have me."
"How the hell did you get good grades?"
"I never questioned that there'd be a job waiting for me at the end of this. I was sure."
"I mean, I can't remember seeing you do any work. Not once. You talk about writing papers
every now and then, but I've never actually seen you write one. Hell, it was March before I
was certain that you were enrolled this semester. Where do you come off getting good
grades?"
"Not that I'm sure I really want to be an investment banker. It just seems like the thing to do.
And, you know, well, the money's there."
"If you intended to go into investment banking, why didn't you go to some big state
university where they'd offer classes in business and accounting and things like that?" Dave
asked, finally giving up on his earlier line of questioning.
"Because this place was better."
"We're talking about colleges, 'better' is subjective."
"No it isn't. They publish a ranking every year. This place is better."
"Uh huh. Gwaf, I think you've got a problem."
"I know I've got a problem."
"No, I mean that paper. Is it for Professor Cousins?"
"Yea."
"Isn't that Professor Cousins?"
"Where?"
"Over there. At the bar. Eating a burger. You know, that guy waving to you."
"Fuck."
"You might as well get out from under the table; he already saw you. You still gonna go with
the death in the family?"
"I don't think he'll buy that now unless I produce the corpse. I need a plan. What am I gonna
do?"
"Just blow it off. It's senior year."
"Yea, but I've kept my grades in good shape this long, I'd hate to fuck it up now."
"Then write your paper. Are you sober enough?"
"Don't know."
"How many have you had?"
"Only one. No, wait--three. And those other two."
"How much of the paper do you have done?"
"Are you kidding?"
"You do need a plan. But first, a beer."
One beer later, I had a plan. And a few minutes later than that, I was back on campus, in the
office of the Druids, one of Bucklin College's innumerable organizations for the humorless
environmental crusader.
"Come on, man, you're my last chance," I told Head Druid Mark Letlee.
"Gwaf, I can't do it. The Druids are a serious environmental organization. The campus
counts on us to stand up to the college bureaucracy in the defense of the planet. We're not
here for your personal use."
"Hey, have I ever asked anything of you before? Just blockade the damn library early this
evening, and I'll tell my professor I couldn't get the research done. His office has a view of
the library, so he'll buy it. Besides, think of all the trees they knocked down to fill that library.
This really is an environmental cause when you stop and consider it."
"I just can't do it," he said. "And, as it happens, we're already blockading the science
buildings today."
"You're against science?"
"Not as a rule, no...but Tom Strucey's got this biology exam he doesn't want to take."
"Fuck Strucey. I've got a GPA to think of."
"So why don't you just write your damn paper?"
"I'm not going to justify that question with a response. Tell you what, if we can hit the
library, I'll join your blockade."
"Well..."
"Final offer: I'll join the blockade and write a letter to the administration protesting their
continued policy of whatever the hell continuing policy it is you're protesting this week."
"You'd write a letter to put off writing a paper?"
"It's the principle of the thing."
"Okay Gwafin, I'll do it--after the science building protest. But, goddamn it, I can't help but
feel I'm compromising my principles."
"All for the greater good, Mark. All for the greater good. Incidentally, what's it about?"
"What's what about?"
"Today's protest."
"Oh. Uh…the Northwestern Treefrog."
"You're against treefrogs?"
"No, we're for them. They're near extinction."
"Pesticides?"
"Pickups."
"Pickups?"
"Mainly. The treefrogs try to hop across the road, but they freeze in the headlights."
"So how exactly do you propose to remedy the situation?
"By protesting. What else?"
A couple of Dave's friends had joined him for a beer at Ernie's, but they were leaving when I
returned. That was fine with me. I could take Dave's vaguely hippie ways in small doses, but
preferred not to be around when he got together with his whole mellower-than-thou crowd.
Sometimes their conversations seemed to consist of nothing but the word "Dude" repeated ad
nauseam at varied levels of pitch and amplitude.
"You get out of your paper?" Dave asked.
"The wheels are in motion. How many rounds did I miss?"
"Let's see--you were gone half an hour, so three. You must be losing it. Never used to take
you half an hour to convince Letlee of anything."
"It took some work this time."
"Mark Letlee took some work?"
"Tom Strucey beat me to him."
"Fuckin' Strucey."
"Anyway I should be okay. Professor Cousins is as liberal as they come. He wouldn't want
me screwing with a tree-frog protest."
"Treefrogs?"
"Yea."
"Pollution?"
"Traffic safety. Where the hell's my beer?"
"Oh. Was that yours?"
"Hey, could we get another round," I called to the waitress.
"Have to trade anything?" Dave asked.
"For the beer?"
"No--with the Druids."
"I've got to march in his protest and write an angry letter to the administration."
"You're writing a letter to avoid writing a paper?"
"It's the principle of the thing."
"There's a principle to shirking responsibility?"
"In this case, yes. This is the last college paper I'll ever write. That makes it the last totally
pointless endeavor I'll ever be forced to endure, and now that I've had a chance to think about
it, I'll be damned if I'm going to turn it in on time."
"Do you suppose anyone actually reads those protest letters the Druids are writing to the
administration all the time?"
"Sure. They hire an intern over the summer to read 'em."
"How do you know that?"
"Mark Letlee told me once. He's the intern."
"Oh. That makes sense. I guess."

College, in my sometimes-less-than-humble opinion, was a colossal waste of time. A

classroom full of students cumulatively might cram in thousands of hours of study to pass a
single test, only to forget everything they'd learned the next day. Term papers were written to
be glanced at by a professor, graded, returned, then tossed in the trash. Well, actually, they
were recycled, not tossed in the trash, since anyone putting a sheet of paper in a trashcan on a
college campus was just asking for trouble. I didn't rock the boat on this point, although I
wasn't what you'd call an extremist when it came to environmentalism back then. As it
happened, I saw recycling as the perfect end for college dissertations that were nothing more
than regurgitations of others' ideas from the start.
That was college. Grand yet ludicrous ideas were proposed, then discussed as if they had
some merit. Reasonable ideas too were considered--assuming, of course, that they were
universally non-offensive. Independent thought was fine, so long as it was in line with what
everyone else believed.
A colossal waste of time--how many times had I repeated that phrase over the past four
years? Yet I was still there, about to graduate. Some would call this hypocrisy. I called it a
rational response to the situation. For as it happened, college was a colossal waste of time that
now was considered a must for anyone wishing to get ahead in the world.
Besides, it was a colossal waste of time at which I had become quite proficient. While I
freely confess that I was not an exceptionally motivated student, nor even the most
intellectually gifted, I do believe I excelled when it came to succeeding with the least possible
effort. For nearly four years I had scored A's--inevitably low A's--in class after class. In May
I would graduate with honors, an accomplishment that could only serve to make me look like
a tremendous student, at least to anyone with whom I had never shared a classroom.
Yes, my grades owed more to last-ditch pre-exam cram sessions than to sustained effort.
And, yes, if a professor or fellow student made a politically correct but factually
unsupportable statement in class I tended to let it pass unchallenged even as it tore me up
inside. And, sure, there was the somewhat unpleasant, yet unavoidable, fact that I had now
and then selected a class based more on the professor's reputation for lenient grading than for
that professor's grasp of the subject matter--or on one particularly regrettable occasion, his
grasp of the English language. And, okay, when it comes right down to it, grade inflation was
as rampant at Bucklin as at any top school. At Harvard, for example, half of all grades were
A's, only 6% C-plus or below. Like all fine American colleges, Bucklin aspired to be like
Harvard.
I'm not proud of any of this. Grade-grubbing and the devaluation of accomplishment were
exactly the sort of behavior that went against my beliefs. But in my defense I should point out
that I was not without my principles--or principle, anyway: if I found a class worthless, I
wouldn't work any harder than was absolutely necessary to get an A. That was my code, and I
lived by it. It is necessary to have a code. It helps one belittle others. With my code, I could
tell myself that when someone else got good grades, it was because they wasted their life
studying. When I got good grades, it was because I knew how to work the system.
I suppose a better man wouldn't have cared about grades at all. But I just couldn't stand the
idea of some jackass doing better than me, and thus concluding he or she was my intellectual
superior.

Letlee no doubt considered attendance at the treefrog demonstration depressingly low. No

more than a dozen students milled around the stairs in front of the Lysenko Science Center
when I arrived. It was that time of year. Come April, the weather begins to improve and even
the most liberal of students start enjoying themselves outside instead of protesting for the
environment. Other students have job interviews to worry about, then before you know it
there are final exams and end-of-term parties. I felt a bit sorry for Letlee. Spring was not a
good time to be a humorless environmental crusader.
I'd known Mark Letlee since Freshman year, when he lived across the hall from me. Back
then he was still searching for an identity. I'd watched him try out a few with what might
charitably be called limited success. He wasn't a bad looking guy, in that bohemian kind of
way that's so popular on college campuses and in sections of downtown Seattle, so he'd made
a play at being a player, but come up a bit short in the personality department. Not that it
takes a whole heck of a lot of personality to seduce drunken coeds, but you do need to talk
about something in the time it takes to get from a frat party to one's dorm room, and Letlee
just couldn't get the job done. Next he'd grown his hair out a bit and tried the hippie thing, but
found that he couldn't use the word "doobie" with anything approaching the necessary degree
of authenticity. Finally, Letlee had settled on the humorless environmental crusader persona.
It was a good role for him, in that it played right into the campus politic, and gave him a
chance to benefit from his complete lack of wit, something considered a detriment in many
other circles.
To give credit where credit is due, Letlee continued to strive for self improvement. Once
about a year back, I'd heard that he was trying to shed the dour image and develop a sense of
humor about himself. Perhaps he wished to give his facial muscles a rest after years of
scowling at the frivolity of comedy. Or perhaps Letlee had discovered that a sense of humor
can be a useful tool even for an environmental crusader. For example, when only a handful of
people show up for one's march to save the musk ox or the Sri Lankan striped spider, or the
Sri Lankan striped musk ox, or any other creature not cute enough to draw the big crowds,
one might win over all present with a single well-timed self-deprecating remark. In an instant
this self-deprecating individual becomes the lone voice for righteousness, rather than the
loser with poor organizational skills.
Letlee's adventures in this new world of personality had by all accounts gone poorly. He'd
been no more able to seduce crowds of crusaders with his words than he had individual
women. So perhaps Letlee had made a wise move when he reverted back to his humorless
environmental crusader niche. It was this humorless Mark Letlee that stood before me,
protesting valiantly for treefrogs. To make the most of what he had to work with, Letlee
scowled at the low turnout. "What happens to these people after college?" I wondered. "They
can't all join Greenpeace and rescue whales. There wouldn't be enough whales to go around;
fistfights would break out over the best ones."
Three of the twelve students wandered off. I should have guessed they weren't environmental
crusaders. They looked too much like--well, like me. Button-down shirts, nice haircuts,
clearly not the environmentalist sort by appearance. Funny how the world has a way of
confirming one's stereotypes, at least when it came to the things we had control over, like
dress and hairstyle. Letlee had only nine protesters to get me out of a paper and Strucey out
of an exam. It hardly seemed enough to be noticed.
Tom Strucey hadn't even bothered to show up. "Fuckin' Strucey," Letlee mumbled loud
enough to be heard. "Let's get this going," he said to the group. "Those treefrogs won't save
themselves."
Despite the call to action, the group didn't do much but continue to mill about. Fearing
trouble, I sidled up to Letlee. "So what exactly are we going to do on this protest," I prodded.
"Same as any protest. We carry signs and chant--just let people know we're not happy about
the situation."
"Uh, Mark--Do you see any signs?"
Letlee reassessed the group. No signs. "Well, we don't have signs prepared for this one. It's a
sort of spur-of-the-moment emergency thing, you understand."
"Fair enough. Do you know any treefrog chants?"
"Good question. None of the usual chants seem to apply."
"We could try to come up with one," I suggested.
"Think so?"
"Sure. Maybe something like 'Yeaaaa, Treefrogs!' Then we could spell out T-R-E-E-F-R-O-
G with our bodies." I stuck out my arms to demonstrate the "T".
"Fuck you, Gwaf. You're not even trying to help."
"Sure I am," I said. And I was. "Your protest group is getting restless. We've got to hold
these people together long enough to get down to the library."
"Why don't we just explain the treefrog problem to anyone who passes by," Letlee
suggested.
"That works for me," I said, happy for any decision.
Letlee went off to explain the plan to the rest of the group.
I gave it a shot. Why not? I was in favor of sampling life's many possibilities, so long as they
happened by at moments when I had nothing better to do. I spotted gangly looking guy
headed towards the science lab--probably a Freshman I guessed, based on his youthful
appearance. I blocked his path.
"Hello. Have you heard about the treefrogs?"
The kid walked around me without a glance.
"Learns fast for a Freshman," I thought. But I wasn't ready to give up after one failure.
Especially not when the next passer-by passing by me was one of the more attractive women
I'd seen on campus.
"Excuse me, have you heard about the treefrogs?"
"Of course--that's why I'm here. Sorry I'm late."
And in a flash, I understood the attraction of campus environmentalism. Red hair, green eyes,
beautiful--and she never would have looked my way twice if she had any idea how little I
really cared about treefrogs meeting their end as smallish, squishy speedbumps. No, I
thought, that's not quite accurate. At that moment, I cared more about treefrogs than anyone
in the world. I probably cared more about treefrogs than the treefrogs did themselves, since
the best moment a treefrog can hope for in its short, slime-covered life is sex with another
treefrog.
"I haven't seen you at Druid events before," the woman said.
"Treefrogs are a special cause of mine."
"Oh, are you from the northwest?"
"No, but, uh…a treefrog saved my life once." It wasn't one of my better lies.
"What?"
"Dana!" Letlee called out. The woman headed over in his direction, and I was thankful for
the well-timed distraction.
"I have to remember to take this seriously," I thought. The woman of my dreams--my dreams
that night at least--clearly did. She'd even brought a "Save the Treefrogs" sign, I noticed--and
the sign showed enough wear to indicate it had been used many times before. My first
environmental crusade and I was trying to impress a woman who had worn through a "Save
the treefrogs" sign. This wasn't going to be easy.
Okay, I could take treefrogs seriously, if necessary. (The term "necessary" in this context
means "if there's even the vaguest possibility of it leading to sex," just as it usually does.)
Dana glanced in my direction, and I did my level best to look like a treefrog activist.
"Excuse me, sir, have you heard about the treefrogs," I asked the nearest pedestrian, a buff-
looking guy in a backwards-turned baseball cap that marked him as a fraternity member.
"The what?" asked the student, who clearly cared about as much about treefrogs as I had
until a moment earlier, specifically until the possibility of sex had been introduced.
"Treefrogs. They're being run over."
"They're being run over in the trees?"
"No, they're being run over in the roads."
"They're treefrogs. What business do they have leaving the damn trees?"
I had to admit, for a frat guy, he made a good point. "Uh…they have to spawn, I guess," I
guessed.
"They spawn in the road? Christ, what do they expect? I mean, if you're into screwing in the
middle of the road, more power to you--but don't come crying to me when you get run over."
The frat guy moved on. I was very glad Dana hadn't heard the exchange. "I wonder why they
don't just stay in the damn trees," I thought to myself. I'd have to ask Mark. This
environmentalism was much tougher than I'd imagined. I strolled over to Letlee. He was
inspecting his small group of protesters as they accosted passersby, furrowing his brow to
denote leadership. I started to ask my road question, but decided to move straight to a more
pressing issue. "Say, Mark, it's nearly five o'clock--maybe we should head down towards the
library."
"Yea, okay Gwaf. Just give it a couple more minutes here."
"No problem. Uh, Mark, do you know Dana well?"
"Sure. She was in charge of the Druids before me."
"You wouldn't happen to know if she's seeing anyone, would you?"
Letlee looked me right in the eyes. "Forget it, Gwafin. You don't have a chance. She's a
beautiful, intelligent, dedicated environmental activist. You're a self-involved bastard."
"More accurately, I'm a self-involved bastard who Dana thinks cares deeply about treefrogs,"
I replied. Then to the whole group I called "Okay, everyone, let's head down to the library." I
figured I could usurp Letlee's leadership without much trouble and was proved correct. Dana
glanced in my direction. Not a bad glance at all. "By the way, Mark," I asked in a lower
voice. "Why don't they just stay in the damn trees?"

Chapter 3
Our group traversed the quad towards the library. It wasn't a long walk. Bucklin College had
a reasonably big-time reputation, but it wasn't a large school. The whole campus would have
fit comfortably in an area the size of the typical suburban block or medium-security prison.
In fairness I should say that Bucklin was a fine school. Not that it was likely to be confused
with the Princetons of the world, mind you. But by keeping its class size small, Bucklin could
turn down enough qualified students to ensure that its rankings in the all-important annual
college guidebooks would remain high. Preserving this reputation was an ongoing battle. It's
no simple feat to attract 300 top-flight students each year to a campus that isn't so much the
middle of nowhere as it is the outer provinces of nowhere.
The most obvious problem was the relative paucity of degrees above freezing on the typical
Maine day, which is a polite if round-about way of saying that it's really fucking cold. But
Bucklin's recruiters, showing the sort of canniness all too rare in the nonprofit sector,
encouraged the most promising of the prospective students to visit in those few days at the
very beginning or end of each school year when frostbite was unlikely. This strategy wasn't
without its troubling consequences, as matriculating students did tend to arrive with
insufficient winter clothing and an unfortunate abundance of beachwear. But most figured out
what they were in for by late October, purchased garments more appropriate for the climate,
and avoided any serious health consequences. Those that didn't, well, they probably weren't
destined to graduate at the top of their class anyway.
As for the quality of a Bucklin education, such things are notorious difficult to quantify. It
had occurred to me once during my sophomore year to question the true value of the tutelage
that Bucklin provided. I didn't feel $100,000 more intelligent than I used to be…or even
$45,000 more intelligent, pro-rating for the portion of the education that I had consumed to
that point. It was during my junior year that I finally figured out the school's scam. The high
cost of tuition--together with some old buildings liberally draped with ivy and a few four-star
ratings in college guidebooks--was enough to convince most casual observers that Bucklin
offered the highest-quality education. And so long as people with jobs to fill bought into this
thinking, it hardly mattered what the truth might be. From that day, I stopped voicing my
private concerns about the quality of the education provided by the college, and started
spouting the party line.
My school spirit increased exponentially. Whenever a survey was passed around, I gave
Bucklin the highest marks. Once I had gone so far as to phone a college guidebook writer to
let her in on some of Bucklin's inside secrets: that alcohol was freely available to even the
youngest students in local bars, that the climate in coastal Maine was surprisingly temperate,
and that Bucklin's students were all attractive and not even slightly repressed, whatever their
reputation. I was pleased to see these facts translated into a coveted forth star in the
guidebook's social rankings the following year.
Had I ever taken the time to notice, I also might have told the writer that the small town of
Bridgeton was a beautiful, pastoral place to spend four years of one's life, surrounded as it
was by some reasonably impressive pine trees on three sides and the postcard-quality Maine
coastline on the fourth. Recently arrived students never failed to notice the smell of pine and
salt air. By their second week on campus, the smell had faded into the background. And by
the third week, Maine was covered in snow and everyone had a head cold, so smells no
longer mattered much one way or the other, as evidenced by the odors emanating from many
of the dorm rooms. Still, for that first week, there was nothing like it.
The snow that arrived in the fall tended to linger through April, then disappear in May, just
like the students. Of course, few students bothered to venture further off campus than the
neighborhood bars, so what did a little snow matter? We weren't driving anywhere. A college
is a world unto itself.

By the time our clutch of protesters reached the library, we had slimmed further--only six
left, I counted. Six was better than nothing, I supposed, but only by six, which frankly isn't
much. With only one treefrog-related sign between us, we might not even be noticed. At least
the light was still on in Professor Cousins' office. I had confirmed Cousins' office hours that
afternoon before speaking with Letlee, but tenured professors are not renowned for their
adherence to schedules and timetables, especially after they've taken long lunches in bars.
"I think we'd better come up with a treefrog chant or something here," I suggested. Letlee
shot me a suspicious glance, but Dana was all for the idea.
"Have something in mind?" she asked.
"How about 'We're blockading the library to prevent needless treefrog deaths'?" I offered.
"Not exactly catchy," Dana said.
"I couldn't think of a rhyme for 'treefrog.' Could we call them toads? I've worked out a pretty
good rhyme using 'roads' and 'explodes'."
Dana chuckled--she must have thought I was kidding. Probably a good thing I hadn't just
launched into the chant. The light flicked off in Professor Cousins' office.
"How about 'No more frog deaths'," Dana suggested. The rest of us agreed that that should
do the job nicely.
When Cousins passed by a moment later, our group was marching in a circle in front of the
library doors, chanting and thrusting our fists into the air with the vehemence called for by
the obvious gravity of the occasion. Cousins paused to consider the scene, and spotted me.
"Frog deaths?" he asked.
"Frog deaths," I assured him, and was promptly given an extension. It was agreed that I
could turn in my paper whenever the frog death situation improved to such a degree that my
passing into the library could be morally justified.
Its purpose served, the treefrog protest drew to a close five minutes later. I wasn't certain
how many treefrog lives my actions had saved, but the other members of the remaining
group--all three of them--were sure the demonstration had been a complete success. On that
count, I couldn't agree more. I'd been given an open-ended extension on my paper--one that I
expected would turn into a very long extension, considering that I was due to graduate in a
month--and was now walking to dinner with Dana, with whom I'd chant for amphibians
anytime…Or were they reptiles? I'd have to look that up.
"Mark tells me you used to be in charge of the Druids," I said, searching for conversation.
"What made you give it up?"
"I spent junior year in Bangladesh, and last semester in Uganda. I figured I should hand it off
to someone who'd be around."
"That explains why I haven't seen you around campus. How'd you wind up in Bangladesh
and Uganda?"
"Things looked the worst there. I wanted to go where I could do the most good."
"Then I take it you weren't running guns."
The joke earned me a smile.
"I was working with relief agencies. I just came back to get my degree. As soon as I'm
through with finals I'm heading to Spanish Guyana." Bucklin students were always traipsing
off to various corners of the globe and apparently receiving class credit for it. But for the
most part they stuck to places like London or Paris where the greatest risk was to their
parents' charge cards.
"You need to find a new travel agent," I suggested.
"What about you?"
"All the flights to Spanish Guyana were booked."
"No, seriously. What are you doing after graduation?"
"If I don't find a job soon, probably starving to death. In a couple months you'll be showing
Spanish Guyanians my picture to raise money."
"You shouldn't joke about the plight of Spanish Guyana," Dana admonished, but she was
still smiling, and I was pretty sure that I was scoring points.
"Sorry, I was only trying to joke about the plight of me."
"You know, Mark warned me that you were a jerk."
"Well remember to factor in that Mark's full of shit."
"I don't know. He told me you once let him borrow your car then called the police and
reported it stolen."
"Yea, but I let him borrow it, didn't I? That's gotta count for something. And I told the cops it
was a mistake."
"Mark says you waited till the next day before you told the cops."
"I was busy. I had to make sure my car was still running after I got it back from the thieves."
"Mark's a nice person. You shouldn't take advantage of nice people like that."
"Ahhh, Mark's wanted to be arrested his whole life. He keeps staging sit-ins in campus
buildings in the hopes the cops will come and drag him away. Instead everyone just lets him
sit there and steps over him. One time they had him carpeted."
Dana chuckled.
"Anyway, I always take advantage of nice people," I continued. "The way I see it, if they
really are nice people, they have to forgive me. It's only if they're not really nice people that
they won't. Then at least my taking advantage of them will have exposed these so-called nice
people for the covertly not-nice people that they really are. And hypocrites have got that sort
of treatment coming to them, I think."
"I like to think that I'm a nice person," Dana noted. "Are you going to take advantage of
me?"
"I'm working on it," I thought, but instead changed the subject. "It seems like we ought to be
able to do something to help the treefrogs cross roads."
"We did do something. We just protested."
"No, I mean do something to help them that might actually help them. I was thinking that
maybe someone could build little tunnels for them under the roads."
"Actually, that's not a bad idea," Dana admitted. "But they already tried it in England. When
the English frogs tried to hop into the tunnels, they bumped their heads on the top and
knocked themselves unconscious. Then they were eaten by snakes."
"Bigger tunnels maybe?"
"Bigger tunnels just wind up as homes for larger frog predators."
"Maybe we could get little helmets for the frogs," I persisted. I hated to give up, even when I
knew I was defeated.
"Little helmets?"
"Just an idea."
After dinner I headed back to my apartment. Dana said she had to study. Under different
circumstances I might have taken this as a brush off, but dinner had gone well, and Dana had
given me her phone number. Technically speaking, this was unnecessary--all student phone
numbers were listed in the campus directory--but some conventions are observed regardless
of circumstance, and "Here's my number" had to be a more portentous beginning than "I'm
listed in the student directory."
"You look pleased with yourself," Dave noted when I got home. "You got out of that paper I
guess."
"I got out of the paper and met a woman. Wish I'd known about those environmental protests
a long time ago."
"Met a woman? Great. Invite her to our graduation party. There are never enough women at
our parties."
"Not a chance. She's the sensitive-liberal type. If she meets my friends, she'll find out that
everyone I know is a jerk."
"Don't take this the wrong way, Gwaf, but maybe that's because you're a jerk, too."
"Yea, but Dana doesn't know that."
"Then I take it she's not one of your smarter sensitive liberals."
I let that pass. But I was surprised to find that some part of me wanted to defend Dana's
honor, or at least her intelligence. I recall what I thought at that moment. It was something on
the order of "Uh-oh."
"Anyway, social crusaders like hippies, and I can pass for a hippie when I want to," Dave
said. "Hippies might not bother to show any interest in social crusaders' causes or protests,
but simply by wearing our hair long and tie-dying the occasional item of clothing we let them
know that deep down, we're on their side."
"Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Are you on their side?"
"I've found it's easier not to care one way or the other."
"You genuinely don't care about any of these political or social protests they're always
having on campus?"
"Nope."
"You don't have any opinion?"
"None. Why have an opinion about something I can't do anything about? I'd just wind up
tearing myself up inside for no reason."
"So even when these people are marching around rallying for causes that just don't have a
shred of logic to back them up you don't get mad?"
"Why get mad? What does it accomplish? There's only one reasonable response to virtually
any situation, and that's the hippie approach."
"Total indifference."
"Total indifference or just total inaction. Either way's acceptable."
I had to admit, Dave made a good case. "You might be on to something."
"If you say so."

"Who was that guy I saw you eating with?" Dana's roommate, Debbie Hargrove, asked when
Dana returned to her dorm. It was one of the hazards of attending a small college that no
romantic encounter, mealtime companion, or hallway conversation ever went unobserved by
one's friends. This fact led some students to favor dates off campus, and others to take the
sensible precaution of drinking heavily so that a friend's comment on a poorly thought-out
relationship at least could be met with the reply "I must have been drunk."
"Just some guy I met at the treefrog protest," Dana answered, since she wasn't the sort to be
drunk before dinner.
"Nice guy?"
"Bit of a jerk, actually--but maybe not in such a bad way."
Of course I didn't find out until much later that Dana already had it figured out that I was a
jerk. If I had known sooner, it would have saved me more than a few thoughtful gestures, not
to mention a small fortune in gifts. But that's water under the bridge now.
Debbie left the conversation at that. Earlier in the school year, she probably would have kept
up the questions about me for a while, but in late April, it hardly seemed worth the trouble.
Even if Dana was considering a relationship with the guy from the treefrog protest, there
were not nearly enough weeks left for a relationship to take form, fall apart, and still leave
time for Debbie to get together with him on the rebound. Not that this sort of thing was what
Debbie was all about, mind you. I have it on the best of authority that she is a good person
with a kind heart and charitable nature who cared only for her friends' interests, damn it. But
college is a bit like a game of musical chairs dating-wise. You always could meet someone
new while in school, but it was wise to have a solid relationship in place when the music
stops at graduation, since the odds of meeting someone worth marrying in the real world fell
to just a shade north of zero.
So Debbie left those questions unasked. "Looks like it's time for a new treefrog sign," she
said instead.

Chapter 4
May 10

"Huh? I mean uh, Christ, I don't know," Kerns stammered. "The whole school? Can't I just
teach economics?"
Until slightly less than three minutes earlier, Professor Kerns' life had been quite simple. He
was Jack Kerns, Professor Emeritus, happily married and head of the economics department
at a prestigious New England college. For nearly eleven years now, ever since he had
received tenure, he had lived totally free of both ambition and stress. Looking back on those
years, Kerns now realized what an incredibly, amazingly happy decade it had been for him,
although of course he hadn't realized it at the time. At the time, he had believed that he was
bored out of his mind. Throughout those eleven years, Kerns had fanaticized daily about
leaving his wife, abandoning his teaching position, and running off to follow his dream.
He didn't of course…
Mostly because he hadn't the foggiest notion what that dream might be…
And he was a little concerned that if he ever did leave his wife, she might be okay with it.
So instead, Kerns taught three classes a semester to students who did not particularly care
what they learned so long as they received nothing less than a "B" for their efforts. He
published an article with a few graphs in it once a year in some economics journal or another,
selecting the topics carefully so as to be sure that no one would ever consider reading them.
He served on the occasional campus committee overseeing the college endowment or
underage drinking, or some such blather. He attended a school sporting event every now and
then to show the proper spirit--basketball games were shorter than baseball or football, Kerns
had noted, and a track meet was always good because no one really expected you to stay for
the whole thing. On the average weekday, Kerns was home by 3 p.m. Not too bad, he saw
now, considering he usually didn't make it in till ten, worked only four days a week, and got
summers off and a nice three-week break around the holidays.
All that ended the morning in May when Kerns was given the news about the untimely
passing of Dean Jergensen.
"Jack, we're all going to have to make sacrifices to cope with the untimely passing of Dean
Jergensen," Gregory Matthews, Chair of the University's Board of Regents had said. And as
simple as that, through no fault of his own, Kerns' life took a rather dramatic turn.
Technically, Dean Jergensen had been 92, a bit ripe for any death to be labeled untimely.
And when it came right down to it, Jergensen's reign over the school had worn a bit thin for
many reasons really not worth going into, since the man was dead after all, and it's poor form
to harp on a man's faults at such times. Still, there was no denying that in the short run at
least, the scheduling was a headache. Why the hell couldn't Jergensen have waited until the
summer to keel over on his toilet? "Probably just did it to annoy me," thought Matthews. The
other regents would have disagreed with him on this point, as each of them considered it far
more likely that he had done it just to annoy them. As I said, Jergensen's reign had worn a bit
thin.
"I, myself, gave up a very important golf date for this meeting," Matthews continued. He
paused, but was disappointed to note that that this didn't elicit any obvious sign of sympathy
from Kerns. "And I know for a fact that at least two of my fellow regents have been forced to
delay long-planned vacations to be here…or at very least make some inquires to see if
delaying their vacations would be feasible, which, regrettably, it was not…in either case."
Matthews gestured to the two empty seats at the table, and noted, this time with visible
disappointment, that Kerns outward expression still leaned more towards fear than
commiseration. "Non-refundable tickets, you understand…"
"But I think you see my point," Matthews soldiered on. "This is an issue that needs to be
resolved now, before the end of the semester. Graduation is only two weeks away. We need
someone to look respectable while handing out the diplomas. That's one of the most
important functions a college dean has. You're more than tall enough for the job. And the
gray around the temples? Extremely impressive stuff. Oh, and need I even remind you that
reunion weekend is only a month away? That's the single biggest fund-raising weekend of the
year. So I think it's clear that we need to find someone fast, and that means we need to stay in
house on this one. An exhaustive search could take all summer, and in the end, we still might
find that you're the best choice to take over." Heads nodded around the table.
That was about when Kerns started in with the begging. "It's just that I'm not exactly
qualified," he said. "I've never even worked in administration."
"Nonsense," said Matthews. "You're an economics professor. We've all read your paper on
the economics of the non-profit sector," he lied. "A fine piece of work, that. We've had
enough of administrators--nothing but a bunch of nervous paper shufflers." The
administrators at the meeting shuffled their papers nervously at the remark. "We want
someone with fiscal responsibility. Someone with real world experience. Someone like a
college economics professor."
Fiscal responsibility never exactly had been a top priority at Bucklin. In the past, whenever
the school needed more money, it just did what any college would do: it upped the tuition,
and offered to name a building after a wealthy alumnus. But while the first half of that
economic plan was as sound as ever, the administration had begun to notice an alarming trend
over the past two years: the alumni were becoming stingier.
"It's the economy, you understand," an apparently successful alumnus would say to a college
dean or administrator when the subject of a new gym or dorm building had been tactfully
raised. But the deans and administrators didn't understand. "What's this about the economy?"
the college staff would ask each other in private. Then they would resolve to see if there was
anything about the whole economy thing on the evening news. The next day around the
coffee urn they would report back "Dan Rather says jobs are scarce," or "Tom Brokaw says
wages are down." But this just wasn't the case, they knew. After all, no one in their circle had
lost their job or seen their wages fall--and they knew people who worked at colleges all
across the country.
"It's just talk," they reassured each other. "It will pass." But it didn't pass. Not by that May, at
least. So Bucklin's regents and administrators made what seemed the most prudent move--
they voted to install an economics professor as dean. "He'll straighten out this economy
thing," they assured each other. "He's been published in all the best journals."
"And if he doesn't, we can fire him. Deans don't have tenure." The administrators had their
man.
And Professor Kerns had a problem.

May 12
"Do you have a dream?" Dana asked as we lay in bed, after some particularly draining
afternoon sex. Dana was curled up in my arms. Her hair was in my face, and, inevitably, a
few strands had managed to find their way into my mouth. But I didn't mind. What's the point
of dating a redhead if you're going to complain about a face full of hair every now and then?
If anything, I liked the hair in my face. I disliked the question. As is typical in the male of the
species, I was happy just to lie around after sex and forget the future for a while. But this was
one of those required conversation moments. I can't say I understood why it was required, but
it was a well-known fact that a post-coitus conversation about life was the price one is
expected to pay. There's always a price.
"Sure, I have a dream."
"What is it?"
"It's more-or-less what we just did," I said. "Only with whipped cream." That earned me an
elbow in the ribs that pushed the limits of the term playful. I was glad I hadn't offered my real
dream "…only with that roommate of yours joining in"
"Seriously. Do you have a dream?"
"Who am I, Martin Luther King?"
"Bob, be serious for a minute. I'd really like to know." I could tell she was serious, since she
called me "Bob" instead of "Gwaf." It was the same trick my mother used, an unsettling
realization considering our current position.
"If I tell you if I have a dream can that be it for the serious questions for today."
"Okay."
"Then yes, I have a dream," I lied.
Dana waited. "Well?"
"'Well' what?"
"'Well' what is it?"
"I thought we agreed that was it for the serious questions."
"That counts as part of the same question, and you know it."
"But if I tell you my dream, doesn't that mean it won't come true."
"That's wishes, not dreams."
"I dunno, sounds like a pretty fine line there. Maybe I better err on the side of caution on this
one."
"Bob, you know I love your jokes, but why can't you turn it off? I want to know the real
you."
"The real me is in my jokes. To understand them is to understand me." That ought to be deep
enough to hold her, I hoped.
"You spent half an hour this morning doing jokes about cottage cheese…is that what you're
about? Jokes about cottage cheese?"
"Any number of dairy products, really…"
"Bob! This matters to me. Why can't you be serious? Is it that there's so little to you below
the surface? Or maybe you're afraid of what people might think of you if they knew the real
you?"
"Maybe it's that I'm afraid of what I'll think of myself."
That stopped Dana for a beat. "Was that serious, or are you just saying something thoughtful-
sounding so I'll shut up and you can get some rest?"
She's quick, I thought. It took me a moment to respond to her question; long enough that
Dana turned her head to look at me, maybe just to make sure I hadn't dozed off. Looking into
those green eyes from only inches away was just exactly the way I hoped to spend the rest of
my life, or at least the rest of my afternoon, and I was anxious not to screw it up by saying the
wrong thing. So against my better judgement, I went with honesty. "You know," I said,
finally, "I don't know."

Dana and I had had a mere month to get from the beginning of this relationship to what
seemed very likely to be its end--graduation day. Thus things had progressed at a more rapid
pace than Dana likely would have agreed to under different circumstances. But I'd played
nice and had given her no reason to regret the decision. I'd been decent and thoughtful, and,
when it simply couldn't be avoided, even a little caring. Besides, for all our differences, Dana
and I did have at least one thing in common: we'd both had our fill of campus social life, with
its crowded frat parties and sweaty dances.
Instead we'd done our best to convince each other, and maybe even ourselves, that we were
mature adults ready for the real world beyond the college gates. We'd done this mostly by
hanging out at the café on Main Street instead of the one in the Student Center, by relaxing
on the town green rather than the quad, and by visiting the used book shops that grow like
fungus in college towns…even though we hadn't bothered to do the assigned reading for our
classes.
When we'd exhausted Bridgeton's somewhat limited possibilities, Dana borrowed her
roommate's car and drove us southwest to Portland, 30 miles down the coast. Portland was an
old New England town, chock full of history. Or it would have been anyway, if not for its
unfortunate habit of burning to the ground every hundred years. Still, Portland had history in
the American sense, since unlike more discriminating European historical tastes, Americans
are willing to consider anything old so long as it's been around longer than us and its
warranty has expired. Whatever its faults, Portland had what we were looking for, which is to
say there were a couple of restaurants that had neither burgers nor pizza on their menus, and
plenty of bars where we wouldn't run into our classmates. Portland also gave us the
opportunity to do what all mature, sophisticated adults do when they find themselves in a
mid-sized city: compare it unfavorably to larger, more exciting cities we'd visited in the past.
On one occasion Dana and I even ventured all the way down to Boston, a ride of only two
hours so long as there isn't traffic, which, of course, there always is. We both agreed we loved
Boston. Then we got the hell out of there and never went back. It takes a certain type of
person to sit in traffic for hours each day and decide 'this is the place for me.' But I suppose
there must be a lot of people of this type, or there wouldn't be so much traffic.
It was maybe the most I'd ever enjoyed a relationship, by which I mean it was definitely the
most I'd ever enjoyed a relationship, only that isn’t the sort of thing one admits when one's
partner is about to leave for a year in, oh, let's say Spanish Guyana. I found a measure of
gratification in the fact that the relationship meant something to Dana as well. When we first
met, Dana spoke as if she couldn’t wait to begin her upcoming trip. Lately it was clear that
she had mixed emotions. Maybe this was nothing more than the natural reservations anyone
would have before leaving for a year in a country recently named runner up in a Weather
Channel "Most Humid Location" contest, losing out to Hell by a mere 22 votes. But I
preferred to believe that Dana had decided that she'd miss me. Either way, it was better than
suffering alone.
"Maybe our relationship can survive a year apart," I thought from time to time. Maybe. Of
course a year apart is a lot to ask of a one-month-old romance. And I wasn't the most patient
sort in this department. I'd once gotten restless and taken up with another woman when my
then-girlfriend had excused herself to use the lady's room. A year apart is much longer than a
trip to the ladies room. Well, it's somewhat longer, anyway. Most likely, Dana and I would
drift apart, and life would just go on, as life has a way of doing.
In the meantime, at least the sex was good. Not great maybe, but good. And it wasn't Dana's
fault that it wasn't great, either. It's just that the first time we'd had sex, I had made a
particular effort to make sure it was good for her, even though it meant I couldn't exactly lose
myself in the moment. I did this my first time with any woman. I figured if I didn't come
through with a great performance the first time and there never was second time, then there
would be someone walking around on the planet under the impression that I wasn't any good
in bed. And who could live with something like that hanging over them?
If that's why the first time had fallen short, then subsequent encounters had been something
less than perfection because…well, subsequent encounters always are something less than
perfection, aren't they?

May 20
"Dean, if you have a moment we need to talk," Associate Dean Thomas Prester Smith said,
not bothering to knock on the door of Kerns' new office. Kerns had been in his new job for
only ten days, but already he had come to hate Smith's "we-need-to-talk" talks.
"Smith treats me like I don't have any idea what I'm talking about," Kerns had complained to
his wife, Katherine, the night before. "And it's surprisingly little consolation that he's right. In
fact, it makes it even harder to justify hating the little jackass."
"Shut up and let me get some sleep," Katherine had advised.
That night, as every other night of the past week and a half, Kerns dreamt that giving up his
tenured professorship had been nothing but a dream. In his dreams, he'd wake up from a
dream to find he was back in his lecture hall, happily teaching economics. Kerns found the
whole dream-within-a-dream concept a bit confusing, especially to someone who was, after
all, asleep and thus not operating at peak mental function. He often wished he could just
dream he'd never even dreamed of the new job. But one couldn't have everything one wanted
when it came to dreams. It was enough that each night he'd wake up back in his lecture hall,
and for a few clouded minutes actually believe he had his safe, tenured life back--until that
blonde coed named Shauna who always sat in the first row took her sweater off, as she did
every night in his dreams, but never, alas, in real life…At least not in his class.
Even in his dreams, Kerns was a rational man, and Shauna's bare breasts were his tip off that
this was just the wanderings of a sleeping mind. The realization would wake him with a knot
in his gut, shortly after dawn. He'd come to hate Shauna's breasts. And by association, Kerns
had come to hate Shauna as well, and avoided her when he saw her on campus. Rationally he
understood that she couldn't really be blamed for removing her sweater in what was, after all,
his dream. But then, rationally, there was no reason for her to taunt him by disrobing in an
economics seminar, even one lacking in corporeality. There was enough fault here to go
around, Kerns decided.
"What had come over me?" Kerns asked himself in the shower each morning after he'd
wasted an hour or two trying to get back to sleep. Showering, like many of his daily chores,
brought Kerns' self-criticism to the surface. "Why did I accept this damn job?"
"It was my sense of commitment to the college," he had explained to his wife. "And I was
pressured into it," he'd thrown in for good measure. But deep down he knew the truth: he'd let
his ego overrule his brain. Kerns wanted to run the school even if he knew he'd fail and hate
every minute of it. It was the same psychology that drove men to become third-party
candidates in presidential elections or managers of the Boston Red Sox.
Well, no point reliving the errors of the past again, Kerns told himself. Right now, the
pressing problem was dealing with this little weasel Smith. "It's not about the student
diversity thing again, is it Thomas?" asked Kerns. "I thought we finally had that worked out."
"It's always about student diversity, sir."
"I thought you told me it's always about the budget."
"Student diversity is the same as the budget," explained Smith. "Different diverse groups of
students each want to get as much of the budget as possible."
"I thought the student diversity groups were rallying for equality."
"Yes sir, it seems that they've figured out that rallying for equality is their best strategy for
getting more than everyone else."
"Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense," Kerns admitted. "So what is it this time, Thomas? I
thought everything had settled down since we agreed to build that African-American student
center." The special interest group's new meeting place had been the prior week's big news.
"It did--until word got out. Now the Homosexual Students Alliance, the Asian Student
Organization and the Native American Student Board all want student centers of their own.
And when that word gets out, we can expect the Jewish group and the women's group to
demand them as well. And when word of that gets around, you just know that the United
Muslim Student Front and the Bucklin Vegetarian Army will want in."
"My God, Thomas, we can't afford all that. I still don't know if I'll be able to convince the
trustees to spring for the African-American Student Center." Then a stray thought stopped
him. "Wait, did you say the Native American Student Board? I've never even heard of that
one."
"Yes, sir--it's new. Brand new. In fact it was just formed when word got out that we were
giving away student centers."
"Did you try explaining to this group that we're not giving away student centers?"
"Yes sir, that's precisely what I said when I met with him."
"Him who? The leader of the group?"
"Actually, the leader is the group."
"You mean it's an organization of one?"
"Yes sir, but there's a good reason for that."
"Which is?"
"There's only one Native American on campus. Fortunately, he says he's willing to overlook
our obvious discrimination in failing to enroll more Native Americans in exchange for his
student center. Frankly, I think we're getting off cheap."
"Good Lord. Can we at least make it a smaller center, seeing as there is only the one of him."
"Oh, no sir," said Smith. "We don't want to be seen as favoring one group over another."
"Then you're actually saying that constructing a half-million dollar building for one student
is getting off cheap?"
"Well, the only other way we can avoid trouble would be to enroll a lot of other Native
Americans--enough so that we'd be above reproach on the Native American front. But that's
not really an option."
"Why not?" asked Kerns.
"Why not?" Smith was beginning to wonder if Kerns knew anything at all about running an
elite liberal arts college. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to enroll Native
Americans?"
"It's difficult?"
"It's extremely difficult. There just aren't that many qualified Native American students out
there, and all the other schools are just as anxious to recruit them as we are. It's a real seller's
market."
"Well how did we get the one we have?" Kerns asked.
"I'm quite proud of that, sir, since you asked," said Smith, genuinely pleased for the chance
to tell the story of his coup, particularly to someone who hadn't heard it before. "I set a team
of researchers to work on genealogical records until we found a high school student with a
long-lost great-grandparent who was an actual Native American--even lived on a reservation
like a real Indian. Then we offered him a full scholarship before any of the other schools
could find him."
"Then he isn't actually a full-blooded Native American, per se?"
"No sir. Until we told him, he thought he was an Italian from New Jersey."
"I see. So you're suggesting we build this Italian from New Jersey a multi-million-dollar
Native American center?"
"Absolutely. If you'd consider the big picture, you'd see that the center could help us attract
more Native American students."
"I understand," said Kerns, who in all honesty didn't. "Well, I don't know what to do about
these student centers. Is that it for today's major problems, or do you have some other way to
ruin my life?"
Smith was taken aback by the comment. He hadn't planned to start ruining his new boss' life
for another month yet, perhaps even six weeks if it turned out he liked him. Both graduation
and alumni weekend coming up fast, after all. There would be plenty of chances for Kerns to
fail on his own, without any help from Smith. The smart play clearly was to wait for others to
come down against Kerns before starting in with his own machinations.
Smith didn't want to ruin his boss' life. Not really. It was just that Kerns had taken the job
that was rightfully his, in as much as Smith had served more-or-less loyally as an assistant to
the now-departed Dean Jergensen for well over six months. Before landing at Bucklin, Smith
had sorted all of the nation's job openings for assistant deans by the ages of those colleges'
top men. Jergensen had been the oldest of all, and now he was the deadest of all. Yet
somehow Smith hadn't been promoted, a temporary problem that figured to work itself out as
soon as he could get Kerns fired. "Well, there is another treefrog protest," Smith answered.
"What? Do I have to build a center for the treefrogs, too?"
"Oh, no sir--I don't think so. But I'll certainly ask."

Chapter 5
May 26

"Dana?" Debbie called, knocking on her roommate's bedroom door a little after eight that
morning. "Can I come in?"
I had spent the night again; Dana wasn't a big fan of my apartment, what with the mushrooms
growing out of the carpet and the rest of its distinctive features that some chose to view as
negatives. Fortunately, she and Debbie had a dorm with separate bedrooms. Dana's clock
radio had awakened us minutes earlier with Stairway to Heaven, a song with seemingly
endless capacity to entertain radio deejays. We both had things we needed to do, but we'd
lingered in bed, putting up with the bad '70s rock. Graduation was the next day. There were
few opportunities left for high-quality lingering.
"Yea, come on in," Dana said.
"Sorry to interrupt," said Debbie, although she had been prudent enough to listen for a
moment before knocking, to make sure she wasn't really interrupting anything serious. "I
wanted to make sure I caught you this morning. The administration is giving out student
centers to special interest groups and we have to make sure the Women's Group gets one."
That was big enough news to get Dana's attention. "We should get one for the Druids, too,"
Dana said.
"And maybe the Ultimate Frisbee team," added Debbie. Reinvigorated with this new cause,
Dana was up and digging for clean clothes. "I've got to get going before all the best locations
are gone."
"I'd better get up, too," I said, and slipped out of bed and into the shower before Dana could
reach the bathroom. I minded not at all that Debbie was still in the room, and I was wearing
nothing but my boxer shorts.
Debbie glanced towards the bathroom door, then back towards Dana. "Well, how is it? Is it
good? You haven't said a word about it all this time."
"It's not bad," Dana allowed.
"Only not bad? That's not good."
"Not bad could be good," said Dana. "Not bad is anything better than bad."
"Maybe," said Debbie. "But if it was good, you wouldn't have said 'not bad,' you'd have said
'good.' In fact, if it was even okay, you'd probably say it was good."
"Not at all. I'm not one of those people who go around indiscriminately calling everything
good when it isn't. People who do that have nowhere left to go when they need to describe
something that actually is good."
"I say it's good all the time when it's only okay."
"I know," said Dana. "And I can never tell when you really think it's good."
"Oh, that's easy," said Debbie. "When it's actually good, I say it's great."
"And when it's great?"
"When it's great I say it was amazing."
"And when it's amazing?"
"I've never had amazing."
"Never had amazing? That's not good."
"No, it's not good at all…But is it good?"
"Is what good?" asked Dana, lost.
"Is Bob good?"
"Oh, that. He's amazing."
"Really? He's amazing?"
"No, but he's not bad."

He'd been up working on the problem most of the night. By daybreak Dean Kerns believed
he'd hit on a solution to the student center problem. It would be the first coup of his
administration, Kerns thought as he walked up Federal Street towards campus. A real feather
in his cap.
As dean he was entitled to live in one of the more impressive Federal-style homes that gave
Federal Street the first half of its name. There wasn't really any good reason for him to live
there instead of his own perfectly fine home, which if nothing else had modern air
conditioning. But a perk is a perk and Kerns wasn't about to turn one down. So Kerns, his
wife Katherine, and their little dog Roger had moved the two blocks to Federal Street just as
soon as Jergensen's possessions could be shipped off to a storage locker, on the off chance
that some distant relation could be located and convinced to receive Jergensen's collection of
old Bucklin yearbooks and yellowing homecoming-game programs.
The man had died without a family, a will, or anything close to a close friend. He had served
Bucklin for decades, yet the ad hoc committee put in charge of arranging a fitting tribute to
him had concluded that no one would care enough to show up to such a fitting tribute should
one be in the offing. So they took their allotted budget and spent it on repaving and renaming
the former Parking Area H (Restricted to Faculty and Staff Parking Permits) as the Dean
Herbert Jergensen Memorial Parking Area H (Restricted to Faculty and Staff Parking
Permits). It had been Jergensen's favorite parking area, someone that knew him well had
noted, but he had complained often that it could stand a good re-surfacing.
The ad hoc fitting tribute committee then disbanded, leaving it to the permanent campus
search committee to continue its crusade for a rightful heir to Jergensen's bric-a-brac.
Coincidentally, that same permanent search committee had earlier been tabbed to hunt down
a suitable wife for Jergensen, the thought being that the man might consent to retire without a
fuss if there was anything else in his life worth speaking of. He couldn't just be shoved aside
after 38 years of relatively successful fund raising, after all. The committee hadn't succeeded
in finding him a mate in five years of trying. But this was just as well, as it turned out, since
Jergensen at long last had done the reasonable thing and died.
Kerns' coup, as it happened, was no more successful than that search committee's match-
making efforts. An hour after his presentation, Kerns sat disconsolate in his office. He had
expected his proposal to be a feather in his cap. Not only did Kerns not have a feather in his
cap, Smith had warned him not to use that expression again out of fear of offending the
Native American group. Offending a group of one would pale next to what Kerns had
accomplished before consuming his Danish that morning. Every special interest group on
campus now was calling for his resignation. Well, except for three, which instead were
calling for his execution. "At least they're divided," Smith had observed.
It had seemed like such a good idea last night: Since there was no way the college possibly
could afford separate campus centers for each group, Kerns had proposed a single campus
center to be shared by all the various special interest groups. They could even have their own
individual offices within it, if they liked, but just one building among them. "Isn't the idea
behind campus diversity to bring different group together?" Kerns had argued during the
meeting.
Smith was not alone in his surprise at his boss' naivete. Back at the Dean's office he'd set
Kerns straight: "If everyone really wanted to come together, they'd have just used the student
center that we already have. The idea behind campus diversity isn't bringing groups together.
It's to avoid being accused of being against diversity."
"What would happen to us if we were accused of being against diversity?" asked Kerns.
"Well, first we'd have to cover ourselves by building a heck of a lot of student centers."
"I'm beginning to see the problem," Kerns admitted. "Why'd you ever recommend I sign off
on that first student center anyway?"
"We had to do something about your flagging popularity with the students."
"How could my popularity have been flagging? I'd only been on the job a few days when
you raised the subject. I hadn't done anything yet."
"Well it was flagging. We conducted a poll."
"A poll of who?"
"Of the student waiting in my office. As I recall, he was there to discuss his idea of building
an African-American student center."
"You based your recommendation on a poll of one student?"
"If you'd been willing to increase my polling budget, we would have been able to reach more
students, but there were only three of us to handle the job."
"It took three of you to poll one student?"
"And compile the results," said Smith. "Honestly, I don't think it's a good idea for you to start
pinning the blame for your decisions on your staff. Morale could plummet."
Dean Kerns took a deep breath. "I suppose there's no point arguing about the past. Can we
have a special alumni fund raising drive to pay for these student centers?"
"I'm afraid that's not likely to work very well, Dean."
"Why not? That how we raised money for the new football stadium, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir, it is. But we have polled the alumni on this subject in the past--a much larger and
better funded survey mind you--and the results indicate that most of the younger alumni only
give money because they want us to admit their kids."
"Even if their kids aren't qualified?"
"They wouldn't have to donate money if the kids could get in on their own merits," explained
Smith.
"Good point," Kerns conceded. "But that still doesn't explain why they would donate money
for the stadium and not for the minority student centers."
"Actually, it does. They're afraid that if the school attracts too many minority students, there
won't be enough room for their dullard offspring."
"I see. So it won't fly with the younger alumni. What do your polls tell you about our older
alumni?"
"That they're racists, sir."
"What! How could you say such a thing about our own alumni?"
"On our last survey we asked the question: 'Do you think Bucklin College should strive to
admit more minority students?'"
"And they answered 'no'?"
"Actually, most of them answered 'What do you mean 'more'?'"
"Thomas, this is awful. How could our alumni be so ignorant?"
"Poor education, sir."
"Oh. I guess that makes sense."
May 31

It was warm and sunny that graduation day, and the forecast was equally promising for
alumni weekend. These were the second and third pieces of good news Kerns had received in
weeks. Warm, dry graduates and alumni were happy, giving, graduates and alumni. Kerns'
first piece of good news had been that the protesting student groups had agreed, finally, to
accept their diplomas from him. Those that had called for his death even had agreed to put the
fatwa on hold for the weekend. This last development was particularly welcome to the
campus security force, which, in their hearts, knew that any problem that couldn't be solved
by shutting down a party or handing out a parking ticket probably lay beyond their abilities.
Some of the students had written words of protest on their mortarboards, but Kerns saw this
as a minor issue at best. Once he'd declared them graduated, they'd thrown their mortarboards
in the air, giving up their words of protest and their status as students in one fell swoop. In a
flash, Kerns was rid of the senior class, or as he now saw it, 25% of the opposing force,
including a number of the worst ringleaders. If only they'd let him graduate a few
underclassmen of his choosing, everything might turn out okay.
I'd sat through graduation with nothing written on my mortarboard. Quite a number of my
fellow students had written "Hire Me" on their headwear, I'd noted, a witty offering, perhaps,
the first time it had been offered, but now a tired gesture. It had long been my policy that it
was worse to repeat a stale joke than to say nothing at all, a philosophy that never did find a
home with the creative staff behind the Police Academy films. "Hire me" was, however, a
sentiment I'd shared in spirit, if not in paint above my head. My roommate Dave had skipped
the ceremony entirely, I noticed. I wondered why I hadn't myself. My family hadn't bothered
to attend, perhaps because I hadn't bothered to invite them. I loved my family, mind you.
Truly I did. But with unemployment looming, I hadn't felt much like answering the question
"What now?" thirty or forty times. Perhaps it would be accurate to say that I loved my family
most of all when I didn't have to speak with them. But I suppose that's how most people love
their families.
Graduation did mean an introduction to Dana's family. Normally that's not an easy moment,
particularly for a young suitor starting out on a promising career in unemployment. But
Dana's parents seemed appreciative that their daughter was dating someone who had not tie-
died his graduation robe or been forced to weigh the merits of braided hair for the occasion.
They took it as a sign she was growing up. By this of course they meant "growing more like
them," but, again, that's pretty much what everyone means by the phrase. Better yet, Dana's
parents had headed home the very night of graduation, leaving Dana for four more days in
Maine, 96 hours that I had put to good use.
"Gwaf? What are you doing here?" Dave asked when I finally made it back to my apartment,
96 hours and 15 minutes after graduation. I guess Dave thought I'd cleared out. He'd already
begun selecting things he liked from among my possessions. "You know we have to be out of
this place by tonight."
"Yea, I know. I just came back to clear out my stuff."
"Oh," Dave said, wondering if I would notice that some of my stuff already had been cleared
out. It wasn't hard to miss. I didn't have that much stuff to begin with. "Where have you been
the last few days?"
"I've been spending a lot of time over at Dana's."
"Right, how's that going?"
"Great, except she left for Tanzania today."
"Spanish Guyana."
"Whatever. She stayed as long as she could. It was fun while it lasted, and these past few
days have had a 'let's enjoy our last hours until that comet strikes the earth' kind of a feel to
them, which makes for some quality sex. So I'm not complaining. How about you?" I asked.
"What are you still doing here?"
"I'm not in any big rush to move back in with my parents," Dave said. "Anyway, I thought
I'd clean this place up a bit. Our graduation party got a little out of hand, and I could really
use our security deposit back--my share of our security deposit, I mean. What do think? How
does the place look?"
"You mean aside from the missing wall?"
"Fuck you, Gwaf, it's not the entire wall. Besides, I never thought there should be a wall
there, anyway. The hole kinda opens the place up."
"Dave, it's an exterior wall."
Dave reconsidered the problem. "I could cover it over. I could hang a tapestry or
something…" Dave's voice tailed off as he assessed the hole more objectively. "I'm not
getting that security deposit back, am I?"
"'fraid not, Dave."
"Damn it, I really coulda used that money. My parents aren't too happy about my moving
back in. I don't think I'll be able to talk them into springing for an allowance."
"I suppose a job is out of the question."
"You're one to talk."
"At least I tried. Did you even have one interview?"
"Of course not," said Dave. "Why should I waste my time? The way I see it, you're ten times
more qualified for employment than I am, and you spent half of this semester interviewing. If
you couldn't find a job, what was the point of my even looking?"
"Yea, well, at least I'm not moving back in with my parents."
"No? How'd you pull that off?"
"I'm gonna stay on campus this summer," I said. "Tony Pasqualli's letting me stay at his
Native American Center for free as caretaker. He's afraid the administration will change their
mind and try to take it back if no one's living in it."
"His what center?"
"Native American center. Turns out Tony's an Indian, so he gets a building."
"Really? I'm half Norwegian. What does that get me?"
"I'm not sure. I don't know all the rules, just what Dana told me. Apparently there was this
big deal a couple of days ago, and Dean Kerns wound up giving minority groups their own
student centers."
"This all happened in a couple of days? How'd they put up the buildings that fast?"
"The college couldn't afford to put up new buildings even if they'd had the time. They just
reassigned the buildings that were already there. Tony's Native American Center used to be
the astronomy department's observatory, for example."
"What's the astronomy department going to do?"
"I dunno. Just look up and squint a lot, I suppose. Or maybe the college won't have an
astronomy department anymore. To be honest, I never even knew we had one in the first
place. But then I didn't know Tony was an Indian. And I guess none of this matters much,
since you and I have both graduated."
"Why did this all happen now, I mean at the end of the year like this?"
"Kerns had to act fast. My understanding is that he tried to put it off 'till next year, but then
he thought the special interest groups had taken his car hostage."
"What's the big deal about a car?"
"His wife was in it at the time. Anyway, it turns out he had just forgotten where he'd parked
it. By the time he realized his mistake, he's already agreed to a bunch of the student centers.
From there it was a slippery slope. That's the story going around, anyway."
"So, Gwaf…" Dave said, as we gazed through our wall at the setting sun. "I don't suppose
Tony needs an assistant Native American Center caretaker?"

Chapter 6
June 2

The phones in the Native American Center were still hooked up. When I'd said goodbye to
Dana a few days earlier I had resolved not to call her, to leave it as a clean break. But the
problem with resolving not to do something is that you must continue not to do it each and
every moment of each and every day for the rest of your time upon this planet. It's so much
easier to resolve to do something, then just do it and be done with it. Faced with this daunting
prospect, I gave in and dialed.
There was a moral issue to be considered here as well, since there are those who might
regard placing long-distance calls on someone else's tab a crime of sorts. I believe it's called
stealing. But as I am one of those fortunate people who is religious on those occasions when
religion suits me--impending death, forgot to study for an exam, that sort of thing--and I saw
an ethical opening. I concluded that there was a God, and that he had taken time out from his
busy schedule of appearing in visions and conversing with televangelists to provide me with
this opportunity to call my girlfriend. And if an omnipotent deity is willing to go to that much
trouble for me, then it really would be a sin not to call.
Dana and I made the usual conversation that people who were once intimate make after one
has escaped. I tried to put the best face on the situation. "Yea, I've got Dave here as assistant
caretaker. You met Dave at my party, I think."
"Sure. He's the one who warned me that you weren't as much of a jerk as I might have
heard," said Dana. She was at her parent's home in New York for a few days while she went
through One Planet's intensive Spanish-Guyana orientation program at their Manhattan
offices. Her flight to South America left on the fifth. This, then, could very well be the last
conversation we ever shared. I wasn't certain if my ethics could be stretched far enough to
allow calls of an intercontinental nature. And as it happened, Dana wasn't going to be
anywhere that was particularly near a phone, so I decided I might as well take the high road
and draw the line at domestic telephony pilferage.
"Keep in mind that Dave doesn't exactly have a firm grip on reality."
"At least you'll have some company."
"Yea, great company. He says he intends to spend his time getting stoned and staring at the
stars through our telescopes--did I mention that we have the best telescopes of any Native
American center on the East Coast?"
"Being a converted astronomy building will do that. Tony says he's planning on keeping
those telescopes, by the way, so don't let Dave break them--I saw what happened to your
apartment wall with him in charge."
"I wouldn't worry about that. Tony told Dave that he'd put an Indian curse on him if he broke
anything."
"And Dave believed that?"
"Are you kidding?" I asked. "It scared the hell out of him. Anyway, Dave will get bored with
the telescopes once he runs out of drugs. And that shouldn't take long. He wouldn't have been
able to buy what he's smoking now except for the deposit on all of the cans from our party."
Dana chuckled. Stories about Dave always got a laugh. Not a great roommate, maybe, but a
heck of a conversation piece.
Dana broke a brief silence. "Bob…are you going to be all right?"
"Me? You're the one going to Bolivia"
"Spanish Guyana"
"Whatever."
"But what are you going to do?"
"I'll find a job. Sooner or later, someone's got to give me a job."
"Of course they will."
"But Dana, I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you, too."
"I'll write."
"Think you'll be able to find the time?" Dana joked.
The sarcasm stung, but it was better than pity. I didn't bother with a comeback. "Don't get
yourself hurt."
"I'll try not to."
"I guess I should let you go."
"I suppose so. I have to be up early tomorrow."
I said goodbye, and hung up the phone. Fuck. It had been a mistake to call. I felt even worse
than I had twenty minutes before. It was going to be a very long year. And then what? There
was no guarantee that Dana and I would find ourselves in the same city when she returned.
Besides, who's to say that a month-old relationship could remain in tact for a year through the
mail? And how reliable is postal service in the Guyanian jungle, anyway? On a not un-related
subject, why does it hurt worse to lose someone you care about than never to care about
anyone at all? Probably related to the fact that populations only rebel against authoritarian
regimes after they'd had a small taste of freedom. If you want contentment in life, the most
reliable path is to never know what it means to be anything more than content. It's a well
know fact that whoever coined the expression "Tis better to have loved and lost…" was full
of it. I think it was Tennyson. Or maybe Wordsworth. Just to be safe, they can both go to hell.
Actually, they're both long dead, so they're probably already there if they're going.
Fortunately, I knew what needed to be done.
"Dave?" I called. "Let's go get drunk."
Ten minutes later we were at Ernie's. And Dave was having second thoughts. "Gwaf, I can't
afford to drink. I could barely afford a quarter ounce of hash."
"First of all Dave, this is half-price pint night. How can we afford not to drink? And second,
it's on me. I'm going to spend my last dollars on something useful, like alcohol, then start
fresh tomorrow."
"Oh...In that case, can I get something to eat, too?"
Half an hour later, Dave had helped me eat the last of my savings in the form of a plate of
Buffalo wings. "So it's come to this," I said. "The only woman I've ever cared about for more
than eleven days in a row is heading thousands of miles away, and I'm sleeping in an
observatory and blowing my last dollars on my burnout roommate's pot munchies."
"'The only woman you've ever cared about'? Was it really that serious, or are you just
building it up because you feel like being depressed that it's over?" Dave wasn't the sort to
complain about the burnout characterization.
"That's a tough question to answer," I said. "I probably won't know until I have sex with
someone else and can gauge how guilty I feel afterwards."
"Love is a mystery isn't it."
"Or so Shakespeare would have us believe."
"No, really," said Dave. "What is it that makes one person look at another and decide 'This is
someone I could fall in love with?' It can't just be looks and pheromones, or we'd all fall in
love with the same people."
"Maybe we all do fall in love with the same people. Then those people become movie stars,
and sleep with each other, while the rest of us pay $7 to see their movies so we can have
someone to think of while we're screwing whoever was still waiting around the bar trying to
get picked up at closing time."
"You think?"
"It would explain why everyone turns the lights out when they have sex," I said.
"And why it's considered good manners to close your eyes when you kiss," added Dave. "But
no, that can't be it. I mean, take you and Dana. She's attractive enough that she could have
found someone much more appealing than you to be with when she's imagining she's with
Mel Gibson, or whoever women imagine they're with. So why you? What made Dana so
attracted to you where so many women would look at you and wonder what you have against
exercise."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"What?"
"You know, the exercise crack."
"It's just an example. Don't read anything into it, I could have picked any one of your faults."
"I mean, I admit I haven't made it to the gym much lately, but it's not like I'm out of shape or
anything."
"Let it go, Gwaf. You're missing the big picture here. With all the hundreds of women you've
met, and all the hundreds of men Dana's met, what attracted you two to each other?"
"How in God's name should I know? That's one of those questions people have been asking
since the dawn of time--or at least since the dawn of radio psychiatry. What attracted Dana to
me? Why does any woman ever sleep with a man? Maybe I showed her just enough respect.
Or maybe I showed her just enough disrespect. Maybe I came around at exactly the right
moment, or maybe she mistook something I said for something someone more intelligent
might have said. Maybe she's getting back at a former lover, or maybe I remind her of her
father--or of her mother, if deep down that's what she's into. How should I know?"
"Let's turn it around. Maybe she was drawn to you for the same reason you were drawn to
her."
"I doubt it," I said. "I never even saw her glance at my chest."
"I suppose you're right. Men and women have entirely different criteria."
"It's a miracle we ever get together at all."
"Which explains all the lying we have to do to make a relationship work," Dave said.
"Exactly."
Dave and I both stared at our beers for a moment. "So what do you say," Dave asked finally
"when a woman you're seeing asks what you first noticed about her?"
"Easy: her eyes. Eyes are the only physical characteristics you're allowed to stare at without
being considered superficial. Plus it gives her the impression that I haven't just been staring at
her breasts."
"Actually, that's pretty good. I might just use it."
"What's mine is yours, Dave--just remember to check the eye color before you do;
sometimes they try to pop quiz you."
"They are wily that way. And since you're in such a sharing mood, I think we could use
another round."
"Sorry, Dave," I said, checking my wallet. "But it looks like that's about it for the drinking
until one of us gets a job."
"One of us?" Dave asked suspiciously.
"Okay, me."
"So where are you gonna get a job? It's not like they're are a lot of investment banks here in
Bridgeton...Wait--you're not thinking about applying for jobs in New York and leaving me
here are you? I'd starve."
"Dave, I've been applying for jobs in New York for the last nine months, and no one's
offered me one yet. I don't think you have much to worry about."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I guess I'll check the want ads. There's got to be a job somewhere in this town that will keep
me--uh, us--fed until something better comes along."
"The want ads? Hold it a sec." Dave grabbed a used newspaper off a nearby table. "Here we
go…'seeks white male, 20-30, no smokers.' That's perfect for you. No--wait. These are the
personals. And actually, I think they're looking for a gay man. Hold on again." Dave ran off
again, and came back a few moments later with a more mainstream newspaper. "Here we go.
Hey, there are plenty of jobs: Accountant, Carpenter, Computer Technician, Dentist."
"Dave, I can't do any of those things."
"Don't say you can't until you try. Hey, this dentist thing pays pretty good. Wait--looks like
you need a degree for that one. Do you have a D.D.S.?"
"Dave…"
"This computer thing pays even better. $75,000? Jesus. Our problems are solved. Do you
have five years of experience servicing networks?"
"Dave, I don't have experience with teeth or computers or accounting or carpentry. I have no
experience at or qualifications for anything. I have a liberal arts education, same as you. I'm
not trained to do anything useful."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. Someone's gonna have to give me a job trusting that I can figure it out on the fly."
"We are going to starve."
"We're not going to starve," I said. "Give me that paper. There's got to be something in there
that doesn't require any particular skills or training."
"Gwaf, even most of the ads in those gay personals were looking for particular skills or
training, and I don't think they were going to pay. We're going to starve."
"We're not going to starve. I will find work. What choice do we have?"
"We could move back in with our parents."
"Go back to Kansas and live in my old room?" I asked. "I have my pride."
"Pride? Gwaf, all we can afford to eat is Ramen Noodles."
"Ramen Noodles aren't so bad."
"For breakfast?"
"Try 'em cold."
"Cold? Hell, this morning I ate 'em dry."
"I'm sure we can have the water turned back on," I said.
"Jesus. You really don't like Kansas, do you?"
"Well, no, I don't--but it's not just that. I also don't want to move back into my own room. It
would be admitting failure. Four years of education, $100,000 in tuition, and I'd have
accomplished nothing. Then there'd be all my friends from high school. The ones who never
left town. The ones who always thought I acted like I was better than them because I was
going to get out of Kansas. They'd be so damn happy to see me crawling back."
"I'm sure they don't really think you acted superior."
"I don't see why they wouldn't. I did act superior. I was getting out. It meant taking on
$75,000 in loans, but I'd done it. I'd escaped. Only three other kids in my class went to
college, if you don't count the local community college. But now, hell, some of the
community college kids have been out of school for two years and are making pretty good
money--at least pretty good money by Kansas standards. I am not going to go home to listen
to apprentice refrigerator repairmen gloat at my expense."
"So what then?"
I glanced down at the want ads spread on the table in front of me. "Administrative Assistant?"

June 2

"Yes?"
"I'm here about the administrative assistant position," I told the receptionist at New England
Medical Forms Processing, Inc. Both receptionist and building appeared ready for retirement.
Or perhaps demolition.
"I see. Fill out this form." She handed me a clipboard.
"No interview?" I asked.
"Interview comes after the form."
"Right after the form, or days after the form?"
"Just fill out the form."
I took a seat in the waiting area and set to work. The first question, after name and address
and the other things one can find at the top of any self-respecting form, read simply "Typing
speed".
I went back to the receptionist's window. "Typing speed?" I asked.
"Yea, typing speed."
"You mean like 'fast' or 'slow'?"
"We mean like words per minute."
"Big word or little words?"
"Not big words or little words, just words."
"Seems like you should specify big words or little words," I commented.
"Listen, kid, it's just words. You know, average, everyday words."
"Could you give me an example?"
"An example?"
"An example of an everyday word."
"Kid, I'm thinking of two everyday words for you right now. Care to guess what they are?"
"Okay, okay. It's just that I don't know how many words I can type in a minute. I never
counted. Uh--could I borrow your typewriter?"
"What? Why?"
"To find out how many words I can type in a minute."
"All right, Mr..." she took the clipboard from my hand and glanced at the first entry
"...Gwafin. Why don't I just take your form right now. No need to worry about the rest of the
questions."
"Is now when I get the interview?"
"We'll be in contact about the interview."
"Be in contact soon or be in contact later?"
"Listen kid, there isn't going to be an interview."
"You know, I realize this might sound smug, but I have a college degree. Doesn't a college
degree at least get me an interview to be a secretary?"
"Sorry, honey. Typing speed gets you an interview to be a secretary. A college degree gets
you the respect of your grandparents."
"But my grandparents are dead."
"Then you just wasted four years."
"I'm beginning to get that impression," I agreed. I stayed to argue with the receptionist a bit
more, mostly because I felt like arguing with someone, and the receptionist seemed more than
willing to help out in this regard, if only because this was one argument she seemed certain to
win. As, of course, she eventually did.
"Did you get the job?" Dave asked as soon as I returned.
"I didn't even get the interview."
"How'd you manage that?"
"First there was some confusion over my typing skills. And later she asked if I could even
take dictation, and I thought she'd said something else entirely. But it was pretty much
already over at that point."
"Then we're going to starve."
"Yea, I tried explaining that to the receptionist."
"She didn't go for it?"
"She told me I looked like I could stand to lose a few pounds."
"There's just no compassion in the world, Gwaf."
"You got that right. I mean imagine calling me overweight. I'm sculpted."
"I don't know," Dave said, studying my midsection. "You might be able to live off your fat
for a week or two--but look at me. If I don't get something to eat, I'll be dead by sundown.
Think I should go talk to that receptionist?"
"What fat? I'm like a rock."
"Well Rock, what are we going to do about lunch?" Dave asked.
"More Ramen noodles?"
"I ate the last of them for breakfast. Got any money you're not telling me about?"
"Not a dime. You?"
"I never had any money before we were unemployed and starving," Dave said. "But you
have a credit card don't you?"
"Oh no, I'm not going to start charging things on my credit card when I can't afford to pay
the bill. It would cost me a fortune in interest and penalties plus it would ruin my credit
rating."
"You'd rather starve to death than ruin your credit rating?"
"Well, I suppose if I were certain I was going to starve to death I might charge a really nice
funeral," I said. "I mean what are they going to do, send their debt collectors into the
afterlife?"
"But short of that, you'd sooner die?"
"Sure. I mean, you only get one credit rating. Plenty of religions say we get more than one
life."
"Okay, so credit cards are out. Know anyplace where we can get food for free?"
I considered the question. It seemed like a reasonably well-motivated person should be able
to find free food in our prosperous society. "Let's go for a walk," I finally suggested. "I think
I've got an idea."
Dave and I left the Native American Center and walked across campus, stopping to try the
doors at each lecture hall along the way. Finally at the Hunt Auditorium I found what I had
hoped for--a lecture on the use of phallic imagery in medieval woodcarving. Colleges run
lectures during the summer months as excuses for professors to travel to interesting places
like the coast of Maine and call it a business trip.
"We're going to listen to a lecture on the use of phallic imagery in medieval woodcarving?"
Dave asked. "I'm not sure that's an adequate substitute for food."
"You're hungry, aren't you? Then follow me."
At the back of the room, I saw what I'd expected--a table with cheese and crackers. I had
worked for the food-services department on campus to earn a few bucks as a Freshman, but
found it an unsatisfactory job, as both students and professors are notoriously poor tippers.
Still, I had learned what turned out to be an important fact: summer lectures offered snacks.
"Maybe we should wait," Dave said as we edged our way towards the table. "It looks like
they're in the middle of something."
"If we wait, we'll have to share those cheese and crackers with every professor and grad
student in the room," I warned.
"But...there are dozens of them. There isn't nearly enough to feed us all."
"And most of them probably aren't starving," I added.
"Good point. It does look like a pretty well fed crowd. So I guess it's morally justified if we
just help ourselves to a few crackers while they have their conference."
"That was more or less my thinking."
"Of course, it would be a little impolite to just start eating right here in the back of the room
while someone's up there talking," observed Dave.
"Yea, probably," I agreed, still inching towards the snack table with all the subtlety I could
muster on an empty stomach.
"So maybe everyone would be best off if we just took the whole tray."
"Right," I said. "I'll get the sodas."
"On the count of three..."
So a few penis-obsessed art historians don't get a snack, I thought as I helped myself to
another wedge of cheddar back at our Native American Astronomy building. It's not like it's
really stealing. Up until a few weeks ago, it had been my tuition paying for the cheese and
crackers the college gave out. Actually, since next year's class hadn't yet arrived, it probably
was still my tuition footing the bill. The liberation of this particular batch of cheese and
crackers simply made up for the fact that I had never gone to any art history conferences
when I was a student. Even so, I decided it would be best to take it easy on the snack plate
appropriations. Dave's conscious seemed to be bothering him. He'd left the astronomy
building without a word once he'd finished his half of the cheese and arguably a little more
than his half of the crackers.
Dave returned a few minutes later with a punch bowl half full of pretzel rods. "Those cheap
bastards--they were only serving pretzel rods at the physics conference. Well, food's food I
guess."
Apparently Dave's conscience was not quite what I thought it was. "Gee, Dave, maybe we
shouldn't steal every piece of food the college serves."
"I left them their sodas. Besides, what else were we going to do for dinner tonight?"
"Did anyone notice you?"
"What do you take me for?"

"Dean Kerns, there's been another one!" Smith rushed into Kerns' office.
"Damn. Which conference this time?"
"The physics conference. The son of a bitch grabbed a punch bowl full of pretzel rods and
made straight for the Native American Astronomy Center in full view of fifty physicists. He
left a trail of pretzel rods all the way."
Kerns turned pale with fear. "Does this mean what I think it means?"
"I'm afraid so. The Native Americans are staging an uprising on campus and repatriating
food harvested from land that they believe is rightfully theirs," said Smith. "It's the only
possible conclusion," he added for emphasis.
Kerns wasn't sure that pretzel rods were harvested off anyone's land exactly, but he let it pass.
"Well, what am I supposed to do about it?"
"Hummm, that is the question at hand, isn't it. They're clearly hoping that you go and arrest
them on their sovereign land--well, in their sovereign astronomy building, anyway. That way,
they can sing to anyone who'll listen about the racial insensitivity on the campus and the
violation of their property. Oh, the media would have a field day--think of it: an
institutionalized power grants Native Americans an autonomous region, then takes it away at
the first chance. Consider the historical precedents."
"So a raid is out. What does that leave?" asked Kerns.
"As I see it, there are two options," answered Smith, who consulted the notes he had jotted
down for the occasion. "One, we could stage a covert action, wipe them all out, then cover
the whole thing up."
"Wipe them out? You mean kill them?"
"I'm not recommending it," Smith said. "I'm just mentioning it as an option."
"You're honestly proposing that I should consider committing murder to prevent the theft of
a few pretzel rods?"
"It's just a few pretzel rods today. Tomorrow it might be a whole deli platter."
"Let's just forget the murdering for now, Smith. For one thing, I don't want to go to jail."
"I believe you're overlooking the cover-up part of my plan."
"I'm not committing murder over snack food," Kerns said, proud of himself for taking a firm
stand. "What's the other option?"
"We let them take the food and hope it doesn't get any worse."
"Damn it, Smith, I thought you said summers were slow around here."
"I'm afraid your controversial student center initiative has made it significantly more lively
than past summers. In fact, there are still some student groups hanging around campus hoping
to see you."
"What? Still? Why haven't they gone home for vacation?"
"Apparently they're afraid that all the good buildings will be gone by the fall."
"No, no, no. No more student centers. No more."
"Don't tell me," said Smith, "Tell the student groups. I'll start sending them in."
"What? They're here now? Wait--don't…" But it was too late. Smith had sent the first
representative in. "And you are?" Kerns asked the woman who entered his office.
"I'm the summer representative for campus women's group," said Debbie.
"I'm sorry, but you might as well go home. There won't be any more student centers."
"Then you're not afraid of the outcry next fall when the female students find out they're being
discriminated against?"
"No--I mean yes--wait…could you repeat the question?" Kerns took a moment to gather
himself. "What I mean is, couldn't this wait until the fall semester?"
"I'm afraid not. The consensus is that the board of regents will have you fired before then,
and the next dean might not give out student centers."
"But I'm not giving out student centers. At least I don't mean to be."
"Well, not meaning to give out student centers and not giving out student centers are two
different things, aren't they? You've given them to other minorities, you can give one to
women."
"Wait--women?," Kerns asked. "But women aren't a minority. You make up over 50% of the
population--and more than 50% of the student body."
"Then we deserve to get a very big building. And incidentally, don't think I didn't notice the
way you just used the word 'body'."
"But why should I give special minority treatment to a group that's a majority?"
"Let me ask you this," Debbie said. "Why do you give special treatment to the minority
groups?"
"To make up for past inequities…I mean because of prejudice."
"Come on, if that's why you did it, you would have done it right off the bat, and not waited
for them to complain. You really did it to avoid protests."
"Uh…"
"And if you gave special treatment to a small group to avoid their small protests, doesn't it
make sense that you should give even more special treatment to a larger group to avoid a
larger protest?"
Kerns thought about that one. How could he do this? But how could he not? Finally he settled
on a response. "Damn, you're good."
Ten minutes later it was settled. The women's group could have the Edelson Dorm. It was a
big, new dorm, and Debbie was rightly proud of her negotiating success. She shook Kerns'
hand, told him the Jewish students group was next, and the Gay and Lesbian group after that.
Seeing no other option, Kerns stuck his head out to say the Jewish group representative
should come in. But he didn't see anyone else waiting…And Debbie wasn't leaving his office.
"I thought we had settled," Kerns said.
"Now I'm here representing the Jewish Group," she said. "I was on campus anyway."
"Oh, I see. I don't suppose you'd believe that I'm not really giving out student centers."
Debbie didn't even bother to shake her head.
"It's just that we have to draw the line somewhere. Your group just isn't discriminated
against enough."
"Not discriminated against enough? Five million of us were slaughtered."
"What? Here on campus?"
It was clear to Debbie that the Dean was losing his mind. As a good liberal, she felt
compassion over this. But on the bright side, she was about to land her second building in
less than ten minutes.
The Jewish group got Jackson Hall. It was near the Edelson Dorm, to make life easier for
Debbie.
"I guess you might as well send in the representative of the gay and lesbian group on your
way out" Kerns requested. But Debbie didn't move.
"Oh," said Kerns. "Damn."

Chapter 7
June 5

My job search had not gone well. That's one of the nice things about a job search. Since it's a
task with a clearly defined objective, you always know where you stand. Where I stood was
pretty much where I'd stood a week earlier, only without any lingering shreds of hope or
optimism.
It's not like I was shooting too high; even the most menial, degrading positions had been
denied me, raising the question of whether it is more demeaning to have a demeaning job or
to not have a demeaning job.
I had noted a few patterns along the way, possible explanations as to why I'd lost out to
fellow applicants who, try as they might, couldn't quite stay awake while waiting their turn
for an interview. Some potential employers apparently thought I was overqualified and
certain to leave at my first opportunity, which, of course, I would have. Others with low-
paying jobs to fill simply decided to reject the college grad, since it made them feel better
about their own lousy lives.
"You think you're something special just because you went to college?" asked Manny of
Manny's Self-Storage, rather pointedly.
"No," I had answered.
"Well, you're not," Manny retorted. Manny, I gathered, had not bothered to listen to my
response. "And you'd better learn that," he added with a nod.
I assured Manny I had learned that many times in the past week. But I did not get the job
guarding self-storage units, and Manny felt a little better about his lousy life. Me, I felt a little
worse. I'd wanted that job. It was one of the few available in Bridgeton that didn't require the
use or cleaning of a fry-a-lator.
The alternative, of course, was to omit any mention of my college degree on job application
forms. But that would just lead to other questions I couldn't answer, including but not limited
to 'What the hell have you been doing for the past four years?'
Out of curiosity, I began surreptitiously reading the job applications of my competition for
these unpleasant positions. The very large man sitting across the table from me in the waiting
room of the Squeaky Bubble Car Wash, I learned, was 32, a high school drop out, and
coming off a stretch of five years in the state prison. I can't say exactly why this man had
been incarcerated, as I stopped reading at that point in fear that it might have been for killing
a man who'd peaked at his job application. I didn't get the Squeaky Bubble job. The ex-con
did. Perhaps this was a smart move on the part of the company. For all I know the ex-con is
still there doing a great job for the Squeaky Bubble organization. Or perhaps he tried to lift
the stereo from the first car he vacuumed. Staffing never has been an exact science.
With each passing day, my employment sights dropped lower. If no new help wanted ads
appeared in the local paper by the end of the week, I decided, I would turn to the employers
of last resort: those companies that never stopped hiring. In Bridgeton these included one
supermarket, one 24-hour corner market, and three fast-food restaurants--two featuring
burgers, one tacos. The local pizza joints needed only delivery boys, so unless I could jog
fifteen miles in an hour or less or your pizza's free, I was out of luck there. As for the other
five choices…

"It's hot," Dana noted, not without cause. It was by any reasonable measure extremely hot.
Oppressively hot. Sufficatingly hot. Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk hot, except that
the sidewalks in Spanish Guyana were mostly dirt, and the chickens didn't feel much like
laying eggs anyhow, since they were so worn out from it being too damn hot all the time. It
was that kind of hot. Welcome to summer in the most humid place this side of Hell, Dana
thought--and winter as well, since we're not that far from the equator. And this was just the
airport. The jungle was unlikely to be significantly more comfortable, or such was Dana's
understanding.
Truth was, Dana had never been in a tropical rainforest, exactly, although she had of course
marched in many protests in their honor. But Dana was not naive. When she'd signed up to
spend a year in this particular rainforest, she had realized that her new home might be
uncomfortable, and had prepared for it as best she could. She'd even gone so far as to spend
much of the previous weekend attempting to acclimatize. It hadn't really helped. This was a
different kind of hot than the sort found at Rockaway Beach.
The average American doesn't know very much about Spanish Guyana, and what little they
do know tends to be enough to convince them there's no need to find out any more. Few
could even pick Spanish Guyana out on a map, particularly if required to tell it apart from its
fellow Guyanas, i.e. Guyana proper and French Guyana. While American geography teachers
must shoulder some of the blame for this sorry situation, most of the fault lies with the
members of the Guyanian trifecta themselves, since each of the nations is of the approximate
size and significance of Idaho, a state that's most notable citizen is a man who went on to
become governor of Idaho. Adding to the general level of confusion, French Guyana insists
on spelling its surname G-u-i-a-n-a, which is exactly the sort of thing that makes everyone
hate the French.
The piece of land destined to become Spanish Guyana first came to the attention of Europe
when the English declared it their colony back in the seventeenth century, thinking it might
be a nice place to go on holiday. But it wasn't long before the English traded the colony to the
Dutch in exchange for Manhattan and an island to be named later, thereby earning the Dutch
the distinction of being the group to get the worst deal for Manhattan, just nosing out those
Native Americans who swapped it for a few beads. The Dutch simply wanted out of New
York, which anyone who's lived there for a few years will understand. English Guyana must
have sounded pretty good at the time, what with its warm weather and scenic beaches. It's the
same thinking that leads so many of today's New Yorkers to retire to Florida.
The Dutch realized that they'd been had when they dropped by to visit their new South
American neighbors and discovered that everyone else was putting in a penal colony which,
unlike a swimming pool, can seriously detract from regional property values. So the Dutch
gave the colony to the Spainish, who were running low on attic space, and Spanish Guyana
was born. The colony remained under Spanish control for roughly 200 years until in 1976 it
was granted its independence when no one from Spain bothered to renew the lease, thereby
forfeiting their security deposit.
Life in Spanish Guyana never seemed to change much regardless of who was in charge.
Under any flag, the only export to speak of was aluminum, and most of that came from cans
the nation found along the side of its roads. The population remained uneducated,
malnourished, and chronically sweaty.
Why couldn't people starve in Aruba, Dana wondered secretly, in her worst moments. Or
France. Or California. Well, not L.A. so much, but maybe Santa Cruz or Big Sur. All the
worst disasters seemed to happen in really uncomfortable places, she complained often,
although never out loud.
"Damn." Dana swatted her arm. Yet another bug bite. Everyone in this country is starving,
but the bugs appeared exceptionally well fed. Hell, some of them looked big enough to eat.
For a moment, Dana thought she'd stumbled upon a solution, then just as quickly filed the
notion away as the wanderings of a heat-addled mind. Imagine a vegetarian such as herself
considering such a thing.
Barely an hour in the county, and already Dana had run through a measurable portion of her
sun block and bug repellant. Still, things could be worse, she noted. She'd almost invested
$120 in a hair stylist's appointment prior to departure in an effort to make a good first
impression, money that clearly would have been wasted, given the humidity.
Dana had been instructed to wait at the airport for the local representative of One Planet, the
organization that had sponsored her trip. She had not specifically been told how long to wait,
but she wasn't one to worry over nothing, and in many places on the globe, a wait of an hour
or two is considered nothing. In others, it's an insult that could lead to generations of
bloodshed. Local customs are funny that way. So Dana waited at the airport, and waited, and
waited, passing her time mostly by sweating and fending off mosquito advances. She waited
in the main terminal, which was of course the only terminal. On occasion she waited outside.
It hardly mattered where she waited. Inside or out, it was too damn hot, and she saw no one
who looked like an environmentalist.
Finally a man who looked nothing at all like an environmentalist approached her. "Ms.
Davis?"
"Yes," Dana replied.
"Alphonso Berenjena, Spanish Guyana Department of State. Would you come with me
please?"
"What? Is there a problem?"
"No problem, but please come with me."
Berenjena led Dana through an unmarked airport door and down a narrow cinderblock hall
that gave her the unmistakable impression that this wasn't somewhere that one really wanted
to be. He showed her into a small, windowless room with a table, two chairs and a bare bulb
hanging from the ceiling. He then took her luggage--a large backpack--and, apologizing
politely for any inconvenience, locked her in.
It is perhaps natural to feel a degree of concern in such situations, but Dana was not the sort
to panic unless absolutely necessary. Taking the chairs and table into account, it seemed
likely that she was here to be questioned, not imprisoned. And anyway, Spanish Guyana was
hardly a lawless country. It had plenty of laws, some of which were even enforced. So Dana
wasn't panicked. Not even slightly. "Oh God, let me out, let me out--I'll do whatever you
say," Dana screamed, pounding on the door. But not in a panicked way.

Dean Kerns had hung a campus map on his office wall. On it, he marked with red pushpins
the buildings that now housed special interest groups. With green pushpins he marked those
still available for college use. With yellow and blue pushpins he formed a colorful border
around the map, since his box of pushpins had contained four colors and he hadn't been able
to think of anything else to mark with the remaining two. A third of the dorms were red. Half
the lecture halls. The majority of the departmental offices. On the upside, Kerns had managed
to keep the administration building, the dining hall, and the campus heating plant in the
green. Whatever else happened, he intended to have a roof over his head, food in his stomach,
and heat in the winter. All else was uncertain. Where would he house students with the
impending dorm shortage? Would there be enough classrooms? What would the faculty do to
him for giving away their offices? And just what did these students plan to do in their
balkanized student centers anyway? Kerns studied his map--much more red than green. The
war was already lost. How had things gone so wrong so quickly?
Kerns was glad when a knock on his office door interrupted his misery. While it was true
that every knock on his door for the past month had brought with it additional, previously
unforeseen, miseries, at least new bad news tends to distract one from past errors, he thought.
"Come in."
"Dean Kerns?" asked the notably short student who entered. "I'm Paul Wilson. I'm here to
get a student center for my minority group."
Kerns looked the man over. He wasn't a racial minority as far as Kerns could tell. His
wardrobe gave away nothing regarding religious affiliation and ethnicity. He didn't appear
handicapped. "Your minority group?" he asked finally.
"I'm starting a campus organization of short men."
"Short men?"
"That's right."
"I don't think short men qualify as a minority."
"We're less than half the population, aren't we?"
Particularly if measured by volume, Kerns thought, but stuck with the non-committal "Well, I
suppose…"
"Then we're a minority."
"I meant you're not a minority that's discriminated against."
"I thought you might say that, so I brought the evidence." Wilson slid a manila folder across
Kerns' desk. "Those are copies of four different studies concluding that a man's future
financial success in the United States is directly correlated to his height. Tall men get jobs,
raises, and promotions disproportionate with their abilities."
Kerns tried unsuccessfully to cut Wilson off.
"I've also included a study showing that Americans consistently vote for the taller political
candidate," Wilson continued. "Mike Dukakis, Ross Perot, they never had a prayer. Think
Robert Reich has a chance at elected office? Anyway, you gave the women their own
building, and women not only are measurably less victimized by discrimination, they're not
really a minority at all."
Again Kerns tried to jump in, but having started speaking on this painful subject, Wilson
wasn't yet ready to stop.
"In fact, I can assure you from personal experience that women themselves are guilty of
discriminating against short men in matters of personal relationships. Many of them seem to
show considerable and irrational disdain for members of my minority group."
Wilson finally paused and looked at Kerns hopefully. Uncertain that it finally was his turn to
speak, Kerns held back until the silence became uncomfortable.
"So I have to give you a student center because you can't get a date?" he asked finally.
"In part, yes."
"Can you excuse me a moment?" Kerns left Wilson in his office and went next door to
explain the problem to Smith. "He does make some convincing points," Kerns allowed.
"How short is he?" Smith asked.
"He's pretty short."
"But exactly how short?"
"What difference does that make?"
"All the difference in the world. If he's a midget, I mean officially--actually make that a little
person, I think that's what they like to be called at the moment--then he's got us. If not, we
can treat him however we like and no one will care."
"Well, I have no idea. When does short stop being short and start being a midget?" asked
Kerns.
"I don't know either. But for God's sake, don't say midget, I'm told they hate that. Say little
person."
"And if he's not really a little person?"
"Then we can call him whatever we want--we can probably even call him a midget, so long
as he isn't one." Smith turned to his computer and pounded away at the keyboard for a few
moments. "Damn, it's not here. We don't have student height on file. Listen, I'm going to run
down to the health services center to see if they know Wilson's height. It must be on his
medical forms or something. You use my computer to look up the medical limit for midget."
"Smith, is it even legal to look through students' medical files for this sort of thing?"
"Good point. Maybe we should injure him first so we have a reason to check his medical
records."
"No, no. There must be a better way."
"Hmmm…Okay, I think I've got it," said Smith. "You stall him for ten minutes and then
bring him in here. I'll do the rest."
Stalling people was not Kerns' best thing. Those who stalled very well, he had noted, were
generally able to ask questions that people wanted to answer, so that the one being stalled did
most of the talking and never figured out that he or she was being stalled at all. But Kerns
could never think of the right questions, and often ended up rambling on about topics like
what he'd had for breakfast or the problem he was having with his feet, matters that in the
grand sweep of history had never been of much interest to anyone. When Kerns had
exhausted even these conversational options, he usually just found some mindless task to
perform so that at least he could appear busy.
That was more or less how it went on this occasion. After a brief conversation about waffles
and toenail fungus, Kerns picked up the manila folder and did his best to study Wilson's
documents, all the while feeling the short man's eyes boring into him. It occurred to Kerns to
offer Wilson a cup of coffee--but wasn't coffee supposed to stunt your growth? Probably safer
to avoid that minefield. After it seemed that an hour had passed, Kerns checked his watch and
saw he'd managed five minutes. He figured he'd better say something.
"So, eh, ah," Kerns said, then returned to the files. He'd have to think of something to say
first, then say it, he decided. Finally, when it seemed as though a second hour had passed,
even if the clock insisted it was only eight minutes, Kerns looked up and suggested they
consult with his assistant.
Kerns led Wilson to Smith's office, and noticed immediately that no chairs remained in the
room. Only eight minutes before, Smith had had two in front of his desk, for guests, and the
customary one behind, for sitting and working. Now Smith was doing his best to look
comfortable while standing behind his desk, typing on his computer. Kerns reviewed the
situation for Smith, who of course already knew all about it. And Wilson made his case
again, complete with statistics and passion, and looking shorter than ever standing next to the
lanky Dean. When everyone was done speaking, Smith nodded, clicked his pencil against his
chin, and began pacing in that funny little shuffling walk of his. First Smith paced back and
forth behind his desk, then around the front, and finally right towards Wilson, who was left
with no choice but to back against a wall to allow Smith to pass. When he did, Smith stopped
dead, turned towards Wilson with an accusatory expression and said simply "Get out. You
get nothing."
"What? Why not?" Wilson protested, rattled. "Study after study shows that future earnings,
success with relationships, general respect, and everything else worth having in life are all
highly correlated with a man's height. How is this different from any other minority group?"
"Because that's the way it is, short stuff, now get out of here before we call the police and tell
them a five-year old is lost."
"What the hell…"
"Hey, little man, you must be at least this tall to ride the office," Smith continued, holding
his hand at chest height. "Now scram, junior."
Wilson, reddening and near tears, scuttled off.
"That was fun," Smith said to Kerns. "Not too many people left you can talk to like that
without fear of either legal problems or getting the crap beaten out of you. Thank god for thin
white males 4'10" through 5'6" and ages 18-49.
"That was your solution?" gasped Kerns.
"My solution was finding out whether he was officially little or just apparently little. Turns
out he was the latter."
"You're saying he isn't really short?"
"Oh, he's short all right, just not short enough--look." Smith pointed the wall, and Kerns
noticed a pencil line at roughly chest height. "I looked it up, and you've got to be shorter than
4'10" to be an actual little person. That kid was 5-foot flat, easy--a little person to be sure, but
not a little person, if you follow."
"I see."
"I was afraid he might confuse the issue by wearing lifts in his shoes, but I guess he thought
that would hurt his chances of getting the short-men student center, because in point of fact
he was wearing a surprisingly low-soled loafer."
"Good work…I guess," Kerns allowed. He hadn't been looking forward to the bill for
lowering all the urinals in the short-man's dream dorm. Still, he wasn't certain who had the
moral high ground on this one. Kerns turned as he reached Smith's office door. "Does it
bother you at all that we treated that guy completely differently than we would have if he was
two inches shorter?" Kerns asked.
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Because those are the rules."
"Oh," Kerns said and went back to his office. Smith went looking for an eraser that wouldn't
hurt his paint where he'd drawn the 4'10" line.

The wait probably wasn't as long as it seemed. Probably not long at all. Probably just a few
minutes, Dana reflected. It would have been easier to say for sure if a guard hadn't dropped
by to confiscate her watch. She'd managed to contain herself after the initial outburst, which
had gone unheard, or at least unnoted. When the men finally arrived, Dana was sitting
quietly, trying to remember anything useful she might have learned from Midnight Express.
There were two of them, the young bureaucrat who had ushered her into the room, and
another man, obviously his superior, since he took the room's only remaining chair. Both
looked, to Dana, a bit nervous. She thought this slightly odd, since they were the ones who
could enter and leave the building at will.
"Do you speak Spanish?" the seated man asked, in Spanish.
"Si," Dana replied.
"Good," he continued in Spanish. "My name is Jesus Colombes, I'm the Director of Internal
Security for this district. I'm afraid there's a problem with your travel permit."
"There's a problem with my paper route?" Dana asked, alarmed.
The men exchanged a glance. "Perhaps we should continue in English," Colombes said,
continuing in halting English. My assistant, Alphonso, will translate when necessary. The
Director nodded for his associate to take over.
"The Director is sorry to inform you that travel to your intended destination will not be
possible," Alphonso said, in English.
"But, this was arranged months ago through my organization, One Planet," Dana said.
"What's wrong?"
Alphonso glanced at the Director, who merely nodded once again. "The Director is sorry to
say that there are some mistakes on your travel application forms that were not spotted
earlier."
"What mistakes? Where?" Dana asked. She was mad now. Mad, but not panicked. People are
not generally jailed in South American prisons for perceived travel application mistakes, just
hassled and, in keeping with local custom, asked for a bribe.
"A number of very important mistakes I'm afraid," said Alphonso. "Here, for example, where
it says you're heading to Comrade Fidel Estrallia Province. This is a very big mistake, since
there is no Comrade Fidel Estrallia Province."
"There is too. It's in the southeast."
"No, no. In the southeast is Comrade Miguel Fridas Province. It honors one of our nation's
greatest heroes. Why would there be a Comrade Fidel Estrallia Province when there has
never been a Comrade Fidel Estrallia?" Alphonso laughed. The Director laughed. Dana
decided not to laugh, even though it probably would have been the polite thing to do.
"What do you mean, there's never been a Comrade Fidel Estrallia? He was the hero of your
revolution against the Spanish oppressors."
"No," said the Director, in English. "No Fidel Estrallia. Fridas was hero of revolution." There
was no laughing now. The Director looked quite serious.
"Well, we can change that on my form, can't we?" Dana asked.
"If it were the only problem, perhaps," said Alphonso. "But sadly there is more. You write
that the purpose of your visit is to work with the indigenous people of the region, but I'm
afraid there are no indigenous people in that region. None at all."
"But my organization has had people working with the people of that region for years," Dana
protested. "How can you say there aren't any."
"I'm afraid you're mistaken again," said Alphonso. "Your organization has not had anyone
here in a long, long time. They all left long, long ago."
"But one of them was supposed to meet me at the airport. I spoke with him yesterday."
"I'm afraid you are mistaken, you didn't speak with anyone yesterday," said Alphonso. The
Director nodded resolutely.
Dana looked at Alphonso, then at the Director. Both seemed anxious to be done with the
conversation. "I don't want to pry," Dana pressed. "But has there been a war since
yesterday?"
"A war?" the director boomed in English.
"No, no war," said Alphonso.
"No, no war," the Director repeated.
"A disturbance then?"
"No, no disturbance," said Alphonso.
"No, no disturbance," said the Director.
"A counter-revolutionary influence that had to be stamped out for the good of the nation,
perhaps?"
"No, no counter-revolutionary influence that had to be stamped out for the good of the
nation," said Alphonso.
"Well, maybe a small counter-revolutionary influence that had to be stamped out for the
good of the nation," the Director conceded, managing the whole thing in English.
"But it is over now," said Alphonso.
"Long over," said the Director.
"Yes, our government remains sound," said Alphonso.
"Very sound," said the Director.
"The problem has been contained in the southeast," said Alphonso.
"There is no problem," said the Director.
"There is no a problem, and it has been contained in the southeast," Alphonso clarified. "But
you still have to get on the next plane out. Because of the errors on your form."
"But…"
"I'm afraid this point cannot be debated. The Director and I must escort you out of the
country on the next flight."
"You're putting me on a plane out?"
"We're escorting you out."
"You're leaving the country?"
"No, no," said Alphonso. "We are not leaving. We are escorting you on the flight. Nothing
more. We are definitely not fleeing."
"Not fleeing," the Director emphasized, nodding his head. "Just escorting you on the flight.
Along with our families."
"I see," Dana said.
"Now we need to ask you for a bribe."

Chapter 8
June 8

"Mr. Gwafin, are you paying attention?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Sapperstein."
"Then what did I just say?"
"You said to put the bread on top," I guessed.
"Right. Sorry, it looked like your mind was wandering. All right, back to the training..."
My mind wasn't so much wandering as it was fleeing at a dead run. I had weighed my options
carefully before settling on this job. It was nice to have options. It had been my first chance in
quite some time to turn someone else down, if only by default. I could have signed on at one
of the fast-food joints. On the upside, these offered discounted food for employees. On the
downside, it was their food. I could have opted for the graveyard shift at the Corner Save
Store, a position that seemed permanently available. All sorts of upside to that job. I wouldn't
have had a boss looking over my shoulder, for starters. And as long as a Corner Save
employee shows up on time and doesn't steal from the register, he'll make manager in a
month--which, as I understand it, entitles one to an extra 50 cents an hour and the right to
claim unsold pornography. But the essence of the job was to sell beer and cigarettes to
teenagers with fake I.D.s, an endeavor that while not exactly evil, certainly was a measurable
distance past disreputable. If I was going to sell my soul for a job, I expected a bit more than
minimum wage for my trouble. Plus the Corner Save had been robbed twice in the last year,
an incredible statistic for a small town in Maine where most people still left their doors
unlocked. Why would anyone rob a 24-hour store certain to have a clerk on duty and a
security system in place rather than just pick a house at random and walk in? It seemed a poor
choice to me, but then I had to admit I wasn't a thief, so it wasn't really my place to criticize.
Perhaps there were union rules to contend with.
In the end I'd settled on the supermarket job, for two reasons:
1. I'd be working for a big company, Sanafin Brothers, Inc., the multi-national conglomerate
that operated Shiveler's supermarkets. Sanafin employed many people in respectable office
jobs that did not require one to wear a nametag, and even a few in upper management that
didn't require a paper hat. In an emergency, I might be able to con someone into believing
that I had one of those non-hat jobs. Hell, I might even be able to delude myself that I was
working my way up in the organization. Not that rising through the ranks of supermarket
hierarchy was something to which I particularly aspired…And not that it was immediately
apparent how I could display any special talents and move upwards in the Sanafin corporate
structure when the entire secret to my current job was putting the bread on top.
2. Why live in an observatory if I was going to work the Corner Save graveyard shift and
never see the stars?
"Training" had been going on for forty minutes now. Forty minutes of watching Mr.
Sapperstein, my new boss, bag and re-bag the same groceries, always careful to put the bread
on top. It seems that Mr. Sapperstein himself had worked his way up from humble bagger to
full-fledged bagging manager, and was cognizant of the job's key challenge. Sapperstein was
still talking, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes on the bag.
In went the dented can of tomato juice. (Trainees were started with already damaged goods
to limit the potential losses of training accidents, Mr. Sapperstein had explained at the outset.
His idea, he'd added proudly.)
In went the opened box of Froot Loops.
In went the stale bread.
In went the torn sack of flour, leaving its usual white trail behind.
"Bread goes in last," I corrected, not even waiting for the inevitable question.
Mr. Sapperstein beamed--he was pleased to see I was learning. "Another few runs and you'll
be ready to try yourself," Sapperstein said, unloading the bag.
Maybe I should have taken the Corner Save job, I thought. I'd shopped at the Corner Save
myself, and it was abundantly clear that its employees were not forced to endure anything
along the lines of training. Or bathing, for that matter.
Well, no point tearing myself apart over the decision, I decided finally. It's not like I was
going to flip open the Wall Street Journal one day and find out I'd cost myself millions in
stock options by turning down the Corner Save. And bagging training was only an hour I had
no better use for anyway. Okay, I probably could have come up with something better than an
unpaid hour watching old groceries being bagged. Probably. Another pause in Mr.
Sapperstein's speech. "Bread goes on top," I said.
"That's right, but I asked if you thought you were ready to try it yourself."
"Yea, let's do it," I said with as much enthusiasm as I had left that day.
"Now, don't worry if it takes you a few tries. No one gets it perfect on their first go. I
squashed the loaf a few times myself that first day, as we say in the bagging game."
Tempted as I was to see Sapperstein's reaction if I got it wrong, my desire to get the hell out
of that storeroom as soon as possible was greater. I quickly filled the bag, saving the bread
for last.
Mr. Sapperstein stood stock still for a moment. "Let's see that again," he mumbled finally.
I bagged the groceries again.
"A natural. Mr. Gwafin, I do believe you've found your calling," Sapperstein announced. He
might have thought it a little odd when I didn't appear overjoyed by this compliment. "Now
let's try it with eggs. You unpack the bag, and I'll explain the egg rule."
"Screw the egg rule, Sappy," I said. "Just bring on them bastards, and let's get bagging."
Sapperstein might have been insulted by such language from other trainees. But there were
special rules for the gifted in any field, and to his credit, Sappy knew this. Geniuses always
were a bit different. Sapperstein threw caution to the wind and handed over the eggs. "Now
be careful, Bob," he said. "Those are real eggs." Then he added, with a touch of fear in his
voice, "Extra large."
The groceries went back in the bag, bread on top, eggs just below. "Wait here," Sapperstein
blurted, and rushed out of the storeroom. Four minutes later he was back with his boss, the
assistant manager of the store, in tow. "Mr. Flallerman, have a look at this. Bob?"
I obediently emptied the bag, then refilled it. Oddly, I found the idea of being a world-class
grocery bagger even more repellant than just being a grocery bagger. It was, perhaps, akin to
the difference between accidentally leaving one's fly down and accidentally leaving one's fly
down and having a room full of people notice.
"First day, you say?" Flallerman asked.
"First day--first hour," Sapperstein replied.
"First hour?" Flallerman asked.
"I trained him myself."
"I see," Flallerman said. "Good work Sapperstein. You're going places in this organization."
Sapperstein's joy was evident as Flallerman left the room. He turned back to me. "Let's start
from scratch--with double bagging."

"Did you take the grocery job or the market job?" Dave asked when I returned.
"Grocery job."
"How'd you decide on that one?"
"The reasons were many and multiple."
"You picked it because it was 100 yards closer, didn't you?"
"No, no, I said my reasons were many and multiple and I stand by that."
"If you'd gone with the market job I could have come over and hung out there all day while
you worked."
"If you were going to hang out there all day anyway, why not work there and earn a few
dollars--it's not like there's a whole lot more to the job than hanging out all day."
"So we're back to that again, are we? I'm supposed to feel bad because I'm not working? Do
you want me to apologize for being who I am? I won't do it."
"Dave, why do I feel like we're married sometimes?"
"Ah, take it easy Gwaf, I'm just kidding. You can pick on me all you want. It's the price I pay
for my choice of lifestyle."
"Lazy is a lifestyle?"
"No, lazy is just how I am. Unrepentantly lazy is a lifestyle."
"You ought to form your own organizations and lobby groups."
"We ought to, but clearly we never will."
"Maybe you could get someone from a workaholics group to freelance for you."
"That's not a bad idea. Someone should set something up like that."
"I see your point."
"You do? I wasn't even aware that I had one."

Dana's escorts escorted her as far as Mexico City. From there, Dana was on her own, or
rather, as on one's own as one can be when one is a lost-looking attractive young American
woman in a Latin American airport, which is to say she was surrounded by men offering to
sell her things and men trying to buy her drinks. Dana suggested that the men trying to sell
her things instead sell the other men drinks and cut her out of the loop entirely. But the joke
must have lost something in translation. Dana found a phone and called One Planet.
"We're aware of the situation in Spanish Guyana," the One Planet representative assured
Dana.
"If you were aware of it, shouldn't you have let me know about it before I was thrown in a
Spanish Guyanian jail cell?"
"They threw you in a jail cell?"
"Well, more of a conference room, really," Dana admitted. "But they did lock me in."
"Oh, that's too bad. It's always great for fund raising when we can tell people our volunteers
are rotting away in jail cells."
"What difference does it make where I was rotting away? The point is I was locked up."
"For how long?"
"I can't really say. They confiscated my watch. Maybe half an hour."
"You were in a conference room for 30 minutes and you expect us to use that in fund
raising? This morning I was stuck in a meeting for two hours and you don't see me
complaining about it. Did they at least torture you or something?"
"No, no torture."
"No scars, bruises, cuts?"
"Nope."
"Cigarette burns on your arms, maybe?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not."
"None? Not one? I actually got a nasty paper cut at that meeting I mentioned. Sounds like
your day was easy in comparison."
"I really don't think you're focusing on the problem here. I was supposed to spend a year in
the jungles of Spanish Guyana distributing food. Instead I was thrown into a war zone, then
thrown back out of the war zone the same day."
"I'm aware of that."
"You keep saying you're aware of things, yet you seem to have done nothing about them. I
really don't see…" then in a flash Dana did see. "Did you know the city of Pianosa had been
completely overrun by a plague of diseased wombats fleeing the fighting?"
"I'm aware of that."
"Ha! I just made that up. There is no city of Pianosa and wombats aren't indigenous to the
region, and even if they were they're not an animal particularly prone to overrunning
anything, other than maybe the occasional grassy field. You're just saying you're aware of
things because you don't want to admit you had no idea what was going on in Spanish
Guyana, even through it was your job to know. I'm right, aren't I?"
"Uh…no."
"Uh huh, then tell me everything you know about the situation in Spanish Guyana."
"Well, there's this war, see, and they're deporting foreigners. And there have been some
rumors of scattered wombat attacks, but reports are sketchy…Everything else is, uh,
classified."
"You're just repeating what I just told you."
The line went dead.
Dana was sure she must simply have caught this man on a bad day. Certainly there could be
no doubt that he was a good person. He worked for One Planet, after all, and One Planet was
the most respected of all social activist organizations. The group was founded back in 1971
by a small but dedicated group of environmentalists based in the northwest. They'd banded
together when it was learned that the U.S. government intended to test atomic weapons on a
tiny, uninhabited island off the coast of Alaska. These righteous environmental crusaders,
equipped with nothing more than a small fishing boat and their high ideals, determined to
stop them. And against all odds they did. Well, actually, they didn't. But they tried. And their
efforts earned them the respect of intelligent, right-minded people around the globe who
understood that good intentions are far more important than results. Today One Planet has
more than 30 offices and nearly three million members worldwide. Dana wasn't going to let a
few minor problems interfere with her unquestioning approval of the organization. But
neither was she going to give up so easily.
She redialed. "Someone Else speaking," the same voice answered.
"I think we were disconnected."
"No, I don't think so," the man said.
"We were just talking about Spanish Guyana."
"I haven't spoken with anyone about any of the Guyanas," he said.
"Listen, I don't care who you are and whether we were just talking or not. I just want to
know where I should go now and how I should get there."
"There really isn't anywhere else…"
"Otherwise I'm coming back to New York, where I'm going to explain to everyone who will
listen that you, personally, are responsible for almost getting me killed, and for getting my
wristwatch confiscated by a guard."
"I have something perfect for you," said the man immediately. "Lesser Morrell Island, a
small Pacific island where you'll be the very first representative of One Planet, and where,
coincidentally, you'll have no good way of calling New York. The assignment was supposed
to go to the man you were to have replaced in Spanish Guyana, but we can't seem to find him
for some reason. It might be wombat related. Get yourself a plane ticket to Lesser Morrell
Island, and send the bill to us."
It was nice to know that One Planet's personnel could respond so well to an emergency, once
properly threatened. "I want a new wristwatch, too," said Dana.
"Fine, bill us for a new watch, too." The line went dead once again.
Thus mollified, Dana checked the departures board for Mexico City-Lesser Morrell Island
flights. Nothing direct, she saw. Not even if she settled for something connecting in Greater
Morrell Island.

It wasn't an easy conversation. The woman at the Mexico City airport ticket counter kept
smiling and nodding, but it wasn't a nod that meant yes, Dana eventually realized. It was
more a nod that meant I'm trying to be agreeable despite the fact that I can't understand a
word you're saying, and there are hundreds of fleeing Spanish Guyanians in line behind you.
Dana had come to the conclusion that either her Spanish wasn't as good as she thought, or
everyone else's wasn't as good as they thought. It was probably the former, she admitted to
herself, but she did reserve some doubt, in as much as her grades in Spanish class always had
been quite solid.
For the purposes of booking a flight to Morrell Island in a foreign language, it didn't help that
no one involved in the conversation knew where Morrell Island was. In the end, the best
Dana could find was a flight through L.A. to Honolulu. So she bought that. And a new watch.

June 9

Bagging groceries wasn't any better than grocery bagging practice, I'd decided five minutes
into my first shift. Well, okay, it was a little better. I didn't have to mumble "Bread on top"
every three minutes. And I got to work with undamaged groceries. Odd that there was no
adrenaline rush from that. Most importantly, bagging groceries was $5.00 an hour better than
practicing, before taxes. After taxes I'd be taking home maybe $30 for today's eight hour
shift. Thirty fucking dollars. I bagged a loaf of Wonder Bread under a quart of laundry
detergent in a moment of silent protest. So much for professional pride. But at least it was
busy enough that time moved along. I'd spent the past month obsessing about my problems. It
was nice to have a chance to go to work and shut my mind off for a while.
"I'll tell you one thing," I said to a fellow bagger during my state-law mandated 10-minute
paid break. "I'll never again look down on anyone because they work in a supermarket."
"You looked down on people because they worked in supermarkets?" asked my colleague.
His employee name tag identified him as Timmy.
"I suppose I never really thought much about it, Timmy," I answered, making my best effort
at diplomacy. "I guess I figured no one over the age of 16 would work for $5 an hour unless
they had something wrong with them."
"I make $5 an hour. Are you saying there's something wrong with me."
"No, no, you don't understand. I'm saying I was wrong."
"So now I don't understand. I suppose I'm not as good as you because I work in a
supermarket."
"Hey, Timmy, try to get a grasp on this. I work in the supermarket, too. See the name tag,
see the apron. Do you understand that we're both standing in the employee lounge, by which I
mean the damaged goods storeroom? Look, I wasn't looking for a fight. I was just trying to
make conversation."
I sidled away from Timmy towards the middle-aged women who was standing by the coffee
machine and trying to look like a young woman. Assuming her Shiveler's Groceries
employee badge was to be trusted, this woman was "Tammy." "Hey, is that guy okay?" I
asked.
"Who? Timmy? Sure, he's okay. Why?"
"I tried to talk to him and he nearly bit my head off."
"Oh, yea, he's just a little upset today. He was the number-one bagger here until some jerk
comes out of nowhere and steals his spot. Now Sapperstein won't stop talking about his new
golden boy."
"There's a pecking order among supermarket baggers?"
"There is to Timmy. And apparently this guy aced the bagging test on the first try. A perfect
score. No one's ever done that"
"Test? That's funny. I didn't have a test. Sapperstein just had me put groceries in a bag over
and over again." With that, Timmy, who had apparently been listening in on our
conversation, left the break room, slamming the door behind him.
Tammy was looking at me as if I was the reason cosmetics no longer hid her flaws. "Bagging
the groceries was the test," she said finally. "So I take it you're the guy. You might try not
joking about this. Not everyone is such a natural. Not everyone went to a fancy college to
spend four years learning this kind of thing. Most of us had to learn the hard way. And maybe
we did crush a few loaves of bread, but does that make us bad people?" Tammy now had the
attention of everyone else in the room. "Last week Timmy was in line for the assistant
manager's job when Sapperstein retired in 10 or 15 years. Then you arrive full of college-
taught grocery bagging techniques and Timmy could be stuck as a bagger forever. How's he
supposed to support his kids?" Tammy stormed out, followed by the rest of my colleagues.
I sat quietly on a crate of expired lima beans, sipping my coffee and thinking about the
accusations for a moment. I had alienated my coworkers without even trying. But it was
something else that was bothering me. "Timmy has kids?" I finally asked the empty break
room.

The afternoon dragged on express lane two. I could feel Timmy's eyes burning into me from
aisle three. He was waiting for me to make a mistake. Every once and a while I'd pretend to
juggle something non-shatter resistant just to toy with him, and I always was rewarded with a
dismayed half-human noise when I averted disaster yet again. The competition wasn't doing
Timmy's work much good, though. One of Timmy's customers had a bag fail before she was
even out of the store. A glass bottle of cranberry juice crashed to the floor, sending a gallon
of bitter red fluid over a range of things better left unjuiced, including both the customer and
Mr. Sapperstein. That's why the express lanes are reserved for the very best baggers--folks
don't use carts to get nine items to their car; when something goes wrong, it happens right
here, for all to see.
Before the cranberry juice even had been cleared or the customer calmed, another of
Timmy's clients was given paper after distinctly asking for plastic. Supermarkets had begun
offering shoppers the choice a decade before without considering the added stress levels on
their already challenged baggers. Sapperstein reprimanded Timmy within earshot of his co-
workers and at least five shoppers with 12 items or less. Timmy forced out an excuse,
something about how it wasn't his fault, then gave in and managed an apology. Finally, when
Timmy dropped a 14-ounce glass jar of Pine Sol cleaner, Sapperstein took him off bagging,
and told him to go find a mop.
For Timmy, this was a major blow: clean-up crew was a big step down for any bagger, for
this former star of the bagging game it was a near-mortal wound. It was like asking Joe
Montana to end his career as a holder on the field-goal team, assuming Joe Montana had been
supermarket bagger instead of a Hall-of-Fame quarterback, and assuming he was too stupid
to understand that he pretty much would have been a loser in either of the supermarket jobs.
A few of Timmy's coworkers offered encouragement: "Could happen to anyone," "It's Pine
Sol, it nearly cleans itself," and "Your mind's elsewhere, that's all." This last I thought a real
possibility, although exactly where Timmy's mind might have been is a matter I'll leave to
science.
I said nothing. I couldn't decide between a sympathetic comment and a cutting insult.
Sympathy might score me a few points with my coworkers, but I risked sounding insincere.
And insulting Timmy would be so much more fun. It was a tough choice. Before I could
decide, I noticed that Timmy had recovered from his daze enough to shoot me a truly hateful
look. And Timmy wasn't alone; a number of Timmy's supporters glanced in my direction as
well. It appeared that Timmy's ineptitude was being blamed on me. I chose.

"You really ought to come work at the supermarket with me," I told Dave that evening over a
dinner of stolen campus-lecture potato chips. "You'd fit in. Everyone there's got something
wrong with them."
"Oh yea, like you're a beacon of stability."
"There's this one moron there who thinks he's in a bagging competition with me," I
continued. "The guy's whole life is bagging groceries, and I'm ruining it by being better than
him at it."
"This bothers you?"
"A bit."
"You could ease up a little so he doesn't feel so threatened."
"If I eased up any more I'd fall asleep."
"You could talk to him and try to explain that you're not a threat."
"Tried it. Talking to Timmy doesn't go so well. He doesn't seem to listen."
"You could just be really friendly."
"I'd rather not. He pisses me off."
"You really hate the guy?"
"Hate? I don't hate anyone. There's no malice in my heart. I just dislike him. And the people
I dislike I like to dislike and I love them for it."
"So what are you going to do."
"I've decided to crush him."
"I suppose you do need a hobby."
"Yea, and this will give me something to think about at work. The job itself certainly doesn't
provide much mental stimulation."
"Could you think about stealing us some food so we don't have to eat campus snacks until
your first paycheck?"
"Steal? Jesus, Dave, what do you take me for?"
"Sorry. I guess I forgot about your high moral code. By the way, it's your turn to go liberate
snacks from campus lectures."
"Stealing from the college isn't the same. They still owe me from my tuition."
"And you think the supermarket is paying you what you're worth?"
"That's different."
"'Different' how?"
"'Different' they're not to blame for the fact that my life is going nowhere. I never understood
why people with dead-end jobs get mad at their employers. It seems like if anything, they
should get mad at all the other, better, employers who haven't offered them anything."
"It's probably because they don't have to look the other employers in the face ever day, year
in and year out."
"There might be something to that. Maybe if I'm still there in a year or two I'll come around
on the stealing food issue."
"Gwaf, you said that if you were still there in a month I should kill you."
"Good point. I suppose that means you're not getting any stolen supermarket food."
"Well, I guess I can survive on pretzel rods and potato chips for a few more days, if your
high moral standards leave us no alternative. So, any ideas how you're going to ruin Timmy's
life?"
"Haven't considered the problem yet. But it shouldn't be too hard. It was pretty close to
ruined before I ever met him."
"Some sort of freak bagging mishap maybe? Is there any heavy machinery at the
supermarket?"
"Nope, no machinery--although I suspect that Timmy would eventually suffocate himself in
one of the plastic bags even without my help. Anyway, I don't really want to kill him. Just
make him suffer enough that it makes me feel better about my lousy life."
"You know, Gwaf, in many ways you might be the worst person I've ever met."
"Bullshit. The only difference between me and everyone else is that I'm honest enough to say
out loud the things other people only think."
"No," Dave said, "the bigger difference is that you actually do the things that other people
only say out loud."
"What kind of person would I be if I didn't follow though on the things I said?"
"A person much less dangerous to Timmy."

Chapter 9
June 10

Many things in life have the potential to take us by surprise. The fact that the sun will rise in
the morning, shuffle its way across the sky in a more-or-less westerly direction, and finally
slink off in the evening just as we get home from work and have a little free time on our
hands to go outside and enjoy the day really shouldn't be one of those things. And with the
exception of the occasional eclipse, which our forefathers long-ago discovered could be cured
with the proper use of a sacrificial virgin, the sun had done this job day in, day out, with just
the sort of dedication and reliability that's lacking in so many of today's modern products and
institutions. Even if all else fell to pieces, we could be secure in the knowledge that the world
would be dependably well-lit on a daily basis while we were locked away under florescent
bulbs in our offices and sweatshops, and refreshingly dark at night when it was time to get
some sleep.
This of course changed with air travel.
By the time Dana plodded off the plane in Honolulu she was ready to find a bed and fall
asleep. Unfortunately, she found herself in the middle of a bright and sunny Hawaiian
summer day. Dana, the modern, worldly person that she was, understood this to be a hazard
of westward-directed jet flights. But there's still some deep, ancient part of one's brain that's
inclined to sacrifice a virgin to the gods on such occasions, just to be safe. It's a service
quietly offered by certain of the better airlines, although only for a prohibitively large number
of frequent-flier miles.
Dana checked her new Mexican airport watch, mostly out of habit since the odds were slim
that it had a better idea of the time than she did. She had diligently re-set the watch for each
new time zone as her plane sped west. It was her opinion that to do otherwise was to be out of
step with the planet. If the plane crashed while one's watch was mis-set, one's spirit might be
doomed to wander the earth in search of its true place and time.
Well it could happen.
On this particular occasion, however, the frequent re-settings seemed to have broken the
poorly constructed watch's mechanism, or, perhaps, its spirit. Realizing that its inner
workings were hopelessly damaged--or simply depressed about what the constant resetting
said about its abilities as a timekeeper and the reliability of space-time in general--the watch
settled on a position it liked and gave up on the whole hectic round-and-round-in-circles
concept that so many other, better made, watches had come to consider their calling.
So Dana might not have known the actual time or how long she'd been awake, but she was
confident she knew she was tired--although it was difficult to be 100% certain of even this,
given her level of fatigue.
But there was a problem. Actually, there were many problems, but Dana chose to group them
all together as one single problem, since that made things seem somehow simpler. The first
part of this problem was that Dana had no place to sleep, and little confidence that if she
found a place to sleep it would be within her price range. The second part of the problem was
that Dana didn't know her price range. Hotel allowances had not been discussed at her One
Planet orientation meeting, owing to the fact that she'd expected to be comfortably ensconced
in a South American jungle by this point, not floundering about in some Hawaiian hell. And
the third and final part of the problem was that Dana's credit card already had been stretched
to its limits by the airline tickets, a fact she had discovered when attempting to charge her
now-broken Mexican airport watch.
On the bright side, Dana was in Hawaii, a place where she was certain that she spoke the
language--if only because of the cultural hegemony of English--and where war was unlikely--
unless Japan had failed to learn its lesson and merely had been laying low for the past 50
years.
Dana found a bank of pay phones near the baggage carousel and dialed the One Planet
offices in New York. But 11:05 in Hawaii meant it was 5:05 in New York, even if one's
watch continued to push the 10:18 idea. That's 5:05 in the afternoon, mind you, as in a
minimum of four minutes after the last of the city's non-profit employees had finished saving
the world for another day and headed home to sleep the sleep of the righteous, no doubt after
first heading out to eat the dinner of the righteous and maybe to dance at the nightclub of the
righteous. This fact was confirmed by a recorded message 5,000 miles away. Dana would
have to wait until nine the following morning New York time to find out where she could
sleep tonight. And nine in the morning is pretty late to head off to bed in any time zone.
It was a setback, but years of travel had taught Dana to focus on the positive. For example,
she spotted her backpack coming down the baggage carousel chute just as she hung up the
phone. That her luggage had made it at all could be deemed a victory considering that the
baggage handlers at her original point of departure had been conscripted into the military
while her plane was still at the gate. Dana retrieved her bag and returned to the pay phones to
try a local hotel or two. As she feared, last-minute in-season Hawaiian hotel rates were quite
high by the standards of recently graduated social activists. Actually, advance-notice out-of-
season rates in Troy, New York were quite high by the standards of recently graduated social
activists. The nightly rates she was quoted on this occasion were comparable to the monthly
rent on her dorm room. And it had been a very nice room.
Dana, however, was one of those hardy sorts who can adapt to any situation, or at very least
any situation that can be solved by lying on a beach. She grabbed her swimsuit from her
luggage, put the bag in an airport locker, changed in the ladies room, and walked to the
nearest beautiful beach. This being Hawaii, the nearest beautiful beach was just beyond the
final runway. There she promptly fell asleep by the water. Six hours later Dana was well
rested, if badly sunburned--a hazard of being a redhead--and somewhat covered in sand--a
hazard of lying in the sand. The beach, well-populated with the state's many out-of-town
guests when she dozed off, was now vacant, Dana's fellow travelers having drifted off in
search of something else to do until the sun rose the following morning and they could once
again sit on the beach.
Dana didn't know what everyone else had found to fill their evening hours, but she still had
nine hours to kill, and lying on the beach typically is referred to as vagrancy after sundown.
Dana pulled her clothes back on over her bathing suit and went looking for a restaurant that
wouldn't take exception to a patron with a bit of sand in her hair. Someplace with poor
service perhaps, to chew up a portion of the remaining time.

June 16

Dean Kerns entered his office then hurried back out.

"Who are those two gentlemen in my office?" He asked Smith. The office secretary hadn't
yet arrived, but Smith was in his office. He never seemed to leave.
"Oh, those are Mr. Green and Mr. Black, two of our most dedicated alumni from the class of
1945."
"And in this case you use the term 'dedicated' to mean?"
"Nettlesome, annoying, vexatious--same as dedicated always means."
"Why can't dedicated ever mean charitable, benevolent, altruistic? The school could use the
money."
"The charitable ones I don't need to call anything at all," said Smith. "You'd be able to
recognize their names right off from the building we've named after them here on campus."
"I see. So Mr. Green and Mr. Black have nothing named after them on campus?"
"Well the staff has named the file cabinet we fill with their correspondence after them, but
that's about it...And on that subject, you'd better get back in there, or we're sure to receive an
angry letter from each of them about how the new dean keeps dedicated alumni waiting."
Dean Kerns got back in there.
"Good morning Mr. Black, Mr. Green," Dean Kerns said as he re-entered his office. "I'm
Dean Kerns. I understand that you would like to speak with me."
"Indeed sir, we would," said Mr. Black--or perhaps it was Mr. Green. Kerns realized that he
had not asked Smith which was which. "We have a very serious complaint."
The other man, Mr. Green--or perhaps it was Mr. Black--remained silent, but contributed his
best look of barely contained indignation.
"I aim to please," said Kerns, who in truth aimed only to appease. For the moment, his
principal concern was that with the conversation underway, he saw no good way to backtrack
and ask which was Black and which was Green. "What exactly is the problem?"
"What is the problem?" continued the one who looked more like a Mr. Black to Kerns. "The
problem, Dean, is the frightful decline in the spirit of Bucklin men."
"Their spirit?"
"Their decline in spirit."
"There's been a decline in spirit?"
"Yes, yes, a noticeable decline in spirit. Isn't that what I just said?" The more-Mr.-Black-
looking one shared an exasperated look with his thus-far silent partner, a man with all the
makings of a Mr. Green.
Kerns shuffled through some papers on his desk. "I haven't seen any statistics on that," he
stalled, while trying to think up what this man who was probably Black but possibly Green
expected of him. "I do have this report from the dining hall that attendance was down 20% at
this year's 'Celebrate the Potato' theme dinner," he said, finding the report in his 'set aside for
further consideration' file. "Is that the sort of thing you had in mind."
The man who was probably Black shot a second glance to the one who seemed most likely
Green. "No, we were unaware of the potato matter," said probably Black. "I was referring
specifically to their fighting spirit. I understand that participation in the college's officer
training program has fallen so low that the officer training building now houses...what is it
that it houses again?"
"A Pacific-Islanders students center," Dean Kerns mumbled.
"What's that?"
"A center for our students of Pacific Island decent."
"Pacific Island decent? Mr. Green, did he just say Pacific Island decent?" said the one who
was now definitely Black. Getting a sharp nod in response, Black turned back to Kerns. "Do
we have many of those?"
"Many whats?"
"Students of Pacific Island decent, of course."
"Well, not so many yet, but we are hoping to increase their numbers."
"I see," said Mr. Black.
Mr. Green, summoning all of his resolve, managed a look of even greater indignation.
"And where does this leave the officer training program?" asked Mr. Black.
"To be honest, we have even fewer officer candidates than we have Pacific Islanders. You
see, the military simply isn't a high priority for today's students. No war, you understand."
(We happened to be between wars at the time.)
"Not a high priority?" Kerns knew he must have said something wrong, since Mr. Black now
was clearly enraged. Mr. Green, for his part, attempted to look even more indignant, but
failed. He had started out with too indignant a look, and left himself insufficient room for
growth. Green deflated in defeat, and Dean Kerns, always the sympathetic sort, considered
offering him his condolences on what was unquestionably a fine effort. Mr. Black seemed not
to notice and plowed right on with his outrage. "In my day, Bucklin students wouldn't have
just accepted the fact that there was no war. If we hadn't been given a war, we would have
damn well had the initiative to go out and start one ourselves," punctuating that remark with a
nod and a pointed finger. Black turned to Green for support on this matter, but Green was not
yet over his own personal failure, leaving Black no choice but to press on alone. "And people
wonder why today's students can't find jobs," Black continued. "No initiative, no initiative at
all. Are you aware, Dean, that Bucklin sent a higher percentage of its men off to fight in
World War II and in World War I than any other institution of higher learning in this
country? Even 130 years ago Bucklin men were fighting men. We sent more men off to fight
in the Civil War than Harvard--on both the Union and Confederate sides, mind you. And each
and every one of these Bucklin men served honorably…well, most of them served
honorably," Mr. Black caught himself, when he realized that he had ventured into hyperbole
and thus risked damaging the credibility of his larger argument. "As it happened, one or two
lived. Still, I'm sure they all tried their best."
Dean Kerns waited for Black to continue but it seemed the man felt his point had been made.
"So you're suggesting what, exactly?" Kerns asked.
"We're suggesting that Bucklin re-start its officer training program--then start a war, if
necessary." He suddenly brightened. "Perhaps we could go to war with the Pacific Islanders
over the officer training building. Do you think they'd be interested?"
"I'd have to ask," Dean Kerns answered. "I'll just tell them that two of our distinguished
alumni veterans would very much like to wage war against them for the good of school
spirit."
That last comment resulted in an uncomfortable exchange of glances between Green and
Black, and for a moment Kerns thought he had conveyed to them the absurdity of Black's
suggestion.
"Oh, we're not actually veterans," mumbled Black, finally. "Our damn gimpy knees," Black
and Green each pointed at a leg and swung it back and forth wildly in demonstration.

As it turned out, there was no such thing as a restaurant in Hawaii that minded a patron with a
bit of sand in her hair. So Dana had eaten an acceptable, if tourist-priced, meal, strolled
around for a while, then headed back to the airport. There at least she wouldn't be the only
one using the ladies' room to wash up and brush her teeth, nor would she be the only one
sitting around killing time in the middle of the night before she could get on with her life.
Airports were then one of the few places left in the modern American city where a person
could sit around doing nothing all day without either attracting attention or earning a
paycheck from the government. Dana even was optimistic that there might be someone at the
airport who knew where Lesser Morrell Island could be found, in the hitherto unlikely event
that anyone had needed to find it. As it happened, island location information was asking too
much for eight in the evening. But there was the continuously repeating Welcome-to-Hawaii
video to watch on the monitors, discarded copies of USA Today to read, and an airport bar
doing a brisk trade. Dana invested $8 in a Pina Colada, then spent the next hour fending off
advances from traveling businessmen. The time just flew by.

"Timmy, they're towing your car again," I said from my station at aisle five. I really had come
to enjoy those words.
"Wha?"
"Your car's being towed again," I repeated while bagging frozen foods together. It's a small
touch, but one that customers really appreciate on steamy summer days. "You shouldn't park
in the handicapped spots. I think they mean physically handicapped."
The jibe was wasted on Timmy, but any reference to tow trucks was enough to reward me
with a look of fear. His car already had been towed twice that week, once for parking in a
handicapped spot, once for parking by a yellow curb. "I didn't park in any handicapped spot,"
he said. "So quit giving me shit, okay."
But I could tell that Timmy was concerned. Timmy did not hide his emotions well. He had
been returned to bagging after his day of shame with the clean-up crew, but it was clear that a
few more well-timed tow truck references and they'd have to break out the mops again. I
watched as Timmy bagged a sleeve of light bulbs under a half-gallon of grape juice. I
reminded myself again that at some point in my life I should invite Timmy to play poker.
Timing was crucial here. There weren't many products packaged in glass anymore. I glanced
out the store's large front window through a gap between two banners promoting the week's
special low, low prices on rival brands of cola. "It has to be soon," I thought. Timmy bagged
four cans of condensed soup and a box of ice cream sandwiches. "Reach for the pickles," I
pleaded silently, "the pickles." But Timmy reached instead for a two-pound bag of rice. I
sneaked another peak out the window, and continued bagging my own aisle. It has to be now.
On cue, Timmy reached for the pickles, the only glass item remaining in front of him at aisle
seven.
Just then I pointed towards the parking lot and shouted "Timmy, look," with enough
vehemence to guarantee that Timmy would look. Sure enough, Timmy's 1977 Malibu Classic
was once again hooked to the back of a tow truck and headed for the exit. Timmy was off and
running, sending the glass jar of pickles flying. Miraculously, the jar bounded off a display of
charcoal briquette sacks piled near the exit and remained whole. I was disappointed of course,
but then life is full of minor disappointments, and one must learn to move on. There would be
other jars of pickles.
Based on the time it took for Timmy to return, I'd guess he must have chased that tow truck
at least a half mile, perhaps more. I can't be more precise, since I never did find an
opportunity to clock Timmy's running speed.
Later, in the damaged goods and employee break room, the mood was somber. "We're taking
up a collection," said Tammy, when I arrived for my ten minute lunch hour.
"For what?"
"For Timmy. He got towed again."
"So? He shouldn't park in handicap spots."
"Don't be a jerk, Bob. Timmy can't afford this. It costs him $150 to reclaim his car every
time it's towed. He's got a family to support, you know. Anyway, he says he didn't park in a
handicapped spot."
"Forget it. Tell Timmy his car is only worth a hundred bucks, tops. He should just let them
keep it. Timmy can walk to work like the rest of us," I paused to grab a paper lunch bag from
the break-room fridge. "And what do you mean he says he didn't park in a handicapped spot?
That's what he claimed the last time."
"He says someone must have moved the handicapped parking sign after he parked."
"Now who'd do a thing like that to a nice guy like Timmy?" I asked, and bit into a ham
sandwich.
Tammy gave up and moved on. The collection wasn't going well. Timmy's fellow baggers
didn't have much money to spare, and the employees from other departments felt little
kinship in the balkanized world of supermarket employees. For my part, I was just glad
Tammy hadn't noted that I was eating Timmy's lunch. But then Timmy had no use for it,
having spent his lunch break chasing after a tow truck.
I worked a little past the end of my shift that day, the third time in a week. It wasn't by
choice. I needed to make up the time, having arrived a few minutes late each day, an
unfortunate if unavoidable consequence of getting to work after Timmy and moving his car.
Imagine thinking someone was moving the handicapped parking sign when it was so much
easier just to move the vehicle.
I'd followed Timmy home one day a week ago to get a feel for my prey and consider my
options. Then Timmy dropped the answer right in my lap; he left his keys dangling in his
front door. I had the keys copied and returned to the knob within the hour.
The decision to move the car was a calculated one. Certainly Timmy's apartment key offered
greater potential for torturing Timmy than his car key ever could. But I was pretty sure that
any sallies I made along those lines might be considered trespassing, perhaps even breaking
and entering, although there would be no actual breaking what with my having the key and
all. Whatever the specific potential charges, such things were serious business, and I didn't
particularly want a police record even if having one could help me get a job at the Squeaky
Bubbles. Besides, Timmy had a family, and there was no telling when they might be home,
ready to call the police, or break out the pepper spray, or, possibly, stage an impromptu
reproduction of Deliverance.
So I had settled for the car. It was the only other option. Timmy had just the two keys,
apartment and car. No one else had thought fit to entrust Timmy with access to anything that
locked. I could have simply played with Timmy's mind by moving the car from one spot to
another. But this did not figure to be especially effective. My reconnaissance had established
that Timmy had trouble enough finding his car in the lot each day when it was right where he
had left it. Extreme measures entailing driving long distances or damaging the vehicle created
the danger that I could find myself in legal jeopardy.
Handicapped spaces were the perfect solution. The scheme required moving the car only a
few hundred feet, at most, then placing a simple phone call to the police to complete the job.
It was no masterpiece, but I liked the plan's simplicity, safety, and economy--my only outlay
was $2.60 to copy the keys. From there all I had to do was show up after Timmy, move his
car, and enjoy the results.

June 18

Dana's one day in Hawaii had turned into two. Ron, the One Planet employee in charge of
arranging transport, hadn't quite gotten around to researching her travel needs that first day,
then somehow hadn't quite gotten around to it the second day either. He did promise that he
expected to try to get around to arranging her flight that third day, barring any unforeseen
complications.
Dana explained again the urgency of her situation. She already had sunburned both available
sides of her person and saw no simple solution for day three. But Ron wasn't ready to offer
sympathy to anyone whose tale of woe consisted mainly of time spent on the beach in
Hawaii--not while he was slaving away in New York City and sharing a one-bedroom walk
up in Hoboken.
That's when Ron made his fatal error. Like all too many people, he had mistaken Dana's
general pleasantness for an inability to stand up for herself. But while Dana was in fact very
pleasant, certainly much too pleasant to label Ron a jackass, she also knew how to deal with
jackasses like Ron. After some gentle prodding, Dana convinced him to provide her with a
One Planet credit card number so she could arrange a hotel room and maybe a few meals. It
was in Ron's best interests, Dana explained. Without shelter and sustenance, she might be
dead by the time he got around to booking her a flight, and he would look rather foolish
booking a non-refundable ticket for a dead woman. Ron failed to spot the trap.
Dana took down the card number and double-checked it for safety sake. Then she gently
explained to Ron that they had reached the denouement of their little drama. Rather than book
a hotel room, Dana said, she would use the credit card number to book her own passage to
Lesser Morrell Island. Ron put up a bit of a fight, of course, since booking flights was his job,
and Dana had no right to usurp his authority. But he knew he'd lost. Dana, always polite,
promised to tell anyone who asked that Ron had very ably booked the flight for her--or if he
preferred, that he had very ably attempted to defend his bureaucratic turf. After some
consideration, Ron chose the latter.

June 19

It had gone well for a while. But I'd been even later than usual for the past two days. I hadn't
been able to find Timmy's car anywhere.
"Didn't see your car in the lot today Timmy," I finally prodded in the break room after a
shift. "It get towed again?" I knew it hadn't been, of course--at least not with my help--but
there was an enjoyable look of fear that the word "towed" inspired in Timmy these days. It
was not dissimilar to the look you got elsewhere in New England whenever you brought up
Bill Buckner in casual conversation, something I had made it a point to do with regularity
during my time in Maine.
"It hasn't been towed in a while," said Timmy.
"Are you leaving it at home and walking to work now?" This wasn't true, either, I knew. I'd
scouted Timmy's home and could find no sign of the car. It's not as though a green 1977
Chevy Malibu Classic was hard to spot. The thing was bigger than Timmy's apartment and
uglier than his children.
"I'm doing what you said and letting the town keep it."
"What I said?" I thought back. I had made a joke about Timmy abandoning the car at the
impound lot. "Ya know, Timmy, I was just joking when I said that. They increase the fine for
every day you leave a car in impound."
"Gimme a break, Bob, you expect me to believe that?"
"Let me get this straight. You believed me when I joked that you should abandon your car
rather than pay a $150 ticket, but you don't believe me when I try to help you out? Do you
think they're going to let you get away without paying? They know who you are from the
license plate. Sooner or later you're going to have to pay."
"You're just trying to make me look stupid."
"Timmy, the two of us are standing here in public wearing lime-green aprons with smiley-
face nametags; I hardly think either of us could look any stupider." Timmy didn't seem to
understand. He probably was proud of the uniform, I realized.
"Timmy, let me ask you this: Have you ever known a government or government agency,
including but not limited to this town's parking bureau, that did not take as much money as it
possibly could in any situation, from any citizen?" Timmy didn't respond to this one either.
Disliking taxes clearly was contingent on making enough money to be on the giving end of
them. Helping Timmy was turning out to be much harder than hurting him.
"Okay, I'm going to take one more stab at this: Did the parking people send you a letter when
they towed your car?"
"Yea."
"Do you still have it?"
"I guess."
"When you get home I want you to read it…or have someone read it to you. There's probably
something in there about additional fees."
"But…"
"Just do it Timmy, okay."

10

Lesser Morrell Island, it turned out, wasn't so very far from Hawaii. But then Forks-of-
Cacapon, West Virginia isn't so very far from New York City, and that doesn't mean Pan Am
offers non-stop service there. In order to be easily reached, a place must be both nearby and
have supplied earlier travelers with a reason to go there and build transport infrastructures to
facilitate future visits. Lesser Morrell Island, it seems, had failed to do the latter.
"We can get you to New Zealand," the woman behind the ticket counter volunteered.
"Is New Zealand closer to Lesser Morrell Island than Hawaii?" Dana asked.
"Not by distance, no."
"Can I catch a flight from New Zealand to Lesser Morrell Island?"
"No, you can't."
"If New Zealand isn't any closer, and there aren't any connecting flights through there, why
did you suggest I fly to New Zealand?"
"I'm just trying to be helpful," said the woman. "We're trained to be helpful."
"But how is it helpful to send me someplace even further away."
"I just wanted to help."
"Yes, but…oh never mind. Can you tell me if there's someone who does fly to Lesser
Morrell Island?"
"Yes I can."
"And…" Dana prodded.
"No they don't. There's no airport code for Lesser Morrell Island. If anyone flew there, there
would be an airport code."
"So if you were trying to get to Lesser Morrell Island, what would you do?"
The woman mulled this over, if, indeed, it is possible to mull whilst smiling. "We fly to New
Zealand," she offered finally. Dana, summoning all of her will power, did not knock out the
woman's smiling teeth.
Eventually, Dana found her way to a small charter company that could fly her as close as
Greater Morrell Island, so long as she didn't mind making stops along the way in Fakaofo,
Eiao, both Pukapuka and Puka-Puka plus maybe a dozen other places that she could neither
identify nor pronounce. This was fine with Dana, who would, if nothing else, be able to spend
the rest of her life telling people that Pukapuka was nice, but it was no Puka-Puka, at least not
in the summer. And as for Eiao, well, the less said, the better, she would add. Facing a cash
crunch a few decades back, the island had been forced to sell everything it had of any value,
including its consonants. It had never recovered.
From Greater Morrell Island Dana would have to hire a boat, since there was, indeed, no
airport at Lesser Morrell Island; and not even a protected harbor large enough to land a sea
plane (assuming "land" is even the proper verb where sea-planes are concerned). Dana wasn't
about to complain. She had spent just enough time in a South American holding cell and a
Hawaiian tourist-oriented airport in the past week to consider an unreachable tropical island
exactly the spot to spend a year.

June 20

I didn't see Timmy at work the next day. Timmy's place at aisle three had been taken by--
well, no one, actually. The check-out girl and the customers just bagged for themselves. And
with no noticeable loss in overall efficiency, I observed. Maybe Timmy had skipped town to
avoid the ticket. Or perhaps he'd been thrown into debtor's prison. Either way, I was content
with the result and ready to consider the score between us settled.
But Timmy hadn't skipped town. He'd been promoted. Word filtered through the break room
at lunch. There had been an additional fine. Timmy's $150 ticket would now cost him $400.
Coming on top of his earlier tickets as it did, this was more than a man such as Timmy with a
wife, children, and income of $5.00 an hour possibly could hope to put aside in a year. And
that was a problem, since if he didn't pay within a year, he faced jail time. With this looming
over him, Timmy had persuaded Sapperstein to speak to the deli manager on his behalf about
an opening in that department. Deli employees were paid more than the bagger rate of $5.00
an hour. They were paid $5.50. As Timmy saw it, $5.50 an hour and a job slicing luncheon
meats was all he could have hoped for out of life. Soon he would have his car back--and then
he'd start saving for a house, he explained after his first shift in the deli. But the car had to
come first. For one thing, he had remembered that he had left his breakfast on the front seat
the day the car was towed, and he looked forward to finishing it.
In fact, Timmy was so pleased with his promotion that he even was willing to let bygones be
bygones with me. Why not? Timmy's previously unthinkable advancement to the respected
position of deli trainee meant he was once again ahead of me in the well-established
supermarket caste system. From the top, this went:
1. management
2. bakery (they got to take home three-day-old bread)
3. deli
4. checkout
5. bagging
6. clean up crew
7. seafood (their smell cost them points)
8. parking lot cart recovery (too cold most of the year).
Getting Timmy promoted wasn't quite what I had had in mind, but I was willing to accept the
result. I'd gotten Timmy out of my life, to the extent that I had one, and that was the
important part. With Timmy's career seemingly back on track, the other baggers even
warmed up to me a bit. And as little as I cared about their opinions, I at least like to earn
enmity before it's heaped upon me--or at very least to have the heaping done by people who
know what enmity means. Everyone came out a winner--relatively speaking.
This pleasant situation lasted nearly a full day.

June 21

"What's with the ambulance?" I asked when I arrived for my ten a.m. shift. Tammy glared at
me. "And what's with the glaring?" I added. "I thought you got over that when Timmy got his
big promotion."
"Big promotion? Christ, Bob, because of you Timmy had to take the most dangerous job in
the store. How's he going to provide for his family now?" Tammy stormed off.
Timmy, it turned out, had lost a hand in the cheese slicer. The ambulance was for him.
"What's Timmy going to do with one hand?" the other baggers asked each other. "He can't go
back to bagging now."
"Everyone here is holding you responsible," everyone assured me.
"Why am I responsible?" I responded each time. "Timmy knew the risks when he signed up
for the deli."
But I knew why I was responsible. I was responsible because for some reason I was
considered responsible for all of Timmy's problems since I'd arrived. Because someone had
to be responsible, or Timmy would have to accept the blame himself. Still, I continued to
question each assignment of blame in my direction, afraid that someone had found out that it
was my fun with Timmy's car that had played some small role in starting things down this
road.
"You gave him that advice to abandon his car with the impound lot, don't try to deny it," one
fellow bagger responded.
"I can't believe you people," I shouted in a moment of frustration. "Not one of you is smart
enough to figure out that I really have been causing Timmy's problems, yet you're blaming
me for them anyway, just because you don't like me. What's wrong with you? …And another
thing, I don't want to hear anymore about Timmy losing a hand in the cheese slicer. You can't
possibly loose more than a layer of skin to a cheese slicer. It only slices a tenth of an inch at a
time."
Later reports confirmed that it had, in fact, been the whole hand. And that was how my
employment at Shiveler's Supermarket came to an end.

"We've got a problem," said Smith.

"I anxiously await the morning where that isn't the first thing out of your mouth," said Dean
Kerns. "Well, what is it this time? Is the town complaining that we don't water the campus
grass enough? Are the student environmentalists complaining that we water it too much? Are
the Irish students complaining that people walking on green grass is an insult to their
heritage?"
"I wish you'd stop joking," Smith admonished. "This is serious."
"It's always serious to you. Don't you understand that sometimes the best response to an
unsolvable problem is to laugh about it?"
Smith didn't.
"All right, what's the problem?"
"It seems that you located the Jewish student center in Jackson Hall, and the Muslim student
center in the Martin Building."
"So?"
"So? They're right next to each other. And there have already been problems. Fights broke
out while the students were moving in. Honestly, this is something that could have been
predicted. These groups have never seen eye to eye."
"Okay, so what do you expect me to do. I can't settle a religious debate. I'm just an
economics professor--we have no God."
"No, no. You don't understand. This isn't a religious issue, it's about nothing more
complicated than property rights. They can't agree who controls the parking lot between the
buildings. I figured you could go over there and work it out in a couple of minutes."
"Something about that theory bothers me," replied Kerns.

"But how'd he lose a whole hand?" Dave asked when I explained it to him later that day.
"Let's just say it took a lot more than one slice and leave it at that. Clearly Timmy panicked."
Dave winced. "That's pretty grisly."
"Unquestionably a bad day to be on the clean-up crew."
"And they fired you for it?"
"Sapperstein said everyone blamed me, and that was good enough for him. Ironic, isn't it?
They never figured out that I really was responsible, yet they blame it on me anyway."
"Yea, ironic."
"It never once occurred to Sapperstein or the deli manager, Roahrson, that they were to
blame for putting a moron like Timmy in charge of a piece of machinery with a rotating
blade. They're lucky he didn't slit his throat. I mean, this is Timmy, a man who never lost his
fascination with the way the supermarket carts fold into each other when they're pushed
together. Dave, I tell you, there's just no sense of responsibility in this world."
"Well, what are we going to do for lunch?"
"Oh, I've got that taken care of," I said. "I negotiated a generous severance package in the
form of dented canned goods and three-day-old bakery products."
"Is there pumpkin pie filling?" Dave loved pumpkin pie filling--although, oddly, he wasn't
very fond of pumpkin pies.
"Now what kind of person would I be if I didn't think of my roommate?" I asked, and pulled
a dented can of pumpkin innards from my grocery bag.
"Maybe this is a blessing in disguise," Dave said when he had emptied his can and I'd
polished off some peas. "How were you ever going to find a better job if you spent all of your
days bagging groceries?"
"How am I going to find another job if I have to spend all of my days begging for spare
change on the corner?"
"Don't bother. The people in this town are cheapskates."
"Anyway, I've been blacklisted."
"Blacklisted by Shiveler's Supermarket?"
"Yea. And apparently the blacklist is pretty severe. They told me I won't be able to find a
minimum-wage job anywhere in Bridgeton, or, presumably, a directing job in Hollywood. I
don't suppose you've made any progress towards finding work?"
"Oh…Was I supposed to be looking?"
"Dave, what the hell have you been doing for the past two weeks?"
"At first I was just lying around in the sun. But then I started attending campus conferences
to meet women."
"Any luck?"
"Not really. Most of them seemed to lose interest when I asked them to buy me food."
"I could see how that would make the wrong first impression."
In truth, I would not have been happy if my roommate had been bagging women while I
bagged groceries to feed us. "We'd better start thinking about liberating snack food again," I
said. "These dented canned goods won't hold us for long."
"No problem. Today there's a math seminar on number theory in Fisher Hall, or a
Psychology Department conference on criminology in McMichaelson."
"Any way to tell which will have better snacks?"
"The psychology department does have better funding," Dave said. "The math department
blew all their money on those computers. Anyway, I've already hit the math department a few
times this summer."
"Then psychology it is. Anyway, I like the irony of stealing the snacks from a criminology
conference."
"Agreed."
On second thought, I considered as I eyed the snack table ten minutes later, maybe the math
seminar would have been a better idea. The campus food services department obviously had
been alerted to the disappearing snack problem. A food services employee in a white apron
stood guard over the snacks--a very large food services employee, and, for that matter, a very
large white apron. Worse still, I noted from the program that the guest speaker was an actual
police officer. For all we knew, there could be other police officers in the audience. But the
snacks were vegetables and dip. I hadn't consumed a fresh vegetable since graduation, and I
found the idea appealing.
"I don't know, Dave, this seems like an awful risk for a few celery sticks."
"Don't worry, I have a plan," Dave whispered back.
"Is this plan to grab the tray and run as fast as you can back to our building in full view of a
room teeming with criminologists, leaving a trail of vegetables along the way."
"Uh…leaving the trail wasn't really a part of the plan. It was more an inevitable
consequence."
"No offense, but I'm not certain that's the best plan I've ever heard."
"It's pretty much what I've been doing up to this point."
"Yea, and actually I'd been meaning to speak with you about that." But as it happened, I was
fresh out of better ideas.
"Timing, Dave, it's all just timing," I mused, back at the observatory. The food service
employee had been big all right, but his lack of foot speed cost him. The man turned to shut a
window, and turned back a moment later to an empty table and the sight of Dave
disappearing through the door. "Bad timing's the only thing that's making my life miserable.
When our grandparents' generation graduated from college, any degree meant that they were
set for life. If our parents' generation graduated from law school, it meant sure success.
Today..."
"Keep in mind that most of those generations had to do things like fight in wars," Dave said,
on the off chance I was in the mood to listen. "And the reason that a degree meant automatic
success was that so few of them could afford to go to school. And it's my understanding that
they went through something called the Great Depression."
"Today the only way to guarantee yourself a job is to know how to program a computer," I
continued. "I ask you, is that right? Is it right that you can't count on a diploma to guarantee
success? I mean, why did my parents work so hard all of their lives? Wasn't it so that I could
have a better life even if I lacked any obvious skills?"
"You've got it all wrong Gwaf. Why do you have to feel so damn sorry for yourself all the
time? We've got it good here. We have a place to sleep, plenty of pretzel rods and celery
sticks to eat, and lots of really neat telescopes. Why isn't that enough for you? Why can't you
just enjoy the what you have?"
"I can't enjoy the present because I've blown my future. Can't you see that? If they'd told me
ten years ago that I would need to know about computers, then I'd have learned about
computers. I'm actually not certain that there were any computers in Kansas ten years ago,
but I'm sure I could have learned about them somehow."
"What makes you think that you'd even enjoy programming computers? You get all anxious
and fidgety in the time it takes vending machines to give you your can of soda."
"What does enjoy have to do with it? Do you think computer science majors enjoy
computers? Take a look at one some time--You've never seen a sadder looking bunch of
S.O.B.'s in your life."
"Sure," Dave said. "But that might have something to do with the fact that none of them can
get a date. I think you're missing the big picture here. If you do what you love, you'll have a
happy life, money or no money. Isn't that the real reason you chose your major in the first
place?"
"You think I enjoyed majoring in economics? No one enjoys economics. I was just doing
what they told me. 'Major in economics,' they said, 'it's dull, but you'll make a lot of money in
banking.' Now, four years of education later, I can’t even walk into a bank without the
security guard following me."
"Complain all you like," said Dave. "I'm sticking to my assessment: your problem is that you
can't just enjoy the moment."
"Dave, at this moment I'm penniless, jobless, my girlfriend is thousands of miles away, and
I'm living as a squatter in an observatory, subsisting on stolen snack trays. Has it occurred to
you that the reason I can't enjoy the moment is that each and every moment I've had for the
past few weeks have conspired together to make my life shit?"
Dave took a radish from the snack tray and looked up at the sky--he had opened the building's
roof that morning to put the big telescope to use, but had done something wrong and now
couldn't get it back closed. "If this was television," he said finally. "I'd say 'At least it isn't
raining,' then it would start raining."
"Let it rain," I said. "I could use a shower."
I looked up through the open observatory roof, but there was no rain. Just a blue sky and the
sound of Dave chewing a vegetable. Neither of us spoke. Such silences often occurred when
Dave and I attempted serious conversations. Dave had once told me he considered the
silences a sign of a deep and rarely tapped thoughtfulness on my part. Personally, I was of the
opinion that the more significant factor was Dave's pot habit causing him to lose his train of
thought. Getting off this subject was just fine with me. "What are you thinking about?" I
asked to confirm that we done talking about my life.
"Who do you suppose made the most money per chord known, AC/DC or ZZ Top?"
"That's what you're thinking about? Our lives have fallen apart, and you're thinking about the
earnings history of untalented rock bands?"
"Yea. What do you think?"
"I really can't believe you sometimes."
"And?"
"And what?" I asked.
"You know 'and what.' You can never let any issue, however unimportant, pass without
giving your opinion. So let's hear it. You know you want to."
"And…it's obviously AC/DC," I said. "ZZ Top was only a national embarrassment. AC/DC
sold copies of their three-chord monstrosities worldwide."
"Maybe," Dave conceded.
"No 'maybe,' you know I'm right."
"Yea, maybe."
"I'm going to take a nap," I said finally. "Things might look better when I wake up."
The truth, of course, was that I had no bed. I slept on a four-foot-long office couch. When I
woke the situation had not substantially improved.
And my back hurt.
Kerns walked towards the disputed parking lot and considered his options. The parking
shortage had never been an issue before. Jackson Hall had until recently housed the
environmental studies department, and the Martin Building the philosophy department.
Whenever things started to get a little crowded in the lot, the philosophers would just shame
the environmentalists into walking to work with an offhand philosophical remark concerning
irony or ethics. The environmentalists might counter that they did drive old VW Microbuses,
the most environmental vehicle known to man… and anyway they intended to walk to work
once this damned weather cleared up. But eventually, the philosophers always won.
Neither of the new lot users seemed as likely to give in. In fact, tensions had been escalating
all day. An hour earlier, campus security had issued a travel warning for the parking lot.
Kerns couldn't put off the problem any longer. When he reached the disputed lot, he very
surprised by what he found. In the whole lot, a paved surface large enough for 25 vehicles,
there were a grand total of two cars, side by side, both half way into the same space right in
the middle of the lot. Oddly, Kerns noted, there was someone crouched behind one of the
cars, a blue Dodge Aries. He started towards the person when he heard a shout from behind
the other car. It seemed there was someone hiding behind that one as well. "I knew it, I knew
you'd side with him," the voice shouted from behind the second car, a red Plymouth Reliant.
"I'm not siding with anyone," Kerns said. "I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here."
"Everyone knows what's going on here," said the Aries. "You're all trying to take away my
parking lot."
Kerns took a position right between the two cars. He could see movement on each side, and
every now and then a head would pop up, but it was clear that neither driver intended to come
out. "Why are you hiding behind your cars?" Kerns asked. "Why don't we talk face to face?"
"I knew it, I knew it was a trick," said the Reliant.
"I thought you said you knew I'd side with him."
"That too," said the Reliant. "As soon as I step out, you're going to shoot me."
"Shoot you? Why would anyone shoot you? I thought this was about a parking space?"
"It isn't about a parking space," explained the Aries. "It's over a parking lot. My parking lot."
"See?" said the Reliant. "He wants to claim my parking lot as his own. There's just no
reasoning with him."
"Listen," said Kerns. "This is ridiculous. There are 25 spaces here and only two cars. And
you're fighting over the worst spot in the lot. It's right in the middle; it isn't near either
building. Why don't you just agree that nobody's going to shoot anybody over it, so we can
talk face to face?"
"Oh, no," said the Reliant. "I'm not conceding anything. That would mean giving up the
advantage. What if I say I'm not going to shoot him, and he won't say he's not going to shoot
me? Then where would I be?"
"Okay, I think what we have here is a trust problem," said Kerns. "You behind the Aries,
perhaps if you would be willing to say that you are not going to do any physical harm to the
gentleman behind the Reliant, conditional on his agreeing to say the same, then we could get
things started."
"To be honest, I was considering doing him physical harm."
"Fine, fine, but would you be willing to hold off until after our negotiations?"
"Uh…no."
"Jesus Christ," said Kerns. "Isn't there anything you two can agree on?"
"Well," said the Aries, "we're pretty much in agreement that there's no Jesus Christ, if that
helps."
"Let's try to keep this to parking related matters," said Kerns. "Stay behind your damn cars
for all I care. Why the big deal over this one parking space?"
"It's not the space," said the Aries. "It's the lot. If they get this space, they'll have more spaces
than us. Then they'll keep moving the car forward another space each day until they have the
whole lot, and our building, too."
"Don't listen to him," answered the Reliant. "It's them who want to get rid of us. Them and
their godless late-model Dodges"
"But there aren't even enough of you to fill all of these spots," protested Kerns. "Even when
classes start again, between your two groups you probably don't have 20 cars."
"We'll grow," said the Aries.
"We just want what's ours," said the Reliant.
"I'm going back to my office," said Kerns.
"Did you solve the problem?" Smith asked when Kerns returned to the administration
building.
"I posted a security guard between the cars until they work the problem out between
themselves."
"Fine, fine. That shouldn't take long."
"I had the guard bring riot gear."
"Probably a sensible precaution."
"And I made sure to pick a man without a family."
"Only thing to do."

June 22

I got up at noon. I'd been awake for hours, but hadn't come up with a reason to actually stand.
Finally my bladder gave me one. "Fucking bladder," I muttered. "Now I have to do
something with my day."
In the main room, Dave was still staring through the telescope. Or maybe he was asleep. Or
maybe dead. He'd pushed a desk under the big telescope's eyepiece so he could lie down and
stare up. Since then it had been hard to tell if Dave was still among the living, in as much as
Dave wasn't a big fan of unnecessary physical activity. I didn't bother to check for a pulse.
"What are you watching, Dave?"
"Clouds," he said.
"Uh huh. And what do clouds look like up close?"
"Bigger clouds," Dave answered, without shifting his gaze.
"Analytical ability like that and you still can't find a job."
"You can't find a job," Dave corrected. "I don't want to find a job."
"I don't get it, Dave," I said, heading for the bathroom. "How can you be so afraid of a little
hard work when the alternative is starvation?"
"I'm not afraid of a little hard work. I'm afraid of a lot of hard work. I'm only mildly anxious
about a little hard work. In fact, if you had been up earlier, you would have seen me do a little
hard work. I went out and got us breakfast." Dave gestured in the general direction of a pile
of doughnuts stacked on a desk.
I picked one up. "Dave, where did you get these doughnuts."
"The Doughnut Shoppe on Main Street."
I was skeptical. While it had been a while since I'd eaten a doughnut, I was less than
convinced that this was what one was supposed to look like. "By 'The Doughnut Shoppe on
Main Street,' do you mean the Doughnut Shoppe on Main Street itself, or the dumpster
behind the Doughnut Shop on Main Street?"
I waited for an answer.
Dave stared up at the clouds. "What gave it away?" he asked finally.
"They seem a bit crunchy--not crispy, mind you, but crunchy. It's a minor distinction, I grant
you, but one that I believe is worth noting. That, and I'd never seen a donut with green creme
filling."
"Damn it, I knew I should have left the crème-filleds behind. Now you're going to refuse to
eat them, right?"
"Dave, are you telling me that you ate dumpster doughnuts?"
"I didn't intend to. I just went to pick up some coffee."
"By which you mean used and discarded coffee grounds?"
"It seemed like a good idea until I saw them."
"Right," I said. "I'm going to take a leak." And I did.
"What made you this way?" I asked when I returned. "How'd you become such a master at
just taking whatever comes along without complaint or concern? How can you not do
anything, believe in anything or dream of anything?"
"Oh, it's genetic, I suppose. I come from a long line of people who didn't much give a damn
one way or the other."
"Really?"
"Sure. My great-great grandfather, Jeremiah Orr, for example. He's the one who first moved
the family to California. Everyone else on his wagon train was going for the gold rush or for
the farmland. My great-great grandfather joined up because he'd heard California was a place
a man could lie around all year without ever freezing to death."
"Are you making this up?"
"Nope. And that's not even the half of it. Great-great-grandpa Orr's wagon train got snowed
in for the winter before it could get across the mountains. Everyone else on the wagon train
were Christians, true believers, you know. But my great-great-granddad, he'd never bothered
a whole lot with religious faith. The Christians who were with him were sure they would go
off to a better place when they died, assuming they had good, Christian burials. And they did
die; starved one by one. My great-great-grandfather, he lived."
"You're saying he had a greater will to live because he didn't believe he'd get any eternal
reward when he died?"
"Well, that…and he kept digging up the Christians and eating them after they'd been buried.
See, a devout religious person wouldn't have done that."
"That's it. I'm going for a walk." Considering Dave's family background, it seemed like a
good idea to steer clear of him when he was hungry.
I'd never really been the sort to go out for a walk. I'd walk here and there, of course, as
events might warrant, but such walks were mainly a function of needing to reach some
specific destination and lacking access to a functioning vehicle or mass-transit system. With
this new freedom to walk wherever I chose, I found myself at something of a loss. I stood
outside the door of the Native American Observatory ready to start, but uncertain how these
things worked. I took a few steps forward, towards the center of campus, but that direction
offered nothing I hadn't seen many times before. To my right lay downtown Bridgeton, such
as it was, with its bookstore and barbershop and supermarket, none of which offered much to
the young pedestrian with a 32-cent bankroll. Behind me--that is, behind both me and the
building I'd just exited--was a residential neighborhood full of residents living happy
residential lives. I have to admit I looked pretty unkempt by that point in the summer; in fact,
I was a fairly good distance from kempt. And an unkempt individual wandering through a
residential area while the decent folk are off at work might not go over so well with the local
constabulary.
That left the left. To the left lay the ocean, or such was my understanding. In four years, I'd
never actually followed the road to its end and confirmed the presence of the sea. This wasn't
as odd as it might seem. Bridgeton's beach isn't a beach in the lay-in-the-sand, drink-
margaritas, watch-women-play-volleyball sense of the word. It was just a rocky edge to the
nation beyond which one had better be prepared to swim. Still, I'd always appreciated that the
ocean was there if I needed it. Such things meant a lot to a boy from Kansas. I walked left.
It was late afternoon when I returned from my walk. The coast had been further off than I
had expected, a tough slog on an empty stomach. I'd kept walking only because I didn't want
to turn around just a few minutes before I got there, and having never before been down that
stretch of road, I was just a few minutes away the whole time, so far as I knew. When I
finally did reach the coast, I simply turned around and headed home.
Back at the observatory, Dave was putting his clothes in a suitcase. "Planning a trip?"
"Yea," Dave answered in his usual unhurried fashion. "I'm going to take a trip around the
world. Wanna come?"
"You're asking if I want to take a trip around the world?"
"Right. But you've got to decide now. I'm leaving in ten minutes."
"Dave, we don't have enough money to live for free here in just one place in the world. How
are you going to pay for a trip all the way around?"
"I'm going to hitchhike."
"What about the oceans?"
"I don't know. Do boats take hitchhikers?"
"I can see that you've really thought this one through."
"Beats sitting around here staring at clouds."
"I thought you liked staring at clouds."
"I did. But I've been at it a while now, and this morning I'm pretty sure I saw the same cloud
I saw when I started, blown all the way back around. I figured if a cloud could make it around
the world, then so could I."
"Where are you going to sleep? How will you eat? What about visas? And foreign
languages? Do you even have a passport?"
"I'll figure that stuff out as I go."
"Dave, I don't think clouds actually go all the way around the world."
"Then where do they go? Listen Gwaf, I'm going around the world." Dave snapped the
suitcase shut. "Last chance. Do you want to come?"
"No," I answered. "I can't. I've got to get a job. Be responsible. Earn money. Open a 401(k).
Get a dental plan. Get married. Start a family. Barbecue hot dogs with the neighbors. Worry
about dry rot. You know, have a life. I can't just pick up today and travel around the world."
"Then when will you?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I never thought about it. Maybe when I retire."
"Fine," said Dave. "I'll have your suitcase back to you by then."
I noted that it was, indeed, my suitcase that Dave had packed. I also realized what this meant.
"If you used my suitcase, then you knew I wouldn't come," I said.
"Call it a hunch. I'll say 'hi' to Dana when I pass through South America."
"Dave, South America's a big place. I don't think you'll just run into her even if you manage
to get there."
"I've got a better chance of running into her than you do sitting here. I'll tell her 'hi.' Take
care of the rest of my stuff," Dave said, waving at the pile of old clothes and drug
paraphernalia that he couldn't fit into my suitcase. Then he was gone.
"He'll be back," I thought to myself, staring at the pile of clothes and bongs. No one would
pick up a hitchhiker who looked as disheveled as Dave. And traveling with no money is even
more difficult than being sedentary with no money. And Dave was too lazy to stick with any
plan too long. Besides, he's left his favorite bong behind. He'll be back.
"It'll be nice to have some privacy," I said to the big telescope. Dave had spent so much of
the past few weeks staring through that eyepiece that I'd hardly had a chance to use the thing
myself. I leaned over Dave's desk and took a peak. Just clouds, I saw. Nothing but clouds. I
lay on the desk as Dave had so often and looked through the lens.
"What am I still doing here?" I asked the clouds.
Chapter 10

Lesser Morrell Island, it turned out, wasn't so very far from Hawaii. But then Forks-of-
Cacapon, West Virginia isn't so very far from New York City, and that doesn't mean Pan Am
offers non-stop service there. In order to be easily reached, a place must be both nearby and
have supplied earlier travelers with a reason to go there and build transport infrastructures to
facilitate future visits. Lesser Morrell Island, it seems, had failed to do the latter.
"We can get you to New Zealand," the woman behind the ticket counter volunteered.
"Is New Zealand closer to Lesser Morrell Island than Hawaii?" Dana asked.
"Not by distance, no."
"Can I catch a flight from New Zealand to Lesser Morrell Island?"
"No, you can't."
"If New Zealand isn't any closer, and there aren't any connecting flights through there, why
did you suggest I fly to New Zealand?"
"I'm just trying to be helpful," said the woman. "We're trained to be helpful."
"But how is it helpful to send me someplace even further away."
"I just wanted to help."
"Yes, but…oh never mind. Can you tell me if there's someone who does fly to Lesser
Morrell Island?"
"Yes I can."
"And…" Dana prodded.
"No they don't. There's no airport code for Lesser Morrell Island. If anyone flew there, there
would be an airport code."
"So if you were trying to get to Lesser Morrell Island, what would you do?"
The woman mulled this over, if, indeed, it is possible to mull whilst smiling. "We fly to New
Zealand," she offered finally. Dana, summoning all of her will power, did not knock out the
woman's smiling teeth.
Eventually, Dana found her way to a small charter company that could fly her as close as
Greater Morrell Island, so long as she didn't mind making stops along the way in Fakaofo,
Eiao, both Pukapuka and Puka-Puka plus maybe a dozen other places that she could neither
identify nor pronounce. This was fine with Dana, who would, if nothing else, be able to spend
the rest of her life telling people that Pukapuka was nice, but it was no Puka-Puka, at least not
in the summer. And as for Eiao, well, the less said, the better, she would add. Facing a cash
crunch a few decades back, the island had been forced to sell everything it had of any value,
including its consonants. It had never recovered.
From Greater Morrell Island Dana would have to hire a boat, since there was, indeed, no
airport at Lesser Morrell Island; and not even a protected harbor large enough to land a sea
plane (assuming "land" is even the proper verb where sea-planes are concerned). Dana wasn't
about to complain. She had spent just enough time in a South American holding cell and a
Hawaiian tourist-oriented airport in the past week to consider an unreachable tropical island
exactly the spot to spend a year.

June 20

I didn't see Timmy at work the next day. Timmy's place at aisle three had been taken by--
well, no one, actually. The check-out girl and the customers just bagged for themselves. And
with no noticeable loss in overall efficiency, I observed. Maybe Timmy had skipped town to
avoid the ticket. Or perhaps he'd been thrown into debtor's prison. Either way, I was content
with the result and ready to consider the score between us settled.
But Timmy hadn't skipped town. He'd been promoted. Word filtered through the break room
at lunch. There had been an additional fine. Timmy's $150 ticket would now cost him $400.
Coming on top of his earlier tickets as it did, this was more than a man such as Timmy with a
wife, children, and income of $5.00 an hour possibly could hope to put aside in a year. And
that was a problem, since if he didn't pay within a year, he faced jail time. With this looming
over him, Timmy had persuaded Sapperstein to speak to the deli manager on his behalf about
an opening in that department. Deli employees were paid more than the bagger rate of $5.00
an hour. They were paid $5.50. As Timmy saw it, $5.50 an hour and a job slicing luncheon
meats was all he could have hoped for out of life. Soon he would have his car back--and then
he'd start saving for a house, he explained after his first shift in the deli. But the car had to
come first. For one thing, he had remembered that he had left his breakfast on the front seat
the day the car was towed, and he looked forward to finishing it.
In fact, Timmy was so pleased with his promotion that he even was willing to let bygones be
bygones with me. Why not? Timmy's previously unthinkable advancement to the respected
position of deli trainee meant he was once again ahead of me in the well-established
supermarket caste system. From the top, this went:
1. management
2. bakery (they got to take home three-day-old bread)
3. deli
4. checkout
5. bagging
6. clean up crew
7. seafood (their smell cost them points)
8. parking lot cart recovery (too cold most of the year).
Getting Timmy promoted wasn't quite what I had had in mind, but I was willing to accept the
result. I'd gotten Timmy out of my life, to the extent that I had one, and that was the
important part. With Timmy's career seemingly back on track, the other baggers even
warmed up to me a bit. And as little as I cared about their opinions, I at least like to earn
enmity before it's heaped upon me--or at very least to have the heaping done by people who
know what enmity means. Everyone came out a winner--relatively speaking.
This pleasant situation lasted nearly a full day.

June 21

"What's with the ambulance?" I asked when I arrived for my ten a.m. shift. Tammy glared at
me. "And what's with the glaring?" I added. "I thought you got over that when Timmy got his
big promotion."
"Big promotion? Christ, Bob, because of you Timmy had to take the most dangerous job in
the store. How's he going to provide for his family now?" Tammy stormed off.
Timmy, it turned out, had lost a hand in the cheese slicer. The ambulance was for him.
"What's Timmy going to do with one hand?" the other baggers asked each other. "He can't go
back to bagging now."
"Everyone here is holding you responsible," everyone assured me.
"Why am I responsible?" I responded each time. "Timmy knew the risks when he signed up
for the deli."
But I knew why I was responsible. I was responsible because for some reason I was
considered responsible for all of Timmy's problems since I'd arrived. Because someone had
to be responsible, or Timmy would have to accept the blame himself. Still, I continued to
question each assignment of blame in my direction, afraid that someone had found out that it
was my fun with Timmy's car that had played some small role in starting things down this
road.
"You gave him that advice to abandon his car with the impound lot, don't try to deny it," one
fellow bagger responded.
"I can't believe you people," I shouted in a moment of frustration. "Not one of you is smart
enough to figure out that I really have been causing Timmy's problems, yet you're blaming
me for them anyway, just because you don't like me. What's wrong with you? …And another
thing, I don't want to hear anymore about Timmy losing a hand in the cheese slicer. You can't
possibly loose more than a layer of skin to a cheese slicer. It only slices a tenth of an inch at a
time."
Later reports confirmed that it had, in fact, been the whole hand. And that was how my
employment at Shiveler's Supermarket came to an end.

"We've got a problem," said Smith.

"I anxiously await the morning where that isn't the first thing out of your mouth," said Dean
Kerns. "Well, what is it this time? Is the town complaining that we don't water the campus
grass enough? Are the student environmentalists complaining that we water it too much? Are
the Irish students complaining that people walking on green grass is an insult to their
heritage?"
"I wish you'd stop joking," Smith admonished. "This is serious."
"It's always serious to you. Don't you understand that sometimes the best response to an
unsolvable problem is to laugh about it?"
Smith didn't.
"All right, what's the problem?"
"It seems that you located the Jewish student center in Jackson Hall, and the Muslim student
center in the Martin Building."
"So?"
"So? They're right next to each other. And there have already been problems. Fights broke
out while the students were moving in. Honestly, this is something that could have been
predicted. These groups have never seen eye to eye."
"Okay, so what do you expect me to do. I can't settle a religious debate. I'm just an
economics professor--we have no God."
"No, no. You don't understand. This isn't a religious issue, it's about nothing more
complicated than property rights. They can't agree who controls the parking lot between the
buildings. I figured you could go over there and work it out in a couple of minutes."
"Something about that theory bothers me," replied Kerns.

"But how'd he lose a whole hand?" Dave asked when I explained it to him later that day.
"Let's just say it took a lot more than one slice and leave it at that. Clearly Timmy panicked."
Dave winced. "That's pretty grisly."
"Unquestionably a bad day to be on the clean-up crew."
"And they fired you for it?"
"Sapperstein said everyone blamed me, and that was good enough for him. Ironic, isn't it?
They never figured out that I really was responsible, yet they blame it on me anyway."
"Yea, ironic."
"It never once occurred to Sapperstein or the deli manager, Roahrson, that they were to
blame for putting a moron like Timmy in charge of a piece of machinery with a rotating
blade. They're lucky he didn't slit his throat. I mean, this is Timmy, a man who never lost his
fascination with the way the supermarket carts fold into each other when they're pushed
together. Dave, I tell you, there's just no sense of responsibility in this world."
"Well, what are we going to do for lunch?"
"Oh, I've got that taken care of," I said. "I negotiated a generous severance package in the
form of dented canned goods and three-day-old bakery products."
"Is there pumpkin pie filling?" Dave loved pumpkin pie filling--although, oddly, he wasn't
very fond of pumpkin pies.
"Now what kind of person would I be if I didn't think of my roommate?" I asked, and pulled
a dented can of pumpkin innards from my grocery bag.
"Maybe this is a blessing in disguise," Dave said when he had emptied his can and I'd
polished off some peas. "How were you ever going to find a better job if you spent all of your
days bagging groceries?"
"How am I going to find another job if I have to spend all of my days begging for spare
change on the corner?"
"Don't bother. The people in this town are cheapskates."
"Anyway, I've been blacklisted."
"Blacklisted by Shiveler's Supermarket?"
"Yea. And apparently the blacklist is pretty severe. They told me I won't be able to find a
minimum-wage job anywhere in Bridgeton, or, presumably, a directing job in Hollywood. I
don't suppose you've made any progress towards finding work?"
"Oh…Was I supposed to be looking?"
"Dave, what the hell have you been doing for the past two weeks?"
"At first I was just lying around in the sun. But then I started attending campus conferences
to meet women."
"Any luck?"
"Not really. Most of them seemed to lose interest when I asked them to buy me food."
"I could see how that would make the wrong first impression."
In truth, I would not have been happy if my roommate had been bagging women while I
bagged groceries to feed us. "We'd better start thinking about liberating snack food again," I
said. "These dented canned goods won't hold us for long."
"No problem. Today there's a math seminar on number theory in Fisher Hall, or a
Psychology Department conference on criminology in McMichaelson."
"Any way to tell which will have better snacks?"
"The psychology department does have better funding," Dave said. "The math department
blew all their money on those computers. Anyway, I've already hit the math department a few
times this summer."
"Then psychology it is. Anyway, I like the irony of stealing the snacks from a criminology
conference."
"Agreed."
On second thought, I considered as I eyed the snack table ten minutes later, maybe the math
seminar would have been a better idea. The campus food services department obviously had
been alerted to the disappearing snack problem. A food services employee in a white apron
stood guard over the snacks--a very large food services employee, and, for that matter, a very
large white apron. Worse still, I noted from the program that the guest speaker was an actual
police officer. For all we knew, there could be other police officers in the audience. But the
snacks were vegetables and dip. I hadn't consumed a fresh vegetable since graduation, and I
found the idea appealing.
"I don't know, Dave, this seems like an awful risk for a few celery sticks."
"Don't worry, I have a plan," Dave whispered back.
"Is this plan to grab the tray and run as fast as you can back to our building in full view of a
room teeming with criminologists, leaving a trail of vegetables along the way."
"Uh…leaving the trail wasn't really a part of the plan. It was more an inevitable
consequence."
"No offense, but I'm not certain that's the best plan I've ever heard."
"It's pretty much what I've been doing up to this point."
"Yea, and actually I'd been meaning to speak with you about that." But as it happened, I was
fresh out of better ideas.
"Timing, Dave, it's all just timing," I mused, back at the observatory. The food service
employee had been big all right, but his lack of foot speed cost him. The man turned to shut a
window, and turned back a moment later to an empty table and the sight of Dave
disappearing through the door. "Bad timing's the only thing that's making my life miserable.
When our grandparents' generation graduated from college, any degree meant that they were
set for life. If our parents' generation graduated from law school, it meant sure success.
Today..."
"Keep in mind that most of those generations had to do things like fight in wars," Dave said,
on the off chance I was in the mood to listen. "And the reason that a degree meant automatic
success was that so few of them could afford to go to school. And it's my understanding that
they went through something called the Great Depression."
"Today the only way to guarantee yourself a job is to know how to program a computer," I
continued. "I ask you, is that right? Is it right that you can't count on a diploma to guarantee
success? I mean, why did my parents work so hard all of their lives? Wasn't it so that I could
have a better life even if I lacked any obvious skills?"
"You've got it all wrong Gwaf. Why do you have to feel so damn sorry for yourself all the
time? We've got it good here. We have a place to sleep, plenty of pretzel rods and celery
sticks to eat, and lots of really neat telescopes. Why isn't that enough for you? Why can't you
just enjoy the what you have?"
"I can't enjoy the present because I've blown my future. Can't you see that? If they'd told me
ten years ago that I would need to know about computers, then I'd have learned about
computers. I'm actually not certain that there were any computers in Kansas ten years ago,
but I'm sure I could have learned about them somehow."
"What makes you think that you'd even enjoy programming computers? You get all anxious
and fidgety in the time it takes vending machines to give you your can of soda."
"What does enjoy have to do with it? Do you think computer science majors enjoy
computers? Take a look at one some time--You've never seen a sadder looking bunch of
S.O.B.'s in your life."
"Sure," Dave said. "But that might have something to do with the fact that none of them can
get a date. I think you're missing the big picture here. If you do what you love, you'll have a
happy life, money or no money. Isn't that the real reason you chose your major in the first
place?"
"You think I enjoyed majoring in economics? No one enjoys economics. I was just doing
what they told me. 'Major in economics,' they said, 'it's dull, but you'll make a lot of money in
banking.' Now, four years of education later, I can’t even walk into a bank without the
security guard following me."
"Complain all you like," said Dave. "I'm sticking to my assessment: your problem is that you
can't just enjoy the moment."
"Dave, at this moment I'm penniless, jobless, my girlfriend is thousands of miles away, and
I'm living as a squatter in an observatory, subsisting on stolen snack trays. Has it occurred to
you that the reason I can't enjoy the moment is that each and every moment I've had for the
past few weeks have conspired together to make my life shit?"
Dave took a radish from the snack tray and looked up at the sky--he had opened the building's
roof that morning to put the big telescope to use, but had done something wrong and now
couldn't get it back closed. "If this was television," he said finally. "I'd say 'At least it isn't
raining,' then it would start raining."
"Let it rain," I said. "I could use a shower."
I looked up through the open observatory roof, but there was no rain. Just a blue sky and the
sound of Dave chewing a vegetable. Neither of us spoke. Such silences often occurred when
Dave and I attempted serious conversations. Dave had once told me he considered the
silences a sign of a deep and rarely tapped thoughtfulness on my part. Personally, I was of the
opinion that the more significant factor was Dave's pot habit causing him to lose his train of
thought. Getting off this subject was just fine with me. "What are you thinking about?" I
asked to confirm that we done talking about my life.
"Who do you suppose made the most money per chord known, AC/DC or ZZ Top?"
"That's what you're thinking about? Our lives have fallen apart, and you're thinking about the
earnings history of untalented rock bands?"
"Yea. What do you think?"
"I really can't believe you sometimes."
"And?"
"And what?" I asked.
"You know 'and what.' You can never let any issue, however unimportant, pass without
giving your opinion. So let's hear it. You know you want to."
"And…it's obviously AC/DC," I said. "ZZ Top was only a national embarrassment. AC/DC
sold copies of their three-chord monstrosities worldwide."
"Maybe," Dave conceded.
"No 'maybe,' you know I'm right."
"Yea, maybe."
"I'm going to take a nap," I said finally. "Things might look better when I wake up."
The truth, of course, was that I had no bed. I slept on a four-foot-long office couch. When I
woke the situation had not substantially improved.
And my back hurt.

Kerns walked towards the disputed parking lot and considered his options. The parking
shortage had never been an issue before. Jackson Hall had until recently housed the
environmental studies department, and the Martin Building the philosophy department.
Whenever things started to get a little crowded in the lot, the philosophers would just shame
the environmentalists into walking to work with an offhand philosophical remark concerning
irony or ethics. The environmentalists might counter that they did drive old VW Microbuses,
the most environmental vehicle known to man… and anyway they intended to walk to work
once this damned weather cleared up. But eventually, the philosophers always won.
Neither of the new lot users seemed as likely to give in. In fact, tensions had been escalating
all day. An hour earlier, campus security had issued a travel warning for the parking lot.
Kerns couldn't put off the problem any longer. When he reached the disputed lot, he very
surprised by what he found. In the whole lot, a paved surface large enough for 25 vehicles,
there were a grand total of two cars, side by side, both half way into the same space right in
the middle of the lot. Oddly, Kerns noted, there was someone crouched behind one of the
cars, a blue Dodge Aries. He started towards the person when he heard a shout from behind
the other car. It seemed there was someone hiding behind that one as well. "I knew it, I knew
you'd side with him," the voice shouted from behind the second car, a red Plymouth Reliant.
"I'm not siding with anyone," Kerns said. "I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here."
"Everyone knows what's going on here," said the Aries. "You're all trying to take away my
parking lot."
Kerns took a position right between the two cars. He could see movement on each side, and
every now and then a head would pop up, but it was clear that neither driver intended to come
out. "Why are you hiding behind your cars?" Kerns asked. "Why don't we talk face to face?"
"I knew it, I knew it was a trick," said the Reliant.
"I thought you said you knew I'd side with him."
"That too," said the Reliant. "As soon as I step out, you're going to shoot me."
"Shoot you? Why would anyone shoot you? I thought this was about a parking space?"
"It isn't about a parking space," explained the Aries. "It's over a parking lot. My parking lot."
"See?" said the Reliant. "He wants to claim my parking lot as his own. There's just no
reasoning with him."
"Listen," said Kerns. "This is ridiculous. There are 25 spaces here and only two cars. And
you're fighting over the worst spot in the lot. It's right in the middle; it isn't near either
building. Why don't you just agree that nobody's going to shoot anybody over it, so we can
talk face to face?"
"Oh, no," said the Reliant. "I'm not conceding anything. That would mean giving up the
advantage. What if I say I'm not going to shoot him, and he won't say he's not going to shoot
me? Then where would I be?"
"Okay, I think what we have here is a trust problem," said Kerns. "You behind the Aries,
perhaps if you would be willing to say that you are not going to do any physical harm to the
gentleman behind the Reliant, conditional on his agreeing to say the same, then we could get
things started."
"To be honest, I was considering doing him physical harm."
"Fine, fine, but would you be willing to hold off until after our negotiations?"
"Uh…no."
"Jesus Christ," said Kerns. "Isn't there anything you two can agree on?"
"Well," said the Aries, "we're pretty much in agreement that there's no Jesus Christ, if that
helps."
"Let's try to keep this to parking related matters," said Kerns. "Stay behind your damn cars
for all I care. Why the big deal over this one parking space?"
"It's not the space," said the Aries. "It's the lot. If they get this space, they'll have more spaces
than us. Then they'll keep moving the car forward another space each day until they have the
whole lot, and our building, too."
"Don't listen to him," answered the Reliant. "It's them who want to get rid of us. Them and
their godless late-model Dodges"
"But there aren't even enough of you to fill all of these spots," protested Kerns. "Even when
classes start again, between your two groups you probably don't have 20 cars."
"We'll grow," said the Aries.
"We just want what's ours," said the Reliant.
"I'm going back to my office," said Kerns.
"Did you solve the problem?" Smith asked when Kerns returned to the administration
building.
"I posted a security guard between the cars until they work the problem out between
themselves."
"Fine, fine. That shouldn't take long."
"I had the guard bring riot gear."
"Probably a sensible precaution."
"And I made sure to pick a man without a family."
"Only thing to do."

June 22

I got up at noon. I'd been awake for hours, but hadn't come up with a reason to actually stand.
Finally my bladder gave me one. "Fucking bladder," I muttered. "Now I have to do
something with my day."
In the main room, Dave was still staring through the telescope. Or maybe he was asleep. Or
maybe dead. He'd pushed a desk under the big telescope's eyepiece so he could lie down and
stare up. Since then it had been hard to tell if Dave was still among the living, in as much as
Dave wasn't a big fan of unnecessary physical activity. I didn't bother to check for a pulse.
"What are you watching, Dave?"
"Clouds," he said.
"Uh huh. And what do clouds look like up close?"
"Bigger clouds," Dave answered, without shifting his gaze.
"Analytical ability like that and you still can't find a job."
"You can't find a job," Dave corrected. "I don't want to find a job."
"I don't get it, Dave," I said, heading for the bathroom. "How can you be so afraid of a little
hard work when the alternative is starvation?"
"I'm not afraid of a little hard work. I'm afraid of a lot of hard work. I'm only mildly anxious
about a little hard work. In fact, if you had been up earlier, you would have seen me do a little
hard work. I went out and got us breakfast." Dave gestured in the general direction of a pile
of doughnuts stacked on a desk.
I picked one up. "Dave, where did you get these doughnuts."
"The Doughnut Shoppe on Main Street."
I was skeptical. While it had been a while since I'd eaten a doughnut, I was less than
convinced that this was what one was supposed to look like. "By 'The Doughnut Shoppe on
Main Street,' do you mean the Doughnut Shoppe on Main Street itself, or the dumpster
behind the Doughnut Shop on Main Street?"
I waited for an answer.
Dave stared up at the clouds. "What gave it away?" he asked finally.
"They seem a bit crunchy--not crispy, mind you, but crunchy. It's a minor distinction, I grant
you, but one that I believe is worth noting. That, and I'd never seen a donut with green creme
filling."
"Damn it, I knew I should have left the crème-filleds behind. Now you're going to refuse to
eat them, right?"
"Dave, are you telling me that you ate dumpster doughnuts?"
"I didn't intend to. I just went to pick up some coffee."
"By which you mean used and discarded coffee grounds?"
"It seemed like a good idea until I saw them."
"Right," I said. "I'm going to take a leak." And I did.
"What made you this way?" I asked when I returned. "How'd you become such a master at
just taking whatever comes along without complaint or concern? How can you not do
anything, believe in anything or dream of anything?"
"Oh, it's genetic, I suppose. I come from a long line of people who didn't much give a damn
one way or the other."
"Really?"
"Sure. My great-great grandfather, Jeremiah Orr, for example. He's the one who first moved
the family to California. Everyone else on his wagon train was going for the gold rush or for
the farmland. My great-great grandfather joined up because he'd heard California was a place
a man could lie around all year without ever freezing to death."
"Are you making this up?"
"Nope. And that's not even the half of it. Great-great-grandpa Orr's wagon train got snowed
in for the winter before it could get across the mountains. Everyone else on the wagon train
were Christians, true believers, you know. But my great-great-granddad, he'd never bothered
a whole lot with religious faith. The Christians who were with him were sure they would go
off to a better place when they died, assuming they had good, Christian burials. And they did
die; starved one by one. My great-great-grandfather, he lived."
"You're saying he had a greater will to live because he didn't believe he'd get any eternal
reward when he died?"
"Well, that…and he kept digging up the Christians and eating them after they'd been buried.
See, a devout religious person wouldn't have done that."
"That's it. I'm going for a walk." Considering Dave's family background, it seemed like a
good idea to steer clear of him when he was hungry.
I'd never really been the sort to go out for a walk. I'd walk here and there, of course, as
events might warrant, but such walks were mainly a function of needing to reach some
specific destination and lacking access to a functioning vehicle or mass-transit system. With
this new freedom to walk wherever I chose, I found myself at something of a loss. I stood
outside the door of the Native American Observatory ready to start, but uncertain how these
things worked. I took a few steps forward, towards the center of campus, but that direction
offered nothing I hadn't seen many times before. To my right lay downtown Bridgeton, such
as it was, with its bookstore and barbershop and supermarket, none of which offered much to
the young pedestrian with a 32-cent bankroll. Behind me--that is, behind both me and the
building I'd just exited--was a residential neighborhood full of residents living happy
residential lives. I have to admit I looked pretty unkempt by that point in the summer; in fact,
I was a fairly good distance from kempt. And an unkempt individual wandering through a
residential area while the decent folk are off at work might not go over so well with the local
constabulary.
That left the left. To the left lay the ocean, or such was my understanding. In four years, I'd
never actually followed the road to its end and confirmed the presence of the sea. This wasn't
as odd as it might seem. Bridgeton's beach isn't a beach in the lay-in-the-sand, drink-
margaritas, watch-women-play-volleyball sense of the word. It was just a rocky edge to the
nation beyond which one had better be prepared to swim. Still, I'd always appreciated that the
ocean was there if I needed it. Such things meant a lot to a boy from Kansas. I walked left.
It was late afternoon when I returned from my walk. The coast had been further off than I
had expected, a tough slog on an empty stomach. I'd kept walking only because I didn't want
to turn around just a few minutes before I got there, and having never before been down that
stretch of road, I was just a few minutes away the whole time, so far as I knew. When I
finally did reach the coast, I simply turned around and headed home.
Back at the observatory, Dave was putting his clothes in a suitcase. "Planning a trip?"
"Yea," Dave answered in his usual unhurried fashion. "I'm going to take a trip around the
world. Wanna come?"
"You're asking if I want to take a trip around the world?"
"Right. But you've got to decide now. I'm leaving in ten minutes."
"Dave, we don't have enough money to live for free here in just one place in the world. How
are you going to pay for a trip all the way around?"
"I'm going to hitchhike."
"What about the oceans?"
"I don't know. Do boats take hitchhikers?"
"I can see that you've really thought this one through."
"Beats sitting around here staring at clouds."
"I thought you liked staring at clouds."
"I did. But I've been at it a while now, and this morning I'm pretty sure I saw the same cloud
I saw when I started, blown all the way back around. I figured if a cloud could make it around
the world, then so could I."
"Where are you going to sleep? How will you eat? What about visas? And foreign
languages? Do you even have a passport?"
"I'll figure that stuff out as I go."
"Dave, I don't think clouds actually go all the way around the world."
"Then where do they go? Listen Gwaf, I'm going around the world." Dave snapped the
suitcase shut. "Last chance. Do you want to come?"
"No," I answered. "I can't. I've got to get a job. Be responsible. Earn money. Open a 401(k).
Get a dental plan. Get married. Start a family. Barbecue hot dogs with the neighbors. Worry
about dry rot. You know, have a life. I can't just pick up today and travel around the world."
"Then when will you?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I never thought about it. Maybe when I retire."
"Fine," said Dave. "I'll have your suitcase back to you by then."
I noted that it was, indeed, my suitcase that Dave had packed. I also realized what this meant.
"If you used my suitcase, then you knew I wouldn't come," I said.
"Call it a hunch. I'll say 'hi' to Dana when I pass through South America."
"Dave, South America's a big place. I don't think you'll just run into her even if you manage
to get there."
"I've got a better chance of running into her than you do sitting here. I'll tell her 'hi.' Take
care of the rest of my stuff," Dave said, waving at the pile of old clothes and drug
paraphernalia that he couldn't fit into my suitcase. Then he was gone.
"He'll be back," I thought to myself, staring at the pile of clothes and bongs. No one would
pick up a hitchhiker who looked as disheveled as Dave. And traveling with no money is even
more difficult than being sedentary with no money. And Dave was too lazy to stick with any
plan too long. Besides, he's left his favorite bong behind. He'll be back.
"It'll be nice to have some privacy," I said to the big telescope. Dave had spent so much of
the past few weeks staring through that eyepiece that I'd hardly had a chance to use the thing
myself. I leaned over Dave's desk and took a peak. Just clouds, I saw. Nothing but clouds. I
lay on the desk as Dave had so often and looked through the lens.
"What am I still doing here?" I asked the clouds.

Chapter 11
Dana actually sort of enjoyed spending the morning on a smallish prop plane, a fact that she
did not fully appreciate until she had spent the afternoon on a smallish ferryboat. The ferry
was the only way to cross the Straights of Morrell, the 60-mile wide stretch of ocean
separating the largely irrelevant Greater Morrell Island from the totally irrelevant Lesser
Morrell Island.
Should the need to cross the Straights of Morrell in a smallish boat arise again--and it
seemed certain to arise at least one more time if she ever intended to leave the island--Dana
swore she'd remember to take some Dramamine. Assuming Dramamine was available n
Lesser Morrell Island. Which it almost certainly wouldn't be, since a seafaring people like the
Lesser Morrell Islanders weren't likely to need such a thing.
The pair of Lesser Morrell Islanders with her on this final leg of her journey certainly
showed no signs of seasickness. The men, it developed, were returning from Greater Morrell
Island with consumer items unavailable on their island, which is to say pretty much
everything except for fish and coconuts. They were Dana's first Lesser Morrell Islanders, and
she was eager to make a good first impression. But as it is notoriously difficult to make a
good first impression whilst one is busy vomiting over the side of a boat, Dana settled for not
accidentally vomiting on them, which figured to be a social faux pas, differing local customs
or no.
One doesn't so much get over seasickness on a short trip as one gets used to it. Dana
eventually got used to hers enough to say hello to her fellow passengers. Fortunately, they
spoke very credible English, which worked out very well for Dana, who spoke little
Morrellitian. Most Morrell Islanders spoke English, the men explained, or at least a Pidgin
English that in terms of clarity falls somewhere between proper English and the version of
English spoken by the English.
"The missionaries taught us the language," the men explained.
"There are missionaries on Lesser Morrell Island?" Dana asked, surprised.
"Not for a while now. We had some differences."
"Differences?"
"They were always going on about this man who wanted to tell us how to do everything. We
told them that if it was so important, then this man ought to come and tell us himself."
"What did the missionaries say to that?"
"They said this man was busy with running the universe, and anyway that he'd been dead
2,000 years, not that that had slowed him up too much. Eventually we reached a compromise
with the missionaries and they left for another island."
"What was the compromise?"
"We agreed to eat fish on Fridays and maintain their church."
"And do you?"
"Sure. We eat fish everyday anyway."
"And the church?"
"Where do you think we keep the fish?"
The men were William and George, brothers who ran Lesser Morrell Island's only established
business, the Island Bar. Owning the bar made them very big men on Lesser Morrell Island,
even if the enterprise did consist only of warm Cook Island Beer sold on the front porch of
their hut. On Greater Morrell Island, however, they were very small men, as was anyone from
Lesser Morrell Island.
"They think we are backwards people because we don't own telephones or cars…or anything
else we can't buy in Greater Morrell Island and bring back on this ferry," explained George.
"And they own the ferry," added William.
Both brothers said they'd be happy to get back to their own island where they could once
again look down on other people. William looked towards the boat's captain, a Greater
Morrell Islander who wasn't about to return the gaze of a Lesser Morrell Islander.
These first two Lesser Morrell Islanders seemed nice enough, Dana decided. They expressed
concern for her sea sickness, and they did their best to stifle their laughter when they
exchanged what almost certainly were jibes at her expense in their own language. But there
were some troubling signs that Lesser Morrell Island might not be as unspoiled as she had
hoped. To begin with, there were the names; William and George. That was hardly authentic,
even if the men did assure her that their last name was Mo'oouloughibili!olo, which more
than met with her approval. There was the men's wardrobe: tee shirts, blue jeans, and baseball
caps, not the grass skirts Dana had been more-or-less expecting. "Grass skirts really do itch,"
explained William. There was the importation of Western consumer goods; such things could
irreparably alter a culture, although deep down Dana was pleased to know she would be
spending the year in a place that understood the value of a good toilet paper. Finally, there
was the fact that William and George were not surprised that she'd be spending a year on
their island.
"What are you going to do on Lesser Morrell Island?" William asked.
"Good," Dana explained.
"That's what they all say," said George. Then George said something to William in their own
language and both broke into laughter.
Dana politely excused herself to throw up.

The worst thing about being unemployed, I had decided--even worse than the lack of food or
a 401(k) plan with 100% matching--was the lack of purpose. Every day was just another day,
without challenges, without accomplishments, without the possibility of success or the threat
of failure. This is why I had of late become obsessed with thoughts of manure. Manure,
spread on a field, helps crops grow. In other words, even excrement has a purpose. I didn't. If
spread on a field, I would just lie there waiting for a combine to roll by and end my misery.
Few people are lucky enough to know exactly where they stand in the grand scheme of
things. I had established beyond debate that I was somewhere below shit.
I'd grown complacent, I realized now. When the summer began, I'd hated the fact that I was
unemployed. And I still did. But at the beginning of the summer I'd also tried to do something
about it. Now I just sat around hating it. At this particular moment, I was hating
unemployment while lying on Dave's desk under the telescope staring at clouds.
Dave was right. They did look like bigger clouds.
"I've got to get up and do something," I thought. But nothing happened.
"I've got to get up and do something," I said, out loud this time. Still nothing. It seemed like
something was supposed to happen after one makes such a statement, but just what that might
be eluded me.
"What's wrong with me?" I wondered. "I used to have so many plans, so many ideas. Now
all I can think about was where my next meal is coming from." As soon as I thought this, I
was sorry I had. Now I really had to get up and do something or I wouldn't be able to get my
mind off my stomach. So I got up and paced.
I had visited virtually every office in the Bridgeton area in search of work with no luck. It's
not as though this had required weeks of pounding the pavement. The Bridgeton business
district consisted of exactly one street. It wasn't a particularly long street. There were campus
jobs, but these were reserved for current students. Curt Nissent, a classmate of mine who had
flunked a few courses this spring and therefore not graduated, had a campus job. Since I had
earned passing grades, I wasn't qualified.
The answer, of course, was to leave Bridgeton for a larger city with more employers. But I
was hesitant to lit off for a new city with no job secured and no place to live. Here at least I
had free housing. How could I possibly move to New York or Boston? I didn't have the bus
fare to get there, let alone the thousands of dollars I'd need to pay the first-month's rent, last-
month's rent, and security deposit that landlords worldwide consider their birthright.
Or there was grad school. I had no particular desire to spend any more of my life in
classrooms, I couldn't think of any subject that might warrant an additional two-though-six
years of my attention, and the application deadlines for the coming term had long since
passed anyway. But none of this had stopped me from weighing the option of late, a sure sign
that my desperation was on the rise.
Not for the first time, I even considered that when the summer ended, I'd have little choice
but to ask my parents for money. I might even have to return home to Kansas.
Kansas, mind you.
"Kansas is the death of hope," I explained to the clouds. Kansas. That was enough to get me
out of the house and in search of some employment.
June 23

Kerns hated the second half of June. Hated it with all his heart. Not just the second half of
this June, you understand, the second halves of Junes in general. Kerns despised the very idea
of the last half of the last month of the first half of the year. He wasn't altogether fond of the
first half of June either, but that was only because he knew the second half was looming, not
because of anything June 1-15 had done to him personally.
Kerns did have a good reason to hate the subsequent fortnight-and-change. Specifically, it
was easier than hating his wife, Katherine, whom of course he loved very much--except in
the second half of June, when he loathed her with a passion. Well, as much passion as an
economist could muster.
It was in the second half of June each year that Kerns' wife, a tenured Bucklin professor as
Kerns himself had been until two months before, took a fifteen-day sabbatical to attend a
conference and catch up and all the latest developments in her field, 19th-century French
literature. During the early years of his marriage, Kerns had looked forward to these weeks
with great anticipation. Not that he took full advantage of the freedom as many married men
would, mind you--economists only think about sewing wild oats if they're studying
agricultural production--but it's always nice to have some time to oneself, especially when
one knows it won't last too long.
In recent years, however, Kerns had become convinced that his wife's real reason for leaving
town each year was to cheat on him. He was virtually certain of it. All he lacked was even the
slightest bit of credible evidence. Kerns found this lack of evidence troubling, as he was an
economist, and economics is a science, and a good scientist must be careful not to jump to
conclusions without due cause. So Kerns had set out to find the evidence as only an
economist can. With a chart. He had graphed his wife's amorousness in the days following
her return from her conference each year using a set of objective criteria. Then he'd measured
that against the days following other stretches in which he could be certain she had not had
sex for a period of two weeks. His results to date…were inconclusive. But, then, some trends
take decades to develop.
In fairness, Kerns was forced to concede that a significant amount of evidence in fact pointed
away from his affair thesis. For one, if his wife was cheating on him, she must be doing so
only in these two weeks each June. For the rest of the year she was either at home with him,
teaching classes on campus, or in her office. Until Kerns had moved to the administration
building that April, Katherine's office had been only 50 yards from his own. He had been able
to see right into her window from the comfort of his desk chair--assuming the desk chair was
rolled into the northwest corner of his office, and he was standing on its armrests. Kerns
didn't spy on his wife, mind you. As a caring husband, he just wished to confirm her safety.
Four or five times an hour. The upshot was, unless Katherine was having an affair only on the
left side of her office where Kerns' view was obscured--and that seemed a bit brazen for a
woman who had of her own free will married an economist--it must have been just these two
weeks each June.
Kerns wasn't ready to consider the lack of evidence fatal to his thesis. Evidence only took
one so far. Economics might have been a science in a sense, but it was a social science, and
there's always been a place in the social sciences for rank speculation unsupported by
anything except suspicion. The entire field of psychology is founded on this principle. So
Kerns decided that he'd go right on being suspicious. And the more time he spent being
suspicious, the more certain he became that he was correct. Katherine seemed much too
excited about this year's conference…and why was a French literature conference being held
in Cancun, anyway?
"There's probably nothing to worry about," Kerns tried to convince himself, in his better
moments. Perhaps he was just being overly sensitive about Katherine's trip because now of
all times he needed a wife's unbending support. Not that Katherine had ever really provided
him with unbending support in the traditional sense. Usually when Kerns had something
important to say, Katherine heard him out, mulled over the facts for a moment, then called
him an idiot. But she called him an idiot in a loving, patient way that Kerns had come to
appreciate, and with just that trace of a French accent Kerns found so adorable, even if he
knew that Katherine was from Nutley, Connecticut and had only affected the accent because
she taught French Literature and it seemed appropriate. There have been marriages based on
less. But Kerns didn't have even that to help him now. It was late June and Kerns was alone,
all alone, without a soul in the world he could trust, except his dog, a Pekinese named Roger,
who, truth be known, preferred Katherine and didn't think much of the second half of June
either.

"Please roll up your sleeve."

I suppose I'd found a purpose in life. The same way that a maple tree finds a purpose in life.
While all of the region's other employers had slammed their doors in my face, the fine folks
at Portland Biotechnics had taken me in. And all I had to do was sell them my blood.
Well, technically, you can't sell your blood. People expect you to donate your blood. Cheap
bastards. But there is something of a loophole, in that it is possible to sell one's blood plasma.
As it happens, swapping one's blood plasma for cash isn't exactly like giving away one's
blood. First off, while the blood donation people are content to stop themselves at a pint,
plasma buyers feel entitled to drain a bit more. I believe it's something in the neighborhood of
a gallon. At least that's how it appears to the naked eye as the plasma flows out of one's arm.
And second, the plasma removal process is a bit more complex than a quick needle in the
arm. Specifically, there are two quick needles in the arm. One leads to, the other from a
device that can best be visualized by imagining what the Slurpee machine might look like,
had it been invented by Dracula. This device separates the plasma from the rest of the blood,
keeps the former, and returns the latter to one's person. Portland Biotechnics uses this device
because it allows them to take more syrup from their human maple trees each time they visit
while not actually killing them, which would add to their clean-up costs. An additional
benefit is that these maple trees now can be drained not just more but more often. The Red
Cross won't let you donate blood more than once a month even if you weren't planning to use
the blood yourself anyway. But Portland Biotechnics will buy your plasma every week at $20
a pop. This comes to over $1,000 a year, which wasn't what I'd hoped for in a starting salary,
but it was five times what your typical Bangladeshi makes, so who was I to complain?
Okay, maybe I'd complain a little. I'd just have to remember to cut it out around any
Bangladeshis I might happen across.
Thing is, this wasn't a perfect plan, a fact that I had found myself admitting about every plan
I'd had in recent months. For starters, there was little room for growth. It's not like I'd be able
to work harder and produce more plasma next week. And there were transport issues. Plasma
clinics are not located in well-to-do college towns. Portland Biotechnics was, coincidentally
enough, located in Portland, half an hour by car, a fact that presumed, incorrectly as it
happened, that I had a car.
This meant hitchhiking. For those who have never had the pleasure, hitchhiking is a time-
consuming and degrading procedure whereby you stand by the road while dozens of cars
swoop by, deem you too questionable-looking to be worth the risk of stopping, and drive on.
If you persist, eventually someone will happen by and determine that you represent no risk to
them. Most often they reach this conclusion because they so clearly represent a greater risk to
you. This individual then stops, offers you a ride, and for the duration of your journey treats
you to his opinions about politics, religion, or how quickly the country is going to hell and
with what caliber its problems might best be solved.
There was an additional nuisance to my new vocation as well, one that in retrospect can only
be considered the expected price of a career in bleeding oneself. Specifically, the weekly
plasma loss left me tired and woozy for the return trip to Bridgeton. Orange drink and
cookies were available in the clinic, at very reasonable prices, to help the recently bled regain
a bit of strength. But such luxuries cut deeply into the profit margin from a $20 plasma sale,
so I kept my consumption to a minimum. The result of this economy was nearly disastrous.
After my first visit session I stumbled hazily into traffic while attempting to thumb a ride
home. Fortunately, the driver of the oncoming vehicle was an experienced motorist who was
able to slam on his brakes, swerve to avoid me, and still have the presence of mind to flip me
the bird and call me an asshole before passing, as prescribed by state law.
I was a bit curious to know what would have happened if the car had hit me. The whole
incident occurred right in front of Portland Biotechnics. I've theorized that someone from the
clinic would have rushed out to my side and offered to sell my own plasma back to me at a
slightly inflated price. Or perhaps the nurse would have dashed out into the street with a big
sponge to gather the rest of my blood before it spilled into the gutter.
So it wasn't a dream job. But then when one's housing is free, and when--unlike in
Bangladesh--the need for flood insurance is minimal, $20 a week can go a long way. That is,
assuming that one doesn't expect the finer things out of life. As in anything finer than
spaghetti cooked on a hot plate seven times a week followed by an evening gawking at stars.
"If only I'd majored in astronomy," I thought one Saturday night as I stared up through the
telescope, "I could at least think of myself as a devoted eccentric and not just a total loser."
As it happened, it was in the evening following a Portland Biotechnics visit that I first met
Roger, the individual who was destined to change my life. I'd been half-heartedly studying
stars in the descending darkness, waiting for my body to get on with replacing its lost plasma
so I could once again think straight, when I heard something moving near the door. I'd left the
door open in the hopes of catching a breeze. There was no breeze, but I had, it seemed,
managed to catch a small dog. Or perhaps it a mid-sized woodchuck. At the time I wasn't
sure, since it was pretty dark and Roger, like most small dogs and through no fault of his
own, looked more like a woodchuck than he did any sort of legitimate dog. But even at that
early juncture, I'd felt confident in guessing dog, in as much as the animal was trailing a leash
behind it, and woodchucks never have caught on as pets.
The likely dog gave a quick glance in my direction, then focused most of its attention on
sniffing around my hotplate.
"Sorry little dog, the food's all gone," I said. "But don't worry. It wasn't very good to begin
with."
Finding nothing requiring its immediate attention around the hotplate, the dog came over to
the second most interesting item in the room, me. "I see by the leash that you've escaped from
someone, little dog," I said to the little dog. "You'd better head home. Take it from me. If
they're feeding you regular and there's a roof over your head, you've got it better than you
think."
I scratched the dog's head and it licked my arm, a symbiotic relationship if ever there was
one. The dog had tags on its collar. I probably could find an address on a tag and return it,
except I'd have to start by getting up and turning on the lights, which would have taken more
energy than I had available at that moment. This proved to be just as well, as the dog's owner,
panting considerably harder than his charge, followed m new friend through the door only a
minute later.
"Roger?" the owner asked hesitantly, groping around in the dark.
When the dog--who I now was able to identify as Roger--made no particular effort to
respond, I decided the prudent move would be for me to answer in his place. Otherwise the
lights would come on, this person would see someone there lying in the dark, get scared,
scream, call campus security, and cause a general unpleasantness for all concerned that, like
most general unpleasantnesses, I'd just as soon avoid.
"If Roger is a smallish dog with an interest in sniffing around saucepans, he's over here."
The man reacted with a start to my voice. "Yes, that sounds like Roger all right," said Roger's
owner. His apprehension was appreciable. But this was to be expected. He was speaking to a
stranger lying on a desk in a darkened observatory. "I'm sorry to intrude. Roger seems to be
conducting a search for someone who'll make a better owner than me until my wife gets back
to town."
"It's no trouble," I said. "I was just explaining to Roger that he'd probably be wise to head
back home." The truth was Roger had shown few signs that he had taken my advice to heart,
although he did follow the conversation, or at least look in the direction of whoever had last
said "Roger."
"I'm glad to hear he's getting sound advice," the dog owner offered. "I could use some
myself."
"Well, I'm a little groggy on account of the blood loss, but I'll give it a whirl if you like."
Any conversation was welcome after a few hours lying in the dark watching stars.
"Blood loss? Some Native American ritual?"
"Something like that," I said. Must be someone who knew about recent developments on
campus. "What's the problem?" I considered trying to sound more Native American, but in as
much as it seemed unlikely that your average college-educated Native American sounds very
much like Jay Silverheels, I set the idea aside.
"I suppose the problem is that I'm terrible at my job and everyone's out to get me."
"Technically that's two problems," I noted. "Perhaps we should focus on just one or the
other."
"Oh yes, I suppose it is two problems. Well, why don't we focus on the everyone being out to
get me. If I could take care of that, I could live with the being-terrible-at-my-job thing."
"Fair enough. Any idea why everyone's against you."
"Mostly it seems to be because I'm so terrible at my job," Roger's owner admitted. Roger
himself had lost interest in the conversation now that no one was saying his name and had
returned to my hotplate to give the saucepan a good licking. "But I think it might also be
because they all seem to be insane."
"I see."
"I'm not paranoid, you understand. They really all hate me, and they're the ones who are
crazy. I'm not crazy."
"I don't think you're crazy," I said, mostly because whether or not he was crazy, saying he
wasn't seemed the prudent move when it came to conversing with strangers in unlit
observatories.
"What do you think I should do?"
"Give me a moment to think about it," I said. "You want those you work with to like you, or
at very least not to hate you. Getting someone to like someone else is not a simple thing, in as
much as most people are, at their core, self-interested jackasses."
"It's a tricky problem all right."
"Fortunately, there is a loophole. While other people are notoriously difficult to like, just
about everyone has a significantly more positive opinion of themselves. From this we can
deduce that there is an answer whether one was trying to ingratiate oneself with a woman or a
co-worker. If you want people to like you, all you have to do is agree with them."
Roger's owner mulled this over for a moment. Roger finished with my saucepan and
continued his exploring. Roger had no need for such advice, as everyone already liked him on
account of the fact he was furry. "But how can I agree with them if they're wrong?" Roger's
owner asked finally.
"I'm not telling you to believe what other people say, because if they're like the other people
I know, they're almost certainly wrong. And I'm not suggesting that you act on what they say,
because to do so would assuredly be disastrous. I'm just telling you to agree with them."
"To agree with them?"
"That's right."
"To agree with them without actually agreeing with them."
"Exactly."
"So if someone comes to me and says I need to give them money for some reason or other
that doesn't make sense to me?"
"Tell them they make a good point and that you're on their side."
"Even if they make a bad point and I'm not on their side?"
"Now you've got it."
"And won't they then expect me to give them the money?"
"Probably."
"But I don't?"
"Of course not."
"Won't this make them even madder?"
"Yes, it will. But it doesn't have to make them madder at you. If you remain steadfast in your
agreement with them, their anger can be diverted elsewhere."
"Isn't this unfair to whomever eventually receives this anger?"
"Potentially. Fortunately there always seems to be someone around who deserves such
treatment for one reason or another."
"Yes, I suppose that's true. But what if this person is clever enough to point the anger back in
my direction?"
"Be clever yourself. You must find a way to turn it upon someone who cannot turn it
back…try turning the anger back upon itself…or better yet, try turning it upon someone who
doesn't exist."
"It all sounds very Machiavellian. I was unaware that Native American philosophies could
be so practical."
"Well, it's not all spirit guides, you know. We've had to change with the times."
"I can see that now. I can see everything very clearly now. I must get home to plan." Roger's
owner called Roger to his side with such unexpected conviction that Roger found himself
complying, if only out of surprise. The tall man took the far end of the leash and strode
purposefully from the observatory with Roger following as quickly as someone working with
four-inch legs can manage. For my part, I fell into a deep blood-loss-induced sleep and forgot
the whole encounter by morning.

Chapter 12
June 24

That Indian was right. Kerns was sure of it. He resolved to send a deli platter over to the
observatory in thanks. Kerns had been up late into the night considering options and plotting
stratagems. He had never plotted a stratagem before in his life for fear his wife would
disapprove, but now he found he rather enjoyed it. For once, Kerns decided, he would stand
up to his problems, and stand up for himself. Specifically, he would agree with everyone
regardless of what they said. The more he thought about it, the more Kerns suspected that he
could do this without even resorting to lies, which seemed an unscrupulous and cowardly
way out. Kerns would find something in whatever was said to agree with, and simply ignore
the rest.
The next time some one came to him and said that what the school really needed a 100-foot
high statue of some long-dead Socialist revolutionary he'd never heard of, he wouldn't say
"What the hell are you talking about? Get out of my office," as he'd so often been inclined to,
or even "I'll have to think about it," as he actually had been saying. He'd say "I think it's a
wonderful idea for the school to have a sense of history," and then try to change the subject.
If pressed, he'd insist that the idea be brought before a board or group that would never agree.
Since no board or group on campus ever agreed on anything, this did not figure to be a major
challenge. When extreme measures were called for, Kerns would require the approval of the
Special Intra-Campus Steering Committee, a group that was certain not to approve any plans,
mostly on account of the fact that it didn't exist.
Only it did exist, Kerns reminded himself. A campus group exists once the paperwork has
been filed and approved by a college officer. Kerns had submitted and approved the
paperwork himself that very morning. Then he'd posted a note on the door to the group's
designated meeting room stating that this month's meeting was cancelled, as were all future
monthly meetings, until such time as a resolution to the contrary was raised during one of the
Committee's meetings according to accepted rules of order. "Those with complaints," Kerns
had added with a flourish, "are free to take them up with the group's president, who would be
duly elected at the first meeting." As the Indian had suggested, Kerns could now pass the
buck to someone who didn't exist. Kerns was, quite justly, proud. With these few simple
precautions in place, he could be on record in agreement with anything and everything, with a
virtual guarantee that nothing would come of it.
But then planning was the simple part. The bit would be dealing with his adversaries--the
students and faculty of the college--in person. Such encounters would require tact, guile, and
savvy, three skill sets Kerns had had little need to muck around with up to this point in his
life. As daunting as all this was, Kerns knew it was best to get started right away. It already
was well into June, and he needed to be ready when the full-fledged assault of students
landed in September. Kerns asked the office secretary, a large woman named Janet with a
fondness for days off, to schedule meetings with four of the student groups he'd been
ducking. "Schedule them for this afternoon," he'd said. For the first time since his promotion,
Kerns didn't dread going to a student group meeting. Out of habit, however, he did throw up.
It all started rather well. That afternoon Dean Kerns agreed with a group of three students
who felt they were being badly exploited, a group of two who were sure that humanity was
sewing the seeds of its own destruction, and a lone student who thought he deserved a better
grade in Chemistry 212, mostly because he was being badly exploited and had been
distracted the previous term by those who were sewing the seeds of his destruction. The
meetings had gone swimmingly. Kerns had sat behind his desk, nodding gravely, and
muttering "Yes, yes, I couldn't agree more," when given even the slightest opening. With
everyone taking the same side of the debates, things had remained quite civil. And as an
added benefit, the meetings had ended in record time. When each of the first two student
groups filed out, Kerns implored them to keep up their important work. He referred the
Chemistry student to the Academic Performance Sub-Committee of the Special Intra-Campus
Steering Committee, and assured him that he'd throw the full weight of his office behind this
vital effort.
The first real trouble came during the fourth and final meeting of the day, the administration's
monthly conference with the Student Coalition Against Racism, who this month, as it
happened, had some complaints they wished to air about racism. The Student Coalition
Against Racism was a particularly powerful campus organization, and they had not taken
kindly to Kerns' ducking their May meeting. Kerns had known they wouldn't like it of course,
but he had concluded, perhaps correctly, that not showing up was better than showing up and
saying the wrong thing, since this way at least they'd have to find him before they could hurt
him. Smith had taken Kerns' place at the May meeting and now took a seat by his side for the
June meeting. Smith's presence at past meetings, conferences, and informal chats only had
added to Kerns' tension. But things had gone so well all afternoon that the Dean was anxious
to show off his newfound administrative chops to someone who would understand their
value. Smith might have been a weasel, Kerns thought, but the man had enviable political
skills. Kerns suspected that Smith had never been on the wrong side of an argument in his
life. Kerns further suspected that Smith had ever been on either side of an argument in his
life. If a point was in debate, Smith was firmly on the side of abstention.
The Dean sat and listened through the meeting's early minutes, muttering "Yes, yes, you're
right of course," and jotting down notes when it seemed like someone believed they had said
something too important to be lost to the mists of time. Smith was shifting around
uncomfortably in his chair. Kerns could tell he sensed the change in his boss. The Dean was
beating Smith to the agree. Kerns was becoming confident. But unfamiliar as he was with
confidence, he failed to note that even the smallest trace of confidence has a way of growing
into a robust overconfidence. Eventually this overconfidence cost him. Kerns saw what on
the surface appeared to be an ideal opportunity for agreement and fell right into a trap.
"By all means, I agree completely that the color of a person's skin doesn't have anything to do
with intelligence or job performance," Kerns said triumphantly, and quite honestly. He had
held off offering his own opinions all day, instead just agreeing with others. And in
retrospect, perhaps he simply should have continued nodding his head and kept his mouth
shut. But now everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to continue. So Kerns pressed
on. "I mean, just look at Indian-Americans. Despite India's economic, social and political
problems, within one generation of coming to the U.S. the average Indian family has a
standard of living that's actually above that of the typical American family."
A hush fell over the room.
Then Smith's beeper sounded. "You're on your own," he whispered to Kerns, using the beeper
as an excuse to bolt from the meeting.
"I have to find out how he gets his beeper to sound on command like that," Kerns thought.
He'd seen Smith use the trick too often to believe it a coincidence. Kerns could see from the
apoplectic expressions around the table that he'd done something wrong again. And indeed,
for the next two hours he sat quietly, pretending to take notes as the meeting's participants
questioned his data, mostly by shouting obscenities at him. But Kerns was learning.
This afternoon's mistake had taught him a very valuable lesson. Kerns almost smiled when he
realized how far he'd come as an administrator in such a short time. Today's moral: don't try
to offer facts or opinions. Only open your mouth to agree, and leave it at that. In the future,
Kerns would compliment every person, group, and team he met on their remarkable
achievements, even if they hadn't any. His only opinion would be complete support. After the
meeting broke up, Kerns flipped his daily planner open to a page he had been using to record
the pearls of wisdom that he had picked up in the past six weeks.
"1. Nothing is anyone's fault, unless it happens to be your fault" it read. "2. Anything referred
to a student committee will result in inaction. Arrange for additional student committees. 3. If
anyone ever asks you to give up a comfortable position for a powerful position, say no. If it
really was a powerful position, they wouldn't be offering it to you. 4. Everyone's out to get
you, except maybe the dog, who seems to be wavering." To this he added his latest
observation. "5. Just agree with everything."
After a moment's thought, he added one more: "6. Get more advice from those who have
helped in the past."

June 25

It had been two million years, give or take a few hundred millennia. Two million years since
the piece of land that would eventually become Dana's home first poked its head above sea
level. It must have been a very proud day for this lump of volcanic rock, considering how
long it had taken to climb all the way up from the ocean floor. And it must have been
something of a let down when the tide rose a few hours later and sent the nascent island back
underwater. But then when you're a rock, you can afford to be patient.
The volcanic activity far below had just enough juice left to push three hundred feet higher
before petering out, leaving behind a truly magnificent mountain thousands of feet in height
as a testament to its immense power. Unfortunately, as only the very tip of this mountain was
visible above the Pacific, and a marginally larger piece of rock existed just a short distance
away, this monument of nature was destined to get saddled with the somewhat degrading
handle "Lesser Morrell Island." Perhaps this name gave the island an inferiority complex.
Perhaps some stone mounds just don't have greatness in them. Whatever the reason, this slab
of stone had managed to escape the sort of attention and activity that had so marked the
history of so many other, better known, locations.
True, the island did have two claims to fame, but neither was substantial enough to afford it
any more notoriety than that earned by your average medical oddity or town named after a
game show. The first of these marginally notable characteristics concerned the island's
wildlife. The Lesser Morrell Island Uncommonly Clever Monkey generally was regarded as
an extraordinarily intelligent species--perhaps the smartest monkey yet devised. The only
ones to question these chimps' intellect were Lesser Morrell Island's human inhabitants, who
liked to point out that they often had success trapping and eating the monkeys, whereas the
monkeys only occasionally had success trapping and eating them. Such dissenting opinions
aside, it's a well-known fact among medical researchers that if you have a group of monkeys
from various monkey-producing countries assembled for a hazardous and painful medical-
research assignment, most of the Lesser Morrell Island monkeys will figure out a way to get
themselves assigned to the so-called "control group" where all they have to do is loll around
downing placebos. Those that don't end up in the control group somehow wind up assigned to
the research team.
The second of Lesser Morrell Island's second-rate claims to fame was cartographical. Or
perhaps it was chronological. It all depended on how you looked at it, assuming you bothered
to look at it at all, which most people, quite rightly, didn't. Owing to an oversight at the
International Meridian Conference of 1884, Lesser Morrell Island was the only piece of land
north of Antarctica bisected by the international dateline. This error could have been
corrected, of course, but it hardly seemed worth the trouble, as the Lesser Morrell Islanders
had never considered the dateline much of a bother. In fact, despite repeated attempts, they
had never even been able to find the darn thing. The islanders eventually concluded that this
so-called 'dateline' separating today from tomorrow was just a myth subscribed to by off-
islanders. But the Lesser Morrell Islanders understood that people cling jealously to their
myths, so they never argued. When an outsider mentioned the dateline, they would agree that
it was treasured feature of their island, although difficult to see with the untrained eye. Then
the Lesser Morrell Islanders would exchange a conspiratorial wink and offer to take the off-
islander out scouting for this elusive prey, for a very reasonable fee.
The dateline anomaly was an interesting bit of trivia. But that and the cunning monkey thing
still made for an embarrassingly brief listing in the annual Who's Who of Land Masses. In
fairness, a four-square-mile patch of lava rock placed neatly in the middle of a rather sizable
ocean never really had much of a chance to become a second Athens--or even a second
Athens, Georgia. But one could not help but notice that Lesser Morrell Island had escaped
even the fleeting glory afforded many of its fellow distant specs of earth. Tahiti and Bora
Bora, for example, were known around the globe, and they were not so very much larger than
Lesser Morrell Island. Easter Island had found a niche in the world of sculpture. Howland,
Pitcairn, Bikini, Midway, they all had their pages in history. A cynic might conclude that
Lesser Morrell Island had simply arrived on the scene two million years ago and then stopped
trying.

The human history of Lesser Morrell Island, such as it was, began perhaps 4,000 years ago,
when a boat full of natives from Greater Morrell Island lost its way in a storm. By chance, or
perhaps by destiny if one believes in such things, these first Lesser Morrell Islanders
stumbled upon the one small cove that allowed entry to the island from its otherwise
prohibitively rocky coastline. These Lesser Morrell Islanders were amazed by what they
found, but mostly this was because they were the sort to be easily amazed. In truth it was an
island exactly like Greater Morrell Island, only populated by largish birds content to stroll
about on land, blissfully unaware that other birds have shown a bit of initiative and taken to
the skies. Within a few short years--the blink of an eye in historical terms--these new Lesser
Morrell Islanders realized that such walking birds were easier to catch than the ones on
Greater Morrell Island that insisted on flapping off at the slightest provocation. The natives
decided to stay.
Of course the problem with flightless birds is that you never can eat just one. Within a
generation, all the flightless birds were gone, and all the recipes for flightless bird casseroles
were rendered useless. Unable to build any new flightless birds, the natives returned to
fishing, which they had never particularly liked, on account of the fact they had a history of
losing their way in storms, which is the sort of thing that sticks with you.
Every now and again throughout the succeeding millennia a group of men from outside the
island would come by in a boat. Generally, such floating foreigners be intent on putting
Lesser Morrell Island to use for their own purposes, perhaps as a home, a port, or just a nice
vacation spot where one could wage war and rape any women or remaining flightless birds
that might happen by. But thankfully, such occasions were rare. The island's challenging
coastline helped the Lesser Morrell Islanders hold off their foes, most of whom would
quickly give up and head off to Greater Morrell Island instead, where there was more to
pillage, and the women were…well, let's just say if you had a few beads or a couple of nice,
shiny shells there was hardly any need for rape.
But while life for the Lesser Morrell Islanders had stood virtually still, change was swirling
all around them on the other islands of the Pacific. Technically speaking, every piece of land
within thousands of miles had fallen under the control of the Portuguese in 1525, when a
party of Portuguese ships in search of the Spice Islands wound up in completely the wrong
place. Making the best of a bad situation, the Portuguese declared all the islands in the
vicinity to be possessions of Portugal. This was their legal right since they had found them
first, something they did their best to explain to the islands' inhabitants.
Historians will note that in declaring these new lands to be theirs these Portuguese were
representative of a new, enlightened Europe. Earlier seafaring tradition had held that upon
discovery of a piece of land you couldn't recognize, you simply declared it to be the place
you'd been looking for in the first place. But the Portuguese were clever in the ways of the
world, and within months realized that these couldn't be the Spice Islands, since they had no
spices, just assorted fruits and lizards.
Eventually the Portuguese sailed on, never having set foot on the portion of their new
territory now known as Lesser Morrell Island. As it happened, they never found the Spice
Islands, either, as those islands had taken the sensible precaution of changing their name to
Indonesia and telling any dangerous looking foreigners who happened by in search of spices
that they should sail two weeks south, three weeks east, then stop and ask for directions. The
Portuguese expedition fell for the ruse, as did the search party sent after them. This marked
the beginning of the end of Portuguese sea power. For the next 500 years, the nation would
be content to sit around growing overly sweet wine grapes and flaunting their power over the
Azores.
Before long the Spanish took over the region from the Portuguese, their claim to the region
resting on the long-established legal principle of just-try-and-stop-us. No one did try to stop
them, since the rest of Europe was busy claiming other portions of the globe that had a bit
more land to them. For their part, the local populations of the Pacific Islands didn't even
realize the Spanish weren't Portuguese. To this day the people of the Pacific are said to
consider the Spanish language to be poorly spoken Portuguese, whereas the rest of the world
knows that it's actually Portuguese that's poorly spoken Spanish. But like the Portuguese, the
Spanish never set foot on tiny Lesser Morrell Island, since there were so many other islands
in the area that seemed more likely to contain huge piles of gold or, baring that, a nice
fountain of youth.
From 1899 through 1914 the Germans were in control, but they never bothered to stop by and
didn't keep up the payments, so between 1914 and 1945 things were run by the Japanese. The
Japanese did have a more dramatic effect on the Pacific Islands than did their predecessors,
what with thousands upon thousands of them moving in and driving up real estate values and
golf-club membership costs. But since Lesser Morrell Island was much too mountainous for
even a decent nine-hole course, the Lesser Morrell Islanders remained blissfully unaware that
anyone but them considered the island theirs. After that unpleasantness in the 1940s cleared
out the Japanese, the United Nations put the United States in charge of the area, as the UN
itself was tied up with more important matters, such as deciding which day should be
International United Nations Day.
Finally, in the late 1970s, the islands of the Pacific began teaming up to form nations
themselves. These young nations didn't really get much attention on the world stage, since
you can't have a good border dispute when you live on islands, and the press never really got
itself very worked up over the short-lived macadamia-nut cartel. Still, on many of the islands
in Lesser Morrell's neighborhood, this was a time of exciting progress. The people of the
Island of Truk now saw that they wouldn't draw vacationers with a name like Truk--not when
they were up against places with exciting names like Maui and Atlantic City. So they
changed their name to Chuuk. Meanwhile on Nui they installed a phone. Eight years later,
they installed another. Within months, the two were connected, and use skyrocketed. Wrong
numbers were not a problem.
None of this change had much of an effect on Lesser Morrell Island, mostly because no one
had bothered to tell them about it. The island's lack of a port suitable for large vessels,
together with its uneven terrain disadvantageous to aircraft runways, had successfully
curtailed interest by foreigners of all flavors. The Lesser Morrell Islanders had won the war
against colonization without even knowing that it had been fought.
Only during World War II did any outside power show even the mildest of interest in Lesser
Morrell Island, and that was just a token, half-hearted interest, something akin to the
obligatory attention Rock Hudson paid his leading ladies. Specifically, the Japanese had
stationed a single soldier on the island in 1941, not so much for any real strategic purpose,
but rather out of a sense of punctiliousness for which the Japanese long have been known.
The soldier, a raw recruit of 18, was ordered to defend this land with his life and to remain at
his post even if it seemed obvious that the war had been over for decades and everyone had
just forgotten to let him know, which, predictably enough, was how things turned out.
When the U.S. Marine Corps reclaimed the Pacific in a series of bloody battles in 1944,
Lesser Morrell Island was overlooked by a careless admiral's aide who assumed it to be
nothing more than a crumb from the tuna sandwich he was eating as he reviewed the map.
Thus the island was spared from bloodshed, although it was left with a Japanese soldier who
insisted on raiding the natives' food supplies every few weeks. The locals finally put a stop to
this behavior in the 1960s by inviting the soldier to dinner. The man accepted, if only because
it had been a long 20 years eating alone in the woods and he was interested to find out the
news from the war and maybe some baseball scores. The Lesser Morrell Islanders, who didn't
want to disappoint the soldier, and anyway knew a good opportunity for a practical joke when
they saw one, told him the war was going well, but it figured to rage on for another decade or
two.
Contented, the man returned to the woods, coming down only for dinner and later to
publicize a book about his 40 years on Lesser Morrell Island. Tragically, the book didn't sell
well, as it hit the market just months after four other books written by Japanese soldiers who
was still fighting World War II on other islands, and a fifth by a soldier who was still fighting
the Meiji Restoration of 1868. But this mattered little as Lesser Morrell Island's soldier died
only weeks after his book's release, leaving all proceeds from his volume to the war effort.
Despite the poor book sales, the soldier came to be seen as a hero in Japan, one of the last of
a great generation willing to do whatever they were told in the name of country and honor
without a second thought, or for that matter, without much evidence of a first. The man's
family was said to be extremely proud.
The people of Lesser Morrell Island hardly had stopped talking about the death of their
soldier when fresh groups of outsiders began dropping by ten or twelve years later. First came
missionaries. They were nice enough sorts, although the islanders did find them a bit preachy.
And then came a new type of outsider that claimed not to be soldiers or missionaries. They
were social activists, they explained, people of science and humanity who wished only to
study the Lesser Morrell Islanders and their homeland. The Lesser Morrell Islanders
suggested that if these people wanted to see something really interesting, they ought to go to
Greater Morrell Island, where they had all kinds of neat stuff like electric lights and video
poker. The outsiders said that wasn't the kind of thing that interested them. Lesser Morrell
Island was more their speed, they insisted, since it hadn't been spoiled by foreigners. And
after talking it over amongst themselves, the Lesser Morrell Islanders said, fine, come to our
island and study us, but stay away from our sisters.

Dana had been on Lesser Morrell Island for three days, and the experience had been the
greatest of her life, except maybe when it was too hot. Which, thus far, had been always. And
the dateline expedition she'd agreed to had been a bit of a bust. But Dana had come into this
with her eyes open: social activism was like art films or tofu. You didn't expect to enjoy it,
you just did it to prove that you're one of those people who enjoy such things.
There had been something of an altruistic rush to the island in the past year or two, as a wide
range of social crusaders had swept down on one of the few remaining places on the globe
still untouched by outsiders. Environmentalists and social crusaders, like antiques dealers and
classic car collectors, like things in unaltered condition. It's a tenet of the social activist belief
system that separates them rather markedly from, say, industrialists and property developers,
who tend to argue that improvements are, well, improvements. Each side can site precedent
to defend its position. On the one hand, advances in technology, medicine, and agriculture
have helped improve the lives of billions. On the other, without traditional, unspoiled peoples
and places, there's a good chance the world would have lost the simple joys of beetle eating
and animism.
Lesser Morrell Island's phalanx of activists included Jeff Tabac, tall and thin, forever forced
to duck through the island's low doors and under tree branches. Jeff had spent much of the
past year under tent roofs, and now stood with a permanent hunch even when in the relatively
roomy outdoors. With the financial backing of a well-known international organization, Jeff
had started Lesser Morrell Island's first environmental program. When he feared that he
wasn't doing enough, he had started three others.
Jeff's closest friend was Tommy Binder. Tommy was an ordinary man, unspectacular in
appearance and uninspired in intellect. He was, simply put, extra-ordinary--or he would have
been, if that term hadn't already been employed to describe quite the opposite. Tommy might
well have been the most ordinary man who had ever lived, and he hoped that this might count
as something exceptional, although deep down in his ordinary soul he knew it didn't. Tommy
was the island's most recent arrival, Dana aside, a fact that had left him a bit over-eager to fit
in, which, of course, further reduced his chances of actually doing so. Tommy had been sent
to the island to start a literacy program. He also had started an island anti-litter campaign,
mostly because Jeff had misread his sign-up sheet for literacy volunteers and Tommy hadn't
wanted to disappoint him.
It had been a productive partnership. Together, Jeff and Tommy had reduced the litter
problem on Lesser Morrell Island by nearly 100%. Jeff had noted that the main source of
litter on the island was all the printed reading materials that Tommy passed out as part of his
literacy campaign. In a bold pre-emptive strike on litter, Jeff had Tommy stop handing out
reading materials.
Then there was Laura Pressinger, an energetic, driven woman who would have been perfectly
described by the term "perky," except that she preferred terms like "energetic" and "driven,"
made it a point to be involved with every vital cause on the island. She was regional president
of, and received funding from, no fewer than 10 different social activism organizations. And
although she was rumored to be the sole member of at least eight of the local chapters of
those ten groups, the others admired her skills in juggling so many leadership responsibilities
and the boundless commitment it reflected.
Brent Gonner was a hydroelectric engineer on the island to construct a dam for a group
known as Power to the People. The other activists thought Brent might be a bit conceited,
perhaps because his hydrological engineering degree meant that he could be making big
money somewhere else. In truth, Brent wasn't a very good hydrological engineer, and
probably could not have been. But he saw no reason for the others to know this, and went
right on acting a bit conceited, peering questioningly over the top of his wire rim glasses
whenever someone said something with which he might or might not agree.
No one was quite sure what organization had funded Sarah Skeller's stay on Lesser Morrell
Island. But everyone knew her focus. Sarah had created--and named herself the head of--
three groups, each of which strove to foment political revolution among the island's natives. It
isn't an easy thing to foment political revolution in a place that contained no politics, so
Sarah's task was not an easy one.
First Sarah had tried to form a local cell of the Communist party. For a week, she had
marched around the small native village with a Chinese flag and Mao jacket. When she
stopped marching, she told the local people that they must give her everything they had and
let her decide who deserved what. To Sarah’s dismay, this plan had drawn little support from
the proletariat. So Sarah turned to Socialism, and told the Lesser Morrell Islanders they
should at least turn over half of what they had. As socialists, they wouldn't even be required
to march around the village, except maybe once a year on May Day. But still Sarah sensed
reluctance. In desperation she had started a local chapter of the Democratic party and begged
the villagers to give her at least some of their possessions, in exchange for which she would
make promises she couldn't possibly keep but otherwise would stay more-or-less out of their
way. Taking pity, or perhaps just anxious to shut Sarah up, the natives had agreed, and given
her four pieces of fruit and a carved bowl. In return, Sarah promised that she would take care
of the old, the sick, and the needy. She then went home and ate the fruit. It was a small
victory, but an important one in that it set a precedent. In four years, Sarah would be able to
return and demand even more fruit and carved bowls.
Finally, there was Doctor Mudgett. He ran only one organization, the hospital, and that wasn't
really an activist group so much as it was, well, a hospital. The doctor thus received little
respect from the other more active members of the local political community. Still, Mudgett
was allowed to join the others in their get togethers, partly out of sense of inclusiveness, but
mostly because his tent was the only one large enough to fit the whole group. Every now and
then Sarah made noises about liberating the tent from Mudgett's possession. It would have
been for the common good, most agreed, but such a move would have risked alienating the
doctor and thereby cutting off the region's supply of recreational pharmaceuticals.
Besides, Mudgett was a big bear of a man with a mean-looking beard who the others were not
very anxious to cross. The doctor had such an ursine presence that Jeff, who had once spent
three months protecting the grizzlies in the Canadian north, until he had been quite badly
mauled, felt a subconscious need to defend Mudgett…as well as a very conscience fear that
the doctor one day would rip him to shreds. Adding to Jeff's fear was the unavoidable fact
that Mudgett had been on Lesser Morrell Island longer than anyone apart from the Morrell
Islanders; the long-term island confinement, it seemed, had begun to drain away the
physician's finite supply of sanity.
Dana wondered how she could fit in. Her trip to the middle of the Pacific had been arranged
so quickly that no one had bothered to worry about what she might do whilst there. Dana's
original mandate, to help distribute food to the impoverished people of Spanish Guyana, did
not apply as well here on Lesser Morrell Island. These natives were by all appearances
extremely well fed. And, as it happened, Dana had no food to distribute. In fact, she could
only hope that the natives could spare some of their food for her.
This was not her first problem, however. Before Dana could worry about her mandate or the
possibility that she might starve, she had to establish herself among the island's activists. The
others were not be anxious to accept another outsider into their territory, particularly when
that outsider represented One Planet, an organization so large and successful at fund raising
that it was roundly despised by smaller, lesser known groups that were trying to save the
world in exactly the same ways. Fortunately, Dana had a trump card. She recently had been
held in a South American prison. Or, at very least, in a South American airport conference
room, which under the circumstances would have to do. For an activist, there are few better
coups than a good stretch of South American imprisonment. There were social activists who
took their vacations in South America then loitered and jay-walked with abandon just to have
some South American jail time on their resumes. The only thing more impressive was to be
killed for a cause, but that was a bit drastic as career moves go.
"Great, just what this island needs, another foreigner," the first fellow activist Dana came
across on Lesser Morrell Island had said. Dana would later learn that he was Tommy, an
insecure man who had arrived only a week earlier. "I suppose you're an expert on Lesser
Morrell Island?"
"I'm afraid not," Dana responded, ready to try out her trump card. "I've been a bit out of the
loop--I was only released from a South American prison a few days ago."
The man simply dropped his head and wandered off, defeated, wishing he, too, could have
been imprisoned by a repressive government.
This conversation was repeated along more-or-less the same lines with each new activist and
environmentalist Dana happened across. One or two mentioned that they, too, had been
unjustly imprisoned, for chaining themselves to gates in Arizona or creating a nuisance in
Washington or unpaid parking tickets in New Jersey. But their stories fell short and they
knew it. Left no other option, Dana's peers accepted her into their community. Dana was
allotted a cot in one of the four army-surplus canvas pup tents that the activists had raised on
bamboo platforms a few hundred yards up the coast from the natives' village, informed that
Tuesday would be her day to prepare the meals, and warned not to bother with any Gilligan's
Island jokes, since that's what everyone else had done when they first arrived and now they
were all pretty much sick of them, especially the natives, who had never found the show very
compelling in the first place.
With the introductions out of the way, all Dana had to do was determine how best to improve
this corner of the world. At least she had choices. The six activists who had preceded her
already had started at least 20 social, environmental, and political organizations and
initiatives. It spoke to the drive and commitment of these activists that they had launched
more than three organizations apiece in such short order. The natives themselves had started
no organizations in the many millennia that they had been here, Dana noted, purely for the
sake of comparison, not because she thought it reflected negatively on them. It was simply
their way, and it was not Dana's place to criticize. Fortunately, the activists were now there to
make things right.

Chapter 13
June 28

From my perspective, June 27th, a Sunday, had been very much like June 26. The 26th had
been, in turn, quite similar to June 25. The 25th had been extremely comparable to June 24.
And the 24th had been a precise replica of the 23rd, if only because I had neglected to cross
the 23rd off on my calendar the first time through, dooming myself to live it again in its
entirety, at least so far as I knew. The passage of time had ceased to have much meaning in
my world, and figured to continue to do so until Bucklin's students flooded back to campus,
at which point campus regulations regarding vagrancy, as well as any remaining pride I might
possess, would compel me to move along.
This infestation of college students was scheduled to occur on August 30. There was little
hope of a reprieve. Bucklin had been scheduling school years for 200-some-odd years, and
each had begun promptly on schedule. Bucklin students had somehow found their way to
campus through wars, railroad strikes, and a pesky Influenza Pandemic that killed off a third
of the student body...yet never dropped class attendance rates down to anywhere their current
lamentable levels. In fact, from my perspective, the coming school year seemed destined to
begin ahead of schedule, since I had not yet discovered my oversight with the calendar on the
23rd.
Monday June 28th broke the monotony. My goal for the day was to sleep late, then spend the
afternoon searching for a hovel or hollow tree within my price range, so I would have
someplace to sleep come September. Instead, I was awakened at ten in the morning by an
unexpected and exciting call. In as much as the phone had been disconnected since the end of
May, I was willing to consider any actions on its part unexpected and exciting. I sat up on my
bed, by which I mean the office sofa, to consider my options.
The proper course of action might seem obvious on the surface. Indeed, many people
confronted by a ringing phone simply jump right in, happily taking up their receivers to find
out who's at the other end, as if this was the only path available. But I'd grown a bit skittish
about the whole phone-answering and human-interaction experience in recent months, an
unavoidable consequence of the fact that none of the news I had received qualified as good
news by even the most forgiving of standards. Still, I found the idea of speaking to another
human did hold a sort of nostalgic charm. I labeled "answer the phone" option A. The
alternate path was slightly more defensive: I could let the phone ring, while I hid under the
office desk curled up in the fetal position, quietly begging for it to stop. I had to admit, this
idea, too, was not without its allure. I'd call it option B. On the downside, option B did seem a
bit defeatist. Now to weigh between the two options… Then the phone stopped ringing.
"That solves that problem," I thought, pleased to have had cleared the day's first hurdle. I got
up to brush my teeth. I'd run out of toothpaste the week before, but I'd found plenty of liquid
hand soap stored under the bathroom sink. It didn't taste as good as toothpaste, but one gets
used to such things. Anyway, it's not like there's a positve correlation between comfort and
effect dental care. Odds are, dentists will start recommening brushing with hand soap any day
now.
I had just finished soaping down my upper left molars when the phone rang again. I was more
awake this time, and thus largely able to contain my earlier inclination to hide under office
furniture. I settled on option A. Why not? I wasn't expecting the results of any major medical
tests, and all I had left at that point was my health. I strode confidently toward the phone. I
didn't feel confident, but one must at least consider the possibility that phones can smell fear.
Not until my hand lifted the receiver did the thought strike me: while I wasn't expecting the
results of any medical tests, the folks at Portland Biotechnics had been processing my blood
on a regular basis. They very probably had turned up some hidden flaw that would prevent
me from selling plasma at $20 a week and that, to add insult to injury, would then kill me. Or
was that adding injury to insult? Either way, I didn't like the sound of it, and my confident
front was badly shaken by the time the receiver reached my ear.
"Hello." I said, as this seemed as good a place to start as any.
"I want to thank you for your advice," said a vaguely familiar voice.
"You're welcome," I responded out of reflex. I was too relieved that my blood wasn't trying to
kill me--at least so far as this caller knew--to worry about such details as to whom I was
speaking.
"It was wonderful advice."
"Don't mention it," I answered. "I'm glad it helped."
"But I need some more."
"You do?"
"Yes, I am in definite need of more advice."
"Was there a problem with the original advice?"
"No, no. The advice was fine. I loved the advice. I've had great success with it on more than
one occasion. However I'm afraid there are times when additional options are required."
"There are?"
"I'm afraid so."
"You've had problems?"
"A few minor problems, yes."
"How minor?"
"I wasn't actually strung up, but it was touch and go there for a while."
"And you’re sure you want more advice after those initial results?"
"Oh yes, I'm quite confident that the advice was sound, and only the execution was lacking.
In fact it was going rather well until I made one or two small tactical errors."
"I see."
"It might be helpful at this juncture if you could tell me what number you think you dialed so
I can point out that you're thanking the wrong person."
"I don't think I have the wrong person--I remember your voice. Isn't this the Native American
Observatory? I asked them to reconnect the line to the Observatory."
"Yes, it is, but…"
"I don't expect this advice for free, of course. If there's anything at all I can do for you, all you
need to do is ask."
"Oh, well that changes everything," I said. Actually, it didn't change everything. It didn't
change the fact that I didn't know who the caller was or what he was talking about. Nor did it
change the fact that someone who has screwed up his own life as badly as I had screwed up
mine should be vigorously dissuaded, if not legally barred, from offering advice to others.
Asking my counsel was like relying on the guidance of a fortune teller who operated out of a
trailer home or basement office; if they knew anything useful about the future--or the present,
for that matter--why the hell couldn't they afford a permanent, above ground place of
business? But as I was currently unemployed and soon to be homeless, I was hardly in a
position to turn down anyone willing to do anything for me in exchange for a bit of advice. "I
have some great advice that is perfectly tailored to your individual situation," I said.
"Wonderful."
"Now, if you could just tell me who you are, who you think I am, where we've met before,
and what your problem is."
"Uh…You don't recall."
"Certainly I recall. I recall every moment of our engrossing encounter as if it happened this
very week."
"It did happen this very week."
"Don't interrupt. I simply believe that reviewing the background often is a good way to make
sure everyone's on the same page."
"Oh, yes. Very sensible. Let's see, you want to know who I am, when we met, who I think
you are, and what my problem is…Okay, here goes, I'm Roger's owner. We met when Roger
went poking around your Native American Observatory. You're the Native American from
the observatory."
"Oh yes, Roger. Laconic sort...about twelve inches high...furry?" I'd thought Roger and his
owner had been a dream. The plasma selling hadn't done wonders for my memory.
"That's him."
"And the advice I gave?"
"You advised Roger that he ought to be happy with what he has, and you advised me to agree
with people. Roger seems to have taken your advice to heart, in as much as he didn't try to
run away this morning, a pursuit that until now has been the greatest passion of his life. As
for me, agreeing with everyone worked wonders at first…but I ran into one or two minor
hiccups, and was wondering if you had anything else."
"What exactly went wrong?"
"When I tried to agree with someone I ended up insulting him."
"Yes, I see where that could be a problem. And you say you weren't trying to insult him?"
"No, of course not. I was trying to pander to him. It's just so very difficult to agree with
people when you don't know what portion of reality they agree with, and what portion they
consider heresy."
"I do see your point, but I hope you don't give up on the agreeing with everyone just yet.
These things can take some practice, but with work you'll be able to agree with even the most
irrational positions."
"Oh, I do hope you're right."
"But in the meantime, let's try to come up with that new advice you'd hoped for. Was there
anything specific you were looking for?"
"No, nothing specific really. I was hoping for some sort of grand, profound statement that I
could reflect upon throughout my life and career."
"Grand and profound, eh? Well, it's a bit hard for me to sound very philosophical at the
moment, since it's daytime and I'm not suffering from extreme blood loss as I was during our
earlier encounter. Maybe we could kick some ideas around for a while until I come up with
something."
"I thought you said you had some great advice all ready for me."
"Hey, who's the spiritual advisor here? Believe me, it works better this way."
"Brainstorming session. Okay, if that's how these things work. I've never had a spiritual
advisor before."
"Really? I thought everyone had a spiritual advisor these days. To be honest, my time is so
filled up with the spiritual advising sometimes that I hardly have time for anything else."
"I can imagine. Well, how should we get started? I need help in so many areas. I'm really
pretty bad at everything."
"Everything?"
"Well, I suppose I'm pretty good at what I used to do. In my field I was considered quite
solid. Satisfactory, even."
"Great, there's your answer."
"Where? Where's my answer?" Roger's owner asked, afraid that it might run off before he'd
spotted it.
"You have an area of strength," I said. "Whenever someone tries to better you in an area of
weakness, just bring the issue back around to your area of strength so they'll be on the
defensive."
"Even if the points are totally unrelated?"
"Especially if they're unrelated. As long as it's established that you know more on the subject
than your adversary, they'll have to take your word that the point you're making is relevant."
"Interesting idea," Kerns admitted. "Very interesting. But again I'm struck by how little your
guidance sounds like the peaceful, one-with-the planet stuff that Native Americans are known
for."
"It doesn't?"
"Not even close."
"Well, I really shouldn't tell you this, but we're preparing for a bloody revolution."
"A bloody revolution? After all this time?"
"But don't tell anyone."
"Any chance it could be a bloodless revolution?"
"Always a chance I suppose. But before we stray too far from the subject, you mentioned that
you might be able to do something for me."
"Anything I can do, you have my word," said Roger's owner. "What do you need?"
"What I find myself in need of at the moment is a job."
"I thought the spiritual guiding kept you busy."
"Yes, but I'm afraid it just isn't paying the bills like it used to. Those 1-900 psychic hotlines
have been eating into the profit margins, you understand."
"I'm very sorry to hear that. Are you looking for an opening in the spiritual guidance field?"
"Something related to spiritual guidance, anyway. Perhaps investment banking, for example.
But I'm flexible. Can you help?"
"Perhaps. I'll talk to the career services office this very morning."
Mentioning the 'career services office' probably meant that Roger's owner was indeed
affiliated with the college, as I had suspected.
"If by 'career services office' you mean Bucklin's career services office, they have my resume
on file. Just tell them to look under the name Gwafin."
"Gwafin. How interesting. What does it mean?"
"It means me."
"Oh…" Roger's owner sounded a bit disappointed. "I thought your names had some sort of
deeper meaning."
"Well, I suppose it could mean 'The Oracle on the Hill' in Navaho."
"Really?"
"It's possible, I guess. Why not? Something has to mean 'The Oracle on the Hill."
"The Oracle on the Hill," repeated Roger's owner. "That's just perfect."
"Yes, I thought you might like it."
"I'll contact you there in the Native American Observatory as soon as I find out something
about that job."
"Hmm…"
"Problem?" Roger's owner asked.
"I was just thinking that we probably should come up with a better name than the Native
American Observatory--sounds like some sort of cross between a reservation and a zoo."
"Yes, that's an excellent point."
"See? You're already improving at agreeing with people who say dumb things. It can be a
powerful weapon."
"I'll use it in a way that brings honor to your people."
"That's all my people can ask."
By her fourth day on the island, Dana felt right at home. It's easy to feel good when one's
working for a cause one believes in, and even easier when working for two. Dana had
decided to spend her mornings working with Brent's humanitarian organization "Power to the
People," constructing a dam to bring electricity to the island. In the afternoon, Dana helped
one of the island's environmental groups, "The Green Lands' Turn." Mostly the GLT was
interested in stopping the construction of the dam, since it would irreparably harm the
ecosystem of the river. Dana felt equally committed to both causes, and decided that her time
was best divided evenly between them.
It was late afternoon--either 5 or 6 p.m., depending on where one was standing on Lesser
Morrell Island in relation to the date line--so Dana was busy improving the environment. To
be precise, she was improving the environment by planting explosives at the base of a nearly
completed dam. It was a dramatic, proactive move, perhaps even a controversial one in some
circles. But the Green Lands' Turn did not consider themselves extremists. To show their
willingness to work within the system, they had decided to wait until after the Power to the
People staff had left for the day before detonating any bombs.
There was, of course, a chance that one of the Power People people could return
unexpectedly. But this was a longshot, in as much as every member of the dam-building team
also was an active member of the GLT, and thus their present whereabouts could be
accounted for with a reasonable degree of certainty. Still, the GLT activists wore disguises so
as not to be recognized by any Power types who might happen by. Dana was not sure where
they'd found seven pairs of novelty glasses with fake nose-and-mustache so far from
civilization.
She glanced up at the GLT lookout to make sure all was well. The man was well trained, and
he knew the area. In fact, on most days he served as the Power security guard. The lookout
signaled that all was indeed well, then resumed scanning the forest lest he arrive suddenly
and take himself by surprise.
Dana looked up at the top of the dam, where the group's explosives expert neared the
completion of his work. The GLT was fortunate to have found such a skilled person in the
region. As luck would have it, he was in the area to construct the dam, and had volunteered
for this assignment. Everyone here is so willing to help, Dana thought with no small measure
of pride. Her part of the job complete, Dana decided that this would probably be a good time
to seek higher ground, away from any possible explosions or sudden rushes of water. She
began climbing the once and future river bank towards safety.
Dana's heart was racing with the danger. What if the GLT's explosives went off too soon?
What if the lookout suddenly turned back into the guard? She sneaked a glance at a fellow
team member as she passed by, but could read nothing in his expression behind the novelty
glasses. Then everyone was running. Where explosives are involved, following the crowd
often is a good thing, so Dana ran as well. Soon she heard the blast, and ensuing shower of
debris on the forest canopy.
The island's ecology stood to benefit from the destruction of this dam throughout the ages.
Whatever else Dana did for the rest of her life, she could know she made this contribution.

The phone was ringing again when I returned to the observatory. I'd been out early for my
daily trip to the campus gym. I was quite proud that I'd made to it to the gym each day that
summer without exception. Once there I would come up with an excuse for not exercising,
then take a shower. I could have tried to stay in shape, of course. I certainly had the time. But
if trips to the gym required work, I might start skipping them altogether, and repetition is the
most important factor when it comes to conditioning. Anyway, I needed the showers more
than the muscles. The Observatory was a little lacking in the bathtub department.
"Mr. Gwafin, it's me, Roger's owner," said Roger's owner. "Sorry it took so long for me to get
back to you. I finally got a hold of someone down in the career services office and they have
something for you--actually, they've been trying to find you for a week now."
"You’re kidding--where?"
"They say they've been looking everywhere. Of course, we're talking about Career Services
employees, so that probably means they looked to see if you were in their waiting room."
"No, I mean where's the job?"
"Johnston Brothers, the investment bank. They want you to come down to New York for a
second interview."
"Oh, that," I said, deflated. "They told me about that when they were here on campus. They
want me to come down for an interview, only there's no job and I'd have to pay my own
travel expenses."
"Hmm. That would seem to take a level of excitement off the whole interview experience,"
admitted Roger's owner. "Still, I think you should give them a call. The people in the career
services office seemed very upbeat. It's been a tough year for them you know, what with so
many of our graduates being unemployed and all."
"Yes, I can imagine how much they must be suffering."
"So you'll call?"
"Sure, why not." I took down the number. "I just need to find a phone that allows long-
distance calls. This one seems to think I'm better off interacting with only local residents
since it came back to life this morning." I hadn't expected to get through to Spanish Guyana,
but nothing is lost in trying.
"You can use the phone at the career services office…actually, you better head down to the
alumni offices instead. The career services people tend to take the afternoons off in the
summer."
"But the alumni people will be there?"
"Oh yes. They never close. I'll let them know you're coming."
"Sounds good."
"If there is a job you'll probably move to New York."
"I suppose so."
"I'll miss your council. It's been nice to have someone to turn to. It's a very powerless feeling,
this being in charge. Any final words of advice?"
"I hadn't realized you were in charge," I said, honestly surprised that anyone would have put
Roger's owner in charge of anything more complicated than Roger. "There is one lesson
about leadership I believe you need to learn. When you're the boss, you can have everyone's
problems, or everyone can have your problems--it's up to you."
"I'm going to jot that down," said Kerns. "I want to think about it later. But what should I do
if I need more advice?"
"Just ask Roger. He's a very wise dog."
"Really?"
"Well, he won't give you any bad advice anyway. And that puts him miles ahead of most
advice givers."
"Are you saying that I don't really need any more advice, and deep down I now have
everything I need within myself?"
"Ahhh, yea, sure. What the hell. But just to be on the safe side, you'd better run any big
decisions by Roger first."
Wonderful. Now I'd have to spend half an hour on the phone with the Johnston Brothers
personnel department explaining that I wasn't coming down to New York unless they either
paid for the trip or pretended that there was a job available. Still, I decided to make the call.
There was nothing to lose, even if there was nothing to gain. Anyway it gave me a chance to
enter the mysterious Alumni Affairs building, something I hadn't done while a student on
campus. No one I knew had ever set foot in the building, although rumors persisted of a
nirvana of complementary coffee and cookies.
I was about to head over when I caught a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. It had been
some time since I had shaved or, for that matter, donned leg wear that extended below my
knees. This shouldn't have mattered, since I was just making a phone call, and the acceptance
of videophone technology by society has been painfully slow, but there was something about
the alumni building that suggested a degree of formality--or at least basic hygiene. So I
shaved. And washed my face. And combed my hair with a serious, professional part on the
left, in place of my usual, devil-may-care part on the right. I even put on my suit, which had
hung undisturbed in a storage closet since I'd moved in in June. If I remained unemployed
much longer, it had a shot to come back into style.
When I entered the alumni building, I was glad I'd taken the time to clean myself up. Inside it
was less like a college building, and more like a college building as envisioned by someone
working without a budget. The carpet was so new that I felt guilty for walking on it. The
paint on the walls was so fresh that I would have felt guilty for walking on them, too...though
if I could have walked on the walls, it might have been a neat enough trick to be worth the
smudges.
There wasn't a corner in sight that didn't contain either a vase of flowers or a Bucklin
employee. And there wasn't a Bucklin employee who didn't sport a well-tailored suit, a rarity
not just for a college campus, but the whole state of Maine. As a rule, anyone wearing a suit
in Maine was either trying to sell you something you didn't need, heading to court concerning
something they'd just as soon not discuss, or en route to a funeral, possibly their own.
Social acceptance wasn't the only reason I was glad I'd worn my suit. The alumni building's
air was conditioned within an inch of its life. There was just one reason for anyone not
storing meat to keep a building this cold in the summer: to prove they could. Bucklin's alumni
department was so well funded that they could afford to turn their air conditioning up well
past the point of discomfort, and they wanted you to know it the moment you walked in the
door.
I noted with pleasure that the alumni building legends were true in another department as
well: the reception area featured not just a coffee urn, but a plate piled so high with cookies
that the top wafers swayed slightly in the air conditioner's breeze. I helped myself to a cup of
coffee to combat the cold, but decided it would be prudent to get my phone call taken care of
before attempting to swipe such a staggering quantity of cookies. I gave some thought to
making a grab for the coffee urn as well. The idea of running full speed with a hot vessel
filled with a colored fluid whilst wearing one's only suit had certain downsides worth
considering...but it was very good coffee.
A badly frostbitten receptionist directed me to an office on the second floor, where I met
Foster Castleman VI, the director of alumni giving. Mr. Castleman was, well, exactly what
one would expect a Foster Castleman VI to be, which is to say he came from a long line of
people successful enough that they could live with the fact that they were all named Foster
Castleman. To put it another way, he was nothing like the typical college employee. If he
hadn't taken the alumni fund-raising job, he'd probably have been running a bank somewhere.
Foster Castleman VI might have been running a bank in his spare time for all I knew. A man
who looks that distinguished walks into a bank and I suspect they just offer him the place.
Then there was his wardrobe. If suits could talk, Castleman's would not have spoken to mine.
Yet this sixth incarnation of Foster Castleman turned out to be a very reasonable man. He
consented to let me use his office phone, in exchange only for my agreeing to donate $100 of
my first Johnston Brothers' bonus to Bucklin should I land the job. A hundred dollars might
seem like a significant sum for a phone call, but the joke was on him since I knew there was
no job. The negotiations complete, Castleman politely withdrew so I could make my call in
private. For my part, I politely ignored the suspicious clicks I heard on the line as I dialed.
"Gwafin," said the voice at the other end after a single ring.
"That's right," I stammered. "How did you know."
"How did I know what? And who is this?"
"How did you know who I am, and I'm Bob Gwafin, to answer both your questions."
"You’re who?"
"I'm Gwafin."
"You're Gwafin?" There was a pause. "Oh yes. Mr. Gwafin. You’ll be calling about the job."
"That's right."
"I'm very much looking forward to meeting you. How soon can you be in New York?"
"I'd have to look into travel arrangements…," I said, trying to estimate the time required to
hitchhike 300 miles, allowing for the inevitable attempts on my life in and around New
Haven, Connecticut.
"Oh, we can take care of that at our end. How's Wednesday? I'll tell my assistant to have a
ticket waiting for you at the airport."
"Wednesday would be fine," I answered, mostly because any day would be fine as long as
someone else was paying.
"Great. She'll call you back with the details. Where can you be reached?"
I gave him the Observatory number, thereby dooming myself to hours of standing watch over
a phone, since the Observatory phone had no Observatory answering machine.
"If my assistant asks you in what name to reserve the ticket," the man continued, "just tell her
Gwafin. And remember: we can't trust anyone."
Castleman reentered his office as soon as I'd hung up.
"Not exactly a typical way to end business call," I said. "And against all expectations it
sounds like they're actually willing to pay my travel costs. Could I be dreaming this whole
thing?"
"No, I don't think so," answered Castleman. "Because I'm here, too, and the alumni
department doesn't have a way of inserting its representatives into the dreams of alumni. Not
yet."
"Yet…you mean you're working on it?"
"Officially I have no comment on that...but I can say that we're very actively working on a
way to block that dream where you suddenly realize you've forgotten to attend class all
semester and it's the morning of the final exam. Terrible for fund raising, that one."
"I can imagine."
"If it helps, it's possible that this is my dream," said Castleman. "I dream about our alumni
landing good jobs all the time."
"No I don't think that's it," I said. "Actually, this feels less like a dream and more like
something that would happen to Cary Grant in a Hitchcock film."
"A Hitchcock film?"
"You know, where an ordinary man is suddenly drawn into a web of intrigue. That wouldn't
be so bad, I guess. I mean it's not like Grant's characters were ever actually killed in one of
those movies… They just were nearly killed many, many times."
"We are talking about Johnston Brothers, after all," offered Castleman. "What's a few
attempts on your life compared to a good job at Johnston Brothers?"
"And attempts on my life are really just a worst-case scenario--or an attempt at a worst-case
scenario, anyway. Chances are, it's merely a matter of some sort of underhanded financial
scheme for which I'll be set up as the patsy."
"Yes, that does seem more likely, now that you mention it."
"I could live with that," I said. "Those guys who get caught in financial scams usually wind
up in minimum-security prisons. Sounds pretty cushy."
"It would be a roof over your head and three meals a day," said Castleman.
"Three meals. That would be something. Maybe this will work out after all. I'll keep you
posted."
"Oh, don't bother. We'll keep tabs on you."
"But if I get the job I'll have to move to New York. How will you know where I am?"
"We're the Alumni Affairs Office. We know everything. There are Bucklin students living in
caves in Tibet that still receive calls during our annual fund-raising drive."
"I knew it--you were eavesdropping on my phone call to Johnston Brothers."
"That would be unethical."
"But you don't deny it, do you?"
"You're one to talk. You're willing to break the law and risk a prison term just for a chance at
a job."
"A minimum-security prison term for a chance at a good job, if you don't mind. I'm not a
monster."
"Tell you what. I'll overlook the questionable elements of what I just heard while illegally
listening in on your call in exchange for your ignoring my illegally listening in on your call--
plus another donation of $100."
"That's extortion."
"Okay," admitted Castleman. "You got me there. It was extortion. Tell you what. I'll forget
about the second $100 donation if you forget about the extortion attempt."
"How about this," I offered. "I'll forget about the extortion, the illegal eavesdropping, and I
won't start a rumor that you've implanted tracking chips in the necks of Bucklin graduates in
exchange for your overlooking the questionable nature of the job I'm about to jump at, plus
you forget about both $100 donations."
"Hmm. Well played," said Castleman. "I'm not usually one to give up on an agreed upon
donation--if I did that, our enforcers would be out of work--but I'll go along this one time,
since that tracking chip rumor could open up a can of worms that I'd just as soon leave
closed. And $100 is less than I'd have to pay to have you killed to keep your mouth shut--at
least it is if you land the Johnston Brothers' job. If you're living on the street, I can have you
killed for a price so low I'd be a fool not to jump at it."
We shook on the agreement. "Well, I'd better get back to my observatory. That odd
investment banker's assistant might be trying to reach me as we speak."
"Oh don't worry, no one's called your number yet."
"You're tapping my phone?"
"Nothing of the sort. We're simply monitoring the usage of college long distance. Nothing
unethical about that."
"Fine, go ahead, tap my phone. But as long as you know everything about every Bucklin
graduate, perhaps you wouldn't mind answering a question for me: where exactly is my
former roommate, Dave Orr? He has my suitcase, and it looks like I'll need it back."
Castleman appeared shaken by the name. "Did you say Orr?"
"That's right. Dave Orr."
"Truth is, Orr's something of an interesting case. Just between you and me, he seems to have
disappeared."
"Disappeared? What does that mean?"
"To be honest, we don't know what it means. We've never lost anyone before. Never. And
Judge Crater went to school here. If Orr was anywhere on this planet, or buried below its
surface, or in a low orbit around it, alumni affairs sources ought to know about it."
"Figures. No one but Dave could set out to see the world and miss," I said. "Well, if you can't
find Dave, do you happen to know what happened to the suitcase he was carrying?"
"We have nothing on the suitcase, either," admitted Castleman.
"That's a shame," I said. "I could have used that suitcase."
"This whole Orr Affair is quite disturbing…Incidentally, if you do run into your roommate
again one day, it would be very helpful to us if you could attach some sort of transponder to
him."
I was so flustered by the whole sequence of events that I forgot to take the plate of cookies on
my way out.

Chapter 14
Dana's days were busier than ever. In between her other vital commitments, she now had to
find time for a scientific survey. Jeff Tabac had received word that the environmental group
Planet First was in need of a part-time project manager on Lesser Morrell Island. The Planet
First folks were engaged in the laudable mission of cataloging the world's fauna and, time
permitting, its flora. Now and then, they'd use their data to prove that one species or another
was headed towards extinction, or at very least lower turnout at its annual convention. But for
the most part they just liked to keep an accurate count of animals. If they didn't, who would?
When Jeff begged off, Dana agreed to take the job--even though One Planet and Planet First
didn't exactly get along, owing to their rather one-sided history in the inter-office
environmental softball league. Dana had to do something with her time: she still hadn't
received any instructions from One Planet.
Animal counting is not an easy job under the best of circumstances. For one thing, science is
yet to devise a way to convince a colony of pygmy marmosets to stand in orderly rows for
any extended period of time. And there's an unfortunate tendency among many wild animals
to respond to surveys by goring their questioners. Dana caught a break on that score, since
Lesser Morrell Island lacked any creatures large enough to seriously consider mauling an
environmentalist, even if deep in their animal souls, that's what they'd have liked to do. But
the island did have its share of animal-counting challenges, most of them related to fruit bats.
Fruit bats are tricky to count; don't believe anyone who tries to tell you otherwise. For
starters, studies have found that all fruit bats tend to look pretty much the same, even to other
fruit bats. And they seem to have an inherent aversion to the counting process. Perhaps the
bats are concerned that any human attention will lead to their being cooked and eaten. Such a
thing must be a worry to a fruit bat, whose only natural defense against predators is its
unappetizing ugliness, and we all know how little that's helped the lobsters. Or maybe the
bats fear the counting will start them down a slippery slope towards the sort of onerous
income tax rates that your typical fruit bat would just as soon avoid.
Whatever their reasons, it's a well-known fact that whenever a fruit bat sees a human, it
becomes all panicky and flustered and, as a species that doesn't handle pressure particularly
well, winds up tangled in the human's hair. Certainly this was Dana's experience with the
creature. Time and again, she would locate a cave just brimming with napping fruit bats and
begin her count. She would get up to about 10, or perhaps 20 if the bats were particularly
tired after a long night of terrorizing the local fruit population. But inevitably the fruit bats
would wake up, spot Dana, then get all flustered and fly about shrieking and getting tangled
in her hair, which is enough to distract even the best of fruit-bat counters.
Dana spent weeks counting and recounting the same swirling fruit bats until she figured she
must have counted every one in a given cave at least two or three times just to be safe. Then
she'd move on to the next cave.
In the end, under "fruit bats" in her report, she simply wrote "Plenty."
Fortunately, the job wasn't all fruit bats. There also were plenty of parrots, lizards, and of
course those Uncommonly Clever Monkeys, who wouldn't have been so bad to count except
that Dana had become certain that they were laughing at her each time she miscounted. There
also were some migratory birds, and a truly astounding array of insects, but Dana wasn't sure
that these fell under her purview.
All in all, the creatures that made Lesser Morrell Island their home didn't have it too bad.
What with the cornucopia of bananas, mangoes, coconut, yams, breadfruit, hibiscus, and
something called a betelnut that was more appetizing than it sounded, there was plenty of
food that was pretty much willing to sit still and be eaten without a lot of running and
catching. There wasn't much need for running in fear, either. If you were bigger than a beetle,
no one was going to try to eat you, except maybe the natives, and there weren't too many of
those. And even if you were unlucky enough to be smaller than a beetle, usually all you had
to do was outwit a few lizards to stay alive.
Fruit bats aside, Dana liked the animal-counting assignment. It gave her an opportunity to
explore the interior of the island, including the remains of a volcano that she very much
hoped was extinct. It also gave her some time away from her fellow activists, whom she liked
and respected--but only because Dana tended to like everyone, and she had to respect them,
on account of their politics. Had Dana freed herself from these quirks of her personality, she
no doubt would have been sick of the lot of them.

After months of disuse, my brain once again had a reason to wake up in the morning right
along with the rest of me. Trouble was, I couldn't be entirely sure the damn thing was still up
and running. When someone goes crazy, they always seem to be the last to know. Would I be
able to tell if I'd gone stupid? Do people even go stupid? Was the fact that I couldn't
remember if people 'went stupid' a sign that I had gone stupid? These were matters that
concerned me very deeply at the time. I peppered myself with questions I was likely to hear
on my interview to test my brain's response: Why do you want to work for us? Why should
we hire you? What are you doing here? Who told you to come? But I honestly couldn't tell if
I'd gone stupid.
For the purposes of analysis, I asked myself some baseball trivia questions that I knew I'd
been able to answer just a few months before. I was pleased to note that I still remembered
that Bill Wambsganss had turned the only unassisted triple play in World Series
history...though for the life of me, I couldn't remember why this fact is considered important
by anyone other than Mr. Wambsganss and perhaps his family.
I had another momentary bout of panic when I realized I couldn't recall anything I had
learned in college, although this passed when it occurred to me that I hadn't learned anything
worth remembering in the first place. In the end, I concluded that I probably hadn't gone
stupid, so if I was stupid it was probably a condition I'd been able to successfully overcome in
the past.
Sanity was a different matter. I had been living alone for some time, and "he'd been
unemployed and living alone in a deserted observatory," was one of those phrases that
sounded as if it was likely to come before "said acquaintances of the deranged, carrot-peeler
wielding man believed responsible for the bizzare attempt on Ted Koppel's life."
To avoid any possibility that my well-reasoned answers to interview questions would come
out as paranoid theories about the Freemasons, I decided I'd better check with an objective
observer. I tracked down Curt Nissent, a former classmate who had flunked a pair of
Psychology courses the year before, possibly in a well-thought-out effort to remain a student
for another semester and thereby qualify for a campus job this summer. I hadn't contacted
Curt since graduation, even though we had been pretty good friends. I'd been too embarrassed
about the whole total-failure-of-my-life thing. He hadn't contacted me either, mostly since he
was feeling embarrassed about the failing-two-classes thing. For my current purpose, this
lack of contact was a plus, since it would aid Curt in comparing my current level of sanity
against my pre-unemployment state of mental health.
"Curt, this is Bob Gwafin," I said when I reached him at the fraternity house that was renting
him a room for the summer. "I need your help. I've been living alone in the observatory
pretending to be an Indian this summer, but now I have a top-secret interview with an
investment bank in New York and I have to get the job or the alumni department might have
me killed. I need you to help me figure out if I've gone insane."
"No problem, Gwaf," Curt said. "Based on what you've just told me, you're definitely
insane."
"Damn, I was afraid of that. Do you think it's possible I could hide it from the interviewers
long enough to get the job."
"Yea, maybe. But as a psychology major I don't know if it would be ethical for me to help a
paranoid schizophrenic such as yourself hide from his mental problems."
"Was it ethical for you to intentionally fail two classes to avoid graduation?"
"Who says I failed them intentionally?"
"Come on, Curt, you're way too smart to fail a Bucklin class. Your dog is way too smart to
fail a Bucklin class."
"My dog is dead, Gwaf."
"I stand by my statement."
"So I had a bad semester."
"Come on, it's next to impossible to fail at Bucklin. You must have had to sit next to the
dumbest person in the room and copy off his exams to manage an F."
"Okay, I give up. I'll help you pretend to be sane. Just don't tell anyone I cheated on exams. I
could get thrown out of school."
"Deal. Why don't you come over to the observatory so we can talk in person. I think the
alumni department has this line bugged."
Curt knocked on my door fifteen minutes later. "Okay, you're not insane," he said.
"See how easy it is to compromise your ethics?"
"No, no, I really think you might really be sane."
"Is this some sort of positive reinforcement technique?"
"Nope. As soon as I hung up from our call--before I could even contact my psychology
department advisor to ask him if I could study your delusions for my senior thesis--an
alumni-department rep knocked on my door and threatened to have me thrown out of Bucklin
for copying off the exam of a stupid person if I didn't promise to tithe them 10% of my
income for the rest of my life. When I denied it, they played me a tape of our conversation.
So someone really is tapping your line, and now I see that you really are living in an
observatory. I guess that means there's a chance you're not delusional."
"Well, that's a relief."
"But that's not to say you struck me as a beacon of stability before this summer."
"Hey, I don't need perfection, I just need enough sanity to get me through a job interview."
"Then I think you'll be fine. Just try not to mention the secret plots to kill you during the
interview."
"Check. Thanks for stopping by."
"Wait a minute," Curt said. "What about me. It just cost me 10% of my lifetime earnings to
find out you might be sane. To be honest, I'd rather have kept the money and had you locked
away where you wouldn't have been a danger to yourself or others."
"Oh, don't worry about the alumni department, they're probably bluffing. Think about it; if
they get you kicked out, then you're not an alumnus and they'll never get dollar one out of
you. I'll bet you can talk them down to 5%."
"Still…"
"Tell you what, Curt, I'll make it up to you. If I get this job, you can live in the observatory
for free until September."
"That only saves me $200 in rent."
"Hey, every penny counts when you're being blackmailed. Do you want the observatory or
not?"
"Yea, I guess so."
"Great. There are only a few conditions. You have to keep an eye on the place so everything's
in good shape when Tony Pasqualli comes back in September."
"What does Tony have to do with…"
"And you have to act like you have profound guidance for a man who might or might not be
accompanied by a small dog named Roger," I continued.
"What was that again?"
"And, of course, you have to pretend to be a Native American, should the need arise."
"There is still a chance that you're insane, you know."
"Christ, we're not back on that, are we? Listen, I also need some advice on packing. If you
were going to New York for a job interview but you might stay forever, would you bring an
overnight bag or everything you owned?"
"Huh?"
"I might be back here in a day, I might never be back--well, at least not until my ten-year
class reunion, and then only if I'm successful enough to rub it in everyone's else's face, yet not
so successful that I have better things to do."
"Are you confident you'll get the job?"
"I'm not even confident that there is a job. But either way, a case could be made for never
returning. I figure I'm at least a shade more likely to find employment in a part of the country
that contains employers."
"Do you have enough luggage to pack everything you own?"
"Actually, I don't have any luggage--well, I have one piece of luggage, but based on what I've
been told, it no longer is within the gravitational well of planet Earth."
"Once again?"
"Let's just say I've found a way to make a suitcase disappear that doesn't involve a transfer at
O'Hare and leave it at that. It's been a baffling couple of months. I'm going to go out to get
some luggage. You wait here."
I returned a few minutes later with a garbage bag I'd liberated from one of the campus
trashcans.
"Luggage," I explained.
"You're going to pack your things in a trash bag? Are you traveling by plane or garbage
truck?"
"Yes, yes, you're very funny for a man who just lost between 5 and 10% of all the money he'll
ever make. This is the best luggage option in my price range. It's a durable, three-ply bag, and
it's hardly been used."
"Hardly?"
"Nothing sticky, anyway. It's a first-class bag. And I've decided to pack all the clothes I can
fit in this luggage, and abandon the rest of my stuff here. I might call you later and have you
mail it down to me."
"Is this your stuff, the pile of moldy clothes and bongs?"
"No, that's Dave Orr's stuff, which you can have, since he's disappeared along with my
suitcase. My stuff is in the other room. It's the pile of moldy clothes and record albums."
"You're leaving your albums?"
"I really haven't enjoyed them very much recently."
"Changing tastes?"
"Pawned the stereo."
"Ah."
"I might want the albums back at some point," I said. "You are, however, welcome to my old
textbooks and class notes."
"That's big of you."
"Now I've got to go collect cans for their deposits so I can afford to get from the airport to
Wall Street. I could be wrong, but I suspect there's not much hitchhiking in New York City.
Care to join me? It's five cents a can."
"No, I'd just have to give 10% of my take to the alumni department, and it's sort of a low-
profit business to begin with."
"Sorry to rush out on you like this, but my flight leaves Wednesday morning, and that could
be any day now."
"It's the day after tomorrow."
"That's handy information, thanks. Apparently I lost a day at some point, which sucks,
because it's not like I can appeal to a referee and have the day I lost added to the end of my
life."
"You didn't know what day it was today?"
"Well, I knew it was today. It's not like I was walking around thinking it was tomorrow or
yesterday."
"But you didn't know what day of the week?"
"I thought I did. I thought it was Sunday. Of course I realized it couldn't be Sunday when the
Johnston Brothers executive was in his office. Plus, there was a Hound-of-the-Baskervilles-
like lack of church bells this morning."
"So many clues…"
"There's a lesson here," I continued. "If you're ever someplace with no newspapers and you're
going to mistakenly think a day is another day, it pays to mistakenly think it's a Sunday, since
that's the easiest day to differentiate from the others. In the future, when I'm not certain what
day it is, I'm going to assume it's Sunday. You know, for safety sake. "
"Gwaf, about this job interview," Curt said. "If you don't want to appear insane, you might
want to say as little as possible."
"Am I really that bad? Shit. And I've gone out of my way not to mention the Freemasons."
"I appreciate that."
"They do rule the world, you know, Curt."
"Just go collect your goddamn cans."
I couldn't hope to collect enough cans to pay for a New York hotel room--at a nickel a can,
that would take well into four-figure cans, more than a small New England town could
possibly abandon on its median strips in a given week. So I decided to take it for granted that
Johnston Brothers would cover such things. If they didn't, no one figured to notice one more
loser living on the streets. But as this was apparently Monday, there was a good chance that
enough discarded cans remained in the Bridgeton town park from the weekend to keep me in
subway tokens and bus fare. I took my new luggage and walked to the park to collect cans,
without the least bit self-consciousness.
"I'm going to be an investment banker," I explained to a woman who gave me an odd look
when I rooted through a trash bin.

June 29

"The odd thing about these Lesser Morrell Islanders is how little they seem to like living on
Lesser Morrell Island," Dana commented over dinner. It had been her turn to cook for the
group. She'd put together a meal of coconuts, mangoes and boiled kelp. All of the group's
meals featured some combination of coconuts, mangoes and boiled kelp. Each one of them
was a vegetarian, so fish was simply not an option. And no one could agree how to prepare a
betelnut.
"Life on a small, isolated island isn't for everyone," said Doctor Mudgett, digging into a
mango.
"True, but seeing as it's their island, you'd think it would be for them," said Dana. "Yet all
they can talk about is how great it would be to have the things that people on Greater Morrell
Island have. And from what I've seen, all the Greater Morrell Islanders want are the things
people in America have. You'd think that electric lights was the greatest thing since sliced
bread."
"Personally, I think I'd rather have electric lights than sliced bread," said the doctor. "And in
fairness, the people of Lesser Morrell Island don't have either."
"Well, the greatest thing since grilled fish, then," Dana said. "They have plenty of those."
"And some of them might be quite tasty between a couple slices of rye with a cold beer
straight from the fridge."
"Whose side are you on, doctor?" asked Sarah, who was always willing to jump into a
conversation when someone threatened to deviate from the party line.
"I don't mean to argue with you. I would hate to see this beautiful island turn into a Club Med
where beautiful young women wearing next to nothing frolic in the surf…"
"Doctor!"
"Sorry, sorry…The mind's starting to get away from me. I've been away from civilization too
long. Anyway, all I'm saying is that deep down, as a man of science, I don't believe that a few
touches of modernity are necessarily a bad thing. Medicine, for example. I'm in favor of it.
And sliced bread, since the subject's been raised. There's a place in San Francisco that makes
a sourdough so delicious that it brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it."
"And I suppose you never bother to think about the innocent yeast that's slaughtered to make
bread?" asked Sarah. "Oh that's right, someone's just a vegetarian, not a vegan."
"So we're back to that are we. For the last time, I'm not anti-vegan. I just happen to believe
that drinking milk doesn't make life worse for cows. It's my understanding that most cows are
pretty much okay with it."
"I can't listen to this, I can't," said Sarah, dropping her boiled kelp and heading back to her
tent.
"In the future, it might be wise not to bring up the vegetarian/vegan debate," the doctor
advised Dana. "It's something of a sore point around here."
"Me? I didn't say anything about it," said Dana. "At least I didn't mean to. I was pointing out
that the Lesser Morrell Islanders all seem to dream about leaving Lesser Morrell Island."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. I mean, where are they going to go? These people couldn't
survive anywhere else. They'd be eaten alive on Greater Morrell Island, for God's sake…I
mean that figuratively, mind you, those other rumors haven't been true for decades now.
Lesser Morrell Islanders can't even fathom what it would mean to live in the real world. They
just like to talk big."
"I'm not so sure."
"Dana, let me tell you a story. About ten years ago, a young Lesser Morrell Islander did make
it further than Greater Morrell Island. He hadn't meant to, you understand, he'd just meant to
sail to Greater Morrell Island for supplies. But he got on the wrong ferry for the return trip
and wound up in Maui. This man didn't have enough money for the return passage to Lesser
Morrell Island, but he wasn't short of courage. He decided to find work in Hawaii, save
carefully, and one day return home to Lesser Morrell Island a success. When the police found
him he had been robbed, beaten, and driven nearly insane. The authorities sent him back
home and he hasn't left since."
"It isn't easy to adjust to a new culture."
"Did I mention he'd only lasted fifteen minutes? The man barely survived a quarter hour in a
vacation paradise. No one from this island has gone any further than Greater Morrell Island
since then, and no one is going to. They don't have it in them."
"Well, even if they don't leave the island, there's another way for them to ruin this society;
they could bring modern technology here. There's nothing keeping them from doing that."
"Sure there is. Money. They don't have any. The official currency of the island is the puffer
fish. Sony isn't going to sell you a television no matter how many puffer fish you've got."
"So poverty is necessary for the survival of this culture?"
"Can you think of any rich people who'd willingly bake themselves under a hot sun 365 days
a year trying desperately to catch fish?"
"You just described most of Florida."
"That's not a fair comparison. Those are old people. Decision making skills start to falter at a
certain age. But everyone on Lesser Morrell Island is younger than 50."
"Speaking of which, doctor, why is it that these people all die so young?" Dana asked. "They
eat fish and fruit all their lives, and get plenty of exercise. Yet some of the wizened village
elders are aren't so much older than me."
"It's genetic."
"Really?"
"That and they keep falling out of their boats. Anyway, you can't blame poor medical care."
"I can't?"
"Nope. It's in my contract. If anyone blames poor medical care, I get to inject them with
whatever I like."
"That's in your contract?"
"Maybe not officially in the contract. But it's something you might want to keep in mind
before you start asking about why all the natives die so young."
"Doctor!"
"Sorry, that just slipped out. You know, I'm starting to think I might have spent too much
time living on islands. Sooner or later being stuck on a tiny patch of land in the middle of the
ocean gets to you, you know. And I've been living on islands ever since I went to that
Caribbean medical school."
"I think I understand."
"It's the waves that do it."
"The waves?"
"The waves never stop coming. You try to run away, but there are waves all around you.
Wave after wave after wave."
"Doctor?"
"I'm okay. I'm okay. Really I am. Are you going to finish your kelp?"
Dana handed over her kelp.

Chapter 15
June 30

As near as I could tell, I was the only traveler at the airport that day who had checked a
garbage bag. To look at the positive side of things, this figured to make spotting my luggage
on the baggage carousel in New York a significantly easier task. In retrospect, I probably
should have scouted around for a cardboard box. Lots of people travel with cardboard boxes.
As a rule, these boxes tend to contain some sort of consumer product originally shipped in a
cardboard box and intended as a gift. A souvenir replica of the Statue of Liberty, for example,
or a nice selection of cheeses from Wisconsin. No one but the X-ray machine operator and I
would have known that my box contained my life's possessions. Something to consider for
next time, I thought as I made sure my luggage's twist-tie was secure for the trip.
My confidence rose measurably once my garbage bag was checked. The airline rep voiced
some concern that trash bags might not qualify as luggage under FAA guidelines, but I
pointed out that he couldn't be certain that they didn't, and the man didn't call my bluff. Not
after I'd threatened to find the most disgusting, refuse-filled trash bag in the airport and make
him check that one, too, to take full advantage of my two-bag allotment if I received any
more flack on the luggage front. With my garbage bag in the loving hands of trained airline
baggage handlers, I became just another suit-wearing, USA-Today-reading business traveler
waiting to board the morning flight to New York City. Sure, my suit wasn't of the highest
quality, and yes, I'd found my copy of USA Today lying discarded on an airport seat, but why
quibble over details? The point was I had the suit and the USA Today, the official garment
and official reading material of those who had ventured at least five hundred miles from
home in the pursuit of cash. Ergo, I was a business traveler. Ipso facto social acceptability. A
guy in a tee shirt and jeans sat down in the row of seats just across from me in the terminal. I
shot him a condescending look, to get in the spirit of the thing.
It had been two months since I'd paid attention to any world event that had occurred outside
of my earshot, but I was pleased to note that I hadn't missed anything important. Or at least if
I had missed anything, no one at USA Today had gotten wind of it either. The grand sweep of
world events tends to be like an episode of Scooby-Doo; nine times out of ten you can tune in
half way through and not need anyone to fill you in on what you missed. And that tenth time
out of ten only seems different. It always turns out that the ghost pirates aren't real.
As I recall, that day's big news stories involved politics, weather, and sports. Actually, I don't
recall. But had it been anything other than politics, weather, and sports, I figure it would have
made more of an impression. Out of respect for my newly rekindled career path I flipped to
the financial section, furrowed my brow and nodded knowingly, which, truth be told, was
about all I knew how to do when viewing a financial section.

I'd hitchhiked from Bridgeton to the Portland airport, a distance of a little more than 30 miles.
You don't see hitchhikers on the road too much anymore. Their numbers have dropped since
so many of them either have been arrested for killing the people who picked them up, or
killed themselves by the people who picked them up. One might expect this decline in
hitchhiker quantity, coupled with the ever-increasing number of vehicles on the road, to
create a supply-demand imbalance that would work in favor of any remaining hitchhikers.
My economics training suggested that there should be four cars pulled over to the side of the
road, all bidding for one hitchhiker's services. But in truth it isn't easy to hitch a ride these
days, and those carrying garbage bags face longer odds than most. So I resorted to a trick I'd
learned while hitchhiking to sell my plasma earlier that month: I wore my suit and carried a
gas can. These props created for passing motorists the impression that I was a gainfully
employed, vehicle-owning individual much like themselves who had, through the distractions
of a busy and productive life, failed to keep careful track of his gasoline supply. Such a
person inevitably would find a ride much sooner than would an unemployed loser carrying
his worldly possessions in a Hefty bag.
There was just one downside to this plan: when someone did pick me up, they tended to pull
over at the next gas station and become concerned when I failed to disembark. Fortunately,
my second ride of the day, a carpool of middle-managers heading off to a busy day of
middle-management nodded knowingly when I explained I was late for a flight. Middle
managers understand being late for flights. They got me to the airport with time to spare. I let
them keep my gas can.
The flight from Portland, Maine to New York City took only 55 minutes, not enough time for
an airline meal. I was provided with a glass of juice, which isn't much to sustain a person
through a crucial job interview. Fortunately, when I explained my problem to the stewardess
she provided me with a small bag of sympathy peanuts.
Oddly, my garbage bag wasn't lost or accidentally discarded in transit. This was a minor
disappointment, since I couldn't have helped but turn a profit had the airline been required to
compensate me for lost possessions. I took the train downtown and checked my bag at a
locker in the station to avoid the inevitable odd looks one gets upon arriving for a job
interview with one's refuse.
The whole voyage had gone extremely well, much better than I'd had any right to expect. The
airline tickets had been booked as promised, the office security guard didn't turn me away at
the door. I'd spent the morning jumping from car to plane to commuter train, and I'd still
made it on time. The first indication that something might be amiss didn't occur until I
stepped into the interviewer's office.
It was the largest office that I'd ever seen. Had it contained a bed, it would have been the
largest apartment I'd ever seen. Had it contained fish, it would have been the third-largest
lake I'd ever seen. This was not human resources. No, to merit an office of this grandeur, you
must have the ability to do something beyond the hiring others to do the things that you
haven't the ability to do. You must either be able to produce an amazing amount of
revenue…or be able to convince others that you produce an amazing amount of revenue. At
very least you must be related to, or sleeping with, someone who produces an amazing
amount of revenue. Any way you played it, there had to be an amazing amount of revenue in
there somewhere.
"Nice office," I said, since anyone who would inhabit such an office clearly expected
impressed comments from visitors. Such comments were, after all, the only return on the
$150,000 they'd invested in oriental rugs.
"Thank you," said the relatively small bald man behind the extraordinarily large mahogany
desk. "Had it been my decision, I wouldn't have asked for anything quite so spacious, of
course, but my decorator assured me that a desk of this size would look silly in a smaller
space."
"Yes, I see her point."
"His point, actually. Lawrence is the best straight male decorator on the East Coast. Actually,
he might be the only straight male decorator on the East Coast…and as long as we're on the
subject, it's possible he's just pretending to be straight."
"Oh?"
"Lawrence is under the impression that being a straight decorator will qualify him for
decorating contracts under government minority set-asides."
"A straight decorator qualifies for government set asides?"
"If he has a close relationship with Senator Jack Carroll he does."
"And your decorator had a close relationship with Senator Carroll?"
"Lawrence is sleeping with him. But then you didn't come here to discuss the politics of
office decoration."
The man was right of course, I hadn't traveled all that way to discuss any aspect of office
decoration. But then, aside for the vague promise of employment, I wasn't quite sure why I
had flown 400 miles that morning. And this was only the top item on the list of things I didn't
know even though it really seemed that I should. Running a close second was the identity of
the man seated across the beautifully stained hardwood floor to which drawers and legs had
been added so that it might pass as a desk. The man hadn't mentioned his name when we
spoke on the phone, and it wasn't going to help my chances of landing a job if I admitted I
didn't know who he was at this stage. If I hadn't asked his assistant's name when she
contacted me about the airline tickets, I might still be wandering around the Johnston
Brothers' offices in search of the appropriate executive.
"So, down to business," the man said. "When can you start?"
"Start what?" I asked, taken by surprise.
"Start working. What else?"
"What? Really? Just like that? Don't you even want to ask me any questions?"
The man looked a bit disturbed. "I just asked you a question: 'When can you start?' Then I
asked you another, 'What else?' That's two questions on my part with zero answers from you.
I'm willing to live without a response to my 'What else?' question, but to be frank I had rather
hoped for some feedback on the whole 'When can you start?' issue."
"I can start whenever you like."
"Good. Then start right away. Your presence here is extremely important."
"It is? What will I be doing?"
"Oh, that doesn't matter." The man's phone rang. "I've got to take this. Glad to have you on
board. My assistant, Gloria, will take care of the details."
"Uh…thank you," I managed, but the man had already turned his attention to the call. I
should have been thrilled, of course. But at the time I was too busy being confused.
I wandered stunned from the office. "I was told you'd take care of the details on my job," I
told Gloria.
"What sort of details remain to be covered?" she asked.
"Well, I suppose what I'll be doing and how much I'll be paid for doing it."
"In other words, you accepted a job without bothering to ask what the job is or how much it
pays."
"Correct."
"What did you two talk about in there?"
"Mostly interior decoration and politics."
"You complimented him on his office, didn't you?"
"It seemed like the thing to do at the time."
"So what were you told about this yet-to-be-determined position here."
"That it's very important and I need to start right away."
"But not what the job actually is."
"That seemed less of a priority."
"Did it occur to you wonder what was going on?"
"Certainly."
"But you didn't want to ask and risk screwing up a good thing."
"Sounds like you have a pretty good grasp of the situation."
"I believe I do."
"Great. Then could you explain it to me?" I asked.
"No," Gloria explained.
"Have you noticed that this whole job offer has been like something out of a Hitchcock
movie?" I asked the assistant.
"Are you afraid of birds?"
"No."
"Heights?"
"No."
"Ever dressed as your mother and slashed hotel guests?"
"No, but…"
"Then I don't see the connection. And anyway, I wouldn't worry about the vertigo too much,
since you won't get a window office."
"I meant it's like those Hitchcock movies when a man, usually Cary Grant, but occasionally
Robert Donat, is pulled out of his normal routine and thrust into a huge conspiracy that
usually results in numerous attempts on his life."
"And you're Cary Grant?"
"In this scenario, yes."
She studied my face. "No, Cary Grant was much more attractive than you," Gloria said
finally.
"I think you're missing the larger point here. Is anyone ever going to explain to me why an
unidentified man behind a preposterously large desk has just offered me a very important job
doing nothing in particular?"
"I'm not supposed to say until you take the job."
"Is there a job?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll take it. Now you can tell me."
"You have to sign the contract first." Gloria produced a contract from a manila folder.
I signed and initialed everywhere she pointed. "Just out of curiosity--not because it’s a deal
breaker or anything--did signing this contract just implicate me in a massive fraud cover-up
or international murder-for-hire scheme?"
"Not that I know of," Gloria said.
"Well there goes my guess."
"I think it's a fairly standard one-year employment contract…only with a few added wrinkles,
such as a very strict non-disclosure agreement--one that covers what I'm about to tell you. Do
you understand?"
"I've understood absolutely nothing that's happened in the past three days, but don't let that
stop you."
Gloria leaned in conspiratorially. I leaned in as well so she'd know I was a team player. "The
man who just hired you is the CEO of Johnston Brothers"
"That was a Johnston?" I asked.
"No, his name is George Gwafinn."
"Gwafin? You mean…we're related?"
"Of course you're related. You're his son."
"No, my father lives in Kansas. He's a quality inspector at a barbed-wire factory."
"Do you want this job?" Gloria asked.
"No, I need this job. I want to believe I'm not going insane."
"Then the man in that office is your father, you're his son, and--most importantly--you love
your father. It's all in the contract. Do you understand now?"
"How can anyone hope to understand love?"
"Don't go getting all philosophical on me. You're bound by contract to love your father."
"Contracts to ensure love. That might catch on."
"In or out?"
"Just a second here. You're asking me to disown my family, the people who raised me and
took care of me relatively well for 18 years in exchange for a job. I think I need to give it a
bit of thought."
"How much thought?"
"I'm done now. I'll do it."
"Good. And by the way, you're not legally disowning your family. This is just a corporate
adoption."
"A corporate adoption?"
"It's not so uncommon as you might think."
"It isn't?"
"You have to consider Mr. Gwafinn's position. Johnstons ran Johnston Brothers for 92 years,
starting with the firm's founding in 1901 and ending this past Friday, noonish. Now Mr.
Gwafinn's in charge, but there are still 41 Johnstons on the payroll including three on the
board, assuming none of the older ones keeled over this morning on their way to work. Those
41 Johnstons were not exactly thrilled when the non-Johnstons on the board voted to turn the
company over to a fellow non-Johnston. I think it struck them as a bit nepotistic. Anyway, the
upshot is that any one of these 41 Johnstons would be happy to stab Mr. Gwafinn in the back
or, if he won't turn around, the front. Mr. Gwafinn is up against both history and superior
numbers. By hiring his son, he's ensuring he has at least one ally in the company--and he's
showing that he has enough power to hire whomever he wants. It was the perfect plan, except
for one minor hitch."
"Mr. Gwafinn doesn't have any children." I deduced. "So you found someone with the same
last name."
"Mr. Gwafinn didn't have any children," the assistant corrected. "Now he does. You. Truth is,
Mr. Gwafinn has never even been married, except once years ago, for tax purposes."
"And I've got a new father and a new job."
"And a new "n" on the end of your last name," Gloria added. "Mr. Gwafinn uses a double n,
so now you do, too."
"Does anyone know about this except us?"
"The extra n?"
"The contract."
"No one else."
"He must have tremendous faith in your discretion."
"Why wouldn't he? I'm his niece."
"Real niece or corporate-adoption niece?" I asked.
"Sorry, my contract says I can't answer that."
"I understand," I said, and suddenly felt quite squeamish about my earlier efforts to peak
down the blouse of a woman who turned out to be my cousin.
Gloria didn't know exactly what my new job would be, and wasn't about to bother Gwafinn
with such trivial matters. But the contract answered my other pressing question--I would
receive the standard $65,000-plus-bonus offered to all Johnston Brothers' rookies. That was
just fine with me, even though as the son of the CEO I might have expected a little more.
Gloria suggested I report to Reception the following morning to let them decide what to do
with me. In the meantime, she gave me $800 in petty cash and told me to get a couple of suits
that wouldn't reflect poorly on my new father. Instead, I purchased just one suit that wouldn't
reflect poorly on my new father, and used the rest of the cash to pay for a couple nights in a
hotel of the sort that would have reflected poorly even on my old father, a man who has been
known to sleep in the back of his pickup truck rather than spring for the Holiday Inn. I'd try to
find an apartment that weekend.
That evening I called Tony the Italian Native American at his parents' house in New Jersey to
explain that I'd handed off my post as Observatory watchman.
"Don't worry about it, Gwaf," Tony said when briefed on the situation. "I was lucky to have
you and Dave there guarding the place I long as I did. I'm sure Curt will do fine."
"To be honest, you probably didn't even need a watchman. I'm not certain it was ever in any
real risk."
"Dave was staying there?"
"Until he disappeared."
"Then it was at risk."
"I meant there wasn't any risk that the administration would try to take it back. Actually, the
greater risk might be if they find Dave's bongs lying around the place."
"Oh, I doubt they'd give me any static over a few bongs. If it comes up I'll just say they're
peace pipes or something."
"Plastic peace pipes covered in Grateful Dead logos? Will they go for that?"
"They went for a Native American from Bayonne."
"Good point. Any idea on what you're going to do with your astronomy building? It's
considerably larger than the average dorm room."
"I'm thinking about turning it into a support center for Native American tribes whose casinos
have gone under. I feel I should give something back to my people."
"That's a great idea, Tony, but you're Italian."
"They run casinos, we run casinos-- I'm sure we have more in common than we realize."
"Fair enough."
"Thanks for the call, Gwaf. And congratulations again on the job."
"Yea, thanks."
"You don't sound so enthusiastic. Isn't this your dream job?"
"It's a good job. But, yea, something is bothering me."
"You mean the ethical dilemma of accepting a job offer made because of implied nepotism
after decrying the inequity of things like nepotism for so long?" I'd already explained the
details to Tony, in clear violation of my contract.
"At first I thought it might be that," I said. "But now I'm pretty sure I'm okay with the implied
nepotism."
"What then?"
"Well, for a while this afternoon I thought what was bothering me was that this whole thing
wasn't bothering me. I've sort of taken this it in stride, and that doesn't exactly speak well of
my character."
"Uh huh."
"But I've done some thinking, and I'm pretty sure that's not it either."
"No?"
"I think what's really bothering me is that I'm not at all bothered by the fact that I'm not
bothered about not being bothered. I'm pretty sure that's it anyway. I figure it's got to be that,
or the fact that I don't get my own office. I mean me, the son of the fucking CEO, without an
office."
"Or the fact that you have to have your name changed to cash your paycheck."
"No one's going to notice a missing 'n'. If they do, I'll tell them it's a typo. And if it comes to
it, having my name changed is no big deal, just a few forms really. I looked into it."
"You'd give up your family name, just like that? After your father pricked his fingers to the
bone testing barbed wire every day at work to feed and clothe you?"
"I wouldn't be giving up the family name, I'd be increasing it by one 'n.' If anything, I'd be
adding to the family name."
"You know, Bob, I think you'll do just fine on Wall Street."
"Gee, thanks Tony," I said. I choose to ignore both sarcasm and the backhanded nature of
compliments when doing so is in my interest. "If you're looking for a job on Wall Street when
you graduate, give me a call. I might be able to hook you up. Of course, you'd probably have
to change your name so people think you're my brother."
"No problem. The college already is pressuring me to change my name to something more
Native-American sounding for recruiting purposes. What do you think of Tony Hung-like-
buffalo?"
"How 'bout something that honors your Jersey roots like Tony What-are-you-lookin-at?"
"I don't know. That might not be Native American enough."
"How would you know?"
"A fair point. Anyway, I might just let the college decide. I mean, what does a name matter
anyway?"
"More than I ever realized."
Chapter 16
July 1

"Dear Bob," Dana wrote. "I'm sorry I haven't written sooner, but things have been a bit
hectic. You might have heard that there's a war in Spanish Guyana. But don't worry." Dana
stopped to considered her words. "Well, I'm not saying not to worry about the war," she
added. "Obviously worry about that. I mean, it's a war. Everyone should worry about wars.
There's just no need to worry about me, since I'm not there. I was detained briefly by the
government then put on a plane back out.
"I think I was treated well during my detainment, but I can't know for sure, since I'm not
certain whether the rebels are good guys or bad guys yet, on account of the fact that I've been
a little out of touch here on Lesser Morrell Island.
"And I've got a surprise," Dana continued. "One Planet reassigned me to--guess where?--
Lesser Morrell Island!"
Dana never had been very good at keeping surprises secret.
"It's a tiny island in the South Pacific where it's just me, the natives, palm trees, parrots,
monkeys, lizards, beetles, an astounding number of fruit bats, and a few other activists.
"It isn't easy here. There's lots of work to do, and not much contact with the outside world. I
miss you tremendously. Please write. Just send the letters to the One Planet office in New
York, and they'll find me. Oh, and if you would, let my parents know where I am. I only have
the one envelope. Miss you. Love, Dana."
Dana thought she should write more, but she was finding it difficult to construct a coherent
sentence without drag-and-drop editing and the sage-like presence of the spell-check
program. Anyway, time was short. William and George were boarding the ferry for Greater
Morrell Island any minute, and it's not like there would be a mailman around if her letter
didn't go with them. Here on Lesser Morrell Island, virtually all messages were exchanged
verbally. Those considered too important for word of mouth were not written down and
mailed but rather, in keeping with local custom, conveyed through the Sacred Dance of
Important Communication. As far as Dana was concerned, this was an example of folk
wisdom at its very best. While a written message often contains news that the recipient might
not wish to hear, everyone tends to interpret a dance to mean whatever they want them to
mean. Everyone remains happy and bloodshed is avoided.
Things were very different on Greater Morrell Island. Greater Morrell Island had lost the art
of the Sacred Dance of Important Communication. But they did have overnight money-
grams. Life is a tradeoff. In fact, as a U.S. protectorate Greater Morrell Island had everything
from welfare payments to American post offices. It was the only location serviced by the
United States postal system to vote resoundingly for the "Fat Elvis" stamp.
Dana quickly sealed her letter, addressed it to the Bucklin College Observatory, and gave it
to William along with $5, which she hoped was enough to cover postage from half a globe
away. Since Greater Morrell Island was a U.S. protectorate, the true cost was much closer to
thirty cents, but William figured Dana could spare the money.

"May I help you?" asked the woman with the telephone receiver attached to the side of her
head.
"Yes, My name's Bob Gwafin…actually, make that Bob Gwafinn," I told the receptionist,
then was sorry I'd lied. "I'm starting here today."
"Starting what here today?"
"Starting working here today. I was hired yesterday."
"No, that can't be."
"And why can't it be?"
"Because this is July and all of the trainees start in June. That's when we have the trainee
training program to train the trainees," explained the woman, who then went back to
answering her phone.
I stood in polite, uncomfortable silence until I had determined beyond significant doubt that
the receptionist didn't intend to waste any more time on me, and that her phone didn't intend
to stop ringing.
"I don't mean to argue," I said, since that's how polite people prefaced their arguments. "But
I was in fact hired yesterday."
"Hired to do what?"
"No one up to this juncture has thought it necessary to clarify that point."
"I don't believe you."
"I have a contract," I said, producing my copy of the contract I'd signed yesterday. The
receptionist took a call.
"You have a contract to work here, but you don't know what you're supposed to be doing."
"I was told to ask someone at reception and let them figure it out."
"I see. Well, get me a cup of coffee."
I got the woman a cup of coffee from the pot in the reception area. "Good," she said when I
returned. "Now go pick up my laundry." She handed me a ticket.
"I don't think Johnston Brother hired me to do your errands."
"But you can't say for certain that they didn't."
"No," I admitted. "But I think I'm probably above you in the hierarchy."
"Does it say that in your contract?"
"Not that I know of, but…"
"Then get my laundry."
"Listen, I'm bound to be above you. They're paying me more than you."
"You can't know that. You don't know how much I'm making. Now are you going to get my
laundry or not?"
"Listen, maybe you ought to contact Mr. Gwafinn to straighten this out."
"Who?"
"Mr. Gwafinn, the new CEO. He's the one who hired me yesterday."
"You're telling me that the new CEO bypassed our entire hiring process in order to retain you
for no particular job?"
"That's right."
"And now you expect me to call Mr. Gwafinn, and tell him that a Mr…"
"My name also is Mr. Gwafinn," I lied, but only slightly.
This time the connection registered.
"Please follow me," the receptionist said, hanging up on her latest caller.
"Gwafinn? Did you say your name was Gwafinn?" Human resources director Theodore
Johnston was clearly concerned.
"I said my name was Gwafin," I corrected, since I'd resolved to be as honest as possible.
"And you were hired by Mr. Gwafinn, the CEO?"
"That's right."
"The name--that's just a coincidence, I suppose?"
"Oh, no," I answered. "It's no coincidence. My name's definitely why I was hired."
Johnston glanced at my contract--I'd left its unusual adoption addendum at home. "Aren't you
missing one of the 'n's in Gwafinn?"
"Efficiency," I explained.
"I see. And you don't know what position Mr. Gwafinn had in mind for you?"
"That didn't seem to a particular point of concern for him."
"Well," said Johnston at great length. "I'll have to discuss this with the special hirings panel."
"Special hirings panel?"
"The executive panel that handles staffing through atypical means?
"Atypical means?"
"Not through the standard interview process."
"And what should I do until this panel meets?"
"Wait right over there," he said, gesturing to the area just outside his office.
"Wait by that cubicle? For how long?"
"Oh, just a few minutes. The panel is convening at this very moment."
"That's fortunate."
"It's not a coincidence. I called the meeting while we were speaking."
"Um…How could you have called a meeting? I've only been here five minutes, and you
never picked up the phone."
"We have a system in place to handle these sorts of emergencies," answered Johnston, again
pressing the red panic button concealed under his desk. A worried looking man burst into the
room.
"Ah, the first of the panel to arrive," said Theodore Johnston. "Bob, if you could just wait
outside."
Six more men had hurried into the office by the time I'd settled in my cubicle. Normally, the
sight of eight unhappy-looking people in expensive suits discussing my future would have
been exactly the sort of thing to make me nervous. But I knew I didn't have to be nervous
about these men. I knew this because they so clearly were nervous about me.

"But we can't just send him away," said Carlton Johnston. "Gwafinn's in charge now. And
you can be damn sure this is his way of letting us know it."
"You don't suppose he's going to start firing Johnstons?" asked Cameron Johnston, possibly
the dimmest of the Johnstons, probably the laziest, and certainly the most distant relation, the
last of which also made him the most vulnerable. "I mean, the board wouldn't stand for it.
You wouldn't--would you, Dad?"
"Relax, Cameron," responded Jonathan Johnston. "And stop calling me Dad at business
meetings. You know very well that you were adopted. Anyway, if he thought he could get
away with firing us, he'd have done it already. The little prick's just hiring his own son as a
show of power."
"Speaking of which, since when does he have a son?" asked Theodore. "I didn't even know
he'd been married except that once for tax purposes. Maybe this little bastard's a bastard. We
should look into it. It could be a real black eye for Gwafinn."
"I doubt he'd have hired him if he was," said Theodore. "More likely he's kept his son in
hiding to prevent our finding him."
"How very Old Testament," commented Charles Johnston, not without a touch of
admiration.
"Yes, I see it now," said Jonathan. "Gwafinn always was a suspicious son of a bitch. It would
be just like him to have a son raised in secrecy to spring on us at just the right moment."
"This is all well and good," said Theodore. "But what do we do with this kid?"
"Well, what skills does he have?" asked Cameron.
"He just graduated from a very expensive liberal arts college," said Theodore.
"I see, then. None."
"Should we just bury him in the research department where we can ignore his reports and let
him stagnate?" asked Theodore.
"He'd probably do the least harm in research," said Jonathan. "That is why we bury most of
the sons of partners there."
The comment drew some angry looks.
"Of course that's not to say that's the only reason sons of partners are sent to research,"
Jonathan added quickly. "Anyway, research is getting a bit over-staffed. Perhaps it's better to
stick him in sales. Harder to hide an imbecile in sales. Could be a real blot on Gwafinn's
record if his son's a failure."
"And if he succeeds?" asked Cameron.
"Then we'll let our competition hire him away from us. I have a friend in the personnel
department over at Mornall & Swain who owes me a favor."
"And if he won't go?"
Jonathan Johnston thought that one over for a moment. "Well, then maybe we could adopt
him. Being a Johnston could be a real boost for his career here on Wall Street. If the kid's got
the brains to make a good show of it here, then I'm sure he'll have enough savvy to want to be
one of us. We'll put together an attractive package for him. Everyone's willing to switch
teams if the price is right."

A few minutes later I watched six members of the Special Hirings Panel file back out of the
office. They looked less worried than when they first arrived, I thought, but none of the
glances in my direction could have been referred to as "friendly" with any degree of
accuracy. Theodore Johnston and a man I later identified as Jonathan Johnston called me
back into the office. Jonathan managed to bend his lips into a smile of sorts. Theodore made
no effort to conceal his hostility.
"We've talked it over, and we're happy to say we'll be able to offer you a position here at
Johnston Brothers," said Jonathan.
"Thank you," I said. "But to be precise Mr. Gwafinn already offered me a position. All that's
left to be decided is exactly what that position will be." Under different circumstances I might
not have looked for an argument with my new boss, but I was fairly certain that as a Gwafin,
if not a Gwafinn, cow-towing to Johnstons wasn't part of my job description, whatever that
job description might turn out to be.
"Even so, final say on personnel decisions including hiring and placement within the firm is
the purview of the personnel department," countered Jonathan, who didn't take shit from
anyone unless there was serious money to be made by doing so.
"We also control the payroll department, so don't get too cocky if you want your paycheck to
arrive on time," Theodore added. "I could garnish your wages back to the stone ages."
"There's no need for threats, Thomas," Jonathan said, readying his next threat. "I'm certain
Mr. Gwafinn realizes that as such an unconventional hire, there will be many people
watching him. But even with this pressure, I'm confident that he'll do just fine. If that wasn't
the case, the elder Mr. Gwafinn would have to have been a fool to have hired him…Oh, yes,
and Bob, we've decided the best position for you here at Johnston Brothers is with our sales
staff. Best of luck."
This wasn't what I had expected. It was my understanding that the general breakdown of
positions available at an investment bank was corporate finance, for people who understood
mergers and acquisitions; sales, for people who knew how to talk people out of their money;
and research, for people like me who knew how to get a job on Wall Street but nothing much
else of tremendous use.
In research, one was expected to visit a company, stare at its balance sheets whilst making
knowing clicking sounds with one's tongue, then give the stock whatever rating everyone else
on Wall Street was giving it. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, this was a Buy or a Strong
Buy. You could, in theory, give the stock a negative rating, such as Hold. But if you did this,
the company's CEO might not speak to you on your next visit, and then how could you be
expected to make an accurate rating of the stock?
The sales department was a very different matter. Over an early lunch--my first business
lunch if one discounted the cookies I had wolfed down to stave off unconsciousness after
selling my plasma--I expressed my concerns to my contractually stipulated father. Gwafinn
was anxious for us to be seen eating lunch together, to reinforce that fact that I was his son.
I'm not at all certain that he was anywhere near as anxious to actually engage in conversations
with me. "Truth is, Mr. Gwafinn, all I know about sales is that things sell better when they're
stacked in pyramids near the front of a supermarket."
"So? That's more than I knew when I started out. Try to work with that pyramid thing. Just
don't use the word pyramid. People will think it's a pyramid scheme, and we don't need that
kind of publicity."
"But I don't even understand the stocks I'm selling," I said. "My economics professors didn't
mention stocks very much. They were mostly interested in selling widgets. Every class for
four years we talked about widgets. Well, except for Professor Vallen. He was more
concerned with making excuses for why Communism hasn't worked as well as he'd figured
just yet. But other than that, it was quite widget-oriented."
"Bob, you're getting yourself worked up about nothing. Sales isn't about what you're selling.
It's about selling yourself. Just make the customers like you."
"Selling myself? You make it sound like you're hiring prostitutes."
Gwafinn paused. "No…no, that's probably an SEC violation of some sort…and I expect
they'd want to be paid up front. Still, would make for interesting office Christmas parties. I
like the way you think, Bob."
I took a bite of my egg salad sandwich and wondered if I should mention that I had been
kidding. Gwafinn took a bite of his own egg salad sandwich and thought, I suspect, about
prostitutes.
"But what if I'm trying to sell someone a stock and they ask me a question about it?" I
persisted. "What should I do? And don't I need a license of some sort to sell securities?"
"Whoops, it's 11:30. I've got a conference call I can't miss. Good luck."

"I saw a fruit bat on my way up here," Tommy Binder said. "Did you count that one yet?"
"I counted him yesterday," Dana said, in what she strongly suspected would be a futile effort
to shut Tommy up. "Shouldn't you be running the literacy program?" There were still quite a
few lizards left to be counted, and Dana didn't feel like wasting yet another afternoon not
hurting Tommy's feelings while trying to get him to fuck off, something people as nice as
Dana never can bring themselves to come right out and say.
"Yea, I should be," Tommy admitted. "But Sarah is on another one of her maximum-
political-activism jags, and listening to all that rhetoric gives me the hiccups. Sometimes I
think Sarah might have some sort of a problem, the way she acts. Like maybe a chemical
dependency."
"Not unless peroxide counts," Dana mumbled.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, nothing, just counting lizards," Dana said, appalled at herself for even thinking
something so mean. "The heat must be getting to me," she thought. "The heat, and the fact at
I'm surrounded by a bunch of chattering idiots day and night…There it is again. That was a
very mean thought. What's happening to me?"
"I figured it would be nice and peaceful if I came up here on the mountainside and helped
you count fruit bats," Tommy said.
"It was nice and peaceful until you got here," Dana thought. But out loud she said "I already
got all the fruit bats."
"Okay, the lizards then. Did you look under this rock?" Tommy asked, turning over a rock.
"No lizards. But there's a pretty big spider. Do spiders count? OH GOD, IT'S ON MY LEG,
IT'S ON MY LEG. HELP! HELP! DANA, HELP ME."
Dana brushed the spider off Tommy's leg. "Maybe you'd better go see the doctor about that
spider bite," she advised.
"It didn't bite me," Tommy said.
"Well, not yet, no--BUT LOOK OUT, IT'S COMING BACK." Dana pointed towards
Tommy's other leg.
That did the trick. Dana listened as Tommy's screams grew more distant, and finally were
replaced by the sound of a medium-sized man tumbling down a relatively steep, gravely
incline. She wouldn't be bothered by Tommy anymore that afternoon.
"I just did something very mean," Dana said to a lizard. "That isn't me. It isn't me at all. I'm
never mean. Maybe I should see the doctor. Except that Tommy will be there having his
imaginary spider bite examined. And the Doctor's a nut case…There it is again," Dana caught
herself. "Calling the doctor a nut case was extremely mean. I'm supposed to show
compassion for the insane, and at least a modicum of tolerance for the slightly off kilter. Oh
God, this is really becoming a problem. I don't want to be mean. I hate mean people."
The lizard didn't know how to help, so Dana counted it and continued with her work. "But on
the bright side," she allowed. "I did get rid of Tommy."

By 11:45, I'd found my way to the sales department on the 35th floor.
"May I help you?" the sales department receptionist asked.
"Yea, My name's Bob Gwafin. I'm starting here today."
"Starting what?"
"Starting working."
"Are you transferring from another office? I wasn't told anything about this."
"No, I was just hired."
"From another firm?"
"No, out of school.
"That isn't possible."
"No, it's possible. It just isn't very rational. Listen, I just went through this routine with the
main desk receptionist two hours ago. Maybe we could skip ahead to the part where you
dump the problem on someone else."
The receptionist thought that idea was just fine, and dumped me on the head of equity sales,
Gerald Callesse. I was pleased to see he wasn't a Johnston. That is, unless he had married into
the family. Or had descended from a maternal line. They might all be Johnstons, I realized
and fought back one of those Invasion-of-the-Body-Snatchers-I'm-the-only-one-here-who-
isn't-a-pod-person moments.
"And you are?" Callesse asked.
"My name's Bob Gwafin. I'm starting here today."
"Starting what?"
"Starting working."
"Are you transferring from another office? I wasn't told anything about this."
"No, I was just hired."
"From another firm?"
"No, out of school.
"That isn't possible," I said in concert with Callesse.
"Listen, I know it isn't possible," I explained. "But somehow that hasn't prevented it from
happening. I was hired by the new CEO Mr. Gwafinn just yesterday. Here, I have a signed
contract."
Callesse glared at his receptionist. She clearly wasn't at fault, but he couldn't very well glare
at the new CEO. "Goddamn receptionist," he grumbled for good measure. "But have you
been through our training program?"
"No."
"Do you have any experience in this field? Are you some sort of prodigy or something? Is
there any reason at all you've been hired? Do you have any idea how odd it is for you to be
hired while everyone else on Wall Street is worried about layoffs?"
"No, no, my last name is Gwafin, and yes."
"You say your name was 'Gwafinn'?"
"That's right, more or less, in answer to question three."
"I see," said Callesse, counting back through his questions to make sure there had been no
mistake. "So I take it you're..." but he trailed off in mid sentence. He had meant to confirm
that his new employee was related to the new CEO, but since the answer to that question
seemed obvious, and since saying he was a relation of the CEO would give the young
Gwafinn a psychological advantage in their future dealings, the wise course was to leave the
whole matter alone. "Sorry about the confusion," Callesse said instead. "It's just that most
new hires of this sort are assigned to Research. I'm not even sure we have an open desk. I'll
put Jennifer in charge of figuring this out."
Callesse glanced down at my contract. "Doesn't 'Gwafinn' have a second 'n'?" he asked.
"It skips a generation," I explained, and took back the contract before he noticed that there
was an addendum missing.
Fortunately, Jennifer, as the sales department receptionist was known to those who had
bothered to ask her name, was a smart woman who had worked on Wall Street for years.
While other receptionists had lost their jobs in the recent recession, Jennifer knew the first
rule of success in a cut-throat business: When faced with a seemingly insurmountable
problem, just pass it along to someone even less powerful than yourself. On paper, no one in
the Johnston Brothers' offices had less power than Jennifer--at least until the cleaning crews
came around at midnight--but in practice power is a fluid thing. At any given moment, there
was always one person in the office with less power than the receptionist. That individual
was, of course, the worst performing salesman. Like the bottom-dog in a wolf pack, the worst
salesman on the floor takes abuse from anyone and everyone, regardless of job title or pay
scale.
Jennifer walked me to a desk.
"You can sit here for now. It's Bill Lahey's desk, but Bill can share a desk with someone else.
Or work standing up. Or quit. He's out this morning anyway."
"Uh, maybe I should be the one to share a desk--I am new here."
"No, no," said Jennifer, who was not about to fall for that one. "Bill hasn't been pulling his
weight around here anyway. So screw him." If it came down to a power play between
Jennifer the generally effective receptionist and Bill the non-selling salesman, Bill would find
few allies. A receptionist might have little clout, but Lahey carried the stigma of failure.
"Here, you can take Bill's computer, too. And his lunch. Poor bastard's been bringing a
brown-bag lunch. I guess he saw the writing on the wall and started trying to save money.
Here--he keeps the lunch in his second drawer. Come to think of it, I'm going to see about
having Lahey fired. That would be the best move from a desk-management perspective."
Taking Bill Lahey's job, desk, and lunch did make me a bit uncomfortable, but when you
think about it everyone takes a job that someone else might have had. It's just that most
people don't have to look at a framed 8"x10" desk-top picture of the other man's wife while it
happens. Nice looking woman, I thought as I listened to Jennifer explain how to use Bill
Lahey's phone system. I wondered if Lahey's wife would swap him for me as easily as his
employer had. I looked deep into the desktop photo's eyes and decided that, yes, she probably
would. But I'd worry about that later. For now, I munched on an apple from Lahey's lunch
bag and listened to Jennifer explain how to make a conference call.
Once Jennifer left, I was on my own. For the first time in my life I was a professional in a
respected position in society. This felt very good. What felt less good was the realization that
once I'd finished Lahey's apple, I hadn't a clue what to do next. So I ate slower. But this didn't
strike me as a long-term solution to the problem.
A lack of confidence was something I had rarely been accused of during the first 21 ¾ of my
years upon this planet. My recent bout of unemployment had, however, shaved a few points
off my ego. I adjusted Bill Lahey's desk chair and I wondered how long it would be until
Jennifer would be giving this desk away again. The old me would never have given failure a
moment's thought. The new me figured it was at least worth considering, and very possibly
worth obsessing over. All in all, I would have felt much better if a single person had bothered
to tell me what I was supposed to be doing. That is, aside from Jennifer, who had done a quite
credible job explaining the phones.
I was faced with my first big business decision: Should I admit I didn't know what the hell to
do and look like an ass now, or try to bluff my way through it and risk looking like an even
bigger ass later? Callesse didn't seem like the sort of boss who saw it as his job to provide
guidance, exactly. More the sort to offer motivational threats and constructive insults. He
hadn't stopped yelling into his phone since our brief meeting had ended, and the odds were
astronomically low that whoever was at the other end of that phone line was any more
incompetent than I. Callesse's face had turned red, and his veins were bulging. If I asked him
to tell me how to do my job, the very best I could hope for would be that his head might burst
before he had a chance to lunge at my throat. The smart play, I decided, was to hide my
incompetence from such a boss for as long as possible. Ideally until I was ready for
retirement. But looking around the room, I didn't see anyone else to ask. I'd just have to keep
my head low and buy time until I could figure things out on my own.
For a firm with a century-old reputation as a money factory, the salesroom was not what
you'd call showy. Just row after row of metal desks, computer screens, ringing phones, and
humming florescent lights. The only sunlight arrived filtered through the executive offices
that formed a perimeter around the floor. My fellow salesmen--a couple hundred I'd estimate,
virtually all male, virtually all white, and virtually all well groomed--at least when the market
was rising--sat hunched over their desks yelling into phones and pounding on computer
keyboards. Every man wore a white oxford shirt and fashionable tie, every chair had a suit
jacket slung over its back. If not for the quality of the ties it might have been a telemarketing
outfit in Omaha. Nebraskans just can't seem to get a handle on men's fashions.
Well, I thought, the first step in not appearing to be an idiot is not appearing at all. I took off
my suit jacket, slung it over the back of my chair, and picked up my phone's receiver. Despite
Jennifer's lesson, the telephone would be my first challenge. First two challenges, really,
since I had no idea of, first, whom to call and, second, what to say if against all odds I should
manage to reach them. At a loss, I said in my most professional voice "Get me Peterson."
Silence, I figured, makes one stand out in a sea of commotion. I could talk even if no one was
listening. I'd make my pitch to the dial tone.
Within an hour I'd made some small progress. I'd spent the time eavesdropping on my
colleague one desk to my right, jotting down key phrases that seemed likely to come in handy
later. It didn't seem so very complicated. One stock was "showing tremendous momentum,"
he'd say. Another a "steady income producer," and all were "highly recommended by our top-
ranked research department." He was not new-car-salesman aggressive, nor even new-
appliance-salesman pushy. Instead he relied on the weight of the Johnston Brothers name,
pointed out that down markets were when suckers sold and savvy operators bought, and
avoided outrageous guarantees about future stock performance. I could do all of those things.
Of course I had no way to know if I had selected a capable role model, but this man did have
exactly that trait that's most necessary in a guru: he was the first person I'd come across in a
moment of desperation who seemed to have any answers. Under different circumstances, I
might have joined this man's cult, moved to Idaho, and stockpiled weapons for humanity's
inevitable showdown with the giant space-zombies foretold by his teachings.

You never know what it is you're going to miss the first time you spend a year on a small,
inaccessible island. For some it's easy access to one's close friends and relatives. For others
it’s the past three centuries of technological progress. For Sarah it had been righteous
indignation. Everyone on Lesser Morrell Island was either a native or a fellow activist. This
was all well and good in principle, but in practice it seriously curtailed Sarah's opportunities
for luscious umbrage. Until she landed on Lesser Morrell Island, Sarah had never gone a
month without finding at least one opportunity to call someone a bourgeois pig, a time-tested,
if old-school, insult that she felt had unfairly fallen out of use since the 1960s. Sarah even
bragged to fellow activists that 'bourgeois pig' had been her first words. In point of fact,
Sarah's first words had been "Mama" and "Dada," but that was merely because her bourgeois-
pig parents had brainwashed her into saying it, which should hardly count against her.
Here on the island, opportunities to accuse others of bourgeois pig-dom were painfully few.
Only rarely did Sarah even get to call anyone a "tool of the establishment." And whole days
had passed without a single opening to tell someone that he was "part of the problem." In
desperation, Sarah had taken to writing self-righteous and accusatory notes concerning shore
erosion and lawn-fertilizer spill-off to beach-front property owners. These she sealed in
empty bottles that she tossed into the ocean. Sarah did this only late at night, to avoid
becoming saddled with a reputation as someone who threw empty bottles into the ocean. Her
fellow island activists did eventually learn Sarah's dark secret, since she had not considered
the advantages of waiting for an out-going tide. But the others were tolerant. For starters,
tolerance was easier than coming up with another way to recycle glass bottles on a remote
Pacific island. But there was more to it than that. They knew Sarah; they saw her
predicament. Sarah's passion for accusing others of crimes against the planet simply needed
an outlet. The others even understood that this passion would be directed against them from
time to time, if only because Sarah periodically ran short of empty bottles. The other activists
understood all of this. They just didn't like it.
"I don't understand how you can justify working in that place," Sarah said, apropos of
nothing. Sarah often didn't see how things could be justified. To Sarah, the fact that she didn't
see how something could be justified was precisely the same as saying it was unjustifiable,
and she tended to lash out if the behavior wasn't halted immediately.
"That place?" Dana asked. "Do you mean the hospital? What's wrong with the hospital?"
Dana helped out around the hospital when she could find the time.
"What's wrong with it? It's the number one threat to the environment of this region." Sarah, it
seemed, had found something on the island to be against.
"You said the number one threat was our dam. That's why we blew it up, remember. Then
you said it was excessive fishing, so we handed out those environmental brochures. Then you
said it was that no one could read our environmental brochures, so we joined the literacy
campaign. Then you said it was the loss of cultural heritage, so we told the natives to forget
the English they'd learned. Then you said it was littering, so we had Tommy take back the
environmental brochures before anyone could litter with them."
"Don't you see, all this time we've just been addressing the symptoms. The greatest threat to
the planet's environment is overpopulation. Any serious environmentalist knows that. And the
greatest cause of overpopulation in this region is the hospital. Hospitals make death rates go
down and birth rates go up. Where do you think that's going to lead?"
"But the hospital is there to help people," Dana protested. "I like helping people. Helping is
good."
"But are you really helping people, or are you just taking the short-term solution?"
There was no response to this charge. The "short-term solution" accusation was the "did-too-
plus-infinity" trump card of environmental activism.
"Well, what would you have us do?" Dana asked. "It's not like our hospital is increasing
lifespans much. Just the other day I accidentally handed out the wrong medication, if it's any
help."
"That's not enough."
"What do you propose?"
"We have to take action."
"And by take action you mean…"
"We have to call a meeting."

I'd given up on my first prospective client, the dial tone, when it had voiced its hesitance to
invest in the volatile stock market by making loud beeping sounds in my ear and warning me
to hang up or dial a number. I'd taken its advice and dialed a number. The best one I could
think of at the time was the number for Time of Day. Time of Day seemed slightly impatient
with my sales pitch as well, in as much as it kept reminding me of the time. But it never
actually cut me off, which I took as a positive sign. I continued to press the recording to do
some planning for its future until I saw my neighbor and unintentional guru hang up, lean
back in his chair, and rake his fingers through his expensive haircut. The haircut immediately
sprang back into place. Clearly I had chosen my guru wisely. Sensing an opening, I told Time
of Day that I would call back tomorrow when he'd had a chance to think over what we'd
discussed, and hung up. Time of Day remained noncommittal.
"Andy Keller" my neighbor said, extending a hand.
"Bob Gwafin"
"What's your department?" Keller asked.
"Sales."
"That much I'd surmised, since this is the sales floor. The question I had hoped to have
answered is what, exactly, are you selling?"
"That's where it starts to get a little fuzzy."
"How fuzzy?"
"Irish Wolf Hound."
"I see. They didn't assign you a department?"
"No, they just assigned me this desk, this phone, and this bag lunch."
"Hmm," said Keller, leaning back in his chair. "Most salesmen get assigned to a department.
'Course most salesmen also go through the training program, and only a few steal other
salesmen's bag lunches. Tell you what, I'm kinda busy here, but I'll give you a quick piece of
advice in exchange for half of Lahey's chicken salad sandwich."
"Sure…but I think he brought tuna salad today."
"Tuna salad? Disgusting. No deal."
Keller reached for his phone.
"Wait," I stopped him. "I'll give you the whole sandwich--and his soda. But I really could use
that advice."
"Deal," said Keller, who preferred tuna anyway, but knew a strong negotiating position when
he saw one. "Here's my advice: Sell equities. That's where the money is here at Johnston
Brothers. Anyway, most of us on this side of the room are selling equities. That's what Lahey
was trying to sell, and you are taking his desk."
"Yea, I'm sorry about doing that to Lahey."
"Fuck Lahey. He had his chance and he fucked it up. Now he's gone."
I handed over the bag lunch. "So what equities should I sell?"
"Whatever equities you think you can get people to buy."
"What people?"
"Any people you think will buy them."
"Yea, but which people are those?"
"People with money. Pension fund managers, insurance companies, lottery winners, NFL
running backs, widows, coin-operated Laundromat chain owners, you name it. We're not
picky here at Johnston Brothers. Just make sure they're ready to fork over at least six figures,
or it's not worth your time."
"Come'on man. I need a hint here. Who do I call."
"I'd like to help you, my friend, really I would. But if I've got a lead, I'm not handing it to
you, certainly not in this market…and come to think of it, not really in any other market,
either. You're going to have to find your own clients. As far as I know, Lahey only found one
in three months. Now they've given his desk to some asshole who steals other people's
lunches. It's a tough world. And as near as I can tell, you've already wasted the first hour of
your professional career without selling anything. At this rate you'll be unemployed in a
month."
With that Keller picked up his phone and started yelling at whomever was unfortunate
enough to be at the other end. I stared at my phone and tried to calculate what my odds were
of finding a client with "six figures minimum" by dialing numbers at random. I could start by
eliminating any area codes in Arkansas or Mississippi, I thought, which would improve the
odds a bit. That's when I noticed a scrap of paper on my desk, one that hadn't been there
before. Turning it over, I read: "Bob, You seem like a good guy. Some free advice: Don't play
their game."
The note was not signed. I looked around, but didn't spot anyone looking in my direction. I
studied Keller, but saw no hint that the message was his work. I shoved the paper in my
pocket, put the receiver to my ear, and dialed up Time of Day. "Don't play their game?" I
repeated to myself. Was there someone on the Johnston Brothers sales floor looking to instill
morals in young salesmen? Or trying to confuse one? It could be a Johnston attempting to
drive me insane.
"At the sound of the tone, the time will be 1:12" said Time of Day.
"Yea, give me Womack," I answered, then started in with the most impassioned sales pitch
that that talky clock had ever heard, occasionally switching to nods and grunts of agreement
to better eavesdrop on Keller's pitches to his likely-more-promising candidates.

It had been a different Dean Kerns in recent days, Smith noted. Or more accurately, it had
been the same Kerns, only with a previously unimaginable degree of administrative savvy.
And if anything, that was worse, since had it actually been a different Dean Kerns, Smith
could have tracked down the original, incompetent, version and returned him to his station.
The prospect of a savvy Kerns was going to require a more involved response on Smith's
part, if he didn't want to end up playing second fiddle to the man for the next two decades. As
it happened, Smith didn't want that very much at all.
In a meeting that morning, a student had proposed that the college quad be handed over to a
commune of organic farmers who would raise crops to feed the oppressed peoples of the
world. Kerns had agreed it was good for people to have food, then suggested the student
come back with a full report explaining his program in the context of the economics of global
crop prices. When the student tried to protest, Kerns chided him that the college didn't want
to accidentally undercut world food prices, thereby threatening the livelihood of small
farmers. Faced with this logic, the student could only drop his head, admit that he didn't want
to threaten the livelihood of small farmers, agree to look into this economics thing, locate an
economics book in the library, get bored before completing the first page, and go outside to
play Frisbee on the quad instead. It was a total victory for Kerns, and not the only one Smith
had witnessed of late.
As a test, Smith had himself proposed that the college finance the economic study in
question…and Kerns had artfully handed off budgetary approval to a committee that Smith
had never heard of. And Smith had heard of all the committees. Smith was on all the
committees, or all those that would have him, anyway. "This was no coincidence," Smith
thought. "Kerns has somehow gotten a hold of the idea that he's smart enough to do his job,
and the man's too stupid to realize that he's wrong."
This was a problem. Smith only had accepted the Assistant Dean position at Bucklin because
Dean Jergensen had been at death's door. Or on death's front walk with a nice bottle of
Chardonnay under his arm, anyway. It had never occurred to him that Jergensen's job
wouldn't simply be handed to the next man in the chain of command as a matter of course. It
was like being Vice President, Smith had reasoned. If you could knock off the President, the
big chair was yours. It was in the Constitution. Only too late did Smith re-read the 25th
Amendment, and discover it did not specifically cover college-administration promotion
policy. Remarkably, a check of the Bucklin College charter revealed no rules concerning
succession of powers there, either. It was as if the college was expected to find a new dean
without an explicit written policy covering exactly who that new dean would be. A decision
to be made without an explicit written policy. Smith shuddered at the thought.
As for Kerns, the man was barely into his fifties, just a few years older than Smith himself.
Kerns had a strong heart, no family history of cancer, and an aversion to risky situations so
finely honed that it bordered on cowardice. Smith would never get his promotion through the
time-honored tradition of waiting for one's superiors to die. "Still there's no need for panic,"
Smith remained himself. "Whatever Kerns might have learned in the past few weeks, he's still
a novice in the cut-throat world of policy and administration. He can't compete. Not against
me."
Smith had been an administrator all his life. Well, all his adult life, anyway. As a child he
had merely played at being an administrator. When the other children in his neighborhood
pretended that their cardboard box was a spaceship heading to Mars, Kerns had secured
another box and pretended it was the NASA offices. He would insist that the other children
complete the necessary forms for takeoff approval, Martian landing clearance, deep-space
insurance coverage, and all the other paperwork that's de rigueur for such a massive
undertaking. Most days his playmates would submit to only a few documents before the
notoriously rigorous Martian quarantine protocols caused them to give up on space travel
entirely, and change the game to one of beating young Smith with all the vigor children can
muster after they've been filling out forms for a while and anyway were a bit tuckered out
from a long voyage in a cardboard rocket. But Smith was okay with this new game as well, so
long as the other kids filled out the necessary forms before the beating. It was one form per
punch, with special dispensation needed for kicks. They rarely persisted for long.
This lifetime of training had given Smith real-world administrative skills that Kerns couldn't
possibly match. It also had provided him with the ability to take a punch, which was a nice
talent to have in reserve, should all else fail. Things were still a long way from the punch-
taking phase, but Smith was becoming concerned.
He paced around his office, back and forth, back and forth, then for a change, around and
around. Smith shuffled his feet when he walked, hands clenched behind his back, shoulders
hunched. It was an odd gait, and that very oddity was a point of pride for Smith. When he had
set out on his career in academia fourteen years prior, Smith had been the blandest, most
inconspicuous of personalities. That was just fine at the time, since like most low-level
administrators, Smith's goal had been to blend into the woodwork where he wouldn't be
saddled with any important, and thus potentially career-damaging, assignments. But when
Smith decided to strive for something more meaningful in life--something like a high-level
administration position--that very anonymity became his bane. Smith worked for a college, a
non-profit entity. In an atmosphere where financial success rarely was given much thought,
the only way for an ambitious young administrator to stand out was, well, to stand out. So
Smith had cultivated a handlebar mustache, only to find that his upper lip wasn't up to the
job. He had developed a fake accent, but with so many professors speaking versions of
English that were for all intents and purposes languages of their own, a minor speech flaw
earned him little mention. Then he'd hit on the odd walk. Like so many great ideas in history,
Smith had stuck on this solution purely by accident, noting the large number of people who
inquired about a limp he had obtained quite honestly, by rolling over his own foot with an
office chair. Smith promptly took a long weekend to produce and practice an even more
noteworthy walk.
Over the following months, Smith had worked the components of the new stride into his
standard locomotion, wary of a sudden change arousing suspicion. It had, to date, been the
most important decision of his career. At his previous place of employment, Wilson
University in Delaware, he had been known not as "you know, that administrator…no the
other one," as he had in all prior places of employment, but as "Shuffling Smith," a name he
quite liked. Within weeks, Smith was earning promotions and gaining serious consideration
at the annual administration awards banquets.
"I can handle Kerns all right," Smith assured himself. "At this afternoon's administrative
meeting, I'll just trot out the heavy artillery. I'll use the one weapon that wins any
administrative pissing contest--the budget."

By 1:30 that afternoon I had the banter down and I knew which stocks Johnston Brothers was
pushing. All I had to do was find a client. That was the one thing I couldn't learn
surreptitiously from my guru. Sure, I could watch him dial. But it's not like I could then try
the same number myself. How would I explain why I was calling right after my colleague?
And why should I think I could make a sale where a more experienced salesman couldn't?
Anyway, Keller made his most successful calls through his phone's pre-programmed speed-
dial buttons. Must be the best of his existing clients. I took another look at my own phone.
Twenty speed dial buttons, twenty names penciled in beside them. If Lahey was on his way
out anyway…
The first read "Home." Probably not a client. The second read "Julia," no last name.
Probably the wife's office number, I guessed. The photo on the desk wore a ring, so I knew
Lahey was married, and "Home" figured to be his wife's home number as well. That seemed
to leave 'wife's office' as the only reasonable conclusion. I considered calling Julia to let her
know that I was taking over her husband's life and would be around to see her soon, but
decided to let it ride--at least until I had discussed the matter with Lahey. Just seemed like the
classy way to handle it. Speed-dials three through twenty were last names. I hung up on time
of day without so much as a goodbye and reached for button #3--then stopped. Number three
could very well be Lahey's best or longest-standing client. Better to perfect my patter before
trying the big time. So I pushed #20, "Talbot."
Talbot answered after one ring. "At the sound of the tone," said Talbot, "the time will be
1:35." I was back on the phone with my first prospect. Lahey, it seemed, was a man so
insecure about his position at Johnston Brothers that he had filled his speed dials up with
fictional names so that anyone glancing at his desk wouldn't know he had fewer than 20
clients worth speed-dialing.
Working backwards, I found that buttons 4-20 all connected me with Time of Day, with the
exception of #10, which put me in touch with a job placement firm, and #11, which rang up
the Depression Hotline. It seemed that Lahey was not oblivious to his tenuous employment
status. It also seemed that the rumors had been right. There was only one speed-dial left
untried; thus in three months on the job, Lahey had accumulated a grand total of one client--if
indeed he had accumulated any at all. Perhaps Lahey had been spreading the rumor of a
single client just to build up his reputation around the sales floor.
I hit #3, "Bahnsen."
"Hello?" a woman's voice answered.
"Yes, Mr. Bahnsen, please," I said, making a sexist but statistically valid assmption that a
woman whose voice suggested that she was, charitably, in her fifties probably left the
investments to her husband.
"May I tell him who's calling?"
"Yes, Ma'am, this is Bob Gwafin at Johnston Brothers."
"Oh, is this about Bill?"
"Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose it is, yes," I said.
A moment later, Mr. Bahnsen was on.
"Hello?"
"Yes, Mr. Bahnsen, my name is Bob Gwafin. I'm just calling to let you know that I'll be
taking over Bill Lahey's accounts here at Johnston Brothers."
"Taking over his accounts?" Bahnsen sounded concerned. "Is he okay?"
"If you mean his health, then yes, as far as I know--well, aside from a bit of depression," I
surmised from button number 11. "But he'll be leaving Johnston Brothers soon, so we thought
it was better to transfer his accounts now rather than later."
"But why is Bill leaving Johnston Brothers? He hasn't said a word about it--and he was so
happy to land a position there."
"I'm sure he was going to let you know soon. It's common knowledge here on the sales floor
that you're his favorite client." This was true enough.
"Well I ought to be his favorite client," said Bahnsen. "I am his father in law. And I think I
better speak to Bill about this before I agree to let someone else take over my accounts.
Perhaps he's leaving for a better opportunity at a different investment bank."
"I'm going to be honest with you here, Mr. Bahnsen. Bill isn't leaving Johnston Brothers for
a better opportunity. He's leaving because he's too big of a man to keep hanging around the
office of a company that's just fired him."
"Bill's been fired."
"Yes sir, or he will be soon anyway."
"For what reason?"
"I suppose there are always many reasons one can point to in a situation like this," I hedged.
"What reason primarily?"
"Primarily for the reason that he's a lousy salesman."
"'Lousy'? That's putting it rather harshly. Is there a chance you could tell me how many
clients Bill has acquired aside from myself?"
"None."
"I really do think you should tell me."
"I just did, Mr. Bahnsen."
"Oh…I see."
"Listen, I'm really sorry. I'd hate to have to find out that my son in law was a loser."
"Well, there were signs," Bahnsen admitted, his previous bluster having left him. "He didn't
do all that well in school…and he never showed any great ambition…and he tends to laugh at
those lite beer ads on television. Still, I thought he might make a go of it when I pulled some
strings and got him the job at Johnston Brothers."
"You've done all a father-in-law could," I offered. "But you have to think of your own
interests now. For example, the funds you had invested through Johnston Brothers. We
should discuss how you'd like those handled."
"To be honest, I only invested with Johnston Brothers because Bill was there. Now that he's
not, I'll probably move my money elsewhere."
"Mr. Bahnsen, need I remind you of the potentially dire tax consequences of such a move?" I
asked. It was a stab in the dark, but I thought a safe one. Whatever is done in this world, it's
likely to have potentially dire tax consequences.
"No…but…"
"Let me ask you this," I interrupted. "Would you have entrusted your life savings to your
son-in-law if he was the mop-and-bucket man at your neighborhood McDonald's?"
"No…"
"No, of course not. You're a reasonable person. You trusted Bill not because he was a
member of the family, but because he was a member of the family who worked at Johnston
Brothers. Now Bill is no longer with Johnston Brothers--or won't be shortly anyway. I am
with Johnston Brothers. I'm the guy they brought in to clean up the mess Bill has made of
things. The only sensible thing to do is let the better man handle the account."
"But we're not even related," Mr. Bahnsen protested, though not vehemently.
"So introduce me to your daughter." I was on a roll. Within a few minutes, I had my first
client. I was rather pleased with myself, too, until Lahey returned to what he apparently still
considered his desk a few minutes later. Obviously no one else had bothered to explain the
situation to him. It really seemed like a job for the human resources department, but I took
the initiative and gave him a rough sketch of what had happened since he'd left that morning.
Lahey looked a bit pale when I told him about his job, and even paler when I threw in the
details of a small misstep I'd made towards the end of my conversation with Bahnsen.
"You told my father-in-law about Julia?" Lahey stammered.
"Yes, but only because I assumed she was your wife. Of course I realize now that that was a
mistake, but is it my fault you're cheating on your wife--and put your mistress on speed dial?
For God's sake, Bill, you're juggling a wife and mistress as a first year Wall Street salesman?
No wonder your work has suffered."
"Hey, you son of a bitch, I don't need to take that shit from a man who just took my job, stole
my client, ruined my marriage, and ate my tuna salad sandwich all in less than two hours."
"Now wait just a minute," I countered. "I didn't eat your sandwich. I traded it."
"Traded it? For what?"
"It was a standard business deal," I answered, a bit defensively. "I don't think it would be
very ethical for me to disclose the terms to a third party."
I did feel for Lahey, but the conversation was dragging on and, frankly, it was starting to
make me a little uncomfortable. So when Keller looked up from his computer screen long
enough to suggest to Lahey and me that he'd solve our problem if one of us would go get him
another Coke, I readily accepted. "Fuck off, Bill," Keller told Lahey, then turned back to his
computer. I would have to start thinking of these solutions on my own or I'd spend my whole
life running back and forth to the soda machine, and Keller's caffeine intake would reach
unhealthy levels.
To give credit where credit is due, Keller's solution did work, eventually. Lahey continued to
stand behind my chair for a while, in some sort of trance as near as I could tell. It was a quiet
trance, so I had no rational reason to complain. Still, I wasn't displeased when security arrived
to escort him from the building. "Imagine cheating on this beautiful woman," I said to the
picture on my desk, shaking my head once to emphasize my concern at the declining moral
standards in our society.
But I couldn't afford to waste any more time worrying about the past. I was a Wall Street
equities salesman, and I already had an idea where I could find my second client. Last I'd
heard, there was a one-handed former grocery bagger in Bridgeton, Maine who had a sizable
lawsuit settlement coming his way from an on-the-job accident. I might have cost Timmy an
appendage, but I'd earned him a fortune. If you thought about it long enough, you might even
conclude he owed me.
Well, I concluded he owed me, anyway. And you're too late to do anything about it.
Chapter 17
July 5

The history of Wall Street begins way back in 1653. That's a very long time ago. So long that
over in Europe, Shakespeare and Galileo had only recently gotten a start on being dead. On
this side of the Atlantic, a group of Pilgrims living in what is now downtown Manhattan, but
was then much more affordable, erected a wall to keep out local Indians and to keep in local
businesses considering moves to New Jersey for tax reasons. The wall was a success on both
fronts, since walking around the end of walls would not be invented for another hundred
years. The path that ran alongside this wall came to be known as Wall Street, and continued
under that name long after the wall itself had been torn down in the early 1700s to make way
for an upscale coffee bar, which was immediately overrun by invading Indians and departing
companies.
Before the 18th century was over, this once humble dirt path would have multiple claims to
fame. In 1789, it was the site of George Washington's presidential inauguration, a fact that set
it apart from every other thoroughfare in the young country, along which Washington had
merely slept. And of even greater long-term significance, Wall Street was rapidly becoming
one of the young nation's most prominent financial centers.
Every day investors and auctioneers, traders and speculators would gather under a
buttonwood tree at 68 Wall Street, back in the days when trees were given street addresses.
They were there to buy and sell investments, since this was long before internet chat rooms
had replaced buttonwood trees as the medium through which promising financial
opportunities were promoted. By late that century, it was discovered--purely by chance--that
financial transactions worked just as well without the assistance of the buttonwood tree, so
the New York Stock and Exchange Board was moved inside, and the tree lost out on its once-
lucrative commissions.
Things really took off in 1790, when a risky young company known as the United States
government decided to issue some bonds to finance its Revolutionary War, the governmental
equivalent of an initial public offering. The U.S. government was then an untested enterprise
with little earnings and considerable competition. But Wall Street decided the U.S. was worth
the risk. Perhaps it was a patriotic effort on the part of these investors to support the fragile
nation and its ideas of freedom and liberty. Or perhaps it was because the Revolutionary War
was already over by that point, and seeing as how the U.S. had won, it seemed a pretty safe
bet. Whatever their reason, America turned out to be a smart investment, and in the years to
come its profits were through the roof--although things were a bit touch-and-go for a time
during the War of 1812, the first of the wars named to make life easier for history students.
Down through the centuries, the country's gains were Wall Street's gains. By the 1980s, the
performance of one's investment portfolio had replaced the performance of the local sports
team and the health status of one's wife and children as the first topic raised over a beer after
work. Then martinis replaced beer. Then wine replaced martinis. And we're not talking about
cheap wine. Americans were rich, and getting richer every day. Thanks to their investments,
many Americans could make money even if they decided to stay home in bed, which most of
them didn't, because all that money wasn't going to spend itself. Stock ownership allowed the
average worker to reap the benefits of production. It was the American dream.
Coincidentally, it was also the Soviet dream--or what the Soviets dreamt was their dream,
anyway, as the real Soviet dream always had been finding enough potatoes to make it through
the winter. In America, the dream was becoming real. Wall Street was making life better for
Americans. And none more so than those who worked on it.
That Monday morning I waited with every single other person over the age of 22 in
Washingtonville, New Jersey to catch the 7:04 to New York City. I'd spent Saturday, the third
day of July, searching for an apartment. The search would have been simple, in that
apartments are relatively common, except that I thought it best to focus my efforts on
apartments that were both currently for rent and within my price range. My first paycheck
wouldn't arrive for two weeks yet, but my credit card company had generously offered me a
cash advance, an offer I now decided to take them up on, since it now seemed likely that I'd
be able to repay them before anyone decided to do anything rash, like charge me an 18% fee
or send someone around to discuss the possibility of breaking my thumbs. But fiscal
considerations still saved me the trouble of looking anywhere in the borough of Manhattan.
They also more-or-less eliminated Brooklyn, which was the new Manhattan, and Hoboken,
New Jersey, which was the new Brooklyn, and Summit, New Jersey, which was the new
Hoboken. Newark, New Jersey and the Bronx were out as well, since my contract with
Johnston Brothers specified that I had to be alive in order to earn my salary.
My efforts with the apartment listings weren't looking any more productive than June's
unpleasantness with the help wanteds, and I was seriously considering giving up on agate
type entirely. But the housing issue needed to be resolved that weekend, unless I wanted to be
a homeless investment banker--and that wasn't going to work, because there was no way that
I could keep an eye on my shopping cart while putting in long days at the office. One
possible housing solution did occur to me, but a few quick phone calls confirmed that none of
the local observatories were in need of a live-in caretaker, even one with experience.
Eventually I'd had no choice but to purchase a ticket on a New Jersey Transit train heading
west. I'd hopped off every few stations to buy the local paper and check the rental rates in the
classified section and the murder rates in the local news section, then hopped back on the
train if one or both of these didn't conform with my budgetary and survival needs.
Eventually I reached Washingtonville, a north Jersey town with nothing in particular to
recommend it aside from a train station a little over an hour from Manhattan, affordable rents,
and survivable--if uncommonly dull--streets. In fairness, there was a good bar across from the
station, and, as it happened, an apartment for rent above the bar. The apartment, the landlord
said proudly, had a nice view of a train station and the pleasant aroma of a bar. That was
good enough for me. The landlord asked for his first and last month's rent, plus security
deposit. I asked him to let me slide on the last month's part for a little while, since I didn't
wish to get in too deep with any unsavory credit-card loan sharks. Out of the goodness of his
heart, or perhaps the goodness of my earnings prospects, he agreed.
I wasn't certain what my Johnston Brothers paychecks would look like after taxes, but as
near as I could figure, this transaction left me with $100 to see me through the next two
weeks. Together with the money in my pocket, that gave me a total of $104.54 to cover my
daily transit to and from the city, plus whatever miscellaneous expenses happened to develop,
including, but not limited to, any food I might require. Limited funds or no, my escape from
homelessness--or apartmentlessness, at least--merited a celebratory dinner. The bar
downstairs seemed a good choice, and the bouncer out front assured me the establishment
was locally famous for the quality of its buffalo wings. It was such a great bar, in fact, that he
further assured me that there was no chance I could get a table there, given that it was a
Saturday night. There was, he added, only an outside chance he'd be willing to let me in on a
weekday, since keeping people out really was the only perk of his job. I was disappointed,
but the bouncer directed me next door to the town's only other bar, where the buffalo wings
and beer weren't as good, but you could usually get a table. So I ate my celebratory dinner at
the bar next to the bar below my apartment. The bouncer was right. The wings weren't very
good. It seemed like a bad idea to blow any more of my limited funds in the second-best bar
in Washingtonville, so after diner I'd gone upstairs to bed. Well, not actually bed. I couldn't
yet afford a bed. I'd gone upstairs to floor.

One by one the activists filed in to the meeting hall, which to be precise was not so much a
hall as it was the doctor's L.L. Bean family-size dome tent--a nice red one large enough that
you could almost, but not quite, sit up comfortably. Everyone on Lesser Morrell Island could
fit inside. Well, everyone if you didn't count the natives, and there really was no point in
counting them, since they weren't invited to the meeting anyway. They would have been,
mind you, except that none of them belonged to any of the activists' organizations. This,
despite the fact that sign-up sheets had been posted in their village and remained up and
unsigned for nearly a week, until one of the members of the anti-liter campaign had taken
them down and recycled them.
There was a standard protocol for inter-association meetings of this sort: everyone would
complain about their own causes and belittle the issues raised by the others until each
participant was satisfied that he or she was the most committed to bettering the world. Then
they would break for snacks.
Jeff started it off. "If these natives don't stop eating so much fruit, we're going to start to see a
decline in the island's fruit bat population."
"My 'Save the monkeys' campaign isn't getting anywhere," Laura added. "I try to tell these
people that they shouldn't eat monkeys. But they won't listen. And after all the monkeys have
done for them. Like when the monkeys..." Laura trailed off.
"But what's most troubling is that they're bringing in more and more outside goods," said
Brent. "It's not just food, either. They wear factory-made t-shirts instead of grass skirts and
traditional woven-reed clothing. I saw one native in a 'Coors Light' T-shirt. He wouldn't take
it off even when I explained to him that one of the people who owns the company that makes
the beer that's advertised on the shirt supports political causes that I don't agree with."
"It's overpopulation, that's the real problem," said Sarah, seizing the opportunity to bring the
meeting around to the reason she'd called it in the first place. "We're just fooling ourselves by
ignoring it."
"I see it all the time in the hospital," admitted the Doctor. "The more people there are, the
more people there are getting sick."
"And eating monkeys," said Laura.
"And littering," added Tommy.
"And voting Republican," said Sarah.
"But what can we do?" asked Dana. "We've explained to these people that there needs to be
fewer of them, but they won't listen. Laura and I tried passing out condoms a few months
back and they used them to carry water. When we explained what they were for, they thought
we were coming on to them."
"We should shut down the hospital," Sarah said.
"We can't do that," Dana said. "The doctor might lose his funding."
"Well, we have to do something about this," said Jeff. "If things continue like they are, the
whole world will be overpopulated by the time our grandchildren are born.
"If only they'd listened to me about the communism," said Sarah. "Then I could just tell them
to have fewer children, and they'd have to listen."
There was a long pause, before Jeff worked up the nerve to say what needed to be said.
"Well, if we can't stop them from reproducing, there's only one other solution to
overpopulation."
The others stared at their Teva-shod feet. Only Sarah, who prided herself on being proactive,
was willing to speak up. "I know this is a major step, people, but we've spent our lives
making tough decisions and difficult sacrifices for the good of the world. And none of it will
mean a thing if we're not willing to take that final step." Sarah turned to Jeff for support. "For
the good of the people," she prompted.
"For the good of the people," Jeff agreed, then turned to Laura, seated on his left.
"For the good of the people," agreed Laura. And around the dome tent it went.
"For the good of the people," said the Doctor.
"For the good of the people," said Tommy, who would never consider going against a group.
"I really just want to build my dam…and maybe blow it up occasionally, when it becomes
necessary," said Brent, who was hesitant to agree to any plan that might put his funding in
jeopardy. "…but if it's for the good of the people, I suppose there's no choice."
All eyes were upon Dana. But Dana was wavering. There was something about this that just
didn't seem right to her, even if all the right people were behind it.
"Dana?" Jeff encouraged.
"Dana, don't tell us you're one of them," Sarah said, not specifying who she meant by them,
and not needing to. Them was anyone who didn't agree with her.
"For the good of the people," Dana mumbled, finally, a bit quietly for the taste of some
present.
"Then it's unanimous," said Jeff. "For the good of the people, we must kill every last one of
them."
Then the meeting broke for snacks.

Smith scanned his copy of the agenda before the Process and Procedure Council meeting.
The Process and Procedure Council was the true power broker on campus, not withstanding
the fact that it never actually did anything. The point was it could do things, all sorts of
things, even if no one but Smith saw its potential. The incredible truth of the matter was that
the Council could do almost anything it chose…or at least it could do almost anything it
chose when one was considering matters of Bucklin campus process and procedure, but for a
man like Smith who considered little else, this was virtually the same thing.
Smith had invested significant time and effort in lobbying for his seat on the Council the last
time one had opened up. He'd mentioned his candidacy to any college regent who'd listen.
He'd virtually begged Jergensen for his support. He'd even hired a PR firm. In the end he'd
caught a lucky break when no one else had wanted the job. Landing this council seat had
been Smith's proudest achievement, one only slightly diminished by the fact that Kerns had
been given Jergensen's former seat on his first day as an administrator, simply because he was
the new Dean. "Status report on the student housing shortage," Smith read off the agenda,
"…discussions on updating the campus drug policy from 'don't, or you'll be expelled' to the
more up-to-date 'please try not to, or you'll be asked to 'please try not to' again'…fraternity
hazing guidelines…college statement against mistreatment of America's prisoners…Special
General Budgetary Process Exemption implementation vote…and closing statement by the
Dean." Perfect. Nothing but the sorts of routine procedural matters that left all ordinary minds
in a deep fog. But Smith had an extraordinary mind. Sometimes Smith suspected his brain
was wired specifically for administration, as Mozart's had been wired for music, or Warhol's
for self-promotion. The Special General Budgetary Process Exemption implementation vote
was his concern. He'd slipped it in as far down the list as he could. By the time they got to it,
Smith and Smith alone would have his wits about him, the others having long since
succumbed to the hypnotic haze of irrelevance and lapsed into a docile, zombie-like state of
pliability. Just to be safe, Smith had seen to it that both pots of coffee contained decaf. Then
he'd had the campus audio/visual club pipe in the sounds of ocean waves.
The meeting dragged. It's a common misconception that meetings drag because their topics
are dry or their participants slow-witted. The truth is, many meetings drag because one or
more of their participants is a master of the subtle art of meeting dragging. In wars, those
with superior forces have the advantage. In debates, those with superior rhetorical skills have
the advantage. In meetings, those with no pressing plans for later that day have the advantage.
Smith was a meeting-dragger of the first order. He insisted that every topic be explained in
full. He insisted that every option be explained in full. He insisted on using words like
"mission-critical" and "measurable impactfullness" as if they were punctuation--or at very
least as if they were words.
In only a few short hours, the Council meeting lurched towards Smith's budgetary topic.
"Now just a small matter on the budget, Smith began…"
"Point of order," Kerns interjected, with a suddenness that roused one or two of the other
board members from their mental slumbers. "I'm afraid the budget isn't on today's agenda."
"Certainly it is…look here, item number five, 'Special General Budgetary Process
Exemption Implementation vote.'"
"Oh, Thomas, I'm afraid you have an out-of-date copy of the finalized agenda," Kerns said,
shaking his head. "The formalized finalized agenda doesn't include that item."
"What formalized finalized agenda? There is only one finalized agenda. That's why they call
it finalized."
"I'm afraid that's a matter for the Agenda Finalization Formalization Committee to decide."
"There's no such thing as an 'Agenda Finalization Formalization Committee,' either. You just
made that up."
"Well, if you don't think they exist, maybe that's something you should take up with them. In
the meantime, your budgetary matter isn't on the formalized finalized agenda, so there really
isn't much we can do." Kerns slid his copy of the agenda over the Smith, and indeed number
five was missing--number six hadn't become number five, mind you, five was just missing, a
suspicious blank line in its place.
"I don't understand," said Smith. "What happened to number five? Did you do this?"
"I'd like to answer," said Kerns. "But that topic isn't on the agenda either."
"It’s not like it would be disastrous if we deviated from the agenda just this once," Smith
said.
Now all the other administrators were fully awake.
"Are you feeling all right Thomas?" Kerns asked. "You don't sound like yourself."
Smith was most certainly not feeling all right. In fact, he had a feeling that something was
very, very wrong. Two things actually. One, the agenda had been altered, and two, Kerns had
just out-protocoled him in front of his fellow administrators. Worse yet, Smith had a hunch
that these two problems were about to come together to form a third, previously unforeseen
and unimaginatively painful, problem.
"Moving on to the final item on the formalized finalized agenda," Kerns continued with a
hard gaze in Smith's direction, "my closing statement. I'll keep it brief. I just want to say how
honored I am to be working with all of you here on the campus Process and Procedure
Council."
Smith let out his breath. He could live with that.
"…And," Kerns continued, "I'd like to make a proposal. I believe the members of this
council should be less tied to their offices. I suggest that each quarter, the college finance an
informational excursion for one member of this august body to the destination of his choice
to study procedural and administrative practices in that region."
One of the board members spoke up. "These 'informational excursions' you mentioned…will
there be any specific requirements?"
"Only that you don't come home early."
"And exactly how would these 'informational excursions' differ from, say, a paid vacation to
the location of our choice?"
"It would be nice if you could attend a meeting or two while you're there. But I don't think
we need to be sticklers about that sort of thing."
"Can we bring our wives?" someone asked.
"Yes," Kerns said.
"Do we have to bring our wives?" someone else asked.
"No," Kerns said.
There was a rippling excitement in the room.
"Gentlemen," Smith said, his talent for spotting procedural quandaries sharper than most,
"it's all very well to talk about three-month paid vacations, but as members of the Policy and
Procedure Council we have a higher calling. If one of us is away every quarter, we'll never
again have 100% turnout for a Council meeting. And without 100% attendance, our bylaws
don't allow for votes on changes in budgetary practices…or for votes on changes in the
bylaws that would allow for changes in the rules covering votes on changes in budgetary
practices. You can see the fix we'd be in."
"But Thomas," one of the other board members said. "Three-month paid vacations. Three-
month paid vacations."
"Budgetary practice modifications," countered Smith. "Budgetary process modifications."
But the battle was lost. Kerns' travel proposal passed by a 7-0 margin. Even Smith had voted
for Kerns' plan, although he knew quite well it meant his Special General Budgetary Process
Exemption would never see the light of day. It had been that, or be the only one in the room
to vote nay when everyone else was voting yea. And, for Smith, such a thing was
unthinkable.
The Special General Budgetary Process Exemption had been like a child to Smith. He'd
created it. He'd built a coalition to support it. All that had remained was to see it off into the
world of college bureaucracy, where it would have lived a happy and productive life,
swallowing dollars and knocking the legs out from attempts at fiscal responsibilities in ways
that only Smith would know how to prevent. Smith mourned the Special General Budgetary
Process Exemption's demise. So few things in life are both Special and General. Dean Kerns
had killed his child. There was no turning back now.

Chapter 18
July 6

I finally heard about the war in Spanish Guyana that morning. I probably should have heard
sooner, in that it was one of those wars that involved killing, and it was taking place in the
country where my girlfriend was supposed to be. But in my defense, the only news I'd had
time for lately had been the financial news, and there were precious few equities that rose and
fell based on trouble in Spanish Guyana. Finally, July sixth's Wall Street Journal had included
a short item mentioning the surprisingly mild effect the unspeakable horrors inflicted on the
Spanish Guyanian population were having on worldwide aluminum prices.
"Great news," I told Keller that morning. "My girlfriend's trapped in a war zone."
"Based on your reaction, I guess it's safe to say you were ready to move on romantically,"
Keller said.
"No, no. I still care about her very deeply. That's why I'm so pleased she's in a war zone."
"Once again, in something that is in--or can be translated into--English." Keller glanced at
his watch to make sure he had time for an explanation before the opening bell.
"It's simple. I haven't had so much as a postcard from her in a month, so I'd begun to suspect
she'd left me and not even had the decency to tell me that I was just too much man for her."
"Okay, I'm with you so far."
"But based on what I now know, there's a good chance she hasn't ended our relationship,
she's merely become a prisoner of war. True, she might be enduring unspeakable horrors. But
she's still interested in me."
"Assuming she's survived."
"Right, assuming she's survived."
"So you're rooting for the woman you claim to care about to be enduring unspeakable
horrors."
"No, no, no, of course not. I'm rooting for her to be detained in a horror-free environment."
"But you'd take the horrors over the breakup?"
"Maybe."
"That's cold."
"Bullshit. It means I care. Taking the pro-horrors side of the argument means I might hate
myself for wishing such a thing, but I only wish it because I care about Dana and don't want
our relationship to be over. If I take the pro-breakup stance, I might end up hating Dana for
leaving me. So it's a matter who would I rather hate. The fact I'm willing to hate myself over
her is a sign of my commitment to the relationship."
"My friend, I have good news for you and I have bad news. The good news is, with logic like
that you're going to do fine on Wall Street."
"And the bad news?"
"You're insane. That, or you're in love."
"There's a difference?"
"Yup. Love's going to cost you more in presents."
"Ah shit,"
"What?" Keller asked.
"Now I've got another problem. "Dana's birthday. It's four days from now."
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. Think I'm an idiot? Birthday's one of the first things I check. Women love
nothing better than to not tell you their birthday so they can hold it over you when you don't
remember it. I'm not going to fall for that. On our third date I bribed a waiter to ask for her
I.D. when she ordered a glass of wine. He wrote down her birthday and slipped it to me with
the check."
"Clever," Keller said.
"Thanks."
"I take it you haven't bought her anything."
"I thought she'd left me."
"Don't you think the fact that she's apparently caught in a South American prison and you
couldn't possibly get the gift to her, assuming she's still alive, might get you off the hook in
the present department?"
"Have you ever had a girlfriend?"
"Yea, you're right. You better get something, or you'll never hear the end of it."
"Not that Dana's the materialistic type," I said.
"Of course not. Women rarely are."
"It's just that they expect some sort of store-purchased gesture on their birthday. And
Christmas."
"And Valentines," Keller added. "And anniversaries. But it's purely as a sign of love."
"We're not married. At least I don't have to worry about the anniversaries."
"Doesn't matter. They've started counting anniversaries of first dates. It reduces our
disincentive to proposing."
"Really? Dating anniversaries? I've never heard of those. But then I've never had a
relationship last a full year."
"Yea, me neither," Keller admitted.
"You don't suppose that says anything about the two of us, do you?" I asked.
"It says you better get her something nice."
I got her something nice. I even gave up on the wild idea of consuming food on my lunch
hour to get it. But once I had it, I still didn't know what to do with it. It was the same problem
dogs faced with tennis balls, albeit with less drool. I suppose I could have dropped the present
in the mail. But items over a certain dollar value simply shouldn't be cast off into the dual
ethers of civil wars and South American postal systems, not when you've just put yourself in
hock to a credit card company to acquire them. So I cut out early that afternoon, wrestled a
cab away from a fellow New Yorker who was too old to fight back effectively, and battled
the up-town traffic to One Planet's Madison Avenue offices.
I arrived at three minutes to five. When the elevator opened on the eighth floor I could see
the glass doors of the One Planet office right in front of me. Unfortunately, a man inside the
office could see me as well. He grabbed a key from his desk and made a run for the lock, but
I beat him by a step and forced my way in.
"We're closing up for the day," he said, walking back to his desk and turning off his
computer. "Whatever it is, you'll have to come back tomorrow."
"This can't wait," I told him. The man's officemates hurriedly shut down their own
computers and dashed past us towards the door, just in case my reason for dropping by
involved them.
"People always say things can't wait. But in my experience, everything can wait."
"Great," I said. "Then whatever you have planned for this evening can wait, because you're
staying here till you explain to me what's going on with Dana Davis."
"Who?"
"Dana Davis. She's one of your people. You sent her to Spanish Guyana. I haven't heard
from her since."
"No one's being sent to Spanish Guyana," the man explained. "There's a war going on."
"Which brings us to the second reason for my concern."
"We're all concerned."
"Ah ha! If you're concerned about her, then you've heard of her."
"Not necessarily. I'm concerned about everyone. That's what we do here. We become
concerned." He passed me one of his business cards. "Rick Lyle," it read. "Associate Concern
Coordinator."
"So Dana is caught in the middle of this war?"
"We're looking into that."
"Then you don't know where Dana is?"
"Oops, that's five o'clock. I've got to lock up the office." Lyle flipped off the overhead lights
and headed for the door. I blocked his path.
"Listen," Lyle said. "I'd like to stay, but we run an Earth-friendly office here. The lights, air
conditioning, and computers all are turned off promptly at five o'clock."
"Then you and I are going to stand here in a dark, stuffy, technologically-bereft office until
you tell me what's going on with Dana."
"Is that a threat?" said Lyle, alarmed. "Are you threatening me? I'll call our lawyer." He
looked behind him for the office lawyer.
"It's after five. Your lawyer's gone home along with everyone else. And anyway, that wasn't
a threat. But this is: if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'm going to have to flick the
office lights back on."
"You wouldn't."
I flicked the lights on.
"Noooo…" Lyle screamed, and flicked them back off. "You son of a bitch. These are
fluorescent bulbs. They consume a significant amount of energy in the moment they're
activated because of a chemical process involving..."
I flicked the lights back on. Lyle flicked them off.
"What do you have against mother Earth? We all have to live…"
I flicked the lights back on. He flailed at the switch to turn them off.
"Okay, you win. We don't know where Dana is. All the letters we send to her in Spanish
Guyana come back marked 'Undeliverable-Genocide.' There's a rumor around the office that
someone might have sent her somewhere else, but no one seems to know where exactly."
"So you've lost her."
"No, we haven't lost her. You can't lose a person. She's around somewhere. I'm sure she'll
turn up." Lyle reached to flip the light switch off before realizing that I hadn't switched it
back on.
"I have one more question, and it's very important," I said. Lyle kept one hand over the light
switch to be safe. "Where, exactly, am I supposed to send her birthday present?" I showed
him the necklace I'd selected.
"Oooh, that's nice," he commented. But he didn't know where.

"I did it," Kerns said. "I knew I could do it. Well, okay, I didn't know I could, but I no longer
assumed I couldn't, and that's pretty good progress in a few weeks." Kerns rounded the corner
and headed back home. "I out administered the best administrator in the college. First, I
planned ahead to intercept the agenda. Second, I recognized the potential for danger. And
third, I dealt with it with speed and finality. Then fourth, I went out for a beer to celebrate
with the rest of the Council, just to rub Smith's face in it. It was a total victory--well, except
when I ordered that non-alcoholic beer. I think that might have cost me some points in the
Council's eyes. Plus, it tasted like goat piss. But that's a small price to pay. I won. I won. Tell
the truth, you didn't think I could did you?"
Roger didn't answer, he just ran along trying to keep pace with the lanky Kerns' suddenly
swift stride. But Roger's respect for the Dean had grown. And like any dog, he appreciated
the fact that his owner had been employing his council on a regular basis. Roger had even
stopped telling the other dogs he met in the park that he was adopted.
"Of course, nothing's ever free," Kerns added, his mood suddenly darkening as the pair
returned home from their mid-day walk. "Smith isn't the sort to give up without a fight. Or
more accurately, he is the sort to give up without a fight in an actual fight, but he's most
certainly not the sort to give up without a fight in an intra-office administrative power
struggle. No, Smith will fight to the death, so long as there's no chance of actual injury. Of
that much we can be certain." Kerns unclipped Roger's leash from his collar. Roger's ears
drooped at the suddenly depressing tone of the Dean's voice.
"In fact, today's rousing success might inspire such a backlash that it turns out to be the
greatest failure of my life. What chance do I have? I might as well quit now…" Kerns
slumped down on the living room sofa and cradled his forehead in his hands.
Thinking quickly, Roger jumped in the Dean's lap and licked the man's nose.
"Roger," the Dean said. "You've never licked my nose before. You tried to bite it once, but
as I conceded at the time, that was mostly my fault. Does this mean…you have faith in me?"
Roger licked Kerns' nose again, and wagged his tail for emphasis. "You're right. I can do this.
I'm headed back to the office. Thank you, Roger."
Roger jumped off the Dean's lap as the man rushed off. Then the little Pekinese curled up on
the couch and slept the sleep of a dog that had never once needed to question that he did his
job well.

July 7

If there's anything more dangerous than a true believer, it's a true believer with a fact on her
side. And Sarah had one. It's been a well-known fact ever since the 1960s that our planet is
only a few years away from the massive starvation, devastating plagues, and lethally long
lines at restrooms that are the inevitable result of overpopulation. Sage men like Paul Ehrlich
had been in the vanguard. But they were such brilliant thinkers, so far ahead of their time,
that even world events hadn't been able to keep up with their predictions. The disaster they
knew the world could not avoid in the 1970s, the one it certainly couldn't avoid in the 1980s,
was still staring us dead in the eyes as we rolled through the 1990s then on into the next
millennium. And now there was no question that our doom was imminent. After all, world
population had been at the point of disaster decades before, and there were many, many more
people now.
Sarah helped herself to a handful of granola, a fat-laden snack food favored by hikers and
others who assume that it must be good for them, since it was eaten by all the right people.
Then she got down to business.
"Okay everyone. I was very pleased by the progress we made at our last meeting. We came
to a difficult decision regarding population control. A crucial decision. But I can't help but
notice that nothing much has happened since then."
"What was supposed to happen?" Jeff asked.
"Well, deciding to do something really is only half the battle here. Our decision will have
more long-term significance, planet-wise, if we follow it up by actually doing the thing we've
decided to do."
Jeff looked startled. "That's an awfully big step," he said. "I thought we were just going to
decide to do it and leave it at that, like we usually do."
"No, not this time," Sarah said. "This time none of us are leaving this tent until we have a
plan in motion." She zipped the tent closed. "I don't care if it takes all night."
The others exchanged nervous glances.
"Or are you not committed to the planet?"
No one argued.
"Doctor," Sarah continued.
"Me?" the doctor asked, startled to be singled out.
"Yes, you. I think you are best equipped to handle this vital assignment. The villagers will let
you give them injections without much of a fuss. All we have to do is select the right thing to
inject, and the population problem is solved."
"I, uh…" the doctor said.
"You're not soft on overpopulation, are you doctor?"
"No, it's not that. It's just that poisoning the villagers…it might hurt my chances at continued
funding. My organization, Doctors with Passports, does have some very strict policy
guidelines, you understand."
"So it's about money?" Sarah asked.
"No, no, not entirely. I'm also quite busy with taking blood tests at the moment. And there's
something else, now that I think of it. Murder falls into something of a moral gray area
concerning an oath that I was once required to take."
Sarah didn't like it, but the others agreed that it would be wrong to ask the doctor to go back
on an oath.
"Well, okay," Sarah said at last. "But without the doctor's help, the rest of us are going to
have to work that much harder. Now does anyone here have any experience with killing…for
the good of the planet, I mean?"
None of them did. They were more the idea-oriented sorts. But everyone was willing to help
out by offering his or her opinion. Guns, they all agreed, were not a viable option. They all
had protested against guns many times in their lives, and none were willing to back down
now, even in a good cause. As it happened, this was just as well, since none of them would
have known how to acquire a gun on Lesser Morrell Island. Certain other weapons were just
as clearly unacceptable. Many of their number had rallied against land mines and nuclear
weapons, for example, which meant that those, too, were not options--even if they had been
options, which, of course, they never were. Chemical and biological weapons were added to
the black list, too. It was very frustrating to see one alternative after the next crossed off the
list. The activists' own deeply-held moral beliefs were making it impossible to carry out their
agenda. How was a liberal supposed to commit genocide, anyway?
History offered a few suggestions, Sarah reminded the group: Stalin had used the brutal
conditions of forced labor camps to weed out the extraneous and troublesome members of his
population. But, as Brent pointed out, here on the Island they lacked the manpower and
infrastructure to arrange such a thing. And anyway it would have been tricky to recreate the
brutal conditions of the Siberian steppe in their generally pleasant Pacific climate.
Lenin had had small landowners shot, fortunate as he was he to live before guns became
unfashionable. Mao, perhaps the most effective left-wing genocide role model, had rather
cleverly done most of his best genocide work through starvation. But food was abundant in
these parts, what with the ocean so full of nourishing fish and the trees so full of succulent
fruits and monkeys.
A liberal in search of mass-murder advice could do worse than to look to Pol Pot for advice,
added Jeff. The man had done away with upwards of 15% of a country of eight million in
relatively short order. Most of this killing was done with guns and disease, but Pol Pot was a
true renaissance leader, and had never settling on a single favorite method of population
control. But then, like most historical role models in the field of progressive genocide, Pol
Pot had had tremendous amounts of help when it became necessary to wipe out his country's
unnecessary citizens. Back in the old days there were always plenty of people willing to rally
around a good idea.
In the end it was clear that the Lesser Morrell Island group would need to come up with its
own answers. It was an awesome responsibility, they knew, as future generations would no
doubt look back upon them for guidance, as college students today look up to Lenin, Stalin,
and Mao. Poison had its supporters, especially an organic poison such as cyanide or
strychnine. It seemed such a natural, earth-based approach, and less violent and
confrontational besides. "The sort of murder weapon that Gandhi might have used,"
commented Laura. Gandhi was one of her heroes. Gandhi and Stalin. But as far as the doctor
knew, no deadly poison came from a plant indigenous to their island. For her part, Sarah was
in favor of simply fomenting unrest among the natives until they set upon each other. But
while they wouldn't come right out and say it, the others were not certain that Sarah's political
skills were up to fomenting unrest, having once seen her fare poorly in a debate against a
photo of a political candidate with whom she disagreed.
In time, answers came. None of the group had ever specifically protested against knives or
spears, they realized. And suffocation or drowning remained wide open as well. Sarah and
Laura in particular favored suffocation or drowning over spears, which seemed much too
phallic and male-oriented. But Jeff leaned towards spears, as suffocation tended to involve
plastic bags, an obvious problem for an environmentalist. It seemed they were once again at
an impasse. But in the spirit of compromise, Jeff agreed to suffocation--so long as they used
cloth bags.
A decision had been reached.

The mysteriously altered agenda had been no accident. Smith had asked around, and there
was indeed no such thing as an Agenda Finalization Formalization Committee--or at least
there hadn't been until eight minutes before the Council meeting, at which point one had
miraculously been formed and approved by the Dean himself. But that information was of
little use to Smith now. Smith had underestimated Kerns, and it had cost him. In retrospect,
Smith thought, he had no one to blame but himself. But since that was no good, he resolved
to blame the government, since it hadn't properly warned him of the danger. Whoever was at
fault, the results had been devastating. Not only had Kerns been able to block Smith's plan,
he'd found a way to squelch it forever. Smith chastised himself again for spelling out "Special
General Budgetary Process Exemption" on the agenda when a simple "Budgetary Procedure"
would have sufficed. He resolved to never again do anything with such a high degree of
clarity.
"There's still no need to panic," Smith thought. "Kerns might have learned how to avoid
future errors, but that didn't mean he can get out of past ones."

July 12

My Wall Street career continued to lurch towards respectability. I'd hardly finished investing
Timmy's money when I found a third client, the manager of a mid-sized pension fund, by
positioning myself next to successful looking sorts on the train heading home from the city
and pouring over Johnston Brothers research reports until I caught their attention. Few transit
systems in the country are better designed for investment sales than the New York City
commuter rail. Try hopping into luxury cars sitting in traffic in L.A. and see how much
progress you make. Carjackers have ruined that once promising profit center for everyone.
Even my boss, Mr. Callesse, seemed impressed by my rapid progress. Not that he would
come right out and offer praise or encouragement, since by long tradition praise on Wall
Street was conveyed only through a form of non-verbal communication known as the year-
end bonus. But Callesse did admit that Johnston Brothers had a few potential client leads
more promising than the phone book, and eventually he consented to give me a few.
Only two weeks on the job and my life was settling into a pattern of train rides and phone
calls, quickly eaten meals and failed attempts to get into the always-crowded bar below my
apartment. It was beyond question an incredibly happy time for me, and I was certain that the
only reason I wasn't in fact incredibly happy was that I'd gotten into the habit of being
incredibly unhappy over the summer, and habits always are hard to break.

"The ticking time bomb," Smith thought. "It's my strongest remaining hand to
play…assuming a bomb can be a hand. "Better yet, I don't have to do much to play it. It was
just looming out there waiting to swallow Kerns up…that is, assuming a bomb that's a hand
can loom and swallow." Smith had a feeling that this was the day. Always a man to consider
faculty meetings exciting, today's left him giddy with anticipation.
"Ladies and Gentleman, please welcome our new dean, Dean Jack Kerns, the dean," Smith
announced to the faculty.
"Thank you, Thomas," Kerns said, taking the podium to a heartening, if obligatory, round of
applause. It was his first formal address to the Bucklin faculty since taking over for Jergensen
back in April. It was also the first time Kerns had ever said anything to which his wife, a
member of the faculty recently returned from Cancun, had been more-or-less required to
listen. "I'd like to welcome you all back to campus," Kerns continued. "I trust your summer
sabbaticals were productive." By the looks of their tans, they had been. "As most of you no
doubt already know, Bucklin College has entered a new phase in the advancement of
American education. We have, you might say, given the campus back to the students.
Specifically, we have agreed to provide a range of student centers so extensive that virtually
every group in our highly diverse campus culture now has a place where it can go when it
wishes to exclude everyone else. We have created an environment so friendly to special
interests that there's virtually no room left for any interests that aren't special. In short, we
have achieved the primary goals of any progressive educational establishment."
Kerns paused for more applause from the faculty. He searched Katherine out in the crowd
and wondered what she thought of his rousing speech. He'd never before roused anyone in his
life, and suspected Katherine would be surprised to find him capable of it. If she was, she was
hiding it well. Katherine wasn't even applauding along with her colleagues.
"But of course nothing worth doing is worth doing cheaply, and certain compromises will
have to be made in the weeks, decades, and generations ahead. In fact, some of you might
already have noticed that campus special interest groups have taken over your classrooms,
labs, and offices."
"Yea, what's with that, Kerns?" anthropology professor Herbert Schmelling interrupted.
"There's a pair of Turkish students in my building night and day. I mean, I like a glass of raki
as much as the next anthropologist, but all the tambur music is starting to get to me."
"Turks? Christ, Herb, you're lucky," said Lucile Halley, professor of Biochemistry. "I'm
stuck with something called the Androgynous Students Alliance. It wouldn't be so bad,
expect that they've taken all the signs down off the restroom doors, and I don't know which
one I'm supposed to use."
"Unfortunately, there was simply no avoiding these sacrifices," Kerns said.
"No avoiding them?" asked music department assistant professor John Woloschuk. "How
was there no avoiding giving away the music building to the campus nudists' club? Do you
have any idea what they've been doing with my woodwinds?"
Well, at least Katherine wasn't joining in with the carping. Actually, she hardly said a word to
him since her return, which was making it even trickier for Kerns to gather evidence of an
affair. Still, he'd decided to continue to act paranoid and suspicious around his wife, if only to
avoid looking like a fool later if it turned out to be true.
"Now listen, everyone," Kerns said. "Just last fall, this entire faculty voted unanimously that
the primary goals of this college should be--and I quote--'to bring together the peoples of the
world and make the Earth a better place'. Now, was that statement truly representative of your
feelings, or were you just making an empty politically correct statement that seemed unlikely
to have any actual bearing on your lives as tenured intellectuals at a pricey New England
college?"
There was some shifting around in seats, but no one argued.
"Okay, then. Nice to see we're all still on the same page," Kerns continued. "Because it isn't
just the offices. We're also short on classroom space, so there's no possible way that we can
offer as many classes as we have in the past. But the good news is I've explained the problem
to the student groups, and they say they're willing to take fewer classes, or, if necessary, no
classes at all. I think that's very sporting of them."
There was no applause anymore. Just worried murmuring sounds.
"I can tell you all have your concerns. It's natural to have concerns in times of change. But
I'm certain that all of this can be settled to everyone's satisfaction…or at very least to the
satisfaction of those groups and individuals that complain the loudest and most often." Kerns
paused for a beat. "So at this point I'd like to turn the meeting back over to the man behind
the entire student center program, Associate Dean Thomas Prester Smith. He's in charge of
handling all aspects of the transition. As for me, I'm going to be at out of town for the next
week at an important conference on reducing university travel budgets, so please address all
your input on this matter directly to Smith, and please do so as soon as possible, since he'll
need to have a solution in place by the time I return. Remember, we're got to have everything
up and running by the Fall semester, and that's not too far off."
"But what…" was all Smith got out before Kerns' pager beeped.
"Oops, got to take that. See you in a week, Thomas. The office secretary knows where to
find me if you need me." This was true. But it wouldn't help Smith. Kerns had given the
secretary the week off. As an added precaution, he'd also informed her that someone would
call if they needed her to come back early, thereby guaranteeing that nothing in the world
would convince the secretary to answer the phone for the next seven days.

"The end is near," I read. "This is the time for action." A second unsigned scrap of paper had
appeared on my desk. This one was decidedly more apocalyptic, though not appreciably less
enigmatic, than the first. I looked around, but didn't see anyone who looked even vaguely like
a doomsayer. But then it was rare on Wall Street to see anyone who even looked a little
bearish. I dug the earlier "Don't play their game" note out of a drawer, and confirmed they
were written by the same hand. I never had figured out what the first note meant, but to be on
the safe side, I had avoided office games of all kinds, including poker and garbage-can
basketball.
This note was a bit tougher to follow blindly.
"Did you ever get a sort of an odd note left on your desk, maybe as a joke or something?" I
asked Keller the next time he hung up his phone.
"What kind of a note?" Keller asked, distracted by his computer screen.
"Just a cryptic piece of unsigned advice scrawled on a torn piece of paper."
"Oh, that kind of note," Keller said, paying more attention. "You've heard from the Ghost of
Johnston Brothers."
"Fuck you, Keller, I'm being serious."
"I'm being serious, too, Gwaf Jr.," he said, using the technically inaccurate nickname that
he'd been trying to hang on me for a few days now, much to the delight of the ersatz Gwaf,
Sr. "Johnston Brothers has been haunted for years, only the ghost usually sticks to the
research department. He must have taken a special interest in you."
"I'm not going to sit here and let you yank my chain." I reached for my phone.
"I'm not making this up."
"You're saying you believe in ghosts."
"Not exactly. But this one's a well-established rumor. And once a falsehood is well-
established, the person repeating it can't be criticized for bringing it up. It's like cults. After a
few hundred years, they become religions, and then you have to respect them."
"Yea, but this office building hasn't been here a few hundred years. Only since the late
1960s."
"So our ghost is only a few decades old. That's long enough for a ghost. It's not like I'm
asking you to worship the thing. The point is, these notes have been appearing on Johnston
Brothers' employees desks a few a year since before we were born. No one ever sees anyone
leaving them, and no one knows what they're supposed to mean. But there is a theory…"
I waited until it became clear Keller wasn't going to continue unless I gave in and admitted
that I was listening to his bullshit. "Okay, hit me with the theory."
Keller smiled at his victory. "The theory is it's related to the Johnston Brothers analyst who
tried to rate a Nifty-Fifty stock 'sell' during the bull market back in the early 1970s."
"I thought that was just a myth."
"No, I have it on reliable office gossip that that part at least is true. They fired the analyst, of
course, and apparently the guy just disappeared off the face of the Earth. The story goes he
sneaked back in here one night and killed himself down on the research floor. Then the
company hid his body in the ventilation system to avoid the scandal, or maybe because they
were afraid a suicidal analyst could spook the markets. Now the ghost of the bearish research
analyst haunts the building swearing revenge on young Johnston Brothers employees."
"And you believe this?"
"It would explain the smell coming from the ventilation system every summer."
"For the record, the notes I've received aren't really threats," I said. "In fact, the first one was
more like ethical guidance."
"On Wall Street, ethical guidance is the worst curse of all."
"Still, it seems fairly implausible."
"Just something to keep in mind." Keller reached for his phone. "Hey, if you do meet the
ghost, ask him if there's any way he can give us a clue where the market's heading. Nothing
like a little spectral market analysis to give us a leg up on the competition."
"You mean to say that if I get one question to ask someone communicating with me from
beyond the grave, you don't want to know the meaning of life, or if there's a God, what you
want is next month's Nasdaq figures."
"And don't overlook the Big Board," Keller advised, then went back to yelling into his
phone.

Katherine had expanded her disinterest in Kerns to include not looking him in the eye when
he dropped by her office to explain that he would, indeed, be leaving immediately for a week
on vital Bucklin business. Kerns tried to explain that he was caught up in the blood sport that
is small-college administration, but his wife gave him no hint that she gave a damn. Kerns
would have liked to tell Katherine everything. What he was secretly planning, how this job
already had changed him--and how deeply he truly loved her. But it was embarrassing
enough to relay travel plans to someone who wasn't listening. Kerns wasn't about to bare his
soul.
At least he had Roger as an ally. Even after Katherine's return, the little dog did not follow
her from room to room, anxious to lend Katherine his assistance in her daily activities, as had
long been his custom. Instead Roger sat loyally by Kerns in the study, ready to spring to his
defense should the need arise. Roger could sense the tension in Kerns, and was sure he and
this gangly packmate were locked in a desperate battle of some sort. Roger wasn't 100%
certain what they were up against, but he'd learned from experience that there were very few
problems that couldn't be solved by high-pitched yapping and maybe a swift nip on an ankle.
Out of this new found sense of loyalty, Roger followed Kerns that day as he threw some
clothes in a suitcase and headed for the front door. "It probably would make more sense for
you to stay here, considering what I have in mind," Kerns told his furry compatriot. Roger did
not turn back. "Still, it is nice to have an ally, even a short, yippy one. And you are good at
keeping a secret. Okay, you can come along. I'll just leave Katherine a note explaining that
you've decided to come with me." Kerns left his note, then led Roger the two blocks to their
former residence, the house Kerns and his wife continued to own and pay a significant
mortgage on, even as they lived in the official Dean's residence on Federal Street. "We don't
want to be homeless after you've been fired, my darling," Katherine had explained while
sending the mortgage check a month back, in that endearing fake French accent of hers.

July 13

There's a phrase often repeated in investment companies' literature, mainly at the insistence
of the investment companies' lawyers: "Past performance is no guarantee of future results." In
other words, if an investment made a pile of money last year and a second pile of money this
year, it might seem reasonable to believe it will make a third pile of money next year. But in
truth, the odds are just as good that the investment will instead take one of its first two piles
back. The mistake is assuming that one can extrapolate from the past to produce an accurate
vision of the future. You might be jumping on board the bandwagon just as the band's about
to launch into an extended Foghat medley. That's life. You never can tell.
It pays to consider this lesson in non-investment-related phases of life as well. A month ago,
when I saw visions of my future, they all involved dumpster diving. I was extrapolating from
my then present station as an unemployed loser to produce a grim vision of the future, one
that involved a descent into madness, despair, and four-day-old baked goods. In the past
month, my position in the world had changed dramatically. And again I was extrapolating,
perhaps unjustifiably. My future, it seemed, was all around me, row after row of people just
like me, only with a bit more job experience, a bit less hair, and quite possibly a few pieces of
furniture in their apartments.
If this is what I wanted out of life--and I must confess, it did look pretty good compared to
the dumpster-based option--then all I had to do was establish myself as a competent equities
salesman. Competency in this line of work equaled a very comfortable existence. This life
included a nice car, a nice house, a nice wife, two nice kids, a nice piece on the side, then a
nice alimony settlement, with some nice child support payments thrown in if you didn't wait
until they were grown and out of the house. Yes, a competent equity salesman could afford
all these basic necessities, with enough left to blow on luxuries like home electronics and a
retirement plan. And all you had to do in return was spend twelve hours a day in front of a
computer screen with a phone in your hand and your heart in your throat for, oh, three or four
decades. It was a good life. But for some, it just wasn’t enough. Some competent equities
salesmen eventually took long, hard looks at their lives and priorities and decided there must
to be something more. Twelve hours at a desk and a nice stack of cash suddenly left them
feeling empty. These competent equity salesmen would then settle on what they really
wanted in life. And, inevitably, what they wanted was superstar equity salesmen. For
superstars, the time, effort, and job might have been just as daunting--but the stack of cash
was a whole lot higher.
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked Keller over lunch. "How long have you been
selling equities?"
"Oh, forever. Well, it feels like forever. I guess it's actually been a little over a year. But on
Wall Street that's long enough to qualify as forever."
"How about Callesse? How long has he been here?"
"He's been here forever, too."
"He's only been here one year and he's already the department manager?"
"No, he's been here at least seven years," said Keller. "So I guess that's seven forevers."
"Is that how long it takes to get really good at this?"
"Nope. It takes less than a year to get good at this. I can say that for a fact, because if you're
not good at it after the first year, they fire you."
"Yea, but I'm not talking competent, I'm talking superstar. What does it take to be a
superstar?"
"Christ. Don't tell me you think I'm your mentor."
"Hell no. This is Wall Street. There's no such thing as a mentor on Wall Street. You're just
someone I'm going to use as a stepping stone on my climb to power, then cast aside when I
don't need you anymore."
"Oh, that's different then," Keller said. "As long as I'm not your mentor. You asked how long
it takes to get great at this. Well, time is irrelevant. It takes three things to be a superstar, and
only one of them really matters: you've got to work harder, you've got to be smarter, but
above all else you can't let anything stand in your way--even if what's trying to stand in your
way is that you don't want to work any harder and you're not really any smarter."
"So it's just tenacity?"
"It's not just tenacity; a lot of it has to do with ethics."
"Really? Ethics? On Wall Street?"
"Exactly. Superstars don't have them. Oh, I suppose they have some. For example, if a
superstar equity salesman was standing on a subway platform, he probably should resist the
urge to push other commuters into the path of oncoming trains. Those fellow subway riders
might one day become clients, after all."
"But you're saying that's as far as the superstar's ethics go?" I asked.
"Let's just say the superstar equity salesman realizes that there are exceptions to ethical rules.
If this salesman needed to find a way to get on an oncoming express train not scheduled to
stop at that station, say, and a fellow subway rider was all he had available to push into its
path, well, let's call that a gray area. The point is the superstar equity salesman can make
these sorts of snap decisions. That's part of what makes him so special."
"It does seem a tad extreme."
"That was just a hypothetical example. The main ethical gray area isn't subway transit. It's
portfolio management. A competent equity salesman spends his career building up solid,
working relationships with investors and professional buy-side portfolio managers, right?"
"That had been my assumption."
"Everyone's working together to make money?"
"I'm guessing this is a trick question."
"Correct. But don't spoil my fun."
"Okay, then, yes, we're all working together to make money."
"Wrong," chided Keller. "And I'll tell you why. How do our clients make money?"
"They make money when their investments make money."
"And how do you and I and Johnston Brothers make money?"
"We make money by taking a commission when our clients trade shares though us."
"See the problem here? Our clients make money by holding good stocks. And the emphasis
there is on holding--all the research proves that buy-and-hold beats buy-and-sell-and-then-
buy-something-else-then-do-it-again. But we make more money if they do the latter. Our
interests are fundamentally opposed to those of our customers."
"And superstar salesmen take advantage of this?"
"All salesmen take advantage of this. Superstar salesmen base their lives on this. Listen, you
can have a perfectly fine career on Wall Street by doing the right thing and looking out for
your clients. You can have a nice summer house on Martha's Vineyard, and your children can
go to a decent college-prep nursery school. But if you want your Martha's Vineyard summer
house to be on the water, and you want your children to go to the very best college-prep
nursery school--or for that matter if you want them to go to the very best college-prep nursery
school on the water in Martha's Vineyard--then you've got to churn."
"Churn?"
"That's what it's called. Well, that's what it's called by those who don't think it's a good idea.
People who think it's a good idea call it 'adopting an active trading strategy'."
"Who thinks it's a good idea?"
"Mostly just superstar salesmen and those who want to become them."
"Then adopting an active trading strategy is the key. Why isn't everyone doing this?"
"Everyone does. But for most of us mere mortals, it's the exception, not the rule, cause it isn't
as easy as it sounds. Look at it this way: you know how tough it is to convince that person to
trust you and buy the stocks you recommend. Well, if you want to adopt an active trading
strategy, then you've got to convince someone to trust your advice and invest in stock A as
you suggest--then you've got to call them back a while later and convince them that stock A
isn't the place to be at all, they need to switch to stock B. Then you have to convince them to
switch to stock C, then stock D and then E and…well, I could continue, but you know how
the alphabet goes. And you have to do all of this without the client losing faith in your
abilities to pick the right stocks for them."
"I can see that it has its challenges. But the upside…"
"The upside is you've turned one client into a whole bunch of clients--or at least a whole
bunch of commissions."
"Do you do this?"
"Sometimes. When I think I can get away with it. I'm no superstar, not yet. But as it happens,
some clients actually like to jump in and out of investments. Makes them feel involved."
"And they don't realize they'll lose in the end?"
"There are people who keep going back to casinos and people who keep buying lottery
tickets. There's no explaining it; all we can hope to do is make money off it."
"Don't the clients ever realize we're working at cross purposes?"
"Now and then," Keller said. "But it's not like Wall Street's the only place you find this kind
of thing. Dentists use exactly the same scam. They tell their customers they need a root canal,
or three caps, or whatever they feel like doing that day. The more pain they inflict on their
customers, the more cash the customers have to fork over. It's brilliant."
"I'm not sure dentistry is a scam."
"No? These are people that actually can say they've got a bridge to sell you, and make you
ante up for it. Believe me, the nitrous oxide isn't the only reason they're laughing."
"Maybe I should have been a dentist."
"Nah, dentists and investment bankers both get to screw our clients and have them come
back for more, but we're still better off," Keller said. "Investment bankers don't have to worry
about being nice to children or getting soaked in other peoples' spit."
"It must be this combination of factors that makes investment banking the thrilling challenge
that attracts the best and brightest business school grads each year."
"Don't be cynical. It attracted you, too. And now that I've explained the birds and the bees to
you, I'll bet you try to churn someone before the month is out."
"No bet." I wasn't going to last the month. I wasn't even going to last the afternoon. But I
resolved to start slowly. I picked just one of my clients, and advised him to adopt an 'active
trading strategy.' It was an aggressive investment strategy, I admitted to the client. But as I
explained at the time "Life's full of risks, Timmy." Besides, if worst came to worst, life's also
full of sharp objects, ambulance-chasing lawyers, and deep-pocketed companies. And Timmy
did have three limbs left.

Chapter 19
July 14

"We're not really going to do this, are we Dr. Mudgett?" Dana asked down at the hospital.
"Do what? The blood tests?"
"No not the blood tests, the other thing."
"Oh, the population curtailment project. To be honest, I've been more focused on the blood
tests."
"How can you be thinking about blood tests when there's been open discussion of mass
murder."
"I'm project oriented."
"Oh," Dana said. "So you haven't been thinking about the other thing at all? I haven't been
able to sleep at night worrying about it. It's a major decision."
"Yes, I suppose."
"I have to admit, I think there's something wrong about murder, even if it is for all the right
reasons."
The doctor fixed a hard gaze on Dana. "Are you engaging in short-term thinking, or are you
just an idealist?"
"I'm an idealist," Dana said.
"Oh, that's okay, then. There's nothing wrong with a little pie-eyed idealism, even if it does
get in the way of progressive policy being put into action. It takes all types, after all."
"Do you think we're really going to go through with it?"
"Blood tests?"
"Murders. I'm talking about the murders."
"Oh, right, right. Hard to say. It's not something anyone on the island would be likely to do
on his or her own. But by working together, people can achieve great things…actually that's
kind of profound. I'd better jot it down in my journal in case someone wants to write a
biography of me later." Mudgett did so then continued. "I'd say they need a majority to move
a project this ambitious forward. Four out of the seven people on the island."
"A majority not counting the natives?"
"No, no, of course not counting the natives."
"I think Sarah would go through with it," Dana said.
"Yes, I think so, too. And Laura probably will join in if the project goes forward, since Laura
can't stand to see any project go forward unless she's part of it."
"What about Brent?"
"If something needs to be blown up, Brent's your man. I'm not so sure if he's as gung-ho
about bag killings, but time will tell."
"To be safe, I'm going to count him as a 'yes.' That's three of seven. But I can't believe Jeff
would do something like this."
"Jeff's idea of confrontational is a firm letter," said the doctor. "He might agree with this, but
he'll never agree with doing this. When the time comes to move forward, he'll find a suitable
ideological reason to move back."
"That's two against," Dana said.
"And for my part, I feel I must remain above the fray on this one, on account of my sacred
oath as a physician."
"So that's three who figure to be for and two who figure to be against, with one abstaining."
"That means it could come down to Tommy," the doctor observed. "That one's too tough to
call."
"Tommy's too tough to call? I can't imagine Tommy taking any stand this decisive. There's
no way he'll do it."
"Unless I've misread the man entirely, Tommy has no real convictions at all," said the
doctor. "He only became an activist to fit in with a group. He might just as easily have joined
a soccer team or a pottery class, except that those activities require skills and end after an
hour or two each day. Social activism is open to anyone, it supplies an entire way of life, a set
of ready-made opinions, and a group of people who have to pretend to like you because they
agree with you."
"So Tommy won't go ahead with this," Dana said, relieved.
"That's not what I said. I said he's too tough to call. How can we even try to guess what he
thinks about this issue when it's all but certain that he hasn't bothered to think about it himself
to this point, nor does he intend to think about it later? Tommy will continue to go along with
whichever way the group seems to be leaning until someone tells him how important it is for
him to take their side, and then he will, if only because it makes him feel needed."
"Jeff's his best friend. Don't you think he'll just do what Jeff does?"
"Perhaps, but Jeff lacks the ability to make an impassioned appeal to win Tommy's support,
just as Jeff lacks the ability to make an impassioned appeal to make Tommy go away. That's
the only reason why Jeff is Tommy's best friend in the first place."
"Sarah might make an impassioned appeal."
"She might, and more importantly, Tommy might read something into it."
"You mean Sarah might make a pass at Tommy just to sway his opinion."
"Maybe, but she wouldn't really even have to. Tommy might just imagine that she has."
"I'm pretty sure Tommy is gay."
"No, I think Tommy would be willing to go either way, should an opportunity present itself.
Tommy is not a man of firm convictions. But I'll tell you this. If you care about stopping this,
you'd better do something, because Tommy wants to go along with the group, and at the
moment, the group is 3-2 against you…with one abstaining."

"What are you so depressed about?" Andy asked that afternoon.

"Oh, I guess I'm just a bit conflicted about some of my recent transactions," I said.
"You're depressed about work? Fuck that, you've doing fine. And I don't just say that so
you'll remember me when your father has promoted you despite your poor job performance."
I'm pretty sure the second half of that was just Keller's idea of a joke. "It's not my job
performance, exactly. It's more because I've adopted a somewhat active trading strategy with
one of my clients."
"Oh, so that's it. You churned some son of a bitch and now your conscience is catching up
with you. Get over it. The guy had it coming."
"What makes you say that? You've never met the guy."
"I dunno. Just seemed like the thing to say. Are you saying he didn't have it coming?"
"No, he had it coming alright. He didn't even deserve to have the money in the first place. I
just figured I ought to feel a bit guilty about it, for the sake of my eternal soul."
"Well how long do you expect this guilt thing to last? I don't like sitting next to depressed
people. It just reminds me how shitty the bonuses are going to be this year."
"Why would it remind you of that?
"Shitty bonuses are the only thing that ever make me depressed. I guess I tend to assume that
everyone else is on the same page."
"Tell you what, give me about thirty more seconds, then, for you, I'll suppress my moral
qualms. But for the next half a minute I'm going to stew over the fact that I'm not doing more
to be a productive member of society. Like actually making something."
"You do make something. You make the markets more efficient. You make it easier for
people to reach their retirement goals."
"I call people and suggest that they invest in one stock rather than another without any real
track record to prove that my recommendations are any better than they could do themselves
picking stocks at random. They might as well ask the kid who bags their groceries for stock
tips."
"Bullshit," Keller said. "You're playing a vital role here, even if you're not really more
qualified than some piece-of-shit kid with an emasculating job. You're giving people the
confidence to invest in the stock market. Without professionals offering their suggestions,
most people would just keep their money in bank CDs or hidden under their mattress."
"Okay, if we're such a necessary part of the process, why are do-it-yourself discount brokers
like Charles Schwab so popular?"
"They're only popular when the market's going up. In good times, any moron can make
money in the market. Since everyone's a genius, a lot of them decide they don't need us. But
after the market starts going down, everyone relies on the professionals."
"Even though the professionals are losing money too?"
"Yep. When a professional losses money, it's a temporary and unavoidable market risk.
When an individual losses money, it's his own stupidity. No one wants to feel stupid, so they
come to us."
"They come to us to lose money"
"That's right."
"In that case I'm really good at this job."
"You're damn right."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"What kind of person would I be if I wasn't there for a friend? I mean, this might be a
cutthroat business but..." But Keller's phone rang, so he left the thought unfinished.

Smith used to love being left in charge. The very best thing about being second in command
was that every now and then the commander had to sleep or vacation or use the toilet.
Whenever Jergensen had so much as doze off in a meeting, Smith would puff out his chest
and start issuing orders to anyone who would listen. On those rare occasions when Jergensen
actually left campus, Smith would strut proudly around the quad, all but forgetting his
trademark shuffle, imagining looks of respect on the faces of everyone he saw, even those
who didn't know who the hell he was. This was different. This time he'd only been promoted
to captain because the ship was sinking and the previous captain apparently had some
reservations about being the one required to go down with it.
Now the wolves, or more precisely the faculty, were at his Smith's door. And dialing his
phone number. And one or two were trying to throw things through his fourth-floor window.
They all were either waiting to complain about the current state of affairs, or getting a jump
on complaining about the likely future state of affairs. Smith needed a plan, and he needed
one fast, since he was barricaded in his office and he really needed to use the bathroom. But it
was so hard to think under those conditions. The faculty members at his door finally seemed
to have figured out that Smith didn't intend to leave his office, no matter how many times
they pulled the fire alarm. So instead, they'd taken to sliding written suggestions under his
door. At least Smith hoped that's what they were doing. It was either that or they were going
to shove a match onto the pile and start a real fire.
"I know you can hear me in there," a professor shouted. "I've made a list of all the
departments that can be eliminated. It's pretty much everything except sociology. I'll just slip
the list under the door."
"Don't listen to him," called another voice. "I've done some research and it turns out we can
eliminate anything we want except psychology. If we were suspend psychology classes for
even a semester, all the best theories might be discredited by the time we start back up."
"He's a madman," said the first voice. "Without a sociology department, we won't be able to
research things that seem obvious but probably still need to be studied anyway, just to be
sure."
Smith put his fingers in his ears and ducked under his desk. Kerns had passed the buck with
all the skill of someone who realized that the thing to be passed wasn't so much a buck, but
rather a seemingly unsolvable problem of no real monetary value. Smith's admiration for the
man now nearly matched his loathing, although it still trailed far behind his disgust. Smith
wondered again if Kerns had been a college administrator all along, and merely had posed as
an economics professor to slip in the back door and take Smith's job. If so, it had been an
admirably long-term plan. Smith had traced Kerns' records back to elementary school. Kerns
had been the only second grader in the history of Franklin Pierce Elementary to stand up in
front of his class and say he wanted to be an economist when he grew up. The other children
had mocked his choice, but young Kerns had been ready with graphs, statistics, and a wide
range of incomprehensible formulae to defend his position.
"What to do? What to do?" Smith asked himself as he hid under his desk. The faculty was
short of offices, the students were short of dorms, and the weather had better hold next year,
because there were going to be a lot of lectures held out on the quad if additional classrooms
didn't turn up. Keeping everyone happy under these conditions would be a near-impossible
task…But should he be able to pull it off, he'd be a hero.
There seemed only one reasonable solution. Smith would solve the building shortage the
only way he knew: through compromise.

July 15

Funny things these qualms. Officially, qualms can come from sudden attacks of illness, pain,
nausea, or morals, which just goes to show you the kind of company that morals keep.
Hypocritical little bastards. Odd thing was, my qualms had decided they liked me enough to
stick around for a while, even though I'd made it abundantly clear to them that they weren't
welcome. It wasn't that I felt bad about costing Timmy a portion of his multi-million-dollar
deli-slicer windfall. Without me he wouldn’t have had that money in the first place, and by no
moral standard did he deserve to keep it. My qualms mostly were amassing in preparation for
the day when I churned some other, non-Timmy person, someone who might very well have
worked hard for their money. That was the sort of thing that would keep my qualms happy at
feeding time.
I mentioned my concerns to Gwafinn that Thursday during our twice-weekly Tuesday lunch.
Gwafinn had insisted that we eat lunch together in the building cafeteria every Tuesday, just
to make sure everyone knew he'd hired his son. When the message didn't seem to be
spreading fast enough, he'd decided we should have our Tuesday lunch on Thursdays as well.
Gwafinn was unmoved by my moral concerns, just as he previously had been unmoved by
my concerns that Tuesday's lunch probably should be confined to Tuesdays.
"What's your job title here at Johnston Brothers," he asked.
"I'm an equities salesman."
"Salesman? Not consultant? Not advisor? Not mystic guide?"
"Just salesman."
"Now if you walked into a used car dealership and put all your faith in the used car salesman,
would you have a right to be mad when drive away in an AMC Pacer, or did you get what
you deserved."
"I suppose the latter."
"Of course the latter."
"But we're not a used-car dealership. This is Wall Street. We have professional ethics to
uphold. I have a license from the government to sell securities--or I'm supposed to anyway,
although the truth is I haven't found time to get it yet and everyone lets me slide because they
think I'm your son. Surely we can't just try to steal all our clients' money."
"Right indeed. And I'm pleased to see such fine morals in the younger generation. As your
contractual father, it proves that I raised you well. We certainly do not try to steal all of our
clients' money here at Johnston Brothers. But if we find that we accidentally wind up with all
of their money due to the trading strategies that they themselves have agreed to, that's a
different thing altogether."
"So it's 'a fool and his money are soon parted,' like Mark Twain said?"
"Twain blew most of his money on bad investments," Gwafinn noted.
"What does that prove?"
"It proves that some 19th-century stock promoter was good at his job."
"And it doesn't matter that the stocks I'm selling might not be any good?"
"The stocks you're selling are the very best. They all receive top ratings from one of the
country's leading investment banks."
"That is to say, 'they're good stocks because we say they're good stocks.'"
"Exactly. Why do you think anything is considered good in any field."
"You're saying it's for no reason other than the fact someone says it is?"
"What else? Let's consider an example; say an archaeologist digs up an old painting…"
"Vase."
"What?"
"Make it an old vase. They don't dig up old paintings."
"Okay, if it's important to you, this archaeologist finds an old vase right below the old
painting. He proclaims it a valuable relic and his colleagues agree. So it's valuable. It's worth
millions even though it's smashed to pieces, it's thousands of years out of style, and you could
buy a better vase at Wal-Mart for $4.95 if you wait for one to be marked down from their
already impressive everyday low prices. This old, broken, million-dollar relic lands in a
museum where thousands of people a day make special trips to appreciate it, despite the fact
that they've already seen pictures of it on television, and it's not like staring at an old vase in
person is any different than staring at it on a TV screen. With me so far?"
"I think."
"Good, because here's the interesting part. A year later someone comes forward and proves
it's a hoax, that the vase isn't old at all. And a funny thing happens. People stop coming to see
it. The museum takes it off display, It's worthless. Only it's the same damn vase."
"Yes, but it wasn't really the vase itself that was valuable," I argued. "It was the age and
place in history…"
"Okay, forget the vase," Gwafinn cut me off. "Consider a fashionable woman walking down
Fifth Avenue. There are herds of them up there. Pick any one of them you like for a little
scientific experiment. One year she'll buys a wardrobe full of mid-length hems and gray
colors. She wouldn't be caught dead without them. The next year these things are out of
fashion, so she puts them away forever and wears short hems and pastels instead. Was she
wrong then, or is she wrong now?"
"There is no 'right' or 'wrong,' it's just fashion."
"Try telling her that. What's 'right' is what enough of the right people believe is right. What's
'wrong' is what the right people believe is wrong, and not coincidentally, what's 'wrong' also
is what the wrong people believe is right. Truth is what people believe it to be."
"But…certainly there are absolute truths."
"Maybe a few, Gwafinn conceded. "Only they have a funny habit of turning out to be
wrong." Gwafinn checked his watch. "Always glad to talk philosophy with you, Bob, but I've
got to go. I'm working on a big, top secret project. Oh, that reminds me, I need you to go feel
out the research department, and if possible the Johnstons as well, to see if they've figured out
what I'm planning."
"What are you planning?"
Gwafinn looked exasperated. "Didn't I just tell you it's top secret," he said. Then he helped
himself to my apple and left me sitting at the cafeteria table.
Something was troubling me. It wasn't the issues that Gwafinn had raised concerning the
meaning of truth. It wasn't the fact that I might not have it in me to be a superstar equity
salesman, and after only a week and a half I already was becoming a little bored with the life
of a competent equity salesman. It wasn't that I had been put on a secret mission so secret that
even I wasn't allowed to know what it was. No, I believe it had more to do with a topic
Gwafinn had raised earlier in our conversation, during his used-car salesman analogy. Until
fairly recently, I had driven an AMC Pacer.

"So Tommy, what are you doing?" Dana asked. Tommy was, as it happened, sitting on a rock
staring out at the ocean.
"Nothing," said Tommy, suddenly concerned that he probably should have been doing
something. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," said Dana, much to Tommy's relief. As long as someone else was doing nothing,
too, he was in the clear. Dana took a seat next to him. "I've just been thinking about the last
big meeting."
Alarm bells went off in Tommy's head. Had the others been talking about him at the meeting?
No, that wasn't possible. He had been careful to be the first to arrive and the last to leave.
"What about it?"
"You know," said Dana. "The whole population-control proposal."
"Oh, right. That." Tommy was pleased that it did indeed have nothing to do with him.
"What did you think of it?"
"Oh, you know."
Dana waited a moment, but it appeared that was all Tommy had to say on the subject. "Could
you be a touch more specific? I'm trying to gauge opinions."
"What have the others said?"
"You're the first one I've asked."
"I am? Why?"
"Because your opinion is important to me?"
"It is?"
"Absolutely. I think your opinion on this could be crucial to the future of this island."
"Really?" Tommy asked.
"That's why I'm so relieved to hear you agree with me that it's a bad idea."
"Absolutely."
"I'm glad we had this talk," Dana said.
"My pleasure. It's a cause I strongly believe in."
"You mean it's a cause you're strongly against."
"Right, right, that's what I meant.
"I knew it was."
"That was easy," Dana thought, and figured Sarah's progressive genocide project could now
be laid to rest alongside Jeff's "one-life, one-vote" expanded democracy idea that had bogged
down in the insect-registration process, and Laura's "sleep is wasted time" initiative that,
ironically, still gave Dana nightmares.

"Check on the research department" and "check on the Johnstons." I knew how to do both of
those things in a single lunch, even if Gwafinn wouldn't tell me specifically what I was
supposed to be checking for.
"Gwaf--what are you doing here?" asked Rob Johnston. Rob was the youngest of the
Johnstons, a member of the research department, and, as it happened, someone I knew from
Bucklin College. It was he who had doomed me to a lifetime of unemployment and
depression, albeit a lifetime of unemployment and depression that had lasted only a month,
by using his last name to screw me out of the Johnston Brothers' job.
"Oh hi, Rob, good to see you," I said, doing my best to sound like someone who had just
bumped into someone else by accident, a fact that wasn't 100% true, in as much as it was
completely false. "I just came on board."
Ideally, I would have liked to find someone in research that I could trust implicitly. But since
nothing said by anyone is research ever could be trusted implicitly, I settled on the next best
thing: someone I probably couldn't trust, but whom I could read like a book. One of those
large-print books they made for old people and those who enjoyed reading at a great distance.
Rob might have been a Johnston to my Gwafinn--apparently destined to become the Hatfields
and McCoys of Wall Street, only with less spitting--but I'd played poker with him more than
a few times at Bucklin. As a poker player, Rob had many weaknesses, including, but not
limited to, a total inability to bluff. He balanced these weaknesses against his one great
strength, a truly first-rate bankroll. Considering the low stakes of our poker games, this one
strength alone was enough to guarantee that Rob was certain to leave the table with more
money than the rest of us, even if he hadn't won a single hand. Rob was rather proud of the
resulting string of victories.
"You know, I'm glad you're working here," Rob continued. "I always thought you were a
smart guy. And I felt bad when I got the job just because of my last name." So far, so good.
Rob had reacted as though he truly didn't know that I was the supposed son of his family's
arch-enemy. And I could tell he wasn't bluffing.
"Don't worry about it Rob." I'd decided to let him slide on the whole nepotism thing. "Tell,
you what, why don't we go grab lunch and catch up?"

"Oh, I don't know what's going on in the upper reaches of the Johnston family hierarchy,"
Rob said over a burger. "No one ever tells us anything down in research. Besides, I'm the
lowest Johnston on the totem pole, and it's a pretty big pole."
"You've got no idea if they're planning a revolt against the new CEO?"
"The feeling I get is they're all worried about their jobs. Maybe they're planning to wait out
the recession then make a play for power when the economy turns around. No one wants to
be captain of a sinking ship."
"You think?"
"Just a guess."
So much for breaching the Johnston wall of secrecy. "So how's life in the research
department?" I asked.
"Not bad, I suppose. I pretty much just keep my head down and give everything the same
rating that everyone else does."
"Any major rumors flying around the department?"
"Not that I've heard. Of course, people tend to keep the best rumors to themselves in
research. They call them 'inside information.'"
That about did it for Gwafinn's questions. Now all that was left was making polite chit-chat
until the check came. "What have they got you covering?" I asked.
"I'm in charge of paper stocks…that is, the stocks of companies that make paper. Turns out
the stocks themselves are all pretty much made of paper, which threw me a bit at first."
"How's the paper sector look?"
"Must be good. I'm giving everything a 'Buy.'"
"You know, Rob, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but life actually made more sense
in college. I mean, I wasn't doing anything particularly useful then, either, but at least I'd
figured out how to do it."
"College? Hell, I haven't been really good at anything since the sixth grade. Life was so
much simpler when work could be submitted in diorama form. Man, I used to kick ass at
dioramas. Sometimes I think I should find a shoebox and some pipecleaners and turn in my
stock reports as dioramas."
"Better hold off unless you want to face the wrath of the SEC's Arts & Crafts Board."
"Yea. You're probably right. So how's life in sales? And for that matter, when exactly did
you get hired? I didn't see you in the training program."
"Life in sales is very…educational," I answered, evading the first question and avoiding the
second one entirely. "Lots of stuff we never covered in economics class."
"Tell me about it," Rob said. "I haven't seen a widget since I've been here."

Chapter 20
July 16

"You're 34, you're 35, and you're 36--actually, I believe you already were 29," Dana said.
"Now get back where you belong and stop trying to confuse me." The monkey did as it was
told. Animal counting was a welcome break from the tumult of the activists' camp. And the
counting had been considerably more enjoyable since Dana had finished with the fruit bats
and lizards and moved on to the famous Lesser Morrell Island Uncommonly Clever
Monkeys. Well, not famous, exactly. They were much too clever to be famous.
These monkeys had made it a point to lie low until the whole humanity craze died down a
bit. In the meantime, they were tentatively willing to go along with Dana's monkey-counting
idea, so long as she didn't try to put those awful numbered tags on them. When you're a
monkey, there's nothing worse than having a brightly colored number tag around your neck.
It makes you stand out like a peacock in neon nail polish when you're trying to hide from a
native with a hankering for some monkey stew. Once Dana's happy lack of numbered tags
had been established, the monkeys relaxed a bit, though they remained concerned that she
might try some sort of Jane-Goodall-live-among-the-animals thing. Not that it isn't nice to
have guests now and again, but some people just won't take a hint when it's time to leave.
Dana had been counting hard all morning and was just about to break for lunch when both
she and the monkeys were startled to hear the pounding beat of drums in the distance. Dana
wasn't quite sure how to interpret the sound; in her experience Lesser Morrell Island had been
refreshingly drum-free, so there was little precedent for the situation. She looked to the
monkeys for guidance, but they appeared uncertain themselves. Sensible, uncommonly clever
monkeys that they were, they held a short conference and concluded that, for safety's sake, it
probably was best to panic. Then they started in with the requisite screeching and running
about. That was good enough for Dana, who dashed back down the mountainside towards the
activists' compound as quickly as one can dash through dense, panicked-monkey infested
undergrowth.

I reached for my phone, gathering my resolve for one last call before heading home for the
weekend. I'd uncovered a new source of potential clients: the list of claimants in a recent
lawsuit against a con man who'd preyed upon the rich and gullible. The way I figured it, if
they'd let a con man talk them out of most of their money, they might trust me with whatever
remained. It was a good idea in theory, but in practice I'd had little luck. Most of the con
man's victims were unwilling to consider any investments that didn't guarantee returns of
100% or better in the first month. But persistence is one of the keys to the life of a salesman,
and there was still one name left on the list. I picked up my receiver to make the call--then I
put it back down. It was six o'clock. The rich, gullible person at the other end of this phone
number might be sitting down to dinner. Rich, gullible people are people, too, after a fashion.
Our jails are bursting at the seams with those guilty of no more than assault and murder,
while salesmen who place calls to residential phones during mealtimes continue to walk the
streets free men. But that didn't mean theirs was a group I particularly cared to join. There
had to be a better way.
"Is this all you want out of life?" I asked Keller the next time he was free. "To sit at a long
row of phones every day for forty years selling stocks."
"No, of course not. I want an office."
"I'm talking about something even better than that. A more interesting life. Some excitement.
Something to get you out of bed everyday other than a train schedule and the promise of a
few dollars."
"First of all, my friend, we're not talking about a few dollars here, we're talking about
millions of dollars. And second, we're not really talking about millions of dollars, we're
talking about the stuff that millions of dollars can buy. And that's more-or-less anything you
want. Don't you want anything you want? Because I know it's exactly what I want."
"What if what I want to do is run screaming from the building every time I picture myself
doing what I'm doing now for the next forty years?"
"Then you'd better get pretty good at this, because they're not going to tolerate that much
running and screaming from a bad salesman."
"I think you're missing the point here."
"No, Gwaf, I think you're missing the point. You've lucked your way into an incredible
opportunity, and by some miracle you might even be halfway decent at it. Don't throw that
away because you're having a mid-life crisis two weeks into your career. For one thing, that
would mean age 22 is the middle of your life, which doesn't bode well for any plans you
might have for your golden years. And for another, what else are you going to do? Was your
life that great before you came here? Are you really that good at anything more interesting?"
Andy's phone rang, signaling that our conversation was over.
"I'm taking off," I said to Andy, who waved a hand more-or-less in my direction and yelled
into his phone.
"Then there's the churning," I explained to the commuter unfortunate enough to take the seat
next to me on the train back to Jersey. "It's not that I'm one to have much sympathy for the
fool in the 'fool and his money…' saying--especially considering that most of these fools have
more money than they know what to do with--but I am having some trouble justifying the
whole thing. It's funny, I never wrestled with a moral dilemma in my life until I got to Wall
Street. But now that I'm here, with big money on the line, it seems like I'm wrestling with a
moral dilemma every day. Well, maybe not wrestling with one, exactly, but at very least I'm
calling it names and circling it warily. Then again, maybe falling back on moral excuses is
just a convenient way to avoid responsibility for my failure if I can't make it on Wall Street.
What do you think?"
"Que?" the man offered. I was going to have to find a better counselor. Or learn Spanish.
Probably easier to do the former, I decided, especially since the train was almost to my stop.
"What I need is a plan," I said to the woman on the stool next to me at Urie's, the bar next to
the bar below my apartment. The place was packed, as always on Friday evenings, full of
people who couldn't get into Artie's, the better, more popular bar next door. "If I don't come
up with something quick, I'm either going to be miserable at my job or a failure at it. Maybe
both."
"You should just shut up and be happy you have a job," the woman suggested. "Everyone
else is losing theirs. Look around. This place is full of people who are out of work."
"You think?"
"Actually, no. This place is full of people who are hanging onto their jobs. The better bar
next door is full of people who are unemployed. They don't have to go to work, so they can
grab all the tables before the rest of us are done for the day. Lucky bastards."
"You know, I've never even gotten in over there. Is it really that nice?"
"Are you kidding? They have great food, great beer, and it's full of attractive, successful
people."
"Unemployed, attractive, successful people?"
"They're successful by definition. They've got tables over there and I'm stuck over here in a
conversation that doesn't make sense with a guy who can't stop complaining."
"It's not the conversation that doesn't make any sense, it's my job."
"Excuse me, but I couldn't help overhear what you've been saying," said a man standing right
behind us. "And I think I can solve all of our problems. I'll give you that plan you need," he
told me, "but I want your bar stool in return. That way, everyone wins. You get your plan,
this young woman gets to start a new conversation with a less depressing man, and I get to sit
down. I've been standing here for half an hour waiting for a seat to open up."
"That sounds great," I said. "But how do I know your plan's any good?"
"Listen, I'll be straight with you," said the man. "If you wanted a good plan, you should have
gotten a seat next to a more attractive woman over at the better bar next door. For a seat in
this second-rate bar next to this good-but-not-great looking woman, all I've got is a half-
baked piece of folk wisdom that you might or might not be able to turn into something. Take
it or leave it."
"I do appreciate your candor," I said. "There isn't enough honesty in the world these days.
And frankly I wasn't getting anywhere with this woman, so I am tempted."
"Go ahead," prompted the woman. "This other guy's no prize either, but he's bound to be less
depressing to talk to than you."
"Even after he called you 'not-great looking'?"
"He called me 'good-but-not-great looking.' That's about the best you can expect to do over
here in terms of smooth talk. The really suave guys are all next door."
"Okay," I decided. "You've got a deal. Now what's this half-assed piece of guidance."
"Here goes," said the man, clearing his throat. "If a situation doesn't make sense, then there's
got to be a way to exploit it."
"Come again?"
"You say your job doesn't make sense. If it truly doesn't make sense--and it's not just that it
does make sense but you can't figure it out, which, looking at you, is a possibility--then
there's an inefficiency. And inefficiencies can be exploited. Instead of trying to play along by
rules that don't make sense, you should try rewriting the rule book."
"Actually, that's pretty good for second-rate bar advice," I stood up from my stool.
"Thank you," the man said, taking my seat.
"I mean it," I said. "I used to be a spiritual guide--just part-time, you understand--and this
advice is really very solid. If you don't mind my asking, how'd you come up with it?"
"I saw you sitting at the bar boring the hell out of this woman and I thought to myself, here's
an inefficiency. Based on the sleazy dress and excessive makeup, this woman clearly is
looking for action, while this loser sitting next to her is looking for advice that she isn't smart
enough to provide. Me, I can provide the advice, and earn greater utility from the seat next to
this woman, who I intend to buy exactly one drink, take back to her place, screw within an
inch of her life, then never see again."
"You sir, are a genius."
"No, no," he waved me off. "I'm just a simple man, properly motivated. Sex is one of the
most basic of life's urges, you know. Plus, I like to make this world a better place when I can.
Now, my lady, what would you like to drink?" The man turned back to the stool next to him.
"Miss?" But the seat was now filled by a largish man in a poorly styled suit. "Excuse me,
friend, did you see what happened to the woman who was sitting on this stool a moment
ago?"
"I think she took off right around the sleazy dress comment," I said.
"But that doesn't make any sense," he protested. "She must have known the dress was sleazy.
She clearly was here to get laid. I was ready and willing to provide said service."
"Just one of those things in life that defies reason, I'm afraid."
"Well, fuck," he said. "If I'm not getting the girl, then our deal's off. I'm afraid I'll have to ask
for that advice back. Hey, buddy, come back. You owe me my advice. Hey, Buddy."
But I was already half way out the door. And I was keeping his advice. In fact, I was already
half way to turning his half-baked folk wisdom into a real plan of action.

"What are those drums?" Dana asked the Doctor when she reached the tents.
"It seems to be coming from the native village, but we're not certain what they mean. Laura's
gone down to ask."
The activists were no less confused than the monkeys, although they at least had thus far
resisted the urge to take to run about waving their arms in the air.
"Maybe they're starting a band," Tommy ventured. "I play a little bass. Think they'd let me
join?"
"You know, I've often wondered what inspires someone to become a bass player," the doctor
said. "Wouldn't it have been more interesting to play the guitar instead?"
"There's Laura," Dana interrupted. The group gathered around for her report.
"I'm told they're war drums," Laura said. "The villagers say you can't really get in the spirit
of a war without some good drumming first."
"They're going to war?" asked Dana. "These people haven't had a war in nearly a century."
"They say they've been provoked. One of the fishermen claims someone sneaked up behind
him and tried to suffocate him with a bag. He might have been killed--except the bag was
made of a relatively breathable fabric. That, and it had a hole on one side."
"You mean to say they're going to war against…" Dana began.
"They're going to war against Greater Morrell Island," Laura said.
"Why Greater Morrell Island?"
"Tradition. Whenever something goes wrong on Lesser Morrell Island they always assume
Greater Morrell Island is to blame. It's just their way. Who are we to criticize?"
"I take it the fisherman didn't see who held the bag over his head?" Dana asked.
"He said he was afraid to look behind him after the person left, in case the attacker was still
lurking around with a knife or gun."
"Why would someone with a knife or gun try to kill him with a cloth bag first?"
"I didn't ask."
"Don't you think we should do something?" Dana asked.
"It's hardly our place to interfere with their society," said Laura.
"We’ve already interfered with their society," Dana said.
The others stared at her blankly.
"You mean the rest of you don't think it was one of us who did this? Even after all the talk
about murder with cloth bags just a week ago?"
"No," the others agreed.
"How about you Sarah?" Dana asked. "You've been uncharacteristically quiet. Do you have
anything to add to the conversation?"
"I'd rather reserve my opinion."
"What does opinion have to do with it? I think you know who did this, and I think it's
probably you."
"I don't think there's enough evidence to say at this point." Sarah stalked off.
"I'm going to go speak with the natives," Dana said.

The number of departments must be cut in half, Smith had explained to the faculty assembled
outside his office. But since prejudice must not be shown against any particular department--
and since it was a virtual impossibility to lay off a tenured professor anyhow--the only
solution was for each of the departments to be merged with another. Nothing would be lost.
Every professor would have a department, every subject matter would be covered. All the
professors had to do was find the middle ground between the two merged disciplines and
lecture on that.
Smith's original plan had been to combine departments with their closest relative--biology
with chemistry, American History with American Civilization, et cetera. But in practice this
only added to his problems. When word got out that the African studies and Latin American
studies departments were to be merged, they complained that they were being ghettoized. The
Theater department complained that combining them with the Gay Studies department only
fostered an unfair stereotype, and held firm to this stance even when reminded that for sixteen
years running the campus production had been a musical. And nobody wanted to join the
math department, since they were no fun at parties.
In the end, Smith decided that the only equitable option was to arrange the marriages by lot.
Smith was still writing the names of their various academic departments on small slips of
paper as the department heads gathered on the fourth floor of the administration building. No
one could find a hat, owing to the same fashion trends that have doomed so many of our
nation's haberdashers, so Smith shuffled the slips together in the Class of 1822 Cup, a trophy
awarded each year to the student with the highest grades in Latin. At least it had been
awarded to the student with the highest grades in Latin until 1982, when the school cancelled
its Latin program. From 1982 through 1988, the trophy had served as an ashtray. Then the
school had banned smoking. Now the Cup, showing the grit of a true survivor, had found a
new purpose.
Smith drew the first slip. "Computer Science," he read. "The computer science department
will be merged with…" Smith drew another slip.

Truth was, Dana didn't know many of the natives. There's a natural gulf between social
activists and the societies they represent. Social activists tend to chalk this up to the societies'
not wishing to embarrass the activists by showering them with thanks. But Dana did know
George and William, the bar owners she'd met on her boat ride to the island.
Dana found their bar packed that day. Or it would have been packed if not for the fact that it
was an outdoor bar, and it's notoriously difficult to fill such a place. Most of the young men
from the village seemed to be there, although many of them were too busy drinking to notice
her.
"George," Dana yelled over the drumming, which was much louder here. "George!"
George heard her the second time. "Oh, it's you. You are feeling better after your seasickness,
I hope?" He spoke loudly to be heard over the drums.
"Much better. But I want to talk to you about this war."
"What?"
"The war, the war," Dana shouted.
"What? Wait a second." George turned behind him to a short wave radio unit and turned
down the volume. Suddenly the drums disappeared. A few of his patrons glanced up at the
unexpected silence.
"That was the radio?"
"Yes, it's the war drums channel. Very popular in these parts."
"Oh. I kind of assumed you had your own drummers."
"It's a small island. Manpower is always an issue."
"I can imagine. You get excellent bass from that radio."
"Thank you. My brother William found a solar-powered sub-woofer on Greater Morrell
Island. But what was it that you wished to discuss?"
"I wanted to talk with you because I'd heard you were going to war."
"That's right. We're leaving any minute."
"Uh, then why is everyone drinking so heavily?" The men were pounding Cook Island Beer
at a rate that would make a frat boy proud, right before it would make him vomit.
"It is our tradition to drink beer before battle. It is our belief that the alcohol makes us
impervious to our enemy's weapons. We also believe it makes us witty and more attractive to
women, but that's of secondary importance right now."
"But how could your traditional warfare rites include beer? Your last war was nearly 100
years ago, and you couldn't have had beer here then."
"Well, back then we used fermented betel nut juice, but not anymore."
"Why the change?"
"Have you ever tried to squeeze the juice from a betel nut? It is very hard. Many a bartender
was lost." George shook his head in sorrow. Dana got back to the point.
"So you're going to war as soon as you're through drinking?"
"We have no choice. We've been attacked."
"By Greater Morrell Island?"
"Who else?"
"But how can you be sure they did it?"
"They're always to blame. We haven't been to war with anyone else in centuries."
"But what if it wasn't them this time?"
George shook Dana off. "Doesn't matter. We couldn't possibly reach any other islands in our
canoes. They're the only ones we can go to war with."
"But maybe war isn't the answer this time. No one's been killed."
"Yes but look at Samuel's neck. He was badly scratched by the bag's zipper. He's really quite
put out by the whole thing."
Most of the men seemed to be listening now, if only because this was the best entertainment
option, what with the radio turned off and the timer that went with the Boggle game having
gone missing. Dana looked in the direction George was pointing and saw a man with a three-
inch scratch on his neck. "Ooh," Dana said in sympathy.
"Plus he says the bag smelled terribly of chickpeas," George added.
"It was a nightmare," said Samuel.
"But did you see a Greater Morrell Islander? And did anyone see a boat leaving the cove? If
there was no boat, how did the attacker get here? Surely someone would have seen it. Maybe
we shouldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions."
"But Dana, jumping to conclusions is one of our culture's proudest traditions. Without
jumping to conclusions, we never would have known that the mountain was inhabited by
invisible monsters, that the spirits of our ancestors protect us, or that we are the chosen
people."
"Chosen for what?"
"Not sure yet. But we figure it's something pretty good."
"George, Greater Morrell Island has hundreds of men, and they have things like guns and
powerboats. There are only about thirty of you, you're all drunk, and one of you is badly
scratched. Plus, all you have to cover the 60 miles to Greater Morrell Island with are your
outrigger canoes, and all you have to fight with are the wooden spears you use for fishing.
This is foolish."
"We will fight Greater Morrell Island the same way our forefathers fought Greater Morrell
Island."
"I know the history" Dana countered. "Your forefathers were slaughtered. None of them
have ever even gotten past Greater Morrell Island's shore defenses, and the shore defenses are
just a handful of lifeguards armed with whistles and those floaty things. The only reason any
of your warriors ever have gotten back to Lesser Morrell Island alive is that some of the war
canoes always get lost, miss the battle entirely, and came back here to look for a map."
"It worked before, it can work again," said George
"There's nothing I can say to convince you to stay?"
"Nothing."
"Not even if I point out that if you go to war with Greater Merrill Island, they'll probably
stop supplying you with essentials like beer and 100% cotton tee-shirts."
That got their attention.
"They wouldn't," said Samuel.
"They certainly would," said Dana. "You'll be back to drinking fermented betel nuts and
wearing woven-grass clothing."
"Woven grass is very itchy," George conceded. "And if I never drank another betel nut I
would die a happy man."
"Then perhaps this can be settled without bloodshed," said Dana.
"There already had been bloodshed," Samuel reminded her, pointing at his neck. "And we're
honor bound to seek revenge for bloodshed."
"But did you actually shed blood?" George asked. "Sometimes when I get a scratch like that,
it just turns red and doesn't actually bleed."
"It's a good point," said William, who had remained silent up till then but wasn't looking
forward to squeezing betel nuts either. "There's no blood on your shirt. If you'd bled it
probably would be on your shirt."
"But we're already so drunk," said Samuel. "It would be a shame to waste our
imperviousness to injury without going to war."
"Why don't you go home to your wives and take advantage of the fact that the beer also has
made you all so witty and attractive to women," Dana suggested.
"You know," said Samuel, "That's not a bad idea. Women love scars. I better get home
before this scratch on my neck disappears."
Dana had had a feeling they might like the suggestion. And now she had a feeling that it was
a good time for her to get the hell out of a bar full of drunken would-be warriors looking to
get some.

July 19

Kerns' week off campus was over. It had taken ten days, which is more days than one expects
to find in the average week, but Kerns was a patient man. He'd been willing to wait the week
out however long it took.
Truth be told--not that he ever intended to tell it--Kerns had spent virtually the entire week
not at a conference about travel budgets, but holed up in an attic. Specifically, the attic of the
house he'd moved out of a month ago when he and Katherine had taken up residence in the
Dean's traditional home on Federal Street. For ten days, Kerns had sat there in the attic in
front of the small, hexagonal attic window, monitoring the campus through a low-powered
telescope he'd borrowed from the Native American Observatory. He'd left his window-front
post only for meals and to walk Roger, who had stayed faithfully at his side despite the fact
that it was rather stuffy in the attic for someone covered in fur, and despite the fact that Kerns
had never let him look through the telescope.
Kerns couldn't be certain--not without returning to campus--but he suspected that everything
had gone just as he'd planned during his absence. This optimism was based largely on his
observations of Friday afternoon. Kerns re-checked his notes from that day to be sure.
"Friday. 3:25 p.m.: Success. An unruly pack of faculty members is burning Smith in effigy on
the quad." At the time Kerns had felt certain that this is what he'd seen. Since then, it had
occurred to him that his analysis of the evidence might have been in error. What if it had been
Kerns, not Smith, who had been burned in effigy? It was hard to say for sure, effigy
craftsmanship being what it is. But Kerns remained optimistic. "It must have been Smith they
toasted in proxy," he explained to Roger. "Since Smith wasn't among the crowd setting the
fire. And it seems very unlike Smith to miss out on a good mob panic."
Roger wagged his tail.
"No point putting it off any longer," Kerns decided. He dropped his dog and suitcase off at
the Federal Street house and strolled back to campus. A crowd of faculty members
brandishing torches and plastic rakes--none of them owned a pitchfork--spotted him just
before he entered the administration building. Kerns had intended to play it cool, but that was
before he knew there were garden implements being wielded in anger. Instead he made the
snap decision to abandon his cool and sprint to the building. Kerns might not have made it,
except that campus security had established a security perimeter around the entry. Once
safely inside, Kerns realized that the real danger probably had been minimal, as the faculty
members couldn't seem to keep their torches lit, and were thus forced to start from scratch
every time they saw someone who looked like he could use a good roasting.
After a bit of searching, Kerns found Smith, unshaven and considerably more pungent than
he remembered him, hiding behind a potted plant in the building's main meeting room.
"Trouble on campus?" Kerns asked casually.
"Animals. They're all animals."
"You mean squirrels, koala bears, that kind of thing?"
"The faculty. They all want to kill me. They've got torches and plastic rakes, and I think one
of them has a Garden Weasel. I just wanted to compromise. It was a good plan. Everybody
came out a loser, but in equal amounts. But they just weren't willing to form a consensus,
even when I told them they had to."
"Interesting."
Kerns headed back outside to address the assembled faculty mob from behind the relative
safety of the security barricade.
"Kerns is trying to merge all the departments," yelled a professor of French Biology.
"The man's insane," said an associate professor of Computer Science Archaeology. "If you
don't return the departments to the way they were, I won't be able to provide my students with
the skills they need to go out into the real world and teach archaeology."
"I understand," Kerns said. "I'll straighten everything out." The promise so surprised the
faculty that they stopped trying to light their torches and plastic rakes for the moment and
allowed Kerns retreat back into the administration building. Once inside, he promptly
arranged meetings with the summer representatives of each of the student groups that now
controlled the campus.
July 20

"Mr. Gwafinn, I have a plan," I began when I met with my nominal father that Tuesday for
lunch. "Actually, I think it might be more of a revelation than a plan. I'm really quite proud of
it."
"Me too, Bob, me too."
"Thank you," I said. "But how can you be proud of my revelation before you know what it
is?"
"For the same reason that parents hang their children's drawings on their refrigerators even
when they suck," said Gwafinn. "But actually by 'me too' I meant to imply that I, too, had had
a revelation, not that I, too, was proud of yours."
"Really? You had one, too?"
"You sound surprised."
"No, no."
"You don't think me capable of revelations."
"Oh, it's not that," I said.
"What then?"
"Well…"
"Out with it, my boy."
"It's just that I've had only a relatively small number of revelations in my life, and most of
the ones I have up to this point have concerned what I'd previously been doing wrong with
girls. It's a bit deflating to bring one's first top-notch business-oriented revelation to a bi-
weekly Tuesday lunch and find out that they're as commonplace as the napkins."
"I see your point," Gwafinn said. "Tell you what. If it will make you feel any better, we can
call mine a 'key strategy decision,' as opposed to an out-and-out revelation. Would that help
any?"
"Actually I think it might," I said, brightening. "So would you like to hear about my
revelation?"
"No, let's talk about my 'key strategy decision' instead. It's much more important…" Gwafinn
proceeded to tell me all about his 'key strategy decision' in a barely audible whisper, having
recently become concerned about the possibility of spies in the cafeteria. He leaned so far
towards me over the table that his lapel joined his tie in his soup.
"What do you think?" he asked finally.
"That depends," I hedged. "I'm not certain I heard properly. Did you say 'monkeys'?"
"Yes, yes, of course monkeys," Gwafinn said. "But for God's sake keep your voice down."
"And is 'monkeys' a Wall Street Acronym like those Spiders that aren't really spiders or that
Sally Mae girl that everyone's always talking about but no one's actually slept with."
"No, no, no. Actual living, breathing monkeys, Bob, presuming moneys breathe…I'm no
animal expert," Gwafinn said. "Don't you understand? Monkeys are where this industry is
headed. There's no escaping it. There was a time when investors insisted on the sort of
analysis that only human beings could provide. But those days are over. Today's investor
wants low expenses. We can't cut our expenses any more and still pay the kind of wages
human stock analysts expect--well, not the sort of wages human employees expect on Wall
Street, anyway. Monkeys are the obvious solution."
"But I still don't think low wages alone can explain this. What do monkeys have to do with
stock picking?"
"Plenty, as I understand it. I just read this study that's getting a lot of attention in the press.
I'll have Gloria send you a copy. It turns out that over the past ten years, we could have done
just as well having monkeys throw darts at the Wall Street Journal we did by trusting our
research department."
"But…" I protested.
"Yes?"
"But…" I tried again.
"Isn't nature incredible," Gwafinn continued. "If you'd asked me last week what we should
do with the monkeys, I'd have said 'Get rid of them, they're obsolete. Humans are better.'
Turns out they have this natural ability with darts--or maybe it's a natural ability with stock
picking. It's difficult to say. Could be one of those things we'll just never know, like how flies
develop from spoiled food or why Saran Wrap sticks like that…"
"But…"
"Really makes you think"
"But Mr. Gwaf…I mean Dad," Gwafinn smiled like a proud parent whenever I called him
Dad. "I think if you read the fine print on that study you'll see that those monkeys are pretty
much hypothetical. They might have beaten our research department, but the monkeys still
don't beat the average stock. The study's point is just that it's hard to do better than random
chance."
Mr. Gwafinn was getting exasperated. "Well, of course if you're looking at all monkeys
together they'll only be average," he whispered as forcefully as it's possible to whisper. "But
we're going to get the very best monkeys."
There followed an uncomfortable silence as I waited for one of those punch lines that never
seemed to come. "You want the monkeys who are best with darts?"
"Absolutely. There must be rankings published somewhere."
"You're going to fire the entire research department, and replace them with chimps trained at
pub games."
"No, no, not the entire research department. At least not at first. We'll fire a few, bring in the
chimps, and most of the rest will see which way the wind is blowing and leave on their own.
We'll save a bundle on severance pay that way. Besides, it'll probably be a while before the
monkeys are up to handling some of the more complicated derivatives and currency markets.
Tricky stuff, that."
Gwafinn looked at me for agreement, but I just stared back.
"Honestly, Bob, I'm a little concerned that you're not seeing this my way. I need to know I
can count on you to keep the sales department in my corner. That's why I had a son in the
first place. Anyway, you have to agree with me. It's in your contract."
"Do I have to agree with you, or just agree with you?"
"You have to agree with me."
"I was afraid of that."
"So I can count on you? If we can't count on family, we're no better than animals."
What was the reasonable thing to do here, I wondered. Stand up for one's beliefs and
Johnston Brothers' investors, or be true to one's contractual agreements, adopted father and
career ambitions. Finally I settled on a response: "Is the sales department safe?"
"Absolutely."
"Then I'm with you all the way."
"I knew I could count on you to see things clearly," Gwafinn responded, a smile spreading
across his face. "So what was yours?"
"What was my what?"
"Your revelation."
"Oh, that. Well, nothing so dramatic as yours. I mean, all the principle players are likely to
be human."
"That's okay, Bob, many fine plans rely on humans."
"Well, I just figured I could get my hands on client lists from other firms, call them up and
tell them they're being churned and present myself as the trustworthy, non-churning
investment alternative."
"Interesting. Are you confident you can get your hands on these client lists?"
"I have an idea or two."
"Maybe the chimps could help out somehow."
"I'll look into that."
"But you're still on board with my monkey plan?"
"For the sake of argument, let's say I am."
"Fine, fine. Then proceed with your idea too if you like."
July 21

"Guys, I've got something to tell you that's equal parts confidential and absurd," I said to the
equity sales staff. "But before I begin, I need to ask you to treat this with the highest possible
degree of discretion and credulousness. Agreed?"
I got a few nonchalant nods in response. Callesse had a hard enough time getting these guys
to put down their phones for the once-a-week morning meeting. Asking them to listen to a
rookie salesman was pushing the limit. Waiting for polite responses to my questions would
have been a total waste of time.
"It has come to my attention through certain unofficial channels that Johnston Brothers will
soon fire the bulk of its research department," I said. "They will be replaced with a room full
of chimps armed with darts and copies of the Wall Street Journal."
At least I had their attention. At least I assumed I had their attention. Two or three of the
salesmen--the younger salesmen--did show their surprise by momentarily glancing up from
their coffee. But the more seasoned salesmen would have offered no outward expression and
gone right on sipping their coffee even if I'd just told them that their coffee had been
poisoned. To show surprise is to make a tacit admission that one didn't already have the
information that has been conveyed. No successful Wall Street operator ever admitted
ignorance of any crucial piece of information, even those that were false. When I made the
monkey announcement, a few of the better salesmen had even nodded silently, to create the
impression that they'd expected just such a development all along, and in fact already had
factored it into their fourth-quarter portfolio recommendations. I admired their skills. "Well,
that's about it," I said. "Any questions?"
There was the customary ten-second pause while everyone made it a point to act
uninterested.
Dan Levine, the dean of the sales staff, broke the silence. "So they're finally making the move
to chimps with darts, eh?" he grunted in his well-practiced off-hand manner.
"That's about the size of it, Dan, yes."
"'Bout time," said Levine.
"So everyone's okay with this?" I asked.
Everyone went right on acting nonchalant. They munched their Danish and sipped their
coffee just as they would at any Wednesday-morning meeting. A comment was made about
the quality of the day's Danish, and another about the size of the ass of a particular female
trader from the Treasuries desk, who, it seemed, already was familiar with the many virtues
of Danish. But there was something different about the salesmen…After a minute or two I
was able to put my finger on it: they were quiet. It was the first time I'd ever seen many of
them with their mouths shut for such a length of time. Normally they were shouting at
customers, at the research staff, at each other, at their assistants, or at no one in particular, just
to keep in practice.
"Okay with it?" said Levine finally. "It's tremendous."
"It is?" I asked.
"Well, the sales staff is safe, isn't it?"
"Apparently."
"Then think about it. With the market the way it is, we were looking at staff reductions in
both sales and research. But now it looks like research is taking the whole hit. Better yet, we
used to have to split our sales commissions with the analysts. But monkeys don't expect year-
end bonuses, and who cares if they do, cause they're not getting them. Fuck the monkeys."
A cheer went up from the sales floor. High-fives were exchanged. Backs were slapped.
Deposits were put on expensive cars that this year's anticipated bonuses would not otherwise
have justified. Champagne somehow appeared, and toasts were made. Someone hired a
stripper. The news spread from equity sales to fixed income sales and outward to the furthest
reaches of the Johnston Brothers' sales empire. There was jubilation. "But no one tell the
research department." I shouted. "This is confidential."

Chapter 21
July 26

The first ten monkeys arrived Monday morning. Each was issued a desk on the trading floor,
a security badge, a set of darts, a computer, a phone, a copy of the Wall Street Journal, a
membership card for the company health plan, 12 ball point pens, four pads of paper, a
stapler, a staple remover, and a flea collar. On its surface, this would seem to be a tremendous
opportunity for any monkey, particularly one that's other career option was on the less-happy
end of medical research. But, oddly, most of the chimps did not seem altogether pleased with
their new vocation. By ten a.m., two of the remaining human analysts had been bitten, and a
third had simply fallen to pieces amid the incessant shrieking of his new coworkers, which
was in a distinctly different and more piercing pitch than the shrieking of his previous
coworkers.
A handful of top Johnston Brothers executives--although no actual Johnstons--joined
Gwafinn as he surveyed the scene. Gwafinn had not been so high on the idea of interacting
with low-level analysts even back when they were human, and he certainly wasn't going to
stand around making small talk with a bunch of monkeys. To avoid such awkward social
situations, he'd had a Plexiglas-enclosed viewing station constructed by one of the exits to the
research floor. It was similar to the penalty box you might find at a hockey rink, except not so
densely packed with Canadians.
"Do you suppose they're not happy with their contracts?" asked the Vice President of
Business Development, a long-time Gwafinn ally.
"Maybe they sense a bear market," said the Executive Vice President of Corporate
Communications. "I hear where all the birds left Tokyo just days before their market melted
down back in 1990."
"Eerie," said the first vice president.
"But why aren't they using the darts?" a marketing manager asked Gwafinn. "Shouldn't they
be throwing the darts at their Wall Street Journals?"
"Be patient," Gwafinn assured him. Gwafinn was known for his patience among his fellow
executives, having once invested in a stock that lacked earnings momentum. "The monkeys
are just establishing their territory. It looks like they're driving the human analysts out of
equities towards the fixed income and corporate finance departments."
"That is smart," noted one of the vice presidents.
"Yep, equities is where the real money is here at Johnston Brothers," said the other.
They had smart monkeys after all.
By eleven o'clock the monkeys had calmed a bit. The human analysts, now largely confined
to less profitable departments, looked on with apprehension as their co-workers swung from
the exposed pipes of the sprinkler system and soiled their Wall Street Journals.
"Should we check where the shit lands, or wait for them to use the darts?" asked the Vice
President of Business Development.
Gwafinn considered the question. "I definitely read that they'd use darts," he said at last. "But
perhaps we should monitor the shit in the meantime. It might be a sell signal."
"I'll send in an intern to check," said the VP, pleased that progress was being made.

"I have a proposal for you," Kerns told the first student organization representative. "I think it
will work well for all concerned."
The student leader, who was a senior in college, and thus savvy in the ways of the world,
eyed Kerns with suspicion.
"Your group has more space than it needs," Kerns continued, "and the college needs more
space for its operations. Why don't you lease your student center back to us?"
"You're trying to make us sell out," said the student. "We'll never sell out our ideals."
"I wouldn't dream of asking you to sell out. For one thing, I want you to lease, not sell. And
for another, I'm offering you funds that can be put to far more idealistic uses than a building.
As things stand now, you're much too illiquid. You don't want to be illiquid do you?"
"No," the student admitted, he didn't like the sound of being illiquid one bit, whatever it
meant. "But I still don't trust you," he added.
"I understand. I'll just offer the cash to the other special interest groups." Kerns flashed a
wad of hundred-dollar bills in front of the student's face.
"Wait…"
Kerns might have a lot to learn about the day-to-day management of a college. But as an
economist, he was well acquainted with the power of cash.
When word of the free money got around, virtually every student-center possessing group on
campus decided that they'd like to do Bucklin a favor, too, and help out with its building
shortage. By the end of the day, the college held rights to lease all but six of its own buildings
back from the student groups for the year at some extremely attractive rates. For the first time
in months, Kerns had been able to put the fact that he was badly outnumbered to his
advantage. He had what is known as a "monopsony," a term Kerns had shared with class after
class of Economics 101 students, most of whom assumed he was mispronouncing another,
similar, word that they already knew very well, having started games of it many times,
without ever actually seeing one through to its end. But a monopsony is something very
different from a monopoly--and even more different from Monopoly, since you couldn't
choose to be a thimble. In a monopsony, there are many interested sellers and only one buyer-
-in this case, Bucklin College--a fact that tends to leave buyers in extremely advantageous
negotiating positions even if they're not bargaining with college kids who considered $49.95
a lot of money, which, of course, Kerns was. Within a day, he had regained access to millions
of dollars of campus buildings for a very reasonable grand total of $4,530. That was less than
a Bucklin student paid for two months of classes. "Quite a bit less," Kerns thought, "once I
get through upping the little bastards' tuition."
Officially, Kerns was just renting his buildings back from the groups, and risked having to
go though the whole process again next year. But part two of Kerns' plan figured to be even
more enjoyable than part one. "Janet," Kerns buzzed the office secretary, on the off chance
she had bothered to drop by that day, "please get me the contact information for all the
members of the Handicapped Students Coalition, plus any student who complained to Health
Services in the past year about our buildings' air quality. We need to update them on the
proper places to send their complaints." In a few weeks, Kerns would spread the rumor that as
landlords, the student groups would be required to shell out for necessary building upgrades
and health inspections. They'd beg him to take their student centers back forever. In the
interests of the students, Kerns would be forced to comply.
July 27

"How are the monkeys doing?" I asked Gwafinn at our Tuesday Tuesday lunch.
"Things seem to be progressing. Just yesterday all they were doing was shrieking and
throwing feces at the interns. But now they're shrieking less and I expect they'll soon take an
interest in the darts. We don't start our human recruits in on stock picking until they've
finished a month-long training program. This is saving us money already."
"Has the feces throwing dropped off as well?"
"Not noticeably, no. But we've found some new interns who mind it less."
"From an agricultural college?
"No, English majors mostly. They're just happy to have work, even as unpaid interns. But
remember, if you're talking to an intern, pretend that they have a chance at promotion."
Gwafinn chuckled at his joke.
"How will I know I'm talking to an intern?"
"The head-to-toe shit stains are the main tip off. Oh, and they'll be the ones to believe you if
you say we promote interns."
"I heard that one of the chimps has been issuing sell recommendations."
"Oh yes, that's Chimp #8," said Gwafinn. "He's got all the makings of a superstar. We've
even started feeding him more, to get more sell recommendations out of him. Unfortunately,
the other chimps still seem more interested in throwing their sell recommendations at
interns."
"Have you considered sending the interns into the monkey room covered with copies of the
Journal?" I suggested, trying to keep in the spirit of the thing.
Gwafinn looked up with a start. "Good thinking, Bob. Damn, you've made your father
proud."

"Tommy!" Dana shouted. "What are you doing with that cloth bag?" Tommy clearly was
lurking in the bushes with that cloth bag, but Dana asked anyway, on the off chance that there
might be some better explanation.
"I'm just doing a favor for Sarah," Tommy said.
"And is that favor attempting to kill people?"
"Well, that's not exactly how she put it."
"How exactly did she put it?"
"Same, only without 'attempting'."
"How could you? I thought you said you were on my side?"
"I am on your side. But Sarah convinced me I shouldn't go against the group decision."
"What group decision? They only have a majority because you've joined them."
"That's what makes me feel so needed."
"Listen, Tommy, you need to speak up for yourself here, and believe what I told you to
believe."
"But the group…"
"If you take my side, then you wouldn't be going against the group, the group would be
evenly divided," Dana said.
"Evenly divided," Tommy said, dropping the cloth bag in despair. "Then who would I
follow?"
"Follow your heart. What do you think you should do? Think, Tommy. You must think for
yourself."
And Tommy did think. He thought for all he was worth. Dana could see sweat gathering on
his brow at a rate exceptional even for an island this close to the equator. Finally Tommy
seized on an idea. He picked the cloth bag up off the ground and pulled it over his head.
"No, Tommy, that's not the answer," Dana said, and grabbed the bag back from him. "Is it
this difficult for you to think for yourself, to make a decision on your own?"
"If you say so."
"That's it. I'm going to help you make the right decision. You're coming with me--and we're
leaving the bag here. You're going to have a beer at George and William's bar so you know
the people you were going to try to kill. After you meet them, you'll know what to do. Oh,
and should it come up, you might want to avoid mentioning any role you might have had in
any prior bag attacks. It's something of a touchy subject in the village."
Dana walked Tommy down to the bar, introduced him to William, then excused herself to go
find Sarah. She couldn't find her, but at least Dana's plan to put Tommy in check was
successful. In fact, it was even more successful than she'd dared hope. By the time she
returned for him half an hour later, Tommy had joined the natives' community.

"So Kerns thinks he can outmaneuver me, does he?" Associate Dean Thomas Prester Smith
was pacing about his office like a caged animal, although as a mid-level administrator at a
smallish college, it wasn't a particularly fearsome animal. "True, Kerns might have saved me
from a savage rake beating by solving the building shortage. But that's hardly the point. He
made me look bad by undermining my solution to the problem. How can I show my face on
campus? How can I ever hope to land another job in academia?" Smith imagined that the rest
of the college world was exchanging tales of his failure, never imagining that few had ever
heard of him, and that those who had mostly just remembered the shuffling. Right now Smith
was so mad that his shuffling suffered. "The man has no idea who he's up against," Smith
fumed. "Or more accurately, he probably does have an idea that he's up against me, but he
doesn't understand how dangerous that is."
In point of fact, Smith had just one plan left. One final stab at rescuing his once promising
career. But it wasn't just any plan. It was a big plan. A proactive plan. A history-making plan.
A plan that would leave elite colleges and universities around the country clamoring for his
services and that bastard Kerns exposed as an administrative dilettante. It was a plan so big
that the Regents might just hand Smith the job he should have had in the first place, Dean of
Bucklin College…if he could pull it off. With every circuit he paced around his office Smith
glanced not out his window at Bucklin's campus, as was his custom, but rather at the world
map he had posted on his office wall. "It could work," he muttered. "It could work." He'd find
out soon enough. The plan was already in motion.
After the fiasco with the Budgetary Exemption, Smith had been a bit slier with these
machinations. True, some rather extensive travel was required, and that did necessitate
official approval from Kerns. But Smith had been careful to bury his real intentions under a
blizzard of irrelevant facts and barely-relevant half-truths in his travel application. Then, just
to be safe, he'd gone back and replaced the half-truths with quarter-truths. Kerns had been
suspicious, but eventually he did provide his official approval. At least Smith thought it was
an official approval. Trouble was, Dean Kerns was just agreeing with everyone these days,
without really giving official official approvals at all. Plans submitted in writing came back
with requests for more details. Detailed submissions came back with requests for executive
summaries. When pressed for an answer, Kerns would cite some economics theory and rattle
on till you drifted off, then he'd sneak out of the room. If you managed to stay awake, he
would pretend to drift off himself, then make you start over from the beginning when he
woke. It was all extremely frustrating, and, Smith was man enough to admit, devilishly
brilliant. Kerns was becoming more competent by the hour. And that was all the more reason
for Smith to leave immediately.
As far as his travel proposal was concerned, Smith was heading to South America on a
routine diversity recruiting assignment. Such trips were increasingly common, in that many
foreign countries were overflowing with exactly the sorts of minority students that American
colleges needed to survive. According to his official travel request, Smith would be forging
alliances with high school guidance counselors and college-study-abroad program directors in
Argentina, Chile, Brazil, Guyana, Paraguay and the too-often-overlooked secondary guay,
Uruguay. Smith's real plan was considerably more focused. He was after not South American
minority students in general, but one student in particular--one whose story originated even
further to the south.
Long ago, Smith had stumbled onto a fact that somehow had escaped the notice of his fellow
college-recruiting directors. Nearly twenty years before, he'd learned, the forward-thinking
leaders of a small nation called Spanish Guyana had sent a pregnant Spanish Guyanian
citizen--Smith believed it had been a woman--to Antarctica, where, predictably enough, she
had given birth. Spanish Guyana claimed the voyage was necessitated by overcrowded
maternity wards in local hospitals. The real reason had been that Spanish Guyana, feeling a
tad impotent on the world stage, wished to conquer a foreign land. Now it's certainly correct
that conquering foreign lands is a tried-and-true path towards success. But this was the late
twentieth century; all the really attractive lands already had long since been conquered. With
few options, Spanish Guyana set its sights on one of the few undeveloped properties that
remained: Antarctica. The traditional opening move in these situations is to send a few
citizens to colonize the stretch of dirt you wish to control, and indeed that had been Spanish
Guyana's original plan. In fact, a sizable order had been placed for long underwear. But
before the plan had been put in motion, a clever Spanish Guyanian provincial governor had
stuck on a better idea: if Spanish Guyana controlled the only Antarctican, he reasoned, then
Spanish Guyana would control Antarctica, without all the hassles involved in colonization
and long-underwear purchasing. They'd simply have to wait until their Antarctican was old
enough to vote. The Antarctic baby plan was born.
The idea seemed solid enough on its surface. Only too late did Spanish Guyana find that it
fell apart on one minor detail: Antarctica was not a democracy. It was a land governed by
brute force--or it would have been, except the only ones there were penguins, which are not a
particularly forceful bird. This troubling state of affairs rendered Spanish Guyana's Antarctic
voting edge valueless. And as for the brute force route to conquest, an invasion of Antarctica
would have invited reprisals by other countries, and Spanish Guyana--a country that's
military had once accidentally surrendered to itself after seeing its reflection in a mirror--
knew it was out of its depth. The country gave up on the whole Antarctic idea, and turned
their attention back to stemming that pesky outbreak of plague.
A few years later the point was moot. Scientists discovered that it really was quite cold in
Antarctica more or less year round, so the continent likely would never develop into a
profitable vacation spot or farming colony. Given this grim prognosis, the civilized nations of
the world shook hands, agreed to share Antarctica equally in the spirit of brotherhood and
harmony, and in the future only fight over places that had enough oil under them to make
them worth everyone's trouble.
Spanish Guyana's place in Antarctic lore was soon forgotten--by everyone except Smith. For
Smith, the central issue remained unresolved: what had happened to that Antarctic baby?
Unless it had been raised by penguins, a possibility Smith was willing to consider, the child
figured to have grown up back in Spanish Guyana. This child, the only individual from
continent larger than Europe, probably only thought about his unique heritage when filling
out forms that asked for place of birth, and maybe when looking for an anecdote to tell at
parties. But whether he knew it or not, this child was the Holy Grail of campus diversity, and
Smith had been waiting for the right moment to search for the grail ever since. Now the child
was 18, and Smith needed a victory. It couldn't wait any longer. It was time for the Antarctic
baby to enroll in college.
Smith unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. Smith might have been the only administrator
on campus who actually believed a desk lock would keep someone out who really wanted to
get into his files. He certainly was the only administrator on campus who thought someone
might really want to get into his files. Smith gave a last, suspicious look around his office,
unnecessarily, perhaps, since he'd already taken the time to lock his office door and check
behind his curtains. Then he removed the drawer entirely. Behind it, taped securely to the
inside of the desk frame was his secret file. In it was every article Smith had tracked down
about the Antarctic baby. It didn't amount to much--not even a name. All Smith knew was
that the child was a boy, the son of a government functionary high enough in the scheme of
things to be entrusted with such an important assignment, yet low enough in the pecking
order that he could be ordered to send his wife to a barren, icy wasteland to produce his first
born. A middle manager. In short, Smith was looking for the child of a man very much like
himself. That, thought Smith, would be his advantage.

Chapter 22
July 28

The next time it was nearly much more serious than a scratch on the neck. A Lesser Morrell
Island fisherman had been miles from shore when he discovered that his canoe was sinking.
Someone, it seems, had drilled a series of holes, then plugged them temporarily with tree sap
so the leak wouldn’t become apparent until the fisherman was well out at sea. The fisherman
had tried to keep the craft afloat long enough to return to land, but it is notoriously difficult to
bail and paddle at the same time, unless one is very, very skilled with one's feet. To the
fisherman's dismay, he discovered that he was not.
The canoe sank, leaving the fisherman alone to bob on the surface and await his own certain
death. Or what seemed likely to be his certain death anyway. As it happened, the fisherman
was rescued and carried to land on the back of a passing tuna, if his account is to be
considered accurate. The fisherman theorized that the tuna must have heard about the positive
press dolphins received for their occasional good deed, and figured a few tuna-centered
rescue stories might convince people to switch to tasty mackerel-salad sandwiches instead.
The canoe--and thus the evidence--was at the bottom of the ocean, since the tuna had drawn
the line at towing the man's boat. But even without evidence, Dana was certain that Sarah was
behind the near disaster. Sarah's behavior had been increasingly odd ever since the genocide
discussions, to the point where most agreed that she had replaced the doctor as the island's
chief nut case, although the doctor remained confident that he might yet rally and make a
game of it. As Sarah had drifted ever further towards the sanity-challenged end of the mental-
health spectrum, the island's others activists distanced themselves from her cause. Brent had
been largely unsupportive ever since it had become clear that explosives would not be
necessary. Jeff maintained that he was still for the plan, but not to the extent of actually
seeing it through. Tommy had found a new home among the natives, most of whom were too
nice to come right out and tell him to fuck off. Even Laura decided she "had too many things
on her plate," which was her nice way of saying that if Sarah wasn't going to let her be in
charge, then she could go to hell. The defections left Sarah increasingly isolated, and
isolation never really has been known to improve anyone's mental health. The past few nights
Sarah hadn't even returned to her tent in the activists' camp to sleep.
"It might take days or even weeks," Dana decided when news of the canoe sinking reached
the activists, "but I'm going to track Sarah down."
Twenty minutes later, Dana found her. The search had moved along much faster than she had
expected, on account of the fact that Sarah was not so much hiding as she was making loud
hammering sounds.
"What are you doing?" Dana asked.
"Hammering," Sarah explained, without looking away from her work.
"That much I'd gathered. But why are you hammering nails into a tree?"
"It's called spiking. You put the nail into the tree at the level a logger would cut it down.
Then when his chainsaw hits the nail, the chain snaps, whips around and slices him open. It's
environmental. Cuts down on logging."
"Yes, I've heard of tree spiking," Dana said. "But they don't even have chainsaws here. When
they want to take down a tree, they use a sharpened rock."
Sarah stopped her pounding for a moment. "Still can't hurt," she decided, and went back to
hammering.
"Sarah, would you stop that for a second? I want to talk to you about the canoe sinking."
"There's been a canoe sinking?" Sarah asked, interested.
"But no one was killed. He was rescued by a fish."
"A fish? Do you mean a dolphin?"
"No, he says it was a tuna."
"I knew the dolphins would be smart enough to take my side," Sarah said. "Stupid tuna.
Can't see the big picture."
"So you admit you've been killing people?"
"On the record or off the record?"
"On the record."
"No."
"Okay, then off the record."
"Still no."
"Why did you ask 'on or off the record' if you were going to give the same answer to both?"
"I just like the way it sounds. I'm thinking about going to law school some day."
"Sarah, just admit you've been trying to kill people. It's not really a crime. It's a disease, like
using drugs."
"I won't admit I've done anything wrong. Hard decisions had to be made. As the political
voice of the island, it was my job to make them."
"First of all, you're not the political voice of the island. The villagers never elected you to
any post. They choose their leader the same way they've chosen their leaders for generations:
they pick their fattest, and thus most successful, fisherman. It's not our place to argue with
their traditions."
"You're taking the side of a despotic, phallo-centric power structure?"
"Despotic? Their leader's only in charge of deciding when it's time to fish. And since it's time
to fish whenever the sun is out, it's not as though one leader is very much different from
another. As a leader all you've brought to this island is attempted murder."
"That's not true."
"Sure it is."
"Well, even if it is true, it's not the truth I've decided to go with."
"Do you even care that people are being hurt by your high-minded theories?"
"Don't hand me that," Sarah retorted. "There's not an activist in the world who doesn't think
the same way. We're all in favor of expanding the welfare system. Sure, everyone knows
welfare just creates a cycle of welfare dependence for generations, but that's no excuse to be
against it. We're all against big business, even though without big businesses Americans
wouldn't have enough money to feed themselves, much less give to the charities that pay
people like us to improve the world by being against big business. Welfare is the right thing,
and being against corporate America is the right thing, just like what I'm doing here is the
right thing. We're activists working for a noble cause. Consequences are irrelevant. Morality
is below us."
"Don’t try to confuse the issue. We're talking about killing, and it has to stop. One man has
been badly scratched. Another nearly drowned."
"But surely the natives understand that it's in their best interest," Sarah pleaded. "Surely
they'll listen to reason."
"You need help. Why don't you come talk to the doctor. He's not a psychiatrist, but he does
have considerable personal experience with borderline insanity."
Sarah didn't argue. In fact she looked near tears.
"Come on back to the camp, it's going to be okay," Dana said. Sarah just slumped down at the
base of the tree and stared at the ground. "Sarah?"
"It's just…it's just this place," Sarah said at last. "There's no one here to protest against. And
when I do protest against something, it's always something thousands of miles away that
couldn't care less that I'm protesting against it. Maybe I should just go home."
"Don't give up so easily. Why don't you come back to the camp with me. We'll have
something to eat, and then we'll try to think of a solution."
"I have a solution."
"A solution that doesn't involve killing."
"Oh. I don't have one of those."

With the sales department squarely on his side, Gwafinn's monkey idea didn't seem likely to
end very soon. This was particularly distressing to the head of the research department, H.
Kensington Johnston, H. Kensington to friends, of which he had none. It was distressing
because he was now more zookeeper than research director, and it was distressing because of
his rather unfortunate allergy to pet hair. Some within the Johnston Brothers hierarchy were
of the opinion that at least one, and possibly both, of these tweaks to H. Kensington Johnston
was Gwafinn's true motivation for his monkey initiative. I wasn't so certain. But I had to
concede that it very well might have been a factor in his thinking. What other explanation
was there for Gwafinn's having had dog hair shipped in and glued to the monkeys when told
that the monkey hair had had little effect?
Mostly I steered clear of the monkey debate. I had my own plan to consider. If I didn't get
things rolling quickly, news of Gwafinn's monkey plan would leak and the name Gwafinn,
and by extension the name Gwafin, would be anathema on Wall Street. If I wasn't a certified
success by then, I'd certainly be certified the son of a certifiable head case, then promptly
fired. The key to my plan was finding those previously churned investors. After giving the
matter considerable thought, I decided that the best solution was to hang out in bars and try to
pick up women. When the chips are on the line, you've got to go with what you know. I'd just
have to find the right bars and the right women. In this case, the right bars figured to be the
upscale ones around Wall Street, and the right women were those who had-just-been or
knew-they-would-soon-be laid off from secretarial or administrative-assistant positions at
investment banks. Fortunately, there were plenty of these around, owing to the unfortunately
poor economy. Anyone in this position would be depressed and anxious to get back at their
former employers. All I'd have to do is seduce them into turning over client lists. Granted, it
was a somewhat sleazy plan, but I had an iron-clad defense if the SEC tried to take my
license to sell securities away: I'd never gotten my license in the first place. Let's see them
talk their way out of that one.
I gave it a try that afternoon at a place I knew a block from Wall Street. The lunch crowd
dispersed, heading back to their offices to spend a productive afternoon attempting to conceal
their cocktail intake. I sized up the presumably unemployed figures who remained, and
selected an empty bar stool next to a woman who looked just exactly like what I would have
expected a depressed recently laid off Wall-Street secretary to look like.
"Excuse me, are you okay?" I asked.
"I'll be all right." She didn't look up from her cocktail.
"Please, tell me what's wrong. I want to be your friend."
"You want to know?" At least she looked at me this time.
"Yes, I want to know."
"Then you're not really my friend."
"What?"
"A friend would offer to hear my problems because he liked me, not because he really
wanted to know. In fact, a friend would listen to my problems despite the fact that he hates
listening to them. If you really want to know my problems then you're just being nosey."
"I see. So if I value the time I spend trying to help you, then I'm just prying--but if I find
listening to you irritating, then I'm a friend."
"That's right."
"Then I've got some good news for you. The very sound of your voice bugs the hell out of
me."
"That's better," the woman said. "I'm just depressed because I just lost my job."
"On Wall Street."
"Uh huh, Mornall & Swain."
"Good firm," I said, because that's what you're supposed to say when someone else mentions
their employer.
"They're horrible," the woman corrected. It was my mistake. The rules of etiquette decree
that one should reflexively complement another person's place of employment only up to the
moment that person is fired. Then you should start in with the criticisms.
"You're right, of course, they're just terrible," I said. "When I said they were a good firm I
meant they were a good firm back when you worked for them."
The woman fixed me with one of those looks that are so popular among those who want you
to know that they know you're up to something. I retorted with a smile that I hoped said "I
can be trusted," or at very least "Maybe I can't be trusted, but at least I floss after meals."
"Are you just hitting on me, or are you trying to seduce me into turning over client lists," she
asked, showing considerable savvy for someone who couldn't hold a job.
"Uh…just hitting on you," I lied.
"Don't lie. You're an even worse liar than you are a seducer. Christ, with the kind of money
on the line here, the least they could do is send someone around who's capable of a quality
seduction."
"I could try again. I'm sure I could do better."
"No, no, I don't mean to be so critical. It's just that I've had a very bad day, what with getting
fired and all. I'm sure you did your best. As it happens, I'm not very pleased about being
fired, so I'll give you the client lists."
"Oh," I said. "Okay."
"You sound disappointed."
"I'll be all right."
"Don't be like that," the woman said. "You can tell me."
"It's just that, well, I was expecting a bit more intrigue. I mean, I didn't so much seduce you
out of the client lists as you just decided to give them to me."
"There's no reason to be depressed about it. Everything worked out okay."
"Still, shouldn't we at least sleep together first? I kind of figured that's the way this sort of
thing would work."
"Yea, I suppose you're right," the woman conceded.
So we went back to her place, and I left with a more relaxed outlook on life and a list of thirty
names, a handful of whom actually bought into the no-churning pitch and signed on as my
clients.

July 29

Reaching Spanish Guyana turned out to be more difficult than Smith had expected. Mostly
this was on account of a civil war they'd decided to throw, which seemed to Smith a rather
trivial reason to interfere with his important administrative mission. Eventually Smith had
resigned himself to a flight into a neighboring Guyana--his choice of French Guiana or the
original Guyana classic--followed by a short drive down the Inter-Guyana Highway. As it
happened, Spanish Guyanian troops had taken to appropriating any vehicle faster than a
donkey, a fact that greatly troubled local car rental agencies, although it was just fine with
local donkey rental agencies. Smith rented himself a donkey and set off towards the Spanish
Guyana war zone, only mildly concerned that the Bucklin College Travel Expense
Reimbursement Voucher Forms did not specifically mention a per-diem limit for donkey
rentals.
The border crossing had been a surprisingly simple affair. With most everyone in Spanish
Guyana ready to offer a bribe to get out, the guards hardly wasted a moment on the solitary
man on the rented donkey heading in. Once in Spanish Guyana, Smith knew exactly what to
do. Only six miles into the country he saw what he needed. It was crude in construction--and
even cruder in its current state of destruction--but there was no question about it; this was the
bombed-out remains of an office building. The smoking shell of a copy machine removed all
doubt. Cautiously, Smith dismounted his rental donkey. Where there were office buildings
there were…
"Halt or you'll be in violation of office protocol," someone shouted in Spanish from behind a
battered filing cabinet.
…there were office administrators.
"Do you speak English?" Smith called back.
"You need to sign in in the visitor's guest book in the lobby before you're allowed to enter
the offices upstairs," said the voice, now in English. "It's building policy. They'll issue you a
pass."
"Where's the lobby?" Smith asked.
"The second floor collapsed into it during the shelling. Perhaps you should look below the
second floor."
Smith took a step forward, into the shattered remains of the second floor. "Halt. I won't warn
you again, you can't enter the second floor until you sign in in the lobby guest book. I have a
staple gun. I do not wish to use it, but these are desperate times."
Smith could not see the man behind the file cabinet, but he took the threat seriously. "But
how can I get to the lobby guest book without stepping in the second floor now that the
second floor is in the lobby?"
"I, myself, cannot see how it would be possible," the voice said.
"Then we're at an impasse."
"I'm afraid so."
"Perhaps I don't need to come in. Perhaps you can answer my question while I stand out
here."
"Answering questions for passersby is not in my job description."
"What is in your job description?"
"Excuse me, sir, but did you not hear what I just said?"
"Sorry. But I'm on a very important mission. You see, I'm an administrator, like yourself."
The man considered this new information. "But how can I know that?" he asked. "How can I
be 100% certain, so that there's no chance of my being held accountable for the mistake if it's
not true?"
"I think you know how," Smith said. "Just shake my hand."
"Ah, the handshake." Like Smith, this man was a member in good standing of the Worldwide
Administrators' Guild. Founded in the 13th century by administrators working in the back
office of the European masonry industry, the administrators' guild had grown into a global
organization with strong religious overtones and plenty of social drinking. An administrator
could wander anywhere on the planet and still identify other administrators through the secret
Administrator's Guild handshake, which was just like a regular handshake, only limper.
Members of the Guild were sworn to aid other administrators in any way they could--or at
very least to schedule a block of time to help them at some point in the future, so long as
doing so wasn't in violation of any written company rules. "But you cannot come in, and I
cannot leave the remains of my office until my lunch hour. It is company policy. We are at
least forty feet apart. Our arms could not possibly reach."
"I understand. I will wait in the shade of my donkey until your lunch hour. When will that
be?"
"It's the usual South American lunch hour. Noon until three."
It was already eleven. Smith would not have to wait long.

John Driscoll was the first of the interns to take part in this bold new venture in securities
analysis. He wasn't selected at random; the chimps had shown a particular fondness for
throwing their sell signals his direction. Some people just have a way with animals. Driscoll
gazed into the research department from the safety of the intern room. Until the day before,
the intern room had been the office of department head H. Kensington Johnston. It had been
re-christened when Johnston had landed in the hospital with a severe allergic reaction,
compounded by multiple monkey bites.
Driscoll's fellow interns stapled the stock listings to his only suit. "Be careful, that's my only
suit," Driscoll cautioned. But when he thought about it, a few staples were less of a problem
for a suit than the other option, a thin glaze of monkey excrement. The monkeys seemed to
know that something was about to happen, Driscoll thought. They were working themselves
into a frenzy. Perhaps it was the presence of the firm's board of directors behind the Plexiglas
screen by the door. The monkeys could be surprisingly perceptive about office politics.
Driscoll was correct. The monkeys could tell that something was up. Anticipation was
building in the research room. Like new employees in any field, most of the monkeys had
been anxious and agitated ever since they first became research analysts that Monday
morning. Chimp #8 was the exception. While his colleagues flew into a fury whenever an
intern encroached on their territory, Chimp #8 saw that the interns were only there to provide
them with food and fresh copies of the Wall Street Journal. Like the others he was a bit
overwhelmed by his new environs, but he was willing to give them a chance. It was certainly
roomier than the cage he had endured after his capture. And--thus far, at least--it was
refreshingly short on lions and research scientists, two antagonists that could quickly derail
the long-term plans of any monkey. Chimp #8 glanced again at the Hewlett-Packard Series
9000 Model 715/33 workstation on his desk and hoped his lack of computing experience
wouldn't be held against him.
Before he had a chance to take another stab at the database analysis program, Chimp #8 saw
an intern enter the room. "He isn't here to feed us," #8 noted to himself with mild displeasure.
Chimp #8 considered the situation as his co-workers registered their displeasure with the
intrusion in their usual messy yet unequivocal way. No food, and no attempt to steal his
soiled copy of the Journal. Now Chimp #8 was confused. At a loss for what to do, he turned
his attention to the people behind the Plexiglas screen. Chimp #8 knew power when he saw it.
Those were the people calling the shots. The Bald One in particular. He was the alpha male.
Today The Bald One was doing something unusual. He was holding something small and
shinny--something that looked very familiar to Chimp #8. The Bald One cracked open the
door that led from his Plexiglas enclosure into the research room. He looked Chimp #8 right
in the eye. Then he turned towards the intern, who was busy ducking and dodging airborne
sell signals. The Bald One pulled his arm back and let fly with the shinny thing.
Driscoll the intern let loose a scream of sufficient volume to grab all the chimps' attention.
The monkeys paused for a moment, unsure of the cry's meaning. It wasn't a lion. They would
have noticed a lion. They were pretty good at that. Perhaps it was a research scientist, they
thought. Then they noticed the silver dart protruding from the intern's backside. The chimps
all knew how that felt. They'd experienced the same thing before being put in cages and
shipped off to this place. Soon the intern would fall asleep, they guessed. And then he'd be
locked in a small cage. Well, at least he wasn't hanging from a tree branch fifty feet off the
ground when it happened. Most of the chimps retreated to the safety of their filing cabinets
and desk drawers to avoid any subsequent darts.
But not Chimp #8. Chimp #8 was trying to put the clues together. The dart--it looked so
familiar. He glanced down at his desk. There they were, arranged neatly in his pencil holder.
Chimp #8 picked one up and studied it. He saw The Bald One, now safely back behind his
Plexiglas, looking straight at him and nodding his head. The Bald One pointed towards the
intern and made a throwing motion. Chimp #8 looked at the intern. The man was trying to
escape back into the office from which he had emerged from a minute before, but the other
interns were holding the door shut. What the hell, Chimp #8 thought, and let fly.
"Yes!" yelled Gwafinn.
"Aaugh," yelled Driscoll the intern, who had taken this one in the upper left thigh. Chimp #8
was in for a surprise as well; a banana fall onto his desk from a chute that had been installed
the week before as part of the firm's new, more cost-effective, analyst bonus program. In the
intern room, Gwafinn's voice was heard over the intercom. "Okay, you can let that intern out
now."
Gwafinn remained calm. But all around him board members--the non-Johnston board
members anyway--were cheering. Chimp #8 enjoyed his bonus banana, as his colleagues
looked on jealously. "It wouldn't be long now," Gwafinn thought. "There's nothing that can't
be accomplished once jealousy gets involved." Of those on hand for this historic event, only
the interns joined the Johnstons in their displeasure.
The board was tempted to rush over to the intern room for a look at Chimp #8's first pick.
But the smell in the intern room was almost as bad as it was in the monkey room. "Send over
the page the chimp hit," Gwafinn said over an intercom. Then he thought better of accepting
the stained newspaper. "Scratch that. Send over a Xerox of it. And slip it under the door. You
people smell awful."
In the intern room the mood was indeed dark. Driscoll had taken two darts, plus the usual
coating of chimpanzee defecation. Juliana Hopkins, a fellow intern, claimed that the first dart
had been thrown by the CEO. But then the other interns had long suspected that Juliana might
be a chimp sympathizer. Driscoll was laid across a desk in the interns' room, the newspaper
carefully removed and Xeroxed. The stock listing had blocked most of the monkey's assault,
but Driscoll's odor was not pleasant, and it was doubtful that his shoes would ever regain
their original shine. "This had better look good on my resume," Driscoll observed.

For the first time in his life, Kerns was a Big Man On Campus. This, frankly, was a bit
depressing, in as much as he'd spent the past 35 years of his life on campuses, and he was
rather tall. But Kerns was enjoying himself far too much to dwell on his decades as a Largely
Irrelevant Man On Campus. Now when he ventured into a faculty office or dining hall,
professors would ask him to join them. Kerns had always wondered what it felt like to be
asked to join a group, and he found it was every bit as wonderful as he had imagined. And
that was just the half of it. Once he was among a group, he no longer was afraid to voice his
opinions. If he had something to say, everyone would listen. Kerns still didn't open his mouth
much, but now his silence was one born of superiority, not fear.
There was only one remaining dragon to slay, and Kerns was married to it. Katherine had
hardly spoken to him since her return from Cancun. True, the first week-and-a-half of that
poor communication had been mainly Kerns' fault, in as much as he had spent it hiding in an
attic. But the other week-and-a-half was on Katherine's shoulders, pure and simple. Kerns had
been disappointed when Katherine had not commented on his new competency. He had been
disturbed when she hadn't thanked him from solving the building shortage problem, which
seemed the least she could do, since French Literature had been scheduled to merged with
geology, and Katherine had never shown any great interest in rocks. And he had been
downright depressed when she didn't so much as say goodnight before turning off the light
each night, as a 'goodnight' is precious little action to ask of a partner in bed.
There was only one rational conclusion, Kerns decided, and it was exactly the same as the
irrational conclusion he already had jumped to. Katherine was having an affair, and would
soon leave him. All that remained was to divide up the possessions and arrange a custody-
sharing schedule for the dog. He should have known life wouldn't let him be happy.

"How's the no-churning plan going?" Keller asked.

"Great," I said "I have three new clients with half the list still to call--and I've gotten laid. It
is, in many ways, the perfect plan."
"Except that you're more-or-less required not to churn these clients once you've got 'em, so
you're never going to get rich off their commissions."
"I couldn't have churned them anyway. My high moral standards wouldn't have allowed it."
"These the same high moral standards that allow you to prostitute yourself for client lists?"
"Okay, I grant you that technically I might be prostituting myself. But it's a minor issue at
best, since the plan would be going even better if I wasn't insisting on the sex."
"Fair enough. But what about the ethics of cheating on your girlfriend?"
"There's a war involved. I get an automatic dispensation."
"How do you figure?"
"When there's a war, the 1,000-mile, one-month limit comes into play. As long as you're at
least that far apart for at least that long you get to cheat without guilt, because you might
never see each other again."
"Bullshit. You just made that rule up."
"It's a well-established rule. Except in Europe, where you have to convert the miles to
kilometers, which can get a bit tricky."
"I'm going to stick with my earlier 'bullshit'."
"There's more, too. If we're separated by war for more than a full year I get to father a child
out of wedlock and look back on the affair with bittersweet memories even if Dana does later
turn up alive."
"Thing is, buddy, it's your girlfriend who's in the war zone, not you. Shouldn't she be the one
to get the sexual dispensation?"
"She can't do that to me."
"But you can do it to her?"
"Look, we're talking about cultural customs here. Historical precedent clearly says it’s the
guy that gets to cheat. Anyway whose side are you on?"
"I'm on your side, Gwafster, I'm just yanking your chain."
"If anyone was yanking my chain, I wouldn't have to cheat in the first place."
"So precisely what, as you see it, is your responsibility to this girlfriend of yours on the
fidelity front?"
"I have to do my best to avoid cheating."
"And this is your best?"
"It's my best. Fortunately, that isn't very good."

"You could be against me," Dana offered over a plate of seaweed. "I wouldn't mind so
much."
"It's nice of you to offer," said Sarah. "But I really need to be against something that gives
me that warm glow of social outrage. You're far too nice."
Sarah had lapsed into a deep sleep after her return to the activists' camp, her days of intense
righteousness having taken a toll. Now that she was awake, refreshed, and slightly more
coherent, Dana was anxious to help her find a solution before there were any more well-
intentioned potentially lethal attacks.
"I could be meaner," Dana said. "To be honest, I've even felt like punching a few people
recently."
"But you'd punch all the right people. It wouldn't be the same."
"Maybe I could do something damaging to the planet," Dana persisted. "As long as you
promise we can undo it once you're done being outraged by it. I know. I could dig for oil. I'll
go get my spoon"
"It just wouldn't work. I've tried doing this half way, and see where it got us? I became a
murderer."
"An attempted murderer. There's a world of difference."
"Are you calling me ineffectual?"
"No, no. I was trying to be understanding."
"See? That's exactly the sort of thing that makes you so hard to dislike."
"And let's not forget that your heart was in the right place," Dana said.
"Well, of course my heart was in the right place. I would never have killed anyone in a bad
cause. That would be wrong."
"No one's questioning your values," Dana assured her. "Let's just get back to work coming
up with something for you to be against. How about rocks? There are an awful lot of rocks on
the island."
"What am I supposed to have against rocks?"
"Lots of things: they're uncomfortable to sit on, they don't contribute to charities, and they
were used as weapons throughout prehistory."
"Sure, in prehistory. But they seem to have reformed their ways."
"True, no one seems to be working on any laser-guided rocks," Dana admitted. "But at least
there are plenty of them here to dislike."
"Thanks for trying to help," Sarah said. "But I'd feel silly protesting against rocks. What's the
point? Everyone already knows I'm superior to rocks. What else have you got?"
"Let's see…you can't be against animals or plants. That would be wrong. And frankly the
plants, the animals, and the rocks are about all we've got to work with here on the island,
aside from the natives and the activists…You're sure I can't sell you on the rocks?"
"It's hopeless. I might as well go back to the murdering. At least it was proactive."
"Just give me some time. A month. A few weeks at least. I'm sure I can come up with
something."
"You better make it fast. I can't go on feeling this unproductive much longer."

Chapter 23
At 11:55 the man moved cautiously from behind his file cabinet.
"It's only 11:55," Smith warned.
"That's okay, my boss won't complain about the extra five minutes."
"He sounds like a very good boss."
"No, he was a very bad boss. But those are his legs you see sticking out from under the copy
machine, and they haven't moved much in the past day or two, so as I said, I don't expect he'll
mind.
The man walking towards Smith wore thick glasses with black plastic frames of the sort that
were very popular among engineers in the 1960s who were starting to go bald on top. The
man walking towards Smith was starting to go bald on top. He was clothed in a simple gray
wool suit--or the tattered remains of a simple gray wool suit, anyway, which was still
impressive considering that the heat in Spanish Guyana forced even the sheep to wear cotton.
"Now, we can finally meet," he said. They exchanged the handshake.
"My brother," the man said, and they embraced.
"You may call me Thomas," said Smith.
"And my name is Luis. I welcome you to my lunch hour with pleasure. It has been days
since I have seen another administrator. All of my colleagues who survived the shelling were
conscripted into the military. I would have been conscripted, too, had I not hidden behind a
stack of purchase requisition forms."
"That was quick thinking," said Smith.
"I was lucky. Had I worked any faster the week before, the piles of forms around my desk
waiting to be processed would have been insufficient to provide cover."
"That is a brave and harrowing tale," said Smith. "You are a fine administrator."
"Thank you my brother," Luis said. "Now, state your business."
"Non-profit," said Smith.
"Ah, non-profit," Luis' eyes teared up behind their thick glass lenses. "Long have I dreamed
of non-profit. Here, my business is for-profit. That is no life for an administrator."
"Better times," Smith comforted him. "There will be better times ahead."
"In the meantime, I will do what I can to help you in your quest. Please explain the
situation."
"I'm on a vital administrative mission," Smith said. "I am not at liberty to go into details, but
suffice it to say it involves intra-office politics, life-and-death consequences, and the very
future of the world as we know it."
"Intra-office politics, you say? That is important. I will make this one of my very top
priorities. In what non-demanding way can I help?"
"I need to find someone," Smith explained.

"Something's definitely up at Johnston Brothers," Hue Llwellan fretted. Llwellan was vice
president in charge of Wall Street rumors and general paranoia for Mornall & Swain. He was
very good at his job. "First they have a big round of layoffs from their research staff and
won't talk to the media about it. That's odd enough on its own: when we fire people, we
always talk to the press--layoffs are good for our share price. Now I get word that half the
sales staff just put down deposits on Porsches."
"Porsches?" asked CEO Alan Mornall. "In this market? Could it be a cover? You know,
refundable deposits."
"No, they're non-refundable. I've looked into it."
"968s?"
"911s," said Llwellan.
"911s? Jesus. You're right. This doesn't add up. Well, there's only one way to know for sure.
Hire someone away from them so we get the story."
"Anyone in particular I should hire."
"Start with whoever you can get cheap, then move up the ladder until you get answers. In
fact, get an intern first--that will cost us next to nothing."

"This wasn't going to stay secret forever," Gwafinn said. "We knew that right from the start.
No idea in history has remained secret forever. Or at least if one has, I've never heard of it."
Word had reached Gwafinn that Mornall & Swain had hired away a Johnston Brothers intern.
It was well known on Wall Street that Johnston Brothers had the least-trained and, of late,
worst-smelling interns this side of the hog-rendering district. Thus, the only conclusion was
that the competition was looking for some information…or perhaps for subjects to use in an
unsanctioned medical experiment, but those sorts of things were usually handled quietly
through third-world intermediaries.
"There's only one way to prevent bad press," Gwafinn continued. "And that certainly is not
by keeping quiet. If you keep quiet, you let your enemies determine the facts. But if you
speak first, you get to say what's what. If you do a good enough job of it, your enemies won't
have a chance, even if your facts aren't fact-facts in terms of their actually being facts, if you
follow."
"Uh…" I said.
Gwafinn unlocked the top drawer of his filing cabinet and removed a memo. Only bad news
ever came out of locked drawers. Good news is kept in unlocked drawers, since if anyone got
a look, it could only help one's public image or share price.
"Bob, tell the clerical staff to fax copies of the monkey study to all of our major clients
together with this memo I wrote concerning our new research staff. Once that's done, you and
the equity sales staff can start calling our clients with the monkey's first homerun pick."
Gwafinn paused. "What stock did they select, anyway?"
"I believe it was Montgomery Technologies."
"Never heard of it."
"No reason you would have. It's not much of a company."
"They must have done something to get the monkey's attention."
"They colorize old movies for television."
"There you go. Cutting-edge technology."
"Except that everyone hates watching colorized movies."
"So what keeps them going?"
"They've branched out into de-colorizing new movies."
"Is there a market for that?"
"If there were, people could just turn down the color setting on their televisions."
"Well, I'm not going to argue with a monkey. I'd look silly trying. Get the sales staff to work
pushing Montgomery."

"I need some guidance."

"What? Who is this?" I asked. It was the first caller of the afternoon that hadn't mentioned
monkeys at least once in his opening sentence.
"It's Roger's owner. Sorry to bother you in the office like this, but I really need some more
advice. The alumni department tracked you down for me. They're very good with that sort of
thing."
"Yes, I know. Listen, this really isn’t a good time. Lot going on here today. Anyway I'm
trying to shift away from the spiritual guidance work and into equity sales. Perhaps there's
someone down at the Native American Observatory you could ask."
"I checked. There's just this guy named Curt who keeps going on about how the alumni
department is blackmailing him. He really wasn't much help. Couldn't you spare a moment?"
"Maybe just a moment. Shoot."
"I think my wife's cheating on me."
"I've got your advice. Ready?"
"I'm ready."
"No, she isn't," I said.
"That's it? That's your advice?"
"That's it."
"I've heard better."
"It's really deceptively wise," I said. "I'm rather pleased with it, considering the short notice.
Look at it this way: do you love your wife? Do you want to remain married?"
"More than anything."
"Then trust me, she isn't having an affair."
"But how can I know that that's true?"
"I didn't say it was true. I said it was my advice. For all I know your wife sells $20 blow jobs
on street corners, the point is it doesn't matter."
"That would matter to me," said Kerns, who had never before even considered this a
possibility.
"Let me put it this way. Either my advice is correct and she isn't having an affair, in which
case you're worrying over nothing. Or my advice is incorrect, in which case your worrying
about your wife's waning interest in you can only serve to undermine your already shaky self-
confidence and give her all the more reason to look elsewhere for a real man. If you just
believe she isn't cheating on you, then your confidence will improve, and your chances of
saving your marriage will improve as well. Either way, you're better off if you just take my
advice that she isn't cheating on you."
"Uh…"
"But you really have to believe it."
"I have to believe my wife isn't having an affair?"
"That's right."
"And the truth means nothing?"
"The truth means everything. But it's up to you to decide what the truth is. That's something
I've just figured out myself recently. Got it?"
"I guess."
"Anything else? I asked.
"No, that was all…Wait, actually there is something. Do you know someone named Dana
Davis?"
"Yes, I know her," I said, bracing for the inevitable horrendously bad news.
"There was a letter addressed to you at the Native American Observatory from her. The
paranoid guy named Curt didn't know what to do with it."
"There was? Do you have it?"
"Yes, I've got it right in front of me."
"Read me the return address. Where was it sent from?"
"Oh, let's see here," Roger's owner said. "It says 'One Planet, Madison Avenue, New York
City.' Need the zip code?"
"No, that's okay. But does it have a postmark?"
"It's a little smudged…I think it says 'Greater Merrill Island'."
"Where?"
"Greater Merrill Island. As I recall, it's the larger of the two Merrill Islands. Although I'm not
sure of that. It could be the smaller. No…no, the more I think about it, the more certain I am
that it's the larger."
"And these islands are where?"
"Oh, that I wouldn't know."
"Listen carefully. It's very important that you do two things right now," I said, trying to
remain calm. "First, you need to mail that letter to me at this address," I gave him the address
of my New Jersey apartment.
"And second?"
"Second, you need to invest in technology stocks." Roger's owner did both. The way I
figured it, if he was going to lose all his money in a divorce, he might as well lose some of it
in the market first. Better I get a cut than some sleazy divorce lawyer.
July 30

Luis the administrator did not know how to find the person Smith needed. But he did know
how to get in contact with the Spanish Guyanian Administrators' Back-Office Army, a
military/administrative organization valiantly handling the paperwork for both the
government and the rebel forces. Taking both sides, they had decided, was a sensible, cover-
the-bases approach to civil war from a risk-management perspective. If it was written on a
piece of paper in Spanish Guyana, a Captain in the Back-Office Army assured Smith, they
had a copy of it, and often more than one copy, just to be safe. For a fellow administrator on a
vital mission, it would be their pleasure to help. In exchange for a small bribe.
It was money very well spent. Within days Smith was in contact with the Antarctic boy and
his middle-manager father. A meeting was arranged in a secret administrators' document
depository just outside of Spanish Guyana's capital city, Pila de Basura. Smith thought it best
not to venture into the city itself, which was currently was under the control of roving gangs.
In fairness it should be noted that in mere weeks in power, the roving gangs had reduced the
local crime rate by eight percent and illiteracy by six percent. But roving gangs have such a
bad reputation.
The boy was Roberto Valasquez. He had attended all the best schools, his father Santos said,
which in Spanish Guyana meant they had both books and teachers who understood what
books were for, at least in a broad sense. As an added bonus, Roberto was fluent in English,
his father added, which could only work to the boy's benefit once he was enrolled in Bucklin.
Santos loved the idea of an American college for his son, almost as much as he loved the idea
of a full scholarship. Young Roberto's college fund had taken something of a beating of late,
what with world currency markets currently valuing Spanish Guyanian Pesos on par with
small slips of blank paper the size and shape of Spanish Guyanian pesos.
"My boy, he will be conscripted into the army if he remains here in Spanish Guyana," Santos
moaned. "And if he manages to escape that, he surely will be conscripted into the other army.
You can see what we're up against."
"Yes, yes. It's quite tragic," Smith said.
"Sure, they'd probably put him in the army paperwork division, to take advantage his
administrative heritage and limited upper-body strength. But even so, what chance does a boy
of this sort have in the military? He would be torn to bits by their strict filing protocols."
Santos grabbed hold of Roberto's weak upper arm and shook it about to prove his point. "He
is not a hardened administrator like you and I."
"Then it looks like we can help each other," said Smith.
The Administrative Underground slipped Smith and his prize back out of the country. Smith's
plan was coming together.

August 2

"Smith, is there a press conference going on in the main auditorium?" Kerns asked when he
arrived that morning.
"Now that you mention it, I do believe I saw a press conference there when I walked by.
Funny, that."
"And what is this press conference about?"
"Most of them are about generating awareness for ideas or products," Smith explained. "Or
such is my understanding. It's not really my field."
"Yes, yes. But what specific idea or product is this press conference meant to promote
awareness of?"
"You know, I really couldn't say."
"You don't know?" Kerns asked.
"I couldn't say."
"I take it your repeated use of the phrase 'I couldn't say.' Is your way of subtly evading the
issue."
"I couldn't say that either," Smith said.
"Well, since no one knows anything about this press conference, I guess I'll just go and tell
them that there's been a mistake and they can leave."
"I'll take care of it," Smith said, beating Kerns to the office door. "And now that I think about
it, as long as the press, the college board of regents, and select members of faculty are
assembled, I might just wander by and say a few words. Seems a shame to waste a perfectly
good press conference."
"Funny how no one seems to know why this press conference is there," Kerns noted. "Press
conferences don't usually just pop up on their own."
"Probably a statistical anomaly," Smith said. "A few reporters wind up in the same place by
a coincidence, than other media outlets figure they better have someone there, too, so they
won't get left out should something happen."
"And the board of regents and select members of the faculty?"
"That's a bit harder to explain…"
"Smith, why don't you just admit that you called this press conference. You're obviously
planning something."
"No, really. I never plan anything. Plans just lead to scheduling conflicts."
"Go ahead and deny it, but I'm coming to your press conference," Kerns said. "Just keep in
mind that whatever you're trying to pull off, I'm going to be there to stop you." It was the first
direct challenge Kerns had made in his life. And it felt good.

A funny thing had happened the day the monkey plan got rolling. Montgomery Technology
shares rallied. The company hadn't made any announcements or signed any new contracts.
They hadn't colorized any old movies that day or de-colorized any new ones. No progress had
been made in settling the lawsuit from the man turned down for employment because of his
physical disability--specifically, color blindness. In fact, most of the staff had spent their
morning calling other, better, firms in search of more promising jobs. So the employees had
been as surprised as anyone to learn that their stock had rallied right from the opening bell.
They'd been downright amazed when it soared farther still in the afternoon, since all anyone
at Montgomery had done since lunch was track the value of their stock options. By the close
of business, the company was worth four times as much as it had been that morning. It was a
stunningly successful day. And considering how little effort Montgomery employees had
expended in accomplishing this feat, the firm's CEO informed the financial press that he was
confident they could do it again, tomorrow. Johnston Brothers' clients were equally thrilled.
For all this had occurred on the very day that Johnston Brothers tasked its massive sales force
with pushing the stock.
From that day on there was no hiding the monkey plan from the financial press. There also
was no debating the media's reaction.
They loved the idea.
What choice did they have? The monkeys already had made a fortune. And the journalists
knew that no one lasted long on Wall Street criticizing anything that made money. In fact,
very few lasted long on Wall Street criticizing things that had never made money, but that
someday might. Sure, a few curmudgeonly sorts griped that the Montgomery stock only had
rallied because there was suddenly a wave of demand for the shares from Johnston Brothers
customers. But money was money and pesky details were decidedly not money, so no one
paid the critics much mind. Johnston Brothers' customers had made a huge profit, and
everyone was happy.
Only it couldn't last. If there's one lesson that can be learned from the relatively large number
of countries that followed Russia into Communism, it's that no good idea, and very few bad
ones besides, ever goes unstolen. Within days the rest of The Street had adopted the new
"Jungle Thinking" approach to financial analysis. Johnston Brothers' star chimps were
flooded with lucrative offers to jump to the competition--or they would have been, if only
they'd known how to answer their phones. Rebuffed by this unintentional and unexpected
loyalty, desperate Wall Street human resource directors resorted to more drastic measures.
The Bronx Zoo was forced to add extra security guards around the monkey house. Medical
experimenters began skipping right from mice to unemployed humans to cope with escalating
monkey prices.
Soon no investor would trust a stock pick unless it came from a monkey, or at very least a
ringed-tail lemur. Shares of Red Lion Supermarkets took an unprecedented drubbing.
Thousands of human financial analysts suddenly found themselves out of work. But they
were resourceful sorts, and did their best to take advantage of the changing culture of Wall
Street, opening banana daiquiri bars and climbing gyms throughout the area.
There was plenty of glory to go around as well. Gwafinn's picture was soon on the cover of
every financial periodical in the world--or at least those that couldn't swing an interview with
the real star, Chimp #8. But the glut of imitators also represented a problem. With other ideas,
in other fields, patents are used to protect innovators from exactly this sort of thing. But as
Gwafinn had learned to his chagrin, you can't patent a monkey. Imitation might be the
sincerest form of flattery, but flattery translated poorly to Johnston Brothers' quarterly report.
"We have to stay ahead, Bob," Gwafinn said, fuming behind his large office desk. "We
cannot be seen as just one of many monkey-analyst firms. Just watch; in a few months no one
will even remember that we were the first." Gwafinn was wearing a safari outfit, complete
with pith helmet. "I suppose I should have realized that we would have imitators. But how
could I have known it would happen so fast?" Gwafinn banged a fist on his desk, then took a
deep breath. Well, no point living in the past. It looks like we're going to need another bold
move."
"Maybe we could go back to human analysts," I suggested. "We could pick up some good
ones cheap, now that everyone else is laying them off."
"The contrarian approach? No, too soon, too soon. If you want to be a contrarian, you have
to wait at least six months, maybe even a year. Act any sooner than that, and everyone will
think you're behind the times, instead of realizing you're ahead of them. Anyway, I've got a
better idea. Take a look at these numbers." Gwafinn slid a computer print out across the desk
towards me. "What do you see?" he asked.
"It looks like our monkeys' picks haven't done as well since all the other firms on the Street
have had monkeys picking stocks as well."
"That's right. Our monkeys have been on Wall Street only a week, and already they're
burning out. Burnout happens to human analysts, too, and there's only one thing to do when it
does."
"Vacations?"
"Replacements. We've got to get new analysts."
"More monkeys?"
"No, no. Monkeys clearly aren't cut out for this kind of work, long term. Too much pressure.
What we need to do is find someone with the stock picking ability of a monkey, but the
strength and dedication of a human."
"Meaning?"
"We're switching to gorillas. 'Bigger monkeys, bigger profits.' Wait, let me write that down,
it could be useful for our marketing department." He jotted his catchy monkey phrase down.
"Gorillas are tough s.o.b.'s and they're smarter than the monkeys that we've been using.
They're the perfect analysts. They might even be smart enough to take over the corporate
finance department. What do you think?"
"Uh, I don't know, sir, I'll ask around."
"Do that. I've already arranged for 40 gorillas to be shipped in for interviews."
"Interviews with gorillas? That ought to take care of some of the overstaffing down in human
resources, anyway."
"An excellent point, Bob. We keep trying to lay off those people, but they're the human
resources department, so they always hire themselves back."
I got up to leave.
"This is a smart move," Gwafinn said. "An analyst shouldn't be able to sleep in the drawers
of his own desk."
"Yes sir."
An oddly mischievous smile flashed on Gwafinn's face. "You think I'm insane, don't you?" he
asked.
"Why do say that?" I evaded.
"I'm not, you know. Someday I hope I'll be able to make you understand that. In the
meantime, all I ask is that you believe in me."
"On the bright side," I thought on my way back to my desk, "at least I work for a firm that's
open to new ideas."

"Thank you all for coming," Smith began. It was a full house. Smith knew just what to say to
journalists to get them to show up at a news conference. He'd said there would be food
served. All the local news people had arrived right on time and stuffed themselves full of
Danish. Smith had little doubt that the trip would be worth their effort on more than just the
breakfast-pastry front. He strongly suspected that their stories would be picked up by all the
national networks and newswires. "I realize it was short notice," Smith continued. "But we
are here to witness a totally unique event in the history of campus diversity. And I, Assistant
Dean Thomas Prester Smith, am privileged to be a part of it…That's P-R-E-S-T-E-R," he
spelled, unprompted. "S-M-I-T-H" he added just to be safe. "So without further delay I'd like
to introduce to you Bucklin College's newest student, the only Antarctican in the world,"
Smith announced with a flourish. "Roberto Something-or other." Roberto stepped from
behind the curtain and crossed the stage to a hushed audience.
"Hello," he said in halting English. "My name is Roberto. I'm very happy to be here."
"Be quiet Roberto," Smith whispered. "They already know your name. Just stand here and
act like an Antarctican."
Roberto stood smiling in front of the crowd. There were a few scattered flashbulbs, but,
oddly, no awed gasp.
"I'll take your questions," Smith prompted. But there was no response. The silence was
becoming uncomfortable, and Smith was about to start talking about his heroic journey into a
war zone when someone else did speak. Someone way in the back of the crowd, whom Smith
couldn't quite see--although the voice did sound familiar. "But," this voice said, "he's just like
everyone else!"
A rumbling bubbled up from the crowd. It was true--this boy was just like everyone else. A
little bit of an accent, sure. Perhaps even enough skin tone to qualify as a racial minority. But
he was just a kid like all the other kids on all the other campuses across the country.
"No, he's not like everyone else," Smith shouted over the gathering tumult. "He's an
Antarctican. We have papers to prove it."
"Say something, Roberto," Smith said, desperate.
"Hello, my name is Roberto," said Roberto. "I'm very happy to be here."
But it was too late. The cameras were shutting off, the reporters departing to cover the
region's real news that day, a man down the coast in Harforth who had grown a 14-pound
tomato. Even the assembled members of Bucklin's board of directors were leaving without so
much as a promotion thrown Smith's way. "Wait!" Smith yelled after the shrinking crowd.
"He's different. He's special."
"Call us back when you've grown a really big vegetable," advised the reporter from the
Bridgeton Weekly Sun, before he headed for the exit with the rest of his colleagues. The
reporter turned back just before he reached the door to add "or caught a really big fish." Then
they were gone. Smith slumped forward onto the podium.
"Hello, my name is Roberto," consoled Roberto. "I'm very happy to be here."
"I thought your father said you were fluent," Smith moaned. "Is that all the English you
know?"
"No," said Roberto. "It just seemed like the thing to say."

"Information."
"Yes, I need a number in Greater Morrell Island," I said. Dana's forwarded letter still hadn't
arrived, but I was tired of waiting.
"Where?"
"Greater Morrell Island. I believe it's the larger of the two Morrell Islands, but I can't be
certain of that."
"Sir, this is Manhattan information. Unless Greater Morrell Island has an apartment in town
I'm not going to be able to help."
"So how am I supposed to find a number on Greater Morrell Island?"
"Try Greater Morrell Island information."
"And how can I find the number for that?"
"How should I know? All I can tell you is there's no listing here in the city."
"How can you call yourself information?" I asked.
"No listing," she explained, and billed my account $1.50.
I made a second call.
"Reference desk."
"Do you have the phone book for Greater Morrell Island?" I asked.
"One moment."
The New York Public Library is known for its skilled reference librarians. And for its
numerous sleeping vagrants. But as the sleeping vagrants rarely answered the phones, I felt
safe in assuming I was speaking with one of the former.
"Sort of," the reference librarian answered a few minutes later.
"Sort of?"
"We have the phone listings, but I'm not certain I'd call it a phone book."
"More of a booklet?"
"More of a leaflet."
"A leaflet? For the whole island?"
"A small leaflet. And it's only printed on one side. Would you like me to fax it to you?"
"Thank you," I said. "That would be very helpful."
Only it wasn't very helpful. None of its listings sounded at all like someplace where I could
find Dana, and I read through all 22 of them twice. I considered calling a few at random, but
as it was the middle of the day here, it figured to be the middle of the night there, if there was
anything to this round Earth theory that had become so popular. I'd wait for the morning, by
which I mean the evening, to make my call.
"Problem?" Keller asked.
"Turns out my girlfriend might not be caught in a war zone after all."
"Well that's a kick in the teeth," Keller said, and went back to pushing the latest monkey-
endorsed shares.

Chapter 24
After a month and a half on Lesser Morrell Island, the size and pace of Greater Morrell Island
was almost too much for Dana to take. This quite surprised her, as Greater Morrell Island's
size, frankly, wasn't very big and its pace, in all honesty, wasn't very fast.
An old pickup truck sped by at a speed approaching 25 miles an hour. Then it sped by again
in the other direction. There was just the one road. The only options when you reached the
end were to turn around or start a new life there. The population of Greater Morrell Island
City, the only city on Greater Morrell Island, was officially 264--and there were those who
suspected that the census taker had accidentally counted himself twice, or, some claimed,
three times. At least 20% of that population must have been out on the street that morning,
even if you only counted the census taker once. And that was more people than Dana had
seen at any one time since she'd left Hawaii. She fought against that panicky feeling that
prairie dogs get when they realize all the other prairie dogs have ducked back into their holes
and something smells an awful lot like coyote breath. Dana reminded herself that she was a
cosmopolitan person who only months earlier had felt right at home in New York City,
except maybe when attempting to merge in traffic. Anyway, she had to remain strong; this
wasn't a pleasure trip, it was a matter of life and death. Dana had convinced Sarah to join her
for twice-monthly ferry trips to Greater Morrell Island. There were all sorts of things here on
the larger island to dislike.
"Look, Sarah. I'll bet that truck doesn't get twenty miles to the gallon. And that policeman--
he's carrying a baton."
But Sarah didn't need any encouragement. She dashed off to unionize the cashier at the local
market, and wasn't about to be deterred by his argument that he owned the place. Dana
decided to find the island's post office to see if there was any word waiting for her from One
Planet, Bob, or her family. Her magazine subscriptions also had gone missing, but Dana
considered this of secondary importance.
The Greater Morrell post office was a refreshing change from the hectic street. It was
indoors--really indoors, mind you, not the in-tent or in-hut that she had come to consider
indoors on Lesser Morrell Island. And like post offices worldwide, it offered exactly the sort
of languid torpor that can be a pleasant respite from the fast-paced world. Dana breathed in
the inertia.
Only someone coming from Lesser Morrell Island would have considered the post office at
all remarkable. Like most post offices, it was in fact a utilitarian space. The building
consisted of a single smallish room divided in half by a curtain. Dana's side of the curtain
featured nothing but a wall of post-office boxes, a poster warning of an upcoming increase in
the price of stamps, a deli-style number dispenser, a table, and a postal employee.
"Are you holding any mail for me?" Dana asked the employee.
"You'll have to take a number," the postal employee said, gesturing towards the number
dispenser.
"But I'm the only one here."
"I'm here," he argued.
"I'm the only customer here, then."
"How can I be sure of that if you don't have the lowest number?"
So Dana took a number. It was 18. "I've got 18," she said. "Can you help me now?"
"I'm not sure," the man admitted, ashamed. "We don't have the funds for a digital number
display, and I lost count a week ago."
"It seems like if there was someone with a lower number, they'd have to be around here
someplace. We're the only ones in the building."
"Did you look under the front steps?" the man asked.
"Not specifically."
"Perhaps you should."
"How about if I promise that if someone comes in with a lower number before we're done,
I'll let them go ahead of me."
The man thought for a moment, then nodded his head. "That is acceptable."
"Wonderful. I was just curious if you were holding any mail for me."
"One moment, I'll check," the postal employee said, and stepped behind the curtain into the
sorting room. He returned six minutes later. "I don't think so, but I can't be sure, since I didn't
know your name."
"It's Dana Davis," said Dana. "I'm living on Lesser Morrell Island."
The man didn't move.
"What's the matter now?"
"If you have a second request, you'll have to move to the back of the line."
"But…it's the same request…and there is no line."
The postal employee didn't budge.
Dana took another number. "I have number 19. Can you help me now?"
"I'm not certain. The odds that someone will show up with a lower number increase each
time your number gets higher."
"Not really," Dana said. "I just had number 18, and now that you've helped number 18, we
can establish beyond the point of doubt that it's time for you to help number 19."
"Ahhh," said the man. "You are correct. If I helped number 18, then it is now time to help
number 19. The question of the numbers has haunted my dreams for many nights. I am in
your debt. As a small gesture of my gratitude I will name my next child after you. What was
your name again?"
"Dana Davis."
"Dana Davis Mallosopolloutu. It is a wonderful name for a child. Now I am off to sleep with
my wife to get started on that child for you. Please come back tomorrow."
"Wait," Dana said. "I can't come back tomorrow. I'm living on Lesser Morrell Island, and the
ferry only makes the trip back and forth twice a month, plus whenever someone offers the
ferry captain $10 for a special trip. And anytime someone gives the ferry captain $10 he just
uses it to get drunk and tells them to come back for the next scheduled run. I really would
appreciate it if you could check to see if I have any mail waiting for me."
The man didn't move. Dana just nodded her head and took another number. "20" she said.
"Very good. You're next. How can I help you?"
"Is there any mail for me?"
"Name please?"
"Dana Davis," Dana said one more time.
"No, no mail," the man said.
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. I certainly would remember if there was any mail for someone who
shared a name with my future child."
Then the phone rang, startling Dana, who had not heard a phone ring in some time, and
startling the postal employee, who was easily startled. "It's like a madhouse here today," the
postal employee said to Dana. "Three customers in ten minutes and now the phone rings." He
took a deep breath and answered.
"Post Office," he said. Dana couldn't hear the other end of the conversation.
"Yes this is Greater Morrell Island."
"No, no one by that name lives here."
"Yes, I am sure. I would remember if there was someone living on Greater Morrell Island
who shares a name with my future child and the woman she's named after on Lesser Morrell
Island."
Dana now was intrigued enough by the half of the conversation she could hear to attempt to
inquire about the other side of the debate, but the postal employee put her off with a decisive
waggle of his index finger. He couldn't be expected to help two people at once.
"No, there is no way to call the one who lives on Lesser Morrell Island. There is no phone on
Lesser Morrell Island. And if you want to speak to the one who is my child, you'll have to
wait a minimum of nine months…and then another two to three years at least if you expect
any sort of meaningful response. Perhaps even four or five years if the child is dim like its
brothers."
Dana tried to snatch the phone away, but the postal employee was stronger than he looked.
"No, there is no mail service to Lesser Morrell Island either. You can arrange to have a
message delivered on the ferry, but you must pay a special $10 ferry fee. Just send the letter
along with the $10 to Greater Morrell Island Post Office Special Deliv…ooof." The postal
employee suddenly dropped to the ground, curled up in a ball and struggled to catch his
breath. Dana, seeing her opportunity, picked up the fallen receiver.
"I'm sorry, the postal employee can't talk right now. Someone has just crept up behind him
and kneed him in the groin. But maybe I help you. I'm Dana Davis."
"Dana! It's really you?," I said. "It's me, Gwaf." I suppose I should have had something more
profound to say after two months apart. But in my defense, I had been speaking to a
government employee only moments before, which does tend to dull the senses.
My poor opening aside, we had exactly the conversation I'd hoped for. I told Dana about
selling stocks on Wall Street, omitting certain relevant sections of my procedure for obtaining
other firms' client lists. Dana told me about counting fruit bats and uncommonly clever
monkeys on Lesser Morrell Island, and if she omitted any details of a similar nature, she
hasn't fessed up to them yet. I was a bit put off by the fact that she had apparently taken to
kneeing people in the groin, which wasn't the Dana I had known, but she promised she didn't
intend to make a habit of it. We both agreed that living the life one had always wanted wasn't
everything it was cracked up to be. The postal carrier then interrupted to ask Dana to relay to
me that it might be a little longer than nine months before I could talk to Greater Morrell
Island's Dana Davis, on account of the fact he didn't feel up to getting things rolling with his
wife that afternoon. Then he excused himself to throw up.
I told Dana I'd work on a solution to her Sarah problem, and that in the meantime I'd remind
One Planet where they'd sent her, and tell her parents not to bother with any further search
parties to Spanish Guyana. In return, Dana swore she'd return to Greater Morrell Island to
phone me every fortnight when the ferry made its run.
Our conversation was cut short when the ferry whistle signaled that it was time for the return
trip. "Bob's right," Dana thought as she left the post office. "I never used to be the sort of
person that kneed other people in the groin. That was always one of the things everyone liked
about me. Men in particular. Now I'm not only kneeing people in the groin, I'm very much
enjoying it, and considering doing so again should the opportunity present itself. Maybe I
have changed." But Dana's train of thought was interrupted by a Greater Morrell Islander
holding a slip of paper labeled "17." "Do you know if I've missed my turn?" the man asked. "I
was sitting under the front stairs." Dana kneed the man in the groin then hurried to join a
somewhat reinvigorated Sarah on the ferry. It was definitely time to head back home to
Lesser Morrell Island. Issues involving number dispensers were exactly the sort of thing that
could push a mailman over the edge.
I put down my receiver and stared out my apartment window at the train station. There was
something about what Dana had said. The pieces were all there, I was sure of it. I just had to
put them together…

There must be another, Smith thought. Maybe a survivor from some long-lost Antarctican
tribe living down near the south pole. Maybe Santa Claus's evil twin. Someone who looked
more Antarctican, anyway. Someone who could fill in for that worthless, unexceptional
Roberto who had ruined Smith's perfect plan. There just had to be another one. His grand
administrative dreams couldn't end like this. But neither the directory-information operator
nor the college reference librarian could find a phone listing for anyone in Antarctica. Smith
would have to go right to the source. Flights to Antarctica were closely regulated, a travel
agent explained. In fact, all travel on the continent was severely restricted. Antarctic visitors
are expected to have a worthwhile scientific objective. At very least, they're supposed to be
billionaire adventurers attempting to ski across the thing to prove their superiority over all the
other billionaires who had circumnavigated the globe in hot air balloons and now wouldn't
shut up about it.
These restrictions would be an impediment to Smith's current objective, but he couldn't bring
himself to be angry. Smith was in favor of regulation in all its forms, and was in fact quite
impressed that an entire continent could be administered so closely. Antarctica must be an
administrative nirvana, he thought. Clearly, this was somewhere Smith was meant to be. He
arranged transit to Tierra del Fuego, the southern-most tip of Argentina. From there, he could
find his way.

August 4

"Mr. Gwafinn, could we move our Thursday Tuesday lunch up to this morning?" I'd talked
my way past Gwafinn's assistant Gloria. She'd been willing to look the other way since I was,
after all, a relative.
Gwafinn checked his watch. It was 8:30 in the morning. "I'm really not ready for lunch just
now, Bob. I just ate breakfast."
"We don't have to eat lunch. But I have a good idea that I need to discuss with you."
"I simply don't have time right now."
"Okay, then let me rephrase. I don't just have a good idea. I have a good idea about how to
get the most out of your good idea."
"Well why didn't you say so in the first place? Come in, sit down." Gwafinn always had time
for really good ideas, by which he meant his own. I spent the next five minutes laying out the
details, then leaned back in my chair to await Gwafinn's response.
"So when you say 'Uncommonly Clever Monkeys'…"
"Rumor is they're the most intelligent monkeys in the world," I said. "And they live only on
this one small island out in the middle of the Pacific."
"And you think we could lure them here to Johnston Brothers?"
"Not a chance. They like it where they are. It's a quality of life issue for them."
"You're sure?"
"It would be like trying to lure Louie Anderson out of an all-you-can-eat restaurant before
closing time."
"So what are you proposing?"
"Why don't we go to the source. Set up an office on their turf, and sign them to exclusive
contracts. We wouldn't have to pay New York City wages that way, and our analysts wouldn't
get caught up in quarantine."
"Interesting."
"And there's an added bonus. I'm told their island straddles the international dateline. That
means if the monkeys make stock picks that don't work out, we can just move a few feet east
to where it's still yesterday and the recommendations never happened."
"Are you sure that's how a dateline works?"
"Are you sure it isn't?"
"Fair enough. But would the monkeys agree to this sort of thing?"
"Just between us, I've cultivated a relationship with the only living human who knows each
and every one of these monkeys personally--that is, if you can know a monkey personally.
Maybe she knows them monkeyally. But that's just semantics. Either way I have a feeling
they'll listen to her."
Gwafinn stood and turned his back to the office, looking out his window and up Wall Street.
"Bob, I'm going to be honest with you…I love it," he said. "But we have to move fast or
someone else is sure to get wind of it. You're the one with connections, you'll have to take the
lead."
"No problem."
"It means transferring to Lesser Morrell Island to run the branch office."
"I'm always willing to do my part."
"Glad to see you're such a team player."
"Just give me a raise, a five-year extension on my contract, and a golden parachute large
enough to land an African elephant and I'm your man."
"That's my boy," Gwafinn said selling with pride. "Never forget the golden parachute. I
agree to it all. Now, you take these files on our current analysts" he pushed a stack of manila
folders across his desk "and see if any of our current crop of dullard monkeys are worth
keeping before we sell off the lot of them for medical experiments. Gloria will call you when
your new contract and the travel plans are ready to go."
Gwafinn buzzed Gloria while I grabbed the monkey files a few at a time and tucked them
under my arm, stumbling over Gwafinn's antique rolodex stand in the process. When I caught
my balance, I noticed that a piece of scrap paper previously stuck between two of the files
had fluttered to the floor at my feet.
"There's more to life than Wall Street," I read. "That's an odd note to find on Wall Street," I
thought. Then it struck me. "It's you," I said, looking at Gwafinn.
"What's me?" he asked, taking his finger off the intercom button.
I put the piece of paper on his desk. "You're the Ghost of Johnston Brothers. You're the one
who's been leaving these notes for people all this time. No one's noticed because you slip the
notes between files so they only appear on desks when things get reshuffled."
"Okay, you got me. But don't tell anyone."
"But why? If you wanted to change the way people act on Wall Street, why not just say and
do what you believe, instead of leaving difficult-to-interpret notes for us to find?'
"Why not be more direct? I tried. Once. A long time ago. It was back when I was just a
rookie research analyst. I was supposed to evaluate a re-hot Nifty Fifty company that made
widgets. I knew the market for widgets was disappearing, and this company didn't even make
a particularly high-quality widget to begin with. So I gave the stock a "Sell" rating. It cost me
my career. I had to change my name and start over."
"Then the legends are true. Well, except for the part about you killing yourself and your
corpse being hidden in the building's ventilation system."
"No, that's just dead rats you smell."
"And the notes are a last stab at providing guidance to young investment bankers."
"I had to do something to maintain my sanity. My other options were to give in and play
along, or go ahead and kill myself."
"It's nice to have options," I noted. "And now you're doing this monkey project to show Wall
Street how little sense it makes."
"No, I'm doing the monkey plan to get fired so I can pocket a bundle off my severance
package. How was I to know people would think it's a good idea?"
"Can't you just quit?"
"Nope. I don't get the golden parachute unless I'm fired."
"Is it that nice of a golden parachute?"
"It's the best there is."
"Surly there's a better way than this to get fired."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But the board of directors is so desperate to keep the Johnston
family out of power that they're willing to put up with anything from me. I've tried
inappropriate sexual behavior, nepotistic hiring practices, extravagant spending on corporate
accounts, and incompetence in each of its many flavors. They were all non-starters. Truth is,
most of that is more or less expected from Wall Street executives. Total insanity was my last
hope."
"Only instead of being declared insane, you were hailed as a visionary genius."
"I never have been a lucky man."
"But why try to get fired in the first place. I thought you driven Wall Street types kept
working right up to the day you had heart attacks and died in your well-appointed corner
offices."
"The driven Wall Street types, maybe. But that's not me. I only got into investment banking
in the first place because I'd graduated from a small, liberal arts college without any particular
skills, and with the simple goal of becoming fabulously wealthy. Wall Street seemed like my
best bet."
"I think I know where you're coming from."
"You will keep quiet about all this, won't you?"
"No problem," I said. "But one more question: why did you change your name to Gwafinn of
all things?"
"Gwafinn was my mother's maiden name--plus it was such a terrible name, I figured no one
would think it was phony."
I took another step out the door. "Where was your mother's family from?"
"Midwest someplace."
"Kansas?"
"Maybe. Why?"
"I called my father the other day. Turns out my family used to spell it with two 'n's, too.
They lopped off the extra one a couple generations back because they thought it was too
ostentatious."
"Interesting," Gwafinn said, in a voice that implied he didn't really find it tremendously
interesting. I took the monkey files started back to my desk.
"Oh Bob, one more thing," Gwafinn called before I reached the door. "If we're using
Uncommonly Clever Monkeys as research analysts, what am I supposed to do with the 20
gorillas I hired yesterday?"
"Put them in management. Gorillas are well suited to leadership."
"Oooh, good idea. Gorillas run amok in the executive offices could be just the thing to get
me fired."

By lunch everything was in place. My travel plans were set. My new contract was signed. My
cardboard box was nearly filled with the varied and inconsequential personal items that had
found their way to my office desk. My client list had been sold to Keller for a very reasonable
percentage of future commissions. All that remained was to answer my phone, which had
decided it wasn't going to let me leave without a fight.
"Former office of Bob Gwafin," I said in lieu of a greeting.
"Former? He's gone."
"Any minute now. Who may I tell me is calling?"
"It's Roger's owner."
"Roger's owner, the one dog's owner I don't mind speaking to right about now," I said.
"How's everything going?"
"Swimmingly. I rule with an iron fist. I crush those who question my authority. I am the lord
and master of all that I survey. I am a God. And thank you for asking."
"No, really."
"Well, I'm no longer pretending that I don't speak English when my office phone rings--and I
seem to have earned the respect of my dog, Roger."
"Congratulations. That's astounding progress."
"Thanks. I owe it all to you. Well, you and Roger."
"How did things work out with your wife?"
"Extremely well. Turns out she was acting oddly because she thought I was cheating on her."
"So everything's back to normal on the home front?"
"Even better than normal. I'd had no idea that Katherine thought me capable of having an
affair. I don't mind telling you it was a big boost to my confidence to learn my wife thought I
was juggling two women when I'd thought myself only marginally capable of juggling one."
"That is an ego inflater."
"I might even go ahead and have an affair just to prove to myself that I'm up to the job."
"Mind some advice?"
"I'd love some."
"Don't."
"Okay, consider it done. Or consider it not done, if you prefer. You know, we make a good
team. Let me know if you ever want to leave Wall Street. I'm certain I can find something for
you in college administration. The money's terrible, but I think you'll find that the hours are a
considerable improvement."
"Thanks. Maybe one day I'll take you up on that. But as it happens I've just today made a
change of my own."
"Let me know if there's anything I can do."
"Since you mention it, there might be one thing."
"Name it."
"I'm talking off the top of my head here, but if there were some Lesser Morrell Islanders
looking to enroll in college, would Bucklin be interested?"
"Sure, we'd take them. I was considering going in another direction with the student body,
but I suppose I was getting a bit ahead of myself."
"What were you thinking of?"
"Well, there's this group here on campus claiming they deserve reparations because five or
six generations back their ancestors were slaves. I figure I'd have all the students vote on it,
then I'd expel the ones who vote against it, for their racial insensitivity. And right after I did
done that, I'd expel the ones who voted in favor of it, for their insensitivity. Seems to me that
anyone who thought being the distant descendants of slaves made them the victim of slavery
would be guilty of diminishing the victimhood of those who actually were enslaved. And
better to take the high road where insensitivity's involved, I always say."
"You'd be left in charge of a college with no students, of course."
"No faculty, either. I'd have them take part in the vote. You can fire even a tenured professor
for insensitivity."
"Wouldn't not having students cut into the school's cash flow?"
"Oddly, no. Turns out the whole education thing has been something of a money loser for the
college. We get a better return from the profits on our endowment investments."
"Don't you think you'd get lonely there on campus all by yourself."
"Yea, the students do kind of liven up the place. Like I said, it was just an idea. Maybe I'll
have the vote, but put them all on probation instead of actually expelling them. The point is I
could do it if I wanted to. It's a wonderful thing this self-confidence. I'm so glad you gave it
to me."
I packed the last few personal items from my desk, waved goodbye to Keller, who was in the
middle of a call and didn't bother to wave back, and boarded the elevator to begin my last
commute to the suburbs. I'd only made it one floor when the elevator stopped and Rob
Johnston got on board with his own cardboard box.
"Get replaced by a monkey?" I asked with what I hoped was sufficient compassion.
"Nah, I wasn't fired. I just couldn't take any more of the shrieking and biting."
"That's tough."
"It's okay. I'm not sure I was going to make it on Wall Street anyway. I thought if I had a
good job at Johnston Brothers, all my problems would be solved. Turns out the only problem
that was solved was the not-having-a-job problem. And once you have a job, you realize
there are plenty of other problems that you hadn't previously considered. Like the problem
that people expect you to be good at your job, and the problem that you can't stand your job."
"Yea, I see your point. So what are you going to do now?"
"Not sure. Maybe I'll teach. I've always wanted to teach. Or do woodworking. I've always
liked woodworking. I'm pretty good at it, too."
"Maybe you could teach woodworking."
Rob brightened. "That's a great idea. Maybe I'll do that. So how about you? If I'm any judge
of crap-filled cardboard boxes, it looks like you're leaving, too."
"I'm leaving New York, not the company."
"A transfer? Where are you headed?"
"I'm supposed to open a new branch office between the Toyko and Los Angeles offices," I
said, a bit ashamed to be talking about a move up the pay scale while Rob's career was
ending.
Rob picked up on my hesitance. "You don't have to be embarrassed about getting such a
quick promotion, Gwaf. Not around me of all people. I might be a bit out of the loop
sometimes, but eventually I put the names together and figured out how you got your job here
without going through the training program. Don't worry, though, I won't hold it against you.
It's not any different from how I got my job here."
"Rob, there's something I've got to confess to someone," I said. "But I need you to keep it
quiet. Can I trust you?"
"No problem."
"I'm not really a Gwafinn. I'm just a Gwafin, one 'n'."
"Don't worry about it, Gwaf. Just between you and me, we haven't always been Johnstons.
We used to be common, gutter-variety Johnsons, just like millions of other people. My great-
great grandfather added the "t" so we'd stand out. That's when the family's fortunes really
took off."
Our elevator reached the ground floor.
"Want to go grab a beer?" Rob asked.
"I better not. I've got a plane to catch and an apartment lease to break."
"Well, see you around," Rob said, because that's what people said, even when they wouldn't.
Chapter 25 and Epilogue
August 13

"Hey--hey you, come back with that," Dana heard from just down the mountainside. "Don't
make me come up there after you. And stop laughing at me. You know perfectly well that
monkeys can't laugh." It didn't sound like Tommy or Brent, and the Doctor never came up on
the mountain, claiming a mortal fear of sharp inclines. "What the hell are you going to do
with it anyway? Wait, don't eat it. You're supposed to be an Uncommonly Clever Monkey.
Surely you realize that no one eats roses. Wait! Stop! Oh, never mind. No I don't want the
stem back. And don't stick your tongue out at me, I know it didn't taste very good. But whose
fault is that? In fact, what's your name? You're out of the analyst training program."
Finally Dana had enough information to place the voice. "Gwaf?"
"Dana?" I pushed my way though another fifty feet of what passed for a path on the Lesser
Merrill Island interior. It was Dana. She was decidedly more sunburned than the last time I'd
seen her, and maybe a bit sweatier, but I could live with that. We shared an embrace
passionate enough to draw screeches of approval from the local monkey population, which
thus far hadn't impressed me as any more clever than your average Jerry Springer audience.
"I brought you a single red rose all the way from the mainland, but it was eaten by that
monkey back there."
"Yea, I heard the argument."
"Shouldn't an uncommonly clever monkey know better than to eat a rose?"
"He'll know better the next time. But what are you doing here? Are you on vacation?"
"No, my career has merely taken an unexpected turn. I'm going to be working here from now
on."
"Here? On Lesser Morrell Island?" Dana sounded more concerned than thrilled.
"I expected you to be slightly more ecstatic about this."
"I might be ecstatic. Just let me hear the rest of it before I decide."
"The good news is that I've solved your problem about giving Sarah something to hate. And
as a bonus I can guarantee you that no more of the island's monkeys are going to be sold for
medical experiments or eaten by the locals."
"That's wonderful. Now what's the bad news?"
"Johnston Brothers has hired the monkeys as research analysts and we're going to open a
branch office here on the island."
"No."
"Yes. I have signed contracts."
"Signed contracts with the monkeys?"
"With the chief of the village. Our lawyers are relatively certain that he has power of
attorney over the monkeys."
I didn't get a response. "Well? Do you hate me?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"It gives Sarah something to protest, it gets money to the village, it gives the monkeys a
purpose in life other than swinging about like idiots and eating roses that don't belong to
them. It really is a fairly decent plan."
"I'm still pretty sure I hate it."
"Even though it means we can be together?" I asked.
Dana put her hands on her hips and gave me her hardest look. She was trying to get tough
with me, but I couldn't help but think that she was far too cute to pull it off. "Just one
question," she said. "Did you do this despite the fact that it might make things worse for the
monkeys, or did you do it because it might make things better for the monkeys."
"Dana, I didn't do this for money or for monkeys. I did this to be with you. I'd follow you to
the ends of the earth."
"You didn't follow me to Spanish Guyana."
"Well any place that isn't a festering shit-hole. Don't ruin the moment. The point is I did it all
for you. Wait...or would you love me more if I told you I did it for the monkeys? Cause I
could go with either." I didn't get an answer. Just a kiss. But it was a hell of a kiss. Just the
right amount of tongue. And I decided then and there that it was okay with me if the world
didn't want to make sense, so long as every now and then it didn't make sense to my
advantage.

Epilogue

"Another fine day at Bucklin," Kerns thought. Not so long ago, it was exactly the sort of day
that would have scared the hell out of him. Aging 1960's radical Bobby Broula was on
campus to deliver his usual fiery, rhetoric-laced speech about keeping up the fight and not
trusting anyone over thirty. Broula was having something of a renaissance that fall, touring
college campuses in celebration of the day years before when he'd burned his draft card on
the White House steps, then rolled a joint at the Lincoln Monument because a few
cameramen had complained that they'd arrived late and missed the first event. It was the 30th
anniversary of the whole thing, and anniversaries ending in 0 always get particular attention,
for no particular reason.
Today's Bucklin students didn't have draft cards to burn of course. A lot of them probably
didn't even know what a draft card was. So they'd burned their student I.D. cards instead,
right there in the lecture hall, so that Broula would respect them. That was just fine with
Broula. It was fine with Kerns as well. Replacement IDs cost $50, $45 of which was pure
profitfor Bucklin. And all of this was fine with the students, since their parents would pick up
the tab. The only unfortunate consequence was that the student detailed to drive Broula to the
airport after his speech had, in a fit of anti-war fervor, accidentally burnt his driver's license
as well, and badly charred his car keys.
Kerns volunteered to drive Broula himself.
"Nice speech," he said during the ride. "The students really seemed interested."
"Yea," Broula chuckled, "Us radicals from the '60s are even more popular now than we were
then. I feel sorry for all those guys who O.D.ed in the seventies and missed all the fun."
"I guess it must be gratifying to see your ideals taking hold."
Broula didn't respond.
"I said…"
"Yea, I heard you. I just don't know what to say to something like that. I mean, what do these
kids have to do with our ideals? All we have in common is drug abuse and self righteousness-
-and the fact is a lot of us from the sixties cut that out once it became obvious the shit would
kill us…I mean the drugs, not the self righteousness."
"Then what was that speech about?"
"That speech was about my $3,500 speaker's fee and a chance to sleep with the co-ed of my
choice, not necessarily in that order."
"You don't say."
"Trouble is, my agent booked me to speak at a school in Oregon tomorrow afternoon. No
layover on campus means no lay on campus. There goes half my motivation. Fuckin' redeye
flights."
"Maybe you should explain these things to your agent."
"I would," Broula said. "But he'd probably expect to get 15% of the pussy for himself."
"I see your point."
"Oh well, I guess the money has to come first. Being a sixties radical is a full-time job these
days. Who would have guessed that being anti-establishment would make me rich?"
"You sound pretty cynical about the whole thing."
"No, not all of it. I'm still proud that I stood up for what I believed in 25 years ago, and I still
believe that was a lousy war they wanted me to fight. But what kind of person would I be if I
never questioned anything I'd ever believed? And what kind of person would I be if I still
thought a bunch of 18-year-olds had all the answers? No one thinks 15-year-olds have all the
answers, and you can't learn that much in three years."
"So what do you think about this generation of college students?"
Broula shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I guess they're no different from any other generation.
They're going to do their level best to be against the establishment, even if most of 'em are
only doing it to fit in. They'll vote for the candidate who's farthest to the left even if they
drove to the polling place in the $40,000 Audi that Daddy bought them. And they'll listen to
Woody Guthrie albums because anti-establishment liberals are supposed to listen to Woody
Guthrie."
"Do they?" Kerns asked. "Still listen to Woody Guthrie, I mean."
"Well, maybe not, but they still listen to Bob Dylan, and Dylan was just trying to be Guthrie,
so it's the same damn thing…except that no one can understand what the hell Dylan's saying."

Well, I guess that's pretty much the story.

In the years since, Dean Kerns has established himself as one of the top college
administrators on the East Coast, thanks to his deft handling of the student-center affair and
his uncanny ability to attract Pacific Island students to the school. Even his marriage seems
stable, despite the fact that his wife once caught him helping a coed named Shauna out of her
sweater.
Kerns also has benefited from the loss of his assistant. Thomas Prester Smith made it to
Tierra del Fuego; that much has been confirmed through Argentinean travel records. Once
there, he rented a row boat and, apparently, set off to the south in search of his destiny. The
Drake Passage that separates South America from Antarctica is not an easy stretch of water to
row under the best of circumstances, certainly not for a non-profit administrator with little
experience in seamanship, even less upper-body strength, and certainly no understanding that
the month of August falls in the middle of the winter in the Southern Hemisphere. It's unclear
what happened next. An explorer did find some footprints once, just simple snowshoe tracks
preserved in the ice, heading south towards the pole. They could have belonged to anyone, I
suppose. Well, anyone walking alone without dogs, sleds, or supplies across Antarctica. So
maybe Smith did reach Antarctica in his little boat. And maybe he found that it was the
administrative homeland he'd always wanted, and decided to stay. On the other hand, maybe
Smith met his end there on the barren Antarctic ice sheet, his carcass picked clean by hungry
penguins. We might never know for sure. Whatever happened, the rented rowboat was never
returned, and in the years that have passed Smith has racked up a rather hefty late fee.
In the meantime, Kerns named Roger his new Interim Associate Dean, and put him in charge
the Dodge Aries owner / Plymouth Reliant owner parking lot dispute. Roger promptly bit
them both.
Thanks to the influx of Johnston Brothers dollars, the Lesser Merrill Islanders now live like
they're something other than extras from Clan of the Cave Bear, which is just as well, because
that really was a terrible movie. A few of them even took me up on my offer to help them get
into a top-flight American college. The very first graduate came back to Lesser Morrell
Island and opened a resort. The resort's a bit tricky to get to, but it offers one perk that you
can't find at any other vacation spot in the world. If you have a poorly thought out romantic
encounter and wake up regretting it, all you need to do is walk over the international dateline
to the other side of the island, where it's yesterday again and you haven't even considered it
yet…Or so the resort's advertising claims.
Business is booming.
Sarah and the other environmentalists aren't too fond of the resort, but they have come to love
Johnston Brothers' presence on the island, in as much as they hate it with a passion. They
have something to be against, and that's all they ever wanted.

Timmy, as you might recall, made a fortune from his lawsuit against Shiveler's Supermarkets,
then invested it with Johnston Brothers. I'm proud to say that Timmy's savvy investments in
the market have made him a millionaire. Of course, he'd started out a multi-millionaire. But
for Timmy, that's not so bad.
Life on Wall Street for Andy Keller and the rest is as it's always been: either monumentally
great or suicidally awful, depending on when you call--although more often the former than
the latter. Andy's personal portfolio now reaches well into seven figures, which he thinks
should be enough to pay for his retirement, especially since most Wall Street salesmen keel
over before they hit sixty.
Mr. Gwafinn eventually did get that exceedingly generous severance package he'd long
wanted. Some time after my departure, he was able to convince the board that there were
other non-Johnstons in the firm who could better manage the company. The board picked a
relative newcomer to Wall Street to be the new CEO. Gwafinn bought himself a beach house
in Florida and intends to spend his remaining years baking himself in the sun and attempting
to catch fish.
As for my former roommate Dave Orr, my memories of him grow dimmer with each passing
day. I can't seem to remember anything he ever did, or a single cause that aroused his passion.
I phoned down Dave's parents once to see if they knew what had become of him. They
claimed not to know who I was talking about.

I guess that just leaves Dana and I. We're still on Lesser Merrill Island, and we're still
together. I run the Johnston Brothers office, Dana protests against the Johnston Brothers
office. It's a simple life. But we're happy.

Years Later

An 800-pound silverback gorilla leaned back in its $2,000 antique leather desk chair and
surveyed the scene outside its corner office. It was the last trading day before the Christmas
holiday, and a light snow was falling on Wall Street. For the gorilla, this was the culmination
of a hectic decade. It had scrapped its way up through the Johnston Brothers executive
hierarchy in record time, and that morning had been named CEO.
The gorilla turned back towards its desk, and pressed the intercom button for its secretary.
"Get a message off to Bob Gwafinn in our Lesser Merrill Island office," it grunted. "Tell him
'Nice work, but you're fired.' My kids need jobs, you know."