I would like to congratulate the visitor from Willis, Texas who visited my blog on September twenty-ninth, this year of our Lord two-thousand and eight. You are visitor number six-hundred and sixty-six. You viewed the blog, in all its glory, through Microsoft Internet Explorer 7.0 rendered at a resolution of 1280 x 800 on your widescreen monitor. It seems rather poignant that you clicked in through google.com with a serch term of "biblical good vs evil pictures", for I'm sure that this visit is an omen of the imminent apocalypse. It is my hope that you are one of the relatively few who are bodily taken up to the glories of god's kingdom. I, unfortunately, will probably be stuck down here. I'll try to wave to you.
Revelation 13:18 (KJV)
Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Letters from the Lost Man, Part 16
"Tell me again about this woman. This...Loretta was it?" Dr. Kenner asks.
I nod slowly. "Yeah. I don't really know much about her. She was this...voice that used Linda's mouth to talk," I tell him.
"And she wasn't aware of it," he confirms, though I've already told him before.
I shake my head. "No. Nobody was. I was the only one who could hear her. I know it sounds crazy."
"And what did she say to you?"
Taking a deep breath, I sigh. "Well, she told me nothing was real. I mean, that everything that was happening was fake."
The doctor scribbles a little on his notepad. "Linda's death?" he asks.
"Well, yeah, but it was more than that," I say.
"Like what?"
I shrug. "I don't know. Everything, I guess. My whole life was some...experiment or something."
"And you say this happened before you went into the bank?" Kenner probes.
"Uh, yeah," I nod. "A few days before."
"When you were in the hospital for your accident," he says, flipping through my chart.
"Wonderful week..." I say dryly.
"Hmm," Kenner sounds thoughtfully. "The ER doctor says you reported hallucinations in relation to your concussion."
"That's right," I answer. "I thought there was someone else in the wreck."
"A woman," he says.
"Do you think it's related?" I ask him.
He smiles briefly. "Well, I'm not sure, though I do think that the concussion may have resulted in you being in a highly suggestive state. Tell me, Mike, have you heard the woman at all in the past three months?"
Three months...has it been that long? Come to think of it... "No, I haven't," I say.
Kenner nods and scribbles some more. "How have you been sleeping?" he asks, still writing.
I sigh again. "Oh, I don't know. Y'know, ok I guess. I get these weird dreams every once in a while."
"Tell me about those," he says, looking up from the notes.
"Well, they start off pretty normal for dreams, I guess. Sometimes I only remember from the middle or only the very end. There's always this...I don't know, guy. He's wearing this long black robe with a hood. Kinda' like death, y'know? Anyways, he attacks me..." I trail off, trying to remember.
"And what happens when he attacks you?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I black out. Or wake up."
"How often do you have this dream?" Kenner asks.
"Uh," I think aloud. "Maybe once or twice a week."
"Mm-hmm," he mumbles, scribbling once again.
I wait expectantly for his response to all of this, but the doctor simply takes more notes and rummages through a desk drawer for a few moments. He pulls out what looks like a small pad of paper and begins writing again.
"Am I going crazy?" I ask him impatiently.
He looks up with surprise. "I don't think you're crazy, Mike. You've been through a pretty tough time. Sometimes our brains do things that don't seem to make sense to protect us from things that would seriously harm our mental well-being," he explains.
I nod slowly. "So, Loretta?" I ask.
The doctor looks down at his desk for a moment and sighs. "Mike," he begins delicately, "I think Loretta was something that your mind created after the fact, again to protect you. I mean, think about her message that none of it was real. It may even be that she was created after your accident to reassure you about that, but when you lost Linda the a few days later, she arose once more."
All I can do is stare off into space. It seemed so real.
"Anyways, what I'd like to do is give you a prescription," he continues.
I swallow. "Anti-psychotics?"
He chuckles a bit at that. "No, no, Mike. This is a drug called EuphorZen. It's a mild anti-depressant. I'm going to start you off on a low dose. I think you'll find it will help you do what you need to do to get through this tough time."
To get through this 'tough time', eh? Do doctors have a knack for understating things? Is it something they teach in med school? Or psych school, in Kenner's case, if there even is such a thing.
The doctor tears off the script and hands it over the desk. "Take one a day and we'll continue our weekly sessions. You got a thirty day supply there, so we'll see how you feel in a month. If we need to adjust your dosage, we will then. Keep in mind that it usually takes a week or so for your body to adjust to either starting or stopping this medication, so you might feel some minor muscular fatigue and stomach upset. Just be patient and stick with it. You'll be glad you did."
"Ok." Great. Isn't that always the way? These drugs are miracles of modern medical science, but oh-by-the-way, they'll make you feel worse before they'll make you feel better. I guess I gotta try something, though. I've been pretty low key the last several weeks, but I'm not so sure that I've been taking things well. I've been seeing Kenner since about a month after...well, you know.
Honestly, I think I would feel a lot better if I didn't have the district attorney’s office calling me every other day. They want me to testify against the bastard that...that shot Linda. It sounds great in theory. They'll try him and seek the death penalty. His partner will go to jail for years for driving that car too. Justice will be served and everyone will be happy. Except Linda's still gone. She's gone...
I wonder how many of these pills I'd have to take to...
Stop. Stop thinking that crap. I'm gonna testify and get that sonofabitch what he has coming to him. And then...then I'll figure out what's going to happen next. I'll move on, never forgetting her, of course, but living the full life she would have wanted me to.
Yet, I can't help but wonder. If I died right now, would I see her? Was there something keeping me around besides her?
Let's go fill this script and just make it to tomorrow. That's how I got to today, except without the drugs. The past three months have been day after day of just delaying my decision about what to do with myself. Maybe the meds will make the decision to go on easier. God, I hope so...
I nod slowly. "Yeah. I don't really know much about her. She was this...voice that used Linda's mouth to talk," I tell him.
"And she wasn't aware of it," he confirms, though I've already told him before.
I shake my head. "No. Nobody was. I was the only one who could hear her. I know it sounds crazy."
"And what did she say to you?"
Taking a deep breath, I sigh. "Well, she told me nothing was real. I mean, that everything that was happening was fake."
The doctor scribbles a little on his notepad. "Linda's death?" he asks.
"Well, yeah, but it was more than that," I say.
"Like what?"
I shrug. "I don't know. Everything, I guess. My whole life was some...experiment or something."
"And you say this happened before you went into the bank?" Kenner probes.
"Uh, yeah," I nod. "A few days before."
"When you were in the hospital for your accident," he says, flipping through my chart.
"Wonderful week..." I say dryly.
"Hmm," Kenner sounds thoughtfully. "The ER doctor says you reported hallucinations in relation to your concussion."
"That's right," I answer. "I thought there was someone else in the wreck."
"A woman," he says.
"Do you think it's related?" I ask him.
He smiles briefly. "Well, I'm not sure, though I do think that the concussion may have resulted in you being in a highly suggestive state. Tell me, Mike, have you heard the woman at all in the past three months?"
Three months...has it been that long? Come to think of it... "No, I haven't," I say.
Kenner nods and scribbles some more. "How have you been sleeping?" he asks, still writing.
I sigh again. "Oh, I don't know. Y'know, ok I guess. I get these weird dreams every once in a while."
"Tell me about those," he says, looking up from the notes.
"Well, they start off pretty normal for dreams, I guess. Sometimes I only remember from the middle or only the very end. There's always this...I don't know, guy. He's wearing this long black robe with a hood. Kinda' like death, y'know? Anyways, he attacks me..." I trail off, trying to remember.
"And what happens when he attacks you?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I black out. Or wake up."
"How often do you have this dream?" Kenner asks.
"Uh," I think aloud. "Maybe once or twice a week."
"Mm-hmm," he mumbles, scribbling once again.
I wait expectantly for his response to all of this, but the doctor simply takes more notes and rummages through a desk drawer for a few moments. He pulls out what looks like a small pad of paper and begins writing again.
"Am I going crazy?" I ask him impatiently.
He looks up with surprise. "I don't think you're crazy, Mike. You've been through a pretty tough time. Sometimes our brains do things that don't seem to make sense to protect us from things that would seriously harm our mental well-being," he explains.
I nod slowly. "So, Loretta?" I ask.
The doctor looks down at his desk for a moment and sighs. "Mike," he begins delicately, "I think Loretta was something that your mind created after the fact, again to protect you. I mean, think about her message that none of it was real. It may even be that she was created after your accident to reassure you about that, but when you lost Linda the a few days later, she arose once more."
All I can do is stare off into space. It seemed so real.
"Anyways, what I'd like to do is give you a prescription," he continues.
I swallow. "Anti-psychotics?"
He chuckles a bit at that. "No, no, Mike. This is a drug called EuphorZen. It's a mild anti-depressant. I'm going to start you off on a low dose. I think you'll find it will help you do what you need to do to get through this tough time."
To get through this 'tough time', eh? Do doctors have a knack for understating things? Is it something they teach in med school? Or psych school, in Kenner's case, if there even is such a thing.
The doctor tears off the script and hands it over the desk. "Take one a day and we'll continue our weekly sessions. You got a thirty day supply there, so we'll see how you feel in a month. If we need to adjust your dosage, we will then. Keep in mind that it usually takes a week or so for your body to adjust to either starting or stopping this medication, so you might feel some minor muscular fatigue and stomach upset. Just be patient and stick with it. You'll be glad you did."
"Ok." Great. Isn't that always the way? These drugs are miracles of modern medical science, but oh-by-the-way, they'll make you feel worse before they'll make you feel better. I guess I gotta try something, though. I've been pretty low key the last several weeks, but I'm not so sure that I've been taking things well. I've been seeing Kenner since about a month after...well, you know.
Honestly, I think I would feel a lot better if I didn't have the district attorney’s office calling me every other day. They want me to testify against the bastard that...that shot Linda. It sounds great in theory. They'll try him and seek the death penalty. His partner will go to jail for years for driving that car too. Justice will be served and everyone will be happy. Except Linda's still gone. She's gone...
I wonder how many of these pills I'd have to take to...
Stop. Stop thinking that crap. I'm gonna testify and get that sonofabitch what he has coming to him. And then...then I'll figure out what's going to happen next. I'll move on, never forgetting her, of course, but living the full life she would have wanted me to.
Yet, I can't help but wonder. If I died right now, would I see her? Was there something keeping me around besides her?
Let's go fill this script and just make it to tomorrow. That's how I got to today, except without the drugs. The past three months have been day after day of just delaying my decision about what to do with myself. Maybe the meds will make the decision to go on easier. God, I hope so...
Monday, September 22, 2008
"Race" Relations
I use quotes around the word "race" because it's a problematic word that has some very specific definitions that often get blurred together. On the one hand, race comes from an Old Italian word, razza, which means "lineage". In many ways, we use this word the same way today. At some point, though, biology commandeered "race" and applied it to animals that were part of a taxonomic category within a species, or a subspecies. And here's where part of the problem arises. There is a danger with these two definitions of people believing that the different "races" of humans are "subspecies" of humans.
Let's be clear about this. There is a human race. We are all members of the human race. There are not enough genetic differences between any two people of any two heritages to squeeze them into separate taxonomic categories. The differences in our appearances, from a biological standpoint, are purely superficial.
The other problem in the whole "race" thought process is the perceived differences between us. For the most part, these differences are based upon cultural perceptions, but the most problematic perceived differences are due to stereotypes. Stereotypes happen when someone interacts with a particular group of people and notices that multiple members of that group share certain personality traits. The fallacy in stereotypes is the assumption that these traits are inherent to all members of that group.
In a recent and fascinating Associated-Press Yahoo! News poll, conducted with Stanford University, one fourth of white Democrats ascribed at least two negative traits to blacks. Now, they didn't go on to specify whether blacks ascribed similar traits to whites or whether either blacks or whites ascribed similar traits to themselves. I would be curious to know how those questions stack up against one another. Some of the negative traits listed in the poll included "boastful", "irresponsible" and "lazy".
One wonders, though, whether or not the people who attributed these stereotypes to blacks understood the dynamics behind what might have caused these behaviors that they have either observed or have heard others observe. Surely, it is easy to understand why someone might be boastful when they think or know that most people don't expect much out of them. A similar argument might be proposed for irresponsibility or laziness. The question then becomes, are these traits really inherent to black people? Or are these traits you might possibly witness in any group of people who are part of a minority who, until fairly recently, were actually legally repressed? When prejudice and racism are a reality in your life and you don't get EVERY SINGLE opportunity that others in your supposedly egalitarian nation get, doesn't it seem reasonable that members of such a group might feel disheartened to the point of apathy or desperation?
I know that there are some who might read the above paragraph and roll their eyes and say something about picking oneself up by one's bootstraps and rising above. There are those who say that blacks are just complainers who scream "racism" at the slightest provocation, maybe even none at all. If you would say that, then I would place you in the group of people who do the exact opposite. That is to say, there are those who minimalize, even deny, the existence and effect of racism in our society. This Associated-Press Yahoo! poll seems to back this up. Whereas 57% of blacks said that the amount of "discrimination against blacks" that exists is "a lot" and all but a fraction of the rest said "some", only 10% of whites said "a lot" and 45% said "some".
That's quite a discrepancy. So, who's right? I don't think it's as clear as that. As I've said before in other posts, I think there's more racism in this country than the majority of whites are willing to admit or recognize, but there's also less than the majority of blacks claim. Regardless, any amount is unacceptable. We are not subspecies of one another, so we are all physically capable of the same things, and we are all susceptible to the same emotions and weaknesses. Before you ascribe negative qualities to someone of another "race", think about how you would react if you had to deal with the same kinds of things in your life. Also, ask yourself if you really can't think of someone, anyone, who has overcome such difficult odds to laugh in the face of such ridiculous stereotypes. Need some hints? How about Harriet Tubman? Frederick Douglass? Booker T. Washington? George Washington Carver? W.E.B. Du Bois? Rosa Parks? Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? Colin Powell? Barack Obama?
These are only a handful of the most well-known names in the proud tapestry of African American history. These are people who rose up to fight the misguided perceptions of a resistant society. Despite the great impact of these men and women, the perceptions they struggled to overcome still exist. We need to open our eyes as a society and stand up to fear and oppression. We are one race, the human race. Let's stand united and achieve everything we can achieve together.
Let's be clear about this. There is a human race. We are all members of the human race. There are not enough genetic differences between any two people of any two heritages to squeeze them into separate taxonomic categories. The differences in our appearances, from a biological standpoint, are purely superficial.
The other problem in the whole "race" thought process is the perceived differences between us. For the most part, these differences are based upon cultural perceptions, but the most problematic perceived differences are due to stereotypes. Stereotypes happen when someone interacts with a particular group of people and notices that multiple members of that group share certain personality traits. The fallacy in stereotypes is the assumption that these traits are inherent to all members of that group.
In a recent and fascinating Associated-Press Yahoo! News poll, conducted with Stanford University, one fourth of white Democrats ascribed at least two negative traits to blacks. Now, they didn't go on to specify whether blacks ascribed similar traits to whites or whether either blacks or whites ascribed similar traits to themselves. I would be curious to know how those questions stack up against one another. Some of the negative traits listed in the poll included "boastful", "irresponsible" and "lazy".
One wonders, though, whether or not the people who attributed these stereotypes to blacks understood the dynamics behind what might have caused these behaviors that they have either observed or have heard others observe. Surely, it is easy to understand why someone might be boastful when they think or know that most people don't expect much out of them. A similar argument might be proposed for irresponsibility or laziness. The question then becomes, are these traits really inherent to black people? Or are these traits you might possibly witness in any group of people who are part of a minority who, until fairly recently, were actually legally repressed? When prejudice and racism are a reality in your life and you don't get EVERY SINGLE opportunity that others in your supposedly egalitarian nation get, doesn't it seem reasonable that members of such a group might feel disheartened to the point of apathy or desperation?
I know that there are some who might read the above paragraph and roll their eyes and say something about picking oneself up by one's bootstraps and rising above. There are those who say that blacks are just complainers who scream "racism" at the slightest provocation, maybe even none at all. If you would say that, then I would place you in the group of people who do the exact opposite. That is to say, there are those who minimalize, even deny, the existence and effect of racism in our society. This Associated-Press Yahoo! poll seems to back this up. Whereas 57% of blacks said that the amount of "discrimination against blacks" that exists is "a lot" and all but a fraction of the rest said "some", only 10% of whites said "a lot" and 45% said "some".
That's quite a discrepancy. So, who's right? I don't think it's as clear as that. As I've said before in other posts, I think there's more racism in this country than the majority of whites are willing to admit or recognize, but there's also less than the majority of blacks claim. Regardless, any amount is unacceptable. We are not subspecies of one another, so we are all physically capable of the same things, and we are all susceptible to the same emotions and weaknesses. Before you ascribe negative qualities to someone of another "race", think about how you would react if you had to deal with the same kinds of things in your life. Also, ask yourself if you really can't think of someone, anyone, who has overcome such difficult odds to laugh in the face of such ridiculous stereotypes. Need some hints? How about Harriet Tubman? Frederick Douglass? Booker T. Washington? George Washington Carver? W.E.B. Du Bois? Rosa Parks? Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? Colin Powell? Barack Obama?
These are only a handful of the most well-known names in the proud tapestry of African American history. These are people who rose up to fight the misguided perceptions of a resistant society. Despite the great impact of these men and women, the perceptions they struggled to overcome still exist. We need to open our eyes as a society and stand up to fear and oppression. We are one race, the human race. Let's stand united and achieve everything we can achieve together.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Letters from the Lost Man, Part 15
"This is nice," Linda says cheerily, turning down the radio.
I nod with a smile. I should probably be home in bed, but I felt pretty good today and was already starting to get cabin fever. I haven't heard from Loretta since she started doing whatever she said she was going to do yesterday morning. For now, I'm just going to enjoy some time with Linda, for whatever it might be worth.
"We're going to make a little stop, hon," she informs me. "Have to deposit Bree's check."
"Oh..." I'm totally drawing a blank. Of course, there's no reason to let her know that.
"Remember?" she asks, catching on to my confused tone. "I took those photos for Jim's birthday."
Oh yeah. Linda's a photographer. How could I forget that? "No, I remembered," I cover. "I just thought you had already deposited it, that's all."
Linda's smile dissipates. "I was going to, but something more important came up." She glances at me with the remnants of concern.
I can only nod.
"It's okay, though," she says, the cheeriness returning. "Everything's back to normal."
And here we are. She turns into the bank entrance and takes a second row parking spot in front of the entrance.
"No drive thru?" I ask.
She frowns apologetically. "No deposit slips," she explains. "Want to come in? It should be real quick."
I shake my head. "I'll be fine here."
She grins and leans over to give me a kiss. "I'll leave the car running," she says, making sure the AC is on. It's pretty warm out. "Love you!" she calls as she opens the door.
"Love you too!" I call back.
I watch her step quickly up the walkway and into the bank. She's really attractive. If she isn't real, someone made a pretty nice attempt at making her likeable. Loveable even. I hope she is real. I hope I have a shot at finding her when I get out of this and...what the hell is this?
A gray station wagon pulls up to the entrance and some dude jumps out of the passenger side, runs to the rear of the vehicle and opens up the back. He rifles around back there for a few seconds, then steps back and glances around furtively. He pulls on a ski mask and walks into the bank.
"What the..." I start to say. Linda. I need to get in there. I reach over and turn off the car and exit the vehicle. Trying to look nonchalant, I stride toward the bank. I can't help but glance at the driver of the wagon. He's eyeing me like I just spit in his face, but he doesn't move. Trying to act dumb, I grin at him and nod. He squints at me, but nods back.
Okay... I have to make an effort not to pause at the door. It's bright out, and the tint on the glass doors of the bank entrance makes it next to impossible to see inside. I step into the vestibule. It's much easier to see through the second set of glass doors, and I see there are people on the ground, but no sign of the guy in the ski mask. I walk in as though nothing were amiss.
A little electronic doorbell beeps as I enter. Immediately, I hear a gruff voice say, "Don't move!" At first, I think it's directed at me, then I realize it came from around the corner and was directed at someone over there. I vaguely recall being in this bank before and remember that the vault is down the hall around that corner. I hear some shuffling and a figure steps out from behind the corner. It's the guy in the ski mask. He's got Linda's head squeezed under his arm and a gun pointed to her head.
My heart practically leaps out of my chest. I put my hands up immediately. "Don't...don't hurt her..."
"Get down!" the man shouts, pushing the gun harder against her scalp.
"Ok," I say meekly, getting to my knees. "Just, don't hurt her, Ok?"
"Michael?" Linda weeps.
"Shut up, bitch!" the robber snaps, tapping her head with the muzzle.
She shrieks briefly, then says, "You shouldn't have come in here, Richard."
Loretta! "What should I do?" I plead with her, my pulse racing and sweat forming on my brow.
The crook answers for her, "You should get down on the floor before I decorate the wall with her pretty little brains."
"Ok! Ok!" I say a little more insistently, lying face down on the floor.
"Richard," I hear Loretta call to me from under the man's arm. "No matter what happens, stay there and don't move!"
No one has ever asked me to do anything more difficult. I breathe heavily, my cheek pressed against the lobby's cool tile.
"Remember," she calls out as the thief drags Linda back toward the vault, "none of this is real!"
If it isn't real, why does it have to feel that way? I wish this would all just end. I wish I would just wake up. Wake up, dammit! WAKE UP!!!
A deafening shot rings out. My heart freezes as I hear a thud and footsteps pounding around the corner. I can't help but look up. The thug is running toward me, the gun in his right hand and some glistening red on his left arm.
"Head down!" he roars as he stumbles over me toward the door. He hits me with it as he throws it open and bursts through the second door to the outside. "Go! Go!" he shouts at the driver. Tires squeal and the sound of the car's engine fades into the distance.
I quickly push myself up, ignoring the pain in my still sore muscles. I run across the lobby and around the corner and stop. The bank manager, huddled against the vault door, looks up at me with a terrified expression. I look at the wall next to me. There's a circle of red splatters dripping down toward the floor. My eyes follow their path reluctantly to Linda. She's lying there, still. A red puddle grows larger under her head.
"Oh no, Linda, no, no, no, no..." I sputter as I drop to my knees to turn her. Tears fill my eyes and I breath fast to try to fend off the crippling truth of what I see before me. Linda blinks and her eyes roll back and forth slowly.
"Linda?" I ask, wiping my tears away to make sure they're not fooling me.
"Mike?" she asks weakly. Her face looks ghostly white.
"I'm here, baby, I'm here," I reassure her, tears blurring my vision again.
"Mike, I...I think I'm bleeding," she tells me.
"Shhh," I tell her, my body shaking uncontrollably with sobs as I try to hold her this last time.
"In case I can't say it later..." she whispers.
I shake my head, unable to say anything to stop her.
"...I love you. Remember that."
I nod, tears rolling freely down my face. I try to tell her I love her too, but I can only mouth it. My shaky breath only allows weeping, not speech.
Still, she smiles, though it fades quickly. I can see her eyes trying to keep focus.
"Richard," Loretta's voice says with a hint of sympathy.
"No!" I force out. I can hear sirens.
"Richard," she repeats.
"NO!" I scream.
"I can't imagine how this feels, but try to remember..."
Who the hell is this woman? Making my dead wife's lips move. Talking to me morbidly in the midst of this tragedy as though nothing were happening. You're perverting my wife's memory! Stop it! Stop it!
"STOP IT!" I yell out with all the will I can muster. I stand up, Linda's now lifeless form rolling away. I need to get out of here.
"Stop right there!" a stern voice commands as I stumble out into the sunlight.
Squinting in the brightness, I can see the bank is surrounded by squad cars. Several police stand behind their vehicles with guns pointed squarely at me.
I raise my hands, only now realizing that they are covered in blood. Linda's blood. I don't care anymore. I don't care about anything. The police shout missives at me and I lay down, though not because of anything they're saying. I just lay down. I give up. I surrender. I don't want to do this anymore. Just take me. Take me away. Take me from this world of pain. I close my eyes and remember...nothing.
I nod with a smile. I should probably be home in bed, but I felt pretty good today and was already starting to get cabin fever. I haven't heard from Loretta since she started doing whatever she said she was going to do yesterday morning. For now, I'm just going to enjoy some time with Linda, for whatever it might be worth.
"We're going to make a little stop, hon," she informs me. "Have to deposit Bree's check."
"Oh..." I'm totally drawing a blank. Of course, there's no reason to let her know that.
"Remember?" she asks, catching on to my confused tone. "I took those photos for Jim's birthday."
Oh yeah. Linda's a photographer. How could I forget that? "No, I remembered," I cover. "I just thought you had already deposited it, that's all."
Linda's smile dissipates. "I was going to, but something more important came up." She glances at me with the remnants of concern.
I can only nod.
"It's okay, though," she says, the cheeriness returning. "Everything's back to normal."
And here we are. She turns into the bank entrance and takes a second row parking spot in front of the entrance.
"No drive thru?" I ask.
She frowns apologetically. "No deposit slips," she explains. "Want to come in? It should be real quick."
I shake my head. "I'll be fine here."
She grins and leans over to give me a kiss. "I'll leave the car running," she says, making sure the AC is on. It's pretty warm out. "Love you!" she calls as she opens the door.
"Love you too!" I call back.
I watch her step quickly up the walkway and into the bank. She's really attractive. If she isn't real, someone made a pretty nice attempt at making her likeable. Loveable even. I hope she is real. I hope I have a shot at finding her when I get out of this and...what the hell is this?
A gray station wagon pulls up to the entrance and some dude jumps out of the passenger side, runs to the rear of the vehicle and opens up the back. He rifles around back there for a few seconds, then steps back and glances around furtively. He pulls on a ski mask and walks into the bank.
"What the..." I start to say. Linda. I need to get in there. I reach over and turn off the car and exit the vehicle. Trying to look nonchalant, I stride toward the bank. I can't help but glance at the driver of the wagon. He's eyeing me like I just spit in his face, but he doesn't move. Trying to act dumb, I grin at him and nod. He squints at me, but nods back.
Okay... I have to make an effort not to pause at the door. It's bright out, and the tint on the glass doors of the bank entrance makes it next to impossible to see inside. I step into the vestibule. It's much easier to see through the second set of glass doors, and I see there are people on the ground, but no sign of the guy in the ski mask. I walk in as though nothing were amiss.
A little electronic doorbell beeps as I enter. Immediately, I hear a gruff voice say, "Don't move!" At first, I think it's directed at me, then I realize it came from around the corner and was directed at someone over there. I vaguely recall being in this bank before and remember that the vault is down the hall around that corner. I hear some shuffling and a figure steps out from behind the corner. It's the guy in the ski mask. He's got Linda's head squeezed under his arm and a gun pointed to her head.
My heart practically leaps out of my chest. I put my hands up immediately. "Don't...don't hurt her..."
"Get down!" the man shouts, pushing the gun harder against her scalp.
"Ok," I say meekly, getting to my knees. "Just, don't hurt her, Ok?"
"Michael?" Linda weeps.
"Shut up, bitch!" the robber snaps, tapping her head with the muzzle.
She shrieks briefly, then says, "You shouldn't have come in here, Richard."
Loretta! "What should I do?" I plead with her, my pulse racing and sweat forming on my brow.
The crook answers for her, "You should get down on the floor before I decorate the wall with her pretty little brains."
"Ok! Ok!" I say a little more insistently, lying face down on the floor.
"Richard," I hear Loretta call to me from under the man's arm. "No matter what happens, stay there and don't move!"
No one has ever asked me to do anything more difficult. I breathe heavily, my cheek pressed against the lobby's cool tile.
"Remember," she calls out as the thief drags Linda back toward the vault, "none of this is real!"
If it isn't real, why does it have to feel that way? I wish this would all just end. I wish I would just wake up. Wake up, dammit! WAKE UP!!!
A deafening shot rings out. My heart freezes as I hear a thud and footsteps pounding around the corner. I can't help but look up. The thug is running toward me, the gun in his right hand and some glistening red on his left arm.
"Head down!" he roars as he stumbles over me toward the door. He hits me with it as he throws it open and bursts through the second door to the outside. "Go! Go!" he shouts at the driver. Tires squeal and the sound of the car's engine fades into the distance.
I quickly push myself up, ignoring the pain in my still sore muscles. I run across the lobby and around the corner and stop. The bank manager, huddled against the vault door, looks up at me with a terrified expression. I look at the wall next to me. There's a circle of red splatters dripping down toward the floor. My eyes follow their path reluctantly to Linda. She's lying there, still. A red puddle grows larger under her head.
"Oh no, Linda, no, no, no, no..." I sputter as I drop to my knees to turn her. Tears fill my eyes and I breath fast to try to fend off the crippling truth of what I see before me. Linda blinks and her eyes roll back and forth slowly.
"Linda?" I ask, wiping my tears away to make sure they're not fooling me.
"Mike?" she asks weakly. Her face looks ghostly white.
"I'm here, baby, I'm here," I reassure her, tears blurring my vision again.
"Mike, I...I think I'm bleeding," she tells me.
"Shhh," I tell her, my body shaking uncontrollably with sobs as I try to hold her this last time.
"In case I can't say it later..." she whispers.
I shake my head, unable to say anything to stop her.
"...I love you. Remember that."
I nod, tears rolling freely down my face. I try to tell her I love her too, but I can only mouth it. My shaky breath only allows weeping, not speech.
Still, she smiles, though it fades quickly. I can see her eyes trying to keep focus.
"Richard," Loretta's voice says with a hint of sympathy.
"No!" I force out. I can hear sirens.
"Richard," she repeats.
"NO!" I scream.
"I can't imagine how this feels, but try to remember..."
Who the hell is this woman? Making my dead wife's lips move. Talking to me morbidly in the midst of this tragedy as though nothing were happening. You're perverting my wife's memory! Stop it! Stop it!
"STOP IT!" I yell out with all the will I can muster. I stand up, Linda's now lifeless form rolling away. I need to get out of here.
"Stop right there!" a stern voice commands as I stumble out into the sunlight.
Squinting in the brightness, I can see the bank is surrounded by squad cars. Several police stand behind their vehicles with guns pointed squarely at me.
I raise my hands, only now realizing that they are covered in blood. Linda's blood. I don't care anymore. I don't care about anything. The police shout missives at me and I lay down, though not because of anything they're saying. I just lay down. I give up. I surrender. I don't want to do this anymore. Just take me. Take me away. Take me from this world of pain. I close my eyes and remember...nothing.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Letters from the Lost Man, Part 14
Sometimes I wake up and, stumbling through the semi-conscious haze that obscures wakefulness, I think about all the other mornings stretching behind me to the earliest memories I can muster. The most memorable ones are the Christmas and birthday mornings of my childhood, but a few others stick out here and there. For the most part, though, they all blend together into a blurry amalgam of alarms, showers, breakfasts and haphazard commutes. But this morning, I find myself wondering about all those memories. I even find myself wondering if I've ever really wondered about them before.
"Are you awake, hon?" a sleepy voice next to me asks.
"Mm-hmm."
"Are you feeling okay? Do you need some meds?" my wife yawns.
I know I'm not feeling pain right now only because I'm lying here, perfectly still. "No, I'm fine," I tell her. Besides, I wonder if pain medication is the best thing for me right now. If things really are as that woman's voice said, I need to be as clear headed as I can be.
"You should try going back to sleep," Linda says. "And don't even think about work today."
I wasn't. Hadn't planned on it. Besides, is my job even real? How can anyone sleep when all of reality is in question? If I'm hooked up in some kind of lab with my thoughts being controlled by some computer, am I not actually asleep already?
"Richard."
I jump at the sound of the woman's voice. Pain spiders through my bruised muscles. I groan loudly.
"Oh, honey, are you okay?" my wife chokes with a hint of panic.
I take a few breaths as the pain notches down a bit. "Fine," I say through clenched teeth. "Just a little spasm."
"I'm so sorry, Richard," the woman's voice says. "You should take some of your medication."
I register my confusion in the clearest, most silent way I can.
"Trust me," she says.
"You know what, babe?" I whisper to my wife. "I think I will go ahead and take some of those meds."
"Okay," she replies, hurriedly jumping out of bed.
She's gone for a few moments, then returns carrying the biggest pill I've ever seen and a glass of water. I struggle to sit up as Linda tries to help. It's a moderately painful affair, but I finally make it and eagerly swallow the massive tablet followed by some enthusiastic gulps of the water. I can feel the medication creeping down my throat. If this all isn't real, why does it have to feel so...real?
"Stop thinking about it, Richard," the other woman's voice says. "I'm sorry to have startled you earlier, but when you spend a lot of time thinking about none of this being real, you run the risk of calling attention to yourself."
"Better?" Linda asks.
I stare at her for a moment. "Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, I still hurt, but this should kick in soon and I'll feel much better," I reassure her.
"Good," she smiles. "More water?"
I shake my head. "Nope, I'm good."
She smiles again and gets back into bed.
I wonder if she's still here...
"I'm here, Richard."
I wonder why I can't think about...you know...it, but she can sit here and talk to me about...it.
"Like I told you before," the woman's voice says from my wife's side of the bed, "I hacked the system. I might not be quite the computer whiz you are, but I do know the monitoring system back and forth. I worked with it quite a bit on you."
I squirm a little internally. That sounds really creepy.
"I'm going to try to do the same things for you that I did for myself. After that we should be able to talk pretty freely," she explains. "Well, not really talk. And you'll still have to act fairly naturally, but you'll be able to think openly."
Oh, how nice. I'll be able to think openly. Such a luxury.
"Don't worry, Richard. We're going to get out of this."
"Hmm," I can't help but say out loud.
"What's up, baby?" Linda asks.
"Hmm? Oh, nothing," I lie. "Must've started to doze."
"Mmm, that's good. Doze away," she encourages me with a yawn.
"She's right, Richard, you should sleep. I'm going to get to work here."
"Okay," I say to both of them. I look down at Linda. Her eyes are closed and she's breathing slowly. For the first time that I'm aware of, I wonder what will happen to her through all this. Is she another patient going through this memory therapy? Is she really my wife on the outside? When my treatment is over, will they send me to her? I feel like I have so many memories with her, like I feel so much emotion for her. Of everything, Linda's the one thing I think I would miss about this if it really was all fake.
I pause and look around the dark bedroom. Are you still here...Loretta? That is your name, right?
Silence. Dark silence. I should be used to that by now, I think. Shouldn't I? I look back down at Linda. "Love you, babe," I whisper.
"Mmm," she moans sleepily, a hint of a smile showing in the dim red light of our alarm clock.
I lay back gently, the pain in my muscles just a hint of an ache, more a tightness. My head begins to feel a little light. I close my eyes and breathe. The darkness closes in. My only reality.
"Are you awake, hon?" a sleepy voice next to me asks.
"Mm-hmm."
"Are you feeling okay? Do you need some meds?" my wife yawns.
I know I'm not feeling pain right now only because I'm lying here, perfectly still. "No, I'm fine," I tell her. Besides, I wonder if pain medication is the best thing for me right now. If things really are as that woman's voice said, I need to be as clear headed as I can be.
"You should try going back to sleep," Linda says. "And don't even think about work today."
I wasn't. Hadn't planned on it. Besides, is my job even real? How can anyone sleep when all of reality is in question? If I'm hooked up in some kind of lab with my thoughts being controlled by some computer, am I not actually asleep already?
"Richard."
I jump at the sound of the woman's voice. Pain spiders through my bruised muscles. I groan loudly.
"Oh, honey, are you okay?" my wife chokes with a hint of panic.
I take a few breaths as the pain notches down a bit. "Fine," I say through clenched teeth. "Just a little spasm."
"I'm so sorry, Richard," the woman's voice says. "You should take some of your medication."
I register my confusion in the clearest, most silent way I can.
"Trust me," she says.
"You know what, babe?" I whisper to my wife. "I think I will go ahead and take some of those meds."
"Okay," she replies, hurriedly jumping out of bed.
She's gone for a few moments, then returns carrying the biggest pill I've ever seen and a glass of water. I struggle to sit up as Linda tries to help. It's a moderately painful affair, but I finally make it and eagerly swallow the massive tablet followed by some enthusiastic gulps of the water. I can feel the medication creeping down my throat. If this all isn't real, why does it have to feel so...real?
"Stop thinking about it, Richard," the other woman's voice says. "I'm sorry to have startled you earlier, but when you spend a lot of time thinking about none of this being real, you run the risk of calling attention to yourself."
"Better?" Linda asks.
I stare at her for a moment. "Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, I still hurt, but this should kick in soon and I'll feel much better," I reassure her.
"Good," she smiles. "More water?"
I shake my head. "Nope, I'm good."
She smiles again and gets back into bed.
I wonder if she's still here...
"I'm here, Richard."
I wonder why I can't think about...you know...it, but she can sit here and talk to me about...it.
"Like I told you before," the woman's voice says from my wife's side of the bed, "I hacked the system. I might not be quite the computer whiz you are, but I do know the monitoring system back and forth. I worked with it quite a bit on you."
I squirm a little internally. That sounds really creepy.
"I'm going to try to do the same things for you that I did for myself. After that we should be able to talk pretty freely," she explains. "Well, not really talk. And you'll still have to act fairly naturally, but you'll be able to think openly."
Oh, how nice. I'll be able to think openly. Such a luxury.
"Don't worry, Richard. We're going to get out of this."
"Hmm," I can't help but say out loud.
"What's up, baby?" Linda asks.
"Hmm? Oh, nothing," I lie. "Must've started to doze."
"Mmm, that's good. Doze away," she encourages me with a yawn.
"She's right, Richard, you should sleep. I'm going to get to work here."
"Okay," I say to both of them. I look down at Linda. Her eyes are closed and she's breathing slowly. For the first time that I'm aware of, I wonder what will happen to her through all this. Is she another patient going through this memory therapy? Is she really my wife on the outside? When my treatment is over, will they send me to her? I feel like I have so many memories with her, like I feel so much emotion for her. Of everything, Linda's the one thing I think I would miss about this if it really was all fake.
I pause and look around the dark bedroom. Are you still here...Loretta? That is your name, right?
Silence. Dark silence. I should be used to that by now, I think. Shouldn't I? I look back down at Linda. "Love you, babe," I whisper.
"Mmm," she moans sleepily, a hint of a smile showing in the dim red light of our alarm clock.
I lay back gently, the pain in my muscles just a hint of an ache, more a tightness. My head begins to feel a little light. I close my eyes and breathe. The darkness closes in. My only reality.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Petty, Partisan Palin
Well, I watched Sarah Palin's historic acceptance speech last night and was moderately impressed. She proved that, despite her relative inexperience and apparently nonexistent vetting process, she is just as capable of toeing the party line, stretching the facts and playing the same petty, partisan politics that a certain presidential candidate has beseeched us to change. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I didn't expect the RNC to descend to the lowest common denominator of political publicity. I just hadn't expected Palin would come off like such a pro at it.
I didn't hear anything that I haven't heard the broken-record Republicans spout every time an election comes around. "The opponent is a tax and spend liberal!" "The opponent is inexperienced (either politically or militarily or both)!" "The opponent is the anti-Christ, just look at how much people love him!" Blah, blah, blah. You know, when Obama started shooting barbs at his opponents during his acceptance speech, I thought, "Yeah, you get'em!" Now I realize, with the benefit of hindsight, he may as well have been singing their praise. His campaign's reasonable, accurate criticisms of the "McPalin" ticket pale in comparison to the outright warping of the facts and tainting of American perceptions that the Republicans have shown they will employ throughout this election cycle.
A little research will show that Obama's tax plans will actually leave the majority of American families with more income, rather than less. That coupled with the strong economy that has historically coincided with a democrat in office will mean that most come out on top. The only people who won't come out on top are the minority who already sit at the top. I know that those of you Republicans who make $250,000+ a year have to stretch yourselves to survive, but you'll somehow have to muddle through for the greater good of the American people that you so desperately wish to serve.
One of the things in Palin's speech that really tickled every incredulous bone in my body was when she said, "Though both Sen. Obama and Sen. Biden have been going on lately about how they are always, quote, 'fighting for you,' let us face the matter squarely. There is only one man in this election who has ever really fought for you." I think my reaction hovered somewhere between hilariously bemused and disbelievingly outraged.
Look, don't misunderstand me. I completely realize that those who choose to serve our country in the military and who protect our rights and way of life from external threats are deserving of our highest respect for their sacrifices. However, to suggest that the people who fight to protect us from internal threats to the same are somehow comparatively less qualified is preposterous to the extreme. There are plenty of politicians who have not served (Palin, for one), and there have been several presidents who did not serve either (12, to be exact). Of those who did serve, six did not see action (including George W. Bush and Ronald Reagan). There is no doubt that there is a lot of potential to learn about leadership from the military, but that isn't the only source. If it were, we'd probably be a society of shiftless vagrants waiting for officers to retire or be discharged and whip us into shape. In case you weren't sure, that's not the case.
The point is, such rhetoric only appeals to the knee-jerk fears that our commander-in-chief won't be ready to make the necessary decisions should a military conflict arise. But let us remember, for a moment, that a president is not an island. Though some may buck the desires of a congress elected by the American people and make decisions that hurt our reputation, economy and the American families who have to subsequently make sacrifices, others serve as president always with the will and well-being of the people driving them and with the help and counsel of the many experienced and similarly elected public servants around them. Let's make sure that's the kind of leader our next president is.
Obama 2008: Change We Can Believe In
I didn't hear anything that I haven't heard the broken-record Republicans spout every time an election comes around. "The opponent is a tax and spend liberal!" "The opponent is inexperienced (either politically or militarily or both)!" "The opponent is the anti-Christ, just look at how much people love him!" Blah, blah, blah. You know, when Obama started shooting barbs at his opponents during his acceptance speech, I thought, "Yeah, you get'em!" Now I realize, with the benefit of hindsight, he may as well have been singing their praise. His campaign's reasonable, accurate criticisms of the "McPalin" ticket pale in comparison to the outright warping of the facts and tainting of American perceptions that the Republicans have shown they will employ throughout this election cycle.
A little research will show that Obama's tax plans will actually leave the majority of American families with more income, rather than less. That coupled with the strong economy that has historically coincided with a democrat in office will mean that most come out on top. The only people who won't come out on top are the minority who already sit at the top. I know that those of you Republicans who make $250,000+ a year have to stretch yourselves to survive, but you'll somehow have to muddle through for the greater good of the American people that you so desperately wish to serve.
One of the things in Palin's speech that really tickled every incredulous bone in my body was when she said, "Though both Sen. Obama and Sen. Biden have been going on lately about how they are always, quote, 'fighting for you,' let us face the matter squarely. There is only one man in this election who has ever really fought for you." I think my reaction hovered somewhere between hilariously bemused and disbelievingly outraged.
Look, don't misunderstand me. I completely realize that those who choose to serve our country in the military and who protect our rights and way of life from external threats are deserving of our highest respect for their sacrifices. However, to suggest that the people who fight to protect us from internal threats to the same are somehow comparatively less qualified is preposterous to the extreme. There are plenty of politicians who have not served (Palin, for one), and there have been several presidents who did not serve either (12, to be exact). Of those who did serve, six did not see action (including George W. Bush and Ronald Reagan). There is no doubt that there is a lot of potential to learn about leadership from the military, but that isn't the only source. If it were, we'd probably be a society of shiftless vagrants waiting for officers to retire or be discharged and whip us into shape. In case you weren't sure, that's not the case.
The point is, such rhetoric only appeals to the knee-jerk fears that our commander-in-chief won't be ready to make the necessary decisions should a military conflict arise. But let us remember, for a moment, that a president is not an island. Though some may buck the desires of a congress elected by the American people and make decisions that hurt our reputation, economy and the American families who have to subsequently make sacrifices, others serve as president always with the will and well-being of the people driving them and with the help and counsel of the many experienced and similarly elected public servants around them. Let's make sure that's the kind of leader our next president is.
Obama 2008: Change We Can Believe In
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Determinism in a Chaotic Universe
Lately, I find myself frequently thinking of determinism. I'd like to put down some of my thoughts, though I doubt I have anything new to say on the matter. It's one of those things, like so many, that we probably can't really know the answer to, but that's one of the reasons these kinds questions are so intriguing. It's only when our questions are finally fully answered that we will stop asking them. So, let's hope for the sake of human intellectual development that some of these questions never get answered, or that, if they do, others take their place.
Anyhow, on to determinism. The question in most people's minds, I think, when they think about determinism is whether a deterministic universe can allow free will. Also, many proponents of free will often wonder how a belief in determinism does not result in fatalism or defeatism. Ostensibly, it does seem rather contradictory to believe in both determinism and free will. It's a complicated question, and not one that I'm all that sure I can even begin to answer. I don't think my purpose is really to answer any questions, rather to hypothesize, or at least to ramble thoughtfully. What I'm trying to say is, don't take me too seriously.
Okay, so as a basic definition, determinism is the belief that every event, from the most trivial to the most significant, has a cause or set of causes. Physics suggests that the universe is at least partially deterministic. Psychology tells us that human behavior is deterministic to some degree. Causality is a deterministic concept and popular fodder for time-travel-loving sci-fi writers.
For society in general, feelings about determinism are complicated. Some say there's a reason for everything. Concepts of fate and destiny are romanticized in popular culture. When we see someone we pity doing something horrible, we say he can't help it. It's just the way he was raised, or he doesn't know any better. If some tragedy befalls us, it's not our fault. There were events beyond your control. Suggest to the average person, however, that every decision she makes or feeling she has is the end result of a sequence of events that chains back to the beginning of existence, and she will likely feel insulted, or at least be a little indignant at the suggestion that her thoughts are not completely her choice.
That is not to say that all determinists believe that our actions are predetermined. There are those who also believe in free will and even those who say that, despite the deterministic nature of the universe and its influence on our thoughts and feelings, we are still ultimately in control. As I've already said, I don't think I can answer the obvious questions that spring from this stance. All I can do is discuss my thoughts.
So, do I think our thoughts and feelings are predetermined? Well, as uncomfortable as the idea makes me, I'm kind of leaning towards yes. To me, thoughts and feelings are simply a sequence of complex chemical and electrical interactions. It might seem cold to reduce them to that, and I confess it is rather an oversimplification, but it's difficult for me to think otherwise, given my interpretation of what science has to say on the matter. If it can really be reduced to simply a sequence of chemical and electrical interactions, which by their nature are governed by the laws of physics, then how they could possibly be non-deterministic is beyond me.
Then what's the point of doing anything? Or deciding anything? If everything is predetermined, then what is the point of anything? Well, that attitude is fatalist, and I think you'll find that there are few determinists who are fatalists. Why? Well, to put it obviously, events that depend upon you doing them to get done won't get done if you decide not to do them. Of course, if that decision is not really in your control, that is to say, if whether or not you make that decision is based on every event in history since the beginning of time, then, again I ask, what is the point of "deciding" anything? Enough commas in that sentence for you?
Here's the problem with thinking of the universe in deterministic terms. It always leads to cyclic or self referential arguments. Whether it's about whether our decisions are our own or about the origin of a deterministic universe, we find ourselves getting caught up in the pointless infinite loop of logic that our limited brains must do when we try to reason about the unknowable.
The thing is, nothing is gained from the knowledge of whether or not the universe is deterministic. Even if we knew for certain that it was, it still wouldn't make the universe predictable. If the universe is truly deterministic, that would mean that if we knew every governing rule of existence and every single state of every infinitesimal piece therein, we could extrapolate future events with 100% accuracy. The problem is, that is not possible for us. No human brain, no matter how evolved, could hold that much information and process it fast enough to glean any useful information from it. Similarly, we could never build a computer that could do it either. In order to hold the state of every infinitesimal piece of existence, first of all, we would have to have discovered them all first, and second of all, we would have to be able to hold an infinite amount of stuff in memory. Even if there is only a finite amount of information in a single slice of time in existence, the computer would also have to have a simulation of itself in its simulation of the universe. And we're back to the self-referencing problem we had earlier. Even the finite information would become infinite because the simulation of the computer simulating the universe would have the same simulation of the universe running inside it, which would contain the same simulated computer running a simulation...ad infinitum.
Let me explain why it doesn't matter in simpler terms. Pick a random number between 1 and 100. Ok, now I'm going to guess what it is. Are you thinking of it? Good.
It's 68.
Was I right? According to probability, I'm not likely to be. According to probability, on the average I would guess correctly for 1 out of every 100 people who read this post. I would guess that, given a large enough sample, it probably works out that way too. Does that mean people are actually capable of choosing random numbers? Would I be able to guess any better if I knew every experience you had ever had since birth? Probably not, but that doesn't mean that your choice wasn't influenced by those experiences.
Now take this little JavaScript I wrote to generate a random Sudoku puzzle. It generates a bunch of random numbers to fill in a grid, then randomly deletes pairs of cells such that it doesn't end up in multiple solutions. Now, is it truly random? No. I know for sure that it isn't. I know that when the script requests a random number, it looks at the system time, does some kind of math with it and returns the result. If I knew the exact system times when each random request was made and the math that was used to generate the number, I could calculate by hand the solution to the Sudoku puzzle the same way the computer did.
Ah, now we're getting to the heart of my point. Here's the thing, even if I could know all of the starting information and solve it by doing exactly what the computer did by hand, why the hell would I want to do that? What's the point? Is it faster that way? Not with my math skills. Is it more fun? I daresay it isn't. Similarly, even if I could somehow calculate "by hand" which random number you would have chosen, is it worth our time? Is nearly as amazing as my simply guessing it "at random" (assuming either one of those is amazing to any degree)?
See, the thing is, JavaScript’s random number generator is "good enough", as it serves our purposes for such a trivial task. Just like the number I asked you to choose randomly. Even if it wasn't random, it might as well be. It works the same for the universe. It might be deterministic, but it may as well be at least a little random because we can't ever know every state in one timeslice of existence and thus the starting conditions for it all.
I don't know that this argues that we should be mindful of our decisions and keep trying to improve our lives, but the possibility that it doesn't matter isn't going to stop me. If the universe IS deterministic, then things aren't going to just get better randomly. It's going to require the initial condition of effort on my part. My decision to make that effort might be predetermined, but I'm grateful that it is if that's the case. I also take comfort, like many people, in the fact that, whether the universe is random or deterministic, some events (most of them, in fact) really are beyond our control. It might not be the highest note to end on, but it serves its purpose.
Anyhow, on to determinism. The question in most people's minds, I think, when they think about determinism is whether a deterministic universe can allow free will. Also, many proponents of free will often wonder how a belief in determinism does not result in fatalism or defeatism. Ostensibly, it does seem rather contradictory to believe in both determinism and free will. It's a complicated question, and not one that I'm all that sure I can even begin to answer. I don't think my purpose is really to answer any questions, rather to hypothesize, or at least to ramble thoughtfully. What I'm trying to say is, don't take me too seriously.
Okay, so as a basic definition, determinism is the belief that every event, from the most trivial to the most significant, has a cause or set of causes. Physics suggests that the universe is at least partially deterministic. Psychology tells us that human behavior is deterministic to some degree. Causality is a deterministic concept and popular fodder for time-travel-loving sci-fi writers.
For society in general, feelings about determinism are complicated. Some say there's a reason for everything. Concepts of fate and destiny are romanticized in popular culture. When we see someone we pity doing something horrible, we say he can't help it. It's just the way he was raised, or he doesn't know any better. If some tragedy befalls us, it's not our fault. There were events beyond your control. Suggest to the average person, however, that every decision she makes or feeling she has is the end result of a sequence of events that chains back to the beginning of existence, and she will likely feel insulted, or at least be a little indignant at the suggestion that her thoughts are not completely her choice.
That is not to say that all determinists believe that our actions are predetermined. There are those who also believe in free will and even those who say that, despite the deterministic nature of the universe and its influence on our thoughts and feelings, we are still ultimately in control. As I've already said, I don't think I can answer the obvious questions that spring from this stance. All I can do is discuss my thoughts.
So, do I think our thoughts and feelings are predetermined? Well, as uncomfortable as the idea makes me, I'm kind of leaning towards yes. To me, thoughts and feelings are simply a sequence of complex chemical and electrical interactions. It might seem cold to reduce them to that, and I confess it is rather an oversimplification, but it's difficult for me to think otherwise, given my interpretation of what science has to say on the matter. If it can really be reduced to simply a sequence of chemical and electrical interactions, which by their nature are governed by the laws of physics, then how they could possibly be non-deterministic is beyond me.
Then what's the point of doing anything? Or deciding anything? If everything is predetermined, then what is the point of anything? Well, that attitude is fatalist, and I think you'll find that there are few determinists who are fatalists. Why? Well, to put it obviously, events that depend upon you doing them to get done won't get done if you decide not to do them. Of course, if that decision is not really in your control, that is to say, if whether or not you make that decision is based on every event in history since the beginning of time, then, again I ask, what is the point of "deciding" anything? Enough commas in that sentence for you?
Here's the problem with thinking of the universe in deterministic terms. It always leads to cyclic or self referential arguments. Whether it's about whether our decisions are our own or about the origin of a deterministic universe, we find ourselves getting caught up in the pointless infinite loop of logic that our limited brains must do when we try to reason about the unknowable.
The thing is, nothing is gained from the knowledge of whether or not the universe is deterministic. Even if we knew for certain that it was, it still wouldn't make the universe predictable. If the universe is truly deterministic, that would mean that if we knew every governing rule of existence and every single state of every infinitesimal piece therein, we could extrapolate future events with 100% accuracy. The problem is, that is not possible for us. No human brain, no matter how evolved, could hold that much information and process it fast enough to glean any useful information from it. Similarly, we could never build a computer that could do it either. In order to hold the state of every infinitesimal piece of existence, first of all, we would have to have discovered them all first, and second of all, we would have to be able to hold an infinite amount of stuff in memory. Even if there is only a finite amount of information in a single slice of time in existence, the computer would also have to have a simulation of itself in its simulation of the universe. And we're back to the self-referencing problem we had earlier. Even the finite information would become infinite because the simulation of the computer simulating the universe would have the same simulation of the universe running inside it, which would contain the same simulated computer running a simulation...ad infinitum.
Let me explain why it doesn't matter in simpler terms. Pick a random number between 1 and 100. Ok, now I'm going to guess what it is. Are you thinking of it? Good.
It's 68.
Was I right? According to probability, I'm not likely to be. According to probability, on the average I would guess correctly for 1 out of every 100 people who read this post. I would guess that, given a large enough sample, it probably works out that way too. Does that mean people are actually capable of choosing random numbers? Would I be able to guess any better if I knew every experience you had ever had since birth? Probably not, but that doesn't mean that your choice wasn't influenced by those experiences.
Now take this little JavaScript I wrote to generate a random Sudoku puzzle. It generates a bunch of random numbers to fill in a grid, then randomly deletes pairs of cells such that it doesn't end up in multiple solutions. Now, is it truly random? No. I know for sure that it isn't. I know that when the script requests a random number, it looks at the system time, does some kind of math with it and returns the result. If I knew the exact system times when each random request was made and the math that was used to generate the number, I could calculate by hand the solution to the Sudoku puzzle the same way the computer did.
Ah, now we're getting to the heart of my point. Here's the thing, even if I could know all of the starting information and solve it by doing exactly what the computer did by hand, why the hell would I want to do that? What's the point? Is it faster that way? Not with my math skills. Is it more fun? I daresay it isn't. Similarly, even if I could somehow calculate "by hand" which random number you would have chosen, is it worth our time? Is nearly as amazing as my simply guessing it "at random" (assuming either one of those is amazing to any degree)?
See, the thing is, JavaScript’s random number generator is "good enough", as it serves our purposes for such a trivial task. Just like the number I asked you to choose randomly. Even if it wasn't random, it might as well be. It works the same for the universe. It might be deterministic, but it may as well be at least a little random because we can't ever know every state in one timeslice of existence and thus the starting conditions for it all.
I don't know that this argues that we should be mindful of our decisions and keep trying to improve our lives, but the possibility that it doesn't matter isn't going to stop me. If the universe IS deterministic, then things aren't going to just get better randomly. It's going to require the initial condition of effort on my part. My decision to make that effort might be predetermined, but I'm grateful that it is if that's the case. I also take comfort, like many people, in the fact that, whether the universe is random or deterministic, some events (most of them, in fact) really are beyond our control. It might not be the highest note to end on, but it serves its purpose.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Vote or...Regret Not Having Voted
Okay America, I'm not going to threaten you with death if you don't go to the polls for any of your states' primaries or for the general election in the fall. I will say, though, that it has never been clearer in the history of our "democracy" (really a republic) that your vote does count, and with so many elections in the past several years being won, or even stolen, by such small margins, it is crucial that everyone who is concerned with the state of our government or our future as a country gets out and votes.
I definitely understand that the system can be frustrating sometimes, and I know how hard working up the motivation to participate can be. Trust me; I was there. It's the age old reasoning of, "I'm just one person in a country of 300 million. How does my vote even count?" Well, I'm here to tell you, it friggin' counts. If everyone in the country had this philosophy, we'd have to revamp the entire system so that people in power get to decide who the torch gets passed to, if it gets passed at all. There are many examples throughout history of governments set up that way. How many of them have been successful? How many of the people living under those types of rule have been happy?
Okay, so it's unlikely that it would ever happen that no one in the country went to the polls during an election, but let's look at something more realistic. Do you know what kind of people consistently head to the polls without fail? It is people who are passionate about the issues. And while the breakdown of voters registered as either Republican, Democrat or Other is pretty even, people who lean far left or far right on the issues are more likely to be passionate about the issues than someone who is more toward the center.
Before I continue, let me just say that the above statement is merely an observation from my own experience. I do not have any hard research to back this up, but aside from anecdotal evidence, there is a dynamic in this country's politics that seems to support it. Look at how polarized politics have become. Of course, there have been some pretty important issues to get people on both sides of "the aisle" worked up, but it has only helped to solidify and exacerbate a system of opposition that has been building for decades. The rhetoric out of Washington almost forces us to choose a side all the way. There's almost no middle ground any more.
But if you want my opinion, our country by its very nature is not "far left" or "far right". When I talk to people casually on the issues, there is usually a gray area. People who say, for example, that they agree with the war but not how we went about it, or that they don't agree with it but that now that we're in, we just can't leave. Sure, there are those Bush-is-right-always-has-been-and-always-will-be people out there, just as there are those on the opposite side, but there aren't as many as the current state of politics and the media would have us believe. The problem is that the people on the outer extremes of the scale have the loudest, and often most obnoxious voices.
I say let the voices in the middle rise up and drown out the fanatics who want to turn our country into either a left wing Utopia or a right wing Paradise. Because either case would be neither Utopia nor Paradise. Be passionate about the issues without being extreme. Vote always to help make our government more effective instead of more factional. And you do have the right to bitch, even if you don't vote, but realize that if you didn't contribute, it's your own damn fault.
Obama'08: Change We Can Believe In.
I definitely understand that the system can be frustrating sometimes, and I know how hard working up the motivation to participate can be. Trust me; I was there. It's the age old reasoning of, "I'm just one person in a country of 300 million. How does my vote even count?" Well, I'm here to tell you, it friggin' counts. If everyone in the country had this philosophy, we'd have to revamp the entire system so that people in power get to decide who the torch gets passed to, if it gets passed at all. There are many examples throughout history of governments set up that way. How many of them have been successful? How many of the people living under those types of rule have been happy?
Okay, so it's unlikely that it would ever happen that no one in the country went to the polls during an election, but let's look at something more realistic. Do you know what kind of people consistently head to the polls without fail? It is people who are passionate about the issues. And while the breakdown of voters registered as either Republican, Democrat or Other is pretty even, people who lean far left or far right on the issues are more likely to be passionate about the issues than someone who is more toward the center.
Before I continue, let me just say that the above statement is merely an observation from my own experience. I do not have any hard research to back this up, but aside from anecdotal evidence, there is a dynamic in this country's politics that seems to support it. Look at how polarized politics have become. Of course, there have been some pretty important issues to get people on both sides of "the aisle" worked up, but it has only helped to solidify and exacerbate a system of opposition that has been building for decades. The rhetoric out of Washington almost forces us to choose a side all the way. There's almost no middle ground any more.
But if you want my opinion, our country by its very nature is not "far left" or "far right". When I talk to people casually on the issues, there is usually a gray area. People who say, for example, that they agree with the war but not how we went about it, or that they don't agree with it but that now that we're in, we just can't leave. Sure, there are those Bush-is-right-always-has-been-and-always-will-be people out there, just as there are those on the opposite side, but there aren't as many as the current state of politics and the media would have us believe. The problem is that the people on the outer extremes of the scale have the loudest, and often most obnoxious voices.
I say let the voices in the middle rise up and drown out the fanatics who want to turn our country into either a left wing Utopia or a right wing Paradise. Because either case would be neither Utopia nor Paradise. Be passionate about the issues without being extreme. Vote always to help make our government more effective instead of more factional. And you do have the right to bitch, even if you don't vote, but realize that if you didn't contribute, it's your own damn fault.
Obama'08: Change We Can Believe In.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Letters from the Lost Man, Part 13
"You have a concussion," the doctor answers. "It's not uncommon to have feelings of displacement or hallucinations. Your brain took quite a rap."
I nod. "Makes sense, I guess." I really wish I knew more about medicine. I have no way to verify what he's saying. All I know is, something weird is going on.
"The most important thing," the doctor adds, "is that you get some rest. Your body needs to heal after that accident."
Again, I nod.
A nurse walks in. "Mr. Menda? You have a visitor."
I look around. The doctor and I are the only two people in the room. I point to myself with a puzzled expression.
"You are Michael Menda, correct?" the nurse asks.
Something about that sounds familiar. With both the doctor and nurse staring at me concernedly, I nod.
"You have a visitor," the nurse informs me. She steps away from the door. A woman enters from the hallway. It's my wife, Linda.
She runs to my bedside. "Oh, Mike, are you okay?" she asks, relieved tears in her eyes.
"I think so," I tell her, "but I'm pretty beat up. Doctor says I need to rest."
She nods, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "I was so worried. Thank God you're okay," she sighs as she pulls me into a tight embrace.
The hug is a little uncomfortable physically, but it's very comforting and familiar. I can feel the confusion starting to lift as bits of my life come back to me.
"Listen to me, Richard," Linda says gravely in another woman's voice.
Great... Just when things are starting to make sense again.
"Don't react," she says calmly. "Don't let on to the doctor that you can hear me. Just act like nothing is out of the ordinary."
Sure, and after that maybe I'll levitate off my bed and recite Pi to 1200 places. Nothing could be easier.
"I know it's tough, Richard," the strange voice coming from my wife says, while she straightens the bed sheets over me. Her eyes do not betray any hint of this conversation.
"Okay," I say, trying to look comfortable.
"Don't say anything," she whispers quickly. "I know it seems like I'm talking to you through someone, but that's only in your mind."
Only in my mind. Fantastic. I'm going crazy.
"Your not crazy, Richard," the woman's voice reassures me.
Okay, that's kind of freaky. Did she just read my thoughts?
"I can hear some of what you're thinking," she confirms. "But it's only the more simple thoughts right now. As we figure this out more, it should become easier for you."
What the hell is going on?
Just then, the doctor looks up from his notes. "If you're feeling fine right now, Mr. Menda, I will go ahead and take my leave. The nurse will be in to check on you periodically."
I blink at him for a few seconds, having completely forgotten he was even in the room. "Oh, yeah," I mumble.
"We'll probably keep you overnight for observation, but you should be able to go home tomorrow," he explains.
"Oh, okay," I say dumbly.
"Thank you so much, doctor," my wife says in her own voice.
I glance at her suspiciously. She returns my look with a loving smile.
"My pleasure," the doctor says, standing and hurrying out of the room.
Linda gazes down at me and runs her fingers through my hair gently. "Okay, now listen closely," she says in the other woman's voice.
"Do you really have to do that? It totally freaks me out," I snap.
Linda freezes and drops her hand back to her side. "I'm sorry, honey, I'm just trying to comfort you," she says in her own, hurt voice.
"Apologize to her," the other woman's voice says.
Jesus, this is confusing. "I'm sorry, babe. I don't know why I said that. Must've bumped my head pretty bad."
"It's okay," Linda nods, patting my hand.
"I'm sorry about how uncomfortable this is, Richard," the other woman says through my wife's freakishly moving lips. "It's the only way I can talk to you without raising suspicion. Well, that and I can't really figure out another way. If you just act naturally, I will try to explain."
I lay back and try to look comfortable...and comforted.
"My name is Loretta Vine," the woman's voice says. "I was once the assistant of a Doctor Hans Spector, a medical researcher employed by a U.S. government agency. You and I are currently undergoing experimental rehabilitation treatment. Nothing that you currently see around you is really happening. It is all a fabrication generated by a computer that is directly stimulating nerve cells in your brain.
"Richard," she sighs apologetically, "they've erased our memories and are trying to program us with new ones. They're trying to give us new lives against our wills."
I lay there in stunned silence. Slowly, I begin to realize that something doesn't quite make sense with her story. If her memory was erased as well, then how is she here explaining all this to me?
"I know you're confused," Loretta's voice says. "It's quiet in here, want to watch TV?"
"Huh?" I can't help but ask.
My wife repeats, "Want to watch TV? It's just so quiet."
"Oh," I nod. "Sure."
"You feeling alright, baby?" she asks.
"Yeah, just tired," I reply. Tired and utterly perplexed.
She picks up the remote. "TV will help. Maybe you'll fall asleep to it," she suggests.
"Maybe," I agree, managing a smile.
"I know your confused, Richard," Loretta's voice repeats as my wife turns on the television and begins to channel surf.
Damn straight...
"I'm trying to hack my way into other parts of the system so that we can make this a little easier or maybe even get out of here," Loretta tells me.
"The truth is," she continues, "I'm not really even sure how I've managed to get to where I am, but somebody must have really overlooked my readouts. It's too late now. I've set it up so that everything will look normal for a while. I'll need to go soon so I can shore it up a little better though."
How do I even know any of this is real?
"It's real, Richard," Loretta answers my unspoken question. "You know it's real, deep down inside. Just keep acting natural, no matter what happens. If something seems out of the ordinary, it is your brain trying to reject the programming and remember its true life. If you react too much to it, it will set off alarms in the monitoring program, which will increase the amount of medication flowing into you and cause the program to refocus its attention on the part of your brain that's rebelling. If it gets too bad, Dr. Spector and his team will go in manually to reset the project. I'm not sure how I'll get to you again if that happens."
Chills shoot up and down my spine. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck bristles. I really don't like the sound of that last part.
***
I nod. "Makes sense, I guess." I really wish I knew more about medicine. I have no way to verify what he's saying. All I know is, something weird is going on.
"The most important thing," the doctor adds, "is that you get some rest. Your body needs to heal after that accident."
Again, I nod.
A nurse walks in. "Mr. Menda? You have a visitor."
I look around. The doctor and I are the only two people in the room. I point to myself with a puzzled expression.
"You are Michael Menda, correct?" the nurse asks.
Something about that sounds familiar. With both the doctor and nurse staring at me concernedly, I nod.
"You have a visitor," the nurse informs me. She steps away from the door. A woman enters from the hallway. It's my wife, Linda.
She runs to my bedside. "Oh, Mike, are you okay?" she asks, relieved tears in her eyes.
"I think so," I tell her, "but I'm pretty beat up. Doctor says I need to rest."
She nods, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "I was so worried. Thank God you're okay," she sighs as she pulls me into a tight embrace.
The hug is a little uncomfortable physically, but it's very comforting and familiar. I can feel the confusion starting to lift as bits of my life come back to me.
"Listen to me, Richard," Linda says gravely in another woman's voice.
Great... Just when things are starting to make sense again.
"Don't react," she says calmly. "Don't let on to the doctor that you can hear me. Just act like nothing is out of the ordinary."
Sure, and after that maybe I'll levitate off my bed and recite Pi to 1200 places. Nothing could be easier.
"I know it's tough, Richard," the strange voice coming from my wife says, while she straightens the bed sheets over me. Her eyes do not betray any hint of this conversation.
"Okay," I say, trying to look comfortable.
"Don't say anything," she whispers quickly. "I know it seems like I'm talking to you through someone, but that's only in your mind."
Only in my mind. Fantastic. I'm going crazy.
"Your not crazy, Richard," the woman's voice reassures me.
Okay, that's kind of freaky. Did she just read my thoughts?
"I can hear some of what you're thinking," she confirms. "But it's only the more simple thoughts right now. As we figure this out more, it should become easier for you."
What the hell is going on?
Just then, the doctor looks up from his notes. "If you're feeling fine right now, Mr. Menda, I will go ahead and take my leave. The nurse will be in to check on you periodically."
I blink at him for a few seconds, having completely forgotten he was even in the room. "Oh, yeah," I mumble.
"We'll probably keep you overnight for observation, but you should be able to go home tomorrow," he explains.
"Oh, okay," I say dumbly.
"Thank you so much, doctor," my wife says in her own voice.
I glance at her suspiciously. She returns my look with a loving smile.
"My pleasure," the doctor says, standing and hurrying out of the room.
Linda gazes down at me and runs her fingers through my hair gently. "Okay, now listen closely," she says in the other woman's voice.
"Do you really have to do that? It totally freaks me out," I snap.
Linda freezes and drops her hand back to her side. "I'm sorry, honey, I'm just trying to comfort you," she says in her own, hurt voice.
"Apologize to her," the other woman's voice says.
Jesus, this is confusing. "I'm sorry, babe. I don't know why I said that. Must've bumped my head pretty bad."
"It's okay," Linda nods, patting my hand.
"I'm sorry about how uncomfortable this is, Richard," the other woman says through my wife's freakishly moving lips. "It's the only way I can talk to you without raising suspicion. Well, that and I can't really figure out another way. If you just act naturally, I will try to explain."
I lay back and try to look comfortable...and comforted.
"My name is Loretta Vine," the woman's voice says. "I was once the assistant of a Doctor Hans Spector, a medical researcher employed by a U.S. government agency. You and I are currently undergoing experimental rehabilitation treatment. Nothing that you currently see around you is really happening. It is all a fabrication generated by a computer that is directly stimulating nerve cells in your brain.
"Richard," she sighs apologetically, "they've erased our memories and are trying to program us with new ones. They're trying to give us new lives against our wills."
I lay there in stunned silence. Slowly, I begin to realize that something doesn't quite make sense with her story. If her memory was erased as well, then how is she here explaining all this to me?
"I know you're confused," Loretta's voice says. "It's quiet in here, want to watch TV?"
"Huh?" I can't help but ask.
My wife repeats, "Want to watch TV? It's just so quiet."
"Oh," I nod. "Sure."
"You feeling alright, baby?" she asks.
"Yeah, just tired," I reply. Tired and utterly perplexed.
She picks up the remote. "TV will help. Maybe you'll fall asleep to it," she suggests.
"Maybe," I agree, managing a smile.
"I know your confused, Richard," Loretta's voice repeats as my wife turns on the television and begins to channel surf.
Damn straight...
"I'm trying to hack my way into other parts of the system so that we can make this a little easier or maybe even get out of here," Loretta tells me.
"The truth is," she continues, "I'm not really even sure how I've managed to get to where I am, but somebody must have really overlooked my readouts. It's too late now. I've set it up so that everything will look normal for a while. I'll need to go soon so I can shore it up a little better though."
How do I even know any of this is real?
"It's real, Richard," Loretta answers my unspoken question. "You know it's real, deep down inside. Just keep acting natural, no matter what happens. If something seems out of the ordinary, it is your brain trying to reject the programming and remember its true life. If you react too much to it, it will set off alarms in the monitoring program, which will increase the amount of medication flowing into you and cause the program to refocus its attention on the part of your brain that's rebelling. If it gets too bad, Dr. Spector and his team will go in manually to reset the project. I'm not sure how I'll get to you again if that happens."
Chills shoot up and down my spine. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck bristles. I really don't like the sound of that last part.
***
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Letters from the Lost Man, Part 12
Simple efficiency is so easily screwed up. And the alarm clock isn't always so effective, especially when you forget to set it. This is how I find myself standing in line at the local bookstore coffee shop for a breakfast of espresso and a blueberry cream cheese muffin. There's something I resent about this, but I can't figure out exactly what it is. Maybe I'm mad because I know I'm going to crash hard about thirty minutes after wolfing this down. Or maybe it's just that the girl behind the counter doesn't seem to realize that people have to get to work at this hour of the morning.
Ten aggravating minutes later, I step out of the bookstore, artery-clogging, heart-hasting breakfast in-hand. Immediately, I am accosted by a man who has obviously seen better days. His tattered jeans and filthy winter jacket worn in the toasty mid-summer morning seem to do nothing to draw attention from his few splayed brown teeth or the way the dirt on his face transitions evenly into his patchy brown stubble. He's carrying what looks like a big black blanket under his arm.
"Hey, listen, man," he says to me, his slurred speech propelling his sour, alcohol-laden breath toward my unprepared nose. "Listen, I got my wife and kid in the car two miles up the road. We ran outta gas last night and I been tryin' to get some help. If you could just spare five bucks, it would really help me out."
I can't help but raise a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm sorry, man, I never carry cash," I lie.
He eyes the bag containing my muffin hungrily. "Well, if you could just spare some change, maybe. We're tryin' to get to the hospital. See, I broke my thumb and the veteran's hospital won't see me 'cause they lost my paperwork. Gave ten years of my life for this country and got an honorable discharge and now they won't even help."
I grit my teeth impatiently. "Hey, man, I really am sorry. I don't have any change. I wish you the best of luck," I tell him, turning to hurry back to the car.
"I'm awfully hungry, walking up and down all night," he calls after me. "Gotta get to the hospital and see Dr. Spector. He'll help."
I freeze. Looking back slowly, I ask, "What did you just say?"
"I said I gotta get to the hospital and get my thumb looked at," he says, holding up the grimy digit.
"What was the doctor's name?" I clarify insistently.
His thick eyebrows come together. "I don't know, man, I ain't been there yet."
For the first time, I'm really looking at him. Now that I'm taking the time to study his features, there's something eerily familiar about him. I narrow my eyes. "Who are you?" I ask.
"I'm, uh..." he says uncertainly.
"What's your name?" I demand loudly. Bookstore patrons coming through the parking lot look over curiously.
"I...I don't remember," he stammers.
"You're lying!" I shout. "Tell me your name!"
He flinches and recoils a bit, starting to step backwards. "Listen, man, I don't know who you are, but you're starting to freak me out."
"Is there a problem here?" a stern voice calls out from nearby.
I look at the source of the voice. A police officer is walking up, hand on the gun by his hip.
"Oh...no, officer, it's fine. I was just..." I look back to indicate the strange homeless guy, but he's gone. I look around in confusion.
"Are you feeling all right, sir?" the policeman asks me with a tone of suspicion.
I nod slowly, staring at the spot where that guy was just standing. "I'm fine, officer. Sorry for the disturbance." I look over at him and force a smile. "It's early," I explain weakly.
The cop nods back, still eyeing me with uncertainty.
"I'll just be...heading to work now," I tell him with a questioning tone.
"Maybe you had better do that," he suggests.
I take the hint, and my leave. As I weave my way through traffic and sip my coffee, the whole incident fades in my memory until it seems almost like a strange dream. Could I really have just randomly started yelling at a homeless guy? All he did was ask me for change. And he said something else...what was it? And where did he go when the cop came up?
It's too early for this. I just shake it off and continue sipping my coffee as I hurtle down the highway at 80 mph. My muffin is calling to me through the bag. I glance over at it, my mouth watering. Setting my cup in the holder, I reach for my breakfast.
The sudden blare of a horn snaps my attention back to the road. I've drifted dangerously close to a car in the next lane. I swerve to get back into my lane. For a sickening moment, I feel the tires lose traction. I spin the wheel in the opposite direction. Rubber catches asphalt and there's a screech as the back end of my car swings around in an arc. For an instant, I see the terrified face of the guy passing me as my car spins to face his. He accelerates and the last thing I see before the world flips upside down is his receding rear bumper.
Hot coffee splashes onto my right hand, but my scream is drowned out by the breaking of glass and the groaning din of metal hitting the asphalt at high velocity. Though I try to regain my bearings in the rotating crash, my limbs flop around limply, smashing into various surfaces and breaking or bruising more than I care to think about. The seatbelt suddenly strains against my hips as my roof smacks once more into the ground. I close my eyes and try to cover myself while glass, metal and plastic bombard me from all angles. Over the noise of my vehicle succumbing inevitably to the laws of physics, I can hear tires squealing and horns sounding from various directions.
After what seems like an hour, the car stops rolling and comes to a rocking halt in the middle of the road. It smells like burnt motor oil and coffee. Somehow, I lived through it. I can't help but wonder if the muffin was really worth all this. I open my eyes and look over. The bag with the muffin is sitting on the roof next to me. The odd placement of it and the building pressure in my head helps me realize that I'm upside down. Trying to place myself in a position that won't leave me falling on my head, I undo my seatbelt. I guess those things really do save lives.
I squirm out of my seat and start crawling toward the opening where there used to be a windshield. The distant sound of sirens drifts over the hum of a freshly made traffic jam. As broken glass crunches under me, I realize how much pain I'm in. I'm sure I have a few broken bones, not to mention several cuts, scrapes and bruises.
"Hey, you okay, buddy?" a voice calls out to me. There's a guy kneeling in front of my overturned car reaching for me. "Gimme your hand."
I reach over and he helps pull me out from under the wreckage. I nod to him gratefully and turn to survey the damage. It's pretty bad. The sound of sirens gets closer. An intense feeling of déjà vu washes over me. I'm pretty sure I've never been in an accident like this, but there's something about it that seems really familiar.
"Let's move away," the helpful guy tells me, nodding toward the smoke beginning to rise from the engine.
With his help, I limp away from the mess, eying it as though it were a ticking bomb. The volume of the sirens increases significantly. I can see the fire rescue speeding toward us on the shoulder. I look back toward the wreck. A prickly chill runs all through my body...there's a woman in my car.
Hanging upside down from the driver's seat is a blonde woman, her eyes closed, scratches and bruises all over her face. "Oh my god," I say, starting to walk back toward the vehicle.
"Whoa! Whoa, hey buddy. You should stay here," the guy who helped me says.
I look back at him incredulously. "But, we have to save that woman," I explain.
He looks over to the wreckage. "What woman?"
"That wom-" I start to point out to him, but when I turn back to the car, she's gone.
"It's okay, man," the guy reassures me. "Listen, the paramedics are here. Let's get them to take a look at you."
I nod slowly and let him guide me to the approaching help. Maybe I'm in shock. I can do little else besides stare blankly as the paramedics look me over. They decide I need a hospital visit and close me into the ambulance and take off. Through the back window, I can see the smoke from my wreck rising into the sky. What the hell is going on with this morning?
The ride to the hospital seems to go by in a flash, though that might be because I was spacing out the whole time. They bring me in on a stretcher. It feels good to lie down. I'm feeling pretty tired at this point, but one of the paramedics warns me about going to sleep. He says I might have a concussion. They wheel me into a hospital room and a nurse comes in and hands them some paperwork and starts checking me over.
"Richard, it's me...Loretta," she says.
I sit up quickly. "What?" I shout.
"Sir, please lie down and remain calm," the nurse urges. She looks slightly different than she did just a moment ago.
"B-but..." I stammer in confusion.
"Loretta, Richard. C'mon, remember," the nurse's mouth moves as she appears to go about her business.
"My name isn't Richard, it's..." I start to explain to her, but for some reason, I just can't remember my name.
The nurse looks concerned. "Okay, sir. I'm going to go get the doctor," she says to me, then to one of the paramedics, "Keep an eye on him."
I watch her go. My head starts to hurt. Everything's swimming. I hear the paramedic start to say something to me. His voice sounds muffled. He's shaking me. It's no use, buddy. I'm going down. The darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision. Ah, blissful unconsciousness.
***
Ten aggravating minutes later, I step out of the bookstore, artery-clogging, heart-hasting breakfast in-hand. Immediately, I am accosted by a man who has obviously seen better days. His tattered jeans and filthy winter jacket worn in the toasty mid-summer morning seem to do nothing to draw attention from his few splayed brown teeth or the way the dirt on his face transitions evenly into his patchy brown stubble. He's carrying what looks like a big black blanket under his arm.
"Hey, listen, man," he says to me, his slurred speech propelling his sour, alcohol-laden breath toward my unprepared nose. "Listen, I got my wife and kid in the car two miles up the road. We ran outta gas last night and I been tryin' to get some help. If you could just spare five bucks, it would really help me out."
I can't help but raise a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm sorry, man, I never carry cash," I lie.
He eyes the bag containing my muffin hungrily. "Well, if you could just spare some change, maybe. We're tryin' to get to the hospital. See, I broke my thumb and the veteran's hospital won't see me 'cause they lost my paperwork. Gave ten years of my life for this country and got an honorable discharge and now they won't even help."
I grit my teeth impatiently. "Hey, man, I really am sorry. I don't have any change. I wish you the best of luck," I tell him, turning to hurry back to the car.
"I'm awfully hungry, walking up and down all night," he calls after me. "Gotta get to the hospital and see Dr. Spector. He'll help."
I freeze. Looking back slowly, I ask, "What did you just say?"
"I said I gotta get to the hospital and get my thumb looked at," he says, holding up the grimy digit.
"What was the doctor's name?" I clarify insistently.
His thick eyebrows come together. "I don't know, man, I ain't been there yet."
For the first time, I'm really looking at him. Now that I'm taking the time to study his features, there's something eerily familiar about him. I narrow my eyes. "Who are you?" I ask.
"I'm, uh..." he says uncertainly.
"What's your name?" I demand loudly. Bookstore patrons coming through the parking lot look over curiously.
"I...I don't remember," he stammers.
"You're lying!" I shout. "Tell me your name!"
He flinches and recoils a bit, starting to step backwards. "Listen, man, I don't know who you are, but you're starting to freak me out."
"Is there a problem here?" a stern voice calls out from nearby.
I look at the source of the voice. A police officer is walking up, hand on the gun by his hip.
"Oh...no, officer, it's fine. I was just..." I look back to indicate the strange homeless guy, but he's gone. I look around in confusion.
"Are you feeling all right, sir?" the policeman asks me with a tone of suspicion.
I nod slowly, staring at the spot where that guy was just standing. "I'm fine, officer. Sorry for the disturbance." I look over at him and force a smile. "It's early," I explain weakly.
The cop nods back, still eyeing me with uncertainty.
"I'll just be...heading to work now," I tell him with a questioning tone.
"Maybe you had better do that," he suggests.
I take the hint, and my leave. As I weave my way through traffic and sip my coffee, the whole incident fades in my memory until it seems almost like a strange dream. Could I really have just randomly started yelling at a homeless guy? All he did was ask me for change. And he said something else...what was it? And where did he go when the cop came up?
It's too early for this. I just shake it off and continue sipping my coffee as I hurtle down the highway at 80 mph. My muffin is calling to me through the bag. I glance over at it, my mouth watering. Setting my cup in the holder, I reach for my breakfast.
The sudden blare of a horn snaps my attention back to the road. I've drifted dangerously close to a car in the next lane. I swerve to get back into my lane. For a sickening moment, I feel the tires lose traction. I spin the wheel in the opposite direction. Rubber catches asphalt and there's a screech as the back end of my car swings around in an arc. For an instant, I see the terrified face of the guy passing me as my car spins to face his. He accelerates and the last thing I see before the world flips upside down is his receding rear bumper.
Hot coffee splashes onto my right hand, but my scream is drowned out by the breaking of glass and the groaning din of metal hitting the asphalt at high velocity. Though I try to regain my bearings in the rotating crash, my limbs flop around limply, smashing into various surfaces and breaking or bruising more than I care to think about. The seatbelt suddenly strains against my hips as my roof smacks once more into the ground. I close my eyes and try to cover myself while glass, metal and plastic bombard me from all angles. Over the noise of my vehicle succumbing inevitably to the laws of physics, I can hear tires squealing and horns sounding from various directions.
After what seems like an hour, the car stops rolling and comes to a rocking halt in the middle of the road. It smells like burnt motor oil and coffee. Somehow, I lived through it. I can't help but wonder if the muffin was really worth all this. I open my eyes and look over. The bag with the muffin is sitting on the roof next to me. The odd placement of it and the building pressure in my head helps me realize that I'm upside down. Trying to place myself in a position that won't leave me falling on my head, I undo my seatbelt. I guess those things really do save lives.
I squirm out of my seat and start crawling toward the opening where there used to be a windshield. The distant sound of sirens drifts over the hum of a freshly made traffic jam. As broken glass crunches under me, I realize how much pain I'm in. I'm sure I have a few broken bones, not to mention several cuts, scrapes and bruises.
"Hey, you okay, buddy?" a voice calls out to me. There's a guy kneeling in front of my overturned car reaching for me. "Gimme your hand."
I reach over and he helps pull me out from under the wreckage. I nod to him gratefully and turn to survey the damage. It's pretty bad. The sound of sirens gets closer. An intense feeling of déjà vu washes over me. I'm pretty sure I've never been in an accident like this, but there's something about it that seems really familiar.
"Let's move away," the helpful guy tells me, nodding toward the smoke beginning to rise from the engine.
With his help, I limp away from the mess, eying it as though it were a ticking bomb. The volume of the sirens increases significantly. I can see the fire rescue speeding toward us on the shoulder. I look back toward the wreck. A prickly chill runs all through my body...there's a woman in my car.
Hanging upside down from the driver's seat is a blonde woman, her eyes closed, scratches and bruises all over her face. "Oh my god," I say, starting to walk back toward the vehicle.
"Whoa! Whoa, hey buddy. You should stay here," the guy who helped me says.
I look back at him incredulously. "But, we have to save that woman," I explain.
He looks over to the wreckage. "What woman?"
"That wom-" I start to point out to him, but when I turn back to the car, she's gone.
"It's okay, man," the guy reassures me. "Listen, the paramedics are here. Let's get them to take a look at you."
I nod slowly and let him guide me to the approaching help. Maybe I'm in shock. I can do little else besides stare blankly as the paramedics look me over. They decide I need a hospital visit and close me into the ambulance and take off. Through the back window, I can see the smoke from my wreck rising into the sky. What the hell is going on with this morning?
The ride to the hospital seems to go by in a flash, though that might be because I was spacing out the whole time. They bring me in on a stretcher. It feels good to lie down. I'm feeling pretty tired at this point, but one of the paramedics warns me about going to sleep. He says I might have a concussion. They wheel me into a hospital room and a nurse comes in and hands them some paperwork and starts checking me over.
"Richard, it's me...Loretta," she says.
I sit up quickly. "What?" I shout.
"Sir, please lie down and remain calm," the nurse urges. She looks slightly different than she did just a moment ago.
"B-but..." I stammer in confusion.
"Loretta, Richard. C'mon, remember," the nurse's mouth moves as she appears to go about her business.
"My name isn't Richard, it's..." I start to explain to her, but for some reason, I just can't remember my name.
The nurse looks concerned. "Okay, sir. I'm going to go get the doctor," she says to me, then to one of the paramedics, "Keep an eye on him."
I watch her go. My head starts to hurt. Everything's swimming. I hear the paramedic start to say something to me. His voice sounds muffled. He's shaking me. It's no use, buddy. I'm going down. The darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision. Ah, blissful unconsciousness.
***
Monday, September 24, 2007
Sticks and Stones...
Poor Gen. Dave Petraeus. It must be difficult to be a man in his position. On one side he has the perpetrators of the biggest conflict of this generation putting him in charge of said conflict and asking him to give America a warm fuzzy about its progress. On the other side he has a wiser American public, weary and wary of the misinformation, propaganda and all-out deception of a war-hungry administration, futilely grasping at any defense of its poor decisions.
MoveOn.org purchased an ad in the New York Times featuring a large photo of the general and a headline that pondered, "General Petraeus, or General Betray Us?" It accuses Petraeus of "cooking the books" on the progress in the Iraq conflict. No doubt, things are not going as swimmingly as the general's report seemed to suggest (not that I'm saying he thinks it's going swimmingly). Time after time we hear word from the administration that progress is being made, only to have that word contradicted and dashed by the media, who continue to report the unabated deaths of Iraqis and Americans alike in this increasingly thickening "quagmire".
At this point, it's difficult to take any positive reports on the situation in Iraq seriously, and as responsible citizens, it is our duty to question our leadership for nothing less than the truth. As such, it's not surprising to see public outcries like MoveOn.org's in the New York Times. The wording of the ad was, perhaps, a bit harsh, and those of us who speak out should be sure to phrase our dissent in a way that doesn't give the opposition more ammunition to help redirect the focus of the issues at hand.
Case in point, Senate voted on a bill to "strongly condemn personal attacks" on the general and the US military. This resolution, proposed by Republican John Cornyn (R-TX), and subsequent overwhelming majority approval just shows how desperate defenders of the war are to...well, defend the war. With so many important issues the senate could be resolving right now, they actually took the time to vote on a resolution that brushes dangerously with the first amendment, not a first for our demonstrably capable (read with sarcasm) congress.
And before anyone pipes up about libel and slander, I urge you to look up those concepts and do your homework before you say something that tells all of us that you have no idea what you're talking about. Libel has to be falsifiable for it to be considered as such, and try all you like, there's nothing you can say to convince the American public in general that Petraeus and the administration isn't heavily sugar-coating the information. The MoveOn.org ad doesn't qualify, but Senate's actions come frighteningly close to censorship, and you all know how I feel about that!
My point is, in these emotionally and politically charged times, lots of words are flung around by all sides. It's easy to get caught up in the game of language when quippy headlines, powerful speeches, and mudslinging advertising are given so much attention, but we must remember that words are not actions. If they were, the current administration would be able to turn Iraq around by merely continuing to say that everything's okey-dokey. Neither "side" should be bothered by the other wielding words as weapons because words are only as powerful as we allow them to be, and Senate made MoveOn.org's words powerful indeed.
MoveOn.org purchased an ad in the New York Times featuring a large photo of the general and a headline that pondered, "General Petraeus, or General Betray Us?" It accuses Petraeus of "cooking the books" on the progress in the Iraq conflict. No doubt, things are not going as swimmingly as the general's report seemed to suggest (not that I'm saying he thinks it's going swimmingly). Time after time we hear word from the administration that progress is being made, only to have that word contradicted and dashed by the media, who continue to report the unabated deaths of Iraqis and Americans alike in this increasingly thickening "quagmire".
At this point, it's difficult to take any positive reports on the situation in Iraq seriously, and as responsible citizens, it is our duty to question our leadership for nothing less than the truth. As such, it's not surprising to see public outcries like MoveOn.org's in the New York Times. The wording of the ad was, perhaps, a bit harsh, and those of us who speak out should be sure to phrase our dissent in a way that doesn't give the opposition more ammunition to help redirect the focus of the issues at hand.
Case in point, Senate voted on a bill to "strongly condemn personal attacks" on the general and the US military. This resolution, proposed by Republican John Cornyn (R-TX), and subsequent overwhelming majority approval just shows how desperate defenders of the war are to...well, defend the war. With so many important issues the senate could be resolving right now, they actually took the time to vote on a resolution that brushes dangerously with the first amendment, not a first for our demonstrably capable (read with sarcasm) congress.
And before anyone pipes up about libel and slander, I urge you to look up those concepts and do your homework before you say something that tells all of us that you have no idea what you're talking about. Libel has to be falsifiable for it to be considered as such, and try all you like, there's nothing you can say to convince the American public in general that Petraeus and the administration isn't heavily sugar-coating the information. The MoveOn.org ad doesn't qualify, but Senate's actions come frighteningly close to censorship, and you all know how I feel about that!
My point is, in these emotionally and politically charged times, lots of words are flung around by all sides. It's easy to get caught up in the game of language when quippy headlines, powerful speeches, and mudslinging advertising are given so much attention, but we must remember that words are not actions. If they were, the current administration would be able to turn Iraq around by merely continuing to say that everything's okey-dokey. Neither "side" should be bothered by the other wielding words as weapons because words are only as powerful as we allow them to be, and Senate made MoveOn.org's words powerful indeed.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Letters From the Lost Man, Part 11
It's Dark. But this isn't the usual darkness. There's light somewhere. Instead of the regular inky blackness, there's a reddish hue to everything. And it's not silent. Voices are murmuring all around me. I'm compelled to open my eyes.
Yes, that's what it was. My eyes were closed. I feel a little woozy. It's kind of nice, actually. I try to sit up. My body feels really heavy for some reason. I look down at my chest. A large brown leather strap has me buckled securely to the bed. My wrists and ankles are likewise bound. I feel like I should be panicked, but I can't seem to get up the energy.
"Dr. Spector, the patient's awake," I hear a voice say.
That visage, that awful gap-toothed smile, enters my vision. "Well, hello there," Dr. Spector says with a kind of creepy joy that makes me wonder what he's done to me while I was unconscious.
"I was afraid we lost you there, for a moment," he says as his beady eyes flick rapidly over me.
"What are you doing to me?" I demand, my speech sounding sluggish.
Dr. Spector feigns offense. "Why, we're helping you," he says in a creaky voice that is in no way reassuring. "It's better you don't think about it. The treatment works better that way."
"Treatment?" I repeat with disgust.
The doctor clucks and shakes his head. "My, what stories has that horrible Ms. Vine told you? That we're performing inhumane experiments on you?" he asks, his expression becoming sincerely grave and a bit angry.
"It is true," he continues, "your treatment is experimental, but it is for your own good. Trust me; it is better than the alternative. If we are successful, it will revolutionize the way people with your...condition...are treated."
Something about the conviction in his voice prompts me to ask, "What is my condition?"
Dr. Spector's serious tone vanishes and he shows the gap in his teeth prominently. "Never you mind. If we are successful, you will never even know anything was ever wrong."
"Yes I will," I reply defiantly.
The doctor's smile fades. "You won't," he says quietly, drawing close, "and don't expect Ms. Vine to come to your rescue any more."
From his tone, it's obvious he's insinuating something. "What have you done to her?" I ask.
"I haven't done anything," Dr. Spector says, straightening up. "What has been done to her she did herself. That little escapade you two went on nearly killed her. It still might, but never mind that for now."
I don't reply. An image of Loretta hooked up to a bunch of machines flashes through my mind. I barely register the prick of a hypodermic jabbed into my arm. Whatever the nurse is injecting, it works fast. I can already feel reality swirling.
"You see," Dr. Spector's voice echoes through the drugs rushing in my ears, "the next time you wake up, your life will be normal. And you won't even remember any of this. A pity...you would probably thank me if you knew what I'd given you."
I strain my eyes looking sideways to focus on him through the dancing imagery that's playing across my vision. "I'll...remember," I struggle to insist.
"Ri-chard...my name is..."
Welcome back to the blackness.
***
I jump suddenly to a sitting position. My breathing is heavy. I'm drenched in a cold sweat. I look to my right. Through the darkness I see the red symbols: 4:26 AM. Damn, woke up too early. I still have two hours to sleep. These nightmares are getting ridiculous. What was this one about?
Hmm, don't remember. Oh well, guess I'll go to the bathroom and try to get back to my precious sleep. I get out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Linda, walk across the hall and empty my bladder. My wife stirs slightly as I climb back into bed, but stays asleep. Pretty soon, I'm...drifting...off...
Why do cheap alarm clocks emit the most horrific electronic screeching imaginable? I guess it's 1) because they're cheap and 2) because it's effective. They should try using these things on people in comas. If I was half dead, I would still jump up and race to the snooze button. It takes incredible self control to not turn it off with a baseball bat.
Ok, so I guess I'm awake. I kiss Linda, who greets me with a sleepy smile.
"Mornin', dear," she offers consolingly.
Off to the shower. I scrub myself as clean as someone who is half conscious can, exit the shower and brush my teeth. After the deodorant, the clothes go on and I run a comb through my slightly damp hair. Then it's down to the kitchen for breakfast. I bolt down some cereal and gulp some coffee before kissing Linda farewell and hurrying out the door to make it to work.
It's a nice little routine, simple and efficient. It gets me clean, fed and out the door to get to work relatively on time. Not that I have much to look forward to at work. By day, I'm a mild-mannered database programmer for a large government agency. Trust me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds.
"Hey, Mike," a familiar voice greets me.
"Hey, Tom," I reply. Tom is my cubicle neighbor. Something funny strikes me about his greeting. "What did you call me?"
Tom blinks. "Mike," he answers, "that is your name, isn't it?"
I think for a second. "I'm sorry, Tom...I'm not quite awake," I explain.
"Yeah, tell me about it," he agrees. "Good thing our jobs are so interesting and keep us awake throughout the day."
"Oh, yeah!" I agree with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"Listen, just a head's up," Tom says, "Greer's going to be making his rounds early today, so..."
I roll my eyes. "Man, that guy's a dick. How do I get his job?"
"Easy. Go bang your head against a filing cabinet for a few hours. By the time you're done, your IQ should be low enough to qualify."
"Morning gentlemen." Ah, just the voice we didn't want to hear.
"Hi, Ted," I greet as Greer takes the last few steps to our cubicles.
He shoots me a nasty glare. He hates it when people call him by his first name. "Hard at work, I trust," he says through a plastic smile.
"Oh, you know us," Tom answers. "Busy as beavers."
"Good," Greer says, "because Mr. Weisman is getting a bit anxious about the NetBox project deadline. I'm sure I don't have to remind you how important this is to the agency."
"Well, the last two modules are going to be ready for test by the end of the month. You know that's weeks ahead of our deadline," I say, unable to stop myself from sounding a bit defensive.
Tom chimes in, "Yeah, besides, you know all the tables are already built and most of the interface is there. Hell, they could start using it now if they wanted to."
Greer looks back and forth between me and Tom. "Well, then... Don't let me keep you from your hard work." With that he walks off with his nose in the air.
"Man, what the hell is his problem?" Tom asks as Greer turns the corner.
I shake my head. "Someone shoved a larger than usual stick up his ass," I suggest.
Tom nods. "Well, I guess we should probably get to work."
I nod back in agreement. Well, time to turn toward my monitor and start hacking away at the keyboard. I look at the screen. A cursor blinks next to the SQL command prompt. I'm drawing a blank. After staring for 10 minutes, what I'm supposed to be doing becomes no clearer to me. Not knowing what else to do, I type 'help' at the command line.
A bunch of sql commands scroll up the screen followed by short descriptions. The only thing that stands out is the 'use' command. It seems to be the only one that actually manipulates anything. I type 'use' and a space. I think for a moment as the cursor blinks patiently at me. My fingers move absently over the keys and a database name appears on the screen.
sql> use med_proj3
I hit enter. The command line outputs 'Database changed'. The prompt flashes at me again. Without realizing what I'm doing I type, 'select * from exp_inp where lead_last=spector;' and hit enter.
Data begins scrolling rapidly down the screen. There's a lot of information here. If I want to look at it all, I'll have to print it. I'm not really sure how to do that. Actually, I'm not even really sure how I just did what I did. I'm supposed to be a database programmer, but none of what I just typed looks familiar to me. I've obviously retrieved some kind of data from a database, but I don't know why or even how to interpret it.
"Hey, buddy. Whatcha doin'?" Tom says suddenly. His voice sounds really close.
I look over. He's standing right next to me and leaning over to peer at the screen. "Oh, ah..." I respond nervously.
"That doesn't look like NetBox to me," he says seriously. "You're not poking in anything you shouldn't be, are you?"
I glance at my screen. "Honestly, I don't really know how I got this," I explain.
Tom nods. "Listen, Mike, why don't we go for a little break. We'll get some coffee...clear our heads."
"Ok," I say distantly, feeling a bit like I need a break. I stand up to go, and Tom switches off my monitor.
"You'll come back to it later," he assures me when I look at him questioningly.
Coffee is very refreshing. The caffeine gives me just the boost I need to refocus on my work. All thoughts of this morning's strangeness fade away as Tom and I collaborate on the next steps in the project. The day passes quickly and, before I realize it, five o'clock rolls around. I pack up for the day, wish Tom a good night and head home.
"How was work, hon?" Linda asks as I lean over to kiss her hello.
"It was good," I reply. "Actually, it was really good. We made some good headway on NetBox. Greer came by and harassed us early in the morning, but he's going to feel like an idiot when we wrap this up 3 weeks early."
"Aw, that's my brilliant programmer," she beams.
The evening passes like most others. We watch a little TV, eat dinner, watch some more TV, then go to bed and read for a while before going to sleep. It's a routine much like the morning one. Simple...efficient. As I close my eyes to sleep, I welcome the coming darkness. It embraces me. I let go of this world.
***
Yes, that's what it was. My eyes were closed. I feel a little woozy. It's kind of nice, actually. I try to sit up. My body feels really heavy for some reason. I look down at my chest. A large brown leather strap has me buckled securely to the bed. My wrists and ankles are likewise bound. I feel like I should be panicked, but I can't seem to get up the energy.
"Dr. Spector, the patient's awake," I hear a voice say.
That visage, that awful gap-toothed smile, enters my vision. "Well, hello there," Dr. Spector says with a kind of creepy joy that makes me wonder what he's done to me while I was unconscious.
"I was afraid we lost you there, for a moment," he says as his beady eyes flick rapidly over me.
"What are you doing to me?" I demand, my speech sounding sluggish.
Dr. Spector feigns offense. "Why, we're helping you," he says in a creaky voice that is in no way reassuring. "It's better you don't think about it. The treatment works better that way."
"Treatment?" I repeat with disgust.
The doctor clucks and shakes his head. "My, what stories has that horrible Ms. Vine told you? That we're performing inhumane experiments on you?" he asks, his expression becoming sincerely grave and a bit angry.
"It is true," he continues, "your treatment is experimental, but it is for your own good. Trust me; it is better than the alternative. If we are successful, it will revolutionize the way people with your...condition...are treated."
Something about the conviction in his voice prompts me to ask, "What is my condition?"
Dr. Spector's serious tone vanishes and he shows the gap in his teeth prominently. "Never you mind. If we are successful, you will never even know anything was ever wrong."
"Yes I will," I reply defiantly.
The doctor's smile fades. "You won't," he says quietly, drawing close, "and don't expect Ms. Vine to come to your rescue any more."
From his tone, it's obvious he's insinuating something. "What have you done to her?" I ask.
"I haven't done anything," Dr. Spector says, straightening up. "What has been done to her she did herself. That little escapade you two went on nearly killed her. It still might, but never mind that for now."
I don't reply. An image of Loretta hooked up to a bunch of machines flashes through my mind. I barely register the prick of a hypodermic jabbed into my arm. Whatever the nurse is injecting, it works fast. I can already feel reality swirling.
"You see," Dr. Spector's voice echoes through the drugs rushing in my ears, "the next time you wake up, your life will be normal. And you won't even remember any of this. A pity...you would probably thank me if you knew what I'd given you."
I strain my eyes looking sideways to focus on him through the dancing imagery that's playing across my vision. "I'll...remember," I struggle to insist.
"Ri-chard...my name is..."
Welcome back to the blackness.
***
I jump suddenly to a sitting position. My breathing is heavy. I'm drenched in a cold sweat. I look to my right. Through the darkness I see the red symbols: 4:26 AM. Damn, woke up too early. I still have two hours to sleep. These nightmares are getting ridiculous. What was this one about?
Hmm, don't remember. Oh well, guess I'll go to the bathroom and try to get back to my precious sleep. I get out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Linda, walk across the hall and empty my bladder. My wife stirs slightly as I climb back into bed, but stays asleep. Pretty soon, I'm...drifting...off...
Why do cheap alarm clocks emit the most horrific electronic screeching imaginable? I guess it's 1) because they're cheap and 2) because it's effective. They should try using these things on people in comas. If I was half dead, I would still jump up and race to the snooze button. It takes incredible self control to not turn it off with a baseball bat.
Ok, so I guess I'm awake. I kiss Linda, who greets me with a sleepy smile.
"Mornin', dear," she offers consolingly.
Off to the shower. I scrub myself as clean as someone who is half conscious can, exit the shower and brush my teeth. After the deodorant, the clothes go on and I run a comb through my slightly damp hair. Then it's down to the kitchen for breakfast. I bolt down some cereal and gulp some coffee before kissing Linda farewell and hurrying out the door to make it to work.
It's a nice little routine, simple and efficient. It gets me clean, fed and out the door to get to work relatively on time. Not that I have much to look forward to at work. By day, I'm a mild-mannered database programmer for a large government agency. Trust me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds.
"Hey, Mike," a familiar voice greets me.
"Hey, Tom," I reply. Tom is my cubicle neighbor. Something funny strikes me about his greeting. "What did you call me?"
Tom blinks. "Mike," he answers, "that is your name, isn't it?"
I think for a second. "I'm sorry, Tom...I'm not quite awake," I explain.
"Yeah, tell me about it," he agrees. "Good thing our jobs are so interesting and keep us awake throughout the day."
"Oh, yeah!" I agree with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"Listen, just a head's up," Tom says, "Greer's going to be making his rounds early today, so..."
I roll my eyes. "Man, that guy's a dick. How do I get his job?"
"Easy. Go bang your head against a filing cabinet for a few hours. By the time you're done, your IQ should be low enough to qualify."
"Morning gentlemen." Ah, just the voice we didn't want to hear.
"Hi, Ted," I greet as Greer takes the last few steps to our cubicles.
He shoots me a nasty glare. He hates it when people call him by his first name. "Hard at work, I trust," he says through a plastic smile.
"Oh, you know us," Tom answers. "Busy as beavers."
"Good," Greer says, "because Mr. Weisman is getting a bit anxious about the NetBox project deadline. I'm sure I don't have to remind you how important this is to the agency."
"Well, the last two modules are going to be ready for test by the end of the month. You know that's weeks ahead of our deadline," I say, unable to stop myself from sounding a bit defensive.
Tom chimes in, "Yeah, besides, you know all the tables are already built and most of the interface is there. Hell, they could start using it now if they wanted to."
Greer looks back and forth between me and Tom. "Well, then... Don't let me keep you from your hard work." With that he walks off with his nose in the air.
"Man, what the hell is his problem?" Tom asks as Greer turns the corner.
I shake my head. "Someone shoved a larger than usual stick up his ass," I suggest.
Tom nods. "Well, I guess we should probably get to work."
I nod back in agreement. Well, time to turn toward my monitor and start hacking away at the keyboard. I look at the screen. A cursor blinks next to the SQL command prompt. I'm drawing a blank. After staring for 10 minutes, what I'm supposed to be doing becomes no clearer to me. Not knowing what else to do, I type 'help' at the command line.
A bunch of sql commands scroll up the screen followed by short descriptions. The only thing that stands out is the 'use' command. It seems to be the only one that actually manipulates anything. I type 'use' and a space. I think for a moment as the cursor blinks patiently at me. My fingers move absently over the keys and a database name appears on the screen.
sql> use med_proj3
I hit enter. The command line outputs 'Database changed'. The prompt flashes at me again. Without realizing what I'm doing I type, 'select * from exp_inp where lead_last=spector;' and hit enter.
Data begins scrolling rapidly down the screen. There's a lot of information here. If I want to look at it all, I'll have to print it. I'm not really sure how to do that. Actually, I'm not even really sure how I just did what I did. I'm supposed to be a database programmer, but none of what I just typed looks familiar to me. I've obviously retrieved some kind of data from a database, but I don't know why or even how to interpret it.
"Hey, buddy. Whatcha doin'?" Tom says suddenly. His voice sounds really close.
I look over. He's standing right next to me and leaning over to peer at the screen. "Oh, ah..." I respond nervously.
"That doesn't look like NetBox to me," he says seriously. "You're not poking in anything you shouldn't be, are you?"
I glance at my screen. "Honestly, I don't really know how I got this," I explain.
Tom nods. "Listen, Mike, why don't we go for a little break. We'll get some coffee...clear our heads."
"Ok," I say distantly, feeling a bit like I need a break. I stand up to go, and Tom switches off my monitor.
"You'll come back to it later," he assures me when I look at him questioningly.
Coffee is very refreshing. The caffeine gives me just the boost I need to refocus on my work. All thoughts of this morning's strangeness fade away as Tom and I collaborate on the next steps in the project. The day passes quickly and, before I realize it, five o'clock rolls around. I pack up for the day, wish Tom a good night and head home.
"How was work, hon?" Linda asks as I lean over to kiss her hello.
"It was good," I reply. "Actually, it was really good. We made some good headway on NetBox. Greer came by and harassed us early in the morning, but he's going to feel like an idiot when we wrap this up 3 weeks early."
"Aw, that's my brilliant programmer," she beams.
The evening passes like most others. We watch a little TV, eat dinner, watch some more TV, then go to bed and read for a while before going to sleep. It's a routine much like the morning one. Simple...efficient. As I close my eyes to sleep, I welcome the coming darkness. It embraces me. I let go of this world.
***
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
"Suck it, Censorship!"
Well, well, it seems Kathy Griffin has won an Emmy for pointing out to the world how unsuccessful she is. I wonder if next season her show will be called My Life on the C-List: Movin' On Up! But titular ramifications aside, something else happened when the D-Lister stepped up to accept the award, and it was made into an even bigger deal than the fact that Kathy Griffin...WON A FRIKKEN EMMY!
Apparently, Ms. Griffin doesn't put much stock in Jesus’ role in her personal achievements, as evidenced by her telling Jesus to "suck it" in her acceptance speech. This, of course, has raised many a religious hackle and has prompted E! to edit the telecast of her speech in a manner found acceptable by our fundamentalist overlords, may God bless them forever. Most of these are the same people, mind you, who probably chuckled at the emails forwarded to them by their friends with attachments showing the Muhammad cartoons that got certain European countries in trouble in recent years.
Now listen, I'm not saying that people shouldn't be considerate of other people's sensitivities, but you can't criticize people for being PC (that's political correctness) Nazi's out of one side of your mouth and express outrage at people for singling you out in their political incorrectness out of the other. That makes you a hypocrite. It's irrational and catches you up in logic that makes you have to either stop making fun of other people or deal with it when you’re made fun of.
Have you ever stopped to wonder why it's called political correctness? Because it's for politicians. Most of the country would never vote for a candidate who stood up and made very public derogatory comments about someone's religion, race or gender... Well, maybe not never, but still. It's damaging to a politician to even be connected with statements that could be considered prejudiced in any way. It is helpful to their campaigns if they can be as inoffensive as possible. This is a dynamic they created, so I say let them have it, but don't mistake their self-imposed restrictions as commandments for the rest of us.
Comedians make their livings being offensive in some way. Maybe not all of them do, but they do by at least pointing out the offensive things in life. It is difficult nowadays for a really successful comedian to go very long without offending somebody, and it's usually the people who have the least reason to be offended that are. Comedians tell jokes. Grow a sense of humor. I can laugh at myself when my friends are poking fun, and I do it right back to them, but we all know it's not for real.
Maybe it's not the most well-formed argument, but there is clearly something wrong in this country if we have to censor a comedian for being funny. You know the old question of whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound when no one's around to hear it? Well, it makes one wonder, is free speech really free when no one's allowed to hear it? Censorship sucks, and that's straight from the liberal, left-wing nut job's mouth.
Apparently, Ms. Griffin doesn't put much stock in Jesus’ role in her personal achievements, as evidenced by her telling Jesus to "suck it" in her acceptance speech. This, of course, has raised many a religious hackle and has prompted E! to edit the telecast of her speech in a manner found acceptable by our fundamentalist overlords, may God bless them forever. Most of these are the same people, mind you, who probably chuckled at the emails forwarded to them by their friends with attachments showing the Muhammad cartoons that got certain European countries in trouble in recent years.
Now listen, I'm not saying that people shouldn't be considerate of other people's sensitivities, but you can't criticize people for being PC (that's political correctness) Nazi's out of one side of your mouth and express outrage at people for singling you out in their political incorrectness out of the other. That makes you a hypocrite. It's irrational and catches you up in logic that makes you have to either stop making fun of other people or deal with it when you’re made fun of.
Have you ever stopped to wonder why it's called political correctness? Because it's for politicians. Most of the country would never vote for a candidate who stood up and made very public derogatory comments about someone's religion, race or gender... Well, maybe not never, but still. It's damaging to a politician to even be connected with statements that could be considered prejudiced in any way. It is helpful to their campaigns if they can be as inoffensive as possible. This is a dynamic they created, so I say let them have it, but don't mistake their self-imposed restrictions as commandments for the rest of us.
Comedians make their livings being offensive in some way. Maybe not all of them do, but they do by at least pointing out the offensive things in life. It is difficult nowadays for a really successful comedian to go very long without offending somebody, and it's usually the people who have the least reason to be offended that are. Comedians tell jokes. Grow a sense of humor. I can laugh at myself when my friends are poking fun, and I do it right back to them, but we all know it's not for real.
Maybe it's not the most well-formed argument, but there is clearly something wrong in this country if we have to censor a comedian for being funny. You know the old question of whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound when no one's around to hear it? Well, it makes one wonder, is free speech really free when no one's allowed to hear it? Censorship sucks, and that's straight from the liberal, left-wing nut job's mouth.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Letters From the Lost Man, Part 10
The silent black...what a welcome feeling. Here, where death is my friend, my confidant, nothing can hurt me. One would think the emptiness would drive you mad, but this is where I find no less than my self...my true self. Unless, of course, I'm already crazy. But how can I be crazy? That doctor bored open my skull and took out...
What? What's been taken from me?
I reach up and feel my head. It's wrapped in gauze. I feel a soft pressure over my entire back...the bed. I'm in a hospital bed. It's dark.
"Richard!" a voice whispers insistently.
I blink a few times...still dark. "Hmm?" I moan.
"Shh!" the voice urges.
"Who's there?" I whisper back.
There's a pause. "Richard, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm an assistant to the doctor who's...treating you. My name is Loretta Vine."
The way she hesitated before choosing the word "treating" resonates in my head. I sit up, feeling a little woozy doing so. "I sort of remember," I mutter quietly.
"Richard, there's something terrible going on. I...I don't have much time."
"What's wrong?" I ask dumbly.
Loretta sighs anxiously. "Everything is a lie," she hisses.
That seems to make sense, but at the same time, I'm a little confused. "Everything?" I prompt.
"Yes, everything you remember...everything they told me. This whole project is a lie," she answers.
I shake my head, a pointless motion in the darkness. "Wait, start from the beginning."
"Not now," she whispers hurriedly. "We need to try to get out of here before they find out I'm gone."
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. "Let's go," I say eagerly.
"There's a guard outside the door," Loretta explains. "I need to deal with him first."
A little light suddenly clicks on. At first it seems blinding, but as my eyes adjust, it becomes clear that it's just a pen light. Loretta holds it in her mouth while manipulating a syringe and vial.
"What's that for?" I ask a bit nervously.
"The guard," she says, clicking off the light. "Lay back down."
I'm not entirely sure of what's going on, but seeing as how it's a familiar feeling for me, I obey. I hear her walk across the room and open a door.
"Guard," she says with slight concern in her voice, "I need your assistance, please."
There's some shuffling as the guard enters the room. "Are the lights work- Ah!" exclaims suddenly. "What the hell was that?" I hear him ask.
"I'm sorry," Loretta says mechanically.
"What did you do?" the guard asks. His speech sounds slurred. There's a thud.
"Okay, Richard," she calls to me.
I sit up. From the light coming through the open door I can see the silhouette of the guard slumped on the floor. My heartbeat quickens as I feel what I can only describe as reality. Stepping out of the bed and onto the cold floor intensifies the sensation that I am finally in the real world. My legs shake a little as I stand on them for the first time in...well, who knows how long? They feel weird, kind of like I've been bicycling nonstop for days. I steady myself against the bed.
"Are you okay?" Loretta asks.
"Hang on," I answer, "let me get my bearings." I rock from side to side and try lifting my legs one after the other. I can sense Loretta's impatience, but she says nothing as I try to reacquaint myself with using my muscles this much. At least I can stand. I couldn't have been confined to a bed for too long.
I take a step away from the bed. Then another one. It seems to be working. I move toward the door. I'm a little stiff, and I imagine I won't be able to move too quickly just yet, but with the possibility of finding out what's really going on seeming finally within reach, I'm sure I can hold it together long enough to get out of here.
Loretta stands from searching the guard. "You don't, by any chance, happen to know how to use one of these?" she asks tentatively, holding out a familiar shape.
I take it in my hands. It feels as familiar as it looks. Somehow, even in the dim light offered by the corridor outside my room, I can tell it's a Smith & Wesson SW40 Sigma series semi automatic pistol. It's very comfortable in my hands. I can't help but worry that this feels a little surreal all of the sudden. Loretta snaps me back to reality.
"Let's go," she says, stepping into the hall and hurrying out of sight.
I follow as quickly as I can, sliding against the wall where I can. I meet her at the end of the corridor. I can't help but noticed that she's dressed like me. She doesn't look official at all, not like the last time I saw her. Maybe that should worry me, but it doesn't.
"Hide that somewhere," Loretta says with a nod to the gun. "If someone notices us on the camera it will be a lot better if they don't think we're armed."
I look at my clothes. While the airy light-blue pants and white short-sleeve shirt are better than a hospital gown, they are definitely not made for every day use, and certainly not for concealing weapons. I tuck the gun as best as I can into my waistband and try to cover it with the shirt. I'm not convinced, but it should be hidden to a security camera.
Loretta nods in apparent agreement. "The way down this hall is clear," she tells me. "We need to get on the elevator and go down to the ground floor. There's a rear entrance that's used for subject transport. We might be able to make it out that way, but we'll have to sneak past the night receptionist."
"Will that be a problem?" I ask, not really sure if I want to know.
"Not compared with what we'll have to get through to leave the compound," she says ominously. "Let's go quickly."
Together we run down the hall and to the elevator. When the door opens, we step in and Loretta presses "1". I look at the numbers over the door. We are on the 25th floor. It seems to take forever to make it all the way down, but we do without interruption. It's silent most of the way down.
"Loretta?" I ask as something occurs to me.
"Hmm?" she replies, watching the floor numbers tick down.
"Was my door the only one with a guard in front of it?"
For the first time tonight, she really seems to look at me. It's only for a second, though, as she turns away almost immediately. "Well, one of very few," she says softly.
The ensuing silence almost becomes uncomfortable, but fortunately the elevator doors slide open into an empty hallway. Loretta steps out and waves for me to follow. I can feel my heart beating in every part of my body as I watch the end of the hall. Please, no one come marching around the turn.
We make it to the end and Loretta peeks around the corner. "No one in the lobby. The receptionist is sitting at the desk. I can see her reflection on the door," she informs me.
I lean over her to get a glimpse at the scene. There's a plain lobby with drab carpeting and a few simple chairs. A set of glass double doors reveals little about the world outside in the dark of night, but the resultant reflection shows the receptionist is indeed seated behind a counter, staring at a computer screen.
"Okay," Loretta says, pushing me back in hiding. "You stay here. I'm going to go distract her. When she gets up, come quickly down the hallway and we'll both leave. Our time will probably be up after that. Security will be hot on our tails. Just stay with me and do everything I say."
"Yes, ma'am," I say as she heads toward the lobby.
Loretta walks up to the counter and smiles at the receptionist. "Hey, Rebecca, how are you?"
Rebecca blinks. "Oh, hey Loretta. I'm doing pretty good. I almost didn't recognize you in that getup. Were you in surgery with Dr. Spector today?"
"Oh yeah," Loretta says with a roll of her eyes. "It got a little messy. Can't wait to get home and out of these. Listen, I think Dr. Sandeep sent me a fax to the number back here. Can you check on that for me?"
The receptionist cocks her head quizzically. "Here?"
Loretta nods. "Yep. You know, it's on the transfer form. I gave him the office fax number, but he didn't write it down...or he lost it. You know doctors."
Rebecca snickers at that. "Okay. Let me go check," she says cheerfully as she gets up.
"Thanks," Loretta calls after her, but she's looking at me.
I bolt down the hall as quietly as I can. My legs feel even more odd while I'm running. My feet thud strangely on the carpet. The door gets closer and closer and my gut clenches as I reach for it. Loretta is right behind me. The phone behind the counter rings, and the sudden noise breaks my concentration. I leap for the door and push it open, but trip on myself before I can get all the way out.
"Nurse Vine?" Rebecca's voice calls curiously from behind the counter.
Loretta doesn't even glance at her. She hurriedly helps me back to my feet and rushes me out onto the bare concrete. Just before the door closes all the way, I can hear the receptionist’s voice one last time.
"I need building D security to ST entrance! We have a-"
"Quick," Loretta says, "this way."
I go in the direction she pushes me. I barely have time to register the scrapes on my elbows from my fall as alarms all over the compound begin to sound. We're running toward a parking area lined with what look like ambulances.
"This one," Loretta indicates one of the vehicles. She pulls open the driver's side door as I struggle to push myself into the passenger seat. All this activity is very taxing on my atrophied muscles.
I'm barely able to close the door before we back out of the spot very quickly. The tires squeal as Loretta throws it into drive and hits the accelerator. I can see the shadows of people running out of the building we just exited. A voice echoes over the compound through a loudspeaker system, though I can't tell whether it's shouting commands to security or to us. I'm thrown against the door as Loretta cuts a sharp left.
"Guess I'd better buckle up," I say dryly. She doesn't seem to notice.
We swerve through the parking lot and small roads that wind around the facility. Wherever this place is, it must be massive. The blare of sirens begin to rise over the sound of the security alarm as other vehicles take up the chase. Loretta peers grimly out through the windshield and handles the ambulance like a racecar. We speed toward a small security booth. Without even slowing down, she tears through the lowered security gate. The guard inside the booth doesn't look surprised, but he does huddle against the wall to avoid flying debris.
"We out?" I ask hopefully.
"No," is Loretta's only answer.
I look ahead. A little down the road in front of us is a high chain-link fence capped with a nice coil of barbed wire. Blue and red lights flash on the road beyond. Police cars pull up and blockade the fence.
"Shit!" Loretta hisses through clenched teeth. She veers off the road and onto the uneven grassy earth. The ambulance bounces wildly as she struggles to control the steering wheel.
We're thrown forward as we hit the fence and lose some serious momentum, but we make it through. Broken and warped chain-link screeches against the hood and roof of the vehicle. The back of the ambulance slides to the right, and for a moment we're facing the stunned police. Loretta whips the steering wheel around and I can feel us completely lose traction.
We spin left. As soon as we're perpendicular to the direction we're sliding, the ambulance lurches and the world outside the windshield begins to spin sickeningly. We're thrown from our seats as the ambulance roof hits the ground and we're propelled into another gut-wrenching roll. For what seems like an eternity, we crash into the earth from every side and personally meet every surface of the inside of the cab. Every deafening thud and creaking shatter brings another painful beating from plastic, metal and broken glass. Loretta yelps at each hit. Reality begins to ripple. The pain is taking me away.
"No," I mutter, vaguely aware of a rocking sensation. We've stopped rolling. I can hear the sirens getting closer. Now they're fading.
"No," I whisper one more time as the pervasive darkness creeps in. I think I can hear voices. I'm slipping from existence yet again. Please don't forget this. Richard...my name is Richard...
***
What? What's been taken from me?
I reach up and feel my head. It's wrapped in gauze. I feel a soft pressure over my entire back...the bed. I'm in a hospital bed. It's dark.
"Richard!" a voice whispers insistently.
I blink a few times...still dark. "Hmm?" I moan.
"Shh!" the voice urges.
"Who's there?" I whisper back.
There's a pause. "Richard, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm an assistant to the doctor who's...treating you. My name is Loretta Vine."
The way she hesitated before choosing the word "treating" resonates in my head. I sit up, feeling a little woozy doing so. "I sort of remember," I mutter quietly.
"Richard, there's something terrible going on. I...I don't have much time."
"What's wrong?" I ask dumbly.
Loretta sighs anxiously. "Everything is a lie," she hisses.
That seems to make sense, but at the same time, I'm a little confused. "Everything?" I prompt.
"Yes, everything you remember...everything they told me. This whole project is a lie," she answers.
I shake my head, a pointless motion in the darkness. "Wait, start from the beginning."
"Not now," she whispers hurriedly. "We need to try to get out of here before they find out I'm gone."
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. "Let's go," I say eagerly.
"There's a guard outside the door," Loretta explains. "I need to deal with him first."
A little light suddenly clicks on. At first it seems blinding, but as my eyes adjust, it becomes clear that it's just a pen light. Loretta holds it in her mouth while manipulating a syringe and vial.
"What's that for?" I ask a bit nervously.
"The guard," she says, clicking off the light. "Lay back down."
I'm not entirely sure of what's going on, but seeing as how it's a familiar feeling for me, I obey. I hear her walk across the room and open a door.
"Guard," she says with slight concern in her voice, "I need your assistance, please."
There's some shuffling as the guard enters the room. "Are the lights work- Ah!" exclaims suddenly. "What the hell was that?" I hear him ask.
"I'm sorry," Loretta says mechanically.
"What did you do?" the guard asks. His speech sounds slurred. There's a thud.
"Okay, Richard," she calls to me.
I sit up. From the light coming through the open door I can see the silhouette of the guard slumped on the floor. My heartbeat quickens as I feel what I can only describe as reality. Stepping out of the bed and onto the cold floor intensifies the sensation that I am finally in the real world. My legs shake a little as I stand on them for the first time in...well, who knows how long? They feel weird, kind of like I've been bicycling nonstop for days. I steady myself against the bed.
"Are you okay?" Loretta asks.
"Hang on," I answer, "let me get my bearings." I rock from side to side and try lifting my legs one after the other. I can sense Loretta's impatience, but she says nothing as I try to reacquaint myself with using my muscles this much. At least I can stand. I couldn't have been confined to a bed for too long.
I take a step away from the bed. Then another one. It seems to be working. I move toward the door. I'm a little stiff, and I imagine I won't be able to move too quickly just yet, but with the possibility of finding out what's really going on seeming finally within reach, I'm sure I can hold it together long enough to get out of here.
Loretta stands from searching the guard. "You don't, by any chance, happen to know how to use one of these?" she asks tentatively, holding out a familiar shape.
I take it in my hands. It feels as familiar as it looks. Somehow, even in the dim light offered by the corridor outside my room, I can tell it's a Smith & Wesson SW40 Sigma series semi automatic pistol. It's very comfortable in my hands. I can't help but worry that this feels a little surreal all of the sudden. Loretta snaps me back to reality.
"Let's go," she says, stepping into the hall and hurrying out of sight.
I follow as quickly as I can, sliding against the wall where I can. I meet her at the end of the corridor. I can't help but noticed that she's dressed like me. She doesn't look official at all, not like the last time I saw her. Maybe that should worry me, but it doesn't.
"Hide that somewhere," Loretta says with a nod to the gun. "If someone notices us on the camera it will be a lot better if they don't think we're armed."
I look at my clothes. While the airy light-blue pants and white short-sleeve shirt are better than a hospital gown, they are definitely not made for every day use, and certainly not for concealing weapons. I tuck the gun as best as I can into my waistband and try to cover it with the shirt. I'm not convinced, but it should be hidden to a security camera.
Loretta nods in apparent agreement. "The way down this hall is clear," she tells me. "We need to get on the elevator and go down to the ground floor. There's a rear entrance that's used for subject transport. We might be able to make it out that way, but we'll have to sneak past the night receptionist."
"Will that be a problem?" I ask, not really sure if I want to know.
"Not compared with what we'll have to get through to leave the compound," she says ominously. "Let's go quickly."
Together we run down the hall and to the elevator. When the door opens, we step in and Loretta presses "1". I look at the numbers over the door. We are on the 25th floor. It seems to take forever to make it all the way down, but we do without interruption. It's silent most of the way down.
"Loretta?" I ask as something occurs to me.
"Hmm?" she replies, watching the floor numbers tick down.
"Was my door the only one with a guard in front of it?"
For the first time tonight, she really seems to look at me. It's only for a second, though, as she turns away almost immediately. "Well, one of very few," she says softly.
The ensuing silence almost becomes uncomfortable, but fortunately the elevator doors slide open into an empty hallway. Loretta steps out and waves for me to follow. I can feel my heart beating in every part of my body as I watch the end of the hall. Please, no one come marching around the turn.
We make it to the end and Loretta peeks around the corner. "No one in the lobby. The receptionist is sitting at the desk. I can see her reflection on the door," she informs me.
I lean over her to get a glimpse at the scene. There's a plain lobby with drab carpeting and a few simple chairs. A set of glass double doors reveals little about the world outside in the dark of night, but the resultant reflection shows the receptionist is indeed seated behind a counter, staring at a computer screen.
"Okay," Loretta says, pushing me back in hiding. "You stay here. I'm going to go distract her. When she gets up, come quickly down the hallway and we'll both leave. Our time will probably be up after that. Security will be hot on our tails. Just stay with me and do everything I say."
"Yes, ma'am," I say as she heads toward the lobby.
Loretta walks up to the counter and smiles at the receptionist. "Hey, Rebecca, how are you?"
Rebecca blinks. "Oh, hey Loretta. I'm doing pretty good. I almost didn't recognize you in that getup. Were you in surgery with Dr. Spector today?"
"Oh yeah," Loretta says with a roll of her eyes. "It got a little messy. Can't wait to get home and out of these. Listen, I think Dr. Sandeep sent me a fax to the number back here. Can you check on that for me?"
The receptionist cocks her head quizzically. "Here?"
Loretta nods. "Yep. You know, it's on the transfer form. I gave him the office fax number, but he didn't write it down...or he lost it. You know doctors."
Rebecca snickers at that. "Okay. Let me go check," she says cheerfully as she gets up.
"Thanks," Loretta calls after her, but she's looking at me.
I bolt down the hall as quietly as I can. My legs feel even more odd while I'm running. My feet thud strangely on the carpet. The door gets closer and closer and my gut clenches as I reach for it. Loretta is right behind me. The phone behind the counter rings, and the sudden noise breaks my concentration. I leap for the door and push it open, but trip on myself before I can get all the way out.
"Nurse Vine?" Rebecca's voice calls curiously from behind the counter.
Loretta doesn't even glance at her. She hurriedly helps me back to my feet and rushes me out onto the bare concrete. Just before the door closes all the way, I can hear the receptionist’s voice one last time.
"I need building D security to ST entrance! We have a-"
"Quick," Loretta says, "this way."
I go in the direction she pushes me. I barely have time to register the scrapes on my elbows from my fall as alarms all over the compound begin to sound. We're running toward a parking area lined with what look like ambulances.
"This one," Loretta indicates one of the vehicles. She pulls open the driver's side door as I struggle to push myself into the passenger seat. All this activity is very taxing on my atrophied muscles.
I'm barely able to close the door before we back out of the spot very quickly. The tires squeal as Loretta throws it into drive and hits the accelerator. I can see the shadows of people running out of the building we just exited. A voice echoes over the compound through a loudspeaker system, though I can't tell whether it's shouting commands to security or to us. I'm thrown against the door as Loretta cuts a sharp left.
"Guess I'd better buckle up," I say dryly. She doesn't seem to notice.
We swerve through the parking lot and small roads that wind around the facility. Wherever this place is, it must be massive. The blare of sirens begin to rise over the sound of the security alarm as other vehicles take up the chase. Loretta peers grimly out through the windshield and handles the ambulance like a racecar. We speed toward a small security booth. Without even slowing down, she tears through the lowered security gate. The guard inside the booth doesn't look surprised, but he does huddle against the wall to avoid flying debris.
"We out?" I ask hopefully.
"No," is Loretta's only answer.
I look ahead. A little down the road in front of us is a high chain-link fence capped with a nice coil of barbed wire. Blue and red lights flash on the road beyond. Police cars pull up and blockade the fence.
"Shit!" Loretta hisses through clenched teeth. She veers off the road and onto the uneven grassy earth. The ambulance bounces wildly as she struggles to control the steering wheel.
We're thrown forward as we hit the fence and lose some serious momentum, but we make it through. Broken and warped chain-link screeches against the hood and roof of the vehicle. The back of the ambulance slides to the right, and for a moment we're facing the stunned police. Loretta whips the steering wheel around and I can feel us completely lose traction.
We spin left. As soon as we're perpendicular to the direction we're sliding, the ambulance lurches and the world outside the windshield begins to spin sickeningly. We're thrown from our seats as the ambulance roof hits the ground and we're propelled into another gut-wrenching roll. For what seems like an eternity, we crash into the earth from every side and personally meet every surface of the inside of the cab. Every deafening thud and creaking shatter brings another painful beating from plastic, metal and broken glass. Loretta yelps at each hit. Reality begins to ripple. The pain is taking me away.
"No," I mutter, vaguely aware of a rocking sensation. We've stopped rolling. I can hear the sirens getting closer. Now they're fading.
"No," I whisper one more time as the pervasive darkness creeps in. I think I can hear voices. I'm slipping from existence yet again. Please don't forget this. Richard...my name is Richard...
***
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Letters from the Lost Man, Part 9
Yes, I'm alive...and yes, this is the latest in the Letters from the Lost Man saga!
***
For the first time, I welcome the darkness. Any reprieve from my "waking world" has become something to be anticipated. I'm remembering more and more every time, and I feel like I'll be able to figure this all out if I just concentrate. So, here I am...clearing my mind.
That almost sounds funny. Here in the darkness, I can only assume I am within the recesses of my own consciousness, and it's empty in here. Even when I speak to myself, it sounds hollow, devoid of any real life or thought. Here meditation is easy. I simply relax and let my mind expand into the nothingness. Maybe if it expands enough, I'll reach the edge of this darkness and find myself again...my real self.
***
"Richard!"
Who is that? The voice sounds familiar.
"Richard!"
She isn't calling me, is she? Is my name really...
"Richard?" the young woman prompts with a puzzled expression as she approaches, panting from her run up the grassy hill.
I blink at her a few times. "Jane, I'm sorry...I must have been daydreaming," I explain haltingly in a British accent.
"You must come quickly," she urges. "They've found Elizabeth."
My eyes widen and I take off down the hill while Jane stumbles to keep up. The possibilities of where and how Liz was found race through my mind, and most of them are quite unpleasant. Despite the fact that I can't exactly recall when she went missing and why it's important to me, my stomach twists anxiously, hoping against hope that she's okay.
I burst through the huge double doors at the front of her family's luxurious estate. No one is there to greet me, but I can hear voices in the study to the left. I dash toward that room just as Jane rushes in the front doors behind me. We both run into the study and push our way through a small crowd of family members and servants.
Stretched out on the sofa is the small, delicate form of Elizabeth, her dress torn in filthy tatters, her face smudged with dirt. A doctor kneels before her, examining her thoroughly. After several minutes, he stands and addresses the room.
"She is going to be fine," he reassures us. "She needs some rest and a good bath. She may have a few bruises, but she is otherwise unharmed."
Through the many sighs of relief, a small, shaky voice calls out, "...Richard."
I look past the doctor to see Elizabeth looking up at me weakly. I move past him to kneel at her side. "What is it, my dear?" I ask, taking her hand in mine.
Instead of a smile, she responds with a look of distrust mixed with fear. "How could you?" she asks, tears welling in her eyes.
I can only react with confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand, love."
"How could you?" she shouts as tears stream down her cheeks in rivulets.
"What is the meaning of this?" her father demands, stepping out of the crowd.
I shake my head. "I assure you, sir, I don't know," I say bewildered.
"Constable, take this man away!" he shouts, his face flushing with anger.
A uniformed man advances from the back of the room and grabs me by the shoulders. "Come on, gov, lets go 'ave a chat," he says firmly.
Reeling in utter perplexion, I can only obey. Certainly there's been some sort of misunderstanding. Once I speak with the constable, this will be all cleared up. Surely Elizabeth is confused by her ordeal. After she's had a chance to rest, everything will be back to normal.
***
"Alrigh', you swine, I'm goin' to ask you once more!" the constable howls threateningly. "Where were you on the nigh' Miss Evansworth disappeared?"
Even with my face in my hands, the stark stone walls of the interrogation room loom around me forebodingly. The dank smell of the place makes me feel a little sick, not because of the odor itself but more that it reminds me of a dungeon...a place I'm sure I'll get to know very soon.
"I told you, I don't remember," I insist. "I wish I knew, but I don't. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to harm Elizabeth. I love her." While I'm not sure why I just said that, it feels like truth on my lips.
"Obsessed with 'er, more likely!" the constable accuses. "An' I suppose you also 'ave no recollection of the little room in you cellar where you kep' the poor girl? Or of the black cloak she described you as wearin' while she begged for you to le'er go? This is the same cloak, I remind you, as the one we found 'angin' in your wardrobe in your very own bedroom in your very own 'ouse!"
I rub my eyes, hoping to awaken from this nightmare. "Yes, constable," I say in a wearied tone. "I quite recall those details, and as I told you before, I have no explanation for them. Perhaps someone is trying to make it appear as though I am the guilty party, which I assure you, I am not."
"So you keep sayin'," the constable sighs. "But the thing is...I don' believe you."
***
"My name is Elizabeth Evansworth. My father is Charles Evansworth, a civil engineer. On 12 July I was reading a book alone on a hill by my father's estate. I heard a noise from behind me. It sounded like a footstep. When I turned to see who it was, I was struck on the head. I do not remember anything for some time after that."
The prosecutor steps toward Elizabeth with a sympathetic expression. "Miss Evansworth, did you see who had struck you?" he asks.
Elizabeth shakes her head. "No. At least, if I did, I don't recall it. I think I was struck before I turned fully."
The prosecutor nods. "Very well. Tell us, if you can, what you remember next," he directs her.
A sadness seems to come over her as she takes a breath to answer. "Well," she begins with a pause, "I awoke in a darkened room of rough stone, a cellar I think. I was tied to a chair. Pieces of my dress had been...torn."
"It's alright, Elizabeth," the prosecutor reassures her. "Go on."
"There was a figure," she continues in a small voice, "a man. He wore a long black cloak with a hood which obscured him from me. He then spoke to me, and it was then I realized who it was."
"Tell us," the prosecutor urges. "Who was it?"
"It was..." Elizabeth pauses for several moments, struggling with the hard truth she is about to reveal. "It was the prisoner. Richard...my own Richard. He spoke to me in a strange manner. He sounded almost foreign, but he could not disguise that voice from me. I know it too well."
The prosecutor faces the jury with a raised eyebrow. "Did he say why he had done this? Why he had taken you?"
She shakes her head resignedly. "No. He simply kept asking me who he was. I told him that I knew it was him, but he went on asking me to tell him about himself...about his life. It was as if he had gone mad."
***
Well, this is different. Somehow I ended up in the middle of this strange, messed-up situation. Who knows, maybe I am crazy. It would be a really convenient explanation for all of this. But, y'know, even though everything seems out of place and completely wrong, I find myself thinking only how this verdict and subsequent sentence is going to take me away from Elizabeth. I can't help but feel like I've made some sort of awful mistake that's taking me further and further away from recapturing my life.
Oh, the judge is talking. I should probably listen to this.
"...has been found guilty of taking by force and carrying away Elizabeth Evansworth with intent to hold her from her family. It is this court's determination that the prisoner was non compos mentis throughout the duration of the crime. As such, the sentence of seven years confinement shall take place within the Greater Wisconsin Mental Institute under the care of Drs. Hanz Spector and Friedrich Golz. Their record for rehabilitation of criminals with mental defect is exemplary."
May god have mercy upon my soul. It might as well be a death sentence...
***
"Don't you worry," a young Dr. Golz tries to reassure me with a slight German accent. "Dr. Spector is a brilliant doctor and scientist. He has made great strides in the study of the brain's role in violent and criminal behavior."
I'm not reassured. What I am is tied down to a table in some kind of laboratory/operating room. I couldn't be further from reassured. As enthusiastic as Dr. Golz is, none of what he's explained to me so far sounds like science or medicine. I'd like to protest, believe me, but my mouth has been taped shut.
"Now, let's just get rid of the rest of this," Dr. Golz mutters to himself as he picks up the sharp razor from the stand next to my bed. He holds the shining metal blade over me for a moment, inspecting its edge. I can only stare up in blank terror. He brings it down and slides it down my wet scalp, shaving off what little hair was left after my earlier trim.
"There!" he exclaims as he finishes. "Now, I will administer something to dull the pain. While it is taking effect, I will go get Dr. Spector and we can begin."
Again, the urge to protest comes on, but I can only watch as Dr. Golz fills a syringe and empties it into my veins. Almost immediately euphoria begins to wash over me. I try to fight it, but every cell in my body urges me to just relax. I barely register the doctor's exit to find his colleague.
The next thing I see is the blurry image of a man's face. The face is long and cracked by a thin-lipped mouth filled with widely-gapped teeth. In the center of the face is a hawkish nose on which sits a pair of round glasses that magnify a set of black, beady eyes. The whole thing is topped by a slick of jet black hair, parted on the left.
"Now, Friedrich," the face says with a distant voice. "We will begin by drilling a hole in the top of the skull."
I feel a cold sensation as something is spread on my bare scalp. Then comes a feeling like someone is rubbing a blunt stone against the top of my head. There is a slow grinding sound echoing everywhere. Red fills my vision. I scream, but the sound is muted by tape and drowned out by the constant drilling. I give in to the blackness.
***
***
For the first time, I welcome the darkness. Any reprieve from my "waking world" has become something to be anticipated. I'm remembering more and more every time, and I feel like I'll be able to figure this all out if I just concentrate. So, here I am...clearing my mind.
That almost sounds funny. Here in the darkness, I can only assume I am within the recesses of my own consciousness, and it's empty in here. Even when I speak to myself, it sounds hollow, devoid of any real life or thought. Here meditation is easy. I simply relax and let my mind expand into the nothingness. Maybe if it expands enough, I'll reach the edge of this darkness and find myself again...my real self.
***
"Richard!"
Who is that? The voice sounds familiar.
"Richard!"
She isn't calling me, is she? Is my name really...
"Richard?" the young woman prompts with a puzzled expression as she approaches, panting from her run up the grassy hill.
I blink at her a few times. "Jane, I'm sorry...I must have been daydreaming," I explain haltingly in a British accent.
"You must come quickly," she urges. "They've found Elizabeth."
My eyes widen and I take off down the hill while Jane stumbles to keep up. The possibilities of where and how Liz was found race through my mind, and most of them are quite unpleasant. Despite the fact that I can't exactly recall when she went missing and why it's important to me, my stomach twists anxiously, hoping against hope that she's okay.
I burst through the huge double doors at the front of her family's luxurious estate. No one is there to greet me, but I can hear voices in the study to the left. I dash toward that room just as Jane rushes in the front doors behind me. We both run into the study and push our way through a small crowd of family members and servants.
Stretched out on the sofa is the small, delicate form of Elizabeth, her dress torn in filthy tatters, her face smudged with dirt. A doctor kneels before her, examining her thoroughly. After several minutes, he stands and addresses the room.
"She is going to be fine," he reassures us. "She needs some rest and a good bath. She may have a few bruises, but she is otherwise unharmed."
Through the many sighs of relief, a small, shaky voice calls out, "...Richard."
I look past the doctor to see Elizabeth looking up at me weakly. I move past him to kneel at her side. "What is it, my dear?" I ask, taking her hand in mine.
Instead of a smile, she responds with a look of distrust mixed with fear. "How could you?" she asks, tears welling in her eyes.
I can only react with confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand, love."
"How could you?" she shouts as tears stream down her cheeks in rivulets.
"What is the meaning of this?" her father demands, stepping out of the crowd.
I shake my head. "I assure you, sir, I don't know," I say bewildered.
"Constable, take this man away!" he shouts, his face flushing with anger.
A uniformed man advances from the back of the room and grabs me by the shoulders. "Come on, gov, lets go 'ave a chat," he says firmly.
Reeling in utter perplexion, I can only obey. Certainly there's been some sort of misunderstanding. Once I speak with the constable, this will be all cleared up. Surely Elizabeth is confused by her ordeal. After she's had a chance to rest, everything will be back to normal.
***
"Alrigh', you swine, I'm goin' to ask you once more!" the constable howls threateningly. "Where were you on the nigh' Miss Evansworth disappeared?"
Even with my face in my hands, the stark stone walls of the interrogation room loom around me forebodingly. The dank smell of the place makes me feel a little sick, not because of the odor itself but more that it reminds me of a dungeon...a place I'm sure I'll get to know very soon.
"I told you, I don't remember," I insist. "I wish I knew, but I don't. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to harm Elizabeth. I love her." While I'm not sure why I just said that, it feels like truth on my lips.
"Obsessed with 'er, more likely!" the constable accuses. "An' I suppose you also 'ave no recollection of the little room in you cellar where you kep' the poor girl? Or of the black cloak she described you as wearin' while she begged for you to le'er go? This is the same cloak, I remind you, as the one we found 'angin' in your wardrobe in your very own bedroom in your very own 'ouse!"
I rub my eyes, hoping to awaken from this nightmare. "Yes, constable," I say in a wearied tone. "I quite recall those details, and as I told you before, I have no explanation for them. Perhaps someone is trying to make it appear as though I am the guilty party, which I assure you, I am not."
"So you keep sayin'," the constable sighs. "But the thing is...I don' believe you."
***
"My name is Elizabeth Evansworth. My father is Charles Evansworth, a civil engineer. On 12 July I was reading a book alone on a hill by my father's estate. I heard a noise from behind me. It sounded like a footstep. When I turned to see who it was, I was struck on the head. I do not remember anything for some time after that."
The prosecutor steps toward Elizabeth with a sympathetic expression. "Miss Evansworth, did you see who had struck you?" he asks.
Elizabeth shakes her head. "No. At least, if I did, I don't recall it. I think I was struck before I turned fully."
The prosecutor nods. "Very well. Tell us, if you can, what you remember next," he directs her.
A sadness seems to come over her as she takes a breath to answer. "Well," she begins with a pause, "I awoke in a darkened room of rough stone, a cellar I think. I was tied to a chair. Pieces of my dress had been...torn."
"It's alright, Elizabeth," the prosecutor reassures her. "Go on."
"There was a figure," she continues in a small voice, "a man. He wore a long black cloak with a hood which obscured him from me. He then spoke to me, and it was then I realized who it was."
"Tell us," the prosecutor urges. "Who was it?"
"It was..." Elizabeth pauses for several moments, struggling with the hard truth she is about to reveal. "It was the prisoner. Richard...my own Richard. He spoke to me in a strange manner. He sounded almost foreign, but he could not disguise that voice from me. I know it too well."
The prosecutor faces the jury with a raised eyebrow. "Did he say why he had done this? Why he had taken you?"
She shakes her head resignedly. "No. He simply kept asking me who he was. I told him that I knew it was him, but he went on asking me to tell him about himself...about his life. It was as if he had gone mad."
***
Well, this is different. Somehow I ended up in the middle of this strange, messed-up situation. Who knows, maybe I am crazy. It would be a really convenient explanation for all of this. But, y'know, even though everything seems out of place and completely wrong, I find myself thinking only how this verdict and subsequent sentence is going to take me away from Elizabeth. I can't help but feel like I've made some sort of awful mistake that's taking me further and further away from recapturing my life.
Oh, the judge is talking. I should probably listen to this.
"...has been found guilty of taking by force and carrying away Elizabeth Evansworth with intent to hold her from her family. It is this court's determination that the prisoner was non compos mentis throughout the duration of the crime. As such, the sentence of seven years confinement shall take place within the Greater Wisconsin Mental Institute under the care of Drs. Hanz Spector and Friedrich Golz. Their record for rehabilitation of criminals with mental defect is exemplary."
May god have mercy upon my soul. It might as well be a death sentence...
***
"Don't you worry," a young Dr. Golz tries to reassure me with a slight German accent. "Dr. Spector is a brilliant doctor and scientist. He has made great strides in the study of the brain's role in violent and criminal behavior."
I'm not reassured. What I am is tied down to a table in some kind of laboratory/operating room. I couldn't be further from reassured. As enthusiastic as Dr. Golz is, none of what he's explained to me so far sounds like science or medicine. I'd like to protest, believe me, but my mouth has been taped shut.
"Now, let's just get rid of the rest of this," Dr. Golz mutters to himself as he picks up the sharp razor from the stand next to my bed. He holds the shining metal blade over me for a moment, inspecting its edge. I can only stare up in blank terror. He brings it down and slides it down my wet scalp, shaving off what little hair was left after my earlier trim.
"There!" he exclaims as he finishes. "Now, I will administer something to dull the pain. While it is taking effect, I will go get Dr. Spector and we can begin."
Again, the urge to protest comes on, but I can only watch as Dr. Golz fills a syringe and empties it into my veins. Almost immediately euphoria begins to wash over me. I try to fight it, but every cell in my body urges me to just relax. I barely register the doctor's exit to find his colleague.
The next thing I see is the blurry image of a man's face. The face is long and cracked by a thin-lipped mouth filled with widely-gapped teeth. In the center of the face is a hawkish nose on which sits a pair of round glasses that magnify a set of black, beady eyes. The whole thing is topped by a slick of jet black hair, parted on the left.
"Now, Friedrich," the face says with a distant voice. "We will begin by drilling a hole in the top of the skull."
I feel a cold sensation as something is spread on my bare scalp. Then comes a feeling like someone is rubbing a blunt stone against the top of my head. There is a slow grinding sound echoing everywhere. Red fills my vision. I scream, but the sound is muted by tape and drowned out by the constant drilling. I give in to the blackness.
***
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