WRITING: Behind Every Blade Of Grass (An Index Card Novel)

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

General Sanchez and Colonel Achmed were in fits. The invasion hadn’t gotten off to a very good start. The coordinated bio / nuclear attack had been an initial success. Biologicals — the West Nile Virus’ more virulent cousin — had decimated the population. The invasion needed to wait a week for it to die out. It was estimated that only a tenth of the population had natural resistance. The high altitude energy pulse destroyed all electronics. In that week of quarantine, all semblance of government and society was expected to collapse. There were forty similar invasion forces aligned on all four sides. Muslim, Spanish, and Chinese — all aligned to rid the world of the largest imperialist power. It had all been planned and executed without a single electronic communication. Human couriers didn’t allow the Great Satan’s “intel” in on the surprise.

The Mid Atlantic task force showed up at the appointed time and place. A small seaside beach community on an island just off the mainland. Operations began at 0800 local; delayed two hours as the fleet was waiting for an unexpected fog to lift. Such were the fortunes of war. It didn’t. The motorized landing craft began their runs. Over the dead land, the noise was unmistakable, a wake up call, and call to arms. Someone uninvited was coming.

Unbeknown to the invaders, many survivalists and prepers had planned their bug outs to go to the seaside. Fish, birds, and water. The fish could be caught to supplement; birds trapped. Seawater desalinated by sunshine. Surprisingly, while not friends, there was a modest amount of trade and mutual assistance in the week following the troubles. A rather small island had a surprisingly large number of survivors.

The fat old man was the only survivor on his block. His family, that bugged with him, were buried in the backyard. He heard the engine noise from the sea and thought of Private Ryan. He grabbed his M1A and his ammo and went to a nearby condo. He had forced the doors open scavaging earlier in the week, so it took no time to get to the third floor front, open a window slightly, and start firing at the beach. He could hear he wasn’t alone. About 30 shots in 30 minutes resulted in an anti-tank rocket ending his resistance.

The Greatest Generation had a few tricks left up their collective sleeve. A bunch of loons at the American Legion had a ceremonial howitzer. It wasn’t so ceremonial. They took out the bridge off the island. The VFW had a half-track. It didn’t run any more, but it’s machine gun did. A whole company of invaders found that assumptions about no resistance could be deadly as an 80 year old gunner and and 79 year old feeder got a whole lot of joy out of remembering an old skill.

On the beach, a General and Colonel were getting reports of fierce resistance from survivors. A woman, a child, old vets! Suicidally fighting for no good reason. Leaderless. Without hope. Individuals, pairs, small teams. Damn fog. They couldn’t risk close air in it for friendly fire. The recon found the bridges to the mainland down. That really snafued their plan. As the general signaled the withdrawal, the radio reported many similar failures. Who’d have known that urban drug gangs would turn into such fine light infantry? With automatic weapons too.

Just about that time the American Legion artillery and the VFW scouts had coordinated their efforts. It was their land after all. And, plotting a location with coordinates was a handy skill to have. A runner with a walker “ran” them back. The “location plot” team took out a few more. The American Legion howitzer sent the General and Colonel a special “Welcome to America”. A lucky shot? Devastatingly lucky! Murphy is always around. In this case, the spirit of Audey Murphy. Maybe Sargent York too. As the General lay dying, he thought back to a famous Admiral, awaking a sleeping tiger, and riflemen behind every blade of grass.

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WRITING: The Last Reader (An index card novel)

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

“News 8 has recently revealed serious flaws in the way the FAA licenses mechanics who fix planes.”

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The downward spiral continued. At first, schools just papered it over with phony tests and declining scores. But soon, it was official. Future generations were not learning to read. Not that they could not; just that they would not. Large percentages of the population were content to ignore the way data, information, knowledge, and wisdom were transferred. And, it was global; although the debate was over willingness or poverty. Some said it was the iphone. Some said it was TV. Some said it was “society’s fault”. The conclusion was that in “rich” countries it was unwillingness and in “poor” countries it was access. Bottom line: humans were losing their ability to communicate with past generations or with each other without speaking.

# – # – #

John was an old man. Luckily, he’d chosen to live in the Pennsylvania Dutch country. An area that was gently stuck in the late 1800’s. It meant that he could eat locally. Commerce had retrenched into a 1890’s model. Goods and services didn’t move more than twenty miles. Maintaining cars and refining gasoline require people who can read. Humanity had regressed to an oral model of knowledge transfer. People traveled great distances with documents for him to read. There was no electricity anymore; there was no one to read how to maintain the systems. Medical care had regressed to the same era; the medieval apprentice model was in use for training new doctors. Specialists and lab tests were a thing of the past. Drugs were just unavailable at any price. Politics was very local. There was no newspapers; no news and no way to transmit it. Eventually all the ipods and iphones died. There were massive die offs in the cities as people fought for ever scarcer stuff. Turf wars erupted. Refugees from the city, (the so called golden horde), were killed by the rural peasants who had not enough for themselves, their families, and their neighbors. 300 Million become 3 million. Two political parties emerged — the Democrats saying that they had led us to save the planet and the Republicans saying that they had led us back to the simpler time we all wanted. Luckily, there wasn’t much wealth to be political about; politicians starved just like ordinary people, just a little slower. John died that winter of a flu. Some flu or another.

The human population was eventually extinct. A victim of technology and stupidity.

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Writing: The Last Smart Generation (An index card novel)

Friday, May 22, 2009

The Last Smart Generation

The old man was dying. His academic work was prestigious. He had even written some popular “shock” titles that were a commercial success. His wife had preceded him last year; his boy and girl were with him.

He mused over things. Most notably their future. He would leave them a substantive estate. Some to be taxed; some to be evaded. He could do nothing to assure their survival. He had warned about the fate of humanity. He chuckled at all the tin foil hats who feared asteroids, flu, Nazis, global warming, global cooling, and all manner of “disasters”. They were right to be afraid; they didn’t realize that the disaster was “hidden” in our genes and memes. He’d warned, but no one listened.

He’d try once more to give his children his message. But sadly, they weren’t “smart”. Not smart enough to understand the light at the end of the tunnel was a locomotive. Not smart enough to make their contemporaries understand. Not smart enought to avoid the onrushing disaster.

Sigh.

“Children, I’ve tried to warn society that we have turned on to a road that leads to destruction. The Greatest Generation was followed by the Me Generation. The Greatest Generation made a terrible mistake. They allowed themselves to pave the road for their children. They made it too easy, too ‘democratic’, too … too … too ‘universal’. The Nazi’s gave eugenics a bad name. They turned society off to the idea that our genes were worth studying. It wasn’t race that was to be focused on, but human achievement. The Athenians and the Spartans made the same mistake — brains and brawn must BOTH be valued. The Romans made the same mistake; the citizen soldier was replaced by mercenaries serving debauchery. Today, the global society means there is no reserve of ‘virtue’ to come forward and save humanity. ‘Coach potatoes’ develop the diseases of old age and quadriplegics as they watch mind numbing amounts of TV. The Greatest Generation made the mistake after WW2 to expand ‘education’ to everyone. The ‘education industry’ became a government job. No competition to get in; no competition with in it. High schools and colleges ‘graduated’ functional illiterates; grade inflation hid the truth. Your generation is ‘dumber’ than mine. For eons, the human race has struggled and evolved to solve new and harder problems. This is the last generation that innovates. I’ve tried to turn the Titanic away from the iceberg of stagnation. I tried to make people listen. Our genes need challenges and hardships. Our memes have made easy living that which is valued. Be afraid; be very afraid.”

The children ascribed it to the lunacy of old age. He was dying. The daughter was a plumber with a PhD in Theater. The son was an electrician with a double Masters in Fine Art and Creative Writing Criticism. They were comfortable.

It wasn’t long. In three generations, humanity died out. The Earth said good bye to another species that had failed to adapt to a new hardship. The hardship was unrecognized by any until they had slipped below critical mass. The descent was meteoric.

That old man had identified it. The hardship was “abundance”. Humanity was not smart enough to recognize the challenge and succumbed to it. All that was left was emptiness. There was no species to evolve up. The petrochemicals had all been used. Creation ended in loneliness. Earth was stuck in a dead end with no way out.

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WRITING: CHURCH 10●19●62 in another location

Monday, May 18, 2009
View this document on Scribd

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WRITING: Yes, you really should NOT gum up the works.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Don’t gum up the works

The drunk staggered along the street. He was dirty, smelly, and bedraggled. He bumped between parking meters and cars. Like a sad ping pong match. The police car was at the corner. Illegally parked, of course; the members of the long blue line were on doughnut break. From their “selfless” mission, protecting and serving the entrenched elite. The drunk was an equal opportunity ping pong ball. He bounced off their car, around the corner and away.

+++

It was the death of his wife that set him off. No one much cared about him. But, then that feeling was mutual with him. He was a self-described “tin foil hat patriot”. Who would know if he was a pinhead or a patriot? Who’d much care! As long as he paid his taxes, there was much he could do. Frustratingly, he blogged. He wrote his letters. He went to demonstrations. He voted religiously. But nothing much mattered. It all came to him in an Auto Parts store. He needed replacement windshield wiper blades. A very mundane purchase. After all if was one of the last things you could do on a car without the government’s permission. The socialists had succeeded in making everything with cars either illegal, expensive, or sealed. You could put an additive in your oil; it’s damaging the planet. Gas was eight bucks a gallon, seven of which was tax; taxed like beer, treated liked drugs. The twenty two hundred dollar catalytic converter was sealed shut; the earth had to “breathe” too you know. Global warming. Remember Mother Earth. For the children. The Auto Parts store had some vintage signs as decoration. One was for an old product called Gunk Out. The slogan was: “Don’t gum up the works!”. Next to the car register were small packages of liquid epoxy designed to stick trim back on cars. Their slogan was: “It’ll never be loose again.” On an impulse, he bought five at this store. And went to another store for more.

+++

It was the end of a quiet shift. The police pair had been “clocked out” as they drove into the station parking lot. Due to budget crises, there was an automatic badge reader that recorded their status. They just had to refill the patrol car on their own time. The city saved grazillions on the “free labor”; their union had gotten other off-budget concessions. So, their end of shift chores were “off the clock”. Fill up the tank, record the serial number of ammo returned to the armory, lock up their personal weapons until next shift, download their computers to the HQ network. All their problem. Pulling up to the gas pump, the non-driver went to pump. They switched roles each shift. Just like they’d change who was the “bad cop” in their “good cop / bad cop” routine they’d run on suspects. It was all about making their quotas. The gas tank cover wouldn’t open. They were befuddled. They tried knives. They called for help. Finally, the mechanic drilled the cover and cut it off. Four hours later, gas was flowing into their tank. Their car was put out of service for repair. They were being investigated by Internal Affairs for sabatoge. Fixing that was going to be expensive. Especially at government prices!

+++

The next morning, the city’s 311 number was taking calls from irate citizens. There was no where to park. Every other meter on several blocks wouldn’t take money. What’s worse, if the parker ignored the problem, the automated parking meters would sense there was a car parked, that no graft was being paid to the city for that privilege, and a traffic agent was printed out a ticket automatically to be delivered to that car. Maybe it even got there. On some of the newer meters, it would also read the license plate, and mail a three day violation notice to the registered owner. After three days, if the $125 fine was not paid, their license and registration was suspended automatically. After seven days, a collection agency was engaged. After fourteen days, an arrest warrant was issued. All automagically. The older meters still relied on the Civil Servants to eventually get the paperwork where it should be. The law was written for the new meters. May take years but everyone would be penalized in due time. There’d be arrests for eons based on the old tickets; no statue of limitations and no requirement that tickets be done promptly by the government. But, no such “grace period” for the rabble. It was making pinheads into patriots everywhere in society. It was hard to be uninvolved. Everyone was getting into the act!

+++

It really wasn’t so bad. They were doing OK until the internet got the story. They had suppressed the press from reporting. They were the lapdogs of the politicians. But, eventually, six days later, the blogosphere erupted with the news. Enraged bloggers caught in the mess screamed to Holy Heaven. The the patriot bloggers picked it up. Then the outlawed bittorrenters distributed pointers to how it was done. All sorts of glue sold out in a few days. Then the fun really began. Finally way to late, wweks later, the government suspended the sale of all glue. It was more heavily regulated than guns.

+++

Eventually government ceased to function. Society thrived. But government was “glued” solid. Unmovable. Yes, it was a little inconvenient to get around the “road blocks”. But it was funny to see the mayor’s limo encased in epoxy!

+++

Yes, you really should NOT gum up the works.

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[NOTE: This is Johnathan Swift satire, you should NOT do this!]

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WRITING: Discount on CHURCH 10●19●62

Monday, May 4, 2009

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WRITING: A lawyer’s holiday (An index card novel)

Sunday, May 3, 2009

His Outlook calendar chirped at him. Odd for a Thursday. He had a full day today and tomorrow. The Firm was reorganizing. They were besieged with work, but he and his fellow partners didn’t want to add to staff or expense. Everyone was being urged to do more with less. His niche was intra-government financing and non-governmental agreements. A boom area. They had several of the new nations admitted to the UN as clients as well as several new sub-departmets of the US Government — among which were Intrastate Medical Control Agency, Ethnic Rights Referent Agency, and his personal favorite Rubber Tyres Regulation / Bycycle Division which was required by the latest UN mandate. And spelled just that way! Any way, several meetings today and tomorrow with the Senior Partners were being automagically canceled. Strange!

He called his amigo in the IT section. “Hola, Don Juan.” (His friend was a fat old white guy nerd who fancied himself God’s gift to women. They joked about it.) “Hey, Lord of the RTR slash B, gotten your bicycle yet?” “No, but I’ll have time to shop tomorrow. Is Microsloth Lookout on the blink again? It’s canceling all my appointments.” “No way, I run a quality operation. Last month’s meltdown with the Adios Virus was a fluke. Let me look.” “OK, you look. BTW, I just hired a new admin in ERRA; she’s just your type.” “Hey, I saw her already. She’s gotta tip 300 without the proverbial bag.” “Well, you’re no Hollywood stud any more.” “I resent that. No, Outlook is fine. It appears that ALL the senior partners are on vacation for the rest of the day today and tomorrow.” “Are they meeting somewhere?” “No, not that I can tell. They all have different reasons and OOO messages posted. But, it all started at about 10AM and was all done by 1030. That’s odd. The last time these guys were all were off at the same time was during FDR’s bank holiday. Maybe I’ll do my DR backups tomorrow; No one that counts will be around tomorrow.” “Me either, if they can take off, I can too. Thanks.” He tapped out a quick message to his leads and and set his OOO. He smelled a rat.

The newspaper had mentioned a Presidential prime time address at 8PM tonight on the economy. Which was in the dumpster and going deeper. The unemployment rate was 22%. The commercial real estate market was swirling the drain. And, there was even some rioting in the inner cities about it. Something that Don Juan said stuck in his head. FDR! Maybe it was time to panic.

Was it better to be wrong again and have his family safe? Or was it better to be really wrong for the first time about the ball dropping and have everyone at risk. He formulated it this way. His family, he suspected, already thought he had a tin foil hat! Last year, he activated their plan when the Congress passed the new Port Security bill that was really a tariff in disguise. Nothing came of that, but they did spend a week unscheduled at the beach house. Everyone loved and hated it. He worked from home, but the kids had to make up their school work, and Frau had to find another job. Did he dare pull the pin again? Based on nothing but his senior partners surprise vacation. OODA. That’s what he’d learned in the military. OODA. It was too convenient. Like Don Juan said, FDR. He took out his personal Blackberry. Text message to List 9999: “Earth Abides. This is NOT a drill. Activate Plan 9. CUsoon. God help us all. Auth code Blueberry Orange” Send. He went to his office door and locked it. To the closet, striped out of his business suit, hung it back neatly, and donned some comfortable jeans ‘n’ tshirt. Old, non-descript, and a little worn. He unlocked the box on the floor and there was his BOB. Bug Out Bag. All the tin foil hats always had one in their hidey holes where ever they were. In the bag, a testament to the “victim*disarmament” laws was another locked box. In it was a 1911 hogleg. Loaded and ready. Dangerous? Yes. Loaded guns are dangerous. But, if you needed it. The box looked locked, but it too was deceiving. A squeeze like an accordion, and it would open like a banana. Allowing quick access to a “life saver”. But to a cop it would look padlocked. He put on sneakers and slung the pack. That looked like a golf bag. Unlock and out. His admin seated outside, he said: “Time for a quick nine. Everyone’s goofing off today and tomorrow. Why don’t you do the same!” “But we have all this work!”, she protested. “It’ll keep. This is the boss’ orders. GO home and stay home. See you on Monday.” And, he power walked out. He said to himself: “Maybe!”

His car was in the garage and he stowed the golf clubs. The plan recognized that the tunnels out of the city and public transport were choke points. He wasn’t going to risk it. He drove the 30 minutes to the sea side club and golf course very carefully. Observing all the speed limits. When he wanted to do 100. It felt longer than it was. It was a mid day Thursday so the place was relatively vacant. Not like, “Medicine Man Wednesday” when there was no hope of getting in a round or a doctor’s appointment. He parked at the end of the lot and muscled a heavy square bundle from the trunk. And a small gas tank, religious rotated every week, when he filled up after Church. It had a frame with wheels and looked like a coffin as he wheeled it towards the beach. Right to the waters edge. No one was in sight, so he pulled the rip cord. With a loud pop, it began to inflate. So some unknown WW2 factory worker had done their job. The rescue craft, or crew’s survival boat, inflated. Unlike the commercial ones, this was green. Designed to be hidden. Not orange or red. He paddled out a short distance then deployed the motor. It fired up, (he tested that every month), and away he went at a sprightly pace.

Two hours later, he took on passengers. Two kids at a riverfront park near school. Frau met them at a fishing dock close to her work. There was no conversation. He knew they all thought his was out of his mind. But they humored him. One of the kids had a radio. At the half way point in their journey, as he swung out to the island. (As a safety measure, he always kept land in sight.) His son said: “There are riots starting. Something about a rumor. Welfare benefits are being cut. The governor has declared martial law.” He just looked at them: “It’s starting. We’ll be home shortly.” He resisted the temptation to crank up the motor. Their lives were held by the strand of a lame little motor that was struggling under the added load. About an hour later, they could see “their beach”. The closed amusement park (It went broke.) They heard an explosion. Huge. And could see the smoke rising from the other side of the island. Then, another from the North side. “Some one” had blown the two bridges to the mainland. Some patriots. They were now the, often joked about at meetings, island nation of Oceania Island. Cut off from the world. No golden horde would come their way. Some one else was reading the tea leaves and had taken a very big step. Those were a multi-million bridges being “incapacitated”. Hope there was a repair plan.

He angled thru the surf. It was a gentle chop. And, onto the beach. He lit a flare a signaled “54 40”. Somewhere there was a watcher with a rifle. He did it five times then extinguished the flare, the kids had deflated the boat, and Mom was folding it back up. She was good at that. She was always able to get it back in shape. They’d need a new gas cylinder and get the used one refilled. He’d been wrong once before. But the family knew how serious he was about this, so there was no griping. They were not so stupid as to not be scared by the events of the day. Today, it seemed, as evidenced by the bridges, that others were scared too. Trudge over the fifty foot beach, up to the boardwalk, and down to the house. All seemed in order. A sleepy summer village that had not had Prince Charming’s kiss of sunny warm weather to burst into wakeful activity. Dormant. The key code door admitted them. Handy for going swimming or admitting winter workmen. He “found” a hidden real key inside the porch, inserted it in the security terminal, and turned. The key in the security system notified the security response team that they were active. The local government would be aware of them as a resource. Main power breaker was thrown to on. The lights worked. The TV went on. The news was grim. Riots everywhere. Panic at the banks. Sob stories galore. All by word of mouth.

If the bridges were blown, this was the time. With everyone helping they moved the beds out of the First Bedroom. The carpet was peeled back. A suction floor tile lifter opened up the end. Swung by big hinges. Two sticks propped it open. Trunks and luggage were pulled up. A clothes bag for each person. Supplies. Totes. And, a footlocker. He was most anxious to get to that. Open and distribute arms. Each person now got a side arm, utility belt with a bowie knife, a rifle, and sawed off shotgun. There was also four hunting bows with nasty arrows. Each of the family was qualified to use their tools.

The cistern was full of rain water. The hidden pantry below held the “Mormon diet plan”. The underground LP tanks were full. The regular pantry had the winter stocks; accessible from above or below. It wasn’t gourmet, but they’d survive. Mom was closing the inner metal slide shutters that were hidden in the walls by each window. (Bullet proof.) He armed the various intrusion devices.

They all gathered around the computer as Drudge chronicled the end of America.

Later on the TV, the President spoke: “My fellow Americans: Be calm. All is well. Tomorrow and over the weekend, we will have a bank holiday as we reorganize our finances. Peace will again … …” the TV went out. A mushroom cloud rose over his Wall Street office. The lights blinked out.

Quickly items were moved back down. The family buttoned up into their shelter. Things had just gotten much worse. Did the Chinese not want their Five Trillion Dollars “reorganized”? Wonder what the end of that Presidential statement said to them: “Screw You?” They’d have several weeks to figure that out.

Wonder if the DVR would survive, he mused in the faint glow of a six volt light.

Time for some shut eye. Tomorrow was another day.

Maybe?

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WRITING: City gal goes Farm (An index card novel)

Monday, April 27, 2009

It was your typical Thursday at the Law Firm. She’d shown up at 0730 ready for action. They needed her. And, she wanted to keep it that way. She hated paperwork, but it paid the bills handsomely and allowed her to save while helping her aunt keep the farm. Besides on Friday, she was going “home” to the farm. It was her weekend. One weekend out of three, she go to the Farm. It was much harder work than the city but it kept her head clear. She arose each day as if she was at the farm: 0500. She did her morning PT in her tiny apartment in the Bronx. A light breakfast. Some personal paperwork. Chomping at the bit for dawn. Then it was safe to go out. Yesterday, she had brought her rucksack to work for Friday’s Peter Pan Trailways to “Bennington 05201”. If she was lucky, she’d make the 5PM that would put her into Bennington at 9. Her aunt would pick her up at the station and they’d talk all the way home. But back to reality, here and now.

Today’s challenge was this latest UN boondoggle that the Firm had landed: Rubber Tyres Regulation / Bycycle Division. The gals called it “condoms for bike wheels”, “rubbers for spokes”, or just foolishness. But it paid the bills. Handsomely. She had to collect all the attorney input, fill out a slew of formulaic nonsense, and attach all the copied citations. She had two women to help her. By the time they were done, it would be 800 plus pages of “barbara streisand”. To do it properly she was going to tie it up in red ribbon with a big store bought bow. Her boss would think that was funny. He treated her well; not like some of the other chauvinists. Even going so far to pretend that he had romantic interests. That kept all the junior attorney lotharios of both sexes from making passes at her. He was sensitive like that. She had explained to his wife about Chuck, how the Firm was a mini Sodom and Gomorrah, and what her husband was doing for her. She didn’t want the woman to get the wrong idea. And, name her as a respondent. That would spell the end of her paycheck. And, her protection.

She was well on her way to completing the “condom” paperwork when at about 11, his nibs waltzes out with his golf clubs and in his old clothes. Announces a holiday for a long weekend. And orders her to go home. Breezes out of the office. She was torn. She really wanted to finish the paperwork. It was her objective to secure another “outstanding” on her appraisal. Last year, that had gotten her a 50% bonus that bought a new high efficiency tractor for the farm. And she also bought a bunch of gold bullion coins with the rest. Those were were now safely ensconced in a jar, resting in a bucket, nailed in the corner of a very disgusting pig pen, guarded 24/7 by five easily irritated nasty hogs. But, she could have a long weekend. Sigh! Even if she had to work late next week, the Firm would send her home by limo and buy them all dinner. That would mean some extra bucks as well. Her assistants were waiting for her to decide. Meekly. They wouldn’t gripe what ever she decided. They needed their jobs as well. Poop or poop. Which poop would she tend to. After all, it was an “order”.

“OK, gals, you heard the man, it’s the weekend! Bye.” They were so outta there. Vamos. Amscray. Via con Dios! The younger gal was gone in a heartbeat. Took her purse, locked her desk, and left her coffee right where it sat. An archeologist would think it was Pompeii. She pulled her rucksack from under her desk, called her aunt, got the machine, and left a message. “Got off the rest of the week, no idea why, job secure, catching the next bus out of town, bennington at 5 or 7 depending upon the subway, luv ya, bye!”. She and her other helper walked quickly out together. Down to the subway and caught the E train just coming into the station. At Canal she swapped to the express. And, finally had time to catch her breath. Could she catch the noon stage? Four stops! She hustled up the stairs. She was an in shape farm girl. 1140 by the master clock. Ticket window: $29.25. Why not just make it an even 30? Zaro’s for a prepack sandwich, three bottles of water, (the bus had a passable bathroom if needed; she could run the gauntlet!), and six of the “honey buns” her aunt liked. And, a small dual box for the driver. Down the steps to the number six gate in the basement. 1152 by that clock. Did Einstein discover relativity by the clocks with different times in the bus station? Ticket to driver. And, the coffin corner seat was available. Everyone hated it because it was hard to sleep. She liked to be safe by the driver. She’d heard of rapes and assaults in the back of the bus.

Rufus James Simpson had the noon stage. She knew him. He was a regular driver. Retired military. Drove to supplement his pension. He drive the morning commutation route that left Bennington at 4AM and pulled in at 9AM. Who would come that far for work? To get home at 9PM. And, pay 40 dollars a day. They got a discount. They should get a free psych exam. And Rufus would take the noon run home. Got him home at 6PM for dinner. “Rufus, here’s a present for dessert tonight.” “Why thank you Missie. The wife and I appreciate your kindness.” He adjusted the mirrors, started the beast, and tooted for the starter to back him out. He wouldn’t speak again until they docked at Bennington. He was a pro. Out of the port authority, across to second avenue, north to the 155th street bridge, onto 95 north, Fordham Road, to Route 7. City streets were faster than the tied up expressways. She often wished they stopped at Pownell. That would save an hour, but beggars can’t be.

She was exhilarated. A whole extra day on the farm. Tonight she had to see which of the projects she could move from the Three Day Weekend board. Maybe Chuck would be free Friday. Maybe she could wangle him to ask her out on a date. The boy was a little obtuse. She sat very close to him in Church. Put the near occasion of sin in her mind; can’t imagine what it did to him. The bus was half full. Some hospital workers had five on five off and it paid good money. They’d come down and never leave the hospital. Sleep in the ready room or such. She didn’t know how they did it, but they did.

As the crossed the Vermont border, she unzipped her rucksack bottom and a little ditty bag came free. She inserted her hands in it and felt the cool metal. Quickly, inside the bag, she assembled her 1911 hogleg. A girl’s best friend. Any of the boys in the far back, that had romance on their minds, lost the urge when she emerged from the bus wearing the ultimate fashion statement. A USMC surplus holster with side arm. And she knew how to use it. And, her judo too. I am woman! Hear me roar!

The bus pulled into the dock and she was the first one off. Her aunt and Chuck were there. Grim faced. Her aunt hugged her. Chuck kissed her. Full on the lips. She was ready to haul off an slap him. ‘Til she saw tears in both their eyes. “What’s wrong? Who died? And, Chuck what would the Reverend say?” Chuck said: “Glad you’re safe. That’s what he’d say. Now stay close.” That was when she noticed her aunt had a shotgun and Chuck drew a 380 girlie gun. Where’d he get that? She never saw him carry. Her aunt led off and Chuck was on her rear. Literally on it. Not that she minded, but he was almost in present arms position. If she turned around quick, the marriage could have been consummated. That’s how close. Up the stairs, two at a time, out on the street, she could see the disarray. Looked like a riot had been through. Their neighbors, the Herows, were there with their big old car. Louie had his over and under out. The one with no serial number. Marion had her famously rubber banded hog leg. She couldn’t work the “safety” with her arthritis. So it was rubber banded down to make it easier for her to shoot. Some safety. Chuck shoved her in the back seat and ran to the other side. Her aunt shoved in next to her and her rucksack was her best buddy from knees to nose. It was all she could do to keep the Zaro’s buns from getting crushed; her physical goodies were mashed. Louis got in and the door wasn’t closed when Marion had the car moving at speed. She shifted like Mario Andretti. And at the corner she was at 60. Thru the red light and out to Route 7 south. The No Left Turn sign there was ignored as if it was invisible. On Route 7, Marion had the old tub at 90. The wheels were shaking. “Marion! Easy. Killing us ain’t saving us!”, said Louie in a quiet almost loving voice. That was unusual. She’d never heard them speak in anything but a grouch.

She still didn’t have a clue. So she just said: “Thanks. I appreciate you all coming to pick me up. Can I buy coffee for everyone? There’s buns here somewhere.” Chuck looked at her. Stunned. “You don’t know; do you?” “Know what? Other than that was very forward of you to kiss me like that. We really haven’t had that kind of introduction yet.” “There’s riots going on. Civilization is ending. The welfare is being cut. The money is worthless. The world has gone nuts.” She looked at him as if he had two heads. “I just left the city. Everything is fine. I’ll be going back to my job on Monday.” Her aunt grabbed her hand: “New York doesn’t exist. It was nuked this evening. You were on the last stage. We weren’t sure you made it. Now we have to get to the farm and get under cover before the fallout blows our way.”

She too began to weep. Chuck put his arm around her. And, Marion continued to drive like a maniac! They were all silent. As if holding a wake for a dying civilization!

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WRITING: Go West Old Man? (Index Card Novel)

Sunday, April 26, 2009

He sat is his very comfortable McMansion. He and his wife had tuned it to their needs. He was enjoying coffee and his post-Church Sunday paper. Soon the children and grandchildren would arrive for his wife’s special monthly Sunday dinner; just like in her farm girl days. Poor farm girl, but farm girl never the less.

The feature story in the Culture section was about a return to the land by 21st Century yuppies returning to the land. The turn to socialism by Obama along with the multiple risks of unemployment, inflation, higher taxes, higher expenses, and exploding debt loads had given rise to some Depression Era thinking. A smaller, cheaper, less-expnsive, less-stuff lifestyle was being sought by young people. Like the Titanic before collecting ice cubes, one didn’t have to be overly psychic to know that egotistically speeding in the dark across an iceberg laden sea in an “unsinkable” ship was a prescription for disaster. Some people were always in the know. Vast tracks of undeveloped land in Western North Carolina were being quietly, silently, and cheaply acquired. Not by big builders for massive development. Not by governments for big construction projects. Not by real estate moguls seeking something the government was not “printing more of”. But by ordinary people. Doctors, lawyers, technology people, PhDs, writers, business people. Basically a whole lot of people were getting out of dodge full time. And, interestingly, they weren’t building big houses. They weren’t getting on the grid. They weren’t putting in cable or satellite TV. They were building small and green with solar. “Farmettes”, the article called them.

He had a raving loon of a friend. Y2K was an awakening for his nutty buddy. After that, he was a “real tin foil hat”. But the gold purchase he made in prep paid off. 200 to a 1000 was a nice killing. His friend had learned the lessons of Wall Street from his time there. It was a rigged casino. Survivalist, anti-establishment, anti-state, “gold bug’, anti-FED, Ron Paul, light conspiracy theory, and other loony stuff appeared in his email box from his firend regularly for more than a decade. Some times there was five or more in a day. His friend really needed to find a job; he was a ‘severance package farmer’. That too was evidence of the lunacy of large corporations. Pay employees to leave quietly. When they all got together, everyone — including the wives — were careful not to get him started about politicians, taxes, or the “gooferment”! He was a real wack a loon. But he had taught him one thing, these were NOT “farmettes”; these were “suvival retreats”!

He’d lived through Hugo. More than a week without power and water. Taking charity from the National Guard. Flushing toilets with a neighbor’s swimming pool water. At least they had gas for the car to get to the nearby church for showers and hot chow. What would a longer or worse condition be like. His nutty friend had given him the vocabulary; he had it down pat. He knew the words “Golden Horde”, Zimbabwe, and TEOTWAWKI. What’s worse is that his friend had taught him what they meant! His friend was a certifiable member of the “lights are on, but no one is home” club. But, these people in the article were smart folks. Not skitzo. Not panicked. Not emotional.

His crazy “tin foil hat” bud had told him that it was the Grandparents that had to lead the “evacuation”. They were the only ones who had the time, wisdom, money, and vision to see what was on the horizon. The children were too young and the parents were blinded by the day to day needs of modern life. The Jewish intelligentsia, when seeing Hitler for what he was, shipped children and some young families out of country wholesale. Often sacrificing their own lives for the future generations. Was he now having this glimpse of the future. Act on it or be doomed?

This was turning morose. He moved on to the sports. He had to break out of the rut. Get away from disaster thinking. Yankees opened their new stadium with a loss. The city government put a fortune of tax money into a new smaller stadium. His wacky friend’s lectures invaded this page too. “Millionaires Playing For Billionaires”, he’d rail. “Why does the tax payer have to pay for bread and circuses?” Argh. That nut was ruining his Sunday. Was he on every page yelling “escape!”; what next the classified. As a joke on himself, he turned to that slender section. The reason the papers were going broke was that advertising and the classifieds were moving to the internet. He tuned to the middle. There was a modest eighth of a page ad: “Robert F. Hoke Estate Company announces undeveloped land for sale in Lakewood NC. Due to a family bankruptcy, several hundred thousand undeveloped acres are being offered for sale located between Chattahoochee and Sumter National Forrest. Land is being sold as is. Prices range from as low as 100$/acre when purchased in 1000 acre lots.”

Argh!

Did you ever get a song stuck in your mind? He knew turning to the front page, his friend’s echo would be easily satisfied. “Obama apologizes again at South American Leadership conference. Helicopter Ben assures everyone that inflation is not on the horizon. Cigarette tax raised two dollars.” He need to put the paper down. Sip his coffee. And, take a deep breath. Was the Lord putting this in his mind? Like Noah. Was he supposed to build his family an ark? He did have the assets. He had just the girl who could homestead. Was he developing Alzhiemers. He had to get new friends.

All he could think about was Hugo. Bigger, badder, worse, and all-encompassing.

Maybe it was time to “Go West, Old Man. Go West”!

He yelled out “Hey, Hon, gotta minute. You have to see this.”

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WRITING: What do you do when the secret police show up for you? (An index card novel)

Saturday, April 25, 2009

It was increasingly hard to stay on the right side of the law. Red light cameras. Complex tax and financial rules in general (i.e., cash withdrawals are limited to one dollar per day). Forms arrive daily to be filled out for this and that. Travel permits are required to enter each “crime prevention zone”. Guns were a long ago memory. Knives were being collected now. Excessive food “hording” was also prohibited. Computers and the internet were carefully tracked. It was expensive to keep every bit or byte, but “Big Sister” did. “Free medical care” translated to crapy care for those that had jobs; rationing for the old, the sick, and the unemployed. Drugs, weapons, gold, and other contraband led to home searches. At the grocery store, “medicine” conflicted with liberty. Each individual had to shop for themselves. Your citizen id card allowed you certain things, but not others. Your calorie and mix was limited. One benefit of the grocery store was gossip. Person to person. Like prisoners in a jail. Rumors spread like wildfire. One was that after so many “cautions”, the family got a trip out of town. There was a lot of discussion of how many people had. Each week, when someone didn’t show up, their number was known. It appeared to be 21.

This wasn’t lost on the fat old man. When he got to 19, he figured his time was due. No family, no job, no real friends. He had nothing to lose. He remembered someone once said: “The most dangerous man in the world is the man who has nothing left to lose.” He went to his backyard and dug under a planter. It was hard work to go down three feet. He took the plastic tube and went to his garage. A hacksaw liberated the contents. One 1911 in a vacuum sealed bag. He worked the action. He went to his closet and sat down. Covered himself from the waist down with a blanket. And, said his Act of Contrition. Churches had long since been closed, but he remembered the prayers.

The Homeland Security Caution Collection Crew was led by a Sargent. He had a six man squad. The pulled up at the address list for the old man. They kicked in the door and spread out through out the house. “No one here, Sarge. He’s running.” “Why, there’s no where to go. Check under the beds and look everywhere.” With that Sarge opened the closet door. His face was blown away. Two more of them bought it before they killed the old man. They called for back up and the Lieutenant. The Lt promoted one of them and called for reinforcements. At HQ, the loss was reported. The General told the Colonel: “We need to recruit more loyal men for the CCC. I see a trend here.”

Will they run out of “loyal men” before we run out of “closet patriots”?

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