EFD1: Starship Goodwords (EFD Anthology Series from Carrick Publishing)
Page 13
“No.”
“Haiku?”
“I’m not even sure what that is.”
“Umm…okay. Perhaps you…wrote a symphony?”
“No.”
“Opera?”
“No.”
“Violin concerto?”
“No.”
“Sonata?”
“No.”
“String quartet?”
“No.”
“Ballad?”
“No.”
“Folk song?”
“No.”
“Rock song?”
“No.”
“Rap song?”
“No.”
“Well,” the woman says, holding out her hands, “There you go, then.”
Salah is confused. “What -?”
“You’ve been given so much time, and the best thing you could imagine doing with it is killing people and amassing fortunes - am I right? You aren’t going to be given back your immortality,” the woman states with finality, “because you haven’t done anything to earn it!”
Salah is about to angrily respond when the man looks at his watch and says, “Look at the time. We really must get going if we want to have dinner in time to make the movie.”
“Sorry,” the woman tells Salah. “We’ve got to run. Plans. I’m sure you know how it is.”
Without waiting for a response, the man takes the woman’s arm and the pair start walking down the alley. Just before they disappear around a corner, Salah hears the woman say, “I love this city! You meet the most interesting people!”
Salah stands in the alley for several minutes, not certain what to do. The hunger in the pit of his stomach has not gone away, so he resolves that the first order of business is to get some food. Normal, human food. The woman was right, of course: he had amassed several fortunes in his many lifetimes on earth, and could probably feast on the best culinary delights the world has to offer. But, now, right this moment, he is in immediate need of something to deal with his hunger.
All of a sudden, the McDonald’s on the corner is looking like a viable option.
Ira Nayman: Alternate Reality News Service (3 collections of science fiction news)…Transdimensional Authority (universe hopping novel)…Antonio Van der Whall, object psychologist (short stories)…”The Weight of Information” (radio series pilot on YouTube)…Les Pages aux Folles (Web page)…satirizing the world so you don’t have to since 1984…
Visit Ira at his Website
or at his FaceBook Page
My Wife and I Argue over our Travel Plans
(Hey, I’m not Cheap but…)
Alex Carrick
I don’t understand how women think. It’s been a mystery to me all my life and I expect it will continue to confound me ‘til the day I die.
I had a perfectly reasonable idea for how our family should spend the holidays this year.
It was practical, do-able and would have saved us a lot of money. In short, the ideal solution for what has often been a predicament in the past.
Rather than me going on like this, however, why don’t I set out the discussion my wife, Donna, and I had exactly as it transpired?
Then you can decide who’s was in the right.
***
DONNA: No you don’t. You’re not going to pull that crap again like you did last year.
ME: What do you mean? We all had a great time. Surely, you can’t deny it.
DONNA: Don’t call me Shirley. (It’s an old joke between us. Sadly, it’s become less funny since my memory has become more spotty.)
ME: Okay, Sweetie (which is my way of getting around all concerns about what my wife, my kids and our pets are named). I had fun on that trip. And I’m pretty sure everyone else did too.
DONNA: No we did not. That’s not how we wanted to see New York, taking a virtual tour by way of Google maps.
ME (adopting an expression of mystification): Well I’m sorry to disagree, but I thought it was terrific. We drove around Times Square. Saw the Statue of Liberty. Took a few moments to absorb the majesty of the Brooklyn Bridge. All while staying comfortable in our living room.
DONNA: I want to go to Paris this year. Actually travel there. Not see the sights through satellite images on a computer.
ME: But then you’d have to get your hair done.
DONNA: I want to get my hair done.
ME: You’d have to buy new clothes.
DONNA: I want to buy new clothes.
ME: You’d have to learn French.
DONNA: No I wouldn’t. My co-worker Rachel and her husband, Armand, went to France last year and she said they got along fine without knowing any French.
ME (recalling Armand from an office Christmas party): Sure. That’s because he looks like Jerry Lewis. The French love Jerry Lewis. They probably got royal treatment over there.
DONNA: That’s not true. Armand doesn’t look anything like Jerry Lewis. (She stopped to consider the matter.) Does he? You really think so?
ME (spotting the smallest of cracks in my wife’s armor): Absolutely. He’s the spitting image.
DONNA: Anyway, Rachel said she did most of the negotiating. She didn’t find it hard. She knew enough of the language to get by and the people they met were passably good in English.
ME: She’s just saying that. I know the real reason she was able to pull it off.
DONNA: Yes?
ME (in a mumble): You’re not going to like this.
DONNA: Go on.
ME: Well you have to admit she does bear a more than passing resemblance to Charles De Gaulle. I’ve been saying that for years. She has a formidable physique. (I flexed my biceps.) He was a national hero.
DONNA (outraged): What a terrible thing to say. You’ll go to any lengths to win your case. Rachel is a lovely woman. There’s real character in her face.
ME (mumbling some more): Or Gerard Depardieu. She could be Gerard Depardieu’s twin sister. You know, the actor who played Cyrano de Bergerac in the movie.
DONNA: Stop it. You do this all the time. You hijack our arguments with some crazy point and then you get your way. Not this time, buster.
ME (changing tack): I love logging onto Google maps. You can see anything and go anywhere. It’s so neat.
DONNA: Yes, that’s true. But I want to actually sit in a café on the Champs Elysees. It’s been my fondest dream all my life.
ME: I want to visit Paris too, but in a better way.
DONNA: You’ve already been there, old-fashioned style. I know it’s not as high a priority for you. It was part of your European tour one summer while you were in university.
ME: Exactly. And I remember some things you wouldn’t like.
DONNA: Such as?
ME: There were rude waiters. Lots and lots of rude waiters.
DONNA: Like we haven’t encountered that right here at home, often because you’ve stiffed them on the tip.
ME: They’ll insult us in French over there.
DONNA: So let me get this straight. I won’t understand what they’re saying. But they’ll be gesturing with Gallic flare. (A smile lit up her face.) Sounds romantic to me.
ME (conceding the point and moving on): We’d all have to get medical shots. There are savages in Paris.
DONNA: No way.
ME: And pestilence. Big, big mosquitoes. Trés grandes mosquitoes.
DONNA: Again, no way, monsieur. You’re making this stuff up.
ME: Better to view the sights from our own couch.
DONNA: Uh-uh. The kids need the culture. They can see the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. The works of the impressionists in the Musée d’Orsay.
ME: We can look them up on-line.
DONNA: They can walk under the Arc de Triomphe. Visit Napoleon’s tomb. Stroll the boulevards. Sit in the Tuileries Gardens.
ME: How do you know all this stuff? (My wife can be awesome when she sets her mind to a challenge. That’s why I have to be nimble on my mental feet. Mental feet? Does that seem in any way correct?)
ME (changing tack once again): Remember when you wanted to go back to your old homestead in Saskatchewan and see how much things had changed?
DONNA: Yes. I do. That was another fiasco.
ME: How can you say that? We looked up the address on Google’s search engine and went for a make-believe drive.
Donna was starting to appear really upset. I knew I was on thin ice, but kept skating anyway.
ME: We headed down the street you used to take when you walked home from school. Then there it was – the site of your old house. Now it’s just an empty lot. Remember how disappointed you were.
DONNA: I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re right.
ME: Imagine if we’d gone there in person. It would have been so much more of a shock.
DONNA: Where are you taking this?
ME: Well it’s the same with Paris. We’ll get packed. Hop on a plane. Find a hotel room. Put on our walking shoes. And then we’ll discover the Eiffel Tower’s been replaced by a Walmart.
DONNA (giving me one of her disgusted looks): Don’t be ridiculous. That would never happen.
ME: They have a Disneyland over there, you know. I’m not entirely sure, but I think I heard it was built on the site of Notre Dame Cathedral.
DONNA: What nonsense. You pull this stunt and the kids will sit around the computer looking surly as can be.
ME: Are you kidding me? They’re teenagers. We could go halfway around the world and they’d still look surly most of the time. At least my way, we’ll save thousands of dollars.
DONNA: Ah-hah! Now we’re coming to the crux of the matter. This is all about money. You’re so cheap, you don’t want to pay for this trip.
ME: I’m just thinking of the family. There are so many better ways we could spend our incomes. Like on golf lessons. (A pause to appreciate how bad that sounded.) For you and the kids, I mean.
DONNA: Listen up, Mister Miser. We’re going on this trip, whether you like the idea or not. So get out your credit card and let’s go online. But not for any lame vacation in cyberspace. Rather to book an airline and a hotel.
ME: Really? Do we have to?
DONNA: Yes we have to. And there’ll be a whole lot more inconvenience for you and me and the kids before we’re finished.
ME (looking truly apprehensive): I know. There’s the time spent in airports and taxi cabs. Plus the days away from my job. I’m very busy at work these days, you know.
DONNA: Oh for goodness sakes, you need a holiday. You’re not Iron Man.
She had a point. Lately I’ve been feeling less like Iron Man and more like Putty Man.
DONNA: Plus don’t leave out the strange food. And the time difference. But it will be fantastic just the same.
I was looking more and more appalled.
DONNA: Being your wife and nurturing this family has taught me many wonderful things. I believe I’ve become a zen master on the subject of the human condition.
My discomfort was stacking up like pommes frites. I was becoming the croissant smothered under fromage.
DONNA: And do you know what the most important lesson of all is?
ME: No. Do tell.
DONNA (with mischief in her eyes): That most of the time you have to be miserable in this life to be happy.
Alex Carrick has been a professional economist covering the construction industry for the past 39 years. He writes extensively on economic matters for several newsletters, newspapers and the Internet, dealing with both Canada and the United States. Mr. Carrick lives in Toronto, Canada and is married with three children. A lethargic dog and crazy cat round out the household.
Visit Alex at his Website
or at his Amazon Author Page
Oh, Okay, and the Good Soldier Schweik (Fort Drum, New York 1980)
John Thompson
Jaroslav Hasek’s famous novel The Good Soldier Schweik concerns a simple-minded soldier in the Austro-Hungarian Army of 1914, is subversive in his simplicity.
Given an order, he does his best to understand it (but seldom does) and then does his best to comply with what he understands -- usually in a way that fails completely. Hidden under the simplicity is an even simpler idea, Schweik prefers life on his own terms and not those of the Army.
For some unimaginable reason The Good Soldier Schweik was firmly banned from the barracks of several European armies.
In the Army, there are orders and there are Orders. There are also leaders and Leaders. It takes some time to distinguish between the two.
There are orders that must be obeyed. The recruit learns how to do so on the drill square, and later learns not to question simple commands like “Come here”. Direct orders like “Go sweep out the vehicle bays” leave little room for ambivalence and the young recruit might confine himself to asking where the brooms are kept. It is also unquestionably easy to obey any order, because everyone outranks the recruit.
The young soldier eventually gets to know bit about the chain of command . He might politely query an order like “You three come with me” if it is delivered by an unfamiliar Warrant Officer while he is under supervision of his own Sergeant. Likewise, as a callow young officer, I eventually learned that directly detailing privates to do something when I should have asked their Sergeant for “volunteers” was a sure road to chaos.
After a while, it dawns on a soldier that the Army is never a smoothly functioning team save when it is well rehearsed in familiar tasks. The unfamiliar observer might marvel at the quick hive of activity that is the deployment of an artillery battery, the rolling smoothness of a squadron forming into a laager, or the precision of an infantry battalion marching in review. But the young soldier heard the argumentative radio-traffic, learned about who got lost, and watched the quartermaster tearing his hair out by the roots.
A soldier soon becomes a very keen judge of competence and ability. He may even become a perverse connoisseur of incompetence, appreciating the way young 2Lt Maladroit doesn’t yet know his “arse from a hole in the ground, but seems to be learning fast” while dreading the ability of Major Retentive to fixate on the trivial while ignoring the important. Hopefully, the Major’s interference might provoke another fine display of auto-depilatory behavior by Quartermaster Sergeant Stubblefield.
As it goes for the private, so it goes for the young officer. There are orders and there are Orders; there are leaders and there are Leaders. Hopefully, the Orders come from the Leaders, but most of these are more likely to give orders –usually trusting in your common-sense and intelligence to see things through. Surprisingly, this often works. It tends to be the leaders who give Orders; often because they want you to do something they wouldn’t do themselves, or because they still think that forceful delivery can compensate for their own shortcomings.
Eventually, the experienced soldier learns to follow the orders, and subvert the Orders when necessary. He respects and admires the Leaders, and endures the leaders while quietly seeking to limit their authority over him under any circumstances.
Bart was one of my closest friends when we were subalterns together. Bart is a gentle soul, erudite and possessed of a calm humour. Currently, he is one of our diplomats and his gifts seem to stand him in good stead. His career seems to be prospering in spite of, or perhaps because of, his one principle of insubordination that he learned in the Army.
Bart is one of the few people who are better read than I am and introduced me to the Good Soldier Schweik and to Norm Dixon’s classic study The Psychology of Military Incompetence. The latter has universal application for anal-retentive conformists are attracted to any environment with a hierarchical structure. It is just that in a military, as opposed to the civil service or a major corporation, incompetence can be as glaringly obvious. As a military is seldom properly used in peacetime, the anal retentive conformists can be quite common.
Bart’s soluti
on to leaders with Orders was to adopt the “Oh, Okay” school of compliance. He would cheerfully strive to obey directions to the point where things were about to fail and then report back for more directions. This usually let the leader feel involved in the whole process. In the meantime, he would do everything possible to salvage manpower and resources from the impending wreck and insulate his subordinates from his errant superior. Bart’s men soon had a strong affection for him.
“Oh, Okay” saw Bart through a lot -- including a couple of weeks under my inexpert guidance during a major exercise on an American military base. Our Reconnaissance Squadron was getting up to full strength in terms of manpower, but was rich in talented young officers.
Being fresh from my Lieutenant’s qualification course, I was lusting for my own reconnaissance troop. Instead, I was saddled with the Assault Troop. Ideally, this is a group of about five small teams of expert troopers who handle a number of small tasks that that the scout cars can’t handle. In practice, we stuffed it full of half-trained troopers who had yet to properly learn how to drive jeeps, master radio voice-procedure, or work a machine-gun. As all the trained corporals and other young NCOs were otherwise employed, I was given a couple of drivers and Bart -- fresh from his Second Lieutenant Qualification courses -- to act as my deputy.
As a Recce Squadron is normally far out in front of the regular battle groups and combat teams, it seldom really integrates with them all that well. As a result, we were frequently tasked to act as the enemy force on large exercises. This meant that we could both hone our own skills and have all the fun. Our guys embraced being “Fantasians” -- the vaguely Soviet-like enemy force. Thanks to some expert scrounging and a small group of friendly American Green-Berets, we all ended up carrying Soviet-style soldier’s identity books and wearing the insignia of our Warsaw Pact opposite numbers. Bogus accents blossomed and our own strong sense of élan -soared to new levels.
There is a downside to being the enemy force. Exercises are often scripted, and the directing staff (or DS) is usually around to make sure encounters unfold as they should, so that they can judge the results. The blue-side is not so closely supervised -- there might be one DS with a company of infantry. The red-side tends to have many more. My assault troop was saddled with an ex-Regimental Sergeant Major, a man with almost 30 years of soldiering (in another regiment from ours) under his belt. To make things worse, Mr. Lensmen and I did not take to each other from the start. While being civil to each other there was an underlying tension between us.