The detectives, a thirty-something female with long dark hair and an older man with grey hair and mustache, came out of the elevator carrying covered coffee cups. They flashed their badges and pushed open the glass door to the studio without pausing their conversation.
"Don't get me wrong, I love her, but she spouts the rankest mash of drivel and poppycock."
"Poppycock? Who are you?"
"What's wrong with poppycock? My grandfather says poppycock."
"I think you've just answered your own question."
"Oh, hush." She mumbled sheepishly. An attractive woman, she had a slightly gaunt face with high cheekbones and captivating brown eyes. "You know, I wanted to be a model when I was a teenager."
"What made you change your mind?"
"It was just a phase I grew out of, I guess. I don't know. It all just seemed so..." She was searching for the right word. "Vapid."
The receptionist was filing her nails and pretending not to notice them. "All the way back and to the right," she droned without looking up.
Inside of the fashion studio the walls, floor and furniture were all bland varieties of white, egg shell and beige. This was by design. It was the blank canvas over which everything else came to life. Against it, the unadorned mannequins practically disappeared into their surroundings while others displayed vibrant, multi-colored garments. To the left were large windows looking out over Madison Avenue. To the right were giant rolls of fabric in a plethora of hues and patterns. On the far wall, assorted sketches done by colored pencil were posted neatly in rows. They were of female figures in various dresses and gowns, commanding in their presence, always with their arms on their hips. Some stood straight while others had one hip lowered seductively.
"Look at these photos." Higgins was looking at glossy pictures of fashion models he found on a work desk. "Would it kill them to smile once in a while?"
"Smiling is uncool. Unfashionable." Rodriguez couldn't help but smirk as she said it.
"This isn't Moscow. I mean, do they have to project such..."
"I think the word you're looking for is ennui."
"On-what?"
"Apathy. Boredom."
"I swear, Rodriguez, when they assigned you as my partner, they should have issued me a dictionary instead of a gun. Lord knows I'd use it more often."
"This way detectives." A uniformed officer approached. His face was sickly pale, and he seemed relieved to see them. Clearly, he was not used to the sight and smell of not-so-fresh corpses.
He directed them to an office with a placard displaying the name Xavier Leroux. Higgins hung back to question the officer, while Rodriguez went inside.
The medical examiner had already arrived. "It looks like the body has been here for about two days. The positioning and ligature marks around the neck suggest that he was attacked from behind," he added.
"By the way," he was looking at Rodriguez, "navy is NOT your color, detective."
"Thanks for noticing," she shot back.
Higgins came in and handed her a file folder. "This may be our perp. He's an up-and-coming star in the fashion world. Camera loves him, apparently. He and Leroux were seen having an argument last week, and guess who didn't show up for the photo shoot this morning?"
"Interesting." She looked over the file with glamour shots paper-clipped to a bio.
"Quit drooling."
"Shut up." She tried to hide her embarrassment. "Alright. We need to interview anyone with a connection to our vic. And let's put out an APB for..."
******
SAINT MICHEL, Florian Laurent. The letters, once engulfed in flame, shriveled and disappeared into blackness. He turned the card slightly and let the flame run across the picture, an emotionless visage of vanity and emptiness. He held it up and, just as the intense heat began to singe his thumb and index finger, threw it into an urn. The last remaining connection to his former life smoldered and disintegrated. He picked up a broom that was propped against a wall of jagged stone and brushed toward the corner sweep-hole long, curled locks of golden hair.
The quiescence was punctuated by the sudden ringing of a gong. Once. He let the sound wash over and through him as the higher pitches receded, leaving a low bass that too eventually faded. Twice. He put away the broom, put on his sandals, and instinctively looked for a mirror before catching himself. Thrice. He left the room, descended the spiral staircase of a stone tower, and entered the courtyard to join the converging swarm--an anonymous face among a sea of orange robes.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Out of Balance or Prelude to a Fall
A man emerged from the bathroom stall. He rolled down his sleeve, concealing the bruised skin where several needles had been lodged, and made his exit. Dark circles surrounded his eyes and his shirt was tucked in only in the front. It was a fashion faux-pas that one might call a dress shirt mullet.
As he pulled the door open he was hit by a toxic miasma of flashing lights and pulsing sound. The electronic chimes and dings, the rustling of tokens and sporadic mirth were an assault on the senses, and he felt an urgent need to abscond.
A couple blocks from the casino, the streets were empty. They were littered with potholes, and tufts of grass grew through cracks in the pavement.
He closed his eyes and was briefly transported. The same street was now brick and cobblestone, bustling with opportunistic vendors and snake oil salesmen. In horse-drawn carriages, mustachioed and monocled European royalty or be-spectacled industrialists were being chauffeured about. In front of bars and inns, young boys and girls solicited patrons for their respective establishments in the hopes of bringing in tourist dollars and earning a modest commission.
He opened his eyes as a dead man walking--a ghost in a ghost town. The only sounds came from a hanging sign that broke from its chain on one end, waved violently in the wind, and slapped against a wall of concrete.
Before long he arrived at the observation deck where he took in the view. He drifted away again.
The land glaciated and thawed with the passing of seasons and epochs.
The sun swung from east to west as shadows did the opposite. Clouds raced across the sky. The trees bloomed, greened, yellowed and disrobed. All the while a mighty cataract ate through layers of stone and pushed its way across the landscape. It carved out the gorge where the power vista would be. It made a sharp turn and left behind the whirlpool rapids as it continued its recession. As it arrived to more or less its current location, he looked out over the glistening waters at the bottom of the gorge and at the roaring falls with their now unrestricted flow.
And as Niagara falls, it also rises--in tiny ionized droplets, a levitating mist painted by a neon-trimmed skyline.
Such powerful forces contrast the fragility of life--a state of balance that is the product of perpetual imbalance. What is breathing if not a constant switch between a surplus and lack of oxygen? A series of breaths. An alternating current. A chemical stasis. As a sound wave is but a series of crests and troughs, these illusions that we call equilibria are just constantly changing states, averaging out over a duration of arbitrary length. Forward and back went the dance of time.
Sometimes the pendulum swings too far. It comes back as a wrecking ball.
To his right was Nikola Tesla. On his left--Frederick Law Olmsted. There could be no balance between the exploiter and the preservationist. There was a spanning between the two, but to no one's satisfaction. The chasm was too large.
He got up on the railing of the bridge and slowly put one foot in front of the other. Muscles in his body that he never knew he had were making tiny adjustments to keep him balanced. They did this unconsciously, just as the heart beats without anyone having to give it the slightest thought. Beside him on tightropes were the Blondins and Farinis. They crossed carrying others on their backs, with wheelbarrows and bicycles, and with peach baskets strapped to their feet, trying to top the latest stunt. Crowds gasped and cheered from the overlooks.
He stood on the railing of the bridge with arms outstretched, leaned back, and let his body go limp. He was only the latest sacrifice to the Great Spirit of Niagara.
As he pulled the door open he was hit by a toxic miasma of flashing lights and pulsing sound. The electronic chimes and dings, the rustling of tokens and sporadic mirth were an assault on the senses, and he felt an urgent need to abscond.
A couple blocks from the casino, the streets were empty. They were littered with potholes, and tufts of grass grew through cracks in the pavement.
He closed his eyes and was briefly transported. The same street was now brick and cobblestone, bustling with opportunistic vendors and snake oil salesmen. In horse-drawn carriages, mustachioed and monocled European royalty or be-spectacled industrialists were being chauffeured about. In front of bars and inns, young boys and girls solicited patrons for their respective establishments in the hopes of bringing in tourist dollars and earning a modest commission.
He opened his eyes as a dead man walking--a ghost in a ghost town. The only sounds came from a hanging sign that broke from its chain on one end, waved violently in the wind, and slapped against a wall of concrete.
Before long he arrived at the observation deck where he took in the view. He drifted away again.
The land glaciated and thawed with the passing of seasons and epochs.
The sun swung from east to west as shadows did the opposite. Clouds raced across the sky. The trees bloomed, greened, yellowed and disrobed. All the while a mighty cataract ate through layers of stone and pushed its way across the landscape. It carved out the gorge where the power vista would be. It made a sharp turn and left behind the whirlpool rapids as it continued its recession. As it arrived to more or less its current location, he looked out over the glistening waters at the bottom of the gorge and at the roaring falls with their now unrestricted flow.
And as Niagara falls, it also rises--in tiny ionized droplets, a levitating mist painted by a neon-trimmed skyline.
Such powerful forces contrast the fragility of life--a state of balance that is the product of perpetual imbalance. What is breathing if not a constant switch between a surplus and lack of oxygen? A series of breaths. An alternating current. A chemical stasis. As a sound wave is but a series of crests and troughs, these illusions that we call equilibria are just constantly changing states, averaging out over a duration of arbitrary length. Forward and back went the dance of time.
Sometimes the pendulum swings too far. It comes back as a wrecking ball.
To his right was Nikola Tesla. On his left--Frederick Law Olmsted. There could be no balance between the exploiter and the preservationist. There was a spanning between the two, but to no one's satisfaction. The chasm was too large.
He got up on the railing of the bridge and slowly put one foot in front of the other. Muscles in his body that he never knew he had were making tiny adjustments to keep him balanced. They did this unconsciously, just as the heart beats without anyone having to give it the slightest thought. Beside him on tightropes were the Blondins and Farinis. They crossed carrying others on their backs, with wheelbarrows and bicycles, and with peach baskets strapped to their feet, trying to top the latest stunt. Crowds gasped and cheered from the overlooks.
He stood on the railing of the bridge with arms outstretched, leaned back, and let his body go limp. He was only the latest sacrifice to the Great Spirit of Niagara.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Mosaic
Eirlys shrieked with excitement as a gust of wind liberated several helicopters from the limbs of an old maple. She chased one as it whirled and glided through the air. It landed on her shoulder and clung to her white flowery dress and provoked a fit of giggles in the process. She was entering that critical age at which she was beginning to learn where she ended and where the rest of the universe began, creating objects and drawing lines in the world around her through the acquisition of language.
"Kitty!" she shouted as her attention was diverted by the approach of an orange tabby. Scampering towards the furry grail, her legs could no longer keep up with her momentum, and she stumbled, hurtled forward, and planted her chin onto the grassy ground.
Dylan, a locally acclaimed artist, was but fifty feet from his daughter up on a ladder where he had been working on his masterpiece. Upon seeing her trip, he refrained from calling out or running to her and instead watched closely to assess her status. She was fighting back tears that were less the product of physical pain than her growing frustration with her worldly constraints. She defiantly got up and started again at a slower pace--her desire to no longer be an entity separate from the cat unwavering.
The girl's father, now sufficiently assured of his little daughter's continued well-being shifted his focus back to his work. He had always believed that artistic endeavors were a window to the divine, and he too had a need to make sense of the world around him and his place therein. "If we see the world in tesserae, do gods see it in tesseracts?" he mused. This made him think of his own limitations.
Before long, after the cat lost interest in her--or she with it--Eirlys trotted over to her father on the veranda. He glanced downward and playfully stuck his tongue out at her. She picked up a bright orange tile from a stack on the floor, reached up as high as she could, and placed it onto an unadorned spot on the wall. Lacking any adhesive to keep it in place, it fell to the ground and shattered. She was inconsolable.
"Kitty!" she shouted as her attention was diverted by the approach of an orange tabby. Scampering towards the furry grail, her legs could no longer keep up with her momentum, and she stumbled, hurtled forward, and planted her chin onto the grassy ground.
Dylan, a locally acclaimed artist, was but fifty feet from his daughter up on a ladder where he had been working on his masterpiece. Upon seeing her trip, he refrained from calling out or running to her and instead watched closely to assess her status. She was fighting back tears that were less the product of physical pain than her growing frustration with her worldly constraints. She defiantly got up and started again at a slower pace--her desire to no longer be an entity separate from the cat unwavering.
The girl's father, now sufficiently assured of his little daughter's continued well-being shifted his focus back to his work. He had always believed that artistic endeavors were a window to the divine, and he too had a need to make sense of the world around him and his place therein. "If we see the world in tesserae, do gods see it in tesseracts?" he mused. This made him think of his own limitations.
Before long, after the cat lost interest in her--or she with it--Eirlys trotted over to her father on the veranda. He glanced downward and playfully stuck his tongue out at her. She picked up a bright orange tile from a stack on the floor, reached up as high as she could, and placed it onto an unadorned spot on the wall. Lacking any adhesive to keep it in place, it fell to the ground and shattered. She was inconsolable.
Monday, July 8, 2013
The Secret Life of a Suburban Ninja
The man next to me on the bus has his headphones on. He thinks he is being discreet, mouthing the words to the songs on his playlist. But I am keenly aware of his actions and his presence. I can hear the whooshing and hissing fricatives and the sputtering stops, and it is unhinging. It's plucking at my nerves one by one. I can't wait to be free of this bilabial bebop, this velar vocal vacuity. Deliver me from these tees and esses marooned on islands of staccato sound.
"Amateur," I thought to myself.
Rewind to 1989. Seven years into my life and seven years before Monty Python taught me--by means of a VHS rental--the "importance of not being seen," I was learning something more useful: the importance of not being heard.
It was a normal summer late afternoon. Dad was asleep upstairs, recharging for another 12-hour night shift. Mom was resting on the couch, headachey from a busy day at work. The phone was taken off the hook with the earpiece muffled by a dish towel so that the outside world would not interrupt this delicate peace. It was in this environment that I learned to be inaudible. During such times, it was prescribed that my brother and I play in the basement. He with a DOS-loaded video game from a cassette or floppy disk and me with a set of Legos or Lincoln Logs, usually. There, we had a bit of a buffer to create a sort of a muted din. My mother would tell us to keep the door closed, but there was a trick to it. You see, it closed rather tightly so that when it was opened, it would make a loud screech. This was a problem since inevitably we would need to come upstairs to fetch something or use the bathroom. So we closed the door only partly until it wedged just a little against the door frame. When we came upstairs we would lean into it and hope that the resulting noise was only subtle.
There were other tricks I learned to employ as well. Walking on the balls of my feet helped cushion the impact of my weight on the floor. One learns quickly by trial and error where the floorboards most audibly creak and that it is best to keep as close to the walls as possible. A single false step elicits a Pavlovian response similar to the one that occurs when the buzzer is triggered in the popular children's game, Operation.
Unlike that vintage Milton Bradley diversion, however, my game of sneaking around the house had a lot of replay value. Every trip to fish something out of a drawer in my bedroom was a new quest. The act of entering or exiting the house undetected--best accomplished through the sliding door in the back whose friction was audible in a lower register than their squeaking, hinged counterparts--was an adventure in itself.
As it turns out, the modern home is filled with all kinds of potential auditory perils. Every door represents a slamming thud. Appliances can become the vile producers of shrill dings and beeps as their timers go off. Pots, pans and dishes clang as they are removed from cupboards. One must navigate with care amidst these snares.
If this kind of attitude and these behaviors seem strange to you, then count yourself lucky. For the kind of irrational sensitivity and hypervigilance with which I was born are not easily switched off. Imagine always being self-conscious but lacking in self-awareness--always looking with wariness at the things around you but never addressing the impact such thinking has on your feelings and moods. Now, imagine projecting those inward impositions onto others. The man on the bus for whom I have such great disdain, is not at all deserving of it. Yet, his attenuated lisping is all I can think about, amplified by my own obsessive mind.
I am happy to get off at the next stop, sliding off my seat, shuffling through the aisle and slipping out the doorway quickly and silently and not warranting even a fleeting glance from a fellow passenger.
"Amateur," I thought to myself.
Rewind to 1989. Seven years into my life and seven years before Monty Python taught me--by means of a VHS rental--the "importance of not being seen," I was learning something more useful: the importance of not being heard.
It was a normal summer late afternoon. Dad was asleep upstairs, recharging for another 12-hour night shift. Mom was resting on the couch, headachey from a busy day at work. The phone was taken off the hook with the earpiece muffled by a dish towel so that the outside world would not interrupt this delicate peace. It was in this environment that I learned to be inaudible. During such times, it was prescribed that my brother and I play in the basement. He with a DOS-loaded video game from a cassette or floppy disk and me with a set of Legos or Lincoln Logs, usually. There, we had a bit of a buffer to create a sort of a muted din. My mother would tell us to keep the door closed, but there was a trick to it. You see, it closed rather tightly so that when it was opened, it would make a loud screech. This was a problem since inevitably we would need to come upstairs to fetch something or use the bathroom. So we closed the door only partly until it wedged just a little against the door frame. When we came upstairs we would lean into it and hope that the resulting noise was only subtle.
There were other tricks I learned to employ as well. Walking on the balls of my feet helped cushion the impact of my weight on the floor. One learns quickly by trial and error where the floorboards most audibly creak and that it is best to keep as close to the walls as possible. A single false step elicits a Pavlovian response similar to the one that occurs when the buzzer is triggered in the popular children's game, Operation.
Unlike that vintage Milton Bradley diversion, however, my game of sneaking around the house had a lot of replay value. Every trip to fish something out of a drawer in my bedroom was a new quest. The act of entering or exiting the house undetected--best accomplished through the sliding door in the back whose friction was audible in a lower register than their squeaking, hinged counterparts--was an adventure in itself.
As it turns out, the modern home is filled with all kinds of potential auditory perils. Every door represents a slamming thud. Appliances can become the vile producers of shrill dings and beeps as their timers go off. Pots, pans and dishes clang as they are removed from cupboards. One must navigate with care amidst these snares.
If this kind of attitude and these behaviors seem strange to you, then count yourself lucky. For the kind of irrational sensitivity and hypervigilance with which I was born are not easily switched off. Imagine always being self-conscious but lacking in self-awareness--always looking with wariness at the things around you but never addressing the impact such thinking has on your feelings and moods. Now, imagine projecting those inward impositions onto others. The man on the bus for whom I have such great disdain, is not at all deserving of it. Yet, his attenuated lisping is all I can think about, amplified by my own obsessive mind.
I am happy to get off at the next stop, sliding off my seat, shuffling through the aisle and slipping out the doorway quickly and silently and not warranting even a fleeting glance from a fellow passenger.
Monday, December 17, 2012
A Writer's Creed
The greatest enemy of creativity is fear.
Perfection is an asymptote that we approach through error. The belief that it can ever be reached is the ultimate folly. Know this, and be free from the fear of being flawed.
There are billions of people on the planet and billions that have passed. Everything meaningful that can be said has been already in one way or another. Know this, and be free from the fear of being redundant.
There is a path unique to you made up of an infinite number of moments. There is a story inside of you that only you can tell. Know this, and be free from the fear of being inconsequential.
Perfection is an asymptote that we approach through error. The belief that it can ever be reached is the ultimate folly. Know this, and be free from the fear of being flawed.
There are billions of people on the planet and billions that have passed. Everything meaningful that can be said has been already in one way or another. Know this, and be free from the fear of being redundant.
There is a path unique to you made up of an infinite number of moments. There is a story inside of you that only you can tell. Know this, and be free from the fear of being inconsequential.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
The Committee Goes Out For a Cup of Coffee
The Sunday morning sun was still low in the sky. It shined through the bedroom window, illuminating dust particles passing through its rays and formed skewed rectangles across the floor and bed.
Time to get up.
Wouldn't you rather sleep in? It's warm here. Safe. Comforting.
You're missing everything. It's a beautiful day. The world is passing you by.
Clothes were strewn about the floor around the bed and in the closet, above which dangled underemployed hangers. The hamper was full, and any articles that managed to make their way into dresser drawers had been stuffed inside so carelessly as to partly spill out and prevent them from closing properly.
Just fifteen more minutes.
You always do this. Put things off. Fifteen minutes will become an hour and then two hours...
What could possibly be better at this moment than this soft bed--a peaceful nap?
He pushed his torso up with his arms and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sitting at the edge and shivering, he let out a long, exaggerated yawn and rubbed his crusty eyelids.
You can always just crawl back into bed.
Quiet, you!
Yeah. Quiet! You're not helping.
Still groggy, he sighed and stepped out of bed where his foot landed on something small and prickly. He immediately arched his foot and shifted his balance to avoid putting his full weight on it, and in doing so stumbled forward. It was a bottle cap, which he detached from his sole and dropped back onto the floor.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
You know things like that wouldn't happen if you cleaned up after yourself.
He looked back at the shiny metal annoyance and proceeded towards the bathroom, stepping around books, garments and empty bottles. He maneuvered with seemingly effortless skill through this minefield despite his daze.
How can you live like this? It's disgusting.
It's fine. I'm sure you'll get around to straightening this up later. It's not like you're having any visitors.
The tube of toothpaste was missing its cap. He picked off the dried part at the end that obstructed the opening and flicked it into the toilet. The bottle of mouthwash was empty save for a few milliliters lingering obstinately at the bottom. He took the final tiny swig--holding his head back as far as possible and the bottle vertically to his lips--and then put the empty piece of plastic back on the counter.
Aren't you going to throw that away?
Maybe you should take a shower first.
Why not pick out some clothes first?
You'll need to see what the weather is like. It might be chilly today.
He went to look for his laptop in the living room, which it turns out was sitting on the coffee table. After sitting down on the couch, he pressed the button, but the screen remained dark. It was out of juice.
"Ugh," he murmured. "Where's that power adapter?"
Still shivering and unshowered in only an undershirt and boxer shorts, he searched the apartment for the cord and eventually found it by the bed next to a copy of the latest issue of the Economist. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and skimmed an article on the European debt crisis.
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
Twenty minutes had passed. He felt parched and decided to go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, dancing through the minefield on the way.
There were no coffee cans in the pantry, but he saw a box of instant coffee--the kind with the single serving packets. It was empty. He placed the box on the countertop and went to take a shower.
You should go out and get more coffee.
Why don't you go to the coffee shop?
No need to go out. There are plenty of things you could get done around the apartment.
It will be good to get some fresh air.
You'd have to get dressed.
You need the exercise.
He dug through a pile of clothes and found a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After giving them the smell test, which they passed (barely), he put them on hastily.
The Starbucks is just around the corner.
Wouldn't you rather go to a locally-owned, quaint coffee shop?
You'd have to take the bus. It only runs every forty minutes.
Corporations are evil.
You'd have to check the schedule and time your trip to the bus stop.
The stairwell of the apartment complex smelled rank, like one of the neighbors was sauteing seaweed and octopus in armpit sweat. He scurried down the stairs while holding his breath. Some paint chipped off the wall and fell onto the steps as he brushed against it.
Did you remember to lock the door?
Did you you remember your keys? Wallet?
"Shit."
He had forgotten his wallet and had to go back. On the way, he retrieved the mail from the compartment crudely labeled '14D,' and shuffled through it as he climbed back up the stairs. There was a piece that he was immediately able to identify as a Christmas card from an old friend from its large red envelope, return address label, and relative lack of flimsiness. He opened it while re-entering the apartment and proceeded to walk and read at the same time. His keys were still in the door's handle as it closed behind him.
You came back here to do something. What was it?
It's almost Christmas. There's so much to do.
Have you mailed your cards yet? Bought gifts?
He glanced over at his keyboard sitting on the stand in the corner of the living room and suddenly had the urge to play a song. It was "A Long December" by Counting Crows, one of the few songs he could manage to play and sing along to at the same time. One song turned into three...
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
You were going out and then you came back for something.
Have you made your holiday travel plans yet?
Your wallet!
He found it underneath the bed. But the debit card was not inside, and he had no cash on hand. After some searching, he found it next to his laptop.
OK. time to go!
He rushed out of the building and down the road to the main intersection. The 'Don't Walk' signal was flashing.
If you hurry, you can make it.
It's dangerous. Cars are making left-hand turns.
Everybody does it.
Can't you wait a minute? What's the rush?
The risk isn't worth the reward.
The signal stopped flashing. It was too warm out for a sweatshirt--unusually warm for December--and he began to feel hot and itchy.
After a brief wait, he crossed the street and walked a block past the supermarket, past the pharmacy and to the coffee shop with the green awning at the entrance.
Christmas music was playing inside. Actually, the particular song was secular holiday music if we're to be nit-picky. There was a short line to the cashier, and he craned his neck upward to look at the selection as he queued.
Make sure you know what you want once you get to the counter.
Yeah. Don't be that guy.
It's warmer out than expected. Why not go for a frap?
Plain, simple dark-roasted black coffee. Coffee that tastes like coffee.
"'Tis the season for a gingerbread latte!" proclaimed a chalkboard bordered by gold and silver tinsel.
'Tis the season.
The man in front of him had neatly parted hair and was wearing glasses, a starched shirt and a bow-tie.
Upon reaching the counter, the stranger barked his order: "A venti, half-caffeine, skim, no foam, three pump caramel, one pump hazelnut, macchiato with Splenda, whipped cream and a dome lid."
Brewed with rosewater, of course. And a saucer with gold-leaf trim...
Yeah. Definitely don't be THAT guy.
What a crappy job.
Are you ready for work tomorrow?
You have that meeting in the morning.
"Sir? Can I take your order?" A cordial female voice was coming from somewhere. "Sir?"
The barrista was a short, attractive and dark-haired girl, wearing the obligatory green apron and forced smile. Or maybe it wasn't forced. She may have even been flirting. He didn't notice.
"Oh, yes. Hi. Umm. Medium regular coffee--black, please."
Next to the register were overpriced compilation discs, presumably containing the same music that was currently playing in the shop.
You were supposed to call your mother last week.
Why don't you do that now?
You forgot to bring your phone.
"Will that be all?"
He was already looking around the room to find a place to sit. Two women in the corner were talking about the contents of their shopping bags, which sat beside them at their table in chairs of their own.
"Hmm? ... Um. Yes," he stammered. "Thank you."
It's too crowded in here.
And noisy.
What about breakfast? You haven't eaten yet.
Once the transaction was complete, he took back his debit card and receipt and turned to exit the shop.
"Sir?" she said, a bit sheepishly. "Your coffee?"
It was still sitting on the counter next to a tip jar.
"Oh yeah." He blushed, fumbled through his pockets, and dropped the only change he had into the jar. Grabbing the cup, he hurried away and out the door.
Sitting down at a nearby bus stop bench, coffee in hand, he turned his wrist to look at his watch. Hot liquid spilled over the crotch of his pants.
It was 4 P.M.
Time to get up.
Wouldn't you rather sleep in? It's warm here. Safe. Comforting.
You're missing everything. It's a beautiful day. The world is passing you by.
Clothes were strewn about the floor around the bed and in the closet, above which dangled underemployed hangers. The hamper was full, and any articles that managed to make their way into dresser drawers had been stuffed inside so carelessly as to partly spill out and prevent them from closing properly.
Just fifteen more minutes.
You always do this. Put things off. Fifteen minutes will become an hour and then two hours...
What could possibly be better at this moment than this soft bed--a peaceful nap?
He pushed his torso up with his arms and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sitting at the edge and shivering, he let out a long, exaggerated yawn and rubbed his crusty eyelids.
You can always just crawl back into bed.
Quiet, you!
Yeah. Quiet! You're not helping.
Still groggy, he sighed and stepped out of bed where his foot landed on something small and prickly. He immediately arched his foot and shifted his balance to avoid putting his full weight on it, and in doing so stumbled forward. It was a bottle cap, which he detached from his sole and dropped back onto the floor.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
You know things like that wouldn't happen if you cleaned up after yourself.
He looked back at the shiny metal annoyance and proceeded towards the bathroom, stepping around books, garments and empty bottles. He maneuvered with seemingly effortless skill through this minefield despite his daze.
How can you live like this? It's disgusting.
It's fine. I'm sure you'll get around to straightening this up later. It's not like you're having any visitors.
The tube of toothpaste was missing its cap. He picked off the dried part at the end that obstructed the opening and flicked it into the toilet. The bottle of mouthwash was empty save for a few milliliters lingering obstinately at the bottom. He took the final tiny swig--holding his head back as far as possible and the bottle vertically to his lips--and then put the empty piece of plastic back on the counter.
Aren't you going to throw that away?
Maybe you should take a shower first.
Why not pick out some clothes first?
You'll need to see what the weather is like. It might be chilly today.
He went to look for his laptop in the living room, which it turns out was sitting on the coffee table. After sitting down on the couch, he pressed the button, but the screen remained dark. It was out of juice.
"Ugh," he murmured. "Where's that power adapter?"
Still shivering and unshowered in only an undershirt and boxer shorts, he searched the apartment for the cord and eventually found it by the bed next to a copy of the latest issue of the Economist. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and skimmed an article on the European debt crisis.
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
Twenty minutes had passed. He felt parched and decided to go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, dancing through the minefield on the way.
There were no coffee cans in the pantry, but he saw a box of instant coffee--the kind with the single serving packets. It was empty. He placed the box on the countertop and went to take a shower.
You should go out and get more coffee.
Why don't you go to the coffee shop?
No need to go out. There are plenty of things you could get done around the apartment.
It will be good to get some fresh air.
You'd have to get dressed.
You need the exercise.
He dug through a pile of clothes and found a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After giving them the smell test, which they passed (barely), he put them on hastily.
The Starbucks is just around the corner.
Wouldn't you rather go to a locally-owned, quaint coffee shop?
You'd have to take the bus. It only runs every forty minutes.
Corporations are evil.
You'd have to check the schedule and time your trip to the bus stop.
The stairwell of the apartment complex smelled rank, like one of the neighbors was sauteing seaweed and octopus in armpit sweat. He scurried down the stairs while holding his breath. Some paint chipped off the wall and fell onto the steps as he brushed against it.
Did you remember to lock the door?
Did you you remember your keys? Wallet?
"Shit."
He had forgotten his wallet and had to go back. On the way, he retrieved the mail from the compartment crudely labeled '14D,' and shuffled through it as he climbed back up the stairs. There was a piece that he was immediately able to identify as a Christmas card from an old friend from its large red envelope, return address label, and relative lack of flimsiness. He opened it while re-entering the apartment and proceeded to walk and read at the same time. His keys were still in the door's handle as it closed behind him.
You came back here to do something. What was it?
It's almost Christmas. There's so much to do.
Have you mailed your cards yet? Bought gifts?
He glanced over at his keyboard sitting on the stand in the corner of the living room and suddenly had the urge to play a song. It was "A Long December" by Counting Crows, one of the few songs he could manage to play and sing along to at the same time. One song turned into three...
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
You were going out and then you came back for something.
Have you made your holiday travel plans yet?
Your wallet!
He found it underneath the bed. But the debit card was not inside, and he had no cash on hand. After some searching, he found it next to his laptop.
OK. time to go!
He rushed out of the building and down the road to the main intersection. The 'Don't Walk' signal was flashing.
If you hurry, you can make it.
It's dangerous. Cars are making left-hand turns.
Everybody does it.
Can't you wait a minute? What's the rush?
The risk isn't worth the reward.
The signal stopped flashing. It was too warm out for a sweatshirt--unusually warm for December--and he began to feel hot and itchy.
After a brief wait, he crossed the street and walked a block past the supermarket, past the pharmacy and to the coffee shop with the green awning at the entrance.
Christmas music was playing inside. Actually, the particular song was secular holiday music if we're to be nit-picky. There was a short line to the cashier, and he craned his neck upward to look at the selection as he queued.
Make sure you know what you want once you get to the counter.
Yeah. Don't be that guy.
It's warmer out than expected. Why not go for a frap?
Plain, simple dark-roasted black coffee. Coffee that tastes like coffee.
"'Tis the season for a gingerbread latte!" proclaimed a chalkboard bordered by gold and silver tinsel.
'Tis the season.
The man in front of him had neatly parted hair and was wearing glasses, a starched shirt and a bow-tie.
Upon reaching the counter, the stranger barked his order: "A venti, half-caffeine, skim, no foam, three pump caramel, one pump hazelnut, macchiato with Splenda, whipped cream and a dome lid."
Brewed with rosewater, of course. And a saucer with gold-leaf trim...
Yeah. Definitely don't be THAT guy.
What a crappy job.
Are you ready for work tomorrow?
You have that meeting in the morning.
"Sir? Can I take your order?" A cordial female voice was coming from somewhere. "Sir?"
The barrista was a short, attractive and dark-haired girl, wearing the obligatory green apron and forced smile. Or maybe it wasn't forced. She may have even been flirting. He didn't notice.
"Oh, yes. Hi. Umm. Medium regular coffee--black, please."
Next to the register were overpriced compilation discs, presumably containing the same music that was currently playing in the shop.
You were supposed to call your mother last week.
Why don't you do that now?
You forgot to bring your phone.
"Will that be all?"
He was already looking around the room to find a place to sit. Two women in the corner were talking about the contents of their shopping bags, which sat beside them at their table in chairs of their own.
"Hmm? ... Um. Yes," he stammered. "Thank you."
It's too crowded in here.
And noisy.
What about breakfast? You haven't eaten yet.
Once the transaction was complete, he took back his debit card and receipt and turned to exit the shop.
"Sir?" she said, a bit sheepishly. "Your coffee?"
It was still sitting on the counter next to a tip jar.
"Oh yeah." He blushed, fumbled through his pockets, and dropped the only change he had into the jar. Grabbing the cup, he hurried away and out the door.
Sitting down at a nearby bus stop bench, coffee in hand, he turned his wrist to look at his watch. Hot liquid spilled over the crotch of his pants.
It was 4 P.M.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
In search of cheap (or free) education
Just a short post today to get the word out about some new learning sites I have come upon. I have started a few courses with little to no cost, and I now find that I'm happier overall with life in general. Education is a lifelong process for me and I'm glad to be away from any feelings of stagnation.
Coursera
Cost: FREE
I was first turned on to this site while watching a TED talk by its co-founder, Daphne Koller. http://www.ted.com/talks/daphne_koller_what_we_re_learning_from_online_education.html
(TED, which stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design, is a starting point for anyone interested in learning about the latest ideas and innovations across myriad fields and subject matter.)
Khan Academy
Cost: FREE
I haven't tried this yet, but you can get an idea of what it's like from this video.
Rosetta Stone
Cost: Around $35/month for the online courses.
Rosetta Stone is probably the most well-known and acclaimed provider of computer-based courses on language. In addition to the CD-ROM course packages, they also offer the courses online by subscription through a site called TOTALe. A few months back, I decided to try a beginner's course in Italian through TOTALe and found it to be a both fun and effective way of learning a new language. There are interactive tutoring groups with native speakers as well as engaging games to help you brush up on the material learned. In the end, I did not renew my subscription since I could no longer afford it and I had some problems with the TOTALe site. For instance, I'm not sure why there were separate logins for the Rosetta Stone site and the TOTALe site. This caused me some confusion and resulted in my getting locked out of the site on several occasions. Also, I'm not sure that they offer the 3-month and 6-month subscriptions any longer, so you may have to commit to a full year. Nevertheless, it is, overall, a quality product.
Babbel
Cost: $12.95/ month
At a only a fraction of the cost, Babbel uses similar technology and methodologies to Rosetta Stone, which include voice recognition plug-ins to help with pronunciation and the interactive exercises that use inference and visual aids to guide you through the learning process. Unlike Rosetta Stone, however, Babbel utilizes your native language in the teaching process instead of relying solely on pictures and logic. I am sure that there are advantages and disadvantages to both methods, which I am likely to uncover as I get further into the course material. Whether you opt for the courses on this site or the more expensive (and perhaps more thorough/natural) Rosetta Stone courses, there is no reason why anyone with access to the internet should pay $300+ to drive to a college campus to take a language course a few times per week.
Coursera
Cost: FREE
I was first turned on to this site while watching a TED talk by its co-founder, Daphne Koller. http://www.ted.com/talks/daphne_koller_what_we_re_learning_from_online_education.html
(TED, which stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design, is a starting point for anyone interested in learning about the latest ideas and innovations across myriad fields and subject matter.)
Khan Academy
Cost: FREE
I haven't tried this yet, but you can get an idea of what it's like from this video.
Rosetta Stone
Cost: Around $35/month for the online courses.
Rosetta Stone is probably the most well-known and acclaimed provider of computer-based courses on language. In addition to the CD-ROM course packages, they also offer the courses online by subscription through a site called TOTALe. A few months back, I decided to try a beginner's course in Italian through TOTALe and found it to be a both fun and effective way of learning a new language. There are interactive tutoring groups with native speakers as well as engaging games to help you brush up on the material learned. In the end, I did not renew my subscription since I could no longer afford it and I had some problems with the TOTALe site. For instance, I'm not sure why there were separate logins for the Rosetta Stone site and the TOTALe site. This caused me some confusion and resulted in my getting locked out of the site on several occasions. Also, I'm not sure that they offer the 3-month and 6-month subscriptions any longer, so you may have to commit to a full year. Nevertheless, it is, overall, a quality product.
Babbel
Cost: $12.95/ month
At a only a fraction of the cost, Babbel uses similar technology and methodologies to Rosetta Stone, which include voice recognition plug-ins to help with pronunciation and the interactive exercises that use inference and visual aids to guide you through the learning process. Unlike Rosetta Stone, however, Babbel utilizes your native language in the teaching process instead of relying solely on pictures and logic. I am sure that there are advantages and disadvantages to both methods, which I am likely to uncover as I get further into the course material. Whether you opt for the courses on this site or the more expensive (and perhaps more thorough/natural) Rosetta Stone courses, there is no reason why anyone with access to the internet should pay $300+ to drive to a college campus to take a language course a few times per week.
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