Hunting for a Bargin

CLASS NOTE: This is the story I want to pod cast and publish. Word count: 2033

I had this idea, not that I was smarter than my son, but that I was at least as clever as him – and that simply was not true.

Dinner that night was a remix of most of our previous ones: paper plates, because who the hell likes to wash dishes? But real silverware—as plastic forks were just too redneck for me. As a kid growing up in Texas, I had once gone to a neighbor’s BBQ  (that’s code for dinner party to you East Coasters), and there I saw a horde of sweaty, overweight men, with BBQ sauce dripping down their wife-beater tee shirts, or worse, their shirtless, hairy chests. When they were done ripping the meat off a rib and gnawing the bone, they pulled out flimsy, white plastic forks and attacked the coleslaw. As they spoke, food fell from of their mouths. They waved their white forks in the air between bites to help emphasize something they thought was humorous: “Y’all remember Keith? He los’ his damn leg las’ week to Vicky’s damn dog.” They would laugh, slaw dripping from their faces and off their forks. Pieces caught in their chest hair.

And that was the end of white, plastic dinnerware for me.

Using actual silverware, I placed dinner in front of my son, Hunter, who had somehow folded his long, thin legs into the dinning chair, filling it completely while he sat, with his face buried behind the orange case of his well-worn Kindle. He offered me only a few mental attention-units for what I was saying to him:

“Hunter! Please son, please – just eat your vegetables,” I begged.

Hunter said nothing, nor did he move to indicate he heard my plea. He knew I wasn’t done with my predictable “drink this and eat that” rant:

“After nine years you would think I could stop telling you to eat healthier and drink your water,” I continued, shaking my head in real exasperation.  I attempted a full-on guilt-trip diplomacy tactic: “You know this stuff already. I want to teach you things you don’t know.”

He looked up briefly, but I could tell he was tuning out most of my well-worn rave. He had this adolescent look on his face that translated into: “If-I-look-at-her-she’ll-think-I’m-listening-so-she’ll-stop-talking. Okay-I-looked. She-saw-me. Now-back-to-my-book.”

He’d done this a lot over the past few months and I had come to hate it.

Smelling trouble, he glanced up again to inspect my continued silence. That glance told him I wasn’t buying it.

Looking back down at his book, Hunter calmly asked: “Mom, how do sharks make babies?” I paused, not sure if this was an honest to goodness home-school student to home-school teacher moment, or if he was just avoiding the broccoli on his plate.

He waited just a beat –waited for my silent deliberation on his intent behind the question mixed with a mental search for an actual answer. Once he saw I was down—deep— in contemplation, he tossed out: “Very carefully!” and smiled, applauding his own comic timing.

I had my answer: He was avoiding the broccoli.

“Okay kid! How about you put away the book and focus on the food not being eaten?”

In my pre-Hunter life, I had prided myself in my organizational prowess. I made my living as a project manager and corporate trainer. I was an Emergency Manager, trained to organize 150+ relief volunteers to respond to natural disasters, such as Hurricane Katrina or a few Texas Tornado aftermaths. I had created full organization charts, trained and placed new help, and personally ran smooth, on-the-ground operations in disastrous situations. Hell, I have a very large award hanging on my wall for my efforts at Hurricane Katrina; signatures of well wishes and “Thank-Yous” because of my brilliant leadership their and elsewhere.  And yet—here I was, battling to get a 9-year-old to eat his damn broccoli. And what was worse, he seem to be winning.

He had two paper plates and one actual bowl in front of him, (paper bowls are worthless for anything heavier than oatmeal or popcorn). No food could touch the other, or it would be irreversibly contaminated. I think his aversion to food touching started when he was five years old. He had made some feeble mention about wanting to cook something in the kitchen. Instead of properly translating his intention: “You suck as a cook Mom, please— for God’s sake— let me cook something I can eat because I’m starving,” I took it the wrong way. My corporate trainer alter-ego kicked in and took over. I was thrilled that he had expressed interest in the Culinary Arts and began by plastering the milestone all over Facebook in typical mother egotistical brag.  I promoted his career intent to be a Chef, and promptly enrolled him in “Young Chef’s Academy” to cultivate his newly found passion. Afterwards, I gave him free, unsupervised reign of the kitchen. After all, he had been trained to handle himself in a kitchen and I should respect that. Should I?

We called his first creation “Texas Hold’em Pancakes” featuring 52 different herbs and spices, and were guaranteed to make you fold after eating them. Bloody Milkshakes and Meatloaf Hands with dried scabs followed.

His father eventually cancelled the “free” and “unsupervised” parts of Hunter’s kitchen rein after his coffee pot had been used to brew a new flavor of coffee: garlic and onion.

Hunter’s enthusiasm waned for cooking after his father and I protested the fact we were now his sole food-tasters; he had stopped tasting his own creations early on. We eventually caught on to his practice of using creative recipes as weapons against any perceived injustices we may have inflicted on him during the week.

Never fully trusting that we wouldn’t exact our own revenge, he kept his own diet simple and food separate, allowing him to easily inspect for any foul play.

Now, we were resigned to fight battles over daily vegetable consumption, just as I was doing right then with my Eat Broccoli or Die! rant.

Hunter had a distaste for being boxed in, and sensing opportunity to maneuver in his favor, he said: “Mom, I’m perfectly capable of doing two things at once—three if you count breathing. Four if you count talking, while chewing and breathing and reading. So what’s the problem with reading my Kindle while I eat?” He tossed it out, challenging me to pick it up.

It was late, I was tired, and I lost it. “How ‘bout you focus on the damn broccoli and stop givin’ me sass.” My Texas accent had crept back in; it does that when I’m too tired to keep it suppressed—deep—where it belongs. There was no surer way to be pegged as a hick than to speak with a heavy Texas drawl. I was 8-years-old when I vowed never to sound like my mother, who was as Texan as they come. She was born in Fort Sam Houston on Texas Independence Day and eventually re-married a descent of the liberator himself and promptly produced my half-brother whom she named, “Liberty.”

Hunter put the book down and stared at his plate, looking for his next move. “There’s too many of them! Why do you have to give me soooo many?”

There were all of eight isolated small stalks of broccoli perched on his plate in a perfect formation.  I could see the negotiation forming on his face.  “I’ll eat three,” he tossed out to begin this well-worn deliberation tactic.

I had made the mistake of teaching my son a few actual corporate negotiation strategies. In my defense, I got the idea from a child psychologist who reasoned that unless a child knew how to negotiate, debate, and settle an argument with an adult, he would be left with crying and throwing fits as his only means of getting his way. As Hunter was three going on four at the time, and had a tendency to do just that, I decided to give it a try.

He had been so eager and attentive, soaking up my every word, that in a week-long period of teacher-inflated-ego-blindness I went too far, I taught him every tactic and debate maneuver I knew, leaving myself no new trick to use when I wanted my own way.

Oh, I was proud. For the very shortest of time I was so proud. I would show him off at the grocery store, pushing him down the aisles, debating aloud the pros and cons of “Puffed Rice” over “Frosted Flakes,” happy to discuss nutritional content, price variance and the marketing gimmicks that hook kids up to harmful foods, tangling them in pomp and flash.

I’d get home and marvel at how effective my teaching-skills had been, while shaking my head as I unpacked foods I have never dreamt of purchasing before: a box of the non-organic cereal because “If I don’t like the taste, I’m not going to eat it and you’ll waste your money;” or a bucket of fried chicken over my usual baked preference, as there are “only two legs on a baked chicken, and you get as many as you want in a bucket.” Of course, I despised legs—but Hunter loved them, and I did want him to eat.

My ego-bubble was forever deflated after I offered four viable and fun-filled venues for his 8^th birthday party.  I had always made a big thing out of his birthdays and spent way too much money on the occasion. For his first birthday, I had rented out the apartment’s entire pool house and thrown a fully decked out Finding Nemo themed swim party for close to 80 people. I like to argue it was because my parties had been so meager as a child, but in truth, I just liked throwing parties and showing off—another Texan trait I am plagued with.

After carefully laying out his venue options, accompanied by potential full-day agendas as any respectable former project manager would do, Hunter promptly asked: “How much are you planning to spend on my party?

I told him the basic budget I was aiming for and without missing beat, he replied, in all seriousness, “Forget the party this year Mom, just give me the cash and we’ll call it even.”

That was when it finally dawned on me, I had gone too far. Despite my perceived project goal of molding the best kid possible, no child needed to be taught what came naturally programmed in their DNA: how to get what their own way.

To this day, unless I am angry to the point of foaming at the mouth, he will launch into a negotiation until a “reasonable settlement” has been reached between us.

But at that point in our parley over broccoli consumption, there was no foam spewing from my mouth, so he felt he was still on semi-solid ground.

“No, you’ll eat them all, and you’ll do it right now!” Being in no mood to play his games, I had lost all of my patience. Never had I gotten such flack in the corporate world. My voice was rising in pitch, while I was lowering—considerably—in any sort of measurable sanity.

Sensing the dangerous shift in air, Hunter changed his strategy. In a completely deadpan, poker-faced voice he said, “Mom, let me guess, logic didn’t work for you so now you are trying out volume?”

He had nailed it and I couldn’t help myself; I burst out laughing. The moment lost its steam and I relaxed. He had a way of puncturing stress with his comic wisdom.

“Okay kid. Five pieces, right now, and that is my final offer.”

“Four?” Still testing to see if I would budge his way.

“Five!” I was not budging.

“Done!”

He gloated like a middle-eastern open air merchant having won his treasured haggle. After all, he got out of eating three pieces of baby-tree barf.

Of course, I had only put eight pieces on his plate knowing I would be lucky to get five of them eaten, but best keep that between us.

Tenacity –nine more years before I call this project “done.”

 

 

For the Children

CLASS NOTE: This idea is now being developed into a novel by me.

Monday morning, 8am and the bell went off above the door to my Mandatory Indoctrination Cube, indicating once again, it was time to start my education for the new day. That same insistent, annoying, non-musical chime went off six times a day, six days a week at 8am sharp to start, 8pm sharp to end.

The sleek non-reflected brushed aluminum door soundlessly slid open.

“Welcome Becket.” The MIC’s female voice sounded from inside.

“Thanks Sally.” I had nicked-name my MIC Model 3, “Sally” to break up the mundane.  I had also nick-named my MIC Model Two and “Susie” had served me until my tenth birthday before Sally replaced her—taking over the duty of molding my young, impressionable mind while relieving my parents of their daily, mandatory, oversight responsibilities the were obligated to perform just because they were parents.

I was just learning to talk when my Model One MIC “Sam”, became my teacher and nanny all rolled-up and compacted into one metallic cube of artificial intelligence.

I had always found something mysterious about the “S” sound voice makes; maybe that was the source of my crush on my only neighbor, Sarah. But, I hadn’t seen her, in person, in almost four years. Virtual interaction was the only approved contact for prepubescent students of the MIC Model 3.

I stepped into my eight foot cubed “home” inside my home.  Inside it looked the same: compact wall to wall screens, a small control panel, and my sensory chair centered within the cube. All screens were off except the large one directly facing me. Sally had rendered “Welcome Becket Reed” next to the date and time, “September 27^th 2067.”

I slipped into my full-body-length black sensory chair that sat in the middle of the cube.  No sound was made as it molded to my current body size, taking into account my weight and any recent growth changes.  I felt no discomfort. The chair was designed to take pressure off any single part of my body; equalizing again if I shifted. I never felt any physical pain from sitting for my 10 hour stint of indoctrination education per day. The sensory chair had some sort of muscle pulse-stimulation that kept me feeling loose and comfortable.

I saw down in the chair and the malleable metal clamps strapped my ankles down once I settled into the chair. The annoying ankle clamps were mandatory in Model Three MICs; they discourage interruption and encouraged concentration.  Or so UCLID, the Unity’s Child Learning and Indoctrination Department, had said. UCLID was responsible for standardized curriculum, simulations, recording assessments and ensuring all of Unity’s children successfully graduated, moved out of childhood and into one of their Divisions for work.

Sally set me free only for meals and my scheduled, but timed, bathroom breaks.

“What’s on the docket for the day Sally?” I asked, knowing well that I didn’t really care, so long as it made the day flash quickly by. All I really wanted to do was join Sarah in the virtual Student Commons room, to discuss my upcoming graduation and final test results.  I was so close to graduating that I was sure whatever else Sally had left to teach me would hold no surprises.

I was wrong.

An arm slide out from the left-hand side panel. On one end held the Thinking Cap, a contrivance engineered with electrodes that sent my brain waves and physical signals back to a part of Sally’s Simulation programing; a program she would alter to boost my understanding if my ideal electronic signal feedback was not detected.  A few of these electrodes had the function to measure heart rate, perspiration levels and other physiological functions all of which were found to be related to true conceptual learning. Conceptual, as opposed to the Surface learning which had utilized workbooks, pen and paper, and the memorization of inconsequential facts my grandparents and their parents before them had been plagued with in their own archaic schooling.

It was hard to imagine the endless days of memorized mathematical “facts,” which are performed now with a simple and instant thought request.

I put my hand on the single manual control lever that poked out of the control panel.  I preferred the texture of something substantial in my hand. Something real.  Daily roll-call was done with a DNA scan via the check-in lever.

Sally flashed my progress chart on the screen and in her soothing, sing-song voice (and she had many to choose from depending her mood and my lack-of progress) she said, “You are fourteen days away from your mandatory completion date and your fourteenth birthday. Right now you’re a full five days ahead of schedule in all subjects except History. You’re almost there Beckett,” she added reassuringly.

I slipped on the Thinking Cap, and my mundane world disappeared, launching me into my first simulation.

“Alright,” I said aloud, releasing the lever and relaxing into the chair, “Let’s start with History.”

Of course, most of the commands could be performed by thinking them, but I preferred the old-fashioned method of speaking my commands.  It gave me a sense of separation from whatever simulation I was swimming around in at the time.

“Two new subjects have been released to you, now that you are so close to graduation. You have the History of Mandatory Indoctrination Cubes, and the History and Logic behind the 22 Negative Stimulus Laws in effect today,” Sally explained. “Each subject is mandatory, of equal importance, and with matching difficulty ratings. Which would you like to start with?”

The MICs are programed to give choice, when choice was possible; it supposedly gave me some semblance of partnership in my own education plan.

But who was kidding who here? I was stuffed in a box most of my childhood, being virtually transported from the black-market spice fields of Italy, to underwater cave exploration in the depths of the Pacific Ocean, and back to roasting illegal pig on a spit in the now non-existent Papua New Guinea.

None of it was real, but real had become a relative term; maybe it always had been.

Your Mundane Reality

Tick-tick-tick

The sound drew me back to reality. I looked up at the wall clock and knew my time was up; there’d be hell to pay. At any moment angry-she would walk into my room and find me crouched behind my familiar, loyal laptop screen, deep in my own private digital universe of 0s and 1s, a world only I could transverse.

She had been gone for five hours, leaving me—trusting me—to complete the math and handwriting assignment homework I’d been successfully avoiding for days. Phish! As if there would be any use for cursive handwriting by the time I entered the work force. She was seriously out-of-touch with what was coming out of Silicon Valley and seeping into Corporate America.

Tick-tick-tick

Fine! I’ll log off and crack open the math book. Maybe, I could pool tears and pretend overwhelming frustration with fractions? But I’d used that same excuse last week and it had only gotten me more practice problems.

I’ll get the usual lecture: I’m out-of-touch with reality, no child should spend “all day” playing video games.

But she’d lost an hour of her short life in useless slumber, while I’d built an entire village from dirt to dome, enriched an economy, created cathedrals and manufactured my monuments.

She’d washed my dirty underwear and crusted dishes, while I’d constructed a 63-story castle of brick and stone to house treasure chests packed with diamonds and other precious gems.

She’d created another vegan, GMO-free, soy-free, daily-free, gluten-free meatloaf to extend her life of dredge, which will go untouched by me, again, as its skin flakes around the sawdust bark and berries she’ll serve with it at dinner. And all the while, I’d killed and roasted a cow online and feasted with friends on steak and potatoes and chocolate pie.

Her processional footsteps down the stairs vibrate the wood planks in ominous rhythm.

What adults can do in a century, I can do in five hours.

She can keep her mundane reality and meager existence and leave me to starve in mine.

 

Madness on the Rocks

The rock was sharp and real. Technically glass, the black obsidian made small cuts on the bottoms of her tender feet.  Five more feet to go and she could get a glimpse of where the hell she was.  Blinding blankness of the past three days drove her forward.

She got her first glimpse and her breath sucked back into her chest.  She was on top of a mountain.  More accurately, she was on top of a steep-sided butte that sat on top of a mountain.

The view was surprising, the sky fully blue with no hint of clouds.  It was as magnificent as the green valley below was foreign. She tried to focus on clumps of trees and clusters of any repeating pattern that might give hint as to where she was. Nothing.

How the hell did she get up here? She sighed and closed her eyes. Panic wasn’t going to bring the memories back. She tried to concentrate on the blankness.  Focus.  What do you remember? Jackie asked herself.

Still Nothing.  Nothing before the campsite three days ago.  Where the hell was she now? She felt a panic attack coming on. Her chest tightening, breathing swallowing and speeding up.  She quickly sat down. She knew she had to concentrate on what she knew. On what she could sense now.

She glanced down at her feet. They were dirty, painfully swollen with cuts and gashes on both sides. Her hands mirrored her feet. She glanced behind her and noticed droplets of blood intermingling with the rock and obsidian.  Her pants were filthy with blood, dirt and mud.

Mud…there must be water somewhere. She turned around.

 

Chester Mill’s Chocolate Crutch

Chester Mills starred in wide-eyed incomprehension at the blood test results his doctor flashed before him. No longer concentrating on Dr. Radzik’s ramble, he tried to make some sense of the acronyms and test figures that baffled him.

After a few minutes, Chester interrupted Dr. Radzik, “Are you sure it’s just allergies? That doesn’t make any sense. There must be something else going on with me?”

Chester had been experiencing life-sucking chronic fatigue for over a year now.  Fourteen-hour naps, every few days, had become not just been routine, but mandatory, for him to go forward in life with any semblance of normality.

“Chester, I have no idea yet if it’s strictly food allergies. Your marker is 5Xs higher than most people have with just a short-term acute allergic reaction. Actually, I’m not sure how you walked in here unaided,” Dr.  Radzik added between incredulous glances between the results and Chester.

“So, what does this mean for me precisely Doc?

“It means we take you off the most common allergens for six weeks and re-test. Hopefully, that’s enough time to bring the levels to a range so I can check for other causes.  The most common allergens are gluten, dairy and MSG.  You’ll need to stay away from these toxins. “

“For how long?”  Chester doubted his ability to stay away from his nightly dark chocolate sugar fix that had replaced his Jack Daniels night caps over a year ago.

“Chester, this is a life-style change, not a temporary diet,” Dr. Radzik explained, his voiced laced with irritation for a patient who hadn’t already seen the necessity of a gluten- and dairy-free life style by now. Evidence of their harmful effects on any human body had surfaced and been circulating for years now.  “You can never again eat like you have been. You have been literally killing yourself with the food you have been putting in your body.”

Chester had a flashbacks of his 12-weeks he spent the Rehab Center last year for his alcoholism.  The dry-out had been brutal, but he survived it. Now, he lived his life through substitution. Chocolate and pastries had been part of that substitution solution– the crutch he needed to lean on.

Being gluten and dairy-free can’t be as hard as my dry-out, thought Chester. Besides, it’s only six-weeks– for now. Maybe Dr. Radzik will find something else, anything else that would bring back the crutches. Without them, he had no idea what he might feel forced to do.

He’d find out  just how difficult life will be without his daily dose of chocolate.