Quack-Talking
For several years I have been struck by the odd nasal tones employed by many young women from ages 10 to 35. There is no physical, meteorological, or biological shift that could explain the significant numbers. The phenomenon of nasal speech was noted as far back as 1985 by Clark Whelton in his article “What Happens in Vagueness Stays in Vagueness—The decline and fall of American English, and stuff.”
It has gotten worse in recent years.
The main thrust of Mr. Whelton’s essay decries the declining ability of the young to express themselves accurately. The nasal tones were but one symptom: “Even nasal passages are affected by fashion. Quack-talking, the rasping tones preferred by many young women today, used to be considered a misfortune.” Thanks to Mr. Whelton for naming the phenomenon.
A condition that once called for speech therapy but now embraced, “quack-talking” evokes the image of a duck. Almost all children below the age of five sound like ducks. Most kids grow out of it when they reach their teens. At least, that’s the way it used to be. However, quack-talking has now become firmly entrenched. Many women are still doing it well into their thirties.
This nasal mode of speaking grates on the ear, but quack-talking is more disturbing on other levels. It makes an apparently mature women sound like a pre-teen, and this has professional implications. Speaking as the resident Old Guy, it is very difficult for me to lend credence to the words of a thirty-five year old woman who sounds like she’s ten. It just lacks gravitas. There are several commentators on CNN who quack-talk. This is unfortunate because they present otherwise as intelligent and knowledgeable.
Recently I asked an older woman whose opinion I respect why quack-talking was so prevalent. Her theory was interesting. “I’ve noticed it, too,” she said. “I believe it’s a subconscious effort to get people to like them. If they sound like children, they come across as non-threatening and sweet, even innocent.”
Can this be true? I don’t pretend to be a psychologist, but this explanation certainly sounds plausible. Frankly, I can’t think of another reason why an adult would choose to sound like a child. Ideas, anyone?
Destiny
The meeting of the Galactic Federation Council had gone smoothly so far, but the General knew acrimony would soon set in. It was a given that the Environmental faction of the Council would oppose the General’s choice of location to test the Federation’s latest weapon.
The military needed to know how the weapon’s use would affect objects in proximity to the target, the General had argued. Simply blasting a solitary body in the interstellar void would not produce the necessary data. The test range had to include a star system with planets.
The system the General’s team had selected consisted of a middle-aged yellow dwarf star with eight planets orbiting in more or less the same plane. The system was also relatively isolated—no other systems within two parsecs. The chosen system was by far the most ideal test range his researchers had turned up. But there was a problem—the system did have one intelligent species.
The General finished his presentation, retracted his eyestalks, and deformed into his resting place. There was a flurry of movement. Sounds of every conceivable pitch and timbre filled the Great Hall as the Council reacted. The leader of the Enviros, a unimorph like himself, signaled his intent to respond. The Enviros—may their accursed pseudopods lack rigidity at the Mating Moment—categorically resisted any measure that threatened any life form, no matter how primitive.
The Enviro leader formed a cylinder to elevate (the General noted the flabbiness of his shape with disdain). He began. “It is the responsibility of advanced species to nurture those that are still becoming. The Federation has always done this. It is the main corollary to the principle that all life is precious.”
Eyes, eyestalks, and sensory organs of every description turned toward the General to hear his response. The head of the Federation’s military rose in a tightly formed, perfectly symmetrical cylinder and said, “I would remind the Councilor of the long struggle we fought with the Nanobites, the vicious bacterial scourge of Rigel IV. What was so damn precious about them? If we had not discovered the dematerializer, we might well have lost the war.”
Thanks to the Federation’s new weapon, there was now no more Rigel IV, and smaller versions of the dematerializer had effectively wiped out the remaining Nanobite colonies.
Eyestalks etc. swiveled back toward the Enviro Councilor. “That was a different matter,” he said. “I concede the General’s point that enemy species are not precious. I was referring to our constitutional duty to life forms that either are presently intelligent or on the way to sentience.”
“Councilor,” the General responded, “it is a long established scientific fact that sentience is strictly a matter of accident. Sentience is not inevitable. Some species develop it, some don’t.” The General’s mien assumed a rictus that indicated humor was to follow. “I couldn’t help but notice that my esteemed colleague enjoyed the crilla served at lunch today, despite knowing that the tiny beasts might one day become intelligent.”
Eyestalks etc. swung back to the Enviro Councilor for his response. The Enviro extended two pseudopods and let them droop, the unimorph expression of regret. “Unfortunately, the system the General has selected for his test range contains several species that are already crudely sentient. One species actually qualifies as intelligent.”
“The species in question has no advanced technology,” the General replied. “It hasn’t even discovered interstellar propulsion.”
“That is not a criterion,” the Enviro pointed out. “There are several Federation member species that have no technology because they do not need it. Their mental powers are that advanced.” He nodded in the direction of the Council President, a mentis, a pyramid-shaped being whose mental powers could replicate any feat of technology.
The Enviro leader had a point. The General could feel the battle slipping away and resorted to the plan he had hoped to avoid because of its costs. He asked, “I understand my colleague’s concern, but I would remind the Council again of the importance of this new weapon. What if we resettle the species in question? My legal attaché informs me that there are several precedents for this. As a matter of fact, one of the species in the target system was itself a product of relocation.”
No Council member wanted to appear soft in the wake of the near-debacle of the Nanobite War. Even the Enviro faction had backed the campaign against the vicious life form. The Enviro leader asked the mentis for a short review of the precedents the General had referenced. The President obliged, and after a tedious recitation of ten precedents the Enviros were finally satisfied.
The faction’s leader formed again and said, “Thank you, President. But please note that the species in each of the cited precedents voluntarily agreed to be resettled. There were no forced relocations. Therefore I propose the following: if the species agrees to be relocated, then I propose that the General’s request be granted. If the species does not agree, then the General will unfortunately have to continue his search.”
The General’s hearts sank. Most species have a powerful bond to their home planet and seldom relocate voluntarily. Odds were that his proposal would fail. Oh well, the universe was large. He’d find a suitable test range.
The General, the Enviro leader, and three at-large Council members were appointed to the Committee formed to negotiate with the species in question. The Committee took a small hyperspace jumper to the General’s proposed target and beamed up several members of the species (mammals, that is, beings who incredibly bore their young in an internal sack).
The mammals were initially delighted to learn of other life forms in the universe (something they had long suspected). However, when the Federation’s real agenda was revealed, the mammals were shocked and retreated to caucus among themselves. They returned with a barrage of questions about the relocation process, the proposed new home, and how many of them would actually be relocated. The Committee assured them that all willing members of their species would be accommodated and gave a hologram presentation of their new home, a close match selected from a catalogue of habitable but as yet uninhabited planets.
The mammals caucused again, and then reconvened. To the Committee’s utter astonishment, the mammals agreed to the relocation with enthusiasm, but requested time to canvass their population. Within two revolutions of their planet, the mammals reported back, saying that their people had voted overwhelmingly in favor of relocation.
***
The Federation command vessel popped out of hyperspace into normal space. A cruiser equipped with the new test weapon appeared alongside, followed in quick succession by three ships bearing technicians, scientists, and observers.
After shaking off the hyperdrive hangover, the General allowed himself a brief moment of celebration. All told, things had gone well. The Council had approved his proposal, relations with the Enviro faction had actually gotten a little better, and the relocation of the mammals had gone much more smoothly than expected.
He extended an eyestalk to peer at the target, a pretty blue sphere with white hydrogen-oxygen vapor drifting through its atmosphere. The scientists had suggested dematerializing the mammal’s home planet first, just to spare the few who chose to remain the unpleasant sight of the other planets in the system winking out one by one.
He ordered the engineering team to ready the new Federation weapon, a cannon version of the dematerializer. Instead of dropping a bomb on the target, the new weapon fired a ray, permitting much more precise targeting.
The General glanced at the ship’s chronometer. It was time. He gave the signal and watched as the system’s third planet vanished.
***
At the same time their old world was being dematerialized, the transplanted mammals were happily exploring their new planet. Its three moons would take some getting used to, but all in all, it was a far more pleasant world than they had imagined. It was actually a big improvement over the one they had left. There was only one predator to fear, but the huge reptile was so slow and stupid that evasion was easy.
Better, there was no belligerent land-dwelling species to foul the clean water with the explosions of incessant warfare and the detritus of their society.
Better yet, there were no nets to occasionally sweep them up as collateral fodder.
Best of all, the fish were delicious and plentiful.
The dolphins were very happy.
Author’s note: this story was inspired by the marvelous opening number in the movie version of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
My Penn State Grandfather
Last night I had a visit from my paternal grandfather. I was surprised to see him, seeing as how he died in 1967. He was my favorite grandparent, kindly and full of stories. He looked just as I remembered him—wiry build, thick shock of white hair, face lined with wrinkles.
John D. (Jack) Elder was a systems engineer for the old Michigan Central Railroad and was stationed in my hometown of Niles, Michigan. In his college days he was the shortstop on the Penn State baseball team. He was also the starting quarterback on the Penn State football team in 1902 and 1903. That is what occasioned his visit.
The old man eased himself gingerly into the recliner next to my desk. “Steve, what in hell is going on at my alma mater?” he inquired delicately.
“I’m not sure, Grandpa,” I replied. “All I know is what I see on TV and read in the papers.”
“How reliable is that?”
“Like back in the day. The slant of the news depends on the slant of the newscaster.”
“Some things don’t change,” he observed. “Anyway, there have always been men who have buggered boys. What I don’t understand is how it was handled—by both the guy who reported it and my school. In my day we would have tarred and feathered the bugger and run him out of town on a rail.”
“That’s called rushing to judgment nowadays, Grandpa,” I replied. “I think quite a few people would approve of your approach, but things have changed. We protect the rights of the accused as zealously as the rights of the victim, even when we think the accused doesn’t deserve to have these rights. Lawyers have become extremely powerful. They instill mortal terror in people.”
“Sounds more like social cowardice to me. So, it took twelve years to report it?”
“Apparently. A lot of people are asking that same question.”
The old man hoisted himself out of the chair, every joint popping, and parted with, “Frankly, son, I’m glad I was long gone before this happened. It’s very disappointing.”
With that, he faded back into the safety of eternity. I am now almost as old as my grandfather was when he died. I’ve thought about his words all day. I think I understand how he feels. I mean, about the ‘glad to be gone’ part.
The Crow
It had been following them for the past four days. As soon as they left the house in the morning for the mile and a half walk to their small country school, it was there, never getting close, but at the same time never letting them out of its sight.
It was following them now. The look in its eye was unreadable. The boy looked back over his shoulder. He felt that the look was unfriendly.
The boy glanced at his older brother. Jarod seemed totally oblivious to the silent black shape behind them. That was not unusual—Jarod was usually unaware of anything that didn’t require his immediate attention. His brother was twelve, bold and brash, his frame already hinting at the large sturdy man to come.
The boy was just ten, a quiet soul who thought about what he said before he said it, and about what he did before he did it. His attitude toward the world was gentle, but he would defend himself if he had to, and if he couldn’t, it was known that Jarod would back him up.
In return, the boy helped his older brother by mentioning possible consequences that Jarod hadn’t considered or didn’t care about. If Jarod did something anyway, he knew that his younger brother wouldn’t rat him out. Most of the time, the unspoken arrangement worked well.
As they walked along, the boy got more and more nervous. There were now several black shapes trailing after them, flitting silently from branch to branch. Crows were normally a noisy bunch, but these uttered not a sound. They were intently focused. There were no random exploratory flights off to the side, no pecking at things to check edibility. Nothing distracted their attention from the boys. It was most un-crowlike.
The boy nudged his brother. “Hey Jarod, let’s take the flat way home today.”
The flat way led across a field and then through a small wood, hardly more than a copse. The path they usually took skirted the bluffs overlooking the river.
“Nah, I’m hungry. And I got homework.” Jarod’s crafty sideward glance told the boy that the homework part was BS.
“Fine,” the boy agreed reluctantly. He looked back over his shoulder. There were now at least twenty large crows patiently following them.
“Jarod, look behind us. That’s really weird.”
Jarod glanced back and said, “Just a bunch of stupid crows.” He bent down to pick up a rock. The boy grabbed his arm and said, “Please don’t do that. Let’s just get home.”
Jarod examined his brother closely enough to see genuine worry. Normally he would have gone ahead and did what he wanted to do anyway, but for once he acquiesced.
“Whatever. Bet I could hit one again, though.”
You probably could, the boy thought. And that was the problem. On the way home last week they had come across a pair of crows picking away at a dead squirrel on the path. Jarod had thrown a rock at the birds and hit one of them. The crow had squawked loudly and tried to fly away, but it couldn’t. The rock had broken its wing. The other crow had escaped to the safety of the trees.
In the way that boys often do, devoid of purposeful malice but also unmindful of inflicted harm, curious yet thoughtless of consequence, unconsciously wishing to assert dominance over a smaller creature but heedless of how the creature might feel, Jarod had followed the wounded crow, chucking a couple more stones at it before picking up a stout stick to poke at it and kill it. The boy had tried to stop his brother, but Jarod had shrugged him off, asking him what was the matter with him? It was just a dumb old crow. As they had walked away from the murder scene, the boy looked back to see the other crow drop down out of the tree and push at the dead one, and then scream loudly. Jarod didn’t even turn around. By the time they got home, Jarod had completely forgotten the incident, but the boy had replayed the scene over and over in his mind until deep into the night.
They kept walking without talking. The path started to steepen as they approached the bluffs. It would rise over eighty feet by the time they reached the crest where the river below had carved an oxbow turn into the bluff. The riverbanks were covered with loose rocks, broken tree trunks, and the ubiquitous collection of discarded tires.
As the path ascended, the birds became more agitated, occasionally letting loose short squawks. A cold finger of fear prodded the base of the boy’s skull and walked slowly down his spine.
“Uh, Jarod. Look.”
The flock of crows had drawn closer, their beady black eyes fixed upon the boys.
Jarod grunted and shrugged. “”Wonder what they’re up to. Must be a dead animal at the top.”
“Let’s go a little faster.”
“What’s wrong with you, bro? You afraid of some stupid birds?”
By now they had reached the top. Here the path ran close to the edge of the bluff with a drop-off that went straight down to the rocks. The boy instinctively stayed away from the edge, but his older brother strode fearlessly along, his feet barely a foot from the void.
There was a sudden whistle of large wings as several crows flew closely over their heads and lit on the ground about twenty feet ahead of them. The boys stopped. The remainder of the flock landed on the ground behind them. All the birds stood facing them, motionless, waiting.
“Jarod, I don’t like this. What are they doing?” the boy asked nervously.
“Don’t know and don’t care,” Jarod answered. “But they’re not going to be there for long.”
He bent down to pick up some throwing stones. As he straightened, the boy thought he saw a shadow approach his brother from the rear. A strange look came into Jarod’s eyes. His fingers relaxed and the stones fell to the ground.
“Jarod?”
The boy reached out to touch his brother on the shoulder. Jarod’s head snapped around and he eyed his brother, his head moving from side to side in short jerky movements.
“Jarod?” the boy asked again, his voice shaking.
Jarod sudden spun around to face the cliff. He bent down and extended his arms. With a powerful downbeat, his arms started flapping as he ran to the edge and launched himself into the air. The boy was frozen with horror as Jarod disappeared. A couple of seconds later he heard a muffled thud. Fearfully he inched towards the edge and peered cautiously over. Jarod‘s broken body was draped over a large rock at the river’s edge. A small pool of blood was starting to form under his head.
He felt one of the crows fly past him to sail in narrowing circles down to the dead boy below. It landed beside the body and gave three shrill screams that sounded strangely like triumph.
Quaking with fear, the boy crawled back from the edge and turned around. The crows had formed a semicircle around him and were staring at him silently.
As the boy stared back at the crows, he suddenly understood. He knew he should have stopped Jarod from tormenting the crow last week. At the very least, he should have tried harder than he actually did. But he hadn’t. Tears filled his eyes and he wept, wept for the loss of his brother, wept for the suffering of the crow and its cruel death, and lastly, wept for himself for he felt sure that the crows would have him follow his brother into death.
When his tears were finally exhausted, he drew a halting breath. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry. I would do anything to change what happened. I’m so sorry.”
He sat and waited. The crows started to caw, squawk, chide, and squabble. The cacophony went on for several minutes until one crow emitted a piercing scream. The flock fell silent.
The boy sat on the ground for an hour, numb with horror and grief, while the crows kept vigil. Finally he crawled back to the edge of the drop-off for one last look at the shattered body of his brother. Then as one, the flock rose and flew away, except for a single crow that remained behind. It was the one that had flown down to inspect Jarod’s body, but the boy had no way of knowing that. The birds all looked alike.
The boy dragged himself home and explained to his heartbroken parents that his brother had stumbled and had fallen over the cliff. His story was believed because Jarod was known to be a daredevil.
Those were the last words the boy ever spoke. The crow took up residence in the large oak tree next to the house. It is still there.
Education in America
CNN’s Fareed Zakaria did a special on education on Sunday, November 6th. I have the utmost respect for Zakaria and regard him as the most insightful commentator on TV. Amidst the commentary was this shocking statistic: “Half of our teachers graduate in the bottom third of their class.” If this is true, God help us. What it means is that we are entrusting the education of our young to the dregs of the education system.
The American education system is in trouble. Everyone knows it. All kinds of ideas and remedies are floating around out there. Bill and Melinda are throwing money at the problem like crazy. Sadly, the system is beyond fixing under the prevailing American mindset. Here’s why.
In most other countries, teaching is a respected and honored profession, but not in America. This country does not place a premium on education, and that’s an unassailable fact. We say instead, “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” College education courses are historically famous for being soft. Bright kids are encouraged to go into medicine or law, or even business—any profession where serious money can be made. The budding Bernie Madoffs have society’s respect, not the local third grade teacher.
After listening to Zakaria’s description of the intense competition in Finland to get into the teaching profession, the description of the rigorous training Finnish teachers receive, and the description of the ongoing training and evaluation they undergo, it is no surprise that Finnish society reveres teachers and pays them well. In contrast, we have little reverence for our teachers, and that is reflected in their paychecks.
America no longer values the future enough to prepare for it. We no longer make tough decisions based on the long-term benefit. We make decisions based solely on short-term cost. It’s why most of our electrical lines are overhead instead of underground. It’s why our companies are run for the sake of investors and not for the long-term health of the company.
Americans do not want to commit the effort, time, and money to a training system that will produce what the Finns turn out. If such a system happens to emerge from the Gates Foundation research, fine, but it’s not going to come from the entrenched Department of Education or the teacher’s unions that are primarily concerned with preserving the status quo.
We have not concentrated on training teachers with a deep fundamental understanding of their subject. Our current predilection for political correctness and low expectations (higher expectations might damage tender psyches) does not equip students with either the prescience to understand the value of knowledge or the desire to acquire it.
Zakaria’s program revealed that the Finns and the South Koreans turn out good students with vastly different systems. What the systems have in common is good teachers. The show also mentioned the fact that Finland and South Korea have the advantage of relatively homogeneous societies. America does not. Only 4% of Finnish students live in poverty. A full 20% of American students do. This fact alone brings a host of societal problems to American schools, not the least of which is an almost universal discipline problem. Many of our high schools are glorified detention centers that warehouse children until Mom and Dad drag home from 12-hour shifts, or from other activities, too tired or detached to check on Junior who is in his room using his computer not for the great research tool that it could be, but to update his narcissistic and self-centered Facebook page or to send pictures of his genitals to his girl friend. Think that happens in a South Korean home?
Then there is the flawed structure of our schools. If there is a complaint, odds are that a spineless administration will support the helicopter parent (“My Johnny would never do that!”) or the kid. Rarely the teacher.
And finally, the home front. Many American children, regardless of family wealth, receive little training in manners or decorum at home. Teachers are expected to turn little savages into semblances of human beings with more resistance than support from parents. Add to this the decades-old American schoolyard tradition of ridiculing or picking on the kids who actually do want to learn and behave, and you have a Lord of the Flies scenario. Why would someone in his right mind want to attempt instruction in such an environment?
Without fundamental changes in the American attitude toward school, there is scant hope for improvement. Without this basic attitude adjustment, any effort to correct the educational system will be both superficial and inconsequential.
What the Gnu Knew
“Do you smell it?” Whitebeard asked.
The young female wildebeest raised her nose and sniffed. “Yes, Grandpa. It smells like water. It’s the river, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. We’ll cross tomorrow.
“Grandpa, I want to cross with my friends.”
The old gnu shook his grizzled head. “No. Stay with me.”
The Grumeti River was full of hungry crocodiles lying in wait for the annual migration of the wildebeest and zebras. Last year was his granddaughter’s first crossing, and he had kept her safe by staying in the middle of the herd. She was too young to know what the screams at the front of the herd meant.
It was time for a lesson.
“Do you remember the nursery rhyme your mother taught you, Quickfoot?”
“’Course I do.” The young gnu closed her eyes and recited
Logs with eyes, bad surprise,
So is wind that talks.
If grass tips waver, don’t stop to savor
The smell of tender stalks.
“Very good,” Whitebeard said. “Do you have any idea what it means?”
“My friend Bighorn said it’s just a nonsense rhyme. His mother made him learn it.”
“Uh huh. By the way, have you seen Bighorn lately?”
Quickfoot tossed her head impatiently. She could tell that her grandfather was in a teaching mood. He never would just tell her something, but kept asking her questions until the right words came out of her mouth. It was annoying, but on the other hand, she did tend to remember the lesson.
The old gnu asked another question. “I bet your friends want to be the first across the river, don’t they?”
“Well, sure. It’s cool to stand there and watch the herd slog through all that muddy water. The water is nice and fresh for the first ones.”
“I guess it’s important to be cool, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is. Everybody knows that,
Grandpa. Why don’t you?” Quickfoot was still young enough to think that her
friends knew more than the grown-ups.
“Oh, I do, sweetheart, but you
know what’s even more important than cool? Staying alive, that’s what. Do you
know what the ‘logs with eyes’ are?”
“Trees don’t have eyes, and a log is just a dead tree,” said Quickfoot, proud of her knowledge.
“’Logs with eyes’ are crocodiles, Quickfoot. They look like logs floating in the water until they raise their heads. Then you can see their eyes and the rows of sharp teeth. That’s why they are a bad surprise.”
Quickfoot shuddered. She had no idea that’s what the rhyme meant. Now she realized what the commotion was at the edge of the herd when they crossed the rivers. She also realized that she hadn’t seen Bighorn since the final crossing at the end of last summer, and she’d been wondering why none of her friends had mentioned him. She promised her grandfather that she would cross with him.
The next day the vast herd reached the Grumeti River as Whitebeard had predicted. Quickfoot was milling around with a group of her friends when a young male named Longtail asked, “Look, Quickfoot, isn’t that your grandfather over there?”
Whitebeard was standing several yards away. The old gnu was one of the herd leaders. Longtail thought he might challenge him next year after he grew a little bigger and stronger. Quickfoot’s grandfather was old, but still formidable.
Whitebeard tossed his head in the “come here” gesture. The granddaughter thought briefly about pretending she hadn’t seen him, but she remembered that she’d said she would cross the river with him. She pawed the ground, annoyed at having to leave her friends. Her foot kicked up a little cloud of dust that joined the big cloud from thousands of hooves pounding the dry ground. Quickfoot gave a snort to clear her nostrils and made her way to her grandfather’s side.
“Come with me, Quickfoot. I want you to see this.” Whitebeard led her to a rise off to the side of the migratory path that sloped down to the river and said, “See how low the river is? There hasn’t been much rain this spring. This is good for us because the river is not as wide, so we won’t be in the water as long. Also, there is less river for the crocodiles to hide in. Now watch. The first gnus are getting ready to cross.”
Quickfoot saw her friends make their way to the front of the herd, prancing and watching each other. Suddenly Longtail charged into the river. Several of her friends followed, and the entire herd began to move as a whole. Upstream, five logs pushed off the shore and began moving rapidly toward the animals. A long knobby tail suddenly thrashed in the water and Longtail disappeared beneath the surface. Then the other logs grew eyes and teeth, and huge jaws clamped down on more wildebeest. As more and more of the herd entered the water, Quickfoot saw that the crocodiles were picking off the animals on the edges of the moving mass. Now she understood why her grandfather didn’t want her up front.
“Let’s go now,” Whitebeard urged. “We’ll join the herd and work our way toward the middle before we get into the water.”
A little later Quickfoot and Whitebeard were standing safely on the other side of the Grumeti River. They were soon joined by Quickfoot’s mother Goodeyes, who was happy to see them safe. Quickfoot asked, “Mama, remember that nursery rhyme you taught me? The one that begins with ‘logs with eyes’?”
“Of course, dear. Why do you ask?”
“I know now what the ‘logs with
eyes’ are, but what does the next line mean?”
“’Wind that talks’ means wind that brings us news. Remember what I taught you about smells? How certain animals have smells? The smells are the news. They tell us about everything around us, like danger.”
At that moment the wind shifted direction. Whitebeard raised his head and sniffed. “And that is lion!” he said. They looked around. While they were talking, the herd had moved off quite a ways, leaving them standing by themselves. Gnus should not do that on the open plains.
Goodeyes said, “Quickfoot, do you remember the next two lines? ‘If grass tips waver, don’t stop to savor the smell of tender stalks?’ It means you should watch the grass. If you see it move, it means there is something in there trying to hide.”
“Like over there, Mama?”
Under a group of trees the tips of the tall grass were moving, even though the wind was not blowing at the moment.
Goodeyes cried, “Exactly like that! Run!”
The three gnus started running as fast as they could. Suddenly a pair of lionesses burst out of the grass after them. A gnu can run as fast as a lion, but the lion reaches its top speed sooner, which means that if the lion does not catch the gnu within the first hundred yards or so, the gnu has a chance to get away. Unfortunately, the three gnus had let the lions get closer than they should. As they ran toward the herd, Whitebeard look back over his shoulder and saw that the lionesses were gaining. He slowed down and the two cats soon caught him.
As they ran toward the safety of the herd, Quickfoot and Goodeyes did not realize that Whitebeard was no longer with them. The herd, alerted to the presence of the two cats, wheeled to face the enemy, the larger males standing at the front with their horns lowered.
The herd watched sadly as Whitebeard fought bravely, but he was no match for two hungry lionesses. The battle was soon over.
“I thought Grandpa could run faster than that,” Quickfoot said.
“He can, dear. He was one of the fastest gnus in the herd.”
“Then how did the lionesses catch him?”
“You know the Gnu Story, don’t you? The one your grandfather told me when I was young like you, and I told you?”
Quickfoot shuffled her feet. She remembered something about a cheetah, but she hadn’t been paying very close attention.
“I forgot it, Mama.”
“Quickfoot, you should listen. When older gnus are telling you something, it’s usually for a reason. The story goes like this—a cheetah is chasing two gnus. One gnu says, ‘We’re dead. We can’t outrun a cheetah.’ The other one says, ‘I don’t have to outrun the cheetah. I just have to outrun you.’”
“Oh.”
There was a long pause. Then it dawned on the young gnu what her mother was trying to tell her.
“Oh!”
“That’s right, dear. Your grandfather let the lionesses catch him so we could get away.”
Quickfoot looked down sadly. She had learned a lot today.
“Uh, Mama? Do you know any other rhymes?”
The End
For Clancy Ehnat on her 9th birthday.
On Self-Pity
When I was fourteen, I broke a leg playing sandlot football. As these things go, it was a bad injury—the right femur was broken in two places above the knee. A four-inch piece of bone was floating alongside the broken ends, and my right knee wound up under my left thigh. Ironically, my two best friends were the ones who put the scissors tackle on me.
The ambulance came. I still remember the look on the EMT’s face when he straightened my leg to put me on the stretcher. The poor guy almost turned green. I was taken to the local hospital, and then transferred to the Children’s Hospital in neighboring South Bend, Indiana.
If this same injury had occurred today, they would simply drag you off the field, shoot you up with happy sauce, cut you open, bolt a titanium plate on the break, sew you back up, and send you out to play the second half.
But things were different then. It was 1954. The actual treatment consisted of traction for six weeks with the leg elevated and attached to a system of pulleys and weights. Every day the doctor would come in, look, say “Hmmm,” adjust the weights and leave. By the end of six weeks, the leg had been stretched back out and the broken piece miraculously maneuvered back into place. I was then sent home and immobilized for July and August in a full body cast up to my armpits. It was a pretty miserable time. There are a number of stories connected to that period, one of which involved my pet hamster Louie.
Those six weeks I spent in the hospital taught me a lesson I have never forgotten. There were four other boys in my ward, all seventeen to eighteen years old. Jerry had polio, a disease almost unheard of today. In the fifties polio was a big thing. It left Jerry unable to move anything but his fingers.
Doc had gone off a high dive and landed wrong. His back was broken, and he would require a long and painful series of operations that had just begun.
I never did understand what was wrong with Ed, but his legs were paralyzed and had been for some time. He was back in the hospital because of bedsores (pressure ulcers), which as I later learned were poorly understood at the time.
Bob, the fourth boy, had some kind of degenerative spinal cord disease and was dying.
Since I was the youngest (and the newbie), I was obviously in need of tutoring, and instruct me they did. I soon learned the nuances of playing tricks on the nurses and how to deflect their retaliation onto my wardmates. It was a game to keep up flagging spirits, and those wonderful nurses played along.
All the physical aftereffects of my broken leg had pretty much disappeared after two years, but Jerry, Doc, Ed, and Bob were still in the hospital with little improvement, little prospect of healing, and little to no chance for a normal life.
My injury changed my life. Along with a heart condition, it pretty much ended my athletic career and it changed the way I looked at things. My broken leg, added to the usual teenage crap (raging hormones, rampant emotional swings, and a lot of moaning about how the world doesn’t understand you), certainly tempted me to feel sorry for myself. But whenever that happened, I would recall those six weeks with those four boys. From that point on, no self-pity for this boy.
Not then, and not ever again.
The Tooth Fairy
It was a hot and muggy night. The Tooth Fairy was only halfway through his shift. Things had not gone well—a wind gust had almost blown him into a burning flare stack at a Pennsylvania refinery, he had barely eluded an amorous bat in West Virginia, and his shoulder was absolutely killing him.
He had started out carrying dimes when he took this job years ago. Inflation gradually upped the tooth fee to a quarter, so his bag got a lot heavier. Quarters weighed a whole lot more than dimes. As inflation continued, the Tooth Department switched to Sacagawea dollar coins, which were even heavier than quarters. A decade of schlepping Golden Dollars had really done a number on his shoulder. If this kept up, management would eventually have him lugging around a sack of Krugerrands. Stupid suits. If he wrote the rules, every manager would have to spend a couple of years on the line, just so they would know what it was like.
To make the Tooth Fairy’s night worse, the client at his previous delivery had gotten sick. What a mess! He could almost identify what the little porker had pigged out on before bedtime. What was wrong with these people? Children were supposed to have sugarplums dancing in their heads, not upchucked on their pillows.
The Tooth Fairy pulled out his Iphone and checked the address of the next stop. It was in a trailer park off an unattractive segment of Route 1 south of Alexandria, Virginia. He flew through a choking cloud of exhaust fumes from the constantly busy highway and circled over the park. There it was, at the end of the drive, a plain but well-maintained singlewide, no wheels.
He dropped down, waved magically to pass through the screen, and entered the child’s bedroom. To his horror, there was his client, little Susie Quinones, aged six, sitting up in bed, wide awake, obviously expecting him.
SHIT!! He was never supposed to enter a bedroom if the kid was awake, but he was so achingly tired that his attention had faltered. How was he going to explain this when the news got back to the office, as it surely would? The only other time this had happened to him was fifteen years ago in a posh Westchester mansion. The spoiled scion of the house had been feigning sleep. When the Tooth Fairy slipped the quarter under the pillow, the kid sat up and yelled, “What? Only a quarter? After all the time I spent growing this tooth? This is really chintzy. I’m telling my father. He’s a lawyer.”
The little bastard had scared the crap out of him. The Tooth Fairy had thrown the tooth back on the pillow, wrested the quarter from the kid’s hand, and said, “You do that, kid. Good luck with finding a court.”
That little display of temper had cost him a two weeks suspension.
His current client greeted him with a heart-melting smile. “Hi. I’m Susie, and you’re the Tooth Fairy! I’ve been waiting for you. This is my very first tooth!”
He landed on the footboard and set down his bag of Sacagaweas (the wags at the office called them Squawbucks). He sat heavily and sighed. “You got me, Susie. You’re supposed to be asleep, you know.”
“I know, but I was so excited! My daddy said I should give you something. Here.”
To his surprise, the child reached into a battered Styrofoam six-pack cooler on her bedstand, pulled out a frosty can of beer, and handed it to him. She said, “He didn’t say what to give you, but this is what he really likes when he gets home. Just one. I hope you like it.”
The Tooth Fairy’s eyes blurred. It was either sweat, or tears of gratitude. He popped open the can and drained it in one draught. God, it was more restorative than plasma on the battlefield. He said, “Your daddy is a very smart man. What does he do?”
“He works for a landscaping company.”
The Tooth Fairy was impressed with her careful and precise pronunciation. Most modern kids can’t handle words over one syllable. Susie went on. “Sometimes he lets me come with him. My mommy’s in Heaven, so it’s just me and Daddy.”
Just then a soft snore came from the next room. The Tooth Fairy flew over and peeked through the wall to behold a deeply tanned wiry man, sound asleep on his back, no sheet, underpants only. An old fan on top of a scarred dresser made a futile attempt to move air in the hot room. The Quinones family had no air conditioners.
“Wow. How do you do that?” a wide-eyed Susie asked as the fairy pulled his head back through the wall.
“It’s a gift, kid. We have to be able to go through windows and stuff, you know.”
Susie considered that for a moment and nodded. “Of course. Otherwise you couldn’t do your job.”
Smart kid, the Tooth Fairy thought. He flitted over to the opposite wall, which was covered with Susie’s artwork. Colored pushpins also held numerous homework papers and tests with “A+” and “Good job” enthusiastically penned at the top. The child was apparently an engaged student. He studied her drawings and thought they were unusually mature in both composition and color, not the usual blocky stick figures with insipid smiles. The kid had some talent. A lot, actually.
“Do you like to draw,” he asked.
“No. I love to draw,” the child answered emphatically. “It helps me tell everyone what I feel.”
“That’s what words are for, kid.”
“I know, but I can say so much more in a picture.”
The Tooth Fairy surveyed the gallery wall once more. The kid had a point. She was that good.
“Keep it up, Susie. You might just have a future.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fairy. I’m glad you like my pictures.”
“So what are you going to do with your all tooth money? I’ll probably be back here, well, let me see. Open up.”
Susie obligingly opened her mouth wide to let him count. “...19 more times.”
“I’m going to buy Mrs. Wiggins a cane,” she answered. “She lives next door. She’s really old and has trouble walking. I like her because she’s always so nice to me. She needs a cane.”
“Aren’t you going to get anything for yourself?”
“I have enough stuff. Besides, Mrs. Wiggins needs that cane more than I need stuff.”
The Tooth Fairy looked around the room. Compared to a lot of children’s bedrooms that were crammed full with toys, stuffed animals, and trendy children’s furniture, Susie’s room was monastically bare. There was a desk, a small bookshelf (full of books, he noted), a nightstand, one large stuffed bear, one small stuffed Cookie Monster, and an easel in one corner. That was it.
She asked, “Would you like a snack? I can get you a cookie.”
“Do you like cookies?”
“I love cookies, but Daddy only
lets me have two a day. He says they’re not good for my teeth. What do you
think?” This last was said with a hopeful look.
“In my professional opinion, your daddy’s right. You don’t want your grown-up teeth dropping out, too. I don’t take those. Anyhow, thanks anyway for the cookie, but I gotta go now. I still have more teeth to pick up. Now lie down and close your eyes.”
“I like you, Mr. Fairy.”
“I like you too, Susie. Go to sleep so I can get your tooth. It’s under the pillow, right?”
The little girl nodded and obediently flopped back on her pillow. She kept smiling at him. Finally he wiped his hand over his eyes to close them. She took the hint and closed hers in imitation. Soon she was fast asleep.
The Tooth Fairy reached under the pillow and pulled out a tissue, neatly folded and tied with a little pink ribbon. He pinched it to make sure the tooth was in there and put a Golden Dollar in its place. He flew to the window, then stopped. He went over to her desk, quietly tore off a piece of her notepaper, wrote for your cane fund, folded another five dollars in it, and put it next to the tooth dollar.
The Tooth Fairy passed through the screen with a lighter bag and a much lighter heart. What a difference a Susie Quinones makes.
Let's Fix Congress
Amidst all the talk of overhauling the tax code and numerous regulatory institutions, let’s not stop at the symptoms of the problem. Let’s move on to the problem itself—Congress. Let’s fix Congress.
The approval ratings for Congress are at an all-time low, along with its work ethic and its production. Here are some reasons (most of them show that money may well be the root of all evil):
· We no longer have a representative democracy because the people are no longer represented. Our Congress represents the moneyed interests. We need to rethink the election process.
· Congressmen spend a disproportionate amount of their time fundraising and wind up beholden to the money that elected them. Again, we need to rethink the election process.
· The job doesn’t pay well. We should considered paying the members of Congress more to reduce the temptation to enrich themselves. The traditional means are bribes, cushy “jobs” after their time in Congress, ridiculously outrageous “speakers fees,” offshore accounts, etc.
· It’s a part-time job. For a variety of reasons (unreliable 18th century communication, the election process itself), the Constitution is vague about Congressional sessions. I’d like to see an amendment that specifies a minimum amount of time Congressmen are supposed to be in Washington and in session. This amount of time has in fact dropped radically during the past decade. Halfway through Bush’s second term the House was in session for 101 days, the Senate hardly better at 138. Please skip the blather about all the work that goes on “behind the scenes.” Not enough of it has to do with legislating.
Sadly, I’m losing my respect for the U.S. Congress, and I am not alone. It is hard to maintain respect for for the people in Congress when you know how they get elected, just as it is hard to eat sausage once you’ve seen how it’s made.
One last time, we need to rethink the election process. Unfortunately, I don’t have a magic bullet for that, outside of limiting the amount of money that can be spent on a campaign.
But once the Congresspeople take office, I do have a few ideas for change. Most of them are not original—they just have not been put into law.
- No free riders. Eliminate “riders” to legislative bills that have nothing to do with the main bill (so-called “earmarks”). If a bill concerns authorization for funds to rebuild failing bridges, there is no reason why an Idaho Congressman should be able to slip in a rider giving free AK-47’s to militias. If these ridiculous riders are no longer allowed, the line-item veto question becomes moot.
- Eliminate filibusters. Far too much time is wasted by permitting uncontrolled gab to masquerade as a political strategy. Is it any wonder why so little actually gets done in Congress?
- Follow the money. Subject any anti-regulation Congressman to the same intense financial scrutiny used to bring down Mafia dons. Find out who is giving money to this Congressman and what the donors are getting for it.
- Mirror-fogging test. If you can’t fog a mirror, you can’t donate. Overturn the Supreme Court ruling that corporations have the same rights as individuals when it comes to donations. It is one of the worst decisions the Supremes have ever made. Find out how this decision was bought, for I’m sure it was.
- Clarify the Second Amendment. There is no way our Founding Fathers could have foreseen the type of weaponry available to the citizens of today. Define which arms the citizen has a right to bear. Certain types of weapons should be in the hands of the military only (any type of machine gun or pistol, RPG’s, etc.). This is not a mentally challenging task, so the Congress ought be able to handle it.
- Anti-crastination. If Congress cannot pass needed legislation when due (especially budgets, debt ceiling action, etc.), give the Executive Branch authority to issue a binding Executive Order that can only be overturned by a supermajority of both House and Senate. This will guarantee that Congress will act in a timely fashion. If the Congress misses a deadline, dock their pay until the job is done.
- Plug leaks. Any member of Congress who leaks sensitive information about ongoing military operations or sensitive State Department negotiations for personal political gain should be thrown out of Congress and possibly prosecuted. This applies also to those in the employ of the Congressman or the Executive branch. Leaking that kind of information during wartime would be called treason. We need to caulk that boat. We need a law with teeth in it for times of so-called “peace.” We could call it “Valerie’s Law.” No pardons for convicted transgressors. We can call that one “the Scooter Clause.”
- Term limits for Congress. We have term limits for the Presidency. Putting term limits on Congress is one step to prevent the gradual accumulation of power that leads to porkbarreling and other abuses. (Don’t hold your breath on this one—Congress would have to pass a piece of legislation restricting their own power.) Note: in the wake of the recent Supreme Court decision to regard corporations as individuals, term limits for the Supremes seem desirable, too.
Feel free to make your own list.
The Short Life of the Long Pig Sausage Company
The mood was somber in the Boardroom of The Peabodie Mortuaries. Nobody by the name of Peabodie was present because the founder was actually named Aaron Heimowitz. The Old Man, famous for his sense of humor, had chosen the name “Peabodie” for its etymology. The classic Old English name was derived from “pe” meaning peacock, and body, meaning “body, person.” It was a nickname for a flashy dresser. Aaron meant to slyly imply that the Peabodie Mortuaries turned out good-looking corpses.
Aaron’s son Max was now at the helm of the venerable company.
Max was a steady if uninspiring leader. The company had not exactly boomed under his directorship, but it had weathered downturns that other companies had not.
Grandson Aaron II was the manager of the Morton Grove “shop,” one of Peabodie’s five branches. Aaron II, or A-2 as he was known in-house, was as smart as a whip but as green as grass. Max had great hopes for his son, thinking that with more seasoning the lad might learn to rein in his unorthodox approach to business. A-2, however, feared that the old-fashioned approach of his father and the other fogies on the Board would run the company into the ground before he could take over. For example, A-2 had wanted to modernize his branch to give it an upbeat flair more in step with the times. He’d suggested several new names, but the Board had unanimously rejected “Cadavers ‘R Us,” “Heavenly Bodies,” and “Daisy Pushers.”
The current recessionary economy had cut into Peabodie profits to the point where the company was just breaking even. The economy wasn’t the only problem. Several other factors had combined to depress funeral home revenues even further. For one, the death rate was dropping because Americans were selfishly insisting on clinging to life a little longer. Also, hardwoods were getting ever more expensive and the parsimonious bereaved were balking at paying for high-end caskets. Between tears, stingy customers were actually asking how much things cost instead of relying on the avuncular advice of the funeral director. In addition, cabinetmakers were having attacks of vanity and were rebelling against the mortuary practice of giving their magnificent creations a single day of glory, then sticking them in the ground to rot along with their contents.
To compound the woes of the mortuary biz, consumers were beginning to question the use of increasingly expensive land for burial. Existing cemetery space was rapidly being filled up, so people were turning to cremation as an ecofriendly alternative. Cremation cost half as much, and people were beginning to realize that the dead didn’t care. Lastly, far greater population mobility had steadily reduced the desire to be buried in a particular spot, especially one hundreds of miles away.
Young Aaron was well aware of the causes of the company’s current problems and had been for some time. H e felt there were some additional factors that his father had not touched on in his report. The younger Heimowitz had done more than gnash his teeth in financial frustration—he had gone in quest of solutions.
As A-2 saw it, the cash cow of full burial was rapidly being evicted from the pasture, while cremation had risen from 15% in 1985 to almost 45% in the current year of 2012. This in itself was noteworthy. As he saw it, the problem was not how to engineer a return to the glory years of Pluck ‘em and Plant ‘em, but how to squeeze more money out of the present reality. If cremation is the way of the future, and it certainly looked that way, how could it be made more profitable?
Natural gas prices had risen steadily. A-2 felt that the boondoggle of fracking shale to get at natural gas would die as soon as people realized that the amounts of precious water required for the process were unsustainable. The way for The Peabodie Mortuaries to increase profits was to process more “units,” and use less natural gas while doing so. This realization had led to an epiphany no less stunning in its audacity than in its originality.
But could the Olde Guard be dragged into the future? Aaron II had his doubts. The Board had not responded favorably to several of his past suggestions, meritorious though they were. Rheumy old eyes glazed over every time he pulled out his PowerPoint projector. He’d really have to come up with a dynamite presentation in order to sway them. It would also have to include obsolete printed material they could reverently fondle with their leathery old fingers
And he had done just that! He’d spent evenings and weekends researching, calculating, sifting, rejecting, and refining his idea. He’d even enlisted the help of a top-notch computer techie, a young lady with a killer bod that gave no hint of the superabundance of brains above. A-2 thought that looking at her might keep the Olde Guard awake long enough for him to drive his idea home.
As Max’s presentation droned to its narcotizing conclusion, A-2 could wait no longer. He raised his hand. Max could not ignore his smart but quirky son because he’d promoted the lad to manager of one of the branches. Five old heads swiveled toward the young man with dread. One of them had been glancing at his watch every five minutes, anxiously awaiting the end of the meeting so he could dive into his cherished bottle of Olde Mortuarie. Another was aching (literally) to get back to the sensational Swedish masseuse he had just hired to assuage his arthritis. A third could hardly wait to get back to his young oversexed bride who, incredibly, actually loved him. The last two Board members simply didn’t like A-2.
“Yes, Aaron.”
“Father, Board members, I have an idea that I think will double our profits by the second year and go up from there. I’d like to show you.”
Mental groans filled the ether. A-2 got up and opened the door to usher in his computer expert. The attitude in the room improved instantly thanks to her long legs, short skirt, and eye-catching cleavage.
“This is Miss Peabody. Yes, that’s no joke. It really is her name. She’s been helping me with the research and has put my presentation together. I’ve asked her to be here to field any technical questions.” And to keep you old bastards awake.
While Miss Peabody set up her laptop and projector at a table in front of the room, A-2 handed out a brochure (full color, glossy finish) that contained the charts, graphs, and salient points of the presentation they were about to watch. He began by pointing out something they already knew: cremation was an increasing amount of their business. The bad economy was forcing more and more of their clients to choose low-cost funerals. The percentage of clients choosing cremation would almost certainly continue to rise, but that would still not be enough to offset the revenue lost by the drop in high revenue burial-type funerals. Also, he noted, the five branches combined only did about 600 funerals a year. This information and his father’s twenty-minute presentation were neatly condensed to three slides.
One old pair of eyelids was already starting to droop. A-2 nodded to his assistant, who ostentatiously crossed her legs. The eyelids snapped back open.
A-2 continued. “Things might improve in a few years as the boomers start dying off, but the problem is the present. The conclusion? We need more bodies to cremate. And we need to do it more cheaply.”
He clicked to the next slide. “In addition to the dropping death rate my father mentioned, the murder rate has been dropping, too. Here are the statistics for the past twenty years.”
1990: 851
1991: 927
1992: 943
1993: 931
1994: 929
1995: 827
1996: 789
1997: 759
1998: 704
1999: 641
2000: 628
2001: 666
2002: 647
2003: 598
2004: 448
2005: 449
2006: 467
2007: 442
2008: 510
2009: 458
2010: 435
“You can see that there’s a big drop-off from the halcyon days of the early ‘90’s. Now, using the figure from 2010, 30% of these murders were gang-related according to the FBI statistics. This means roughly 130 deaths. Another 39 deaths were ‘unknown cause,’ but some of those are likely mob hits. All told, we can safely attribute at least 150 deaths per year to organized crime.”
“Gangbangers are organized?” muttered old Alonso Patterson, manager of the Loop shop.
“I think we can do better,” Aaron II announced. The immediate question crossing the minds of his audience was just who the “we” were and exactly what “better” implied? They didn’t have to wait long.
“Miss Peabody and I have done extensive research into this issue,” A-2 continued. “We found that in today’s society, the primary deterrent to murder is not the innate immorality of the act, but the risk of getting caught. We found that if the risk of discovery and apprehension—I mean that in the sense of arrest, not fear—is removed, the murder rate will shoot up, so to speak. It is hard, if not impossible to prove murder without a body, and that is where The Peabodie Mortuaries come in.”
He had them with “shoot up.” The Olde Guard was now officially interested in spite of themselves. Undertakers have a better sense of gallows humor than anyone—even police. They are just extremely careful not to show it.
“So what I’m proposing is an arrangement with the various mob leaders and the city’s leading street gangs, and there a lot of them. Most nights in our beloved town sound like the Fourth of July, there’s so much gunfire. Mobsters could have a body dropped off at one of our intake facilities with, say, $500 tucked in the pocket, and the body would be gone within eight hours. Guaranteed.”
There was a shocked look on his father’s face, but the son was on a roll. “Look at it from a societal point of view.
· The environment would be much improved—no corpses with cement shoes polluting Lake Michigan, so, cleaner water.
· No bodies rotting in some alley, so, cleaner air. It would save the city’s Medical Examiners valuable time they could then devote to provable murders. This will improve the efficiency of the taxpayer dollar.
· Most mob or gang murders involve other mobsters or gang members, so we would be thinning the criminal herd, so, less police expense involved. The list of benefits goes on.”
A-2 ticked off more bullet points on the screen with a laser pointer. Patterson raised his hand and said, “I’ll get into how you plan to set this up later, but for now, what’s it add to our bottom line?”
Miss Peabody answered, “We’re thinking 500 units is achievable in the first year, so it would add $250,000.”
“What if you subtract the ‘units’ resulting from youth gang activity?”
She looked at A-2 questioningly, and then answered, “Why would we do that?”
“The established mobsters are men, Miss Peabody. They have experience and understand business. The youth gangs are merely testosterone vessels with guns. They could easily expose us to unwanted attention through lack of judgment. What other sources have you considered?”
“Well,”
A-2 hesitated, “several, actually. Nursing homes, other funeral homes, the CIA,
but there were problems.”
“Such as?”
“Nursing homes were unsuitable
for the second phase of our plan, which we’ll get to in a minute. Other funeral
homes have their own crematoria. The CIA does, too. That’s why we focused on
organized crime.”
The Board members were impressed by the correct plural form of ‘crematorium.’ Grammar awareness in A-2’s generation was so rare.
“Have you bothered to calculate our net profit? Disposal costs money, you know,” Vincent Mathers inquired. Mathers headed Peabodie’s Oak Park branch.
Miss Peabody fielded this one. “Actually yes. It takes on average 682,400 BTU’s to cremate a body. That’s 6.8 therms at a dollar a therm, so seven dollars for energy. Figure 2.5 hours of labor, which is an overestimate because the attendant could be doing other things during the two hours of incineration. Add facilities amortization, and we get a rough estimate of 80 dollars. Net profit at $500 per unit would be $420.”
“Hmm. Considering the service we provide, and our risk in providing it”—Mathers had a law degree—“I bet we could get at least a thousand per unit. But we’ll come back to this. Do go on.”
A-2 was encouraged. At least two of the Board members appeared to be listening, if not receptive. It was time to segue into the centerpiece of his grand vision. He cleared his throat. “We have also identified several related businesses that could easily dovetail with the cremation business. Some capital investment is involved, but we believe you’ll find the projected profits to be impressive. I’d like to present an overview of the plan, then go through each point in more detail. Here it is, step by step.”
The screen lit up again as each bullet point was projected in a separate slide.
· Co-opt the night shift of a nursing home so that units can be dropped off during the midnight shift.
· Set up a new crematorium in the meatpacking district west of the Loop.
· Units will be picked up from the nursing homes and delivered to the crematorium by our own ambulance service.
· The units will be processed in three stages. First, usable flesh will be removed by a robotic flenser. Second, the body will be cleaned to the bone by dermistid beetles. Third, the clean bone will then be burned to produce calcium carbonate, which we can sell.
· Form a new company to produce sausage. This company will be located next door and connected by an underground tunnel.
· The stripped flesh will be transported to the sausage operation. There we’ll mix it with pork to produce a very high quality product.
Jaws dropped. Eyes bugged out. At a signal from A-2, Miss Peabody put the first slide back up. A-2 rushed on before anyone had a chance to object. “To the first point, we needed a place to accept delivery of the units. Dropping dead bodies off directly at the crematorium would endanger the operation. Too obvious. So, have them taken to a nursing home during off-hours. Half the patients are drugged to the hilt and the other half is barely sentient. The staff is so underpaid that they’ll be easy to co-opt.”
There was silence. A-2 hastened to fill it. “The new equipment is so efficient that there is no smoke and no odor. It is also capable of handling several units at a time. You have no idea how much better the new furnaces are than what we’re currently using. And by cremating less of the body, we’re using less fuel.”
Eyes starting blinking in that slow fashion that indicates the onset of cogitation. “Our proprietary ambulance service will pick up the units daily and deliver them to the crematorium.” Miss Peabody clicked to the next slide as A-2 continued. “There we begin the processing.”
A-2 watched the stunned Board turn his brainstorm over in their minds. He watched them wrestling with the same logistical questions and problems he’d dealt with. Initially he had thought to hire descendants of Polynesian cannibals to do the actual butchering, figuring that some genetic quirk might predispose them to be better at it. But Miss Peabody had asked, “Aaron, what profession would your immigrants put on the entry visa application? Long pig butcher? I don’t think so.”
A-2 had then sought an alternative. To his utter astonishment, he found a webpage that described in graphic detail how to butcher a human carcass. Anyone with a sharp knife and a dull moral compass could do it.
But again Miss Peabody had objected, pointing out that they would never find a normal person for that job. Abnormal employees always meant problems. She then suggested robots. A robot capable of doing surgery could certainly be programmed to cut up the human body.
“A robotic flenser will be expensive,” A-2 plunged on, “but much cheaper in the long run if you think about it. No employee problems. The removed flesh will then be sent over to the sausage operation. Dermistid beetles are often used by labs to clean skulls for identification. They do an excellent job. They will leave no impurities to contaminate the bone, which we then calcine at high temperature to get both phosphorus and calcium carbonate. We can sell both chemicals profitably. We even thought of maybe establishing our own calcium supplement pill factory. Our calculations show that initial equipment investment and set-up costs can be recouped within a year and a half. Projected second year profit will be over a million dollars, and it should keep going up as business gets more established.”
While Max Heimowitz was horrified at the mouthings of his only spawn, the eyes of the other Board members had narrowed to crafty slits.
“What will the name of this sausage making venture be?” Mathers wanted to know.
“The Long Pig Sausage Company,” A-2 answered.
In spite of himself, a slow smile broke out on Patterson’s face. As a young Navy officer, he had been stationed in the Pacific islands and knew that “long pig” was the name Polynesian cannibals of old gave to their food source.
“There is no way we could do such a thing,” Max sputtered.
Mathers said, “Oh, I don’t know about that, Max. Look at it this way—in the long history of sausage making, who knows how many workers have wound up in the product? You don’t have to read Upton Sinclair to know that. All we would be doing is increasing the ratio of long pig to short pig.”
“Besides,” Patterson added, “I believe it was Bismarck who said, ‘Laws are like sausages. It's better not to see them being made.’”
A-2 and Miss Peabody looked at each other. Upton Sinclair? Bismarck? Who were the old guys talking about? Anyway, it looked like at least two of the Olde Guard were on board. Then Anthony Bonasera, the manager of the Morton Grove branch, slowly raised his long bony hand and asked, “You said you considered nursing homes as a possible source for, ah, units. Why did you reject them?”
“Unsuitable product,” A-2 replied. “The aged tend to be either mostly fat or tough atrophied muscle. Not worth the time and labor. This is why I was reluctant to give up gang members. You’re talking young prime flesh there, up to 40% of body weight. Nursing home candidates are barely 15 to 20%, if that.”
“Hmm,” Bonasera commented as he regarded his own hand. “Another question. Had you thought of boiling the bones to obtain gelatin?”
“Yes, and we discarded that idea, too. Too much equipment, time, and labor involved for the yield. Stockyards can do it because there are a lot more bones involved. Our enterprise would not generate sufficient quantity to be profitable.”
Patterson asked, “Question about the cleaning process. Wouldn’t we quickly get an oversupply of beetles, considering the ample food and their reproduction rate?”
A-2 nodded. “Yes, but we’ll just take the oversupply, put them in a box, and burn them.”
“It seems cold to punish employees for doing an excellent job by getting rid of them.”
“Is that any different from what companies are doing nowadays?”
“Good point, good point.”
Mathers said, “One last question, Aaron. What about the FDA?”
A-2 shrugged. “Hey, this is Chicago. Besides, the FDA is so understaffed and underfunded that it’ll take years before they get to us. I plan on turning out a very good product, so there should be no incentive to look at us.”
Mathers glanced around the table. “Tell you what. Why don’t you and Miss Peabody go have a cup of coffee while we deliberate.”
As soon as the door closed behind the two young people, Max turned to Patterson and snapped, “Jesus H. Christ, Alonso, don’t tell me you’re seriously considering this. I’m thinking of disowning him!”
“So some of his ideas are a little radical, Max, but there’s some meat there. No pun intended. Vincent, as a lawyer, what’s your take?”
“Point one—co-opting nursing home personnel. Easy. Point two, setting up a new crematorium in the meatpacking district. Also very doable. Actually, it might be cheaper to dispense with our regional crematoria and centralize the process. Not a bad idea. Point three, our own transportation, also very doable. I’ll come back to that. Points four, five and six—the Long Pig Sausage Company—very environmentally sound. Very green. Unfortunately, the idea is way ahead of its time.”
“Speaking of green, isn’t it like that movie? Soylent Green?” Patterson asked.
“No. In the film it was your civic duty to become soup. Here most people will regard young A-2’s proposal as flawed, if not sociopathic. And were it to get out, market reaction could be negative.”
“Could be negative?” Max screamed. “They’d crucify us.”
“Calm down, Max. Let’s toss all this chaff in the air and do some winnowing. The wheat here is, more units for cremation, and I’m not so sure that making arrangements with the mobs is a bad idea, and two, centralizing the cremation process. We’ll put the Long Pig Sausage Company on the back burner.”
“You want us to get into bed with the Mob, Vincent?”
“We’re in bed with our bank. Do you see any difference in principle? I don’t.”
Patterson said, “At least the boy had some ideas, which is more than I can say for the rest of us. Let’s vote on those two items: more units, centralization. Then let’s call the boy back, task him with a detailed plan on making arrangements with the Dark Side of the Force, and pat him on the head.”
Max sighed. “I can’t help wondering what my father would say to all this.”
Mathers snorted. “Don’t kid yourself. Old Aaron would be applauding while laughing his ass off. This is Robber Baron stuff.”
The End
