507 lines
26 KiB
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507 lines
26 KiB
Plaintext
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QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ]
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QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ]
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QQQQ] QQ] QQ] QQQ] QQQ] QQQ]
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QQQQ] QQ] QQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQ]
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QQQQ] QQ] QQ] QQQ] \QQ\ QQQQQQQQQ]
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QQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQ] \QQ\ QQQ]
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QQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQ] \QQ\ QQQ]
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QQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQ] \QQ\QQQ]
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QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ]
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QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ]
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Volume 1 Issue 2
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SPAM & EGGS. Cut SPAM in slices a fourth of an inch
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thick. Brown quickly in hot frying pan. Arrange SPAM
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around fried eggs. It's a delightfully different way to
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start the day. Try it tomorrow morning -- or for supper
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tonite!
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Let your next word to the grocer be SPAM!
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STARRING (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE):
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Nobody Here But Us Chickens
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........................Jane Smith
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The Origin of Machine Readable Data
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........................Tom Owens
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Cracked
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........................Judith Dickerman
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What is a Book?
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........................Dan Flasar
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Civil Service, Part II
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The second chapter in a six-part serial
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........................Kenneth Wolman
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CORE may be reproduced freely *in its entirety only* throughout Cyberspace.
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Please obtain permission of authors to reproduce individual works. Send
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submissions, subscription requests, etc. to rita@eff.org.
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CORE is available via anonymous ftp from eff.org (journals directory).
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__________________________________________________________________________
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Jane Smith jds@uncecs.edu
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Nobody Here But Us Chickens
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Last week, I think it was -- it might have been last year, or
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tomorrow -- there was a fire in a chicken processing plant in North
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Carolina, in a little town near where I, and my father, and his father,
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and his, grew up. I heard the news on the radio for days, driving home from
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an office where I'd sat feeling bored, wishing I were somewhere else.
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The facts are fuzzy in my mind already: I believe twenty-five people
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died, fifty-some more were injured, in a work group of fewer than a hundred.
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They fried chicken there, bite-sized nuggets to ship frozen to the fast-food
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chains. A vat of grease caught fire fast: the most likely hazard. Exit doors
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were locked (no breaks taken, no chickens stolen). Who knew where the fire
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extinguishers were?
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A woman's voice on the radio said she was in the bathroom when it
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happened. Women's bathrooms are great escapes. They (especially if they
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are men) won't argue too much about your bladder's needs. She told the
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women in the bathroom with her not to leave; she told a big black man
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outside to bust the nearby exit door.
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A researcher from a State think tank, a native judging by his accent,
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was free to say (or dared) that manufacturing plants in North Carolina have a
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chance of being inspected once every seventy-five years. North Carolina has a
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law which says it doesn't have to do better than Federal Government standards,
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slipping since Reagan.
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North Carolina has a superstition among the people which says that
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Unions take your wages. This, perhaps, is the corollary of a custom among the
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businessmen of paying by the minute, and not too much. The people have to eat;
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some don't even grow cabbages and collards anymore, spending seed money on
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gasoline to drive to the chicken plants, to earn the money which comes in
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little yellow envelopes, sometimes a dime a raise, to feed the children
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canned beans and white bread, to quench the thirst for alcohol, to get by,
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to forget, to get by.
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There's not much to do in Hamlet, N.C., except hold on to your
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Daddy's land and eat and drink and screw. And work, because your Daddy
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worked, and his Daddy worked, and his. If your Daddy was a supervisor you
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could be a supervisor. If your Daddy was a farmhand you could work at the
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chicken plant.
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My mother's maid told her she'd never work again at the poultry
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packing plant in Monroe because her hands froze and she slipped on the
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guts on the floor. She simmered pinto beans all day on my mother's stove
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while she cleaned the bathrooms and got pregnant while she waited for her
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husband to get out of prison. They taught her maths in school but not
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budgets and they taught her English grammar but not communication.
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My father told me not to play with their children and that it's
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who you know every bit as much as what you know and you're known by the
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company you keep. He told me to never clean my plate at a restaurant.
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He taught me to play gin rummy but not how to gamble. He got me a summer
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job at the textile plant as a payroll clerk when I was sixteen, without
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an interview.
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The reporter on the radio told me that even on the second day after the
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fire there was a strong odor around the chicken plant but she didn't tell me
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what it was. She told me that two people die every week in North Carolina in
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work-related accidents and that twenty-two percent of chicken industry workers
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are injured on the job.
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I wasn't surprised.
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______________________________________________________________________________
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Tom Owens owens@athena.mit.edu
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THE ORIGIN OF MACHINE READABLE DATA
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The lights of the computer
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blink all night -- a city
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across water or traffic
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miles away. What it plans
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for itself, no one knows,
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but in the blue glow of a dream
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a man opens a grave
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and finds his body gone to pearl,
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weightless at last.
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He forgets everything by morning.
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Hair swept over blank eyes,
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the emptiness in his hands,
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become a tremor on his cheek
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and what the dream meant, if it must,
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a leap of fire beneath the eyes.
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At work, he mounts the first tape.
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It runs by like a rich, brown river
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and before it stops, he comes out
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of the underbrush, carrying bone,
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the thigh of that first animal.
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What he sees on the river
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is all he can bear, and beyond it,
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the lights he begins to name.
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No one can say what becomes of him.
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In a forest that green, anything happens
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and later, over coffee, he tells his friend
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what he knows, his plans for himself,
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how the lights across the water,
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white as bone, came to him
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darkened into syllables he could understand,
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then darker into the machine
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that sleeps beneath his hand.
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______________________________________________________________________________
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Judith Dickerman (none)
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CRACKED
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Outside the two-stall garage,
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its walls covered with a brick facade,
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I stood barefoot, the asphalt cool,
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holding my favorite cup filled with coffee.
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He was squatting by the machine,
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tinkering with its innards. The job complete,
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he turned the engine on, revved it to a roar,
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never noticing me walk through the door.
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As I tired to talk to him, my husband,
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my words were obscured by the motorcycle's din.
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Raising my voice to a higher pitch,
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the crescendo of noises rose,
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and reachined a climax in a splintering crash
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as I smashed the ceramic cup on cement.
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There it lay, in fragments on the floor;
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a scrap left over from the night before.
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______________________________________________________________________________
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Dan Flasar wugcrc@wums2.wustl.edu
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WHAT IS A BOOK?
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Psychology, like all wannabe sciences, aspires to prediction. And
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prediction is usually based, in science, on models, which in turn are based
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on assumptions, which are of 2 basic types: processes and objects. In the
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world of the mind, examples of objects are goals, or desired states of
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affairs. An example of a process is a drive. Thus, to maintain bodily
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functioning, there is the hunger drive. For preservation of the species,
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there is the sexual drive (not to be confused with a subclass of dating).
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There are others, but technology has now created a new drive - the drive
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to computerize (some claim that this is merely the old "drive to annoy" in
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a new guise).
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Nietzsche said, "When all you have to work with is a hammer, all prob-
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lems start to look like nails." Since we all have computers now and are
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looking for ways to justify the cost, the world reduces to data. The
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latest target for this behavior is - books.
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These same psychologist note that some mistake the drive itself for its
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object, where the fulfillment of the drive, independent of its object, is
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pursued in and of itself. Some call this an obsession, others call it art.
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For example, addiction to food is called gluttony (or an eating disorder),
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whereas, given the proper descriptive vocabulary, and sufficient documenta-
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tion of the process in satisfying the craving, one is then called a gourmet.
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Thus, the urge to compute, which has as it's legitimate object that which
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will be made more efficient, easy, etc. by computerization, becomes redir-
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ected to the process of computing itself as the object, independent as to
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whether the final product is useful or not.
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As documentation (books) went on-line, it seemed a natural step, given
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the drive to compute, to extend the treatment to all books. Thus, there
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are now schemes hatching aplenty to allow the utility companies and battery
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makers to extract tribute from us whilst blissfully in the throes of
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literary escape. Interestingly, these books-on-a-(chip/disk/cassete
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/whatever), are to be "played" on a device, usually called, ominously,
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a "reader."
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What are we to make of this?
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Reading is much more than just an intellectual experience. It has its
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own gestalt, one that differs according to the type of reading that you're
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doing.
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For example, if I'm reading something solely because I want to, generally
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for pleasure, I like to curl up on the couch with something to drink
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(preferably hot tea), and comfortably dive right in. The heft of the book,
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the size, the type of paper used, whether I have to peer into the "gutter"
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to try to guess what characters are out of sight (because the pages are bound
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with insuffient binding margins), whether the cover is plastic-coated with
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sharp corners, etc. etc. etc. - all these things and others can enhance or
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detract from the session.
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Reading a book on a computer means reading the text electronically - on
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screen. One problem with VTD screens, even with small, light portables, is
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that you are reading transmitted, rather than reflected, light. Light
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reflected off a page, especially one with a non-glaring-white page, is easy
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on the eyes. Less contrast, less light enters the eye, so eye-strain is
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minimized. VDT screens, on the other hand, are all transmitters, so the
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page IS THE LIGHT SOURCE ITSELF. Reflected light is diffused, due to the
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fibers in the paper; it is absorbed by the books very substance, resulting,
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in the very best cases, in a kind of soft warm glow.
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There are some books having the purpose of maximizing the correct
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reproduction of photographs and graphic images; "coffee table" books and
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those devoted to works of art and photography are examples. Though these
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can be wonderfully exciting to view, they are usually printed on highly
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reflective clay-coated stock, which offers the same sort of glaring
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glossiness that you'll see on photographs themselves. These books will
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cause eye-strain if looked at too long, but, because of size, they're
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usually not the 'curl uppable' kind anyway. (This problem can be resolved
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with different paper stocks that have a less reflective surface for the
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page and text, but the graphic image itself is glossy. A nice compromise
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that works fairly well.)
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Another difference from books is that light from a computer screen is con-
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stantly being refreshed at a rate far slower than that from your average read-
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ing lamp. Like a television, a VDT screen is being refreshed at a certain
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rate. I'm not sure of the frame-rate on a VDT. Since VDT screens are
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composed of discrete phosphors, this means that you're really looking at
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a constantly changing, mini-electronic billboard. In other words, with all
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those pixels going on and off, your reading material is strobing.
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Not something you want to do for too long.
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There is a novel called "Cyberbooks", by Ben Bova, which describes
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such a device, a sort of computer/reader that is to be marketed as a
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replacement for books. Instead of buying a 'physical' book, you either
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buy a chip holding (or you can download to), text, that the device then
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displays. An interesting book, worth the quick read that it is. The novel
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itself points out another problem with computer "books."
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In the last several years, paperback book covers have sported playful
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devices on the covers as artistic, or other, embellishments. Most of them
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are on the level of things you would find in children's books. For example,
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there might be a cut-out in the first page of a two-page front cover, which
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reveals something fairly innocent looking. When you turn to the second page
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of the cover, what you saw, in it's proper context, is horrific, funny,
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nasty, etc.
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'Cyberbooks' has, as an example, the shapes of the 3 main characters
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embossed into the cover. The villainess of the book has an especially
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interesting, um, bas-relief.
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Granted, this is just a ploy to get you to buy the book. With the
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cyberreader, books would have to be chosen on the basis of content. And
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what book publisher would want to take that chance?
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______________________________________________________________________________
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Kenneth Wolman ktw@hlwpk.att.com
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Synopsis: In our first installment we met Gelfen, a NYC Welfare
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caseworker and stud manque, hardly working in a Bronx welfare center
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during the late 60's.
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CIVIL SERVICE
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Part II
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(of VI)
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The new case hit Gelfen's desk at 4:30 one afternoon, a
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thin manila folder with a number stamped across the tab and
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a category (thank God) already assigned: _thank God_ because
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it was Home Relief, and that meant no school-age kids to
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worry over, no absentee father-hunts, no half-an-ear
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listening to the kvetching of a Puerto Rican mama. A simple
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one that probably would be closed in two months, if that
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long. But a new case, called a ``Pending,'' not be faked or
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phonied: Gelfen would have to get out and visit his new
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client.
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Reading through the preliminary forms, Gelfen saw that
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the Intake worker, a lifer named Stampler, had done his
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usual shitty job. The client, Eusebio Colon, had been
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allowed to get through to a regular casework unit without
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producing a birth certificate or any other proof of his
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existence. All the record gave were a few gauzy details.
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Colon lived in an apartment on Charlotte Street with his
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19-year-old sister Nilsa, who worked as a secretary in a
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sheet-metal supply house. He had been released two weeks
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before from Attica, where he'd done two years of a four year
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sentence for trying to sell some heroin to an off-duty cop
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in a poolroom on 172nd Street. And now Nilsa was telling her
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ex-con older brother to either get some _dinero_ into the
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house or his ass into the street. At 9:30 the next day,
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Gelfen signed out for the morning and took the bus one mile
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up Boston Road to see what he could see.
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Even after eighteen months with one caseload, Charlotte
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Street still made Gelfen feel like he'd dropped some bad
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acid. His parents, he knew, had lived there when they were
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first married, but ran for their lives within a year because
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the block was already in sight of the bottom. When he made
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his first trip to Charlotte Street, Gelfen, despite six
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months of Bed-Stuy under his belt, took one look at what
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he'd been dealt and half-considered resigning on the spot.
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Even the cops, he was told, shat in their pants as they
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cruised the street in squad cars at forty miles an hour. The
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monthly (maybe) visit of the garbage truck was the occasion
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for mass jubilation on this three-block-long cloaca, and
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kids who had never seen the inside of a school joyfully
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rained down bricks and beer bottles on the truckmen who
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dodged and loaded with balletic movements. The buldings
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themselves were gargoyle-encrusted brick-and-plaster
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firetraps built around 1900, with long dark entrance halls
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and unlit narrow stairs that smelled of a deeply embedded
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combination of cooking, excremental, and sexual aromas.
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Gelfen was a kind of fixture on the block, a money-bearing
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emissary from a cockroachless world, but nevertheless he
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rubbernecked the rooftops for his own physical well-being.
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Finding the building he wanted, he climbed three flights and
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knocked at a door that bore a sign proclaiming _Somos
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Catolicos! No propaganda de los otros religiones aqui!_
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because Seventh Day Adventists and Jehovah's Witnesses
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worked these blocks with the offensive regularity of
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streetwalkers. No answer: Latin music blared from the
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apartment and dogs barked in time on other floors, so Gelfen
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pounded on the door this time, and a male voice shouted back
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``Who?''
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``Welfare,'' Gelfen yelled back, figuring nobody had
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too many secrets in this place.
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``_Momento_,'' came the reply, and for a moment Gelfen
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pictured the guy finally managing to hit a still-usable
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vein. But the music stopped, and a few seconds later the
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door was flung open to the accompaniment of a rattling of
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chains and police locks. Before Gelfen stood a thin but
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powerful-looking Puerto Rican man with cropped black hair,
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wearing pants and sandals, but no shirt. Gelfen did a quick
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once-over of the guy's arms: no tracks, no chippie, no
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nothing. ``_Me llamo_,'' he said in his updated high school
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Spanish, ``_es Mister Gelfen del Departamiento de Welfare.
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Estan usted Senor Eusebio Colon?_''
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``Tha's me, man, I'm Eusebio,'' he replied in accented
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but fluent English. My lucky day, Gelfen thought, as they
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went into the living room. ``Be right back,'' Colon said,
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and left Gelfen alone in the living room as he went into the
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kitchen.
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Gelfen checked out the furniture and restrained a
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laugh. It was the Puerto Rican parody of Pelham Parkway
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Jewish, a garish travesty of middle-class city life bought
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from _mueblerias_ (``_Su Credito Es Bueno Aqui_'') on
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Southern Boulevard, complete with imitation French
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Provincial tables, chairs, sofas, and an Olympic combination
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TV and stereo. All the seats were covered in thick see-
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through vinyl that looked like it could deflect low-calibre
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bullets. This, Gelfen thought, could have been his parents'
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place except for the pictures of Jack Kennedy and Jesus
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Christ displayed before a burning votive candle.
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Gelfen heard the top snapping off a beer can, and a
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moment later Colon reappeared, brew in hand, wearing a tee-
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shirt. He sat across from Gelfen, took a long swig, and said
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sarcastically, ``Okay, man, I'm 26 years ol', I been in the
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Joint, I don't got no fuckin' Jones, and I got a 7-inch
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dick. What else you wanna know, Mr. Welfare? I know the
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routine, right?''
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In spite of himself, Gelfen cracked up. Time for the
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apologetics, he thought. ``Look, Mr. Colon, I know this is a
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pain in the ass, but they pay me to find out this kind of
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stuff, and if I can't say I saw it, then no money.''
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``Bullshit,'' Colon responded without anger, like he
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was simply stating a fact, which Gelfen realized he was.
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Gelfen rolled out a conspirator's grin guaranteed to
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break down Eusebio Colon's resistance. ``Hey, if you ever
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need anything sort of . . . well, _special_, from us, I'd
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have to know the real story up front so I could sort of work
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around it.''
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Right on cue, Colon laughed briefly. He smiled at
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Gelfen in a way the caseworker found mysteriously
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disconcerting. ``I get it, man,'' he said. ``I scratch yo'
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back, you scratch my balls.'' He got up and went back into
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the kitchen. When he returned, he had two more cans: he
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tossed one to Gelfen, sat back, and proceeded to tell his
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new caseworker the story of his life.
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He was, as he said, 26 years old, born in Puerto Rico
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in 1942, and he was hauled off to New York when he was
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seven, right after Nilsa was born. The family gypsied around
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from Brooklyn to Manhattan and finally to the Bronx, staying
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off relief because old man Colon was a reasonably skilled
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electrician who scrounged non-union jobs in the city and
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North Jersey, working for under scale, but working, anyway.
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Five kids later, Federico Colon hit midlife crisis and
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decided his first 44 years had been a serious mistake, so he
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took up with a 17-year-old girl and beat it back with her to
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Puerto Rico and oblivion. A few months later, Jose, the
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second child, who had acquired a heroin habit as part of his
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education at Morris High School, caught an OD and died; and
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the mother, Elvira, conned the price of bus tickets, grabbed
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the five youngest kids, and went to live off her sister and
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brother-in-law in Cleveland. Which left Eusebio and his
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sister Nilsa to rattle around seven rooms of gloom: until
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Eusebio, out to make his own way in the world, discovered as
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the cuffs were slapped onto his wrists that he'd seriously
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misjudged the buyer for some heroin he was trying to sell,
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and that his last customer was to be Detective Henry Ramirez
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of the 48th, who lived around the corner and was just there
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to shoot a little nine-ball. Eusebio drew a four year
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sentence, served two, and was released for good behavior.
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Nilsa, in the meantime, being the brains of the family,
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finished the commercial course at Morris, got a decent job,
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and began living with her high school _novio_, a part-time
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piano player and full-time stud named Javier Melendez, who,
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according to what Nilsa wrote Eusebio in the Joint, laid
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anything with the right plumbing, brought strange women to
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the house while Nilsa was at work, and harbored a burning
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life's ambition to become a pimp. A few weeks before
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Eusebio's release, Nilsa kicked Javier out; but he
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persisted, Eusebio said, in coming around to lay Nilsa, who
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made a great show of unwillingness but who nevertheless woke
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up the neighbors with the noises she made half the night
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while Javier was with her.
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``Are they,'' asked the middle-class Gelfen, ``making
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any noises about getting married?''
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Eusebio laughed. ``Shit no, man, you don' know Javier.
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He is a real _cabron_, that one. Hey, I think he even wan's
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my sister to _work_ for him. He says she gives the world's
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greatest head, but she tells me she's through with him,
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done, goo'-bye. I don' think Javier believes her!''
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Gelfen reminded Eusebio about the birth certificate,
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and the client began hunting around in the drawers, but
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could not turn it. ``Aah, shit,'' he said. ``Nilsa, she
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knows where all this stuff's at. When I was Upstate, she
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|
took this dump down and put it back together, an' di'n't
|
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tell me shit about how. Look, man, she'll dig it out, and
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I'll get it to you, okay?''
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Gelfen did not like the idea of the case hanging fire
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while Eusebio or Nilsa or somebody got mobilized to find the
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birth certificate. Also, Gelfen felt that Colon had
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|
manipulated the conversation so the ugly topic of _work_ had
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never come up. What the hell? he thought. The guy's been on
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|
the street for two weeks, let him at least come up for air.
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Technically, he could have let himself off the hook by
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refusing the case based on lack of documentation. That would
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have meant a tight thirty days of waiting: if Colon did not
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reapply under the thirty-day wire, someone else would get
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the headaches. But Gelfen gave Eusebio his work number and
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told him to call.
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(-/////////// September 1991 \\\\\\\\\\\-)
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Rita Marie Rouvalis rita@eff.org
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Electronic Frontier Foundation | EFF administrivia to: office@eff.org
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155 Second Street | Flames to:
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Cambridge, MA 02141 617-864-0665 | women-not-to-be-messed-with@eff.org
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