textfiles/magazines/INTERTEXT/ITv2n3.etx

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=======================================
InterText Vol. 2, No. 3 / May-June 1992
=======================================

  Contents

    FirstText: You Can't Say That!....................Jason Snell

  Short Fiction

    Roadkill_......................................Robert Hurvitz_

    All the Countries of the World_......................Rob Furr_

    The Fine Hammered Steel of Woe_....................Eric Crump_

  Humor

    Your Guide to High School Hate_...............Philip Michaels_

  Serial

    The Unified Murder Theorem (3 of 4)_................Jeff Zias_

....................................................................
    Editor                                     Assistant Editor
    Jason Snell                                    Geoff Duncan
    jsnell@etext.org                       gaduncan@halcyon.com
....................................................................
    Proofreader               Send subscription requests, story
    Melinda Hamilton            submissions, and correspondence
    mhamilto@ucsd.edu                    to intertext@etext.org
....................................................................
  InterText Vol. 2, No. 3. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is published 
  electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this 
  magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold 
  (either by itself or as part of a collection) and the entire 
  text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1992, 1994 Jason 
  Snell. Individual stories Copyright 1992 by their original 
  authors.
....................................................................


  FirstText: You Can't Say That!  by Jason Snell
================================================

  For me, editing InterText is usually a breath of fresh air. As 
  most of you know, I've spent the last year as the editor in 
  chief of my college newspaper, and all told I've been working 
  for the paper for three years. In that time, we've seen the 
  coming of a phenomenon described by some with the 
  obscenely-overused phrase _political correctness._

  Let's avoid the buzzwords, shall we? The key here is that, as a 
  member of the news media, I've been in the middle of this 
  tug-of-war over what is printable and what should not see the 
  light of day, over what opinions are acceptable and what 
  opinions are "wrong."

  And on many occasion I've been called an oppressor. The term 
  "dangerous right-wing element" was once used to describe me. I 
  laughed heartily when I heard about it -- I'm a moderate with a 
  newly-minted Bachelor of Arts degree from perhaps the most 
  radical social science department in the United States, namely 
  UCSD's Communication Department. Not bad, for a dangerous 
  element.

  The key word here is _sensitivity,_ a word that usually ends up 
  describing how people who feel guilt for social misdeeds by 
  others try to make up for the problems with wordplay. One UCSD 
  graduate student took to referring to blacks (or, if you prefer, 
  African-Americans) as "Africana/os." As one black friend of mine 
  said: "I'm not an Africano." But even though the term was 
  nonsense, it at least gave off the _sensation_ of moral 
  authenticity. That's how it works. Colored People become 
  Negroes, who become blacks, who become African- Americans, who 
  become People of Color. (Let's hope Africana/o doesn't get 
  beyond my own concrete-and-eucalyptus environs.) From Colored 
  People to People of Color? I can see the massive shift in social 
  awareness there.

  But sensitivity still reigns, and it crops up in the strangest 
  places. In InterText, however, I usually feel safe. It's nice to 
  know that when I placed the different national flags on the 
  PostScript cover of our First Anniversary Issue, I wouldn't get 
  any irate mail complaining about how I put the flags of 
  oppressive, racist countries -- namely the United States, 
  Britain, Canada and Australia -- at the top of the page.

  I put those flags there because I wanted to, and because the 
  bulk of our subscribers are from those countries. On campus, 
  however, I'd simply be branded a "dangerous element."

  So why am I telling you all this?

  Because of our cover story, a little ditty called "Your Guide To 
  High School Hate" by Philip Michaels, one of my colleagues here 
  at the UCSD Guardian.

  Michaels is a satirist by nature, in addition to being the 1992- 
  93 Guardian Opinion Editor and an award-winning humor writer. He 
  used to write for a campus humor paper, but quit when he became 
  disgusted by the bathroom humor that dominated its pages.

  However, some people might consider "Your Guide to High School 
  Hate" to be an evil, oppressive piece of work. First off, it's 
  Americanocentric. (Didn't I promise no buzzwords? I'm sorry.) 
  The humor is based on what has become American popular culture's 
  archetypal high school -- the kind you might see on ridiculous 
  television shows like, for example, Beverly Hills, 90210.

  So I'm hoping that most people will see the humor in "Hate," 
  even those who aren't American.

  More problems -- in real life, high schools in America are 
  riddled with crime; kids carry guns to school every day. 
  Philip's story isn't about that sort of stuff. It's about the 
  banal parts of high school -- the subjects that seem so 
  incredibly important when kids live through them, but, 
  ultimately, are worth nothing at all.

  It's satire and humor. Some of it may offend you. Michaels makes 
  references to Iranian businessmen, African school 
  administrators, and Russian toilet paper.

  Are these racist and insensitive remarks? No. Can they be 
  construed as such? Oh, yes. Definitely.

  And if you do get offended by all this, then by all means send 
  your letters here. We'll try to print them, in fact --you're all 
  entitled to your opinions.

  As is Philip Michaels.

  Some people suggested that we edit out some of the potentially 
  offensive jokes in "Hate" before printing it in InterText. Not a 
  chance. This is what Philip Michaels has to say. If some people 
  out there don't understand satire, that's a cross they'll have 
  to bear. They're missing out on what I consider one of the 
  crowning achievements of human art, believe it or not.

  And if you ever hear someone talking about how a person they 
  don't agree with shouldn't even be allowed to be heard, do me a 
  favor: hit 'em for me.

  An insensitive opinion?

  Sure. But it's _my_ opinion.


  Roadkill  by Robert Hurvitz
=============================

  "Looks like a big one," Jim said, flicking on his high beams 
  briefly to get better visibility. "Whoa! Probably a dog or 
  something. Raccoon, maybe." He laughed. "Hungry, John?"

  I groaned softly, once again reminded why I hadn't gone on a 
  long road trip with Jim since our freshman year. "I think I'll 
  wait till the next Denny's."

  I stared out the passenger window at the mountains and the 
  nearby trees rushing by, even though it was midnight and 
  therefore couldn't make out any details. It would have been 
  beautiful during the day. Too bad we didn't leave at noon, I 
  thought, instead of after dinner. Oh well. Perhaps we'll have 
  better luck on the way back. At least this way there are almost 
  no cars out on the road. No one to get in our way.

  The song plowing through the car speakers ended, and I prayed 
  that the tape would be over, but yet another Monks of Doom 
  number started up, just as drearily as all the others had.

  I had suggested that we put on a Billy Joel tape I'd brought, 
  but Jim had simply laughed at me, saying that it was time I 
  listened to some new music. I might even like it, he'd said. 
  Well, so far, he was wrong. A sudden, irrational panic seized 
  me: What if this tape never ends, just keeps going on and on? I 
  blinked, shook my head, tried to regain my senses.

  I asked, "Are we in Oregon yet?"

  "Soon, John. I'm driving as fast as I can."

  And he was. The speedometer had been hovering around 90 for some 
  time now. As I watched, the needle climbed higher by a few more 
  miles per hour. I clutched the armrest instinctively.

  Jim's speeding didn't seem to matter to I-5, however. It still 
  stretched off into infinity, oblivious to the relatively 
  insignificant cars crawling along on its back.

  We were heading north, to Seattle, where our friend Jeff now 
  lived and was throwing a big party, conveniently timed to be 
  right in the middle of spring break. Jeff had graduated the year 
  before and had gotten a job somewhere in or near Seattle. 
  Whenever I would talk to him on the phone, Jeff would always 
  complain about the rain, although he seemed to be growing used 
  to it as time rolled on.

  "Hey, Jim," I said. "Have you figured out what you're going to 
  do after graduation?"

  "Well..." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "What's 
  looking better and better each day is taking however much I get 
  in graduation presents, buying a plane ticket to somewhere, and 
  travelling for as long as I can."

  I nodded. "Sounds good."

  "Yeah. I think I'll do that." He stared ahead out through the 
  windshield, laughed. "Oh hey! What's that, what's that?" He 
  flicked on the high beams and frowned. "Just a strip of rubber. 
  It looked like it could've been interesting." Jim turned to me, 
  smiled. "Sorry to disappoint you."

  "Don't worry about it. Just keep your eyes on the road."

  He shrugged, glanced down at the speedometer. It had dropped to 
  80. Jim stepped a little harder on the accelerator to remedy the 
  perceived problem.

  "Have you heard from any of those companies you were 
  interviewing with?" Jim asked.

  "Nope. Not a peep. Well, actually, I have received a few 
  rejection letters. No call-backs, though. No job offers."

  "And grad school?"

  I dismissed that question with a wave of my hand, but then said, 
  "Same thing, basically." I shifted in my seat. "Strange. I used 
  to enjoy getting mail. Now I dread it. It's like, what sort of 
  bad news is waiting in my mailbox today? I'm happiest when all 
  there is is junk mail." I looked out the side window again. "I'm 
  glad I'm getting out of town for a while."

  "Hey, I know how you feel. Just get away from it all. Distance 
  yourself from your problems."

  "Yeah."

  "Put some perspective on things."

  "Yeah."

  "Maybe... Maybe do something you've never done before."

  "Uh, maybe."

  I looked back at Jim, saw his mischievous, little grin. He 
  glanced at the rear-view mirror, out various windows.

  "See any cars anywhere?" he asked.

  I was suddenly nervous. "No.... No I don't, Jim. What do you 
  have in mind?"

  He took his foot off the gas, and the speedometer began to drop. 
  "Trust me, John." He continued scrutinizing the road, nodded. 
  "It's as empty as it'll ever be, eh?"

  "Jim, what are you doing?"

  We were now down to 55 miles per hour. The car seemed to be 
  merely crawling along. It made me impatient, uncomfortable.

  "What you need is," he began, "a completely new experience. 
  Something that'll get your mind off your current problems. 
  Something exciting." He stepped lightly on the brake, bringing 
  the car to a snail's pace of 40.

  "You're scaring me, Jim. Just keep driving. I don't like this."

  "Nonsense. Did I steer you wrong with Monks of Doom?" He reached 
  over and turned up the volume just enough to drown out my 
  mumbled "Well..."

  Jim looked at me. "Did you say something?" He shook his head. 
  "Anyway. Trust me." He motioned brusquely with his right hand to 
  let me know he wouldn't be listening to anything more I'd have 
  to say on the matter.

  Oh well, I thought. Maybe it won't take too long.

  The car came to a complete stop. Jim turned the steering wheel 
  left, gave the car a little gas, and smiled a bit too widely. We 
  left the asphalt and headed into the no-man's land between the 
  north- and south-bound lanes, flattening weeds as we bumped 
  slowly across the ground.

  A part of me noticed that the dividing strip was amazingly level 
  -- usually there was some sort of dip or steep incline, if not a 
  mountain or lake. Another part of me gripped the padded armrest 
  so tightly I thought I'd puncture holes in the vinyl. And 
  another part of me asked, "What the fuck are you doing, Jim?"

  Jim laughed and shut off the headlights. He braked when we were 
  nearly at the other side. "I hope we don't have to wait too 
  long," he said. He laughed again, nervously this time.

  As if in response, some trees lit up about a mile down the road 
  where the I-5 curved, reflecting and forewarning us of a pair of 
  unsuspecting headlights. Jim put the car in neutral and started 
  revving the engine.

  I wanted to scream, "Jesus Christ, Jim! Stop it! Are you trying 
  to kill us?!" but I was petrified. I couldn't speak. I could 
  only watch as the oncoming car rounded the turn and sped swiftly 
  toward us.

  Jim slapped the transmission into first gear, and the tires spit 
  gravel as they spun on the roadside. Our car lurched forward, 
  jumped onto the asphalt, and raced down the road. The lights of 
  the other car shone right into my eyes, and I wondered madly if 
  that driver could see the look on my face.

  Only a hundred or so feet separated us. Jim snapped on the 
  headlights, high beams and all, and slammed his fist down on the 
  wheel, blaring the horn. His face was a distorted, evil mask of 
  chaotic rapture. He may have been laughing.

  The other car swerved to our left, missing us by about ten feet, 
  and I caught a brief glimpse of the driver through his side 
  window. His eyes were wide, and his lips were curled back in 
  terror. I'd never before seen so much white in a person's 
  expression.

  Our cars passed, and I heard the other's tires start squealing. 
  I twisted around in my seat and looked out the back window in 
  time to see the other car, skidding sideways, hit the gravel on 
  the right shoulder, go down a slight decline toward the trees, 
  and flip.

  Jim switched off his headlights just as the sound of crumpling 
  metal and shattering glass reached us. He slowed down, pulled 
  the steering wheel right, and sent us back into the dividing 
  strip.

  We reached the northbound side and got back on, but we didn't 
  speed up, turn on the headlights, or speak until we'd gone 
  around the curve. The Monks of Doom still played on the tape 
  deck.

  Finally, Jim looked at me, his face serene, and said, "Quite an 
  adrenaline rush, eh?" He stared back ahead at the road, licked 
  his lips, and, smiling oh-so-slightly, seemed to settle into an 
  almost zen-like driving state.

  I would've been lying if I'd said no. Instead, I slumped down in 
  my seat and closed my eyes. I realized that my hands were 
  tightened into fists, and so I unclenched them and, for lack of 
  anything else to do with them, massaged my temples.

  "How much longer till we're out of California, Jim?"

  "Soon, John. Soon." He floored the gas pedal, and we flew down 
  the road.

  Robert Hurvitz  (hurvitz@cory.berkeley.edu)
---------------------------------------------

  Robert Hurvitz will graduate any day now from the esteemed 
  College of Engineering at UC Berkeley and is looking for a job. 
  On the serendipitous chance that you or someone you know has a 
  Computer Science-related job opening commensurate with his 
  skills, feel free to send him some e-mail.


  All the Countries of the World  by Rob Furr
=============================================

  Around him, the bar stank. Cheap wood, cheap women, and cheaper 
  beer all added their smells to the volcanic odor of the island 
  air. There was a dim roar inside, made from the sound of low 
  talking, the sound of the waves just outside, the sound of 
  buzzing neon. Creaking wood could be heard faintly, through the 
  other sounds, as islanders walked across the old worn wooden 
  floor. The sounds were slightly distorted, as the low tin roof 
  above reflected and shaped their echoes.

  It was dim inside. A Budweiser sign lent the bottles behind the 
  bartender a reddish glow, and a small, swaying lamp over the 
  pool table shone green. Candles flickered on the tables, small 
  flecks of yellow in the dim light of the bar. The plastic 
  lamination of the cards reflected all the light, mixing it into 
  a swirl of neon red, dark green, black lines and white card, 
  with the intricate pattern of the Bicycle beneath it all.

  They were Bicycle cards, fresh from the pack. They slid, new and 
  perfect, from the fingers of the dealer, their white as white as 
  his suit, their black tracery as black as his tie, and their 
  image was reflected in the perfect, shiny leather of the 
  dealer's eyepatch.

  Two cards spun into the air, face down. One dropped down, 
  landing with perfect precision in front of the dealer, and one 
  flew across the table, spinning into place in front of the 
  player, half covering a stain on the green felt of the table. 
  Face down.

  The dealer smiled. His smile was kind, as if he was in the 
  process of doing someone a favor, and wished that person to feel 
  at ease as he did it. The smile fit his face perfectly. It was 
  neither too warm, nor too uncomfortable, and it curled around 
  his face, avoiding only the eyepatch that covered his right eye. 
  He exuded confidence, but it was a confidence masked by 
  incorruptible politeness. He was in charge, the smile said, and 
  any effort to contest that fact would fade quickly, in the face 
  of such confidence.

  The player shivered. It was too hot to shiver, one might say, 
  but the heat was the humid heat that can make a man feel cold, 
  even as the sweat soaks his shirt.

  The player's shirt was soaked.

  "Do you feel ill?" the dealer asked, leaning forward with 
  solicitude written across his face. His hands never left the 
  deck.

  "No..." the player groped for words, and failed. "No." he 
  finished.

  "Would you like something to drink, perhaps? The heat, it plays 
  tricks on a man who does not know it. One loses so much water 
  here, in the summer months." The dealer gestured at a glass at 
  his side. It was filled with a clear brown liquid, and had two 
  ice cubes slowly melting in it. The player could smell the 
  alcohol in it, even through the beery haze of the bar.

  "I don't think I should," the player replied. He could feel his 
  thin wallet through his sweat-soaked jeans. He wanted a drink, 
  badly, but the constant reminder kept him from it. He wiped his 
  forehead with his sleeve, but the thin fabric wouldn't absorb 
  any more.

  "Very well." Even in the all-pervading noise of the bar, the 
  crisp flick of pasteboard could easily be heard. One card 
  flipped, end over end, towards the player, and landed beside the 
  other card, exactly aligned. The table could not be seen between 
  them.

  The player looked down.

  A nine of spades looked back. The plastic coating shined, bright 
  and exact, against the pitted and patched surface of the table.

  The player swallowed.

  Another flick, and a card landed beside the dealer's card. It 
  impacted with a sudden noise, as the dealer's fingers drove it 
  downwards to the table. It was the ace of hearts. The dealer's 
  finger rested on it, exactly covering the central heart.

  "The cards are dealt, sir." The dealer smiled again, leaning his 
  head forward, to indicate the cards. His white hat cast a shadow 
  across his face as he did so.

  The player's hand rose from beneath the table, and slowly crept 
  towards the card.

  Suddenly, it halted.

  "Ah... the stakes are..." the player asked.

  "A ticket to Galveston, on my part, versus the loss of all your 
  funds, on yours. We have already agreed on this." A tiny, tiny 
  edge of impatience had entered the dealer's voice.

  "All my funds?" the player wanted confirmation.

  "All your funds. We have already agreed on this."

  The impatience grew, as if a sword was slowly being drawn from 
  its scabbard. The player looked away from the shiny politeness 
  of the dealer, his perfect white suit, and his calm assurance, 
  toward his cards, lying there on the worn green felt of the 
  table. "You may look at your other card, if you like." The 
  player reluctantly raised his hand from beneath the table, and 
  lifted the corner of his card. His eyes refused to focus on the 
  card for a moment, then he became aware that he was looking at 
  the ten of clubs.

  Nineteen.

  He had nineteen.

  The dealer's voice penetrated the haze through which the player 
  stared at his card. "Will you be wanting another card, then?"

  The player's voice shook, as he let the card slap down. "No, no. 
  I don't... I stand."

  The dealer's sole eye looked steadily at the player. "I am 
  satisfied with mine, also. Would you reveal your card, then?"

  The player reached out, and twisted the card over.

  "Nineteen," the dealer said. "Hard to beat, I must say."

  Without taking his eye off the player, the dealer reached out 
  and flipped his card over.

  The player stared.

  The jack of spades lay there, half covered by the dealer's hand.

  The dealer's eye was steady. "Twenty-one, I believe, beats 
  nineteen."

  The player didn't move.

  The dealer reached out his hand. "Your funds? I regret the 
  necessity..."

  Wordlessly, the player pulled his wallet out of his pants and 
  threw it onto the table.

  "The twenty dollars you keep in your left shoe, please."

  The player looked up, shocked.

  "I do believe our wager was for all your funds, was it not?"

  The player slumped in his seat, then reached down and withdrew a 
  worn, folded bill, and tossed it on the table.

  The dealer gathered the wallet and bill, and stood up. "Very 
  good." He began walking toward the door.

  The player remained in his chair, motionless. The dealer halted, 
  turned around, and gestured. "We may have further business, you 
  and I. Would you come this way?"

  The player looked up, and slowly rose from his seat. The dealer 
  stepped back to the player, and put his immaculate arm on the 
  player's shoulder, and guided him from the bar.

  Outside, it was much fresher. The setting sun cast a red pathway 
  over the ocean, and waves sloshed against the wharf's supports. 
  A slow breeze was barely stirring the flag outside the 
  portmaster's office.

  The dealer steered the player away from the bar, down towards 
  the end of the wharf.

  They reached the end, and stood looking out over the waters.

  "A beautiful sight, is it not?" said the dealer. "It is why I am 
  here, in a way." He breathed deeply, "My father was a kindly 
  man, but a rich one. He owned almost all of this island, in one 
  way or another, but he lived up on the mountain." The dealer 
  turned away from the sea to look up at the central mountain. 
  "There." he pointed. "That large, white house, toward the top. 
  You can just make it out from here."

  The player turned, wearily.

  "Ah, yes. At any rate, when I reached my twentieth birthday, my 
  father decided that it was time for me to become a man, and so 
  he took me out on our veranda, and told me that I could have any 
  portion of the island that was within his gift, any at all, to 
  own and run as my own, and he showed me all of his lands from 
  that veranda. He pointed at his shops in the town, and his 
  gardens, and all that he had, but I never saw them."

  The dealer smiled, and turned back to the sea. "I only had eyes 
  for the sight of the setting sun against the sea, and so I asked 
  for the wharf, to be close to this sight."

  The player looked at the dealer.

  "I didn't know how much of my father's wealth came from the 
  wharf, or I would not have asked for it. But he was a kindly 
  man, and a generous one, so he let me have it, just so that I 
  could be closer to my beloved sea." He breathed deeply again. "I 
  did not know, either, how hard it would be to be the owner of 
  all this, but I have managed.

  "It is to my regret, however, that I have not been able to 
  operate it as my father would have wished. The tides of the 
  world have changed, and I was faced with the choice of either 
  allowing those Colombian bastards into my harbor, or selling 
  what they sold, to make enough money to keep them out. My father 
  would not have approved.

  "But that is why I have brought you out here. Not to regale you 
  with stories, but to offer you a job. The Medellin have 
  vanished, but their successors are as persistent, and I am now 
  in need of more staff to run my operation. You are a pilot, 
  correct?"

  The player nodded.

  "And a good one. I have had my men check up on you. I have need 
  of a good pilot, to run my airplane in and out of, well, if you 
  accept the job, then I will tell you. It is too dangerous 
  otherwise."

  The player stared, with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  "I will employ you, for a short period of time, no more than 
  that, to fly my airplane. Once you have finished, perhaps, five 
  flights, I will pay you handsomely and return you to America. 
  Will you?"

  The player nodded, gratefully, almost frantically.

  The dealer laughed, and turned away. He gazed out to sea.

  "American, I have long held a belief that America is a land of 
  the blind, and that a man who can see can do what he will, 
  because of the fact that he _can_ see." The dealer reached into 
  his pocket, and withdrew the player's wallet, folded 
  twenty-dollar bill, and a small slip of white paper. "Here, 
  American. Take it back. I have no need of these, now that I have 
  won."

  The player took it all, looking at the slip of paper.

  "You have your wallet, and you have a ticket to Galveston, on 
  that ship there." The dealer pointed. "I have no need to keep 
  you around as a trophy of my victory."

  The player stared, dumbfounded.

  "Don't you understand? I won. I took you up on that mountain, 
  and I showed you all the countries of the world... and you 
  accepted. You are truly blind, and I have no need of you. So, 
  run, run away, back to your country of the blind."

  The player stepped back, then turn and ran.

  "American!" the dealer called.

  The player turned, and a playing card hit him square in the 
  chest. He caught it with a desperate lunge of his already-full 
  hands.

  He looked at it.

  It was the jack of spades.

  "American!" the dealer called, and touched his eyepatch. 
  "Remember! Remember, that in the country of the blind, the 
  one-eyed Jack is king!"

  And the player turned and ran.


  Rob Furr (stu_rsfurr@vax1.acs.jmu.edu)
----------------------------------------

  Rob Furr is a graduate student at James Madison University. He's 
  going into the creative writing program there, in the hopes that 
  he'll actually learn how to write. He works in the faculty/staff 
  computer lab on campus, which is where he does most of his 
  writing, and is currently looking around for a job that'll 
  actually keep a roof over his head and pay for the Quadra 700 
  that he hopes to buy. He's currently working on a project that 
  he calls "Another Marx Brothers movie," and he will talk to 
  anyone at great lengths about said project (which has caused 
  many of his friends to start running and hiding when he 
  approaches).


  The Fine Hammered Steel of Woe  by Eric Crump
===============================================

  I suddenly realize I have been staring at the kitchen table for 
  an unknown period of time. There are 31 pain pills arrayed on 
  the table. The pills are Joan's. They are powerful, prescribed 
  to ease her poor back, which she twisted badly in a mysterious 
  "accident" that I now suspect had something to do with our next 
  door neighbor and an unnatural position. The pills are placed in 
  neat rows because neatness counts, but I don't exactly remember 
  putting them there or making those rows. Another indication of 
  the depths of my suffering: these little fade-outs are becoming 
  more frequent. I don't have my glasses on, so I can't see the 
  clock. I could be very late for work. And I may have been 
  contemplating a very desperate act involving these pills.

  I'm on my fourth Styro cup of coffee this morning. This is 
  regular caffeine coffee, and the kick is nostalgic. This is the 
  first week back to the good stuff after six months on decaf, and 
  my tolerance to kicks is low, which may explain certain lapses, 
  certain pills. The Decaf Period, as it has come to be known by 
  me, was horrible. For six months of my blood felt like molasses 
  oozing through my veins. The latest studies at the time said 
  caffeine would kill you, and I didn't want to die. I still 
  don't. But a few weeks ago I read about the latest studies, 
  which reported that actually it was decaf that would kill you 
  and that regular coffee was more or less OK, so instead of 
  molasses I've got this friendly old buzz zinging through my 
  nervous system, heart palpitating away, just like old times. 
  There may be drawbacks; I'm aware of that. Sometimes this 
  frenzied rodent gnaws at the lining of my stomach. I'm used to 
  it.

  The gnawing rodent also shows up whenever I think about Joan, my 
  soon-to-be-ex-wife who has been living with our next-door 
  neighbor's 20-year-old son, I'm pretty sure, for about three 
  weeks now. The feeling in my gut makes me wonder if I should 
  give up coffee altogether, or if I should drink a lot more and 
  try to develop serious stomach trouble, lend an even more tragic 
  air to my demeanor. I feel I could go either way on that.

  She says she's going to file next week. Mark is a muscular kid 
  with jeans that may have been grafted to his body. He's young 
  enough to be the son we never had. He refused to wear a shirt 
  when he mowed his parents' lawn last summer, and his bare chest 
  caused problems. Joan used to sit on the patio and watch him, 
  slurping margaritas and ravishing him with her eyes. I was 
  indulgent. I thought, hey, guys have always looked at 
  neighborhood females, stretched out under the sun or bending 
  over the begonias (not that I would look at Mark's mother, Donna 
  Jo, who weighs about 250 pounds) -- why not let women do the 
  same? Men don't corner the market on lust, reputation 
  notwithstanding. Joan sprawled in the lounge chair, peering over 
  her dark glasses, lusting in her heart (and elsewhere) for a kid 
  with nicely defined pectorals, while I propped my elbows on the 
  bedroom windowsill upstairs, lusting for her, imagining all 
  sorts of erotic little fantasies that usually involved some sort 
  of struggle.

  The kid would come over, hot and sweaty, make crude, violent 
  advances. My wife, panties wet with excitement, would gasp, 
  chest heaving. He would grab her, waggle her like a doll, 
  squeeze her bottom like a melon, claw her delicate breasts, and 
  suddenly she would realize she had been making eyes at a vicious 
  clod and would cry out, her lust poisoned by fear. I would leap 
  from the window, grapple with the fiend, suffer some not too 
  painful, non-debilitating injury before vanquishing my foe, and 
  Joan, unable to contain her gratitude, would lunge for me, pull 
  me down right there on the concrete patio, and express her 
  gratitude.

  What actually happened was that Joan started sneaking out of the 
  house regularly after I was asleep, knocking on the kid's 
  window, and performing carnal acts in the basement, behind the 
  water heater, practically right under his parents' noses. Now 
  she lives with them. She and Mark share a room over the garage. 
  If I happen to be trimming the juniper bush on the west side of 
  our house at about midnight, I can see their silhouettes undress 
  in the window.

  I would have started drinking heavily when she left, but I had 
  begun long before that. I switched from vodka to sour mash 
  bourbon, though, so I would have some sense of progress. I 
  started smoking again, too. She should be able to see right away 
  what she's done to me. When she comes to collect her things she 
  should be able to tell at a glance that she has delivered a 
  fatal blow to my soul. I wonder if I should start mixing a 
  little bourbon into my coffee. It's something to consider.

  There's a knock at the door. It's Gerald, my neighbor and the 
  father of my wife's lover. He's holding my newspaper out to me, 
  a big fake smile on his face. "Good morning, Hamilton," he says. 
  This is a guy I have something to say to. Like aren't you proud 
  of your son the homewrecker? Like why didn't you teach him to 
  keep his pecker in his pocket? I don't know where to start.

  "What?"

  "Thought you'd want your paper," he says, straining to keep that 
  grin going. "Is... is there anything I can do for you?"

  I can only stare. I haven't seen this much irony in one spot 
  since I took a literature class in college.

  "I'm fine."

  "Well, anything I can do, you let me know, OK?"

  You've done enough, I think about saying, but he is backing down 
  the walk, still grinning. "You've done enough, you 
  son-of-a-fucking- bitch," I say as he enters his house.

  I go to work, very late. I missed yesterday. Told Miller I had 
  the flu and coughed all over the phone, which is a ploy he 
  doesn't fall for, but is part of office etiquette. It would be 
  considered impolite not to sound awful. Miller would be offended 
  if I didn't even care enough to fake it. When I walk in, the 
  senior secretary, Madge Murphy, gives me a solid hate-filled 
  glare. Obviously, I'm dead meat. What the hell? I wonder. This 
  can't be for calling in sick. Wonder if I forgot to pay the 
  office coffee fund again. Madge threatened to cut me off last 
  time I forgot to pay. I had to beg for mercy. It was 
  embarrassing. I skirt far around her desk, but she shouts at me 
  anyway. "Mr. Miller wants to see you in his office _now!_"

  I'm spooked. There are contracts piled up on my desk, and I 
  suppose some of the clients are getting a little antsy, but it 
  sounds more serious than that. Miller has been known to make a 
  stink over late contracts, but only a minor stink. I look around 
  my cubicle a couple of times. Nothing to suggest a major 
  fuck-up. I hide under my desk, hoping to buy some time so I can 
  figure out what's up. As I'm getting myself tucked as far under 
  the desk as possible catch a whiff of something that reminds me 
  of a high school locker room and realize I forgot to shower. I 
  try to estimate how long I can remain under the desk. A month 
  would be nice, but I figure I've got an hour.

  In ten minutes my back is killing me. I try to shift my position 
  and end up cracking my head on the side of the metal desk, 
  sending a boom echoing through this end of town. Now I have to 
  scramble out before someone, likely Madge, comes to investigate. 
  I peep around the corner. She's not at her desk. I slide over 
  the coffee pot, moving fast and intent so everyone thinks I'm 
  busy as hell and that any strange sounds that might have just 
  come from my cubicle must be the result of frenetic and 
  explosive filing.

  Amber Reed, a shapely little nymph with poofed blond hair who 
  sits at a desk near the coffee, giggles as I pour a cup, purses 
  her moist, glossy lips in an almost indescribably erotic effort 
  to control herself. She's great fantasy material. Bends from the 
  waist when she accesses the lowest file drawer and all male work 
  in the office grinds to a halt while her small round bottom and 
  long legs put on a show. I think she's got a crush on me. I've 
  seen her look away when I look at her. And it seems like she 
  tends to reach for that bottom file drawer whenever I happen to 
  be at hand. I think it might be appropriate to let her know that 
  I'm about to become available, but when I turn around, she's on 
  the phone.

  By noon I've had six cups of coffee and made four trips to the 
  john. Luck has been on my side. I've missed Madge all morning. 
  She left a note on my desk once while I was off peeing. It said 
  Mr. Miller wanted to know why I had not come to his office and 
  to please report to him after lunch. I wad the note and play a 
  game of waste- basketball, getting beat by myself 16 to 2. The 
  coffee is starting to get to me. I miss my old tolerance. The 
  angry little rodent is tearing at my stomach lining, growling 
  and gnashing his teeth. I'm starting to feel a bit dazed and 
  jumpy, finding myself staring at the calender for ten minutes at 
  a time, tapping my pencil a million miles an hour. I fix on 
  September 13, next Thursday. I beat out a complex percussion 
  section to the rhythm of the air conditioner (part of which 
  sounds a little like the drum solo from "In-a-gadda-da-vida") 
  leaving a chaos of welts in my blotter. It looks like a crazed 
  monkey wrote a symphony in braille. I have to get out of here.

  I leave a note on Madge's desk. "Must have tried to push it too 
  soon. Fading fast. Will call from the hospital to let you know 
  how I am doing." She won't buy it, but she won't challenge it 
  publicly. Office etiquette. Amber giggles again as I leave. 
  Maybe I'll call her later.

  When I get home I find the door is unlocked. Did I forget to 
  lock it? Inside, I discover that all the living room furniture 
  is gone. There is a broken lamp in the middle of the floor. Old 
  magazines are strewn about. An ashtray is overturned.

  Then I hear voices coming from the kitchen. Adrenaline mixes 
  with the caffeine and creates some kind of explosive new 
  chemical compound. My fight-or-flight response is about to turn 
  me into a human rocket. I'll either waste these burglars with my 
  bare hands or I'll run to the next state. I'm poised, vibrating.

  "Is that you, Ham?" says one of the voices. It is my lovely 
  wife. "What are you doing home?"

  "I live here," I say, dripping with irony, the fiery internal 
  chemicals draining into my feet.

  "Well, I thought you'd be at work or we wouldn't have come," she 
  says, coming down the hall with a box full of dishes. "We'll 
  come back later if you want." Mark follows her down the hall, a 
  shadow trying to hulk up, like his big shoulders will scare me, 
  but he is not carrying any boxes.

  "Don't let me get in your way. The last thing I want to do is 
  slow you down," I say, trying to maintain just a tinge of 
  sincerity in my voice. I want this to cause mixed feelings.

  I go into the kitchen. The pills are gone, but the liquor 
  cabinet has not yet been ransacked. There's only a dribble of 
  bourbon left. Vodka we got, but I think the situation has gone 
  way past vodka. I notice a brown bottle neck sticking up in the 
  back. It is the brandy we were saving for a Christmas toast. 
  Perfect. I think it will carry all the right connotations: the 
  inevitable dissolution of an abandoned soul, the poignant 
  attempt to numb the pain with wild excess, the irony of a 
  celebratory drink consumed in the depths of despair. 
  Unfortunately, there are no brandy snifters in the kitchen. In 
  fact, there are no glasses at all. The only container I can find 
  is the Styro cup left over from my morning coffee. I had a good 
  ceramic mug up until a week ago, but I don't know what happened 
  to it. The cup has brown rings around inside, a coating of semi- 
  coagulated coffee on the bottom, and a brown streak down the 
  side where I dribbled. I don't even rinse it out. I am reckless. 
  I fill it with brandy and drain it, then fill it again while the 
  heat sears my throat and the vapor billows up my sinuses. I 
  light a cigarette and trudge into the hall. I think I've created 
  the low point in my life.

  Joan and Mark come striding back into the house, all energy and 
  efficiency. I didn't see a car or truck outside, so I assume 
  they are siphoning our belongings over to his folks' house.

  "Must be nice and cozy over the garage with all that furniture," 
  I say. I can't imagine where they've put it all. I pull my 
  shirttail out. They walk by me, up the stairs and into our 
  bedroom. This sends an involuntary shock down my back. I down 
  the rest of the brandy, refill the cup, and start up the stairs. 
  I will be present, whatever they may do up there. I will stare 
  wistfully out the window while they pack away the possessions I 
  helped buy during twenty years of marriage. I will lean against 
  the wall and let my eyelids droop in resignation while they 
  throw my socks at each other. I will shed a slow tear as they 
  tickle each other and fall on the bed laughing. I will gradually 
  sink to the floor as they entangle passionately. I will not 
  stand for that sort of thing in my house.

  As I get to the top of the stairs, Mark's back is coming at me 
  fast. He is the front end of a procession that includes my 
  antique dresser and my wife. I lurch out of the way just in time 
  to avoid being tossed like a wad of paper down the stairs, but 
  not in time to avoid catching the edge of the dresser in my 
  chest. I spill most of the brandy, and clutch my breast, which 
  is in more real pain than I had planned for this excursion.

  "Please get out of the way, Ham," my wife says. "You'll get 
  hurt."

  Get hurt? Get hurt? Again, the irony. I want to suggest in a 
  very loud voice that her concern is touching, almost 
  overwhelmingly poignant, but even in light of the devastation 
  she has wrought, I doubt she would catch the implied meaning. It 
  doesn't matter. My chest has been bruised by the dresser. I can 
  only gasp and plaster myself into the wall so I don't get nailed 
  by the other end of it as Joan swings around to negotiate the 
  landing. I follow them down, limping a little, and as they go 
  out the door I head for the brandy. I chuck the cup in the sink 
  and grab the bottle. I'm through fooling around here. When they 
  come back in I plan to bop the first one through the door with 
  the empty bottle then collapse and approach death.

  I guzzle the stuff. It tastes pretty good now. No burning on the 
  way down. I make loud gulping noises, relishing the precision of 
  the tactic, the courage of the act. I hope they come back in 
  while the bottle is still tipped and the last drops are draining 
  death into my body. The guilt will overwhelm them, put them off 
  their guard, make them easy targets when I pitch the bottle.

  When I wake up it is semi-dark. Was that the doorbell? My head 
  hurts. My back is killing me. I wonder if Mark beat me up. Was 
  there a struggle? My stomach feels raw. My mouth tastes sour. 
  The room smells like vomit. What room is this? I seem to be 
  reclined in the bathtub, which answers one question, anyway. My 
  old Styro cup is nestled at my feet. There is an empty bottle of 
  vodka floating in the toilet. I am naked, cold. Did they haul 
  away the furnace? I should go investigate. Somehow, though, I 
  just don't have the energy. I poured so much of myself into 
  trying to salvage my marriage. I just don't have anything left 
  to give. I don't think I'll be able to crawl out of this tub. If 
  only there could have been a little blood at the end, enough to 
  leave a faint stain as a memorial, a thin trickle down the 
  drain, justice might have been better served. And I had 
  envisioned being clothed, too, a bit disheveled, maybe torn, but 
  something to give my corpse a ragged dignity. But the way my 
  head feels, this may be my final resting place. I may have to be 
  happy with minimum effects. I may have to take what I've got.

  I lay here for a while, dozing off an on, thinking each time 
  might be the end, but finally the sun is high enough to get in 
  my eyes, and it keeps me up. I start taking a closer look at my 
  predicament. This arrangement is disappointing. It's not the 
  legendary sort of fate I had hoped for. It's OK if people talk 
  about me, over coffee or while pumping gas, "You hear about 
  Hamilton? Guy was a friggin' saint, tough as nails, but that 
  woman of his, she pushed him over the edge. You shoulda seen 
  what she did . . ." But it hardly seems worth the trouble if 
  they talk it wrong. "Hear about Ham? Found the stupid bastard 
  laying in the bath tub, naked as a plucked hen, dried puke all 
  over the place. No wonder his wife left him, the wimp. Just lay 
  there til he died . . . ." I decide it's not worth the risk. Is 
  that the door bell?

  Gerald is standing there again, handing me my newspaper again, 
  grinning again. "Hi." He makes a point of looking me square in 
  the chin.

  "What?"

  "Just wondered if there was anything I could do for you, 
  anything at all."

  "You said that before. Why is it so damn bright out?"

  "It's tough, I know."

  I'm pretty sure there's something wrong with the sun. "What time 
  is it?"

  "Eight-thirty in the a.m.," he says. "Say, I know this is kind 
  of personal, don't get me wrong, but do you have a relationship 
  with Jesus?"

  My feet are getting cold, and it's the wrong day. I tell 
  Gerald's friendly, honest face thanks for the paper, and I start 
  to shut the door on him.

  "I'll send Donna Jo over later with some hot food," he says 
  before the door shuts. "You can't live on coffee, you know."

  I look down. The cracked, crusted Styro cup is in my hand.

  "You feel free to talk to Donna Jo," he says through the door. 
  "Anything you want."

  I lay down on the kitchen table. The surface is cold and hard, 
  but that's about the level of suffering I need right now. I 
  think wistfully about Joan's pills, and the name Jesus occurs to 
  me. How do people go about having a personal relationship with 
  him? Seems like there would be logistical problems. So, Donna Jo 
  is coming over. To talk about Jesus? To talk to Jesus? I can't 
  remember now if Gerald said talk to Donna Jo, or take Donna Jo. 
  The thought causes a shiver that starts at my head and makes my 
  toes wiggle. I think I may be a victim of poetic justice.

  Hours pass. Many, I suppose. I am more or less comfortable on 
  the table. Can't think of any reason to move. There is a knock 
  on the door. I'm looking forward to opening it. I have a 
  reassuring feeling of dread. There's no doubt it will be Donna 
  Jo, come to minister unto me. The question is, will she be 
  dressed in an obscene teddy with delicate frills brushing her 
  enormous thighs, or will she be balancing a Bible in one hand 
  and a plate of cookies in the other? The suspense.

  "It's not locked," I say, and wonder if she will faint when she 
  sees my naked loins. The door creaks, slowly opens. A shadow 
  crosses the threshold.

  "Tribune. Collect," a small voice says. I don't have any cash on 
  me. I think Joan took the checkbook.

  "Come back tomorrow," I say, but not before a freckled face 
  peers around the door and gets an eyeful. My reputation among 
  the neighborhood twelve-year-olds will probably suffer. "OK," he 
  says, and slams the door shut. He's probably on his bicycle, 
  racing to the video game arcade at the mall to spread the word 
  about the weird guy on his route.

  I stay on my kitchen table, staring at the ceiling. I am curious 
  about a small brown stain in the white expanse. It looks like a 
  coffee stain, and that raises a number of metaphysical questions 
  about my past. I don't remember ever doing anything that might 
  have resulted in coffee on the ceiling. The wildest thing I ever 
  did happened in the basement at the tail end of a long party 
  when Sam Findley's wife asked me to show her my fishing pole. 
  Mulling the mystery of this stain apparently takes a long time. 
  Darkness falls.

  Another knock on the door. I open my eyes and immediately notice 
  that I am laying on the kitchen table naked. I'd become so 
  comfortably numb, I'd forgotten my vulnerable state. This could 
  be anyone, the paperboy come back, the paperboy's angry parents 
  armed with buckets of tar and feather pillows, the police come 
  to arrest me for violating the sensibilities of an innocent 
  paper carrier, Joan and her hunk come to take away the kitchen 
  table. There are no dish towels left, no place mats handy. I 
  make the best use I can of my Styro cup.

  "Unlocked," I yell. I didn't mean it to sound like a scream. 
  From the corner of my eye I see a large shape standing in the 
  hall, a plate of cookies balanced in its hand. It sighs and 
  shakes its head. "Poor man," it says. I feel the tightness in my 
  stomach uncoil, relax. Donna Jo has come to nurture me, offer 
  solace.

  Maybe she will stroke my brow and hold little pieces of 
  chocolate chip cookies to my lips. Maybe she will coo at me, 
  bathe me in sympathy. Maybe she'll read unintelligible parables 
  from the Bible. Maybe she'll slide out of her big clothes and 
  dance around the kitchen, making the floors creak with shock and 
  joy. Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter at all what she does. She's 
  here. That's what matters.


  Eric Crump  (leric@umcvmb.missouri.edu)
-----------------------------------------

  Eric Crump helps run the writing center at the University of 
  Missouri, where he moonlights as a graduate student in English. 
  He keeps writing short fiction even though people make it a 
  point not to encourage this sort of behavior. He has a wife and 
  a daughter who love him anyway.


  Your Guide to High School Hate  by Philip Michaels
====================================================

  A Little Introduction
-----------------------

  Welcome! Welcome to the wonderful world of high school, the next 
  stepping stone on your ultimate journey to adulthood. Gone are 
  the youthful days of elementary and intermediate school. 
  Farewell to recesses and childhood games. You've just entered 
  the new and exciting world of secondary school education, four 
  wild and exciting years, chock full of fun and memories. These 
  are the best years of your life! These are the years that you'll 
  look back on and smile.

  Actually, that's all a load of crap.

  High school is neither a fantastic dreamworld nor a breeding 
  ground of happiness. It's not even a goal to look forward to. 
  High school is the root of more unpleasant memories and 
  psyche-damaging experiences than in any other time in a person's 
  life with the possible exceptions of a brief stint with the 
  Manson family or dousing yourself with gasoline around open 
  flame. Mere social traumas like divorce, war, pestilence, and 
  stomach flu pale in comparison to the four years of educational 
  hell you must submit yourself to in order to be declared a fit 
  adult. What makes high school extra tricky, and as a result, 
  more odious, is the surplus of two-faced liars and infidels who 
  will try to con you into thinking that this suffering and agony 
  somehow builds character. You could cover twelve acres of 
  farmland with that fertilizer.

  And that's why this guide exists -- to expose such lies, to 
  alert the unknowing student to the sea of deceit swelling around 
  him/her, and to teach students how to gain a perverse enjoyment 
  by making everyone else as miserable as them. YOUR GUIDE TO HIGH 
  SCHOOL HATE is the one place for troubled teens to turn to for 
  truth, other than "Welcome Back, Kotter" or "Happy Days" reruns. 
  What's more, this book serves as a powerful reminder to 
  ex-students, the lucky few who survived, about the sheer torment 
  and trauma of their high school years, making it even easier to 
  gloat at our nation's young people.

  Now to answer a few questions about this high school business 
  that may be dancing around in your brain...

                   SO WHAT EXACTLY IS HIGH SCHOOL?
  
  Some people will tell you that high school is a secondary 
  education system designed to prepare the youth of today for the 
  world of tomorrow. These are _lies,_ lies that fester in the 
  mouths of jackals, heathens, and vice-principals. In reality, 
  high school should be thought of as a holding cell, intended to 
  keep minors from enjoying their carefree teen years. It's the 
  one time in your life where the government takes complete and 
  utter responsibility for you, provided you don't wind up on 
  welfare or get elected to Congress.

  It wasn't always like this. Once upon a time in our nation's 
  history, there was no high school. Kids 14 to 18 were free to do 
  as they pleased, which usually meant wandering aimlessly about 
  the prairie, shooting at furry critters, or waiting for cable 
  television to be invented. True, not a very exciting existence, 
  but a sufficient one nevertheless.

  But this wasn't good enough for some people who just couldn't 
  let things be. The government, exhibiting the same wisdom and 
  reasoning that gave us the McCarthy hearings and the Reagan 
  administration, decided that high school should be mandatory. 
  They claimed that this would only benefit the United States, 
  that teenagers would become fine, upstanding members of the 
  populace, that democracy would thrive, and that our nation would 
  take its preordained place as the big cheese amongst 
  international powers. This was to hide their true motives -- the 
  government can't stand to see anyone happy.

  And so it was that high school came to be. The fourteen through 
  eighteen year olds, heretofore free as the wild beasts, were 
  cruelly consigned to a stifling classroom to be kept out of 
  sight and out of mind. The students' resentment grew, and 
  America went down the toilet. Now the Japanese own our 
  buildings, the Middle East controls our oil, and the dollar is 
  trounced by the German mark. Even Canada laughs.

  So now you have to go to high school. It's the law, just like 
  you can't tear the tags off of mattresses or broadcast a 
  baseball game without the express written consent of Major 
  League Baseball.

  High school is just another way-station in the process of 
  avoiding life. Consider the following cycle: You're born. You go 
  to school to learn things. You learn things to get a job. You 
  get a job to make money. You make money to buy stuff. You buy 
  stuff to enjoy yourself. But before that can happen, you die. To 
  summarize: born, learn, work, die. This is the sort of absurdity 
  that will be the cornerstone of your high school life.


                  WHAT WILL I GET OUT OF HIGH SCHOOL?

  * A diploma that will enable you to work in any fast food 
  restaurant around the world.

  * Emotional scars that may take a lifetime to heal.

  * A stunning realization that devoting the first eighteen years 
  of your life solely to graduating from high school was probably 
  not time well spent.

  * A chance to act immature and do stupid things that you could 
  never get away with in real life. Only high school students can 
  toilet paper houses, urinate off roofs, and drink until they 
  swim in a pool of their own vomit. If real adult-type people 
  tried any of that, they would get arrested, or whopped upside 
  the head. Think of high school as your last free chance to act 
  like a lobotomized ass. This will add subtle meaning to your 
  life.

       MILLIONS OF PEOPLE GRADUATE FROM HIGH SCHOOL EVERY YEAR.
             WHAT QUALIFIES YOU TO WRITE A BOOK ABOUT IT?

  Because I took notes.

                   IS HIGH SCHOOL REALLY THAT BAD?

  Let's put it this way -- high school students aren't drinking 
  themselves into a coma every weekend out of happiness with their 
  station in life.

                    THEN HOW WILL I EVER SURVIVE?

  Just remember the four most beautiful words on the planet -- 
  "It's only four years." Four years is but spit in the great 
  ocean of eternity. Unlike adults who must spend decade after 
  decade in a boring, go nowhere job, you will be totally free in 
  just four years. Of course, once you're out, then you'll become 
  one of those adults with a boring, go nowhere job, so that's 
  small comfort, really. No, I guess you won't survive. Sorry.


               WHY SHOULD I PUT MYSELF THROUGH SUCH MISERY?

  Because you have to. Each culture has a ritualized program of 
  suffering designed to squelch any idealized or romantic notions 
  its young people may have formed. Everyone else had to go 
  through it, so you do too, you whimpering ninny. In olden times, 
  young Indian braves would have to face mountain lions, bears, 
  and other deadly animals as a test of their courage. You have to 
  take Geometry. Granted, the Indian braves got the better end of 
  the deal, but that's neither here nor there. REMEMBER: HIGH 
  SCHOOL -- IT'S THE LAW. YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO LIKE IT.

             SO WHY DO ADULTS LIE TO US ABOUT HIGH SCHOOL?

  Because they are old and senile. Years of monotonous, mind- 
  numbing employment and drug use have dulled their brain cells 
  and erased all memories prior to their twenty-fifth birthdays. 
  Besides, adults resent the fact that young people are stronger, 
  faster, more efficient, and more sexually potent than old farts. 
  Consequently, adults hide the truth to make reality all the more 
  painful.

                     HOW DO I KNOW YOU'RE NOT LYING?

  Just start reading the book, smart-ass...

  Chapter One
-------------

             Orientation, or The Beginning of the End

  Before you embark on the descent into Hell that is high school, 
  you must be officially initiated, in order to insure that there 
  is no possible legal escape for you. This process is known as 
  Orientation. It is particularly insidious because the malevolent 
  powers that be make it seem as if you _want_ to be in high 
  school, that you _need_ high school, that you can't possibly 
  live another day without high school. Some of the malevolent 
  powers that be (henceforth referred to as THEM) have been known 
  to reduce unsuspecting thirteen and fourteen year olds into 
  weeping, quivering shadows of their former selves _begging_ to 
  be let into high school. It is not uncommon to hear newly 
  enrolled students crying out "Oh thank you, malevolent powers 
  that be! Thank you for including me in this grand pageant of 
  secondary school education!"

  The theme of Orientation is simple: Break down a young child's 
  resistance by whatever means necessary. And these means make 
  Machiavelli look like Captain Kangaroo. THEM will seize any 
  opportunity to gain control over your mind and destiny, whether 
  it's through subtle manipulation, threatening the family pet, or 
  just making obscene phone calls to your home in the middle of 
  the night. When it comes to shattering the innocence of youth, 
  THEM doesn't futz around.

  What makes THEM's approach successful, and at the same time, 
  chilling, is its recruitment methods. THEM lures its potential 
  students (otherwise known as "prey " or "fresh meat") by 
  utilizing respected parents and even fellow students as bait. By 
  making it appear as if high school is-condoned and even endorsed 
  by normal, right-thinking members of the community, THEM tricks 
  its prey into accepting high school as a joyous and much yearned 
  for destination (Incidentally, the Republican Party functions in 
  a similar manner.).

                ORIENTATION -- THE METHODS, THE MADNESS

  There are two basic approaches to Orientation employed by THEM, 
  both equally popular and almost interchangeable. In Approach #1, 
  you, the potential student, are introduced to approximately 438 
  other students, who through sincere looking smiles, will try to 
  squelch any fear or anxiety you may have. All of them will swear 
  that they plan to spend every waking hour attending to your beck 
  and call. "If you have any problems," they say in soothing 
  tones, "just come to me."

  You will never see these people again.

  All 438 will secretly disappear to a remote South American 
  country where they will be replaced by new students who couldn't 
  care less about your welfare and will probably revel in causing 
  you undue misery. This is known as the _bait and switch._ Fear 
  it.

  Approach #2 is a time tested and highly successful system 
  recognized by Orientation experts the world over as _outright 
  deceit._ There is nothing tricky about this particular approach. 
  THEM simply boasts about aspects of high school that would 
  appeal to potential students, such as free soda for every 
  freshman and optional attendance. You don't have to be a Nobel 
  Prize winner to realize that THEM is lying like a cheap rug. 
  Nevertheless, incoming high school Students are easily fooled 
  critters, willing to believe any claim that high school is the 
  education equivalent of Disneyland. The beauty of outright 
  deceit is that by creating false illusions of happiness, the 
  introduction of reality becomes all the more painful. When the 
  poor, whimpering students realize that high school is not the 
  Valhalla they were told about, the results can range anywhere 
  from minor depression to psychological collapse, from loss of 
  appetite to uncontrollable slobbering. Mental health asylums 
  around the country have entire wards devoted to thirteen and 
  fourteen year olds who were crushed when they discovered that 
  attendance was _not_ optional.

  Now that you understand what's at stake and the methods used by 
  THEM in the bloodthirsty conquest of the human soul, it's time 
  to begin the process that will forever trap you in the bowels of 
  high school. It's time to get Oriented! (As opposed to getting 
  Occidented...)

                         PHASE ONE: THE LINE

  Ever join the army? Gone to prison? Tried to buy toilet paper in 
  Moscow? Then you've already undergone a sampling of the first 
  phase of Orientation--the Line from Hell.

  Imagine an impenetrable wall of juvenile flesh that slowly 
  snakes forward, but never seems to get anywhere. This is the 
  Line from Hell. It is composed primarily of incoming freshmen 
  and their mothers. The mothers are filled with hope and 
  excitement for the future and talk nervously among themselves. 
  The incoming freshmen just wish they were back home in bed.

  One of the many sidelights to the Line from Hell is the perverse 
  delight that may be gained by watching mothers embarrass their 
  offspring. Hours of amusement can be had as you witness these 
  mothers 1) talk in voices loud enough to be heard in the next 
  county, 2) say hello to every other mother in line, 3) laugh at 
  stupid things, 4) wistfully reminisce about their first year in 
  high school, 5) try to arrange dates for their children, and 6) 
  sing old Bavarian drinking songs. Some schools even have a "Most 
  Embarrassing Mother" Pageant during Orientation where cash and 
  other valuable prizes may be won. And the swimsuit competition 
  is dynamite.

  But not even "Most Embarrassing Mother" Pageants can outshine 
  the true purpose of the Line from Hell. And that purpose is to 
  force you into signing your very life away to the cruel high 
  school gods. Every mildly useful bit of information about you 
  that may one day be used as blackmail is collected through the 
  forms that you sign. Emergency Information. Family Ancestry. 
  Dental Records. Shoe Size. Psychiatric Analysis of Eating, 
  Sleeping, and Sexual Habits. And of course, Deportment. There 
  can also be other forms which ask you to answer questions in a 
  format similar to a pop quiz. Questions like:

  * What's the capital of Nebraska? (Lincoln)

  * What is the official currency of Greece? (the Drachma)

  * A train leaves Chicago at 9 a.m. traveling at 200 miles an 
  hour. At what time will it pass a train leaving at 8 a.m., 
  traveling at 172 miles an hour? (Never--the first train will 
  derail.)

  * Explain the basic tenets of Sartre's BEING AND NOTHINGNESS. 
  (False)

  The answers and contents of these forms are essentially 
  worthless. What THEM is looking for is good penmanship. Students 
  with sloppy handwriting can expect to be whisked away and sold 
  to medical research laboratories, never to be heard from again.

  As the line progresses, you will encounter the Valley of the 
  Vapid PTA Mothers. These were once happy and fulfilled people, 
  but years of doing THEM's bidding has left these wretched women 
  staring vacantly off into space with plastered on smiles etched 
  upon layers of make-up. In this sense, they tend to resemble 
  Mary Kay cosmetic saleswomen. There is no truth to the rumor, 
  however, that Nancy Reagan is a Vapid PTA Mother.

  These lost souls have but one purpose in their otherwise 
  meaningless existence: _to get you involved!_ Join the 
  Homecoming Committee! Join the Student Council! Join the 
  Cheerleading Squad! Join! Join! Or be worthless and unloved. The 
  decision is strictly yours. (In most cases, it really doesn't 
  matter if you sign up for these groups or not. Many Vapid PTA 
  Mothers who need to fill a quota will forge your signature after 
  you leave, obliging you to serve organizations you have no 
  interest in. This is how people "join" the audio-visual squad 
  and "voluneer" to scrape decade-old gum off the bottom of 
  desks.)

  Several hours later, you will reach the end of the Line from 
  Hell. Provided that your penmanship is up to snuff and that 
  you've appeased the Vapid PTA Mothers, you are ready to be 
  brainwashed, uh, enrolled. Remember, you're supposed to be 
  enjoying this.

                PHASE TWO: THE BIG OL' RALLY OF FUN

  The Big Ol' Rally of Fun is just that -- a Big Ol' Rally that in 
  actuality is a little Fun. "Why," you ask, "does THEM 
  incorporate fun? Isn't this a little out of character for 
  sinister forces that are the embodiment of all that is evil?" 
  The answer is a big, fat, capitalized, highlighted --_NO_--, in 
  the sense that THEM uses fun for its own evil gains. Just as Mom 
  used to trick you into eating strained asparagus by pretending 
  the spoon was a choo-choo, so does THEM fool you into thinking 
  high school is hours of amusement by pretending it's like the 
  Big Ol' Rally of Fun.

  The Big Ol' Rally of Fun is mostly a lot of people talking about 
  how great high school is. What follows is a reproduction of an 
  actual Orientation speech obtained at the cost of many lives and 
  some spare change. For your convenience, the parts containing 
  outright deceit have been set off like _this_.


  Hi! I'm (INSERT NAME HERE), the (INSERT POSITION HELD HERE) at 
  (INSERT HIGH SCHOOL NAME HERE). A lot of people will say your 
  high school years are the best years of your life. And do you 
  know what? _They're right!_ In your four years here at (INSERT 
  HIGH SCHOOL NAME HERE), _you'll make new friends_, _learn new_ 
  _things, and of course, have loads and loads of fun. I remember_ 
  _my first year of high school._ Boy, was I scared! But _the_ 
  _people_ here at (INSERT HIGH SCHOOL NAME HERE) _really cared_
  _about my well-being -- particularly_ (INSERT RANDOM TEACHER'S 
  NAME HERE). Now, I'm sure you've all heard stories about 
  upperclassmen hassling freshmen. These _stories are completely_
  _false. Upperclassmen are your friends._ If you have a problem, 
  _they'll help you out._ That's why we're all here, _to make_
  _things easier for you,_ not to make your life more difficult. 
  And if trouble should arise, _be sure to call on me_ (INSERT NAME 
  HERE). _I want to make sure you have the best_ high school years 
  _possible. See you around._

  This speech will be repeated verbatim by several dozen people. 
  In between speech repetitions, the marching band plays, the 
  cheerleaders cheer, and the drill team does whatever it is drill 
  teams usually do.

  Next you will break up into groups to go off on guided tours of 
  the campus. Groups can be divided based upon last name, age, 
  family income, eye color, and of course, deportment. Group 
  division is usually meaningless, however, as you will probably 
  wind up not knowing anyone in your group, and they will end up 
  resenting you anyhow. You'll become isolated and loathed, hated 
  by your peers before you even set foot in a classroom. It 
  happens like clockwork every year. It's probably happening to 
  you right now, and you don't even realize it.

  The campus tour is generally uneventful, except for the many 
  icebreaker games you will be forced to play. Icebreaker games 
  were invented by Bob Icebreaker of Calumet City, Illinois, who 
  believed that forced introductions made for a better world. Mr. 
  Icebreaker, much impressed with his own cleverness, reasoned 
  that most people were incapable of just shaking hands and saying 
  hello, so he devised inane games that would not only introduce 
  people to each other, but turn them into lifelong comrades as 
  well. Unfortunately for Mr. Icebreaker, he failed to take into 
  account that people were annoyed by his silly, little games, 
  thus creating an atmosphere ill-suited for making pals. During 
  your Orientation experience, you'll make at least two lifelong 
  enemies because of icebreaker games, which include:


  * Silly Name Riddles -- By far the most popular of the 
  icebreaker games, and not coincidentally, the one most likely to 
  incite homicide. This insipid exercise requires you to somehow 
  mutilate your name into a witty pun, a la Shakespeare or Howard 
  Cosell. An example is the Rhyming Adjective Game where said 
  contestant, i.e. you, must choose an adjective that starts with 
  the same letter as your first name--for example, "Dangerous 
  David," "Pusillanimous Pete," "Slutty Sarah." The true horror to 
  this particular game is that Mr. Icebreaker honestly assumed 
  that rational people would find delight performing an exercise 
  which monkeys can be trained to imitate.

  * The Pass the Orange Game -- The thinking behind this little 
  task is that passing an orange using only your neck will create 
  an unspoken bond between two total strangers. For an added 
  twist, boys are often forced to pass their orange only to girls, 
  and vice versa, causing further alienation and distress to the 
  sexually unconfident. (Sadly, this was Mr. Icebreaker's undoing. 
  His games never caught on outside of orientation, business 
  seminars, and communes that follow bizarre sexual practices. He 
  became the laughingstock of an entire nation. His business 
  failed, and eventually he went inside. Mr. Icebreaker died on 
  March 16, 1988, while trying to play Pass the Orange with 
  several large marines.)

  * The Stand Up and Tell Us Something About Yourself Nightmare -- 
  In this game, you are forced to stand up in front of others and 
  answer probing questions about your background, such as "What's 
  the most exciting thing that ever happened to you?" or "What's a 
  hidden talent that you have?" This seems harmless enough, until 
  you realize that nothing exciting has happened to you, and that 
  the only hidden talent you have is an ability to spit cherry 
  pits a great distance. The existence is completely without 
  purpose or meaning is always a comforting one, especially when 
  realized amongst strangers.

  Now that you've had your icebreaker fun, it's back to the gym 
  for a big, exciting Orientation dance. The Orientation dance is 
  a lot like regular dances, except that at this one, people 
  pretend to be interested in you. For a moment, you have the 
  illusion that high school is going to be great, that you've 
  found your place in the universe.

  It doesn't last.


  Chapter Two
-------------

                                 The Students
                    or Your Guide to Today's Troubled Teen


  You know, if you listen to a lot of pop music, talk to a lot of 
  psychoanalysts, or see every Emilio Estevez movie ever made, 
  you'd reach one inescapable conclusion about our nation's teens: 
  they're loopier than a flock of loons. Our culture is hung up on 
  the idea that the average American high school student is a 
  raging sea of misery and anguish, and that at any given moment, 
  Bob the Straight-A Student is going to snap and firebomb Mrs. 
  MacMillan's home economics class. While pretentious brooding is 
  a popular hobby amongst high school students, most teens are far 
  more vacuous, silly, and non- threatening than we normally give 
  them credit for.

  But still the same question keeps pouring in from parents across 
  the land...

  Q: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THAT KID OF MINE?

  Parental concern like this is always admirable, but in this 
  case, there's no need to worry. This period of sullenness, 
  angst, and general moping is just another phase children go 
  through in the process of becoming as messed up as their 
  parents. Remember when little Billy used to dress up in Mommy's 
  underclothes or when Mary wished she had a penis too? Well, the 
  little tykes grew out of that phase just like they'll grow out 
  of this one. (Unless, of course, they still haven't grown out of 
  that phase, in which case your child is screwed in the head. 
  You'd be better off selling the kid to Iranian businessmen and 
  forgetting this entire parenthood thing before you waste any 
  more dough on the little deviant bastard.)

  High school students go through this stage of teenage angst for 
  many reasons. An obscene number of hormones is rampaging through 
  their bodies like a horde of Visigoths pillaging Europe. While 
  adult- type people are able to work off any excess aggression by 
  exercising, having lots of sex, or starting wars, high school 
  students can only read THE GREAT GATSBY. It also doesn't help 
  that most teens are stricken with severe acne, which makes them 
  look like a bit player in a bad 1950's sci-fi movie. This is 
  bound to make anyone moody.

  The consequences of these social traumas are reflected in the 
  way teens behave in every day situations. High school students 
  in their wild and never-ending quest for an identity to call 
  their own, blindly conform to the ways and attitudes of those 
  around them, rejecting any idea which contains even the 
  slightest hint of originality. Simply put, high school students 
  are as predictable as bad weather in Buffalo. While this may not 
  be particularly healthy from a psychological standpoint, it sure 
  does make life a heck of a lot easier. Imagine the chaos that 
  would result if everyone insisted upon being different. People 
  would just meander about, glassy-eyed and confused, unsure of 
  what to say to anybody else. Pretty soon, communists would be 
  running amuck in our cities. So realize how swell it is that 
  people are like mindless sheep whom we can easily stereotype 
  into only specific categories of high school students. And as 
  you lay down to sleep tonight, thank God you live in a country 
  as unoriginal and spineless as ours.


  Chapter Three
---------------

                               Administrators
                       or Those Funny Guys in Suits

  Up until 1978, very little was known about high school 
  administrators. They were elusive creatures that roamed in 
  packs, making them almost inaccessible to John Q. Public. The 
  only time administrators appeared to the populace at large was 
  at PTA meetings, and then, the only things they said were "So 
  nice to see you" and "These brownies are delicious."

  Then, social anthropologist Jennifer "Spanky" Taylor published 
  her highly-respected thesis "Administrators in the Mist." Taylor 
  had spent five years observing high school administrators -- 
  what they ate, migratory patterns, mating rituals, etc. Taylor's 
  work shed new light upon these heretofore mysterious critters. 
  It is almost sad that she never lived to see the full benefits 
  of her research, as she was trampled to death by a herd of wild 
  African administrators in 1981.

  There are literally dozens of categories of administrators, each 
  with different habits and dispositions. Some generalities can be 
  made:

  * All administrators are old.

  * All administrators wear suits (even the female ones).

  * All administrators are former teachers who couldn't relate to 
  students, and are thus sworn to make adolescents' lives more 
  difficult than they need to be.

  * All administrators like brownies.

  With this in mind, we can now delve into the realm of high 
  school administrators. The following information is from Dr. 
  Taylor's research, but we can reprint it without permission 
  because she's dead.

  THE PRINCIPAL: (BIGGUS CHEESUS ADMINISTRATUM) Just as the mighty 
  lion holds dominion over the vast jungle, just as the sun is 
  orbited by all the planets, just as Gerald Ford was at one point 
  important to somebody, so is the Principal the captain of the 
  mighty ship known as high school. The Principal answers to 
  everyone -- teachers, students, parents, the community. 
  Naturally, this situation has rendered them understandably 
  paranoid. Often, Principals can be found cowering under their 
  desks while they eat brownies and mumble incoherently about the 
  PTA. Besides acting as a scapegoat for everything that goes 
  wrong at the school, the Principal has several ceremonial 
  duties. He/She speaks at assemblies, plants trees, and on 
  occasion, can even be spotted _waving_ at a student.

  Some Principals see themselves as a type of absolute dictator, 
  and as a consequence, the power has gone directly to their 
  heads. A Principal with this type of God complex is likely to be 
  found roaming the halls, grabbing students by the scruff of 
  their necks, and interrogating them in the boys' bathroom. 
  "Who's been starting the food fights in the cafeteria?" the 
  Principal can be heard bellowing. "Which students are smoking 
  dope? Are you loyal to me? Answer me, or I'll have you flogged!"

  It is also customary at the start of the academic year for a 
  Principal to request a human sacrifice, usually a freshperson.

  One word of warning about Principals: Those who do their jobs 
  well, who satisfy teachers, students, and parents, are usually 
  considered a threat to the educational status quo. These types 
  of Principals are quickly "promoted" to jobs as "administrative 
  assistant" to the Board of Education, where they can do as 
  little damage as possible.

  VICE PRINCIPALS: (TOADIES MAXIMUS) All the unpleasantness of a 
  Principal's job requirements fall on the shoulders of the Vice 
  Principal. Vice Principals are responsible for doing the 
  Principal's dirty work, mainly enforcing the numerous rules and 
  procedures that abound in high school.

  The quantity of Vice Principals (also known as VPs) varies from 
  school to school. Some schools have just one. Some have dozens. 
  There is one high school in Texas that has two Vice Principals 
  for _every_ student. Each of these extraneous VP's has an 
  official title, usually about a paragraph long.

  It is not unusual to see such titles as 'Vice Principal for 
  Student Behavior," "Vice Principal for Ordering People to Smile 
  and Say 'Have a Nice Day'," or "Vice Principal in Charge of the 
  Cafeteria Every Other Monday During Months Ending with an 'R'." 
  There has never been a title along the lines of 'Vice Principal 
  who Really Doesn't Do Much, But Is Just Hanging Around Long 
  Enough to Collect a Nice, Fat Pension," though most students 
  believe that pretty much sums up all VP's.

  The administrator that students deal with the most is the Vice 
  Principal (or in many cases, _Vice Principals_). In fact, it 
  would not be far off to conclude that every aspect of a 
  student's life is influenced in some way by a Vice Principal, 
  whether it be schoolwork, after-school jobs, or even dating. 
  Many a budding relationship has been obliterated on the whim of 
  one of these nefarious administrators. Vice-Principals know they 
  have this power, and it makes them cocky. If you see one coming, 
  it is best to hide in a nearby locker. You get a lot more dates 
  that way.

  GUIDANCE COUNSELORS: (BLOWNSMOKUS UPASSUS) There's an old saying 
  among smart asses that goes something like this: "If Guidance 
  Counselors know so much about planning for the future, then why 
  did they wind up as Guidance Counselors?" Such an attitude only 
  betrays ignorance and naivete. Guidance Counselors are the 
  smartest people on the face of the earth.

  Let's say Johnny goes to his Guidance Counselor seeking advice 
  on a possible career. 'Well, Johnny," says the quick-thinking 
  Counselor, "You show an aptitude for physical labor. Why don't 
  you pursue a career in ditch digging?" Johnny follows this 
  suggestion, and almost immediately, a big, fat check from the 
  Benevolent Order of Ditch Digging Americans winds up in the bank 
  account of the Guidance Counselor, expressing BODDA's 
  "gratitude" for the Counselor's "advice." In other words, 
  Guidance Counselors take kickbacks and payola from professional 
  organizations and occupations for the advice they give. A 
  Guidance Counselor who's on the ball peddles high school 
  students to the highest bidder like some colonial slave trader. 
  This is how Counselors finance their imported sports cars and 
  their summer condos in West Palm Beach.

  But it isn't just checks from the Benevolent Order of Ditch 
  Digging Americans or the Federation of Laboring Street Mimes 
  that lines the pockets of the enterprising Guidance Counselor. 
  By convincing students to go to a particular university, 
  Counselors can receive up to a quarter of that student's tuition 
  as a gift of thanks from the college's chancellor.

  So while other working class staffs labor eight hours a day for 
  a measly paycheck, Guidance Counselors sit in their air 
  conditioned offices, talking with their stockbroker, making 
  deposits in their Swiss bank account, and raking in the graft, 
  proof positive that capitalism is alive and well, especially 
  among administrators.

  SCHOOL NURSE/SCHOOL PSYCHOLOGIST: (MEDICUS NONAVAILABLUS) We're 
  in a new era in which Americans demand the best in services for 
  their school children. As a result, many high schools now 
  feature a nurses and psychologist as part of the administrative 
  staff. Unfortunately, most of these Americans are unwilling to 
  pay the higher taxes that would fund these services, so the 
  nurse and psychologist are only available one day a week, 
  usually every other Thursday between 10 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. Try 
  to limit your illnesses to these particular hours.

  Besides, it's not like they can prescribe drugs. The only thing 
  nurses and psychologists can legally do is take your 
  temperature, regardless of whether you have the flu, the clap, 
  Addison's disease, jaundice, or a severe oedipal complex.

  BOARD OF EDUCATION/DISTRICT SUPERINTENDENT: (POLITICOS WEASLUS) 
  Members of the community who take an active interest in 
  education usually are elected to positions on the Board of 
  Education. The Board is obligated to hire a Superintendent of 
  Schools, someone who is slightly obese, frighteningly benign, 
  and has some sort of phony Ph.D. in education. Board of 
  Education Members and the Superintendent are directly 
  responsible for the quality of your education. This ensures that 
  you will never see them.

  Board Members and the Superintendent are often times too 
  concerned with their huge salaries (four times what the average 
  teacher makes), banning naughty books like HUCK FINN and THE 
  CATCHER IN THE RYE, and making humorous armpit noises to be 
  troubled by the day to day hassles of running a school district.

  It's probably better that way.


  This ends our tour of the administrative beast. As you can see, 
  administrators are essentially harmless if you remember to avoid 
  them whenever possible, refrain from doing bad things in front 
  of them like cursing or smoking marijuana, and appear to be just 
  another directionless, uninspired student. To an administrator, 
  a student who takes interest in his or her education is probably 
  not well in the head, and therefore a _troublemaker_, so they 
  like it if you act as bored and unhappy as everyone else. And 
  carry lots of brownies.


  Chapter Four
--------------

                           Motorized Vehicles
                      or Riding the Death Machine

  There's no way to describe the feeling you get the first time 
  you sit behind the wheel of a car and realize that one mistake 
  on your part can send this two-ton vehicle of death careening at 
  high speed into walls, telephone poles, and unsuspecting 
  passersby. Oh, the power at your fingertips, THE POWER TO GRANT 
  LIFE OR DEATH TO WHOMEVER YOU CHOOSE! THE MADDENING, SEDUCTIVE 
  POWER! (It's okay if you don't realize this now. All those films 
  like "Red Asphalt" that you watch in Driver's Training Class 
  will quickly remind you of the awesome killing capacity of 
  automobiles.) But first, you have to figure out how to start the 
  damn thing, and that's where your parents come in.

  While for the most part a major inconvenience to any hip teen, 
  parents do serve some purpose in life. Besides conceiving you, 
  picking up after you, and washing your underwear, parents are 
  invaluable driving instructors for one reason and one reason 
  only: THEY SUPPLY THE CAR!

  This is just another example of the grand and glorious symbiotic 
  relationship you have with your folks. They provide you with a 
  roof, three meals a day, and material possessions. In return, 
  you mock their old-fashioned ways, embarrass them in front of 
  their friends, and spend their hard-earned dough. This is the 
  sort of host/parasite relationship that makes the biological 
  food chain go 'round.

  Having risked a rather expensive material possession, as well as 
  the possibility of injury or death should you suck, parents are 
  understandably jumpy when teaching their young'ens to drive. For 
  this reason, they tend to scream at the slightest provocation, 
  be it a minor speeding infraction (say, forty miles per hour 
  over the speed limit) or a tendency you might develop to swerve 
  into oncoming traffic. It is not uncommon for adults in this 
  situation to lean across from the passenger side of the car and 
  rip the steering wheel out of the hands of the startled young 
  driver. Should anyone try this with you, resist at all costs. 
  That steering wheel is yours, dammit! Surrender it, and you 
  surrender all control. Fight for that steering wheel, even if it 
  means plunging your vehicle off the top of a steep ravine to the 
  fiery death that awaits you below. At least, no one can accuse 
  you of being wimpy.

  Upon surviving your parent-supervised driver training sessions, 
  it is time to hustle your buns down to the Department of Motor 
  Vehicles to attain that tangible symbol of adulthood, the 
  Driver's License. (Pause for reverent murmuring.)

  The DMV has a three step process for proving your worthiness to 
  control a machine with the capability of mutilating a person 
  beyond recognition. The DMV wants to be extra sure that you're a 
  good driver, and this way, you have three possible chances to 
  fail. Failing a driver's test is not the end of the world. The 
  DMV will simply record your name and send out a memo heralding 
  your failure to all your friends, teachers, and associates, thus 
  securing your legacy as an incompetent spank for eternity. And 
  in two weeks, you get to go through the humiliation again.


                              THE EYE TEST

  In the Eye Test, a DMV employee takes a laser beam capable of 
  slicing uranium and shines it directly into your eyes until your 
  retinas start to sizzle and pop. Once a viscous, blood-like 
  fluid begins to ooze... sorry. This isn't the Eye Test at all. 
  Ignore all that.

  The Eye Test _is_ a carefully designed examination to test 
  sight. The testee, in this case, you, stands at one end of the 
  room, while a copy of Dickens' PICKWICK PAPERS is located on the 
  opposite side. You are then required to read a chapter selected 
  at random from the finely-printed volume. Most people cheat on 
  this section by memorizing PICKWICK PAPERS in its entirety 
  before the exam. We suggest you do the same.


                         THE WRITTEN TEST

  This portion of your test taking buffet requires you to supply 
  answers to multiple choice questions in order to display your 
  driving savvy. Questions like:

  1) You may turn right on a red light...

  a) when traffic is clear and local laws permit it.

  b) whenever you damn well want.

  c) when you can cause the most property damage and endanger the 
  lives of the greatest amount of people.


  2) This sign means:

  a) School Crossing

  b) Heterosexual Crossing

  c) Giant Stick Figures are attacking the city! Flee for your 
  lives!

                           THE DRIVING TEST

  Possibly the most stressful and most feared test ever created by 
  human beings. Many people would rather claw out their eyes than 
  submit to the terror of the Driving Test. In this part of the 
  exam, you will drive a car through city streets under the 
  watchful eye of a DMV observer. It is unfair to say that DMV 
  observers are the crankiest government employees on the face of 
  this earth. Certainly, people who handle live explosives are 
  less cheery. But it is true that DMV workers have the same 
  demeanor as someone battling perpetual incontinence. How you 
  drive on this test is utterly immaterial. DMV workers will often 
  fail you for no reason at all, other than to justify their own 
  existence.

  But every now and then, when Jupiter and Mars are aligned, when 
  the Fates smile upon you, when not even the most anally 
  expulsive DMV worker can find fault with you, then you will be 
  given that most Holy License, and you will weep. Not out of joy, 
  but because of your Driver's License photo. DMV workers have a 
  knack for photographing people at the exact moment when they 
  look the goofiest they ever have in their lives. A split second 
  blink of the eye, a silly grin, or the sudden embarrassing 
  appearance of a stray booger will bring you anguish and 
  humiliation for years to come.

  So after months of struggle, all the effort pays off. You've got 
  your license, and you're on your way to adulthood. It's time to 
  celebrate, you figure, but don't let all this go to your head. 
  You're still a sophomore, pal. It's not like you have a life.


  Chapter Five
--------------

                                Detention
           or High School's Version of Crime and Punishment

  In real life, if you do something pretty bad, you go to jail. In 
  the church, if you do something pretty bad, you go to Hell. High 
  school operates in a similar manner when it comes to punishing 
  evil- doers. It has detention.


                         WHO GOES TO DETENTION?

  The typical detention-goer is an angst-filled teen mindlessly 
  rebelling against the oppressive, fascist forces masquerading as 
  authority. Nowadays, this teen rebel is a long-haired, 
  head-banging, dope-smoking fiend with ripped jeans and a 
  permanent sneer affixed to his lips (all detention-goers are 
  male). In the 1950s, people who did not like Pat Boone were sent 
  to detention. In the 1920s, it was communists and foreigners. 
  The form of the rebel teen is constantly evolving, but one thing 
  remains the same:

  PEOPLE WHO GO TO DETENTION HAVE A BAD ATTITUDE.


                  SO WHAT EXACTLY IS A BAD ATTITUDE?

  Nobody has the foggiest, really. It has something to do with 
  good hygiene and genetics. Scientists have determined that 
  people with good attitudes look both ways when crossing the 
  street, smile frequently, floss, and have lots of school spirit.

  People with bad attitudes do not use deodorant.

  People with bad attitudes resent authority.

  People with bad attitudes write snide books about high school, 
  mocking all that is sacred, just to make a fast buck.

  But most importantly, people with bad attitudes EXHIBIT POOR 
  DEPORTMENT.


                        WHAT IS DEPORTMENT?

  Deportment is not what happens to Taco Bell employees when they 
  have no proof of citizenship (Well, it is _that,_ but it's other 
  things, too). Deportment is the all-encompassing catch-phrase 
  that high school administrators use to describe a student's 
  behavior. So why don't they just say "behavior"? Because 
  "deportment" sounds cooler and makes administrators seem more 
  intelligent.

  A DUMB ADMINISTRATOR: Tommy, your behavior has been real bad 
  lately.

  A DUMB ADMINISTRATOR WHO SOUNDS INTELLIGENT BECAUSE HE/SHE USES 
  BIG WORDS: Tommy, in the latest three-month period, your 
  deportment has not reached a satisfactory level.

  Deportment is the embodiment of everything you can possibly do 
  wrong. (And remember: Everything bad you do goes on your 
  permanent record. This is a big folder that contains everything 
  you've done wrong since birth. The government, future employers, 
  and possible romantic partners all have access to this file. 
  There are many reports of highly qualified people being turned 
  down for high-paying jobs with multi-million dollar corporations 
  because they threw spit wads in Geometry back in the ninth 
  grade. The permanent record -- fear it.) Bad deportment 
  includes:

  * Talkin' in class

  * Runnin' in the halls

  * Fightin'

  * Spittin'

  * Killin'

  * Smokin' dope

  * Workin' at Taco Bell without proof of citizenship

  * Screwin'

  * Cussin'

  * Talkin' back

  * Extortin'

  * Masturbatin'

  * Goofin' off

  * Watchin' old re-runs of "Three's Company"

  * Puttin' apostrophes instead of 'g' at the ends of words

  * Just plain being a wise-ass

  The trouble with deportment is that it includes _everything._ 
  There is literally no way for anyone to go through high school 
  without showing a bad attitude.


                 SO DOES THIS MEAN I'M GOING TO DETENTION?

  Yup.


               DETENTION, WORK DETAILS, AND SATURDAY SCHOOLS

  Now that we've established that Detention joins death and taxes 
  on the list of life's inevitable unpleasantries, let's talk 
  about the different environments where you can pay off your debt 
  to society.

  DETENTION varies from school to school. It is usually held in a 
  large, cavernous auditorium and lasts about an hour. You check 
  in with the Detention Supervisor, who is usually an old biology 
  teacher who got conned into babysitting dozens of rebellious 
  teens. It's always fun to make bets on whether the supervisor 
  will die during detention (If this should happen, you are not 
  obligated to stay the full hour). What happens next is anybody's 
  guess. Some schools make you copy pages from the dictionary, 
  believing that this will enhance the student's vocabulary and 
  prepare them for careers as high school administrators. Other 
  schools force you to write an essay with topics like "Why I Am a 
  Bad Person," "Deportment -- the Keystone to Democracy," or "A 
  Shameless Plea for Forgiveness." These essays will be read by 
  administrators, go on your permanent record, and be sent off as 
  submissions to Reader's Digest.

  The worst punishment a Detention Supervisor can wield is, of 
  course, to do absolutely nothing. Just sit there without making 
  a sound. Don't even breathe loudly. Imagine several dozen 
  rebellious high school students trying to be absolutely quiet. 
  To quote Custer at Little Big Horn, "It ain't gonna happen." 
  It's like giving money to a crack addict and asking him to spend 
  it on a soda. You could engineer lasting peace in the Middle 
  East before high school students will sit still.

  If nothing else, keep this one simple rule about Detention in 
  mind: Don't piss off the Detention Supervisor. (It should also 
  be understood that especially old Detention Supervisors have a 
  tendency to be pissed off for reasons beyond your control, i.e., 
  irregularity, hemorrhoids, inflamed prostate, and the like. In 
  this case, your destiny is pre-ordained just like in some Greek 
  tragedy.) A wide variety of activities can qualify as 'pissing 
  off' -- talking, passing notes, mouthing off, even give off bad 
  vibes. (The last one is prevalent in California high schools 
  only.) Pissed-off Detention supervisors are surly, 
  uncooperative, and generally unpleasant. Worst of all, they have 
  the power to inflict greater punishment upon you -- Work Details 
  and Saturday School. Experts agree that this is a bad thing.

  WORK DETAILS involve forced labor and sweating, two qualities 
  which are inherently undesirable to any self-respecting high 
  school student. Under the philosophy that "busy hands are happy 
  hands," rebellious high school students are put to work, in 
  hopes that beautifying the school they loathe will help them see 
  the error in their ways. In reality, as no student enjoys 
  picking up garbage or scraping gum off of desks, the exact 
  opposite occurs. Students become more defiant and uppity. After 
  all, busy hands are resentful hands.

  Work details evolved out of need. In olden times, back when your 
  parents were youngsters, schools were not the soulless, massive 
  institutions that they are today. Most high schools consisted of 
  a one-room red building with a small playground and outdoor 
  plumbing. In the interest of progress, the teen rebels of 
  yesteryear were put to work building the institutions of 
  happiness we know today.

  The only drawback is that nothing practical remains to be done 
  during work details, and students are assigned to menial tasks, 
  such as picking up rotten banana peels, or chiseling the mucus 
  off of bathroom floors. At some schools, work details involve 
  performing odd jobs for the faculty -- washing the Principal's 
  car, giving the English teachers massages, and of course, busing 
  tables in the faculty lounge. This adds an element of 
  humiliation which is so crucial to modern education.

  SATURDAY SCHOOLS are used as last resorts to discipline the 
  hard-core hellions. Nobody knows much about Saturday Schools. 
  Nobody really wants to. Like black holes, not even light can 
  escape from a Saturday School.

  Information about this clandestine form of discipline has been 
  obtained from an ex-detainee who wishes to remain anonymous to 
  protect his family. Therefore, we shall call him Student X, 
  though his real name is Bob Litman of Tulsa, Oklahoma.

  "Well, first of all, man," begins Student X, "you have to spend 
  the whole day there. A whole Saturday, just sitting there. You 
  can't sleep in. You can't watch cartoons. You have to go, man!

  "To make matters worse, the supervisor is usually the football 
  coach or somebody with a drill sergeant mentality. They make you 
  do push-ups, sit-ups, all of that stuff. Some of them won't even 
  let you go to the bathroom. Imagine sitting around for six hours 
  without being able to take a leak!"

  And what about the camaraderie of Saturday School, shown in 
  films like "The Breakfast Club?" "Bullshit, man," screams 
  Student X. "Everyone in Saturday School hates everyone else. 
  Molly Ringwald wouldn't last _five_ minutes in there, man!"

  At this point, Student X began to wail hysterically about sit- 
  ups and Emilio Estevez. He was immediately sedated and sent off 
  to a Saturday School in upstate New York. Like many repeat 
  offenders, he will not be heard from again.


                        WHAT THEY CAN'T DO TO YOU

  Thanks to our friends, the government, physical torture as 
  punishment is a thing of the past. So unless you're into 
  sadomasochism or are taught by nuns (who view corporal 
  punishment as one of life's few pleasures), here's what they 
  can't do to you in Detention.

  * Spanking is bad.

  * Slapping is bad, too.

  * Kicking someone in the groin is also bad.

  * Hanging students out a window by their feet is a big no-no.

  * Electroshock treatment to the testicles is out of the 
  question.

  * Wedgies, titty twisters, noogies, anything having to do with 
  rulers, thumbscrews, and wet willies are strictly forbidden.

  * And no matter what anyone says, CAPITAL PUNISHMENT IS NOT 
  PERMITTED! (Not yet, anyhow.)

  There is a downside to all of this. The ban on physical 
  punishment leaves the door wide open for mental torture, which 
  is far more painful and leaves more permanent scars.

                                  WHY?

  Why do administrators go through all this trouble just to 
  discipline rambunctious youth? Why devise these intricate 
  methods of torture? Why bother?

  Because discipline is essential to democracy. Rowdy students set 
  a bad example and lead others into rebellion. As this will 
  create chaos and anarchy, all dissension must be nipped in the 
  bud. Besides, these students might eventually expose high school 
  to be the gigantic fraud that it is, and then all those 
  administrators would be out of work.


  Chapter Six
-------------

                               Cheerleading
                       or Your Pathway to Nirvana

  (This chapter is written with the help of Muffy Babkins, head 
  cheerleader at Barbi Benton High in Augora, California, so that 
  past, present, and future cheerleaders may understand it. To 
  make things easier for potential cheerleaders we have tried not 
  to use big words.)

  Do YOU (the person reading this) have what it takes to become a 
  Cheerleader?

  * Do you like to jump up and down?

  * Can you spell words like "fight," "charge," and "win?"

  * Are you especially good at chanting and clapping?

  * Do you like wearing very small skirts which allow horny guys 
  to see your underpants?

  * Do you have large breasts?

  If you answered "yes" to any of these questions (That means that 
  any of those things ARE TRUE!), then you are on your way to 
  becoming a Cheerleader!

  Cheerleading is a lot of important things. It's chanting "Go, 
  Team, Go!" in unison, it's squealing with delight when your team 
  scores! It's dating guys on the football team rather than 
  spending time with sensitive intellectual types!!!

  BUT ABOVE ALL, CHEERLEADING IS ABOUT HAVING SCHOOL SPIRIT!!!


                      WHAT IS "SCHOOL SPIRIT"? 

  SCHOOL SPIRIT IS FEELING GOOD ABOUT THE PLACE WHERE YOU GO TO 
  SCHOOL! School Spirit is real important. People with School 
  Spirit take pride in the accomplishments of their school. People 
  without School Spirit are geeks and troublemakers. We don't like 
  them. Boo! Hiss!

  As a Cheerleader, your BIGGEST JOB is to RAISE SPIRIT! You do 
  this by CHEERING! Spirit-raising cheers include "We're #1!," 
  "We've got Spirit!," and "Hooray for Us!"

  Good places to raise Spirit are Football games! There's 
  something about cheering for extremely large boys to beat each 
  other senseless that brings a school together. As a Cheerleader, 
  you must cheer your team ON TO VICTORY! Cheerleaders can often 
  be the difference between VICTORY and DEFEAT! Napoleon (a dead 
  French guy) would have triumphed at Waterloo (a really big 
  battle that dead French people lost) if he had brought 
  Cheerleaders along.

  Remember: SCHOOL SPIRIT IS KEY! Without School Spirit, life just 
  wouldn't be worth living anymore. And that would make everybody 
  real sad. And then, they'd wish they had Cheerleaders around to 
  make them happy! So raise that Spirit!

  As if Spirit weren't enough, there are a wide variety (that 
  means many) of SUPER perks to being a Cheerleader. Cheerleaders 
  wear CUTE OUTFITS -- darling sweaters, matching socks, and tiny 
  little skirts that reveal much of the buttocks.


                         WHY SUCH SKIMPY SKIRTS?

  BECAUSE THEY RAISE SPIRIT!!!

  And to add that extra smidgen of school pride, your outfit 
  MATCHES YOUR HIGH SCHOOL'S COLORS! Cheerleaders everywhere 
  agree, "It's fabulous!"

  Cheerleaders are respected leaders of the Student Body, 
  appreciated by the fans and loved by the athletes. Of course it 
  isn't _all_ a bed of roses. Sometimes, you have to associate 
  with the icky members of the marching band. Boo! Hiss! And of 
  course, there are always mean, nasty people who, out of jealousy 
  for the important role you play at your school, will spread 
  rumors about your morality and intelligence. To put an end to 
  this stereotype:

  ALL CHEERLEADERS ARE NOT CLUELESS, SCATTERBRAINED, LOOSE-LIVING 
  SLUTS. Only the successful ones are.

  Still not sure if you could cut the mustard in the HIGH-STAKES 
  WORLD OF HIGH SCHOOL CHEERLEADING? This simple quiz should 
  indicate your cheering aptitude (This means your cheering 
  "skill").

  1) Your team is down 51 to nothing at the end of the first 
  quarter in the final Football game of the year. Do you:

  A. Start crying uncontrollably.

  B. Scream obscenities at the opposing players.

  C. Lead the crowd in a rousing cheer of "We've got Spirit, yes, 
  we do!"


  2) What do you cheer when your team scores a touchdown?

  A. "Oh, thank the Lord!"

  B. "'Bout time, dickweeds..."

  C. "Yea, team!"


  3) Is it okay to have sex before a game?

  A. NO! For God's sake, no!

  B. Probably not.

  C. Only if it's with the starting quarterback.

  If you answered "A" to any of these questions, you are far to 
  emotionally unstable to ever be a Cheerleader, though a career 
  in modeling might be promising. If you answered "B," you are too 
  negative and icky and would probably be more suited for the 
  marching band. Boo! Hiss! But if you answered "C", get ready to 
  wear that color coordinated sweater and short skirt. You are 
  PRIME CHEERLEADER MATERIAL! Three cheers for you!

  Everyone would love to be a Cheerleader, but only a select few 
  can grasp those sacred pom-poms. If you've got the gift, then 
  use it, don't lose it! There may be things more important in 
  this world than School Spirit (like religion, grades, 
  friendships, functioning human relationships, and breathing, 
  just to name a few... ), but nothing will get you laid as 
  easily.


  Chapter Seven
---------------

                        Life After High School
                      or Determining Your Future
                      Through Standardized Tests

  By the beginning of your junior year, you will come to grips 
  with a decision that will drastically affect the rest of your 
  life. But then, the Homecoming Dance will be over with, and 
  you'll have to make another decision -- what to do with the rest 
  of your ordinary, uneventful life.

  Although it seems interminable, High School does not go on 
  forever. In fact, it's over with faster than you can say 
  "graduation," provided you repeat that word 630,720,000 times.

  If High School is just another gas station along the highway of 
  life, then it's about time you started checking your mileage. (I 
  have no idea what this analogy means.) Anyway, it's time to 
  start reviewing your options.

  Some High School graduates feel that they are ready to join the 
  nation's work force, to perform honest work for honest pay. 
  While this is commendable, reality informs us that a mere High 
  School diploma attracts very few jobs in which you are not 
  required to ask "Do you want fries with that?" The army offers 
  newly graduated students a chance to be all they can be. This 
  means they expect you to wake-up at the crack of dawn and crawl 
  on your belly through mud all day. Clearly, this is no different 
  from High School, except for the drastic difference that 
  occasionally people will shoot at you.

  Having dispensed with these alternatives as undesirable, it's 
  time to give serious thought about going to college. "Oh, come 
  on," you whimper. 'Why would I want put myself through another 
  four plus years of educational drudgery?" Well, Mr./Ms. 
  Hoity-Toity, Nose in the Air High School Dode, college offers 
  many things that High School never can.

  A) College allows you to continue to avoid responsibility for 
  just a little while longer.

  B) It's a lot easier to get laid at college.

  C) You're not required to take P.E.

  and most importantly,

  D) You get to move the hell away from your parents.

  College it is then! But don't get too excited just yet. Not 
  every spank with a diploma and a burning desire to leave home 
  gets into college. It also takes money. Lots of it. But we'll 
  talk about that later.


               STANDARDIZED TESTS -- FUN WITH #2 PENCILS

  To test your worthiness and aptitude, colleges have developed 
  standardized tests with big evil acronymmed names like ACT and 
  SAT. No one is really sure what these letters stand for, though 
  it has something to do with scan-tron and #2 pencils.

  The ACT and its ilk (the Achievement tests, Advanced Placement 
  tests) are relatively painless. In fact, most of the questions 
  on the ACT are identical to questions found in Trivial Pursuit. 
  For example:

  1) In what year was the Bill of Rights ratified?

  2) What is the Pythagorean Theorem?

  3) What is the Kelvin Temperature Scale?

  4) Who played the wacky housekeeper Alice on the hit TV series 
  "The Brady Bunch"?

  The SAT is an entirely different kettle of fish. The people who 
  devised the SAT believed that testing practical knowledge was 
  just too darn easy. What really needed testing, they thought, 
  was High School students' ability to use good grammar and 
  perform complex trigonometry calculations. Thus, the VERBAL and 
  MATH portions of the SAT were born.

  1) MARK THE PORTION OF THE SENTENCE WHICH CONTAINS INCORRECT 
  GRAMMAR.

>    Let's you and I / go down to the store / and get us /
>          A                     B                 C

>    some Otter Pops.
>           D

  (The correct answer is E -- no human being speaks this way.)


  2) READING COMPREHENSION


  Every now and then, the young boy would stop walking along the 
  rocky path and pick up a small stone. Rolling it gently between 
  his fingers for a long time, the boy would then skip the stone 
  into the nearby woods. Several times he did this, each time with 
  a slightly larger stone. Not even a mile from his grandmother's 
  house, the boy heaved the largest stone of the day. Suddenly, 
  there was a scream, and Uncle Roy crawled out of the woods, his 
  head gashed and bloody. Roy died almost instantaneously. The boy 
  never told anybody.

  The theme of this passage is:

  A) Little boys who grasp for larger and greater objects will 
  eventually kill their drunken uncles.

  B) The young boy is bad.

  C) The young boy is good.

  D) Both A and B.

  E) The author should keep his day job.

  (The correct answer is B, C and D.)


> 3) 6X = 3X  dY = Y
>    --   --  --
>    20  (3X) dX

  What is Y?

  A) 9 1/2

  B) .000000001

  C) the 25th letter of the alphabet

  (The correct answer is... uh, well, uh... oh, hell with it. Just 
  keep reading.)

  As if obscure, puzzling questions weren't enough, the SAT has 
  devised an inscrutable method of grading its tests. For every 
  correct answer you will receive a point. Every incorrect answer 
  will cost you 33/8 points. Multiply that total by your body 
  weight and divide by the zip code of Ashland, Oregon. Of course, 
  the grading system is merely an elaborate ruse. Everybody scores 
  a 1050 on the SAT, except for Asians, who score 1230. This is 
  pre-ordained, and you can do nothing to changed it.

  With this in mind, you shouldn't worry too much about the SAT. 
  Just remember to stay calm, collected, and to only break down 
  sobbing during the ten minute break they give you during the 
  exam. And remember -- always, without fail, _at the risk of your 
  own life_ use a #2 pencil. This is because the SAT people own 
  stock in companies that manufacture #2 pencils, and this is just 
  their way of making a profit. If you deprive them of their 
  little side-profit, they will become agitated and flunk you on 
  the spot. So make sure to carry at least two dozen #2 pencils 
  with you at all times until you graduate from high school. You 
  never know when you might need one.


  Chapter Eight
---------------

                                  Dating
                     or Sex and the Single Sophomore

  Wouldn't it be great if there was a store where you shop for the 
  ideal boyfriend/girlfriend? You could just walk in, throw down 
  your $9.95 and say "That one, that one there with the brown eyes 
  and the good personality. I'll take that one." But alas, life is 
  not that kind. We have to out searching for that special someone 
  whether it's the girl who sits behind you in English, the guy 
  you met during lunch, or the person who mooned you in that 
  passing van.

  Who can say what it is that attracts one human being to another? 
  (Well, obviously I can since I asked the question.) Good 
  conversation, a great sense of humor, a friendly smile. These 
  are the things that draw people together. These are... aw, who 
  the hell are we kidding anyhow? It's looks. Looks, dammit!

  We're attracted to people who look good. She can be Mother 
  Theresa in the personality department but if she hasn't got legs 
  to beat the band, flowing blond hair, and fairly sizable 
  hooters, then forget it! And he better have rippling muscles to 
  match his sense of humor, or he'll be watching this one from the 
  bench. It's all looks. Accept it. Revel in it. Deny it, and you 
  only fool yourself.


                       TAKE 'EM SOMEPLACE CHEAP

  When you plan your dates, first rule out Paris, four star 
  restaurants, Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, and most major 
  department stores as potential sites for your close encounters 
  of the romantic kind. The situation is further complicated if 
  both of you are without a car because unless you want Mom and 
  Dad driving you around all night, anywhere you go better be 
  within walking distance.

  Here, then, are some potential settings o' love that you may 
  want to explore.

  * Dinner and a movie -- Kind of trite.

  * Dinner and bowling -- Getting warmer.

  * Bungee jumping -- Too forward for a "Get to Know You" thing. 
  Maybe the second date...

  * Long, romantic walks through the park on a moonlit night, 
  holding hands and just talking -- Nah.

  * "Wanna just neck, instead?" -- We have a winner.

  Regardless of where you may go on your date, it is essential to 
  have an evening filled with stimulating conversation. If you 
  appear interesting, easy to talk to, and witty, chances are 
  you're going to get to go out again. Poor conversationalists, on 
  the other hand, appear to be stammering dolts, unworthy of love, 
  companionship, and even minimal human dignity. It is not 
  uncommon for a lousy conversation to lead directly to your date 
  hiding in the bathroom all evening. Topics of conversation, 
  therefore, should be chosen with care. Never talk about killing 
  bunny rabbits, cancer, infamous Nazi war criminals, or how horny 
  you are. Instead focus the conversation on your date. This gives 
  off the illusion that you're actually interested in what he/she 
  has to say.


                                THE KISS

  Toward the end of the evening, you will be faced with that age- 
  old dilemma "Should I kiss my date goodnight?" There are several 
  telltale signs to help you with this quandary. If your date 
  screams, "Take me now, you hot, passionate love-beast!," by all 
  means, kiss away. If halfway through the evening, your date has 
  left you, then, no, a kiss would be too presumptuous. And 
  remember this ancient dating proverb: If your date kisses you 
  goodnight, this is definitely a good thing. If your date hugs 
  you goodnight, this is satisfactory. If your date shakes your 
  hand goodnight, it is probably time to switch deodorants.


                           WHAT GOES DOWN NEXT

  If you continue to date the same person, it is very likely that 
  you will be forced to re-examine your friendship status. See how 
  you compare with the handy chart below.

  * We're Just Friends -- I like this person a lot, but the 
  thought of physical intimacy makes me retch.

  * A Special Friend -- As of yet, we have not done the Wild Dance 
  of Love.

  * Boyfriend/Girlfriend -- We neck frequently.

  * Bastard/Bitch -- What former Boyfriends and Girlfriends 
  become.

  After five dates, you and your lucky partner will be officially 
  declared Boyfriend/Girlfriend by the National Dating Regulatory 
  Commission. After this you will be able to have nightly phone 
  calls that go something like this:

  HE: I love you.

  SHE: No, I love you.

  HE: But I love you more.

  SHE: Not as much as I love you.

  HE: How can you say that? I love you.

  (Repeat this pattern for the next three hours or until your 
  parents rip the phone out of the wall.)


  Your Boyfriend/Girlfriend status also entitles you to annoy 
  others with public displays of affection, to refer to each other 
  by silly nicknames (like "Poodlemuffin" or "Love Yak"), and to 
  have many fun and entertaining arguments that will further 
  alienate you from mainstream society.

  You will also be expected to celebrate the numerous 
  anniversaries of your courtship -- the five-month anniversary of 
  your first date, the sixth week observance of your first kiss, 
  the thirteenth-month, tenth-day and fourth-minute anniversary of 
  the sixth time you decided to get back together after breaking 
  up. Failure to remember these all important days and to buy 
  expensive gifts will result in numerous arguments and a lot of 
  pouting. But you sure do save a bundle.

  Now we come to a rather sensitive issue -- teen sex. When 
  pestered about the subject, most adults will respond "Why eat 
  bologna on your wedding night, when you can have steak?" We have 
  no idea what this means, or if sex even is remotely connected 
  with deli meats. Sex amongst teens is usually coded into 
  baseball lingo, in the interest of politeness, privacy, and real 
  cool double entendres.


  * First Base -- A gentle kiss on the lips.

  * Second Base -- Fun with hooters

  * Third Base -- No clue whatsoever. Possibly the ankle.

  * Fielder's Choice -- "We watched the movie instead."

  * Pop Fly -- Premature ejaculation

  * Caught Stealing -- "Her dad walked in on us."

  * On Deck -- Still Masturbating

  * The Seventh Inning Stretch -- Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww...

  * The Dugout -- Where you keep the condom

  * HOME RUN -- An intense mixture of happiness, contentment, and 
  guilt. Lots of guilt. Tidal waves of guilt. Guilt up the 
  yin-yang.

  Whatever your position on sex (and most prefer "missionary"...) 
  you must realize that sex is not just another way to kill 
  fifteen minutes of your evening. Sex is a beautiful 
  understanding between two people (so I've been told...), a 
  sharing of one's self, and a felony if your partner is under 
  age. Remember: sex and love are not the same thing! Though it's 
  an awful lot of fun to pretend they are.


                        BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
                   (BUT NEVERTHELESS, IT'S DONE A LOT.)

  The final destination of the Express Train of Love is a visit to 
  Heartbreak Station (Neat metaphor, huh?). Every relationship, no 
  matter how divinely inspired, ends with someone getting dumped. 
  This is a law of nature, just like gravity or the fact that it 
  always rains after you wash your car. Misery, door slamming and 
  angst go hand in hand with the heretofore merry game of dating.

  It's not always easy to pinpoint what made a person shoot their 
  true love down like a jet over foreign air space. Arguing, 
  fooling around with someone else, writing wretched poetry, and 
  kissing like a dying squid are all substantial reasons for 
  giving someone the old heave-ho.

  It's usually the little things that tear apart a relationship, 
  an unkind word, a lukewarm hug, telling him or her "I hate you, 
  you heap of worm dung." When these little things pile up, people 
  start to go ballistic. What it all boils down to is this: People 
  hate being happy. They would rather ruin their lives and the 
  lives of others than live in constant happiness. People are dumb 
  that way.

  Throughout the course of dating history, many dumping methods 
  have been developed, refined, and improved by hundreds of 
  dysfunctional couples just like yours.

  * The "I Just Want to Be Friends" Shuffle -- In this approach, 
  you soften the blown of rejection by pretending to remain 
  interested in your partner's friendship, when in fact, you 
  secretly hope he/she will drop off the face of the earth, 
  relieving you of any stray pangs of guilt.

  * The "I am Not Worthy of You" Facade -- This method relies 
  solely on your ability to deprecate yourself. By convincing your 
  partner that you are unfit to bathe in saliva, you just might 
  spare yourself the agony of having to go out with him/her again. 
  WARNING: Sometimes, this will make you see noble, and as a 
  consequence, more desirable. Use with caution and only on people 
  who are easily fooled.

  * Telling the Truth and Being Honest -- Get serious. That trick 
  never works.

  * The "Get the Hell Out of My Life" Ultimatum -- The popular 
  choice for generations and generations. Still highly effective 
  and really fun.

  * While these methods are all fine and dandy, the most effective 
  way to break up with someone is to beat the other person 
  senseless with a tire iron. You cause a lot less permanent 
  damage that way.


                            A LITTLE ANXIOUS?

  At this point you may be saying to yourself, 'Wait! Is that all 
  there is to love? Manipulation, agony, self-doubt, and 
  inevitable trauma? Why? Why bother, then, with the hassles, the 
  trials, and the tragedies? Why?"

  Well, of course, there's a perfectly logical explanation for 
  love, what makes it tick, what makes it turn out good, and what 
  makes it suck. But then again, that's another book altogether. 
  For now just be satisfied with the fact that it beats bowling.


  Chapter Nine
--------------

                                Graduation
                      or Get the Hell Out Already

  Ah, graduation. A time to bid adieu to the final rest stop on 
  your journey to adulthood. A ceremony to reflect upon all you've 
  learned. But most of all, a time to become drunkenly jubilant 
  that you've finally escaped this man-made hell.

  Actually, most students could do without the graduation ceremony 
  itself. "Just give us our diplomas," students are heard to 
  mutter, "and we'll leave quietly. You won't even notice that 
  we're gone. Just let us go very far away. Please." But those 
  pleas fall upon deaf ears, and graduation ceremonies are held 
  across the nation. The reason is simple. It's for the parents, 
  so stunned, so unbelieving that they need concrete proof their 
  mixed-up, worthless excuse for a kid actually managed to pass 
  high school and might be moving out of the house soon. And what 
  better proof to give these poor, old fools than a two-hour-long 
  ceremony brimming with diplomas, mortar boards, and "Pomp and 
  Circumstance."

  Graduation can be held anywhere -- a gymnasium, a football 
  field, even an abandoned warehouse -- provided that the chosen 
  space is large enough to hold the vast myriad of parents and 
  their camcorders. There is anticipation in the air, nervousness, 
  anxiety, the faint smell of old sweat socks. But then a hush 
  falls over the crowd, as the school band plays the first chords 
  of "Pomp and Circumstance," the most popular graduation theme 
  song in the world. (Followed closely by Billy Idol's "White 
  Wedding.") The graduates, looking every bit the scholars they're 
  pretending to be, march in trying desperately to remember just 
  what exactly it was they studied over the past four years. The 
  principal steps up to the microphone and begins to introduce the 
  distinguished guests -- members of the school board, countless 
  vice-principals, visiting foreign dignitaries, alumni, teachers, 
  and women named Ethel. Forty-five minutes later, when all this 
  is done, the true fun can begin.

  The true fun is, of course, the countless speeches given by high 
  school students praising the four years of hardship they have 
  just endured and eagerly anticipating the uncertainty and 
  upheaval of the years to come.

  "High school has been the best years of our lives," the 
  pitifully misled fools declare. "And the years to come look just 
  as swell!" Every now and then, the student speakers will throw 
  in a few choice cliches about "reaching for the stars," "giving 
  one hundred and ten percent," and "never look cross-eyed at a 
  large breasted woman." (That last one is particularly sage.)

  The reason for the constant repetition of this malarkey is 
  simple. THEM hand-picks the valedictorian from a select crop of 
  students who will parrot verbatim THEM's twisted praise of high 
  school. Even if the valedictorian were to rebel and give a 
  speech detailing his or her true feelings about high school, 
  THEM would react quickly and violently.

  Fingers would be broken, cars would be repossessed, younger 
  siblings would be fricasseed, all because of the valedictorian's 
  disobedience to THEM. Consequently, very few speakers feel 
  compelled to alter their speeches drastically from the 
  THEM-recommended path. What we wind up hearing, then, is a sort 
  of "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" meets Secondary School 
  interpretation of high school life, which, as you all know, is 
  as accurate as a compass at the North Pole.


  After all the speeches are done, all the diplomas are handed out 
  and all the caps tossed joyously into the air comes the moment 
  of vast relief and euphoria.

  You will join your fellow ex-students in general celebration, 
  marked by hugs, high fives, and screaming bizarre, nonsensical 
  gibberish. About this time, in the midst of all this joy, you 
  wig stumble upon a question that will linger in the back of your 
  mind like the odor in a high school locker room. That question 
  is, of course:

                               WHAT NOW?

Don't worry if you can't find the answer right away. After all, 
this question will only hang over you for the rest of your life. 
You'll have plenty of time to anguish over your lack of purpose and 
direction.


  Philip Michaels (pmichael@ucsd.edu)
-------------------------------------

  Philip Michaels is a sophomore at the University of California, 
  San Diego, majoring in Communication. He is Associate Opinion 
  Editor of the UCSD Guardian, and one of his works was chosen as 
  best humor column of 1991 by the California Intercollegiate 
  Press Association. He has also been known on occasion to beat 
  away apparitions of Satan with a fencing foil. "Your Guide to 
  High School Hate" is an excerpt from Philip's unpublished 
  _Bright and Shiny High School Book._


  The Unified Murder Theorem (3 of 4)  by Jeff Zias
===================================================


  Synopsis
----------

  They killed the guitar player on a Thursday night, as he sat in 
  the bar, playing his instrument, blue light emanating from 
  somewhere within. The last words the hit men said before they 
  shot him were simply: "Goodbye from Nattasi."

  JACK CRUGER, an accordion instructor, leads a mundane life. But 
  all of that changes the moment that TONY STEFFEN walks in his 
  door. Tony doesn't want to learn how to play the accordion he's 
  brought with him -- he wants to hear Cruger play it. Cruger 
  begins to play, and a blue light appears. According to Tony, the 
  accordion will only make the blue light if Cruger plays it.

  Before his next meeting with Tony, Cruger spends hours trying to 
  make a baby with his beautiful wife CORRINA, following it up 
  with a bit of time playing the strange new accordion. Much to 
  his surprise, he begins to play songs he's never played before 
  -- perfectly.

  Tony informs Cruger that the blue strands of light coming out of 
  the accordion are STRINGS, each representing a path, a possible 
  outcome. Cruger has been chosen to be a "spinner" of strings by 
  the "COMPANY," much more than an international corporation -- 
  its job is to create and support all worlds, galaxies, and 
  universes. God, or "the CHAIRMAN," prefers to have living beings 
  "spin" the fates, rather than just throwing dice. But there's a 
  catch -- there's another company, one that does what you expect 
  the Devil to do. If Cruger spins for the "good guys," he'll be 
  given protection in return -- other spinners will ensure that 
  neither he nor his family will be harmed... except for what is 
  beyond their control, such as intervention from the Other 
  Company.

  Cruger begins to spin, arousing the suspicion his next-door 
  neighbor, LEON HARRIS. Harris, a computer programmer, is a 
  large, strong health-nut -- and extremely nosy. He wonders why 
  the non- descript white accountant next door was suddenly 
  playing the black music that Leon Harris grew up with... and he 
  wonders what caused the blue light that appeared when Cruger 
  played his accordion.

  Months pass, and Corrina Cruger finally becomes pregnant for the 
  first time since her unfortunate miscarriage a few years before. 
  Jack Cruger continues to play his accordion, knowing that the 
  Company's "health plan" will also cover his new child. Tony, 
  occasionally accompanied by a beautiful young woman named SKY, 
  sometimes visits with Cruger.

  Tony tells Cruger that many of the company's executive positions 
  are still held by aliens, most from the planet named Tvonen. The 
  Tvonen evolved in a fashion similar to humans, right down to 
  their ancient tale of creation. But the Tvonen creation story is 
  completely true. Tvonens were created as immortal, androgynous 
  beings -- but then two of them fell from grace, and became 
  gendered, mortal creatures. To this day, Tvonens must undergo a 
  change and lose their immortality if they wish to gain a gender.

  The Tvonens are now very advanced -- but their technology is 
  completely analog-based, with no digital electronics at all. 
  Earth is quickly becoming more technologically adept than the 
  Tvonens. The Tvonens believe that human thought, with its 
  pursuit of the Grand Unified Theory -- a theory that could 
  describe every detail of the functioning of the universe -- 
  would give the Company a giant edge in its ability to guide the 
  universe.

  Tony is in charge of implementing the theory into a computer 
  system that will allow the Company to have such control over the 
  universe. Obviously, such a prospect is not taken lightly by the 
  Other Company, operated by renegade Tvonens and shape-shifting 
  aliens known as Chysans.

  But then Cruger finds Tony dead on his doorstep, and Leon 
  Harris, watching from next door, comes over and takes Cruger 
  inside to call the police. In a panic, Cruger runs outside, only 
  to find Tony's body gone. When Harris tries to grab him, he gets 
  a powerful taste of Cruger's otherworldly insurance policy. 
  Cruger, now without Tony, decides to let Harris in on what the 
  Company is all about.

  In the wake of Tony's death, the two go in search of Tony's 
  girlfriend Sky. They succeed in tracking her down, but she says 
  she's never heard of anyone named Tony. The school has no 
  records of Tony's. It's as if he's been erased from existence.

  After being attacked by a group of thugs from the Other Company 
  -- and being saved by the insurance policy -- Cruger and Harris 
  try to figure out Tony's notes and how he could have been using 
  his computer to control the entire universe.

  Somewhere else, an alien posing as human is spending time in 
  therapy. But while the doctor believes he's helping his patient, 
  she's actually manipulating him in an alien sexual game.

  And from above, in a ship orbiting the Earth, God -- the 
  company's Chairman -- looks down down on Harris and Cruger and 
  saw possible successors. He has been Chairman for two thousand 
  years, but it will be time to go soon. Since the use of Earth's 
  technology would be what gave the Company power over the 
  universe, it seems fitting that a human should be the next 
  chairman. Cruger and Harris, the Chairman realizes, were the 
  Company's best hope.

  If the Other Company doesn't get to them first...


  Chapter 23
------------

  Cruger got in his car and headed north on Interstate 280. The 
  Cafe Emerson was located in downtown Palo Alto, a college town 
  if there ever was one. Stanford students, faculty, residents, 
  and the south Bay Area's bohemians assembled at the bars, 
  restaurants, and frozen yogurt shops that lined the small 
  downtown area. Cruger tapped his hands on the steering wheel and 
  watched as the dark highway rolled through the foothills of the 
  Santa Cruz Mountains. Signs declaring interstate highway 280 the 
  most beautiful freeway in the country struck him as being 
  arrogant and unverifiable.

  If New Yorkers clung to their notions that there was more art, 
  culture, and intelligentsia in Manhattan than anywhere else in 
  the world, then Californians were equally resolute that the 
  natural beauty in California surpassed that of anywhere else in 
  the world. Never mind the smog, the traffic, the overpopulation, 
  and the water pollution, Cruger thought. Maybe 50 years ago the 
  entire San Francisco Bay area was fruit orchards, rolling golden 
  hills, and forests filled with pines, douglas fir, and redwoods. 
  But now mere pockets of natural beauty were intact.

  Cruger always enjoyed this stretch of road. There were closer 
  bars that featured musicians he could sit in with, but he had 
  read that the Cafe Emerson attracted a strong field of local 
  musicians, the people Cruger wanted to get to know.

  The cafe's neon sign shined clearly into the night air. Cruger 
  turned off University Avenue onto the small, European-looking 
  side street. The cafe was surrounded by a brightly-lit Gelato 
  shop on one side and a small art film house on the other. The 
  film house displayed posters for two French films, each with a 
  young wild-haired brunette girl who looked trapped between lust 
  and logic. _C'est la vie._

  Cruger parked his car in a free lot across the street from the 
  club. He pulled his accordion case out of the trunk and walked 
  over to the Cafe Emerson.

  His eyes adjusted as he walked in. It was dark enough to make 
  almost everybody good-looking, but not so dark as to make 
  everybody a squinting oaf. Small booths with flat wooden seats 
  and circular candles nearly filled the room. A small bar at the 
  back was the center of commerce.

  On the other side of the club was a small stage. The band was on 
  break: the drums, bass, and piano were unattended, looking like 
  hapless artifacts of lost artisans. The house PA system played a 
  track from the Miles Davis quintet, early sixties. The snare 
  drum on stage rustled in sympathetic concert with the flow of 
  melodic improvisations, humming to itself while no one was 
  looking. Cruger surveyed the crowd and noticed that it was 
  impossible to generalize about its composition. College 
  students, yuppies, middle-aged couples, older couples, Asians, 
  blacks, Hispanics, and whites were all in attendance. Cruger 
  whimsically wondered if entrance was granted on a quota system. 
  He got a beer and found a seat at the end of the bar.

  "You gonna be playing tonight?" The question came from the young 
  clean-cut guy standing next to Cruger. He pointed at Cruger's 
  case.

  "Oh, yeah," said Cruger, "I think I'll sit in a little later." 
  Cruger was careful not to divulge what instrument he carried. He 
  figured his case was shaped like a trumpet or alto sax case. The 
  fear of disclosing his instrument -- the fear that he had 
  anticipated since he first contemplated jamming in public -- 
  gave rise to a deep chill that rose up through his body.

  "You need to sign up on the sheet," the clean-cut guy said. 
  "Otherwise they won't let you play." He pointed towards the 
  front side of the stage.

  Cruger went over and found the sign-up sheet. The first column 
  asked for his name, the second column was for his choice of 
  tunes, and the third his instrument. Two people were signed up 
  ahead of him -- a guitarist and an alto sax player. Cruger wrote 
  down his name and -- deciding to go with a blues to make it easy 
  on himself -- picked the classic Thelonious Monk tune "Straight 
  No Chaser." Damn, they'd be impressed. Who the hell ever heard 
  an accordionist playing "Straight No Chaser?" Cruger wrote his 
  instrument in the final column, feeling a little proud of his 
  uniqueness.

  He retreated back to his seat at the end of the bar. His new 
  friend, the young guy, was still there.

  "I'm going to sit in tonight, too," he said. "The name's Doug 
  Housten."

  "Jack Cruger. Nice to meet you." Cruger struggled for something 
  to say: he didn't remember Doug's name or instrument from the 
  list.

  Doug set down his drink and stood. "Hate to run, but I need to 
  go out to my car to get my axe; they want you to have your 
  instrument out and tuned before they call you up , that way they 
  don't have to sit around and wait. Hope my strings aren't too 
  bad -- I just put on a new set, you know."

  Cruger nodded as if he knew and watched Doug leave out the front 
  door. He made a mental note of the vocabulary term: axe. When 
  Doug came back, Cruger watched him tune and set his guitar on 
  the side of the stage. Cruger brought his instrument over and 
  adjusted the strap, made sure the bellows moved well, and then 
  set it down on the side of the stage next to Doug's guitar.

  Doug watched him and said, "Damn, I've never heard a jazz 
  accordion player."

  "Me neither." Cruger sipped his beer and anticipated the feeling 
  of playing for the audience; he would lock in on that magical 
  something that came over him when he played. When the band came 
  back on stage, they were the motliest group of "people" Cruger 
  had ever seen: the drummer looked like a male aerobics 
  instructor with three days growth on his face; the bass player 
  looked like an underfed truck driver. Conversely, the pianist -- 
  hair cut short and yuppily clothed -- looked like a poster boy 
  for the Young Republicans.

  They struck a funky blues groove, starting off with an updated 
  version of Wayne Shorter's "Footprints." Rhythm and melody 
  merged nicely; they were a pretty tight band.

  Cruger listened for a few more tunes and then Doug sat in on an 
  Ellington standard. He was a pretty good player, with good time 
  and a tasty, melodic style. Knots of anticipation built in 
  Cruger's stomach as he listened. When Doug finished it was time 
  for Cruger to play his tune.

  Cruger picked up his accordion. He knew his feeling of dread 
  would go away as soon as he struck his first notes. The world 
  was ready for a hot accordion player; he wondered if the 
  reception to his playing would be thunderous, or just 
  enthusiastic. Striking a few quick notes as a warmup, he stepped 
  up onto the stage. He didn't worry: he knew that once the tune 
  was in his head, his fingers would lock-in to the song and he 
  would play effortlessly.

  The drummer looked at Cruger and smiled. "OK, man. 'Straight No 
  Chaser.' You want to take it up?" Cruger had no idea what the 
  guy meant but he said "Okay, yeah," as coolly as he could.

  The drummer nodded, shook his long dishwater-blond hair away 
  from his face, and began clicking his sticks: "one-click, 
  two-click, one-two-three four--"

  And they were in. Cruger laid his fingers across the keys. He 
  could feel the fast tempo from his toes to his head; the quick 
  eighth notes of the melody were painted across his mind. He 
  squeezed the box and moved his fingers. Out came an out-of-time, 
  out-of-key, train- wrecked version of the melody. He was 
  shocked. To salvage the situation, he tried to recapture the 
  melody at the second bar but missed the notes; his rendition 
  sounded ...badly experimental.

  The piano player picked up the melody and finished the head of 
  the tune. Acknowledging the beginning of the solo section, the 
  he nodded to Cruger to take a chorus. Like the gambler who 
  doesn't know when to quit, Cruger tried again and netted the 
  same results. His playing seemed to have reverted to an entirely 
  unskilled level. His improvisations sounded like a random 
  smattering of poorly-timed, unmelodic ideas.

  Wanting to escape from the musical low of the evening, the band 
  wrapped up quickly. Cruger just nodded his appreciation and 
  packed up his instrument. In half a minute he was out the door. 
  Fortunately, he didn't run into anyone on the way out. He didn't 
  want to endure a comment like, "That was, er, a very interesting 
  style you have..."

  In the car, on the way home, Cruger, with the usual high-IQ 
  hindsight, understood his disaster. Only with the special 
  accordion, the one for spinning, could he really play. Only with 
  that instrument could he play the way he had at home. The 
  stupidity of his error only amplified the sting of his 
  humiliation. To hell with the blue light, he told himself. To 
  hell with people seeing the blue light. That's the axe I'm 
  playing from now on.


  Harris enjoyed a good surmountable challenge. If the challenge 
  was toward the insurmountable side, then the payoff was usually 
  big -- very big.

  Understanding the software on Tony's computer system was one of 
  those challenges. Backward-engineering all of Tony's code would 
  be a difficult task -- it would be impossible if Harris couldn't 
  find the source code files. They had to be in the system 
  somewhere.

  Harris tried to run the development software and the system 
  prompted "Password?" Harris had experience with a different 
  log-in sequences, and he hoped this one would be a pushover. The 
  best thing would be if it allowed an unlimited number of 
  guesses. Second-best would be permitting a few guesses and then 
  harmlessly locking him out. The worst would be sounding an alarm 
  or shutting down after three guesses.

  Harris decided his first guess would be the most ludicrously 
  simple password imaginable. There was almost no chance that it 
  would work. He typed in "Tony Steffens." Nothing happened.

  For a second guess, Harris thought that maybe Tony, being an 
  aspiring physicist, tried something a little different. Harris 
  typed "e=mc2." Nothing.

  Next guess. How about something that nobody on Earth would know? 
  Remembering Cruger's rendition of the Tvonen creation story, he 
  typed the name "Remad." Wait -- should that be "Rimad," or 
  "Reemad?" Shrugging, Harris pressed the return key. The monitor 
  flashed bright white for a moment, and a blue spark jumped out 
  of the computer's case.

  Harris shot back in fear of being electrocuted. But the blue 
  wasn't an electrical spark -- it was like the light he had seen 
  come out of Cruger's accordion. Harris looked at the computer -- 
  on the screen were lists of files and dates -- had he gotten the 
  password right? The blue spark hovered in front of the computer, 
  its light <20>uctuating slightly. Harris carefully rolled his chair 
  towards the wall. The light stayed where it was, just above the 
  surface of the desk

  Harris unplugged the computer. The spark vanished.

  "This is damn weird." Harris muttered. He stood up and searched 
  through the bare office, opening drawers and finding nothing 
  useful. Finally he settled on his pocketknife and unplugged the 
  computer's monitor, then proceeded to coax a screw out of the 
  back and pop the computer's top. There, amidst a dozen 
  accumulated dust balls, was something that resembled a glowing 
  blue cocoon. Harris didn't notice the moments slip by as he 
  stared. Its surface undulated slightly, as if it wasn't quite in 
  focus; it seemed somehow warm, but Harris could feel no heat. 
  Tendrils emanated from the object -- it was connected to the 
  Mac's circuit board.

  He put the top back on the computer and sat down heavily. So 
  that's how a personal computer can control the universe, Harris 
  thought. It was working in tandem with a Tvonen... thing. The 
  computer, this little gray box he was staring at, was just like 
  Cruger -- it was a spinner. But unlike Cruger, who had to rely 
  on accordion keys to control his device, this spinner worked 
  digitally.

  Harris plugged in the computer. It started up. He typed in the 
  password and the blue spark reappeared in front of him. Harris 
  grinned: it was cheery, in an alien sort of way. The light 
  outside was fading as Harris called up Tony's files and began 
  putting together the pieces from information that may not have 
  been in context. He knew that Tony's code must implement the 
  missing pieces of the Unified Theorem. If he had access to the 
  important files, it would only be a matter of time before he 
  could locate the important stuff.

  He had the universe at his fingertips. It felt good -- but maybe 
  a little sticky.


  Chapter 24
------------

  The message on the answering machine in Tony's office wasn't 
  very long, but it was perfectly clear.

  "Hello, Mr. Harris and Mr. Cruger," it began. "You don't know 
  me, but I'm one of Tony's... associates. I'd like you to meet me 
  at the China Club in San Jose tonight at seven. Ask for Mr. 
  Neswick's table."

  It was just ten seconds of cassette tape, but the prospect of 
  meeting someone from the Company was enough to force Cruger into 
  getting dressed up. The China Club was an upscale hang-out 
  posing as a Chinese restaurant. It was the kind of place where a 
  waiter wearing a silk robe will serve you prime rib for dinner 
  and fortune cookies for desert. And it was "stuffy" -- Cruger 
  had been there once, and felt totally out of place.

  "Relax," Harris had advised him. "No open collar, no sneakers, 
  wear a tie for God's sake, and no plaids mixed with stripes. 
  You'll be fine."

  "Anything else, Mr. Blackwell?" Cruger asked.

  "Yes, no bell-bottoms, polyesters, or tie-dyes -- but you could 
  put in an earring, that would be a nice touch."

  Cruger knew when to stop listening, which is why he was wearing 
  a blue pin-striped suit with a gray shirt, a bold red silk tie, 
  and freshly-shined black penny-loafers. The tie sang out the 
  song of power... or was that confidence? He could never remember 
  if yellow or red were the power look or the confidence look. If 
  he had gone to business school, become an MBA, he would know 
  these things.

  Harris was wearing a double-breasted leather jacket that made 
  his upper-body look like an right triangle. His smooth, dark 
  skin shined like the marble floor Cruger's slippery dress shoes 
  wanted to glide across.

  "You don't look as bad as I would've guessed," Harris said as 
  they walked into the club.

  "Thanks. No earring, though -- sorry to let you down."

  "That's okay," Harris said. "It would clash with my jacket."

  "Well, just don't fall asleep," Cruger said. "Someone could 
  mistake you for their fine Italian luggage. You could wake up in 
  Florence, maybe Rome."

  Harris told the expertly-dressed hostess they were there for a 
  Mr. Neswick. Her perfect hair was streaked blond and permed to 
  stand out from her head at just the correct asymmetric angle, 
  regardless of gravity, breezes, earthquakes, other natural 
  disasters. Her western clothes didn't quite clash with the 
  pseudo-Chinese decor. The two men marveled at the bizarre mix of 
  cultures in the place as the hostess led them through the club. 
  Neswick waited for them at the table, seated next to one of the 
  prettiest women Cruger had ever seen.

  Her eyes sparkled and she had one of those upper lips -- cute 
  and indented -- that Cruger loved to watch. Neswick, on the 
  other hand, was a plump, spectacled, balding man who tightly 
  gripped his drink.

  "Gentlemen," he said. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is 
  Neswick, and this is my daughter, Tamara."

  "Tamara, nice to meet you." Cruger shook her hand, noticing that 
  she was far more attractive than any child of Neswick's could 
  be.

  "You gentlemen don't know who I am -- am I right?" Neswick said, 
  his eyes sweeping back and forth from Harris to Cruger.

  "Right you are," Cruger said.

  "Well, as you may have surmised, I am from the Company, as is my 
  daughter," Neswick said, eyebrows raising as he spoke, as if his 
  words needed more emphasis to be understood.

  Cruger and Harris sat in silence, waiting for more information, 
  something they had felt deprived of for too long.

  Neswick continued. "Of course, we're all very sorry about Tony. 
  We want to thank you for the work you've done, and would like 
  both of you to continue on with the project."

  "Did you know Tony well?" Harris asked. His voice was polite yet 
  direct.

  "No. He was never a direct contact of mine," Neswick said. 
  "However, I have been able to closely review his files, and I am 
  very familiar with his accomplishments."

  The waiter brought Neswick another martini, and he immediately 
  dipped into it. Fancy suit and all, Neswick looked like the kind 
  of guy who drank five martinis. They sat in silence as the 
  waiter handed out menus.

  "So, what is our new relationship with you going to be like? 
  Will you keep us informed, be our Company contact?" Cruger 
  asked.

  "Exactly," Neswick said. "I am now your supervisor, in addition 
  to being Tamara's. Given the important work you two are now 
  doing, I consider it an honor to be working with you gentlemen." 
  Neswick's wide face got wider as he smiled.

  Cruger had a list of questions he wanted to ask, but they all 
  disappeared from his memory momentarily. Questions concerning 
  the Company had a somewhat intimate quality to them. Cruger had 
  felt comfortable discussing the issues with Tony; but jumping 
  into a discussion of this sort with a near stranger made Cruger 
  feel uncomfortable.

  "Could you tell us exactly what our job is?" Harris asked.

  Neswick laughed. "You're a straight shooter -- I like that. 
  Right to the point, eh?" He grabbed his drink and took another 
  small gulp as he composed his answer. "Your charter is to 
  complete the program that implements the Unified Theorem, just 
  as you have been doing. From what I have heard, you're very 
  close."

  "I think we might be close, but not having done this before..." 
  Harris's voice dropped off as he shrugged his shoulders.

  "Right," said Neswick. "That is the common theme in our work: 
  doing things that have never been done before. Life itself would 
  be interminably dull if we didn't do that."

  "Dad's told me about the work you two have already done," Tamara 
  said, her upper lip doing a dance. "It's impressive."

  Before Cruger or Harris could make "aww shucks, it wasn't 
  nothin' " noises, she turned to Harris and said "I'm especially 
  interested in the computer work, to tell you the truth."

  Harris smiled. "You see, Cruger, the women always go for the 
  computer guys -- it's such a sexy line of work." Harris had a 
  resonance in his voice Cruger hadn't heard before -- that and 
  the sly wink should have warned him what was coming.

  Tamara smiled. "You're right, I do find computer work pretty 
  exciting. I did my undergrad work in computer science at 
  Carnegie- Mellon, and my master's work at Stanford."

  Harris was impressed. His eyebrows rose and then lowered slowly. 
  "I never would have taken you for a computer nerd," he said, 
  "but, then I don't like it when people judge a book by its 
  cover. For example, you would never know it by looking that I 
  can't play basketball at all."

  Cruger had never thought of Harris as an all-out lady charmer 
  before, but, now good old Leon seemed to have the charm turned 
  on with afterburners. Tamara smiled at Harris and her upper lip 
  did its thing again. Harris smiled in return. Cruger was 
  surprised that Harris was flirting with Tamara: what did Harris 
  know about getting ahead in business? The boss' daughter could 
  be dangerous territory. He took a sip of water and looked at a 
  lobster walking across the bottom of a nearby tank. Was this a 
  business meeting or what?

  "I was at Stanford in computer science also," said Harris. "Way 
  before your time, though, I'm sure."

  "Well, I was there from '85 to '87," she volunteered.

  "Yep, just missed you. I was finished in '83. Did you take any 
  courses from Freidenberg?"

  "He was my adviser." Tamara's eyes sparkled now. Cruger couldn't 
  help noticing she had the kind of skin that seemed to glow in 
  the dim restaurant lighting. Tamara and Harris quickly descended 
  into jargon- filled conversation; he half-heartedly listened for 
  keywords like artificial intelligence and neural networks, then 
  just gave up.

  Fortunately, that was when the waiter brought their food -- a 
  seafood salad for Harris, linguine and prawns for Cruger, some 
  odd- looking and allegedly authentic Chinese dish for Tamara, 
  and pure cholesterol and red meat for Neswick. Cruger was 
  relieved: even computer geniuses need to close their mouths to 
  eat.

  "You gentlemen will be amused by my job outside of the Company 
  -- my 'cover' if you will," Neswick said in an attempt to start 
  up some non-computer conversation. "I work for the IRS. We have 
  records on everybody, and I mean everybody. It's a good job for 
  my line of work."

  "Yes, well I guess it's good for us to have a friend in the 
  IRS," Cruger said.

  Neswick laughed. "Maybe I'll be around to cut you some slack 
  someday. But, remember, 'I sure hope you have a good 
  accountant.' That's our motto."

  Guys like this work for the Company? Cruger looked over at 
  Harris to see what he thought of their new boss, Mr. Dull, but 
  Harris' face was unreadable.

  Neswick smiled his careful smile while chewing his steak. He ate 
  in small bites, chewing enthusiastically, enjoying every bit. 
  "You men have the best jobs on the planet -- in the universe 
  really. The war between technological advances and the failure 
  of the species is in your hands." He shook his head and wiped 
  his mouth again. "At this point, it looks as if the war is won."

  "Yes, I think we're close," Harris said. "Although I don't know 
  if the Unified Theorem is the whole war or just a large battle."

  And was winning a war (or battle) satisfying even if your 
  commander is a schmuck? Cruger listened half-heartedly as 
  Neswick launched a discourse on the destiny of humanity and the 
  Company's role in the far future. Then Neswick directed the 
  conversation directly to him as Harris and Tamara launched into 
  even more jargon. Cruger tried to pay attention, then looked 
  away and wiped his mouth. This Neswick fellow's a nerd, the 
  worst kind of boss, he thought. All grand schemes and no 
  details. Cruger wondered about the Company and what Neswick was 
  doing in it. And one question came to mind: can't God get good 
  help these days?

  His daughter, however, was a different story. She was bright and 
  funny. By the time they had finished eating, Harris and Tamara 
  had struck up quite a friendship. If body language meant 
  anything, Tamara would probably be having Harris' children. 
  Cruger wondered if this sort of thing happened to Harris every 
  day. He remembered being dateless for parties and playing poker 
  with the guys too often. Harris, conversely, probably spent his 
  time screening calls from women like Tamara.

  Tamara and Harris broke their attention from one another, 
  realizing that the meal was coming to an end.

  "Can't believe how much Tamara and I have in common," Harris 
  said.

  Cruger looked to Neswick to catch his reaction. Neswick smiled, 
  of all things, seemingly totally at ease with the situation.

  The waiter brought the fortune cookies and Neswick picked up the 
  bill, despite the gutless protests from Harris and Cruger. 
  Cruger wondered how the bill would be handled. Submitting an 
  expense report to God was an image that few religions had 
  anticipated.

  Cruger cracked open his cookie. He especially enjoyed the 'you 
  will meet the man of your dreams' fortunes that you could get at 
  these places. He unraveled his and read it silently. 'Beware of 
  the Tiger disguised as the Lamb.' Cruger thought about reading 
  it aloud to the rest of them, but Harris had just opened his.

  "You will make many new friends," Harris read with his 
  testosterone voice. "How true -- these guys are on the ball." 
  Tamara laughed. "Don't worry, I'm sure I won't meet anyone as 
  interesting as you," Harris said with a nudge.

  Tamara's smile proved that he had said just the right thing.

  Neswick read his fortune aloud: " 'You are entering a period of 
  great change.' They may have hit this one on the head," he 
  mused.

  "Here's mine," Tamara said. " 'To get what you want, you must 
  know what you want. Learn to know yourself.' Damn, I hate these 
  negative ones."

  In that moment as Cruger watched her, Tamara looked younger, 
  vulnerable, and anything but centered. For the first time Cruger 
  saw her as less than totally in control. The look vanished as 
  soon as Cruger noticed it -- had it been there at all?

  Tamara crumpled her fortune and dropped it onto her plate. "You 
  figure there are a couple guys that barely speak English sitting 
  in a cookie factory making these up."

  "But it's cheaper than having your palm or your tea leaves 
  read," Harris said.

  "Plus," Cruger said, "you get the cookie."

  But he re-read his own fortune then: 'Beware of the Tiger 
  disguised as the Lamb.' The guys at this particular cookie 
  factory must have been manic depressive outpatients. Either that 
  or they were very good at what they do.

  "Don't worry about yours, Jack," Tamara said. "I'm sure it's not 
  true."

  Cruger was surprised. "I didn't read mine yet," Cruger said. 
  "You must be thinking of another one." He handed his fortune to 
  Tamara to read. She looked embarrassed.

  "Oh, you're right, I was thinking of another one," she said. She 
  passed the fortune to Harris, who read it and smirked. Neswick 
  read it quickly and passed it back to Cruger.

  "Not a fortune you want to keep and put on your office wall," 
  Neswick said.

  "That's true," Cruger said. "If I had an office wall, I'd save 
  it for better stuff than this."

  Tamara took Harris's fortune and wrote something on it with a 
  pen she had pulled from her purse. She handed back the fortune. 
  Phone number? Knock-knock joke? Harris smiled and pocketed the 
  small slip of paper.

  In the parking lot, Harris leaned over and kissed Tamara. It was 
  nothing that Harold Robbins would put in a book or that D.H. 
  Lawrence would write home about, but Cruger was impressed. The 
  two had just met and already the sparks were flying.

  Cruger got in Harris's car and they drove home. Harris had a 
  content, dreamy look on his face.

  "I don't know about Neswick. He seems pretty dull," Cruger said. 
  "His daughter's quite a woman, though."

  "Yeah, she is that." Harris' eyes held more of that far-away 
  look than they did attention for the road.

  "Must have bad taste in men, though -- I think she likes you."

  "Her taste isn't so bad. She doesn't like you a bit," Harris 
  said, smiling to himself.

  "Touche. Well, just be careful. I think that secretary from the 
  high school is after your action too, and she may be the 
  vindictive type."

  "Well, I'm just doing this to help our work, you know, keep 
  Tamara and Shirley under close observation, investigate them as 
  thoroughly and as often as possible. Don't want them hiding 
  anything from us in their clothes either, you know. I'll tell 
  them we're going on date just so they won't suspect my 
  motivations."

  "Oh yeah, hard work."

  "Yeah man, hard work. But nothing's too hard for Harris and 
  Cruger Investigations, Inc." They let the proposed company name 
  hang in the silent air for a second, had a certain ring to it. 
  Maybe they should go pro. "But," Harris said, "you're a happily 
  monogamous married dude and all, so the dirty work is left to 
  me."

  Cruger nodded his head in agreement. "Yep, hard work for ya, but 
  I think you'll live."

  "Oh, yes, I will."


  Chapter 25
------------

  The next evening, Cruger sat with the ornate accordion in his 
  hands. What do they tell you? If you fall off a horse, get right 
  back on it again -- ridiculous! What if you broke your goddamned 
  back falling off? His ego had felt worse than a broken back last 
  week. Redemption, a complete reversal of the impression he made 
  the previous week down at Cafe Emerson, would be the only thing 
  that could help. But, as always, fears played mini-movies in his 
  head, forcing him construct arguments that justified his 
  intentions. He saw himself walking up to the stage, the 
  musicians hooting, shaming him, disgracing him, calling him 
  Polka man, yelling 'Where's your monkey, organ grinder?' and 
  laughing at the request to allow him to play again.

  _Where's your compassion?_ Cruger screamed back in his head. _I 
  had one bad night. Give me a chance to redeem myself._

  _Hah, redeem yourself,_ they yelled. The drummer had horns 
  growing out of his head; the bassist had fangs the size of steak 
  knives. They looked at Cruger as if he were yesterday's garbage. 
  _Get him out of here!._ A bouncer the size of the Himalayas 
  grabbed Cruger and sent him sailing through the front door at 
  ninety miles per hour. No, Cruger yelled, _I really can play,_ 
  he said while horizontal to the ground, moving at a rocket's 
  clip.

  The mind games his imagination played were overpowered by his 
  desire to redeem himself by playing well. How could he hide this 
  ability he had when, as an expressive art form, he needed to 
  communicate this music to others?

  So he went back to the Cafe Emerson. Since it was jam night he 
  knew that the same musicians would be there. _I hope they don't 
  remember me,_ he started to try to tell himself. What, are you 
  kidding? How many accordion players come in there and trip all 
  over themselves? Of course they will remember you. Just hope 
  that they give you another chance to play, now that you have the 
  right axe.

  When he arrived he immediately went up to the stage to sign up. 
  No one recognized him, no one pointed their finger, hollered 
  loudly or jeered at him. Cruger warily retreated to the bar. The 
  smaller accordion, in its case, didn't look like the larger one 
  he had last time, but it could be a trumpet or flugelhorn -- 
  maybe.

  The band was playing an up-tempo version of "St. Thomas." The 
  groove was fast and tight, the melody and rhythm clicking 
  together in a colorful, spotless embrace. Cruger hadn't played 
  the tune but after listening for a minute he could see the notes 
  in his head. His mind formed an improvisation based on the 
  melody, and it played across his mind while he blocked out the 
  band's guitar, concentrating on rhythm and chord changes. As a 
  warmup, it was a good method. His ideas and central focus where 
  nearly ready.

  Cruger drank his beer and waited for his turn. In one more song 
  he would walk to the side of the stage and get his instrument 
  out. In the meantime he studied the band carefully. The bass 
  player, same as last week, looked like the archetypal jazz 
  musician. Locks of brown, half-braided frizzy hair scrawled a 
  mosaic of collated anarchy across his neck and shoulders. He 
  dressed in baggy earth-tone pants and cloth shirts that either 
  came from impoverished African villages or chic, trendy 
  boutiques that charged an arm and a leg for them.

  Cruger's time to play came. He got up on stage, his self-talk 
  hammering away a confidence building slogan that said: _you're 
  good, you're great, you'll play great..._

  The drummer counted off the tune; the lump in Cruger's throat 
  smoothed as he played the head of the tune flawlessly. Notes 
  streamed from his instrument like steam from a pot of boiling 
  water. If Cruger hadn't had his eyes fixed to his somnambulist 
  fingers, he would have seen the eyebrows of the drummer and 
  bassist raise; his ability was a surprise.

  After the melody, Cruger took the first solo, slowly building on 
  the melody -- expanding its bounds until it became a bridge to 
  new harmonic and rhythmic cousins of the original tune. He 
  pulled along the rest of the rhythm section -- they reacted to 
  his piecework innovations and paved new foundations for his 
  expanding ideas. Cruger was playing well -- in fact, better than 
  ever. The solo built smoothly to a climax before Cruger 
  gradually took it back down to a final form that was symmetric 
  to the beginning and middle.

  Piano solo and guitar solo then followed. When the bass player 
  took a solo, backed by only the sparse hi-hat of the drummer, 
  Cruger noticed that the bassist either emulated some of Cruger's 
  soloing form, or he truly had a similar style. Cruger listened 
  intently. Joy and happiness lived in every note the bassist 
  played. His instrument sang of happy struggle and achievement.

  As the tune ended, Cruger heard a burst of applause from the 
  audience. The drummer nodded to Cruger, saying something 
  indecipherable that sounded a little like "Yeah, man." The other 
  players smiled and applauded briefly, saying things like "hot, 
  real hot," and "good chops." A wave of warmth rose up in Cruger, 
  traveling from toe to head. He felt as if he had just been 
  admitted to a club. After he packed his accordion back into his 
  case, he made his way over to the bar, most of the people in the 
  audience either smiling or complimenting his playing.

  Half an hour later the band finished for the evening. The bass 
  player made his way over to Cruger. He extended his strong, 
  vein- covered hand.

  "Hi, I'm Jay. Really liked your playing, man."

  "Thanks. I'm Jack Cruger." They shook hands for a long time, Jay 
  seemingly not in a hurry to let go.

  When he remembered to stop shaking, Jay said, "Do you have a 
  card? I might have some gigs to throw your way."

  Cruger fished out one of his business cards. A mundane card -- 
  "Jack Cruger, Accordion. Weddings, parties, lessons."

  Jay glanced lazily at the card, not interested in the content. 
  Jay was a talker, Cruger soon learned, and Jay wasn't his name. 
  He had legally changed his name -- surprisingly following the 
  pop performer trend -- to a single word name. The difference 
  was, as opposed to Cher, Madonna, Sade, Sting, and Prince, his 
  name was unpronounceable. The bass player's name was Jcxlpsiqzv. 
  His driver's license said Jcxlpsiqzv. His credit cards said 
  Jcxlpsiqzv. His library card said Jcxlpsiqzv.

  People called him J.

  J was a spiritual refugee from the sixties in a body from the 
  fifties who wore clothes from the eighties. J's razor-sharp 
  haircut had his initial carved in the side of his head above his 
  left ear. Baggy pants, high-tops, a canvas army jacket and peach 
  t-shirt completed his look. Although his image greatly upstaged 
  his playing, at least to the less careful observer, he was a 
  solid groove bassist with great chops.

  The drummer wandered over and J introduced him as Bailey. He 
  wore sweat bands around his wrists and forehead. A few strands 
  of dirty blond hair piled over his head band across his eyes. 
  And the biceps.

  Bailey was a talker too. He talked about how solid J played. He 
  was the man, the groove. According to the Bailey, J was a 
  MuthuFuka.

  Cruger learned the term MuthuFuka was reserved for the greatest 
  of talents. According to Bailey, the following acts rated top 
  status:

  "Mingus was a MuthuFuka,"

  "Branford Marsalis is a MuthuFuka,"

  "The Forty-Niners is a bunch of MuthuFukas,"

  "That lick's too tough: it's a MuthuFuka."

  As far as Cruger knew, no accordionist ever was a MuthuFuka.

  Cruger gulped some of his beer. Bailey was a born comedian, the 
  kind of guy who could draw a crowd and get on all roll talking 
  about almost anything. But here he was in his element and 
  well-rehearsed with his quips.

  Bailey's next musical term was Monster. As he explained its 
  usage:

  "You hear that dude play, man, he's a Monster,"

  "Your axe has got a Monster sound,"

  "He's a Monster player."

  Cruger wished he had been able to have prepared himself for the 
  evening by reading "Berlitz's Musician Talk in Ten Easy 
  Lessons," or "The Square Guy-to-Musician Translation Pocket 
  Book," where such phrases as "May I play my instrument with your 
  band" are translated to "Hey, man, can I sit in with my axe and 
  play down some standards, maybe trade fours."

  They stood around and talked for while until they joined the 
  piano player and a girl at a table.

  J introduced Cruger. The piano player was Tony, and the girl was 
  the Tony's girlfriend, Diane, a painter by day, waitress at the 
  Emerson at night. They were discussing art and music.

  Tony was saying: "Just like what a painter does, but real time. 
  Actually, don't some painters paint real-time, like real fast in 
  one sitting?"

  "I don't know," J said, "but I wouldn't want to buy that 
  painting."

  Bailey laughed and Cruger chuckled, wishing he knew more about 
  the intricacies of playing music.

  "No man, you're wrong," Bailey said. "Think about it. The 
  painter that works for months on his masterpiece is like the 
  legit composer; a composer will slowly picture the whole piece 
  and its development in his mind. Painting reactively and quickly 
  -- what did you call it, real time? -- is more like what we do: 
  instant interpretation, instant artistic response."

  "That's true," J said. And it was settled: it was true. "I do 
  something I can kind of see, kind of feel, but nothing I can 
  actually put my hands around and really spell out." J shrugged. 
  "I aim for what that feeling is, and the closer I come, the 
  happier I am with the result."

  "Yeah," Tony the pianist said, "I have a similar feeling 
  usually. Sometimes, right before I play what I do, I see a 
  texture or a pattern that reminds me of a feeling; then I try to 
  quickly translate that feeling into notes -- the right notes."

  "You can't go outside the structure too much, you know, just to 
  try to capture what you're trying to say. That's the trick: stay 
  within the chord changes and still express what you're feeling."

  They all sat for a moment, nodding their heads.

  "What about you man?" the drummer said to Cruger. "How do you 
  approach it?"

  Cruger thought for a moment, trying not to blush or gulp 
  noticeably. Finally, he said "I try to clear my mind and just 
  play."

  Cruger heard laughing, starting with the drummer and then J. 
  They were busting up and he didn't know why.

  "Man, we're sitting here getting all philosophical and you hit 
  the nail on the head," J said. "You just play. Shit, if that 
  ain't the truth."

  "But still, that's probably coming straight from his unconscious 
  mind. You notice that he said _clear my mind and play._ That's 
  getting his conscious mind out of the picture -- he plays 
  straight from his subconscious," J said.

  "Cool," Bailey murmured, pushing his hair back over his 
  sweatband.

  "But before you learned to clear your mind like that, how did 
  you improvise? Did you think in terms of chords or modes or just 
  use your ear?"

  Honestly was, if not the best policy, then better than 
  stammering and going weak-kneed. So Cruger said, "Before I 
  learned to just play straight from the unconscious I literally 
  couldn't play. The only tunes I could play were like LADY OF 
  SPAIN -- I couldn't improvise at all."

  J was smiling and shaking his head. "Amazing, just amazing. You 
  had all of that untapped ability bottled up in there and didn't 
  know how to release it. Just 'cause accordion players aren't 
  supposed to play jazz, play good, play free."

  The talked for a while more about music, art, the groove, 
  playing straight from your head. Cruger sucked it up like a bear 
  who'd found his first honeycomb.

  After a while Cruger said goodnight. His head was reeling; he 
  felt like a blind man who just got his sight and, first thing, 
  saw a rainbow.


  Chapter 26
------------

  Cruger rapped on the door and Harris was there in a few seconds, 
  swinging the door open with one hand and holding a Tupperware 
  dish and a fork in the other. A gray t-shirt stretched across 
  his chest, barely reaching to his navel. "C'mon in," he said.

  Cruger stepped inside. "On an engineer's salary you should be 
  able to afford the rest of that shirt."

  "It's expensive, man. Designer and everything."

  "Oh, then maybe it's your Oomphaloscepsis shirt."

  "Whatever you say," Harris said, then: "OK, what the hell is 
  Oomphalo-whatever?"

  "The art of meditation while staring at one's navel," Cruger 
  said. "Oomphaloscepsis. Surprised you didn't know that, being 
  schooled in the fine arts... or martial arts, cultured, and all 
  that stuff."

  "Yep, I don't know how I survived all these years without 
  knowing about Oomphaloscepsis."

  "And it's all the rage in Tibet, Borneo, and Mill Valley. Plus, 
  you got a nice looking inney."

  "Thanks, I quite like it myself," Harris said, walking back to 
  the kitchen, taking a forkful of Tupperwared microwaved 
  leftover- stuff. "What brings you over, neighbor?"

  "I don't know," Cruger said, leaning against the counter. The 
  bright kitchen lights were hurting his eyes. "Seemed better than 
  sitting at home watching the dust settle."

  "Oomphaloscepsis not doing the trick, eh?"

  Cruger grimaced. "The spheres weren't in conjunction."

  "Ah," Harris said and took another bite of goop. "I understand."

  "What's this?" Cruger said, picking up a piece of paper from the 
  counter. "Been talking to the IRS lately?"

  "Huh? No, that's Neswick's office number. He had his secretary 
  call to set up an appointment with me."

  "Yeah, Neswick's been setting up meetings with me too," Cruger 
  said. "One-on-ones he calls them. He said he's preparing my 
  performance review."

  "Me too. He said he wants little group meetings with the three 
  or four of us -- including Tamara -- as well as one-on-ones."

  "Did he say anything about money, like getting paid for this 
  job?"

  "No," Harris said and then licked his lips and inhaled slowly. 
  "Would you even want to be paid for this?"

  "No, then it might become the same -- the same as work."

  "Exactly. But it might start to become tough work anyway. I've 
  been reading up on theoretical physics; is what we have enough 
  to help us complete our implementation? Will people really be 
  able to write a book titled HOW TO MAKE PLANETS AND GALAXIES, AN 
  EASY DO-IT- YOURSELF GUIDE? Will bioengineering progress to the 
  point of a BUILD YOURSELF A BEST FRIEND book? Isn't this the 
  same as people playing God?"

  Look at him, he's on a roll, Cruger thought. Damn engineer's 
  head is too deep in it.

  Harris continued: "And what if the evolution process was 
  planned? What if this whole thing is canned, a setup? What if 
  fish were programmed to become lizards to become rats to become 
  dogs to become primates and so on? Then it would follow that you 
  and I and our dumb-luck discoveries were planned too."

  "It gets to the question: _is God alive?_" said Cruger. "And 
  we've been through that."

  "I think we know the organization is alive. What we don't know 
  is who, when, where or what made The Company and started this 
  whole universe. We know some of the how -- at least the spinning 
  part."

  Cruger felt nostalgic; his conversations with Tony were rolling 
  back into his mind. "Most of this was predicted, if you can 
  believe what Tony told me. Humans at this point were just 
  expected to have a little more hair and a little more strength 
  than we did thousands of years ago. You know, a chimpanzee could 
  theoretically bench press 2,000 pounds? We're wimps, when you 
  think about it."

  Harris smiled. "Speak for yourself, couch potato."

  Cruger thought of the complexity of the issues they faced. Could 
  the two of them really handle this? Maybe they needed help. 
  Maybe Neswick was around for a reason.

  "Right now, we don't have all the answers, but, with the 
  software in its current state, we theoretically have the ability 
  to generate answers to any question," Harris said.

  Cruger wondered what that meant. Was it better to potentially 
  understand everything, or to have a finite set of answers? 
  Potentially, he could see the best alternative was what they 
  had: the ability to eventually understand everything. He asked 
  Harris about it.

  "You're right. Then time becomes the issue," said Harris. "If we 
  understood time, then waiting for the answers could be 
  compensated for. I could explore the question of time, but it 
  may take a long time just to get that far."

  "Damn, and they call me a smart-ass," said Cruger. "Is this the 
  original chicken and egg problem or what?"

  "Since we're marching down the path to God's place, at least 
  conceptually, I think we can expect quite a few chicken and egg 
  problems. And I can't figure what this spinning you do has much 
  to do with anything."

  They sat a moment, and without a word Harris went to the 
  refrigerator and got them some Cabernet. Cruger watched as it 
  swirled into a glass, his thoughts on spinning and what it meant 
  to him. "Isn't there anything you do that gives you a feeling of 
  locking in -- a feeling that you are doing more than just you 
  yourself can do? When your game is really on, everything is 
  effortless and pure joy, you know?"

  Harris kept his eyes lowered as he sat down and put his feet up 
  on the edge of the counter. "Well, the things that I'm best at 
  are running, and, back in school, football. Sure, when I'm 
  running I get that feeling of, it's like, undeniable power. Like 
  I can go on and on. When my second wind kicks in and the 
  endorphins are pumping into my brain, I'm at the top of the 
  world."

  "I've seen you at the end of your runs -- you don't look so 
  good."

  Harris let the comment pass. "When I played football, I played 
  running back," Harris squeezed his thigh as if to recreate an 
  old football sensation. "When my stuff was together, I felt like 
  I was flying through clouds. It was effortless. Each run was a 
  takeoff, a flight, and a landing. But when I was having a rough 
  time, every minute lasted an hour, every carry was pain. The 
  difference between a good day and a bad day was enormous. The 
  funny thing, though, is that externally it didn't seem that way. 
  Sometimes when I felt my stuff wasn't working I was still 
  gaining yards. I guess I'm talking about internal sensations, 
  mostly."

  "These feelings, the locking in, the clicking, the 
  effortlessness -- they mean something. Those feelings are the 
  essence of spinning." Cruger realized that the words he had 
  chosen were pedantic and, as if correcting himself, added, "at 
  least for me they have meaning."

  Harris still had a distant look on his face. "No, I'm sure 
  you're right," he said. "I can relate."

  Cruger heard Corrina's car pulling into the driveway next door. 
  Cruger was usually pulling out of the driveway when Corrina 
  pulled in. Two cars passing in the driveway -- that's modern 
  marriage. Two cars passing in the street, that's friends; two 
  cars passing on the freeway -- acquaintances.

  He needed to tell her everything, to bring her along on his 
  adventure. Be like a husband and wife, spending time together, 
  sharing their lives. But would she believe the deep shit he and 
  Harris were into -- maybe not. Maybe it was unbelievable. Too 
  big a jump.

  Cruger said goodbye to Harris and then, "Thanks for the talk, it 
  was sort of cleansing, talking this deep metaphysical bullshit. 
  It's a nice universe, but I'd hate to paint it."

  "That's the difference between you and I," Harris said, his face 
  now full of vigor and irony. "I'd enjoy painting it."


  Chapter 27
------------

  ... for every human being there is a diversity of existences ... 
  the single existence is itself an illusion ...
                                               --Saul Bellow

  Spinning was a solitary occupation, but for Cruger it was the 
  most fulfilling thing he had done. Realizing that he was making 
  some kind of impression on the entire species was a large 
  reward. Did every action of every person every day contribute to 
  the course of the future? Cruger thought that might be so; but 
  spinning was a more direct and substantial contribution.

  That night Cruger sat in the den and played. He was in a lazy, 
  lonely mood, so he played ballads. In the middle of MY FUNNY 
  VALENTINE, an image began to appear across the room. At first it 
  shimmered like a reflection in a lake; then the image began to 
  solidify. Cruger, unfazed, kept playing; MY FUNNY VALENTINE 
  seemed a good soundtrack for this strangeness.

  Now the image was as solid as Cruger -- it smiled at him like a 
  reflection in the mirror. It was Cruger standing at the other 
  side of the room: a different Cruger. Under his arm was a small 
  guitar. He wore Cruger's favorite jeans, his watch, and a shirt 
  that Cruger had never seen before.

  Cruger stopped playing. He didn't know what to say, so he 
  started with an insult. "Nice shirt. Where did you get it, 
  K-Mart?"

  "No, but I bought it with your sense of 'taste', if I could 
  stretch the word that far," the image said. Its voice was 
  familiar, like a less resonant version of the voice Cruger heard 
  in his head.

  "Jeez, you really are me. You're abusive and a royal pain in the 
  ass." Cruger thought for a moment. "How do people stand me, or 
  us?"

  "Well," the new Cruger said, "considering that I'm from your 
  future, you improve a little with time. And you finally get rid 
  of that damned accordion."

  "Hey, I like this accordion," Cruger said.

  "Yeah, well listen to this." The new Cruger brought up his 
  guitar and launched into a fast, flamenco vamp. Each note was a 
  round and precisely attacked sound--he strummed and made 
  percussive slaps against the side of the guitar while playing a 
  vibrant melody on the upper strings. Cruger listened with rapt 
  attention.

  When he stopped, Cruger wondered if he should applaud. Instead 
  he sneered and failed to make any comment at all.

  The future Cruger looked up, mischievous eyes hooded by bushy 
  eyebrows, and said, "As long as I'm here, let's jam." He started 
  a blues tune with a funky, string-bending melody on top of a 
  solid walking bass. "Or are you too nervous?"

  Cruger grabbed his accordion. The interplay was clean and 
  exotic: two nearly identical minds trading licks, rhythms, and 
  locking a groove. Only the future Cruger was a better musician. 
  Head bowed in concentration, forehead slightly wrinkled, the 
  future Cruger was more explorative, playing tri-tone 
  substitutions along with diminished and whole-tone scales. They 
  began trading fours, allowing each other to stretch ideas and 
  add to their improvisational statements. The tune then settled 
  down into a quiet, sparse blues.

  Cruger talked over the music. "What are you doing here?"

  The future Cruger smiled, half his attention still dedicated to 
  his walking bass line and the light chords he comped. "You 
  brought me here. You were spinning, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well," the future Cruger said, "you obviously were spinning 
  your own path and crossed a string right here and now -- that's 
  not easy to do."

  "But how could you be here right now if you're from my future?" 
  A reasonable question, Cruger thought.

  "Simple. I had decided to travel a little. Traveling, the way 
  Harris had programmed it, is still a little flaky, so here I am. 
  I mean, here we are."

  Cruger said, "I thought you said that I crossed a string and 
  that's how you got here."

  "Right. I would have never time traveled here -- incorrectly -- 
  if you hadn't crossed that string just now."

  The music stopped. Cruger looked at himself standing there and 
  thought he looked a little heavier. God, look at that paunch 
  hang over the belt. Frightening to think that in the future 
  spinning and the computer system were still a little buggy. He 
  would have to remember to tell Harris to fix the time travel 
  program's bug, whatever the time travel program was.

  The future Cruger anticipated his thoughts. "I don't know which 
  of your future selves I am. I'm sure to be just one of many."

  "I think you're the smart-ass one," Cruger said.

  "No, I think we're all like that," the future Cruger said, 
  giving his younger self a wide, nearly sincere smile.

  "You were playing some pretty weird licks there. Where did you 
  learn to play like that?" Cruger said.

  "So you want to know where _you_ learned to play better?"

  "No, I want to know where _you_ learned. I don't consider it 
  better." Cruger crossed his arms. "You probably can't even play 
  a simple melodic minor scale."

  Cruger's future self lifted the guitar and played a fast, 
  perfect, melodic minor scale up and down three octaves, 
  finishing with a double-time arpeggio up to a beautiful, 
  ringing, high harmonic.

  "You chump."

  "Turkey."

  "Jerk." Cruger never had been especially quick to make friends, 
  but meeting himself only amplified the problem. The chemistry 
  sucked. Still, he enjoyed sparring. He had to admit his future 
  self was a great guitarist. Did he feel a pang of pride? Why be 
  proud of himself, if this was not the future self that he would 
  become?

  "If you kick my ass, you would only be hurting yourself," the 
  new Cruger said, an ironic gleam in his eyes.

  The light reflecting off the future Cruger's body began to 
  shudder and split into tiny waves and particles of dull colors. 
  As the image wavered, Cruger wondered why he had annoyed himself 
  so much. Were they so alike that they couldn't get along? Or had 
  tension and fear of showing emotion created a barrier between 
  them?

  "Bye," the future Cruger waved.

  Cruger raised the same hand and waved back. "Don't come back 
  soon," he said to his fading replica.

  The hands were different. Cruger's had his wedding band on it, 
  and the double from the future's was bare. "Wait!" Cruger 
  yelled. "Wait!"

  But the strange colors that had cast a surreal shadow on the 
  wall faded to a muddy darkness and the future Cruger was gone.

  Cruger picked up his small, suddenly inadequate accordion. He 
  played SEND IN THE CLOWNS, too slowly, and wondered what it all 
  meant.


  Neswick decided to risk it by filling in Tamara.

  "One of them is a loose cannon," Neswick said. "Erasures are to 
  be reserved for special circumstances. Quite often there are 
  complications, and it puts a strain on the system. Not to 
  mention the Big Enigma."

  Tamara nodded her head carefully.

  "Even more importantly, it leaves us exposed. If anyone else 
  catches a period of dissonance -- when the deleted life may be 
  remembered by an observer -- they may be able to trace it back 
  to us."

  Tamara asked, "How is it patched up so that no one remembers the 
  person?"

  "Basically, it's like _reverse-spinning_ the string that holds a 
  person's life together. The string must be redone from their 
  conception." Neswick wondered if she was playing dumb or if she 
  was honestly inquisitive. He couldn't read her: she had her 
  perpetual block up, as did he. He wanted to trust her; the 
  father/daughter charade that they had been living since leaving 
  the homeland was beginning to ingrain itself as reality.

  "What does Harris think about the Tony incident?" he asked.

  "Well, he definitely thinks Tony was erased by the Other 
  Company. He seems to think it was a warning for Cruger to stop 
  spinning."

  "And what do you think it was?"

  "Honestly, I don't know," she said. "Possibly one of our people 
  just has it in for humans. I have to admit, after two tours of 
  duty here, I'm getting a little sick of the constant facade."

  "You don't even like the bit with their sex act? It's better 
  than what we have at home," he said, smiling that mealy-mouthed 
  smile that humans do when they think lascivious thoughts.

  "Yes, it's good, but I wonder if we ever really experience it 
  the way they do. It's sort of vicarious for me." She crossed her 
  legs and felt a little uncomfortable. What is this, she thought, 
  modesty? She wondered if her acting had become so good that it 
  had finally supplanted her real personality.

  "I don't hear you complaining."

  She laughed. "Harris isn't too bad. As jobs go, I think I'll 
  keep this one."


  Chapter 28
------------

  "Good afternoon, I'm Jack Cruger. Mr. Neswick's expecting to see 
  me at three."

  She looked up from the nothingness on the large walnut desk. Her 
  response was automatic, like a tape loop playing in her mind: 
  "Please have a seat." She gestured to one of the large, squarish 
  wooden chairs pushed against the far wall. "Mr. Neswick will be 
  with you shortly."

  Cruger sat as she continued to sit at her desk and stare 
  disinterestedly at her plump fingers.

  "Bet you don't get many happy people coming in here," Cruger 
  said, just to break the silence. "Mostly mad, worried people?"

  For a second he thought she might not respond at all, but then 
  she looked at him and said, "I see the poorest scum of the earth 
  to the millionaire sophisticates, the whole spectrum of 
  humanity." She held out the word 'humanity' as if it needed to 
  be emphasized, then shook her head, letting out a little 
  wheezing laugh. "The whole spectrum," she said again, and 
  grinned to herself.

  Cruger decided to let the silence hang..

  After a minute she reached over to the phone and pressed a 
  button. "A Mr. Cruger to see you," she wheezed into the 
  intercom. There was a burst of static and Miss Congeniality 
  gestured towards the office door. Cruger got up and went inside.

  "Make yourself at home," Neswick said, and Cruger found himself 
  a chair across form Neswick's old, hardwood desk.

  "Mrs. Branner," Neswick said as he made a gesture past his 
  closed office door. "Been my secretary for eight years."

  "Has she cracked a smile in that time?"

  "Oh, I see you didn't get too acquainted with her," Neswick 
  said, sounding surprised, as if Mrs. Branner were up for the 
  personality of the month award. "She really is quite a fine 
  woman."

  Cruger took his word because it didn't matter and asked: "Are 
  you able to do company business here, as well as IRS work?"

  "Oh yes. But my Company business is really simpler than you may 
  think -- it's not very time-consuming."

  "May I ask what it is you do exactly?" Cruger looked for any 
  facial reaction that might say to him _no dice, an out-of-bounds 
  question._

  But Neswick answered, "You know the answer to that; I supervise 
  you and report to my supervisor. It's that simple."

  It sounded simple enough.

  So Cruger started. "I was wondering about some things, like for 
  instance, the boundary conditions. How it all started. If God 
  keeps evolving as a company, who or what was originally in 
  charge?"

  "Excellent question. All it took was one tiny particle of 
  anything. That would be an opposite of nothing. Once you have 
  opposites, you have a definition of the entire universe itself 
  in a microcosm. In a fraction of a second, you have many 
  particles. The inverse law can utilize the molecular energy. A 
  billion years or so and we have galaxies, black holes, and 
  evolving worlds."

  "What is so special about opposites?" said Cruger.

  "All energy comes from opposites. Also, it is possible to 
  inverse any given state to cause an equal and opposite reaction. 
  Basic Newtonian stuff. Only thing is, this approach can be 
  applied to any matter, state, or dimension.

  "Oriental philosophy has similar concepts. In Japanese, as used 
  in the word Aikido, the word 'ki' can be loosely translated as 
  the submicroscopic bit of energy that is ubiquitous and always 
  was, the original particle of the Universe before the Universe 
  expanded with more 'ki' everywhere, in all of us, the energy of 
  life: God. But ki doesn't imply the existence of an opposite of 
  ki; at least not in Zen Buddhist teachings."

  Cruger nodded and tried to look as though he'd been following 
  along.

  Neswick leaned forward and folded his hands. "You know, 
  sometimes hypnosis is used to accelerate the learning process. 
  Would you like to try that? It only takes a few minutes."

  Cruger had no good answer ready. It seemed unusual, but 
  considering that the man was trying to explain the nature of 
  existence, the request didn't seem unreasonable. Neswick was 
  surprisingly quick; Cruger heard his voice become velvety and 
  low as his legs grew heavy and sank deep into the chair. Next 
  thing he knew Mrs. Branner buzzed on the intercom: "Mr. Seager 
  needs the report by three-thirty."

  "Right." Neswick began shuffling papers together into a file 
  folder. In a moment the folder was full of small, odd-sized 
  receipts, yellow post-its, and small half-crumpled note-pad 
  pages.

  "Excuse me for one minute," he said to Cruger. Neswick got up 
  and walked to the exterior office. Cruger could hear him talking 
  in a calm tone.

  Cruger looked around the room. Anything, no matter how 
  insignificant, could be a clue. The chairs, the desk, the 
  pictures on the wall, the smell -- no, that was probably only a 
  clue concerning Neswick's horrid aftershave -- anything.

  Cruger looked at the desk. Two pens and a desk calendar in the 
  center; the telephone, the intercom, an envelope, a tablet -- 
  Cruger's eyes returned to the envelope. MARTIN TRAVEL was 
  written across the front in large red letters. Neswick was still 
  in the outer office, talking loudly, so Cruger stepped over and 
  slipped out the itinerary. Flight 85, San Jose to Denver.

  Old Neswick going to Denver, Cruger thought. Interesting that he 
  hadn't mentioned it. Cruger replaced the envelope and sat down.

  Neswick's voice stopped and in a moment he was back in the room.

  "Excuse me, had to get a bit of business done."

  "No problem." Cruger sat back in the chair. "Now where were we?"


  Cruger arrived an hour early for the flight. Since he had no 
  luggage and wasn't going anywhere, he told himself this wouldn't 
  be difficult.

  Jack Cruger, incredible amateur detective. He was really cutting 
  his teeth here. What would they call this, he wondered? A 
  stakeout, or maybe just plain surveillance? Fancy words for 
  sitting around and watching a fat guy get on a plane. But you 
  had to be careful not to get too close, let the fat guy see you. 
  That would be embarrassing, hard to explain.

  Maybe he should have a story ready in case Neswick did see him. 
  _Oh, I'm flying to L.A. standby, going down for the Rose 
  Parade_. Well, not the Rose Parade. Going down to visit a 
  friend, an old high school friend. Stanley Slotkin, that's the 
  ticket. Who could be suspicious when you're visiting a guy named 
  Stanley Slotkin?

  Deciding that hiding behind a newspaper with a tiny hole cut in 
  the center was passe, Cruger kept his sunglasses on and stood 
  behind a small crowd of people at gate seventeen waiting for 
  arriving passengers. He checked that no entrances were behind 
  him; the only way to Neswick's departure gate was through the 
  screening machine right in front of Cruger.

  After twenty minutes of concentration and boredom Cruger finally 
  saw Neswick. He wore a brown sweater over a red sport shirt, tan 
  corduroy pants, and brown Rockport shoes. Neswick slid his 
  leather carry-on bag onto the security machine's conveyor.

  Tamara was right behind Neswick. She wrinkled her forehead and 
  looked around as she stood waiting for her father to go through 
  the metal detector. Her bright fuschia pants suit and white 
  leather boots made her easy to spot in a crowd. She then slid 
  her black leather purse off her shoulder and onto the conveyer, 
  stepping through the metal detector quickly.

  Cruger stayed where he was. Tamara was traveling with Neswick. 
  So what? He could check with Harris, see what Tamara might have 
  said about going somewhere. Maybe it was a perfectly innocent 
  ski vacation to Colorado -- or maybe not. A two-day weekend 
  trip, was it something they did often? Maybe Harris could help 
  track it down, even if it was a wild goose. Cruger watched as 
  they found seats in the waiting area and, with nothing to do but 
  wait for the plane, turned to go.

  Then, almost under his nose, Cruger recognized a face. Sky! She 
  swung an Esprit bag onto the conveyor, walked through the metal 
  detector, collected the bag, and walked over to Neswick and 
  Tamara in the gate's waiting area, oblivious to Cruger's 
  open-mouthed stare. He saw Sky kiss Neswick and then Tamara, 
  laughing and talking, saying things and making motions that 
  Cruger couldn't begin to read from that distance.

  Cruger felt his stomach sink at least a yard. He knew innocent 
  coincidences like this were harder to find than Dodo birds. Much 
  harder.

  TO BE CONTINUED...

  Jeff Zias (ZIAS1@AppleLink.apple.com)
---------------------------------------

  Jeff Zias has begun a stint with the spin-off software company 
  Taligent after a ten-year stint writing and managing software at 
  Apple Computer. Jeff enjoys spending time with his wife and two 
  small children, playing jazz with Bay Area groups, writing 
  software and prose, and building playhouses and other assorted 
  toys for his children to trash. Having actually been a studious 
  youth, Jeff has a BA in Applied Mathematics from Berkeley and an 
  MS in Engineering Management from Santa Clara University. THE 
  UNIFIED MURDER THEOREM will conclude next issue.


  FYI
=====

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