"I'm God, Baby!"

A good machinist is hard to find.

The arrival of our first one predated my hiring only by a little, but he had already found time to fall behind on his work.

We knew we were meeting our new machinist that day, but after waiting for him for 20 minutes most of us had busied ourselves with our computers doing trivial work or trying to figure our if we had the time wrong. We barely noticed him when he wandered in: you don't normally expect strangers to show up on a federal base, and sometimes you just stop looking for them. The man wandered up to Tie-Dye's desk where he made himself comfortable, primarily by kicking his muddy shoes up onto my boss' keyboard. Tie-dye looked at him, then at me, then back at the man at his desk, trying to piece together what was going on.

"Excuse me," it was Tie-dye's very politest voice, "but, who are you?"

The machinist casually laced his fingers behind his head and pressed his feet into the desk to lean back, "Who me? I'm God, baby!" Turning to one side, he made a little clicking noise at Daniella and nodded at her in a manner I'm sure he thought was devastatingly attractive.

***

She was livid, "You have got to get rid of him."

Crash always believes in the best of everybody, "Aww now, I know you've had your misunderstandings... but he does great work..."

"You don't make Holocaust jokes to jews."

"How would he have known you were Jewish?"

***

I'm not sure if it was the fact that he tried to randomly purchase magnesium (a rather flammable metal) instead of aluminum, that he randomly powder-coated a component likely to overheat in black and billed the project for it, or the fact that he tried to make the body with tack-welds which fell apart. Personally, I was most amused by when Daniella tried to have a talk with him so they could sort out their differences and learn to get along, and he accused her of "trying to get him alone because she wanted him." No matter the cause, it wasn't very long until we sent him on his way.

"Fuck it," Crash threw the powder-coated tack-welded sheet metal box aside in annoyance, "I wouldn't use it as a urinal."

The next machinist misprogrammed an expensive CNC mill so that it thought the metal wasn't some place it was. It did a full plunge through the workpiece's surface, got stuck there, grabbed the part we were working on, shook it like a rag-doll, ripped it in half, and dragged the top half out of the vice and into the ceiling of the machine so it could trash that for good measure.

The next machinist hid his files on a secret server and regularly threatened to not let anybody have his work when he believed his paycheck was late. He was, in reality, one of the only ones being paid on time.

Another one sprayed Sys with a can of compressed air for cleaning things, turning it upside down so it sprayed it in liquid form. He thought it was pretty funny, but Sys got a hospital trip for the burn.

A good machinist is hard to find.

Who are the kids?

It is the fall after my first summer with the feds.

"It won't move,"

"Go for the 50's"

A year and a half ago they said we this was going to be the next big thing. I'm told they hired Ph D's and respected field experts and moved them out here to build this.

"Is there still space for the 50's?"

"Better be..."

A year ago a senator said no. He said the project had to be moved to his state or it wasn't going to happen at all, that the funding would be all cut. They laid off all those respected experts and moved the project south, where they milked the prototype funds for all they were worth. The proposal they returned to congress was thousands of times above budget and got laughed out, but it served the purpose they gave it. It was a bridge between that center's projects, and it kept their very finest scientists fed until the center could bring them a new project to sink their teeth into.

"You were right, lotsa torque in the 50's."

"I'm getting pretty tired, I may nap under my desk for a bit."

A year ago, when they all left Crash said no. He squirreled away all the funds he could find and started picking up labor as cheaply as he could. He continued the program, but kept it a secret. That included the internship program I was going to be in.

There is probably 500 feet of cat5 under my desk, and I barely shove it out of the way to crawl in the sleeping bag and try to catch an hour and a half nap. If we don't take one a day we get less productive.

Five months ago I realized I was assigned to two different labs at once for my upcoming internship. Rather than ask for clarification I opted to wait until I arrived and got to see both. This way I could figure out which one was cooler and could angle for it.

Four months ago Crash was standing in the hallway trying to convince me his was the better lab. He promised me this project would change everything, and I agreed. He took me, Tie-Dye, and Gemini out in the hallway and explained our situation. I was the assistant to the assistant to somebody important. Many people quit, including the important person. The Canadian was added to the staff, but he wasn't quite ever meant as a direct replacement. My boss quit after 3 months for more theoretical pursuits, and then it was just the Canadian, Gemini and me.

One month ago we got delayed because legal hadn't worked out who would get sued if we died during the demo. I wish I was kidding you. I called my school and told them that I wasn't coming back to campus, but that it would look great for the school if they let me call this my senior project. I had to call a few different professors before I found one who wasn't upset about the fact that I was only entering my junior year.

A week ago the team agreed. We would take the last night off to be will-rested, calm, and collected for the director. Three days ago we found out the networking equipment wasn't compatible. This morning the man in the suit wanted to try to cancel for rain. Four hours ago we found out the 20's didn't pull enough to power the drive system. The rest of the night blurs, although I remember realizing this was the third 100+ hour week in a row, that I didn't want to see another fast food container for a year, and that there were marks on my arms from falling asleep in piles of communications cabling.

At 5:08 AM the robot drove for the first time. Talk about cutting it close.

It is 9:50AM. The director is arriving in 40 minutes, plus or minus 20. I brush my hair and wash my face in a bathroom sink, and try somewhat in vain to brush my teeth. With my hoodie zipped up the whole way you can not see my ratty tie-dye tank top, and my cargo pants are long enough to mostly hide my knock-off Birkenstock sandals. Funny, this is not how I envisioned looking when meeting one of the most powerful people I'll ever encounter. I throw Gemini my hairbrush and he tries in vain to make his hair lie down.

It's 10:05. The man in the suit is a little horrified at our appearance. He is slightly pacified by the fact that Crash changed into his suit in his truck. There isn't time for Gemini and me to go home and change anyway.

It's 10:30. Guess there was time, but we missed it.

At 10:40 the director arrives. My first thought was how human he seemed. All we knew was his history: a general who was told the military politically couldn't do this science, so he left the military to run this place instead. We were instructed to still call him general anyway. I liked him because he swore a lot and laughed while he did it.

Somebody ran over a cable with a truck and I'm on the radio shouting instructions while Crash stalls. We pull it back online and I stand next to the television. Gemini sits on the other end of the telecon in the red dirt, looking a mildly disheveled but entirely unfazed. He use to be so relaxed about everything. Crash is rattling off specs, but the director looks bored and is watching the two of us.

"Huh," the he asks, "Who are the kids?"

"The," Crash stutters, "...boy is a fresh college graduate, and the girl is a junior in college. They are our interns."

"Huh." There is a pause. "Keep 'em."

And this is probably what made my career.

The Most Important Thing

I read an awful lot of books as a child. When I was in kindergarten my first grade teacher-to-be came for my Waldorf interview and was shocked to find me reading aloud to her from a chapter book. She was upset that I was getting ahead of myself, as the curriculum normally believed that such things would inhibit my imagination and creative side.

The habit of sneaking books continued. I have no idea how many my mother confiscated in an attempt to make me go to bed. I'd often keep two under my pillow so that when she came in to take my book away I could give her one I wasn't actually reading. I positively tore up fiction sections of the school library. I hid books in my desk at school and read during boring parts of class, and at points in middle school I deliberately accrued detention when informed I would be serving my terms in the library instead of attending "fun" portions of school.

For a while I completely bought into the concept that is implicently stamped into so many books: that books are the most important thing, that they are what hold society together, and they are what keep us free and permit the transmission of ideas. From The Giver to Fahrenheit 451 books, and storytelling in general, are projected as the foundations of safety and freedom respectively.

About the time when I finished Witch Week and one of the main characters was going to save the world by telling stories, as if the power to explain why everything is would erase the problems, as if all people who were at odds with one another were really victims of some huge misunderstanding and not persons with competing interests, was about the time when I got thoroughly fed up with this concept. It seemed extremely popular but hopelessly stupid.

***

"You guys are my team," I can hear Crash say to his latest group of students for the summer. He's nearly beside himself with excitement, to the point where I believe he is beginning to alarm some of his workers.

"Everybody's relying on us you know. Communications are the most important part of any project you know, you can have the best machine in the world but if you can't get the data off it you did it all for nothing."

There is a slight pause where the new students look at one another. I turn to Crash and smile a little bit.

"Oh course," Crash adds, thinking he has offended me, "Software is really important too you know."

It's a silly thought. We only put systems on the robots which are absolutely critical and the robot won't work without. Why would anybody pay for a part the robot didn't need to function? All our subteams, by this definition, are critical.

***

"Its going to be really hard you know," he says gravely.

"I'm prepared to work hard," the economist says, "I really believe I have thought up the next great business, and if I need to learn to program to do it so be it."

"It has taken me 10 years to learn to program," another voice joins in, "and I'm still not good at it yet."

I look across the Torii and consider things for a minute. The latest speaker is currently on sabatical at Google and has been involved in a wide array of other impressive things. His modesty is wonderful, but severely alarming to the economist who is progressively looking more and more nervous.

"Don't sweat it kid," I say. "Look, we're programmers. This is our life's work. Nobody wants to believe that their life's work is easy, that they are replaceable, or that their work isn't critically needed. We've worked hard to get where we are. That's what all these stories boil down to; but I believe that there isn't any reason you can't get here too with a little hard work."

Neverending Story

"What is a rite?" asked the little prince.

"Those also are actions too often neglected," said the fox. "They are what make one day different from other days, one hour from other hours. There is a rite, for example, among my hunters. Every Thursday they dance with the village girls. So Thursday is a wonderful day for me! I can take a walk as far as the vineyards. But if the hunters danced at just any time, every day would be like every other day, and I should never have any vacation at all."

So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near--

"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,
Chapter 21

Gemini was cranky. He called for my attention but then couldn't be bothered to look up from his notebook of formulas when I responded. His words were brief. Everybody was glad I was going to a more stable place, but leaving was still awkward. I felt like a dog who, despite a loving family, was being sent to a new home because the new landlord didn't permit pets.

Nearly two months ago I am standing at the entrance to what, in a few moments, will no longer be my apartment. VJ swings one of my suitcases into his trunk and looks up the stairway to see me standing there, staring into the distance.

"Leaving is hard," he says, trying to sympathize.

I look at him a little puzzled. While I will surely never live here again, I will be back in town in about a week.

"It...feels good to be on the road again really."

"Oh?"

Its odd to explain side from one place where I lived for 9 months I haven't lived anywhere consistently for more than six months since I left for college.

We're in the present again now.

"We're going to miss you Pika," he said, giving me a big hug.

"Don't worry," I said, patting him on the back mid-hug, "I'll be back tomorrow for class."

In a sense, this "leaving" seems a bit artificial.

Months ago I tumbled out of a white jeep and turned back to look at Magpie. He's not really one for hugs anyway, although sometimes I wish he was.

"See?" he laughed, trying to make light of the situation, "and this time we didn't even need to call the feds because of bad traffic!"

PJ is probably the greatest oddity in all of this. I don't think I have ever said goodbye to him. The first time we were standing there when I shrugged and laughed about how, even though we had no plans of it, we knew the world was so small that we would run into one another again. Since then I see him about twice a year, just like clockwork. The last few times I don't think I even bothered to say "see you later" when I left.

I'm sitting at lunch in a little Mexican restaurant where my (now former) boss loves to go to to discuss work. It's about a week ago.

"I thought you were kidding when you said you had briefly gone homeless."

I shook my head, taking another bite of my burrito.

"Well I wouldn't have laughed if I had known you were serious."

"Its over now, don't worry."

This weekend we had about the same conversation at a former coworker's housewarming party. It really bothered Crash. His eyes puffed up red and he went into the corner to blow his nose a lot. It wasn't my intention to upset him.

I walked slowly back to the lab on Wednesday, now keyless to collect a last few things. Today Java offered me probably the first compliment I have ever recieved from him.

I watch my coworkers struggle to find a definitive last day to conclude things in the world of a sliding scale relationships. Since I am not moving this time I will remain peripherally involved. If nothing else I will still take classes next door to what use to be my lab. My relationship to this place is changing, but I am not leaving.

The sun is coming up through the front windows of the Torii. I have been here too long. Late nights make the dividing lines between days confusing and arbitrary seeming.

As a matter of fact I have recently begun to struggle with the concepts of the beginnings and endings of anything related to time. The reality is our relationships of all varities do not fit so neatly into the concept of starting and ending on dates unless we choose to abandon them as such.

The human impulse to compartmentalize and consider our lives in discrete chunks is substantial: days, hours, minutes, all these things are artificial constructs we impose on a steady flow of time. The same can be said of phases: high school, college, or a first job. The reality is that this world is built on tiny human connections, and that these connections deteriorate when we stop putting the effort in to mantain them.

"Playlist," I asked, passing him a beer as he sat at the desk in his room, "You're never online."

"Yeah, I hate AIM. You could call."

"What's a good day?"

The idea of these constructs having any meaning at all seems increasingly silly to me as the days pass. After all, will even my life be marked as a little discrete slice? The forces that shaped me, and the impact I leave on the world, faded into existance and will fade out again slowly over a much longer period than my own lifespan. It will not be wrapped up so neatly by the engraving of my tombstone.

I wave goodbye to the Bounty Hunters as they pile into cars to drive breakneck speed to the airport.

"Goodbye!" they call. I hear one voice through an open window, "Hope you get your tranfer to come out with us full time!"

"Don't worry about it," I laugh, "I'll be in touch!"

Sound of Freedom

The plane touched down without a hitch. When I had imagined the desert I did not have a great deal of reference for anything between srubby brushland and the National Geographic pictures of Sahara dunes. This place was neither. Rolling dust stretched long distances with the horizon broken by giant spikes of bare dark rock.

"Woah," a coworker says behind me, "look...missiles."

They are sitting on a rack in the dust, probably only the casings in reality. I'm slightly disgusted with my smug sense of pride to not be involved with those devices. The plane ceases to taxi and we begin getting out and getting our equipment.

"Only one person on the stairs at a time," the pilot says calmly. I reach between the netting on the cargo area behind the last seat and walk down the stairs in the door of the plane holding the prototype.

You don't sweat in the desert, you simply suddenly realize that your throat is dry. The sweat evaporates from your body long before you notice it. Thankfully we concluded all the mandatory tests early. We were driving at one point for fun but then a gear box stripped out. This is the perfect failure for a software test bed: completely not software, and the mechanical design was just a quick mock up and never meant to take that kind of damage anyway. We would have run it until it failed anyway, and this is a perfect failure mode.

"So you want to see Dryden then?" Crash asked.

We all nodded.

We weren't badged for Edwards so we wound up slipping in with a tour. One of Crash's friends met up with the group and removed us from it. We wound through corridors until we came out in a large room where a gleaming white robot greeted our eyes.

"This," Crash's friend said, "Is a MQ-9 Preadator B, also known as an MQ-9 Reaper, although we can't have things named Predator and Reaper around NASA so we call it Ikhana."

"And...what's it for?"

"Earth studies," the pilot says, "during the forest fires last year the governor estimates that this device saved 100,000 homes from fire with the data it gathered."

I'm terribly torn about my feelings on the existence of this object. In war we rarely even care to talk about the question of what we are spending money to buy for the troops anymore: we simply brag about how much we are spending. Then, at the same time, we hear reports of troops being killed in Iraq because their Humvees are unarmored.

Who cares about the dollar amount but not overly so much about the result? The manufacturers do. The military industrial complex frightens me in many respects, and the Predator is doubtlessly a product of this complex.

Yet, this is the way things are aren't they? The military develops technology which eventually is adopted and betters the quality of civilian life. This Predator is undoubtably doing good things. If you separate yourself from this cycle do you really lessen war any, or do you just make it so that less technology filters down to the people?

We're walking again into a room where another gleaming white plane greets us. The wings are so long that a spare set of wheels hangs from the undersides of them half way down their length.

"This is a U2, it flies 70,000 feet and... perhaps higher."

Another military plane that does scientiffic work.

Walking out the door to the hanger the heat hits you like a wave. Motion in the distance trains the lens on a coworker's camera to the sky.

"No cameras in that direction," the pilot says, "that's where the F22s are."

Bah-boom

One of my coworkers looks up somewhat incredulously at the sonic boom. The pilot laughs, "You know what that is?"

The pilot doesn't even wait for a response as he looks at the banking fighter in the sky, "That's the sound of freedom."

Bruised

"Pikachu," my boss looks concerned, "did you get in another bar fight?"

"Another? When did I get in a first bar fight?"

Crash brushes past the comment, still pointing to my face, "You have a black eye, and its not the same one you had last week."

***

"Badge?" the guard says, "ID?"

I show him both and he nods, "Have a nice day ma'am."

I lean to one side to put the wallet back in my pants pocket and get some leverage on my bicycle to kick off.

"Uh, ma'am?"

I look back at the guard who seems to be struggling to find a polite way to ask this, "Is your...eye alright?"

"Mosh pit."

***

"Holy shit," Playlist says, "what the hell happened to your arms?"

I look down at my forearms blearily the morning after karate practice. They are black and blue on more than half the surface area.

"Conditioning drills,"

"You look like a battered wife."

Its a standard karate drill. Everybody who I know who has taken any martial art seriously has gone through this drill. Shihan always says that if you do not get bruises from it you were not working hard enough. For at least 500 years this drill has been a part of the training of every practitioner, and yet suddenly now these same marks on my arms are a source of concern.

***

Pacem sits on the couch across from me. The chain on his bike caught and threw him, using the right side of his body as a brake. His ankle is wrapped, as is his wrist on the same side. Just below his knee is a long strip of skin worn red from the friction burn and the asphalt. His toes on the other foot are wrapped from a separate incident. He must have had to explain it six or seven times in about 45 minutes over dinner.

***

When did we, as a society, begin living in an environment where our body's natural healing abilities became sources of distress? A few small scrapes can be considered a natural part of an active life. I might take this to excess, but I'm still somewhat floored at the way some people treat every little scratch like an emergency.

***

"I fell today," the IM flips onto my screen from 3Stack.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, the EMS came and everything."

"What?"

"And the firetruck came too."

"The what?"

The injury was a friction burn in gravel, small enough to be covered by a single band-aid within a few days. I had broken two bones and a black eye the same weekend.

***

"She's pissed because you bruised her," he said.

I was baffled, "how did I?"

"You gripped her shoulder too hard for the throw."

"Its judo sparring...don't these things happen?"

My friend sighed, "She found it upsetting, she--"

"Should grow up," I snapped.

"You need to take good care of your sparring partner. Your partner is your best teacher."

***

"Hey Magpie, you scream like a girl!"

There wasn't a response.

"Hey Magpie!" I shouted, getting out of bed to walk to the doorway of my room, "Did you hear me? You sound like the three stooges!"

There's a spot of something red and slick on the floor. More lead me to the kitchen where I find Magpie standing with his head leaned against a cabinet. One finger is held high in the air. with the opposing hand wrapped around it. The blood runs through his fingers and down his forearms.

"I can see the bone," he says.

"Uhh..."

"I want to go to the hospital NOW."

Four hours later Magpie is sitting back in the living room with five fresh stitches.

"Two weeks," he says.

"Until what?"

"Until I take them out."

I'm a little baffled, "Until you have them taken out."

"No, I'm going to do it myself. I would have put them in myself but the cut was at an angle."

"You're...kidding right?"

"No I'm serious... I've done it before."

Trust Magpie to find a cultural shift and run the other way.

***

I'm amazed how protective parents are of their kids now. I remember elbow and knee pads being available for roller-blading but I remember all the kids taking them off as soon as they rounded a corner. Helmets on bikes were a struggle.

I saw a kid today clutching the handlebars of her bicycle, teetering from side to side on her training wheels. Her little pink helmet matched the elbow and knee pads she wore.

"Slow down!" she called to her brother, "I'm scared to go that fast!"

***

My childhood dog sits wagging her tail at the foot of the cherry table. Her ears point up and swivel forward as the stranger talks.

"Yellow lab?" insurance man asks.

"Ah, mostly German Shepard part yellow lab."

"She looks like a yellow lab to me."

The dog's ears swivel again on top of her head. Yellow labs have ears which flop at the sides of their heads. As a matter of fact, aside from her coat, she doesn't look like a lab at all.

"Owning a German Shepard might impact your insurance. Its lucky she's almost entirely a lab."

When did a dog safe enough for police work become a liability?

***

"So you want to learn?"

"Yeah."

He looks at me skeptically, "technically we don't do submission wrestling here if anybody asks. The administration considers it dangerous."

"A 500 year old sport is suddenly too dangerous?"

***

There is a commercial on my television paid for by the county. Its on the dangers of mosquito bites and why wearing bug repellent is important.

Honestly, I do not think there is anybody out there who wants mosquito bites. I'd also be hard pressed to believe that people don't know that bug repellent repels bugs. This commercial, however, pales in comparison to the media hype that turned swine flu, a disease less deadly than the normal flu, into what was suppose to be a worldwide pandemic doomsday scenario. The entire setup reeks of a whole society that is too hyped up over very small physical dangers.

***

My mind snaps back to the corridor. Crash is pointing to my eye still. He's told me stories about bar fights he was in, about being a national champion. I've watched him fight. Why is a little bruise such a big deal?

"What did you do?"

"It was just a mosh pit man..."

Leash

"I can't imagine it."

"No seriously," I insisted, "this kid use to party hard. He taught me how to shotgun a beer..."

A voice in the front seat laughed, "talk about a role reversal."

"I still can't imagine it."

"Well, its the truth."

"Why doesn't he do it anymore?"

"Well," a voice to my left joined in, "he has a girlfriend now, bet she's keeping him on a shorter leash."

I found myself wrinkling up my face at the thought as I crawl out of the car from the middle seat and follow my friends into the store, "That's so dumb, why would you consent to that? Doesn't she trust him? Why can't he just do his own thing..."

"Maybe she doesn't party and she's alienated by him having something she can't."

"She doesn't have to go if she doesn't like it..."

"Or maybe she just tells him no."

"I don't know why you'd consent to that..."

"Well, she IS pretty hot."

I'm at a loss here. Who am I to judge the hotness of other women? I'm not the target audience..."

"Really?" I try, "hot enough to be worth THAT?"

"Well I don't know," he says, "besides, these things are somewhat necessary you know? You can't really have a relationship without some form of..."

"No way,"

"Wait, you mean like leather leashes and kinky stuff?" another voice asks.

"She's worth it too," the first voice continues, somewhat unaware of the second, "I'd..."

"Shut up," Gadget interrupts. He doesn't want to leave the box of wires and chips he is sorting through but he very obviously doesn't want to be near us.

"What Gadget? You embarrassed by us?"

"No," he says, "you're just all very rude and loud."

***

I've got one hand out, fingers brushing the labels on the boxes of keyboards and capacitors as I walk past. I'm such a stereotype, but the simple tactile input is soothing. Rounding a corner of boxes I nearly slam into Gadget, still lost in thought. He looks at me like he's expecting me to say something now.

"I found a box of big capacitors," I inform him, "they come in bags for a dollar. You want to blow some stuff up with them?"

Gadget smiles and I show him the bin. A few seconds later we are picking our way to another part of the store for him to show me his greatest find: a small blue case with handles like a suitcase. Inside is space and a rack for mounting about 2U of server.

"Its times like this," I say, "where the part of me inside that's a little kid kills me. I just want to climb up and jump from storage shelf to storage shelf."

Gadget smiles, "Yeah, me too." Sometimes I wish he did not work for me so we could be better friends. He understands most everything about me except my outlook on romantic relationships.

"You think that's true?" I asked, "About leashes in all relationships?"

Gadget becomes absorbed in the clasps on one of the boxes.

***

"Good," Crash said, "I didn't like him."

"I don't care what you thought of us."

"Aww, come on Pikachu. He was no good for you! He wanted to control you, see? But Pikachu is wild and free, no man will ever tame her..."

***

"It's me or the team."

I'm appalled. "How can you say that? I'm changing these kid's lives, you have no idea."

"You're wearing yourself out and you're cranky at everybody. I never see you anymore."

"We'll work out a compromise..."

We did, briefly, but it wasn't really the same after that. You can't really take back an ultimatum. The day he told me he was breaking up with me he cried. For some reason I didn't, although I did later when he wasn't around.

***

I'm standing on a roof now in California, cell phone in hand.

"Its me or your work," the voice on the other end says.

Different voice, different day, same situation. I didn't even hesitate this time, "Guess I'm single then."

"I...I didn't mean that...we'll...work it out..."

***

They say fall is most beautiful in New England, but the Midwest has a charm to it too.

"You always said you wouldn't change for me, that you were 'take it or leave it.'"

"I meant...about big stuff...my volunteer work...or my job... the little stuff, I mean, who cares? That stuff is so easy..."

"No."

Maybe I overdid it.

***

I'm so glad we took the effort to clean this couch properly. I'm sprawled across it, face down, pretty much exhausted from my day, barely moving. Pacem sits on an adjacent couch. A few seconds ago he was absorbed by the game but now its commercials.

"You think that its true? That mutual leashes are a part of every relationship?

Pacem acts quite absorbed in the Honda commercial.

"You've seen this fucking commercial a hundred times."

"I can watch it again."

I hush up to ask politely, still somewhat sulking like a spoiled child, "Answer it, please."

Pacem sighs. He'll make a good doctor someday. He's very good at telling people things they don't want to hear.

"Yeah Pika, its in a little of every relationship. I think its just a fact of life."

Warrior

"Pikachu (yeah my boss actually calls me Pikachu, even in real life) can have the bed and, Gadget, there is a couch for you in the corner," my boss Crash said. He stood for a moment at the doorway of the 10 by 13 foot single room cabin, short range radio in hand. I could see the top of the semi-auto, which was across his back, over his shoulder. A flash light was secured to the top via a large quantity of unceremously wrapped electrical tape. Odds are he was going to go sit on the roof of his own cabin for a few hours sipping a beer and thinking before climbing back down to ground level, going in his cabin, and calling it a night. After the fight that weekend he had been strangely quiet and contemplative.

I remember riding down to town earlier that day in Crash's truck. Crash drove, Wafflulz rode shotgun, and I was nominated to sit in the middle due to my short stature. Jack-of-all-trades (Joat) and his girlfriend were in another truck behind us.

Joat's girlfriend had come along on this trip to the middle of nowhere, although I am not entirely sure why. The outdoors seemed a little overwhelming to her at the best of times. However, she had reached a full-fledged breaking point after falling from a raft earlier that day and being dragged under the boat by the current.

Wafflulz got out from the car to do something and I was left there sitting with Crash.

"What's she getting so upset about," I asked. The words from my mouth were more snide and condescending than actually seeking an answer, "Falling out of a raft..."

"She thought she was going to die, and she was afraid."

"Well she didn't die, and that was hours ago! What is her problem?"

"That feeling of 'I will not live through this' probably never happened to her before"

I put my feet up on the dashboard of Crash's truck and stared at my knees flippantly. "Pffft"

I'd like to be able to offer a reasonable explanation of why I talk and act like a seven year old when nobody but Crash can hear me but I don't have one. I suspect it is mostly just because I can, and because I know he will not judge me for it. It is a rare luxury.

"Not everybody's like you and me, Pikachu."

I made another moronic and immature condescending noise, "I'm not afraid to die!"

I'd never thought about it before, and it probably wasn't true, but somehow I wanted Crash to believe it.

Crash sighed, "Yes you are."

"No I'm not! I've almost died a ton of times!"

My boss smiled a little, "I use to say that too, Pikachu."

The conversation had been cut short by Wafflulz reentering the car and muttering, "They don't have it." Crash threw the truck in reverse and shortly after we arrived at a weathered brown wooden building with the words "General Store" tacked overhead. Inside they sold pretty nearly everything you would need except clothing or alcohol. The alcohol situation was taken care of next door where a tired bar stood, constructed of the same weathered planks.

We all piled out and wandered into the General Store, including the car following us which contained Joat and his girlfriend.

Some asshole slammed the door of the shop on Joat's girlfriend. Crash asked him pretty nicely (in my opinion) to be kind to her, and said she had a rough day. The kid had turned and, without warning, slugged him.

Fights almost always start over stupid things anyway...because fights are rarely about whatever happened directly before the fight. Fights are normally about at least one person wanting to start a fight.

Crash had gone easy on the 20 something kid. My boss had not tried to hurt him, but the kid had drawn a good amount of Crash's blood via the rings he wore on his hands. Head wounds bleed like nothing you would believe and the blood had obscured Crash's vision, hampering him.

"Hah!" the kid had screamed every time he used a ring to gouge another line in my boss' forehead, "Fuck you old man!"

I remember being enraged not only that this kid was cheap enough to sucker punch Crash, who was more than twice his age, but that he was so cheap that he had done it with a fist full of rings. I wanted the whole thing to stop... or slow down, anything for a second to think. Every time I've been in a fight I've been to busy saving my skin to really be scared, but I was scared now. I wanted to run in and save Crash, but I did not do it. Crash had been a national champion once. To enter the fight and "attempt to help" him would injure his pride in ways I could never hope to repair. Additionally, to be frank, I never believed for a second that Crash could possibly lose. Crash is very much like a father to me and I suppose I had been struck by some bizarre impulse to believe him invincible and immortal.

I remember feeling very torn. The flip side of me thinking of Crash like a father was that I knew he regarded me as almost a daughter. If this unbalanced brat managed to draw a drop of my blood Crash would probably lose it and start snapping the kid's bones or worse instead of trying to just pin him down and make him stop. Then again, if I won, I could make the kid stop hurting Crash so much faster.

I can't ever remember feeling like my brain worked so slowly. All I could do was watch the fight. I never thought Crash could lose, but simply watching somebody I care about being physically beaten was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I had never permitted anybody to do this to my brother. Now I just stood and watched, telling myself that this is what Crash would want me to do, telling myself that this was his fight, telling myself that he had it handled.

I remember looking over at Wafflulz, who was standing next to me on the porch of the general store. I remember being horribly jealous of him for being male and a good foot taller than me. The kid wasn't ripped, but he was built enough to do some damage if he wanted to. Crash didn't regard him as a son. He could have walked up and trounced the kid and not feared putting Crash into such a rage should he suffer a scrape. With his size and a little training he could have beaten the shit out of that kid. At that very moment I would have given anything to be Wafflulz.

I had this terrible lurking feeling that my hesitance to assist Crash was not out of consideration of his pride but a disguise for my own cowardice, and my strong desire at that moment to be Wafflulz did nothing but reinforce that fear. If I was wishing for strength, did that mean I doubted my own? Did it mean I did not fight because I was afraid?

Wafflulz stood there expressionless and watched motionlessly except to put one arm in front of me. The gesture was clear, "Stay here." Was his judgement better than mine? Should I do as he said?

This is one of those situations where indecision is a decision to do nothing. I never really decided that it was ok to leave my friend, but my failure to decide quickly meant the fight was over before I had really concluded anything.

Our faith in Crash's did not disappoint us. Despite what it felt like, in reality it wasn't too long until the kid was sauntering back to his truck. He reminded me of a frightened cat, walking at the briskest pace possible without flat out running. His head was held high, still pretending it was going this way just because he felt like it, not because he happened to want to get the hell away from Crash. He was trying to show that he wasn't scared, that he hadn't lost.

Joat had happened in on the fight half way and not immediately recognized Crash was one of the participants. I could tell he was flustered and as guilt-ridden as I was by this entire experience. His girlfriend had progressed beyond borderline hysterical into a full-fledged meltdown. Crash coolly cleaned the blood from his face and went over to comfort her, but the cuts were still bleeding and looking at him I swear you could watch the black eye forming, causing her to cry harder.

I had tried to convince Crash to tell his story to the police but his interesting childhood had helped him develop a strong distaste for for them, and I could see he was upset. Instead he left his business card and his story with a local sheriff who arrived shortly after.

We drove a small way before Crash realized his shirt was soaked in his own blood. He stopped at another town's general store, gave Wafflulz some money, and told him to buy a shirt. He did not want to arrive back at base camp covered in blood and alarm our other coworkers.

I stared at Crash's reflection in the windshield. I couldn't help but look at the fresh black eye and the cuts. I did not want to look directly at him because I knew it was important to Crash that I act like this was no big deal, and that seeing his blood soaked face and clothes did not upset me. I have never seen him so sad. It does not matter what actually happened, Crash thinks he lost.

"You totally had him!"

I blurted these words out of nowhere as if I was already in mid argument with him.

"It's too bad that coward ran away!" I finished

Crash sighed. His voice sounded distant, "I'm getting old..."

"No! You were just in it for the longer fight! Didn't you tell me how your team always won by endurance rather than brute strength? That is how you were trained!"

Crash's response was pretty half-hearted, "Yeah."

There was a long pause.

"You did the right thing Pikachu," he said at last. "A third person has no place in a fight."

I remember staring at his face in the windshield reflection wondering if he was just saying that to make me feel better.

Crash turned his face to look out the driver's side mirror, and away from me.

***

"Pikachu can have the bed and, Gadget, there is a couch for you in the corner,"

There was a definite advantage's in Crash's simple instructions. In one sentence he had completely eliminated my dilemma of whether the me claiming the better spot to sleep (I had shown up first) was me abusing my privileges as Gadget's boss or just me calling dibs.

It was just the three of us up there in the wilderness that evening. Wafflulz, Joat, his girlfriend, and everybody else had gone home a few hours ago. Gadget and I had a presentation to prepare which we had planned to spend pretty much all of Monday doing anyway, so Crash invited us to do it out in the wilderness instead of in my lab.

I picked up the box with the gun and ammo in it and moved it right up next to the cabin door, which I locked. If Crash wanted to come check on us he would radio over before hiking up here anyway. Walking over to the twin bed in the corner I tossed my sleeping bag on top of it and sprung up to sit on the side of the mattress, legs swinging in the air over the edge, just above the floor.

"Hey," I called to Gadget, "you tired yet?"

"Nah."

"Me either."

It's amazing when you find yourself repeating conversations from second-grade slumber parties in "real life." I guess it is one of my reasons for wondering if most people ever grow up at all.

So, like so many girly slumber parties from eons past, we sat up and talked with one another for hours. We talked about all manner of things which I have no right to repeat here. It isn't that the events were dirty or shameful, far from it, I just have no right to try to tell you the story of somebody else's life.

Discussions ranged from life stories and eventually into just raw philosophy.

"I think," Gadget mused, "That people can be divided up into two groups pretty easily: politicians and warriors."

I was intrigued. I knew exactly which of those things I wanted to be considered. The image of Crash covered in his own blood was still very vivid in my mind. I wanted more than anything to be told I was brave enough and strong enough to protect those important to me no matter the personal or reputation cost. Gadget had not heard of the fight yet, so in this moment of weakness, it very important to me for him to say, without any prompting from me, what I wanted to hear.

Gadget laughed a little at my sudden attentiveness.

"Pika, that's easy, you're a warrior."

I remember laying in bed that night thinking. I remember wishing that Wafflulz had held me back and stopped me from fighting. It would have removed the responsibility of making that choice from me, and the feeling of cowerdance watching a friend bleed from each punch while I forced myself to stand still. Its harder to regret your choices when you can convince yourself you didn't have any.

"You're a warrior," the words echoed in my head.

Dear God, I thought, I hope he is right.

Stolen Burrito

Two years ago, when, I was but a wee lackey at my current place of employment (not that I'm a lot more now, it just sounds cool), the summer was ending and it was time for end-of-summer final reports. All of the interns were required to do a final presentation on their summer work for department staff.

Arbor is a good guy, a good team lead, mentored me a little in digital photography, and gave me my first actually useful photoshop lessons. At that time he was a master's student. He isn't a particularly serious guy, but sometimes I think he really wasn't prepared for the circus of shenanigans that was our program. He doesn't drink, and mostly keeps to himself in his off-hours. He's relatively quiet, and normally fairly calm. I can't imagine him getting really mad enough at anybody to raise his voice significantly, let alone punch them. He's also a notoriously picky eater.

He came in early to the presentations with them and put a white plastic bag down on the desk with a thud. One of his team members pulled the handles apart and looked inside. Arbor looked at her and grinned, "they're for when we're done, I figured you guys deserved it."

"They finally get yours right?"

"Yeah," Arbor replied grinning ear to ear, "Going to be great, with this deadline I haven't had a square meal in days."

The presentations started shortly after.

If there is something I have found it is that as seriously as some government employees enjoy taking themselves outside the workplace there are other people who delight in acting as absurdly as possible behind closed doors within the system. I think enjoy the fact that it quietly ruins the "men in black" mystique and (not so) quiet sense of self-importance that attracts so many government employees despite the low wages. They could also just be clinically insane or just trolls. I'd like to hope I'm one of the latter two.

My (at the time boss') boss Crash was, classically, a little late. He walked in while most of the program was intently listening to the current presentation and sat down briefly at one of the tables, pausing for about a five count. He then stood up again, removed his sunglasses and poked around at the contents of the table by the wall. His eyes glanced over the plate of fresh fruit provided for us to eat during presentations briefly and then turned to a plastic bag next to it.

"And as you can see," the presenting intern was saying, "by varying the shutter speed of the image we can get various portions of this darkly lit room in good quality while others are either too dark or blown out. If you combine these images with this software you can gain a single composite image with all portions appropriately lit in excellent quality..."

"Ish thaf," Crash started before thinking better of it and swallowed the portion of the burrito he was eating. He then pointed to the projector screen which currently showed a sample image the intern had taken in a dark closet to prove the software. "Is that a dead body?"

"No," the intern sighed, "its a mannequin." There was a short awkward silence before he shrugged and said, "Don't ask me, I just work here."

I found that statement wildly hilarious but felt significantly bad laughing at somebody during their final presentation. Instead, I pretended to have a slight cough and turned my head away from the presenting student in a pathetic attempt at subtlety. This was how I caught sight of Arbor.

Arbor looked like a five year old who had just been told Christmas was canceled, like somebody had just killed his puppy, like Milton from Office Space asking for his stapler back. He was just staring at the food Crash was eating.

If I thought Arbor looked depressed upon his first discovery of Crash's mistaken conclusion that the burritos on that table were up for grabs like everything else, that was fairly minimal compared to the expressions Arbor made during his presentation. Crash grilled Arbor fairly ruthlessly (as was Crash's job) about all of the work he had done. I suppose that constitutes a new low: having your summer's work publicly ripped apart by your boss' boss as he eats your dinner in front of you.

Arbor was quietly upset about that burrito for some time. It isn't that he would sit around and whine about it. Instead you would catch him looking sad, and when prompted he would sigh "Crash ate my burrito." That was probably the funniest part of this whole incident. I guess it isn't in Arbor to confront somebody on something like that, so he sulked about it for weeks on end instead. I've never seen somebody to let down over a five dollar food item.

Somebody might have told Crash, but I didn't, I figured it wouldn't get Arbor back his burrito anyway. Additionally, at the point where he is upset about it a whole week later, whatever it was that upset him so much probably didn't have a whole lot to do with the burrito anyway.

So today, almost two years later, I'm having lunch with PJ and we're catching up about this and that

Pika: Did you hear about Arbor? He's a big shot now. They were flying him to Italy three weeks ago to speak at a conference.
PJ: Seems like things have worked out well for him
Pika: Did you catch him in Atlanta? He IMed me and asked for your phone number.
PJ: Yeah, we caught up
Pika: and?
PJ: We were standing on that big outdoor escalator at Georgia Dome when all of a sudden out of nowhere he said "I still can't believe Crash ate my burrito."

Poor Arbor :p