Magpie's New 5 Ton Truck

Why Magpie has been wanting to buy a 2.5 ton truck ex-military vehicle since 2006 isn't a question I can answer. All I know is he wanted one. The holdup had always been how to get the giant vehicle in an unknown condition transported home. So he sat and he lurked on government liquidation websites and craigslist waiting for the idea to come.

The truck he found on craigslist was 5 tons instead of 2.5 tons. It gets a glorious 5 miles to the gallon. A gallon of what you ask? Pretty much anything, the engine plate reads "fuel spec - all petroleum distillates up to a maximum octane rating of 85m-95r." Magpie offered $2500 on a whim, expecting to be laughed out.

The offer was accepted but the owner remained skeptical it would run without towing. It had only been driven about 15 miles since being purchased, and Magpie would have to drive it 550 miles to get home. The owner offered to send more pictures of the truck that weekend so Magpie could think this over, but Magpie had already started packing.

Magpie, Lion and CoLo drove all through the night Friday and arrived at the owner's place at 7AM, where they discovered that people don't answer their cell phones at 7 in the morning on a Saturday. Around noon they found him. The owner thought they had bailed on the offer and that they were completely crazy, but also was delighted to see them.

In Magpie's words, the owner had "a large quantity of approved lawn art and fun toys," including a lifted Jeep Grand Cherokee with big tires, a few spare transmissions and engines, a jeep c10 pickup, a stack of tires, and a jeep cj on what must have been at least 38" tires. The owner himself rolled up in yet another jeep with 56" mud tires in the back. I can understand why the two of them liked each other so much.

A few quick repairs on the military truck later the thing is ready to roll, and Magpie realized he didn't know how to drive stick, so they found a parking lot and started practicing.

Mall security was highly distressed to find Magpie with all 10 wheels and 20,000 pounds of military grade near-tank learning to drive stick in the Macy's parking lot, but didn't really seem to know what to do about it. Never to be taken for not being in charge, they had Magpie to solemnly promise to not run over anything, and permitted him to continue.

On the road home the group split up at about 10PM. CoLo had some friends to see in another city, and Lion and Magpie wanted to take the truck off-roading. Lion trailed Magpie in his vehicle to make sure he didn't break down, and promptly lost him as everybody's cell phone simultaneously stopped working. Lion arrived at the campsite at midnight, but Magpie didn't get in until 5AM because he looped back to find Lion. The whole affair was rather miserable seeing as the truck had no roof and it was absolutely pouring.

3 hours of sleep in Lion's car later they wake up, still soaking wet, to find the rain hadn't let up. Determined to still go off-roading, they demolished some trees with their 20,000 pound military cargo truck, and empirically verified how bad their turn radius was. The mirrors seemed slightly in danger of coming off, but the rest of the truck didn't seem to mind the abuse in the slightest. The military made this thing rock-solid and no frills: no roof and no muffler. Magpie drives it with earplugs.

On the road home Lion was in fine spirits, driving loops around the truck since it topped out at about 55 mph. He saw a large number of chunks of what he assumed was one of Magpie's 10 tires blowing up, but when he saw Magpie continue driving, he assumed everything was ok and didn't say anything.

Turns out Magpie had lost the air compressor belt, which took the tachometer belt with it, which took the water pump and fan belts with it, which in short order caused the truck to have zero air pressure, the alternator to stop charging the battery, and the engine to heat up. He tried to pull over, but he had also lost mechanical assistance to the brakes, and wound up more or less standing on the pedal for half a mile on the shoulder before the truck finally ground to a halt 180 miles from home. Lion was terribly amused, and Magpie wasn't.

The inside of the hood was covered with bits of belts but both the phones and the data plans were working again. An auto store, a few belts, and four gallons of coolant to top the tank off at a nice even ten later all the important bits were spinning again, and the truck was drivable the whole rest of the way home.

Come Monday morning, Magpie decides his life isn't interesting enough, and so opted to drive his new vehicle to his very respectable cube-farm of an employer where he was forced to park it across three parking spaces to fit it, but politely left enough room for the neighboring Prius to back out. He was sorry for being late, and explained that his new truck needed 15 minutes to warm up, 5 to cool down, and topped out at 55mph. One question led to another and once his boss had confirmed that Magpie had somehow managed to fit this monstrosity in the parking lot, he started laughing.

"Bet that thing is a real chick magnet!"

It was meant as sarcastic, but two girls about Magpie's age overheard the conversation and were the first to go out and see his prize. When he drove it to work a second time on Friday apparently every girl in the department came out to see it.

And that is the story of how Magpie got four hours of sleep on a weekend, bought a battle wagon, learned to drive standard, and won the attention of all the ladies.

Acquaintances and Friends

We jumped behind the rock the first time the cops came past. Black clothes, black tar, and what was steadily becoming a black rock.

When the car came around the second time Magpie was standing up but I got behind the rock in time. He ducked, and the car sat and idled what seemed like forever.

"They saw me," he said.

"Let's run for it,"

"He's going to come over here."

"Let's book it, he's not going to catch us."

"You stay here, I'm going before he sees you."

"No!"

And, before I could argue, Magpie was bounding up to the car. "Good evening officer!"

***

Sometimes the sunshine and warmth here is surreal and almost too good to be real. Three thousand miles away in a convertible I sometimes feel like I'm in a completely different world.

"Where you from?"

"Boston," Nexus grins.

"I love New England! Why'd you leave?"

He points to the sky.

"I guess."

"People are nice here, friendly."

I must have frowned.

"It's not that people out there aren't friendly, it is just I love the community here."

"I think there's a scale. There places where the norm is a broad sprawling social networks of acquaintances, and then there are people that you know will have your back when things go badly."

There are other two people in the car and they both smile a smile that says they think I'm very silly. I can't see Nexus' face. All I can think is that must have simply lived lives where they have never been in a situation where they really needed somebody to bail them out.

"I was told once the difference between acquaintances and friends is a friend is somebody who you'd feel comfortable calling at 2AM when you really need help, and who wouldn't mind such a call."

I considered that for a moment, but mostly thought of how different taking a call at 2AM was from directly approaching an annoyed police officer so your friend can get away.

"I think you'd be surprised Pika, at how many people will come to help you out when you're in trouble. You need to have a little more faith."

Fuck(, it's) the police!

Three shadows in the rafters dressed in dark clothing fall suddenly silent at the heavy footsteps below. We can see him walking two floors below us, or more we can see his flashlight at the bottom of the drop. A door closes and we hear the footsteps fade into the next room.

"Oink," one of my friends giggles, "oink oink oink!"

"This place is getting busier and busier, we may need to move on."

***

When it drizzled we all piled back into the house and under the makeshift tent, and when the sun returned we piled back out to the grills in the parking lot with fresh beers. Spirits were high; both among the partygoers and in the bottles Hammertime was using to make me another SoCo and lime.

The majority of the party did not need Hammertime's extensive bartending talents to wind up a bit besides themselves and removed from their common sense, and whoever had placed the grill under an open window on the third floor might not have had much common sense to remove. The third floor residents had never been on the best terms with the rest of unit 66 to begin with, and it wasn't too long before rumors of the police having been called on the party were flying thick as underclassmen began slinking away from the scene. I caught out of the corner of my eye Magpie vaulting up onto the railing of the first floor deck and from there onto the garage roof, bottle of whiskey in hand bolting for the pinnacle of the structure roaring "Fuck the police!" the whole way. Reaching the top he stood there, still waving the jar and screaming his head off.

It wasn't actually the police who showed up the first time but the fire department. We got Magpie down from the roof prior to that, and convinced the 20 year old carrying an illegal firearm in one hand and a beer in the other to go back in the house just prior to their arrival. Py was dispatched to greet them, and aside from the fact that he was wearing a shirt which read "Fuck politics, I just want to burn shit down," it all went rather well. He laughed and considered changing shirts after that, but decided it would be useless after the fire department already left, much to our amusement when he later had to entertain a police squad car which had found our party particularly interesting.

***

"And," the officer leans in close to Py, "Do they let you do this at home?"

Its dark outside and we're standing on a rural bystreet not too far from the university. I'm facing one cop car, and I can tell there is another behind me from my shadow. There's a third one on my left and behind the one I am facing I can see two more. Ginger, Gilby and Py aren't doing a whole ton better.

"My dad...we lit these off when I was little...I thought fireworks were a fine-able offense in this state officer...not an arrest-able one..."

The officer leans over close to Py's face and raises his flashlight, "Oh?"

They rattled us for a significant amount of time before letting us go, enough that when I woke up the next morning and put on my black robe I was still thinking a bit of them.

It is tradition that the city police line the top of the crowd the graduation procession walks through, and as I strode to pomp and circumstance I suddenly found a hand on my shoulder and upon turning, a familiar grinning face. It was the same cop from the night before.

"You're being good today, aren't you Pika?"

A flippant giggling boy from my freshman dorm was in line right behind me, "oh HER officer, she's never up to anything good..."

***

"And his hand tightened on my shoulder," I reached out and pinched Brewer's shoulder next to me at the table for effect, "and I honestly stood there and thought 'man, if I don't get my diploma out of this, the scene at my graduation will be the least of my problems' so I bolted for it."

Brewer giggled and so did the rest of his team-mates. "So," he asked, "Did he chase?"

"Nah," I laughed, "I guess he was just taking an opportunity to fuck with me, see if he could scare me. He did a damn good job I'll admit..."

Captain grinned and split his chopsticks to dig into his meal, "That's 90% of a good cop's job you realize... scaring people into behaving."

Brewer giggled a little again, "Well, looks like most of them are only good at about half of it."

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!"

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..."

Broken Mind

The street is absolutely packed. At first I was darting between the openings in it only to find that I had inadvertently dodged through several groups taking photos. Slowing down I begin skirting these events only to be caught by the photographer of one.

"Excuse me, can you take a photo of us?"

"Of course," I respond taking the camera. I hold the viewfinder up near my face and watch the last face slide into the camera.

It occurs to me that I can outrun any of these people who I am photographing, especially in a crowd. People stretch out nearly too tightly packed to move for blocks and blocks. There are easily a million people here, and almost no cops. I could take this camera and pawn it for about 100 dollars, and there would be effectively no consequences. There is literally nothing stopping me.

"Say cheese!" I smile and click a picture. "Alright, hold on, let me get a second one for you."

"You're so sweet!" the camera owner grins as I hand it back to him.

***

"Yeah I slept on the grass here my first night here before my dorm opened," he shrugged.

"Yeah, there's like no security here. You want to climb that tower?"

"What?"

"You know," I pointed to the top of the nearest clock tower, "see what's at the top."

"There's something wrong with you."

I laugh and put one hand on the back of my head and laugh, running my fingers through my hair nervously, "Oh, well I wouldn't say..."

"Those people you hang out with have broken your mind. All you see now are ways to break society."

***

When I was 17 I considered retroactively getting myself a second birth certificate under a fake name. I was going to say I was 14 (I looked young enough). With a second certificate I could get a new passport and driver's license, and from there I figured I could get anything else I wanted. I'd take the exam to get a GED, and then I wouldn't need to attend a second high school to be a credible person. It was going to be a whole second me, just in case I screwed up and really wanted to start over.

It was also because I realized how absurdly easy it would be at a young age such as that to legally speaking become two or more people. Until you are 18 there is little to no record of your existence, and few consequences for messing around are fairly small. I knew it was a very bad idea, but I was just itching to do it, just because I knew I could.

***

$57.67, got one two three of these...

I flip the checks over to sign them, then copy the amounts onto the deposit slip.

Why is a check secure? Does anybody check my handwriting? I have friends who sign their credit card receipts with stick figures and dicks and nobody ever seems to notice that. Does anybody even know what my handwriting or signature even look like? How could somebody tell if I forge it?

This thought brings me to the front of the check. How hard would it be to make a fake birth certificate, show it to the DMV to get them to print you a fake driver's license, use it to open a fake bank account, scan and photoshop the checks, print a whole series of them, and write yourself 100 dollar checks until they start bouncing. There's no real security in checks, and everything I'd need to print fake ones is on a single check.

***

"This country need stricter gun control," she says.

"Why,"

"Because people can't be trusted."

We already trust people on a very basic level. Our society is drastically insecure, and all that really keeps it going is a combination of the ignorance of some and the good faith of others to not dismantle it brick by brick despite the abundant chances around us.

***

I'm holding two silver dentist-tool like implements. The pick has a smooth handle which narrows to bulb out again into a small circle on the end. The torque bar was a thin piece of metal which was twisted into an L.

"These," Colo says, "are what I started with."

"What now?"

"Now you practice."

In the short time between Magpie's graduation and the beginning of my internship that year I learned to melt through a whole stack of masterlocks. I think if people realized how little was put into these locks they would not have such faith in them.

***

The crowds of people flow and ebb like an ocean and lap against the stairwells between wharfs. I duck from the crowd and run up a stacked pallet to jump onto the side rail of the stairway, swing over it, and then onto the back of the fence. Somebody shouts "hey" at me but I'm back into the crowd before anybody can catch me.

Funny, that fence is locked with a masterlock.

Scavengers

White two-person couch for sale. It has seen considerable wear but is still perfectly acceptable by college apartment standards...

I look over the listing for probably the fifth or sixth time. Its a sick part of me that really needs to to prove that I'm a different sort of moron from the other morons on craigslist. I'm the sort who can spell all the words describing precisely what item of trash I am overcharging you for.

I hit send and copy the ad to facebook. One down. All thats left now is the dresser, bookshelves, table, pots, pans, blender, cooking knives, desk, bed...

An IM window pops up, and the same conversation plays out again,

Friend: you're selling all your stuff?
Pika: Yeah, I'll lose less money if I just sell it all than if I pay first to store it then to ship it
Friend: Where are you going?
Pika: back to my old job for 3 months
Friend: and after that?
Pika: not sure

Its an odd feeling to walk around your home, take stock of your possessions, and try to determine which are worth carrying with you onto a plane, and what the rest is worth.

"Its just, when you buy furniture you tell yourself 'That's it. That's the last sofa I'm gonna need, whatever else happens, I've got that sofa problem handled.'"

I'm pretty ashamed to be nervous, and I'm pretty ashamed to have any sort of attachment these material possessions in that I am a little sad to see them go.

Its the next day now. Three men are standing around the white ratty old couch, considering it. I find their presence bizarre. I did not expect this to actually work.

"That's a pretty nice dresser," a different voice says at a different time today. This one belongs to a young woman standing in my home in denim shorts and flip flops with a friend. She's making light condescending conversation between noisy chomps on her bubble gum. I can tell she doesn't care much, she has already evaluated the beaten up T-shirt and shorts I'm wearing as PJs, my lack of makeup, and the fact that my room is strewn with computer guts, and decided I'm not really very worthwhile as a person.

They had already loudly informed me they attended the local liberal arts school. A lot of kids here do that, as if this will excuse them if they say something stupid later.

"So you went up the hill?" she asks, pointing at the wall of the room nearest to my former university.

"Yeah"

"What did you study?"

I stand there a split second with a momentary brain jam. What sounds light, and makes easy conversation?

"Computer Science. What do you guys study?"

"Oh," the girls giggle and look at each other, then inform me again that they attend the local liberal arts school. I wasn't previously aware that precluded having a major. There is a pause before the girl with the gum pointed to my dresser.

"Where did you get it?"

I consider for a moment trying to explain snapping my cell phone shut in the warm sunlight as I sat on top of this dresser on some city side road. The free sign formerly attached to the dresser was in my hands and my feet bare swung over the edge in the summer breeze, making little thunk thunk noises as they bounced against the wood which made up the back. I put my cell phone back in my pocket and just lay there on top of the dresser on the sidewalk enjoying the sunshine until my friends came to help me move it. I wonder if the sight of a grown woman doing that amused passers by.

I had originally planned to strip the ugly white paint off it and re-stain the exterior. The inside of the shelves showed the piece was made of nice quality wood that somebody had covered over in a bad paint job. However, the paint job was botched enough that removing it would make it look funny and I resigned to sell it for something less than the original target of $150 because of that.

Where did you get it?

The girl's bubblegum clicks loudly and I snap back to reality.

"Around," I shrugged. It doesn't matter that my answer doesn't make sense because the girl did not honestly care what I had to say. This is the art of small talk. You should hear some of the absurd things I say when people's minds go on autopilot and try to have these idle meaningless chats with me. God knows they never do. The girl just hands me my money and walks off with her new furniture.

I look at the 20's in my wallet and I wonder how far this money will go toward re-buying new replacement belongings when the time comes for me to have them again. I realize I have no grasp for what my belongings are actually worth. I know what replacement ones cost new in a store, I know what competitors would sell the items I sold for, and I have a pretty good estimation of what people will pay for them, but I have no real grasp to their actual value. This is because I took them from a curb where they had no value. My discussions with buyers have given the items a potential value. Sometimes the illusion is strong enough for money to change hands. If, instead of having a discussion, I was to put them back on the street they would have no value again.

I took one microeconomics course in college. I should have taken more. I remember being taught that items are worth precisely whatever people will pay for them but it had never previously struck me quite on this level.

I wander around my home. When was the last time I bought something? I got a laptop for 200 dollars in December. I paid money to get a desk, a table and some cooking supplies the April prior to that.

For the past few years I have lived a very simple life in the anxious anticipation of a real job which would afford me new clothes (which are the one thing I have not mastered salvaging) and the privilege of turning the thermostat as high as I dared in the winter. I cook most of my food from scratch on a rotating meal plan with some friends. The time spent making meals on your night from scratch is offset by not having to cook more than 1/3rd of the time. We make most things ourselves when we need them: shelves, desks, whatever.

I live a very comfortable life. My house is full of belongings. All of them are scavenged from the streets or dumpsters. Nobody can tell, as a matter of fact I did not realize I was living almost purely off of other people's trash until today. Sometimes I polish it up and sell it, and sometimes I live using the object for a few years before I sell it.

I realize now that I never realized how good I had it, that I enjoy this lifestyle, and that if I had paid a little more attention to things here and there that I could have easily lived with both of those things which I wished for and lacked.

There's an email in my inbox from a news reporter who met Magpie and me at a swapmeet where Magpie was selling some very high power RF equipment scraps. He pulled them with some friends from an item they bought on craigslist. If they sell a single piece of the item it will cover the cost he bought the whole thing and leave us lots of scrap to, in the worst case play with, and in the best case sell as well. He already has interested buyers for two chunks. The reporter is fascinated.

The fact of the matter is, I live a very good quality of life due to other people's trash, both using it and making a profit off it.

I walk up to the edge of Magpie's room, head full of thoughts, rounding the corner lean against the doorjam. Magpie is happily typing away at his keyboard on a large home-made desk which covers much of that corner of the room. He faces three identical LCD monitors which he does his work on: all of them taken from dumpsters with bad power supplies and repaired. A fourth monitor which was unrepairable hangs from his ceiling facing down as a work lamp. If there is anybody who epitomizes this lifestyle, it would be him. Magpie bought his car off craigslist for a very small sum. We spend long weekends wandering the junk yard pulling out scraps to bring home. You can call us nuts, you can tell us that our time is worth money and we're not actually saving anything, but I am not sure I will believe it anymore. For one thing all of us work on salary. Secondly, I'm pretty sure that if we were not living like this we'd be buying stupid expensive gizmos to play with and clogging our homes with them instead of ripping things from the trash and making them useful.

Its hard to explain how I live. I guess Atom summed it up best when he called us "The Techno-Amish." Instead of getting together for a barn-raising, notes go out over the IRC channel for an event to replace Ginger's brake lines. We carpool up to the swap meets, many people split the costs of projects. This life would be nearly impossible to live this life outside a community such as this.

My mind flickers back to the image of the girl in the flip flops and the bubble gum before she left with her new belongings. Chomp.

"The shelf is light. I'm not big and the third floor apartment..."

"My new apartment is on the 3rd floor too!"

Sometimes I feel like I don't even know how to hold a conversation anymore.

There is a slight pause before she says, "You planned pretty far ahead when you bought this stuff I guess then."

I smile politely.

A week later I'm hauling down the freeway riding shotgun in a 10 foot UHAUL with the California sun on my face.

Tha-bump.

The UHAUL bounces over a pothole and everything in the back shifts. Among other things it contains four couches, a desk, and a dresser.

"Not a bad haul," I say, looking at the driver.

Supplies grins, mindful of the steering wheel in his hands.

My phone lights up with a text from Pacem, "Pika, you're a star. I'm buying you drinks."

In the first day we got that load and a second load which contained a leather couch, two tables, five chairs (three leather), a small end table, and a nice footrest that matched the couch and the chairs. All it cost was the 130 dollars it cost to rent the UHAUL. Saturday we plan to go out again, after all, we do have to furnish four houses for free.

Really though, not a bad haul at all.

Busted

I've been attending to other matters but out of the corner of my eye I'm minding the table.

A blond girl with a beach bag of a purse approaches the table from the wrong angle to be coming off the table where you assemble a burger. She takes her soda from the table, then throws it in the bag, then a second. Emboldened by her success she grabs another one in each hand and begins moving them to her bag.

"What are you doing?"

The girl is cool as she keeps pocketing more sodas, "Our hotel doesn't have a soda machine, I'm stocking up. You know what I mean..."

"No, I don't."

The girl turns red and keeps taking the sodas "I'm just taking a few." She's probably taken at least 8.

"Stop."

"I'm just getting them for my team!" The girl is shouting now, "I don't know why you care!"

I stare at her for a moment. She takes one last defiant soda and stalks off in the opposite direction. Honestly if I cared about the girl I would have made her give them back, but I honestly was too pissed to care if she learned a lesson or not from all this. I have enough kids of my own that want to be taught for me to take on more that don't even want to change their ways.

Looking back on it though, I probably did that kid a disservice. Success only makes you bolder.

The next few kids try to take two sodas just to prove they can. I roll my eyes and give them a hearty "You're pathetic" look. Kids rarely respond to adult's rage, but anybody who ever survived middle school should know that people drop dead if you can combine disdain with any inner source of their guilt.

"Don't be such pigs."

One kid who already has two sodas in his hand takes them to prove he's not scared of me, but the line goes back to one a person after that.

I guess that's the latest and greatest in the American way. If you get busted, pretend you're right, and if pressed, its the messenger's fault. After all, we're all delicate and unique snowflakes right? Being wrong might hurt somebody's ego.

What I find most impressive was that these kids were also jacking what I personally thought to be some pretty nasty soda. When was the last time you saw high schoolers buy fruit seltzer?

***

Once when I was in Hong Kong I was on the subway with about 20 non-native kids from my university when in walks a little girl and her mother. The child is holding her mother's hand by the thumb. I smile and wave at her. The little girl looks at me for a long moment and then says to her mother in Cantonese, "Look mommy, there's a devil here."

Chinese body language is so subtle compared to ours, but I don't see any visible reaction from the mother. She instead walks to a hand loop and puts her arm in as she guides her daughter to a cherry red pole to hold on to so she can weather the movement of the train.

"Mommy," she continues still in Cantonese, "There are so many devils here."

There's not hatred in this little girl's voice. The sentence wouldn't have sounded a whole lot different if it had read "There are so many chairs here." She continues her ramble, but her speech is becoming progressively more complicated and I have trouble following it.

"Mommy, I have never seen so many devils together here."

I feel bad calling out a little girl, so I sit quiet and turn to smile at her.

"Devil's looking at me!"

By this time we're all looking at each other, and a few of us are chuckling nervously. We had read how in Hong Kong the language barrier meant that racial slurs had just become part of the language. If somebody started calling me names in America I might fear for my physical safety but here there was supposedly no need to fear. We had all read that this wasn't culturally meant as a serious insult, and that it carried no threat of harm, but we all felt a little awkward being cursed out and not knowing what the socially acceptable thing to do about it would be.

"Devil's are laughing!"

I remember looking around the train for any sort of social cue at all but everybody on the train, including the kids from Hong Kong University who were helping us learn our way around, were avoiding our eyes. For a brief few seconds I could hear every clatter of every wheel on the train track. The little girl turned away from us and was quiet.

I remember being very impressed that the mother seemed to share in the shame she thought her daughter should feel rather than ignoring its existence or handing it all back to her kid. What I found more bizarre was that everybody on the train seemed to share the kid's shame, like one bizarre cold shoulder of an apology. Oddly enough, the shared guilt which created this neat little line between "us" and "them" was more alienating than being called names in some sense.

Half in defiance, and half from not knowing what else to do with ourselves, being called out as "ghosts" after that became a sick little game. I would wait until somebody went on a reasonable rant calling me a ghost and a devil, and then turn and respond in my politest Cantonese, "yes."

The response was always the same. The speaker would always look away in shame, and sometimes even apologize in Cantonese a few times. Apparently most white people didn't learn to speak any Cantonese there, so they were not use to being caught. I was amazed though that none of them ever got in my face about it, they just acted embarrassed.

Where did our society lose that skill of admitting we are wrong when we are?

***

"And," the officer leans in close to Py, "Do they let you do this at home?"

Its dark outside and we're standing on a rural bystreet not too far from the university. I'm facing one cop car, and I can tell there is another behind me from my shadow. There's a third one on my left and behind the one I am facing I can see two more. Ginger, Gilby and Py aren't doing a whole ton better.

"My dad...we lit these off when I was little...I thought fireworks were a fine-able offense in this state officer...not an arrest-able one..."

The officer leans over close to Py's face and raises his flashlight, "Oh?"

"Look," I interrupt, "Officer, we're sorry and we have given you everything. Please let us go."

The officers tried hard to rattle us after that and we pretended to be appropriately terrified of jail time or not graduating or whatever they were theatening at that moment (for portions of it, I'll admit, I did not have to pretend). Then they took our fireworks and left. I remember being thunderstruck. All they wanted to see was a little fear in us, scare us into saying sorry and hopefully into not doing it again.

***

"So what happened then?" I asked.

"Not a whole lot," Magpie shrugged, "The kid who ratted got suspended for a year, the kid he ratted on just went on academic probation."

"But I though that was part of his plea...he turns in his cohort and..."

"Guess the campus hearing board didn't feel that way for very long. Ratter didn't apologize in his closing statements, CoLo did."

"And that made..."

"All the difference I guess."

Firing Squad Society

"You don't have any complicated ethical issues with working on military projects do you?"

"No," I lied, adjusting the hem of my blue interview dress shirt. Somebody in my position doesn't have the privilege to throw interviews. I figured I would make the best pitch I could and then untangle my ethics privately if somebody handed me an offer letter later.

My interviewer stretched out in his chair. He was in his mid-thirties with a wide face and a nice smile. He had bravely served his country for 9 years of active duty before leaving the army to become an engineer.

"I don't have any issue with it myself, I'm a military man, but I know some people do, so I just wanted to ask."

I nodded. There didn't seem to be much else to say.

"If it makes you feel any better," he continued, "a lot of people here say they sleep better when they realize that we don't actually make the bombs, we just make the auto-targeting and delivery systems for them. The actual explosives are manufactured elsewhere."

There was a pause.

"You see, you're not actually killing anybody at this job."

***

Firing squads are a detail of normally five shooters with guns. They are selected to execute a criminal by shooting this criminal at approximately 20 feet away. To help them hit their target a doctor locates the heart of the person being executed and pinning a target on the shirt just above it. The person being executed is normally tied down to a chair.

It is a tradition that one of the shooters be secretly given a gun with a blank in it instead of a gun with a live round. The shooters are aware that one of the rounds is a blank but nobody knows who has been given the blank.

Obviously the odds are incredibly bad of you having the blank bullet. However, the tradition purportedly exists for the purpose to help the conscious of the people who are charged with the task of the execution.

It is also worth noting that the firing squad as a method of execution in criminal cases has all but been outlawed entirely in America. This is, allegedly, because of the number of cases where being shot by four men with 30-30s aiming at a target pinned over your heart from 20 feet away was proving to be not immediately fatal.

I find that pretty impressive personally. Even if you don't quite hit the heart there are still a number of important organs near the heart which dislike hot lead in them enough to kill a person immediately. Modern firearms are more than sufficiently accurate even in rather amateur hands to hit a target 20 feet away.

I am never one to underestimate the stupidity or incompetence of humanity but I am pretty sure in this particular case it is because people have issues killing a person point-blank like that and flinch when they pull the trigger. If you look at the entire setup it is designed around easing the conscious of the executioners (the blank, the fact that in most cases the criminal's face is obscured). It is also designed to make it difficult for a single person to not shoot and feel like they make a difference. When all of the executioners fire at once the last person is left with an overwhelming feeling that the group is firing anyway and that their single choice to fire or to not fire is insignificant.

Essentially, people are dragged into doing things they do not want to do by two illusions: one is the inevitability of the outcome, and secondly is the concept that they, against all odds, are the ones holding the blank, that their efforts are not what did the killing.

***

Same shirt, different day. God knows I'm too broke to have in my possession much of a repertoire of interview clothing.

"You specialize in embedded systems?" the interviewer asked.

"Robotics in particular."

"That's wonderful, we're in need of an engineer for an embedded system for one of our projects."

"Oh?"

"Yes, we need an auto-pilot system to bring pilots to and from their battlefields in the dark."

"And they can't use radar?"

"They are very tired."

"I see."

We chat idly for a few minutes before I pretend to take a re-emerging interest in the project I'd be assigned to.

"About how many g's of force can this system handle?"

"Hrm," my interviewer said, "I think 15 or 20...not sure."

I was floored. I have never heard of a fighter jet pulling more than 9. If wikipedia is to be believed 16gs for a full minute can be fatal.

I looked at the man who I was speaking to and remembered thinking that this man had to be the most willfully ignorant man alive to possibly believe there was any sort of human cargo aboard this vessel. It seemed horribly obvious to me that they were simply designing auto-pilot software which somebody later would integrate into a missile.

My interviewer looked at me quizzically. "What's wrong?"

***

Vex Victim walked along the booths at the conference admiring various creations lined up along the tables. The TALON table naturally drew a crowd.

Vex was in a sense representing the school and so somewhat on his best behavior. He started up an average conversation at the TALON table which eventually turned to

"So does this...military stuff ever bother you?"

"Well," the engineer said, "When you think about it, we just make the robots. What people choose to do with it is their issue."

Vex was speechless for a long second.

"You built a gun on the front!"

***

I'm not here to tell anybody what is or is not an ethical way to live their lives. There are many noble aspects to military work and I have nothing but respect for the selfless sacrifices made of soldiers. Seems a shame that we live in a world where the only people selfless enough to live for anything more than being wrapped up in themselves are statistically the most likely to die. Guess it explains a lot about our society.

Military work has brought us many achievements in science which were pushed through the government funding which was made available to the military. Our road systems, the Internet, and many other things are thanks to the military. If you want to advertise to me that this is why you are doing it I may not partake but I am wholly unlikely to get in your face about it.

But you can go to hell if you're going to look me in the eye and tell me that's not what you're doing. That's an insult to your intelligence, an insult to my intelligence, an insult to the people you will kill, and a slap in the face to whatever God you believe in that you are intentionally doing something you believe is wrong and justifying it by telling yourself it isn't happening. How can you claim to have any sense of morals at all if you simply throw out all the facts which you personally find inconvienent to your life?

***

"Hung over pancakes" are a proud tradition in my house. We don't let anybody drive drunk so we just lay out sleeping bags and pillows on the floor and by the end we have a slumber party. Then the next morning either Magpie or I, depending on who gets up first, makes pancakes.

I stumble in and sit myself down in Magpie's desk chair which has been rolled into the kitchen to make up for our insufficient seating.

Krill takes one look at my face, laughs, and passes me a plate of pancakes. "Morning sunshine."

Somebody pours me a glass of orange juice and I drink it slowly. I'm not really a morning person.

"You alright?" Magpie asks.

"Just thinking..."

"'Bout what?"

"Firing squads."

I guess its a testament to how early it was in the morning or the tolerance of my friends that everybody just accepted this fact and quietly enjoyed their pancakes for a moment.

"Has anybody here ever fired blanks from a gun?"

"Yeah," Hammertime replies as she passes me the maple syrup.

I take the bottle and begin pouring syrup on my food, "Does it kick differently than a live round?"

"Yeah."

"Really differently? Like you can tell the difference?"

She nodded, "You'd really have to want to believe you were firing the other to confuse the two."

We're All Adults Here

[So...big pause...I'm working on a large-thought post...hope to finish it later this week. Not that it will be especially profound, those posts are just a lot more time consuming.]

My brother, Isaac, has come to visit today.

He's going to community college next year. He keeps asking me what I think of that, and I keep saying "whatever makes you happy man." It kills me a little that he's talking about considering going to community college for English. If you're going to piss away four years of your life on a useless degree at least do it in a pretty location with some good drinking pals...get the full experience. God knows Mom would spring for it.

"He's not ready to go so far afield." Mom says.

Far afield? The school in question is right next to my high school...and not more than an exit from the middle school he attended at the time. He went that far every morning then...why not now?

"Well, I'm going to take Mom's advice," he says.

Ugh.

Its several hours later now, he's standing in my kitchen. Gilby is wandering around making dinner. We have come to a truce in some sense, I think everybody has calmed down since his move-in and found a little common ground. I'm cooking a vat of plain pasta for my brother, who is strolling around the kitchen venting his excitement by fluttering his arms and hands as he walks, grinning to himself.

"You want some sauce for your pasta?" Gilby asks him.

I find myself answering on my brother's behalf before he does, "No, he doesn't like that, he likes it plain."

"Maybe...some pasta sauce from a jar then if he doesn't like mine?"

"No, he eats things plain, he's like Hannalore."

Gilby grins a little, "There are more people like Hannalore?"

"Yup."

We share a few minutes of comfortable silence as the grease bubbles on the stove and my brother paces. I can't help but compare my brother and Gilby. Gilby may be immature and stupid but I still think of him as my peer in some sense, which is probably why I give him such a rough time on all his flaws.

"When's your birthday Gilby?"

Gilby looks up from a pan of hot greese and steak bits to tell me.

"Huh," I said, "Hey Isaac, you're twins with Gilby, what do you think of that?"

Gilby smiled, "Yeah, but not the same year."

"Guess again."

Isaac is pretty excited by this. "What time of day?" he asks. Gilby doesn't know, and this frustrates Isaac. I drain his pasta and begin serving him a portion.

"I can do it myself," Isaac informs me and takes the tongs and plate for himself.

Oh...yes...of course. I stutter mentally. I can't treat him like this, after all, would I ever serve Gilby his pasta? I'd tell him to get his lazy ass up to the stove and do it himself.

I watch Isaac, quietly marveling how much his coordination has improved. He use to be unable to throw and catch a ball. A physical therapist would throw and catch with him for hours. First she would roll a ball to him on the ground which he would capture and return. It was ages before he could catch it in the air himself. He found it infuriating. My parents would bribe him with candy and anything his heart desired to get him to keep trying. I remember running in front of him and catching the ball instead, hoping to get the same amount of praise. It didn't quite work like that.

I've never regarded my brother as disabled. I have, since a very young age, always known he was different, but it had been ages since I had compared him to anybody. I avoid it normally, try to take him as he comes.

I find that he is older than the high school kids I coach, and yet requires more care and supervision. I find that my middle school sister is beginning to overtake him in many ways, and that it is growing far easier to bond to her than to him.

You can't treat him like a normal person. If a normal person talked to me with the same ignorant narrow-minded black-and-white view of the world I wouldn't hang out with them. Depending on my mood I'd probably also tell that person off too. Personal beliefs aside, its pretty difficult to hold conversations with somebody who has, medically speaking, pretty much no sense of subtlety.

Yet, to not take my brother's words and thoughts seriously, to shrug it off as simply as an artifact of a medical condition, is to not take him seriously as a peer who requires my respect as a fellow human being. He can sense when I do this, and it infuriates him. After all, what right do I have to treat somebody only three years younger than myself as a child?

I'm almost positive both of us have expressed at some point in our lives, although never directly to each other, that we wish he simply needed a wheelchair instead. It would be so much easier on so many levels.

I'm telling Gilby and Isaac the story of the bar fight in the pancake house by this point.

"So we're in this pancake place...nice middle aged lady is our waitress...kinda heavset...wears a red checkered apron, big smile, calls you dear, asks you if you want gravy on your gravy..."

"Gravy on your gravy?" Isaac asks. "What about your food?"

"Its..." I pause, "you know the sort of place I mean. The place where everything comes with gravy."

"Ice cream?"

"Well...uh...not everything."

"She's evoking an archetype," Gilby said. He paused for a second. "How do you prounounce that?"

"Ar-keh-type," I responded.

My brother grinned. We were now discussing true and false statements, which is a favourite topic of his, "Yup! That's right!"

I nodded and continued my story, "So, there we are...and one of my friends...this kid is probably the whitest guy I know..."

Gilby grins and nods his head to my brother, not putting down his food, "Whiter than him?"

"I'm actually really pleased with my tan this summer," Isaac chirps excidedly.

Gilby starts cracking up.

"That's not quite what I meant," I said, looking at my food.

Isaac is puzzled, "What then?"

I put a chunk of meat in my mouth to chew to buy myself some time. We can make jokes at our own expense...I mean...we're all adults here...right?

Gilby, for once in his life, seems to be catching on. "Its another archetype."

We finished our meal and cleared the plates. My brother is thrilled. I can tell this meant a lot to him, and that he had a really good time. I walk him downstairs and let him out, then come back upstairs to help Gilby clear.

"Hey, thanks for..."

Gilby cuts me off with a laugh, "No, thank you for not being like your brother."

I feel like a total asshole but I laugh anyway. It definately is a relief when people acknowledge that we're not alike.

"Your brother has white-person syndrome...doesn't he?"

"What?"

"He's Asperger's."

I start cracking up again. It isn't even that funny, I'm just massively relieved.

"He's gone right?" Magpie pokes his head out the door of his room.

"Yeah," I said.

Magpie shakes his head, "You two are so mean."

"Aww come on," Gilby smiles, "We're all adults here..."

Broccoli

"But, Anne" my uncle asked looking quizzically at my mother across the dinner table as we ate, "you hate broccoli."

My mother was strangely upset by this. She pointed at me and said with a raised voice, "I've been eating broccoli all her life to set a good example for her, and telling her that I like it, and smiling through the whole thing."

I remember being approximately 10 at the time and thinking that that was a silly way to go about things. If my mom really wanted to teach me a lesson about healthy eating she should have told me that she hated broccoli but ate it anyway because she knew it was good for her. I thought that would have been a lot more relevant a lesson for me, given my mother's cooking. The whole of it wasn't a very big deal to me though.

At this point I remember being woken from my thoughts by a significant shouting match between my mother and my uncle. Looking over across the table I saw my two cousins who were present, my brother Isaac, and my infant sister, all of them younger than me. I was thinking that this was somewhat of a silly thing to get so upset about, and that this probably constituted a far worse example than having a personal distaste for vegetables. I guess it takes a hell of a bratty 10 year old to be mentally condescending to adults, but I've never been a particularly nice or polite person anyway.

The next day we had the bane of my existence: freeze dried peas with carrot cubes, corn, and lima beans. I suppose none of those items would be so terrible of themselves, it was more they had been frozen together in one bag and the soupy water which emerged from the microwave reheating process and coated everything. It always tasted to me just like too many colors of paint mixed together looked: not unlike puke. I was careful not to protest, seeing as my mother had apparently suffered for 10 years with broccoli and was quite bitter about it, I figured my requests would fall on deaf ears.

The day after that was broccoli again but my mother had a bowl of the leftover frozen vegetable mishmash. I remember getting caught glancing at it.

"I don't have to eat broccoli because I don't like it," my mother snapped defensively.

My grin must have given me away as I eyed her bowl eager to file away that logic for the next meal I didn't like. She puffed up like a cat or a bird trying to look bigger than it is and glared at me a little.

"I can do that because I'm an adult."

That is, for the record, one of my least favourite excuses ever.

My mother is still very bitter that my uncle ever let on that she doesn't like broccoli. So bitter in fact that I have, on numerous occasions, forgotten that this incident ever happened only to later be reminded of it when my mother complains about it. I'm probably not going to ever understand that.

I cook with broccoli from time to time now, but it is always in something. Stir fry is the usual candidate for this. My mother always served the broccoli plain and soggy from steaming, not even with butter. This is another thing I'll never understand. Almost all vegetables can be dressed up and made tolerable if you put the effort in and can stand spices. Perhaps the fact that we ate everything plain in my house growing up has something to do with my brother, or perhaps mom never really learned to cook. Maybe its a little of both.

The steamed broccoli on the stove looked odd today at first and I stood there for a moment staring at the chunks, almost not recognizing what they were, before adding a portion to my bowl.

"I don't think I have had broccoli in years," I said, "like I think last time I had it was high school."

Magpie looked up from his bowl, "You don't like it?"

"Nah, its alright. It probably just says something odd about my eating habits."

"Pretty sure I've had dishes where you cooked it."

"Guess I haven't eaten it plain in some time."

Oddly enough the broccoli was probably the highlight of the meal. Its not to say Magpie can't cook: far from it, it is simply that I have been eating almost exclusively sandwiches and things which can be ordered via phone for delivery to my lab for the last week. At some point the grease just gets to you. You miss fresh fruit and vegetables. Sometimes you don't even know you miss them until you have them again. Apparently I missed supposedly boring, flavorless, steamed broccoli enough to go back for seconds on it.

Everybody always says that as you get older you grow more like your parents. This is a concept I'm uncomfortable with on many levels. Somehow, in that sense, I find eating plain broccoli, (which I find a bit boring and slightly unpleasant but quite tolerable) very comforting. Its purely symbolic and has no real bearing on anything. However, its one of those pleasant reminders that we are all individuals with wills of our own to be what we choose to be, and not necessarily victims to the same shortcomings as our parents, or mindless automations crafted by our circumstances.

Surprise! You've Got a New Housemate!

"Oh, and Gilby moving in tomorrow," Hannalore added yesterday afternoon as she walked past my room.

"Uh...who is Gilby?"

"He's replacing you on the lease."

"I'm paid up until June..."

"Oh, well he is going to live in our living room during May, then he is going to live in your room."

"Uh...were you going to tell me?"

Hannalore looked at me fairly quizzically, "I just did."

You may think Hannalore is the resounding jackass of the century but the reality is she is not. She has a fascinating cocktail of neurological issues, a few of which overlap with my brother's, but she is not nearly as severe. This helps me understand her a little and sometimes translate her issues to the other housemates.

The bottom line is she lives in a totally different world than the rest of us. There are many things about her we will simply never be able to sympathize with: for example, she can not stand physical contact with other human beings in any form. It bothers her deeply. She is one of the most absurdly picky eaters I have ever met. I can probably count all of the food items she will eat on my fingers. These things are just how she was wired when she was born.

Just like we find her bizarre and alien, she finds us bizarre. Everything she does makes perfect sense to her. If you ask her she can even explain it to you in ways that make sense if you can accept her base premises. In her world we are the irrational and bizarre ones. I suppose if you didn't have a sex drive sex would sound pretty bizarre to you too wouldn't it?

The name I use for her here, Hannalore, comes from the Questionable Content character. Its a humorous (and hopefully not considered mean) reference to the fact that another part of her "abnormal wiring" is the fact that she is clincally OCD.

Our common method of communication is logic. Basically we both assert the premises by which we live our lives and then explain the logic which makes us feel the way we feel about things. In this way we can resolve disagreements.

This has its ups and downs. One of the major benefits of this is as long as I can explain to her just why something she didn't like happened, and why it won't happen again, she's pretty much ok with it no matter what it is. For example, the first time she met Magpie, our other current housemate, he had accidentally woken her up by drunkenly stumbling into her room (thinking it was the bathroom) and accidentally ripping the doorknob off the door. I'm a pretty tolerant person but Magpie is a pretty big guy and looks rather intimidating until you learn he wouldn't hurt a fly. But if I didn't know him and he had wandered into my room very drunk? I would have punched him and then run. Hannalore was pretty ok with this situation under the condition that I promised to show everybody where the bathroom was previous to bringing out the alcohol at parties.

The downside of her being like this is from time to time she does things which upset me greatly without having the faintest idea of why I am upset.

When she had found Gilby off some department mailing list and announced he would be replacing me when I left...I thought little of it. After all, I would never live with him right? If my current housemates wanted to live with some total stranger from the internet, they were adults, that was their choice, and I wasn't going to question it. Now, however, Gilby was my problem too. A quick call to Magpie (who was on a camping trip/picking up more crap to put in his room trip I had to skip due to finals) confirmed that he was also not expecting Gilby.

"He can't live here," I said, coming back out of my room and finding Hannalore.

"Why not?"

"He hasn't signed papers. The landlords wil be angry."

"Can he put his things here?"

"No"

"Why?"

"Where would he put them?"

Hannalore paused a moment. "I hadn't thought of that."

Bright and early the next morning the doorbell rang and I rolled over and rolled my eyes. Of course. I had explained my issue to Hannalore as "the landlords won't like it" and "we don't have space." She had, like always, taken me completely literally and probably resolved both those issues herself. She was not going to be able to read the meaning behind my words of "I don't want him here."

Wandering down the stairs I pulled the door open and found a tall dark-haired young man holding a printer in a box.

"So, you're moving in now?"
"Yeah."

"Uh..." I stammered, feeling like all of this was getting a bit out of hand and also struggling to remember what the kid's name was, "How is that going to work?"

Hannalore was standing over my shoulder, "I took care of everything. He's going to store his belongings in my room, I cleared a space. He's also going to live in my room during May as soon as finals are done. I'll be leaving as soon as finals are done so I won't need the space. When June comes and you leave he can move into your room.

"...and...you're going to pay?" I asked. Both of them nodded.

A part of me just wanted to scream and stamp "No," but I am quite short on cash right now due to being both a college student and employment impaired. Additionally, if I upset him too badly I would be screwing my current housemates out of a lot of money next year while they paid for my empty room. Besides, he didn't seem too overly creepy.

We cleared him a space in a storage area and he put his printer in it. We also gave him some keys.

"Do you guys drink?" he asked.

"Yeah, sometimes."

"Do you have a bucket?"

"What?"

"In my dorm, we had a bucket. His name was Mr. Bucket."

There didn't seem to be anything good to say in response to that.

Gilby wandered our house for a little while after that, belittled the sanitation of our kitchen, and left. We saw him again at about 6PM. He said he would be back at about 7 with a friend or two who was helping him move in. At about 8:15 he and the better chunk of a freshman floor arrived and situated themselves in my living room. They commented on how small my home was, and how ideal the back porch was for smoking weed. They then left with the living room mostly unnavigatible due to his stuff.

Gilby returned shortly later and sat himself down on the couch. I asked him to please put his stuff in the storage space he gave him so we could walk around the living room. He made fun of how I keep my room. I gave him wifi access. He complained about the bathroom being dirty. He then started eying the alcohol in the refrigerator.

"Can I have some?"

Normally I answer "yes" automatically but he seemed a little too excited about it and his perpetual whining was beginning to eat at me. "Um, if you pay me back for it."

Gilby wandered the house for a moment and retrieved a shotglass with the school insignia on it. "How much of it can I have of the Smirnoff for five dollars?"

"Um...well...a whole bottle is about 20...so you can have a quarter of it."

"Great" he said, emptying the five dollars from his wallet in my hands. He then removed the vodka from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table to pour himself a shot. I watched silently.

"Man, this stuff is QUALITY, you can see how much better is is than Gilby's just in the glass."

I remained quiet, trying to be expressionless.

"Gilby's," he announced, "Is like State vodka, but its cheaper. You don't want to try it I think."

I nodded and then returned to my room to study for finals. At least he had a nickname now. About 10 minutes later he wandered into my room still holding the bottle of Smirnoff. "Have I had my quarter?" he asked.

"Uh," I said trying to be perfectly fair, "you probably have one shot left."

"Awesome!" he grinned.