Dress Up

There's a new girl with purple hair here handing me a ukulele. "Do you know how to play?"

"No," I take it anyway and imitate her in picking out the guitar opening to 'Brown-eyed-girl.' It's a shame Ginger and Giraffe aren't here, they fucking hate this song.

Enron lags a little behind us, smartphone pressed against his face, one finger from his other hand covering the opposing ear, "No Jason, that isn't what we agreed to..." He's interviewing a candidate at noon just as we finish lunch, and discussing the results of it with his peers as we wander the next beach. He's got somebody calling him to schedule an appointment during the car ride home, and when we get back to the Torii he paces the front lawn working out the details.

"It's alright," Kaleidoscope laughs, "I looked at Nexus, I realized what a CEO was, and I knew exactly what I was getting in to when I decided to date him."

He's on the phone a few weeks later in the park, and he's huddled over his laptop while Kalei(doscope) and I are enjoying a beer. I'm not about to tear into Enron for being so involved in his work. He's as happy a person as any of us, and this is what he would do for fun anyway.

***

"I can't fucking believe this."

DC giggles and covers the microphone on the radio, "Hush a minute, we can't swear on the radio."

I can hear Sid's voice over the crackle through the radio, "You guys will never make it in that car..."

"Well if it's got to die, right in front of the dorms isn't a bad place..."

"WY1HBT here," the radio chirps, "I got this covered."

"Who's that?" I ask my carmates.

DC grins, "Whacker."

A few minutes later Whacker rolls up in an oversized truck grinning from ear to ear. There's a yellow lightbar bolted to the top of the truck, and seems like he just couldn't be more excited to be jumping the car.

"What's with him?"

"He's proud to be saving the day."

***

If I had known it was going to be this sort of party I probably would have tried to find some less ratty jeans to wear. The bar is full of people who believe they are slick and sophisticated. It is somewhat amazing to watch the similarities between people flirting and explaining their business plans to one another. I can watch streams of my contacts interact with one another from the balcony, and they all believe they're very important and influential.

***

"Yeah," he says taking a drink, "You see a lot of stuff."

"We had a sophomore come up with doll-eyes a few weeks ago."

"Oh for the love of CHRIST," CoLo looks exasperated, "No more EMS talk at parties!"

***

"It's like playing dress-up,"

We're back in the Torii parking lot, watching Enron pace around on his phone, and Kalei is giving me a very puzzled look. "But it's real..."

"That doesn't mean they're playing any less!"

I can watch Kalei trying to be very very patient with me.

"It's all just games. It's no different from when we were small and pretending to be important, except that, as a side effect of pretending for so long, some of these people actually made it real. That isn't the point, though, because they're still just playing. They don't do all this theater because it's needed. They do it because they love it, because they enjoy being the important person they dreamed of more than they enjoy the actual tasks of the job."

Kalei laughs, "Maybe we should get him a pretty princess hat..."

Meet Pacem

"You want to come over later?" I ask Carne, "we're throwing a party."

"What's the occassion?"

"It's some kid's birthday..."

"Do I know this guy?"

"No, technically I don't either. He's one of the new kids in the program. Actually, I'm not even sure its his birthday. I just want a really good excuse to throw a party."

There's a pause. I can't see her face over the phone but I know exactly what expression she's making.

"So, you coming?"

Hilariously enough, she met her current boyfriend at that party.

***

"So," I ask the blond kid who just walked in the door, "you normally go by Xenu?"

He stares at me, "what? Oh! My facebook! Yeah, I like messing around with that..."

I start cracking up and hand him a drink, "Well, happy birthday stranger."

"Birthday?" he's laughing too now, "oh yeah! Today IS my birthday on facebook isn't it?" He grins and poses with the cake with his name on it for a photograph.

"You know," he says, "according to facebook, I have a birthday about every two weeks...and there are a whole slew of my 'friends' who haven't caught on yet."

"Whatever, I like having parties."

***

"Ya-pach-um"

It was his first phrase, or more, that's how I can best type it an Anglesized version of it. I can gesture vaguely verbally at the myriad of hidden consonants in the actual polish baby-talked version, but I'll never be able to type it.

I'm observing.

His grandfather had found him sitting in the family's garage and asked him what he was doing. I find it a fitting summary of Pacem in general.

I'm observing.

Most people when they want to understand another person "walk a mile in their shoes," or imagine themselves as being in the other person's situation. Pacem instead has the sort of mind which permits him to observe himself from the same third person perspective he sees other people, and to understand them that way. This has many side effects, one of which is his ability to look at himself and have a good laugh from time to time, which is one of my favourite things about him.

I'm observing.

***

"Dona nobis pacem..."

I distinctly remember preforming this piece in fourth grade. The harmony and simplicity mezmorized me, and still does to this day.

Let us have peace.

I remember singing at the very top of my lungs. The world is complicated, and the things which you know are beautiful are true are worth really clinging to.

***

He looked worn out, tired, and depressed. His boss was an asshole and his team's aptitude left much to be desired. Furthermore, two of the team members no more qualified than him had escaped the worst of it, and had a lot of goodies and attention from his boss's boss which would surely let them escape the looming fallout this work team would suffer. One of them wasn't being particularly nice to him either.

He locked himself in his room for hours with his laptop and didn't speak to much of anybody. I would come in to tell him when dinner was ready, but realistically there wasn't a whole lot I could do.

"Ya-pach-um," I grinned and waved to him from the doorway. When all else failed, I guess act like an idiot.

"Ya-pach-um," I repeated, falling into a game of word sounds, "Ya-pach-um, pach-um, pacem, dona nobis pacem."

"What?"

"Peace, you could use some probably."

"Huh?"

"Dinner's ready."

***

"Red four on the five."

"Oh man I didn't see that one."

Nerds do some fairly impressive things when deprived of internet, but the words "communal solitaire" still crack me up. I think it was one of the best things that happened to the house, because with nothing better to do we all got to really know and care for each other. Pacem and I remained close considering the distance my senior year, and we even found time to visit him on the road trip with Ginger and Giraffe. When I found we were both returning for a second year I was overjoyed.

***

"Quesadillas and bud lite," he looks down at himself, "I feel like white trash."

Pacem is wearing a wife beater and athletic shorts since the rest of his clothes are currently in the drier. The two of us are on our knees loading up gallons of milk and orange juice into the upper shelves of the refrigerator.

"I figure," he says as he hoists the 30 rack into the new space we have created, "Its all about the finer things in life anyway."

I'm on the couch later when Pacem wanders back with a box labled Xerox. It once to contained printer paper but now it carries his clean laundry. He sits down on a couch to begin folding it.

"You want...us to pick up a real laundry basket for you?"

He shrugs, "this works."

He pulls out a hilighter colored shirt with the bright pink AMP logo. Its the most horrendously beautiful shirt I have ever seen in my life, and I always make fun of him for it.

"Directing traffic soon?"

"Fuck, give me direct sunlight and I'll blind you!"

***

We've been fighting a lot recently for no real good reason. Well, I know mine. I have a terrible pressing need to escape and keep finding him in my room when I want to be alone. I guess that's one of those things roommates have been known to do. Pacem probably has his own reasons, but I wish he wouldn't vent them by helping in the efforts to circumvent me that have cropped up.

"We're heading up to the casinos that last weekend," he says.

I glare at him. We have four houses to shut down and clean and a ton of furniture to move and now he's skipping out with how many people?

"We'll clean up a ton on Sunday and Monday to make up for it. We don't really need a whole weekend to clean. I promise, we'll make up the time."

I shrug. There isn't a whole lot of point to arguing with somebody whose mind is made up that firmly. Pacem knew damn well how much work this was going to be: he, the guy I was dating at the time, and I had spent a whole weekend last time cleaning up only one house, and that one had been subjected to a lot less wear.

***

They came home Sunday sunburnt and tired. They slept a few hours and then drank until one threw up on the carpet we had finished cleaning. The next day was Monday. They sat on the couch, still hung over, and announced they were going to the beach. I was carrying a load of food and supplies from Delta to Alpha when Pacem came up to me to say goodbye since they were getting on the plane right from the beach. He wanted a hug. His eyes were dead.

"You're going?"

"Yeah."

"You said you'd help..."

"Well the car's leaving now."

"We'll see you again soon Pika," Tiffany interjected.

"Yeah, whatever," I respond.

"Aww," she continues, "don't be sad, we probably will..."

The truth was that right then I never wanted to see any of them again in my life. Turning back to Pacem I hugged him so I wouldn't be that asshole who leaves somebody with outstretched arms hanging, "You promised," I said.

"Promised what?"

I'm pretty proud of not flat-out decking him right there. It was just the last straw after a whole summer of passive aggressive bullshit from somebody who I had relied on to back me up and help me out.

I walked back into the house and Joker's friend followed me. "Who were those guys?"

"People who lived here."

"Aren't they going to help us out?"

"Apparently not."

"That blond kid, you knew him well?"

I shrugged. What am I suppose to say other than 'I thought I did.'

"He seemed like a real asshole."

"Yeah I guess he is."

***

I left this post for months because I didn't want this story to end like this. Pacem was one of my closest friends in AMP. It wasn't that I was even mad at him, it was that I was disappointed that this was who he turned out to be.

We talked briefly only about business a few times over the next while in the course of wrapping up the house stuff. It was not until six months later when I had had yet another stupid boy-related adventure that I was upset about that we wound up striking up a serious conversation.

"I've been..." he pauses, "working through some stuff. I'm really sorry that I took it out on you."

I use to hear stories like this from my friends and tell them they're crazy to forgive people like this, but I guess if all people were held to those standards I'd be shit out of luck myself.

"I'm sorry too."

A Brave New Job

We're being taught how to write and how to speak.

"Never say we would crush the competition, we have only the utmost respect for our competitors..."

The desks of the hall form a large semi-circle and we're all seated quietly, each clutching an identical bookbag, a gift from our new employer. We also each have a laptop, a shirt...

"And now it is time for lunch," the orientation lead smiles and leads the 20 of us to a cafeteria. We're all the people who began work on this day, they call us a class.

"Ribs or salmon?" the cafeteria employee asks me.

I stare at him blankly before finally managing an "uhhh."

The employee looks concerned, "You know...if you don't like..."

"Oh no! I like!"

***

It's a few weeks later and another smiling cafeteria worker is holding a lobster claw in a pair of serving tongs. I'm immediately struck with the realization that I have no idea how to eat this item and that I will be figuring it out in front of a large number of coworkers.

"It's ok," I tell her, "I have enough food, no thanks."

***

"You're so lucky," my friends told me.

"Is it true they feed you three meals a day?"

"Is it true they do your laundry?"

***

I roomed with a bunch of people from this place briefly years ago. Their refrigerator was eerily empty save the bunny food which contented Carne. I worked for the feds, she worked for something similar, and we use to talk about how the way our other housemates were so dependent on their workplace was a little creepy.

One of these housemates, Sharpie, fell off his bike and skinned his arm. The company nurse fixed him up, but he wore the bandage in the shower. Seconds later he came running out of the bathroom in a towel talking clutching his burning injury.

Carne and I laughed at him for wearing his bandage in the shower and expecting any differently. He laughed too once we pointed it out, "you know, I use to know that."

"They all drink some hardcore kool-aid over there," Carne shook her head, "bet you it's something they put in the water."

I laugh, "So that is what the cafeterias are for..."

***

The sign above the ribs says they were cooked in molasses. The meat is tender and falls off the bones, and a touch sweet. I assume that's from the molasses, though I have never had anything like this before so I wouldn't know for sure.

"You'll never be far from food," the orientation lead tells me, "we have snack kitchens..."

***

"Don't you think this is all a little excessive?" Giraffe asks me.

"Yeah, but it is how it is around here I guess."

***

I'm sitting at an awards dinner, courtesy of the feds, earlier this year. Sys's dad is sitting nearby and laughing with us.

"I wonder sometimes," I said, "if I could just hop from company to company on crazy employee benefits and just outrun the rate of reality catching up to these places and them realizing it isn't affordable."

His dad throws back his head and roars, "You missed out on the real chance for that, kid. This is nothing compared to how it was in the 90's."

***

"It's just like A Brave New World," Giraffe said.

"Isn't that about some crazy dystopia where everybody is oppressed?"

"Well yes, but it's completely voluntary and they are all happy."

"Then home come are they oppressed?"

"The book talks about that a lot."

"What?"

***

I'm walking through the halls for what turned out to be my final interview. A perky HR lady is asking me my least favourite interview question.

"And do you have any questions for me?"

My eyes clutch the walls, searching frantically for something which will make me sound smart yet curious.

"You changed the brand of juice in these refrigerators since I was here last, didn't you?"

"Oh," she smiles, "Yes, well we have panels here which study things like this, and if they changed it I suppose that means that the new one is healthier."

There is a brief an awkward pause where the HR woman innocently smiles, and then adds, "You really do learn something new every day here."

***

"When you start work," Doug said, gesturing to the Torii building, "We'll miss you."

"I don't understand."

"Well you'll never leave work there. You'll never come here anymore."

"That's silly."

"Well, why would you want to leave?"

***

I sat down and looked back at the mental list of things I wanted when I was homeless and compare them to the things I want now. While I still want a car and maybe a boyfriend or some other form of social ties to this place, pretty much everything else has been taken care of: food, shelter, medical insurance, free time, and respect for my work. I find it odd to realize that the list is a lot shorter but I am not a much happier person, in fact in some ways the optimism afforded to me when I was homeless of rapidly becoming un-homeless and general excitement probably meant I was happier then in my day-to-day life then than I am now.

***

"Because our world is not the same as Othello's world. You can't make flivvers without steel–and you can't make tragedies without social instability. The world's stable now. People are happy; they get what they want, and they never want what they can't get. They're well off; they're safe; they're never ill... they're so conditioned that they practically can't help behaving as they ought to behave."

The Savage was silent for a little. "All the same," he insisted obstinately, "Othello's good, Othello's better than those feelies."

"Of course it is," the Controller agreed. "But that's the price we have to pay for stability. You've got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art. We've sacrificed the high art. We have the feelies and the scent organ instead..."

The Savage shook his head. "It all seems to me quite horrible."

"Of course it does. Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the over-compensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand..."

"But I like the inconveniences."

"We don't," said the Controller. "We prefer to do things comfortably."

"But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."

"In fact," said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be unhappy."

"All right then," said the Savage defiantly, "I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."

A Brave New World, Chapters 16-17

"You're still coming here," Doug smiled.

"Yeah. I think it's not good for me to spend all my time there."

Engineer Logic

"We're having a party tonight," Giraffe says, "We need to swing by a thrift store for a piece of Ginger's costume, do you have yours?"

"Erm, I will shortly?"

Fifteen dollars later I'm wandering the house as The Cat in the Hat. A significantly larger number of dollars later we are leaving the liquor store ready for a Halloween party.

It began as very excellent party but, for whatever reason, a shocking number of people there did not understand their alcohol limits. Soon people are clustering around toilets, sinks, bathtubs, trash cans, and other receptacles depositing a wide variety of dinner items. The effect cascades, with first one party-goer kowtowing the porcelain throne and then others, either smelling the offering or perhaps just out of sympathy, following suit. The air is filled with the sound of people retching and spewing.

This party is officially not any fun anymore.

I am standing in the kitchen, realizing that the only people currently not throwing up are the hosts, Ginger, and myself.

Sam stands up from the sink, which he has hung to with a death grip for some time, and carefully wipes his mouth. "I feel better," he says.

"Yeah," I said, "well, I think you had a little too much..."

Sam turns to another male who is also clutching the sink, "Go on," he says, "just do it, you'll feel a lot better."

His sinkside companion adds to the mess. I lean over and begin running the water to reduce the smell.

"I do feel better," the second sinkclutcher agrees.

"Throwing up," Sam reasoned, "makes us feel better."

This is where you can tell the difference between a highly inebriated engineer or scientist and a highly inebriated sane person. The sane person might accept this fact, drink some water, and go to sleep. The engineer needs to analyze this data and use it to extrapolate greater patterns.

"If we throw up again," Sam pondered, "We will feel even better!"

"Uhh....no I..."

My words fall upon deaf ears as both boys simultaneously lean over the sink and jam their fingers down their throats. The behavior spreads like wildfire until a large number of party-goers are trying to follow the completely logical assumed data pattern. I'm left standing in a kitchen witnessing another round of retching.

"Pika," Sam calls, "you're sober!" I'm not, but it seems a silly argument.

"You need to go to the store and get us some Ipecac."

"No." We're already reenacting Family Guy here.

"Aww, come on, you want us to feel better right?"

"Uh... I don't think..."

Our disjointed argument continues for some time. Neither side is really making a coherent point, and after enough wasted time I simply leave the room. In Giraffe's bedroom another party sufferer is adding his vomit to a bowl which already contains contributions from two other people and an unfortunate mouse. There comes a point where things get bizarre enough that I feel like my grip on reality is slacking. The kitchen posse eventually realizes that nobody threw up throughout the entire debate and a relatively not-ill party member looks up from a chess board.

"You guys seem good, who wants to do shots?"

Sam and his compatriot look at each other for a second and then simultaneously hurl into the sink at the thought.

With ideas this good, who needs Ipecac anyway?