Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Aara
It is a beautiful day. The sky is a clear blue, the sun is casting its friendly rays earthward. The air is cool, but not cold.
And piercing through every particle of it are the chants.
"Death to the Dictator."
The people are shouting.
"Death to the Dictator."
The phrase is a death sentence for those who utter it - apostasy against the men who claim to be representatives of God. Men who seek to be Gods themselves.
"Death to the Dictator."
I close my eyes and feel the power of the protest. I feel pride swelling through me. Pride for my people, and in no small way, pride for what I have helped unleash.
Today, under a clear blue sky, my countrymen are standing for the right against the powerful.
I silently pray that in some way my friend, Soroush is here to see this. I saw him shoved into a car and driven away. He was a leader of the protests and he will probably die. But for now, he is in prison.
And I am ready to join him.
Ours is a battle for the good, no matter what the risks. We know the odds. And yet, for some reason, so many of us have decided to take the bet.
Perhaps it is because we know that if we don't, we may never have another chance to do so.
"Death to the Dictator."
I know it isn't, but it feels like an unstoppable human wave.
And then it is time to disperse. In the past year, our tactics have improved. We've learned that there are simply too many protesters in too many places for the authorities to stop us all. We used to congregate and they used to attack - brutally. Now, we move and regroup like shapes appearing in sand.
One moment we're pedestrians milling about, the next we're protesters shouting our disdain. We shout and denounce, and then - before the authorities can shift their sights, we disperse and move on. Only to begin again someplace else. Most of the time, it works.
I laugh as I realize we're like some teleporting character from a sci-fi movie. You look for us in one place, and Zap!, we've moved to another and are striking at your rear. Despite our weakness, this is power.
And it is time to move.
But before we can, I feel a change in the air. People start running, and I hear the sound of motorcycles. And then gunshots and the sick crack of batons on skulls.
I don't know why, but I keep my eyes closed.
Somehow, I can see them coming. The Basiji, the 'men' who define a regime - attacking the innocent, shooting women, casting acid in the faces of those who defy their code.
My brain tells me to open my eyes and run, but I stand. I can feel a Basij, baton in hand, noticing me. He's sitting on the backseat of a motorcycle. He nudges his driver and they steer towards me. Baton swinging, he clears fleeing people from his path.
I hear a crash and shout of victory. A motorcycle has been brought down. In days past, the riders would be let free. But not today. Today, I know the bike will be torched and the rider beaten. The times of peace are past.
But the bike that was brought down was not mine.
I can hear mine drawing closer.
I know it's coming. And yet, as I begin to feel the staccato of its engine, I find myself unable to even open my eyes. My minds' eye just stares at the riders in hatred. My face projects only calm.
I am daring them to strike down a man who offers no defense - and I know that they will.
They come closer, faster.
The baton is raised.
And then, without a wince or a cringe, I am struck down.
I don't know it until later, but others in the crowd rescue me. They move me to an alleyway. They bandage my head. And they return to the fast-flowing conflict.
It is only later that I open my eyes.
And when I do, I am shocked.
Perhaps it is my physical state, but when I open my eyes I am stunned by the beauty of the woman tending to me. She has long jet black hair pulled back beneath a modest headscarf. She has deep and pure brown eyes, absent the vast quantities of makeup my countrywomen are prone to. And she has a smile. It doesn't come all at once. It starts a look of concern. And then when I open my eyes, it just spreads. Like a supernova. First her eyes light up, and then her joy flows from her cheeks, and then her mouth opens in pure happiness.
I've never seen anything like it.
"Are you okay?" she asks. Her voice is sweet. Her accent is not cultured. She seems meek.
I try to nod, but can't. "Yes," I whimper, suddenly realizing just how much my head hurts.
"Good," she says, quietly, "I watched you out there. With your eyes closed as the Basij came. I've never seen anything like it."
Her voice seems to gain confidence and power as she remembers what she saw.
I try to smile, but it hurts.
"Oh," she says, "Don't try to move too much. They hit you pretty hard. The riots have moved on though and we'll be okay here."
I blink my eyes.
She smiles again, her voice hushed but confident. "That'll work. Let's do one blink for 'yes', two for 'no'."
I blink once.
"My name is Aara," she says, "Don't worry about introducing yourself, that can come later."
Aara - Farsi for adoring. I imagine that the name is apt.
I want to ask who she is. I want to learn something more about her. But I can't. I'm immobilized. The pain of speaking would be too great.
She just sits there, cradling me. Smiling.
And then, finally, she talks again, "My husband was a Basij," she says, "Shall I tell you about him?"
I hope I heard correctly 'was,' not 'is.' I blink once.
"We got married when I was 16," she says, "He seemed a sweet man. He plied my family and me with jewels. He promised me care and love and adoration. He was a Basij and he played up the work he did as a volunteer - helping young boys become men and standing as a Guardian of the Faith. I was enamored."
She pauses, wistfully. She looks at me, and then decides to go on, "And then we got married. And then everything changed. He beat me. Constantly. He deprived me of sleep. He threatened me if I thought of leaving the house. He prohibited me from seeing even my parents. And he spoke proudly of his 'volunteer' work. I didn't know it when we got married, but he had been 'married' many times before. He was one of the select few chosen to rape virgin prisoners the night before their executions. The demand was technical, the government couldn't break our Law by executing virgins and so they had devised a solution. Some of those men renounced their work. But my husband never seemed to leave it."
She paused. I thought for a moment that I should pity her. But there was no sign of it on her face. She was just telling me a story of her past. Why, I couldn't imagine.
"My husband couldn't see me as a person." she continued, as if drawn along by some force she couldn't control, "If he did, then all those others would be people too. He would be destroyed. I represented his undoing and because of that I was punished. But he wasn't a bad man, just a broken one."
She believed it. I wanted to protest, but couldn't.
She continued.
"We had a son, Sarfraz. By the time he was three, it was clear something was wrong. It turned out the boy was autistic - severely autistic. My husband hated him. I could understand why. Sarfraz was a testimony to my husband's own failings. The son he had produced represented his own lack of manhood.
"So my husband stopped coming home, just to avoid Sarfraz. He volunteered more and more. The stretches of time would get longer and longer. And then, he volunteered for duty in the south. In Baluchistan. And the terrorists there killed him. They blew up his bus. There were only seven casualties, but my husband was one."
I waited.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this," she said, with a nervous but happy laugh. "I've never told a soul this. We aren't supposed to complain. But it was something about the way you stood. You seemed strong. And, it is hard to explain, but you seemed free. It was like they could hit you, like they had to hit you but you could stand and say and think what you wanted. Somehow, it seemed like they were the ones constrained. You were free."
I hadn't said a word, I'd barely thought it, but she'd hit it right on the head. I had experienced freedom.
My head still hurt - the aftereffects weren't kind.
"Should I go on?" she asked.
I blinked once.
She thinks for a moment. I love watching her eyes as they judge just how much to tell. And then, with a clearing, she makes up her mind. I know before she says a word that she won't let herself be constrained.
"When my husband died, it was like a weight had been lifted off of me. I hated him. I hated the Basij. And I loved my son. When he died, I felt like my life was suddenly restarted. And then, before long, reality hit. My family wouldn't talk to me. His family wouldn't talk to me. And I had no job, an autistic son, and nowhere to go. Aside from a little cash, I'd been left with nothing.
"So, I left our apartment and found something much smaller and cheaper. I sold our furniture. And then I started begging. My son and I, we talk every night. Well, I talk and he does what he does. It is beautiful, and hard. I sit there, watching him, telling him about my day and the people I've met. He doesn't answer or acknowledge me, but I hope that on some level he's listening. And I love it. And then, in the morning, I go out again."
I can't stop myself. "How long?"
"How long what?" she asked.
It hurts, but I force it out, "How long have you been begging?"
"Five years," she says, matter-of-factly.
"Do you need money?" I ask.
"No," she says, her face breaking out into another smile, "Not from you."
It seems an odd phrase, coming from a beggar.
I shift my head a touch, indicating my confusion.
"You've given me something else," she says, "You've given me hope."
Our eyes meet and I realize it's true. She would have asked for my pity fifteen minutes ago. But not now. I want to just lay there, staring into her eyes. She seems happy to oblige. Her fingers begin to run through the unbandaged parts of my hair, gently pushing apart the coagulated clumps of blood.
I can't explain why I say it, but I do. "You too," I answer.
With that, she leans down and kisses my forehead - holding there longer than necessary. It is a touch of kindness and of respect - and perhaps of love.
My heart races. I force it to settle and I just savor the moment.
She pulls her lips away and my eyes are drawn open. "Are you feeling better?" she asks.
"Yes," I answer. The ringing and pain are slowly subsiding.
"Let's test how you're doing," she says. She lifts my shoulders and sits me up.
"I think I can stand," I say.
So she stands up and grasps my wrists and slowly pulls me up to her.
My head hurts, but I make it.
I'm a little taller than she is.
She smiles again and looks up at me and nods, and then says, "And now we go our separate ways."
She's right of course.
I can picture the conversation with my parents and with my friends. The objections are a mile long. She's a young widow with a disabled son. I'm barely out of college. She's poor and uneducated and I'm from a highly educated family. Her life has been seeped in the Law and mine has been spent dancing along its edges. And she might be after our money - she is a beggar. Or perhaps her story is totally false and she picked a wounded man in an alley as her victim. I know my family won't allow it and I know they will make me agree.
I look at her. She smiles back and says, sadness creeping into her eyes as if she can read what I'm thinking, "It is a moment in an alleyway after a riot," she says, "It is nothing. And it can't work."
She's right.
I picture her telling her son about me. I picture her joy, and her sadness as her words bounce off of him.
But I know I must walk away.
I nod at her, my head still shooting with pain.
And then I turn away.
I can feel her eyes following me. I can feel her hope following me. And I know we will both be weaker when I've gone.
As I walk away, I see myself in the future, walking past her begging on the street. I'm going to my job. Our eyes meet, there is pain, and we look away. I can't humiliate her by leaving her money. So I walk by, trying to ignore her and her me.
The images are painful, but I must go.
And then I remember Soroush being shoved into the car. And I remember them taking him away. And I realize my turn may be next.
Like my countrymen, I have chosen to fight for the good, no matter what the risks.
And I may never have another chance.
As I turn back into the alley, I realize I love her. I can't explain. But when she sees me, her face lights up again and I realize that she loves me too.
Perhaps it is just an encounter in an alleyway after a riot.
But perhaps its foundations are more solid.
And piercing through every particle of it are the chants.
"Death to the Dictator."
The people are shouting.
"Death to the Dictator."
The phrase is a death sentence for those who utter it - apostasy against the men who claim to be representatives of God. Men who seek to be Gods themselves.
"Death to the Dictator."
I close my eyes and feel the power of the protest. I feel pride swelling through me. Pride for my people, and in no small way, pride for what I have helped unleash.
Today, under a clear blue sky, my countrymen are standing for the right against the powerful.
I silently pray that in some way my friend, Soroush is here to see this. I saw him shoved into a car and driven away. He was a leader of the protests and he will probably die. But for now, he is in prison.
And I am ready to join him.
Ours is a battle for the good, no matter what the risks. We know the odds. And yet, for some reason, so many of us have decided to take the bet.
Perhaps it is because we know that if we don't, we may never have another chance to do so.
"Death to the Dictator."
I know it isn't, but it feels like an unstoppable human wave.
And then it is time to disperse. In the past year, our tactics have improved. We've learned that there are simply too many protesters in too many places for the authorities to stop us all. We used to congregate and they used to attack - brutally. Now, we move and regroup like shapes appearing in sand.
One moment we're pedestrians milling about, the next we're protesters shouting our disdain. We shout and denounce, and then - before the authorities can shift their sights, we disperse and move on. Only to begin again someplace else. Most of the time, it works.
I laugh as I realize we're like some teleporting character from a sci-fi movie. You look for us in one place, and Zap!, we've moved to another and are striking at your rear. Despite our weakness, this is power.
And it is time to move.
But before we can, I feel a change in the air. People start running, and I hear the sound of motorcycles. And then gunshots and the sick crack of batons on skulls.
I don't know why, but I keep my eyes closed.
Somehow, I can see them coming. The Basiji, the 'men' who define a regime - attacking the innocent, shooting women, casting acid in the faces of those who defy their code.
My brain tells me to open my eyes and run, but I stand. I can feel a Basij, baton in hand, noticing me. He's sitting on the backseat of a motorcycle. He nudges his driver and they steer towards me. Baton swinging, he clears fleeing people from his path.
I hear a crash and shout of victory. A motorcycle has been brought down. In days past, the riders would be let free. But not today. Today, I know the bike will be torched and the rider beaten. The times of peace are past.
But the bike that was brought down was not mine.
I can hear mine drawing closer.
I know it's coming. And yet, as I begin to feel the staccato of its engine, I find myself unable to even open my eyes. My minds' eye just stares at the riders in hatred. My face projects only calm.
I am daring them to strike down a man who offers no defense - and I know that they will.
They come closer, faster.
The baton is raised.
And then, without a wince or a cringe, I am struck down.
I don't know it until later, but others in the crowd rescue me. They move me to an alleyway. They bandage my head. And they return to the fast-flowing conflict.
It is only later that I open my eyes.
And when I do, I am shocked.
Perhaps it is my physical state, but when I open my eyes I am stunned by the beauty of the woman tending to me. She has long jet black hair pulled back beneath a modest headscarf. She has deep and pure brown eyes, absent the vast quantities of makeup my countrywomen are prone to. And she has a smile. It doesn't come all at once. It starts a look of concern. And then when I open my eyes, it just spreads. Like a supernova. First her eyes light up, and then her joy flows from her cheeks, and then her mouth opens in pure happiness.
I've never seen anything like it.
"Are you okay?" she asks. Her voice is sweet. Her accent is not cultured. She seems meek.
I try to nod, but can't. "Yes," I whimper, suddenly realizing just how much my head hurts.
"Good," she says, quietly, "I watched you out there. With your eyes closed as the Basij came. I've never seen anything like it."
Her voice seems to gain confidence and power as she remembers what she saw.
I try to smile, but it hurts.
"Oh," she says, "Don't try to move too much. They hit you pretty hard. The riots have moved on though and we'll be okay here."
I blink my eyes.
She smiles again, her voice hushed but confident. "That'll work. Let's do one blink for 'yes', two for 'no'."
I blink once.
"My name is Aara," she says, "Don't worry about introducing yourself, that can come later."
Aara - Farsi for adoring. I imagine that the name is apt.
I want to ask who she is. I want to learn something more about her. But I can't. I'm immobilized. The pain of speaking would be too great.
She just sits there, cradling me. Smiling.
And then, finally, she talks again, "My husband was a Basij," she says, "Shall I tell you about him?"
I hope I heard correctly 'was,' not 'is.' I blink once.
"We got married when I was 16," she says, "He seemed a sweet man. He plied my family and me with jewels. He promised me care and love and adoration. He was a Basij and he played up the work he did as a volunteer - helping young boys become men and standing as a Guardian of the Faith. I was enamored."
She pauses, wistfully. She looks at me, and then decides to go on, "And then we got married. And then everything changed. He beat me. Constantly. He deprived me of sleep. He threatened me if I thought of leaving the house. He prohibited me from seeing even my parents. And he spoke proudly of his 'volunteer' work. I didn't know it when we got married, but he had been 'married' many times before. He was one of the select few chosen to rape virgin prisoners the night before their executions. The demand was technical, the government couldn't break our Law by executing virgins and so they had devised a solution. Some of those men renounced their work. But my husband never seemed to leave it."
She paused. I thought for a moment that I should pity her. But there was no sign of it on her face. She was just telling me a story of her past. Why, I couldn't imagine.
"My husband couldn't see me as a person." she continued, as if drawn along by some force she couldn't control, "If he did, then all those others would be people too. He would be destroyed. I represented his undoing and because of that I was punished. But he wasn't a bad man, just a broken one."
She believed it. I wanted to protest, but couldn't.
She continued.
"We had a son, Sarfraz. By the time he was three, it was clear something was wrong. It turned out the boy was autistic - severely autistic. My husband hated him. I could understand why. Sarfraz was a testimony to my husband's own failings. The son he had produced represented his own lack of manhood.
"So my husband stopped coming home, just to avoid Sarfraz. He volunteered more and more. The stretches of time would get longer and longer. And then, he volunteered for duty in the south. In Baluchistan. And the terrorists there killed him. They blew up his bus. There were only seven casualties, but my husband was one."
I waited.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this," she said, with a nervous but happy laugh. "I've never told a soul this. We aren't supposed to complain. But it was something about the way you stood. You seemed strong. And, it is hard to explain, but you seemed free. It was like they could hit you, like they had to hit you but you could stand and say and think what you wanted. Somehow, it seemed like they were the ones constrained. You were free."
I hadn't said a word, I'd barely thought it, but she'd hit it right on the head. I had experienced freedom.
My head still hurt - the aftereffects weren't kind.
"Should I go on?" she asked.
I blinked once.
She thinks for a moment. I love watching her eyes as they judge just how much to tell. And then, with a clearing, she makes up her mind. I know before she says a word that she won't let herself be constrained.
"When my husband died, it was like a weight had been lifted off of me. I hated him. I hated the Basij. And I loved my son. When he died, I felt like my life was suddenly restarted. And then, before long, reality hit. My family wouldn't talk to me. His family wouldn't talk to me. And I had no job, an autistic son, and nowhere to go. Aside from a little cash, I'd been left with nothing.
"So, I left our apartment and found something much smaller and cheaper. I sold our furniture. And then I started begging. My son and I, we talk every night. Well, I talk and he does what he does. It is beautiful, and hard. I sit there, watching him, telling him about my day and the people I've met. He doesn't answer or acknowledge me, but I hope that on some level he's listening. And I love it. And then, in the morning, I go out again."
I can't stop myself. "How long?"
"How long what?" she asked.
It hurts, but I force it out, "How long have you been begging?"
"Five years," she says, matter-of-factly.
"Do you need money?" I ask.
"No," she says, her face breaking out into another smile, "Not from you."
It seems an odd phrase, coming from a beggar.
I shift my head a touch, indicating my confusion.
"You've given me something else," she says, "You've given me hope."
Our eyes meet and I realize it's true. She would have asked for my pity fifteen minutes ago. But not now. I want to just lay there, staring into her eyes. She seems happy to oblige. Her fingers begin to run through the unbandaged parts of my hair, gently pushing apart the coagulated clumps of blood.
I can't explain why I say it, but I do. "You too," I answer.
With that, she leans down and kisses my forehead - holding there longer than necessary. It is a touch of kindness and of respect - and perhaps of love.
My heart races. I force it to settle and I just savor the moment.
She pulls her lips away and my eyes are drawn open. "Are you feeling better?" she asks.
"Yes," I answer. The ringing and pain are slowly subsiding.
"Let's test how you're doing," she says. She lifts my shoulders and sits me up.
"I think I can stand," I say.
So she stands up and grasps my wrists and slowly pulls me up to her.
My head hurts, but I make it.
I'm a little taller than she is.
She smiles again and looks up at me and nods, and then says, "And now we go our separate ways."
She's right of course.
I can picture the conversation with my parents and with my friends. The objections are a mile long. She's a young widow with a disabled son. I'm barely out of college. She's poor and uneducated and I'm from a highly educated family. Her life has been seeped in the Law and mine has been spent dancing along its edges. And she might be after our money - she is a beggar. Or perhaps her story is totally false and she picked a wounded man in an alley as her victim. I know my family won't allow it and I know they will make me agree.
I look at her. She smiles back and says, sadness creeping into her eyes as if she can read what I'm thinking, "It is a moment in an alleyway after a riot," she says, "It is nothing. And it can't work."
She's right.
I picture her telling her son about me. I picture her joy, and her sadness as her words bounce off of him.
But I know I must walk away.
I nod at her, my head still shooting with pain.
And then I turn away.
I can feel her eyes following me. I can feel her hope following me. And I know we will both be weaker when I've gone.
As I walk away, I see myself in the future, walking past her begging on the street. I'm going to my job. Our eyes meet, there is pain, and we look away. I can't humiliate her by leaving her money. So I walk by, trying to ignore her and her me.
The images are painful, but I must go.
And then I remember Soroush being shoved into the car. And I remember them taking him away. And I realize my turn may be next.
Like my countrymen, I have chosen to fight for the good, no matter what the risks.
And I may never have another chance.
As I turn back into the alley, I realize I love her. I can't explain. But when she sees me, her face lights up again and I realize that she loves me too.
Perhaps it is just an encounter in an alleyway after a riot.
But perhaps its foundations are more solid.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Newbie
"Guys, am I doing okay at this?" asked a tentative, quiet voice.
The last of the office doors had closed, the alarm had been turned on, and the first comment of the night came from the brand-new sprinkler head. It'd only been installed the day before, so it was kind of a newbie. And it was clearly worried about its performance.
"Dude," said a fire extinguisher, "Don't worry about it. When the alarm comes, you go off, that's it."
"I know, I know," said the sprinkler, "I learned all that at the factory. But I'm kinda tense."
Another sprinkler chimed in, "Son, if you're a sprinkler you're gonna be tense. You've got to be ready to go off on a moment's notice. It's how you're built. You better get used to it."
The new sprinkler didn't nod - they can't. But it got the message.
Silence, once again, dominated the office.
"Guys?" asked the Newbie again.
"Yeah, man?" said the extinguisher.
"What are you guys named?"
"I'm George," said the extinguisher.
"Jonathan," said the older sprinkler.
"Frederick," said a smoke detector, happily.
Nobody else answered.
"I guess, well, I guess your kinda my family?" asked the newbie.
"Sure are," said Jonathan.
"Just kick back and get used to it," suggested George.
"You've got a lifetime to spend in this office," said Frederick.
It was still all a bit scary to the newbie. A lifetime in one place.
"What's your name?" asked Frederick.
"Don't know," said the Newbie, "I didn't get one at the factory."
"Well," asked Frederick, kindly, "What would you like?"
"Uh, Ernie, maybe." said the Newbie, tentatively.
"Ernie it is!" announced Frederick.
"Not so fast," said Jonathan, "The kid probably doesn't know a whole lot of names."
"How do you learn more?" asked the Newbie.
"Well," said Jonathan, sagely, "You can talk to us or you can just stay up a bit while the office people are doing their thing. You can find one you like and you can use their name."
"Which one is Jonathan?" asked the Newbie - trying to remember everybody he'd seen that day.
"Oh," said Jonathan, "My Jonathan left this office a long time ago. I've been here eight years."
There was silence.
"Eight years?" asked the Newbie, disbelieving.
"Eight years," said Jonathan.
"How do you not get bored?" asked the Newbie.
"First," interjected George, "You learn not to ask that question. You've just got to learn to sit back and not think too much. Then, time can just flow by you."
"Eight years." said the Newbie.
Everyone was quiet for a while.
"When do we leave?" asked the Newbie.
"Another question not to ask," said George, a warning tone in his voice.
"It's okay," said Jonathan, "We leave when we get used. We sprinklers, we've got a little smoke detector in our noses. When it goes, we go."
"Oh," said the Newbie, "And then what?"
"I don't know," said Jonathan.
"We come back to life," said Frederick, confidently.
George snorted.
The Newbie ignored him. "Really?" he asked.
"I think so," said Frederick, "I think we get resurrected."
"In the same office?" asked the Newbie.
"No," said Frederick, "I think we get to be someplace and something totally different. Maybe we get to be a smoke detector in a family home or a fire extinguisher in a restaurant kitchen."
"What do you want to be when you get resurrected?" asked the Newbie.
"Me?" said Frederick, "I dream of coming back as a Halon system in some high-tech military hub or something. If there's a fire, I could do more than detect it, I could just push it away."
"Hah!" said George, "You're stupid. You can't be a Halon system. They've been banned."
"Fine," said Frederick, "I'll be an Intergen or something. Either way, I want to be something funky and advanced. What do you want George?"
"Me," said George, "You guy's might not know it, but I've got a mean streak. I don't believe in all this coming back stuff. I think if we screw up we end up right here, consumed by fire. But if we work, we blissfully expire and just kinda cease being. But if I did believe in this stuff, I'd guess that I'd love to come back as a fire extinguisher at a really rowdy bar. Then, when people are fighting, they can swing me around and bonk heads with me. It'd be awesome."
"Really?" said the Newbie.
"Sure," said George, "Beats sitting around day after day."
"Frederick," said the Newbie, "Could I come back as a Fireman's Axe?"
"Or maybe a Fireman," said George with a laugh.
"Seriously," said the Newbie, "Could I?"
"I guess," said Frederick, "Why?"
"Oh, I don't know," said the Newbie, "I'm just thinking."
"I know," said Jonathan, "What I don't want to be."
"What's that?" asked Frederick.
"I don't want to be some fire extinguisher in a janitor's closet that nobody ever opens. If you think this place is boring. Wowsers, that'd be a prison."
Everybody got that.
The newbie couldn't think of anything else to ask.
So he just stayed where he was. Thinking, contemplating, passing the time.
The others did the same.
And then, in the beginning of the new day, they heard a key turn in the door.
"Night guys." said the Newbie.
"Good night," said Frederick, Jonathan and George - in unison.
"Pick a name," said Jonathan, reminding Newbie.
And with that, the office fire suppressant devices settled in for another quiet day.
The last of the office doors had closed, the alarm had been turned on, and the first comment of the night came from the brand-new sprinkler head. It'd only been installed the day before, so it was kind of a newbie. And it was clearly worried about its performance.
"Dude," said a fire extinguisher, "Don't worry about it. When the alarm comes, you go off, that's it."
"I know, I know," said the sprinkler, "I learned all that at the factory. But I'm kinda tense."
Another sprinkler chimed in, "Son, if you're a sprinkler you're gonna be tense. You've got to be ready to go off on a moment's notice. It's how you're built. You better get used to it."
The new sprinkler didn't nod - they can't. But it got the message.
Silence, once again, dominated the office.
"Guys?" asked the Newbie again.
"Yeah, man?" said the extinguisher.
"What are you guys named?"
"I'm George," said the extinguisher.
"Jonathan," said the older sprinkler.
"Frederick," said a smoke detector, happily.
Nobody else answered.
"I guess, well, I guess your kinda my family?" asked the newbie.
"Sure are," said Jonathan.
"Just kick back and get used to it," suggested George.
"You've got a lifetime to spend in this office," said Frederick.
It was still all a bit scary to the newbie. A lifetime in one place.
"What's your name?" asked Frederick.
"Don't know," said the Newbie, "I didn't get one at the factory."
"Well," asked Frederick, kindly, "What would you like?"
"Uh, Ernie, maybe." said the Newbie, tentatively.
"Ernie it is!" announced Frederick.
"Not so fast," said Jonathan, "The kid probably doesn't know a whole lot of names."
"How do you learn more?" asked the Newbie.
"Well," said Jonathan, sagely, "You can talk to us or you can just stay up a bit while the office people are doing their thing. You can find one you like and you can use their name."
"Which one is Jonathan?" asked the Newbie - trying to remember everybody he'd seen that day.
"Oh," said Jonathan, "My Jonathan left this office a long time ago. I've been here eight years."
There was silence.
"Eight years?" asked the Newbie, disbelieving.
"Eight years," said Jonathan.
"How do you not get bored?" asked the Newbie.
"First," interjected George, "You learn not to ask that question. You've just got to learn to sit back and not think too much. Then, time can just flow by you."
"Eight years." said the Newbie.
Everyone was quiet for a while.
"When do we leave?" asked the Newbie.
"Another question not to ask," said George, a warning tone in his voice.
"It's okay," said Jonathan, "We leave when we get used. We sprinklers, we've got a little smoke detector in our noses. When it goes, we go."
"Oh," said the Newbie, "And then what?"
"I don't know," said Jonathan.
"We come back to life," said Frederick, confidently.
George snorted.
The Newbie ignored him. "Really?" he asked.
"I think so," said Frederick, "I think we get resurrected."
"In the same office?" asked the Newbie.
"No," said Frederick, "I think we get to be someplace and something totally different. Maybe we get to be a smoke detector in a family home or a fire extinguisher in a restaurant kitchen."
"What do you want to be when you get resurrected?" asked the Newbie.
"Me?" said Frederick, "I dream of coming back as a Halon system in some high-tech military hub or something. If there's a fire, I could do more than detect it, I could just push it away."
"Hah!" said George, "You're stupid. You can't be a Halon system. They've been banned."
"Fine," said Frederick, "I'll be an Intergen or something. Either way, I want to be something funky and advanced. What do you want George?"
"Me," said George, "You guy's might not know it, but I've got a mean streak. I don't believe in all this coming back stuff. I think if we screw up we end up right here, consumed by fire. But if we work, we blissfully expire and just kinda cease being. But if I did believe in this stuff, I'd guess that I'd love to come back as a fire extinguisher at a really rowdy bar. Then, when people are fighting, they can swing me around and bonk heads with me. It'd be awesome."
"Really?" said the Newbie.
"Sure," said George, "Beats sitting around day after day."
"Frederick," said the Newbie, "Could I come back as a Fireman's Axe?"
"Or maybe a Fireman," said George with a laugh.
"Seriously," said the Newbie, "Could I?"
"I guess," said Frederick, "Why?"
"Oh, I don't know," said the Newbie, "I'm just thinking."
"I know," said Jonathan, "What I don't want to be."
"What's that?" asked Frederick.
"I don't want to be some fire extinguisher in a janitor's closet that nobody ever opens. If you think this place is boring. Wowsers, that'd be a prison."
Everybody got that.
The newbie couldn't think of anything else to ask.
So he just stayed where he was. Thinking, contemplating, passing the time.
The others did the same.
And then, in the beginning of the new day, they heard a key turn in the door.
"Night guys." said the Newbie.
"Good night," said Frederick, Jonathan and George - in unison.
"Pick a name," said Jonathan, reminding Newbie.
And with that, the office fire suppressant devices settled in for another quiet day.
Eulogy for a Man Who Died Only Yesterday
(this is a companion piece for Eulogy for a Women Who Was Born Only Yesterday)
The preacher rested his hands on the pulpit. His was not a large church. It was small and simple with clapboard and bare wooden pews. It befitted its place. The spiritual home of a small farming community in the heart of Nebraska. It had once been bigger. But as with many farming areas, the young had moved on and the communities had withered. Even as the farms expanded, the number of people needed to run them had declined. So even though his was a small church, it was still too grand by far.
Today, even that would have been optimistic. Today, there were six souls in attendance. Four if you didn't count the dead man's sister and his only son.
The preacher was disappointed by the crowd. But not terribly so. It was to be expected, the dead man had moved here late in life and had never set down solid root.
The preacher knew that crowd or not, he had words to say. He was thankful to the Lord that there was at least somebody there to listen.
"Alfred Brandt was born in this town in 1925. His father Conrad, was, like myself, a preacher. His wife, Evelyn was a rock of the community. Despite their modest means, they supported families down on their luck and those in need could always rely on them for help and words of encouragement.
"When little Alfred was only 10 years old, his parents decided to take the Word of God to Brazil. They, of course, were not the first to do so. But they believed their Word was still needed. They were not Catholics."
The preacher noted that one of the attendees was already checking his watch. The preacher could offer him no succor. Alfred Brandt was a man who deserved the time.
"Evelyn and Conrad settled and established a small community in what was then a very old city - but one that was only recently modernizing. It was the 40,000 person city of Natal in Rio Grande del Norte. The elder Brandts remained there for the rest of their lives - until 1953 for Evelyn and 1957 for Conrad. They were there in 1939 when the war with Germany began.
"Brazil was not a member of the Allied Powers. But by 1942, when the United States joined the war, they were. More importantly, the little city the Brandts lived in became one of the most important places in the world. Brazil's northeast coast was the natural invasion point for a German Army. Perhaps more importantly, it was the ideal jumping off point for aircraft bringing men and arms to the European and Pacific theaters. During the war, Natal's airport became the largest US air base outside US territory. And it was the busiest airport in the world, with planes taking off and landing every three minutes. The city of Natal doubled in size and became known as the Trampoline to Victory. And it was Alfred's home.
"Alfred's parents were worldly people, they knew about the war and they knew what was good and what was evil. And so they encouraged their son to enlist in the United States Armed Forces. Of course, there wasn't much of a recruiting office in Natal.
"Alfred told me that they didn't know what to do with him when he showed up at the base. He claimed to be a US citizen, and he had the papers to prove it, but his name was German. Not only was his name German, but he was in the middle of a very strategic nowhere in Northeastern Brazil. The military was honestly concerned that he was a saboteur or, worse, a spy. The Army needed to know who he was. So he and his parents were interviewed and questions were asked back here in Nebraska. And eventually, after a whole lot of hoopla, the young man was enlisted. Because of his Portuguese and English skills, the Army wanted to keep him in Natal. So he became a airplane mechanic.
"Soon after enlisting, he spoke with his commanding officers, and he arranged something unique. Every bomber aircrew - and even some cargo crews - that came through that town and that had the time to spare, were given permission to go off base. And under Alfred's management, every one of them was treated to a home-cooked meal by somebody in the Brandt's little religious community. Over the course of three years, thousands of meals were served. The Brandts and their flock didn't have much, but they did their best to help those who needed a little comfort before facing the dangers of war. And Alfred arranged it."
"Alfred never saw combat. He decided to stay in the military for a little while after the war. It would be a free ticket to travel. He was in the US when he met and married his wife Beatrice. Less than a year later, they had a son Donald. Beatrice and Alfred realized that they loved to travel. And not just tour places, but live in them and have a chance to experience and become a part of communities. And so Alfred stayed with the military. He was moved all over the world. And wherever they went, they sought out those in need and they gave what they could to help. Alfred stayed in the military for 30 years. He never really climbed the ranks. He stayed a mechanic the entire time. Well before his retirement, their son and his wife had settled in Missouri.
"When Alfred retired, they realized the travel bug hadn't been satiated. Because the Brandt's had given so much, they didn't have a great deal of money. So he decided to work as they moved from place to place.
"The first destination was Iran. They were an ally then and Alfred worked as a fighter mechanic in the Shah's Air Force. His skills were greatly in demand and he and his wife traveled everywhere from Iran to India, and from Europe to Israel. They were enjoying their retirement immensely. And then they noticed the winds of change. Just prior to the 1979 Revolution, they fled.
"Alfred's skills, honed on ancient aircraft from World War II, were gradually becoming less and less relevant. But he still wanted to work and he and his wife still wanted to travel. So they went to Africa, a land filled with old planes that needed quite a bit of loving care. They settled in Kenya and continued their exploring ways. Africa, then as now, was a continent of great need. The Brandts started a children's health clinic in Kenya. They raised money from all of their contacts and used it to help the people who were around them.
"It was in Kenya, in 2003, that Evelyn died. Alfred brought her back to the US. By then, he was almost 80 years old. With her passing, and his growing ill-health, the travelling bug was finally gone. And so Alfred returned here, to his home town.
"When he first came here, I had no idea who he was. I introduced myself and we talked and got to know each other, some. He told me about his parents, he told me that he had a military career. He told me he had lived in Iran and Kenya. But he never told me about his charity work. I learned not a thing about what he did in Natal, during his military service, in Iran or even in Africa.
"Not a word.
"To me he was just an lonely old man who had returned home to die."
The preacher paused.
"But when he died, it was like a beacon had been broadcast to the world."
The preacher reached under his pulpit and pulled out a large bag. A bag that bursting at the seams.
"From the time he died until today, I have received 508 letters of condolence. There are only seven of us here in the flesh, but 515 people are here in spirit. I read some of those letters and I learned about the real Alfred Brandt. But only a glimpse. Many letters still remain. All of the stories I've read have been inspirational tales of gratitude. Tales of lives saved, of lives changed and of hope given.
"By reading just a few of these letters, I have learned so much from this man. And I have learned how to be a better man. And I have discovered what an honor it was to have met him.
"Now, I invite those of you who knew him to share your memories. But then, please, go a step further. Open a letter or two, tell us the postmark, and then share a memory from somebody else who loved him.
"We will all be richer for it."
The preacher set the bag on the table and Alfred's son rose to share a few words.
The preacher rested his hands on the pulpit. His was not a large church. It was small and simple with clapboard and bare wooden pews. It befitted its place. The spiritual home of a small farming community in the heart of Nebraska. It had once been bigger. But as with many farming areas, the young had moved on and the communities had withered. Even as the farms expanded, the number of people needed to run them had declined. So even though his was a small church, it was still too grand by far.
Today, even that would have been optimistic. Today, there were six souls in attendance. Four if you didn't count the dead man's sister and his only son.
The preacher was disappointed by the crowd. But not terribly so. It was to be expected, the dead man had moved here late in life and had never set down solid root.
The preacher knew that crowd or not, he had words to say. He was thankful to the Lord that there was at least somebody there to listen.
"Alfred Brandt was born in this town in 1925. His father Conrad, was, like myself, a preacher. His wife, Evelyn was a rock of the community. Despite their modest means, they supported families down on their luck and those in need could always rely on them for help and words of encouragement.
"When little Alfred was only 10 years old, his parents decided to take the Word of God to Brazil. They, of course, were not the first to do so. But they believed their Word was still needed. They were not Catholics."
The preacher noted that one of the attendees was already checking his watch. The preacher could offer him no succor. Alfred Brandt was a man who deserved the time.
"Evelyn and Conrad settled and established a small community in what was then a very old city - but one that was only recently modernizing. It was the 40,000 person city of Natal in Rio Grande del Norte. The elder Brandts remained there for the rest of their lives - until 1953 for Evelyn and 1957 for Conrad. They were there in 1939 when the war with Germany began.
"Brazil was not a member of the Allied Powers. But by 1942, when the United States joined the war, they were. More importantly, the little city the Brandts lived in became one of the most important places in the world. Brazil's northeast coast was the natural invasion point for a German Army. Perhaps more importantly, it was the ideal jumping off point for aircraft bringing men and arms to the European and Pacific theaters. During the war, Natal's airport became the largest US air base outside US territory. And it was the busiest airport in the world, with planes taking off and landing every three minutes. The city of Natal doubled in size and became known as the Trampoline to Victory. And it was Alfred's home.
"Alfred's parents were worldly people, they knew about the war and they knew what was good and what was evil. And so they encouraged their son to enlist in the United States Armed Forces. Of course, there wasn't much of a recruiting office in Natal.
"Alfred told me that they didn't know what to do with him when he showed up at the base. He claimed to be a US citizen, and he had the papers to prove it, but his name was German. Not only was his name German, but he was in the middle of a very strategic nowhere in Northeastern Brazil. The military was honestly concerned that he was a saboteur or, worse, a spy. The Army needed to know who he was. So he and his parents were interviewed and questions were asked back here in Nebraska. And eventually, after a whole lot of hoopla, the young man was enlisted. Because of his Portuguese and English skills, the Army wanted to keep him in Natal. So he became a airplane mechanic.
"Soon after enlisting, he spoke with his commanding officers, and he arranged something unique. Every bomber aircrew - and even some cargo crews - that came through that town and that had the time to spare, were given permission to go off base. And under Alfred's management, every one of them was treated to a home-cooked meal by somebody in the Brandt's little religious community. Over the course of three years, thousands of meals were served. The Brandts and their flock didn't have much, but they did their best to help those who needed a little comfort before facing the dangers of war. And Alfred arranged it."
"Alfred never saw combat. He decided to stay in the military for a little while after the war. It would be a free ticket to travel. He was in the US when he met and married his wife Beatrice. Less than a year later, they had a son Donald. Beatrice and Alfred realized that they loved to travel. And not just tour places, but live in them and have a chance to experience and become a part of communities. And so Alfred stayed with the military. He was moved all over the world. And wherever they went, they sought out those in need and they gave what they could to help. Alfred stayed in the military for 30 years. He never really climbed the ranks. He stayed a mechanic the entire time. Well before his retirement, their son and his wife had settled in Missouri.
"When Alfred retired, they realized the travel bug hadn't been satiated. Because the Brandt's had given so much, they didn't have a great deal of money. So he decided to work as they moved from place to place.
"The first destination was Iran. They were an ally then and Alfred worked as a fighter mechanic in the Shah's Air Force. His skills were greatly in demand and he and his wife traveled everywhere from Iran to India, and from Europe to Israel. They were enjoying their retirement immensely. And then they noticed the winds of change. Just prior to the 1979 Revolution, they fled.
"Alfred's skills, honed on ancient aircraft from World War II, were gradually becoming less and less relevant. But he still wanted to work and he and his wife still wanted to travel. So they went to Africa, a land filled with old planes that needed quite a bit of loving care. They settled in Kenya and continued their exploring ways. Africa, then as now, was a continent of great need. The Brandts started a children's health clinic in Kenya. They raised money from all of their contacts and used it to help the people who were around them.
"It was in Kenya, in 2003, that Evelyn died. Alfred brought her back to the US. By then, he was almost 80 years old. With her passing, and his growing ill-health, the travelling bug was finally gone. And so Alfred returned here, to his home town.
"When he first came here, I had no idea who he was. I introduced myself and we talked and got to know each other, some. He told me about his parents, he told me that he had a military career. He told me he had lived in Iran and Kenya. But he never told me about his charity work. I learned not a thing about what he did in Natal, during his military service, in Iran or even in Africa.
"Not a word.
"To me he was just an lonely old man who had returned home to die."
The preacher paused.
"But when he died, it was like a beacon had been broadcast to the world."
The preacher reached under his pulpit and pulled out a large bag. A bag that bursting at the seams.
"From the time he died until today, I have received 508 letters of condolence. There are only seven of us here in the flesh, but 515 people are here in spirit. I read some of those letters and I learned about the real Alfred Brandt. But only a glimpse. Many letters still remain. All of the stories I've read have been inspirational tales of gratitude. Tales of lives saved, of lives changed and of hope given.
"By reading just a few of these letters, I have learned so much from this man. And I have learned how to be a better man. And I have discovered what an honor it was to have met him.
"Now, I invite those of you who knew him to share your memories. But then, please, go a step further. Open a letter or two, tell us the postmark, and then share a memory from somebody else who loved him.
"We will all be richer for it."
The preacher set the bag on the table and Alfred's son rose to share a few words.
Friday, January 8, 2010
headcount@nile.com
ADMIN UPDATE:
If you are of a political bent, you might find Dr. Rajiv Chaudry (about Healthcare 'Reform') and Jason Webster.(about Air Terrorism)
There are, of course, lots of other fun stories like Howitt (about a soldier), Violin Boy, The Cult etc... Enjoy this one!
headcount@nile.com:
Date: Thursday, 8, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Sunrise
From: "Neferty" < neferty@nile.com>
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Headcount
Amenemhat,
I had a vision last night. In it, the Hebrew slaves covered the land. And there was no work. And they ate everything.
FYI, don't bring your eldest out next Sunday.
Enjoy your weekend!
Neferty
Human Resources Analyst, Department of Astrology & Visions
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 8, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Early Morning
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Ammon,
See attached. Neferty had a vision. Explain.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 8, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Mid-Morning
From: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com >
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
There are too many slaves.
Ammon
Project Planning, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 8, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Mid-Morning
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com"
Subject: Re: Headcount
Ammon,
What do you mean too many slaves? I thought we were on top of this.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 8, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Midday
From: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com >
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
I've reviewed the model. They didn't reproduce to projections. They were brought on for one project, which was expected to take a generation. They didn't die out but the project is ending, so now there are too many.
Ammon
Project Planning, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 8, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Midday
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com"
Subject: Re: Headcount
Ammon,
Can we retask them?
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 8, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Day
From: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com >
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
Yes we can. But I've analyzed it and my projections don't show us having anything worth feeding them to do.
As an aside, they eat a lot. We're going to have food issues soon.
Ammon
Project Planning, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 8, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Day
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com"
Subject: Re: Headcount
Ammon,
Give me a report and I'll present to Pharoah.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 9, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Sunrise
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
Subject: Re: Headcount
Oh Great and Masterful Pharoah,
It appears the Hebrew slaves have been multiplying faster than the budget can accommodate. I suggest working them harder and beating them more in order to dampen their future anticipated growth curve. We ought to be able to tackle this issue through attrition alone.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 9, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Early Morning
From: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Loyal Amenemhat,
I agree, I will issue the approval in the workforce management system.
Great and Masterful Pharoah
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 9, Mhyr, Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Early Morning
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
Subject: Re: Headcount
Oh Great and Masterful Pharoah,
I will keep you updated.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
~~~~~~~~~~~~
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 20, Ipip, Tenth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Sunrise
From: "Neferty" < neferty@nile.com>
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Headcount
Amenemhat,
I had a another vision last night. In it, the Hebrew slaves covered the land. And there was no work. And they ate everything.
FYI, avoid Imhotep Lane this evening.
How's the wife?
Neferty
Human Resources Analyst, Department of Astrology & Visions
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 12, Ipip Tenth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Early Morning
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Ammon,
See attached. Same dream. Same answer?
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 12, Ipip, Tenth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Early Morning
From: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com >
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
Same answer. Let's add more work. Maybe make them make bricks?
Ammon
Project Planning, Slave Driving Division
~~~~~~~~~~~~
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 12, Ipip, Tenth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Day
From: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Loyal Amenemhat,
I agree. I will issue the approval in the workforce management system.
Great and Masterful Pharoah
~~~~~~~~~~~~
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 15, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Sunrise
From: "Neferty" < neferty@nile.com>
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Headcount
Amenemhat,
I had a another vision last night. In it, the Hebrew slaves covered the land. And there was no work. And they ate everything.
You need brain surgery.
Neferty
Human Resources Analyst, Department of Astrology & Visions
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 15, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Early Morning
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Ammon,
See attached. Still there.
FYI, I don't know how Neferty knew, but I did have a little bit of pressure relieved. I'm fine now.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 15, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Morning
From: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com >
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
Good to hear. I'm almost out of ideas. Maybe we can slaughter them?
Ammon
Project Planning, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 15, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Midday
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Ammon,
Wouldn't work, they might unionize.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 15, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Midday
From: "Ammon" < Ammon@nile.com >
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
Maybe we can restructure by kill all the boy babies and keep the girls as breeding stock?
Ammon
Project Planning, Slave Driving Division
~~~~~~~~~~~~
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 16, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Early Morning
From: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Loyal Amenemhat,
I agree. I will issue the approval in the workforce management system.
Great and Masterful Pharoah
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 16, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Mid-Morning
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Akh,
We are having excessive headcount issues. The Great and Masterful Pharoah has approved a baby-culling exercise. Can your group implement?
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 16, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Midday
From: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
We've already developed a plan for this. We can outsource the actual baby-killing to the Hebrew midwives.
Akh
Vice President, Operations Management
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 16, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Midday
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Akh,
It isn't my department, but wouldn't that seem difficult to actually implement? It seems like incentives wouldn't line up with desired outcomes.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 16, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Day
From: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
It will work. Midwives' activities are carefully tracked and we have in-depth reporting on their performance. We can track it and impose disincentives on a case-by-case basis.
Akh
Vice President, Operations Management
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 16, Ta-'b, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Day
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Akh,
Ok.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
~~~~~~~~~~~~
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 25, Ipip, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Early Morning
From: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
We've had some pushback on implementation.
Akh
Vice President, Operations Management
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 25, Ipip, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Early Morning
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Akh,
What about the disincentives?
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 25, Ipip, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Midday
From: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
They've covered themselves. They claim they aren't actually at the births in time, so they can't kill the babies. Due to under-funding of our department, our database is primitive. We can't track whether or not they're telling the truth.
We can solve the problem by increasing our budget and thus our data storage and tracking capability.
Akh
Vice President, Operations Management
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 25, Ipip, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Day
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Akh,
There is no room in the budget. Send out Egyptian auditing groups. If they find baby Hebrew boys, reduce future the headcount by throwing them in the Nile. I'll have Pharoah authorize.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 25, Ipip, Twelfth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Day
From: "Akh" < Akh@nile.com>
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Amenemhat,
Without the increased database budget, somebody might slip through, but we will implement it.
Akh
Vice President, Operations Management
~~~~~~~~~~~~
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 5, Kahrka, Thirty-Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Afternoon
From: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Loyal Amenemhat,
Some young man just showed up claiming he was a Hebrew. I thought we restructured them so there wouldn't be any more young men.
Great and Masterful Pharoah
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 5, Kahrka, Thirty-Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Afternoon
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
Subject: Re: Headcount
Oh Great and Masterful Pharoah,
We achieved our project goals. We laid the groundwork for a significant future reduction in headcount.
One or two might have slipped through.
What did the Hebrew want?
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 5, Kahrka, Thirty-Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Afternoon
From: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Loyal Amenemhat,
Collective bargaining.
Great and Masterful Pharoah
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 5, Kahrka, Thirty-Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Afternoon
From: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
To: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
Subject: Re: Headcount
Oh Great and Masterful Pharoah,
Oy.
Amenemhat
Chief Task Master, Slave Driving Division
****************************************************************
Date: Thursday, 5, Kahrka, Thirty-Fifth Year, Twentieth Dynasty, New Kingdom, Late Afternoon
From: "Pharoah" < bigkahuna@nile.com"
To: "Amenemhat" < amenemhat@nile.com>
Subject: Re: Headcount
Loyal Amenemhat,
Tell me about it. Just like that, there goes the family business :(
Great and Masterful Pharoah
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