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A Short Story by
It might have begun with Alex Haley's phenomenon "Roots," with its fictitious tracing forward of the ancestry and heritage of Kunta Kinte. When the TV series hit the airways, the nation became obsessed with the story — even though it was historical fiction.
My dad was crazy with the idea that our family was somehow linked to an Adjutant Lieutenant who was a close aide to George Washington, and who had left the British military to fight on the right side. Oh how he sifted through yellowed letters and cracked photographs to prove that association. Notes folded and tucked into family Bibles. Photos with illegible notations, some with nothing to identify the stoned-faced subjects. Guess-work and some liberties were taken in developing a narrative of the family, how it came to be in the United States, and then in the Midwest and Minnesota.
This was long before Ancestry.com and others bought up most of the public records, foiling the best efforts of family researchers. We were't Mormon, so that avenue wasn't available.
And then came the pièce de résistance: DNA testing.
"Oh, you definitely do not want to submit your DNA!" warned my paranoid sister. "They'll find something genetically wrong with you and you won't ever be able to buy Life Insurance — or any insurance for that matter!"
Actually, I figured anyone who had any doubt as to his legitimacy might be compelled to send in a little spittle. I remember how growing up, my little brother and I sparred verbally, announcing the other had been adopted and was not a real part of the family.
That was actually the reason for my buying into the ancestry ploy: I was so different from the rest of my family, and had often wondered had I been adopted?
"No, Son. You weren't adopted. I still bear the stretch marks on my belly. You were the largest of the three."
Mom started having children almost immediately after marrying Dad. The first, Marylee, died as a two month old suddenly. Back then they called it Crib Death. I guess it would be called SIDS, now. But my parents were from Minnesota and the Midwest, where the mentality was infant mortality was almost a given. The solution, according to Dad, was to have another child as soon as possible. So my paranoid sister was born ten months after Marylee's death. And then I came along two years later, and my younger brother, a year and a half later.
From the start I stuck out like a sore thumb. My sister and brother were beautiful babies and children. Fair haired and blue eyes like Mom. But I was gawky and had ears much too large — that stuck out of the side of my head like radar detection saucers. Plus I had a long, thick unibrow that ran above both of my brown eyes. Mom thought I looked like a monkey, and called me her little Monkey Man. I hated that.
But, unlike my siblings, I had two things going for me: I was extremely athletic, and I could sing. So I was in harmony with the music of my times, and the music of nature. Dad loved to sing, too, and awoke every morning singing "Oh, what a beautiful morning!" from the musical.
One Sunday Dad took us to the Plantation Supper Club, which served the best buffet in three counties, and featured a live band. All us kids loved going there, because sometime during the band's performance, the conductor would ask if any kids would like to come up and perform? Nearly all chose to lead the band, waving the conductor's baton to a rhythm that did not match the band's tempo in the least. The reward was a huge multi-colored lollipop that would last for days.
So we all went up, my sisters and I. Mom was pregnant with my younger brother at the time. The girls waved their arms while the band played, received their lollipops, and returned to the family table.
"Do you want to lead the band?" the conductor asked me.
"No. I want to sing."
"And what song do you want to sing?"
"Je-sus luffs me!" I said loudly into his mic.
"Well, I — uh, I guess the band knows that one," and handed his mic to me. The band began a rather tentative rendition of the song — musicians unsure of the beat or the notes.
"Je-sus luffs me, this I know!" I sang and continued to sing in my innocent and crystal-clear voice. The band dropped off behind me while I continued a cappella.
"Yes! Je-sus luffs me!" I could see just beyond the apron of the stage where diners sat, enrapt. Tissues were out and dabbing eyes.
"Yes! Je-sus luffs me!" The waiters stood in their tracks, not knowing whether it was okay to tend tables or not while I sang the song.
"Yesss! Je-sus luffs me! Da Bi-bull tells me so!"
Silence. Do you clap after "Jesus loves me" is sung? No one knew. Mom was blubbering into a large dinner napkin.
Finally, Dad stood up and clapped, and the other diners followed suit.
I grabbed my lollipop from the hands of the stunned conductor and raced back to my seat. My two sisters glared at me.
And that's pretty much why I decided to send in my DNA.
The company letter came a few weeks later. Basically, it was an apology, stating that sometimes DNA samples were erroneously contaminated — either by the sender or during some part of the testing process.
"This happens very rarely. In fact, only on nine previous occasions have we ever had to send an offer to retest DNA for free, and we test thousands of samples, comparing them to our growing DNA bank for matches, every day."
Whatever. Someone screwed up at the testing site. I was very careful to follow the instructions meticulously, and knew it wasn't my fault! Inconvenient? Sure, but you pick your battles, and I sent in another sample.
Three weeks passed and the same letter came back to me.
So now I'm frustrated. All I want to do is disprove my younger brother's decades-old assertion that I was adopted — something Mom and Dad had continued to deny.
"They're lying!" my brother hissed, snakelike.
As it turns out, they weren't lying — not exactly, at least according to the man who showed up at my door one day dressed in a black suit with black tie and fedora and sunglasses.
Before the Blues Brother showed up at my front door, I gotta be honest and say this thing about the DNA FUBAR had begun to get to me. This feeling I considered too silly to mess with had sunk into my head. I couldn't sleep at night. I couldn't concentrate at work. I was short-tempered with people around me — impatient to the max. I've never sunk into such a dark place in my life — yet, here I was.
So when I answered the doorbell early one Saturday to greet this whatever and whoever he was, there was a mixture of tension with relief! Somehow I knew this funk I was in was going to see some light of day. I knew this guy was some sort of key to getting out of my pit, and I was damn well ready to be rescued.
He identified himself so quickly I missed half what he said, still, I held the door open and he walked into my house.
"We alone?" he asked.
"Unless you count my fighting fish in the bowl over there."
"No girl friend?"
"With these ears?"
"Yeah. No girl friend."
He carried a locked briefcase, spun the combination dials, and it popped open. He set it on the small table in front of the couch where he sat. He pulled out a manila envelope and opened the silver clasps, then slid out photos of people.
"Would you mind looking at these and telling me if any of them are familiar?"
I picked each up and briefly studied them. Various ethnicities — Hispanic, black, Asian, a few different caucasians. Male and female. Adults and children. While I couldn't say for sure, I was fairly certain I didn't know any of them. And yet … there was a sense of underlying familiarity about each person. But I couldn't put a finger on it.
"Nope. I don't know them. Should I?"
"Unless you travel the world a lot, I doubt it."
There were three adult males, three adult females, two male children and one girl. Nine photos in all.
Nine. I remembered the letter.
"This about my DNA test about my ancestry?"
"It might be." He was stone-face. I think if he smiled his head would crumble apart. "I can't really tell you much …"
"… or you'd have to kill me, right?"
He didn't appreciate the quip.
"I've read your files." (They have files, plural, on me?) "We've been waiting for this for a number of years."
"Waiting for what?" I was getting more uneasy by the second.
"You to get your DNA tested. Of course, our operatives are the ones who messed them up."
"Why would you do that? Why are you interested in me?"
"Same reason you wanted to get your DNA results. To find out who you are related to."
"So I'm am adopted?"
"Not in the classical sense."
"What other sense is there?"
"We ran your DNA years ago."
"YEARS AGO!" I am now officially freaked out.
"It's a long story."
"I've got time …"
"Actually, we don't."
"Tell me the short version then — skip all the boring stuff and get to the highlights. I AM an American, and have rights, you know."
"WHA — ?!"
"Calm down, Sir. I'll tell you this," as he reached into his coat pocket and removed something that resembled a gun.
"Sit, Sir. Please. Take a deep breath."
"Those photos I showed you? The people you say you know nothing about? Those nine people are the only people on this earth — as far as we can determine — who are genetically related to you."
And then he pulled the trigger, and I blacked out.
I awoke with a clear head, and no grogginess or dizziness — which surprised me. I've had surgery before and have gone under the knife, so knew what coming out of an anesthetically-induced sleep was like. This was definitely not that.
There were lights, but not blinding. Blues Brother guy was among several others seated about a stark room all about me. I was stretched out on some sort of sofa, or bed. I remember I felt completely relaxed and unafraid. Including The Blues Brother, there were nine others forming a ring around me: Three men, three women, two boys and one girl. They were of varying age and ethnic look. All were smiling.
I sat upright and swung my feet around to the floor. No one spoke. Slowly I looked about the room, studying each face. I realized after the third person there were similarities too obvious: the ears, large and prominent, as if satellite dishes, scanning for the visually undetectable; mono brows, dark and thick.
Just like me. The nine were the DNA rejects!
"You are the others." It was not a question on my part, but a statement of realization.
They smiled and nodded.
"Your DNA is a match to me." Again, a statement.
Again, they smiled.
The Blues Brother stood up and walked to me.
"You asked if your were adopted. You weren't in the usual sense. Your birth mother basically cocooned you in her womb."
"What? There was an immaculate conception?"
"Interesting you asked — more like an immaculate switch."
"Switch?"
"You, and your brothers and sisters, took the place of feti already growing in your 'birth mothers' wombs." He couched the words birth mothers with finger quotation marks. "They were not, of course, your biological birth mothers."
I was stunned. The news of being adopted is impactful enough, but to find that your birth mother was not your biological mother goes well beyond shocked.
"So you implanted me in my mother's womb?"
"In a way. More simply put, we switched you out. Like replacing a carburetor in an engine, or a lightbulb."
"And what happened to the feti that were in these mothers' bellies?"
"We don't speak of that."
"It is not germane to your purpose. It will do nothing for you to have that knowledge."
The other nine also turned to the Blues Brother, seeming as interested in the truth as I.
One in particular, a light-skinned, white-haired and blue-eyed middle-aged woman stared at him intently, to which Blues Brother reacted with immediate nervousness to the point he began to sweat profusely.
"Well, if you must absolutely know — we recycled them."
"What?! What the hell does that mean?"
"They were ingested."
In the span of a little over three months, my life had turned upside down. Not only was I not my parents' legitimate offspring, but I was no longer a part of the human species! And, my race was not of this world. And we were cannibals, apparently.
"The precise definition of cannibal is one that eats the flesh of its own kind. So, technically, the feti that were ingested was not an act of cannibalism.
Blues Man was very careful in his use of words: feti … ingested. Terms of sterility, and very little direct inference to what really happened. They ate babies, by God! He made it sound as if humans were little more than part of the Four Main Food Group's of his — or our — planet!
I remembered the classic Twilight Zone episode, To Serve Mankind — the realization as a group of earthlings shuttled onto a space vessel that the "manual" the Alien had brought with him was actually a cookbook.
And while my nine relatives and I were not grossly obvious as outerworlders, we were still distinct in our appearance. The ears. The eyebrow. I had never had the slightest inclination to eat anyone, though.
That wasn't all. Each of us also had special abilities. Talents, you might say … but not normal. My brother from Ecuador, Josue, had the ability to see around corners. No idea how you would use that, or how you develop it. Genetic mutation? He wasn't sure either.
Each was different in that regard, except we did share perfect pitch, and could spontaneously break into a long strain of melodious and harmonious song. That experience was incredible! I likened it to a pack of wolves baying in the moonlit night air — their parts wrapping around each other's, lifting the pack to unequaled heights of ecstasy! My siblings and I matched and exceeded that of the wolves — or of the whales — or of any other earthbound creature. Then I realized all earth's creatures — with the exception of humans — spontaneously broke into choruses — from katydids and tree toads to rutting Elk. Perhaps we were more like they.
Blues Brother reminded us humans were quite capable of exquisite song — but not all. I thought of my human siblings and had to agree. Each was tone deaf. But at Christmastide the televised performance of Handel's Messiah always sent shivers throughout my body.
"Why do we sing?" I asked.
"Two reasons," said Blues Man. "We enter into a oneness with each other, with nature, and with the Universe; and we're horney and want to mate."
Once Blues Man had answered all of our various questions in various languages (we all understood each other perfectly), he addressed the one question no one had dared ask, but was paramount on our minds.
"You are probably wondering why you're here. I would be, too. I've long waited for this moment. The annuls of our world will highlight this moment. Your thoughts will be heralded for millennia to come. You are here to save this planet, pure and simple.
"Not for our use. Not as a breeding farm for food. Not for resources or any other reason than its direction is perilous. Humans have so distorted this planet's balance that it stands on the precipice of destruction. And as many countries have ironically reserved vast areas for preservation and against the total waste of precious lands, we are going to preserve this world because of its uniqueness — either with, or without humans.
"They have become the top liability, and either we will convince them to reverse that, or we will not."
"And if we don't?" I asked.
"Our goal remains the same. We adapt our approach to the problem."
Imagine that within a matter of weeks you had discovered:
Your parents were not your real parents;
You had been implanted into the womb of your mother (is this similar to the Virgin Birth, I wonder?);
You were, in fact, alien;
That you and others like you had the responsibility of saving the Earth;
And, finally, that saving the Earth might not include saving humanity.
I grew up immersed in the science fiction of my day, which demonize every flying saucer, alien, or unknowable thing that happened to be discovered by the guys with horn-rimmed glasses and who wore starched white short-sleeved shirts. Enmity, never understanding. Or hardly ever. The beast of Forbidden Planet. The three-eyed monster of The Day the World Ended. The emissary, Klaatu, from outer space who arrived in Washington with his stainless steel sidekick, Gort, to tell humans to quit nuclear proliferation. Only Klaatu had some semblance of sanity — the rest were train wrecks.
Alien equaled "bad," regardless how the term was used. Alien, foreign, nonhuman, maliciously dangerous, deceitful, untrustworthy. Shoot when you see the slits of their eyes. And, shoot first, ask questions later, which was the military mentality in each film.
And there I was — smack dab in the middle of a small herd of Aliens, and I was one!
"After a brief period of training, each one of you will be returned whence you came," said Blues Brother. I think he was trying to impress us with his use of the word "whence."
"We don't have much time, family. Some of you will skirt the time rings and go back to small but pivotal events that steered the course of history to where we now are. Others, will skirt ahead, and provide the necessary evaluation of any changes to the good. Personally, I would prefer to go back in time, as I think those evaluating change are going to be disappointed. Were it me (again, the odd use of the verb), I would dispense with the entire efforts at redeeming humanity. Like when the God of the Bible said, "Oops! That didn't work! Guess I'll flood the Earth."
I raised my hand to interrupt and challenge the assertion, but Blues Man had already guessed my intent and ignored me.
"Your training will not be very difficult. The pods being lowered are your training encasements (as he spoke, shiny black pods — almost like those of The Body Snatchers — descended from the darkness above to hover at waist level in front of each of us), and you will spend some time in hibernation.
"During that time you will be more fully informed about the mission as well as your personal backgrounds. Each of you has various — how shall I put it? — unearthly abilities. You will be acquainted with and thoroughly trained in the proper use of these abilities.
"If there are no questions, I ask you to touch your pod to open it."
I raised my hand. All the other pods opened. Blues Brother eyed me sternly, and I put my hand down and touched the pod in front of me. It opened along the horizontal middle.
"Please get into your pod. It doesn't matter which end you position your head at. Your pod will make the necessary adjustments."
We all clambered into the pods.
"Lie down on your backs — face up."
And as we did, the interior of the pod began to expand and gently form-fit to our bodies. My experience was one of total relaxation and comfort, and I wondered it this was what it was like to lie in a coffin.
"Touch the inside top of your pod to close, and I'll see each of you shortly."
I touched mine, and the lid slowly closed. A light wisp of cool air circulated about me, and though the lid was shut, it wasn't dark. An ambient blueish-green glow radiated slowly about me, and as it did, I could hear music similar to the chorus we had participated in when we first met. It was so soothing! When they speak of utter peace? This was it.
And I fell into a deep sleep.
Early morning sun rays beamed through the window blind slits onto my face. Outside I could hear the morning-tide welcome as birds joined in a wonderful chorus of praise. I felt myself beginning to join in the song fest when my birth mother knocked on my bedroom door.
"Eggs and sausage on the table!"
Eggs and sausage. Birds and pigs. The thought was now nauseating. How could I ever have thought those were edible?
I pulled myself out of my bed and shuffled into the bathroom, flicking the light on and staring at my reflection in the walled mirror above the counter sink.
"Still me," I thought. Wait! Was that a dream?
"You will invariable have moments of doubt that any of this has taken place," I remember Blues Brother warning us.
"Merely remember our group choruses, tilt your head back, and sing — preferably in the shower so no one thinks it odd."
I turned the shower on and slipped out of my pajamas, then entered into the glassed closet. The warm water felt good — like soft needles pricking my face and shoulders and chest. I leaned my head back and allowed the sound to flow. And in an instant, knew it was all true.
I toweled and dressed, making my bed for the first time in millennia because it made me feel happy to do so.
In the kitchen I kissed my birth mom, which, again, was something I never did. It surprised her and she turned red in the face. I could read her mind: what's gotten into him?
"Nothing has gotten into me," I replied to her shock. I looked at the plate of sausage and bowl of scrambled eggs and squelched a gag reflex. Then I got up from the table.
"Not going to eat?"
"I'm not hungry, Mom."
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day!" she chided him.
"I know. I'll grab something later."
I headed for the front door and turned back to look at her, busy in the kitchen putting away the sausage and scrambled eggs. I wanted to say something, but what? She was so much a part of me before, and now seemed so very far away.
"You have a good day, Mom!"
"Go save the world, Son!"
And I walked out into a new day.
Tags: adopted, Alex Haley, DNA, heritage, Kunta Kinte, no results, outlier, Roots, who's my mommy?
Categories fantasy, Fiction, Humor, Short Story
Frank Kramer rolled over and slowly opened one eye. The lids stuck from dried rheum, and he rubbed the mucus away. His vision was blurred, then cleared as he blinked repeatedly.
The red digital numerals of his bed stand table clock blocked to form 4:30. He had awakened an hour earlier than normal, and his brain seemed to swim loosely in his skull.
He needed a day off. His routine of clambering out of bed and shuffling to the bathroom, turning on the light after he peed, then brushing his teeth and showering was the rote of his existence. Gulping down instant coffee, he would toast an English muffin and spread butter and a thin layer of strawberry jam on the pocked surface. That was his breakfast day-in and day-out. He would quickly make a peanut butter sandwich with sliced bananas and mayonnaise, seal it in a zip-lock sandwich bag which he tossed into his battered black lunch box. A granola bar for good measure, and a thermos of seltzer water.
The drive out to the toll booth on I-77 was the same turns and the same speeds. He would arrive, and carefully cross to his booth on Lane Three, where Lucius was waiting to be relieved — literally. Traffic through the toll booth would be increasing, headlights of hundreds of cars, trucks going in two directions signaled the beginning of another exciting day.
But today? Today he planned to stay in bed. Past his 5:30 beep-beep-beep alarm. Past his usual bathroom rituals. Past his English muffin breakfast and instant coffee. Past the zombie-like preparation of his lunch. Past the 25-minute drive of the same turns and the same speeds to the Lane Three toll booth on I-77.
Lucius could just fucking wet his pants today.
Frank turned off his alarm clock, flipped over on his other side, fluffed his pillow, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.
Lucius Mindowicz begin to stir in his seat inside the booth on Lane Three. It had been a slow night, and only a few hundred dozen cars or trucks had slowed down enough to toss the necessary change into the wide plastic coin gathering basket just below his lane window. Every now and then a car would zip through without slowing, but they had the barcode stickers on their windshields that were prepaid. Almost never did someone try to cheat the system. Once there was a high-speed chase when he thought the driver being chased would lose control at the toll booth, but that was Lane Five, and somehow the driver sped through going Lucius figured a hundred or more. The pursuing highway patrol cars did slow down — but not much.
He thought there ought to be a law that if a trooper can get the license plate number of the car, the chase should be stopped. Catch the guy later when he pulls into a combo gas and Subway station. Of course, the effing defense lawyers are the ones that would make mincemeat out of that law.
As boring as his job was, Lucius liked the money and the company benefits. Beats working the drive-through at McDonald's, he figured. He had his headphones, and an iPad that was one of the perks, which he could use to watch Netflix — even though he wasn't supposed to do that on duty. But who cares? Everyone does it! Except for that perky little bitch in Lane Two who was working towards becoming a cop.
He looked at his watch. It was 6:00. Almost done with the shift. Lucius knew Frank was on his way, and so he let up a bit on pinching off the need to pee. Frank would come walking up in just a few minutes, and Lucius would put the change in the money bag and print out a total receipt, which he would toss into the bag as well. In five years he had never come up short. If he ever did, he knew he wouldn't hear the last of it from little Miss Perky Bitch.
The Morning Drive Guys were on the radio, talking and laughing about Beyoncé, or some other celebrity — making crude jokes and guffawing. He liked their political polls. "If 45 couldn't get around in a limo, a helicopter, or Air Force One, which of these modes of transportation would he likely use? A tricycle … a skateboard … a Segway … or a golf cart? And why?"
Lucius laughed at the call-ins and their answers — even though he was a big Trump supporter. Boy were the Democrats in for a surprise in 2020, he thought. There was a signed photo of Trump with the American flag in the background, and the words "Make America Great Again!" taped to the wall of the booth where it couldn't be seen. It was against regulations, but even Miss Snot Nose Perky Bitch hadn't complained.
He looked at the clock again. It was 6:20 and still no sign of Frank. Where the hell was he? By this time Lucius was shaking his legs like they were wings he had to go so bad. On the floor was an empty plastic milk carton for use in emergencies, and if he absolutely had to, he'd use it. He preferred to use the Porta John standing in the area where the toll booth operators parked. But, when you gotta go…
And he had to go.
Fuck Frank! Lucius grabbed the milk carton and unzipped, streaming his urgent flow noisily into the container. He tapped off, capped the jug, and was in the process of zipping up when bright lights on the road blinded him. He heard the screeching of tires as the car — or whatever kind of vehicle it was — shot right at him.
"Oh, shit!"
Callie Farmer was late. It was the third time in the month, and the third strike. She had done all she could this morning not to be late, but the gods were against her. Her three-month-old had screamed in pain all night, and nothing she could do helped.
"He's got the colic," her mother stated matter-of-factly, a long ash bending toward the floor from her cigarette.
"That's not helpful, Momma!"
"I used to put bourbon on my finger and let you suck it when you was a baby and had it."
"I'm not going to do that! Just go the hell back to bed!"
"Can't. Too much noise," she said as she opened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of beer. "If you want, I can rock him and you can go back to bed. You can't afford to be late to work again."
"Tell me something I don't know, goddamit!"
"Don't use that attitude with me, girl."
"Or what? What, Momma?"
"Gimme that baby, girl. I'll get him to sleep."
And she did. And Callie hated that she did. And hated her mother smoking around the baby, and drinking beer around the baby. And most of all, hated her mother.
"Well, I guess you can stay here," she had told Callie who showed up on the doorstep eight months pregnant. "But you gotta show me some respect. AND you gotta go git a goddam job after the baby comes. You ain't freeloadin' here, girl."
Callie had no choice. At least that she could count on. And family is family. She had thought maybe this would be a new start for her and her mother.
She thought wrong.
The Kia was on its last legs. Three of four plugs still sparked, and half the time the fuel line barely squeezed enough gas to the engine to turn over. Really cold mornings were worse, as the heater had long quit throwing out much more than lukewarm air. But it was what she had, and she had to make do.
She hated working at the Circle K. On her feet for eight hours, same Muzak piped in over the ceiling speakers — Christmas being the worst.
Dealing with customers who grunted and never spoke, unless to complain.
"You're out of toilet paper/hand soap/paper towels/sanitary seat covers in the bathroom. And the lock doesn't work, either."
"I'm well over 18."
"Sorry, Sir, but by law I have to card you for cigarettes and beer."
"Goddam communist country is what we're becoming."
People taking a penny and not leaving a penny.
And the creepy manager, who came in to check inventory and reshelve stock. She didn't know what nationality he was, but his hair was slick with hair grease that had an unpleasant odor. Had she been pregnant, she knew she would have to rush to the bathroom to retch every time he came near her — which was too often.
"This is the second time you are late," he scolded her. "I like you very much, Callie, and I would very much like for you to succeed at your work. But, if you are late one more time, I will have to find someone else who is more reliable than you. But, I am a reasonable man, Callie. I am not wanting to have to fire you. Perhaps we might come to an understanding?"
She understood, all right. And wanted nothing to do with her manager other than a working relationship.
"That is your choice, Callie. Never say I was anything but reasonable and businesslike with you. So … one more time late? Yes? You understand?"
She awoke late and scrambled to take a shower — in and out of the bathroom in record time — deferring her make-up and hair until she was on the road. The drive was at least 40 minutes, and she had to clock in at 6:45. It was 6:10. As long as traffic was light …
It was not. And as she frantically applied eyeliner and lipstick, holding the wheel with her knees, she sped up I-77 towards the toll booths. She pressed the gas pedal down, the Kia shaking with effort.
Change! Did she have her purse? Ah, there on the passenger seat. She reached into her purse with her right hand and found the Tic-Tack tin where she kept loose coins.
"And what do you think the President should use for travel?" the DJ asked his next caller.
She couldn't open the tin with one hand — then did — and change spilled out onto the seat and car floor.
"It's The Morning Drive Guys, and we are coming up on 6:53! Next caller …"
"Damndamndamndamn!"
The lights of the toll booth appeared out of the morning fog, and Callie flipped on the ceiling light to search for coins.
CORRECT CHANGE LANE ONLY read the white-lettered blue sign as she zipped under it, headed for Lane Three.
Suddenly someone from her left veered to the right across lanes, and Callie had to jerk her wheel to the left, stomping on what she thought was the brake pedal, but was not. Her headlights illumined the toll booth, and a surprised attendant waving his arms frantically — a plastic milk carton in one hand — his eyes filled with surprise.
"Goddamit!" Callie screamed. "Late again!"
Light poured into the bedroom, and Frank Kramer could sleep no longer. The red digital numerals of his bedside table alarm clock blocked to form 8:45. He reached over and turned on the clock radio, slinging his right arm back over his face to block the morning. He wondered why no one from work had called to see where he was.
"This is The Morning Drive Guys on your favorite listening station. Let's break for your News on the Sixes (musical ditty) … six minutes of breaking news to keep you informed, brought to you by Kia of Canton …
"Matt this is Delores with breaking news about a fatal accident that occurred earlier today when a car slammed into one of the toll booths on I-77. Highway Patrol reports at least two fatalities, and possibly a third. The driver of a car speeding north crashed into the Lane Three toll booth at around 6:55 this morning. The driver and attendant were both pronounced dead at the scene, but authorities are also concerned with an attendant who is missing and was supposed to relieve that slain attendant. More as information becomes available, Matt."
"Thanks, Delores. Now more callers on what kind of transportation should the president …"
Frank turned the radio off and turned on his back, staring at the popcorn ceiling of his bedroom.
John Farmer's name adequately described him: solid, strong, self-confident, handsome. He was the kid every mother hoped her daughter would bring home during Spring Break from college.
He was also the kind of guy girls didn't want their mothers to meet. They didn't want the competition.
Dad's always stuck out their hands, and were impressed by his firm grip and eye-to-eye contact.
"So, John — what're you majoring in?"
"Premed, Sir." Two points. One for premed, one for "sir."
"You want to be a doctor? What specialty?"
"Trauma. Probably an ER doc — though they call the ER the ED now in most hospitals. Emergency medicine has become more than the emergency room."
"Why that specialty, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Sure. Well, a family member died from head trauma years ago."
Awkwardly, "Oh. I'm sorry about that."
"It was his mother, Dad."
"Oh! Gosh —"
"It's okay, Sir. I was a baby at the time. I never really knew her. My grandmother raised me."
And at dinner, the conversation would drift about. John mentioned he played baseball in high school.
"Professional scouts were looking at him!"
"But that's not my goal, and I really don't have time to play with everything else I have on my plate."
He worked as an EMT for Orange County.
"Helps pay my rent. My scholarship money pays the rest."
"Morehead Scholar, Dad."
Six points. Two for working, two for no college debt, and two for being a Morehead. Eyes wide and big grins and pats on the back.
That was pretty much his experience whenever and wherever he was taken "to meet the folks."
But those relationships hardly ever stuck. And he wasn't sure why not. Maybe because his mother died tragically, and he'd never known her. Maybe because his grandmother had not died, and he did know her. Maybe because he had never known his father, nor the circumstances of his coming to be. When asked, his grandmother simply popped another beer and lit another cigarette.
"How's knowing gonna change what is? You are who you determine yourself to be. That should suffice."
Which, all in all, was pretty good advice — albeit a bit on the calloused side of things.
Maybe it was due to keeping his guard up all of the time. He had experienced enough tragedy, and he was finally off on his own and commander of his own vessel. His boat was just large enough for one at this point in his life, and he knew he could at least determine how he responded to all of the challenges in life. Why add another person into the mix?
Tamara Johnson leaned over the console of the exercise bike, sweat dripping from the end of her nose, which she blew away with a forceful puff. Three more minutes to go, so she stepped up her pedaling to squeeze out every ounce of body fat she could manage.
She wasn't a fitness junky. She had simple observed herself in a Nordstrom dressing room mirror and decided enough was enough. Average is how she described her physique on Zoosk. There should be another category, like, What the hell's wrong with average and at least I'm not bulimic?
But she worked in a traditionally man's world — and despite her acceptance among the other emergency medical techs, was well aware of the onus she carried on the job. Had to be stronger than normal. Had to be at the top of the skills list. Had to put up with the occasional man-talk in the break room and the kitchen. Had to overcome the stereotyping that if she was an EMT, she must be lesbian. She talked rough because the talk was rough. She wore her hair short because she thought long hair was a potential danger on the job, and she didn't want to have to keep brushing it aside while she administered CPR or the paddles.
She also had to overcome the resentment of the Old Guard EMT's, who in spite of declaring their support for women EMT's, were steeped in the "way things used to be." They were men she tolerated, knowing it unlikely they would somehow have a eureka experience about her and suddenly "see the light." She had one thing on them, however: they were old and she was not. She could wait.
Her girl friends said she ought to take it to the top whenever issues of sexism inevitably arose (and there were so many ways those issues could surface), but she thought better of it. She was smart enough to know you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, something her dad used to say often before he passed. But, if someone did cross the physical line, she was prepared.
Now, however, there was a new potential conflict: John Farmer — the new kid on the street. At least with his hiring Tamara was no longer on the bottom rung, where she had persevered for three years. Farmer replaced her, and she was his senior in terms of experience. But this was a temporary stopover for the young guy, who had no time to stop and take a piss his schedule was so crammed. From being on call at the station to going to school, he had no time for anything else. And when he was on call, he was studying. Biology, chemistry, applied mathematics and courses she didn't know existed.
The problem was she liked him. And so did all the other squad members. But they called him "the kid," like he was a rookie — which he was — with potential — which he definitely had. He did his job, learned as much as he could about being an EMT and its expectations by the side of his new mentors. Their admiration was because he was their new brother in the family. Hers was a bit more.
Tamara, hoping none of the others would not notice, had begun to dress for work a little differently since Farmer's arrival. Wear makeup. Splash on cologne — but not like her male counterparts did, which was to literally bathe in Ax aftershave. Frustrated, her attempts at small talk with Farmer were wasted on the guy. His head was always miles away — thinking about some class or test. Or crouched in a corner by himself with his laptop, pecking away at a paper, or doing required research.
She chalked up her interest to infatuation. A handsome guy — physically fit and mentally sharp. Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent. A real Boy Scout. She rated herself as beneath the standard Farmer was probably used to. But then, measuring up had always been a challenge she normally accepted with gusto.
She discontentedly decided to content herself with a platonic and strictly business relationship with John Farmer. He had his life. She had hers.
Carlton Barks pulled into the entrance to The Red Roof Inn and found a parking space. He turned the ignition off and the truck shuddered to a stop, coughing and spewing a bit as normal. He reached down on the floorboard and grabbed the red dog lead. On cue, Sadie jumped to her feet and nosed him while he hooked the lead to her collar. They were two dogs of a kind. She, a rescue wire-haired mix he found in Texas, and he, a rescued wire-haired hombre who travelled from place to place, doing odd carpentry jobs.
Normally he followed the spring storms from Texas up through Oklahoma and Nebraska, helping locals clean up the aftermath in the wake of an F2 or 3. Sometimes larger. Then his practice was to stay on and rebuild. He did that for years, and what some folks might say was an iffy lifestyle, he found to be all he wanted or needed.
He wasn't a gouger nor a cheat. He knew a lot of traveling crews that bit down hard on little old ladies, promising a roof repair and requiring a down payment for materials and the work. They'd have a roll of roofing paper and lay down one or two rows, break for lunch — asking the little old ladies for the nearest diner — then disappear into the sunset, taking the down payment with them.
Not Barks. He was rough, but he had a soul, what was left of it.
At the Red Roof Inn counter he slapped a hundred-dollar bill down for a room. He never paid by credit — always cash. At the Red Roofs he and Sadie could get a few nights sleep on real beds, and he could catch up on the local happenings on TV. Plus they provided breakfast — if you could call it that. The Danish were usually stale, the apples bruised and brown, and the coffee scalding. Still, for the price it wasn't the worst thing in the world.
And when the cash was gone, he knew it was time to find work. Normally that wasn't hard to do, following the storms and all. Occasionally he and Sadie bunked out in the cab of his truck. Gas was his main expense. He carried a prepaid flip phone for emergencies — only for 911 calls. He didn't really know anyone else he could call if he was in a jamb.
This spring he headed east through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and the Florida panhandle; then northeast through Georgia, South Carolina, and into North Carolina. He opted for what he told Sadie was the "middle route," I-75 to Macon, then I-20 to Columbia, then north to Charlotte. He was in no hurry, and worked some jobs along the way — a few roofs, some tree cutting, window replacements.
Up in the hurricane states he had become well-known, and was busy from the time he crossed into twister territory. In the east — not so much. His dingy white magnetic signs, which he stuck to either door of his truck, read Good, Honest Work at Good, Honest Prices. He would ask at diners and gas stations if anyone knew anyone that needed work. That seemed to work fine. At least, when he and Sadie got down to half a tank in the truck, work always came his way.
He never asked for upfront money. "Pay me when I've done the job," he'd say, and shake hands on it. Generally he had no problems getting paid. He took a check once in Albuquerque that bounced, so after that he always asked for cash. No credit cards.
His estimates were scrawled out on a yellow sheet of blue-lined pad paper — in pencil. And when it came to collecting his due, he was always right on the money. No surprises. Just good honest work at good honest prices.
Once he had been asked if he were an Irish Traveler by a Sheriff's deputy outside Aiken. Barks knew of their reputation. They were basically con artists in the home repair trade. A smirch on the reputation of the good, honest work guys. The deputy ran a computer query while Barks leaned against the end of his truck and smoked a cigarette. Sadie found shade just underneath the truckbed. He'd been pulled many times, and knew the ropes well. Stay calm. Answer the questions politely. Tell the officer you have an unloaded revolver in the glove compartment where you also keep your gun permit. In other words, lessen the chance of some law enforcer getting nervous about you. Then you got trouble, and trouble was what Barks wanted none of. And normally, as in this case, the deputy walked back and handed back Barks license, with a polite thank you sir, you are free to go, have a nice day.
Barks hadn't always been this way. Twenty years earlier he had walked on the wild side, and whiskey, fast cars, and loose women were far more important than good work at a fair price.
Hence the reason for traveling east this spring. There was a gal he had a short fling with. Someone who had robbed him of his senses, and who had torn his heart out. He could see her at will by closing his eyes. Pretty brunette. Bright eyes. Cherry lips. And innocent as a new-born calf. She had run off from her home and mother — which apparently was the family curse, her mother doing the same thing at a similar age.
Word had gotten back that she was pregnant, and she had gone home to her mother. Pregnant. She never called him nor wrote to say the baby was his, so he assumed it was not. But after he straightened out his zig-zagging life, Barks began to wonder. And twenty years later decided it was time to quit wondering and find out.
All he knew was her name: Callie Farmer. And where she had lived with her mother — a small town outside Charlotte.
"Hey! Batter-batter-batter!" shouted the shortstop, pounding his glove with his balled up other hand.
The pitcher touched the front bill of his ball cap, and looked around. Man on second and one on first, who dared a throw by stretching a long lead off the base.
John Farmer stepped out of the batter's box to adjust his helmet, gripping down on the rubberized tape spiraling down the shaft of his aluminum bat. He quickly glanced at the score. The Red Raiders were down two runs in the bottom of the ninth, and the count was full. He was the winning run in this state championship game.
He stepped back into the batter's box and took a practice swing. The chatter started up in the infield again as the pitcher and catcher came into agreement after shaking off several suggestions. Finally nodding, and with a slight dip of his chin, the pitcher drew his glove up, masking his fingers around the ball.
Farmer closed out all noise — like his favorite scene in The Natural — and he was Roy Hobbs at the plate. He felt sweat run down his neck, and from his groin down the inside of his back leg. His bat drew tiny circles at the thick end. The pitcher leaned forward again, and began his windup. Arms and legs following precise choreography — the ball still hidden in his large leather glove. Leaning back, out popped a leg as he cocked his arm, finishing his throw with arm and fingers extended, back leg swinging around just below the rubber on the raised mound.
Farmer could see the stitches in the calfskin as the missile hurtled toward the plate: knuckleball, down and away, the pitcher's favorite throw. But also Farmer's favorite pitch to hit. His left leg up in his chest, his back leg drove him forward towards the ball, his bat cutting low and up with just enough speed to connect.
Ping! went the hit, just over the third baseman's outstretched glove, slowly climbing like a lumbering passenger jet. Up, up, up — and well over the left field fence, inside the left field line. Home run! State Championship! Hero!
And as he bounce-jogged around third and into home, Farmer looked up to where his ecstatic mother and father normally sat, hugging and kissing wildly, waving and giving him the thumbs up.
Then the alarm clock would buzz and bring him back to reality, and his dream evaporated.
A Sunday, he could have slept in. But there was too much to do. This was his off-weekend as an EMT, and he needed to take advantage of it to catch up on his studies. If he pushed himself, he could make the second of a double-header between Carolina and Clemson at Bryson Field.
He showered and dressed quickly, and grabbed the leather shoulder bag that contained his life, then headed for the library, where he found a favorite nook that kept him undisturbed by classmates. He was popular on his own, without playing baseball or going the frat route. Three more semesters of hard work and grind. Then the MCATs, and then med school applications and then sweat it out.
"You'll be a shoo-in!" his friends told him. While he appreciated their encouragement, it wasn't their dream on the line. Not until he held his acceptance letter in hand would he dare relax.
He pushed himself until mid-afternoon, when he decided he had earned at least a break of a couple of innings, and headed for Boshamer Stadium. He grabbed a couple of slices of pizza and a coke on the way in, and found a spot where he could — again — be to himself.
The spring sun felt good on his face and arms and bare legs. A slight breeze swirled about, kicking up dust on the mound. The Heels were in the field, whipping the ball around in preparation for the start of the second game. They had dropped the first to the Tigers 5 – 2. He closed his eyes and listened, his imagination returning to his early morning dream.
A shadow fell on his face, which he first thought to be an afternoon cloud.
"Mind if I join you?" an unrecognizable voice directed at him. Farmer opened his eyes, and a shadowed man sat down on the next seat.
"Do I know you?" Farmer asked.
"I don't think so. Heard you play ball."
"Used to. Don't have time." Farmer sat up and looked at the man. He was clad in faded jeans and a plaid short-sleeved shirt, opened to his breast bone. His boots were worn, as was the straw cowboy hat perched on his head. With his sunglasses, the man reminded Farmer of Richard Petty.
The man reached out his hand. "I'm Carlton."
"My name's John," he returned his hand and gripped Carlton's.
"Nice grip!"
"You seem kinda familiar, but I don't know why, Carlton."
"Well, we've never met, John. But we do have a connection."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"It's a who. Callie Farmer."
"My mom?"
"Your mom."
Well that sure as shit didn't go down good, Carlton thought as he tugged on Sadie's leash, who was nose-sweeping the sidewalk and stopped every two or three feet to sniff.
He guessed it was all a mistake, gallivanting across the south to meet someone who might be his son after all these years. What the hell was he thinking?
"Are you telling me you're my dad?" The blood had drained from John Farmer's face, and it was as though he was plunging into shock.
"I can't say for sure, son …"
"Please don't call me that —"
"Sorry. Habit. I call everyone younger'n me son — not the gals, of course. Look, this was a big mistake on my part. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done this."
"Well you did," John replied, none too pleased. "Look, I can't do this here. Do you mind if we go somewhere we can talk?"
"You willin' to talk to me?"
"About my mother. I want to know about her, and Grandma wasn't too keen on talking about her — except bad things."
"I got my dog Sadie with me."
"There's a dog-friendly restaurant not far from here."
They walked in awkward silence from the stadium across the campus. Dogwoods of all colors were in full bloom, and the grassy areas were covered with blankets and students taking advantage of the first good tanning rays, dressed down to nearly nothing.
"That a distraction for you?" said Carlton, nodding towards three comely coeds tossing a frisbee across one grassy lawn.
John laughed. "I'm too busy for that."
The walk ended up on Franklin Street, and they crossed to a corner restaurant named "Sup Dogs."
"We're in luck — there's an outside table vacant. You and Sadie grab a seat and I'll go order. Burger or dogs?"
"Surprise me — whatever you think is the best. I'll pay," and he pulled out a $50 from his pocket.
"No — I got this. Your money's no good here," and disappeared into the building. A waitress came out with a bowl of water for Sadie who lapped thirstily.
Carlton sat back in his chair, listening to the sounds of various music swirl around the street, which was crowded with walkers of every age, color and gender — plus a few he had to look at to determine what they were. College town. He was a Texas Tech fan, and was glad he hadn't worn that ball cap. All around him was a sea of light blue.
John emerged finally with a tray filled with food, which he put down on the table.
"What's mine?"
"Whatever suits you."
He chose a hot dog, buried with chili and relish, and fries.
"God, this is good!" Carlton mumbled after taking a bite.
John grabbed a hamburger, layered with cheeses and lettuce, tomatoes and purple onions. He bit into the stacked treat, juice spurting out onto his chin. Carlton grabbed a paper napkin from the tray and handed it to him. They laughed as Daisy nearly jumped into John's lap, begging shamelessly.
"So, how did you meet my mother?"
Carlton grabbed a fry, and thought a bit.
"I lived in Austin at the time. Those were my wild days. Didn't have a job, didn't have a truck, and no dog. And I rode a Harley."
"A Harley?"
"Your mother had been in Waco a couple of weeks, and was working in a greasy spoon diner. I walked in, took one look, and that was it."
"So what happened?"
"We were together constantly — except when she worked. She had a room near the diner at a two-bit motel, and I stayed with her until I began to ask myself what the hell was I doing? I knew she needed someone in her life who could care proper for her, and at the time, I didn't think that was me."
"And —- ?"
"And I left. I had a Mickey Mouse set of tools at the time, and headed west one morning early before she woke up. I got to Tucson when I realized I had made the worst mistake of my life, and I turned around. I made that 14-hour trip in six hours. But she was gone when I got back to the motel. I stayed there, working odd jobs in the area, thinking she might try to contact me at the motel. Just a hunch. Then I got a postcard from Six Flags, so I headed north — only ninety minutes away legally! Ninety minutes!
"I knew she'd try to find a job at Six Flags, and figured it would be with one of the park's restaurants. She always complained Texans didn't know the first thing about barbecue — that the only good barbecue is pulled pork. So it wasn't to difficult to figure out which restaurant she probably worked at — JB's Smokehouse — which is where I went.
"I know it's hard to believe, but back then I was a looker, and it didn't take too long to find out from one of the waitresses that Callie had gone back home, and had gone because she found out she was pregnant."
John Farmer turned his head and avoided eye contact with Carlton.
"I wanted to go after her, I did. But I couldn't. I was a kid. Young as you. And I knew myself enough to realize — if she was pregnant with my kid — that I knew nothing about being a father. Or a husband for that matter.
"So I sold my Harley and bought a beat-up Chevy truck, and invested some money into better carpentry tools. I figured I ought to make something of myself before I chased after her so's I had something more than just me to offer her."
"And you never made anything of yourself — that's why you didn't come here and try to find her."
"That's not entirely true. She died before I could go."
John paused a while, and scratched behind Sadie's ears. He fed her a bit of his hamburger.
"So why now?"
"I don't rightly know why now. I've been driftin' for so long, traveling and working. I was so damn lonely — and angry with myself. If I had come back from Tucson earlier. Or got up to Six Flags before your mother took off. Things would be a world of different."
"Perhaps. Do you think you're my father?"
"Let me show you something to answer that." He pulled out his billfold and dug behind his driver's license. He pulled out a strip of three black and white photos. "We took these one night when a traveling carnival came through Waco." He carefully unfolded the strip and handed it to John.
An attractive brunette, her haircut in pixy fashion, stared back at him from the past. Her eyes were round and bright, her smile contagious. She was beautiful. A young man dressed in a plaid long-sleeve shirt and a new cowboy hat was wrapped around her. John couldn't take his eyes off his mother.
"This is the first picture I've ever seen of my mother," he said, tears streaking down the sides of his face.
"She was beautiful — outside and in. Your mother was the girl of my dreams. And who does that young man make you think of?"
"Well it's obviously you years ago."
"Look closer, John."
He wiped the tears from his eyes and examined the man in the photo. Gradually, the image came into focus."
"That's me!" he whispered incredulously. Then he looked up at Carlton, his face racked in agony. "You fucking are my dad!"
Miss Emma shuffled about her small wood frame house like a rodent, scurrying from one of the hundreds of stacked cardboard liquor boxes and rifling though its contents, then looking up and about, and scampering to another on the other side of the room. She had a system — one only she knew — and filed and refiled newspapers and magazines according to that unknown criteria.
Miss Emma was barely five feet tall. In fact, to say she was five feet tall was more than likely stretching the truth, but that's what she told anyone who asked.
"I'm fife feet toll," she said in her toothless accent. More like four and a half feet in high heels.
Her head was wrapped in a colorful scarf she had found thrown away, and she had a mismatched wool scarf about her neck. She wore a black linen button down dress that dragged the floor, and over that was a black wool sweater. Her pudgy feet were crammed into a pair of tap shoes she bought at the Goodwill, and she wore knee socks — also black.
Twice before the Department of Social Services had sent Miss Emma's case worker out to see her. Twice before the case worker warned her the city might have to condemn her rental home.
"There's so many boxes of newspapers and magazines, Miss Emma! All it would take is an electrical spark and this place — and you — would be gone in minutes. You need to get someone to help you clean this place out and get rid of most of this!"
And Miss Emma would tap over to a box in the corner and rummage through its contents, grabbing an old National Geographic to deposit it into another stuffed box.
"Ain't gonna get rid o' nuffin!" she said. It wasn't a defiant statement, but matter-of-fact.
And twice her case worker warned she was going to contact the fire department, or the City Inspection Department, and she might find herself out on the streets.
To that Miss Emma would mumble incoherently, and increase the speed and energy of her work.
The house was the lone structure on a lot otherwise vacant. The yard was similar to the house, strewn with cast-off items Miss Emma had dragged from somewhere. Her prize possession was a rusty grocery cart she used to collect bottles and aluminum cans with. Once full, she would push the cart a mile down the road and sell it's contents to the Salvation Army Captain, who would give her $5, and then recycle the worthless bounty to the big dumpster in the parking lot.
Miss Emma would use the money to buy pop and a newspaper and two magazines from the gas and convenience store that was along her route home. She would drink the pop through her mustached lips, and promptly file the newspaper and magazines when she got home. She had lived alone in that house for over twenty years, and far as her neighbors, or the police, or her case worker knew, had practiced the same daily routine.
Her possessions of necessity, other than the box-filed magazines and newspapers, were a hand-operated can opener — this kind with a spike blade you leverage around the edge of the can; and an old beat-up aluminum pan, plus a hot plate. It was getting to the point opening a can of beans was difficult for her to do, as her arthritis had deformed her fingers over the last few years. So she ate every other day — though to look at her squat physique, you would think otherwise.
In one corner of the bedroom was an old cotton-batting mattress with a striped cover design. The mattress was stained in various places, but she had found it discarded on the street years ago, and other than the urine and mildew smells, functioned just fine for her. She had no bed frame, and the mattress lay on the linoleum-covered floor. It was easy for her to get in the bed at night. Just fall into place. But getting up in the morning was a chore due to her Weeble-shaped body, and her age, which most people guessed was late-sixties or older.
She had no relatives anyone knew of. No one other than her case worker ever came to visit, although there had been a few preteens who thought it would be funny to spray paint the sun-faded clapboards on the outside of her house.
"Mole Woman!" in bright red letters adorned two of the exterior walls. The kids would have done more, except a passing police cruiser slowed down and stopped that night, and the boys disappeared into the dark, laughing.
Miss Emma didn't care. "Fust time de house have been painted thince I live here," she told the officer.
So, until that fateful night, Miss Emma lived a life of comparative comfort and ease — doing and living just how she pleased.
"Who the hell stepped in your apple pie?" Tamara asked John as he slammed his locker door closed. "And why are you here? You're not on the schedule."
"Got nowhere else to be," he grumbled a reply. "I relieved Jessup."
He grabbed a textbook and sat at the end of the table where he and his co-workers normally ate their meals. Rifling through it's pages, he closed it and buried his face in his hands.
Tamara walked over and sat at the table.
"Wanna talk about it?"
"Sure?"
"It's just that — goddam him!"
"I met my father today."
"Well that's good. Father and son — you know …"
"… For the first time in my life."
"Oh. That's … that's really different."
"I know. And out-of-the-blue. I mean, if he was able to find me, you would think he'd have the decency to somehow ask me beforehand if I wanted to meet him."
"You would think."
"And I was so — so surprised — and mad at him! I coulda lost all control and beat the snot out of him!"
"But you didn't, right?"
"I didn't. We had lunch and talked. Well, I mainly listened. I wanted to know about my mom. I could care less about him."
"You never knew your mom?"
"She died when I was a baby."
"Me too. And then this myopic, self-centered bastard-maker all of a sudden shows up!"
"What did he want?"
"Who knows? Maybe forgiveness. I don't fucking know or care what he wanted."
"I was fine not knowing anything about him. Now I can never un-know that he's out there — him and his dog and his truck. I'd like to go back to the way it was — not knowing. I guess that sounds pretty harsh."
"I can see why you feel that way. I mean, when my dad died I was a toddler, and I really never knew him — have no memories. Just photos mom had. And I found myself getting angry at him at those times growing up when I really needed him. Mothers and daughters don't always get along well, and I hated my mom for getting remarried, then hated Dad for dying. Like he could have done anything about it."
"Well, my dad had a choice. I'm sorry about your dad. Illness?"
"No. A freak accident. He was a toll booth operator on a main road north of Charlotte."
"Yeah. Some woman lost control of her car — and dad was supposed to already be off-duty. She slammed into his booth, and they were both killed."
They were interrupted by the blaring of the station alarm, and the two hustled Into their gear and climbed into the ambulance.
"House fire located at …" came the street coordinates of the emergency, along with "possible burn victim or victims" and other information. Tamara revved the engine and turned the lights and siren on as the garage door opened, and eased onto the road, then hit the accelerator.
John Farmer manned the radio mic for further information, and tried to concentrate on the moment as they raced down the streets — but his mind was on a toll booth north of Charlotte.
When they arrived at the scene of the fire, Tamara stopped the ambulance in the middle of the road, far enough away from the two fire trucks that arrived shortly before. Police had cordoned off the street from both sides, and in the dark, red, blue, and white lights shot into the night, illuminating everything in stop-action.
As John and Tamara leaped from the cab and grabbed their kits, a man hovered over a short, plump figure on the lawn in front of the house, now an inferno. The firefighters hosed the flames from several directions, mainly to keep anything else from catching on fire. In fact, one hose was dedicated to washing down nearby limbs of trees, grass, and other potential fuel sources.
The man raised his arm and waved frantically to get their attention.
"Over here!" he shouted.
They ran toward the two on the lawn, gloving up quickly, then dropped to their knees at the body. Tamara immediately checked for signs of life.
"She's alive," Tamara said, "Check her airway, John!" and reached into her bag to grabbed an ambu bag.
John fished around the woman's mouth. "Got her tongue."
Tamara fit the air mask while John gently lifted the woman's jaw into the mask.
"Grab the mask, John." He placed his two hands around the mask to ensure a seal while Tamara slowly squeezed the plastic chamber, watching for the woman's chest to rise.
The man stood and backed away, watching the rescue process.
"I got her. Go get the stretcher."
There was no formality. No pleases and thank you involved in their exchange. She was the lead EMT, and he was the second. John ran back to the ambulance, opened the back, and rolled the stretcher unit out until the legs expanded to the ground.
"Officer! We need a hand!" Tamara called to a cop standing by. John rolled the stretcher parallel to the downed woman and collapsed the unit. John and the cop gently lifted the unconscious woman onto the stretcher while Tamara held the airbag in place, periodically squeezing the bag. She followed alongside as John and the officer rolled the stretcher to the back of the ambulance, and shoved it into the back area.
A fireman approached the ambulance and spoke quickly to John.
"Her name is Emilia Simkova. People call her Miss Emma."
John turned to the man standing by.
"Did you pull her out of the fire?"
John nodded his way. "Thanks." He could hear a dog barking from the cab of an old pickup parked on the grass a distance from the now smoldering frame of the wood house.
John ran to the front of the ambulance and squeezed in behind the wheel, adjusting the seat backwards. He leaned around and shouted to Tamara, who was beside the stretcher Miss Emma was on, slowly pumping the air bag.
"Who was the guy?"
John hesitated.
Tags: Nothing happens in a vacuum

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


In Northwest Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, you will find the residential neighbourhood of Lorelei within the Castledowns area. Lorelei is located just north of the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology and the downtown core. This is just a short drive travelling south on 97 Street from Lorelei.
A large majority of the homes in Lorelei are single family homes. Actually a little over half 57%. The neighbourhood also consists of row houses duplexes and walk up apartments.
Most of the homes in Lorelei were built in the 1970's and 1980's and approximately 75% of the homes in Lorelei are owner occupied. The majority of the apartments of course are rented by tenants.
Some of the surrounding neighbourhoods include; Dunluce, Baturyn, Eaux Claires, and Beaumaris.
Designated schools for Lorelei are as follows: Lorelei Elementary, Mary Butterworth Junior High, and Queen Elizabeth Senior High.
Lorelei is close to it all with the Downtown core and N.A.I.T just south. In the area you will find numerous options for shopping; from Home Depot, Best Buy, Superstore and even the Brick.


text:
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


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Miran Shah Tehsil is a subdivision located in North Waziristan District, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Pakistan. The population is 100,680 according to the 2017 census.

Notable people
 Mohsin Dawar
 Hanif Pashteen

See also
 Miran Shah
 List of tehsils of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa

References

Tehsils of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa
Populated places in North Waziristan

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


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Home / Columns / All worldbuilding, without exception, is political
All worldbuilding, without exception, is political
It is worth building our fictional worlds with care, for these are the signage we leave for the people we are and wish to be.
columns Updated: Feb 26, 2019 07:47 IST
Mimi Mondal
Every work of fiction puts something speculative in the world.(Getty Images/iStockphoto)
Every work of fiction puts something speculative in the world. Even a story steeped in realism asks you to imagine characters who don't actually exist, living in places that may not exist, experiencing events that didn't happen in real life, and so on. The difference between realism and speculative fiction isn't a sharp line, but rather the degree of removal from the world as we know it. Speculative fiction asks you to take a wider leap of imagination — not merely believing in a street that doesn't exist inside a world that does, but maybe a whole different planet.
And the further you remove a fictional scenario from the laws of the real world, the more necessary it becomes to invent its own laws. How different is life on another planet? What do people in a fantasy world eat? How does it feel to go back in time, live on a spaceship, or be kept under constant surveillance? All those questions are answered in worldbuilding — the craft of setting the laws of the fictional world, before stories can be written within them. Worldbuilding is the bedrock of all speculative fiction.
But while worldbuilding is all fun and adventure, it is also inherently political. How can it not be? When all the fundamental laws of the world are open to reimagination, it allows for some very drastic experimentation that isn't possible with realism. Governments and social structures that have never existed can be examined for their potential effect. Science and technology that have not yet been invented can be explored for their role in people's lives. Individuals can be given immense power without its equivalent drain on resources — basically the definition of magic — and observed for the difference it makes. Worldbuilding is about creating large-scale power shifts, and all large-scale power shifts belong in the realm of politics.
It is not surprising that protagonists of speculative fiction stories are often larger than life — rulers, heirs, chosen ones, the first explorer, the most skilled warrior, the smartest scientist, the cleverest rogue — characters who can embody in their actions the large-scale power shifts that the worldbuilding requires. But the politics of worldbuilding is not only embodied through its protagonists.
In a world where all fundamental laws can be rewritten, it is also illuminating which of them aren't. The author's priorities are more openly on display when a culture of non-humans is still patriarchal, there are no queer people in a far-future society, or in an alternate universe the heroes and saviours are still white. Is the villain in the story a repulsively depicted fat person? Is a disabled or disfigured character the monster? Are darker-skinned, non-Western characters either absent or irrelevant, or worse, portrayed with condescension? It's not sufficient to say that these stereotypes still exist in the real world. In a speculative world, where it is possible to rewrite them, leaving them unchanged is also political.
Some astounding works of modern speculative fiction have been created precisely by reversing these sociocultural stereotypes in worldbuilding. The "ambisexual" inhabitants of the planet Gethen in Ursula Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness present a truly incomprehensible social order for the human Ai, adding greater depth to the notion of "alienation". Kindred by Octavia Butler is a time travel novel, only its protagonist is a black woman who gets transported to a slave-owning era, and an entirely original narrative emerges simply because the time traveller is not welcomed as a slightly confusing guest but mistaken for an escaped slave. In Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, expectations from the real world are constantly reversed — rural witches turn out to be wiser than university-educated wizards, popular characters are red herrings for lacklustre characters who perform the real heroic tasks, vilified racial minorities act with more honour and kindness than characters from majority social groups. The impeccable horror of the film Get Out is sprung precisely because it's the good-looking, well-behaved white family that turns out to be the trap.
There's a well known idea that there are only six or seven basic plots in the world (opinions vary on the exact number or categorisation), that underlie every story that's told. Why, then, do we continue to read or be taken by surprise by new stories? It's because the basic plots are re-contextualised, so what we really enjoy anew is the worldbuilding. So it is worth building our fictional worlds with care, for these are the signage we leave for the people we are and wish to be. And it is always, without fail, political.
Mimi Mondal is a speculative fiction writer and editor, and the first Hugo Award nominee from India
The views expressed are personal
Time travel novel
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Taxing that extra bottle can wait
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Unless the SC repeals the CAA, states will have to implement it
There is a new Nepal. India hasn't kept up
https://www.hindustantimes.com/columns/all-worldbuilding-without-exception-is-political/story-iE1Gc0R4ULSq8khLaJ1dEO.html
https://www.hindustantimes.com/columns/budget-2020-must-focus-on-reviving-demand-opinion/story-p59GeYcX6CYoMvZDmlrkxJ.html
Budget 2020 must focus on reviving demand | Opinion
https://www.hindustantimes.com/columns/who-are-the-sons-and-daughters-of-india-opinion/story-1CTVStZJlAllapgxwJcYHO.html
Who are the sons and daughters of India? | Opinion
https://www.hindustantimes.com/brunch/humour-five-kinds-of-petrolheads/story-PYl9vJvMAXgBcf8lYCK03O.html
Humour: Five kinds of petrolheads
https://www.hindustantimes.com/brunch/rude-travel-by-vir-sanghvi-a-tale-of-two-destinations/story-VEEfr6kc57Do79NJ3yF47N.html
Rude Travel by Vir Sanghvi: A tale of two destinations


I found this adscan yesterday but I haven't seen it posted here yet. If the regular guy does one with all the fancy links then disregard this post. Just wanted to share.
B2G1 Free on all Pre-Owned Games is back!
Sweet a sale on skylanders and two new figures in the ad!
Cool hopefully they will have Freeze Blade and Trap Shadow instock at the store or for shipping. I got them for my sons Easter basket and paying TRU regular price of $16.99 each with no sale promo la few days ago made me sick.
Hoping that Titanfall shows up in my local Redbox so I can give it a spin before I commit $60 on it.
Love being an elite plus member. Going to bring back some games, and get a third one for free. Thanks for the heads up.
Guess it's time to buy Skylander. Friend has been bugging me for awhile. This deal is good enough to bite.
You guys got me all a'twitter with talk of a BOGO games sale... and then I clicked and felt the pummeling disappointment of reading the term "Pre-Owned," all those janked-up cases and missing manuals are allllllll yours, fellas.
Clearly you haven't bought anything from them used. 80-90% of the stuff I've bought used from them has been complete and in perfect shape.
20 of the 21 preowned Nintendo games I've ordered from Bestbuy.com have come complete. The one that didn't come with case and manual I found for $2.00 on ebay. All the preowned games I find in stores are missing everything.
I have ordered close to 100 preowned games from best buy. It really depends on the popularity and release date of the game, but i have gotten about a 75% complete rate.
I bought a copy of "Lost In Shadow" the other day that I swear is factory sealed. It's either mislabeled or they just moved it to the pre-owned section to clearance it.
They do a really good job of resealing their used games. Some might be new, but I'm sure 99% of them are not.
Is it worth getting Last of Us now, or will there likely be a complete/GOTY edition?
I wouldn't count on it coming to PS3. I could see it going either way as far as a GOTY goes on PS4 but if I had to bet I'd bet no. At least, not unless it's part of some HD rerelease bundle/compilation. Even if they did do it on PS3 they'd probably just put the content on a voucher like they did for Uncharted 2.
I still think the game will get cheaper though, there's no way it'll sit at $40 forever.
Yeah, I'm only considering it b/c I have GCU so it'll be $31.99+tax. That said, I just got a PS3 a week ago so there's plenty of older and cheaper stuff to play.


friends travel - who's trip is this?
When friends travel together, it can be a very fulfilling experience.
It creates bonds that last forever. Having someone share in the day to day ups and downs can be so much better than going alone. You can talk about your trip, for many years ahead.
If you find someone that you are compatible with, (old friend or newly found travel buddy) you could take many future excursions together.
You think you know your friend, but have you ever travelled with them. It could turn out to be the trip from hell if you are not careful.
You are into art and culture your friend is sleeping all day and partying all night.
They don't care what they pay and you're on a budget.
They are into physical adventure, and you have health issues.
Maybe they are selfish and want to make all the decisions and you never get to do anything you want.
More than two friends can be more of a compromise, and can get stressful.
I have seen friends travel together year after year. It can be very rewarding.
I have helped many people with their trips, and here are some things that you should take into consideration when travelling with friends.
First the thing is to sit down and have lunch or coffee with your friend. Find out what they want out of the trip. Especially important if this is the first time you have travelled with them.
Are your interests the same or are they willing to compromise?
Are you both flexible with the vacation dates or not?
Will you put cash in a pot and share everything equally?
Will you each book your tours on your separate credit cards?
If they are big spenders and you need to be on a tight budget it probably won't work out.
It would be better to go without your friend.
One of you could be short on money. Be careful repayment can be a problem. Work it out upfront.
I remember a trip I made with a friend once to Asia and I ended up with everything on my credit card, even though I never got to do hardly anything I had planned on.
She never paid me back for her share, or even things that were just for her.
Very naive of me, and I was very unhappy about it. You have to trust the person. We remained friends, but it was not a good experience.
Some people love it when someone else does all the planning for the trip.
Learning the hard way, I now know not to let the other person plan the whole trip for me.
You may think because they lived where you were visiting or they have family or friends there, that they will know better than you.
A cruise or a package tour can be a really good option. Each of you pay for your share, including excursions.
Make sure both of you have gone over safety measures.
Decide ahead of time when to be ready for the airport or train.
Where will you meet if you get separated and are unable to make a phone call?
One does carry on only and the other checked; it can be a problem depending on the kind of trip. The one with the carry on will always be waiting for the other to deal with their luggage.
If one person is careless, you both will waste vacation time while dealing with loss or theft.
Nit picking on the little things is no good, but don't wait til after the trip to complain about something.
It is easier and faster to resolve an issue as soon as possible.
Very often disputes are about the bill or some unplanned activity.
Don't say you don't care about something and then get upset later.
Be considerate and everything should work out fine.
If you know, you will be better on your own, and then go solo.


The total runtime of all anime you watch added together must be a minimum of 2000 minutes per season (This is equal to 8000 minutes for the full year).
You can check the total runtime of 10 completed anime using our time checking tool!
We have an AWC Recommendation bot - and it will be enabled for this challenge soon!
39) Start: 2018-12-28 Finish: 2018-12-29 Beelzebub-jou no Okinimesu mama.
40) Start: 2018-12-26 Finish: 2018-12-26 Anima Yell!
5) ✔ Cells at Work!
[☑] Start: 31/12/18 Finish: 31/12/18 __ Ms. vampire who lives in my neighborhood.
[☑] Start: 31/12/18 Finish: 01/01/19 __ As Miss Beelzebub Likes it.
10) [✔] Start: 05/10/2018 Finish: 08/10/2018 Ryuuou no Oshigoto!
Total completed anime runtime for Winter season: 1675 minutes.
G Isekai Izakaya: Koto Aitheria no Izakaya Nobu.
Total completed anime runtime for Spring season: 1471 minutes.
Total completed anime runtime for Summer season: 1519 minutes.
P The Idolm@ster SideM Wake Atte Mini!
G Wei, Kanjian Maoerduo La!
G Dakaretai Otoko 1-i ni Odosarete Imasu.
Total completed anime runtime for Fall season: 1114 minutes.
Total completed anime runtime season: 5779 minutes.
40) [O] Start: 2018-11-12 Finish: 2018-12-26 Beelzebub-jou no Okinimesu mama.
22) [O] Start: DD/MM/YYYY Finish: DD/MM/YYYY Hanebado!
P Do S na Seitokaichou-sama ga M Note ni Shihai Saremashita.
Total completed anime runtime for Winter season: 2080 minutes.
Total completed anime runtime for Spring season: 2975 minutes.
Total completed anime runtime for Summer season: 2794 minutes.
G Beelzebub-jou no Okinimesu mama.
Total completed anime runtime for Fall season: 3276 minutes.
Total completed anime runtime: 11125 minutes.
No, thank you. And great job with the challenge so far! You've almost got it!
Total completed anime runtime for Winter season: 0 minutes.
Total completed anime runtime for Spring season: 1173 minutes.
Total completed anime runtime for Summer season: 576 minutes.
Total completed anime runtime for Fall season: 2463 minutes.
Total completed anime runtime season: 4212 minutes.


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Q: Finding a contour integral of product of analytic functions in a region Suppose that $f(z) = \sum_{n=0}^\infty a_n z^n$ and $g(z) = \sum_{n=0}^\infty b_n z^n$ and that the series converges when $|z|<2$. By integrating $f(z)g(z^{-1})z^{-1}$ around the unit circle, show that
$$\sum_{n=0}^n a_n b_n = \frac{1}{2\pi}\int_{0}^{2\pi}f(e^{i\theta})g(e^{-i\theta})d\theta.$$
I'm not sure where to go from my working:
Define $h(z) = f(z)g(z^{-1})z^{-1}$.
Let $\Gamma$ be the unit circle contour.
$\Gamma(\theta) = e^{i\theta}$ for $0 \leq \theta \leq 2\pi$.
Then
$$\int_{\Gamma}f(z)g(z^{-1})z^{-1}dz = i\int_{0}^{2\pi} f(e^{i\theta})g(e^{-i\theta})d\theta.$$
I know it's not much but I'm not sure how to advance from here. At first, I thought that we could use the Residue theorem however, I can't think of a way of finding the residue of $h$ at $z=0$, since $f$ is a taylor series, $g(\frac{1}{z})$ is a laurent series with only negative powers...

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


From the extravagant to the tastefully minimal, one of our diamond watches will gleam just right for you. Whether you're looking to grab the attention of those around you, or maintain that pleasant shine in the corner of your eye, shuffle through our inventory until one of our pieces takes hold.
We never hesitate to invest in a watch that uses these gems creatively, and you shouldn't hesitate to try one on. Chopard, for instance, has developed a following for its Happy Diamonds. Loosely contained within the watch's case, these diamonds float about the dial as its owner moves.
Those who prefer something less playful may look to Perrelet's Diamond Flower. One model features a wall of small diamonds covering the dial, and gems lining both the bezel and the decorative petals surrounding the hands.
Either way, we know the glow of these gorgeous stones can be distracting. So take your time.
Formed deep in the earth by unfathomable heat and pressure over the course of 1 to 3 billion years, the resilience of the diamond makes it not unlike the modern human: Beautiful, yet unbreakable. For millennia, they have captivated us, and our histories have been famously intertwined.
Picture the illustrious Regent Diamond, a spectacular blue gem, now on display at the Louvre in Paris. Its path to the museum was long and turbulent, following its discovery in India by a slave in 1698. Over the course of the next century, it would be worn by the likes of King Louis XV and Queen Marie Antoinette, before decorating the sword of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.
The luxury watch industry has a few crown jewels of its own. For those who seek the regal quality that only diamond watches bring, our collection has it all, from diamond hour markers, to a practical sea of gems that covers the entire watch.
Take a look at our diamond watches and you'll understand why, throughout history, the diamond has remained a testament to the immortal beauty in chemistry, a beauty found in all of our pieces.
The Diamond Dilemma: Elegance or Indulgence?
Some diamond watches use these gems to highlight their already magnificent features. Some use them to make a statement. Yet others fall somewhere in the middle, striking that perfect balance between elegance and indulgence.
Imagine looking down at your wrist and seeing a meticulously designed black dial, contained within a white gold case and bezel. But that precious metal is just peeking through a coat of small, premium diamonds, creating a shimmering mosaic. Holding it all together is a smooth, black leather strap, with a white gold clasp.
You might stick to the classics, and go with a stainless steel Rolex DateJust, with diamonds lining the bezel and lugs. Or you might go for something more unusual, like the DeWitt Iena Grande Seconde, its white gold case and bezel completely covered with gems. They surround a black, retrograde chronograph, powered by a complicated automatic movement.
Don't forget our Layaway process!


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Head Start programs expanding as 3rd anniversary of Flint tap water switch nears
This week, the city of Flint will mark the third anniversary of its ill-fated drinking water switch. The switch to the Flint River was the first in a…
Flint Head Start will get $3.6 million boost
The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services has announced a $3.6 million immediate expansion for Head Start and Early Head Start services in…
This week in Michigan politics: Roads and education
Christina Shockley
This Week in Michigan Politics, Jack Lessenberry and Christina Shockley discuss roads funding in the final days before lawmakers leave for the summer, the…
$4.5 million fund is being formed to benefit Head Start programs in Detroit
The Detroit Head Start Early Childhood Innovation Fund announced Tuesday will award grants in part to support improved services and better outcomes for…
Michigan's preschoolers affected by federal cuts to Head Start
These are trying times for families who rely on Head Start to give their preschoolers the big boost that can make the difference between success and…
16,000 new preschool slots could open up in Michigan with funding boost
Michigan Radio Newsroom
"It's certainly a good day for early childhood advocates." - Matt Gillard of the Michigan Sandbox PartyDustin Dwyer from our State of Opportunity team has…
Investing in early childhood education
When Governor Rick Snyder talks about education in the state, he doesn't talk in terms of K-12 but rather P-20 education. He describes it as pre-natal…


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Oxford Bach Soloists
New College Chapel
Choral Scholar Focus: Emily Brown Gibson
14 Sep, 2019 |
Tell us a bit about yourself, and your training to date?
I grew up in Toronto, Canada and at the age of four was handed a tissue-box-and-stick-makeshift-violin, which was my first introduction to classical music. The box eventually turned into a real violin, which I continued to study for twelve years. During that time I began my singing career with the role of Sunflower #4 in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in which I sang 'Here Comes the Sun'. Another early highlight was playing Danny Zuko in Grease.
At the age of eleven, I joined the Canadian Children's Opera Company (CCOC) – a Toronto-based company that commissions operas for children – which sparked my love of opera. Through the CCOC, I also had the opportunity to sing with the Canadian Opera Company as the Second Spirit in The Magic Flute, and the Shepherd Boy in Tosca. I began taking lessons with Kyra Milan, who helped prepare me for undergraduate music auditions.
I went on to a Bachelor's in Classical Voice Performance at McGill University where I studied with Dominique Labelle, followed by my move to Oxford where I completed an Mst in Music and studied with Caitlin Hulcup and Florian Thomas.
What other musical ensembles are you involved with?
Since I moved to Oxford in 2017, I have performed on numerous occasions with New Chamber Opera Studio, which is an opera company run by Michael Burden that provides young singers the opportunity to perform large operatic roles. Singing the role of Anne Trulove in The Rake's Progress particularly stretched my ability as a singer.
Last year, I also performed with the Korrigan Consort, which is an all-female consort whose aim is to give female voices a greater platform to perform. On Sundays, I sing at St Michael at the North Gate as part of an octet. Finally, last year I performed The Cave by Steve Reich – the first student production of that piece – with the Oxford Alternative Orchestra.
What attracted you to the Oxford Bach Soloists?
What immediately drew me to the Oxford Bach Soloists was the opportunity to perform solo and choral works with a professional band in an industry that can often be hard to break into. I have a particular interest in the German language and was excited by the prospect of developing a clearer way of communicating in German. Additionally, I was attracted to the idea of spending the year building a community around a love of Bach. It's a special opportunity to support and learn from the same group of likeminded musicians for an entire year.
What are you most looking forward to as an OBS choral scholar?
Of course, I'm looking forward to spending a year immersed in Bach's music, working meticulously on my German diction, and performing with very talented musicians, both in the band, at the conductor's stand, and in the cohort.
However, during my undergraduate degree, I did some research into how Bach employs the soprano voice in both his cantatas and his oratorios, and in our most recent concert, I experienced my research first hand when I performed an aria in which Bach paired oboes-da-caccia with text which spoke of God's mercy and used the soprano voice to represent the mortal believer.
What do you see as the value of ensembles like OBS to young aspiring musicians?
Firstly, the coaching from both Tom and Gerhard are invaluable. Bach's cantatas are rich and complex, and it's a privilege to analyse them through a scholastic and musical lens in the setting of coaching. When you're no longer enrolled in a conservatoire, it is difficult to access this kind of intensive language and musical coaching – especially with regards to performing works by Bach. Furthermore, as a young aspiring singer, there is deep value in having the chance to perform with a professional band with which you feel 100% supported.
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Our ICO will be postponed to be fully compliant with the latest Swiss ICO rules.
Presale contributions of more than 5 ETH will be rewarded with a 25% bonus, instead of the 20% bonus previously offered.
The presale will run until next week: Wednesday, March 7th (9AM GMT). So if you want to take advantage of the 25% bonus, you have a few extra days.
Contributors that already participated in the presale, will automatically also receive the 25% bonus.
As you may have heard, the Swiss authorities have sharpened the compliance rules for ICO's. The Swiss Financial Market Supervisory Authority (FINMA), has seen a sharp increase in ICO's and has decided to raise the bar for ICO's by extending their existing guidance of April 2017.
Although there is no ICO specific regulation or consistent legal doctrine, we've decided to "better be safe than sorry". We want Grain to be a sustainable, long-term success story and avoid potential compliance issues that might disturb that trajectory. So after taking the advice of our advisor — KPMG — into consideration, the best path to take is to postpone the ICO, for now.
At the moment, we can't announce a new starting date yet. We're still in discussions with KPMG to see what the next steps are to fill all requirements. We do foresee, however, that we'll be able to launch the ICO sometime during the month of March.
These new 'guidelines' require projects to issue tokens immediately after receipt of ETH. We originally planned to distribute the tokens one week after the ICO. These changes require us to update our ICO smart contract.
Secondly our KYC-process needs to be processed by an affiliated SRO of FINMA. Our current KYC-provider is not yet affiliated with the Swiss supervisory authority, which means we cannot use their services during our public ICO. We are in the middle of talks with two providers who can assist us with this.
Because these are relatively simple things to solve, we're certain that we'll be able to start the ICO in March. However, it is likely that the ICO will run for a shorter period of time.
Instead of the 20% presale bonus we offered originally, we're raising this bonus to 25% for all contributions above 5 ETH.
At the same time, we don't want to leave out the smaller contributors that now would have to wait longer before being able participate in the ICO. That's why we're also opening up the presale to everyone that wants to contribute more than 0.1 ETH. These contributors are rewarded with a 15% token bonus.
Lastly, because the ICO has been postponed, we've decided to extend the presale for a few days, until Wednesday March 7th (9AM GMT). This gives you enough time to take advantage of the opportunity and participate with the increased bonus structure.
We see a very bright future ahead for Grain and by postponing the ICO, we can ensure that that future doesn't get jeopardized. This is the best way to protect both our supporters and the project.
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