from the Probability Spinner by Regan
Virginia had taken her work home with her. It was allowed, even encouraged -- this telecommuting. Her employer was both respectable and ruthless. If not drunk with power, she was impaired enough by it not to drive. Although good one-on-one, her verbalized logic was near robotic. One had to face her in final draft form; flaws were frowned upon. The employer had come for what was referred to as a “drive-by” -- an unannounced, often caustic interaction where irrelevant observations were doled out with immediate dissatisfaction.
“I would like to see you before you leave today,” the employer declared as she exited the room.
It was 12:55, when most others had already left for the weekend. Virginia had written a note and left it for her employer. She remained in her room, feeling like a sassy child sent away from the dinner table, until 1:25, when she passed her employer’s office. Ajar, the door demonstrated an appointment with another, so the woman took her leave, hopeful that the matter could wait until Monday. Virginia gathered her belongings and walked out the front door past the one-way glass of her employer’s window. Sun peeked out from behind clouds bloated with fluid.
On Monday morning, avoiding eye contact, her employer requested a meeting.
“Skip lunch, if you have to,” she suggested generously.
The company maintained an at-will relationship with its employees, and although she was not inclined toward contracts, nonetheless Virginia felt quite vulnerable with every word said and every action made. She rapped gently on her employer’s office door. The woman looked over her glasses and waved Virginia in, carefully shutting the door, a gesture used only in direst situations. The employer sat in a cushioned wicker chair -- her hands shaking and jowls trembling like curtains in a draught. She bent the plastic body of a cheap pen nearly in two.
“I was appalled on Friday when you refused to meet with me.”
Virginia swallowed. “I left a note. Did you see it?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t actually believe that you would leave when I had expressly asked you to stay and meet with me.”
“I waited 45 minutes. We were told we could work from home. I wanted to use my time wisely, and nothing I needed was here, so…”
“Your time is not my concern,” said her employer. “You ignored my time. I watched you go out that door.”
“You were in a meeting, so ...”
“I thought about it all weekend. I expected you to call me. I thought there must have been something very important for you to refuse me like that.”
Virginia suddenly felt not just tense, but intimately violated. It sounded as if she’d spurned her employer with promises of love. “I’m sorry my misunderstanding caused you such … frustration,” she grappled with the terms.
Her employer sat up. “Nonsense, it was nothing.” Turning to her keyboard, she began typing. Tilted at an angle, the liquid crystal screen revealed blue ice. “You must have amazing confidence in your job stability to make a choice like that.”
“Are you threatening to fire me,” Virginia asked, “for doing my job?”
“No,” her employer smirked, “for insubordination. I have your file here.” She picked up from her desk then dropped into the wastebasket a manila folder several years thick with recommendation letters, self-evaluations, paid sick days, and annual reviews. “You have a history of insubordination at this company.”
The word felt military. The only person Virginia knew who spoke with the same cadence was her uncle, a bipolar brigadier general. Quickly, she reviewed past events as do those near death. During her first month on the job, an unbending supervisor tried to make an example of her.
“Six years ago, right after I was hired, I was written up for following the rules too closely,” Virginia admitted.
“How’s that?” Her employer leaned precariously to her left into the basket and retrieved the file with two long fingers, as if its fall had been accidental.
“The rules were to remain in the building for safety reasons and never leave another person alone. We had a practice drill, and the funniest thing – well, not funny exactly, but ironic maybe – was that someone got hurt. Nothing terrible, just a sprained ankle, but I gave him first aid, applied appropriate bandages, and helped him out of the building after we were discovered.”
“Discovered?”
“Yes. Our absence had been noted, as it threw off the schedule for drills in other buildings. The supervisor was very upset, even when she found out an injured person was involved. The point of the drill was to respond properly, but the next day she berated me for doing the right thing. She wrote me up for insubordination, but I didn’t sign that piece of paper. She said I didn’t have to, if I didn’t agree.”
“That was a different situation,” the employer said gruffly. “On Friday, you made the wrong choice.” She sighed. “Let’s just forget all this. I already have.”
Yes, thought Virginia, after three nights of hand-wringing and angry thoughts.
“You apologized, and that’s what matters,” said her employer.
They spoke for the next fifteen minutes about various subjects. Had Virginia waited last Friday instead of leaving, the meeting would’ve been just as trivial. Her employer’s urgency clashed with the dull conversation. They parted amicably, as if nothing had happened. In Virginia’s file, however, insubordination was noted for a second time. Such impudent defiance, the employer promised herself, would not go unchecked.
Pass the Buck
from the Probability Spinner by Regan
After all he had been through, Morton couldn’t believe that he would be seen as the villain. It was the easiest thing in the world: Maeve was crazy. Given their thirty years together and how offbeat his choice had been, his family understood. When he came out of the situation, as they called his marriage, they understood that everyone makes mistakes, in the same way they understood both that everyone is going to Heaven when they die and that certain people are in fact going to Hell. They had been waiting a very long time to hear his selective version of the truth.
He said Maeve had insisted they get married after knowing him only a few months and writing letters long-distance, because she did not want him to get drafted. Married men did not get drafted. After the wedding, before which she cried and implored her father to carry her off to an undisclosed location, she postponed college in order to work to pay his tuition through school. He stayed in higher education for several residencies, undecided as to his course, until the university demanded he commit to a program, at which point he pursued a doctorate. For eight long years, she worked for the most horrible men who chased her around their offices and held unemployment over her head. Morton believed she was overly dramatic until she became pregnant, when he suddenly accused her of infidelity. She pleaded with him for nine months to stay.
He did not tell his family that his come-uppance was to beat her, nightly, with the buckle on his belt. At the end of a long day, he felt heavy inside, a weight not at all physical. He ate little and responded with an edginess others found charming. Arriving at home, he surveyed the surroundings and found it not to his liking. They lived in the city, so there was always something about which he might complain: trash, beggars, train noise, radiator heat, police sirens, fire sirens, drunks, neighbors. He didn’t accept the current circumstances until the President changed his mind. That year, deep within a war, the President had decided to change the draft. Now, married men could be enlisted, unless they were the sole provider in their family. He still did not want to go home, but he accepted that he must.
The day his son was born, Morton was taking exams. He felt a sinister stab in his left eyeball, and he grasped his head with both hands. His fellows looked askance at him, and the administrator excused him, calling his disturbance inappropriate. He would have to retake the exam in two months. Bitter, Morton stomped out of the hall and ran into a wheelchair-bound veteran, a few years younger than him. The vet toppled down the steps of an Ionic columned building and was taken to an emergency room. Morton was ambushed in a citizens’ arrest by a band of unwashed musicians and turned over to the authorities, who booked him for assault. Maeve screamed out in terror as her body was permanently severed, and Morton was released into a boot camp for anger management, effectively drafted. There, he read postcards and glanced at photos of the child whose emergence had caused all this strife.
After all he had been through, Morton couldn’t believe that he would be seen as the villain. It was the easiest thing in the world: Maeve was crazy. Given their thirty years together and how offbeat his choice had been, his family understood. When he came out of the situation, as they called his marriage, they understood that everyone makes mistakes, in the same way they understood both that everyone is going to Heaven when they die and that certain people are in fact going to Hell. They had been waiting a very long time to hear his selective version of the truth.
He said Maeve had insisted they get married after knowing him only a few months and writing letters long-distance, because she did not want him to get drafted. Married men did not get drafted. After the wedding, before which she cried and implored her father to carry her off to an undisclosed location, she postponed college in order to work to pay his tuition through school. He stayed in higher education for several residencies, undecided as to his course, until the university demanded he commit to a program, at which point he pursued a doctorate. For eight long years, she worked for the most horrible men who chased her around their offices and held unemployment over her head. Morton believed she was overly dramatic until she became pregnant, when he suddenly accused her of infidelity. She pleaded with him for nine months to stay.
He did not tell his family that his come-uppance was to beat her, nightly, with the buckle on his belt. At the end of a long day, he felt heavy inside, a weight not at all physical. He ate little and responded with an edginess others found charming. Arriving at home, he surveyed the surroundings and found it not to his liking. They lived in the city, so there was always something about which he might complain: trash, beggars, train noise, radiator heat, police sirens, fire sirens, drunks, neighbors. He didn’t accept the current circumstances until the President changed his mind. That year, deep within a war, the President had decided to change the draft. Now, married men could be enlisted, unless they were the sole provider in their family. He still did not want to go home, but he accepted that he must.
The day his son was born, Morton was taking exams. He felt a sinister stab in his left eyeball, and he grasped his head with both hands. His fellows looked askance at him, and the administrator excused him, calling his disturbance inappropriate. He would have to retake the exam in two months. Bitter, Morton stomped out of the hall and ran into a wheelchair-bound veteran, a few years younger than him. The vet toppled down the steps of an Ionic columned building and was taken to an emergency room. Morton was ambushed in a citizens’ arrest by a band of unwashed musicians and turned over to the authorities, who booked him for assault. Maeve screamed out in terror as her body was permanently severed, and Morton was released into a boot camp for anger management, effectively drafted. There, he read postcards and glanced at photos of the child whose emergence had caused all this strife.
Maybe
from the Probability Spinner by Regan
The employer’s name was Thora Hays. She had been the eldest daughter and second child in her family, and when her mother died during a seventh attempt at childbirth, fourteen-year-old Thora had taken on the role of mother to her many siblings. Her father, a lapsed Mormon, took on the role of alcoholic widower and ran their savings into the ground. Her twin sister was allowed to go to dances and have her sweet sixteen, while Thora baked her cake and put to bed the young children who -- understandably -- called her Mom.
She went from one home to another, marrying a local boy with her father’s consent at age seventeen. Effectively, she had two households. In the mornings and evenings, she played wife, and during the day nanny to her siblings. Charlotte, the one whose life had extinguished their mother’s, was named for that revered lady who never reached forty. On the mantel stood a tall painting made, posthumously, from a snapshot Thora’s father had taken during their courting days. At every meal, the children stared up at an oil canvas rendering of some woman in a blue neck kerchief and bloomers, wondering about her identity. When Thora read fairy tales before bed, they envisioned her as the main character: Cinderella, Snow White, Rose Red, and Rapunzel.
Once Charlotte started school, Thora at age twenty was deemed fit to reproduce. It was the time for such things, just as fall was the season for reaping. She thought maybe when she was 40 and her youngest (she planned to have two: a boy and a girl) had graduated, she and Alvin would travel to other countries. Her younger brother Michael wrapped her birthday present one year in the centerfold of the Rand McNally Atlas. The hand-carved ashtray was nice, but Thora patted down the folds in the map and traced her fingers across oceans and on the bumps she imagined to be mountains. It seemed important, having been born on a planet, to see it properly and up-close. Time spent cloistered in a house made the world seem small and a map delusional.
Instead of two children, Alvin insisted they have six. She was tired by the third and exhausted by the fourth. At the fifth, she told him there must be a way to get rid of it. She did not dislike children nor was she a heathen. He told her they could not deny themselves “this creation, this miracle” and felt injured when she explained her opinion: that creations are things invented on purpose and miracles are things hoped for but unexpected. On the contrary, Thora told him, she had wanted only two, but as their first three children were boys, she continued for the sake of a girl, only for the baby to be still born. She told her husband that, if he was indeed a believer, he would believe that was a sign. They were being punished for their greedy desires.
In those days, there were only so many options, so she had thrown herself down every flight of stairs in town, until the fourth month when she gave up. She would not kill something that wanted so badly to live, but she decided she would not love it. She would treat it as the burden it had become. When the boy – her fourth – was born, she did not cry or smile or kiss his head. Mechanically, she held him to her chest to make an obligatory heart-to-heart connection, then handed him over to his father, saying, “Here, Alvin. You take it.” He named the boy Thor, after her, yet nothing could change her heart.
Every year, on their anniversary, they made love and so conceived another child. She counted the years ahead until her liberation. 42. Not so bad, she thought. Mom didn’t make it that far. A sudden fear struck her. She might not make it to 42. She might continue to push out offspring against her will until, like her mother, she died in the process. Maybe Mom had wanted to travel, too, or write a book, or paint, or build furniture, or speak another language, or see the Chrysler Building. Maybe I will end up just like her. The thought froze her to the core, until she found out she was carrying Number Six.
“If this one’s a girl,” Alvin promised, “I will take you anywhere in the world.”
Dragging her aged, pickled ex-attorney father into the matter, she made her husband sign his oath. Throughout the pregnancy, as she distractedly nursed Thor on a kitchen counter, she imagined the places she would go. She bought National Geographic magazines and pored over their contents, seeing in every woman with headdress, high heels, or habit herself: in the future. Maybe I will go to Morocco. Maybe I will go to Martinique. Maybe I will go to Mongolia. She pricked a wall in the hallway where Michael’s often-glimpsed map hung with baby pins, pulled wide and pointy. Maybe, she thought, I will go to Machu Picchu.
The sixth one’s name was Max.
The employer’s name was Thora Hays. She had been the eldest daughter and second child in her family, and when her mother died during a seventh attempt at childbirth, fourteen-year-old Thora had taken on the role of mother to her many siblings. Her father, a lapsed Mormon, took on the role of alcoholic widower and ran their savings into the ground. Her twin sister was allowed to go to dances and have her sweet sixteen, while Thora baked her cake and put to bed the young children who -- understandably -- called her Mom.
She went from one home to another, marrying a local boy with her father’s consent at age seventeen. Effectively, she had two households. In the mornings and evenings, she played wife, and during the day nanny to her siblings. Charlotte, the one whose life had extinguished their mother’s, was named for that revered lady who never reached forty. On the mantel stood a tall painting made, posthumously, from a snapshot Thora’s father had taken during their courting days. At every meal, the children stared up at an oil canvas rendering of some woman in a blue neck kerchief and bloomers, wondering about her identity. When Thora read fairy tales before bed, they envisioned her as the main character: Cinderella, Snow White, Rose Red, and Rapunzel.
Once Charlotte started school, Thora at age twenty was deemed fit to reproduce. It was the time for such things, just as fall was the season for reaping. She thought maybe when she was 40 and her youngest (she planned to have two: a boy and a girl) had graduated, she and Alvin would travel to other countries. Her younger brother Michael wrapped her birthday present one year in the centerfold of the Rand McNally Atlas. The hand-carved ashtray was nice, but Thora patted down the folds in the map and traced her fingers across oceans and on the bumps she imagined to be mountains. It seemed important, having been born on a planet, to see it properly and up-close. Time spent cloistered in a house made the world seem small and a map delusional.
Instead of two children, Alvin insisted they have six. She was tired by the third and exhausted by the fourth. At the fifth, she told him there must be a way to get rid of it. She did not dislike children nor was she a heathen. He told her they could not deny themselves “this creation, this miracle” and felt injured when she explained her opinion: that creations are things invented on purpose and miracles are things hoped for but unexpected. On the contrary, Thora told him, she had wanted only two, but as their first three children were boys, she continued for the sake of a girl, only for the baby to be still born. She told her husband that, if he was indeed a believer, he would believe that was a sign. They were being punished for their greedy desires.
In those days, there were only so many options, so she had thrown herself down every flight of stairs in town, until the fourth month when she gave up. She would not kill something that wanted so badly to live, but she decided she would not love it. She would treat it as the burden it had become. When the boy – her fourth – was born, she did not cry or smile or kiss his head. Mechanically, she held him to her chest to make an obligatory heart-to-heart connection, then handed him over to his father, saying, “Here, Alvin. You take it.” He named the boy Thor, after her, yet nothing could change her heart.
Every year, on their anniversary, they made love and so conceived another child. She counted the years ahead until her liberation. 42. Not so bad, she thought. Mom didn’t make it that far. A sudden fear struck her. She might not make it to 42. She might continue to push out offspring against her will until, like her mother, she died in the process. Maybe Mom had wanted to travel, too, or write a book, or paint, or build furniture, or speak another language, or see the Chrysler Building. Maybe I will end up just like her. The thought froze her to the core, until she found out she was carrying Number Six.
“If this one’s a girl,” Alvin promised, “I will take you anywhere in the world.”
Dragging her aged, pickled ex-attorney father into the matter, she made her husband sign his oath. Throughout the pregnancy, as she distractedly nursed Thor on a kitchen counter, she imagined the places she would go. She bought National Geographic magazines and pored over their contents, seeing in every woman with headdress, high heels, or habit herself: in the future. Maybe I will go to Morocco. Maybe I will go to Martinique. Maybe I will go to Mongolia. She pricked a wall in the hallway where Michael’s often-glimpsed map hung with baby pins, pulled wide and pointy. Maybe, she thought, I will go to Machu Picchu.
The sixth one’s name was Max.
Reorganize
from the Probability Spinner by Regan
From the moment Virginia saw the woman with whom she would be working, she was consumed by loathing and repulsed by the woman’s warm manner, her grey hair, and her new age affinities. Dawn and Virginia had been hired to work side-by-side for the extent of their residency, two years. It was an arranged marriage in which neither party could refuse the other. Each tried for the first few weeks – the Honeymoon period – to acquiesce and smile. After a month, courtesy demanded they retain a few pleasantries, so they greeted one another in the morning and bid each other a good evening at day’s end. Two months in, they thought they knew each other very well and left off talking altogether, instead simply nodding or pointing. At the six month mark, they spoke under their breath, muttering cutting asides, and both developed ulcers. Virginia smoked on her lunch, and Dawn snacked on antacids.
The woman’s name was Dawn Spirit-Welles, an obviously contrived pseudonym. She had been raised in Peking by a widower father who sent her on long trips with classmates and then, at age ten, by herself to Europe with only pocket change for months. She had peered at the windows of fine hotels, breathing hotly at patrons stuffed with pastries. She became a woman in Marrakesh, wearing a veil on the very day word came that her father had died. She remained in Morocco as a barley huller for another six months, returning to Peking to sort through inheritance papers.
Dawn had spent the next ten years driving a semi-truck across the southern United States, as her paternal grandfather had done in his youth. He had first driven the trucks then, gradually, worked his way up through management and finally took over the company, commanding a fleet of several hundred called Missouri Messenger. She wore heavy blue jeans that sagged in the rear, braless white t-shirts under thick flannel pea coats, and enormous shit-kickers braided tight with yellow laces. She enjoyed the function of those years, the sense of purpose, and the drive – both personal and geographical. On the road, Dawn had met a salesman, a lonely man with no will to live, who had changed her life.
She picked him up on a strip of highway that today posts signage preventing the good intentions of those who might give a hitchhiker a lift. She barely registered her own gender and, as such, did not take on any of the weaknesses, anxieties, or hang-ups of those who did. She reached out to the man because it was rainy and dark, and she would’ve picked up a mangy mutt if she had seen one in as rough condition. In the days to come, Dawn wished that he had in fact been a dirty dog, whose company might’ve been more soothing.
For the first day, Stanley Aufbacher was nearly mute, grunting over her loaner thermos of tepid coffee and gnawing on several day-old bagels in the compartment between their seats. On the second day, he complained. For hours, he mentioned things about the universe that didn’t make sense. By midday, he had found fault with every nation, world leader, and climate on Earth. In the evening, he disliked the way that Dawn drove, the sound of the engine, the odor of diesel, and the breathtaking view outside the windshield. During the night, he cursed himself, his circumstances, habits (negativity being one he mentioned more than once), and physique. On the third day, he was contrite and bereft, crying to himself over some unutterable misfortune, though whether this was his, a loved one’s, or the possession of the future was unknown to Dawn.
After four days with Stanley Aufbacher, Dawn handed him the keys to the semi, notified her boss on the CB, and looked up the nearest retreat center specializing in eastern healing. The west had not produced sufficient cures for the pains of the people. She wanted to create her own reality. If she chose to do so, she could sleep in every day, waking rested to the gentle flutter of birch leaves. She could meditate under an open sky or, if weather was inclement, beneath the canopy of a yurt, repeating nonsensical words until nothing remained in her thoughts. She could eat only raw fruits and vegetables and read until daylight snuffed itself out. She could do so only if she chose it.
From the moment Virginia saw the woman with whom she would be working, she was consumed by loathing and repulsed by the woman’s warm manner, her grey hair, and her new age affinities. Dawn and Virginia had been hired to work side-by-side for the extent of their residency, two years. It was an arranged marriage in which neither party could refuse the other. Each tried for the first few weeks – the Honeymoon period – to acquiesce and smile. After a month, courtesy demanded they retain a few pleasantries, so they greeted one another in the morning and bid each other a good evening at day’s end. Two months in, they thought they knew each other very well and left off talking altogether, instead simply nodding or pointing. At the six month mark, they spoke under their breath, muttering cutting asides, and both developed ulcers. Virginia smoked on her lunch, and Dawn snacked on antacids.
The woman’s name was Dawn Spirit-Welles, an obviously contrived pseudonym. She had been raised in Peking by a widower father who sent her on long trips with classmates and then, at age ten, by herself to Europe with only pocket change for months. She had peered at the windows of fine hotels, breathing hotly at patrons stuffed with pastries. She became a woman in Marrakesh, wearing a veil on the very day word came that her father had died. She remained in Morocco as a barley huller for another six months, returning to Peking to sort through inheritance papers.
Dawn had spent the next ten years driving a semi-truck across the southern United States, as her paternal grandfather had done in his youth. He had first driven the trucks then, gradually, worked his way up through management and finally took over the company, commanding a fleet of several hundred called Missouri Messenger. She wore heavy blue jeans that sagged in the rear, braless white t-shirts under thick flannel pea coats, and enormous shit-kickers braided tight with yellow laces. She enjoyed the function of those years, the sense of purpose, and the drive – both personal and geographical. On the road, Dawn had met a salesman, a lonely man with no will to live, who had changed her life.
She picked him up on a strip of highway that today posts signage preventing the good intentions of those who might give a hitchhiker a lift. She barely registered her own gender and, as such, did not take on any of the weaknesses, anxieties, or hang-ups of those who did. She reached out to the man because it was rainy and dark, and she would’ve picked up a mangy mutt if she had seen one in as rough condition. In the days to come, Dawn wished that he had in fact been a dirty dog, whose company might’ve been more soothing.
For the first day, Stanley Aufbacher was nearly mute, grunting over her loaner thermos of tepid coffee and gnawing on several day-old bagels in the compartment between their seats. On the second day, he complained. For hours, he mentioned things about the universe that didn’t make sense. By midday, he had found fault with every nation, world leader, and climate on Earth. In the evening, he disliked the way that Dawn drove, the sound of the engine, the odor of diesel, and the breathtaking view outside the windshield. During the night, he cursed himself, his circumstances, habits (negativity being one he mentioned more than once), and physique. On the third day, he was contrite and bereft, crying to himself over some unutterable misfortune, though whether this was his, a loved one’s, or the possession of the future was unknown to Dawn.
After four days with Stanley Aufbacher, Dawn handed him the keys to the semi, notified her boss on the CB, and looked up the nearest retreat center specializing in eastern healing. The west had not produced sufficient cures for the pains of the people. She wanted to create her own reality. If she chose to do so, she could sleep in every day, waking rested to the gentle flutter of birch leaves. She could meditate under an open sky or, if weather was inclement, beneath the canopy of a yurt, repeating nonsensical words until nothing remained in her thoughts. She could eat only raw fruits and vegetables and read until daylight snuffed itself out. She could do so only if she chose it.
See Your Analyst
from the Probability Spinner by Regan
Morton Egret doubted every decision he made, from ordering at a restaurant to taking the scenic route. The moment he chose, he risked missing out on something else. The veal Oscar would later melt in his mouth, but he second-guessed himself for the chicken Tikka Masala or the pork tenderloin. He cancelled reservations at the last minute. The sunset would fall gracefully on the western shore, but he berated himself for ignoring the lush twilight beneath evergreens. He lived in a constant state of uncertainty.
He had misgivings for agreeing to the meeting with them. They were both so sure of themselves. Would they respect his opinion? Would they listen to one another? It was so strange, at this point in his life, to be bringing people together. If only they knew about his personal life, they would never accept his professional judgment. He stayed with this occupation because of his freedom. As a consultant, his hours were his own, and he charged enough to get by between that and his pension. His joints ached. He was only there to guide them. What happened afterward was out of his control.
His mind was on other things when they arrived.
He thought of the two women before him as adjectives instead of people. In his line of work, this tactic proved helpful. He treated these people like characters in a never-ending though sometimes entertaining play called life. He could not start learning their names now. They gave their sides of the story, and he advised them to stick it out, to take on a challenge, to embrace difficulties together, but his words fell as hard as that window pane. The women stared ahead with impossible resignation, their eyes empty sockets in a room full of appliances.
He had been no help at all.
Morton Egret doubted every decision he made, from ordering at a restaurant to taking the scenic route. The moment he chose, he risked missing out on something else. The veal Oscar would later melt in his mouth, but he second-guessed himself for the chicken Tikka Masala or the pork tenderloin. He cancelled reservations at the last minute. The sunset would fall gracefully on the western shore, but he berated himself for ignoring the lush twilight beneath evergreens. He lived in a constant state of uncertainty.
He had misgivings for agreeing to the meeting with them. They were both so sure of themselves. Would they respect his opinion? Would they listen to one another? It was so strange, at this point in his life, to be bringing people together. If only they knew about his personal life, they would never accept his professional judgment. He stayed with this occupation because of his freedom. As a consultant, his hours were his own, and he charged enough to get by between that and his pension. His joints ached. He was only there to guide them. What happened afterward was out of his control.
His mind was on other things when they arrived.
He thought of the two women before him as adjectives instead of people. In his line of work, this tactic proved helpful. He treated these people like characters in a never-ending though sometimes entertaining play called life. He could not start learning their names now. They gave their sides of the story, and he advised them to stick it out, to take on a challenge, to embrace difficulties together, but his words fell as hard as that window pane. The women stared ahead with impossible resignation, their eyes empty sockets in a room full of appliances.
He had been no help at all.
Sit On It
from the Probability Spinner by Regan
Virginia remembered with a chill the amniotic trap that had been her mother’s womb. She was at a rock concert when it happened, a flashback brought on not by acid nor hallucinogenic mushrooms, but a projection screen behind a psychedelic 60s throwback band. In milky blues and vaginal pinks, the movie displayed manic sperm chasing a sweaty egg, their tails frantic to reproduce, their heads diving and burrowing with repeated failure. She thought how sad it was to be a sperm, with an obsession that only ended in death, and how sad to be an egg, surrounded by attackers and completely vulnerable to infestation. In an instant, she remembered being there, pre-conception.
A few years later, her younger brother Grant passed through the same bizarre antechamber of life. What were the chances that they had both survived that treacherous swamp and traversed the same escape chute only to emerge into a bright world bracketed by hairy trees? What was the likelihood that one of them would stroll on an easy path through her existence and the other would hit head-on obstacle after obstacle on his way? Was it probable that one of them would die young?
Grant’s medical history was full of statistics. At birth, the doctors told his parents he would die within six months. When he was three years old, the doctors said he would live through childhood, but would never be able to attend school. When he was seven, they said he would attend school, but would not progress from a special education program. When he was twelve, they said he would attend public school, but would never graduate from high school. When he was eighteen, they said he would never be able to live independently and hold a steady job. When he was twenty-two, they said he would never be able to drive. When he was twenty-five, Grant stopped talking to doctors. Instead, he drove his scooter across town to the community center where he taught swimming.
Every morning, toddlers came in with frightened mothers and splashed chubby red water wings when the women let go. Every afternoon, preschoolers bounded into the shallow end and held their breath, inverted on one arm, legs in a V above sea level. After five o’clock, senior citizens arrived – some bedecked in earrings and sporting eye make-up – to do aerobics to a warbling Glenn Miller Orchestra recording. Grant explained to each class that water was their friend, because it helped them with their movements. In the pool, they found their limitations diminished by a lack of resistance. The fluid allowed them to do things that would’ve been difficult if not impossible on dry land.
Grant was tough but not adventurous. Living against expectations had been his greatest feat. Thrills held little allure. He was rather rule-driven and civic-minded, in fact, strapping his head into his helmet each time he got onto his scooter. At the beginning of every lesson, he reviewed the community center guidelines:
1) No Horse Play.
2) Walk, do not Run, on the Concrete.
3) Shower in the Locker Rooms Before entering the Pool.
Therefore, it came as a surprise to those who knew him that Grant ended up in a coma. One evening, after his final session and before the community center closed at 8 p.m., he went for his usual penny dive. He tossed an old metal coffee canister full of coins into the abyss, affixed his air-tight goggles, and scavenged for the exact cents he’d counted on the concessions counter. These were the tips for the hot dog girl and the soda jerk, and Grant felt responsible to both of those perspiring teenagers to seek every last copper circle. Somehow on his descent that evening, Grant had hit his head and floated to the surface like a goldfish, his orange trunks glistening under tubes of fluorescent light.
It was water on the brain, the doctors said. They gave him six months to live.
Virginia remembered with a chill the amniotic trap that had been her mother’s womb. She was at a rock concert when it happened, a flashback brought on not by acid nor hallucinogenic mushrooms, but a projection screen behind a psychedelic 60s throwback band. In milky blues and vaginal pinks, the movie displayed manic sperm chasing a sweaty egg, their tails frantic to reproduce, their heads diving and burrowing with repeated failure. She thought how sad it was to be a sperm, with an obsession that only ended in death, and how sad to be an egg, surrounded by attackers and completely vulnerable to infestation. In an instant, she remembered being there, pre-conception.
A few years later, her younger brother Grant passed through the same bizarre antechamber of life. What were the chances that they had both survived that treacherous swamp and traversed the same escape chute only to emerge into a bright world bracketed by hairy trees? What was the likelihood that one of them would stroll on an easy path through her existence and the other would hit head-on obstacle after obstacle on his way? Was it probable that one of them would die young?
Grant’s medical history was full of statistics. At birth, the doctors told his parents he would die within six months. When he was three years old, the doctors said he would live through childhood, but would never be able to attend school. When he was seven, they said he would attend school, but would not progress from a special education program. When he was twelve, they said he would attend public school, but would never graduate from high school. When he was eighteen, they said he would never be able to live independently and hold a steady job. When he was twenty-two, they said he would never be able to drive. When he was twenty-five, Grant stopped talking to doctors. Instead, he drove his scooter across town to the community center where he taught swimming.
Every morning, toddlers came in with frightened mothers and splashed chubby red water wings when the women let go. Every afternoon, preschoolers bounded into the shallow end and held their breath, inverted on one arm, legs in a V above sea level. After five o’clock, senior citizens arrived – some bedecked in earrings and sporting eye make-up – to do aerobics to a warbling Glenn Miller Orchestra recording. Grant explained to each class that water was their friend, because it helped them with their movements. In the pool, they found their limitations diminished by a lack of resistance. The fluid allowed them to do things that would’ve been difficult if not impossible on dry land.
Grant was tough but not adventurous. Living against expectations had been his greatest feat. Thrills held little allure. He was rather rule-driven and civic-minded, in fact, strapping his head into his helmet each time he got onto his scooter. At the beginning of every lesson, he reviewed the community center guidelines:
1) No Horse Play.
2) Walk, do not Run, on the Concrete.
3) Shower in the Locker Rooms Before entering the Pool.
Therefore, it came as a surprise to those who knew him that Grant ended up in a coma. One evening, after his final session and before the community center closed at 8 p.m., he went for his usual penny dive. He tossed an old metal coffee canister full of coins into the abyss, affixed his air-tight goggles, and scavenged for the exact cents he’d counted on the concessions counter. These were the tips for the hot dog girl and the soda jerk, and Grant felt responsible to both of those perspiring teenagers to seek every last copper circle. Somehow on his descent that evening, Grant had hit his head and floated to the surface like a goldfish, his orange trunks glistening under tubes of fluorescent light.
It was water on the brain, the doctors said. They gave him six months to live.
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