I tried talking to Bob again this morning. I swear that guy must be miserable. Once again, he didn't say a word, just stared right through me. I don't think he hates me, or anyone for that matter. All of the office gossip assumes that he is just arrogant and rude. People assume that he doesn't talk to anyone because he hates them. I know better. I remember being like him.
The fear doesn't go away. I have just learned to deal with it. Lots of meditation, positive affirmations, and deep breathing helps when the fear grips your stomach with an iron fist, but it doesn't make it go away. I still imagine them laughing behind my back, I can almost hear the insults and sarcastic remarks. But I know that most of that is all in my own head, and the rest doesn't really matter. I have been able to arrive at this point because someone refused to believe that I was surly and anti-social. She saw through the facade and understood the fear behind it. She believed that I was a person worth knowing and made the effort to do so.
Years of therapy and now I feel like it's my turn to help someone. Repay karma, if that is possible. I can help Bob. If only I can get him to trust me.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Friday, September 26, 2008
Evidence log 11/10/20XX
The following is an unaddressed letter found in the warehouse where a supposed suicide bomber had been living.
One of us is a coward. You'd like to think it's me, that planning my own death is the easy way out, that staying to fight the injustice we uncovered would be the brave thing to do. It's not. I'm doing us all a favor. I'm doing what you don't have the guts to do. I'm not afraid of dying. I have nothing left to live for. It's good you've already left. You'd try to talk me out of this. That's what you do. You talk. You're not a man of action. You're passive, you're idealistic, and you're a fool. You can write as many books as you want about what's been done to us and countless others, but that won't do anyone any good. It won't stop the pain. It won't bring back what's been lost, and it sure as hell won't change anything. At least with my way, they'll have to do something. And at least I won't have to suffer any more.
I'm not writing you this to explain myself, though. I told you everything already, and you know. What I want to say is that I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry we couldn't do this together. We are on the same side. It's funny, though, isn't it, that even this side has its divisions. It was never united we stand divided we fall. It's divided we stand united we fall. Because everybody thinks their opinion is so fucking precious but in the end, we all blow ourselves to bits.
So I'm giving you this one last gift -- my final act of vengeance, taking as many of the fuckers with me as I can. I don't expect you to do the same, but this is my gift to you, let this violence open a door for you and walk through it, be the change you want to see in the world. Don't continue to be the coward I will die thinking you are.
One of us is a coward. You'd like to think it's me, that planning my own death is the easy way out, that staying to fight the injustice we uncovered would be the brave thing to do. It's not. I'm doing us all a favor. I'm doing what you don't have the guts to do. I'm not afraid of dying. I have nothing left to live for. It's good you've already left. You'd try to talk me out of this. That's what you do. You talk. You're not a man of action. You're passive, you're idealistic, and you're a fool. You can write as many books as you want about what's been done to us and countless others, but that won't do anyone any good. It won't stop the pain. It won't bring back what's been lost, and it sure as hell won't change anything. At least with my way, they'll have to do something. And at least I won't have to suffer any more.
I'm not writing you this to explain myself, though. I told you everything already, and you know. What I want to say is that I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry we couldn't do this together. We are on the same side. It's funny, though, isn't it, that even this side has its divisions. It was never united we stand divided we fall. It's divided we stand united we fall. Because everybody thinks their opinion is so fucking precious but in the end, we all blow ourselves to bits.
So I'm giving you this one last gift -- my final act of vengeance, taking as many of the fuckers with me as I can. I don't expect you to do the same, but this is my gift to you, let this violence open a door for you and walk through it, be the change you want to see in the world. Don't continue to be the coward I will die thinking you are.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Email log -- 7/29/20XX
The following email was found on a laptop inside the abandoned vehicle of a missing journalist:
Date: 7/29/20xx, 6:17pm
To: Spencer (swinterroth@---.edu)
From: DSaintsing (d.g.saint@---.com)
Subject: the single most fucked up day in my life
Hey. Tried to call you, but got your voice mail. I didn't leave a message because I just remembered you were teaching a late class. My head is so scrambled I can't think. I thought about driving all the way down there to see you tonight so you could maybe just punch me and tell me to stop being stupid. But I swear this whole thing has got me terrified. You know me -- I don't get rattled, but this, well, let me just tell you what happened.
I was actually in my office for a change, trying to finish up a couple of articles that the editor's punk-ass assistant held up for no reason except he doesn't like me (I think he's jealous actually, or maybe he's in love with me -- don't worry, my heart -- and other, um, parts, will always be yours.). I got a phone call around 3:30 from a police detective saying basically if I didn't get my ass over to where they were and talk to them, they'd get a warrant and arrest me. That was enough to freak me out right there, but I still figured there'd be a logical explanation. It's not like I've never had to deal with cops before when some politician or other gets sick of me asking questions and trying to do my job. The detective wouldn't tell me anything over the phone except that they'd arrest me if I didn't cooperate. So I met them out by the Washington Monument. I kept running through things in my head of what they could possibly want with me, and nothing really made much sense. Of course, when I found out what it was, things made even less sense.
I called Nathan on the way. He wanted to panic -- thought I'd done something like our dad did and was going to end up in jail for it (I'm not that insane yet). But he said he'd meet me there -- for moral support more than legal advice. It's good to have a lawyer for a big brother.
Well, here's where things get real fun. Turns out the cops were narcotics officers. They asked me if I knew a guy named Chester. Nope. You know, all the people I get to meet every day through work and I've never met anyone named Chester. They asked me if I knew a guy named Robert, and well, yeah, I actually know a number of Roberts, but they didn't give me a last name, so that probably had nothing to do with anything. Chester, it seems, is a very reliable informant of their (i.e. junkie who doesn't want to do time) who said I tried to sell him coccaine. Yeah, that's right, I'm a drug dealer now. You didn't know that about me, huh? Neither did I! They didn't seem to want to believe me when I said I didn't know what the hell they were talking about. I mean, this Chester dickhead supposedly lives in a trailer behind some tavern in Alexandria that I've never heard of. Haven't been to a bar since I was in college -- my idea of night life these days is listening to you read me dirty poetry over the phone until two in the morning (we should do that again sometime -- really soon -- or maybe not over the phone.) Of course, at this point, I'm more than freaked out, and Nathan was starting to get pissed. I might have been in shock -- at a loss for words, which I never am. I just kept telling them the same thing over and over. I don't know Chester. I don't know this bar. I don't fucking sell drugs. They said they had my car on surveillance video. They kept asking me if I let someone use my car. They were more prepared to believe this jackass informant than they were me. Eventually, they got tired of listening to me tell the truth and left.
I was too shaken up to drive at that point, so Nathan and I just hung around for a while. And then he started to question me, too -- my own brother! He knows me better than that. I could have punched him for that except I was shaking too hard for that. When I felt calm enough to drive, I followed Nathan back to his place for dinner, and I kept going through all the questions the narcs asked me and I wondered if they've been watching me, tapping my phone, hacking into my computer (if so, I really, really hope they skipped some of our more descriptive exchanges). I kept looking in my rearview mirror to see if I was being tailed. I'm still a little nervous about answering the phone. I got a call when I got back to my apartment. I heard a click on the line, but no one was there. Cars sit in the parking lot with headlights on all the time, but now I wonder if the drivers are cops. I don't know how long it will take me to shake this paranoia, but right now it doesn't feel like it'll ever go away.
Anyway, one of the narcs left a message on my cell phone during dinner. He said they checked the phone records and were no longer interested in me. All that trauma for nothing. I'm glad I didn't answer the phone. The only thing I would have said to him is fuck you. I know, I know, they're doing their job, and that's fine, but fuck! I swear, if I ever meet Chester, I'll kick his fucking teeth in.
Call me when you can. I want to come down and see you this weekend so I can hide in your bed and blubber unabashedly and see if you can think of some way to distract me from this awful nibbling paranoia.
Love you,
Danny
Date: 7/29/20xx, 6:17pm
To: Spencer (swinterroth@---.edu)
From: DSaintsing (d.g.saint@---.com)
Subject: the single most fucked up day in my life
Hey. Tried to call you, but got your voice mail. I didn't leave a message because I just remembered you were teaching a late class. My head is so scrambled I can't think. I thought about driving all the way down there to see you tonight so you could maybe just punch me and tell me to stop being stupid. But I swear this whole thing has got me terrified. You know me -- I don't get rattled, but this, well, let me just tell you what happened.
I was actually in my office for a change, trying to finish up a couple of articles that the editor's punk-ass assistant held up for no reason except he doesn't like me (I think he's jealous actually, or maybe he's in love with me -- don't worry, my heart -- and other, um, parts, will always be yours.). I got a phone call around 3:30 from a police detective saying basically if I didn't get my ass over to where they were and talk to them, they'd get a warrant and arrest me. That was enough to freak me out right there, but I still figured there'd be a logical explanation. It's not like I've never had to deal with cops before when some politician or other gets sick of me asking questions and trying to do my job. The detective wouldn't tell me anything over the phone except that they'd arrest me if I didn't cooperate. So I met them out by the Washington Monument. I kept running through things in my head of what they could possibly want with me, and nothing really made much sense. Of course, when I found out what it was, things made even less sense.
I called Nathan on the way. He wanted to panic -- thought I'd done something like our dad did and was going to end up in jail for it (I'm not that insane yet). But he said he'd meet me there -- for moral support more than legal advice. It's good to have a lawyer for a big brother.
Well, here's where things get real fun. Turns out the cops were narcotics officers. They asked me if I knew a guy named Chester. Nope. You know, all the people I get to meet every day through work and I've never met anyone named Chester. They asked me if I knew a guy named Robert, and well, yeah, I actually know a number of Roberts, but they didn't give me a last name, so that probably had nothing to do with anything. Chester, it seems, is a very reliable informant of their (i.e. junkie who doesn't want to do time) who said I tried to sell him coccaine. Yeah, that's right, I'm a drug dealer now. You didn't know that about me, huh? Neither did I! They didn't seem to want to believe me when I said I didn't know what the hell they were talking about. I mean, this Chester dickhead supposedly lives in a trailer behind some tavern in Alexandria that I've never heard of. Haven't been to a bar since I was in college -- my idea of night life these days is listening to you read me dirty poetry over the phone until two in the morning (we should do that again sometime -- really soon -- or maybe not over the phone.) Of course, at this point, I'm more than freaked out, and Nathan was starting to get pissed. I might have been in shock -- at a loss for words, which I never am. I just kept telling them the same thing over and over. I don't know Chester. I don't know this bar. I don't fucking sell drugs. They said they had my car on surveillance video. They kept asking me if I let someone use my car. They were more prepared to believe this jackass informant than they were me. Eventually, they got tired of listening to me tell the truth and left.
I was too shaken up to drive at that point, so Nathan and I just hung around for a while. And then he started to question me, too -- my own brother! He knows me better than that. I could have punched him for that except I was shaking too hard for that. When I felt calm enough to drive, I followed Nathan back to his place for dinner, and I kept going through all the questions the narcs asked me and I wondered if they've been watching me, tapping my phone, hacking into my computer (if so, I really, really hope they skipped some of our more descriptive exchanges). I kept looking in my rearview mirror to see if I was being tailed. I'm still a little nervous about answering the phone. I got a call when I got back to my apartment. I heard a click on the line, but no one was there. Cars sit in the parking lot with headlights on all the time, but now I wonder if the drivers are cops. I don't know how long it will take me to shake this paranoia, but right now it doesn't feel like it'll ever go away.
Anyway, one of the narcs left a message on my cell phone during dinner. He said they checked the phone records and were no longer interested in me. All that trauma for nothing. I'm glad I didn't answer the phone. The only thing I would have said to him is fuck you. I know, I know, they're doing their job, and that's fine, but fuck! I swear, if I ever meet Chester, I'll kick his fucking teeth in.
Call me when you can. I want to come down and see you this weekend so I can hide in your bed and blubber unabashedly and see if you can think of some way to distract me from this awful nibbling paranoia.
Love you,
Danny
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Claire Reich: On Learning Computers
My grandson Owen showed me how to use this machine.
He was sitting in the study with this thing on his lap. I sneaked a look at it as I walked past the back of the sofa, on my way to my chair by the fireplace. The boy must have eyes in the back of his head, because he waved at me, and said, "Grandmother, come sit with me, look at this."
"What is it, some virus?" I said to him. I know that computers are prone to viruses and pornography, and that is why I have never touched them -- until now.
"No, we have a blog now," he said. "All of us. We can post whenever we like."
The words "blog" and "post" took a little explaining. I am familiar with "posting" letters in the mail, but "blogging" sounded like something I might do in the privacy of my bath when I have a cold. Owen took a great deal of time to show me various "blogs" on the computer line and I was both amazed and appalled to see what unapologetic criticisms and what tripe was made available to the world.
"Are you saying that I could say anything I wanted to say on this computer?" I asked him.
"Yes, that's exactly it," he said, with a smile stretching his face.
"Who would see it?" I asked.
"The whole world, potentially," he said.
"And realistically?" I asked, knowing that he was hedging.
"Well, some people. Blogs like this only get about four or five hits -- visitors -- in a week." He plopped the laptop computer into my lap. "Go ahead. Post something."
And so I have. My schoolmistress, Mlle. Archon, would be proud of my punctuation and grammar, and my ability to relate a story in English.
Thank you, Mlle. Archon.
Owen tells me that blogs are for opinions, too, as well as stories. With that in mind, I feel a great compulsion to say that Mlle. Archon was the most sadistic individual I have ever met in my life. It was she who convinced me of religion, that there had to be a Hell to punish people as evil and vicious as she. Did we fail to understand her explanation of mathematical fractions? Oh, she had the perfect solution: a wooden ruler to apply to our legs, our arms, our buttocks. (Most of the girls deliberately wore ruffled slips under our dresses, but that only saved our behinds from the stings of that ruler.)
Did we not do our homework? A crack from the ruler was applied to convince us that we should make a greater effort the next day. Were we shy to answer questions before the rest of the school? Oh, I remember Gerard Piedmont standing in front of the blackboard, unable to chalk an answer to the addition problem, weeping, as Mlle. Archon beat him with that accursed ruler, over and over again.
She was horrible.
She made us learn, and when I finally graduated from her ministrations, I sewed a voodoo doll of her and stuck hat pins in it, as many as I could find.
My grandson, reading over my shoulder while he loudly chews a sandwich, asks, "What's a hat pin?"
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
You call that bad?
I've seen plenty worse things in my time. If you're feeling that you have to waste something, I'm gonna suggest starting with yourself every time. Give the innocent folks an effin' break.
By the way, I never used to say things like effin' and gosh. Retirement - and my second career - domesticated me. Heck of a thing.
You should run up here to Sutton's. Bobbi just took some French apple pies out of the oven. We serve 'em with real ice cream (not that crud with a bunch of ingredients you never heard of), and a drizzle of caramel sauce that Bobbi cooks up in her Granny Lynch's pot. Add a cup of coffee (as black and bitter as my soul), and pretty soon the world will look right again.
Val
By the way, I never used to say things like effin' and gosh. Retirement - and my second career - domesticated me. Heck of a thing.
You should run up here to Sutton's. Bobbi just took some French apple pies out of the oven. We serve 'em with real ice cream (not that crud with a bunch of ingredients you never heard of), and a drizzle of caramel sauce that Bobbi cooks up in her Granny Lynch's pot. Add a cup of coffee (as black and bitter as my soul), and pretty soon the world will look right again.
Val
Charlotte's Night
Well, this has been a screwed up evening. How humans can shoot themselves and miss? I mean let me fang in a bit and make sure none of that blood is wasted.
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