The Associated Perala

[explainerist-blog]

COP21

The COP21 climate conference is right around the corner, and it could prove to be one of the most important events in the fight against climate change to date. So what’s it all about?

COP21 stands for Carbon Omission Plan 21. It’s a little play on words, because they’re trying to stop carbon emissions, so they’re going for carbon omissions. The “21” part refers to the most important countries that are participating. There will be representatives from 40+ different countries attending, but only 21 of those are considered important, and that’s really being polite about it, because actually it’s more like maybe six.

So, what is the goal of COP21? It’s a little murky. Most participants seem to feel the overall point is to work out a legally binding agreement between the participating countries on carbon emissions caps, with a general goal of keeping the global temperature increase under two degree celsius against pre-industrial levels.

According to the COP21 website, though, the goal is to “convene cross-sector participants from business, Government, finance, UN, NGO and civil society to create an unparalleled opportunity to bolster business innovation and bring scale to the emerging green economy.” Which sounds sort of like it’s about making a business plan?

While the business aspect is apparently the most important, COP21 also involves science and the climate - daunting topics for the average God-fearing layman. To learn more about these issues, we got in touch with our resident science expert, Randy Fargley.

What is the climate?

“Climate” is the same thing as “weather”.

What is weather?

Weather is defined as the state of outside temperature but also whether or not the weather is rainy or whether it’s not.

What’s the history of weather?

Weather caused issues long ago when the dinosaurs were murdered by it. Most people generally accept that God performed that weather on the dinosaurs because they weren’t really doing much which their lives.  Ever since that happened weather has generally not been much of a problem aside from a couple of tornados and their occasional shark variant.

How is a convention going to help our current weather/climate situation?

I admittedly laughed when I was told about an upcoming weather convention and I don’t laugh very often.  To think people would be coming from all around the world dressed up as their favourite weather to discuss whether it’ll be hot or cold outside cracked me up.  Turns out there are a lot of people who take the convention seriously so I do apologize for judging those people.

Can we trust climate scientists?

Most people discover their first trust issues when they’re lied to by a weather forecaster.  For me it was when I was six and had a baseball tournament and they called for warm sunny weather. The day started out chilly and it didn’t warm up. I was a freezing child with no sweater or jacket.  I almost died because I misplaced my trust and I haven’t believed anybody ever since.  The solution that has worked best is getting the most attractive forecasters to tell us the weather. Studies from the University of North Carolina show that the better looking a person is the more likely we are to take them seriously.  Let’s be honest, are you going to listen to a fat guy with stains on his shirt or a toned, handsome woman?

What can we do to prepare for apocalyptic weather?

Apocalyptic means the total destruction of the world.  That’s not to call your question dumb, there’s still plenty you can do to prepare.  You’ll mainly want to visit www.lunarembassy.com because it’s here that you will be able to buy property on the moon for a reasonable rate.  You’ll want to do that sooner rather than later because if this kind of weather is predicted you’ll be looking at some major price hikes.

Hasn’t the planet’s climate always changed?

Yes, estimates of the Earth’s age range from 6000 to 4.5 billion years, and through all that time there have been a bunch of different climates, including the ice ages. While it was possible for mammoths and sloths to live in those times and even to become friends, the ice ages were not hospitable to humans. Humans have only been around for a small fraction of the planet’s history, largely because there has only been good weather for a little while.

Does that mean climate change is inevitable?

Yes, but that’s a really depressing way to look at it. I don’t like to think about that.

Will climate change affect rich and poor countries disproportionately?

Poor countries don’t experience rain, this is one of the top reasons they don’t have drinkable water. Rich countries tend to experience more earthquakes as all the buildings they build disrupt the Earth’s asphalt.

A recent New York Times article on Greenland’s ice melt discussed climate scientists trying to figure out whether anything meaningful could still be done about climate change, or whether it was too late, noting, “The effects of CO₂ are akin to rolling a large stone down a big hill: Eventually, it gains so much momentum that it cannot be stopped.” What is Greenland?

Greenland is a region that is actually mostly grass; hence the name. While there is some ice in Greenland, if you just think about its name, it should be obvious that it’s the wrong place to try to study climate change. Greenland. Those scientists should consider another line of work, no offence.

Won’t it be better to have warmer weather?

Technically, yes, but people tend to go crazy when it’s nice weather all the time. Like in Florida, if you look at some of the news coming out of there, it’s the craziest stuff. One guy tried to eat his own face.

[associatedperala-blog]

Canada Votes 2015: An Explainer

On the global stage, Canada tends to keep a low profile, usually only glimpsed in an awkward crouch behind its neighbour the United States. But with a major federal election underway, some in the international community are starting to take a closer look. It’s a big and complex country, though, and the dynamics of the current election can leave foreign observers scratching their heads. What follows is an explainer to help those individuals wrap their heads around the issues.

What is Canada?

Canada is a country. It used to be part of the British Empire and then it split off peacefully some years ago. On a map, it’s the big one above the United States.

Who is the President of Canada?

Canada doesn’t have a President. Sorry. It has a Prime Minister. Its current Prime Minister is Stephen Harper.

Who is Stephen Harper?

In the 90s, Stephen Harper led a rebel movement within Canada’s conservative wing, ultimately brokering a deal to merge the two main conservative parties into one Conservative Party a little over a decade ago.

That whole time, the Liberal Party of Canada ran the government, until, in 2006, the Hand of the PM, Jon Arryn, was poisoned, leading to a political scandal that saw Harper’s rise to the Maple Throne, the country’s seat of power.

Who are his challengers?

There are two main rivals to His Lordship Prime Minster Harper. One of them is Justin Trudeau, son of Pierre, who led the country in the 1970s. As the son of the ‘Mad King’, Trudeau is seeking to avenge his family’s tarnished legacy, and offers a vision of peace, unity, and reconciliation with the Wildling population in the country’s north. He leads the country’s Liberal Party.

Tom Mulcair, the other main contender, leads the NDP. The second-oldest of 24 children, Tom rose from humble beginnings to become a successful lawyer, minister, and, ultimately, leader of the NDP Opposition. Still, he is seen by many as something of a cipher, having held a seat in the National Assembly of Quebec as a Liberal before being recruited to lead the NDP after the demise of Jack the Good, and also because of his prominent beard, which he refuses to shave off. There is some speculation that Tom Mulcair isn’t the real Tom Mulcair at all; that the real Tom was in fact killed in 2003 by an agent of The Faceless Men, who proceeded to assume Tom’s identity in pursuit of a secret political agenda.

A third challenger, Elizabeth May, is herself a Wildling and is not expected to win a significant percentage of the national vote.

What are the issues?

His Lordship Stephen Harper has tried to make security a main focus of his campaign, emphasizing his efforts in the War on Terror, which have included airstrikes against targets in Syria, Iraq, and Dorne. His Blue Coat security force has also discovered several covens in the country’s hinterlands, with the resulting trials uncovering multiple witches with relatively few innocents burned.

To many of the country’s left-wingers, however, the issue is more cultural. They have been upset with Harper’s divisive politics, trampling of Wildling rights, and meddling in foreign lands. They also decry his cuts to social programs and his antipathy to the country’s community of scientists and alchemists, who he has derisively referred to as “conjurers”. Another major sticking point has been his government’s hostility to the CBC, a guild of helpless magi whose psychic influence had previously been a unifying force for the country’s citizens.

How are Canadians likely to vote?

It’s a tight race, with each of the three parties having held a leading position at some point over the last several months. To some extent, it will be a matter of who various Canadians pay attention to on the cultural landscape, with various prominent non-political figures having weighed in. On the right, hockey legend Wayne Gretzky has expressed his support for the Harper Government despite having lost the right to vote as an expatriate under legislation introduced by that government; while on the left, Harper has been strongly denounced by actor Donald Sutherland, music artists like K-OS and Sarah Harmer, and also Margaret Atwood, a prominent witch whose power conservatives are unable to comprehend. Meanwhile, a growing movement called the Kroegerites have renounced political engagement and worldly knowledge altogether, attracting disaffected and under-educated youth to forsake political engagement in favour of pagan rituals in the country’s backwaters.

How does this election affect people outside of Canada?

Its outcome will have some effect on foreign policy, with the NDP vowing to end military participation in foreign conflicts, and the Conservatives likely to ramp it up. There is also some variation between the parties in how many refugees they aim to welcome to Canada. Some of Canada’s southern neighbours will likely be most concerned about issues relating to the White Walker ice zombies of the Arctic, but all of the major parties agree on the importance of defending the northern Wall.

Are there any really crazy candidates, like Donald Trump?

No. This is Canada.

[associatedperala-blog]

Stephen Harper Visits China

The delegation walked calmly and quietly through the enormous halls of the building. The official leading the way - Stephen still wasn't sure of his name - seemed to glance back and smile every few steps, as though for reassurance. The sinking feeling in his gut was deepening. He looked at Hayes walking beside him. Inscrutable, always. Shark-like.

They turned a corner, away from the shining, polished floors of the central hall and through a smaller alcove, and then the official in charge opened a wooden, white door and they entered into a small, dim room. The General was there, sitting at a plain wooden desk. There were no windows. It was something of a shocking contrast against the grandeur of the rest of the palace.

The General stood and smiled. He had thick glasses on and his skin was wrinkled and decayed-looking. "Mister Prime Minister," he said, with a thick accent. "I hope you are enjoying China." He laughed as though he had just made a joke. Stephen smiled politely and reached a hand out, which the General shook.

Later, in his private quarters with Hayes, he paced and fretted, Hayes sitting in a chair with a stiff drink in his hand, his tie loose.

"It was a good meeting, Stephen. We did good."

Stephen crossed over to the dresser and picked up the bottle of vodka, poured himself a drink. He took a sip and shook his head anxiously. His free hand pressed against his shirt, fumbling at the cross hanging inert from a silver chain around his neck.

"That man," he said contemptuously. "The General. I shook his hand. I talked with him like we were buddies." Vile.

Hayes stared impassively, or perhaps impatiently. Stephen frowned at him. "You don't care," he said. "It doesn't bother you?"

Hayes took a quick sip. "I'm not as godly a man as you are, Stephen."

Stephen laughed bitterly. He thought about the General. He imagined him leaning a ladder against a church, climbing up, and prying the cross off its steeple. He knew that wasn't how it happened. The General wouldn't have done it himself. And the churchmen would have been warned, in advance, not to be so... ostentatious, was the word they probably used. His hand fumbled at his cross. He thought about God. What would God's judgment be here?

What God? No. Of course. God is real. Faith. Simple. Life is the complicated part. God is uncomplicated.

Hayes stood up, readying himself to go back to his own room. "We did good here, sir," he said.

Stephen looked at him blankly.

"This is the work," Hayes said. "It's a muddle. I can't understand how this feels for you, but I can tell you we're doing the right thing. There is so much at stake, for us, for our country."

Stephen inhaled deeply, uncertain. Hayes walked to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "The right thing doesn't always feel right, you know that."

He left the room. Stephen took another sip from his glass of vodka, sweet, obliterating vodka, alone now with his god.

[associatedperala-blog]

office garbage

He buys a coffee, a muffin, he snatches some tissues out of a dispenser in the wan and pallid lighting of the coffee shop. He shoves his way out. The legs of his trousers swish against each other as he paces the underground mall, heading for his office. In the stale air sifting through the halls, his comb-over betrays him.

He passes the front desk girl, nods at her, and hurries to the elevator. He hears the click of the lobby entrance and jams a stubby finger into the door-closing button so that those behind him won’t make it inside with him.

The door closes, the elevator ascends. He belches.

Soon he has finished his coffee and his muffin. Under the fluorescent lights of the open office, he stares at the dun-coloured crumbs and bits of chocolate stippling his desk. With his hand he brushes them onto the carpeted floor. He thinks of the cleaning lady, bumping into his seat with her vacuum.

The phone rings and he answers, Yeah, Thompson, and they tell him that the intern, Norbert, is downstairs, in the lobby. His keycard won’t activate the elevator.

You’re the only one in the office right now, they say. It’s Saturday.

He thinks of Norbert and his glasses and his dim keenness and bumbling effort. He smirks derisively and rolls his eyes.

He carries his empty coffee cup and the bag that held his muffin as he walks back through the office, and he pauses at the garbage and recycling bins by the door. He remembers the night he stayed late and saw the cleaning lady empty the garbage bin into her waste cart, and then empty the recycling bin into the same. He remembers her blank stare, the tinny music coming from her earbuds, the motion of her cold bare arms. Rote, unceremonious.

He dumps his stuff into the garbage bin.

Downstairs, he greets Norbert tersely and turns back into the elevator, the boy following.

Nice day outside today, Norbert says.

It’s raining, Thompson says. It’s in his tone, that he can’t believe the contortions this boy will make to ingratiate himself.

The elevator door opens and he walks ahead of the boy, to the office door, leaving him to mind himself. He returns to his desk and glances at the pile of papers in his To Do bin. He checks Buzzfeed. He checks the Times. He checks the Onion.

An hour passes, and Norbert sidles to his desk. He looks up at him skeptically from his seat.

Can I borrow some of your paper? the boy asks.

What paper?

Norbert hesitates. Just… paper.

Blank paper?

Norbert nods uncertainly.

Just take it from the printer.

Norbert looks over at the printer, which sits on a cabinet near Thompson’s desk. The printer paper?

Thompson nods.

I can just take it?

Yeah.

The boy is astonished. He quietly staggers away and Thompson returns to his monitor. He checks his Facebook.

An hour passes.

He goes out for more coffee.

[associatedperala-blog]

inner city pressure

It was a hot and rainy evening, but Josh couldn't put off the laundry any longer. He carried the bundle of dirty clothes down the humid stairway of his building and out into the street, where the warm rain showered him as he proceeded to the laundromat down the block. He usually went to the nicer one a little further along, but he didn't care to go so far in the rain. In the dim yellow lighting of the laundromat, a large, bulky man stood folding clothes by one of the machines. Like Josh, he was wearing only boxers and an undershirt. They nodded at each other solemnly. Setting his clothes down by an empty washer, Josh proceeded to the change machine at the end of the room. It seemed new, recently replaced. He noticed a note printed above the bill slot: "NOTICE: ALL TRANSACTIONS SUBJECT TO A $0.25 CHARGE" Josh raised his eyebrows and scoffed. Seriously? He laughed to himself quietly, bending slightly and even slapping his leg. Seriously? He couldn't believe it. He took a dollar out of his pocket and, shaking his head, inserted it into the coin slot. The machine whirred, and at its base, the change was produced: 75 cents. Josh grimaced and grabbed the quarters. "Hey, have you seen this fucking thing?" he shouted indignantly at the large man folding clothes. The man, a stranger to Josh, looked up at him with concern. "It's ridiculous!" Josh said. "It charges 25 cents for every transaction!" The large man left his clothes and approached the change machine. "No," he said. "No way." "I just put in a dollar and got 75 cents back!" The large man leaned forward and read the notice above the machine's bill slot, then rocked back on his feet. "This is crazy!" he said. "Right!?" Josh concurred. "This is crazy!" the large man repeated. Then he pounded a fist against the change machine. "I mean what the fuck, right? This place isn't even good," Josh said. "The machines don't even clean your clothes here." The large man pounded the machine again, and then again and again. Then he wrapped his arms around it and began rocking it back and forth and side to side, screws popping out of the metal plates that had attached it to the floor. Josh slowly backed away, vaguely alarmed. A cacophony of clanging and twisting metal sounded as the large man rocked the machine off its hinges, and lightning and thunder crackled outside as the man finally toppled the machine over and onto the floor. Sparks flew from the wiring on its exposed backside. Josh stared at the defeated machine and then glanced at his bundle of dirty clothes nearby. Then he looked at the large man, who looked back at him, breathing heavily and sweating. "Hey, you don't have any change on you, do you?" Josh said.

[associatedperala-blog]

ahead of her time

The car had wended a swerving, unpredictable course and nearly hit a telephone pole by the time it had pulled over, blue and red siren light illuminating it against the brown and black landscape of the surrounding wasteland.

Officers Partridge and Madison approached the car together. It was a hot, humid August night. Madison angled around the passenger side while Partridge approached the driver. Her window was rolled down, and he peered inside at her sharply grimacing, delicately-featured face.

"Piss off," she said in a British accent.

Officer Partridge was taken aback. The driver wore thick mascara, and she had eyebrow and nose piercings. She’d styled her bright orange hair in a bizarre up-do, and seemed to be wearing a kind of rubber vest as a top.

"Ma’am, have you had anything to drink tonight?" Partridge asked.

"Sir," she slurred. “You’ll call me ‘sir’. I am a gentleman."

Partridge was speechless for a moment. He’d seen people like this on the television, protesting against Thatcher and her war, but he’d never seen one in the flesh - and had never expected to, here in America, close though they may be to the strange babylon of downtown New York.

"Okay, well how about your name, sir?" he said.

"Tilda."

"Okay, Mr. Tilda, have you had anything to drink tonight?"

"That’s none of your fucking business you bloody tosser."

He asked her to get out of the car, and after some acrimonious discussion she did. As she emerged from the driver’s seat, Officer Partridge saw that she was wearing what appeared to be a traditional Scottish kilt, which had caught on a rubber protuberance emerging from her crotch. The highway rubble crunching under her black and buckled army boots, she stood a few inches above Officer Partridge.

"May I ask what that is, Tilda?" Partridge said, gesturing to the rubber device hanging from her crotch.

"It’s for your ane, action man," Tilda said. “I am a touch palatic, and I’m AC/DC. I’d give it a go."

Utterly baffled, Partridge stumblingly told her he had no idea what she was talking about, but that she’d have to walk a straight line along the blacktop to test her sobriety. As she wavered and zig-zagged along the roadside, her prosthetic swinging visibly below her kilt, Partridge realized that Officer Madison was by now hunched over on the side of the road laughingly breathlessly, tears streaming down his face. Finally Partridge was overcome and began to laugh as Tilda stumbled back towards him. She leaned into him, exhausted and near blacking out.

"Let me dance it," she whispered into his ear as he tried to stifle his laughter. “I can do the line straight if I can dance it," she whispered.

[associatedperala-blog]

Henri's countdown

Julia was trying to break up with her boyfriend, Henri, who was mechanical.

They were sitting in a Starbucks. Henri’s brassy metal shone radiantly as always, but his face was arranged in a quietly sad expression. Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle” was playing over the coffee shop’s sound system.

 “Is it because I am mechanical?” Henri asked.

“Not exactly,” Julia said. She was having trouble explaining her decision.

“Is it because I am soulless?”

“No,” Julia exhaled. She looked at him fondly. “No, Henri. You’re a lot more soulful than most of the guys I know.”

Henri smiled wanly. He looked down at his lap, trying to focus. A motorized whirring sound emanated from his head as he thought.

“I just don’t understand, Julia.”

She sighed, then she tensed up. “Look, Henri, I’m just going to say it: It’s the ticking.”

“The ticking?”

“Yes, the ticking sound.”

“The ticking of my mechanical heart?”

“Yes,” Julia said. “I can’t stand it!” She began to cry. “I’m sorry, Henri.”

“I can’t help that,” Henri said.

“I know you can’t!”

Henri sat motionless while Julia sobbed, hunched over the table.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I understand. It bothers me, too, but I usually try not to think about it.”

Julia pulled tissues out of her purse and sat up, dabbing around her eyes. They sat staring at each other quietly for a moment.

Henri’s heart ticked steadily.

“One day it will finish counting down,” he said. “But then I’ll be dead.”

[associatedperala-blog]

emergency meeting: all staff

The company staff gathered in the hot, overstuffed conference room. Many had to stand. There was a buzz of gossip in the air; the organization had been struggling in recent months, and with the loss of two major clients to competitors, there were fears that downsizing was on the horizon.

A hush descended over the crowd as the CEO walked in. He stood at the head of the long, oval conference table and looked at his staff. The seats were full, and many had to stand along the walls. All eyes were on him.

“Thank you all for taking a few minutes to attend this meeting today,” he said. “I have some very, very important news. Hugely important.”

His eyes scanned over the crowd, keen to ensure all were listening closely.

“Two days ago,” he said, “on Sunday evening, I was standing in my backyard, having a drink. It was my first drink of the evening.”

He looked around the room pointedly.

“My first drink of the evening, and my only drink of that day. In other words, I was sober.”

Some of the staff exchanged confused looks.

“Something in the sky caught my attention,” the CEO continued. “I looked up, and I saw a bright light. An object. Close to the Earth, hovering.”

Again his gaze scanned over the room.

“I saw an unidentified flying object, a UFO,” he said. “It hovered there for maybe 20 seconds, and then it flew out into space.”

There was a moment of total silence.

Then one staff member, an assistant from the Marketing department, put up his hand.

“Yes,” the CEO said, gesturing to him.

“Did you take a photo?” the Marketing Assistant asked. “Or a video?”

“No, I didn’t,” the CEO said.

“Why not?”

“I was in total awe.”

Everyone was staring in blankly rapt attention at the CEO.

“Listen, people,” he continued, “I know this is difficult to take in. But I’m telling you, I saw this thing. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. And I’m asking you to trust me, as your CEO, when I say this. I saw a spacecraft. There’s no other word for it, no other explanation.”

Another hand went up; it was one of the women from Communications.

The CEO nodded at her.

“How does this affect our operations?” she asked.

The CEO nodded at the validity of this question. “Yes, good,” he said. “It totally affects our operations. Totally. I wanted to tell you all – first, just on a human level. Just, from one human being to another: I saw this thing.” He rocked back on his heels and spread his arms in a gesture expressing profundity. “Okay? So, there’s that. But it also will affect our business enormously. I can’t understate its importance. What we’ve been doing here-“ he waved his arm dismissively around the room- “this is all small potatoes. Okay? This is not the thing. From now on, we need to focus our attention – all of our attention – up there.” He pointed a finger up.

Many of the staff followed his finger and stared up at the ceiling.

[associatedperala-blog]

the gripping melodrama

Tense, sweating, gripping the arms of his chair, Morris listened to Barb and Doug argue.

“You think you’re so damn smart – so much smarter than me!” Barb scolded. “Because you spent four years drunk off your ass at Princeton!”

“Leave Princeton out of this!” Doug shouted.

Morris was annoyed about the Princeton reference, too, because he had a couple of close friends there. But he could see Barb’s point; Doug was condescending much of the time.

“I’ve had it!” Barb shouted, “I’ve had it with your belittling! I deserve better!”

Morris pumped his fist. It was about time Barb stood up for herself. He hadn’t always agreed with everything she said, but she definitely didn’t stand up for herself nearly enough. He was sick of Doug walking all over her.

“And what are you going to do, huh?” Doug said sarcastically. “Are you going to pack up and leave?”

“Maybe I will!” Barb yelled, almost sobbing.

Morris’ jaw dropped. It was the first time he’d ever heard her talk that way.

Suddenly the office door swung open and Benson walked in, his suit black and neatly pressed as usual. He leaned over Morris’ slumping shoulder and looked at the computer monitor.

“These two again?” he said, standing back up and crossing his arms.

Morris took off his headphones. “Benson,” he said, “worry about your own cases. Let me do my job. Any lead could be important.”

“But these two?”

“Yes, Quincy, these two. It is essential. It is absolutely fucking essential. Please get out.”

Benson sighed and started walking back out. “This is a bad time to mismanage NSA resources,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

Morris cursed under his breath and put the headphones back on. Now Doug was lecturing Barb about her frequent nights out with her colleague Chad.

Morris opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bag of cheese puffs.

“Oh, I hate that Chad,” he muttered, listening and munching away.

[associatedperala-blog]

the recovery

“Do you have the one with the things that cover your hands?” Martha asked Colin, who nodded Yes. Now she had to say the word.

“Mittens.”

Colin smiled and handed her the card.

Sitting in a circle in their old high-backed wooden chairs, the group applauded. They were gathered again for another Sunday afternoon game of Cards in the session room. A light rain poured outside the large windows peering out into the street. They were closed, and the warmth of the baseboard radiators fogged them.

Now it was George’s turn. He looked at his card. He had a strong feeling that John had its double.

“John,” he said, “do you have the thing that is metal that has little pointy bits that you stab into food?”

John smiled. “I do.”

Now George needed the word for it, as the rules of the game demanded. He searched his mind. Searched and searched.

“You can do it, George,” John said encouragingly.

“Yes, just a moment,” George said. He concentrated. It was metal. It was used to eat. It wasn’t a shovel.

He looked at the hardwood floor. He listened to the rain.

“Come on, George,” Martha said.

It was metal. It was used to dig food. It had pointy bits.

Next to a plate. On a napkin.

He couldn’t get it.

The group remained encouraging and positive, as they always were. John patted him on the back and the game went on. But it irked George – the failure. His progress over the last few months had been quite steady, but arduous, full of little missteps like these.

Later, in the middle of dinner, George stood up gripping cutlery and yelling “Fork! Fork! Fork!” to the applause of all his fellow stroke victims.

[associatedperala-blog]

the whale that fell from the sky

Mo' stood in his small wooden boat. The water was calm and clear. It was sunny, and hot, and the land was a shimmering green fold at the edge of the bay, but Mo’  could see storm clouds out over the ocean.

He inhaled deeply, and leapt over the side of his boat, diving down to the ocean floor with his spear in hand.

He saw many of the red fish. One swam close to him, and his spear gurgled and swooshed through the water as he lunged at it. He felt the thrilling puncture of the spear piercing the body of the fish, and he paused to observe the dying creature at the end of his weapon. Then with his legs he pushed the ocean floor away from him, rising back up through the deep blue water to the fresh and airy surface, warm sunlight beaming back onto his face once more.

He dislodged the fish from the spear and tossed it into his boat.

There was a loud boom in the sky, like thunder, but not thunder. He looked up and saw a large, dark object in the sky, like a whale but much larger. It was on fire, on its side, where its left fin should be, but there was no fin. The fire was large and bright, even in the bright noon sky, and black smoke billowed from it. The whale was dropping from the sky, toward the ocean.

Afraid, Mo’ dove back underwater, and swam down, back to the ocean floor. The surface briefly lit like a fire, and then there was a deep, loud, muffled boom that Mo’ felt vibrate in his chest. The whale from the sky plunged down several yards in front of him. Masses of air bubbles engulfed its body, and it shook the ocean floor as it crashed down into it, where it finally settled in a motionless, defeated posture.

Mo’ swam forward toward the beast. It was completely still, its head buried in the sand, and the fire where its fin should be still burned bright like a star under the water. As he got closer, he saw that its skin shone like the head of his spear.

He threw his spear at it.

[associatedperala-blog]

an inter-class transaction

The super-rich man ordered a Big Mac. It was unusual.

“We don’t often get you super-rich types here,” the pimply teenager said from behind the counter.

The super-rich man nodded knowingly as the teenaged boy handed him his burger. He unwrapped it and looked inside.

“Oh my God, this is a Big Mac?” he said incredulously. “People actually ingest these?”

“Well, gosh, mister, it’s no caviar but it’s a good dinner.”

The super-rich man raised an eyebrow at the boy, then re-wrapped the burger.

“Trust me, you’ll like it,” the teen said.

“Oh, I’m not eating it,” the super-rich man said. “I’m getting it for a friend as a kind of joke.”

“Oh.” The boy looked down at his feet, feeling embarrassed.

“Here, take this,” the super-rich man said, handing the boy a twenty-dollar bill. “My tip.”

“Golly, thanks mister!”

“It’s literally nothing to me.”

“Oh, right.”

“I have to go,” the super-rich man said, putting on his Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. “I have a meeting with the Politburo in thirty minutes.”

“Ah, okay,” the pimply boy said. “Is that far? Could be bad traffic this time of day.”

“Oh, I’m not driving,” the super-rich man said.

“Well how are you getting there?”

“In my spaceship.”

“A spaceship!”

“Yes.”

“Wha!?”

The teen gaped in wonderment as the super-rich man stood there ignoring him. He seemed to be reading some kind of digital message in the corner of one of the lenses of his glasses.“Oh, sorry,” he said, noticing the boy. “Yes, me and my friends all have spaceships. For the commute to Earth.”

“What, is there a secret colony of super-rich people on Mars!?”

“Ha!” the super-rich man guffawed, shaking his head. “Mars...”

He waved goodbye in a short, perfunctory gesture and walked out into the glimmering afternoon light.

[associatedperala-blog]

the lanyard guy

His pockets are full of loose change and keys, and they jingle loudly when he walks – you can hear it.

Passing you in the vestibule, searching for a seat on the train, perusing the magazines at the newsstand. First you hear the jingling, and then you see him.

His lanyard is always on. That’s how you know his name is Jeff, and his last name starts with a B, but it’s unusual and has a lot of consonants, so most people don’t ever bother to really figure it out. He is Jeff to them, or the Lanyard Guy. A fixture on the commute scene.

He walks briskly.

He stands strangely erect.

He smiles up at you and takes his backpack off of the seat next to him, so you can sit down. (He’d pretended not to see you looking for a seat, but that’s forgiven now.)

He inserts his bank card into the debit machine and puzzles over how to operate it, holding up your line.

He drops suddenly to his knees to tie his shoes, and those behind him swerve around. A magazine juts out of his backpack, Wired or maybe Time.

He makes a call to his dentist to change the time of their appointment. He is the only one talking on the train, and he speaks in an endearingly over-eager, awkward way.

He taps his fingers on the armrest and puzzles over Sudoku.

Yes, he is Jeff, the Lanyard Guy. You don’t know each other, but you see each other every day. He goes to work each morning, and he never has trouble getting in. (His key card is attached to his lanyard.)

[associatedperala-blog]

"Another of Grayson's distracting pranks."

            Her boss was an older man, but he was healthy and at times almost boyish-looking. He was reserved, a man of few words. And he was friendly, or at least genial, but he had little facility for humour and even less time for it.

He was a businessman, long in the game.

And so Zadie worried sometimes about her boss’ colleagues and their pranksterish proclivities. They were older men too, but they seemed to be of a different generation. They were jocular, and rude. It was how they got along.

Still, they seemed to understand that Frank was a man of a different order. They seemed to accept that he would not joke with them, that he would rarely even speak with them about something outside of the purview of their business. That it was not appropriate to affront him with vulgar speech.

They all understood, with one exception.

Grayson.

It was this man who Zadie thought of when signing for the strangely light, faintly buzzing package. The deliveryman looked so much like him – remarkably similar, save for the large mustache. And he had the same smirking quality, the same glinting eyes she’d seen on those many occasions when Grayson would trick or humiliate her boss – slapping him on his behind, squirting him with a water gun, air-humping him in the elevator. Instances of amusement that made Zadie cringe and roll her eyes.

Her boss called her only moments after she’d brought him the package.

“Zadie,” he said, “would you kindly call an ambulance for me?”

“Is something wrong, Mr. Rifkin?” she asked.

“I am being attacked by a swarm of bees,” he said calmly, “and I am highly allergic.”

 “Oh my god!” Zadie shouted.

“Will you call the ambulance please?”

She could hear a loud buzzing in the background.

“Y-yes! Of course!”

“Thank you.”

[associatedperala-blog]

an unexpected resignation

            Hendricks’ resignation was met, at first, with utter bafflement.

            “You’re resigning?” de Klerk said, astounded.

            Hendricks nodded.

            De Klerk sat back in his cot and sighed, mulling the situation over. “Is it because of the recent arrests?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

            “Oh, no,” Hendricks said. “I’ve just got another position.”

            De Klerk was dumbfounded. “Another position?”

            “Yeah,” Hendricks said. “In customer service. Banking. Sort of administrative.”

            “Banking!?” De Klerk was on his feet now.

            Hendricks shrugged.

            “But what about environmental terrorism?” de Klerk scolded, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re just going to turn your back on it?”

            Hendricks shook his head. “No growth, man. I can’t pay the bills with this salary.”

            “What about the planet!?”

            “What about my cat?” Hendricks said, growing indignant. “How am I going to feed Mr. Raffles on this salary?”

            De Klerk exhaled and nodded, looking down at his feet. Yes, he could see Hendricks’ point.

[associatedperala-blog]

the death of the party

“Let’s get falafels!” Rick shouted. He was still in party mode. But the others seemed nonplussed.

James and Bethany were watching Die Hard II and basically unresponsive; Hillary was passed out on the couch; and Rahim was playing with the cats, his remaining blue curacao abandoned on the kitchen table.

In sum the party seemed to have died.

“Come on, guys! Falafels!”

No response.

He even thought of trying to get Salty Dan to go, but it sounded like he was still vomiting in the bathroom.

[associatedperala-blog]

Brian's "lunchtime meeting"

Brian looked again at his watch, and then leaned back in his seat on the patio. He looked at his Guinness: Running low. He’d have to pace himself.

“Get creative,” his boss had told him. “Think outside of the box.” And then he thought about the Excel sheet. Well that was all boxes, wasn’t it?

He sipped at his Guinness and waited for a fresh idea to hit him. Birds chirped from the vines climbing the patio wall.

The waitress came by and asked he wanted another. He checked his watch: 3:30pm. He’d been on his lunch for two and a half hours.

“Yes, please,” he said. “But just a half pint!” he added seriously.