In my seventeenth year I found myself, at great expense and lack of provision, pursuing higher knowledge at the newly established college in Charlottesville. The brainchild of the Honorable Thomas Jefferson, the institution was but in its second year under the moniker of University of Virginia. So new was the school that the principal architecture was just reaching completion, and the principle of self-governance had not fully established its foothold among the student body.
Seeking respite one day from the chaos of the fledgling university, I ventured out onto the Lawn to sit and study at the base of one of the small oaks scattered about. Spring was in full bloom and the air temperature high enough to remain still in it without need for an overcoat or accoutrements such as a scarf or gloves, luxuries I could scarce afford in those years and even now. There was only a slight breeze that would on occasion bring to my ears the jocular exultations of my colleagues. On most days I would be a party to those exultations, but on this particular day introspection was the catchword.
I allowed myself complete immersion into my texts, the German vocabulary marching its staccato through my cerebrum as I contemplated syntax with my synapses. The flurried tarantella of brain activity strikingly betrayed by the utter stillness of my corporeal self, I daresay I would have seemed an oddity to the occasional passerby if they had been able to lock onto my eyes, those windows into the soul and the mind.
I had positioned myself outside of Pavilion VII (ironically the first school building to be completed) whose cornerstone was laid by our country’s fifth President. The Colonnade Club, as it was called, was a preferred destination for faculty and students alike, warm and receptive. It was probably for this reason that I chose to position myself just beyond its doors. Though I wished to be alone that afternoon, I was also hesitant to be too far from the bustle of activity. A secondary reason for my position was the vista it afforded me of Pavilion IV, in many ways the direct opposite of the Seventh. The building itself sat at the other end of the Lawn criss-cross made by the two Pavilions. In it housed the bane of mine and others’ existences, Mr. B¾, the very professor whose class I was studying for under the young oak’s bough. A miserable man of Prussian origin and demeanor, he barked at all who had the misfortune of being within earshot. Handpicked by the university’s father, I suppose he must have had some redeeming qualities. And I suppose the fact that I was making such an effort to excel in his class suggested he must have been a teacher of considerable worth, which was fortunate as that was the justification for his residence there. From my perch there outside the Colonnade Club, I could intermittently peek at its Doric columns and rejoice in not seeing Mr. B¾ exiting to the Lawn to spoil my good mood.
It was during one of these peeks across the Lawn that I spotted some peculiar movement among the columns. At first I thought it a construct of my German-addled brain, but as I took a more lingering look I could see there was indeed something happening on the front porch.  Two small children, a boy and a girl, were weaving themselves in and out of the structure, taking turns chasing one another. Their tinkling laughter, like tiny little bells, floated down one terrace and another, into my welcoming ears. Such delightful sounds to distract me from my studies, I allowed myself to look upon their horseplay until my watching was noticed by the little girl. I quickly turned my face back down to the book in my lap, flustered that I could not remember my place among the umlauts on the page.  Even in my haste, however, I could not miss that tiny derisive tongue poking out in my direction through pursed lips.
From that point, I kept my head down and would not allow myself to be distracted. I regained control of the wanderings of my mind, and that familiar rhythm returned to my brain. I was back in the Old World, conversing with Kaisers with the greatest of ease. Completely immersed I was when a flutter of white appeared in the periphery of my vision. Without moving at all, I was able to see through my eyelashes a vague shape emulating a miniature human. I gave in to my curiosity and looked up fully at the same young girl who had moments before been so discourteous toward me, now standing not even a yard away. She was joined instantaneously by her gregarious brother whose motion behind her caused her skirts to rustle of which she was oblivious, her attention fully focused on myself. She remained silent, and her brother began the introductions.
“Good weather, isn’t it? The winter’s finally gone. Are you a student here? You look like a student. I don’t see any moustaches on you. Can you grow moustaches? I can’t. I’m only six. My pater’s a teacher here. This is my sister, Greta, she’s younger than me. I’m George, what’s your name?”
The cascade of his diatribe was initially a mere cacophony  in my ears. I daresay I was only able to piece together  his words in any semblance of order after what seemed like very long moments before I was able to respond. Too late, though, as little Greta had finally broken her tableau vivant to take a step close enough to insert one small finger in the tattered shoulder seam of my morning coat. Flustered again, I batted away at her hand as you would a horsefly, but finally I answered the boy, “You may call me Eddie.”
The boy then began a second battery of questions for which he apparently cared not their answers. Intermingled with his queries were his observations of what was currently his home. His family came to Virginia directly from London, though they were German by birth. Most of the time he preferred the weather in Virginia because he could play outdoors most days. However, he didn’t care much for the mosquitos in the summer. When asked about his sister he merely replied that she kept out of his way most of the time and so was tolerable. I had to agree with George that his sister did seem fairly agreeable in disposition, despite her insistence in noticing how my ensemble was in quite a state of disrepair.
“You ought to get this fixed, Eddie,” were the very first words Greta uttered in my presence, and I did my best to disguise my humiliation in good humor.
“Well, lassie, if your occupation is seamstress, I may be able to scrounge a shiny penny for you to make the repairs for me.”
George interjected once again. “You don’t have any money, do you? My pater has lots of money. He’s a professor here, did I tell you that? They’re always having parties at the Pavilion. We’re supposed to stay in our rooms, but Greta likes to see all the ladies’ dresses. Most of the adults don’t notice us. You should come to one of the parties, you could eat like a king.”
“I’m afraid I would not be able to make myself hidden, and my presence would certainly not be welcome, though eating like a king does have quite the appeal.”
“You should just take the food,” Greta suggested. Such simple words uttered from such an angelic countenance. Yet those words struck a resonant chord within me. I had only been at the University for a few months but already was feeling the pinch as the purse strings had been pulled ever tighter by my step-father. Every penny was given grudgingly, and some of those pennies were given to extant obligations, sacrificing a hot meal. Having more than just moldy, crusty bread in my belly would certainly make modern language study more palatable.
I could see on his face that George was thinking hard. After a few moments, he had a plan worked out. He would go back to the Pavilion and procure an empty canvas sack, the kind they bring potatoes in. It could be folded up small, concealed in my satchel. No one would question my entrance into the building as I was a student of languages there. The children would create a diversion outside the kitchen at which time I would quickly and quietly slip inside, fill the sack with whatever foodstuffs that were available then sneak out the back entrance. I would be able to make my way across the gardens and into the woods beyond , hiding if necessary among the construction mess of  Washington Hall which wasn’t yet complete.
“Believe me, young imps, when I say your proposal is indeed quite tempting. Not just for the sport of it, but the result would prove comforting to my constitution. Alas, it is completely contrary to the gentleman’s code to which I’m bound.”
“All the more reason, sir, you should take the risk.”
I was beginning to believe strongly that these two sweet-faced angels were acting as agents of the great tempter Lucifer, attempting to hasten my downfall. There was also a part of me that would have relished the thought of bringing some amount of suffering to Mr. B¾. I remained steadfast, however, and refused to take their bait, that juicy red apple which even now coaxes some salivation. This displeased the male child greatly, and his behavior became increasingly agitated. As for the young female, she merely appeared bored.
George sighed heavily, “I’ll give you a half-dime if you do it.” Another temptation was added on. Not only would I have a bag of food, I would have a coin I could use to buy more when the sack was empty, or to place on a bet for even more coins.
“It’s no good my dear boy. I must remain true to my oath. Though I may be hungry for sweet morsels, I am more hungry for knowledge and mustn’t threaten my future at the University.” At this, George kicked a large divot into the grass, and Greta fixed a large but pretty pout upon her face. She swirled around on one foot and, with her brother, spirited away back from whence they came. I watched as they made their way across the width of the Lawn, smiled to myself, and with a harrumph returned to my studies.

So, Obama’s Chief of Staff called some of his colleagues “retarded,” and a bunch of other people got mad, most notably, Ms. Palin. Seems it’s not nice to disparage mentally challenged people, even behind closed doors (I’m not disagreeing). But I have to ask, what do his comments have to do with people with learning disabilities specifically? He wasn’t calling them retarded, he was calling his colleagues retarded (or their actions). What does retarded mean? Just like another word I wrote about recently, it means what we want it to mean.

In the Merriam-Webster online dictionary, I find that the definition of the transitive verb retard can be “to slow up especially by preventing or hindering advance or accomplishment : impede.” And in this sense, I do believe it could be said this is exactly what Mr. Emanuel was trying to convey in his weekly strategy meeting. To quote the Wall Street Journal, he “warned [the group] not to alienate lawmakers whose votes would be needed on health care and other top legislative items.” So was he really likening them derisively to people with mental handicap, or was he expressing his opinion that their actions were hindering accomplishment?

I’m going with the latter.

I was walking through Westlake this evening, a place where you will no doubt come across people giving opinions and people asking for opinions. On this particular occasion, someone wanted my opinion, stepped forward with his clipboard and with the other extended his hand out in greeting. My initial response was a combination of “I’m not touching a stranger”, “I’ve got places to be”, and “Sorry, dude. I know you’re just doing your thing.”

On the one hand, should we be allowing ourselves to interact with any stranger who vies for our attention? On the other hand, shouldn’t we be able to show kindness to our fellow humans? One could certainly get into trouble taking that hand from some of the people wandering through Westlake. However, how many good experiences are we missing out on by avoiding those few bad ones?

It’s only a word. It’s just a jumble of letters with a representative sound. How can something so insignificant as some squiggles on a page (or a screen) cause so much trouble? After all, words can only have the meaning we give them and nothing more. So what’s the big deal about this one? Personally, I could take it or leave it — I have no real use for it myself. That is why I say, let them have it. If it means so much to them, it’s theirs!

Who is “they”, and what is this word? Let me answer the simpler part first: marriage. The first part is not so cut-and-dried, but I have a solution. It seems to me that the people who hold on to this word tightest in our country are, generally-speaking, affiliated with some religious organization. At least they are the ones who seem to be the most invested in keeping this word to themselves, unwilling to share it with those who don’t comply with their ideal. So give it to them.

Let’s collectively define “marriage” as a religious institution, sanctioned by the state, giving those involved in the union all the benefits and responsibilities as a civil union, aka domestic partnership. Let the state decide who can be bound by a civil union, and let each faith decide who can be bound by a marriage. Two birds, one stone.

Listening to most arguments against allowing gay marriage, it seems to me most are faith-based. And this, to me, is just plain ridiculous. I wonder how many straight marriages in the US are between two people with any real religious conviction? Surely, it can’t be all. Can we say for sure that all marriages performed by Elvis impersonators, justices of the peace, or ship captains were performed while invoking the Almighty? I’m sure atheist couples don’t imagine their weddings are under the eyes of God.

However, if it will soothe their souls, let them have ownership of the word marriage. Let’s have a compromise so that all can have the freedom to legally bind themselves to another person. Let everyone else have domestic partnership—it’s got more letters, anyway. (Right now, in Washington State, only same-sex partners and couples with at least one member aged 62 or over can enter into domestic partnerships. How fair is that?)

I was struck recently, today in fact, by the beauty of a smile. Not just any smile. A true, genuine, heartfelt smile. The transformative power of that seemingly simple act of distorting one’s face has really knocked my socks off. There are people out there who are pulchritudinous no matter their expression. But even the most loathesome countenance can be turned into the beaming face of an angel with a good laugh.

This may sound hokey,  but trust me. Next time you’re contemplative (even if you have to schedule in the time) pay attention to people’s faces. Find one you consider “ugly”, then wait for it. Wait for that expression of joy to spread across that ugly mug, and you will see beauty. And hopefully it will stir a little happiness inside. And everyone is beautiful when they’re happy.

Maybe this cheese is squeezing out of me because I just saw the film Precious, a dirty filthy film about dirty filthy people, and beautiful ones, too (some being the same people, get it?). Some good performances from people whom we are used to seeing in their best light, but here, they are generally not that pretty. Mo’Nique is far from her role on “The Parkers”, and Mariah Carey did not make me vomit - which is surprising since the mere thought of Glitter makes me queasy. I actually didn’t know it was Ms. Carey until the end credits, which is to her credit. [wink] Anyway, it was well done in that it didn’t flog you tirelessly with the tragedy that is the title character. We get to escape with her when things get tough in her fantasies of a better life. Good flick.

I saw one of my new neighbors today. He’s a young guy with virtually no furniture. I saw him as he returned home from a beer run (and I was coming home with high-fiber cereal in my backpack).

My building has taking a decidedly younger turn of late. When I moved in, all the other tenants had lived here for some time. I was the newbie, and probably also the youngest. Little by little, nearly all those “old timers” has vacated and young  - or at least young acting - people have taken their places. There is one hold out, and I’m sure she will be here until her end. (No, I’m talking about myself.)

Anyway, I find it interesting, and wonder if this is indicative of a trend in the neighborhood as a whole.

I’ve been trying to keep up with the whole Healthcare Reform hubbub. I read articles, argue with my uncle, attended a rally. Tonight I read about half of Obama’s prepared speech as published in the NY Times (I’ll read the other half later, I promise). I’m feeling a little better about things, but one thing that initially had me cringing was the notion of inflicting fines on citizens who opt not to purchase health insurance of any kind. To paraphrase a commenter at the Houston Chronicle website, ‘isn’t it my business if I choose to pay out of pocket?’ I chewed this over, thinking about why this would be a fine-able offense. And so I’ve come up with a healthcare plan for the Elective Uninsured in lieu of automatic fines.

The Elective Uninsured would be defined as individuals who can afford to have insurance either through an employer or the insurance exchange proposed in the new plan, but elect not to purchase it. It would not include those whose income makes it prohibitive to purchase insurance.

First, the Elective Uninsured would be registered in a national database that would be accessible to all healthcare facilities in all 50 states, Puerto Rico, Guam, US Virgin Islands, US Marshall Islands, and any other islands with US in their names.

They would agree to pay any and all health services out of pocket. Emergency services would be required to be pre-paid in cash or by credit card. If the person arrives at an emergency facility unconscious, the facility is allowed to retrieve a credit card from their person or in the absence of a credit card, to access their banking information for pre-payment. The person will subsequently be billed for any emergency transportation which brought them to the facility.

Failure to pay for services or medications received will not be a legitimate reason for entering into bankruptcy protection. This would include default on credit cards where it can be shown the default was from medical services charged.

Minor children of parents who are Elective Uninsured will not be denied necessary treatment for lack of pre-payment. However, the parents will be billed for services and medications provided to their child. Failure to pay will result in garnishment of wages equally from both parents.  If the parents are married to each other and divorce prior to the bill being paid in full, they will continue to pay the debt equally, and this will not be negotiable in divorce proceedings.

If you are an Elective Uninsured at the qualifying age of Medicaid, you will not be able to collect benefits.

Anyway, it’s just an idea.

There I was, face down and sprawled over the toppled drum kit, spewing beer bottle in one hand, his puggle’s ashes in the other, when Dan walked in. That’s Mr. Rottles to you, only the hottest music producer in the last decade, the owner of the house and everything in it.
            I wouldn’t normally be at a party like that, but my best friend Nikki insisted. Her goal in life is to hitch her wagon to a star – pop, rock, movie, it didn’t matter. To this end, she somehow managed to get an invite from Damian, Mr. Rottles the Younger. I imagine she accomplished this with a little flash of bra strap and the empty promise of more.
Damian is what most people would call a nerd. All his father’s money could do for Damian is straighten his teeth and pay for his acne medicine. His interest in fashion was virtually nonexistant, and his social graces were bordering on grotesque. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, Nikki set her sights on him, and we got ourselves invited.
            Damian seemed almost happy to see us when we arrived what we imagined to be fashionably late. The conversation fizzled faster than pop rocks, and we abandoned him to mingle. We forgot one important element. However unpopular our host, at least he had money. Nikki and I had only an unhealthy fascination with the rich and famous. So, we made our way back to Damian, an easy enough task since he was standing alone in the middle of the living room like a mis-matched lightning rod.
            “You want to see where it all happens?” he said eerily, sort of like he was coaxing us into his laboratory. What he really meant was his dad’s basement recording studio, and of course, we wanted to see it.
            On the way downstairs we passed a lot of rolling eyes and cold shoulders. Those few who actually recognized the spawn of Rottles stopped us to give Damian huge, undulating handshakes and echoing slaps on the back. I felt a tiny bit bad for the guy, but mostly was too proccupied imagining all the important multimedia projects these greeters must have something to do with. I was still running the numbers when we reached the studio.
            It was pretty lush. There was a couple low-riding puffy couches along two walls. The coffee table was some abstract jumble I’m sure I’ve seen in the MOMA catalog. There were a few guitars on a rack in a corner and a five- or six-piece drum kit in another. Nikki found the light switches; she dimmed the room light and turned on the disco ball. Damian didn’t say anything but seemed to be a little nervous. He assumed his lightning rod position in the middle of the room, his eyes darting frantically between myself and Nikki. I plopped down on one of the couches, which seemed to relieve him a fraction, but he kept watch on my curious friend. She found the wetbar and pulled cold beers out of the mini-fridge for each of us. Damian took a couple swallows and finally sat on the edge of the arm of the other couch. His eyes did not leave Nikki.
            We tried to engage him in small talk, to put him at ease. In spite of the darkened room, I could still see the beads of sweat on his retin-A’ed forehead. Soon, Nikki found what she was looking for. Amidst the gold and platinum framed records hanging on the walls was a little brass dog sculpture.
            “What’s this?” she asked, stroking its smooth little head. Damian was on his feet before her first ess.
            “It’s just a knick knack. Nothing important.”
            Nikki’s hand froze on the little dog. She caught my eye with hers and imperceptibly we nodded to each other. There was no way he would have that reaction if she were touching just a knick knack. She wrapped her hand around its belly and lifted more easily than she expected.
            “This is pretty light for a brass sculpture. Is it hollow?” Damian looked at her, then me, nervously. “Be honest, is it a chocolate easter puppy?” This threw Damian off long enough that he didn’t notice Nikki twisting the little dog’s head up and away. She peered inside and a grinch grin curled on her face. “Well, well, well. Looks like we found your dad’s stash.”
            “No. It’s not. It’s actually . . .” Before he could explain, Nikki had the plastic ziplock bag in her hand.
            “What the . . . ?”
            “It’s his dog. Pomfrey the Puggle.” Nikki and I immediatley cracked into hysterical laughter. After a moment, Damian was able to recognize the ridiculousness and joined us.
            “You’ve got to see this yourself.” Nikki tossed the bag in my direction. It landed softly on the cushion beside me. Gingerly, I lifted it with just my fingers and tossed it back to her. Damian’s laughter stopped suddenly when he saw the bag fly past. This pleased us enormously, and Nikki tossed it back to me. I got up from the couch, took a few steps away, and returned the volley. We continued our game of keepaway all over the room, our hysteria growing with each increasingly frantic look from Damian. We threw overhanded, underhanded, from the side, around the back, all the while keeping hold of our beers for the intermittant swig. Thus I found myself behind the drum kit reaching for a short throw from my friend.
            Everything felt in slow motion as I made a little leap up and forward. I crashed into the drums, stepping on the kick drum pedal and elbowing the high hat. I couldn’t hear what I’m sure was a righteous racket as I was so focused on the bag of puggle remains. But doggone it, I caught that bag!
            The lights went up. In walked Dan. “Ladies, so glad you could join us.”

or, Chocolate and Ashes

            The city is gone, blanketed now by ash and lava fields. Julia stands at the wide windows of the abandoned tower. She takes in the view – random palm trees that somehow managed to remain standing during the fiery onslaught, broken pieces of homes and the small shops and cafés that tourists had flocked to for decades. Now it had all but disappeared, swallowed up by the earth, like the single runway she was now staring at, eaten up by the igneous flood.

            Julia had called this island home for so long, and now she must say good-bye. This island, where she had poured her life into the soil, coaxing out of it the most luscious cacao trees. This island where, with much effort, she was accepted by the locals. This island, where she met and fell in love with Henry.

            She smiles to herself as she thinks of those early days with Henry. Back then, he was merely an amusing distraction, a ne’er-do-well who provided diversion after endless days on the plantation. Henry was full of spark and swagger, always ready with a tall tale or two but seemingly not good for much else. Julia imagined he was a con man, maybe even a pirate when she felt whimsical.

            Still, he held her attention, and she let him work at the plantation. Henry’s thumbs were no greener than a stone statue, and he was better suited to driving workers to and fro, delivering lunch out in the fields, and passing around flasks of rum. But he could always summon a laugh from Julia, even on the most harrowing of days.

            When the mountain began its first rumblings, Julia believed Henry would be  among the first to go. He surprised her by laughing it off, proclaiming that the pile of rocks was just now getting his sense of humor.

            After the tourists, residents with any significant money took off for safer, neighboring islands. With that first group, much of the frivolity left, too. Julia had a harvest to consider, and most of the islanders were too poor to leave until the situation became more dire.

            More dire it did become. Plumes of ash etched the clear blue sky, thickening and throwing shadows across the island. Julia’s workers began to scatter as the heavy clouds drifted down the mountain. And though she couldn’t fault them for opting for safety, she needed those hands, those bodies, to process and bag the cacao beans. It was her livelihood, her life, and it could be gone in minutes if they couldn’t get it off the island before an eruption.

            Henry remained by her side. He not only provided moral support, he worked harder on the plantation. Before, he had stuck with the more skilless tasks, now he was raking in the drying houses, stirring beans in the fermenting boxes, basically doing whatever needed to be done.

            The population dwindled, and Julia became more dependent on Henry. She could finally see beyond his rakish exterior and began to feel deeply for him.

            As the days passed, the rumblings increased. Julia and Henry sent sacks of the ready crops away on each ferry that took more residents to safety. Eventually there was a powerful explosion and lava began to flow. It would overtake the village in short order, and so the harvest was abandoned in favor of a last-minute rescue effort.

            Henry took on an air of authority as he orchestrated the final departure of the remaining islanders. Julia allowed Henry to take charge of her as well, until the last ferry-load of residents was ready to leave the island. She insisted he let her stay back a little longer, claiming she was going to look for any stragglers.

            And so it was that she climbed into the abandoned control tower, now the highest point aside from the spewing crater. Looking out at the smoldering landscape, she takes account of what she has remaining of her life here. In a small duffel she carries a photo album, a small carefully-wrapped cacao plant, and a diary of her life on the island. And when he returns with the ferry for the very last time, she’ll have Henry. Then Julia will have all that she needs.

Tonight’s the night, he was sure of it. After his dinner of canned meat and sliced cheese, Roy had fallen asleep during the nightly news, only to awaken again during the sports highlights. They were talking about that day’s hockey game, and the key words strung themselves together in Roy’s mind, telling him what he had to do.

He was thinking about these words as he got off the bus across the street from the arena. He was thinking about these words as he crossed the street into the parking lot. Roy had his head down, mumbling to himself, so he didn’t notice the security guard leaning on the gate. It was a dark night, that’s why the words had chosen it.

“Ho there! No one beyond this point until game time tomorrow.” The guard continued to lean, showing no concern for Roy. He popped a round piece of candy into his mouth; it crunched loudly between his teeth.

Roy stopped short, nearly lost his balance. He looked around anxiously until he found the guard. “I left something inside. I came back to get it.”

“You at the game tonight? That was something, huh? Marty’s got some slapshot.” He popped another candy, crunched slowly. He casually kept his gaze on Roy, who looked everywhere except at the guard.

Roy hesitated. “I just . . . I just need to get inside.” He fidgeted with his pack, adjusted the weight on his back.

“No can do.” The guard lifted his body so all his weight was on this feet. “Chocolate-covered coffee bean?” He pointed the open end of the bag toward Roy. “Gotta stay awake, but who wants a cup of coffee on a night like this, am I right?” He shook the bag and the cellophane rattled.

Roy was becoming irritable. He shifted on his feet, almost imperceptibly making his way away from the guard. He didn’t seem to notice, and Roy thought he was about to settle back onto the gate. Roy’s eyes darted around, sizing up the situation, judging distances. He just needed to build up enough momentum to allow himself to jump over the turnstiles. Once inside the arena it would be so dark, they’d never find him before he had a chance to place the bomb and set the timer. Once inside, he knew exactly where he was going.

Roy felt a safe distance and took off toward the entrance. He had only taken a few steps when the guard was on him, pushing him to the ground, rolling him onto his stomach. The guard sat on him, pressing Roy’s groin into the asphalt. He pulled his arms back and wrangled off the back pack. This he tossed to the side. Roy tried to reach his hand out to grab it, but the guard held firm. He cuffed Roy and stayed seated.

“What are we gonna find in your bag, Roy?”

Roy grunted a question then stammered, “I’m not . . . My name’s not Roy.”

“I know who you are, Roy. We all know who you are. You’re here everyday, skulking around. You probably feel invisible, but we see you. Didn’t think you’d come here at night . . . with plans, apparently. But here you are.”

Roy grunted, tried to wriggle out from under the guard, couldn’t, became still.

The guard reached for his radio, pressed the button. “Suspicious character apprehended at north entrance. Need assist. Over.” He looked at Roy, grinding his teeth, struggling to keep his face off the asphalt. They stayed like that for a few moments, Roy intermittently renewing his struggle.

Shortly, a white SUV with blue flashing lights approached. Another guard got out, swaggered over. “Hey Roy! So nice to see you again. So unexpected.”

“That’s his pack over there. You mind checking it out?” At this Roy tried harder to get out from under his captor. He grunted and whimpered. “What’s wrong, boy?”

The other guard had the pack in one hand, the other hand on the zipper. Roy struggled more; the guard lifted his wrists away from his back, and Roy moaned in pain. “It’s . . . I made a bomb! Be careful!”

“You made a bomb? Now, this, I gotta see.” The other guard unzipped the pack, reached in, pulled out a mess of metal bits and wires. “Looks like the guts of a toaster and a kitchen timer.” He tossed the mess onto the ground.

The guards pulled Roy up and walked him over to the SUV, sat him in the back seat. With a slight shake of the head, they drove off toward the office, Roy sobbing quietly.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.