Jury-Rigged Toilet Paper

A more or less true story. A little more in some parts, a little less in others. I’ve actually been gradually working on writing this for a while, but finally got around to finishing it (mostly because there are two other stories I want to start working on), one of which is similar to this story in a number of ways (a sort of real-life tragicomedy with weird origins). I also have several other stories that are in progress (some further than others) that I’ll be working on too.

Music this time is this really great Turkish psychedelic/funk compilation. This same guy has three others in the series (plus a few others from different countries), links to them are in the description.

~

I sat there, on the toilet, earbuds in and Breaking Bad playing on my phone. I was enjoying this rewatch of the series more than my first. I finished shitting, just one of those little in-between shits that accomplish very little.

I went to wipe and noticed that the toilet paper was about gone. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but I was staying at a place in Quebec City via Airbnb and it was about 1:00 AM. I had enough toilet paper for now, but that was it. I checked the four cabinets in the bathroom – none had toilet paper. Four cabinets under the kitchen sink and counter, the six above that and the refrigerator, the four across the kitchen. Nothing.

I checked all the closets and possible other places they could be hidden. Still nothing.

I’d probably shit once more tonight, an actual shit this time, and I could ask the owner for a new roll tomorrow. Or maybe just not at all, I’d be leaving early anyway.

I laid, or lounged, on the folded-down sofa that I’d be sleeping on and focused again on Breaking Bad. It had been playing the whole time, I had just been listening. I was finding, more and more, that I disliked using my eyes. Reading was fine, but I didn’t like watching things. I thought about what I should do and saw a roll of paper towels.

Everyone knows you aren’t supposed to flush paper towels. But do we really know that or are we just told that? Those signs above public toilets that say something like “only flush toilet paper” are probably just a precaution, right?

I grabbed the roll and tore off five sheets. It was double-ply, so I thought I could separate them and cut them down the middle to decrease the effective density of the material and avoid any potential trouble. God damn, though, those two sheets were fucking hard to pull apart. And wouldn’t you know it, it was that scene where Gus is negotiating with the cousins in Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish. I could just watch it for now, and make the process take longer, or I could focus on the towels and miss what was happening. Or I could pause it for a minute, but that thought never came to mind.

I opted for the latter, with occasional glances at the captions.

Jesus christ, I knew I should’ve brought my knife. I hadn’t, because I wasn’t sure if it was legal, Canada being sort of UK-ruled and the UK being absurdly stringent on knives. And it turned out that had probably been a good idea, since the border patrol guy asked if I had any weapons. Does a knife count as a weapon? It certainly can, at least, and I generally try to not raise any unnecessary red flags. It makes the red flags I do raise more easily ignored.

But god damn, these paper towels were tough to separate. The first one had been no problem, but I was having more and more trouble with each one and a knife would’ve helped. I guess I could’ve used a knife in the kitchen, but those knives were just different. I wasn’t as natural with them.

Once I had split six or so sheets, the resulting stack was higher than I would have expected. I tried using a knife to cut through it, but it was too thick. Scissors and, again, too thick. Either that or the scissors were too dull. I split the pile in two and cut through them separately with some trouble. Stacking the four cut sections together, I headed to the bathroom and set them on the back of the toilet, and returned to the couch and Breaking Bad.

Something about the paper towels was nagging at me, though. I knew you weren’t supposed to flush paper towels. But that’s only a problem when you flush a lot of them, right? Because they’re denser, and bigger than toilet paper? But I had made them thinner and cut them into strips, so it shouldn’t be a problem. But still, they were more resilient than toilet paper. You can rip toilet paper easily, even accidentally, but these paper towels still held together longer.

So I looked it up. I googled “why shouldn’t you flush paper towels”. There was a page by someone who was clearly a plumber or something and knew way, way too much about the relative strengths, densities, and other characteristics of toilet paper and paper towels, but there was also a post on one of those stupid question-asking sites. Like Yahoo Answers or Quora or whatever.

Its title read: “How to tell my father that I flushed paper towels down the toilet and clogged it?”

No description, no explanation. I just wondered what this situation was. Why did they flush a bunch of paper towels down the toilet? What is the father’s role in this? What, exactly, is going on here?

But more importantly, this served as a personal experience about the effect they can have on plumbing. Maybe those signs in bathrooms weren’t just to negate the owner’s liability in the rare case that something happened. Maybe paper towels were expressly designed to destroy bathroom plumbing. But don’t women flush, you know, sanitary napkins or whatever? Those have to be thicker than paper towels. What was it, specifically, about paper towels that made them so bad?

On the other hand, this poor soul had probably flushed whole paper towels. My prepared paper towels were each half the thickness and width of a normal paper towel, so maybe I wouldn’t have a problem.

I decided to put it to the test. I headed to the bathroom and took the top half-sheet off the stack, tore the corner off, and replaced the rest. I found a little scrap of toilet paper that was still on the roll, then headed to the sink. A bit of water had splashed onto the counter, and I set both pieces into it, let them absorb as much water as they could, then removed them. The toilet paper fell apart instantly, dissolving into a useless lump of pulp. The paper towel, though, as thin and water-soaked as it was, still held. It was compromised, but still decently strong, at least in comparison to the toilet paper.

I searched the bathroom for a plunger, just in case something happened, but couldn’t find one.

I headed back to the couch, and started getting ready for bed. Mix up a dose of kava in a pint jar, down it, clear my palate with a few sour gummies I had gotten at IGA, play a bit of a game while listening to something, mix up a little extra and down it, head to the bathroom one last time, and go to bed.

It was a real shit, this time. I was frugal as I could be with the fake toilet paper, using only four of the sheets to wipe. I thought a silent prayer and flushed. It flushed just fine, though as I left the bathroom I thought I heard a little gurgle. I was tired and buzzed enough to not care much, though. The bowl had emptied, that was all I needed.

I was heading out pretty early the next morning, so had my stuff all packed up when I woke up, admittedly a bit later than intended. I changed my clothes, put my pajamas in my bag, and moved my stuff over to the door. I figured I should go to the bathroom once before I left, just so I wouldn’t have to stop at a gas station or whatever too soon. I pissed and thankfully was sitting down, because one last little dribble of shit left me. I stood up and wiped. It shouldn’t have taken more than one sheet. But it was one of those shits that was like the endless bottle of oil from the bible. You can just keep wiping and wiping all day and the paper will keep picking up shit, even though it makes no sense. It took four sheets before I decided my ass was adequately clean.

I flushed.

It went down, about halfway, but the gurgle returned and an inverse whirlpool issued out of the drain, filling the bowl with a swirling mix of water, shit, and paper. It continued gurgling, the whirlpool kept going. The water rose, rose, reached the edge of the toilet, and just barely spilled over. It didn’t pour over, just spilled a little. The water remained level, a meniscus just slightly holding it in the bowl.

I should tell him. But also, I had to go. I had to fucking go. I was almost late already, getting a hold of that guy and explaining and trying to find a way out would only take longer. So I grabbed my bags and booked it to my car.

Once I was just on the outskirts of the city I stopped at a Chez Ashton and got a big bowl of poutine. They had wifi, so I logged into my Airbnb account on my phone. Settings, account, advanced, delete account. Confirm? Yes.

I had already paid him. I hadn’t done anything wrong. At least, there wasn’t much else I could have done.

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Ripe Aloe

Been a weird series of days, or nights, but I was feeling a bit better, noticed that Fear and Loathing was back on Netflix, and decided to write this.

~

I was clean. That’s why my eyes were bulging and my hair, that little bit that was left of it, was clinging to my forehead and I didn’t want to adjust it because that would necessitate a hand washing. It’s funny how the symptoms of sobriety, of being clean, for a drug user are the same symptoms by which someone might suspect someone of using drugs. That’s because, when it comes to the disease of drug addiction, they’ve got it all backwards; the drugs are the medicine to cure it. Taking them away is like taking a burn victim off antibiotics and expecting the infection to go away.

Have you ever looked at a nice, ripe, plump aloe plant and wanted to bite into it? It’s basically a tiny agave plant, right? I felt that urge as I filled my bottles for the night but fought it off just long enough to notice a blemish on one leaf – leaf? – that disuaged my appetite.

The fuckin’ headache and pupils that were either half or double their normal diameter, the inability to either sleep or wake, the once-in-a-while sneezes that sent a heavy chill down your entire body for a split-second, exciting all hair follicles.

But maybe that was just the point. Maybe I thought I was clean but the unclean side still existed, taking over my body during those hour-long spurts of sleep I got during the night and dosing up. And that was the problem, who know what goddamned shit I was feeding myself?

That was absurd of course, though, the kind of shit that can only exist in fiction. Split personalities and whatnot. They weren’t real, right? I was clean, pure and simple, and this was just the way reality existed for all the squares. I guess I just had never noticed it before.

I set the bottles down and looked around my room, taking a tally. I got the water, the tea – both kinds – the liquid palate cleanser and both solid versions, around six liters of water, the capsules for now and later, the bags of the shit I clung onto as my one hope of reaching sleep and the receptacle for using it, the tablespoon, the homemade funnel with three staples and a few bits of tape holding it together, and the little bottle of the stuff that made it taste just slightly better, or at least just slightly not as bad.

Was that sobriety?

Proceed

And here’s the third and final entry, the one that I posted part of a while ago. Only one song for this post, not a full album as usual, but it’s a great song and an amazing music video. I would highly, highly recommend watching along with the song. (I may have posted this before. I haven’t listened to a lot of new music recently, mostly just been listening to The Mollusk by Ween over and over, so I don’t have a wealth of new stuff to share. I’ll be getting back to it soon, though.)

~

When I woke up that day, I knew it was going to be a bad one. It was going to be one of those days where everything goes too fast, where my vision blurs and head swims and the very tip of my head vibrates and I can feel every heartbeat through my whole body.

Of course, it wasn’t that the outside world had suddenly sped up without me. At least, that explanation seemed incredibly far-fetched to me. It was just that my choices the last night, to take a bit too much to get to sleep a bit faster, and then didn’t get quite enough sleep because of those god damn construction vehicles that drive up and down my street, engine volume cranked up to eleven despite going about two miles per hour.

I didn’t quite trust myself to drive. I hated driving at the best of times, far more when I was the least bit mentally inhibited. So I arranged for someone to drive me, which threw a whole other wrench into the mix, since their schedule didn’t fit perfectly with the one I had arranged, so I sent an email to Joe and told him I’d be a bit late. He said that would be fine.

I took a dose of my wake up powder with a cup of tea, a bowl of cereal, and some nicotine. I felt a little revived, although still tired. I got there a few minutes before eleven in the morning, clipped my suspenders back on to the back of my pants – damn it, why did I wear these pants with these suspenders, the clips never hold on just right – and stepped through the front door.

The building I entered, the office building, was small. There were only a dozen or so employees there, so not much space was needed. I found Joe pretty quickly, but before we could start, a woman came up to me and asked me to sign in at the front desk. I didn’t even realize they had a sign in form, I had been here dozens of times and had never noticed it, but that was because my dad worked here.

I signed in, somehow remembered the date even though I generally have no idea what day of the month it is, accidentally wrote my name in under the “Company” form, crossed it out and squeezed a “N/A” in the corner, then finished up and turned back to Joe.

He was a young, redheaded guy I had met before. I had had a meal with him, with my parents, and gave him a beer I had made, a coffee stout, probably three or four years back. I had probably interacted with him, in person, other times than that, but that was the main one I remembered. I didn’t really know the guy, but I had a good feeling about him. He had given me some nice leftover tea a while back.

He was procedural. I knew this the moment that I mentioned I’d ask about his job, and he moved us to the conference room. With the other two shadowings, those questions had just come up naturally, or in spaces between other conversations.

This interview was short. He had things to do, so I tried to keep the questions brief and he kept his answers brief. He had gotten a Bachelor’s in Mechanical Engineering, a Master’s in Civil Engineering, and then a Ph.D in Mechanical Engineering. At Proceed, he was a senior engineer, working in R&D with vanadium electrolyte. He had been working here for almost five years. He had a long-standing interest in energy in general, and particularly wanted to work with batteries. He discovered his current job through a friend who worked in the field.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

We headed to his cubicle, where he explained he had to have a phone call with a vendor about something. That gave me some information about his current project, and time to look around his cubicle.

“Hi Roberto, this is Joe…”

The phone call consisted of him talking about calcium content in tubing. The projects they worked on demanded high precision, to the parts per billion, and he was checking that there was no calcium in the tubing.

I scribbled at high speed, giving up some readability just to express information quicker. He used a standing desk. He had mentioned that he was training for a run, though I didn’t know if that was related or not. His cubicle held two identical water bottles, one on his standing desk, one on his normal desk.

A jar of Simply Jif next to his office phone. A coffee filter in a bowl. An object I couldn’t recognize, wrapped in masking tape, between one bottle and his stapler. A novel, Hackers by Steven Levy, in the back of his cubicle, news clippings and phone numbers and guides pinned up along the wall. A squat cylinder, about 10” tall by 18” in diameter, labeled “corrosive”, on the wooden floor below his desk. There was a lot to look at.

The vendor said there wasn’t any calcium in the tubing and, while Joe seemed doubtful, he thanked them and hung up, then switched back to his computer, checking email, referencing a graph, and updating a document that held a function, representing a relationship between variables.

We headed out the back door of the office, across a patio, and into a separate building, which held the laboratory. The upper floor was relatively empty, a few desks and computers scattered throughout, with a couple people working at them. Joe went to one computer, which was connected to a large metal box.

“This generates x-rays, which we can send through a material to detect a few specific elements. Silicon, or really aluminum, although that’s a bit harder to detect, through to antimony or lead.”

The computer UI implied that it was running Windows XP, and he said he needed to head back to his desk to grab a USB drive.

“I can’t just email it to this computer or something, because we keep it disconnected from the internet for simplicity and security.”

He left to get the USB drive, and I was left alone. There were others in the room, but I was alone. I didn’t really know what to do or what to observe. But Joe’s natural quickness brought him back pretty quickly. He plugged the USB drive, which reminded me of a “hockey puck” Apple iMac mouse, into the computer, and began referencing results.

Once satisfied, we headed downstairs, where the true laboratory resided. We weren’t there for long, though, since he could only find one pair of safety glasses.

“I think I might have another pair in my cubicle,” he said. “Sometimes I just bring them around with me and forget where I put them.”

We headed back up the stairs. Joe walked up two stairs at a time. Ran up them, really. I have long legs, and go up stairs fast, but he easily outpaced me, though that could just have been a result of my impairment that morning. We, or rather he, rushed through the upper floor and across the patio. I fumbled the door, noticed that I hadn’t closed it fully and went back. He told me it was no problem.

He didn’t find another pair in his cubicle, but he did find one in the bathroom area. He handed that to me and we went back down to the laboratory. We put on the goggles and he showed me around.

“We don’t really need to wear them, right now, it’s more just a precaution since we deal with a lot of corrosive materials here.”

I thought back to the container under his desk.

He showed me around the lab, to different mini-experiments, setups, and equipment scattered throughout. He was working on a vanadium electrolyte battery and showed a small cell and described how it worked.

“The electrolyte flows in through these two spots,” showing two holes in the side of the cell, “and out through here,” showing two others. “This carbon fabric,” picking up a little packet and showing it to me, “conducts the electricity.”

That was my understanding of it, at least, with my moderate knowledge of chemistry and nonexistent knowledge of electricity.

“We’ve found that the purity of the electrolyte is incredibly important, to the parts per billion. You can buy purification systems, but,” he said, bringing me over to another part of the lab, “they’re really expensive, like twenty-thousand dollars. So they had me build one, using twenty-thousand dollars of my time.”

I kind of laughed, but he didn’t.

He showed me some other equipment, a titration system they had built instead of buying a pre-built one – Proceed did a lot of big contracts, but they were a pretty small company and worked with a pretty small budget – and set a jar on a little base, dropped a pill into it, flipped a switch, and the pill started spinning.

“We can use this for mixing solutions.”

I realized it probably wasn’t a pill, but rather an iron bar or something, with a nonreactive coating, with a spinning magnet underneath.

He slipped on a lab coat and moved over to a large fume hood. “Fume Hood #1” was taped to the front, but apparently that hadn’t been its first use – “Busy Bubble Laundromat” was printed on the front alongside that sign. Under the fume hood was a large clamshell box, with a variety of cords coming out through one side, connected to a nearby computer.

“If you could just move out of the splash zone,” he said, “It should be dry, but just to be safe. This stuff isn’t too bad, it’s just corrosive. I’ve worked with stuff, like hydrofluoric acid, like they use in Breaking Bad, that pretty much, if it gets on your skin, it’ll just eat through your bones. It’s mainly used in semiconductor production. But if it can eat through glass, it can eat through bone.”

I moved to the side, fixed my suspenders again, then squatted to write a note while he looked through results. He opened the box and began shifting around hoses. Apparently some leak came up, and he began mopping up electrolyte with paper towels and tossing them in a bag, clipped to a workbench, filled with other blue-green soaked paper towels. He took off his gloves, threw them in the trash, and got a fresh pair.

The box was used for heating, and when I asked what range of temperatures it worked at, I was pleasantly surprised to get an answer in Celsius. “45 degrees,” he said.

He closed the box up again, then switched to the computer to watch the live results on a graph. There was a dip, presumably from releasing heat when he opened the box, and it had slowly worked its way up again, but not quite far enough.

“We want this to get to 30 degrees,” he said. “I’m going to go get some tape, seems like there’s another gaping hole in the box.”

He went up the stairs, and I was left alone again, actually alone this time, but I felt much more at ease. There was a lot of stuff to look at, some of which I recognized and was familiar with.

He rushed back down the stairs with a roll of green tape, tore off a piece, and taped up a section of the box. The line on the graph went up a bit higher, and he seemed relieved.

We headed back upstairs, after taking off our goggles and hanging them on a shelf, and talked with someone I had briefly met before named Chris. He was having lunch and watching something on his phone, but paused it when Joe came up to him.

“So, it looks like we’re going to have to find some replacement for the green and grey tape, they have calcium,” Joe said.

“Yeah, I dunno. It’s just everywhere,” Chris replied.

“I feel like we’re floating in a world of calcium right now. I had thought we could use rubber bands or something, until you told me calcium was used in their manufacturing. I wish we could just, like, tip the entire box over. Just hold it down with gravity.”

“Do you think we could do that?”

“No, but if we rebuild it we should do it that way.”

They paused and thought, and I looked out the window. A woman stood at the back of a truck, shuffling around piles of what looked like bowls of ice cream. Further back in the room, another jar of Jif sat on someone else’s desk.

“What if we use teflon plumber’s tape?” Joe asked.

“Could work.”

“Just use it to tie it on, rather than sticking it on.”

“Yeah, like tying someone to railroad tracks.”

“Right, thanks for putting it in terms I would understand,” Joe said with a smirk.

He headed back to the front building, across the patio, and I followed him.

“Well, seems like I won’t be getting off as early as I wanted to. But anyway, is there anything else? Any other questions?”

“I don’t think so. Thanks for taking time to do it, though.”

We shook hands, and I said hi to my dad as I passed his cubicle.

Create

All right, here’s the next story. I haven’t played Quake, the game (I’m not really a FPS fan, other than the Half-Life series), but I’m a Nine Inch Nails/Trent Reznor fan, and they made the soundtrack, and it’s fucking awesome.

~

Willy led me in through the front entrance of Create. I had been here many times, but it had been at least a decade since then and I couldn’t remember if I ever actually came in this way. It might have even been rebuilt since I had been here last. I signed in, and Willy greeted the receptionist.

“I’ll probably be gone by the time you leave, so just make sure to put in the sign out time, alright?” she said.

We were getting there a bit late, after a lot of people had left for the day. I, and he I’m sure, would’ve preferred to do it earlier – I, because I wanted to see things in action, and he, because it just meant more time spent at work – but the company had told him I’d have to come in later because of safety precautions and potential for a lawsuit if, say, some acid spilled on me.

We were in the office section for just a moment, and I caught a hint of that unique smell. I had always called it ozone, because I once heard that computers generate ozone and the office section is full of computers, but I don’t really know what it is. I’ve only ever smelled it in this building, when my dad worked here, with one strange exception. There was a hole in the floor of a community building that I could smell it seeping from.

But I only caught a hint of it, just for a moment, then it was gone. We passed through a hallway, one wall covered in paintings by local artists, with prices and contacts posted below each, the other wall glass, showing a nice little garden beyond.

The hall opened out into a far more industrial Create than I was used to. Not “industrial” as it is commonly used, grimy and dirty, the floors and walls and everything were cleaned to perfection. And it was in that precise cleaning and attention to detail that I found the industrial side. It wasn’t the warm, close feeling of the office building, with that same old carpeting, it was waxed tile and white walls and bright fluorescent bulbs.

It was fast-paced. With one exception, the entire time we were walking from place to place, room to room, project to project. I had my recorder on, but had put it in my pocket and accidentally bumped it off. I carried my notebook and pen with me, which would normally have been filled with notes and descriptions, but the only thing written in it, in an otherwise completely empty page, about my time at Create read:

    “millitor -.5”

    He first brought me to one large work room, and we began walking the length of it. On one side, a giant metal tank, which he said was being used in cryogenic research. He brought me closer to it and showed a temperature-controlled box for testing materials and projects at temperatures up to 300 degrees Fahrenheit. They did work on equipment sent to mars, including one of the rovers that still functions there, so testing ranges of temperatures was important for ensuring reliability.

“I’ve actually worked on one component of that rover, so it’s cool that something I made is on Mars.”

I knew they did Mars-related projects, but didn’t know that he was actually involved in them. That seemed pretty cool to me, as well.

One display in particular interested me, though he never mentioned anything about it. An assembly of metal pipes, with tubes and cords connected throughout, hanging from the ceiling over a tank. I had no idea what it was, or what it could be used for, but something about it interested me.

The overall sense I got from this room was like those scenes in spy movies, where they take the spy to the laboratory to introduce them to all the special new equipment they’ve cooked up, whether it was explosive chewing gum or a watch that doubled as a glass-cutting laser. That was, truly, what this room was like, but in real life.

He showed me one display of a past project he had worked on, which was used for securing arresting cables on aircraft carriers. Making a strong connection, strong enough that it could stop a fighter jet going at full speed – he explained that they always sped up right before landing, since they’d need to keep flying if they missed the cables – was difficult and used very heavy and unmanageable equipment. Create had been hired to develop a portable machine that could be used for it, which Willy worked on. He showed a picture of the system on an aircraft carrier, in a shipping container.

“I set up this whole thing in that shipping container so it worked as a sort of mobile workstation for it.”

At one end of the room was a large plexiglass workroom. He said he built it for dealing with mercury originally, since they needed to be pretty careful about that kind of thing, but right now they were using it for work with silicone.

He led us back out of the room, pointing out a few other things on the way. I noticed a row of black motorcycle helmets sitting on a shelf and was reminded, for some reason, of a character from Durarara!!.

We went outside, behind the building, and headed towards a cement bunker, partially buried. Inside, a few spotlights shone on a thick, short metal cylinder on tracks which led through a tunnel of sandbags.

“I actually had to bring in all of these sandbags myself to set it up. You can see, there, it goes back about six feet, then there are a few more feet of sandbags before the back wall of the bunker. This is testing the functioning of a rotor and, well, if something goes wrong with it, something will go really wrong with it, so we’re just making sure it doesn’t do any permanent damage.”

The cylinder had tubes and cords coming from it, one connecting with a display measuring the vacuum. That’s when I wrote “millitors -.5” in my notebook.

He was checking on how the vacuum system was working. They needed to create a vacuum in the cylinder before testing the rotor, and to help this process, they were heating it with strips, which he adjusted around the cylinder. They had slipped down a bit from where they should be.

“Once we get it to an acceptable level of vacuum, we’ll start testing it. We have a liquid cooling system here,” he said, pointing out two tubes going into the cylinder, “that goes around the rotor itself, because it gets pretty hot pretty fast.”

He checked a few other things and adjusted a few more, and told me how detail oriented you had to be to do this.

“You can have all the academic knowledge, you know, you can know how things work and all that, but you really need to be aware of every little thing for it to work right, and since no one can really be aware of everything, we have a bunch of people working on these projects, so if someone misses something, someone else will hopefully catch it.”

He switched off the spotlights and we headed out of the bunker. He shut the door – two or so inches thick, solid steel as he told me – and bolted it. We went back inside the building, and into the main hall, with dozens of specific-use rooms. Some clean rooms, which had an interstitial room with gloves and protective suits, some chemical laboratories, cryogenic laboratories, everything. Create did a lot of different stuff, as I was learning.

He brought me into the vacuum pump room. Desks and shelves surrounded the room, and created a little peninsula jutting out from the wall. He showed me a diagram on one wall, comparing the efficiencies of different vacuum pumps at different speeds.

He pulled down pieces of a vacuum pump from a shelf to show me. They were two centimeter-tall metal spirals, which would then interlock and rotate around another, and essentially trap bits of air in between the two spirals – it was a tight, precise fit – and pull it out.

Another one he showed me was a metal cylinder with hundreds of tiny blades going around it, which fit into two halves of a surrounding container of sorts which, again, was a very tight fit. The process was much the same – it caught tiny bits of air, trapped them, and pulled them through.

“You’ve got to pay such close attention to these, how you align them when you put them together. Even if there’s just a bit of dust in there, they’ll get messed up.”

He showed me a few mini-workstations in the room, including the soldering desk. He said he had to get a specific certification to be able to use it there, but now he’s the one that teaches others how to do it. Right before we left the room, he noticed something sitting on a shelf and showed it to me – twisted, ripped steel wreckage.

“This is actually part of the remains of one of those tests we did, in the bunker, that went wrong. And it wasn’t even at full speed, yet.”

He showed me the blade of sorts, more just a slightly tapered bar of metal, that they attached to the rotor to test it.

“The one from the accident isn’t here, another guy who worked on it decided to put it in his office, because it looked pretty cool.”

We walked back through the art-and-garden hall, to the reception desk. The woman who had been there when we arrived was gone, but someone else had taken her place. I signed out, and we headed outside. While walking, I asked him how he got the job.

“Well, I just had a high school diploma, but I just got a job here in shipping and receiving. And, well, I had done a lot of work on cars and wiring and stuff with my dad, and I was a hard worker, so when this one guy retired, who I had interacted with a lot, about three years after I first started working there, I decided to try for his job, and I got it.”

“So what is your specific job title?”

“I’m a technician. So, the engineers figure out what needs to be done, and design it all, and then basically bid for the different technician’s time. So my schedule remains pretty regular, which is nice. A while back, if they offered I could do twenty more hours of work on a week, I’d do it. But the reliability is nice, now, since I have kids.”

“And how long have you worked there, now?”

“Eighteen years.”

We parted ways, I thanked him for his time, and especially for taking some extra time at work, after hours, for me to come. He said it was no problem, any time.

There had just been so much to look at, at Create. There were so many projects, so much equipment, all sorts of materials and chemicals and everything I wished I could get access to but couldn’t, not without bringing up some flags on some government database.

At home, I went to the Create website, and checked out their job openings page. And, as I had hoped, Willy’s old job, shipping and receiving, was open. I didn’t know how long I’d be staying in this area, but if I would be staying for any amount of time, I might want to think about trying out for that job.

CERDC

Well, I’ve finished (and passed) my capstone, so I’ve basically graduated, and have been enjoying a little break for the first time in seven months, and haven’t really written much. I have a few (several, actually) buns in the oven, irons in the fire, whatever you want to say, that I’ll be working on soon. But I thought it might be worth posting the three stories I wrote for my capstone (I gave a preview of one of them a little while ago), which will last me a little while.

So here’s the first one. The goal with these stories was to write a non-fiction narrative vignette for each situation (whether the vignette is of the location, the environment, the employee, etc.). I got a 99% score on them, which is pretty good, although my teacher didn’t specify why he didn’t give me a 100%. I care very little about it, it affected my final grade so little, but the grades I got on my assignments were just so fucking arbitrary. I don’t think I should have gotten 100% on it, that’s not the issue, I just don’t understand why he chose 99% instead of 100%. They only had a rubric for the final (complete) assignment, so for the other assignments (first drafts of each chapter) he could basically give me whatever grade he wanted and I couldn’t do anything about it.

deep breath it’s okay, i’m done, i don’t have to put up with this shit any more

Anyway, here’s the first one. The name of the location is changed slightly, but still expresses the same thing, in an odd way.

~

The front gate, the entrance into the main building, it was all modern. Slick, but sterile.

The large, steel building made little visual impact, in fact I had passed by it many times without ever noticing what it was, but the two sets of security guards I had to go through made their mark on me. I knew I was heading somewhere few outsiders did and, while I had a camera and recorder, I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed to use them. I debated about discretely turning it on, but decided against it. The government scares me, man, but they sure do a lot of interesting stuff.

They meticulously checked my identification, twice, which awarded me my guest pass, but they didn’t look through my bag or make me go through a metal detector, which I found surprising.

I was told that Joe would come pick me up and I took a seat at one of the few chairs scattered around the entry. This building was relatively modern, with relatively modern decor. While waiting, I saw a few people pass through, several into an auditorium.

I had expected Joe to come into this room through the hall beside the guard chamber, but he actually came in around through the front door, which he then led me out through. Joe was my neighbor, but I didn’t really know him. As I would soon learn, he liked talking. I had told him earlier that I had just wanted to watch him work. He said his work was boring. I said that was fine. But he seemed to appreciate having someone to talk to, someone to explain his work to just out of interest rather than, as he explained later, out of necessity for a client to understand what is happening.

He came in through the front door, which I didn’t expect. He told me that he’d show me around the facility for a little while, so I could see some of the areas they do physical testing, then head to his office.

“Is there anything particular you want to do?” he asked.

“Not really, I mostly just wanted to observe you work, and ask some basic questions about how you got into this job, what your degree is, that kind of thing.”

“Alright. I’ll be leaving in about an hour, so I don’t have much work left to do, but I can show you what I have.”

He led the way into a massive warehouse-like building. It opened into one large open room, which ran the length of the building, with a small office directly on the right, probably for security. Three sets of doors could be seen going along the interior wall, and we walked up to the first.

I was astounded by the sheer height of the doors. Floor to forty-foot ceiling – and I mean, really, floor to ceiling. There was no wall at the top, only door. He tried opening them, but almost wished that he wouldn’t. For some reason, I had a bad feeling about those doors. I couldn’t imagine why on earth they would need to be so large, and suspected them as a result. But he couldn’t pry the open, although whether that was because they were locked or simply their enormous size, I couldn’t tell.

We moved to the second door, which was more moderately sized, and opened without a problem. He began explaining what it was used for, and I asked if I could record this.

“Oh, uh, I’m not sure…” He saw the recorder in my hand, which had seemed to start recording of its own accord, and continued. “Our conversation, you mean? Sure, that’s fine. I just wasn’t sure about taking photos.”

My suspicion about photos confirmed, I thanked him and slipped the recorder in my pocket. Unfortunately, I didn’t look closely at the display, for if I had, I would’ve noticed that the section that normally said “Over 100 hours”, referring to the available space remaining on the memory card, now said something else. Only later would I learn that none of the recordings I made were saved.

He began explaining the machinery in the room again. A long, boxlike tunnel ran, hanging above the ground, the length of the room. He looked around for a light switch, since this room was currently in disuse and thus wasn’t lit up, but couldn’t find one.

“We can bring all of these rooms to, uh, around negative thirty degrees. I think it varies a bit between rooms, like some might be negative twenty five and others might be negative thirty two, but yeah. So, this tunnel here, you see, we can run water through that and bring the temperature down, to simulate ice on a river in winter.

“You see,” he said, gesturing below the tunnel, “there are these holes in the cement below it on either end? Well, that lets us cycle the water through it.”

I heard a sound behind us and whipped around. Someone was walking in the long room of the warehouse, and Joe greeted him as we left the room. That was the last person I would see in this entire building.

We went to the third room which, again, had more reasonably sized doors. This seemed to be the largest room yet, although the lack of lighting in the previous room made that hard to tell. This didn’t have any obvious machinery set up, mostly just a clutter of equipment, boxes, maybe even a small boat or two.

“So what we can do in this room is, you know, clear all this shit out, and then we can essentially create a scale model of a river in here to do testing. We can bring the temperature of this one down, too,” he said.

“A miniature model of a river? So, would that be for a specific river, or would it just be for rivers in general?”

“A specific river, a specific section of a river, yeah. They’re all very unique, and we need to test different things for them. We can get a detailed three dimensional model of a river, then scale it down and build it in here, and then test specific things with it. With a room this size, we can accurately scale down a river as large as, say, the Minnesota river.”

We left the room, then took a turn right, up some stairs, and the age of the building started to strike me. It was very obviously built in the 60’s or 70’s, and had changed little since then. The painted cinder blocks, the dull grey-green filing cabinets, all with the tiny castle symbol that marked them as Army Corps of Engineers property, the wood paneling. The main building hadn’t struck me in this way, but I just figured that it was of higher aesthetic importance.

He led the way to his office and offered me a seat, taking his own in front of his computer monitors. The desk, or desks, were set up in an L shape around him, and a dedicated coffee pot was on his right side, next to his phone. I had thought it might have just been sitting there, but it was plugged in.

“Can I get you something? Coffee?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He seemed relaxed, comfortable, and his voice reflected that. A scatter of cords, wires, devices, papers, and folders covered the long side of the L. Old, basic metal shelves, probably originals, clashed visually with reddish wood and green upholstered chairs, a modern mini-fridge, and boxes that looked decades old.

“So is there anything in particular you want to talk about?” he asked.

“Well, I guess, to get things started, how did you get into this job?”

Before telling that, he wanted to give a bit of his history that led to his working in this field at all. He started in engineering, at Rutgers, but ditched that after a year to switch to history. He soaked in all the liberal arts he could, then ended up finalizing with a degree in psychology. In that murky in-between period, between finishing a degree and starting a job, your real job, he spent his time working at restaurants, doing construction, and even starting a dog training business. He certainly could talk – that summarized pretty quickly, but the amount of details he gave was extreme, and I scratched them down in my notebook as fast as I could. It was natural, it wasn’t as if he just as chatty or rambling on, it was that he had a lot to tell and was detail-oriented enough to tell it all.

I never know where to look when I’m talking with someone. Their eyes is the obvious choice, but if you look someone straight in the eyes for too long, it gets a bit weird. It might seem threatening, for one, but additionally my eyes always did this weird thing. If I stared at something for too long, the exact point I was looking at would stay clear but everything else would dissolve and warp around it, until the only thing I could see would be those eyes, staring, alone in a world of murk and blur.

Once, while we were talking, I heard, or more sensed, someone passing by in the hall. The door was closed, and the glass was frosted in a way that, combined with the brightness of Joe’s office in comparison to the darkness of the hall, hid anything behind. It was just a general whoosh, the sound of movement itself, rather than the sounds created by movement, such as a creak or footstep. The building was empty, aside from the two of us and that phantom. When we first came here I had a sudden thought of Chernobyl, and that sense of atmosphere remained.

After doing the in-between jobs for a while, and feeling a bit divided about it, he decided to get another Bachelor’s degree, this time in civil engineering. He had thought he’d go into mechanical engineering, but the opportunity to learn a variety of fields with that degree introduced him to hydrology and hydraulics. As he described to me, hydrology is the study of how water finds its way into a river or other body of water, and hydraulics is the study of how the water moves once it is in the body of water.

After getting his second degree, he found himself in another in-between time, this time debating about whether he should get his Master’s. He worked, hard, in that time to save up a bit more money, then returned to college to get a Master’s in Environmental Engineering. After that, he worked in the Army Corps in Buffalo, then the Department of Agriculture, then found his way to CERDC, where he had worked for the past almost three years.

“So, we can just go now, if you think that’s enough, or I can work a bit on what I’ve got going here.”

“Whatever you want is fine, I’m up for either.”

He opted to do a bit of work on his current project, studying a river in Idaho. It was a one-dimensional study, he told me, which just measured the flow of water going up or down the river.

“You can do two-dimensional studies, which measure the flow of water in the river from side to side, but gathering the data is a lot harder and it gets exponentially harder to compute. Part of our job is efficiency – we could get more accurate results by using additional dimensions, but it would take much more time and a lot more money, for more powerful computers. Three-dimensional studies are possible, as well, measuring the flow of water from the surface to river bed, but I don’t know if many people do that, since it’s so much harder.”

He had three lengths of graph on the screen, comparing different variables. Temperature, wind speed, humidity, flow, stage, SWE, density, wind direction, solar radiation, AFDD. Two giant drill bits, the kind used to drill large holes through deep ice, leaned against the wall, partially wrapped in something, though whether that was to protect the walls or the screws, I didn’t know. I noticed a pair of sunglasses that he wore, although I don’t think I ever saw him actually wear them. They were just perched on his head the entire time.

While he was switching between diagrams, graphs, and charts, I thought of another question. “So, what made you interested in water, specifically?”

“Oh, well, when I was young I did a lot of camping and fishing and, because of that, spent a lot of time near rivers. Something about them interested me, just the way they flowed and the power of water, and I guess that eventually brought me to my job.”

Around four, he said he was done, and we headed out of the building. When we were out front, I noticed a little castle symbol, below the block lettered “CORPS OF ENGINEERS RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT CENTER”, and asked him about it.

“Well, I don’t know as much about the castle itself, but the Army Corps of Engineers has been around for a long time. Since the Revolutionary War, actually. Apparently, General Washington appointed someone an Army Engineer, and that’s what the Army Corps of Engineers considers its origin.”

I had had no idea of its age. The building itself was old, of course, but CERDC was only one section of the Army Corps of Engineers, and I knew little about the group as a whole. CERDC had seemed imposing at the start. It made quite an impression, but once I was inside, it felt hollow and disused, the main exception being those obscenely tall doors in the warehouse. But the fact that it could feel old and disused, and existed as part of a group as old as our country itself, made it even more imposing in a way.

Sleeplessness

Based on true events. Fucking sucks, dude.

I don’t know if I’ve posted it here before or not, but the Durarara!! soundtrack is fantastic.

~

The pattern was the same. 800 milligrams of magnesium (both citrate and malate) earlier in the evening, then Formula 303, some other anxiety supplement, and 600 milligrams of ibuprofen. Half an hour later, chug about three cups of kava sludge – only in its non-strained state because I couldn’t afford to use any extra – and play some of a game, then finish off the last cup, with a little more Formula 303 and a cup of Fidnemed tea.

Debate about getting ready to go to bed, then mix up one last little dose of kava.

Head to the bathroom, take a shit, jack off, vape for approximately twenty-three drags, something around ten milligrams of nicotine, then take a shower while listening to a podcast. Now, in the summer, the temperature dial was rotated around 225 degrees counter-clockwise from the top, warm but not hot. Regardless of the temperature, though, it would still sting my dry, cracked skin, stretching to its maximum with every movement.

One and a half squirts of soap to wash my torso and crotch, two squirts to wash my armpits and arms. Wet the facecloth and wash my face and arms with it, wincing because any contact with the skin around my eyes is unbearably painful, then wash my hair, dry my face with the squeezed-out washcloth, then turn off the shower with my right hand while letting my left hand dry off slightly, since that was what carried my iPhone – still playing the podcast – out of the shower.

Dry off, put on underwear – this is when I would get dressed, but it was hot enough that I wasn’t going to put on the clothes I had brought into the bathroom – shuffle around the bath mat to soak up any water that made its way out of the shower and hang it up, clean my ears, connect my headphones to my iPhone, then take a piss. Two pisses, technically. Well, if you really wanted to get into it, three.

Lip balm on my cracked lips, oil around my eyes, cream on my face (dear god, that sounds bad, doesn’t it), slip my iPhone into the waistband of my underwear and open the door, put dirty laundry in my laundry bin, get some lotion for my hands, which looked about sixty years older than I am, and carry the unused clothes into my room.

Lay in bed, listening to the podcast, get up a bit later and take two pisses, then return to bed and remove my headphones – disconnecting them from my iPhone to stop the podcast playing – and go to sleep. That was the pattern, specifically designed by myself to aid in sleep, or rather, aid in avoiding insomnia. This was around 1:45 AM. I think a lot of people thought I was a night owl that enjoyed sleeping in, but that was far from the truth. I just needed sleep – needed it, to function at all – and often couldn’t get to sleep, or couldn’t dose kava, until later. A container next to my bed held around ten Ambien. I didn’t want that number to decrease.

I tried not to think. But my mind goes, continually, no matter how fucking intoxicated I may be. I’ve megadosed phenibut and taken about seventeen drinks of alcohol, on no tolerance, as a lightweight, and I’ve never blacked out. There’s something about me that can keep me awake and aware through anything. One of the factions of my mind, fighting against all the others that are crying out for sleep, that forces me to stay up, to keep thinking about something, nothing in particular but just things in general.

Around 2:15 AM I turned on the light and took another small dose of kava and read a few pages of Durarara!! Vol. 3. I returned to the podcast and laid back down, in the dark, then got up to take another piss – two, really – a little later. I could feel my face drying out again already, becoming a mask.

The fear crept in, the fear that this would be another Bad Night, one of those nights I can’t get to sleep and can’t get to sleep late enough that I can’t really take an Ambien.

I dozed for half an hour, then that rogue faction woke me up and whispered to me. It whispered that maybe I needed to piss. Maybe if I didn’t piss, I’d need to wake up a bit later to actually piss. I tried to push it back, but caved and headed to the bathroom, and that little bit of physical activity woke me up.

I laid back down, tossed and turned, tried to find a suitable combination of arms and blanket to cover my ears and eyes, maybe dozed for a little bit or just went through a time warp, and found myself awake around 3:45. I tried to fall asleep, to keep myself physically and mentally still, but couldn’t.

My vision twisted and blurred around me, my headache continued getting worse and worse, my face had fully dried and hardened into a living leather. I called over someone who lived nearby. She knew about my trouble sleeping, and was often willing to help out with it.

The thing is, it was fully psychological, and I knew it. There was no real reason I should be awake, other than my mind keeping my mind awake. So having someone there, just for a moment, to remind me that the real world did truly still exist. The night was warped for me, it was a twisted version of reality that hated my very existence. Dreams were so deeply important to me, but if I was able, I would completely get rid of nights and sleep just to avoid this torture every time, the torture that had been slowly draining me and gradually impairing me. Even my hairline was showing the effects of this. It had been creeping further and further up over the past year. I was thinking about just shaving it at some point here so as to not look forty years older than I was.

I wanted to tell her how close to the edge I was, but I didn’t want to worry her or the friends she would doubtless relay that information to. They cared about me far more than I did. I had always had trouble with sleep, since childhood, but for some reason it had been so much worse for the past month or two, and it was showing no signs of relenting, other than one graceful night in which I was able to get to sleep around 1:30. The pattern had been the same for a long time, because it had been reliable and I needed reliability, but this recent inexplicable change was destroying me.

She was having trouble with her back, so she had to return to her bed before too long. I was less panicked by insomnia, but still very awake, so around 4:30 AM I put my headphones back on and turned on a playlist of Northernlion playing The Binding of Isaac: Rebirth. I never went to sleep at night listening to something, but I had noticed that listening to things settled my mind a bit, let that faction focus on something else, and sometimes fell asleep during the day while listening to something like that. His voice was pretty level, unless he started singing something, but I turned the volume low regardless. I plugged my iPhone in, so it didn’t just randomly die during the night, or rather the morning, and turned off my alarm.

It helped, but my headphones didn’t. They were bulky and weren’t designed for wearing during sleep, particularly the strange position in which I slept, so finding a comfortable position was difficult, if not impossible, particularly now that the sun was coming up and I needed to cover my eyes more reliably than before.

From what I can tell, I fell asleep around 5:00 AM. I didn’t sleep very deeply, often waking up and trying to find a semi-comfortable position again, but the worst was around 6:15 AM. I was up for about forty-five minutes then. Not fully awake, but awake and partially aware all the same.

I woke up around 10:00 AM and thought it was 12:00. When I realized I was wrong, I shifted my position and struggled back to sleep again. I woke up around 1:00. During that time I had only gone through about ten episodes, which I had been vaguely aware of even during my sleep, Northernlion’s weird rambling having some minor effect on my sleep cycles.

My eyes were partially sealed shut with goop. My entire body felt like jerky, my headache persisted, my entire body shook and my head swam and I knew, despite that, I needed to work on my capstone project.

I took a dose of my wake-up powder, made a cup of double-strength green tea, had a bowl and a half of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, tried to recover, and tried to not think about doing the same thing the next night.

A Meaningless Work of Taboo Fiction

So, I’m not really involved in this whole gun control thing. I don’t have a horse in this race, so I don’t care that much. But I saw a clip of that town hall thing, and thought that would be a good chance for a civilian to kill Trump, then thought that, maybe, if someone was twisted enough, they might not just take that opportunity, but create it.

I shouldn’t need to do this, but to clarify, I’m not on any side of politics. I think they’re all pieces of shit. This story isn’t to “say” anything, it’s just a little situation I came up with. Chill the fuck out.

Not really sure how I discovered this album, and I’m not entirely sure what it is, but I know I fucking love it.

~

I think the original idea came when we watched that town hall thing, where the parents of the victims of one of the school shootings were in a room with Trump, shook his hand, and whatnot.

Like many people, I detested the man. I didn’t know much about his policies or anything but I just hated him as a person – he was that spoiled brat that thought he could get away with anything. And now he was in the highest position in America, or possibly the earth – at least, the highest public position. I have no doubt that, say, the CEO of Disney or something like that had more worldwide power. Or the illuminati. Or freemasons.

But some sacrifices must be made to accomplish anything lasting. I have always been obsessed with duality. The balance of good and evil, of cost and benefit. I knew something had to happen, and I would be prepared to sacrifice anything to accomplish my goal.

My son went to a pretty big high school. He was a junior. Eventually I garnered from him the identity of the kid that was most on the fringes of the school. The outcast, the kid who spoke to no one and everyone left alone. The kid that had nothing to lose, because he was bullied and his dad had left and his stepfather was a piece of shit, and he wasn’t doing well in school. I arranged a meeting for us. Before the meeting, I had some shopping to do.

I wasn’t allowed to legally buy guns, any more. I had lost that privilege, which everyone called a right, in my twenties. But I knew a guy, who knew a guy. You know how it goes. I retrieved a Walther P99, three cartridges, with enough rounds to fill them. I gave them to this kid, along with $10,000 and instructions. Three weeks from now – enough time to live it up with that cash, a few high-class hookers, as much drugs and parties as he wanted – in the time between classes, when most students were in the halls, he would start shooting. It didn’t matter, for the most part, whom he shot. The kids who bullied him the most, whatever. Don’t worry about what abuse they suffer at their house, what stories you two must have in common about your stepfathers, just revenge, simple revenge. But the important thing was to kill T___ R______, my son. Of course, I didn’t tell him that I was his father. He didn’t know who I was, and I intended it to stay that way. Context just messed things up. I’ve decided that the true importance in any given event is in what happens in the event itself, not what led up to it. I vastly prefer the destination over the journey.

But light those halls up, kill my son, then – of course – kill himself. Experience anything he wanted in those three weeks, then end it all. It was a win-win solution.

Of course, I didn’t tell my wife. She wouldn’t have been able to handle it. She didn’t have the same resolve, the same fortitude, that I had. She would’ve broken down, she would’ve admitted something to somebody, and it would have all been for naught.

I remember the morning of that day. I didn’t even say goodbye to my son. I smiled, I waved, but I didn’t say anything. To be honest, I didn’t quite trust myself. I was concerned that, if I said anything to him, I might say something that would warn him, somehow, of what was going to happen. But he was my son, and he had to die as a sacrifice for the greater good. Like Jesus. God let him die for the greater good.

Everything went to plan, mostly. He was tackled by one of the kids, this senior that was in football and probably thought that he’d get some girls if he was the “self-sacrificial” one to take out the shooter. That little prick didn’t know anything about sacrifice, until the moment the gun was pointed at him. He was dead, my son was dead, and the shooter was dead.

I’ll admit, I felt paranoid here and there. But I had the “taboo protection”. If anyone suspected me of providing the shooter with weapons, there’s no way they could suggest it without being torn apart by the press and public. Survivors and parents of victims are immune to all criticism. I knew this, sure, but I was still paranoid every now and then.

My wife was upset, as expected. I played the part of a supportive husband quite well, if I do say so myself. Because the part was natural. I cared about my wife, I cared about my son. I just cared about killing Trump even more. Why can’t a man do both?

I hadn’t anticipated all the reporters and interviewers and all. I had kind of expected that we’d just be invited over to the white house or some shit. But, again, I played the part of a grieving parent well because, again, it was natural. Just a matter of switching modes.

I cried, my voice choked, I swore at the lawmakers and politicians and NRA and anything else I could grab onto long enough to tear to shreds.

Eventually, it was enough. I had sacrificed enough of my time and tears that we were able to pull together another town hall thing. I wasn’t quite sure about the security. I figured I probably wouldn’t be able to sneak a gun in there, but I remembered that movie with those two guys from Freaks and Geeks. They were going to kill Rocket Man (or his dad, not sure which, I was pretty drunk when I saw it) and they had the little strip they would put on their hands that would administer the poison transdermally. I could probably get something like that from that guy who knew that guy or, worst case, make something like it myself.

I don’t really know what Trump said during that meeting. I didn’t have to know what he said. All I had to do was agree with it, to show my support, to get a photo of he and I shaking hands. Which is what I did.

I don’t know how the other parents of victims took what he said. I didn’t really consider them in any of this, so there was no use in starting to care about them now. As I walked up to that podium, that fat yellow man before me, my hand extended, and I hesitated, for just a moment, was this real, was this happening, had I actually won? Had my little idea succeeded?

I smiled, I thanked him, I shook hands. I told him, I actually told him, to his face, that I was glad that someone was making a change. I just didn’t specify who that person was.