Vacuum

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Project Nemesis
"Vacuum"

The "Jansted Building":  An early 20th century skyscraper nestled snuggly between Gibson Boulevard and 21st Avenue. Who worked here was anyone's guess. It was one of the larger buildings downtown, and certainly prominent institutions held offices and firms there. Occasionally you would see a gentleman in a suit or a woman with power hair inflicting terror as she caught your glance. And occasionally a terrorist or naked guy protesting... something... would make a target of the building. But that was the "Jansted Building". Official. Dignified. Seasoned.
     The common rabble, however, knew it as "Gibson and Clark", and you would be hard pressed to find a single suit or power-do between any in the sea of young twenty-somethings with hoodies, cargo shorts, and sandals. The 21st Avenue turns into Clark street two lights down east, y'see. Which is also where the first major bus stop from the south west expanses and western well-to-do suburbia meets the first major subway station. Both the expanse and well-to-do territories have their own colleges, and the City's university isn't too far away west on Gibson. Several bars south, and a park top off the northern area, and 'Gibson & Clark' became the single most recognized downtown rally point in and out of metropolis. Less because of prime location. More because in the 90's the entire first floor was dedicated to a crazy barista / dance club combination. From dawn to dusk, it was a coffee shop with a sophisticated café feel to it (you could also order alcohol). From dusk to dawn, it changed its music from hipster to techno and the bartenders wore slightly less clothing (they will still serve you a frappuccino or macchiato if you asked). Also, twenty-four hour Wi-Fi. It's popular with the kids these days.
     Erik and Richard crammed their way into a surprisingly small revolving door, and in boyish humor pushed their way through from their east entry. "Who invented these things?" Richard laughed, "this is just silly. I feel like a rat in a wheel."
     "C'mon, we got like an hour," Erik rushed him, huffing to push the door faster than it was intended to spin. "And some German guy, I think."
     They transferred to the interior as the fading sunlight glistened on the tinted windows. "I could make a Holocaust joke of that, but-"
     "Please don't, thank you."
     The evening transformation was already in progress. Two girls were pushing empty tables to a wall, making dance space. Of the two guys at the counter, one was in a charming tux serving a mocha while the other was in a tank top and slacks, wiping down the sink to the bar area. Erik approached and ordered a seasonal spice drink. "What do you want, Ricky?"
     "I don't want your girly poison," Richard spat.
     "He'll have a short mild with room."
     "Erik, I don't-"
     Erik passed his credit card to the suited man while Erik cut Richard off, "Look dude, I got an hour with you. Drop the bullshit. You're good for it and you know I know you're good for it. Let me buy you a fucking coffee. Jesus." The barista perched an eyebrow as he began putting the drinks together. "Lover's quarrel," Erik grinned devilishly.
     "He's joking," Richard intervened.
     "Pick a seat, pumpkin," Erik waved him off.
     The barista rolled his eyes. "It's okay. I see it all the time."
     Richard took a seat at one of the unmoveable booths with window ledges in the back. Eventually got the drinks and strode in the direction he went, a paper cup in each hand. When Erik found him, Erik appraised him. Richard was still his tall, meaty self, but dressed in jeans and a polo, Erik wasn't sure if he was going for an aging frat guy look. Erik thought the mission requirements made it evident that something more classy was appropriate, like, say, nice black pants with a button up shirt (which Erik was very fond of), sleeves rolled up, top collar unbuttoned. Erik checked himself out a window reflection, and winked. If Conner taught them anything, it was to be proud of the way they looked. Making a slightly disappointed face at Richard, Erik wondered if he forgot those good ol' days. Erik set the drinks down at the table Richard chose, then saddled up next to him and put a hand on his inner thigh. "Miss me?"
     He whelped. "Erik! Dude!"
     "Chill!," Erik snickered, getting up and moving to the seat across from him. "You're so testy these days."
     "I just don't want to give people the wrong impression."
     "That you're a homo?"
     Richard glared, "No."
     "Because you totally are. That guy in the tux was totally giving you that, 'Haven't I seen you somewhere before?' look." Richard took a sip of his coffee and balked at the bitterness. "Yeah, I figured the big 'manly man' would want his 'no sissy drinks please' coffee with a little bit of sissy in it." Erik pushed the cream and sugar over to him. "Who's girly now?, faggot."
     "Shuddap, Ginger Spice." Richard took the condiments and corrected the disgusting error in his cup. While Erik settled in, Richard began to wonder if Erik was trying too hard. They weren't kids anymore, and the way Erik was dressed, you'd think he was either going for an interview or maybe he even worked upstairs. Even at Gibson and Clark during sundown, you shouldn't see a twenty-three year old man getting his dick grabbed by another under the coffee table.
     "... So..." Erik took a sip of his own drink then began pressing his fingers together, thinking determinedly about his approach. He saw an opportunity as Richard began to take a drink. "I hear Katy is in town."
     Richard spit the coffee out in a mist over Erik's face.
     Looking incredibly displeased as he began to inspect the damage to his attire, Erik reconsidered that approach. "... I was going to ask if you were over it, but- honestly- I should've known better."
     "Shit! Dude! Why didn't you tell me earlier!"
     "She's on this run, Ricky." Erik grabbed some tissues from the dispenser by the window. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
     "Fuck! Erik, why didn't you say something?!"
     Erik pondered. "Because I knew you'd freak out?" He dabbed the cuffs of his dress shirt. "Seriously, dude, I thought a spit-joke would've been worth it, but this is a sixty-dollar shirt, man."
     "Erik, c'mon. She's not really here, right? I mean, she's been gone for years. Why would she be on this run?"
     "She's here, Rick, and you need to do that 'not freaking out' thing. This is why I wanted to talk to you before we kicked this off- Six o'clock." Richard's eyes became shifty at Erik's sudden warning but he fought the urge to turn around. He and Erik took swigs of their coffee simultaneously while some girls came up behind them giggling about their evening's expectations. "... Sorry, I thought she was listening for a sec. Ever since that mob-rat tried to take out Mal, I get a little.. y'know." Erik followed her with his eyes, and while looking over his shoulder, one of the girls looked back, saw him staring, and snapped back forward giggling feverishly. "Y'know, I think she was actually. She thinks I'm cute," Erik smiled at himself satisfactorily. Then despair again, "Or maybe it's the shirt?"
     "Erik, if this is a joke-"
     "Dude, I'm not fucking with you!" Erik groaned. "Look, man, you need to calm down. This isn't that big a deal. Or, it shouldn't be. I was worried you'd bug out, but I don't understand why you are."
     "Why is she back in town?"
     "She finished school a couple months ago, Ricky. She should be back in town. Actually, I'm not even sure. If the new semester started, then it's probably been a while. I didn't tell you because I didn't think you were ready, and then I kinda' forgot. I mean, it's been forever. I thought you'd have heard it by now, and hopefully you'd already be good."
     "What do you mean?"
     "C'mon, man," Erik gave Richard a side glance. "I know you like to play it off to the others, and they have had a few years to forget about it, but don't play me. I don't know what happened. I never asked, and I won't. A man has a right to keep his lady-business private. But it's obvious something happened. And you've been avoiding her like the plague since before we got out of high school. It's been a damn long time. Every time she's come home, you've suddenly got stuff to do. Conner notices it. Bel notices it. Naz notices it. The only person who doesn't notice it is Mal. And she's kinda'... y'know. She's got important angel stuff."
     "What about Donnie?"
     "You want a report card on everyone in the Team? About your issues? Donnie hates you. Jessica and Gerome don't even know you. Or us."
     "What about June?"
     "Who?"
     "Very funny."
     "Look, I'm not trying to make this weird for you. That is actually why I brought you here, remember? To tell you? Work it out of your system? And so you can not make this awkward and focus on what we have to do. We're important this time. We can't fuck it up because you got Katyitis. Mal needs us to distract- and with the way you fucked up my shirt, I don't think it'll be that hard." Erik dabbed at it in vain a little more. "We may actually get our hands dirty, though, if it's what Conner thinks it is. The front desk may be expecting us, and last time we dealt with the Corporation, they were shooting first, and not asking questions later. I'm with you solo. Do you get that? She's given you your own healer. She wouldn't put me with you unless she thought I'd have to patch you back together."
     "... Okay, I got it. I'll be fine."
     "... Okay. ... You sure?"
     "We got a job to do."
     "Okay, sure, the job. But I also mean after."
     Richard thought about it. "I'm fine."
     "Ricky," Erik struggled with the words "... Okay, I may not be good at all this touchy-feely stuff. But I'm your best friend. What's going on?"
     "I thought you said you wouldn't get into another man's 'lady business'." Ricky finished his small coffee.
     "I know what I- Argh- Friend card! Friend card right now!"
     "Oh, come on!"
     "Friend card, Richard!" Erik raised his hand high, imitating holding an invisible slip of authority. "I'm calling you out. Friend card:  Tell me what's going on. Right now." Richard slumped in his chair a little, and Erik tapped his foot impatiently. "... Dude."
     "I'm thinking! I got it! Yes, 'friend card'! Okay! Jeeze. God, why the fuck do you and Conner gotta' do that?"
     "Technically, I think Donnie has one, too."
     "Tsh, bullshit. I'd rather give one to Tristan," Richard mumbled. "... Okay, y'know she and I were going out in Saugus?"
     "Sort of. I don't remember you making it official in high school."
     "She didn't want to. I thought maybe it was the whole retro-thing. Being a rebel. Don't want labels or anything like that. But-" Richard paused. "You remember when we both got accepted, right?"
     "Yeah."
     "... She told me she just wanted to go as friends. She didn't want to be my girl, or anything. 'Just wanted to be friends.' She said she didn't want to lose me and all that, but she just didn't want to go as a couple." How should he get out of this loop? "I mean, you know me, Erik. I don't get hung up on that stuff. I never did. But... I really liked Katy. And I- Well, I don't think I've ever been dumped before. I keep thinking, 'Why?' What'd I fuck up? What'd I do wrong? I mean, let's be real for a second. I'm not stuck up. I'm not bad looking."
     "I'd date you," Erik nodded.
     "Man, I'm being serious here."
     "So am I. If I was gay, I'd bang you like a shotgun. Okay, I'm joking. But, yes, objectively, you're a good looking guy. Almost as hot as me."
     "Thanks," Richard said flat.
     "Hey, neither of us are as hot as Conner," Erik shrugged. "But Katy didn't wig out about him either. I know the whole 'bi thing' throws people off, but no one even knew he liked guys for real until Tristan. You'd think she'd have made a pass at him. Then again, she doesn't look like the passing type."
     "I thought the bi-thing started with JP."
     Erik shook his head. "No, Donnie hooked up with Marcela who was hitting on JP hard core and I think all four of them- Conner, too- got really drunk and JP was curious, so Conner put those 'bromance' moves on him- Wait. Dude! Dude, this is about you!"
     "I don't know," Richard looked at Erik surprised, "I'm kinda' interested. I didn't know JP was just a fling for Conner."
     "Not a fling. They were experimenting. Or everyone thought they were experimenting, but for Conner it was real. And JP didn't like it, so he ditched Conner, who- so far as we know- only dated girls in high school. Perhaps to mend his broken boy-loving-side-of-the heart. Now if you don't mind? Where were we? You were handsome, smart, and athletic with sexy muscles. You're awesome, Katy dumps you, and you're all butt hurt after four years?"
     "More or less," Richard half-admitted. He clipped his coffee cup with his fingers, then let it go realizing it was empty. He didn't actually want anymore, he just needed something to look at other than Erik.
     Richard suspected something was up when Erik sent him a text to meet at this place. He didn't know how, but he knew Erik had ulterior motives than a simple pep-talk or prep-work. And this just wasn't the time to get into the gritty details. So Richard decided he wouldn't bring up the actual conversation he and Katy had when they both opened their acceptance letters years ago. How they talked for hours about which they should take. Harvard was the obvious choice, but they just were having so much fun between the other well known names. Oxford, Colombia, every state's own school, and a few abroad in exotic places they would've loved to visit but not actually stay in. These were plans they had made together, culminating over their senior year and second year in a unnamed relationship. Plans that in an instant disappeared, like they were nothing. Plans that, for her, never included him to begin with.
     And he couldn't bring up how after she broke up him, she said she'd still call. That she'd still write. How he never went to Harvard. How she didn't call. Broken promises on both ends. Avoidance on both ends. That something lingered over his head, like it was more than just adolescent wisdom to not be too committed before embarking on life's great journey. Richard had fucked up somehow. He knew not how, but knew it, itself. And perhaps Katy never forgave him. Maybe he never forgave her? But he wasn't ready to face all these thoughts. And Erik would suspect if he just left it at that. "Look, I know what you're going to say. 'Get over it.' But Katy was ... you know. She was the One. I've never met anyone like her, or who made me feel like the way I did with her. I mean, she's beautiful."
     "Arguably," Erik shrugged. "A little stringy and pinched faced, but whatever floats your boat."
     "She's smart."
     "Smarter than you, definitely."
     "She's strong."
     "Strong? She's like ninety pounds. You need to tie bowling balls to her feet or she'd float way with the wind."
     "Not funny."
     "Holy shit! You are totally pussywhipped by this girl!"
     In a surprisingly fair tone, "Don't talk about her that way, Erik. She's your friend, too."
     "No, Ricky. You are my best friend. And she was a friend, several years ago. I admit, she is special. Obviously. She's on the Team, after all. But she's not perfect. She's not the One. ... But I think you're really in love with her."
     "I think I've always been," Richard blushed.
     Erik felt a little grossed out by the puppy love, but moved on, "So that doesn't maker her the 'One', just the, uh... 'One Who Got Away', then. Okay. Got it. " There was an awkward pause as Erik's mind naturally transitioned from 'touchy-feely' to 'problem-fix it', avoiding the obvious feeling that there was more to be said. "Well... you're still in shape! ...'Sh. And you're still smart as fuck. And you still got that chiseled jaw!" Erik fake punched Richard's chin, who laughed gently and played along with it. "She's back from college. We're getting the band back together. Just be yourself. If you got a second chance, now's the time. ... But, uh... Now really isn't the time, or the best time, at the same time, you know what I mean?"
     "What time is it exactly?" Richard blinked sarcastically. "Time to go?"
     "We haven't been talking that long, bro. And I demand cuddle time after this heart-to-heart." Richard sighed, and Erik felt a strange twinge of resentment forming. Maybe not forming. Maybe growing. "Other than the whole Katy thing, I haven't spoken to you in a few. So tell me what's new?"
     "Still in the basement." Richard felt he was moving from one admission of being a loser to another. "No progress on the Kryocircuit. But it's still functioning just fine, and I was able to make a few adjustments. I'm going to test them out if everything goes according to plan. I can project a short ray of heat. Has the effect of a heat lamp when I put it on very low power."
     "So we can offer some guard a tan? Or maybe a sunburn if they try to shoot at us. Sounds great."
     "I still have to mostly rely on the leverage system, yes," Richard snorted at the attack. "I still got the mechanical strength and the carapace is still pretty thick even with diverting power, but I think with a few tweaks- depending on how much resistance different materials give me- I can actually make a beam out of it. Something with real effects. I just want to test it on real materials in the outside world. I'm worried if I do something at home, it'll tip off my parents."
     Erik raised his eyebrows as he finished his drink. "Like a weapon? A photon rifle? A ray gun? A laser beam?" Erik gasped, "Oooo! A ... 'light saber'?"
     "I think it'll be a little less glamorous than Star Wars but it'll definitely be something if I can loop the energy right. I just need to have enough ice in the pack, and that's where it really gets complicated. I can only loop back power in certain ways to keep the water cooled, and I need to flush it through the arm with the beam to make sure it doesn't burn me, too. I'm also worried about radiation if it goes wrong. I haven't really considered if there will be any kind of byproduct from the target area itself. I'm confident my suit will protect me from that, though- assuming I can contain the heat."
     "You're a fucking mad scientist, bro! How could Katy dump you? Matter of fact, fuck the whole gay/straight thing. She can't have you. I'm keeping you for myself."
     "Erik, sometimes, I really worry about- you- Hold on." Richard felt vibrations in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Malaika's number was ringing. "... It's Mal. One sec."
     Erik nodded, and grimaced. He grimaced harder realizing that it didn't matter if he showed all his facial expressions or not. Richard wouldn't notice. Maybe it was a little selfish of him, but for it to be interrupted now, their catchup was going so well. And yet not at the same time. Richard didn't want to be here. He wanted to be back in his laboratory trying to reverse engineer his ice-engine. He was doing awesome things, and there was so much to talk about on his end, alone.
     And ... well, Erik had been working so hard over the last few months, too. Months- god, where does the time go? Had he really gotten so old that he could even think a phrase like that? Erik hadn't really talked to any of the gang this whole time. Their last few runs didn't need him, and thank goodness for that since it was the high buying season, and a couple of high number homes were needing realtors. But that's the thing. He hasn't talked to anyone. No one knew about how he was able to take advantage of some fuckups between the others in the firm, and how he schmoozed the boss into letting him prove himself. No one knows just how much Erik proved for himself. Maybe no one cared. And maybe it was a little selfish, but sometimes you want to tell someone besides Mom about your triumphs. Is it so much to ask to be able to hear something like 'I'm proud of you, bro!', especially from someone you're supposed to call your best friend? Is that really too much to ask?
     And, frankly, as Richard said himself, Erik did in fact know him. Erik knew him really well. Richard wasn't a man whore, but he wasn't sentimental or effeminate either. Certainly not a hopeless romantic. Of the old group, Erik always saw Richard as the leader. He was the smart one. He was the strong one. He was the dashing quarterback to Erik's guard and Conner's wide-receiver. But ever since they graduated, Erik saw him melt into a closeted, anti-social, pansy-ass bitch. There was something he wasn't telling Erik. There's a reason he's not going to an Ivy League school... Brilliant people don't go to Saugus Community College. People like Erik go to Saugus. Went to Saugus. How the hell was Richard keeping himself in there when someone like Erik graduated with honors a year prior, easily at that? Erik crumpled up his cup in agitation as the conversation on the phone went on.
     In high school, they were the closest friends that can be without it getting weird. Katy didn't even complicate it that much. Erik could remember those days better than all the rest of them. Was that an indicator that he cared too much about bygone times? Aren't friends supposed to be forever? Aren't friends supposed to spend time with each other? Aren't friends supposed to care about those bygone times? Erik allowed himself to be unsure about those things. But not this:  Friends aren't supposed to lie to each other. Was that too much to ask?
     "Okay. We're on the way." Richard motioned for Erik to get up while he shut off the call, "There's a problem. Conner isn't at the spot yet, and Donnie isn't there either. The newbies are missing, too."
     "Great. Well, good chat."
     "Don't worry," Richard punched Erik in the arm, somewhat ruthlessly. Erik caught himself off balance and rubbing where the hit landed while Richard brushed past for the exit. That's how he knew Richard meant it. "I'll get you next time. I want to hear about you, too. I missed you, bro."
     Erik smiled, but to Richard's back, he let his face reveal confliction that he hid from his voice. "Awww. I knew you cared."

Show & Tell

My last post was originally intended to be a rebuke for 'writing rules' and other advice no one asked for. (Which is totally misnomer. I was absolutely scouring teh Internetz for advice. I just found things that infuriated me.) Something I found absolutely true that I decided to cling to for my bored evening convinced me I needed to just ignore advice for a minute, and the pathetic excuse it was to avoid doing what I should've been doing to begin with- and hammer out a few pages for their own sake.

But tonight is a new night, and I am up later than I should be. To revisit a rekindled flame:

Of all the worthless, counterproductive advice I have heard about writing, I feel the most offensive and pervasive is the infamous, “Show, don’t tell.”

Why? Because it’s misrepresented and self-destructive. Because it’s totted and worshiped by those insipid twits who like to discuss ‘real art’. The kind that dismiss what doesn’t fit into their trivial, small world of finite expectations and parameters for what is worthwhile and what is not.

But most especially because it’s just disingenuous. “Show, don’t tell.” The overall concept, I agree with. Immersion is always better than dictation. But that is the intent; not the law. I find it comical when someone gets hung up on something I’ve written and then cites this to me. If I say that something is happening, or that something is what it is, these people misunderstand the scope, and miss what is being told is showing a larger image that they are too busy playing editor to realize is before them. The instinct to pounce on this begets a nearsightedness that guarantees missing the target. “It’s not so much as missing the forest with the trees, as missing them in a completely different forest.”

Side note, and neurotic tertiary complaint:  One cannot show without telling. One cannot tell without showing. Semantically the concepts are intertwined.

I am aware that I am picking at a topic that has been more contentious than our high-school creative writing teachers would have us believe. (And that it’s 5 a.m. in a guard shack and no one could give two shits about it. These are neuroses for their own sakes. Repetition or parallel? ... Repetition. Admitted.) But I have long been a fan of, you know, actually reading and writing, and enjoying what is read and written, rather than belittling the conveyance. If a thought is communicated and understood, it was successful. If it was enjoyed, it was art. I suppose that makes me a very simple person, but I can’t help but feel there is wisdom in the humility.

I know some people need to really bemoan the changing of the times, and the trend of people enjoying young adult reading when they are not in any way conceivably young adults. Or whatever gets a pretentious didact's panties in a bunch. But, seriously, what is up with this belittling, or even the characterizations to begin with? It’s one thing to pick apart Twilight or The Notebook or 50 Shades of Grey on their individual merits (correct, I wasn’t listing YA novels), but to wholesale dismiss anything is generalization. Generalization. You know, the heart of bigotry?

On another level, and as I have read in some arguments about the subject, it’s just such a lame cliché in itself. A cop out. It’s empty buzzwords that once held relevance in a specific situation that is being stretched too thin, while would-be-professionals parrot it repetitively to cover the entirety of literature. Sometimes- often, even- I fall prey to my compulsion for sesquipedalian loquaciousness and accompanying purple prose. I think in convoluted metaphors. It’s what I do, and I do it well. And the result can be pretty dramatic writing, or (and more often than I’d like) dramatically horrible writing. When I ask for objective opinions to help me figure out a better way to express something, a zombie chant of ‘show, don’t tell’ does nothing for me (nor, I'd argue, for anyone). What you’re trying to say is, ‘focus more on the perspective of the character’, ‘this idea you’re trying to express is too complicated for the method of delivery you’ve chosen’, or even ‘I don’t like it, and I’m not sure why.’ You can contort that into some mindless axiom if you’d like, but that wouldn’t help me. It wouldn’t make a more interesting story, either. It would tell me you're too lazy and disinterested to actually read. (Not read what I wrote. This isn't narcissism. You just don't read in general. Go see a movie, bookworm poser.)

I suppose, in the end, and as it usually is with me, my problem is with the lie of absolutes. All of life is balance. And I would give much for this to not be a saying, but a conventional wisdom: “Make sure you balance your showing and your telling.” Personal preference on if you lean for more or another, but never the idea that one is good and the other is bad. It’s as ignorant as the insinuation that the less adverbs, the better (its own can of worms).

Every author and every writer has tools to build a world, and being told to not use, avoid, or be afraid of any of them is detrimental to not only their world or any worlds, but Fantasia itself. It’s a cruel ploy to young dreamers and aspiring authors who will have enough criticism, and the majority (as with all artists) will be undue.

If there is any rule that I have found helpful and true- and it is the only one thus far that is actually universal- it is:  Write. Write. Write.

No excuses.

Write.

You will not do better if you do not do. You will not do anything, actually. Because you are- y’know- not doing. We are all procrastinators at heart, apparently. I have yet to meet or even hear of a fiction writer who isn’t head-over-heals tumbling for ways to avoid what they supposedly love to do- particularly if it’s for a living. That's fair. It’s understandable. It’s apparently just what we are.

You must write.

…

…

I’m going to go read more articles on the Internet and play Pokemon.

I can write a crappy rough-draft chapter tomorrow on duty.

Advice No One Asked For

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[[Formatting errors.  Roll with it, please.  Blogger doesn't like the taste of Microsoft Word's copy pasta.]]

The sky was a mix of blood and gold, boiling above the simmering black of a silhouette setting on the horizon. Two opaque profiles of still bodies broke the skyline as they stood abreast the southwest abandon of civilization. When they were children, this border of the city, between wedges of encroaching suburbia, was the end of the world. A decaying meadow and unkempt wilderness, surrounded by the naïve hopes from local, reasonable authority figures that innocent, pure children would stay out of trouble, expressed by a pathetic chain-link fence with its thoroughly abused 'NO TRESPASSING' sign.

            Donald had smiled at it when they came in- a mutilated square with chipped paint and gratuitous graffiti. What he had decorated it with himself years ago was faded but replaced by similarly minded youths who bore the torch of harmless teenage rebellion and its accompanying petty anarchy. He, unfortunately, had long since grown up, expanding his limits past states. Countries. Oceans. Breaking into the little enclosure of worthless land offered little beyond the meekest of cheap thrills now; still, childish disobedience in this most-sacred place did garner precious nostalgia.

            Valérie had never been confined by geography.  For her, this boundary represented a cage on her blooming adolescence. A cage only coincidentally forged at the time she and Donnie began sneaking into places they weren’t supposed to go. As the sun sunk further and the shades of twilight shimmered into deeper colors, she considered the luck of her cemented friendship with him. He thought it was fate, but she knew it was a matter of circumstance. That probably would’ve threatened him, but it only made her smile deepen. The best things in life from blind, dumb luck.

            For them both, despite an age of physical and emotional maturity, this field surprisingly left undeveloped by urbanization, still instigated the creeping, giddy excitement of a world for recklessness and flagrant abuse of trust where the law didn’t consistently supervise. That was reason enough to come back here.

            The breeze filtered through Val’s hair, tossing the low hanging spikes like wind chimes, tickling her neck.  She took a deep breath of the cooling air, then noticed Donnie mimicking her mockingly. Unperturbed, she took another deep breath through the nose, and as she heard him inhale, she breathed out through her mouth, listening to his echo, suddenly trailed with a course burp. She nodded in approval. “Solid eight.”

            “Eight?!” he gasped with umbrage. “That was a ten! At least give me a nine!”

            “You pulled it off without any telegraphing. I didn’t expect it- I give you that,” Val’s eyes remained closed, suspended in judgement. “But there was no volume. No bumps,” she strained for the professional term.

            “So I don’t reverberate, and you don’t give me- You knock off a point?”

            “You gotta’ hit that vibrato, Donnie,” she grinned at him.

            Donald chuckled, “ ‘Vibrato’? Who am I? Andrea Borcelli?”

            “Can you imagine?” she snickered. “André, in the middle of an opera? ‘Con~ te~ Par~ti~BELCH.”

            Donald laughed, “Or Adele?”

            “Why you gotta’ hate on Adele, man?” Val gave him a knowing glance.

            “I love Adele, Val! You know that!”

            “Okay-” she turned her back on the sunset’s refuse leaving him with a consolatory chortle and heading for the exit.

            “No! Seriously! ‘I set fire-’”

            “Alright, Donnie!”

            “ ‘To the rai-’”, Donald finished the note with a thick, resounding burp.

            “Oh God,” Val laughed as he chased after her, “Stop!”

            “I have to- Are there any other lyrics to that song?”

            “ ‘Watched it pour as I touched your face’.”

            “That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t even rhyme.”

            “Neither does most music,” Val giggled. “Okay, you know where we’re going from here?”

            “Kinda’. I know my way from Jefferson. We’re going to the MacIntyre Building, right?”

            “That’s the rendezvous. We’re going to the new tower they built on Amsterdam.”

            “They’re still building downtown?” Donnie asked rhetorically. “And the whole group? What’d Conner dream up this time?”

            Val considered while muttering absentmindedly, “If you would listen to Mal instead of bitching, maybe she’d-"

 

            "Gasp. Language." Donald stuck his tongue out at Val.

 

             "Wait, I can take you to Powell, then it’s justa’ few blocks till Jeffers.”

            “Do we have to split?” Donald sighed, as they hit official pavement, careening towards an intersection of crosswalks and roads in actual use.

            Valérie was accustomed to Donald’s whining, expecting it, but something struck her as odd. She felt actual sympathy. Something was wrong. Since when was something wrong? Sure, Donnie could be moodie, but… “What’s wrong?”

            Donald paused. “It’s just a pain in the ass. I get it- It’s safer. But-” Donald caught himself. “I can get myself to Reudreu.”

            “ ‘But’ what, Donnie?” Val pressed. Donald shook his head and Val stared a little longer before wearily playing along with the dismissal. “Reudreu is farther,” the warning a decibel lower as she recanted her gaze. “And I don’t think security is a big deal this time, Don. I’ll just go with you, if you want.”

            Donald shook his head, “I’ll meet you at M. I. Center.” Then he took off, turning at the intersection, hands in his pockets. Val sensed that she should follow him. It tugged on her uncomfortably. She shook off the feeling by turning in the opposite direction. He would be okay. Whatever that was about, Donald was the blink tank. She couldn’t catch him if she tried. Fortunately, neither could anything else- personal demons or otherwise.

            She could see her road would come to a dead end relatively soon, so she pushed the idea of Donnie out of her mind, settling into a slower pace. She clasped her hands together and lifted them high and backward, stretching out her chest. She twisted her head around in strong, deliberate motions until she felt satisfying, little pops along her neck. Before the euphoria could recede, her arms folded back to her sides, her body following into a kneel- Then she bolted, arms swinging momentum and legs cycling into a full sprint. She made a sharp turn at a collapsing building’s alleyway. She had scouted out this course a few days ago with Donnie. She licked her lips in anticipation, her breathing racing faster.

            With a pounce into a unto a closed dumpster, she spun and wall climbed up the short building to its roof. Along slowly swirling fans and oddly shaped metal boxes she galloped up another short wall to the second floor’s roof. On the smaller third tier, she slowed, veered right, then catapulted herself up to and over its edge, leaping with all her might to the adjacent building. She fell into a roll on its upper surface and recounted the next steps. Rooftops seldom lasted long in the lowlands; preparation was key.

            She spent half an hour leaping down and up different walls and their stories, snuck through a delivery trucking company’s enclosed interior, scaled a water tower for no apparent reason, and slid past security cameras on more well-guarded offices that were a marker for her of sorts. Cameras were a kind of building self-esteem; if they were present, the edifice respected itself (and valued what was inside). That meant she was reaching further into the city where wealth and prominence were beginning to materialize. She was getting close to Jefferson Street. 

            After another fifteen minutes, as she glided along a faux bell tower atop a bank she connected it to Clark West Credit Union. She was two blocks south… She prepared to drop herself over the side when an intrusive voice struck her, [Cops. 3^rd and Clark.]

            Goddamnit Donnie!, she shrieked to herself. She halted and began to panic a glance around her. The bank was on the corner of 3^rd and Clark. Cops. Cops nearby… Shit.

            [You’re on 3^rd and Clark, aren’t you?]

            Yes, she grumbled, peeved at Donnie’s limitations. As she began to sneak a peek for the police, she lauded a series of obscenities that she knew he couldn’t hear; his telepathy was a one way street. Usually this was a hindrance, but with the amount of cussing seeping through her mind projected at him, it was probably a good thing in this case.

            [You’ve gotten so quick, Bela!]

            Val was taken aback by the compliment. She blushed and accepted the approval. She had been working routes pretty hard core over the past year and she applauded herself that it was showing so well, even Donald was giving her praise.

            [Work those thunder-thighs! You may even bring sexy back!]

            “You little prick,” Val sneered.

            [Maybe enough to flash some cops out of a ticket? You’ll need that. If they don’t arrest you for R.W.B.]

            “I swear to God, when I get my hands on your anorexic ass, I’m going to rip you-” She heard sirens. “Double shit!”

            [I don’t think they’re after you… If you can hear me, go south.] Val breathed a sigh of relief. Not only was Donnie going to help her out of this, but he wasn’t necessarily sure she was in range… Which meant that maybe she could bluff her way out of the embarrasment. [I mean west, not south.]

            She stalled her confident stride to the south wall and cursed again, “Jesus, Donnie. You are the most useless- Argh!”

            Following his arbitrary instructions- with plenty of caution and a shortage of patience- Valérie was able to lower herself onto surface streets far enough away as to be sure no one would see her. Once safely on the sidewalk, and doing her best to tune Donnie’s repeating words (he had no idea whether or not she was even at the bank, let alone that she had received and used his advice), she stared in the direction of the sirens. “… Your better judgement says not to go that way,” she told herself. Curiosity wasn't sure she believed her own voice.

            [And please don’t check out what’s going on, on 3^rd and Clark. Just be safe. Seriously. Again, if you’re at the bank, go west…]

            “… Donnie, I swear … for the umpieth time…” She rolled her eyes and began walking towards the sirens. Something told her she’d find him in the center of that mess.

            “Bella!”

            Val snapped her attention to the voice across the street.

            A handsome boy waved at her emphatically then called out to her. “It’s not Donnie!”, Conner subdued her. “Come over her.”

            Val looked both ways, then jaywalked her way over to him. “What is it?”

            “Not us,” Conner embraced her.

            Val spoke through the hug, “Unfortunate coincidence?”

            “Were you-”

            “Yes. You know I was. Why do you even ask, Conner?” she let him go, but kissed him on the forehead, unwilling to cease her affections. "And, yes, I know Malaika doesn't approve of it. It gets me across town fast enough."

            He blushed, but didn’t retreat. “I’m glad, honestly. This is going to be more difficult than we expected, so I'd prefer you loose and ready to hardkour it up.”

            Valérie sighed at hearing that. She never liked hearing bad news from Conner. Nothing was worse, really, than hearing your oracle tell you bad things were coming. “How difficult?”

            “Gerome and Nazrin are already with Don. Erik and Ricky are driving to Malaika. Tristan-”

            “I’m not asking for where everyone is, Conner,” Val tried to be gentle with him.

            “I know, I know,” Conner waved her off. “This way,” he pointed back up 3^rd Street, away from the whirling blue and red lights that became ever more present as dusk sunk in at last. “I just need your can-opening skills. Everything is going to be fine, though. I promise.”

            “ ‘Fine’ fine, or ‘we’ll survive’ fine?” Val followed reluctantly.

            “I’ll owe Tristan another set of pants, but no one will get hurt. That kind of fine.”

            Val appraised that. “… Meh, sounds worth it.”

            “Oh, it always is. I've gotten him on a better diet. Speaking of which, are you working out? Looking good, good lookin'."

 

            "Careful, or I just might keep you for myself," she winked at him. Yeah, everything will be fine after all.

 

            [Val, seriously, hurry up and get your fat ass away from the credit union. Chop, chop. I'm getting tired of repeating this message. And make me a sandwich while you're at it.]

 

            "Can I kill Donnie?" Val raged.

 

            "No," Conner lamented, "we need him, too, sadly."

 

Leaves: Change, Fall, Falling, Flying, Saving to Sell Back at Discharge

.-..-. - .... . / ... .- -. -.-. - ..- .- .-. -.-- / --- ..-. / --.. .. .----. - .- .... .-..-. --..-- / -. .- --- ... .... .. / -- .. --.. ..- - .-

I'm am being processed for administrative separation due to my diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder.  They are recommending a General (under honorable conditions) discharge.  They are using the specific basis of "condition other than disability". 

This means several things.

It means that I will lose my G.I. Bill.

It means that I cannot receive full severance pay (I get, at most, half).

It means that I will have a discharge characterization that is the equivalent to people with personality disorders that cannot conform to a work environment.

It means that I am, currently, incompetent and a trouble maker.

It means that I made the wrong choice after all to go after my command in Portland and try to solve problems- or at least address problems- that I saw as critically endangering the mission accomplishment and troop welfare of the command (because now I have no friends to submit letters on my behalf to the board).

It means that for the two and a half years that I was in a direct command position of junior Marines, I did nothing to prove that I was capable of leading them.

It means that I appear as spineless, unconfident, and at best demure.

It means that after ten years of service, in which I received two good conduct medals, an SMCR medal (the reserve equivalent), certificates of commendation for excellence in performance, served on well over fifty funeral honor details, answered hundreds of phone calls and supported thousands of personnel actions requests, confronted everyone from Lance Corporals to Colonels, endured "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" (DADT) without contradicting it, tolerated conduct and policy that effectively destroyed a five year relationship, was promoted four times (to the rank of Sergeant) including once meritorious, subjected to meritorious opportunities after this as well, and save one (debatable) incident I have never received any kind of counseling for any kind of behavior- 

It means, after all these years, I have amounted to little more than a permanent inconvenience of a human being who does not have anything to offer the government, and needs to not only be removed, but ensured to be only with what I 'deserve', lest it disrespect those whose conduct would inherit umbrage that mine is equated to it. 

I remember a lot of things over these years.  I remember being only one of two who confronted a gunnery sergeant in the basic military job school about a senior Marine who was making untoward advances on one of our classmates.  A seasoned lance corporal (definitely not a part of the class) was making very uncomfortable insinuations and conversation with a fresh-out-of-bootcamp private first class who was obviously not interested, and by the end of the day cajoled her to join him in a seven-ton truck to do menial labor- alone and unsupervised.  She clearly didn't want to go.  Sketchy would be a polite way to describe it, and a good fourteen of us were exposed to it.  When she left, myself and one of the other few females said we needed to do something; no one else agreed.  They said if she didn't want to go, she didn't exactly have to.  That we were probably overreacting.  That everyone was probably fine.  As technically true as possible.  After all, it was completely possible everything will turn out okay.  That didn't sound good enough for me.  We told the gunny.  She was fine after all, but lance corporal was pretty restricted in terms of dealing with us after that, much to everyone's relief.  I did that talking.  I hunted that gunny down.  I, meritorious PFC four months in, did that.  She was very upset that we did.  Thought it was embarrassing.  How dare we meddle in what was a Lifetime movie example of pre-rape.  I did not, still don't, believe it was a mistake.  I'm sad to remember not everyone sharing that sentiment.

I remember hearing countless stories working in the customer service center.  Travel claims not being paid.  Drills not making it through the system.  Travel claims not being paid.  A DD214 not being delivered.  Travel claims not being paid.  I remember one guy calling, saying that he had no DD 214 for a period of service where he was on orders with a reserve unit.  That one, unexpectedly, was not our fault, but listening to the guy, you could tell he had pissed off the command by doing his job correctly, and they refused him the DD 214.  Regardless personal feelings, I could confirm they didn't make one for him.  They didn't do a lot of things for him that they were required by law to do.  I couldn't do anything for the guy.  I couldn't make a DD 214 for him; the command didn't have the authority.  So we took it to the IRR branch, and eventually they finagled a plan.  The guy had called for months before that- I could see it in the logs.  No one helped him.  No one knew what to do, or wanted to do anything; standard operating procedure for the entire building was "Be as unproductive as possible".  I was the first to listen to him, explain things to him, and make any effort to help him.  That was all he wanted.  I don't know if the situation was ever resolved.  But I know I took care of him, just like I took care of every other poor soul who had to call us.  I had endless praise from survey reviews; calls to the section head and our GS-11 department head.  I knew I did right there.

I was told from the beginning that if I kept my work ethic up, I would get a Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medal (NAM) by the time I left.  Once I got to customer service center, though, the emphasis changed.  I was Mr. Taylor's right hand man.  When there were meetings with colonels, GS-13's, plans for tens of thousands of dollars to be spent on software, or battles where hundreds of thousands of dollars were being manipulated by the finance office disruptively, I not only had a voice but gave voice.  For all those people being fucked over, and to our section to be taken seriously.  I was a member of the team, and an important one.  And the "NAM" talk went away.  It became, "if we save this for your end of tour award, we can put you up for a Navy Commendation medal," (the NavyCom- corporals, which I was at the time, don't get that- you usually don't see anyone get it till they're Gy's- it was a big deal).  But a few months before the command was shut down, and sections began to be merged as personnel were shipped to the new building in New Orleans, the Director said he wouldn't do a million end of tour awards.  That only one person per section could be submitted.  I was merged into the active duty branch, were there were several 'all-stars' that got consolidated together.  Our chief warrant officer refused to allow only one of us to be awarded- we each had done too much for the command for that to be appropriate.  He went to the colonel, said he'd fall on his sword.  And he lost.  The colonel decided instead that NO ONE would receive end of tour awards.  The following week, the S-3 received their NAMs that just happened to be already approved. For the final months, no Marines received any awards.  We had several ceremonies and formations for CIVILIAN employees, though.  That drove that point home.  Five years of my life was valued at a NavyCom level; but summed by someone best described (by all accounts) as an apathetic fucktard to be worth nothing.  For the petty annoyance of sought fairness and justice, we were told "Fine, YOU ALL LOSE".

I remember being 'truly, madly, deeply' in love with a boy from across the street.  Another non-commissioned officer peon in the barracks.  After two and a half years, we had forged a relationship that was from the movies.  You could call it a 'secret, persecuted' romance, but it really wasn't.  It was idyllic.  From every angle, I found it charged, sincere, wonderful.  Easy.  I had never been with someone that it was just so easy to be alive.  Before the NAM/NavyCom drama met its end, I knew it was time for us both to rotate out of our respective commands.  But he was going first, and I had the good graces of my CWO, who was friends with the monitor.  I was a good, hard worker.  If there was anywhere in the U.S. I wanted to go, and there was a spot available, *wink, wink* it was gonna' happen.  I proposed to my fiancé.  He got orders to Seattle.  There was an open spot in Ft. Lewis.  Half an hour away.  It was divine providence.  Perfect.  Absolutely perfect.  We would be able to retain our relationship in practically marital bliss even with DADT doing its best to ruin relationships like ours (and which was currently in the news as surveys were tossed at an insane rate around while President Obama worked towards having it removed all together).  The week before the monitor showed up in person to hear out all the people who would be shipped out with the building shutting down, my fiancé got word that his orders were changed.  Rumor had it, his monitor had a favor of his own to give, and someone else took Seattle out from under him.  He had orders in hand, if I remember correctly.  And they had no idea where they may send him.  My CWO already knew I wanted to go to Ft. Lewis.  I mentioned it.  Now I had no idea where I wanted to go.  Well, I knew where I wanted to go, but "with my fiancé" was still illegal to say.  By the time I sat down with the monitors, the last I heard was that they 'might' send him to Salt Lake City.  I asked the monitor, much to his annoyance (I suspect at the sudden and inexplicable change to plans), what was closest to Salt Lake City.  He said Portland.  I took it.  My fiancé was sent to Albuquerque.

I remember Portland, and those three words alone are a travesty.  It was a god damned incoherent nightmare.  The first year summed up the entire experience for me, as I often describe with an allusion to Game of Thrones' Eddard Stark character.  I showed up to die, something everyone knew from the start until me; I didn't know it until I realized my head was no longer on my shoulders.  I was the undisputable good guy.  That's not how this is supposed to work.  Before that, though, that single 'debatable' incident happened.  I was supposed to reconstruct a turn-over binder- actually, I was supposed to just update the turn over, but I was too dissatisfied with what I had to work with.  So go big!, fix all the things.  It took six months for my gunnery sergeant to pin me down and say he wanted it within a week or he'd take action against me.  In between, it was arbitrarily brought up and dismissed as in the works because, you know, there was real shit that had to be done.  He was gone, constantly, on TAD trips to the daughter companies of the battalion for inspections and reviews- along with the other gunny and the CWO.  When one left, the other often took leave.  They often took the other sergeants in the section, too.  I was the non-commissioned-officer-in-charge (NCOIC) by right of seniority and established as such by the bosses when I first showed up.  But since the bosses were often gone, it was as much a de facto thing as a title.  And with that came things to do.  I was already working two hours later than everyone else, trying to repair damage from predecessors who left- literally- years of work undone and hidden in drawers (we had 2nd Stage Audits never completed old enough that, technically, they no longer had to be retained; we could just 'burn them' and no one would ever know- and some Marines who had been promoted twice by now would never receive their first sets of earned money from the unit).  I didn't consider the turn-over binder a priority until gunny said I had a few days or 'doom'.  He chose the worst week to do so:  the middle of annual training.  We had reservists running around, and I was one of the ones depended upon to make things happen.  Even if I worked 24 hours every day for the time he listed, it would not be humanly possible.  I said it'd need to at least leave me to that purpose; he agreed but didn't deliver.  I got a 6105 page 11 counseling complaining that I didn't do it.  I submitted a rebuttal to it.  Seriously, a 6105 over a turnover binder (which was functional as it was; just not up to my personal standards- granted, the previous one was fine, too, as it was). 

I still have mixed feelings about the whole thing, but to be honest, I don't remember much of it.  I don't remember much of it because it wasn't on my mind.  I knew I had to do it, but I couldn't find the focus or time.  And I realized that I was too busy actively avoiding thinking about the DADT repeal and supreme court arguments about gay marriage in California.  Which kept bringing to mind my fiancé who was now 1,800 miles away.  Yeah, when you're deployed it's further, much more precarious, and for upwards of a year.  But he was going to be gone from me for three years at least, not for God and Country but for immaturity and bigotry, and- the real problem- it was illegal for me to seek counseling about it.  I remember when DADT was finally repealed that the CWO and other GySgt both came to me to remind me their spouses were separated, too.  I had the tact not to the point out that the CWO's husband was in FL by choice because that's where his job is and, of course, she has everyone to talk about it- I already knew because she- again- was already talking about it.  I had the tact to not point out to the GySgt that his relationship was split because he married a sergeant- explicitly fraternization- while she was still living in Missouri- even if you were more cavalier in trying to be together, you still couldn't until either of you had completed more time on station and it's not like you were separated- you married while already apart.  And, of course, by the way, you both receive $250 a month in family separations allowance.  Never mind you have all the friendship, sympathy and counseling in the world- you get paid to be apart, and enough to buy tickets to visit each other monthly- certainly bi-monthly.  I had nothing.  I was constantly being reminded I had nothing.  I actively had something:  depression, stress, and questionable self-worth.  The country was actively debating whether or not I deserved equal rights- whether or not I could be considered a moral person- whether or not I was even actually in a state of love.  If I was human enough for that.  I know that's pretty extreme and ridiculous, but people said (and earnestly believed) a lot of ridiculous things only a few short years ago.  And had no qualms talking about it openly- had the right to talk about it openly.  And I had no right to defend myself.  Indeed, I had to pretend like none of this applied to me.  If anything took up my time, it was playing that game.

Nevermind the corruption, the fraternization, the adultery, the actively hostile and manipulative machinations of my nemesis et al- Portland was fucked up for a lot of reasons.  By the end, despite our best efforts, I broke up with the fiancé.  I won't get into why; I won't put that on the 'Net, regardless how so much is being spoken to so few.  I am now dating someone else, and am happily in love again.  But that relationship, while I am over it itself, I can never forgive the military for destroying.  The reasons, I am confident, were exacerbated by distance.  The problems we encountered I don't think would ever have happened had we been in close proximity.  The erosion of our trust and affection, the numbing of our safety nets and social networks, the offenses against our actual personhood.  If we could just talk about it.  I had to get a shrink just to talk about some of the scarier moments when drastic and reckless actions were potentially life-threatening.  I was fine; but if my fiancé died, I knew I'd need to be prepared.  And that's what the relationship had become.  A force of nature I was enthralled in- not an active participant of.  Because we became victims to a malevolent force; not lovers.  Not fiancés.  Arguably not even people anymore.

I won't get into what happened afterwards, when I came to this place.  When I reenlisted, tried to be a recruiter, and was put through such emotional harassment and abuse that I was psychologically evaluated and discovered to have Asperger's Disorder (now melded into the Autistic Spectrum Disorder).  And how I went to my new command explaining that there was a psychological deficiency that made me incapable of doing this duty to the parameters necessary to do justice to the Corps, my applicants, my team, or myself.  The last part of this rant is when I learned that a package submitted to be removed from recruiting for 'Good of the Service' had an addendum to administratively separate me.  For Convenience of the Government.  For Condition other than a Disability. 

The now.

And the now is when I received some very fair advice from some very wonderful people in my life, namely to respect myself despite the disrespect of others, and to look at this as the perfect opportunity to remember what actually matters in life.

This package argues that I am neither worthy nor capable of being a Marine.  And that my discharge should reflect that.

The truth is, though, that I have too many memories of my own endurance, my own altruism, and my own leadership to really believe that.  That I have too many people who were influenced by my efforts to change the institution- what little change a sergeant can effect in places so engrossed in their own fetid, auto-fellating love for narcissistic laziness and cannibalism- and for the better.  I led Marines.  I fell on my own sword for them.  I loved them and my comrades- fell in love with one, for God's sake. 

I won't take this lightly.  I will fight it.  It's a matter of personal dignity, after all (also, there are some legal discrepancies I plan to criticize- I am a Sergeant of administration after all, come on people).  But I won't let the results get me down.  I have seen too many times struggles like these where the victor is based on everything but justice.  But that in itself is enough for me to accept that I should have stopped playing this game long ago.  I am proud of myself for trying to stay in to protect those who I had been charged so many times with helping, and trying to get to a place where I could change the scope of the military as a whole into what it claims to be- family, honor, duty, so on. 

But I am not incompetent.  I am not an incapable leader.  I am not unconfident.  I am not spineless.  I am not a mere inconvenience.

And I was, am, and forever will be worthy of the title I did in fact earn:  That I am a Marine.  Once, and always.