#another routinely tells (not asks) me to get in his car. he called me racist for telling him to eat a gun the other week.

[cuntwrap--supreme]

If people on my street/in my apartment don't stop catcalling me while I'm out walking my dog I'm going to start carrying rocks

[lucyintheskywithxanax]

Collide (vi.: to come together with solid or direct impact)

Pairing: Ally Mayfair-Richards x Fem Reader

Requested by anon: “i have a allyxfem!reader request.... i’d love to read something with prompt 40 (“Why are you scared of loving?”)”

A/N: so this is a short get-together fic that I hope you’ll like. I’m sorry anon it took me so long to write it; I cannot write for Ally for the life of me, it seems. x

Word count: 2 200

You bought her red wine. The nights when she would come back from DC and you would leave, you’d make sure there was a bottle of red wine waiting for her on the kitchen counter. Just so you would see her smile and pour herself a glass and sit on the couch. Sipping, relaxing.

But first she would check on Oz. She wouldn’t even take off her coat until she had bent over his bed and kissed his cheek. Brushed his blond curls from his eyes, pulled the cover over his shoulders.

Then she would open the red wine bottle. She would offer you a glass and you would refuse. Sometimes you would grab your coat and purse and leave. But sometimes, she would pat the couch as an invitation for you to sit by her side.

She would do most of the talking then, which was fine with you for you loved hearing her speak. She would tell you about her week on Capitol Hill, how the Senate had passed that one bill she had fought for, how “senator I-have-a-big-dick from Nevada” had tried to bribe her again.

“You said no, of course,” you laughed sleepily.

She nodded, raising her glass of wine and gesturing with her other hand. “I said no, of course.”

It was fascinating, you thought, how the Ally you knew talked with her hands but when you would turn on the TV and see her making a speech or answering questions, her hands would always be folded, on a table or against her stomach, and stay still. And how when she would get passionate about something she would speak very fast whereas the Ally you saw on TV, when sometimes you turned it on because you missed her and just wanted to see her, to hear her voice, always took time to breathe and made sure her pronunciation was perfect.

She had caught you once, sitting on the couch hugging your knees, eyes riveted on the TV screen as senator Ally Mayfair-Richards answered dumb questions from a dumb journalist. She came back home earlier than you expected, and you didn’t hear her over the sound of the TV and the sound of the longing in your heart.

Ally leaned in the doorway and smiled at the slightly sheepish look on your face. “Interesting thing you’re watching?” she teased.

You had muttered something in embarrassment, and she had winked at you, in that way she would always wink when she knew she had won. What had she won this time? Your heart, maybe. She must have known. Must have caught on the way you looked at her.

“I made you dinner,” you said as she took off her coat, not quite daring to meet her eyes.

Her face lit up. “You did? That’s so kind of you, sweetheart.”

You watched her as she sat down at the kitchen table and swallowed the first forkful. Her lips twisted into a half-amused, half-disgusted smile.

“Ok,” she laughed, grabbing a paper napkin to wipe her mouth, “ok, I mean – that was a nice try.”

“You’re just too good a cook,” you groaned. “I was doomed to fail even before I started making this.”

“It’s good,” she laughed, as she rinsed her mouth with a sip of red wine, “it’s so good.”

You rolled your eyes at her, trying to hide your blushing cheeks behind your hands, and she smiled, tongue between her teeth, and her eyes sparkled.

**

It had been rather strange, the way you and Ally had met. You had been running away from a toxic relationship after months of telling yourself you would never find anyone else. You were driving too fast, tears blurring your vision, and when finally you realized the traffic light had turned red you slammed on the brake but it was too late and you hit the car pulled up in front of you.

You liked to think it had been fate’s doing. Running away from sorrow only to slam right into love.

Ally came out of her car looking annoyed, but her expression softened when she saw your red eyes and drenched cheeks.

You had vaguely heard about her before. The racist lesbian who had shot a Mexican man and got away with it. The crazy woman who had been involved in a mass shooting. The brave woman who had survived a cult. The senator who wanted to change the world. You had loved seeing her rise. It had given you hope.

And here she was in front of you, flesh and bones, wearing skinny jeans and a dark grey sweater, looking vaguely dangerous, vaguely pissed, vaguely concerned.

You didn’t believe in love at first sight. You never had.

She asked you if you wanted to have a drink with her and you said yes. As you two sat across the table from each other, sipping coffee, Ally mentioned that she was looking for a new nanny for her son. You said you were currently unemployed.

It became a routine. Ally would spend a few days and sometimes the whole week in Washington DC and you would stay at her place to take care of Oz. He was a sweet, clever, obedient child. You grew fond of him and he grew fond of you. One day he said you were practically family. Another day he asked, “Are you in love with my mum?”

You brushed his blond curls back from his eyes to buy yourself time. Then you told him love was complicated. He asked you why. You gave him a tight smile, told him, You’ll understand when you’re older.

The truth was, you weren’t quite ready to trust again. And besides, Ally was ambitious. She wanted to shoot for the stars and fight for those who couldn’t fight. But you, you wanted to rest. Close your eyes, let your wounds heal. You thought perhaps the Ally you knew would want that, too, would want you. But the Ally on TV would never.

So you bought her red wine and sat with her on the couch and listened to her as she told you about her dreams and hopes. And if sometimes her hand would brush your thigh or if sometimes her eyes would linger on your lips, you didn’t think much of it. She was a politician. Part of her job consisted in seducing the whole world.

But then one night after she laughed at something you had said, she bit her lower lip, cocked her head to the side, glanced at your mouth. And you were about to stand up and say goodnight, but before you could do that, she put one hand on your cheek and kissed you.

Her mouth tasted of red wine. Her lips were slightly dry, and they were confident. She kissed you as if she were entirely convinced you would kiss her back. And you did, of course you did, for part of you had been wanting this for months. But then she slipped her free hand around your waist to pull you closer, and you broke the kiss and leaned away.

Ally removed her hand. Her eyes searched yours. “I’m sorry,” she said with a small, forced smile, tilting her head on one side. “Did I get this wrong?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed. You forced yourself not to glance down at her lips. “I don’t – I don’t know.”

Ally nodded. She averted her gaze, fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. She reached for her half-empty glass of wine and downed it.

You couldn’t decide whether she was angry or disappointed or both, so you mumbled a faint, shy, “Sorry”.

Ally shot you a sideways glance, shook her head. You stood up. “I should go now,” you mumbled, not daring to meet her eyes.

“Ok,” Ally replied.

“I, uh – goodnight.”

“I’ll need you again next week,” she called when you were in the corridor. You turned. She had stood up, too, was leaning in the doorway and watching you. Her arms were crossed against her chest, her face polite but guarded, just as she looked on TV. “If that’s fine with you,” she added.

“Of course.” Your voice was too hoarse. You cleared your throat. You vaguely wondered why your heart was beating so fast when it felt like it was dying of shame.

She looked exhausted, the next time you saw her. She went upstairs to give Oz a kiss as you heated up some leftovers for her. Then she collapsed on the couch with a groan, offering you a smile and a soft “Thank you” as you handed her her plate.

You stood awkwardly in front of her, not knowing what to do or say. Were you expected to leave? Did she want you to stay? Nervousness made your head buzz.

Ally ate half of her food, then set her plate on the coffee table.

“Why are you scared of loving?”

Your body stiffened. Ally’s voice had been firm, but not accusatory. She leaned forward, elbows digging into her thighs, as she eyed you curiously.

You cleared your throat and stared down at your hands.

“You know, Y/N,” Ally went on after a while, eyes boring into you, voice controlled as if she were making a speech, “fear is your worst enemy. It makes people do crazy things. Believe me, I know.” Her voice quavered on the last word.

You glanced at her, swallowed. Ally waited. She gave you a small smile and stood up.

“You need to get rid of it,” she said softly. She cupped your face in her hands, sending a shiver down your spine. “Once it’s gone, you’ll be invincible,” she breathed, eyes growing wide with a kind of excitement that seemed so wild it almost scared you.

Your lips parted open. You felt your body lean towards Ally’s as if some gravitational force was drawing you to her. Her perfume filled your head, something you didn’t quite recognize but which was strong and intoxicating, like the smell of coffee.

Her eyes were too big. You were falling into them, and it was terrifying. You didn’t know what lay at the bottom of the pit.

“I don’t know how,” you whispered.

Ally stroke her thumb over your lip. “Let me show you.” She smiled, dangerous but fond enough not to scare you. “Close your eyes.”

You hesitated. Searched her face, swallowed again. She could hurt you with your eyes closed. Hit you, laugh at you.

You decided you trusted her.

You closed your eyes and squeezed them tight. Your mouth was still opened, and you were breathing through it, quick, anxious breaths. Something warm pressed against it and captured your lower lip.

You sucked in a breath as your heart skipped a beat and beauty exploded in your head. The air that filled your lungs tasted of Ally. She licked your lip, playfully, the tip of her tongue warm and wet.

Your heart was throbbing in your fingertips. It seemed to be pushing you forward, a meteor desperate to crash against Ally and put an end to its aimless drifting; it seemed to be pushing you away, a meteor terrified of the damage such a crash would make. It would mean the end, the end of you and the end of her, and the beginning, of a new celestial body made of the pieces of the two of you.  

Ally sucked on your lower lip, and your breath hitched.

“The only way to make fear go away,” she whispered into your mouth, like pouring a secret inside you, “is to replace it with something else.”

Alright, you wanted to say, fine – but with what? Ally had replaced her fear with anger, and she was using that anger to change the world. But you? Anger would destroy you. You were not strong enough.

Your hand had moved up to rest on Ally’s cheek. You only became aware of it now, the warmth building under your palm, the softness of her skin under your fingertips. You moaned softly into the kiss, pressed your pelvis against Ally’s. She wrapped one arm around your waist to pull you closer still.

And as Ally’s lips moved so softly and so passionately against yours, as she sighed, almost in relief, you told yourself you knew exactly what to replace your fear with: love. And perhaps, with a bit of luck, your love would soothe Ally, and her anger would make you stronger.

Before you knew what you were doing, you were wrapping both your legs around Ally’s waist and she was carrying you, giggling into your mouth. You dug the heels of your feet into her butt, giggling too, pressing kisses after kisses on her mouth. She pressed your back against a door to push it open, and then you were lying on her bed and she was lying on top of you, mouth crashing against yours to devour you.

You shivered under her touch, guided her head to your neck. She planted hungry kisses on your skin, from your jaw to your collarbone. You closed your eyes - and in the dark behind your eyelids, you saw the stars.

Tag list:  @sapphicsarahpaulson @mssallymckenna @supremeinlilac @pluied-ete @rainbow-hedgehog @pearplate @angelxsarahp @paulawand @asktammyr @peggycarter-steverogers   @coconutlipss ​ @saucy-sapphic @thesupremewife @paulsonpills

[dark-and-twisty-01]

Allen, Louis - murder victim (1964)

A native of Amite County, Mississippi, born in 1922, Louis Allen dropped out of school in the seventh grade to become a logger and part-time farmer. Drafted by the U.S Army in January 1943, he served 19 months in uniform, including combat duty in New Guinea. Upon discharge from service, he returned to his wife and two young children, the beginning of a family that soon increased to six. Although a proud African American, Allen had no part in the civil rights movement that challenged Mississippi's pervasive system of racial segregation in 1961. He would become a martyr to that movement by coincidence, strictly against his will.

One who joined the Amite County movement willingly was 50 year old Herbert Lee, a member of the National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People (NAACP) and participant in the 1961 voter-registration drive by Robert Moses of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. Blacks who sought to vote in Amite County faced intimidation and worse, from racist vigilantes and from Sheriff E.L. Caston Jr., whose deputies raided NAACP meetings and confiscated membership lists. A neighbour of Lee's farmer E.W. Steptoe, led the local NAACP chapter and complained to the U.S. Department of Justice about Caston's harassment. On September 24, 1961, Justice attorney John Doar visited Amite County with Robert Moses, interviewing Steptoe and requesting names of any other blacks who had suffered harassment. Herbert Lee's name was first on the list, but Doar missed him that afternoon, as Lee was called away from home on business. There would never be another chance for them to meet. Early on September 25, the day after Doar returned to Washington, Lee drove a truckload of cotton to the gin near Liberty, Mississippi. Behind him, as he pulled into the parking lot, was another vehicle occupied by state legislator E.H. Hurst and his son in law, Billy Caston. An argument ensued between Hurst and Lee and climaxed when Hurst drew a pistol and shot Lee once in the head, killing him instantly. Robert Moses later described the event and its aftermath to journalist Howard Zinn. 

Lee's body lay on the ground that morning for two hours, uncovered, until they finally got a funeral home in McComb to take it in. Nobody in Liberty would touch it. They had a coroner's jury that very same afternoon. Hurst was acquitted. He never spent a moment in jail...I remember reading very bitterly in the papers the next morning, a little item on the front page of the McComb Enterprise-Journal said that a Negro had been shot as he was trying to attack E.H. Hurst. And that was it. Might have thought he'd been a bum. There was no mention that Lee was a farmer, that he had a family, nine kids, beautiful kids, and that he had farmed all his life in Amite County. 

One witness to the shooting was Louis Allen, who arrived at the cotton gin moments before Lee was killed. He watched Lee die, then saw a second white man lead E.H. Hurst to a nearby vehicle, whereupon they departed from the scene. Allen retreated to a nearby garage, where one of Liberty's white residents located him and walked him back to the cotton gin. En route to the crime scene, Allen's escort told him, 'They found a tire iron in that nigger's hand. They found a piece of iron, you hear?' 

Allen knew better, but he had a wife and four children to consider. Within the hour, he found himself at the county courthouse, where a coroner's hearing had been hastily convened. White men armed with pistols packed the hearing room, glaring at Allen as he took the witness stand and lied under oath, confirming the tale that Herbert Allen had been armed, assaulting E.H. Hurst when he was shot. The jury wasted no time in returning the verdict of 'justifiable homicide.' Hurst subsequently told the New York Times that he had quarrelled with Lee over $500 debt, which Lee refused to pay. When Lee attacked him with the tire iron.' Instead, he had struck Lee with the trigger unconsciously.' Hurst denied Lee's civil rights activity, dubbing his victim ' a smart nigger' who normally avoided conflict with whites. Guilt-ridden by his false testimony, Allen confessed the lie to his wife and to Robert Moses. Elizabeth Allen described the conversation in a 1964 affidavit, as follows:

The day Herbert Lee was killed, Louis came home and said that they wanted him to testify that Herbert Lee had a piece of iron. He said that Herbert Lee didn't have no iron. But he said for his family and for his life he had to tell that he had an iron. Louis told me that he didn't want to tell no story about the dead, because he couldn't ask them for forgiveness. They had two courts about Herbert Lee's killing. When they had the second court, Louis did not want to testify. He said he didn't want to testify no more that a man ad a piece of iron when he didn't have it, but he said he didn't have no choice, he was there and he had to go to court. He said he told the FBI the truth, that Herbert Lee didn't have a piece of iron when he was shot

The 'second court' was a state grand jury hearing, convened in Amite County a month after Lee was shot. Allen approached Robert Moses, reporting that he had told his story to FBI agents, suggesting that he could get protection with the Justice Department he would testify truthfully and 'let the hide go with the hair.' Moses then telephoned Washington, and heard from Justice that 'there was no way possible to provide protection for a witness at such a hearing' )In fact, such protection is routinely offered to witnesses in organised crime cases and similar matters.)  Allen went on to repeat his false story before the grand jury, which returned no indictments. 

Things went from bad to worse for Allen after that, as Amite County whites apparently learned of his abortive effort to tell the truth. Strangers visited Allen's home and accosted his children, threatening his life. In June 1962 Allen was arrested on trumped up charges of 'interfering with the law'; he spent three weeks in jail, and was threatened with lynching, and suffered a broken jaw after one of Sheriff Caston's deputies struck him with a flashlight. White customers stopped buying logs from Allen, and local merchants cut off his credit at various stores. Only his ailing mother kept Allen from leaving Amite County, but her death in late 1963 freed him at last. Eagerly, Allen made plans to leave Mississippi for Milwaukee, where his brother lived.

Unfortunately, he had already waited too long. On January 1st, 1964, one of Allen's white creditors stopped at the house to collect a bill payment. While Allen counted out the money, his visitor pointed to Allen's three year old daughter playing nearby, and remarked, 'It would be mighty bad if she turned up burnt, wouldn't it? She's an innocent baby, but she could get burnt up just like that. I could tell you more, but I'm not. If I was you I would get my rags together in a bundle and leave here.'

Resolved to do exactly that, on January 31, 1964, Allen sought work references from some of his former clients. The first, Melvin Blalock, declined to provide a letter, concerned that he 'might be helping a communist.' Another, Lloyd King, later recalled speaking to Allen around 8:10 pm. Two cars were seen trailing Allen's pickup when he left King's farm, driving home. At the foot of his long driveway, Allen left his truck to open the gate, then apparently threw himself under the vehicle. The move failed to save him, as two shotgun blasts ripped into his face. Son Henry Allen found his father's body hours later, when he returned from a dance.

No suspects in Louis Allen's murder were never identified, but Robert Moses placed partial blame for the slaying on the FBI's doorstep. Moses and other activists believed that G-men routinely leaked the contents of confidential statements to local police in civil rights cases, thus leaving witnesses vulnerable to attack by racist authorities or the vigilante Ku Klux Klan. The segregationist McComb Enterprise-Journal theory in its description of the murder, noting that 'Strictly non-documented rumours have been current that Allen may have become a 'tip-off man' for the integration-minded Justice Department. Similarly, of the spearheads of a reported complaint that 'economic pressure' being applied against some Amite County Negroes.'

[dottie-wan-kenobi]

A @batfam-christmas-stocking fic written for @solarcelest!! happy holidays <3

----

Picking Damian up from school isn’t something Tim can truthfully say sounds fun. It’s even worse seeing as Damian, grounded after going on patrol with four broken fingers and despite being told to stay home, is without a phone and has no idea it’s Tim coming today instead of Alfred. He’s taken the same car Alfred always uses, though, so he figures it’ll be fine up until the kid gets in and sees Tim.

He waits out the ungodly 30 minutes for the bell to ring playing games on his phone. Alfred had said to go even earlier if he wanted a good spot, but he’d waited until what felt like the last second. He didn’t get a great spot but Damian should still be able to see the car fine.

Eventually, Damian steps out of the school. Tim sets down his phone to watch, curious what Damian is like around people other than their family members and other heroes. He knows Dick, Steph, Duke, and maybe even Cass have seen that side of the kid, but Tim never has.

The other kids swarm out around him. He’s alone, dressed in his stiff school uniform. He looks up, and for a moment, his face is smooth and relaxed, none of the angry little wrinkles Tim is used to seeing. He looks…relieved, maybe. Tired. Happy the school day is over.

Yeah, Tim gets that.

He turns the engine once Damian spots the car and makes his way over with a lightness in his step. It’s honestly kind of cute, but Tim isn’t about to admit that to anyone.

Halfway there, another kid stops Damian as he walks by her, physically moving into his path. She’s taller and probably older, and she looks familiar to Tim in a way he’s come to realize means he must know her older sibling.

For a few minutes, they talk, and though Tim can read lips, they’re too far away, at a bad angle. He can read their body language just fine, though. Whatever she’s saying, it’s pissing Damian off.

For a brief moment, Tim entertains the idea of getting out of the car and going to get Damian himself. Rescue him from whatever is going on here, that’s making his face turn red and his fists to clench. But he knows it wouldn’t be appreciated, and honestly can’t blame Damian for that—Tim wouldn’t have wanted that either. It’s embarrassing, having to have an older sibling come and save you from bullies. If that’s even what’s happening here.

He decides to watch, and if it seems like any tears are going to be shed on either side, or fists are about to start flying, he’ll intervene.

In the end, Damian gets away from the girl, roughly pushing past her, and storms over to the car without Tim having to do anything.

Damian opens the door, flings his backpack in, and follows just as roughly. He closes the door and buckles up without looking over even once, then says, “Alfred, I— Timothy ?”

“Sup,” Tim says awkwardly. He isn’t expecting this to go well, and maybe he should preemptively try to not piss Damian off, but he can’t help it. He’s still getting used to being the kind of big brother Dick is, and so far, it’s been far easier with Duke than Damian. They get along better these days, but that isn’t saying much, really.

“Where is Alfred?” Damian demands.

“He had to take Duke to see his therapist and asked me to come get you. You strapped?”

“You can clearly see that I am.” Yup, definitely pissed.

“Just making sure!” Tim sighs and pulls out of the space, joining the long line of people also trying to leave the roundabout-like parking lot. After a few minutes of tense silence, they’ve barely made it half way out. Tim taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “How long does this usually take?”

“If you had gotten a better spot,” Damian says, mutinously glaring out the window, his arms crossed tight against his chest, “then we could have been gone already.”

Don’t argue with him, Tim, he tells himself. He’s just a kid. School is stressful, even without potential bullying. Don’t argue.

“ I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you can’t even do that right .”

“Look, Dami,” Tim says, much too loud. He has to force himself to lower his voice, but it’s too late—he can already see Damian clenching his jaw in the mirror. “I was just trying to help by coming here, okay? Otherwise, you would’ve been called out of school early, and had to sit around for an hour while Duke was—”

“That would have been preferable to being stuck here with you!”

Damian’s voice rings out just as Tim gets out on the road, and for a moment, neither of them speak.

“Damian.”

“This is unacceptable! Alfred is the one to pick me up. I don’t want anyone else. Just Alfred. And certainly not you . Why couldn’t it have been Richard? Or Stephanie?”

“Dick’s in New York with the Titans, and Steph is in class right now,” Tim says, fingers tight on the wheel. He’s glad Damian isn’t slinging insulting nicknames around yet, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

“Tt. So of course you’re all that’s left.”

“Yeah, it looks like it.”

They go back to glaring out their respective windows. As they take the winding road back to Bristol, Tim weighs the merits of attempting to figure out what happened. It’ll probably only upset Damian further, but dammit, Dick would ask. Jason would, too. Cass would’ve already figured out what was eating Damian without having to ask, but she would do it anyway. Open up the communication lines, Tim’s therapist and Alfred and Clark all say.

Slowly, he asks, “Is this tantrum because of what that girl was saying to you?”

“I am not having a tantrum, and it doesn’t matter what that wench said!”

“Right, so you’re shouting at me because you’re totally cool, calm, and collected and not at all upset?”

“Yes,” Damian seethes. “Congratulations on noticing the obvious.”

“If I was stating the obvious, I would say that whatever she said upset you and then the disruption of your routine made it worse, and now you’re taking it out on me because I’m the most convenient target.”

“I am not upset!”

“Fine, okay,” Tim gives in. Pushing isn’t going to help. “You’re not upset. Whatever.”

“No, I am not.” Damian pauses, and then he bursts, “ It doesn’t matter what she said, anyway, because all it was was a bunch of drivel about how Father only took me in to look good to the society people, just another one of his charity cases . But that’s not true! I know it’s not! Father cares about me and he took me in because he is my father and it was the right thing to do, not because of...that. That’s ridiculous and wrong!”

Oh. Oh, shit. Poor kid, Tim thinks. He was bullied, too, and he knows how much it hurts. Fuck, he needs to find out who this girl is so he can figure out a way to get her to leave Damian the fuck alone. Jason will help.

“And I wanted to talk to Alfred about it, because he…has a good sense of how to parse these things, how to react to them in a way that is befitting of someone like me ,” Damian says, diplomatic and on the verge of tears. “But instead, I am forced to talk to you, as if you could be of any aid at all!”

“I used to get bullied,” Tim offers. “I know something about how it feels. And you’re right, none of that is true. It’s all elitist, racist bullshit that she’s probably copying from her parents who are jealous Bruce has more money than them.”

“Of course it is. I know that. I don’t need you to pathetically try and comfort me, Timothy.”

Tim forces a sigh down before it can get out. No, Damian doesn’t need him, and would probably be much better off with Alfred, Dick, or Steph. But right now, he’s only got Tim, and clearly this talking thing is working out. “I know.”

They’re getting close to home, but he still turns on the radio to a song he knows Damian likes. At least it gives them both a reason not to keep talking.

[mychemicalimagines]

Happens Like That-Jim Halpert-Chapter 2

Summary: Jim Halpert and Melissa Ford have been best friends since he started at Dunder Mifflin in 1999. Now that a camera crew is following the employees around so they can film a documentary, do they finally tell each other their feelings? Or do they just let them go? Either way, what will become of these two best friends? 

Warnings: Cussing and Smut in later chapters.

Words: 4890

Tag List: @you-a-southpaw-doll @elskinner45 @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl

A/N: I love that you guys are liking this. Please leave comments on what you think. If you guys don’t want me to finish this, I won’t continue. If you would like to be tagged please message or submit an ask.

Melissa’s POV - Same Day, Just Later in the Evening

By the time I get home, half an hour has already passed since I clocked out and left work.  I’m still going to Jim’s house but I wanted to change into something more comfortable. I walk upstairs to my room and change into a tank top and a pair of jeans before I look in the mirror. I brush my hair quickly before putting on a pair of sneakers.

I smile when I see how good I look, and feel proud of myself. I make sure everything is in place and that I look comfortable and ready to hang out, but also making sure I don’t look like I tried too hard. This isn’t the first time I’m going to Jim’s  house. About a year after he started at DM, we started hanging out almost every day of the week. 

We have our routine, doing things we both enjoy. And, most of the time, as long as we’re hanging out, we’re doing something we enjoy. He’s just about the only person I hang out with. Mondays, we sit together and watch basketball, nine times outta ten, it’s at his place since he has the DVR and the bigger TV. 

I’m not a huge basketball fan, but I watch the Philly 76ers with him so we have a chance to hang out. I’m not gonna lie, I’ve come to understand certain things about the sport and appreciate it ‘cause it means I get to spend time with Jim. Since I’ve started getting more into basketball, Jim has offered and has been teaching me how to play for going on three and a half months now. 

It’s been fun, and I might’ve not been the best at the beginning, but I’m getting better! Tuesdays...well, those are our taco nights. We get together at my house and make tacos, usually watching a movie afterwards. Sometimes, we try new types of tacos, or we stick to the good old fashioned ones, like beef tacos, which just so happen to be my favorite, with some guacamole on the side. 

One time, Jim suggested that we try shrimp tacos...let’s just say that didn’t turn out too well and we ended up going to taco bell that night. It was a learning experience, to say the least. Fridays are our movie and dinner nights, with us switching houses every other week. One week it’ll be my place and I pick the movie while he picks what we’re having for dinner. 

The next week, it’ll be at his place and he picks the movie, leaving dinner up to me. This week just so happens to be a little different. I couldn’t make up my mind on what I wanted for dinner, so we agreed I’d pick the movie and he’d get dinner, but we’d still have it at his place. After our movie ends and dinner has been cleaned up, we usually spend the night at the other’s house, just sleeping, nothing more...yet... hopefully one day. 

If I stay at his place, he offers me his bed while he sleeps on the couch. I felt bad the first few times, but he assured me it’s ok. At my place, he insisted I keep my bed and he sleeps on the couch. We do this every Friday night  because on Saturdays we go to the local bar and have a few drinks. And it’s better to go to one destination and be safe than go to two and possibly get hurt in one way or another. 

So, I guess technically, we spend two nights a week together, but we don’t ever cross that line. Yet. The other days of the week are random. Usually, it just depends on how tired or busy we are after work. Sometimes, we’ll hang out, and other times, we’ll just part ways at our cars and go home or run errands or whatever it is we need to do. 

To be honest, if I’m not with him, I usually just stop by McDonald’s or something, grab a bite to eat and go home to take a nap. I have no idea what he does when we’re not hanging out, but it’s ok. I stop at BlockBuster and grab the last copy of the movie he talked about wanting to see today. As I drive toward his house, I see a flower stand on the side of the road. 

I smirk to myself and pull over. Last week, Jim came over for Taco Tuesday and brought me some flowers. It was a really sweet gesture and made me smile. Now it’s my turn to return the favor. I turn off my car and step out, making sure I grab my keys and wallet. Walking right up to the stand, I take a look at the different types of arrangements, colors, and floral designs. 

After a few minutes, I pick up a little thing of cute flowers and walk over to the sweet looking, little old woman running the stand. 

“Oh what’s the occasion?” She asks as she rings up my flowers.

“Just getting a friend some flowers.” 

I smile, and hand her a slightly faded, and worn, ten dollar bill that’s more than enough to cover the cost. She nods, takes the money and hands me my change. I put it in my wallet before grabbing the flowers. Getting inside my car, I make sure the flowers are safe in my passenger’s seat, not before starting my car. 

I drive for ten more minutes to get to Jim’s house, before I carefully pull into his driveway since there’s a big dip at the end of it. The city says it’s to help with water runoff when it rains so it lessens the chance for the roads to flood. His car is usually parked on the left and my car will be parked on the right, just like it is today. 

He joked the other day that this was my parking spot and no one is allowed to park here. And I mean, no one. It doesn’t matter who they are. If they’re not me, then they can’t park here. Jim’s rules, not mine. Last year, Jim had a small BBQ and invited everyone from work. Michael showed up a little earlier than I did and Jim made him move his car before I got there. 

No one understood why it was such a big deal. The big deal was 1) it was my spot, and 2) because I was more than likely sleeping over that night. I did sleep over, but I made sure to help him clean everything up since I helped him cook the night before. That was what kind of, officially, started us staying at each other’s house on a somewhat regular basis.

I turn off my car and grab the flowers from the seat next to me. I step out and  grab my ‘Sleepover at Jim’s’ duffle bag that I keep in my back seat. I hold the flowers behind my back and walk toward his front door. I have no idea why I am so nervous. 

I’ve been here a million times in the last 5 years! I put my duffle bag down and knock on the door. A few seconds later, Jim answers.

“Mel!” He smiles, seeming to be almost shocked it’s me and not someone else.

“Who else?” I giggle and all the nervousness washed away, just like that. I lean against the doorway and ask, “Who else could it have been?”

“The delivery guy. I was hoping the food would get here before you.” He says. He notices my hand behind my back and looks a little confused. “Umm, what is that?” He points.

I smile widely and pull them out. “Daisies.”

He chuckles. “Is this because I brought you sunflowers?”

I shrug and giggle as he lets me in. He grabs my duffle bag for me and I walk straight into his kitchen. Reaching  into one of his cabinets, I grab one of the small vases that I know his mom has probably given him over the years. She has a habit of giving him flowers at least twice a year - Valentine’s Day, ‘cause she feels everyone deserves flowers and she knows he’s been single for a while,  and his birthday. 

The flowers on his birthday have been a tradition since Jim’s grandma died when he was little. She’d always give him a couple flowers on his birthday and his mom kept the tradition up. I fill it up with water and put the daisies inside. He walks in right as I set the  vase on the counter and turn around to face him. 

***

Diversity Day

Monday morning, I’m the first one in the office. This isn’t necessarily rare but being here before Dwight got in was. Dwight is usually always the first person in the office. Yesterday, though, Michael called me and asked for me to be in the office at eight instead of nine. At first, I had no idea why he’d have me come in an hour earlier, but I didn’t question it.

I now know it is because a gentleman, from corporate,  by the man of ‘Mr. Brown’, is going to be coaching us through what Diversity really is. He’s also gonna tell us what we can and can’t say about races and such while we are in the office. We all know the reason is because Michael can say some things that are counted as racist, sexist, and even homophobic at times, and not even realize it. 

I sigh to myself and hang up my jacket. I go into the conference room and start putting the chairs out for everyone.  Should I put one out for Jim or is he going to stand today? I decide to put one out for him just so he has a chance to sit this time. I hear the door to the office open so I glance out the door. 

When I see Jim, I grin from ear to ear and wave him over to where I’m at. He drapes his jacket over the back of his chair and walks to me.

“Hi.” He says, his voice still laced with sleep, as he flashes me a smile.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Late night?” I tease, knowing we both stayed up late last night, texting about random stuff. Mainly about me having to get up early in the morning and that’s why I couldn’t go watch the new Star Wars movie. 

He chuckles slightly and nods. “I thought you could use some help.” 

He puts his hands in his pockets and leans against the doorway.

“Well...I could use the help moving the table.” I point over my shoulder at the table in the middle of the room.

“You got it!” He says, walking over and grabbing one side of said table.

I grab the other side and we lift the table. We walk it over to the side of the room toward the windows and set it down slowly. 

“Thanks. I didn’t wanna have to drag it over.” I giggle slightly. 

He smiles. “It’s no problem, Mel. What else do you have to do?” 

After another half hour of moving things around the room, and getting everything set up, he helps me put up a banner that Mr. Brown sent over. The banner says ‘Diversity Day’. Hopefully the room is the way he wants. Just as Jim helps me down from a chair, the front door opens. Jim and I walk out into office around to see who it is. 

A middle-aged, nice looking, in the sense he seems nice, African American gentleman walks in.

“Hello.” I say, sweetly. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Mr. Brown. I’m doing a lesson today?”

“Yes! Hi, I’m Melissa. I’m Michael’s Assistant!” I put my hand out and he shakes it, smiling.

He looks at Jim. “And you are..?”

“I’m Jim Halpert. I’m one of the Salesmen here.” Jim says, putting his hand out for Mr. Brown to shake. 

“Nice to meet you,” He says, and looks in the conference room where Jim and I just finished everything.

“Wow. You guys did that?”

“Yeah. We came in early to make sure you had room and-” I start saying.

“It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

No One’s P.O.V.

He walks into the conference room and starts setting up the items he brought. About an hour later, everyone arrives at the office, and Michael walks up to Mr. Brown.

“Hey, uh, can I help you in here?” He asks, clearly not really interested in helping.

Mr. Brown looks up, “I’m all set, thanks.”

Michael nods, “Gotcha, good. I’d go with the rows. Good idea.”

“Oh, Melissa and Jim set that up. I’m setting up the papers and the rest of the stuff I brought.” Mr. Brown says, before turning back to the table.

Michael nods and walks out. He pats Jim on the back and gives Melissa a thumbs up. They both smile and Jim continues his sales call.

“That's the thing. It's very sturdy paper and on the back it says, ‘100% post-consumer content.’ What?” The sound of a shredder is heard throughout the office, making Mel look up. “Hello? Uh-huh. Wait. What? I'm sorry, Mr. Decker. I think I'm losing you.” Dwight is shredding all his old paperwork he doesn’t need, at a most inconvenient time nonetheless. “Hello? Hello? Yeah. Hold on one second. I don't know. Hold on one second.” Jim puts the gentleman on the other end of the phone on hold and looks at Dwight. “Do you really have to do that now?”

“Yes I do! I should have done this weeks ago.” Dwight says, putting another piece of paper into the shredder.

Jim takes the gentleman off hold. “Mr. Decker, I'm sorry about that. What were you…” Dwight puts another paper in the shredder. “Can you hold on one second? Yeah, just one second. Thanks.”  Jim reaches over and flips the switch on the power supply, making the shredder shut down. “Hello? That's it. Perfect. So what I was saying…” 

Dwight reaches over and pushes a button to end the phone call. Mel’s eyes widen, not actually believing that Dwight just did that to a customer, or to Jim for that matter. 

“Hello? Thanks, Dwight.” Jim sighs as he puts the phone down.

“Retaliation. Tit for tit.” Dwight says, smirking a little.

“That’s not the expression.” Jim says, sighs. 

The roaring of the shredder starts once more as Dwight pushes the button on the power supply again.

“Well... it should be.” Dwight comments, as he continues to shred his papers.

Jim sighs and looks up when the camera guy pats his shoulder. 

“Hey, come do an interview.” He says.

Jim nods and stands up, pushing in his chair. He glances up at Mel and rolls his eyes. She giggles and looks at Pam.

Melissa’s POV

“I’m going to go talk with Michael about what is gonna happen with my wedding and stuff, okay?” She asks.

“That’s fine. I’ll be here. Checking emails.” I smirk, pulling up Solitaire on the computer.

She giggles, walking around me, toward Michaels office. I start playing Solitaire and when I’m halfway done, Jim walks out of the conference room and straight over to my desk. He leans down, resting his cheek against his hand. 

“Solitaire?” He asks.

I nod. “Freecell.”

He watches for a second and then points. “Six on seven.

“I know. I saw that.” I tease but don’t move the cards.

“So...then...why didn’t you do it?”

“I’m saving that ‘cause I like it when the cards go ‘t-ts-ts-tch-tch-tch’.” I giggle as I move another card on the computer.

“Who doesn’t love that?” Jim chuckles slightly. 

I blush and continues to play my game when Pam walks back. Jim hears his phone rings, he runs over and answers the phone call.

“Mr. Decker! Hello!”

Michael walks out of his office, a few minutes later, with Mr. Brown walking out of the conference room. Michael walks right over to Oscar and starts to talk. Mr. Brown tells Michael he’s ready for us.

“Oh hey, well, diversity, everybody. Let’s do it. Oscar works in...umm  Jim? Could you wrap it up please?”

I look confused as I grab my usual notebook. Doesn’t he want Jim to get this sale? This is one of Jim’s biggest sales. He should be able to finish it. I stand up and walk over to Jim’s desk as Michael goes walks toward the conference room but stops and turns back.

“Yeah, uh, Mr. Decker, please.” Jim says, glancing up.

Michael glances at the camera as he speaks to Jim. “It’s diversity day, Jim. I wish every day was diversity day.” He flashes a smile at the camera.

Jim sighs. “You know what? I’m actually going to have to call you back. Thank you. Sorry about that.” He hangs up and stands.

I whisper. “I’m sorry, Jim.” 

He just puts his hand on my lower back and ushers me toward the conference room. I smile a little at the feeling of his hand on my back. When we get to the conference room, we head to where we normally sit, closer to the back corner and by the windows that look into the main office area. I sit down and Jim sits to my left. 

A few minutes later, Mr. Brown collects the cards he had us fill out. 

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Great.” He murmurs, politely, as he collects the cards from each of us.

“Come on, people! Let’s get ‘em in! Get in the cards! Get in the cards!” Michael says, clapping his hands together in an attempt to hurry us along. 

Mr. Brown on the other hand is soft spoken, and very patiently with us. Once he has all the cards collected, he puts them together and then tucks them in with his stuff. He turns to face us, addressing us in a still much softer tone than Michael’s.

“Thanks for filling these out and I promise this’ll be quick. At Diversity Today, our philosophy is about honesty and positive expectations. We believe that 99% of the problems in the workplace arise simply out of ignorance.” Mr. Brown starts. 

Michael cuts him off from the rest of his speech.

“You know what? This is a color-free-zone here. Stanley, I don’t look at you as another race.” He points to the only other African American in the room.

“Uh, see this is what I’m talking about. We don’t have to pretend we’re color-blind.” Mr. Brown says, looking over at Michael.

They start arguing over ignorance of the situation and I glance over at Jim. He leans back in his chair and puts his arm around me, resting it on the top of my chair. I open my notebook to a blank page. I reach and grab a pen I have attached to the notebook when a hang reaches out. I look and see Jim grabbing the pen before I could. 

Because he is right handed his lines are messy, but he draws a tic-tac-toe board. He puts a messy X in the middle of the board. I giggle quietly and takes the pen from him. I put an O in the top right corner. He stares at the board before taking the pen and putting an X in the middle left box. I smirk to myself and takes the pen. 

I put an O under my last one, cutting off Jim from winning. He breathes hard from his nose and stares at the board. He grabs the pen and puts an X in the top middle box. His eyes widen after realizing what he has done. I giggle again quietly and takes the pen before putting an O in the bottom left corner, marking me as the winner.

I glance up and sighs when I hear Kevin citing something. I realize he’s horribly butchering the Chris Rock skit that Michael tried to impersonate the other day. I shake my head and sigh. This is going to get bad quick!  Michael cuts off Kevin from the Chris Rock skit, and tried to recite it himself. Mr. Brown tries to stop him. 

He does so by trying to cut him off.  Jim’s desk phone starts ringing and he quickly looks over. I look over at him.

“That better not be Mr. Decker,” I whisper.

He glances at me and nods.

He whispers, “It is more than likely.”

“Now, this is a simple acronym. HERO. Uh, at Diversity Today, we believe it is very easy to be a HERO. All you need is honesty, empathy, respect and open-mindedness.” Mr. Brown continues. 

“Excuse me.” Dwight cuts in. “I’m sorry, but that’s not all it takes to be a hero.”

Mr. Brown raises an eyebrow. “Oh great. Well, what is a hero to you?”

“A hero kills people, people that wish him harm.” Dwight says, as if it is obvious.

“Ok.” Mr. Brown stares at him for a minute.

“A hero is part-human and part-supernatural. A hero is born out of a childhood trauma or out of a disaster that must be avenged.” Dwight continues.

“Oh, you’re thinking of a superhero.” Mr. Brown says. 

“We all have a hero in our heart.”

Mr. Brown doesn’t acknowledge Dwight’s comment, but instead picks up a stack of papers from the podium and starts handing them out, while explaining, “Now, I need you to take these forms. This kind of expresses the joint experience we had today. And I need you to look 'em over and sign them as kind of a group pledge.”

I stand up, reaching forward to take a few so Jim and I can get out of here. Michael walks over to Mr. Brown and starts whispering. I grab two pieces of paper and hands Jim one. I sit back down and uses the pen from my notebook to sign my name. I hand the pen over to Jim and he quickly signs his name. 

Standing up, he takes the paper from my hand and walks over to Mr. Brown. I stand and walk out of the room. Jim runs out of the room and quickly over to his desk phone. He picks it up and listens to his voicemail. He sighs and nods at me. It was Mr. Decker. He quickly calls him back.

“Yeah, hi. Is Mr. Decker around? Oh. Well, could you just have him call me after lunch? Thank you.” He hangs up and sighs, leaning back into his chair. 

I reach over and moves his hair from his eyes.

“It’s okay Jim. You’ll talk to him after lunch and you’ll get the sale.” I smile slightly.

“You think so?” He looks up at me.

I nod and sighs when I hear the receptionist phone start ringing. Pam walks quickly out of the conference room and to our desk.

***

About an hour later I’m talking with Pam about her wedding plans when Michael walks out of the conference room. He calls us over so everyone in the room stands up and walks into the office. Jim waits for me. I walk up behind Toby and Jim steps into line behind me.

“All right? Everyone pretty? Come on. Here we go. It’s time. Let’s do some good.” Michael says, ushering us into the conference room.

“Hey, we’re not all going to sit in a circle Indian Style are we?” Toby says, laughing.

Michael says, with a straight face, “Get out.” 

Toby’s eyes widen, “I’m sorry.”

“No this is not a joke, okay? That was offensive and lame. So double offensive. This is an environment of welcoming and you should just get the hell out of here.” Michael says, pointing out the door. 

Toby sighs and turns, gently pushing past me and Jim. He walks out of the room and back over to his desk.

“Let’s go! Let’s do it. Come on. Let’s have some fun, everybody. Here we go. Take a seat. Cop a squat.” Michael says energetically.

Jim and I sit next to each other once again, but I didn’t bring my notebook this time. I am instantly regretting this. I lean back in my chair and cross my arms.

“Uh, thanks for coming in. Um Diversity...is the cornerstone of progress as I’ve always said. But don’t take my word for it. Let’s take a look at the tape.” Michael says leaning against a tv that was rolled in the room. 

He starts the tape and he comes onto the screen, standing in front of our Dunder Mifflin sign. I roll my eyes discreetly and watch tv. I tone out some of video because I know it was going to be boring but I look up when I hear something about Abe Lincoln.

“Abraham Lincoln once said that, ‘If you’re a racist, I will attack you with the North.’ And those are the principles that I carry with me in the workplace.” the video says.

Michael turns off the tv and looks at us. 

“Ok. Questions? Comments? Anybody?” Jim raises his hand. “Jim?”

“Uh, is that it?” He asks.

Michael nods, “Yes. I only had an hour to put it together but I’m going to add on to it later on.”

As time goes on, Kelly leaves, and Michael tries to get us to explain what race and nationality we are. I look over at Jim and sighs. He nods and uncrosses his arms.  He puts an arm behind me resting on my chair as we watch everything that is going on in the office. After Oscar and Michael fight over nationalities, we hear Jim’s phone go off. 

He quickly stands up and runs out of the room.

“Jim! Jim!” Michael sighs and holds up a board with note cards on it. “I have something here. I want you to take a card and put it on your fore-” He notices someone going to look at the card. “Don’t look at the card! I want you to take the card and put it on your forehead. Take a card, any card.” 

I stand up from my seat when Michael walks over to me.

“Take your card.” 

I stare at him for a second. “No.” 

I walk out of the room to Jim’s desk. I hear Michael say something like, ‘Okay..I knew that was coming’. I lean against his desk as he puts down the phone.

“Was it him?” 

He shakes his head no. “Nope. Someone trying to get prices on paper.” He sighs and leans back in his seat again. 

“It’s okay Jim. He’ll call.” I smile. “Come on. Lets listen to how stupid Michaels Diveristy Day is going.” He smiles a little and stands up. 

We walk the few steps to the door and listens in. I notice that Stanley has the card ‘Black’. Dwight has ‘Asian’. Pam has ‘Jewish’. I overhear Michael talking to Pam, who just tried to explain Dwight’s to him. She didn’t do a very good job.

I look at Jim confused. He just shrugs and we continue to watch. After a few minutes, Jim’s phone starts to ring again. He turns and quickly sits down, picking up the phone. 

He talks for a few minutes.

“Mr. Decker, we didn’t lose your sale today, did we? Excellent. Ok Let me just get your..what’s that?” He pauses. I bite my lip in anticipation. “No, we didn’t close last time. I just need your...Oh...W-what code were you given? Oh, ok. That’s actually another salesman here. I can redo it if you want that. Oh, he gave you a discount? No I don’t blame you.” He says goodbye and hangs up. 

I sigh and rub his back. “I’m sorry, Jim.” 

He looks up at me. He opens his mouth to speak but looks down. He stands up, opening his drawer where he kept the champagne bottle and puts it on Dwight’s desk.

“No...” I say, sadly. He just nods and pulls me in for a hug, laying his head on mine.

I rub his back and whisper. “Today’s Monday so I’ll grab dinner and swing by your house so we can watch basketball, okay?” 

He just nods against me. After a few minutes, he pulls away and smiles slightly. He then puts his hand on my lower back and ushers me into the conference room. We sit in the chairs against the window to the office and just listen to the discussion Michael is having. I lay my head against his shoulder. 

Next thing I know Jim is gently moving his shoulder. I look up.

“Hey.” He whispers, smiling.

“Oh, sorry. Hey.” I giggle slightly, moving off his shoulder.

“We can go.” He says. 

“Great.” I smile as I stand up, “I’ll grab dinner and go to your house?” 

“Great.” He stands up.

I smile and walk out, going straight for my desk. I grab my bag and my jacket, walking with Jim to our cars. He waves to me as I get into my car. I close my car door and grab my cell phone. I call the closest Seafood restaurant.

“Hello? Hi, I would like to make an order for Soft Shelled Crab?”

[prorevenge]

Shady business owners don't like it when you call regulators.

Used to work in private security (rent-a-cop/bacon bits jokes go here). When I was first hired on, thought the company was fairly upstanding yadda yadda because the owner and I would bullshit a little about our respective military careers. "A guy who used to be in pararescue can't be that bad, right?"

First year was relatively normal security work, mostly fixed post (think Walmart door greeter but with a badge and handcuffs) and general "I'll tackle you if you steal things, but otherwise I'm just a breathing security camera" stuff. About a year in, I finish all of my qualifications for armed work and get assigned to patrol. Patrol is basically private police: companies would hire us to make rounds and respond to things at their locations (mostly apartment complexes, and mostly noise complaints or occasionally towing off cars and such, but occasionally managing residents during a fire or breaking up disturbances).

The company handled pay in a kinda wonky manner. Twice a month (on the 1st and 15th) we got paid for two weeks worth of work, and every now and again (it seemed like whenever they felt like it was getting too far behind) we'd get an extra paycheck slipped in with our normal one. I got my first paycheck five weeks after starting, and there was a point where we were receiving December checks in February. Pay rates were determined by the type of work: entry level stuff made $7/hour, more advanced made $8, and armed paid $10. Raises were available on top of that (for the record, I worked there for 3 years and never got a raise, and the two people I know who got raises each got 25¢ an hour after 4 years, also all of this was during a $5.15 minimum wage). Patrol required armed officers but paid as advanced, but was also a guaranteed 42 hours a week on a set schedule (three 12 hour days, a 6 hour day, and three days off) so most of us didn't really complain.

Moving up into patrol taught me a lot about the company that I didn't know. I figured the owner was a little sexist (ex-military types tend to be) but the depths of his sexism caught me a little off-guard. And then there's the racism. I'm Latino but I look white (because I avoid sun like the plague and got my bone structure from my [white] mother's side), though my surname is a dead giveaway: there's a state in Mexico to which I'm apparently related (must be a distant relative on Abuelita's side). I was apparently good enough to be on patrol, but not promotable (even though I worked my fucking ass off, even though supervisors routinely recommended me for promotion) for some reason. Or the fact that we had one black guy on staff, and he was fired for something that other people got away with. The female officer who was assigned the easiest shift because "it's all she can handle" and "this way, it's obvious I'm trying to work with the women." Those are as close to verbatim quotes as I can recall. Or the time he held a contest between patrols for excellence and canceled it after 2 months...two months in which it happened that the female officer won once and took second once, and the Mexican dude won once and took second once. Between those two months, I made an extra $30 in gas cards. WOOO! /s

For frame of reference, here are a couple of things white dudes did that they didn't get fired for: hitting 120mph in a company car in a 40mph zone (after over a year of doing 20+ over), carrying a gun without the proper permit, blatant sexual harassment, admitting to skipping stops on a route and just sending the business a false statement, writing racist slogans on the front of company-provided TASER cartridges (Homie Down is the one I remember), tasing people without proper justification, sleeping on the job, working drunk, etc.

I also learned about how they screwed over clients: this company pays for 12 hours of continuous patrol between their three properties, but the owners want more money so that route also covers 5 apartment complexes and handles cash drops for a couple of stores. Another business pays us $1M a year for 5.5 hours per weeknight and 7.5 hours per weekend night (approximately $450 per hour) and that route jumps off property like clockwork every night to take care of 3-5 other properties at specified times, leaving that client without their only security at key times. This group of apartment complexes pays for 1 hour on property per night, might get half of that if the night is slow because of the workload.

And then he decided to fuck over his staff (more). Patrol was offered a salary (that was 10% less than the minimum legal salary), with the strong implication that if we wanted any hours at all we'd take it. Once we were all salaried (or gone), things shifted over to 48 hour weeks. I did the math at one point and realized that if I watched a movie at the theater and ate twice at fast food on every day off, it was still cheaper for me to not work than to work (because of gas and food while working, considering I walked about 12-15 miles every night as part of the patrols, which requires a fairly brisk pace, which requires calories galore). But if you were scheduled off and they called you in, you either accepted the extra hours or you got chewed out, and if you made a habit of saying no you'd get written up for anything they could think of.

Then one of my colleagues got into an accident at work. He was hospitalized for like 9 days, ended up making a full recovery. But he was in the company car, so according to the company he was responsible for paying the $2500 insurance deductible. I'd had it at that point. I borrowed some money from my mother to talk to a labor attorney. Best $200 I ever spent.

Attorney gave me three pieces of advice:

If there's a problem with the way we're being paid, talk to the labor board.

My colleague was not on the hook for the car. That's why the company had insurance. It wasn't our fault that he was too cheap to spring for a lower deductible.

Document everything, but keep my name out of anything.

I passed word to the injured colleague about the insurance thing, and he lawyered up pretty much immediately (his family had enough money that he didn't have to work). I also made a not-so-anonymous phone call to the state labor board (asking that they not reveal it was me). 3 weeks later, I'm in the office handling post-shift paperwork when the rep comes in. I GTFOed as fast as I possibly could. I didn't want to be there for that whole thing.

Fast forward about 6 months, and the labor board has finished their investigation. Turns out that the salary was in fact too low to be legally allowable, but also that our positions were not legally eligible for salary anyway. So all of those 48/60/72+ hour weeks were full of overtime. Unpaid overtime. Unpaid overtime on which we were owed interest. Also, requiring patrol to be armed but not paying them armed rates wasn't legal (based on the employment contract, any work for which we required that license required we be paid the rate associated with that license). Also, the "twice a month you're paid for 2 weeks of work" thing isn't legal either. So we got several oversized paychecks covering back pay, plus others covering interest (which had to be noted in the check stub as interest on back pay).

The labor board rep couldn't do anything about the ways they were screwing over their customers, but she did have someone she could call. Someone she should call. Someone she did call. A couple weeks later, that investigation started. I don't know all the details (I left during that time to start some higher education) but a few months later they sold the company to someone else, and I heard through the grapevine that part of the reason was that they lost several contracts and all that back pay pretty much wiped out their savings (I got something like $8K in back pay, and there were another dozen patrol officers in that time frame, so I figure around $100K total went out just to patrol, and apparently there were some discrepancies in how they managed fixed post staff as well) and they had to move to a smaller house. The rumors also said that after the sale, the new owners renegotiated all the contracts (including getting a few that the previous owners had lost to being shady) and somehow they're still profitable (even after giving raises and whatnot). It's almost like the previous owners had just been trying to milk everyone for as much as they could get.

Oh, and an aside: I got to know the manager of that business that paid us $1M/year pretty well afterwards. She neither confirmed nor denied that $1M figure. So take it with a grain of salt, but if it's true (she manages the most affluent shopping center in town, which includes a restaurant where prices aren't on the menu because "if you have to ask, you can't afford it") that one contract would cover all the expenses of all of patrol. The owners always seemed really intent on keeping her happy (and made sure that we knew not to tell her we left the area for any reason except end of shift). And they always had money to spend on things like a large house in one of the more affluent areas, and the private school for their daughter, and buying a new gun or two (higher priced stuff, where the name stamp adds $1500 to the price) every couple of weeks...

(source) (story by m4dn3zz)

[papipopsicle]

DISCO INFERNO

Pairing: Billy Hargrove X Reader

Genre: fluff, v v slight angst

Summary: In which the usual basketball practice is cancelled, and Billy is surprisingly happy when he finds out why.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of abusive parents, racist father, Steve being a shitty friend.

Words: 3K

feedback is always appreciated

"I actually hate you."

"Love you too." Y/N replied and rolled her eyes as the brunette she called her best friend practically threw his lunch tray against the table top. Nancy jumped at the noise, her wide eyes bouncing from the two then back to Jonathan's hand in hers under the table. "Mind telling me what's made you harbour such strong feelings towards me?"

"You just had to steal the gym on the one day we play basketball, didn't you?" Steve huffed, sending the girl a playful look of annoyance. In all honesty he really didn't mind, it meant he'd have a couple hours free to catch up on an essay due earlier today.

"It's not my fault the school is cheap and the studio now has a crater in the roof from the storm." Y/N pulled at the sleeves of her baby pink bomber jacket and shivered at the thought of leaving the warm confines of Hawkins High School, "Maybe it's a sign that you should join, Stevie, we're always looking to diversify the group with more male dancers."

"Fuck off." The boy shoved Y/N's shoulder lightly with his and the four carried on eating like normal. They were an unlikely group of friends, an ex-flame and ex-friendship turned into a new flame and a new friendship.

The day droned on as it always did and the final bell sounded throughout the building. Kids eagerly ran to their lockers and out the large entrance unable to stay in school for a moment more than necessary, but for Y/N, her day was only just starting. She weaved through the crowds, going against the current and deeper into the school until she found herself in the girl's locker room. Y/N greeted the other girls already there and quickly changed into a pair of pink leggings and a baggy black top, throwing her Hawkins High sweatshirt on top. She tied her y/h/c hair into a ponytail and double knitted her trainer's laces before making her way to the gym.

"Training's cancelled today, Hargrove." Montgomery shouted down the corridor, watching as his friend paused his movements and turned around, "Dancers are taking over until they fix the roof."

"That's bull." Billy groaned, his hand running through his long hair in annoyance. Basketball meant not needing to be a chauffeur for Max and not having his father on his back for another couple hours. Of course he had P.E tomorrow but that didn't make a difference.

Monty shrugged, "Its not like we can do anything, the Principal basically licks Y/L/N's arse for fun."

That stifled Billy. He'd slept with half of the cheer squad by week two in Hawkins. There wasn't a girl in his year he didn't at least know the name of, not that he ever used their name. "Y/L/N?" He asked casually, intrigued by the idea of fresh meat.

"Harrington's girl, Y/N. C'mon, you've seen that ass." The boy joked with a smirk, but when Billy simply knitted his eyebrows together, Montgomery hit the boy's chest out of shock and began walking towards the gym dragging him behind, "Mate, you're about to owe me big time."

The two athletes snuck into the bleachers undetected and as soon as Monty pointed her out as the girl leading the group warm up session, Billy's heart sped up. Of course he recognised her, but he didn't like the reasoning behind it. Sure, she had an amazing body, one the boy next to him clearly enjoyed jerking off to, but it was always tucked safely under Steve's arm in the halls. He was her own personal bodyguard. Billy's memory was still fuzzy from the events at the Byers' house three months ago, but Y/N was vividly part of that disjointed memory.

She demonstrated a host of stretches for the group to mirror as 'Immigrant Song' blasted through the large gymnasium. Both boys were in a trance at that moment and completely forgot that they couldn't play basketball, almost happy about it. Billy found himself in awe at the pure joy lacing the smile on Y/N's face in that moment, like nothing else mattered to her other than living in the moment. The girl dropped into the splits and that's when Billy lost it, his heart racing a million miles an hour at her confidence and finesse.

Montgomery shook his head and patted Billy's shoulder with a chuckle, "I bet she's so fucking dirty when Harrington isn't around to keep her in line, you know, daddy issues, that kind of shit."

The boy kept talking but Billy zoned out, not caring for his remarks. He hadn't even noticed Monty's disappearance for another half an hour after that. It may not have seemed like it, but the blond really was trying to change his ways one step at a time, one of those steps being not talking about or treating women like pieces of meat. It was a work in progress, but Y/N wasn't going to be a step back.

He stayed for the next two hours, sat on the uncomfortable wooden benches in the bleachers, completely mesmerised by the way Y/N moved with so much fluidity and grace. Only towards the end of the session after perfecting the new routine had Y/N burst her little dance bubble long enough to notice Billy. She sent him a warm smile, one he was sure he didn't deserve after what she must have seen at the Byers house, but he didn't think twice before returning it.

The music was all deafening disco apart from the odd Led Zeppelin, Scorpions or Metallica song standing out like garish yellow highlighter on a pristine white page of notes. Billy enjoyed it those though, humming along and forcing himself to hide the grin that tugged at the corners of his lips as he noticed Y/N singing along too. She winked at him and slid to her knees, fully committing to the worlds most embarrassing yet incredible air-guitar solo. Y/N giggled and began the usual end speech encouraging everyone to carry on with as much enthusiasm and all that bullshit.

When she had gathered all her belongings and turned off the stereo, Y/N turned back to the bleachers in hope of seeing Billy still sat there, but he'd somehow left as secretively as he came. She pouted but quickly stopped her mind from going down that route before it even had the chance.

Instead of getting changed back into her earlier clothes, Y/N shoved them into her gym bag and left the girls locker room in search of her ride. It was hailing heavily outside, the small pieces of ice beating at the building's roof and just as she peered out of the window into the car park, lightning struck, thunder following seconds later. Y/N jumped, always skittish in storms. She couldn't see Steve's signature car in its usual spot, even in this weather she'd know his car from anyone's. Surely he wouldn't have left her without at least saying, especially in this weather. But minutes passed and there was no sign of the BMW anywhere.

Y/N groaned and whimpered at the thought of walking in the torrential rain, why had she let Steve convince her into giving her a lift instead of taking her motorbike? At least then she'd get home quicker. Scouring the car park for any other viable options, she noticed Billy's car and honestly couldn't choose which was worse; walking half an hour in this weather and probably dying from the worst cold in history, or asking Billy for a lift. She'd take a hailstorm over his reckless driving any day.

Billy Hargrove was damaged, Y/N didn't know exactly what he'd been through, but it wasn't pleasant. He had now real regard for his own life anymore, let alone other people.

It took a few seconds to gather enough courage to exit the school, and by the time she had, she was soaked to the bone immediately. Y/N heard her name being called over the rain and soon a large black jacket was held above her head as a makeshift umbrella. It was a leather jacket to be exact, Billy's leather jacket. She looked up at him in confusion and was quickly pulled back into the school's foyer.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Billy asked rhetorically and put his jacket over her shoulders in attempts to bring her some warmth, but it only shrouded the girl in his scent. She didn't take any notice of his harsh tone, and instead pulled her hair out of the jackets collar as he continued ranting loudly, "Do you know how dumb it is to walk in this, Y/L/N? You'll freeze before you get home. Harrington will blame himself if you die and then he'll blame me if he finds out I let you walk home in this. I don't need him badgering me about your death for the rest of my life, so, let me drive you home?"

It was more of a request than a question, but either way Y/N had a snarky response lined up as she pulled the jacket closer to her frame, "I'd rather be hit by your car than let you drive me in it, love."

"Fine." Billy's voice came out in a low grumble and he took a step towards the girl, now only centimetres between them, "You can drive."

Y/N's mouth gasped open in shock, Billy was emotionally attached to his car, it was the closest thing he had to a functioning relationship. She didn't know whether it was appropriate to laugh or not, but when he held his keys out on front of her face for her to catch, Y/N raised her eyebrows, "Wait, you're being serious?"

He shrugged with a carefree smirk plastered across his face, jangling the keys a little, "Just take the damn keys before I realise how stupid this is."

"Excuse you, I'm an excellent driver, your baby is in good hands." Y/N smiled widely, one that made the dormant butterflies in Billy's stomach flutter about and do somersaults.

She pinched the metal key ring before he had the chance to retract it, and skipped gleefully over to the double doors. The girl turned back to see him still stood in the exact same position mulling over whether this was a good decision or not. "Hargrove." Y/N huffed out.

He sighed and finally came back to reality, zoning in on the y/h/c girl to find her intently watching him with a small smirk playing at her lips, "If you land even one fucking mark on the paint job, you're dead, got it?"

Y/N looked up at him, now standing right beside her in front of the doors, wide eyes acting startled by the words before crinkling as she let out an obnoxiously loud giggle, almost snorting, "Ouh, I'm so scared. Three, two, one, run!"

The girl sprinted out of the double doors quicker than the last flash of lightning, using Billy's jacket as a hood while unlocking the Camaro in haste, throwing her bags in the back and starting the engine. Billy soon joined her, his hair sopping and shirt stuck to his chest in just a few seconds.

He was about to ask her what was taking so long to start driving, considering pushing herself into the back seat and driving himself, but Billy turned from frustrated to weirdly warm and fuzzy as he watched the girl slip her arms into his jacket. It didn't fit her well, swamping her small frame and looking bulky over her sweatshirt, but somehow it was still an adorable sight.

The rain and hail beat against the roof constantly, filling any space for conversation, but he still put the radio on in case the air became too silent. Surprisingly, she hummed along to the Mötley Crüe song and drummed her fingers against the steering wheel while leaving the school car park. He noticed she was hesitant, which was pretty standard considering the weather.

Neither teenager tried to make conversation, and his eyes trailed across the exposed skin of her hands after a couple minutes of staring out the window. A few white lines mirroring gashes and wounds littered her flesh, and he wondered what the cause of such scattered scars might have been. He stopped starring like a crazy person and focused on the way she handled his car with so much care and affection, finding it oddly endearing.

But soon Y/N had pulled into her driveway and cut the engine. She turned to him and sent the boy a small yet warm smile, "Thanks for not driving me."

He shook his head with a chuckle, suddenly so self aware of the situation. A pretty girl was in his car, wearing his leather jacket, looking up at him with 'fuck me' eyes. It was a circus act at this point, trying to do something nice but ending up in the same place, well not always the same place physically- the backseat most times, rarely their bed, and never his. Billy leaned closer, his breath hot against Y/N's cool skin, and just as his lips were about to touch hers, the girl jerked back just realising what was happening.

She looked up at him sincerely, placing her hand over his on the centre console, "Don't kiss me. You let me drive your car home from school, this isn't the end to some elaborate date."

Y/N moved to get her bags from the backseats, only to have Billy cut off her movements, "You drove me home, didn't you?"

The question sounded a little strange at first, but the girl registered what he meant and bit the inside of her cheek before nodding, "A lot happened that night, a lot that can't be changed or taken back. Not that I've made it clear, but I have a bit of a soft spot for you, Hargrove. You've done a lot of unforgivable things, you know that, I'm not going to lecture you. But I understand why you did them." Y/N didn't know whether to carry on, she didn't want to leave the car but evidently this was a heavy conversation and a rather uncomfortable one at that.

She unclasped the seatbelt and turned to face the boy with a warm expression, "The only boy I've ever brought home, Nathan, he was the sweetest human on the planet. Considering we were fifteen, he treated me like a princess, always buying me little gifts and taking me on adventures. But my dad couldn't see past the colour of his skin, and then he decided to throw the entire twelve piece set of china-wear at me until I promised not to see him ever again. If I'm right, our dads are pretty similar in that regard. I get you don't want that to happen to Max, that it was your personal way of protecting her. It doesn't excuse anything you've done, not in the slightest, but I understand."

Silence enveloped the car and Y/N dared to look up at Billy, finding his facade of egotistical male dominance shattered. She didn't brush aside his problems, but didn't treat him with kid gloves either, he didn't know how to respond but he was still just as in awe of the girl in front of him now, a few escaped tears trickling down her soft cheeks, as he was with the confident dancer.

She cleared her throat and sent him one last smile, lighting his insides into an inferno like a match, and Y/N reached for the door handle. Billy tugged her back physically this time, holding her so tightly with so much hidden emotion in the embrace. She burrowed into the crook of his neck and hugged him back with everything in her, hoping he'd somehow realise he wasn't alone on this road of tragedy.

"If I'm not at school, I'm usually here." Y/N pointed towards the house, lingering close to Billy still, "I know I'm not much, but I can distract you from how shitty life is and the inevitability of death if you ever want me to." She giggled, her tone light as a feather but her words heavy with meaning.

"Or if you ever want your jacket back." She winked, wrapping the leather garment around her figure tightly and getting out of the car. Billy slid into the drivers seat and watched in amusement as she fumbled with her keys and entered the house, only after looking back with a dazzling smile and another wink. The door shut quickly to keep the house warm and then boy pulled away from the driveway, wondering how this girl had entered his heart so quickly and when exactly she'd be the death of him.

Y/N skidded through the house with a less than happy demeanour, hitting the number two key on the house phone and hearing two rings before someone picked up, "Hello?" She greeted through gritted teeth, needing to know which family member was on the other end.

There was some indistinct shouting before her best friend finally answered, "Y/N/N? Oh thank go-"

"Where the fuck did you go, Harrington?" She seethed, it might have turned out okay for her in the end but that didn't excuse the shittiness of Steve's actions. He didn't know Billy let her drive, and she was going to have fun making him work to get that apology accepted.

"Please don't hate me, but I gave Nancy a lift."

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke modern AU: Family

Chapter 8 of the modern bartender AU Damned Spot is up on AO3! Previous chapter can be found there, or here on Tumblr. 

In which Hawke has a less-than-pleasant run-in with Leandra and Carver, and Fenris has angst. Also CLIFFHANGERS. 

**********************

Rynne unlocked the door to her mother’s house and stepped inside. “Mom?”

“Back here, love!” Leandra’s voice floated into the foyer, and Rynne followed it back into the living room.

Leandra was sitting on the couch with her tablet on her lap. She looked up with a smile as Rynne approached. “You came!” she said warmly. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Rynne swallowed down an instinctive surge of annoyance. Why her mother always had to make it sound like she never showed up when she said she would, Rynne didn’t know.

She purposely forced herself not to look at the mess of dishes and papers on the coffee table. “Hi, Mom,” she said. She kissed her mother on the cheek, then glanced at her tablet. “What are you doing there?”

Leandra sighed and jabbed at her tablet. “I’m trying to send an email to your uncle. But I can’t get the silly thing to load.”

“That’s because your wifi doesn’t work half the time,” Rynne said patiently. “I’ll give them a call today.” She started gathering the dishes on the coffee table.

Leandra slid her feet from the couch onto the ground. “Oh, love, let me do that.”

“No, it’s all right, I’ve got it,” Rynne said. Her mother would say she was going to clean, and then she wouldn’t, and the next time Rynne came over, she’d give her an earful of snide remarks about how difficult it was to keep such a big house clean all on her own…

Rynne pressed her lips together hard. It’s fine, she told herself, just as she always did. Mom isn’t well, she’s still grieving, it’s fine. No matter that Carver didn’t get half the guilt trip that Rynne did about not coming home more often. Rynne supposed this was her due for being the eldest, as well as the one who had taken Malcolm away from her mother.

She carried the stack of dishes to the kitchen, and Leandra followed her. “When will you call the wifi people?” Leandra asked.

Rynne piled the dishes into the sink, then opened the dishwasher… which was still full of clean dishes. She sighed very quietly and started unpacking them. “As soon as I’m done with this,” she said.

Leandra folded her arms. “Rynne, love, just let me do that. Then you can do the wifi.” She sat at the kitchen table and started toying with an envelope from the stack of mail that sat there. “You don’t need to fuss and cluck around me like a mother hen.”

Yes, I do, Rynne thought, with an unwelcome surge of resentment. Leandra had always enjoyed being fussed over. When Malcolm was alive and well, it was his shtick to fuss around his wife; ‘my Princess Amell’, he used to call her. And it was a cute routine, or at least Rynne had thought so when she was a child.

But as she got older, she started to notice how much her mother relied on Malcolm to do every little task, and how flustered she got when things didn’t go right. When Malcolm got sick, Rynne realized the full extent of her mother’s dependency: she didn’t work, didn’t pay the bills, and didn’t arrange the utilities or car insurance or any insurance of any type. As Malcolm’s condition worsened, her mother stopped helping with household chores or cooking.

So Rynne had taken over managing the family. And to her own blame, she’d never told Carver about the weight of the burdens she’d borne. She’d done the exact same thing to Carver that Malcolm had done to her mom: shielded him from the full ugly extent of reality by managing everything behind the scenes without telling him how bad it was.

Rynne turned and smiled at her mom. “I’m not fussing. I’m just keeping my hands busy. I’ll be finished in just a few minutes.” She picked up her pace and started unpacking the dishwasher more quickly.

Leandra, meanwhile, had settled herself comfortably at the kitchen table and was flipping idly through a grocery store flyer. “Carver mentioned you had a party last weekend,” she said.

Rynne felt a little wriggle of guilt at this statement. She supposed she could have invited Carver to the party, but he always got annoyed at her every time she saw him. It wasn’t Rynne’s fault she’d inherited all the humour genes in the family.

“Yes,” Rynne confirmed. “Do you want to see some photos? Isabela’s wearing a very interesting dress.”

Leandra perked up. “Ooh, yes. That would be lovely!”

Rynne smiled more genuinely at her mother’s enthusiasm. Leandra had always been endearingly interested in the hijinks of Rynne’s famous friend. She dug her cell phone from her pocket and flicked through to the album with the party photos.

She handed her cell to her mother and returned to the dishes. “We had a great time. Isabela just got back from a film shoot and Merrill was out of town for a while, so it was the-”

Leandra interrupted her. “Who is this boy you’re with?” she said. “This elf?”

Rynne took a slow, measured breath through her nose. One of the photos she’d taken was a selfie of herself and Fenris - an extremely cute selfie, if she said so herself. Rynne was grinning like a fool, and Fenris was frowning, and right after she’d taken the photo, Fenris had taken one look at it and started laughing.

Rynne loved that selfie. She loved how much it seemed to amuse him. And now, a week after he’d essentially dumped her, looking at that selfie made her heart ache, but she couldn’t bring herself to delete it from her phone.

She exhaled calmly. “That’s Fenris,” she said. “He works with me and Pipes. He’s a bouncer at the pub.”

Leandra tutted. “You seem very cozy.”

Rynne frowned. What kind of odd remark was that? “It’s not like that,” Rynne said. “We’re… we work together, that’s all.”

“Oh. Good,” Leandra said.

Rynne paused in her cleaning, then stood up and reached for her phone. “Mother, what is that supposed to mean?”

Leandra shot her an annoyed look as she handed back the phone. “An elven bouncer, Rynne? I would hope you know better than that.”

Rynne recoiled and raised her eyebrows. “And if he was a human bouncer, that would be all right?”

Leandra tutted more loudly and folded her arms. “Don’t make me sound like a racist, darling. You know how fond I am of Piper and that little Merrill.”

“Uh-huh. Just not if I was dating them, right?” Rynne drawled.

Leandra narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “So you are dating this elf, then?”

Rynne tsked in disgust, then abandoned the sink full of dishes and strode back into the living room. “Where’s the phone? I’m going to call the bloody wifi people.”

“Don’t curse,” Leandra said primly. “It’s in the living room.”

“Where in the living room?” Rynne called impatiently. “It’s never on the charging thingy where it’s supposed to be.”

A moment later, Leandra appeared in the doorway with a wounded expression. “Why are you speaking to me like this?” she said plaintively. “You’re being very short with me.”

“I’m not-” Rynne stopped and bit her tongue, then started again in a less defensive tone. “I don’t mean to be,” she said. “It’s just been a long week.” Long week felt like the understatement of the century. Every night at work had been a special kind of torture. She’d shown up each night half-expecting to find out that Fenris had skipped town, and seeing his looming stride as he walked through the door was both a relief and a painful bolt to the chest. She’d spoken to him as normally as possible despite his taciturn mien, even going so far as to flirt with him for the sake of normalcy, and he’d been perfectly polite in return - polite and so distant that it fucking hurt.

Rynne shoved the thoughts aside and forced her face into a pleasant expression. “I’m sorry, Mom. Do you know where the phone is in this room?”

“Of course,” Leandra said. She came into the room and started digging around in the couch cushions.

Rynne watched with a slowly withering patience as her mom slowly shifted blankets and papers and books around the room. Then she heard the creak of the front door opening.

“Mom?” Carver’s voice drifted into the house, and Rynne raised her eyebrows in surprise. It was the middle of the day. Didn’t he have to work?

She wandered into the foyer. “Hey, Carv. What are you doing here?”

He raised his eyebrows, apparently equally surprised to see her. “Rynne!” He hung his coat and stepped into the foyer, then awkwardly submitted to her hug. “Mom said she wasn’t sure you would be coming today.”

“That’s odd,” Rynne said lightly. “Because I told her last night that I would.”

Leandra breezed into the foyer with the house phone in her hand. She gave the phone to Rynne while kissing Carver on the cheek. “Hello, love. Can you take care of the dishes? Rynne was too busy to finish them.”

Carver raised an accusatory eyebrow, and Rynne momentarily sank into a very fond fantasy of bashing herself repeatedly in the face with the phone. She gave Carver a sweet smile. “I’m going to call the internet company,” she told him. Then she returned to the living room without waiting for a response.

She could hear her mother talking to Carver, something about ‘cheeky attitude�� and ‘another mess with another boy’. She scowled as she pulled up the internet provider’s contact info on her cell, then punched the number into the house phone with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

As always when contacting any internet provider, the conversation was a test in patience. The customer service rep kept asking to speak to the original cardholder on the account, and when Rynne had explained for the third time that Malcolm was dead, but that she had the credit card on file right in front of her, the rep insisted that there was nothing she could do.

“Fine,” Rynne snapped. “Then it looks like there’s nothing I can do but cancel my service with your company and go to one of your competitors instead. Have a lovely fucking day.” She ended the call abruptly, then looked up to find Leandra and Carver watching her.

She grimaced at them. “So, the bad news…”

Leandra sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Rynne.”

Rynne shrugged helplessly. “Look, I tried! There’s only so much I can do about a terrible case of the stupids.” She pulled out her cell and flicked open her browser. “Carv, what service provider do you use? Isabela’s is great but it’s pretty expensive.”

“I use the same one that Dad used here,” Carver said.

Rynne looked up at her brother. “Seriously? Well, shit.”

“Language,” Leandra snapped.

Maker give me fucking patience, Rynne thought. She exhaled slowly and faced her family with a pleasant look on her face. “They wouldn’t let me make any changes to the account or even lodge a complaint without speaking to Dad,” she said. “I told them he’d passed away, and it was like they didn’t hear me. You’d think I was trying to trick them or something.”

Leandra pursed her lips. “Unfortunate that your father is no longer with us, then.”

Rynne froze. Don’t rise, she told herself. Don’t rise to it, just let it lie. Leandra made comments like this every time Rynne saw her. It was nothing new, just part of the dynamic that Rynne had gotten used to in the two years or so since Malcolm had died, it was no big deal-

Her mouth opened of its own accord. “Is there something you want to say, Mother? No need to dance around your words. Just say what you want to say.”

Carver’s eyes widened. “Rynne,” he said warningly.

Rynne waved at him. “No, it’s okay,” she said brightly. “Let her speak. She clearly has thoughts. She should let them out. She’ll just give herself ulcers otherwise.” At the back of Rynne’s mind, there was a small logical voice screaming at her to shut the fuck up and not invite this conversation, but for some reckless reason, she couldn’t cope with her mom’s bullshit tonight. Was she being self-destructive? Was this actually a healthy thing to do, like lancing a festering wound? Rynne honestly couldn’t decide, but regardless of the reasons, she was rushing straight into this shitstorm with the speed of an Orlesian bullet train.

Leandra’s lips were pursed into a thin white line. She shook her head. “You are being so rude. I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”

“Maybe I’m just sick of the snide remarks and the veiled comments,” Rynne said pleasantly. “Feel free to be direct. I’d welcome it. I’ll take a punch to the stomach over a knife to the back any day.”

“Maker’s breath, you’re being so dramatic,” Carver complained. But to Rynne’s surprise, Leandra spoke up.

“Fine,” she snapped. She glared at Rynne. “Fine. Here is what I think. If your father was still with us, he’d be able to clear this mess up easily.” She turned to Carver plaintively. “He was so charming, your father,” she lamented. “He could talk anyone into anything. Unlike some ungrateful children,” she added pointedly.

Rynne held up one hand. “Hang on a minute. You think Dad would still be with us now if he hadn’t taken the lyrium?” she said incredulously.

“He lasted longer than the doctors thought he would!” Leandra snapped. “You don’t know how much longer-”

“Mom,” Rynne said loudly. “The palliative care doctors gave him less than six months. Even if he’d died by suffering in pain the way you wanted him to go, he’d still be dead by now.”

“Rynne, shut up,” Carver snapped.

“No!” Rynne retorted. “She’s being so unreasonable! It was either six months of horrible pain, or - or-”

“Or what?” Leandra shouted. “Answer me that, Rynne. Or what? Six months more time with us, or you killing him? Because we both know what you chose!”

“Mom!” Carver hissed.

Rynne rubbed her face roughly. It was on the tip of her tongue to say her mom was right - to just confess the secret she’d been holding back from them for years. But she forced herself to bite it back. Telling them the truth now would be a terrible idea, given the mood her mother was in. Furthermore, she didn’t want to make Cullen’s hard work go to waste.

She took a deep breath. “Dying by lyrium was Dad’s choice,” she said firmly. “He deserved to die in comfort.”

“Well, it’s a good thing he had you there to help him, then,” Leandra snapped. She delicately wiped a tear from her cheek. “I hope you enjoyed your last moments with him. I hope you said enough goodbyes to him for all of us.” Then she sobbed and pressed her fist to her mouth.

Rynne bit the inside of her cheek. At the very end, right before Rynne had emptied that final syringe into his IV, Malcolm had made only one request: Take care of your mother.

It looked like Rynne was letting him down, too.

Leandra sobbed again and pressed her face to Carver’s chest, and Carver gently patted her back. “I think you should go,” he said to Rynne.

Rynne rubbed a hand through her hair, then cleared her throat. “Uh, yeah. Of course,” she said. She rubbed her nose, then glanced at her mother.

Leandra’s face was buried in Carver’s shoulder. Rynne swallowed hard, then took a step away from them. “I’ll set you up with a new wifi provider later,” she said. “I’ll, um… I’ll put it on my card.”

Leandra ignored her. Rynne took one last look at Carver - long enough to take in the disapproving look on his face - and then she left the house.

********************

Fenris turned the page of the book Varric had lent him. It took a good ten seconds before he realized that he hadn’t absorbed anything on the previous page.

He sighed and slumped down in his chair. He was finding it so damned difficult to concentrate these days.

It was Hawke’s fault. Ever since that conversation they’d had at her condo, that blasted conversation where he’d stupidly told her every sordid detail of his past, he couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said.

She was wrong, of course. Suggesting he go to the police was completely laughable, and not only because Fenris was a self-admitted criminal himself, albeit one who had never been formally charged. Hawke was naive and overly optimistic. There was no justice to be found for the wrongs that someone like Danarius had wrought. The only justice that a man like Danarius deserved was the kind that was found at the end of a smoking gun, and only Fenris could be certain that this justice would be served.

But the thing that galled him the most was Hawke’s suggestion that this wasn’t what he wanted. Of course he wanted to kill Danarius. Killing Danarius was the only objective that had kept Fenris moving ever since he’d left the Imperium. Seeing Danarius dead was the only thing that he’d wanted for years.

But that isn’t true anymore, a little voice whispered in his mind.

A memory of Hawke’s smiling face floated across his mind: that soft, heated smile she’d had as they lay face-to-face on her bed. He remembered it so clearly, just as clearly as he remembered the golden expanse of her skin as she knelt naked on her bed and showed off the twining black tattoo on her back. He remembered it just as clearly as the peaceful look on her sleeping face when he’d snuck out of her room before the sun had fully risen.

He rubbed his forehead as though to wipe the memories away. There was no changing his mind now. Danarius needed to die, and Fenris needed to leave Kirkwall after the deed was done. He couldn’t risk bringing the dangers of his past any closer to Hawke than he already had.

He set Varric’s book aside and idly spun his phone on his small dining table. There was no point opening the phone; the only people who had his number were Hawke, Varric, and Anso, and he wasn’t expecting messages from any of them. Anso would only text him if something urgent arose from the dregs of Tevinter society, and Varric would only call him for work-related things. And Hawke…

Well. Hawke would not be texting him anymore. Fenris had made sure of that.

He pushed his chair back from the table and idly wandered over to the half-packed duffle bag that sat at the foot of his bed. He’d started packing this bag the day he’d broken things off with Hawke, in the event that she did the logical thing and called the police.

But a week had gone by. So Fenris had continued going to work, and Hawke had continued speaking to him as though he hadn’t treated her terribly, and life was moving on in such a terrible, uncomfortable impasse that Fenris was half-tempted to leave Kirkwall just to escape the awkwardness and the torturous memories of the blissful night he’d spent with Hawke.

He stared unseeingly at the duffle bag for a long moment. Then his phone buzzed on the table.

Fenris looked up in alarm, then grabbed the phone and flipped it open.

The message was from Hawke.

3:17pm - hey can we talk

His heart instantly began racing. Why would she want to talk to him? What could she possibly want to talk about after the last-

His phone buzzed as another brief flurry of messages came through.

3:18pm - not about us dont worry 3:18pm - i was just at my mom’s and i

The messages stopped. Fenris stared worriedly at the screen as he waited for her to go on, but it was another excruciating two minutes before she texted again.

3:20pm - actually nvm i’ll see you later

Fenris frowned. Something was clearly wrong, or else she wouldn’t have messaged him.

His thumbs hovered over the keypad. He didn’t know what to do. No, that was wrong; he knew what he should do. He should just ignore the messages. Responding would only give her hope. It would make her think he was someone she could rely on, that she could put her trust in, when the complete opposite was true.

He slowly flipped the phone shut and put it down. He started paced restlessly around the room, but all he could think about was Hawke’s smile when she’d told him that her mother had called the police on her.  

He imagined her bright, brittle, beautiful smile. He thought of how she’d confessed to him, how she’d told him he wasn’t a monster while making it clear, in the same breath, that she thought she was one.

Fenris gritted his teeth, then made his way back to the table. He picked up his phone and flipped it open.

3:23pm - What’s happened?

Her reply came less than a minute later.

3:24pm - honestly nothing different than the usual 3:24pm - accusations and stuff, you know, the usual haha 3:24pm - my brother was there so that was fun 3:25pm - sorry i don’t mean to put this on you i know things are not ideal with us right now

He nervously licked his dry lips. Then he tapped out another message.

3:25pm - Don’t apologize. I can talk if you wish.

3:25pm - are you sure? srsly i don’t want to interrupt your day 3:26pm - you could be enjoying a nice porn marathon for all i know lol 3:26pm - actually if thats the case then i definitely want to… talk 3:26pm - ;)

Despite himself, he actually scoffed. Then he typed out a response.

3:26pm - You can come over. Meet me at Athenril’s. 3:26pm - Where are you?

3:26pm - i’m about 10 mins away 3:27pm - seriously are you sure? i really dont want to be a bother

3:27pm - I will see you in ten minutes.

Almost thirty minutes later, he was leading a babbling Hawke up the stairs to his third-floor studio apartment. “... told Emile time and time again not to add that flavour shot shit to my tea, but I think he likes to experiment with me. I swear, if his beverage mixes are anything like his sexual tastes, I feel sorry for the first girl he sleeps with.”

Fenris raised one eyebrow as he unlocked his apartment door. “First girl?”

“Oh, he’s absolutely a virgin,” Hawke scoffed. “I mean, not that that’s a bad thing or whatever, but you can practically smell it on him. Can’t you?”

He stood back as Hawke stepped through the door, then curiously looked around while kicking off her flats. “I can’t say I’ve thought about it,” he said.

Hawke smirked as she entered his studio. “Well, I have,” she drawled. “I spend most of my idle time thinking about everyone’s sex lives. Thinking about Merrill’s is the most fun. I feel like it involves literal cherry-picking and making the bedsprings creak by jumping on the bed.”

Fenris huffed in amusement, then watched nervously as she slowly prowled around his tiny apartment. He’d hastily shoved the duffle bag in the closet, and otherwise there was nothing of particular interest for her to look at, but he still felt oddly nervous having her in his personal space.

Suddenly he realized that he hadn’t had anyone in his personal space since he’d left the Tevinter Imperium. No, since before that, even; the one-night stands he’d had in Tevinter were far and in-between and never in his own house, not since his family had died.

His disquiet doubled when her curious gaze fell on something he’d forgotten to hide: something that had been tied to his bedside lamp since the day Hawke had wrapped it around his wounded knuckles.

She shot him a quizzical look and pointed at the lamp. “Is that my scarf?” she asked.

Fenris flushed, cursing himself for his sentimentality. He should have returned it to her weeks ago, but the scarf had sat on his bedside table for days, and then he’d eventually tied it to the lamp - ostensibly to keep the table tidy. But that didn’t explain why Fenris had spent every night staring at that blasted scarf before falling asleep.

“Yes,” said brusquely. He strode over to the lamp and untied the scarf. “I’m sorry I didn’t return it. I…” He trailed off and wracked his brain for an excuse, but there was no excuse to be had.

He thrust the red fabric toward her. “Here. It is clean, it’s - I washed it. My apologies.”

She silently took the scarf and studied it for a moment, then put her tea on the table. Then, before Fenris could move away, she took his hand.

He instinctively tried to pull away, but Hawke was too quick; within moments, her nimble fingers had tied the scarf around his wrist. She tucked the ends against the inside of his wrist, then released his hand. “Keep it,” she said. “Give yourself a splash of colour to break up all that black.” She smirked and eyed him from head to toe.

He eyed the bright red scarf on his wrist, then self-consciously shook out the sleeve of his jacket to cover it up. His cheeks still felt embarrassingly hot. He gestured for her to sit at the table. “Tell me what happened with your mother,” he said.

Hawke sighed and picked up her tea. To Fenris’s mild bemusement, she sat on the floor instead of at the table and settled her back against his bed.

She stretched out her legs and sipped her tea. “Honestly, she’s just…” She trailed off and tugged an earring, then smiled brightly at him. “I shouldn’t complain,” she said firmly. “I think she’s depressed. She won’t go to the doctor or go to those support group things, but I talked about it with Anders, and… She’s not coping well. It’s not her fault.” She slurped noisily from her tea. “It’s not her fault,” she said softly, as though to herself.

Fenris frowned and slowly sat in one of the dining table chairs. “What happened today?”

Hawke wrapped both hands around her tea and stared at the lid. “I blew up at her,” she said. She shrugged and smiled a bit, but her eyes remained on her cup. “I got sick of the little pointed comments and I just… blew up. Told her to be straight with me, so she did.” She shrugged again and gulped her tea. “She still blames me for my dad. I mean, she should, given that I did exactly what she thinks, so it’s fine. I just…”

Fenris watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed. Then she lifted her amber eyes to his face. “Fenris, does this… does this feeling ever go away?”

He knew what Hawke meant. She was talking about the way your life inexorably changed the moment you knew you were responsible for someone else’s death. The way it was always there, always written at the back of your mind like a banner: You killed someone. She was talking about the way it seemed to sink into your skin and simply sit there no matter how many years went by, like a stain that could never quite be washed away.

But Hawke’s situation wasn’t the same. She wasn’t like him. He hadn’t helped to ease anyone’s suffering. The people Fenris had killed and hurt had been strangers to him.

Hawke was looking at him expectantly, and there was so much sadness in her customarily cheerful face, and Fenris dearly wished he could give her a better answer.

But he couldn’t lie to her. “No,” he said quietly. “It may lessen in time. But… the memory lingers. It becomes a scar, tenacious as any other. You will live with it, but… no. It doesn’t go away.”

“Oh,” she said. She twisted her lips and idly ran her finger along the lid of her cup. “Well, that sucks.”

He smiled faintly at her flippant words. “Yes, it does,” he said.

She offered him a faint smirk, then sighed and flicked the side of her cup. “What was your family like?” she asked. Then her eyes widened. “If you want to talk about it, I mean. You don’t have to - I hope that wasn’t a terrible thing to ask…”

“It’s all right,” he assured her. In truth, no one had asked him about his family for years -  not that he had allowed anyone close enough to even know that they were dead. But Hawke had somehow managed to burrow beneath his armour and sneak inside his tattooed skin, and having her ask about his family didn’t feel as invasive as he’d once thought it to be.

He awkwardly scratched the back of his head. It had been so long since he’d spoken of his family that he wasn’t quite sure where to start.

“Well, my father died when I was very young,” he said slowly. “He was in the Tevinter military during the Seheron War. My mother…” He hesitated. This was where things became painful.  

“Her name was Malina,” he finally said. “She was a schoolteacher. She was always smiling or laughing about some foolish thing or another. Not unlike some women I know,” he added, with a small nod at Hawke.

She grinned, and he gave her a small smile before going on. “She became ill when I was seventeen. A rheumatic disease. It was gradual at first, but the symptoms progressed quite quickly. She stopped being able to work when I was eighteen. Varania was thirteen at the time. When I finished secondary school, I started working.”

He’d been unable to find a job that could pay the bills and allow him to look after Varania and his mother. For months he’d jumped from job to job, juggling more than one and never having good enough attendance at any of them to hold them down. The undercurrent of anxiety he’d felt during that terrible time had made him feel nauseous on a daily basis.

That was when Danarius’s crew had come in. Fenris’s family lived in a run-down neighbourhood, and his mother had always warned him who to stay away from, but when he’d met Hadriana and her so-called friends, that’s all they had seemed to him: friends, people who sympathized with him and offered him some cash in exchange for helping them out with a little lyrium dealing here and there.

And Fenris had been desperate and naive enough to agree.

He pushed the self-recriminating thoughts away. It was useless to dwell on the far-distant past. Besides, Hadriana had gotten her comeuppance in the end. She was the one he’d overheard talking about how Danarius had set him up. And she was the first person he’d killed of his own free will.

He forced his gaze back to Hawke’s open, curious face. Pleasant memories, he thought. That was what Hawke needed to hear. He wracked his brain to try and come up with something nice.

Finally he struck upon a moment he could share. He huffed in amusement as he remembered it. “Varania was never fond of school,” he told Hawke. “She spent all her time on Facebook, Instagram… By the time she was seventeen, she had too many followers for her own good. She was always begging me to do her homework for her.”

“And let me guess,” Hawke said. “You said ‘no, Varania, absolutely not’.”

Hawke lowered her voice in a mocking imitation of Fenris’s voice, and he smirked at her. “Would it shock you to know that I did, in fact, do her homework sometimes?”

Hawke’s eyes widened, and she barked out a laugh. “Um, yes? I actually don’t believe you.”

Fenris smirked. “It happened more often than I care to admit. Particularly when she had papers to write. She hated writing essays. Odd, given the long ranting posts she would write on Facebook.” Fenris, on the other hand, had always been fond of writing. He’d once wanted to go to college for writing, in fact. Perhaps to become a music journalist, or something of the like.

But that was a lifetime ago. Fenris wasn’t that naive boy anymore.

Hawke crossed her legs and beamed at him. “Go on. Tell me more.”

He stretched his own legs out and folded his arms. “I once wrote her a paper about the influence of 80s new wave and argued that modern music would not exist without it.”

Hawke’s eyes grew huge and round. “Holy fuck. Okay then.”

“Yes, quite,” Fenris drawled. “Unfortunately for Varania, my mother saw it on her laptop and refused to let her hand it in. My mother said it had my ‘particular brand of eloquent bullshit’ written all over it. Varania failed the assignment, and I was forbidden from helping her anymore.”

Hawke laughed merrily. “And that lasted, what, two days until the next assignment came home?”

Fenris smiled. “And that is how I know you are an older sibling, yourself.”

She laughed again, and Fenris admired her loose posture as she lounged barefoot on his floor. He’d shared this particular benign memory in an attempt to cheer her up, and clearly it had succeeded. But to his pleasant surprise, he was feeling more relaxed and cheerful himself: more relaxed than he had felt in a week, at the very least. The last time he’d felt this much at ease…

He swallowed. It was when he’d been lying naked in Hawke’s bed in the sweat-laced afterglow.

His gaze settled on her face, and with a jolt, he realized she was looking at him as well. Her expression was soft and warm, and heavy as well, like the look on her face when they were sitting together on the couch at that blasted party of hers.

Fenris stared gormlessly at her. She was so beautiful, and the look on her face was the definition of inviting, and Fenris was seized by a mad, impossible urge to crawl toward her and bury himself in the warmth of that look on her face and everything it seemed to imply.

And then, in that weighted, petrifying, dangerous silence, Hawke’s phone dinged.

Hawke dropped her gaze, and Fenris took a deep breath as she pulled her phone from her pocket. She glanced at the screen and frowned.

She tucked the phone back in her pocket, but a moment later, it dinged again. She rolled her eyes as she pulled it out, but Fenris noticed the nervous way she nibbled her lower lip as she studied the screen.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

She shrugged and sipped her tea without looking at him. “My brother,” she said. “He wants to talk.” She tapped her fingers idly on the lid of her cup.

Fenris tilted his head. “You mentioned that he was at your mother’s as well?”

She nodded. “Mother told him I wasn’t coming. Even though I told her last night that I was coming over. She’s so-” She broke off and shook her head, then tucked her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “It’s nothing. It’s fine. I - it’s not urgent. He probably just wants to pick up where she left off. I’m not really in the mood right for a tongue lashing right now.”

She frowned at her knees, and Fenris bit the inside of his cheek, uncertain what to say. He couldn’t really comfort her, as he didn’t know her brother. Not that he was particularly good at providing comfort, anyway.

He finally picked up his cup of coffee from Athenril’s, which had long gone cold by now. There was a brief and awkward silence as he took a sip, and then Hawke’s phone dinged yet again.

She sighed as she picked it up. “I’m sorry, Fenris, this is so rude…”

He shook his head to refute her apology and sipped his coffee again. Her eyebrows lifted as she read the text; then, to Fenris’s surprise, she held the phone out to him.

He gingerly took it from her fingers and read the texts from her brother.

4:48pm - Are you at home rn? 4:48pm - I just wanted to talk for a few mins 4:51pm - I’m sick of fighting about Dad

He handed her back the phone. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Her eyes were wide as she ran her thumb across the screen.

Fenris picked at the bottom rim of his cup for a moment. Then, without quite thinking about it, he spoke again. “I can accompany you. If you want… backup.”

Her wide copper eyes darted to his face. “Why?” she asked.

Because I would do anything for you. The thought surged from the depths of his belly to the back of his tongue, so quickly and vehemently that it took him by surprise, and for a moment, he was terrified that he would say it out loud.

He couldn’t say it, though. He couldn’t, not with his rotten past still festering in the rearview mirror of his life, and not with the blank precipice of the future that stretched beyond the certainty of Danarius’s death. Hawke might want him, and - venhedis, Fenris, admit the fucking truth to yourself, he thought - he might want her more than he’d wanted anything in years. But wanting someone wasn’t enough.

Hawke deserved better, and Fenris wasn’t enough.

He breathed carefully through the vice of pain around his ribs and brushed a piece of lint from his jacket. “It is nearly time for work,” he said. “We would be heading in the same direction.”

He could feel her steady gaze on his face, but he couldn’t look at her, not right now. Not with this ugly lump of longing sitting in his chest where his heart was meant to be.

She finally stretched out her legs and rose to her feet. “That’s okay,” she said softly. “No backup necessary. It’s just my baby brother.” She placed her empty tea cup on the table and made her way toward the door.

Fenris rose from his chair and politely accompanied her to the door. “Hawke, I am… sorry for your troubles. The accusations from your mother…” He shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know what to say, but I am here.”

He finally chanced a look at her face, and he almost wished he hadn’t. Her expression was like a twisted mixture of hope and yearning and confusion all at once.

Then she smiled, and the knot of emotions on her face disappeared. “Thanks, but don’t worry about me,” she said. “It’s honestly not that bad. Usually we have a pretty good time together. We like to gossip about the same shows on HBO.” She shoved her feet into her flats. “Besides, you know what they say: blood is thicker than water. Or lyrium, in this case.” She gave him a casual little wave, then strolled away.

Fenris bit his lip. He understood the sentiment. But as he watched her walk away, pulling on his longing for her with every step that she placed between them both, he couldn’t help but wonder if some things were more binding than blood.

As Hawke disappeared around the corner and down the stairs, Fenris heard the distinctive buzz of his phone on the table.

He frowned, this time with more than a little concern. Hawke had just left, so the message couldn’t be from her. Well, it could be - she’d been known to send him barrages of silly texts moments after they parted ways - but it seemed very unlikely.

He strode over to the table and flipped open his phone, and the breath froze in his lungs as he read the text.

It was from Anso.

5:03pm - Someone has been asking about you. Female elf, 20s. Named Varania.

Fenris’s head was ringing with disbelief and suspicion and a blinding, dizzying hope. Impossible, he thought fuzzily.

He stared at the phone for a long, paralyzing moment, then hit the ‘call’ button and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Anso,” he barked. “Tell me what you know.”

[timeisacephalopod]

ER

This is a no power AU with Stephen in his usual surgeon role, and Tony as his usual engineer/ CEO self. This is quite Stephen-centric and follows him though a bad day at work with some Tony at the end. Somewhat inspired by that one Grey’s Anatomy episode where Bailey get stuck doing surgery on that Nazi asshole. (Also, as always when I write him Stephen is Nepali).

Stephen hates working in the ER but Christine insists that he pull some hours there. Truthfully he only does it out of respect for Christine, but respect for her doesn’t mean that he has to like it. Nick comes running up and Stephen rolls his eyes, prepared for yet another wrong diagnoses that he will have to fix when he stops in front of him, huffing. “There’s been a nasty accident not far from here. We’re about to get flooded so I suggest making sure there are OR rooms free,” he says. 

“I already know which ones are free,” Steven tells him. “Because unlike some people I do my job,” he adds under his breath. Nicky gives him an annoyed look but says nothing as Stephen goes to make sure the supplies they will need will be within easy reach and, true to Nick’s word, the hospital is flooded less than fifteen minutes later. He works mostly methodically, most wounds are superficial in nature, but when Christine calls him over to work on someone else he’s relieved. If she’s called him over than she’s got something more his speed and he’s damn tired of stitching whining people.

When he gets there though Christine looks right irritated. He raises an eyebrow and she makes an annoyed noise, “he wants a guy- his spine is a mess and he won’t let me treat him because I’m a woman.” Her distaste and disgust is clear and frankly Stephen is surprised. Hospitals don’t tend to be places where people care about that kind of thing- the sick don’t get the luxury of deeply held prejudice but this guy is apparently steadfast clinging to his.

“You know I can hear you, right?” the patient tells presumably Christine but its Stephen who responds.

“Something tells me she doesn’t give a damn,” Stephen says, coming up behind the patient and examining what Christine had called a mess and frankly that was being polite about it. “I’m assuming you were in one of the cars closest to the initial crash, then?” he asks. Nasty pile of cars after one spun out and hit another, they think, but the results are bloody nonetheless.

“Yeah,” the guy mumbles.

“Unlucky,” Stephen murmurs more to himself than the patient and in the chaos his comment gets lost anyways. He asks a few more routine questions, figuring out the best course of action, before he cuts the man’s shirt carefully to get a better look at the damage. When he catches the snatch of ink its not really unusual- tattoos are especially popular for young people- but something makes him cut a little higher than he needs to.

His eyebrows fly up and across the room its like Christine knows to look up because they make eye contact. He jerks his head, gesturing for her to come over and she does, reluctantly. When she sees the tattoo her jaw drops and Stephen snickers a little. Fucking idiot has no idea that Stephen isn’t white- he came up from behind and thanks to his deep voice and lack of an accent this moron had assumed he was white. Or at least given the rather large swastika on his shoulder he assumes the patient thinks he’s white.

“If you’re not comfortable-” Christine starts but Stephen shakes his head.

“Are you kidding me?” he hisses, “this idiot has no idea I’m not white, this is hilarious.” Christine looks confused, very confused, but Stephen has always delighted in making a fool out of people with stupid, pseudoscientific beliefs and this is no exception. So he’ll continue to do as much work as possible before his patient catches on to the fact that Stephen is very much Asian.

Christine shakes his head at him and walks off. “Uh, everything alright back there?” the patient asks and Stephen snorts. Not even remotely, the fact that this guy isn’t dead or even unstable momentarily is a god damn miracle. Or, more likely, indicative that something else is wrong and he can’t see it yet.

“Nice tattoo,” Stephen says in a pleasant tone that his idiot patient assumes is approval if his response is any indication.

“Oh I... wouldn’t have figured someone here would understand,” he says eventually.

Stephen lets out a small laugh, stepping around the bed and into the patient’s view. “Oh I can’t say I understand,” he says, pleasant smirk on his face. The patient jerks and Stephen almost winces for him given the circumstances but its his own racist opinions that did that to him. Stephen would lower the dosage of his pain killers too if not for a potential malpractice suit. He’s sure it wouldn’t matter in the end, Tony has the best lawyers money can buy and he’s hardly short on cash himself, but he figures its best to play this right. “If you’d like I can grab a white man,” he says, same pleasant tone in his voice and the patient looks damn confused but Stephen knows exactly what Nick will think of this. The man doesn’t work well when uncomfortable- a bad trait for a doctor.

He goes off to fetch Nick, sending him over to the Nazi while he goes back to stitching patients who are whining more than usual. Ugh. If only he could be a doctor without the whole ‘dealing with people’ thing. Christine says its impossible but Stephen firmly believes in medicine without people. Let robots gather their symptoms, he can deal with them after they’re knocked out.

“Stephen,” Nick says from behind him and he turns, dropping his tools in the small tray sitting beside him. “I can’t... that guy... he’s a Nazi Stephen, I can’t work on that.”

He raises an eyebrow, “and you’re talking to me because?” he asks even though he knows where this is going.

Nick sighs, looks away with a clearly conflicted look on his face before he turns back. “I know this is profoundly selfish to ask but...” his words cut off and he looks away again.

Stephen gets the point anyways. “Fine then, I’d appreciate you in the operating room though. I’m not certain Christine will be able to resist killing the man and someone should keep her from doing so,” he says, walking swiftly away.

**

Its almost twenty seven hours later when he finally gets done with the surgery. He’d been right about not seeing everything that was wrong, the guy almost died four times, but Stephen managed to save his ass while both Nick and Christine watched in utter confusion as he did his best to save a Nazi’s life.

Tony meets him outside and he all but collapses onto him, which probably isn’t fair since he’s nearly a foot taller than the poor man but he handles it well. “I am ready to die,” Stephen mumbles into the top of Tony’s head.

“Yeah,” Tony says from underneath him, “I kind of got that memo. Guess surgery went badly?” he asks, hedging his bets Stephen guessed. He’s never taken surgeries gone wrong well, not that they happened often, but this isn’t that.

“Oh it went fine. The patient almost died four times but he’s fine. That’s not what’s on my mind though,” he says, pulling away to stop squishing his poor partner. Tony frowns, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. God, he’s beautiful- dark features and fair skin, its a stunning combination. It helps that Tony is like him in a lot of ways and the ways in which they differ aren’t differences that draw them apart like they had with him and Christine.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks, reading what Christine and Nick hadn’t been able to on his features.

“I’m fine, Tony. Mostly. But the man I just saved is a Nazi.” Tony looks almost more disgusted than Christine and Nick had when they discovered that fun fact.

“You should have let him die,” he says in a harsh, unforgiving tone but Stephen knows if it came down to it Tony wouldn’t have killed the man. But he probably wouldn’t have done what Stephen did either. He’s far far less vengeful than Stephen is.

*

There days when Tony doesn’t understand Stephen- they’re rare, but they happen. And usually when he’s confused Christine can fill him in, but this time they’re both at a loss as they watch Stephen fuss over the man who clearly wants Stephen the hell away from him. It disgusts Tony to watch the way the guy fucking cringes every time Stephen comes near him when he saved that piece of shit’s fucking life but Stephen doesn’t seem to react at all.

“I don’t understand that,” Christine murmurs, “I thought he was an asshole for requesting a male doctor. Turns out he was worse.”

Tony shakes his head, “if I were you I would have make it look like an accident,” he murmurs.

“I was almost sure that’s what Stephen was going to do, almost perfect record be damned, but I swear he tried harder to not let him die,” Christine says. She’s baffled and frankly so is Tony. Its not like Stephen could possibly have any love for Nazis but their Nazi friend decides to ask for the both of them.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks eventually, flinching as Stephen continues to ensure he’s not about to die or whatever other doctor things he’s supposed to look for. Tony shakes his head, clenching his jaw at the utter disrespect. Its painful to watch Stephen get treated that way. Tony hopes Stephen lowers the dosage on those pain meds.

Stephen stops for a moment and looks down at the man in the bed before he lets out a soft, cruel smile. “I thought about letting you die- I’ll be honest and say the world would be better for your loss. Not that I’d even call it that much. But then I thought why kill him when you can get revenge? So I kept you alive, I worked hard to do it too, and I did it because there is nothing more satisfying to me to know that for a man like you having an Asian man and a woman save his life is a fate worse than death. Every time you even think you’re superior or better you’ll have to remember my face, my race, and know that the only reason you even have a thought in that vile mind of yours is because I allowed it to happen. Welcome to your waking nightmare every day for the rest of your shitty life, asshole. I am infinitely pleased to have delivered you here,” Stephen tells him in a low, threatening tone.

Tony and Christine share a surprised look, “remind me not to piss him off,” Tony tells her.

She swears under her breath, “no shit. I knew he was spiteful but wow, that’s a new level even for him.”

“Still think the Nazi was better off dead,” Tony mumbles. But he has to admit Stephen’s creative method of revenge is... well, creative.

**

Tony doesn’t understand Stephen’s love for watches, they’re utterly useless, but he deserves something after that Nazi fiasco so Tony and Christine hunt down a couple rare, expensive watches for gifts. Stephen raises an eyebrow when Tony hands him the box with their spoils in it but the absolute delight on his face when he finds the watches inside is so worth the price he paid for them.

“Thank you,” Stephen says, pulling a Rolex out of its box. “I’ve been lusting after this for years but its always been just a little out of my price range.” And he’s terrible with money, Tony knows. It goes out almost faster than it goes in. But he deserved a nice gift and Christine happened to remember what it looked like when Tony only remembered that it was a Rolex. Between the two of them they managed though.

“I thought you should get a little something nice, you’ve had a stressful few weeks,” he says, wrapping an arm around Stephen’s waist. 

Stephen leans down and kisses his temple, “having you around always makes things better. And I guess you too Christine,” he adds in a far less loving tone.

Christine rolls her eyes, “typical,” she says, shaking her head fondly.

[eene-fangirl]

Prison [An Original Story]

NOTE: Can anybody who reads this please leave a review. It’s for my thesis project. Thank you! Enjoy!

The halls were long and dark. The building was much bigger on the inside then from when you were standing on the outside looking up at a colossal building which swallows you into its darkness. Prison was just as it sounded. Bleak, all hope lost the second long iron bars encased you in a tight small square, and the way everyone looked at you as if you were a monster to society.

I didn’t see the point to why the guard were introducing me to where I was staying. There was the bed with one shabby blanket, the rusted old sink, and a toilet which created the stench of thousands of cows who pooped all over a field. There was a window, but the bars blocked any light from disturbing the prisons darkness.

They took me to the deep end of the prison. Far away from where the light touched into black shadows. The only scenery I had to look at behind bars was a wall. How quaint, maybe it could dance for me.

The officer who me in gave me the lowdown about how things worked around here. There was a daily routine in this place. Except I wasn’t going anywhere on most days. I was to stay here in my square box. Who cares, it wasn’t like I was missing out on anything.

Finally the officer left. Quiet. I remember reading how silence could drive a person to the brink of insanity. All your thoughts piling up making your mind what to explode. That’s why people had to talk every day. Talking and sprouting out useless stories or warnings. Talking was useless. My parents once brought me to a shrink believing something was wrong with me.

Nothing was wrong. I was only trying to live my life.

I’d only been in this place for twenty minutes and already I felt uncomfortable. There was a guard at the very end of the hallway. Why would I want to talk to him, or anybody? Nobody cared about my story.

Next to my cell I heard only the slightest noise. Shuffling. It sounded like someone walking lightly on the ground so wouldn’t disturb anyone. Before the guard put my in this cell I noticed another prison next door to mine. I couldn’t tell who occupied it as a brick wall was cemented in place.

“Who’s there?” That was the first time I heard my voice in a while. I forgot how I sounded.

Listening carefully I swore I heard someone’s breathing catch in their throat. I am not alone.

“Don’t act like you’re not there. The bunny rabbit tip toes are so loud.”

Nothing was heard in the few seconds before someone spoke. Drips of water lightly pelted from the ceiling outside by cell.

“Yeah, someone’s here.” It was a boy. His voice sounded young, but old enough to be a teenager. It was smooth but had a whiny undertone.

“How long you been here?” I asked sticking my feet up into the air as I lied in the mattress filled with too many springs.

“Long time.”

Not very specific. “What did you do?” I asked.

The silence was so thick that someone could slice a piece of it and eat it with gravy. Not like I liked gravy. It was the one part of the mean I avoided on Thanksgiving.

“What’s your name then? That’s an easier question.”

“Robby.” The boy was so hesitant to even say a word.

For the first time in quite some time I laughed. “Ironicm don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?” Robby asked slightly taking offence. For a moment I was glad that I concrete wall blocked us. I didn’t know what he did to get himself in here.

“You know, a robber robs a store and they’re sent to jail. She what I mean?”

I didn’t hear anything for a moment until I heard him make the slightest grunt. “I guess you’re right.”

Have you ever felt someone smiling? I never knew you could feel someone smiling until now. And I hardly ever made conversation with anyone. People in school would call me ‘The Silent Creeper’. I have no idea why they called me a creeper. It wasn’t like I was stalking or looking to kill anyone.

“What’s yours?”

“Ruby Sawyer.” There was no need to tell him my last name. It’s always a formality within my family.

“My favorite novel character.”

“You like Tom Sawyer?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting.” I said.

“What?”

“Tom Sawyer being a troublemaker and all.”

“Troublemaker?” The springs in his bed squeaked so loud when he sat up in his bed. “Tom Sawyer defended another man from going to jail, put his life on the line when he was trapped by Injun Joe, and saved Becky Thatcher.”

“You’re quite the reader.” I said. I got off the uncomfortable bed to walk around the small space. Maybe I’d sleep on the ground during my duration of living here.

“It’s all you can do in here.”

I stopped walking and stared at the cemented wall. I looked around again. A bed. A sink. A toilet. Nothing else.

Why did that bother me? I spent all my time in my room at home. I was the queen of spending days doing nothing. Nothing but watching TV, listening to music, or reading magazines. I’d drive my mother crazy to the point where she’d rant off to herself claiming she must have done something wrong while raising me. It wasn’t her fault? There just didn’t seem like a point in doing anything.

I didn’t have a TV, music magazine here. Nothing.

There was a mirror at at my sink. It had all kinds of mildew on it.

My hair was a frizz ball.

The ugly orange suit showed up pretty well. I had to admit it was comfortable to wear. Were they trying to make their prisoners lose their minds.

“How long are you in for, Robby?”

This question was so hard for him to answer. Pressing my head against the chilled cobblestones it sounded as if there was an object pounding.

“How long will you be here?” His voice was jumpy.

“Alright, I’ll go first,” I grumbled. “A year or half of one.”

“Oh.”

“Are you going to tell me how long you’re here?”

“I’ve already been here a year and a half.” he answered.

The me in the mirror furred their eyebrow. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“What did you do?”

The talking seized again. A new atmosphere of tension filled the little space. Oh wonderful, I thought. I had to deal with that feeling here too. At first I felt like this would be a vacation away from my parents. My parents were so difficult to get along with. Whenever I had something to argue about Australia could hear us because our shouting was so loud. Nobody had to be the same. Of course, I could have talked to my parents more to tell them what was on my mind.

Wow, that was the first time I admitted to that.

“What do you look like?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Is this wall going to block us for a whole year?”

“I guess. The guards don’t take me out much to go to those activities.”

“Who would want to do those? I’d rather stay here.”

“Okay. Um… I’m thin, tall, brown eyes.”

“That’s it?” I said when the silence hit again. Honestly it felt as if it were banging my in the hide or nail on a chalkboard.

“That’s all I can think of.”

“Your description is hardly anything to go on. Are you white or black?”

“Isn’t that racist?” Robby asked, but he was clearly smiling.

“How is that racist? It’s who you are. I’m black.”

“Fine. I’m white.” And we laughed together. It must have been odd for the prison guard to hear laughter down the hallway.

Time passed in prison as if it were a snail trying to win a marathon, except when it made it to the finish line there was a new batch of leaves and you noticed they invented flying cars. But, for me I was already scratching off day sixty out of one hundred on the wall.

The guards told me that my sentence was changed to a year. My parents came and talked to the prison. And they even spoke with me behind glass on a phone. Like on TV. For once we had a decent conversation. I never saw my mother so happy to hear my voice. Even she forgot what I sounded like.

Looking at my face in the little mirror that scrubbed clean I noticed that my face looked older. My hair laced around my shoulders. But, there was a detail so different that when I saw my parents that day they were unnerved.

I was smiling.

Being eighteen and living inside a square box made me think. There was more to life then spending it inside your mind. I needed to experience and live. Making friends was a crucial part in everyone’s life

“Have you ever thought about college, Robby?” I was sitting my back against the wall which closed me off from the other cell. In a way I could feel him laying in the same position.

“I did.” he answered, but felt distanced.

“Do you think you’re going to go when you get out of here?”

There was a small thunk as he probably hit his head against the wall. “I never leaving, Ruby.” He said to me.

“Is it about what you did?”

“Yes.”

His voice quivered. Robby sounded so lost the past few days. It was like the day we met where he was too scared to say a word to the person on the other side of the wall. All the while that I knew him he never talked about his family. He never had one visitor. I craved for a day where the guard would open his cell and I get to see him walk by. I wanted to know the person I became friends with.

“I stole drugs.” I admitted.

“What?”

“I stole drugs. I was going to turn myself into a drug dealer when I was ratted out.”

“Who ratted on you?”

“These guys I thought were my friends. They were only trying to get my into trouble seeing how I was so quiet.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“I was different then. I saw no value in life. Sitting in here I realize how wrong I was. Thanks, Robby.”

“Why are you thank me?” Robby asked in pure surprise.

“I would have gone out of my mind if you weren’t here. I thought silence was gold, but no. Silence is so annoying. You’re the most I have ever talked to.”

“Thanks.”

Silence

I could hear this incessant tapping noise. Robby was sliding his feet all around. That thumping noise returned making the walls shake and dust would come crumbling down from the ceiling.

“Robby…”

“I killed my mother!”

My mouth flew open. I could him crying. That was the only sound that filled the air. Of any noise claws on a chalkboard, the incessant clipping of toenails, crying was the worst sound anybody could listen to. Crying was pain. You need a hug due to keeping emotions repressed. Robby repressed everything since the day I showed up. Little did I know he could have been this way his entire life.

“Did you mean to?” I asked. I didn’t feel scared. Anybody would be scared sitting on the other side of a cell which held a killer.

“S-She couldn’t live on her own anymore,” Robby explained through heaving breaths. “She got into his fatal car accident a-and a doctor said although there was brain activity she was never going to wake up.”

“But, Robby, you didn’t kill here.” I said to him feeling tears leak into my own eyes.

“No, no. I couldn’t stand to see her with thousands of tubes helping her breathe, there was nothing that was going to bring her back to life. Ruby, she was this amazing woman who you could go on so many adventures with and then the next minute she’s laying in a bed for the rest of her life in a come. I shut off the machine because I knew she didn’t want to be burden to any of us. But, then I realized after finding the plug in my hand t-that I killed her!”

Tears streamed down my eyes. There was no telling how long he’d been in prison for. Even if he was ever let out he’d never be free from the guilt.

The encased walls of the prison made every dark thought stay inside your mind. I never had a day where I was trapped inside my mind until these days. It was no picnic. The mind came up with bizarre thoughts and could have been scenarios. I had no clue what I’d been going now if I was never sent to prison.

Moving to the opening of my cell I poked my whole arm through the bars.

“Robby, you can hold my hand if you want.”

I was desperate to comfort him in some way. We’d been friends for a whole year. Friends never let anyone cry alone.

The biggest smile came across my face when a hand poked through its cell and held my own.

Robby’s hand was smooth. He gently held her hand making him feel better.

“You didn’t kill your mom, Robby. You put her in a better place.”

“Thank you.”

“Bet I can beat you in an arm wrestle.” I challenged.

“Is that so.”

[martywurst]

YEAR 2: The Worst Comedian (Part 2)

I had an encounter with former Comedy Store talent coordinator, Tommy, who was fired just months prior and was working on developing another home base where he could still play comedy godfather. The Vaucluse Lounge was a mere two blocks away from the Comedy Store and now Tommy was recruiting comics that were still loyal to him and putting on shows. They were calling this place Chaplin's House, but I don't think there was anything historic about it.

It really was an impressive bar/lounge, but management was falling apart. It was a ghost town. I ordered their onion rings and got a pile of American cheese on a couple of turd circles (psst, I'm not really a writer). I ordered something disgusting and got so much more.

"Ooh, that looks good, I'm gonna get that!" one comic said, pinching and stretching some cheese off my plate.

A couple of nights the place was locked up unannounced, black curtains drawn, even though a show was supposed to be going on. Headliners were bailing before their sets.

There were a couple of open mics going on there, too. Tommy would play some acoustic guitar for 30 minutes to get the room warmed up. He played the same three songs over and over. Or maybe it was just the same three chords, I can't remember. He was like one of those dudes that destroy a party by forcing us to listen to a cover of Hotel California. Strictly Hollywood Blvd quality. Then he would hang out for the mic and occasionally give advice to some lucky comic.

After one of my sets, he was suddenly next to me, talking into my ear like David Blaine.

"There's something that's still missing, but I don't know what it is."

"I'm not connecting with the audience?" I asked.

"There was just something missing. Try sitting on a stool and just saying your material, so it's not so (in-your-face gesture) forced. Your material is good, it had an intelligence and you have a good look. It's not about how you look on stage, it's about how you look on camera....really. But I think you just need to say what you have to say- I took it in. You'll get there, I enjoyed it."

Then he patted me on the shoulder and walked away.

Maybe if I worked hard enough I could become a Vaucluse regular! I honestly thought it was cool to get advice from Tommy, despite him being a reputed racist douchebag. I mean, he was once the apprentice of The Comedy Store owner Mitzi Shore, so his opinion has to count for something, right? A racist's opinion is still an opinion. Plus, he really wailed on the guitar!

One night at Vaucluse I waited around for 2 hours to do a 10 minute set. That's actually a good set for that kind of wait, but this night was excruciating. There was a line-up of all male comics that had plenty to say about the opposite sex: Stories varied from "This bitch was sucking my dick," to "I wanted to give her brown eye a black eye!" and so forth. I remember hearing the bartender making pained noises behind the counter, like some victim of a stabbing. left for dead. She had to just stand there and take it...every worthless comedian. Worst of all, EVERYONE got 10 minutes. When the first 30 seconds are torture, the next 9 1/2 feel like a lifetime. When they finally got to me the host said,

"Uhh, you get 2 minutes."

I've never been that pissed at an open mic before. Mother...FUCKER. They were letting the worst people host, nothing ever started on time, the food was godawful, the bartender wanted to kill herself, and no one seemed to give a shit that the place was falling apart. I was mentally trying to stay positive and tune out all the negative shit I'd been listening to, but now I wanted to douse myself in gasoline and tackle the host into the fireplace--that would be such a great closer. My stomach was turning from the onion rings, so I opted for my shitty set instead.

But hey, it's 2 minutes so I did it. I got through a joke-and-a-half. Once I left, I cursed and muttered angrily all the way to the bus, letting the "cocksuckers" and "motherfuckers" fly.

I went home and looked at their Facebook page and saw this ridiculous post,

"Chaplin's House is being called the New Comedy Store...no joke."

Nobody's laughing.

Anyway, that place folded and Tommy moved on to another space where he still occasionally gives out his comedy pointers.

Also in my second year I was doing fewer bringer shows, but I still got roped into a couple more at Flappers. I would quickly get stressed out again and moan to my girlfriend about why I put myself through this. Just reading the emails made me want to puke:

Respond to this email with a head count of how many audience you expect so that we can properly staff the room. 

It takes everyone involved to have epic shows--we do ask everyone to always aim to have at least 5 people per show.  If you are unable to get anyone out please let us know and we will re-schedule you for a date that is more convenient for you to support.

Like I said before, they only want me back when I make some fucking friends!

I decided to not show up at all and go to the Rebel Bite open mic in Long Beach instead. An open mic at a pizza joint was better than doing a bringer show, at least in my head. I wrote back:

Sorry for the delay,   I wanted to get a more accurate count of zero confirmed.    I think my friends tapped out months ago.  Let me know if you want to reschedule or give me the boot.  Or I'll audition again once I have a little fanbase I can depend on instead of wasting everybody's time. Nothing personal.  Thanks.

I shouldn't have felt bad about it anyway, since I bought 4 of my videotaped sets from them.

Then there was the Formosa Cafe. I did it because I was told it wasn't REALLY a bringer show...just sort of. Uggh. I won't mention the names. I can still hear the producer pretending to laugh at other people's sets--so forced and obvious, trying to get the crowd on our side. He'd be looking down at his phone and let out a

"BWAHAHAHAHA!"

Then I'd have to listen to some jerk-off host do his Family Guy impressions for 15 minutes. Then the producer would go up and do the most dated material--many of these bringer show people stick to their one routine. Anyway, what do I know, they're the ones cashing in, right?

I had friends show up for my first and second show, then the third time none of my friends came out and the producer stopped booking me. During past shows, he was blowing smoke up my ass and said all these nice things about my particular brand of humor, but he was only thinking about the head-count. He was a phony just like his forced laughter.

 There were some nice moments. My blues buddy, Street Slim invited me to do a set at The Rainbow Bar and Grill, a really cool rock bar on The Sunset Strip. Just to do something outside the ring of comedians that I was usually bumping heads with felt really special.

My friend Donald and I rented out a black box theater and produced a variety show. It ran 2 1/2 hours and half the audience left, but we had a great time.

I co-produced a comedy show with Jeanne Whitney and Timika Hall at Echoes Under Sunset. We only did 3 shows, but it was a fantastic experience.

I remember bombing at the new UCB on Sunset and when I was walking back to the car, a couple I've never seen before starts yelling at me from their car.

"Marty, you were funny!"

"What?"

"We were inside."

"Really? Thanks, it felt like death in there."

"We thought you were funny."

"Working on it, working on it."

That blew my mind. Who does that? And they remembered my name!

One time they moved a Comedy Store open mic into the Main Room and after we finished our sets, Bill Burr dropped in and did 15 minutes to an all-comic crowd. It was awesome.

Another time I was waiting around for Tony Bartolone's Hat Show to start and the great Rick Shapiro was outside with Rick Wood and Jeremy Bassett. Shapiro was making fun of the Oldtown Pasadena scene and he suddenly gets a glimmer in his eye and this evil grin,

"Let's go to the Mac Store and jerk off!"

It was said with such demented glee. Later we went to get him some Starbucks and he told the barista that his name was Johnny Two Chicks. He was so excited to hear the name called out, but it didn't get the reaction he wanted.

 Then there was the time that I was waiting in the green room for another possible Kill Tony episode at the Comedy Store. Dom Irrera comes in and sits down across from me. It's silent, it's uncomfortable, the guy is amazing, so I'm a little in awe. He asks me if I'm a comic and how long I've been doing it. Very friendly, but I just gave him short answers. Meanwhile, Pat Regan was on stage singing about how much he misses getting jacked off in San Francisco, and Dom and I are just sitting there while this song is in the background. Dom turns to me completely serious and says,

"This song brings back a lot of memories." I barked out a laugh.

I started making goofy set-lists and posting them online. Just a good way to vent about the shit I'd seen at open mics during the week. Here are a few of my favorites:

The usual variety of homophobic/misogynistic shit I'd hear on any given week.

 My second Kill Tony appearance went a little better, but only because I managed to get a few laughs. It was a unique situation because I brought my buddy Dakota Freeman with me, but he was under 21 and wouldn't be allowed inside the club unless he was called up to perform. So I stood outside with him, listening through the door every few minutes to see if we'd get called.

About 30 minutes into the show I got called, but I couldn't open the door from the outside. For a second, the hosts thought I had flaked, but a couple of my friends were in the audience, telling them I was behind the door because I was with a minor. They opened the door for me and at this point there was some confusion because the hosts were under the impression that I was the one underage. Then when it was cleared up Tony says,

"Oh, you're hanging out with underage boys. Ok!"

Before I've even started my set, another pedophile joke had been spiked over my head. You can probably see where this is going.

I didn't gain any Twitter followers this time--in fact, I think I lost a couple.  They probably thought I was really a pedophile.

 Gradually, I found some open mics down in Long Beach, where I had moved in with my girlfriend. There was the SOM open mic at the Rebel Bite pizzeria, The Library Coffeehouse, Blacklight District Lounge and Makai Coffee.

Now if I wasn't feeling the LA scene that week, I had the option to hit some mics in my neighborhood. Rebel Bite, Makai, and The Library were just a mile away. Long Beach was also calmer. I could do longer sets- I did my first 15 minute set at Rebel Bite. I met some nice people. It's funny how these two coffee shops were the polar opposite in terms of an audience--take a look below.

I was also hearing some positive feedback for a change. Sometimes my conceptual ideas would play well and even if they didn't, I'd still be writing the kind of stuff I wanted to try. The support I was getting from my new friends gave me the confidence to try bigger ideas. Showing up to mics and finally having a group of friends to talk to was a nice break. I was so used to being the creeper that was eavesdropping outside a circle of comedy nerds or asking Dean Delray stupid questions in the Comedy Store hallway. Complimenting comics on their podcasts, or a joke that I liked, thinking I always had to go in with a compliment or they'd hate my guts. Then I would fuck up their name anyway, which made the compliment null and void.

I'm still learning to relax, but I'm usually amped up whenever I'm in Los Angeles. I feel the cutthroat competition and that air of judgement. Mostly because I'm carrying it around with me--turn that shit off Wurst, these are your friends! I don't have to prove anything to these comics, we're all showing up to the same mic. Charles Disney was just saying how we ask questions that we want to be asked in return,

"You got any cool gigs coming up? No? NOW ASK ME IF I HAVE ANY COOL GIGS! THANK YOU, I DO! SLEEPAWAY CAMP BABY-MARGARET CHO HEADLINING! ENJOY YOUR SHOW AT P.F. CHANG'S, YA ASIAN FUSION COMIC! "

There's usually 4-5 standard questions (How you doing, got anything coming up, you hitting another mic after this, you ever go to Marty's?) and if there's no conversation beyond that, we're not really friends. It's just surface level pleasantries for insecure comics.

Then there are just genuinely great dudes like Spencer Kalendar, who's never putting on airs and makes me feel like I can just be myself. I think the very first thing he said to me was,

"I remember you from Kill Tony, you're the pedophile guy!"

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #386

“someone kick me out of my mind  /  i hate these thoughts, i can’t deny”

Did you ever go to daycare as a kid? Only for a day. My mother was VERY unimpressed and frankly pissed with how they treated me. Who's one of the most talented people you know? What are they talented at? Man, it's hard to say! I have a number of friends who are wonderful artists, as well as stupendous writers. My younger sister is a great dancer, so much so she's an instructor by now. She is also INCREDIBLE with children. I have an old high school friend who's a marvelous photographer. I could keep going and going. How long have you had your current mattress? Wow, I have NO idea. It's very old. Do you usually pay with cash, debit card, or credit card? Just cash, 'cuz I don't have either card. What's your sexuality? I'm bisexual. What's your gender identity? Female. Are you the type of person who can make friends with just about anyone? To an extent. There are some beliefs, like homophobia, racism, misogyny, etc. that I absolutely will not tolerate in friends. What was the last thing you borrowed from someone? Idk, actually. What are some things you like about the area you live in? It's not too densely populated. Do you have one of those removable hand-held shower heads? Yes. I absolutely hate the kind that don't. How many burners does your stove have? Four. When you go to a restaurant, do you prefer to sit at a booth or a table? A booth. I feel more secure. Has your car ever been broken into? My mom's never has. I don't own my own car. What do you like to be called? It depends on who you are, but generally, Britt or, if online, Ozz. Favorite WWE wrestler? I'm not into wrestling at all. I find it stupid in my honest opinion. What magazine(s) are you subscribed to? None. Pet(s) species, names, and why they are named that? I have a cat named Roman. I don't know what his breed is, but his coat resembles a Siamese. I named him "Roman" because I thought it was regal and majestic, like he looked. My champagne ball python is named Venus because her coloration reminds me of the planet of the same name. Last picture you took was of: a funny picture to show Sara. It's my way of tagging her in memes lmaoooo Soda you wouldn't buy? I don't like Sprite, for one. Funny how it was my fave as a kid. Do you have any friends you have never gotten into an argument with? Yeah. For example, I've never once had an argument with Tez, which is pretty amazing given how long we've been in steady contact. Have you ever developed a crush on someone the first day you met them? No. Have you ever been with someone who was really clingy? Did it annoy you? You could say Tyler was, but not physically. He just wanted to be talking 24/7. Is there a store you go to so much the employees know your name? No. Does your best friend get along with their parents? Yeah. Would you be able to tell me your mom’s favorite food? No. Do you have any friends who never shut up about their boyfriend/girlfriend? I had one, before she fell off the face of the planet. Have you ever helped someone while they were drunk puking? No, I never could. I can't even HEAR someone puking. Would you rather have a pet snake or a pet cat? Bruh the fuck, those are the two pets I have and adore, haha. If I didn't have either though and I had the choice of one pet, I'd want a snake. Have you ever gotten anything racist about you yelled at you? No. Have you ever watched someone being carried into an ambulance? Yeah, my mom. Has a boyfriend/girlfriend ever given you a stuffed animal? Yes. Do you remember the The Land Before Time movies? Who was your favourite character? I. LOVED. THOSE MOVIES. I think Littlefoot was my favorite, or Cera. Are you one of those people who texts back instantly? Pretty much. Do you buy your lingerie at Victoria’s Secret? No. Overpriced madness imo. Who in your phone has a heart after their name? Sara. Who was playing at the first concert you ever attended? Who did you go with? Alice Cooper. I went with Mom, Jason, and my little sister. My sis had absolutely no interest in Alice himself, she just wanted to go for the hell of it. Have you ever used a chainsaw? No. Have you ever worn those drunk goggles? Yes, during D.A.R.E. Rodeos – entertaining, or cruel? Cruel as fuck. Gored? Good. Who is the best female rocker? Why? I don't know. What color of roses do you find the prettiest? I actually really like the traditional, rich red. Favorite thing to see in museums? Fossils. Have you ever seen an unwrapped mummy in person? No. They shouldn't get unwrapped in the first place, like respect their culture ffs. Let the dead lie. Do you feel uncomfortable sharing drinks with other people? Yep. I won't even share a drink with my mother. Have either of your grandparents ever told you a sexual joke? Oh god, my maternal grandmother would never. I don't think the others have. Are you trying to grow out your hair? That's a definite no. I never want long hair again. Have you ever woven baskets of any kind (wicker, paper, cardboard etc.)? No. Do you like the TV-show Frasier? I haven't watched it. Has there ever been a leak anywhere in your house? Not in this house, no. Two houses ago when a hurricane made a tree land on our roof, though, it caused a few leaks. Is it very humid where you are right now? You have no fucking idea, and the A/C in the house is broken. It feels lovely in here. What is the most suggestive thing someone has said to you? I actually don't know but even if I did I probably wouldn't share it. Do you have friends who you playfully flirt with? Sometimes. Do you have a favourite television host? No. When it comes to chocolate, do you prefer nougat, jelly or caramel filling? Caramel. When you’re angry, does it ever get physical? No. People like that scare me. Do you have any flags on display? If so, what flag(s)? No. I want a gay pride flag, though, to hang above my bed. When was the last time you took a nap? Did it relax you any? Yesterday, and yeah it did. Naps are pretty much part of my daily routine; it's seldom I have a day where I can physically make it through the day without having one. Which singer’s vocals would you love to steal? Amy Lee's or Adele's top the list, I think. Have you ever been trapped in a fire? Thank God no. Do wasps scare you? Oh yes. How old were you when you met your first love? 15, almost 16. What social stigma does society need to get over? Hairy women = gross, and mentally ill people = dangerous/scary, to name just two. I know there are MANY more, but it's too early in the morning for me to think too hard on this, lol. What is the best/worst prank that you’ve played on someone? I don't like pranking people. What makes you roll your eyes every time you hear it? "Some people have it worse," "just think positive!", "everything happens for a reason," "kill it with fire" (when talking about snakes, bugs, stuff like that), among others. Do you think aliens exist? Probably. What mythical creature do you wish actually existed? Unicorns. Although I feel they'd certainly be hunted to extinction... What are you interested in that most people aren’t? Uhhh I guess meerkats would count here? I think most people don't even know what they are. What’s the most ridiculous thing you have bought? No clue. If given the opportunity to open a museum, what kind would you create? A paleontology one. Can you imagine all the fossils, educational exhibits, kids taking pictures with the fake dinos, etc. etc... Do you consider yourself a good cook? Nope. What’s the dumbest thing someone has argued with you about? Oh, I'm SURE this would be something with Mom. She doesn't care what the subject is, she's always right. What did you google last? The definition of a word. What do you wish you knew more about? Politics, so I could actually be a more effective member of society. What is the most annoying question you’ve been asked? I can't say, really. Are you a good listener? I TRY to be, but to be honest, I'm not the best because of how badly I lose my focus. Like you can talk to me and I'm making an effort to listen, but it just goes in one ear and out the other sometimes. Do you think you’re brave? No, honestly. What are you most grateful for in your life? My mom. I genuinely don't know where I'd be without her. What was the worst phase in your life? Late 2015-very early 2017. Would you like to explore another planet? No. Going to space seems like way too long of a trip.

[maximuswolf]

Applying the Satanic Rules of the Earth to my life - a success story via /r/satanism

Applying the Satanic Rules of the Earth to my life - a success story

TL;DR: Actively applying the 11 Satanic Rules of the Earth has greatly improved my life. If you’re thinking about it, give it a serious try. Go all in and I’m sure you’ll see results too.

————————-

This is a rather long post, but my goal is just to give people a “real life” example of how you can apply Satanic principles to ones daily life. Everyone’s life is different, but this is how LaVeyan Satanism improved mine.

BACKGROUND

After denouncing my evangelical upbringing (homeschooled, extremely conservative) and during many months of searching for the right path, I happened to read the Satanic Bible. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I didn’t expect it to resonate with me as deeply as it did.

Even so, it took many years to leave the Christian brainwashing behind. I was conditioned to forgive and forget, to be passive and compliant, to bend over backwards for people who didn’t deserve it, and to feel guilty for instigating confrontation of any kind, even in self defense. It took many years for me to really embrace the Satanic Rules and begin putting them into practice, including employing rituals as a psychological method to achieve my goals.

For those unfamiliar, the 11 Satanic Rules of the Earth as written in the Satanic Bible are:

Do not give opinions or advice unless you are asked.

Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them.

When in another’s lair, show him respect or else do not go there.

If a guest in your lair annoys you, treat him cruelly and without mercy.

Do not make sexual advances unless you are given the mating signal.

Do not take that which does not belong to you unless it is a burden to the other person and he cries out to be relieved.

Acknowledge the power of magic if you have employed it successfully to obtain your desires. If you deny the power of magic after having called upon it with success, you will lose all you have obtained.

Do not complain about anything to which you need not subject yourself.

Do not harm little children.

Do not kill non-human animals unless you are attacked or for your food.

When walking in open territory, bother no one. If someone bothers you, ask him to stop. If he does not stop, destroy him.

While the writing clearly reflects LaVey’s quirkiness, the message here is solid. I personally don’t have any issues refraining from disrespecting someone in their own home, committing sexual assault, stealing, hurting children, or killing animals for sport, so I won’t get into numbers 3, 5, 6, 9 or 10. However, many of the others don’t come naturally to most people of Christian upbringing. It’s taken active effort to apply these principles to my daily life.

RULES 1, 2, & 8

I started out focusing on the rules that deal with keeping my mouth shut. It’s second nature to many of us to just spill our guts to random people throughout the day, participate in the constant bitching and moaning people do about everything, or give advice where it isn’t wanted. This just creates unnecessary drama and emotional labor. After working on this a while, I really noticed a huge difference in my friendships, my working relationships, and my home life. I no longer freely offer my opinions unless requested, I don’t complain to people unless they want to hear it (AND if it is constructive or will benefit me), and I don’t choose to insert myself into situations I know I’ll complain about. Basically, I keep my mouth shut about things that aren’t my business unless I’ve been invited to make it my business. As a result, I notice that I don’t get pulled into drama I don’t want to be involved in. It’s easier to stay out of things that aren’t worth my time and are really none of my business. I also get to choose what is worth getting involved in. It’s really freeing, mentally and emotionally, so i can invest time and effort into other areas of my life. Some aspects of social anxiety I struggle with were lifted, and I was able to put more distance between me and people I don’t care to associate with. At home with my partner, I learned to ask when to listen, when to give advice and when to sit back and just offer support. And I stopped contributing to the constant cloud of complaints that just hovers over my workplace. If i have constructive comments or opinions that will benefit me, I write them up in a professional manner and send them to my boss. I don’t bitch about it to my coworkers, which often doesn’t do any good. If I’m in a situation I feel the need to complain about, I take the initiative to change my situation rather than just idly wish it was different. This has actually helped me progress in my career as I’m seen as a problem solver who brings ideas to the table, rather than just pointing out flaws or starting drama.

RULES 4 & 11

So these rules are similar in that they lay the foundation for expecting respect and removing people from your life who do not give you the respect you deserve. These rules were hard for me because they deal with treating other people in a manner I was taught was “mean”, “disrespectful”, and “rude”. I used to bow my head to everyone. I never made eye contact. This stemmed from having low self-esteem and low self-respect. I grew up with an abusive mother and my father enabled her behavior. I was used to being treated like trash. It was normal, I expected it, and it’s hard to unlearn things than have been ingrained since childhood. I spent a lot of time thinking about what it meant to be an independent being with inherent worth and value. I needed to learn how to replace the respect I once had for a non-existant god with respect for myself because I am essentially my own god. I make the rules for my own life and no one has the right to impose themselves on my life, for which I have complete control and responsibility over. Then I got angry... and then I got therapy. In the process, I found a level of respect for myself and established a “no tolerance” policy for behaviors towards me that perpetuated my old mindset. Also, the introduction of regular self-empowering rituals (see the next point) have greatly improved my mood, my motivation, and confidence in myself to demand the level of respect I deserve from the people I choose to let participate in my life. After that, adopting rules 4 and 11 was easier than I thought. “Treat them cruelly” and “destroy them” sounds like strong language, but for me, this means “remove them from your life”.

For rule 4, I define “lair” as being my personal space. My home, my car, and anywhere I am privately. I don’t tend to invite people over, so I don’t leave myself open to this often. However, last year, I was sexually assault after a gig with my band. He was a friend of the drummer (who was also my friend and coworker) and had too much to drink to drive. His home was on my way home and I offered to give him a ride. Had I been the person I used to be, I would have blamed myself. I would have just let it go, not wanting to stir up trouble between this guy and our mutual friend. However, being the person I am now, I immediately made a police report (which is a whole story in and of itself) and pursued an order of protection (because he indicated intent to see me again at our shows etc). The male officers I spoke with told me that I should just “bring a cousin or brother along” if I was afraid for my safety. I told them I wanted to see their supervising officer. I reported them both and I got my police report. My assailant didn’t come to the first, second or third hearing and the judge said a single assault wasn’t grounds for an order of protection. However, at the fourth hearing, he showed up and signed a consent judgement, which essentially admits fault and agrees to the order being put into place. It is now visible on his public record and he has been removed from my path.

For rule 11, I interpret “open territory” to mean any public space where I am in contact with other people (work being the main example). I have encountered so many so-called “strong personalities” in my field, ranging from an openly racist boss, to an incredibly passive aggressive supervisor, to a verbally abusive staff member. In every case, I was personally and negatively affected by their behavior and it was impeding my happiness at work and my productivity, either directly or indirectly through negative impacts on other coworkers. The person I was would have kept my head down. The person I am now made a well thought out and professional HR complaint, all of which were taken very seriously and corrective action was implemented. Each individual was removed from immediate contact with me and I have progressed in my career in their absence. In addition, I have used these rules to remove my parents from my life. My mental health has exponentially improved since going no contact with them. I can’t even explain the level of emotional stability I have achieved through taking actions like these.

RULE 7

The use of magick.... this is the rule that needlessly trips everyone up. Ive heard some people say this is absurd and proof that LaVeyan Satanists believe in the supernatural. Magick is the act of causes change to occur in accordance with your Will. The only change that can occur is chance that occurs in accordance with nature. Ritual is a psychological method of manipulating your own mind to achieve something you normally wouldn’t. A basic example is your morning routine. Every morning, I have a choice. I can wake up early, take a shower, grab a cup of coffee, and plan my day, or I can snooze my alarm, roll out of bed, skip the shower and coffee. Personally, I am more likely to be productive and in the right mindset for the day in the first scenario. This is ritual. This is magick. My behavior affects my mindset. The physical motions I choose to go through have an impact on my future actions and the outcomes. If reading tarot or using special essential oils or performing elaborate rituals by candlelight help you achieve a mindset that allows you to achieve your goals, go for it. I performed “lesser magick” in various ways to increase my focus, decrease stress, increase motivation, and bring about change. I have also used a personalized version of the “ritual for destruction” included in the Satanic Bible in many cases to help me achieve the changes I want to see in the removal of people from my life. If it doesn’t work for you, it’s ok. Rule 7 says if it DOES work for you, go with it. Everyone is different and everyone will have different psychological ways of helping themselves succeed.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. I hope it’s helpful for you. Always happy to chat with new (and seasoned) Satanists.

Hail Satan.

Submitted September 01, 2020 at 12:19PM by SubjectivelySatan via reddit https://ift.tt/2ED0IBR

[ah17hh]

Applying the Satanic Rules of the Earth to my life - a success story via /r/satanism

Applying the Satanic Rules of the Earth to my life - a success story

TL;DR: Actively applying the 11 Satanic Rules of the Earth has greatly improved my life. If you’re thinking about it, give it a serious try. Go all in and I’m sure you’ll see results too.

————————-

This is a rather long post, but my goal is just to give people a “real life” example of how you can apply Satanic principles to ones daily life. Everyone’s life is different, but this is how LaVeyan Satanism improved mine.

BACKGROUND

After denouncing my evangelical upbringing (homeschooled, extremely conservative) and during many months of searching for the right path, I happened to read the Satanic Bible. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I didn’t expect it to resonate with me as deeply as it did.

Even so, it took many years to leave the Christian brainwashing behind. I was conditioned to forgive and forget, to be passive and compliant, to bend over backwards for people who didn’t deserve it, and to feel guilty for instigating confrontation of any kind, even in self defense. It took many years for me to really embrace the Satanic Rules and begin putting them into practice, including employing rituals as a psychological method to achieve my goals.

For those unfamiliar, the 11 Satanic Rules of the Earth as written in the Satanic Bible are:

Do not give opinions or advice unless you are asked.

Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them.

When in another’s lair, show him respect or else do not go there.

If a guest in your lair annoys you, treat him cruelly and without mercy.

Do not make sexual advances unless you are given the mating signal.

Do not take that which does not belong to you unless it is a burden to the other person and he cries out to be relieved.

Acknowledge the power of magic if you have employed it successfully to obtain your desires. If you deny the power of magic after having called upon it with success, you will lose all you have obtained.

Do not complain about anything to which you need not subject yourself.

Do not harm little children.

Do not kill non-human animals unless you are attacked or for your food.

When walking in open territory, bother no one. If someone bothers you, ask him to stop. If he does not stop, destroy him.

While the writing clearly reflects LaVey’s quirkiness, the message here is solid. I personally don’t have any issues refraining from disrespecting someone in their own home, committing sexual assault, stealing, hurting children, or killing animals for sport, so I won’t get into numbers 3, 5, 6, 9 or 10. However, many of the others don’t come naturally to most people of Christian upbringing. It’s taken active effort to apply these principles to my daily life.

RULES 1, 2, & 8

I started out focusing on the rules that deal with keeping my mouth shut. It’s second nature to many of us to just spill our guts to random people throughout the day, participate in the constant bitching and moaning people do about everything, or give advice where it isn’t wanted. This just creates unnecessary drama and emotional labor. After working on this a while, I really noticed a huge difference in my friendships, my working relationships, and my home life. I no longer freely offer my opinions unless requested, I don’t complain to people unless they want to hear it (AND if it is constructive or will benefit me), and I don’t choose to insert myself into situations I know I’ll complain about. Basically, I keep my mouth shut about things that aren’t my business unless I’ve been invited to make it my business. As a result, I notice that I don’t get pulled into drama I don’t want to be involved in. It’s easier to stay out of things that aren’t worth my time and are really none of my business. I also get to choose what is worth getting involved in. It’s really freeing, mentally and emotionally, so i can invest time and effort into other areas of my life. Some aspects of social anxiety I struggle with were lifted, and I was able to put more distance between me and people I don’t care to associate with. At home with my partner, I learned to ask when to listen, when to give advice and when to sit back and just offer support. And I stopped contributing to the constant cloud of complaints that just hovers over my workplace. If i have constructive comments or opinions that will benefit me, I write them up in a professional manner and send them to my boss. I don’t bitch about it to my coworkers, which often doesn’t do any good. If I’m in a situation I feel the need to complain about, I take the initiative to change my situation rather than just idly wish it was different. This has actually helped me progress in my career as I’m seen as a problem solver who brings ideas to the table, rather than just pointing out flaws or starting drama.

RULES 4 & 11

So these rules are similar in that they lay the foundation for expecting respect and removing people from your life who do not give you the respect you deserve. These rules were hard for me because they deal with treating other people in a manner I was taught was “mean”, “disrespectful”, and “rude”. I used to bow my head to everyone. I never made eye contact. This stemmed from having low self-esteem and low self-respect. I grew up with an abusive mother and my father enabled her behavior. I was used to being treated like trash. It was normal, I expected it, and it’s hard to unlearn things than have been ingrained since childhood. I spent a lot of time thinking about what it meant to be an independent being with inherent worth and value. I needed to learn how to replace the respect I once had for a non-existant god with respect for myself because I am essentially my own god. I make the rules for my own life and no one has the right to impose themselves on my life, for which I have complete control and responsibility over. Then I got angry... and then I got therapy. In the process, I found a level of respect for myself and established a “no tolerance” policy for behaviors towards me that perpetuated my old mindset. Also, the introduction of regular self-empowering rituals (see the next point) have greatly improved my mood, my motivation, and confidence in myself to demand the level of respect I deserve from the people I choose to let participate in my life. After that, adopting rules 4 and 11 was easier than I thought. “Treat them cruelly” and “destroy them” sounds like strong language, but for me, this means “remove them from your life”.

For rule 4, I define “lair” as being my personal space. My home, my car, and anywhere I am privately. I don’t tend to invite people over, so I don’t leave myself open to this often. However, last year, I was sexually assault after a gig with my band. He was a friend of the drummer (who was also my friend and coworker) and had too much to drink to drive. His home was on my way home and I offered to give him a ride. Had I been the person I used to be, I would have blamed myself. I would have just let it go, not wanting to stir up trouble between this guy and our mutual friend. However, being the person I am now, I immediately made a police report (which is a whole story in and of itself) and pursued an order of protection (because he indicated intent to see me again at our shows etc). The male officers I spoke with told me that I should just “bring a cousin or brother along” if I was afraid for my safety. I told them I wanted to see their supervising officer. I reported them both and I got my police report. My assailant didn’t come to the first, second or third hearing and the judge said a single assault wasn’t grounds for an order of protection. However, at the fourth hearing, he showed up and signed a consent judgement, which essentially admits fault and agrees to the order being put into place. It is now visible on his public record and he has been removed from my path.

For rule 11, I interpret “open territory” to mean any public space where I am in contact with other people (work being the main example). I have encountered so many so-called “strong personalities” in my field, ranging from an openly racist boss, to an incredibly passive aggressive supervisor, to a verbally abusive staff member. In every case, I was personally and negatively affected by their behavior and it was impeding my happiness at work and my productivity, either directly or indirectly through negative impacts on other coworkers. The person I was would have kept my head down. The person I am now made a well thought out and professional HR complaint, all of which were taken very seriously and corrective action was implemented. Each individual was removed from immediate contact with me and I have progressed in my career in their absence. In addition, I have used these rules to remove my parents from my life. My mental health has exponentially improved since going no contact with them. I can’t even explain the level of emotional stability I have achieved through taking actions like these.

RULE 7

The use of magick.... this is the rule that needlessly trips everyone up. Ive heard some people say this is absurd and proof that LaVeyan Satanists believe in the supernatural. Magick is the act of causes change to occur in accordance with your Will. The only change that can occur is chance that occurs in accordance with nature. Ritual is a psychological method of manipulating your own mind to achieve something you normally wouldn’t. A basic example is your morning routine. Every morning, I have a choice. I can wake up early, take a shower, grab a cup of coffee, and plan my day, or I can snooze my alarm, roll out of bed, skip the shower and coffee. Personally, I am more likely to be productive and in the right mindset for the day in the first scenario. This is ritual. This is magick. My behavior affects my mindset. The physical motions I choose to go through have an impact on my future actions and the outcomes. If reading tarot or using special essential oils or performing elaborate rituals by candlelight help you achieve a mindset that allows you to achieve your goals, go for it. I performed “lesser magick” in various ways to increase my focus, decrease stress, increase motivation, and bring about change. I have also used a personalized version of the “ritual for destruction” included in the Satanic Bible in many cases to help me achieve the changes I want to see in the removal of people from my life. If it doesn’t work for you, it’s ok. Rule 7 says if it DOES work for you, go with it. Everyone is different and everyone will have different psychological ways of helping themselves succeed.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. I hope it’s helpful for you. Always happy to chat with new (and seasoned) Satanists.

Hail Satan.

Submitted September 01, 2020 at 11:19AM by SubjectivelySatan via reddit https://ift.tt/2ED0IBR

[one-of-us-blog]

Tomorrow Never Dies (1997)

Today Drew is forced to watch and recap 1997’s Tomorrow Never Dies, the eighteenth James Bond adventure. Breaking news! A media mogul has set his sights on expanding his news empire, but sources indicate there’s some seriously unethical journalism going down! You’ll never believe what happens next! Can Bond stop the presses in time to save China? Wait a second, what the hell does China have to do with any of this?

Keep reading to find out…

Eli, you’ve done it again! Twice! Both of your latest recaps were fantastic, and I completely agreed with your thoughts on both of them. “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot (Less) Like Christmas” is very forgettable, and you were very generous with your rating. You’re the personification of Christmas generosity! But on a more serious note, “Camp Town Races Aren’t Nearly as Much Fun as They Used to Be” (this show has got to cut it out with these long titles) was the episode I was least excited for you to watch, because I really just hate most of it. Like you said, they make Blanche be awful so she can learn a lesson, but it still sucks to see her act that way. I can’t help but think of “Mixed Blessings” from the original series, which had Dorothy act like a racist in sacrifice of the plot despite that completely going against her character. Episodes like this suck, and I’m glad it’s behind you. There are still a few bumps in the road ahead of you, but I can’t wait to read your next couple of recaps! God bless us, everyone but Oliver!

Buttocks tight!

Screenplay by Bruce Feirstein, Nicholas Meyer & Daniel Petrie Jr., film directed by Roger Spottiswoode

We start off very specifically in A Terrorist Arms Bazaar on the Russian Border, which MI6 is spying on. M has her boys identify the terrorists in attendance and they do good work, but then she’s informed by Admiral Dickhead that this is now a military matter and they’re going to bomb the bazaar to hell and back. M protests, stating that she still has a man on the ground (I wonder which one?) but the admiral tells her says she’d better hurry up and get him out of there because these bombs ain’t stoppin’. The man on the ground tells them it’d be a bad idea to blow this popsicle stand, because one of the jets up for sale at the bazaar is equipped with nuclear torpedoes and hitting those sorts of things with a missile is usually a bad idea. M tells the admiral to call off the bombing, but his boys say the missile is already out of range and can’t be recalled. M is used to cleaning up the messes of men in power, so she takes charge and tells Bond (he’s the man on the ground, in case you hadn’t guessed it) to get out of there. Bond can’t just leave these nukes lying around, though, so he stirs up some trouble at the bazaar, steals the jet and flies it out of Dodge before the whole place gets blown up by that pesky missile. Aside from some trouble from the terrorist copilot sitting behind him trying to strangle him and another terrorist trying to shoot him down in a jet of his own, it’s a pretty smooth getaway! Bond takes care of his last few problems by ejecting his copilot into the other jet and we head into our opening credit sequence.

Woah, I must have just jacked into the Matrix, because these opening credits are futuristic as hell! Streams of numbers, x-rays and lasers abound! Sheryl Crow belts out “Tomorrow Never Dies” while computer chip ladies wiggle around and CGI bullets fly out of computer screens hanging all over the place. Did this movie come out in 1997 or 2097, amiright?

After that trip to the future we cut to the H.M.S. Devonshire which is tooting around the South China Sea. We cut back right as things hit up, because the Devonshire is targeted by Chinese jets. The jet pilots say the Devonshire is in Chinese water and they’re gonna get some trouble if they don’t leave, but the Devonshire’s captain insists they’re in international waters and don’t have to listen to nobody. But, uh-oh, a sudden cutaway to the Carver Media Group Network in Hamburg lets us know that somebody’s messing with the Devonshire’s GPS, making them think they’re in international waters when we’re they’re all up in China’s business. We then cut to a sub, where a handily expositional crew lets us know that they’re going to send a stealthy little drill to donk up the Devonshire the next time the Chinese jets get close. The crew goes so far as to let us know the intention here is to make the British think the Chinese sank the ship, which is very helpful to me, a dumbass. The plan goes off just like these supporting characters just told us it would, and the captain of the Devonshire radios HQ to let them know they were sank by the Chinese before abandoning ship. These Carver goons aren’t done, though, as they blow up one of the Chinese jets with British missiles. I got no expositional warning that this was going to happen, so you can imagine how flabbergasted I was by this development. The Carver goons retrieve some missiles from the sunken Devonshire, and they gun down all but 17 survivors.

In Hamburg, Elliot Carver (Jonathan Pryce) himself is typing up his headline for this international incident in real time. So, wait, all of these people have been killed so that Carver can get a scoop on a story? Holy smokes, this might be the dastardliest villain we’ve come across since that guy who was just really good at shooting people. Carver has Skype calls with various people, literally saying out loud that the Carver Media Group is causing chaos all over the world. I’ll say one thing for this movie, having every single detail spelled out to me like this sure is handy. Carver releases buggy software, blackmails the President and causes all sorts of trouble like the little devil he is. He has a little powwow with his buddy Henry Gupta (Ricky Jay) and his henchman Richard Stamper (Götz Otto) and they all agree that everything is going just swimmingly. Carver lets his minions know that the South China Sea incident will be the premier headline for their satellite news network. Carver is going to dominate the news cycle, and, hot damn, just like that, we’ve got our villain’s plot spelled out for us! Man, I’m not gonna have to think for a second while watching this movie!

Meanwhile, Bond is fucking a French professor when he’s called by Moneypenny, who tells him everybody’s in a tizzy over this South China Sea incident. We get a hilarious Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell bit from Moneypenny and M, and then M and Admirable Dickhead get into a shouting match over the missing Devonshire. The admirable is rock-hard to start retaliating, but M wants to know what the hell’s going on before fleets start getting deployed. I guess she missed the first 20 minutes of the movie, because everything’s crystal clear for me, baby! MI6 discovers that Carver’s rag is already blabbing about the incident, and now the admiral’s not the only one hot for retaliation. M is given 48 hours to find out what happened and then China’s going to get a calling card from the British Navy.

M isn’t a dumbass so she thinks it’s a little suspicious that Carver got a headline about the incident out literally right after it happened. We’re told Carver’s got Szechuan beef with the Chinese because they’re the only country who won’t broadcast his media network. Say no more, M, we already know he’s the bad guy! Bond is being sent to Hamburg to attend an event at the CMGN HQ, and M gives us another tasty little morsel of exposition by letting us know that Bond used to date Carver’s wife, Paris (Teri Hatcher). M and Moneypenny are still polishing their comedy routine, and we get a great bit about Bond pumping Paris for information. Bond arrives in Germany, where Q, who’s just a regular man about town these days, gives him a new car with all the usual Q Branch bells and whistles. He also gives him a fancy new cellphone that has a taser, a fingerprint scanner and a remote control for the car.

Bond arrives at the apparent rave going on at the CMGN and is introduced as a banker to Carver. Carver is distracted by the arrival of Wai Lin (the incomparable Michelle Yeoh) from the New China News Agency. Lin wasn’t invited, but she admits to sneaking in so she could meet Carver. Carver is delighted by this, and Bond goes off to meet up with Paris. She gives him a good slap, and we find out that Bond dipped out on Paris and she still holds a grudge. This exposition train just don’t quit! Paris informs Bond she won’t be helping him investigate Carver, but when Carver slinks over she doesn’t blow his cover. Bond can’t play it cool for a second and immediately starts letting Carver know he’s suspicious of him, and Carver lets Stamper know he wants the supposed banker taken care of.

Stamper takes Bond away while Carver makes a big speech about the South China See incident. Carver’s goons beat up Bond in a back room, but he gets the better of them. Bond decides to be an asshole and cuts the power to Carver’s broadcast just for the fun of it. He’s gone before Stamper can get to him, and Carver throws a real hissy on stage. Carver’s pissed when other news networks gloat about his big broadcast getting cut off, and he wants Paris to tell him why Bond acted a fool like that. She tries to keep up the act that she barely knows him, but he sends her to Bond’s hotel room to pump intel out of him. Watch out, M and Moneypenny, I’m snatchin’ up your routine!

At Bond’s hotel, Paris plays him like a fiddle and gets into his pants without having to break a sweat. Carver has Gupta look into Bond’s alias and they figure out he’s a spy. Gupta also caught a snippet of dialogue revealing Paris knew Bond wasn’t a banker, so Carver wants both of them killed. Oh, also, turns out I was an idiot to assume Paris was playing Bond. She’s actually just still in love with him and tells him all about Carver’s secret lab. Bond sneaks into the lab and finds the encoder Carver used to control the satellite that misled the Devonshire. Before he makes it out of the lab he runs into Wai Lin, who’s doing a bit of snooping of her own. Lin trips an alarm and Bond has to deal with a bunch of goons while she uses some Q-esque devices of her own to zip around. Bond makes it out, but then gets a call from Carver. Carver knows Bond has the encoder and that he banged his wife, so Bond heads to the hotel to get Paris out of there. Stamper is monitoring the hotel, and as soon as Bond is out of his car he calls for some more goons to get the encoder.

Bond finds Paris dead in the hotel room, and a CMGN anchor on TV is already broadcasting a story about her body being found alongside the body of an unidentified man. Uh-oh, now Bond knows how the dude from Early Edition felt! Carver’s assassin, Dr. Kaufman (Vincent Schiavelli with a bad German accent), decides to have a little chat with Bond instead of just shooting him, and reveals that the news story is a tape that’s going to be broadcast in an hour. Carver’s goons try to beat their way into Bond’s car while Kaufman keeps talking instead of just taking the damn shot. The goons radio Kaufman and tell him to get Bond to unlock the car, and Bond tricks him into tasering (thanks for letting me know tazing isn’t a word, Google) himself before executing him with his own gun to avenge Paris or whatever.

Stamper spots Bond sneaking out of the hotel, and Bond uses the remote control to steer the car away from the goons. He hops on board and remote controls himself away. He retrieves the encoder from the glove compartment and bails before driving the car off a ledge, causing enough of a distraction for him to sneak away. We cut to an air base in the South China Sea, where Bond meets up with, my god, Jack Wade himself. If I’m forced to see Joe Don Baker in one more movie, I don’t know what I’ll do. Bond finds out that the encoder was tampered with to mislead the Devonshire and figures out where the ship sank. He skydives down into the sea where the Devonshire went down, and I shudder as watching Bond scuba dive through the wreckage of the ship gives me vivid flashbacks to Thunderball. In the wreckage Bond once again runs into Wai Lin, and the two have to make a quick exit before the Devonshire slips off its perch and falls deeper into the sea. On the surface Lin signals for her buddies on a boat to pick them up, but her friend gets a harpoon through the chest and it turns out Stamper is here for some reason. Bond and Lin are captured and handcuffed together on a helicopter that takes them to yet another of Carver’s building. Lin recognizes a Chinese general leaving as they arrive, but then they’re brought before Carver as he’s typing up an obituary for the two of them. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten a dose of exposition, but luckily Carver’s there to inform us that Lin is a Chinese spy. Thank goodness, if I’d had to figure that out on my own this recap might have taken me months to get through.

Carver asks Stamper to torture Bond and Lin a bit while he goes off to meet with one General Chang, but Bond and Lin make a dream team and they easily escape despite still being handcuffed together. If there’s one thing this series loves more than exposition it’s a chase scene, so we get a nice scene of Bond and Lin on a motorcycle being chased by Carver’s goons. They eventually escape and manage to get out of their handcuffs, but then Lin gives Bond the slip by handcuffing him to a post. She works alone, by gummit! Bond catches up to her just in time to see her ambushed by another squad of goons, but she hands each of them their asses with a bow on top. This is a James Bond movie, though, so of course Bond has to arrive at the last minute to save her from being shot by the one goon she hadn’t gotten to yet. Bond deduces that General Chang is working with Carver and wants Lin dead.

Bond and Lin deduce that Carver is going to use the missile he stole off the Devonshire against the Chinese, and they decide to radio their respective governments and let them know about Carver’s schemes. Lin is amazing at her job and figures out that Carver’s stealth ship from the first scene is hidden in Ha Long Bay. Lin and Bond head that way while joking about how Britain is a corrupt western power and communism sucks, because everybody in this movie’s got jokes. They find the stealth ship as it’s heading out at nightfall and plant some bombs on it. Inside the ship, Carver once again explains his plan to pit the British and Chinese forces against each other and starts firing off missiles. Carver spots Lin and sends Stamper to collect her, knowing Bond must be nearby. Bond tricks Stamper into thinking he’s dead by throwing the body of a henchman offboard, and Carver calls for Lin to be brought to the bridge so he can gloat to her about his wicked machinations and do a racist parody of martial arts moves.

Back in jolly old London Town M finally got Bond’s message and lets everybody to know about Carver’s schemes. Carver really drives home his plot by laying out step by step how General Chang is calling a meeting of Chinese government officials, only he’s not going to be there and the meeting will have an unexpected guest in the form of that pesky missile from the Devonshire. We been knew, y’all! Once the government officials are taken out Change will seize power while the British and Chinese fleets destroy each other. What is Carver actually getting out of this? Why, exclusive broadcast rights in China for the next hundred years, of course.

Now, I know at this moment you’re probably asking yourself, “你在跟我开玩笑吗？”, but I promise you, Carver really is doing all of this so he’ll be allowed to broadcast his dumb news network in China for the next one hundred (100!) years. Will Carver be alive in one hundred years? I’m famously not a scientist, but all available evidence points to a solid no. Will anybody give a shit about printed or televised news once the internet takes off in about five years? Some dweebs will still get The New York Times delivered to their houses so they have something to feel smug about, but, I mean, c’mon. Nobody’s going to care about CMGN once news is only a few keystrokes away, and if they’re anything like me they’ll be constantly up to date on all the important world happenings thanks to the reputable and reliable reporting found at Infowars.com (my only trusted news source). Carver’s plan is as shortsighted as it is dumb, which is to say, approximately, ‘as hell’. Now that I’m done roasting this Steve Jobs lookin’ nerd, let’s get back to the show.

Bond holds Gupta hostage and lets Carver know he’s still alive. He proposes to trade Gupta for Lin. Carver doesn’t actually care about Gupta, though, so Carver just shoots him to take away Bond’s bargaining chip. Bond had a backup plan, though, and he sets off a grenade with a Chinese spy watch he stole from Lin’s headquarters earlier. Rude, but effective. The explosion allows a British ship to detect Carver’s stealth ship, and Lin and Bond are able to get away. The British try to shoot Carver’s ship out of the water, but he’s still intent on firing that missile. Lin gums up the ship’s work, making it a sitting duck for the Brits to blow up while Bond tries to blow up Stamper with a rocket launcher that was inside the ship for no reason. It still takes the Brits a few tries despite Carver’s ship not moving anymore, but they finally land a hit and Carver’s goons prepare to abandon ship.

Stamper thinks Bond was killed in the British attack, so Carver sends him off to the engine room to deal with Lin. Bond sneaks over to disarm the Devonshire missile, but Carver gets the drop on him and we get one last bit of sweet, sweet exposition as Carver describes how the missile can’t be disarmed and the Brits are destroying all the evidence of his involvement in all this. He’s going to get what he wants and still get off Scott free! Only, of course he’s not, because Bond turns on the drill that killed the Devonshire and feeds Carver to it. Bond gets to work stopping the missile, but Stamper threatens to kill the now-captured Lin if he doesn’t back off. Lin tosses Bond a handy gadget that will stop the missile from launching (but not exploding) and Stamper drops her into the water to drown while he and Bond tussle. Bond traps Stamper next to the missile and dives down to save Lin as the missile explodes inside the ship, killing Stamper.

M is informed that Carver’s dead but that Bond’s not, and M tells Moneypenny to spin the story to make it seemed like Carver killed himself. M’s just chock full of humor today! A rescue ship looks for Bond and Lin, but they choose to make out instead of being rescued.

The End

~~~~~

Hoo buddy, my sources are telling me this was a bit of a stinker! Maybe it’s just that this is the follow up to the spectacular GoldenEye, but there was a lot going on here that just didn’t work for me. As much as I appreciate having the movie’s plot spoon-fed to me, I think it might have been a good idea to show rather than tell at least once over the course of two hours. There was just so much exposition in this one! And I’m absolutely flabbergasted by how lame Carver’s plot was. We’ve had some stretches in logic from villains in the past, but usually they at least want to get rich or take over the world in something. Carver just cared about being able to broadcast in China! I’m sorry, but a memorable villain this scheme does not make. Michelle Yeoh can’t help but be fantastic in everything she’s ever done so of course I loved her as Lin, and while there were still a few moments where Bond got to save her I still think she held her own much more than most Bond Girls are allowed to. It felt like we were getting a crash course on fridging with the whole Paris thing, but honestly she was so inconsequential to the plot that I’d pretty much forgotten her until I happened to catch her name a second ago while I was proofreading this very recap. As corny and out of place as it was, I actually loved M and Moneypenny constantly trading quips and jokes, and while I can’t say for sure I think this M is getting a lot more screen time than any of her predecessors (which you won’t catch me complaining about). This movie was cheesy and the plot was incredibly silly, but there were still some fun fights (i.e. the ones where Michelle Yeoh got to beat up a bunch of dudes) and as much as I was rolling my eyes I still came away from this film feeling like I’d had a good time.

Overall, I’m giving Tomorrow Never Dies QQQ on the Five Q Scale.

News flash, we’ve got some more wonderful recaps for you to enjoy coming soon! First Eli will be back to cover “Rose and Fern” and “Runaways”, the next two episodes of The Golden Palace (can’t WAIT to read Eli’s thoughts on both of those for [very different reasons]), and then before you can blink I’ll be back to cover the next James Bond movie, The World is Not Enough.

Until then, as always, thank you for reading, thank you for contemplating ethics in game journalism and thank you for being One of Us!

[how2to18]

THIS IS PART XIV of LARB’s serialization of Seth Greenland’s forthcoming novel The Hazards of Good Fortune. Greenland’s novel follows Jay Gladstone from his basketball-loving youth to his life as a real estate developer, civic leader, philanthropist, and NBA team owner, and then to it all spiraling out of control.

A film and TV writer, playwright, and author of four previous novels, Greenland was the original host of The LARB Radio Hour and serves on LARB’s board of directors. The Hazards of Good Fortune will be published in book form by Europa Editions on August 21, 2018.

To start with installment one, click here.

To pre-order on Indiebound, click here; on Amazon, click here; at Barnes & Noble, click here.

¤

Chapter Forty-Four

  On the ride to the game, Jay sat in the back and scrolled through his phone as Boris drove with Dequan next to him in the passenger seat. Coverage had expanded exponentially, and the story was now the lead item on every sports, news, and entertainment website he visited. Whatever the demographic, the gist was identical. From the Wall Street Journal (Team Owner Caught Up In Scandal) to ESPN.com (Gladstone a Racist?) to TMZ (Blue Stones: Owner Watches Wife Have Sex With Star), all of it was ghastly. Boris kept a first-aid kit in the car and Jay popped antacid pills for the entire ride. Stupified and infuriated, Jay nonetheless knew enough to take the long view. For the first time, he was happy that Herman Doomer had insisted on a public relations consultant. Scandals erupted with clocklike regularity, their intensity amplified by the hothouse of the Internet; and soon enough they were replaced by other scandals in an ever-shifting pattern of outrage. Now was his turn to bear the coruscating effect, and as the lights of Sanitary Solutions Arena blazed in the distance just east of the New Jersey Turnpike he heard Bingo’s voice telling him there was nothing to do but “march forth.”

The game was sold out and the organization planned to give free T-shirts with Dag’s picture on them to every fan in attendance. Jay’s phone had been blowing up all day, and there were so many texts that he stopped reading them. Now he could talk to the sportswriters, greet the fans, and show he wasn’t cowering in a cave. Yes, Tackman had wanted him to keep a low profile at the game, but Jay knew he could draw on the energy of the high rollers in the expensive seats before repairing to his skybox.

The ritual Jay followed before each home game consisted of a visit with Church Scott in the coach’s office adjacent to the locker room where they would discuss team business, then the customary scotch and a pregame nosh with whomever his guests were that night in the Executive Club on the loge level, and few minutes before tip-off the group would head to the owner’s seats, Jay glad-handing season ticket holders along the way. But tonight, the usual routine allowed for too many variables. To permit the contact Jay typically enjoyed before a game seemed unwise.

The first indication that this would not be an ordinary night was the scene in front of the arena. It was an hour before game time when the SUV swung into the parking lot. The first detail Jay noticed was that next to the usual line of fans streaming into the building was a multiracial cluster of protesters chanting and waving placards: SELL THE TEAM, JAY, NEW OWNER WANTED: BIGOTS NEED NOT APPLY, and (oddly) ZIONISM IS RACISM. Demonstrators brandished large posters of Dag wearing the team uniform, his body lithe and unbroken. He repressed the urge to tell Boris to make a U-turn and take him to Canada.

The leader of the protests was Imam Ibrahim Muhammad, who stood on a crate and held a bullhorn to his mouth as he chanted, Hey, hey, ho, ho, Jay Gladstone has to go, a call echoed volubly by the protestors, who shook their signs and pumped their fists. There was someone who looked familiar standing next to him. Trey Maxwell. What was he doing with that troublemaker? Television crews recorded the action; fans filmed it on their phones. Jay considered getting out right there and talking to the crowd, confronting that rabble-rousing imam in full view of the media and directly making his case, but that felt excessively risky, not to say physically dangerous. Tackman had advised against unmediated personal contact with the public.

He had another idea.

Boris let Jay and his bodyguard out at the players’ entrance. Jay was not comfortable with the proximity to the players and staff that a locker room visit would entail, so he arranged for Church Scott to meet him in the security office. Boris had alerted the staff that the boss would be attending the game and additional precautions had been taken. In a cinderblock room, deep in the bowels of the arena, the black chief of security waited. A chesty ex-Marine named Bo McCants, he was matter-of-fact by nature, so Jay did not read into the flatness of his greeting. Skipping any pleasantries, he briefed Jay on the arrangement for the game. McCants reported that he had mustered an additional thirty men, ten of whom were to be stationed directly behind the owner’s seats, the rest to be deployed around the court. Jay informed McCants he would be seated in a skybox once the game started and the security chief assured him the necessary adjustments would be made. If McCants was judging him, Jay could not tell; the security chief had bloodlessly imparted the information. Jay had the disconcerting sensation that he should apologize. But for what?

As McCants finished his briefing, Church Scott swept in. He seemed harried and did not offer his usual handshake. The affability with which he glazed every off-court encounter was absent. Again, Jay felt like apologizing. Was every encounter with a black person going to make him feel this way? They discussed Dag’s condition (unchanged) and the night’s opponent before Jay dropped the following bombshell:

“I’m going to say a few words from center court before the game.”

He knew Tackman would have ordered him not to but the P.R. maven surely was unaware of the deep connection Jay had with the team’s fans.

“You sure?”

“Just a few remarks,” he said, ignoring the surprise on Church Scott’s face. “In light of recent events, I’d like to show the flag, talk about D’Angelo”—not Dag, the entire name more respectful—“let the fans know there’s a steady hand on the tiller.”

Church’s brow furrowed. During his years as a point guard in the league, a cerebral style of play was his signature. With a safecracker’s patience, he probed a defense until he uncovered a weakness and would rarely execute an ill-considered move. Church asked Jay if he was entirely certain he wanted to get in front of eighteen thousand people tonight.

“There’s a lot of residual goodwill toward me in this building.”

“Well, the fans are one thing,” the coach said. “But listen, I have to tell you something.” Jay readied himself to absorb whatever blow was in the offing. “We’ve got a situation brewing in the locker room.”

“What kind of situation?”

“The players are talking about boycotting the game.”

The news flabbergasted Jay. His relationship with the roster had always been terrific, from the stars to the scrubs on the end of the bench. He was never less than polite, encouraging, and concerned when it came to the players. Boycotting the game would be bad for the league and a disaster for Jay. It felt personal. Dequan was standing several feet away with his back to them, his frame filling the doorway. Jay wondered if he was listening to the conversation.

“Why would they do that?”

“The guys all heard those words,” the coach said. He was tactful enough not to say: And saw the tape. “They didn’t like it.”

This response seemed like an overreaction. The players knew him. Perhaps not well, but he believed they sensed the man he was. “Should I talk to them?”

“Nooooooo,” Church said. The feeble laugh that issued from his lips revealed discomfort with that notion. “I think I moved them off the idea for one night.” The relief Jay felt caused oxygen to rush from his lungs. “You want to make a speech to the folks out there tonight, hey, you’re the boss. I’m just a dumb ex-ballplayer. Maybe you know something I don’t.”

Jay had idolized men like Church Scott since boyhood. He still retained a fan’s respect for the greatest of them and the coach was championship caliber. Jay was not above being flattered by Church’s assessment and this reinvigorated him.

“I want you to introduce me,” Jay said.

“I can’t do that,” Church said.

“Yes, you can. Everyone respects you.”

“I’ll lose the locker room.”

It had never occurred to Jay that the coach would turn down a request like this. Theirs was a collegial relationship, one of mutual respect. Church routinely sought Jay’s counsel in business matters and reciprocated by tutoring Jay in the intricacies of elite basketball. He considered Church a friend.

“You need to set an example for them,” Jay said. Them. Players, coaches, fans who might sit in judgment. “You’re the leader.”

“I’m a black man, Jay,” he said, unnecessarily. “Most of the guys on the team are, too. They’re wondering what’s in your heart right now.”

“You can tell them what’s in my heart.”

“I can’t tell them because I don’t know.”

Church’s words were hurtful and Jay was unsure how to respond. They had worked together for five years and if Church Scott could say something like that, to his face no less, what was the wider world going to think? Was what he had done so bad? The man had walked in on his wife in flagrante and in his understandable disorientation he had asked a question. It was not as if he had used an epithet. Was he to be drawn and quartered for a single ambiguous sentence?

Jay whispered: “I’m telling you what’s in my heart, Church. You know me.”

He couldn’t say I’m not a racist to a black man. That meant it was already too late.

Church nodded. “Okay,” he said. “All right.” What he did not say was I believe you. He patted Jay on the shoulder and told him, “I’m praying on this,” and then was gone with an encouraging clap on the back from Dequan as he left. Was the bodyguard endorsing the coach’s position? Did the back clap portend some further palace revolt? Jay could not be bothered with that right now. Wherever Dequan’s sympathy lay, there was enough security in the arena tonight.

He pondered his encounter with Church.

Praying on this?

In his most dire hour, he requested a simple favor, a small gesture of friendship, and Church denied it. Stabbed in the back by his most trusted basketball lieutenant, Jay’s first inclination was to fire him immediately and order the lead assistant to take over, but his business success did not derive from acting impulsively, and he instantly recognized the kind of reactive, negative thinking he abhorred. He would wait until the end of the season before relieving Church Scott of his duties.

Boris had been biding his time nearby and now approached.

“Are you sure you want put yourself in front of eighteen thousand people?”

“Goddammit, Boris,” Jay growled. “Don’t second guess me.” From Boris’s alarmed expression, he knew he needed to get his emotions under control. Jay glanced toward Dequan and McCants, and was pleased to see both of them peering at a bank of security monitors, neither paying attention to him. He didn’t want anyone to think he was agitated. He asked Boris to please notify the appropriate people that he intended to say a few words after the national anthem.

Rather than go out before the game, Jay thought it best to remain in the tunnel that led to the court until right before the announcer introduced him. The fans focused on the players doing their warm-ups, whomever the team had arranged to warble the night’s version of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and their phones.

With Dequan next to him surveying the arena—however much sympathy the bodyguard may have harbored for Church Scott, at least he had not abandoned his post—Jay watched from the shadows as “We Takin’ Over” by DJ Khaled blared while a co-ed group of bouncy team employees buzzed around the court wielding bazookas that blasted tightly rolled T-shirts emblazoned with Dag’s face into the outstretched hands of the jacked-up fans. The squads finished their pregame stretching and shooting and lined up along opposite foul lines facing one another for the national anthem. A Navy color guard marched out bearing the flag. And then—

The home team stripped off their warm-up jackets and were revealed to be wearing black T-shirts over their regulation league-approved jerseys. The sight of the T-shirts, their symbolism unmistakable, elicited whoops of approval from several fans and a smattering of applause. This display on the part of the players was a violation of league rules and a direct rebuke to Jay, who was dismayed when he saw it. Did Church know this was going to happen and choose not to warn him? At least they’re out there and prepared to play the game, he told himself. The boycott bullet dodged.

An obscure female R&B singer belted the national anthem. As she sang, “Land of the freeeeeeeeee,” extending the note in the glass-shattering manner those tapped to sing this song will often do, and the fans began to cheer and applaud in anticipation of its end, Jay felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked over and saw the nervously smiling face of Major House, who greeted him in a voice several decibels too loud. They had arranged to meet in the skybox. Why was he in the tunnel right before Jay was going out on the court?

“I bought a pair of tickets for the game,” the Mayor said. “It’s better that way right now.”

“Why?” He instantly knew why.

“I don’t have a problem with you, Jay. You know that. But Newark’s a black city.”

“Newark was a black city when you were my guest last time.”

“I can’t be sitting next to you at a game right now.”

“Now is when I could use you.”

“Hey, you know I’m your friend,” he said and clapped Jay on the back. “We’ll talk on the phone Monday. I’ll even come to the office if you want. But not tonight.”

Mayor House lingered as if he wanted to make sure that Jay was all right with being abandoned like this by a putative ally just before tip-off, because who would understand the consideration of practical matters if not Jay Gladstone.

“Et tu, Major?” Jay said.

“Et tu? Come on, man, I’m up for re-election in the fall.”

Jay wondered if the mayor had conferred with Church Scott. They were friendly, and he would not have been surprised to hear the two of them had coordinated their response. A voice on the P.A. system crackled, and in his rapidly spinning mind, Jay heard every third word: Tonight. Team. Special. Before Jay could ask the mayor if he was colluding with the coach, the public-address announcer intoned, “Please welcome Jay Gladstone,” and he squared his shoulders and propelled himself past the politician—Why am I doing this? Don’t do this. Let’s do this!—out of the shadows, and on to the blindingly bright basketball court.

The powerful lights bounced off the polished hardwood and into Jay’s retinas. Multiple levels of yellow, orange, green, and blue seats extending several hundred feet up blurred into one pulsating organism that gave forth scattered boos, several catcalls he could not make out, and some anemic cheering. None of it was encouraging. The brilliant illumination created a bell jar effect and what lay outside the lighted area was not readily discernible.

Like something from a dream, Jay absorbed thousands of smiling D’Angelo Maxwells observing him from the T-shirts sported by every fan. Although the picture appeared hallucinatory, it was not a trick of perception. There were over eighteen thousand images of Dag’s face, and an ocean of Dag’s eyes locked in on him.

The teams had repaired to their benches to await the buzzer that would summon the starters to the court for the opening tip. The color guard had retreated. The bazooka-wielding T-shirt crew kneeled under one of the baskets. At the center of the court, a team lackey handed a cordless microphone to Jay. The sounds died down, and Jay gazed up to the nosebleed seats. He had a brief and comforting memory of the Knicks-Bullets playoff game he had seen from that vantage point as a teenager nearly forty years earlier.

In a steady voice, he began, “Thank you all for coming tonight.”

From near the rafters, someone yelled, “WHERE’S YOUR WIFE?”

Scattered laughter. The outburst could have been worse, and Jay was relieved to hear someone else shout, “LET HIM TALK, ASSHOLE!” followed by more laughs. Should he have listened to Tackman’s advice? Not tonight. Jay knew what he was doing, had addressed unpredictable groups before. Were his knees trembling? He steadied himself. While he waited for the murmur to die down, he glanced over to the bench and saw Church in his seat, elbows on knees, looking at the floor. His gaze shifted to the Miami bench where every player was staring at him, waiting to see what he would say. Were they staring or scowling? It was hard to tell.

“As you all know,” Jay continued, his voice steady as it resonated to the upper deck, “D’Angelo Maxwell is in the hospital so I’d like to begin with a moment of silent prayer for him.” As Jay said this, he again looked over at Church Scott, who was shaking his head, in either disdain or admiration. Which was it? It didn’t matter. Jay congratulated himself on the courage of the move. It had come to him spontaneously, and he had acted on it in front of the crowd, all of whom must know what had occurred between Dag and Nicole. No one could miss the magnanimity of the gesture. Certainly, Bobby Tackman would approve.

As the arena quieted, Jay waited, every receptor quivering, the warmth of the lights on his face, the pungent smell of sweat on the court, the lingering taste of the antacid tablets, the otherworldly stillness. He would have prayed if he had not been considering what to say next. Jay remembered his appearance in front of the Planning Commission. He did not compose a word of it beforehand and had delivered a first-rate soliloquy. He knew how to wing it.

After what seemed like a respectable amount of time had passed (five seconds), he resumed, “I wanted to talk to you tonight so that I could apologize. The accident was a dreadful thing, but I want to say here in public in front of the team’s fans that it was an accident. An accident for which I take full responsibility.” That was the key point to hit, he knew. Americans want to hear that whoever caused a scandal took “responsibility” for it. They dispensed a public lashing and then everyone could “move on.” Jay knew the Stations of the Contrition Cross, had seen them traversed by countless others that the shame machine trained its sights on. He would not say anything about moving on tonight, though. The contract was implied.

“And by taking responsibility . . . ”

An object landed on the court near Jay’s feet. From high up, a fan had hurled a tightly rolled T-shirt. It skimmed past him. The arena remained strangely hushed. Not sure what to do but wanting to convey amiability, Jay leaned down, picked up the T-shirt and tossed it back in the stands.

“Someone else might want this,” he said.

A fan shouted from the upper deck, “Racist!” the harsh intonation screaming like a missile before detonating on the floor. Jay tensed. Another T-shirt hit the court, then three more. Two sailed over his head, tossed from behind him. He could not throw them all back.

“I like your passion,” Jay said, a projectile striking his leg. “But it’s not true. So by taking responsibility—”

Boos began to roll in from the upper decks, boos gathering force in the lower bowl, boos coming from behind him and from either side, rising in volume and combining with wild voices emerging from hundreds of throats, all swelling into a crescendo of contempt. Fans rose in their seats yelling, gesticulating, and Dag Maxwell T-shirts began to rain down on the court from all directions, filling the noisy air like snowballs, some arcing gracefully toward their target, others shooting at Jay with laser-like precision. What collective insanity had broken loose? He wasn’t a bad actor—he was good!—and this was atonement of the first order! He apologized! He took responsibility!

As one T-shirt struck him in the back and another glanced off his shoulder, Jay reflexively held his hand up to protect his recently broken nose. A phalanx of security charged in his direction.

“ANY FAN CAUGHT THROWING AN OBJECT ON THE COURT WILL BE EJECTED. PLEASE DO NOT THROW OBJECTS. YOU WILL BE EJECTED IMMEDIATELY.”

But the T-shirts continued to land on the court near Jay along with drink cups, team hats, and anything else that could be hurled through the air. Bellows of indignation, howling imprecations, curses of all kinds unleashed. Distorted faces and cruel laughter added to the sensory overload. Security men waded in, trying to stop fans from contributing to the chaos.

Dequan sprinted toward him. A T-shirt struck the bodyguard in the face, and he tripped over a guard who had fallen while chasing a fan. Dequan picked himself up and, pushing other members of the security detail out of the way, found Jay. Several guards chased other fans that had dashed on to the court wielding T-shirts, arms cocked, attempting to get a better shot at the petrified owner. On the sidelines, players and coaches stood frozen and watched the action unfold like a video game.

Cutting through the roar of the unhinged mob, an authoritative voice: “THIS IS THE MAYOR OF NEWARK.” There was a brief lull in the mayhem, mischief-makers calibrating their reaction to this attempted assertion of control. “ALL FANS RETURN TO YOUR SEATS IMMEDIATELY.” But just as quickly, the noise level climbed, bedlam resumed, and although the mayor continued to assert his authority—“YOU ARE BRINGING SHAME ON THE CITY OF NEWARK! RETURN TO YOUR SEATS!”—the fans ignored him.

Dequan threw an arm around Jay and, shoving people out of their path, guided him toward the tunnel. When they were twenty feet from the entrance Jay felt a blow to his head as if someone had punched him. He wheeled and saw that one of the T-shirt bazooka marksmen had scored a direct hit with the weapon. Several security men wrestled him to the floor as he hooted in celebration. Dequan hustled Jay into the mouth of the tunnel. Through the din, he heard the agitated voice of his erstwhile ally continue to implore, “THIS IS THE MAYOR OF NEWARK, RETURN TO YOUR DAMN SEATS!”

Relieved the T-shirt had not further damaged his already broken nose but undone by the riot his presence caused, he waited with Boris in the security office until Bo McCants determined it was safe to leave the building. Jay was shaking, short of breath. It took several minutes for his pulse to slow, and he thought he might be having a coronary. Huddled in the claustrophobic room, he tried to get his bearings. Blood roared in his ears. There was the strange sensation of thinking he might begin to cry. It seemed as if the entire building had lost its collective mind. Where was the residual goodwill he had anticipated? Where was the collective memory of his generosity? Bo McCants stood at the door peering up and down the corridor. What was he waiting for? Finally—how long had they been stuck there?—he indicated that the time had come to move out.

A close formation of security guards surrounded Jay and escorted him toward the exit. They emerged from the building, and he was relieved to see only a smattering of people outside. The outdoor protest had ended, and in the brisk evening air, the scene appeared like any other game night. As a safety precaution, an additional detail of security men piled into a van and tailed the SUV as it ferried Jay into the city.

When Bo McCants’s squad finally restored order at Sanitary Solutions Arena, over a hundred fans were ejected from the building. Police made twenty-seven arrests for disorderly conduct and public drunkenness. Jay was watching the local feed of the game with Boris on the large screen television in his apartment and, in what felt like an afterthought, saw the home team beat the Miami Heat 107-105, thereby qualifying for the NBA playoffs. Boris offered his congratulations, but Jay was not in a festive mood.

In the postgame wrap-up, rather than simply celebrate the twin accomplishments of knocking off a formidable foe and making it to the postseason, the announcers chose to discuss the melee that had occurred earlier.

The white play-by-play man, a career New York broadcaster named Al Klinger, declared, “The fans’ behavior tonight was outrageous. Jay Gladstone’s a decent guy.”

Pro basketball games are usually broadcast by duos: The play-by-play announcer who describes the action as it’s occurring and the “color” man who provides insights and analysis. The color man is often a former player and often, although not always, African-American, rendering the term “color man” unfortunate. Al Klinger’s partner was Kenny Jamison, a former Chicago Bull. He was black. To Klinger’s remark, Kenny Jamison responded, “You’re so sure he’s a decent guy?”

Jay sat wrapped in a bathrobe, a bowl of low-fat mint chip ice cream on his lap, and watched this unfold.

“I think he’s a decent guy,” the white announcer said. “You don’t?” Jay could see Al suddenly wondering whether he should have asked his broadcast partner this particular question.

The pause that ensued while Kenny Jamison thought about what he might say was agonizing. Kenny Jamison was an employee of the home team. Kenny Jamison, technically speaking, worked for Jay Gladstone.

“You want my honest opinion?”

Kenny Jamison’s employer, sitting in front of the television high in the Manhattan sky, paused the spoonful of ice cream that was halfway to his mouth, unsure how much he wanted to know the man’s honest opinion.

Kenny Jamison: “I think it’s complicated.”

Complicated? String theory was complicated! Deciphering ancient runes was complicated! Jay Gladstone had uttered a few words that could have been interpreted by well-meaning people multiple ways and then publicly apologized! What was complicated about that?

Jay turned off the television. He did not want to hear that the quality of his character was “complicated.” If he could fire Church Scott when the playoffs were over, could he fire Kenny Jamison, too? Of course not. He couldn’t just get rid of everyone, make them take loyalty oaths, swear fealty to him.

“How is it possible that I have no black friends?”

“What about Church?”

“That backstabber?”

“He’s in an impossible position.”

“Don’t defend him, Boris.” Jay’s tone did not invite a response.

Boris leaned back on the sofa, stretched his arms over his head. Jay put the ice cream down. It had lost its taste.

“Someone needs to start a business,” Boris said. “Black friends for white liberals. Reduces black unemployment, erases white guilt. All credit cards accepted.”

There was no laughter from Jay.

The men did not talk for the next several minutes, just remained together, each brooding about how dire the situation had become. Boris asked if Jay would be all right alone in the apartment. Upon receiving an affirmative response, he departed.

In bed, Jay wondered about the effects of the night’s events. It was hard to believe only hours earlier he had stood at the center of a basketball court and been subjected to the jeers of the mob, many of whom could not confine their abuse to the verbal realm and had either hurled objects or tried to attack him physically. It was bizarre. Jay had from his earliest years fantasized what it was like to be on the court with the full attention of the crowd. But in his fantasy, he was much younger and wearing a basketball uniform, and the crowd he envisioned was an adoring one cheering his achievements. Reversal of the image from worship to denigration disrupted the circuitry. He knew there would be a backlash from what had happened with Dag, but he had not expected this. The model citizen who had led a sober life as an executive, civic leader, and—until recently—family man was now the target of free-ranging scorn that seemed to have come unstuck from its original cause and taken on a life of its own. But perhaps something positive might come from it, he reflected. Being the victim of public shaming on such a scale might create sympathy and reverse the trend that seemed to be taking hold. Or, would what had occurred only reinforce his role as a villain, validate the feelings of those inclined to be cruel, and permit them to give their disgust free rein?

And when would Dag emerge from the coma? Were that to happen, Jay could at least temporarily decrease the rate and frequency of his self-flagellation.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Late Saturday evening while Jay was watching the post-game broadcast with Boris, Imani Mayfield sat down at her dorm room desk, opened her laptop, and began to type. As a scholar and, in her view, a fair-minded woman, she took great pains to find the right tone. She wanted to condemn, but not destroy. Jay Gladstone’s daughter was one of her closest friends. Should she mention that? No, it was irrelevant. But there would be no ad hominem attack. It took several drafts, and in the end, she was satisfied. The next morning everyone affiliated with Tate College, including the trustees (one of whom was Jay Gladstone), woke up to find the following email waiting for them:

  From: Imani Mayfield, Tate College, ’12

To: All members of the Tate College community

This email contains upsetting material so if you have been a victim of racism consider this a trigger warning.

I am writing to you as a student at Tate College and a progressive woman of color. Tate College has a long history of tolerance. It is a nexus of competing ideas and an incubator of challenging thought. But even at a place like Tate, some ideas are so unacceptable that their expression must be banned. As you may already know, Jay Gladstone has been invited to address the class of 2012 at our graduation in May. As a student, this was not a decision I approved of, but I believe in the free exchange of ideas, and despite his controversial record as a New York City landlord, I did not raise my voice in protest. Now circumstances have changed, and today I respectfully call on all members of the college community, students, faculty, and staff, to join me in demanding the immediate withdrawal of this invitation.

Some of you may not be aware of the recent events that have led me to take this step: Gladstone was heard on a tape making a racially charged comment. If you haven’t heard about the incident and want to read about it yourself to provide some context you can find stories on the Internet here: www.nytimes.com, here: www.espn.com, or here: www.gawker.com, and on lots of other sites. Here is what he said:

“Why does everyone in this family want to have sex with black people?”

I’m sorry to have to drop that in the middle of your computer screen, or your smartphone, or whatever device you’re reading this on but that’s how it is. With or without context, the comment is deeply hurtful and racist. If you don’t know, Gladstone’s wife was having sexual relations with one of his black male employees, and he caught them. I’m a human being. I feel for Jay Gladstone. But that does not diminish the harmfulness of what he said. While I wish my eyes could unsee his words, my eyes cannot unsee them. I will, however, offer an interpretation because this is the basis for my demand to withdraw the invitation to speak at graduation. Jay Gladstone’s objectification of the black body has a long, ugly, and dangerous history in America. Since our ancestors arrived on these shores in chains, white folk, to put it mildly, have had a complex relationship with people of color. Make no mistake: Black bodies built this nation. Black bodies are worshipped in this nation. Black bodies are feared in this nation. Black bodies are rendered abstract, decoupled from their personhood, and sexualized. Jay Gladstone, through his hateful words, invokes the antebellum magnolias-in-the-moonlight slave-owning landscape of Mandingo, a depraved world of delicate white folk whose respectability and decorum are vanquished by untamed black sexuality and the people of color who pay for that depravity with their lives. That original sin from which this nation is still recovering grew out of the white supremacist vision of men like Thomas Jefferson and Andrew Jackson, and Jay Gladstone is their heir. As a personification of white male privilege, he declares himself unfit to be a speaker on this campus.

Please join me in calling the office of President Chapin at (845) 456-7395 or contacting him at Pres.Chapin@Tatecollege.edu and letting the man know that people like Jay Gladstone are not welcome at a place like Tate. The college must rescind the invitation to speak.

One love, Imani Mayfield

  Jay blearily perused the email with his morning coffee, stomach migrating incrementally downward as he read. By the time he reached the end, he was wide-awake. Then he reread it. He was wounded and outraged. Although Imani’s words were upsetting, they were to be expected considering the source. She had a score to settle with Jay. Her characterization of him was wildly off base, but enemies had caricatured him before, and as a landlord he was accustomed to being vilified. No one ever compared me to Thomas Jefferson, he reflected. If my mother weren’t senile, she’d be thrilled. He expected this entreaty to ignite a prairie fire at the college that would burn until it consumed him. Had Aviva signed off on her friend’s email? Had she co-written the thing? It had certainly been a bold stroke. Not only would the opportunity to speak there probably be denied as a result of what Imani had done, but his very presence at his daughter’s graduation would also now be unwelcome. This situation horrified him. As sour as it was between them, Aviva was his only child, and he intended to watch her graduate from college.

It occurred to Jay that in the wake of her friend’s missive Aviva might call or send him an email using Imani’s to buttress her case. But he did not hear from her. After last night’s events, the shift in his circumstances was unmistakable. He could endow a new science or humanities center, underwrite chairs in every department; none of it mattered now. Aviva’s friend had checkmated him.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The banks of the Hudson around Schuylkill are densely forested. Although the well-heeled have, since the 19th century, erected palaces along the swiftly flowing river, great swaths of the land remain undeveloped. Hickory, hemlock, and black birch soar over the primeval landscape, much of which continues to be unchanged from the time of the Algonquin. Over two centuries earlier, these woods were filled with British soldiers under the command of General Cornwallis attempting to rout the ragtag revolutionary troops led by the upstart George Washington. America was born, and the crack of martial gunfire was now heard only in the context of video games. More recently, for circumscribed periods each year, licensed sportsmen draped in orange reflective gear tracked through the area hoisting rifles and obliterating deer. But it was not hunting season, and as the sun winked above the treetops melting the frost that had formed overnight on the fallen branches and old leaves that carpeted the ground, four soldiers swarmed through the woods cradling weapons.

Aviva, Imani, and Noah were participating in an acting exercise devised by Axel that he had dubbed “full environmental immersion” and it consisted of the performer enacting the part he or she was playing in the actual context where the action depicted on stage occurred or, failing that, in the closest manageable approximation. In theory, this would allow the performer to draw on sense memories—the peaty smell of the woods, the crack of a twig snapping underfoot—acquired in the course of the exercise and use them to create a deeper, more evocative portrayal. Axel modeled this particular one on the military training devised by Field Marshall Cinque to prepare his followers in the Symbionese Liberation Army for taking over television studios, or power plants, or kidnapping heiresses. Their sneakers didn’t make a sound as they stole through the woods.

They had gone out early to avoid running into anyone. Axel drove them in his truck and parked in front of an unoccupied summer home on a dirt road off the two-lane highway that ran parallel to the river about a mile from the east bank. After a brief safety lecture, he distributed the guns and they hiked into the woods.

Axel had attended a gun show and purchased two .22 caliber handguns and a pair of military rifles. Aviva and Imani cradled the rifles and the young men each gripped a pistol. Axel was comfortable with a weapon and handled it like he would any tool. But the others were not as relaxed at first and arranged themselves in poses inspired by films and television shows, taking care not to point the barrels at one another. Axel reprimanded them and reminded everyone that art and politics were serious business, and if anyone wanted to goof around, they could go home.

“This isn’t like that bullshit in the West Bank,” he said to Aviva. “This shit is real.”

“How was that bullshit?” Noah said. “The IDF could’ve fucked her up.”

“Yeah, but did they? No, they did not.” Axel said. “They didn’t even bother to show up. You guys had no firearms, there was no confrontation. It was all a big nothing.”

“At least we were there,” Aviva said as they continued to make their way along the path.

Axel just snorted.

To the east, a roiling bank of indigo clouds appeared over the hills. The sun vanished and cast the toy soldiers in shadow. In the darkening woods, Axel ran them through a series of drills, dashing, crouching, maneuvering on their stomachs, drawing their weapons, aiming, pretending to fire. When Aviva stumbled and fell, he asked if she was all right. He showed Imani how to take her gun apart and put it back together. But when Noah questioned why they were doing a particular thing, Axel ordered him to shut up. Since what they were engaged in was essentially a form of play, Noah accepted his lesser role but expected Axel to not act like a dick. When their legs got tangled as they ran through a clearing, Axel shoved Noah, who went sprawling and cursed his friend.

“You could get us killed,” Axel said.

“Dude, it’s a game,” Noah replied as he got up and brushed leaves off his clothes. A stray leaf stuck to his head and Imani plucked it off.

Aviva believed she had acquired all the sense memories necessary for her performance after fifteen minutes but did not want to complain and be labeled a lightweight. It felt silly to be running around the woods waving guns as if they were Sandinistas or members of FARC. Only Axel seemed to be taking it seriously.

When they had been training for nearly an hour, Noah asked why Axel had loaded the guns if he didn’t want anyone to shoot.

“Because people need to feel what it’s like to hold power in their hands.”

“I want to shoot,” Aviva said.

Axel said: “So shoot.”

Noah looked at Axel in surprise and asked why he was going to allow Aviva to fire her gun while he (Noah) was not permitted.

“Because Patty sprays her weapon, fool.”

Axel had always dictated the terms of their friendship. He led a wilder life, read more, agonized more. He was on his own in the world while Noah would graduate from college in a little over a month free to pursue his destiny with a manageable level of student debt. Because of this disparity, Noah didn’t mind being patronized by him when they were alone, but it was unacceptable in the presence of Aviva and Imani.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Axel said.

Noah was pointing the pistol at him.

“Just seeing what power feels like.”

“Put the gun down, fool.” Noah kept pointing it at him. He narrowed an eye. Was he aiming? “I said put the motherfucking gun down. Lay it on the ground and step away from it.” Noah did neither. Aviva watched them, unable to believe what she was seeing. These guys had been friends since freshman year. What damage was programmed into their DNA that made the threat of violence the wordless language of their gender?

“Drop the gun, Jewboy,” Imani said. She was leveling her rifle at Noah’s half black, half-Jewish dreadhead.

It started to drizzle.

Aviva stared at them in mute disbelief. She had never heard her friend use that word in conversation. Axel told Imani not to worry; he would handle this. She did not obey.

“Lower your weapon,” Axel told her. He was oddly relaxed.

Imani looked at him as if he had asked her to whistle. “What? Why?”

“Just stand down, girl. I got this.”

The intensity of the rain increased. To Aviva’s relief, Imani tentatively lowered the barrel of the rifle. The situation was getting too weird. Axel addressed Noah: “How do you like the way power feels?”

“I like it, white boy,” Noah said. “Let me see you drop your weapon.”

“Why do you want me to do that?”

Noah said: “Drop the motherfucker.”

When Axel’s pistol landed on the moist forest floor, it barely made a sound. Aviva saw Imani catch Axel’s eye with a look that asked if he wanted her to aim her gun at Noah again, but with a faint shake of his head, he indicated no. Rain angled down their faces.

Noah ordered Axel to step away from the gun. “And Imani, don’t point that fucking thing at me.”

Axel backed away from the gun on the ground. Aviva rushed forward and grabbed it.

Axel asked her: “Are you with him?”

“You’re both acting like idiots,” Aviva said. “Quit fucking around, Noah.”

Ignoring Aviva, Noah said to Axel: “You’re not a revolutionary, dude. You just play. What have you ever done? That story you tell about liberating the pig farm? Couldn’t find it anywhere on the Internet. How do you explain that? An army of liberated pigs wandering the hills of Oregon and no mention anywhere? You’re full of shit.”

Aviva looked from one boy to the other, guns dangling at her side. Axel glanced toward the guns and then looked at Noah. Ten feet separated them. Then, he slowly walked toward the barrel of Noah’s weapon.

“Shoot me,” Axel said. “See what it feels like.”

Noah had been holding the pistol perpendicular to the ground. Now he shifted his arm, and the angle changed to forty-five degrees.

Aviva could see his hand was trembling. Axel was five feet away.

She said: “Put the gun down, Noah.”

He ignored her. Axel took another step. Aviva could not comprehend what she was seeing: Two blood-engorged rams butting heads in some parody of natural selection.

“I’m warning you, man,” Noah said, but when Axel grabbed the gun from his hand, he did not resist. He seemed relieved and smiled stupidly. He said, “I was just playing,” and gave a nervous laugh. But distress seized his features when Axel in one lightning motion pressed the barrel against Noah’s temple.

A current of terror shot through Aviva, paralyzing her.

“Axel, what the fuck,” Imani screamed.

“Never give up your weapon,” Axel hissed. Noah closed his eyes, quaking.

Axel pulled the trigger and—nothing.

For a moment, no one said anything. Axel stepped away.

“You m-m-motherfucker,” Noah stammered. The air had flown from his narrow body.

Aviva shoved Axel hard. “You’re such an asshole!”

Axel did not respond to her admonishment. Instead, he jammed the pistol into his belt and said, “You think I’d give any of you clowns a loaded weapon?” Then he tilted his head back and uncorked a whoop of laughter that rose to the treetops where it frightened the starlings roosting in the branches.

It was still raining when they marched out of the woods. Axel kept apologizing. Noah didn’t want to hear it at first, but Axel called him an outlaw and a bad motherfucker, said he could shoot all he wanted, and they could even go to a gun range across the river that afternoon.

The bass and drum of thunder grumbled, and lightning strobe-lit the landscape.

“Follow me,” Noah said and ran across the street toward a white Colonial with green shutters. Aviva and Imani looked at each other and trailed him, Axel in the rear. Noah appeared to have recovered from what happened earlier. Behind the house, a set of concrete steps led to the back door. Noah climbed the steps. The door had nine rectangular windowpanes. Aviva thought he was going to punch one of them out to let them in.

“Noah, don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?” There was a key under the doormat. “Do you want to stand out here and get soaked?”

Aviva considered his question. It was breaking and entering.

He inserted the key in the door, turned the knob, and stepped inside.

“This place is the shit,” Imani said from the dining room.

“Who lives here?” Aviva asked. Having overcome her trepidation, she was looking around the kitchen.

“Some white-collar criminal,” Noah said.

Aviva looked alarmed. “So, he could show up any minute?”

“He’s only here in the summer,” Noah assured her. “I did a little sleuthing. He works mostly in London.”

Rain pelted the windows. Noah found a glass, filled it with water from the tap, and drank. He lit a joint while Axel rummaged through the cabinets. Noah offered Aviva the joint, but she declined. Axel took a hit.

Overhead Aviva could hear the faint sound of Imani’s footsteps. They had stopped sleeping together. Aviva had told her she had been shouldering a lot of conflicting emotions and wanted to handle it alone. Imani had accepted this, said she had never really believed Aviva was gay and asked if Aviva was breaking up with her so she could fuck Axel. At the time Aviva wasn’t sure if that was true, but after what had happened with the guns, she did not want to be Axel’s lover.

Now she watched him searching for the sell-by date on a can of peaches. He had grown wilder from when they first met. She still found him charismatic, but now his behavior evoked the kind of guy who, just to be provocative, might hold a gun to a woman’s head while he was inside her. His fearlessness appealed, but the less assertive Noah was more like someone she could see herself with as an adult. That was the thing: None of them seemed like adults, not Imani, or Noah, or Axel. Aviva didn’t seem like one to herself, and she was about to graduate from college. What she felt more than anything was puzzlement. Upset by the situation with her father, uncertain in her sexuality, and now the passive participant in a crime. It was disorienting to be standing in a house she had broken into. It was wrong, she knew, but the lawlessness excited her.

Axel opened the can of peaches. Imani entered the kitchen waving her phone and asked if any of them had seen the email she had blasted to everyone with a Tate College account. No one had checked his or her in-box that morning. Imani took a hit from the joint Noah offered. Then she read:

“I am writing to you as a student at Tate College and a progressive woman of color—”

Imani savored the text, relishing her performance, emphasizing words like toxic, and depraved, and magnolias. No one looked at Aviva, who tried to hide the shame lacerating her. The reading seemed to go on for a long time.

When Imani finished, Noah said, “That’s brilliant.”

“The writing’s impressive,” was Axel’s comment.

Imani informed them that she had done a great deal of reading on the subject.

“How come you didn’t show it to me before you sent it?” Aviva wanted to know.

Imani said, “I knew you might have a problem with it.”

Aviva thought about defending her father. She had not spoken up on his behalf to anyone since the scandal occurred. What had he done, really, other than say a few words in a challenging situation that had become a Rorschach blot for whoever heard them? But people chose what team they were on, and she knew hers. Or at least she thought she did. These were her people, restless, empathic, champions of the downtrodden. But they didn’t know her father as she did. It was one thing for her to criticize him, but it was entirely different when the world seemed bent on destroying the man. Jay Gladstone may have been an oblivious plutocrat, but he was hardly a personification of racist evil. He supported her endeavors, donated enormous sums to the right causes. Yet the terrible condition of the world was the result of the people that were in charge, and he was one of them.

It was difficult for her to choose whom to betray.

“My father might be a lot of things,” Aviva said, “but he’s not a racist.”

“Why did he say that shit?” Noah asked.

“He was in a wonky situation and blurted out some words,” Aviva said. “It sounds bad but now the whole world is on his ass, and it’s not fair.”

“The man’s a stone racist,” Imani said.

“Whether or not he’s racist,” Noah said, “he supports an economic system that continues to benefit from the exploitation of people of color, so yeah.”

“He is not racist,” Aviva repeated. To Imani: “You were in his house, and you sincerely believe my father is racist?”

“Hey, I get that he can’t help it. He’s a creature of the system.”

“That is such bullshit,” Aviva said. “He’s a human being.”

“You forget that he threw me out.”

“Not because you’re black.”

“Why then?”

“Because you were rude.”

“Well, you can take the girl out of Westchester,” Imani said.

The women faced off. The degree of anger between them was new. Axel had been drinking peach juice from the can. He burped. “Hey, don’t forget you two are on the same side. The empire wants us to destroy each other.”

Aviva and Imani took Axel’s interjection as an excuse to stand down.

“I defended you,” Aviva said.

“Whatever,” Imani said. Then: “Okay, I may have been a little rude.”

Conflict temporarily defused.

Noah was looking at his phone. “There’s a blast from the college president. Your dad’s out. He’s not speaking at commencement. It says he voluntarily withdrew.”

The effects of the abuse her friends heaped on her father compromised the relief Aviva felt at this news. That he had not been sufficiently moved by his own daughter’s request, yet had capitulated as a result of Imani’s efforts was beyond Aviva’s capacity to understand.

“I’m almost sorry the situation got resolved,” Noah said. “It would’ve been fun to protest.”

“Could’ve occupied the president’s office,” Imani said.

“Kidnapped him,” Noah said.

“The college president?” Axel asked.

“Why not?” Noah said. “It’d be an epic prank, like something from the sixties.”

“The American left is dead,” Axel said, beating a favorite drum.

“You can still do it,” Imani said. A deft ironist, her tone was indeterminate.

Noah said, “We can grab him at his house, get him over here, and keep him prisoner for just, like, a day. If we wore balaclavas, he’d never know it was us, and he’d be blindfolded anyway.”

“Okay, that’s stupid,” Imani said, clarifying her position.

“You sound like you’ve thought about this,” Aviva said.

“All we need is duct tape, rope, and a blanket,” Noah said.

Was he serious? Aviva had no idea.

Axel slapped his palm on the counter. “You know who we should kidnap? Aviva’s dad.”

“That’s even more stupid,” Aviva said.

“No, listen,” Axel said. “When the SLA kidnapped Patty Hearst they got her father to donate, like, millions of dollars’ worth of food to poor people in the Bay Area. What if we did that?”

“What, like, fake kidnap Aviva?” Noah said.

Aviva nearly shouted: “No one is fake kidnapping me!” They were all looking at her, and she experienced the creeping sensation that these friends, all of whom were from another social world, might suddenly determine she was a class enemy and turn on her. “How high are you guys?”

“Kushed out,” Noah said, laughing.

“You could always fake kidnap me,” Imani said. “For ransom, you might get a corn dog.”

Aviva did not appreciate the stab at humor.

“No, no, no,” Noah said. “We kidnap Aviva’s dad, we hold him here, we make one of those hostage videos and get him to denounce racism.”

Aviva said, “That’s so beyond dumb, I don’t even—”

“Why?” Imani asked.

“Well, first of all,” Aviva said, “it’s a major crime. Let’s start with that. Then he’s supposed to write a check and end world hunger?”

“Dude is a billionaire,” Axel pointed out. On his tongue, it sounded like “child molester.”

“He could do it,” Noah said.

Aviva thought about her father’s multiple homes, the enormity of the wealth he controlled, and she considered the toxicity of their last encounter. But kidnapping? Audacious, definitely, and exceedingly simpleminded.

“You guys should do it,” she said. “I’ll visit you in jail.”

Noah began to giggle from the weed. He shook, doubled over as he envisioned the hilarity of this group of pranksters in jail. They waited for him to finish.

“Please do,” he said with a long sigh as he regained control of his thin body.

“We can’t do it without you,” Axel said to Aviva. When she asked why they needed her help, he said: “Because he’ll never press charges if you’re part of it.”

Aviva thought about her father and how he had mucked up her life by leaving her mother, by being unnecessarily wealthy, and—in her view—wanting her to be something other than what she was. Now, as a result of his increasingly baroque public difficulties, the problem had only intensified. She resented him for never being able to accept his imperfect, oversensitive, yearning daughter. That fate had bound them together was cruel. She was exhausted from being tarred with the Gladstone brush. Could she never escape this imposed identity? Children separated from parents, it was the natural order; and yet was there ever a real escape from the DNA bequeathed in the form of physical characteristics, psychological traits, all of the visible and invisible qualities that bind families? She was dying to break away, but the mystifying love Aviva felt for her father made the situation intractable.

“I’m not kidnapping my father.”

“What about a bomb?” Axel said. They looked at him skeptically. Somehow, this seemed on a different order of magnitude from kidnapping. “You know, like the Weathermen.”

Noah asked, “Who do you want to bomb?”

Axel reacted like it was a dim-witted question. “Well, we could destroy President Chapin’s house for inviting Aviva’s dad in the first place, or we could bomb Aviva’s dad’s house.”

“Which one?” Imani asked.

Axel and Noah laughed. Aviva did not.

“You want to blow up my father?”

Axel said of course not, there was no way he wanted to blow anyone up, but some property destruction would make a statement. Aviva asked what that might be. His response: “Against racism.”

“How would anyone know that?”

“We take a name like the People’s Army Against Racism, call the media from one of those phones drug dealers use, and we’re the reincarnation of Baader-Meinhof.”

Noah asked, “Do you know how to build a bomb?”

“We liberated that pig farm in Oregon with bombs.”

“The one I couldn’t find any mention of on the Internet.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Aviva’s eyes darted back and forth. She hoped they wouldn’t point guns at each other again.

Noah said, “Axel, I’m only saying that if it happened—”

“If it happened, what? There are things the government suppresses, Noah. Information they don’t want you to know.”

All the testosterone had become tiresome. But there was something about exploding a bomb that was a declaration, as long as no one got hurt. Aviva thought about the house in Bedford, where she had lived full-time until her parents’ divorce. The basketball court that her father built for her despite her indifference to the game. The horses she had no interest in riding. Walking to the swimming pool, her uneven gait serving as a reminder with each step she took that she did not conform to his idea of perfection. To blow a hole in all of it would be—would be what? She caught herself. A bomb? It was ludicrous. Playacting. Posturing. Aviva listened as her friends continued their gabbing, confident the dialogue would exhaust itself.

They talked about explosives, the variety, their relative ease of assembly, whether people would be sympathetic to their cause if they blew something up, had bombs ever been an efficient way to blah blah blah. Aviva pretended to be excited by the idea of direct action but had no intention of following through. After listening to the conversation, Imani tempered her eagerness. Noah implied he didn’t believe the others were up to it anyway so what were they even talking about, but Axel’s desire for a dramatic gesture seemed to grow.

The downpour had stopped. In the western sky, sunlight spilled from a fissure in the clouds. When they left the house after an hour, the one thing they agreed on was that if racism was going to be defeated, something must be done.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Late Sunday afternoon, Jay received a phone call from the commissioner of the league. A man both affable and indomitable, he had ruled his fiefdom smoothly for several decades, navigating a middle path between the owners and players that led both groups to feel he was secretly in the pocket of the other. He was sickened by what happened at Sanitary Solutions Arena the previous evening and expressed his desire for those who created the disturbance to be prosecuted and banned from further attendance at games. The commissioner asked: Are you doing okay, Jay? The commissioner remarked: No one should have to endure this. The commissioner wondered: Would you mind coming to the league offices first thing on Monday morning to talk about damage control?

At last, Jay thought, someone not just piling on but looking for ways to ameliorate the situation. He went to bed that night despondent over what he had done to Dag, disappointed that he had not heard from Aviva in the wake of his withdrawal from the commencement, but secure in his alliance with the man who governed professional basketball.

Because the disturbance at the Miami game occurred too late in the day to make the Sunday morning papers, the Monday editions made up for it with extensive accounts of the mayhem. GLADSTONE BOMBARDMENT! shrieked the New York Post above a picture of Jay beneath a barrage of flying T-shirts. The New York Times reported: Fans Express Rage Toward Owner Prior to Victory. A columnist for the Daily News opined: While what Gladstone said was undeniably racist, it would behoove the fans to express themselves in a more civilized way.

Undeniably racist? Jay nearly choked when he read that. His family foundation handed out Gladstone Scholarships to black kids like candy and now his “racism” was undeniable? Today he was having lunch with Bobby Tackman at his club. He hoped Tackman had some idea how to unwind the narrative that had taken hold.

It was with this in mind that Jay rode the elevator to the League offices. He had informed Dequan he did not need a bodyguard today. In the elevator with him were a man and a woman, both in business dress. Neither acknowledged his presence. Jay was the first to get off, and when the door closed behind him, he imagined the two strangers were bonding over their ride with New York’s latest public enemy and saying disparaging things about him. The receptionist, a young black woman he recognized from a recent visit, offered a terse greeting. He suspected she was sitting in judgment.

She alerted the commissioner’s office to Jay’s arrival. Jay waited for the woman to wave him back, but she told him to take a seat. “They’ll let me know when they’re ready for you.” The head of the league was going to keep him waiting. That had never happened. He sank into a couch and pulled out his phone to see if there was any news from the Planning Commission about the Sapphire. His chief operating officer had told him they expected to get the approval to break ground in the fall, but there was still no word. The elevator doors opened, and two league attorneys emerged. Trim and athletic, they glanced at Jay but said nothing. The receptionist buzzed them in. Jay continued to wait. A minute later the elevator door opened again, and a middle-aged black man emerged. Jay recognized him as a veteran referee, someone he had watched call many games from his courtside seats. The man walked to the receptionist’s desk, gave his name, and sat down in the waiting area across from Jay where he picked up a magazine and began to leaf through it. Jay waited to see whether the ref would express sympathy about what had happened to him at Sanitary Solutions Arena, or even deign to greet him. When he did neither, Jay said, “How are you?” The man looked up from the magazine and grunted a greeting but said nothing. Their respective places on the social food chain would have ordinarily demanded obeisance on the part of the game official toward the owner, but recent events had jumbled that equation. The receptionist called the referee’s name and said he could go back. Ten more minutes crawled by before she told Jay they were ready for him.

“Sorry we made you wait,” the commissioner said.

They were in the conference room seated at a large oval table surrounded by twelve chairs. Jay sat on one side of the table, the commissioner across from him flanked by the deputy commissioner, a bald white man in his forties, and the chief counsel, a white woman with a brunette bob, also in her forties. Though they were both highly competent professionals, Jay considered them cogs in the league machine. The commissioner had held his position for nearly a quarter of a century. An avuncular man, he had a tanned face with prominent features and an impressive head of graying hair. He looked well-rested. With a forefinger, he pushed his gold-framed glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“Saturday night was regrettable.” His voice a purr.

“Terrifying,” Jay said.

“It must have been. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.” He hoped the smidgen of pathos in his voice would engender compassion that he could use to his advantage. The deputy commissioner and the chief counsel made sympathetic noises. Jay ignored them. He noticed that the chief counsel had a manila folder in front of her.

The Commissioner: “What about D’Angelo?”

“I have the best doctors in the world monitoring his condition.”

Jay hoped that the commissioner had a plan to extract him from the thicket in which he found himself. The two had always enjoyed good relations, chatted at league meetings, had played several rounds of golf together at league-sponsored charity events. Jay even invited the commissioner to go horseback riding with him—“Jews ride horses?” the commissioner (who was Jewish) had asked with mock surprise—and although he had not yet taken Jay up on his offer, the leader of the NBA had made it clear that it was only a matter of time before they saddled up together. So, the two men were friendly, if not exactly friends. Jay had heard that the commissioner’s parents spoke Yiddish at home, and since the entire world seemed to be in the process of retreating to the ethnic categories from which they issued, he was not above trying to connect on a tribal level.

“Honestly, this whole megilla feels like a lot of tsuris for bupkis.”

From the blank stares of the lieutenants and the Commissioner’s phlegmatic expression, Jay realized he had overreached. He wanted to pluck the ill-timed Yiddish out of the air and cram it back down his throat. All of a sudden, he was channeling a Catskills tummler? From what hidden closet had Jay pulled the Jew-face?

“Let me cut right to the chase,” the commissioner said. “I talked with Church Scott last night, and he told me about the potential for a player boycott.”

“The players are young men,” Jay said. “They’re emotional.”

“The playoffs start this weekend,” the commissioner reminded him.

“I know,” Jay said. “We qualified.” A smile creased his face. The lieutenants offered congratulations. He nodded in acknowledgment.

“Church informed me that if you don’t sell the team, the players aren’t going to suit up.”

Before Jay could respond, the general counsel said, “Here’s how it would work: You put the team in a temporary trust—”

Jay interrupted her: “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not selling the team.”

“Just a minute,” the commissioner said. “Hear us out. Ultimately, it’s your decision, of course.”

Jay thought about getting up and leaving but realized a display of petulance would accomplish nothing. He needed the league on his side. He angled his head at the general counsel to indicate she should continue.

“Once the team is in a trust, the league will take over the day-to-day operations. It’s what we did with the New Orleans franchise, so there’s already a precedent for this.”

“Then I sell the team to the highest bidder?”

“We already have someone in mind,” the commissioner said. “He’s Russian, and I think we can get you one point five billion, maybe a little more. You paid eight hundred million a few years ago, so you’d make half a billion dollars. That’s a lot of rubles.” The commissioner laughed, as did his accomplices. All of them looked at Jay as if he should pick up the cue and laugh with them. Ruble was a funny word in this context and at least worth a chuckle, wasn’t it?

“I’m never going to agree to that,” Jay said. “You can’t force me to sell. I’ll tie you up in court for years.”

The commissioner did not immediately respond. The others didn’t dare speak. To Jay, this was a kangaroo court and he was not going to submit. He waited.

The commissioner assumed an expression of strained patience. “The playoffs are the most important part of our season,” he pointed out. “Your league partners need your team on the court. We have a television deal that I intend to honor.”

“I know all about the television deal,” Jay said. “I helped negotiate it.”

“Then you know we have to play the games,” the deputy commissioner said.

Jay looked at him askance: “You’re allowed to talk?” Jay meant it jocularly, but the edge in his voice made it read like the insult it was.

“Occasionally,” the deputy said, glancing at his boss who did not react.

“I’m going to talk to Church, and then I’ll talk to the players,” Jay said. “I’ll take care of it. My team is going to be on the court this weekend.”

“I hope you’re right,” the commissioner said. “But Jay, don’t take it the wrong way because it’s not personal, but if we don’t resolve this by the end of the week, the league is prepared to go to federal court to get an injunction forcing you to at least temporarily surrender control of the franchise.”

The general counsel opened her folder, removed a document, and slid it across the table. “This is a brief outline of what we have in mind,” she said. “You should let your attorney take a look at it.”

Jay ignored the document. “I always had great respect for you,” he said to the commissioner. “Because you had the spine to stand up to the players and the owners. But the mob starts braying, and you’re prepared to sell me down the river?”

The commissioner and his team stared at him. No one said anything. The deputy commissioner ended the standoff when he said:

“You realize that selling someone down the river refers to slavery, right?”

Jay exhaled in exasperation. Would his torments never cease?

“It hadn’t occurred to me.”

The deputy said, “I would advise you not to use that image if you’re going to be doing interviews.”

Jay wanted to smack him.

The general counsel raised her hand to her mouth to hide that she was smiling. Jay noticed her reaction. “Yes, this is hilarious,” he said. “A man’s life is being destroyed.”

Her grin vanished.

Jay pushed away from the table and got out of his chair. He wanted to calibrate his words with the greatest precision:

“This is a travesty. You are dictatorially adjudicating this matter without the due process that I’m entitled to, and I’m not going to let you do it.”

As he stalked out of the room, the commissioner implored, “Try to understand our position,” but Jay was no longer listening.

The Fifth Avenue sidewalk panorama looked like it did every weekday morning: men and women in business attire hustling to offices, tourists examining guidebooks and craning their necks, people charging in all directions. Yet to Jay, it seemed different because his relationship to all of it had changed. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, and no one paid attention to him. Telling Dequan his bodyguard services were not required today looked like the right idea. That would’ve attracted more notice. From the sidewalk, Jay called Church Scott. His call went to voice mail, and he left a message saying he intended to come to the team’s practice facility today to talk with the players. If he could speak to them directly, he knew they would see reason. They were young athletes. From what he knew, most of them were not political. He would appeal to them on a human level, talk about his philanthropy, his lifelong love of basketball. They would see reason.

He pulled the brim of his cap lower and began walking to the Paladin Club for his lunch with Bobby Tackman.

Five minutes later his phone vibrated. Church Scott was returning his call. The players were in open rebellion, Church reported. There were ten black men and two white men on the active roster, and every one of them was in agreement. The players had made it clear that as long as Jay Gladstone owned the team, they would refuse to take the court. Jay tried to hide his incredulity. They were professionals. They had contracts. How could these young men be so completely unreasonable? When Jay asked if it would be helpful for him to address the team, Church said, “No, no, no, that would only inflame the situation. If they hear you’re coming to practice, they’ll all get in their cars and go home.”

“They won’t even listen?”

“Not now,” Church said.

Jay asked when he thought that might change. Church told him not to hold his breath.

The city howled in his ears. He hung up and quickened his pace.

Jay was early to his lunch appointment, and while he waited for the crisis specialist to appear, he found an obscure corner of the club in which to sit and phoned Herman Doomer. When he reported what had occurred at the league offices Doomer was not surprised. “We’re living a different climate today,” the lawyer said. “People are unforgiving.” In no mood for a philosophical disquisition, Jay asked what kind of legal challenge they could mount. “If the league files an injunction against you, we can challenge it, but it’s a steep climb. The judge will weigh the interests of all the other owners against yours, and it’s hard to see how we can get a favorable ruling given the imminence of the playoffs.” Jay cursed under his breath. “That might be the least bad piece of news I’m going to give you on this phone call,” Doomer said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I heard from Christine Lupo’s office today. They’re going to charge you with a hate crime.”

What the lawyer told him was incomprehensible.

“A hate crime? Herman, it was an accident.”

“Those words cast the whole business in a racial light, unfortunately. Maybe we can get them to drop it eventually, but it’s going to be part of a larger negotiation.”

“This has no basis in reality. It’s illogical!”

“Not from their point of view. The more the DA’s office piles on, the thinking goes, the greater chance that we’ll negotiate to avoid a trial.”

“I am not negotiating.”

Doomer agreed that they should try and resolve the situation with the league and preserve Jay’s ownership position. The attorney asked if he wanted to proceed with the attempt to temporarily remove Franklin from the business but Jay balked at taking that step. There were too many other things to address this week. Dealing with Franklin could wait.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Jay had not been to his club since the accident. He absently picked at his poached salmon as he withstood the gale force of Bobby Tackman’s storm: “What did you think would happen when you stepped out on that court in front of all those people after you ran over their hero with your car? Why did you hire me if you’re going to go off half-baked and do whatever you want? I nearly called you that night and resigned. The clients I’m able to benefit are the ones who listen.”

Tackman had not touched his tuna melt.

After the meeting at the league office, Jay’s insides were in an uproar. He had said hello to the club manager upon his arrival, and Jean-Pierre looked at him strangely, as if he wanted to say something but could not quite bring himself to do it. None of the other diners had called out to him as he made his way to the table—Jay believed they wanted to give him privacy. Now, this onslaught from the garrulous consultant was intensifying his already foul mood. Wasn’t it his job to be the dispassionate one? As Tackman continued to enumerate the ways the misadventure at the arena had made his job infinitely more challenging, Jay fought the urge to sack him on the spot. But he had dug a China-sized hole and the man’s services were required for him to climb out of it, so instead he listened and stewed.

Tackman had concluded that Anderson Cooper offered the best platform from which to embark on what he referred to as “your apology tour.” He was friendly with the popular television host and thought Cooper’s ability to apprehend events in a nuanced manner would render him at least somewhat sensitive to Jay’s plight.

“What if he asks me about the accident?”

“I spoke with your lawyer about this. It’s his opinion that you insist what happened was entirely unintentional, and that on the advice of counsel you cannot say anything else. But you want the interviewer to ask the question. You can emphasize that it was an accident, one which you deeply regret, and will haunt you until—choose your time frame.”

“Forever.”

“Forever works. And once you’ve got that out of the way, what you want to do is apologize to everyone, to Dag and Dag’s family, the basketball community, the black community, and this is the most important apology of all: To everyone I have hurt.”

“To everyone I have hurt?”

“Do you have a problem with that? It’s essential.”

For someone whose guiding principle was simply to be a moral actor, the idea of apologizing to “everyone I have hurt” was unspeakable. In a religious studies class, Jay had learned about the Jains, a group in India whose members swept the path in front of them with a broom as they walked so as not to harm any form of life with their feet. While Jay knew he was no Jain, the idea that he had hurt people on a scale this apology would imply was an assault on his core identity. Yet there it was. His version of accepting responsibility had resulted in a barrage of projectiles aimed in his direction. He had no choice but to trust Tackman, who, taking a break from his peroration, was finally forking a bite of the tuna melt into his mouth.

“You have to understand, Jay, we’re living in a different time.” Tackman took a sip of his tomato juice and grew thoughtful. “No one cares about the tragedies of kings. Those days are gone. Now, it’s all about who’s the most aggrieved, who can whine the loudest. Heaven forbid someone like you has a complaint. It’s not allowed. No one is interested in your story anymore. It’s the Time of the Victim, and you are in no shape or form a victim. You know what else you’re not? A protagonist. You, old chum, are the villain in this tale. Our job is to make you the protagonist.”

Jay knew this, but to hear it spoken aloud was unnerving.

“You go on CNN Wednesday, the first playoff game is Sunday, right? If the interview goes well, I think you’ll get a reprieve from the league. Maybe you don’t have to sell the team.”

The idea that going on television with Anderson Cooper might lead to a “reprieve”—and whatever form it took had to be better than what was happening now—lightened the crushing weight Jay felt. He surveyed the bustling dining room. Well-dressed men and women having lunch, they talked, they gestured, their voices rising in a pleasing din. Jean-Pierre greeted the diners. A waiter circulated with a dessert cart. An ordinary day, one in which Jay would have table-hopped. There was a network head having lunch with the president of a prominent advertising agency. And wasn’t that the woman who ran the Rockefeller Foundation? He would say hello on the way out, shake some hands, pat a few backs. Surely these people, his people, knew what had happened to him at Sanitary Solutions Arena. Surely, they would want to offer their sympathy.

Jay was only able to finish half his lunch. He signaled for the waiter to remove his plate.

“I’ve withdrawn from speaking at the Tate College commencement.”

Tackman finished chewing what was in his mouth, took a drink of water. “Giving a speech at a liberal arts college was a terrible idea. Frankly, I don’t know what you were thinking.”

While they drank coffee, Tackman mentioned that he was still working on arranging an invitation for Jay to speak at the Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem. The minister was open to the idea, but apparently several of the deacons were opposed. In the meantime, Jay should keep a low profile and not do anything in public that might draw attention.

Managed seclusion. This time Jay would listen.

“If you do well with Anderson, maybe you won’t have to do anything else.”

That did not sound likely. Penance involved more than getting your passport back into polite society stamped during a television appearance with Anderson Cooper. But he appreciated any words of encouragement. He signed the bill and walked Tackman out of the dining room, intending to return and greet several acquaintances. But while he stood with his guest at the coat check stand, Jean-Pierre pulled him aside. Jay expected some buck-up-we’re-all-behind-you words from the club’s manager and jauntily waved to the departing Tackman.

“Several members have spoken to me, Mr. Gladstone,” Jean-Pierre began. “Please understand this is not my personal opinion.” The club manager paused. This task was causing him considerable discomfort. The pause got a little longer.

“What is it?”

“They believe that perhaps it is best for you to not come to the club now.”

Jay’s mind raced as he tried to figure out who could be behind this. As far as he knew, he had no enemies at the club. Members of several other real estate families belonged, but they were friendly rivals. It battered his already wounded psyche to learn that hidden antagonists now threatened the one place he considered a refuge from what had befallen him. He had been a member for over thirty years.

“Who said this?”

“I can’t say. You understand.”

“No, Jean-Pierre, I don’t understand at all.” Jay tried to keep his voice from rising. A man Jay knew walked toward the dining room without acknowledging him. “I’m being blackballed?”

“Not blackballed, Mr. Gladstone. But we have African-American members.”

“That’s who’s complaining? I’ll talk to them.”

“No, please,” Jean-Pierre said. “The African-American members are not complaining. The people who have brought this to my attention are white. Please understand my position. A club is a friendly place. The executive committee is meeting to discuss it tonight.”

Jay thanked Jean-Pierre for notifying him and said he would think about whether to stay away but knew he only said that to save face. When this whole tornado subsided, he would return and quietly find out who was conspiring against him. He chose to forgo the dining room handshakes and schmoozing and walk to the office. Perhaps there would be news on the fate of the Sapphire.

As Jay walked east he began to experience an oddly claustrophobic sensation. There were too many people on the sidewalks. The sky he glimpsed between buildings looked like bars of cobalt. The temperature had dropped, and the wind had picked up. Wearing the baseball cap and sunglasses, Jay nestled into his coat as he walked to the office and tried to shake off the feeling. He had appeared on the local news several times talking to field correspondents and had been on Charlie Rose with two other real estate magnates to discuss urban development. He keenly anticipated the chance to make his case later in the week.

When he rounded the corner, and began walking south on Park Avenue, he saw the demonstrators in front of the building. Imam Ibrahim Muhammad was leading a group of about forty of them chanting: Hey, hey, ho, ho, we’ll be here till Gladstone goes!

They were a mixture of black, white, and Latino, men and women, mostly young. Several bored-looking police officers stood to the side and watched. Sawhorses had been placed on the sidewalk to circumscribe the movements of the group, who paraded in a circle with the imam in the center shouting into a bullhorn. Reflexively, Jay retraced his steps around the corner and paused at the side of the building where he would be out of sight.

It was an ordinary day on Park Avenue. Workers tended the flowerbeds in the median in front of the building. Well-dressed pedestrians ambled along the sidewalks. Jay was not sure he should try to run the hostile gauntlet without Dequan at his side. He already knew the speed with which people’s condemnation could manifest in physical violence. He heard Tackman’s voice telling him to keep a low profile and not do anything public. Was this public, the space in front of an office building his family owned? Unfortunately, he concluded, it was. As people passed him on the sidewalk, he faced the building and looked at his phone, so it wouldn’t appear to anyone who glanced in his direction that he was just standing there.

The crackle of the bullhorn, the shouts of the pack, bored into his skull. His hand reflexively traveled to his nose. These people could attack and get him on the ground before the police restored order. Who knew what harm they could do? He needed to reach his office if for no other reason than to be in an environment with people who were on his side.

The protestors maintained their rhythmic chant. Pedestrians walked past the hubbub, most of them barely glancing at it, another obstacle to be navigated in the course of a city day. Jay realized he could not remain where he was. He either had to force his way into the building or gain access through a service entrance. He could not bear the thought of sneaking into a property his family owned, but neither could he see barreling through the demonstrators to get to the lobby.

Cautiously, Jay stepped around the corner to reassess the scene. As the imam led the chant, he thrust his fist into the air. To Jay, it felt like each thrust was punching him. Boom! To the body! Boom! To the chops! His nose still delicate, Jay had no appetite for confrontation. Once again, he thought about what had occurred at the arena, turned around, and began walking north on Park Avenue.

“Gladstone!” a voice shouted. Someone had spotted him. Another: “That’s him!”

Jay glanced over his shoulder to see several of the demonstrators had broken from the circle and were running in his direction chased by a collection of slow-footed cops. Jay broke into what he hoped would be a run, but it had been years, and he instantly felt his left hamstring scream in protest. In seconds, they caught up. Several demonstrators encircled him, shouting insults. They were black, and white, and both genders, and although none of them laid a hand on him, their anger was blistering. Jay turned this way and that but they had blocked his egress. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

He shouted: “What do you people want?”

A white man wearing a knit Rastafarian hat said, “You people?”

“Racist motherfucker,” from a black woman in oversized sunglasses.

The cops shoved the demonstrators away from Jay. A Latino officer whose name tag read Ortiz asked Jay if he was all right. Jay nodded and requested an escort into the building.

Officer Ortiz rode up in the elevator with Jay to make sure he got to the office safely.

“Is that protest lawful?” Jay asked.

“Some judge gave them a permit,” Ortiz said. On a Monday morning? That judge, Jay reflected, must want to destroy me.

Jay’s effort to reach Mayor Bloomberg resulted in an exchange with a deputy. “The permit,” he carped, “was probably issued by some rogue judge, and I want it revoked.” The deputy assured him he would look into it. This did not satisfy Jay who insisted that his friend “Mike” call him back as soon as possible and to punctuate his displeasure slammed the phone into the cradle. He then retreated to the couch and assumed the prone position Bebe found him in a few minutes later.

“Maybe you shouldn’t come into work for a few days,” Bebe suggested.

“I should let this goddamn imam chase me away?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

To be pursued by a mob up Park Avenue and have to be once again rescued had taken a baleful toll. He glanced at the model of the Sapphire, its exquisite geometry a reliable source of serenity. Today it seemed nothing more than a meaningless agglomeration of cardboard, wood, and paste. There had still been no word from the Planning Commission, further curdling his mood. But he didn’t want Bebe to see him in this condition, so he roused himself, sat up, and briefed her on his meeting with the commissioner and the upcoming television interview. He predicted they would shortly receive the approval for the Sapphire. He asked about their mother, who he had not seen since the Seder. Jay’s relationship with his sister comforted him and helped to render the chaos manageable. When it was just the two of them alone, high in their steel tower, the world was more logical, pliant, and forgiving. Still, what she said next surprised him:

“I’m going to that fundraiser Franklin is hosting for Christine Lupo tonight.”

“He invited me, too, but it might be problematic if I went,” Jay said, which made his sister laugh.

“I’m going so I can size up your adversary.”

“Can you believe that conniving worm is holding an event for her in his home?”

“In fairness, he was cultivating her before.”

“Don’t defend him.

“I’m going to see if I can get her to drop the indictment.”

Now it was Jay’s turn to laugh. Bebe promised to share her impressions of Christine Lupo the next day.

Alone at his desk, Jay turned on his computer. A casual perusal of the Internet was all Jay needed to understand the degree to which he had damaged himself. Only right-wing sites defended him. There he was a “victim,” a “hero,” a “sacrificial lamb.” He ventured into one comments section and was treated to the usual invective, which he read out of sheer perversity but quickly fled when it seemed as if the level of vitriol that bleached the screen would cause his eyes to melt. Hundreds of ordinary citizens had somehow accessed his private email, and although a few people offered words of support, waves of animosity drowned out their voices. The cumulative effect left him physically weakened. Jay returned to the sofa where he curled up on his side, drew his knees up, and waited for the pounding in his head to subside.

Mayor Bloomberg did not return Jay’s phone call but several hours later the protesters dispersed and Jay, accompanied once again by security guards, was able to leave the building without incident. A car service brought him to his apartment, and again there was a crowd carrying signs in front. Jay slumped in his seat. Rather than get out, Jay told the driver to cruise slowly past. These people were not there to protest his attitudes or his right to exist. The Service Employees International Union was on strike.

Jay was on the ropes and Gus Breeze, the union leader whose corruption he had threatened to expose, had decided to take advantage of the opportunity and pummel him. Breeze was daring Jay to call him out.

He told the driver to take him to Bedford.

¤

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2018 by Seth Greenland First Publication 2018 by Europa Editions

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

¤

Seth Greenland is the author of five novels. His latest, The Hazards of Good Fortune (Europa Editions), will be published in 2018. His play Jungle Rot won the Kennedy Center/American Express Fund For New American Plays Award and the American Theater Critics Association Award. He was a writer-producer on the Emmy-nominated HBO series Big Love.

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