Safety? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Safety! (A Tale of Earth 52.5)

~Safeties Require Calibration~

~Safeties Require Calibration~

~Safeties Require Calibration~

"Shut up!"
I yelled into the faceplate of my helmet
"Shut up! Shut up!
I heard you the first hundred times, Betty!"

Bitchin' Betty was what everyone called her
A generic name for the female voiced audible advisory system
With history reaching back more than a hundred years
To the late Twentieth Century civil and military aircraft of the time
And the name just stuck

The more modern AI based systems were much more useful
And their users almost always chose a name for them at some point
With rumors of a few systems that had expressed a preference for a name themselves

And if this was one of those newer systems
I wouldn't be hunting for the power relay right now with my fingers
Because I could use all the brains I could get at the moment
Artificial or not
As my meat  brain was just about on the rev limiter for cycles and multitasking

"Aha!"
And just like that
My fingertips found what they were looking for
The distinctive hexagon shapeed plug on panel J-5
Which had to be the most user un-friendly design I ever had the pleasure of working with
But whose layout and shapes were burned into my brain
Along with a lot of other details that I'd rather forget

I pulled gently
Popping the six prongs from their seats
Betty went silent
Her Bitching done for the moment

"I'll turn you back on after I figure things out a bit
I promise"
Reassurances for dumb circuitry spilling from my lips
(Unfit for duty!)

Shaking my head lightly
To clear the excess noise left over from Betty and a certain long dead C.O.
I picked my list back up from the seat and hopped down from the step winglet to the museum floor
The two foot drop causing my leg stump to throb
Which I ignored with a silent curse
And promptly stepped half on a ratchet handle
Almost sending me sprawling across the rest of the tools that I had spread across the left side of the roped off display area

"Focus!"
I whispered angrily to myself
I wouldn't do myself or anyone........
And I stopped my thought at that
Because I still wasn't certain who exactly I was helping out by doing any of this shit

Dragging my ass all the way down here to The Hangar
Reactivating the jump drive in this old piece of Mk I junk
All to go where?
And why?

My lips craved the feel of a cigarette
Reminding of a bit of the why at least

No usable atmosphere equals no fire equals no fucking cigarettes for old Hank
And that just wouldn't do
No sir!

So with that slim bit of motivation moving me along
I walked past history
One awkward step at a time
Five all-feeling toes attached to an all-American foot held firmly in a combat survival suit boot leading the way
Followed numbly by a titanium claw teetering  inside the match to the first boot
Sending the almost feel of being on the ground along rods and swivel joints to thick leather cup and straps
Where the angry scarred flesh angrily worked to keep up with the mission
However weak an objective it may be

A rocket engine taller than a two story building
An unmanned solar glider
A space shuttle
A small case holding some charred remains that were once a space ship
Then a gift shop near the entrance with seventeen bodies laid out neatly
All with navy blue souvenir t-shirts squarely over their faces
Hands crossed upon chests
Just more history for the museum to mark at this point
Though without a curator to make an informational plaque
There wasn't any context anyways

Now that was a thought
And I hammered my gauntleted hand into the emergency exit door
Careful to step over the pet rock I'd placed to prop it open for me
And on to the still open back of my much too faded red for only being a year old vehicle to retrieve the last two items I needed

A twin pack of replacement oxygen generators for my suit
And the small yellow shoulder bag that I'd grabbed almost on instinct as I'd bugged out of the house
Grunting slightly as the forty pounds of O2 packs loaded up my left arm
And silence as my right grasped the two odd pounds of yellow bag

"EXIT ONLY'
Greeted my gaze for the last time as I turned again to the building's South side
An only appropriate placard for an exit stage right
An ill planned tally ho into the nether from within

In search of a place more hospitable to cigarettes
And context for this dream of devastation

Through that door I strode for the last time
Under a sickly looking sun that peered all too hard at what I was doing

One Day On a Train

I met you on a train
Though our eyes they never locked
Hands that never touched
Thoughts that probably went in wildly different directions

You had a briefcase that was full to bursting
Or perhaps only had a few things in it
Which were disorganized into haphazard piles
Leaving corners of papers sticking out
For myself and the whole world to see

One was a child's paper
Labeled as 'Second Grade English Quiz 4.2'
With a red B+ marked diagonally in the top margin
Owned by someone named Susan Z******
At least I think it was a last name starting with Z
And I couldn't make out the rest of it
With my cursive reading skills so rusty
And child Susan being overly messy about writing

That Z could have been a cursive Q as well now that I think on it
Those thoughts making me peer sneakily at your face
As you sat watching the world blur on by us in the picture size window  between us
Little crow's feet crinkling the corners of your eyes
The left a little more moist than the right
And a lock of slightly curled brown hair drifted down across your furrowed brow
A soft diagonal across the parallel lines

Was Susan your child?
I wondered
Almost asking it aloud
Before composing myself by fiddling with my pocket watch
Yes, quite right, almost exactly ten minutes since the last time I checked it

But then another thought happened by
Saying that perhaps you were the sort of person who carried their own second grade quiz paper around with them
However after careful sideways glances
I decided you weren't the type

With that question dealt with
My bored eyes flicked to the window
Noting the passage of Hog Slaughter station
Marking the halfway point in my commute home
Before questing their field of view towards your elbow
Where it rested upon the cheap grey plastic interior that passed for decor in mid-grade public transit these days
Up the worn nondescript sleeve of a tan overcoat that cloaked you in mystery
To your shoulder
Where a large single button hung on for dear life with one remaining loop of thread
Doing nothing really to prevent the epaulet from flying about in a fashion faux rage
Were it given the slightest provocation by wind or movement

I thought I should tell you that the button was likely about to fall off
And the words were in my mouth just about
When I ate them
Awkward adverbs and all
Swallowing them whole into the silence

A particularly rough grade crossing rattled your briefcase
Which drew both of our attention
Me taking bets with myself as to whether it would fall over or not
You obviously concerned that it might
Seeing your Isotoner gloved hand grasp the top firmly
Rotating it slightly on the floor until it was in perfect position to grasp with your legs
One worn brown boot on each side
Topped by muscular calves that disappeared long before the knee into the dark mystery of that overcoat curtain

I couldn't draw my gaze away from the papers once again
Trying to make out what the new ones I could see purported themselves to be
One was clearly a receipt
From a deli that I happened to know had the best fresh baked bread sub sandwiches in the city
The date showing that you'd been there in March
Of what year or exact day I'd never know
Hidden as that information was by the tightly closed lips of burgundy leather

Staring intently at another bit of paper that was sticking its tongue out at me
Where there seemed to be a bit of logo that was legible as belonging to a life insurance company
I became aware of two holes being burned into the top of my head
Your eyes were tearing into me
Picking through my memories
Trying to determine what type of person this was that was showing such interest in......

Oh my god, she thought I was staring up her overcoat!

I quickly looked straight down and bent over
With a slight groan as if in minor pain
I untied my left shoe and slipped it off
Wiggling the toes clad only in a well worn navy blue office issue dress sock
Letting a little bit of air in between them
While rubbing my heel lightly

I felt the twin lasers of inquisitional accusation rotate away from my hidden red face
As you looked away in disgust from my foot display

I slipped my foot back into my shoe and picked up the newspaper

All in one staggered motion of thoughtlessness

Of slapping out the paper and a crinkle crinkle of aimless page turning lingering embarassment

Hidden from my view

The scenery outside stopped and started

Lurching the seat beneath me

My gaze flicking around the page

First a house fire in the local news

Only one survivor

A child who died from the smoke

Her name was Susan

My face went white and I dropped my paper 

A question determined to announce itself to the rail carraige this time for certain

But the scenery was speeding by again

Without you to gaze out at it thoughtfully now

Nothing to indicate that you were there but the quickly flattening out slight indentation in the old cheap seat cushion

I met you on the train

Almost touched your hand and said hello

Almost knew your story

And still look for you every single day

Don't touch the brown lockers

Don't touch the brown lockers
With their multiple layers of paint
Stroked on by generations of janitors
Shoes crusted by clean-up sawdust
And the patience of a saint

Don't touch the brown lockers
It's where all the supplies are kept
The pink sawdust is for the pee
The green is for the puke
Incidentally that kid's lying about it never happening before
There's sick on the ceiling for Pete's sake!
He's a pro
This ain't no fluke

Don't touch the brown lockers
Some say they must be full of fudge
While others exclaim, "No, they're full of poo!"
Though I myself won't budge
From the firm belief that one of them is a Narnia pass-through
Because just the other day I saw the principal come out of one
With his good hunting boots tracking some foreign mud sludge

Don't touch the brown lockers
One of those flaking color layers is certainly full of lead
One of the kindergartners chewed on one for a year they say
Until he went mad with heavy metal head
Growing to a long haired teen driving a twenty year old van
With a shocking to the old people mural upon the side
Of a bare breasted Viking woman calling upon Wotan

Don't touch the brown lockers
They are where the secrets must be kept
Area 51 doesn't have anything on them
They glow at night through the vent slits
Making frightening noises with grey skin and almond eyes
Such that almost no one in the whole town has slept

Don't touch the brown lockers
That's where the bully keeps his lunch
Juicy hamburgers and Crème brûlée
He put a note on it so you wouldn't eat it
If you do you'll bare his bully brath
No doubt to suffer endless noogies ending with an atomic wedgie

Don't touch the brown lockers
Everyone loves a good mystery
Once you open them to see nothing but the odd dust bunny
Then it's all back to the plain old drudgery

Yearly Training Bitchfest

This Human Factors class is far too long

I've taken the initial session

I've taught the class and created the lesson

I've been there done that and have the T-shirt

This Human Factors class is far too long

SHELL models and PEARs

I try to pretend that they take me unawares

But if they do

It's only because they snuck up on me

And I didn't see them through my veil of bored tears

Latent issues and distractions

Fatigue or mucked up conversion fractions

A Dirty Dozen with bad ergonomics

This annual training hurts my neck

From all the half asleep nodding that occurs

If I had my way

I'd throw a grenade up through those mystically aligned holes in that Swiss Cheese Model

Blowing it to bits

So that I'd never have to learn about it again

Oh thank god

It's time for the ten question quiz

The Green Just Isn't So Very Green Around Here (A Tale of Earth 52.5)

Gabriel looked to the ground

Hoping to see signs of life in the imported soil

Some tiny green fingers reaching for the sun’s rays

Parting their granular prisons to spread leaves of greenery

Sadly there seemed to be no activity from seed batch 433v

Which was made up of a strain of grain from India

And fertilized with a specific mixture of nutrients

In hopes of mimicking the taste of Earth for the nascent seeds

Looking around the yellowish haze that seemed to hang in the humid air

The lizard part of his brain still refused to accept that things from Earth didn’t want to grow here

Where the sun was X times brighter than on their home planet

And moisture was in abundance

But the science part of his brain squashed the lizard with facts

The ones that pointed out that the native soil was harsh and acidic in comparison to what was ‘normal’

And the much brighter light was filtered through the Venusian haze in such a way that much of the ultraviolet spectrum was blocked  

Not to mention the visible coloring of everything here……

The few plants that had made the journey from Earth to Venus

Were perfectly normal ones

Where back home their leaves had that lovely green color that humans love so much

But in this damned place they took on a blackish color

Making everyone think more of death than life

Then there had been the early suicides………..

Gabriel’s train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of Lina
Accompanied by one of the Venues

They appeared far down my straight line furrow
Where their approach had been hidden by the irrigators with their long appendages folded up tightly to cylindrical bodies
And began walking towards me while looking around
Probably as hopeful as I had been to see some growth activity

The Venu was glarking away in his own language with the accompanying hand gestures for precision emphasis
Lina's pendant near her breastbone chattered quietly providing relayed translation from Momma
Though the computer voice was getting louder by the moment
Which was when I realized the Momma had started piping the translation to me as well
In a steadily increasing volume as the pair grew closer to me

What I heard concerned me

The One Who Authors The Author

Ink splotters my fingertips

Somehow having drawn dots of ink upwards from the pen's tip

Defying gravity every bit as much as the central plot has eluded me

Through four drafts of this chapter alone

Pummeling characters into submission

Adding adverbs, punctuation, and description

At a rate that one would think I was paid on a per word commission

This guy right here

He has nothing centrally driving him

When hungry he eats

Tired, he sleeps

Horny, has sex

He isn't a complicated person

So something primal should be found to push him somewhere

A love, a death, anything

But he doesn't seem to want to
I throw an alien abduction at him
And he says he just doesn't have time for that kind of thing
The corner store has a special on steak
And his tummy is a rumbling

A long lost love from gradeschool contacts him
And he just shrugs it off
Muttering something about gas prices and a M.A.S.H. marathon
A box of Cheez-Its that'll go stale
And that relationships are hard so he'd much rather jack it off

A heart attack
And he says, "Nah, I'm fine"
A great flood from a busted dam
Only to find he's prepared for that too
With modified grades and sandbags
And a double wide fully stocked fiberglass canoe

Nothing fazes this guy
And I'm beginning to wonder just who is writing who
Because I'm acting a little more stressed and crazy every single day
I'm beginning to suspect that he is a writer too

I begin poking around my manuscript
Under mattresses and piles of trash
Until I find what I'm looking for
A pile of handwritten pages in a steamer trunk false bottom stash

It is a story of a writer
Who isn't really very good
That is trying to write a novel
And his characters just won't behave
Which is when I fully understood:

I am the character
These are my strings
And I'm only doing as I should

Teenage Love

T'was a good morning call

Of "Good morning to all"

With a response of bitter silence

And a glare that declared

"Get the fuck out of my room"

A far cry from those salad days

When each sunrise was greeted with a morning mouthed grin

And a springy little bounce from the bed

Without a hint of any darkness within

The hormones that work their maturation magic

At the same time draw feelings most tragic

The self doubt of the "Am I good enough"'s

Accompanied by the wearing of the black upon sunny days

Application of ten layers of eyeliner

And when all else fails

A messy bunker of a barricaded bedroom with which to hide from the world in

Someday a butterfly will emerge from that cocoon

But until that day

Just squint your ears really hard

Because it really means "I love you"

Whenever she says "Get the fuck out of my room"