#1
I know that the time may be ripe, but just how the heck do I harvest it?
#2
Is it bad that all of my questions are consulted by using Wikipedia? What are the implications of having so much information at our fingertips? A hundred years ago, with no internet, definitely no Wikipedia, the process of gaining knowledge was harder, more strenuous, and demanded utmost sincerity and determination. There would have been something passionate in the quest for knowledge, something truly inspired. But nowadays, with all of the conveniences of rapid information transfer, where has the passion gone? A question that would have lit a fire under a scientist generations ago, urging him into pursuit through many long, lonely nights in the confines of some dusty library, is answered for us by some quick and efficient search engine, instant gratification stripping knowledge of its weight. Is this progress? Have we truly managed to take away all of the magic from information and research?
#3
And have we gotten to the point where we rely on constant contact with others in order not to feel alone? We're so connected, and not only with other people either. We have plugged ourselves into our aim convos, ipods, cell phones, emails, etc. A second almost doesn't go by without us being around some vehicle of communication. We've created this overwhelming necessity of staying in touch, or else we risk falling hopelessly out of touch, or worse, out of fashion. And has this increase in communication helped us, has it eradicated the globe of pestilent loneliness? I don't think it has. It seems like we've let it cheapen our relationships at times. Even with so much always being said, we've somehow managed to say less things that actually matter.
#4
What becomes of our wasted time? Today, like most lazy, weekend days, I sat around and watched old reruns on TV. How much time did i waste doing this? Let's just say, it was enough time to have studied and understood completely the material in my math test coming up in a week. But the time's instead become squandered on cable television (damn you South Park for being so addictive). Just what happens to that time though? And, recognizing that this wasn't the first time I've been fixated on the "tube", nor the last, just how much of my life is going to be spent like this? Shouldn't we consider our lives, our short sequence of moments on earth, as precious and supremely valuable? So what is the cost for wasting such large portions of it? Should there be some penalty or fine for not getting better use out of something so treasured? Oh wait, it's our own life we're wasting, it's punishment enough when we look back and ask ourselves that simple stinging, powerful question: What if I'd done things differently?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Slippery When Dating Signs along the Road of Life
by Ivan Saldarriaga
“So what are you doing tonight?”
“Um, nothing really.”
“Awesome, wanna go watch a movie or something?”
“Actually, I have to do some family stuff.”
“Doesn’t your family live in Mississippi?”
“Uh…yeah. I have to call them about something. It’s going to take a long time.”
* * *
“So what are you going to get to eat?”
“Oh I’m not hungry.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I had a big lunch.”
“Um…you did know I was taking you out to eat right?”
“Yeah…don’t worry, you go ahead and get something to eat. I’ll get some water or something.”
“Um…alright. Are you sure?”
“Oh yeah, definitely, go ahead and order something. I’ll be fine.”
“Do you just wanna go?”
“Sure…I mean if you want to.”
“Man, I am kinda hungry. I’ll just get some fries or something.”
“Whatever.” Yawn!
* * *
“I had a great time tonight, Emily.”
“Uh…it’s Elizabeth.”
“Oh, right, Elizabeth.”
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
A classroom surprise
by Ivan Saldarriaga
“Jack, how do you think you did on the exam?”
“Dude, I’d rather not even think about that crap right now,” Jack replied. His thoughts were far from the onerous exam he’d taken last week, far from the class he was in now. He could only think of the blonde haired girl two seats in front of him. For weeks now he’d been admiring her from afar, trying to get her attention in small, subtle ways.
“Psst.” His friend Wilmer, sitting behind him, whispered to him, “Hey, did you give her the note? The party’s tonight and-“
“Two days ago, now just shut up, teacher’s about to pass back the exam.” The truth was, he didn’t want to get it back. He felt horribly about it. During the exam, as he jotted down his answers, looked over his work, he only prayed she was going to be lenient with the partial credit. God, he thought, I’m gonna need as much partial credit I can get.
“Hey,” Wilmer tapped his shoulder, “so what time do you think you’ll come over tonight? I was thinking about-“
“Can’t we talk about this later? We’re about to be called out.”
“Sure, sure. So are you going to help me set up? There’s a pretty long list of things I need to get, I could really use your help.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever.”
“Are you going to bring that blonde girl?”
Turning around in order to look at Wilmer squarely, Jack said quietly but hard, “I don’t know, man.”
“Jack!”
Turning around in surprise, he responded, “Yes, ma’am?”
“Would you like your exam, Jack?”
“Uh…yes, ma’am.”
Pausing for a moment, as the teacher and the class noted that he wasn’t going to move, she said, “Well, come and pick it up, Jack.”
“Oh…uh…okay.” He slowly picked his way up his row, stepping over book bags and purses. He could feel the eyes of the class on him, and he started to blush.
On his way back to his seat, he stole a quick glance to the blonde haired girl, and saw that her eyes were searching for his and was discreetly shaking a note in her hand for him. He nonchalantly took it and continued to his seat.
Anxious as to what he was about to find out, he set his exam face down and began to open the girl’s meticulously folded note. His heart, which was beating so excitedly just a few seconds ago, sunk to the floor. He read what the girl had written with pretty frilly letters in purple ink:
I’ve got a boyfriend.
He threw the note back over his shoulder to Wilmer and expecting the worst, turned over his exam. For a moment, he could only gawk with his mouth open at his score. After looking it over again, this too, he threw over to Wilmer.
“A perfect score? What the –“
“Yup,” Jack whispered back with a smile. “It sure is. I’ll be there at six to help out.”
“Jack, how do you think you did on the exam?”
“Dude, I’d rather not even think about that crap right now,” Jack replied. His thoughts were far from the onerous exam he’d taken last week, far from the class he was in now. He could only think of the blonde haired girl two seats in front of him. For weeks now he’d been admiring her from afar, trying to get her attention in small, subtle ways.
“Psst.” His friend Wilmer, sitting behind him, whispered to him, “Hey, did you give her the note? The party’s tonight and-“
“Two days ago, now just shut up, teacher’s about to pass back the exam.” The truth was, he didn’t want to get it back. He felt horribly about it. During the exam, as he jotted down his answers, looked over his work, he only prayed she was going to be lenient with the partial credit. God, he thought, I’m gonna need as much partial credit I can get.
“Hey,” Wilmer tapped his shoulder, “so what time do you think you’ll come over tonight? I was thinking about-“
“Can’t we talk about this later? We’re about to be called out.”
“Sure, sure. So are you going to help me set up? There’s a pretty long list of things I need to get, I could really use your help.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever.”
“Are you going to bring that blonde girl?”
Turning around in order to look at Wilmer squarely, Jack said quietly but hard, “I don’t know, man.”
“Jack!”
Turning around in surprise, he responded, “Yes, ma’am?”
“Would you like your exam, Jack?”
“Uh…yes, ma’am.”
Pausing for a moment, as the teacher and the class noted that he wasn’t going to move, she said, “Well, come and pick it up, Jack.”
“Oh…uh…okay.” He slowly picked his way up his row, stepping over book bags and purses. He could feel the eyes of the class on him, and he started to blush.
On his way back to his seat, he stole a quick glance to the blonde haired girl, and saw that her eyes were searching for his and was discreetly shaking a note in her hand for him. He nonchalantly took it and continued to his seat.
Anxious as to what he was about to find out, he set his exam face down and began to open the girl’s meticulously folded note. His heart, which was beating so excitedly just a few seconds ago, sunk to the floor. He read what the girl had written with pretty frilly letters in purple ink:
I’ve got a boyfriend.
He threw the note back over his shoulder to Wilmer and expecting the worst, turned over his exam. For a moment, he could only gawk with his mouth open at his score. After looking it over again, this too, he threw over to Wilmer.
“A perfect score? What the –“
“Yup,” Jack whispered back with a smile. “It sure is. I’ll be there at six to help out.”
Oh Chekhov, you Poetic Doctor
"I was six when I saw that everything was God, and my hair stood up, and all that... It was Sunday, I remember. My sister was only a very tiny child then, and she was driking her milk, and all of sudden I saw that she was god and the milk was god. I mean, all she was doing was pouring God into God, if you know what I mean."
-Teddy, Nine Stories
"I long to embrace, to include in my own short life, all that is accessible to man. I long to speak, to read, to wield a hammer in a great factory, to keep watch at sea, to plow. i want to be walking along the Nevsky Prospect, or in the open fields, or on the ocean-wherever my imagination ranges."
-Anton Chekhov
-Teddy, Nine Stories
"I long to embrace, to include in my own short life, all that is accessible to man. I long to speak, to read, to wield a hammer in a great factory, to keep watch at sea, to plow. i want to be walking along the Nevsky Prospect, or in the open fields, or on the ocean-wherever my imagination ranges."
-Anton Chekhov
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Selected Quotes
Man stands in his own shadow and wonders why it’s dark.
-Zen Proverb
What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.-Holden Caulfield, Catcher in the Rye
Monday, September 10, 2007
Smokin' Gun
by Ivan Saldarriaga
"okay, Paul, is everything ready? It's almost time."
"Yeah."
"Is that the only word you know? It's always, 'yeah this,' or 'yeah that.' I swear, Paul, if you fuck up this interview, I'll make sure you're not allowed near a camera for as long as you live. The station's had to pull a few strings to get these pricks to talk. And on top of that, they think this is all in promotion to their new "keeps kids of guns" campaign. those firearm wigs are so full of shit."
"Yeah," Paul replies, barely listening to Sharon, the veteran, yet still strapping, reporter for the local news station as he methodically prepares the cameras for the upcoming interview. He'd been working with Sharon for three years now, and never in that time had he ruined one of her sketches or high profile interviews, as sparse as those were. Yet, she always reiterated her threats and curses. he shrugged it off as nerves on her part, and rarely paid her much attention. As Paul tinkered with the hardware and wires strewn in the vacant hotel room, Sharon, seated in the chair she would be conducting her interview in a few moments, rehearsed her quetions and comments.
A knock at the door took their attention away from what they were doing and focused on the door.
"Everything, ready, Paul?"
"Yeah."
"Damn it, Paul," said Sharon as she went towards the door.
"Mr. Berringer, glad you've agreed to this interview," she greeted the firearm business executive as he stepped in. Dressed in his sharp, pressed suit and with his confident swagger, he exuded the look of someone with a clean conscience.
"No problem, no problem, how long is going to be?" he asked, looking at his intricate silver wristwatch. "HOpefully not more than half an hour. I've got some other appointments I have to attend to, you know."
"Of course, we wouldn't want to keep you from your work," sharon said, giving Beringer an obsequious grin. "Just have a seat there, and we'll begin immediately. Your intern was able to come along, also, I hope."
"Who?" Berringer asked, momentarily giving her a confused, quizzical look. "Oh, oh, yes, the intern from our company. Why yes, he was told to wait in the hall. Thought it was odd you only wanted to interview us one at a time, but... I suppose you have your reasons."
"Great, let's begin, shall we?"
"Ready when you are."
"Alright, well, Your firearm company has made great initiatives towards keeping children away from guns, could you elaborate for our viewers what are some of the ideas that are being developed?"
"We feel, as our moral and social responsiblity, that we should play a direct part in keeping children away from guns. Our five step platform includes, but isn't limited to, addressing this issue through television commercials, billboards, and other mediums; classroom discussions and lectures; in store gun control propaganda; and parents conferences and lectures, to help them understand the power they have in influencing their children. All in all, our mission is to provide responsible adult consumers firearm products, but we feel that we want to play a key role in our community as well, and that includes making sure kids stay away from them."
"Great, It's not common to see such a global and commercial corporation take such initiative for the benefit of their community. beyond helping children what are some other ways you expect to make an impact in society?"
behind the cameras, paul began to drift away from the fielded questions and answers, replies and comments that felt rehearsed to point that it seemed like both were readin off of a teleprompter cards He almost felt like he was watching a chess match, a game he's never quite understood or enjoyed. Standing back, he could almost feel a tangible ebb and flow of responses, some on the offensive, others defensive; but each clearly striving for the advantage. And just like a chess match, his focus didn't stay with it for long, he mechanically operated the cameras, letting his hands do what they knew how to do, as he let his thoughts float away, far off from the banter between the polished reporter and the sharp board member.
* * *
"Well thanks for the interview." Sharon said with a strained smile.
"Of course," Berringer replied, coolly smiling back, understanding full well that the interview hadn't gone as the reporter had hoped for. He stood up and said, "I'll be sure to tell the intern to come right in," and he shut the door behind him.
"Damn it, Paul, that went horribly, every question that implicated that worthless piece of shit with the harmful nature of guns, he just threw it right back at me. this is awful....are you even listening to me, Paul?"
"Yeah."
Sharon sighed heavily and put her head in her hands, "Damn."
A soft knock at the door made Sharon lift her self up and look into the mirror near the door. She straighted her hair and her dress, making adjustments so fine they were almost imperceptible.
"Hi there, you must be John Beckers, the intern."
"Uh.. yeah," John replied, limply sticking out his hand.
"Great, let's get this interview started," she said, shaking his hand, ignoring his moist palms. As they sat down, she began to breathe easier, privvy to how easily she would be able to manipulate her interview wih the intern. This just might turn out the be alright after all, she thought.
"As my first, question," sharon said, giving a miniscule pause as she considered her first question. "How does it feel, as an intern, to work for such a controversial company, whose reputiatoin is repeatedly being called into attention because of the repurcussions that its products have."
"Um.." John breathed in deeply. He was warned that such a quesiton was going to come up, not only warned but also schooled how to route out of such a thorny question. However, he wasn't ready for it so soon, expecting more of a warm up question like "What kinds of responsiblities do they have interns involved in" or some ice breaker crap like that. He tried to steady himself, going through the response they drilled into him for this particular quesiton. But what if he answered differently. Answered with what is true within him. He began to sense Sharon getting unsettled by his silence, even Paul began to get roused into attention by the brooding tension. What answer should I give?
* * *
John's hand emphatically slapped the snooze button on his ringing alarm clock. It's always caused him wonder how much he could just hate an inanimate object, especially one that was just doing his own beckoning. He gave out a frustrated sigh as he threw back the covers and put his feet on the carpetted floor. he clumsily stumbled around his small room, preparing himself for his morning run. John was attended the local university in the city, performing well in most of his classes. There was always a sense that he, if anyone, would be able to succeed in his endeavors. Between him and his peers, he had always expressed an aura of being in control, an understanding of his circumstances and how to make the best of them. That's why the news of him working for a gun company over the summer was greeted with so much surprise by those who knew him. Of course, if you were to ask him, why he chose thecompany for a summer internship, he'd be hard pressed to find a truthful response. He'd actually developed a joke of why he chose to work there. It'd go something like:
"Oh well, I initially confused the company with a technology company. So after I'd been given one of their token free pens and tote bag, and had made a good enough impression, I was given a chance at an interview. Now, tt wasn't until the interview, when they asked me how would I feel working for a company that made guns that I realized that this was no ordinary technology company we were talking about here."
The response usually resulted in a casual laughter or a shake of the head, realizing another one of John's many classic comical blunders. But never, after giving this response, had he had to elaborate how it felt to work for just such a company. Which was perfectly fine for him, that was actually the way he wanted it.
As he lethargically laced up his running shoes, fighting the strong temptation to crawl back into his warm, beckoning bed, his thoughts went back to the interview he had yesterday. He had decided not to see the interview broadcasted on the local news last evening, he didn't even go back to work afterwards. His mind fell prey to Sharon's first question. It wasn't, as the news station had assured them, a quick, nonchalant interview discussing several of the company's new surging issues. instead, the ordeal had become a slaughterfest, where there was only on particular victim: John. he winces at the memory of her first question while he steps outside to begin his run.
Just what kind of question was that anyways? He felt defenseless, deshrouded to the point of vulnerability. His generic response, amicably reserved for anyone asking him why he chose that internship, was useless. It was a question, once posed by the austere formality of theinterviewer, which riled within him a deep analysis of his intentions. He could dodge the truth when he turned his decisions into an ironical situation for his friends' sake. But once the the person asking was himself, how could he hide from the truth?
Deep in his thoughts, his run took a measured and comfortable pace. Weaving through the quiet, morning, occassionaly waving a quick hello to a fellow morning runner, a small gesture of comradery for sharing the burden of shirking off sleep for their common physical task. As he turned onto his favorite portion of the run, a long, straight street featuring monuments of famous war generals, his thoughts delved deeper into his true intentions for choosing his summer job.
Could it be as simple as the fact that it was close to home? But even this prospect held no water. Wasn't he trying to apply for that internship on the west coast, five thousand miles away? the idea of living so far had acutally been enticing and exciting. He resented the fact that he didn't get it. So please, he argued with himself, take that story to someone else, someone not me.
Was it for the experience, something the gun company prided themselves in gving their interns? But where did the experience go? Where was the promised application of what I've learned in those hard courses of college? Surely my entire collegiate career as of yet, a total of five damn long semesters, didn't sum up to my annoyingly petty jobs, like my paper filing or spreadsheets I had to put together. And yet, this was all I've gotten out of the summer so far, does that mean that's what this experience has summed up to? An entire summer; three months; thirteen weeks; and what do I have to show for it as far as experience? But i should be fair, he thought to himself, was there ever that much more to expect out of a summer job in college? Would it had been any different anywhere else? Chances are: not much.
Was it as simple as a money issue? the shere idea of this being true cause him to hiccup in his stride for a second. The hiccup brought the reality of the run painfully clear to his legs. He gritted his teeth as he worked on the final stretch, fighting through the tightness and soreness spreading across his body. He'd evaded the pain of the run through most of the morning by being in such deep thought, but every run, every single run he's ever been on, has made sure he's paid his due in the only currency it accepted: pain. his pace slackened as his thoughts returned to his internship. he couldn't, didn't want to, come to grips with the reality that the only clear reason remaining for why he chose his summer job was the money. I could've worked at other places, couldn't I have?
But, he realized, it wasn't the money, in the end, that made the decision for him. It was simply a combination of factors, some his fault, others out of his power, that propelled him to working there. Having applied only at two places, in hindsight, had been a mistake. But his aspirations were set on that job out west, his hopes and desires hadn't even considered, not even for one serious moment, that he would be working in a firearm company. Through the spring semester, confident of his application for the west coast job, he caught himself day dreaming of the pacific ocean sunsets, the thrilling downtown scene, a possibly celebrity sighting in Los Angeles. It was only afterwards, only after he recieved his rejection letter, a letter that completely caught him by surprise-he was, afterall, told repeatedly that he was just the perfect candidate-that he desperately had to look at his only other option. At whcih point, it was too late, for him at least. He lacked the ambition to apply to more places; the hunger he so often sees in his peers to succeed just didn't gnaw inside of him. So he submitted to the idea of working for the gun company without much of a fight, with barely a quibble.
So you see, he told himself, it wasn't my fault that I am working here. I shouldn't feel guilt or remourse. I shouldn't, he thought. If our lives are forcefully grasped by fate, taken and spun around until we don't know where we are standing anymore, then it can't be our fault of where we land, can it? Then again, he thought, maybe there was something i could've done. Actually, maybe there was EVERYTHING to be done in order not to work there. I can't wash my hands of it, I can't runaway from my own decisions, the life I lead is, in the end, only the life I pursue.
Once he eased to a stop in front of his apartment complex, completing his morning loop around the slumbering city, he leaned forward and perched himself on his knees. Already, he could sense the city rousing itself up like a slow blossoming flower greeting the morning sun; there were people getting into their cars, getting ready for the early morning shift at work; there was the bus that passed by his place, already beginning to get crowded with folks heading downtown, and his neighbor's dog now stood behind the fence, wagging his tail, fresh and eager to play.
"Sorry buddy, but I don't have time to play today," John said, speaking to the dog like an old friend. "Got no time, gotta go to work today," standing up straight and heading towards his apartment, "and let them know that I'm not coming back."
* * *
"So how does it feel to work for a corporation that is responsible for the deaths of thousands of people?"
"Um..." John uttered, giving a long pause. Sharon thought he was breaking up, just folding under the question. Maybe she had overstepped herself a bit, maybe the question had been too direct to start with. She was about to offer the kid another question, try to rope him back into the interview, when he began to speak again.
"The truth is, I'm am not the qualified representative of the company that you should be asking that question to. I am sure if you contact the company's representatives, they will provide prompt and honest feedback to those types of questions."
sharon, fully expecting the intern to melt in front of the camera, quickly turned and gave Paul a glance. After seeing that Paul wasn't returning her surprise, in fact, it seemed to her that the interview was barely registering with him at all. Just how he managed to do his job without ever paying attention remained a mystery to her. They must have warned the little prick before hand, and spoon fed him that response. She realized the failure of the interview, something she had so carefully rehearsed and preened, but without giving in to her urges to scream obsenities through the roof, she decided to wrap up her interview. "Great response, John, now let's move on to some lighter topics. Just what were some of your responsiblities as an intern and how do you think this experience compares?"
"okay, Paul, is everything ready? It's almost time."
"Yeah."
"Is that the only word you know? It's always, 'yeah this,' or 'yeah that.' I swear, Paul, if you fuck up this interview, I'll make sure you're not allowed near a camera for as long as you live. The station's had to pull a few strings to get these pricks to talk. And on top of that, they think this is all in promotion to their new "keeps kids of guns" campaign. those firearm wigs are so full of shit."
"Yeah," Paul replies, barely listening to Sharon, the veteran, yet still strapping, reporter for the local news station as he methodically prepares the cameras for the upcoming interview. He'd been working with Sharon for three years now, and never in that time had he ruined one of her sketches or high profile interviews, as sparse as those were. Yet, she always reiterated her threats and curses. he shrugged it off as nerves on her part, and rarely paid her much attention. As Paul tinkered with the hardware and wires strewn in the vacant hotel room, Sharon, seated in the chair she would be conducting her interview in a few moments, rehearsed her quetions and comments.
A knock at the door took their attention away from what they were doing and focused on the door.
"Everything, ready, Paul?"
"Yeah."
"Damn it, Paul," said Sharon as she went towards the door.
"Mr. Berringer, glad you've agreed to this interview," she greeted the firearm business executive as he stepped in. Dressed in his sharp, pressed suit and with his confident swagger, he exuded the look of someone with a clean conscience.
"No problem, no problem, how long is going to be?" he asked, looking at his intricate silver wristwatch. "HOpefully not more than half an hour. I've got some other appointments I have to attend to, you know."
"Of course, we wouldn't want to keep you from your work," sharon said, giving Beringer an obsequious grin. "Just have a seat there, and we'll begin immediately. Your intern was able to come along, also, I hope."
"Who?" Berringer asked, momentarily giving her a confused, quizzical look. "Oh, oh, yes, the intern from our company. Why yes, he was told to wait in the hall. Thought it was odd you only wanted to interview us one at a time, but... I suppose you have your reasons."
"Great, let's begin, shall we?"
"Ready when you are."
"Alright, well, Your firearm company has made great initiatives towards keeping children away from guns, could you elaborate for our viewers what are some of the ideas that are being developed?"
"We feel, as our moral and social responsiblity, that we should play a direct part in keeping children away from guns. Our five step platform includes, but isn't limited to, addressing this issue through television commercials, billboards, and other mediums; classroom discussions and lectures; in store gun control propaganda; and parents conferences and lectures, to help them understand the power they have in influencing their children. All in all, our mission is to provide responsible adult consumers firearm products, but we feel that we want to play a key role in our community as well, and that includes making sure kids stay away from them."
"Great, It's not common to see such a global and commercial corporation take such initiative for the benefit of their community. beyond helping children what are some other ways you expect to make an impact in society?"
behind the cameras, paul began to drift away from the fielded questions and answers, replies and comments that felt rehearsed to point that it seemed like both were readin off of a teleprompter cards He almost felt like he was watching a chess match, a game he's never quite understood or enjoyed. Standing back, he could almost feel a tangible ebb and flow of responses, some on the offensive, others defensive; but each clearly striving for the advantage. And just like a chess match, his focus didn't stay with it for long, he mechanically operated the cameras, letting his hands do what they knew how to do, as he let his thoughts float away, far off from the banter between the polished reporter and the sharp board member.
* * *
"Well thanks for the interview." Sharon said with a strained smile.
"Of course," Berringer replied, coolly smiling back, understanding full well that the interview hadn't gone as the reporter had hoped for. He stood up and said, "I'll be sure to tell the intern to come right in," and he shut the door behind him.
"Damn it, Paul, that went horribly, every question that implicated that worthless piece of shit with the harmful nature of guns, he just threw it right back at me. this is awful....are you even listening to me, Paul?"
"Yeah."
Sharon sighed heavily and put her head in her hands, "Damn."
A soft knock at the door made Sharon lift her self up and look into the mirror near the door. She straighted her hair and her dress, making adjustments so fine they were almost imperceptible.
"Hi there, you must be John Beckers, the intern."
"Uh.. yeah," John replied, limply sticking out his hand.
"Great, let's get this interview started," she said, shaking his hand, ignoring his moist palms. As they sat down, she began to breathe easier, privvy to how easily she would be able to manipulate her interview wih the intern. This just might turn out the be alright after all, she thought.
"As my first, question," sharon said, giving a miniscule pause as she considered her first question. "How does it feel, as an intern, to work for such a controversial company, whose reputiatoin is repeatedly being called into attention because of the repurcussions that its products have."
"Um.." John breathed in deeply. He was warned that such a quesiton was going to come up, not only warned but also schooled how to route out of such a thorny question. However, he wasn't ready for it so soon, expecting more of a warm up question like "What kinds of responsiblities do they have interns involved in" or some ice breaker crap like that. He tried to steady himself, going through the response they drilled into him for this particular quesiton. But what if he answered differently. Answered with what is true within him. He began to sense Sharon getting unsettled by his silence, even Paul began to get roused into attention by the brooding tension. What answer should I give?
* * *
John's hand emphatically slapped the snooze button on his ringing alarm clock. It's always caused him wonder how much he could just hate an inanimate object, especially one that was just doing his own beckoning. He gave out a frustrated sigh as he threw back the covers and put his feet on the carpetted floor. he clumsily stumbled around his small room, preparing himself for his morning run. John was attended the local university in the city, performing well in most of his classes. There was always a sense that he, if anyone, would be able to succeed in his endeavors. Between him and his peers, he had always expressed an aura of being in control, an understanding of his circumstances and how to make the best of them. That's why the news of him working for a gun company over the summer was greeted with so much surprise by those who knew him. Of course, if you were to ask him, why he chose thecompany for a summer internship, he'd be hard pressed to find a truthful response. He'd actually developed a joke of why he chose to work there. It'd go something like:
"Oh well, I initially confused the company with a technology company. So after I'd been given one of their token free pens and tote bag, and had made a good enough impression, I was given a chance at an interview. Now, tt wasn't until the interview, when they asked me how would I feel working for a company that made guns that I realized that this was no ordinary technology company we were talking about here."
The response usually resulted in a casual laughter or a shake of the head, realizing another one of John's many classic comical blunders. But never, after giving this response, had he had to elaborate how it felt to work for just such a company. Which was perfectly fine for him, that was actually the way he wanted it.
As he lethargically laced up his running shoes, fighting the strong temptation to crawl back into his warm, beckoning bed, his thoughts went back to the interview he had yesterday. He had decided not to see the interview broadcasted on the local news last evening, he didn't even go back to work afterwards. His mind fell prey to Sharon's first question. It wasn't, as the news station had assured them, a quick, nonchalant interview discussing several of the company's new surging issues. instead, the ordeal had become a slaughterfest, where there was only on particular victim: John. he winces at the memory of her first question while he steps outside to begin his run.
Just what kind of question was that anyways? He felt defenseless, deshrouded to the point of vulnerability. His generic response, amicably reserved for anyone asking him why he chose that internship, was useless. It was a question, once posed by the austere formality of theinterviewer, which riled within him a deep analysis of his intentions. He could dodge the truth when he turned his decisions into an ironical situation for his friends' sake. But once the the person asking was himself, how could he hide from the truth?
Deep in his thoughts, his run took a measured and comfortable pace. Weaving through the quiet, morning, occassionaly waving a quick hello to a fellow morning runner, a small gesture of comradery for sharing the burden of shirking off sleep for their common physical task. As he turned onto his favorite portion of the run, a long, straight street featuring monuments of famous war generals, his thoughts delved deeper into his true intentions for choosing his summer job.
Could it be as simple as the fact that it was close to home? But even this prospect held no water. Wasn't he trying to apply for that internship on the west coast, five thousand miles away? the idea of living so far had acutally been enticing and exciting. He resented the fact that he didn't get it. So please, he argued with himself, take that story to someone else, someone not me.
Was it for the experience, something the gun company prided themselves in gving their interns? But where did the experience go? Where was the promised application of what I've learned in those hard courses of college? Surely my entire collegiate career as of yet, a total of five damn long semesters, didn't sum up to my annoyingly petty jobs, like my paper filing or spreadsheets I had to put together. And yet, this was all I've gotten out of the summer so far, does that mean that's what this experience has summed up to? An entire summer; three months; thirteen weeks; and what do I have to show for it as far as experience? But i should be fair, he thought to himself, was there ever that much more to expect out of a summer job in college? Would it had been any different anywhere else? Chances are: not much.
Was it as simple as a money issue? the shere idea of this being true cause him to hiccup in his stride for a second. The hiccup brought the reality of the run painfully clear to his legs. He gritted his teeth as he worked on the final stretch, fighting through the tightness and soreness spreading across his body. He'd evaded the pain of the run through most of the morning by being in such deep thought, but every run, every single run he's ever been on, has made sure he's paid his due in the only currency it accepted: pain. his pace slackened as his thoughts returned to his internship. he couldn't, didn't want to, come to grips with the reality that the only clear reason remaining for why he chose his summer job was the money. I could've worked at other places, couldn't I have?
But, he realized, it wasn't the money, in the end, that made the decision for him. It was simply a combination of factors, some his fault, others out of his power, that propelled him to working there. Having applied only at two places, in hindsight, had been a mistake. But his aspirations were set on that job out west, his hopes and desires hadn't even considered, not even for one serious moment, that he would be working in a firearm company. Through the spring semester, confident of his application for the west coast job, he caught himself day dreaming of the pacific ocean sunsets, the thrilling downtown scene, a possibly celebrity sighting in Los Angeles. It was only afterwards, only after he recieved his rejection letter, a letter that completely caught him by surprise-he was, afterall, told repeatedly that he was just the perfect candidate-that he desperately had to look at his only other option. At whcih point, it was too late, for him at least. He lacked the ambition to apply to more places; the hunger he so often sees in his peers to succeed just didn't gnaw inside of him. So he submitted to the idea of working for the gun company without much of a fight, with barely a quibble.
So you see, he told himself, it wasn't my fault that I am working here. I shouldn't feel guilt or remourse. I shouldn't, he thought. If our lives are forcefully grasped by fate, taken and spun around until we don't know where we are standing anymore, then it can't be our fault of where we land, can it? Then again, he thought, maybe there was something i could've done. Actually, maybe there was EVERYTHING to be done in order not to work there. I can't wash my hands of it, I can't runaway from my own decisions, the life I lead is, in the end, only the life I pursue.
Once he eased to a stop in front of his apartment complex, completing his morning loop around the slumbering city, he leaned forward and perched himself on his knees. Already, he could sense the city rousing itself up like a slow blossoming flower greeting the morning sun; there were people getting into their cars, getting ready for the early morning shift at work; there was the bus that passed by his place, already beginning to get crowded with folks heading downtown, and his neighbor's dog now stood behind the fence, wagging his tail, fresh and eager to play.
"Sorry buddy, but I don't have time to play today," John said, speaking to the dog like an old friend. "Got no time, gotta go to work today," standing up straight and heading towards his apartment, "and let them know that I'm not coming back."
* * *
"So how does it feel to work for a corporation that is responsible for the deaths of thousands of people?"
"Um..." John uttered, giving a long pause. Sharon thought he was breaking up, just folding under the question. Maybe she had overstepped herself a bit, maybe the question had been too direct to start with. She was about to offer the kid another question, try to rope him back into the interview, when he began to speak again.
"The truth is, I'm am not the qualified representative of the company that you should be asking that question to. I am sure if you contact the company's representatives, they will provide prompt and honest feedback to those types of questions."
sharon, fully expecting the intern to melt in front of the camera, quickly turned and gave Paul a glance. After seeing that Paul wasn't returning her surprise, in fact, it seemed to her that the interview was barely registering with him at all. Just how he managed to do his job without ever paying attention remained a mystery to her. They must have warned the little prick before hand, and spoon fed him that response. She realized the failure of the interview, something she had so carefully rehearsed and preened, but without giving in to her urges to scream obsenities through the roof, she decided to wrap up her interview. "Great response, John, now let's move on to some lighter topics. Just what were some of your responsiblities as an intern and how do you think this experience compares?"
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