Thought Splitter Firing

Blue tooth technology is a great advancement, especially in making people look stupid or self-important. Eventually, technology will make it possible to talk via stream of consciousness and I have a theory that when that day comes many people will will be able to think of two things simultaneously. That means controlling software while having a conversation or controlling two programs at once, thus greatly increasing productivity. The people who will be able to thought-split will advance, leaving thoughtful people who primarily focus on one thing at a time in the dust. 

I wanted to explore this idea in a  story and since I've fired a few dozen people or more, I thought that may be a good way to frame it.

    Listening to the little twerp was getting old. Stan wanted the little know-it-all, never-worked-for-nothin’ egghead to get to the point.

“You know, Stan, we’ve offered you opportunities: training...reeducation. We can’t force you to catch up to the rest of society if you don’t want to.”

Stan looked at the kid square in that little wireless node on his forehead. Kyle Parsons was 37-years-old, but he was still a kid to Stan. He’d worked for Kyle’s dad until old man Parsons died of a heart attack on the job and the kid was left in charge. That was damn near 10 years ago.

“You know--Mr. Parsons--” Stan paused.  Whenever Stan called Kyle “Mr. Parsons” Kyle always stopped him and told him to drop the “mister,” because he worked for a living.  Usually, they’d laugh at the lie and carry on. This time Kyle--Mr. Parsons, that is--just sat wide-eyed, waiting for Stand to continue.

    “---I, I, I’ve,” Stan stammered, “I’ve wanted to take those courses, but I can’t give up two weeks pay.”
    “You know, Stan. We train everyone we hire now on our THOUGHT READERS program, and we don’t pay for their training.”
    “Yeah, but they all grew up with THOUGHT READERS. I’d be starting from scratch.” Stan knew when the THOUGHT READERS came out it would be the future. Now you can’t even run a god damn forklift without those friggin black bumps attached to your damn forehead.
    “Stan, they may have grown up with it, but they didn’t have access to thought-splitting software. At first most of the new hires don’t get it, but after a week they get it. Now I got a couple guys operating two, even three forklifts at a time. I got a guy in Denver that’s operating every lift in the entire warehouse thorough monitors. He’s got.--”
    Behind Kyle, Stan saw in instant message pop up on his computer screen with the picture of Kyle’s wife next to it.

AP: WHAT’S UP HUN? HOW DID IT GO WITH STAN?

    “--we’re operating much more efficiently with thought splitting. we’ve moved to the next stage of THOUGHT READERS technology. You’re the last person using a manually controlled lift Stan and it’s not really....,” Kyle continued to lecture Stan about modernization and meeting increased demands from China, South America with more automation and less human resources. Stan tuned Kyle out and focused on the computer screen.
    As if it were a stock ticker, letters mechanically appeared next to Kyle’s picture.

KP: WITH HIM NOW. I SHOULD’VE HAD HIS SUPERVISOR DO IT. THIS SUCKS.

    Stan glanced away from from the screen and realized Kyle was talking more to himself than to him. The son of a bitch was though-splitting right now, thought Stan with one single strain of conscience in his out-of-date head.
   
KP: THE SEVERANCE PAY SHOULD HELP SOFTEN THE BLOW.
AP: I DIDN’T KNOW YOU GUYS STILL DID SEVERANCE PAY

    “--Now I want you to understand Stan, I’m cut my trip to Taiwan short for this. We’ve grown a lot in the past few years and against the advice of Walt, I’ve advocated for you to stay on board--”

KP: WE DON’T NORMALLY, BUT STAN’S BEEN HERE FOREVER. I’VE KNOWN HIM SINCE I WAS LIKE 12.
AP: YEAH, BUT COULDN’T YOU GET SUED FOR SPECIAL TREATMENT.
KP: MAYBE. I DON’T KNOW.
AP: HOW MUCH ARE YOU GIVING HIM?
KP: $10,000, MAYBE LESS. IDK. YOU WANT TO GO TO HAWAII NEXT WEEK?
AP: WHAT? REALLY?
KP: SURE.
AP: UMM.....YEAH!
KP: OKAY, THEN I GUESS YOU TALKED ME OUT OF A SEVERANCE. I’LL CUT US A DIVIDEND.
AP: OKAY. LOL.  GOOD LUCK HUN.


    “--you know this was our first warehouse Stan, but it’s our last to modernize and the main reason we’ve kept this facility in the dark ages has been...well frankly Stan, it’s because of you.”
    Whiskey was too goddamn expensive anymore, so Stan’s only luxury anymore was a two dollar cigarette he saved to smoke before heading off to bed. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket and lit it up in Kyle’s office.
    “Stan? What the hell are you doing? Smoking is illegal on commercial property!”
    “Why are you gonna do, Kyle? Fire me?”

Man Auction

I wrote this and the TMI Auctioneer sketch after going to an auction to benefit a volunteer fire department in very rural Stevens County. The firemen are mainly comprised of men ages 50-65 and they seem to eat a lot of pancakes together and play with fire engines until, every once in a while, the shit hits the fan.

We went to this auction around the same time that my wife began experimenting with Mommy Groups before she found a group of mom-friends. I still hope that they do something like this to raise money one day.

Noreen Campbell: Head of a Mommy’s Night Out Club
David Campbell: Noreen’s slightly younger cousin

As lights come up we see Noreen Campbell at a podium with a gavel. Behind her is a handmade banner reading “Mommy’s Night out auction.” On the podium are some papers where she’s keeping notes. The scene begins at the end of an auction held to raise money for a Mommy’s Night out Club.

Noreen Campbell: (applauding) Thank you Kathy for that generous bid. You’ll be able to collect your pies from Plainview Café at 511 N. Market. And let’s have a hand for Plainview Café and all the donors that have made tonight possible (applauds again).

She shuffles through notes.

I don’t want to get you gals too excited but it looks like we’re only $50 dollars away from our target, which we all know what that means. Time to bring back Margarita Monday! Whoa! Knock Knock. Who’s that at the door? Oh it’s my Latino Lover, Jose Quervo. Shhhh don’t tell Hank. (amused with  her own joke) Oh Kay. Well we are at our grand finale of the night. I know a lot of you single moms have been looking forward to this. My cousin who just this much younger than me (makes inch symbol with fingers) who at one point – yes that’s right ladies – was a professional male model has agreed to let us auction off a date with him tonight. Let’s have a round of applause for my cousin, Dave Campbell.

Dave Campell struts in, he is well groomed and wearing fashionable casual attire. He waves and takes his position, standing near the podium awaiting the bidding.

Dave Campbell: Technically I was a trade show attendant, but I did get the job through a modeling agency. That was (beat) quiet some time ago. But I’d still love to do that kind of work.

NC: Unnn huh. Why don’t we just say you were a male model okay David.

DC: Umm. Okay.

NC: Now ladies I know most of you are married so if you’re thinking that your hubby wouldn’t want you bidding on live human man, keep in mind he’s volunteered at least five hours of his time and he is pretty handy around the house.

DC smiles and flexes his muscles

Calm down David. Now for you single moms out there he is available and a pretty good tango dancer.

DC does a little dance

NC: (scolding) Calm down David.

DC: (confused) I’m sorry.

NC: Also ladies David is in impeccable health. He really takes care of himself. David why
don’t you show the ladies, go ahead turn around.

DC begins to turn around.

NC: Slower.

DC follows instructions

NC: Now ladies we are very lucky to have an actual professional male model with us, what do you say we take advantage of it? David take your shirt off.

DC: What?!

NC: Go ahead take off your shirt.

DC: (hesitant) Ummmm Ohh Kay.

DC begins taking his shirt off, NC stops him just before it comes completely off. He is standing in place with his shirt half way up his torso.

NC: Whoa, Whoa, what happened to you? You’re hangin’ over your pants. What happened to you six pack?

DC: I haven’t modeled for almost 7 years Noreen.

NC: Be that as it may I do have some good news for all you single moms.

DC puts shirt back on and tries to maintain a happy face.

NC: I have right here a copy of David’s most recent clinical STD test and he is clean as a whistle.

DC: How did you get that-

NC: A few years ago he had Chlamydia but a little penicillin cleared that right up ladies, and I have the documentation to prove it.

DC: (upset) Noreen-

NC: (direct) Dave you are a lot cuter when you don’t talk. Why don’t you turn around one more time (he follows directions) Now stop

DC stops with back facing the audience

NC: Now if you could David just bend over for us.

DC: (Irritated) Noreen this is getting a little degrading.

NC: David do I need to remind you why you’re here?
Against his will DC follow directions

NC: Since I’m David’s cousin it would be unnatural for me to “test” the merchandise. Can I get one of you ladies to show how smackable this tushy is? Come on ladies this bottom isn’t going pinch itself.

DC: Noreen!

NC: David!

Long glare. Noreen gets a female audience member.

NC: Now what is your name? (gets name of audience member) Hi dear, I’m Noreen. Our group is so just getting so big I have so many of you to meet. Now feel free to smack, tickle, prod or poke the “merchandise.”

During the testing DC tries to be a good sport but cannot hide his distain for the situation.

NC: Thanks you, let’s give her a round of applause. (claps) Alright, let’s start the bidding at 15 dollars. Do I have 15 dollars
The bidding part of the auction will be improvised.

NC: Wow. Way to go everyone! That’s everything. If you bought something make sure to pay Jeana before you go home. Let’s have another round of applause for all the donors who made tonight possible and remember to RSVP on the forum for the book club night. We still need someone to bring chips and another person to bring Daiquiri mix. Don’t worry though we have plenty of Rum thanks to Jeana. Thanks again ladies.
Lights out.

Bar of Soap Diary

I wonder what it thought when I took a picture of it

I wrote this for a Facebook Fictionade contest based on a picture I took of soap. It really corresponds with my belief that aging men are so, so gross. 

BAR OF SOAP DIARY

SUNDAY, EARLY
Not sure what time it is, but it’s ungodly early.  First, a burst of light,  then Carl shoved me against his anus. Again. Another rude awakening.

I don’t care how good of shape a man is in or how many early morning runs he goes on, something happens when men turn 40. Everything is disgusting and they don’t care. And it’s as if he’s completely thrown caution to the wind. Doesn’t anyone in this house give a hoot about cross contamination?

SUNDAY, MORNING
Every day, like clockwork. There’s Judy--leggy, elegant, motherly--waltzing in, humming to herself,  absentmindedly undressing while the water warms, steam still drifting off the cup of coffee she’ll ignore. How Carl landed such a catch, I can’t imagine. If only she knew what he did in here...

SUNDAY NIGHT
Bathnight. It used to bother me when Judy would wash the kids with the liquid “gentle” soap. What? Am I not good enough? Doesn’t she realize I’m anti-bacterial too? I guess, like anything else, I got used to it and came to understand that the less I was used then the longer I’d be around to wash up Judy. Bar of Soap DiaryWash away the build up of scum and filth that she constantly seems to accumulate.

Bar of Soap Diary

Smelly Requiem

I grew up out in the woods so I’m no stranger to running across dead animals and having to get rid of them. Now I live in a town with neighbors so I can’t just toss half a deer carcass  or cat torso into the woods for the coyotes. For whatever reason, every spring little, animals appear dead in our back lawn--either because they were old, not prepared for winter, discarded babies, or (as the case with rabbits) killed by the father to minimize sexual competition. Those experiences certainly informed this very short, very ridiculous piece.


Pete scratched at the loose soil with a fallen stick from a Ponderosa pine. Company was on their way and his wife needed  him to dispose of a dead baby robin. Too lazy to get a shovel, Pete scratched primitively at the ground then rolled the flaccid body of the bird over once, then twice.

With a poke he stuffed the tiny soft corpse into its shallow grave. Force from the stick pushed gas out of the bowels as toothpick-legs clumsily crisscrossed. A tiny tuft of air whistled from the creature. One last little baby bird fart.

Squatter King

           I wrote this piece for a www.fiction500.com contest and did not win or place. The prompt was a picture of a dilapidated house. I wrote this not long after going to NYC for the first time where I did and saw a lot of fun things, but so much of it was overshadowed by a homeless guy I saw eating out of the garbage can at The Met, critiquing the food as he ate.

Write something about California Lunch Room. Now..Go! Now...Lose a contest.

The boom of a wooden slam announced Carl as he barged back in with a grease-stained paper sack under his arm. A few mice scurried out from the pile of blankets and sleeping bags on the floor as he walked by—a few of the brave ones watched with black beady eyes.  

           In the kitchen Sandy woke from her trance watching the shadows of clouds move along the rust-stain sink. She stopped picking at a scar on her chin and looked up at Carl, hungry.
           “Whaddjah find?” she asked in a crackling hag voice too old for her 32 years. Behind her in green, dripping spray-painted letters next to a crudely drawn crown a message read: NO MORE FOOD IN THE LUNCH ROOM.  When they’d moved in three weeks ago they were high and happy and Carl convinced his wife the abandoned old store was safe. She painted a crown and called him a squatter king when Carl stood under it. They laughed hard and violent when it happened.
           “Burgers,” Carl answered.
           “From where?” Sandy attacked the bag. Pulling out one of the burgers, her hand was covered in ants.
           “In the dumpster behind Burger Shack.”
           “There on First Street?” Sandy confirmed, shaking most of the tiny, squirming dots off of her hand.
           Carl nodded. He peeled the thin paper of his hamburger off and dropped it on the wooden floor. The first bite squished in his mouth like cold leftover Thanksgiving stuffing.
           “Oh Jesus!” Sandy yelled, disgusted.
          “Wha’s wro?” Carl asked with a full mouth. He breathed loudly from his nose.
           “It’s got pickles.” She spit out her half chewed bite onto the floor. “Yours have pickles?”
           Carl pulled the wet bun up and shook his head. They traded. As they swapped, an ant quickly ran up Sandy’s hand from her new burger. She blew it off, sending the ant flying to the floor with a delicate bounce.

In the remaining shards of the broken window on the back door, Carl saw the reflection of a cop car pull up on the overgrown front lawn. A lumbering figure pulled himself out and walked the saunder of a man with a full gut. Tired, Carl closed his eyes, the breaths from his nose now whistling and he did his best to savor the sticky, salty mush in his mouth. A final taste of freedom.

“How that one?” he asked Sandy.

           “Better.  I cain’t stan’ pickles.”
           “I know.”
          Knock. Knock.