Deborah 8

Chad starts cheerfully, "I read all six of your sci fi selections; good choices."
"Thank you, been a fan long?"
"Ages, see in the CFL (Canadian Football League), it's not like the Americans, more of a cottage industry. Everyone has day jobs, most pay more than football."
"I'm not a sports fan, but that much I know."
"To make a long story short, my wife claims I'm driving her nuts since leaving football. Decided to write a sci fi book. Could you spare a few minutes to talk?"
"Oh yes."
"I like to be practical, so where is the market demand, which sub-genre?"
"Chad, right now it's alternate history or universe. That being said, it's not wise to write for market, fads come and go. Everything has it's turn, reappears in a few years. You still in your day job?"
"Oh yes."
"Then think two years for completed manuscript. The first draft, the most creative part, is really only a third of the overall work. Then unlikely that first publisher accepts; let's say it's the second or third. From the day you start your outline to seeing your book on store shelves, could be five years."
"Ah I see, chasing trends is pointless. What do you suggest?"
"Simply do what you know well and like. Suppose you took a course in French history in university, liked it. Consider a fictional football team driving into a time warp, ending up in your favorite period of French history."
"Which means it rings more true. Is that how you pick em?"
"Yes, there's an unmistakable air that says authentic. I can usually spot a lazy or inept researcher by page three."
"Any other suggestions?"
"In some way, make Americans part of your story, say import football players. If there is no American content, it simply flops in the USA."
"Thank you so much. Which word processing program do you feel is best and why?"
Col Anderson phones, "what I have to say is for officers and Sgt's only. Are you ok to talk now?"
"Go ahead ma'am."
"There are two tours up for grabs. The Americans lease that big air base near Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. Once again, they're short of perimeter security. The British Army is one battalion short for XMG (Crossmaglen, Ulster). Each tour is a year. I am ordered to get a vote of officers and Sgt's. No guarantee we get either, others are voting too. Only guarantee, if we're unhappy, we have right of refusal. Like to take time to think, call me back?"
"No ma'am, I've decided, XMG."
"May I ask why?"
"Most of our contingent has never experienced the rigors of Saskatchewan climate, ma'am, from +40 to -40. Low class job like that, you can forget any discipline or professionalism. But knowing Paddy is watching, that makes people perform. Then money, to my knowledge my entire platoon has debts of some sort, car or student loan. The Saskatchewan job gives an allowance sufficient to buy a pack of cigs; Ulster gives overseas tour bonus, red zone category."
She laughs, "let you know if and when there is news. As an aside, your response is the unanimous verdict so far."
It is the grimmest meeting I've seen: myself, Murray and the four novella selectors.
Murray starts uneasily, "as you know, we are discontinuing the sci fi experiment. Simply did not meet financial projections. As for romance, I have obtained Deborah's agreement to select S&M and historical. Now the other four romances, yes I hear you, it is a waste of time to have four of you trekking the same slush pile. Since we have no volunteers, only fair way is to draw."
Tension is electric as his hand reaches for the box.
Goofy smile, "Deborah is now handling the romance novella line."
I groooan inwardly, but what can you do?

(So ends Part One; the blog could be inactive for several months as Part Two is prepared.)

Deborah 7

Joel's boss invites me for coffee. After some chat about publishing in general, he offers me a job.
"Preposterous," I reply, "Joel would kill me. I suppose he told you all about the 'theft."
"He's too hot headed for his own good. After, he realized you'd covered for him. Even knew Murray had been a good sort, covering salary."
"But then I'm straight, and that's not likely to change."
"Matters not, takes talent to spot authenticity that well. And S&M is the same, straight or gay. I'm guessing you've indulged yourself."
I blush.
"There are fringe benefits you know. Lotsa my staff just love a good stiff paddling to rev up the orgy. Couldn't care less the gender of who administers it."
I really hope I'm not drooling too much.
I think for several days, but then realize Murray is family, distantly related and does deliver steady business over time.
The gay lads represent a flash in the pan, fast bucks on the bonus, soon vanishing when other publishers start to copycat.
Murray pours coffee, smiles tentatively, "Deborah, there is a problem in the romance area. We planned one historical novel in that series. None of the girls will touch it with a ten foot pole. History is dreck, they tell me."
"And you view me as your favorite whipping girl?"
"Look, let's make it easy. Now what would really impress the public is to forgo the utter mush and deliver good crisp historical fiction. So, choose the best history, not the best romance. Surely that's doable for you."
Above all other periods, I've always had a liking and intricate knowledge for the era of the late 1900's. And finally, I trip over darn good Cold War portrayal. The illicit romance of a Soviet and an American spy. What detail I don't know myself, I look up, all is accurate.
It proves a mega hit in the USA and my student loan obligingly vanishes.
Murray has a number of policies that contribute to balance overall and staying out of real controversy.
Forget that corporate expose or anti-capitalist rant; many of our best customers happen to wear suits.
Forget religion period, for or against.
As for politics, only thing he considers is biography of past colorful politicians.
Sex, overall our house is well on the prudish side of average.
And sport, he does not touch period, just too fickle.
Thus it comes as a surprise when a caller introduces himself as Chad G, the retired football player.

Deborah 6

Our rules of manuscript submission state a one page summary must be attached. I riffle the slush pile of romance, pick four likely candidates. Three sound airy fairy, unreal, as if the writer had no direct experience or research. The fourth has that stark authenticity that proclaims been there, done that, got the Tshirt.
I don't want Murray to know how fast it went, so for a week and a half I do sci fi work, but pretend to be engrossed in romance.
He's stunned by my selection, grins wickedly, "have to paddle Joel when he gets back, for his negligence."
We both laugh.
With my Reservist background, it's easy to spot good or bad military fiction. Eventually I trip over a civil war, fought on Mars, between rival Earthling colonist factions. Again, what draws me is the clear clarion call proclaiming the author to be a combat vet.
Murray is pleased with both choices and we're ready to roll.
My "romance" selection outsells the sci fi by 8 to 1; but still the sci fi made money. Murray is ecstatic and half my student loan vanishes in the bonus payout.
All is rosy til Joel returns. Joel accuses Murray and especially me of "being backstabbing hypocrites who cherry pick my manuscripts."
Murray is a good sport, points out he covered salary while Joel was away. This only inflames Joel further. A startup gay publishing house had been making overtures to him prior to the vacation and he takes their offer.
Now Murray is desparate. The ads and newspaper stories worked only too well and the readers are eagerly awaiting the rest of our series.
Finally, he says, "I hope you don't feel too insulted by this. Too late to hire a new person. None of the women here really have the talent to handle the romance line. So, each gets to pick her favorite romance. At least we'll have lots of variety, not a hackneyed line."
"Why should I feel insulted?"
"Because I wouldn't let you near that line again with a ten foot pole."
"Why? Afraid the line will look too raunchy if I pick another S&M?"
"That, and I'm afraid I created a demon."
In order to keep this story family suitable, let's just say yes I have had fantasies. And yes when the author and I met, a certain amount of this energy was noticeable. And yes, my arm was sore for awhile. Nuff said.
Stanley's parents call again, demanding if I have any news. As if I'd be rude enough not to tell them!
And once again, I decline to mention Aliens, just say you know how drinkers are.
I've decided there was no abduction. I got Sam to show me the hologram. Exact match to what I saw. Surely the Aliens would be a bit taller/shorter, fatter/leaner, different coloration and use at least slightly different gestures.
Also, none of Stanley's mail has come here since. I don't have authority to view post office records, but I'm positive he gave a change of address.
Sam himself is certain Stanley ran out on me. He apologizes for his part in helping to invent the hologram. His intentions were good, he asserted, merely to play the joke, not to have it misfire like this.

Deborah 5

In order to get a feel for the sci fi world, I'm doing a reading program, on my time. I've chosen two dozen authors, one book randomly selected from each.
And so it is I happen to be at the library checkout when Capt Ahenakew comes up behind me, raises an eyebrow, "didn't know you were a fan."
I shrug, "mysteries are so tiresome. Once I've read one historical fiction from a time and place, that's enough. Not so much a fan as a wanderer."
We go for coffee and she tells me her plan. May as well start with a bang, she asserts, 600 page blockbuster novel. (Good luck on a first time author getting that published.) It's a crew of Aliens, for a sliding scale of fees they will make your husband, wife, business competitor, high school English teacher or anyone else vanish. Fees are based on how important the abductee is, hence how dangerous the job.
I choke back the amusement as I realize that, according to her, I've saved $15,000 by having the job done for free. What a dent that would make on the student loan.
Monday morning Murray is already there when I arrive. That's rare, every day he usually shows mid-morning, but stays in the evening.
I've barely removed my coat when I'm summoned to his office. Grim tired look, "I've had a lousy weekend so I believe in sharing. You're going to have a lousy Monday. Recall Joel dashed off to Cuba on that cheap package deal?"
I nod.
"He's been arrested, gay public display of affection on the beach."
"What a moron! Even untravelled I know better than that."
"I've talked with the Canadian Embassy. Forget any bribery or even any charges. Pure display of power, aimed at discouraging gay tourism. Pattern is they hold em for a couple months, in relative comfort, then simply release, but with the public statement they are a family-oriented place. They're taking mercy on his family, not on him."
I groan.
"I need you to choose one romance novella, to keep the program on track."
"Get real Murray, what in Hades do I know about romance?"
"Come on now, be a good team player."
"Murray I quote a famous publisher, 'your entire life you've been cool and calculating. Marriage to the computer geek has turned that into cold and calculating."
He laughs, "wonder who could have said that? Ok, I buy your argument, yes you'd likely select a lousy romance. So riffle through the manuscripts, find the wildest kinkiest S&M (Sadism and Masochism)."
"Murray I'm disgusted."
"Be as disgusted as you like. Law is, long as we use text only, no pictures, only forbidden item is sex with underagers."
"Murray!"
Easy laugh, "need I remind you, if you select a million seller and not Joel, it's your bonus? I can just see that student loan, vanishing into never never land."
"You silver tongued devil, always get your way."
"Forget plot, forget any real characterization. Pick someone who starts the S&M at page 3 and just doesn't stop."
"You sound entirely too interested. Why don't you do it yourself?"
He blushes, "let's just say I would lack the objectivity you have."
I roar with laughter, then shrug, "ok, I'll do it." After all, I'm not breaking any laws.

Deborah 4

Saturday, 9:00 am, everyone has poured coffee. Col Anderson says quietly, "may as well start," and conversations taper off. She smiles gently, "first item on the agenda of our quarterly meeting, you will recall we agreed to ask Lt Nachtenstein to prepare a historical type speech, something we can trot out and use when our poor long-suffering Reservists get yet another low class assignment."
Everyone laughs.
"You will recall it would use for theme an Ulster tour, done for the Brits. Before we start get into the mindset. This isn't a speech designed for officers, so imagine the reaction of your Sgt as you deliver such. Now, Lt, if you would please."
I rise, "I decided to throw caution to the winds, risk putting y'all to sleep with a little history. I know, moan and groan. But often it helps to take a brief look at where we've been. Let's go back two centuries, Machine Age, Industrial Age, Pre-Electronic Age. In those days, a tank or artillery piece was working class design, sturdy and simple. Rapidly you could train a farm boy or skilled factory operator to effectively use and repair it. Cheap too, most western nations could easily afford large standing armies.
"Enter the geeks, the electronic set. More bells and whistles, price tags soaring. Soon armies had mutated into being small, very expensive per member. The Americans and Brits went for this in a big way. Splashed trillions of dollars. But it had one fatal flaw. Whenever you need bodies, they aren't there.
"Canada, being much smaller and poorer, simply could not play in that league. Air Force disappeared. Navy too, leaving only a Coast Guard. Army lost its tanks, armored vehicles, and even APC's (Armored Personnel Carriers).
"Ok, so we only have jeeps and trucks. But every now and then, we have the prestige of saving our big cousins' butts. Think of things like floods or that big fire in California or aiding the Brits in Ulster. So, we may be poor, but we are not out of the game. Thank you."
Col smiles, "questions will be allowed, but not in officerial tone. Sort of questions your Sgt would ask."
Grin, one asks, "you speaking from experience, or is that all hot air?"
"I have done one tour in Londonderry, a full year, with the Gordon Highlanders."
Another, "pretty wimpy tour, I heard they never fired a shot. IRA forgot to show up."
"Peacekeeping is keeping the peace. If it can be done without a shot, so much the better."
No further questions, Col says, "just a sample, no compulsion to use the idea in whole or part. Take what you wish for yourself and leave the rest. And now, let us move on to grim. Capt Ahenakew, the financial report please."
Mother phones, brother David has returned two days ago from an absence of 8 years in Israel, studying in a yeshiva (religious school). Already he's driving Mum nuts, has the "black hat" (ultraOrthodox or Haredi) attitude to kosher, her kitchen is a battle zone. She suspects he is devoid of job skills, as there were no secular courses.
My first impression is he's ill, deathly pale, obviously inside all the time. Contrasted to me, odd weekend and summer of soldiering and walking a lot.
He knows zip about computers, two-fingers on the keyboard.
His main obstacle though is attitude. He went away smart ass, nitpicky. Years of reading and debating the fine print of Torah has made him more so.
May the Lord have mercy on whomever he marries or works for or with.
Joel and I are curious about Murray's marketing intentions. It is, after all, a different matter to try to sell to people who have never entered a bookstore.
He appears to have it covered well. Both the local Jewish weekly and the local daily have advised Murray it is indeed news, and will publish a story when the time comes.
As well, he has checked out transit advertising, believes it to be best value for our purposes and budget.

Deborah 3

Flamboyant Joel wiggles his behind, fruity tone, "wonder what they want to see us about?"
Drily I reply, "maybe dress code, wish you to be less colorful and me more so."
He roars with fruity laughter, then, "after you, abandon hope all ye who enter in."
Murray, the gray-haired owner and editor-in-chief starts, "I've asked Norman to put together a synopsis on publishing trends."
Norman, his son, quotes a number of sources, stuff we already know. Changings demographics of book buyers. There being no questions, Murray allows him to leave.
With a sad smile, Murray says, "I'm afraid he has the people skills of a gnat. To business, now the logical knee jerk reaction would be to lay you both off. After all, our general fiction area has fallen on harder times. It never works for a number of reasons.
"First, like every other firm we compete for shelf space in the bookstores. The iron law says publish less, you get less space. Doesn't work in reverse. Space once lost, and easily, comes back slowly and hard.
"Second, economies of scale, company wide fixed costs, spread over fewer titles means each title is more costly.
"Third, people, anyone who has enough intelligence and sense of balance to manage in publishing can make more money anywhere else. Let them leave, they soon are seduced by monetary success, simply never return.
"So, we don't publish less titles, simply different items. First, think Harlequin style of romance. All these books are mostly sold to the 40+ crowd, younger people don't have the time. I'm planning a line of six romance novellas a year, everything from tame to wildly sexual, so the line does not become hackneyed over time. Science fiction, market research shows it mostly goes to those 45+. Same logic, a line of six novellas a year for the younger and busier crowd. Now, since we aren't stealing readers from elsewhere, but creating new ones, sky is the limit for this type of opportunity."
Joel and I murmur agreement.
"Now the hard part, Joel, you actually have the sexual energy, hedonism, emotial tack to handle the romance line, even though it'll all be straight romances at the start. It's that or sci fi, do you agree with me?"
"We-ell, only if in the second year, we publish one gay novella. Need I remind you we are 10% of book buyers?"
"I can live with that. If it makes money, we'll try two in Year Three."
"Done."
Murray smiles awkwardly, "and Deborah, your entire life you have been cool and calculating. Marriage to the computer geek has turned that into cold and calculating. You've seen his whole crowd of friends, know the jargon, know what is doable on computer and what isn't. Seen the sort of holograms they'll use as a joke. Now it may not sound flattering to you, but you above all others in the firm have the ability to handle the sci fi line."
"But Murray, I've never been a fan."
"Better yet, means you won't have the sort of prejudice of believing time travel is inherently better than say lost world stories. You'll be perfectly objective, have shown you can spot good stories in general fiction."
What can you say to that? "I consider it an honor to be a pioneer, try out the brand new."
"That's the spirit, got any idea how much purchasing power the younger set has?"
Joel, Murray and I agree on the wording of the notice posted on the website, seeking romance and sci fi novellas of 80 tp 120 pages.
Joel's start is slow, no one is doing that stuff yet. Mine, think blitz in football. Lot of sci fi novellas were prepared for the American magazine market, rejected for whatever reason, often not being sufficiently America-centric. I don't mind, far rather have too many to choose from than not enough.

Deborah 2

I exit the line with a medium double double (Timspeak for two cream and sugar), see Sam alone at a table. He waves, now maybe some news.
With a wicked smile, I assert, "cool joke you dudes pulled."
"Which joke?"
"Holograms of little green men."
He blushes, "not guilty. See we planned that one, were gonna have a mega toot, then called it off."
"Why?"
"Myself, The Man wanted me to start work right away. Izzy, scholarship for a year in Israel, but left already, to get a summer on the beach. Nathan, uncle dragged him along on a business trip to Amsterdam."
"Ah well ah"
"You mean the little green men showed all the same?"
"Ye-es."
He laughs, "that would be that crazy Stanley, used it to get away for a week of boozing."
"Think he'll return."
"Oh sure, unless he gets into some serious bar trouble. You know, that mouth of his, if we aren't along to keep him sane."
I know only one science fiction fan, cousin Noah. I lay out the story, ask him to speculate from a fan's perspective.
"First, any society may have some functions based on randomness, such as lottery or lotto style draft for military or jury duty. So, if it's random then it is unguessable. But assuming these Aliens are rational, or at least believe themselves to be, things must have a logical reason or they don't get done. Now, if they are intelligent enough to traverse trillions of miles of void and find the right apartment, I hardly think they would scoop Stanley for his brainpower. He did graduate in the bottom half of the class."
We both laugh.
"Neither is it too likely they are abducting the supreme specimen of macho manliness. If that were the case, they'd grab Arnold Schwarzenegger VI."
Again we laugh.
"So, what would you guess?"
"Only one idea, Justice system. Let's say in Teheran you insulted Islam or painted swastikas on the Wailing Wall or peed on the Pope's Basilica. Would you not expect a rather drastic response from the authorities?"
"I get your drift. He has perhaps falsely accused them of being kidnappers and they took umbrage. If that's the case, they'll throw the book at him."
Next I attend several Al Anon meetings. (For families; AA is for the drinkers.)
I soon discover what I was doing ineffectively. Cover for a drinker and it makes you an enabler. Means they can do more crazy stuff than if they were all alone. You are not to provoke any consequences, but neither are you to remove any. The principle being, people learn by pain rather quickly in most cases.
I file this information away as useful in the future. By now I have decided, even if Stanley reappears, it won't be in my apartment.

Deborah 1

I'm sitting in the living room, immersed in an article in the local Jewish weekly, someone's account of a year of study and travel in Israel. Very compelling, much better written than most such.
My husband Stanley is again still playing one of those wacky computer games where you shoot Aliens, obvious electronic addiction.
There have been words of late. Since he recently graduated with his Master's, in my view he spends entirely too much time fun surfing and not sufficient on job search.
I know all the sounds well on those games, so a different whirr causes me to look up.
There are six Aliens, little green men, all carrying blasters.
Two face me, but in non-threatening manner, message is stand clear, not your concern.
The other four, pointing blasters at Stanley, lead him out the door, down the stairs to the old clunker he has parked in the apartment building parking lot.
As they drive away, I'm choking with laughter. Of course it's not real; that's his computer geek buddies sending holograms to spirit him away for a party.
A few days or a week later, he'll return with some ridiculous story. After all, Aliens don't exist, right? And it's hardly the first time his buds pulled a practical joke.
As days float by, I just imagine it's a mega-bender to celebrate end of academic year.
The police phone, demanding to know why I didn't report the car as stolen. I politely reply that my husband looks after it, it's often missing for days.
"Well ma'am, it's in a farmer's field, wierd crop circles burned. Whoever parked it didn't walk away, no footprints in the heavy mud. You still there ma'am?"
"Oh yes."
"You have to view the car. I'm guessing you won't want it back, repair would cost more than its book value."
I accompany two officers to the site, then sign a statement giving up the car as Crown evidence, no return expected.
Arriving home, the phone rings. Stanley's former Department Head at the university berates me for not being in touch, "that job he applied for, teaching at the Community College out in Vancouver, came through. They have his cell number and e mail address, not his home number, so they tried calling me."
"Sir, perhaps if you stalled a bit? You know how he is when he drinks, could return an hour from now or a week."
"I'll do my best. But I'd guess if we don't produce his live voice in three days, it'll go to Number Two on their list."
"Sorry Sir, it's hardly like I have any control over him."
"I'm sorry, coming on like a storm trooper. It's just I like Stanley, don't want him to miss out."
Next it's the b**** goddess on the line. Stanley had promised her to take a look at the concluding chapter of her thesis. My guess, that's not all she's looking for. Still, if she's calling asking, means she hasn't seen him either.
But come on, there are no Aliens, got to be some logical explanation.

Table of Contents

Judith - short story length - entered September 15 to 18, 2006
Scandal comes a callin; clings with the tenacity of foot fungus.

Karen - novella length - September 5 to 11, 2006
Hop aboard the "Rusty Grouch", HMCS Restigouche and sail off into the sunset.

For rest of Table of Contents, please scroll down at right and click on "August 2006".

Preview of "Deborah" - hubby is abducted by space Aliens.

Judith 3

There is only one drinking fountain, outside the security door by the elevator. The real reason, Department cheapskateism. The ostensible one, used to deflect criticism, is repair. The building's landlord, Public Works and Government Services Canada is so inept that thing breaks down weekly. So, management does not wish to waste some person's time to endlessly escort PWGSC repairmen on premise. Instead, they waste everyone's time as there is always a line to fill water bottles.
Behind me in line is Abe, one of my former husband's poker and drinking buddies. I try to ignore him, but just as I go to leave with a full bottle, he insists we talk, us standing us aside so other water pourers don't hear.
In best professorial tone Abe starts, "there is one question the court never did address."
"And that is?"
"It was clearly established that the argument was long and heated. Never once did they ask who was right or wrong in it."
Bingo, I know where he is headed, "and you just happen to have evidence the court doesn't. But is it not irrelevent? Right or wrong, he is still dead. Right or wrong, she is still a murderer, unpremeditated."
"But I know for a fact Nathan was right."
"You were there, weren't you?"
Sheepish look, "see in the bar, he and I made a deal with her. Volume discount, full price for the first, half price for second. Then we flipped a coin to see who goes when."
"You are sad, sick, perverted. I oughta report this to the police."
"They would not reopen the case. As you correctly pointed out, who was right or wrong is irrelevent to the outcome."
"And I think the world is unfair. You still have enough cheek to go to synagogue, but I can't."
Shrug, "don't blame me Judaism is sexist. Go ahead, convert to Islam or Christianity, you'll find out they're just as bad."
I turn to leave, but knowing he is right.
We don't have real internet here of course. Again, the real reason is cheapskateism; the ostensible one, our computer system must be kept purer than the driven snow. We can access other Federal Departments, including the CBC.
Like Reinhard, I don't bother with the local paper. You get the same stuff on CBC, for free, on company time, and save the trip to recycle.
What I do subscribe to is the local Jewish weekly. Especially since I no longer attend synagogue, it's my only source.
The usual round of stuff today, someone's bar mitzvah, someone else's year to study in Israel. Then a surprise item. In the matter of the recent murder, this newspaper has made a shocking discovery. That whole circle of pokerfriends had a bet in progress. Winner was the first to get discounts from three separate hookers, as witnessed by a buddy. Too bad overgrown teenagers have to bring disgrace on themselves and on the Jewish community.
In no time, it's picked up by the local and national press. Oy!!
The President of the local Hookers Union (yes they are unionized, I'm writing from the future), announces that henceforth any obvious Jews will be denied hooker services.
A complaint is lodged with the Human Rights Commission. After all, they are a public service, it's like a taxi or restaurant denying service to Jews.
The HRC issues its ruling: $20,000 fine or reversal of policy.
The Union President opts for the high road. She asserts it has been an educational experience, getting e mails from 300,000 people and that she was unaware it was against the law until told.
To show there are no hard feeling, any person producing ID showing them to be Jewish will get a 10% discount for the next month.
At the end of the month, she thanks her loyal Jewish customer base, promises all Jews will now receive airmiles.
The Annual General Meeting of the local of the Hookers Union discusses me. They were impressed by my conduct before and during the trial. The normal reaction is vengenance, publicly issuing statements demanding the charge be first degree murder and so forth. To see a citizen merely stand aside and allow justice to be done is rare.
So, in their wisdom, they vote me an honorary member of their local. Oy vay!!!
How many gallons of ink have been splashed on how many dead trees, even before this? The figure soars into the stratosphere with this latest tidbit of titillation.
There are those who seek out fame or infamy; those it seeks out. What can you do?

Judith 2

I use my swipe card to open the doors to Carnival World, my pet nickname for the place, where nothing is real and nothing is what it seems.
As I walk to my cubicle workstation, again as always I notice faces as I exchange good mornings. In Carnival World, there are two main facial types. Prematurely aged stressed look of those who have not caught on yet and unnaturally young innocent look of those who have.
Two stations away sits Reinhard, definitely one of the latter category. He'll retire at age 55 in a few months, yet looks to be in his late thirties.
He gives me a cheerful good morning yet his eyes never leave his screen. The only news site we get here is Canadian Broadcasting Corporation and he makes the most of it.
Rumor has it he's big in the miniscule neo-Nazi world, a big frog in a small pond. I've long since decided the rumor was started out of spite. Every Jew in the place likes him. Surely, if he were, they'd be picking up vibes.
"So Reinhard," I start tentatively, "been following much of my story in the news?"
"Not your story, your late husband's."
I catch his drift, "ah so it's true then, you really are a Buddhist? Next you'll tell me not to mix my karma with his."
Sheepish look of a little boy caught in the act of soaping windows, then a smile, "good, you just saved a lot of dancing around til I was sure you were ready to hear that comment."
"So Reinhard, let's cut to the chase. Eventually you'd get around to suggesting I send a carton of cigarettes up to the prison?"
He nods.
"And you'd say she's done me a large favor. By killing him, the hooker has attached her fate to his. They'll definitely be meeting in several future lifetimes and likely not pleasantly. Anything else you'd like me to know?"
"Just one thing, do not, under any circumstances, seek any form of revenge. It attaches you to the situation."
"Well then," I laugh, "I'm impressed, you're lots easier to deal with than the no minds in Family Services."
He doesn't laugh, "you have to understand their corporate limitations. An individual there might well understand Buddhist principles, yet is bound by the overall group logic of confining everything to one lifetime, to fit the prevailing prejudices."
I nod, then, "but still, does reincarnation really exist?"
Easy laugh, "I'm afraid my friend, you are a tad too brainwashed by prevailing thought of Reform Judaism. Oh yes, they modernized and westernized and everything else, but try asking a Hasidic Jew."
I ponder, know he's right, know that Hasidics claim we have totally lost any connection to real Judaism. And yes Hasidics believe in reincanation.
Then he delivers the coup de grace, "I"ve yet to meet one Reform Jew who will actually admit to being able to commune with G-d. Yet Hasidics do so and on a daily basis. Perhaps they know something the rest have forgotten."
I smile wanly.
He blushes, "sorry, let's lighten the tone with a Jewish joke, ok?"
"By all means."
"See there was this older lady in New York, utterly insisted on booking a trip to India. Not just anywhere in India, but to some remote ashram. The travel agent did his best to convince her to do a less physically demanding trip, but she insisted. So finally she arrives at the ashram, demands to see the chief guru. The flunkies kept her waiting for hours, just to impress her with how important and busy the guru was. They insisted she's only allowed to say three words and she agrees to this. She is shown into the great man's presence and says, 'come home, Sheldon."
I roar with laughter, that joke had sneaked up on me.
After, I recall reading an article about Jews who are into Buddhism. Jews only constitute 2% of the American population, yet of the non-Asiatics who participate in Buddhism, 30% are Jews at the level of ordinary practitioner. When it comes to leadership, 50% are Jews.
And then I understand why so many Jews around Carnival World seek out Reinhard to talk. He is their uncrowned de facto guru.
Later the howling young bathhouse habituee (also a Jew) stops by Reinhard's station. Talks quietly for a few minutes then goes away looking less freaked out.

Judith 1

Usually the police obtain neither that quantity nor quality of witness testimony. After all, any sane witness prefers to vanish into the night. But this time the desk clerk in the hot sheets hotel had reacted quickly. Perhaps he was already in some police problems.
The upshot, there were no actual eye witnesses. Walls being as thin as they were, six hookers and five Johns were summoned as witnesses. The sixth John got off easy. Being totally stone deaf, he could honestly assert he had heard nothing.
The witnesses all agree the noise level was very loud. The John, obviously rather drunk. The hooker, sounded high on drugs.
They were arguing about monetary recompense until she ran out of patience, fatally stabbed him.
Now this itself is humorous enough to attract the prurient interest of the press. What made it worse, the John happened to be a member of an ethnic group noted for trying to get everything at wholesale.
Both local papers, the TV, radio talk shows were full of all this. Soon picked up by the national press.
Now usually stuff like this is just funny. Except of course when it happens to your husband.
I only dared to go to synagogue once after all the story broke loose.
The sheer two-faced hypocrisy shook me. On one hand, the sober sad look, the oh so sorry you're recently widowed routine. On the other, the wicked twinkle of glee that says you were being laughed at until within earshot.
At first I hate the lot of them. Gradually I come to realize, you'd get the same reaction in a United Church of Canada congregation or one of any other denomination.
People are people, have a sense of humor. Still, I don't see it as fair that I am being laughed at.
In a sense, I get the best revenge there is. Already they were struggling monetarily. The heating bill (privatized) will be that much more difficult without input from me.
Keep at it people I think, just laugh a few more out the door and you won't have a synagogue anymore.

Karen 7

The order picking job demands I know a lot less than the bookstore did. Within days, I'm established, with things going smoothly.
Nathan jokes and clowns around with me - but no more than with anyone else. I'd be deluded if I thought he were interested - there's easily a half dozen others he'd prefer. Still, he always makes a point of buttering me up a bit - no doubt thinking of "life insurance" for the next Lebanon trip.
With life more in order I start to think of my manuscripts. There is a free public lecture on "Comparison of American and Israeli book publishing industries". Despite the fact is it given by Countess Dreckula, who got me fired, I go, sitting at the back.
First half her time, she royally trashes Americans. Quote after quote to show how stratified the American publishing industry has become. This, she asserts, is a sad reflection on American democracy, silencing minorities and only allowing corporate literature to see the light of day.
Then she starts in on Israel. Any figure you care to name, ours is considerably worse than theirs. Unless you are one of the twenty or so A list authors, odds are now lotto odds of being published in Hebrew.
As I leave I feel a mix of emotions. Disappointed, oh yes. But relieved, I had been thinking of translating some of my work from English to Hebrew. Save the effort, it either sells in Canada or USA or it doesn't sell period. So in a way the b**** goddess saved me a lot of work and grief. Sometimes there is justice, at least a little anyhow.
Nathan addresses the assembled Paras, "listen up y'all, we all know our former and unlamented Lt has now moved along to doing his hitch in the reforestation service. With no small thanks to the lotta you."
Roars of laughter.
"Well now, I pulled some strings, got someone a bit different. Meet Lt Karen Zauberman. She has a number of good traits. Happens to hold the IDF record out on the shooting range. You wouldn't believe if I told you, so I'll pass around her score card. A very useful person to have on your side when you're pinned down next to her on some hillside in Lebanon."
Nods, murmurs of agreement.
"Good fitness score, can keep up. Most important though, she ain't your typical officer type. Quiet, shy, just not into all the puffy headed nonsense. So guys, I thank you to keep the jokes on the right side of decent. You women, none of them tricks. Just give her an honest chance, see if it's a good match."
It is. By the end of one month of duty we have gelled into a group, they want me back next year.
Yes, Israel has worked out ok.

Karen 6

Sid makes it sound polite of course, cyclical downturn in sales and all that. Not buying much new stock right now, meaning he and Naomi can easily do the receiving around other stuff.
At first it feels devastating, but soon good news arrives. See I was one of the very few who actually had a good relationship with the news wholesale distributor, because my returns were always accurate, as listed.
They are quite happy to interview me. It won't be much more money and it does involve unsociable hours as it is picking orders for next day delivery. Still, I happily take it, one less problem in life.
The boss Nathan looks amused when I reply to his question on my Reserve status. He appears to stop himself before getting too smart ass about it.
Somewhat irked, I fish out my score card, land it on his desk. He stares, color vanishing from his face, just quietly says, "remind me not to start too many aguments with you."
I smile wanly, "I'll try to do the job properly, so we don't need to argue about it."
He laughs easily, "I don't mean here. I mean in the Reserves, I'm a Para too. But a Sgt, meaning I hate all of you officer types."
"I see, and did I mention I was a Cpl in the Canadian Army before making Aliyah?"
"Kid, you're a nut case, just go home. Why on earth hang around a penny ante country one step up from the Third World?"
I laugh, "some travel writers have called Canada 'a Third World country with carpets."
He laughs, "ok, hang around and enjoy. And when we make a drop into Lebanon, I'm gonna try and be in your group."
"Why?"
"Kid, I reckon that's a world record for score. Best we have one super sniper in our group, good life insurance. Nuff fun, let me show you how orders work on our system."

Karen 5

"Sid, I need your advice on something please. I'm out on the floor lots, shelving books, customers ask where things are."
"I appreciate that you walk them to the area, instead of just pointing."
"Sid, it's not that, people get rude to me when I say we have religious books on everything except Judaism."
"Karen, see it from my perspective. First, I only have so many square meters and so many shekels for capital. Second, there are already people specializing in nothing but Judaica. So if I carry anything at all, it looks small, ridiculous. Haredim (ultraOrthodox) have the market cornered. Just refer any of those customers to another store. Whereas people who are curious about say Islam or Christianity or Buddhism, I have basic books. Does that make sense Karen?"
"Perfect sense now you explain it."
My 4,000 monthly shekels goes further than I anticipate, because of perks. Free coffee in the staff room. My job includes returning unsolds. So I send back the front page of newspapers and magazines, to prove we haven't sold it. Hence the staffroom has some of yesterday's dailies and last week's weeklies. Same with paperback books, when they're discontinued, I must send back the front cover. So we have a good selection to share around among us.
I soon discover this a way of life as opposed to a job.
Sid, now if he were serious about being a businessman, with that much capital, he'd do better anywhere else. If Naomi had the same responsibility level elsewhere, she'd do lots better.
Once a fortnight Sid's wife, a literature prof, shows up at closing time; coffee and lit bull session in the staffroom.
I'm invited to sit in, pick up lotsa information to pass on to customers.
After one such session, Naomi says, "Karen, plan on switching jobs."
"How so?"
"You slay me, you really do, all that time on the island, forgotten how to read people. She's jealous, afraid you'll steal hubby."
I roar with laughter, then, "you mean that gorgeous knockout is afraid of mousy little me? Shame on her!"
"She'll end up driving the place outa business. No men'll work for that wage, yet any women who show, we-ell."
I groan, "you ain't joking?"
"Nope, how it is."
I am tempted to ask how she is exempt from this nonsense, but instinct tells me I really don't wanna know.

Karen 4

Capt Levine says, "the beamer is rigged so you land in the standing position. You carry a carbine with thirty round clip, set on single shot, with safety on. 1 1/2 seconds after you land, the first hologram of a Palestinian pops up. Thereafter, holograms come at uncertain intervals of time and distance. After ten shots, I blow my whistle, means drop into kneeling position. After twenty, blow it again, means prone."
I sense everyone is wild with curiousity as I lead off.
It's a shock, sight you see on transmission. Less said the better, except to state Dante would be proud.
My first shot feels lousy, as my hand shook a bit. By the second shot, I'm in the groove.
At the end of thirty, I feel disappointed that it's over.
Printer whirrs and out pops my card, 993 out of 1,000. Rats, did better on the qualifier.
Expressionless face, Capt asks, "right this moment, how do you feel?"
"Cheated! Wish I had that first shot to do over."
Everyone roars with laughter.
As it subsides, Capt grins, "Naomi, you clue her in."
"Way over 3/4 of people totally choke, never get off a single shot after their first transmission. Those who do shoot, no one but no one snaps off thirty. They're so freaked they couldn't hit a barn. I'm guessing you got icewater in them veins, not blood."
Then and there, I get my Para pin.
Next morning, it catches up with me. Can't get out of bed that day. Naomi says 100% of people get that reaction after first descent.
"So, get any job leads yet?" Naomi asks.
I groan, "no one is impressed by my resume."
She laughs, "understatement of the year. You need a foot in the door, somewhere to start. Willing to accept minimum wage?"
"Oh yes."
"I'm buyer at one of the bookstores. We need a person for receiving shipments and shelving. Interested?"
"Yes, I've always liked books. What's the catch, why is it vacant?"
"Generally only Arabs go for minimum wage. Yet they don't have the literacy skills for stuff like this, lousy written Hebrew."
In place of an interview, he merely puts me to work on one box of books. I'm to read title and author aloud, check it off on the shipping list.
And that is it, I am hired on the spot.

Karen 3

Captain Levine sets down her cup, "ok, may as well get started."
Conversations gradually taper off.
"For most of you, this is just a refresher course, hafta take it every six years. A chance to get away from the family, drink every night."
Laughter.
"For one of us, this is brand new. I introduce Lt Karen Zauberman, formerly of the Canadian Army. Do not let that look fool you for one minute, she is one tough customer. Physical condition score lots higher than alla you. Range score on carbine and blaster, way ahead of the lotta you. Been on a High Arctic survival course in temperatures that defy belief and even been shipwrecked."
Oohs and ahs.
"So, be helpful to her on the course, only the Para part is new to her."
Nods.
"Now at risk of putting y'all to sleep, a bit of history. Parachutes originally were just for fighter pilots. Some bright spark invented the idea of Paratroops and rocked the world. Yes, it was hugely effective, but it had one major downside, horrendous casualty rates. Just ask any of the German lads who dropped four times into Crete or the Americans jumping on D-Day in World War 2. But beaming down, one sweet operation. One casualty per every 28,000 jumps."
I feel my neck and shoulders go tense.
"Unfortunately that casualty is not a mere injury, but a displacement into a different time. So, alla youse who slept through high school history class, shame on you!"
Roars of laughter.
"We ask one thing if it happens to you. Don't aim to be a hero, do great things, just stay alive and try to come back. No one has ever come back before, be the first and help everyone it happens to afterwards."
Nods.
"Given that the average Para makes a score of such descents during an entire career, we're not talking a lot of mathematical risk. Jaywalking in Jerusalem is more likely to get you killed."
Laughter.
Breaktime, I end up sitting next to Naomi, "so how long were ya shipwrecked?"
"Was in the Pacific, eight years, found by the Japanese."
She gasps, "you gotta well-preserved look, don't look anywhere old enough for that. How bout some advice?"
"Sure."
"Now they owed you back pay, you got enough money to buy an apartment here, right?"
I nod.
"As you start to meet guys, do not and I emphasize do not mention the shipwreck."
I'm starting to catch her drift.
"First, means they know you're older. Second, might draw the gold digger sort."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it. So what was the worst temperature you saw?"
"Minus 66 degrees."
"Holy sh**, winters here will be a joke for you."
"I'm not so sure. Eight years of steamy tropics changed me. Even this morning, I felt cold."
"Well, guess that makes you a real Israeli now, no running back to Canada."

Karen 2

The landing crew is in an unseemly haste to get rid of me. They refuse to allow time for me to climb the hill, check nothing happened to the weather station during its time vacant. They unload cargo above the high tide line and vamoose.
As they chug away, the neoSoviet sub takes up position near me. I'm nervous, take cover in the rocks.
As soon as the Rusty Grouch vanishes over the horizon, the laser gunner snaps off a shot toward the weather station, then they leave.
Climbing the hill, I discover my antenna neatly sheared off, lying on the ground. Even if I had a welding torch, how do I lift 300 feet of it?
I soon discover I can neither send nor receive. Oh well, looking at the bright side, least the antenna did not wipe out the hut, came close. Least the roof top solar collectors work, so I have electricity and least I have a ShortWave radio, can follow civvy news.
After unloading cargo, I start to evaluate. With any luck at all, the absence of my daily weather transmissions will raise suspicion, cause the Rusty Grouch to return and check on me.
Several days later, the CBC has it, Rusty Grouch went down off one of the small Japanese islands, presumably after colliding an underwater reef.
I don't buy that, surely they have radar and sonar watching for stuff like that. I'm guessing the sub laser took them.
I start to realize a big disaster pushes a small one outa news, outa peoples' attention. Better plan for a long siege just in case.
Breadfruit here, won't starve. Citrus, won't get scurvy. I discover a small cove with mussels. They taste like rubber, but 1/3 canned meat + 2/3 mussels is tolerable.
The first effect is removal of caffeine addiction. I don't run out, it's simply too hot except for first thing in the morning. Least my withdrawal symptoms aren't too bad, as my habit wasn't heavy.
At the end of one year, I spend a lot of time, looking out to sea, wondering if they'll show. They don't.
I keep myself amused, sort of, by writing several novels.
After eight years, I'm spotted by a Japanese naval vessel. I spend a month aboard, as they are on voyage. It's pleasant, such polite people and good food. I help people with their English, and they are hugely grateful.
On landing in Japan, I spend four months as a guest of the Japanese Navy, living in officer quarters and helping with English. Reason, the Canadians aren't really sure I even exist.
Eventually they discover the file in archives and I get to come home.
I'm not in the Army anymore, as my file was stamped suitable for first hitch only. Still, they owe back pay and in due course, they deliver.
As I immerse myself in media and job applications, I start to discover things. The money is suitable for buying a condo, but wouldn't be sufficient for a viable business.
My resume looks horrid, with all outa date computers mentioned.
I'm seen as too old for an entry level job; yet too lacking in qualification for a real one.
As winter deepens, my metabolism can't hack it, all that steamy heat has changed me.
And so I find myself aboard El Al. The Army debacle will pay off. See I've done a hitch in an Allied country, so I'm exempt the full three year hitch. However I'm on the hook for up to one month of Reservist duty per year.
The Reservist Col smiles thinly, "we've now examined the file and test results, you're a Lieutenant in the Paras."
I gasp, "how exactly is that figured?"
"Protocol demands we respect rank and experience."
"But I was a Cpl in the Canadian Army."
"Matters not, during your sojourn with the Japanese, you were accorded quarters and privileges equivalent to Lt. We must match that."
"Ok then, but why Paras? I've never jumped outa planes before."
Thin smile, "try reading the paper from time to time, none of ours do either. Ever hear of beaming down?, parachutes are obsolete. One week course, you'll be right as rain."
"Still, why Paras and not Infantry?"
Dry tone, "my friend, you are in sparkling good physical condition, you score at the 95th percentile of fitness."
I gasp, then, "oh come on."
"Nope, it's true, most everyone else has sat at a computer. You might wish to keep that conditioning up to date. Got any idea how many hills you'll climb when we next visit Lebanon?"
I groooan inwardly, what a horse's patoot, but what can you do?

Karen 1

Thank the very heavens - half of supper went down, and smoothly. I feel disinclined to push my luck by eating more. I sense fresh air would be just the thing - go up on deck - see Chief Petty Officer Rasmussen leaning on the rail, smoking his pipe.
He grins, "you're looking remarkably better."
"First I've eaten since leaving Hawaii."
"Obviously your first voyage."
I nod.
"You're tough, mosta the young people woulda long since given up, asked for the drugs. Lemme guess, old-fashioned."
"I knew it would pass."
"Still, two days is a long time. Been meaning to talk with you - never had the chance yet. I'd like you to clear up a mystery."
"Fair enough, then you do the same for me."
"Sure kid, long as it ain't confidential. Now we picked you up in Hawaii when the fleet refuelled. We'll drop you at the small weather station west of Wake Island. But you just ain't the sort."
"The sort?"
Laughs, "over the years, dropped two dozen such people in various places. They run to a type - they're inches away from the stockade - the year on the weather station is their plea bargain. Yet you don't have the look, I'd say you've never spoken with a cop - civvy or mil - except to ask directions."
"That's right."
"So now the mystery. Why are you aboard HMCS Restigouche IV, headed toward such duty?"
I blush, "my free will choice."
He gasps, then a moment later laughs, "got it. You were offered a choice of two or three postings. Rest musta been ghastly, for you to 'choose' this."
I laugh, he joins in.
"And now I can tell you why. The exam process missed on weeding you out. All that psy mumbo-jumbo, those multiple choice questions, you were smart enough to tick the right boxes. You know the stuff, just don't feel it. Usually this does not become apparent til after training. Then they discover you don't fit, don't bond with anyone, lack the particular chemical in the brain."
"Ye-es."
"Kid, see them Cpl stripes on your arm, far as it goes. You are unpromotable you know, best to get out after the first hitch."
I nod.
"And now, I owe you one mystery clarification, shoot."
"Chief, I had expected a certain sneer factor, them Navy, me Army. I wasn't prepared to be a Typhoid Mary. Why does everyone hate me?"
He groans quietly, "it ain't personal, it's a superstition. See in the half dozen dropoffs since I've been CPO here, every one went sour, bad luck, some mechanical breakdown."
"Well I'm relieved to know it's not personal."
"No one, me included, will breathe easy til we've got rid of you."
"Why are we being shadowed by the neoSoviet sub, Chief?"
"It's fairly routine, they like to get photos. Not against the law, is the High Seas."
"Still Chief, why us? Why not the main fleet instead?"
He blushes, "I hate these NATO maneuvers. Since Canadian ships are so crappy, they simulate mine sweeping or sub detection, anything to keep them away from the main fleet. So our crappy old garbage doesn't collide with their real ships."
"Still, why would the sub go after penny antes like us?"
"Near as I can guess kid, new skipper, training gig for him."