I wish I had skilled artist friends with few ideas - because I have a swarm of ideas but very unskilled hands. Somehow, of course, I suspect that this is a widespread problem - everyone has ideas. Ideas are easy. Skill is difficult. At least, that's the way it seems to me. Anyway, here's my idea for a representation of what a lot of people are feeling after the election. If anyone with skilled hands wants to paint it, put it on deviantart or anything like that, please do, just give me credit. Call it a community work.
A triptych is a three-panel painting, by the way, and is usually found in ancient churches, often behind or in front of the altar.
The first (left) panel would be labeled "Democrat" and would feature a young man, a very city-styled young man, visiting his family. He sits on a couch toward the background of the picture, and has an ironic look of pain and relief on his face. In the foreground, but only half-in-focus are either his family, or the remains of their campaign. They are clearly Republican. It's unclear whether they know which way he voted. He's the sort that might have voted Republican under other circumstances.
The second (right) panel would be labeled "Republican" and would feature much the same irony - this time probably a middle-or-older-middle aged man, in a teacher's lounge or place of business, his co-workers obviously rejoicing over Obama's victory. He is very clearly a family man, and no fool or caricature, just a man who cares about certain things (like abortion) enough that he felt it necessary to vote for the Republican ticket. Perhaps there's a wedding ring on his finger. Perhaps he's clearly a military veteran. Perhaps he even holds his infant son or grandson. Something like that.
In the middle panel, a man of somewhat indecipherable age would hold over his head a sign saying "RON PAUL." There is a mixed look of hope and despair on his face, like that on the face of Charlie Chaplin at the end of City Lights. He's trying to hold on, and he's happy to be holding on to his passion, but he feels disappointed.
At least, that's the idea. Who knows.
11.05.2008
Cooking with Arsenic - full first chapter
Cooking with Arsenic
Chapter 1
Port
From my office, I can see Los Angeles Harbor. It's not a corner office or anything. It's just high enough to be a pain to get into, and just low enough never to be mistaken for prestigious. It has one window that looks out over the Pacific Electric building, then out to the crooked beach of the San Pedro turning basin. My desk doesn't face my office door, like I want it to, because I like looking out at the ocean. The port is always busy these days. A few frigates, maybe even a destroyer are docked there, the less-important cousins of others under repair at Midway and Hawaii, bombed or no. I have my desk sidelong to the door.
Sometimes, in my more heroic moods, I like to think of some half-hearted crook busting open the door, screaming revenge, firing misguided shots through my window, while I crouched behind my impenetrable desk, waited for the shooting to subside, and then arrested the poor, misguided sap. Of course, it would never happen. They'd never get past Mrs. Tummley. She worked for the library for fifty four years, before they made her retire. She works here through equal measures of generosity and spite. Generosity for my associates and I, McAven, Hartley, and Miller, private investigators. I'm Miller. Mrs. Tummley's spite is reserved for anyone who tells her when she should retire.
Suddenly, my door bursts open, and through it, comes a sight as surprising, though not as shocking, as a revenge-bent, crook-toothed monster with a gun. Through my door walks a beautiful blond, almost six feet, five feet of which is all legs. She has two of them. They're each about two and half feet. Six feet of legs. Basic math. I can still feel the radiant heat of Mrs. Tummley's spite like an aura around her. Mrs. Tummley does not extend her generosity to blonds.
“What'cha thinkin?” She asks, interrupting my repose. She's chewing gum.
“Narrating my life.” I respond. I have to work on making it less obvious I'm thinking.
“Always said you'd best stop watching those movies.” She replies. Typical female attitude. “How's it coming?”
“Fine. I was just thinking about how a beautiful blond walked through my door, almost six feet tall.”
“Why do I have to be a six foot blond? You don't like the way I look?” The petite fiery redhead says, who is now luxuriating in one of the sadly bestained chairs which flotsam my office.
“I'm translating.” I reply, wincing at the extra stain of rivet-driver grease she's added to one of the less stained charis. “You have to be that way for the audience to understand how pretty you are.”
“I told you, you need to stop it with those movies. Used to be, people only thought they had an audience when they were on stage.”
“Not true.” I reply. She has abandoned her chair after a particularly bad creak, and re-positioned on my desk. She's trying to distract me. Crafty vixen. I carry on. “Since when were you so old, to be speaking of “back in the day?” Besides, you know very well that Chaucer and Shakespeare both were extremely audience-conscious, off stage as well as on. Homer probably was too, and Plato, well, obviously.”
“I'm three months older than you.” she replies. “And they weren't wasting the precious little time of their girl's lunch break.”
“True enough.” I reply. “Were would you like to go today?”
“Can't.” She says. “Have to get back, and I ate on the way here.”
“As always.” I say, feigning disappointment. I would be disappointed, don't get me wrong – it just happens too often for any real feeling. She remains unconvinced of my disappointment, and in a movement of the utmost aggression, kisses me squarely upon the nose before braving the spite of Mrs. Tummley, swinging herself, lithe out of my office. As I snatch at a last few glimpses of her through my glass door, a young man, sadly, of obviously foreign origin pushes through the door, and heads directly for my office. It has the discouraging characteristic of being closest to the door, and most visible as one enters. On his way, his ankle meets the ankle of Mrs. Tummley. He trips, and falls, very nearly smacking his head against my glass door. Thankfully, Mrs. Tummley's aim is better than that, and he misses. Her ankle will be fine. I have known for some time she does not approve, indeed, she retains her deepest, most horrifying spite for those who underestimate the power of the secretary.
The man, however, seems distracted enough not to care. He scrambles to his feet, his smooth-soled shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. He dives into my office, like the last man onto the lifeboat, and takes a moment to buoy himself by the door, his eyes scrambling momentarily for me, returning twice to the middle of the room, where my desk, it seems, ought to be. He blinks twice, his eyelids seeming to make a clack similar to his shoes. He does not seem truly at rest until I stand.
“Come in.” I say. “Have a seat.” I glance outside. Mrs. Tummley is glaring at me, now, hoping against hope I will eject this poor, bedraggled, and well-heeled (if not well-soled) individual, putting him back at her mercy.
“Mister McAven?” He asks.
“No, Mr. Miller.” I reply. He looks disappointed.
People seem to eternally have the wrong idea about this. Why is it that a company of private investigators is always thought to have the most senior member in full view of the door? What other company commits such heresy and foolishness? Besides this, Mr. McAven isn’t actually the longest-standing member of the company, that would be Mr. Hartley. Mr. Hartley started Hartley, private investigations, in 1917. He made his fame investigating and providing sound legal advice for liquor merchants, especially the smaller ones, and for investigating the divorces of Hollywood movie stars. Mr. Hartley was one of the first private investigators in Los Angeles, and one of the most trusted. That our sweaty friend sitting across from me did not know Mr. Harley ran the business indicated that his fine shoes were not bought with movie-cash. Mr. Hartley added Mr. McAven in 1937, when he began to see the great assistance an experienced lawyer could add to the investigative process. Mr. McAven had been especially impressive in the Roman Strauss affair. He retired shortly after that sordid affair. It was only two years later Mr. Hartley and Mr. McAven added Mrs. Tummley, when McAven and Hartley was becoming a liferaft for the retired but not tired.
During this time, Mr. Hartley had never underestimated the assistance of a young pair of legs, or arms, and had provided part and full time gainful employment to any number of young men, and for that matter, young women, which was how I found my first employment here. You see, McAven and Hartley, at the time, hired a young lady to do secretarial work, a young lady who held in her lips and long, long legs the hope of most of the junior and senior classes at my high school, along with the daydreams of more than a few of the freshmen and sophomore types. My working for Hartley was a way of impressing her. In the fire and passion of my love, I ended up impressing him more, working a number of jobs, some of which have something to do with my unfortunate juvenile record, others with my unexpected acceptance at Stanford. I returned to work for him all three summers of my college education, giving me the opportunity to regale the young and influential of Stanford my very own Dashiell Hammett stories, ever so slightly, well, translated. When I graduated, my graduation present from the one who could only be described as a secondary father figure was the offer of a full partnership, and the opportunity, should I so choose, to hire my very own young lackeys to do the heavy lifting. Mr. Hartley has taken the addition of another partner to mean that he can begin his own retirement, if only partially, though the advent of the war has attracted him again to our offices. He has been fascinated, as have we all by the special problems in investigation provided by the essentially gypsy class of military men, and the tight self-protecting organization of the military. Most of our business now comes from a variety of night-club owners and businessmen seeking various reparations for damages done by visiting military men, who seem to do as good a job trashing Los Angeles as they have ever done to the pacific islands.
Which brings us back to our poor sweating friend here. Interesting, he sits crooked. That, and his age, explain his being here rather than on some Asian island. Excuse the long description, I know it’s out of character, it probably won’t become important later, but it’s my life, I find it interesting, and I’m not old enough yet to be terse and cynical.
“May I see Mister Hartley?” he asks. His accent is of garden-variety school-taught. Not indigenous. Interesting.
“It’s possible, but it would require pleading with Misses Tummley.”
“Miss Tummley?”
I nod towards the reception area. Our friend turns several shades of pale, interesting to only but the most jaded of anthropologists. “Don’t worry.” I assure him, “I can help.”
I see his face recover, the white grimace easing into a tan dour. I know it’s my charm and respectability that help. I try to remind myself that charm and respectability don’t mean squat with a bullet between your ears and a drunk tax accountant – or wife – standing over your body, screaming about tariff law. More horrifyingly, charm doesn’t matter when faced by an IRS agent. It is a long-standing law of the universe that no one can charm an IRS agent. That is the whole basis of American government, and the reason they are the most feared men in the world.
“But.” I say, dramatically, “I would have to know how first. And a name might help as well.”
He stutters for a moment, then manages “John Smith.”
“Very well, Mr. Smith.” I say, giving no indication of incredulity, except the absence of any raised eyebrow. “How can I be of service?”
He ponders for a moment. Sits back. Sighs. Ponders. Lights a cigarette. Shakes it. Draws. I put my feet on the desk.
“You can…”
“Yes?”
“It would be of great help, if you – if Mister Hartley – could meet me, and a friend, at the end of Apple street, at 9:30 tonight.”
“He’ll want more details before he accepts an invitation.”
“A matter of national security.”
“What sort of matter?”
“Of some delicacy.”
“Matters of national security, in my experience, are rarely matters for delicacy.” What the hell do I know? I’ve never been involved in a matter of national security in my life, unless you count the governor’s affair, and that’s a different matter.
“I don’t think you are in any position to comment.”
“Well done. You called my bluff.” Best to just own up to it. “I still insist upon knowing.”
“My wife has several times gone to bed with a certain Admiral.” Hardly a matter of national security. But typical of a jealous husband. “Not that I mind, you understand. I can trust you to be discreet?”
“Of course.”
“And this Admiral, he has disclosed certain secrets.” Could this be on the level? “I am concerned such activities may continue, and may threaten the fiber of this nation. Loose lips, and all that, you understand.”
“Very much so. What would you like us to do about it?”
“You know the Navy.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know their, say, penchant for protecting their own?”
“All too well.”
“How much stronger do you think it would be, with an Admiral in the docket?”
“Yes.”
“Yes indeed. I must go now. Cannot be late back to work. Sir, I trust this message to you, I trust you to get it to Mister Hartley. Apple street. 9:30. Tonight. You understand the necessity of his involvement.”
“I’ll pass him the message.”
“Very well. I bid you good day.”
We shook hands. Very small hands he had. He managed a smile, and I once again felt the soothing glow of Mrs. Tummley’s spite as he exited the office. I took a minute to review the facts in my head, then exited my office as well. Mrs. Tummley’s glow combined in both spite and generous patronship. Spite for my friendliness to intruders, patronship for the obvious reasons.
“Misses Tummley, my favorite woman above thirty.”
“You have a lot of favorites under thirty.”
“True, but none so dependable and knowledgeable as yourself. Is the boss in?”
“He hates being called that.”
“I’m not calling him that. Not to his face at least. Is he in?”
“He is. What’s going on?”
“A matter of national security.”
“Ten years, and I still don’t learn never to ask.”
A pause too long, and I know I’m beaten, before the battle of wits has begun. I try anyway. “But if you didn’t ask, you’d miss out on all that gossip.”
Her victory dissolves the spite. She smiles.
“In any case, you can go in now.”
“Thanks.”
I head down the hallway towards Hartley’s office. On my right, an old oak door is cracked open, and I can see McAven bent over a tome the size of Belgium, in a comfortable chair. He could be sleeping, or reading, it’s hard to say. The same uncertainty had struck many a judge in court. McAven once told me that guilt is a great tool – a lesson well learned in private investigations. More than one unfriendly judge had fallen into guilt and then kindness after heartily reprimanding the old lawyer’s doze, only to find that he had “entered a state of repose so as to better focus upon your honor’s words.” Upon request, McAven could always repeat back the last several sentences of the proceedings. Whether this was simply an anomaly of his sleep, I still wonder. On my left, behind a closed door, is a conference room which becomes a partial office each afternoon for whatever part-time workers we employ. Sometimes, it’s a place the more bookish can come to study without being anti-social, and without the monotony and limited social options of the library. At the end of the hall is Hartley’s corner office. He offered it to McAven when McAven joined the company, but the elder man said the light and business out of the windows distracted from his reading – and probably from his sleeping as well. The door is cracked, but I knock anyway.
“Boss?” The door swings, silent and graceful, wider. Straight across from the door, he sits. A single, graying raised eyebrow reassures me that I’m still not really in trouble for calling him boss. It also tells me, and many people, that, though gray, he has not begun to droop with age. He is, as always, dressed impeccably. A suit of fine, light wool and mohair sheds the California sun, shimmering ever so slightly. Beneath it, a cotton vest with a subtle windowpane betrays a relaxed nature, at least, today. He is leaned back in his chair, reading some report submitted by one of our “junior partners.”
“What’s cracking, Jim?” He says, putting the report down.
“New case.”
“Sounds interesting from the commotion out there.”
“Might be. National security stuff, maybe another chance for you to show off just what idiots the Navy churns out and promptly aggrandizes.”
“Man thinks his wife is in bed with an Admiral, getting all sorts of secrets.”
“Did he have any proof?”
“Not that he mentioned. Most jealousies don’t come with delusions of grandeur.”
“It would seem self-contradictory. Did he seem jealous?”
“No, not particularly. He wants to meet you to talk it over, apparently, “He and a friend.” At the end of Apple street, tonight, 9:30.”
“Sounds dangerous.” This voice came from behind me. McAven had, among his overly well developed bag of lawyer tricks, the ability to creep silently, or to command attention by sound, entirely at will. He often used this ability to nearly hypnotize juries, sliding lithely over points not particularly helpful to his case, and pouncing upon the elements which the jury would later remember.
“Not particularly.” Hartley replied. “Actually, it sounds lovely. Your visitor, he was nervous?”
“As a…”
“Young man whose wit fails.” McAven supplied, unasked.
“But reticent?”
“Eh?”
“Of ungreased mouth.”
“Positively rusted shut.”
“Sounds like a good time for the second coming.”
“Haven’t we done that one a bit much? Besides, it’s it early for the second coming?” McAven was always the pessimist. His practice was based on it.
“Not at all. We’ve never used the second coming in anything attached to a military operation, and in this case, it’s probably best to strike first.”
“I still don’t trust it. I make it a habit to avoid teams that refuse to play on any field but their own.”
“Of course, but that’s exactly why the second coming exists. It exists because we don’t trust people. And I don’t think it’s too early, especially in matters of national security. In any case, it’s what I plan to do.”
We both knew better than to argue.
Chapter 1
Port
From my office, I can see Los Angeles Harbor. It's not a corner office or anything. It's just high enough to be a pain to get into, and just low enough never to be mistaken for prestigious. It has one window that looks out over the Pacific Electric building, then out to the crooked beach of the San Pedro turning basin. My desk doesn't face my office door, like I want it to, because I like looking out at the ocean. The port is always busy these days. A few frigates, maybe even a destroyer are docked there, the less-important cousins of others under repair at Midway and Hawaii, bombed or no. I have my desk sidelong to the door.
Sometimes, in my more heroic moods, I like to think of some half-hearted crook busting open the door, screaming revenge, firing misguided shots through my window, while I crouched behind my impenetrable desk, waited for the shooting to subside, and then arrested the poor, misguided sap. Of course, it would never happen. They'd never get past Mrs. Tummley. She worked for the library for fifty four years, before they made her retire. She works here through equal measures of generosity and spite. Generosity for my associates and I, McAven, Hartley, and Miller, private investigators. I'm Miller. Mrs. Tummley's spite is reserved for anyone who tells her when she should retire.
Suddenly, my door bursts open, and through it, comes a sight as surprising, though not as shocking, as a revenge-bent, crook-toothed monster with a gun. Through my door walks a beautiful blond, almost six feet, five feet of which is all legs. She has two of them. They're each about two and half feet. Six feet of legs. Basic math. I can still feel the radiant heat of Mrs. Tummley's spite like an aura around her. Mrs. Tummley does not extend her generosity to blonds.
“What'cha thinkin?” She asks, interrupting my repose. She's chewing gum.
“Narrating my life.” I respond. I have to work on making it less obvious I'm thinking.
“Always said you'd best stop watching those movies.” She replies. Typical female attitude. “How's it coming?”
“Fine. I was just thinking about how a beautiful blond walked through my door, almost six feet tall.”
“Why do I have to be a six foot blond? You don't like the way I look?” The petite fiery redhead says, who is now luxuriating in one of the sadly bestained chairs which flotsam my office.
“I'm translating.” I reply, wincing at the extra stain of rivet-driver grease she's added to one of the less stained charis. “You have to be that way for the audience to understand how pretty you are.”
“I told you, you need to stop it with those movies. Used to be, people only thought they had an audience when they were on stage.”
“Not true.” I reply. She has abandoned her chair after a particularly bad creak, and re-positioned on my desk. She's trying to distract me. Crafty vixen. I carry on. “Since when were you so old, to be speaking of “back in the day?” Besides, you know very well that Chaucer and Shakespeare both were extremely audience-conscious, off stage as well as on. Homer probably was too, and Plato, well, obviously.”
“I'm three months older than you.” she replies. “And they weren't wasting the precious little time of their girl's lunch break.”
“True enough.” I reply. “Were would you like to go today?”
“Can't.” She says. “Have to get back, and I ate on the way here.”
“As always.” I say, feigning disappointment. I would be disappointed, don't get me wrong – it just happens too often for any real feeling. She remains unconvinced of my disappointment, and in a movement of the utmost aggression, kisses me squarely upon the nose before braving the spite of Mrs. Tummley, swinging herself, lithe out of my office. As I snatch at a last few glimpses of her through my glass door, a young man, sadly, of obviously foreign origin pushes through the door, and heads directly for my office. It has the discouraging characteristic of being closest to the door, and most visible as one enters. On his way, his ankle meets the ankle of Mrs. Tummley. He trips, and falls, very nearly smacking his head against my glass door. Thankfully, Mrs. Tummley's aim is better than that, and he misses. Her ankle will be fine. I have known for some time she does not approve, indeed, she retains her deepest, most horrifying spite for those who underestimate the power of the secretary.
The man, however, seems distracted enough not to care. He scrambles to his feet, his smooth-soled shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. He dives into my office, like the last man onto the lifeboat, and takes a moment to buoy himself by the door, his eyes scrambling momentarily for me, returning twice to the middle of the room, where my desk, it seems, ought to be. He blinks twice, his eyelids seeming to make a clack similar to his shoes. He does not seem truly at rest until I stand.
“Come in.” I say. “Have a seat.” I glance outside. Mrs. Tummley is glaring at me, now, hoping against hope I will eject this poor, bedraggled, and well-heeled (if not well-soled) individual, putting him back at her mercy.
“Mister McAven?” He asks.
“No, Mr. Miller.” I reply. He looks disappointed.
People seem to eternally have the wrong idea about this. Why is it that a company of private investigators is always thought to have the most senior member in full view of the door? What other company commits such heresy and foolishness? Besides this, Mr. McAven isn’t actually the longest-standing member of the company, that would be Mr. Hartley. Mr. Hartley started Hartley, private investigations, in 1917. He made his fame investigating and providing sound legal advice for liquor merchants, especially the smaller ones, and for investigating the divorces of Hollywood movie stars. Mr. Hartley was one of the first private investigators in Los Angeles, and one of the most trusted. That our sweaty friend sitting across from me did not know Mr. Harley ran the business indicated that his fine shoes were not bought with movie-cash. Mr. Hartley added Mr. McAven in 1937, when he began to see the great assistance an experienced lawyer could add to the investigative process. Mr. McAven had been especially impressive in the Roman Strauss affair. He retired shortly after that sordid affair. It was only two years later Mr. Hartley and Mr. McAven added Mrs. Tummley, when McAven and Hartley was becoming a liferaft for the retired but not tired.
During this time, Mr. Hartley had never underestimated the assistance of a young pair of legs, or arms, and had provided part and full time gainful employment to any number of young men, and for that matter, young women, which was how I found my first employment here. You see, McAven and Hartley, at the time, hired a young lady to do secretarial work, a young lady who held in her lips and long, long legs the hope of most of the junior and senior classes at my high school, along with the daydreams of more than a few of the freshmen and sophomore types. My working for Hartley was a way of impressing her. In the fire and passion of my love, I ended up impressing him more, working a number of jobs, some of which have something to do with my unfortunate juvenile record, others with my unexpected acceptance at Stanford. I returned to work for him all three summers of my college education, giving me the opportunity to regale the young and influential of Stanford my very own Dashiell Hammett stories, ever so slightly, well, translated. When I graduated, my graduation present from the one who could only be described as a secondary father figure was the offer of a full partnership, and the opportunity, should I so choose, to hire my very own young lackeys to do the heavy lifting. Mr. Hartley has taken the addition of another partner to mean that he can begin his own retirement, if only partially, though the advent of the war has attracted him again to our offices. He has been fascinated, as have we all by the special problems in investigation provided by the essentially gypsy class of military men, and the tight self-protecting organization of the military. Most of our business now comes from a variety of night-club owners and businessmen seeking various reparations for damages done by visiting military men, who seem to do as good a job trashing Los Angeles as they have ever done to the pacific islands.
Which brings us back to our poor sweating friend here. Interesting, he sits crooked. That, and his age, explain his being here rather than on some Asian island. Excuse the long description, I know it’s out of character, it probably won’t become important later, but it’s my life, I find it interesting, and I’m not old enough yet to be terse and cynical.
“May I see Mister Hartley?” he asks. His accent is of garden-variety school-taught. Not indigenous. Interesting.
“It’s possible, but it would require pleading with Misses Tummley.”
“Miss Tummley?”
I nod towards the reception area. Our friend turns several shades of pale, interesting to only but the most jaded of anthropologists. “Don’t worry.” I assure him, “I can help.”
I see his face recover, the white grimace easing into a tan dour. I know it’s my charm and respectability that help. I try to remind myself that charm and respectability don’t mean squat with a bullet between your ears and a drunk tax accountant – or wife – standing over your body, screaming about tariff law. More horrifyingly, charm doesn’t matter when faced by an IRS agent. It is a long-standing law of the universe that no one can charm an IRS agent. That is the whole basis of American government, and the reason they are the most feared men in the world.
“But.” I say, dramatically, “I would have to know how first. And a name might help as well.”
He stutters for a moment, then manages “John Smith.”
“Very well, Mr. Smith.” I say, giving no indication of incredulity, except the absence of any raised eyebrow. “How can I be of service?”
He ponders for a moment. Sits back. Sighs. Ponders. Lights a cigarette. Shakes it. Draws. I put my feet on the desk.
“You can…”
“Yes?”
“It would be of great help, if you – if Mister Hartley – could meet me, and a friend, at the end of Apple street, at 9:30 tonight.”
“He’ll want more details before he accepts an invitation.”
“A matter of national security.”
“What sort of matter?”
“Of some delicacy.”
“Matters of national security, in my experience, are rarely matters for delicacy.” What the hell do I know? I’ve never been involved in a matter of national security in my life, unless you count the governor’s affair, and that’s a different matter.
“I don’t think you are in any position to comment.”
“Well done. You called my bluff.” Best to just own up to it. “I still insist upon knowing.”
“My wife has several times gone to bed with a certain Admiral.” Hardly a matter of national security. But typical of a jealous husband. “Not that I mind, you understand. I can trust you to be discreet?”
“Of course.”
“And this Admiral, he has disclosed certain secrets.” Could this be on the level? “I am concerned such activities may continue, and may threaten the fiber of this nation. Loose lips, and all that, you understand.”
“Very much so. What would you like us to do about it?”
“You know the Navy.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know their, say, penchant for protecting their own?”
“All too well.”
“How much stronger do you think it would be, with an Admiral in the docket?”
“Yes.”
“Yes indeed. I must go now. Cannot be late back to work. Sir, I trust this message to you, I trust you to get it to Mister Hartley. Apple street. 9:30. Tonight. You understand the necessity of his involvement.”
“I’ll pass him the message.”
“Very well. I bid you good day.”
We shook hands. Very small hands he had. He managed a smile, and I once again felt the soothing glow of Mrs. Tummley’s spite as he exited the office. I took a minute to review the facts in my head, then exited my office as well. Mrs. Tummley’s glow combined in both spite and generous patronship. Spite for my friendliness to intruders, patronship for the obvious reasons.
“Misses Tummley, my favorite woman above thirty.”
“You have a lot of favorites under thirty.”
“True, but none so dependable and knowledgeable as yourself. Is the boss in?”
“He hates being called that.”
“I’m not calling him that. Not to his face at least. Is he in?”
“He is. What’s going on?”
“A matter of national security.”
“Ten years, and I still don’t learn never to ask.”
A pause too long, and I know I’m beaten, before the battle of wits has begun. I try anyway. “But if you didn’t ask, you’d miss out on all that gossip.”
Her victory dissolves the spite. She smiles.
“In any case, you can go in now.”
“Thanks.”
I head down the hallway towards Hartley’s office. On my right, an old oak door is cracked open, and I can see McAven bent over a tome the size of Belgium, in a comfortable chair. He could be sleeping, or reading, it’s hard to say. The same uncertainty had struck many a judge in court. McAven once told me that guilt is a great tool – a lesson well learned in private investigations. More than one unfriendly judge had fallen into guilt and then kindness after heartily reprimanding the old lawyer’s doze, only to find that he had “entered a state of repose so as to better focus upon your honor’s words.” Upon request, McAven could always repeat back the last several sentences of the proceedings. Whether this was simply an anomaly of his sleep, I still wonder. On my left, behind a closed door, is a conference room which becomes a partial office each afternoon for whatever part-time workers we employ. Sometimes, it’s a place the more bookish can come to study without being anti-social, and without the monotony and limited social options of the library. At the end of the hall is Hartley’s corner office. He offered it to McAven when McAven joined the company, but the elder man said the light and business out of the windows distracted from his reading – and probably from his sleeping as well. The door is cracked, but I knock anyway.
“Boss?” The door swings, silent and graceful, wider. Straight across from the door, he sits. A single, graying raised eyebrow reassures me that I’m still not really in trouble for calling him boss. It also tells me, and many people, that, though gray, he has not begun to droop with age. He is, as always, dressed impeccably. A suit of fine, light wool and mohair sheds the California sun, shimmering ever so slightly. Beneath it, a cotton vest with a subtle windowpane betrays a relaxed nature, at least, today. He is leaned back in his chair, reading some report submitted by one of our “junior partners.”
“What’s cracking, Jim?” He says, putting the report down.
“New case.”
“Sounds interesting from the commotion out there.”
“Might be. National security stuff, maybe another chance for you to show off just what idiots the Navy churns out and promptly aggrandizes.”
“Man thinks his wife is in bed with an Admiral, getting all sorts of secrets.”
“Did he have any proof?”
“Not that he mentioned. Most jealousies don’t come with delusions of grandeur.”
“It would seem self-contradictory. Did he seem jealous?”
“No, not particularly. He wants to meet you to talk it over, apparently, “He and a friend.” At the end of Apple street, tonight, 9:30.”
“Sounds dangerous.” This voice came from behind me. McAven had, among his overly well developed bag of lawyer tricks, the ability to creep silently, or to command attention by sound, entirely at will. He often used this ability to nearly hypnotize juries, sliding lithely over points not particularly helpful to his case, and pouncing upon the elements which the jury would later remember.
“Not particularly.” Hartley replied. “Actually, it sounds lovely. Your visitor, he was nervous?”
“As a…”
“Young man whose wit fails.” McAven supplied, unasked.
“But reticent?”
“Eh?”
“Of ungreased mouth.”
“Positively rusted shut.”
“Sounds like a good time for the second coming.”
“Haven’t we done that one a bit much? Besides, it’s it early for the second coming?” McAven was always the pessimist. His practice was based on it.
“Not at all. We’ve never used the second coming in anything attached to a military operation, and in this case, it’s probably best to strike first.”
“I still don’t trust it. I make it a habit to avoid teams that refuse to play on any field but their own.”
“Of course, but that’s exactly why the second coming exists. It exists because we don’t trust people. And I don’t think it’s too early, especially in matters of national security. In any case, it’s what I plan to do.”
We both knew better than to argue.
11.03.2008
NanoWriMo - My Progress So Far
It's National Novel Writing Month, and what follows is my first attempt. I'm progressing fairly nicely, but worried about my ability to keep the volume up. I've got an odd mashup of satire, self-awareness and humor going into an essentially noir novel, so it's turning out rather strangely. Not sure how that combination will turn out. I'd be interested in any comments.
Cooking with Arsenic
Chapter 1
Port
From my office, I can see Los Angeles Harbor. It's not a corner office or anything. It's just high enough to be a pain to get into, and just low enough never to be mistaken for prestigious. It has one window that looks out over the Pacific Electric building, then out to the crooked beach of the San Pedro turning basin. My desk doesn't face my office door, like I want it to, because I like looking out at the ocean. The port is always busy these days. A few frigates, maybe even a destroyer are docked there, the less-important cousins of others under repair at Midway and Hawaii, bombed or no. I have my desk sidelong to the door.
Sometimes, in my more heroic moods, I like to think of some half-hearted crook busting open the door, screaming revenge, firing misguided shots through my window, while I crouched behind my impenetrable desk, waited for the shooting to subside, and then arrested the poor, misguided sap. Of course, it would never happen. They'd never get past Mrs. Tummley. She worked for the library for fifty four years, before they made her retire. She works here through equal measures of generosity and spite. Generosity for my associates and I, McAven, Hartley, and Miller, private investigators. I'm Miller. Mrs. Tummley's spite is reserved for anyone who tells her when she should retire.
Suddenly, my door bursts open, and through it, comes a sight as surprising, though not as shocking, as a revenge-bent, crook-toothed monster with a gun. Through my door walks a beautiful blond, almost six feet, five feet of which is all legs. She has two of them. They're each about two and half feet. Six feet of legs. Basic math. I can still feel the radiant heat of Mrs. Tummley's spite like an aura around her. Mrs. Tummley does not extend her generosity to blonds.
“What'cha thinkin?” She asks, interrupting my repose. She's chewing gum.
“Narrating my life.” I respond. I have to work on making it less obvious I'm thinking.
“Always said you'd best stop watching those movies.” She replies. Typical female attitude. “How's it coming?”
“Fine. I was just thinking about how a beautiful blond walked through my door, almost six feet tall.”
“Why do I have to be a six foot blond? You don't like the way I look?” The petite fiery redhead says, who is now luxuriating in one of the sadly bestained chairs which flotsam my office.
“I'm translating.” I reply, wincing at the extra stain of rivet-driver grease she's added to one of the less stained charis. “You have to be that way for the audience to understand how pretty you are.”
“I told you, you need to stop it with those movies. Used to be, people only thought they had an audience when they were on stage.”
“Not true.” I reply. She has abandoned her chair after a particularly bad creak, and re-positioned on my desk. She's trying to distract me. Crafty vixen. I carry on. “Since when were you so old, to be speaking of “back in the day?” Besides, you know very well that Chaucer and Shakespeare both were extremely audience-conscious, off stage as well as on. Homer probably was too, and Plato, well, obviously.”
“I'm three months older than you.” she replies. “And they weren't wasting the precious little time of their girl's lunch break.”
“True enough.” I reply. “Were would you like to go today?”
“Can't.” She says. “Have to get back, and I ate on the way here.”
“As always.” I say, feigning disappointment. I would be disappointed, don't get me wrong – it just happens too often for any real feeling. She remains unconvinced of my disappointment, and in a movement of the utmost aggression, kisses me squarely upon the nose before braving the spite of Mrs. Tummley, swinging herself, lithe out of my office. As I snatch at a last few glimpses of her through my glass door, a young man, sadly, of obviously foreign origin pushes through the door, and heads directly for my office. It has the discouraging characteristic of being closest to the door, and most visible as one enters. On his way, his ankle meets the ankle of Mrs. Tummley. He trips, and falls, very nearly smacking his head against my glass door. Thankfully, Mrs. Tummley's aim is better than that, and he misses. Her ankle will be fine. I have known for some time she does not approve, indeed, she retains her deepest, most horrifying spite for those who underestimate the power of the secretary.
The man, however, seems distracted enough not to care. He scrambles to his feet, his smooth-soled shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. He dives into my office, like the last man onto the lifeboat, and takes a moment to buoy himself by the door, his eyes scrambling momentarily for me, returning twice to the middle of the room, where my desk, it seems, ought to be. He blinks twice, his eyelids seeming to make a clack similar to his shoes. He does not seem truly at rest until I stand.
“Come in.” I say. “Have a seat.” I glance outside. Mrs. Tummley is glaring at me, now, hoping against hope I will eject this poor, bedraggled, and well-heeled (if not well-soled) individual, putting him back at her mercy.
“Mister McAven?” He asks.
“No, Mr. Miller.” I reply. He looks disappointed.
People seem to eternally have the wrong idea about this. Why is it that a company of private investigators is always thought to have the most senior member in full view of the door? What other company commits such heresy and foolishness? Besides this, Mr. McAven isn’t actually the longest-standing member of the company, that would be Mr. Hartley. Mr. Hartley started Hartley, private investigations, in 1917. He made his fame investigating and providing sound legal advice for liquor merchants, especially the smaller ones, and for investigating the divorces of Hollywood movie stars. Mr. Hartley was one of the first private investigators in Los Angeles, and one of the most trusted. That our sweaty friend sitting across from me did not know Mr. Harley ran the business indicated that his fine shoes were not bought with movie-cash. Mr. Hartley added Mr. McAven in 1937, when he began to see the great assistance an experienced lawyer could add to the investigative process. Mr. McAven had been especially impressive in the Roman Strauss affair. He retired shortly after that sordid affair. It was only two years later Mr. Hartley and Mr. McAven added Mrs. Tummley, when McAven and Hartley was becoming a liferaft for the retired but not tired.
During this time, Mr. Hartley had never underestimated the assistance of a young pair of legs, or arms, and had provided part and full time gainful employment to any number of young men, and for that matter, young women, which was how I found my first employment here. You see, McAven and Hartley, at the time, hired a young lady to do secretarial work, a young lady who held in her lips and long, long legs the hope of most of the junior and senior classes at my high school, along with the daydreams of more than a few of the freshmen and sophomore types. My working for Hartley was a way of impressing her. In the fire and passion of my love, I ended up impressing him more, working a number of jobs, some of which have something to do with my unfortunate juvenile record, others with my unexpected acceptance at Stanford. I returned to work for him all three summers of my college education, giving me the opportunity to regale the young and influential of Stanford my very own Dashiell Hammett stories, ever so slightly, well, translated. When I graduated, my graduation present from the one who could only be described as a secondary father figure was the offer of a full partnership, and the opportunity, should I so choose, to hire my very own young lackeys to do the heavy lifting. Mr. Hartley has taken the addition of another partner to mean that he can begin his own retirement, if only partially, though the advent of the war has attracted him again to our offices. He has been fascinated, as have we all by the special problems in investigation provided by the essentially gypsy class of military men, and the tight self-protecting organization of the military. Most of our business now comes from a variety of night-club owners and businessmen seeking various reparations for damages done by visiting military men, who seem to do as good a job trashing Los Angeles as they have ever done to the pacific islands.
Which brings us back to our poor sweating friend here. Interesting, he sits crooked. That, and his age, explain his being here rather than on some Asian island. Excuse the long description, I know it’s out of character, it probably won’t become important later, but it’s my life, I find it interesting, and I’m not old enough yet to be terse and cynical.
“May I see Mister Hartley?” he asks. His accent is of garden-variety school-taught. Not indigenous. Interesting.
“It’s possible, but it would require pleading with Misses Tummley.”
“Miss Tummley?”
I nod towards the reception area. Our friend turns several shades of pale, interesting to only but the most jaded of anthropologists. “Don’t worry.” I assure him, “I can help.”
I see his face recover, the white grimace easing into a tan dour. I know it’s my charm and respectability that help. I try to remind myself that charm and respectability don’t mean squat with a bullet between your ears and a drunk tax accountant – or wife – standing over your body, screaming about tariff law. More horrifyingly, charm doesn’t matter when faced by an IRS agent. It is a long-standing law of the universe that no one can charm an IRS agent. That is the whole basis of American government, and the reason they are the most feared men in the world.
“But.” I say, dramatically, “I would have to know how first. And a name might help as well.”
He stutters for a moment, then manages “John Smith.”
“Very well, Mr. Smith.” I say, giving no indication of incredulity, except the absence of any raised eyebrow. “How can I be of service?”
He ponders for a moment. Sits back. Sighs. Ponders. Lights a cigarette. Shakes it. Draws. I put my feet on the desk.
“You can…”
“Yes?”
“It would be of great help, if you – if Mister Hartley – could meet me, and a friend, at the end of Apple street.”
“He’ll want more details before he accepts an invitation.”
“A matter of national security.”
“What sort of matter?”
“Of some delicacy.”
“Matters of national security, in my experience, are rarely matters for delicacy.” What the hell do I know? I’ve never been involved in a matter of national security in my life, unless you count the governor’s affair, and that’s a different matter.
“I don’t think you are in any position to comment.”
“Well done. You called my bluff.” Best to just own up to it. “I still insist upon knowing.”
“My wife has several times gone to bed with a certain Admiral.” Hardly a matter of national security. But typical of a jealous husband. “Not that I mind, you understand. I can trust you to be discreet?”
“Of course.”
“And this Admiral, he has disclosed certain secrets.” Could this be on the level? “I am concerned such activities may continue, and may threaten the fiber of this nation. Loose lips, and all that, you understand.”
“Very much so. What would you like us to do about it?”
“You know the Navy.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know their, say, penchant for protecting their own?”
“All too well.”
“How much stronger do you think it would be, with an Admiral in the docket?”
“Yes.”
“Yes indeed. I must go now. Cannot be late back to work. Sir, I trust this message to you, I trust you to get it to Mister Hartley. You understand the necessity of his involvement.”
“I do indeed.”
“Very well. I bid you good day.”
We shook hands. Very small hands he had. He managed a smile, and I once again felt the soothing glow of Mrs. Tummley’s spite as he exited the office. I took a minute to review the facts in my head, then exited my office as well. Mrs. Tummley’s glow combined in both spite and generous patronship. Spite for my friendliness to intruders, patronship for the obvious reasons.
“Misses Tummley, my favorite woman above thirty.”
“You have a lot of favorites under thirty.”
“True, but none so dependable and knowledgeable as yourself. Is the boss in?”
“He hates being called that.”
“I’m not calling him that. Not to his face at least. Is he in?”
“He is. What’s going on?”
“A matter of national security.”
“Ten years, and I still don’t learn never to ask.”
“You never learn, that’s what I like about you.”
Cooking with Arsenic
Chapter 1
Port
From my office, I can see Los Angeles Harbor. It's not a corner office or anything. It's just high enough to be a pain to get into, and just low enough never to be mistaken for prestigious. It has one window that looks out over the Pacific Electric building, then out to the crooked beach of the San Pedro turning basin. My desk doesn't face my office door, like I want it to, because I like looking out at the ocean. The port is always busy these days. A few frigates, maybe even a destroyer are docked there, the less-important cousins of others under repair at Midway and Hawaii, bombed or no. I have my desk sidelong to the door.
Sometimes, in my more heroic moods, I like to think of some half-hearted crook busting open the door, screaming revenge, firing misguided shots through my window, while I crouched behind my impenetrable desk, waited for the shooting to subside, and then arrested the poor, misguided sap. Of course, it would never happen. They'd never get past Mrs. Tummley. She worked for the library for fifty four years, before they made her retire. She works here through equal measures of generosity and spite. Generosity for my associates and I, McAven, Hartley, and Miller, private investigators. I'm Miller. Mrs. Tummley's spite is reserved for anyone who tells her when she should retire.
Suddenly, my door bursts open, and through it, comes a sight as surprising, though not as shocking, as a revenge-bent, crook-toothed monster with a gun. Through my door walks a beautiful blond, almost six feet, five feet of which is all legs. She has two of them. They're each about two and half feet. Six feet of legs. Basic math. I can still feel the radiant heat of Mrs. Tummley's spite like an aura around her. Mrs. Tummley does not extend her generosity to blonds.
“What'cha thinkin?” She asks, interrupting my repose. She's chewing gum.
“Narrating my life.” I respond. I have to work on making it less obvious I'm thinking.
“Always said you'd best stop watching those movies.” She replies. Typical female attitude. “How's it coming?”
“Fine. I was just thinking about how a beautiful blond walked through my door, almost six feet tall.”
“Why do I have to be a six foot blond? You don't like the way I look?” The petite fiery redhead says, who is now luxuriating in one of the sadly bestained chairs which flotsam my office.
“I'm translating.” I reply, wincing at the extra stain of rivet-driver grease she's added to one of the less stained charis. “You have to be that way for the audience to understand how pretty you are.”
“I told you, you need to stop it with those movies. Used to be, people only thought they had an audience when they were on stage.”
“Not true.” I reply. She has abandoned her chair after a particularly bad creak, and re-positioned on my desk. She's trying to distract me. Crafty vixen. I carry on. “Since when were you so old, to be speaking of “back in the day?” Besides, you know very well that Chaucer and Shakespeare both were extremely audience-conscious, off stage as well as on. Homer probably was too, and Plato, well, obviously.”
“I'm three months older than you.” she replies. “And they weren't wasting the precious little time of their girl's lunch break.”
“True enough.” I reply. “Were would you like to go today?”
“Can't.” She says. “Have to get back, and I ate on the way here.”
“As always.” I say, feigning disappointment. I would be disappointed, don't get me wrong – it just happens too often for any real feeling. She remains unconvinced of my disappointment, and in a movement of the utmost aggression, kisses me squarely upon the nose before braving the spite of Mrs. Tummley, swinging herself, lithe out of my office. As I snatch at a last few glimpses of her through my glass door, a young man, sadly, of obviously foreign origin pushes through the door, and heads directly for my office. It has the discouraging characteristic of being closest to the door, and most visible as one enters. On his way, his ankle meets the ankle of Mrs. Tummley. He trips, and falls, very nearly smacking his head against my glass door. Thankfully, Mrs. Tummley's aim is better than that, and he misses. Her ankle will be fine. I have known for some time she does not approve, indeed, she retains her deepest, most horrifying spite for those who underestimate the power of the secretary.
The man, however, seems distracted enough not to care. He scrambles to his feet, his smooth-soled shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. He dives into my office, like the last man onto the lifeboat, and takes a moment to buoy himself by the door, his eyes scrambling momentarily for me, returning twice to the middle of the room, where my desk, it seems, ought to be. He blinks twice, his eyelids seeming to make a clack similar to his shoes. He does not seem truly at rest until I stand.
“Come in.” I say. “Have a seat.” I glance outside. Mrs. Tummley is glaring at me, now, hoping against hope I will eject this poor, bedraggled, and well-heeled (if not well-soled) individual, putting him back at her mercy.
“Mister McAven?” He asks.
“No, Mr. Miller.” I reply. He looks disappointed.
People seem to eternally have the wrong idea about this. Why is it that a company of private investigators is always thought to have the most senior member in full view of the door? What other company commits such heresy and foolishness? Besides this, Mr. McAven isn’t actually the longest-standing member of the company, that would be Mr. Hartley. Mr. Hartley started Hartley, private investigations, in 1917. He made his fame investigating and providing sound legal advice for liquor merchants, especially the smaller ones, and for investigating the divorces of Hollywood movie stars. Mr. Hartley was one of the first private investigators in Los Angeles, and one of the most trusted. That our sweaty friend sitting across from me did not know Mr. Harley ran the business indicated that his fine shoes were not bought with movie-cash. Mr. Hartley added Mr. McAven in 1937, when he began to see the great assistance an experienced lawyer could add to the investigative process. Mr. McAven had been especially impressive in the Roman Strauss affair. He retired shortly after that sordid affair. It was only two years later Mr. Hartley and Mr. McAven added Mrs. Tummley, when McAven and Hartley was becoming a liferaft for the retired but not tired.
During this time, Mr. Hartley had never underestimated the assistance of a young pair of legs, or arms, and had provided part and full time gainful employment to any number of young men, and for that matter, young women, which was how I found my first employment here. You see, McAven and Hartley, at the time, hired a young lady to do secretarial work, a young lady who held in her lips and long, long legs the hope of most of the junior and senior classes at my high school, along with the daydreams of more than a few of the freshmen and sophomore types. My working for Hartley was a way of impressing her. In the fire and passion of my love, I ended up impressing him more, working a number of jobs, some of which have something to do with my unfortunate juvenile record, others with my unexpected acceptance at Stanford. I returned to work for him all three summers of my college education, giving me the opportunity to regale the young and influential of Stanford my very own Dashiell Hammett stories, ever so slightly, well, translated. When I graduated, my graduation present from the one who could only be described as a secondary father figure was the offer of a full partnership, and the opportunity, should I so choose, to hire my very own young lackeys to do the heavy lifting. Mr. Hartley has taken the addition of another partner to mean that he can begin his own retirement, if only partially, though the advent of the war has attracted him again to our offices. He has been fascinated, as have we all by the special problems in investigation provided by the essentially gypsy class of military men, and the tight self-protecting organization of the military. Most of our business now comes from a variety of night-club owners and businessmen seeking various reparations for damages done by visiting military men, who seem to do as good a job trashing Los Angeles as they have ever done to the pacific islands.
Which brings us back to our poor sweating friend here. Interesting, he sits crooked. That, and his age, explain his being here rather than on some Asian island. Excuse the long description, I know it’s out of character, it probably won’t become important later, but it’s my life, I find it interesting, and I’m not old enough yet to be terse and cynical.
“May I see Mister Hartley?” he asks. His accent is of garden-variety school-taught. Not indigenous. Interesting.
“It’s possible, but it would require pleading with Misses Tummley.”
“Miss Tummley?”
I nod towards the reception area. Our friend turns several shades of pale, interesting to only but the most jaded of anthropologists. “Don’t worry.” I assure him, “I can help.”
I see his face recover, the white grimace easing into a tan dour. I know it’s my charm and respectability that help. I try to remind myself that charm and respectability don’t mean squat with a bullet between your ears and a drunk tax accountant – or wife – standing over your body, screaming about tariff law. More horrifyingly, charm doesn’t matter when faced by an IRS agent. It is a long-standing law of the universe that no one can charm an IRS agent. That is the whole basis of American government, and the reason they are the most feared men in the world.
“But.” I say, dramatically, “I would have to know how first. And a name might help as well.”
He stutters for a moment, then manages “John Smith.”
“Very well, Mr. Smith.” I say, giving no indication of incredulity, except the absence of any raised eyebrow. “How can I be of service?”
He ponders for a moment. Sits back. Sighs. Ponders. Lights a cigarette. Shakes it. Draws. I put my feet on the desk.
“You can…”
“Yes?”
“It would be of great help, if you – if Mister Hartley – could meet me, and a friend, at the end of Apple street.”
“He’ll want more details before he accepts an invitation.”
“A matter of national security.”
“What sort of matter?”
“Of some delicacy.”
“Matters of national security, in my experience, are rarely matters for delicacy.” What the hell do I know? I’ve never been involved in a matter of national security in my life, unless you count the governor’s affair, and that’s a different matter.
“I don’t think you are in any position to comment.”
“Well done. You called my bluff.” Best to just own up to it. “I still insist upon knowing.”
“My wife has several times gone to bed with a certain Admiral.” Hardly a matter of national security. But typical of a jealous husband. “Not that I mind, you understand. I can trust you to be discreet?”
“Of course.”
“And this Admiral, he has disclosed certain secrets.” Could this be on the level? “I am concerned such activities may continue, and may threaten the fiber of this nation. Loose lips, and all that, you understand.”
“Very much so. What would you like us to do about it?”
“You know the Navy.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know their, say, penchant for protecting their own?”
“All too well.”
“How much stronger do you think it would be, with an Admiral in the docket?”
“Yes.”
“Yes indeed. I must go now. Cannot be late back to work. Sir, I trust this message to you, I trust you to get it to Mister Hartley. You understand the necessity of his involvement.”
“I do indeed.”
“Very well. I bid you good day.”
We shook hands. Very small hands he had. He managed a smile, and I once again felt the soothing glow of Mrs. Tummley’s spite as he exited the office. I took a minute to review the facts in my head, then exited my office as well. Mrs. Tummley’s glow combined in both spite and generous patronship. Spite for my friendliness to intruders, patronship for the obvious reasons.
“Misses Tummley, my favorite woman above thirty.”
“You have a lot of favorites under thirty.”
“True, but none so dependable and knowledgeable as yourself. Is the boss in?”
“He hates being called that.”
“I’m not calling him that. Not to his face at least. Is he in?”
“He is. What’s going on?”
“A matter of national security.”
“Ten years, and I still don’t learn never to ask.”
“You never learn, that’s what I like about you.”
10.24.2008
Loss of Innocence and sciences
So, the solution (or at least what I think is a solution now) came to me - and opened a number of new possibilities. My problem was how to express an essentially scientific mindset while simultaneously expressing the draw of mysticism, and the way I think I can pull it off is by making a major element of the story the observation of and interactions with a child, and thoughts upon how that child thinks - the way he has insights without realizing they are insights, and how he sometimes says plain foolish things.
This opened the possibilities of a whole short story collection - which I think I may embark upon - which deals hugely with children, but with children almost as metaphors for ourselves, our politics, our loves, and our deaths, are all reflected in them. The struggle will be to not simply rely upon the natural hypnotism of children (I'm sick of authors who just use kids to arouse automatic sympathies) but to explore the place of children in our world, to show them in their horror and their unexpected kindnesses, and, more than this, to show that they are not always right, and that they do not always know it when they are.
This opened the possibilities of a whole short story collection - which I think I may embark upon - which deals hugely with children, but with children almost as metaphors for ourselves, our politics, our loves, and our deaths, are all reflected in them. The struggle will be to not simply rely upon the natural hypnotism of children (I'm sick of authors who just use kids to arouse automatic sympathies) but to explore the place of children in our world, to show them in their horror and their unexpected kindnesses, and, more than this, to show that they are not always right, and that they do not always know it when they are.
10.20.2008
Story: Pink Knot and the Shell on the Shore
So, back to my story about the young man travelling the world, an encapsulation of the pink knot and the shell on the shore: Two things I don't want this story to become are preachy and somehow "against" modernism/rationalism/structuralism. I believe structuralism has its uses, and I don't believe that somehow the dreams of savages are superior to our own -the noble savage ideal is one I reject completely - I am, in fact, more likely to trust in the dreams of modernist scientism than its results - I think they are beautiful, worthwhile dreams. So I don't want to criticize them. But I do want to bring up the joy of metaphor, because I think metaphors, and their mis-application does lead to a fair amount of the pain and bad philosophy in the world. So, there's definitely a struggle there, for me as a writer at least. Hopefully one I can somewhat transfer to the page.
Storytelling and focus
So, in a random, unfocused attempt to give this blog a bit more focus, I've decided, for now, to make the focus of this blog my story writing. I'm thinking of working on a short story collection, to work on my plotting skills, and, if nothing else, this should give me a good chance to keep my mind on it.
So, for now, I'm back. Perhaps not all that consistently, but I'm back.
So, for now, I'm back. Perhaps not all that consistently, but I'm back.
10.06.2008
A thought
A thought for today:
Despite a history of oppression, despite a long string of human rights violations, despite the fact we kill babies, torture prisoners, invade countries, snoop, and generally limit freedoms, the United States has, it seems, managed to make at least one man completely free.
George W. Bush.
Free of consequences. Free of accountability. Free to torture, invade privacy, extradite, invade, and generally do whatever he wants. These days, generally, even, free of criticism. I wonder if that's because the critics are getting tired.
Despite a history of oppression, despite a long string of human rights violations, despite the fact we kill babies, torture prisoners, invade countries, snoop, and generally limit freedoms, the United States has, it seems, managed to make at least one man completely free.
George W. Bush.
Free of consequences. Free of accountability. Free to torture, invade privacy, extradite, invade, and generally do whatever he wants. These days, generally, even, free of criticism. I wonder if that's because the critics are getting tired.
10.02.2008
A thought on political definition
I've been thinking about Obama's position on abortion, and I arrived at a broad, but I think, insightful set of definitions.
The libertarian believes the government/society has the least possible place dictating the range of choices of the individual.
The authoritarian believes the government/society has the most possible place dictating the range of choices of the individual.
The "liberal" believes the government/society has the least possible place dictating the moral choices of the individual, and a greater place dictating the possible economic choices of the individual(s).
The "conservative" believes the government/society has the least possible place dictating the economic choices available to the individual(s) and a greater place dictating the moral choices of the individual(s).
It offers interesting insight toward Palin's comments on abortion as well - she seems very reluctant to say anything about policy towards abortion, but very open about her "personal" feeling - which is almost the same as Obama's position - thinking people should make the decision for themselves.
The libertarian believes the government/society has the least possible place dictating the range of choices of the individual.
The authoritarian believes the government/society has the most possible place dictating the range of choices of the individual.
The "liberal" believes the government/society has the least possible place dictating the moral choices of the individual, and a greater place dictating the possible economic choices of the individual(s).
The "conservative" believes the government/society has the least possible place dictating the economic choices available to the individual(s) and a greater place dictating the moral choices of the individual(s).
It offers interesting insight toward Palin's comments on abortion as well - she seems very reluctant to say anything about policy towards abortion, but very open about her "personal" feeling - which is almost the same as Obama's position - thinking people should make the decision for themselves.
9.30.2008
A Hat Thought
In the real world, one of the things I am known for, I suppose, is my tendency to wear classic hats - fedoras, porkpies, caps, even a bowler, now and again. I think there are so many good reasons for wearing them - protection, warmth, shade, the soft feeling of a good felt, and, perhaps best of all, the fact that tipping (or doffing) one's hat is, it seems to me, the last sign of respect which can both excite joy, and never offend. Everyone understands and accepts the hat-tip as a sign of respect, and it's a wonderful thing.
So I've been thinking - why has this wonderful thing disappeared. Somehow, this idea got mixed up in my mind with thoughts of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's nest (accidental thought collisions are probably the only thing responsible for my limited creativity) and I realized that, among other things, that is a story of height - the narrator sees himself as small, even though he is huge, and sees the imposing nurse as huge, until the protagonist restores the narrator's faith in himself, and the narrator sees himself as big. We've all experienced this, a feeling of elevation when we are "winning" because height and size are power, in our common metaphoric structures. (Great Lakoff tie-in)
So, the thougt occurs - a hat, especially the bowler, looks rather rediculous on a short man, yet few can disagree with the look of it on a tall man. Even more so with the fedora (though it does not look as silly on the short man). Could it be that the disappearance of hats is symptomatic of the disappearance of the can-do culture. Think about it - which culture still has the can-do attitude in America? Cowboy culture, perhaps? And which culture still wears hats, in the traditional sense? Even more curiously, isn't a bare head associated with shame, even biblically? Think about crowns in cultures across the word, and laurel wreaths. Interesting, interesting, interesting.
So I've been thinking - why has this wonderful thing disappeared. Somehow, this idea got mixed up in my mind with thoughts of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's nest (accidental thought collisions are probably the only thing responsible for my limited creativity) and I realized that, among other things, that is a story of height - the narrator sees himself as small, even though he is huge, and sees the imposing nurse as huge, until the protagonist restores the narrator's faith in himself, and the narrator sees himself as big. We've all experienced this, a feeling of elevation when we are "winning" because height and size are power, in our common metaphoric structures. (Great Lakoff tie-in)
So, the thougt occurs - a hat, especially the bowler, looks rather rediculous on a short man, yet few can disagree with the look of it on a tall man. Even more so with the fedora (though it does not look as silly on the short man). Could it be that the disappearance of hats is symptomatic of the disappearance of the can-do culture. Think about it - which culture still has the can-do attitude in America? Cowboy culture, perhaps? And which culture still wears hats, in the traditional sense? Even more curiously, isn't a bare head associated with shame, even biblically? Think about crowns in cultures across the word, and laurel wreaths. Interesting, interesting, interesting.
9.29.2008
My hope for fame: applying geekiness to swearing
So, a few friends and I invented a swear word the other day -
132.
It's wonderfully simple. Just represent 132 using your fingers as binary digits - AKA, right thumb is 1, pointer finger is 2, middle finger, 4, ring finger 8, etc...
A few suggested uses:
fu&132. or fu+132
also plausible: "But officer, I was just telling you I had four drinks... in binary!"
For those who still need help, 132 is 2 to the 7th plus 2 to the second.
Incidentally, 132 is Steve Job's number on the Forbes rich list 2007. Hmmmm....
132.
It's wonderfully simple. Just represent 132 using your fingers as binary digits - AKA, right thumb is 1, pointer finger is 2, middle finger, 4, ring finger 8, etc...
A few suggested uses:
fu&132. or fu+132
also plausible: "But officer, I was just telling you I had four drinks... in binary!"
For those who still need help, 132 is 2 to the 7th plus 2 to the second.
Incidentally, 132 is Steve Job's number on the Forbes rich list 2007. Hmmmm....
9.26.2008
The manifesto I wish I could write
I live in a nation without borders.
I live in a nation whose stock never fails.
For my nation invests in information, in wisdom, and knowledge - and though they may fail, for they are human, they are never less valuable.
I live in a kingdom of information
Stretching around the world
In this kingdom, there is no single king.
There are many kings, and they are mostly symbolic.
Symbolic, but personal, rather than powerful, yet distant.
They are the best sort of kings.
There are many rulers, but none of them rules, only advises, for each man has dedicated himself to this - knowledge and wisdom, these are worthwhile beyond gold. They are also capable of a socialism beyond the wildest dreams of the most fervent Marxist.
They gain value as they are shared.
In fact, that may be their only value.
It is partly true, but I so wish it were more true.
I wish I lived in a nation without cowboy leaders.
A nation whose politicians dedicated themselves-
not to hope, not to nation, not to party, not even to people,
but to love, and, because of love, wisdom
because love without wisdom
is a foolish, dangerous love
and hardly love at all.
I live in a nation whose stock never fails.
For my nation invests in information, in wisdom, and knowledge - and though they may fail, for they are human, they are never less valuable.
I live in a kingdom of information
Stretching around the world
In this kingdom, there is no single king.
There are many kings, and they are mostly symbolic.
Symbolic, but personal, rather than powerful, yet distant.
They are the best sort of kings.
There are many rulers, but none of them rules, only advises, for each man has dedicated himself to this - knowledge and wisdom, these are worthwhile beyond gold. They are also capable of a socialism beyond the wildest dreams of the most fervent Marxist.
They gain value as they are shared.
In fact, that may be their only value.
It is partly true, but I so wish it were more true.
I wish I lived in a nation without cowboy leaders.
A nation whose politicians dedicated themselves-
not to hope, not to nation, not to party, not even to people,
but to love, and, because of love, wisdom
because love without wisdom
is a foolish, dangerous love
and hardly love at all.
8.29.2008
I am one of the many migrane sufferers in our world
And I just had one. My first in several months. I'm in the after-blah right now, and it feel like someone took all the blood out of my veins and replaced it with salt the consistency of molasses.
8.28.2008
8.27.2008
A trick of the soul
So, one of the things Derren Brown talks about in Tricks of the Mind, only getting slightly off topic, is the question of whether one can trust the biblical accounts of Jesus. This strikes me as a very interesting problem in western religion - in so far as western religion seems so very based in two things: faith, and text. One has one's text commanding one to have faith in a savior/God, but at what point can one divide having faith in that God from having faith in those who transmitted that text to you.
The Catholic church seems to have circumvented this struggle, to the best of my understanding, by putting a lot of faith in the transmitters and current authority.
But what should a Protestant do - after all, the Bible tells one to trust in Christ, not in thousands of years of human transmission and translation, and no matter how we may investigate and hope for certainty within that process, it is a human process, unless one resorts to a theory of supernatural intervention in transmission and translation, which has its own problems. This becomes especially problematic on issues which regard one limited section of the larger text which may have been changed or misinterpreted only in a small way, but which leads to a far different conclusion.
What should one do, I wonder. Let us also remember that the point of this excercize is to see, not if one can grow more and more certain of conclusions or of some historical chain of information, but to see if one can, even theoretically, remove a faith which is imbued in a historical person or God which may be supernatural from a faith in historical texts which may not be.
The Catholic church seems to have circumvented this struggle, to the best of my understanding, by putting a lot of faith in the transmitters and current authority.
But what should a Protestant do - after all, the Bible tells one to trust in Christ, not in thousands of years of human transmission and translation, and no matter how we may investigate and hope for certainty within that process, it is a human process, unless one resorts to a theory of supernatural intervention in transmission and translation, which has its own problems. This becomes especially problematic on issues which regard one limited section of the larger text which may have been changed or misinterpreted only in a small way, but which leads to a far different conclusion.
What should one do, I wonder. Let us also remember that the point of this excercize is to see, not if one can grow more and more certain of conclusions or of some historical chain of information, but to see if one can, even theoretically, remove a faith which is imbued in a historical person or God which may be supernatural from a faith in historical texts which may not be.
8.26.2008
A Very Interesting Book
So now I'm reading Derren Brown's book "Tricks of the Mind" I find it thoroughly enjoyable, very truthful, if not entirely true, and enjoyably charactered. Just as a warning, some who do not find irony as attractive as I do may be put off.
8.25.2008
Language games and teaching
Come to think of it, could good or proper teaching be defined as a language game in which both parties win?
We'd have to define win, of course, but that's another language game in and of itself. :)
We'd have to define win, of course, but that's another language game in and of itself. :)
Carrying on the good work
This past week gives me a vague feeling of success. I introduced someone to Wittgenstein, and he took to it like a fish to water.
In the language games of teaching, sometimes I win.
In the language games of teaching, sometimes I win.
Cartesian mind-body problem: A possible solution
So, either no one is interested in the Cartesian mind-body puzzle, or no one is interested in my blog... either way, I shall not be flagged. Though, I must say, I was looking forward to your posts, to see if one of you could come up with an interesting solution. I am content, however, to be the only one leaving a record for future philosopher's amusement.
My current solution of the Cartesian mind-body problem is somewhat as follows:
I think Descartes, in posing this problem, actually confuses imagining a thing with imagining the effects of a thing. If we pose the problem differently, "I can imagine the effects of my mind existent without my body..." well, of course I can, but I can imagine the effects of anything without that thing - the morning star's effects (light in our atmosphere, even a gravitational pull near Venus) can be imagined without the existence of the morning star, a podium's effects can be imagined without a podium. When we imagine ourselves looking at ourselves in the mirror and nothing being there, we are not imagining consciousness, we are imagining vision, which is one of the effects of consciousness. Even the feeling of consciousness is not consciousness itself (to say it is would, perhaps, be the position of a staunch and limited materialist, but I think I can feel safe from Descartes on that one) but an effect of consciousness.
Of course, this leads us only deeper into difficulty - how do we know the effects of a thing from the thing? But it also leads us closer to a solution - for it seems to ever answer the question "what is real?" we must, of course, answer that very question - what are effects, and how may we divide them from a thing. This, incidentally, is one of the great difficulties of linguistics, no?
What think you?
My current solution of the Cartesian mind-body problem is somewhat as follows:
I think Descartes, in posing this problem, actually confuses imagining a thing with imagining the effects of a thing. If we pose the problem differently, "I can imagine the effects of my mind existent without my body..." well, of course I can, but I can imagine the effects of anything without that thing - the morning star's effects (light in our atmosphere, even a gravitational pull near Venus) can be imagined without the existence of the morning star, a podium's effects can be imagined without a podium. When we imagine ourselves looking at ourselves in the mirror and nothing being there, we are not imagining consciousness, we are imagining vision, which is one of the effects of consciousness. Even the feeling of consciousness is not consciousness itself (to say it is would, perhaps, be the position of a staunch and limited materialist, but I think I can feel safe from Descartes on that one) but an effect of consciousness.
Of course, this leads us only deeper into difficulty - how do we know the effects of a thing from the thing? But it also leads us closer to a solution - for it seems to ever answer the question "what is real?" we must, of course, answer that very question - what are effects, and how may we divide them from a thing. This, incidentally, is one of the great difficulties of linguistics, no?
What think you?
8.21.2008
Writing Stories
I'm thinking about writing more short stories, as practice for my writing in general, and especially for my ability to achieve cogent plots. For inspiration, I'm turning to something my friend Abigail did recently, which is write short stories based on images. This week, my image is Dali's Pink Knot and Shell on the Seashore.
So far, what I'm thinking is an interaction between the modern world and ancient mysticism (a theme in keeping with Dali, I think).
So far, I'm thinking about a young man, fresh out of Harvard, who joined the peace corps for lack of other attractive options, and is sent on a cultural mission to Africa, to be a translator and general help to a tribe there. He discovers they have an odd tradition of burying sticks in the beach sand and then giving them mystical names. He, of course, takes this from a post-christian western perspective, and silently mocks it, especially their idea that some of them have that certain sticks go straight to the center of the earth, until, during a tryst with a woman, she ties her hair-ribbon around one of the sticks to go swimming, and he feels the stick plunge right to the center of the earth metaphorically.
That's pretty much it. Oh, and he's friends with a translator from the tribe who is old, who he calls Bwana for no apparent reason, and who smokes a pipe.
Where shall I go from here...
Metaphors. Lots of metaphors.
Ultimately, I think I want to achieve a feeling of two cultures clashing and neither having the upper hand (unlike so much other "tribalism" literature), but still effecting the destruction of a human's value system.
So far, what I'm thinking is an interaction between the modern world and ancient mysticism (a theme in keeping with Dali, I think).
So far, I'm thinking about a young man, fresh out of Harvard, who joined the peace corps for lack of other attractive options, and is sent on a cultural mission to Africa, to be a translator and general help to a tribe there. He discovers they have an odd tradition of burying sticks in the beach sand and then giving them mystical names. He, of course, takes this from a post-christian western perspective, and silently mocks it, especially their idea that some of them have that certain sticks go straight to the center of the earth, until, during a tryst with a woman, she ties her hair-ribbon around one of the sticks to go swimming, and he feels the stick plunge right to the center of the earth metaphorically.
That's pretty much it. Oh, and he's friends with a translator from the tribe who is old, who he calls Bwana for no apparent reason, and who smokes a pipe.
Where shall I go from here...
Metaphors. Lots of metaphors.
Ultimately, I think I want to achieve a feeling of two cultures clashing and neither having the upper hand (unlike so much other "tribalism" literature), but still effecting the destruction of a human's value system.
The Cartesian Mind-Body problem
On the topic of the embodied mind, I'm also watching Yale's open course on Death, with Professor Shelly Kagan. In lectures 5 and 6, Professor Kagan brings up a very interesting philosophical puzzle first posed by Descartes. It is, in brief, as follows:
"Because I can imagine my mind as completely distinct and operational without my body, the mind and body must be two separate things."
Among us weirdo philosophers, this is the sort of stuff that keeps us up at night. I can see how it would be a somewhat compelling argument, after all, it does seem terribly hard to imagine music without sound waves. For that matter, to take a hint from Yeats, it seems rather difficult to imagine a dance without a dancer, or a dancer without a dance. That in itself is a whole separate philosophical debate, but I hope you can see the essential point of Descartes' argument - that in some way, our imagination seems limited by laws of identity and non-contradiction, that is, if a thing is itself, we can not even imagine it to be existent in part but not in whole.
Kagan goes on to list other illustrations:
Can we imagine a smile without a body (and yes, teeth do count)
Can we imagine a podium without a podium?
Can we imagine anything without that anything itself?
So, if we can imagine the mind without the body, if we can imagine being wholly conscious beings without a body (and I, at least, dream fairly often that I am without a body) then must the mind and body be separate things?
I think I've come up with a solution, but I want to hear anyone's comments first, because I'm interested to see if anyone comes up with a solution, and, hey, suspense is fun, right?
"Because I can imagine my mind as completely distinct and operational without my body, the mind and body must be two separate things."
Among us weirdo philosophers, this is the sort of stuff that keeps us up at night. I can see how it would be a somewhat compelling argument, after all, it does seem terribly hard to imagine music without sound waves. For that matter, to take a hint from Yeats, it seems rather difficult to imagine a dance without a dancer, or a dancer without a dance. That in itself is a whole separate philosophical debate, but I hope you can see the essential point of Descartes' argument - that in some way, our imagination seems limited by laws of identity and non-contradiction, that is, if a thing is itself, we can not even imagine it to be existent in part but not in whole.
Kagan goes on to list other illustrations:
Can we imagine a smile without a body (and yes, teeth do count)
Can we imagine a podium without a podium?
Can we imagine anything without that anything itself?
So, if we can imagine the mind without the body, if we can imagine being wholly conscious beings without a body (and I, at least, dream fairly often that I am without a body) then must the mind and body be separate things?
I think I've come up with a solution, but I want to hear anyone's comments first, because I'm interested to see if anyone comes up with a solution, and, hey, suspense is fun, right?
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