Mad Cap Socialist Self Analysis! ("Mi Casa") Continues. Part Six: Remember, New Perspective

Continuing a piece about my home town, it's odd military history, and my position within.

PREVIOUSLY ON "Mi Casa":
PART ONE: History. A timeline of important dates in this project.
PART TWO: Introductions. In which the players of this one-act socialist analysis first pop up.
PART THREE: Flash Back-Flash Forward. Work on the top-secret project begins.
PART FOUR: Start Your Engines. The people start building the bomb (in more than one place).
PART FIVE: This Is More Than Just a Test. The first detonation of an atomic bomb at Trinity, New Mexico.

GREETER
Flashback to July 24, 1945, eight days after the Trinity test. At the Potsdam Conference, President Truman decides to tell Stalin that America has the bomb. (PRESIDENT HARRY S. TRUMAN and JOSEF STALIN walk on stage and pantomime the scene that GREETER describes.) However, unsure of how the dictator will react, Truman decides to make the announcement by a casual aside comment, telling Stalin that the United States has a powerful new weapon. Reports vary as to the exact reaction of Stalin when Truman made the comment, but most agree that Stalin looked impassive and did not seem overly concerned with the announcement. (HARRY S. TRUMAN goes to the side and watches STALIN closely.) Russian reports state that Stalin did this on purpose to protect Russia’s own nuclear program.

(STALIN looks off-stage and whistles loudly. IGOR KURCHATOV appears quickly.)

STALIN
(Whispers to KURCHATOV) Better hurry up. Or you will be shot.

(KURCHATOV exits in a flash. STALIN follows him.)

GREETER
By 1949, the Russians had detonated their own atomic bomb. On September 23, 1949, President Truman made the announcement.

PRESIDENT TRUMAN
We have evidence that within recent weeks an atomic explosion occurred in the U.S.S.R. (Exits.)

GREETER
The Cold War was in full swing and the Arms Race was on. Los Alamos played a critical role in the Cold War as the National Laboratory continued to be weapons development center. The town remained highly guarded and secretive due to the dangerous work being done in the Lab and the possibility of Russian spies stealing nuclear secrets. And there we have it. (Addresses COLIN MILROY) Mr. Milroy, you’ve had a chance to hear about the history of Los Alamos and share your own thoughts. What about looking at the town from a social perspective?

COLIN MILROY
For the first few years after I moved away from Los Alamos, people would ask me jokingly if I glowed in the dark from radiation upon hearing I grew up in Los Alamos. It was surprising that I got this same question from every part of the country I lived or visited. The Lab dominated employment at Los Alamos ever since the town began. As a result, Los Alamos is filled with scientists: physicists, engineers, biologists, and on and on. My father was an exception as he worked at the only hospital and was the only urologist in town. When I was growing up, all of my friends’ fathers were scientists. Most of their mothers, like mine, were homemakers when we were children. Due to the highly classified nature of the Lab’s work during the 1970s and 1980s, work at the Lab couldn’t be discussed. There were many elements of Los Alamos that gave it a militaristic identity that I simply accepted because I had not really been exposed to any other kind of town. A machine gun guard tower still stands in one of the three entrances to the town. The machine guns and guards are no longer there, but the tower stands as a stark reminder of the “secret city’s” way of life in the early 1940s. There are several areas surrounding both Los Alamos and White Rock that are fenced off with barbed wire fences and signs that read, “Keep out. Explosives.” Certain areas of the town were mined and fenced off when the town was built in case of invasion from German or Japanese forces. A vivid memory I have of my early childhood was playing football in the backyard with my friend Bobby Colston. As we played, there was a muffled boom and the earth shook slightly under our feet. This had happened before, and we did not concern ourselves because we had learned that it was just another underground bomb test and our moms had told us not to worry.

(JAMESON, BLOCH, LUKÁCS, RODCHENKO, TROTSKY, BRECHT, and MARX all give an exasperated sigh and shake their heads. COLIN MILROY looks nervous and self-conscious, as usual.)

GREETER
We're actually not interested in the social aspects of your life. History is over. This is analysis. Remember, the point is new perspective.

COLIN MILROY
I learned new things I didn’t know before.

GREETER
There’s more to perspective than facts.

JAMESON
Perhaps we can be of assistance.

GREETER
Very well. Let the Marxist critics share their thoughts.

JAMESON
Historicize. Los Alamos arose from World War II, a very desperate time. Los Alamos helped create and produce the most powerful weapon in the world at the time. The atomic bomb not only gave the United States unconditional surrender from the Japanese, but the ability to dictate terms to the world or face the threat of nuclear annihilation. Therefore, the world and production could be molded entirely through U.S. interests. The United States could also command the world through entirely new means. Traditional warfare no longer applied. The United States had a weapon that no one had ever seen before. It was also the most efficient weapon ever made. With just one bomb, tens of thousands of lives could be ended instantly. Warfare and global politics were revolutionized and the Cold War became the new conflict between Russia and the United States with no direct confrontation of each other’s forces. It could be argued that Los Alamos helped create the modern world. But compare what was being done in Los Alamos with military and political conflicts of the past. Did Los Alamos really do anything new or was it just holding to a form? Los Alamos developed superior weaponry for the United States to defeat its foes in warfare. Now think historically about the wars between England and France in the Middle Ages. English archers used the longbow to kill thousands of French soldiers and cavalry from a distance that was not thought possible. England developed superior weapons to defeat the French. Think of what the barbarian hordes must have thought when they saw organized Roman legions with iron shields and blades. The Roman Empire dominated Europe for centuries not only through superior organization and tactics, but also through superior weaponry. So Los Alamos was only holding true to form in creating superior weaponry for its ruling forces. And what was the point to building superior weaponry? To destroy the enemy more efficiently. To force the submission of opposing forces. To broaden an empire and impose a particular brand of social and political thinking. Los Alamos also helped get other countries started in copying the form, as Russia raced to build its own atomic weaponry to match the United States. England, France, India, Pakistan, and other countries would soon follow. Everybody wanted a piece of the new weapon, and they wanted it as fast as possible.

GREETER
You don’t seem to have quite the vocabulary that Fredric Jameson does.

JAMESON
In case the audience actually needs to be reminded, they are watching a play and I am not Fredric Jameson. I’m just as actor.

BRECHT
You’re watching a play, you’re watching a play, you’re watching a play!

GREETER
Thank you, Mr. Brecht.

BLOCH
I, for one, am fully supportive of this form of expression. Instead of having facts and testimonies read to them, the audience gets to see actors tell true stories. Not only that, the actors get to put their own thoughts and emotions behind the words that others spoke before them. Feel free to express!

LUKÁCS
Keep it simple!

BRECHT
You’re reading a play, you’re reading a play, you’re reading a play!

GREETER
Thank you, Mr. Brecht. Now, Mr. Trotsky, would you like to share your thoughts?

TROTSKY
Well, I’ve seen this all before. It’s all very dramatic and fascinating, but we’re looking at lives of individuals, not of groups. While this all may be very fine, I’m afraid that there is too much self-promotion here. We’ve seen individual lives, heard individual stories, and this play is entirely about one individual.

COLIN MILROY
Sorry.

TROTSKY
(To COLIN MILROY) Well, I guess it’s to be expected. You are deeply rooted into Los Alamos as a town because you grew up there. You also have been part of a privileged class. Meaning varies depending on your perspective. You’ve come from an insider’s perspective. I think you knew your perspective before you sought out to criticize. The question now is how will this contribute to society and the future? Are you building a bridge to anything?

COLIN MILROY
I’m still figuring that out.

RODCHENKO
Well, at least this is a paper in the form of a play. I like the idea of manipulating the form to get a new perspective. Looking at something differently.

GREETER
That’s quite enough simpering for appreciation, Mr. Rodchenko. Thank you.
(BRECHT gets ready to shout again, GREETER cuts him off.) Yes, they know.

BRECHT
Just wanted to make sure. Is everybody thinking yet?

GREETER
And now, members of the audience, (a drum roll starts, GREETER speaks in a booming voice) the granddaddy of them all, Karl Marx!

TROTSKY
Couldn’t resist the individual theatricality, could you?

GREETER
We all have our weaknesses and our perspectives. Mr. Marx, please.

MARX
Oppression. Think of the social dynamics of Los Alamos during the construction of the atomic bomb and the social dynamics created by the rise of nuclear power. From a macro and micro perspective, the privileged were asserting their will over the underprivileged. There were social hierarchies built into the Lab itself. Los Alamos gave the United States the most privileged status as a superpower in the world. It did so through uprooting individuals from their surroundings and remaking their areas in northern and southern New Mexico into a place of scientific and military consumption. If anything, Los Alamos has served as one of history’s strongest means of promoting Capitalist thought through military might. Those with the greatest means continue to protect their means to the detriment of those who have less.

COLIN MILROY
Rats.

MARX
Sorry, dude. That’s how it is. By the way, I also appreciate theatricality.

COLIN MILROY
Thanks, man!

GREETER
I believe that Mr. Trotsky made a good point. Are we on a bridge to anything? What do we do now? We’ve seen how Los Alamos serves as a means of creating domination. Domination for the privileged over the underprivileged. Many other fabrics of American society advocate these same means. How do defend the underprivileged and achieve social balance? How do we stop domination from being an acceptable social action? Mr. Milroy, what do we do now?

COLIN MILROY
Members of the audience and readers… (Long pause.) Remember to think, analyze and make choices for yourselves. The play is over.

END OF PLAY

Mad Cap Socialist Self Analysis! ("Mi Casa") Continues. Part Five: This Is More Than Just a Test

Continuing a piece about my home town, it's odd military history, and my position within.

PREVIOUSLY ON "Mi Casa":
PART ONE: History. A timeline of important dates in this project.
PART TWO: Introductions. In which the players of this one-act socialist analysis first pop up.
PART THREE: Flash Back-Flash Forward. Work on the top-secret project begins.
PART FOUR: Start Your Engines. The people start building the bomb (in more than one place).

GREETER
Back in America, work proceeded on the atomic bomb. Los Alamos was a fortress city and the work was protected with the highest levels of secrecy. Uranium was processed and supplied from a Manhattan Engineer District laboratory in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. There was only enough uranium to build three bombs. The first was finally tested at Trinity, near Alamogordo, New Mexico, on July 16, 1945 at 5:29.45 AM. The deadly force of atomic energy was finally on display, in more ways than one. The explosion turned the desert sand into green glass, blasted dust and smoke thousands of feet into the air. People as far as fifty miles from the detonation sight suddenly were bathed in light brighter than sunlight. Some called it, “the day the sun rose twice.”

(Some of the Witnesses to the Bomb appear. JOHN R. LUGO, DOLLY ONSRUD, ROWENA BACA, EVELYN FITE TUNE, WILLIAM WRYE and HELEN WRYE all enter and stand in a line on stage. As each individual speaks, their placard is held up by an actor on the side of the stage. When the individual exits, their placard is dropped.)

JOHN R. LUGO (Placard reads, “U.S. Navy Aviator flying transport plane at 10,000 feet going to West Coast at time of detonation.”)
I saw this tremendous explosion to the south of me, roughly 55 miles from my position. My first impression was, like, the sun coming up in the south. What a ball of fire! It was so bright it lit up the cockpit of the plane. I radioed Albuquerque and got no explanation but was told to not fly south. (Exit.)

DOLLY ONSRUD (Placard reads, “Rancher living roughly 20 miles from Trinity, ground zero of test-site.”)
I woke up, looked out my window and saw a mushroom cloud rising from the other side of the mountains, right where my cattle used to graze before the U.S. Army took over my land three years earlier. They just blew it up. I never got any land returned to me, and I never got compensated for giving up my ranch out of patriotic duty. (Exit.)

ROWENA BACA (Placard reads, “Grandfather José Miera owned the Owl Bar, 35 miles from Trinity site)
The Owl Bar was a popular hangout for the area’s scientists and soldiers. The night of the test, friendly MPs went to my grandfather’s house, woke him up, and told him to stand in the street out front because he was going to see something he had never seen before. The sky suddenly turned red. It illuminated the inside of the house I was in, reflecting red off the walls and ceiling. My grandmother shoved me and my cousin under a bed because she thought it was the end of the world. (Exit.)

EVELYN FITE TUNE (Placard reads, “Lives on ranch 24 miles from Trinity.”)
My husband and I were away in Nevada when the blast went off. No one knew what was going on out there, and of course none of us ever heard of Los Alamos or the atomic bomb. Finally, on the way back we went to a movie house in Denver and watched the newsreel. When they showed the hills around the blast area, my husband said, “Hell, that’s our ranch!” My friends and I visited the test site soon after. We found the hole, we picked up the glass, we climbed the twisted and melted parts of the tower. All those people grew up and married and had kids. Nobody that I know of ever turned up sterile. (Exit.)

WILLIAM WRYE (Placard reads, “Lives in house 20 miles northeast of Trinity.”)
My wife and I were returning from Amarillo the night before the explosion. We got to Bingham and there were eight or ten vehicles and all kinds of lights shining up on the clouds. We were stopped by an MP and a flashing red light. After we told them who we were, they let us go on to the ranch. We were so tired we must have slept right through the blast. Next morning, we were eating breakfast when we saw a couple of soldiers with a little black box out by the stock tank. I went out there and asked what they were doing, and they said they were looking for radioactivity. Well, we had no idea what radioactivity was back then. I told them we didn’t even have the radio on. For four or five days after that, a white substance like flour settled on everything. It got on the posts of the corral and you couldn’t see it real well in the daylight, but at night it would glow. Before long, my whiskers stopped growing. Three or four months later, they came back, but they were white, then later, black. The cattle in the area grew white hair along the side that had been exposed to the blast and half the coat on my black cat turned white. (Exit.)

HELEN WRYE (Placard reads, “Lives in house 20 miles northeast of Trinity.”)
People weren’t afraid of the government then. It was a time of innocence. People were trusting. We had never heard of an atomic bomb. (Exit.)

GREETER
People directly involved with the project also have thoughts to share.

(BERLYN BRIXNER and RAEMER SCHREIBER enter.)

BERLYN BRIXNER (Placard reads, “Chief Photographer of Trinity test.”)
I was to shoot 16-millimeter black-and-white movies from every angle and distance and at every speed. There were bunkers at 10,000 meters or 6.2 miles north, east, south and west from the site. I was stationed at the bunker north of
the test site. I was one of the few people given permission to look directly at the bomb at the time. I had calculated for a ten-sun brightness like the theoretical people told me. When the bomb went off, the whole filter seemed to light up as bright as the sun. I was temporarily blinded. I looked to the side. The Oscura Mountains were as bright as day. I saw this tremendous ball of fire, and it was rising. I was just spellbound! I followed it as it rose. Then it dawned on me. I’m the photographer! I’ve gotta get that ball of fire. There was no sound. It all took place in absolute silence. (Exit.)

GREETER
The bomb proved amazingly effective at destruction. The effects of radiation would soon become known not only to people like William Wrye, but to a much fuller extent for the people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. If we flash forward in time for a brief moment, we can hear another inside perspective. This on the effects of radiation for a later bomb test.

RAEMER SCHREIBER (Placard reads, “Head of Core Assembly team for Operation Crossroads in May 1946.”)
Operation Crossroads was a postwar Navy show that destroyed a fleet of surplus warships by two atomic bombs at Bikini Atoll in the Pacific. In May, the cores of the bombs for Operation Crossroads were being checked out in a Los Alamos testing lab. Ted Perlman and I were taking readings from the initiators at one side of the room, and Louis Slotin, who assembled the core of the Trinity bomb, was seated at a table twenty feet away with a plutonium assembly. All of a sudden, there was this flash and a clatter and Louis says, “Well, that does it.” He probably knew that he was a dead man. The core sat among a nested set of spheres of beryllium, a neutron reflector. What he did was to lower one of the hemispheres of beryllium over the core sitting in the bottom half and hold it open with a screwdriver. The idea was to lower it down to where there was just a small gap and, if it gets critical, then you could just stop it at that point. You could waggle the screwdriver and make it multiply or quit. But the screwdriver slipped. The thing dropped completely closed, and that made it super critical, prompt critical. It was stopped by the expansion of the core and beryllium, but it was enough to put out a lethal shot of radioactivity. Slotin opened the assembly with his bare hands. It stopped it from sitting there and cooking, which would have been a pretty sad mess. So it got Louis, and it didn’t do Al Graves any good. He was a little farther away. All that happened to him was that he lost his hair. We all got the hell out of there. We went back up around the corner in back of the shielding wall and Slotin and Graves proceeded to write down the events, to make a record of it. Slotin began to get nauseated and a little crazy. We were all taken to the hospital. We were all OK except Slotin, who died in agony nine days later. (Exit.)

END OF PART FIVE. TO BE CONTINUED...

Go to PART SIX: Remember, New Perspective

Mad Cap Socialist Self Analysis! ("Mi Casa") Continues. Part Four: Start Your Engines

Continuing a piece about my home town, it's odd military history, and my position within.

PREVIOUSLY ON "Mi Casa":
PART ONE: History. A timeline of important dates in this project.
PART TWO: Introductions. In which the players of this one-act socialist analysis first pop up.
PART THREE: Flash Back-Flash Forward. Work on the top-secret project begins.

------


GREETER
By January, 1943, the population of Los Alamos had risen to 1,500. By January, 1944, the population was 3,500. Work began immediately.

(SERBER enters with a notepad, working on his lecture.)

ROBERT SERBER (Placard reads, “Oppenheimer’s assistant. Delivered lectures to scientific staff members about design of nuclear weapons.)
“The object of the project is to produce a practical military weapon in the form of a bomb in which the energy is released by a fast-neutron chain reaction in one or more of the materials known to show nuclear fission.”

OPPENHEIMER
(Leans in from off-stage.) Psst! Don’t say “bomb.” The workmen might overhear the lectures. Say, “gadget.”

SERBER
“We are working on a ‘gadget.’” (Exits.)

GREETER
By October, 1943, the Special Engineer Detachment, or SED, which was part of the Manhattan Engineer District, began to staff the Laboratory. The SED was made up of scientists who had been drafted into the army. The SEDs were comprised of electrical, mechanical, and chemical engineers. Twenty nine percent held college degrees. By the end of 1943, 475 SEDs were working and by 1945, there were 1,823 SEDs working at the Laboratory. These were military scientists who had to wear uniforms. During the course of the Manhattan Project, forty-two percent of the Lab wore uniforms. Nevertheless, the SED were permitted to be non-commissioned officers, and many never had to attend basic training and were exempted from drills, unlike most of their military counterparts. Their place of privilege was resented by some.

(Dirty and ragged MILITARY PERSONNEL walk across the stage, carrying equipment. An SED in a sparkling uniform walks on from the opposite side of the stage, working out calculations on a notepad. The MILITARY PERSONNEL watch him cross the stage.)

MILITARY PERSONNEL
I got to get a transfer into that unit. (Exit.)

GREETER
But the civilian scientists enjoyed privileges that their SED peers did not.

(SED comes back on with his WIFE.)

SED WIFE
What you mean I can’t get a job? I can’t even stay in Los Alamos with you?

SED
Major De Silva won’t allow the wives of SEDs to get jobs in Los Alamos and he won’t let us bring in family.

(SCIENTISTS #1, #2, and #3 enter in their white lab coats, their arms around their WIVES, chatting about housing and life in Los Alamos. They cross the stage and exit.)

SED WIFE
What about them? They get to have their families with them.

SED
Those are civilian scientists. They’re higher up. Most of them worked at universities before they came here and got extra perks to come work here.

(MILTARY PERSONNEL come back on, carrying heavier equipment and looking more ragged than before.)

MILITARY PERSONNEL
Hey, could you give us a hand with this? Oh, that’s right. Wouldn’t want your uniform to get dirty.

(MILITARY PERSONNEL exit grumbling. SED and SED WIFE exit bickering. GEORGE KISTIAKOWSKY enters with GEN. GROVES and OPPENHEIMER.)

GEORGE KISTIAKOWSKY (Placard reads, “Headed SED Division in charge of explosives at S-Site, an explosives test site.”)
They’re unhappy. Morale is low. We’re working hard and doing a lot of the same work as the scientists, but we don’t get any of the perks as the civilian scientists.

GEN. GROVES
That’s because they’re your superiors. You’re the junior scientists and technicians. Everyone follows chain of command. The higher up you are, the greater the benefits you receive.

KISTIAKOWSKY
The SEDs are my staff. They work for me and report to me. I understand the chain of command.

OPPENHEIMER
The SEDs are highly respected among the scientists. They should be rewarded. Remember, we don’t want morale to drop.

GEN. GROVES
You civilians don’t get to tell me what to do about Army matters!

KISTIAKOWSKY
Very well, I’ll resign.

OPPENHEIMER
Oh, dear.

(MAJ. T.O. PALMER enters. OPPENHEIMER, GEN. GROVES, and KISTIAKOWSKY all turn to him.)

MAJ. T.O. PALMER (Placard reads, “Replaced Major de Silva as commander of SED in August, 1944.)
Ahem. I think I can help with this.

(GEN. GROVES, OPPENHEIMER, KISTIAKOWSKY, and MAJ. PALMER exit.)

GREETER
Major Palmer developed a system that made promotion recommendations for groups and divisions of the SED. This helped morale, but conflicting military and laboratory duties remained a problem. (As GREETER speaks, bedraggled MILITARY PERSONNEL continue to do their grunt work.) Meanwhile, over in Russia…

(JOSEF STALIN and LAVRENTI BERIA enter.)

STALIN (Placard reads, “Dictator of Russia.”)
Another purge well done, comrade. Now, I have a project for you.

BERIA (Placard reads, “Head of NKVD, which killed millions of Russians during the Great Purges.”)
Yes, comrade.

STALIN
My spies have intercepted this document, the British MAUD Committee Report. It shows plans to build a bomb of incredible power. This may just be an imperialist trick, but the Germans are besieging Stalingrad. We need all the firepower we can get. Molotov and I have decided to put you in charge of building a new weapon that can be developed from these plans. Citizen Kurchatov is Molotov’s choice for the head scientist. (IGOR KURCHATOV enters.) Make sure this research provides useful information.

BERIA
Yes, comrade.

(STALIN exits)

BERIA (to KURCHATOV)
Make yourself useful or you will be shot.

IGOR KURCHATOV (Placard reads, “Developed Russian atomic bomb.”)
Yes, comrade.

(BERIA and KURCHATOV exit.)

END OF PART FOUR. TO BE CONTINUED...

Go to PART FIVE: This Is More Than Just a Test
Go to PART SIX: Remember, New Perspective

Mad Cap Socialist Self Analysis! ("Mi Casa") Continues. Part Three: Flash Back - Flash Forward

Continuing a piece about my home town, it's odd military history, and my position within.

PREVIOUSLY ON "Mi Casa":
PART ONE: History. A timeline of important dates in this project.
PART TWO: Introductions. In which the players of this one-act socialist analysis first pop up.

------

Part Three: Flash Back - Flash Forward

GREETER
Flashback! (Actors around stage can make flashback sound effects if they feel like it.) Oppenheimer had been planning the Laboratory with some of the world’s most prestigious scientists since September, 1942.

(Actor on side of stage holds up placard reading, “Sept. 19, 1942. Meeting in Chicago to plan new laboratory. Attendees: Oppenheimer, John Manley, Enrico Fermi, Ernest Lawrence, Arthur Compton.” A group of actors gather around OPPENHEIMER. )

OPPENHEIMER
Since our work will be of scientific nature, the leadership will be civilian, even though the military will be actively involved. We’ll collect all of the best
Physicists from around the country! (Circle around OPPENHEIMER disperses.)

GREETER
Flash forward back to early 1943! (Again, sound effects from actors if desired.)
Oppenheimer recruits scientists for the new laboratory.

OPPENHEIMER
(A group of actors congregates around OPPENHEIMER again.) Want to come work at a new laboratory?

SCIENTIST #1
What are we researching?

OPPENHEIMER
I can’t tell you.

SCIENTIST #2
Where’s the laboratory?

OPPENHEIMER
I can’t tell you.

SCIENTIST #3
How long will this take?

OPPENHEIMER
I can’t tell you. But it’s brand new and very important work, I swear.

SCIENTIST #1
Maybe.

SCIENTIST #2
I don’t know. Sounds OK.

SCIENTIST #3
If it’s Oppenheimer, it’ll be good work.

OPPENHEIMER
You’ll be paid better than you are now at the universities.

SCIENTIST #1
Really? That’s good. Who’s funding this?

OPPENHEIMER
Er…um…the Army.

ALL SCIENTISTS
The ARMY???!!!

SCIENTIST #1
We’re building a weapon!

SCIENTIST #2
We’ll have to attend boot camp!

SCIENTIST #3
There will soldiers everywhere messing things up!

SCIENTIST #1
We’ll be taking orders from drill sergeants!

SCIENTIST #2
They’ll be taking target practice and blowing things up!

SCIENTIST #3
We’ll have to wear army uniforms!

(All the SCIENTISTS run away, screaming in terror.)

OPPENHEIMER
This’ll be a hard sell.

GEN. GROVES
(Enters from off-stage) How’s the recruitment going?

OPPENHEIMER
It’s not working. We can’t work in a militarized laboratory. No one from MIT or anywhere else will want to work under military control. There will be friction and loss of morale. I might lose some of the people who have already agreed to come here. We must have scientific autonomy.

GEN. GROVES
This laboratory will be under the control of the Army. Deal with it.

OPPENHEIMER
Can we have a little compromise here?

(GEN. GROVES rolls his eyes, but comes over to OPPENHEIMER. They confer with bowed heads for a few moments, muttering gibberish. They shake hands, GEN. GROVES exits.)

OPPENHEIMER
(Claps his hands. A group of actors as SCIENTISTS gathers around him again.) This laboratory will be developing an instrument of war through experimental scientific and engineering studies. Though we are working on a weapon, the first period of work will be on a strictly civilian basis. During the second period, no sooner than January 1, 1944, the large-scale experiments and handling of highly dangerous material, the scientific and engineering staff will be composed of commissioned officers. (Mutterings of approval from SCIENTISTS.)

GREETER
Fifteen of the thirty-three scientists that Oppenheimer set out to recruit came to Los Alamos. (SCIENTISTS exit.) Starting in December, 1942, Oppenheimer visited the architects and engineers on a bi-weekly basis, constantly refining plans for the new town.

ALBUQUERQUE CORPS OF ENGINEERS (Placard reads, “Helped with design plans and building of Los Alamos.”)
(Walks in with large spreadsheet labeled “Design Plans.”) Geez, this is getting weirder and weirder. What did you say this was going to be again?

OPPENHEIMER
Uhm, a heavy bombardment range.

ALBUQUERQUE CORPS OF ENGINEERS
This sure don’t look like a heavy bombardment range.

OPPENHEIMER
Well, that’s all I can tell you.

ALBUQUERQUE CORPS OF ENGINEERS
Hey boys! Another change for the “Buck Rogers Project!”

(Groans from off-stage. ALBUQUERQUE CORPS OF ENGINEERS exits.)

GREETER
In January, 1943, the first staff of “Project Y,” as the construction at Los Alamos had been named, arrived to begin work. (COLONEL J.M. HARMAN and GENERAL LESLIE GROVES enter.)

COLONEL J.M. HARMAN (Placard reads, “Military Commander at Los Alamos.”)
What a mess. 40 miles from the nearest railroad, no natural gas, limited water, totally inadequate roads. Why are we building a town here?

GEN. GROVES
Security from military attack.

OPPENHEIMER
The idyllic setting.

GEN. GROVES
(To COL. HARMAN) C’mon, hurry up! We don’t want those damn Nazis to build a super-weapon before we do!

OPPENHEIMER
Yes, do hurry up. I can’t believe we had to wait until February.

(A large crowd of SCIENTISTS and STAFF goes by the three men.)

COL. HARMAN
People are already moving in? Are you crazy? There’s hardly a road, we don’t have enough cars, and I don’t even have eating facilities! I’m shipping in box lunches from Santa Fe! I’ve got to do all the laundry in Santa Fe, too!

SCIENTISTS AND STAFF
(Off-stage) This is a little uncomfortable.

OPPENHEIMER
Just look at all the lovely scenery!

GEN. GROVES
Let’s start mining those canyons. That’ll slow down anyone who wants to attack.

(OPPENHEIMER looks nervous. All exit.)

END OF PART THREE. TO BE CONTINUED...

Go to PART FOUR: Start Your Engines
Go to PART FIVE: This Is More Than Just a Test
Go to PART SIX: Remember, New Perspective

Mad Cap Socialist Self Analysis! Continues ("Mi Casa") Part Two: Introductions

Continuing a piece about my home town, it's odd military history, and my position within.

Incidentally, here's what my home town used to look like.

Now, back to the Blogzine...I'll call this series MCSSA or "Mi Casa" for short.

PREVIOUSLY ON MCSSA! ("Mi Casa"):
PART ONE: History. A timeline of important dates in this project

------

Part Two: Introductions

Setting: A theatre.

(As the audience walks into the theatre, they should see a placard mounted on an easel that says, “Welcome Into the Theatre! The Play Will Be Performed In Here.” Audience lights and stage lights are at the same level as the audience comes in and gets seated. As the audience comes in to be seated, the actors playing ERNST BLOCH, BERTOLT BRECHT, FREDRIC JAMESON, GEORG LUKÁCS, KARL MARX, ALEXANDER RODCHENKO, and LEON TROTSKY are waiting to help the audience to their seats. Each actor is wearing posterboard placards around their necks with their character’s names written in large letters. The placards should be large enough to cover the actors’ chests so their character names are the actor’s most noticeable feature. Other actors with names of other influential Marxists or Marxist critics will also be milling about the theatre, greeting the audience and helping them to their seats. When the play is ready to begin, the GREETER comes on stage, and the other actors congregate in a line in front of the stage.)

GREETER
Good evening, audience. Tonight you will be seeing a play, performed here in the theatre. We will be making this play together as we, the actors and technicians, will put a play on display for the purpose of getting a reaction out of you, the audience. Keep in mind that this is a play. The purpose of this play is to examine the identity of one town from a Marxist perspective. That town is Los Alamos, New Mexico. Some of you may be familiar with this town, some may not. We have provided everyone with historical handouts within their programs. Hopefully you’ve had ample time to examine them. These handouts detail the physical history of Los Alamos, New Mexico and its influence on the development of the atomic bomb. The handout also covers some of the effects of the development of nuclear weapons and the arms race as well as Los Alamos’s later role in the Cold War. Now, let’s bring the purpose of this play out to the stage so that the play can begin. Allow me to introduce Colin Milroy.

(COLIN MILROY walks on stage, looking shy and embarrassed. He waves sheepishly to the audience.)

GREETER
Members of the audience, the purpose of the play you are about to watch is for this man to understand his hometown better. To gain new perspectives from which he can critique. We will help him define his own perspective and give him new tools for examination

JAMESON
Historicize!

BLOCH
Artistic reality: feel free to express!

LUKÁCS
Artistic reality: keep it simple!

RODCHENKO
Look at this differently!

TROTSKY
Haven’t we seen this before?

BRECHT
You’re watching a play!

MARX(Gestures to the audience and speaks to the other actors) Would you quit oppressing them from your supposed position of superiority?

GREETER
(Trying to pacify things by settling the actors down) Now, now, let’s not get over-excited and act stereotypically. We have to think carefully. Get a new perspective. We have to re-examine, not oversimplify. Now, as I was saying, you may refer to your inserts for additional information as we give a short re-enactment of the history of Los Alamos. Mr. Milroy, please have a seat in the audience.

(The actors remove their placards and disperse throughout the stage. NOTE: As actors enter the stage to play their different roles during the re-enactment scenes, other actors on the sides of the stage will hold up placards with the characters’ names written in large letters. The side actors will keep holding up the placards for the duration of the scene.)

COLIN MILROY
This is a little confusing. (Goes and sits in a seat in the audience marked, “Reserved.”)

GREETER
The year is 1942. The United States, Great Britain, Germany and Japan have all been investigating the possibility of building an atomic bomb since two German scientists first split the nucleus of uranium in 1938. Russia, initially unconcerned with the possibility of building an atomic bomb, started its research after Soviet spies intercept a report from the British MAUD committee in 1941 detailing England’s research into building atomic weapons. Igor Kurchatov is put in charge of researching the atomic bomb. In America, J. Robert Oppenheimer is put in charge of the American atomic bomb project, called the Manhattan Project. The location of the nuclear weapons deign laboratory is chosen. It will come to be known as Los Alamos National Laboratory, or “The Lab” for short.

(OPPENHEIMER comes on stage with GENERAL LESLIE GROVES)

J. ROBERT OPPENHEIMER (Placard reads, “Prestigious University of California Professor, Nobel Prize winner, picked by Groves to head Lab as general in army of scientists)
This place is perfect for the laboratory.

GEN. LESLIE GROVES (Placard reads, “Commander of Manhattan District Corps of Engineers)
Yes, this is better than Jemez Springs. We can control access to the town through the mesa’s main entry road and use the surrounding canyons for explosives tests.

MAJ. JOHN DUDLEY (Placard reads “Manhattan District staff in charge of finding suitable lab sites in western U.S.)
But there’s hardly any water!

OPPENHEIMER
Look how pretty it is. Look at the Sangre de Cristo mountain range! That’ll be good for morale.

GEN. GROVES
Yes, the military staff and commanders will need to be kept happy.

OPPENHEIMER
Military…? Excuse me?

DUDLEY
Fine, Eggheads. All I’ve had to work with is finding a place for a laboratory that’s building I don’t know what and having a staff size anywhere from 265 to
600. Jemez Springs was fine, but big Mr. Oppenheimer has to have final approval.

A.J. CONNELL (Placard reads, “Director of Los Alamos Ranch School”)
(Enters the stage with ASHLEY POND during previous conversation) Ahem. Excuse me, but I’m running a school here. This is a natural habitat where Troop 22 of the Boy Scouts of America can “learn by doing” in the outdoors, following good President Teddy Roosevelt’s ideal of a vigorous life.

(ROBERT PATTERSON enters.)

ROBERT PATTERSON (Placard reads, “Undersecretary of War”)
Sorry. I just approved the land’s acquisition. The military will be taking over the property and we’ll be using your buildings. The property is condemned. Signed and dated in a letter, December 1, 1942.

ASHLEY POND (Placard reads, “Owned land where Los Alamos Ranch School was built. Founded school.”)
Aaaaugh! I’ve owned this land since 1918! The air is clean and healthy here, perfect for outdoor wellness. We’ve been building up this school since 1920!

CONNELL
Yes, I’ve added college curriculum courses. We just had our highest ever enrollment of 47 students!

GEN. GROVES
We’ll use the Big House as bachelor quarters, that garage will become a fire station, the arts and crafts building can be used for housing and a nursery school…

DUDLEY
We’ll have to start digging immediately.

POND
So much for my peaceful, natural habitat.

(Current Los Alamos has landmark named for Ashley Pond)

CONNELL
We’ll have to close to the school. It can’t be transplanted out of this habitat. I’ll send a letter to the alumni. (To PATTERSON) At least allow us to finish our current term. We’ll work through Christmas vacation.

PATTERSON
When will the term end?

CONNELL
February 8, 1943.

OPPENHEIMER
February????!!!

PATTERSON
Very well. You may finish your term.

GEN. GROVES
What a beautiful military installation this will be!

OPPENHEIMER
Ahem, yes, about it being a “military” installation…

GEN. GROVES
(To OPPENHEIMER) Gather your scientists!

OPPENHEIMER
Yes, well, I’ve been talking to some of the best university professors all over the country…

GEN. GROVES
Excellent! Send me their measurements. We’ll start requisitioning their uniforms. (Exits along with PATTERSON, DUDLEY, CONNELL, and POND.)

OPPENHEIMER
Oh no…

END OF PART TWO. TO BE CONTINUED...

Go to PART THREE: Flash Back - Flash Forward
Go to PART FOUR: Start Your Engines
Go to PART FIVE: This Is More Than Just a Test
Go to PART SIX: Remember, New Perspective

Back to the 'Zine: Mad Cap Socialist Self-Analysis! ("Mi Casa") Part One: History

Back to the publishing aspect of this site, here's another composition. Socialist literary analysis and the odd military history of my hometown with a little self analysis to boot.

LOS ALAMOS AND THE BOMB
A Socialist Perspective in One Act

TIMELINE

December, 1938 – German scientists split the nucleus of uranium, demonstrating the ability to release energy from the nucleus.

September 1, 1939 – Nazi Germany invades Poland. World War II begins.

June 22, 1941 – Germany invades Russia.

July, 1941 – The MAUD Committee, a British agency, prints its final report on Britain’s research into atomic weaponry. Soviet agents intercept most of report and bring it back to Russia in September.

March, 1942 – In Russia, Lavrenti Beria writes a memo summarizing the intelligence he had collected from Britain and the United States. He recommends that the Soviets create a team to investigate building an atomic bomb.

October, 1942 – General Leslie Groves asks J. Robert Oppenheimer to head Project Y: the construction of a new laboratory specifically for designing and building atomic weapons

December 1, 1942 – Undersecretary of War Robert Patterson acquires land in and around the Los Alamos Ranch School for the new lab’s site. The Ranch School’s land is condemned and taken over by the military. The school is allowed to finish its final term.

January, 1943 – Construction of Los Alamos and the National Laboratory begin.

February 8, 1943 – The final term at Los Alamos Ranch School ends.

July 16, 1945 at 5:29.45 AM – The first atomic bomb test at Trinity, near Alamogordo, New Mexico.

Aug 6, 1945 - First atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima, Japan.

Aug 9, 1945 - Second atomic bomb dropped, on Nagasaki, Japan.

September 24, 1949 – President Truman says Russia has atomic weapons.

May, 1946 – Operation Crossroads: two atomic bombs detonated at Bikini Atoll.

November 3, 1972 – Colin Milroy is born.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Go to PART TWO: Introductions
Go to PART THREE: Flash Back - Flash Forward
Go to PART FOUR: Start Your Engines
Go to PART FIVE: This Is More Than Just a Test
Go to PART SIX: Remember, New Perspective

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Seven (Conclusion)

The final chapter from the revised version of travel writings from 2005.

If you're new this story, catch up by clicking on "PART ONE" below.

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX

We all take the last couple of days trying to justify ourselves as cultured tourists. We go to the Rijksmuseum and the Anne Frank house. We travel to Belgium to witness beer being made in the last brewery that uses natural yeast in the air for fermentation. Every other brewery in the world imports its yeast. I learn that beer is actually yeast piss. It doesn’t bother me.

We see the brilliant works of Rembrandt, the glory of the 16th century treasures from the lost Dutch empire, the mashing of modern and medieval architecture in Brussels; we are very, very stoned when we see these and many other beautiful works of culture, art, and life.

Mystique is part of the lure of Amsterdam, just as mystique holds the power to secrets. Imagination gives more power than reality. I love Amsterdam, but I find that I don’t want to debauch myself as much as I thought I would because there isn’t as much mystique or wonder for vices that are readily available, even for drugs and sex (although I still remind myself that I would not feel this way had I been to Amsterdam when I was five years younger). It was as if every piece of candy that I ever wanted was put in front of me, but it was the allure and not the action that held the mystique.

Returning home is very hard. The trip was a protective cocoon of sorts, isolating me from all the problems I face, but I have to come out from behind the shield. I still don’t know how to like myself more. I don’t feel any additional strength or wisdom. There is no clear path for me, no enlightenment that I so desperately wanted and expected. But there is no sense of waste or loss. I’ve gained something, but it may take a long time (if ever) to notice any real effects.

I hope to return to Holland soon, now that I can find my way in Amsterdam. I’ve kept my city map. I’ll bring it with me when I return, but I won’t need to look at it so much. On my first day, when I was lost, I did promise to stay at a hotel near the first canal off Damrak. There is that and many other things I want to do on the return trip, the first being a stop in the coffee shop to watch European football. There, the singing will start anew, and for a little while, I will again know perfect unison.

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Six.

03/15/07 UPDATE: This piece was originally in five parts, but I've made changes. There will be one more post after this one to complete the revisions.

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE

We take many walks throughout the city to sample the different coffee shops; on the third walk of the third day, I decide to try the hashish hot chocolate, dubbed “Little Slice of Heaven” by our group. The mixture goes down easily enough, but after fifteen minutes, even standing and walking is an adventure. As I repeatedly demand to know if everyone is getting as high as I am, we somehow decide it’s time to return to the hotel for the evening.

The closer we get to the hotel, the higher I go. We stop off for dinner just before the Luxer. Like the lousy American I am, I’m stoned out of mind and behaving like an ass. During the meal, I watch Edmond float above the table, and I decide I need to see some great football (meaning soccer in Yank-speak) while I’m in Europe.

I don’t remember getting into my hotel room, but I’m lying on one of two single beds in the room and the TV’s showing great football. Edmond is my babysitter. We’re watching Manchester United versus Arsenal. As with all European football games, the crowd sings different songs throughout the match. I say, “Ooooohhhhhh my God, how do they all know what to sing at the same time? The fans are all singing the same song at once! It’s so beautiful! How do they do that?”

Edmond smiles and says nothing.

I continue gushing. “Do they have a choreographer who tells them what to sing when?”

I have never seen something as spectacular as this football game nor heard music as beautiful as the fans that sing in unison this night. Every pass is extraordinary. The game is close and the crowd swells in anticipation at every goal possibility. All is thrilling. I never freak out.

Eventually, my bed stops spinning beneath me and I feel like I’ve come down and taken enough of Edmond’s time. I tell him that I’m fine and feel great and that it was good of him to sit with me for a bit. He needs to get out so he can get as stoned as I am.

After Edmond leaves, I take a shower to help me get down enough so that I can go downstairs to the bar, get drunk, and talk to Jeff the bartender. Jeff is American and a former professional basketball player who has lived in Amsterdam since 1982. He’s good for conversation and getting guests in the bar to talk together. Jeff is a comfort bartender.

As I shower, the lights in the bathroom occasionally go to a blinding brilliance, sometimes accompanied by a soft crackling sound like the bulbs are shivering. I think about everything that’s happened over the past three years, yet I feel no pain, no embarrassment, no hate, no anger, no sadness. Just a relaxed objectivity of looking at events as facts and not how they affect me. I think about how my wife and I are living together again, that we’re talking about our problems and fighting constructively instead just throwing venom at each other. I think of reasons to be scared and reasons to be hopeful. I marvel at how easily all the hoarded hate and grief has washed off.

I’m standing still in the shower with my arms crossed. I look down and see my shadow washing its hair. My shadow has long, thick hair that billows and swirls. I think of Beauty and the Beast, of transforming into something that’s horrible yet beautiful. A voice from somewhere says, “You really need to like yourself better.”

I spend a nice long night in the bar, drinking heavily and smoking frequently. Sometimes I have company, sometimes I’m alone. I don’t have a sense of contentment or reassurance, but I’m not really actively looking.

To be concluded...

UPDATE: THE CONCLUSION

Revising a Draft

It's been a good long time since I first published the "Clarity in Amsterdam" series here, and I've been revising and revamping it for a while now. I wanted to post the updated changes. There will be another part added eventually (part five is no longer the conclusion). So, if you've read it before, take another look and see if you like it better. If you've never read it, give it a first look-see. I'll be posting the conclusion soon.

I always sermonize to my students about the value of revision, so I'm doing my best to practice what I preach.

The series is posted in the sidebar or you can start reading here.

Pulp Friday Actually on Friday (PF9)

I may actually stick to the Fridays, but we'll see. Pulp episodes continue...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8

”It’s the last thing you did in Maui.”

H.P.’s words are still ringing in my head as he and the goons leave the court. I’m still not quite sure what he means yet, but I’ve got a nervous jitter in my veins that says it’ll come to me soon.

I’m still thinking about this when something obvious jolts me out of my reverie. As I watch H.P. and the goons walk across the baseball fields, it occurs to me that I should follow them.

I leave the tennis courts and walk toward my apartment and then stop behind the largest tree near the courts, hoping I’m stealthy enough.

I look out from behind the tree and see the three figures heading toward the gym parking garage. I walk parallel to them, but away from the sidewalk. The dusk has settled deep enough that the purple-pink glow from the sidewalk lampposts becomes the only available light in the park. I hope this will keep me unnoticed.

Keeping what I think is a safe distance from H.P.’s group, I follow for several minutes toward the gym garage. As they reach the garage, the three trench coats disappear into the stairway entrance. This allows me to make up the distance between us. I run up to the garage and enter through the vehicle entrance, running up the exit ramp as fast as I can.

It’s times like this that I’m thankful Jenny made me quit smoking. My lungs only burn slightly as I head up the first floor ramp to the second level. I listen for the stairway door’s echoing slam that’ll tell me when H.P.’s group has re-entered the garage. Hearing nothing yet, I decide to head up to the third level.

Seconds later, I hear a resounding creak of door hinges on the floor above me. They’ve moved faster than I expected. I move as fast as I can up the ramp to the third level.

As I near the top of the ramp, I hear the boom of the stairway door on the opposite side of the garage and the clopping of what seems like three pairs of feet. I get to the third level and head for the concrete dividing wall between the entrance and exit ramps of the garage, trying to tread lightly.

I reach the dividing wall in the middle of the garage and move quickly to the opening that will allow me to get to the entrance ramp on the other side of the garage where H.P. and his goons are. This will hopefully allow me to see where the getaway vehicle is parked.

Sure enough, I peer through the opening and see H.P. and the goons walking along the opposite wall of the garage. The parking lot is mostly full so I have plenty of vehicles to shield me.

There’s two lines of cars between me and the goons. I crouch low and follow parallel to them as they make their way to the corner of the garage. They stop at a glossy black sedan and H.P. takes keys out of his trench coat. I cross over one line of cars toward the group as H.P. fiddles with his very large key ring. I take up spying position a few cars down. Finally, the sedan gleeps twice at H.P., its slitted red taillight eyes flashing in sinister greeting.

Then, the car starts to lurch from side-to-side in a gentle rocking motion. The goon with the heavy, inexplicable accent barks out a laugh.

”I gersh that she’s avake nuw.”

”You’ll have some lively company for the ride back, then,” H.P. says in his soprano tone.

Weird Accent Goon opens the left-side passenger door and a pair of bound feet immediately appear through the opening. I can’t tell if they’re the same feet that were being dragged through my apartment door earlier today, but it seems like a safe bet.

I watch Weird Accent Goon palm the heels of the thrashing feet and gently lift them back into the car as he sits in the passenger seat. H.P. gets in the driver’s side and Lispy Trenchcoat enters the car opposite him. The three car doors shut simultaneously with a muffled thump and the black sedan is still.

Then the red slitted taillight eyes come to life again as the engine roars. The sedan whips backward toward the line of cars shielding me. I expect the sedan to come to a stop and make its exit. Instead, the sedan accelerates and smashes into the car parked in the row behind it, causing significant damage. Moving forward, the sedan takes a wide turn to the left as the accelerator roars again. The turn is wide enough to clip two more cars, leaving scratches and glass in the sedan’s wake.

As the sedan speeds off in a semi-straight line toward the exit ramp, I look at the license plate. There’s only three red numbers on the white plate: 924.

Normally, a license plate with only three numbers would be unusual, but not altogether strange. Instead, I ponder the weirdness of those three numbers being the same street address numbers of the apartment that Jenny and I bought just before we married. As I make note of this, the nervous jitter in my veins turns to a full jump when I realize what H.P. meant in his parting words to me.

The full implication of these words weighs down on me as I make the slow walk to my apartment, trying to decide what to do next.

This will continue…

Pulp Friday Continues (PF 8)

And it's actually on a Friday this time, just like when I started.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7

“Any worse?” I ask. “My wife is dead, I’m broke, and you and your goons just trashed the front part of my building, so how’s it going to get worse?”

“Oh, you should know by now never to say that, silly,” H.P. says. “You’re a desperate man. Desperate people do desperate things; things they would never normally do. You’ve already proven that.”

“So you say.”

“You’ve got the documentation right there in your hands. Don’t you think that a judge and jury wouldn’t come to the obvious conclusion? You killed George Dean, disposed of his body somewhere in Kihei, stole his checks and credit cards, perpetuated the fraud just long enough to finish your honeymoon and scram from Hawaii before you were discovered. It’s black and white, dear. Admit it.”

I’d really like to have a response to that.

The goon to the right of H.P. pipes up: “Yes, and there’s plenty more evidence besides that, sailor.” He speaks with a heavy lisp. I’d comment on how hissy he was if he couldn’t break my bones so easily.

The goon to the left of H.P. reinforces their point: “Yersh, ve harve burxes and burxes of errvidunce.” His accent is so thick I can’t tell what part of the earth he’s from. But again, faced with easily broken bones, I keep quiet.

“Be good little silent henchmen now,” H.P. says with a trace of irritation. “We have business to finish.”

Here comes the boom. I say, “Fine. What do you want?”

H.P. casually puts his left hand out and Lispy Trenchcoat puts a cigarette into his palm. “To clean up your mess, of course.”

As H.P. lights his cigarette and takes a long, comfy drag, that same smoke craving from this afternoon jumps right back on me. I swallow and try to hide my envy.

H.P. exhales a jetstream of blue-gray fog. “Since it’s your mess, you’ll be doing most of the cleaning. We’ll keep close to make sure that you’re being thorough. You’ll be going through each of your transgressions individually, gathering the pieces, and putting them to rest. Think of it as a labor-intensive confessional.”

“Does it matter that I haven’t done everything you claim I’ve done?”

“Come now, dearie,” H.P. says, “we’ve done our homework. You’ve done it all. It’s best to cease the denial and focus on the cleansing. Don’t you think Jenny wants that?”

“Jenny’s not a part of this.”

“Still with the denial,” H.P. says, “but Jenny’s very much a part of this. Always has been. Haven’t you been feeling her on the back of your neck when your conscience hurts you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

The Trenchcoats shake their heads and make tsk-ing noises.

H.P. says, “Don’t you? Well, you’ve only got your word. We’ve got more than that and it won’t be hard for anyone to connect the dots.”

No more use in arguing. Never was. I fix my eyes on the net and wait.

I hear H.P. take another long, crackling drag before he says, “Good. Now to cleansing. We want you to go back to your apartment and get something for us. We were trying to find it there when you barged in early. It was right at our fingertips. We even had someone who, though unwilling, was very helpful in the search. She knows a little about you and your life, you see. Still, we couldn’t very well transport both her and what we wanted with your badly timed return.”

“Who are you talking about?”

H.P. says, “Be patient, dearie. You’ll see. We decided to take her and let you transport what we wanted since you were so rude.”

That explains the pair of legs that were being dragged through my front door this afternoon. Doesn’t explain who she is, though.

“So, that means this little meeting is over. Time for you to be a porter.” H.P. and the Trenchcoats turn and begin to leave the court.

“What’s my cargo?” I ask their backs.

H.P. looks over his shoulder at me. “It’s the last thing you did in Maui. You'll know what I mean.”

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 9

Pulp Friday's next (PF 7)

Yes, I know it's not Friday. I'm just maintaining the title for consistency of text, not consistency of time. I'm hoping to finalize the first installment of this series in ten entries (or so) here as a basis for something bigger. Again, useful comments are encouraged and appreciated from the three confirmed people I know who have seen this blog. Anybody new, you're also welcome to comment. Thanks.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6

Knowing full well my dumb act won’t work, I ask, “What do you mean, what I did in Maui?”

“Please, dear,” High-Pitch Smirk says. He snaps his fingers and Trench Coats #2 and #3 withdraw manila envelopes from their coat interiors. They both whip the envelopes at me like Frisbees. They come sailing at me over the tennis court net so fast I barely have time to put my hands in front of my face. There’s a loud whack as both envelopes hit my hands and slap to the ground. I look at my hands, expecting to see puncture wounds.

“Pick those up and you’ll see everything you need. Be thankful the boys were tossing envelopes and not cinder blocks this time.”

At least now I know who to bill once my landlord Chung discovers the wreckage of his building’s front door.

I bend down to retrieve the envelopes, feeling very awkward. I stand back up and attempt to convey non-chalance.

“Fine, so you know everything about Maui. Why should I care?”

I try to rip open one of the envelopes and give myself a paper cut. My wince draws grins from the other side of the net.

“Honey, Maui was quite a mess. You’ve been getting away with murder since you got married.”

“Oh please,” I say, “If you really know everything about Maui, you know that I haven’t killed anybody.”

Smirkface keeps smiling.

”Fine, keep smiling,” I tone. “I’m no nun, but I haven’t committed murder.”

“You can keep that up as long as you want, but we know better. See for yourself. Hope your little finger doesn’t bleed on the evidence too much.”

I scowl and withdraw the contents of the first manila folder. Sure enough, they’ve got plenty of pictures. They’ve got pictures of me taking the cash out of safe deposit boxes, signing checks, and handing over credit cards for purchases. These pictures aren’t of concern until I get deeper into the folder’s contents. There are photocopies of bounced checks with my name and signature, rejected credit card notices (also from me), and copies of checks with questionable signatures. A long line of my payment and credit wreckage. The last page is a bank statement of a Mr. George Dean, showing a long list of fraudulent charges from Kihei (“Key-hay?” my neighbor Brian would say), Hawaii.

I stop sifting through the contents. “Good for you,“I say, still trying to affect aplomb. “You’ve documented my bad credit. I won’t charge any purchases to you.”

”You missed the last page, sweetie.”

I thumb back through the stack and discover what I skipped: a missing person’s report from Maui on a Mr. George Dean, filed three days after Jenny and I started our honeymoon there.

”Interesting coincidence that Mr. Dean disappears right around the time you started having money problems on your honeymoon. Even more interesting that you and Mr. Dean had a meeting the night before he disappeared and incredibly interesting considering you started using Mr. Dean’s checkbook and credit cards after he went missing.”

”That’s quite a stretch you’ve made there,” I say with no assurance.

“Open the second envelope, dear.”

I tear open the second folder without making myself look any sillier. Sure enough, the pictures in this folder show me and a man having an animated conversation; I’m gesticulating like a crazed Woody Allen character and the man has his arms folded.

High-Pitch Smirk sounds very smug. ”If Mr. Dean had known he’d have less than 24 hours to live, I doubt he would’ve been the calm one.”

I continue to flip through the pictures that H.P. Smirk and his Trench Coats have given me. They’ve been oily enough to include pictures of Jenny and me, happy and smiling on the beaches and patios of Maui, clinking glasses, gazing into each other’s eyes, Jenny jumping on my back and biting my ear, both of us sharing kisses with hands on each other’s faces, the surf wind blowing her hair through my fingers. Other photos paint a less happy picture: Jenny and I sitting far apart, worried looks on our faces, or Jenny and I engaging in angry conversation. The contrast between the honeymoon’s early-week and later-week photos.

”Looks like there was trouble in more than one place. Did Jenny know how bad your credit was? Did she ever find out how you solved your little money issues?”

They’ve got everything neatly arranged. I decide I’d better play along.

”What do you want?”

H.P. Smirk affects surprise. “Don’t you want to ask me about the photo that brought you here?”

”It’s a fake.”

”Actually, sweetie, it’s not. You should know that. We know you’ve been getting away with more than one murder. I just gave you the documentation of your first, and rest assured, we have plenty of documentation on the second.”

I take a few seconds to ponder this. “So what’s next?”

H.P. Smirk casually folds his hands together, demonstrating his own practiced aplomb. “I’m here to make sure your mess doesn’t get any worse.”

This will continue…

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 8
PF 9

Pulp Friday Comeback (PF 6)

I've made some edits to the previous installments of the Pulp Friday series and I'm trying to pick it back up. Obviously, today isn't Friday, so I'll just try to keep updating this, regardless of the day. It's still going to be Pulpy and it'll still be called Friday to keep to its roots. Now, back to the series.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5

After giving Brian more bewilderment by abruptly leaving, I'm on my way to Welles Park, which is within 10 minutes walking distance of our building. Nice to know that whoever broke into my apartment hasn't gone far, but unsettling to get a call from them them right after receiving a photo of my dead wife mailed via cinder block delivery through front door.

The dusk is gathering as I walk east towards the park. The rain has stopped, but the gray still lingers and seems to latch on to the coming dark.

There’s very few people venturing out in this weather. Welles Park is huge and wide-open, but the drizzle will make this a pretty private meeting.

I’m hoping that, in the next few minutes, I’ll be able to make sense of what’s happened in the last half-hour. Getting smacked by my front door and finding a handkerchief with a photo of my (I think) dead wife sewn inside just before four cinder blocks crash through my apartment building’s front door is strange enough. Add that to my downstairs neighbor Brian overhearing a conversation I wish he hadn’t and a high-pitched voice telling me that I need to meet in Welles Park or something wouldn’t be good for my wife that I thought was dead. Top that with a photo of my wife (that I know is dead because I saw her die) attached to the cinder blocks and I can’t keep anything straight.

The street lights look purple instead of their usual dark pink. Is that from a blow to the head or the confusion of the events of today? Probably both. I could really use a little order and coherency at this point.

As I approach the tennis courts in Welles Park, I see three figures standing together in the center court. This would probably be the three people who broke into my apartment earlier today, but then I remember one person was being forcibly dragged out by the other two. Still hoping for order and sense.

I go through the gate to the courts. I head for the center court, where the three figures in black overcoats are standing with their heads down and their hands in their coat pockets. As I get to mid-court, one the figures says, “That’s far enough, dear.”

I stop and stare at the figures standing on the other side of the net, just beyond on the in-bounds line. No one says anything for a while. I wait for someone to serve.

I lose my patience and finally bark, “What’s this about?” I’d hoped to sound tough and intimidating, but when I say “about” my voice cracks like I’m the middle of puberty. I curse my genes for not making me taller, manlier, and more threatening.

The middle figure lifts its head a little bit, and I can see the same smirking mouth from earlier today.

The high-pitched voice coming from the smirking mouth says, “Well dear, it’s a little complicated. It was going to be easy, but somebody didn’t give me what I wanted and you broke with your normal work schedule. Both of you have made my work much too hard.”

I ponder how cryptic this is and say, “’Kay.” When none of the figures say anything, I add, “Sorry?”

The smirk gets a little wider. It says, “How sweet. But you know that won’t quite be enough, right?”

Hoping for a hard-biting, sardonic reply, I droll, “I didn’t expect so.” My latest attempt at toughness makes me sound like a stoner valley boy because I say “Ah didn’t expect so-wah.” Damn.

“Well, you’re a real pro then,” the sarcastic smirk says. “Here’s what I want from you.”

The two other figures take two steps toward the net and me, keeping the high-pitched smirking mouth between them. High-pitch smirk-mouth figure finally removes his hat, revealing a thin-faced, black-haired man with a daggered nose and wide ears. The smirk disappears and his face darkens. His formerly wide mouth now looks like a beak. It’s strange to see the full face matching the voice. Then he speaks again, and the pitch seems higher and more piercing, like a field mouse as talons sink into its flesh.

“You’re going to clean up the mess you made in Maui.”

I was afraid he’d say this. Depending on how much my neighbor Brian heard, I may have to kill him if I live through this.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

The Next Pulp Friday (PF 5)

Pulp Friday continues...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4

Brian stares at the wreckage of our building's front door while I look at a a picture of Jenny, my dead wife. The door of our building being smashed in is one thing wrong, but the other is I've never seen the picture of my wife that I hold in my hands. I'd be more concerned with the latter except that the picture I'm holding was taped to the cluster of cinder blocks that were thrown through the door. I have to give equal attention to both abnormalities.

Brian, my downstairs neighbor in this building, shakes his head. "Jesus Christ," he says, "Chung's going to flip."

Chung's our landlord. A very stiff fellow who hates to spend money on this building.

I say, "Now we don't have to nag him about replacing the broken panes."

Still shaking his head, Brian says, "I'm worried because now we have to actually convince him to buy us a new front door."

That is a tall order, but I'm too immersed in this photograph to attempt any sort of conversation. My wife is in this photo, but her face is distorted, as if she was crying out in pain. It's just her head and neck, nothing below that. I can't imagine what's causing her face to do that.

Brian says, "Hey, there's a number on the back of the photo."

I turn the photo around and, sure enough, what looks like a phone number is neatly written on the back.

"Call the cops," I say to Brian, "I'm going to try this number."

I go back upstairs to my apartment and dial the number.

After four rings, there's a click and the ringing stops. No voice speaks on the other end.

"Hello," I finally say.

A high-pitched whisper on the other end says, "Sorry about your head. We weren't expecting you home for another hour at least. Make sure you use some ice."

"Who the hell-" I begin.

"Better just listen, rather than talk. There's a problem we need to discuss. It involves you personally."

"Swell. My day gets better."

"No talk, dear. Meet me in Welles Park on the tennis courts in ten minutes and come alone. Company wouldn't be good for Jenny."

Then the voice is gone and the dial tone growls at me.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Five.

Continuing writings from travel about a year ago...

02/07/07 UPDATE: This piece was originally in five parts, but I've made changes and will be posting another part (maybe two) soon...

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR

We’re confessing our sins in a city of vice. A city of legalized vice. Terrifying and thrilling at the same. There’s shame, pleasure, guilt, abandon, and no answers. A drawn-out, hazy and muted catharsis that’s unlike the instantaneous, knee-buckling tears usually expected from an absolving event. We both want to be condemned by the other. We’re looking for disappointment from the opposite face, a frown, an unspoken judgment, a confirmation of guilt. With that, we could collapse, let the shame, anger, and loss pour out, and we could scream our pain with fists clenched and knives in our guts. Then, there would be comfort, a possibility of understanding, and hopefully forgiveness.

Instead, we skip straight to forgiveness and understanding. The mystique of our secrets drops its heavy load, yet clings because the soul cleansing didn’t quite pan out. There will be no condemnation, but there will be no full release of the past, either. Instead, there will be the friendship that always was; someone there when you need them most, not to guide or absolve, but simply to be present. There is hope and support there and answers will come on their own time. Yet this is still unsatisfying.

I haven’t found any direction, I haven’t discovered anything new, and I wonder if I’ve really helped myself or done anything with meaning or importance. I begin to think I’ve been looking for a mental quick-fix. I suspect I may have put all my emotional investment in the wrong place, that putting all my issues in the open with my closest friend won’t be the instant balm I wanted it to be. I wonder if there will be anything of significance to help me or if this is simply an aimless distraction that further obscures uglier truths. The latter seems more likely.

Nevertheless, after a healthy combination of hashish and hot chocolate, I did experience some things that certainly felt like meaning for me.

The shit will continue...

PART SIX
PART SEVEN

Some More Pulp Friday (PF 4)

I really, really do want to make a regularly scheduled time of this, but that's proving difficult. This next week should see an actual Friday of pulp. Now, on with the show...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3

"Well, goddammit if there wasn't a helluva lotta hollering by some guy and moaning by some woman the past 20, 30 minutes," Brian says. "My kid started screaming ten minutes ago and I started pounding on the ceiling, but you just made more noise. Sounded like you had three people up here having a wrestling match."

My downstairs neighbor Brian is chewing me out for making a racket above his apartment. My only contribution to the racket was getting clobbered by the three intruders in my apartment who are really responsible for Brian's screaming kid. Brian's kid is notoriously light sleeper, but Brian would say I'm a notoriously heavy walker. It's a neighborly mutual disagreement that we don't deal with too well in this building of creaking floors and thin ceilings. This time, I'm hoping the standard Brian tirade will help me figure out what three unknown people were doing in my apartment.

I say, "I haven't been yelling and I certainly haven't been talking about honeymoon plans, like you said I have, but I sure as hell have money problems. So I don't know where you're-"

"Well, someone was hollering and some woman was crying and mumbling about how she didn't do it and you were only making more noise-"

"How do you know it was my voice? You always chew on me for my heavy feet, not for my conversations."

"Well...okay, but who else could it be but you?" Brian says. "You're the only one who lives up here."

"Yes, and I never have company, and I'm at work until this time, so it wasn't me you heard yelling."

Brian's face goes bewildered. "That doesn't make sense."

"I know," I say, "so can you help me with that? What exactly did you hear?"

Brian's bewilder-face gets tighter. "I don't know, you can't hardly tell with noise from upstairs."

"Yes, but you mentioned something about a honeymoon and money."

"Yeah," Brian says, "You, or whoever, was saying that the honeymoon was supposed to be where you left something. That Maui was the spot and she failed and was going to be really sorry."

"Who failed?" I ask.

"I guess whoever that girl was who here. Ginny or something."

I take a beat. "Ginny?"

"Yeah, something like that," Brian says.

"Could it have been Jenny?"

Brian frowns and says, "I don't know, maybe. Why does it matter?"

"My ex-wife's name was Jenny."

"So?" Brian asks. "Pretty common name for women."

"We had our honeymoon in Maui."

"Oh." Brian takes a breath. "Still, that's nothing, I mean-"

"Did you hear anything about Kihei?"

"Key-HEY?" Brian says, "What the hell's-"

"Did you?"

Brian stares at me and says nothing, so I add, "It's a place in Maui. It's on the middle of the island, but still on the seashore."

A little something clicks and Brian says, "Oh, that was it. Okay. Yeah, now that makes sense. Yeah, I did hear that word a few times."

I say nothing because I hope this doesn't mean what I think it means.

Brian finally says, "You're not actually thinking your ex-wife was up here arguing with someone else, are you?"

"Couldn't be," I say, "She's dead."

"Huh?"

Just then, there's a huge crash from the landing below. It sounds like something big just plowed its way through the front door to the building. As the sound of the crash and tinkling glass end, there's a high wailing sound that fades away after a couple seconds. The sound could be from a car's tires or engine, but it could come from a person, too.

Brian and I run downstairs and see that four chained together cinder blocks have broken down the front door, causing quite a bit of damage. There's no one in sight outside.

"How the hell did that happen?" Brian asks. "That must weigh a few hundred pounds."

I'm not thinking about this because I'm staring at a large photo taped to the center of this cinder block missle that somehow came hurtling through our building. I want to look away, but I can't. It's a familiar photo, but there's something strange and different about it that I don't want to investigate.

Brian gapes at me and the cinder blocks, then finally removes himself from his transfixed state and tears the photo from the cinder blocks. He looks at it and then holds the photo to me.

"You know this girl?"

I do, but there's something very wrong with the picture.

My voice does something weird as I speak. "That's my wife."

"That's your dead wife?" Brain gawps. "Did she always look like that?"

"No," I say, "but I know that's her. I just have no idea how she got that way or where this picture came from."

The wind gusts through our smashed door pretty hard.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Pulp Friday Delayed

A little trip to Minnesota for some unsuccessful ice fishing necessitated the delay. Now, on with Pulp Friday, even though it's Tuesday...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2

It's absurd.

It doesn't make the slightest lick of sense.

How could I find a photo of my dead wife sewn into a damp handkerchief I just found on the floor of my apartment after I'd just been clocked in the head by own front door by some unwelcome visitors?

Things are just getting too weird when there's a knock on my front door.

On instinct, I go to open the door, but the large identation in the wood reminds me I've just had intruders. I snatch up the baseball bat from the floor, put on my gruffest voice and say, "Yeah, who is it?"

"It's Brian. You wanna keep it down in there? My kid's trying to sleep."

My downstairs neighbor. Him and his loony wife don't believe in babysitters, and like everyone else in the building, they're a long way from wealth. So one of them works days and the other works nights so that someone's with their child all of the time. I don't think it's helped the kid's development any and it's certainly damaged the parents. Brian works from 4 a.m. until 3 p.m., so he's always grouchy by early evening when I return to the building. I'm inevitably disturbing some combination of him and/or his kid, so this is nothing new.

"Sorry, Brian. Bad day at work."

"That's no reason to take it out on my ceiling and my kid's nap. You and your old lady just work out your bad days some other way."

"My old lady's been gone a while now, Brian. Thanks for the painful reminder."

"Yeah, you and your new girlfriend have been doing lots of damn painful grieving the past 30 minutes. Enough's enough. Quit pounding on each other."

"I don't have a new girlfriend, Brian."

"Whatever. You and her and her pals been making can stop your thumping and screeching. No one cares about your honeymoon plans and money problems anyway, so stop yelling for all the building to hear."

I take a moment and, still holding the bat tightly in my hand, crack the door open and ask, "What exactly did you hear, Brian?"

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9