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Samizdat E- Mag #2

15 September 1989

Thank you for reading Samizdat E-Mag Volume 1 No. 2.

The first edition of Samizdat E-Mag is now circulating on BBSs across
the United States and Canada, to my great delight. It was even uploaded
to CompuServe, thanks to Barry Cooper of Victoria, B.C. I hope the
second edition circulates even farther, and faster, than the first.

I received many comments on the first edition; for the most part they
were BBS messages which I couldn't easily save. For the most part,
however, the comments were positive and encouraging, so here we are
again. Once again, the contributors are from all over -- Canada, Utah,
California -- and once again I'm pleased all these people spent a little
of their time (and long-distance $$$) to upload their work to me.

Included in the second edition of Samizdat E-Mag are a few good poems and
stories, plus, again, a modest contribution by the editor herself. Again,
I've elbowed myself in with some pretty good company, and I hope my
story doesn't seem too out of place here.

Will there be another Samizdat E-Mag? I certainly hope so. I'm eager to
receive your original work, in plain ASCII format, uploaded to my BBS.
You can upload and download Samizdat files on your first call, and
contributors to the magazine receive a year's free access to the BBS.
I'm willing to look at quality writing by published or unpublished writers,
and depending on interest, I hope to produce the third edition some time
in the new year.

Your comments are welcome ... please contact the Editor via InterLink Writers
echo or Ivo Andric Memorial BBS, (604) 380-0297, Victoria, B.C. Canada.
Please upload this file to your local (or not-so-local) BBS -- in the tradition
of Samizdat, "Help spread the words!"

????? ?????????
Cheers? ? ?????? ?
?????????????? ?
?????Ivo Andric BBS
"THE BULLETIN BROAD"
??????(604)380-0297

Editor

======================================================================
(a letter to the editor!)

Saturday 27 May 1989, 10:21

Hi, Gwen! I've just read through the first issue of SAMIZDAT; like a
silly, I didn't see the batch file; I just used the Norton Commander to
read things. I enjoyed your story, which encompasses many things! My
favorites were Hall of Records, by Thomas Cloud, and The Radio, by
Frederick Dowd.

As per your notices, you may pass on copies of my comments to the authors.

Cloud's ending was predictable, as should be the ending of a story that
deals with political situations such as Annie found herself in! If Cloud
had done anything else, he would have cheated us!

In Dowd's story, I love the violent contrasts between Motherhood and Apple
Pie and the violence humanity projects itself (us-self) into.

Carol Whitney
=========================================================================

NYCTALOPIA

Now the evening flowers unfolded,
Glowing radiance trapped inside.
Perfume that a King might covet
Passions yet unfelt implied.
Pulses leap and fire surges
Through my aging eyes and brain:
Morning comes, the flowers have faded,
Last night's loves ne'er come again.

Alf Foxgord 1989.

OLOGIES.1 314 449-9401
Copyright © 1989
Alf Foxgord
All Rights Reserved




================================================================
Notice of Copyright
Copyright (C) 1989 by A.N.(Alf) Foxgord,
Victoria, B.C., Canada
All rights are reserved.

THE IMMORTAL

8:00 PM, Feb. 27th, 2060. Triangle Island: It's bad enough
being exiled to this hell-hole, but having to share it with a
group of cretins who call themselves scientists is debasing.
There were better jobs open to me, but one could see it in their
eyes, suspect! Obviously my dissertation committee and its
diabolical chairman had been spreading their poison. I had won my
doctorate because I was not above political and moral assassina-
tions. The committee responded accordingly. As for the imbeciles
with whom I must associate, if our ancestors had used the proce-
dures followed religiously by these dunderheads, we would still
be trying to invent a usable steam engine.
Here, one cannot get away from anything or anyone, no matter
how objectionable the situation. The laboratories and the living
spaces are almost entirely within the rock.
The surface is uninhabitable. One is either blown away by the
hurricane-force breezes or washed off by one of the super-waves
which cross the Pacific, building up from China.
The private sleeping quarters are ludicrous and offensive.
There is no room for a swinging cat. He couldn't fit in his
stereo! If one had a barracks-room mentality, as some do, the
crowding might be accepted. I detest it as I do all forced con-
formity, the refuge for all who are uncomfortable being and
thinking for themselves.
Only five months, eighteen days, nine hours, twenty-seven
minutes and 14 seconds until liberation.!

2060-05-28:1645Z.CANREUTERS: VANCOUVER,BC.----AT 1542Z, AN
EXPLOSION OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN IN THE SUBATOMIC RANGE WAS FELT IN
THE WEST CENTRAL COASTAL REGION. SEISMIC/SONIC READINGS PLACE
THE EPICENTER IN THE TRIANGLE ISLAND GROUP, NORTHERN VANCOUVER
ISLAND. SHOCK FELT 800 KM PLUS. TRIANGLE ISLAND IS A SMALL, BARE,
ISOLATED, VOLCANIC ROCK FORMATION, SITE OF THE WESTERN COLD
FUSION RESEARCH LAB. NOVA-LANDSAT XXV PASSES OVERHEAD 1702Z. ---
NEXT CANREUTERS UPDATE 1800Z. ZZZ

9:10AM, May 28th, 2060. Eight months of work destroyed
because of an arrogant, ignorant, inefficient, mis-managing
Director. She was warned of what might happen. Because she is
playing the company political game, she insisted that some
Tritium be 'ignited' during the preliminary tests on the magneti-
cally compressed, nitrogen cooled, Hall effect, semiconductor,
ridiculously expensive
flask. As I predicted, the fusion reaction produced a massive
electrical surge, the liquid nitrogen boiled off instantaneously,
and in a violent explosion, the flask completely disintegrated.
The walls of the concentric steel containment spheres
appeared to have been ruptured by a high velocity, artillery
shell. The holes were slightly larger than the flask, exactly in
line with the position of the flask and ninety degrees to the
plane of the suspending magnetic field. The edges of the holes
looked as though they were melted by a high temperature laser
rather than ruptured by an exploding flask or gases.
Luckily, there were no major injuries. For once, they had
insisted that everyone stay in the safety of the command area. A
few will be lacing their tea with tranquilizers. I will have an
illegal tot of rum in my after dinner coffee.

6:18PM, May 29th, 2060. I was working overtime at the request
of the Director, videotaping the damage while the rest of the
'team' ate their evening meal. The tape was to be used to justify
local requisitions for emergency repairs. Without them, exposed,
undamaged equipment will deteriorate within a few days.
The first eighty-five frames of the tape show an empty mag-
netic ring. Then with no transition, the semiconductor flask
reappeared! The next frame shows the flask occupying its pre-
explosion position, then falling to the floor as the magnetic
field to hold it in place had been turned off.
Where had it been? How did it get back?
The only thought that came to mind was that it has been
travelling through another dimension. However, if such a specula-
tive theory is proposed, whether or not there is evidence, my
progressive-logical colleagues would hound me out of this
research program. It appears to be a lose-lose situation.
If I leave the flask for them, I hand over what might become
the most important scientific discovery ever made. Royalties
alone could bring in billions of dollars, but the really sig-
nificant value is the power it will give the person who can con-
trol it. I can think of none more deserving, none more able to
handle the power to control others than myself.
If I announce the discovery, they will rend me limb from
limb, doing anything to discredit me as a scientist. If they can
do that, they will be able to push me out and control my discov-
ery for themselves.
In a burst of atavistic anger,I hid the flask and the
original videotape in my locker. Tomorrow morning, they will be
sent to a more secure spot, off the island.
The Director should be satisfied with the new videotape I
made. I will have time to think out this problem and find a way
to get out before involving others. The scientific implications
are enormous! REMINDER: Encrypt this and all further diary
entries.

11:21AM, February 17th, 2063. The financing is complete.
After my resignation from Western Fusion, I busied myself with
selling everything I owned; calling in all debts; and cashing in
the equity I had built up in the company pension fund. With this
meager amount, it has been possible to buy a parcel of barren
land and to set up a small, isolated lab in Northern Alberta.
I feel sure that the scale of components can be reduced by a
factor of eight to ten. Strengthening the magnetic field may
overcome the explosive effect and It may also be possible to vary
the time until recovery by adjusting the fusion reaction. It is
amazing how little fuel dimensional translation consumes. Now it
is almost assured that I will be able to duplicate the Triangle
Island results before the money runs out.

2:31PM, December 18th, 2065. I am finally rid of my "silent"
partner, who I will call "Mr. Big". After he had seen the results
of the miniature-scale tests and their significance had been
explained, it was pathetic to watch his criminal mind anticipate
future earnings. At first, his awe of myself and what I was doing
assured his good behavior, however, as soon as he had provided
enough well-laundered money to complete vehicle construction and
testing programs, his attempt to gain control of the project
through complaints, bullyragging and implied threats began to
interfere with progress. It demanded immediate attention. Nurtur-
ing his enormous Id and aggravating his anxieties over completion
of the vehicle made the final solution a simple one. One might
say that his greed made him holey!
His competition were equally greedy, depraved, vicious, and
uncouth. They were eager to take over local loan-sharking, drugs
and prostitution. My problem was solved completely for the price
of two black-market, anti-tank projectiles, their launchers, and
one long distance call to Mr. Big, asking him to come immediately
to the lab because of serious, unspecified problems. The oppos
found the weapons, ammo, a description of Big's vintage Jag XKE,
and some special account spreadsheets where I said they would be.
They waited where I said to wait, when I said to wait there. It
was a perfect set-up and only took one shot. Now they are in the
driver's seat, one projectile to the good and grateful for
unexpected favours. They have no idea who I am, but in return,
they are grateful enough to guarantee unspecified favours in the
future.
The eastern Family, to which Mr. Big belonged, put out a
blanket contract on his killers. I would have given ten to one
odds that it would be canceled within two days, the time it would
take them to read the spreadsheets that were sent to them. Once
they found out how much my late friend had skimmed off the top
every week, the hit men became heroes with the locals. Unskimmed,
the Family's take increased sixty percent. Also, the new boys
were willing to pay blood-money for Mr.Big. They were not wel-
comed with open arms, but after a few years, their dependability
and strict observance of the Code won them great respect.
Too bad I could only use this scam once. It's too good to
waste.
The larger model will travel both into the future and the
past. Its two dimensional destination on the surface of the earth
can also be altered. Test time for new module programs will be
reduced to one one-hundredth of what they previously took. A
fixed base location is no longer necessary, although it remains
convenient. There still is an enormous need for Tritium fuel and
more money.
I have an idea!

2090-07-31; 12:30 MDT; CANNEWS, CALGARY. LOCAL POLICE AND THE
RCMP REMAIN BAFFLED BY THE DISAPPEARANCE OF A LARGE SHIPMENT OF
ENCAPSULATED TRITIUM OXIDE, THE KIND USED IN COLD FUSION REAC-
TORS. A SHIPMENT OF GOLD AND PLATINUM INGOTS FROM THE HIGH
SECURITY AIRPORT WAREHOUSE IS ALSO MISSING. THE WAREHOUSE WAS
CONSIDERED TO BE "BURGLAR-PROOF". IN TORONTO, POLICE STATED THAT
THE RECENT, BRUTAL MURDER OF THE SHIPPER FOR WESTERN FUSION LTD.,
IS CLOSELY CONNECTED. INVESTIGATION CONTINUES. AUTHORITIES REMAIN
SILENT REGARDING THE VALUE OF THE STOLEN SHIPMENTS. INFORMED
SOURCES STATED THAT RECENTLY, SIMILAR SHIPMENTS WERE INSURED FOR
TWENTY MILLION DOLLARS. ZZZ

0920PM MST, NOVEMBER 21ST, 2066. Now that the module's sur-
face position can be adjusted, removing the Tritium and the bul-
lion only required the ability to tell time and organize.
Unfortunately the Toronto shipper had to be removed. The total of
his greed exceeded his maximum worth.
The man-sized module is finished. Initially, only three suc-
cessive 2-year jumps ahead and then back will be attempted. If
the module works well both ways in time, fuel will never be a
problem. Even if Tritium oxide has a short half-life, we will
translate back to the lab one day after the burglary and, "Forget
the Dilithium crystals, Scotty!"

12:30 PM MST MARCH 18TH, 2067: TIME TRANSLATION: T+120,
1:30PM MST, MARCH 18TH 2287. 220 years into the future, Lunar and
planetary expeditions are becoming routine. I have worked out a
very satisfactory procedure with the module.
The module is stored in the Alberta Lab which was completely
buried after some snoopy hikers took an interest in the property.
Their graves, those of the bulldozer operators who did the work,
and six other points have been salted with nuclear wastes. The
warnings say that the site contains a fusion-reactor accident.
After their counters give them one or two hot readings, the
curious leave.
As far as we have gone into the future, the lab is still
there, dry and intact. It is well constructed, in a stable area,
and barring accidents, it may still be there for many hundreds of
years. After all, for over two thousand years, Claudius'
aqueducts have been bringing water into Rome.
TV and radio are still around, full of the information one
needs. A day or two of concentrated viewing to pick up all the
local dialect and fashions are all one needs to get by. They are
very easy to mimic. A reasonable copy of the workers' clothing
gets you out on the street. Any marked difference is put down to
eccentricity, and if you have lots of money to spend, the chic,
trendy, ultra-conservative, or ultra-exclusive stores love rich
eccentrics.
As soon as one's destination is reached, the controls are set
to the original lab-coordinates. This helps if one must make a
fast get-away. Should a stranger persist long enough to find the
module, any attempt to open it, or operate it without the neces-
sary code words, will destroy both themselves and the module.

11:05AM MST, FEBRUARY 9TH, 3867. I have now translated 1800
years into the future. There is no joy in recalling the tribula-
tions of the squirming masses. Only the very rich and the very
powerful seem to lead lives which are secure, free of repetitive
tasks and boredom. I intend to let neither disturb the pleasures
which, for once, I can afford.
However, in spite of the distance I travel into the space-
time continuum, I am insulated from the changes. Every day I am
one day older. The most powerful man in space-time is subject to
the irony of mortality: thirty-seven and counting. I have looked
everywhere, but there is no evidence that man has been able to
beat the ravages of time.

07:05PM MST FEBRUARY 20TH, 3867: I have seen someone who must
be another time-traveler. During the last four stops I saw him
several times, either in the University Library or, in the 3887CE
translation, standing in the square by the Ministry of Social
Benefits.
I salvaged a food container which he had handled. If he
appears again at the next stop, fingerprints should tell an
interesting story.

4:30 PM MST MARCH 9TH, 3887. It is the same man! Under threat
of exposure, he admitted his identity. What is more amazing, he
is not a time-traveler. He is an immortal. Fingerprints and
retina scans verified that eight hundred years ago, he was Lon
Yberra, a crewman on the ill-fated expedition to the Jovian
moons. The other crewmen died horribly from local infections.
Ybarra's natural immunity to the disease left him the only sur-
vivor. The infection which killed the others changed his
metabolism, and made him immortal. For the last eight hundred
years he has studied the reason for his longevity. One injection
of his blood serum creates a catalytic reaction which completely
alters human biochemistry. Those injected also become immortal.
This is the truth for which I have been searching. I must
have it. The price is outrageous, but not impossible. Tomorrow
evening at 9:00, we meet in the courtyard of a villa he owns in
Jasper. As part of his price, he asked to see the module. It will
also be used to transport the bullion he demanded. Just in case a
double-cross was planned, I warned him that it was booby-trapped,
but I didn't tell him what kind of traps they were and where they
could be found. Perhaps I am just being paranoid. It didn't seem
to bother him.
If the injection does not work, there will be ample bullion
left, sufficient for twenty or thirty lifetimes Finally,
Immortality! If it is possible, I MUST HAVE IT!

EXTRACT FROM THE 3900 EDITION OF THE ENCYCLOPAEDIA GALACTICA:
"THE LIFE OF LON YBARRA, THE JOVIAN VAMPIRE":
"...a few minutes after 10PM on the 10th of March, 3887, an
assault squad from Noramerpol entered the villa where Yberra was
hiding."
"In the central courtyard, they found him, hypodermic syringe
in his hand, bending over the writhing body of his latest victim,
an unknown adult male."
"Even as the horrified officers watched, the body of the vic-
tim was totally consumed by so called Jovian Blood Flukes."
Although Yberra was infected when the Jovian expedition first
landed on Europa, in his body, a fluke would not develop beyond
the spore stage. However, he became a carrier of the disease. At
Earth temperatures, seconds after spores are injected into any
other human, they become a raging infection of Jovian Blood
Flukes. In two or three minutes, the developing flukes totally
consume the body of the victim.
It was the spores, the immature blood flukes, which produced
a form of biological immortality, but only if Yberra ate one
mature fluke every eight days. Since the body of an adult human
will produce several thousand flukes, and these could be stored
in liquid nitrogen, the body of one adult would supply Yberra's
needs for approximately forty-four years. During the eight hun-
dred years he was active, it is estimated that Yberra was
responsible for the deaths of over forty humans, most of whom he
tricked into having "immortality sharing" injections of infected
blood serum. In recent years, because of better police publicity,
Yberra's victims have mostly been abandoned children and mental
defectives.
"Seeing that he was totally surrounded, with no avenue of
escape, Yberra climbed into a large egg-shaped capsule, and
closed the hatch. Several seconds later, the capsule exploded
violently, producing a fireball which destroyed the bodies of
both Yberra and his last victim."
"It was a fitting end to a modern tale of Gothic Horror."
===============================================================
(C) 1988 A.N.Foxgord

A Canadian Sepulchre

The leprous filth sifts down the walls,
Its yellowed fingers creep inside
And wilting fungus-spotted flowers
Fill sooty pots that were the City's pride.
Yet walking down its smog-blown streets
I think of days before my City died.

Hot summer days before the rape
Of sand and sea and sky was done,
We splintered salty, crystal pools
On scented sands in sparkling bays we'd run.
Now rotting green streaks lifeless pools
In slimey sand steamed by a sullen sun.

Though youthful, summer dreams have died,
Our children live. Where can they hide
Where death creeps in on salty winds
And fools gestate what sanity decried,
Greed-blinded men with eyes turned in
To see the nightmare thoughts concealed inside.

We'll build a place where children laugh,
Where men are wise; they neither take
What Nature cannot freely give
Nor do they foul those things they can't remake.
Unlike a faded dream I had,
My son will have a dream he'll not forsake.


========================================================================

Copyright © 1989
Doug Polhamius
All Rights Reserved

WALLSONG

Gwen, though I served in the Washington National Guard
during the late sixties, I was never on active military duty
for more than training at any time. Though this poem was
written just last year it has been floating in the back of
my head since that active duty time in 1966. As the song
Guantanamera has been sung through innumerable verses
throughout the history of Cuba, by both sides in each of
that nation's many revolutions and struggles, only with
different words, this poem has been sung under my breath for
all of this time only with different words as time passed
and the results of events become history.

Please bear with me, many of those lucky ones who as I was
were issued white underwear at Fort Lewis ( which meant you
weren't going overseas) in 1966 still feel a morbid guilt.

Why should we have lived in comfort, when often better
people died? Fourteen of my friends are remembered on.....

the wall...
though i thought i'd seen it all,
i thought just once i'd see the Wall,
and take a look at those,
who'd fought beside of me,
those were the ones you see,
who'd not come home with me,
and i fought back tears,
as i approached the place,
and i felt the pain that was on every face,
all those little lines,
that grow around your eyes,
like the furrows deep,
upon a fallow field,
when the rain of tears,
does wash a smile away,
so i walked on,
as those three soldiers stared,
with their deep haunted eyes,
on the black wall ahead,
i turned my head,
along their searching gaze,
to the black stone,
with all the carven names,
and there was mine

i looked without belief,
and then it dawned on me,
here was the reason that,
no one had noticed me,
all of the friends i'd had
who hadn't welcomed me,
all of the big parades,
no one had asked me to,
oh yes i knew,

that was the reason why,
how can i ask,
of those who didn't die,
those who came home,
to dark and rainy skies,
those who came home,
to try to answer why,
and find a job,
out in the real world,
to find those jobs,
the kind you really want,
go to the kind,
who had stayed home,
and who had gone to school,
while you had spent,
your year in hell,

they can never know,
like colors to the blind,
though you might like to try,
just how you feel,
touch the wall once again,
just touch my name my friend,
with every touch you see,
says you remember me,
and i live on

=================================================================
Copyrignt © 1988
by Gwenneth Barnes
All rights reserved


LIFE DRAWING
by Gwenneth Barnes

I didn't think too much about it at the time. Just that he
looked a little weird. I mean, most artists look sort of cool in
some way. Interesting clothes, long hair, soulful eyes, things
like that. I was used to that. Most of them were pretty okay to
talk to, too. The ones who know what they're doing, I mean. You
can tell the amateurs, the beginners. They aren't used to having
a normal conversation with a naked person. They never know where
to look, if you catch my meaning. Then after a while they get
used to chatting while they work, and they stop worrying about
what to look at and just do their thing.
This guy, though. Fat, pudgy, greasy hair with little flakes
of dandruff stuck in it. He was wearing blue work pants and a
shirt like a guy in a gas station would wear, with the name
"Eric" in script letters on a patch sewn over one pocket. And an
old crab claw on a leather thong around his neck. I mean, wearing
your dinner leftovers as jewelry is a bit strange. Like, how
would it be if I showed up for work wearing old corncobs hanging
from my ears, or porkchop bones for a necklace? Gross, right? So
I was a little spooked, but I went into his studio anyway. I
mean, I wasn't stepping into the unknown or anything.
I always think you can tell a lot more about an artist by the
way he keeps his studio than by looking at him or his work,
though. Some of them are strictly business, with everything neat
and organized. Sometimes that shows up in their work, too, but
not always. Like, some of the messiest looking paintings are made
in studios so clean you could do surgery in them. Some studios
are real junkyards, but the junk is sort of carefully arranged,
if you know what I mean. Stuff they've collected, old furniture,
neat looking bits of junk. It's like the studio is a piece of
art, too. I remember one artist who used to take me on scavenging
trips, down along the river, to look for interesting stuff people
had dumped. He brought a camera along, so it was still work, and
he'd get me in all kinds of great pictures, hunting along the
riverbank for things. We found an old coal furnace once, and a
dead dog with a sack tied over its head. Luckily he didn't bring
the dog back to his studio, but we used to find a lot of pretty
neat things. But anyway, back to this guy.
He had a lot of his drawings on the walls, and hundreds of
small polaroid pictures, and while they were a little unusual,
they weren't the weirdest I'd seen. The drawings weren't
abstract, exactly. They were recognizably people, but distorted
in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. It was as though the
people in the pictures didn't want to be there. I mean, I've been
modelling and hanging around artists and all that long enough to
appreciate what's going on in a picture. I tried not to make it
too obvious I was looking at the stuff on the walls, because I
don't figure it's really any of my business what the guy's into.
I pose, I get paid, and all that, but it's not like any of that
stuff belongs to me when it's done.
Anyway, Eric, I guess that's what his name was, I don't
remember him saying any different, but anyway, he was sort of
middle of the road as far as studios go. Not too tidy, not too
messy. Just sort of old and cluttered. The studio was on the
seventh floor of the old Grain Exchange building. It looked like
it had been a pretty luxurious place at one time, with really
beautiful Art Nouveau front doors with bevelled glass and every-
thing, but the lobby was redone in that cheap fake wood panell-
ing, the kind that looks like a magazine picture of a piece of
wood. Really cheesy. The studios had probably been nice offices
once, but the place had really gone downhill. I imagined the
offices being like something out of an old movie sometime in
their past. It looked as if the landlord hadn't bothered to fix
anything in years.
Usually what I do when I first begin modelling for someone
new is just keep quiet for awhile, see if they're the type to
chat or if they'd rather just work. Some of them are pretty fussy
-- they've got to have everything just so, so I don't take any
chances. So I just say something like "Hi, I'm Dana. Do you have
someplace where I can get changed?" Even nude models have some
modesty, you know. It may sound a bit silly, but while it doesn't
bother me to have someone see me naked, I don't like people
watching me undress.
So I introduced myself, and asked where I could change. Eric
pointed to a door at the end of the big room, so I headed that
way with my khaki canvas army bag. I sort of expected a bathroom
behind the door, but it was another big room, just like the one
I'd left. The place was full of cardboard boxes and big pieces of
furniture covered with dusty old canvas tarps. The room smelled
like an old tent.
I looked around to see if there was a bathroom or something,
but there wasn't. I pushed the door shut and leaned my bum
against it to keep it closed while I got out of my clothes and
pulled on a dressing gown. I folded up all my stuff, put the
panties in my bluejeans pocket, and the socks inside the
sneakers. I remembered to take off my watch and glasses, too, and
put them in the pocket of my bathrobe. One time I forgot, when I
was modeling for a class of first year drawing students at the
art college, and I was really embarrassed when the instructor
laughed at me. I can't see a damn thing without my glasses,
though, so I have to risk tripping over everything if I leave
them off. If the studio's messy, I leave them on, then slip them
into the pocket of my robe when I get ready to pose. Luckily
nobody came in or saw me while I was changing.
Eric had some of his drawings and photos on the walls, like I
said before, and some odds and ends of stuff lying around, but it
looked more like the back room of a Salvation Army store than an
artist's studio. I was surprised, because the last thing you'd
expect an artist's studio to be is boring. You'll see some of the
damnedest things in studios, I can tell you. I'd been in that
building lots of times before, doing modelling for other artists
and for one guy who taught life drawing classes to housewives and
seniors. I guess the rent was cheap, and the landlord didn't care
much what happened in there.
For instance, a lot of guys live right in their studios, even
though they're not really supposed to. I was in one place where
it was pretty obvious -- over in one corner of the room there was
a mattress on the floor, and an electric frying pan and a kettle
beside it. I wondered how that guy washed his dishes, or himself
for that matter, because there was no bathroom in the place,
except for a toilet down the hall that was pretty obviously out
of order. He'd have had to go down two floors to get water, I
figured, but I was too chicken to ask about it that time. It
didn't look as if this guy Eric was doing that, though. At least
I didn't see any evidence of it.
I know I sure couldn't live like that. I mean, modelling for
artists is no way to get rich, but I do my best to get by and
while my place isn't exactly a palace, it's clean and private. I
think it would be awful to live right in your studio. It's like
never being able to go home from work. I'd hate that, I think. I
guess some of them like to be able to get up and work on some-
thing as soon as they have the inspiration, but I think a lot of
them are just cheap and don't care what kind of squalid place
they live in.
I went back through the door to see where he wanted me to
pose. He had a drafting table set up in one corner of the room,
and a lot of old tables and benches piled up everywhere else. "Up
on that table," he said, and pointed to one of them, an old
enamelled metal office table with a sort of rubberized linoleum
top that was supposed to look like marble or something. On top of
that table was another, smaller one. It was a little unusual, but
what the hell, I thought. I've done some unusual things while
modelling, but I don't think I'd ever been told to get up on a
table. Plus there wasn't any room because of that other table
piled on top of it. I looked around to see if there was a cushion
or something but all he said was "just hurry up, okay?" so up I
got. I took off my bathrobe and spread it out on the table. "No,
up higher," he said. Every time he moved, that crab claw necklace
would swing back and forth. I got up on the higher table, which
luckily wasn't as rickety as it looked. I must have been six feet
off the ground. I wasn't crazy about getting my robe all dusty
from the table, but better it than me. It's one I got at a church
rummage sale, what they call chenille. I looked that up in the
dictionary once and found out chenille is French for caterpillar.
Then he showed me a sketch of how he wanted me to pose. "It's
for a record album cover," he said. "I need some more detail."
The picture was pretty rough, but I could tell generally that it
was a voluptuous naked woman astride a winged dragon. She was
holding a torch in one hand. She was definitely better built than
I am, not to say I'm flat or anything, but I figured she'd be
pretty uncomfortable if that dragon gave her a rough ride because
she wasn't wearing any kind of support. Just the sort of thing to
give some teenage boy's parents something to complain about. It
was just a rough sketch so far, though, nothing distorted or
weird about it like the ones on the walls.
I could tell after looking at the picture why he wanted me up
so high, so as to get the same point of view as his sketch -- I
guess the dragon was supposed to be really tall, or perhaps fly-
ing overhead. "Just kneel up there as if you were astride a horse
or something," Eric said, so I did. He handed up a big thick
wooden dowel for the torch. I held it up high, then got the gig-
gles. Eric looked up from his drafting table and glared at me, so
I shut up. One of the things I noticed about him was he used his
left hand. A lot of artists do that. I guess it has something to
do with being creative, but it must be tough on them to be dif-
ferent.
He hauled out a Polaroid camera and took a couple of pictures
from different angles for reference, I guess, did a few
preliminary sketches, and got me to move a couple of times until
I was positioned right. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it
wasn't so bad I couldn't stay put and not move. Then he got to
work and hardly looked up except once in a while when he said
"Okay, take a bit of a rest." It was pretty boring, because he
didn't even have a radio on and like I said before he was
strictly business and didn't make any kind of conversation except
to tell me "turn your head this way" or "lift your arm a little
higher." The only other thing that happened was when he moved a
bit and the crab claw would clatter against the drafting table. I
could hear the thing rattling but I couldn't quite see it. There
wasn't much to do but daydream.
I was pretty curious about how his painting was coming along,
but I know how sensitive artists are about having someone looking
at their work before it's finished, so I didn't say anything. I
figured if it was time for me to look at it, he'd call me over.
So I didn't get to see anything. That was okay. Once during a
drawing class the students all went off for a coffee break, so
while I was walking around stretching my muscles after standing
in one position for over an hour, I took a peek at some of the
drawings. One guy who'd seemed pretty nice and decent had drawn
me wearing black stockings and lingerie with all kinds of straps.
Really perverted. It was a pretty good likeness, too. You could
tell it was me in the picture. That cured me of wanting to see
people's drawings. God, I was embarrassed.
Another thing that's embarrassing is when someone figures
that because I model for artists and photographers that means I'm
some kind of hooker. I don't work for any of those agencies that
advertise in the business personals, and never would. They're
just a front. I get all my jobs by word of mouth, and I keep my
name in at the art college and that, so I know anything I get
will be on the up and up. I've quit telling people what I do for
a living, 'cause I'm tired of dirty old men getting really
friendly thinking I might give them a freebie. I've quit going
out with the artists socially, too. I made the mistake of having
a little affair with one guy, who bragged about it to everybody
he knew. So it's strictly look but don't touch. And they know it.
This went on pretty well the whole afternoon, until the sun
started going down around four thirty and we lost the light. The
windows in Eric's studio were nice and big, and they faced north,
so the place had perfect light during the daytime. If you can get
a studio that faces north, you've got it made. The light is nice
and even all day. Luckily he kept the studio decently warm. It's
not something most people think about, wearing clothes most of
the time. A room might be comfortable if you're wearing jeans and
a couple of shirts. But try sitting in that same room without
moving for a couple of hours at a time with nothing on. So it was
nice of Eric to keep the room warm. Especially since it was
winter. He even had a couple of electric heaters plugged in to
supplement what came out of the radiators.
When the sun was gone I figured he'd knock it off for the
day. The lighting inside the studio wasn't much, a few floor
lamps that looked like they'd come from an ugly lamp competition
somewhere, and it sure wasn't enough to do any serious artwork.
There's a kind of cold feeling about twilight that stays until it
gets really dark outside. Then if you're inside with the lights
on it feels cosy again. He finally started putting his stuff away
and I put my bathrobe on, and my glasses, and got down. I was
pretty stiff from being in that uncomfortable position all
afternoon, I can tell you. "Well, I guess that's it for today," I
said and started off to the door to where I had changed.
"Not just yet," he said. "I'm not done."
"Well, there's not enough light to work, is there?" I said.
Some of these artists just don't have any sense of time. I sat on
the edge of the table in my robe, dangling my legs back and forth
until I remembered waving your feet around meant you were feeling
bored or hostile. I mean, watch a bunch of people some time who
are listening to someone talk. If they don't like what the guy's
saying, the feet go like crazy. It's so obvious. So I quit waving
my feet. I was worried about sounding bitchy, too. When they're
drawing you, you're just a thing to them. They don't want you to
have a personality, really. I was getting hungry, too, and my
stomach chose just that moment to let out a grumble. I also had
to pee, but I figured I could wait.
He had the camera again. He set it on the table beside me,
then started pulling a tarp off an old wooden wardrobe. The tarp
snagged on his crab claw for a second, and I had this secret hope
the claw would come off and smash on the floor. He must have been
pretty out of shape, because by the time he'd undone the tarp,
folded it up and put it away, his face was all red and puffy and
his shirt was wet under the arms. He smelled like a combination
of boiled ham and burnt rubber. He huffed and puffed, and I had
to stop my feet from waving again. I let my imagination go wild
wondering what he had in that wardrobe, and why he was getting it
out at this moment. He opened it up, and there was nothing
inside, just a few wire coat hangers in a bunch at one end of the
rod. And some dust balls in the bottom.
"Get in," he said. I sat down on the bottom of the wardrobe.
Eric had the camera in his hand. "And take off that robe again."
I took it off. The crab claw was dangling in my face, so I moved
my head back a little. I had to hold my breath, too, because of
the way he smelled. "Now stand up in there," he said. I couldn't
figure out how, because I was taller than the space inside the
wardrobe. I ended up sort of hunched up in the corner, with my
head twisted to the side. He took a few pictures of me like that,
then said "Go get your clothes. Don't put them on."
I went back to the other room where my clothes were, but on
the way I must have stepped on a bit of glass or something. I
noticed the blood on the floor when I came back. Eric had noticed
it too. I sat back down in the wardrobe and put my foot up on the
other knee and had a look at the bottom of it. It was too dark to
see where the cut was, or how bad it was bleeding. He just
wandered around taking pictures of the blood on the floor with
his polaroid, so every time my eyes had adjusted to the dark
enough that I could check out my cut foot, off would go the
flash. "Do you have a bandaid or something?" I said. By that time
the blood had run down onto my other leg and I really wanted to
clean it up.
"No," Eric said. "We're almost done here," he said.
"Well, how about a clean towel or something," I said. "I'm
really bleeding here."
"Yes, I know," he said. "Just do a couple more poses for me
and you can go."
It's a good thing I'm not really that squeamish about blood
or I'd have been really panicking. It was starting to sting,
though. "Look, it's going to get infected if I don't clean it
up," I said. "That's not the cleanest floor, you know."
"Put your sweater on," he said. "I just want to get another
couple pictures. And stand in the wardrobe. Same way as you were
before." I figured it would take less time to do it and get it
over with than to argue with the guy. Then I wondered if he was
trying to get a few cheap thrills.
"Look. I just work for artists, okay? I don't do the kind of
modelling that's advertised in the personals," I said.
"How do you mean?" Eric said. He looked as if he hadn't the
slightest idea what I was talking about.
I thought about standing there with a sweater on and nothing
else, crammed into that stupid wardrobe while he took pictures of
me half naked and bleeding from a bad cut on my foot. It was
starting to ache, a kind of steady throbbing, and I just knew it
was already infected and starting to fester.
"Do you get a kick out of this or something?" I said. Then I
was sorry I'd said that because if he was mad at me I might have
trouble getting paid. That had happened before, and I just didn't
have the nerve to chase after the money, even though once I had
to put off getting my teeth done because of it. I started putting
on my clothes right in front of him, I just didn't care anymore.
There was a lump in my throat and I was afraid to say anything
more.
He actually turned away from me while I was getting dressed.
I finished putting my clothes on, except the socks, and sat for a
moment, trying to breathe evenly again. The bleeding seemed to
have stopped, at least as far as I could tell in the dim light,
so I put my socks and shoes on. "I'll put my bill in the mail," I
said while I folded up my bathrobe and put my coat on. "It's four
hours, okay?"
Eric didn't say anything, just nodded his head. I left
without closing the door behind me, and walked down the stairs to
the ground floor. I walked down to the Bay, which luckily was
still open, and got a box of gauze dressings and some tape, and a
tube of antibiotic ointment. I fixed up my foot in the ladies
washroom and then caught a bus home.
When I went to get my keys out of my coat pocket outside my
apartment I felt something else in there. I thought for a second
it was that crab claw, and my heart just went crazy. I took a few
deep breaths and pulled it out, but it turned out to be nothing
but a flat pebble I'd picked up on one of my scavenging trips
down to the riverbank. I'd forgotten all about it.

=================================================================
© David S. Tyre 1989
Because Of Ferdinand
by Dave Tyre
Lieutenant Byron Emsfield Clarke, Royal Navy, knew who Fer-
dinand de Lesseps was and understood that great Frenchman's place
in history. Clarke might have even liked the man, though
Lieutenant Clarke was rather conservative and de Lesseps had been
a somewhat flamboyant individual. Ferdinand was also a rather big
thinker. In fact, Ferdinand liked big ditches; ditches big enough
in which to float large ships.
It was Ferdinand de Lesseps' obsession with large, long
bodies of water that was the original cause of a rather
precarious problem which had involved Lt. Clarke. You see, Lt.
Clarke lay in a hospital bed in Port Said, Egypt, the northern
port of one of Ferdinand's massive bodies of water - the Suez
Canal.
It is doubtful that Byron Clarke actually blamed de Lesseps
for his situation. He more probably thought, on the odd occasion
of Gamal Abdel Nasser. In fact he had referred to Nasser as a WOG
on more than one conversation.
Gamal Abdel Nasser, President of Egypt, was something of a
nationalist. He was also extremely impatient. Had he simply
waited another thirteen years, he probably could have taken con-
trol of the Suez Canal without so much as a whimper out of the
major European Powers. Instead, he did something rather foolish
and, in the Fall of 1956 decided that the Suez Canal should
belong exclusively to Egypt, thus nationalizing it - without the
previous owners' permission.
Britain did not concur. They decided to take it back - by
force.
War was still very much in the minds of the Western world. It
had been eleven years since the end of World War II, and Korea
had ended in a stalemate only two years ago. Britain was unwill-
ing to allow an upstart Egyptian push them around. Other
countries, particularly the members of The British Commonwealth,
were worried that this latest incident would evolve into yet
another war of major proportions. There were national decisions
made and resources were quickly made available to assist Britain
in stabilizing the situation.
Canada jumped in with both feet - and an aircraft carrier
full of military equipment.
HMCS MAGNIFICENT was Canada's only active aircraft carrier in
1956. She was in fact a British-built light fleet carrier of the
Colossus class. When Nasser decided that the Suez Canal was the
rightful property of his country, "MAGGIE", as she was known by
the sailors of the Royal Canadian Navy was loaded up with every-
thing but the kitchen sink and aircraft. Instead she transported
trucks and supplies in an emergency sea-lift into the Mediter-
ranean.
Lt. Byron Clarke, RN, lay fuming in his sterile hospital ward
thinking most of all about MAGNIFICENT. If there was blame for
his presence in the British Army Field Hospital Port Said, Byron
Clarke felt the Canadians should before anyone else, assume it.
Clarke didn't dislike Canadians. He just felt that a country
which was known to produce singing lumberjacks and dog trainers
probably didn't have the skill and finesse necessary to operate a
complicated ship like an aircraft carrier. In other words, Clarke
had an attitude Canadians didn't really care for. One in which he
tended to look down his nose at colonials. Clarke had convinced
himself that he did not possess such an attitude. He had to. He
had been assigned as liaison officer to assist in the unloading
of MAGNIFICENT in Port Said, thus, with a reasonable command of
Arabic, he became the interface between two peoples he really did
not understand; Canadians and Egyptians. And it is what happened
between a very few of those two peoples that was giving Lt.
Clarke a permanent view of the cracked and peeling ceiling.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Lt. Clarke found Canadian sailors rather a rough lot. They
did not seem to possess the discipline bred into British seamen
and their respect for authority seemed to be non-existent. While
this bothered him, he was amazed by the fact that their ship was
in incredibly good condition and they operated it with the skill
and confidence he had thought reserved for his own Royal Navy.
Ralph Hambly was one of the Canadians who Clarke saw rather
often. He was constantly on the Flight Deck in view of everybody
and he seemed to have a control over his work party that others
did not. Had anyone asked Ralph he would have told them that it
was because he was a prairie boy, and everybody knew prairie boys
made the best sailors. Ralph was, in fact, from Eston, Sas-
katchewan, a small town where his father had been involved in
raising hogs. Ralph hated hogs almost as much as he had hated
school, so when his seventeenth birthday came along, Ralph
immediately packed an overnight bag and headed for the RCN
recruiting office in Regina. The only time he looked back was
when he had to return home to get his father's signature on the
recruiting form. That he acquired with the lie that he would
serve a three year engagement and return to the farm to take over
the family business. Four years had passed since then.
Ralph had completed his initial engagement and despite the
problems that went along with life in the navy, he had decided it
was something in which he excelled and most of the time enjoyed.
If asked to explain why, he was lost for a decent answer.
Ralph was drafted to HMCS MAGNIFICENT in April of 1956 with a
group of aircraft handlers having just completed his AH2 course
at the Naval Air Station, HMCS SHEARWATER. He was a senior Able
Seaman in his branch and was considered a most reliable hand by
both his Petty Officer and the Flight Deck Officer. He was also
held in high regard by many of the ordinary seamen onboard. Now
he was in Port Said with little to occupy his time and no air-
craft, so he had been placed in charge of a small body of men
whose primary function was to marshal trucks to a dispersal point
on the Flight Deck and prepare for their disembarkation to the
jetty below.
Ralph liked what he could see of Port Said. Although the ship
had spent her entire time working since arrival, Ralph thought
this looked like the kind of place he might find one of those
rough little bars with cheap local beer, a few women and perhaps
a Black Market that sold gems, gold and other things sailors were
supposed to be able to get their hands on. He didn't have a great
love for the Egyptians having spent the last thirty or so hours
trying to deal with them on the jetty, but as long as he could
get a good deal ashore, the trip might not be a total waste.
The work party took a short break and Ralph went over to the
Port side and jumped into one of the Anti-aircraft Gun sponsons.
This was a tub built just slightly below the Flight Deck level of
the ship, extended over the side and which contained a 40 mil-
limeter, rapid fire gun. Below were the "Bum-Boats" which seemed
to make an appearance whenever the ship was in one of the less
well developed countries.
A Bum-Boat is the sailor's name for a small skiff or punt,
operated by a local entrepreneur who finds the sale of goods to
members of a warship's company or the passengers of a merchant
liner lucrative enough to feed his inevitable large family. The
wares are often cheap, locally produced items or brand-name stuff
of questionable ownership. Bum-Boat operators were not likely to
be the most honest persons with whom one might wish to conduct
business. They were always poorly dressed and rowed a boat which
looked like one more day of operation would see it to the bottom
of the harbour for want of caulking. A naval chaplain had called
them God's children slightly more in need of assistance than
others; sailors called them "slimy little WOGS of questionable
parental heritage".
Ralph lit a cigarette and noticed one of the Bum-Boats pull-
ing closer to the ship's side. The vendor was looking up at him
with a wide grin, waving a gold watch.
Ralph developed an interest.
The Bum-Boat came a little closer and Ralph called down to
him, "Hey! C'mere wog! Let's see what y've got."
The vendor came right up to the ship's side and waved the
watch in the direction of Ralph, almost eighty feet above him.
Ralph couldn't quite see the watch but called down, "How much?!"
The vendor babbled something in Arabic and held up seven fin-
gers. This confused Ralph but he decided to carry on with the
negotiations for a little longer in hopes of getting a good deal.
"Pounds!" Ralph hollered. "How many pounds?"
"Siben," replied the Egyptian, holding up seven fingers and
grinning as he offered his product to the sailor at a special
discount price.
"Bull," muttered Ralph to himself and held up two fingers as
he yelled, "Two! I'll give ya two!"
Some of Ralph's work party had joined him in the sponson and
watched the barter with the knowing smiles of men who had engaged
in this form of trade before. Canadians were famous for it.
The Egyptian wildly shook his head and held up seven fingers,
furiously waving them in the direction of the sponson. "Siben,
siben!" he shouted.
"No way, Wog," said Ralph. "Two!"
The game of barter is not very delicate but there are some
unwritten rules. The first, and perhaps most important, is that
neither party should show weakness. There must be some resolve in
each party's negotiations. There is an agreed upon price, some-
where in middle ground, but it is only attainable if the correct
attitude is displayed by both the seller and the prospective
buyer. This is achieved by the seller taking the approach that
the buyer is extremely cheap and the product can be sold to the
next person that comes along for the initially quoted price, and
the buyer displaying a certain indifference to the goods offered
and that while there is no desire to assume ownership, if the
price is low enough a deal can be struck anyway.
Ralph and the Egyptian were both playing their parts well and
Ralph had decided he would not budge on his price until the Egyp-
tian made the first move. If the little salesman rowed away, he
would soon be back offering a discount.
The Egyptian must have wanted to make a sale because he
weakened sufficiently to maintain Ralph's interest. "Six. You gib
me six."
"Little bastard," Ralph commented to the men who had joined
him. Then to the Egyptian, "Two. I'll give you two!"
The Egyptian once again shook his head "no" and held up six
fingers, his face having assumed the disgusted look so often seen
on vendors dealing with people from strange lands.
Ralph laughed. "Hey! Woggie!" The Egyptian looked up and
Ralph held up three fingers, his faced filled with optimism and
friendship.
The Egyptian spat, looked away and disdainfully held up five
fingers. Ralph indicated "no". The Egyptian threw his hand out in
Ralph's direction and looked away pretending to ignore him. Ralph
snickered and told his men that "this guy was good".
"Hey! Arab! ' Give ya four!"
That clinched it. Although the Egyptian hesitated slightly,
Ralph knew he had hit upon the price at which the little Bum-Boat
operator would turn over the watch. The Egyptian smiled and
nodded his head favourably.
"Send string! Send string!" said the exited little man.
"Get me a hunk of codline," Ralph directed one of the
ordinary seaman in the sponson, and to the Egyptian, "You wait!
You wait! OK?!"
He nodded and replied, "Ok, ok."
A few minutes later the ordinary seaman had returned with a
length of codline and Ralph lowered one end into the Bum-Boat.
The Egyptian wrapped the watch in a grubby piece of cloth and
tied it onto the line, indicating that Ralph could hoist it up.
When the end of the line reach the sponson and Ralph had a
look at the watch, he was a little put off. The device was made
of a cheap metal, the face poorly crafted and, as one of the
ordinary seamen present had stated, it probably had a bamboo
mainspring. Ralph decided it would be best if he just returned
the thing to the Bum-Boat and didn't bother with it at all.
He looked down at the Bum-Boat and said, "Cheap! I don't want
it! You keep!"
The Egyptian got angry and started in with a string of
blasphemy which Ralph neither understood nor cared about as he
started lowering the watch in the grubby little cloth. Had he
taken a few more seconds to tie a better knot, the remainder of
the day would have been relatively uneventful. As it was however,
the little piece of cloth opened up and the watch tumbled into
the water, sinking immediately. Ralph waved it off.
The Egyptian exploded.
Within minutes there were more than twenty boats alongside
"Maggie", all their occupants screeching in Arabic and shaking
their fists in the direction of the sponson. Ralph decided that
being out of sight might be the best way to avoid any further
incident and began to leave the scene.
Lieutenant Clarke had watched the proceeding in its entirety
from the Starboard side near the Island, a considerable distance
away. He strode over to the sponson as Hambly was leaving,
stopped him and asked, "Right then. What's going on here?"
Ralph Hambly hated "kippers", as Britons were referred to in
the RCN. He didn't have a reason; it was simply the thing to do.
The fact that Byron Clarke was one, coupled with the fact that he
was an officer, caused Hambly to take on a look of considerable
contempt. As far as Clarke was concerned, this was typical of
Canadians and he reacted in kind.
"What have you started here?" he asked.
"Nothin', Sir. The little Wog is just raisin' hell, that's
all."
Clarke became stern. "I'd say that's not all, man. They all
seem rather upset. In fact they're all saying you owe one of them
some money."
"Nosir," replied Hambly. Hambly told the story of the barter
and the loss of the watch. He might have been able to end it
there had he not added, "... it's between me and the Wog."
"We'll see about that!" Clarke answered, and then proceeded
to rattle off in Arabic at the Bum-Boats. The reply came from the
vendor with whom Ralph had been bartering.
"What's your name?" Clarke asked Hambly. Hambly told him.
"Well, Able Seaman Hambly, it appears you owe that man seven
Egyptian pounds for a watch you received from him. Now, I would
suggest you pay before this mob get violent and starts something
we can't handle."
"But...," started Hambly.
"No buts, Hambly! Pay him!"
Ralph Hambly seethed. First the Egyptian and now this kipper
officer. His mind turned over as he quickly developed a way to
deal with this problem.
"I don't have any money on me right now, Sir. I'll have to go
down to my mess to get it."
"Very well. I'll tell him. But I warn you, Hambly, if you
don't return in due course and pay this man, I'll have you up in
front of the Commander as a defaulter."
Hambly nodded with a solemnness. "Aye aye, Sir. I'll be back
as soon as I've got my money out of my locker."
Clarke once again spoke to the Bum-Boats in Arabic. They
quieted down and Clarke reiterated his warning to Hambly. Hambly
acted extremely humble and nodded some form of agreement. As he
left to go to his messdeck, he grabbed one of the ordinary
seamen, a huge man who was relatively well-known in the Fleet as
a very successful boxer. Hambly thought to himself that this man
would be strong enough to assist him in making things right.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Cable Deck of a light fleet aircraft carrier was one of
those spaces in the ship which men avoided. It was a rather
unpleasant smelling compartment, darkened by various shades of
grey paint and a splatter of red-lead here and there. There was a
light coat of dust on everything in the ill lighted compartment
and rust chips from the main component. Two large greased strips
led from the forward end to the door at the aft bulkhead. The
deck was pierced by two reinforced holes through which passed the
massive anchor cables stowed in piles in the cable locker on the
deck below. The two great anchor chains bent their way aft, over
a gypsy winch and then forward through the hawse pipes where they
met the giant three-hundred weight anchors.
The Cable Deck was the storage area for other fittings
related to the job of anchoring or mooring the ship. There was
one item which interested Ralph Hambly. The Joining Shackle.
The Joining Shackle looked like any shackle one might pick up
from a hardware store. The only noticeable difference was the
size. The Joining Shackle weighed just in excess of three-hundred
pounds. Its purpose was to hold the leviathan that was MAG-
NIFICENT to a buoy using the anchor cable.
Ralph Hambly, assisted by his ordinary seaman, shifted the
Joining Shackle to the grease strip which led to the door, then
the two of them commenced sliding the huge fitting down the deck.
It was anything but an easy job. Every time the two men came to a
door, they had to lift the shackle over the sill which, in almost
every ship, could be as high as a foot. Within fifteen minutes
they had the big fitting at the foot of a ladder leading to the
flight deck. The move up the ladder took them several more
minutes and an extraordinary amount of expletives.
Once on the flight deck, the job seemed to go easier. There
was no problem with being intercepted by a Petty Officer or some
other such person. After all, two sailors struggling with a large
naval fitting was a fairly common thing in an aircraft carrier.
They dragged the shackle across the flight deck, into the 40
millimeter gun sponson. The two men lugged the monster onto the
top of the Ready Use Ammunition locker which was flush with the
top lip of the sponson tub bulwarks. Hambly greased the top of
the locker with some of the graphite grease from the maintenance
locker in the sponson.
He looked out at the bum-boats again. There's the little
bastard, he thought to himself. He called to the bum-boat. The
little Egyptian rowed over to the ship's side.
"I've got your money, Wog!"
The Egyptian looked up with a glitter of teeth.
"Come a little closer," instructed Hambly. The Egyptian com-
plied until he was directly under the sponson. Hambly started
lowering a thin bit of line with a brass bolt on the end. When it
reached the boat the Egyptian exploded into a tirade of Arabic.
He had not received the payment promised.
Hambly looked down with glee then started inching the Joining
Shackle toward the edge of the sponson. "Here's your pay, Wog!"
screamed Hambly, and with a final shove the three-hundred pound
naval shackle slipped over the edge of the gun platform and
executed a perfect vertical drop.
The little boat could just barely hold its occupant and his
wares. The shackle was simply too much for the old, poorly con-
structed vessel. It entered the boat and departed at approxi-
mately the same speed, via the bottom planks, causing the boat to
sink with an alarming speed. The vendors in the remaining bum-
boats started to raise a din.
Lieutenant Byron Emsfield Clarke had been witness to the
final part of the episode from Hambly's final cry to the pushing
of the Joining Shackle over the side. He might well have taken a
different course of action if he had realized that he was unable
to prevent the damage the shackle would do. Running in the direc-
tion of the gun sponson was simply a reflex action - it was also
what put him in the hospital.
* * * * * * * * * *
Byron Clarke looked at his leg and almost cried. The pain had
long since subsided, but the memories of being run down by the
giant aircraft mule (a tractor designed to tow aircraft), were
still very vivid.
If only Hambly hadn't been one of those pig-headed Canadians;
If only the Egyptians were advanced enough that bum-boats weren't
a way of life; If only Gamal Abdel Nasser hadn't tried to take
back something that wasn't his; and, if only Ferdinand de Lesseps
hadn't dug that damned canal at Suez.

================================================================
Copyright (C) 1989 by Bob Stone
License granted to Samizdat E-Mag for
one-time publication.
All other rights reserved.

THE WEISENHIMER PAPERS

Introduction

IPS [Industry People and Service] started innocently as a
bulletin board serving people in the media. Eventually, a very
unusual consultant joined the ranks of those running conferences
on the board. Known only as, Dr. A. Weisenhimer, Ph.D. C.O.D.
L.L. Bean, he offered his services as one who, "gives tongue in
cheek answers to your most serious and urgent questions about
Science, Religion, Philosophy, Metaphysics and Household Hints
(i.e.; blood stains can be removed from a double knit polyester
leisure suit by applying a liberal coating of fresh camel dung,
allowing to dry for 24 hours, and then brushing with a stiff
bristled brush)".
We offer here some excerpts of his work in the hope that his
wisdom and knowledge will be disseminated [one of his favorite
words] and make this world a better place in which to live [one
of his least favorite cliches].
He can currently be consulted free of charge (you get what
you pay for) on IPS (818) 366-2268, located in Granada Hills, one
of the darker corners of Los Angeles County. The bulletin board
does not, however, condone, support, agree with, or in any way
validate the words of Dr. Weisenhimer.
We cannot imagine who would.

LINT

"What is lint...where does it come from...how can I send it
back?"
- Dan 7

The delay in my response has been caused by the fact that
there are several conflicting theories as to the nature and
origin of lint. Many distinguished scientists have severed long
standing associations, been thrown out of leading institutions of
higher learning, and lower learning, because they espoused
opinions in this matter that did not toe the accepted line. This
may come as a surprise to you. Hey, I swallowed my chewing gum
when I realized how much of a furor this topic has created in
scientific circles. I will try to delineate the major theories
and give you, briefly, the pro and cons of each. There are
two...unless I get really creative today and come up with
another. But I think two is all you're gonna get.

First, there is the BIG BANG theory of lint. A long time
ago, before Pia Zadora sang her first song, all the matter in the
Universe was concentrated into one itsy-bitsy place. Back then,
outer space was really SPACE. Of course if there was nothing in
it, there is the question of whether or not there was an "it". On
the other hand, this concentrated hunk of stuff, that was to
become the matter in the Universe as we know it was in it, so I
guess it was a place. But it wasn't very crowded, and property
values were rock bottom. You coulda gotten into a three bedroom
house with pool and jacuzzi for UNDER $200,000, including closing
costs and points. But none of us was smart enough to make our
move then. So anyway, there was this big bang, and all this mat-
ter started to fly out in every direction. This stuff was full
of gases and hotness, and it was moving at a good clip.

Several weeks, at least, went by and molecules started cool-
ing and forming solid matter...and stars formed in a way that
takes too long to explain now. Everything we now have in the
Universe, from Hydrogen to diamonds to uranium and from planets
to Formica to lint, was formed at this time, although not neces-
sarily in the form we see it today. [Formica for example only
came in white. The colored kind and the kind with multicolored
speckles in it are manmade variations.] But lint, in essentially
the form we know it, today was created at the time of the BIG
BANG. Some of the long, stringy gas clouds cooled, and formed
threadlike shapes. Balls of lint, sometimes millions of light
years across exploded out with the rest of the matter in the
Universe. Over the billions and billions of years, the lint broke
down...the bits getting smaller and smaller. Some of it gets
captured by Earth's gravity, and instead of burning up, falls
slowly down. This theory does not go on to explain why it seems
to collect under beds and in navels, and that is the main weak-
ness of the theory. On the other hand, the OTHER theory of lint,
the one that says it is...well, let me save that for tomorrow, or
the day after. I'm beat.

[The doctor closes his eyes and goes into a trance. As the
spittle trickles from the left corner of his mouth, we can hear
him mumble..."NEXT CASE!"]

***

LINT - PART TWO

By now, Dan, you have had time to peruse, digest, and perhaps
even eliminate the first half of my response to your question
about lint. Can't you just feel your horizons widening?
On to part two!

The second theory of the nature and origin of lint is: LINT
AS LIFE FORM. Yes, it is believed by many scientists who are
distinguished [well, they have white hair at the temples and deep
voices] that lint is, in fact, a form of life as we don't know
it. Although lint does not obviously display many of the charac-
teristics that have become "signs of life" [such as taking in and
elimination of nutrients and being on the Publisher's Clearing
House mailing list] there is much evidence that this may be a
form of animal life that differs from all others. Until the duck
billed platypus was discovered, would anyone have believed that
it could exist? But I digress.
Lint seems to seek out and coexist well with Man. While it
does not seem to be a parasite, don't expect it to get a job, and
I wouldn't lend it any money. Like many animals, especially mam-
mals, lint looks for warm, dry places, and is social, preferring
to live together in small family groups, "clumps", which then
form a larger social unit, a colony or "field". The reason that
fields of lint are often found under beds and other furniture
probably is a combination of the herding and hiding instinct [for
self preservation] combined with the aforementioned preference
for warmth and a closeness to humans. This is carried to the
extreme when the lint in its fetal stage nests in the easily
accessible orifices of larger animals.

How the lint reproduces is still a mystery, however it is
clear that the newborn lint is quite undeveloped and is sent out
from the clump to establish another clump elsewhere. It still
must go through a maturation phase, and so seeks out such places
as the human navel in which to rest, gain strength and grow. As
with all life forms, its instinct for self preservation is very
strong. This explains why Jan had so much trouble getting the
lint out of his navel. I assure you, there is no evidence that
the lint causes anything more than a minor inconvenience during
its nesting period. The National Enquirer aside, there is no
scientific data to support claims of lint taking over the control
of the hosts' mind, or of entire fields forming within a human
navel.

I must reiterate, that the above is merely theory and has not
yet been proven scientifically.

Finally, Dan, you did say that lint bothers you and you want
to know how to send it back to where it came from. Well, Dan,
much in this Universe bothers me as well, that's why we have off
switches on TV sets, insecticides, and recall elections. But you
will have to learn to live with lint, as it has so far proven to
be impervious to all attempts to eliminate it from our environ-
ment. It is here for the duration, it seems. We can rest in the
knowledge that it knows no socio-economic strata, but sets up
shop beneath the Chippendale armoire, and the Montgomery Ward end
table. It lodges in the navel of Pope and President, and the
humblest beggar among us. It is the Great Leveler...and for the
lesson it teaches, we must be grateful.
[The doctor, with a tear in his eye, heaves a sigh as he
thinks on the Nature of Man and the Universe. He sighs a sigh
that fills the room with the odor of yesterday's sausages...and
quietly says, "NEXT CASE!"]

***

THE FRENCH, BUT NOT REALLY

"Just why do the French think Jerry Lewis is funny? You are a
cultured man and I thought perhaps you'd know."
- Dan 7

Those wild and wacky French...who can figure them? Certainly
not me. They defy all attempts at understanding. Fervently
nationalistic on the one hand, they seem ready to accept invading
armies with all the ferociousness of a puppy wanting its stomach
rubbed. Look at their culture and history; The French like to
maintain a constant mild wine buzz, they like rich, mind numbing
foods, frequent reality blurring sexual escapades, long, sad
songs that rarely rhyme, and every 30 years or so they invite
their neighbors over probably because they love that Germanic
sense of humor.

What can you expect of a people who make an icon of a thin,
drugged out arthritic waif, Edith Pilaf, who came out and sat on
a bed of rice and sang heart rending songs of pain and sadness.
For humor they turn to the likes of Fernandel, Jacques Tati and
our own Jerry Lewis! Actually, this last choice is a bright spot
in the picture. Every second he spends on their soil accepting
an award or attending yet another Jerry Lewis film fest, is a
gift from France to us that is more beautiful and precious than
the Statue of Liberty herself.

Why do they like Jerry Lewis? They do for the same reason
that they attacked Russia in winter, drive cars named "Lemon",
and never pronounce half the letters in their alphabet.

They're FRENCH!

I think of them as Jerry's Kids. They suffer from Comedic
Aphasia [the inability to use or understand words or physicality
in a comedic pattern]. But they have nobody researching a cure,
no telethon, and no hope of recovery.

[The Doctor laughs a dry little laugh knowing that all in his
audience of whatever nationality will understand that all of the
above is not really a reference specifically to the French or
German nations, but is used here as a parable of the entire human
condition and the many similarities that exist among societies
and that only through an understanding of how we are all really
one people and one nation, can true peace be possible. [But
actually it really IS about the French.] The Doctor begins to
quietly whistle the French national anthem [whose name he can't
even spell well enough to look up] and then screams, "NEXT
CASE!"]

***

THE ROOT CANAL

"I am going to have my first root canal next week... the root of
my tooth will be removed. What will they do with it?...they will
stuff the resulting cavity with something called "gutta-percha",
a word which elicits a shiver...what is this stuff"?
- Ian 133

Well, Ian, by now you have had your root canal, gone through
the fear, the agony, been heavily sedated, slowly recovered, have
gone back to your normal, relatively pain free life and the
memory has faded into the vast chasm of your past.

I'm here to remind you of the horror.

My sympathies for all you have suffered, babe, but, hey you
musta been eating some real crap, huh?

First of all, that chomper of yours is made up of the outer
enamel, the dentine [also referred to as the juicy fruit], and
the inner pulp. That pulp is thick with capillaries, lymphatics
and, the real root of your problem,
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\NERVE ENDINGS /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
It is this pulp that has to be removed when it has become damaged
by the infection. The doctor himself finds it amazing that some
nerve endings want, indeed crave, stimulation, whilst others, on
the slightest tap or on mere proximity to ice cream will send the
person attached to said nerve ending, screaming in a trajectory
toward the ceiling.

Some of my current research employs the Weisenhimer/Haagen-
Daaz Test in which a subject's most sensitive nerve clusters are
selectively stimulated, and then the subject is debriefed to
determine where on the pain/pleasure spectrum the particular
stimulation falls. It is astounding how difficult it is at times
to differentiate one from the other. This makes the data diffi-
cult to collect and interpret, but undaunted I continue.

As for what happens to this pulp when it is removed, it is
made into paper products for home and office. At one time it was
used strictly for making paper for science fiction and fantasy
magazines.

The stuffing of this new bodily cavity is accomplished with a
material called "gutta-percha". From the Malay word "getah"
meaning "gum" [I bet you think this is a joke...look it up],
gutta-percha is a milky, rubbery substance produced by the
Malaysian gutta-percha tree. It is used in electrical insula-
tion, for the center of golf balls as well as in dentistry. So,
Ian, you can now stick your finger in a light socket while stand-
ing in a bucket of water, and your teeth, at least, will survive.
Or if struck on the noggin with a golf club, your head will
travel farther than it might have before. The pain was worth it,
huh?

[The doctor grabs his mint flavored dental floss and heads
for the half bathroom in the basement lab to perform some dental
prophylaxis. In his mind he hears the screams of his most recent
subject as a dollop of chocolate-chocolate chip ice cream was
being applied to a carefully selected and isolated nerve cluster.
Was it pain or pleasure? The doctor smiles and yells, "NEXT
CASE!]


 
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