It was a decision that plagued him for most of his adult life: not playing in the state basketball championship game in his senior year because of bronchitis.
His team lost the game by one point.
The final shot of the game was a set play that was usually run through him. An inbounds pass, shot out to the key, and then back to him at the low post. Two points. That was his shot. And that was the shot his teammate missed as the game clock wound down to zero.
Hardly a day went by that he didn't question himself. Was his bronchitis really that bad? Couldn't he have played sick? Couldn't he have rallied? Did he succumb to doctor's orders too easily?
There was no way to know, but that didn't stop him from questioning himself constantly throughout the following spring, into college, and for the rest of his years. If he had sucked it up and played in that game, would they have won the state championship?
He was so obsessed with the question that upon dying and proceeding to the after world, that was the first question he asked. Most people wanted to know about relatives or loved ones. He wanted to know if he would have delivered his team the glory.
Upon hearing his question, the Supreme Being laughed and told him no. If he'd been there and played, they would have lost by ten.
Really?
Oh yeah. In fact, he'd come perilously close to preventing them from making the finals in the first place. If anything, most of his team was relieved he wasn't able to play in that final game.
Sorry.
Just being honest.
Anything else you want to know?
Not so much.
And with that lifelong nagging question finally answered, he sulked away. His afterlife was off to a disappointing start.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
September 6 - The Baby Proofer
Ann closed the cabinet, and the baby lock snapped into place. She stirred the bubbling spaghetti sauce and was careful to keep the pan handle turned inward.
Her phone rang and she answered it, keeping an eye on 16-month-old Maddie playing on the floor.
It was Michael, her husband.
How's Maddie? How's your day? How's everything?
Ann stirred the sauce and glanced at Maddie as she answered his questions.
Hey could you check something for me on the calendar really quick? Do we have that thing with the Hancocks on Friday or Saturday?
She cradled the phone in her ear and checked the calendar.
The sauce bubbled on the stove.
This weekend?
Next.
So, next month. She flipped to the next month and the calendar fell off the fridge.
Just then the dog started barking in the next room, causing Ann to drop the phone.
She glanced over again at Maddie, who was still playing, and then reached down and picked up the phone.
Still there?
Yeah.
The dog kept barking.
Barney! Quiet!
She checked the calendar. Flipped the page to the next month. Next weekend. Friday. Next Friday with the Hancocks.
And then she turned around just in time to see Maddie standing on her tiptoes reaching for the saucepan. Somehow she managed to get her hand on the handle and pull it down. It skidded off the stove top, hit the oven handle and turned over in midair, sending the sauce showering all over--
"And pause right there."
Ann's monitor froze on the image of Maddie a split second before the molten hot spaghetti sauce hit.
"OK, Ann," said the voice in her earpiece. "Tell me your mistake."
"Can I take this thing off first?"
"Sure."
Ann pulled her virtual reality gloves off and then flipped the switches on the helmet and took it off, too.
"Better?"
"Much."
"OK. So, tell me what you did wrong."
And then Ann told Sergeant Rex what she thought she'd done wrong and he listened. Then they talked through her mistakes and what she could have done differently and also talked about all the things she had done right. Throughout the discussion, the focus was simple: helping to keep the baby as safe as possible. It was typical of the thousands of discussions that Sergeant Rex Brown had had as a baby safety consultant.
A lengthy and distinguished career as a staff sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps had shaped Rex Brown's into the perfect baby proofer. He had a falcon-like eye for detail, tireless vigilance, ironclad discipline, and an uncanny way of seeing a house through a self-destructive baby's eyes. He was the best in the business.
The recently retired Sergeant Rex had been drawn to baby safety after his own son almost choked to death on a toothpick that had fallen on the floor during a Fourth of July barbecue. Shortly after saving the child, Sergeant Rex waged a full out assault on safety hazards in and around their home. He did such a thorough job of baby proofing their house that his wife (half) joked to him that the only way they could have made things safer for their son would have been to put him in a plastic bubble and keep the bubble in a room lined with pillows. Although Sergeant Rex didn't see the humor in his wife's comments, he was satisfied with the work he had done.
So much so that soon he was volunteering to serve as a baby safety consultant/baby proofer for other expectant families in their neighborhood, and quickly developing a reputation as the most thorough baby proofer and most knowledgeable baby safety expert in the tri-state area.
By the end of the year, he had founded his own company: Sergeant Rex's Baby Proofing and Baby Safety Boot Camp.
Stone-faced but kind, Sergeant Rex tried to make couples feel comfortable with the baby proofing process while also making sure they understood the gravity of the situation. His sessions usually skewed more toward the stern and focused than the warm and fuzzy. In fact, in the early days of his career, many an expectant mother (and at least two fathers) were reduced to tears after he walked quietly from room to room in the client's home and shaking his head occasionally before saying any one of the following:
Your baby would stand a better chance of survival in the slums of Calcutta than in this room.
However much you got saved up for college should make a good down payment on your kid's funeral.
If this is what you call safe, I'd say save yourself the trouble and get an abortion. Baby Superman couldn't survive this deathtrap, much less your child.
Your baby is going to do everything in his power to kill himself. Don't you think you should at least make it a little challenging for him?
Over time, his wife was able to get him to soften his approach. The terror tactics get people's attention, but they also shut them down. You have to give more positive reinforcement, she said. And gradually he did.
But his tough guy image was impossible to shake. He had a linebacker's build, the same crew cut from his days as a Marine, and an intimidating Batman-like utility belt with innumerable gadgets, gauges, and tools to help him do his job.
Although his no-nonsense demeanor didn't exactly help people relax, the work he excelled at did. After Sergeant Rex had baby proofed a house, the place was secure.
Sergeant Rex was both high-tech and low-tech. He had wands that beeped, sensors that hummed, and handheld electronic devices that were straight out of Star Trek. But he also crawled on the floors, climbed on the walls, and touched, shook, jostled, checked, pushed, pulled, moved, removed, and lifted every thing in every room.
And then he gave his report along with his recommendations.
And then he baby proofed the site and talked the parents through what he had done.
And then he tested everything twice.
And when he was finished, the place was safe, and the parents knew it.
As his business grew, he hired other former Marines to help run his baby safety boot camps, which were weekend sessions where expectant couples spent two days and two nights receiving a master's course in baby safety, emergency training, simulation drills, and hands on practice at the state-of-the-art baby safety facility he built on the outskirts of his horse farm.
His motto in everything was: Be thorough. You may not remember all the ways you baby proofed your house. But you'll never forget the one way you didn't.
It was a motto that continues to serve him and his clients well. More than 20 years in the baby safety business, and his record is spotless.
Her phone rang and she answered it, keeping an eye on 16-month-old Maddie playing on the floor.
It was Michael, her husband.
How's Maddie? How's your day? How's everything?
Ann stirred the sauce and glanced at Maddie as she answered his questions.
Hey could you check something for me on the calendar really quick? Do we have that thing with the Hancocks on Friday or Saturday?
She cradled the phone in her ear and checked the calendar.
The sauce bubbled on the stove.
This weekend?
Next.
So, next month. She flipped to the next month and the calendar fell off the fridge.
Just then the dog started barking in the next room, causing Ann to drop the phone.
She glanced over again at Maddie, who was still playing, and then reached down and picked up the phone.
Still there?
Yeah.
The dog kept barking.
Barney! Quiet!
She checked the calendar. Flipped the page to the next month. Next weekend. Friday. Next Friday with the Hancocks.
And then she turned around just in time to see Maddie standing on her tiptoes reaching for the saucepan. Somehow she managed to get her hand on the handle and pull it down. It skidded off the stove top, hit the oven handle and turned over in midair, sending the sauce showering all over--
"And pause right there."
Ann's monitor froze on the image of Maddie a split second before the molten hot spaghetti sauce hit.
"OK, Ann," said the voice in her earpiece. "Tell me your mistake."
"Can I take this thing off first?"
"Sure."
Ann pulled her virtual reality gloves off and then flipped the switches on the helmet and took it off, too.
"Better?"
"Much."
"OK. So, tell me what you did wrong."
And then Ann told Sergeant Rex what she thought she'd done wrong and he listened. Then they talked through her mistakes and what she could have done differently and also talked about all the things she had done right. Throughout the discussion, the focus was simple: helping to keep the baby as safe as possible. It was typical of the thousands of discussions that Sergeant Rex Brown had had as a baby safety consultant.
A lengthy and distinguished career as a staff sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps had shaped Rex Brown's into the perfect baby proofer. He had a falcon-like eye for detail, tireless vigilance, ironclad discipline, and an uncanny way of seeing a house through a self-destructive baby's eyes. He was the best in the business.
The recently retired Sergeant Rex had been drawn to baby safety after his own son almost choked to death on a toothpick that had fallen on the floor during a Fourth of July barbecue. Shortly after saving the child, Sergeant Rex waged a full out assault on safety hazards in and around their home. He did such a thorough job of baby proofing their house that his wife (half) joked to him that the only way they could have made things safer for their son would have been to put him in a plastic bubble and keep the bubble in a room lined with pillows. Although Sergeant Rex didn't see the humor in his wife's comments, he was satisfied with the work he had done.
So much so that soon he was volunteering to serve as a baby safety consultant/baby proofer for other expectant families in their neighborhood, and quickly developing a reputation as the most thorough baby proofer and most knowledgeable baby safety expert in the tri-state area.
By the end of the year, he had founded his own company: Sergeant Rex's Baby Proofing and Baby Safety Boot Camp.
Stone-faced but kind, Sergeant Rex tried to make couples feel comfortable with the baby proofing process while also making sure they understood the gravity of the situation. His sessions usually skewed more toward the stern and focused than the warm and fuzzy. In fact, in the early days of his career, many an expectant mother (and at least two fathers) were reduced to tears after he walked quietly from room to room in the client's home and shaking his head occasionally before saying any one of the following:
Your baby would stand a better chance of survival in the slums of Calcutta than in this room.
However much you got saved up for college should make a good down payment on your kid's funeral.
If this is what you call safe, I'd say save yourself the trouble and get an abortion. Baby Superman couldn't survive this deathtrap, much less your child.
Your baby is going to do everything in his power to kill himself. Don't you think you should at least make it a little challenging for him?
Over time, his wife was able to get him to soften his approach. The terror tactics get people's attention, but they also shut them down. You have to give more positive reinforcement, she said. And gradually he did.
But his tough guy image was impossible to shake. He had a linebacker's build, the same crew cut from his days as a Marine, and an intimidating Batman-like utility belt with innumerable gadgets, gauges, and tools to help him do his job.
Although his no-nonsense demeanor didn't exactly help people relax, the work he excelled at did. After Sergeant Rex had baby proofed a house, the place was secure.
Sergeant Rex was both high-tech and low-tech. He had wands that beeped, sensors that hummed, and handheld electronic devices that were straight out of Star Trek. But he also crawled on the floors, climbed on the walls, and touched, shook, jostled, checked, pushed, pulled, moved, removed, and lifted every thing in every room.
And then he gave his report along with his recommendations.
And then he baby proofed the site and talked the parents through what he had done.
And then he tested everything twice.
And when he was finished, the place was safe, and the parents knew it.
As his business grew, he hired other former Marines to help run his baby safety boot camps, which were weekend sessions where expectant couples spent two days and two nights receiving a master's course in baby safety, emergency training, simulation drills, and hands on practice at the state-of-the-art baby safety facility he built on the outskirts of his horse farm.
His motto in everything was: Be thorough. You may not remember all the ways you baby proofed your house. But you'll never forget the one way you didn't.
It was a motto that continues to serve him and his clients well. More than 20 years in the baby safety business, and his record is spotless.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
September 5 - Message from a Dying Father to His Unborn Son (part 2)
Hi son. It's me, your dad again. How's everything going out there in the world of the future? You guys got flying cars yet? Do they still use cell phones or has everyone moved on to chip implants? How about global warming? How did that one turn out? Are you and mom watching this on your houseboat? Ha ha. I hope not.
Anyway, this here is the second of what I hope will be--I don't know--a lot of videotaped messages from me to you. I'm sure your mom has already told you all about me and what happened to me and why I'm not around, but I wanted to make these tapes for you while I still feel strong enough and have them be my way of giving you fatherly advice before I go off to the great unknown, I guess you'd call it.
If you recall, the first one I made for you was all about advice on dating and finding the right woman and all that. This one here is going to be all about advice for dealing with, well, everybody else, in a way. I'll apologize in advance if this rambles, but I think you'll get what I'm going for and I hope you take it to heart.
Basically, son, it's a big world and there are a lot of people and a lot of ideas out there. And basically, I want you to listen to people and hear what they've got to say, even if you don't agree with them. It's OK to disagree with somebody, by the way, but be respectful. Even if you're sure you're right. Because the person you disagree with is probably sure he's right, too. And then what?
Try to listen to him, because basically, you're never going to know everything there is to know about a particular issue. Have enough faith in your opinion to hear the other guy out, and then maybe he'll do the same for you and then at least you'll have given each other's opinions a fair shake.
I wish more people would do that now, but all too often it seems like they don't have the time. It's a lot easier just to make up your mind and have that be that, but if you ask me that kind of oversimplification and rush to judgement can get you in trouble.
And by the way, if you are ignorant about any given issue, do yourself and everyone else a favor and keep your opinion to yourself. Seems these days some of the most ignorant people out there are the ones who have the strongest opinions and are the most outspoken about them. And some of the things that come out of their mouths are just plain ugly.
Speaking of ignorance and also racism and bigotry, here's a quick test: If you say something about some group that you wouldn't say if there was a person from that group around, there's a pretty good chance that what you're saying is bigoted. Just something to think about.
On that note, resist the temptation to make generalizations about any group of people. I promise you everyone out there is a lot more complex and multifaceted than you might think at first.
And on another related note, any angry and hysterical and irrational person you see on the news is on the news because he's angry and hysterical and irrational. Don't assume that everyone who is part of his 'group' feels the same way he does.
It all comes down to my 90/10 rule, which is: 90% of people in the world are good people who just want to live their lives. And the other 10% of people in the world are assholes. Sorry to use that kind of language, but by now I'm sure you've heard worse. Anyway, 90/10. Most people are just regular people trying to live and let live. But unfortunately, the 10% who are assholes are really assholes. They'll try to screw it up for everybody else any way they can, be it through violence, hatred, cheating, whatever. But no matter how assholish they get, remember: Yes, they might be loud and yes, they might do a lot of damage, but they're still the minority. Don't let them bring you down to their level.
Sorry if this all sounds preachy, but during the time I recorded this message it seemed like things were getting pretty ugly in our country. Lots of otherwise reasonable people were getting fired up and pissed off about a lot of things and trying to blame everything on whichever group it was that they weren't a part of. I don't want you to be like that. I don't want you to be angry, I want you to be happy. And when you encounter somebody new, I want you to see them as a person, not as part of a group. Now, that takes a lot more time and patience, but maybe if you do it, other people will do it too.
I like to think there's a big reasonable middle ground out there and that the reason we don't hear from them is that they're all still trying to figure it all out and want to hold off on getting pissed off until they've heard all sides of the story. Maybe we need more of those people to speak up and tell the loudmouths on both sides to quiet down and act like adults. Who knows?
I hope these kinds of problems are gone by the time you watch this, but unfortunately, I have a feeling they won't be. People believe what they believe and they can be mighty stubborn about it.
Just like I was afraid of, I'm rambling. Sorry about. Nothing worse than a rambling, preachy father yammering on and on from beyond the grave.
Anyway, just keep a cool head I guess is what I'm saying. Be smart. Talk to people and listen to people.
Like I said, I hope that by the time you get this message you'll be rolling your eyes about how upset I am about the current state of affairs. Hopefully you'll be watching this in a much more nuanced and enlightened time.
Either way, I wish I could be there to talk to you about these things and everything else. That's the understatement of the century, little man.
Wow, I guess this one was kind of a downer. I promise I'll try to make the next one more fun and lively.
Until then, I love you, son. Go give your mom a hug.
Anyway, this here is the second of what I hope will be--I don't know--a lot of videotaped messages from me to you. I'm sure your mom has already told you all about me and what happened to me and why I'm not around, but I wanted to make these tapes for you while I still feel strong enough and have them be my way of giving you fatherly advice before I go off to the great unknown, I guess you'd call it.
If you recall, the first one I made for you was all about advice on dating and finding the right woman and all that. This one here is going to be all about advice for dealing with, well, everybody else, in a way. I'll apologize in advance if this rambles, but I think you'll get what I'm going for and I hope you take it to heart.
Basically, son, it's a big world and there are a lot of people and a lot of ideas out there. And basically, I want you to listen to people and hear what they've got to say, even if you don't agree with them. It's OK to disagree with somebody, by the way, but be respectful. Even if you're sure you're right. Because the person you disagree with is probably sure he's right, too. And then what?
Try to listen to him, because basically, you're never going to know everything there is to know about a particular issue. Have enough faith in your opinion to hear the other guy out, and then maybe he'll do the same for you and then at least you'll have given each other's opinions a fair shake.
I wish more people would do that now, but all too often it seems like they don't have the time. It's a lot easier just to make up your mind and have that be that, but if you ask me that kind of oversimplification and rush to judgement can get you in trouble.
And by the way, if you are ignorant about any given issue, do yourself and everyone else a favor and keep your opinion to yourself. Seems these days some of the most ignorant people out there are the ones who have the strongest opinions and are the most outspoken about them. And some of the things that come out of their mouths are just plain ugly.
Speaking of ignorance and also racism and bigotry, here's a quick test: If you say something about some group that you wouldn't say if there was a person from that group around, there's a pretty good chance that what you're saying is bigoted. Just something to think about.
On that note, resist the temptation to make generalizations about any group of people. I promise you everyone out there is a lot more complex and multifaceted than you might think at first.
And on another related note, any angry and hysterical and irrational person you see on the news is on the news because he's angry and hysterical and irrational. Don't assume that everyone who is part of his 'group' feels the same way he does.
It all comes down to my 90/10 rule, which is: 90% of people in the world are good people who just want to live their lives. And the other 10% of people in the world are assholes. Sorry to use that kind of language, but by now I'm sure you've heard worse. Anyway, 90/10. Most people are just regular people trying to live and let live. But unfortunately, the 10% who are assholes are really assholes. They'll try to screw it up for everybody else any way they can, be it through violence, hatred, cheating, whatever. But no matter how assholish they get, remember: Yes, they might be loud and yes, they might do a lot of damage, but they're still the minority. Don't let them bring you down to their level.
Sorry if this all sounds preachy, but during the time I recorded this message it seemed like things were getting pretty ugly in our country. Lots of otherwise reasonable people were getting fired up and pissed off about a lot of things and trying to blame everything on whichever group it was that they weren't a part of. I don't want you to be like that. I don't want you to be angry, I want you to be happy. And when you encounter somebody new, I want you to see them as a person, not as part of a group. Now, that takes a lot more time and patience, but maybe if you do it, other people will do it too.
I like to think there's a big reasonable middle ground out there and that the reason we don't hear from them is that they're all still trying to figure it all out and want to hold off on getting pissed off until they've heard all sides of the story. Maybe we need more of those people to speak up and tell the loudmouths on both sides to quiet down and act like adults. Who knows?
I hope these kinds of problems are gone by the time you watch this, but unfortunately, I have a feeling they won't be. People believe what they believe and they can be mighty stubborn about it.
Just like I was afraid of, I'm rambling. Sorry about. Nothing worse than a rambling, preachy father yammering on and on from beyond the grave.
Anyway, just keep a cool head I guess is what I'm saying. Be smart. Talk to people and listen to people.
Like I said, I hope that by the time you get this message you'll be rolling your eyes about how upset I am about the current state of affairs. Hopefully you'll be watching this in a much more nuanced and enlightened time.
Either way, I wish I could be there to talk to you about these things and everything else. That's the understatement of the century, little man.
Wow, I guess this one was kind of a downer. I promise I'll try to make the next one more fun and lively.
Until then, I love you, son. Go give your mom a hug.
September 4 - The Pitch
The young man bounded into the conference room smiling. A secretary asked him if he needed a laptop for his PowerPoint.
"No laptop, no PowerPoint," he said confidently. "No need."
Then he clapped his hands once and spun around to face the table full of venture capitalists.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'll get straight to the point. The consensus within the health care industry is that adults need six to eight hours of sleep--per night!--to function optimally." He paused for effect. "Now. How many of you can honestly say you got six to eight hours of sleep last night?"
All ten of the people seated at the table raised their hands immediately.
Crap.
"Very good," he continued. "But how many of you would say that you got six to eight hours of sleep every night for the last week?"
Again, without hesitation, all ten raised their hands.
Really? Seriously? Jesus.
"Very good. Wow, I'm jealous. Ha ha. OK, but how many of you have gotten your full six to eight hours of sleep every night this mon--year?"
They looked at each other. A few of them shrugged.
"Ha ha! See, that's what I'm talking about! Everybody knows they're supposed to get a good night's sleep every night, but how many of us can honestly say that we do?"
Don't raise your hands. Don't raise your hands. Don't do it.
"Right!" he said as soon as it looked like some of them were about to raise their hands.
"And this room is not the exception, it's the rule. There have been studies." He nodded. "And what happens when you don't get enough sleep?"
He started walking around the table as he spoke. "Your productivity suffers. Your judgement, vision, and reaction time become impaired. You become sluggish, irritable. You don't perform as well as you should."
He stopped at the far end of the conference table.
"You don't get the most you can out of life."
Yeah. That's right. Have I got your attention yet?
"Now, occasional sleepless nights are inevitable. But what about prolonged stretches of time where you can't sleep a full night's sleep for weeks? For months? What then?"
The men and women at the table waited for him to tell them what then. One woman checked her watch.
"You suffer," the young man said, full of gravity. "And so does society."
Boom.
Chew on that for a while.
"But what about the times in your life when you sleep too much? What about the times when you're able to sleep nine, ten, even eleven hours a night? I'm talking college kids on summer vacation. I'm talking 20somethings on weekends. I'm talking the unemployed. I'm talking about anyone who has plenty of time to sleep. And that goes for all of us at some point. For better or for worse, there are times in all of our lives when we don't just get enough sleep. We get too much sleep. More sleep than we need."
Look at them. I've got them. I've totally got them.
"But why should those extra hours of sleep go to waste? Shouldn't you be able to save that sleep for a time when you need it?"
"Yes, my friends," he said nodding. "You should."
Then he whispered, "And you will."
He smiled.
Here comes the money shot.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said as he rested his hands dramatically on the end of the table. "I give you . . . Sleep Bank."
He didn't have a poster, no signs. Just his words. The venture capitalists waited for him to continue.
"Sleep Bank," he said again.
"Sorry," one of the men said, "but what is Sleep Bank?"
"Aha! Glad you asked, my friend!"
He marched around to the other side of the table again.
"Say you're getting a good eight hours of sleep a night. It's fantastic, super healthy, wonderful. You feel great. But! You could probably get by on seven, right? So what you can do is put one hour a night into Sleep Bank, sleep a restful and restorative seven hours a night, and then use that extra hour--or collection of extra hours--sometime later when you really need it."
The venture capitalists looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes.
Yeah, I think they're getting the picture. Reel them in, old boy. Reel them in. Nice and steady.
"Now, if we expand this to the macro level, the unemployed, the overly inactive, and the preternaturally lazy can store massive amounts of excess sleep in Sleep Bank and earn interest on it. They can even trade their sleep on the open market."
"I don't get how it works, though," said the man.
The young man smiled. "Sleep is the last great untapped commodity. Why shouldn't we be able to save it, preserve it, and use it when we need it? My wife and I got the idea when we were pregnant with our first kid and everyone was telling us how little sleep we were going to be getting once the baby arrived. Meanwhile, we were sleeping eight, nine hours a night during the pregnancy. And it seemed like such a waste to be losing all those extra hours. Why shouldn't we be able to store them up someplace--like a Sleep Bank--and use them later? Am I right?" He put his hands on his hips and nodded, smiling.
"No," the other man said. "I get the concept. It's a good one. But I don't understand how you go about saving up and trading sleep. I guess that's what I'm asking."
"Well that, my friend, is up to the research and development department."
The venture capitalists looked around the room, checked their iPhones and Blackberries, yawned.
"Hey," the young man said. "Nobody ever said Sleep Bank was going to be easy, but I've already done most of the heavy lifting here. I've come up with the idea, I've come up with the name, I've even come up with the taglines. All we have to do now is dot the t's and cross the i's, so to speak. On the science, that is. Ha ha." He distorted his voice. "She blinded me--with science! Ha ha."
Nothing.
"Thomas Dolby? Anyone? Hey, is this thing on? He he."
The investors looked at each other again. A few of them turned to the next page in their yellow legal pads.
Do something. You're losing them.
"Ha ha. So yeah, once we figure out the science--and I think you'll all agree with me that that part will totally go pretty fast--we'll all be richer than crap!"
The man who'd asked the most questions looked around the table and then nodded and said, "Thank you for your time."
"Rest assured!"
"Beg your pardon?"
"Rest assured! That's our tagline."
"Mm. Very catchy."
"A good night's sleep? You can bank on it!"
"Very good. Thank you."
"Say goodnight to sleepless nights-ness. Sleeplessness. Say goodnight to sleeplessness."
"OK."
"You'll be sleeping all the way to the bank!"
"Thanks. We'll be in touch."
The secretary escorted him out of the room. He popped his head back in. "Hey, tell you what. You can sleep on it! And tell me your answer in the morning. Ha ha. Talk to you soon!"
As the venture capitalists decided to break for lunch, they could still hear the young man singing while he waited for the elevator, "Let me sleep on it. Baby, baby, let me sleep on it. Let me sleep on it, I'll give you my answer in the morning. I gotta know right now!"
"No laptop, no PowerPoint," he said confidently. "No need."
Then he clapped his hands once and spun around to face the table full of venture capitalists.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'll get straight to the point. The consensus within the health care industry is that adults need six to eight hours of sleep--per night!--to function optimally." He paused for effect. "Now. How many of you can honestly say you got six to eight hours of sleep last night?"
All ten of the people seated at the table raised their hands immediately.
Crap.
"Very good," he continued. "But how many of you would say that you got six to eight hours of sleep every night for the last week?"
Again, without hesitation, all ten raised their hands.
Really? Seriously? Jesus.
"Very good. Wow, I'm jealous. Ha ha. OK, but how many of you have gotten your full six to eight hours of sleep every night this mon--year?"
They looked at each other. A few of them shrugged.
"Ha ha! See, that's what I'm talking about! Everybody knows they're supposed to get a good night's sleep every night, but how many of us can honestly say that we do?"
Don't raise your hands. Don't raise your hands. Don't do it.
"Right!" he said as soon as it looked like some of them were about to raise their hands.
"And this room is not the exception, it's the rule. There have been studies." He nodded. "And what happens when you don't get enough sleep?"
He started walking around the table as he spoke. "Your productivity suffers. Your judgement, vision, and reaction time become impaired. You become sluggish, irritable. You don't perform as well as you should."
He stopped at the far end of the conference table.
"You don't get the most you can out of life."
Yeah. That's right. Have I got your attention yet?
"Now, occasional sleepless nights are inevitable. But what about prolonged stretches of time where you can't sleep a full night's sleep for weeks? For months? What then?"
The men and women at the table waited for him to tell them what then. One woman checked her watch.
"You suffer," the young man said, full of gravity. "And so does society."
Boom.
Chew on that for a while.
"But what about the times in your life when you sleep too much? What about the times when you're able to sleep nine, ten, even eleven hours a night? I'm talking college kids on summer vacation. I'm talking 20somethings on weekends. I'm talking the unemployed. I'm talking about anyone who has plenty of time to sleep. And that goes for all of us at some point. For better or for worse, there are times in all of our lives when we don't just get enough sleep. We get too much sleep. More sleep than we need."
Look at them. I've got them. I've totally got them.
"But why should those extra hours of sleep go to waste? Shouldn't you be able to save that sleep for a time when you need it?"
"Yes, my friends," he said nodding. "You should."
Then he whispered, "And you will."
He smiled.
Here comes the money shot.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said as he rested his hands dramatically on the end of the table. "I give you . . . Sleep Bank."
He didn't have a poster, no signs. Just his words. The venture capitalists waited for him to continue.
"Sleep Bank," he said again.
"Sorry," one of the men said, "but what is Sleep Bank?"
"Aha! Glad you asked, my friend!"
He marched around to the other side of the table again.
"Say you're getting a good eight hours of sleep a night. It's fantastic, super healthy, wonderful. You feel great. But! You could probably get by on seven, right? So what you can do is put one hour a night into Sleep Bank, sleep a restful and restorative seven hours a night, and then use that extra hour--or collection of extra hours--sometime later when you really need it."
The venture capitalists looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes.
Yeah, I think they're getting the picture. Reel them in, old boy. Reel them in. Nice and steady.
"Now, if we expand this to the macro level, the unemployed, the overly inactive, and the preternaturally lazy can store massive amounts of excess sleep in Sleep Bank and earn interest on it. They can even trade their sleep on the open market."
"I don't get how it works, though," said the man.
The young man smiled. "Sleep is the last great untapped commodity. Why shouldn't we be able to save it, preserve it, and use it when we need it? My wife and I got the idea when we were pregnant with our first kid and everyone was telling us how little sleep we were going to be getting once the baby arrived. Meanwhile, we were sleeping eight, nine hours a night during the pregnancy. And it seemed like such a waste to be losing all those extra hours. Why shouldn't we be able to store them up someplace--like a Sleep Bank--and use them later? Am I right?" He put his hands on his hips and nodded, smiling.
"No," the other man said. "I get the concept. It's a good one. But I don't understand how you go about saving up and trading sleep. I guess that's what I'm asking."
"Well that, my friend, is up to the research and development department."
The venture capitalists looked around the room, checked their iPhones and Blackberries, yawned.
"Hey," the young man said. "Nobody ever said Sleep Bank was going to be easy, but I've already done most of the heavy lifting here. I've come up with the idea, I've come up with the name, I've even come up with the taglines. All we have to do now is dot the t's and cross the i's, so to speak. On the science, that is. Ha ha." He distorted his voice. "She blinded me--with science! Ha ha."
Nothing.
"Thomas Dolby? Anyone? Hey, is this thing on? He he."
The investors looked at each other again. A few of them turned to the next page in their yellow legal pads.
Do something. You're losing them.
"Ha ha. So yeah, once we figure out the science--and I think you'll all agree with me that that part will totally go pretty fast--we'll all be richer than crap!"
The man who'd asked the most questions looked around the table and then nodded and said, "Thank you for your time."
"Rest assured!"
"Beg your pardon?"
"Rest assured! That's our tagline."
"Mm. Very catchy."
"A good night's sleep? You can bank on it!"
"Very good. Thank you."
"Say goodnight to sleepless nights-ness. Sleeplessness. Say goodnight to sleeplessness."
"OK."
"You'll be sleeping all the way to the bank!"
"Thanks. We'll be in touch."
The secretary escorted him out of the room. He popped his head back in. "Hey, tell you what. You can sleep on it! And tell me your answer in the morning. Ha ha. Talk to you soon!"
As the venture capitalists decided to break for lunch, they could still hear the young man singing while he waited for the elevator, "Let me sleep on it. Baby, baby, let me sleep on it. Let me sleep on it, I'll give you my answer in the morning. I gotta know right now!"
Friday, September 3, 2010
September 3 - Honey, I'm Home
"Honey, I'm home."
Ben walked into the kitchen through the backdoor, an empty cooler slung over one shoulder and a backpack over the other.
"Don't come near me. I reek," he said, giving his wife a peck on the cheek and then carrying the cooler and the backpack down to the basement.
"How are the little ones?" he asked as he got upstairs and went out the backdoor to the Rodeo. "I'm listening," he yelled from outside. "I just want to get this stuff out of here before I take a shower."
He came back a minute later with a sleeping bag, a tent, and a pair of hiking boots, which he took to the basement.
"Hey, whose cars are those?" he called from the basement.
He came back upstairs.
"You OK?" he asked his wife. "You're kind of quiet."
It was the first time he'd really stopped to look at her since he got back. She had a blank and dazed expression he had never seen in their 11 years of marriage.
He looked at her straight on. "Honey? What's wrong? Are you OK?"
She didn't give him any response other than continuing to stare at him. He reached up to massage her shoulders and she flinched away, but then reached up to touch his face, tentatively, like it might be booby trapped.
"My God," she said. "It's really you."
He chuckled unconvincingly, hoping to disarm the situation. "Um, yeah."
He waited for her to say something more, but she didn't. "What's going on? You're being really--" He stopped himself. "Are you OK?"
"You're . . . alive."
He looked at her in disbelief for a few seconds, expecting her to explain herself, but she didn't say anything more. "What are you talking about?" he asked her. "Of course I'm alive." He looked around the room. "Where are the kids?"
A tear formed in her eye and rolled down her cheek.
"Oh my God, you're alive," she said, and then more tears began trickling and then streaming down her face.
"Jesus, Karen." He tried to hug her, but she recoiled.
"Don't touch me," she sobbed. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" She backed away from him, collapsed in the corner, and cried.
A tall man walked in and went over to her. "Karen, are you OK?" He stooped down and put his hand on her shoulder. "Karen, talk to me."
When she didn't respond, he looked at Ben. "What did you do to her?"
"What--? Who the fuck are you?"
"Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm Ben. I'm her husband."
The man looked at Ben like he'd just told him that he was the Antichrist. Then he returned to trying to comfort Karen.
"Hey!" yelled Ben. "I asked you a question, asshole. Who the fuck are you?"
He stood up and said, "I'm Dan," with the confidence and defiance one might answer the same question with, 'I'm the governor,' or 'I'm the captain' or 'I'm the CEO.'
"OK Dan, let me rephrase my question," said Ben, stepping toward him. "Who the fuck are you?"
At this Karen stood up. The tears were gone and a smile spread across her face. She took a deep breath. "Dan is in my improv acting group."
Ben looked back and forth between Dan and Karen. Dan smiled and shrugged.
"We're rehearsing a new play here today," she continued.
Another man and two more women came into the kitchen from the living room. They each had a script in their hands.
"And I think we've got the scene down."
Ben looked at his wife for a few more seconds, shook his head, and then went to the fridge to get a beer.
"Honey, I'm so sorry," she said as she hugged him and the rest of her improv group clamored around him and patted his back and clapped.
Ben took a long pull from his beer and then looked at each of them quietly for a second, landing on Karen.
"You assholes," he said, and then after a few seconds he laughed and the tension was broken. Those kinds of moments happen when overly creative former drama majors marry guys that they think go on too many weekend camping trips.
Ben walked into the kitchen through the backdoor, an empty cooler slung over one shoulder and a backpack over the other.
"Don't come near me. I reek," he said, giving his wife a peck on the cheek and then carrying the cooler and the backpack down to the basement.
"How are the little ones?" he asked as he got upstairs and went out the backdoor to the Rodeo. "I'm listening," he yelled from outside. "I just want to get this stuff out of here before I take a shower."
He came back a minute later with a sleeping bag, a tent, and a pair of hiking boots, which he took to the basement.
"Hey, whose cars are those?" he called from the basement.
He came back upstairs.
"You OK?" he asked his wife. "You're kind of quiet."
It was the first time he'd really stopped to look at her since he got back. She had a blank and dazed expression he had never seen in their 11 years of marriage.
He looked at her straight on. "Honey? What's wrong? Are you OK?"
She didn't give him any response other than continuing to stare at him. He reached up to massage her shoulders and she flinched away, but then reached up to touch his face, tentatively, like it might be booby trapped.
"My God," she said. "It's really you."
He chuckled unconvincingly, hoping to disarm the situation. "Um, yeah."
He waited for her to say something more, but she didn't. "What's going on? You're being really--" He stopped himself. "Are you OK?"
"You're . . . alive."
He looked at her in disbelief for a few seconds, expecting her to explain herself, but she didn't say anything more. "What are you talking about?" he asked her. "Of course I'm alive." He looked around the room. "Where are the kids?"
A tear formed in her eye and rolled down her cheek.
"Oh my God, you're alive," she said, and then more tears began trickling and then streaming down her face.
"Jesus, Karen." He tried to hug her, but she recoiled.
"Don't touch me," she sobbed. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" She backed away from him, collapsed in the corner, and cried.
A tall man walked in and went over to her. "Karen, are you OK?" He stooped down and put his hand on her shoulder. "Karen, talk to me."
When she didn't respond, he looked at Ben. "What did you do to her?"
"What--? Who the fuck are you?"
"Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm Ben. I'm her husband."
The man looked at Ben like he'd just told him that he was the Antichrist. Then he returned to trying to comfort Karen.
"Hey!" yelled Ben. "I asked you a question, asshole. Who the fuck are you?"
He stood up and said, "I'm Dan," with the confidence and defiance one might answer the same question with, 'I'm the governor,' or 'I'm the captain' or 'I'm the CEO.'
"OK Dan, let me rephrase my question," said Ben, stepping toward him. "Who the fuck are you?"
At this Karen stood up. The tears were gone and a smile spread across her face. She took a deep breath. "Dan is in my improv acting group."
Ben looked back and forth between Dan and Karen. Dan smiled and shrugged.
"We're rehearsing a new play here today," she continued.
Another man and two more women came into the kitchen from the living room. They each had a script in their hands.
"And I think we've got the scene down."
Ben looked at his wife for a few more seconds, shook his head, and then went to the fridge to get a beer.
"Honey, I'm so sorry," she said as she hugged him and the rest of her improv group clamored around him and patted his back and clapped.
Ben took a long pull from his beer and then looked at each of them quietly for a second, landing on Karen.
"You assholes," he said, and then after a few seconds he laughed and the tension was broken. Those kinds of moments happen when overly creative former drama majors marry guys that they think go on too many weekend camping trips.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
September 2 - Richard Perkins
I scan the faces and signs in the passenger meeting area of Phnom Penh International Airport until I make eye contact with a short, sweaty Cambodian man holding a sign that says Richard Perkins.
I smile. He smiles back.
"Mr. Perkins?"
"Yes."
"Welcome to Cambodia. Right this way, please."
He takes my duffel bag (no checked luggage) and ushers me through the crowd into a black Lincoln Town Car. Moments later, we've left the airport and are driving into the capital.
Outside our air conditioned car there are hundreds of scooters with three, four, five passengers on them. Concrete schools, palm trees, water buffalo, gas stations, billboards in Khmer, English, and Chinese.
After the usual post-arrival small talk, we get into talking about the coming weekend: the conference, my business proposal, the mood at headquarters, things like that. I answer his questions as best I can, but it's not easy. I'm not up on the mood at headquarters. I'm not prepared for any sort of proposal. I know nothing about this conference.
I'm not Richard Perkins.
But the airport pick-up guy doesn't know that, so hey, free ride into town.
I ask the driver to swing by a crowded roadside market where I buy a couple of Tiger beers and offer him one. He declines, and I've killed them both by the time we pull into the hotel, where I play the pickpocket card. Somebody must have gotten my passport and wallet at the market!
We have a tug-o-war about what we should do, and eventually I'm able to talk him into getting the hotel to check me in sans ID (the conference will vouch for me) before we go to the police.
I get to the suite and move fast. The clock is ticking. The real Richard Perkins will be contacting somebody soon if he hasn't already.
I call room service and order a steak (medium rare) and three bottles of Johnny Walker (black). Then I shower, change (business casual to backpacker), sign for the room service when it arrives, empty out the contents of the mini bar into my duffel bag along with two of the three bottles, and slip out the back exit of the hotel to enjoy my walking picnic.
Most people don't eat T-bone steaks with their hands. Most people are idiots. Walking the streets of Phnom Penh with a grilled steak in one hand and a bottle of Johnny Black in the other? You're indestructible. You should try it sometime.
I finish the steak, throw the bones to some stray dogs, and take occasional hits off one of the bottles, selling the other two to a bar owner on the outskirts of the backpacker section of town.
The next few hours are a blur of smoky go-go bars, back alley Mahjong games, street vendors, cockfights, pool hopping, cheap cigarettes, and alcohol. I end up crashing at a cheap guest house near the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.
The next day, I take some fancy schmancy hotel's free shuttle service back to the airport, scan the signs and faces at the passenger greeting area, and try to figure out which one looks the most promising.
This shit never gets old.
My friends keep telling me I'm stupid for doing this kind of stuff, especially when it's so unnecessary. It's not like I can't afford a cab ride into town or whatever. But I've tried the straight and narrow brand of travel, and it's not nearly as much fun as the crimes and misdemeanors route. Besides, in all my years of doing this, I've never once gotten arrested or been confronted by the real Richard Perkins or whoever.
You should try it sometime. Seriously.
I smile. He smiles back.
"Mr. Perkins?"
"Yes."
"Welcome to Cambodia. Right this way, please."
He takes my duffel bag (no checked luggage) and ushers me through the crowd into a black Lincoln Town Car. Moments later, we've left the airport and are driving into the capital.
Outside our air conditioned car there are hundreds of scooters with three, four, five passengers on them. Concrete schools, palm trees, water buffalo, gas stations, billboards in Khmer, English, and Chinese.
After the usual post-arrival small talk, we get into talking about the coming weekend: the conference, my business proposal, the mood at headquarters, things like that. I answer his questions as best I can, but it's not easy. I'm not up on the mood at headquarters. I'm not prepared for any sort of proposal. I know nothing about this conference.
I'm not Richard Perkins.
But the airport pick-up guy doesn't know that, so hey, free ride into town.
I ask the driver to swing by a crowded roadside market where I buy a couple of Tiger beers and offer him one. He declines, and I've killed them both by the time we pull into the hotel, where I play the pickpocket card. Somebody must have gotten my passport and wallet at the market!
We have a tug-o-war about what we should do, and eventually I'm able to talk him into getting the hotel to check me in sans ID (the conference will vouch for me) before we go to the police.
I get to the suite and move fast. The clock is ticking. The real Richard Perkins will be contacting somebody soon if he hasn't already.
I call room service and order a steak (medium rare) and three bottles of Johnny Walker (black). Then I shower, change (business casual to backpacker), sign for the room service when it arrives, empty out the contents of the mini bar into my duffel bag along with two of the three bottles, and slip out the back exit of the hotel to enjoy my walking picnic.
Most people don't eat T-bone steaks with their hands. Most people are idiots. Walking the streets of Phnom Penh with a grilled steak in one hand and a bottle of Johnny Black in the other? You're indestructible. You should try it sometime.
I finish the steak, throw the bones to some stray dogs, and take occasional hits off one of the bottles, selling the other two to a bar owner on the outskirts of the backpacker section of town.
The next few hours are a blur of smoky go-go bars, back alley Mahjong games, street vendors, cockfights, pool hopping, cheap cigarettes, and alcohol. I end up crashing at a cheap guest house near the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.
The next day, I take some fancy schmancy hotel's free shuttle service back to the airport, scan the signs and faces at the passenger greeting area, and try to figure out which one looks the most promising.
This shit never gets old.
My friends keep telling me I'm stupid for doing this kind of stuff, especially when it's so unnecessary. It's not like I can't afford a cab ride into town or whatever. But I've tried the straight and narrow brand of travel, and it's not nearly as much fun as the crimes and misdemeanors route. Besides, in all my years of doing this, I've never once gotten arrested or been confronted by the real Richard Perkins or whoever.
You should try it sometime. Seriously.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
September 1 - Legs
It wouldn't be an overstatement to call her a freak of nature, although it would be exceedingly callous and indelicate, especially considering how gentle and unassuming she was. Unfortunately, those were characteristics that almost nobody ever got to know her well enough to glean: Her parents kept her out of public as much as possible. And considering how cruel kids could be to anyone who was even slightly different from the rest of the group (in other words, anyone), their decision was perhaps understandable. It was unsettling to imagine the mean things kids might call someone like Cindy Jenkins.
Standing a lanky six foot five inches, Cindy was almost completely legs. They were approximately 75% of her height.
Her torso was about the size of three sandbags stacked on top of each other. Her left arm ended in a knotty nub at the elbow and her right arm had a smooth, hairless hand that had three long fingers and no thumb. She had a normal sized head and no neck to speak of. Other than that, she was all legs.
Her parents and doctors had no explanation for how it had happened. She had just been born that way. No other families near them had children with any birth defects. Neither her mother nor father had any sort of genetic abnormalities in their family histories. Furthermore, they had a younger son named Scott who was normal in every way.
As was Cindy, with the exception of her legs.
And so during her early childhood years, her parents tried to both treat her normally and also minimize her contact with the outside world. It was a difficult balancing act, and keeping her hidden away at home usually took precedence.
After Cindy finished kindergarten, she and her family moved to Wilmington, Delaware so she could be treated at the Alfred I duPont Hospital for Children. Because she would be spending so much time in the hospital, her parents decided to home school her and her brother.
Another reason why they home schooled her--the bigger reason--was because they were afraid of how children in a new town would treat their daughter. By then Cindy was becoming increasingly aware of how different she was from other children. And it horrified them to think of how cruel the other children might be to her.
And so as much as possible, they kept her sheltered at home. Other than the hospital and family vacations taken in strategically chosen (and highly secluded) spots, Cindy never went anywhere.
By the time she finished elementary school, the focus of her treatment had shifted from trying to find a cure to trying to help her stay healthy and live as normal and independent a life as possible.
She was well on her way. By then, through years of occupational therapy, Cindy had developed the ability to use her feet to write, use a cell phone, brush her teeth, and do just about everything else that other people did with their hands. She felt capable and confident, but a little lonely.
Years later, after finishing middle school, her brother Scott decided he wanted to go to a 'real' high school, and so with some trepidation his parents enrolled him in the local public high school. He gradually made friends with some of the boys on his soccer team, and sometimes they came over to play video games and watch movies.
Sometimes Cindy would join them, and Scott's friends never knew how to treat her. The general tendency was for them to be overly nice to her for the first 15 seconds and then spend the rest of their afternoons looking at her as little as possible. So desperate were they not to cause an awkward situation by staring at her that they caused an awkwarder situation by not looking at her at all.
That changed gradually as Cindy joined them on the PS3 where she schooled them in Madden, Halo, and Grand Theft Auto, manipulating the controller with her feet.
In time, Scott's friends treated her almost like any other friend's sister. They still erred on the side of niceness, but that was more than OK with Cindy's parents, and it was these positive experiences with Scott's friends that caused them to rethink their decision to keep Cindy sheltered from the outside world.
As for Cindy, she had always wanted to go to a regular school. And so together they made the decision for her to be enrolled at the same high school as her brother for her senior year in high school.
The first days were nearly overwhelming for her. Up until then, her only experiences with school had been occupational therapy sessions at the hospital and what she saw on TV and in the movies, in particular, Glee and High School Musical. Her high school was not that world, not that she expected it to be. In fact, after her first week, it was hard for her to remember what she had expected.
She certainly hadn't expected it to be so crowded, although she had more or less anticipated the stares. She'd gotten them every time they went to the hospital when she was younger, but they never lasted as long as they did in the school's hallways because during the trips to the hospital they were always just getting into or out of the minivan. It was always a brief moment on the way to someplace else.
But in the hallways and classrooms of school, she was there. And unlike Scott's friends who couldn't really gawk because there were only two of them, at school the herd instinct prevailed. Everyone looked, though not necessarily in a cruel or mocking way. They just looked, sometimes out of the corners of their eyes, sometimes behind her back, sometimes indirectly, and sometimes straight on.
Cindy could sense it all around her, the way she would turn a corner or walk into a classroom and the noise level would drop suddenly as everyone tried (with varying degrees of success) to not be too obvious about staring at her. Often, she tried smiling and saying hello, but it was like they didn't notice. They almost never reacted to her efforts to engage them.
The first few weeks were hard. Most people tended either to ignore her or be overly nice to her. Rare was the person who treated her like any other 17-year-old girl. That went for students as well as teachers.
Classes themselves weren't a problem at all, though. During the time when she was being home schooled, she had been taking most of her classes for AP credit. To her new teachers, she was the ideal student, eager to answer questions and always going above and beyond on her homework.
For group projects, she usually got paired up with two or three other students at random. And she almost always ended up doing most of the work while the other members of her group goofed off, chatted with each other, and texted. At first it bothered her, but soon she decided it was just easier for her to do all the work herself than to try to make them do something she would just have to correct later.
Most of the other students at her school were pleasant to her, but they never invited her to hang out with them. They might say hello or something, but then any time it seemed like their exchange might progress into an actual conversation, someone else would show up, hijack the exchange, and Cindy would be left out of a conversation full of references to people, events, couples, and scandals she wasn't familiar with.
In an effort to make friends, she dabbled a bit in extracurricular activities, going out for the track team. With her long legs, she figured she would be a no brainer for hurdle events. But because she was afraid of injuring her feet, she ran and jumped too cautiously. If she had been any other member of the team, the coaches would have punished her, run her harder, pushed her, or kicked her off the team.
But they were nice to Cindy.
They encouraged her, clapped for her efforts, and were quick with a "Good job!" and "Way to go!" In effect, Cindy felt like the coaches were treating her like she was competing in the Special Olympics, while the other girls glared at her behind her back. She quit the team after a week, and stayed away from extracurricular activities after that.
Her parents started to worry that maybe they had all made the wrong decision, but after her first few months, things more or less normalized for Cindy. She worked on the yearbook committee, and was soon eating lunch with the other yearbook staffers every day. The other students in her AP classes gradually warmed up to her, and in time, she had made a few friends. As the school year continued, she goofed off with them more and more, and even managed to get in trouble a couple of times (but not too seriously).
Come spring, she got her driver's license, went to the prom (with a friend), and graduated from high school toward the top of her class.
More importantly, she got her first experiences with the outside world under her belt, allowing her to feel much more confident about the prospect of going away to college, which she did last week.
Her parents aren't really sure how she's doing, though, because she hardly ever calls home. Scott keeps telling them that this is probably a good sign, but they can't help worrying. She may be a six foot five college freshman, but she's still their little girl.
Standing a lanky six foot five inches, Cindy was almost completely legs. They were approximately 75% of her height.
Her torso was about the size of three sandbags stacked on top of each other. Her left arm ended in a knotty nub at the elbow and her right arm had a smooth, hairless hand that had three long fingers and no thumb. She had a normal sized head and no neck to speak of. Other than that, she was all legs.
Her parents and doctors had no explanation for how it had happened. She had just been born that way. No other families near them had children with any birth defects. Neither her mother nor father had any sort of genetic abnormalities in their family histories. Furthermore, they had a younger son named Scott who was normal in every way.
As was Cindy, with the exception of her legs.
And so during her early childhood years, her parents tried to both treat her normally and also minimize her contact with the outside world. It was a difficult balancing act, and keeping her hidden away at home usually took precedence.
After Cindy finished kindergarten, she and her family moved to Wilmington, Delaware so she could be treated at the Alfred I duPont Hospital for Children. Because she would be spending so much time in the hospital, her parents decided to home school her and her brother.
Another reason why they home schooled her--the bigger reason--was because they were afraid of how children in a new town would treat their daughter. By then Cindy was becoming increasingly aware of how different she was from other children. And it horrified them to think of how cruel the other children might be to her.
And so as much as possible, they kept her sheltered at home. Other than the hospital and family vacations taken in strategically chosen (and highly secluded) spots, Cindy never went anywhere.
By the time she finished elementary school, the focus of her treatment had shifted from trying to find a cure to trying to help her stay healthy and live as normal and independent a life as possible.
She was well on her way. By then, through years of occupational therapy, Cindy had developed the ability to use her feet to write, use a cell phone, brush her teeth, and do just about everything else that other people did with their hands. She felt capable and confident, but a little lonely.
Years later, after finishing middle school, her brother Scott decided he wanted to go to a 'real' high school, and so with some trepidation his parents enrolled him in the local public high school. He gradually made friends with some of the boys on his soccer team, and sometimes they came over to play video games and watch movies.
Sometimes Cindy would join them, and Scott's friends never knew how to treat her. The general tendency was for them to be overly nice to her for the first 15 seconds and then spend the rest of their afternoons looking at her as little as possible. So desperate were they not to cause an awkward situation by staring at her that they caused an awkwarder situation by not looking at her at all.
That changed gradually as Cindy joined them on the PS3 where she schooled them in Madden, Halo, and Grand Theft Auto, manipulating the controller with her feet.
In time, Scott's friends treated her almost like any other friend's sister. They still erred on the side of niceness, but that was more than OK with Cindy's parents, and it was these positive experiences with Scott's friends that caused them to rethink their decision to keep Cindy sheltered from the outside world.
As for Cindy, she had always wanted to go to a regular school. And so together they made the decision for her to be enrolled at the same high school as her brother for her senior year in high school.
The first days were nearly overwhelming for her. Up until then, her only experiences with school had been occupational therapy sessions at the hospital and what she saw on TV and in the movies, in particular, Glee and High School Musical. Her high school was not that world, not that she expected it to be. In fact, after her first week, it was hard for her to remember what she had expected.
She certainly hadn't expected it to be so crowded, although she had more or less anticipated the stares. She'd gotten them every time they went to the hospital when she was younger, but they never lasted as long as they did in the school's hallways because during the trips to the hospital they were always just getting into or out of the minivan. It was always a brief moment on the way to someplace else.
But in the hallways and classrooms of school, she was there. And unlike Scott's friends who couldn't really gawk because there were only two of them, at school the herd instinct prevailed. Everyone looked, though not necessarily in a cruel or mocking way. They just looked, sometimes out of the corners of their eyes, sometimes behind her back, sometimes indirectly, and sometimes straight on.
Cindy could sense it all around her, the way she would turn a corner or walk into a classroom and the noise level would drop suddenly as everyone tried (with varying degrees of success) to not be too obvious about staring at her. Often, she tried smiling and saying hello, but it was like they didn't notice. They almost never reacted to her efforts to engage them.
The first few weeks were hard. Most people tended either to ignore her or be overly nice to her. Rare was the person who treated her like any other 17-year-old girl. That went for students as well as teachers.
Classes themselves weren't a problem at all, though. During the time when she was being home schooled, she had been taking most of her classes for AP credit. To her new teachers, she was the ideal student, eager to answer questions and always going above and beyond on her homework.
For group projects, she usually got paired up with two or three other students at random. And she almost always ended up doing most of the work while the other members of her group goofed off, chatted with each other, and texted. At first it bothered her, but soon she decided it was just easier for her to do all the work herself than to try to make them do something she would just have to correct later.
Most of the other students at her school were pleasant to her, but they never invited her to hang out with them. They might say hello or something, but then any time it seemed like their exchange might progress into an actual conversation, someone else would show up, hijack the exchange, and Cindy would be left out of a conversation full of references to people, events, couples, and scandals she wasn't familiar with.
In an effort to make friends, she dabbled a bit in extracurricular activities, going out for the track team. With her long legs, she figured she would be a no brainer for hurdle events. But because she was afraid of injuring her feet, she ran and jumped too cautiously. If she had been any other member of the team, the coaches would have punished her, run her harder, pushed her, or kicked her off the team.
But they were nice to Cindy.
They encouraged her, clapped for her efforts, and were quick with a "Good job!" and "Way to go!" In effect, Cindy felt like the coaches were treating her like she was competing in the Special Olympics, while the other girls glared at her behind her back. She quit the team after a week, and stayed away from extracurricular activities after that.
Her parents started to worry that maybe they had all made the wrong decision, but after her first few months, things more or less normalized for Cindy. She worked on the yearbook committee, and was soon eating lunch with the other yearbook staffers every day. The other students in her AP classes gradually warmed up to her, and in time, she had made a few friends. As the school year continued, she goofed off with them more and more, and even managed to get in trouble a couple of times (but not too seriously).
Come spring, she got her driver's license, went to the prom (with a friend), and graduated from high school toward the top of her class.
More importantly, she got her first experiences with the outside world under her belt, allowing her to feel much more confident about the prospect of going away to college, which she did last week.
Her parents aren't really sure how she's doing, though, because she hardly ever calls home. Scott keeps telling them that this is probably a good sign, but they can't help worrying. She may be a six foot five college freshman, but she's still their little girl.
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