nedful things

In the complaints of floorboards
that wince beneath my feet
and the musty breath of
visitors long passed out of
the influence of its shelves,
The building speaks its age.

Over the top of half-rims
black and chained
Her back as stiff as
her starched collar
The librarian watches me,
asserting with glacial eyes
that her suspicions are true.

She has seen me before

fingering these volumes
walking through the words
that bring me life and
chronicle my death
I cannot linger, for she sees
the way the verses move me

Can she appreciate the skill
with which I am undone?
                          
                            (and
How is it that she hears?)

Ready is she to extinguish

(the shouts and cries)

that which would disturb
the sterile silence of her domain

(my heart in anguish.)

In her catalogue
she drily deposits
the coded stacks
of bound lives
returned to her keep
by those who struggle to dream

                They were just a few words
                that stumbled across a page
                to make a quiet offering
                for a heart that cannot speak;
                and from a surfeit of  anguish
                they spilled out into the open.
                You could have let them lie there
                unwitnessed and unconfirmed.
                They would have faded some day
                perhaps to a memory somewhere
                of bittersweet days that leave
                questions unanswered and by that
                omission, provide no sure wound.


                ( I wonder why it is,
                that) You are never cruel
                (except to me?)

"Py, why don't you take me places anymore?"

"Galatea, you never went anywhere for years and no complaints.  Why do you bother me now when I am working?" The sculptor ran one dusty hand over his forehead to brush the hair out of his face, leaving white streaks across his head as if her pouting had suddenly turned him grey. "Just hold your arm steady, I almost have it."

"Yes, and all that time don't think I couldn't hear you, praying I would speak to you and promising me so much if only your dreams for me could come true", Galatea retorted, her voice rising to be heard above the sound of the hammer. "Now that I am here and doing as you wish, you find me a burden."  

She started to sob but rather than moving the object of her pleading, his attitude became more impervious to her apparent heartbreak.

"Oh, now you've gone and done it". he exclaimed.  "I've ruined the hand.  How am I going to fix this now?  How many times have I told you not to move?  Give them life and suddenly they can't sit still for a second", he muttered, tossing his chisel down for emphasis.  "A whole day's work ruined."

"Give me life?", she said.  "There you go again, Py, taking credit.  I was everything you see long before that.  And oh, how you used to court me, always bringing me gifts and jewelry; kissing me so sweetly and begging me to respond.  I was cool in those days, cold in fact.  You doted on me, you yearned for just one bit of warmth from me and now that you have it, you scorn me. I am leaving you Pygmalion, leaving!"  She collapsed upon the chair, sobbing.

It was true, he thought, as he surveyed the work he now created.  Galatea was every bit as beautiful as this new statue he now carved. But how foolish he had been not to realize that his perfect creation would be ruined by becoming a real woman.  Before he had longed for her touch and to hear the sound of her voice, but now he recoiled from her.  His serene angel had become this creature of petulance and jealousy, full of demands.  Yes, she had been the helper he had envisioned in his work. Indeed, she helped him now in ways she did not even suspect as he fashioned this new sculpture with her as his model. Gala was lovely, but her needs were superceding his own in her priorities.  It was a shame that she was going before he had quite finished but he had worked without a model the first time and he was sure he could do it again.

"I am going Py."

She was at the door, having gathered her things in a small bag. She stood expectantly but the call to stay was never sounded.  With a look of defeat she opened the door and paused, to give him one last chance to cajole her with pretty words and promises as he had done in the past, but as none were forthcoming, she turned defiantly and strode out.  

The sculptor watched with a slightly wistful gaze.   He would miss the pearl necklace she was wearing but what could he do?  It was a gift.  He caressed the tapered ivory neck of his new creation and hoped to find another set of perfect pearls just as lovely to adorn her. And this time, he vowed, no more silly wishes.

One minute into the new
one minute makes it
yet another day
and the chasm widens
between then and
now.  It stands
with arms folded
shaking its head
Its silent disapproval
is deafening

I would build a bridge
but you would not cross
and my feet are set
in this concrete denial
I have always known
the weight of shackles
These are not new to me
Each step then
always a victory of will

Now

I battle to stand still
Holding back my breath
fearing what may
sound in its escape
But I know that you
will not forget to breathe
(in the rhythms of your inspiration
 echo the retreating footsteps
of your polite excusing of yourself)

I know that is unfair

but I am selfish and save
all the good intentions for myself

He melted towards her
like sugar carmelized
in the fluorescent glare
Invading the cordoned area
of school-portrait paperweights
and unread memos; a jungle of
sun-starved mottled leaves
He threw one arm around
her shoulder in a casual
connection; yet his eyes
held a burning question.

I was just thinking about you
thinking
about
you
(I certainly hope so)
I am going to tell you the truth
(you are?)
Yep, gonna tell you the truth
(aww baby, if you tell 'em right, lies are just as good)
I was just thinking about you
(and I highly approve)
I was just thinking about you
(you have my permission)
And I was just wondering...
Do you have any superglue?
(I knew we had a bond)

September,
was twenty-four karat warmth;
its golden halo encircling
an afternoon, an evening
of thoughts, strange
and newly arrived.
I tucked them away
afraid of unrest.
But when November cut into
my soul, I took them out.
I rooted them in a secret place,
aware that they might grow.

The sun now obliquely set.
made short shrift of days;
and in the dark and hidden
one fear grew where others withered.
I heard but did not understand.
I understood but did not speak.

Winter dragged out deepest
burying the seeds of things
unspoken, the tender roots
lay beneath its weight;
but by Spring's first sun
stretched and yearned for light.
These fragile beginnings
grew up around your feet, then

Summer never came

I was near the end of my day at work when I spotted a newspaper lying on the table in the reception area.  The headline caught my eye.  "SLACKERS".  Well, it was the end of the day almost, I didn't really want to work anymore anyway, so I picked it up. Seems the average American worker wastes 2.5 hours of each work day.  The article listed the favorite ways to waste time.  Since reading the newspaper wasn't in the top 10, I figured it was alright.

I was disturbed to discover that the average in Kentucky was the highest in the country with 4.0 hours per day of wasted time. Okay, so they waste half the day and still have jobs.  Obviously I am doing something wrong.

When surveyed, Human Resource managers believed that women waste more time than men but studies showed that they appear to slack off equally.  So, if you are female and standing idly by a co-worker's desk, you are more likely to be accused of goofing off than a man in the same circumstances.  Blatant, isn't it?  Obviously they have never listened to the endless hours of discussion over sports and cars and well, whatever else it is men talk about.  I mean, who listens?  And older workers, who often have a harder time getting hired these days by those same Human Resource personnel, work harder than younger workers.

The top time-wasting activity was internet surfing.  Having seen the number of bloggers who end posts by saying, "well, have to get back to work now", I  expect blogging on the net to make the top ten list by next year. An intelligent and industrious 1.3% of the time-wasting workforce are applying for other jobs while at work.  Of course, their companies probably don't have internet access and so they can't surf and blog.  Time to trade up.

Surprisingly, only 2.3% of time wasted was used on personal phone calls and 6.8% on personal business.  Considering that most of us spend the core hours of the day at work when any business or doctor's office we need to contact might be open, and considering the number of mothers who need to be available to schools and sitters, this is not bad at all really.  I think that companies have to realize that their employees have personal business than cannot be conducted after 5:00 or on weekends and this should not cause concern.  It is being able to handle the personal business of their lives that makes it possible for them to come to work.  And only 1% of time wasted was because of workers arriving late or leaving early.  I think we sound very dedicated.

The most upsetting aspect of the situation is that, according to this article, employers are aware of how much time employees waste and even work this into salary models. This means my employer could be paying me 2.5 hours less than I would get if they really expected a full day.  What's worse is that in my state, the average amount of time wasted per day is only 1.9 hours and so, I am working .6 hours more than they expect me to for no additional remuneration.

I knew I was working too hard.

The monthly reports finished running and Gloria emailed them off to her superiors.  The data would please them but show nothing unusual.  She was anxious and wanted to get out of the lab as soon as she could, but she couldn't leave early or do anything out of the ordinary.  Gloria never left early.  She never slacked, she never took a day off.  She smiled to herself, it was time for a change.  The screen on the computer became unusually colorful and active as she played a game on the Internet.  She felt deliciously wicked and slothful. 

When she had wasted most of the afternoon, Gloria pulled her briefcase and a small cage out from under the desk and began her most important task of the day.  She removed 5110 from the large cage and placed the rat in  a small bordered area.  With a sure hand she carefully pried the metal ID band off the rat's hind leg.  She then placed 5110 in another small cage on the desk.

She opened the other cage, the one she had brought with her, and removed the rat she had purchased at the pet store in the mall.  This rat was skittish and unused to handling and it took a long time to get the metal ID band clamped on its leg,  She was careful and kind, fearing to injure the animal but her secure and gentle touch eventually soothed the animal's fears to the extent she was able to attach the band to its leg and release it into the cage with the rest of the rats.  This was a risky move, she knew that .  It could skew the data but she also had realized that having animals die repeatedly when she was alone in the lab might eventually raise suspicion.  Her excusing of the rat from tests all week and reporting illness would be sufficient to cover any changes in its behaviour and raise less suspicion than its disappearance.

Her heart was racing now.  When she took Einstein she was acting on impulse and emotion.  What she was doing now was a calculated and premeditated act.  She gathered up her briefcase and placed the small cage inside it, turned off the lights and stepped out of the lab, her contraband neatly hidden.

Willoughby had struggled throughout the day with the etch-a-sketch, turning the knobs, making the lines over and over then flipping it over on his makeshift catapult.  A certain excitement gripped him as he worked to perfect the letters he needed to write his message to Gloria.   Over and over he worked to create the lines that would break down the barrier between them.

He knew that he had to choose a message that she couldn't  put down to random patterns that just seemed to make sense.  She had to know and understand immediately that he was communicating.  He needed her to see that he understood what he had written and be willing to teach him more.  There was something he needed her to do for him, something very important.

Only when he had his message exactly right did Willoughby allow himself one quick nap.  He rolled himself up snugly and nestled into the corner of the afghan that hung from the chair.  Exhaustion caused him to fall quickly into a deep sleep.

He slept so deeply, he didn't hear Gloria's keys at the door.  The first sound he heard was the heavy "thud" of the apartment door slamming behind her.  He was sleepy and disoriented.  She was talking to him. He blinked his eyes to clear the sleep from them and finally managed to focus on her.

"Einstein, I am going to need your help. We have a new house-guest and since you are the expert on apartment living for rodents, I am going to expect you to show our guest around and explain things".

Willoughby's eyes grew wide as he watched her reach into her briefcase and pull out a small cage with one lone rat in it. She set it down on the floor in front of him.  An exclamation of surprise escaped him.

"Rosalind!" His heart jumped at the sight in front of him.

"Willoughby... oh, we thought you were dead,  Thank goodness you are still alive." Rosalind said. "Where are we?"

There was much to explain, too much almost.  Willoughby was in such a state of happiness and shock at seeing Rosalind here,  he didn't notice Gloria picking up the etch-a-sketch and starting to shake as had become routine.  He always scribbled all over the screen to hide his work and she hadn't noticed that tonight the screen held only one neatly drawn image.

Too late his eye caught a flash of red and he looked in horror as Gloria picked up the etch-a-sketch, shook it clear and put it back down again.  He ran to it and saw his brilliantly executed pattern language gone.  All that work erased in a second. Gloria did not see the carefully etched "T_H_A_N_K __Y_O_U".

 Willoughby looked back at Rosalind, who by some miracle was now here with him. His joy at seeing her was ten times greater than his disappointment.  Ah well, he thought, there was time to rewrite the message.  Rosalind could help him.  He went to her and poked his nose through the bars in the cage that held her.  She rubbed her nose against his and their whiskers touched.  "Oh Willoughby", she sighed.  "I'm so glad you're alive."

Yes, Willoughby thought, I will rewrite the message. He must. He reveled in the scent of Rosalind, the only thing he had missed about the lab.  Now he had more reason than ever to thank his rescuer.   

Gloria spent the week half in anticipation of a day without Porter and half in anxious worry over her plans.  But if her plans worried her, her future beyond them worried her more.  She had never been a risk-taker or a rule-breaker.  Lately she had doing a lot of both and she felt uneasy, like someone waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for fate to lower that proverbial boom and she was sure when it did, it was going to come smack down on her.

She had prepared to spend most of Friday running data through the computer models, and producing the month's reports.   She had to alter the data on 5110 or they might question further and find the rat missing.  The Institute had their own agenda as well and she often wondered if the work that she was doing actually meant anything.  If they had cared at all about real research they wouldn't hire someone like Porter.  They would have noticed her reports on Einstein.  She suddenly felt as if she had wasted the last six months of her life working for people who cared only about return from their clients and nothing about the real miracles going on right under their noses.  She realized that she had to go through with her plans, only she was going to care about the possibilities that she had discovered in these two rats.  

"Or am I just insane?" she asked herself out loud. She nodded to herself. Yes she was mad as a hatter.  Then she giggled, and it surprised her a little to hear herself sounding so happy.  In the stillness of the lab the slight echoing of her giggle made it sound maniacal.  She liked the effect.
Gloria had spent her whole life playing by the book.  In college she had been the complete nerdy bookworm; she studied hard and was known as the "death of the party".  She was careful in relationships, so careful that she usually didn't have one.  Her life was a long list of "do's" and "don'ts".  But something very freeing had happened to her that day she had taken Einstein; a self-imposed carefulness about life had disintegrated and she realized that she felt alive.   It was wonderful and invigorating but it created a hunger in her for more of life than she had allowed herself up until now and that hunger was creeping into every area of her thinking.

Willoughby spent the week perfecting his catapult that turned the Etch-A-Sketch over with enough force to clear the screen and then flipping it back over the same way.  He was also learning the names of letters and a few words and short phrases.  He was starting to see the meaning in these language patterns.  He had learned that "H E L L O" was a greeting that humans used when coming into contact with someone who had not previously been present.  It was fairly easy to make on his writing screen too, mostly straight lines and right angles.  It was a possibility as a first communication with Gloria, but it didn't really express all he wanted to say.   He kept watching and practicing and learning; his determination to succeed overruling even his desire to lie on his back and let the warm sunlight bake through him while he napped.  He needed to talk to Gloria, to end this loneliness.

He hadn't wanted to admit it at first, he had been somewhat disdainful of the crowding and pushing of the masses of rats at the lab.  But it had been a long time since he had talked with any creature that understood him and although he was starting to understand Gloria more and more, he could not reach her.  He sighed at the loss of a good nap and perhaps a dream about cheese prizes at the end of simple, easily navigated mazes.  He thought about friends and one in particular whom he missed.  Then he shook off these thoughts and returned to his work.  Letters, letters, letters.  These were the keys to Gloria; he would unlock this door of silence somehow.

Gloria counted the days until Friday, three days she had to hold her tongue and put up with Porter so he didn't get suspicious.  So for three days she was polite and didn't mention anything unusual in the testing results.  Two or three times she mentioned that 5110 was looking ill.  She excused the rat from several tests, in case Porter noticed anything but she suspected she needn't have bothered.  His thoughts were on his weekend bash and little else.

Willoughby spent those days at the Etch-A-Sketch, tirelessly turning knobs and forming patterns on the screen.  He had mastered several patterns so far but he didn't know what they stood for and so was quite frustrated with his efforts.  The screen got filled and then he could not see anymore what he was making and so his time for practice was limited. He had to wait for Gloria to come home and turn it over until he could figure out how to do it himself.  It was during one of these experiments in trying to work with the writing screen that he discovered something wonderful.

Willoughby was attempting to build a kind of catapult.  He had gathered a couple of pencils and wedged one end under the Etch-A-Sketch and was searching for just the right thing to place under the middle of the pencils.  The remote control for the television had proved to be too small, it didn't provide the height he needed but a careless pressing of some buttons had changed the channels several times, coming to rest on the most interesting show he had seen so far.

Some small humans and some large animals of types he had never seen danced and sang. As they sang, language patterns appeared on the screen. These animals had strange fur and spoke in human language.  He soon surmised that the sounds they were shouting out as the patterns flashed by were the names of these patterns.  Finally, he knew the names of these patterns.  Willoughby had discovered children's educational television.  

Gloria entered the lab that morning with plots hatching in her head.  When she ran the experiments and trials that day, she never mentioned the rat who was outdistancing all the others and often sat and stared at her. She did not want Porter to be suspicious of anything.  

She needn't have worried.  Porter spent the day in his usual self-absorption, his most pressing thought for the day being where to have lunch. He never noticed that she altered times and outcomes on the reports, she wanted to downplay the performance of this rat.  In doing so, she was not being a dutiful researcher but she also realized that the powers that be would not listen to her findings.  That is why she had to take Einstein, 4251.  That is why she was considering this next boldly insane move.

At home, Willoughby watched the TV that Gloria had been so thoughtful to leave on for him.  The usual scenes were flashing by his eyes when he noticed something interesting.  A young human, a child, was playing with a toy.  It was a box with knobs that looked something like the television and as he turned the knobs lines and pictures appeared on it's tiny screen. Willoughby had noted that humans often used implements that turned lines and circles into patterns through which they communicated.  These patterns of language were often shown across the television screen and he assumed they had a relationship to the voice that  boomed behind them.  He had never thought of learning these patterns, it had never seemed possible before for him to make them.  But now, a thought occurred to him that never had before and he scurried into the bedroom to search under the bed for something he had seen there many times.  

The day at the lab went slowly for Gloria, she was nervous and unsure.  Her thoughts ran wild with possibilities and yet she knew that if she embarked on this dangerous course she could endanger her position.

"I am taking the day off Friday", Porter suddenly offered.

Gloria stared at Porter.  This was the first time since he had started working here that anything he said had interested her in the slightest, but now she listened with heightened attention, barely able to keep her excitement out of her voice.

"Oh? Why is that Porter?"

"Because it is going to be a beautiful weekend, Beautiful, and I want to enjoy it.  Gonna go stay at a friend's beachhouse".  He didn't notice the icy look she shot him when he called her Beautiful and for once she didn't bother to remind him that she had a real name. "You should get out more too, you know.  You aren't bad looking, you might even find someone.  If you stay cooped up here with no one but the rats for company Gloria, you are going to wake up one day very lonely and very frustrated. Of course, if you ever start to feel frustrated, you know I would  be glad to be of service."

He was odious.  But he was going to be gone for a whole day.  That was enough to brighten her spirits in itself but it also gave her time to think, to plan.  She left the lab that night, full of ideas and a strange sense of anticipation.

Gloria went home that evening to find that Einstein had somehow found the Etch-A-Sketch that her niece had lost months ago in her apartment. She had scoured the entire apartment to the wailing voice in the pitch of a 3 year old girl, but never located it.  It was strange and she wondered how he had come across it.  Stranger still, was that he was playing with the knobs.

"Where did you find that, Einstein?" Gloria asked.  Seeing that the screen was full and that he could make no more lines, she took the Etch-A-Sketch and shook it upside down to clear it.

"This is better now, you can start over", she said as she set it back down on the floor in front of him. "You get up to strange things when I am not home, don't you Einstein?"

Willoughby stared at the toy in front of him, the screen was blank again.  So that is how it is done, he thought.  But no matter how he tried, he could not think of a manner in which he could accomplish this himself.  When he had finally mastered this pattern language he would have to do it perfectly the first time.  But this was not his first concern right now.  First he must learn and formulate his message to his rescuer.  He looked up at Gloria with love in his eyes.  She was the first and only human he had ever truly cared for.  He must find a way to communicate with her.

This is the second tale in a series.  To read the first story about our hero, please go to A Rat's Tale.


Willoughby lay on his back near his cage, surveying his new home.  It was much larger than the lab, and it was bright and sunny.  Sunshine had not reached him in the lab often, the only window close to the cages being a northern one, there was nothing like this light that streamed in upon him now, making him feel warm and lazy.

When he first arrived here, he had known immediately it was her habitat, her scent was strong everywhere.  He realized he didn't detect any other human scents. How strange these humans are, he thought, this vast space occupied by just one human.  Certainly though, it must be much more comfortable than the overcrowded box he of which he was an inhabitant in the lab.  Still, he thought, there are times when it must be cold without another body to share its warmth with you.

Gloria was quite proud of herself for having spirited the rat from the lab.  Porter was too involved in his own agenda to question the disappearance of one rat.  He had never listened to her or believed her when she tried to explain how special this one rat was.  He had no vision or imagination and she was grateful for it in this one instance.  She was surprised at how quickly the rat adjusted to life in her apartment and now she never closed his cage door.  He had the run of the place but when she was home, he generally stayed quite close to her  His capacity to bond with her surprised her.  

When she had breakfast he would sit happily on the table just watching her and wait for whatever crumbs she tossed him.  When she curled up on the couch to watch television, he lay at her feet and she thought it looked as though he were watching too. He was her constant companion and she wondered if he missed having so many of his own kind around him, she wondered if he felt his isolation as much as she felt hers.  

Willougby realized that by listening to Gloria talk to him and on the telephone that he was beginning to understand a lot more human language.  It was odd to be sure, but it had a certain rhythm and the speaker changed tones depending on intent.  Very simple creatures really, he thought.  They seemed to be mostly concerned with what they will eat and how to best clean their cages.  The television showed dozens of products to eat or clean with daily.
 
Willoughby heard the sound of keys in the door, Gloria was home and for some reason this filled him with joy.  It was a rather lonely life for a rat after all, as used as he was to many companions even if the overcrowding was uncomfortable. He only waited for the opportunity to communicate with her, and that barrier he had not found a way to overcome since his victory in the lab.  

"How are you today Einstein"? Gloria called out.  She had taken to calling him by this new name instead of 4251.  He wasn't sure why she did that but felt instinctively that it was a gesture of friendliness and so he accepted this new name gladly.  He had no way of telling her what his real name was, at least not yet. He watched helplessly as she checked the phone messages.  He wanted to tell her that the deep voice she was listening for had not called;  the voice that sometimes made her smile and sometimes made her cry.  Instead he could only watch the look of disappointment on her face and it pained him.  She held a handful of mail, and sorted it as she looked over the many envelopes, finally depositing it all on the table by the door.

"I don't even know why I look at it, I have no intention of reading any of it", she laughed as she collapsed onto the couch, dispensing with her shoes as soon as she hit the cushions and pulling her feet up onto the couch after her.

"That Porter is such a dolt, Einstein", she said, addressing the rat. "I think that you are smarter than he is."  The rat came up to the couch and she scooped him up with one hand, placing him on the cushion to sit with her.  "You are a much better friend, too.  At least you always listen."

Porter had been disputing her findings with yet another experiment.  And again, she found there was one rat who behaved in odd and inexplicable ways.  Porter again put it all down to the rat having some behavioural disorder and would not listen to her as she tried to recount the actions that seemed deliberate, if odd. She was careful this time not to press the issue with him, she couldn't keep spiriting rats out of the lab to save them from Porter's shortsightedness.  The whole process of dealing with him was exhausting.  If he wasn't being obtuse about her findings he was being flirtatious and ignoring her obvious disinterest.  

"I am too tired tonight to play mazes with you Einstein, how about we just watch some TV?".  Normally she ran experiments with him on her own time, and was impressed daily with his apparent independent decision-making ability.  She wished she were clever enough to understand, as she now believed wholeheartedly that he attempted to communicate.  As there were geniuses in the human species, she began to believe there must also be outstanding individuals in every species, and she believed Einstein was one such individual.  That she was beginning to suspect the same of another rat in the lab made her head spin with possibilities she had never entertained before. Her desire to see them interact was growing but she pushed it aside for now.  Surely Porter would be suspicious if another such rat disappeared and she couldn't very well turn her apartment into a boarding house for intelligent rodents.

"I think that would definitely assure my perpetual dateless existence", she thought aloud. Still, it was tempting.  "What would you think of another roommate, Einstein?"

Indecision, and the
pressure builds.
Two fronts at war
divide me between them.
The storm breaks out
transparent sheets,
and empties itself in
an impetuous cleansing,
while the lurking sun
backlights the hazy
ceiling of an unfocused sky.
I search the aftermath
for a span of hope.
But no arc bridges
today to promises
for one unrepentant.
I turn my head but not
my direction.
Behind me,
the lies fall by drops.
The leaves cry and whisper
"tomorrow".

I wish I could comfort them.