Uprooted Memories, Vol. 2: “The Possibility of Physical and Mental Collapse is Now Very Real…”

PAIN, FEAR AND INSANITY INSIDE THE BOWELS OF HELL

485817_287026561383202_928552709_n (2) (192x217)The body and mind are truly fascinating things. Perhaps even more amazing, is how much shit we put them through…and knowingly!! They are often put through grueling tests that don’t always mean anything – tests which only seem to prove that we can in fact do it, for whatever that’s worth…

******

We’d been up most of the night, only crashing in the last two or three hours of the morning, once all the drugs and alcohol had been consumed. That was the second or third fucked-up night in a row. During the days, we’d been tooling around town in our little grey sedan, completely twisted but definitely on the calm side. I’m sure that everyone we interacted with was able to tell, too; if not from the glazed eyes and huge bags under our eyes – since at least we were wearing sunglasses –, or the rambling though lucid conversations we’d establish with them, the powerful odour of Rum and Sweat emanating from us like steam out of subway vents was sure to give us away. Luckily, our charming personalities seem to have gotten through to them, because no one dared call the police on us…and for what? What would they say? Officer, these gentlemen reeking of rum keep bothering the help, jabbering about music and other things. Sure, we’d probably get some Public Drunkenness ticket, but it wouldn’t go further than that; there was no reason why it should, and The Fuzz doesn’t appreciate being called to places when there really aren’t any emergencies…The only hard time we came across was at some strip-joint, where we were being forced to leave for being too drunk and “harassing the help”. I can’t defend or attest or protest anything, because, quite frankly, I don’t remember. But nothing else came out of that. Once all the bars were closed, we’d head back to their place to reload on whatever it was we were packing for that night. But apparently shit was about to hit the fan, and our luck would run out…or at least mine.

We opened our eyes to the rays of light coming through the wide-opened window, which felt like daggers piercing our faces. My eyes hurt so much, way more than my head and body, which seemed to be vibrating and twitching all over; they felt like the amps in speakers when they throb violently back and forth because of the booming bass. I felt dizzy and groggy, and it took me a few minutes to realize exactly where I was. Eventually, after much noise and shuffling, everyone was up and sitting dispersedly around the room, on whatever they could find that was not wet, dirty or stacked with all kinds of things, from clothes to electronics and even some cutlery. We were watching T.V., just flipping around to find something easy to watch; something that wouldn’t take much effort to pay attention to – something like a funny movie or some cartoons. The dog also seemed lethargic and somewhat hung-over, though he had only drunk a few sips of beer and hadn’t really acted drunk, as other times, when he’d roll around with his ear to the ground, as if trying to dig out a tick gnawing at his brain. We sat quietly for a long time, unable to conjure any energy to even say a word. Suddenly, my insides began rumbling and in that calmness it was easily audible to everyone so that they all looked at me curiously. I instantly got up and ran to the bathroom, which was directly across the room, and slammed the door shut. I got down on my knees and was suddenly looking at chunks of half-digested food twirling inside a thick black and red liquid – which I was convinced was blood diluted in alcohol – pouring like a mini Niagara Falls into the toilet. But I wasn’t necessarily worried at that point – we’d all done the “Big Spit”, as the Good Doctor once described it, and knew what it was like and what was to be expected. But I did begin to get worried after my third trip – which was just as vile, if not more, and which happened within six or seven minutes from the first one. Everyone was beginning to ask me questions, though their words sounded like muffled woooas wooas wooas or something else nonsensical. I could hardly gather the strength to respond, much less move myself between rooms so constantly and frantically, so I decided to stay in the washroom after my fifth or sixth trip, when there were no longer any solids coming out but only a slimy residue which I figured was bale mixed with other stomach acids. I was now beginning to seriously worry, and my immediate though was that I should get to a hospital as soon as I get up and cleanse myself. But that would never happen, because almost as if being punished for even thinking that by some higher power, I began a descent into a physical and psychological hell I had never until then seen or been a part of, and to which I wish to never return.

The washroom door, which was half opened, became extremely blurry, and the little bit of light that was coming through it finished blinding me. Nevertheless, I could hear the background noise – voices, the television, water running somewhere – just a bunch of noises that clustered together into a deafening and constant hum. I felt as if I was tumbling around violently inside a running laundry machine. I wanted to say something to someone or to call them near, but I was losing my ability to speak. But I quickly lost sight of those facts when I began throwing up again, though this time nothing was coming out; I was dry-heaving savagely, completely reddened all over and pouring sweat and, more alarmingly, I was beginning to feel numb. First it started on my legs: like a small surge of electricity beginning on my toes, it kept creeping up my feet, then my legs and finally onto my torso, where it felt as if someone had smeared nitrogen inside and it was now spreading. Then my hands, which were clutching the sides of the toilet, began to contort: my fingers were slowly becoming warped, like deformed claws recoiling onto themselves, so that it was impossible to hold anything. Unable to hold the toilet, I fell back onto the wall, with my legs spread out in front of me and my arms paralyzed in the shape of tree-branches and half-opened claws twitching like spider legs after they’ve been stepped on. My neck was also beginning to stiffen on one side, so that by the end of my transformation I was left looking a paraplegic who had fallen off his chair, or some kind of disturbing realist sculpture symbolizing the Pain of Man or something of the sort. It was a horrific sight, like something out of a horror movie. With the bit of strength I had, I yelled out something incoherent and someone rushed in. Upon seeing me like that, they called someone else urgently, which worried me even more. It was all noise in the background to me; just voices without bodies moving around like wind and disappearing just like the same. At one point I heard one of them say, “no…I can’t see that again…just take him to the doctor’s…” or something like that. I couldn’t understand, but later, when everything had calmed down, he had told me that he’d seen too many of his friends die like that and he himself had been too close-a-call to go through it all again. Anyway, in that state I couldn’t even make sense of what was happening; all I knew was that I felt as if I were dying. Then I saw the legs of one of them moving around in the room again, and before they could leave, I pleaded the only thing I could muster at the moment: “Could you please…uh…just turn on the cold water….and shove me in the shower…”…

******

When I came to, the shower was running at full strength and freezing water was coming down on my face. For second, I thought I was drowning at the bottom of the ocean: that’s why I’m still fully clothed and I can’t move or breathe, I thought. But after a second or two I realized I was in the bath-tub, and that my fingers and legs were finally beginning to loosen up. Though my arms and legs laid in front me in the exact same position I was in when on the ground, my fingers were slowly moving until eventually I could make a fist and open it back up. Then I began moving my legs slowly, pulling them back and stretching them again; though they hurt, it felt wonderful to be able to move again. I laid there, letting the freezing water hit me for a good 10 minutes before I dragged myself out. I was shivering from the cold, but I was actually moving again, which was the only thing I cared about. Everyone was asking me if I was ok and if I needed a doctor. In retrospect, I should have gone, but at the moment I figured I should just rest.

After an hour or so, continuing to shiver and feeling my shins cramped up, though still able to move, I got up and decided to leave. I sat on the passenger seat staring out the window the entire ride home as my girlfriend, who had been with us only the last night and was unaware of everything else that had come before that, drove the car, quietly sobbing and wiping away tears. I knew it was a terrible thing to have seen, and I felt the fear and disappointment that emanated from her as strongly as her delicate yet powerful scent. I felt guilty, but mostly I felt scared: scared that I had nearly died; but particularly scared that I had exchanged what was then one of the most important things in my life for an unadulterated and savage physical and mental test that in the end, had meant nothing.

******

…Still, in some sinister corner of my mind, there was a perverse sense of victory at having stood on the edge of some kind of hell that most will never experience, and having pulled back just before it was too late…Though, of course, after one visit, I vowed to never return.

Uprooted Memories – Vol. 1 (The Eucalyptus Tree)

STORM BREWS AND TREEExcept for the obvious storm brewing inside his head, the day had seemed otherwise promising when it started. Morning had come wrapped in a blinding splendor, radiating the kind of confidence and grace only a clear sky could inspire. He stood up and parted the blinds, and his sleepy eyes automatically squinted so as to adjust to the glistening light now penetrating the windows and illuminating the room like an altar or podium of some kind. He stood there for a few minutes staring into the blue canvass before him, which seemed to extend for millions of miles, or just far enough to lose itself inside the shimmering horizon engulfed in an orange and yellow fire. He liked the image and felt a nostalgic tranquility at letting himself get lost in it; it was like staring at a beautiful painting where no single brush-stroke could be detected – it was Marvel and Perfection at its best. His lips slowly parted to let out a nearly inaudible “click” sound and he slowly winked his left eye to mimic the shuttering of a camera, then he moved away to begin dressing himself. But as he reluctantly put on the same white gym t-shirt that was part of the mandatory ensemble at his Private Elementary Christian School, his mind began drifting to an earlier and morbid time which violently shredded the picture he had just snapped. He continued functioning on a basic level, putting his green sweater-vest over the t-shirt and then getting inside his grey trousers, but he was no longer there: his glazed, paralyzed and petrified look clearly said that he had returned to that sinister morning when he had witnessed a brutal accident at the tender age of seven, or perhaps eight years old.

On particularly warm and sunny days when gym class was scheduled for his fourth grade class, the teacher would opt to have the class in a little park that ran adjacent to the east side of the school, only separated by a small street that rarely saw any traffic. Aided by one or two assistants, the teacher had a very well established system for crossing the street, where a chain-link of four or five kids interlocking their tiny arms with a teacher in the middle would look both ways then dash across the street; then the second team would go with one of the assistants and then third. Once across, the kids were always warned not to get out of the parameter the teachers had set for them, for there was a river that ran behind the woods which, although wasn’t easily accessible, could easily mean the death of any of one of them should they fall in, for it was a mighty river that was used to over-flooding in the rainy season and that roared invisibly behind the trees like some kind of hidden wild animal. But there was never any real danger of that, because the parameter was wider than the kids could actually reach, despite how much they’d run. In any case, the kids loved the place, which obviously made gym class everyone’s favourite. But on this particular day that had so callously intruded his memories – and from thereon, in fact – gym-class had ceased to be what everyone looked forward to.

Everything happened almost in sync, like it had been perfectly choreographed in a studio somewhere and was now being faithfully executed, step by step. Just as soon as he had finished crossing the street from the park, still holding on to the teacher’s hand, he turned around to see who his friend was crossing with. At that very moment, all his young eyes managed to see was his friend’s left foot take the first step off the sidewalk and onto the street when a whitish-grayish automobile zoomed by in an almost surreal speed, leaving only the faint trails of the backlights lingering and a white gym-t-shirt that seemed to hover weightlessly in the air for a few seconds before hitting the ground with a petrifying THUMP! The entire scene seemed to come to a standstill for a few seconds and the sound of everything around simply disappeared….it was a soundless and paralyzed scene that seemed to linger for minutes as he tried making sense of what had just happened. Then a sea of people suddenly surrounded what was now probably certainly a cadaver of a seven or eight year old kid, and a horrendous wallowing began to fill the air…There were savage yells echoing throughout what now seemed like a morose and desolate atmosphere, clamouring for “911” and “medics” and every other emergency responder they could think of. Soon thereafter, one of the assistants led him by the shoulder through the Big Metal Gates and into the school while the others scraped the remains of the poor kid off the side of the road. The rest of the kids who had already been gathered in the classroom seconds earlier were speculating about what had happened and what the fate of the kid could possibly be. By their comments, it seemed that nobody had actually witnessed what had happened…except our protagonist, who could not help but be surprised at how easily everyone else around him seemed to toy with the possibility this poor kid whom they had run around with just a few minutes ago might be dead. The conversation went on for a few days before things seemed to just kind of move on…

By now, he had finished getting ready and eating his breakfast, and was already walking towards the bus-stop where he waited every morning. He tried shaking himself loose of that dark memory but not before wondering if other people also remembered horrible memories like he did – so…vividly. And then he remembered that there were other things on his mind, or perhaps things that should have been on his mind, or perhaps things that were so ubiquitously on his mind that they made everything else as morose and tragic as they seemed to be…But why? He thought to himself. But he did not wallow, and instead he let the warm rays of the sun shower him, which seemed to wash away the lethargy of his soul as he waited for the bus. Moreover, despite the dark and obscure corners children are sometimes pushed into, they are resilient vessels with a kind of Inner-Light, and the inkling of innocence, joy, play and friendship often prevails in them like animal instincts, even if it is in short-dosages. So at school, like every other day, he played, and enjoyed, and laughed with his friends, knowingly distancing himself from the harsh realities of having to see one parent on weekends only and of going to a house which isn’t a home. But the faster his little legs ran after the ball, the more he forgot about it all. When it was his turn to wait on the bench, so as to allow others to play also, he sat back with arms stretched and looked up at the tiny birds dancing in the blue sky; then, feeling the Sun’s Warm Rays on his face, he gently closed his eyes, still seeing the Silhouette of the Heavens and the Tiny Birds above in a reddish hue…For a second, as the Sun’s Rays rained down and engulfed him like a sort of armor, he felt as if the Sun was actually watching over him, and feeling what seemed like the warmest feeling he’s ever felt, he let go of all those fears and worries  that had tormented him seconds before. The Morning came and went like that, slowly disappearing as he sat in class and day-dreamed staring out the window, into the sky full of birds soaring and singing freely. By the time lunch had come, he had forgotten about the Dark Clouds that followed him, and the storm seemed to dissipate.

******

By the time he stepped out of the final class that afternoon, the sun was only a specter of itself, still keeping a vigil on the day, evidenced by the melancholic purple and faint-orange sky, but no longer watching over him; the Sun had left, and even squinting, it was now only a Bright dot in space. Even the warm breeze felt chilly and cavernous to his tender body. He began walking towards the Big Metal Gates slowly and languidly, no longer enthusiastic about the day and rather pessimistic about its ending. But he knew he had to go on. So he did. However, when he finally crossed the doors, nothing was like he expected and, in fact, he felt shaken to his very core by an image he had never imagined he’d seen…at least not while awake.

There were two Black SUVs parked at the curb right outside the Big Metal Gates, and one or two men standing just outside the doors, dressed casually (with black sunglasses) but obviously in command there. Just outside the back passenger door stood the kid’s father, being half-covered by the presence of one of the other men standing by the front passenger door. In his hands he held what the kid immediately recognized as the same plastic, inter-galactic toy-gun they had seen in a window-shop weeks, or perhaps months, earlier. They had been walking along the street looking through shops’ windows and making noise and laughing loudly as always, knowingly but placidly hiding from the brutish toll a hostile separation takes on all family members. Upon seeing the gun on the shop’s window, the kid had immediately demanded it, unable to contain his love for anything that shot plastic bullets, made a loud noise or had bright lights shooting from it. But for one reason or other, his dad had said no; he had resorted to some logical argument, most likely surrounding financial issues, as to why he couldn’t get it at the moment….of course, the kid only heard a big, fat “no”, and disappointment and hate were the only things he could feel…at least for the next few minutes, or perhaps hours…and then, no mention of the gun was ever made again….Until that morning.

The kid knew exactly what the gun signified; what the entire scene yelled at him in the clearest and most direct terms. But it was his father’s face that most struck him. He had never seen something like that before. His father had always been a Eucalyptus Tree that stood high — far beyond the reach of everyday men, of Commonality, of Routine and, particularly, of Fear; and he had felt as being on top of such when he’d ride high on his father’s shoulders, defying the entire world together as one. Indeed, for anyone other than himself, this Tree had seemed un-climbable and out of reach, and certainly unmovable. But now he was privy to something he’d thought the world should never know or see: he had seen the Eucalyptus Tree Moved and Eroded by a Primal Fear – the Fear of being uprooted; of being savagely torn away from the very roots that kept him grounded. Now, the man who he’d though would Never Lose was trembling with fear and loathing at the sheer possibility of being severed from his Seed…Indeed, for the first and only time, he had seen his father Defeated: The tear running down his cheek, so out of place – so foreign to his old and hard countenance – pleaded “sorry,” as his trembling hands yelled “come here, my son!”

Was it me? The kid thought to himself, overwhelmed by sadness and fury. Did I cause my father so much pain over a stupid toy? Did he not know the toy did not matter? Why did he buy it? Did he think he Needed to buy it? Why does an Eucalyptus Tree lose its leaves? Why does it fall?

******

It was a special visit – unscheduled and allowed by both parties: the father and mother who, until then, had not been able to resolve their differences. They enjoyed the rest of the day together, probably shooting that inter-galactic gun at anyone they could aim….

The rest is History…

CHAPTER 1: “The Nervous Nurse, The Good Doctor and The Young Man” – AN ADAPTATION

It must have been around 6 am when the young nurse appeared in the doctors’ office with apologetic eyes and speaking with a slight lilt in her voice. “Excuse me? Doctor? Do you have a moment?” She was obviously shaken, for their small town was not used to having this much commotion this early in the morning…or at all, for that matter. Buried in a small town deep inside the valley, most of the days were routine but for the strangely odd shooting or OD’ing – which, for the most part, were out of towners. But this morning had brought something entirely different through the big, blue revolving doors of the town hospital – screaming and screeching incoherencies that the likes of this small town burrowed in between two unnamed mountains would probably never hear outside of a movie or perhaps a ‘new-age’ or ‘modern’ play. The Good Doctor – a serene-looking man in his mid-40s with the air of a person who has definitive answers, who had been sitting at his desk fumbling through documents – calmly raised his eyes over his silver-rimmed glasses and responded with a reassuring tone: “A moment? What’s the question?”

“More of a situation,” replied the nurse with a nervous smile. “A gentleman in exam [room] three.”

The Good Doctor sat up straight and placed his elbows on the desk, cupping his left fist with his right palm and resting his chin on top. He studied the nurse intensely and finally asked her, “What’s the problem?”

She looked uneasy for a moment as she frantically searched inside her head for a rational, coherent or, at the very least, professional answer, but could find none. “That is the problem,” she finally said, sounding almost defeated as she let out a small sigh. “We’re not sure.”

Despite being a small hospital – or perhaps because of it – they were used to running a pretty tight ship, and this nurse in particular had always proven herself more than responsible and diligent. So it came as a surprise and a bit of a concern to the Good Doctor to hear her uttering those words.

“You got the chart?” he calmly asked, extending his left arm as he stood up.

“Right here,” she replied, and handed him the wooden clipboard.

As he looked through it he let out the same type of sigh the nurse had, and with a small shrug of the shoulders and his eyebrows faintly raised, bottom lip curving downwards, he muttered half-loudly, “Not much here to say…”

“No Doctor,” chimed in the nurse, now sounding more alarmed. “No obvious physical trauma; vitals are stable!”

“Name?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

He sat back down on his black leather chair and thought for a moment. His elbows were on the desk again but this time he had the tip of his fingers touching, forming a pyramid against which his lips rested. “Did someone drop him off?” he finally asked. “Maybe we could speak to them. Let’s get some background on this fella.”

“No ID. Nothing!” she answered, losing more and more calm with every word. She was beginning to breathe harder, almost scared to utter the next words, her eyes widening slightly. “And he won’t speak to anybody…”

With a resolute look and aura surrounding him, the Good Doctor stood back up one more time and put on the white coat that was resting on the back of his black leather chair. “Well, let’s say hello,” he said, and signaled the nurse to lead him to the young man’s room. They walked down the hall silently until they arrived at room 008. When they opened the door, they found the shoe-less young man sitting on the bed wearing dirty and torn black-jeans and a black t-shirt with the word “TOOL” written in block letters in the front and an eye with two pupils emerging from fire in the back; his gaze was fixed on the wall and his lips were moving almost imperceptibly as he muttered inaudibly to himself.

“Good morning,” the Good Doctor began. “I’m Dr. Lawson. How are you today?”

There was no response, just a blank stare.

“How – are – you – today?!” he asked again, slowly and loudly as he shone his small flashlight in each eye.

The Good Doctor took a step back and a deep sigh. “Look son, you’re in a safe place,” he said, sounding genuinely friendly. “We want to help in whatever way we can. But you need to talk to us. We can’t help you otherwise. What’s happened? Tell me everything.”

The young man showed his first signs of life as he shot his eyes from the wall to the Doctor, then to the nurse and then back to the Doctor again. He began breathing harder and appearing exasperated and confused. Then he shut his eyes tightly for just a second and re-opened them just as he let out a big breath, as if about to unload a great pain from within…

“Alrighty, then,” he said, tilting his head sideways and raising one eyebrow. “Picture this if you will…”

*******

MY ADVENTURE IN THE BOLIVARIAN REPUBLIC OF VENEZUELA (CHAPTER 1 – ROUGH)

CHAPTER 1: DECISIONS TO FLEE AND ALCOHOLIC TENDENCIES TEND TO MIX; LIGHTNING AND THUNDER AND STEEL BIRDS; TOUGH LESSONS ARE LEARNED QUICKER IN LATIN-AMERICA  

In my experience, there is almost nothing more exhilarating for a young adventurer than traveling to a new country on his own. The seasoned traveler,  as with most things in life, gets accustomed to this, so they may disagree…But I suspect that even they, despite the numerous lands they’ve conquered, will always feel that tingling sensation in the pit of their stomachs as they board a fantastic machine which they know will fly them to new and far-away lands… maybe not always new, but certainly always far from whatever refuge they might call “home.” It is the very nature of traveling that in itself already is different, exciting, hectic…You wave goodbye to people you know and usually love; you run around the airport with a bag on every limb while holding the passport tightly in your mouth; you worry about your luggage constantly, or at least until the mean-looking guard that looks like a goddamn club bouncer, or like Bruno – the brute that works for a pig-feeding gangster in some violent movie you once saw – chooses you for a “random” full Body Check for apparently no reason at all; you wait for hours on end for your flight eating $8 dollar eggs and washing it down with a $9 beer. From that point forward, I guess it depends on many factors like your age, whatever romantic, professional or other type of relationship you may find yourself in, personal finances and a slew of other things. But in the end, as you walk down the tarmac, pass the stewardess welcoming you and demanding a boarding pass, and stumble through narrow lanes looking for your seat among tight clusters of confused-looking people, the reality that you are about to soar through the open skies and over vast oceans towards a New World in a Steel Bird designed by fallible men just like yourself hits you , and you can’t help but allow the Adrenaline to wash over you like a bucket of freezing water hitting naked skin in the middle of the Arctic. Then it all seems to climax – quite literally – when you look outside the window and find yourself slicing through a sea of clouds some 30,000 feet-high at more than 470 km per hour…at least that is the way I feel whenever I fly. And going to Venezuela was no different.

The decision to flee to that country had come somewhat rashly and during a hectic few months in my life which were antagonized by failed relationships, a dismal professional future and a rather dangerous alcohol-consumption-pattern — a trifecta of disappointment and turmoil that seemed to come together all at once. About three or four months prior, my girlfriend of four years had decided that she’d had enough and called it quits. To be completely honest, problems had been brewing for a few months before that, manifesting themselves in the typical way relationships heading down the crapper do – less calls, less need to be around each other, more arguments over stupider things, etc., etc. So we decided to go to Cuba. We didn’t go to forget our troubles, because I think we pretty much ignored them the entire time, despite how obvious they were. We just wanted to have a vacation together – perhaps subconsciously anticipating the end – and since I was adamant about Cuba (for personal reasons), we chose the enchanted Island. But, in retrospect, I believe that it was that trip that was the culminating event. No relationship – I’ve come to believe – that is already on the rocks has the slimmest chance of surviving if the parties take a trip together; it’s just way too much time for them to spend together alone, usually around alcohol, with no family or friends to deter them from killing each other. In the end, even if you don’t fight, the obvious tension is only boiling in the background like a teapot ready to go off, while you put on a brave face so as to not to embarrass each other in front of your new trip buddies…but eventually it will boil and the steamer will make you go deaf. And that’s just what happened. After a couple of months since our return to Toronto, the wonderful saga that had begun in a sunny summer day during a history class in a high-school four years back, ended just as quickly one cold evening in her bedroom. We had just finished rolling around her sheets one last time – quite passionately and savagely, even with a hint of violence – perhaps instinctively,  because just as we ended, even before we finished cleansing each other’s sweat off one another, we began arguing, and before we knew it, the edifice had crumbled.

Compounded onto this terrible situation was a debilitating bout of unemployment – which hasn’t entirely let up – and which obviously had an impact on my already tattered nerves. I mean, a man can only take so much rejection, romantic or otherwise. At first, I’ll admit, I wasn’t running full-speed ahead to the job-bank; but it didn’t take long to realize that even those who were trying hard were being left behind, university degrees and all. After searching and applying for so many jobs that most of my days would be spent writing cover letters and making half-a-minute phone calls ending in “not at the moment” or, in the best of cases, in an apologetic, “…but go ahead and email us your resume anyway,” I realized that these were times of war, and that I had better bust in the scene kicking, punching, biting and clawing if I had to, lest self-preservation should fail too. Simultaneously, and almost unbeknownst to myself and to most people around me, my alcohol consumption had gotten so out of hand that most events, parties and social gatherings would go by with no trace in my memory. I mean, I know I attended them and that I even acted decently…most of the time. I’d have to be reminded of this, of course, by the people I was with the following day: why we were where we were, or, more generally, what had happened. For the most part, I was told, I would be ok – for a drunk and given the setting, but even then, they’d say, I was dangerously pushing some boundaries. What’s more, I had begun conjuring images in my brain of the violent retribution I would cast against all those bastards who refused to hire me. I was convinced it was due to political reasons – that the swine knew what a young journalist with fire in his belly is capable of, and that they were afraid of it; that they did not want their own incompetence and collusion with ineptitude and corruption made public by a young reporter wanting to hold the whole diseased world by the balls while demanding answers. So, amid these converging assaults on my psyche, it became evident to me that what I needed to do was to get away…to Flee…to leave the whole fucking thing behind in search of a New World of Possibilities…or at least to go somewhere where the booze was cheap enough.

And so the search for countries to visit began. But it wasn’t hard to arrive at Venezuela. Because despite the fact that I was battling very real Monsters – and that I was being both aided and poisoned by alcohol, vengeance and bitterness – I was also solidifying my political views and personality, and as a result everything that had to do with socialism and capitalism – and with Politics in general – had begun to take an important role in my every-day life. I had already visited Cuba, and though it was only a seven-day stretch, I had gathered some good information through thorough and extensive conversations with practically anybody I could find, from bartenders and custodians at hotels to shopkeepers and pedestrians on the street; so going there again would have been a lost opportunity to see and learn about a new place. (As a matter of fact, that was one of the things that strained our relationship while in Cuba: On more than one occasion, I had found it infinitely more interesting to continue my conversation with the bartender regarding life in the Socialist Island while sipping on all-you-can-drink-rum until 5 am rather than playing crazy eights with my girlfriend and a group of Spaniards, Italians and Canadians that we had met at the beach. Though she was much better at keeping her composure and limiting her violent outbursts than I was, she complained quite lively, on more than one occasion, and reminded me that “she was there too”). But I knew I wanted to visit a Latin American country, feeling the need to reconnect with my roots. I would have gone to the Motherland – Ecuador – where Socialist President Correa is also doing amazing things, which family members either living there or in the exterior but frequently visiting, constantly corroborate; but unfortunately there was no job that I could find there through AIESEC, an international agency that places young travelers in different internships across the world — at least none that interested me. But as soon as I saw that Venezuela was an option, I knew I had to end up there, if for nothing else, to find out, once and for all, just how beautiful the women were…and, of course, to personally put to the test this supposed “Dictatorship” the Western Media kept (and keeps) hollering about like desperate sirens looking for lost sea-men. Fortunately, the agency was hurting for English Teachers, for there was a backlog of jobs that had not been filled from a while back for whatever reason – most likely due to lack of organization, which I would unfortunately come to find out was rampant with those goddamn kids. (Later on I also found out that the staff members that work in AIESEC would receive some kind of stipend for every new “contract” they could secure – at least that’s what I understood from what they told me. The stipend was to be put into a pool that was to have various purposes. Among them was giving financial support to interns who, in almost every conceivable possibility, would end up needing it. But many times there were problems accessing this pool of money for one or another shady reason. I suspect this stipend, on top of the need for teachers, was also behind the very rash acceptance of my application). In any event, the T’s were crossed and I’s were dotted – and more alcohol consumed – and before I knew it, I was buying my ticket to Caracas, Venezuela for the 28th of September, 2011.

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As we crossed through a particularly dense cluster of clouds, the reality of the situation dawned on me. Actually, it had begun to dawn on me as I waved goodbye to my parents and brother at the gates and awkwardly made my way through the various checkpoints with what I now know would be way too much baggage to take for a three or even six month period; it continued dawning on me as I ordered a plate of greasy breakfast food for nearly 10 dollars and almost just as quickly threw it back up; but the most real ‘Point of No Return’ dawned on me as the fantastic Steel Bird zoomed forward on the runway and then began pointing its nose upwards, rushing all the limbs and all the blood in my body backwards into the seat as we gradually lost sight of the airport and the streets, until all we could see was just the general outline of the landscape, en route to a country I had never been to and with not even my cell-phone to accompany me (I really forget why I didn’t take it; I think I was afraid of roaming charges). In my previous adventures I had always traveled with my girlfriend, who naturally helped cushion the great blow that being alone in a new country for the first time represents. But this time there was nobody traveling with me. But this not only failed to worry me – it in fact was one of the main things that excited me…And at that altitude, the compounded effect was one of utter ecstasy, completely oblivious to the series of events both wonderful and terrible that would transpire over the next few months.

My first connection was in Huston, Texas, after a two-and-a-half-hour stretch from Toronto’s Pearson Airport. I arrived there sometime in the afternoon, but my connecting flight wasn’t until around 1 or 2 a.m., so I made my way through the colossal airport with my lap-top bag and a carry-on full of some clothes and books, and found somewhere to eat and have a beer, which I knew would be ridiculously expensive, but with five or six hours to wait, I figured I could spare some cash. Before I realized the first couple of hours had passed, however, I was already finishing my 6th or 7th beer and was about $90 lighter. I would have kept drinking, but I just didn’t know if the money I had would be enough to hold me over in Venezuela until my job started paying me – I wasn’t even sure that I wasn’t already under budget – so I decided against it and stumbled to the seat nearest to the gate to wait for the plane, where I met a Mexican man who said he was an engineer traveling to Caracas for the installation of a turbine in some energy plant. He wore a cowboy hat and boots and a denim shirt and jeans, and in the state of mind I was in, he looked just like some kind of Oil Tycoon, and I expected him to yell a “yee-haw” and swing his hat against his knee at any moment, blasting gun-shots from a nickle-plated gun like some cartoon-character…but he never did. I also thought of taking out my notebook to jot some notes down regarding our conversation, which had turned to something about private vs. public management of business, but I was too tired and too buzzed to pretend to care enough, particularly since I was sure I would get the chance again in Venezuela.

We arrived in Caracas after a grueling 5 – 6 hour flight through a turbulent night-sky that kept violently exploding into flashes of lightning and thunderous roars. Nevertheless, at that speed and altitude, a ray of lightning and its accompanying thunder are very special things to see and hear. It’s almost as if someone were slowing the entire scene down to take a picture and then…FLASH!…What was Dark as coal one second explodes into a White-Orange Fluorescent Instant the next, which seems to linger like a Ray of Insight…the entire machine shakes violently and for as long as that moment lingers, the clouds outside the window resemble an Electric Ocean. The whole scene seems to capture a moment of Clarity – of Freedom and of Truth – inside Chaos and Violence…It’s really quite a thing to see. It fills you full of Fear and Excitement, like the first time a beautiful girl lets you slide her underwear down her bare legs and you feel your heart pounding in your ears, knowing exactly what’s going to happen, yet not really knowing at all. Yes, the entire scene is feral and orgasmic…surreal. Then, everything goes dark and quiet again; so calm that a rhythmic drumming coming from within your chest seems to take over the entire cabin, though no one else seems to hear it. At that point, the eerie calmness seems like that moment when you wake up after a slight bout of dreaming where you are falling; when you open your eyes just as you throw your arms and legs about violently, but realize you’re all alone in the dark. The entire flight went like that, moving in and out of those two states: the orgasmic chaos outside the window and the paralytic stillness inside when it was over, at least until I fell asleep, soothed by the rocking of the plane. I met the Mexican man again the following morning after getting off the plane, and after I was duped out of 50 Bolivares Fuertes (BS) for every kg the bag was over. I can’t remember the exact number of Kgs I was over, or how much I paid now, but I remember that it was quite a bit so that I had to make change. Unaware of the double exchange rate and feeling queasy from the beers last night and lack of food and sleep, I went to the first House of Exchange and did the deed  (really there is only one official exchange rate, but the black market is quite prominent in this sector). Just as soon as I stepped away from the window a couple of American tourists enjoying their Golden Years strolling through Caracas in white cargo shorts and straw hats, told me that I had been duped; that, had I looked around just a little bit, I could have found someone who would have bought my dollars for at least twice what I had just gotten. I guess they may have been trying to be nice, but I failed to see the humour in having waited for me to exchange the money before sharing that information, given that I saw them walking around there seconds before and that they had seen me approach the exchange window. In any event, I was in no mood for more disappointments this early, so I thanked them dryly (for their useless information) and went on my way to pay my fines. It was while taking our belts, shoes and other metallic objects off to pass through the security check once more to board the plane going to Barquisimeto that I met the Mexican man again. I told him what had happened and he gave me the same run-around as the American couple as he let out a big laugh – a mixture of incredulity and pity. Then we chatted some more as we took our possessions and moved on. The time was around 7:00 a.m., and the next flight was scheduled for 8 a.m., so we decided to go have some breakfast at a little place that stood directly in front of the boarding tarmac.

However, here we received our first taste of what unfortunately has come to be known as an unofficial Latin-American Tradition – the tardiness and informality with which most events are treated. Within about twenty minutes, a message came on saying that the plane would not be arriving until 8:30. Fine,I thought, no big deal. Then a second one came on about 15 minutes later moving that time to 9 a.m. At 9, as a mob was starting to form around the young, attractive stewardess with lost eyes standing by the tarmac, a third message came on saying 10 o’clock. This would continue to happen two or three more times – each time riling up the mob more and more , causing outbursts like “what the fuck…here comes another hour wait!” and “who the hell do they think they are?!? People have places to get to!” I was genuinely angry, but for some reason this didn’t really seem to faze me. Perhaps it was because I knew what would happen within about 45 minutes from the time the plane got there and we boarded; or perhaps it was because I was just so tired; or perhaps it had to do with the fact that the Mexican man had kindly decided to pay for my breakfast after hearing how I had been taken by the thugs in the Exchange House. In any case, when the plane finally got there around noon, I calmly boarded the plane and wished the man good luck with his enterprise and looked for my seat.

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I kept my eyes open just long enough to see the roads disappear behind the clouds, and then I dozed off for about an hour. I woke up as I felt the tires hitting the ground at Jacinto Lara International Airport in Barquisimeto. When I stepped outside I took a deep sigh, relieved to have finally arrived and having gotten that long and arduous trip over and done with. Then I took another one – longer this time – as I thought (in a mix of Panic and Excitement) about everything that was to come…Particularly about what the hell the people that were supposed to meet me looked like.

MY ADVENTURE IN THE BOLIVARIAN REPUBLIC OF VENEZUELA (INTRO: ROUGH)

INTRO: A QUICK GLANCE AT THE PEOPLE, LAND AND SEA; FULL SPEED AHEAD AND NO WINDOWS; THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN MAKES A POETIC DEATH-BED

It was a dream-turned-reality from which I could not awake. Every day was a unique and surreal experience – it was like being in a roller-coaster that took me high up as often as it plunged me downwards. There was madness in all directions, and I constantly had the feeling that at any point something could happen – be it an unforeseen trip to the beach, a drunken all-nighter at the Local Bar, or a political protest overtaking the streets. And it is this volatility that made the experience unforgettable and something to be woven into the quilts of time immemorial.

The everyday life of Venezuelans seems, to me, to be lived in a constant kind of tension and movement, except on Sundays, when after three or four in the afternoon most streets look like ghosts-towns because everything closes. According to what I was told, this is due to something called La Ley Seca (the dry law), which forbids any booze being sold on Sundays and most commercial activity ends extremely early. As always, however, the reality is different, and knowing how to look you can find what you need at any-time, anywhere. In any case, the whole Chavez Phenomenon, for better or worse, has created a transcending energy that has everyone on their toes and ready to give this or that opinion, about anything! It’s easy to get narrowed into a political debate, but it won’t always end nicely. However, despite the obvious political tension, there is also a pulsating alertness in every Venezuelan:  No time for the slow-walker, no time for the car fumbling with the signal lights! You hurry to cross and avoid the old, blue Chevy speeding down the curve, or the barrage of motorcycle-taxis cutting-off the Chevy…Learning to cross the streets is perhaps one of the first things you have to learn as soon as you get there – that and how to get otra cerveza, if you are not a Spanish-speaker.

It was these kinds of small details that made the trip interesting and exhilarating. Every-day life was a curious and fantastic high-speed experiment.

I remember the first day that I decided to move around Barquisimeto alone, without the help of Gabo, the kid with whom I ended up bunking (him and his family) for about two weeks before I found my own apartment. By this time I had already been warned about what areas not to visit because of the danger and at what time to avoid going out altogether (around nighttime, so between 7 and 9 pm, it was advised that I not travel alone, and that if I must, that I do so by marked taxi only). By this time I had also ridden in the taxis and carreritas – larger dilapidated station wagons painted a faint and rusting blue or green and running on fumes and good will. There could be up to seven or eight people jammed in there, sometimes having to leave the trunk doors wide open so that the people could fit a little more comfortably – and I use that term very loosely.  I had also ridden in the rutas – buses just about one and a half times’ the size of a large van, in the same pitiful condition the carreritas were in, and jammed to the very balls nine of out 10 times.

Riding these beasts is quite an experience for anyone who has never been in a Latin American country, or in any poor country around the world, for that matter. I’m not one of those people, but even I had to get used to it. If you sit at the back you will surely be breathing in fumes that will leave you disorientated by the time you get out; and that is if you manage to muddle through the sea of sweaty and noisy people that sway from side to side as the ruta violently avoids traffic jams by cutting in through wedges between cars and motorcycles that the regular, cautious and prudent motorist of even the smallest vehicle would avoid at once to wait instead for a clear and safe opening. The movements are brisk and violent, but even the oldest Venezuelan grandmother gracefully sways her body with the car without the remotest effort, all the while talking to whomever is beside her about this or that, whether they know each other or not. Even sitting down is an ordeal because you are so close to each other, that you can feel the fucking bowel movements of the fool in front of you holding on to the bars above him…Venezuela is, among the Latin American countries which are already known for their beautiful women, one of the most prestigious for having women that to us, regular folk, seem like they were chiselled directly by the hand of god; having them rub up against you isn’t the problem…the problem comes when the sweaty, 200+pound mastodon keeps shifting around and trying to get himself comfortable in the one place he is sure to sweat the most, perhaps develop a rash…But nothing, not even the looming possibility of being mugged, beats the candor and freedom that a bus ride is in Venezuela, with every window opened wide, the warm but powerful breeze hitting your dampen face and neck while in the background the bus dances to the beat of the streets, the constant chattering of the people, and the booming Latin music blasting out of the radio all the way up front but audible even at the back. (Almost everyone I met, Leftist, Rightist and the odd one that didn’t give a shit about politics, told me that mugging is a very real issue, but their accounts of the frequency and real level of danger all differed. Those who were against Chavez painted a picture of a Sodom or Gomorrah – I remember one day one of the kids I was traveling with quickly told the rest of the group and myself, who was lost in the scenery outside my window, to quickly get out of the bus; once outside he told us that he had seen that one of the two kids that had gotten inside the bus was wearing a gun under his belt, which became barely visible as he sat down. At the moment I was alarmed and relieved that we had escaped an ugly situation. But in retrospect, after everything I can now say I know or at least have a better, more personal understanding of, I wouldn’t put it far past them to have told me something like that to scare me and try to convince me of the hell they said they lived through because of the president; but I just don’t know either way.)

Anyway, the first time that I traveled alone was therefore obviously quite an experience, almost as exhilarating and frightening as the first day of junior high or high-school, when the voice hasn’t quite fully developed and the acne hasn’t fully cleared, but despite all the odds you are hell-bent on leaving your goddamn mark.  I had all my directions and numbers to contact in case of an emergency written down and tucked safely, as was the copy of my passport and money. I had a breakfast of arepas, a very traditional flour-based tortilla that Venezuelans seem to eat almost as frequently as they breathe. They were good but never my favourite out of the plethora of dishes that the best doñas, family-restaurants and sidewalk vendors had to offer. And unless they were fully stuffed with some kind of cheese, rice, meat, vegetable or all of the above, they weren’t that filling either. So I topped it off with a couple of beers and a smoke and went on my way to the corner to grab the carrerita whose number I now forget. Well, there isn’t much to be said about the experience itself; it was not much different than what I finished describing in detail above, but for the fact that it was the first time I went alone. It isn’t a big deal to the experienced traveller, and though I consider myself having some personal world experience to back my talk and walk, the first time that you get in the back of a taxi with only two working doors that have to be violently pushed open from the inside while the driver fumbles with the clutch to keep the car going, your very first thought isn’t comfort or safety. Though later, as you zoom at 130 km per hour down the highway with the back doors wide open at the top and bottom, your legs hanging outside and the car behind you coming so close before he switches lanes that you can almost touch; the music in the ambience so alive that you couldn’t believe it is 7 in the morning and that the sun could be this bright; the individuals in the car talking among themselves and including you in the conversation despite the fact that no one knows each other; the driver tapping his arm to the music and joining the conversation from time to time, if not with opinions then with obscene and hilarious jokes that relax the political tension behind the radio messages from the President or the Opposition parties interrupting the music; with the range of mountains adorning the side…With all this going on, you just tend to forget you are in a foreign country, supposedly at the whim of the criminal, one of which could be sitting beside you and you just…Let Go…

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Work was work and will always be work anywhere in the world. Other than over-stringent rules – most of which were broken daily – and occasional run-ins with the directors for a few minor infractions, work was enjoyable. So I did it with enthusiasm where it mattered, but at certain points every emotion ceases, and sometimes it was hard to draw more enthusiasm from a dry well.

Teaching English takes a real teacher – or teaching anything, for that matter. Someone who has a real gift for it, who has the patience and the charisma to get through to young and sometimes obtuse minds, and I wasn’t one of those persons. I enjoyed many of my conversations with the students. It was refreshing to see many people put in their hardest efforts to learn another language, something which I dare not do.  People of all ages, genders and professions – from young secondary students to Business men and women and absolutely everything in between – showed off their skills admirably…Yet, the job was simply far better done and enjoyed by other Profesores, both Venezuelan and interns alike, who seemed to have a better grasp on things of this matter and who seemed to excel at it. At first, almost with a cynical idealism, I was determined to get through to all these people, particularly because they were being duped, in my opinion, into paying ridiculous amounts of money for their kids or themselves to learn English, and they did it happily and on time because it was a private enterprise and therefore had to be efficient and worth it. When I came across the first stubborn minds I did not weaken in faith; I was resolute in getting through. I tried being as approachable as possible, as direct and articulate, and when I did not know the best way to explain something, I asked one of the better teachers. But alas, sometimes you need a bulldozer to crack open a peanut, and I refused to learn to drive one. I quickly found out that I did not have the patience to try to teach something to somebody who either doesn’t want to learn or simply cannot understand quickly; the same cynicism (or naiveté?), I believe, that fueled me at the beginning burned me out. So I learned teaching is not my thing and that if these people couldn’t learn – especially if they didn’t want to learn – then I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it, and that’s when I began having more fun at work, enjoying every second I wasn’t in those small rooms that looked like the interrogation rooms in the movies, with mirrors and everything. It would damage my reputation to go into detail regarding how I and the other Professionals enjoyed that free time…but imagination was always a better thing than reality…

The time away from work, however, the few hours we had to ourselves, were far better spent. No snow-blizzards like the one roaring outside my window [when I originally wrote this] stopped you from going to a party here or there, at this or that person’s house, in this or that park, at absolutely anytime and with no specific half-life. I met young minds like mine from all over the place, and a certain special thanks go to all those special ones who listened to more than I actually said, and who know who they are. Some of my most memorable and perhaps even criminal memories are of the many wild nights that were spent in hazy dances of Friendship and Lust, fueled by strong drink, powerful marijuana and an intoxicating sense of Freedom that left everyone feeling vulnerable and trapped in a state of Trust – in a Trance you could not shake yourself awake from…at least until the Music finally stopped. It seemed like the world was literally a phone call or a Facebook message away, always ready to enjoy Rum, Noise and an invisible but pervading Energy that seemed to emanate from the intestines of the City and inebriate everyone. These were definitely places to let loose and lose control – if only for as long as the moon stayed bright.

But there is so much more to Venezuela than its wonderful parties and invigorated and wild youth. There is a world to explore in this vast and mountainous land. Everything from the morning walks to work, stopping to eat Empanadas at any kiosk or small establishment, to trips to the beach early in the morning and back before the Sun hid as you enjoyed that last trace of a fiery and melancholic sky, to trips that took all night and half the next day, through mountains and valleys and dilapidated towns, to arrive at a place that looks like a postcard…every action and any opportunity sparked flames in all directions and you had a feeling that Freedom was something tangible, something to be held and clutched into Gold, or to see Glowing in the Night-Sky…

One of the most beautiful places I visited was a great canvas of golden sand as far as your eyes could stretch your imagination, only interrupted sporadically by what a dear friend told me was something she’d never seen in other deserts that she’d visited in Morocco, Tunisia and Egypt – shrubs and small trees propping up from within the sand like slender fingers. Now this was a real desert: we walked a good hour or so into the bowels of the sandy oasis with no way of anticipating the end. There were huge sand hills erected like breasts of a Giant Golden Goddess lying naked on the ground, and every time we reached the top of we rejoiced as if we were discoverers…but there were many goddesses. About 45 minutes (North?) of the desert was a beach called Pedicora (pedicoda?). The water was a deep blue and amazingly tepid, and the sand white as paper. The Caribbean Sea, at that very moment and under that very Sun, became, to me, a monument to the Freedom and Fear I simultaneously felt; its seemingly endless waters were menacing but inviting, and I would not have cared if I had made a bed at the bottom of the Ocean for the rest of my days.

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UNTITLED/UNFINISHED

In a not so distant future, dreaming has been eradicated by Humans.  It is believed that dreaming caused distractions in our conscious moments, because we pursue those “pipe-dreams” instead of focusing on the tangible and present work; that instead of increasing our productivity in every sphere and industry, we use that energy to try to make an alternate and supposedly imaginary reality real. So after much negotiation between leaders of the world, scientists, the military, entrepreneurs and industrialists, the Human Race is able to harness the technology and chemical compositions to simply make us stop dreaming: to provide for us eight uninterrupted hours of sleep, thereby fueling ourselves for the following day of work. We are made into fully efficient, hard-working, mono-tone beings with no aspirations for the future or recollection of the past, and very little emotion left. We are calculating and cold. Our interactions deteriorate to basic babbling about the present; about the work that was done in the morning and the work that will be done the next day; about an insipid life that is lived daily, but with no past or no future; about the very things that are happening today, at this moment, and nothing more. With absolutely no notion of the past or the present, and with a blank memory every night, our daily lives become a dull existence, where everyone is just an image and a co-worker. With no memory of anything that comes before the day’s beginning, we are unable to form relationships, amicable or romantic. In the not so distant future, we are turned into Vessels of Production and Rational Calculating Thought, and there exists no space for passion whatsoever.

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At first only humans were the subjects. It was noticed that while working, a grand majority of people were not working at full capacity. They were talking with each other about their children, their memories, their plans for the future, their worries, their aspirations, their losses and their gains – and all this caused them to be distracted from their work. Of course, every single day, it seemed as if it were these daily interactions that filled the earth and the oceans with color; as if it were their stories that gave life to the trees and plants; as if it were their words that resonated in the singing of the birds and the fluttering of butterflies’ wings. It seemed that life outside of the factory walls and the corporate skyscrapers was constantly being created and churned by their interactions. Even inside the factory walls and concrete buildings, compartmentalized into cubicles and different departments for different issues, the music that emanated from the speakers and the sun-light that peered through the windows and the open shades all seemed to be the offspring of constant interaction among us. But none of this mattered to the High – the Owners and the Bosses. They only saw huge monetary losses in every minute and every second that work was not being done; in every millisecond that we spent talking rather than building those pallets, or shipping those boxes, or selling those stocks, or pushing those papers around. To the Highs, all that mattered was that we spend our time working, selling, calling. Their world was detached from ours, and though it was enveloped in gray, the Highs spent all their energy – spiritual, moral, physical, financial – smearing it with artificial colors and mountains and birds and trees. And this had gone on for so long, that they had lost the ability to distinguish between the real and the artificial. (MAYBE THIS IS WHY THEY CONSUMED MORE AND WANTED MORE, BECAUSE THEY FAILED TO REALIZE THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE REAL – THE ATTAINABLE – AND THE UNREAL – THE UNNATAINABLE)

So at first the Highs tried to ban talking at the workplace. They implemented all sorts of rules and regulations and penalties for those who were found to be violators of said rules and regulations. At the beginning there were daily infractions, because despite the tough fines and penalties, people still found the need to talk to each other. They always found ways to get around the regulations and, later, to get around the cameras that gawked at everything from the corners in the ceiling and from the regulators who, like robots, marched up and down every hall with the sole purpose of zeroing in on whoever was having any sort of conversation or interaction. Yes, despite their obsessive need to control this, every worker was able to find a way around it, and the rules seemed to be nothing but rubbish to us all. But the Highs grew impatient and enraged – many of them developed ulcers and other intestinal problems caused by their anger. They looked for many different ways to stop our stubborn need to interact, but nothing worked – not even the violence that they began to perpetrate on the violators of their rules. In fact, once they started using violence, we gained confidence in our tenacity and began to be even more boisterous in our conversations and more blatant about them. If someone was discovered by the regulators, the only thing to do was to put up a savage fight and draw as much blood from as many of them as possible before you were subdued by the rest of them clubbing you to the floor. This was simply accepted, because we would simply not stop talking. For a while, there was an open war between the Regulators (who worked for the Highs) and us, the Lows. Productivity, of course, in almost every sphere plummeted, and that is when the Highs apparently decided to pull back from their Violent Operations and just let us be. We thought we had won…

A few months later an announcement was made over every speaker in every factory and corporate building; in every sector and department of any and all private and public offices. A pre-recorded announcement in a sensual female voice dictated:

“All Comrades, please be advised that a New Program of Efficiency is being implemented. Starting in Alphabetical Order, all Comrades will be called to the Human Resources Department and will be administered take-home equipment and given instructions on how to use it. Smile, Comrades, the Future is here, and we have found the technology to improve all of our Efficiency with no Violence.”

A few seconds after the announcement, the speakers began calling people down in segments. First the As to the Js; then Ks to Ss; and finally Ts to Zs.  At first we were all skeptical and everyone murmured with curiosity and with a certain degree of fear and uncertainty. But there was only one way to find out what was going to happen after all, so people began going up. If another war was to start, someone would have to make the first move, and if it was the Highs that did so, we were all ready to retaliate with full force, damn be the killed from their side and blessed the ones from ours. But after the first group returned, everyone was momentarily put at ease. They carried a device with them that looked like an MP3 player or some kind of music device, a thin booklet with instructions on what to do, and two pills, one red and one white. They told us that they had been told that all we had to do was take one tablet on the following Monday then simply turn the device on and play the tracks while we slept; we would listen to the tracks daily, in our sleep, through the earphones, and on Friday we would swallow the White Pill. By the next week, we were told, we would be able to see a sure spike in our productivity, and feel no other unwanted side-effects. However no one trusted any of what they told us, and after everyone had received their take-home package, everyone was dubious about the entire process, especially the pills. When the Highs were made aware of this a couple of weeks later by the Regulators who patrolled every hall of every work-space, they decided to prove to us that everything was harmless. On a Monday, as everyone dragged themselves to work, marching in a dull, rhythmic fashion, the P.A. system came on once again with the Sexy Voice announcing yet another reassuring message:

“Attention all Comrades, we’ve realized that given our passed problems, many of you are skeptical of our new Efficiency Program. This is understandable. We don’t want to repeat the same unpleasantness that occurred last March. That is why we want to put you at ease and show you that we are on the same side. We are asking you to report yourselves to the Cafeterias to watch the testing of our products in person and live. We’ll be running workshops all week, so please report at your convenience and soon we will all be on the path to Productivity, Efficiency and Happiness.”

The P.A. announcement ended there with a high pitch feedback wail and soon the murmuring resumed. Voices all over began talking excitedly about these supposed workshops. Rumors ran rampant, and at one point the idea that the workshops were really mind-altering camps where they would extract a piece of our brain to make us more obedient was propagated around, but believed by few. Eventually we all agreed to go in a huge group, in case that some macabre plan was in store for us. But when we got there nothing happened. Instead, a huge stage was set up in one end of the room, and the halls, normally filled with squared desks side by side, like in a classroom, was now filled with rows of metal, and grey chairs extending from one end of the room to the other. We all took a seat, and soon thereafter some guys in white coats came out from behind the curtains.

“Hello Comrades,” they started. “This will not take very long…we just want to put you at ease about our new approach to productivity, and to do this we simply want to show you two things.”

They unveiled two glass crates that were standing on two different stances side by side. On the left one, there were three mice running around the cage, running on their little wheel, and collecting hey on a corner; on the right one there were three mice traveling up and down on a system of tubes with twigs in their mouths and buildings forts at every entrance to the tubes. Then one of the men in the white coats stepped forward, near the edge of the stage, and addressed us all.

“Comrades, what you are seeing here is the Future! This is the proof that science can indeed harness the secret of productivity! The mice on the right have taken the pills and have been exposed to the music that we have provided for you. Now we will show you that the pills are safe.”

They took two of the mice from the left crate and gave each a Red Pill. Of course he knew that this would not be enough to convince any of us, so he took one too.

“In exactly a week,” he started “I will take the White Pill, and two days after, on the following Monday, we will all meet back here so that you can both see me and our lucky mice. Nothing will have changed except for the fact that we will be working 200% more efficiently.” He had a huge but clearly forced smile, and his eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets with a kind of desperate excitement. “You will see, my friends,” he exclaimed to end the presentation, “THE FUTURE IS OURS!”

We all left the room looking at each other and murmuring again excitedly. “What do you think will happen?” everyone kept asking. “I don’t know,” I replied drily to a stocky man who asked me the same question. “But whatever it is, it can’t be good if it’s coming from the Highs….I don’t have a good feeling about this….”

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