Monthly Archives: October 2014

Let me tell you something about the midterm elections

We’re all supposed to vote a week from Tuesday. And that’s great, just really terrific. But what a tease, an election with nothing at stake. I can’t wait until these phony elections are over, so we can start doing some serious politicking two years from now. Hell yeah, I’m talking presidential elections. They’re like the Olympics, or the World Cup, only they last for like a year and a half, and instead of focusing all of our energies toward faraway countries in a spirit of mostly benign sports competition, we get to wage personal warfare against friends, family, and strangers alike.


I’m serious, I’m talking all out war. It starts innocently enough. Sure, at this point in time we only have an idea about some of the men and women thinking about how they potentially might want to start considering setting up an exploratory committee to test the waters regarding the viability of a book tour to measure a theoretical dropping of the hat into the presidential contest. But in the coming months, once this midterm nonsense is out of the way, we’re going to start hearing from all sorts of people who think they have what it takes.

They’re going to start scheduling debates on both sides of the political spectrum, and sure, you’ll see the big names, I’m sure Hillary Clinton and Chris Christie will be standing out front. But there’s also going to be like all of these governors and senators and other random jokers that you’ve never heard of before.

And they’re all going to dig deep and start piling on the front-runners. It’s going to be a classic race to the bottom, with everyone trying to out-America one another, only talking about the most contentious of popular talking points: abortion, guns, taxes, Christmas.

By the time they narrow down the playing field, everyone paying attention is going to be foaming at the mouth, convinced that this is the year that the fate of our nation will be irreparably sealed. And even though every election comes down to these so-called “independent voters,” everybody already has their minds made up. Right now, right this second, even though nobody is officially in the race, I promise you that everyone knows exactly who they’re going to vote for come 2016.

Sure, everything looks calm now, but get ready, because this time next year, you’ll go on the Internet, you’ll log onto Facebook, and everyone you know is going to be putting up recycled headlines and overblown mischaracterizations about the other side. People you haven’t spoken to in years will be popping up on your news feed giving the world their expert two cents on why everything that you believe in shows that you’re an idiot.

I’m sure I’ll be doing it too. Right now I’m acting like I’m above all of this stuff, and sure, maybe I’ll pay some lip service to being respectful and keeping my opinions to myself, but there are always at least a few points during every campaign cycle where everybody gets caught up, a particular controversy or a quote taken totally out of context, and I’ll dive in, guns blazing, family lines forgotten, friendship irreparably destroyed.

And then the election will be over and nothing is going to change at all. Because look at what we’re dealing with today, Ebola, celebrity plastic surgery, none of this stuff has anything to do with politics. But whatever, like I said, it’s easy to talk like I’m above the fray when there’s nothing else going on. Midterm elections are boring. Nobody ever goes out to vote, and you wind up with only the most cranky senior citizens dictating who goes to Congress. I’m done ranting. If you need me, I’ll be outside, washing my car, polishing my bumper to get it ready for all of those inflammatory 2016 bumper stickers, hopefully I’ll get to really piss off some complete stranger behind me paying five bucks a gallon at the gas station.

Big crane operator

I hadn’t been on the job for very long, a few months maybe, and yet it was all I could think about, operating the big crane. I knew it was going to be one of those things where I’d have to start at the bottom, making all of the coffee runs, taking shit from all of the old-timers. But still, I asked on the second day, I tried to make it like I wasn’t interested, “So,” I said to one of other guys, “when do you get to work the heavy machinery?” pointing to the crane.


And that guy wasn’t that interested. He stood there smoking his cigarette – you’re technically not supposed to smoke on the job, but it was the seventeenth floor, there weren’t any walls up yet – and he gave me one of those, “I don’t know,” answers.

“Have you ever operated it? Do you know how?”

And he was just like, “I don’t know,” which didn’t answer anything, and made it very clear that he didn’t feel like chatting.

Sure, day two may have been a little soon. I didn’t know anybody. If I’d waited like a week longer, I would’ve gotten a better sense of who I could have asked and who didn’t feel like listening to my questions. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. No matter how I tried to occupy my time, my thoughts kept going back to the crane.

“When can I use the crane? How long does the training take? Do you need a special license?”

And so one day, maybe like two months in, I showed up to work and the foreman called me over in front of everybody else. “So,” he said in a really loud voice, “you’re the guy that really wants to work the big boy, huh?”

I tried to play it cool, but you know like when you’re playing poker, and you have a really good hand, and even though you just want to sit still and not make it obvious, you can’t help but feel your heart speed up, your lungs automatically taking in more air? That’s what this was like. “You mean the crane?” I said, and I heard my own voice, it sounded way too overeager.

A few of the guy behind me started laughing under their breath. I knew they were laughing at me, but I didn’t care. I probably deserved it. Like I said, I was all about the crane, talking to anyone who’d listen. I figured they thought I was a dumb kid, sure, but whatever, because at some level they had to be a little jealous. Because isn’t this how you do it? Isn’t this how you get places in life? You have to make your intentions clear. You’ve got to be persistent. It’s all about attitude and motivation. So go ahead and laugh, I thought to myself. I’m getting called out by the foreman to work the big crane.

“Listen up,” the foreman told me, “usually it’s not only experience, but seniority. Everybody wants to drive the big boy. I get it. And normally I tell them what I tell everyone, that you got to wait your turn, pay your dues. But you. I don’t know, there’s something special about you. I can tell you really want it, that you’ve got a certain something that I can’t really put my finger on. I’ve picked out a lot of top crane operators, and if I’m right about you, I don’t think we can afford to not have you on that crane another day.”

That was exactly what I wanted to hear. But it’s like, you’re hoping to hear something like that, and then when you actually hear it, it’s too much. I stood there, unable to really come up with a response.

“So,” I said, “when do I start? Can I hop in right now? I’m ready.”

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy,” the foreman said. “There’s still the issue of paperwork, of licensing, of dealing with the union heavy machinery representatives, and then there are bunch of classroom sessions that you’re supposed to take before you ever actually get in the crane.”

And I was kind of disappointed. I mean, I thought I was getting this right now.

“But,” he said while I tried not to look bummed out, “I think I have it figured out.”

“You have it figured out?” I repeated.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I can get you on that crane by this afternoon.”

I couldn’t believe it. This was getting to be too much, the highs and lows, back-to-back, an emotional rollercoaster.

“Just give me a minute, let me go to the office, I’ve got to see if I can make this happen,” he said.

And he did, he went to the office, a little trailer set up to the side, while everyone else got to work around me. Some of the old-timers were still kind of smirking, but I didn’t feel threatened anymore. I was special. The foreman could tell I had potential. Let these losers laugh at me. I could care less. So I just stood there and smirked back.

The foreman came out of his office trailer like five minutes later.

“All right,” he handed me an envelope. “I need you to take this to ground level and meet my contact five blocks from here. The address is written down. When you get there, call this cell phone number and wait.”

This was so cool. I took the envelope and confirmed that I understood my instructions and I was on the service elevator in less than a minute. When I got to the spot, I did exactly like I was told. I made the call, the guy on the other end told me to hold on, and then he hung up. A couple of minutes later, this guy shows up, I guess he knew it was me by my construction vest. He took my envelope and gave me another envelope, he told me to go to a deli three blocks in the opposite direction and ask for Julio.

“Just tell Julio who you are, give him the envelope, and tell him that the big guy sent you.”

“And that’s it?” I asked. “I’ll be good to go?”

“You’ll be all set,” he confirmed.

I went to the deli and tried to get the guy behind the counter’s attention, “I’m here to see Julio?” I asked. But there were three people ahead of me getting egg sandwiches and coffees, and he made me wait in line.

Finally it was my turn. “Julio? I’m here for Julio?” I asked.

“Yeah?” he said.

“You’re Julio?”

“Yeah. What do you want?”

“I’m Rob. The big guy sent me.” And I handed him the envelope.

He took it from me and told me to wait like five minutes.

And then five minutes later, he handed me a large brown paper bag and two cardboard carrying cases full of coffees.

“What is this?” I asked him. Surely there had to have been a misunderstanding.

“What are you talking about?” Julio said.

“What is all of this stuff?” I asked.

“What do you mean? Six egg sandwiches, two no bacon, eight coffees, I marked them all like you said on the phone, just look, it’s all written on the lids.”

“This is just a food order?” it still hadn’t sunk in.

“What are you talking about?” Julio repeated. “You needed something else?”

“The big guy?” I was desperate now.

“Yeah, Richie, the big guy, egg sandwiches and coffee. You all right kid?”

And I’d been doing coffee runs since I started, but this deli was so much more out of the way than the deli closest to the construction site. So I had to balance those two coffee trays, the giant bag, I had to walk it like eight blocks back to the site. And when the elevator doors opened up, everyone was standing there, pointing and laughing. The foreman was in the back, he was clearly enjoying himself too, but he probably wanted us all to be getting back to work.

“All right, all right!” he shouted out. “Get back to work everybody!”

And people took their sandwiches and coffees and made jokes, asking me what took so long, and why were the coffees so cold.

I don’t know if I’m going to make it

It’s been raining here for the past few days. I don’t know, maybe it hasn’t been that long, but it feels like I haven’t seen the sun in forever. This doesn’t happen that often, and so it’s really starting to mess with my head. I can think back, every once in a while we’ll get a stretch of like a week or a week and a half where it’s nothing but clouds and rain and gloom. And I don’t know how people in Seattle or Ireland cope, because, like I said, it’s only been maybe three days, but I’m feeling like I’m ready to give up.

I can’t get up in the morning. I never really want to get up in the morning, but most days I’ll just do it, I’ll hear the alarm clock going off, I’ll roll over, and I’ll get out of bed. But the past couple of days, it’s like I don’t even have any recollection of having been woken up. And my alarms are all set. So it’s like, I must be getting up while I’m still asleep, taking one look out the window, making a mental note of the pouring rain, and then turning the alarm off and going back to sleep for another two or three hours.

And then I get up and I’m all groggy, which makes the day not that productive. And then my dog doesn’t want to go for a walk. I can never get him to really do what he needs to do when it’s raining out. Usually I get up in the morning and he’s sitting at the foot of the stairs, his tail wagging so fast that it’s making a really loud thwap thwap against the wall.

But when it’s raining, he doesn’t even want to get off the couch. He curls up into this ball, and I have to drag him by the collar to the front door so I can put his leash on. I open the door and he fights it the whole time. I want to be like, come on man, I don’t want to go for a walk out in the rain either. But you have to do your business. That’s how this works. You can only hold it in for so long.

We’re outside and he’s just not interested in taking care of any business. He has his tail in between his legs and he’s constantly pulling his chain, trying futilely to will himself back to the house. And when we finally get back, after him not having done anything, he runs inside and shakes off. His stomach probably hurts so he won’t eat any breakfast.

And it’s the same for me. I’ve been out of milk and breakfast stuff for a whole week now. And every day I say to myself, nah, I don’t feel like going outside again. I’ll just wait until tomorrow, until this rain clears. But it just keeps raining. And the more I put off getting food, the more lethargic I’m becoming, making it even less likely that I’ll ever actually walk the three or four blocks to the grocery store.

It’s got to break soon, we need this to stop. My sleep schedule is becoming irreparably damaged. I guess I shouldn’t complain. Three or four days of rain isn’t really a big deal, especially with all of the droughts I keep hearing about out west. So I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.

Still, my feet have been wet for almost a week now. The basement is starting to get that wet smell. I don’t know how much longer I can take. I need to buy like a heat lamp or something, or a tanning bed. I think I’m getting vitamin D deficiency. I think that when the sun finally comes back, I’m going to be blinded, like my eyes and my skin have already adapted to a bleak, sunless future. I just … I don’t know if I’m going to make it.

Basement Access

It was the first day of school, and Principal Hyde was pissed.

“Principal Hyde? I just wanted to let you know that …”

“Not now, Margaret!” Hyde had been holding his head in his hands, his elbows leaning on his giant wooden administrator’s desk, but he let his palms fall to the surface as he told Margaret “not now.” The desk was really very old, maybe dating back to the mid-seventies, so old that whoever designed it couldn’t have had the foresight to imagine things like computers or Ethernet cables. No, this warping hulk of oak was built for papers, files, boxes and boxes of office supplies. Of course, no serious professional needed any of that garbage now that everything was digital, and so as his palms landed on the desk, the resulting thud, amplified like a drum on the hollow administrative relic, was a lot angrier sounding than he had intended. In fact, he wasn’t really going for angry at all, not to Margaret, even though he was pissed.

Thud! Margaret jumped back a little bit, surprised at Principal Hyde’s uncharacteristic display of aggressive emotion. Hyde was surprised too, but his expressed shock at the gravity of his desk’s acoustics only made him appear sterner, and so Margaret slinked out of the room, thinking about how she didn’t get paid enough to take this sort of abuse, that she wouldn’t, let Principal Hyde get his own cup of coffee if he wanted to be a jerk about it.

That’s what Margaret had come into the office for. She’d made a fresh pot and thought she’d ask Principal Hyde if he wanted a cup. And Hyde did really want a cup, he needed one, some caffeine, something, any sort of substance he could get into his system to distract him from how pissed off he was. Although he couldn’t leave the office, not now, not after scaring Margaret off like that. She was probably already talking to Greg and Wilson, complaining about the way she’d been scolded for no reason.

Hyde reread the email again:

Prinicpal Hyde: Due to a series of recent budget reallocations, your district has been targeted for systemic institutional deconstruction and reconsolidation. State and county assessors will be in touch regarding asset redistribution and systemic professional ease of transitioning. The Comptroller should be in touch sometime this week to discuss union reprioritization and to go over finalization of pre-terminization post-contract benefit reductions. Jeff, we tried, we really did, but the county is pretty insistent on riding this whole austerity wave to the end. Don’t hesitate to call my office if you have any questions.

            Best, Superintendent Halifax

Principal Hyde picked up his phone and dialed Halifax’s number. It went straight to voicemail. Without dropping the receiver from his ear, he hung up and tried the district office. That went to voicemail too. He dialed again, and on his fourth try, someone on the other end answered.

“Good morning, County Department of Education, this is Ryan, how may I help you today?”

“Hi, this is Principal Hyde over at South. I was wondering if I could speak to Superintendent Halifax.”

“Let me check for a second,” and Ryan put Principal Hyde on hold. The secretary got up from his desk and walked toward Halifax’s office, but the superintendent called out, “Not now, Ryan!” from behind his desk, before Ryan even had a chance to pop his head inside of the office. Ryan sat back down at his desk, considered the blinking light on line two for another minute or so, and decided to just let it go. He wasn’t getting paid enough either, and he definitely didn’t have the guts to hang up on a district principal, so he figured he’d just let Hyde hang up.

Hyde sat there with the phone to his ear for another three minutes or so, the whole time rereading that email, almost identical to last year’s. Sure, it had been a shock then, to think that South High was about to be shut down. But he couldn’t let himself wallow. No, he had finally been promoted to principal just the year before. He said it to himself then, facing closure, he told the school that there was no way they’d shut them down without a fight.

And what a fight they put up. Talk about rallying, Hyde wasn’t even sure that the school had what it took to take on the district like that. But he showed that he was a leader, leading the faculty, the student body. They protested outside of the monthly Board of Ed meetings, they had bake sales, carwashes. A highlight of their movement had been when a CNN anchor actually mentioned South by name amongst a list of twenty-five other high schools across the country that were battling forced austerity-driven budgets in a somewhat unrelated piece on the overall decline of national funding to high school jazz chorus programs. It was true that South’s jazz chorus was threatened, but only in the sense that the entire school was threatened. Regardless of how or why they got mentioned on TV, they did, and in a brilliant act of social media maneuvering, Principal Hyde had one of his students turn that three seconds of air-time into one of those looping video clips. It went viral, or, kind of viral, amongst high school students and parents anyway, they’d posted a link to the clip on Facebook, “South High School,” the reporter said, over and over again on repeat, enough people had shared the clip that, even if you didn’t have any kids in the school, you were more than likely to see it pop up on your news feed, “South High School, South High School.”

Superintendent Halifax saw it. The video was looping on his laptop when his cell phone rang. The caller ID gave it away as someone from the County Courier/Community Coupon, even though the caller wasn’t interested in South High School, because, despite the merger, the County Courier and the Community Coupon had still been struggling to round up their monthly production costs. In an effort to stay in circulation, they’d resorted to pawning out their employees to various telemarketing survey firms, on top of putting the paper together, they had to fill a certain amount of time each day cold-calling subscribers, asking them if they’d like to participate in surveys to get a better idea of say, how satisfied on a scale of one to ten they might be with their cell phone provider, with ten being extremely satisfied and one being extremely dissatisfied.

Halifax didn’t know, he just saw the caller ID and got spooked at the idea of having to explain himself to a reporter. This was exactly the type of bad press that, if you let it snowball, could ruin a superintendent’s career. And so he pushed some numbers around and poof, South was magically solvent for another year, jazz chorus, handball team, crochet club and all.

Which made this morning’s email even harder for Principal Hyde to swallow. Could this have been a mistake? Were they really getting shut down again? How would he go about rallying the faculty two years in a row? He couldn’t imagine the student body willing to give up another semester of weekends to bake sales and carwashes. And how likely was it that the national press would jump on the story again? Hyde got tired of holding the phone in his hand, and so he transferred his call to line three, out to Margaret’s desk. He heard her phone make its chirping sound and he jumped out from behind his desk to pop his head though the door.

“Hey Margaret,” he tried to say it apologetically, but not like he was groveling. He was going for sorry yet still in command which, again, the two intended messages mixed in a way that produced a third unwanted nonverbal cue, one not readily apparent. Margaret was confused, was Principal Hyde hungry? “Listen,” his voice sounded strained, “I’m on hold with Superintendent Halifax on line three. Will you let me know when they pick up?”

And Margaret said, “Yeah, sure,” picking up the receiver, pressing the buttons that accepted the transferred call, but as soon as Hyde disappeared back into his office, she put it on hold. What did he expect her to do, sit there and listen to that synthesized hold music all day? Even if Hyde were a little nicer to her, even if he hadn’t slammed his hands down when she went to offer him a cup of coffee, she wasn’t about to sit there on hold. She went to college. And she was supposed to sit there with an old-fashioned corded phone to her ear? No way, she thought to herself while trying to ignore the blinking green hold light, waiting for the other end to eventually hang up. Only, Ryan was on the other end also waiting for Margaret to hang up, both calls in an administrative state of perpetual hold. This was actually a somewhat defined phenomena, unique to the complexities of intra-office transfers and holds, the rudimentary telephone operating systems made mostly irrelevant by the advances of the Internet, yet unfortunately still firmly and deeply embedded in the day-to-day operations of county administration. Double-holds like this have a way of accumulating, weighing down the whole system. Margaret’s line three and Ryan’s line two might be out of commission for hours now, neither one of them ever willing to take action on their respective blinking green lights. And it wasn’t entirely inconceivable for this process to be repeated two or even three times over the course of a single day. There hadn’t been any extensive studies done to monitor double-hold line usage, but when the third-party firm that takes care of the phones stopped by last month, lines six through eight appeared to have been in constant use for weeks, which not only drastically limited the availability of school administrators via phone, but also took its toll on monthly utility expenses as all of those minutes bogged down the phone bill, another red line on a list of red lines, an Excel spreadsheet opened on too many school computers at the same time, each copy of the budget just slightly out of synch with the next, all of them affecting the master list, the one that glowed its shades of Microsoft green and white and yellow, the colors reflecting onto Principal Hyde’s face as he stared at the boxy computer monitor at the end of that enormous desk, he wished it could be moved a little closer, but the IT crew had a lot of trouble drilling holes for the power cables through all of those hidden desk drawers, and so just to be able to make out the text on the screen inconveniently positioned a full three feet away from his face, he had to go to the display settings, to zoom in on all of the words, which worked, but it made everything too big to fit in those tiny Excel cells, and what did it matter? All of these numbers were awful. How did they balance everything last year? They’d never be able to pull it off two years in a row. Hyde stared at the screen for too long, as if he were waiting for the answer to pop out, like one of those graphics that you’re supposed to stare at until the hidden image reveals itself, his hands had made his way to his head again, the entire front of his body once more supported by his elbows on the edge of his desk, eventually there was black, the screensaver kicked in, scrolling photos of last year’s celebration assembly, “We did it!” that big hand-painted banner strung across the stage in the auditorium, “Thanks Principal Hyde!” two students held up a sign that appeared to have been made out of markers and construction paper just minutes before the assembly. “We did it!” he could still hear that speech in his head, “We saved the school!”

“Principal Hyde,” Margaret was in the doorway again.

Hyde let his hands drop, but only an inch or two before he caught himself, this time very consciously placing his arms in front of him.

“Yes Margaret?”

“We’ve got a new student here. He needs a schedule and a homeroom and everything. I think Counselor Graham might have taken the day off.”

“Did he call in?”

“Well, I thought I saw him this morning, but he’s not answering his line, and I sent Peter down to his office like half an hour ago …”


“He’s one of the seniors that volunteered to take Hassan around all day, show him where his classes are, you know, sit down with him at lunch.”

“Peter …” Principal Hyde trailed off. When he was promoted at the beginning of last year from social studies teacher to principal, he made a promise to himself to have some sort of a connection with each of the school’s students. The overwhelming responsibilities of his new role quickly made that promise a little unrealistic, and so he amended his promise to at least be able to put a face to a name. But with a student population of over five hundred, even that less committed promise proved tougher than he had imagined. Still, he prided himself on his ability to even want to make that connection with his students. Because come on, how many principals truly wanted even that?

“Ah yes, Peter,” Hyde nodded his head. After going through a mental list of faces and names, he thought he had a rough idea of who this Peter was, and so he said it confidently enough, “Yes,” which, though he said it as much for his own benefit as to Margaret’s, to really try to embody this image of his personal connection with everyone at South, it was an unnecessary gesture, because Margaret hadn’t sent anybody to check on Counselor Graham. The two of them had gone out for drinks after work yesterday, and whereas Margaret was fortunate enough on that particular evening to know when to call it quits, Graham was still going strong at the bar when she made her exit sometime around one or two.

“Well when you see Peter again,” Principal Hyde was still stuck on this Peter business, and Margaret had to refrain from laughing, because there had to have been at least twelve Peters currently enrolled, “tell him that Principal Hyde says he appreciates, that I appreciate … tell him I say thanks, for being such a good kid. A great role model.”

“Will do.”

Principal Hyde slowly turned back toward his computer, his left hand making its way back to his head, his right hand jostling the mouse to break the creeping flow of screensaver photos, casting his face back in that harsh late-1990s old monitor spreadsheet glow. But Margaret was still standing there.

“So what about Hassan?”

Thud, Hyde’s hand fell down to the desk, Margaret jumped back just like she did earlier.

“Wait, I’m sorry,” Hyde called out before she had a chance to run away again. “It’s this desk. It’s so loud, I’m not angry. I’m sorry. Send Hassan in.”

And that seemed to work, Margaret didn’t look any more upset than she already was. She turned around and called out, “Hassan, come here.”

This lanky kid walked in. He was wearing a patterned button-down, the fabric ballooning off of his wire-thin frame. Hyde tried to size him up without making it look like he was giving him the once over, but it’s hard to ignore those snap judgments. Hassan looked hungry, which could have just been his age, he could have been one of those kids who went from short to tall almost overnight, and it would take his body another three or four years to fill out. Or it could have been some sort of domestic situation. Hyde made a mental note to make a more formal note later to make sure Hassan had something to eat for lunch.

“Hassan!” Hyde greeted him as if he’d been waiting for this moment for months. “Please, sit down. Welcome to South! Margaret, can you pass me Hassan’s files?”

Hassan didn’t bother taking his backpack off, so when he sat down in one of the chairs opposite the big desk, it gave off the impression that he didn’t want to be there, or maybe that was another snap judgment, maybe he was just awkward. He looked like an awkward guy.

“I don’t have his files. They should be with Counselor Graham. But, I think he’s uh …” she let that end of that sentence float, stopping herself from saying anything contradictory.

“That’s fine, no problem!” Hyde still had his over-the-top smile on his face, trying to make eye contact with Hassan, who was sitting there staring into his lap. Hassan, Hassan, Hassan, he kept repeating Hassan’s name in his head. Hyde wouldn’t forget this name, no way. “I’m sure I can pull up your files here. Let’s see …”

And Hyde minimized that spreadsheet, clicking over to one of the shared servers accessible to anybody with district-wide administrative clearance. There were so many folders, all of them with misleading names. For example, he knew that you couldn’t access the secretary schedules by clicking on the staff folder, you had to first go through the district folder, and then into a support subfolder. Hyde thought it would have been easy enough to find something about new students, but the transfers folder only contained a series of outdated activities spreadsheets.

Outside, the bell rang signaling the start of first period classes. Hyde wasn’t getting any further to figuring out where Hassan was supposed to be going.

“Come with me, Hassan,” Hyde startled himself as he half-consciously stood up behind his desk and walked toward the door. Hassan, Hassan, Hassan.

The principal walked out of his office with Hassan right behind, through the administrative bullpen, past the small waiting room with the wooden bench against the wall, and out into the hallway. With no particular direction in mind, Hyde started passing classrooms, one after the other, classes all clearly in session. Although he didn’t have a plan, Hyde had hoped that something would have come to him by now, maybe one of the classroom doors would have been open, he could have made eye contact with a teacher who would have then come to the door to see what was going on.

But there was nothing, no plan, not for Hassan, not for the school, and what did it even matter anyway? They passed the last classroom but kept walking toward the end of the hallway. There was a big window at the end and a small door to the right. Hyde tried his best to carry himself with the dignified authority that every principal should embody, but there was very little hiding the fact he didn’t know where he was taking Hassan. Still, he couldn’t admit defeat quite yet, and so he turned toward that small door, the one labeled, “Basement Access: Authorized Personal Only,” and pushed it open.

“It’s a shortcut,” he told Hassan with an over-the-top grin, one meant to reassure the new student, but he couldn’t help but restricting his feelings of panic, that he didn’t know what he was doing, and so the smile looked downright sinister. And sure, by this point Hassan had suspected that something was up. But what was he going to do? This was the principal.

The two descended downstairs, the cinderblock walls steadily overtaken by rows and rows of pipes and thick cables. Principal Hyde hadn’t been down here since ex-Principal Pilkensen handed over his keys last year and gave him a tour of the grounds. Hyde remembered the basement looking a lot less basement-like back then. Everything just seemed cleaner or neater. Not like this, there were cobwebs everywhere, puddles of stagnant water. He started thinking whether or not there might be any vermin living down here, and for a minute he became so fixated on the idea of a rat running right in front of him that when a rat actually did cut across their path, he immediately chalked it up as figment of his hyperactive imagination.

“Do you have an iPhone Hassan?” Principal Hyde said.

“Uh … yeah.”

“Can … can I see it for a second? I left mine in my office.”

Hassan handed over his phone and Hyde turned on the flashlight. The progression of light bulbs covered in their wire cages was getting less frequent, and Hyde was getting overwhelmed by the sudden irrational thought that eventually they’d get to a point where there wouldn’t be any lights at all. He thought the flashlight would help him maintain his bearings, but the beam of light was shaking in his hand, mocking his inability to keep his shit together. And now that there was a little more light, he could see the dark corners in between light bulbs, there were beer cans strewn about the floor, even more cobwebs, and someone had written “Halfstrung sucks” in black marker behind some sort of fuse box-looking metal encasement. Why was it so gross down here? Wasn’t the custodial team supposed to keep an eye on things? Was Hyde supposed to come down here regularly?

Hyde’s hands were shaking pretty steadily, but as they reached the end of the basement corridor, he could feel his limbs overcome by an all-out set of tremors.

“Just keep it together,” he clenched his fists and whispered to himself, but Hassan was right behind him. He heard the principal muttering, the lack of self-control was obvious. Hassan reached into his pocket and grabbed onto a cube he always he carried around with him. It was ice cold to the touch, and he focused all of his awareness on the sensations of his hand, ignoring this man holding his cell phone, his grip on reality clearly slipping away.

Hyde was deteriorating, totally out of options, the quivering of his arms spreading to his chest, to his lungs, he couldn’t breathe anymore, not really, not all the way, and as he struggled to get some air in this dank basement, his knees gave way, not toally, but he was definitely bending down now, his back sliding against the wall, his arms wrapping around his knees in a sort of semi-standing fetal position.

This was it, he thought, I’m going to die down here. But like most panic attacks, as soon as Hyde got to the point where he thought his life was over, his breathing started to increase. Just a little bit, almost imperceptibly his lungs started incrementally taking in more air. After that some semblance of control began to return to his limbs, and finally a cool sweat broke across his skin all at once.

He stood up and pointed the flashlight to his left. It looked like there was a hallway, but there were too many pipes in the way for an adult to fit through. On the other side there was a giant piece of circular machinery, like a boiler or an industrial hot water tank. It was so big that it barely fit into the crevice carved out of the cinderblock. Hyde wondered how they ever got it down here in the first place. Was it installed first, before they laid the foundation? Hyde reached his flashlight to get a better look at the other side, and there was definitely another door.

“Come along Hassan,” Hyde had regained most of his pre-freak-out composure. “Sorry for the detour, but it’s not too much further ahead.

Hyde had to suck in his stomach as he shimmied his body sideways past the round piece of metal equipment. It was a little tight, but not tight enough that there was any risk of him getting stuck. He made it to the other side and held out his hand to Hassan.

“Here, give me your backpack and follow me in, just like I did.”

Hassan took his hand out of his pocket and did as he was told, taking a deep breath in and sidling up against the wall, although, he was so thin that it wasn’t really necessary to try and flatten himself out any more.

Both of them safely across, Hyde aimed Hassan’s cell phone flashlight toward the door. Unlike the heavy metal doors throughout the rest of the school, with push bars and vertical strips of window, this door was wooden and clearly rotted, no locks, not even a doorknob, just a nail attached to the wall attached to another nail bent into a hook fastening it somewhat shut. A piece of masking tape stuck up at the top said, “sewer access conduit Y” handwritten in black marker.

Hyde tried to undo the latch, but the piece attached to the nail splintered off and the door swung open wide. Right away they were met with the sound of rushing water. Hyde felt his panic starting to bubble up again just below the surface, and in an effort to maintain some appearance of control, he forged ahead, walking the three or four concrete steps down what he assumed had to have been the sewer that the piece of masking tape told him it was.

“So Hassan, you play any sports?” Hyde tried to make small talk as he grabbed a piece of rebar jutting from the ceiling, swinging his body across a stream of running sewage, landing his left leg on a thin cement platform. He took a good look at where they were. It was a tunnel. The walls were made of brick, rising about seven or eight feet on either side ending in a dome up above. The passage was only wide enough for them to travel single file, and they could only position their feet on the concrete steps at either side. Underneath their feet ran the sewage in a thin canal. Intermittent pieces of rebar jut out from the ceiling, like handles to help them shimmy their way through the darkness. “Because we have a great basketball program here,” he continued. “You play any basketball?”

“Yeah, I like basketball,” Hassan replied, shifting his backpack around so the bag was now on his front instead of weighing him down from behind. He grabbed a piece of rebar and followed Hyde, now a good ten or fifteen feet in front of him.

“Did you play on the team back at … where are you transferring from again?” Hyde called back, but he was moving fast now, more interested in getting out before being overwhelmed by another bout of anxiety.

“I’m from out of state. My dad just died a few months ago, and so my mom and me, we moved here to be closer to one of her aunts.”

Hyde was in his own world now. “Well then I think you’ll fit in pretty well here. We have varsity, junior varsity squads, or if you’re not interested in playing too competitively, we do intramurals, I think they’re on Tuesdays, Tuesdays or Thursdays, I don’t know if you have to sign up or if you just show up at the gym.”

Hyde went on about basketball for another ten minutes or so, Hassan struggling to keep up, until they came to another brick wall with a metal ladder sort of built in. Hyde let out a relieved laugh when he saw that they’d actually found what looked like a way out, and much quicker than he was fearing, too. In his head he had been fantasizing about the two of them lost underground for days.

“Right this way, this is us!” Hyde called down from the top of the ladder. He had dropped Hassan’s phone at the bottom and was pushing with all of his strength at the iron sewer cover at the top. Hassan picked up his phone and put it away as a sliver of light broke the darkness.

Hyde’s head emerged in the middle of West Street, just as a car was passing overhead. He ducked down and waited a minute, and when he tried again, he raised his hand up first, as if to stop anymore moving vehicles that might have been on the road. But it was all clear. Hyde pushed himself to the top and, once safely aboveground, reached down to pull Hassan up with him.

Exhausted, covered in gross sewer dirt and drenched in sweat, Hyde limped to the side of West Street and sat down. Hassan kind of just stood by his side, putting his hand back in his pocket, waiting for the principal to make a move.

“Hassan,” Hyde said, shifting suddenly from hollow victory to overwhelming defeat, “it doesn’t matter. You picked a wrong time to transfer to South. We’re getting shut down. Probably by the end of the month, but maybe sooner, maybe in a week or two. I’m sorry about making you walk through the sewer.”

Hyde got to his feet expecting something out of Hassan, a reaction, maybe some anger or at least visible frustration. But Hassan didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He just stood there with his backpack.

“Hassan,” Hyde said, “you’ve got to do me a favor. You can’t tell anybody about this, OK? Not the teachers, none of the students. I’m going to figure this out, all right? Hassan, we’re going to figure this out, you and me!”

“OK,” Hassan said. And then Hyde started walking back toward the school, only like two blocks from where they were, they just had to make a left over at Hamilton … or no, they had to stay on West street for three more blocks, and then a left at Sioux, and then the school was right there, just ahead, just right around the next corner.

We need to stop Ebola before it evolves

I’m telling you right now, if Ebola figures out how to go airborne, we’re all in a lot of trouble. It’s bad enough that we have hospital workers in protective clothing getting infected. Can you imagine how much worse it’s going to be if this virus learns how to fly? And we’ll all have to wear those surgical masks, and nobody’s going to want to ride the bus or take the subway. If Ebola takes to the skies – and you can quote me on this, because I’ve been saying it all along – shit’s going to get real.

We’ve just got to pray that it never figures out how to drive, because if Ebola gets behind the wheel, there’s no telling the extent of the carnage we’d see on the road. While doctors and CDC officials are working around the clock trying to get inside Ebola’s head, our police forces and highway patrols remain wildly unprepared for an Ebola capable of going from zero to sixty on a full tank of gas. What happens when Ebola gets pulled over? You’re going to make it take a breathalyzer? What about when the next person uses that breathalyzer? We’re looking at even more Ebola. This is how it all starts.

And if Ebola learns how to talk, the threat is going to be ratcheted up even higher. Because a flying or driving Ebola is one thing. But a flying, driving Ebola that also knows verbal communication? I mean, we don’t know exactly what it would talk about, but it’s only safe to assume the worst, that it would start lying to us, telling us that it’s not that dangerous, that we don’t really have anything to worry about. And maybe we’d buy into it. “Let’s try to reason with Ebola!” some especially gullible officials might argue. “Maybe we can teach it to work for us!”

A working Ebola, one that knows the ins and outs of the business world? That’s almost too deadly to think about. Oh yeah, everything would start out OK, small mom-and-pop Ebola shops, promising a better future for the local economy. But when Ebola gets big, how are you going to keep it away from offshore tax havens? What’s going to stop Ebola from lobbying its way into our government? And when Ebola assures us that it’s only working on our behalf, what do you think it’s telling the Chinese? Are we prepared to keep Ebola out of the Middle East?

No, Ebola is only looking out for one thing: Ebola. Which is why it’s imperative that we make sure Ebola never learns how to sing. Talk about getting a song stuck in your head, if Ebola figures out how to start churning out hit pop songs, it has the potential to infect the entire country overnight. Especially if it’s one of those songs that gain popularity on the Internet before making it to radio stations, we’ll all be wiped out if the virus goes viral. Oh but I forgot, you don’t listen to pop music, so you’ll be fine, right? Wrong. You stand in line at CVS, you work out in the gym, if Ebola climbs the charts to the top-forty playlists, there’s really no avoiding infection.

Ebola’s no joke. It’s already here, and it’s spreading. It’s eventually going to mutate, and there’s no limit to the skills and abilities it could gain via natural selection. Ebola might learn how to write. I could be Ebola writing to you right now, trying to get you really afraid, leading you exactly where I want you to go, and then right when you think you’re safe, that’s when I’ll strike. But if I really were Ebola, why would I tell you that I might be Ebola? Maybe Ebola’s developed really strong mental faculties, maybe its plan for us is so complex that we’ll never be able to deduce its true intentions.

The point is, don’t trust anyone. Ebola has changed everything. You never know where it’s going to attack next. Like last weekend I had some friends over, and my buddy Jeff offered to help me clean up after everyone left. Jeff never helps out. Could that have been Ebola at work? Might Ebola have learned how to ingratiate its friends through acts of kindness? Probably not. But maybe. It’s safer to assume the worst, to cut off all contact with Jeff, with anybody that came to the party. Just burn everything and move. And remember: if it looks like Ebola, and smells like Ebola, you probably already have Ebola, because you should never be so close to Ebola that you’re able to identify it by sight or smell.

Originally published at Thought Catalog.