the egg was airborne

Posted on September 18, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Seventy-One

Gil was under attack. He dodged a plastic missile and huddled under a small bush a few feet from the house. A large, old man, older than his father by a lot, was laughing. His laugh echoed, like it started down deep in the earth, and bulged and grew and it clawed its way to the top where it became fearsome and overpowering. It made Gil’s insides shake even though it was the first day of spring and pretty warm out.

The man threw empty plastic water bottles at him: Perrier, Deer Park, Evian, Crystal Springs. The small bottles bounced off, harmless. He only ducked when the man launched the larger one-gallon bottles. He looked around for an escape route and his eyes landed on the small plane parked next to the house. Kori would be pissed that he forgot to park it in the garage again, and more, that he was going to drive it without a license, but so what? He invented it. It wasn’t a conventional plane, but looked more like a giant egg laid on its side. Little claw-like chicken’s feet descended from the main compartment and kept the body steady when the plane was grounded. The wings retracted into the body. Inside the egg were two seats, a cushion on the floor for Max, and a control panel. Avery wanted to sell these planes some day, for a fraction of the cost of a Hummer.

Gil pulled a gas pump hose from an outlet below the kitchen window and crawled on his belly over to the egg, kicking plastic bottles as he went. He lifted the hatch and inserted the nozzle into the egg’s fuel tank, dodging several bottles thrown in rapid succession. The hose connected to a small TDU in the basement and was fed by the garbage disposal and the trash bin, a complete in situ unit. After a few minutes, the filling stalled and the hose went limp in Gil’s hand. He shook it, but nothing happened. He crawled back over and kicked the wall of the house like a man kicking the tires of the car. “Oowww,” he yelled, but the mini TDU failed to restart. “Dammit,” he said, then covered his mouth and looked around to see if his sister was within hearing distance.

The large man started laughing again. Gil panicked and dropped the hose. He was crawling toward the egg when he heard Max at the kitchen door, barking like a crazy dog, so he crawled back to the house and let him out. Together they ran and jumped into the egg. Gil started the engine and the little chicken legs took off running at a fast clip. The wings fanned, the thrusters thrusted and the egg was airborne, the chicken legs still running, but with no ground beneath them. When he retracted the legs, the egg shot straight up into the air. The large man bellowed, something between a laugh and a moan, and Gil accelerated. He turned around to see the man remove his Armani suit jacket, fold it neatly over his arm, and bend down to turn on an automatic ball toss machine.

“Where the heck did that come from?” Gil yelled to Max who raised his head to investigate. The machine began firing the empty plastic water bottles, pelting the egg mercilessly. Singularly, the bottles posed no harm, but collectively the force resulted in an erratic trajectory, throwing them off course while jolt after jolt caused the egg first to zig and then to zag. The large man laughed like a maniac, sending shock waves that caused the egg to tumble with each successive and inexorable guffaw.

“Hold on!” Gil yelled to Max who crouched down at Gil’s feet, his paws over his eyes. Gil steered a hard right to avoid a fresh onslaught of plastic and came close enough to see the man’s large mouth. And like the Cheshire cat, as the man’s the smile grew larger, his face shrank away until all that remained were his hideous radiating teeth, each half the size of the egg. The man threw a switch, converting the machine to fast pitch and Gil was bombarded. The egg began to plummet. A bottle cracked the window. A hole emerged and grew. Air leaked out of the cabin. Gil flicked at the overhead switches.

“We’re losing pressure,” he screamed. He pushed a button and air masks dropped from the ceiling. He covered Max’s large snout with one and was attempting to put his own mask on when the egg took another hit and rolled over on itself. The mask flew out of Gil’s hand and he lost control. He began coughing, choking for air. . .

Gil’s eyes flew open and he coughed for a full minute before regaining his breath. Images of eggs and plastic swirled in the world behind his eyelids and he was cold and sweaty. He burrowed a hand under Max’s furriness and lay his head on the dog’s massive neck. Max yawned and put his head on the bed pillow. Gil closed his eyes, but the images still danced behind the lids, so he forced himself awake and sat up in bed. He yawned. His stomach growled rudely, and the noise threw his feet over the side of the bed. He put his slippers on and went downstairs to breakfast.

to be continued . . .

start reading here and work backwards

tidal pool wisdom

Posted on September 8, 2013 by Cynthia G.

we have big hearts and big ideas and big blushes.

read all about our adventures here.

safety of the marshes

Posted on July 13, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Nine

After a breakfast of rice with buttermilk, chicken soup, flat bread and strong, bitter coffee, Robbie and Amara boarded Sayyid’s flat boat and with Sayyid at the helm, set out on a journey to look at the recently refreshed marsh towns. Sayyid poled the boat through the water, skimming past huge clumps of papyrus and cattails.

Robbie watched the scenery change, enchanted by his surroundings. The fear that had sat in the pit of his stomach during their midnight exodus from Baghdad and which caused the bile to rise to his throat with every human encounter had hung an “out to lunch” sign on his esophagus, but given that the sun had barely crept above the giant forests of reeds, an “out to breakfast” sign would have been more apropos.

Robbie had cloaked himself in the customary robe and turban of the Iraqis and upon Amara’s urging, had remained silent the entire trip. Amara told the various drivers that she was taking her mute brother to Al Huwayr, a boat building town near the junction of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers where they intended to buy a mashuf and return to Zayad, their recently reflooded ancestral home. Already, Amara said, their uncle and aunt and three children had returned. The ruse had worked and here among the bulrushes and papyrus, Robbie rubbed elbows with the ghosts of the last five millennium along with a way of life he hoped wasn’t dead, but merely on life support, and like the reflooded marsh town of Zayad, could be resurrected and helped to thrive again.

“These are the biggest reeds I’ve ever seen,” Robbie said.

“It is called qasab. It is a phragmites, like you see at your American bays. But these plants have been allowed to grow undisturbed, and without pollution,” Amara said. “They can grow as large as twenty-five feet. We use them for many things, our mashufs, our huts. Too, we build our mudhifs from them. These are large building where many people can gather. Like your community center.”

“This portion of the Al Hawizeh marsh is all that’s really left of twenty thousand square kilometers of fresh water marshes,” Sayyid said. “You know this measurement? It is the maybe seven hundred miles. My people lived here for centuries,” Sayyid said. “We believed we were comfortable. We believed we were safe.”

“Here they raise cow and oxen and water buffalo and spend much time in prayer,” Amara said.

“Water buffalo?” Robbie said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real one.”

“The water buffalo are very important to our way of life,” said Sayyid. “Early each morning the young boys take them to the feeding grounds. They do not return until the evening. All day they spend with the water buffalo.”

Amara laughed. “My grandfather told me a story that once he was up all night with a sick buffalo. He covered it with a blanket and nursed it back to health with a bottle and songs.”

“He sang to a buffalo?” Robbie asked.

“Yes. It is not uncommon. The Ma’adan depend greatly on the buffalo for their existence. He gives milk, among a great many other things and they thank God for this by treating the animals like family. It is not like America.”

“How do Americans treat their buffalo?” Sayyid asked

“I won’t tell you what happened to our buffalo,” Robbie said. “But I guess the modern-day equivalent would be the cow. We have two kinds, dairy and meat. The dairy cows have a cushy life compared to the meat cows, but nobody sings to them. At least not that I know of. Although I did hear once about a farmer who played music to his watermelons.”

Sayyid laughed, then grew quiet as he poled the boat through the water. “These marshes are all that is left. The Al Hammar and Central marshes are gone. Vanished. Like my people who inhabited them.”

“They will come back, Uncle. When the water returns, they will come back.”

“If God shall be willing,” Sayyid said. “You know this group? Assisting Marsh Arab Refugees? The AMAR Foundation they call themselves.”

“Yes. And I have read about another group,” Amara said, “called Eden Again. The head of this group is an American, born in Iraq. They seek to return the water, to bring back the fish to the marshes. It is this group we come to work with. To offer our assistance,” Amara turned to Robbie and squeezed his hand, “at great personal risk.”

“How do you plan to help?” Sayyid asked. “No doubt you will use your schooling that was so important to my brother.”

“Yes, uncle. I am sure they will need another biologist. And Robbie knows something about…” she turned to him for assistance.

“Environmental science. Back home I’m working on a degree,” Robbie said. “For the first time I have a good reason for it.”

“Uncle, may I?” Amara reached for the pole and Sayyid relinquished it with a smile, exchanging places with Amara in the boat.

“I know who you wish to find. Tomorrow I will take you to them. But today, we tour Al Hawizeh. It will be something for you to see,” Sayyid said, turning to Robbie. “This place is like nowhere else in the world. What Saddam has done is a crime against God and nature. He seeks to destroy the Ma’adan by destroying their way of life. But my people have inhabited these waters since the beginning. This is the Cradle of Civilization where the world began. Saddam thought to make history. And what has he done?” Sayyid spread his hands wide to emphasis his point.

“Not just genocide, but ecocide, uncle,” Amara said.

“Yes.” Sayyid turned to Robbie. “History will not be kind to him. But you have caught him. Now there is hope.” Sayyid returned his hands to his lap and gazed out over the water. “I am not a naive man. I do not dream that it all will be returned.” Sayyid gazed after the reeds and bulrushes as the boat glided past. Robbie noted the comely, proud profile.

“Do you find it strange that they should take your name?” Sayyid asked Amara.

“Who, Uncle?”

The AMAR Foundation. Do you find it strange?” The marsh narrowed and Amara directed the boat toward a dense forest of reeds. “They say a man’s name predicts his future.” Sayyid raised his eyebrows in speculation. “Perhaps this is your destiny, Amara. To save your ancestors. To restore their lands.” Sayyid stood and took the pole.

“I can do it,” Amara said, but he motioned for her to sit down so she did.

“So much like my brother,” he mused. Amara smiled, trailing her fingers in the water.

The flap of wings, the sounds of fish surfacing and retreating, the smell of dense, wet vegetation, and a million hues of green, fanning out across the landscape all formed a backdrop to the peace rising up in Robbie’s soul. He felt the adrenaline and terror ebbing away with each rhythmic pull of Sayyid’s pole and that, coupled with a full belly, conspired to put him in a state of calm, the likes of which he had not experienced since he came to Iraq. A turtle jumped off the marsh and into the water. Amara pointed and turned to see if Robbie had noticed it, but like the baby Moses adrift in a bed of papyrus, Robbie now lay hidden and in the safety of the marshes, he slept.

to be continued. . .

read what came before here

the first attempt

Posted on July 6, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Some saw it coming, although they couldn’t have predicted its speed. Both Syria and Turkey, and to a lesser extent Iraq, began dam building projects in the 1950’s diverting the Marsh Arabs water for their own agricultural projects. Their water, along with a five-thousand-year old way of life, had begun drying up. It would have happened eventually, but Saddam Hussein helped it come like lightening.

For five thousand years, the Marsh Arabs were a self-governing people, managing to fly below the radar, breaching their own dams and flooding their homes, retreating to the marshes when the many conquering armies came through the region. But in 1980, following the revolution in Iran, many of the Shiite leaders sought refuge in the marshes. And the Marsh Arabs, themselves Shiites, took in and hid these refugees. Afraid that a similar revolution would sprout among the Shiite population in Iraq, Saddam started a systematic campaign of arrests and executions removing the male heads of families and forcing the expulsion into Iran of the women and children left behind. That was his first attempt. The second was in 1991 and it was clearly more insidious, aimed not just at dismantling their families, but the way of life of an entire region.

At one time there were as many as five hundred thousand Marsh Arabs living in the marshes, today less than forty thousand. Commissioning four drainage canals, several dams and a third “river” he called “The Mother of All Canals,” Saddam redirected quadrillions of gallons of water that fed the marshes, dumping them uselessly into the Persian Gulf. He claimed that the redirected water was to be used for agricultural purposes, but not a single project was initiated as a result.

It was really a campaign of genocide against the Marsh Arabs for their part in the 1991 Shiite uprising, a three-week insurrection prompted by the Americans and the British following Desert Storm. The Shiite Muslims answered the American call, but when Saddam turned on them, so did the Americans. They were left stranded in the desert, and without their water which was being diverted to the Persian Gulf, they had no place to hide. Many were imprisoned, many others assassinated, and still others packed off to refugee camps in Iran where they still live today.

to be continued. . .

read more here

copyright 2013

a way out

Posted on June 24, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Robbie and Amara lay on a tightly woven reed mat beneath an open window, the spare light of the crescent moon casting the faintest of shadows. His arm rested protectively on her belly. The thin blanket that had covered them lay crumpled on the floor, thrown off in the dead of night and heat. A cool, light breeze blew off the water through the open window, washing over their sleeping bodies in an undulating rhythm that kept time with the passing centuries. Waves lapped against the quonset hut’s foundation.

Robbie drew a deep, choking breath as one coming up for air after too long underwater. He coughed and it woke him. He bolted upright in bed and Amara woke, too.

“What is it?” Amara put a hand on his back and felt through the well-toned muscle and bone the panic that lay buried inside. “Your heart is beating very fast.”

Robbie took several breaths in rapid succession then pulled her to him.

“You’re cold,” Robbie said.

“So are you.” Amara grabbed the blanket and pulled it up over them. Robbie relaxed and they both lay down on the reed mat again. A rustle just below the hut refocused Robbie’s attention and he was out of bed in an instant.

“It’s only a mouse,” Amara said.

“We’re surrounded by water.”

“Not everywhere is water. Much is just mud. The water is high now because of the spring rains.”

“Well, how will he get out?”

“There’s always a way out,” Amara said. “Besides, mice are excellent swimmers. Please.” She held the blanket up, an invitation for him to join her.

Robbie lay down next to her. “Sorry. Just a little jumpy.”

“It is because no one has been here for so long. You do not see this well because we come in the middle of the night. I’m sure it is very dirty in here.”

“I thought you said it was a little fishing hut.”

“Yes. It belonged to my grandfather’s father. Of course, when he left he had no more use for it, but my uncles still came here.” Amara’s voice stumbled. “Now there is no one to use it.” Robbie hugged her closed and smoothed her hair.

She nestled in. “Tell me about your dream.”

“I dreamt that American troops were driving their jeeps through the marshes. They were coming from Baghdad on their way to Basra and the most direct route was straight through the middle. The jeeps had these pontoons on them that kept them afloat when the water got deep. There was a place in the water where it rose about six inches like it was going over something massive below. The lead jeep got stuck on it. It turned out to be a remnant of one of Saddam’s dams. Everyone had to get out and figure another way across. They unloaded their mashufs and troops started fanning out across the marshes in their canoes. I was watching from the reeds. Somebody came up behind me and grabbed me by the throat. I started choking. That”s when I woke up.” Robbie rubbed Amara’s arm and gazed into her penetrating eyes.

Amara placed her hand over his heart. “You are safe now. They will not find you until you are ready to be found.”

Robbie kissed the top of her head. She kissed his lips.

“Dawn will soon come,” Amara said. “Let us sleep until it does.”

“Then you can show me where we are.”

➣➣➣

At dawn, Robbie and Amara climbed into the mashuf they had borrowed from her uncle, a boat builder whose shop sat at the tip of what remained of the Al Hariz marsh. A mullet, small and bony by any standard, rose to the surface in search of breakfast. Robbie jumped at the splash that signaled its return to safe water.

“It is just a fish,” Amara said, handing Robbie a paddle. “And a small one at that. They are returning now that the dam has been destroyed.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, about the dam.” Robbie started to paddle in time with Amara.

“Yes, it is very good. But it is not enough. The Minister of Irrigation estimates that when the dam was breached over one hundred and fifty quadrillion gallons of water flooded back into the channels. This was only enough to return the water to the two closest villages. At one time, there were hundreds of these villages. At this rate it will take a thousand years.”

“Well, can’t they just open another dam?”

“They have opened all the dams. The water is no longer here.”

“Where is it?”

“Still in Syria, and Turkey, being diverted for many types of projects. Agricultural, hydroelectric. Who knows what else? Saddam gave them this water. He stole it from his own people.”

“We’ll get it back.”

“It is much more complicated than that. Here people fight over the right to use the water. It is not so in your country. But still you see the beginnings of it in your American west. I think that one day, people in America will fight over water just as we do.”

The marshes were silent but for the lapping of the water on the shore and the slight rustle of the bulrushes. A fog had settled over the marshes and Robbie wiped at the drops of water that collected on his face. A bullfrog croaked. Robbie jumped, then relaxed.

Amara smiled and turned briefly to look at him. “You never fully get used to the noises that the marshes make. To live here is to constantly be on alert. So my grandfather has told me.”

They rowed together in silence until Amara directed the mashuf through vegetation so dense and intertwined that Robbie felt they were inside a tunnel. When they emerged on the other side, the first rays of the day had filtered through the reeds, creating a mosaic pattern across the surface of the water. A blue heron caught breakfast and retreated to safer ground, flying directly overhead.

“A most beneficent sign,” Amara said, bunching her fingers together and touching them first to her heart, then her lips and finally her forehead. She stopped paddling momentarily and squeezed Robbie’s leg. “There it is. The house of my uncle, Sayyid. We will be safe here.”

➣➣➣

Robbie and Amara docked their boat on the small island where another hut stood.

“Who’s there?” said a voice groggy with sleep. Inside the occupants of the house stirred, the first rustling of the day. Amara tied the canoe and grabbed Robbie’s arm just as Sayyid Sahain appeared in the doorway wearing the conventional robe and turban, but no sandals. In the misty morning light, Amara couldn’t clearly see the face of her uncle, still pressed with sleep, his hastily donned turban slightly askew, but she recognized the proud and encompassing stance of her father, and for a moment she believed he walked among them again. The sound of her uncle’s voice, so like her own father’s, did nothing to lessen her joy.

“Who is there?”

“It is me, uncle. Amara.”

“Amara! Is it you? I had word, but I did not dare hope…. God be praised.” Amara’s uncle scrambled down to the dock and grabbed Amara by both elbows before crushing her to his chest in a warm embrace. “God has blessed me once again,” Sayyid said. He held her at arm’s length. “To look at you is to look again upon my brother’s face.” He wrapped an avuncular arm around her and patted her back before releasing her, then turned to Robbie, a question in his eyes. “And who is it that assures your safe travel?” he asked, sizing Robbie up.

“This is my friend, Robbie, Uncle. He is an American. He wishes to help our people. But first, Uncle, we must assure his safety. He has left his captain without permission.” Sayyid raised his eyebrows in disapproval.

Amara continued. “The Americans believe he is dead. There was a car bombing and…. they did not find him.” Amara bowed her head and clasped her hands together. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I do not mean to bring you trouble.” Sayyid studied Robbie’s face then looked to his niece’s bowed head.

“Amara. You could not bring more trouble than that devil, Saddam, has brought to his own people. Every day I ask God why he has allowed this. But God has turned his face away from us.” He lifted Amara’s chin that she might look him directly in the eyes. “You were always the impetuous one. By the grace of Mohammed, had you been born a boy I believe you would have stopped the devil himself.”

Amara smiled at her uncle and he stroked her cheek.

“Time has taught me many things,” Sayyid continued. “For the memory of your father, but more important, for you, I swear I will keep your friend safe among us until the time he chooses to leave.”

Sayyid turned to Robbie. “Welcome, sahib.” He took Robbie’s hand in one of his and with the other clapped him on the back. “You are safe here.”

“Thank you. . .”

“Call me Uncle as my niece does,” Sayyid said.

“Uncle,” Robbie repeated. Following Amara’s lead, he bowed his head slightly to indicate his respect.

“Come, come,” Sayyid said. “Let us go inside. You will be hungry, yes? We will take a meal together and you will tell me of your plans.”

➣➣➣

Inside Sayyid’s wife, Fawzia, was already grinding coffee. Sayyid made the introductions and Amara embraced her uncle’s new wife before the woman retreated to the hearth to prepare a meal worthy of visitors.

“Fawzia is a good woman,” Sayyid said. He directed them to several cushions scattered around a small round table barely a foot off the floor.

“I am sorry for you, Uncle. For my aunt. We had heard, but were unable to make the trip.”

“Thank you, niece.” Sayyid bowed his head and touched his bunched fingers to his heart, mouth and forehead. “She was a very good woman, dead now these five years.”

“How did she die?” Robbie asked.

“From Saddam’s poison water.”

“Saddam poisoned the water? But why is everything not dead?”

“He is the devil,” Sayyid said.

“I thought it was because of the dams,” Robbie said. “I didn’t know he used poison, too.

“He did not poison it with chemicals, but with ideas,” Sayyid said. “And revenge. Revenge for the part my people played in the Shiite uprising in Iran. We are Shiite Muslims. Saddam is Sunni. So he tries to kill us by taking away our water. When the water is not fresh, it dies.”

“You mean it becomes stagnant?” Robbie asked.

“Yes. Stagnant. This water breeds cholera. We have no cure for this disease.” Sayyid’s voice assumed a distant quality.

“When I see the problem, I take her by tarrada.” Sayyid turned to Robbie. “This is my large canoe, much bigger than my mashuf. It is more than thirty-feet. I have six people paddling while I hold her head in my lap. But it is not enough. By the time I see the doctor, he can do nothing. I am too late.” Sayyid wiped at his eyes as if he had an itch. Robbie looked at Amara who put her hands in her lap and bowed her head.

“Saddam made this. He killed my beloved wife when he stops the water with his dams. With his evilness. If he is not the devil himself then he has made a deal with him. This I know.” Sayyid adjusted his turban and straightened his robe. “My people lived here from the beginning of time. Now they live in refugee camps on the borders in Iran.”

“That’s why we’ve come, uncle,” Amara said.

Fawzia appeared with a tray containing three demitasse cups, sugar, spoons, and an ebriki, a small brass pot with a long handle, used to cook the coffee directly over the stove. Steam wafted from the narrow opening of the pot. Fawzia set the tray down and smiled at Amara and Robbie.

“You are hungry?” She brought her fingers to her lips to indicate eating with one’s hands. “You eat now?”

Amara nodded and smiled. Fawzia squeezed Amara’s hand and left.

“She speaks only a little bit English, my wife,” Sayyid explained to Robbie.

Robbie nodded. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

to be continued. . .

start with this and we how we got here

very far away

Posted on June 17, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Five

Back in Houston, Bicky pulled the article off the fax machine and skimmed it. He huffed and sighed and stared out the bedroom window. He rubbed his head to stave off the headache that seemed inevitable.

“Dammit,” he said to no one in particular. “God dammit.” He dialed Jerry’s number and waited. The phone rang half a dozen times before Jerry picked up.

“I thought I told you to get back east and get those Goddamn kids under control,” Bicky barked into the phone.

“What?”

“The inventor’s kids! Did you check it out? No. You were too busy dicking around here doing God-knows-what.” Bicky was so angry he was sputtering.

“Kitty died. Remember? You know. Kitty. Your wife, of thirty-seven years. I was here for the funeral,” Jerry said.

“Don’t screw with me, Jerry.”

“I’m not screwing with you, Bicky. I’m telling you that some things are more important than others, which is something you haven’t learned in the last sixty years.”

“I didn’t call you for a psych session. I got a shrink for that. I called you about the kids.”

“I sent somebody. He said there was nothin’ going on.”

“Who the hell’d you send?”

“Guy that used to drive for us.”

“What guy?”

“The guy I fired a few months ago. You know. High strung.”

“You are freaking kidding me. You sent someone who didn’t work for us?”

“He was a good guy. And he had first hand knowledge, and if he got caught, he wasn’t one of us,” Jerry said. “Jesus, I’ll go check it out tomorrow.”

“Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” Bicky slammed down the receiver. He ran his hands through his hair and stared out into the darkness.

➣➣➣

Across town, Jerry hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. An open book lay on the bed next to him and the light was still on. He roused himself and walked to the window. The night spread before him in varying shades of black like a Hollywood wardrobe.

“Damn psychotic son-of-a-bitch,” Jerry murmured.

He scanned the sparse room. A book shelf, filled to overflowing, a night stand and lamp, a single chair, behind him the silhouette of leafless trees. “What the hell am I doing?” He closed the curtain, shut the light and crawled back into bed.

➣➣➣

Jerry’s office, located in the basement of Akanabi Oil, was a tech-geek’s delight of an environment, encompassing ten thousand square feet and housing Akanabi’s main frame and various and sundry computer gadgetry. The whir and buzz of computer equipment was so intense that many of the technicians wore earplugs.

At the far end of the room, walled off from the rest of the equipment, was the closed circuitry monitoring station, Jerry’s own personal feifdom. The room had no windows and if not for the door at the far end, would appear to be a wall. Hundreds of cameras graced the offices, hallways, elevators and common areas at Akanabi Oil. Some were in plain view, some were circumspectly installed, all of them were monitored from this room. The cameras were such a ubiquitous part of the decor at Akanabi that after awhile people forgot they were being watched, an important plus from Jerry Dixon’s standpoint. These cameras in the offices of mid-management had originally been installed as a training mechanism. Surreptitious monitoring allowed suggestions as to tact and style that could be made later without embarrassing the manager in front of the customer. These had been “disabled” or so the managers thought, and could be brought back online with a few adjustments prior to a meeting should the manager request it.

The managers didn’t know what Jerry knew. The company’s fascination, it’s complete fixation with safety had morphed into something more sinister. Cameras and listening devices as small as buttons and earplugs graced every office, corridor and waiting area of Akanabi. The registered number of monitoring devices, about 1341, was more likely twice that many. Jerry kept the real list locked in a vault for which only he and Bicky had the combination.

Some days Jerry would come down to this room simply to watch. His voyeuristic desire had grown from his abject loneliness. Had you asked him, point blank, whether he was lonely he would have vehemently denied it, but the signs were there, the fastidiousness, the borderline obsessive compulsive behavior traits, the need to control his environment and to have things “just so”.

Kitty had the ability to curtail in him some of his more destructive tendencies simply by being in the room. Yet in the days since her death, he’d felt a welling up of those emotions and was at a loss as to how to channel the energy. He sat, staring at a computer screen, contemplating this very issue when Bicky burst through the door.

Jerry catapulted from his chair, rolled to the floor, drew his gun, released the safety and pointed it directly at Bicky’s head.

“Are you crazy?” he shouted from a crouching position on the floor.

Bicky said nothing, but jumped on Jerry like a feral cat, punching and clawing at his face. Jerry put up his hands to deflect the onslaught, but not before a right hook caught him in the temple. That was the last contact Bicky made. In moments, Jerry reversed positions and had Bicky pinned with a knee on one elbow, his hand holding down the other, the gun pointed at Bicky’s forehead. Jerry hovered above Bicky, relishing the role reversal. He stepped back so Bicky could stand, but offered no hand to help.

“Was that some kind of test?” Jerry laid the gun aside, but did not turn his back to his boss. Bicky brushed himself off and straightened his suit and tie. He stared at Jerry so ferociously that Jerry’s hand instinctively found his gun. Bicky threw a stack of papers at the ground.

“You’re fired. Collect your stuff. Leave your keys, your combinations, your camera equipment, and all your other stuff with Phyllis. I want you gone by the end of the day. And if I catch you anywhere near here, ever, I’ll rip your balls off with my bare hands.” He stared at Jerry for a few seconds working his jaw as if to get the tension out before speaking again.

“You were like my brother, you little prick.” Bicky spat at the ground, turned on his heel and left.

Jerry stared at the papers on the floor until his vision went soft and he leaned over to pick them up. The top paper was a codicil to the Last Will and Testament of Kitty McCain Coleman. The original will lay underneath. Jerry sat down to read.

The original will gave the portion of Kitty’s estate that she brought with her into the marriage, substantial in its own right, to Sonia. In addition, half the shares of Akanabi left to Kitty by her father-in-law went to Sonia to do with as she pleased. The other half went to The Nature Conservancy with instructions that the stocks be sold and PGWI given the fair market value of them. There were additional provisions on what PGWI should do with the money. Jerry skipped over them and continued, flipping through the document until a specific provision caught his eye. First Bicky, and then Sonia had a guaranteed thirty-day right of first refusal on the PGWI stocks. In this manner, Kitty assured that control of the company stayed within the family should the family still want it. Probably why Bicky agreed to this will in the first place. The mansion, in Kitty’s family for generations, went to Bicky. “Straight forward enough,” Jerry said to himself. He turned to the codicil and what he read made the hair on his arms stand up and his body shudder.

The codicil changed everything. Kitty had left her personal estate — everything that would have gone to Sonia which included a good deal of jewelry and other family heirlooms as well as shares of various stocks and bonds – to Hart. The mansion she left to Bicky. The remainder which consisted solely of Akanabi stock and which should have gone to Sonia and PGWI, now went solely to Jerry with instructions to sell it all and give half the proceeds to PGWI, but only if he was so inclined. Notably absent from the codicil was the provision giving Bicky a thirty-day right of first refusal. The codicil was executed three months after Sonia died. Kitty had never said a word to him.

Jerry looked up from the papers and saw, as if for the first time, the drab, windowless office. Hundreds of images blurred, a thousand sounds merged into an incessant buzzing that seemed bearable only minutes ago, and for the last thirty odd years before that. His eyes followed the bundled cabling, sitting in silence while billions of bytes of information cruised through its wires every hour and he was suddenly very tired. He inhaled deep and full, his first real breath in decades, but his nostrils were met with the dustiness of a room that never saw daylight and he coughed the breath out, his body repelling it like poison. Jerry thought he could see the rejected breath, little dust clouds riding an imaginary wave of sunlight. The stack of papers in his lap looked very far away, like something on the horizon that you knew was there, but couldn’t quite make out. A giant tear drop fell from each eye and landed neatly on the page, spreading slowly, like a virus.

to be continued. . .

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dangerous beasts

Posted on June 12, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Four

He had spent every afternoon of the last two weeks brainstorming with Gil and Avery, reviewing plans, dreaming of possibilities, discussing permutations. Pizza and Chinese take-out had been the dinners of choice for the majority of those nights, but on the evening of the thirteenth day, Avery decided to cook. He made a fabulous dinner of moussaka, spanikopita, and Greek salad. They topped it off with a healthy helping of Aunt Stella’s baklava – Aunt Stella adored Hart – and by the end of the night, it seemed that he and Avery had discovered simultaneously what Gil had known all along: Hart was their man.

Back at the hotel, Hart grabbed a Sam Adams from the small refrigerator and sat down at the elegant desk. He drew a crude sketch of the TDU on the small Sheraton notepad, then did some calculations regarding the square footage needed to house the machine. In order to bring investors to the table, he’d have to sell the complete package, not just the conversion from trash to oil, but on to refined oil and gas. The problem was going to be with the refining.

Refineries were dangerous beasts. To convince investors to ante up for the revolutionary TDU was one thing. There were more than a handful of nouveau riche with not only the collateral, but the common sense to invest in such ground-breaking technology. But would those same people also wish to invest in the construction of an oil refinery to complement the TDU. The reduction in air quality, the potential for spills and explosions, the astronomical construction costs, and the staggering cost of liability insurance were all good reasons not to build a new facility. The last new refinery built in the U.S. was in 1976 in Louisiana. Would anyone really want to start again now?

Hart stared out at the shimmering city lights, his mind ticking through a list of possibilities when a broad smile crossed his lips.

“Of course.”

Hart took his Sam Adams and the newspaper article about Gil and the TDU and headed down to the front desk in his bare feet. He handed the paper to the concierge and wrote down a fax number.

“Would you fax this for me? Now if possible.”

“Certainly, sir.” The concierge retreated to the back room. Hart stood at the counter and drank his beer, tapping his foot nervously. The concierge returned in a few minutes and handed Hart the newspaper article along with a confirmation sheet.

“Thanks,” he said and returned to the bank of elevators.

➣➣➣

Minutes later, back in his room, Hart telephoned Houston. Bicky picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello,” Bicky croaked.

“Am I waking you up?” Hart belatedly checked the clock. It was 2 AM.

“No, I’m generally up at this hour,” Bicky replied, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“Did you check your fax?”

“As is my habit in the middle of the night. What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve been officially on sabbatical for two weeks and I’ve already found what will take us to the next level, economically, and environmentally. Want to hear about it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Everybody’s got a choice.” Hart said. Bicky took so long to reply that Hart thought he’d fallen back to sleep.

Finally, Bicky sighed. “Go ahead.”

“How about this? A machine that converts trash into oil.”

Bicky began a hack so violent, Hart had the hold the phone away from his ear.

“Hey, man, are you all right? Drink some water or something,” Hart said. He heard the phone drop onto the night stand as the cough receded into the background. After several minutes, Bicky returned.

“What the hell did you say?”

“I said, how about a machine that converts trash, you know, from a landfill, into petrol? Would you invest in that? And before you say another word, believe me, this is for real. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“How? Where are you?”

“In Philadelphia?”

“I thought that machine was south of the city, out in Delaware County?”

“Huh? You heard of it before?”

“Ah – something about it, but I’m not sure from who.”

Hart’s eyes narrowed and his nose twitched involuntarily, probably because his body smelled a rat, but his brain couldn’t make the connection.

“You saw this machine?” Bicky asked.

“I did.”

“You talked to the inventor?”

“Yep. Been hanging out with them for the last two weeks. Well, the actual inventor is dead. A tragedy in every sense of the word.”

“How’d you find out about it?” Bicky’s voice was coarse with sleep, which served to obfuscate his impatience so Hart didn’t notice.

“I read a newspaper article on the plane. It was luck, I think. Something weird.” Hart squinted into the past, trying to piece the events of that first day in Philly together, but like fragments of a dream, they scattered, leaving nothing but their fuzzy imprints.

“Bicky, I know you need time to think about it, but the implications…. This is beyond breakthrough.”

“I think you’re cracking up. You better come back to work before you go over the edge.”

“Listen. This machine eats trash. We install machines like this across the country and not only are our landfill problems eradicated, we are no longer dependent on foreign oil. And I’m not talking about in situ burning that releases harmful carcinogens into the air. And not trash to steam. We’re not replacing one problem with another. We’re solving two problems at once. It even helps with greenhouse gasses since that trash won’t be sitting in the landfill breaking down for a million years.”

“Yeah, yeah. You said this was in the paper?”

“Yes.”

“Which paper?”

“The Philadelphia Inquirer. Go check your fax machine.”

“That means a lot of people know about it already.”

“It doesn’t matter. This kid wants to work with me. We. . .bonded.”

“Oh, Christ. Now I see where this is going. You don’t have any kids of your own so you’re out looking for some without parents.”

“That’s not it,” Hart said. “I got the feeling that he chose me, but how, I’d be hard-pressed to say.” Hart took another swig of his second Sam Adams and sat back in his chair. “If you think about it, you really can’t write a check fast enough.”

“Did you try buying him out? The board will want complete ownership.”

“We can’t buy him out, Bicky. He’s only ten.”

“Ten! Does the phrase ‘candy from a baby’ mean anything to you?”

“His father invented the machine.”

“So you said.”

“I did? I didn’t think I said that.”

Bicky started coughing again, so Hart waited until he finished.

“The kid idolized his father. He’s tweaked this machine to maximum efficiency. It’s . . . well it’s a beautiful thing.”

Bicky sighed. Hart could sense the conversation was winding down.

“We don’t need any investments. We’re making enough money on the product we have.”

“You’re being short-sighted. What happens when your supply dries up?”

“It’s not going to dry up anytime soon. The Middle East has plenty of oil.”

“It’s going to dry up, Bicky. Maybe not in your lifetime, but probably in mine, and definitely by the next generation.”

Bicky was silent for a minute. “I don’t have any grandkids. What the hell’s it matter about the next generation?”

Hart felt the barb in the pit of his stomach. “Kids or grandkids, we have a moral obligation.”

“Hey, maybe we’ll find a cure for AIDS while we’re at it,” Bicky snarled.

Hart almost hung up the phone, but tried one more time. “Just think about it. From where we sit, with our dwindling resources, this invention rivals the Internet.”

“Shut up, already. You’re sounding like a National Geographic article. When are you going to stop worrying about everyone else and start worrying about yourself?”

“When you stop worrying about yourself and start worrying about everyone else.”

“Very funny.” Bicky coughed again. “I’ll send somebody down to look at it.”

“Don’t send somebody down. I’m already down.”

“You quit.”

“I’m on sabbatical, remember?”

“Did you even ask him about selling?”

“They’re not selling.”

“I just want to know if you asked.”

“Someone needs to help these kids, Bicky. Both their parents are gone.”

“So are mine, but you don’t see me crying.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Hart said, utterly exasperated.

“All right. Truth be told, I’m not interested. Now can I go back to sleep?”

Hart’s anger rifled through the phone like machine gun fire. “Just so we’re clear. I’m going to get this thing built, with or without you, and when it’s done, my company’s stock is gonna shoot so high you’ll need a telescope to see me in the night sky.” Hart could hear Bicky breathing into the phone, but no words were forthcoming. “Whatever. Go back to sleep. You always have been anyway.”

“Goddamn it!” Bicky barked. “What are you going to do? Flood the market with Akanabi?”

Hart hoped his silence conveyed the fact that he was smiling.

“Go ahead, you little prick. I can withstand your assault, you stupid. . . .”

Hart held the phone away from his ear so he didn’t hear Bicky’s last insult.

“You hear me, Hart?” Bicky screamed. Hart caught the echo.

He balanced the receiver on his index finger and watched it sway back and forth like the scales of justice. He could hear Bicky’s disembodied voice yelling after him, his tirade continuing unabated. With his free hand, Hart lifted the phone and dropped it in its cradle. He sighed, like a man who has just taken his last bite of a memorable meal, sat back and folded his hands over his stomach. After allowing several seconds for it to disconnect, he took the receiver off the hook, and laid it on the table. A minute later his cell phone started ringing. He switched the ringer to mute and opened another beer.

to be continued. . .

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not for long

Posted on May 27, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Three

Gil sat cross-legged on the floor watching The Jerry Springer Show . Today’s episode centered around mothers who dated their daughter’s boyfriends.

“Maybe we could get on the show,” Gil said.

“For what?” Avery asked from his position on the couch.

Gil shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well they’re not going to pay you to just sit there. They want something sensational.”

“Well maybe we could just sit in the audience.”

“Kori would bust a gut if we told her we wanted to see Springer. And she’d bust me for sure if she knew I let you watch this.” Avery jerked his head toward the doorway, suddenly afraid Kori might be standing in it.

“How much do you think they pay them to fight like that?” Avery asked. One of the daughters on the show swung a fist at her mother’s head, making contact. The mother went down. A younger daughter, also on the show, went for the older sister’s face and prime time fisticuffs ensued. Gil’s eyes opened wide and he covered his mouth in shock.

“What do you mean?” Gil asked, his hand still over his mouth.

“I mean to keep the act going.”

“It’s not an act, Avery. It’s real. Those people are really upset.” Gil turned to look at Avery, but didn’t remove his hand.

“Gil. This crap is not for real. It’s made up for television.”

“Why would they make something like that up?”

“Makes everybody else feel like they’re not as bad off as they thought, maybe.”

Gil stood up and flicked off the television, then walked to the door and threw it open, still holding the remote.

“Hey, you little turd. Why’d you shut off the T.V.?”

“He’s almost here.”

“Who?”

“The man who’s going to help us.”

Avery walked over to Gil and looked down the street. All quiet. A cold gust of February wind blustered in, overpowering the warmer vapors lingering there. Avery shuddered and moved to close the door.

“No,” Gil said and put a hand up to stop him. “Just wait.”

Avery rolled his eyes, turned the T.V. on manually and returned to his reclining position on the couch. Gil stood at the door, refusing to move. After a minute, Avery covered himself with a blanket. After several minutes, he yelled.

“Gil! Close the door!”

In response, a car door slammed.

Hart was halfway up the drive before he noticed Gil standing in the open doorway. He stopped several steps away.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Hart asked.

“You,” Gil said.

“Me?! How’d you know I was coming?”

Gil shrugged. “Aunt Stella told me.”

“Who’s Aunt Stella?”

Avery appeared in the doorway wrapped like a pig in a blanket. Gil held out his hand and Hart stepped forward to shake it.

“Gil,” Avery said, pulling him back.

Hart introduced himself. “David Hartos. Akanabi Oil.” He held a hand out to Avery who ignored it.

“The oil spill in the Delaware?” Avery asked. “So what are you doing here?”

“I saw your picture in the paper,” Gil said.

“And I saw yours.”

“I give your performance of the last month two and a half stars,” Gil said.

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s got a rating system,” Avery said. “Like the movies. Only he’s much tougher.”

“Actually, on the performance itself I’d go as high as three and a half, but you did spill the oil in the first place and so you get an immediate deduction for error.”

Hart stared at the old creature in front of him until another gust of wind blew by and he shuddered. “Hey, do you mind if I come in? I’m from Houston and not really used to this East Coast cold.”

Gil stepped back, but Avery blocked Hart’s entry. They eyed each other a moment until Avery moved, just enough for Hart to squeeze by him. The three stood in a tight circle in the foyer, Hart waiting while the boys stared at him, Avery still wrapped in a blanket, Gil still holding the remote.

“So what do you want?” Avery asked.

“I read where you discovered a way to change trash into oil.”

Avery narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. Hart raised his eyebrows and gave Avery a tentative smile.

“Did you know that even a quarter-sized spot of oil on a bird’s feathers is enough to kill it over time?” Gil asked Hart.

“Actually, I did know that. I spent a long morning at a de-oiling station.”

“Yep. It breaks down their insulation and they can die from hypothermia. And it doesn’t just happen in the winter. But you know what? I think it’s cause they can’t stand that one oily spot. It makes them crazy. They keep trying to get it off and it won’t come off. It’s like Ophelia in Hamlet . You know the one with Mel Gibson? ‘Out, out, damn spot.’”

Hart stared at Gil, both incredulous and wary. The kid was serious and Hart wasn’t sure whether to run away or hug the crap out of him. Hands at his sides and feet rooted to the floor, he did neither. Instead, he said to Avery: “You’ve got a smart brother.”

Avery ignored the remark. “Do you have any credentials?”

Hart pulled out his Akanabi ID and handed it to Avery who looked it over cooly.

“Do you want some milk?” Gil asked.

“Love some,” Hart replied. “If it’s all right with your brother.”

Avery gave Hart the hairy eyeball. “So you’re the Chief of Engineering? What’s that about?”

“It’s about taking a lot of flak,” Hart said, accepting his credentials back.

“How’d you know about the TDU? I mean, the Thermo Depolymerization Unit? Did somebody from Cooper’s tell you? Or maybe it was your driver…”

Hart shook his head and reached into his back pocket. Avery took a step back and pulled Gil with him. Hart handed Avery the Inquirer article. In addition to the head shot, there was a photo of Gil, standing in front of the TDU.

“No way,” Avery said.

“Let me see,” Gil said, peering over the top to see his own face smiling back at him. “I hate that picture.”

“Did you know about this?” Avery asked Gil.

Gil nodded. “But I didn’t know when it was coming out. It doesn’t matter though, right? Since he’s here?”

“Who’s he ?” Avery asked. “Don’t you understand, Gil? This was in the business section of the Philadelphia Inquirer . The Sunday paper. Not Monday, not Tuesday, freaking Sunday. The whole world’s got our number now. He is just the first of many.” Avery sighed and rubbed his brow. The blanket fell to the ground. “What was she thinking?”

“Look, if this is a problem, I can come back another time.” Hart said.

“Good idea,” Avery said, grabbing Gil’s arm.

“No!” Gil grabbed Hart’s arm and held fast. “It’s okay, Avery,” Gil said. “He’s going to help us build it.”

“Gil. You can’t know that.”

“It’s him, Avery. I can feel it.”

“Build it?” Hart asked. Now it was his turn to raise his brows.

“You’re a trouble-shooter, right?” Gil asked. “Isn’t that part of your job description?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Well, we need some trouble shot. So you can do that. Plus you can help us build a bigger machine, something really big that will save the world from being buried under a gigantic trash pile. Plus, if we make our own oil, people won’t blow each other up for what’s left.”

Gil took a step forward and looked Hart directly in the eye. “My brother may be dead because of oil, but we’re not sure because my father says we can’t believe everything the government tells us. Plus, I don’t think my brother would leave us yet because we really need him.”

“Gil. Enough.” Avery wrapped the fallen blanket around Gil’s shoulders and knelt down to eye level with Gil. “How did you know he was coming?”

Gil shrugged. “I just knew.”

“Knew who was coming? Me?” Hart asked.

Gil just stared at him.

“Christ, I’m going to kill Kori.”

“Who’s Kori?”

“Our sister. She likes this guy from the newspaper and she told him all about the TDU even though Avery told her not to tell. So he’s mad at her.”

“Gil!”

“But this is a fantastic discovery. It should be made public. I mean, what if Alexander Graham Bell kept the telephone idea to himself? What you need is someone to buy the technology from you…”

“Somebody already tried to steal it from us. Twice. Once they blew up our porch and the other time they almost killed our dog. And our parents…” Gil stopped abruptly and looked at his brother.

Avery sighed and rubbed his temples as if he’d just developed a headache. He rose slowly, aging a hundred years in an instant, and, still holding Gil’s arm, turned to Hart.

“You have to leave. We can’t talk about this anymore. Not to you or anybody else.” He started shoving Hart to the door, but Gil intercepted, still holding Hart’s arm.

“No, Avery. He’s the good guys.”

“Gil. His company just spilled three hundred and fifty thousand gallons of crude in the Delaware River because they were using a forty-year old ship that, were it not for some medieval grandfather clause, would not pass half the safety requirements being imposed on today’s vessels. He is most definitely not one of the good guys. He works for Akanabi.”

“Not for long,” Gil said, certain.

Hart felt an electric jolt shoot through him at this proclamation, but shook it off, still pondering something Gil had said.

“Wait a minute. You said someone blew up your porch looking for this machine?” Something about Gil’s proclamation jarred his memory, but he wasn’t sure why.

“Yeah. They took the drawings, but they got the wrong ones,” Avery said. “Gil saw to that.” Avery smiled at his brother.

“C’mon,” Gil said. He led Hart out of the foyer while dragging Avery who was still holding fast to Gil’s arm.

“What are you doing?” Avery asked.

“He wants some milk. We’re going to the kitchen.”

“Gil…”

“We have some cookies, too,” Gil said. “Aunt Stella made them. She’s an excellent baker.” Avery shook his head and sighed, but protested no more as he followed them into the kitchen.

➣➣➣

Gil bustled about readying their snack. He served Hart himself – the first time he ever served anyone – and his pride and satisfaction wafted through the room like the aroma of breads baking, so much so, that even Avery’s heart warmed. After much probing and prodding from both Gil and Avery, Hart recounted his own unfortunate events. By the time he’d finished, the trio felt as if they’d known each other forever, or, at least, for half of this lifetime.

That’s when a profound silence seeped in like radon gas and settled over the kitchen. Gil’s discomfort with it prompted him to action. “Let’s go,” he said, and pushed them out the back door.

Gil gave Hart the tour of the barn where he explained the TDU in depth and encouraged Hart’s examination of it. By the time Gil had finished, Hart was convinced that Marty Tirabi was a genius and that Gil was no slacker either. According to Avery, the actual breakthrough on the machine’s salability came as a result of Gil’s dream about oil and water. From the start, Hart sensed something otherworldly about Gil and that information solidified his conceptions. It wasn’t just the machine either: Gil himself stretched the boundaries of the human imagination.

After the barn, they drove Hart across the fields to Trash Mountain, as they’d taken to calling it, the primary feedstock for the TDU. It was a monstrous pile, even by landfill standards, but what impressed Hart even more was the means by which they arrived there: an ATV that pulled a series of connected trailers coupled like railroad cars and built by none other than Gil Tirabi. Was there no end to this child’s inventiveness?

In the beginning of the day, if someone would have told him, as Gil tried, that Hart would be the one to help these boys raise the money to build the TDU on a grand scale, he would have laughed. Hart knew nothing about fund raising, that was more Bicky’s bailiwick, and had his doubts about a partnership with anyone. But by the end of the day, the little genius had sold him the farm, as it were, lock, stock and two technological barrels. Maybe he was going crazy, or maybe his alter ego, his “hero” persona as Sonia called it, was kicking in, but he really wanted to help these kids.

He was astonished with the ease at which Gil had taken to him and of Gil’s certainty that Hart was their man. Avery was older and more measured than Gil and Hart could sense his reticence. Whereas Gil was a full on green light, Avery was a blinking yellow. Hart felt Avery was right. It could be that they were a perfect match, but what they needed was a little time to get to know each other. It was early evening when Hart finally left with a promise to return the following afternoon for more discussion.

to be continued. . .

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