Posted on May 19, 2024
An Empty House
An empty house is an interesting thing, particularly one you have no intention of filling. I have had six major moves in my life and we are in the midst of number seven. Movers showed up this week to grab all our stuff, which led me to two conclusions. First, with creative arrangement, air mattresses can make great couches. Second, we have way too much stuff.
As I sit here on the floor, I’m amazed and somewhat disgusted at the sheer number of things that have accumulated around me over the years. I remember my first move consisting of a single trunk and a few duffel bags. The next got packed up in a single crate. This time? Seven. Seven full crates. Who knew owning furniture was so volumetrically challenging?
Furniture aside, there’s comfort in having a purge release valve built into your life. Having mandatory moves across the world every few years serves as a forcing function to take a look at what detritus has a swirled around the eddies of your life. Having the requirement to sit down and sort through everything you own into separate keep and discard piles is liberating.
It can be difficult to let go, though. Sure, I bought this tube of nutmeg five years and two continents ago, but what if I need it? And these flip flops have been with me for over twenty years now! Yeah, there’s a massive hole in one of them and they somehow hurt more to wear than walking barefoot, but can you put a cost on emotional attachment?
Which brings me to the non-tangible debris. Getting rid of physical junk is hard enough. Tossing out the mental baggage is even worse. With boxes, you can see whether or not something has been opened from move to move. What we carry around in our minds and souls has no easy classification. It waits and grows where we plant it, often in the dark recesses we prefer to avoid.
Again, this is where these moves—with all their hassle, their stress, their chaos—are a blessing. Each time we uproot our lives and move to a different place in the world, we are plunged into a new environment. Our jobs change, the people around us shift, our hobbies adjust; everything becomes something else. In that sea of change, it becomes easier to toss a few unwanted packages over the side. Easier, not easy, but easier nonetheless.
So as I sit on the floor of this empty house, having put in the time to separate what will come with us across the world, I will take the time to think about what will stay behind. And I will feel all the lighter because of it.
Posted on April 23, 2024
Get Off My Lawn
Watching a toddler grow fascinates me. Every day seems like it brings new developments, especially with physical skills. Our son has two new favorites: the headbanger, and the butt-first stair slide. Admittedly, these skills aren’t anywhere on the milestones provided by the American Academy of Pediatrics, but he has mastered them regardless.
Today, though, I don’t want to talk about my son’s newfound talents. Instead, I want to talk about how watching him exercise those talents pains my aging body just by association. I have never truly felt old until I started watching my son do things to his body that would put me in traction for a month.
Take the stair slide. He enjoys sitting firmly at the top stair, shouting “Bum!” at the top of his voice, then slamming his butt down on the next stair with the force of a sledgehammer. Rinse and repeat for the rest of the staircase. My spine weeps watching him. For the headbanger, he will repeatedly rear back his head as though crying out to the heavens for absolution before slamming it down onto a convenient pillow and/or stuffed animal like a starving hyena cracking open an elephant’s rib cage. Just typing that made my neck cringe.
Let me really sink this home for you. As I type this, I have a heat pad on my lower back to help it recover from an injury last week. What did I do to hurt it, you ask?
I attempted to put on a sock.
I have spent years playing contact sports, lifted weights for decades, and have a deep respect for warm ups, foam rollers, and yoga. My body has now decided that bending over while lifting one leg is an abhorrent practice that must be punished like sinners in the Old Testament—swiftly, severely, and without mercy.
Laid low by a sock. Pack it in boys, we’re calling it. It’s time to buy a bag of Werther’s, bust out the shuffleboard, and join the AARP.
Posted on March 24, 2024
Promises, Progress, and Payoff: Earning A Story
Developing a skillset often comes as a double-edged sword. You may have more ability, but you also recognize flaws where previously you had only blissful ignorance. As I learn more about writing and the storytelling process, I see its effect trickle into everything story related. One unfortunate casualty? Movies and television shows. In particular, movies and shows that don’t earn their story. Let me explain.
I’m going to steal liberally from Brandon Sanderson’s teachings here, but seeing as he’s one of world’s most successful authors, I feel it’s appropriate to crib from him. At its core, a story needs three things: promises, progress, and payoff. Promises are what you layout at the beginning to hook the audience, progress shows the characters and plot working towards those promises, and payoff is when we get the reward at the end. Simple, right?
Simple, yes. Easy, no. After all, we don’t consume media for simplicity. We consume it to be entertained. If your promise is too modest, the progress unchallenged, or the payoff anticlimactic, your story flops onto the deck like a dead fish, one glaring eye staring upward as if to say “Why, brother?”
This understanding, I’m beginning to realize, is ruining media for me. Take the new Percy Jackson show. [Fair warning, spoilers for episode two ahead]. There is a scene where he beats three children of the god of war, Ares, in a sword fight. It’s supposed to be a triumphant scene, but instead it made me roll my eyes so hard I got nauseous. Let’s break it down with the three steps: promises, progress, and payoff.
We see Percy get bullied by the lead Ares kid early in the episode, then again midway through. The inherent promise is that eventually, they’ll have a confrontation and—since we’re rooting for Percy—it’s one he’ll win. The payoff is the conflict itself, in this case having Percy defeat the bully and her thuglets. Connect those two dots with some progress and you have a nice, tidy moment for the audience to celebrate.
There’s only one problem: the show does nothing to show any progress. In fact, it does the opposite, spending significant time showing Percy failing miserably at every skill he tries his hand at. But then—out of nowhere—he can hold his own with a sword he’s barely touched against three children of Ares who have clearly trained for fights like this. No lead up as to how he could do that, or where those skills may have come from, or any sort of progress that would cause a reasonable person to think Percy would do anything but get his teeth kicked in fighting these three. Instead of triumph, dead fish flop.
These moments pop up everywhere for me now, and it’s both satisfying and frustrating. It’s satisfying because I can see my own ability to recognize the tools of storytelling better, which hopefully translates to my own writing. It’s frustrating because most shows and movies are littered with these dead fish flops, and it’s hard to unsee rotting Pisces.
It’s easy to be an armchair writer critiquing a story from afar. It’s much harder to pull off good storytelling. I imagine it gets even more difficult when the writer doesn’t actually have the last say in things like is the case with visual media. But it can be done, and it should be done. My hope for future Netflix binges depends on it.
Posted on March 10, 2024
On Speechwriting
Fifteen months is long enough to feel like an age and short enough to vanish in a blink. It’s also short enough to make you feel like an expert in something, but long enough to know better. I spent the last fifteen months as a speechwriter, and the experience taught me a few things.
First, the number of tricks an orator can use to win over an audience is astounding. Some are subtle, some overt, but even applying basic skills to a speech takes it to a much higher plane of expertise. That memorable twist on a cliché that stuck with you years after the speech itself faded away? Someone workshopped that. The alliteration that made a speaker’s poignant point perforate people’s perceptions? I guarantee a thesaurus got cracked. This is not to say that speakers are tricksters out trying to con you—though some are—just that you, too, can speak better with a little bit of effort.
Second, we are all speakers, and we are all audience members. Every day, you step out onto the stage of life and speak your heart out. You may do it with a smile or you may trudge your way through it, but you do it no matter what because communication is everything. At the same time, you are judging others as they stand upon their stage doing the same. We talk at each other, with each other, and past each other in a never-ending show. But like any show, only the most memorable performances live on in the lives of those that witnessed them.
Third, words on paper are worth nothing. Only words that are spoken matter. You can write the perfect speech and make no impact if the delivery falls flat. Vice versa, someone with presence, pacing, and panache can turn the most dry and miserable kindling into a roaring fire of passion. The real lesson to learn with this, though, is that few—if any—are blessed with the skill to do that without practice. Even those who seem capable of delivering an ovation-worthy address with no preparation have likely spent years honing their craft to reach that point. None of us are born with the ability to speak, and like any skill, those who dedicate themselves to its mastery will always outperform those who don’t.
My biggest takeaway from this experience, though, is that we rarely give our words the attention they deserve. It’s all well and good to speak from the heart, but that also leads to needless wandering, repetition, and mistakes. The casual cruelty delivered on accident is no less harmful than one sent with precision, and digressions far afield from the topic make speakers’ mouths dry and audiences’ minds empty. It would be a shame to go through life and never learn to use the gift that language can be. As Oliver Wendell Holmes said, “Speak clearly, if you speak at all. Carve every word before you let it fall.”
Posted on February 25, 2024
I Use 100% of My Brain and You Can Too! The Nature of Pervasive Myths
I’m currently reading Adam Grant’s Hidden Potential, which has been quite enjoyable so far. One data point from the book, however, stands out. The popular educational belief that each of us has a preferred learning style (e.g. audio, visual, kinetic, etc), is a myth unsupported by any experimentally based evidence. Fascinating as that is, what really interests me is how the study proving that came out in 2008, yet I have had multiple instances since then in professional environments where the learning styles myth was pushed as fact.
Myths like this have a pervasive nature to them that’s hard to dislodge. Six years after it was disproven, a survey of British teachers showed 96% of them still believed in it. If those in charge of teaching—theoretically those most likely to update their thoughts on learning techniques based on the most recent evidence—are still misled, what does that say for the rest of us? Heaven knows there are a plethora of myths out there still taken as gospel by most of us: left brain-right brain distinctions, classical music makes babies smarter, people only use 10% of their brains, opposites attract, and cardio kills gains.
There are plenty of reasons myths like this take hold and never let go, but I think the biggest is that we like simple answers to complex problems. Life is complex and no one wants to dig through the muck to find a “maybe” instead of a definitive answer. Take the learning styles myth. Which would you prefer: recognizing that every single learning situation has different context that continually shifts, and you have to adjust your style, effort, and intention to match it…or just say you learn best with pretty pictures and call it a day?
That’s part of why demagogues are so successful—we look at them and think “They’ve got this all figured out, why not support them?” They offer up simple—and wrong—answers to some of life’s most complex problems, and people go along with it because that’s easier than coming to grips with how much of life is outside of our ability to impact. That is the true answer to all of this, unfortunately—you have to recognize the vast difference between what you can control and what you wish you could control. No one says that’s easy, but it’s necessary if you want to avoid falling prey to the latest charlatan with an answer to all of your problems.
Updated on February 25, 2024
Tales from a Toddler
My son is an advanced child. Not in the sense that he’s displaying the precursors to Mozart level brilliance, no. He has firmly established himself in the realm of Terrible Two well before reaching that milestone via days existed. As my wife and I stare wide-eyed through tantrum after tantrum, my thoughts spin towards what his thoughts must be during these little spells. Here for your enjoyment, I present Tales from a Toddler. (Note: for maximum enjoyment, read in whatever voice comes to mind when I say pretentious British aristocracy)
* * *
Entry #1: Mother refused to grant my desires this morning. I clearly and with great articulation expressed my need for liquid refreshment. What does she do? She brings me some! The gall of this woman. Obviously, I meant that I did not want any such thing brought to me. She should have left it on the floor and turned her back so that I might recover it in peace on my own schedule. I shudder to think of what fresh purgatory the remainder of my childhood shall become with such caretakers.
* * *
Entry #2: The audacity of these people. Don’t they know that when I say “no poop”, I am fully aware that my diapers do have, in point of fact, a prodigious quantity of fecal matter? I am merely expressing my desire to keep said excrement close by on the off chance I need it for artistic endeavors later on. One never knows when the muse will strike, and I—unlike my caretakers—strive to always be prepared. At least I was able to perform a double half-twist with perfect form during the attempted changing. It’s important to maintain one’s flexibility, after all.
* * *
Entry #3: My father is an imbecile. This man returns home from work and sees me yelling “Dada! Dada!” through the window before running to the door to greet him and what does he think? He imagines I am there for him! Does he not realize it is my stuffed kitty that occupies the whole of my world? Father is but a means of conveyance for Kitty, and a poor one at that.
* * *
Entry #4: I never knew sentient humans could possess the spatial awareness of a bird striking a window. Mother continues to operate under the false impression that she is allowed to sit on the couch. This is clearly intolerable. How can she not see that her position remains firmly on the floor next to the couch? I have explained this to her with great vigor on multiple occasions, yet she continues to persist in this folly. Truly, I do not understand this woman.
* * *
Entry #5: The caretakers disrupted yet another creative masterpiece today. Riddle me this: were your chefs to provide you with a lovingly crafted presentation of wholesome bread covered by a delightful nut spread melody paired with sliced fruit and an assortment of cheese, would you not also immediately chew what was most readily available before spitting it into your hand to then throw at the floor? How else is one to see what the Fates and the muse together might create? And to think they called it a mess! No one appreciates my brilliance.
* * *
Entry #6: Again, Mother refuses to grant my desires. Upon providing me with a pair of sunglasses—last season’s design, but let no one say I am not magnanimous—she attempted to put them on my face. Unacceptable, of course. What she needed to do instead was put them on my face. What could possibly be simpler? Perhaps if next time I scream louder that she must put them on me as I fight her attempts to do so, the message will finally sink home.
* * *
Entry #7: I have no words. I do not doubt the good intentions of my caretakers, but I am increasingly convinced they lack the basic mental capacity for communication. Though I clearly explained my request, Mother denied me the simple enjoyment of licking my pee-filled bathwater off the shower floor. Father, of course, agreed with her—he always does, fawning underling that he is. The day was not a complete loss, thankfully, as I managed to rub some of it onto my face before they stopped me.
Posted on January 21, 2024
Dream Homes: A Functional Guide
So, you’re in the market for buying a home. Congratulations! This is an adventure for you and your family, one you’ll look back on for many years as you fight to keep your new home upright. Before you go off finding who will let you slip the farthest into debt, you should keep in mind a few tips and tricks from someone who’s been there before.
Some people might say the three most important things to consider in a home are location, location, and location. Some people would be wrong. As you dive into your new all-consuming passion, you only need to focus on one thing: backsplash.
I can hear your rumbles already. What about number of rooms? Square footage? Functional plumbing? Well, my friend, riddle me this: what does every room and feature to a home have? A back! And what does that back need? Splashing! Allow me to illustrate.
Picture your dream home. Now get rid of it, because that’s a dream and we live in the cold hard world of reality. In your dreams, each house curls itself in a warm, loving embrace around you. Every color choice is tasteful, every baseboard pristine. In reality, people sometimes carpet their bathrooms.
You see, much like actual dreams, a dream house only exists in the ether of your imagination. It spins you off into a world of wonder, only to vanish in a perpetually groggy morning. Everyone has an idea of what a dream means to them, and rarely do those dreams line up in the light of day.
Now take your mental picture to a walkthrough of your new kitchen. The realtor described it in glowing terms as rustic and authentic. This translates to exposed studs because of crumbling drywall and what looks like stab marks in the cabinets. But the layout is close enough to your dream if you squint, and surely you can get used to that stain on the counter that looks like Elvis. If only there was a cheap, easy way to freshen it up.
Enter the backsplash! Take a quick trip to Amazon or Home Depot and stare in awe at the options modern society has provided you for DIY home enhancement on a budget. Want something boring like fake tilework? Done. What about fluorescent hexagons to make you feel like you’re one with the hive? Easy. But let’s not restrict ourselves to such pedestrian pursuits. You want to dream, right? Let’s dream big!
Is your coin jar getting out of control? Slap some pennies around your cabinets and proudly explain how your kitchen remodel cost exactly $14.93! Having some trouble shaking your kleptomania? Plunder with a purpose and remodel with stolen road signs! Does your local subway system confuse the kids? Test them every morning over breakfast! Do you want something that puts the splash in backsplash? Try live fish! Do you like rocks? Glue some to the wall! Want a pleasing symmetrical design done in an ad hoc fashion with all the fidelity a stick of chalk can offer? Of course someone has done it!
Backsplash is the equivalent of trying to explain your dreams to friends in a way that won’t make them rethink their relationship with you. Only your imagination can limit you, and we already know you have one of those for thinking you can afford a home in this market. Now get on out there and splash it up!
Posted on January 7, 2024
The Reserves: Inprocessing (Part 3)
This is the chapter three of my online episodic story, The Reserves.
For the complete collection, please click here. Enjoy!
Clay walked into Pizza Pi through the pizzeria’s circular doors and took a deep breath through his nose. He believed to his core you could tell how good the pizza would be at any given restaurant from the smell, and Raynor’s place was on track for greatness.
After a quick chat with a charming hostess, Clay weaved his way through the customers to an open seat at a community bench. He snagged a menu with the pizzeria’s mathematical looking logo on it and looked around, catching site of Raynor in a spotless apron laughing with a group at a table halfway across the room. Certain that he had time, Clay scanned the menu as he thought about what he would say.
“I recommend the calzones.”
“Gah!” Clay jerked back, startled. Raynor sat grinning across from him, now in a flannel. “How did you do that?” Clay said, doing a double take to the apron-clad Raynor on the other side of the room. “Wait, how are you still doing that?”
Raynor laughed. “That’s my brother, Jeff. Identical twins. We own this place together.”
“Who’s the boss?”
“Me, obviously—I was born first.” Raynor winked. “Glad you swung by.”
“If the pizza tastes half as good as it smells, so am I,” Clay said. “What do you recommend?”
“Calzones,” Raynor repeated. “Partly because they’re amazing, mostly because it drives Jeff insane. He’s the purist.”
“Do you make a Hawaiian one?”
Raynor grinned. “We don’t, but I’m going to make him make one just for you. Thank you for this. Back in a sec.”
Clay watched Raynor walk around a nearby couple staring into each other’s eyes and approach his brother. He threw an arm over his brother’s shoulder, waving towards Clay with his other hand. Jeff gave him a look of such misery, Clay felt guilty for his order.
As Jeff and Raynor headed back to the kitchen, Clay put his hands on the table and tapped his index fingers, his thoughts turning back to his last few sleepless nights.
Raynor eventually made his way back and slid back into the seat across from Clay. “Ok,” he said, “let’s talk.”
“What do you want me to say?” Clay asked.
Raynor shrugged. “Whatever you need to.”
Clay looked down at his hands and thought about it. Raynor let the silence between them stand, and Clay was grateful for the space.
“I don’t want to be in the reserves,” Clay said.
“Why not?”
“Because they’re a joke,” he said without thinking. As he realized what he said, he looked up in alarm. To his relief, Raynor didn’t look offended.
“You’re not the first to think that,” Raynor replied. “Won’t be the last, either. We all grow up watching Alliance highlight reels, right? When your abilities start to manifest, who wouldn’t want a little bit of the limelight?
“Thing is though,” he continued, leaning forward, “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. We only see the what their media folks send out—life in the Alliance has a lot of darker elements that don’t make it to the press releases.”
“I know all that,” Clay said. He started folding and unfolding a paper napkin. “My grandma served in the Alliance. She’s told me plenty of stories.” Mentioning his grandma made his guilt flare. She had sounded supportive the last few weeks, but Clay still felt her disappointment.
Raynor raised an eyebrow. “Then you know better than most what the reality is. And you still want that?”
Clay noted that Raynor didn’t ask about his grandma’s identity and chalked up another point for the man as a good person. “Who wouldn’t? Yeah, it has its rough parts, but still…”
“So when you get assigned to the reserves, you think your life is over.”
“Yeah,” Clay murmured, crumpling up the napkin. “Something like that.”
“You’re right,” Raynor said. Clay looked up and saw the man looking at him with open empathy. “That’s a hard break to take.”
“Not going to try and convince me otherwise?”
“It’d be a little jacked up to try and convince someone that their dream failing to materialize isn’t tough,” Raynor said. “Kinda sounds like that’s the situation here. Am I wrong?”
Clay shook his head, but Jeff’s arrival spared him having to elaborate.
“Your abomination,” Jeff said, sliding the calzone in front of Clay. “Please don’t ask me to make another, I feel dirty after making one.” He shuddered.
“Thanks,” Raynor said. “Think we can get a side of ranch, too?”
“Philistine,” Jeff said.
“It’s alright,” Clay said. “Thanks for making this even though you didn’t want to.”
Jeff gave him a smile. “Hey, least I can do. Raynor says you’re going through a rough spot. Helping people is always worth a little sacrifice.” He nodded and turned back towards the kitchen.
“He seems like a good guy,” Clay said.
Raynor smiled. “Best one I know. He convinced me to sign on with the reserves.”
Clay narrowed his eyes in confusion. “You had a choice?”
“Wildcards like me are in a unique position. We’re not as dangerous as the sort that have no control at all, but we’re also not useful for the FBMA. They like to have us register, but generally waive obligatory service in exchange for a commitment not to use our abilities. You should eat that before it gets cold.”
Clay gave a start and grabbed his fork, cutting into the calzone. “So you could, what, just live your life without the ten year service bit?”
“Yep, easy as that.”
“Why didn’t you?” Clay asked as he shoved a forkful of calzone into his mouth. His eyes went wide. “Wow.”
“Good?”
Clay nodded with excessive force, going for another bite. “Your brother is a level ten pizza wizard.”
Raynor grinned. “I’ll be sure to let him know—he’ll be thrilled. I volunteered because Jeff reminded me that it doesn’t take super strength or the ability to fly to help people. All you need is someone willing to pick someone else up when they need it.”
Clay scoffed. “By sitting on cordon duty while the heroes do the real work?”
“If that’s what the situation calls for, yeah,” Raynor said. “I’ve worked cordons for seven minor events and three major ones, and I’ve managed to help people every time.”
“What were the major events?” Clay asked, perking up at the thought of serious action.
“Doesn’t matter,” Raynor said. “People needed help and we were there to give it.”
Clay sighed and shoveled more calzone into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before pointing the fork at Raynor. “Ok sure, you helped a few old ladies cross the street. Is that supposed to make me feel better when I could have been out there saving lives?”
A sad smile crossed the man’s face. “Three.”
Clay blinked. “Three what?”
“That’s how many lives I’ve saved since I joined the reserves,” Raynor said. “But it’s the ones I lost that stick with me.”
Clay stared at the man, his calzone forgotten. His mouth opened and closed a few times before his brain caught up. “I had no idea…”
“Most people don’t,” Raynor said. “Who has time for the little old ladies when they can focus on the Alliance instead?”
Clay squirmed. “Is it too late for me to try and take my foot out of my mouth?”
“Given how little calzone you have left, I’d be surprised if there was any foot left in there.”
Clay gave a little laugh. “How did you save those people? I didn’t think you had control over your abilities.”
“I don’t,” Raynor confirmed. “Just normal first aid skills. The Captain is a big believer in getting us trained as first responders. Most of us aren’t as good as an EMT, but we know how to stop bleeding and treat for shock.”
“What’s his deal?” Clay asked, grateful for the change in subject. He started in on the calzone again. “The guy had never seen me before, but he treated me like something you scrape off your shoe.”
Raynor winced. “The Captain has his flaws, no one will deny that. He’s not exactly the touchy-feely sort of team leader.”
Clay just raised an eyebrow.
“Ok,” Raynor said. “He’s not touchy-feely in the least bit. He’s irritable, judgy, and runs our chapter like it’s the Marines. But he has his good side, too.”
Clay snorted. “Sure he does.”
“I know you got the short end the other day, but there are people alive today only because of what the Captain teaches us. Besides, he—” Raynor cut himself off.
“Besides what?” Clay prompted.
Raynor hesitated, then blew out a breath. “You’d hear about it eventually. The Captain used to be in the Alliance.”
Clay’s fork clattered as he dropped it on his plate. “No way. If he has the abilities to be on the Alliance, what’s he doing running a reserve chapter?”
“He burned out,” Raynor said in a soft voice.
“Oh,” Clay swallowed.
Burn out terrified most people with abilities. To reach for your abilities one day and feel them a little weaker, a touch less responsive than they used to be. Sometimes it took years, sometimes days, but without fail, they degraded to the point of uselessness. It didn’t happen to everyone, but as far as anyone knew it struck at random and could happen at any time.
“Yeah,” Raynor said. “I know he can be a jerk, but at least try to see some of the good in him. The man still serves the community, even after burning out.”
“Sounds like maybe he’s got a problem letting go of what he had,” Clay replied.
Raynor shook his head. “Anyone else, I’d agree with you. The Captain only cares about giving help when it’s needed.”
“How do you know that?”
Raynor started ticking points off on his fingers. “One, he’s been in the reserves for over fifteen years now. Add that to his Alliance time and he’s way past his ten-year commitment. Two, he’s here in the reserves instead of cashing in on a posh FBMA gig they hand out to Alliance retirees who want to keep looking important.
“Three,” Raynor continued, locking eyes with Clay. “The man is not in it for the glory. He’s a ghost online. No interviews, no pictures, nothing. The only chapter event I’ve ever seen him miss was when a local reporter planned to show up for a neighborhood Metas fluff piece.”
“Could be an introvert on a power trip running his own little fiefdom,” Clay countered.
“Four,” Raynor said, “During my time with the chapter, the Captain has volunteered to deploy in every single tier one, two, and three disaster outside our area of responsibility as a front-liner, not in a leadership role.”
Clay blew out a breath. “Then I stand by my statement that he’s got issues letting go.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Raynor allowed. “But if a man is going to be obsessed with something, he could do a lot worse than helping people.”
“Doesn’t have to be such a jerk about it, though,” Clay muttered, shoving the last bite of the calzone into his mouth.
Raynor opened his mouth to respond, but a yell and the sound of breaking glass interrupted him. Both men looked over at the source and saw a huge man with a buzzcut standing at the nearby table with the lovesick couple Clay had noticed earlier staring up at him in fear.
“I said get up!” Buzzcut yelled, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Leave us alone before I call the cops!” the woman said. “You know I have a restraining order!”
“I need to handle this,” Raynor said, getting up from the table. Clay watched as he jogged over to the trio, holding his hands up with the palms out.
“Let’s settle down, everyone. No one wants any trouble, right?”
Buzzcut shifted his eyes to Raynor. “Piss off, this is none of your business.”
“You’re standing in my restaurant. That makes this my business in a few ways.”
The giant turned to face Raynor and loomed over him. “Back off,” Buzzcut said. “Before I make you.”
Clay found himself standing. He didn’t know Raynor’s plan, but he felt the situation teetering on the edge of broken dishes turning into broken bones. Fear bubbled up from his stomach to block his throat, and he struggled to swallow.
“Can’t do that,” Raynor said. “You need to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere until this whore apologizes to me,” Buzzcut said, thrusting a finger out at the woman sitting at the table.
The woman gave a scornful laugh. “Could you be more of a joke? You just listen to sexist podcasts all day and pretend you’re alpha now because you found a weightroom and started yelling at anyone who disagrees with you.”
Buzzcut’s face turned ugly as his anger shifted into fury. Clay felt his fear go septic—he knew the situation had tripped face first over the tipping point.
Raynor must have known it too because he reached out a hand to grab Buzzcut’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said, trying to pull him away from the table.
Buzzcut turned into the pull and threw a vicious uppercut right into Raynor’s stomach. The man crumpled over with an audible whooshing noise and fell to his knees, fighting to get air into his lungs.
Shouts erupted throughout the pizzeria. The giant turned and planted a foot right into the seated man’s chest, sending him sprawling backwards over his chair. Then he reached down and grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair, jerking her to her feet. She screamed in terror, and Clay saw Buzzcut’s mouth turn into a satisfied smirk.
Clay felt a cold anger freeze his fear, then he was there without crossing the intervening distance. His hand gripped Buzzcut’s wrist and squeezed, and Clay felt bones grinding under his fingers.
Buzzcut’s squeal went through octaves ranging from toddler to piglet. His hand fell open, dropping the woman back into her seat.
“They worked,” Clay whispered in awe. “My abilities actually worked.”
He was so distracted by the sudden change in fortunes that he missed the wild haymaker Buzzcut made with his other hand.
Buzzcut didn’t miss. One second, Clay stood triumphant as the hero he always wanted to be. The next, he sprawled out on the floor next to a still-gasping Raynor with a throbbing temple and flashing lights telling him it was an excellent time for a nap.
Clay managed to fight off unconsciousness and turn his head upward with a groan. Buzzcut stood over him now and placed his boot on Clay, his previous goal set aside in favor of crushing a would-be savior’s chest.
“Should learn to mind your own business, freak,” Buzzcut said, leaning down hard.
“Ack,” Clay replied, clawing at Buzzcut’s boot. Any control he had over his abilities had vanished, and all he accomplished was tangling the giant’s laces.
Then what Clay could only describe as a war cry sounded from behind the giant crushing his ribs, and a small foot swung hard up into Buzzcut’s groin. Clay had an excellent view of the man’s face from under his boot. He watched it contort as it transitioned from blinding rage through a daze of confusion to a finale of all-consuming pain.
Buzzcut let out a quiet whimper, then toppled over and curled into the fetal position. Clay coughed as he tried to regain his breath and looked up at the lovesick woman now standing where Buzzcut had.
“Nine years of club soccer!” she shouted at the whimpering man rocking side to side on the ground. “Good luck walking right ever again!”
Clay wheezed out what it would take a charitable man to call a laugh. Hands reached down to grab his shoulders and lift him to a seated position. He looked up and saw a familiar face wearing a white apron.
“Let’s get you upright,” Jeff said. “Think you can stand?”
Clay nodded, then leaned on Jeff as the man helped him to his feet. After another moment to catch his breath, he looked over at Raynor. His fellow reserve member laid on his back with his knees up and his feet on the ground, no longer gasping.
“You good, Raynor?” Clay asked.
Raynor gave a weak thumbs up and worked on breathing.
“Brave of you to jump in,” Jeff said. “Not the smartest move, maybe, but brave.”
“Least I could do after you asking for the Hawaiian calzone,” Clay said.
“I’m not going to say you deserved to get punched in the head…” Jeff trailed off, but his smile made it clear he was joking. Mostly.
Raynor managed to get to his feet. “Someone should take out the trash,” he said, gesturing to the still-mewling Buzzcut.
“Called the cops as soon as it all started,” Jeff said. “They should be here in a few minutes, and I don’t think he’s going anywhere in the meantime. Nice kick,” he added to the woman.
She beamed. “I’ve wanted to do that for years. Felt just as good as I hoped it would.”
“Maybe tone down the enthusiasm when the cops take your statement,” Raynor said.
“Don’t ruin this for me,” she said before turning back to her date.
Raynor looked at Clay. “Thanks for jumping in,” he said.
Clay gave him a sheepish grin. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”
Raynor laughed and threw an arm around his shoulder. “We’ll make a Jackrabbit out of you yet, my friend.”
Clay’s smile got a bit wider at the thought. Maybe the time at his chapter wouldn’t be as painful as he thought.
It wasn’t until he got home that night, though, that he realized that was the first time he thought about the chapter as his.
Updated on December 25, 2023
On Christmas
Tomorrow is my 34th Christmas. I have had Christmases full of joy, and some tinged by sadness. One year involved cutting down our own snow-covered Christmas tree with thermoses of hot chocolate holding off the crisp winter air. Another saw a small, tired tree with a single ornament on it. I’ve celebrated with family, and I’ve endured alone. Christmas is many things to many people, and it changes for each of us every year.
These 34 years have taught me something. It may not be your conclusion (few self-realized epiphanies translate one-to-one), but I believe there is a core of truth for all of us in it. Christmas benefits from simplicity, and so do we.
Those of us in America see Christmas’s growth. It’s not unheard of now for Christmas merchandise to go on display before Halloween, and nearly 22% of Americans go into debt every Christmas. Similar statistics appear in other countries, but the largest excesses exist here in the United States. The gifts, the decorations, the holiday themed treats, the novelty ugly sweaters—these things add up.
What we often fail to see, though, is the point. As the expression goes, we miss the forest for the trees. We get so wrapped up (pun intended) in getting the perfect gift, we forget that the point is to express our love for one another. We worry over whether our outfit for the neighbor’s Christmas party will be a hit and lose sight of finding gratitude for the relationships in our lives. Christmas should be a time of peace and love, yet it often turns into anxiety and acrimony.
This phenomenon is by no means limited to Christmas. Organizational psychologist Adam Grant speaks on an explosion in perfectionism starting in the 1990s guiding us to fret over the trees at the expense of the forest. The Washington Post published an article yesterday titled “Fun is dead.” One of the quoted sources in the article states, “There are expectations of what I want people to believe that my life is like rather than what my life is actually like.” Christmas is just another casualty in this ongoing spiral that increasingly defines modern life.
The good news is that it doesn’t have to be this way. Men and women have grappled with this fight between forest and trees for millennia, from the writings of Socrates to modern wellness studies. The environment has changed, true, but the solution’s foundation remains the same: simplicity. Simple does not mean lesser or worse, it means the preservation of precious resources like our time and attention for what really matters. One could argue that is the essence of wisdom—using hard-earned experience to look at our complex lives and honing it to the essentials.
Bringing it back to Christmas, simplicity is, well, simple. The namesake of the holiday has a few lessons for us we’d be wise to heed. Focus on what Christ taught: gratitude, charity, and love towards all. For Christians, this holiday carries special significance due to our beliefs. The beautiful part of Christ’s teachings, however, is their universal nature. One does not need to be a believer in Christ to know his teachings have merit.
In fact, one does not even need to be religious to recognize these truths. Multiple studies have shown the benefits of gratitude, charity, and love on one’s own well-being. Whether you rely on cutting edge behavioral science studies or the exhortations of the Apostle Paul to “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ”, the sentiment is the same. When we show gratitude for what we have, give of ourselves charitably to others, and find love for those around us, we are all made better.
Christmas, then, can be simplified into this wondrous trifecta. Even a so-called “War on Christmas” is no threat because these virtues cannot be defeated by an external force. Even if every company in the world stopped Christmas-themed marketing and every person you passed on the street refused to acknowledge the day, you can carry gratitude, charity, and love in your heart wherever you go. Your ability to feel and express the Christmas spirit is an individual choice, and you determine if it is a gift you choose to open and give.
This Christmas, remember to see the forest through the trees. Set aside the concerns of the world and focus on that which elevates. Through your thoughts and actions, bring us all a little closer to peace on earth and good will toward men.
Posted on December 11, 2023
The Reserves: Inprocessing (Part 2)
This is the chapter two of my online episodic novel, The Reserves.
For the complete collection, please click here. Enjoy!
Clay pulled into a spot and put his car in park, letting it idle as he stared at the aggressively nondescript county office building in front of him. He considered driving away, but the county jail next door served as a poignant reminder of what would happen if he skipped out on his FBMA commitment.
“You can do this,” he told himself. “It’s just ten years of your life you can’t get back living in your personal nightmare. Easy.”
He banged his head on the steering wheel a few times, then tried again.
“If you don’t get out of this car and into that building, you will go to jail. There is no scenario where that ends well for you.”
He paused for a moment, seeing if that would stick. He remained seated with both hands still on the steering wheel. Desperate, he gave one last try.
“Joey will never let you hear the end of it if you can’t even get out of the car.”
That got him moving. He turned off the ignition and forced open the unpainted door of his otherwise blue car. The mechanics had done their best, but they could only do so much with the hinges Clay had accidently ripped out.
Clay took a deep breath, adjusted his cape, then marched towards the building. He pressed forward to the double doors and threw them both open, striding through like he had practiced.
A dozen people stood in small groups around an open room with chairs arranged in a half circle next to a row of tables with store brand snacks. Tacky motivational posters hung on the walls, the kind that middle managers across the country thought qualified as disruptive leadership. The smell of stale coffee and bulk discount carpeting hung over everything, giving the whole arrangement a hint of depression.
Clay’s eyes opened wide as he noted that each of the twelve people staring back at him wore regular clothes.
A girl half Clay’s age tossed her bubblegum-colored hair back and sighed. “Hussah, we’re saved.”
The crowd laughed and Clay felt his face go warm with embarrassment. “Where are your costumes?” he sputtered.
“What do you think this is, the Alliance?” another of the group asked. She was a middle-aged woman, and the once over she gave Clay made him feel like a half-dressed mannequin at Ross. “Though I have to admit, you certainly went all out.”
Clay looked down at his costume, a mixture of leather, Kevlar, and the all-important spandex. His grandma had it made for him when his powers started manifesting the previous year, and it matched her purple and blue motif from when she still went by Starshade. “Isn’t that the point of a costume?”
“The point of a costume,” said a man holding a donut in one hand and a paper cup in the other, “is marketing. Hard to capitalize on your merch if people don’t recognize you at a glance.”
“Go easy on the new guy.” Clay turned to see a young woman walking towards him. She stuck out her hand and smiled. “I’m Kara. What’s your name?”
He opened his mouth to reply, only for the donut man to interrupt. “You’re real name. We don’t do muppet names here.”
“Why does everyone keep calling them muppet names?” Clay asked.
“Because the only people who use them have hands so far up their—”
“And we’re done listening to Viggo,” the young woman said. She waggled her still-extended hand and Clay took it. “Name?”
“Clay,” he said. “Clay Rickers.”
“Nice to meet you, Clay,” she said, shaking his hand. “Welcome to the Jumping Jackalopes.”
Everyone in the room groaned. “Please stop calling us that,” the middle-aged woman said. “It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s our official mascot, Gwen. Don’t blame me that the Captain didn’t choose your idea.”
“The Class Acts would have been so much better,” Gwen muttered.
“Ignore her,” Kara said to Clay. “Let’s do intros.”
She led Clay on a whirlwind round of greetings with the rest of the team, firing off an unending stream of words.
“You’ve already met Gwen and Viggo, resident cynics. That’s John by the snacks double fisting donuts. Samantha, Royce, and Cindy are the ones sitting in the corner trying to act like they’re not interested. Zach is the brooder over there, and Tiff is next to him—the one rolling her eyes. Ophelia is on her phone, Aaron is the confused looking guy coming out of the bathroom, and Raynor is asleep on the couch. That’s everyone! Everyone, this is Clay.”
Clay stared at Kara. “Did you even breathe during all of that?”
“Nope!” she said, smiling. “That’s my ability—I don’t have to breathe.”
He frowned. “How does that work?”
“Don’t smother the new guy, Kara,” John said around a mouthful of donut. “Other people do need to breathe.”
Zach crossed his arms and glared. “Captain’s not going to like this. You know how he feels about costumes.”
“It’s his first day,” Kara replied. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Derisive snorts came from half the people in the room like a pen of hogs staring down a lone truffle. Kara winced. “Ok, maybe not.”
“Wait,” Clay said, raising his hands. “Can we just slow down a second?”
“Captain inbound!” Gwen said.
Everyone not already seated hustled over to the chairs. Clay stood in place, as lost as he could remember being in his short adult life.
“Sit down!” Cindy hissed at him.
Clay hurried over and took an open chair right as a grizzled man stalked into the room. He was middle aged but looked far fitter than anyone else in the room. His flannel shirt had rolled up sleeves that revealed whip-cord muscles across his forearms and a network of scars on both hands. Gray hair kept in a high and tight haircut gave him a severe look, one that his expression did nothing to soften.
The Captain’s eyes scanned across everyone in the room, then focused in on Clay. He gave him a once over that made Gwen’s look like she had been viewing the Mona Lisa. His face twisted in obvious disgust.
“If justice still existed, I would have gone blind before stepping into this room and having to see whatever that is,” he said. “Since I am left without such mercy, I assume you are the newest member of Sub-Division 13?”
Clay tensed up and took an instant disliking to the Captain. Everyone else’s comments had the sense of gentle teasing. The Captain’s seemed vindictive. “Yes,” he said, voice clipped.
The Captain’s eyes narrowed. “Do we have a problem, conscript?”
“Only if you make it one,” Clay shot back.
The Captain nodded, as if settling a matter. “Show up in that suit again and I’ll report you as truant.”
Clay’s shook his head in disbelief. To make sure Metas didn’t skip out on their ten-year commitment, the FBMA maintained a point system based on participation. Get hit with too many truancy charges in a short enough timeframe and you could find yourself behind bars.
Threatening to report Clay for an outfit choice was beyond extreme. Based on the uncomfortable reactions of the rest of the team, Clay knew the others felt that way too. But no one came to his defense and only Kara would meet his eye, offering a sympathetic wince.
Clay stood up and started towards the door. He didn’t need this—the FBMA could find somewhere else for him to serve his time.
“Step out that door and you might as well keep going to the county jail across the parking lot,” the Captain said.
Clay stopped and stared at the door, his hands balling into fists. Calm down, he thought to himself. When his emotions got the better of him, his abilities tended to behave oddly. More oddly, he corrected himself with a touch of shame.
The hint of embarrassment turned into a flood as he realized the Captain was right. Clay desperately wanted to leave the room, get into his car, and forget the Reserves existed. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option—FBMA assignments were non-negotiable except in extreme circumstances, and he imagined a rude boss didn’t qualify. Clay took a breath, turned around, and threw himself into an open chair. He crossed his arms and glared at the Captain.
Clay expected another scathing comment from the Captain, or at least a gloating smirk on his face. Instead, the Captain surprised him by ignoring him. What’s more, the man looked tired. Not the kind Clay felt after staying out too late and waking up too early, but the kind he saw on his grandma’s face when she talked about days the good guys didn’t win.
“Jackalopes, today we’re doing ability checks,” the Captain said, moving on like nothing had happened. A chorus of groans from the reset of the group made it clear they intended to do the same. Clay fumed in his chair, struggling with the unfairness of it all.
“Come on, Captain,” Viggo complained. “No one else does the checks as often as us. Can’t we do a few trust falls and call it a month?”
“Regulations dictate frequent ability checks to assess any burn out indicators so leadership elements can effectively coordinate Metas in a crisis,” the Captain rattled off, sounding like the audio version of a government handbook.
“It’s a waste of time,” Viggo said. “No one burns out young, unless—”
Viggo clamped his mouth shut, cutting off whatever he had been about to say.
If the Captain’s glare at Clay had been frigid, the one he gave Viggo now was glacial. “Burn out can hit at any age or any time. Checks show us the warning signs—loss of strength or control from the baseline. And I will not take a single Meta into a crisis without a full understanding of their abilities. Is that clear?
“Yes, sir,” Viggo muttered, refusing to make eye contact. Everyone else tried to look anywhere but at the Captain or Viggo, leaving Clay sure he had missed the importance behind what had just happened.
“We’ll go in order of seniority,” the Captain said. “Kara, you first.”
“I haven’t taken a breath for going on 36 hours,” she said. “Assuming I don’t by the end of our duties today, I’ll be within baseline.”
The Captain nodded. “John?”
“Still eat like garbage,” the skinny man said, licking frosting off his fingers. “Still exactly 150 pounds.”
The next thirty minutes passed by in a blur of oddities and mediocrity. Clay had assumed the only Metas who got sent to the Reserves either had no control like him or had such weak abilities they’d be useless in a fight. What he hadn’t considered were the Metas with abilities that didn’t fit anywhere else.
Royce could take any material and turn it into an anatomically precise origami crane that could fit in your palm—lab tests confirmed that each one measured the exact same height, width, and depth. The Captain had him fold an empty pizza box, an opened can of soda, and a broken chair. Clay held them in his hands afterwards, surprised to find that they each seemed to weigh the same as the original item.
Tiff had a form of precognition, but it only let her know the exact amount someone would tip her. She showed the Captain a handful of receipts from her bartending job. Judging by the luxury clothing brands Tiff wore, she happily used her ability in her day job.
“What’s his deal?” Clay asked Kara, nodding his head towards Raynor. The guy in question had one arm flung over his eyes as he let out a rumbling snore on the ratty office couch.
“Raynor?” she said. “Captain won’t have him do an ability check. He’s a Wildcard.”
Clay’s eyes went wide and he jerked back. “A Wildcard? What’s he doing out in public?”
“Relax, it’s not what you think. Most Wildcards don’t make the news, you know. It varies a lot depending on ability and circumstance. In Raynor’s case, he can control when his abilities activate, but not what they do.” She pointed at a corner of the room where one part of the wall was off-color from the rest. “See that circle?”
Clay squinted. “Yeah, almost looks like it’s made from a different material.”
“Carrara White Statuario marble,” she said. “Probably the most expensive stone in the world. Last time the Captain had Raynor do a check, that whole corner of the room turned into the stuff. I’ve got a really nice marble water jug as a conversation piece in my apartment now.”
“And the time before that?”
“We think he may have caused that semi-truck to explode into confetti on the freeway last year.”
Clay eyed her. “Are you messing with me?”
Kara shrugged. “We don’t know for sure, but the timing matches up. Captain decided it wasn’t worth the risk to experiment and gave him a pass on any further checks.”
“How does he control when his abilities activate?”
She grinned. “He divides by zero.”
Clay snorted. “Now I know you’re messing with me.”
A loud bang broke up their conversation and the pair looked over at its source. Ophelia stood in front of the Captain with a nonplussed expression, her hair sticking out in every direction.
“Localized static electricity burst,” Kara explained. “Like getting rubbed with a balloon all over.”
“I had no idea abilities could be so…”
“Unique?” Kara finished. She smiled and shook her head. “It’s not all flying capes and laser eyes. For every Meta with the Alliance that can lift a train car, there are dozens more with abilities like ours.”
“Conscript,” the Captain barked. “You’re up.”
Kara gave him an encouraging nod. “You got this. Show us what you’ve got.”
Buoyed by her support, Clay got up from his chair and walked to the center of the half-circle. The Captain gave him a flinty look, then pulled a folded sheet from his pocket. Clay caught a glance as the Captain unfolded it and recognized it as a truncated form with his initial evaluation report.
The Captain scanned through the report. “Impressive strength numbers. Too bad you have no self-control.”
Clay gritted his teeth. “I have self-control.”
The Captain raised an eyebrow. “Could have fooled me. Start from the top—hover in place for thirty seconds.”
Flight took intense concentration and Clay’s mind was anything but focused, but he knew he had one shot to make a first impression. He took a deep breath to calm his heartrate, then gently willed his abilities to manifest through his feet.
“Any day now,” the Captain said.
A surge of annoyance flared through Clay’s head, and his focus wavered. One heel shot out in front of him in a high arc, flinging him over backwards to land hard on his stomach. He groaned in pain as the gritty carpet scratched his face.
“Both disappointing and meeting expectations, how novel,” the Captain said. “Get up. We’ll check your strength next.”
The next fifteen minutes rivaled his initial evaluation as the most embarrassing moment of his life. The only difference was that this time he had an audience to witness every failure and the Captain’s caustic comments as an infuriating soundtrack.
After the Captain gave a scorn-laced sigh when Clay’s x-ray vision failed to see how many fingers Zach held behind his back, Clay finally snapped. “This would be a lot easier if you had more to offer than sarcasm and judgement.”
The Captain just checked something off on the paper he held. “Last ability check,” he said. “Temporal displacement. Begin.”
Furious, Clay thrust a hand out at the Captain and twisted his fingers in a counterclockwise motion. Dropping the man through an unending loop of displacement fields on the floor and ceiling would wipe that condescension off the Captain’s face.
But the Captain’s shocked expression didn’t come as he fell through a displacement field at his feet—it came as a cat dropped onto his head.
Bedlam broke out in the room as the Captain, the cat, and the rest of the Jackalopes tried to make sense of the situation. The Captain’s swearing mixed with Gwen, Kara, and Viggo all trying to shout over each other to take control of the situation. The large orange tabby, meanwhile, clawed its way down the Captain’s back until it clung to his leg, howling in distress.
Clay stood stock still, his limp hand still outstretched. “Mister Snuggles?” he said, staring at the cat.
The Captain took advantage of the cat’s lodgment on his calf to reach down and grab it by the scruff of its neck. The tabby gave a few fitful twists and meowled piteously, but otherwise drooped in defeat, staring up at the Captain.
The Captain stared back, then directed his eyes towards Clay. “Explain.”
“That’s, uh… That’s Mister Snuggles…” Clay squirmed under the Captain’s glare. Mister Snuggles rotated slightly in the Captain’s grip and stared at Clay as well, pupils wide. “He’s the family cat.”
“You just used your family cat to attack me?” the Captain said, no inflection to his voice whatsoever. The lack of visible anger did little to quell Clay’s foreboding. His grandma had the same tell when she was truly pissed off.
“No, of course not! I tried to…” Clay’s voice hitched. “Demonstrate my ability and it went wrong, that’s all.”
“How did that result in Mister Snuggles getting dropped on my head?”
Clay desperately wished he had Captain Avalanche’s powers at that moment so he could force the earth to open up and swallow him whole. “I may have accidently misplaced him practicing with temporal displacement a few weeks ago.”
Silence reigned as everyone processed what Clay had just said. Then a single snort of laughter cut through it like an ill-timed joke. “If I had a dollar for every time my cats got caught up as collateral damage to my abilities, I’d have seven and a half bucks.”
Raynor sat up from the couch and shook his head, still chuckling to himself. “You sure this kid isn’t a Wildcard, Captain?”
The Captain’s eyes didn’t leave Clay. Mister Snuggles meowed and kicked a leg. “Not according to his paperwork, all evidence to the contrary.”
Clay swallowed and reached out his hands. “Can I have my cat back, please?”
The Captain’s arm moved like a machine as he swung it towards Clay, dropping the tabby in Clay’s arms. “No temporal displacement while doing Reserves duty, conscript.”
“Yes, sir,” Clay said, stroking the cat to keep him calm.
“Dismissed.”
Clay trudged back to his seat, shame pouring off him in waves so thick he thought it might be visible. He sat in a daze for the rest of the day’s events, barely paying attention as the Captain lectured the Jackalopes on updated Reserves policy and changes in local villain activity.
“That’s all I have,” the Captain said as the day’s events wrapped up. “Any questions?”
The rest of the Metas shook their heads. Clay dropped his and trailed his fingers through his cat’s fur.
“Same time next month, then,” the Captain said. “Stay safe.”
“Stay safe,” the Jackalopes replied in ragged unison. Noise washed over Clay as multiple conversations started up, but he ignored it as he made a beeline for the door, cat in arms.
Clay had made it halfway across the parking lot when he heard the door open behind him.
“Wait up!” a voice said.
Clay half turned to look over his shoulder and saw Raynor jogging to catch up. “You’re going to miss our monthly run to the local Chinese buffet,” the Wildcard said. “We take bets on how many dumplings John can eat before the staff notices.”
“Not in the mood,” Clay said.
Raynor gave him a sympathetic smile. “I get that. Getting to know the team probably won’t hurt though, right?”
Clay shook his head. “Not today. Not after all that. Besides,” he said, nodding to the cat in his arms, “I’ve got to get this guy home.”
“Fair enough,” Raynor said. He reached out to scratch the cat’s ears and Mister Snuggles arched his head into it. “Tell you what—you want to talk, come see me at my restaurant.” He slipped a business card between Clay’s chest and the purring cat. “I think we might have a few things in common.”
Raynor turned back towards the building and waved over his shoulder. Clay looked down at his cat and sighed. “Let’s go home.”
