Blank Slate: Campus Cafe -- the Student Webzine of McCook Community College, McCook, NE

I have never liked children. I never want to have children. I have told my mother numerous times that I would never want to be responsible for putting more demons in the world. I am annoyed by the screaming sugar-deprived brats at Wal-Mart. How is it, then, that I managed to find myself sobbing and hugging hundreds of little girls? This is a good question.

When summer of my freshman year came, I was excited. I would help my dad by running the tractor early in the day, but the late afternoons and evenings would be mine. I could sit in the sun and get a tan like every other girl in my class. Maybe this time I could come back from summer vacation pleasantly brown instead of giving of a radioactive glow. This was my plan until I got the letter. “Do you want to hang out with little girls? Do you love children? Come be a CAT!”

CAT was an acronym for Counselor’s Aide in Training. The Sunflower Girl Scout Council sponsored a summer camp for two weeks in July, and CATs were the older girls that taught the Daisies (kindergarteners), Brownies (first through third graders), and Juniors (fourth and fifth graders) valuable skills such as finger-painting and how to make a sweater with bark and animal droppings if lost in the wilderness. Needless to say, I wasn’t too anxious to try it. After showing my mother the letter, however, the finished application somehow made it into the mailbox.

So, I came to find myself staring out the window as my mother drove along the winding road leading to Camp Hansen in Kirwin, Kansas. Bleached rocks surrounded a receding brownish-green lake. Hands of former CATs stretched out of the lake, drowned by angry mobs of little girls with fiery torches and pitchforks. I didn’t know if I could handle two weeks with children and children-lovers. It was hard enough being in Wal-Mart for half an hour on a Saturday.

‘Fat chance,’ I thought to myself, but I gave her a weak smile anyway. I kept this smile for her sake until she pulled out of the rocky driveway and began winding her way back to Oberlin.

I stood surrounded by blankets, pillows, and suitcases in the driveway for another couple minutes. This place was going to be home for the next two weeks. I took a deep breath, sputtered, and coughed. A bug had already found my nostrils. Nature is already my enemy, and it’s only the first day. I angrily moved my things under a nearby tree and began trudging to “Headquarters.”

“Welcome to Camp Hansen 2001!” said the jolly camp director. At least I knew the camp food was edible. The meeting proceeded with a detailed list of camp rules and procedures and the shuffling of papers as schedules went from one hand to another.

“Now, the first group we’re going to have is the Brownies. You’ll have to be energetic and ready to have fun!” I happen to be exactly the opposite. My idea of energetic is having to get up to change the channel.

After the meeting, I made my way to the living quarters of the camp staff. I found my room, made my bed, stretched out on its smooth coolness, and drifted off into dreams of running water and internet service.

The Brownies started arriving the next day at around noon. Scores of people one-half my height whined to use the bathroom and get a drink. I gripped the sides of my shorts and walked by. What I didn’t notice then was that they were staring at me, wide-eyed.

On the first day, I was scheduled to help with the craft project. I preferred being boiled in a kettle with vegetables, and being readied to be dinner for cannibals, but this ran a close second. I slowly trudged down the cement steps of the Dining Hall basement. There, in the cool cavernous area below, sat about fifty girls. I went to the front and listened to an older CAT explain the project.

She obviously wasn’t kidding because in a minute, I was watching several CATs help confused girls punch holes in tin cans and cut lengths of fishing line. As I confusedly trudged about the area, I felt a tap on my knee.

“Oh, okay. What do you need?” I asked, knowing I would probably be more confused than she.

So, I began twisting and pulling the fishing line onto a tin can. The little girl stared as I tried to make her instrument. On what seemed to be the twenty-third attempt, I looked up at the model. I had done it. I handed it over to eager hands. She grinned and plucked the strings. Angels wept and Mozart turned over in his grave, but the little girl smiled in awe of my craft “skills.”

“Thank you! You’re my favorite CAT!” Then, she threw her arms about my neck.

The rest of my day was spent helping little girls in need. I fixed broken water bottle straps. I picked up fallen juice boxes. I wound yarn to keep them from tripping and skinning a knee. I was Superman.

The first year Brownies were only allowed one night at camp, so the day ended with a campfire. The CATs led the little girls in “Father Abraham,” “Desperado,” and “Make New Friends.” I was doing all the actions and making funny faces at the girls. I was turning into a clone. As the girls devoured the last of their s’mores, smoke filled the air and the fire gobbled up its last bit of wood.

“It’s been a great day! Let’s say goodbye to all our new friends!” said the camp director.

A wave of little girls swept over the CATs, hugging through their tears. I was attacked by a troop of weeping midgets. The little girl I helped with her banjo squeezed me. As I was hugged over a hundred times by anonymous faces, I realized I was crying. I was sobbing and hugging the little girls.

I’m afraid to fall asleep. The dreams still haunt me. They blur into one; one set of silver teeth, one pair of eyes, red like fire. The screams -- thousands of them -- render into one human cry of despair. I cannot sleep; they will not let me. The screams keep me awake.

I sit on my bed now, cold with sweat, the screams still fresh in my ears. I taste blood in my mouth like copper. I touch my face; my nose is bleeding.

I stand and trudge to the bathroom. The light clicks on with dizzying effect. I grab a tissue and dab my upper lip. The blood is nearly dry; I must have been bleeding for a while.

A cold washcloth freshens my demeanor and startles my skin. The red is wiped clean and my eyes are given careful attention. I brush my chin with my hand. It has been a while since I shaved last. I won’t bother now; perhaps in the morning.

I flick off the light and prod back to my bed. I glance at the glowing numbers of my digital alarm. Two Fifty-two in the morning. I have barely slept, and now I am too terrified to try. Regardless, I lay back down and shut my eyes and pray for rest.

I made the shadows my company. In their presence, I was safe. No eyes could penetrate them as I laid in wait. The busy traffic of the day whittled down to a few cars flashing by the alley. My breathing slowed to silence. The smell of fresh meat was in the air. I crouched lower. I figure darted down into the alley. I held myself back. I could see her clearly; she was panicked and scared. I could hear voices and many footsteps. They were men’s voices, and they followed her down the alley. There were three of them, dressed in dark colors and one was armed with a knife. There was no refuge for her here; no escape, either.

The man in front called to her. “C’mere, baby,” he said, “We don’t wanna hurt ya, we jus’ wanna have a little fun.”

She began to cry as they closed in around her. She crumbled herself into a ball against the corner of the building, awaiting the inevitable. Like animals, the men closed in and began tearing at her clothes. She screamed for help, but it would only fall on deaf ears, if anyone heard it at all. I saw my chance. I leapt from the shadows.

I grabbed the one nearest me, the one with the knife and threw him against the wall like a little rubber ball. I grabbed the second one and ripped out his esophagus. I threw it aside and proceded to eat his face. The leader, the man in front, stood frozen in the shadows, looking ridiculous with his pants around his knees. I finished with his friend and rose to my full height. Standing in the darkness, still, I let his imagination run wild. I said nothing. I grabbed him by the throat, lifted him up, and let him look in my eyes. Held up in my large hand, he fainted and loosed his bowels. I threw him into a pile of cardboard boxes, hoping that he would live to remember the terror of tonight. I turned to the woman. She was hiding her face, no doubt traumatized by all that had traspired. No matter what, I could not take back what she had been through, but I tried to see a way to make it better. I helped her up, trying my best to show her my intentions were good, though my methods may have been brutal. She stood with my help, but ran as soon as I had let her go. I crept away, back into the shadows, back into the night.

When morning finally arrives, I am faced with the harsh reality of work. I am simply another cog in the corporate machine. I am a faceless number in the filing cabinet of some heralded CEO, waiting to be discovered and terminated. There is no hope in middle management.

My morning routine consists of coffee, donut and paper. I sit in my cubicle for about half an hour, drinking coffee, eating a donut, and reading the day’s paper. Without it, I am off balance. I was reading the local news when a small feature caught my attention. Alleged Rapists Subdued by Wolfman. Thinking it was a prank, I decided to read it for a laugh.

Police are still investigating the death of two men and the assault of a third during the attempted rape of a 23-year-old woman whose name Authorities will not release. The woman came to police at about 5:00 am 9/13, claiming to have been raped, but was saved by a Wolf-man. The surviving assailant, a 32-year-old New Jersey local, was found this morning, in the same alley the woman claims she was accosted in. The bodies of the other two men were also found there, one was apparently thrown against the side of the building, his spine was broken instantly. The other man’s esophagus was torn from his body and his face was mutilated. When the surviving assailant came to, his story matched that of the woman’s. Both remain in police custody for futher questioning.

He went on. “Man, can you believe that one lady? Saying a werewolf saved her life?”

“Pretty crazy,” I said, trying to end the conversation so Steve would go away.

“I’ll say. Some people.” He looked at his watch. “Well, I better go back to work,” he said. “See ya.”

As he walked away, I picked up the paper. I stared at the article. A werewolf. Unbelievable. I folded the paper and threw it on my desk. There’s no such thing.

“Don’t play these games with me, David,” she snapped. “I’m in no mood.”

“Maybe if you didn’t call me all the time and you just moved on with your life, then you could sleep.”

She raised her voice. “I feel sorry for you, David, I really do, but only because you refuse to get help.”

“Look at you; you’re sick. It’s almost 1:30 and you’re calling me. Just get over it, David; we’re through. I’m not coming back.”

The receiver clicked and buzzed and the conversation was over. I hated it when she called me David.

Day and night bleed together like my dreams. There is nothing to separate them when there is no sleep. Monday becomes Wednesday becomes Saturday becomes Tuesday. I have lost track long ago. I don’t know if I wish to remember.

I kept the article about the werewolf on my refrigerator. It bothered me. Something about it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my stomach uneasy. There’s no such thing, I said over and over again, though I never believed it.

Sleep came harder. Shadows moved across the walls; I swore they were wolves. Every bump, every creek, every sound was another monster to keep me on edge. But as night burns, slumber catches up to me.

The park is mostly empty at this hour; empty of eyes and ears; empty of witness. Again, the shadows spread their wings over me and I am free. I prowled quietly, heard by none, seen by fewer. I must feed; I know this, but how can I bring myself to kill? I know what I am, and what I am not. Have I lost who I was in my transformation? I must eat, it is inevitable; someone must perish. But who? Who am I to decide who deserves to die? Am I to judge these people? Is that the purpose of my curse? Or am I to kill indiscriminately like an animal? This is my curse: To be given the will of an animal and the soul of a man. My will damns my soul; is there hope for redemption? Why should I live if I live only to kill?

The hunger grew into a separate entity which commanded my body. The saliva rushed past my teeth and over my lips. The blood rushed to my head and I dropped to all fours. My nose hit the ground and tracked a scent. The stench of humanity. I followed it. I padded quietly through the annals of the trees, my nose and my stomach in full control of my body. It is stronger here, I must be close. Deeper, deeper into the trees I ventured, nose glued to the ground, so close I can almost taste the flesh. I stopped. I heard the quiet sound of snoring. Laying on the bench, covered in newspapers, was my quarry. There is no sport in killing a man while he is sleeping. I crept over to the bench. I nudged the form with my snout. At first, I was only batted away. I persisted. He rolled over and moaned. “All right, officer, I’ll go.” But his eyes did not look on any police officer; they landed on me. They opened wide as I bared my teeth. He jumped from the bench and took off running in the other direction. I gave chase, holding back just enough to give him a decent lead. Having enough sport and quite ready to dine, my jaws grabbed his leg and I brought him down. He tried to crawl away, but I pulled him closer. Blood sprayed across my nose as my teeth severed his jugular vein. The poor man made hardly a sound, but he passed quickly. There, by the moonlit pond, I devoured my prey. Reason had left me, only hunger and instinct remained. My transformation was complete.

More articles were clipped to my refrigerator, each one concerning perforating werewolf attacks and sightings. Each one more difficult to stomach. People from all lifestyles and bckgrounds facing the same sad fate. There was an animal at work here, it was obvious; the deaths were unrelated the killings indiscriminate. Bodies were mutilated and mauled beyond recognition. But was it a werewolf? There is no such thing. But what could it be? Every report recalls the same thing: An animal-like creature, like a wolf, that moved on both all fours and on its hind legs. At full height, it stood over six feet tall and was built like a large man; a Wolf-Man.

I lay on my bed, waiting for sleep to claim me. Sleep did not come. The dreams came, instead, too impatient for sleep to arrive. The teeth, the eyes, the screams. My heart pounded in my chest. Something was alive inside of me. I raced to the bathroom. I splashed water on my face. I looked in the mirror. The screams rang in my head. I tried to shake them. I looked at myself. I need to shave again. My chin and cheeks were rough with short hair. Tomorrow, I thought. I looked at my eyes. They were drooped with exhaustion.

As I stood there, inspecting myself, I could have sworn I had fallen asleep and was dreaming again. The hair on my face began to grow before my eyes. I shook my head again. It was not a dream. I opened my mouth and inspected my teeth. They had grown long and silver, sharp like razors. My hands grew hair and my fingernails grew out like claws. I felt my face; like something was pushing from inside. My nose and mouth grew out, into a muzzle, lined with sharp teeth and a red tongue. I fell to the floor. With great pain I watched myself sprout dark hair like fur from all parts of my body. My hands and feet grew like claws and my legs grew long and dark, strong, too. My ears grew points and moved to the top of my head. Lastly, my eyes, once a sparkling blue, washed over with red.

They go about their business, unchecked by the government. They are allowed to go through every country’s airspace without the proper licensing or identification. They bomb innocent victims every day in every city. The enemy I speak of may sound astounding, but I believe birds are the next major world terrorists.

Birds of many different types populate countries around the globe. They are allowed on the ledges of the White House and the Kremlin. Pigeons are allowed to listen in on the government’s secrets through open windows. Thanks to a desk situated between two windows, they are also allowed to view the president’s files as he unknowingly munches away at bonbons and muffins.

Every country gives the birds free reign of their respective airspace. They are allowed over Tokyo, Paris, and even New York. Hasn’t anyone ever noticed the overwhelming ratio of the pigeon to person population in New York? I firmly believe that they are preparing an invasion, and could strike any time.

Birds are strategic bombers. From the time they hatch, birds are trained to fly and drop steaming piles of bird excrement over sidewalks, cars, and even United States citizens. I have been hit by one of these excrement bombs. I was sitting, minding my own business, when bird waste matter dropped dead center in my lap. Only well-trained soldiers can be so precise. It is simply a matter of time before birds are fed bullets or tiny nuclear weapons.

If one were to look up in the early evening hours in McCook, Nebraska, one would notice the flight patterns of the millions of winged soldiers, twittering over their heads. These patterns can only mean that the birds are giving directions to larger bombers, preparing to lay waste to the city. These birds practice their bombing technique over unsuspecting cars and students.

With an army, there must be a leader. I have found out the name of this villain. He speaks to the children of the United States every morning with a smile. He teaches them letters and numbers, hoping one day they will rise up and join the great bird army. This leader’s name is Big Bird. A name most recognize from Sesame Street. Most of our minds have already been polluted by his words.

Being wanted and considered dangerous in five neighboring territories can make life rather hectic. Running from sanctuary to sanctuary has only the benefit of staying in shape; otherwise, it yields only pure exhaustion.

I found myself taking refuge with Azdala Hyuen. She and I had worked together before and I knew I could trust her, so when my “ventures” brought me to her sector, I thought I’d drop in to ask a favor. She lived in an underground safe house near the center of Neo Casana. It was cozy, to say the least; it was wall-to-wall processors and servers, with only two glowing monitors, and only room enough left for not much more than two people. You’d imagine USCorp would be able to track her down with as much traffic is coming through her interface, but the girl had done her homework. She had written her own Red Herring program, one that detected possible trace programs and quickly rerouted the servers to send them on a virtual wild goose chase, usually after rival punks. So with that constantly running and dozens of multi-coded firewalls, little Azdala was able to keep out of sight. A perfect place to continue my work.

Strolling through the center of Neo Casana reminded me of what I was doing and why. what was once a sprawling metropolis was now a desolate landscape. While the skyscrapers remained, and some poor, unfortunate souls with no place else to go lingered in the run-down shops and alleys, the place was deserted. The few people who remained were considered criminals like Azdala and myself; the rest were poor families too terrified to leave the abandoned buildings they called home. Fire fights broke out in the streets, sometimes between USCorp Shock troopers and roving bands of punks, sometimes between rival punks. As for myself, I carried a SigmaTech pistol with me at all times, as did Azdala. We both had made our share of enemies, so it was a necessary precaution.

It was a late night for me. If you asked me the day, I could never tell you. Calendars went the way of the buffalo for me the day I entered into this profession. I was ticking away at one of the green monitors when Azdala strolled in with a box under one arm.

“Out,” she said coldly as she moved to one of the back rooms. I kept typing at my console as if she had said nothing, but inside, I kicked myself for even coming to her for help. Still, I knew that this was the best place for me to continue my work; someone I knew I could trust, using equipment I knew couldn’t be found.

She sat down next to me. “Leo, since you came here, have I asked you what you’ve been doing?”

It took me a minute, but I realized she hadn’t. “No, I guess not,” I answered.

I can’t recall the exact timeline, but I can tell you this: About three hundred years before I came to Neo Casana for the first time, the U.S. government was bought out by an enormous corporation. The CEO of this corporation declared himself Emperor and instituted martial law. This became USCorp, the enemy. After three hundred years, USCorp had acquired a Majority of N. American and European nations as part of its politico-corporate war machine, and the end result was a plague of poverty. The poor became poorer while the rich became richer, and those who wanted to survive had no choice but to consolidate with USCorp. But there was one way to fight. People like myself and Azdala (punks as we are called) use computers to hack into USCorp’s numerous bank accounts. Using our own programs, we redirected the funds to either ourselves or other nations, taking the USCorp’s money so they can no longer fund their armies. It was hard, time-consuming work, and there were those who found it more profitable to work against us because of USCorp’s influence, so our work was rarely productive. The most difficult part was finding USCorp money because they had numerous accounts all over the globe, so it was nearly impossible to completely drain all of their resources. Still, we knew our efforts were enough to hinder USCorp, and that was what fueled our fire. I made it my job to try to design a program that would track down as many USCorp accounts as possible and drain them completely. The idea was to hack into one account and introduce the virus. From there, it would multiply and find its way into other accounts as money was moved. It would then need to redirect the money into a foreign account, and then disappear. Any punk will tell you, that is not an easy program to write, and that’s why I chose Azdala. She was basically invisible, and as long as I was with her, so was I.

After about all day on a computer, running multiple windows and typing endlessly, the only thing you can see when you shut your eyes is bits and bytes and computer code, and no matter how tired you are, it is impossible to sleep. I got up from my bunk among the humming hard drives and went into a room that passed for a kitchen. It had a sink, a stove, a table and a refrigeration unit, but, like every room in Azdala’s apartment, it was filled with CPU’s, and was thus a nightmare to move about in at night. I opened the fridge and grabbed a bluish drink, not knowing or really caring what it might actually be. I had no more than sat down than Azdala came in and turned on the light.

She was wearing a blue robe that only came to about mid-thigh and plunged deep into her neckline. I can’t remember if I was staring, but if I was, she didn’t say anything.

“Not really,” she said. “I heard you get up and I thought I’d keep you company.”

“Thanks.” I sipped my drink. It was sweet and cool, and just about what I needed to get to sleep. I looked at Azdala.

She looked down. “Don’t do that,” she said. “I don’t want to go there again.”

“It’s alright,” she said, putting her hand on my arm. “It’s sweet of you, but you know how I feel.”

I thought back. I could remember how much longer she had her hair back then. She and I were working for a boss who needed money and preferred not to earn it. He hired us to take as much from USCorp as we could in two days. What we didn’t realize was that the computers he had us working on were bugged, and USCorp shock troops were all over us by day two. Our employer took the high road and shot himself, leaving Azdala and I to fend for ourselves. That was the day she died.

She got up from the table. “I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Leo.”

Just before our boss had liberated himself from all responsibility, he managed to set the self-destruct mechanism on his facilities. Azdala and I had only a few minutes to escape, and our only way out was into USCorp hands.

Another explosion split the floor in two, and Azdala found herself dangling over the burning basement. She screamed.

I started for the exit, but something in my stomach (probably her beautiful brown hair) kept me there.

I jumped down into the basement. Even with rolling, I somehow managed to twist my ankle.

“No, I'm okay,” I said, getting underneath her. “Just jump. I’ll catch you.”

Just as I yelled ‘Jump!’, USCorp shock troops came in and the remaining floor Azdala was clinging to gave way, and she fell, as I planned, right into my arms. Even though I caught her, I reeled back as pain shot up my leg.

She helped me up and helped me across the burning sub level. Together, we opened a sewer grate and wriggled down it as the rest of the building burned down around us. We crawled through several feet of narrow sewer pipe before we came out into an open area in the sewer system.

“Don’t you dare think that what you did can change anything, Leo,” she fumed. “That was idiotic and you know it.”

“Look,” she explained, “I’m really sorry, Leo, but what was going on between us is over. You can’t get it back, even if you saved me from a burning building.”

“Neither do I,” she replied. “Truth is, I’m not even certain why I feel the way I do. All I know is that I can’t go on like this. It’s not fair to either one of us.”

Her words felt like a punch in the gut. I had made her my world, and now she wanted me to let it all go. I didn’t know what to say.

With that, I watched her disappear into the damp catacombs of the abandoned sewer while I stood, hunched and panting, in a daze of melancholy.

I eventually limped back to my loft. For two days, I just lay there, waiting for anything. On the third day, my comport beeped at me. I picked it up and opened it. It was a message from Azdala. She had intercepted a USCorp transmission reporting the death of one wanted hacker and the escape of another during the siege of a punk headquarters. The punk still at large was me; the fatality was listed as Azdala.

I sat straight up, sweating cold and breathing heavily. I looked around my cot. I recognized my surroundings as my temporary bunk in Azdala’s apartment, and Azdala was sitting there, next to me on the bed.

We made it a point to only go to the surface if it was inescapably necessary. For whatever reason, she thought it was inescapably necessary.

We were in the bad part of a bad town in a bad, bad, bad, bad world. Not even our pistols made me feel safe. Still, I trusted her, and that trust was my lifeline.

She brought me to a tiny shop located in a hidden alley. Obviously, its proprietors were as concerned with anonymity as Azdala and I. I took that as a good sign.

The old clerk smiled back. “Hey, Az. Good to see you. What brings you to this neighborhood?”

For about three years, Tech and I played the role of partners in an endeavor to write the virus that would bring about the downfall of USCorp. We stayed up late nights, staring at code and ticking away at our keypads. We were about three quarters of the way done when he got a call from a client in need of a deciphering program. When he heard the amount of money at stake, he immediately begged me to come along and put the virus on the back burner for now, assuring me that USCorp would still be around when we got done. Unfortunately, I agreed.

When we arrived at the address we were given, we met with the client; a USCorp insider with dreams of upper management; and two other hackers; a kid called Binary, whose expertise happened to be cracking some of the most complex mathematical codes ever conceived by man or machine; and Azdala, with her brown hair flowing down over her shoulders.

This would be the first time I laid eyes on Azdala, and the last time she was absent form my memory. Everything about her struck me with grace and charm, but I knew I had to stay professional. This was business, not a single’s bar.

We were each given a sign-on bonus, but the entire sum wouldn’t be paid until the program successfully decoded a digital USCorp memo. We only had one shot, because as soon as it was running, USCorp was onto our Desk Jockey. I began working with Binary. He was a skinny boy, and jittery as a capuchin on cappuccino, but worth his weight in gold. He was a genius, working entirely in programming language. Basically, I wrote the actual program with his help. Using older USCorp memos as templates, we worked to construct a code that would translate the newer transmissions, but we would never be sure until we tried it out.

Tech and Azdala worked on the security programs. That was Azdala’s specialty -- never being caught. They wrote the aspect of the program that allowed us to run it without being noticed, at least for as long as possible. I watched them work together, and all I could think about was talking to her, but I knew I had to keep my distance for the sake of the mission. I tried to ignore it, telling myself to keep it professional, but there was something about this girl. She proved to be harder to ignore than I thought.

When it came time to finally bring both aspects of the program together, I immediately found myself working very closely with Azdala. Since I was the primary engineer for the project and she was in charge of the security, it was pretty much a given that we would be working together in the final stages. I made sure that the two programs would work together as one and not interfere with each other’s objectives, and she made sure any modifications I made didn’t compromise the security program in any way. Somewhere in about the three billionth line of code, I became intoxicated with her presence.

I apologized quickly and tried to move the conversation along. “It’s been great working with you. I mean you and Binary. Tech and I haven’t worked with anyone so talented as you two.”

“It tells the program to begin from the beginning. We’d never get to the money if we left it,” I explained.

“It was probably Tech,” I told her. “He’s used to writing code that involves moving money a number of times. He puts in a return command and a randomizer so when the program restarts, there’s a different account number each time.”

“Well,” I said, “there could be an IF-THEN statement telling the program IF there is no money left in the pirated account, THEN end the program. Or maybe it doesn’t end, and if any more money is put back into the account, it is moved immediately.”

“It’s about as basic as it gets,” I replied. “I could show you a few things if you want me to.”

We went into the basement of the shop. Like Azdala’s apartment, it was packed with CPU’s and monitors humming with electricity. In the middle of the room, turned around in his chair, typing at the main monitor, sat Tech. Azdala got his attention.

He spun around. “Azdala!” he smiled. “Good to see you. I can always count on a visit from you as long as I have something you need.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same about you,” she retorted. “You remember Leo.”

She stepped aside so Tech could get a better view of his former partner. His face remained expressionless. “I remember Leo,” he said. “How could I forget?”

I had just finished a tutoring session with Azdala. I was trying to show her everything I could to make her as good of a engineer as I or Tech, but when two people are young and in love, there are plenty of distractions to go around.

“I love you, too.” I said with confidence. “I have since the day I met you.”

We finished our lesson and she was leaving just as Tech was returning from the bar.

“How did the lesson go?” he asked. I could see that the alcohol had gotten to him. The malice weighed in his words like quarters in a sock. He had no interest in the quality of the lesson; only jealousy.

He threw down a bottle he had carried in. “No reason,” he said. “Just wondering how long you sat here before you slept with her.”

“Yeah, you know what I mean. I know what you guys have been doing. Don’t try to deny it.” His eyes grew greener with every word.

“We haven’t done anything!” I was growing impatient with him and I wanted him to know it.

He stood back up. “We’re partners, Leo. We do this fifty-fifty. Ever since she came along, you’ve lost your focus.”

“No, Tech,” I said, “ever since she came along, you started drinking and you’ve lost your focus.”

“Then you don’t try to blame this on her,” I yelled back. “What’s with you, anyway, man? You never used to drink.”

He dropped his eyes for a moment. When he brought them back up, they were filled with tears. “I love her, Leo,” he sputtered. “I’m in love with Azdala.”

I stood silent and stunned as my partner walked out for the last time. I never though I’d see him again.

“It’s been a while, Leo,” said Tech, calmly. “I didn’t really expect to see you again.”

I shrugged, not knowing what else to do for the moment. “Well,” I said, “Time makes fools of us all.”

“Indeed,” spoke Tech. “Well put. But as for the business at hand; yes, Azdala, I have your order. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy to get.”

“I never doubted that,” she told him, “but I was hoping I could get it without so much hassle.”

“In due time,” said Tech, “in due time.” He turned around to his desk and clicked his mouse twice. He turned back around to face us. “For now,” he continued, “there is some unfinished business between Leo and I.”

“Just give me what I paid for,” Azdala commanded. She had never been one to abide nonsense, and Tech had just crossed that threshold.

“You’ll get what’s coming to you,” Tech assured us. “You see, doing what I do allows me to make contacts with many different groups, many of them interested in the work both of you are doing. Just now, I sent a message to USCorp telling them I have you in my custody.”

At this command, the old clerk from upstairs came down, pistol drawn. Tech produced a blaster of his own.

After Tech had left, it became apparent that he had taken the entire virus with him. Countless years of work lost to a petty rivalry. I had no choice but to start from square one..

Starting over wasn’t easy. Even though I had taught Azdala as much as I could, she was still a novice, and nowhere near the degree of skill as I was. I was in love with watching her type away for hours, getting frustrated from time to time from the complexity of the program.

Then I would get up from my desk and walk behind her. I crouched down and slid my arms in under hers. Using my hands as guides, I typed out her line for her.

“What are you going to do after USCorp falls?” she asked. A tough question, indeed. I had been a punk for most of my life, and when USCorp fell, and I was finally free, what would I do with my freedom? Running was all I had done, and running was all I could do. What would I do when I had the choice?

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I’ve been an outlaw for so long, I don’t know if I could be anything else.”

“I want to live in the tropics,” she said. “I want to see something beautiful before I die.”

That’s how most of our talks were. We’d exchange “I love yous” and kisses and share what was inside of us. That was the only time the world ever made any sense.

Working together, Azdala and I came up with about two-thirds of a program. Not quite what Tech and I had accomplished, but darn well worth congratulating ourselves for. It was about that time that we met our ill-fated client and our romance met its end in a crumbling warehouse.

“Yes, you heard me,’ answered Tech. “There is a bundle of money on both of your heads. No sense in letting Opportunity stand at the door, knocking his knuckles red and not answer. I know what you’re doing, Leo. You’re still working on that virus from before. What happened to fifty-fifty?”

“The original, yes,” he cooed. “It’s a shame I lost it when USCorp burnt my apartment to the ground. Then they accosted me to work for them. At first I refused, but when I realized what was at stake, I couldn’t say no.”

“Well, first of all, I get an enormous reward for turning in the rotten, stinking corpse of Leo Wakachowski, most wanted man in our sector; second, I get the satisfaction in knowing I brought about his ruin; and third, I am going to get back the virus I worked so hard on for so long and I am going to use it to my advantage. Once I have all of USCorp’s money, control will be mine.”

“Eventually,” he said. “For now, I still need you to get me that virus.”

“Why should I just give it to you?”
“Well, either way, you’re dead,” he told me. “But if you don’t, Azdala goes first.” He pointed his gun at Az.

“Just do it, you coward,” said Azdala. “Just squeeze the trigger, big man.”

“What?” Azdala gave me the sharpest look I had ever seen. “You’re just going to give it to him?”

“Look,” I said, “either way, i’m dead. At least this way, you’re safe.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “He doesn’t deserve that work. That was ours.”

“This is the worst time for you to be a hero, leo,” she scolded. “You always think you have to be a hero.”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” reminded Tech. “Just get me my disc so I can kill you.”

With pistols in our backs, Azdala and I led our boys back to her den. She walked close to me. “You’re such an idiot,” she whispered.

“You should have just let him kill us,” she hissed. “At least he wouldn’t have the virus.”

Before I could answer, Tech cleared his throat to remind us whose barrel was sweating our spines.

“Just let me take care of it,” she said. “Don’t say a word when we get there.”

We got arrived and Azdala entered her security code to open the main hatch. Once inside, I kept true to my word and kept silent. Tech demanded the disc immediately.

“Once I collect on both your bounties and I bring down USCorp, I will be a rich, rich man, Azdala. And powerful, too. Once I grant you a full pardon, what do you say to being my mistress?”

“I’d always admired that about you, Az,” he said, circling her as a buzzard circles fresh carrion. “You never take any crap from anyone. You’ve always had a mind of your own.” He brushed her hand againt her cheek.

“Or I’ll...” before I could even think of a decent threat, his blaster fired a bolt into my left leg, dropping me to the floor.

He spun around. “What’s this?” he asked. “Tough-as-nails Azdala Hyuen asking for mercy on someone else’s life?”

“Maybe I should up the stakes.” He pointed his pistol, this time, at my head. I was saved only by Kip’s return.

Kip opened the small brown box in Tech’s presence. I held my breath. I recognized it as the box Azdala had brought home just a couple days prior, but I had no idea what was inside. I could feel the end coming.

“Here it is,” reported Kip again. He held up a small, two inch, round data disc for all to see.

Azdala didn’t blink. “He’s the only one who knows the access codes,” she said.

“The virus never had access codes,” sneered Tech, raising his own blaster to my head. “I know, I wrote most of it.”

“You wrote the copy that was destroyed,” reminded Azdala. “The copy I helped write; the copy you have now, has access codes. I wrote the security program myself to ensure that Leo was the only one who could run the program.”

“No,” breathed Az. “I just wrote the program. I had Leo fill in the codes so he was the only one who knew them.”

Tech’s eager arm dropped. “So I have to let him live that much longer?” he asked.

Tech grabbed me by my collar and slapped the disc into my hand. “Take care of it,” he told me, and shoved me into my work station. I slipped the disc into the computer and waited for it to boot up.

“I don’t know if we should do this from here,” I told him, trying to buy more time.

“Shut up,” he said and pressed the barrel of his pistol into the back of my head.

I clicked the keys, hoping I didn’t ruin Azdala’s somehow flawless plan, however haphazard it seemed to be.

The fake filepath seemed to make sense, but I doubted it would go anywhere. Much to my surprise, a message came up, asking for a 25-digit access code. My breathing became heavy, and I worried that my nervosa gave away the fact that this was all a bluff. Tech didn’t seem to notice, though, so I went to work.

Slowly, I pecked, digit by digit, some random code string, quietly praying to Whomever that it would work.

“Hurry up,” the cold muzzel of the blaster pressed hard into my skull. I breezed through the last ten digits, not even sure which I had selected. I hit Return. A new messagebar came up to report the verification of my pseudocode. With as much suspense as there was in that tiny room, I never heard the snap behind me.

As the verification bar wound down, a new bar popped up to report: ACCESS DENIED. Tech’s patience had worn to a sliver.

“You typed in the wrong code?” he shouted. “Quit wasting my time!” His barrel once again pressed into the back of my head and I heard the click of a trigger and electronic sound of a bolt being fired. I closed my eyes, knowing my end was now but still relieved he never got the virus. When I opened my eyes again, the cold barrel was gone from the base of my neck. I turned in my chair and saw Azdala standing over Tech’s dead body, Kip’s pistol in her hand, and his limp body laying, wide-eyed where he had stood but a few moments ago.

As it turned out, Az had acquired a template program for access codes. That was all the program was. Though I’ll never figure out how the filepath I typed booted the program, I don’t think I’ll question it, so long as I’m alive.

We had abandoned her underground den for the last time. She had her bag with her, with only the barest of necessities. I had a similar pack on my back, and my virus with it. I looked into her eyes.
“I always loved your eyes.”

William Faulkner explains away his short story “A Rose for Emily” by calling it a ghost story. “That came from a picture of the strand of hair on the pillow. It was a ghost story. Simply a picture of a strand of hair on the pillow in the abandoned house” (Faulkner 1491). At least, I originally thought that he was just being rather sarcastic with a pesky interviewer and explaining away the magnificence of the story, but when I thought about it more I found that there could be some truth in “A Rose for Emily” as a ghost story.

If “A Rose for Emily” is a ghost story, it is not Homer’s ghost who matters. Homer, as far as we know, stays firmly dead. It is only his memory that haunts the place. Instead, it is the ghosts of Emily’s hopes and dreams which haunt the old house. When we first met Emily, she is still young; she is not very beautiful, but that never stopped any girl from dreaming. Faulkner says, “In this case there was the young girl with a young girl’s normal aspirations to find love and then a husband and a family” (Faulkner 1491).

It is Emily’s dreams of love and happiness which die. She goes from a sweet young girl to a bitter old woman to a single strand of gray hair. Yes, she kills Homer physically, but he killed her heart. He tread upon every dream she ever had, the happiness which was so close, but so far away. Who is to say which is worse? To kill the body or the inner man? “A Rose for Emily” is a ghost story, and Emily is the ghost; when Homer destroys her hopes and dreams, everything but her shell of a body dies. She judged that if she was to die, he must also.

Faulkner, William. “The Meaning of ‘A Rose for Emily.” The Story and Its Writer. Ed. Ann

America faces an important crossroad this election year. We are at a point in time where a wrong decision could be very costly. American voters have two very distinct choices that will have two very distinct consequences. If John F. Kerry is elected president, America will cease to be the America that we know today. There will be higher taxes, more federal spending, and, most importantly, a weaker national defense.

If an average American citizen were asked if he or she paid enough in taxes, the answer would probably be a resounding yes. Yet, John Kerry vows to repeal the Bush tax cut if elected. Kerry has stated that the rich don’t pay their fair share in taxes, but in reality, the top 1% of incomes pay 90% of the total taxes paid each year. Kerry has a history of either voting against tax cuts or voting for tax increases. In fact, according to congressional records, Kerry has made such votes three hundred and fifty times. For example, when Kerry was serving as a senator under Bill Clinton he voted for the biggest tax increase in American history. Then, in 2001, he voted against George Bush’s historic middle class tax cut. If Kerry were to be elected president, we can almost be assured of paying higher taxes; his Senate voting record speaks for itself.

John Kerry also has a poor voting record when it comes to government spending. Americans are paying more taxes now than at any point other point in history. One of the major reasons is that government spending continues to increase. Kerry doesn’t seem to mind. According to Congressional records, he has voted against a balanced budget at least five times during his senate career. Other fiscally irresponsible votes include at least three key votes against lowering overall government spending. When it comes to tax payer’s money Kerry can’t seem to spend enough, thus he continues to vote for tax increases. Kerry even went as far as voting five times to raid the social security trust fund because he didn’t want to cut government spending. Is this the type of fiscally irresponsible President America wants?

The most important issue facing America today is the threat that we face from International terrorism. America needs a strong president who is willing to support our military. Kerry does not fit that description. His Senate voting record proves that he is in favor of downsizing our military and that he has a history of not properly supplying them. Most recently he voted against the $87 billion allotted to support our troops in Iraq. Then, under Clinton in 1993, Kerry proposed a plan to cut numerous defense programs, including: a cut in the number of Navy submarines and their crews, reduce the number of light infantry units to one, reduce tactical fighter wings in the Air Force, terminate the Navy’s coastal mine hunting program, and force the retirement of no less than 60,000 members of the armed forces in one year. Fortunately the rest of Congress had enough sense not to co-sponsor the bill, so it never received a vote, but it shows what Kerry really feels about having a strong national defense. One of the key weapons America has to fight terrorism is our intelligence info structure. In 1995 Kerry proposed a bill gutting $1.5 billion from the intelligence budget. Again Kerry could not find a co-sponsor for the bill so it never received a vote. With this type of voting history towards America’s military and intelligence, wouldn’t it be dangerous to have him as President?

Come November America has a very important decision to make. The decision comes down to whether or not we want a President like John F. Kerry. A man who would likely raise taxes, raise federal spending, and weaken our national defense. Can America afford a President like this?

Ah, Harvest Gold. I had forgotten about Harvest Gold, and Avocado Green and the other decorator colors of the late sixties and seventies. They were not my favorite colors, but decorators of the day combined green and gold accented with orange, or combined brown and orange accented with gold. Stylish living rooms, kitchens, and bedrooms throughout the land were decorated in these colors. The harvest color palette carried over into other realms of life, both large and small. Clothing, cars, office cubicles, appliances, and household accessories were all made in this bold, albeit ugly color palette.

The reason for this history lesson is to give the proper backdrop for the story of my favorite Harvest Gold salad bowl. I loved this bowl. Dimensionally, it was a full three or four inches larger at the top than at the base, and it stood about six inches tall. It was perfect for making taco salad. I like to marinade the hamburger and tomatoes in Catalina dressing, then add the other ingredients on top and toss the salad together at mealtime. The narrow base of the bowl made this technique possible. It was also convenient for the amount of potato salad I typically made in those days. With the airtight seal in place, my Harvest Gold hero kept food fresh for several days.

Why all this fuss about a bowl? Let me explain. I owned the large salad bowl, complemented by six individual bowls for many years while my kids were growing up. Unknowingly to me, the large bowl became a symbol for the years I cherished when they were small and underfoot in the kitchen. When young hands wanted to help, by stirring the fruit cocktail and Cool Whip together, the bowl was large enough to contain the whole mess. The small bowls served up chicken noodle soup, Cheerios, and ice cream to our family on a daily basis. One by one, the microwave melted the smaller bowls, or they fell victim to the heating element in the dishwasher. The large bowl was scuffed on the outside and scratched on the inside, making its appearance rather tacky. One day I decided it was time to garage sale my favorite salad bow and order a spiffy new one; one without scratches or dings, or stains from red Jell-O. What a huge mistake! Much to my surprise, Tupperware had discontinued the bowl, without even consulting me! I was insulted! I was enraged!

I searched for new bowls and purchased many, but I was never able to find one that I liked as well. I didn’t realize the emotional attachment our family had to the Harvest Gold salad bowl. On more than one occasion, we longed for the bowl to stir up brownies, or bread, or salad, but it was no longer on the shelf.

A few months ago, my daughter Amy and I were discussing placing an order for some Tupperware pieces. Once again, I was lamenting the fact that I had sold my all-time favorite bowl. “I’m sure that someday a grandma will retire, and sell her stash of Tupperware, including a salad bowl. When that happens, buy it,” I instructed.

During our conversation, we also remembered a favorite neighbor once owned the same bowl. On more that one occasion, she filled her bowl with homemade donuts for us. They were such a treat! Merlyn’s donuts required large mugs of coffee or hot chocolate to be served with them, but that is another story for another time.

Last Saturday, Amy called and asked us over for dinner. She said she had a present for me and she was anxious to give it to me. She also said, “This is no big whoop, but I was really excited to find this for you.”

With that tag line, who could resist? I had to go to Colby and see what kind of a gift she had for me. I wasn’t sure why she was giving me a gift because it wasn’t my birthday, anniversary or Mother’s Day, and Valentine’s Day had passed. However, Amy is a thoughtful gift giver, and she doesn’t necessarily wait for a special occasion to give. She works hard to come up with the perfect gift, and the wrapping paper she selects is generally significant in some way. She presented me with a large box, wrapped in gold paper and decorated with swirls of purple ribbon. Inside the box, carefully nestled in a mount of shipping paper, was a Harvest Gold salad bowl, accompanied by six junior-sized bowls. An absence of scratches made it perfectly clear; this set had never been used!

I can only imagine its history. Perhaps it was leftover stock from a retired Tupperware dealer. Perhaps a grandmother had purchased the set, and tucked it away without using it. Maybe she intended to give it for a gift; or maybe it was a gift to her that she didn’t need. Possibly, at an estate sale, the bowl caught the attention of an e-Bay dealer, who listed it in the midst of several thousand other “vintage” pieces on the Web. Through the magic of the internet, with help from a caring daughter, the Harvest Gold salad bowl found its way from Idaho, to Kansas, to its permanent home in my pantry.

Harvest Gold is still an ugly color but I will try to see the “new” set as Antique Yellow, or Midas Gold, or Mellow Sunset. Regardless of the color I choose, I will give the bowl a good home. Indeed, I feel like I have found a long lost friend, and once again everything is back to normal in my kitchen.

In the realm of worldly possessions, and the need to get ahead in life, many individuals sacrifice a piece of themselves in their never-ending struggle to get to the top. In "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas," written by Ursula K. Le Guin, the author delves into the deep problems of humanity ranging from the invariable “skin deep beauty” to “utter social denial.” Through this metaphoric representation of these sacrifices made by one or many individuals, Le Guin strives to address these problems with a stinging clarity, pushing these dilemmas deep into the heart of the reader. She uses the symbol and the metaphor to highlight the understanding and interpretation of the story to fit and entertain every audience.

Within the entirety of the story, Le Guin recognizes the fact that guilt and sacrifice play an everyday role in the lives of every human being. In Omelas, however, guilt is not recognized or understood. “One thing I know there is none of in Omelas, is guilt” (Le Guin, 269). Even though there exists a small, helpless, dying child lying beneath the very success that created Omelas, the people of the city construct excuses, and ignore the guilt for holding that child captive. As long as the child remains miserable and tortured, the entire city remains prosperous and healthy, but in the day that the child finds happiness, the townspeople lose everything. Because of this, the people of Omelas question the sanity of letting the child loose. Why lose prosperity of all to save one small child? “To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement; to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one; that would be to let guilt within the walls in deed” (Le Guinn, 271). The predicament still remains; sacrifice one for the good of everyone, or let everyone suffer, but suffer equally.

This problem shows itself a constant issue within every human life on this earth. Many individuals feel that a sacrifice must be made in such aspects as personalities, past experiences, and actions to achieve their own well being. They push it under the rug, and try to forget all about it. They feel no guilt and no pain for what they’ve done, and they move on, day to day with this burden on their chest, but they justify its action in the mere fact that it makes them look better on the outside. It makes them more appealing and, seemingly, happier. Their justifications provide them with their own sense of security and self-understanding, but this false sense of direction and self seems to do nothing but eat away at the individual from the inside out.

Not only does this affect the individual human being, but it also affects large groups of individuals combating this battle on the inside. Since every human fights this battle, naturally this aspect will introduce itself into the mainstream of society and culture. This fact comes into fruition in the form of individualized suffering. The pain and anguish is pushed and placed upon an individual, or a group of individuals, and thus, eliminates the pains of others. The story explicates this fact in detail. For the entire city to be happy and prosper, all of the suffering the city would normally have is placed on one small child locked up and underfed. They all know about it, but they feel no guilt as they justify its pain as a sacrifice to let them have a better life. Many times in our society, this role is placed upon our nations armies. Soldiers are sent over seas and into battles far away to keep the nations safe. As they die for our country, we forget that they exist and move on with the justification that their pain is for the country and for us. They are then swept under the rug and forgotten so as not to feel the guilt and pain.

TO BE COOL

John Benda

Since the beginning of mankind, teenagers have engaged in a ritualistic pursuit that has scared the slightly out of style pants off the older generations. They’ve been in pursuit of a little something we like to call, “being cool.” During the Stone Age, post-pubescent Neanderthals would do anything to get their hair-covered hands on the coolest rocks available. In the middle ages, a damsel in distress’ worst nightmare was to be rescued by a knight wearing last year’s line of mail. And today, any typical teenager could walk down his or her school hall, and with only one look, identify without effort whose cool, and who isn’t. But what exactly is “cool?” Who has it, and who decides who gets it? Most importantly, how does one acquire the desirable amount of “cool?”

Perhaps, the first step into finding “cool” is to list a few things that aren’t cool by anyone’s standards. Peeing ones pants in public is certainly not cool. Stealing from the elderly and kicking puppies would definitely kill ones ambitions for coolness. Polka and Jane Austin movies are one way tickets to non-coolness. While semi-annual showering, obsessive cheese-eating, and habitual use of the word “persnickety” don’t even need to be mentioned. But what makes these things non-cool? Is it written in some country’s bi-laws that peeing your pants isn’t cool? Or is it simply un-cool because beautiful, rich, and talented people don’t do it?

If the aforementioned concept is true, then perhaps, to be cool means to be beautiful. After all, who are cooler than actors and supermodels, and they’re beautiful. Plus, when a company wants its product to be perceived as cool, it uses beautiful people in the ads. Just the other day, I saw an advertisement for the trendy clothing store, The Buckle in the hall at school. The Buckle wants to sell clothes to kids, so they try to make kids think they’re cool. How do they do that? By putting a beautiful girl on their poster. They don’t cram a 360 pound trucker with no teeth into a pair of their $60 stone-washed jeans and take pictures of him for nation-wide promotional posters. It just wouldn’t be cool. So maybe cool means being beautiful. But if that were the case, there wouldn’t be any cool ugly people, which isn’t true. There are people like Bill Gates. That poor guy couldn’t have found a prom date to save his life, but is considered more or less cool. Then again, he has money. Hmmmmm….

Maybe being cool means having money. I mean, everybody likes rich people. They get to drive fast cars, have hundreds of friends, and they’re always on the news. Maybe that’s why actors and supermodels are considered to be cool, too. They have lots of money. But once again, if money equaled cool, then there wouldn’t be any cool poor people, which there are. For instance, I have this friend named Pete who hasn’t ever had any money to speak of. He buys all of his clothes second hand, and lives in a tiny run-down apartment. But in most circles, he is considered extremely cool. Of course, Pete plays the guitar. Hmmmm……

Perhaps, being cool means being able to play an instrument. After all, who garners more praise than rock and pop stars. Even the poor, nappy-haired, scrawny little ninety-pound wuss who hasn’t changed his underwear in a week can be considered cool if he can play a Dashboard Confessional song on his six-string. He doesn’t even have to play his instrument well. He just needs to learn a couple of cords, and jump around a lot, and he can play with Limp Bizkit. Then everyone will think he’s cool. So maybe this assumption is right, and to be cool, one should just learn how to play an instrument. But, can any instrument be considered cool? If “Joe Cool, the guitar crooner” is considered cool, why isn’t “Big Louie, the accordion stud” considered the same. Hmmmm….

Maybe to be cool means to be a beautiful and rich millionaire who can please everybody in the whole world, yet still be original, can buy most of their clothes at The Buckle, yet still get some second-hand, who only hangs out with other cool people, but still doesn’t alienate the “un-cool” people around them, can get straight A’s without studying like a nerd, who always votes for the right person, always looks the right way, always says the right thing, always goes to the right places, never says anything about what they’re feeling inside, never says the word “persnickety” and definitely never pees their pants in public. Or maybe, cool simply means that a person finds one thing he’s good at; one thing that he truly loves, and he does with confidence. I think that’s it. I think that being cool means grasping hold of something, and going at it with all ones heart. I think the kid that plays the accordion is cool if he’s confident that that’s what he loves to do. And the nay-sayers that stand around in their $60 stone-washed jeans and call him a nerd are the ones that aren’t.