The Book of Benjamin

Prologue

“So that’s the library,” said Janelle, concluding my tour of the library’s inner workings my first day on the job. I already knew a lot of it from volunteering there two mornings a week, but now I was seeing it all in more detail. “You just need to meet your coworkers from the evening shift – oh, and Benjamin, but you probably won’t meet him for a few weeks.”

“Who’s Benjamin?” I asked.

“He works on Fridays and Saturdays. But he has the next few weekends off because of high school graduation.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “Is he going out of town for one or something?”

“No,” said Janelle. “He’s in one.”

And that’s how I went from working as a school librarian to working alongside a teenager no older than the students I used to preside over.

Chapter 1 - Introductions

I heard it over and over for two weeks: “He’s really smart, like you! You like the same stuff! You’ll get along great!” But now that we were working our first shift together, he wasn’t living up to the hype.

“Wait a minute,” I said during our first conversation. “You mean to tell me you missed the eighties altogether?”

“Um, yes. Yes, I did,” he said.

I sighed. “I was really hoping we could be friends.”

“We can be friends!” he said. “I’m sure we have other things in common!”

“You just told me you’ve never even seen Princess Bride!” I said.

“So what?”

“So, that’s kind of important!”

Chapter 2 – Gadget Freaks

Oh, joy! It was going to be a good day at the library! New computers! New features! New extra large monitors!

New desktop backgrounds to play with!

“I’m going with this one!” said Benjamin. “It’s beautiful. Look, a spaceship!”

“Mine's a pumpkin,” I said, pointing out the Halloween theme.

Benjamin scoffed. “Mine's better.”

“Pumpkins are better than spaceships,” I argued.

He made a disgusted noise. “Pft. How many pumpkins have visited other planets?”

“We'll never know, will we? Because of the infinite blackness of space,” I said.

“What we should do is…” and he spent the next several minutes telling me about some science he read about somewhere, that would allow us to use protons to send information so that we can access the internet from distant planets. I’d like to explain it more thoroughly, but I was paying more attention to pictures of pretty pumpkins.

Finally, I said, “Why would we want to do that, until we're able to visit the distant planets and access the internet therefrom?”

“Because,” Benjamin said with a long suffering sigh, “other life forms are already there and they can meet us on the internet!”

I shook my head. “Interstellar internet dating? I don’t think it will work out.”

“Of all the millions of planets out there, one of them is bound to be a match!” he insisted.

I said, “Have you ever TRIED Chatroulette?”

Chapter 3 – Great Minds

In a book, I read that when Google tracks searches for flu symptoms, their maps of the searches mirror the CDC’s maps of flu outbreaks, only Google’s results come in nearly two weeks faster. I couldn’t wait to tell Benjamin.

He was suitably impressed. “Google should run for president!”

“I’m pretty sure you have to be a citizen first,” I said.

“It was technically born in America,” he pointed out.

“Good point,” I said.

“It should start by running for governor or something.”

I nodded. “I'd vote for it. It already tells me what to do and where to shop.”

“It'd be the perfect candidate: its opinions would change to match whatever is most popular! It could solve all the world's problems by running simulations before it implements the solutions in the real world,” said Benjamin.

“So how do we start the ball rolling?” I said.

“Beats me.”

I sighed. “We have the solutions to all the world's problems. If only we weren't limited by this crippling laziness that stops us from implementing them.”

“We could tell somebody?”

“That's too much work.”

Benjamin nodded. “Our solutions shall die with us.”

Chapter 4 – Shared Mortality

Suddenly, Benjamin stopped everything, pulled up the calculator application on his desktop, and punched in some numbers. He looked at me, face grave. “28,470,” he said.

“That’s a big number,” I said. “What is it?”

“That’s the number of days you’ll live if you reach the average life expectancy of 78 years old.”

“I take it back!” I said. “That’s not a big number at all!”

He typed more numbers in. “That’s only 4056 weekends.”

“That’s a small number!” I said, moving in to look at the numbers on his screen.

“I know!”

“How many have we lived already?” I asked.

“Using the average of our ages?”

“Sure.”

He typed some numbers. “We’ve already had 1248! We only have 2808 left!”

“Holy crap! What are we going to do?!”

Chapter 5 – Word Games

I stepped back from the display case to admire my work: a lovely tableau of children’s books with matching stuffed animals. Yup, I thought. The kids will love it.

“Nice,” said Benjamin from the circulation desk behind me.

“Do you like my fluffy octopus?” I asked, pointing it out.

“It’s very… fluffy,” he said, diplomatically.

“I just bought that leather-bound copy of 20000 Leagues Under the Sea yesterday,” I explained, joining him behind the desk to empty the return bin.

“And they include a fluffy octopus with every purchase?” he asked.

“No, I already had that. I really wanted to put him on display so I bought the book to justify it.”

“That’s… obsessive,” he said.

“Octopuses are awesome!” I said in my defense.

After a long pause, he said, “When you have more than one, I believe it’s ‘Octopi’.”

“No,” I said. “It’s octopuses. Greek, not Latin.”

“But if you bake them in a pie,” he said, “it could be octopie. Octopi pie.”

I nodded. “If you use eight octopuses in a pie, it’s octo-octopi pie.”

“Guys,” said Carla, gesturing at the pile of books at the circ desk. “Can we get back to these now?”

“Sorry,” we said together.

Chapter 6 – Just Yesterday

Carla slouched into her chair as the clock rolled over to 4:00PM. “Finally! No more passports!” The library is also a passport acceptance facility. The fees are a good source of money for the library, but it can sometimes be stressful for the librarians who double as passport agents. “When are you going to start training to do this?” she said, looking at me.

“Ha!” I laughed. “As disorganized as I am? Really?”

“It’s not so bad,” said Carla, heading toward the back to prepare the passports for shipping. “They just make you crazy when you have to do several in a row.”

“With you and Benjamin both doing them, one of us has to stay sane,” I called after her. “I’m like the designated driver!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Benjamin. “Let’s back that up a minute. ‘Stay’ sane? This presupposes that you are actually sane at this moment, and I think the evidence against you—”

I cut him off with a wave of my hand. “I just gave you the opportunity to use the word ‘presuppose’ in a sentence. I deserve points for that.”

He stuttered to a halt. “You’re right,” he said eventually.

And the discussion ended there.

Epilogue

“I told Matt our Google idea,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“He helpfully reminded me that you have to be at least thirty five years old to run for president.”

“Dang it!”

A Heartfelt Letter to My Friend Liz

 Dear Liz,

Many years ago, a brilliant group of college students (of questionable sobriety) philosophized over how many days they could spend playing video games in a dark basement before they all devolved into more primitive creatures. Thus the Cult of the Blind Cave Salamander was born.

As one of the founding members of the Salamanders, you do enjoy a certain number of enviable perks: in addition to automatic inclusion in no less than twelve zombie contingency plans, spanning most of the Midwest, you also have a spot reserved in the Utopian commune we all plan to erect should any of us ever win the lottery.

However, this membership also carries with it certain obligations: I am speaking, of course, of your duties to the group re: your unborn child. As you are aware, a member of the next generation of the Cult of the Blind Cave Salamander currently resides in your womb and it is your responsibility to raise that child in such a way that he or she contributes to the betterment of Salamander society.

Regrettably, the first step in assuring your child’s maximum usefulness to the group is one over which you have no control.

You see, Liz, I’ve done the math and I’m afraid you have to have a boy.

Quite simply, your child is the linchpin in our diabolic plot to take over the world. A misplaced variable at this point in the game could set back our plans to found the Salamander nation (tentatively called “Salamandia,” but the name is open for debate) by decades.

Soon you will join the ranks of Salamander mothers who have been strategically planning arranged marriages among their growing brood for several years now. Alas, a brief census of the Salamander children reveals that we currently have too many girls. If you and Aaron contribute yet another girl to this equation, the group may not recover from the lopsidedness for years – if ever, considering how many Salamander couples claim to have reached their upper limit.

If you have a girl, we may have to dilute the purity of the salamander race by allowing the children to marry outsiders. While there is some precedent for that (seeing as the Cult is in early days yet and your own happy marriage is the product of such an intermingling), if a suitable candidate cannot be found, your daughter may find herself relegated to the roll of priestess or virgin oracle – and the genes for those lovely red curls of yours would die with her!

If it was only a matter of making the arranged marriages work out, we could get around that, but there are other factors to consider. In order for our budding nation (or post-lottery Utopian commune) (or post-zombie-apocalypse safe zone) to be self-sustaining, our Salamanders must fulfill a number of very important jobs. We have plenty of doctors, scientists, engineers, and other clever-thinking types essential to the governance of our new country. We even have survivalists who aspire to garden, can preserves, and live off the land.

What we lack, though, are hunters and for that we need more men.

This is not to say that women can’t hunt, only that so far all of the female Salamander children (and at least one of the males) prefer dresses and princesses to being outside and tracking wild game. All girls are different and like different things, but while there is always the slightest chance that your little redhead will grow up to be the next Katniss Everdeen and single-handedly feed District Salamander, the odds are probably not in your favor.

“But wait!” you’re thinking, and right you are to think so. “What if I’m okay with the idea of having a Salamander priestess or virgin oracle?”

A valid point! Not many cults can say they have one, and such would give us a leg up on those poseur cults with the charismatic leaders and the spicy kool-aid.

Unfortunately, her presence would interfere with my own plans.

You may have noticed that Matt and I have spent the past several years currying favor among the younger Salamanders: buying Christmas presents for them each year, bringing them small gifts and party favors, not to mention a fabulous birthday card system I have brewing which will kick into effect when they are older. As such, by the time these children attain their majority, I will have garnered their unending devotion, and thus will be uniquely positioned to become their queen.

However, any daughter of yours, inheriting both your sweet personality and curly red hair, would obviously be the fairest of them all, and therefore stand in direct competition to my (totally benevolent) rule.

Years of Dollar Store Christmas purchases would be negated. You can’t let this happen, Liz.

Obviously, I understand there is probably nothing you can do to affect the outcome of this situation. But just in case there really is something to all that talk about the power of positive thinking, here it is: When you go in for your ultrasound, for the sake of Salamandia, think blue!

Reasons my job is better than yours

1. The job comes with a title.

“This is a really nice library!” said the elderly British lady, visiting from overseas.

Her daughter Rebecca, one of our regular patrons, agreed. “The kids love it here,” she said.

“And it’s so big, too! You can’t really tell from outside, but there’s so much space!”

“Actually, ma’am,” I interjected. “it’s bigger on the inside.”

“Ooh! Like a Tardis!” said Rebecca.

“Well,” I said, “it can take you to other times and places…”

But wait a minute, I thought. If I’m driving this Tardis, does that make me a Time Lord?

2. The Dewey Decimal System is flexible.

I was putting spine labels on the new books when I came across a book about cabinetry. "Nonfiction..." I thought. "740s... possibly 749 for furniture..."

I checked the sheet of spine labels in front of me...

But none of those looked right. 

I used my barcode scanner to look up the book in the computer. 

"Fiction? That's not right." I put a note on it and prepared to send it back to Cheri, our cataloger, for correction.

Then I wrote a fictional story about cabinetry to go with it.

"Once upon a time, in the mythical land of Cabinetry, there lived a bookcase who dreamed of being a knight. Now, as it happens, a built-in from the village down the lane dreamed of being a squire. 'Let us set out together,' said the bookcase, 'and seek adventures!' One day, just after the spring festival, a dragon came to Cabinetry..."

3. There are dinosaurs involved.
Originally created to advertise an event, Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates (from left to right) now live in the craft room and delight the children after story time.

Things I got to say at work that totally made sense at the time: "I need more paper. That was just a practice dinosaur." See also, "I'll get right on that. Let me just hide this T-Rex in the closet for now."

4. It's the finest library in the empire.

5. We keep a surfboard in the closet.

"Quick! Take the picture before the patrons start asking questions!"

6. We have puppet shows.

"How was work today, Tori?"
"I got to be a rabbit AND a bear. It was a very full day."

7. This:

"Excuse me, but where can I find picture books?"

Well…

Pass through the arch made of giant books…

Turn right at the beanstalk…

And check under the alligator.

100 Word Increments: Riding in Cars with Matt

On long car rides, I do my best to keep my husband entertained with scintillating conversation. Sometimes, he entertains me right back.

-

“Welcome to Killeen, Texas”

“What kind of name is Killeen?” I asked.

Matt shrugged. “It’s better than Slaughter.”

“What?”

“Slaughter, Texas,” he said.

I blinked. “Is it in Massacre County?”

“Something like that.”

“Is the Bates Motel there?”

“That’s the county seat.”

“Next to Happy Hannibal’s Steakhouse and BBQ?”

“It’s delicious.”

“You know, you can tell a lot about a state from the movies it brings to mind. Kansas – The Wizard of Oz, all nostalgic and over the rainbow. Oklahoma – nice, musical cowboys singing about beautiful mornings. Texas, on the other hand, had a chainsaw massacre.”

“It’s because of the traffic here,” Matt said.

-

TGIF?

“I like this song,” I said. “So cheerful.”

Matt scoffed skeptically. “You like a song about partying too hard?”

“Yup,” I said. “It’s catchy!”

“You’ve never partied,” Matt said. “Ever.”

“It’s still a fun song.”

“Shouldn’t we try it at least once?”

“Let’s just live vicariously through the music video,” I said, staring at him.

Several minutes later, he noticed and said, “Yes?”

“Just looking at you,” I said. “Can you guess what I’m thinking about right now?”

“Curious F-ing George?”

“No.”

“Beach balls?”

“No.”

“Tomato?”

“No.”

“Albuquerque?”

“No, it was ‘He’ll never guess what I’m thinking about right now.’”

-

Sullied.

“Look!” I said. “A fake kookaburra bird!”

“What?” said Matt.

“Kingfishers look just like kookaburras,” I explained. “My mom used to sing me the song.”

“What song?”

“Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree.

Merry merry king of the bushes he.

Laugh, kookaburra laugh

Kookaburra, gay your life must be,” I sang.

“Your mom used to sing to you about gay birds?” Matt said, laughing. “That explains sooo much about your childhood.”

“It’s a cute song! Don’t sully it!”

“Dear, you know I sully everything I touch,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, he poked me in the leg. “Touch!”

-

Thought Exercises

“Here’s one,” I said. “You drive a space taxi in the center of intergalactic commerce. Unfortunately, you’re a racist. What is the one alien species you never stop for?”

“Ferengi,” he said. “They never pay.”

I laughed. “Hutts, because they wreck the suspension.”

“Wookies, because they leave hair everywhere,” said Matt.

“No, I always stop for wookies. Otherwise, they’ll chase you down and rip your arms off.”

“Point,” said Matt. “Weeping Angels?”

“I don’t want to think about them!”

“It’s hard to drive when you have to keep watching them in the rearview mirror.”

“Conversation over!” I said.

(Don’t blink!)

-

Try Again.

We came up behind a truck transporting a pile of rebar, each piece as long as the semi trailer and as thick as my legs. “What does one even do with rebar that size?” I wondered aloud.

“Build bridges,” said Matt.

“Oh,” I said. We pulled up level with the truck. “Let’s try this again,” I said. “Think like a mad scientist. What does one even do with rebar that size?”

“Kinetic energy weapon.”

“Now you’re a spaceship captain.”

“Antennae.”

“Pretend you drive a Mech.”

“Field repairs.”

“You’re the iron chef.”

“Appetizers.”

This kept us entertained through half of Texas.

Need a Hero?

Even when I read comic books as a kid, I was never obsessed with the Avengers. Their comics were just something to pass the time while I waited for the next issue of Uncanny X-Men. Yet here we are.

About once a week, I curl up on the couch with a mug of hot tea and a cat in my lap and I watch The Avengers. I’m not tired of it yet. I still laugh at the funny bits. I still sniffle when a certain lovable SHIELD agent dies.

Obviously, something is missing from my spiritual diet.

See, nutritionists say we crave the things our bodies are missing. Like, you crave sweets when you’re not getting enough calories, or you crave oranges when you need more vitamin C.

At least, I think that’s right… I’ve never actually craved an orange before. It would be easier if I craved something as healthy as oranges. I crave sweets all the time though. Even if I’ve just eaten. Even if the thing I’ve just eaten is ice cream. Generally, what I crave is more ice cream.

Anyway, the theory is that I keep watching The Avengers because it’s fulfilling a need that is otherwise missing from my life. What is my brain trying to get from this movie, I wondered?

Do I need to stand for truth and old-fashioned values, like Captain America?

Do I need to “strut” and release bottled feelings as Tony Stark advised Bruce Banner to do?

Am I merely suffering from an abhorrent lack of mech-style body armor?

Do I need a hero, like the Bonnie Tyler song says?

Or…

Maybe…

Do I need to be more heroic?

---

That’s how I found myself seriously considering the earnest woman in front of me, soliciting volunteers for the Red Cross Blood Drive.

“You don’t need a cape to be a hero!” the pamphlet said.

“This is where, now?” I asked.

“We’ll be right here at the library. You wouldn’t even have to leave work!” She smiled in that way the puppies at the shelter smile, full of hope and enthusiasm.

“Okay,” I said, taking the offered clipboard and signing my name.

---

I wasn’t overly concerned in the weeks before my appointment. Sure, I’d never donated blood before, but this was me being brave! I’d be a hero, maybe save a life, and then I’d get a cookie and go home and watch The Avengers again. It was a win-win-win situation.

However, I grew more cowardly as the day of the blood drive approached.

“You’re giving blood, huh?” said a library patron when I mentioned it the day before. “I’ve tried that a few times. I always pass out, though.”

“Really?” I asked, horrified.

“Right to the floor.”

“Have you ever passed out after giving blood?” I asked a friend.

“No,” she said.

I sighed in relief.

“But this one time the guy next to me did.”

My spirits fell.

“Just don’t look,” said Carla, a former nurse. “It doesn’t hurt that bad when they stick you but there’s just something about watching your own blood draining out…” She shuddered, and so did I.

“What if I pass out?” I asked Matt later.

“Just move slowly afterwards and eat the cookie they give you,” he said.

“Yeah, but what if I pass out?”

He sighed and left the room.

---

I worried about it all day. Was I well rested enough? Had I drunk enough fluids? Did I eat enough iron?

Also, what if I pass out?

When I got off work at five, I walked down the hall to the library’s gallery, where the equipment was already set up. The woman with the happy-puppy smile greeted me at the door. “It’s so great that you could come!” She handed me four laminated sheets of single spaced tiny type. “Just read over these information sheets before we get started.”

The sheets went on at length about the various circumstances that would disqualify one from giving blood. “Does anyone actually qualify as a donor?” I asked.

The woman laughed. “It’s long, isn’t it? I’ll just take those back from you, then. Head on inside.”

A nurse with a lily tattoo led me to a laptop. “I’m going to take your blood pressure, screen your iron levels – that’s just a prick on your finger – and then I’ll have you do a questionnaire before we get started.”

As she spoke, I watched an older nurse assist a woman on a stretcher as a tube from her arm drained red into an exceptionally large pouch. That’s a lot of blood, I thought. Is it too late to leave?

“Your iron levels are great!” said nurse Lily, turning the laptop toward me. “Let me know when you’re done.”

It’s probably too late to leave.

I read through the questions, asking if I’d ever taken medications I’d never heard of, traveled to countries I’d never heard of, or slept with anyone who didn’t have the good sense not to also sleep with livestock.

When I finished, nurse Lily patted the stretcher. “Hop up and have a seat. We’ll get started.”

I tried to keep the trepidation from my face as she strapped a band around my upper left arm and poked thoughtfully at my inner elbow with her fingers. A line of concentration appeared between her eyebrows. “Do you mind if I look at the other arm?” she said.

“Okay?” I said, uncertainly.

The poking commenced on the other side. “Hmm,” said nurse Lily. “I’ll just check the left one again.” She strapped the band in place, waving for the other nurse. “Will you have a look at this?”

The old nurse I’d watched earlier came over and stared at my arm. “Make a fist for me,” she said, poking. “Now let it go.” More poking. “Now pump this stress ball.” Poking.

The nurses looked at each other. “Let’s see the right one,” the old nurse said.

After repeating the whole process, the old nurse patted my shoulder. “Maybe next time,” she said, not unkindly.

“Thanks for trying,” said nurse Lily. 

“Wait, that’s it?” I said.

“We can’t do it if we can’t find a vein.”

“I just had blood drawn for a test a week ago. I know they’re in there!”

She smiled, but her eyes were mischievous. Digging in a box on the table beside her, she said, “When they drew blood for your test, did they use a needle that looked like this?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “That’s the one.”

“Okay,” she said, digging out another. “But when you donate blood, we use this needle.”

I stared at the thick spike in her hand. I could have used it as a coffee straw. “Probably best not to go digging around with that, then,” I said.

“Probably not,” she agreed.

---

“How’d it go?” Matt asked later.

“I have no veins!” I said. “I’m a zombie! I’ve died and nobody told me!”

“Could you maybe back up and start again?”

I explained the situation to him.

“Okay,” he said, mulling it over. “But at least you didn’t pass out.”

I grumbled.

He pulled me in for a hug. “I think you were very brave for trying,” he said.

And maybe I was, a little. But I’ll probably spend my weekend watching The Avengers again.

Some Assembly Required, Part II

For part I, click here.

Having a mannequin in the library made things more interesting. We dressed her like a tourist and put out travel books. We dressed her like an Egyptian goddess and displayed books on Egypt and mummies. One time, we put her in a trench coat and fedora and showcased mystery books.

At first, Trixie traveled around the library while Cheri tried to decide where she was most visible but least in the way.  The patrons loved it. The other library workers and I were less enthusiastic.

“I keep catching her out of the corner of my eye,” I said.

“Like she’s a patron over there, waiting for someone to help her,” Carla agreed.

“You should see her when we close at night,” said Stephanie. “Standing there… in the dark…”

She didn’t stand still, either. Bits fell off at the slightest provocation. A light nudge would dislodge a hand or a leg. Curious children would scream in horror as appendages rained down around them. One of the arms sat on Cheri’s desk for nearly a week while she contemplated a better way to attach them. “I’m glad to see you embracing your second amendment rights,” I said.

One morning before the library opened, Cheri put the finishing touches on the New Years display of diet and workout books. “I got workout clothes for Trixie to wear,” she said, as Karyn brought out Trixie’s armless torso from a back room where she’d been put away.

“I dropped her head,” said Karyn, backtracking. “It’s in the kitchen.”

Cheri surveyed the scene. “We’ll have to take her off the base to get these pants on,” she said, when Karyn returned.

“That shouldn’t be too hard, since the pants are stretchy,” said Karyn.

A moment of silence followed. “Are they supposed to be stretchy?” said Cheri.

“Workout pants generally are,” said Karyn.

“How would I know that?” said Cheri. “Like I would ever do extra physical work outside the home?”

Behind the circulation desk, Carla and I stifled giggles. “What,” I said, “so if it’s inside the home, you workout naked? Is that what I’m hearing?”

Cheri laughed, but Karyn grew serious, “My brother-in-law did that! On his treadmill at home, he worked out naked, but then he fell and damaged the goods and used that as his excuse to never workout again.”

They struggled with the workout pants, which were not as stretchy as one would hope. “It looks like I’m getting intimate with this naked mannequin,” Karyn said, as she lifted Trixie higher. “Do you see where my hands are?” The two of them cackled gleefully.

Eventually, I went over to help them. “If tiny Korean immigrants in shops can dress a mannequin, so can you,” I said encouragingly, giving the pants a tug.

As we lowered her back onto her base, I stood back. “Dang, she makes these pants look good.”

“She looks like she works out, doesn’t she?” said Cheri, admiring our efforts.

“Either that or she has an eating disorder. I’ve never actually seen her eat.” We slipped on her shirt. “You couldn’t have ordered a chubby mannequin, to make us all feel better?” I said.

“We could have got one with bigger breasts,” said Cheri.

“Yeah, there was an option to select the breast size,” said Karyn.

“Because that’s the kind of thing that’s a priority when you’re ordering an artificial person,” I said, trying to keep the edge of sarcasm out of my voice, going back to the opening duties behind the desk.

Karyn fixed Trixie’s hair in a stylish ponytail, suitable for aerobics at the Y.

“Perfect,” said Cheri. “Do we have a sweat band for her?”

“It really HAS been a long time since you worked out,” said Karyn. “No one uses those anymore!”

“I do,” I said from the desk, but they didn’t seem to hear me.

“Well, what do you do when you get sweaty?” Cheri asked.

“You sweat! That’s how people know you’re working hard!” said Karyn.

“I’ve got one I could bring if you want,” I said, but was again ignored.

“Trixie doesn’t sweat,” said Karyn. “She’s one of those people who looks fantastic no matter how hard she works out.”

“Yes, I can tell,” said Cheri.

As they headed away toward their offices, Carla and I shook our heads. “Let’s see,” said Carla. “This morning we’ve already discussed breast sizes, scraping junk on a treadmill, hands in crotches… did I miss anything?”

“No, that about covers it,” I said.

“And we haven’t even opened yet.”

“Yeah,” I sighed, smiling. “I love this job.”

Ghost Seekers

(The following is a transcript from an unaired episode of Ghost Seekers™. Due to the frightening content of this episode, it has been kept from public television. Reader discretion is advised.)

Voiceover Guy: Tonight on Ghost Seekers™…

Tori: It’s as if I’m being watched.

Voiceover Guy: On the outskirts of Wichita, an ordinary couple…

Tori: Like there’s something in the shadows, staring at me.

Voiceover Guy: …shares their home with forces that can’t be explained. 

(Creepy Theme Song)

Max Darkmore: Hello, and welcome to Ghost Seekers™. I’m your host, Max Darkmore. Tonight I’m with the Hamiltons, a Wichita couple with a dark secret.

Matt: I want no part in this.

(Mr. Hamilton attempts to leave.)

Max Darkmore: Mr. Hamilton, we’re only here to help. If you could just talk to us about these unnatural forces…

Matt: Unnatural? No. You know what? No. I’ll be downstairs playing Starcraft.

(Door slamming.)

Tori: I think it’s hard for him. He likes to believe he can defend himself, but there is no defense… against the unknown…

Max Darkmore: What’s with the dramatic pause?

Tori: I thought that would be a good sound bite for you.

Max Darkmore: What?

Tori: You know, for the commercials!

Max Darkmore: Right…

Tori: I’m a big fan of the show!

Max Darkmore: Okay, listen, let me worry about the commercials. Why don’t you just tell us about these things you’ve been experiencing lately.

Tori: Well, mostly it happens when we leave the room. When we come back later, things have changed!

Max Darkmore: Go on…

Tori: Little things go missing and I find them in the darnedest places, like under the fridge, or behind the couch.

Max Darkmore: How peculiar!

Tori: Water glasses get knocked over… Sometimes, the houseplants will be completely healthy one day but droopy the next, as if some unseen entity has disturbed the roots! I’ve even found traces of potting soil on the floor surrounding the area!

Max Darkmore: It sounds like you have a high level of paranormal activity. Tell me, Mrs. Hamilton, have you ever actually seen a spirit or spirits manifest in your home?

Tori: No, not really… but sometimes I catch the cats staring at nothing and that’s kind of creepy.

Max Darkmore: Hang on… you say you have cats?

Tori: Ooh! Actually, sometimes, when I check on them in the morning, their food dish has mysteriously moved from one end of the room to the other!

Max Darkmore: Mrs. Hamilton…

Tori: Right across the floor! It’s as if it’s levitated!

Max Darkmore: It seems likely that these events you’ve experienced are simply-

Tori: And I haven’t even mentioned the noises! At night when we’re in bed, we hear them - like thumping footsteps running through the house with inhuman speed!

Max Darkmore: Inhuman, you say?

Tori: (nods) But there’s no one there!

Max Darkmore: (sighs) Okay, that’s it. We’re done here. Pack it up.

Tori: Is this where you cut to commercial?

Max Darkmore: Something like that.

(Creepy Theme Song)