Manuel nuked his dinner, sat down and shoved the luke-warm chunks of meat into his mouth, washing them down with a steaming cup of coffee. He clenched his burnt mouth and swiveled his chair around. Possessions scattered on his floor, he stood, circled his feet and cleared a path to his desk, turned back around and returned to the chair, rolling himself to the desk and starring blankly at the two-inch screen of his computer watch.

Jack had e-mailed him the entrance essay question. He took off his oil-covered hat and ran his fingers through his hair, read the question, alternating between biting his fingernails, smoking a cigarette, and gulping the jumbo-java sized coffee: Explain the events that led up to the universal language law.

“No, problem,” he told himself, “I’ve been reading about this for months now, years even.” Before he could organize his thoughts the computer chimed and its soothing voice said, “You have an instant message from…” and then a human voice, “It’s me Manuel.” Back to the computer voice, “Do you wish to accept this message?”

Manuel grunted, replied yes. A live picture of Julie appeared on his screen.

“Happy Valentine’s Day. It’s nice to know you’re still alive.”

“Julie, I don’t have time to talk right now. Sorry, but you know I have a lot of shit to do; it’s the end of the semester and I have to write my entrance essay for the FBL. And I still have to do a lot of reading. Hell, I haven’t even had a chance to do my whites; I’m not wearing any underwear.”

“Ooo, sexy. I won’t wear any either it’ll make you more comfortable,” she laughed.

“All you ever do is work. You never have time for me. Or anyone else for that matter. Can I at least come over and help you with it.”

Now Manuel laughed.

“You know what’ll happen if you do that. You’ll end up flirting with me and we’ll end up having sex.”

“Is that such a bad thing? Knowing you it’ll only take five minutes.”

“Ha, ha. You can come over if you promise you’ll help me with my work. Besides, I already jerked off today.”

“You scum bag! Probably while having cyber-sex.”

“Probably. No commitment there. Are you coming or not.”

“I will be in a few minutes, if everything goes right.”

“What?”

“Yes, I’m on my way.”

Manuel printed his Essay. “Print. FBL. Essay question.” He retrieved the paper and noticed that the small room was becoming smoky. He walked over toward the window and turned the ventilator on high.

Julie had arrived. She rang Manuel’s doorbell and he looked at her through the peri-window, her head magnified tenfold.
He spoke into the intercom. “What’s up?”

“Not much.”

“Good.”

“Well are you going to let me in or not?”

“The elevator’s broken and the stairs are being cleaned on the first floor. You’ll have to go through the house.”

“Really?”

“No, but just say hello to my brothers and sisters. My parents aren’t even home. They wonder why you don’t talk to them.
Just walk in.”

“Just walk in? I can’t…fine.”

There was a knock at the door and Junior got up from the table where he was playing cards and drinking with his siblings. He drank the last sip of his Labatt Blue as he paced toward the door and flung it open.

“Julie, how’s it going?” he said, dropping his beer, picking it up and covering the overflow with his thumb. The pressure escaped and with it a sprits of beer which soaked the front of Julie’s shirt.

She rubbed herself against Jose and thanked him for the napkin.

“It’s going well,” she laughed.

“You look good. That’s a nice skirt you have on. Is it new?”

“Yes, but it’s my mother’s.”

“I’m sure it looks better on you. You want a beer?
She looked at her shirt.

“I’ll have another. To go if I may.”

“Sure,” he said, stumbling as he walked away and returning with a beer.

“Manuel’s downstairs, hibernating in his room as usual,” he said, handing her the beer, their fingers brushing against each other’s, their heat melting the frosted bottle.

“What else is new? Thanks, Jose.”

Manuel’s door was open and he heard Julie enter, read her the question without looking up from his paper. Reaching toward her with the printed copy, she took off her high heels, grabbed the paper and rolled her eyes across it.

“Do you know anything about this subject?” he asked

“Well, yeah, it’s common knowledge. It’s right here in your book too, spelled out word for word. If you can’t answer that then you’ve got a ways to go.”

Julie pointed to the passage, took a gulp of her beer, flung the book to Manuel like a Frisbee. He was lying on his back and read it aloud. She walked over toward him, stood directly above him, her bare feet on each side. She then sat on him, straddling her long legs around his body. Manuel continued to read and she began to lift up her skirt, rubbing her bear bottom against him, only the thin layer of his worn pants separating them. Manuel finished the lengthy passage and noticed Julie’s brassiere, socks, and shirt strewn about his room.

“What the hell are you doing? I knew this was going to happen. I told you. I. Have. To. Get. This. Done! “You’ve already made it into the FBL. I haven’t!”

“Don’t you ever think that there is more? There are few things I believe in this world. Nature. The beauty of animals, plants, and landscapes, in their primordial state – this is the one thing which tells me I am alive, the one thing I care about. Whether it be spiritual, or…”

“Religious.”

“No, not religious. What the hell does religion have to do with spirituality?! I don’t need to follow someone else’s beliefs to know there is a higher being. I don’t need to write down in words why He exists, nor do I need to fear Him. Or Her. I need only to know. No, I need only to believe that such a thing exists. And I do. Whatever name you’d like to give it, I cannot live without it. I have this desire to wander. To travel from place to place. Not aimlessly, but to explore our world. Is that so strange?”

“Well it certainly fits some of the criteria; it is statistically rare!”

The tension in Manuel’s face slacked and he appeared disgusted.

“Am I the only one who sees this for what it is? Am I the only one who questions anything anymore? They are all lies. One word weaves into another and we believe without question. Now, I may not have figured out all the world’s problems, I do know this is one thing I cannot live without.”

“Have you been drinking.”

Manuel scrolls through the pictures on his computer watch. Julie lay on a cheetah-fur blanket, sprawled out on the queen-sized bed, foreign text draped across her body. “I was watching a quiz show the other day and they were talking about old English and the question was, “What does the word solitude mean? The young man, who had already gotten the first ten questions right, hadn’t the faintest idea what this word means.”

“Well, what’s it mean?”

“It means to be alone, without any other human contact. More importantly, without any media.”

“But what would you want that for?”

“So you can think for your self, so you can unleash the creative being which lies silently within you, within all of us. So you can think of new ideas, new concepts, and new theories. Do you really think the party is composed of a superior race? That they alone must determine the lives of the billions they govern?”

“Probably not, but I can’t think of any better solutions. Or write better stories than they can.”

“Of course you can’t. Not now, not in this environment, constantly bombarded with media of all sorts – radio, television, newspaper, and the endless people who regurgitate the party’s words. You must shed yourself of these things, go into solitude – if only for a short while.”

“But there is no such thing as solitude anymore. Not in the way you have defined it.”

“It does exist. But you have to look in strange places. You see that building over there? That water tower over there? Or the woods behind that factory? Few people ever go there. And if they do, you can predict when they’ll go. By their schedule. Grant it they’re not the most beautiful places in the world, but there you can be alone. I’ve spent many nights in the water tower, looking up at the sky, pen in hand and paper on knee.

“De-condition yourself and prioritize what is truly important. You must put away fanciful notions of class and what it means to be privileged. We sit here in amazement at the towns we have built but we don’t see what we have given up. Everything has a price and some things are priceless!”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”
“Amen!” she said, cackling at her comment.

Manuel ignores this. “Alaska! Have you ever heard of the place?”

“Yeah, isn’t that the place where the party raises animals so we can eat them?”

“It’s a lot more than that. It’s the one place we haven’t destroyed…yet. It has become almost a fictitious land. I have never been there but I know it exists. It is full of trees as far as the eye can see, and the animals roam freely, unadulterated.”

“How do you know it’s like that if you’ve never been there, have never even seen a picture of it.”

“I just know. I would like to go there some day. But it’s a cold place. Cold only in that the temperature is low. But the air, the plants, the animals – they are truly alive and they will warm my soul. They are the few things in this world that let me know I’m alive.”

“Well I don’t know if such a place exists, but I wish there were. I’d love to go there.”

“I’d love you to come with me; come with me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. My chances with the FBL look bleak. In Alaska there is little FBL influence. There are no shifts, no synthetic surroundings such as these. Only mountains – great land masses which stretch as far as the eye can see. I read about it somewhere. I need you to come with me.”

“What do you need me for Manuel? I thought you couldn’t stand me.”

“I told you, it’s cold up there; I need you for body heat.”

“So that’s the only reason, huh?”

“No. I need someone to keep me company. I like having you around.”

“Do you realize what you’re asking me to do? I can’t just turn my back on Jack. And the Bureau.”

“Why? It is all a lie.”

“Perhaps some other time. In some other time,”

Manuel thought for a moment and Julie bent over to unstrap her high-heels, her buttocks rubbing against Manuel’s front. “Fine, go ahead,” he said, seeming to give in to her advances, but rereading aloud the major points in the passage. Julie starred at him, cocked her head slightly to the right, squinted her eyes and began to undress the rest of the way, throwing her skirt in the corner. Fully nude, she unbuttoned his pants, zipped them down and tugged them off.

She was surprised to see he too was not wearing any underwear; she never knew when he was serious, but she smiled to herself realizing the convenience of the situation. She grabbed at his shirt, but his elbows, pressed firmly at his sides and clenching the book, prevented her. She sought no further and straddled him, fondling his penis until it was erect. Pointing it toward her opened legs, she rocked it in.

Manuel read more loudly now as Julie began to bounce over his seemingly lifeless body. But she stopped as quickly as she had started, jumping up, getting dressed and collecting her belongings – a purse, a jacket and a half-empty beer bottle.

“I can’t believe you would do this to me.”

“I can’t believe you would do this to yourself.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just go somewhere I’m appreciated.” She swung the door open and crashed it shut behind her, wiped the tears from her eyes and took the elevator to the house. Manuel’s brothers and sisters were still gathered around the table playing cards.

“Can I have another beer,” she asked Jose.

There was a chorus of yes and sure.

Julie noticed that Julie was emotional. “What happened in there?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about that fucking asshole.”
“Yeah, guys could be such jerks sometimes,” said Jose.

“Oh please, give me a brake Jose. Since when have you been Mr. Sensitive?” he said, showering his brother with a handful of popcorn.

Julie sat next to Jose, and he began to inch his hand closer to hers

number of view: 22

Jack took a hearty swig of his drink. “It seems inevitable that every FBL agent will eventually wonder how it all began: how and why did foreign languages become illegal? Well, allow me to give you a brief history lesson, my dear.” Gulp gulp.
Impatient, Julie’s blue eyes became enlarged, and her hand, palm up, jut forward toward Jack, her head bowing.
Jack turned his head to the right, organizing his thoughts. “So, you want to know how this all started, why it was made illegal to speak or write languages other than English. Well, I would say it all started early this century during a thing called 911. It was a horrific terrorist attack that took place on September 11th, 2002.”
Julie interjected. “Why was it called 911, because the country was having an emergency?”
“No, well not originally anyway. But there is a lot of truth to that. I mean, right after the attack, the level of patriotism exploded, and everywhere you went you were bombarded with flags and salutes, many eager to fight. A few years into the war, though, people began to question its radical shift in goals along with its illogical justifications. People were beginning to lose faith in their country.
“I see. So then why was it called 911?”
“Because September is the ninth month and it occurred on the eleventh.”
“Oh yeah.” she said, embarrassed for not realizing herself. Well what exactly happened on the 11th of September?”
“Our nation experienced the worst terrorist attack in its history. Four fully-fueled commercial airplanes were highjacked and used as missiles. The terrorists flew two of them into what was called the World Trade Center. It consisted of two towers, hence the Twin Towers.”
Julie rolled her eyes at Jack’s use of the word hence. “They were among the tallest buildings in the world. The devastation began early in the morning, thousands of the people working in the offices. One plane hit the first tower and soon after another plane hit the adjacent tower, the gas tanks exploding on impact and the jet fuel eating away at the structure. Before they eventually collapsed, a series of atrocious miscommunications would cost several hundred lives. In the confusion, the people heading the various departments were unsure who was in charge, and at one point, the employees and visitors were told to remain in the building. Shortly thereafter, the entire building collapsed on top of itself.
“Why would they tell them to stay in the building if it was just struck by an airplane?
“Miscommunication! People never being told or being told in vague, unclear terms. Or just not listening. And that was only the beginning. Throw in the media or the government, or both who knows, with their portrait of the terrorists, all of whom were of Middle Eastern decent.
A few generations later – the exact date escapes me right now – there was another terrorist attack. This time, like 911, it was also blamed on a communications failure; however, the failure would lie in an inaccurate translation of foreign information.”
“We were given information from overseas. Invaluable it was thought. Somewhere in the translations of language, the exact opposite was conveyed and the devastation that may have been thwarted was carried out. Anyway, there was an elaborate explanation, but all it amounted to was the death of thousands. Reminiscent of 911, and capitalizing on the emotional wounds that were reopened as well as the new ones that were created, the time had come for drastic measures.”
“I would imagine that tensions ran high.”
“To say the least. Hate would be a better way of describing it. The ignorant, or maybe those emotionally traumatized to the point of ignorant delusion, cried out for radical change. Couple that with a growing number of minorities and you have the attention of prominent politicians.”
Julie rolled over in her bed, faced Jack, her hand on her chin. “Not to mention the hate and intolerance it bred.”
“That’s just the point.”
“It’s a funny thing how the mind works. It just seems a little too ironic that we claim the foreign classics have been accurately translated when we couldn’t even translate information to save our own people’s lives?”
“You’re thinking too much.”
Julie rolled her eyes. “Who was responsible for this change?”
“Everyone who voted. There was a public outcry. Thinking of the lives that were lost, the families that were shattered – politicians dared not suggest it was a bad idea. Oh, there were some, but it was political suicide! I mean, imagine you just lost your entire family and this guy claims it all could have been prevented if only the person had spoken English.”
Julie contributed to the discussion: “It is an emotionally-loaded argument, but it sounds more like a case for becoming multi-lingual to me. Or training better translators.”
“Have you ever played that game, telephone?”
“You mean the children’s game where you whisper something in someone’s ear and then that person whispers into the next person’s ear until finally the message reaches the last person and it isn’t even close to what was intended?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.”
“So you’re saying that this major change in society can be summed up by a child’s game.”
“Yes, but only partially. It’s one factor among dozens. We’re an efficiency-driven society; time is money. Why waste countless hours, days, and years learning a new language when we could all speak one language. Imagine going to Canada and not being able to speak with the people there because they only know French. Or going to Spain, Mexico, or Puerto Rico and not knowing or understanding them because they only speak Spanish. In a sense, it’s really joined the world together. Nowadays, we can go anywhere in the world and speak to anyone else. Now that’s something”
“But why would you want to? Everyone’s the same. In the rare, but certain case that someone’s beliefs or opinions differ from the majority or norm, they become outcasts, shunned and cast aside. I agree, it did have some benefits, but what was lost along the way?”
“Nothing! A word or two here and there, but I assure you the greater good has been attained.”
“Isn’t there something to be said about differences, tradition, culture, history?”
“Insignificant!” he shouted, poking his finger on her chest. “All they do is divide. Can’t you see that now we’re all equal? If the Bureau hadn’t come to be, there would be thousands, millions of people you would be unable to communicate with. Not to mention that they could conspire against you, and would be more likely to conspire against you because they wouldn’t understand you. Our world has become smaller with the advent of technology. We can send a message to China, Indonesia, and the Middle East. But what would be the point if nobody understood you?”
“Can’t they create some sort of technological translator?”
“They could, but there’s the potential for gross abuses.”
“There is always that chance.”
They were silent for a moment, their minds reflecting. At the doors of perception, they couldn’t walk through. Prying open the door, “Do you really think we’re freer like they say? I don’t feel very free at all. I’m chained down in student loans, am constantly worried about what might happen (The news is uncertain, but we’re advised to expect the worst.), and my life seems meaningless. There’s no more tradition, nobody to confide in. I feel like you don’t listen to me,” she said, pouring herself a glass of wine.
Jack’s eyes squinted. “Where’s all this coming from?”
Julie ignored the question, “Nowadays there’s no privacy. We have cameras and audio detectors on every corner, in every home or building.”
“Not this one,” he retorted. “What do you need privacy for unless you have something to hide?”
“Why don’t we have any cameras then?” she laughed uneasily.
“There’s an exception to every rule.”
“I know, I’m only kidding. But you have to admit the system’s far from perfect. Accidentally misspell a few words on your computer and the FBL is knocking at your door. It’s ridiculous. Your entire hard drive is automatically sent to their online database. It’s happened to me when I was writing. Frantically and inaccurately. I must have spelled something that was flagged. And then there were agents crashing open the door. They read all my poems, my journals and stories. I felt raped.”
“Don’t be over dramatic. No, it’s not perfect. But overall, it’s much better. And besides, the odds of that happening are very slim. You would have had to spell at least five separate words.”
“I guess I’m just lucky.”
“Cursed.” Hiccup, hiccup. “Why don’t we take a nap?” Hiccup.
“You have been drinking quite too much lately. Even for you.”
Jack ignored this and took another gulp from the bottle.
Julie lied down on the satin sheets, took a moment to set the radio. Jack took one more swig, set the bottle on the stereo, and joined Julie in bed.
Stretching her body, Julie rolled over, faced the wall. Expecting at any moment to feel Jack, as usual, pressing up against her, she was surprised to realize he was facing the opposite way, starring at the miniature light show on the stereo.
“Sex.”
Jack’s anger subsided for the moment. “What? Okay.” He grabbed her buttocks, made firm from the many miles she ran.
Julie raised her closed knees to her chest, protecting, comforting, and wrapping her hands around her body. “No, I mean it’s all around us. It’s in the advertising, the clothing, the news. Yet it’s rarely talked about – not its causes or the society we’ve become. Values are lost; innocence is lost. I think there’s some relation between that and everything else we’ve been talking about? I mean, there was a time not only when there were hundreds of different languages, but I understand that the view of sexual maturity was a bit more modest as well. There were actually laws against post-pubescent men and women having sex. I wonder what that would have been like, waiting until you’re hardly even a teen anymore. Look at the clothing the kids are wearing these days. It’s so overly sexual. Yummy, tease, juicy, ready, and delicious are printed on girls’ tight, low-cut shirts and shorts. Or should I say thongs because that’s what they are. And the way they sit down. So unladylike. I’m beginning to sound like an old lady now, but it’s true. It really bothers me. It’s like the Native Americans being spoiled with all those material goods. They never asked for them, didn’t want them, and thought they were evil. But once tempted, they no longer resisted. And in fact it was welcomed.”
Julie noticed a poking sensation from behind her. “Really hun, I just wanna have sex with you. Where is this all coming from?”
“I don’t know, I guess the wine has gotten me thinking. But I’m really not in the mood tonight honey. My head hurts. I think it might be a headache.”
He slapped her on the buttocks again, took one final drink for the night and lied down in bed next to her. Julie rolled over and their minds separated in opposite directions. His was overwhelmed by the seemingly endless medium for transporting the obscenities, the languages. In contrast, the computerized sounds transported Julie’s mind into a fantasy world – a place far from the realities of revolutions and the loneliness of language laws.

number of view: 38

John Halasz: How to Write a Novel . Net

Manuel looked up at the clock and murmured a string of curses from under his breath, the particularities of which were audible to him alone. He had to leave for work. This would be his fourteenth consecutive day working at the megamarket and he was, as always, working alone – midnight till noon. But he needed the money; he was taking some history courses through Tele Community College. He didn’t want to be a lifer at the megamarket. After earning his degree in history, he planned to attend the Federal Bureau of Language Academy. He had it all mapped out.

He left the table without a word and began the three-block walk to the subway station, his feet mechanically marching, his backpack bouncing on his shoulders, and his computer book on and in the palm of his hand. In the other hand was a lit cigarette and as he walked he read a few sentences, smoked, and intermittently glanced up at the crowded city streets.

The people, always the people, pressing, pushing, carrying you with them. There were just too many of them – in the air, on the sea, the land and in their tunnels, they bounced around each other, ziging and zaging up and around, intersecting and cutting back to avoid collision. When preoccupied, as was often the case, they would not focus on each other and the colors of faces blurred, became like the mixing of paints swirling into a new color. Red, white, black. Add a drop here, a squirt there, splash it around. Whala! Welcome to America.
Manuel too was not consciously aware of his surroundings; he was transfixed in his book: The History of the Universal Language Laws. He could have listened to the text, but he preferred reading. Furthermore, he did not want to give his brother the satisfaction of supporting his business. They seemed always to be arguing about something.

Manuel did not notice the cameras, which littered the city at every corner. Nor was he aware of their audio- and visual-language recognition devises. It did not matter. Like a grown elephant made helpless from years of heavy chains and failed escapes, Manuel had been contained, had given up. If only for the time being.

One thousand times a second the technologies scanned the crowded city streets, the eyes searching for foreign words, the ears distinguishing between hundreds of thousands of on-going dialogues. Differentiating among the word patterns, sounds and letter constructions of thousands of languages, the computers searched the citizens for texts – newspapers, books, magazines. Even the written word. Weather written in inc, crayon, pencil or blood, the enormous database could detect any non-English words. Foreign words, smuggled under the guise of a transporters, were equally susceptible to the FBL’s x-ray technologies, which could penetrate a briefcase, a pocket, a bag. Almost anything.

A perfect lip reader, the machines monitored the many citizens who, when in a state of emotion, found it impossible not to mouth their words. Out of nowhere a thought would pervade their mind. They would struggle to remember it and move their mouths, trying to recall the different elements of the scene, trying to sort through the various events. The Bureau’s technology would be there, monitoring any foreign words or sounds emitted from their mouths. All this was still a mystery to him.

Manuel walked throughout the sea of people, his head up and weaving throughout the pedestrians. Then down, absorbed in his reading and the people moving out of his way. He finished the chapter and scanned the summary: the counter productivity of a multi-lingual world; years of wasted energy learning other languages; the language of Shakespeare; the language with far more words than any other; easier to communicate. And something about it being easier to overcome prejudice.

“Boom!” Manuel bumped into a woman who had stopped to look up at the tall buildings, apparently an attempt to figure out where she was. She fell and Manuel helped her up. Her smile shined like the sun’s rays, cutting through the gloomy smog of the city and straight to Manuel’s heart. His body relaxed and his downcast eyes focused on the cracked sidewalk where her belongings lie: a purse, a map, and a computer watch, complete with Internet and cellular phone capabilities among other things. Similar to his.

Both sets of eyes focused more closely on the phone, their attention peeked by the deformed shape of its wrist unit. It was broken and she knelt down to assess the damage. “Cock sucker, mother fucker,” she said, shoving the cracked screen in front of Manuel’s face.

Manuel was taken aback by the young woman’s language. Not because he himself did not swear, but because the words sounded so foreign, so dirty coming from her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” he said, the two of them ducking into an alleyway and the people hustling by. “I would be more than happy to buy you a new one. I’m Manuel, what’s your name?”

The woman looked at Manuel, studied him. “Julie,” she said, pointing at her chest, “I can’t do my job without this. I have all my shit saved on here.” She tried to access her files, but they would not open. She squeezed the device together and pressed the telephone button, spoke into its microphone, “Headquarters.” It began to ring. “It’s me Babe,” Julie said to her boss, her husband. “Tell me you updated all the files, Hun.”
“Well yeah, why?”

“Some guy ran into me and I dropped my watch. I can’t access any of the files.”

“Great, she forgot my name already,” thought Manuel.

“No problem. I’m downloading them right now. I had a hunch you had run into some trouble.”

“You know me so well, hun. You’ll see me in a little bit”

“Sooner than you think,” he said, hanging up the phone.
Manuel asked, “Well how can I get a hold of you to repay you?”
Julie hesitated for a moment, read a few sentences on Manuel’s computer watch and extended a hand, which clenched a business card: Julie Featherton, Computer Programmer, Federal Bureau of Language, 555-9807. Manuel’s eyes bulged as he read this and noticed its authentic look. In the background, and taking up the entire card, was the FBL logo – a solitary eagle peering down on the world.

“How do I know you’re not going to just disappear and that I’m never going to see my money?”

“You’ll see me again.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she mouthed.

“Would you like to see my license?”

“Actually, yes.”

Manuel took out his license and she copied down the information, snickering at his photo. “It’s a bad picture, I know. I get paid next Friday,” he said, changing the subject. “It’s biweekly, so I’ll call you at work to arrange a meeting.”

“Why don’t you just email it?” she asked.

“Sure. If you’d prefer that.”

“Yes. It would be easier. It’s at 2001 Main Street. But before you go, do you know how to get there?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m going to Main Street right now if you’d like to come along. I work in the Megamarket.”

Julie nodded in agreement and they began to walk the final few blocks to the subway station. Manuel became more uncomfortable with each stride of silence. There were so many things he wanted to ask her about the FBL. But he couldn’t think of a clever way to bring them up. If he were online he would be himself, confident and at ease behind the anonymity of a computer screen. This, however, was one of those rare face-to-face encounters. After a few more minutes of silence, the atmosphere had become too intense and he forced himself to speak. “So, you’re a programmer at the Federal Bureau of Language, huh? W-w-w-what’s that entail?” he stammered.

“It’s mostly classified. But I do just what the job title states; I program many of the government’s computers. Jack, my boss, just tells me what function needs to be served and I make it happen.

“Hmmm. Sounds interesting. Is Jack the one you were talking with on your phone?”

“Yes.”

“It sounded like the two of you have an interesting relationship – business and personal I presume?”
“Strictly business.”

“Yeahmm,” he mumbled. “I’m planning to apply to the Academy after I graduate from Tele Community College.
I’ve wanted to work for the FBL as long as I can remember. In the technology field. Just as soon as I’m done with my history degree.”

“Yeah. Well, good luck,” she said.

Manuel and Julie approached the station and as they entered the turn-style, an elderly, unshaven man asked Manuel for some change. “Sorry,” Manuel said, “I’m broke. No, I wish I were broke; I’m in debt and going to be even more in debt once my school loans start.”

The man turned around before Manuel had even finished speaking and was asking the next person for money. He collected five dollars and asked another person.

“So, how come you don’t know how to get to your headquarters? First day?”

“No. First day at this location. I’d been working at the National Headquarters for about five years now, but there’s a greater demand in this part at the moment. But I really can’t tell you much more. I’ve already said too much.”

“I see. Well, it’s easy to get there. You just take the red line to Ogden St and then take the Green line to

Main. I’ll show you of course.”

Manuel and Julie stepped into the moving hallway, walked onto the down elevator and to the approaching subway. “Good timing, huh?” said Manuel.

Manuel weaved his body around the boarding passengers and entered the electromagnet subway car. Seeing two open seats side-by-side, he looked for Julie. She had not yet fought her way through the crowd, and the passengers were ogling the seats, hurrying toward them. Manuel raced toward the seats, sitting on one and throwing his backpack on the other, much to the dismay of the middle-aged man who sat down on it and jumped right back up, his briefcase flying into the air and his tightly-pinched tie flailing about. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see your stuff there.”

Julie had made her way over toward Manuel. “We’re in luck. Two open seats,” he said.
She sat down and they took in their surroundings, focusing on anyone and anything but each other. Observing the passenger’s idiosyncrasies, they carefully averted discovery by looking at the floor, the wall, the ceiling. One man clicked his finger nails, another bit his and spit them on the floor. An elderly woman rocked back and forth in her seat, tried to comfort herself. A young man, scarcely old enough to drink, balanced a beer on his knee and played a hand-held video game.

Julie and Manuel listened to the sounds of the subway. The electromagnetic track was silent as it whisked its passengers along, but there was the endless chatter, the words being spoken, often to one’s self and sometimes to another. To whomever they were spoken, they were spoken in English, and English alone, lest the cameras or the Bureau discover them.

It had only been thirty years since the laws had passed, and foreign languages had become a thing of the past. Left in the wake of change were foreign language teachers and international relations workers. Let alone culture, tolerance, and history. But few were conscious of their loss.

The subway slowed down. “We have to change lines at this stop,” Manuel said, and he stood up from his seat, which was filled before he had stood halfway. Several passengers gave signs of disapproval and Julie took her time exiting the cart.

“Come on,” Manuel said. He was being pushed away by the exiting passengers and he could not see Julie in the dense crowd. It cleared out a little bit as the passengers went to the connecting train, and Manuel searched some more. His frustration increased with each passing minute. Taking his hands off his hips, Manuel checked the time. Ten minutes before work.

Julie was gone and so too were any reasons to endure one of his boss’s rants. Manuel had been two minutes late last week and Mr. Gredy had made a tremendous fuss, his rhetorical question too much for Manuel to ignore: “Do you know what time it is Manuel?”

“Time for you to leave,” he countered.

“Get back here. I don’t appreciate your smug comments.”

“That’s okay, I’m used to not being appreciated.”

“Well, show up on time and maybe…”

Manuel cut him off. “I’ve been on time or early every day for the past three years, worked my ass off every minute and gone well beyond the duties of a stock-person. I’m late once and all that is erased. Where was the gratitude then? The appreciation?”

“Thanks. And get your ass here on time.”

Now the next train was approaching, and with this incident in his mind, Manuel walked briskly away, deciding to take the stairs rather than the tredporter, which would likely be congested at this time of the day. Frustrated and being pushed by passengers exiting the train, Manuel went to one of the connecting lines to the megamarket.

number of view: 18
© 2010 How to Write a Novel: Suffusion WordPress theme by Sayontan Sinha