DEADMEN WORKING: Excerpt: SENIOR PICNIC

                                          Chapter Two

"Ahh--- it is going to be a beautiful day for the picnic," Mary Burke said enthusiastically to her new intern, Carol, a freshmen from the local college working for the summer, as she drove to a large senior center, called the Claymore in the suburbs of Denver. 

"It must be fun working with older people who have so much experience. I think that this is going to be a great summer job."

"Well Carol, we are glad to have your assistance and I appreciate you volunteering to come in on your Saturday off to help with the picnic. We expect almost 40 seniors and some of their families to attend."

"Mrs. Burke, how long have you been the Director of this center?"

"You can call me Mary. With my two boys grown and with families of their own, I started doing volunteer work at this center over fifteen years ago. When George, my husband passed away ten years ago I took a full time position at the center and two years ago was asked to replace the Director who retired and moved to San Diego. I have come to know and love the people at Claymore, named after the family that built the center."

As their station wagon drove up the drive way and past the main building to the parking area in the rear, staff and volunteers were busy unloading a freezer truck and taking the cases of frozen hot dogs and hamburgers into the kitchen. Others were setting up barbecues in a long line in front of folding tables.

"Carol, if you could help set the tables, I will go into the kitchen and assist there. We plan to let the guys do the cooking on the grills. That's why we have so many small grills lined up. They will barbecue your hamburger to order."

"Thanks, Mrs. -----I mean Mary."              

The redwood tables and benches were already in place, as the lunches were generally served outside, weather permitting.

At 11:00 am the guests, started arriving. They came in private cars and mini buses from other centers, and some from nursing homes in the area.

 Mary Burke was in her element. To an outsider it looked like a poorly planned fire drill with some seniors talking in small groups or walking around and some in wheel chairs and kids running between them and a few dogs barking while everyone seemed to be talking at once. To Mary it was what a senior center was all about lots of different people having fun together.

Carol ran up to Mary; she was beaming with joy.

This girl is a natural care giver, maybe I can get her as an intern for the school year, Mary thought.

"Mary, the tables are set. Can I do anything else?"

"Yes, this is the hardest part. We have name tags for all of the guests. Please help Sidney and Maggie show everyone to their assigned seats. You may have to be flexible. If there are any problems, Maggie will be there to help."

"How do you want yours?" Asked a thin white-haired man wearing a chef's hat and a apron with "Hot Buns" written on the front.

Noticing the apron, Mary laughed and ordered hers well done. It had seemed to her that many of the elderly seemed to prefer their hamburgers rare. Some of the hamburgers even looked like that French raw meat dish she tried in New Orleans, called Steak Tartar or something.

She laughed again when she recalled her husband sending it back and saying, "Steak Tar Tar my ass."

"Here you go Mary, the best hamburger in the joint."

Mary looked at it, it was medium.

"Thanks Frank, but don't you have your apron on backwards?"

They both smiled and Mary walked towards a table where some of the guests were starting on desert. Before she sat down, she noticed that Carol had just been served her lunch. She caught her eye and signaled for her to join her at the table.

Carol sat down with a full plate of potato salad, a large mixed green salad, two hot dogs, corn on the cob and a soft drink.

"I couldn't eat the burgers. Mary, why can't men cook a well done hamburger?"

"That's it, Carol, you're a genius. It's a 'man thing'. Perhaps you could do a paper on it at school."

The center band was set up on the patio of the main building and they had begun to play. Mary checked her watch; it was already 1:00 pm. Some of the more frail elderly would have to be moved to the arm chairs or chaise lounges for their afternoon nap.

Mary started to say something to Carol, but stopped when she saw the concerned expression on her face. She turned to see what Carol was looking at. It was one of the nursing home guests, a woman in her eighties. She was sitting at the table behind theirs and was bent over and holding her stomach. Mary could hear a faint groan come from her. Mary leaped from her seat and moved quickly to the ailing guest.

"Carol, have Maggie get the nursing home driver, he is a paramedic and have him bring his cell phone with him."

As Carol raced off, Mary leaned over the women. She was helped from the table and was now lying on the grass.

Mary checked and the women had a fever. Before she could do anything else, Carol and the van driver arrived.

"I called the hospital and they are sending an ambulance."

"How do you know that she needs an ambulance?", Mary asked the driver.

"Its not just for her, look around you, I think we have a food poisoning problem here."

Mary stood up and turned slowly in a complete circle. In every direction, people were running in different directions and many guests, mostly elderly and children were lying on the grass in obvious pain.

The first of the ambulances arrived.

Mary heard a soft cry next to her. Carol was standing with her hands on her head and appeared to be crying, but no sound came out. Just tears rolling down her cheeks. Her eyes were fixed on the sight of what was once an idyllic setting to one of a holocaust. People were yelling for help, crying and some were trying to carry their loved ones to the ambulance.

"CAROL!", Mary yelled.

"Go get lots of blankets from the main house and tell them to call for more ambulances."

Carol seemed to snap out of her trance, and turned and ran towards the main building. Ambulances had begun to arrive and some of the vans and cars were already following the first ambulance down the drive way.

Within twenty minutes, only Mary, Carol and Sidney were left standing in the middle of the picnic area.

"Carol, Sidney, are you OK?"

They both answered at once that they were OK. Then Carol added, her eyes red and her voice breaking. "I didn't get a chance to eat anything."

"Nor did I."

Mary responded and then looked at Sidney. He just shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm a vegetarian."

They walked quickly towards Mary's car, got in and headed for the hospital.
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ANOTHER CHILLING EXCERPT OF DEAD MEN WALKING

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This is what it’s all about... power without the risk, Mr. Prescott does most of the work and Mrs. Prescott enjoys the power, Louise thought as she sipped her scotch laced with a little ice tea.

Mr. Prescott was introducing the CEO's of the newly merged corporations.

He looked great, she thought. She knew that sitting next to him as Mrs. Prescott was the true American dream. He had money, looks and power. Moments like these make up for the many lonely nights when he was away on a business trips or working late.

Mr. Prescott introduced Glen Washington, VP of Industrial Relations.

Its so clever of my husband, she thought, to choose a black man to explain how the new corporation was going to get rid of over 15,000 employees once the merger was complete. Even if he failed to explain it well, no one would dare to say anything, at least not to his face or in front of others.

As Mr. Washington explained the corporation’s plans for separation counseling, buyouts and the new job development center, Louise looked around the tables at the faces and was happy to see that they were sopping it up. Washington's velvet voice and smiling face was doing its job. 'Besides', Louise thought, no one at this affair thinks that they will lose their job.

The small cell phone on Louise's lap rang softly. She placed it to her ear and just listened as her security man asked her if she could excuse herself, there seemed to be a problem. Louise, feeling flustered, nodded to her husband and left the table. Her drink was still in her hand.

The security man pointed towards the cliffs and at first Louise could not understand what he was trying to show her. Then she saw it.

One of those damn hang things was turning in small circles and falling towards them. What was she to do? If she had everyone leave the pool house and it missed, then she would have ruined the party for no reason. If she did nothing and it hit the pool house, she would be responsible, she thought as she waved her arms, as if to ward off the falling menace, spilling her beverage on her dress, further upsetting her.

"Do something!" She screamed at the security man, "get a fucking net or something and stop that thing from hitting the house, you bastard!" Louise believed that anyone who took orders from her was probably incompetent and treated them as such.

The security man ran towards the now even closer hang glider, waving his arms and yelling, "Don't hit the house, aim for the bitch in the white dress."

"I heard that you asshole, you're fired," yelled Louise.

"Great," he replied as he quickly left Louise alone to deal with this run away hang glider.

After yelling at her security man, Louise turned back to the business at hand and could no longer see the hang glider. It must have fallen into the sea, she thought. She walked quickly to the rear of the pool house. She would watch the rest of the speeches from here and return to the main table when they begin serving lunch, besides, she needed another drink. It never occurred to Louise to call for assistance if she believed that the hang gilder did in fact fall into the sea.

Everyone was facing away from Louise towards the speaker. When Mr. Washington finished speaking, they all stood up to applaud. As they all sat down, Louise screamed.

The hang glider came into full view as it swept in from the ocean like a giant multi-colored bird of prey and crashed through the large window on the side where the main table stood.

The noise was deafening. The entire two-story high glass window exploded from the impact and thousands of plastic-lined pieces of glass sprayed the area. People were screaming and there was the sound of broken dishes, chairs and tables being pushed over as people tried to get away from the windows. Men were yelling for everyone to get down.

Mr. Prescott yelled, "Get down everyone get down." The glider hit the edge of the table and bounced in the air. It came down on the table and slid across its entire length, taking everything including the American eagle with it.

Then it was dead silent except for the sound of some women crying. Louise walked over to the table and looked at her husband and then at the glider. The wings were painted with fruit and vegetables and the man driving it seemed to be in some sort of sleeping bag, he was not moving. She heard the sound of a cell phone ringing it came from inside the sleeping bag. The ringing was a song that she recognized Old MacDonald had a farm… She could not help herself, she laughed aloud until it hurt. She just kept laughing.

"Where the hell is security, call for help, people are bleeding out there, get our first aid kits, don't just stand there, do something." Louise's husband yelled at her.

There would be one less testimony before Congress on Monday.
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DEAD MEN WORKING: a novel

excerpt from chapter 3

The Captiva's movements did not go un-noticed. Victor Harrison was now in position with his sea anchorage in place and his wet suit, gloves and hood on. Victor was ready to enter the water through the open hatch in the hull of his boat. He also had put on his re-breather, fins and directional compass. The weight belt had enough weight on it to keep him just below the surface. His mask would go on just before he entered the water.

Waiting, how many years of my life have I spent waiting?' Victor thought as his eyes stayed fixed on the small boat moving slowly through the sea less than 500 yards away.

'Waiting as a kid for my dad to notice me to say anything about how hard I tried to win at games, build myself into a well disciplined athlete and maintain good grades in school. For him to come to just one of my karate class demonstrations or smile at me for winning medals and trophies. Then as a teenager waiting for him to come home from the local bar drunk and angry. Waiting for him to stop yelling at Mom then the hitting both of them now yelling mom screaming every time a blow finds its mark. No more waiting. I move behind him. He is so busy hitting Mom while she lay curled in a ball on the sofa that he doesn't hear me. I hit him hard, behind the ear. He falls forward, stunned but not out. Good, I grab him by his hair and belt and race him, face down into the front room bay window. Not through the window, just half way. The falling glass does the rest.'

'Waiting for the hearing to decide that it was an accident and that a 17 year old would be better off away from his widowed mother and serve his nation. The judge saying that a 6'3" 17 year old in excellent shape could put his physical fitness and athletic training to good use for the country it may even teach him how to control his rage.

Victor checked his equipment for the last time.

Not much waiting in the Marines or, later the Navy Seals. Lots of gear checking and waiting in Nam. Lots of dead Viet-Cong officials. Lots of waiting after that. Then the "Agency" training and more waiting. Waiting for an assignment, the right moment for the victim to move into range and the pay off. Then the agency assigns me to this so called, "Chairman" of some presidential committee. He tells me that his orders come directly from the President of the United States and that these government agency directors are controlled by outside, hostile nations. That they have tried to stop them through normal government means. I am their final solution. The Agency confirms his relationship with the oval office. They even show me a memo signed by the President instructing the Director of the Agency to, "provide the Chairman with anything he needs to accomplish his mission and that this mission is for the good of the nation and is to be classified as a top secret operation."  That means that its a covert operation and if I screw up they will terminate my contract and deny everything.' Victor notices a sudden change in the Captiva's course. She's heading towards shore. He quickly moves towards the cabin and down the ladder to the small opened hatch just wide enough for one diver and his gear to pass through and into the sea below.

Things are not much different now. I still must wait for the target to be in position but not for the money. It's direct deposited into my island account.  Victor forced a smile as he placed his mask on and slid into the water.

Victor surfaced a few yards away from his boat and took a visual and compass fix on the Captiva. He estimated the distance to be less than 400 yards. As he submerged and began swimming towards his target, he could swim at least three times as fast as the Captiva's present speed; he recapped what he understood about himself.

Its never been the money. I am good at what I do. The pay is just the recognition for a job well done. And, if I am to believe what the Agency tells me about my mission’s importance to the security of my country, I am also a patriot.

* * *

Mike leaned over the side of the boat. He was sailing with the wind and the little boat cut through the water at about 8 Knots. Mike held both the rudder and the sail hard to port. He sat on the starboard gunwale, his back only inches from the water. Mike looked around and noticed that the only boat near him had no one on deck.

Maybe they're diving. No dive flag showing and they have a sea anchor out. Well its not my concern, just to enjoy......

Mike's thought was interrupted. The boat suddenly shifted over to its starboard side and Mike felt something pull him under the water. It wasn't a shark it was a hand.

Kate would never know about Mike's decision to change careers.

                                                           * * *

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by Allan Tyson
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excerpt of DEAD MEN WORKING

Chapter One

Special Agent Victor Harrison entered the lobby of the Holiday Inn. At 3:00 AM the night clerk did not stir from his late night movie. Although Victor had been with the agency for years, he felt that this assignment could have been accomplished by a first year Field Agent.

He reminded himself, as he quietly entered the darkened hotel room, that it was not the task itself that required his talents and experience, but rather the status of the target. He also understood that his experience would be needed if something went wrong as it sometimes does.

Using the pass key that the Agency had for every major hotel in the country, Victor quickly entered the sleeping victim’s room.

Once inside he quickly moved into the bathroom and found what he was looking for. Next to the sink was a thin, eight inch long white plastic medicine box with seven covered sections. The first five sections were opened and the other two that were closed had the letter of each day on the lid. Even a first year trainee could figure out that the "target" had taken his daily medication each of those five days. As, was often the case, the Agency's profile of the target was right on the money. Victor exchanged the pills in the Saturday section with a pill that matched the appearance of the Isoroil pill exactly. Instead of taking his heart medicine and a vitamin, the target, Chris Owens, would swallow a drug that would result in a massive heart attack within hours. 

                                                           * * *

At 7:30 that morning Chris Owens picked up the telephone on the first ring. 

It was his Deputy on the phone.

Chris Owens is the Director of the Food Safety and Inspection Service of the United States Department of Agriculture, his San Francisco office was responsible for the quality and safety of the food consumed by millions of people living west of the Mississippi river.

"Good morning, tell me the bad news."

Chris knew that for his Deputy to call him at this early hour, it must be a serious problem.

"Good morning Chris, I am sorry to trouble you with a problem on your day off but...."

Chris interrupted him.

"Just cut to the chase, please."

"OK, I just got a call from the Center for Disease Control they reported a large number of food poisoning cases within the last week in several states. They have traced the source to a slaughterhouse in California. The company, Westland/Hallmark Meat Company is cooperating and has issued a full recall of more than 143 million pounds of the suspected contaminated product lines at that plant. The problem is, Chris that we have only two inspectors in that area, not nearly enough to trace the contaminated products that were already shipped.”

"See if you can pull at least two more inspectors from either Chicago or Dallas," Chris responded. "By the way; what products are we taking about?"

"Frozen hamburger meat and hot dogs."

"Damm, the hardest type of meat to trace and control, one package of either could hospitalize, or worse, kill dozens of people."

"We have also", he continued, "been asked to work with a Canada-U.S. advisory group to monitor the sale of fish caught in the Great Lakes. The group report said that there may be possible side effects from chemical contamination. Chris, isn't that a job for environmental people? I mean we can't even field enough investigators for a real emergency, much less a possible side effect!"

"You're right, but this gives me more ammo to use Monday when I address Congress for the annual agency status report. If I have to, I am prepared to place the blame on Congress for those people who died or became ill from food poisoning, because of unreasonable budget cuts and changes in our regulations."

"I will also submit a report outlining just what some of our cattle are being fed. The media is reporting that farmers are feeding herbivores animal waste, dead cattle, dead cats and dogs from animal shelters and sheep. We banned these practices in 1997, as you know, because of the "mad cow disease" scare. But our current regulations still allow dead horses, pigs, poultry blood and cattle blood, to be rendered into cattle feed just because it is cheaper than grain. The public is confused and afraid that all meat is dangerous to eat. The media is destroying the government's credibility in determining what food is safe to consume. I need to... at least try to make this point clear when I address Congress next week."

 "Damm Chris, I hope that you have your resume in order."

"That would be exactly what they would want me to do. Then you would have a new boss, one that would be more ----- shall I say corporate friendly."

Both men were silent for moment. The Deputy was waiting for Chris to continue. When Chris broke the silence, his voice was lower and more controlled.

"Look, I understand the pressure that all of us have been under. I find myself asking just how long we can continue this charade. The harder we work to protect the public the more road blocks Congress puts in front of us. They almost completely eliminated all of our operations budget, staff and now their changing the regulations. If you kill everyone with poisoned food and defective products, what's left? Everyday thousands of people are sickened by a food-borne disease in the U.S., many are hospitalized and some even die. Who benefits from the destruction of the very quality of life that we are told can be bought for money? If profit is the only thing that is running America, then what will the people with the money do with it? Can they live here after they destroyed everything in order to maximize profits? Who are they and what do they want? Even put in a simpler way, who would buy Firestone tires after over a 100 people died because the company kept the defects found in their product a secret? I guess they will just change the company name and "it's business as usual."

When Chris paused, his Deputy spoke, "You can't let the Bastards beat you down. You don't want to end up all fucked up in the head. If you keep thinking this way you will go nuts and I don't want to work under a Corporate appointed Chief. So enjoy your weekend and I will take care of these problems."

"You're right and I appreciate your point."

 "Meanwhile, see if you can get those inspectors moved and review the status of these hot spots. Keep me posted, you can reach me on my cell phone or leave messages at the desk. Thanks." Chris hung up.

                                                  * * *       
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UP IN THE AIR: A Belated Review

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After viewing the movie, Up In The Air, I felt that this was just another non- story no different than most of the American movies that I viewed in the last decade. When it was nominated for an Acadamy Award I realized that a story about a guy with no life who flies around the country with a list of people to fire from their jobs was not only plausible but acceptable to the viewing public.

Is it acceptable because we may have been conditioned to not ask questions? Questions like; Who the hell are you?Did somebody fire your guys?

Also, why would a company pay a stranger to fire its staff because of financial problems? Why would anyone want a job like that? And, why would anyone enjoy watching a movie about dysfunctional people firing people?

The answer could be in the work envirorment in which most of us earn our livings. We are made to feel that we have no right to be there and that our efforts provide very little in the way of positive contributions to the wealth of the company. They are doing us a favor by hiring us in the first place and that we represent a business expense and seldom an asset.

The few unions that we could turn to for help are weak or company owned. The government agencies that were created to protect the worker are controlled by a company owned Congress.

So movies like, Up In The Air, may be viewed by the American worker as just the way things are. Another slap in the face by corporate America. And don’t think that just because you have a college degree that you are not a worker. Most of the poor slobs being fired by someone who just walked into their building off the streets appeared to be college grads themselves.

So if some team of strangers comes to your place of work and tells you that you don’t need all that bagage of family and home and offers you the opportunity to get lost….call security and have them removed from the premisies. That is, if they haven’t already fired security!

ARTIST NEED NOT APPLY

reprint from MARCH 5, 2010 

Open Salon

(google images)

My wife and I were enjoying dinner at a popular cafe called The Piano Lounge. A little girl at the table next to ours said in a loud voice, “Look! A ghost is playing the piano.” We all looked at the piano and sure enough a ghost was playing a tone. It was a player piano.

As we watched the keys moving up and down to the beat of the music my wife asked the waiter, who was waiting to take our order, “Is the piano player on a break?” “No there is no piano player.” Then in a proud voice he exclaimed, “That is our new player piano, it does not need a piano player.”

Later that evening we checked out the clubs and discos in the area and not one of them had live entertainment. All of them used recorded music. So what happened to the musicians and singers? Are they all performing on the streets with the mimes and beggars?

Then the real question hit us. What about other artist, novelist, journalist, play writes, screen writers, painters, actors and photo journalist? Have they all been replaced by hi-tech?

We examined each of the above listed artists and this is what we learned:           

Novelist: Authors of novels have always had to fight against censorship and publishers that did not pay them their royalties. When publishing on demand gave authors an outlet for their work, the main stream publishes purchased the E-publishers. We believe that many of the novels that are published by main stream publishers are written by institutionalized persons and company committees.

            Journalist: Many newspapers openly state that they “Haven’t paid writers in years.” Since people are bloging and twitting as well as submitting articles via the internet, therefore newspapers and magazines don’t have to hire or pay writers.

            Photo journalist: Thanks to the new IPODS, the TV news has no use for Photo Journalist. Free photos on the internet also provides the rest of the media’s need for  free photos.

            Actors: Computer generated characters and animated 3D movies eliminate the need for living actors in movies.

            Play writes and screen writers: Most plays on Broadway are re-runs and most movies are either sequels or written by corporate writers.

            Painters and other fine artist: Dead artist work has always been worth more money then the work of living artist. Now you add computer generated art and you find artist sharing the same street market with the mimes, musicians, singers and beggars.

Could this be the end of human creativeness? Have the machines won? Does anyone care? We no longer communicate directly with other humans. We hide behind our laptops and blog and twit each other through a void.

            We need to ask the owner of the Piano Lounge and anyone else that blocks artist from working, “Where is the piano player and the rest of the people that used their talents to entertain and motivate us.

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WILL G20 DO THE RIGHT THING?

(google image)

(google image

At the G20 November 2010 meeting; the agenda will include a disscussion concerning what to do about the large fluctuations of the world currencies. Those of us who live in foreign countries and on income from our mother country have had to live with these wild fluctionuations of our income for years.

If the leaders of the world's nations are serious about stabilizing

world financial markets, they should stop treating currencies as if they

were commodities. When you allow speculators to trade currencies as if

it were corn or oil, you create confusion that harms trade and travel. I

believe that all currencies should be traded at parity. One dollar for

one euro or peso. The cost of goods and services would reflect the

economic wealth of the country where the currency is spent, not on the

manipulation of a currency specular.