"All right!" Ler shouted back, with the same enthusiasm.
I had to join in, so I yelled, "Woohoo!" And then each of us grabbed something heavy from the back seat, and marched towards the house. The three girls did the same, although without the added vocals.
We were heading to Linka's house party, bringing in drinks and munchies for everyone. I dropped my bag in the kitchen, and continued into the house. It was my first time here. There was already some noise, coming from a vague direction.
I found myself further away from the music, and noticed an open room. I peeked inside and then entered, looking around the room.
"Hey Linka," I said, and dropped on her large bed. She was busy with her make up, in front of a full-body mirror. She did not respond, immediately.
"How do I look?" She turned around, her flowing dress bouncing, and a face that was almost a painting stared at me.
"You look awesome," I said, and grinned, knowing that I had no eye for aesthetics. She frowned angrily, and then smiled as well.
"Thank you," she said, and moved to lie on the bed beside me, sighing loudly. She made the mattress bounce, so I lost my balance and dropped, now lying down, like her.
Looking at the ceiling, I got a strange feeling. As if I just woke up, after a long rest, only without the actual resting. Maybe I was getting too excited about the party. I quickly sat back up, leaning on my hands. Linka did the same.
"I feel sick," she said, and looked worried.
"You will be fine, Linka," I tried to calm her down. "It's a great party. I heard all the noise, on the way down here. People are already having fun. And you look great."
"Yeah," she answered, somewhat convinced. "Let's go up! We are already late," she said, and stood up, grabbed me by the arm, and pulled us out of her room.
We marched through the long hall, and climbed the stairs up.
"That's odd," she said, and kept climbing.
I was about to ask her what was so odd, when we reached the end of the spiraling stairs, and saw the next hall. Not a corridor. Not even small enough to be a room in her house. It was a vast space, full of stalls. Like a giant marketplace, with people shouting the prices of goods, and potential clients roaming and negotiating.
An unfamiliar place.
We both stared. There was no music. Just people speaking. None of whom we knew, I was certain.
"What..." Linka started, and I failed to answer. She grabbed my hand, and looked at me. "What is this?!" I saw the panic grabbing her. More than panic - amazement.
"I don't know," I answered. "Where are we?"
Linka pulled me on, and walked both of us through the stalls. She ignored the stalls, but I let my eyes wander, seeing so many different and new faces, and all sorts of snacks, fruit, and bizarre colorful items for sale.
"What is this place..." I wondered aloud.
"Come on, let's find the way out," Linka dragged me on, until we reached another staircase.
Unlike the former, this staircase was a square shape, and was open-walled, to let us see through to the odd bazaar, while we climbed up. We moved onwards, but there were not any floors, and the more we climbed, the more of the vast hall we could see. It was as large as a stadium, and then some.
Finally, a hallway appeared in front of us, and we entered it, slightly hesitating. I took the lead, not having anything else in sight, and started wandering about. Several rooms on the way were open, but they did not seem special or interesting. Just empty bedrooms.
"Look there," Linka pointed to an open room, at the end of the hall. "Those people just leave all their bedroom doors open, like that."
"Yeah," I said, wondering, and continued now only toward that room. It drew me to it, I could feel it now. "Look, this one looks different, right?" Linka peeked inside.
"It's my room!" She exclaimed, and hurried inside. "It's my room! Why is it here?!"
"Good question," I answered, and lingered at a large mirror that covered most of the wall ahead. I touched it. "I think this is it," I said.
"What?" Linka asked, as she sat on her bed.
"Can't you feel it?"
Linka rose up to approach the mirror. She stared at her reflection, and then turned to look at mine.
"I don't have such a large mirror in my room," she said.
I touched it, and I could feel it tremble under my fingers.
"Come on, let's go!" I grabbed her arm, and drove us into the mirror. As we passed, I could see the foreign market place, with all those people shopping. And then we dropped down, fast, into a darkness below.
We both sat up, on Linka's bed, at the same time.
"Did you just..." Linka started asking.
"Man," I whispered. "Don't ask me."
"Come on, we're going to be late to the party!" Linka hurried to get up, and hauled me up, by my hands. I let go of one hand, but she grabbed on to the other, holding it over her shoulder, and dragging me out of the room, and to her birthday party.
I was happy to know that Linka finally arrived safely to her eighteenth-birthday party. A party I never got to see.
"A research lab, in every house, will be the marking of a new philosophical age!" Sir Kevin II exclaimed, standing on a small podium, in front of a large audience. The crowd applauded, rising to give standing ovations.
"Over the top," Jessica commented, as they headed backstage to rest.
"Not at all," Kevin responded, wiping his face with a towel. "This isn't just about making toys and utensils anymore, Jessica. We can make a difference, with our organisation," he emphasised.
"We already are," Jessica sat down for her mug of hot coffee and smiled to herself. Kevin was not always so ambitious. They had both seen hard years of little funds and no support from others, before they finally made it big. Well, as big as any small successful group. Not rich, anyhow.
In the meanwhile, another organisation was forming its first branch. A group of young and learned activists, with their hands on the beating pulse of society.
"In hell," James began, sitting down, holding a bottle of unlabeled homemade beer, "nothing has a price tag."
"In hell, nothing has a price tag?" The second James, James Mallorie, wondered aloud. "How did you reach that conclusion?" He asked, and turned to look at the first James.
"Entire industries are shutting down. The markets are becoming desperate. People are losing jobs," James finished, and examined each face in the circle of chairs about him. They all seemed... Interested... But maybe not in the same topic, that was all.
"But new jobs are being made. People are becoming more free, to do what they wish with their lives," Mallorie played the devil's advocate, smiling as he spoke.
"I wasn't saying it's evil," James responded reasonably. "Only that we should tread more carefully with this new technology. Ask more question, and make sure we don't go around hurting people, right?"
The circle nodded in consensus.
Atlas from the game Portal, made with a 3D Printer, by Psychobob.
Personal Creator Lab, commonly referred to as PCL, had become a household brand. In modern society, at the edge of technology, there was hardly a house or apartment without such a device. Simply speaking, it was a small automated factory; suitable for the needs and resources of an individual.
With a minimal investment, any random Joe could now purchase the machine, buy the necessary materials, buy or find the plans for whatever it is they wanted to make, and in the push of a button, it was made. Modern age magic!
Kevin and Jessica, departing from their plane and on route to their hotel, inhaled the fresh moist air of the Mexican jungles.
"Printing Malaria medicine and all sorts of drugs," Jessica began saying, ducked a low branch and continued, "those drugs will make the third world seem like paradise."
"Paradise," Kevin echoed. "Enter paradise, by pressing a button," he grinned, his eyes reflecting dreams and ambitions.
Jessica looked at her mobile, and heard the news in one ear: "Political activist groups calling for regulation of PCLs," and, "Congress discussing a new law that would require printing permits and licensing, that may limit what and how much each person can print."
She moaned silently. She should not bother Kevin with such nonsense. Politics is not what they do, anyway.
Eleven was his name, and he was an elf. No, not a mythical creature of legends, but a person who likes to con and trick people.
"Mister, what is your name??" The little girl asked. Eleven looked down at her. She was as high as his knees.
"They call me... Eleven," he answered.
"Why do they call you Eleven?" She asked.
He turned his face away, toward the ceiling, in a rather dramatic fashion. "Eleven means courage. It is a very old word. It was the name of a great hero, once, many generations ago." He peeked back at the girl, seeing if it had the wanted effect. It did not, and she was already walking away, in fascination of the next dull thing.
"So, what do you have for me this time, Dougler?" Eleven asked back, business-like.
"Nobody calls me Douglar..." Jamison started to complain, but knew that it will not get through. "We are going to take a couple of items that mean a lot to my boss."
"Expensive items?"
"Expensive," Jamison lowered his voice, "and dangerous."
"Dangerous items?" Eleven smiled to himself. "How dangerous?"
"Have you ever had an entire planet going after you?" Jamison asked.
Eleven cocked his head, and stared at nothing for a long moment. "I have never had a planet know that I was there."
"Good. We are going to need invisibility, for this one. No one must figure out who we are, or who we are working for," Jamison warned, but received no emotional feedback.
The galactic crew occupying the prime transport vessel - the Cut Mink of the Coalition, sat down, planning their negotiations. The transaction was to take place on the host planet, Zigma Froy, a recently inhabited moon of Jupiter, where the Institute of Suspect Objects ran a museum and catalog, for the public to enjoy. It was entirely inhabited by alien artifacts.
"Have you arranged for the head of the Institute to meet us somewhere outside of the facility?" Captain Silvarre requested of his second in command, First Lieutenant Kirk.
"Aye captain!" Kirk saluted firmly. Silvarre glanced at him from the corner of his eye, sitting on his captain's chair, and continued nibbling on his simulated-wood pipe. A few long moments later, Kirk removed his hand from his forehead, and Silvarre decided not to mention the error in saluting a pirate. Kirk might have his quirks, but he still was the best of them.
The plan was, as Captain Silvarre put it, "to distract the dogs with the cats, while the rats steal the cheese." While the transaction was to take place, officially, hand Jamison and his chosen trustee will retrieve the two most expensive artifacts. The Cut Mink is out of suspicion, as they were innocently doing official business at the time with the Institute, and yet Silvarre gains a much desired card to play with, in this ancient game of trade.
Eleven stared at the customs official, a private agent of the ISO company, who's soul purpose was to figure out if any person was attempting to smuggle artifacts in or out of the planet. Eleven was a straightforward kind of guy. He did not smile or flatter. He simply stated his lies, and expected you to accept them, as they are, and without question.
"Anything to declare?" The customs officer asked.
"No," Eleven answered, waiting for that specific response used in queues; a nod that means, 'Move along.'
"Anything to declare?" The customs officer asked Jamison.
"No," Jamison answered, trying to mimic his companion's sternness. The officer looked him up and down, saw that Eleven was a couple of steps ahead, waiting, and said, "Okay. Next!"
At the back entrance to the Institute of Suspect Objects' grand museum, the two waited, staring at the locked door. This was where those most rare and strictly guarded items stood on display; specifically, those items that they had come to steal.
"Tsk," Jamison noisily badgered. "What now? Let's just enter from the main entrance."
"Cats do not go from the door, Jamison. Only dogs do so," Eleven retorted, without turning his eyes from the door. The door opened. Out of it, came a guard followed by a janitor robot. "Excuse me!" Eleven shouted at the guard, and hurried forward.
"The main entry is that wa..."
"We just accidentally got out through this door, but it locked on us. Can you let us back in, sir?" Eleven's posture and mannerism hinted at a confused customer, the sort of customer that found a hair in their sandwich, and instead of shouting and complaining, simply returned the item back quietly, and quietly mentioned the problem.
"Oh," the guard looked at Jamison. What he saw, however, was a well-dressed gentleman, and not a thief. "Of course, come in, and make sure you do not get lost again."
"Yes, we will stay with the guide this time," Eleven smiled, grabbed Jamison's hand, and entered hurriedly.
They both had prepared for this well in advanced, memorizing a map of the compound, and where their targets lay. "Easy enough," Jamison whispered.
"Easy for you to say, newbie," Eleven grunted back, quietly.
"What is so difficult about this?"
"This part," Eleven paced up through the artifact filled corridor, and approached another guard, standing at the next door. As the guard moved to open his mouth, Eleven struck him in the face with an unidentified black object, and quickly began removing his own outfit.
"Oh," Jamison noted.
"Take his outfit off. While I am getting the artifacts, you can put together the cart," Eleven removed a few long black sticks from his jacket, and gave them to Jamison. Jamison stared at the parts, figured they were a stick-each-stick-into-the-other-stick kind of puzzle, and began working.
Within a minute, Eleven was back out with the two items, each under each arm. One looked like a big musical wind instrument, and the other had the shape of a sharp weapon. In reality, however, they both knew that the tube looking item was an explosive weapon, and the other just a harmless alien toy.
"Do not press the red button," Jamison said in humor.
"The Imploder requires a sequence of air thrusts to activate, which humans are unable to perform, without specialty tools," Eleven explained. Somehow, Jamison was certain that Eleven kept on him just the kind of 'specialty tool' that was required for its' activation, and shuddered.
The alien Imploder was notorious for creating bloody scenes, wherein people lost their skin and eyeballs, but remained alive just long enough to notice that new and surprising prickly sensation.
Finally, Jamison had the cart prepared, and after carefully locking the items down magnetically, they started moving back to where they had come from. Each put a hand to push the cart forward. Considering how small the artifacts were, it had a heavy pull to it.
"I know you don't like to get your hands dirty, but this really was nothing special," Jamison gestured. "These clowns can't even get their attack-bots to work."
"This is still the hard part," Eleven answered, turning back to face the silent creeping machines that had almost reached them, and clicked a red button on a joystick-looking gizmo. Two of the bots dropped from the ceiling, but a third kept on crawling towards them. "Your turn," Eleven said.
Jamison, who had been expecting at least some sort of a melee with machines, took out an arrow, aimed it at the single machine, now only a few feet away, threw it, and turned back - still pushing the cart.
"What was that?" Eleven asked, able to hear the bot jingling, as its' parts were detaching from its' main body.
"Uranium Action Darts," Jamison said, and grinned widely. "Unidentified, rare, and most of all, efficient against bots. It emits a radioactive wave that destabilizes a..."
"I am going to borrow a couple, eh."
"Sure, buddy. You know I got your back," Jamison said, still grinning. It was a joy to work with the best tools, after all.
As they entered their escape vessel, a compact and efficient evasion pod, the air pressure started to increase.
"Airzers?" Jamison asked, covering his ears with his hands, in pain.
"Airzers," Eleven answered, clicked his earlobes to activate his anti-pressure buttons, and started the pod away. It was a shaky ride, but this pod was custom designed to outmaneuver this planet's specific Airzer technology.
Airzer. Definition: Gravitational laser beams that condense the atmosphere in a given radius, causing great harm to unprotected living tissue, while interrupting the ability of any vessel to detach from the surface, as it attempts lift-off.
By the time any meaningful pursuit had begun, their pod had changed colors, changed visible shape, changed licensing transmissions, and was gaining miles away from the planet's exosphere. The Institute's control center, now at turmoil, had its' deputy at a loss.
"We lost their signature, Commander," the guard said, still looking at the data screen.
"Inform the boss. It has to be those space-damned pirates!"
Suzuryu Jupitas, the head and owner of the ISO, grimaced. Captain Silvarre, surrounded by a posse of dangerous looking space-pirates, now enjoyed years of practicing his poker face.
"The Amalgamator and the Syphon?" Jupitas confirmed, over audio, not using any visible device.
"Is something the matter?" Silvarre inquired politely. Jupitas did not respond, nor look at him.
"I see," Jupitas ended the invisible conversation. "Two men," he began saying, "not locals," by which he meant not inhabitants of Zigma Froy, "had just left the exosphere with some very valuable artifacts, Captain Silvarre."
"You would not mean the artifacts that we have been discussing, Mr. Jupitas?" The captain asked back, the innocence of a child on display.
"Some of them, apparently. Two that we have counted."
"Well," Silvarre hesitated, "I am sorry to be so blunt, but you do realize that this is going to change the price we were negotiating," he declared.
Eleven is his name, and reticence is his profession. He is not a pirate, and not because he disrespects their work, or public image in society. He prefers the quiet and efficiency of working alone. The safety of not having to count on others.
"You know, Dougler..." Eleven began.
Jamison opened one sleepy eye, and looked to his right, where Eleven was sat.
"You are very cunning, but not quite deliberate. Do you know why the customs official would rather bother you, than me?"
"Because you're a scary motherfu..."
"Because he knew that if he had badgered me, I would have noted his name and appearance, and some day, when all is forgotten, he would see me again. Maybe on his way back from work. Going back home, I suppose. And then, Dougler, he would regret his past choice of badgering me."
"You would keep a grudge for so long?" Jamison asked, sleepily.
"No, I would not. I would just keep even," Eleven mended, and returned to reading privately, from his own internal display.
Back at the interstellar mesh of space; the material from which the entire universe was formed; the source of all matter; the realization of all sources; a fleet of Unspeakables held parley with the Ancients; those who had escaped the galaxy, which now hosts the Coalition; their true nemesis.
"My lord," began the foremost Unspeakable, a vague shape, hardly occupying any space. "We have," the thing paused to cough, and the time display, inside the Elder Ancient's enclosed helmet, moved back a year, blurred, and returned to normal. The Elder shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He suspected that this meeting was a very bad idea. He had no choice. He had his orders. "We have started the invasion of the Coalition. Our devices have yet to identify any significant life forms."
"You have not reached their home planet? The red one?" Asked the Elder.
"Red?" Asked back the foremost.
A classical depiction of an alien invasion.
"Red. I mean, their base of operations. Where they dwell and reproduce," explained the Elder, lifting its' massive claw in the general direction of Earth, although no eyes seemed to follow his gesture.
"We have already reached their home planet, and it is entirely under our jurisdiction now," answered the foremost. Another voice, not dissimilar to the previous, spoke from behind the vague shape.
"We have already begun preparation to return to our own ventures, now that this war is through," it informed the Elder.
"None of our scouts have seen your attack," the Elder responded, patiently. Patience was, after all, the most venerated ideal of the Ancients. "We have no evidence of your conquest, my," the Elder hesitated, as one of his subordinates shouted, "great allies!" The Elder nodded and continued, "my great ally."
The fact of the matter was that the Unspeakables have indeed reached and conquered the planet Earth - the same, one and only. The Unspeakables had actually already taken over the entire galaxy of the Coalition, and any resistance was evidently futile. Other than a few roaming spirits, which actually had no claim on those planets, there was no resistance, at all. This fact had not surprised the Unspeakables. Their inferior allies, creatures of mere flesh, found the greatest hurdles in the easiest of challenges.
As a matter of personal interest and research, the Unspeakables have decided to leave behind a query - a platoon of their order, so that they could document their explorations. The inferior creatures that swarmed this galaxy were considered harmless, and thus were given a short explanation, in regards to who, and what, the Unspeakables were.
"We are," began, reassuringly, the first among equals, leading member of the community, Zata Ha Ha Ha Lahar, as most creatures near by began imploding, in quick succession, "the superior beings of the third galaxy, of this same universe."
By the time the introduction of the Unspeakables was over, a large segment of planet Earth was quarantined, by the humans, and extreme measures were taken, in order to shield any further repercussions.
After acts of aggression failed to make any impact on the intruders - what seemed a bulk of shadowy plasma, the Coalition unanimously decided to cover the threat with stuff. Anything. From metals, to glass and plastic, and even some biological scraps, that may, or may not, stop the ensuing destruction of living tissue, emanating from their guests.
There were those who had different devices recording the event. It took only three days for the message to be decoded and translated. Again, unanimously, the Coalition had decided to declare the Unspeakables, thus named, "our greatest ally and friend." No one dared to say otherwise.
This is the second segment, in this now expanding science-fiction satire universe. Please, check back again, for the next installment in the series.
I am in a shuttle. Not a train. More like a plane, or a spaceship. It is an in-between of those two, really. It is shaped like a long rocket without wings, and it is populated by rooms, and halls full of safety-chairs, where people wait for the landing. Only the bottom part has an engine and control center.
I am inside a waiting room, all for my own. I just woke up. I get the feeling that the end of the journey is approaching. Although I slept through it, it was not a long journey, actually. It is a mystery to me where I am, and where I am headed. And although it is a mystery, it is not important. The only thing that is important is the landing.
I slowly climb out of my room. It is connected to one of those sitting halls, through a corridor entrance, above me. The gravity is awkward, and although I do not float, I do need to crawl my way out of the room. As I approach the above chamber, I find myself pausing next to a window.
The view is intimidating. It is not just a freefall. It is an accelerated drop, from who knows how high. There is no sound. I keep staring into the incoming ground. It is littered with boulders, as if the landing site is meant to be more of a hazard, rather than less.
Suddenly, the thrusters below me burst, and the noise of combustion roars, as if from a long distance. Just as it seemed the vessel would hit the ground, and my mortal life would end miserably yet quickly, an ever so slight wobble motion hits, and everything just stops.
We have landed, and not surprisingly, everyone in their sits start applauding.
When Pae finally realized that she and her brother could not stay at the farm any longer, she asked Maghir, her elder brother, about their mother.
"Why can't we stay with mom? We can work the animals, ourselves," she complained. Maghir, a young boy, quite far from being a young man, did not have a good answer. Instead of giving her a bad answer, he decided that answering another question would be better.
"We're going to aunt Jen and uncle Madhu. They'll take care of us, and granny will take care of mom," he ended in a decisive tone. He was not really sure why their mother needed taking care of, but it was plain enough that she did not take their father's death well.
It is not that most children take death well. Not even a friend's death, much less family. Even the death of a farm animal could hurt. It is not even that their father was a bad man to be despised and glad over his demise. Not at all. Maghir and Pae simply did not feel as strongly as most others, when it came to death. Even they suspected that such a perspective was considered unusual in people.
"Spring" by Charles-Francois Daubigny, 1857
On the northern road, away from their home in Iranwin and towards those who would adopt them, at least for a time, Big Hor sang merrily. "Hoddy ho doddy do, little bird a whistle oh," he went and changed melodies and lyrics often, with little pause. Pae seemed aloof to the man's attempt at cheerfulness. Maghir felt slight disgust at the notion that they were too young to be allowed to be upset about their father's death.
Hor was a neighbor and an old friend. Each farm in their village, their further and further away village, stood a good walking distance away from the next farm. Even so, the locals felt close to each other, and treated each other well. Even between adults and children, games and conversations were commonplace. Hor was not then only a friend of the family, but an actual personal friend to both brother and sister.
As they walked under the mid-day sun, Maghir heard a noise from the east. Hor seemed to be too preoccupied to notice the sound, but Pae did turn to look at the same direction, as Maghir did. They exchanged curious glances. Could it be a wandering fox, Maghir wondered. When he turned back to look to the east again, he saw a tall woman covered with feathers from head to toe. She wore no clothing, except her feathers and a big toothy smile.
Traveling through North Western Europe by hitchhiking encouraged me to have personal conversations with different people. One of those people was Christian. A middle-aged traveling Anarchist.
Christian told me about his history in Germany. Back in his youth, I guess about forty(40) years ago, he was issued a draft into the army. That was back when they had mandatory army service. He told me about how he came to the conclusion that killing people and following commands as a soldier would be wrong. That he did not and does not support what they do, and do not believe in their ways.
After he was finished sharing his short history and origins as an anarchist, I told him how much trouble I had went through, when I decided to go against the Israeli army, after being drafted. Unlike a pacifist, who fends off the draft ahead of time, I was not decided on how I felt. So, when my parents pushed me to join the army, I went along.
Big mistake. Well, it was an adventure, and I did learn a lot about the insides of the dysfunctional military complex. It is always useful to know things first hand, especially if you decide to do anything about it, later on.
My journey inside the Israeli Army started by being drafted into boot camp for infantry. We ran and we shouted and we had long guns. We shot them, too. I did not feel anything about it, until I had a chance to speak with a guy who did this routine before me. He was from a couple drafts ago, so he had already seen and done quite a lot. Things move very rapidly, when you just join the army. They do not give you a moments' rest nor a full night's sleep.
He was injured from their routine. I am a curious guy, so I asked him about how it was like in their situation. What I heard brought me back into reality. Confrontations with Arabic civilians, and military training that guarantees serious injuries. Spending endless days in remote hell-holes without any purpose, but to be a watch dog that bites criminals and innocentsalike.
I did not like what I heard. The emotion inside of me that goes against all that is hateful, harmful and ignorant rang loud and clear. The following day, I felt unwell and insisted that I cannot join the morning routine. Instead of sending me to the camp doctor, I received endless threats and was eventually just ignored, in my bunk - in the desert. As an added bonus, the other cadets were encouraged to taunt me, and so I was verbally bullied for the rest of my stay.
This reaffirmed my suspicion, that being humane or sensible are not army values. It was a couple of amusing weeks that followed actually, as I simply roamed the camp with a friend, who was unwilling to cooperate, as well. He was from a religious background, but was forced into the army, anyway. Naturally, everything and anything was foreign and harmful to him in the army, so his response was expected. In my case, I was simply considered spoiled. We messed around with people and stuff in the camp and did things that might get me in trouble if I published, while still living in this country. That is what happens when people ignore you, instead of work with you. You become free and troublesome.
Eventually, our time had come, and we had some higher up officer sentence both of us to the same punishment. Eight(8) days in army jail, with the first night under arrest, which was, in all practicality, a tight dungeon. Not very friendly, but we were still cheerful. The real shock came when they took us in a small truck without windows, with all the other soldier prisoners smoking heavily inside, to the central jail facility. You can imagine how quickly I got used to cigarette smoke, even being a non-smoker, before that.
In jail, they made us wear prison uniforms - amusingly, they were old USA military uniforms - and they made us do chores, for most of the day, every day, but Saturday. Labor camp by Jews and for Jews. It is not for nothing that people use the term Judeonazi on many Israelis.
I had two memorable events in jail. One, was a thug trying to force me into giving him my cigarette allowance. Yes, we had cig' allowances every day or so. Not being a smoker, I just gave it away to the guy who came in with me. The thug, on my second day, approached and put his arm over me - in a "friendly" manner. I think I surprised him to no end by immediately reaching over with my own arm. I explained that I do not smoke and that my cig's are with my friend, and that he is free to share them. I was left alone after that.
The other event taught me a lot about totalitarian regimes. I spent too long on the can, doing the infamous "number two", which we all do daily. By "too long" I mean that the guy watching over me said that I need to get out, and I responded by saying that I am not ready. To my horror, I was facing the jail judge the very next day. A twenty-something year old girl in officer uniform. She was planning on giving me more time in jail, just because she felt I was being rude. I admit that I can be a very rude person, in general, but I still felt that forcing jail-time on me was harsh.
Luckily, this ended without incident, as my mom came to my help and talked with the officer, by phone, about not extending my stay. She gave some medical excuse and I was forgiven and forgotten. I found myself working the rest of my days there, by washing everyone's dishes by day, and by doing tower-watch by night. That is, watching so that nothing goes through the jail fence. It was an urban area.
After that wild month or so in the army, learning what being infantry is all about, under the misguided advice of my parents, I agreed to be drafted again. This time, into clerical duty.
Tomorrow, I will continue this historical post about being a clerk in the army, and reach the conclusion of one of my very first wild adventures, as an adult in society.
