The 67th Annual International Inventors' Symposium

“Order, order. Settle down, now. Please be seated”.

Clack. Clack. The gavel echoed. Dr. Malcolm Richards’ eyes moved across the crowd until he felt the room was muted to his liking.

“Good morning, and welcome to the sixty seventh International Inventors Symposium”. The microphone rang to the furthest corner of the room, reaching the ears of all seven hundred and sixteen attendees. “As I’m sure you all know, this event is held annually to celebrate the greatest discoveries and inventions of the last year. We also peak at the technology of the future”.

            Malcolm paused, as if waiting for cheers, but was met with silence. He cleared his throat and continued. “We have a lot planned for you over the next few days, and what better way to start than hearing from our very own, Dr. Leopold Greene”. The room applauded. “ Dr. Greene is a phenomenon because he has never focused on one field of study, and everything he touches seems to be pure gold. Whether you’re talking about his optical projection system, or his new take on food rehydration, the man is in every home around the world. So… without further adieu, Dr. Leopold Green, ladies and gentlemen”. At that pause, the entire room rose for a standing ovation.

            In the front row, a tall, lanky man stood up and made his way to the podium. He was wearing a white lab coat, like every other attendee, and khaki pants that led down his long legs to his Nike sneakers.

            Leopold did not address the crowd right away when he reached the microphone. He flipped through his note cards and took a deep breath. A bead of sweat slid down his brow. He knew that this speech could mean the end of his career, but he started anyway.

            “ Thank you, Dr. Richards, for that rousing introduction”. He feigned a smile. “I am truly honored to be here. This past year has seen some great innovations in technology big and small. Whether it be an every day product, like the odor eating bacteria now used in restrooms around the world, thanks to Dr. Henry Lee…” Leopold gestured to a short Asian man in the front row who humbly smiled and nodded, “…or something more advanced, like Dr. Rebecca Krumholtz’ Hydro-engine, the first motor to run on pure water”. He paused and gestured to a red headed woman sitting four rows back. Several people clapped at the mention of her name.

“But now it is time to look forward. There is always more to be done; more to improve and more to discover. I would like to now share with all of you what I have been working on for the past two years, something that I think could change the way we look at travel”. Leopold reached down to the remote control and took one more deep breath before clicking the play button, starting his slide show that played on the projector behind him. The first slide showed a dimensional drawing of what looked like a sphere with two parallel ends chopped off. The crowd began to murmur and whisper throughout. “I would like to introduce all of you to the Gyrocaster: the future in ground travel”. The muttering in the room grew slightly louder.

“The wide base allows for greater stability in an automobile. When once you needed four tires, now you only need two Gyrocasters down the middle of the car”. The next slide showed a mockup of a car with the Gyrocasters beneath it. The chatter continued to grow. Members of the audience began to show signs of disgust and confusion.

Leopold was afraid of this, but he had to continue. His palms were sweating, and his knees began to shake. “Um… also, due to the rounded base, automobiles will be able to take the sharpest ninety degree turn possible”. Leopold’s hands were trembling so much that his thumb missed the button for the next slide at first, but he got it on his second try. The next slide was a video, showing a Toyota Camry with Gyrocasters attached driving in a vacant parking lot. The car would stop and then be able to start driving in any direction. It was obvious to all when the sixty second video was over that no angle is impossible for the Gyrocaster.

When the video ended, the room was almost at a dull roar. Leopold had to yell into the microphone to speak over them. “With turns this tight, the entire roadway system can be redesigned and ‘compacted’, if you will; optimizing space. I am hoping to see these on all roads in the next ten years. Thank you.” No one applauded, and no one seemed at all happy or impressed by his presentation. Leopold had feared this might happen.

“Any questions?” Leopold asked weakly, hoping to be let off easy so he could wander back to his seat. He was not so lucky, however, as Dr. Malcolm Richards shot up immediately, not even waiting to be called on. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”, he yelled out before he even reached the crowd’s microphone.  “This has to be a joke right?”

Leopold froze for a second, “um, uh, what do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean, Leo. REINVENTING THE FUCKING WHEEL?! It’s the one unspoken rule for inventors, and it always has been. Don’t fuck with the wheel. It’s sacred.” There were murmurs of agreement in the audience.

“Look, I just think it could be improved upon. It hasn’t been looked at for thousands of years, and meanwhile our cell phones get upgraded every year with some new feature. You’re telling me that the wheel is perfect?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you!” Malcolm yelled. His face was now beet red, and the veins on his forehead were pulsing. “Are you trying to make a mockery of this year’s proceedings? The year that I finally become president of the International Inventors’ Union? Well, I won’t stand by and let it happen. Your Gyro-crappers will never see the light of day. Guards, detain Dr. Greene until all of his research on this blasphemous invention has been seized”.

“No, please!” Leopold yelled as two large muscular men marched to the front of the stage and carried him off.

So that’s why they hire body guards every year, Leopold thought, as he was dragged out the back door.

“Sorry about that ladies and gentlemen”,  Malcolm said in a much calmer voice. He adjusted his hair with his fingers. “Why don’t we take a ten minute break and collect ourselves. When we return….” He glanced down at the schedule in front of him, “… Dr. Maureen Phillips will marvel us with her findings on erection manipulation”.

A Dying Wish

             John stepped out of the boat, allowing his legs to sink into the river about a foot or so. He gripped the thick rope tied to the nose of his rowboat, slung it over his shoulder and pulled it ashore the last ten feet or so. When he made it to land, he found a substantial rock boulder he could fasten the rope to, anchoring the craft to the shore.  Once everything was secure, he found a log nearby that was high enough off the ground where he wouldn’t have to struggle too greatly to get back up. He slowly lowered himself onto the fallen tree and let out a deep sigh.

             Dammit, Bob. I’m too old for this. John looked down the Columbia River and the miles of water he had just traversed. Seventy-three is too old for these kind of adventures. 

            It felt like a lifetime for John as he sat on the log, dreading to get back up. His left elbow was throbbing from all of the rowing he had done, and his knee had been in poor shape for half a decade now. On top of that, his heart would not stop racing. He was glaring at his pack, the head of which was peaking out over the nose of the boat, a good twenty feet or so from him. He needed to make his way over to it and repair himself, but he couldn’t find the will. Just then, a cool light breeze pushed at his back , urging him forward. He took that as a sign, wiped his sweaty brow and lifted himself from the log by his palms.

            When he reached his khaki colored knapsack, he pulled open the cinched top and blindly reached inside, feeling around  until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a half used tube of  Biofreeze, all worn from months of use. He unscrewed the cap and squeezed out this pasty translucent liquid onto his first two fingers of his right hand. As he rubbed the menthol ointment onto his left elbow, he almost moaned from the instant relief. Once it was thoroughly covered, he did the same to his bum knee. He returned the ointment to the sack and withdrew his water bottle. He took a deep drink before tossing it in the bag and pulling it closed. He slung his luggage over his shoulder before finally being able to face his task.

             He turned his head upwards, away from the river banks, to two twin mesa rock formations towering over him. The two sisters. He used his hand to block the sun as he studied them in detail, planning his approach. There’s a trail that wraps around back and up the west formation at a manageable incline, or a much rockier and steeper pathway entering straight up the front of the east formation.

            John pushed away the cuff of his sleeve to glance at his watch. Shit. Quarter to four. Rowing out here took almost twice as long as it used to. I forgot to factor in these rusty bones. Guess I better take this thing straight on. I  don’t want to spend the night out here. With that last thought, he took the path to the right, and headed toward the east sister.

            The first fifteen minutes went by quickly. The terrain was still relatively flat, and the weather was beautiful. John almost didn’t mind being out there. That quickly changed in the next fifteen minutes, however. He had reached the base of the rock formation, but bbefore he started his ascension, he found an old weathered stick, just straight enough to lean on and rough to the touch. I’m going to need this. I can’t just walk up the side of a mountain any more. 

            It didn’t take long for the pain to return to his knee. It started as a dull stiffness, but quickly escalated to sharp electroshocks every time his right foot made contact with the ground. At four-thirty, he was halfway up, but needed to take a rest. His breathing was rapidfire and he had been audibly groaning from the pain in his knee. He was completely covered in sweat, beads streaming down his forehead faster than he could wipe them away, obstructing his vision.

            Come on old man, you’re almost there. Just thirty minutes more, and you’ve done your job. He reached into his back pocket and retrieved a silver flask. He removed the cap and took a hearty swig, whisky dripping down his chin as he pulled away. That should steady my heartbeat a bit.

Those last thirty minutes were hell to John. He was relying on his walking stick completely at this point; looking for a sturdy spot to wedge it before every step he took. As he made his way around a particularly large boulder, however, the end was finally in sight. He could see where the path leveled off to a flat plateau. He attempted to quicken his pace, thinking about how maybe Paula’s stew would still be hot by the time he got home, but he was already going as fast as he could. John was looking too far off in the distance when he tripped on a tree root jutting up from the ground, and he fell hard. He yelled out in incredible pain and grasped his right knee; his pant legged turned a wet dark brown as it quickly absorbed the blood.

Fuck. Nice going, old man. He steadied himself up on his walking stick and hopped the last ten feet to the plateau on his left foot. 

John was in rough shape. He couldn’t breathe and his already dead knee was now sported a bloody gash. Hope it’s worth it, Bob. Let’s get it over with.

John dropped his knapsack to the dirt and opened it. In the center, surrounding his first aid kit, water bottle, and other essentials was a silver, bullet shaped canteen that he raised from the bag carefully with two hands. He walked towards the half of the plateau that was still being graced with the sun’s rays as he very meticulously spun the lid of the canteen until it had fallen loose.  He struggled with each step, deliberately using both of his legs in order to keep the container steady, despite the intense pain that this caused him. He also noticed, in the quiet of the environment, that he was now wheezing. Those two miles were probably too much for them He stepped to the edge and with slow precision, emptied the contents of the canteen. A grey cloud formed in front of him and slowly drifted off towards the sun.

Once he was certain the container was empty, he dropped it in front of him and fell backwards, his ass hitting the rocky surface with a thud. He propped himself on the palms of his hands, and watched the grey cloud drift further and further away. He smiled for a second, but it quickly turned into a pained expression. His chest felt as if it were clenching; as if the cavity was retracting as his lungs attempted to expand. He was no longer just panting any more, his breathing had become erratic. There was no pattern any more, as he would start and stop. This turned into fits of coughing, and then gasping, his face turning white

 He never took his eyes off that setting sun, though, even when he took that final breath, his face calm with a sense of accomplishment.

Fun Run

POP. The blast from the pistol rang out, and a thin grey cloud floated up over the sea of people wearing matching burnt orange shirts. The crowd of over two thousand began to slowly shuffle from their stand still, trying to find space in the crowd.

I split my earbuds apart and placed an end in each ear. When I hit the play button on my iPhone, Kanye west greeted me with one of my favorite Yeezus tracks, “I’m in it”. By the time the bass kicks in and Assassin’s Caribbean pre-chorus takes over, the pace of my run has matched the tempo of the music. I found an escape route to the left of the crowd, and I could now focus on the task at hand.

This was the second year in a row that I signed up for the Morton Pumpkin Fest Fun Run. It was two miles through town and Elissa’s entire family ran it. I had beat every single one of them pretty handily the year before, so it was a matter of personal pride that I best all of them again.

I was very comfortable with my running tempo. I made sure to stretch my legs out with each stride to maximize distance, and keep my feet on the pavement for as little time as possible. My feet would hit the ground heel first and roll forward until my toes pushed off the ground on the way back up towards the back of my thigh.  I was a machine, and this was what I was built to do.

            The lane on the left side stayed relatively open. For some reason, everyone was crowding to the right side of the running lane. Four songs into the race, and I noticed my breath had gotten heavier. I’m not saying I was breathing harder, it was more like the air that was escaping my lungs had gone up in weight, which meant I had to give a little more effort to get it out. “I’m fine”, I thought to myself. “Four songs in means it’s been over ten minutes. I should be seeing the finish line shortly.

 I focused on the scenery to distract myself from the fatigue that was falling over me. It was very cool, mid fifties at best on this late September morning. I could feel the wind press against my face and tousle my hair as I pushed myself against it. I was running through a residential neighborhood of one-story houses, but I could see the golden brown color of the corn fields ahead of me in the distance. This was a pleasant morning for a run, and the Dear Hunter song that was now playing in my headphones felt like a perfect soundtrack to the morning. I soaked all of it in.

I was getting pretty tired however, and it was getting harder to distract myself from that fact. I had now reached the cornfield I had seen in the distance. The odor of the rotting husks overwhelmed me. I hadn’t run along side a cornfield the year before, so I started to get a little nervous and confused. I had lost track of how many songs I had listened to on my playlist, but I was sure I had long surpassed fifteen minutes. Then I saw the sign that confirmed my suspicions. A white sign with big red bock letters on the side of the road told me I was passing “MILE 3”.

Shit. As I passed the sign, I immediately slowed to a walk. I took a wrong turn. This was not the fun run. It turns out that there was a right turn to be made about a mile and a half back if you were doing the two-mile run. If you continued to go straight, you were following the six-mile track.

The three-mile marker is the absolute worst place I could be, I decided. It’s the same distance to go back as it is to finish this thing. There is nothing I can do, and now I’m not in the town square anymore, I’m out in some desolate farmland where there is no easy escape. I had to get out of there. With that knowledge, I turned up my music and decided that the only thing I could really do is power through it. I started running again, but at a much slower pace than before. Before I was running at a speed suitable for a two mile run, now I was only half way done with a six mile race.

My will to finish kept me inspired for the next mile and a half, but after that my feet got heavier, the impact on the pavement was felt with every step. I was no longer the refined machine I had felt I was a half-hour earlier. Instead, I was an elephant running through the savannah. Each step was hard and straight into the ground, the vibration from the impact resonated through my leg and up to my knee. I continued running, but it no longer felt refreshing to me as it did miles ago.

I make it another mile, and my chest has tightened from all of my heavy panting. Sweat has been running down my face and I can taste the salt on my lips. My pace slows, and now I’m trotting.

Just when I thought all hope was lost, the finish line comes into view, framed by balloons, carnival rides and hords of people. I break for it. My chest hurt, my stomach curdles, I might puke. But in under a minute it will all be over.  I am now sprinting down Main Street, fighting against any and all pain coursing through my veins. As I reach the finish line, I run through it, making sure not to slow down until I am ten yards passed it. I did it.

Chopped

“You did a great job. You’re definitely winning, I can feel it”. John smiled as he said it, trying to hide the competitive distaste we both shared for one another. I figured I should play along.

“Are you kidding me? Your execution of that frozen pizza and balsamic vinegar ice cream cone was killer. Besides, I added too much salt to my bread pudding, and I completely forgot the bullion cubes. I’m as good as gone”. It was true. I got distracted or something, and completely forgot an ingredient. I made it all the way to the final round only to shoot myself in the foot. Rookie mistake.

            The door opened and one of the producers peaked her head in; a large headset overtook her face. “They’re ready for you”. John and I got up and followed her down the hall.

            The producer stopped right before the doorway at the end of the long walk and gestured us forward. As we walked through the door, the host, Ted Allen, greeted us. Thick black glasses framed his half closed eyes, giving off this despondent vibe that he was too good to be here. He probably was.

            To his right were the judges. Marc Murphy looked like he could have been a frat bro at whatever culinary school he went to, if there were fraternities for cooking schools. Alex Guarnaschelli had the pompous look on her face that she held all day long. She was the toughest to please. At the far end of the table was Aaron Sanchez, who seemed like a normal guy. He was probably the best of the bunch. In front of the judges was a cloche that covered the losing dish waiting to be revealed.

            As we walked before the judges, we had to stop on these black X’s on the ground. It’s funny, I’ve never noticed those X’s when watching the show from home, but the cameras were already running and it was quiet on the set, so we weren’t getting any vocal direction.

For the last few minutes, I had been trying to prepare for loss, reminding myself that it’s only money on the line. I made it to the end, so I have nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll go home to my family and my moderately successful restaurant. Plus, we’ll get publicity for a while since I was on TV, which will be nice.

            Ted Allen lowered his hand onto the cloche’s handle. He looked at both of us, and said his famous line, breaking the silence,  “Chefs… who’s dish is on the chopping block?”. He just held his hand there afterward for what felt like an eternity. You have to build that suspense, I guess. He raised his arm, taking the cover with it. The result was just as I feared. There sat my bread pudding made of diced frozen pizza and dried cherries with a balsamic glaze. It looked a little sad, sitting there. I know I tried to expect it, but still, losing felt awful. I let out a sigh and looked at my shoes. How embarrassing.

            “Sarah, you’ve been chopped. Judges?”

            Alex spoke up. Of course she would be the one to complain about my food. I bet the other two loved it.

            “Your bread pudding was very original, but the salt was overwhelming. You forgot to even add the bullion cubes, and for that, we had to chop you”.

            I gave a half-hearted nod, turned to John and gave him a hug, “congratulations”. I walked through the door I came in, and down that long hallway, toward the camera. I tried to give off the impression that I wasn’t hurt, but I don’t think it worked. I paused in front of the door that I had seen so many people walk through, that one that the losers walk through at the end of their walk of shame, and turned the handle.

            There were two people waiting for me in the room, one of them removed the microphone clipped to my chef’s jacket while the other asked for a sound bite of my final thoughts.

            “Um, I’m proud of what I did today. I made a mistake, and that is not a reflection of the chef that I am. I will be back”. The silent one let out a little chuckle at that last line.

            “Great. Just wait here. Sit at this table please”. It was then that I actually looked around the room. The room was cramped, and the walls looked like they were made of steel. The floor was covered with white porcelain tiles. This was a far cry from the Asian inspired kitchen that sat right on the other side of the door.

            In the center of the room sat a very thick and sturdy looking wooden table with a bare light bulb hanging from a cord above it. The table had only one chair. As I sat, I noticed the deep and dark grooves crisscrossing each other in the center of the table. This room was obviously used for more than an exit interview. What more do they need anyways? I wanted to go home.

            That’s when the door on the other side of the room opened up. Ted Allen walked in, the top of his shirt now unbuttoned and a cigar resting between his lips. The three judges followed. I noticed Aaron Sanchez was carrying a briefcase. The air they brought with them into the room made me uncomfortable. What the fuck was going on?

            “Sarah.” Mr. Allen acknowledged me.

            “What’s going on here? Isn’t the show over?” Something was up. Ted just smirked and took a puff of his cigar. Aaron lifted the briefcase onto the table and carefully undid each latch. Click. Click. He opened the case, and inside laid a single Butchers knife. The blade was eight or so inches long, and it looked dulled, as if it had been used pretty regularly, wiping away the shine over time.

            That’s when I noticed the Alex and Marc had moved behind me; one on either side. They each grabbed an arm and I immediately began to struggle, trying to get out of it.

            “You’re hurting me! Cut it out.“ Alex’s grip tightened, and her nails broke the skin. Blood was dripping down my forearm. They put my arms on the table in front of me and pinned them down. I tried to pull out of it, but I was not a strong woman.

            Ted pulled the cigar out of his mouth and leaned forward onto the table. “Don’t you fucking get it?” He looked awake for once, and there was a certain pleasure behind the words he spoke. “I started this show because I only want to eat the best. If you can make your way through the contest and come out with delicious meals from these crazy ingredients, then you deserve to be a chef, but if you don’t…” He gritted his teeth.  “If you make shitty food, you can’t be a chef. Get rid of the filth so the best can prosper. It’s darwinism.”

            I started crying. Through my tears, I watched as Ted reached for the butchers knife and admired it under the light, pretending I wasn’t there. I was screaming, begging the other chefs to let me go, but they just laughed at me.

            Ted raised the blade above my arms, looked me in the eyes. “You’ve been chopped”. He dropped the blade. I watched it as if it were happening in slow motion; the blade breaking through the skin, the splash of the blood, the slight pause in the stroke as it broke through the bone. There was a burning sharp pain, more intense than anything I had ever felt before. He raised the knife again and removed the other hand. The pain was unbearable. I was sobbing and held up my now free arms, looking at where my hands used to be. Blood was pouring down my arms at an unbelievable rate. I was extremely dizzy.

            I looked up at Ted, his face splashed with my blood. He reached into his front pocket of his jacket and pulled out a powder blue handkerchief. He wiped his face.

            “Clean her up”. He flicked his cigar into the corner of the room as he said this. It bounced off the wall before hitting the floor; the embers still glowed on the lit end of it. He turned; walked toward the door he came in, and faced me one last time with that evil smirk, before he pushed the door open and left.

Spanakopita

I glance up at the clock and a green light tells me it’s 3:26 am.

All I want is that sweet relief of sleep, and not just any sleep, either.

I want that sleep where my whole body goes limp,

Dead weight in twisted and tangled formations with no signs of life.

When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll feel like I’m coming out of a prolonged coma

But step one is falling asleep.

If only it were that simple.

If only I didn’t feel that dull pressure in between two of my right lower molars

My teeth telling me that a piece of spinach is still lodged there.

There’s no pain, just a tiny tickle coming from that wilted leaf saying something like,

“Hey, I’m here”.

You know that feeling. It happens a lot with popcorn kernels.

I’ve gotten up three times already, headed to the bathroom,

Pulled out my floss and went to town on that spot,

Yet coming away each and every time empty handed.

The last attempt had me heading back to bed with a mouth full of blood.

Maybe I was a tad aggressive.

It’s crossed my mind that maybe there’s nothing there at all.

Am I going mad? Is this just the start?

How lame of a way to go mad anyways, imagining food between your teeth.

Well, if it’s not there, I just have to block it out.

I close my eyes, and try to focus on anything but my teeth,

Which of course brings all of my attention to that imaginary piece of spinach.

I glance up at the clock and a green light tells me it’s 3:27 am.

Love Among the Stars

I watched her taillights as she turned out of the Diner parking lot and into the night. This was it; the last time I ‘d see the girl I thought I was the one, and the news hit me like a ton of bricks. I thought our relationship was going great, that we were comfortable. Apparently comfortable isn’t what she wants, however. Comfortable means bored and complacent to some.

            I finished my coffee and paid the bill. When I walked out to the lot, however, I couldn’t will myself to leave. This was the spot where she and I had last made contact, and there was some aura around that fact that I was afraid of losing. So, instead of putting my key in the ignition, I propped myself onto the hood of my car, swung my feet over, and lay, looking up at the nighttime sky with my hands resting behind my head.

            As I looked up at the stars, I remembered a little fact from grade school that had always stuck with me, and that was this: the light from these stars has traveled lightyears to get here, and the light that my eye is catching is actually the star’s former self. It could have been minutes, hours, or years ago that the stars twinkled or flickered or shone like this. Even the light from the sun’s rays takes a full eight minutes to reach the surface of the earth.

            In that moment, it clicked that this idea has to work in reverse as well. Some star up there is looking upon this planet when it was infested with dinosaurs.  Another star might be seeing the light from this planet that was emitted when the bomb dropped on Hiroshima.

            If I could build a space ship and travel the stars, I’d travel to the star where  Erica and I had our first kiss, to see the look on my face when I felt her lips for the first time. Maybe I’d go to that white dwarf in the distance to re-experience the “perfect day” we’d always reference later, spending our afternoon wandering the zoo and napping in the park before we went home and had sex for the first time. Ideally, I ‘ll find a red supergiant that I can park my ship on just in time to witness the time I first met Erica at the bookstore. I’d set up camp there and relive all of our great memories.

            The problem is, time is still linear, even among the stars. Eventually our relationship would turn sour again and I’d have to pack up and head further out into space, racing against time to only live in those days where Erica and I were happy.  

            Just then, a sliver of sunlight caught my eye as it peaked over the mountain. The sun is probably just witnessing her taillights leaving the parking lot about now; leaving me here alone.

             I sat there running her words through my head over and over again, but only in bits and pieces. “Everything just feels stagnant”. “We’re in different places right now”. “You hear me, but you don’t listen to me”. The more I heard these phrases and dissected them word-by-word, the more hollow they seemed. They’re those kind of phrases that sound profound but hold no real weight. Maybe that’s what our relationship was. When I look at it from a distance, it looks real and meaningful, but was it real? She tried too hard to be right all the time, and we didn’t have much in common. There were definitely signs that whatever we had wasn’t going to be forever.

            With that thought, I was able to smile to myself, if only for a second. I swung my legs back over the hood of the car and planted my feet in the dirt. I opened the drivers’ side door, took a seat, and started the engine. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I glanced out my rearview mirror to see the Diner waitress watching my taillights disappear.   

The Anti-Story

Rob awoke at 6:45 a.m., just like he always did. He relieved himself in the bathroom and moseyed downstairs, where he first turned on the coffee pot, then went to the fridge and took out the milk. He walked over to his pantry and took out the same brand of cereal he always bought, Vanilla Almond Special K. He always did these things in the exact same order. After breakfast, he brushed his teeth, got dressed and hopped in his car to head to the office.

Rob took the same route and stopped at his usual gas station for a newspaper and a coffee. He stepped inside, greeted Walter, the gas station attendant, and grabbed the newspaper so he could read a few headlines while the coffee poured. As he glanced down, reading MAYOR SMITH RESIGNS OVER SCANDAL, he heard the sound of a bell behind him, alerting that another customer had arrived.

This was not another customer however, made obvious when Rob heard, “Alright mother fucker, open the cash register! Empty the drawer asshole!”.

            Rob turned around to see a man in a ski mask with a pistol pointed right between Walter’s eyes. And his stomach turned. He panicked and looked around to grab something for protection. Picking up the coffee pot, he stared at it in his hands. The metal shape, the sharp corner making the base of the pot, and the hot liquid filling its shell. This could do some damage, he thought. He carefully set the pot back on to the counter, and heard the ding signaling the departure of the masked intruder.

            Rob cautiously approached the counter to pay for his coffee and paper. "Crazy stuff, man", he said to Walter, trying to break the silence. The cashier was in a sweat and trembled as he counted out the dollar bills. "Why didn't you help?! You could have done something, even if it was just calling for help". Rob avoided eye contact and tried to force out a half-assed excuse, but he only stuttered. "Um.. uh... uh...".  Walter cut him off by shoving his change into Rob's fist and turned his back to him. "Get out of here". He left and went to work. 

            At the office, he stuck to his daily routine. He checked emails for 30 minutes, and afterwards he filled out metric reports in an ongoing excel file. At 10:30, he took a twenty minute coffee break to read the paper, and then it was back to his reports until lunch.

            This particular day was a Tuesday, which meant lunch was the Taco Tuesday special at Cantina Joe’s. Rob arrived and requested his usual booth. The waiter, Jim, never came around to ask Rob what he wanted because it was always the same. Instead, he greeted Rob with a plate of two chicken tacos; no lettuce, extra cheese, and salsa on the side. “Here you are, Rob. Eat up.”

            Rob sat there quietly, enjoying his lunch. He was just about finished with his lunch when Jim walked up to Rob’s table again with a margarita in hand. “Compliments of the woman at the bar”, he said, sitting the drink onto the table and sliding a napkin towards Rob. The napkin was scribbled with “Call me – (603) 542-0974. Joanne”. Rob looked down at the napkin and then back up to see a beautiful brunette woman in a black and white blouse smile and wave to him.

            He felt his ears get hot. He had never been hit on before, and this woman was a knockout. He knew she was way out of his league. He picked up the napkin and held the artifact gently between his fingers, analyzing every letter on the piece of paper. He then gently put the napkin back on the table, pulled out a ten dollar bill to pay his bill and left, leaving the napkin and the drink untouched.

            When Rob returned to work, he noticed he had a meeting request in his inbox with his boss, Mr. Johnson, at 4:30 p.m. He made a mental note and returned to work. He inputted number after number in the spreadsheet, melting away the hours until 2:30 when he took his afternoon break to stretch his legs and get away from his desk for a few minutes. He always walked one lap around the block of his building and then returned to his desk. It took fourteen minutes each time. He then sat down and worked diligently on his analysis report of all the data he had collected that day.  Rob shut down his computer at 4:27, because he knew it took roughly three minutes to walk upstairs to Mr. Johnson’s office.

            He knocked on Mr. Johnson’s door, and heard a faint “come in” from inside. Rob walked in and sat down. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Johnson?”.

            His boss paused for a second as if he was thinking over the words he was going to say very carefully.

            “Rob, we’ve been watching you for a while now. You do great work, and you are incredibly gifted”.

            “Thank you, sir. We?”

            “I mean it. You have talents that probably you yourself are unaware of.  Talents that I want you to tap in to”.

            “If you don’t think I work hard enough…”

            “This isn’t about your job performance, Rob. This isn’t really about work at all. This is about maximizing your potential in life. I have a proposition for you, if you’re interested”. He paused for effect, before continuing. “I am part of a secret society, fighting for our freedom in the universe. There is a war going on that is invisible to most, but it is there nonetheless”.

            “This is crazy. Secret society? Secret war? Where would I come in to this? I’m no fighter. I’m a data analyst.”

            “Precisely, and It’s your analytical skills I’m after, Rob. You can read into scenarios and extract truth from seemingly simple information. I see your monthly metric reports you turn in. I’ve never seen anyone so accurate with such penetrating insight. I think we can shape your skills into the makings of a great leader. There’s much you’ll have to learn. You will, of course, need to know how to fight. This is your destiny, though, Rob. Earth needs you. What do you say?”

            Rob felt a swelling sense of pride and patriotism, not just towards his country, but the whole planet. His life would finally have a purpose after all these years.

            Rob stood up and said with certainty, “no thank you, sir. I am not your man”, and then he walked out. Mr. Johnson was stunned.

            On his ride home, Rob thought about everything that happened to him that day, and he shuddered. It had always been his life’s goal to avoid any sort of change at all cost. The one joy Rob ever took out of life was consistency, and there were too many chances today to completely alter his life.

The way Rob saw it, he did not want to end up as some story people told. Stories always needed some sort of conflict or change to take place. If he was unchanging, he could keep to himself and live a normal life until he died. The last thing he ever wanted was for his life to be like some sort of book, where he has a great adventure and everything ties up neatly in the end with a sentence that summarizes the narrative’s themes. Something cheesy. Something along the lines of “nothing really ever stays the same”.