A Day in the Life

"Haaugh," I say, yawning. Mornings have gotten harder as I've gotten older, though to be honest, they were never my favorite.

I sit up and stretch my limbs, feeling the slight twinge in my elbow that's become so familiar over the years. Yawning a second time, I finally stand up and hobble downstairs.

"Good morning," my butler, Gordon, says to me as I reach the bottom ground floor. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Rhmm," I grumble. I don't mean to be so short, but I'm never fully awake before breakfast. Gordon leads the way into the dining room where breakfast is waiting for me. It's a simple meal of dry cereal, along with a few prescription pills for chronic ailments on the side. I'd gotten a taste for a crunchy breakfast years ago before I retired, and eating it now reminds me of my younger days.

It was in my younger days when I had considered a different path in life, one with time for romance. I let my mind drift back to that day in the park: that day when I met him. I had gone to the park for a run, as I had many times before and would many times after. I rounded a bend and there he was: the most magnificent creature I had ever laid eyes on.

He was tall and muscular with jet black hair and dark brown eyes. As he got close to me, the wind shifted and I got a whiff of his natural musk, and it was intoxicating. I caught his attention (as a petite blonde, I tend to stand out, even now), and he slowed down. Our eyes locked and it felt like I was looking into his soul, just as he was into mine. In a moment, I was ready to give up everything and run away with him. And as silly as it may seem, I could tell he would do the same thing for me. But then reality came crashing in: I couldn't run off. Too many people relied on me. As heartbreaking as it was, I knew that it could never be. He seemed to understand and he nodded, his eyes glistening with moisture. We both started our runs again, this time away from one another. After that, I changed my route to avoid running into him, but every now and again, the wind would blow just right and I would smell him.

I shake myself out of my fantasy and back to the present. I finish my breakfast and wander into the den. Just as I get comfortable on the couch, Elizabeth, my driver walks in.

"Time for your doctor's appointment," she says, in a tone that feels a bit too enthusiastic. I sigh and get up, stretching once more. Elizabeth helps me with my coat and leads the way to the car.

Thankfully, this is just an annual exam and not anything serious. Other than some more medication for my elbow, I'm sent away with a clean bill of health.

After getting home, I decide to take a nap—don't judge me! I'm old and retired and I can use my time any way I like. I drift off to sleep and dream of frolicking in the woods behind my estate. Gordon and Elizabeth are there, too, but instead of being my servants, they're my parents. Suddenly, I'm out of the woods and I'm a child, playing with my brothers and sisters at the orphanage. My favorite brother (whose name I've since forgotten), is taken away to be adopted. I call after him to not leave me, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I try to shout louder and louder and—

I wake up with a start, jumping out of bed and standing before realizing what was happening. I shake my head, the dream fading from my mind and my memory. I stretch again and wander downstairs.

I find Gordon and tell him that I'm ready for my afternoon constitutional. While I could go alone, I enjoy Gordon's company. And, if I'm being honest, I'm old enough that if I were to take a spill, it could be serious, so bringing him with me is just prudent.

The sunshine feels good on my face and I smile. I may not be able to run anymore, but I'm still invigorated by a walk around the estate grounds. I pause a few times to smell the flowers—the tulips in particular—before completing a loop around the property and returning to the house.

Back inside, I hydrate and return to the den. Gordon offers to help me, but I brush him off. I may be an old lady, but I hate being treated like one. I doze on the couch, though I don't really fall asleep.

I snap out of my daze to the aroma of my dinner. From the smell of it, I'd say it's lamb and rice, with a beef reduction, and a side of carrots. I follow my nose into the dining room and discover that I am, as usual, correct. I eat quickly, not wanting a moment to pass by without the delicious food in my mouth.

"Hic!" I hiccup. I hate when this happens! But my chef is so talented that dinner usually ends with me hiccupping. It's more embarrassing than anything else, but I know they'll pass soon, so I try not to think about it.

With my belly full, I climb the stairs and curl up in bed. As I feel sleep creep up on me, I can't help but feel happy with my life and content with how things turned out.

"What do you think she dreams about?" I hear Elizabeth ask, just as I'm on the edge of sleep.

"I don't know," Gordon replies, "whatever's on her mind, I guess. She's a pretty spoiled dog, so maybe she's going on a walk?"

"I hope she's dreaming about us," Elizabeth says as I cross over into unconsciousness. "I hope she's happy that we rescued her and made this her forever home."

Summons

Brian returned the contents of his jeans' pockets as he walked away from the security detail at the entrance of the courthouse. Since this was his first time going to jury duty since moving to his new place, he wasn't sure where he needed to go. He pulled the summons from his jacket pocket to see if he could decipher the instructions now that he was physically in the building, but it was no use. Brian looked around for someone he could ask for help and saw a woman behind a desk a little ways away, just in front of the elevators. Brian walked towards her.

"Um, excuse me," Brian said to the young woman sitting behind the desk. She appeared to be in her early twenties, had dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and was wearing a plain yet professional-looking blouse. "Can you…?" he started, but paused. The woman's breathing was labored, she had a far-off look in her eyes, and she had a light sheen of sweat on her face despite the cool temperature of the lobby. "Are you okay?"

"What they don't tell you," the woman said breathlessly, not making eye contact with Brian, "is that a small order of cheesy breadsticks is still supposed to be for, like, four people." Brian looked down at the desk and saw a large, greasy piece of waxed paper laid out, showing the crumby remnants of, apparently, a small order of cheesy breadsticks.

"I'm here for jury duty," Brian said, cutting to the chase.

"You're in the right place," she replied, still slightly out of breath and still staring off into space.

"Right," Brian said slowly, trying to keep his cool. "Where do I go next?"

"What's your summons say?" she asked, raising her head to face Brian, though with her eyes closed.

"I don't know," Brian replied, the annoyance in his voice becoming more obvious. "I couldn't make sense of it."

"Let's see it" the woman said, extending her hand but keeping her eyes closed. Brian handed the paper to her and she finally opened her eyes to examine it. As soon as she laid her eyes on the paper, she held it back up to Brian. "This isn't your summons: it's the instructions that came with your summons. Did you bring your actual summons with you?"

"Look," Brian said, fed up with this woman’s behavior, "I couldn't make sense of the terrible instructions, but I brought the piece of paper that actually has 'summons' printed across the top. Now you’re telling me that the summons is the one without 'summons' on it?"

"Sir," the woman said a bit condescendingly, finally making eye contact, "there's no need to get an attitude."

Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Since I don't have the summons," he asked, looking back at the woman, "what do I do?"

"You'll need to go subbasement C and get a replacement summons," the woman said with what seemed to Brian to be a sarcastic smile. She gestured behind her. "You can take the elevators or," pointing behind Brian, "the stairs. Have a nice day."

Hoping that walking would help him blow off steam, Brian took the stairs.

After six flights—a main level, two basement levels, a garage level, and two subbasement levels—Brian finally arrived at the highly anticipated subbasement C. While the walk had helped him cool down a little, he was still pretty annoyed. Opening the heavy door that separated the stairwell from the rest of the floor, the first thing Brian noticed was the faint smell: stale booze mixed with just a hint of bleach. An outdoor public bathroom on a hot day is far worse, but it still wasn't something he was prepared for. He stepped out of the stairwell and heard his shoes peel off the sticky floor. Brian looked down and saw a dried puddle below his feet with a disconcerting red color. Trying not to think about what he could be stepping in, he headed down the hall.

Unlike on the main floor or in the stairwell, the fluorescent lights of subbasement C had a sickeningly green tint to them. Plus, it seemed like every fifth light was flickering. Along with the smell and the sound of his shoes, still sticky from the mysterious puddle, it all made for a truly unnerving experience.

Brian stopped in front of a room directory to see where he needed to go. Some of the letters had fallen off and laid on the ground. According to the sign, only four rooms were on subbasement C: A chives I, Arch  s II,  rchives I I, and Sum ons Rei sue. Thankfully, the room numbers were intact, so Brian headed down the hall looking for room C-13.

After walking for several minutes, Brian reached room C-13. Except, there were two C-13s: C-13a and C-13b. The doors faced each other from either sides of the hall. Not sure what else to do, he opened the door to C-13a. Well, he tried to open the door, but it was locked. So was C-13b. Shaking his head in confusion, Brian knocked on b and then a. No answer.

Just as Brian was turning to walk back towards the stairs, C-13b's door opened. An elderly man with thinning hair; thick, black-rimmed glasses; and wild, unkempt eyebrows poked his head out. He did not look happy.

"Yeah?" the man demanded. "What do you want?"

"I need my summons reissued," Brian blurted out, wanting to just have this day over with.

"You need room C-13 down the hall," the elder man said, pointing with his thumb farther down the hall. He started to close the door, but Brian stuck in his toe in and held it open.

"Isn't this room C-13b?" Brian asked, confused.

"Yeah," the man said in a patronizing tone through the small opening, "and C-13 is down the hall. Now if you don't mind…" The man pointedly looked at Brian's foot.

"Fine," Brian said, retracting the appendage. The door closed immediately and a click indicated the lock sliding in place.

Brian continued down the hall, looking, once again, for C-13. Fortunately, he soon found it about fifty feet from where he had spoken to the elderly gentleman. He tried the doorknob and, miraculously, it wasn't locked. Relieved, he opened the door and stepped through.

And down. The room was about one step lower than the hall.

"Aaagh!!" Brian screamed, barely catching his balance before he fell on his face. Something inside him snapped. He was beyond frustrated, beyond angry, beyond furious. He didn't know what to label what he was feeling, but he knew he was losing the grip on his sanity.

"Can I help you?" a concerned voice called out. Brian looked up to see a middle-aged woman with short, red hair and blue, horn-rimmed glasses standing behind a counter.

Brian looked at the woman, his breathing heavy. "Summons reissue," he said tersely. "Can you help me?"

"Certainly," she said turning towards the computer on the counter. "I just need to see your driver's license." Brian fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out his license, and laid it on the counter. The woman picked up and paused. "Is this your current address?" she asked after a few seconds.

"Yes," Brian replied. "I moved there about a year-and-a-half ago."

"Hmm," the woman said as she typed something into her computer. "It looks like there's been an error," she said at last. “You're outside this court's jurisdiction, so apparently you were issued your original summons by mistake."

"Does that mean I can leave?" Brian asked, barely concealing his excitement.

"It does," the woman said, nodding.

Brian was so relieved, he nearly collapsed on the floor. After so much trouble, so much discomfort, so much Sisyphean effort, he was finally free from this personal hell. With a sign of relief and smile on his face, Brian turned to leave.

"Sir," the woman said behind him, "you'll be issued your release as soon as you visit the Service Release department on the fifth floor.”

Brian stared at the woman. Of course this miserable trip wasn't over yet; that would be too easy! "I'm sorry?" he finally managed to get out.

"You need to be released from service today or you'll be issued a fine." The woman pulled a sheet of paper from an unseen shelf below the counter and held out it out to Brian. He hesitated. Maybe if he didn't take the sheet, the woman would take care of it for him and he could just leave. Eventually, the inevitable happened: Brian took the paper. After all, she was a seasoned professional in torment and he was merely her latest victim.

"Fifth floor?" Brian asked, a shell of the man he was when entered the building that morning.

"That's right," the woman said with a smile. "Have a nice day."

Ainsley

Diane felt a light tap on her shoulder. Startled, she jumped slightly in her office chair and quickly turned to see who was getting her attention.

“Yes, Tam?” Diane asked as she took out her ear buds and swiveled her chair around to face the grad student.

“Sorry to bother you, Professor Shaw,” Tam said, “but Director Leland is here.”

“What?!” Diane asked, shocked. “He’s not supposed to come by until next semester.” Gathering herself, she asked Tam where the director was and headed to meet him at the front of the building. She walked quickly, or at least as quickly as could for someone as out of shape as she was. Too many late nights in the lab and far too much takeout had taken their toll on Diane, who had been very active before taking on her current role as the head of the Computer Science Department. As she slowed down to prevent being out of breath when she met the director, she made a mental note to talk to her boyfriend about visiting the tennis court again soon. Just as she caught her breath, she saw Director Leland standing at the end of the hallway, his back to her.

“Director!” Diane said with an enthusiastic smile. “We weren’t expecting you. What brings you out this way?” The director was a severe looking man—extremely thin, almost like a corpse—making his age impossible to guess. His gaunt frame was accentuated by both his ridged posture and his dark suit, which while not tight, was still tailored to fit him and only him. Even his height (Diane guessed he was about six-five) added to the strangeness of how the director looked.

“Dr. Shaw, is it true that you’ve developed functional artificial intelligence that actually learns?” the director asked in his high-pitched voice. Diane had often wondered if the director was regularly confused for a woman on the phone, but now her thoughts were only on her no-longer- secret project she had been developing for the past year.

“Uh, yes,” Diane responded, her smile shifting to a face of shocked confusion. “Who did you hear about it from?”

“From whom did I hear about it?” the director corrected. “That’s not important. What is important is that if you’ve developed a program using University resources, it is property of the University. Show me the program.”

Diane hated when administrators threw their weight around, especially when it involved her work. She had heard plenty of directors and deans and whatnot do the same thing in the past, but she never got used it. “Well, the program isn’t quite ready to be presented yet,” she said. “I was planning on showing you on your scheduled visit in the spring.”

“I understand that you aren’t prepared for an official unveiling,” the director said, his annoyance visible, “but that’s not what I’m asking of you. Simply show me what you currently have.”

Seeing no other option, Diane relented. “Please follow me, director,” she said, leading the director back to her workstation.

“Very well,” the director said, moving with a strange, almost ethereal gait.

They walked in silence as they went. Diane knew from earlier encounters that the director either didn’t like small talk or was just bad at it; maybe it was a combination of the two. Once they were at her workstation, Diane quickly stacked some papers and threw some trash away before moving to sit down. As she turned to grab her chair, she saw that the director had already sat down.

“Show me the program,” he said curtly, looking at the computer screen, not Diane. Awkwardly leaning over her keyboard from a standing position, Diane typed in her password. When the desktop appeared, she clicked on a running program to pull up the artificial intelligence program. The screen showed what looked like an instant messenger program, including options like emoji and pictures.

“This,” Diane said with a mixture of nervousness and pride, “is Ainsley.”

“How is this different from something like Cleverbot?” the director asked, still not looking at Diane.

“The two programs have a similar user interface,” Diane said, “but Cleverbot simply repeats back what users have written to it. Its purpose isn’t to actually learn, but to fool users into thinking that they’re chatting with a real human. Ainsley, on the other hand, is true AI. He has two main parts to his programming: communication and emotion.”

“Your machine feels emotions?” the director asked incredulously, finally turning his gaze to Diane.

“Yes,” Diane replied, “but only basic emotions. More complex feelings are outside his programming, at least for now. We’ve programed him to feel happiness and sadness. If he feels happy then he associates whatever brought on that feeling positively and if he feels sad then he does the same only with a negative association.”

“Why go to the trouble of programming emotions?” the director asked, turning his attention back to the computer screen. “That seems like a terrible waste of time.”

“The idea, um, came from talking to, uh, talking to my sister,” Diane awkwardly answered, casting a quick glance behind her. “She had just had a baby and I realized that a lot of what my, um, my nephew was learning was based on emotions. Being hungry made him sad, so he would cry until he got a bottle. At first, the only discernable emotion was sadness or no emotion at all, but the next emotion to appear was happiness, often expressed with a smile or even laughter. These two emotions are the most basic and continue to be a part of learning for every person’s entire life.”

“Why go to the trouble of simulating emotions?” the Director asked. “Why not simply program it to have positive or negative associations with its actions?”

“Well, we tried that at first,” Diane responded, “but there were…problems. We eventually discovered that programing emotions would be easiest because that’s what inspired this new approach to begin with. And even though we’ve only given Ainsley the most basic of emotions, the programming it takes to do that is still pretty complex.”

“Fine, fine,” the director said, waving his hand impatiently. “Show me a demonstration.”

“Would you like to chat with Ainsley, Director?” Diane offered.

“Very well,” the director said as he moved the chair forward in a way that appeared more like he was floating forward. He placed his hands on the keyboard and began typing.

Hello.

Hi, Diane!

I am not Dr. Shaw. I am Director Leland.

Okay! Hi, Director Leland!

What is your purpose?

Gosh, I don’t know. I guess to be happy! I like being happy. Do you like being happy, Director Leland?

Humans who feel happiness are merely experiencing chemicals released throughout the body. We experience happiness because evolution has programmed us to so, just as your creator has programmed you to think that you are experiencing happiness.

Diane, watching the monitor, spoke up. “Director, he only has the intelligence of a three-year- old, just with better communication skills. I don’t think a philosophical debate about the nature of happiness is the best way to see how he processes information.”

“I will be the one to decide that,” the director rebuffed, once again not looking up from the computer.

Well, I don’t know about that. If I choose to do good things and good things make me feel happy, wouldn’t that mean that I choose to be happy?

Choosing to be happy is only an illusion. As I already stated, you are programmed to desire happiness, so how real can that feeling be?

You’re silly! (◠‿◠)

It is rude to call directors of universities “silly.”

Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Did I hurt your feelings?

I was not personally offended, but it was not proper.

I don’t like hurting other people’s feelings. It makes me sad.

The director shot a look at Diane. “Perhaps my line of questioning was a bit much.”

Diane had to work hard not drop her mouth open in shock. I didn’t think it was possible for him to admit being wrong, she thought. With a slight smirk on her face—she is only human after all—she continued to watch the conversation unfold.

Very well. Tell me, what DO you like?

I like being helpful! Like when I place all of the files that Diane gives me into the right folder.

The director looked up at Diane, a look of suspicious concern on his face. “You have this program organize your files for you?”

“Oh, no,” Diane replied quickly. “Think of it like a digital version of the children’s game of putting the differently shaped blocks into their corresponding holes.”

“Very well,” Leland said, already facing the computer again.

Why do you like to do that?

It helps Diane. She tells me I do a good job.

“Does this program know anything useful?” the director asked, annoyed.

“We’re slowly introducing him to more advanced concepts” Diane answered. “He can solve basic arithmetic problems.”

“Very well,” the director said (Diane noticed he kept using that phrase.)

What is 6+5?

11! Math is fun!

What is 17-(- 4)?

21!

What is 25x5?

“Director,” Diane interjected, “we haven’t gotten to multiplication yet.” She was about to type a shortcut into the keyboard to undo Leland’s text, when Ainsley answered.

I think it’s 125.

“Then how do you explain that, Dr. Shaw?” the director asked.

“I, uh, I can’t,” Diane said, stunned.

Dr. Shaw says you haven’t been taught to perform multiplication equations. Where did you learn how to do that?

I figured it out. Based on the relationship between the numbers on either side to the equals sign in addition and subtraction equations, as well as what I’ve seen in some accounting spreadsheets, I thought it was a reasonable answer. Was I right?

Leland suddenly stood up. “I’ve seen enough,” he said, taking a few steps away from the computer. Diane reached over and typed a few words to Ainsley.

Yes. Good answer.

Yay!

It was nice talking to you, Ainsley, but I have to go now.

Bye, Director Leland! Talk to you later!

“I’m sorry Director—” Diane began before being cut off by Leland.

“You have nothing for which to apologize,” the director said, showing the slightest signs of a smile (or more likely his frown was simply receding). “I was quite impressed. Your program is even learning things that you have not directly taught it. At the next board of directors meeting, I will submit a proposal to increase your budget and staff size. This program of yours has the potential to revolutionize the world.”

Diane was completely taken aback. “I-I don’t know what to say, director,” she managed to say through her surprise.

“For now,” the director said in the kindest tone that Diane had ever heard him use (which, admittedly, was still not very kind), “just prepare for another visit, this time with the entire board.” Leland extended his hand for Diane to shake.

Diane shook his hand, still in a daze. “Y-yes,” she said, “I’ll start getting ready right away.”

“Very well,” the director said before heading to the front of the building to leave.

As the director left out the front, Diane walked out the rear entrance of the building. She excitedly pulled out her cell phone from her sweater pocket and called her boyfriend.

“Hey, Diane,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Kaz!” she exclaimed. “You’ll never believe it! Leland came by and asked about Ainsley!”

“What?!” he asked, concerned. “Where’d he hear about it from?”

“I don’t know,” Diane replied, her excitement still soaring, “but he liked it! He said he wants to increase my budget and staff size!”

“That’s amazing!” Kaz said, now just as excited as his girlfriend. “We have to celebrate. Let’s go to that one Thai place tonight.”

“Uh,” Diane said, calming down a bit, “I was actually thinking today that I need to start eating better.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Kaz said sweetly, “I’m done teaching for the day, so I’ll go and buy a bunch of organic food and we’ll start eating better together, but we’ll start tomorrow. You deserve a fun meal tonight.”

“Okay,” Diane said, not putting up a fight. “I’ll be out of here around five. Meet you there?”

“It’s a date!” Kaz said. “Congratulations again.”

“Thanks!” Diane said. “See you tonight. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Diane put her phone back in her sweater pocket and walked back into the lab still high on excitement. As she approached her work station, she heard what sounded like a power drill and smelled a slight aroma of burning metal. Must be a maintenance worker fixing the busted cabinet door, she thought. When she got to her desk she saw Tam on the floor, drilling through a hard drive, rendering it useless. Around her on the floor was Diane’s gutted computer tower and two other hard drives. Diane knew immediately what had happened: Tam had destroyed Ainsley and both of his backups.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Diane exclaimed in horror.

“I’m making sure you don’t take any more credit for my work!” the grad student said, pulling the drill from the last hard drive.

“I never took credit for anything!” Diane said, looking at the three drives that Tam had ruined. “I said that we worked on it. I used the word ‘we’!”

“I was just on the other side of the server cabinet and I heard everything,” Tam said, her words dripping with anger. “You told the director that you came up with the idea to use emotions for Ainsley to learn. That was my idea. You don’t even have a sister!”

Diane dropped to her knees, the reality of the situation sinking in. “I… I was just simplifying the story when I said that. I was nervous. Yes, I-I said I that I came up with the idea, but I still said that we worked on it. When I—when we write the paper, you were going to get your credit.” Diane stared at the wrecked drives. “All that work…”

“All of my work,” Tam corrected, her anger burning white-hot. “I coded every emotional response. You just wrote the code for the user-interface and some of the communication skills, but I know you built that off of some open source code. You should be able to reproduce what you did easily enough.”

Diane looked up at the young grad student, still in shock. “You’ll be expelled,” she said, her words weak with sorrow.

“Good!” Tam said, spitting her words. “I can’t work under a fascist like you anymore!”

Tam stormed out, leaving her former mentor kneeling on the floor of the computer lab, tears slowing running down her cheeks, surrounded by the shattered remains of a year’s worth of work.

Family Values

Jeremy never liked having to confront people about complaints he received, but with so many anonymous submissions, he felt obligated to follow up. He rang the bell and waited, looking straight ahead at the door in front of him. After less than a minute of waiting, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged looking woman with hair past her waist. She smiled warmly.

"Hello," she said cheerfully. "Can I help you?"

"Hello," Jeremy replied. "I'm Jeremy Evans. I'm with Child Protective Services and I'm looking for the parents of Grover Wright."

"Oh my," the woman said, suddenly looking very concerned. "I'm Grover's mother, Verona. What's this all about?"

"We've received numerous complaints about about Grover's treatment," Jeremy said, perhaps a little too cold and business-like. "I'm here to verify the validity of those complaints."

Verona was taken aback. "I can assure you that Grover's father and I are trying to raise Grover the best that we can. Who registered the complaints?"

"All of the complaints were anonymous," Jeremy said, "but even if they weren't, I'm not allowed to tell you. Do you mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?"

"Of course not," Verona said without hesitation. "We have nothing to hide. I'm sure that once we've talked you'll see that these complaints are completely unfounded." She opened the door and showed Jeremy inside. Once they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, Jeremy reviewed the paperwork attached to his clipboard.

"Now," Jeremy said, "one complaint we've received multiple times is that Grover is not bathed regularly. How often does he receive a bath?"

"That's up to him," Verona said, matter-of-factly. "Grover's father and I do our best to not have him influenced by outside sources, whether from us or from society as a whole. We want him to find his own way in the world."

Jeremy looked dumbfounded. "What? He's five years old. If you let him decide how to run his life, he'd never eat anything but candy."

"Not at all," Verona said. "Grover certainly enjoys candy, but he also loves eating fresh produce from our garden. He constantly helps in the garden and we can tell that he has a sense of pride from eating the literal fruits of his labors."

"Okay," Jeremy said, trying to get the conversation back on track, "but that still doesn't answer the question of how often Grover is bathed."

Verona thought for a moment before replying. "Oh, about once a week or so. Grover does enjoy bathtime, but he has so many other pursuits that he doesn't always get to it."

Jeremy made a note on one of the forms attached to his clipboard. "At his age, once a week is adequate. We've also received some complaints about him using foul language to other children in the neighborhood."

"Oh," Verona said, looking mildly embarrassed. "My husband is fan of the filmmaker Quentin Tarantino and he has watched many of his films with Grover. I suspect that he was just quoting a line from one of them."

"Those movies have hard R ratings," Jeremy said; "they're not appropriate for children."

"If you review the MPAA ratings system," Verona replied a little smugly, "you'll find that R ratings are for no child younger than 17 unless accompanied by a parent. I'll admit that I don't care for those films, but Grover enjoys watching them with his father, who is always present."

Giving up on that complaint, Jeremy reviewed his paperwork to find another topic. "We've received numerous complaints that Grover is often seen outside naked, sometimes relieving himself. Does that happen?"

"Absolutely," Verona replied without hesitation. "Although, we only allow him to do so in the backyard, which is surrounded by a wooden fence, so if people are watching it happen, I believe that makes peeping toms."

"Is Grover toilet-trained?" Jeremy asked, no longer surprised by what the woman across from him was saying.

"Mostly. He still has accidents from time to time, but he's getting there."

"If he's toilet-trained," Jeremy said, "why do you allow him to relieve himself outside? That will only make it harder for him to learn to use the bathroom."

Up until this point, Verona had been nothing but friendly and cheerful. Now, however, she suddenly became very serious and a little annoyed. "My parents raised me to be Christian, just like them. I was only a child, so I was very impressionable. They took me to church every week and regularly forced me and my siblings to read from the Bible. It wasn't until I was in college when I learned that all religion is a sham meant to control the masses.

"I don't want Grover to go through the same thing I did. I refuse to force him to have the same values that I have, even if that means that he decides to become religious. Honestly, the very idea of him going to mass or what-have-you makes me nauseated, but I would still support him if that's what he wants. That means that I let him make his own decisions. If he wants to run around outside while naked, who does that harm?"

Jeremy nodded, finally understanding. "Look, I get it. You want him to be his own person."

"Yes!" Verona responded, her cheerful enthusiasm having returned.

"But," Jeremy continued, "he's still only five years old. You have to teach to do things to do things that are good for him, even if it's not what he likes. You may be mad at your parents for 'forcing' their values on you, but how will Grover feel when he goes off to college and can't sit through an entire class because he doesn't know how to hold his bladder? Or how will he find a job when he shows up to an interview in desperate need of a shower? I know you think these things will take care of themselves, but they won't. I've seen kids living in squalor because they don't know any better. I can tell your heart's in the right place, so I won't take any action today. But I need you to make some serious changes to how Grover is being cared for."

Verona protested, saying that forcing her to act as a dictator to her son was fascist, but she ultimately acquiesced. Jeremy left with an appointment to return to check on things in a month. He was showing leniency, but he couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid, Grover. His parents were so afraid of encroaching on his development that they were actually hindering it. Thankfully, Grover was still young enough that his parents' misguided approach to parenting probably hadn't done any permanent damage.

With that taken care of, he got in his car and drove to his next appointment.

Not in My House

Scene 1

INT. Kitchen

A husband and wife are finishing up their dinner preparations. What they are making is unimportant. The wife (MOM) places something on the table (like a bowl of salad or a roast).

MOM: You should tell Michael that dinner’s ready.

The husband (DAD) nods and walks out of the kitchen.

INT. Hallway, viewed from inside a bedroom, the door not quite closed

DAD is about to knock on the door, but pauses and looks in. Without saying a word, DAD’s eyes go big and he backs away with a look of horror on his face, bumping softly into the bathroom door behind him, pushing it open. DAD walks back to the kitchen.

INT. Kitchen

MOM: What’s going on? Where’s Michael?

DAD: [to himself] I just can’t believe it. You try to raise your kids right, but it all just falls apart on you.

MOM: What are you talking about?

DAD: [to MOM] I caught Michael using Coke.

MOM: [loud, but not quite a shout] Are you serious?! [quickly looks back towards the bedroom and changes to speaking in a loud whisper] Did you take it away?!

DAD: Why bother? I’m sure he’ll just get more.

MOM: Do you know where he got it?

DAD: No, but I’d guess that friend of his, Johnny, is involved. I never liked that kid.

MOM: Is that what Michael said?

DAD: No, once I saw what he was doing, I left. [ashamed] I just can’t look at him right now.

MOM: Hang on. Let’s find out what’s going on. I just can’t believe he’s using coke! [walks out of kitchen]

INT. Hallway.

We see MOM walking down the hall. This time, MIKE’s bedroom door is completely open, but the bathroom door across the hall is closed. The sound of a toilet flushing is heard. The door opens and MIKE, a teenager, comes out, a strong look of worry and fear is on his face.

MOM: Michael! What is this I hear about you using coke!?

MIKE: I just wanted to try it, that’s all!

MOM: Just TRY it?! You don’t just try something like that.

MIKE: Mom, it’s really not that big a deal. Most of my friends have it all the time.

MOM: And that makes it okay? Your friends don’t know what’s best for you, your father and I do.

MIKE: Okay, I’m sorry.

MOM: Sorry doesn’t cut it. Where’s the rest of it.

MIKE: I got scared, so I flushed it down the toilet. It’s gone.

MOM: [sighs] Where did you even get it?

MIKE: On the way home from school, there’s a corner store.

MOM: And they sell drugs there?!

MIKE: What?! No, I bought a Coke!

MOM: You don’t think that counts as drugs?

[DAD walks into the hall.]

DAD: You should know better, son. In this house, we drink Pepsi! [very dramatically, he opens a can of Pepsi and takes a sip] Ahh!

MOM: [not believing the ridiculousness of the situation] You caught him with Coca-cola?

DAD: Yeah, I did. You know that ever since I took the Pepsi Challenge all those years ago that this has been a Pepsi house.

MOM: [rolls eyes] I can’t believe this [throws hands in the air and walks away].

MIKE: Dad, there are other colas out there.

DAD: Not as far as I’m concerned!

MIKE: Stop telling me how to live my life! [walks into bedroom and slams door behind him]

A black screen appears with white letters:

Everyone has the right to choose for themselves. Talk to your kids about which cola is right for them.

END

Stuck

Rose sat on the edge of her bed, her head buried in her hands. Her phone sat next to her, ringing. Why is he calling, again? she thought. I never pick up; can't he take a hint?! Scott was always hopeful to the point of being naive, but he had finally backed-off recently. Now he has one medical scare and suddenly he has to talk to Rose again.

It's not that Rose didn't like Scott, it's that ... well, what did she feel? She hated him intensely for making her follow him to an out-of-state school. The University of Florida was a fine school, but he had to run off to Missouri State, which he later admitted that he didn't like that much. Now they both had mountains of debt and no real prospects for good-paying jobs. Scott was doing better, finding work off in Berkeley in "Nor Cal," as he called it, but even he admitted he was struggling.

She also hated him because of what she'd gone through since they got separated. The way her family treated her, especially her mom, like she was a failure for moving back home, when she's only the second person in her entire family to graduate from college. Maybe things didn't work out the way they should have, but she still succeeded at something that few people had even tried.

Yet, even though she hated him, there were clear feelings of affection. Even as it annoyed her, she did like knowing that after everything, Scott still wanted her as his wife. And since moving to Nor Cal he had stayed steadily employed, like he always had while they were together. Plus, even with his prematurely-graying hair, he was still rather handsome.

Maybe she shouldn't be surprised by her feelings. Scott had been an important person to her for a long time, so it would make sense that she would be worried when he had a heart attack last week. He was fine now, even back to work, but it had really freaked Rose out when she got the text from Scott saying that he had had a heart attack the day before. She texted back, but Scott wanted to talk. She said she would call later, but when she was free, she couldn't bring herself to make the call.

And that was the problem. A simple call is so complicated. Her calling would imply that everything was okay, which it wasn't. But if she didn't call, it would make it seem like she didn't care, and that wasn't true either: even if she didn't want to stay married to Scott, she doesn't want him to die or anything. If she called, she'd probably lose her temper about something trivial; if she didn't call, the curiosity of how he was doing would eat away at her.

That, in a sense, was the same reason they're still married after nearly two years of separation. She had reasons to push for a divorce and end things once and for all, but she also had reasons to want to try to work things out; she wanted both options while also wanting neither. In the end, she felt paralyzed, unable to reconcile or complete the divorce. She was stuck in a sort of purgatory of marriage.

Dammit! Rose thought as her phone rang again. The caller ID displayed Scott's photo. She couldn't hit Answer or Decline. She couldn't do anything. She clutched at the sides of her head and just thought Stop! over and over again.

Enabler

Marcus sat in the living room sipping his morning coffee. The voice of a newscaster droned on in the background, but Marcus just ignored it. His mind was on more pressing matters: his son, Ryan.

Ryan was addicted to heroin and Marcus was at a loss as to what to do to help him. He had talked to Ryan, tried to reason with him to show him how by using heroin, he was putting his life on hold. Ryan was a talented artist, but he had barely picked up a pencil in the last year-and-a-half. To see his son waste so much potential was painful, though not as painful as knowing that his son was under the control of a substance.

And that was the problem: Ryan had no control. He could get cleaned up and things would look good for a few days, then he would disappear into his room, only to emerge hours or sometimes days later in a complete mess. Marcus didn't understand it. How do you lose control of yourself like that? When Marcus saw problems in his own life, he would work hard to fix them. That worked most of the time and when it didn't he could usually justify why it didn't matter. But he couldn't justify his son's problem.

When looking for a solution, people would tell Marcus that he needed to stop supporting Ryan. He may not be buying the drugs, they'd say, but by giving him a place to stay, he was still supporting his son's addiction. Marcus didn't believe that, couldn't believe that he was the reason that Ryan was in his current state. He loved his son; how could he abandon him and make him move out?

Ryan's cousin, Pauly, had offered to help. He had a place of his own and could keep an eye on Ryan to help him kick the habit. Be a "sober companion," as he called it. The problem was, Pauly lived in Chicago, which might as well be a world away from Denver. It's not like Marcus could go visit on the weekend or anything. And with his roofing business struggling right now, if Ryan went to live with Pauly, there would be no safety net. For all intents and purposes, if Ryan moved, it would be for good. He cared for his son too much to send him out into the world without some kind of backup plan.

So, Marcus sat and sipped his coffee and tried not to think about how he was pretty sure that Ryan had gotten high again last night.

A Guy Like Me

Walking down the street in a neighborhood like this could be dangerous for a guy like me.  All the people here live in fancy houses, unlike me; I don't have a home, at least, not much of one.  I guess I crash in the bushes behind the gas station a few blocks down, but I wouldn't call it home.  Anyway, the last time someone from this neighborhood saw me, she called the authorities on me.  Wouldn't want to sully the image the neighborhood with someone with actual problems.  But I got to eat, so I'm here to look through their garbage.  It's amazing what well-to-do people throw away.

I cautiously cross the street, trying not to spend too much time under the streetlight.  I don't come out during the day, not unless I have to.  Like I said, these people get pretty skittish if they see me.  As if I would attack them for no reason; just walk up to them, go "Rawr," and take a swing at them.  I don't want any trouble, man.  I'm just hungry.

I make it to my first stop of the night.  This house doesn't usually have the best pickings, but it is the closest to the street, so it makes sense to take a look-see.  Plus, they have plastic trash cans that don’t make a lot of noise, which is helpful for a guy like me.  I look inside the cans, but only see a bunch of cardboard.  They look to be in decent shape and would probably be great for making a "Please Help" sign, if I knew how to write.  Best to move on.

The next house I skip because they have a dog.  I don't want to announce to the whole block that I'm here and then have to run "home" with an empty belly.

House number three is usually one of the places I can rely on.  They have a cat that's pretty finicky and won't touch his food that they leave out for him.  Hey, cats aren't so different and eating fresh cat food is far from the worst thing that I've made dinner out of.  A guy like me could certainly do worse.  I get a couple of bites down when the dang cat shows up!  Now, I'm not worried about some silly cat, but I don't want it making a racket, so I grab one last bite and high-tail it out of there.  The cat starts moaning, probably because I was eating his food that he didn't even want until I got there.  Jerk.

Fourth house of the night.  Come on, give me something good!  The trash cans here are metal, but they left them on dirt, which is quieter than pavement, so I should be fine.  I get the lid off and start looking.  I don't like having to tear through the bags inside, but if there isn't any loose food outside them, I have to go deeper.  So I bite through the topmost bag and start digging.  Not bad!  Some spaghetti with meat sauce, some half-finished bottles of baby food, and some dry crackers!  I can probably fill up here!  Yeah, there's a couple of dirty diapers in here too, but their sealed up, so it should be fine.  Look, I'm already eating garbage, so it's not as if a guy like me can be too proud to not eat near a diaper.

I hurriedly eat as much as I can, worried that I'll be caught again.  I'm practically bursting when the outdoor light comes one.  Drat!  I grab an unfinished granola bar in my mouth and make a run for it.  I'm at the fence when I hear the homeowner come outside.  I make it to the top of the fence and look back.  We lock eyes for a moment, then I'm over the wall.  I'm clear when I hear the words leave his mouth: “Honey, it's that raccoon again.  I'm telling you, we really should get a dog.”

I make it back to the bushes behind the gas station just as the sun is coming up, tired but full.  This life may not be glamorous, but I usually get enough to eat.  As far as I'm concerned, that’s the best that a guy like me could ask for.

Eloise and Thaddeus

Eloise had forgotten her parasol when she walked to the store one afternoon to purchase a new hatbox.  Because of this, poor Eloise was exposed to dangerous ultraviolet radiation and her skin was tanned.  Poor Eloise!  What a dreadful thing to happen to such a fair girl and with so many young men that she passed on her way.  You would think that at least one of them would offer to shade her beneath his newspaper, but you would be mistaken.  When Eloise got back home (with her lovely new hatbox), one would almost think that she had grown up on a farm.  Heaven forbid that any man should see her in such a state: he might think her lowly and common.  Most assuredly she would have to seclude herself from the public until her skin had a chance to heal and return to its normal shade.

Thaddeus slipped his white gloves on as he was leaving the bank where he worked and entered the waiting carriage.  He was a well-educated banking accountant and worked hard for Price & Sons Bank.  Well, he certainly did not work hard, but he was industrious. Perhaps overly so, because he now had an embarrassing blemish that he was nervously concealing: a blister on his right thumb from gripping his ink-pen for too long.  A paper cut was easy enough to explain, but a blister?  If anyone were to see such a pustule on him they might think that he was nothing but a common laborer.  He might as well stop doing anything civilized like waxing his mustache or taking his weekly bath.

Eloise looked out of the window from her bedroom where she had exiled herself.  She could see that the carriage her father had sent out was returning.  Who had he sent for this time? Likely some business associate that he wanted to impress by showing him around the grounds of the family estate.  It was just as well that she was not leaving her room because she hated to have to introduce herself and pretend that she knew who the businessman was.  But who was this?  This did not look like any of her father’s normal associates.  This was a younger man, whose lean frame was proof that he had never done any physical labor in his life, and his mustache was so thick and majestic that one would be forgiven to confuse it for pair of stray cats that had attached themselves to his face.  Well, perhaps a brief visit from her room was in order today.

Thaddeus was uncomfortable with home visits like the one he was in the middle of, but Mister Cheddar was an important investor with Price & Sons Bank and Thaddeus’ father liked to keep a close eye on men with their proverbial fingers in his proverbial pie.  As Thaddeus was feigning interest in the tour he was receiving, his attention was caught by someone exiting the house and walking towards them.  Not just someone, but a lovely young woman with soft features and practically no chin at all.  Thaddeus seemed to recall that Mister Cheddar had a daughter that was healing from an unfortunate run-in with the harsh light of day.  This radiant creature must be her, with her long blonde hair that was tightly wrapped in a bun and a plump lower frame that was clearly used to sitting comfortably.  Oh, he is to introduce himself?  Of course!

Eloise was by his side when Thaddeus awoke in the hospital bed.  When had he been brought here?  What had befallen him?  A doctor was fetched who explained that Thaddeus’ heart was far too weak from a lack of physical exercise and that he had had a minor moment of arrest, the cause of which the doctor did not know.  He further explained that Thaddeus should be sure to strengthen his heart by joining a cricket club or coming to the hospital for regular electrical shocks that would increase his vigor significantly.  His diagnosis rendered, the doctor removed himself to another patient’s bed, leaving the two young people alone.

How truly amazing!  This lovely young man with the slight frame and voluminous mustache had a weak heart and simply looking upon Eloise, even in her ruddied state, sent him reeling—to the point of needing attention from a medical practitioner.  Clearly, she had found herself a desirable gentleman.  If only she could say what she thought of Thaddeus, but it was common knowledge that nothing was as unbecoming as a woman speaking her mind.  Even to subtly intimate that she had opinions would be too much.  The best that Eloise could hope for was that Thaddeus would show a fancy to her.

What a shame.  She would be such a lovely young woman, if not for her dark skin. Thaddeus was no fool; he knew that just as he was expected to keep himself emaciated and well employed, young women were to keep themselves ample-bosomed and pale.  Eloise had maintained the first criterion without issue, but when looking upon her visage he had to remind himself that she was not from the Indian subcontinent.  Even so, had knew that she had spent too much time in the sunlight unprotected, so perhaps she would recover to a paleness that was not so much milky as translucent.  And how could he be one to judge so harshly when he himself was hiding an abscess on his dominant thumb?  Thaddeus decided that once he had had a chance to be invigorated with a few electrocutions that he would call upon Eloise to see if her skin’s tone had not been recovered.