Support Group

Moore walked into the room and quietly found a seat. The metal folding chairs were arranged in a small circle, allowing the attendees to face each other. A couple of young women were at a small table in the back of the room, helping themselves to the coffee and donuts. Moore had heard about support groups like this one before, but had never attended one until today. Life was hard for him, made all the harder from the feeling that no one understood what he was going through. Still, he felt a little silly being there; after all, how many millions of people suffered fates much worse than him? He started having second thoughts and considered leaving.

As he was eyeing the door, a man started speaking to him. The bespectacled man looked about forty with a long, graying beard that came about a third of the way down his chest. He held out a hand, which Moore took.

"Hi there," the man said, sitting in the chair next to him. "I'm Justin."

"Uh, hey," Moore said, snapping out of his thoughts. "I'm Moore."

"I don't recognize you," Justin said. "Is this your first time here?"

"Yeah. I heard about you guys from a friend of mine, Max."

Justin looked surprised. "Really? I remember Max, but didn't think he got much out of our little group."

"I mean, I don't know," Moore said lamely. "Maybe he didn't, but he said it might work for me."

"Well," Justin said, standing up, "it's great to have you." He handed Moore a pamphlet. "We'll be reading from this in the meeting. And feel free to help yourself to some coffee and donuts."

Moore nodded as Justin walked to the other side of the circle and called out to the other attendees that it was time to start the meeting. As everyone found a seat in the circle, Justin began the introduction.

"Thank you for joining us, everyone. It's always nice to see our little group grow and it's doing just that because we have someone new joining us today." Justin turned from talking to the group as a whole and looked directly at Moore. "Whenever we have someone new, we like to review how these meetings go. Candy, would you like to lead us?" Justin asked.

Candy was a woman who looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties with platinum blonde hair. She was pretty, if a bit plain, and wore a pretty boring outfit: tan sheep skin boots, black leggings, and a loose-fitting, gray hoody.

"Sure," she said as she stood up, putting her hands in the single front pocket on the hoody. "Okay, so we're all here because our parents gave us stupid names. We meet mainly for two reasons: it helps to know that there are other people who know our struggle and that leads to us to better accept ourselves. We start by reciting our mantra, before moving to the sharing portion of the meeting. Everyone is invited to share, but nobody's forced to. If you do share, introduce yourself and tell us your stupid name."

"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "And now, we'll all stand and say the mantra together, found on the inside fold of our pamphlet," he said, holding it up. "Alright, Killian, will you lead us?"

Killian nodded and stood up. Killian was chubby and looked like he was still in high school. He had a head of dark, bushy hair and smelled strongly of body spray. He cleared his throat before beginning, with everyone joining in.

"Our names are stupid, but we aren't. Our parents chose names that are stupid, but that doesn't mean that they are. New people in our lives will make jokes and comments that are stupid, but that doesn't mean they are. We cannot control how the world sees us and that's okay. Our names are a part of us, but they do not define us. We are more than just our names."

With the chant finished, most of the group sat back down, leaving Justin standing.

"And now," he said, "we'll move on to the sharing portion of our meeting. I'll begin. My name is Justin Tyme."

"Hi, Justin," the group said together.

"As many of you know, having a name based on a phrase is not easy. As a child, I struggled with people constantly making the same joke about my name: 'you got here your name.' It's happened so long that I don’t actually remember a time when it wasn't already old. But, having this stupid name has also helped. I learned to appreciate really clever jokes, even ones about my name. When my son was born, I even posted a picture of him on social media with the caption 'a little Tyme.' I just repeat the mantra and remind myself that I didn't choose this name and it doesn't define me.

"Okay, who'd like to share next?"

"I'll go," said Candy, who introduced the basics of the meeting. "My name's Candy Caine."

"Hi, Candy," said the group.

"I've met other girls who go by Candy, but it's usually short for Candace. My mom figured that I'd just go by the nickname, so that's what my birth certificate says.

"It was tough when I was a teenager. I'd tell people my name and get told that it was a 'stripper name,' nevermind the fact that my best friend at the time was a girl named Sinnamon with an S, which literally has 'sin' in it. But, no, Candy Caine was the stripper name. But just as our mantra says, I refused to let my name define me. I figured out that people telling me that I have a stripper name was a reflection of them, not me.

"I work in marketing now and just got promoted to junior VP at my firm. The VP above me said that one of the reasons I got the promotion was because I worked so hard on everything. As I'm sure you all know, when you have a stupid name, you have to work harder than everyone else to prove to people that you're not as dumb as your name. At first that was a burden, but now I see it as a kind of gift that my mom gave me. Thank you."

"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "Who'd like to go next?"

The meeting continued, with members sharing how having a stupid name was a struggle, but how it also served as a blessing, forcing them to be more than just their names. The other attendees included Polly Ester Williams, who admitted that her name was only stupid if she included her middle name; Krystal Ball and Crystal Bell, who met in high school and often got confused for each other, despite being different races; Killian Smalls, the chubby kid who led the mantra and said he was named after a catchphrase from a '90s movie, which meant that the only people of a certain age knew how stupid his name was; a couple of guys who had the same first name as their last name: William Williams and Adam Adams; and Queenie Stephens and Julian Butts, the only attendees who had just one stupid name.

With everyone else having shared, Moore felt everyone's eyes on him. He knew that he didn't have to say anything, but he also felt like everyone expected him to, so he stood up.

"Hi," he said, his hands in his pockets, "my name is Moore Orless."

"Hi, Moore," everyone said back.

"Like the rest of you, I've been frustrated about my name my whole life, but I learned something recently that suddenly made having this name even harder. I grew up without my father in my life. I knew lots of kids growing up without dads, so I didn't think too much of it. What was different for me was that he left me with a stupid last name. My mom named me Moore after my great-grandfather, which I understand, but with my last name, it's a combination that's, well… stupid.

"I recently decided to track down my father and confront him for not being in my life and leaving me with a stupid name. I ordered a copy of my birth certificate and it turns out that my father's last name isn't Orless, it's Thompson. I asked my mom where my last name came from and she said that she just made it up. Made it up! I spent my childhood getting made fun of and even got beat up a few times because she wanted my name to be a stupid phrase.

"I was telling all of this to a buddy of mine, Max Powers, and he told me about this group. He only came a couple of times, but he said I might get something out it. I guess it helps to know how many other people have stupid names, but it's still tough because my last name was just made up, you know? I spent a long time being mad at my dad and learning that he's not to blame for my last name, it really shook me. Like, you go your whole life knowing something only to learn that it's a lie.

"Anyway, I want to forgive my mom, but I'm not ready yet. Maybe coming here will help me let it go and move on. I don't know, but I figure I'll try. Thanks."

Moore sat back down, feeling a little better to get all of that off his chest. Justin stood back up.

"Thanks for sharing, Moore," he said. "I can't speak for everyone, but it took a while for me to forgive my parents for my stupid name. But I was able to forgive them. If you need someone to talk to, just one-on-one, let me know and I can set you up with a sponsor.

"And with that, we'll adjourn. Thanks for coming and I hope to see everyone back here next month."

On Matters of Fashion

"Gentlemen," Worthington said, gently swirly the snifter of brandy in his hand, "thank you for meeting me here."

"Here" in this case being the local gentlemen's club to which the gathered members belonged. They were in the library, which meant they were surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books. Despite being a library, the books were for show and were rarely (if ever) read. No, the library was simply a place to gather and sit while indulging in tobacco or alcohol with other men of similar means and tastes.

While some men owned businesses or were retired, Worthington was the son of a textile magnate. He was college-educated, but many of those gathered with him saw him as little more than a child allowed to associate with the adults due to the insistence of his father. Still, Archibald Worthington was a respected man, so his son’s invitation was honored—or more likely, humored—albeit begrudgingly.

"There is time for pleasantries later," Dickson said lighting his pipe as he leaned on the mantle above the fireplace. "Get to the point of this gathering."

"Efficient as always, Reginald" Worthington said flatly. He put his drink down on an end table and walked to stand in front of a bookcase on the northern side of the room. "We are here because there is an untapped market that is begging to be exploited." At the word "market," the group groaned quietly.

"If you had told me this was a business matter," Hornsby said from his overstuffed armchair, his jowls trembling as he spoke, "I would have sent my steward, as he is responsible for such things."

"And that is why I concealed the nature of this meeting until now," Worthington replied, a smug grin creeping across his face. "And besides, while this may be about a potential business venture, I feel with certainty that you will want to hear this firsthand."

"Very well," Fitzpatrick said, cleaning his monocle with a silk handkerchief, "get on with it. The sooner you finish your proposal, the sooner we can tell you 'no' and be on our way."

"We shall see," Worthington said, his smug grin still firmly in place. "Now, what is the one item most difficult to purchase at a haberdashery?" Various responses came from the crowd:

     "Genuine ivory tobacco pipes"
     "Mollusk silk handkerchiefs"
     "Peruvian mustache wax"
     "Polar bear fur coats"

"Perhaps I should have phrased my question differently," Worthington said thoughtfully. "What I mean to ask is what is the most embarrassing item to purchase?" Again, various responses were offered:

     "Leather softened by the toothless gumming of Indochinese women"
     "Icelandic necropants"
     "Opium"

Worthington became visibly uncomfortable by some of the items mentioned and tried to quickly regain control of the meeting.

"I am referring to undergarments," he said over the group, who had continued to reply to his earlier question. "Undergarments can be quite embarrassing to purchase, especially when other customers are in the shop with you."

"And what is your plan to solve this?" Dickson asked incredulously. "Underclothes are not meant to be discussed. They are meant to be purchased with subtle glances and hand gestures while the cost is added to the bill under 'accessories' or some such."

"But why is this so?" Worthington asked rhetorically. "It would be one thing if women were present, but the fairer sex cares little for clothes shopping, so the risk of that is nearly nonexistent. And the haberdasher already has intimate knowledge of our various measurements, so any discomfiture cannot be because of him. No, society has taught us to be ashamed of the male form. In ancient Greece, men regularly exercised nude, but today even a trip to the seashore requires extensive covering.

"I say no longer! I say that we embrace our masculinity and establish our own haberdashery dedicated exclusively to undergarments."

There was quite a bit of muttering from those gathered. Worthington, not wanting to lose his momentum, pressed forward.

"I am so confident in the need for a place where men are able to openly purchase the most intimate of apparel, that I will put my name on the business: Worthington's."

"To be clear," Fitzpatrick said, reaching in his waistcoat pocket for his snuff tin, "I think this concept is foolhardy. However, if the most personal of clothing is to be sold at this proposed shop, why not use your Christian name? Or are you hoping that customers will associate the business with your father?"

"And it should sound more mysterious," Hornsby added, playing with the curled end of his mustache. "Imagine if a man were expecting a traditional haberdashery and walks in to find only breeches on display."

"Very well," Worthington said. "Are we in agreement then? We shall establish as the first intimate apparel haberdashery and finally make shopping for undergarments not only a shameless experience, but an enjoyable one! Here’s to Victor’s Secret!"

One Dark Night

Todd looked at the text message on the cell phone, confirming that he had the right address. All these warehouses look the same, he thought as he pocketed the phone and pulled off his backpack, walking around to the back of the building. He pulled out another phone, this one with a cable attached, though the cable had been cut, exposing bare wires. He wired the adapter into the alarm system, rerouting its signal—if he just cut the power line, the security company would know something was wrong and send the cops. With the alarm disabled, he pulled some small wire tools from his back pocket and began picking the lock on the door.

Todd was a low-level crook and this wasn't his first breaking and entering, but it was the first time he did it for someone else, a client. It felt weird, like he was working at an office job or something. Come to think of it, the whole thing felt weird.

He was at the gym last week and when he opened his locker to grab his stuff before going home, there was a brown paper bag with ten grand in cash and a prepaid cell phone. The phone had an unread text message waiting for him. It said that the money was a "retainer" payment and if Todd took it, he'd need to be willing to take a job. It didn't feel right, but with the cops sniffing around his pawn shop that he used as a front, he needed the cash. When he got a text a few days later with an address and instructions to "get inside and wait for text," it made about as much sense as anything else had so far.

With the lock picked, Todd walked inside. It was nearly too dark to see inside, but there were a few skylights scattered across the ceiling that let in moonlight, which allowed Todd to walk across the warehouse without bumping into anything. He nearly made it to an adjacent office on the far side of the warehouse when he heard someone speak.

"Decent work disabling the alarm," a slightly nasal baritone voice said. "Too bad 'decent' isn't good enough with me on the job."

"What the crap?" Todd said, turning to face the voice. All he saw was a blur of shiny fabric as the speaker leaped from off a large wooden crate below a skylight and into the darkness. Just then, the prepaid phone in his pocket vibrated, alerting him of a new text message. Instinctively, Todd pull out the phone and read the text.

Having fun?

"You set this up?" Todd shouted into the darkness. "That's entrapment!"

"Actually," the unseen voice said, "only government officials can entrap someone. Also, I didn't set up anything."

The phone vibrated in Todd's hand. He looked down.

He's right

"What's going on?!" Todd screamed, nearly at a panic. Weird he could handle, but everything was getting downright insane.

Suddenly, a man jumped into view. He wore a yellow and gold spandex body suit that covered everything but his eyes, ears, mouth, and chin. A cape hung from his back and he wore glasses over his mask. The man was thin but athletic looking, like a gymnast or diver. He stood in front of Todd in what looked like karate pose: slightly crouched with hands in "chopping" form held up in front of his face.

"Oh, great," Todd said sarcastically, "a friggin' superhero."

"Actually," the other man said, "I have no super powers, though I am a vigilante, operating outside the law."

"Look," Todd said wearily, "I don't want any trouble. I just needed the cash and they said to come here."

"Being destitute is no excuse for breaking the law," the spandex-clad man said condescendingly.

"Who are you supposed to be anyway?" Todd asked. "The Incredible Know-it-all?"

"I'm sure it's hard to see in this lighting," the masked hero said, "but I have a stylized capital letter P on my costume, for I am the Pedant!"

"What, like a pedophile?" Todd asked, backing away slightly.

"Why does everyone keep asking that?" the Pedant asked rhetorically. "A pedant is someone who is focused on details and righting wrongs."

"Or to put it another way," a different, though still nasally voice called out of the darkness, "he's anal retentive!"

"It can't be!" the Pedant said, turning around as he tried to find the new speaker.

"Now what?" Todd asked, his worry replaced with annoyed confusion.

"It sounds like my arch-rival," the Pedant said, continuing his frantic search in the darkness, "but that’s impossible! He's currently under house arrest with a tracking ankle monitor; if he left, it would incur the wrath of county judge Davis!"

"And what if I never left home?" the voice called out in a near laugh.

"But that would mean—" the Pedant started.

"Indeed!" the voice said as all of the lights in the warehouse turned on. Both Todd and the Pedant had to squint under the bright lights. Todd, shielding his eyes, looked around. The front of the crate that the Pedant had leapt off of earlier opened downward, drawbridge-style, revealing a large television screen inside. It turned on, revealing what looked like a man in front of a web camera wearing clown makeup.

"The Annoyer!" the Pedant shouted at the screen.

"The very same!" the man on the screen cackled. "I bet you weren't expecting such an elaborate ruse, now were you, Pee Dance?"

"You know that's not my name, Greg!" the Pedant shouted at the screen.

"You've got to be kidding me," Todd said to himself. "Was this job just to tick him off?" he asked the Annoyer, pointing at the Pedant.

"And you've performed admirably!" Greg exclaimed. "You'll find another ten thousand dollars in the top drawer of the desk in the office just behind you."

"I'm sure gramps would be so proud of how you're spending your inheritance," the Pedant sarcastically said as Todd walked towards the office.

"I'm not the one going around beating up people and saying that I'm making the world a better place," the Annoyer said, rolling his eyes. "And at least I picked a name that makes sense, Alan."

"I've explained my title to you," the Pedant said, annoyed (appropriately enough). "You know it makes sense."

"If it makes sense," Greg said, "then why do you need to constantly explain it to people?"

"That's just because people are undereducated," Alan replied.

As the two grown men wearing either a costume and makeup continued to bicker, Todd walked out of the warehouse, another stack of hundreds in his backpack. Once outside, he took the prepaid phone he had been contacted on—apparently by a guy named Greg who just wanted to annoy his brother or cousin or whatever—and chucked it as far as he could down the street. When he heard it crash a block or so away, he started walking back to his car in the opposite direction.

Lesson learned, Todd thought. There’s no such thing as "easy money."

Name and Address

Darryl the deliveryman walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. This was his last delivery of the day and he was anxious to get back to the warehouse so he could clock out and go home. Beyond just wanting to relax, his girlfriend, Joslyn, was making lasagna for dinner tonight and he'd been looking forward to it all day.

After a short wait, a tired-looking woman holding a baby answered the door. She was dressed in sweatpants and an oversized, stained t-shirt, with her greasy hair tied in a loose ponytail. The baby in her arms smiled at Darryl, all the while drooling on to the bib that made up the only clothing it was wearing, apart from a diaper.

"Yes?" she yawned, a look of weary indifference on her face. "Can I help you?"

"Hi there," Darryl said politely. "I’ve got a package here for a … uh, a Muh… Muhbil… aw, geez. I’m sorry, but this one is a tough one."

"The name’s Stromberg," the woman said flatly.

"Wow," said Darryl, "I would not have guessed that from the spelling." He scanned the package’s barcode with a handheld scanner, tucked the cardboard box under his arm, and turned the scanner around so that the screen faced the woman. "Please sign here."

She took the stylus and distractedly signed her name. A crashing sound came inside the house. "Jeffery! Knock it off!" she shouted behind her without taking her eyes from off the scanner. "Sorry about that," she said as she finished signing her name. "My husband’s on a business trip and I’ve been all alone with the kids for nearly the whole week."

"Don't worry about it," Darryl said, taking the scanner back and pressing a few buttons. "You just yelled at your kid. I didn't have to run from a dog or someone with a weapon, so I still count this as an easy delivery." Having marked the package as delivered in his scanner, Darryl handed the woman the cardboard box. "Just out of curiosity, how do you pronounce your first name?"

"Gretchen," Mrs. Stromberg said, a little confused.

"Huh," Darryl said, surprised. "Well, you've got some creative ways to spell your names. Have a nice day!" Darryl started walking back to the delivery truck as Gretchen read the label on the package.

"Hold on a second," she called after him, her eyes still on the box. "This isn't for us."

"Really?" Darryl asked, one foot already inside the truck.

"Yeah," she said, the annoyance in her voice intensifying. "We're the Strombergs, not the Mmm… Muhbellawannas," she said less-than-confidently. "And this isn't even our address. We're on Elm Street, not Elk."

Darryl paused. He considered just driving off and letting someone at the distribution warehouse worry about it, but since he already scanned the package, it would eventually get traced back to him. He took his foot out of the truck walked back towards the house and Gretchen.

"Sorry about that, ma'am," he said, his voice flavored with irritated disappointment. "Mistakes like this are rare these days, but they do happen. Lucky us." He scanned the package a second time, pressed some buttons, and took the box back from Mrs. Stromberg. "Sorry to bother you," he apologized.

"That's okay," Gretchen said, a slight smile creeping onto half of her face. "If I'm being honest, it was just nice to talk to someone about something other than dinosaurs or princesses."

"Well," Darryl said, grinning, "I'm glad I could give you a couple of minutes of human conversation. Have a nice day."

Gretchen waved as she stepped back inside and closed the door. Darryl got into his truck and typed in the address from the package into the GPS mounted on the dashboard, mentally kicking himself for not catching the typo. When the route loaded, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that his destination was only eight minutes away.

As he drove away, Darryl laughed ironically to himself. He must have really been thinking hard about lasagna if he thought Gretchen Stromberg could somehow be spelled "Ayo Mbelewana."

First Date

It’s awfully early for a dinner date, Burt thought. He had to leave the office early to make it to the restaurant by five, not that he needed much of an excuse to duck out early on a Friday. He checked his watch: 5:03 pm. His date was running late, though by a reasonable amount. Scott had really talked this girl up, so being made to wait didn’t seem so bad.

“Hi, are you Burt?” a gentle voice behind him asked.

“Yes,” Burt replied, standing up and turning to face her. “And you must be Gwendolyn.” Burt saw her and recognized her from the picture his coworker, Scott, had shown him. She was pretty, but didn’t seem to like she was trying to show it off. That was something that Burt liked: she was dressed like a real person and not like she was trying to achieve some sort of ideal of beauty. Burt had been on plenty of dates with women who clearly wanted to impress him with their looks but had the personality of a block of wood.

“Please, call me Gwen,” she said, extending her hand. Burt shook it, though thought it was a bit strange to shake hands on a date. After the introduction, he pulled Gwen’s chair out and helped her sit down. She wore a floral-print dress and her brown hair parted on the side, making Burt feel a bit overdressed in his suit and tie.

“So,” Burt said as he took his seat on the opposite side of the table, “Scott tells me you two went to high school together.”

“Did he also tell you that we dated in high school?” Gwen asked coyly.

“In fact, he left that part out,” Burt said, his voice a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“It wasn’t anything serious,” Gwen said reassuringly. “He took me to get pizza once. We made out a little in his mom’s minivan, but that was it.”

“Okay,” Burt chuckled, relieved. “He also left out that he used his mom’s minivan to pick up girls.”

“Oh, yeah,” Gwen said with a wry smile, “girls love a guy in a family vehicle. It really gets us going.”

“You’re funny,” Burt said, impressed. “I like that.”

“I’m just getting started,” Gwen said, opening her menu.

~~~

Their conversation continued going well through dinner and Gwen continued to impress Burt. His dates in the past always ordered salads, which always felt fake to him (no one can fill up on a salad), but Gwen ordered a rare steak. That, along her dry sense of humor, gave Burt the impression that Gwen was a women who was…well, just being herself. It was very refreshing.

“You strike me as a very genuine person,” Burt said while he was waiting for the server to return with his credit card.

“Really?” Gwen asked, using a toothpick. “In what way?”

“The women I date tend to present themselves as the kind of woman that they think I want, rather than just being themselves. I dated a girl once who thought I wouldn’t like her if I knew she was half Colombian, so she wore blue contacts and wouldn’t tell me her last name the whole evening. Little did she know, I’m a quarter Brazilian, on my mother’s side.”

“Women like that are stupid,” Gwen said, rolling her eyes. “What’s these girls’ endgame? ‘If I get him to fall in love with me, I only need to pretend to be a completely different person for about fifty years.’”

“Exactly!” Burt exclaimed, happy to hear his own thoughts mirrored back at him from his date for once.

“I like that one quote from Marilyn Monroe: ‘If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best.’”

“Does that mean I get a glimpse at your naughty side?” Burt asked, smirking.

“Maybe,” Gwen said, coyly. “But not tonight.”

“Not even if I take you home in a minivan?” Burt asked, which made Gwen laugh.

“Tell you what,” Gwen offered, a smile on her face, “you can come by my place, but don’t expect to stay over. We’ll just have coffee or something.”

“I can work with that,” Burt said happily as the server walked up with his credit card.

“Just warning you,” Gwen said as she led Burt into her apartment, “my roommate, Luna, is a bit wild. I don’t know if we’ll see her tonight, but she has some … interesting decorations.”

As Burt stepped inside, he saw what she meant. On the wall of the living room was what looked like a medieval torture rack, complete with manacles and chains.

“I think ‘wild’ might be putting it lightly,” Burt said, one eyebrow cocked.

“Hey, remember who your date is,” Gwen said, leading Burt by his tie to the dining room. She pulled out a chair for him to sit at the table. “How do you like your coffee?”

“Oh,” Burt said, surprised. “We’re actually having coffee.”

“I’m genuine, remember?” Gwen said, a big smile on her face. “Besides, if I’m not worth having unless you have to work to get me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Burt asked, intrigued. “And you’re worth the hunt?”

“I guess you’ll have to chase me to find out.”

~~~

“Well,” Gwen said, stretching her arms, “you’ve been a great date, Burt, but it’s time for you to go home.”

“Are you sure?” Burt asked, disappointed. “It only just got dark outside.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Gwen said sweetly, “but I’d love to see you again sometime.”

“Alright,” Burt acquiesced. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I’m busy after seven, but we could meet for lunch.”

“Sounds good to me. Mind if I pick you up?”

“Not at all!” Gwen said enthusiastically. “How does eleven thirty sound?”

“It’s a date!”

Gwen walked Burt to the door and kissed him gently on his cheek as he left. She could tell that it had been a long time since he had been so happy to get just a peck on his cheek at the end of a date, but she could have that effect on guys.

Her train of thought was broken by the sound of her phone making a dinging sound. It was her alarm, letting her know that Luna would be there soon. Gwen went into the bedroom and stripped off her clothes. She then went to the bathroom, filled a cup with tap water, and took a couple of sleeping pills. She knew that the pills would kick in soon, though perhaps not before her roommate arrived.

Gwen walked over to the rack in the living room. She attached the manacles to her ankles and wrists, the chains being loose enough for her to reach her feet. Once she was locked in, she touched a button to activate a winch, tightening the chains until her hands and feet were pulled against the back of the rack (the release was near her left hand, but inside a hold that only small fingers like hers could fit into). Once everything was place, she relaxed and leaned against the wood behind her.

“Alright,” Gwen said, the sleeping pills kicking in, “ready when you are, Luna.”

Just then, it started. Her muscles flexed against her restraints as she let out a beastly howl. Her ears lengthened, as did her feet. Every hair on her body grew, covering her body in a thick fur. Her muscles grew as she struggled against the chains, but she couldn’t move enough to get the leverage needed to break free. Her mouth and nose stretched, combining into a snout. Behind her, a newly formed tailed smacked against the wood. When her transformation was complete, she was somewhere between a wolf and a human.

The beast blinked, becoming aware of her surroundings. “This again, Gwen?” she said drowsily to herself, her voice deeper than Gwen's. “One of these days you’ll forget what day it is and won’t strap yourself down by the time I arrive. I can wait. After all, I only come around about once a month anyway…” As she spoke, Luna the she-wolf, fell to sleep strapped to rack and started lightly snoring.

Step Right Up

“Step right up!” the carnival barker shouted at the crowd milling about. “That’s right step right up and see amazing wonders that will astound the mind, astonish the heart, and shake every man, woman, and child to their very core!”

As Terry was passing by, he couldn’t help but listen to the barker’s outrageous claims. Plus with his red and white striped vest and straw pork pie hat, making him look like he had just stepped out of an old picture, the barker’s routine was even more entertaining. Terry knew he had some time before his ex-wife would drop off the kids, so he decided to stop and listen for a little bit.

“For merely ten dollars—that’s right, just one portrait of the great Alexander Hamilton—you will be granted passage into the tent directly to my left and be able to spy these wondrous sights for yourself!” The barker noticed Terry standing in the crowd and twirled the curled end of his moustache between his thumb and forefinger. “You, sir!” he said, pointing at him with his bamboo cane. “You look like a man of strong mettle and resolve, but I wager that even you will be shocked by the sights you will find within the tent beside me!”

Terry smiled. He was naturally competitive, so hearing the word “wager” sounded like his kind of challenge. “What’s the bet?” he asked above the dull noise of the crowd.

“Just an expression, my good man,” the barker replied, keeping up the act. “Beyond being sinful, gambling is a detriment to both the mind and body.”

“No,” Terry said, walking up closer, “let’s make it interesting. If I’m not ‘shaken to my core,’ than I don’t have to pay.”

“Suppose I agree,” the barker said, lowering his voice but keeping up the old timey style, “what’s my prize when you’re proven both wrong and foolish?”

“If I lose, then I have to pay for the attraction,” Terry said, thinking that part was obvious.

“It seems to me,” the barker said, “that in your scenario, you risk nothing. Were you to see my attraction with no wager, you would pay the standard fee for the privilege. Yet if you are proven correct in your assumption, I forfeit my payment. Those, my good man, are hardly balanced stakes.”

“What do you suggest?” Terry asked.

“Why not ten dollars on either side?” the barker said, holding his hands out like a scale. “If you find what’s within this tent mundane, you pay nothing. But if—or rather, when—you are truly left in shock and awe by sights and sounds, then you pay double the entrance fee.”

Terry nodded. “I can manage that.”

“Very good!” the barker said. “Hand me your ten dollars and you will be admitted.”

Terry took two five dollar bills from his wallet and held them out to the barker. Just as the barker was about to retrieve the cash, Terry pulled his hand back. “Now, I get this back if I’m not amazed by that I see, right?”

“I give you my word as a carnival worker,” the barker said, his left hand over his heart and his right hand held up beside him.

“Okay,” Terry said handing the money over. “So, I just go through here?” he asked.

“Indeed!” the barker said, gesturing in the direction of the tent with his cane, his enthusiasm as high as ever.

Terry walked up the tent where a worker opened the curtain that acted as the front door. Inside, he saw several booths, each with its own curtain and a worker to operate the way in, many of them sitting on benches. Terry walked up to the closest booth. It was operated by a tall, gaunt man with a scraggly beard and a strong smell of cigarettes.

“Alright,” he said, “let’s see what’s behind curtain number one.”

“That’ll be a dollar,” the worker said, his voice accentuated by both a slight southern drawl and aggressive apathy.

“Wait,” Terry said, taken aback. “I never agreed to that.”

“If you want to see what’s inside,” the man said, whistling on his S sounds, “you got to pay a dollar.”

Terry stormed back out of the tent through the way he came in, fumbling a little with the tent flap. Once outside, he shouted at the barker.

“Hey!” he called out, causing the barker to stop his routine and turn around to face Terry. “You owe me ten dollars!”

“You saw the sights within and yet were not left in shock and awe?” the barker asked.

“No,” Terry replied angrily. “I didn’t see anything. You didn’t tell me I’d have to pay again when I was inside.”

“So,” the barker said, once again stroking the end of his curled moustache, “you saw nothing inside the tent?”

“Are you even listening?” Terry annoyedly asked. “No, I didn’t see anything.”

“And you saw nothing of your own free will and choice?” the barker asked.

“If you mean I chose not to pay to see whatever was behind each of those stupid curtains inside,” Terry said, emphasizing each word,” then yeah, I chose not to be fleeced.”

“Well then, my good man,” the barker said, resting his hands on his bamboo cane, “I don’t owe you a dime.”

“How’s that?” Terry asked, his angry turning his words to ice.

“The wager was that I would repay your entrance fee if you were not shocked by the sights inside,” the barker explained. “You went inside, but saw nothing, voiding the terms the agreement.”

“And now you’re going to tell me that I owe you another ten bucks, right?” Terry asked, his brow as furrowed as humanly possible.

“Not at all,” the barker said cheerfully. “You violated the wager, so you merely owed me the price of admission, which has already been paid.”

Terry was silent, slowly realizing that the barker was right. He was still angry, but he didn’t know what else to say. “I bet you think you’re so smart,” he finally managed, “cheating people out of their money.”

The barker leaned over and said quietly to Terry: “This is a carnival, son. Half the fun is getting cheated.”

Terry stormed off towards the Tilt-O- Whirl where he promised to meet his kids. Just behind him, he could hear the barker call out: “Step right up…”

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.