President Musk and his shady hackers are rummaging through government programs (in both senses of the word) in order to help Putin destroy America and line the pockets of the criminal gang that’s taken over the government. Without any in-depth understanding; without any knowledge of the history of these organizations or why they were set up; without any simulations or even thought experiments about alternatives; without any serious oversight by anyone without a vested interest and without seriously involving Congress (who is *supposed* to control the purse strings) it is exactly analogous to letting bulls rampage through a china shop and just as likely to result in increased “efficiency.”
I worked in Corporate America for many decades. Something that always brought a smile to my face were conversations like this snippet of dialog.
“Hey, I know we’re supposed to meet at 9 am but I need to drop by HR and discuss something for a couple minutes.”
A slightly more realistic but still insanely optimistic version which I also heard numerous times: “Yeah, I’ll be there in ten minutes. I just need to deal with an HR issue.”
The people who made these statements were not irresponsible. Nor were they stupid or uneducated. These were generally people with Ph.D.’s who had also worked in corporate America for years. They weren’t newbies by any means. How could their time estimates be so completely absurd? I suspect that part of the answer was that they had a very simple representation of both the problem and the solution in their head. Sometimes, a very complex problem can be posed quite simply.
The “Four Color Theorem” comes to mind. This is a major reason I decided not to pursue a degree in mathematics. Once I heard the problem, I was immediately convinced I could solve it. Then, I couldn’t sleep for about three days because I couldn’t “turn off” thinking about the problem. Finally, my body took over for awhile.
If even straightforward mathematic problems can be simply stated but difficult to solve, it might seem obvious that the same can be said for most issues involving people and organizations. That’s not to say people won’t try a seemingly simple solution.
For a time, I worked as a “Knowledge Management Consultant” at IBM. On one occasion, we visited a well-known and successful pharmaceutical company. They wanted us to design a computer system that would make their chemists share information more readily across their organizational silos. They wouldn’t change the organization. They wouldn’t provide any changes to motivate people to share. They wouldn’t give any time or space for people to share. But they were convinced that we could simply plunk down a computer system and — voila! — knowledge would be shared across the silos! Talk about a miracle drug!
AI generated image.
Like other organizational functions, the people in HR varied considerably in their skills and ethical standards. I met some very good people in HR. And, sad to say, I also met some who were not so good. But I never met any as inept as the one in this purely fictional story.
Dealing With The Problem Child
Mr. Low-Cee belched loudly. He leaned back in his swivel chair, steepled his fingers, and put his feet up on the table. He felt a slight tickle in his amygdala. He had read somewhere that showing the bottoms of your shoes to someone from an Arab country was disrespectful. He scratched the tickle away with the stick of his well-used rationalization, Well, hell. Ishaaq isn’t really in an Arab country, is he? He’s right here in the God-Damned US of A and I’m doing him a favor anyway.
“So, Ishaaq, tell me more about this person you refer to as your ‘Problem Child.’ I’m sure we can find a spot for him somewhere. What are his qualifications, his background, his accomplishments?”
Ishaaq frowned. He pursed his lips. “That’s just it, Mr. Low-Cee. He doesn’t have any accomplishments in the usual sense of the word. He did manage to avoid the draft on numerous occasions. He managed to lose a ton of money that he inherited from his dad. He’s certainly famous. He’s sexually assaulted a lot of women. He’s cheated on his taxes and he ran a fake university and he ran a fake charity for kids with cancer. He managed to drive a casino into the ground financially and, as you may know, that’s not easy to do. They are legally set up with games designed to insure that the House wins on average.”
Mr. Low-Cee belched again. He vaguely wondered whether he was allergic to blueberry muffins and whether anyone was allergic to blueberries. He thought: Lots of people are allergic to strawberries. But then, why not blueberries? Interesting. “So, Ishaaq, I’m curious. Have you ever heard of anyone being allergic to blueberries?”
Ishaaq blinked a few times. “You mean…is our ‘Problem Child’ allergic to blueberries? I have idea. What does that…does it matter?”
Mr. Low-Cee shook his head vigorously. “No, no. Never mind. Was this so-called ‘Problem Child’ a good student?”
Ishaaq sighed. “I really have no idea. He says he was but he won’t share any of his official records. I don’t see how he could have been. But who knows? He likes to talk a lot. That’s for sure. He doesn’t always make sense, but he makes a lot of faces when he talks and he shouts a lot. Maybe a clown?”
“That’s an idea. Any other special qualifications? Anything?”
Ishaaq winced. “Well, he is a felon. So there’s that.”
“A convicted felon and a serial rapist. Challenging. Challenging.” Mr. Low-Cee hammered himself in the sternum and let out the largest belch so far. “Ah! Now, I feel better! And, I had a thought! How about a position as Figurehead? He sounds perfect for that! I’ll tell you why it occurred to me. Just this morning, I had a surprise call from none other than Vlademort Putrid. He wanted to talk about installing Elong Muskrat as POTUS. Muskrat has the perfect qualifications. He’s run a couple major companies into the ground and, like ‘Problem Child’ avoided paying taxes and lied about test results. Elong wants to come in like gangbusters and steal all the information and money from America and destroy the country for Valdemort, but Elong has no interest in kissing babies, traveling to disaster areas, etc. Maybe your guy would be just right for that? I’m just spitballing here, but it might be a good fit. What do you think, Mohammed?”
Ishaaq tilted his head. “Mohammed?” He turned around to see whether there was someone else in the room. He turned back and frowned. “I’m Ishaaq, not Mohammed.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Ishaaq. Ask your guy whether he’s okay with…hey! I had another brainstorm. Don’t even tell him that he’s applying for Figurehead. He doesn’t sound like a detail-oriented guy. Just tell him we want him to be POTUS! Elong, you, me, and Vlademort will know he’s a Figurehead, but why tell anyone else? What do you think, Isaac?”
The higher the resistance, the less current flows for a given level of voltage.
The resistance of the intact human body is higher than you might imagine.
If current is applied where the skin is cut however, the resistance falls dramatically.
Dry, unbroken skin means the resistance of the human body may be as high as 100,000 ohms but broken skin can lower that to as little as 500 ohms.
What about the body politic?
Pure water is not such a great conductor as it turns out. But add a tiny amount of salt and it becomes a great one!
A copper wire is, as most everyone knows, a great conductor and offers little resistance. However, how much resistance depends on diameter of the wire. The greater the cross-sectional area, the less the resistance. They are inversely related.
These days, many people actually get more pleasure and spend more time “living” in the information space they inhabit than they do from the real world that they are actually living in. The result is less resistance to good information but also to misinformation.
The resistance is also directly related to the length of the wire. More length, more resistance. This makes me wonder about the length of the communication channel as well. It is now “shorter” than ever before. You can literally watch a video shot by someone else across the world with no intermediaries touching the content. Or, seemingly so.
Now, let’s introduce the fact that, for the most part, it is non-trivial to decide what is “real” and what is “made-up.” And, you’re subject to more of this stream and more instantaneously than ever before. Not so long ago, new information was vetted by experts and, in fact, multiple experts. This is what happens in scientific journals as well as journalistic reporting. The same is true of financial transactions (which are typically purely informational). No-one is ever expected to be the only source of verification. Everything is cross-checked.
Given this lack of resistance, people are much more susceptible to manipulation. Theoretically, they are also much more “susceptible” to learning more truth more quickly. But whoever controls the wire, controls the flow. For instance, if you have enough money, you can buy more bandwidth and hire entertaining people and collect & analyze data on your audience in great detail so that you can tailor your message for maximum effectiveness.
Given the choice, one has to ask: “What sort of person with a great deal of wealth would use that wealth to misinform and mislead their fellow human beings?” They could choose instead to use that wealth to improve everyone’s knowledge, know-how, and creativity. This would result in a better world for everyone, including the ultra-wealthy unless their greatest source of pleasure is seeing others in misery.
Seriously though. Try to imagine that you had billions and billions of dollars to burn. What would motivate you to spend a substantial amount of that money to lie to people; to intentionally mislead them? I’m really curious.
The Mayor of FaceGook, Dark Suckaberg, has announced that the City of FaceGook will no longer be wasting money on such trivialities as sewage treatment plants or proving clean drinking water to the netizens of FaceGook. In his press briefing today, Suckaberg said, “After all, who is to say whether urine and feces are bad or good for people? I heard somewhere that urine has antiseptic properties and that sometimes, autoimmune diseases of the intestines can be treated with feces. And, hasn’t excrement been used as fertilizer for centuries? The last thing we need is for so-called “experts” or “moderators” to decide what’s good or bad for people. Why waste tax dollars on such authoritarian excesses?”
(Image generated with AI)
Asked whether these changes would result in lower taxes, Suckaberg replied, “Of course! We’ll save tons of money so we will lower taxes on the rich, which, as everyone knows, makes everyone more successful. The money that has up to now been wasted on clean drinking water will instead be channeled toward more productive water sports. My tech bros and I will be launching an exciting program to design and build an undersea luxury submarine designed to cross under the South Pole.”
A reporter from Huffing&Puffing Post asked a follow up query. “How will you take a sub under the South Pole? The North Pole was water covered with ice. There was water underneath. But the South Pole…”
Suckaberg waved his hands to dispel the bad vibes. “On August 3rd, 1958, an atomic sub first completed an underwater transit of the North Pole. Our goal is to do the same for the South Pole on August 3rd, 2028 to mark the 150th anniversary of the event.”
(AI generated image)
Another reporter, this time from the Washington Postage Rubber Stamp seemed fixated on the same irrelevant issue. “It’s solid rock down below the South Pole. You can’t just take a sub through it.”
Suckaberg arranged his facial muscles in a well-trained imitation of a smile. “Debbie downer! That’s why no-one pays attention any more to the main scream press. So negative! Why would someone make a North Pole of water and a South Pole of land. That makes no sense whatsoever. They are literally polar opposites. So, obviously, they are the same. Geez. But even if that were true, we could simply add one of EM’s Big Bad Drill Baby Drills to the front and drill our own damned hole if the designers were too stupid to put one there—which I seriously doubt, by the way. Anyway, let’s not get off track. This is only one way we’ll improve the lives of every netizen of FaceGook. We’ll also be saving money by privatizing police and fire services for FaceGook. Instead of the notoriously inefficient public police and fire departments, we’ll let each netizen provide their own individualized police and fire services. Much more profitable. After all, if one of your mansions is being robbed, wouldn’t you pay a pretty penny to stop the burglar cold? Or, if it were being burned to the ground, wouldn’t you pay an even prettier penny to prevent that?”
(Imagine above mis-generated by AI)
Suckaberg could see there were still frowns upon the faces of some of the reporters. One seemed to be checking a calculator. And, many were impolitely waving their hands and shouting questions. He thought, What the hell do these people think a press briefing is anyway?” But, being the good sport he was, Suckaberg said, “I’ll answer one more question.” He glanced at his wrist pretending there was an Apple Watch there. “I don’t want to be late for a rocket launch. Now, how about you there?”
He pointed to a random dude in the crowd who happened to be from the New York Chimes In. The man asked the stupidest question yet; viz., “Do you think the netizens of FaceGook will appreciate these changes? Do they have any say?”
Suckaberg guffawed so hard he nearly wet himself. “I own the whole damned thing. I get to do whatever the hell I want. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the netizens of FaceGook. I think about what’s best for them. I am giving them freedom to test their own drinking water and the freedom to put whatever they want in the reservoir. They don’t have to put toxic wastes or human waste in the reservoir if they don’t want to. But, as the saying goes, ‘What’s a gander that gooses two in the bush?’ That’s it for now.” With that, Suckaberg, turned on his heel and slid behind a grey curtain leaving some of the audience to wonder how these changes would impact the value of the real estate in FaceGook.
One woman mumbled to the reporter next to her, “He may own it, but how much would it really be worth without any netizens contributing their time and effort?”
Today: A beautiful day in San Diego. Yes, it’s true. There are many such—even in January.
Our first discovery was a hawk which I heard the moment we stepped out the door. I tried to mimic the sound and told Sadie it was a hawk. We walked to the end of our street where the hawk was perched on the lamp post. Sadie looked up at it as I greeted the hawk. So far as I can recall, she’s never barked at one.
Even before we reached the hawk, Sadie made another discovery. I have no idea what it was but I know from her level of excitement that it was a *huge* discovery. Rather than drag her along to some predetermined goal of my own, I indulge her explorations even when I can’t tell what it is that she’s so enthralled with.
For her part, she tolerates me stopping to take pictures. I don’t think she understands why I do it. For that matter, I’m not sure I fully understand why I do it. But I enjoy it. I like sharing them.
At one of the many “choice point” corners, the sun was just beginning to rise enough to light up the bougainvillea bush. It’s quite prevalent in the San Diego area so I assume it tolerates the climate quite well.
Next we saw the sun rising. Contrails are also visible. Contrails are mostly composed of the potentially lethal substance: “Hydrogen Hydroxide” aka HOH or, more commonly H2O; i.e., water. Yes, you can drown. OTOH, you are more H2O than anything else and you can’t live without it. We tolerate the presence of water and even encourage it even though approximately ten people a day drown in America.
The pineapple palm shown below has its flowers lit by the early morning sun which tends to exaggerate their orange color. Palm trees flourish in California and Florida. But apparently, it isn’t so much that the relish the sun and the heat as that they don’t tolerate freezing temperatures very well. I saw some, for instance, in Limerick, Ireland, not known for a balmy climate.
I next spied these sunlit Christmas decorations. Of course, I could tell they were Christmas decorations and not Kwanza or Hanukkah decorations because, as everyone knows, the wise men found their way to Bethlehem on Reindeer. Or camels. Whatever. Jesus is often portrayed as blond and blue-eyed, so… Anyway, speaking of tolerance, some folks believe all Christmas decorations should be removed no later than January 1.
Why?
Are they confused? Do they look at these reindeer and think, Oh, my God! I thought we just had Christmas, but no! Here it is again already! I’ve got to buy more presents! Or…? It bothers me not the slightest if people want to keep their decorations up all year, be they Christmas, Easter, Halloween, or whatever. After all, some extremely wealthy people celebrate “Wealth Day” 365 days a year with their displays so why not?
As we continued our walk, the golden sun lit up Sadie’s fur so I snapped the picture below.
And then we came to the golf course. This is the tenth green. If you want to play golf, you will need to become tolerant of your own errors.
So, as we began the long climb back up the street to our home, I began to wonder why tolerance seems so difficult for so many people. Intolerance of other races. Intolerance of other religions. Intolerance of other cuisines, clothing styles, color schemes, music, book genres, traffic merges, waiting in line, sexual preferences, and so much more.
On the one hand, I don’t want to “be” anyone else or any other organism. I admire the hawk but I don’t want to be a hawk. I’m happy being a human. I admire many of Sadie’s abilities. But I don’t want to be a dog. There are many choices that other humans make which are different from the choices I make.
Our morning walk began, appropriately enough, in heavy fog. No sun. Cold. Damp. A slight but persistent icy wind.
How appropriate, I thought. No sign of a sunrise. Not near here.
Sadie, however, seemed oblivious to the fog, the damp, the cold, the politics. Before our walk began, I told her we’d try walking without the shoulder harness but she’d have to do “Good Walking” with no Pulling. She’s strong and pulling hurts my back and knees but especially my ankles and arches. The harness helps prevent her from pulling, but doesn’t really eliminate it.
She did good walking.
And I noticed that, up close, she is still as beautiful as ever. No gold or red from the rising sun, but still beautiful.
Indeed, the fog shrouds what is distant, but up close? Bright signs of beauty still beckon. If we bother to look.
Looking more distantly–ominous, if not downright evil.
Even so, the lonely mourning dove coos on her thin wire perch.
Soon, the sun does begin to shine. Darkness, like cancer and greed, always eventually loses.
One of the most pleasurable “chores” I’ve ever had is walking our goldendoodle Sadie twice a day. It’s exercise. It’s a chance to see nature’s beauty. It’s a chance to interact with Sadie and informally explore her mind. She likes to vary her route. She likes to return to “known” spots and also to explore new places. She knows when we are “headed home.” And, once we begin heading home, she typically begins to engage in a variety of “procrastination” behaviors. She stops and licks herself. She stops and looks back to see whether any of her neighborhood friends—human and dog—are headed our way. She suddenly finds an incredibly interesting scent to track down.
Her procrastination is something I completely understand. I did the same thing as a kid. And my kids did the same thing. And their kids did the same thing. While I sympathize, it also gives me a chance to think. What does it mean to be heading home? Can one ever go back home?
Undo and Home Base
Early in my career as a researcher in Human-Computer Interaction, I had an opportunity to contribute to a set of “Guidelines.” Although the New York Times once erroneously ascribed the “invention” of UNDO to me, I did not invent it. It seems to me that the concept is actually quite old. I did, however, mention in the guidelines that UNDO should be provided as well as providing a “Home Base”—that is, a way to go to a state where you could begin again.
To Sadie, and to me, our home is our home base. Like other home bases, we conceptualize them as being a return to an unchanging safe space. Relatively speaking, and roughly speaking, that’s a good characterization. It’s relative because no place on earth is absolutely safe. Disasters can come in many forms: extreme weather, wars, crime, and disease to name four. Also, even if disaster doesn’t strike, we can be sure that home will never be exactly the same as when we left it. Everything is constantly in motion and in flux. It can be comforting to imagine that home stays the same, but it doesn’t. Nor does Sadie. Nor do I.
Sometimes, a moderate amount of change is nice. I like to take photos in our beautiful garden. I end up sometimes taking pictures of “the same” plant or flower several days in a row. I also tend to take flowers when they bloom, year after year. Sometimes, these pictures look very similar on successive days or on successive years. But in actuality, they are never exactly the same. The plant itself changes day to day (as do I; as does Sadie; as do you). In addition, the light changes from day to day. The surrounding plants in the garden also change from day to day and year to year. In addition, when I take a picture, I’m not in the exact same position. The software on the iPhone changes over time as well. The lenses on the iPhone change over time. Even if by some industrial strength replicability dream (nightmare?) I could take exactly the same photo, you wouldn’t perceive it as the same because your eye/brain system is always changing, both organically and by virtue of your other visual experiences.
Another Sunset
There are characteristics of sunsets that we see as similar over time. Here are three sunset shots years apart.
Another “Another”
Are there any replications? In my mind, sure. In reality, no.
A rose is a rose is a rose, but not only are two different roses ever identical. Even one rose is not the same day after day, hour after hour, or even second by second.
Another Trip Around the Sun
What is more steady than the movement of the earth around the sun…or the sun around the earth. In the Medieval times, the Europeans wanted to describe in perfect circles and put themselves at the center of the universe.
Now, we are more sophisticated and know that the earth actually orbits the sun. Our seasons depend on the relative position of the earth and the sun. But while we are aware of our trip around the sun, earth does not return to the same spot. Today is November 1. Next November first? The sun will have traveled through our galaxy 6,942,672,000 kilometers. That’s a far piece. I’ve run a number of 10K races. The galaxy travels a lot faster.
Another Homecoming? Is it possible? Can we use time machines?
Can we go back to the 1950s?
Can women simply forget that they were once treated as human beings?
In order to work effectively, today’s technology presumes a whole set of other technologies, skills, infrastructure, attitudes, processes, laws, rules, regulations. If we actually tried to go back to 1950, we would miss.
By about 500,000 years. Every so-called primitive tribe ever studied has customs, rules, practices, and rituals. Going back to the 1950’s by destroying the rule of law won’t work no matter how loudly people scream for it. You can’t scream your way to the moon. You can’t scream your way to Mars. You can’t scream your way to happiness. You cannot make two plus two equal five, no matter how loud you scream. Sadie can’t bark them into equivalence. A snake cannot hiss them into equivalence.
You can typically get yourself home. But no matter how hard you “insist,” home will not be in precisely what it was when you left. And, it definitely won’t be in the same place in the universe. Not even close. Going back is a mental exercise and never a physical reality.
Dan Johnson’s family had been dairy farmers for as long as any of the folks in or around Oshkosh could remember. Like his pa and grandpa, Dan dressed the part. Going to the general store, fiddling a jig at the barn dances, or tending to his herd, Dan could be seen in his checkered shirt and blue jeans held up by red suspenders. Like many (but not all) of the Johnson clan, Dan sported curly red hair and freckles. His once-handsome face now bore a strong resemblance to corrugated cardboard from his many years in the sun.
Now that Cindy was gone, he didn’t much care. And he didn’t even care that he didn’t care. Life went on, and he did have flashes of pleasure, but they grew ever dimmer and rarer as the lonely years passed. Dan still enjoyed his herd. He enjoyed feeding them, milking them—hell, he had even come to love the putrid smell of cow patties. He also enjoyed the occasional visits from some of the other old codgers in Winnebago County.
Though winter seemed to come later each year, he hadn’t yet thoroughly prepared for this one. He stayed strong from handling the chores on his own. He still felt pangs of regret that he hadn’t had more kids. Now he had no surviving sons or even cousins to help, and, more importantly to take over once he…”passed on.”
Dan took a breather from wood-chopping and made himself a cup of black coffee. He had always considered cream and sugar a “sissy way” to enjoy coffee. He loved the unadulterated bitter taste. He set down his cup to cool a bit. His fingers idly pulled the stack of papers toward him across the slick formica. He squeaked and squinched his chair around so the dim light of late October fell onto the contract. He shook his head.
In his younger days, he’d never imagined ever selling his farm. If he had imagined it, it sure as hell would have been to a neighbor, not some dark-suit, white-shirt, red-tie from New York, of all places. Of course, back then, he’d had no idea that he’d lose both sons, one to war and one to COVID. Every year, it got just a little harder. He’d had no idea how difficult it would become to compete with the huge agro-business factories.
“Factories.” Dan couldn’t bring himself to think of the “Golden Opportunity Pastures” as actual farms. The way that smooth-talking New York fellah—Steve Banshee—talked about the cows—well, come to think of it— the way he talked about everything—yeah, Mr. Banshee talked about everything like he was doing some kind of math problem. But the math never seemed to add up. Banshee’s way was to scream and coo and wave his hands and then go back to screaming again.
Dan looked over to where Cindy had sat for four decades. He imagined her and smiled. “Well, Cindy, what do you think? Should I sell this old place? This city fellah, you heard him, I guess, he says they don’t have any use for this old house and I can stay here as long as I’m above ground and then he’ll arrange for me to be buried right beside you. He promised you and I could sleep under the old black walnut tree forever. And, he promised to let Old Blue stay on too, though she can’t give milk any more.”
The light began to fade. Dan sighed. It was some good money, all right. “Cin—I’ll tell you what—I can buy a real nice headstone for you. I know. You’re happy with the little cross I make for you every spring. I don’t want those city folks forgetting where you are. Sure, I admit, I’ll buy a few thing for myself as well. But I’ll send along a check to your friend Sue in Milwaukee too. It would be from both of us. Appears, I’ve made my mind up.”
Dan stared at the contract. He began to read it and it made no more sense than it had the first few times. But, after all, this Mr. Banshee from New York said he was an expert about these things. And, he had made it very clear how much the money was and about the provision for Dan to keep the house and burial plot. Dan signed the papers. For a moment, he hesitated because he couldn’t see Cin’s signature. Then, he realized that was just habit. He didn’t feel sad. But a single teardrop fell onto the spot where Cin’s name had been.
Now that he and Cin had finally made up their mind, he felt lighter, younger. He slept very well that night. He mailed back the signed contract and his week went on as it usually did and he talked to the cows as he milked them and he told them about selling the place and tried his best to paint the buyer, Mister Banshee as a nice person, but the cows weren’t buying it. They pretended as though they didn’t really understand what Dan was saying.
It wasn’t until the following Monday that Mr. Banshee showed up along with two young linebackers or professional wrestlers.
Dan hated to scream, but once Banshee had told him “how it’s going to be” that didn’t stop him, “Mister Banshee! You agreed! We shook hands! Right here in this kitchen! Shook hands.”
Banshee held up his hands like a crossing guard, “Hold it right there, Dan, you know as well as anybody that people say all sorts of things when they’re negotiating, but what matters is the signed document. Why? Different people have different memories of conversations, but the written document is in black and white. It is what it is. And a good thing because I don’t even recall talking about having you stay here, let alone anything about a burial plot or a sacred cow. Good Lord, man. Think! We have standard contracts. The only thing that changes are the amounts and dates of payouts.”
Dan pursed his lips tight. He clenched his jaw. He stared at Mr. Banshee without speaking. He glanced at the two thugs who stood behind Banshee. For a moment, his mind fled to the two cords of wood he’d stacked up for the winter. Then, he thought of “Paul Bunyan”—not the legendary giant woodsman—but the axe he used to chop firewood. It was a name Cin came up with many years ago.
Dan, shirtless, had been splitting logs on a warm summer’s day. She’d come out to him with a jam jar filled with lemonade. She’d smiled as she handed it to him and said, “Well, now, if you don’t just look like Paul Bunyan himself!” Dan had blushed as he took the glass, beaded with condensation, and lightly stroked her fingers.
He liked the name Paul Bunyan, but applying it to himself? No. He had smiled at her though and tapped the oaken axe handle. “This is the real Paul Bunyan.” From then on, they’d both referred to the axe as “Paul Bunyan.”
From somewhere far off, he heard someone talking. It was that Banshee fellow. He was still jabbering on about how the time for negotiating was over. They had a signed contract and Banshee had placed a check right before him. Dan stared at the check. It was a lot of money. It was the largest single check amount made out to him that he’d ever seen. It was also about one quarter of what they had “agreed to.”
Mr. Banshee reminded him once again that he needed to move out by Friday. At the latest. After that, anything remaining on the property would belong to “Golden Opportunity Pastures.” Dan nodded and followed them out to their car. The trio of “city folk” leaned on their car and Mr. Banshee said one last thing, “That money should last you awhile, Mr. Johnson, if you’re wise with it. I hope you learned a valuable lesson. Watch what you sign. Oh, and remember city folks are just plain smarter than the folks hereabouts.”
Dan nodded and said softly, “Hold on, Mr. Banshee, I’ve got some maps & schedules in the barn that you’ll find useful. I’ll be right back. Just take a minute. You folks stay there. I’ll get everything you need.”
The thugs that Mr. Banshee brought with him were strong, but they were no match for a herd of cows driven by a cattle prod that Dan had very seldom used until today. One of the thugmen had reached into a holster and taken out a pistol. Paul Bunyan took care of that arm. The man screamed and tried to stop the bleeding. Uselessly.
Dan saw the wounded men and took pity on them. Lots of broken bones. Lots of pain. Paul Bunyan fixed all that in a few moments. Dan sighed.
“Well, Cin, we got us a lot of work to do. Can’t bury them here. Ground’s too near frozen. Gonna have to drag them one by one to the marsh. Old Blue can help though.”
Two weeks later, after a light brushing of snow, the local sheriff, Bill Baxter drove up in his “Oreo” which is how the locals referred to the police cars. Dan offered Bill a cup of coffee. Bill took his black, just like Dan. “What’s up?”
“Well, Dan. Here’s the thing. There’s a real estate guy missing by the name of Banshee. That name mean anything to you?”
“Yeah. That’s the name of a fellah who came all the way from New York City. He wanted to buy my farm. Came up a couple times. He didn’t want to take “no” for an answer. I guess he finally got the hint. Haven’t seen him for awhile.”
“Okay. Well, he seems to be missing. Any idea about that?”
Dan bit his lip and tilted his head. “No, he didn’t say where he was headed next. Last time I saw him, he handed me a contract. I signed it, ‘Suck my Johnson’ and mailed it to him. I figured that might help him get the message. Anyway, he hasn’t been back since. So I guess it worked.”
Bill stared for awhile at Dan. “Maybe. Thing is, the people at his office apparently didn’t notice that you hadn’t signed your actual name and cut a check. And that check was cashed. It was a good deal of money. They seem to think you sold the farm.”
“No idea, but I am sure I’m not rich. Look around. Same as always. If there’s a check, I haven’t seen it. And, I sure as hell will never sell this farm. Especially not to a New York City guy in a suit.
Dan smiled at Bill and thought, Guess the trip to Minneapolis was worth it. Dressed in a suit and tie, with his beard trimmed short and wearing a white cowboy hat, Dan had looked quite different standing in line at Sunrise Bank. Not that anyone bothered to look for him on security footage, but if they had, not even officer Baxter wouldn’t have recognized farmer Dan.
Bill finished his coffee and stood. “Well, Dan, if you hear from this guy Banshee again, let me know. Or, if you remember anything he said about where he might be headed next. Okay?”
“Sure will. Have a great day now.”
Dan looked out the window and saw Bill do a Y-turn in his gravel driveway. He nearly backed into the chopping block into which Paul Bunyan sank his single sharp tooth.
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