White Light, Blinding Room

The light is piercing, almost painful.  A solid white room with the brightest sunlight I could imagine pouring in from above as though someone placed the sun directly outside the clear glass surrounds me.  Painted on the walls, with invisible ink, are all the mistakes I've made in my life.

The room is so blinding that I can't find the door.  I can open my eyes only with the smallest of cracks.  I'd hoped that my eyes would have adjusted by now - has it been days?  Months?  Years?  A lifetime?  It definitely feels like a lifetime.

The brightness may as well be a thousand tons of weigh pressing down on me.  Still, I find myself pawing at the walls in an attempt to find the door.  All I feel, however, is the texture of the painted mistakes slightly raised off the walls of this deadly white.

I feel like giving up, but I'm so lost within in this room that even if I had the capability of doing so I wouldn't be able to see my way to doing it.  This is why the light is so much more dangerous than the dark.  At least when you're in the dark you can use a flashlight if you'd like, or just stay peacefully blissful.

Still, the textures, as uncomfortable as they feel, give me understanding.  Understanding of how I got here, how I trapped myself here in this never ending cycle of blinding pressurized existence.

Strangely, though, the room is absent of heat.  It is freezing, the way the air feels in the dead of winter, open field, and snow littering the landscape as though it is all that has ever existed.  I, however, am not cold.  It is just a feeling of brisk, frigid cold air surrounding me as these mistakes are my main companion.

I suppose that since my choices have always been that of my own, I only have myself to blame.  Still, it feels like a strange sort of relief to curse something else even though it is only a momentary relief as I release that I, in fact, am still the reason I'm here.

It is better to keep my eyes closed; however, that is too simple.  I have to keep them open, hoping I can see the painted mistakes and have them point me to something I've not yet seen.  The cracks in my eye lids opened as little as possible, but it is still hopeless.  Just white.  My hands are the only vision I have.

Crawling on the floor just renders more risen painted lines, but it still feels absolutely hopeless in deciphering anything.  It would be easier to give up searching.  I just... can't.

Sometimes I wish I could just go back into the dark like everyone else, but if I can just survive this experience then perhaps I will have knowledge coming out the other end that surpasses what I could imagine.

Simply have to keep hope alive long enough to find out.

-Dustin S. Stover

Money is Survival

As though it wasn't enough, we have an entire society that worships money and all means to obtain it.  Now, there's the pitch.  The game is all the ways in which humanity cons itself to obtain it.

Why, though?  This question is equally damning for morality as it is a perplexing philosophical meandering into what happens to humanity once it's need for survival is replaced with the fruits of their labor with an idealistic piece of paper or an account controlled with a piece of plastic.

When I was a wee little tyke, elementary school is the earliest I can remember being taught this, I was told humanity needed three fundamental things to survive.  Now, even at the time I found one of them to be a rather arbitrary survival trait that was more dependent upon where the human was existing than anything else; however, those three items of necessity were food, clothing, and shelter.  For the sake of simplicity we will assume water falls under the food category.

I imagine, and research agrees, that before mass civilization existed those fundamental things were provided for in the small tribes, lacking in currency of any sort and essentially, if trading did exist, was done in a means that traded goods and items as opposed to using currency.

Currency changed that, of course.  No longer did someone have to give up their supplies or goods in order to gain someone else's.  Currency became a tool to enrich lives.

Again, for the sake of simplicity, I will leave out thievery and other nefarious means of accumulating currency and focus on the positive side of currency.

Tactically, this worked well because if two neighboring tribes or cities wanted to trade in this manner, it broadened everyone's lives with things they were not otherwise experiencing.

Now let me attempt to bridge this gap.  When times became hard and a farmer's crops didn't render enough food, currency alleviated that by ensuring that food could still be had.  Likewise if farm animals began dying off from some disease.  Currency then doubled as a tool for survival.

Now, in today's society, currency, or money, is our means of survival.  We don't have the land to grow crops on to eat, and even if we do most of us wouldn't know the first thing about growing our own food (or have the time).  Money is the requirement to put food on the table.  Without money we become homeless, we don't have shelter or clothing.  Essentially, those three necessities are now reduced to one singular necessity - money.

So what happens if one has to live off of such a small amount of money that they can barely afford those necessities?  Well, the easiest thing to do is attach a desire to wanting more of that money because, at that point, more money equals more survival, or, at the very least, better survival.

That leads us to our modern day.  Over 40% of the population in the USA can't afford the basic necessities.  Forty percent of the population in this country is struggling to survive. Forty. Fucking. Percent.

It is actually closer to 43%. (a quick google search will fill in the rest of that information for you).

If that many Americans are struggling to survive, imagine how many of those are wishing for more money.  If that is what they wish for, it is only natural for it to turn into a worship.  Afterall, the whole premise of things being worshiped is the wish for something else - in religions case, for a better world in the form of an afterlife.  People worship celebrities because people wish they were said celebrity.  Worshipping money is, like the other forms, an extreme form of desire.

The worshipping of money, though, is also what has created the idolizing of figures like Donald Trump, who exudes the image of wealth in everything he does - or at least attempts to.  That is also where the big con comes in.  Official record now states that he has told over 5,000 falsehoods and untruths since he became sitting president.  That isn't even in two years.

Better yet, a look into his history will show you how often he has conned people our of their money - a fake university, convincing city government to give him a substantial tax break for something he never returned on, all the way down to paying a company to make over an ice skating rink and then take all the credit - this being after he guaranteed they'd get their due respect.

And why has he done all this?  I can't imagine to answer the full depth of that question, but one very obvious and equally prominent answer is money.  Except, he doesn't need all of his to survive.

Of course, the average person isn't a con artist - they just want to survive.

-Dustin S. Stover

Humanitarians

We approached the big, brooding building.  It struck me the way an old plantation owner's house would strike a former slave, and perhaps that was the point.  No one buys a house like this without the intention of proving to those who gaze upon it that they are more important than everyone else around.

The giant white rectangle stretched three stories high and what felt like half a mile from one end to the other.    I'm not sure what I've done in my life to be affiliated with such people, but I find myself to be quite uncomfortable now.

The things we do for love, knowing it's futility and inevitable decline into the mundane, should always be a perplexing notion.  Here I am, though, walking towards the big double door entrance into a former slave owner's home.  A representation of every founding principle of a country that claims to have been for freedom.

The woman who answers the door, of course the mother of my fiancee, looks the part - a home maker wife of wealthy proportions with the most important decision of the day being what she will have sitting on the table when her all too wealthy husband gets home from fucking his mistress after a long day at work.  Or, perhaps, just the mistress's apartment he pays for.

Jamie never told me that this was the type of house she grew up in and, perhaps, that is why it bothers me so much now.  We met at a distribution of wealth protest on Wall Street.  Her and her well worn clothes and good weed, we spoke of how fucked up society was.  I was raised on the opposite side of the spectrum - getting a job at fifteen to help pay for rent and food for my siblings and mom, as her job didn't pay enough to support the rest of us.

That was years ago, though, and since then we've established a good routine of responsible adulting along with a healthy coping mechanism of occasional sex and limited communication, the way that married couples find themselves.

"Well good evening, Jamie.  I'm so glad you kids could make it for the weekend."  Jamie's mom gives her a hug and just peers at me while her head is behind Jamie's.

"It is good to see you, too, Mrs. Andrews."  Even the name sounds like she'd own slaves if she could.

The first thing I notice as we are walking through the massive, open entryway that stretches clear to the roof - balconies lining both sides with pillars supporting it all - is that there are women cleaning things.  Their french maid outfits look just innocent enough to be sexually submissive, but being fit upon black women seems quite an odd thing.  It isn't often, after all, that one sees African American women wearing french maid outfits in porn and where else does one see french maid outfits in today's society?

The deeper into this house I get, the more I feel like I am taking a trip back in time.

Jamie's attitude and demeanor instantly change with the scene.  Her flowing dress and unkempt hair now looking even more out of place on her body than I feel inside this building. 

One of the maids is sheltered off in one of the corners - a baby bump forming a relatively noticeable in the black and white dress she is wearing.  At least she isn't beaten for getting pregnant.

"Ah, kids.  Welcome, welcome.  Make yourselves at home.  I won't be long."  Jamie's dad, Roger, sits inside an office adorned by two big wooden framed glass doors, one of which is opened allowing the odor of cigar smoke to pour out of the room and into my nostrils.  Roger sits on a luxurious leather swiveling chair with a phone in his hand - an old phone that is still connected by chord to a box with physical numerical keys, hold and forward buttons.  I have no idea where he would forward a call to.

"The old fuck won't even know what hits him!" Roger's voice is boisterous and full of bravado, which leads directly into a cackling laughter before he says his good byes and hangs up the phone.

Out back there is a porch with an overhang and spacious seating.  It overlooks the yard which, in the distance, features a massive pond that is almost big enough to name.

"Do you have any new work coming in, poppa?"  Jamie says with a polite and subordinate tone.

"Oh, my little girl.  Don't you worry about me.  You know I'm always on top of the world."

"Oh, your dad, Jamie.  Never one to be humble, you know."

It is like I am sitting in some parallel dimension .

"Of course I have more work coming in!  The work comes to me!" 

The lemonade on the table seems more interesting than where this conversation is heading.

"What do you do for a living, sir?"

"Sir!  That's it, my boy.  I am a sir!"  Roger cackles with his boisterous laughter.  "I make deals, my boy.  I make deals happen.  What are your plans?"

"Me?  I was planning on starting a non-profit to help at risk children get off the streets and establish a new life."  Roger's boisterous laugh is more prevalent than the times before.

"Oh to be a youth again!  Wild dreams, wild dreams.  Let me tell you something, son.  You can't help other people.  You've only got to help yourself."

"You definitely help yourself a lot," Margaret, Jamie's mother, says under her breathe.  It is quickly ignored by everyone.

"Maybe, sir."

"Oh, daddy!  You have to show Kevin your collection!"  I swear that the Jamie I know was abducted once we got here and replaced with an identical copy.  The one I know would have scoffed at the idea of collections.

Roger leads me back through the massive open hallway and down into the cellar.  "This, my boy, is worth more than what most people will make in a year."  He pulls out a vintage wine bottle as I am noticing that the collection he is so proud of is a wine collection.  He holds out a bottle of unopened wine with what looks to me to just be old, but I'm sure he is right. 

"Wow, sir." 

And on it goes, Roger pulling bottle after bottle and telling me information that easily slips in one ear and out the other.  "This really is a remarkable collection you've got yourself here."  Maybe an hour has passed, or more, when I finally tell him we should get back to the girls.

"You go ahead, my boy.  I will be back up in a few minutes.  I've got to use the bathroom."

"Are you sure it is his?" Jamie's voice is weak in the distance, but still understandable.

"Yes."

"Hey, ladies.  That was quite a collection your father has, Jamie."

"Yeah, he has been collecting those since before I was born."

"Let me show you kids to your bedroom."  It comes as almost a shock that they wouldn't be forcing us to stay in separate bedrooms, but then again it is two-thousand and eighteen.

"What were you and your mom talking about?"

"Oh nothing, Kevin.  Nothing you need to worry about."

"I am going to go for a walk."  Jamie nods in agreement and gives her approval, but stays behind.

As I'm walking around the giant pond I am contemplating how easy it would be to get into the car and drive off.  The only things I've unpacked have been my toothbrush, soap and shampoo.  I wouldn't even need to grab those things they are so cheap.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir."  I was so lost in my own thought that I hadn't even noticed I had stumbled into someone else's thinking spot.  It was the woman with the baby bump.

"No, no.  I'm sorry.  I didn't realize anyone else was out here.  What are you doing out here?" 

She peers into the water without a response, but she had to have heard me.

"Do you mind if I sit next to you?"  Her hand gestures to the spot close to her.  I notice that this particular spot is shrouded in shrubbery to be unseeable from the house.  "Are you out here hiding?"

"No sir."  Her voice frail and fickle.  The lie is as clearly read as a children's book.  "What would you do if you got someone pregnant and you didn't want to keep it?"

"I mean, I would talk it out with the girl I got pregnant.  If she decided to keep it then I would do everything I could to be as best a father as I could be.  The act of creating the child would be equal part mine as her's and it isn't her choice to be born as the one who would carry the baby for 9 months like it wasn't my choice to be the one who doesn't."

Her eyes squeeze so tight that her face shrinks before a drop of water falls down her cheek.  The drop turns into a full stream as her body bobs as she is gasping for air.

"What if... what if she decided to have an abortion without... without you?"

I tilt my head back to the sky and take a deep breathe.  "Ultimately, I would hope I'd be a consideration in that whole ordeal.  I would really hope, but ultimately..."  A let out a sigh.  "Ultimately, it is her body."

"He says he will have me killed if I don't have an abortion."  Her voice is less frantic as her tears and gasping for air slow. 

"Is it your boyfriend?"

Her eyes squeeze tight like before.  "No, sir."

"Please don't call me sir.  We're all equals here.  Sir is just a bullshit word to make someone feel more important than others.  Even calling Jamie's dad 'sir' is my little way of mocking his smug ass."

She chuckles between gasps.  "It's his."

"His?"  I turn my head to face her.  Her face still pointed to the water, eyes closed with tears still flowing.  "Roger's?"

"Yes.  He rapes me.  Now he is threatening to have me killed if I don't abort his baby."

There's nothing I can say.  There's nothing I can do, but I know I have to try.  I put my arm around her and pull her close to me.  "I'm so sorry."

We sat there like that, not saying anything, for long enough for me to feel like someone was going to start looking for me soon.  "I know there is nothing I can do about this situation.  I am just so, so terribly sorry."

Jamie lays sleeping on the bed, but I shake her awake.  "Jamie.  Your dad.  She got one of the maids pregnant."

"He does that."

"What do you mean he does that?"

"She isn't the first one.  She won't be the last one.  Why do you think they all walk around wearing those outfits?  You think my mom wants to see short skirted black women running around the house?"

"Well, no, but..."

"Look, this isn't any of your business.  This is my house."

I look at my suitcase, still packed and ready to go.  I get my keys and grab the suitcase and begin walking out.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" 

"I'm going home.  I'm going home and I'm packing up all of the shit you have there.  You're not the girl I thought you were."

"Kevin, what the fuck?"

"Jamie.  The woman I fell in love with was someone who believed in equality.  Someone who believed that no matter what your social status was financially, you should always be regarded first and foremost as a human being.  Your dad raped a woman, got her pregnant, and now you're defending his actions by telling me that this is your house.  If you can't see the irony in that..."

"Any woman who takes the job here knows what it involves.  She should have been on birth control.  She is just trying to take my daddy's money."

"Fuck this."  I close the door behind me, but it wouldn't have mattered either way as Jamie was clearly not following me. 

As I approach the car I remember what started the whole argument in the first place.  I remember the look in that woman's face as it shrunk and began to cry.  I remember holding her in my arms and why my shoulder is still soaked.  I shove my bag into the car and run back to the spot I found her at as quickly as I can, using the light from my cell phone to guide me.  Not even a candle lights up anything inside the house.  The light from Jamie's bedroom is still as dark as it was when I walked out. 

I arrive, but no one is there.  Nothing, not even a trace.  I think about how it is perhaps the wrong place, but no, this place is shrouded from the house.  Nothing remains here.  I look all around for any signs of human life, but it is too dark and too late to find anyone.

Defeated, I turn and make my way back to the car, quickly, but no longer as fast as before.  Once at the car, I open the door but before I can get in I hear something faint. 

"Take me."

I look around, but it is no use.  It is still too dark and the light from the car door isn't illuminating enough. 

She crawls out of the woods beside the car, the woman from the pond still wearing that ridiculous maid outfit. 

"Get in.  Get clothes from the suitcase and change out of that bullshit if you want."

She slides into the back seat of the car as I start the car and drive off.  Her head rests upon the suitcase, her eyes closed, and her body looking at peace - a peace like she has never known before.

-Dustin S. Stover