Sunday, June 1, 2014
Friday, August 17, 2012
Room 22
Room 22
Grace slouches in her desk. It is 2:59pm on Friday in early June. June is important, what with summer so close. Friday is even more important, because the weekend is almost here. But the most important is 2:59pm--only 11 minutes until freedom!
The sun is shining in through the west-facing windows of room 22, Mrs. Pisk's room. The room is located on the second floor in the very northwest corner of the building. This means the room only gets sun at the very end of the day, but the sun's rays are majestic when they appear. On this particular Friday afternoon, the sun and stars have aligned, and the beautiful rays are shining down on Matthew Perkins.
Matthew Perkins is the Harry Potter of Bryant Elementary School. He doesn't have any super powers, but he does have a scrawny build, dorky glasses, and a hat of hair that he constantly has to push out of his eyes. Matthew Perkins also happens to be the nicest gentleman in the entire school. This works out nicely for Grace, and she has spent many afternoon math classes staring longingly at Matthew, plotting the best way to get his attention and eventually be married.
The wedding will be small, just immediate friends and family. The priest will say, 'and do you, Grace Simpson, take Matthew Perkins? To have and to hold, until death do you part?'
"I do!"
"Well, isn't this surprising." Mrs. Pisk says. "You've never been this eager to answer a math question before, Ms. Simpson."
The entire class is now staring at Grace, whose hands have shot up to cover her big, stupid mouth.
"Well, come on now, don't keep us waiting." Mrs. Pisk says.
Head down, she shuffles forward to the white board. A word problem is on display.
'Why does it have to be a word problem?' Grace thinks to herself.
Grace knows whatever she writes will look like scribbles compared to her teacher's flawless handwriting, so she grabs the pale yellow marker.
"Oh, please take a darker marker so Henry can see." says Mrs. Pisk.
Colorblind Henry, who Grace is almost certain is not colorblind at all, smiles devilishly at Grace as she chooses the brown marker.
Grace looks back up at the board, which reads:
The Bryant coin collection is being sold to raise money for the school. Chloe bought half of the coins plus 5 more, then Steven bought 5, then Kirk bought 10 more than half of what was left, and then Jessica bought 25, leaving 10 unsold. How many coins were there originally?
"Okay, where should you begin, Ms. Simpson?"
Grace rubs her chin with her left hand.
"Well, who bought the coins first?" Mrs. Pisk asks.
Grace stares at the question, and then says "Chloe?"
"Good, and how many did she buy?"
"Um half?"
"Half and?"
"Half plus five. Five and a half?" Grace answers.
"No, no, you can not combine those."
"Oh."
"Can anyone help Ms. Simpson with this problem? We need to finish this problem before any of you are dismissed."
A collective groan from every student, except one, who raises his hand.
"Ah, Matthew, what do you have for us?"
"I think Grace should start the problem from the end, instead of the beginning."
"Oh! What a wonderful idea. Ms. Simpson?"
Grace, lost, continues looking at Matthew Perkins, completely unaware of any words that may or may not have just come out of his mouth.
"Starting at the end of the problem, Ms. Simpson?" Mrs. Pisk says.
"Oh man, we're never getting out of here!" Henry says.
"Quiet, Mr. Gregory!" Mrs. Pisk snaps. "Ms. Simpson, please continue."
"End of the problem, right... there are 10 unsold coins at the end."
"Good."
"But just before that, Jessica bought 25... so that means... there were 35 before that!"
"Yes." Mrs. Pisk says, slowly nodding her head.
"And before that... 'Kirk bought 10 more than half of what was left'..."
"Go on."
"But wait, I don't understand. What is half of 35?"
RIIIIING
The students in room 22 hear students from other classrooms rushing out into the halls. Henry tries to make a break for it, but Mrs. Pisk has already placed herself directly in front of the door.
"Not so fast, Mr. Gregory. Have a seat."
"Aw man! But I'm going to miss my bus!"
"You don't take a school bus, Mr. Gregory."
"Oh, how did you know that?"
"I know many things, Mr. Gregory, now have a seat." Mrs. Pisk says as she smiles for the first time all day.
Grace, halfway back to her seat, is stopped cold in her tracks by Mrs. Pisk's stare.
"I don't believe you finished, Ms. Simpson. Why don't we make this problem homework for everyone, due Monday morning. I hope none of you put your planners away before being dismissed. Once you have the question copied down, you are dismissed."
Grace slouches in her desk. It is 2:59pm on Friday in early June. June is important, what with summer so close. Friday is even more important, because the weekend is almost here. But the most important is 2:59pm--only 11 minutes until freedom!
The sun is shining in through the west-facing windows of room 22, Mrs. Pisk's room. The room is located on the second floor in the very northwest corner of the building. This means the room only gets sun at the very end of the day, but the sun's rays are majestic when they appear. On this particular Friday afternoon, the sun and stars have aligned, and the beautiful rays are shining down on Matthew Perkins.
Matthew Perkins is the Harry Potter of Bryant Elementary School. He doesn't have any super powers, but he does have a scrawny build, dorky glasses, and a hat of hair that he constantly has to push out of his eyes. Matthew Perkins also happens to be the nicest gentleman in the entire school. This works out nicely for Grace, and she has spent many afternoon math classes staring longingly at Matthew, plotting the best way to get his attention and eventually be married.
The wedding will be small, just immediate friends and family. The priest will say, 'and do you, Grace Simpson, take Matthew Perkins? To have and to hold, until death do you part?'
"I do!"
"Well, isn't this surprising." Mrs. Pisk says. "You've never been this eager to answer a math question before, Ms. Simpson."
The entire class is now staring at Grace, whose hands have shot up to cover her big, stupid mouth.
"Well, come on now, don't keep us waiting." Mrs. Pisk says.
Head down, she shuffles forward to the white board. A word problem is on display.
'Why does it have to be a word problem?' Grace thinks to herself.
Grace knows whatever she writes will look like scribbles compared to her teacher's flawless handwriting, so she grabs the pale yellow marker.
"Oh, please take a darker marker so Henry can see." says Mrs. Pisk.
Colorblind Henry, who Grace is almost certain is not colorblind at all, smiles devilishly at Grace as she chooses the brown marker.
Grace looks back up at the board, which reads:
The Bryant coin collection is being sold to raise money for the school. Chloe bought half of the coins plus 5 more, then Steven bought 5, then Kirk bought 10 more than half of what was left, and then Jessica bought 25, leaving 10 unsold. How many coins were there originally?
"Okay, where should you begin, Ms. Simpson?"
Grace rubs her chin with her left hand.
"Well, who bought the coins first?" Mrs. Pisk asks.
Grace stares at the question, and then says "Chloe?"
"Good, and how many did she buy?"
"Um half?"
"Half and?"
"Half plus five. Five and a half?" Grace answers.
"No, no, you can not combine those."
"Oh."
"Can anyone help Ms. Simpson with this problem? We need to finish this problem before any of you are dismissed."
A collective groan from every student, except one, who raises his hand.
"Ah, Matthew, what do you have for us?"
"I think Grace should start the problem from the end, instead of the beginning."
"Oh! What a wonderful idea. Ms. Simpson?"
Grace, lost, continues looking at Matthew Perkins, completely unaware of any words that may or may not have just come out of his mouth.
"Starting at the end of the problem, Ms. Simpson?" Mrs. Pisk says.
"Oh man, we're never getting out of here!" Henry says.
"Quiet, Mr. Gregory!" Mrs. Pisk snaps. "Ms. Simpson, please continue."
"End of the problem, right... there are 10 unsold coins at the end."
"Good."
"But just before that, Jessica bought 25... so that means... there were 35 before that!"
"Yes." Mrs. Pisk says, slowly nodding her head.
"And before that... 'Kirk bought 10 more than half of what was left'..."
"Go on."
"But wait, I don't understand. What is half of 35?"
RIIIIING
The students in room 22 hear students from other classrooms rushing out into the halls. Henry tries to make a break for it, but Mrs. Pisk has already placed herself directly in front of the door.
"Not so fast, Mr. Gregory. Have a seat."
"Aw man! But I'm going to miss my bus!"
"You don't take a school bus, Mr. Gregory."
"Oh, how did you know that?"
"I know many things, Mr. Gregory, now have a seat." Mrs. Pisk says as she smiles for the first time all day.
Grace, halfway back to her seat, is stopped cold in her tracks by Mrs. Pisk's stare.
"I don't believe you finished, Ms. Simpson. Why don't we make this problem homework for everyone, due Monday morning. I hope none of you put your planners away before being dismissed. Once you have the question copied down, you are dismissed."
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Lazy
((3200 and going away for the weekend... as the tally gets larger, the motivation to write decreases. Had plenty of time to write today--didn't.))
Monday, August 6, 2012
Chameleon 2
"We've got a runner." Jim said, while his knee pressed into the neck of a man lying face down in the alley.
"On it." Chuck responded, taking off after the second member of the break-in at O'Murphy's pub.
It is 3am the day after St. Patrick's Day, and O'Murphy's had been hit last year at about this time, losing half of their income from their busiest night of the year. Shay O'Murphy is a believer in the saying, 'Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.' He hasn't been fooled twice in a long while.
Chuck races down the dimly lit alley, closing the distance between himself and the second perpetrator. They turn a few corners, weaving in and out of alleys and streets. The perpetrator is aware that the police officer is closing the gap, so he begins knocking over trash bins and whatever else he can get his hands on to slow down his pursuer.
"Get down on the ground!" Chuck yells, reaching for his gun as he continues running after the man.
The man doesn't stop, still a few hundred feet ahead of Chuck, and makes a sharp right turn. Sharp turns in a pursuit are always dangerous, you never know if the bad guy has kept running, or set up an ambush.
Chuck takes the corner wide, in case the man had gotten tired of running and planned a surprise. To Chuck's amazement, when he rounded the corner, pistol drawn, the perpetrator was lying face down alongside the original perpetrator.
"Well, god damn!" Chuck says, out of breath.
"Bright eyes here decided to round the corner and give you a little surprise with this." Jim says, showing Chuck a switchblade with his right hand. "Apparently he wasn't very aware of his surroundings, so I gave him a tap on his head with Billy." Jim says, holding up his billy club in his left hand.
---
Jim liked his life, he had things pretty good. He enjoyed his routine of snoozing the alarm clock once and rolling out of bed and into the shower on the alarm's second beep--it rarely got off more than one beep. Jim always showered in under four minutes, a habit of growing up poor in Oklahoma. He didn't need to save water, living in Seattle, but just because it rained ten months out of the year, didn't mean he couldn't still save a penny and some water at the same time.
The coffee pot had been set to an auto-start the night before, and was grinding away as Jim started breakfast sandwiches for he and his wife, Sally. No kids yet, and no plans for kids anytime soon. Jim and Sally were both 32, and kids were something they had talked about, but still had so much in their lives they wanted to do before that big commitment.
Sally walked downstairs in her cotton bath robe, preferring to eat before showering and heading to work as a 3rd grade teacher. She heard the coffee still grinding and walked outside to get the morning paper. Jim was just making the finishing touches on the breakfast sandwiches, sliding the two over-hard eggs on top of thick slices of cheese atop crispy toasted english muffins.
She tossed the sports page at Jim, while she started at the beginning of the paper. The Seattle Times had gotten so thin over the past decade, there were only three sections left during the week.
"You've got to be kidding me!" Jim said.
"What's it, honey?"
"No way. The Mariners traded away Felix to... guess who?"
"I don't know, Portland?" Sally said.
"Portland doesn't have a baseball team."
"Oh. Wait, yes they do! We went down to watch the Sounders last year and you said they played at the same place as a baseball team."
"No a professional baseball team, that is only a double-a team."
"Still a baseball team..."
"Okay, okay, you're right. But which baseball team do I hate the most?"
"The Yankees?"
"Bingo! I can't believe we traded Felix to the Yankees! He has got to be the eighth or ninth hall of Famer we have traded to those damn Yankees."
"Oh God." Sally said, shocked enough to cover her mouth with her right hand.
"I know! It is like we are their farm team."
"No... not your baseball." she said.
"What is it?"
She pushed the paper over to him. On the second page a story about a shooting in the Central District, involving a family. The photo showed the intersection of Yesler and MLK, Jr, with a bullet-ridden red Jeep Grand Cherokee. The same exact model that Jim's partner on the police force, Chuck Granger, drives.
((owe 2200))
"On it." Chuck responded, taking off after the second member of the break-in at O'Murphy's pub.
It is 3am the day after St. Patrick's Day, and O'Murphy's had been hit last year at about this time, losing half of their income from their busiest night of the year. Shay O'Murphy is a believer in the saying, 'Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.' He hasn't been fooled twice in a long while.
Chuck races down the dimly lit alley, closing the distance between himself and the second perpetrator. They turn a few corners, weaving in and out of alleys and streets. The perpetrator is aware that the police officer is closing the gap, so he begins knocking over trash bins and whatever else he can get his hands on to slow down his pursuer.
"Get down on the ground!" Chuck yells, reaching for his gun as he continues running after the man.
The man doesn't stop, still a few hundred feet ahead of Chuck, and makes a sharp right turn. Sharp turns in a pursuit are always dangerous, you never know if the bad guy has kept running, or set up an ambush.
Chuck takes the corner wide, in case the man had gotten tired of running and planned a surprise. To Chuck's amazement, when he rounded the corner, pistol drawn, the perpetrator was lying face down alongside the original perpetrator.
"Well, god damn!" Chuck says, out of breath.
"Bright eyes here decided to round the corner and give you a little surprise with this." Jim says, showing Chuck a switchblade with his right hand. "Apparently he wasn't very aware of his surroundings, so I gave him a tap on his head with Billy." Jim says, holding up his billy club in his left hand.
---
Jim liked his life, he had things pretty good. He enjoyed his routine of snoozing the alarm clock once and rolling out of bed and into the shower on the alarm's second beep--it rarely got off more than one beep. Jim always showered in under four minutes, a habit of growing up poor in Oklahoma. He didn't need to save water, living in Seattle, but just because it rained ten months out of the year, didn't mean he couldn't still save a penny and some water at the same time.
The coffee pot had been set to an auto-start the night before, and was grinding away as Jim started breakfast sandwiches for he and his wife, Sally. No kids yet, and no plans for kids anytime soon. Jim and Sally were both 32, and kids were something they had talked about, but still had so much in their lives they wanted to do before that big commitment.
Sally walked downstairs in her cotton bath robe, preferring to eat before showering and heading to work as a 3rd grade teacher. She heard the coffee still grinding and walked outside to get the morning paper. Jim was just making the finishing touches on the breakfast sandwiches, sliding the two over-hard eggs on top of thick slices of cheese atop crispy toasted english muffins.
She tossed the sports page at Jim, while she started at the beginning of the paper. The Seattle Times had gotten so thin over the past decade, there were only three sections left during the week.
"You've got to be kidding me!" Jim said.
"What's it, honey?"
"No way. The Mariners traded away Felix to... guess who?"
"I don't know, Portland?" Sally said.
"Portland doesn't have a baseball team."
"Oh. Wait, yes they do! We went down to watch the Sounders last year and you said they played at the same place as a baseball team."
"No a professional baseball team, that is only a double-a team."
"Still a baseball team..."
"Okay, okay, you're right. But which baseball team do I hate the most?"
"The Yankees?"
"Bingo! I can't believe we traded Felix to the Yankees! He has got to be the eighth or ninth hall of Famer we have traded to those damn Yankees."
"Oh God." Sally said, shocked enough to cover her mouth with her right hand.
"I know! It is like we are their farm team."
"No... not your baseball." she said.
"What is it?"
She pushed the paper over to him. On the second page a story about a shooting in the Central District, involving a family. The photo showed the intersection of Yesler and MLK, Jr, with a bullet-ridden red Jeep Grand Cherokee. The same exact model that Jim's partner on the police force, Chuck Granger, drives.
((owe 2200))
Ramble
((Owe 3300...))
When I was younger, I was angry. I never quite put my finger on one thing that changed that as I got older, probably was a combination of a few things. Life got better, for one. I grew up in privilege, which is often confused with happiness. I was only happy when I was getting my way, and if I wasn't getting my way, I was slamming doors repeatedly or hunger striking until I got what I wanted.
The word "volunteer" sounded like "sucker" to me for the first 20 years of my life. Why would anyone use their time and get nothing out of it? I realized somewhere in my 20s that volunteering one's time is the most selfless thing a person can do, and that can be a great thing. I also realized that volunteering isn't quite as selfless as I thought, because people do get things out of it--maybe not monetary, but the feeling of doing a good deed is sometimes worth much more.
"What do you do?" is a question often asked when meeting a new person. We usually refer to jobs or school when asked this question, but why not add to the question? "What do you do for others?" I'm 80 years old now, and I can tell you that all I think about nowadays is how can I make this Rock a better place for those who will continue on. I don't like entitlement. I don't want to give my money to my son and daughter. Sure, it would make their lives "easier" but what does easy get you? It gets you lazy. I don't want to donate my money to my community. I want people to work for it.
---
Ramble-blah. I have a story idea, but so hard to start. Don't know where to start, but for once I know where I want the story to go. I've been reading Stephen King's "On Writing" and it is inspiring that his ideas came from as random a source as I think mine do.
((Still owe 3,000))
When I was younger, I was angry. I never quite put my finger on one thing that changed that as I got older, probably was a combination of a few things. Life got better, for one. I grew up in privilege, which is often confused with happiness. I was only happy when I was getting my way, and if I wasn't getting my way, I was slamming doors repeatedly or hunger striking until I got what I wanted.
The word "volunteer" sounded like "sucker" to me for the first 20 years of my life. Why would anyone use their time and get nothing out of it? I realized somewhere in my 20s that volunteering one's time is the most selfless thing a person can do, and that can be a great thing. I also realized that volunteering isn't quite as selfless as I thought, because people do get things out of it--maybe not monetary, but the feeling of doing a good deed is sometimes worth much more.
"What do you do?" is a question often asked when meeting a new person. We usually refer to jobs or school when asked this question, but why not add to the question? "What do you do for others?" I'm 80 years old now, and I can tell you that all I think about nowadays is how can I make this Rock a better place for those who will continue on. I don't like entitlement. I don't want to give my money to my son and daughter. Sure, it would make their lives "easier" but what does easy get you? It gets you lazy. I don't want to donate my money to my community. I want people to work for it.
---
Ramble-blah. I have a story idea, but so hard to start. Don't know where to start, but for once I know where I want the story to go. I've been reading Stephen King's "On Writing" and it is inspiring that his ideas came from as random a source as I think mine do.
((Still owe 3,000))
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Central District Chameleon (start 1)
((need 2000, missed a few days!))
1972, Seattle, WA
On the beat, South 52nd and Rainier. A cop car pulls into a street parking spot, siren and lights off, in front of a dive bar named "Bulldog". The white officer steps out of the driver's side door. He is over six feet tall, but not by much. Athletic build, in his mid-thirties, but he walks with some experience. A younger, black officer steps out of the passenger door. He is shorter and heavier than his partner, but looks fit and carries his weight well.
It is a typical early June night in Seattle--wet and in the high 50s. A call had come into the station from the Bulldog, two drunks having a fist fight out back. Usually the owner, Rufus, would let the drunks settle their disputes, but he had started to hear glass shattering, and after an eventful Memorial Day weekend, he didn't need to have any additional fun.
The two cops walked into the bar, and Rufus nodded them in the direction of the alley exit. A quick scan of the bar showed that everything was in order, not many patrons on a Sunday evening of the three-day weekend, only the diehards.
In the alley, the cops found one man lying down along the back brick wall of the bar, holding his blood-soaked white t-shirt to his forehead.
"Mind telling us what you're doing out here in the rain, sir?" The white officer asked.
"Mother fff... fucker hit me with a bottle!" said the man.
The white officer took a step back from the man as the smell of alcohol made him cock his head back.
"Who would that be?" said the black officer.
"What? I don't... I don't know his name. We did... we didn't! We didn't exchange... pleasantries." the man said, as he made a poor attempt at a bow while slurring his last word.
"Did he run off somewhere?" the white officer asked.
"Yeah, he ran that way." the man said, waving his left arm to the south.
"I'll check it out." said the black officer.
The white officer studied the scene for a minute, eventually reaching down and picking up an object.
"So, any reason why this other fella decided to hit you with this thing?" he said, holding the largest remaining portion of a Budweiser beer bottle.
"How am I supposed to know? Big black fucker just didn't like me, I guess. I didn't like him either, but shit!"
"Mind telling me what happened?"
"I was talking with Rufus about how bad the Supersonics played this season, about how we ought to get a new coach. All of a sudden, this big black son of a bitch appears out of nowhere and fucking asks me if I want to take it outside. I had a couple Buds in me, didn't quite size him up yet, but next thing I know we're out here and I've got a two inch gash in my head."
"Hmm. When Officer Johnson gets back, why don't we take you in to Harborview and get you patched up."
"Yeah, sure."
Darius Johnson walked a few hundred feet down the dimly lit alley, not hoping to find much of anything. He didn't expect the other drunk to hang around after shattering a beer bottle on someone else's head. A dumpster overflowing with garbage and cardboard boxes was the only interesting thing in this alley. He pulled open the lid for a quick inspection, but nothing out of the ordinary. He walked back to his partner.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." Officer Johnson responded.
"Alright, let's get Slick here patched up."
As they walked back through the bar, the white officer asked Rufus a question.
"So, what did you think about the new coach idea Slick here suggested?"
"Probably right, probably right. The Sonics need to do something. That was probably what got George all riled up, when Ernie here started bad-mouthing Lenny." Rufus said.
"George the name of the other fellow in this little scuffle?" the white officer asked.
"Yes sir, first time I seen him."
"And Lenny?"
"Oh, Lenny Wilkins, Ernie doesn't particularly like the idea of having a black as a coach of the Sonics. Me, well, I guess I think he's a better player than a coach, should probably just stick to playing ball. Pity we can't afford a coach." said Rufus.
"Ah, yeah. Well, we're going to drop off our new friend at Harborview and then call it a night."
1972, Seattle, WA
On the beat, South 52nd and Rainier. A cop car pulls into a street parking spot, siren and lights off, in front of a dive bar named "Bulldog". The white officer steps out of the driver's side door. He is over six feet tall, but not by much. Athletic build, in his mid-thirties, but he walks with some experience. A younger, black officer steps out of the passenger door. He is shorter and heavier than his partner, but looks fit and carries his weight well.
It is a typical early June night in Seattle--wet and in the high 50s. A call had come into the station from the Bulldog, two drunks having a fist fight out back. Usually the owner, Rufus, would let the drunks settle their disputes, but he had started to hear glass shattering, and after an eventful Memorial Day weekend, he didn't need to have any additional fun.
The two cops walked into the bar, and Rufus nodded them in the direction of the alley exit. A quick scan of the bar showed that everything was in order, not many patrons on a Sunday evening of the three-day weekend, only the diehards.
In the alley, the cops found one man lying down along the back brick wall of the bar, holding his blood-soaked white t-shirt to his forehead.
"Mind telling us what you're doing out here in the rain, sir?" The white officer asked.
"Mother fff... fucker hit me with a bottle!" said the man.
The white officer took a step back from the man as the smell of alcohol made him cock his head back.
"Who would that be?" said the black officer.
"What? I don't... I don't know his name. We did... we didn't! We didn't exchange... pleasantries." the man said, as he made a poor attempt at a bow while slurring his last word.
"Did he run off somewhere?" the white officer asked.
"Yeah, he ran that way." the man said, waving his left arm to the south.
"I'll check it out." said the black officer.
The white officer studied the scene for a minute, eventually reaching down and picking up an object.
"So, any reason why this other fella decided to hit you with this thing?" he said, holding the largest remaining portion of a Budweiser beer bottle.
"How am I supposed to know? Big black fucker just didn't like me, I guess. I didn't like him either, but shit!"
"Mind telling me what happened?"
"I was talking with Rufus about how bad the Supersonics played this season, about how we ought to get a new coach. All of a sudden, this big black son of a bitch appears out of nowhere and fucking asks me if I want to take it outside. I had a couple Buds in me, didn't quite size him up yet, but next thing I know we're out here and I've got a two inch gash in my head."
"Hmm. When Officer Johnson gets back, why don't we take you in to Harborview and get you patched up."
"Yeah, sure."
Darius Johnson walked a few hundred feet down the dimly lit alley, not hoping to find much of anything. He didn't expect the other drunk to hang around after shattering a beer bottle on someone else's head. A dumpster overflowing with garbage and cardboard boxes was the only interesting thing in this alley. He pulled open the lid for a quick inspection, but nothing out of the ordinary. He walked back to his partner.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." Officer Johnson responded.
"Alright, let's get Slick here patched up."
As they walked back through the bar, the white officer asked Rufus a question.
"So, what did you think about the new coach idea Slick here suggested?"
"Probably right, probably right. The Sonics need to do something. That was probably what got George all riled up, when Ernie here started bad-mouthing Lenny." Rufus said.
"George the name of the other fellow in this little scuffle?" the white officer asked.
"Yes sir, first time I seen him."
"And Lenny?"
"Oh, Lenny Wilkins, Ernie doesn't particularly like the idea of having a black as a coach of the Sonics. Me, well, I guess I think he's a better player than a coach, should probably just stick to playing ball. Pity we can't afford a coach." said Rufus.
"Ah, yeah. Well, we're going to drop off our new friend at Harborview and then call it a night."
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Williston, ND
The picture on the front page of the Williston Herald shows a high school aged girl in a cap and gown, receiving her diploma from the principal of Williston High School. The bold print above the picture reads: "Welcome The Oil Generation."
Williston is a city of 14,000 people, located in northwest North Dakota. Formerly unknown, and still unknown to most, won't stay that way for long. The Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers meet at Williston, and agriculture, along with the Northern Pacific Railroad, were the only reasons one might have heard its name. Being the ninth largest city in North Dakota isn't saying much. Any other town with a population of less than 15,000 in a thousand miles would be begging anyone to buy property or a house, but why in Williston does a studio apartment go for the same price as a studio apartment in San Francisco? Black gold.
Oil was found in dem dar hills. Well, technically under the hills, but the amount of estimated oil continues to increase with each count. First count, in 1995, a U.S. Geological Survey estimated 150 million barrels. In 2008, another survey found 4 billion barrels. In 2010, the last estimate doubled to 8 billion. In 2012, the most recent survey found a lower shelf of oil, bumping the barrels to 24 billion, with the possibility of 500 billion barrels. By the end of 2012, Williston, North Dakota will overtake Prudhoe Bay, Alaska as the U.S.'s top oil extractor.
The population is growing faster than the temperature on an August day. The "Oil Generation" is a more than appropriate title, and some welcome the change, while others don't. Twenty years ago, teachers made more money than than the average resident, and lived a comfortable life. Now, with housing and mortgages soaring, teachers have been relegated back to working summer jobs and relying on their spouse's incomes to live the life they have become accustomed to.
Roy Sherman, a handiman and regular at the Blue Moon Tavern, remembers the days not long ago when he didn't think twice about his weekly bar tab. Now, the tavern is packed every night, with a much different crowd with a much different taste in music. Earl Guthrie, the Blue Moon's owner and businessman, has reinvented the tavern to cater to the new crowd. The new juke box blares Taylor Swift while oil workers, being paid six figures to relocate to Williston, throw twenties at Earl for shots of Grey Goose.
Vanessa Johnson was a big supporter of more oil drilling in Williston. She and her husband Jerrad, owned three housing developments, each 60% vacant before the boom. The housing developments, Willow, Oak and Arrowwood, were on the far north side of town, near the air strip. When the air strip turned into an international airport, thanks to a significant loan from Chevron, the housing developments not only filled up, but have now tripled in price--with a waiting list. Vanessa Johnson didn't live long enough to enjoy the boom, because her body was found in a dumpster behind the Blue Moon Tavern.
Williston is a city of 14,000 people, located in northwest North Dakota. Formerly unknown, and still unknown to most, won't stay that way for long. The Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers meet at Williston, and agriculture, along with the Northern Pacific Railroad, were the only reasons one might have heard its name. Being the ninth largest city in North Dakota isn't saying much. Any other town with a population of less than 15,000 in a thousand miles would be begging anyone to buy property or a house, but why in Williston does a studio apartment go for the same price as a studio apartment in San Francisco? Black gold.
Oil was found in dem dar hills. Well, technically under the hills, but the amount of estimated oil continues to increase with each count. First count, in 1995, a U.S. Geological Survey estimated 150 million barrels. In 2008, another survey found 4 billion barrels. In 2010, the last estimate doubled to 8 billion. In 2012, the most recent survey found a lower shelf of oil, bumping the barrels to 24 billion, with the possibility of 500 billion barrels. By the end of 2012, Williston, North Dakota will overtake Prudhoe Bay, Alaska as the U.S.'s top oil extractor.
The population is growing faster than the temperature on an August day. The "Oil Generation" is a more than appropriate title, and some welcome the change, while others don't. Twenty years ago, teachers made more money than than the average resident, and lived a comfortable life. Now, with housing and mortgages soaring, teachers have been relegated back to working summer jobs and relying on their spouse's incomes to live the life they have become accustomed to.
Roy Sherman, a handiman and regular at the Blue Moon Tavern, remembers the days not long ago when he didn't think twice about his weekly bar tab. Now, the tavern is packed every night, with a much different crowd with a much different taste in music. Earl Guthrie, the Blue Moon's owner and businessman, has reinvented the tavern to cater to the new crowd. The new juke box blares Taylor Swift while oil workers, being paid six figures to relocate to Williston, throw twenties at Earl for shots of Grey Goose.
Vanessa Johnson was a big supporter of more oil drilling in Williston. She and her husband Jerrad, owned three housing developments, each 60% vacant before the boom. The housing developments, Willow, Oak and Arrowwood, were on the far north side of town, near the air strip. When the air strip turned into an international airport, thanks to a significant loan from Chevron, the housing developments not only filled up, but have now tripled in price--with a waiting list. Vanessa Johnson didn't live long enough to enjoy the boom, because her body was found in a dumpster behind the Blue Moon Tavern.
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