The Shmot Pippl Problem

We have some new people in Congress, and it is, in my opinion, a Good Thing that at least some of them are knowledgeable about science and subjects closely related to science. PZ Myers points out the list is still distressingly short. Yep, medicine and engineering are not, strictly speaking, sciences, though they very much use scientific results, and there are people in medicine and engineering doing science. It's just 5% of Congress, but it's better than nothing.

But more importantly, intelligence and education don't make one immune to bad ideas. I'm still thinking about that, though it's been a year or so since I first posted this meme. The point is, I can't rely on my own intelligence and education alone, nor on that of another person, to decide if a given idea is a good idea or a bad idea. Ideas have to have more than an ad hominem argument going for them.

Unfortunately shmot pippl are really good at defending ideas, whether they're good or bad ideas.

"If this idea is true (good), then I want to believe it to be true (good). If this idea is false (bad), then I want to believe it to be false (bad)." ~ The rational person's mantra.

This mantra is derived from the litany of Tarsky: "If the box contains a diamond, I desire to believe that the box contains a diamond; if the box does not contain a diamond, I desire to believe that the box does not contain a diamond; let me not become attached to beliefs I may not want." The point is that even if we rilly like an idea, rilly rilly lurve it, we need to be aware that our desire for it to be true (good) is a serious problem. This is particularly true when we've listened to someone else, and what they said really sounded good.

See, the problem isn't that we don't know how to convince others of our ideas - that's distressingly easy, in fact. The problem is that we are too easily convinced, and when we're not convinced it's because we've already been convinced by someone else. It's no accident that the USA is divided about 50/50 along partisan lines, even though us partisans are each convinced that the other side is terrible.

If you agree with me, is it because you were easily convinced, or because you've looked at independent evidence? How do you know? Here are some links for your consideration.

• The Influence of Commitment and Self-Esteem on Susceptibility to Persuasion
• Can You Be Persuaded? Individual Differences in Susceptibility to Persuasion
• Ethnic Prejudice and Susceptibility to Persuasion

Additional references.

• Hovland, C. I., Janis, I. L., & Kelley, H. H. (1953). Communication and persuasion; psychological studies of opinion change. New Haven, CT, US: Yale University Press.

Green Means

Mark was sitting at his usual table by the bar again. His borrowed lute was lying on the table, though tonight he hadn't tried playing it, yet. Instead, he was listening to a conversation at a neighboring table that was growing increasingly heated.

"Are you calling me a liar?" was the comment that finally prompted him to turn his chair a little, and address the occupants of that table as a group.

"I've seen herbal magic done. It isn't just herbalism and a lot of fooling about. I mean, think about it: blood magic uses the blood of animals. Herbal magic uses the living tissues of plants.

"My grandmother used herbal magic a lot. She made torches from pine branches that didn't consume the wood. She used leaves from Foxbalm to instantly heal cuts. There was a certain white berry that grew in clusters on bushes during the late spring which could be used to start a hot fire without the use of tinder or flint and steel.

"But all of this could probably be dismissed as simple herbalism. The full power of herbal magic I didn't witness until one day when our lives depended on it.

"We lived in a wooded land, where most people made a living by grazing their cows and goats in forest clearings. There were a few woodcutters and a charcoal burner, and most women spun and wove flax and linen. In the winter we would hunt and fish, and in the summer the children would collect roots, berries, and mushrooms. There was a city some distance away, where Duke Albert ruled, but it was a day's ride away.

"This was in the early summer. We'd had a very wet week before, and I had been sent out to collect mushrooms. They were everywhere, but I had a taste for a particular kind which grew in secret spots under certain oak trees. My grandmother had shown me these spots, and I now wandered quite far from our small cottage to visit them.

"After some time I heard other children in the forest, who had also been sent out to collect mushrooms. They were some distance away, and were spending quite a lot of time just playing about, as children will. They were shouting and calling to each other. I didn't go to join them since I was just seven years old, and small for my age."

At this comment Mark's audience laughed as they considered Mark's huge frame which towered head and shoulders over most of them. Mark grinned and went on.

"My basket was maybe half full when I found a small clearing where the Sun had dried the ground and warmed it. The scent of flowers and herbs was thick, and the humming of bees busying themselves amongst the blossoms was stupifying. I found myself overcome by sleepiness. There were plenty of cozy spots to bed down, and I was soon snoozing in that clearing.

"The danger with sleeping in the forest is, of course, that there is no one to wake you. In my case, however, I was soon awakened by cries of alarm from the forest. There were the shrieks of children, as well as the shouts of men. When I became aware of them, I grew afraid. I shrank back into my sleeping nook and stayed there, quietly, until the forest became still again.

"After a while my fears calmed down enough for me to think about my predicament. Clearly someone bad was in the forest. Like any child who runs to his parents for help, I wanted to get my grandmother to help. I quietly crept from my bower and looked around. Nothing seemed to stir. I was sure that the danger was nearby, since the birds were quiet, sitting still in their nests.

"Near my hiding place I found a patch of soft moss. I pried up a small chunk, and crushed it between my small fingers. When the juice began to run, I drew a certain rune on the soles of my shoes. My grandmother had shown me this trick when she found that I was too clumsy to sneak up on a rabbit with my small bow and arrow. My steps would now be almost completely silent, until the moss charm wore off.

"Picking up my basket, I hurried towards my home. I dodged from tree to tree and from bush to bush, keeping low, and hardly daring to breath, though my heart was pounding as if it wanted to jump from my breast. Even though that was more than twenty years ago, I still remember everything quite clearly: the silence of the forest, the texture of the bark on trees, the scent of the wild roses, the buzzing of the bees in the sundappled spaces under the trees. It should have been beautiful, but for me it was filled with terror.

"Eventually I neared the vicinity of the village. Here the forest was crossed by many paths. I didn't come here often, as my grandmother's cottage was some way off in the forest, but I knew that normally I would have seen a few people walking on their business. However, just as back in the forest, everything was unnaturally quiet here. I began to imagine the worst, and started running towards my grandmother's cottage.

"Just then I heard loud voices calling from the village. They sounded angry and commanding. I stopped to listen, and then determined to see what was passing there, so I changed course towards the village. Near the village there was a tall beech where we celebrated on the summer's solstice. It was a lovely tree to climb in, and near its top there was a sturdy branch on which a lad my size could sit and overlook the entire village, while almost certain not to be seen from below. I had to circle the village a short way to reach the tree, and, once there, climbed it in short order, leaving my mushroom basket below.

"It was now late afternoon, and the Sun was slanting into the village square. Crowded there in the middle was a gang of men, maybe a dozen, though I certainly didn't bother to count them. They were armed with swords and clubs, and at their feet lay several bodies. At first I thought the bodies were slain, but then I saw one of them stir a little.

"I wanted to see more clearly, so I plucked a few beechnuts from a amongst the leaves by me, shelled a handful of them, and ground them against the tree's hard bark. After a bit I had enough oil on my fingers that I could anoint the corners of my eyes and the lobes of my ears with a small rune. This was another trick my grandmother had taught me, and it sharpened my vision and hearing enough that I now could tell more clearly what was happening in the village below me.

"I first discerned that the bodies were of children. They appeared to be tied with ropes, hand and foot. The men standing over them were brandishing their weapons. One of them was standing a small distance away from them, and it was he that was shouting.

"'The shadow almost touches the first brat! If we don't see gold before then, she will be the first to die!'

"At the time I wondered what nonsense he was speaking, but I now know that he had arrayed the bound children in the village square so that the sinking Sun would cast the shadow of one of the cottages by the square across the children as it advanced. But while I sat there, half paralyzed with terror for the children, I heard steps on the path below me. As I looked down, I saw that my grandmother was walking towards the village. She glanced up into the tree, just as if she knew I was up there - which she probably did because of my mushroom basket at its foot - and then went on.

"A short while later the head ruffian's shouting subsided. My grandmother had reached the village square and stood, facing the bandits. I don't know how they saw her. To me she had always been like a mother, at times a comfort, and at times intimidating. She was no very large woman, and I suppose she was no great beauty, either. The bandits, however, froze as they saw her. Finally, their leader shouted,

"'Have you brought the gold?'

"My grandmother reached into her bag which she carried over one shoulder, and brought out her hand. I saw something glinting in her palm, and caught my breath. Where did she find so much gold? The bandits' leader was advancingb towards her, eyes greedily fixed on the treasure, and even the other men abandoned their position and stepped forward.

"Just then my grandmother threw the handful of coins into the air, where they fluttered like autumn leaves. I saw her draw a breath, and blow on the falling leaves. The leaves whirled, and a blast of wind seemed to come from their midst, tossing dust and stones into the air and at the staring bandits!

"When the wind hit the leader he staggered, then caught his balance. His men were less fortunate; the wind picked them up bodily and tossed them across the square like a pack of rag dolls. Their shouts caught the leader's attention, who turned to stare at his men scrambling to their feet. Then he turned back to my grandmother.

"'Bitch! For this you die!' he cried.

"He raised his sword, and in response my grandmother brought a poplar switch from between the folds of her skirt. The leaves were still on the twig, glistening in the afternoon light. The bandits' leader walked towards her. My grandmother stood her ground, but when the man came close enough, she twitched the wand towards him. A searing light crackled from it, arcing towards the bandit, surrounding him with a coruscading net of sparking lines. He convulsed, his arms akimbo, dropping his sword, then jerking forward and falling to the ground, where he writhed, the light buzzing and hissing on his body. My grandmother brought the wand back, and the dancing light ceased. Its victim lay on the ground before her, still, not even moaning.

"His companions stood rooted to the spot at first, but then they decided to revenge themselves for their commander. Several of the men picked up their weapons and strode toward their helpless captives. But again my grandmother was ready for them.

"Her hand arced through the air as she cast something across the square. The bandits at first ducked, but as the contents of her hand scattered harmlessly on the ground around them, they straightened and continued. They took no more than two or three strides, when the seeds my grandmother had thrown burst to life! Green vines grew forth, writhing across the ground. They sprouted all around the men, who shouted with alarm and shied from the wriggling growth like horses. But the vines were impossible to avoid, twining around the men's legs, and climbing up their bodies as I watched. The more they struggled, the more they became entangled in the growth. Their cries became shrill with panick as they fell to the ground. Their struggles grew weaker, and from my perch I soon could see no movement, except for the vines, which still writhed in their burgeoning growth. I began to feel afraid for the children who were also caught under all that green.

"But now my grandmother was advancing into the tangle. She had taken a small cruet from her bag, and was sprinkling its contents ahead of her. Wherever the liquid hit, the vines shrank back, making a path for her. Then she reached the place where the children lay. I saw her touch each child freed from the growth, and speak to them. A blade flashed in her hand as she cut their bonds. They stood carefully, and she led them out of the square, following the path she had made.

"At that point I climbed from my tree, gathered my basket, and ran to meet her. She had passed the children to their parents, and several of the village's men were now in the square with grandmother's cruet, dealing swiftly with the captured bandits. I don't imagine that any of them saw any mercy that evening, not when everyone had seen them ready to murder defenseless children. The vines wilted overnight, drying into a dusty straw by morning.

"I asked my grandmother later why the aspen leaves would blast a wind, why the poplar twig had made lightning for her, or why the vine's seeds would spend their life so prodigiously. She just led me out into her garden, where all kinds of herbs and flowers grew.

"'I take care of them,' she told me. 'Nature is kind to us when we are proper stewards of her bounty.'"

With that Mark leaned back in his chair. He realized that he had emptied his mug during his tale, and was about to wave to Sera when the fellow who had just been loudly denouncing any possibility of herbal magic, calling it simple sleight of hand and bunkum foisted on the gullible by the unprincipled, held up a restraining hand.

"Let me buy you your next drink, friend," he said. "I don't know if your grandmother was really such a powerful witch, but you spin a fine yarn!"

Mark just grinned at him and nodded in thanks.

Ghost Story

Mark was crawling on the floor, peering under chairs and tables, and cursing under his breath. Two stupid things: first he'd suggested Troek try the ring, and then he'd allowed it to get lost while Troek was helpless. The floor was fairly clean, as tavern rooms go, but there was a litter of pipeweed ashes, tinder twigs, and, mostly, clods of dried mud and leaves, in any of which a small ring could be hiding.

He barely took note of Felter's warning, <<Ghost!>> and scrambled to his feet just in time to see Fawn appear beside their table again.

Standing where he was, he watched the spook give something to Troek. After a moment, Troek turned to him, holding a ring aloft. "Mark, I've got it." Then she turned back to Fawn, talking to her as calmly as one would to a mortal.

When Fawn disappeared, this time not bothering with walking between the tables and chairs, and Troek turned to him, asking, "Mark, who was that?" he pulled himself together. He returned to their table, sat, and took a long draught from his mug, draining it to the dregs.

"Sera!" he called, and looked for her to appear in the door by the bar. When she did, he waved his mug in the air, and she nodded and disappeared again. Now he felt ready to deal with reality again.

"She told me that she is Fawn. I happen to be told that she is a ghost. Where I come from, ghosts are terrible wraiths, doomed to wander the Earth for the rest of existence, and apt to wreak terrible deeds on us mortals. They do not like being interfered with, so when I saw her serving you drink, I made no comment, not wanting to upset what all here seemed to accept. Now it seems that Fawn is in fact no danger, but I'm having a hard time coming to terms with a ghost, all the same.

"I've encountered a ghost, once. I make no idle comments when I say that experience took years from my life."

Mark looked at his hands, still holding his empty mug. He put the mug back on the table and turned his eyes on Troek.

"It had been a few months since that one-eyed man gave me his sword, and I was still learning my new rok. I had just left the employ of a merchant's caravan, my pocket full of silver and a new horse between my legs in the bargain - ah, sometimes the Norns will smile on us! - and was making my way back along the caravan's route. Night was falling, and there was an old ruin along the way where I thought to seek shelter. I guided my horse along a ravine that ran up the side of this hill, at the top of which were the walls I was looking for. Reaching the walls, I hobbled the horse in a patch of mature rye grass, covering it with a blanket against the morning dew, and examined the ruins.

"They weren't much to look at. Once they must have been an imposing pile of stones, probably the redoubt of a robber baron who sought tribute from any who traveled by. Now, however, they served as little more than a wind break, weeds growing from their crumbling mortar. I saw no entry just there, and made my way around. The light was fading, and I hoped to start a small fire for warmth, but wanted a nook within these walls for it.

"A few paces further I found a gap in the wall. A tree, at its time probably a giant of those forests, had toppled and breached the stone work. Shrubs and grasses were growing in the opening, and I climbed over them to enter the ruins. Inside, the wreckage was much worse than without. The roof had been covered with fired clay tiles, and when the weight had become too much for the rotting beams, all had collapsed to lie within the walls. The beams had long since rotted, leaving a fertile mulch for all sorts of herbs to grow in, but the tiles still formed treacherous piles of rubble where I could easily twist an ankle. All the same, I was determined to see the place, so I proceeded.

"Well, there wasn't much to see. From without, the ruins had appeared imposing, but the thickness of the walls deceived. I did find the actual entrance, facing away from the road and to the South, probably to fend off the icy blasts of winter winds which would only have found a castle gate to be an invitation to enter. I also found a snug corner along the wall, probably just on the other side from where my horse was grazing. I collected scraps of dry wood to last the night in the last glimmerings of twilight, and lit my fire.

"After eating some of my road rations, and drinking some chai brewed over the fire, I lay down to sleep. I do not know how long I slept, but in the middle of the night I awakened. At first I didn't know what had disturbed me, and then I heard a soft moan. I listened for a moment, trying to make out if it were the wind or a beast. The moan was interrupted by a sob, and I decided that I was listening to a woman's lament.

"I'm no hero, no dashing rescuer, but who wouldn't help someone in need? I decided to see what was happening. I withdrew a fistful of brands from my fire, and fanned them aflame. With them to light my way, I carefully sought the source of the sound. It continued without ceasing, and I soon found my way into a room, as devastated as the rest, with the difference that it contained a carved stone box. Kneeling at the foot of the box, her head resting against it, was a woman's figure, shoulders heaving with her crying.

"My sword, which I've already told you bears a spirit, warned me at that moment. Now, I knew the reputation of ghosts, already. My foster mother, Olanye, had told me about them, and even my foster father, Brother Hendrik, had a tale or two, though he scoffed at them. But nothing so pitiful as that apparition could frighten me.

"Holding my brands aloft to light my way, I approached the specter. She took no notice, though my steps clattered on the broken tiles, and the light from the burning twigs danced on the walls like the Wild Hunt. When I was close enough, I stretched out my hand, to touch the specter's shoulder."

Mark took a shuddering breath and shut his eyes. The memory of that awful moment was coming back to him, and he squeezed his folded hands together, trying to control his emotions. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped. He opened his eyes to the light of the tavern room, and Sera was beside him.

"Your grog," she said, indicating the freshly filled mug on the table. When he reached for his coin purse, she put a restraining hand on his. "We'll settle up in the morning," she told him, and walked back to her work.

Mark took the mug in both hands, relishing its feeling of warmth, and drank deeply again. With the heat of the grog in his belly, he put the mug back on the table and continued his story.

"The specter was cold. Deadly cold. If you put your hand in a snow bank, that is cold, true, but it passes with speed. This was a bone searing cold, a burning, killing, awful cold. The cold of death. At that moment I knew I had made a very bad mistake. I withdrew my hand, but it was already too late.

"The ghost had stopped its moaning. Its shoulders no longer shook. For a long moment we both must have seemed like statues, frozen in some strange tableau. When the ghost finally moved, I started to feel true fear, and began to back away. It turned until I saw its face. It was illuminated not by my flickering torch, but by an unworldly inner flame. I first noticed the lips, drawn back in a rictus to expose broken teeth. The skin seemed black, at first, and then I realized that the face had been flayed, and what I saw was blood running on the exposed flesh. Lidless eyes stared at me.

"And then the apparition rose before me. The body it wore had been horribly tortured: Flayed, and then torn open, with its very entrails exposed. I had heard of such tortures, indulged in by people of my country many years ago. Here was a product of that horror.

"By now I was backing away as fast as I could. I hit the wall behind me with my back, and sidled along it in a desperate search for the opening. I held my torch before me as one might a sword, and I believe I must have screamed like a woman.

"The ghost just stood there.

"Having found the doorway, I backed out. Stumbling, yet not daring to watch where I was stepping because that would mean taking my eyes off that horror. When I had turned a corner, and the ghost was now hidden, I turned and ran.

"The light from my brand wasn't really enough to see where I was going, so I quickly ended up slipping on the tiles. I tried to catch myself, but the arm with which I had touched the ghost was entirely dead to feeling, and I fell, measuring the length of my body amongst the rubble. The burning twigs flew from my other hand and went out. Now I was in the dark.

"I don't know how long I lay there, afraid to move. Then the darkness seemed to thicken, blotting out even the stars above me. There was the sound of whispering, and a malevolence so palpable that I broke out in a cold sweat.

"I've never been afraid of the dark, but now I knew that the dark contained a very particular horror. Weeping with fear, I found my way to the nearest wall by touch alone, and then worked along the stonework, my dead arm hanging uselessly by my side. The creeping horror seemed always just behind me, whispering words that were only on the other side of hearing.

"Miraculously, I had found the outside wall, and after a few moments, I had the opening. Stepping through was the work of a moment, and then I was running headlong into the forest. Heedless of the possibility that I might fall and injure myself in the dark, I ran until I was completely exhausted and fell to the ground. The whispering was no longer after me, but then a scream rose behind me, and gave me renewed strength through the terror that it inspired.

"Sometime late the next morning I awoke. I had fallen in a faint, I suppose, and had no idea where I was. I took note that sometime during my ordeal I must have soiled myself. I could clean up at the nearest brook, but without food or water I was in a lot of trouble. Orienting myself by the stand of the Sun, I found my way to the road, and then to the spot beneath the ruins where the previous night's terrors had beset me.

"It took a while to work up enough courage to climb up that ravine again. At the top, I was greeted by a buzzing of flies and the smell of a charnel house. A fly-blown heap of offal in the rye grass first seemed strange to me, and then I realized that I was looking at the remains of my poor horse. Flayed. Torn open, and the entrails pulled out. The bizarre mass hanging in a tree at the edge of the clearing was its hide. The scream I had heard in the night had no doubt been its death cry.

"I think I almost ran at that point. It was one of the most difficult things I ever did in my life to climb back into those ruins to retrieve my possessions. They had apparently been left unmolested."

Mark interrupted himself for another drink, and then looked at Troek again.

"You understand that I don't believe that the ghost I first touched and the thing that pursued me were the same. The ghost probably saved my life by warning me of the awful evil that haunted the ruins. All the same, ghosts have my abiding respect."

Translation Services

As a person who speaks a language other than English (German, and I've studied a few more), in the USA I'm in a less than 1 in five minority. Most Americans speak only English. It's an acknowledged problem among many people across the political spectrum. 

But foreign language teaching, which should start in early grades to take advantage of the human brain's greater capacity to acquire a second language, is seriously underfunded in the elementary grades, and even at the high school level only 90% offer any sort of foreign language courses - and that doesn't touch on the issue of selection or quality. (This is where you pick up your phone and call your State representative.)

So it's a given that Americans may find themselves isolated when coming across foreign languages online. Here's my attempt to make the WORLD wide web a little more accessible to language impoverished Americans. (Meanwhile, look in your community college offerings for language courses. You should at least learn Mexican and Canadian!)

Here are the basic steps you need to take.

1. Don't be afraid of foreign languages.
2. Don't be afraid to misunderstand - ask questions and clarify.
3. Don't be afraid to be misunderstood - but be clear that you're communicating with someone who knows you're using a computer to translate.
4. If the letters look like a blank square □ you may need to install the letters for that language on your computer.
5. Use a translation program to translate from and to English.

It's that simple. So let's take the plunge.

There are a number of tools available for translating snippets of foreign text into English.

• Google Translate
• Bing Translator
• Free Translation
• Paralink Translation
• Worldlingo Translation
• Babylon Translation
• Reference Translation
• and many more. Look for them by searching for "free online translation."

You can also install an app on your portable device that allows you to communicate in many more situations. 

• Google Translate app supports voice, text, and even image translation
• iTranslate only works on Apple devices
• WayGo is freemium, but it supports more languages than the Google Translate app

I personally don't have a portable device that can use these translation apps. On my computers I use Google Translate most of the time.

As you start to use your favorite automated translation program you'll quickly run into one of the pitfalls everyone who has used automated translation services has experienced: the meaning of a word or a sentence depends very much on context: on the real life situation, on what was said before, and on what is said next. Also there are idioms, ways to use words so they mean something other than their ordinary meaning.

So if you're going to be careful with these programs and services, it helps to use your own language in such a way that you avoid ambiguities and idioms. If you're not sure, translate the result back into your own language and see if it still makes sense. When the result is very different, try different ways of saying the same thing until the back-translation makes sense.

For example, take the sentence "Yesterday I registered for classes." It's a simple enough sentence, but it contains a lot of assumptions that you might not be aware of.

If you plug it into Google Translate to translate into German the result sounds awkward, but Germans will understand it. Reverse translate the German result, and you get back what you put in. That's a good sign. Do the same thing in Spanish, and you get back a different result that seems to mean the same thing ("Yesterday I signed up for classes"), but it uses different words. That might be a warning sign. You can repeat the procedure to double check. (It works! Yay!)

Try it with Japanese, and you first discover that the reverse translation of the result is terrible: "The registration for the class yesterday." Perhaps the word "registered" is the problem, so try other ways of saying that. Taking a clue from the Spanish back-translation, try "signed up." The Japanese is different from before, but the back-translation is a lot better.

However, now the back-translation illustrates that in Japanese there's no difference between one class and more than one class - that comes from context ("Yesterday I signed up for the class"). There's no way to be certain that the translation program is producing something that can be understood correctly on the other side when languages have those kinds of differences. Instead you have to try "Yesterday I signed up for five classes," to provide the context to the Japanese translation program that English grammar clues by themselves cannot provide.

There's much more, of course. This is the kind of thing that may seem daunting at first, but it becomes easier with practice.

Here's to more communicative Americans. We may be stupid about learning a new language, but we can at least be incomprehensible! 

A Monumental Legend

(This is an urban legends research paper I wrote about twenty years ago. The website where I originally posted it has disappeared into the mists of time.)

And it's an Urban Legend, to the extent that it is told as if it really happened, with appropriate insertion of people and places to suit the telling.

Most Mormons (Latter Day Saints) know the story of the miracle of the seagulls. It is taught in Utah public school as fact, and the state has ponied up tens of thousands of dollars to establish monuments to the dirty, noisy birds.

The essence of the story is best represented by a bit of quotation, as told by someone named Priddy Meeks:

"Apostle Rich stood in an open wagon and preached out of doors. It was a beautiful day and a very salom one to. While preaching he says, brotherin we do not want you to part with your wagons and teams for we might need them intimateing that he did not know but we might have to leave.... At that instant I heard the voice of fowels flying over head that I was not acquainted with. I looked up and saw a flock of seven gulls. In a few minutes there was another larger flock passed over. They came faster and more of them until the heavens were darkened with them and lit down in the valley till the earth was black with them and they would eat crickets and throw them up again. A little before sundown they left for Salt Lake.... In the morning they came back again and continued that course until they had devoured the crickets and then left Sinedie and never returned. I guess this circumstance changed our feeling considerable for the better."

This story, or variations on it, is told in every Utah history book I was able to lay my hands on when I researched the matter last week. Each time the story includes details like describing the size of these crickets as unusually large, "as large as a man's thumb." The gulls are described in at least two instances as being unknown, or, in one instance, "come here from the distant ocean." Throwing up the crickets is an important part of the story, and is explained in one case by claiming that the crickets were poisonous to the birds.

These are the facts. The crickets had always been around, described by the earliest settlers as "common, about the size of a man's thumb." Indians ate them before the Whites arrived, and even Mormon settlers learned to eat the crickets during times of hardship.

The seagulls are a migratory species local to the Great Salt Lake. They arrive at the lake every spring, and leave for the south when the weather turns cold. It is possible, of course, that the late spring that year left the new settlers who had just arrived the previous year, unaware of the presence of the birds. However, trappers who had been in the valley long before Brigham Young arrived had already noticed the loud aggressive birds.

That spring, 1848, was a bit rough, with frosts as late as May 28 creating worries that the crops might not be enough to feed the people. The crickets didn't help, eating the grain as fast as it grew. But in all that the authorities, who might be expected to make note of such remarkable events, said only, "the crickets have done a considerable damage to both wheat and corn, which has discouraged some, but there is plenty left if we can save it for a few days. The sea gulls have come in large flocks from the lake and sweep the crickets as they go; it seems the hand of the Lord is in our favor."

According to The Great Salt Lake, the book where I finally found real information, "on June 21 all that the authorities had to add on the subject was that the crickets were "still quite numerous and busy eating, but between the gulls our efforts and the growth of crops we shall raise much grain in spite of them." By the next year, when the crickets returned, the story had grown to its present day proportions.

The legend is instructive in its pervasiveness. Even when faced with "incontrovertible" evidence contrary to the legend, people in Utah will continue to take it as a given. Most curious of all, in spot interviews with non-Mormons living in Utah, the legend has the power of, well, of legend. The miracle of the seagulls has become a matter of pride with Utahns, which isn't likely to fade in spite of all the white spots on people's windshields.

Suckerpunched!

(Continuing a first paragraph with permission from David Farland.)

Marybelle wasn’t your mother’s kind of vampire, living in a crypt by day and sneaking into children’s bedrooms at night to suck their blood. Nor was she its modern counterpart—the sexy hip girl climbing trees in the forest and glittering in the morning sun. She was fat, and as her momma said, 'You come in a plain black wrapper, Honey child, and you got to accept that.' She tried to accept it, of course, she tried. But life ain’t no fun when you’re fat, and ugly, and you’ve got the blood Jones.

Back to school nights didn't measurably improve things. At the Vlad D. Middle School (Alabama's exclusive school for vampires, founded in 1718) the throng of vampire kids around her were chattering noisily with each other. Now, Rebecca, she was cool. Skinny. Just a touch of pink from her dinner. Long, straight black hair, not curly and unmanageable. She was saying something to Beenie, the star of the Vlad D. batball team, and both laughed. They hadn't looked at her, but Marybelle felt for some reason that they must have been laughing about her.

Anyway, no one paid her any attention. She might as well have stayed home. Except momma and poppa were fighting again. Poppa, between jobs as a truck driver, had bitten Earl Darrell Jones III over in Evans last night. Earl had been drinking, as you might expect, and this evening Poppa's hangover was killing him. Momma had said something, and they'd been off to the races. School could hardly be worse.

When the school bell finally tolled she dejectedly pushed her way along with her classmates through the open doors, along the candle lit corridor, to her new classroom. The first day in ninth grade was going to suck, and not just because she was a vampire. She could feel it in her bones. She fingered them repeatedly in the pocket of her unfashionable black jumper, a small collection of interesting rat and bat bones, and one small dog's tooth. This evening they were definitely feeling like prime suckage.

She looked for a place at the back of the room, the way she always did, and squeezed into her seat. As the other kids filed in and sat down, she noticed that some of them kept their backpacks on, as if they were planning on jumping up and running out any moment. Sadly, when you have to squeeze into your seat, that's not an option. Her backpack was parked by her side, leaning against her leg. It contained a carefully dulled pencil and eraser, a new notebook she'd tried doodling on, like the cool kids did, and her midnight snack, a 250 ml bottle of Type AB Negative®. Not diet - it was swimming with triglycerides and bad cholesterol, and she practically felt herself getting fatter just thinking about it. But she loved the stuff.

The classroom door swung shut on the entrance of Mr. DeVitter. This was no doubt the reason for the suckage her bones had promised.

"Gooood Eeevenink," DeVitter announced. Marybelle cringed. DeVitter seemed to be convinced a proper vampire talked like Bela Lugosi, and did a terrible job of it. It was going to be a long time until recess!

Two endless hours later she crowded back into the hallway with her class mates. The school yard was moon lit, only a few clouds obscuring the sky. A few miles away the small town of Evans put out enough wattage to obscure any chance to see the stars. Marybelle's parents were regular supporters of the International Dark-Sky Association, and she herself had donated some of her pocket money. What was good for astronomy could be fantastic for vampires.

A lot of the kids were drifting to the batball field. She assumed that Beenie and his friends would be choosing teams for a short pickup game. Marybelle aimed her steps to her usual spot on the low wall surrounding the school yard. She knew the two kids who already sat nearby, Jesse Lee and Elroy. They were also ninth graders, and both were distant cousins. They also ignored her, but at least it wouldn't be weird if she greeted them with a nod.

She had brought along her blood bottle and now unscrewed the lid. The blood was pleasantly warm and tasted faintly of horse. Marybelle knew kids who were able to afford straight human blood, but her poppa had failed the state bar exam three times, now. The family didn't have to resort to hunting to survive, but things occasionally did get tight. Splurging on meals wasn't in the budget, as her momma her told her often enough. Anyway, the ads for Type AB Negative® were great, with a fun song, and scenes of happy vampires working and playing together. Marybelle had no idea if it would have been her favorite without the ads, but it was her favorite.

While she slowly drank her blood (she'd read somewhere that eating too fast causes weight gain), she took her bones out of her pocket. The little dog's tooth looked odd in the collection. It wasn't fragile looking like the rest, even if it was small. It was a faintly yellow front tooth, shaped like a tiny chisel. Like the rest of her collection she had picked it out of a skeleton she had found. The dog had been a large one, and the skeleton had been wedged under the collapsed wall of the old McCoy place. She figured the animal had been dying and went there to hide. The skeleton was old but not as old as the McCoy place. She'd been taking an early morning walk last night, before the Sun rose, when she'd found herself at the kudzu covered pile of masonry. She didn't know what prompted her to look under the wall, but when she saw the skeleton, she knew to check it for a likely addition to her collection.

The bones' feeling of general suckage had been increasing all night. She'd thought DeVitter would have been the worst, but apparently not. What could possibly be worse? Marybelle tilted her blood bottle up to drain the last drop. She hated feeling hungry.

After putting the empty bottle into her other pocket she slowly shook her bones in her cupped hands. She wasn't sure if she really wanted to know what was going to happen tonight, but she couldn't imagine how it would be worse than just to know something awful was in store. When she felt the moment was right, she cast her handful of mortal remains onto a flat rock in the top of the stone wall, and let her mind go blank.

For some reason Earl Darrell Jones III loomed up in her mind's eye. He looked pale and furious. And he was coming at her! As his hands clawed at her, Marybelle stifled a scream and jerked herself out of her trance.

Blinking her eyes rapidly she cleared her mind of the sick looking Earl. Did her poppa end up killing Earl? Marybelle hoped not. Vampires called it catch and release, which Marybelle had learned was a joke of some kind, but she didn't get it. Killing a person, even just a drunk, was simply not done. Vampires relied on the uneasy truce they had with humans, and someone who broke it would have problems.

But it seemed Earl was the reason for the boding suckage. That worried Marybelle considerably. She knew she wasn't a fast runner, and she was too large to hide in most places. As little vampire girls went, she didn't have a lot of survival qualities.

As she collected her bones back into her hand a pair of shadows fell on the stone wall. Jesse Lee and Elroy had drifted over. They looked at the bones in her hand.

"Um." Jesse Lee was a lanky vampire girl who liked dressing boyishly in dungaree coveralls with a John Deere cap on backwards. She seemed to have trouble speaking.

"Do those bones really work for you?" Elroy amplified. He dressed as you'd expect, meaning the two of them were dressed as if they were twins. As far as Marybelle knew, they weren't all that closely related. There was no actual resemblance in their faces, in any case.

"Maybe." Marybelle was disinclined to brag on that point, but they had never failed her. True, they weren't easy to interpret. Sometimes they were frustratingly vague. She didn't dare play something like "20 Questions" with them. Each casting took a little out of her, and in spite of her size she didn't have that much in her.

"Jesse Lee, you tell her."

"Um." Jesse Lee still hadn't found her tongue, but she was scrounging in one of the voluminous pockets of her dungarees. After a bit of work she pulled out a handful of something, scatting sunflower seed hulls out of her pocket in the process. Marybelle stared at them.

"You eat those?" she asked. "Don't they, like..."

"Yes," Jesse Lee said, with a shrug. Getting words out of her was like pulling teeth, which meant something amongst vampires. Then Jesse Lee held out her hand. She had what Marybelle's expert eyes recognized as a full set of eight human wrist bones, surrounded by a fair quantity of sunflower seeds and hulls.

"Carpals," Marybelle said, with a small nod. "Whose were they?"

"My grandmother's," Jesse Lee said. Marybelle waited for more.

"Jesse Lee says her bones told her something bad will happen today," Elroy broke in, impatient with Jesse Lee's reticence. "Why did you just cast your bones?"

"Same reason. But I got the face of someone I know."

"Who?"

"Earl Darrell Jones III," Marybelle offered.

"The old drunk? What can he do?"

"I don't know. My poppa bit him last night."

"Psychic interference?"

"Dunno."

Marybelle and Elroy stared at each other. Jesse Lee slowly closed her hand over her bones and stuffed them back into her pocket, sunflower seeds and all. Marybelle didn't know what else to say. This was the most she'd talked with someone in any recess since, well, forever.

"Tell a teacher?" Jesse Lee asked.

Both stared at her. Vampire adults didn't generally approve of casting bones. Marybelle's momma had explained that while some youngsters could cast bones, as vampires got older they lost the ability, and many thought it was just a childish fantasy they'd just as soon forget about. Her momma believed her, of course. What a teacher might say was a different matter.

"What else?" Jesse Lee actually managed to look frightened, and that frightened Marybelle. Elroy also seemed to look uncomfortable.

"We can try," Marybelle agreed. "But we may want to warn our friends, as well."

"Good idea," Elroy said. They looked at each other a moment longer.

"I'll go find a teacher," Marybelle offered. She didn't want to explain that she didn't have any friends. Elroy nodded, grabbed Jesse Lee by the hand, and both ran off toward the batball field where most of the kids were assembled. Marybelle thought she saw the head of Mr. DeVitter bobbing above the sea of kids. He might be playground proctor tonight, but she didn't want to talk to him if she could help it. Anyway, he'd be too busy to listen. Instead she headed towards the school building.

The halls were empty and echoed to her steps. The main office was halfway along from the door, and when she reached it, it was locked. She knocked, softly at first, but when no one answered the door in a few seconds she tried again, a lot louder, which echoed up and down the hall. She heard steps, and a few moments later the secretary Miss Daniels, an elderly vampire who wore too much blood red lipstick, answered the door.

"Yes?" she looked down at her over the fashionable reading glasses that she wore on the tip of her bony nose, secured around her neck by a glittering necklace of rhinestones and black beads. Marybelle tore her eyes away from the necklace and made a little nod at her.

"It's about my bones," Marybelle said.

"Your bones?" Miss Daniels frowned. "You don't mean that childish game?"

"Please, Miss Daniels, I need to speak with Dr. Randall." Marybelle figured she couldn't argue with Miss Daniels about bones, not when the old bat had taken such an attitude.

"Dr. Randall doesn't have time for nonsense," Miss Daniels snapped. She started shutting the door in Marybelle's face, but Marybelle quickly wedged her foot against the door and stopped her.

"You must let me talk with him. If he thinks it's nonsense, let him punish me," Marybelle said, sounding a lot braver than she felt. Something about Miss Daniels brought it out of her. At the moment, however, she didn't have time to think about it.

"Very well," Miss Daniels' eyes seemed to flash, and her blood red lips pulled apart in a truly weird grin as she opened the office door wide. "Come on inside, little...?"

"Marybelle. Marybelle Jenkins." Marybelle straightened her jumper on her shoulders and walked into the office, past the secretary who seemed to tower over her even though she was just a little taller than Marybelle.

"This way, Miss Jenkins," Miss Daniels led her to the principal's office. The plaque on the door announced "Dr Randall, EdD." Miss Daniels knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. "Miss Jenkins to see you, Dr. Randall," she announced, then reached back and grabbed Marybelle by the shoulder with a surprisingly strong hand and propelled her into the office, after which she shut the door.

Marybelle looked behind her at the closed door for a second, then turned around to face Dr. Randall. There weren't many vampires who enjoyed doing the kind of work required of a principal. Mostly they tended to lawyers, accountants, politicians, insurance adjusters, and used car salesmen. Dr Randall still seemed like an ordinary vampire. He was tall, dressed fashionably, and at the moment had a healthy glow to his cheeks, presumably from just having eaten. He waved at her to come forward with long and well manicured fingers.

"Excuse me, sir," Marybelle started a bit timidly, but then her voice accelerated as she explained the problem at hand. By the time she was telling him how she'd seen James Darrel Jones III, and how she knew him, she was speaking rapidly, with a fair bit of volume, which prompted Dr. Randall to wave his hand in a calming motion.

"Your bones are pretty reliable, are they," Dr. Randall asked.

"Yes, sir," Marybelle nodded. She felt relieved. Dr. Randall was going to take her seriously!

"May I see them? You can put them on this," he said, while opening a drawer in his desk from which he took an oddly decorated black plate and placed it on the edge of the desk near Marybelle. Marybelle reached into her pocket and pulled out her bones. She wasn't sure what Dr. Randall wanted with them, but couldn't think of any objections. She put her bones on the plate and withdrew her hand.

"Very good," Dr. Randall said. He was leaning back a little, as if trying to keep a distance between himself and the black plate. "Which of them is your favorite?"

At first Marybelle didn't know what to say to that, but Dr. Randall smiled at her encouragingly.

"None in particular, I guess," she said finally. "The dog's tooth is my latest, and I guess it's unique in the collection."

"Interesting. Have you told any of your friends about this?" he asked her now.

Marybelle reflexively shook her head, then remembered Jesse Lee and Elroy. But when she glanced up to say something she thought she saw a strange gleam in Dr. Randall's eyes, so she just said, "I don't have any friends, sir."

"Splendid," Dr. Randall said. He leaned forward. "You did say you wanted me to punish you if I thought you deserved it."

Marybelle stood thunderstruck. "Sir?"

"Here's what we'll do. I'm confiscating your toys until your parents come to school to collect them from me. Your punishment is just this," and he tapped the plate three times with one of his long manicured fingers. There was a small flash, and the little dog's tooth just disappeared. In its place was a tiny heap of grey dust. There was also a tiny wrenching feeling in Marybelle's chest, as if something had just disappeared there. Marybelle had never before realized that these bones were so much a part of her.

"Just to be clear," he said, while his eyes seemed to nail her to the spot, "if you spread your silly story to any of the other students, this will happen to the rest of your toys, as well." He gathered up the black plate carefully and put it back in his desk drawer, Marybelle's bones still on it. Then he leaned back in his chair and waved at her with his long fingered hand.

"Well, go on. Class has started several minutes ago. You're already late, and don't expect Miss Daniels to provide you with an excuse!"

Marybelle felt stunned, and almost unconsciously walked from his office, past a smirking Miss Daniels, out into the hall, which was empty. She could hear the classes being conducted behind the various doors. This was not a perspective she'd experienced before, and for a moment she stood there and took it in, without letting herself think about the perfidious Dr. Randall. It occurred to her that it was no surprise at all that he had chosen to become a school principal.

She wondered if Dr. Randall was what all that the boding had been about, but then she noticed that even though she didn't have her bones the feeling of suckage hadn't gone away at all. If anything it had gotten even stronger. Then it occurred to her that Jesse Lee and Elroy had been warning their friends about her vision. If Dr. Randall found out he'd conclude that she had disobeyed him and he'd no doubt then destroy the rest of her bones. The brand new dog's tooth had produced just a tiny wrenching feeling, but the older bones in her collection would probably hurt her a lot worse when then were destroyed.

Trouble was, she had no idea what she could do about it.

If she had a cellphone she could just call home. Her momma might know what to do. But because her poppa hadn't passed the bar there was of course no money for luxuries like that.

There was only one option. She had to go home to get her momma to retrieve her bones for her. The trick was not getting caught while she tried to leave the school building.

She walked as quietly as she could past the closed doors, expecting that at any moment one of them would spring open, and someone would see her out there, trying to sneak away. But then she'd reached the closed schoolhouse doors. She pushed down on the ornately decorated brass handle. The door's latch clicked so loud she felt sure it could be heard all the way in Dr. Randall's office. Hurriedly she pushed the door open, then let it swing shut behind her as she stood in the moonlit night. In front of her stood Mr. DeVitter. He had his back toward her, and didn't turn around.

"Nice night for it," DeVitter said. "Are they on their way?"

Marybelle said nothing. Are who on their way? Nice night for what? Why was DeVitter out here? Recess was over. And who did he think he was talking to?

That last question had just flashed across her mind when DeVitter turned around. He frowned when he saw her.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked.

"I'm going home. I'm not feeling well, sir," Marybelle stammered. That was true enough. She felt ready to throw up on the spot, which is not a pleasant feeling, especially when you're a vampire.

"Where's your excuse slip?" DeVitter demanded.

Marybelle felt her eyes tearing up. This was getting worse by the minute!

"I...I don't know..." she stammered.

"Then get back to class," DeVitter pushed her around by the shoulder and propelled her towards the door. Desperately, Marybelle twisted under his hand and dashed to the side and across the school yard.

"Get back here!" DeVitter shouted. Marybelle looked over her shoulder to see him start running after her. Marybelle ran like she'd never run before. The school yard was surrounded by the low wall, beyond which grew a tangle of bushes and small trees. Marybelle leapt up on the wall and headed into the bushes. Her vampire eyes helped her find her way in spite of mere moon light to show her the obstacles in her path, but DeVitter had vampire eyes, too, of course. Marybelle was no athlete, and what little stamina she had she'd burned in her dash for the school yard wall and the small leap up. If she had been mortal she'd have been breathing in ragged gasps; as it was, instead of running into the bushes she kind of staggered towards them. She ducked behind the first clump of bushes that looked thick enough and made herself as small as possible.

She could hear DeVitter jump up on the wall himself and blunder into the bushes. He pushed branches out of his way and Marybelle could hear his steps coming closer. Then the branches of the bush under which she was hiding were getting shoved apart so that leaves and debris rained down on her. And DeVitter walked straight past her. She held still for another minute as she listened to him struggle through the bushes, apparently still trying to follow her. Marybelle couldn't imagine what DeVitter was thinking. Why did he care? He could just have her expelled, or sent her to detention. But she continued to stay put. To keep track of time she started counting to herself. One-thousand-and-one, one-thousand-and-two, one-thousand-and-three...

After about a minute she couldn't hear DeVitter anymore. She stood up and headed back toward the school yard. With DeVitter gone, she figured it would be safe for her to take the country lane home, the way she usually would.

She did enjoy walking out by herself. The Moon's light was casting dappled shadows of the leafy branches above her onto the road. Hunting bats swooped around her, their echo location chirps poking at her from all directions like ghostly fingers stroking her head. Someone had told her that most humans couldn't hear bats. She often felt sorry for humans. In the distance a mockingbird was making a crazy racket as it imitated the sound of a toy laser blaster. Human children had noisy toys!

She had almost reached home, and the Moon was starting to sink towards the west when she heard a truck motor coming closer. After a few moments the truck rounded the bend up ahead, and before she could look away its bright headlights blasted twin rays of agony into her sensitive vampire eyes. She squeezed her tearing eyes shut and stepped off the road, moving as far as she could away from the road as the vehicle rumbled down the road toward her. Then it slowed down, and stopped where she was standing. She was rubbing her eyes trying to make the spots go away so she could see again. She heard a door open, and foot steps on the road, then on the weeds by the side of the road. She abandoned rubbing her eyes, and faced the approaching stranger. She could only see a shadowy shape loom in front of her behind purple blots of after image obliterating most of her vision.

"What are you doing out here?" a man's rough voice asked. The shadow behind the purple spots bent down toward her. She smelled cheap booze on a human breath. "Shouldn't you be in school?" the man asked, then cackled.

"I'm on my way home," Marybelle said, trying to back away from him. She wondered what a human would be thinking of a girl on a country road in the middle of the night. Nothing good, she figured.

"Ain't that nice," the man said. "Let me give you a ride."

He grabbed her arm and started dragging her toward the truck.

Marybelle tried to yank her arm free. Like any vampire she was much stronger than a mortal, but she was still quite small. The man didn't let her go. In spite of her struggles he practically carried her towards the back of the truck he'd been driving, a large tractor trailer rig. Through the after image of the blinding headlights she thought she saw the dirty white unmarked sides of a trailer. The man yanked the latch on the rear door of the trailer open and let it roll up with a crash.

"In you go," he growled, and grabbed her other arm. He tried swinging her around, as if to throw her into the truck. Desperately Marybelle sank her fangs into the man's arm.

"Ow, goddam it!" the man shouted. He cuffed her head with his free hand, knocking her to the ground. She tried to scramble to her feet, but then a heavy boot hit her, knocking her down again. She rolled away from the man, but he kept up with her and kicked her down again. "Goddam vamp!" he swore. "Turd eating vamp! Take that!"

Marybelle couldn't get away. Every time she tried to get up, the man kicked her down again. She tried rushing him, but he just cuffed her in the head and knocked her to her knees. Then he kicked her again, swearing.

How long this went on, Marybelle couldn't say. She'd crawl away from him, but he followed and kicked her down. His voice was raw with hatred, and his breath stank in Marybelle's vampire nose. Eventually she huddled, rolled in a ball, trying to protect her bruised stomach from the heavy boot. But the kicking continued, and she started screaming in a hoarse voice without words. She rolled to all fours and launched herself at him. She moved fast, no longer thinking, her fangs flashing. She tore a gash in his arm as he tried to knock her away. Growling and snarling she snatched at his neck, the man trying desperately to push her away. She tore at his throat with her fangs. While the man struggled Marybelle lapped greedily, and now the man's struggles became weaker as the wound in his neck spurted his life's blood. When the man fell groaning to the ground Marybelle crouched over his body and kept lapping at the blood.

Then a powerful hand grabbed her by her neck and threw her bodily through the air, into the back of the trailer. She hit the floor, rolled several times and came to rest against the far wall. Screaming with rage she gather her feet under her to leap at her new assailant, but the trailer door rolled down even as she jumped, and she hit it face first and crashed to the floor inside. She started mindlessly pounding against the door, howling with fury. Eventually the trailer started into motion. Marybelle's screams continued for a few more minutes, and then her mind slowly came back to her. She hurt all over. Her nose felt broken. The trailer had no windows, but from the motion she guessed where she was. She had no idea what happened, except that at one point back there she had lost it.

She had heard stories about vampires who lost it. They were often killed by other vampires, because they were too much of a danger to the truce with the humans. She didn't know of any that had been allowed to live. The really bad part was that the feeling of suckage was still getting worse. She huddled in the back corner of the trailer, braced herself against the uncomfortably ribbed trailer walls against the trailer's rocking motion, and tried to think of a way out while pushing her broken nose in place so it would heal straight.

A short while later the trailer stopped rocking. She heard the tractor's engine idle for about a minute, then it stopped. A couple of doors slammed, and the indistinct voices of two or three men receded, after which she heard only the chirping of the bats and the occasional calls of a whip-poor-will.

Even though it was totally dark in the trailer Marybelle's vampire eyes had recovered from being blinded by the headlights earlier, and she had no difficulty seeing. She crawled up to the trailer's door. She knew it was latched on the outside with a hook through a latch welded to the trailer. The locking bar would be caught under a pall, the entire thing designed to prevent the door from coming accidentally unlatched and rolling open while the trailer was under way. Trunks on cars now had a way to open them from the inside. Federal law required those, after several well publicized stories of kids accidentally locking themselves into the trunk of a car. Trailer doors, on the other hand had no such requirements. Still, Marybelle examined the inside of the door for any sign of a way out. She saw where the bolts for the various parts of the latch came through the door, fastened in place with large, rusty nuts.

Nuts and bolts!

Guessing which of them fastened the latch in place, Marybelle grasped one of the small nuts in her fingers and tried to turn it. It was rusty, and at first nothing happened. But if Marybelle was too small to fight a grown human with her vampire strength, a rusty nut was no match. With a small squeak and pop it started to turn, and pretty soon it fell off the bolt with a clatter. In the trailer it seemed as if that should have been audible for miles, and Marybelle listened tensely for a few seconds. When no one shouted and came running, she got to work on the second nut. After the fourth nut was off, she pushed the bolts out, one at a time. When she finally pushed the trailer door up, she stood in the opening for a few moments. Her face still hurt, but as far as she could tell, her nose had already healed. There was a lingering scent of humans, but there was also the distinct smell of Mr. DeVitter.

Were they that close to the school? Was DeVitter still looking for her? Marybelle jumped down from the trailer and ducked under it. Crouching, she looked around to see if there was anyone near the trailer. But the trailer was stopped in a parking lot surrounded by bushes and trees. There were no buildings visible. The sky betrayed a pre-dawn glow toward the east.

The silence was interrupted by occasional hoots from a nearby owl. Marybelle thought furiously. She decided she first needed to hide her escape. She clambered back up on the trailer and pulled down the door. She reattached the latch by simply pushing the bolts in place. The bolts and latch weren't going to fool anyone who looked closely, or tried to operate the latch, but she hoped it would delay the hunt for her.

Since she had no idea where she was figuring that out was her next order of business. If DeVitter was in the area then she was probably near the school and she could get help from there. She wondered where the men whose voices she had heard had gone. There was just one road into the parking lot. Hugging the edges of the paved area she hurried to the road. At first something nagged at her. When she finally reached the road and looked down its length it was as if her brain flipped around. The lot the trailer was parked in was the teacher lot, just behind the school.

Where were all the teachers' cars? What had happened at the school?

Shrinking into the Moon shadow of the bushes by the side of the road she took a moment to think again. If the cars were gone then the teachers were probably gone, as well. Likely there was no help for her at the school. But all the same she needed to have a look for herself.

She started to walk up the road towards the school. Not much farther along she heard voices and hid behind some bushes again. She thought she recognized the voices. One was that of DeVitter, speaking low, and without that fake accent of his. The other was louder, rough, and she realized that DeVitter was talking to the man who tried to push her into that trailer. Did DeVitter realize that he was talking to someone that dangerous? She thought DeVitter sounded angry.

"I keep telling you, if I hadn't locked her in the trailer you'd be dead," she heard DeVitter growl when they came close enough for her. "And will you keep your voice down? If she's regained her senses we don't want her to know what we're doing."

"What can she do? We hook up the hose and gas her, like the rest." The other man sounded petulant. When the two men came in sight Marybelle got a good look at the stranger in the setting Moonlight. It was Earl Darrell Jones III, carrying a flashlight in one hand, and pulling a handcart with an enormous gas bottle with the other. DeVitter was carrying several loops of hose. She felt for the suckage. It was still as bad as before, but it hadn't got any worse. Well, it was bad enough. A human who hated vampires was working with one of her teachers, and something had happened at the school so that there was no help for her from that direction.

"Vampires don't need to breathe. We do it by reflex left over from our natural lives. All she has to do is hold her breath. She can do that indefinitely." DeVitter's voice dripped scorn. "Even a vampire child can figure that out."

Yes, even a vampire child can figure that out, thought Marybelle. Thanks, DeVitter. Earl's neck and arm were swathed in bandages dark with his blood. How could DeVitter stand to walk that closely to Earl? The reek of blood from the man... Marybelle clenched her fists and made herself hold still as only a vampire could and waited for the men to pass her on the road. When they were out of sight she hurried silently in the opposite direction.

The drive to the school was empty except for two cars. She recognized Mr. DeVitter's beat up Honda as well as Dr. Randall's expensive European import. Marybelle at this point wasn't the least bit surprised to find that the two were working together.

The school doors had been propped open with classroom chairs, but no one was in sight. Marybelle hid behind a large buckeye bush while she tried to think of what to do. Once she was inside the hallway there'd be nowhere to hide if DeVitter or Earl came back. She didn't know where Dr. Randall was, either. Also, she reminded herself, there might be others working with DeVitter and Earl. But her main mystery was, what were they doing?

What did Earl say? "Gas her like the rest." Marybelle had no idea what the gas would do, but it seemed it would make a vampire helpless against humans. Suddenly she realized why the doors were propped open: to air out the building. Vampires didn't have to breath, but humans couldn't just hold their breath. If Earl or other human confederates were going to be in a building that had been gassed then the building first needed to be aired out.

Marybelle had no idea how much longer it would be before DeVitter and Earl discovered that she was gone. She ran up to the front doors. Stopped. Consciously shut her mouth and stilled her reflexive breathing. This was harder than it seemed. She slipped out of her shoes and stashed them on the side of the stairs where they might not be spotted right away. A vampire moved silently, but in her stockinged feet she figured she'd be soundless. To be sure not to breath she pinched her nose shut and hurried through the open doors. The first classroom she came to stood open. Inside the children were all slumped to the floor or over their desks, and Miss Dayton had collapsed in front of her blackboard. The other classes would be like this, too. Marybelle decided she had seen enough and retreated back out of the school to collect her shoes. She hid behind her buckeye bush to put her shoes back on and consider her options.

She didn't know what the men were planning to do, but if Miss Dayton was here and her little blue VW was not, that couldn't be a good sign. Whatever it was they were planning, there would be a point where it would be too late to do anything about it, and they would be out of reach for punishment. So if she was going to do anything, it would have to be done soon. Maybe if there was a way to sabotage the tractor? Marybelle knew she wouldn't be able to drive it, if for no other reason than that she was too small. But maybe it would be enough to let the air out of all the tires?

Suddenly she heard Earl's voice again.

"I don't care what your excuses are, you should have just killed the thing," he growled.

"You forget yourself," DeVitter's voice was cold and menacing and made Marybelle shrink back further under her bush. "I am one of these 'things,' too. And I know about your AV rounds. Don't think they will protect you from me. You are here because you are useful. Don't make me regret that decision."

"Ya, whatever," Earl didn't say anything else. The two men came hurrying up to the school and went inside.

No time to lose. Marybelle first moved carefully to avoid making a noise, and then ran to the teachers' parking lot as quickly as she could. The trailer's back door stood open. The hand truck with the gas bottle was standing next to the trailer, a hose connecting the bottle to the trailer's wall. Marybelle walked up to the tractor. With some effort she boosted herself up on the step below the door and tried the handle. With a click the door came open. She looked in the cab. No keys in the ignition. So much for that idea. Then she noticed wires dangling from under the dash. Did Earl steal this truck?

She grabbed the wires and yanked until they pulled out from under the dash. If Earl was planning on hotwiring the tractor later, this would make things a bit more difficult. She grinned to herself while she climbed back down from the cab and carefully closed the door. On second thought she climbed back up, locked the doors, and closed them again. As many barriers as possible.

When she jumped down from the cab's step she heard a small metallic tinkle from under the tractor. She froze, ready to run for the bushes if Earl or DeVitter showed themselves. When nothing else happened she looked under the tractor and almost jumped back when she came face to face with Jesse Lee. Jesse Lee slowly crawled out from under the tractor and stood, spit out some sunflower seed hulls. In one hand she held a bundle of black wires. She looked at the wires in Marybelle's hand, and grinned all over her grease begrimed face.

"There you are," she said. She beckoned once with her head and walked toward the bushes. Behind the first one Elroy was waiting for them, grinning as well.

"Teamwork," he said. "I was posting lookout, but when I saw you climb up in the cab I figured I'd wait for you. Did you pull the wires?" he asked Jesse Lee. Jesse Lee held out the wires. Marybelle just looked from one to the other for several seconds before she found her speech again.

"How did you guys manage not to get gassed?" she asked.

Elroy pointed at Jesse Lee.

"She and I hid out after recess. I think DeVitter knew we were out there, and he kept looking for us. Eventually we saw you leave, with DeVitter after you. We knew something was up, then."

"I was just going to go home," Marybelle admitted. "Dr. Randall had taken my bones away from me."

The three didn't say anything for a few moments, and then Marybelle's eyes fell on the wires in Jesse Lee's hand again.

"I think Earl actually stole the truck," Marybelle said. "I locked the doors. Without keys he can't get in, and even if he could I tore out the wires so he can't get it started."

"And Jesse Lee made sure that even if he figures out what to do the motor won't make a peep," Elroy sounded delighted.

At that moment they heard a car's engine roar. The sound of squealing tires added itself, and a few seconds later a somewhat more sedate sounding engine started up. The three listened as one engine raced off into the distance with a great deal of noise. The second car also moved off. Seconds later they heard someone running. Looking around their bush they watched by the flare of a dim flashlight as Earl came hurrying up to his tractor. He paused briefly to yank the hose from the side of the trailer, and then climbed up to the cab. He swore when the door wouldn't open, climbed down, and tried the other door. A moment later they heard a window shatter, then the cab door open. For a while all they heard was Earl cursing, louder with each passing second. Then he fell silent. They heard him jump down from the cab, and his steps receded across the parking lot.

"I hope he's not going back to the school," Marybelle said. "He might hurt people there."

"You think DeVitter and Randall both left?" Elroy wondered.

"I'm pretty sure that's what we heard," Marybelle said. Jesse Lee nodded.

"Come on!" Elroy said, and the three rushed through the bushes. The Moon had almost set, and the night was lit mostly by the reflection of nearby city lights from the clouds. Where Earl had only his flash light to walk by, the vampire kids moved through the bushes with ease, and they reached the school building ahead of the angry human.

"We can just go in and lock up," Elroy suggested.

"Just be careful not to breath," Marybelle said. "They used a gas."

"I know," Elroy said.

"I'll call for help."

While Jesse Lee and Elroy removed the chairs and shut and locked the school doors, Marybelle ran for the office. Miss Daniels was slumped on the floor next to her desk. Marybelle stepped over her body and sat down to call her mom.

"Mom, Dr. Randall gassed us and Earl is coming to hurt us you have to get help!"

"Marybelle? Are you OK?"

"Mom, call the police and hurry, please," Marybelle realized she wasn't sounding entirely sane. "I'll explain later, but you have to hurry!"

From the hallway she could hear heavy pounding on the school doors. Earl must have discovered they'd locked the doors.

"Marybelle, what's going on?" her mother asked.

"I told you. Dr. Randall gassed everyone, and now Earl is coming to hurt us. You have to call the police to help us!" Marybelle hung up. She would get yelled at later, but she didn't see the point of spending a lot of time explaining things to her mom.

She got off the chair and checked on Miss Daniels. The old vampire woman's body was limp, and no matter how she prodded at her, there was no response. Marybelle gave up and went to rejoin Jesse Lee and Elroy.

Elroy had his ear pressed against the door.

"I think he's leaving again," he said, softly. "He's been using words I'd never heard before." Elroy seemed to have a certain admiration for the human. Marybelle worried what Earl might try next.

"Do you think one of us should keep an eye on him?" she asked.

"That'd be dangerous," Elroy said. He glanced at Jesse Lee. Jesse Lee shook her head.

Marybelle thought for a moment. She knew she was no match for Earl, but Earl had to remember that she had almost killed him. As long as she didn't let him near her. Then she remembered another thing she had heard.

"Earl has AV rounds," she said. Elroy stiffened.

"He can kill us!"

"I know. DeVitter told him they didn't scare him, but they scare me plenty."

"We can't none of us go out there. Not if he's got AV rounds!" Elroy said.

"But we don't know what he's doing. I've been thinking. How did they gas the school?"

"I don't know," Elroy said. Jesse Lee poked him in the arm, hard.

"Basement," she said.

"Oh, crap!"

The three kids looked at each other, then ran down the hall to the door to the basement stairs. Elroy was far ahead of the two girls when the door burst open and Earl stepped into the hallway, his flashlight and an ugly snub nosed revolver raised in front of him.

"I'll teach you turd eating vamps to mess with humans," he snarled. The weapon barked and the children screamed. Elroy dove for one of the open classroom doors while Jesse Lee and Marybelle practically skidded to a halt. Marybelle grabbed Jesse Lee by the hand and scrambled for another one of the open classrooms. Jesse Lee tried to run back into the hallway, but Marybelle held her back.

"Earl," Marybelle called from where she was pressed against the doorframe. "I've called for help. You better go away if you know what's good for you."

"I should have killed you when I first caught you," Earl shouted. They could hear his heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Marybelle risked a peek and saw that he had passed the door where Elroy was hiding. If they could get him to waste his AV rounds... Elroy must have had the same idea, because Marybelle watched as he popped out from his room and threw a book that hit Earl in the head. As Earl tried to find Elroy with the flashlight, Elroy ran across the hall to another open classroom. Earl's gun fired twice, and Earl swore. Now Jesse Lee burst from their room and a chalkboard eraser sailed down the hall to peg the human in the back of the head. This time Earl didn't even try to use his flashlight. Three more shots, but Jesse Lee was safely back beside Marybelle.

The two vampire girls looked at each other.

"Six?"

"Six," Marybelle agreed. Together they burst from the room and ran toward Earl. They reached the human about the same time that Elroy jumped him from behind, and Earl, who had apparently been trying to reload his gun, collapsed under them. He tried to kick them away, but he was no match for three vampire children, and Marybelle tore the gun from his hand and threw it down the hallway. Then they let the human go and stepped back, the three of them taking up positions around him. But the fight was out of the human, who just sat cringing on the hallway floor.

---

"We still don't know what Randall and DeVitter were planning to do with all of you kids," Marybelle's poppa later told her.

"Teachers, too," Marybelle reminded him. Both students and teachers had come back around at the next sunset, none the worse for wear, to everyone's great relief.

"I heard the cars have been returned to the teachers," he said. "Oh, and Earl is going away for a few years. He just got sentenced."

Marybelle was glad. Maybe that's all Randall and DeVitter wanted to do? Sell twenty-five used cars to some shady character in Mobile for a tenth of their actual value? Marybelle found it hard to believe, but no one had a better explanation. Truth be told, she didn't really care. Her poppa was studying for the bar again, and she hoped he'd pass this time. Better not to bother him anymore.

Outside Jesse Lee and Elroy were waiting for her. She had her bones back from Dr. Randall's desk, and she and Jesse Lee and Elroy were going to go looking for a replacement for the small dog's tooth. Marybelle had found that, while she still liked walking through the woods at night, she liked it a lot better with friends.

Cruising the Mean Streets of Salt Lake City

For the past year I've been commuting by bike fairly regularly. I know it's a somewhat hazardous activity, but my advice is, just stay off the sidewalk. That way I probably won't run you over.

Oh, don't look at me that way. I'm careful. Sometimes I even slow down enough to hear people swear at me. The other day I was told off by a lady going to catch the train. I was trying to climb the overpass, wheezing like a locomotive with my asthma, so she had no trouble keeping up and explaining how I didn't belong on the sidewalk. I agreed with her. I think the road might be a little less steep, but I was too out of breath to tell her so.

I ride what professionals call a wussy bike. It's got springs in front and under the saddle so that I won't notice the bumps so much, and nice fat tires. In fact, the fellow at the bike shop who sold it to me told me it had a very soft ride. Sounded perfect to me. Of course, the road is as hard as always, and not hitting the road in an occasional spill is a skill I have yet to master.

If you're going to get into biking, there are a few things you'll need to get to accessorize your bike. To start with, you must get a helmet. Trust me on this. If you're going to go down South Temple at 30 miles per hour, and any moment someone who didn't see you coming can turn across your lane, you need a helmet, because no matter how quick you're on your brakes, you will hit them. Once you've come out of your coma (which will not involve brain damage because of your helmet), you can thank me for this essential advice. There's a reason why bikers without helmets are called organ donors.

Lights, of course. You'll want to spend about a thousand dollars on those. They'll double the weight of the bike, but with proper lighting you can be sure that when someone runs you over, they'll know right away it was a bike. You'll want a light on the back, and one on the front, and maybe put one on your helmet and one on each arm and, while you're at it, have a fellow with a twenty million lumen lantern run along side. Heaven knows he won't have to run very fast, with all those lights you're carrying along.

You might want to get fenders, too. When I was a kid, fenders were standard equipment on bikes, but, like everything else, today they are optional, along with the wheels, the pedals, the gears, the handlebars, the frame, and the seat. Bikers know that the less a bike weighs, the better it is, so the perfect bike would be a bike that consists of nothing at all. You ride it by running, slightly hunched forward, with your arms stiffly extended. It looks crazy, but you'll be the envy of the other bikers. Of course, the less a bike weighs the more it costs, which means that you'll spend the national budget of a midsized European nation (not one of the bankrupt ones, of course) on a bicycle like that.

But, as we bikers say, nothing is too much to spend on nothing!

Anyway, fenders. A proper biker likes that stylish stripe of mud up his backside, but, as I was saying, I ride a wussy bike. It has fenders.

In addition to fenders I recommend a back rack. A well designed back rack will allow you to have your wife or girlfriend come along for a ride. It's very romantic, particularly while you're brushing and rubbing the dirt and oil out of her white skirt, and assuring her that her foot probably isn't broken where she caught it in the spokes. But you did warn her, right?

Eventually I also bought me a set of pannier bags. They strap to the back rack via a few hooks and clips, which you don't want to lose, because you can be crawling around for a good hour with your thousand dollar head lamp, looking for a hook that is missing and you just haven't noticed yet that it's caught up on your bike's fender. Bonus: they help keep your wife's foot out of the spokes!

Actually, one of the very first accessories I bought (after the helmet) was a new bicycle inner tube. I try to always have a spare one in my pack, along with the tools to change the tire. Something bicycle novices may not know is that the smaller the tire, the tougher it is to change. My 2" wussy tire changes bare handed. In fact, I'm surprised that it doesn't just come off in a sharp turn. Seventy PSI tire pressure FTW! But then you have your 1 1/2", your 3/4", all the way down to a tire so tiny it makes you look as if you're riding around on a pair of giant pizza cutters with rubber painted on the edge. For those you need heavy machinery and nerves of steel, because that tire will take your fingers right off. On the plus side, there's less surface area for the screws and nails some maniac is scattering on SLC roads to hit. Maybe it all comes out even.

After a year I have become fairly acquainted with the bicycle accommodations SLC offers. You can always spot the bike lane, because that's where cars park. We've got lots of those, which is good because people are always complaining that SLC doesn't have enough road side parking. And then there are our "share the road arrows" (sharrows), which most people think are left over from the Saint Patrick's Day parade, because they're green. If you're an old guy like me people normally think you're dealing with dementia, and, aside from honking a lot, normally don't try to run you off the shared lane. They're nice that way.

By the way, if you live in SLC and are looking for a bike, you have a number of options. I cannot say that any of the others are definitely worse, but Guthry Bicycle on 21st South seem to know what they are doing, even if I don't. Don't tell them I sent you, because they don't know me from Adam. Whoever that is.

Employment Opportunities

The older man gave Constance a possessive hug and then held her by the shoulders at arm's length.

"Let me take a look at you, Connie," he said. His voice was strong, deep, powerful. It reminded Marcus of politicians, men who use power the way he used a toothbrush: casually, habitually, and hopefully over the sink, because he was likely to make a mess.

Once the elder Fembrieaux had finished his inspection of his daughter he released her shoulders. He didn't just let go, though. He stroked both hands down her upper arms, paused briefly at the elbows, continued almost to her wrists, before he gave them another squeeze and, slowly, released them.

Marcus had seen lovers be less solicitous. From where he stood, slightly to Constance's right, and a step behind, he couldn't see her facial expression, but the nape of her neck, exposed by the elegant bun in which she wore her hair this evening, was flaming red.

"Po... poppa, I want you to m... meet Marcus," Constance stammered. She never stammered. Not even when she was so furious with him that she was at a loss for words. When that happened she just stared at him until the words would come again, and then the floodgates would open with a deluge of words. But Poppa had her at a loss.

"Sir," Marcus said. He decided not to offer his hand. Instead he made a brief nod of his head.

"Yes," Mr Fembrieaux said. "Connie told me to expect an introduction."

The three of them were standing in front of Cote du Maine, the most exclusive restaurant in town. Mr Fembrieaux had made the reservations, and Constance had warned him, "don't fuck this up," in such tones that Marcus was fully prepared that he would fuck it up, no matter how hard he tried. His only choice would be the manner of fucking up, and he was looking for likely opportunities.

It wasn't that Constance had impossible expectations of him. But she had very specific expectations, and figuring out what they were was the challenge. Afterwards there would have to be a fight, apologies, and explanations, but Marcus knew these things came with the territory of Constance. They were a constant, as he was fond of thinking, a steadying hold in a twisting, confusing, ever turning world, and part of why he loved her.

And he'd never call her Connie.

"Well, well," Mr Fembrieaux looked at Marcus as he might a runty puppy with a broken tail that his daughter brought home. "Let's go inside and get seated, shall we?"

The waiter that lead them to their table was wearing a fitted tux. The aisles were wide. There was a live string quartet playing quietly in a corner. They had no music stands. Marcus expected that they were paid better than top tier members of the local symphony. The menus they were handed had no prices.

Marcus had been debating if he should spend a long time perusing the menu, or if he should quickly pick something and then face the firing squad. Mr Fembrieaux, however, made the decision for him by ordering in quick precise sentences, and all without even glancing at his menu. The waiter nodded respectfully, collected up the menus again, and left them to their threesome.

"I am impressed, sir, by your knowledge of this establishment's menu," Marcus said. Mr Fembreiaux's eyebrows rose.

"I went online before I came and decided what we would have," he explained.

"Of course," Marcus said and smiled. "I believe they have a very palatable Chateau Rothchilds, 2005. Do you mind if I treat us to a bottle?"

Marcus had never been here before, and Chateau Rothchilds was about the only high brow wine label he knew. He picked 2005 out of thin air. He only hoped the bottle wouldn't bankrupt him.

"I'm sorry," Mr Fembrieaux said. "I do not drink alcohol. But we can certainly have that bottle. It'll be my treat. I insist."

That went better than Marcus had expected. He smiled at Constance as her Poppa called over the waiter and consulted about the wine. Apparently Marcus had made a good guess because the waiter bustled off to fetch their wine without complaint.

"Well, I'm glad you had the idea about the wine, especially as I hope to get to know you better," Mr Fembrieaux said. "Constance is my only child, and she is very important to me, as you can imagine."

Marcus had known Constance for almost three years, first quite casually, and for the past year rather more intimately. In all that time Mr Fembrieaux never made an appearance, though Constance received regular cards for her birthday and the other holidays that were commonly remembered by sending cards, each one arriving punctually and signed in the pretty feminine hand of Mr Fembrieaux's secretary. Marcus had an idea that "very important" in Poppa's lexicon headed a list that included regular dental checkups and getting his Bentley serviced every 30,000 kilometers.

"I understand, sir," Marcus said. The trap waiting for him here was to say Constance was important to him, as well. Marcus opted instead for rhetorical judo. "We would have come to see you ourselves, except that our work keeps us occupied every waking moment. It is good that one of us was finally able to find the time."

"Indeed."

Mr Fembrieaux decided to abandon that line of inquiry for the moment and Marcus and Constance found themselves entertaining the old man with stories of how they met, what their crazy friends got up to, and the movies they'd seen lately, all subjects Marcus felt had been carefully chosen to be neutral and inoffensive. Safe territory. Marcus might have relaxed, but he noticed Mr Fembrieaux's hands were quietly resting on the table. They didn't twitch, toy with the silverware, or mess about with the cuff links. Yes, Mr Fembrieaux wore cuff links. Marcus didn't even know where he'd go to buy a set.

Marcus had seen cats stalking their prey with less caution than Mr Fembrieaux was setting him up for the kill. These casual stories were supposed to put him off his guard. Well, Marcus was ready.

Dinner arrived at their table, and the three tucked in. The food tasted expensive and Marcus doubled his estimate for the price of dinner.

When Marcus finally was pushing around a last bite of brandy soaked dessert, Constance excused herself to visit the ladies' room. Mr Fembrieaux merely waited for Constance to be out of earshot and pounced.

"Constance tells me you're a DJ," he said. His tone was pitched to make it sound as if he were interested, but the sneer of distaste on his face was much too visible. "I've never met a DJ before."

"Well, sir," Marcus said, "it's an interesting profession. It requires a knowledge of diverse fields, from music to marketing to psychology. It keeps me on my toes."

Marcus had thrown in the bit about psychology on a whim. He felt it was like baiting a hook with live bait, but he didn't think he had much to lose. That sneer had given away the game too early. Marcus imagined that in matters that didn't involve Constance Mr Fembrieaux had more self control.

"I understand the music and the marketing," Mr Fembrieaux said, then took the bait. "But I don't believe I see the psychology."

"Well, sir, I happen to be a lavatory DJ," Marcus explained. Mr Fembrieaux's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. Marcus meanwhile was wondering where he would go with this. He'd heard the word lavatory DJ on the radio a few weeks ago. It had been a joke.

"I've never even heard of such a thing."

"I'm not surprised. It's not well known, nor much talked about even among the people who employ me, but many of the better establishments have found that playing the same music in the lavatory that plays in the dining area noticeably reduces the enjoyment of the dining experience. So they call me to assess the situation. I gauge the dining experience, and build a play list for them that is precisely tailored to the individual restaurant."

Mr Fembrieaux had forgotten to sneer. He started to look confused. Marcus wasn't sure what was going on behind Poppa's power broker facade, but he had clearly taken control of this conversational vehicle and gone around an unexpected corner.

"In fact," Marcus put the pedal to the floor and went around the next corner on two wheels, "just last week I was checking out this very restaurant. I declined to offer them my services, though. The lavatory speakers just aren't up to the task. Currently they're being used to pipe in the live music from the floor, which is a terrible idea."

The bit about piping the live music into the lavatory was a guess, but Marcus felt good about it. He was now cruising down Snob-professional Boulevard, heading for the Freudian Parkway.

"Why is it a terrible idea?" Mr Fembrieaux seemed curiously intent on the answer. He sounded almost plaintive. Marcus wasn't quite sure how he managed to hit a nerve, but he knew better than to let off the gas.

"It's a bit of Freudian analysis, I suppose, and it has its critics for that reason, but at least one explanation is that the dining room caters to the oral impulse, while the lavatory is all about our anal selves. When a person steps from the dining room to the lavatory, and is accompanied by the same music, that entrains the two impulses and, well, you don't want people to be thinking about bathroom matters when they come back out to eat. But whatever the analysis says, from a purely statistical perspective, a bathroom that has its own correctly designed play list means more frequent repeat customers who feel comfortable spending more on their food."

"This has been studied?"

"The restaurants who employ me have made their own studies, yes. I don't know that the practice is yet common enough for larger scale studies."

When Constance returned to the table a minute later, she looked at her Poppa and at Marcus with some concern. Marcus wasn't sure what she expected to find, but it wouldn't have been a pensive Poppa and a smiling Marcus.

"What did you two talk about while I was gone," she asked.

Poppa was silent, and glanced up at Marcus, who was still puzzling how his throw-away joke had put the old man into a mood.

"We just talked about my job," Marcus shrugged. "It's all stuff you and I have talked about before."

"Isn't it interesting?" she said. "He does get to meet all kinds of people."

Constance was clearly relieved, and the rest of the evening was spent reminding each other to keep in touch and then the old man got in a taxi and left for his hotel.

"That went a lot better than I expected," Constance said.

Marcus held his peace. When he fucked up, the fallout didn't have to be immediately apparent.

A week later, Constance met Marcus at the door when he came home in the wee hours from running a dance party on the other side of town.

"Why are you still up?"

"What the hell did you tell my father?" Constance wanted to know. She spoke through gritted teeth, and Marcus knew the day of reckoning had arrived.

"Why?"

"He wants to hire you. As a lavatory DJ."

Now it was Marcus's turn to be confused. He did what he had learned was safest in a situation like this, and just stood there, waiting for more explanation.

"Poppa owns several restaurants through a holding company. Where we ate was one of them. Now he writes that you told him you are a lavatory DJ and he wants to hire you to design play lists for his restaurants. All of them. All over the world."

Marcus wasn't sure if Mr Fembrieaux was playing a gambit to keep him away from Constance, or if he had just invented a new career path for liberal arts majors. He did know what the right response was to Constance at this point.

"Constance, will you marry me?"