Subject 8437

Okay. Subject 8437 from group two has put on an additional 23% of muscle mass since the last reporting period. Cognitive functions are up 48% with a possible improvement in bottom line intelligence quotient - don't ask me how that is even possible. Reaction time is up 54% with quick twitch muscle response that has to be seen to be believed. Eye hand coordination is at the very limits of what is accepted as 'human'. And that does not do the phenomenon justice. Subject 8437 is apparently ambidextrous and is able to split focus between at least two simultaneous objectives - its amazing, if you will pardon my editorializing.

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Subject 8437 responded to one of the verbal quiz questions with the correct answer and my first name. I did not provide confirmation of my name. I did not react at all, which, looking back, might very well have been all the confirmation that Subject 8437 needed. I was not jarred by the sound of my own name the way one would expect if someone called you by an incorrect name. All the proper protocols have been followed and I can not explain how Subject 8437 gleaned this information. Hearing tests out at the extreme of human normal but that is not enough to have heard my name in the staff's common rooms. I will not type what I am thinking. Even with what we are attempting to create through this process, I cannot bring myself to believe that even a Perfected human could be capable of that. We should reassess the reaction time test data to compare nerve-muscle reaction with visual and auditory prompts.

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Subject 8437 now speaks fluent Spanish. I am now banned from the vicinity of the living or testing facilities now that Subject 8437 knows Spanish. We introduced an intern with limited knowledge of the testing process but who happened to be proficient in the language. Subject 8437, as hard as it may be to believe, is apparently telepathic. I can't believe I just typed that. A special committee has been formed to go over all the data from scratch to determine when this ability may have developed. Another committee is going over every single component of the Perfected process in an attempt to determine how we could have engendered this ability.

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Colonel Sanders - may I take this moment to say that this is the worst code name ever for our Marine liaison, but she seems to actually enjoy it. At any rate, she has been campaigning to have Subject 8437 spar with combat trained Marines. She posits that with the unexplained telepathy reaction times would have to be better when faced with live opponents versus the automated antagonists provided during the original testing parameters. Subject 8437 has not faced living opponents to this point and there is a concern that he could be reticent. Colonel Sanders points out that at some point that potential reticence was going to have to be over come. I have a new concern. If Subject 8437 has actually developed telepathic abilities, will lethal performance actually be possible?

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Subject 8437 asked an intern to define freedom. The intern stood mute - as required by protocol whenever Subject 8437 addresses anyone other than a Proctor. Under the current circumstances, that was not enough. The intern was interrogated for 16 hours on what she was thinking just before the question was asked and immediately following the question. I have listened to the transcripts and I have no idea what was gained through any of it. What do you think of when someone asks you about freedom? Can you express it all in words? Do you even think about freedom? Or does your mind jump from image to image to sounds to concepts to speeches to experiences? How do you express all of that in a poorly lit room with three interrogators?

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One of the Proctors is dead. The man walked into the cafeteria, paid good money for two servings of the strawberry shortcake, and sat down and ate them both in huge mouthfuls and then he fell over dead. The man was deathly allergic to strawberries. He had carried an epi-pen since he was four years old. The official story is that it was suicide by strawberry.

I have concerns. We were not intending to create a telepath. We have no idea how such a thing would work. Is it like sight? Can he sense our thoughts and then blink or "close his eyes" and the data from our minds turns off? Can he choose what thoughts he examines the way we choose what we look at with our eyes? Or is it more like hearing? Are our thoughts always bombarding him? Does he have to learn to tone us out like a couple having a conversation in a busy cafeteria? And would a telepath just be able to listen?

We have gone too far. Our best intentions and all our plans have not prepared us for this. I need another dirnk.

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I am sorry. So very sorry. It was all a lie. It was all designed to keep the government funds rolling in. This "project" started out as a way to perfect humans in ways that the military found valuable and that I hoped would advance the species in ways that the military could not dream of. But, after a few initial successes that could be replicated with a proper mix of human growth hormone and steroids, the results started drying up and that brought on threats that the funding would start drying up as well. I had gotten used to the money and the lifestyle that came with it.

Colonel Sanders - Laura figured out what I was doing. That was when I decided to arrange her mishap with her insulin. I knew I could get away with it and I have to this point. But I had not taken into account the guilt. I am not this person. I was never meant to be this person. All of the "subjects", the ones who were not hired actors but legitimate patients, have been freed with enough hard cash to find another life since they can never go back to their old ones.

This account with the most recent of my fraudulent journal entries will be released to the press, the government, and the board of directors of the companies who were most heavily invested in this project. It just got so out of hand. To keep the money my claims had to become more and more encouraging to generate the funds that I needed. The "results" went beyond the physical and even into the realm of science fiction. God, I can't believe I sent up reports detailing telepathy. Oh, the greed of necio men.

Father's Day Tid-Bits

I was 28 and Mark (my brother) was 27 and Dad had died about 3 years before. Mark was driving us somewhere and there was a cardboard box in the road. "Don't hit the box. There could be a puppy inside." Mark laughed and looked at me like I was nuts. "Didn't Dad ever tell you that? He and I were driving somewhere and he told me not to hit this plastic bag in the road because it might have a puppy in it."

Mark laughed and said," Puppy, hell, he told me it was a baby! How did you get off so easy?"

Dad had just been chewing out my baby brother Jason about something and Jason was the only one who had not come to the dinner table. To understand this story you need to know that in our house you could say whatever you wanted to say no matter how crass or crude or disrespectful or honest or heartfelt - as long as it was funny. God help you if it was not funny.

Like I said, the whole family was at the table and Jason was apparently not coming since he and Dad had just had it out. Dad looked into the living room from his chair at the table and said, "Does it make you feel bad when I look at you with this face?"

Jason shot back, "You got another one?" And the rest of us just cracked up. I am not talking about polite laughter or a few giggles. I am talking about red-faced, tears down the cheeks laughing. I think Mark may have shot mashed potato out of his nose. At least I hope to God that was potato. And my mom cackled. If you have ever heard my mom laugh uncontrollably, then you know that "cackled" is the only what to describe it.

I looked at my Dad and he was smiling and smirking and I could tell he was struggling to come up with a reply. He just HAD to say something in rebuttal but was coming up blank. "Hush," I said, "there is nothing you are thinking of that will top that line. He won. Shut up and eat your pork chop." That was the only time in my life that I EVER told my dad to shut up and he was smirking at me as he bit into this pork chop.

I was 13 years old and was laying in my parents bed next to my dad and we were having one of our Saturday night conversations. I have written about them before - we would talk about anything and everything and I would almost always come away having learned something. This time, I think my dad might have learned something. My dad told me the story of the Titanic and how the survivors could hear the people in the water and how some of the last life boats were full of people and even one more person would cause the boat to capsize and kill everyone.

My dad had a way with words and painted the picture of the the icy cold water and the total inky blackness where voices of misery and hopelessness would find their way into your soul. "What would you do? What could you do in that situation?"

Did I mention I was 13? As you might be able to tell, I never got the feeling that Dad dumbed things down for me. I sat there and thought about the situation for a bit and then came up with an answer. I didn't like my answer much. I did not really want to say it. But I finally said, " I guess I would do the Christian thing."

Dad jumped on this. What was the Christian thing? Leave the people in the water to die so as not to sacrifice the others in the boat? Pull the others in and all die together? He reminded me that if one more person was on the boat, it would sink and kill everyone.

I replied, "That's why I am saying you would have to do the Christian thing. Christ took our spot on the cross. As a Christian, you gotta get out of that boat. You have to give up your seat for one of the folks in the water. You've been saved. You don't know if the person in the water has yet. You have to buy them more time to find Christ. You know you're going to heaven"

Dad just looked at me. I have thought about that look for years and years now. Back then, my dad knew everything and never ever made a mistake and I was convinced this whole thing had been an exercise to lead me to this revelation. Now, I know my dad had his own flaws and foibles and I honestly think I solved a puzzle that he could not.

My dad and I car pooled to Valdosta State College when we were both going to school. One afternoon on the ride home he seemed particularly annoyed. I asked him what was up and he said that his anthropology professor had ticked him off. The guy had said that only the woman was certain of who the father was of her children.

That hit Dad wrong. If you have read the story about my Grandpa, you know the kind of things that can happen if things hit a Mancil wrong. Dad challenged the professor. I believe his exact words were, "You don't know what the hell you are talking about!"

He went on to say, "If she were that much of a slut, even she won't know who the father is. She might be able to narrow it down to the Northern Fleet, but that would be about it. Other than that, your statement, given with the full authority of your professorship, has all the worth of a cold, crusty turd."

The professor, an obviously shrewd man, apologized to my father if he had said something that offended him and then asked why my dad was so emotionally invested in this. My dad responded with, "I have a wife at home. I have no idea what she is doing right now, but I promise you, that whatever it is, I approve of it."

And ladies and gentlemen, if you were wondering what kind of trust you must have in a marriage - that is it. You have to trust blindly and totally and if you can't or if your partner is not worthy, then you don't need to be married.

We had a washing machine that was on the fritz. It would get stuck in the agitate cycle and just ruin a load of clothes. The Sears repairman had been out about 3 times and still had not gotten it fixed. It had only ruined some the work clothes that us boys used at that point. But then, one night, it got stuck and ruined an entire load of my mom's clothes that she wore as a teacher. They were a little more expensive than the t-shirts and stuff that had gone before and this was also the fourth time this happened and did I mention it was my MOM's clothes?

Well, she wound my dad up good and then sent us all off to Sears with the washing machine in the back of the truck. We pulled around back of the Sears and Dad had us dump the washing machine on the back of their loading dock. I think Mom's ruined clothes were still in the stinking thing.

I was about 15 or so and Mark is 18 months younger than me and we are quiet as Dad leads us through the back entrance of the store. I still wonder about what the folks thought as they saw us coming through there. I wonder even more about what they thought when we came back through.

We came out on the sales floor by the customer service desk where the manager was located. This issue had gone on so long that the guy knew my dad by name. He asked my dad how he could help and Dad responded, " The washing machine you sold me is F'd up. I want another one." You all know what "F'd" means, right? I am trying to maintain the illusion that this is family friendly.

We walked all through the store heading to the large appliance section with the manager offering another service trip, to replace the motor on the machine, and anything else he could think of to deal with this crazy person and his two sons plowing through his store. To everything the man said, my dad replied, "The washing machine you sold me is F'd up. I want another one."

We finally get to the washing machine area and Dad asks Mark, "Baby, is that about like the one we had?" Mark replied that it was and I remember being amazed that he could speak. I don't know if I could have.

"Load it up," and we did. As I bent down to pick it up, I looked at the store manager and gave him a look that I hope said, "I know this is nuts but I have to live with him."

We proceeded to go back the exact way we came in only this time carrying a washing machine. To every protest, my dad's only reply was ,"The washing machine you sold me is F'd up. I want another one."

When we got to the loading dock, Mark again found his voice to point out that this washing machine did not have a drain hose and so Dad ripped the one from the old washing machine off and threw that into the back of the truck. We loaded up the new washing machine and left. Never signed anything or paid anything or said anything other than," The washing machine you sold me is F'd up. I want another one." And that washing machine lasted my mom another 2o plus years. When it finally gave up the ghost, Mark went over to her house and stripped parts off of it. I still have the starter knob from that washing machine in my medicine cabinet right now.

I was working night shift at the Walmart DC in Douglas and I would get home around 2 or 3 in the morning and sometimes my dad would be sitting up in his hospital bed that we had in the living room and we would talk for a little bit before I went to bed.

I remember on this night I was in an especially good mood for some reason. I walked in through the kitchen door and had a big stupid grin on my face. And then I saw my Dad crying. I had never seen my Dad cry. I came up to his bed and stood just out of reach. If he could not reach me, then this might not be real. He reached out for me and whispered, "Come here."

And I took his hand and he pulled me into him and wrapped his arms around me as I wrapped mine around him. I felt his stubble on my neck and could smell his distinct scent as well as old cigarette smoke. And he cried. I have no idea how long. I held him. He held me. And he cried.

We all knew by this point that he was dying and we all decided that we would not bury him until he was dead. We were ALL going to live for as long as ALL of us were living. That night was the one and only time our decided reality was interrupted by the one the rest of you live in. Finally, he sniffed loudly, right in my ear. "Okay," he said. "Go to bed."

And I went to bed. I woke up the next day and I never said anything about it and neither did he. It was like it had never happened. And I never told anyone about it either. No one. Not my mom or my brothers or even my wife. This is the first time I have even written about it.

There was an older man in our church named Joe who really enjoyed talking to my dad. Dad would spend hours talking to Joe. When Joe was in hospice and finally ready to leave this world, our preacher and Dad went to visit him. The preacher told this story at Dad's funeral saying that Dad taught him about service and ministering during this visit. Joe had complained about this feet being sore. Dad moved his chair down to the foot of the bed and took off Joe's socks and spent the rest of the visit conversing with the other two men while rubbing Joe's feet. The preacher said that the relief was obvious and Joe thanked Dad profusely as they left that night.

I like a lot of you folks who will be reading this blog. I have some really close ties to some of you. I don't know if I will ever touch your damn feet.

I was thirteen and riding back from the sawmill with Dad one summer afternoon reading one of my comic books when he looked over at me and said," I really enjoy talking with you. You don't look at the world the way everyone else does." I still consider this the best, greatest, most meaningful compliment that I have ever gotten in my entire life. There is an idea in the South that you are not a man until your father acknowledges that you are a man. This was my moment.

Jason named his daughter Raelyn - Ray for my dad and lyn for my mom, Carolyn. Dad was fresh out of the hospital and I was driving him over to see his first grandchild for the first time when he looked over at me and said, "Raelyn, huh. You think we should feel honored?"

"Are you serious? YOU should. She is named after you and Mom. I am just along for the ride." I still have no idea if the man was really thick enough to think that I figured into the naming or if he was trying to be nice to me.

Best of all I was there with Raelyn and her parents when Dad got to hold her. He only did it once and she is the only grandchild that he ever met on this side of heaven.

I was 14 and Mark was 12 and we got into a foot race with Dad. We ran from the highway, down the dirt road to our house, down our drive to the kitchen door. And Dad beat us. It was not even close. He was huffing and puffing and Mom was worried that he would have a heart attack. And he was so freaking happy! He was laughing and smiling in between coughing and sputtering and he was the epitome of JOY.

My cousins, Micah and Amy, were the ones who had to tell me that my dad died. I was living in Statesboro, GA, going to school and rooming with Micah. Amy drove me the two hours home to Douglas. We went straight to the funeral home around 11pm only to find that my mom had not allowed them to move the body from the hospital until I got there.

It was a smart move on her part. I had been to that room and rooms like it for the past several years as Dad was in and out of hospitals slowly dying of heart disease. It was strange how we adjusted each time. Dad would be in bad health and you would think it could not get any worse. He would go to the hospital, come out and it would be worse. And then we would do it again and again over and over for the last couple of years of his life.

I walked into the room and I remember seeing my mom standing near him. I know Mark was in the room and I think my cousin Joanne might have been there too but I am not sure. I went to his bed without really saying anything to anyone. I looked down at him and he was not really there any more.

I understood why some pictures of ghosts have the wailing face with the open mouth frown. My dad lay there with just such a frown on his face and with his eyes not quite closed. I put my hand on his chest and the other hand on his hair and bent down to kiss his forehead. "Baby, he's cold," warned my mother.

I never said anything but I was ever so briefly annoyed with her for that. He had been dead for hours - of course he would be cold. Did she think I was that naive? And then my lips touched his forehead and it was the coldest, most pervasive lack of warmth I have ever felt in my life. I kept my lips there in defiance of the cold. When faced with death there is not anything of consequence that you can do, but I held my lips to his forehead until my own lips grew cold and only then did I pull away.

I was 17 and with some friends of mine at school a couple of hours after school was over when we saw my dad and my brother Mark at the far end of the student parking lot. He was a truck driver at this point and mom was teaching by now and he had come up to tell her bye and had seen my brother and stopped to hug him good bye too. Janet Taylor, a friend of mine, looked at me and said, "What's wrong?" I gave her a quizzical look because I really did not know what she was talking about. "Why is he hugging him?"

"My dad just does that. He is going out on a trip for a few days so if we are around when he leaves, he hugs us." I did not tell her the rest of the story. A few weeks before this, Dad had told us boys that he was a bad father. He explained that since his family - his parents - had died when he was so young that he had not learned to be affectionate. He remembered being a little boy and trying to tell one of his aunts what he wanted for Christmas and at an all too young age, realizing that she did not care. He had spent most of his life learning to not be that vulnerable ever again.

He said that he was sorry for being such a bad father and that even though it did not come naturally to him, he was going to hug us from time to time. And he asked us to understand that he loved us dearly no matter how awkward his signs of affection might seem. And with that, he made a point of hugging us at odd times for no apparent reason at all. Yeah. Such a bad father.

How It All Ties Together

I don't know much about my grand parents. I know more about Mom's folks because she had her parents for longer than my dad did. My Dad lost his family when he was very young. My understanding is that his baby sister, and his mom, and then his dad all died within just a few years of one another. I have written stories about that back in the day when I did things like this with pen and paper and I may publish them here some time down the road.

But there is one story about my grandfather that Dad told me about when I was just a kid that came in really useful. It saved me about $18,000.00. Hard to believe that a story told to me 30 years ago about a man I never met could have that kind of impact. But it did.

My dad was not blind to his father's faults. He did not idolize the man at all. I remember him once telling me that he only loved him because he was "Daddy". I say this so that you will understand, like I did at the time, that this was an honest assessment of my grandfather.

Grandpa was basically a handy-man. He was a bit of a painter, carpenter, plumber, mechanic, and all around laborer. If it needed doing, and you were willing to pay, Grandpa could hook you up.

He was a big man - apparently over six feet tall (why couldn't that gene have made the journey to my chromosomes?) And he was a proud man. I heard a story from a peer of his that as young men, they were part of a group making bets about who was stronger. They were using 50 pound bags of horse feed and carrying it as far as they could. I have heard a couple of different versions of this story and in some cases the bags weighed 100 pounds and in one telling they were 200. But the one constant was the distance traveled by Grandpa and the number of bags he carried.

After a couple of the guys had gone down the street and back with a bag in each hand, it came time for Grandpa to make his attempt. The guys started to laugh when Grandpa threw a bag over each shoulder and then pulled another two under each arm. He then walked the length of the street. And then he turned the corner. He walked the block with the other guys catching up to him once they saw him clear the corner. He walked away with a sore back but with their cash. And a story that old men would tell me before I had even seen my 10th birthday.

My dad and I would have these great talks late on Saturday nights before I was licensed to drive. We would sit up and discuss the finer points of his Sunday school lessons or girls he had dated when he was a teenager. Politics and philosophy were fair game and on some nights, when he was wistful or maybe just lonely for people and places of long ago, he would tell me stories of his childhood.

One night we sat in a haze of his cigarette smoke and I really have no idea what brought this story to light. He just started talking about a time when he was around four or five and having to help his dad load up fire wood for the winter. I have always pictured the scene to be by a pond that would be perfect for fishing in spring time but I realize that Dad never said so.

Apparently the owner of the land had wanted the trees cleared out and cut for firewood. Grandpa had agreed to do the job with payment being a truck load of firewood. All of the trees had been cut and sawed into fireplace size logs by the time my dad was on the scene loading. Dad said that the land owner had come up to the truck and had made what Dad thought was an innocent comment. At least it could have been innocent. Dad was not altogether sure.

The man asked, "About got enough fire wood, there?" That was all he said. But it hit Grandpa the wrong way.

Dad stopped in his telling of the story to say that he did not know for sure if the man was implying that they were taking more than their fair share or if he was just impressed with how well they had stacked the truck. And, as dad pointed out, it was a big truck. "But," Dad said, "the guy knew what kind of truck we had. It was a big, half ton truck with wood panels on the side. He knew that before they ever made the deal."

As I said, the question hit Grandpa wrong. He paused, sat down the log he was about to pass up to my dad, turned, and said, "boy, roll that last one back to me." Dad did as he was told and still had not grasped the situation because he just stood there with what he thought later must have been a blank stare. "And the next one," said Grandpa as he reached his hand back for it.

They proceeded to unload the whole truck log by log just as they had loaded it. I don't know what the land owner was doing or saying during what must have been an extended amount of time. Dad never said and I find it hard to believe as I type this that I never asked. I would really like to know now but will have to wait until I am re-united with the stars of this little drama to find out.

Once the truck was empty, Dad told me that it was not enough for Grandpa. Dad said that he stripped a limb from one of the nearby trees that had not been cut and used it as a brush to sweep the bark and chips out of the back of the truck. I remember my dad sweeping his arm back and forth in sync with this decades old memory of his dad.

Grandpa looked the man in the eye and said," You don't owe me a damn thing."

I remember my jaw tightening at this part of the story. I felt Grandpa's anger at having been slighted and was PROUD of the fact that I was related to a man who would not tolerate any insult or slight no matter how small.

My dad must have seen that in me. He must have. He said," There is something in that story that brings out pride and defiance and stubbornness that is really appealing. There is something about the idea of going through life without bowing your head to any man that is appealing to us."

I nodded my head but did not say anything. There was something in my Dad's voice that I had already learned meant that the negative was coming. That there was something wrong with this story and I stayed quiet because I could not see it. I knew I was on the wrong side of this but I just could not see how.

Dad said," What Daddy did was prideful and tough. And he kept his self-respect. Hell, he made no compromise to his pride. But it was cold that winter. Damn cold. And he had a two year old daughter and a four year old son and a young wife and they eventually ran out of furniture to burn because he couldn't have simply said, 'You better believe that is a lot of firewood,' and gone about his business."

Thirty years later I am sitting in a room with the Senior Director for Sam's Club Logistics and our regional HR manager. I have been with Walmart 18 and a half years at this point. I have traveled around the company learning new things and learning how to help a building get better.

I got involved in management because, since I started out on the floor, I knew just how hard the work can be. I wanted to help make the job better for folks by trying to make sure we followed common sense as much as possible. I also brought the idea that most folks want to do the right thing most of the time. If you give them a structure where success is rewarded and you hold accountable those folks that make life harder on the rest, them people will do great things no matter what the profession.

I had a good run and was part of some really good teams. The last team I was a part of in Alabama was named Distribution Center of the Year just before I transferred out. And the building before that went from being one of the worst general merchandise warehouses to one of the company's best. I take a great deal of pride in being a part of those teams.

And then I decided to see what the Sam's side of the business was like. I got there and within a couple of months our General Manager was fired for some reason. I was named the Operations manager in charge until a replacement GM could be found. We spent almost 3 months without a GM and there were still huge chunks of the Sams business that I had not had any kind of training.

We get a new GM and I requested to be sent to an existing Sams DC for training. We could not do that at the time. We have another GM who comes out to see how we do things and he is shocked at the things I don't know about concerning the resources and systems in Sams. Our GM is out with a health issue for a couple of months. Our GM comes back for a month and then resigns.

Three months later I am in the meeting with the Regional Director and the HR manager. I am asked to justify why I still have a job. What have I done to deserve to continue with this company? I point out recent improvements and massive changes that have been made in our DC over the past year. Absolutely none of that matters. I am told again and again that each of my examples are simply the bare minimum of expectations.

I am told that they were hoping that I would have some kind of answer to these questions. That based on the building's performance, I could very well have been fired if I don't have some sort of justification. I am told that I have not answered the question. I tell them that I have answered the question but that this meeting is not about answers.

I am then told that they will be coming back in a few months and if our building is not performing at a certain level, that managers will not have jobs. I am further told that normal protocol of write ups and such will not be followed. People will just be shown the door.

I sat there in that meeting and realized that this meeting was to make me afraid. This meeting was to shame me. This meeting was to humiliate me.

And I have my pride. There was a time in my life when there was no way I would have tolerated this.

I sat there and fought against what I desperately wanted to tell them. To keep this a family blog, I wanted to tell them off, throw my discount card and badge on the desk with my work keys and walk out. There is a time in my life when I would have done just that.

But my wife and I were so close to being completely out of debt. And I was due a bonus at the end of the year worth about 12 grand and then stock rights in March worth almost another six. I so wanted to look at those two men and tell them they didn't owe me a damn thing and then shake the dust off my shoes as I walked out the door.

Instead, I kept saying to myself, "It was cold that winter. It was cold that winter. It was cold that winter. It was cold that winter."

And I took it. I just took it. And I started looking for another job knowing that as soon as the bonus and the stock hit, I was out of there. And it is funny how God looks after us.

When the Lord led me back to him when I was at the very lowest point in my life, he used a friend of mine out in Texas. A few months back, my wife's uncle took seriously ill. We went out to Texas to say our good-byes and one night that week I had dinner with my old friend and his family.

I told him about the meeting and my decision to leave the company. He used to work for Walmart as well and understood the stress of leaving a position and a place where you had spent so many years. The conversation shifted to his job and how well he was doing and just how good things were with his new company.

I quipped that, "If things are that good, do they have a branch in Indy?"

He said, "We do but it ain't in Indianapolis. Its in some place called Plainfield."

My jaw dropped since Plainfield is 20 minutes from where I live. The plant is actually 22 minutes with traffic. My brother loves the fact that I went all the way out to Texas to find a job 20 minutes from my house. He says," Non-Christian people call that a coincidence."

So all is well. I still like Walmart and may even work for them again some time in the future. The day I gave my notice, a former boss of mine called me up about an opening in his DC and wanted to know if I was interested in relocating again. I laughed and told him I was just going in to work to give my notice. He was shocked and when he heard the story, he was a little angry.

Priscilla and I are very happy in Indy, but if we ever do relocate to his current city, I have been instructed to send him my resume. That felt good as I went in to end my employment with a company that I had given over 18 years of my life.

If my dad had not told me the story of the cold winter, I don't know if I would have held my tongue. I don't know if I would have put my pride secondary to my family's security. And it has worked out great. I am happy. The new job is great. Priscilla and I are saving for a house and planning out our retirement.

But I am my Grandfather's grandson. I feel the same pride and anger over the same slights that he would and I so want to lash out. I would love to make the grand, symbolic gesture that amounts to a righteously extended middle finger. I didn't do it. But I would really like to have done it. Maybe the next generation will not even feel the need to respond to such pettiness.

But man, he swept the freaking bark out of the back! Who does that?