Things to Ponder, Eh?


THOUGHT OF THE DAY: What ‘bowl’ is the bowl in Superbowl referring to?

Okay, this is very interesting. I wanted to wait until the Superbowl was over so I can officially whine. I was rooting for the Steelers, since I would then get an easy week of no homework in Science – I’m not that into football, but my teacher is – and now we will probably have two or more projects. Ugh, thanks Packers!

Okay, you guys don’t come here to read my ranting. Let’s get on to the story I’ve been posting segments of, Elemental Warfare. Once again, I put in a little bit of yesterday’s, but I still recommend reading from the beginning.

***

The private rooms were scaled down versions of the overall restaurant. At least, most were. But my dad’s was different. His was more of a ‘cozy-professional’ look. With dining room chairs that were surprisingly comfy, roaring fires that gave off the perfect amount of heat, and a beautiful cherry wooden desk, his personal room was the ideal meeting place. Not to mention that all his orders were served first and immediately, so they were always steaming. As I walked in, I was let down yet again – my dad was on time. It was a forlorn, foolish, futile hope that he wouldn’t be there, but of course he always was. Every time I walk in there for meals, I swear a little piece of my heart chips away.

“Savannah. You’re late. Again.” That was my father, short and sweet. Well, minus the ‘sweet’.

“Sorry, Father. I got out of work-“

“No excuses, Savannah! You know that. Now sit, your dinner is getting cold.” I was about to ask if he had ordered for me, but I held my tongue. He wouldn’t appreciate that.

As I sat down, I saw my plate composed entirely of green. Sometimes I swear he does things just to test my limits. He knows I hate green food. Come on, you can do it, I thought. He was staring at me, presumably not caring if his dinner – two steaks, rare, with a single mini scoop of mashed potatoes on top of a baked potato, assorted spices on the side – got cold. Grudgingly, I took a hearty scoop of one of the green objects on my plate: green beans. After I swallowed, he started eating.

There was never any talk over dinner. No “How was your day?”, “Was work fun?”, or “It’s your birthday tomorrow, any ideas on what you want?”. Zilch. Zip. Nada. And today was no different, with utter silence filling the room to overcapacity. You would have heard forks scraping against plates, but both of us were careful not to dent or scratch the plates in any way. You would have heard breathing, except I took care to make my breaths near silent, and my dad must have done the same. Or maybe he didn’t breathe. Who knows, who knows…

Once the table had been cleared, and my dad had a glass of wine in his hands, he spoke. “Savannah.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Did you receive tomorrow’s schedule memo?” My father has this odd obsession with memos. Every night he has his assistant, Kassandra, deliver memos to all staff. Once, she complained and told him everyone lived all over town and that it was too hard to deliver them all by hand and maybe she could just send them an email? In response, he built a hotel and had the staff live there. They weren’t the only people there, not even close, but they all lived there for free. Yup, that was my dad- what’s the most extravagant solution to the problem? Okay, multiply that by ten.

“Of course, Father.”

“Good. I expect you to be fully prepared for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes, Father.” What was happening tomorrow afternoon? I hadn’t actually read the memo.

He looked at me for a moment, studying me like a mice that had just been injected with yellow fever. It was a very unsettling feeling.

“Dismissed.” he said, still scrutinizing me. I nodded quickly, and proceeded to scurry out of the large room. As soon as the exquisite wooden door shut behind me, I started running. If I hurried, I might be able to catch up on tomorrow’s schedule and get more than five hours of sleep.

After a solid hour of commute, what with terrible traffic, the late night drunks coming in from a straight five hours of drinking, and crowded elevators, I finally plopped into my desk. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t chance changing into something more comfortable and falling asleep. Still, there was absolutely zero chance of me being able to read this late. I walked through my apartment – when my dad built the hotel, he made two special apartments right next to each other, one for him and one for me – over to the kitchen. It was painted bright yellow, and it certainly woke me up a bit, but I needed something more. Like a leopard stalks it’s prey, I scouted the counter. Sweet victory. The neon red coffee pot had been hiding behind the blender. As I grabbed it, I noticed a green stick note on top. It read, Create a Lesson Plan Project due Sunday. It was already Saturday, and my teacher had already given me an extension, thus it was due on a weekend. The project wasn’t even started, and I was supposed to have it in her email inbox in less than twelve hours! Coffee wasn’t going to do, not anymore. I quickly leaped to the biggest cabinet and pulled out the espresso machine. I turned it on and faster than a ninja, coffee beans were waiting to be ground inside of it. I pressed the button for a double shot and practically sprinted to the sub-zero fridge. Opening it, my eyes found the Red Bull – on the very top shelf. I went to the small pantry and pulled out the stool. I was still very short, and I tried not to drink coffee or energy drinks, but I needed the boost. Desperately. I remembered how important this project was. It was almost a quarter of our grade for the semester, and I was already docked five points for the extension. Opening the can of Red Bull, I downed it in a mere three gulps. Soon after I had thrown the can into recycling, a beeping noise sounded throughout the room. Bleep! Bleep! Bleep! The espresso! I grabbed the cup and dashed back to my desk. Booting up the computer, I snatched the memo and started to read. Blah, blah, breakfast rental, blah, blah, boogie boarding competition … I decided to skip down to the afternoon, since my dad had said to be ready for it. Blah, blah, lunch with my dad and mom, blah –

Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait! My mom was coming here tomorrow? I only saw her four times a year, since she was on parole from a few DUI’s, and that was the most she could get out of the judge. I had just seen her a month ago, so it was a bit odd that she was coming down here so soon.

I had to move past it. I had to get over this shocked feeling. I had to keep on progressing – my project was due tomorrow, and if she was coming, I would have to work all morning to make up for not working the afternoon shift. Pushing the memo aside, I turned towards my computer monitor, logged in, and chugged the espresso. Okay, the Colosseum utilized arches, multiple levels, and trap doors …

***

Whaddya think? Her mom’s a crook, dad a businessman, and a successful one at that. Hmm. Things to ponder, eh? Leave your thoughts in the comments, and don’t forget to sign up for notifications!

Sincerely, Lemons

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2 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by Freedom, by the way on February 7, 2011 at 4:03 pm

    The Bowl in Super Bowl, Rose Bowl, Orange Bowl, etc. originated in reference to the shape of the stadiums where FB is played.

    Now your story:
    Confusion–you say memos are hand-delivered to staff who live in a hotel Dad built, and Savanah hasn’t read hers. Then–she’s got an hour commute!! I would put something in the paragraph about the memo/hotel that all staff live there except she & her Dad.(I know you talk about that later–maybe pull that info up?)

    Mom on parole for DUIs: I suggest doing a little internet research to find out DUI, parole laws in NJ. If you’re out on parole, you’re not IN jail. You just have to report to a parole officer at certain times, say once a week. However, if you wanted the Mom to be IN jail for some sort of crime (I don’t know DUI laws in NJ, may fit or not) and allowed to go home on a certain schedule for visits and then return to jail–I have heard of that being done. Again, you’ll need to do a little research. You probably think I’m being too picky, but readers do want their fiction to ring true. I read a lot of “thriller crime” novels–the authors have done a trememdous amount of research to make sure everyting is based on how the world really works. If you don’t trust internet research, maybe you know someone in law enformcement or the justice area you could ask?

    The paragraph that begins with the commute is about the longest paragraph I’ve ever read. (smile)

    LOVE how you’re developing the character of Dad. He sounds like the devil himself!

    I’ll be looking for more! (And maybe YOU will inspire me to also take up the creative pen!)

    You

    Reply

    • I was really confused about that. Thanks for clearing that up. I just think that’s so weird. Why not the Super oval then? Ha!
      You’re right. I need to clear up the whole hand-delivered thing. Maybe just hand-delivered to the apartments? Things to Ponder, Eh?
      Interesting! I really have to look into that. This is a first draft, though, so consider yourself the first editor!
      Hehe! I just was having trouble finding a good place to cut it off.
      Well, he’s a diamond. Many different facets, many different sides … just like everyone, I think. It’s fun to write him, though!
      I hope so! Writing is like playing with Barbies, or action figures, and simply recording what happens. It’s easy once you have the idea, and I hope you start soon!
      Thanks for being every day. It’s great to know that someone is reading.
      Sincerely, Lemons

      Reply

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