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Walter Miller's Journal

6/30/2014

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                Walter C. Miller’s Journal

                  Sac City, May 10, 2092

               (In 2014, Sac City is known as
                   Sacramento, California)

            Keeping track of Tessa is a bit daunting, even for me, her father. Bethany and I always gave her free rein, and for most of her life, she stayed pretty much in the range of our own skeptical view of Marsco. Life on Mars afforded us that. And working for Herriff at his Van Braun Center in the gigantic rift valley of the Red Planet, Valles Marineris, a sprawling research complex dug into its cliffs, helped as well. Tessa is now in her early 30s, although physically she’s younger than that due to her hibernation trips. Most space-based Marsco Associates share in that, a protracted life due to icing on space journeys. I’m a good example of that, too. I’m in my 60s, but look like I’m mid-40.

            Now, however, Tessa has her own view of Marsco and of being an associate. Comes with the territory of nurturing an independent, thinking child, I guess.

            Bethany and I raised Tessa on Mars at the VBC from when she was a child until she was 18. We went there because Earth was on the verge of war. We could tell; all the signs were obvious. And we were right.

            Safe at Herriff’s VBC, I researched and Bethany worked on Martian water/ice recovery and reuse. Tessa grew. She was for many years the only child at the Center. Of course, with a war raging on Earth, on or in the orbit around the Moon, out even to some Asteroid Belt colonies, the population at the VBC didn’t increase much. Even in the other colonies, everything flat-lined for the three years of the Continental Wars. When they ended, the Wars that brought Marsco to power, it seemed best to remain in situ and not tempt a return to the Blue Planet. So Red Mars, named for the god of war, became a safe haven for a decade or longer as the atmosphere and politics on Earth settled down. The Blue Planet looked pretty brown from here, seen through a telescope, since its atmosphere was dust-filled, the by-product of war.

            But everything changes after a time. Bethany and I wanted to return to Earth eventually. We knew we were privileged being Marsco Associates, and we also knew Bethany was dying. She wanted to come home and die here on Earth.

            I had planned on returning to my hometown of Sac City, what was once Sacramento, California. (An infamous location during to the Wars.) But Bethany was too weak to take on the task of developing this plot of land, so we stayed in Seattle. By that time, Tessa was a plebe at the Marsco Academy there anyway. We remained as close to each other as possible. Only after Bethany died during Tessa’s first year in the Academy did I venture south to begin salvaging this land that has become my grange.

            That was nine years ago.

            Much can happen in nine years. For one, Tessa’s Marsco career has taken off. She graduated from the Academy and received her commission. She went to MIT, the Marsco Institute of Technology, which is actually the graduate research wing of the Academy. She charged through her course work and research. But before she actually dotted all the “i’s” and crossed all the “t’s” on her final project, her dissertation, she was moved back to the Academy to begin teaching. She’s there now, an officer, but not yet a holder of her doctorate. Pardon me for sounding like an academic, but no one should ever do all her doctoral grunt work, years of research, and not finish!

            But it’s more complicated; she’s more complicated. Makes sense given our complicated Marsco world.

            Once she was so in love with Zot, Anthony “Zot” Grizotti, a fellow Academy cadet, now on his way to Jupiter with his finger disks twitching away on a mysterious, black project for the VBC, my old cadre of engineers and researchers under the auspices of Herriff on Mars.

            I shouldn’t comment on his research, but—against all odds and tradition—Zot had been commissioned an officer after his Academy days then elected to pursue Hibernation Technology. To some, quite a career shift, if not a downright dead-end job for a Marsco officer. Better than Security, I guess, but still, icemen or hibermen aren’t that high up the Marsco pecking order. His clandestine research is tied to hibernation, that I will say.

            I like Zot. I love him like a son. But something happened with them. Tessa can be stubborn. That’s an understatement. And she took up with this pilot who was all smoke and no fire. Zot himself is a solid man, no guessing with him. He came and went here a few times; she refused to visit. Then, he was gone. Trekking to Jupiter, even with the best Marsco and VBC spacecraft (which I helped design), getting there and back safely is a four-year journey with no certainty of success.

            But this is mostly about Tessa. And now, today, she’s in a sort of No Man’s Land: not with Zot, not fully with anyone (not that it matters), and not fully graduated and not fully happy. Fully in Marsco.

             Not fully talking to me, either.

            That another complication in her life—me. Over the past nine years, I have been here, in my grange about 20 clicks south of central Sac City, in a sort of gray zone. And in our Marsco world, such a locale as this one is nearly impossible. Everything is discrete with Marsco, carefully delineated and separated: associate, sid (a denizen of a subsidiary), or PRIM.

            Most of the world is PRIM-listed. I have tried to find exact census data for PRIMS, but I doubt Marsco bothers to count them. I’d have to say probably 80% of the Earth’s population, possibly higher, is PRIMS. (No PRIMS live in space.) There can’t be any more than 5% of the population in Marsco. That leaves about 15% as sids, who have a substantially better life than any PRIM, but who aren’t associates. Their lot can’t be easy. A PRIM’s lot is pretty horrific any way you slice it. And Marsco aims to keep it that way.

            Associates live in Sectors, Marsco Sectors, or protected Cantonments near or in Subsidiaries. Sids obviously inhabit these subsidiaries, which are marginally better areas than PRIM areas: safe, clean, near Marsco hubs. PRIMS live in Unincorporated Zones, guarded by Marsco or their sid henchmen. Used as brutish laborers, kept disenfranchised, uneducated, distant from any self-respecting Associate.  

            And here I live, in this gray area. Technically, part of the large Sac City Subsidiary, but not really. It’s populated by too many Independent Grangers, Indies, who aren’t sids or PRIMS, and except for me, never tied to Marsco. And really, we’re not in a Zone, either, although it can look like it. Here I live, in no place really Marsco, although I live exceedingly well.

            To make it work, I’ve adapted selected space equipment like humidity condensers for ample and consistent water, and like my kitchen appliances that run off solar. And I’ve redeveloped these few acres of land to be productive. I do hire PRIMS to help, but pay them well. I’ve even started a small village for them down the road so they can live better, cleaner, safer than in any Zone. From there, some of my neighbor grangers also hire them, but an Independent granger is pretty suspicious of a PRIM. I’ve worked hard to establish mutual trust. Not as hard as those PRIMS work, but hard enough.

            So, I guess that sums it up. I’m technically on sabbatical from Marsco, but practically, I’m an Independent Granger and yet one with all the fingerdisks of a top lefter within Marsco. And my only child, Tessa, is estranged from me because of my writing.

            I should mention that. Even though trained as an engineer, I’ve only marginally kept active in designing any spaceships these days. I mostly spend my time trying to crack (yes, that kind of crack) to break into Marsco encrypted and secure databanks and old cobweb sites to research and write a factual and accurate history of how Marsco rose to power. The Ascendancy of Marsco. It’s mostly just fragmented data at this point. But, nearly fourteen voices tell their story of the prewar world under the Continental Powers, the draconian rulers of the Earth that Marsco took down.

            That was nearly 25 years ago. At the time of the Armistice, Marsco claimed its new role as world leader was strictly temporary until stability returned.

            Two and a half decades down the road, it looks like one group of draconian rulers has been replaced by another. Marsco seems pretty thoroughly ensconced in the power structures of Earth, the Moon and Mars colonies, even out to the Asteroid Belt colonies, the limit of its reach. Except for Zot heading towards Jupiter, Marsco has contented itself with staying inside, on this side, of the Belt.

            But I digress. Tessa is coming. She’s been sent pieces of The Ascendancy. I doubt she’s read any. It will be wonderful to see her, even if we are tense and combative. She is so like her mother—and me—for that matter. It will be great to have her here. I’ve much to show her.

            And she brings kilos of Seattle coffee, a commodity I have difficulty securing in this locale. 


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On Coffee and Coffee Shops

11/2/2011

1 Comment

 
Picture
          On Coffee and Coffee Shops

             Like everyone else who makes
               the mistake of getting older, 
                      I begin each day
                 with coffee and obituaries. 
                                     Bill Cosby

    Let’s be clear.  The most up-to-date science of this passing hour is:  coffee and caffeine are the two most heinous villains of our society, bar none.  There’s probably no drug worse for anyone than caffeine, unless you start the list with nicotine, heroin, cocaine, and alcohol. I know my science, and I know that every few years a new double-blind,
thoroughly scientific study comes out blaming coffee for all the evils of the world:  over population, global
climate change, IBS, low birth weight, the Euro-Zone meltdown, Velveeta Cheese, the luckless (not-so) Fightin’ Irish, not to mention the obvious Yugo Automotive Company.  I’m just quoting science, folks.  It’s all right there in the research somewhere.  
              
     Then again, (or so science tells us on alternating weeks in contrast to the above findings) coffee and caffeine are those rare nectars of the gods,
ambrosia from Mount Olympus (if it is located in Ethiopia), sent by the gods to satisfy men and women, to quicken their minds, sharpen their senses.  This rich, dark, steaming liquid with its mild stimulus awakens us, drives us on, supports us, loves us as no other.  Daily Arabica saves us from heart disease, dementia, failing Intro to Post-Modern Poetry taught by a retro Beatnik, early-onset Alzheimer’s, kicking the dog first thing each day, yelling at the paperboy for a late delivery, and general crabbiness around our spouses each morning.  
 
     Scientific results are sketchy, but I firmly believe World War One and the Great Influenza might have been avoided had more Europeans regularly consumed coffee.  I am also sure had Americans consumed more java in the 1920s, the Depression would not have begun.  Coffee and caffeine regularly stop IBS, occasionally PMS, the IRS, and (I firmly believe) the return of the Antichrist (or coffee would not be served as a post-Communion beverage in the basements and social halls of every church in
America each Sunday.)

    Coffee is our salvation—embrace it.  Drop that Diet Mountain Dew in the morning, Sallie, grow up, face your responsibilities like an adult, and drink your coffee.  It saves the planet, Lonny, and possibly your soul.
            
     But don’t spoil it.  There is nothing worse than “flavored”coffee.  Look, coffee is excellent, perfect, in its own pristine essence.  A little cream or milk, okay.  (That’s how I drink it.)  But these whippy-dippy frappes with a dusting of chocolate and pinch of cinnamon and everything else but a cherry, are a sacrilege against the inviolate laws of heaven.  It’s not a dessert; it’s coffee.  Hot and fresh in the morning.  Delicious in the afternoon. Don’t make it into a calorie orgy. 
 
    I mean, have you ever seen a morning news show named after any other drink? It’s “Morning, Joe” with
product placement, a Starbuck’s select brand thrown in, genial conversation and hard news, plenty of coffee and more coffee.  It’s not “Good Morning, Diet Dew,” is it?  Or “Hot Water with Lemon Slice to Mellow Your Day with Regis and Kelly,” right?  How perky would they be after consuming that?  When CNBC tried a new show, “Green Tea Your Day to Successful Investing” (aimed at the unconventional
investor watching at 5 AM after yoga), the DOW tanked.  Green tea’s a killer.
             
     On Break Weekend this semester, we drove to Indianapolis. That first morning, I had to fend for myself and find coffee in the Butler-Tarkington neighborhood near Butler University.  I had a $5 coupon for Starbucks; it was a sunbathed autumnal day.  I’ve visited enough to know my way, and
so off I scurried.  My sister-in-law lives in the same neighborhood that produced Kurt Vonnegut, with
comfortable, well-kept houses, some with 5th bedroom additions and long driveways.  A few blocks brings you to a shopping and restaurant cluster. 
Up Broadway, onto 48th Street, turn at Illinois, Starbucks at the next corner. An easy walk.

    With the Green Coffee Giant in sight, I was pulled aside, distracted by the Illinois Street Food Emporium Bakery and Deli.  It was warm enough to sit outside; a few patrons did.  But, I decided to duck inside.  It was an Alice-through-the-Looking-Glass moment. I might have been transported back to the 1950s.  I stood transfixed by this bakery-deli-café.  I
couldn’t resist the charms of a real, still-functioning neighborhood diner, Formica tabletops and all.  I
ordered the breakfast special:  two scrambled eggs, sausage, whole wheat toast, and a BOLD endless cup of coffee. I was impressed when the clerk at the cash register wrote down my order on a slip of paper. 
Computers haven’t found their way behind the counters of the Emporium.
            
     I can’t say the service was fast, because I waited a long time sipping my free refill.  But the staff was
delightful.  The helpful woman who took my order walked me through getting my silverware (a bit hidden to the side) and made sure I got all the steaming coffee I urgently needed. Not a Styrofoam cup but a gigantic ceramic mug.  
 
     To a writer with an eye for future characters, The Illinois Street Food Emporium was a palate of unmatched hues and texture.  One well-heeled patron in a fitted wool suit was ready for a power business deal. She was perhaps my age; I imagined her in the Butler U Foundation Office raising millions.  Others who strolled in were sweatshirt moms out for a morning walk, chat, and coffee with
friends.  Regulars came in to be greeted by “the usual”as soon as they stepped to the counter. 
Still others saved seats for friends; the Emporium grew crowded but stayed welcoming.  
        
     Indianapolis is a diverse city, and like many metro areas, has its share of racial tensions.  I saw none of that friction at the Emporium as neighbors—young and old, black and white—greeted one another over coffee and a bagel or a fresh cinnamon bun.  

     The place was filled with ease and comfort.  These were Hoosiers, not Minnesota-nice folks, so the level of laughter and conversation and geniality
grew quite loud.  Day after day, meal after meal, this place hosts scores of people from many walks of life who truly enjoy each other.  And I do mean the tables were integrated, not clusters of similar races sitting separated, tolerating each other.  They knew each other, were friends with each other.  It was an amazing sight to savor in our sometimes strained society.  I began to feel like the welcomed odd duck invited alone to someone else’s huge family gathering, a family that liked and appreciated one another.  
 
     My strongest impression of the friendliness of the Emporium was how many patrons knew multiple tables. They entered, got their coffee and donut, and sat with one table, but often they waved at patrons at several others. And, the staff knew everyone, greeted everyone, laughed with everyone. I did feel a bit like the orphan left out of the feast, except my eggs and sausage were that good, in their greasy, home-style way.

     When I finished, I made it a point to thank the staff.  “Well, come back,” they laughed.  I explained I was in Indianapolis only once or twice a year and probably wouldn’t be back until next summer.  “That fine,” they said, “we’ll still be here.”

     Later that day, when I explained to our uncle, Father Tom Murphy, a longtime Indianapolis resident, where I had breakfast, he knew the place well.  “It’s an institution,” he explained.  That and so much more.

     But, my $5 coupon for Starbucks was still in my wallet.  From the Emporium it was a few steps across Illinois to the gleaming and bright coffeehouse.  I love single location beans.  Blends can sneak in lower qualities beans, but I find Starbucks does some excellent combos. I love Sumatran coffee the most, but I tried their Komodo blend from the Southwest Pacific. And I couldn’t resist a pound of the “Morning Joe” variety, a robust Central and South American
product-placement selection.

     The clerk was friendly. He checked to make sure my coupon was valid, got me my take-out cup, Pike’s Peak, and then ground my two choices just right.

     In the corner at two small tables, three patrons sat buried in their computer screens.  One Apple and two HP, no wonder they weren’t talking. The tone was hushed. The largest cluster of friends I saw was three people whispering in a group. More people were speaking into their mobile phones rather than to each other.  Or they were glued to their hand-held units, texting, reading messages, playing Bejeweled. 
I had walked into a crowd of strangers linked by excellent coffee, separated by their own self-imposed isolation.  Most were urban-polished but with a
stylized hard-edged Metro look. A sprinkling of business-suits-in-a-hurry, but most wore clothing with a message and hair styles to impress rather than Colts caps huddled over the breakfast special laughing with friends. Excellent coffee, speedy service, but lacking in soul.

     I don’t think I saw an African-American sitting there or working there.   

     As I walked back to my sister-in-law’s past the Food Emporium, I almost stopped in for one of their fresh cinnamon buns I had earlier resisted, but I walked on.  
 
    Next June, I told myself, or next July.  They’ll still be there.

 


 


 
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