Listening to music through headphones—“When the Night Comes Falling From the Sky” by Bob Dylan—I concentrate on my notes from the day before, trying to organize the upcoming eight to ten hours. I know this day will stretch out exhaustingly like an endless highway. You know the kind I mean, the ones with the mirages—the pools of water in the distance that disappear as you approach.

Through the music I hear her approaching in those torn-up sandals, scuffing on the rug toward my desk; I know who it is without looking up. She stands in front of me, not speaking. I don’t want to look up because I’m busy but more to the point because she always spins a negative, unhappy tale to which I feel compelled to listen. She has a strange power over me; she draws me into her web. Finally, she sits in the side chair and I raise my head. Things look worse than usual. Her green eyes mist over, brimming with tears; at least she she’s not all-out weeping.

“Okay, what’s the deal?” I ask.

“Its all over the company. You haven’t heard yet?”

“Haven’t heard what?”

“Remember that consultant at the meeting last week? The one the corporate office hired?”

“You mean the guy who was supposed to help us with quality control procedures but just sat there taking notes for three hours? That guy?"

“Yes, him. Turns out he’s not a consultant. He’s a newspaper reporter.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Okay, he’s not really a reporter any more. But the corporate office hired him to spy on us—to report on how we interact as a team and document any irregularities.”

I stare at her. She’s not misting over anymore. Now I can tell she’s just plain angry. Really mad and staring at me. “So what’s the upshot?”

“Upshot? The upshot is that this jerk, who doesn’t know us and understands nothing about what we do here, has now reported to the executive vice president that not only don’t we follow effective processes and procedures, but—and get this—that some of us have inappropriate and unprofessional relationships.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He reported that some of us in the office here are carrying on illicit affairs.”

“What makes him think that?”

“Apparently he interviewed some of the bigger gossips around.”

“Nice.” Now I start getting angry, too. “Wait a minute. How do you know what he reported up the chain to corporate?”

“Lest you forget, I have contacts. I have a copy of his report.”

“Damn. What a waste of time and money. Still I don’t see why you’re so upset about this. It’s not your money."

“Maybe not, but you and I receive top billing as two people in this office who are having an affair.”

“And the fact that we’re not doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

​“Duh.”

Simon Jones, a young American, was on his way to hike on the ancient Inca Trail to visit the Machu Picchu ruins in Peru.  Before beginning his journey, Simon thought of exploring the city of Cusco, the ancient capital of the Incas.  Once there, Simon learned about the Museo Arqueologico Peruano that housed the original Pre-Columbian art objects related to ancient Peruvian cultures.

On arrival, he learned that the building itself was an original Inca ceremonial court that was re-configured into the current museum.  The place housed a plethora of art objects dated from 1250 BCE to 1532 CE.  Simon walked through various galleries displaying the objects from primitive, evolutionary to era-specific gorgeous art forms from Nasca, Mochica, Chancay and Chimu time periods in Peruvian peninsula.  However, his biggest astonishment turned out to be seeing the paintings, reminiscent of Pablo Picasso’s cubism, on several vases inside the Huari galleries (800 – 1300 CE).   On the wall of the gallery, the art was described “An extraordinarily cubist, modern and completely avant-garde criterion can be discerned in these Huari vases, in which the agile and free design, is limited by the structured order of the decorated surface. That primitive cubism, allows the artist to decompose the images and show them in their essential elements and not in their accessory ones,” exactly what Picasso, acclaimed inventor of modern-day cubism wanted from this genre, Simon remembered.

Then came a surprising revelation.  On one of the panels on the wall, he read about an event that took place in Paris, France.  Impressionist painter Matisse was paying a visit to his American friend, author Ms. Gertrude Stein.  On the way, Matisse stopped by an art gallery to pick up a gift, a decorated piece of pottery purported to be an ancient piece from Peru.  While Ms. Stein and Matisse were engaged in their conversation, Mr. Picasso stopped by to join them.  Soon the conversation veered into the discussion of ancient Indian art around the piece Matisse had brought in.  Though Simon was unable to find any reference to the nature of the painting on that particular piece of pottery, it raised the tantalizing possibility in his mind about some sort of cubism on the piece. Could that also be the inspiration for Picasso to explore cubism in details in the context of modern times, rather than he being the inventor of the genre, wondered Simon!

​He came out of the museum appreciating how the progress of our human civilizations always stood on the “shoulders of the giants” of the previous civilizations.  Later, he entered into a local café for lunch.  There, on the wall, on a flat-screen TV, CNN’s international news division was showing the ruins from the deliberate destruction of the ancient historic monuments in Aleppo, Syria from aerial bombardment by its own government.  Simon whispered to himself “Only, if they knew the historic values of those wonderful monuments that were created based on the knowledge gained from the effort and creativity of the previous civilizations!”

It was a cool breezy Mediterranean night in the month of November. Young officer Simon Jones standing on the deck of his naval destroyer looked at the starry sky with a near-complete but elliptical moon hanging amidst other celestial objects. A brilliant progressive student throughout his school days, Simon not only excelled in academics, but also wrote for school newspaper as well as played for one of school’s athletic teams. During all those four years he also entered the school bypassing a stone plaque bearing his school’s motto “Enter to learn, go forth to serve”.

On graduation, giving up his Ivy-league path to higher education, Simon went to the Naval Academy. And now, as a young officer and far away from his home in USA, he stood guard to protect the security of many small countries along the banks of the Mediterranean Sea as a part of his own country’s commitment to international security. But his own country just had gone through a divisive political upheaval to elect its new President. As he watched the news earlier in the day, the country appeared to be splintered right in the political middle. “Which side am I serving then?” pondered Simon.

​Then, he remembered it was Veterans Day back home and the entire country was paying its respect to its veterans. Simon looked at the mystic moon, a little high in the sky now and reminded himself “Go forth to serve” adding a few more words “To the entire nation”.

On a glorious morning, my niece Rashmita, nephew Rupankar and I were already one hour into flying from Kathmandu, Nepal to Paro, Bhutan at about 25,000ft above the ground level.  The carrier was the Druckair, the national airlines of Bhutan.  Just before boarding the plane, the air-hostess at the gate had welcomed us with a smiling inquiry: “Is this your first time flying into Paro?”  We all nodded our heads in agreement.  She smiled and wished us “Enjoy the ride.”  Rupankar claimed the window seat while I sat next to him on the aisle seat.  Rashmita was in a front row.  But during this last one hour of the flight, I wondered what the air-hostess really meant by “Enjoy the ride”.  Then came the captain’s voice: “We will be approaching the airport soon, but the remainder of the flight is through various mountain ranges.  Please fasten the seat belt and no more movement inside.”  Soon, the flying altitude dropped a bit along with a few degrees of incline of the plane.  I heard Rupankar’s voice: “Oh my God!  We are literally flying inside a maze of mountain ranges,” I opened my travel-file to pull out the information literature I gathered on Paro and there it was, a few pages of information on arriving in Paro by air that I never bothered to read carefully.  A copy of an internet report by Mr. Rick Dewsbury proclaiming “Paro Airport in Bhutan is 1.5 miles above sea level and surrounded by sharp peaks of up to 18,000ft tall.”  As the plane was descending with an even more acute angle while navigating through a narrow passage between the tall peaks, I read a previous line from that same report “The tiny airport nestled among the steep mountains of the Himalayas is said to be the most dangerous in the world.”  I kept hearing the air-hostess wishing us “Enjoy the ride,” while her smiling face occasionally flashing in the back of my mind.  After a 15-20 minutes of such a ride and realizing that the altitude of the plane dropped significantly, I asked Rupankar “Are we there yet?”  Looking outside, he replied “Almost there, but I don’t see any sign of the runway.”  From my seat, I could now see the rooftops of the buildings at a certain height of the surrounding mountains through which we were flying.  I took a one last look at Mr. Dewsbury’s report to find “The runway is just 6,500 feet long - one of the few in the world shorter than their elevation above sea level.”  And then some more “Flights are only allowed during the daytime and under visual meteorological conditions - strict light allowances in which the pilot must make his judgements by eye rather than rely on instruments as is the case in nighttime flights.” 


As I finished reading the article, I felt a smooth landing of the aircraft, followed by measured deceleration on the runway to a complete stop.  We landed in Paro, after all!

Kathy’s mom washed the dishes; Kathy dried them and put them away in the kitchen cabinets.

In the dining room Bruce, who was most always quiet in the company of strangers, provided polite, short answers to Kathy’s dad who took an interest in all the young men Kathy brought home.
“I’m majoring in social science,” Bruce told him when asked what he was studying at the university where he and Kathy had met.

“Social science? That’s what left-wingers take, isn’t it? If you can’t study engineering or pre-med you’re wasting your time and money, I’d say. Maybe you can still go to law school. What are your plans?”

Kathy could hear the interrogation going on from the kitchen. Her mind wandered. She remembered how her mother had told her when she was starting high school that she’d always have boyfriends because she was a pretty girl with a good figure as long as she didn’t let it go. Then her mom added how fortunate that was since Kathy had little personality to speak of. 

Kathy didn’t understand what her mother meant until years later. Looking back she now thought how unfair and incomplete her mother’s assessment was. After all, she had a pretty good head on her shoulders and the discipline to study business and finance—she’d made Dean’s List every semester since enrolling at State University.
​
Still, she worried now what Bruce thought about her personality.

He’d finished dumping his trash cans into the compactor when a big Ford with a camper top backed in next to him. The door slammed and the driver appeared as he loaded his empty cans into the bed of his truck. Fifty-five or more and wrinkled—but not as old as he—she let a lit butt hang from her lips as she smiled and nodded to him. He’d never seen her before.

He asked if she was ready for the holiday and she didn’t say. For some reason, as if it mattered, he told her it was his favorite. She answered this time that it was hers too—you invited the family over for dinner, had a good time together catching up on the news, and then everyone went home. He imagined her sitting around the table with a tough-looking crew—no husband, of course, but maybe three or four sons, daughters, a few in-laws, and a bunch of grandkids. He wondered if they considered themselves blessed to be together.

​He opened the door and climbed in just as she called out, “See ya’ around, buddy.”

The Sam Award is given annually for the best melodramatic performance in real life. The Sam, as it’s referred to, is named after Sam Goldberg. Nobody knows who Sam Goldberg is, but it’s named after him anyway.

This year’s award ceremony is scheduled to be held in the second floor dining room of the McDonald’s on 42nd Street in Times Square.

All submissions must be videotaped to be considered and simultaneous submissions are allowed as well as uploading to YouTube, however, each submission must be appropriate to the category and careful reading of the guidelines is suggested.

Categories include: Toddler (probably accidental), Terrible Twos, Pre-teen, Teenager, Semi-adult, Middle-aged and Oldie-but-Goodie.

This year’s submissions have been highly contentious and the review committee nearly came to blows repeatedly as they battled to dwindle down the nearly two hundred thousand videos into five finalists in each category.

As the months passed several reviewers actually had to be hospitalized from stress and two were actually accosted in their local Walmart and the police had to be called to break up the fracas created by the altercation.

Because of the number of submissions and the volatility of the contestants and the reviewers the date of the actual awards ceremony was changed from April 1st to September 11th to coincide with Grandparents Day. 

On the actual night of the event there was a torrential rain over-taking Manhattan Island and, tempers already nearing the breaking point from the competition itself, were exacerbated by the tempest going on both outside and in.

As soon as Rona Davenport, the evening’s hostess, walked on stage and started to speak a member of the audience shouted that “the whole thing is fixed!”

Then a woman at the other end of the dining room screamed that “my daughter didn’t have a chance!”

Poor Rona did her best to try to quiet the ever increasing number of people shouting and making various demands and, finally, in a torrent of vocal outrage the first punch was thrown followed immediately by one in response and then another and another and another until a full-blown brawl ensued and the entire Sam Award organization fled leaving the NYPD to deal with the melee they left behind.

The next morning every newspaper had, as front page news, that 11 had been hospitalized and 63 treated and released after the Sam Award brawl.

​The article concluded with a brief statement that the Sam Awards were hereby cancelled indefinitely.