I was a Geriatric Paperboy in Kodiak Alaska—and they fired me!

First off, this whole thing is Drew Herman's fault.

It was during a fundraiser for publicradio KMXT 100.1 FM two Saturdays ago. I was covering the early morning phone shift when Drew's stylish pea-coat whisked into the newsroom. I had just finished buffing the stainless sink and chrome fixtures.Radio folk are wonderfully slovenly.

"Terry Haines" he said "You are just the man to help me with a problem."
"Anything I can do, Professor."
"I have had a tune stuck in my head that I simply cannot identify." He hummed a fragment.
“I believe that is Mendelssohn's Fifth in D Flat Major, and you can certainly bet De Major was flat after he finished Mendelssohn's fifth...”
“Ah of course. I knew I could rely on you.”

Drew is a local writer of many talents (he recently aced the listener quiz on “Performance Today”.) I discovered he was, among his capacities, a  Paperboy . I was intrigued. I get fidgety between fishing seasons.
“Paperboy, huh? That sounds like fun. How do you get that?”

“It is simple enough. Just go into the office and  inquire with Janet.” I resolved to do just that.

Poor Janet. I would go on to make her life a living hell.

Two days later I was the proud Paperboy of two routes: Three Sisters and Bell's Flats. My wife was incredulous.
“So you took the two worst paper routes in the northern hemisphere, they are thirty miles apart and it's the dead of winter?”
“I'm just trying to help out.”
“You could help me out. What about the list on the refrigerator?”
“I plan to do that stuff between 3 and 5 AM while I listen to the BBC.”

She shook her head and walked away as I prepped the Jeep for arctic travel. My routes were the coldest this side of Iceland: down the precipitous curving iceways of Three Sisters, and in the wide dark valley known locally as “The Flats.”

Three Sisters is five miles or so north of Kodiak City. It is comprised of a handful of forking dirt roads, paved with ice at this time of year, that wind down a patch of the woody rocky coastline above Monashka Bay seeking out the nooks and cornices where tight little cabins are sometimes built side by side with wide windowed Alaska mansions. It is not a walking route. Ice covers the long sloping driveways like poured glass. I delivered 17 wafer thin newspapers, skillfully engine braking, dodging around dogs and goats and between spruce trees.

It is only after I headed out to the Flats--- through town and up to Dead Man's Corner, past the airport and the Coast Guard Base and around Woman's Bay,( the ruts in the ice holding the Jeep on the road through forty mile gusts of northwest wind,) that it occured to me: there is no way to make a cent on these routes—its just too much gas.
At nearly four bucks a gallon I am delivering forty two 50cent newspapers at a fuel cost of ten dollars per day.

The math was not lost on my wife.
“So they are paying you 120 dollars a month, and it will cost you two hundred in gas to deliver them.”
“I think I could break even in Three Sisters if I double the readership. I have big plans to go door to door...”
“Fine. But you can't drive out to the Flats everyday on your own dime.”

So the next day I told Janet I would like to keep the Three Sisters route but explained that I couldn't drive out to the Flats anymore, for reasons of domestic tranquility.

“But” she said “you signed The Contract.”

“I know” I said, smirking slightly, “and I certainly would not want to default on my paperboy contract but I just can't go out to the Flats anymore. I have big plans to expand readership at Three Sis...”

“But” she said “you signed The Contract.”

A chill raised the hairs on the back of my neck and I wondered if I should have read The Contract before signing it. It did have remarkable heft for a document designed for fourteen year olds, and perhaps the cracked leather binding and the fact that I was required to ink my name in blood should have been red flags as well.

“Well” I said, after an awkward pause, “I was talking to a friend of a friend about taking over the Flats. I'll talk to her again. Oh and I can't deliver papers on Thursday and Friday. I have to go to Anchorage to yell at the federal Fisheries Management Council and be on TV.”
Janet just raised a bemused eyebrow, but I seemed to hear demon voices keening low from somewhere down the long hallway. Chuckling nervously I grabbed my bundle and jumped into the Jeep. I delivered all of them even the Bell's Flats route, telling myself I would do the right thing and find a replacement on Monday.”
In Anchorage I instruct the North Pacific Fisheries Management Council on ways they can fix their errant policies. I feel confident they will listen this time. I was also very happily cranky as part of a panel segment of “Moore Up North” with that Alaska treasure Shannyn Moore.

Monday back in Kodiak saw me less than thrilled about my new paper route.
“I'm tired from all the mental engagement.” I told my wife.
“Not from the fact finding missions at Humpy's and Darwin's Theory?”
“And the Taproot. That place is great. Alright”. I struggled off the couch and to the Jeep. But I obviously needed to earn some gas money. I called Seamus. They had a couple of skates that need stripping and sticking. Sweet. I figured I would go down to the boat harbor tomorrow and knock out a couple before my route.

At the newspaper office I miss Janet who is out delivering another route. This pattern would continue. Each day I would come in with Janet out, tell them I couldn't deliver to the Flats anymore. And take the papers anyway. I only realized later that I was doing the Dread Pirate Robert's technique: “Well goodnight Wesley, most likely kill you in the morning.”

Then on Wednesday two things happened: My friend offered me a fishing job and I met The Publisher.

I was down on Seamus' boat working on my skate (I only ended up finishing one, but engaged in some great conversations regarding human nature and the function of faith). The wind was gusting pretty hard so I decided to check the lines of a friend's boat before lunch. On the way down the float I ran into a cod job.

Now there is a little man in my head who sits on a stool in front of a big red button listening for my ears to hear the words “Do you want to go fishing?” His only job is to lean forward and slam that button when he hears that magic question.
“Yes I do.” My mouth says automatically.
Ah Ha! Heavens be praised! A real job, with water underfoot and the shoreline a safe distance away! But what about The Contract? What fell fate awaited me if I broke it?
Nervous eyeballs regarded me at the newspaper office as I gave my daily renunciation of the Flats route. “I can't keep sneaking out to the Flats this way.” I joked. “My wife thinks I'm having an affair. “

I sensed there was something different. A presence. Then a figure glided out of the shadows like Fu Manchu from a forties film noir.
“I am Richard.” he said, “the Publisher.”
“Terry the Paperboy” I shook his hand. It crackled with static power.
“What would it take to induce you to keep taking papers to the Flats known commonly as Bell's?”
“Well,” I said “it seems to me that if you are already sending a truck out there to deliver to the store you could just give your carrier gas money and have him do it. That way you don't have to send it separately and the carrier wouldn't have to worry about gas wiping out his meager profits.” Now I realize this was a bit disingenuous of me, knowing I would have to go cod fishing next week anyway. But I thought this would work better for the next carrier anyway, and be more efficient for the paper.

I'm helping out.

The Publisher pounded the keys on a steam powered calculator and announced a fairly reasonable number. Great. I would call my friend's friend and tell her to come to the news office and grab the Flat's route- she wouldn't have my gas worries, making it a much better job.
Friday saw me doing my last deliveries in the Flats. It was five o'clock: rather late-- I had taken my herd of corgis for a walk to the top of pillar Mountain first. I felt good. The cold sunset was shining through the ice fog and the Flats were glowing in a surreal light. Now all I had to do was find a substitute for the Three Sisters route. I was still exited about expanding the...
My cell phone rang. It was Janet. She sounded tired. I realized that I had been little more than a headachy question mark for her. The good news was my friend's friend would start Monday. But I did not need to worry about Three Sisters anymore either. I had broken The Contract.
“You mean I'm fired from my paperboy job?”
I flipped the phone shut and thought “Oh thank God.” I had one more stop- a lady who hadn't received her paper for a couple of days even though I was sure I had delivered it. I knocked on her door and she answered in her bathrobe. Darn it. I hate answering my door in my robe. She seemed irritated. I tell her I'm sorry she hasn't got her paper and ask if I'd left it in the right place. It seems I did. I don't get it.
“Well I'm very sorry Ma'am. Here are those papers, and today's”
“That's OK”. She says, her face softening “Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks. Merry Christmas to you, too.” I smiled. That was the best tip I got.



Copyright—Terry Haines 2010

I was sitting next to Satan at the BnB

in Kodiak in the winter of 1992

when those two federal agents fell through the front door.

That was their first mistake: always enter the BnB through the side door.

Satan was spinning a quarter on the bar and a williwaw whirled across the street. The tiny tornado snatched up slate dust and coffee cups and crows as it rose up behind the feds and shoved them through the doorway. Their awkward entrance caused one of them to jostle the elbow of the dangerously crystallized Crabber Mike as he was lining up a shot on the eight ball.

The quarter hummed and jumped and seemed solid as it settled into a saddle in the red mahogany. The Devil arched his eyebrow and smiled like the Yukon border: long and cold and crooked. I knew those federal boys were in for a whole lot of trouble.

“Why don’t you just leave those fellas be?’ I asked.

“Oh you know me.” Said Satan, sipping his Sauza as he tipped his head toward them, “It’s you they‘re looking for, of course.” The corner of his smile poked me in the ribs.

“I know.” I said, pulling the Tilley hat down over my eyes, “I know.”

Satan scooted down as the agents approached. They sat on either side of me. I slumped over my liquid sunshine.

“You Terry?”

I sat up. “Yes I am. And you are?” I stuck out my hand.

“Ahm.” He shook my hand- soft and droopy. “I am Agent Breitz. This is Agent Dobromowitz. ” Red lettered FBI badges flopped open. Behind us we heard a short laugh, a cry of alarm and the sound of a sack of potatoes hitting the floor from a height of three feet.

“Two Liquid Sunshines for Cool Breeze and Dobro, please Bernie.”

“No beers sir. This is official business.” he waved off Bernie who went on filling the pints anyway.

Crabber Mike, who had been looming, stepped up. “Who's your friends, Terry?”

“Oh- Crabber Mike, this Is Cool Breeze and this is Dobro.”

“You.” He pointed a kielbasa sized finger at Agent Dobromowitz “You made me miss.”

“Maybe you two should play a game” I suggested. “Looks like Louie's taking a break.” Louie was laying on the floor. His hat was a couple of feet away.

“Go ahead Tom.” Agent Breitz handed his partner the pint of Sunshine. “Blend in. But be on your guard.” He looked around the dark old bar- (not much more than a converted cabin, really)- “There is something about this place...” His eyes rested momentarily on the Devil. “Something...” He took a slug of the Sunshine. Crabber Mike seemed to smile behind his impenetrable blond beard which run high up his red cheeks like wild salmonberry bushes. He even has a streak of blond hair that runs across the bridge of his nose and reaches up for his eyebrows.

“Terry." Agent Breitz turned to me.

“Yes?”

”You are not an easy person to put your finger on in a town of only six thousand residents, and that is saying something, considering our training and resources. Everywhere we went you had just left.”

It was true. My crabber senses had been making me move all day. I didn't know what was making them go off, but when I saw Satan sitting at the B holding an icy Bloody Mary to his forehead I just sat next to him and waited. When you see Satan you may as well walk right up to him. The Devil is, if anything, more dangerous from a distance. One Sunshine later the FBI was sniffing up the stairway.

Why me? What did I do?

Did they know about the doorway under my house? That Pillar mountain was a spongecake of secret tunnels and chambers, chock full of whacked out delusional nutjobs with bears and blowtorches and massive Tesla coils? That ghosts of whalers and longliners past sat at the bar beside us??

“You were born, were you not, at Bunker Hill Air Force Base in Peru, Indiana?”

“Yeah...my Dad was in the Air Force.”

“Your parents were unwitting participants in a genetic manipulation experiment. In 1961 the Department of Defense embarked on a program using irradiated prune juice and a specially designed forceps in an attempt to create a supersoldier. You are the result.”

“I'm a Supersoldier?”

“No. The experiment was a spectacular failure and a humiliating black stain on the nation's entire secret genetic manipulation program, sadly.

You see, scientists had long been aware that certain individuals have “Rainman” type abilities: fantastic cognitive and memory powers combined with a fractured and asocial mentality. We hoped select American children could be carefully damaged to create the perfect soldier: ruthless, relentless and with a computer like ability to remember mission parameters and details as well as rules of engagement, ahhh anniversaries, phone numbers...”

“I'm a Super Rolodex?”

“No. One by one the participants have all died in remarkably stupid ways. Number Four stepped in front of a bus while buttering a bagel. Number thirty two simply forgot he was in the bathtub. Etcetera.”

“I'm a Super moron?”

“Yes. The only remarkable thing about you is that you are still alive. However, since the government has spent so much time and effort on you we have decided to present you with a unique opportunity to serve your country.

Satan elbowed me. Crabber Mike was physically pouring a shot of Jagermeister down Dobro's throat.

Over the years Satan and I have gotten pretty well acquainted, I’m sorry to say.

And I’m not going to tell you he’s misunderstood. He’s understood pretty well, actually, except for the part about the souls.

And the part about who he is and where he came from.

But he really hates the humans.

He despises us.

The Angels took his wings away impossibly long ago, and the time has tightened around the Devil like a Moebius anaconda. It has crushed and swallowed him. In its belly the acid of the ages has left him stripped and diminished. He has become a shard of sharpened bone, a hard evil speck with a single flickering pilot light in his head that won't go out:

He wants to see the human race burned down to cosmic ash and blown across the expanse of this entirely too unlikely universe. The looping and repeating laughtrack behind the human comedy has driven the Devil mad. He wants us gone, gone, gone, finally gone. And if that means he is destroyed too, along with all the Angels and everything else that ever has been, or will ever be, well, that’s OK with Mr. Scratch.

He just wants out.

Chapter One: Dogs Playing Poker

Set out running but I take my time…

A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine…

I first met the Devil in Dutch Harbor, which may come as no surprise to anyone who has spent time on that island paradise. It was 1989, before the crab was rationalized and the dire one thousand were sent back to Kodiak and Seattle to gnaw through their long winter months standing on dirt.

Reagan Would Have Been Disgusted

Reagan was wrong. But he was a good man.

Ronald Reagan looked at Socialism and the Soviets and saw evil. He looked at Capitalism and America and saw good. He saw totalitarianism as a system of chains. Where he saw those chains in America he tried to remove them. He believed, like Greenspan, that people were, if not "good", at least pragmatic enough to work together toward goals that lift all boats with the rising tide of prosperity.

What he forgot is that there is a reason we lock our doors at night.

The rise of Corporate rule here in America, evidenced by the continuing failures of the SEC and the chilling control of the Sickness and Death Industry over our federal government, has effectively driven Democracy out into the hallway where it can tweet all the hand-wringing liberals it wants, because it just doesn't matter anymore. Lobbyists and their cash run the legislative process now. Laws are for sale now, if you have the cabbage.

The only danger to the system is the smart voter,
so politicians use the "Men In Black" rule:
"A person is smart. People are dumb panicky animals,
and you know it."

The shameful drumming of fear into hate and hate into violence, the fracturing of America into hostile camps with the willful use of, well, evil would have sickened Reagan. Right or wrong he knew that bringing people together: in the hope for freedom, in the pursuit of prosperity was the only real way to do,well, good.

Where are we going now, Ronnie? Totalitarian Capitalism?
Do we walk backwards and sit beside China, hunkering down in the dirt to divide the spoils among the warlords and planning the next pogrom?

Senate Deckhand Max Baucus Saves Us

The line whipped overboard and the big rusty halibut hook grabbed the skipper and pulled him into the cold grey water.

It is one of the nightmare scenarios for Gulf of Alaska fishermen hauling up halibut in the late fall -- a taut line falls out of the block and the weight of fish and anchors pull it back to the bottom fast. Sharp hooks the size of half dollars click on the rail as they fly by.

Leaning over that line is the skipper. Unlike a crab skipper he is out on deck in full raingear, simultaneously driving the boat, controlling the hauler and gaffing the fish that flash up out of the darkness. If one of those flying hooks catches him- by the hand or the hip or the pants leg- it can pull him down under.

In this particular case (a story well known here in Kodiak and often retold in hushed tones at morning mug ups) the crew snapped into action. They threw the line back into the block and pulled the skipper up again, kicking and splashing like a halibut. The skipper used his deck knife and detached himself, but the weight of the water was filling his boots and sweatshirt, and he gasped and struggled as he drifted away from the boat.

One of the deckhands, Dave, acted quickly. Grabbing the throwing line and steel grapple hook he took aim and threw hard, striking the skipper directly in the forehead. The heavy hook bounced off and sank uselessly leaving a bloody dent in the skipper. Dave retrieved the hook and let fly once more, this time bouncing it off the skipper’s bald spot and pulling his raincoat over his head during retrieval. Becoming increasingly agitated, Dave sailed the hook out a third time and managed to pull one of the skipper’s boots off. The next toss was too long and the untethered line wound out completely and sank. Undaunted, Dave grabbed the long gaff hook and held it aloft, proposing to sink it into his skipper’s shoulder and land him like a halibut.

With the last of his strength the skipper waved his hands in surrender.

“No offense, Dave” he coughed “but can somebody else save me for a while?”

This story came to mind as I watched Senator Baucus trying to save us from the insurance companies, or the insurance companies from us, or whatever it is he is doing.


Single Payer was knocked out immediately.
The Public Option stripped of Senatorial support and thrown over the side of the Finance Committee‘s boat.
And now crewman Max has grabbed the mandate gaff. He is ready to sink it into the American uninsured and the American taxpayer and land them for the insurance companies. Companies who openly pay him to do that very thing.


No offense Max, but could someone else save us for a while?

Health Care, Alan Greenspan and The Big Corporation on the Prairie

We have created a monster.

It is an insatiable soulless entity with the face of Michael Landon and the tentacles of AIG. It is the Supercitizen: the American corporation, with all the legal rights of a human being. It will be in charge of your future health care.

Part of its mythology was shaped by Rose Lane, the daughter of "Little House On the Prairie"'s Laura Ingalls. She made a good living writing trashy celebrity pieces and editing (some say rewriting) her mother's memoirs. In "a white heat" she wrote a libertarian treatise that, along with the works of Ayn Rand, were germinating seeds of a social philosophy that United States federal reserve chairman Alan Greenspan was able to make an economic reality for eighteen years. Lane and Rand stressed self reliance and personal responsibility and that human endeavor must be free to follow its own path. Rand's novels are heady and strident, but Lane's "Little House" books provide a romantic American background for her ideas. Chief among them are that unencumbered freedom and personal responsibility create their own morality. Their mistake was in welcoming a legal mechanism- the corporation, into the family on the prairie. Greenspan believed in the power of competition to drive honest business practices and that free markets would cause corporations to act in the best long term interests of their shareholders.

A slump shouldered Greenspan admitted to the BBC this week that he was wrong. He went on to say that crises like the one we are in now will inevitably occur in the future because of "human nature". I suggest he is wrong again. They will occur again because we made corporations into citizens. They will occur because of corporate nature.

Which brings us to the President's health care reform speech to a joint session of Congress.

The Democrats roared and stamped, the Republicans shifted and barked like restless chimpanzees and even I was choking up as the President hauled out a deathbed letter from Senator Kennedy and tore into a magnificent end game. He really hit his stride at the end: like Jabbar throwing down skyhooks on a hot night, like Ruth pointing into the bleachers of Congress. He made his foes look petty and foolish, called on his allies to stop bickering and step up and do the right thing.

But whether they chortled in glee or screeched "You lie!", they all seemed to ignore the fact that the President just left the public option firmly tied to the tracks, wide eyed and squirming.

He called the public option just an "idea", just a "means to an end", and said what was important was competition in the market. Surely if the massive corporations wringing the profit out of sickness and death are forced to compete freely they will act in the best long term interests of the shareholders.

Maybe he should take a meeting with Greenspan.

Meanwhile, in the big courtroom across the street, the Supercitizen is shedding his shackles. If the Supreme Court acts as expected it will remove all encumberances to corporate purchase of our "public servants".

And whether you like it or not, my fellow American you are fast becoming more shareholder than citizen.

http://www.reuters.com/article/ousivMolt/idUSTRE5881R720090909
http://www.creditwritedowns.com/2009/08/deregulation-as-crony-capitalism.html
http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/atlarge/2009/08/10/090810crat_atlarge_thurman

Darth Palin and the Imperial Death Panel

I was talking about health care with Gabrielle LeDoux last year- a real conversation rather than a duel of slogans- it is not an easy subject if you do it right- death and pain and money and fear...

I was of the opinion that health insurance companies have become a defacto monopoly on wellness resources, one that has left us a sicker, poorer nation. I have become convinced that universal access to basic health care needed to be treated like public education or the national defense- something that makes us better as a country. She questioned where the government's obligation begins and ends.

In this context end of life issues came up. The moral obligation we have to the health of our elders and their understandable hesitance to lay helplessly in a hospital bed dying just slowly enough to run through their insurance and children's inheritance while those children watch them suffer long past the point that a loved pet would be put to rest. Gabrielle was of the opinion that a zero quality life with no purpose was not worth living, even if Uncle Sam is paying. Maybe especially then.

I tend to agree, but its not easy to pull the plug on Grandma. The old bird probably made you cookies when you were a kid. If only there were some kind of Death Panel (ideally one manned by bureaucrats with throbbing mutant brains) that could make these decisions for us, pushing numbered buttons that will flush our ailing elders down a series of tubes like bad batteries in the Matrix.

Of course as a Democrat I'm all for it. Thin the collective herd. Lucky for them Alaska's Not Governor, Mrs. Palin, has leaped to their defense.

Seemingly trying to fork more fertilizer on the blossoming career of Shannyn Moore, Mrs. Palin's Facebook writer has stuck to her guns on the existence of the nonexistent Death Panels in the health reform bill, which in actuality is an attempt to establish protocols for advising patients on their options at the end of life. Hospice and pain management and how long you want them to keep your heart beating inside your empty shell are not easy subjects, and the idea is to discuss them with your doctor and your family before you turn into a turnip.

Mrs. Palin's writer (the writing is not bad: clear and concise, unlike this) makes the astonishing assertion that such counseling, even though completely optional, amounts to a threat to the counselee because money for it it is included in a reform bill that also aims to cut costs in health care.

But what kind of counseling are dying people who are in pain getting now? Doesn't it amount to "How much money you got?"


Her writer goes on to question adviser Ezekiel Emanuel's concept of a sort of triage of health resources, concentrating them on those people most likely to get well. This is, at least, a worthy subject: (death and pain and money and fear), and yes, the idea of care being doled out according to your statistical likelihood at recovery is a bit creepy. But these decisions are being made now by computers calculating actuarial tables factoring in "preexisting conditions" and how just much blood can be squeezed from that turnip laying in that expensive hospital bed.

Death and pain and money and fear: that's what health care reform is really about. And at the end of her Facebook post Mrs. Palin's writer does a frightful trick: as a result of Emanuel's "priority curve" she goes on to predict health care "rationing". Of course the poor souls to be rationed don't have any health care at all right now.

The lousy commies.

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=116471698434

Enough Dancing Mr President: Its Time to Throw Some Punches

There is a classic Saturday Night Live skit in which a clever caveman is widely admired by the tribe. Until a jealous hunter bashes in his brains while he sleeps.

"Now Grok is smartest!" the hunter explains to the audience.

The Republican party is sick of Obama being the smartest. And they are trying their hardest to bash in the brains of health care reform with their favorite rock: fear.

Like brimstone preachers they have conjured demons for every pew: health care reform will mean victory for the communists, mass executions of the elderly and will bankrupt the nation.

Mr.Obama they are not going to negotiate.

But it should be pointed out that they are fighting with rocks. They have brought hysterics to a brain fight. Nowadays smarter is stronger.

Get on your feet, Mr. President and step to the middle of the ring. You cannot negotiate this fight. Your opponent is a brute. But if you step up and start jabbing you can take him down. He is fat with lobbyist cash and flush with fearful rage, but the truth can make him sit.

If you abandon the "public option" as easily as you have "single payer" you have chosen to negotiate a fistfight. You are dozing while the caveman raises the rock.