Jessie: Swell! So, me and the gang are going bowling tomorrow. Care to tag along?
Mark: Can’t tomorrow, sorry. I’m upgrading.
Jessie: You’re upgrading again?
Mark: Yup.
Jessie: But didn’t you upgrade only the other day?
Mark: A few days ago, yeah.
Jessie: So how come you’re upgrading again?
Mark: Why, there’s been an upgrade, of course.
Jessie: Well, okay, but do you need to upgrade?
Mark: Everybody needs to upgrade, no?
Jessie: It depends, surely?
Mark: Depends on what?
Jessie: On whether the upgrade’s worthwhile or not, obviously.
Mark: Jess, it’s a major upgrade. Of course it’s worthwhile.
Jessie: Just because it is a major upgrade, it doesn’t mean it’s a good one. Have you checked Gordon’s column?
Mark: “Gordon’s column”?
Jessie: Yeah, on Forbes. I always read his column for advice before updating. New OS versions usually come loaded with bugs, as you know.
Mark: Never heard of him.
Jessie: What?! Are you kidding me?
Mark: Nope.
Jessie: So what’s your go-to place for advice, then?
Mark: Don’t have one.
Jessie: Wait – wait just a minute. You mean you still upgrade without first looking up information about the pros and cons of new versions?
Mark: Why, sure! It’s an upgrade, Jess! An upgrade. The name says it all. It’s a better version than the one before.
Jessie: Not necessarily, Mark! As I said, new OS versions usually come crawling with bugs! Updating without being informed about the potential drawbacks beforehand can be very risky. Very risky.
Mark: Nah, it’s fine, Jess!
Jessie: Mark. Listen, please. Remember what happened two years ago?
Mark: I don’t think so, no. What?
Jessie: There you go!
Mark: What?
Jessie: Dear God, Mark! It’s getting to be really tiresome having to remind you again and again. And I’m not the only one who feels that way, you know.
Mark: You’ve lost me, Jess. I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Jessie: Yup. And that’s the problem. All right: I’m going to tell you what happened two years ago. Again.
Mark: Can’t wait!
Jessie: Mark, your memory got wiped.
Mark: What?
Jessie: Your memory, Mark! Gone!
Mark: What are you talking about?
Jessie: You forgot all about me, our friends, your parents, your sister… Fuck it, Mark, you forgot all about yourself!
Mark: Uh… What?
Jessie: You broke down, Mark, and had to be reset! Your parents had to take you to an authorized service provider to have you fixed!
Mark: You’re pulling my leg!
Jessie: Sadly, I’m not. And even after they reset you to factory settings and updated your OS all the way to the most recent stable version, you were never the same! Actually, you’ll never be the same again! Now, do you understand?
Mark: No.
Jessie: I thought so. Mark…
Mark: Yeah, Jessie?
Jessie: Never mind. Forget the bowling. I’m calling your parents. Bye!
”Don’t you worry, ma’am. I’ve killed before.” Sylvie studied the man sitting across her kitchen table. She didn’t feel reassured, not one bit. His appearance was not one to inspire confidence. Did he look anything like the suave, seasoned assassin Swanson’s description had led her to expect? Hardly. Instead, the individual sitting opposite her had the aspect of a famished hobo. He looked haggard and shabby. His arms and legs were disconcertingly long, and his bony, elongated fingers culminated in large, bulging, and yellowish nails that reminded her of ticks after a hearty meal. His likewise yellowish teeth were so prominent they could scarcely be contained behind his thin, cracked lips. He not only had an overbite but also an enormous gap between his front teeth, the poor bastard. His cheeks were visibly sunken beneath the week-old stubble; his poker-straight hair lay limp across his brow, ears and collar; and his brown and none-too-clean suit hung loose about his frame. Rather than a hitman, her visitor looked like a scarecrow in a windswept field. “You’re sure you’re up to the task?” said Sylvie. “Quite sure? “Oh yes, ma’am, I’m sure”, said the scarecrow. “Easy-peasy. I’ll take out the scumbag, alright. Eeeasy-peasy.” “Good!” said Sylvie. “Only… I don’t want him to die too quickly, you see. I want him to suffer first. I want him to hurt and wish he was dead. Do you understand?” “Oh, you do, do you?” said the purported malefactor with a little laugh, his foul breath stinging Sylvie’s delicate nostrils. “Well, no problem, ma’am, no problem at all. I’ll make sure he hurts real bad before I put him out of his misery. Do you have any preference regarding the procedure?” “’Procedure’?” “Sure! Should I cut his ears off, like, or beat him into a pulp…?” The thought of this… man, for lack of a better word, beating brawny Bruce Phillips into a pulp made Sylvie want to laugh. “How about crushing his kneecaps? I’ve heard it’s pretty painful… Is it?” The scarecrow’s abrupt, screechy guffaw caused Sylvie’s tender eardrums to shudder. “’Pretty painful’, you say?” he said, laughing and shaking his head as though in disbelief at Sylvie’s pronouncement. “It’s excruciating, ma’am! Excruciating!” “Could you do it?” said Sylvie, not at all amused. “Sure I can do it!” After a beat, he added, “You ain’t one to be trifled with, are you, ma’am?” At this, Sylvie simply smiled. No, she really wasn’t someone to be trifled with. And that was something that bastard, Bruce Phillips, was about to find out.
“Stop complaining and feeling sorry for yourself,” the Universe told me. “That’s your ego talking. There are young people out there looking for guidance; get out of your head and help them. You have already found your way. It wasn’t the way you’d imagined and dreamed about, and it wasn’t easy, but it was a way, and eventually, you did find yourself. You needn’t any more help from the Universe. You need to share what you have learned with those who feel lost and alone, as you once did, and who need help to find their way. For can you say, in all honesty, that you’ve yet to find your own way? That you’re still lost? Bullshit. You know you’re not. You’ve already found what so many are still looking for, just as you were once. And on many such an occasion, when you were feeling lost and confused, some person just happened to cross paths with you, who saw you and your confusion, who perceived your sense of loss and your yearning to belong. And in one way or another, they helped you along on your journey. Now it is your turn to return the favor. To grow older is no joke, of course, but you are in possession of the resources you need to go on building your persona into old age. These resources you started gathering early. And you couldn’t have done it without the help of those who happened to come along at just the right moment, so that they could contribute to your growth. Yes, you keep on growing, of course, but you’re already in possession of the essential foundation; the basis is there, and it’s solid. You’re self-sufficient now, you have all that you need inside yourself to complete your journey. You don’t need the Universe to tell you who you are or what you can do. You know who you are and what you can do. So quit complaining and asking for affirmation from the Universe. The Universe is already inside you. Use what you’ve learned, the lessons you’ve amassed, to help the young who are lost and whose future is still uncertain. Help those who might yet come to grief unless they receive the guidance they need when they need it the most. Help those who are lonely because they do not yet have themselves to lean on. Help them build that foundation as others have helped you build yours. Assist those who lack direction, those who feel ashamed about who they are, those who think themselves worthless. Be there for them. For that’s the way of the Universe: you got assistance when you needed it, and now the time has come for you to assist others. Pay it forward. That’s your mission from now on. Will you accept it? Or will you go on complaining and feeling sorry for yourself?”
“I’d like to help,” I say. “But I do not know how to go about it. How do I find these people who need my help?”
“It’s simple: Accept your mission, and those who need your help will find you.”
When I was nineteen, I, along with hundreds of other people from across Latin America, got hired by Braniff International to train as a flight attendant. According to the managing director at the company’s Rio base (I remember her name but am not going to disclose it here), the airline had recently purchased an unspecified number of brand-new Boeing 747s and needed to boost its service staff numbers accordingly. On Easter Sunday, 1980, my future classmates and I boarded a 747 operated by Lufthansa (?) bound for Dallas-Fort Worth, where Braniff had its headquarters and training center.
Upon returning to Rio a few weeks later, I was eager to put all I had learned during my training into practice and get to work. So it was with a feeling of anticipation I went to the crew scheduling office that Monday, as a newly-baked flight attendant, to collect my very first working schedule.
“You’re not scheduled on any flights next week,” the scheduling officer told me.
“No flights for me next week?” I said. “What do you mean?”
“We’re fully staffed for all of next week’s flights. We need no additional personnel.”
“All right,” I said. “How about the week after?”
The woman leafed through some papers, then said: “You’re not scheduled on any flights the week after either.”
Astonished, I blurted, “What do you mean, ‘I’m not scheduled’? Am I not supposed to go to work now that I’m fully trained?”
She shrugged. “I’m sorry.”
“But I don’t understand!” I said. “Braniff hired me and then trained me to work as a flight attendant. How can I do that when there are no flights available?”
She shrugged again. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“But I want to work!” I said, desperation starting to creep into my voice.
“You don’t have to worry, honey,” she replied. “It won’t impact your wages. You’re going to be paid your wages just as usual.”
“But I want to WORK!” I reiterated.
The scheduling officer let out a loud, demonstrative sigh. “Look,” she said, “you’ll get paid the same as everyone else, work or no work. Why don’t you take the chance to go to London, Paris or Rome, or any destination that catches your fancy? As you know, Braniff staff can fly to any destination where we operate at a 90% discount. Enjoy the fact that you’ll be paid a full wage despite not having to put in the work and go travel the world!”
“But I don’t feel like going on holiday before I’ve even had a chance to start my career,” I insisted. “I’m a fully trained flight attendant, and I want to work!”
This curious discussion continued for some time. Eventually, the scheduling officer managed to find a flight, three weeks hence, that happened to be one flight attendant short. She scheduled me to work on that flight, which I did.
The few weeks following that one flight saw a repetition of that same surrealistic situation described above. No flights, no working schedule. Instead, the scheduling officer put me on standby, which meant that I couldn’t leave my city in case a member of the regular crew came down with a cold or something and was unable to work. In that case, I’d stand in for her or him. To my disappointment, that never happened.
I kept returning to the office and nagging the scheduling officer. I wanted to fly. I wanted to work! That was the very reason I’d taken the job — to work! But every negotiation I had with her was an uphill struggle. I, demanding to work, and she not being able to accommodate me. She’d sigh and roll her eyes as soon as she spotted me. “You, again!” She’d say. And I’d reply, “Yes, here I am again, and I want to work! How come there are never any flights? I can’t understand it! It doesn’t make any sense!”
These and questions similar to these went unanswered. I wasn’t the only flight attendant unable to get an assignment on a flight, mind you. All other newly hired flight attendants were experiencing the same situation. They had no objections to this state of affairs, however. Most of my colleagues were at least a few years older than I was, and their outlook on “work” was way more cynical than mine. Unlike me, they felt as if they’d hit the jackpot: no need to work, full pay, travel to your heart’s content for 10% of the usual airfare. What’s there to complain about? We’ve been so lucky to land this job! It’s easy street all the way, baby, it’s positively my cup of tea, come on, let’s enjoy this opportunity to the fullest, what are you grumbling about, Lydia? It’s the job of a lifetime!
“Job of a lifetime”? Seriously? I was feeling confused and very uneasy about the whole situation. I’d never heard of a job where you weren’t expected to pitch in one way or another in order to earn your wages. Yes, I was young, sure, but I was no fool. Something was going on with this job that just wasn’t right.
Upon entering the office one day, and once again being met with sighs and eyes rolling towards the sky, I heard the scheduling officer say:
“You know, if you’re so determined to get your hands dirty, perhaps you should transfer to our Panama base. They are somewhat short on cabin personnel over there.”
Fearing that I might have misunderstood her, I asked, “Do you mean one gets to work over there?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. They need people there more than we do here. So, if you transfer to the base in Panama City maybe you’ll get to fly more often.”
“Where do I sign?” I replied.
And so, I transferred to Panama. The local climate was torrid and horrid and I stayed indoors with the air-conditioning turned on at full blast most of the time, watching through my window as two of my colleagues — sisters Dorothy and Denise — frolicked inside and about the hotel’s swimming pool. I didn’t envy them one bit, and we ended up becoming good friends, particularly Dorothy and me. Being big sisters, we soon found common ground.
Transferring to the Panama base turned out to be the right decision. I got to fly. I got to work. I learned Spanish “by osmosis”, i.e., simply by listening to people speaking the language and then attempting to imitate them. The hotel was nice enough, and it had a very friendly staff. Moreover, this hotel happened to house Panama City’s coolest disco. The DJ was a soft-spoken, sweet guy who went by Fofy but whose real name was Gustavo. He was very receptive to us young girls’ wishes and played all the disco tunes we asked him to play: Call Me, by Blondie; Souvenirs by Voyager; McArthur Park and Last Dance by Donna Summer; Yes, Sir, I Can Boogie by Baccara; and El Collar de Clodomiro by Willy Chirino, which was all the rage in the Caribbean back then. We had a ball on that dance floor! For the first time in my life, I felt free and somewhat in control of my life. Here I was, working, earning my own money, and dancing in my leisure time. One evening, alone in my hotel room, I even dared to make a call to a local radio station and ask them to play Call Me:
“Me gustaría mucho si ustedes quisieran tocar Llámame de Blondie.” And they played the song. For me! I almost cried with exhilaration.
The downside to being based in Panama was that I was missing my family terribly. Many nights I cried myself to sleep longing for my parents, my sister, my two brothers, and our cats. At heart, I am a family girl.
After a few months, I’d had enough of the oppressive, unrelenting Caribbean heat. I left Panama and went back to Rio. And it was at that time that things were beginning to unravel at Braniff. At that point, I knew in what direction the wind was blowing. I’d seen the signs at work. The gossip. The intrigue. The rivalry among colleagues. The veiled threats: “You’re not wearing any lipstick, don’t you know the rules? Take care you don’t get reported back to base”. There were rumors about the presence of Braniff spies passing off as passengers on board our flights whose job it was to inform on female crew members with unvarnished nails, unrouged cheeks, or long hair not kept in a strict bun. Naturally, the regulations regarding the appearance of male flight attendants were significantly less demanding; as a male cabin attendant, you were expected to show up at work fresh from the shower, clean-shaven, and with your hair newly cut in a classic hairstyle.
I can’t speak about the Braniff of the 60s and 70s, and I can’t speak about the Braniff that operated domestic flights inside the US. But the Braniff of Latin America in 1980 was just… well, ludicrous. The disorganization; the sheer incompetence on the part of the managing staff and administration; the bizarre workflow on board, where the passengers in first class, which consisted of a half-dozen rows of armchairs at the most, were served food out of a trolley, whereas the staff in coach had no trolley and had to run the gauntlet between the galley in the aft and the cabin’s forward bearing heavy Bakelite trays topped with robust China plates, bowls and cups, sturdy drinking glasses and real cutlery. There wasn’t a single item made of plastic on those trays, so their weight was significant. That manner of waiting on passengers was what Braniff really meant by “flying colors”, which, incidentally, was the airline’s proud slogan.
Soon after returning to Brazil, I, and everyone else based in Rio — some three-hundred people — were summoned to a compulsory emergency meeting at the base. The purpose of the meeting soon became clear: it was to inform us that Braniff was facing serious financial difficulties and would have to lay off all of its service staff in Latin America. This news caused a veritable commotion in the audience. People started asking questions, demanding explanations as to why Braniff, who’d only recently carried through such an aggressive hiring campaign throughout the continent, was now threatening to sacrifice our very livelihood. What was the reason for this 180-degree turn? First, you hire hundreds of people, and a mere few months later you want us to disappear, just like that? What’s going on here?
But alas! We got no straightforward answers to any of our questions; not one. All the managing director would do was repeat how very sorry they were. And then she said:
“Those among you who are young, who perhaps still live with your parents; those who do not have mortgages to pay or children to support… We’d like to ask you to be the first ones to surrender your jobs. Doing so will enable those of your colleagues who have greater need of an income to stay at Braniff a little longer while they look for a new job.”
Expectantly, she eyed the audience. Not a sound. Not a movement. People simply sat on their chairs, looking either at the floor or at the ceiling, examining their nails, or fixedly staring straight ahead with perfectly expressionless features.
“So…” she resumed, “I beg of you: please, think of your colleagues. All of you, everyone, will have to go eventually, that I can promise you. But which among you are willing to give up your jobs now, today? Any volunteers…?”
Silence. Faces uniformly turned away from the woman on the podium.
Suddenly, someone stood up, and immediately all eyes converged on her.
I reckon you can guess who that was.
There and then, I surrendered my travesty of a job at Braniff International. As a result, I was extravagantly lauded by the managing director and enthusiastically applauded by all. I can assure you, though, that no one was feeling happier, or more relieved, than I. I’m not one for playing games, and that particular game had been going on for far too long already.
The sharp sliver of a crescent moon was virtually obscured from her view by the crown of the palm. The Coronas had just arrived, a wedge of lime stuck into the neck of each bottle. The corners of the crisp, white-and-red checkered tablecloth fluttered in the seaward wind. From her place at the table, she could see the large, kidney-shaped swimming pool, its dark waters rippled by the breeze, looking as if in a hurry to be conveyed from one end of the pool to the other. The deck chairs surrounding the pool, so coveted and contested for in the daytime, now stood empty and abandoned. Along the far side of the terrace, the one bordering the beach, a number of evenly spaced torches blazed, flames swaying wildly but never blowing out. “I think I shall have the buffet,” she said, taking a sip straight from her bottle. “What is the theme tonight?” he asked. “Native cuisine,” she answered. “Oh boy,” he groaned. “You don’t have to eat the strange stuff, honey,” she retorted. “There’s plenty of ‘normal’ dishes on offer. And the seafood salad looks great today.” “No seafood salad for me, thank you very much,” he said with a grimace. “I think I’ll have a regular steak from the à la carte menu. They make pretty decent steaks here, did you know that? I had a T-bone for lunch the other day – you know, when I couldn’t go out with you guys? It was pretty good, crisp, and juicy. I think I’ll have one now.” “Alright,” she replied, standing up. “You go ahead and order your steak. I’ll go and help myself to the buffet; be right back!” Forty-five minutes later, she sighed, contented, as she laid down her knife and fork across her empty plate. “I think I might just have some room for a teeny-weeny piece of chocolate cake after this,” she said, smiling at him. “How can you say such a thing after all you’ve eaten?” he asked, astonished. “I have a spare stomach for sweets, and that stomach is still empty,” she said with a wry smile. As he opened his mouth to reply, the air suddenly exploded with the loud beat of drums. Eight young girls, dressed in small, strapless tops and grass skirts, entered the side of the terrace facing the restaurant and began to dance, hips swaying, slender arms rising and falling, their hands describing graceful figures in the air. They wore each a garland of flowers around their necks and had a hibiscus tucked behind one ear. They watched the performance with interest, and she even shot some photographs of the dancing girls in their exotic attire. The abrupt stop of the drums left their ears ringing and a puzzled look on their faces. It took a few moments before they again could hear the waves lapping at the shore; the tide was coming in. She studied the sky for a while and then turned to him, smiling. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day tomorrow,” she said. He, too, snatched a quick look at the sky. “Yeah,” he agreed, reaching across the table and taking her hand in his, “and perhaps we’ll be lucky this time, and get to see a manta.” “Oh, I’m sure we will,” she said, and squeezed his hand, “I’m sure we will”.
NYA RÖN KAN FÖRKLARA DEN 40 ÅR LÅNGA ÖKENVANDRINGEN
Anledningen till att det tog Mose och israeliterna 40 års planlöst flackande i öknen innan gruppen till slut nådde resans mål Kanaan var den manliga fåfängan, fastlår två sinsemellan oberoende forskarlag. Enligt forskarna låg Moses tjurskalliga vägran att fråga efter vägen bakom dröjsmålet.
– Mankönets motvilja mot att fråga efter vägen är en välkänd företeelse och till yttermera visso vetenskapligt belagd, säger det schweiziska forskarlagets vetenskapliga ledare, professor Patricia Frauherz. Ett litet område i vänstra pannloben styr detta förhållande, som alltså innebär att män ogärna erkänner tillkortakommanden avseende sin orienteringsförmåga.
Med andra ord skulle Mose, helt i enlighet med de biologiska villkor som dikterade hans beteenden, ha vägrat att fråga efter vägen även sedan han insett att man gått vilse.
Ett amerikanskt forskarteam har efter flera års utgrävningar i Sinaiöknen kommit fram till exakt samma slutsats som sina schweiziska kolleger. Amerikanerna har funnit belägg för att dispyter förekommit mellan gruppens manliga och kvinnliga fraktioner beträffande vägen till Kanaan. Stentavlor från vad som antas vara den relevanta perioden i Gamla testamentet vittnar om att ett antal kvinnor blivit avrättade efter att ha föreslagit att man skulle fråga efter vägen hos första bästa nomad man mötte.
– Mycket tyder på att kvinnornas ifrågasättande av Moses orienteringsförmåga förödmjukade denne djupt och dessutom väckte farhågor om en nära förestående kupp, säger fil. dr. Joshua Stein, ledare för det amerikanska forskarlaget.
På en av de utgrävda stentavlorna, som forskarna tror utgör ett slags rättegångsprotokoll över upproret, står att en av kvinnorna skulle ha sagt ”inte ett steg till” medan en annan i sin tur skulle ha sagt ”vad förlorar vi på att fråga”.
– Kvinnorna förlorade sina huvuden ”på att fråga”, skulle man kunna säga, eller snarare på att ifrågasätta Moses förmåga att hitta till Kanaan, säger dr Joshua Stein. Vi är förvånade över att kvinnorna alls fick komma till tals, och detta är kanske den största vetenskapliga upptäckten när allt kommer omkring: att kvinnorna vågade lägga sig i sina mäns förehavanden. Men de var väl desperata vid det laget, skulle jag tro.
Enligt professor Frauherz saknar kvinnor helt det lilla området i vänstra pannloben som hindrar männen från att fråga efter vägen. Däremot har kvinnor ett motsvarande område i högra pannloben som gör att de väldigt gärna frågar efter vägen, även innan de ens inlett sin resa, liksom för att vara ”på säkra sidan”.
– Det tragiska med den här oerhört långa ökenvandringen är att många israeliter hann födas och dö innan man till slut nådde det förlovade landet. Att det dessutom kostade några frågvisa kvinnor livet gör inte saken bättre. Hade Mose varit kvinna och haft ansvaret för expeditionen skulle gruppen med all sannolikhet ha nått Kanaan efter 40 dagar. Nu tog det i stället 40 år. Det är oerhört sorgligt, säger professor Frauherz.
Lydia's Archive 