| No. 21 | July 2005 |
PARTY POOPERS
The departmental Christmas party is late starting. Someone has forgotten
the liquor permit. One sip of alcohol without its papery presence is a
major turpitude. But it's here at last, taped up alongside a faded
timetable; the licensed hilarity can begin.
"Well, we did a great job on the decorations," one associate professor
says.
"Didn't we just?" replies the secretary who, her appeal for help
unheeded, has had to do them by herself, as usual, on top of e-mailing
the head's seasonal greetings, after hours and not one cent in overtime.
This associate would be bottom of her typing priorities next term, were
he still to be around.
A newly-appointed instructor has been agonizing for weeks over a
Christmas present. For the head, not her. If he buys one, will it look
like sucking-up? But what if he doesn't, and everyone else does? He's
tried asking in a roundabout way, but they are no better at answering
subtle questions than he is posing them. Maybe a joke present would be
the best compromise, something to demonstrate thought without ulterior
motive.
Right now, the head is putting on his party hat, made from a torn-up
academic offprint. He does this every year. Always the same offprint.
He's published nothing else in living memory. "All this administration,"
he pleads.
He thrusts a styrofoam cup of punch at the nearest graduate student.
"Well, Merry Christmas," as though reading from a teleprompter, "Have a
good one."
She is the only Jewish attendee. Her name is Hagith Levant, evidently
not a good enough clue for gentile scholars. Those faculty members who
notice the faux pas snigger cautiously, wanting to register their
sympathy and contempt without making it obvious which sentiment is for
whom. There's nothing to stop her from dreaming up a sexual harassment
charge, or him from assigning an eight a.m. class in the winter term.
The other graduate students look uneasily at each other: are they seeing
themselves as they will be in ten years time?
Hagith Levant, an atheist except when she goes home, stages a walk-out.
She was leaving soon, in any case, for a more private engagement. Memory
of this episode will make a useful marker when needed: a late essay, for
example, or evading a second section of freshman composition.
The instructor sidles out a few moments later. More sniggering, less
concealed, from those who notice: what chance does he think he's got?
Two full professors clothe their decades-long feud in a diaphanous dress
of duologue: "You going to the MLA this year?"
"That slave auction? No way. They wanted me to do a panel, of course,
but I told them where to stick it. Why, are you?"
"I'm giving a paper, if that's your question."
"Maybe I will come after all. Just for the buzz of being there and not
going to hear you."
The secretary judges this a good moment to promote the nondescript
sandwiches, sawdust shortbreads, and a Christmas cake topped with
plaster robins which she does not warn people to avoid. Who knows? In
her previous post, the head had not realised the artificiality of
festive robins; it had required a hyper-Heimlich man0euvre to dislodge
the powdery beak.
Worrying over the possible Hagith Levant repercussions, the head recalls
the time she sat on the department's photo-copying machine and xeroxed
herself. Political correctness hanging over them like stale gunsmoke, no
one ventures beyond "Well, that could have been interesting..."
It wasn't. Hagith Levant was "really into Absurdism," hadn't even taken
off her coat.
At 4.55 on the nail, the secretary plays one of her aces, hoping to make
everyone feel a louse by handing out carefully wrapped presents, knowing
she'll get nothing from them. But her ace is trumped, there's no time
for even a mouse-squeak of guilt, thanks to the head who removes his
hat, consults his watch yet again, and as though closing a seminar
announces "Well, that's it for another year. Better get going before our
vehicles freeze up. You know the administration switiches the power off
at five, and it must be twenty below out there."
"Oughtn't we to clean up this mess first?" some fool asks.
"No, the secretary can do that."
After they'd gone, she leaves alone, humming a snatch of "Eleanor
Rigby". Her shopping-bag clinks with the left-over bottles she has
appropriated. Blame could always be diverted to the Korean cleaners, one
of whom will soon be puzzled by his discovery in a lecture room of a
pair of panties. Even if his English were better, their HL monogram
would mean nothing to him. He slips them in his pocket to take home as a
present for his wife, an act that will cause him some trouble when the
police find them in the course of their investigation of their owner's
disappearance.
The instructor will also be under suspicion, but nothing will be found
against him. In any case, the police will soon have their hands full
with the deaths of everyone else at the Christmas party, thanks to what
had been mixed in with the refreshments. They would very much like to
talk to the secretary,but no dice. She is tucked away somewhere in South
America with Hagith Levant, whose treatment at the party and
enforced Yuletide congress with the instructor had finally convinced her
that men, especially academic ones, were not for her.
Hardly was everyone in the ground before the temporary secretary was
faced with the fax machine spitting out multi-paged applications for the
vacancies that thanks to the next round of budget cuts will not be
filled. She can be re-shuffled into the Computer Sciences' growing
steno-pool; his fixed-term position means curtains for the instructor
who after two years of expensive job-hunting will choose to join his
former colleagues, wherever they are.
By Barry Baldwin
STUNTS
Officer Rick Kahana, in full patrol uniform, fell in line at the
bank. On his lunch break, Kahana held a leather briefcase for
his withdrawal.
He was eying brochures when the call came in. His cell
phone was on vibrate. No one looked over as he checked its
display.
SKY, N.
She wasn't supposed to call. She wasn't supposed to be late,
either. He pressed SEND.
"Hey, babe. I thought we agreed--"
"I told you I was getting a tattoo. Job took longer than I
thought."
She had told him; he thought she was kidding. Nina had
lightning bolts on her triceps, a drop of blood below her navel,
a dragon across her shoulder blades . . . What now?
"Did you get the spot we wanted?" Rick asked.
"Yeah, no problem."
That was all he needed to know. Nina could've ended the
call, but instead she asked, "What about you? Are you ready?"
"Always."
"You wish."
Jabs like that had Rick wondering if she slept around. He
kept the frustration from his voice. "I should be through in about
ten minutes. How 'bout we go for fish tacos?"
"Mmm. Fish tacos. You sure know how to treat a girl."
Why the hell was she still talking? As a joke, he said, "Want
me to leave the phone on so you can listen?"
"I dare you."
"You're on."
He clipped the phone to his belt.
Rick and Nina met two years earlier, when he pulled her over
for speeding. She was a six-foot-three stunt driver, he a six-four
ex-jock. They pushed each other's buttons from day one. Their
sex could light a city, but they weren't too compatible in practical
matters.
Like being on time, Rick thought, and saving wireless minutes.
He only let her within spitting distance of the bank because she
threw a fit the night before.
"Next at Window Two?" a female teller said.
Rick stepped up and passed her the note. She read it and
looked at him, blinking at his uniform.
He smiled. *Everything's under control.* He brought up the
briefcase and released the snaps.
The teller keyed open her register and began passing banded
bills--one stack at a time--through the window slot. Rick arranged
the stacks end-to-end, tallying them in his head.
The case about half full, Rick saw the teller pale. She mouthed
the words, "It's empty."
Rick smiled again. He closed the case, slid it off the counter,
and walked out.
Once outside, he felt the urge to run but resisted. Nina's
Charger was right where he planned, engine idling. He climbed in
and dumped the briefcase in back.
A minute later, moving smoothly on the highway, Nina asked,
"How much?"
"Nine-and-a-half grand."
Nina nodded, satisfied.
Out Rick's window, the Pacific was a blue blur. Looking back
from the ocean, Rick eyed the speedometer.
"Ease off," he said. "We don't want to get a ticket."
Nina laughed.
"I'm serious."
"You're the boss."
When Nina hit the brakes, the Charger went into a spin. The
passenger door flew open. By the time Rick remembered his
seatbelt, he was out of the car, over the cliff, falling toward
endless blue.
By Gerald So
SURVIVOR
The smart money was on the cockroaches.
Theory was you could burn them, blast them, freeze them and bury them and still they’d come back for more. They were the ultimate survivors, the guaranteed winners of a nuclear conflagration. But you know what. They’re all gone. Dead. Want to know why? I’ll tell you, because they’re dumb insects!
It's laughable really, on the one hand you have a species whose key skill is to look ugly and live in garbage and on the other you have a species that builds great cities, founds communities, organises itself into societies, creates structures and hierarchies, follows leaders, co-operates, organizes labor and plans means of production. Come on, where’s your money going to be.
'Course it was tough at first. Don’t get me wrong--with little or no warning most of those top-side didn’t make it underground in time. But we had shelters, which we sealed, we had food, for a couple of months and for some of us our faith kept us going. I don’t want to get religious or anything, but if you’re designed in the image of your Creator then you’re not going to disappear in a flash. That just won’t happen.
So little by little we made it. Soon we were sending out small foraging parties, you know, for food, not that there was much to be found and anything else we could use in the shelter. I tell you I was pretty nervous the first time out but you get used to it. I think you can get used to anything and you know there’s a cruel beauty you can admire in a nuclear winter. The way the sky looks sometimes, all bruised and purple, it's pretty awesome.
I sometimes wonder if there are others, groups like us, I mean. I suppose there must be. There’s no means of making contact so what can you do. I’ve never seen anything to suggest that anything else survived. There isn’t a single blade of grass remaining and every living thing and I mean every living thing went the same way as the cockroaches. It’s just devastation out there. Whole place has been levelled to not much more than an anthill. That’s where I’m going now. Need to get back. The entrances are sealed around this time and I wouldn’t want to get stuck outside, that would be dumb and my momma didn’t raise no quarter of a million dummies.
By Mike Driver
THIS ISSUE OF FLASH FANTASTIC -- "Party Poopers" is ©2005 by Barry Baldwin. "Stunts" is ©2005 by Gerald So. "Survivor" is ©2005 by Mike Driver. All contents of Flash Fantastic 2005 are edited by Art Brown. Please send all submissions to FF editor, Art Brown. Final formatting and additional graphics by Nolan B. Canova. All contents of Crazed Fanboy dotcom and Nolan's Pop Culture Review are ©2005 by Nolan B. Canova.