You need not allow the gloom of circumstances to seep into your soul. It is but the signal of an opportunity to uncover the light of truth.
Randall hated violence. Not that he believed it had no place in human interaction, but it seldom really solved anything. It was always better to reason, persuade and demonstrate. Meanwhile, he especially hated people getting hurt. He was old enough to handle the necessity in life of being hurt himself, but just could not easily reconcile himself to the pain he might cause others. He hoped this confrontation didn't require violence to end properly.
Randall was a good bit bigger than average, and in far better shape than many younger men, but this new guy was really big, and it was not all fat. His voice was really loud, too.
"You prissy wimps drive me nuts! Stay out of my way."
Randall was calmer, quieter, but still firm. "That's all we're asking from you, sir. Don't leave your trash where we have to pick it up."
"Don't tell me what to do!" With that, the bigger man reached out his beefy right hand to push on Randall's shoulder.
Lord, help me! Randall swung his left hand in a counter-clockwise motion against the other man's forearm, while his right hand thrust lightening quick to strike the heel of his palm smartly under his nose. The bigger man's head popped backward just for an instant. A natural brawler, his hands instinctively began to reach for Randall.
But Randall had turned to his left, almost facing away from his opponent, as he sharply dropped his right hand down and away from the man's face, then completed the circular movement, burying itself in his crotch. The motion bent Randall at the waist. He continued bending and both hands now grabbed the big man's left ankle. He pulled quickly up and out, dropping his opponent with a heavy thud on the floor.
Clutching his family jewels, the giant rolled onto his right side. He coughed and groaned out, "I'm gonna kill you!"
Randall was breathing heavily, but managed to enunciate clearly, "I don't doubt you'll try, and you may well succeed. You'll have plenty of chances later. Meanwhile, it won't change my resolve to keep you from trashing the common areas. Nobody cares what you do in your own cubicle, but the rest of us like it clean. Keep your trash to yourself."
Turning slowly, Randall walked away, shaking his head in disgust. The floor under his feet was so shiny, it reflected his image as he walked back to his own cubicle near the rear of the building.
A half dozen men had followed shortly behind Randall as he sat on his bed. Elbows on knees, he rested his face in his hands, praying. He might have known, but Carl didn't seem to think it mattered if he interrupted by exclaiming, "Man! You really know how to fight!"
Moving his hands only, just far enough to speak between them, Randall answered slowly, matter-of-factly. "No, I don't. It was simply a matter of the Lord delivering him into my hands, as the Bible puts it. I'm not a warrior, just a worker."
"Oh, come on! That was karate. You didn't ever take no martial arts?" Carl was incredulous.
Randall dropped his hands to hang between his knees. "Of course I did. Everyone who serves in the Army gets some unarmed self-defense classes. Furthermore, as a teenager my closest buddy was a brown belt." He turned to face the men at he open end of his cubicle. "Even if your only exposure is action movies, with all that bogus theatrical martial stuff, the underlying principles are the same."
He stood up, leaning against he wall on his right shoulder. "But I'm a first-class klutz. I've given more injuries to myself than just about everyone else combined. I hate fighting!" This last with such vehemence, he stood free of the wall as he shook both fists in front of him.
It was Jerry this time. "Then why did you take you him down?"
Randall thought for a moment, not exactly sure himself. After a sigh, "I didn't want him beating up on anyone else. He's obviously the violent type, so I wanted to paint a target on myself. He's convinced I'm the leader in the building..."
"And you are," Jerry interjected firmly.
"But I don't have any ambition for that. It was your choice, and yours and yours..." pointing to each one in turn. "Regardless of what happens, I'm determined to do what my convictions demand of me. Whether we can tame that bully or not, it only gets worse if we let him start intimidating anyone."
He thought for a moment, then added, "You can't just wish conflict away. That's the way people are. If I have to, I'll fight with him every day, as many times as it takes to keep him from getting in the way of the job and what little comfort we can get here. I won't pretend I can advise you all to let me do all the fighting. I don't operate like that. I'm just trying to do what I absolutely have to do, and let God take care of the rest."
Jerry was probably the best educated of the bunch. "You lead by example, not by command. It's working pretty well, so far."
With that, the men began filtering away down the open space between the rows of cubicles on each side of the building. Those wearing their new boots stepped softly to protect the new wax shine on the floor. They were proud of how it looked.
Randall reached out and closed the curtain across the cubicle opening. With a comical gruff drill sergeant voice, he looked down and said, "It's almost as nice as my own floor." He stood in front of his bunk and picked up the pillow. It wasn't the wax job that caused him to drop the pillow on the floor as he prepared to kneel down -- he was the only man in the building who had brought a six foot rubber backed floor rug. As the pillow dropped on the rug, he braced both arms against the bed as he painfully kneeled down. The pillow cushioned his arthritic joints.
As he began to pray, a part of his mind heard above the noise of some twenty men winding down for the night, the sound of one very large pair of bare feet. They made a familiar slap-thud sound when walking on the tiled concrete floor. The giant wobbled off to his own cubicle.
Randall sighed in prayer, and not simply because the cushion was not enough to make his knees comfortable.
His lungs burning, and his body burning even more, he allowed his feet to slow to a fast walk at the top of the hill. Though panting, it was nothing like it was two decades ago. Then, the only thing limiting his exertion was lack of wind. Now, it was lack of everything else. The muscles could just about do it with a much slower pace, but the joints -- oh, the joints!
Still, the gaze of a corpulent man's eyes from the porch thirty yards away reminded him he was miles ahead of most men his age. He was never fast, and never had the endurance for anything resembling genuine racing, but he loved it so very much. It answered some deep need he could never name. His runs were shorter these days, and distinctly slower, but something inside him squirmed with joy. So it did when he performed his upper body calisthenics routine. It kept the muscles toned and able to serve. All he ever wanted to do with his life was be able to help people, and a strong body was so important in that.
By the time he walked the quarter-mile to his house, he was still breathing heavy, and the sweat poured down him in rivulets. It was better now that early fall had brought the temperatures down. He was really enjoying the moment when he saw the envelope.
Mail had been rare those days. It was pretty risky, given the natural instability of a new government, but the organizational turmoil was the least of troubles. It seemed those who had long planned resistance saw the perfect moment, and had insured there were many enclaves where the new government governed in theory only. Whole armies of bureaucratic staff had not been swept into the union of federal governments. Worse, it took quite some time for the new currency to actually be accepted across the entire continent. Troops brought home from the many wars across the world did not uniformly transfer their allegiance. Just getting letters delivered was pretty dicey.
His hopes of hearing from another group of house churches was dashed when he saw the official NAU symbol on the return address. What did they want with him? His extended family had not taken up armed resistance, but simply flew under the radar, as it were. They grew crops, made tools and fixed things, all to stay alive and keep their community alive. He didn't even allow folks to call him any title, though he served pretty much as a father confessor. Yet, they had his full name and address.
None of them had wanted to be there. Sure, the new government was a brutal fascist regime, quick to hold public summary executions for anyone daring to defy edicts. Yet, it was all too easy for any of them to slip away to an independent enclave, and most of them would have been welcome for one skill or another. In many cases, it was a simple matter of swearing allegiance, since many "gangs" existed without much reference to actual turf. Most of them would not have been worth the risk of a firefight to be arrested for ignoring their "invitations."
They all decided for a variety of reasons to accept the civilian draft orders. Most of them hinged on the very real promise of pay, not to mention "three hots and a cot" -- they were all veterans of military service. That's how they were all identified. Some found their letters at community general delivery points, but they all got them within sufficient time to make it by the reporting date.
They had arrived over a period of a week, with the giant coming a full two days behind the rest. He was the only one who walked to the camp. Two came by bus, one rode his own bicycle, but most of them had been picked up by government owned trucks. These were modified tractor-trailer rigs. The trailers had been fitted with an odd collection of salvaged sliding windows such as might fit on a bus, and inside were crude frames of welded pipes, fitted with benches. The rigs towing them were ancient and pitifully under-powered. Since almost no private vehicles were on the few intact highways and interstate routes, it didn't matter. Randall had arrived the second day after he left his home, catching the "bus" at a hastily built "bus station" just outside the county seat.
All of them were at least 45 years old, none over 60. In the still harsh economic conditions, the military services could have their pick. That left only these sporadic civilian service corps operations. This was a fairly long assignment, it turned out. They were finishing up a hastily abandoned contract to build a prison camp. The facilities in the main were finished, but the contractor had failed to clear sufficient open space between the outer perimeter and the scrub forest surrounding on three sides. They were supposed to widen a twenty foot strip to fifty feet. They were supposed to do it with hand tools. But the tools had not yet arrived, and were scheduled for the next day when the confrontation between Randall and the big bully broke out.
Coming in late, there was a certain comradery the giant had missed, and he was not at all a good fit in that building.
Randall arrived on the second day of the operation. There were nine from the previous 24 hours, and three came with him. The buildings were new sheet metal on steel frames, built on concrete floors. These were the future guard quarters. Each building had an office/bedroom at the front on one side, and a storage room on the other side. Beyond these two, stretching away to the back were ten open cubicles on each side. At the rear was a shower room on one side, and on the other a row of sinks facing a row of open stall toilets.
There were three such buildings, and teams were being assembled in each one. This was the far building, and their team leader was apparently a prison guard, but with an ostensibly easy assignment of supervising a team of civilian draft laborers. The whole staff was adamant the men were not prisoners nor conscripts, but volunteers, and would be treated with appropriate respect. Of course, in bureaucratic terms of a wobbly government too big to find its own butt, that meant they fared slightly better than starving citizens, facing far less discipline than military troops.
The whole operation was delayed by the late arrival of the axes, pick-axes, shovels and such. However, they did have a supply of old military surplus boots and work gloves. The orders every man received said to wear their own work clothes. The camp also had ponchos, which would probably be a lot more useful than coats or jackets in a part of the country where winter meant cold rain at worst. They had already faced one cool rain in that week.
They also had a decent collection of cleaning supplies. Good thing, too, as Randall found the fleeing contractor had left the floors and rooms slightly unfinished in terms of clean-up. He found some soapy cleanser, green scouring pads, and to his delight, some genuine canned floor wax. It was half out of boredom Randall decided to recall his military days and make his cubicle look sharp. First, he scrubbed the dark tile surface, which still had gobs of sealant, paint and other unidentified splatters. It took over an hour. He rinse mopped it three times, then once more with a sponge on his knees. It was only because they were sore from that he gave it an hour to dry.
He sat on the floor and traded working from one side of his body, then the other. He divided the cubicle floor mentally into twelve sections, using the thin joint lines between the tiles. One more wipe with a damp sponge, then slowly he rubbed into the tile face a small amount of floor wax using the now somewhat less abrasive scouring pad. He worked in small circles, keeping the wax as thin as possible. The last thing he did before moving on to the next section was buff the wax slowly and repeatedly with a terry cloth. By the end of the day, the dark tile surface of the cubicle floor reflected light like a mirror. With the bunk carefully set back into place, he rolled out the rug he had brought and laid back on the bunk.
Some of the other men had watched at various times, and a few decided to copy his efforts, though with varying levels of expertise. From the sounds of conversations Randall overheard, he supposed there had been some cajoling and coaxing, but almost everyone else in the building did some similar work on their own cubicles. A few asked questions, seeking to understand how Randall had gotten it so very shiny. He had not himself asked anyone to copy him. He left it to them to decide for themselves what they should do.
The next day, as more men came, they joined in the effort. By then, Randall had moved his labors into the showers, then the toilets and sinks. He was quickly joined by others, and it seemed almost a party atmosphere, with all the usual joking. By the day the last bunch arrived, Randall had finished the "master suite" and supply closet.
Their supervisor stood with his mouth open. He hadn't really paid much attention until his office was cleaned. It wasn't that bad, since he had expended some small effort on his own when the staff took charge of the camp two weeks before. The men had carefully avoiding touching anything but the floor, except to move the furniture enough to expose the floor underneath. He had been terribly busy, running back and forth between the central office and his office. He was grateful the men had been keeping themselves out of trouble. There was obviously enough idiocy thrown in his lap from the bureaucracy above him.
Standing in his office door, admiring the brilliant shine on the floor, he turned and looked down the hallway between the cubicles. "Is this what you guys have been up to all this time?"
There was a murmur from several men, when finally Jerry spoke up. "Yes sir. It seemed to best way to handle the waiting."
"You don't realize... The other two buildings are nothing like this. They aren't pig styes, but they aren't that far from frat houses, either." He paused a moment, still admiring the shiny floor, shiny metal fixtures, utterly clear glass window. He sniffed. "Smells pretty good, too."
Jerry smiled, "Once it's done, it's really not hard to maintain. Even better, though, is the sense of comradery. We've not had any significant conflict since starting this."
He asked Jerry, "Did you take any leadership in this?"
Jerry chuckled. "Only at a couple of points. No one was really in charge, in that sense. But I believe we can thank Randall for setting the pace. He got started first in his own cubicle, then moved to the common use areas. We just followed suit. He seemed to remember more of the little tricks we all forget since serving the military."
"Who's Randall?" He eyed the men gathered in a knot in the hallway.
A hand went up. The men parted, and a few pairs of hands pushed him forward while others moved to let him through.
The supervisor's whole demeanor showed the honesty of his words. "I really appreciate this." He paused, at a loss for words. "If you guys keep this up when we actually have to start working, I won't have any thing to do."
Randall smiled. "I'm hoping we can be a solution, not a problem. Life is already hard enough as it is."
Making one final tug on the hospital corner at the foot of his bunk, Randall turned to leave his cubicle. He saw one of the men standing over a spot of some thick liquid in the "alleyway" -- the word they decided was appropriate for the aisle between the cubicles. The man turned and informed him he was waiting for Carl to bring the mop bucket. "You don't think this will hurt the wax, do you?"
Randall asked, "What is it?"
"Shampoo."
"Probably not," Randall said, and glanced up the alleyway.
At the far end two men were shooing everyone out as they prepared to make one last pass with the makeshift buffer. This consisted of an old, ragged towel, weighted down with a tightly packed laundry bag. Randall stepped out the back door and watched as Carl wheeled out the mop bucket which was kept by the mop sink, at the far end of the row of toilets. Carl was busy rinsing, wringing and swiping repeatedly until there was no trace of the sticky, soapy stuff.
By the time he was almost finished, Carl was facing the open back door so the cool morning air could speed the drying process. Just as he was about to make one last swipe after a hard wringing of the mop, the giant stepped out of the shower room.
"Get that crap out of my way!"
So fast, no one even saw it, Carl brought the mop up sharply and poked it into the big man's face. Carl was easily the smallest guy living in the building, but he was no wimp. The giant stumbled back a step, then sat down hard on the concrete floor. Sputtering and cursing, he struggled to his feet, only to find a half dozen other fellows facing him from behind Carl. Their stance made it obvious Carl wouldn't be fighting alone.
For his part, Carl didn't seem to believe what his own hands had done. After a second, he drew back and leaned against the short section of wall which separated the shower room from the alleyway. "All you had to say was somethin' like 'Excuse me.'"
Without a sound, the big man simply sidled past the bucket and Carl, as the other men gave way to let him pass.
It was a convivial atmosphere, and they typically came as a single group. The workers in Randall's building always made it to the dining hall for breakfast before the men from the other buildings began straggling in by twos and threes. They sat together, spread over a couple of the large tables, near the windows.
Randall sat facing those windows, when he spotted something outside. It looked like the smokestack from a large truck, just visible over the roof line of the administrative building. There was a single, two-lane blacktop drive which passed between the staff area where they lived on one side, and the high security fence on the other. Beyond that fence stood mutely the prison buildings.
"Whatcha got, Randall?"
"Looks like our tools might be here. I'll bet they take them down to the maintenance building. I'm going to see if they need help unloading or something."
He had hardly taken a few steps toward the door when the sound of mass movement behind him almost covered the words, "Not without us!"
It was a flatbed trailer behind the truck, which was indeed standing in front of the maintenance shop. Under a tightly stretched tarp were various boxy shapes. One of the camp staff Randall hadn't met before was standing facing what must have been the driver. This one was rattling on in a loud staccato, swing both hands in wide circles to emphasize his words. As the group approached, Randall still in the lead, he caught the word "forklift" in the foul rant. The driver suddenly trailed off as he saw the group heading his way.
The staffer turned, and started to open his mouth, with an obviously irritated question on his mind. Before he could say anything, Randall interjected, "We're ready to help unload, sir."
The staffer froze, his mouth still open for just a second. His eyebrows went up, and he turned back to the driver, who suddenly spoke more slowly. "Oh... You got this already organized."
The staffer suddenly regained his composure. "Of course. Not everyone in the system is incompetent."
Before he had finished the driver walked briskly toward the back of the truck. Two of the workers obviously were familiar with this sort of thing, and expertly helped the driver release the tension on the clasps, then detach them from the tarp. This they rolled neatly as they clambered up the bumper onto the deck, where the load left them just enough space to stand precariously. The worked their way back, keeping an eye on the driver. When they had uncovered four pallets, each with a single large cardboard box, he signaled them to stop.
"Those are yours. Have at it!"
The two workers pulled and ripped the tops off the giant boxes. The men on the ground instinctively lined up in two columns as those up on the flatbed handed down bundles of shovels. Randall asked the staffer quietly if he knew where wanted the tools. The man grabbed his arm and led him toward the building. Once out of earshot from the truck, he asked Randall, "Who told you to come out here and help unload?"
Randall smiled. "No one told us. It seemed like the obvious thing to do."
As the staffer unlocked a garage door, he said with a grin, "I'm sure glad somebody around here knows what's going on." Randall's laugh was covered by the sound of the door sliding upward.
By now the first few men arrived carrying their bundles, and the staffer indicated three places on the floor across the open space in the shop. "Spread them equally in three piles." His look told Randall to make sure everyone got that message.
In less than an hour, there were three piles of tools on the floor of the shop, unbundled and neatly arranged.
At lunch time, the giant came and sat directly across from Randall. For awhile he ate silently, glaring at Randall, who returned his gaze with a half smile, waiting to see if the bigger man would speak.
"No more fighting," the man said gruffly.
"My name is Randall." He extended his right hand. "What should I call you?"
There was an uncomfortable pause. "Bobby." He took Randall's hand decisively. The power in his grip was all too obvious, but not painful. "You the leader of our building?"
"So they tell me." Randall took a drink. "I have no ambition to lead, only to work and make the most of a bad situation."
"I have ambition for it, but I'm obviously too late to the game." Suddenly Bobby sounded quite intelligent.
"Not necessarily, Bobby. I'm not in charge of anything; I decide things only for myself. There maybe something of a herd instinct at work, if you will, but I've told the men repeatedly they have to decide for themselves what they must do. So far, it works out pretty well."
"The staff are gonna put you in charge of the group." It was a statement of fact.
"Once we get into the real work, I'm not going to be able to handle it by myself. Most of them have never done clearing work before, and I can't train them each one-by-one. Have you done any of this kind of work?" Randall tipped his head slightly to one side.
"Sure."
Randall continued. "Besides, what I really need is someone who will likely offer a counter-balance. I'll be the first to tell you I don't know it all, and I'll be wrong plenty often. I really need someone who sees the world differently than I do."
Bobby stared at him for moment. Then a grin spread, ever so slowly across his face. "You got a deal, Buddy."
By Ed Hurst
09 October 2008
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: People of honor need no copyright laws; they are only too happy to give credit where credit is due. Others will ignore copyright laws whenever they please. If you are of the latter, please note what Moses said about dishonorable behavior -- "be sure your sin will find you out" (Numbers 32:23)