Duckie Novel II

II

Montaj walked away from the staff meeting feeling an immense tingle of an animated persistent pessimism; it was like a lingering and throbbing toothache. A batch of the Monolith’s Senior level bureaucratic minions, Cyclops and ELFS were frivolous and gay, in their attempts to grasp the productivity concepts of the factory floor. The concept that every machine on the factory floor was to provide critical, added value and efficiencies, so that when it departs and arrives at the pearly gates of the subsequent machines, that it would be ready and gladly processed. This meeting was calendared as “The Gool” and frankly from the ringside angle that Montaj had under the big-top, he enjoyed the circus-like schizophrenic clowns, loony tune cartoons, and stooges caricaturing and prancing about disguised as the Monolith’s Executives. They were Goldratt groupies, all hoping for a sliver of Alex’s divorcing wife. Montaj did not attend every big-top affair, but when he did he personally could only think of the protagonist Alex and his failing life and some wacky-how, Montaj could only think of death and dying and the production of coffins. And so it goes.

Normally Montaj would escape through the back door – there was none – and sprint to the sanctuary of his office. He always felt entertained from the engagement. Looking out the triangle center of the building Montaj could see the comedy of the conference room he escaped from. Montaj watched and could hear, as a loony caricature Daffy Duck look-a-like, took command of the meeting saying with heightened hint of madness, "I've dealt with a lot of wise-quackers, in this organization, but you are all despicable! I want the three wooden nickels!" The triple wooden nickels was the gool! Daffy Duck wanted the three prime numbers of 555 of projects starts and the pot was ours.

As Montaj sprinted towards the elevators to escape to his floor, another senior ELFS, looking as Southern Colonel as Sanders himself, with the manicured and cloroxed moustache and goatee confronted Montaj, “Montaj how does the Deputy Head expects us to maintain a factory through-put expectation, when the floor in not real. It is an illusion!”

Southern Colonel Sanders was an architect of gentlemanly distinctions, credentials stacked side by side would go from the mother earth to the furthest galaxies. Southern Colonel Sanders confronted him with an interesting poser, with gentlemanly decorum, “Montaj, does the gravitation pull effect the District’s abilities fulfill the Bond Program?”

Montaj could only think that it was a trick question, and responded, “No matter how you slice, it comes up nuts!”

Southern Colonel Sanders with eyes straining with red, from his increasing blood pressure commented, “Montaj you are a man of quixotic assembly. My point Good Sir is that the Deputy Head expects us to maintain a factory through-put expectation that belies the theory of gravity. Triple nickel! I say its, I say its merely impossible!”

Montaj responded in the acronym, “SC, if two trains were traveling to the same destination and the first train was 10 miles away going at the speed of 60 mph and the second was 5 miles away and traveled 30 mph; which train would arrive first?”

“That’s a trick question Montaj. I am an architect of distinction Good Sir!” Southern Colonel Sander replied and continued, “Even if I had the answer, which I don’t want to divulge, it’s privileged information. I’m sure you can understand Montaj.” The bureaucratic black-hole of public servitude. No accountability!



Lourdes awoke with her mouth dry and brittle. In a slow motion, she reached for the cold water bottle that she had on the night stand. Her vein-fleeting hands and fingers, weary from sleep and the constant assault on her body from the snake-down ravishing diabetes. He fingers especially ached from the pricking for blood samples to measure the glucose that attacked her body. She was able to generate the necessary strength to twist open the water bottle. She drank several swallows, and began to cry as she further reached out for her glucose meter. Physiologically she could feel that her glucose levels were low and needed something sweetened to drink. Intuitively but for precision of how much insulin was required, Lourdes opened the little black bag that held her curative machinery. Her blood testing machinery included the bloodlust lancets that pricked her fingers; the recipient thin white test strips that hungrily grasped the bloodlust droplet for measurement analysis and the actual Lantis that served as the oracle of glucose exactitude. It was a ritual for Lourdes to reach for some orange juice, if her glucose levels were beneath its limits, she was hypoglycemic. Lourdes paused wiping the moisture from her eyes; she never wanted people, especially family to see her cry. It was the existentialism sensors that evolved from her world that offered little emotional release and cohesion, but required great mental strength. Fiery in sprite, she wanted everybody to witness her Herculean strength and dignity. She boldly cherished her charm and dignity. She was human to very few, and Montaj was one that she nestled her weary and mortal head. Deepened in reflection, the little buzz that cried for attention went unnoticed. It was time some of her medications. Medications that were to grant Lourdes a limited normalcy of life, after she was able to get a pancreas transplant. The pancreas was the culprit organ or gland, situated behind the stomach that had evolved to secrete the digestive fluid into the intestine through several ducts and product the critical hormone insulin.

As her glucose measure was significantly beneath the 100 mark she swallowed some orange juice and within many minutes her blood danced in an energized and festive state within her arteries, veins and capillaries. So to followed Lourdes’ mind with a mensa-like precision, a flickering flame of determination in her eyes and a volcano of energy soon consumed her body. Her mind discarded the worthless stupor that had affected its charm. She took a deep breathe and completed the reach for her glucose meter. The prick of the lancet was the constant in her life. Its machination to measure the unfortunate sweetness of her system. It registered an over 100 reading.

It was only several months ago, that the hope and prayer that her diabetes would be destroyed for the rest of her young and long life. The donor pancreas transplant that was to allow her to create and regulate her body of the necessary hormone insulin was failing. The pancreas transplant was the pendulum of hope that she needed to continue a cheery life of some normalcy. She offered few words when it was becoming apparent that her pendulum of hope was etching an unrelenting angst. She remembered the days of angst – her calendar of dread and insecurity – that was marked by the significant physiological events of her life. The three most life altering days that suspended life’s influences and motion were: the pensive day she was diagnosed with diabetes; the tragic day, that one unknown life renewed another and finally the day that the renewed life was cast backwards into the darkened antiquity world of dread and insecurities.

It was only three years ago, in the winter of 2005, that Lourdes, accompanied by Montaj, visited the Loma Linda Transplant center. Lourdes’ diabetic condition had ravished her tiny life, forced into a mental state of where she needed to understand the medical options that could potentially improve her quality of living. Lourdes had had too many occurrences where she was hospitalized in state of diabetic coma. The very fickle diabetic condition whereby her pancreas was as erratic and destructive as a tornado’s funnel.

That morning in their drive from Walnut Heights to the Loma Linda Hospital was spotted with elements of morality. Montaj who was typically humorously, remained silence and pensive, allowing Lourdes to dwell and dictate in her existentialistic control.

She called out to Montaj, “You want to go shopping after.”

He kindly responded with, “Of course.” She turned to him and said, “Giddy-up”
Montaj smiled realizing she was delicately content and comfortable.

“Montaj you know I feel that this surgery will allow me to not be diabetic anymore.” Lourdes stated seeking a confirmation towards that effect.

“So no more bloodletting yourself like a vampire.”

“I think so,” she stated and continued, “I will find out more today.”

“Just the facts.” Montaj commented.

“After we can get some food?” Lourdes asked and Montaj nodded his head in agreement.

Lourdes turned to Montaj and asked, “I know we were brought up Catholic, but I have misplaced my faith. Montaj, do you believe in God? Or something or some higher power.”

“Lourdes, I think I believe in something. But I don’t know what. I want to think there is that higher power that controls and dispenses good to the good and bad to the bad, but I have not been able to figure it out.”

She starred endlessly at both Montaj and peripherally at the competing freeway traffic as it passed and streamed by, “I want so badly to hold onto something that will offer me hope. But I can only rely on myself to accept all the pain and my course of being!”

“The acceptance of your ethos, especially if it questions your morality is quite frankly humanly essential.” Montaj stated and continued as Lourdes now starred exclusively out the window, “It offers you, Duckie a sense of some control, that if you relied on the spigot of divinity’s ‘take a number’ grace, the listing is long. Their customer services is very poor. Believe me in my own way I would like to go have a duel with the man himself to understand some of his actions.”

“I pray, but I don’t know or understand whom or what I have to pray to for unconditional love and a simple miracle.” Lourdes passionately stated.

“I say just throw them up, because they don’t cost a penny, and can have pious comings. Lourdes, pray to yourself!” Montaj stated with vigor, “Duckie you are the one that must endure the pain and suffering that you have to go through. I can’t even imagine, but I am so proud of your strength and determination.”

“You know Duckie, I constantly have to fight with Divinity to get his attention that you are one of his most loyal soldiers. Moreover than Job himself. Hey I remember that we are created in his image, therefore we are a form of divinity itself, but somehow we still need his blessings.”

Lourdes looked into Montaj’s darkening eyes and optimistically said, “Thanks for bringing me to this introduction. I am climbing on the Organ Sharing listing. Soon I will have to have this surgery.”

“Duckie what are your expectations. I mean will you be able swim and waddle in the pond like old times.”

“Quack, Quack, Quack,” she confidently sounded out.

Montaj responded in kind, “Quack, Quack, Quack!”

“Montaj, I just want to be able to hang around the silly Beacon family for a little longer. I just want to laugh and mean it again.”

They turned off the Anderson street exit from the freeway. As they got closer to the Loma Linda Medical Center, Montaj could see a nervousness emitting from Lourdes. He extended his hand towards hers’ taking hold of it. She tightly held his and said, “I’ve been through so much Montaj, I sometimes wonder if it is worth it.” Lourdes stated with baby-like teary eyes.

“Lourdes, we are here to look into the sky and shout out that you are dammed tired and will not take it anymore. You have to let them, know who is boss!” Montaj stated as his even darker eyes glazed from with cloudy wetness. Montaj even as a man of great determination, but he was as lost as an elephant swimming into the twilight at the very point furthest from land: Point Nemo in the South Pacific Ocean -48°52.6′S 123°23.6′W .

Montaj had evolved into a man of immense strength and determination, learning early on in life that one’s course and outcome is the sum of the experiences quotation’s parts. Montaj was the fortunate son that was laced with an adventurous and sometimes deadly rebellion to societal norms. He grew to meander in natures wilderness and consequences of his stubbornness and grit. Montaj mantra’s that astute growth can only attained through the challenges from the fire and brimstone that marinade and tenderize the soul and mind. And it had to be in that exact order.

He pulled Lourdes tightly against his determined, yet fragile aura, wanting her not only to fully absorb his love for her, but that he could dispense her all the needed strength. Montaj squeezed Lourdes and said, “We will get through this, as you have gotten through this thus far.”

Lourdes buried her head into his shoulder and chest, weeping long and cloistered tears, wrapping her thin arms around his neck. Her strength was the magnetic pull that could rescue life’s drifting wayward elephants from Point Nemo in the South Pacific Ocean.

Montaj wrapped his arms around her saying, “I am here. Everybody that knows and loves you are here. And we will protect you Duckie! We will guide you in!” She was silence, but for the tears that noisily streamed down her freckled cheeks. Montaj connected her tears with her freckles to spell: This way. The way to acceptance of life’s ambitions was this way. This way Lourdes for Montaj’s love and protection. This way would never separate him from his love for Lourdes.

“Lourdes I will protect you.” She held tighter to Montaj.

They keenly listened to a tall and black MD transplant surgeon, named Okechukwu Ojogho MD, as he enlightened his captive audience of less than a handful, of the multiplicity of caveats that all potential patients needed to know. The audience was comprised of both the chronically and terminally diseased. In other words those that had a choice - the chronically that desired a more normal quality of life – and the terminal whose organs were cancerous desired life.

Montaj watched as Lourdes exhibited a gleam of excitement, even as the tall and black MD transplant surgeon started to read word for word from an article from the Journal of American Medical Association.

MD Okechukwa Ojogho spoke with an eastern African accent, “Patients with diabetes who received a solitary pancreas transplant appeared to have worse survival than patients on the transplant waiting list who received conventional therapy, according to a study in the December 3 issue of The Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA).
According to background information in the article, pancreatic transplantation is a therapeutic option for patients with complicated diabetes mellitus. The American Diabetes Association supports the procedure for patients with diabetes who have had, or need, a kidney transplant. In the absence of kidney failure, pancreas transplantation may be considered for patients with diabetes and severe and frequent metabolic instability, i.e., episodes of very low blood glucose levels (hypoglycemia) or high blood glucose levels with buildup of blood acids (ketoacidosis).
According to the article, solitary pancreas transplantation (i.e., pancreas alone or pancreas-after-kidney) for diabetes mellitus remains controversial due to procedure-associated illness and/or death, toxicity of immunosuppression, expense, and unproven effects on the secondary complications of diabetes. Whether transplantation offers a survival advantage over conventional therapies for diabetes is unknown.
Jeffrey M. Venstrom, B.S., of the National Institute of Diabetes and Digestive and Kidney Diseases, National Institutes of Health, Department of Health and Human Services, Bethesda, Md., and colleagues compared the survival of pancreas transplant recipients in patients with diabetes and preserved kidney function with that of similar patients listed for a pancreas transplant, since they would have conditions similar to those who underwent the transplant procedure.”
Lourdes dilated deep brown eyes collided with Montaj’s. She looked slightly distressed at the article reading. Montaj asked Lourdes if she had heard of this consequence beforehand.

“I believe I had, but I believe that the benefits outweigh the risks. I am in the category of the severe and frequent metabolic instability.” Montaj shook his head.

Nevertheless Montaj asked his sister, “Duckie, you understand the risks? They are as real as you are here.”

“Yes, but Montaj I have to get some semblance of my life. I can’t even tell you the struggles that I have to overcome just to be able to get up in the morning and go to try to go to work.”

Her existentialistic philosophy highlights the uniqueness of the individual experience in a hostile or indifferent universe. Lourdes wanted her life to be a reflection of what she did, not what she could have done. She was going to blaze a trail that emphasized her freedom of choice with the consequences resting fully on her tiny, Herculean shoulders.

Montaj was cold from the tingle of inspiration that consumed his body. He watched as Lourdes with a renewed sense of purpose listened to the reminder of the pre-surgical introduction and disclosure of facts.

Montaj bent over to whisper into her ear, “Where are you on the donor list?” Montaj had frankly forgotten to ask the critical timing question.

“I am near the top of the list. Remember I was called during Christmas week, but the donor pancreas was not compatible.” Lourdes stated in a matter-of-fact fashion continuing, “There was another time in November that the organ was not harvested in time. It was coming from the East Coast, I believe it was New Jersey.”

“The Armpit of America!” Montaj added.

She smiled as she was commenting, “You would know brother, because you lived in the armpit for awhile.” They both laughed and smiled adding,”You must miss the armpit?”

“Home is where you laid your hat. I miss the armpit, but only after it was bathe by the rain.” And so it goes he thought.

It was during the question and answer session, that Montaj sat back and proudly watched his little Lourdes navigate through a deep myriad of emotional issues with dignity and ardor. She dotted the Q&A session with queries of morality and maintenance. She was wanted all facts, good and bad! She wanted to appreciate the complete picture of risks. She knew the potential, she appreciated its shine, but it was a painted canvass that she desired.

Lourdes asked the MD Okechukwa Ojogho, what was the survival rates for pancreatic transplant alone.

“Ms. Beacon with each there is an increase in mortality, but in the first year the morality rate is approximately ten percent. After three years the mortality is approximately thirty percent. Current statistics have shown that at the fifth year there are a little over fifty percent mortality.” Lourdes took notes.

She formally lifted her hands into the air, “So those of us who are Pancreas Transplant Alone in five years could possibly be dead at five years or later.”

“Yes that is possible, but obviously never absolute. Every patient is different and based on the care that one takes towards his or her diabetic condition, it could possibly allow a longer and more enduring life.”

Lourdes, stared right into MD Okechukwa Ojogho’s black eyes, as her continued, “It is critical to remember that this is not a diabetic cure, but a way to minimize your further diabetic complications, as I stated earlier, the severe and frequent metabolic instability, i.e. episodes of very low blood glucose levels or hypoglycemia or high blood glucose levels with buildup of blood acids ketoacidosis. Obviously very both very serious and life altering conditions.” MD Okechukwa Ojogho paused and looked into the eyes of every patient in attendance and added, “But of course I don’t have to tell any of you, including your families, how your diabetic conditions have forced you to alter your lives.”

“And where would you be putting the donor pancreas?” Lourdes asked.

“Remember that while the PTA is more complex than the Simultaneous Pancreas and Kidney or SPK, and it is normally placed in what is anatomically called the retroperitoneum - behind and outside your peritoneum – or the space between the peritoneum and the posterior abdominal wall that currently contains your pancreas, kidneys and associated structures including part of the aorta and inferior vena cava The vena cava are collectively the veins that return de-oxygenated blood from the body into the heart. They both empty into the right atrium.”
Montaj turned and asked Lourdes, “I failed in any of those life sciences, anatomy. I can’t stand my own blood.”
Lourdes flashed a smile towards Montaj and continued writing.
MD Okechukwa Ojogho stated that barring any complications, which he coronary failure, and a host of other medical caveats – medical small print- that surgery would would be between three to five hours.”

MD Okechukwa Ojogho ended with marketing pitch for the Loma Linda University Medical Center and its long and successful tradition for transplantation surgeries. He distributed his calling card, that was filled with his medical credential and certification and bonafications and put us in the hands a charming transplant coordinator.

Lourdes looked content. She Looked pensive. She looked hopeful. She looked optimistic. She looked pessimistic.

There were other speakers, but they were ancillary, fodder of information that patient and family needed to understand, but Lourdes had already tuned out. She finally turned to Montaj saying, “O’ right time for me to get a bunch of test that they will want some information, just in case my situation has changed.”

She was led off by an aqua uniformed nurse.

Duckie Novel

I

It was a cold and hot summer morning in Walnut Heights, a Latino suburb, southeast of Los Angeles. The sky elegantly, yet madly waltzed in the struggle of a morning parade of murk spongy clouds, against an emptiness of the eternal gray Beatrice. Light sautéed the gray dimness of the sky. It was a morning where everything seemed right and yet something seemed wrong. A local rooster’s dawning and epic shrieking cock-a-du-dul-due cackled but once. A rooster’s cackle never dances alone. The pathetic solitude of the rooster’s epic cackle, like a sonic bloom, resonated for miles, coming to rest onto an old but elegantly rusting and spirited Spanish house on the street of Hope. An old home built in the 1920’s, whose aura was so mystical with a saddening plight of an Othello-like tempestuousness. The local news would broadcast the occurrence of the mysterious and ghostly unexplained bloom that had creped throughout the greater metropolitan region.

Inside the tempestuous Spanish home, antique lime washed plaster walls hued an aging yellowish shine. They were ornate with exposed wooden beams. The air inside reverberated from the epic cock-a-du-dul-due. The home shook and the habitual creak stretched and expanded the home awake from the effects of the rising sun. With the nighttime moon it contracted.

Upstairs, beneath the thick Spanish clay Taxco roof tiles, in a jade colored bedroom, a man struggled to wipe the darkness from his eyes. Montaj Beacon was awakened by the wag of the rooster’s solitary cackle and an ensuing irritation the size of a medium-sized oil rich African nation ensued. His aching head was heightened by the effect from the shriek of his bellowing alarm clock. Perhaps his headache was Nigerian, for the reminder of the millions that he had just inherited from some deceased Nigerian. Barrister Anthony Williams, a solicitor at law, had emailed that his late and bosom friend, who grew up in the perils of a motherless home had left him millions. Only later, after the mental miracle of being indebtedness free for once in his life, did he realize that he knew no one from the nation of Nigeria, nor an migrant, but the disappointment that it was a scam and the loss of millions, collapsed his mind. Like a vacant and dim high-rise imploding. Like a solitary cackle into his ears. He thought for a very brief moment, if he could write off the losses. Then he realized losses assumed that there were gains that he needed to off-set. Montaj was penniless, struggling through the perils of debt and decadence of a bad romance. Affairs of the heart were not all well. And so it goes.

Nevertheless Montaj was a man of big plans, endless dreams and the quiet want of a back-door deal for several miracles to fix some of Divinity’s Jobian will. He and Divinity almost always disagreed. There were some instances, more often than both would confess, that Montaj would go to blows with the Divinity, where they would have to be pried apart by the very chisels that formed the pyramid of the Holy Trinity. Their constant yak focused on life’s whys, the plight of the weak and poor of health, for it was this that consumed Montaj’s mind the most. Selfishly for his ravaged little sister, whom early in her minute life had contracted the sweet urine disease; or type 1 diabetes, diabetes Mellitus, insulin dependent diabetes mellitus or juvenile-onset diabetes. Montaj would have relinquished the soul of his candor and worldly saunters, to any and all where the darkness of dark dwelled for the simple golden raiment of eternal cheer for his little sibling. Montaj would have waltzed with Mephostophiles, or strum with Lord Henry or Basil to gain Lourdes eternal cure.

Montaj lifted away the orangey sheets that had protected him throughout the night from the insatiable thirst of mosquitoes. He finally looked into the eyes of his awakening alarm clock, striking at it. He stepped one foot after the other after the other – sometimes he felt as if he had three legs – and instantaneously, but with a tacit hint of guilt, he recalled that he needed to check in on his little sister, Lourdes, just down the hall.

Montaj completed his follow through and quickly strolled to her room, knocked and without any command entered. He peeped into her neatly organized, but cluttered room competing only with the television’s crying sermon of some African nation’s revolutionary takeover, its genocidal propensity and other damned indiscretions from the local news cast. A hospital sterile aroma of rubbing alcohol blanketed its stratosphere. Lourdes or Duckie as she is affectionately called by family and friends, was fetal nestled onto the center of her bed. It was in this room, just over a week ago that Montaj had found little Duckie naked and unconscious, weakened from a trying night and a mild coronary. That day was not to be, a Beatrice moment for Duckie, as Montaj was able to administer aid until the paramedics had arrived and carried her to the hospital.

This morning she was quiet and peaceful, as she lightly expanded and contracted with breathe. Montaj seceded with relief. It was just several days ago that Montaj had picked up Duckie from the local hospital. Her diabetes had raged a horrible occurrence on her tiny body. At that time her diabetes had caused Duckie to experience a coronary episode, forced on her by the effects of a high sugar instance. As in many times before, Duckie was rushed to the hospital, where she was brought back from Beatrice. The light of tunnel was not beaming and calling for her. It was not her time to escape her jobian tolls of mother earth. The ravenous of humanity’s shortfalls. Of course the family was cautiously relieved, forever excited, but somehow Montaj knew that the end was not far off. It was common for Montaj to shed a forever tear. At that instance his eyes began to moisten with tears.

Teary Montaj continued to witness the miracles in her breathe. He touched her tawny-freckled skin, squeezing her tattered little hands and recited, “Dear Lord, accept our thanks for your goodness and let us find joy. In your mercy look upon Duckie ease her suffering and fear and strengthen our family with support and love…..Amen” She remained quiet and peaceful and undisturbed by Montaj’s touch, as she lightly expanded and contracted with breathe. Relieved Montaj kissed her forehead and stared into her dreamy closed eyes and whispered, “I love my Duckie, please give me some of your strength and courage.”

Montaj seceded slowly out of her room. Empty cold chills always resonated throughout this body whenever he parted from her side. Montaj loved this little Duckie, so much that he wanted to be by her side at all times to protect her from the ravishes of her ailment. To strike it down like a Spartan warrior attacking a Persian or any subjugating legendary enemy. No justice, nor favor, nor consideration, nor compromise, nor armistead but its unequivocal end. The want for a miracle and the constant struggle to gain it.

Montaj maneuvered the congested streets. He effortlessly zigged and zagged through the traffic congestion, until he reached 7th and Santa Fe Street, adjacent to the concrete river of Los Angeles. The back roads into the city of Los Angeles and its urban center, where Montaj worked for the educational monolith, Los Angeles Unified School District. The second largest school district in the nation. Big Deal!

At the Monolith, as he preferred to call it, he was the lead technology hack, in command of the Department of Facilities Information Data Distribution Center or the D-FIDD. At D-FIDD he managed a group of information gatherers and distributors, with the sole purpose of retaining and distributing the official Facilities information. It is the responsibility of D-FIDD to report the progress of all activities to a school site. The industry lingo was “Activities to an asset,” regardless of whether it was construction, maintenance, and modernization of Los Angeles’ public schools. Taxpayers support for decades of neglect. And so it goes. Some official information distribution was the openings of new schools, the amount of schools that now had access to the internet, the tally of restrooms that were cleaned, the number of access compliance violations, the replacement of 60 watt light-bulbs, changing broken window panes, changing locks, painting over graffiti, gum removal and so on and so forth. These activities to assets were entered into “the system” and called work orders. The command that magically authorized an activity to an asset and its allocation of monies to perform the specific scope of work. Everything his department was to accomplish was with the overarching management platitude, maintain a ‘Single version of the truth.’ The Facilities Popol Vuh or St James Bible. Or simply put one lie. D-FIDD was the machine that had to accept, reject and maintain all information. It was the Facilities Orwellian “Big Brother” that monitored the machines on the factory floor; that held the constant telescreen surveillance of subjects to eliminate the frivolous or malicious attempts at sabotage to the machine. The data conspiracies against the Machine. It was Montaj’s command, directive or assault to lead the attack against the rebellion of the telescreen slackers and falsifiers. Those against the machine. Sometimes known as Goldratt’s machine constraints, lubrication constrictors, bottlenecks, bureaucratic black holes, anti-grease insurgents or simply the good O’ Status Quo. Several years back in the early 2000s Montaj was conscripted to serve on the Monolith to fight and defeat, and lubricate where possible, the good O’ status quo, and the daunting and diabolical bureaucratic black hole that reined and caused chaotic malfeasant blunders. It was the time that Montaj was returning from this vagabond journey throughout the land of red dirt, the land that gave birth to water, México.

Montaj pulled into his designated parking spot and quickly meandered towards the elevator. He was stationed on the 9th floor. Montaj was in a hurry to meet some contract deadlines. Just as he entered this office, the familiar and cozy early rising voice of a female clerk, blindly called out to him, “Montaj?” Somehow she always knew that he had arrived, as if he wore cow bells. He did not respond, but after a second calling he uttered, “Yes Monilisa!” She was the self christened youthful artifact to the realm of artistic royalty, constantly reminding any and all of her lineage to the Monalisa Del Giocondo. She was more attractive in person than the L.D. Vinci masterpiece. It was wishful, but everybody appeased her whimsical calls, because she was not a member of the blunderbuss black hole dynasty. She was an insurgent that was always ready to mobilize to any announced revolt.

“Hey, I have to talk to you about the Acme Contract.” The seriousness of tone certainly meant that his attention was mandatory.

“What about Acme?” Montaj asked milling the situations possibilities in this mind.

“It’s out of dinero!” Monilisa answered. It was the wrong, or at least the answer he did not want to hear.

“Well put some dinero into it,” he responded adding, “Everything has a solution.” It was Montaj’s second most preached mantra and he held steadfast for his employees to both critically and creatively discover solutions. Montaj’s hierarchy of edicts was topped by the all encompassing, “Life is good, even when it is bad.”

“Where do I find that solution, Beacon?” Monilisa slapped back.

“Monilisa, remember everything has a solution.,” Montaj thought for a moment and continued his reply, “Well how much do we need?”

“Over one 100 thousand! They have not billed consistently and it is out of control,” Monilisa added.

“Ok well we will have to go to the fountainhead and ask for more money.” Montaj stated with reluctance. And thus was the start of his work day.

As he walked towards this desk he asked, “Does the boss know?”

Monilisa answered with a “no,” and a knock on wood.

Montaj’s boss was a rickety thin Vietnam ex-special forces marine, of Nordic descent and who almost always reminded people of his superior managerial knowledge; all sorts of fundamental management principles, philosophies, processes and there supporting platitudes. He was the bi-polar reincarnation of Andrew Carnegie in skin, bone and breathe and Genghis Khan. He was an avid historian and loyal believer in the order of both the Roman and Napoleon Empires and fiscally supported the radical arm of the Sinn Fien. In particular he believed in the Roman Empire’s decimation, whereby troop discipline and order was guaranteed by the killing of every tenth solider by stoning or clubbing. The boss assumed that this would generate the fear and productivity of a truly committed and quality solider. In our case a quality D-FIDD solider. Esprit de corps would result, because it was not in the union contract. Nevertheless Montaj’s Byzantine boss, Bendix A. Didiot, always uttered his commands, “Every tenth man and woman,” whenever the situation dictated. The decorum of any grand and ambiguous strategy. Bendix would often recite strategic and tactical decrees from his two favorite bellicose strategic thinkers of yesteryear, Carl von Clausewitz and Miyamoto Musashi. To Montaj it was the mere disguise and bravado to intellectualize and cast justification to the acts that Bendix superficially touched on occasionally in discussions related to his mysterious Vietnam experiences.

“Montaj, war makes man do inhumane things to mankind,” Montaj remembers Bendix stating to him in a strategic meeting regarding D-FIDD projects and ending with, “But what the fuck!” Montaj could not traverse the roughed mental terrain that that statement traveled. It was a statement with the depth of a Yucatan cenote, with perhaps the scared bodies that Bendix cast into it from his special forces days. It was vague and a mystery.

Montaj maneuvered towards this desk, where its managerial topography was dominated by the scenery of a Fuji-like peak of un-filed and befuddled work product and unorganized memos. It was a mountainous range of colliding paper tectonics competing for his seismic attention. Yet Montaj could excavate any sought after document within a moments notice. His work environment was the Patagonia of plans and memos that supported the plans. Everything had to have a plan. Everything had to have justification. That meant everything needed to be bonafided. A plan for building a building, a plan for cleaning urinals and toilets, a plan for moving one employee to another desk, a plan for the replacement of electrical sockets and light bulbs, a plan for the purchase of drywall and nails, a plan of how you were going to hand off work from one department to another. A plan for a plan. The machine hand off, otherwise called transfer of the Baton-in-hand, was the pumping heart of the Division that measured work-flow of the machine on the factory floor. A measure of who was working and who was not. Big Bro was indeed watching! Big Bro was entitled to watch! And as Big Bro was watching, it was not responding to its grossly declining performance. That performance meter, blip and beep was not his role to call-out, present nor highlight. The machine needed a loud siren and a digital weathervane to warn when the machine was sputtering or going to be hit by a tornado.

At least twice every week Montaj would encounter the blasphemous heresy of last minute agenda needs, “Montaj, I am going to need the plan for how we are going achieve this goal or that objective,“ from some Executive-level-suit or ELFS - Executive-level-Fuck’n-Suit - or Stupid-ELFS - Executive-level-Fuck’n-Suit-that-has-Searched-and-aTtained-the-Utopian- Parameter-of-their-Brain,” as they were labeled in vacant corridors and urinal discussions, in episodes of road rage or during the Christmas holidays or even the different preaching of atonement. Montaj was of the belief that atonement was not the mere act for asking forgiveness, but the actual repentant act or acts performed to achieve true atonement or rather unequivocal reconciliation. An ascetic practice whereby denial of comforts and self-flagellation were practiced. Montaj practiced the denial aspect.

These last minute requests would almost always come within the finals seconds of the final minute of the work day, where employees would stop holding there breathe for an escaping weeknight or weekend, but would have to annul significant vacation and weddings to get the job done. A lengthy plan filled with all sorts of justifications, rationales, and “bonafications,” including cost benefit analysis, return on investment, or the classical financial payback period. Montaj recalled the time a silly and saxon Stupid-ELFS had requested additional bathroom urinals for his staff – male dominated - after he had personally timed and averaged the urinal usage of his staff over a calculated period of time. The corridor and urinal discussions were ripe with staff members timing their urinal sessions. For a while, within the Division, the informal grapevine, became grapewhine, as it was no longer the size that mattered, but the duration. Braggers puffed bladder blather, while the despondent pissed only on off hours. This bladderous period was culminated with the very “Head of the Chief Facilities Executive” angrily confined in a green glowing crystal ball called out Oz-like, “..You dare to come to me for more urinals, do you, you clinking, cowardly ELFS…” The Crystal Ball with the Head of the Chief Facilities Executive, shouted out to the analytical Stupid-ELFS, “Hire more women!” Bingo! The Crystal Ball Head of the Chief Facilities Executive had spoken. That Stupid-ELFS would have a slightly diminishing and subsequence shortened tenure, when it was further discovered that he requested a urinal under his very office desk. The bonafication was that he would have upwardly skewed the statistical data of his analysis. The trick-or-treat of a bureaucratic quackery of public funding. And so it goes.

Montaj was reviewing the memos on the top of this Fuji-pile, when the phone rang and he answered.

“Good Morning, Montaj, “ he recognized the voice and interjected, “Good Morning Gordita. How are you?” It was Mercedes Melo, a good friend, a speakers bureau executive and a local glass artist. Mercedes, a silky slender woman, with the good fortune of elegance and classic privileged Mexican-European features – brownish hue skin, high cheek bones, small dark eyes and tightly pulled back dark hair and with a characteristic Latina lovely ass. She came from the privileged society of the Colonia Polanco in the great District Federal of Mexico. For the most part Mexico D.F. was the city of lost, hungry, misplaced or northward dreams. Montaj primarily liked Mercedes because he saw his mother in her. He saw Lourdes.

“Hey Sancho,” as she liked to call Montaj, primarily because of the many types of woman that he kept, “…you coming to the LACMA opening tonight? “ In Mexico and now most of Northern America “Sancho” had the connotation of men that partook in liaisons with women wiling to drift from their loving and committed relationships.

Montaj quickly thought for brief moment and embarrassingly responded, “Is that tonight?”

“Sancho, Ilona is curating this exhibit of Latin American art. I got your ticket from Ilona.” Mercedespaused wanting to build a crescendo sense of guilt.

“Montaj Ilona expects you to come; besides it is a free dinner and exhibit. I know how you like to collect latin art.”

Montaj was pensive for a tiny moment and then commented, “Gordita, I said I would go and I am going. I just have to get home first to check in on how Duckie is doing.”

“I know you do. I’m sorry about Lourdes. I hope and pray that she continues to get better.”

“Thanks! I do the same.”

“How is your mother doing?” Mercedes asked.

“My mother is really hard to read, but it is obviously paining her. She remains stoic and quite removed. Like there is a sad expectation.” Montaj commented and continued, “Whenever she exhibits that stoic disposition it’s her place of reconciliation.”

“Reconciliation?” Mercedes questioned

“Oh I suppose that my family, unlike most have history of parents that simply didn’t know how to raise kids.”

“Tell me about it Montaj!” Mercedes stated with vigor, “That’s why I don’t believe in having kids. Why would l put them through these experiences, just because I want to have an image of me to carry on my name. No way!” Montaj has forgotten that Mercedes was anti-child population. Pro-creation should be moral sin in this age. In the world according to Mercedes, the earth’s rotation, revolution, tilt of earth’s axis, diurnal motions of sun and stars, and spherical movements were affected by the tinder of over population. She would always say, “Montaj what would happen if you loaded a car with tons of people, its performance is directly proportionate to its load. Our over population is quickening the erosion of our earth.” She raised her right arm, with all her fingers united, lip-synced ‘abracadabra’ in Spanish and then poof. The rabbit we know as the earth would disappear. And so it goes. Quackery friendships are entertaining and hard to come by.

Mercedes then asked, “How is the writing?”

“Ok! Viajes de Unapata manuscript is a bit stuck.”

“Humm,” Mercedes simmered, “Well what is the problems!”

“Character writer’s block that only the poof the your fingers can remedy.” Montaj further pondered his words and continued, “I am having issues with the love interest of Unapata.”


“Well,” Mercedes began, when Montaj interjected, “Even with that it couldn’t be better. Ever since I left Fiona, my senses have been regentrified. Broke but wayward and wanderlust in my life. I answer to beacons of poverty and literature. I am satisfied with writers crumbs.” Montaj paused and further added, “And Lourdes! I am fiery and committed to her. She needs me.”

“Que bueno! Montaj!”

Just as Montaj was ditto her statement, another call was banging on the digital display of the phone. The displayed name was Bendix A. Didiot – Director D-FIDD. He closed with Mercedes and retrieved Bendix’s call.
“Good Morning Montaj,” Bendix said, “I am running late and I need you to attend today’s staff meeting. I will need you to report on the progress of the three main projects.” Bendix went on to explain what he wanted to report to the Deputy Head of the Chief Facilities Executive. Montaj always chuckled at the title of the “Head of..” for it reminded him of the Happiness Place on Earth, Haunted Mansion with the head within the crystal ball calling out, “When hinges creak in doorless chambers and strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls, whenever candlelights flicker where the air is deathly still, that is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight. Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Haunted Mansion. I am your host, your Ghost Host.”
“Montaj and let BB know that we are ahead of schedule on the web-based scheduling tool. As for the data analysis that is due this week you will have to report on that project.” Montaj was the project manager of the data analysis effort. The data analysis project was a systematic review of the quality of the data input into the Machine. Each and every department that input process information was monitored, analyzed and reviewed with each department.”

Bendix asked how this month’s data quality statistics were doing. Montaj answered with a deep sigh and responded, “The machine is not being greased with good information. In-fact it is both quality and quantity. The critical project process information is not being put in and when it is, the quality appears to be questionable.”

“There is a revolt against the machine. Many that are being held accountable are the ones that are pointing fingers at the machine.” Bendix disclosed.

“You think there is real attempt to cover-up the progress of the program?” Montaj asked.

Bendix without any hesitation stated, “I have not doubt that there are players that I would line up for decimation. They are in our wire. And when the Vietcong is within our wire you must do anything and everything to eliminate them.” Bendix paused and exclaimed, “Or be eliminated.”

It was obvious that those days were still moist and vivid in Bendix’s special forces mind. Bendix continued still swelling from the moments in the past, “If I only had a shovel they would be taken out by that very shovel.” Montaj remained silent, as Bendix continued in his recall of those significant emotional events. Combat chaotically modifies and complicates the sanctity of the mind. There is no doubt that the level of combat experienced directly diminishes the patience and rationality of gentle thinkers. Bendix concluded with, “They are within our wire. Montaj you have to get a shovel. “ Montaj excused himself and departed for the staff meeting. On the elevator on his way to the meeting he saw a Pedro and Laura, public outreach managers carrying several gold minted shovels.

Montaj turned to them and said, “Hey, you think that I can borrow one of your shovels.”

Pedro and Laura answered almost echoing in unison, “They are for the Huntington Park, new Elementary school # one-sixty nine ground braking ceremony.’’ Montaj thought that they stated Chuntington Park. It reminded Montaj of the old enchanted water tower by the name Chuntington Park.

Montaj smiled at both of them and said, “That is certainly a better course for them. I need for somebodies who are within the wire.”

They both reviewed Montaj with empty but smiling faces.