~ D e a r D r. R i c e ~

For a brief moment during his lunch hour, Myron felt relieved from the threat of terrorism. It occurred while eating a cheese and pepperoni hot pocket. Condoleezza Rice was on television. Her name was spelled beneath her talking head. He thought it was overextended, not the talking head, but the name, and definitively convoluted. Condoleezza herself was another anomaly, not only a woman and black and Republican but curiously cute and somewhat childlike only with a razor-sharp brain and powerful voice. The woman, he decided between sips of Dr. Pepper, was capable, but could she be trusted? He then wondered where she’d been on September 11^th. Most likely in the same bunker with the old boy network. In a flash, he discounted her and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. And by the time the noon news moved onto the weather, Myron returned to thinking about terrorism and how he could possibly survive it.

A week previous to watching Dr. Rice, Myron had spent seventy-two hours in observation at a psychiatric emergency room. He had been admitted after he was found ministering to those who’d listen at Wal-Mart the prophetic words of Jim Morrison, "No one gets out alive." He truly meant it as consolation (everyone has to die sometime), but no one wanted to take any chances. The bulge in his back pocket could have been plastic explosives, not the flashlight he had absentmindedly placed there after his hands were full with a hefty box of cornflakes, batteries, toaster, and he didn’t want to make a trip to the front of the store for a cart.

At the time, being hospitalized was a welcomed relief since the terror alert had risen to red for no apparent reason. It was neither the eleventh of the month nor a holiday. For three days he finally got some sleep, possibly from the Risperdal, possibly from his expectation that hospitals usually seemed off limits even for terrorists. But now back at work, his general anxiety was escalating, for good reason. Not only did he take the subway to his job, but he also worked in the mail room. This amounted to nine hours of high risk behavior per day. If a bomb on the subway didn’t get him, the anthrax, sarin gas, small pox would.

Of course, he had come up with some pre-emptive safeguards. At work, he now wore latex gloves, but the wearing of surgical masks, which he had purchased in bulk at a prohibitive cost to himself, was denied by the powers that be, stating that it showed a general lack of confidence in the company as well as all governing units, including the CIA, FBI, and the ubiquitous Department of Homeland Security. Besides, he was told by Barnes, his supervisor’s supervisor, they were all soldiers against the war, and he was an American, and he should stand proud, fearless . . . yada, yada.

In any event, Myron made accommodations the best he could. At his work station, he devised a shield made of plexiglass that sat atop two concrete blocks, beneath which he was able to open envelopes in clear view and which provided a barrier of sorts, giving him at least a few seconds of lead time before any cloud of white or gray or brown powder dissipated among the molecules of air.

The subway was another matter. From home to work was eleven miles (a rough calculation using MapQuest) which amounted to a white-knuckled seven-minute ride each way. Myron’s ability to control this environment was compromised due to the innumerable variables that so many people of so many colors with so many agendas could present. Still, he was not totally defenseless. In his backpack, which he now carried everywhere, was an Israeli-issued gas mask, pepper spray and a roll of heavy-duty duct tape. The gas mask and pepper spray were no-brainers. The duct tape. Well, maybe he’d have to secure an area or stop the bleeding.

When he returned to his work space, located in the corner of the mail room, there was a message scribbled on a yellow sticky note attached to the back of his chair. See me, Barnes. After he read the note, he looked up. His co-workers, Rico and Lenny, abruptly turned away. Myron smiled. "Not a problem, guys. Got it covered."

"How you doing today, Myron?" Barnes said five minutes later. They were sitting across from each other. Barnes’s desk had a cleared, shiny glass top. Myron wasn’t sure what Barnes did, what role he played, what service he provided.

"Pretty good and yourself?"

Barnes nodded. "You’re feeling okay then?"

Myron shrugged. "Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you took off a few days ago."

"I’m fine. Thanks for asking."

An executive pen set with a marble base sat in front of Barnes. He pulled one of the pens out, then rolled its shaft between his fingers.

If you had asked Myron, this was not unusual behavior for Barnes. His boss’s boss never seemed to be totally present.

Myron reminded Barnes. "You wanted to see me?"

Barnes slid the pen into its holder. "Yes, Myron. It’s about your workstation. I’m afraid it’s not acceptable."

"Not acceptable? In what way?"

Barnes leaned forward. "Myron, we’ve talked about this. Do you really think that contraption’s going to help? Lord, it took months to clean up the Post Office and Congress buildings. Whatever’s going to happen – "

Myron stopped him. "Excuse me, Mr. Barnes, but I have another idea. I need to do some research but I think I may be onto something. You know those canaries they put in mines. Well, maybe goldfish or some kind of insect, like ants can be used. This is my thought. I open a package, powder comes out and I immediately put it into water or something contained like an ant farm."

Barnes raised his hands. "Myron, stop it. No more ideas. Let me get to the point. Who’s the terrorist in this place?"

Myron thought. There was this commuter guy, a recent graduate from Case Western. Came from Sri Lanka. Not that he’d cast aspersions. "Terrorist? Here?"

"Who’s scaring everyone? Who’s stirring the pot? Myron, who recently got arrested at Wal-Mart?"

Clearly, this wasn’t a trick question. "But Mr. Barnes, I wasn’t arrested. Besides, I’m the good guy. I’m trying to save people."

"Myron, the company is worried about you."

The company worried? How was that possible? Only people worried.

"Myron, we have to let you go. For your own good, you understand."

"You’re firing me?"

"No, of course not. We’re just concerned for you, your health, your well-being." "But I’ve been here ten years. You – "

"Of course we’ll highly recommend you and not mention any health issues. You have my word on that. Now I’ve negotiated a nice severance package. One month’s salary. And you’ll be eligible for unemployment and covered by Cobra on your health insurance." Barnes stood. "Myron, I’m very excited for you. You’re entering a new chapter in your life." He reached out his hand. "Thanks for coming up."

Myron didn’t remember how he got back to the mail room.

It was Rico who came over first. "You okay?"

"I just got canned."

"Myron, you can’t let them do this to you. We need you here. "

Lenny walked up behind Rico. He had a slip of paper in his hand. "You gotta see Kinta."

"Kinta?"

"She’s a kick-ass lawyer. She’ll know what to do."