New York vs Belton Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 250 words

New York vs Belton - Essay Example Belton†). The issue was that the police officer had arrested the men before searching and finding the drugs without a warrant to do so(â€Å"New York v. Belton†) In this case, the courts ruled that â€Å"whenever the police arrest people in a car, they may search the passenger compartment without a warrant†(â€Å"New York v. Belton†). Additonally, it was made clear that police officers may search through a car and items in the car after an arrest. However, the courts made it clear that police officers needed to have â€Å"good reason† for searching the car without a warrant. This decision was written by Justice Potter Stewart on July 1, 1981(â€Å"New York v. Belton†). After the decision was made, trouble arose when three of the judges on the case decided that they did not agree with the ruling and dissented because they felt that the decision went too far in not protecting the right to privacy(â€Å"New York v.

The U.S. Foreign Policy during the Cold War Essay Example for Free

The U.S. Foreign Policy during the Cold War Essay It is true that foreign strategy of the United States during the Cold War (1947-1989) is called containment. This policy can be described as the efforts to stop global political movement toward communist and socialist ideology (the ideology of the Soviet Union) and promote political popularity of democratic ideas dominating in Europe and the United States. That is how it was supposed to create a certain political isolation of the Soviet Union, which would sooner or later bring to a number of various problems, such as political decadence, economic stagnation and so on. In other words, containment was a policy directed on gradual weakening and declining the power of the Soviet Union by preventing the expansion of communist beliefs around the world and defending the ideas of democracy and opened economy. The strategy of containment was created and proposed by George Frost Kennan, an American politician and diplomat, known as â€Å"the father of containment†, who worked in 1944-1946 as a head of American mission to the Soviet Union and was an excellent specialist in understanding the relations between Washington and Moscow. Having sent his historical â€Å"long telegram† Kennan warned the administration of Truman about possible dangers of messing with Soviet political powers. Besides, later on he publicized his ideas about the necessity to follow the policy of containment in Foreign Affairs magazine, where he stated: â€Å"†¦the main element of any United States policy toward the Soviet Union †¦ must be that of a long-term, patient but firm and vigilant containment of Russian expansive tendencies† and ideology taught them [Soviets] that it was their duty eventually to overthrow the political forces beyond their borders. (U. S. Department of State, n. d. ). Kennan also argued that Soviet Russia was an antagonistic and closed-minded society, driven by a great obsession to dominate combined with a huge political insecurity. That is why, he thought, only a determined and resolute reaction of the United States would be the best solution to frustrate the ambitions of Soviet authorities and eventually bring the power of American ideological ally to a standstill. These ideas of Kennan received a lot of warm support in American administrative circles and became the main postulates of famous Marshall Plan on reformation. Therefore, Kennan’s call for containment had a tremendous impact on American policy-makers and â€Å"†¦inspired the hardheaded power politics that shaped the Cold War† (Holbrook, 2005). The controversy of this policy arose around the issue of the limits of containment, because it was crucial not to lose the control of the situation and peripheral interests of the U. S. That is why in 1950 a detailed plan, stipulating the stages and activities of the United States in the framework of the Cold War was issued by National Security Council as a document called NSC-68. Anyway, the strategy of containment was a great success in the long run, and it became one of the most far-seeing and prudential political moves in modern history, because any aggression from one of the sides in this â€Å"peaceful competition† called the Cold War would spark a serious conflict and possibly bring to global bloody outcomes. George F. Kennan himself in his interview to CNN analysts commented on the effectiveness of the containment policy as the following: â€Å"†¦the alternative was to have a great military conflagration and I could see no good coming out of this† (CNN, n. d. ) Certainly, not every American politician was supporting the policy of containment and there were some, who insisted on more determined activities of the U. S. directed against communist ideology expansion. In particular, John Foster Dulles, the 52nd Secretary of the State, was promoting the ideas of liberation of Western European countries. Nevertheless, the strategy of containment which â€Å".. helped to define the issues and values dividing America and Russia†, was a well-considered political step, which eventually contributed to collapse of communist ideology in Western Europe (UXL Encyclopedia, 2005). References Cornwell, R. (2005, March 19) Obituary: George Kennan. The Independent. 58 (893), 6. George F. Kennan. (2005). UXL Encyclopedia of World Biography. Ed. 1. Farmington Hills, MI: UXL (Gale). George F. Kennan, U. S. Embassy, Moscow. (n. d. ). CNN. A CNN Perspectives Series. Retrieved December 19, 2007, from http://www. cnn. com/SPECIALS/cold. war/episodes/01/interviews/kennan/. Holbrooke, R. (2005, March 21). The Paradox of George F. Kennan. The Washington Post. The Washington Post Company. Retrieved December 19, 2007, from the World Wide Web: http://www. washingtonpost. com/wp-dyn/articles/A52533-2005Mar20. html. Kennan and Containment. (n. d. ). U. S. Department of State. Retrieved December 19, 2007, from the World Wide Web: http://www. state. gov/r/pa/ho/time/cwr/17601. htm.

Leadership Styles Of Bill Gates History Essay

Leadership Styles Of Bill Gates History Essay Leadership style is the manner and approach of providing direction, implementing plans, and motivating people. Kurt Lewin (1939) led a group of researchers to identify different styles of leadership. This early study has been very influential and established three major leadership styles. The three major styles of leadership are   Authoritarian or autocratic Participative or democratic Delegative or Free Reign Although good leaders use all three styles, with one of them normally dominant, bad leaders tend to stick with one style. In my essay I have selected two leaders as follows. 1.BILL GATES. 2.LAXMI MITTAL. BILL GATES. A middle-aged caucasian man wearing business attire and glasses The co-founder of Microsoft has been consistently ranked as one of the richest men in the world. Gates, on the other hand, has never succumbed to the temptations of his wealth and has pledged to part with massive amounts of it for charitable causes. Bill Gates, the creator Windows, the most popular operating system in the world, is known for being the entrepreneur who revolutionized the computing industry. A college drop-out, he started Microsoft out of his garage and work hard to build it. The company is now amongst the biggest corporations on the world.  Gates has always maintained  that nothing can replace hard work. People try for shortcuts but all they taste is temporary success which soon fades out. His leadership mantras are always overwhelming and managers across the world yearn to learn and get inspired from him. We bring you some of his most insightful leadership mantras: On Hard Work People used to wonder that how a college dropout who started the company from a garage could make it this big. Little did they realise that he had substantial experience in programming and had done years and years of hard work before kicking it off. It was this experience which helped him build the first software by Microsoft: MS DOS. Gates does not believe in the  concept of overnight success. Hard work is what truly counts in the long the run. On Following your Passion Making millions through programming was not his priority; Gates was just following his heart, his passion. Programming was his obsession and it gave him happiness. He has always maintained that  good entrepreneurs follow their passion  rather than experimenting unnecessarily. That way they only end up losing focus. Rather than just chasing the rupee sign, managers and entrepreneurs should work hard to chase their passion. Money will come chasing on its own! On Giving Back Gates says, If you want to become a leader that people admire and respect, you must become a person of significance. People dont follow you because you take from them; they follow you because you give to them. Apart from being the tech-czar he is, Gates is also known all over the world for all the philanthropy he does via his  Bill Melinda Gates Foundation. He believes that giving back to the society is as important as taking from it. This is what sets a leader apart from others. Strive to live out a life that makes a difference in this world; give back more than what youve taken from society. Your life then will be a true success, remarks Gates. On Vision A leader should have the vision and that too an impeccable one. He should be able to see what might lie ahead in times to come. Bill Gates could see that the future of computers was in the software, not in the hardware. This made things easy for him as he now had well-defined targets to chase. According to Gates,  most successful people have had a vision which has enabled them to make it out big in the world. A leader sans vision soon loses team and goes out of the race. On Failures Gates has always viewed failures as valuable learning lessons.  As Windows was gaining popularity, a good number of people were reporting problems in it every day and a lot of criticism used to pour in on a routine basis. Bill Gates took all this in a positive way. These were valuable lessons for him which made him more determined to improve Windows. Your most unhappy customers are your greatest source of learning, says Bill Gates. LAKSHMI MITTAL http://htmlimg3.scribdassets.com/7ekvhymiiozx2dx/images/22-32f9e35f54.jpg Aditya Mittal, son of London-based Indian steel tycoon Lakshmi Mittal, is one of the Young Global Leaders nominated to attend the World Economic Forum annual meeting scheduled to be held in Davos in June. Young Global Leaders is a ?1-million pounds project that aims to find 1,111 under-40 year olds to solve the worlds problems. The WEF on Tuesday announced the first list of 237 nominees including Aditya Mittal, 28, chief financial officer of the Mittal Steel Company. A transactional leader:Mittal is a transactional leader who guides and motivates his follower in the direction of  established goals by clarifying  role and  task requirements.The leader Mittal is a great individual as besides business he has worked a lot for his people.   a corporate leader in businessstarted the trend of mergers around the world, caring family man, complete human being . QUALITIESAND  DISTINCTIVENESS Hardworking   Outstanding vision   Convincing   Motivating   Guiding   Zeal and fierceness Capacity to lead   Bravery Awards and Honors Aside his achievements in business, Lakshmi Mittal was awarded Fortune magazinesEuropean Businessman of the Year 2004 and also Steelmaker of the Year in 1996 by. Bibliography LAXMI MITTAL. (n.d.). Retrieved 02 15, 2013, from MITTAL: http://www.scribd.com/doc/57466592/3/LAKSHMI-MITTAL WORD COUNT=906 ESSAY 2 LEADERSHIP AND CULTURAL AWARENESS. TREATY OF WAITANGI. The Treaty of Waitangi is a treaty first signed on 6 February 1840 by representatives of the British Crown and various Maori chiefs from the North Island of New Zealand. The Treaty established a British Governor of New Zealand, recognised MÄ ori ownership of their lands and other properties, and gave the MÄ ori the rights of British subjects. The English and MÄ ori versions of the Treaty differed significantly, so there is no consensus as to exactly what was agreed to. From the British point of view, the Treaty gave Britain sovereignty over New Zealand, and gave the Governor the right to govern the country. MÄ ori believed they ceded to the Crown a right of governance in return for protection, without giving up their authority to manage their own affairs. After the initial signing at Waitangi, copies of the Treaty were taken around New Zealand and over the following months many other chiefs signed. In total there are nine copies of the Treaty of Waitangi including the original signed on 6 February 1840. Around 530 to 540 chiefs, at least 13 of them women, signed the Treaty of Waitangi. New immigrants While Maori were presenting New Zealanders with a bicultural perspective, immigration was making the country multicultural. Until the 1960s most immigrants to New Zealand were British and easily adjusted to New Zealand life. The considerable Dutch community who arrived in the 1950s were expected to adopt local customs. But in the 1970s there were two important changes. First, the end of assistance to British immigrants in 1975 challenged expectations that the British were the best potential New Zealanders. From then on, immigrants were to be chosen on non-ethnic grounds. Second, there were significant migrations from other countries. There was an influx first from the Pacific Islands and from the mid-1980s an increasing number from other places predominantly Asia, but also, from the 1990s onwards, from Africa and the Middle East. By 2006 only 67% of people living in New Zealand were exclusively of European blood, compared to over 90% 30 years before. The multicultural idea Many of these people, from a wide range of cultures, settled down, took up citizenship and brought up New Zealand-born children. This was a major challenge to the idea of who New Zealanders were. Initiated in Canada and picked up in the 1970s in Australia, the concept of multiculturalism quickly spread to New Zealand. It was proposed that people could be legitimate members of the New Zealand nation while retaining their own language, foods and traditions. At the first New Zealand Day ceremony at Waitangi in 1974 there were ostentatious efforts to put New Zealands ethnic variety on display. Non-British New Zealanders As the numbers of non-British people increased, their cultural differences became more evident. In South Auckland, Pacific Islanders congregated and evolved a distinctive New Zealand Pacific culture which was more than the sum of their different cultures. Large .Asian communities who had originally been settled throughout the country came together in areas with their own schools and styles of housing. Not everyone accepted these developments with equanimity. A new political group emerged, significantly called the New Zealand Party, which expressed unease at the challenge to older traditions of New Zealanders. Yet the issue was made more complex because by the early 2000s in some very traditional areas, particularly sport and music, Pacific Islanders were playing an important role. Prominent figures such as All Black rugby players Tina Omega and Jonah Loma, Silver Fern netballer Bernice Mane, discus champion Beatrice Famine, and hip hop artists Chef Fu and Scribe had become national heroes, and it was difficult to argue they were not real New Zealanders. In another arena, Cambodian bakeries were now making a classic New Zealand dish, the meat pie, and winning national awards. Challenge for a new century At the beginning of the 21st century it was not easy to define the New Zealander, or even to explain the origin of many New Zealand characteristics. The character of the countrys people had been in part shaped by the physical environment the outdoor climate, the proximity to beach and bush, the location in the South Pacific. No less important were the very different cultures brought to the country by waves of settlers Maori who arrived some 700 years ago from the Pacific, the British and Irish who dominated the population for over a century from 1850, and more recent immigrants from Asia and the Pacific. All of these groups would have agreed that each were New Zealanders. All would have accepted that New Zealanders were no longer Better Britons. But the cultural meaning of the New Zealander had become uncertain. How it would evolve was one of the major issues for the new century. HR Practice in New Zealand General Recruitment practices Recruiting practices in New Zealand have taken the same path as most other western countries. Over the last fifty years we have seen the appearance of the recruitment industry as a service offering in its own right and in the last ten years we have seen rapid change as service providers merge, deny and re-invent themselves. The 1990s marked the onset of a trend towards acquisition of home grown agencies by large global operations. While some agencies have maintained their brand identity they are commonly part of a wider global network. This trend will continue in the future and we will see the gradual disappearance of mid range recruiting organisations as the market becomes based on local presence of large global players and small niche players with tightly focused specialist markets. The Online World the impact of the Web on Recruitment First we saw the job boards, and then came the interactive job boards and now we have the next generation of applications that have workflow and auto notification email and online assessment. The growth of web enabled processes and the emergence of recruitment is having a major impact not only on the process of recruitment and selection, it is also transforming the nature of relationships between recruitment service providers and their customers. The internet has disinter mediated the recruitment industry, enabling a recruiting manager to have a relationship directly with potential candidates. For many years the power and value of a recruitment agency lay in their relational database of people and they added value to a customer by advertising, screening, assessing and short listing. Who you knew, having a relationship with them, and being able to introduce them to a customer provided a revenue stream to a recruitment provider. It matters less who you know now because the Internet can do all these things at a fraction of the cost. The value chain for recruitment services is changing from a candidate placement model to one of providing unbundled services. Most major companies in New Zealand have job pages on their websites and some have highly interactive recruitment software with associated workflow enabling fast and personal interaction with candidates. (human resource mnagement in newzealand, 2011) Bibliography human resource mnagement in newzealand. (2011). Retrieved 02 15, 2013, from Human resource: http://www.hrinz.org.nz/Site/Resources/hrm_in_nz.aspx ESSAY 3 INFLUENCES ON LEADERSHIP Fred Hollows Frederick Fred Cossom Hollows, AC (9 April 1929   10 February 1993) was a New Zealand and Australian opthalmologies who became known for his work in restoring eyesight for countless thousands of people in Australiaand many other countries. It has been estimated that more than one million people in the world can see today because of initiatives instigated by Hollows, the most notable example being The Fred Hollows Foundation. Early life Fred Hollows was one of four children, the others being Colin, John and Maurice. All were born is Dunedin,NewZealnd to Joseph and Clarice (Marshall) Hollows. He had one year of informal primary schooling at North East Valley Primary School and began attending Palmerston boys high schoolwhen he was 13. Hollows received his BA degree fromVictoria university of Wellington. He briefly studied at a seminary, but decided against a life in the clergy. After observing the doctors at a mental hospital during some charity work, he instead enrolled at Otago Medical univeristy. While living in Dunedin he was an active member of the New Zealand and made several first ascents of mountains in the Mount Aspiring region of Central Otago. . Hollows were a member of the Community party of New Zealand during the 1950s and 1960s. In 1961 he went to Moorefield eyes hospital in England to study ophthalmology. He then did post-graduate work in Wales before moving to Australian 1965 where he became associate professor of ophthalmology at the University of New South Wales in Sydney. From 1965-1992 he chaired the ophthalmology division overseeing the teaching departments at the University of New South Wales, and the Prince of Wales and Prince Henry hospitals. Social Responsibility of Fred Hollows. Our vision is for a world where no one is needlessly blind, and Indigenous Australians enjoy the same health and life expectancy as other Australians. With the help of our supporters, The Foundation is assisting more people in more countries than ever before. Photo: Sandy Scheltema/The Age The Fred Hollows Foundation is inspired by the work of the late Professor Fred Hollows (1929-1993).à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¨ Fred was an eye doctor, a skilled surgeon of international renown and a social justice activist. Fred was committed to improving the health of Indigenous Australians and to reducing the cost of eye health care and treatment in developing countries. The Foundation was established in Sydney in 1992, five months before Fred passed away, with the aim of continuing and expanding on the program work he had started in Eritrea, Vietnam and Indigenous Australia. http://www.hollows.org.au/sites/default/files/graphics/misc/gr_AR2011_eye_ops_results.jpgThe Foundation now works throughout Africa, Asia (South and South East) and Australia, focusing on blindness prevention and Australian Indigenous health. Through reducing the cost of cataract operations to as little as $25 in some developing countries, we have helped to restore the sight of more than 1,000,000 people worldwide. At The Fred Hollows Foundation we: believe that everyone has the right to sight, and that Indigenous Australians have the right to the same health outcomes as other Australians advocate for these rights, and collaborate with partners individuals, communities, organisations and governments to overcome avoidable blindness everywhere work together with organisations in Australia to achieve the highest attainable standard of health, including eye health, for Indigenous Australians respect and seek to learn from our partners with the aim of strengthening local institutions and systems wherever we work share skills and resources with organisations working in the same area to avoid replicating services and support already provided promote innovative thinking and considered risk-taking in pursuit of our goals are committed to being accountable, honest and transparent in everything we do apply our values to promote good governance within our own organisation. Corporate governance The Corporate Governance Charter sets out the principles and practices The Foundations Directors will uphold and implement to fulfil the public trust vested in them to protect Freds legacy and fulfil his vision. Professor Fred Hollows. Photo: Colin Townsend/Fairfaxphotos Professor Fred Hollows. Photo: Colin Townsend/Fairfaxphotos In exercising this responsibility, Directors will be guided by the values and passions that imbued Freds life: A confidence that restoring sight to people who are needlessly blind opens up new options for them and enriches their families and communities A commitment to respect, promote and protect the rights of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, and particularly their rights to health and life expectancy on a par with other Australians A determination to contribute in a meaningful way to a more equitable worlwhere high quality health care is available to all A conviction that our goals can only be achieved if we work in true partnership with local people and agencies and support them to find their own lasting solutions A belief that the best path forward is always found through openness and collaboration, and through forging effective partnerships with people and agencies of like mind who share those values. (The Foundation, 2012) Bibliography The Foundation. (2012). Retrieved 02 15, 2013, from The fred Hollows Foundation: http://www.hollows.org.au/Fred-Hollows/the-foundation

Dinner with Father :: Example Personal Narratives

Dinner with Father I wonder what it would be like to go to dinner with my father. One of the chief words my uncle uses to describe my father is "classy," so I'm sure that he would take me to a fancy restaurant. We would sit across the table from each other, both decked out in dark suits. My hair would fall into my eyes and I would brush it out of the way, looking to see the expression on his face. He was a large man, both in my memories and in photographs I've seen. I'm sure that he would dominate the conversation, both physically and mentally. His absence from my life has resulted in my sort of revering him, and so I think that the evening would be unevenly balanced toward my listening to him speak. And what better questions to ask than his opinions of me and my habits? It would be strange, seeking acceptance from someone who has had such a powerful effect on my life, influencing me more through his absence than through his presence. My early years with my father have become harder and harder to recall. From what I can remember, and what I have gleaned from my brother and mother, I was on the verge of spending "quality time" with my father. My brother, who is four years older than I, spent the last few years with Dad talking and reading and walking, all things I yearn to have done with him. The dinner would be a chance for me to bond with my father, and to get a sense of the man he was. This is what my brother and my mother know, but cannot convey to me. I would show him some of the poems I've written about him and me. I would question him to see whether or not the image of him I had forged in my mind, in my writing, is true. In my philosophy class this year, we are reading Plato's Republic, which my mother has told me was my father's favourite book. I am fortunate enough to have his copy of the Republic, a tattered, red-leather bound copy from long ago. I want to know what he gleaned from this book that made it so important to him. I would use the dinner (which I know would be too short) to fill in the gaps in my perception of my father.

Coyote Blue Chapter 14~15

CHAPTER 14 Lies Have Lives of Their Own It took just six weeks for Samson Hunts Alone, the Crow Indian, to become Samuel Hunter, the shape-shifter. The transformation began with the cowboy on the bus mistaking Samson for a Mexican. When Samson left the bus in Elko, Nevada, and caught a ride with a racist trucker, he became white for the first time. He expected, from listening to Pokey all those years, that upon turning white he would immediately have the urge to go out and find some Indians and take their land, but the urge didn't come, so he sat by nodding as the trucker talked. By the time he got out at Sacramento, California, Samson had memorized the trucker's litany of white supremacy and was just getting into the rhythm of racism when he caught a ride with a black trucker who took amphetamines and waxed poetic about oppression, injustice, and the violent overthrow of the U.S. government by either the Black Panthers, the Teamsters, or the Temptations. Samson wasn't sure which. Samson was booted out of the truck in Santa Barbara when he suggested that perhaps killing all the whites should be put off at least until they told where they had hidden all the money. Actually, Samson was somewhat relieved to be put out; he'd only been white for a few hours and wasn't sure that he liked it well enough to die for it. His immediate concern was to get something to drink. He bought a Coke at a nearby convenience store and walked across the street to a park, where, under the boughs of a massive fig tree, amid a dozen sleeping bums, he sat down to consider his next move. Samson was just summoning up an obese case of hopelessness when a nearby bundle of rags spoke to him. â€Å"Any booze in that cup?† Samson had to stare at the oblong rag pile for a few seconds before he noticed there was a hairy face at one end. A single bloodshot eye, sparkling with hope, the only break in the gray dinge, gave the face away. â€Å"No, just Coke,† Samson said. Hope dimmed and the eye became as empty as the socket next to it. â€Å"You got any money?† the bum asked. Samson shook his head. He had only twelve dollars left; he didn't want to share it with the rag pile. â€Å"You're new here?† Samson nodded. â€Å"You a wet?† â€Å"Excuse me?† Samson said. â€Å"Are you Mexican?† Samson thought for a moment, then nodded. â€Å"You're lucky,† the bum said. â€Å"You can get work. A guy stops near here every morning with a truck – picks up guys to do yard work, but he only takes Mexicans. Says whites are too lazy.† â€Å"Are they?† Samson asked. He figured that after persecuting blacks, hiding money, stealing land, breaking treaties, and keeping themselves pure, maybe the whites were just tired. He was glad he was Mexican. â€Å"You speak pretty good English for a wet.† â€Å"Where does the guy with the truck stop? Has he been by today?† â€Å"I'm not lazy,† the bum said. â€Å"I earned a degree in philosophy.† â€Å"I'll give you a dollar,† Samson said. â€Å"I'm having trouble finding work in my field.† Samson dug a dollar out of his pocket and held it out to the bum, who snatched it and quickly secreted it among his rags. â€Å"He stops about a block from here, in front of the all-night diner.† The bum pointed down the street. â€Å"I haven't seen him go by today, but I was sleeping.† â€Å"Thanks.† Samson rose and started down the street. The bum called after him, â€Å"Hey, kid, come back tonight. I'll guard your back while you sleep if you buy a jug.† Samson waved over his shoulder. He wouldn't be back if he could avoid it. A block away he joined a group of men who were waiting at the corner when a large gate-sided truck pulled up, the back already half full of Mexicans. The man who drove the truck got out and walked around to where the men were waiting. He was short and brown and wore a straw Stetson, cowboy boots, and thick black mustache over the sly grin of a chicken thief. The men who worked for him called him patron, but ironically, the common term for his profession was Coyote. He scanned the group of men and made his choices with a nod and the crook of his finger. The men chosen, all Hispanic, jumped onto the back of the truck. The Coyote approached Samson and grabbed him by the upper arm, testing the muscle. He said something in Spanish. Samson panicked and answered him in Crow: â€Å"I'm on the lam, looking for a one-armed man that killed my wife.† To Samson's surprise, this seemed to satisfy the Coyote. The Coyote had been smuggling illegal aliens into the country for five years, and from time to time he encountered an Indian from the South, Guatemala or Honduras, who could not speak Spanish. Not being able to tell one Indian language from another, he assumed that Samson was one of these. All the better, he thought, it will take longer for him to find out. After the Coyote brought his men over the border, he gave them a place to live (two apartments in which they slept ten to a room), food (beans, tortillas, and rice), and three dollars an hour (for backbreaking work that most gringos would never consider doing). He charged his customers eight dollars per man-hour and pocketed the difference. At the end of each week he paid his men in cash, after deducting a healthy amount for food and lodging, then drove them all to the post office, where he helped them buy money orders to send home to their families, leaving them nothing for themselves. In this way the Coyote could keep a crew under his thumb for three or four months before they found out that they could make more money working at menial jobs in restaurants or hotels. Then he would have to go back to Mexico for another load. Lately, however, he had been augmenting his crew with Mexicans who had found their own way over the border, and this allowed him to stretch his time between bord er runs. The work was the hardest Samson had ever done, and at the end of the first day, back knotted and hands bloodied from swinging a pickax, he slept in the back of the truck until the patron slapped him awake and led him into the apartment to show him his cot. Sleeping in a room with nine other people was nothing new to Samson, and the food, although spicy, was plentiful and good. He fell asleep listening to the sad Spanish love songs of his co-workers and feeling very much alone. As the weeks passed he would hear the other men in the room whispering in the dark and this made him feel, even more, that he was the only person in a world of one. He had no way of knowing that they were talking about him, about how they never saw him send any money home, and about how they could take his money and no one would know because he was a dumb Indian and couldn't speak Spanish. Samson listened and imagined that they were talking about their homes and missing their families. He knew nothing of the Latin quality of machismo, which tacitly forbade the admission of a man's melancholy except in song. The plan was to wait until the boy was taking a shower, then go through his pants and take the money. If he protested, they would cut his throat and bury him on the large estate where they were terracing hills into formal gardens. Whether they would have really killed the boy was doubtful; they were good men at heart and had only turned their minds to murder because it made them feel worldly and tough. When the boy was gone their nocturnal whispers turned back to boasts of the women they would have, the cars they would buy, and the land they would own when they returned to Mexico. Samson was saved on a hot afternoon when the owner of the estate approached the Coyote while the crew was taking a break, eating cold burritos in the shade of a eucalyptus tree. â€Å"Immigration took one of the busboys in my restaurant,† the rich man said. â€Å"Do any of your guys speak English? I'll pay you to let him go.† The Coyote was shaking his head when Samson spoke up: â€Å"I speak English.† The Coyote's chicken-stealing grin dropped like a rock. He had thought that he would be able to hold on to the Indian boy for a long time, and here he had gone and learned English in his spare time. The boy was worthless now. Better to cut the loss and see what he could get. To quell their curiosity and dampen their ambition, the Coyote told the rest of the crew that the rich American had bought the boy for sexual purposes, and they all grinned knowingly as they watched Samson ride away in the long white Lincoln. Samson found that it was easier to be Mexican while working in the restaurant. The work, although fast paced, was not heavy, and he was given a cot in the storeroom to sleep on until he found a place of his own. The owner was content with speaking a pidgin English peppered with Spanish words and Samson answered him by speaking a modified version of Tonto-speak. By this time Samson had also picked up a few essential Spanish phrases (â€Å"Where are the spoons?† â€Å"We need more plates.† â€Å"Your sister fucks donkeys in Tijuana†) which helped him make friends with the Mexican dishwashers and cooks. From the moment he had arrived in Santa Barbara, a grinding homesickness began to settle in Samson's heart. When he lay in the dark storeroom at night, waiting to fall asleep, it would rise up and wash over him like a black tide, carrying with it a slithering blind predator that gnashed at the last shreds of his hope. â€Å"Forget what you know,† Pokey had told him. With this in mind he set to do battle with his rising hopelessness. He refused to think of his family, his home, or his heritage. Instead he concentrated on the conversations he overheard in the restaurant as he cleared tables and poured coffee. Because he was Mexican, and a menial laborer, he was invisible to the affluent Santa Barbara customers, who spoke openly about the most intimate details of their lives, oblivious to the Spanish fly on the wall†¦. â€Å"You know, Ashley has been having an affair with her plastic surgeon for six months and†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"If I can get my legal ducks in a row, I should be able to push the convention center through the city council and†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"I want the bathroom Southwestern, but Bob likes Art Nouveau, so I called our attorney and I said†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"I know the offshore drilling is ruining the coast, but my Exxon shares have split twice in two years, so I said to my analyst†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"Susan and the kids went to Tahoe, so I thought it was the perfect chance to show Marie the house. The bitch spilled a whole bottle of massage oil in the hot tub and†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"I don't give a damn whether they needed it or not. If you do your job right you can sell air conditioners to Eskimos; need has nothing to do with it. Remember the three m's: mesmerize, motivate, and manipulate. You're not selling a need, you're selling†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"Dreams,† Samson said, coming out of his shell to finish the sentence of a young insurance sales manager who had taken his agents to lunch so he could chew their ass. Samson surprised even himself by speaking up, but the man at the table seemed to be giving the same speech that he had heard from the powder-blue dream salesman. He couldn't resist. â€Å"Come here, kid,† the man said. He was wearing a wash-and-wear suit, as were the other five men at the table. A half-dozen acrid aftershaves clashed among them. â€Å"What's your name?† Samson looked around the table at the men's faces. They were all white. He decided at that moment to use a new name, not the Mexican name he had taken, Jose Cuervo. â€Å"Sam,† Samson said. â€Å"Sam Hunter.† â€Å"Well, Sam† – he extended his hand – â€Å"my name is Aaron Aaron. And I'll bet with some training you could outsell every man at this table.† He put his arm around Samson's shoulders and spoke to the rest of the group. â€Å"What do you say, guys? I'll bet you each a hundred bucks that I can take a busboy with the right attitude and turn him into a better salesman than any of you hotshots inside of a month.† â€Å"That's bullshit, Aaron, the kid's not even old enough to get a license.† â€Å"He can work on my license. I'll sign his applications. C'mon, hotshots, do I have a bet?† The men fidgeted in their seats, laughing nervously and trying to avoid Aaron's gaze, knowing from Aaron's training that the first one to speak would lose. Finally one of them broke. â€Å"All right, a hundred bucks, but the kid has to do his own selling.† Aaron looked at Samson. â€Å"So, kid, are you ready to start a new job?† Samson tried to imagine himself wearing a suit and smelling of after-shave, and the idea appealed to him. â€Å"I don't have a place to stay,† he said. â€Å"I've been saving so I can get an apartment.† â€Å"I've got it covered,† Aaron said. â€Å"Welcome aboard.† â€Å"I guess I could give my notice.† â€Å"Fuck giving notice. You only give notice if you're planning to come back. You're not planning on moving backwards, are you, Sam?† â€Å"I guess not,† Samson said. At twenty-five, Aaron Aaron had already accumulated fifteen years of experience in the art of deception. From the time he skimped on the sugar at his first lemonade stand to the time he doubled the profits on his paper route by canceling his customers' subscriptions, then stealing the papers out of a vending machine to continue the deliveries, Aaron showed a near-genius ability for working in the gray areas between business and crime. And by balancing dark desires with white lies he was able to sidestep the plague of Catholic conscience that kept him from pursuing an honest career as a pirate, which would have been his first choice. Aaron Aaron was a salesman. At first, Aaron's only interest in Samson was to use the boy as an instrument of embarrassment to the other salesmen, but once he dressed the boy in a suit and had him trailing along on sales calls like a dutiful native gun bearer, Aaron found that he actually enjoyed the boy's company. The boy's curiosity seemed boundless, and answering his questions as they drove between calls allowed Aaron to bask in the sound of his own voice while extolling the brilliance of his last successful presentation. And too, the rejection of a slammed door or a pointed ;no; seemed softened in the sharing. Teaching the boy made him feel good, and with this improvement in attitude he worked more, sold more, and allowed the boy to share in the prosperity, buying him clothes and food, finding him an apartment, and cosigning for a loan on a used Volvo. For Samson, working under the tutelage of Aaron was perfect. Aaron's assumption that no one beside himself had the foggiest idea of how the universe worked allowed Samson the opportunity to hear lectures on even the most minuscule details of society, information he used to build himself into the image that Aaron wanted to see. Samson delighted in Aaron's self-obsession, for while the older man waxed eloquent on the virtues of being Aaron, it never occurred to him to ask Samson about his past, and the boy was able to surround himself in a chrysalis of questions and cheap suits until he was ready to emerge as a full-grown salesman. As the years passed and his memories of home were stowed and forgotten, learning to sell became Samson's paramount interest. And Aaron, fascinated with seeing his own image mirrored and his own words repeated, failed to notice that Samson had become a better salesman than himself until other companies began approaching the boy with offers. Only then did Aaron realize that most of his income was coming from the override commission on Sam's sales, and that for five years Sam had trained all the new salesmen. To avoid losing his golden goose, Aaron offered Sam a fifty-fifty partnership in the agency, and with this added security, the business became Sam's shelter. -=*=- Now, after twenty years with the business as his only security, Sam was going to Aaron to sell his shares. As he entered Aaron's office he felt a deep soul-sickness that he had not felt since he had left the reservation. â€Å"Aaron, I'll take forty cents on the dollar for my shares. And I keep my office.† Aaron turned slowly in the big executive chair and faced Sam. â€Å"You know I couldn't come up with that kind of cash, Sam. It's a good move, though. I'd have to keep paying you out of override, and with interest you wouldn't even take a cut in pay. I don't think you're in a position to negotiate, though. In fact, after the call I got this morning, I think twenty cents on the dollar would be more than fair.† Sam resisted the urge to dive over the desk and slap his partner's bare scalp until it bled. He had to take his fallback position sooner than he wanted to. â€Å"You're thinking that because Spagnola can put me with the Indian I have to sell, right?† Aaron nodded. â€Å"But just imagine that I ride this through, Aaron. Imagine that I don't sign off, that the insurance commission suspends my license, that criminal charges are filed and my name is in the paper every day. Guess whose name is going to be right next to mine? And what happens if I maintain my association with the agency and the insurance commission starts looking into your files? How many signatures have you traced over the years, Aaron? How many people thought they were buying one policy, only to find out that their signature showed up on a different one – one that paid you a higher commission?† A sheen of sweat was appearing on Aaron's forehead. â€Å"You've done that as often as I have. You'd be hanging yourself.† â€Å"That's the point, Aaron. When I walked in here you were convinced that I was hung anyway. I'm just making room for you on the gallows.† â€Å"You ungrateful prick. I took you in when you-â€Å" â€Å"I know, Aaron. That's why I'm giving you a chance to stay clean. Actually, you've got more to lose than I do. Once your files are open, then your income is going to become public knowledge.† â€Å"Oh!† Aaron stood and paced around to the front of the desk. â€Å"Oh!† He waved a finger under Sam's nose, then turned and walked to the water cooler. â€Å"Oh!† He kicked the cooler, then returned to his chair, sat down, then stood up again. â€Å"Oh!† he said. It was as if the single syllable had stuck in his mouth. He looked as if he were going to launch into a tirade; blood rose in his face and veins bulged on his forehead. â€Å"Oh!† he said. He fell back in the chair and stared at the ceiling as if his brain had pushed the hold button on reality. â€Å"That's right, Aaron,† Sam said after a moment. â€Å"The IRS.† With that Sam moved to the office door. â€Å"Take your time, Aaron. Think about it. Talk it over with your buddy Spagnola; he can probably give you the current exchange rate of cigarettes for sodomy in prison.† Aaron slowly broke his stare on the ceiling and turned to watch Sam walk out. In the outer office Julia looked up from applying lacquer to her nails to see Sam grinning, his hand still on the doorknob. â€Å"What's with all the ‘ohs, Sam?† Julia asked. â€Å"It sounded like you guys were having sex or something.† â€Å"Something like that,† Sam said, his grin widening. â€Å"Hey, watch this.† He opened the door quickly and stuck his head back in Aaron's office. â€Å"Hey, Aaron! IRS!† he said. Then he pulled the door shut, muffling Aaron's scream of pain. â€Å"What was that?† Julia asked. â€Å"That,† Sam said, â€Å"was my teacher giving me the grade on my final exam.† â€Å"I don't get it.† â€Å"You will, honey. I don't have time to explain right now. I've got a date.† Sam left the office walking light and smiling, feeling strangely as if the pieces of his life, rather than fitting back together, were jingling in his pocket like sleigh bells warning Christmas. CHAPTER 15 Like God's Own Chocolate I'd Lick Her Shadow Off A Hot Sidewalk Santa Barbara In spite of the fact that he was losing his home and his business, and was precariously close to having his greatest secret discovered by the police because of an Indian god, Sam was not the least bit worried. Not with the prospect of an evening with Calliope to occupy his thoughts. No, for once Sam Hunter was voting the eager ticket over the anxious, taking anticipation over dread. Calliope lived upstairs in a cheese-mold-green cinder-block duplex that stood in a row of a dozen identical structures where the last of Santa Barbara's working middle class were making their descent into poverty. Calliope's Datsun was parked in the driveway next to a rusy VW station wagon and an ominous-looking Harley-Davidson chopper with a naked blond woman airbrushed on the gas tank. Sam paused by the Harley before mounting the stairs. The airbrushed woman looked familiar, but before he could get a closer look Calliope appeared on the deck above him. â€Å"Hi,† she said. She was barefoot, wearing a white muslin dress loosely laced in the front. A wreath of gardenia was woven into her hair. â€Å"You're just in time, we need your help. Come on up.† Sam took the stairs two at a time and stopped on the landing, where Calliope was wrestling with the latch on a rickety screen-door frame that was devoid of screening but had redwood lattice nailed across its lower half, presumably to keep out the really large insects. â€Å"I'm having trouble with the dinner,† she said. â€Å"I hope you can fix it.† The screen door finally let loose with the jattering noise one associates with the impact of Elmer Fudd's face on a rake handle. Calliope led Sam into a kitchen done in the Fabulous Fifties motif of mint enamel over pink linoleum. A haze of foul-smelling smoke hung about the ceiling, and through it Sam could make out the figure of a half-naked man sitting in the lotus position on the counter, drinking from a quart bottle of beer. â€Å"That's Yiffer,† Calliope said over her shoulder as she headed to the stove. â€Å"He's with Nina.† Yiffer vaulted off the counter, on one arm, fully eight feet across the kitchen to land lightly on his feet in front of Sam, where he engaged a complex handshake that left Sam feeling as if his fingers had been braided together. â€Å"Dude,† Yiffer said, shaking out his wild tangle of straw-colored hair as if the word had been stuck there. Feeling like a chameleon that has been dropped into a coffee can and is risking hemorrhage by trying to turn silver, Sam searched for the appropriate greeting and ended up echoing, â€Å"Dude.† In jeans, a sport shirt, and boating moccasins with no socks, Sam felt grossly overdressed next to Yiffer, who wore only a pair of orange surf shorts and layer upon layer of tan muscle. â€Å"Calliope biffed the grub, dude,† Yiffer said. Sam joined Calliope at the stove, where she was frantically biffing the grub. â€Å"I can't get the spaghetti to cook,† she said, plunging a wooden spoon into a large saucepan from which the smoke was emanating. â€Å"The instructions said to boil for eight minutes, but as soon as it starts to boil the smoke comes out.† Sam waved the smoke from the pan. â€Å"Aren't you supposed to cook the noodles separately?† â€Å"Not in the sauce?† Sam shook his head. â€Å"Whoops,† Calliope said. â€Å"I'm not a very good cook. Sorry.† â€Å"Well, maybe we can salvage something.† Sam removed the pan from the heat and peered in at the bubbling black magma. â€Å"Then again, maybe starting over would be a good idea.† He put the pan in the sink, where a trail of ants was invading a used bowl of cereal. Sam turned on the water and started to swivel the faucet to wash the intruders away when Calliope grabbed his hand. â€Å"No,† she said. â€Å"They're okay.† â€Å"They'll get into your food,† Sam said. â€Å"I know. They've always been here. I call them my kitchen pals.† â€Å"Kitchen pals?† Sam tried to adjust his thinking. She was right – you couldn't just wash your kitchen pals down the drain like they were ants. He felt like he'd been saved from committing genocide. â€Å"So, I guess we should start some more spaghetti?† â€Å"She only bought one box, dude,† Yiffer said. â€Å"I guess we can eat salad and bread,† Calliope said. â€Å"Excuse me.† She kissed Sam on the cheek and walked out of the kitchen while he stared at the ghost of her bottom through the thin dress. â€Å"So, what do you do?† Yiffer asked with a toss of his head. â€Å"I'm an insurance broker. And you?† â€Å"I surf.† â€Å"And?† â€Å"And what?† Yiffer said. Sam thought he could hear the sound of the ocean whistling through Yiffer's ears as if through a seashell. â€Å"Never mind,† he said. He was distracted by the sound of a baby screaming in the next room. â€Å"That's Grubb,† Yiffer said. â€Å"Sounds like he's pissed off.† Unable to see the second b, Sam was confused. â€Å"I thought grub was biffed?† â€Å"No, Grubb is Calliope's rug-rat. Go on in and meet him. Nina's in there with J. Nigel Yiffworth, Esquire.† Yiffer beamed with pride. â€Å"He's mine.† â€Å"Your attorney?† â€Å"My son,† Yiffer said indignantly. â€Å"Oh,† Sam said. He resisted the urge to sit down on the floor and wait for his confusion to clear. Instead he walked into the living room, where he found Calliope sitting on an ancient sofa next to an attractive brunette who was breastfeeding an infant. The sofa was lumpy enough to have had a body sewed into it; stuffing spilled out of the arms where the victim had tried to escape. On the floor nearby, a somewhat older child was slung inside of a blue plastic donut on wheels, which he was gaily ramming into everything in the room. Sam gasped as the child ran a wheel up over his bare ankle on a kamikaze rush to destroy the coffee table. Calliope said, â€Å"Sam, this is Nina.† Nina looked up and smiled. â€Å"And J. Nigel Yiffworth, Esquire.† Nina pulled the baby from her breast long enough to puppet-master a nod of greeting from it, which Sam missed for some reason. â€Å"And that,† Calliope continued, pointing to the drunk driver in the blue donut, â€Å"that's Grubb.† â€Å"Your son?† Sam asked. She nodded. â€Å"He's just learning to walk.† â€Å"Interesting name.† â€Å"I named him after Jane Goodall's son. She let him grow up with baboons – very natural. I was going to name him Buddha, but I was afraid that when he got older if someone met him on the road they might kill him.† â€Å"Right. Good thinking,† Sam said, pretending that he had the slightest idea of what she was talking about and that he wasn't wondering in the least who or where Grubb's father was. â€Å"Nina moved in when we were both pregnant,† Calliope said. â€Å"We were each other's Lamaze coaches. I was farther along, though.† â€Å"What about Yiffer?† â€Å"Scum,† Nina said. â€Å"He seems like a nice guy,† Sam said, and Nina shot him an acid look. â€Å"As scum goes,† he quickly added. â€Å"He only lives here sometimes,† Calliope said. â€Å"Mostly when he doesn't have gas money for his van.† Nina said, â€Å"We're having a yard sale day after tomorrow to raise some money to get him out of here. You might want to look at the stuff down in storage before the sale, pick up a bargain before it gets picked over.† Yiffer entered the living room munching on a loaf of French bread. He stood next to Sam and thrust the bread under Sam's chin. â€Å"Bite?† â€Å"No, thanks,† Sam said. â€Å"Yiffer!† Calliope said. â€Å"That bread was for all of us.† â€Å"Truth,† Yiffer said. He held the loaf out to Calliope. â€Å"Bite?† â€Å"You ruined their dinner,† Nina said, letting J. Nigel's head drop and wobble. Yiffer grinned around a mouthful of bread and gestured toward Nina's exposed breast with his beer hand. â€Å"Looking good, babe.† Nina reattached J. Nigel and said to Sam, â€Å"I'm sorry, he's only like this when he's awake.† To Yiffer she said, â€Å"Take some money out of my purse and go down to the corner and get a pizza.† Sam reached for his wallet. â€Å"Let me.† â€Å"No,† Calliope and Nina said in unison. â€Å"Cool!† Yiffer exclaimed, sandblasting Sam with a spray of bread crumbs. â€Å"Go!† Nina commanded, and Yiffer turned and bounded out of the room. In a moment Sam heard the screen door open and footfalls on the steps. â€Å"Sit down,† Calliope said. â€Å"Relax.† Sam took a seat on the couch next to the two women and for the next forty minutes they exchanged pleasantries between the screaming demands of the babies until Nina handed a damp J. Nigel to Sam and left the room. Like most bachelors, Sam held a baby as if it were radioactive. â€Å"That fucking asshole!† Nina shrieked from the other room, frightening Grubb, who screamed like an air-raid siren. J. Nigel was following suit when Nina returned to the living room, her purse in hand. â€Å"He took my rent money. The asshole took all my rent money. Can you guys watch J. Nigel for a minute? I've got to go find him and kill him.† â€Å"Sure,† Calliope said. Sam nodded, adjusting J. Nigel for long-term holding. Nina left. Calliope turned to Sam and over the din of screaming infants said, â€Å"Alone at last.† â€Å"I think J. Nigel needs changing,† Sam said. â€Å"So does Grubb. Let's take them into Nina's room.† Sam had slipped into the personality he referred to as â€Å"tough and adaptable,† one he reserved for the more chaotic and bizarre situations he had encountered in his career. â€Å"I can do this,† he said with a grin. He hadn't changed a baby since the days on the reservation when he used to help with his cousins, but when he opened J. Nigel's diaper the memory came back on him like a fetid whirlwind, and he had to fight to keep from gagging. The adhesive strips on disposable diapers were a completely new adventure and he found after a few minutes that he had diapered his left hand perfectly while a squirming J. Nigel remained naked to the world. After changing Grubb and returning him to his plastic donut, Calliope liberated Sam from the diaper and started on J. Nigel, who giggled and peed like an excited puppy at her touch. Sam sympathized. â€Å"Don't feel bad,† she said. â€Å"The last time we let Yiffer baby-sit he duct-taped J. Nigel's diaper on and we had to use nail-polish remover to get the adhesive off.† â€Å"I haven't had much practice,† Sam said. â€Å"You don't have any kids?† â€Å"No, I've never met anyone I wanted to have kids with.† Sam wanted to smack himself for saying it. Remember, tough and adaptable. â€Å"Me either,† Calliope said. â€Å"But Grubb is the best thing that ever happened to me. I used to drink and do a lot of drugs, but as soon as I found out I was pregnant I stopped.† Sam looked for an opening to ask about Grubb's father, but none came and the silence was becoming awkward. â€Å"That's great,† he said. â€Å"I had my own battle with the bottle.† Actually it hadn't been much of a battle. Aaron had insisted that social drinking was part of the job, but each time Sam had gotten drunk he was haunted by the stereotype of the drunken Indian that he thought he had left behind. It had been ten years since he'd had a drink. â€Å"I'm going to put these guys down,† Calliope said. â€Å"Why don't you go in the living room and put some music on.† In the living room Sam found a briefcase full of loose cassette tapes. Most of the tapes were New Age releases with enigmatic titles like Tree Frog Whale Song Selections by artists with names like Yanni Volvofinder. With further digging he found one called The Language of Love by a female jazz singer he liked, but when he opened the box he found that the tape had been replaced with one called Catbox Nightmare by a band called Satan's Smegma, obviously a Yifferesque selection. Finally he found The Language of Love languishing boxless in the bottom of the case and popped it into a portable stereo on a bricks-and-boards bookshelf. Calliope returned to the living room just as the first song was rising in the speakers. â€Å"Oh, I love this tape,† she said. â€Å"I've always wanted to make love to this tape. I'll be right back.† She left the room again and returned in a moment with an armload of pillows and blankets, which she dropped in the middle of the floor. â€Å"Grubb sleeps in my room and he won't be asleep for a while.† She began to spread the blankets out over the floor. Sam stood by, trying to fight the objections that were rising in his mind about the speed at which things were progressing. She just assumed that he would say yes; it made him feel like – well – a slut. Then again, if this beautiful girl wanted to make love with him, who was he to object? Okay, so he was a slut; he was a tough and adaptable slut. Still, there was one thing that bothered him. â€Å"What if Yiffer and Nina come home with the pizza?† â€Å"Oh, I don't think they'll be home that soon. This first time will be pretty fast.† â€Å"Hey.† Sam thought he might have just been insulted, but on second thought he realized that the girl had just voiced something that he had really been worrying about, without even admitting it to himself. On second thought, she had relieved the pressure on him to perform. Calliope finished fluffing the pillows, then unlaced her dress and let it drop to the floor. She stepped out of it and went to the stereo, where she turned up the volume, then she crawled naked under the top blanket and pulled it up to her neck. â€Å"Okay,† she said. Sam sat on the couch, stunned. She was stunning. But where was the seduction, the deception, the sweet lies and tender posturing? Where was the hunt, the cat-and-mouse game? Sam just stared at her and thought, This is entirely too honest. â€Å"Are you okay?† she asked. â€Å"Yes, it's just kind of†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"You want me and I want you. Right?† Who did she think she was? You can't just go around blurting out the truth like a prophet with Tourette's syndrome. He said, â€Å"Well, I guess. Yeah, that's right.† â€Å"Well?† She threw the covers back to make room for him. Sam leapt off the couch and fought his way out of his clothes. He was under the covers, taking her into his arms, before his shirt settled to the floor. At the touch of her skin, her warmth, he felt every muscle in his body tense, then melt against her. He kissed her for a long time with none of the fumbling or awkwardness that he expected. He entered her and they began to move together in slow rhythm to the music. Calliope let out a long, low moan and dug her fingers into the muscles of his back. He joined her in the moan and pushed deeper, losing suddenly any thoughts or images or reservations, damn near losing consciousness to the warm, dark rhythm. A door slammed, violently shaking the windows of the apartment. Sam pushed up on his arms. â€Å"What was that?† â€Å"Nothing,† she said, pulling him down. Another door slammed, louder than the first. Sam pushed up again. â€Å"They're home.† â€Å"No, that's downstairs. Please.† She wrapped her legs around his back and pulled him tight. Distracted, Sam began to move again and Calliope moaned. A door slammed, glass shattered, and J. Nigel began crying in the front bedroom. â€Å"What in the hell was that?† â€Å"Nothing. Not now. Make love to me, Sam.† The house shook with the impact of a slamming door, then another, and Grubb began to cry as well. Sam winced, and came completely without pleasure. â€Å"Sorry,† he said as he rolled over onto his back. Calliope stared at the ceiling for a moment as if she was bracing for the next impact. When it came she leapt to her feet and stormed naked out onto the balcony. She bent over the railing and shouted, â€Å"Why are you doing this?† Sam turned down the stereo and listened. Another door slammed, shaking the house, then a pathetic male voice came from below. â€Å"You've got someone up there. You slut.† â€Å"Don't talk to me that way. I don't act this way when you have someone down there.† Sam wanted to join her on the balcony, come to her defense (â€Å"Hey, buddy, she's not the slut here!†), but he couldn't seem to locate his pants. â€Å"You whore!† the male voice said. â€Å"I'm taking my son.† â€Å"No, you're not!† â€Å"You'll see,† the voice said. Another door slam. Sam flinched. He was getting a little shell-shocked trying to put the pieces of this mystery together between slams. â€Å"Jerk!† Calliope screamed. She stormed inside, slammed the door, and breezed by Sam on her way to tend to Grubb and J. Nigel. Sam sat naked on the floor wishing for a cigarette, or a clue, and repeating his new mantra in his head, tough and adaptable, tough and adaptable†¦ In a few minutes, after the door slams had dwindled to one every few minutes, as if the guy downstairs was calming down, then losing his temper in spurts, Calliope appeared in the doorway, still naked. â€Å"We need to talk,† she said. Sam was dressed now, desperately yearning for a cigarette, but he'd left them in the car and he wasn't about to pass the maniac downstairs without more information. â€Å"That would be good,† he said. Calliope picked up her dress and slipped it on, then sat down on the couch. â€Å"You're probably wondering who that is downstairs.† For the first time she seemed really uncomfortable, and Sam felt for her. â€Å"It's okay. I've had some trouble with my neighbors recently. It happens.† She smiled. â€Å"I used to be with him. He's Grubb's father.† â€Å"I gathered that.† â€Å"I was doing a lot of drugs then. He was exciting: riding his Harley, tattoos, guns.† â€Å"Guns?† â€Å"I left him when I found out I was pregnant. He didn't want me to have the baby and he didn't want me to quit getting high.† â€Å"But why move upstairs?† â€Å"I didn't. He moved in downstairs. You're the first man that I've had over since the split. I didn't know he'd act this way.† â€Å"Why don't you move?† â€Å"You know how Santa Barbara is. I couldn't even pay rent here if it weren't for Nina, let alone come up with first, last, and a cleaning deposit.† Sam could see that she was still embarrassed. â€Å"You could ask the landlord to remove his doors. It would be quieter.† â€Å"I'm sorry. I really wanted it to be nice.† â€Å"Maybe I should go.† Despite the weirdness, he didn't want to leave. â€Å"I wish you would stay. When Grubb goes to sleep we can go in my room. If we're quiet†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"I'll stay,† Sam said. â€Å"He won't come up here and shoot us, will he?† â€Å"No, I don't think so. He keeps talking about getting custody of Grubb. Killing us would look bad with the judge.† â€Å"Right,† Sam said. So what if she had been involved with a psycho. At least it was a psycho who thought ahead. Calliope led Sam down a hallway to her room at the back of the apartment. â€Å"I'll get us some salad,† she said, leaving Sam to sit on the twin bed next to the crib where Grubb was drowsily gnawing a pacifier. The room looked like it had been decorated by a Buddhist monk from â€Å"Sesame Street.† On top of the dresser sat effigies of Buddha, Shiva, Bert, Ernie, and Cookie Monster, as well as an incense burner, a small gong, and a box of Pampers. A stuffed Mickey Mouse on the dressing chair wore a necklace of quartz crystal and a rawhide ring that Sam recognized as a Navaho dream catcher. The walls were hung with pictures of the Dalai Lama, Kali the Destroyer, and the Smurfs. Looking around, Sam felt tempted to construct an excuse and bolt. Now that he'd had a moment to think about it, his tough and adaptable veneer was feeling pretty thin. If he could just get back to normal for a while he'd be okay. Then it hit him: there was no normal to return to. The controlled status quo that had been his life was no longer there; it had been shattered by Coyote, and Coyote was out there somewhere. Calliope, and all the chaos around her, had made him forget. Even with Smurfs, psychos, and kitchen pals, the forgetting was worth staying for.

economic views of Marx essays

social/economic views of Marx essays The latter part of the nineteenth century was teeming with evolved social and economical ideas. These views of the social structure of urban society came about through the development of ideals taken from past revolutions and the present clash of individuals and organized assemblies. As the Industrial Revolution steamed ahead paving the way for growing commerce, so did the widening gap between the class structure which so predominantly grasped the populace and their rights within the community. The development of a capitalist society was a very favorable goal in the eyes of the bourgeoisie. Using advancing methods of production within a system of free trade, the ruling middle class were strategically able to earn a substantial surplus of funds and maintain their present class of life. Thus, with the advancement of industry and the bourgeoisie's gain of wealth, a counter-action was undoubtedly taking place. The resultant was the degradation of the working-class, of the proletarians whom provided labor to a middle-class only to be exploited in doing so. Exploitation is a quarrel between social groups that has been around since the dawn of mankind itself. The persecution of one class by another has historically allowed the advancement of mankind to continue. These clashes, whether ending with positive or negative results, allow Man to evolve as a species, defining Himself within the social structure of nature. Man's rivalry amongst one another allows for this evolution! through the production of something which is different, not necessarily productive, but differing from the present norm and untried through At this time in history, mankind was moving forward very rapidly, but at the price of the working-class. Wages were given sparsely, and when capital gain improved, the money paid for labor did not reflect this prosperity. This, therefore, accelerated the downfall of the proletarians and pro...

Texts in Time Essay Essays

Texts in Time Essay Essays Texts in Time Essay Essay Texts in Time Essay Essay Essay Topic: Prometheus English Advanced: Module A (Texts Through Time) – Practice Essay Whilst texts may be fabricated constructs of composers’ imaginations, they also investigate and direct the societal issues and standards of their period through the individuals they portray. This is clearly the case with Mary Shelley’s novel, â€Å"Frankenstein† (1818), which draws upon the rise of Galvanism and the Romantic Movement of the 1800s, as well as Ridley Scott’s film â€Å"Blade Runner† (1992), which considers the increase in the computing industry and the prevalence of capitalism within the late 20th Century. Both composers fundamentally warn us of the ominous outcomes of our desire for supremacy and uncontrolled technological development. Written in an era of crucial technological progressions, Shelley’s â€Å"Frankenstein† uses the creative arrogance of the Romantic imagination to construct a gothic world in which the protagonist’s obsession with creation of a life has derailed the traditional lines of power and duty. Scott also draws upon components of his own context, including the development of capitalism, the hostile nature of uncontrolled technological progression and the disintegration of the natural world to position us to reassess the outcomes of overstepping our limits. Both texts were produced as reactions against the presiding ethical ways of thinking at the time, emphasizing the need to preserve our humanity in the face of uncontrolled scientific advance. Shelley epitomizes the Romantic Movement as she warns her enlightened society of playing God. Her warning pervades through the individual character of Victor, whose self-aggrandizing speech â€Å"many excellent natures would owe their being to me,† represents a society obsessed with reanimation. Shelley challenges the ethics of her character’s quest for supremacy through his reflection â€Å"lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit,† as the juxtaposition of â€Å"all† and â€Å"one† underlines Victor’s extensive fixation on defeating death. Frequent mythical allusions to Prometheus: â€Å"How dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge† depicts Victor as an Aristotelian tragic hero whose blind ambition forebodes his own defeat and dehumanization. In addition, Victor’s impetuous rejection of his appalling creation, leads to the monster’s spiritual revolt: â€Å"vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind. This, together with the Monster’s questioning of how Victor could â€Å"sport thus with life†, positions us to question the role of science in our society as Shelley underpins the dangers of humankind’s intrinsic longing to play the role of the Creator. Despite their contextual discrepancies, such a warning also exists within Scott’s Blade Runner, where the director imitates the rise of capitalist principles through the symbolic ascendancy of the individual Tyrell’s towering pyramid, a reflection of both his desire for supremacy and commercial authority. Tyrell’s selfish nature is embodied in his greeting of Roy which is clouded with insincere cliches: â€Å"the light that burns twice as bright burns half as long† and biblical praises â€Å"look at you, you’re the prodigal son, you’re quite a prize;† he uses a calm tone to ease Roy, however such symbols are unnervingly toppled through both the foreboding Chiaroscuro of the flickering candlelight and his brutal death at the hands of his own creation. Here, Tyrells menacing scream as Roy ruptures his eyes, a metaphor of his blind ambition, creates an atmosphere of extreme terror as responders understand how Man’s hubristic desire to achieve supremacy results in his unavoidable destruction. Scott’s warning of the dangers of such a desire is also apparent within the expansive shots of 2019 Los Angeles, displaying a dismal and tenebrous world lit by the glow of corporate advertisements, a portrayal of a desolate future controlled by consumerism. In addition, both texts warnings involve the dangers of rampant technological advances. Frankenstein† further establishes the Romantic Movement’s influence on Shelley’s mindset, as her criticisms of the Industrial Revolution reflect their denigration of rationality. She claims that if we allow science and technology to continue at an unheeded rate, then humankind shall become controlled. She achieves this through the use of the character of the monster, parti cularly when he ironically says the word â€Å"slave† and the statement â€Å"You are my creator, but I am your master obey! †, which both demonstrate the way consumerism has subjugated humankind entirely, an idea fully extrapolated in Blade Runner. She further stresses this warning through the use of authorial intrusion: â€Å"man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict†, in which she states, through the character of the monster, that unheeded scientific advance shall result in disaster. The monster’s statement of values: â€Å"I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness,† suggests that our artificial creations will ultimately lead to the dehumanising of all aspects of life, and the loss of all positive â€Å"human† values. Similarly, Scott’s display of a desolate industrialised world is due to his intuition that scientific advance has already determined Man’s separation from Nature. Most noteworthy is the opening panoramic shot of burning smokestacks which, together with the evocative Vangelis soundtrack, initiates a septic stench of scientific overload. Indeed, this representation of a decomposing environment reflects the increasing ecological realization of the 1980s, which, whilst different to Shelley’s Romantic values, is similarly used to underline the demolition of humanity due to science. Moreover, Scott clarifies to us the dehumanizing effects of such advance, foregrounded through the individual, Deckard’s â€Å"retiring† of the Replicant Zhora. Here, the stylistic positioning of the transparent poncho places further stress on the brutality of this individual’s death, with the slow-motion low angle shot communicating her intensified sense of humanity within her last aching moments. In contrast, Deckard’s dispassionate features proposes that our artificial creations will ultimately lead to the dehumanizing of humanity, with both Scott and Shelley warning us of the grim results of unchecked technological advance. Thus, we can see how both Shelley and Scott communicate their ideas in their texts, Frankenstein and Blade Runner, through their choice of characters, as they draw upon the societal anxieties of their times in order to warn us of the outcomes of overstepping our limits and unchecked scientific progression. Subsequently, it becomes apparent that despite their contextual differences, both texts are in fact linked through their use of individuals to challenge the way society thought in their respective eras. 1028 words