"Achromatopsia," an excerpt of a short story

Rich stood outside the men's room on the promenade level at the southern end of the Battlestar Resort and Casino. That wasn't the casino's actual name – that was Skyy or Cloud or something stupid like that. Rich had sneaked in with the use of an access pass he'd found in a garbage can on the street level near the escalator taking those who were lucky enough to access the casino, which catered to only the high rollers and where Rich had once been a bathroom attendant. He had been replaced by a Furman Service Aide. A robot – although no employee is allowed to call them robots because the customers don't like the term.

The pass was found under an uneaten boat of nachos that Rich saw a frat boy throw in the garbage before heading up. Rich wasn't normally in the habit of digging food out of the garbage – he hadn't thought he was that desperate. His empty stomach told him otherwise as he stood guarding the trash can so that no one else could grab the nachos. In his mind, a debate raged. He knew a line would soon be crossed, a line into poverty. It wouldn't be long before someone threw something else in the can, pushing the nachos further down.

He made a quick grab lest anyone see him. Stuck to the bottom of the boat was the coveted pass. He saw what it was and quickly pocketed it, moving away from the bottom of the escalator. The nachos were cold and the cheese nearly solid, but he ate them without much thought of their condition. As he ate in the shade of fake tree, he suspiciously looked around. People with lost passes usually came looking for them.

When he felt it was safe, he pulled the pass from his pocket. It was embossed with the Battlestar's name, but looked different from the normal employee or visitor passes. It was dark blue with a cloud on it. Having worked in the casino, he knew the pass had a limited lifespan and once was discovered missing would be deactivated. He would have to act now if he hoped to gain access to the promised land.

He looked above to see where the Battlestar was, and spied it about a mile to the north, hovering 450 feet above the Strip and supported by its five-foot thick rails on either side of the empty 8-lane road below. The hotel and casino moved on 20-foot wheels at a nice 1.2 miles per hour. It only stopped when it reached its northern and southern terminus twice a day, and then only to change directions and go in the opposite direction. Rich could see why it was called Battlestar; it looked like one of those space ships he saw in movies when he was a kid.

How long had it been since he'd seen a movie? Probably a decade or more.

The decision was made and he moved to the escalator. It took him up 100 feet to the first platform – anyone could go that far. At the platform he boarded another escalator, then another and another until he found himself at the entrance of Ceasar's. It seemed hotter up here, if Vegas could get hotter.

Rich had two choices – wait until the Battlestar made its way back to this platform, which would be about 10 hours, or enter the upper level of Ceasar's and make his way north on foot by going through all the casinos, which were connected in various manners – walkways, shared doors, bridges that crossed the street below. Keeping a brisk pace, he could catch the Battlestar within an hour, quicker if he ran. Although running might attract attention in a different situation, it was not uncommon to see someone running to catch the Battlestar. If they were really rich, customers could catch a people mover designed to take you to the casino.

“Pass please,” the greeting robot at the door of Ceasar's pleasantly demanded. It was similar to the one that had replaced Rich at his job. He swallowed his anger, he wasn't the only person to lose his job thanks to the robot revolution in Vegas. He should have seen the changes coming, but he was incapable of too much advance planning.

Rich handed over the pass to the robot and swallowed a dry stone in his throat, afraid of what this simple act might alert security forces.

“Welcome to Ceaser's Palace, Mr. Parker. Your 300,000 Battlestar credits are welcome at any of our tables,” the robot said. “Enjoy your stay.”

It handed the card back and gave a subservient bow and extended three of its six arms in a welcoming gesture.

“Uh … thanks,” Rich said, trying his best not to act suspicious. He made it into the casino, and quickly – but not too quickly – made his way north. It was nice to be in the air conditioned comfort of the casino. He gave little thought as to who Mr. Parker might be, but was tempted by the amount of credit on the pass. That temptation would not be satiated, though. Rich knew enough to know that security would easily catch him if he tried to use the pass at a table or in slot machine. His hope was that he would be able to make it to the Battlestar before it was deactivated and security hauled him out.

He had no problems though as he made his way through six crowded casinos, crossing the Strip twice. He made it to the platform at the Sahara in time to catch the tail end of the Battlestar, but was again surprised when he was welcomed in. Only this time, the greeter robot offered to call a transport for him. It was being much more subservient than the others. He turned down “the usual transport” and lost himself in the crowd on the casino.

Rich did not normally attract much attention, he was neither handsome nor ugly, short nor tall, thin nor fat. Despite his dire financial condition, he was still well groomed, as a man who had made a living doling out advice on such things to other men could be. But now he was standing outside the men's room where he had worked for seven years and he didn't know why he was there. That's not quite right, he wanted to destroy the robot that had taken his job. That was the extent of his thoughts – there was no political agenda, no solidarity with his fellow bathroom attendants who were thrown out of work, or even the larger number of dealers, cocktail waitresses, maids, bell boys and such who were displaced by the robots.

“You need to go back to school and learn a new trade,” the HR director had told him when handing Rich is severance check. Rich tried, but he knew that he was nothing more that what he was – a guy who handed out towels and made suggestions on cologne in the men's room. For that, he was paid well enough for a man of his limited intelligence. It was a living.

He was already 56 years old, what else could he do? All of the service jobs were gone or disappearing, replaced by a mechanized workforce that didn't ask for days off. He wasn't smart, had no depth of character and didn't understand much of what he saw of the world. He'd never really had a conversation of any substance in his life, he had no depth. He'd never felt a lover's kiss and never realized he had been missing that until he felt a hand on his arm while he was standing outside the men's room on the south end of the Battlestar casino.

Rich didn't normally care for anyone touching him, but this touch didn't bother him. In fact, it felt good, and nice and warm and if he could have found the words to describe it, it would have been joyous. How do you describe the feeling of love if you've never known it before? It was as if Rich had spent his life only being able to see in black and white and then … bright, vivid color.

In his ear, he felt a warm breath that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“I'm glad you made it,” a light female voice whispered. He didn't have to look to know who it was, her touch told him. But he had to see her. Holding his arm was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen – maybe 30 or even younger. Her hair was as black as a raven and her eyes as blue as the sky.

He knew her, but didn't know how he knew her. Her name was Parker but Rich didn't know her first name. He looked into her eyes and was lost in the possibilities of the world with her flashed through his mind. He knew what she wanted him to do.

“Make it stop,” she whispered in his ear. “You understand?”

He nodded and she was gone and he already missed her.

Two thoughts entered his mind, but only one became an obsession. Rich had never known love until that moment and he would do anything to get it back.

Book Review: "ARIA: Left Luggage" by Geoff Nedler

Writers have been working at destroying mankind since the Epic of Gilgamesh was written more than 4,000 years ago. It's a genre that has never lost its popularity, and with each new generation comes a new way to kill off the majority of the population of the world. Maybe it's a secret thrill of most writers – who spend their time working alone – to want to kill off all those people who wouldn't buy a book.

Despite the reasoning for the proliferation of apocalyptic fiction, and despite the tried and true formula, it still makes for interesting fiction because it gives an author a chance to traumatize his heroes. And as we all know, that trauma can make for a gripping story.

Such is the case with Geoff Nelder's “ARIA: Left Luggage.”

The formula is there as created in its post-modern template by Stephen King with “The Stand.” This is not to say that Nelder is unoriginal, far from the case. Within the basic formula you find comfort which gives Nelder wiggle room to play around with the genre.

In ARIA, the destruction of mankind comes in the form of a suitcase apparently hurled towards our Big Blue Marble by aliens hanging out in the outer reaches of the solar system. The case is picked up by the international crew of the International Space Station. Instead of tossing it back to its owners or destroyed – as suggested by the plucky mission specialist Jena – the case is sent back to Earth where it is promptly opened. Nelder could have unleashed any sort of hell on the planet but chose a virus that makes people forget up to a year of their lives every week.

The first third of the book deals with the ramifications of this, jumping between characters as they deal with this virus. Nelder handles this necessary component of apocalyptic fiction just fine. At times the jumping around amongst the dozen or so characters or situations seems rushed, but that's understandable. We need to understand how losing our collective memory at such a fast rate would affect things. One chapter that especially hits home is a diabetic trying to get her medication from drug stores where the pharmacists have all forgotten to show up for work.

As he gets to the meat of the story, Nelder focuses on Ryder Nape, a documentary maker and journalist, who with his girlfriend, his boss and his girlfriend's colleague escape infection by heading to a university study site set in the Welsh countryside. Ryder and his group are in contact with the astronauts at the space station and with a girl in Australia who seemingly is immune to the virus. (I mention her in passing not because she has anything to add to the story, but will probably be important in Left Luggage's sequel.)

There really are no surprises in this story, but I'll refrain from giving up the ending. I think it's fair to say that the space station crew eventually makes it to Wales and a possible cure for the virus makes its way to Earth. Surprising plot twists are overrated in fiction and many times are forced without any reason. I like to be led in any direction an author is willing to send me and I like to be engaged.

Nelder did a great job with this. Once I started reading I wanted to finish, and while I wondered where Antonio would pop up after his "death," I was more impressed with the creation and genesis of all the characters. I'm looking forward to reading the second book in this trilogy and hopefully Nelder will hold me until the third.

Tools for Everyone!

More than 2.6 million years ago, a Stone Age guy found a rock that was easy to hold and pretty effective at breaking open a nut. His buddies saw his rock and coveted it. So they went looking for rocks of their own, and what they found was different rocks that were good at different things. Then one guy struck upon the notion of putting his rock on the end of a stick. He found that by doing this he could use his rock with greater power.

Ever since then, we've been making tools. That's how smart we are and why we've ended up on the top of the food chain. And every time we use a tool, there are a lot of people out there who look at that tool and decide they can make it better. Unfortunately, not many of us have access to a machine shop to fabricate something, but that doesn't mean we can't use what we have on hand to customize our tools.

One such man was George Ballas. In the early 1970s Ballas had a problem.

George Ballas and a popcorn can

He wanted to trim the grass around the trees in his Houston yard and thought he had a better way to do it than the standard hand-powered clippers. He had a power edger that had a rotating head and struck on an idea. Using a popcorn can, he punched holes all around it and tied short lengths of heavy-duty fishing line to the can. He then attached the edger to his edger using some nuts and bolts in his garage and, viola! The first Weed Eater.

No one wanted to market his idea, so Ballas started his own company, which by 1976 was bringing in $41 million a year.

I admire Ballas' work and initiative, but I wonder if he ever thought he could have done better. String trimmers are pretty much the standard for a tool that trims grass a weed and it is probably one of the most frustrating tools to use. According to the user instructions, the automatic line feed will easily extend shortened lines. This is hardly true. I've had expensive trimmers and cheap ones and dealing with the line is maddening. I spend more time futzing around with the line than I do trimming weeds.

And the weeds around my house are a bit more hearty than the grass at a Houston home. The plastic line on a trimmer doesn't last long around here. Most of the time, the weeds on our property are brown. But then monsoon season hits the desert and weeds grow quickly.

Weeds everywhere!

I had a string trimmer with a little two-stroke engine that worked fine when I rigged an after-market head with plastic cutting blades that could take off a limb. The head wasn't compatible with the trimmer, but using a bolt and a nut and cutting here and there, I made it work. I'm not trying to brag that I'm some sort of engineering genius; I'm not different than anyone else who uses tools. In a prior life, I worked as an indentured servant to my father, a plumber and electrician. After my time with him was up, I spent a decade or so working in heating and air conditioning. In our shop was just about every sort of tradesman you can think up, and each one of them had customized tools to do their jobs. And if any one of them lost or broke a tool, there was anger. Because I worked on equipment with motors and pulleys and such, I had a special wheel puller I'd had a welder friend make for me. I don't have it anymore, giving it to a fellow I worked with. I never wanted to use it again; I was going to school to become a writer.

When you own a home, though, you've either got to know how to fix things, or pay someone to fix it for you. I prefer to fix things myself, which means that when it comes to landscaping needs, I'm the man.

I'd rigged my gas-power trimmer so that it would do the job I needed it to do. A couple years ago, the shaft broke and I fixed it. I could use it until my hands shook and the engine got so hot that it would burn my arm. (Which, come to think of it, doesn't happen when the fishing line breaks all the time.) Of course, when the blades broke or wore out, it took a half hour to change them.

Things break

I never really liked that trimmer, but I was stuck with it. The engine was loud and the vibration hurt my hands. I determined the next time I got a trimmer, it would be an electric one – less vibration and sound. Then a couple weeks ago, I was doing a little weed cutting and the head fell off. I could have fixed it somehow, but I took the opportunity to get a weed trimmer that I liked.

No such luck. No one makes what I wanted.

So I've got a brand new customized trimmer that still has a few bugs to be worked out. For some reason, the good folks at Black and Decker made a trimmer that is not conducive for do-it-yourself modifications. I did it anyway.

I worked fine for about 20 square feet until the plastic cutting blades struck a concrete stepping stone broke the head. So now it's back to the hardware store for more parts.

Too bad I can't just use a rock to cut the weeds.

Do we miss Harry Potter?

On my desk, I have a quote from the great author Roald Dahl. It reads: “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”

The quote is there to remind me to be constantly on the search for magic, because it is truly special when you see it. And being a fan of Dahl’s since I could read, that magic always found a way into the words he wrote.

Dahl died in 1990, which was seven years before Harry Potter was unleashed on the world. A cursory reading could lead you to believe that there isn’t much in common between “James and the Giant Peach” and the Potter novels, but you would be mistaken. At the core of most Dahl books and the world of Hogwarts are stories about friendship, loyalty and tenacity to do the right thing when doing otherwise would be much easier.

They also are about believing in the hidden magic surrounding our lives.

It was about 3 a.m.on a Friday a couple of years ago when my wife and oldest son made it home after a midnight screening of the latest, and last, Harry Potter movie.

I rolled over, acknowledged they were home, happy they safely found their way back and returned to my slumbers. And in the intervening week, I’ve been told how “awesome” the movie is, and how sad it is that the series is over.

No more Harry Potter and his friends, except of course for all the books and DVDs which will be around for the rest of my life.

Am I sad it’s all over? Not especially; I think J.K. Rowling, who wrote the books, was wise to end it all with everyone wanting more. It remains to be seen whether she will keep her promise and let the work stay finished. After all, Arthur Conan Doyle brought back Sherlock Holmes after he had killed him. Edgar Rice Burroughs kept bringing back Tarzan, and do I need to go into the whole “Star Wars” fiasco?

I wouldn’t call myself a “fan” of Harry Potter, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the books, and, to a lesser extent, the movies. I’ve read all the books a couple of times, the first to make sure that they were appropriate to read to my oldest son when he was little, the second to him directly and the third time to my youngest son.

It’s a good, epic story of good versus evil and it is fairly well-written and engaging. The Harry Potter books are highly derivative of English boarding school novels as well as “Lord of the Rings.” As juvenile fiction, it is nearly perfect; its protagonists have special powers, get to carry deadly weapons and confront strange creatures. Its young characters, we are told, are all special in some way despite their own failings. How could all of this not appeal to a kid?

The first book, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” was unleashed on the public in the summer of 1997. Later that year, my oldest son was born, so we didn’t really get to reading the books for a couple of years, but it does seem that as long as there have been children in our house, Harry’s been there as well.

One year, the oldest dressed as Harry for Halloween, complete with a Hogwarts robe, round glasses and a scar drawn on his forehead. The costume was recycled a year or two later when the youngest decided that he would dress as Ron Weasley, Harry’s best friend. (I secretly cheered because I’ve always had an affinity to sidekicks, best friends and little brothers.)

Each time, I fashioned a “wand” to go with the costume, and through the years have had them pointed at me while a child screamed a spell at me, “Expelliarmus!” Sometimes, I would act as if the spell actually worked.

While I’m not a fanatic for the series and I hope to one day never have to read it again — you start to see the author’s idiosyncrasies after awhile — I would not discourage anyone from letting their children read them.

While the whole premise is that there are witches and wizards out there who really fly on broomsticks and make potions, the real appeal is encouraging readers to seek magic in the most unlikely of places.