hand.
"Helena?"
"Can we opt out?"
"Of being a stabber or stabbee?"
"Both."
"Well, nobody is going to make you stab anyone. That's simply not the way things operate around here. But, naturally, with this new policy some people are going to get stabbed who don't want to be. Nobody is going to voluntarily get stabbed, right? That doesn't make any sense."
"I want to opt out."
"Sorry. If you opted out, then everybody would opt out, and then we'd have a new policy with nobody participating. It was extremely difficult to get this approved by Human Resources, and they don't like to think that they're wasting their time. Just give it a try for two weeks."
We left the meeting, taking our knives.
"Ow!" screamed Gerald, as Charles slashed him in the back. "You can't do it when I'm not looking!"
"Mr. Swanson didn't say anything about that."
I had to admit, seeing Gerald get slashed like that did improve my morale, and everybody was in a cheerful mood for the rest of the day.
The next day, Gerald stabbed me in the arm. It hurt, and I wished he hadn't done it, but I saw the joy it brought to my co-workers and realized that sometimes the happiness of one person is not as important as the happiness of the group.
And then there was an incident. Charles and Lori had a spat, and she stabbed him thirty-two times using three separate knives. He was taken to the hospital, but it was only a token measure, because he was quite clearly dead when the ambulance arrived.
We were called into the meeting room. This time Mr. Swanson was not smiling.
"I'm very disappointed," he said. "Particularly in you, Lori. There always has to be somebody who ruins it for everybody else, doesn't there?"
Lori wiped some blood from her cheek and looked deeply ashamed.
"Clearly you can not be trusted with this much freedom, and so, effective immediately, we are returning to the old ways. I apologize, but the responsibility rested with you."
And now we work eight to six every day, in the office, in our suits and ties. Everybody is a little sad. You can sense it in their expressions, their eyes, and the way people suddenly burst into tears for no reason.
I feel almost chained to my desk, like a prisoner.
We had so much, almost too much, and now it's gone.
Though, admittedly, I get a lot more work done now.
STOP STABBING ME
When I was ten, my older brother Mike asked if I wanted to play a game. I said, yeah, sure, of course. I mean, who wouldn't want to play a game?
"The object of the game is to see who can hit each other the lightest," he explained. "You go first."
I nodded. The rules seemed pretty straightforward. I reached out with the tip of my pinky finger (my left pinky, since I was right-handed and knew that my left pinky would have less strength) and gave him just the slightest hint of a tap with it.
Ha. My sixteen-year-old brother, with his thick, beefy fingers, could never hit me lighter than that !
Mike punched me in the face, so hard that I dropped to the living room floor. "You win!" he announced, chuckling as he walked out of the room.
As I lay there, I thought, Wow, my brother is a genius ! I'm not saying I enjoyed the pain, but still, I had to admire him for coming up with such a clever idea. It was worth the bloody lip to be in the presence of such innovation and brilliance.
The next day, as I walked to school, I saw my friend Chet about a block ahead of me. I hurried to catch up with him. "Hey, Chet," I said, "do you want to play a game?"
I giggled, which probably gave away my evil intent, but Chet shrugged. "Sure."
"Okay, the way it works is, we're going to hit each other, and we're going to see who can hit the other person the lightest. I go first. I mean, you go first. Hit me as light as you can."
Chet shook his head. "No way. You'll hit me back hard and say that I won."
My shoulders slumped. "You've heard of that one?"
"Everybody knows that one. It's an old trick."
How disappointing. My brother wasn't an evil
"Helena?"
"Can we opt out?"
"Of being a stabber or stabbee?"
"Both."
"Well, nobody is going to make you stab anyone. That's simply not the way things operate around here. But, naturally, with this new policy some people are going to get stabbed who don't want to be. Nobody is going to voluntarily get stabbed, right? That doesn't make any sense."
"I want to opt out."
"Sorry. If you opted out, then everybody would opt out, and then we'd have a new policy with nobody participating. It was extremely difficult to get this approved by Human Resources, and they don't like to think that they're wasting their time. Just give it a try for two weeks."
We left the meeting, taking our knives.
"Ow!" screamed Gerald, as Charles slashed him in the back. "You can't do it when I'm not looking!"
"Mr. Swanson didn't say anything about that."
I had to admit, seeing Gerald get slashed like that did improve my morale, and everybody was in a cheerful mood for the rest of the day.
The next day, Gerald stabbed me in the arm. It hurt, and I wished he hadn't done it, but I saw the joy it brought to my co-workers and realized that sometimes the happiness of one person is not as important as the happiness of the group.
And then there was an incident. Charles and Lori had a spat, and she stabbed him thirty-two times using three separate knives. He was taken to the hospital, but it was only a token measure, because he was quite clearly dead when the ambulance arrived.
We were called into the meeting room. This time Mr. Swanson was not smiling.
"I'm very disappointed," he said. "Particularly in you, Lori. There always has to be somebody who ruins it for everybody else, doesn't there?"
Lori wiped some blood from her cheek and looked deeply ashamed.
"Clearly you can not be trusted with this much freedom, and so, effective immediately, we are returning to the old ways. I apologize, but the responsibility rested with you."
And now we work eight to six every day, in the office, in our suits and ties. Everybody is a little sad. You can sense it in their expressions, their eyes, and the way people suddenly burst into tears for no reason.
I feel almost chained to my desk, like a prisoner.
We had so much, almost too much, and now it's gone.
Though, admittedly, I get a lot more work done now.
STOP STABBING ME
When I was ten, my older brother Mike asked if I wanted to play a game. I said, yeah, sure, of course. I mean, who wouldn't want to play a game?
"The object of the game is to see who can hit each other the lightest," he explained. "You go first."
I nodded. The rules seemed pretty straightforward. I reached out with the tip of my pinky finger (my left pinky, since I was right-handed and knew that my left pinky would have less strength) and gave him just the slightest hint of a tap with it.
Ha. My sixteen-year-old brother, with his thick, beefy fingers, could never hit me lighter than that !
Mike punched me in the face, so hard that I dropped to the living room floor. "You win!" he announced, chuckling as he walked out of the room.
As I lay there, I thought, Wow, my brother is a genius ! I'm not saying I enjoyed the pain, but still, I had to admire him for coming up with such a clever idea. It was worth the bloody lip to be in the presence of such innovation and brilliance.
The next day, as I walked to school, I saw my friend Chet about a block ahead of me. I hurried to catch up with him. "Hey, Chet," I said, "do you want to play a game?"
I giggled, which probably gave away my evil intent, but Chet shrugged. "Sure."
"Okay, the way it works is, we're going to hit each other, and we're going to see who can hit the other person the lightest. I go first. I mean, you go first. Hit me as light as you can."
Chet shook his head. "No way. You'll hit me back hard and say that I won."
My shoulders slumped. "You've heard of that one?"
"Everybody knows that one. It's an old trick."
How disappointing. My brother wasn't an evil
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