text:
This story originally appeared in the now out-of-print fanzine TunnelCon II, in 1992. Beauty and the Beast and its characters are owned by Witt-Thomas Productions and Republic Pictures. This story is presented merely for the enjoyment of fans.
A Wandering Soul
by BeeDrew
July, 1978
"Thien, ya got point. Take 'er easy."
The crew boss bent and pulled up the manhole cover, waiting while Thien clambered awkwardly into the opening and found the rungs of the ladder with his boots.
"Two jerks onna feed line if yer goin' farther in. One if ya spot the leak and yer comin' up. And if ya unhook that line, yer butt better be topside onna double."
Thien began to descend, moving with the compact efficiency of his small, muscular people. O'Brien's rough Bronx tones followed him into the darkness, but Thien didn't reply. The bark of that voice started and ended most of his days, and anyway, he couldn't have answered if he wished to. He had no voice.
His boots scraped bottom and he stepped off the ladder. He stood still a moment, letting his eyes go as dim as the tunnel he'd entered. As always, he felt as though he'd been swallowed. But there was no fear. He had not feared the tunnels since he'd realized what they were: A quiet place, a deep place. A place where ancestors walked.
Deep in the stomach of the leviathan city, Nguyen Thien Le tilted his head to look up at the white crescent of light some fifteen feet above him. His feed line dangled from it and ran toward its fastener at his belt. It was humiliating to be leashed like a dog or a young child--he was seventeen and doing a man's work, even if his skinny frame and berry-dark eyes made him look years younger. But much as he hated it, the tether could not be avoided. O'Brien wouldn't let him go down without it, since he couldn't call out for help.
Thien thumbed on his light and looked around him, utterly still for the moment. His nostrils flared as he exhaled the scent of wet motor oil and gutter stench, and drew in the cool, mineral-scented air of the underground. He smiled.
He was here for the water. The city's arteries--water pipes, gas lines, power cables--threaded throughout and under and above the Manhattan bedrock like a human's nerves and blood vessels. But he had no obligation where gas or power were concerned, other than to report any irregularities that made themselves known to him. He was here for water only. Residents in this neighborhood had reported a loss of water pressure, and he was to check for a leak in one of the mains.
I find it close to uptop, he told himself. This part of city, nothing breaks far below. Curious, mister.
Moving within the tight circle allowed by the slack in the feedline, he found little moisture beyond what was to be expected from rain runoff. He looked up at the eye of light once more, and gave two firm pulls on his feedline. After a moment, he got two back in response, and began to move deeper into the tunnel.
He imagined the clank of the cylinder unwinding above as O'Brien jealously fed out the feedline. A bulky tool pouch patted his thighs in rhythm to his gait, and he swung his light in even arcs, watching for signs of free-flowing water.
They'd localized the leak to a two-block area. In theory, his crewmates would check the pipes at the second tunnel access point nearby. One would go down while the other stayed above in contact with O'Brien, and they'd take it in turns. Hopefully, someone would find the leak before lunch.
Thien knew better. He could count on O'Brien to back him up, but Pulaski and Skink would already be on their way to the donut shop. Let the dummy go down first. He'll find it.
Not that Thien minded. He was welcome in this murky quiet, welcome among the rocks as mute as he. Somewhere ahead, precious water was escaping its prescribed path, and his job was to guide it back into its safe ways, as he'd done since a child in the rice paddies. Then, he'd dug the irrigation canals with hands and hoe; now he used a wrench and gleaming lengths of new pipe, or a soldering iron and joints. But his square brown hands were as quick as ever, and it was good work.
If luck walked with him, he might even see the ancestor-spirit he'd glimpsed once before, that had the shape of a man and an unearthly face, and light for its head and hand, and darkness for its body. An old spirit. A sacred spirit.
A half-hour later he poked his head out of the tunnel, squinting against the white glare of daylight. Horns brayed as ten o'clock traffic inched around the neon cones, so many annoyed, shiny-backed beetles. Thien coughed as he caught a lungful of exhaust.
O'Brien grasped his hand and helped pull him up. The crew boss studied his wet knees and sleeves. "Found it, didn't ya?"
Thien nodded. Skink ambled over from his reclining position against the truck. He still had powdered sugar in his mustache. "He need any help with the fix, Big O?"
A paunchy, unkempt man who ate constantly, Skink addressed his question to O'Brien, as though Thien could not be expected to form a response.
Your fat hangs over the belt, Thien threw at him silently, and turned away to stow his equipment in the truck.
O'Brien glowered at Skink. "Don't call me that, jerk. Thien, what's the op?"
Ignoring Skink, Thien removed a short, stout length of pipe larger around than his arm from the back of the truck, and held it up. He pointed to one end and raised his eyebrows.
"Busted pipe?"
Thien shook his head, stifling a small pang of impatience. It had all been so much easier when Norm had been alive--his second father, who understood the language of the hands. He made a "ring" with one hand and "fitted" it to the end of the pipe. Then he separated two fingers, and looked at O'Brien expectantly.
"Joint's cracked," O'Brien announced. He barely waited for Thien's confirming nod.
"Pulaski, double-time it back to the end of the block and cut off the water there. Skink, you'n the kid'll go down and patch 'er up...."
Thien tapped a fingernail against the pipe until the tiny ringing caught O'Brien's attention.
"Yeah, what?"
Thien pointed to himself, and then to Skink, shaking his head.
"Ya wanna fix it by yerself?" O'Brien questioned.
Off Thien's nod, the crew boss looked thoughtful. He thumbed through the yellow repair orders on his clipboard. "A guy needs some extra hands down there. Ya sure?"
Thien nodded. He turned back to the truck and started to gather tools and materials, as though the matter were decided.
O'Brien grunted assent. "Lemme call in and tell 'em which buildings we're cutting off. Then you two jokers--" he shot a look at Pulaski and Skink--"can go over to Sixty-fifth an' get started onna next sob story."
As the crew boss walked toward the cab of the truck, Pulaski nudged Skink. "See that, son? The gook's afraid to go down in the dark with ya. Better tell him yer not that kinda guy."
Skink punched Pulaski's arm. "Shut up, Pulaski, willya?" His eyes slid scornfully over Thien and settled elsewhere.
Thien took a high-powered portable lamp out of the truck. Without a backward look he descended into the hole. O'Brien would be angry that he'd gone down without a feedline. He didn't care.
Once below, he hurried down the tunnel toward the leak, heedless of the noise he made with his jingling equipment. By the time O'Brien's yell echoed down the corridor in search of him--"Thien! Dammit, boy, the feedline!"--he had set up the lamp and begun to lay out his tools.
He had also removed and stuffed out of sight the sodden rags and tape he'd found around the offending joint. Someone had made a stopgap repair, one that hadn't lasted. And that someone was not a city employee. Of that Thien was oddly, excitedly certain.
As he waited for Pulaski to shut off the main, he let the escaping water flow over his hands. In the cone of light from the lamp, his hands were beautiful, bony and brown and covered with a flowing, glassy sheet. He looked away down the tunnel, where the small stream rushed into darkness. He'd follow it soon.
The rivulet coughed and slowed to a dribble, then to a drip. He set to work, and began to whistle through his teeth--softly, so as not to pierce the silence he so cherished. In the memory of his ears was his mother's happy voice, singing one of the endless songs of war that were passed round the village.
Sitting in the doorway, Cool breeze passing over me,
I look for my family
In a sad and empty house.
With tears, I miss my father,
With anger, I hate the Viet Cong.
You brought the elephant home
To walk upon our graves.
You took our pretty country,
And sold it to the Soviets. . . .
Within twenty-five minutes he had the joint drum-tight and his equipment packed away. The job would have taken Skink a while longer, which meant Thien had the time he needed.
He found a dry spot for his tool bag and left the portable lamp behind as a marker. Taking a fat orange candle from the pouch at his waist, he touched a match to its wick and began to walk deeper into the tunnels.
This time he went noiselessly, his eyes and ears ranging ahead and to the side and behind, seeking whisper or flicker that would tell him he was not alone. His stealth reminded him of home; of sneaking along roadsides and hiding in ditches to avoid VC. Quiet, mister, quiet, he warned himself, and moved like a puff of smoke through the darkness. It was a long walk, and his thighs began to ache with the pace he set.
Even if he were not meant to see the ancestor today, perhaps there would be some sign of the others who came here to care for the spirits--the ones who made the clumsy pipe repairs, or left the burnt-end matches he sometimes found. He felt a tingle of excited dread at the thought.
He came to the place--a fissure in the smooth walls that looked like nothing more than a notch draped in shadow, until you touched it. He put his hand out, and felt the rush of air through the crack. At its base, it widened just enough for him to squeeze through on his belly, like an eel escaping a net.
He doused his candle, shoved it and his bag through the crack ahead of him, and zipped his jacket to keep it from being caught on the rough stone. Then he wriggled through the gap, holding his breath. He was in a small pocket that branched off another wide tunnel. He stood still, listening, but the only sound was his own soft breath.
His heart pounded as he stepped out into this tunnel that was so different from the one he'd come from. He looked up and down as far as his weak light reached, seeing again what had caught his attention that first day--the gritty floor that was clean of rocks or other debris; the rush of fresh air that came from somewhere above; and, most telling of all, the metal mountings that studded the walls, meant for torches. It meant people . . . or, something else.
Despite himself, Thien shivered. Honoring the ancestors should be a community rite, held before the family shrine--not a sneaky trip into a dank, empty tunnel.
With a sigh, he knelt and shook out the contents of his pouch, and made his second offering of incense--a poor sacrifice, and not even on a proper altar, but all he had. Come back, spirit, he prayed, as the burning incense sent up a ribbon of pungent smoke. Come back. I honor your wisdom. I pray for your guidance...
Today, as before, his prayers went unheeded. He waited as long as he dared, but no one and nothing appeared. Leaving the bowl as a sign of his reverence, he returned the way he had come. I come back, spirit, he promised silently. I go deeper, next time.
O'Brien was red-faced and mad as a hornet when Thien appeared. "Ya jackass! I was about to climb in an' muck around after ya. What took so long?"
Thien lifted his hands and signed a few phrases, as though trying to explain. O'Brien's face reddened even more.
"Ya know I'm no damn good at them charades. Were ya in trouble?"
Thien affected the blank, bird-like stare that usually frustrated O'Brien the most. The man heaved a disgusted sigh.
"Never mind. Well, didja fix it?"
Thien nodded, and turned toward the truck to put away his tools. He folded his face carefully, blandly around his secret.
"Ye gods, what a mess," Jacob Wells murmured, shaking his head in disgust. His lame hip stabbed a protest as he braced his hands on the desk and squinted at the maps spread before him; indeed, over every flat surface in the study.
"There's no possible way we can cope with all the leaks, is there?"
A clawed, golden hand reached past his elbow and gently settled a fragrant cup of tea by his hand. "It's like this every spring, Father."
The old man turned and shot a sharp look of annoyace at the speaker. "True, but the problem is no less frustrating with the passage of time!" he snapped.
His eyes softened as he surveyed his tall adopted son. Vincent's blue eyes were calm as he delicately sipped his own cup of tea. At twenty-three, he still had the unfinished, gangly look of youth, though he was nearly the tallest man in the tunnels and by far the most powerfully built. He was also, currently, quite damp.
"You've been out with the crews already, I see," Father said, wrinkling his nose as he caught the rank smell of tunnel mud and wet fur.
Vincent apologetically backed away a step and offered, "We're making progress."
Father snorted. "Fingers in the dike, as it were. Ah, well. We can only do our best. The city crews will be underfoot for a few weeks, that's sure. I'd best post extra sentries, and tell Mary to keep the--Vincent, what is it?"
He had caught the telltale downward flick of Vincent's eyes at the mention of city crews. "My God, have they spotted us? Vincent!"
His son raised a placating hand. "No, Father. Two crews have been Below today, but they've not seen us. It's only...."
His voice trailed away, and Father didn't need Vincent's empathic abilities to sense his son's reluctance to speak. A parent knew how to deal with that, however.
"Let's have it. This instant, young man."
As always, that particular tone commanded perfect obedience. Vincent fished something out of the pocket of his vest and meekly placed it before his father. "Rebecca found this beyond the Spiral Staircase, in a tunnel near the surface, just where we found the first one. There were candles, too."
Father picked up the small, earthenware pot and sniffed it. The faint aroma of burnt herbs clung to the little bowl, which was otherwise unremarkable, if one discounted the fact that it had no business being anywhere near the inhabited tunnels.
Father sighed. He felt sorely put upon, to have this dropped in his lap on top of the plethora of leaks and gushes and sludge that had recently plagued his underground. "No one admits to this? And it can't possibly be Narcissa's?"
Vincent shook his head, and reached to take the pot back, rotating it in his elegant hands as he examined it.
"The others all say they have no knowledge of it, and I went to Narcissa when we found the first bowl. She says only that there are others who worship as she does, and that I have looked too deep."
Father cast an appealing glance at the ceiling. "A phantom voodoo practitioner loose in our tunnels, or something even more sinister. Lovely."
Vincent smiled. "You mustn't take Narcissa's words so literally, Father. Voodoo is not the only religion that employs herbs and incense."
Embarrassed that he hadn't thought of that himself, Father leaned forward eagerly. "You're absolutely right! Perhaps we could check with some of our Helpers who practice the Eastern faiths. One of them might have come down for some purpose or other, wanting privacy. Vincent, could you--?"
Vincent nodded. "I'll see to it. Don't worry." He pocketed the bowl and headed for the exit. He was half-way down the corridor before Father's voice echoed after him.
"Vincent! What was Rebecca doing that far from home? A child her age--"
Vincent smiled, and kept going.
"My-fa-ther-is-a-ba-ker. My-fa-ther-is-a-ba-ker."
The teacher's mouth, round and painted pink, shaped the words with exaggerated care. Thien watched his pencil point as he transferred them onto paper.
The other students parroted the teacher solemnly, and then bent to the task of writing the sentence, leaving Thien at a point of pause in his lesson. His mind filled the blank instantly: My-fa-ther-is-dead. My fa-ther-is-dead.
He shifted restlessly in his chair and wished for the next sentence to drive out the thought, but it was like the deep toll of a church bell on a clear morning. It reached everywhere, into every open space, and he was helpless to halt the tumble of half-formed visions that swept up his throat and behind his eyes. He felt sweat break from his skin. He remembered.
Fire. It was always fire. Billows and sheets of it, racing through the small printshop where Norm had been amiably cursing the antique plumbing as he plunged out a toilet. Electrical fire, O'Brien had told him later. Already loose in the walls before any alarm had gone up, and the place full of paper. Fire was the same, in the old life and the new. It ate, it crackled and spat, it wanted water, even the water trapped in the fleshy envelopes of men.
His village, a green, bamboo pocket amid the vast Mekong River Delta, had burned after a fierce mortaring. He was thirteen, his father's firstborn, the one who would stay with the land and honor the ancestors. A good worker with a strong back.
He'd run, run from the loud dragon-belching . . . the family's hut swooping at him, close. . . . He sobbed, with his hands pressed to his ears, until a hot blow to the neck knocked him flat. No air. Blood thick on his fingers as he gagged and writhed in the dirt. The fire was eating his home. It licked through and over the hut, lunged for the forest and toward the path that led to the burial grounds, and people ran until they fell, red-spattered....
He'd awakened into olive-drab confusion, in a strange bed suspended off the floor. He'd awakened voiceless, and there was an awful sucking sound somewhere below his chin. It was a tube, and he was breathing through it.
A small piece of shrapnel had gone cleanly into and out of his throat, miraculously missing vital arteries and his spine. A medic had gotten to him, made an airway, stemmed the blood flow. The people of the American field hospital thought he was a very lucky boy. The nurses made much of him, smiling and babbling their odd tongue endlessly into his uncomprehending face.
And gradually he had come to realize that there was no one left. Everyone he'd ever known had gone to the land of spirits, and he did not know their burial places, where they might be honored, where they might help him. His family, the living and the dead, were gone. Just--gone.
The hospital could not keep him long, and later there was a place in a Saigon orphanage--really, just floorspace in an old church. He never regained his speech. The tube came out, and he breathed through his throat again, and his lips moved, but he still couldn't bring up any sound.
The doctor said it was scar tissue, and that he might learn to speak after a fashion, but Thien remained silent. If he opened his mouth, what would come out? His father's voice, his mother's, his baby sister's? Perhaps the wind through the mangrove trees, or the soft lowing of the buffalo he'd tended at day's end, or the tiny hiss of incense burning in a pot. No. His home was burnt. His voice was gone.
And then, finally, the airlift to a camp in Thailand. A barren time there, eating watery rice and avoiding the taunts of the boy-gangs who played dice all day and would not go to school. Thien had gone, but he could not speak the lessons like the others, and the teachers had no special time to give him, and he might well have remained there forever, since he was an orphan past babyhood, and crippled besides.
Until one day they came and got him off his sleeping mat, and said he was going to New York. That there was a church--"You understand church, don't you? God? Aw, hell, never mind"--willing to sponsor his emigration. He was again a very lucky boy. And they'd given him to Norm.
Norm had wanted him especially because he couldn't speak. A small, pot-bellied plumber with a ruff of dark hair circling a bald head, he was a widower whose wife had been hearing impaired. Norm knew Sign, and meant to teach it to Thien.
"Twenty years! Twenty years I've talked with my hands. I need you, mister. I don't hardly know what to do with myself, with no one to talk to," he'd said, with a big sailor's laugh. "We'll get you up to speed on the lingo, and then I'll show you some Sign. With a few shortcuts of the wife's, of course."
Norm had worked laboriously with Thien, helping him learn to understand and write English passably well. Thien had gone to school, where he excelled at algebra and played fullback on a soccer team, and went to Yankees games on the weekends with Norm. Yet Norm hadn't lived long enough to teach Thien all he knew about Sign. Two years after Thien had come to America, just before his seventeenth birthday, his father had burned to death. Again.
"Poor little bastard. Orphaned twice," O'Brien had said at the funeral. O'Brien was Norm's partner in the plumbing business. He hadn't liked Thien much, but he had liked Norm. And for that reason, once the business was sold and O'Brien had taken a supervisory job with the city, Thien found himself employed as an apprentice plumber, strictly due to string-pulling by O'Brien.
"A minority, and handicapped at that," O'Brien had said, pleased. "They'll score big EOE points with you, kid. You're eighteen now. Remember that."
Thien had left school, enrolling in evening classes instead. There wasn't much money left after Norm died, but O'Brien helped him find a room, and had him over for dinner with his noisy brood once a week. Thien was grateful. He was hazy about what might be done with a mute Vietnamese who kept outliving his parents.
"I-can-read-a-map. I-can-read-a-map."
Thien started. He'd missed a sentence, and the teacher was speaking again. He bent to write, and then sat helpless as he realized he'd snapped off his pencil point, a small wooden sacrifice to the past. The class went on without him.
"I-go-up-town-by-bus. I-go-up-town-by-bus."
I have nowhere to go, Thien whispered silently, to the broken pencil. The wandering one did not come.
He had promised one more try . . . a glimmer of hope opened inside him as his listless eyes fell on the date he'd written so carefully at the top of his paper. In three days, he decided with gathering excitement. One more offering. Three days to wait.
Vincent thought about the problem for the rest of the day as he and Winslow and Pascal wrestled with slippery, uncooperative, elderly pipes. The bowls and their evidence of burned incense puzzled him, but did not trouble him unduly, a fact which infuriated his father. Vincent knew that the incense-burner was not dangerous. He could not have told how he knew, and wouldn't have cared to justify his opinion to a grizzled, snap-eyed physician. He just knew.
Yet it was exciting. It was a mystery, a tantalizing bit of the unknown to disturb the even, pleasant tenor of tunnel life. In the end, he decided to go and see Le Long. The young Vietnamese and his family were very new Helpers, only recently moved out of the tunnels to start their own business. Vincent still met Long once a week to help him with his English.
After Winslow had called a halt, thoroughly disgusted with the mini-Niagara they'd discovered on the fourth level, Vincent sent one of the children with a message for the greengrocer. He felt rather odd doing it, since it wasn't so many years ago that he'd run messages hither and yon himself. He had a bath, and went to join Father for a meal.
He consumed two plates of stew amid Father's maps and grousing.
"I'd best go and see Long about the bowls," he ventured.
Father, muttering evilly over his work, didn't even look up. He waved a distracted hand at Vincent and groped for a pen.
Feeling rather guiltily relieved that he had an excuse to absent himself tonight, Vincent found a pen, placed it by Father's glasses, and set off on the long walk toward Long's home and shop.
He paced the tunnels on suede-booted feet, thinking of nothing in particular as his mind automatically collected and spoke to him the sounds of the community preparing for night. Someone doused torches with a clink of metal on metal, and a pop of vanishing flame. Mary, gentle in all ways, called gently for her charges and herded them to bed. The faint, constant din of Pascal the Elder's pipes slowed to an occasional stutter, and a quavery older voice begged a pot of tea. Evening settled easily over the tunnels, and all was at peace.
Vincent had loved this quiet time since boyhood. Then, he'd have been chased to bed by an exhausted Father; would have demanded and received a drink of water and two stories. He still loved the twilight quiet, but he no longer shared it.
Since he'd been a man, he had known a restless searching when others were tired and ready to sleep. As night approached, new energy coursed his blood, circling round and round until he must move with it, or roar. He carried in his gut an odd, formless ache that could only be soothed in darkness. Part of him, he'd come to know--and there was dread in the knowing--was for the night.
He would walk in the Park after seeing Long, he decided. There would be a sickle moon; perhaps a concert. Certainly people, whose steps and voices he could follow, though it cut him to know that he could never touch or speak to them. And if there were no people, he would run--fast, and silent, and onward until he could bear stone and stillness again.
But first, there was the matter of the incense pots, and Father's peace of mind. Vincent climbed the curves of the Spiral Staircase, bent against the wind that funnelled up from the long nothingness. It whipped his cloak and hair unmercifully, and tried--he fancied--to pull him out over the abyss. He exited the stairway at a landing midway up, climbed through a round chute he'd made himself as a shortcut, and was in the tunnel that led him, after ten blocks he took at a jog, to Long's basement. He hoped he was not calling too late.
Long was in the basement waiting for him, with the cabinent that camouflaged the tunnel entrance pulled aside.
"Vincent! Good you come."
Long's welcoming smile was all over his round face, and Vincent smiled back. "It's good to see you, too, Long."
"Come up," Long invited, with a broad wave toward the stairs. "Ba have tea for us."
Vincent followed Long up the narrow stairway, breathing a silent--and apparently, effective--prayer that the old planks would bear his weight. Next to the compact little figure of his friend, he felt clumsy and overlarge in the tiny shop. It was closed and darkened now, but still redolent with the fresh tang of onions and parsely and oranges. Long's wife and son waited to welcome him in the living quarters behind the storefront.
Vincent took the chair Long offered and accepted tea from Ba, a gentle young woman with whom he'd exchanged perhaps fourteen words in his entire life, but whom he liked very much. Baby Edward toddled over, absurdly small. He braced pudgy hands on Vincent's knees, and stared up at him with frank wonder. Vincent, quite used to this, returned the look blandly.
"Up," Edward decided, holding his arms out imperiously. He seemed happy, once ensconced on the visitor's lap, to play with the fringes of Vincent's vest and poke curious fingers into his ears.
Long beamed. "Soon he speak better than me, right?"
Vincent smiled. "Your English improves all the time, Long. But it's true, Edward will have the advantage, growing up a native."
"Your note say you have something to show me?"
Vincent nodded, and dug the two identical bowls out of the folds of his cloak. Deftly avoiding Edward's grab, he passed them to Long.
"We found these in the tunnels, with some candles that were not made Below. Father is worried. We don't know who put them there, or why."
Long accepted the little bowls and held them up to the light. Then he lowered them to his lap, his straight mink hair falling across his brow. He scraped some of the black residue out of one pot with a fingernail, and sniffed it.
"I know them," he admitted. But he still looked puzzled. "Come."
Ba took the baby from Vincent, and Long led the way into the narrow hallway off the kitchenette. He snapped on an overhead light, and Vincent saw that they stood before a closet whose interior was opaqued by a bead curtain.
Long drew the clicking strands aside, revealing a tiny shrine. He bowed before it. Somewhat awkwardly, Vincent copied him. Wooden, scribed tablets stood on a shoulder-high shelf of sorts, and there were bowls more ornate than those Vincent had brought, but of similar shape.
"It is the shrine of my ancestors," Long told him quietly. "I bring the tablets from Vietnam. They my father, my grandfather, and three before them. Sometime, I written here too, and Edward the one who burns incense and makes offerings to the spirits."
Vincent nodded his understanding, and Long dropped the bead curtain back into place and placed the bowls in Vincent's hands. "Someone wish to honor ancestor spirits with incense, but I not know why he do it in the tunnels."
Vincent's brows drew together. "I don't know either. We bury our dead far below the tunnel where these were found, in the catacombs. And I saw no shrine or tablets."
Long frowned, his eyes nearly closing. "Can not say for sure. Many of my people in this country. Was war for many years. Enemy different--war the same. People had to go, leave everything, including ancestors. And a man with no ancestors...."
His voice trailed into helpless silence as he groped for words. "This man lost, Vincent. Orphan. The spirits, they guide their children, protect from bad harm. They never far away, and they make home for you in their land. You lose them, you lost."
Vincent absorbed this, turning the enigmatic incense pots in his hands. Long's words touched him. How close he had brushed to becoming a lost soul, with no family. If it were not for Father, and the others....
"Do you think he will come back?"
Long thought about that for a long moment, squinting into the space beyond Vincent's left shoulder as though making a calculation. Finally, he nodded.
"He come back. Three days from now is--is--" He fished for the translation. "Feast of Wandering Souls. All can cross from the spirit world and go to villages again. We give offerings--food, clothes to our ancestors, and also to the wandering ones, who have no living to honor them."
Vincent's eyes sharpened at that. "Three days. I'll remember. Thank you, Long."
It was nearly time. Thien had stayed away from the tunnels since his last visit. He had gotten special things to offer at his makeshift shrine. Hope burned white within him. Surely the spirit would speak to him on this, the Feast of Wandering Souls.
After work, Thien walked ten blocks to Central Park, and climbed up on a slate-grey jut of rock to wait for darkness. He and Norm had come here a lot.
He rummaged in the bag he had brought to be sure everything was there. Satisfied, he ate some popcorn, and coaxed the bold pigeons to share his snack. After he held still for a long while, one even hopped up on his outstretched leg, and minced up the length of it.
Come, mister, he said silently to the pigeon. A smile curved his lips. To fill your belly you must be brave. And the bird plucked a morsel from his fingertips, and it was time to go.
He headed for the tunnel entrance he'd used that first day, carrying his loaded pouch carefully against his body. It was dangerous to go down without sawhorses and cones to divert traffic, and no one to see that he came out again. He did it anyway.
He used no light at first, feeling his way down the ladder until he could pull the manhole cover back into place. It settled with a melodious clang, and he surprised himself with a shiver.
For a few moments he listened, breathing lightly through his mouth, until he was sure he was alone. Then he turned on the large flashlight he carried, and went down. His light threw false figures and shadows on the walls and his footsteps seemed as loud as a giant's.
He came to a split in the tunnel he didn't remember, a place where the tunnel snaked off in two directions. Hesitating, he swung his light from one black mouth to the other. It all seemed so different at night, though this seasonless place did not know, and would never know, the tyranny of daylight.
He chose the path to his left and walked on. After a time he spotted some of the repairs he'd made in recent weeks, and was more sure of the way. He went down and down, until he could almost feel the immense tons of rock pressing the air against his head. He saw no one, and sensed no one. Far off there was the muted rush and rattle of subway trains, and, closer, the sound of water dripping. I find the leak later, he told himself, and hurried on.
He came at last to the fissure, and stood before it, feeling his pulse begin to speed. He remembered, with the eerie clarity of a dream twice dreamt, how he'd come here first, weeks ago, still raw and lost and afraid of what they'd do with him if he lost his job, the way he'd lost his father. . . .
"Stoopid little slit-eye! Watch yerself," Skink muttered, with a glare. Thien, carrying too big an armful of orange cones, had bumped into him and made him slosh a big Pepsi stain onto his overalls.
Thien cringed away from the acid tone and ducked behind the truck. He settled the cones against the bumper and looked around uncertainly. O'Brien had gone to a gas station to "see a man about a horse," and Thien had no desire to spend his lunchtime in the company of Skink and Pulaski.
Just a few feet away, a manhole cover sat ajar over the hole that gave access to the underground pipes. Thien's look brightened. Go down, he decided. Quiet there, anyway.
He slipped his lunchbag inside his shirt and climbed down into the tunnel. Instantly, the clamor of the city was blunted, and he was blessedly alone. He stood at the foot of the ladder, and grinned.
He found a dry place to sit, and ate his sandwich and apple. After he'd wadded up the trash and stuffed it in his pocket, he sat still for a few minutes, arms folded around drawn up knees. He still didn't want to go up--not till he was sure O'Brien was back. He looked down the tunnel, wondering idly where it went, where he might end up if he followed its meanderings.
He decided to find out. He had a flashlight, and a half hour or so. He'd go exploring. The tunnels didn't bother him the way they bothered his crewmates, who were forever moaning about the damp and muttering "rats and gators, for Chrissakes." You just had to watch where you put your hands and feet, and you were fine.
He got to his feet and looked one way, then the other, considering. There was something calm and unchanging down here, something that drew him. He ran his fingertips lightly over the rough stone. Cool, it felt. Solid.
He took the downward slope and walked fast, casting his light around to see what there was to see. The tunnel forked after a quarter-mile or so. One passage led upward at a slight angle and looked man-made. The other was of granite bedrock, different from the dirty, cement-girded tunnels he was used to. He chose the second.
If he hadn't been shining his light against the walls, watching the sparkle of the minerals, he'd never have found the fissure. A split in the wall like a lightning strike, that widened as it met the floor, it didn't seem to offer any opportunities for exploring. Then, he felt a rush of air against his hand and bent down to look more closely. He thought there was another tunnel beyond.
Without a second thought, he flattened himself onto his stomach and pulled himself through the gap by his elbows. He barely fit. Maybe not much good idea, mister, he told himself, panting. When he finally climbed to his feet, he stood in a niche off another tunnel; nothing more. He felt a flare of disappointment. This was hardly worth his trouble.
Or so he thought, until he noticed the floor. Though covered in a fine, even grit, it was clean of the usual leaves and small stones. Fresh air cycled through this passage from somewhere; it gave a sense of connecting two places that he might actually want to visit. And there was something odd fastened to the far wall.
When he recognized it, a cold sweep of fear shook him, and he tried to look in all directions at once, failing because his light was not as strong as the dark around him. The thing was a torch-holder. And it supported an unlit stump of wood, blackened at one end. People.
Breath hitching, eyes rolling from side to side, Thien flattened himself against the tunnel wall and cut off his light. People lived here, and he'd broken into their home, and he'd never come up out of the earth and O'Brien would never know what had happened....
But no one came. After a while, gathering his courage and holding it tight in both hands, Thien turned his light back on, and dared to move farther down the tunnel, starting at every slight echo of his own movements.
He found more torch-holders, and a set of four chiseled stairs, but nothing else. This place....this place, with its darkness and strength of stone, reminded him of nothing so much as a tomb, a burial place where ancestors' bodies were housed and where the living went to consult them.
And then it hit him, with a shock that was half fright and half joy: Maybe it was a burial place. That seemed to fit. It was kept clean, yet was not in general use, as was proper for an ancestor place. True, if any were honored here, they were not his ancestors--those he'd lost, left behind in his own land. Their resting ground had been burned black; their heroic tales lost to the world of the living. He, their son, was forever bereft of their protection.
No. This was a place of other ancestors--perhaps even the gateway to Hell itself. That idea had sent a delighted shiver up his spine, and made him scuttle back to the hole through which he'd entered. He squirmed back through the opening, feeling every moment that something might grab his ankles from the other side and haul him into the underworld.
Still. . . . He got himself turned around and inched his head and shoulders back through the opening, for one last look.
And it was then that he'd seen the spirit. Cloaked in night, carrying a torch that made the shadows go from black to brown to amber, it walked toward him steadily. Thien's blood froze in horror. His lips moved silently--Ma ruoc hon! He knew he would have screamed, if he'd had a voice. It was ma ruoc hon, the ancestral spirit come to walk him into the land of the dead.
Yet the figure had passed him, all unknowing. He'd felt the air move in its wake, and could have reached out to touch its cloak. All his muscles went soft with relief. . . until it turned, perhaps sensing that it was watched, and he saw its face, jagged in the yellow torchlight.
It was a tortured marriage of cat and man. A demon's face and a man's form--This was no ma nuoc, water ghost; or ma troi, ghost of the air. This was ma le, a wandering ghost. One who had died childless, without any connection to the land of the living, and suffered for it. Thien stared, gaping and not breathing, until it turned within the swirl of its cloak, and was gone.
Thien had remained as he was for a long time, panting softly and letting the fear leak out of him. Since babyhood his grandmother had filled his ears with tales of hell and its denizens; how the manner of a man's death determined his lot in the afterlife. What had this man done, to deserve such harsh karma?
He knew that the spirits did not move without reason. He'd been meant to see the demon, yet had been left untouched. Why?
He decided, after a while, that he was meant to help the ghost. To offer sacrifices and honor it with the burning of candles and incense, and so ease its suffering. And maybe . . . maybe it would then help him. It might seek for him in the world of the spirits and find his father, mother, and sister; tell them he still lived, and needed them. . . .
So he'd come back twice before, to burn his incense and whisper his hopeless prayers, at the proper times of the month. One could not command a spirit, but Thien saw no reason for it to reveal itself once, and not again, unless Thien himself was doing something wrong, or not doing something right.
If the wandering one does not come tonight . . . . Thien found himself at a loss for the consequences. With a shrug, he reached through the gap to set his flashlight on the floor.
He got down on his belly and inched his body through the crack, being less careful than he ought to have been. He scraped one elbow painfully against the stone. Once kneeling in the little pocket off the main tunnel, he gingerly touched his fingers to the wound. They came away sticky.
First offering, he thought. For a few moments he sat still, breathing in pants, eyes squeezed shut. Come tonight, spirit. Please come.
He set to work. He'd brought more than before--fruit, and a little flour to burn, and a whole row of squat candles. The white light thrown from his flashlight seemed somehow alien to this place and to his rituals, but he didn't click it off until the candles were lit. Then, in their dance, he laid out his sacrifices, and set the incense aflame.
Rising, he bowed before the makeshift altar, and began to pray. On impulse he Signed the prayer as best he could, and chanted it silently, following his father's phantom voice in his mind.
I pray for safety. I pray for good health and long life. I pray for my family, that they will know I still honor their ghosts, and all the ancestors who have gone to the soil. I pray for your good fortune in the afterlife, spirit. I have brought these humble gifts to ease you--
"Your prayer is very beautiful."
For an instant, every muscle locked, and Thien couldn't even unbend from his bow. Then, slowly, he straightened up, and turned his head, feeling the blood leave his lips. The spirit's eyes met his.
White eyes, his reeling thoughts told him. Blue and round like the ma duong rach mac--the slash-faced soldiers of his nightmares. Yet, the face was the same.
It stood close by, its shadow just a little deeper than those cast by his candles. It moved neither toward him, nor away.
"Ma le," Thien gasped. He did not realize he formed the words with his lips, with a rush of air through his ruined throat, as though he would speak.
"Don't be afraid," it said, in the language of his second father. In English.
Thien felt the onrush of loss like a subway train hurtling toward him, not about to stop. He lifted his hands.
Spirit? he questioned, a jerky flutter of his fingers.
Its brow furrowed. Then it, too, raised its hands--such hands; clawed and coated with fur that caught the candlelight--and began to speak to him as no one had since Norm's death, in Sign.
I am no spirit. I am real. This is my world, where I live, and you are welcome here. What is your name?
Thien didn't realize he was crying, that the great, guttural whoops he heard were his, until the spirit-man reached out and touched him. One broad palm covered Thien's shoulder in a warm, human grip, and the voice flowed over him--just as warm, just as human. "It's all right. I know. . . I know. . . ."
Father shoved and pushed with almost gleeful satisfaction as he stowed away his dogeared maps. At last! Life could return to its ordained course, now that the worst of the spring leakages were under control. And, though still livid with Vincent for breaking one of the tunnels' guiding principles, Father was the first to admit that the job would have taken an extra month without the able assistance of Thien, their newest Helper.
"Thien has promised to bring down copies of the city's maps periodically, so that I can update mine," he remarked to Vincent, who leaned nearby against the desk, tranquilly overseeing Father's operations.
"That's kind of him."
"He's been more than kind, though I still shudder when I think of how he got in. A gap--that let him right into the perimeter, under the very noses of the sentries!"
Father's grey eyes flashed their indignation, and Vincent shrugged, spreading his hands. "What can I say, Father? Virtually all of us have used that passage, and none thought that spot to be more than a split in the rock. Winslow swears Thien must be double-jointed to have fit through it at all."
"Be that as it may, it is being sealed?"
"Yes, with Thien's permission."
Father's eyebrows shot up at that. "His permission?"
"It is his gap," Vincent pointed out reasonably.
Father got ready to sputter, but then he caught the teasing glimmer in the blue eyes, and chuckled instead. After all, he himself had taught Vincent the trust in others that was even now hoisting him on his own petard. How mean-spirited, if he were to tell this innocent, "Trust only those you know."
He waved a gloved hand in his Vincent's direction, and labored mightily to make his voice gruff; to flatten out the pride he felt in his son. "Go on with you. Out. I have work to do."
Vincent went, and didn't let himself smile until he was several paces gone from the library. He had thought Father was going to have an apoplectic fit when he'd shown up with a strange young man in tow, and named him the one responsible for the mysterious incense bowls. Yet, a spate of explanatory words--Thien's prayer, his belief that Vincent was a spirit, his seeking after ancestors gone from him since the war--had softened the harsh protest and outraged glare, just as Vincent had expected. To be sure, he himself had received a peppering from Father later, but Thien was welcomed with openhanded friendship.
A month had gone by. The boy was often Below, though he'd declined their invitation to make his home in the tunnels. Instead he boarded with Le Long and his family, and instruction in Sign had been added to Long's English lessons.
Thien had explained in stilted Sign that he believed he'd be more useful to his friends Below in his present job. He could supply them with repair materials far superior to rags and tape, and he could warn them of where the crews would be. All he wished for, he'd let them know, was speech.
Vincent came to the master pipe chamber, and looked within, moving so as not to be observed by its occupants. What he saw made him give thanks, once again, for the peculiar, everyday miracle that was life Below.
Thien had to work hard to keep up with these new lessons. He sat on a stool alongside sunny-haired Rebecca, one hand poised lightly over a "dead" teaching pipe, and watched Pascal the Elder strike speech from the metal. Rebecca Signed and spoke the messages, so that he could know what the dings and taps and double-beats meant. In this way he learned two languages in one lesson--Sign and pipecode--and oh, it was hard; much harder than night school. But wonderful.
He lifted his head, sensing something in the shadows at the far end of the chamber, beyond the musical cacophony of the pipes. He grinned, knowing Vincent stood there, a black outline few would be able to spot. His very own "spirit," who had granted the guidance and help Thien had begged, though he was not a ghost at all.
"Thien! Pay attention," Rebecca demanded, swatting him on the knee. "Pascal just told you to try something. In code. He wants to see how much you remember."
Thien took the slender pipe the old man held out with a little bow. Pascal was nearly as silent as Thien, preferring to let the pipes do all his talking. That was just fine with Thien.
He held the pipe poised, formed his message in his thoughts, and tapped it out, slowly, but with no mistakes.
*I learn to speak. Vincent brought me to Below*
Thien looked toward the unmoving shadows, and tapped again.
*Thanks Mister*


text:
Revolution Electric Cars is based in San Luis Obispo, CA and is the only NEVcompany to sell a car that is capable of being driven on a freeway. Unlike most NEVs, REV is a legitimate car that has been in production for several years.
An A/C motor is used in the REV car. A/C motors require less current and provide more torque.
- 7.5kw A/C motor
Lead Acid batteries make up the default configuration for the REV
- 6 x 12V (72V)
- Range: 60 miles
Lithium Iron Phosphate batteries
- 24 x 3V (72V)
- Range: 120 miles
The Revolution cars were converted from Manual transmissions. Electric motors have 100% torque at 0 RPM, there is no need to shift gears. Thus there is merely Forward and Reverse.
Based on a Chinese company's original design Revolution provides all three vehicles with a standard 72V system, using Lead Acid batteries.
Standard features
- Power Windows
- Power Door locks
- Power Mirrors
- Front Disc/ Rear Drum Brakes
- Electronically-controlled steering.
Optional accessories include:
- Air Conditioning/ Heating
- AM/FM MP3 in-dash stereo
- Clear Roof (entire roof is clear)
Revolution offers two models of EV the Spark and the Kandi. These two vary primarily in optional packaged equipment. The Spark is the High End model, where as the Kandi is the Entry Level model
Although both Lead Acid and Li-ion technologies are available for these vehicles, it is unknown as to whether any units models have been sold using the Li-ion batteries.
Price RangeEdit
Revolution currently has a price range of $10,500 - $18,000
- Homepage - Revolution EV
- Myspace - REV
- Salem News Video - Revolution Review

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Historic competitor Rudi Lancaster offers rally marshals a half price holiday at his North Devon resort.
Front running Mintex MSA British Historic Rally Championship competitor Rudi Lancaster will offer all marshals at this year's Rally North Wales a half price stay at his Woolacombe Bay Holiday Parks in Devon.
Leading Ford Escort driver Lancaster has long been a supporter of rallying in the UK and has organising club chairman Guy Weaver alongside him in the co-driver's seat for this year. He has offered to support the army of dedicated volunteers with a generous discount on his complex which is nestled in the North Devon coastline.
This fantastic incentive will be facilitated by the use of a discount voucher code that will be given to any safety marshal, timing crews or officials when they sign on at the event. The code will allow them to book over the phone and they can even get an extra £10 off their stay by booking online.
WSSCC chairman and co-driver Guy Weaver is delighted at Lancaster's offer.
"Rudi has been a competitor for many years and of course appreciates the dedication our volunteer marshals show to enable us to go rallying" he says. "Rally North Wales is delighted Rudi has supported the event in this way and hopefully it send a message to our 'orange army' that we really do thank them for all their hard work. We can't enjoy the sport we all love without them."
Sponsored once again by North Wales Rally Services, the Wolverhampton and South Staffordshire Car Club organised event has evolved into one of the most popular events in the British rallying calendar.
Offering 45 miles of quality, classic stages made famous by the World Rally Championship qualifier Wales Rally GB, the event will once again welcome competitors from the ultra-competitive Mintex MSA British Historic Rally Championship and the popular Pirelli MSA Welsh Rally Championship. The ASWMC Loose Surface Championship and ANWCC Forest Rally Championship will also return after a successful 2016 event.
The Suzuki Swift Shining Stars Series will use the rally as its opening round as the single make formula announced at the Autosport Show in early January will also boast a guest driver for the event. The West Wales Rally Spares HRCR Stage Masters Challenge will also join the event, along with the Jelf Insurance Welsh Clubmans Rally Championship and Brian Dennis Motorsport Welsh Historic Rally Championship.
Interested marshals can find out more by heading to the event website at http://www.rallynorthwales.co.uk For more information on what's on offer at any one of the four Woolcombe Bay resorts, visit: https://www.woolacombe.co.uk/devon-holiday-parks/woolacombe-bay
Photo credit – Rally Sport Media


text:
As I said its all Topshop makeup, leave me a comment below if you want an in depth review of any of these products and I can do that for you.
So in this lovely package I got, Chubby Liner in Bambi (£7) such an easy eyeliner to use and although its quite thick you can get a nice thin point the end of your flick with the end of the pen. Neveda lipstick (£8) and this is in the 5 year of beauty gold packaging which I love. You guys know I'ma fan of a nude lip so this is perfect for me. This nail varnish is in a shade which I can't quite remember, I have been using it on my nails at the moment and don't know where its got to but I love it, and its such a lovely blue shade. The eyeshadow is in the shade explorer and again I can't seem to find it online to link it for you but its this beautiful burgundy colour, perfect for all year round but I know in winter especially I will get so much wear out of this. The brow kit in Fetch (£12), the powder in this might be a bit light for me but the wax isn't and I can make it work, such a great little compact set which I know I'm going to get loads of use out of. Glow Stick in Spotlight (£10), not a product I would naturally pick up if I was out shopping but I love this which I was surprised about, adds a lovely highlight and a bit of colour. Lastly I have the Doe Eyed Lashes (£10, I think) again not on the website but I love this mascara, and have been getting a lot of wear out of it.
I am so excited and thankful to try these out, and can't wait to get a bit more use out of them. I'm sure they will feature in favourties & reviews in the future.
Have you tried any of these products? What else would you recommend from Topshop Beauty?


text:
Latest Weather Blog
New Orleans police officer succumbs to injuries
NEW ORLEANS - A New Orleans police officer injured in a weekend traffic collision has died.
The department in a news release said 11-year veteran Natasha Hunter died Tuesday.
Police Superintendent Michael Harrison says the 32-year-old officer was a "dedicated public servant who loved her family, her job and serving her city."
Hunter suffered a massive brain injury after being struck by a drunken driver early Sunday morning in a collision on Interstate 10 East. Harrison has said she was inside her police vehicle on the side of the road with the emergency lights on when she was hit.
A public prayer vigil will take place at 7 p.m. on Wednesday at the department headquarters.
Hunter is survived by a 5-year-old daughter. Funeral arrangements are pending.


text:
Mr. Kazama is a minor Tekken character. He is Asuka's father and a Japanese Dojo owner. The only known information about him is that he is Asuka's father and that he was hospitalized by Feng Wei in Tekken 5. The reason Asuka entered the King of Iron Fist Tournament 5 was to get revenge on Feng Wei for hurting her father.
He also made an appearance in the non-canoncial Online Tekken Comic.
Character Relationships
- Asuka Kazama - His daughter.
- Jun Kazama - His relative. It is unclear whether Jun is his sister or cousin.
- Feng Wei - Mr. Kazama was attacked by him at his dojo and was sent to the hospital afterwards.
Community content is available under CC-BY-SA unless otherwise noted.


text:
18 May Sermon Snap Shot May 13, 2018
Posted at 10:17h in worship 0 Comments
But as today's Scripture reminds us, this transformation should not take place simply on a person-to-person level. If we are fulfilling our calling as a church, we should also see God at work through us as a collective group. And here's the beauty of how God works – God's math is not our math! For God, 2+2 does not equal 4….it equals far more. As we combine our talents, our gifts and our resources into common mission – as we seek to be "witnesses In Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria and beyond" – God blesses and multiplies our offering and accomplishes far more than we could ever imagine accomplishing on our own.
That's why If you were to ask me to draw a picture that captures the essence of this story, I would draw a picture of a droplet hitting the water. As we reach out, our impact is local, then regional, then national and eventually we will see ripple effects that impact the other side of the world.
From Ascension Sunday, May 13 message based on Acts 1:1-11, "Hurry Up…and Wait!"
Rev. Lane Glaze
Pastor, Waters Edge UMC
Pastor, Waters Edge UMC


text:
Car abondoned & parked at dangerous angle on residential street. Checked DVLA the car is registered as SORN & has no MOT since November 2016.
Reported in the Abandoned vehicles category anonymously at 19:48, Wed 14 August 2019
Sent to Royal Borough of Greenwich 2 minutes later
Car abandoned & parked at an angle in The Dell since early August, have checked DVLA website & car is registered as SORN & has no MOT since Nocember 2016
We were unable to determine the tax status for this vehicle; the case is being passed to enforcement. Automatically marked as "in progress" by Royal Borough of Greenwich
State changed to: In progress
Posted by Royal Borough of Greenwich at 21:31, Wed 14 August 2019
Car no longer parked in The Dell. It has gone.
State changed to: Fixed
Posted anonymously at 23:17, Thu 15 August 2019
This report is now closed to updates. You can make a new report in the same location.


text:
The U.S. Department of Labor (DOL) is the federal agency charged with regulating and enforcing laws that protect American workers and business owners. The DOL's most prominent set of regulations is the Fair Labor Standards Act (FLSA), which regulates employee pay, overtime and more. Perhaps just as important for those that may not know, the FLSA also details any penalties and fines for violating the act.
To make sure you're following the act and paying your employees fairly, let's take a look at its fundamental elements. Let's start with defining which workers the act covers, which ones it doesn't, and when exemptions to the FLSA apply.
FLSA Coverage
Employees are covered either as part of a sufficiently large business, or as individual workers (PDF). If you own a business with two or more employees that makes an annual revenue of $500,000 or more, then all of your employees are covered.
Individuals are generally covered if their work is in support of a business that engages in interstate commerce. This can be as apparent as regularly crossing state lines, or as subtle as routinely corresponding with people in different states. If your employees are covered, then the next step is determining whether or not they're exempt or non-exempt from all or none of the FLSA's provisions.
Exempt vs. Non-Exempt
Just because your employees may be covered doesn't mean that every single FLSA provision applies to them. Depending on an employee's job description, work schedule, pay schedule and even age, an employee can be partially or wholly exempt from FLSA regulations. The FLSA covers minimum wage, overtime and child labor regulations, and covered workers can be either exempt or non-exempt from one or all regulations.
A substantial portion of the U.S workforce is classified as non-exempt from the FLSA. Therefore, your business will be responsible for following the relevant regulations for your employees' wages, overtime rules and child labor regulations. Unless your employees fall into the categories provided by the FLSA, they are likely non-exempt.
There are some workers, however, that are exempt from the FLSA in part or as a whole. Exemptions are made based on your business' industry, including job description, schedule and age. Some exemptions are broad, such as the overtime exemption for "computer professionals" and certain workers that are paid on commission.
Some are extremely granular, such as the exemption for newspaper delivery. Since newspaper delivery was originally done by children in the early 20th century, there are exemptions for minimum wage, overtime and certain child labor regulations.
Now that you have an idea of how coverage and exemptions work, let's see how the following regulations might apply to your workforce.
Minimum Wage
The FLSA provides parameters for the federal minimum wage, which is the minimum per-hour amount that non-exempt workers can be paid for work performed. The current federal minimum wage is $7.25 per hour. Some states also have a minimum wage law that might be higher than the federal rate. In all instances, the worker must be paid whichever rate is higher, whether it is the state or federal rate.
Exceptions: Minimum wage exceptions are made for specific worker types, including workers with disabilities, full-time students, workers under the age of 20, tipped employees and student learners.
What's not covered under the FLSA: Pay raises above the federal minimum wage, as well as extra compensation for night, weekend or holiday work are not covered under the FLSA. Any such increase is generally determined by an agreement between the employer and the employee.
Tipped Employees
An employee is considered a tipped employee if he or she regularly receives at least $30 in tips over the course of one month. In this case, employers are not required to pay these employees the federal or state minimum wage. The FLSA mandates that employers of tipped employees must pay them an hourly rate of $2.13 per hour. The intention is that any tips received by the employee will supplement the federal hourly tipped minimum wage pay to equal a rate of $7.25 per hour.
Many states have provisions in place specifically for compensating tipped employees. If you employ tipped workers, be sure to carefully review these rules. As with the normal minimum wage, tipped employees are entitled to the higher rate, whether mandated by the federal or state government.
Time Off
The FLSA does not contain provisions for paid time off, including vacation, sick days or holidays. There is no federal requirement for small businesses to offer these benefits to their employees, but some state legislatures have discussed doing so. While offering paid time off is your choice as a business owner, remember that doing so can be used as a way to attract and retain top talent.
Paid Breaks
There is no federal law that requires businesses to provide paid breaks to employees. The FLSA states, however, that short breaks (i.e. periods between 5 and 20 minutes) should be included in an employee's regular working hours as compensable time.
In contrast to the federal government, many states have laws on the books that require workers to receive a certain number of paid breaks per hours worked. Currently, these states are California, Colorado, Illinois, Kentucky, Minnesota, Nevada, Oregon, Vermont and Washington. Make sure to check with your state's labor office as these laws may change.
Paid Meal Periods
Again, there is no federal law that requires companies to provide workers with paid meal periods, but many states do have such laws. These states are California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Illinois, Kentucky, Maine, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New York, North Dakota, Rhode Island, Tennessee, Vermont and Washington.
Many of the aforementioned states have implemented separate regulations for different industries, so be sure to read all requirements carefully.
The FLSA mandates that a non-exempt worker receives at least one and one-half time their regular rate of pay for any hours more than 40 worked within a week. Additionally, there is no federal law that requires double time pay for hours worked. There are some exceptions for certain industries, which are relevant for public services such as police officers and firefighters employed by public agencies, as well as hospitals and nursing homes.
In addition to FLSA overtime regulations, some states have further provisions regulating overtime compensation and rules.
Child Labor
The FLSA mandates that children under the age of 14 cannot be employed for most jobs. However, many exceptions exist. At any age, children are permitted to deliver newspapers, perform in radio, television or movies, work in businesses owned by their parents (except mining or hazardous work), babysit or perform minor chores in a private residence. There are special considerations outlined for agricultural employment. Many states also have specific age requirements for child labor.
When making hiring and compensation decisions, be sure to closely examine your state's labor laws as well as the FLSA to make sure you are in compliance. Failure to do so may result in hefty fines and can open up your business to possible legal action by current and former employees.
To learn more about legal issues that may affect you, check out our article on the 5 legal pitfalls every small business should avoid.


text:
When you think of the usual penalties for a driving under the influence (DUI) conviction, you likely think of probation, fines, and possibly time spent in jail. However, many people do not realize that there are far more potential consequences of a DUI that can have a long-lasting effect on your personal or professional life. The number one kicker for the Denver Broncos has learned this lesson the hard way in recent weeks.
Matt Prater, the highest-rated kicker in the National Football League (NFL) in 2013, was first convicted of DUI in 2008, shortly after signing with the Broncos. Prater again faced charges for DUI and for leaving the scene of an accident in 2011. Following that incident, Prater entered the NFL's substance abuse program, which prohibits drinking even on the off-season. This past summer, Prater tested positive for alcohol after he claims he had three beers while on vacation, and the NFL has suspended him for the first four games of the 2014 season. Prater was lucky, as the NFL originally suggested a suspension for one year. As Prater's case shows, DUI convictions can affect you for a long time, as even having three beers a full three years after his DUI has had a negative effect on his career and professional reputation.
Unexpected DUI Consequences
People in certain professions are especially at risk for long-lasting DUI implications. For example, commercial truck drivers are subject to very strict DUI laws and penalties if they are convicted. A commercial driver will face a license suspension or revocation following a DUI, which will likely completely eliminate his ability to earn a living as a truck driver. Even after getting his license back, a truck driver may still face sanctions from his employer and may have to complete substantial rehabilitative steps before resuming work.
Similarly, many jobs require an employee to have a clean driving record and valid license since the work may involve operating some type of motor vehicle. This may affect construction workers, delivery workers, utility workers, and much more.
Aside from professional implications, a DUI may have a substantial effect on your personal life, as well. Probation and license suspension may limit your freedom and ability to travel, as well as requiring you to submit to alcohol testing and/or attend regular substance abuse classes. Additionally, some offenders may be required to wear a SCRAM bracelet or have an ignition interlock device installed in their vehicle. Such devices can seem like a significant invasion of privacy since it signals the public that you have been in trouble for an alcohol-related criminal offense. Thus, DUI offenders may face many professional and personal struggles for a long time following a conviction.
Contact an Experienced Denver DUI Defense Lawyer for Assistance
If you are facing DUI charges, you do not want to risk your personal or professional reputation. Denver DUI lawyer Jay Tiftickjian understands the magnitude of the effects a DUI can have on your life and always works to limit the consequences you face as much as possible. Please contact our office for assistance with your DUI case today.


text:
Dr. Harrison Barrett, Regents Professor of Optical Sciences, Medical Imaging, and Applied Math, was honored at a reception celebrating the establishment of the Harrison H. and Catherine C. Barrett Endowed Chair in Optical Sciences for Cancer Imaging.
Dr. Harrison Barrett was recognized for his mentoring and scholarly activities. During his 44 years at The University of Arizona he has mentored 64 Ph.D. students, published over 300 technical papers, and received 29 U.S. patents for his innovative work in image science. His awards include a Humboldt Prize, the 2000 IEEE Medical Imaging Scientist Award, an E. T. S. Walton Award from Science Foundation Ireland, and the 2005 C. E. K. Mees Medal from the Optical Society of America.
Dr. Barrett's award-winning book, "Foundations of Image Science," coauthored with his student Dr. Kyle J. Myers, has become a highly cited reference in the optics field. He was inducted into the National Academy of Engineering in 2014 in recognition of his "contributions to the physical and statistical foundations and applications of radiological and nuclear medical imaging."
The endowment will support a faculty position in the College of Optical Sciences (OSC0 with a membership in The University of Arizona Cancer Center (UACC) and it is gifted by the chair's namesake, Dr. and Mrs. Harry and Cathy Barrett.


text:
There are two major types of diabetes, called type 1 and type 2. Type 1 diabetes was also called insulin dependent diabetes mellitus (IDDM), or juvenile onset diabetes mellitus. In type 1 diabetes, the pancreas undergoes an autoimmune attack by the body itself, and is rendered incapable of making insulin. Abnormal antibodies have been found in the majority of patients with type 1 diabetes. Antibodies are proteins in the blood that are part of the body's immune system. The patient with type 1 diabetes must rely on insulin medication for survival.
In autoimmune diseases, such as type 1 diabetes, the immune system mistakenly manufactures antibodies and inflammatory cells that are directed against and cause damage to patients' own body tissues. In persons with type 1 diabetes, the beta cells of the pancreas, which are responsible for insulin production, are attacked by the misdirected immune system. It is believed that the tendency to develop abnormal antibodies in type 1 diabetes is, in part, genetically inherited, though the details are not fully understood.
Exposure to certain viral infections (mumps and Coxsackie viruses) or other environmental toxins may serve to trigger abnormal antibody responses that cause damage to the pancreas cells where insulin is made. Some of the antibodies seen in type 1 diabetes include anti-islet cell antibodies, anti-insulin antibodies and anti-glutamic decarboxylase antibodies. These antibodies can be measured in the majority of patients, and may help determine which individuals are at risk for developing type 1 diabetes.
At present, the American Diabetes Association does not recommend general screening of the population for type 1 diabetes, though screening of high risk individuals, such as those with a first degree relative (sibling or parent) with type 1 diabetes should be encouraged. Type 1 diabetes tends to occur in young, lean individuals, usually before 30 years of age, however, older patients do present with this form of diabetes on occasion. This subgroup is referred to as latent autoimmune diabetes in adults (LADA). LADA is a slow, progressive form of type 1 diabetes. Of all the patients with diabetes, only approximately 10% of the patients have type 1 diabetes and the remaining 90% have type 2 diabetes.
Type 2 diabetes was also referred to as non-insulin dependent diabetes mellitus (NIDDM), or adult onset diabetes mellitus (AODM). In type 2 diabetes, patients can still produce insulin, but do so relatively inadequately for their body's needs, particularly in the face of insulin resistance as discussed above. In many cases this actually means the pancreas produces larger than normal quantities of insulin. A major feature of type 2 diabetes is a lack of sensitivity to insulin by the cells of the body (particularly fat and muscle cells).
In addition to the problems with an increase in insulin resistance, the release of insulin by the pancreas may also be defective and suboptimal. In fact, there is a known steady decline in beta cell production of insulin in type 2 diabetes that contributes to worsening glucose control. (This is a major factor for many patients with type 2 diabetes who ultimately require insulin therapy.) Finally, the liver in these patients continues to produce glucose through a process called gluconeogenesis despite elevated glucose levels. The control of gluconeogenesis becomes compromised.
While it is said that type 2 diabetes occurs mostly in individuals over 30 years old and the incidence increases with age, we are seeing an alarming number patients with type 2 diabetes who are barely in their teen years. In fact, for the first time in the history of humans, type 2 diabetes is now more common than type 1 diabetes in childhood. Most of these cases are a direct result of poor eating habits, higher body weight, and lack of exercise.
While there is a strong genetic component to developing this form of diabetes, there are other risk factors - the most significant of which is obesity. There is a direct relationship between the degree of obesity and the risk of developing type 2 diabetes, and this holds true in children as well as adults. It is estimated that the chance to develop diabetes doubles for every 20% increase over desirable body weight.
Regarding age, data shows that for each decade after 40 years of age regardless of weight there is an increase in incidence of diabetes. The prevalence of diabetes in persons 65 to 74 years of age is nearly 20%. Type 2 diabetes is also more common in certain ethnic groups. Compared with a 6% prevalence in Caucasians, the prevalence in African Americans and Asian Americans is estimated to be 10%, in Hispanics 15%, and in certain Native American communities 20% to 50%. Finally, diabetes occurs much more frequently in women with a prior history of diabetes that develops during pregnancy (gestational diabetes - see below).
Diabetes can occur temporarily during pregnancy. Significant hormonal changes during pregnancy can lead to blood sugar elevation in genetically predisposed individuals. Blood sugar elevation during pregnancy is called gestational diabetes. Gestational diabetes usually resolves once the baby is born. However, 25%-50% of women with gestational diabetes will eventually develop type 2 diabetes later in life, especially in those who require insulin during pregnancy and those who remain overweight after their delivery. Patients with gestational diabetes are usually asked to undergo an oral glucose tolerance test about six weeks after giving birth to determine if their diabetes has persisted beyond the pregnancy, or if any evidence (such as impaired glucose tolerance) is present that may be a clue to the patient's future risk for developing diabetes.
"Secondary" diabetes refers to elevated blood sugar levels from another medical condition. Secondary diabetes may develop when the pancreatic tissue responsible for the production of insulin is destroyed by disease, such as chronic pancreatitis (inflammation of the pancreas by toxins like excessive alcohol), trauma, or surgical removal of the pancreas.
Diabetes can also result from other hormonal disturbances, such as excessive growth hormone production (acromegaly) and Cushing's syndrome. In acromegaly, a pituitary gland tumor at the base of the brain causes excessive production of growth hormone, leading to hyperglycemia. In Cushing's syndrome, the adrenal glands produce an excess of cortisol, which promotes blood sugar elevation.
In addition, certain medications may worsen diabetes control, or "unmask" latent diabetes. This is seen most commonly when steroid medications (such as prednisone) are taken and also with medications used in the treatment of HIV infection (AIDS).


text:
I am rife with anecdotes for this one.
Last week, I was sitting at a bar, drinking a beer and reading the first story in Wells Tower's short story collection, Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned while I waited for some writer friends to come join me. When they arrived, they greeted the sight of the book in my hand with a kind of noise somewhere between a groan and a growl.
YES! I said.
YES! we all agreed.
We wanted to hate the book. To a group of people who spend their days eeking out sentences it seems like we can only hope to have each other read, watching the praise, press and rapturous accolades bestowed upon this guy's debut accumulate over the past few months was pretty intense. Two of us (myself included) admitted to marking one of Mr. Tower's May readings on our calendars, just so we could check him out, only to ruefully let the day pass by. Most of us thought he made up his name. I requested the book from my library and had to wait two months to finally get my hands on it, leaving me wondering how this guy got so many people in Queens even–of all places!–to line up to read his work. UGH! But then, you know, I got the book, and I started it, and well, it is really that fucking good.
I tried to savor the collection, couldn't, finished it almost immediately. Then, I went–again with some writer friends–to the Bryant Park Reading Room to see a conversation with Wells Tower and Lydia Peelle, moderated by John Wray (who, you recall, I also wanted to hate–I am a hater, this is becoming clear). And, as would have been a surprise to me before actually reading the book but wasn't after I read it, Mr. Tower was charming, funny, self-deprecating, literate, thoughtful and really, really likable. After the event, I admitted I'd read a library copy of his book so I had nothing for him to sign, which he actually seemed totally happy about (I guess writers like libraries) and then, like some weird teenage fan, I used the word "awesome" about sixteen times to describe his work. He was very nice, and humble. Sigh. So, from one extreme to the other.
Now, on to the book itself. It's a collection of nine stories and it kicks off with one of the best, I thought: "The Brown Coast." Reading it in the bar that day, I was laughing to myself like a manic and clutching my hand over my heart by the end. What he was breaking my heart over–that was the special part–a bunch of sea creatures fished out of the ocean, a torrent of aquarium water. In another story, it was spoiled meat that drove the stake in. A man's awkward attempt at making small talk with his ex-wife's lover in another.
The prose is equal parts precise and plain. There aren't a lot of fancy words or quirky sentence constructions–it's the singularity of the lives and psyches observed here that make the book so special. Here's where, although I'd already been suspecting it, I realized I was wrong in my opinion of Wells Tower. It's from the second page of the first story:
Bob had not been close with his father, so it was puzzling for him and also for his wife, Vicky, when his father's death touched off in him an angry lassitude that curdles his enthusiasm for work and married life. He had fallen into a bad condition and, in addition to several minor miscalculations, he'd perpetrated three major fuckups that would be a long time in smoothing over. He'd reported to work with a blind hangover, committed a calamitous oversight on a house he'd been helping to build, and soon after lost his job. A few weeks later, he'd rear-ended a local attorney, who, as a result of the collision, developed a clicking in his jaw and convinced a jury that the injury was worth $38,000, which was $2,000 more than what Bob's father had left him. Worst of all, he had tried to find relief from the unpleasantness by trysting with a lonely woman he'd met in traffic school. There'd been no joy in it, just a two-week spate of drab skirmishes in a basement apartment that smelled heavily of cat musk.
Not long after the affair had run its course, Bob and his wife were driving into town when Vicky looked up and saw the phantom outline of a woman's footprint on the windshield over the glove box. She slipped her sandal off, saw that the print did not match her own, and told Bob that he was no longer welcome in their home.
Right? "Drab skirmishes" to describe an affair–can't you smell that basement? Can't you imagine the chill Bob must have felt as Vicky raises her foot? And that's just the beginning.
The title story, though, comes at the end. It got the most conversational air-time in Bryant Park and is about Vikings, not the everyday people (mostly, but not all, men) found in the other stories. The ending to that story is great, but overall I found it a bit disconcerting and didn't like it as much as the rest, or as much as everyone else seemed to like it. Of course, it has the title to recommend it, which is pretty excellent.
Will I become less of a hater because of this literary experience? Doubtful. But, I am certainly glad I sucked it up and gave Wells Tower (which, by the way, I concede is probably his real name) a chance.


text:
March 31, 2016
Has the Casual Menu Become the New Way to Dine?
from Chef Christopher F. Donato
In my travels I see a mix of fusion-style menus in causal and fast casual restaurants. Often the menus lack the skill of classical cuts and sauces. Other than the occasional Eggs Benedict (which are now being cooked in the shell in a 64c water bath), where are the rest of the classic sauces and dishes? Sole Veronique, Steak Oscar, Beef Wellington, Bordelaise Sauce, Bechamel Sauce?
We are creating a generation of cooks that don't have the foundation of classic cooking. While we do see braising— mostly associated with short rib— when was the last time you saw a poached chicken breast in Court Bouillon, or a pan poached fish in Fume?
Are we too busy in our daily lives to simply enjoy a meal and appreciate the skill required to create a masterpiece of culinary excellence? I say slow down and go enjoy a great classic meal if you can find one. One where you can make the meal the entertainment and experience for the evening.


text:
The Front Runner
Panorama | Galas
In 1988, Senator Gary Hart was the odds on favourite for the Democratic presidential nomination. In the space of three fateful weeks, his political career imploded thanks to monkey business and muckraking.
As the film opens, Hart's (Hugh Jackman) campaign has amassed considerable momentum thanks to him possessing "the hair" (the cameras practically swoon) and a progressive platform. The only thing holding him back would seem to be his reluctance to play the P.R. game or delve into his personal life. Murmurs of strained relations with his wife, Lee (Vera Famiga), serve as kindling for subsequent raging rumours about an extramarital affair (with Sarah Paxton) that began on a pleasure craft all too fittingly christened Monkey Business.
Working from Matt Bai's All the Truth Is Out: The Week Politics Went Tabloid, director Jason Reitman (Up in the Air) maintains a wonderful directorial control as Hart and his handlers (led by the delightfully surly J.K. Simmons) desperately try to fend off the various breeds of journalistic wolves outside their door, including the opportunistic (Kevin Pollak) and the conflicted (Mamoudou Athie). In detailing the calculated damage control that unfolds during such crises, The Front Runner also serves notice that privacy died long before the rise of the internet.


text:
Staff Augmentation Overview
Specialized staff augmentation can help your contact center achieve a number of business goals, especially when you have a specific staffing need to fill. Rely on Insite's Staff Augmentation services to provide skilled personnel to work under your direction to help you develop, maintain, manage, and support your contact center requirements.
- Knowledge and expertise from our seasoned staff in a core area
- Rapid improvement or implementation
- Ability to increase or decrease our staff's collaboration as the needs of your center change and evolve
Sample Results
Our client, Royal Caribbean, had been seeking a Workforce Manager for over 18 months. By utilizing their existing budget dollars, Insite was able to place our interim Workforce Manager on site within 2 days. During our engagement with Royal Caribbean, they maintained control of the contract duration, had access to the entire Insite family of experts and best practices and participated in a monthly consultative session on a topic of their choosing.


text:
Capturing a Moment in Time
The Creative Soul
I remember my first grown-up present at Christmas. It was a very inexpensive camera, but it was a gift that made me feel so grown-up at age seven and seemed to promise me the rest of my life would follow and be magical. The art of photography continues to seem magical to me. Photography is the taking of a picture of reality that somehow not only shows us the obvious but also the unseen, the possibilities of our imagination and beyond.
Photography not only can inspire us; it can improve our mental health. IN a Dec 2017 article Danielle Hark wrote: "We all deal with mental or emotional struggles at one time or another in our lives. Whether it's stress from work, situational depression or anxiety, or full-on mental illness, it helps to take time to refocus and gain perspective. One tool you can use may be right in your pocket attached to your phone… a camera. It has been proven time and again that creativity and art therapy are valuable tools for emotional wellness. Photography is one such tool that you can utilize without going to art school or being professionally trained. Modern technology provides easy-to-use options including a variety of automatic modes on point-and-shoot cameras, digital SLRs (single-lens reflex cameras), and even camera phones. Now anyone can take photos — and just by taking a photo, you are taking a moment to stop and look at your environment through a new lens. This moment can be the moment that changes your day from a negative to a positive — or at least gives you a momentary distraction and calm."
Photography is the act of taking pictures for sentimental reasons, as a hobby or keeping informed with new events. Similarly, taking pictures help us to stay in touch with past events, thereby enables one to appreciate history. Most people use photography as a tool to keep in touch with past events. Looking at photographs taken in the past also helps to improve our knowledge on how we relate to past events.
Medically speaking, taking pictures can save a life. The advancements made because of x-rays and modern photographic capabilities combines with nuclear medicine are truly life-saving tools. There are other reasons for taking pictures, though. Legally it is a good idea if ever in a traffic accident to quickly snap a picture of any damage done to your vehicle. It is also a good idea to periodically take pictures of your home and its furnishings. These can be used to document loss from theft or natural disasters. Keeping hard copies of such pictures is also a good idea since digital photography is sometimes inadmissible in court.
What about the weekend photographer or the proud grandparent? Are those being creative and are there health benefits? Even the Centers for Disease Control recognize the advantages of taking pictures and the art of photography. When community members photograph their daily lives, they may find that the bigger picture begins to emerge. In young hands, a camera can be a gateway to healthy habits, life styles and communities. Researchers gave cameras to teens in inner-city Baltimore and asked them to take pictures of positive activities that were alternatives to joining a gang. "The project gave participants courage to talk to adults about community issues," says Seante Hatcher. Ms Hatcher is the community relations coordinator for the Johns Hopkins University Prevention Research Center (PRC), one of 35 community-academic partners the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) funds to find innovative solutions to health challenges. The "Photovoice" technique shows that taking pictures can empower the photographers, document their perspectives and deliver their messages.
"Photovoice bridges age, race and gender. The pictures speak in a language common to everyone," says Joyce Moon-Howard, DrPH, a researcher at the Columbia University PRC. The center has used Photovoice in interventions to promote healthy eating and in programs to encourage teenagers. The process of taking photos can be used to involve young people in positive activities and engage policymakers in discussions about sensitive community issues. with HIV to share their feelings about living with the disease. "The project used both the lens of the camera and the lens of the HIV-positive young adult," says Alwyn Cohall, M.D., director of the center. "Participation reduced the isolation and stigma of dealing with HIV and gave the teenagers a sense of belonging." In a separate study, teens took and shared pictures of nutritious foods and were inspired to try more fruits and vegetables, he says. Dr. Moon-Howard identifies group discussion as a vital aspect of Photovoice. A set of photographs, she says, creates a "series of meaning" that helps a group identify issues of mutual concern and can motivate change.
By picking up a camera,, you are not only being present and creative, but you are actually practicing mindfulness, which reduces stress and helps leave you balanced and ready to take on the rest of your day.