I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital. I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me. I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad. I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. Question: What is the state of the "guests" leaving the green room? === The answer to the above question is

Answer: Some are happy, some are sad


Job offer many years ago. I had two, one for staff accountant and the other was as accounting manager for a holistic health clinic. The clinic job paid about 40% more and came with a “manager” title. I believed in myself and all that, but who offers someone just out of school with only 2 years of internship and no specialty in field manager level? That kept bugging me. Something just wasn’t right. Acting on instinct, I took the other job. Good thing! A few months later, I read that the owner of the clinic (an MD) and his two partners (his wife and the CFO) had all been indicted for numerous counts of fraud. They were cheating the state, they were cheating the church they were affiliated with, they were cheating Medicare and private insurance companies. The IRS was after them — it was supposed to be not-for-profit but it turns out they were living large. Not only that, but they hadn’t been sending in w/h tax for non-church member paid employees. Then there was the allegation that they were abusing mentally handicapped workers who were related to church members. The church itself tried to distance themselves, but three elders were also on the clinic’s Board of Directors. It was nasty and the entire management team ended up with at least some jail time. There was no way anyone who had any access to the records (medical or financial) could have claimed innocence. My job would have included filing false budget and financial statements with the Board, IRS and other agencies. I would have also probably known that they were withholding but not remitting tax from employee checks. Fact is, the poor kid who took the job got 2 years, so I found out. Those in on the medical fraud got even worse and the three principals all got 2-digit sentences. Question: Who only received two years of jail time? === The answer to the above question is

Answer: The person who took the clinic job.


That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning. Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed. "Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream. Sometimes I hated those girls. "Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here? "Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?" My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. Question: How do Tiffany and the other girls feel about Leah's mother? === The answer to the above question is

Answer: