'No' Is a Complete Sentence. Or Is It?

You can debate it. You can logically and persuasively argue yes or no as to whether "no" constitutes a complete sentence. Your answer depends on context, communication theory, and linguistics. (Go ahead and Google away at "the Gricean Theory of Conversational Implicature" as you're waiting for your Americano at the coffee shop.) Also entering the equation (oops, that's math; wrong subject) is whether you are a strict or loose constructionist in how you define a sentence.

Yes or no, either one works for me. I don't care, as long as I can continue to say "'No' is a complete sentence" and apply it to the matter at hand.

And what exactly is the matter at hand?

Two matters come to mind:

1. People who have a hard time saying no to demands imposed by others
2. People who feel the need to explain, defend, or justify their refusal of a request they want to reject but can't 

Enter a play within the play, as in Hamlet:

Can you lend me $500?

No, I can't because my counterfeit money-making machine in the basement stopped printing when the black-ink cartridge ran out, plus I need to reorder the special paper from my 'friends' at Treasury.

No, the triplets need formula, diapers, binkies, onesies, and meds. And I owe our upscale, artisanal photographer a down payment for the quasi-royal official portraits of the triplets.

No, not today; can I get back to you after I check with my accountant, my lawyer, my therapist, my Zen roshi, and my local arms dealer?

How about $300. Can you lend me that?

No, I'll never get it back.

No, I just spent my last $275 on Mega Millions, and I have no gas in my car, and I forgot to buy my pain meds.

No, I won't. I would but I can't. No, I might but might not. Not sure. I sometimes can and sometimes do but I usually can't and don't. 

Dude. Just give me fifty effing bucks until Monday when my effing ship comes in, okay? Can you do that?

No, my ship is coming in too, at the same dock.

No, because when your ship comes in I'll be at the airport.

No, because Monday I'll be tied up all day in bankruptcy court.

Dad/Mom, can I have the car?

No. Dad has a date.

No. Mom has a date.

With each other?!

Now, answer each of these questions with the monosyllabic no.

Start with an interior whisper to yourself.

No. 

Practice it.

Out loud now.

Mantra it.

No. No. No.

How do you feel now? Feel better?

Yes. 

"Because if you can't say no, your yes doesn't mean anything." Regan Walsh

trench warfare

They've been out there day and night. Bright lights run by portable generators keep the operation going in the dark hours. The backhoe burrows its way up the street, or down or around, carving a narrow path parallel to the sidewalk. The trench is no wider than the backhoe's digging bucket. A trench box sits idly by; no one is ever in the trench when I stroll nearby. From the look of it, they dig, fool around down in the dirt, add or take out pipes or cables or who-knows-what, and then cover it up with dirt and zip it up with some asphalt. It looks shitty afterward, bumpy and lumpy; unfinished.

You can hear them when you try to sleep.

They say you get used to it, in the way that people who live near train tracks do. 

What are they digging? Why? What is taking so long? What are they putting in? Or taking out? When will it stop?

UTILITY WORK AHEAD announce signs on every corner from every direction in the neighborhood of a dozen or so streets.

At first, the backhoe (always just one, on its solitary mission and journey) was accompanied by two or three vans from the local power utility with its crew of hard-hatted men smoking cigarettes, lolling, laughing, and pretending to play their roles as Official Construction Voyeurs (OCVs).

Then, on the same streets, rectangular tree-lined city blocks, east and west, north and south, hill and dale, flat and sloped, a new squad of support trucks arrived. The same trenches were dug again, in exactly the same manner, sequence, and pattern. Only now, the vans and hard hats were ostensibly with the phone company, if that's what they still call purveyors and providers of phone service, be it cellular, land line, or any other kind of phone service, such as it is.

In a span of fourteen days (I started counting by making daily notes on my wall calendar, opposite the window looking down onto the street they always start and end with), day and night, night and day, the trenches are dug, inserted or lifted or subtracted or added, bright lights illuminating, generators gurgling, chewing up and chugging the recently excavated miniature dirt-filled canals.

Fiber optics?

Then the water company came in. How did I know it was the water company? The blue vans displayed the logo of the water company, as did the hard hats, the jackets, and the vehicular warning signs.

I wanted to talk to the OCVs or a foreman (no women ever join the crew, not yet).

'What's going on?" I shouted.

They looked at me blankly amidst the din, as if my vernacular is foreign and unintelligible, as if they couldn't read my lips.

During the next fourteen-day cycle, the yellow backhoe was accompanied by white panel trucks with no identifying name or signage or license plates. The six-man crew wore white work pants, white vests, white hard hats, white boots, and white gloves. Three of the six wore white balaclavas.

During the most recent fourteen-day cycle, the yellow backhoe was accompanied by black panel trucks with no license plates and no identifying name or signage. The six-man crew wore black work pants, black vests, black hard hats, black boots, black gloves, and black balaclavas.

Then the streets went dark, no power on any street light or in any house. 

No car driving by shone its lights.

The only light shone from the pole-mounted surveillance cameras on the two corners, their iridescent blue eyes blinking silently.

And the UTILITY WORK AHEAD signs are gone.

book list

I used to list the books I had read at the end of every year. I still do, handwritten, but I haven't posted such lists here in a while.

So, here goes. My 2018 reading list, sotto voce, in ejaculatio praecox form, if you will:

1.  Debriefing: Collected Stories by Susan Sontag, edited by Benjamin Taylor
2. Andrew's Brain by E.L. Doctorow 
3. Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman
4.  Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine
5. A Live Coal in the Sea by Madeleine L'Engle
6. A Legacy of Spies by John le Carre
7. Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet's Journey by Stephen Kuusisto
8. The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden
9. Does It Fart? The Definitive Guide to Animal Flatulence by Nick Caruso and Dani Rabaiotti; illustrated by Ethan Kocak
10. The Informer by Craig Nova
11. While I Was Gone by Sue Miller
12. The Professor of Desire by Philip Roth
13. The Fig Eater by Jody Shields
14. My Ex-Life by Stephen McCauley
15. Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose
16. This Is It by Alan Watts
17. Haiku: This Other World by Richard Wright
18. The Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser
19. The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories from My Life by John le Carre

... and counting.

Blind Person Area

Take a deep cleansing breath.  

Before you get riled up, I'm not "against" blind people, deaf persons, disabled children or adults, or anyone who faces physical or mental challenges. Who would be? As you likely know, the vocabulary we use to describe people and their limitations is open to question and controversy. That's why I hesitated typing "disabled" above. I am not acquainted with all the verbal alternatives, such as "typical" versus "atypical." (And because my Attention Surplus Disorder [ASD]-addled mind will otherwise forget, let me observe in passing: Have you ever seen a traffic sign cautioning drivers with respect to someone with mental health issues? Why not? Isn't that a statement in itself, relegating mental health to a level less important than physical health? Chew on that one before proceeding.)

But these semantic distinctions are not my main topic here, though I frequently noodle notions about words and their use, misuse, and connotations, inadvertent or otherwise.

So what is my main topic?

Slice of life. Slices of life.

Signs of life.

Just slicing away for you and me to examine.

Such as:

I was driving around and saw a BLIND PERSON AREA traffic sign. It occurred to me that I have never encountered a blind person in one of those traffic-sign-designated areas. Not yet. I might tomorrow. Same with a DEAF PERSON AREA. I have yet to encounter a hearing-impaired person in the vicinity of a sign advising me of same. But how would I know? Perhaps I have. (And why should I know?)

Have you?

If so, what are we required to do? Presumably, the sign is advising drivers to slow down, but it doesn't say that. And presumably it is asking drivers to be more alert.

Fair enough.

Believe it or not, the signs themselves have stirred controversy. For example, in 2007 the issue of whether to put up a DEAF CHILD AREA sign in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin, stirred up the local citizenry. Some argue that such signs are not necessary, that they reinforce stereotypes regarding limitations. Traffic sign engineers assert that the signs diminish in effectiveness over time. (Couldn't you say that as well for the ubiquitous STOP sign? I've written about this before.)

Again, as stated in my introductory disclaimer, I mean no disrespect to anyone with special needs. However, I would wager that the definition of special needs could withstand some stretching, twisting, and pulling. With that in mind, consider some signs we do not have but might consider, for better or worse:

WARNING: ACTIVE ADDICTION ZONE (Don't stereotype as to where you might plant this sign. It could be anywhere.)

CAUTION: ALCOHOLICS AT PLAY (Imagine the ruckus bar owners would raise if these were sprinkled in their environs.)

DOMESTIC TURMOIL AHEAD (Placement would be based on the number of disturbance calls to authorities, or determined by the number of pink flamingos or ceramic trolls on the lawn.)

ABJECT POVERTY (Insert your own dang comments.)

SICKENING WEALTH

JUNK FOOD FLOOD

CAVIAR SURPLUS

BOUGIE

DO NOT ENTER: ENTITLEMENT ZONE 

EGOCENTRIC ZONE

DON'T YIELD

DIVIDED HIGHWAY — AND MORE!

COMPROMISE

TATTOOS

LITTER ZONE

YOUR TURN

Hello, Anybody Here?

The GPS-oriented map app said, "Your destination is on the left." It repeated it for good measure. (It wasn't repeating it neurotically; the app developers know people need and want assurance.) It was just past sundown. He consequently was breaking Rule 1a: Don't deliver food in the dark. "You don't drive well at night; it's too hard to find the locations. It's just not worth it," he neurotically had told himself over and over.

"Your destination is on the left."

He emerged from his car (actually, the bank's car), insulated food bag in hand.

The order was for $3.92. Our driver wanted to decline the offer. He typically rejects such a low amount, but he had already declined a few offers day. He didn't want to risk getting "a bad grade" owing to poor performance data.

He couldn't read the numbers on the houses on the winding suburban road. He was careful not to walk on the road, endangering his life for $3.92.

First, he went north searching in the just-fallen darkness for 3409 Sycamore Run. Oops. The numbers were declining.

Reverse direction.

Where could it be?

There's only one more house and it's on the corner, he mused. If it weren't the house on the corner, he'd have to cross a major roadway, and the map app is rarely that wrong.

He walked toward the corner house, stepping on grass already wet from dew. Regretting he did not grab the flashlight in his car, he had to stand a foot away to search what looked like numbers to the left of the front-door steps. As if he were employing a hybrid of braille and sight, he felt the texture of the peeling paint on the wood and drew closer: 3409. Shrouded by a pine tree and bushes, the tired house featured flaked and chipped white paint, creaking wood, missing siding, and worn steps on the porch.

He walked up a few steps and knocked on the door, which gave way, loose on its hinges.

A dog barked, in the manner of a sentinel not an attacker.

He heard a voice say, "You can open the door. Come on the porch. It's all right."

To his right, was a window, the bottom of which was six inches from the porch floor. On the other side of the open window, even with the porch floor, sat an emaciated but alert woman in her early twenties on a mattress with a comforter and a hungry kitten. Heavy-metal music emanated from her phone.

"You surprised me."

"Sorry."

"Here's your order." A half gallon of pink lemonade, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a chocolate chip cookie.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He hesitated. He wanted to ask if she was all right, if she needed more food, if it was safe there. He stood for an awkward 10 seconds, above her position on the mattress. "Good night. Take care."

The next day, around the same time, he accepted a delivery of the exact same items to the same "destination." This time, he did not need to fumble in the darkness to find the locale, this time on his right, because he approached from another direction.

He walked onto the porch, just like the evening before. The window was open a foot. The dog barked, a mixed of German shepherd, beagle, and retriever, he'd guess if quizzed. The cat was meowing and pacing.

"Hello, anybody here?"

No answer.

He repeated it, more loudly, and accompanied it with a forceful rapping on the window sash.

He waited a few minutes and then called the intended recipient via a feature of the food-delivery app. He was rewarded with no answer, not even a greeting on the food orderer's phone. He left a message: "Hello, I'm here with your food. I'm trying to deliver it."

Twenty minutes went by.

He thought of leaving the food there, placing it on the mattress through the open window.

He considered walking in through the window.

He considered calling 911.

What if she had overdosed just now? After all, someone had ordered food for this location, presumably hoping to eat and drink it. Would he remember his NARCAN training? (It wouldn't matter; he didn't have it in the car.) What if a crime were in progress? What if she had passed out from hunger?

"Hello, anybody here? Hello!?" he shouted loud enough to arouse neighborly suspicion.

Flummoxed and rattled, he began to walk off the porch, phone in hand, about to hit 911.

The dog stopped barking. He heard a door open. He halted and back-walked to the window.

Walking to the window was a stout woman, old enough and similar in appearance to Yesterday's Child as to be her mother: same oval face, brown eyes, and dirty-blond hair (streaked with gray). 

"You surprised me."

"Sorry."

"Here's your order."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Take care."

"You too, sir."
 

The Tuna Hunger Games

I'll have a tuna sandwich.

Half or whole?

Half, please. What does that come with?

Lettuce, tomato, onion.

Hold the onion. So, lettuce, tomato, and mayo with the tuna fish, right? What kind of bread does it come in? 

Whatever you like. We have . . . 

White. Yeah, white is okay. Can you toast it?

Yes, we can do that.

Thank you.

For here or to go?

Here. 

Take this device to your table, and we'll find you.

Okay.

I then receive a tuna panini. Tuna, mayo, lettuce, and tomato grilled or however it is heated.

To my two friends: I didn't ask for a panini. I just wanted a tuna fish sandwich with the bread toasted. Should I go up and tell them? I mean, I don't necessarily want to go all Steve Jobs on them, but this isn't what I wanted.

I would. It's not what you asked for. Go ahead.

At the counter in front of the food-prep area: This is a panini. I just wanted a tuna fish sandwich with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and no onion -- with the bread toasted.

I don't understand. That's what you hav --

I don't want the tuna fish heated, I...

Quizzical expressions. My server walks to the trash receptacle and ceremoniously lets the food contents slide off the plastic plate into the garbage hole destined for a landfill.

One of my friends at the table concurred in particular regarding a distaste for and aversion to heated mayonnaise, for reasons of health and taste. I considered dropping the whole notion of toasted bread, but no...

Moments later: A plate with four pieces of toasted white bread and nothing on the bread.

My turn for quizzical facial expression.

Pause.

Halt.

Is that what you wanted, sir? It's been a tough night on the line.

Where's the tuna fish? Where'd it go? And the lettuce, tomato, mayo?

A wide chasm existed between what I was thinking of saying and what sounds emerged from my mouth, though my two friends said my face and body language revealed the interior volcano that I was trying to disguise and squelch.

The chasm was getting smaller, more narrow, and smoldering.

Um, where's the tuna fish?

I kind of thought maybe you wanted the tuna fish. Hold on . . .  

Seconds later: A plate holding tuna fish with mayo in a cardboard cup for me to make the aforementioned and requested sandwich onto the four pieces of toasted bread and lettuce and tomato.

Is it me? Was it that hard? Was I that unclear?

My two friends tended to agree with me, or maybe they were exercising diplomacy and politesse.

Sometimes life ain't as simple as you'd think.

Gawd.

recalculating one's bearings

My old Garmin GPS navigation device -- the one I stubbornly rarely used -- intoned "recalculating" if you made a wrong turn or if you were making a correct turn because your eyes were telling you the device was wrong and you were right. (Some apps still do that.) As if I would know. I was the last person in North America to employ the tool. Why? Stubbornness? Male stereotype about directions? A Luddite gesture? Too stingy to spend the money? All are possible, or all of the above. I don't recall, but no doubt I would have spared myself lots of anxiety if I had used one. I remember a particular incident in 2012. I drove from Syracuse to Charlotte on a maiden voyage with my just-purchased 2007 VW Rabbit. I had nearly reached my destination, the residence of my friend Denis (yes, one N; he prides himself on that). I couldn't make it to the goal line. I traversed a highway back and forth, near the airport, east and then west; or, who knows, north and then south. A boatload of vice versas. It was blistering hot. I was exhausted, spent. I gave up. Totally surrendered. I was in a strip mall parking lot. "Come and get me, Denis. I'm lost. I need your help. Help me." He did. And it was, what, 10-12 miles. Presumably a GPS would have rescued me before reaching that point. But not necessarily. I recently experienced an incident whereby the GoogleMaps app on my phone (smartphones, the death of stand-alone GPS devices) had me repeating a loop of the same streets, trapping me in a nightmarish web of suburban culs-de-sac and winding drives, lanes, and places (scarier by far, to me, than urban equivalents). 

Back to "recalculating." *

What a relief.

It's so judgment-free, so neutral. So matter of fact. You might say scientific, objective, disinterested.

Certainly not conveying coldness or scolding.

Recalculating.

Get some new data or more data and adjust from there.

Whooooboy!

This is not how my personal history transpired, either on the receiving end or the bestowing end. How about your personal history in this regard?

I'm not merely talking of family upbringing. What about education? Being wrong or in error evoked wrath or displeasure at the least. No, this is not an argument for education rooted in touchy-feely, everybody is right, let's not hurt feelings. No, not at all. It's an altogether different perspective, and practical at that. I was always struck watching my older daughter's professional ballet classes. Dancers wanted to be corrected, to recalculate, if you will, to get it right, to improve. If the teacher ignored you, that was not good. Every class was an opportunity to recalculate, which is my way of saying correct and improve. It's not a punitive process.

Exactly 139 years ago, I was a high school English teacher. If I were to do it again, I'd apply the notion of recalculating to writing assignments, such as essays. (As an aside, they're still teaching English as they did when I was young. Foolish. The world does not need more essays on Dickens or Bronte or Shakespeare or Dante. It is of no value in the workplace. I'm for the humanities; they have their place. But writing at work varies from reports to memos to letters to white papers.) In other words, I would allow as many writing drafts as needed or wanted. Maybe the whole semester would be one, and only one, piece of "recalculated" writing. I believe this used to be called mastery learning.

Parents don't tend to be recalculators, nor spouses or lovers. Friends, more so. On second thought, some people do take that approach without uttering the word recalculating. Kudos to them.

What about ourselves?

Do we tell ourselves to recalculate, or do we indulge in an orgy of remonstrance and self-recrimination?

Most likely, when it comes to myself, I'll forget these thoughts the next time I say the wrong thing or perform the wrong action.

Recalculating.

It's not Sanskrit, but it's not a bad mantra.

* Disclaimer and Credit: This notion of applying recalculation to human events and affairs is not my original concept. I heard it from someone else; I can't remember exactly who. So, I borrowed it. Or appropriated it. Imitation is flattery. So thanks, whoever you were/are.