Foreword


This novella is a critique of the contemporary publishing industry, a restaurant cook’s manifesto, a commentary on modern systems of aesthetics and an editorial about a protest camp in South Dakota. Though it is primarily a work of fiction it contains factual information about a real place known as Camp Justice and is based on the true story of a struggling artist who is forced to work as a line cook in a family restaurant. The book ends with a description of the events on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation that lead up to the foundation of Camp Justice.

At first glance, it might seem these issues have little in common. After all what do the publishing industry, restaurant business and contemporary systems of aesthetics have in common? Though it might seem these issues have little in common, in fact they are all linked and play a role in the development of modern society. All of these three issues are linked by the common philosophy that governs American society and can be contrasted with qualities found in Camp Justice. It is the philosophy of more for less used by corporations, restaurants, publishers, governmental agencies and every day people. Ultimately, it is my claim, that this philosophy leads to dehumanization, poor cheaply constructed materials and a depreciation of the creative arts.

Book Nazis is a term used in this novella to refer primarily to the giant publishing houses that control the book industry, but it is a term that can also be used to address the biased media run by a system of sensationalism. In today’s market creative authors have an extremely difficult time getting published because anything creative is seen as a risk. Most publishers will only publish works that fall into a set, elaborately-defined genre. If a work crosses genre lines or expresses something critical it is usually sent back. If it is controversial it is seen as a risk. But don’t "controversial" ideas push us to the limits of our consciousness and more importantly push us to be critical of our own thoughts and beliefs? I believe critical thinking pushes us to grow and learn. Our society can not grow and learn when we the people are only getting one side of the story. It is important to challenge notions, ideologies and philosophies that are handed to us, and it is important to speak out when we feel something is wrong. It is in that way we grow. Creativity can only aid the process as it makes us think about things in new ways.

Though this novella is entitled Book Nazis and intends to critique the publishing industry, it spends much more time describing the restaurant business. Indeed in this work the restaurant business is a metaphor for the publishing industry. I chose the restaurant business to symbolize the publishing industry for two primary reasons. First of all both operate under the more for less ideology that leads to the depreciation of aesthetics. Quantity is valued over quality, productivity is valued over humanity and profit is valued over everything, including morals. The consequences of this ideology can be seen in the cheap, ugly, plastic products produced by most of the companies in America. Have you ever been disappointed with an expensive radio that broke right after you bought it? Do you find strip malls ugly? Does the repetition of places like McDonalds, found all over the globe, ever bother you? Why aren’t automobiles made to last? Similar questions can be asked about the publishing industry and the restaurant business. Why are there so many Idiots Guides? Why doesn’t your restaurant food ever look like it does in the picture? Why was your food burnt?

The second reason I chose the restaurant business to symbolize the publishing industry has to do with the relationship between the two industries in association to class struggle. The very real need to work in the restaurant business (or any other service orientated job) is dialectically opposed to the desire of striving artists to publish their work. In this respect the need to work and the desire to be published, together comprise a whole. To achieve balance an author needs to be paid for his work but if this is not an option, for whatever reason, the author is forced to find another way to earn money for living. In contemporary society, menial cooking jobs more and more serve this purpose being as there is an abundance of family restaurants and fast food joints. Though it is a bit ironic I found it necessary to speak about the publishing companies through the dialectical reality of every day life for the short order cook.

This novella is a cook’s manifesto! Restaurant cooks are trapped in a vicious circle. If you are a cook, whether you know it or not, you are trapped in a vicious circle intrinsic to the restaurant business. This vicious circle is part of the industry and can not be separated. The feelings of frustration and stress stemming from the job are built into the system. It is part of the more for less philosophy and a direct result of the corporation’s desire to gain an unlimited amount of profit from your labor. Feeling overwhelmed, stressed out and falling behind are all part of the job. Your lacking ability to be in two places at the same time doing two separate tasks affects you while you’re stocking, closing, cooking breakfast orders at night and when you cook the first order of the day when you’re trying to put away food brought in from the truck. Broken equipment, empty medicine cabinets and the poor job done by the night crew the day before, are all built into the system. As long as you are cooking you will feel dissatisfied, frustrated, disappointed and angry.

Brother and sister cooks you are not alone! This novella aims to point out how and why the cook is oppressed in the vicious circle of restaurant life. By better understanding his situation in the restaurant the cook can better react to the problems he faces on a daily basis. With this work I aim to draw attention to the reasons why cooks find themselves surrounded by negativity and I aim to be a beacon of hope for those who think they are alone. The vicious circle of restaurant life can be broken!

Contemporary thoughts about aesthetics penetrate more than just the above listed issues. Contemporary thoughts about aesthetics penetrate most every faucet of life. In today’s mass market society everything is governed by the philosophy of more for less. Contemporary modes of aesthetics are of no exception. More and more art is considered "good" if it is that which is profitable. Poignancy, beauty, quality, level of expression, meaning and relevancy are overlooked in the name of productivity. The Book Nazis aid this process by publishing books that undermine American intelligence i.e. Idiot’s Guides. Poignant, expressive art is lucky to find it’s way into a museum but an ugly picture that makes a good advertisement will have no problem finding an audience. More and more art is defined by it’s marketability. This shifts the focus from the aesthetic of the expressive to the commercialistic aesthetic of advertisement. It depreciates the value of creative art and makes it difficult for thoughtful artists to make a living.

Throughout the centuries art and literature have often served the purpose of social criticism. From contemporary novels like those of Kurt Vonnegut Jr. to the writings of Che Guevara, Bertrand Russell, John Steinbeck and Ward Churchill we can see examples of social criticism. Even in the Bible we can see examples of social criticism. Though not all of the authors of these works would consider themselves "artists" many of them have been perceived as artists by society and more importantly many of these books have been the inspiration for artwork based in the tradition of social criticism. Though the opinions of artists and different members of society will always differ it is important that all people have the opportunity to express themselves freely. Unfortunately artists who choose to express themselves in a non-corporate context are finding it difficult to do so without making grand sacrifice.

Contemporary corporate attitudes about aesthetics are leading to a new form of censorship. This "over-commercialism" depreciates artistic expression and will ultimately lead to an artistic tradition of art for consumers. I visualize a world where every artist is the paid employee of a company, where no art exists without a brand name, logo, or product information. Not only do I see a world where art as social criticism is nonexistent, I see a world where art as expression is nonexistent. In this world "true" artists that believe in human expression will be subservient to service oriented jobs. The artist that chooses to express himself freely will be a janitor, a garbage man or a cashier. He will labor twice as hard to produce meaningful artwork outside of his job and he will never feel fulfilled because his desire to make a living at something meaningful will be contrasted by the necessity to work at a corporate or service orientated job. He will watch his artistic skills go to waste making advertisements for companies or he will watch his life go to waste working a cash register. The artist will never be fulfilled. He will live a lie just to live at all. He will be subservient in order to support his family, he will feel shame and sorrow when he gets a ten cent pay raise. He will barely make the rent and he will live in an underclass neighborhood where his children will receive an inferior education. He will stay late and work on his day off. He will be griped at and mocked by his manager. He will constantly feel frustrated and he will constantly be angry. He will be alienated and estranged, caught, in the vicious circle of restaurant life…he will be a line cook.





Book Nazis


In the age of monopolies, multinational corporations and the globalization of big business the elite were omnipotent. It was the age of plastic solutions. Plastic telephones, plastic toys, plastic containers, plastic cars and plastic cooking utensils for plastic people with plastic souls. The best product was the cheapest and most profitable. Quality was undesirable because it wasn’t profitable. Subsequently everything was poorly made, cheap and ugly. Art was dead and beauty had been destroyed. Literature was no exception. It was the turn of the millennium and everything concerning literature was run by the Book Nazis.

Of course the term Book Nazi was not commonly used and indeed, had absolutely nothing to do with old Nazi Germany. Instead the term Book Nazi was used to refer to the totalitarian nature of the publishing companies that reigned in the U.S.A. INC™. It was a phrase used by the minority of writers, artists and musicians that had the courage to express themselves in a creative manner. It was a phrase used by the minority that believed in quality above quantity, integrity above profit and beauty above ugliness. It was a phrase used by "liberal dissidents" as they were duped by the mainstream press. No alternative press existed.

Raymond B. Westwind™ was one of the last authors still writing in the fiction genre of literature. Worse than being a fiction writer was the style of fiction he wrote. Raymond™ or Ray™ as he was called by his friends, was one of the last authors of satire. Satire was the form of writing despised most by the government of the company in which he resided. The Book Nazis hated it even more.

Satire was despised by the government of the U.S.A. INC™ because it had been used for centuries as a form of social criticism which helped keep the government™ in check. This clearly did not sit well with the robots making up the different branches of government in the U.S.A. INC™. Satire was disliked by the Book Nazis for a different reason. It was disliked by the Book Nazis because it was considered an art form. Art was not profitable and worse than that, art made life more beautiful. Beauty was a distraction for the workers and led to a decrease in productivity. Productivity was valued above all else and was considered the highest of all human qualities. In essence it defined humanity.

Since Raymond™ was an author of satirical fiction he found it hard to put food on the table and consequently he needed to work a second job. Since he was a writer with no training in business, Raymond™ lacked the formal qualifications, experience and friends needed to get a "good job". Of course this meant Raymond™ had to labor for little pay at a menial monotonous job for a boss that was ungrateful and penurious. In this respect Raymond™ was just like everyone else in the company of the U.S.A. INC™ because most people didn’t like their jobs.

Of course just because most people didn’t like their jobs didn’t mean they complained. It was a social taboo to complain about work and people who did so were rejected by their coworkers. There were many social aphorisms and cliches made to reinforce this as well. Since people liked to believe they were free, these social aphorisms and cliches were held to tenaciously. One of the most common of these was this:


"You can do anything you want to. If you don’t like your job you can quit and do what makes you happy."


Of course most people couldn’t do what they wanted to because they didn’t have enough money. If a person did have enough money to start his or her own business for example, he or she would have difficulty competing with the giant corporations. Of course most people wanted to travel or work with their hobbies but this was not possible for most of them. Instead they found jobs that they hated and pretended to like them, reassuring themselves by repeating social aphorisms and cliches.

Since people who were making a lot of money usually were happy and had better work attitudes to begin with, it follows that these cliches were most common in the workplaces where people were not happy. These jobs, of course, were those that were most common. They were the jobs in which people labored for little pay for a boss that was ungrateful and penurious. They were jobs that were menial and monotonous.

Raymond B. Westwind™ worked as a short order cook for a chain restaurant known as the CHEF’S PALACE™. The CHEF’S PALACE™ was operated under a company called VICON™ industries. VICON™ industries owned several restaurant chains including John Beefy Corn’s™, MacJack’s™ and of course, the CHEF’S PALACE™.

"You can’t be standing around!" blasted Ray’s™ boss.

She was a wretched looking middle aged woman whose personality was more repulsive than her face, though both were pretty bad. She had short dull-brown hair and wore thick glasses. Though she had been Ray’s™ boss for over three years he still couldn’t get over the fact that her wire-like neck, oddly shaped head, and her twig like legs, combined with the manner in which her glasses added to the awkwardness, made her look more like a wild turkey than a person. Since she was always nagging at people Ray™ would picture her clucking and scratching at the ground. Her name was Betsy™.

"I’m on a twelve hour shift Betsy™! This is the first time I’ve sat down in eight hours!" snapped Ray™ viciously.

It seemed Betsy™ would always gripe at the wrong times. After all, he had been working all day and the restaurant was understaffed. Since he was required by law to take a half -hour break he assumed it would be alright to sit down for five minutes. Of course everyone knew "labor laws" only existed for appearances. They couldn’t be enforced in a society that valued productivity over generosity.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck" Betsy™ replied.

"Witch!" cursed Ray™ as he walked back into the kitchen. With much exhaust he began to cook. The day was only half over.






Since the citizens or consumers, as they were called, of the U.S.A. INC™ had been reduced to nothing more than a commodity, worth no more than the market price (kept low) it followed that parents, at the time of their child’s birth, had to pick out a trademark for their son or daughter. The trademark would serve as the child’s name and would be printed on his or her birth certificate. This gave a whole new meaning to the saying "you are a product of our love". Children actually were products! And it wasn’t uncommon to hear a mother affectionately calling her new born baby a "cute little product" or "my little commodity".

Being as no two consumers were allowed to have the same trademark (this would be a copyright infringement) Raymond™ felt lucky to have a "real name". Since the law had been passed, five years prior, all of the "real names" in English had been used up and could not be used until the death of their possessor. This caused two major problems in the company (country).

Firstly, just as it was difficult to market a business without the proper name, it was difficult to market one’s self without the proper trademark. Since most "professionals" and "business types" had names like Jane™ Bill™ or John™ it was not uncommon for someone to kill a person for his or her trademark. It was the price one paid for being successful.

Secondly, since all of the "real names" had been used up in English many people looked to foreign countries for his or her child’s name. Of course, since other countries didn’t necessarily operate under the same laws as the U.S.A. INC™ there were often disputes when an American consumer claimed ownership of a name. Just as some Native Americans didn’t understand the concept of owning property during the pre-colonial era, many people in foreign nations didn’t understand the concept of owning a name. Consequently this lead to many disputes.

Of course a lot of people opted for a numeric trademark for their child but this too was not without it’s flaws. Due to overpopulation the numeric trademarks got to be quite long. 6,789,429,031™, for example, was a difficult name to remember. Of course this made it difficult for a person with a number to compete in the market with a person who had a "real name". Most parents would try at all costs to get their son or daughter a "real name" in order to ensure his or her marketability.

Though Raymond B. Westwind™ felt more like a number than a person, he was happy he had a "real name". He liked the way "real names" sounded. Sometimes he would even blurt out a name of someone he knew just to hear the sound of it. Sometimes he would even blurt out his own name just to hear the sound of it!

"R-a-y-m-o-n-d" he said to himself as he entered his apartment.

It was one o’ clock in the morning when Raymond™ got home from work. He had ended up staying two hours later than he was supposed to and had put in a fourteen hour day. It wasn’t unusual for him to stay late. On the contrary, it was expected of him. Though it had been a long day and he was exhausted, Raymond™ wearily sat himself down in front of the computer and began to write. He was working on his next satire.






The next day at work was hell. Raymond™ had been up most of the night writing and had only gotten a few hours of sleep. It was Sunday morning, the busiest time of the week, and Betsy™ was flapping her wings like a wild turkey in flight. Worse than that even, was the fact that the opening cook hadn’t done anything to prepare for the breakfast rush and it was already getting busy when Raymond™ arrived. The opening cook was 0972™.

0972™ was a heavyset middle-aged man with long black hair and a scruffy beard. Though 0972™ was lucky to have such a short numerical trademark, he wasn’t lucky enough to know exactly what his job in the restaurant was due to his lack of common sense. Though this was sad, it was quite burdensome to Raymond™ who had to pick up the slack.

In the CHEF’S PALACE™ there were four primary positions for the cooks to work. The cook working the sandwich/salad station was responsible for all cold sandwiches, salads, microwave items and sautéed vegetables. The cook working on the grill was responsible for cooking all grill items such as hot sandwiches, burgers and chickens. The cook working the fryers was responsible for all that was deep-fried. And then there was the window cook whose responsibility it was to call off all of the new orders to the other cooks. The job of the window cook was the most difficult and the most stressful due to the fact that the window cook was held responsible for everything that went wrong. He also had to see to it that all orders were prepared within ten minutes and was responsible to see that everything went smoothly. If the window cook made an error everything went to hell.

When he came onto the line Raymond™ went directly to the window station and began to call off the new orders that had been collecting at the end of the printer. Every time a new order came in the printer blasted out an outrageously irritating "beep". Every annoying "beep" served to aggravate the cooks more. Every annoying "beep" also served to take away part of their spiritual essence that could never be returned.

Since the kitchen was understaffed, Raymond™ and 0972™ had to work all of the stations on the line themselves. A job made for four would have to be done by two. Since 0972™ was neither competent nor capable of doing an adequate job, Raymond™ would have to work three of the four stations while 0972™ struggled to manage one. Of course this wasn’t unusual for Raymond™. On the contrary, it was expected of him.

Raymond’s™ day started with a special order. Special orders were despised by cooks for two reasons. Firstly, when a cook was busy he often wouldn’t remember that an order was special and he would make it the way he was accustomed to anyhow. It was an easy mistake to make when a kitchen was understaffed and a cook was burdened with fifty orders. The second reason cooks hated to make special orders was, a cook would often have to drop everything he was doing in order to focus on one food item for one client. This seemed absurd to a cook that was responsible for cooking fifty orders in ten minutes. Sometimes one special order would slow down the twenty or thirty "normal" orders. This made cooks angry.

Of course the worst thing about cooking special orders had to do with the clients themselves. Clients that ordered special orders were usually pickier and more likely to send an order back to be re-cooked. Though sometimes there was something wrong with the food when it was sent back, most often there was not. Usually clients that ordered a special order and sent it back to be re-cooked were arrogant, conceited and egotistical. They were ultra picky and they wanted their food cooked in a perfect manner that was only understood by themselves. These people didn’t mind ingesting bodily fluids.

Though it wasn’t an uncommon practice for a disgruntled cook to spit in a special order that was sent back to be re-cooked, Raymond™ didn’t like to resort to such tactics. Instead he, and indeed many other cooks, elected to swear, punch the walls, and mistreat the waitresses. So it went in the restaurant business.

Raymond™ started his day out with a special egg-white only omelet.

"God damn it!" he cursed as the order came in and the printer let off an annoying beep. Days that started off with an egg-white only omelet were always negative.






Break time came for Raymond™ seven hours later and was short lived. 0972™ had been gone for three hours and had taken three cigarette breaks before he had left. The night crew had been on for an hour and already everyone had sat down for a cigarette. That is everyone except for Raymond™. Since Raymond™ didn’t smoke he wasn’t allowed to sit down. Though there was no company policy that nonsmokers weren’t to receive a break such it usually was in the restaurant business. Since Raymond™ was working a double shift and since he hadn’t even sat down once he decided to take a five-minute break before the dinner rush.

Just as soon as he slouched to a comfortable position Betsy™ strutted past the entrance to the break room. She was scratching at the ground with her scaly feet and clapping her beak. "Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!" she snapped.
"Yea, yea, yea," Raymond™ replied. Looking up at the bulletin board he could see the company had posted a new bulletin. Quietly he began to read as he tried to shut Betsy’s annoying chatter out of his mind:

Despondently Raymond™ shook his head. He had to get out of there. He had been cooking too long. As he was contemplating the words of the bulletin he thought about his latest book submission. He hoped the Book Nazis would get back to him soon. He had been waiting for months.

"They’re trying to turn me into a damned robot," he grumbled in a jaded manner. He could hear the sound of the printer as new orders were coming in.

"Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep…"

Sadly Raymond™ returned to the line. The dinner rush had begun.

"Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep…"






The next day was Monday and Raymond™ was fortunate to have the day off. Of course, because he was a good cook and a hard worker, he had every Monday off. Competent workers and good cooks were rewarded by getting the easiest, least busy, day of the week off. This was a standard in the restaurant business that existed so the best cooks would be working on the busiest days.

At ten o’ clock, earlier than usual, Raymond™ got up to meet the mailman. He hoped the Book Nazis had sent a reply. "If only the Book Nazis would accept one of my books I would be a lot better off," he thought as he walked out to meet the mailman. At this point in his writing career he and the mailman were well acquainted with each other.

"Hello Raymond™" spouted the mailman in a cheery manner.

"Hello 975,317,285™" replied Raymond™. "Any mail for me?"

"Just these bills."

"Damn" cursed Raymond™. "Maybe tomorrow," he grumbled as he went back into the apartment. "They had to have read it by now!" he thought. After all it had been five months!

The book Raymond™ had sent to the Book Nazis was about squirrels. It operated under the premise that people were like squirrels. The story took place in a forest. Good little squirrels worked hard all summer long in order to prepare for the winter. Summer, of course, symbolized the good years of a person’s life. Winter was a metaphor for retirement. Anyhow good little squirrels worked hard all summer long in order to prepare for the winter while bad little squirrels struggled to be productive. This was because bad little squirrels weren’t satisfied with the task of collecting acorns. They believed there was more to life than the search for acorns and they searched for meaning instead. They enjoyed good books, art and music. Bad little squirrels were shot by hunters.

Returning from the front door Raymond™ went straight to the computer and began to type. He wasn’t going to let the Book Nazis discourage him. So what if they didn’t get back to him? He would send his new book to a different publisher.

"There has to be someone out there that still believes in art," he said as he started typing away.

Raymond’s™ new book was the sequel to his last. In his new book the society of squirrels had advanced and grown out of proportion. There was an overpopulation problem and the forest was infested with squirrels. In his new book the political elite or "squirrel kings" as they were called, had a monopoly on the acorn producing oak trees. Nearly all of the other squirrels worked for the squirrel kings. They labored daily at the tedious task of carrying acorns from the trees to the palace of the squirrel kings. Most of the squirrel commonwealth was barely capable of earning enough acorns to make it through the winter. The main character in Raymond’s™ new book was a squirrel by the name of 98,372™. 98,372™ was forced to work laboriously in the palace of the squirrel kings at the task of roasting acorns for the gluttonous overlords that feasted on the labor of the nation. Raymond™ had been working on his novel for no more than fifteen minutes when the phone rang. "Damn it!" he cursed as he got up to answer.

Raymond™ was reluctant to answer the telephone for good reason. It was too early for his friends to be calling. They wouldn’t have dared call this early, even if they were awake. But they were not awake and Raymond™ knew it. It was times like these that Raymond™ wished he hadn’t had to have the caller ID service disconnected. It was unfortunate he didn’t even have enough money for caller ID. Of course he would have sold or disconnected anything to keep his computer. Without his computer he couldn’t write. Well, he couldn’t write as efficiently that is.

Somberly Raymond™ looked down at the spot where the caller ID used to be. "Ring, ring, ring, ring!" The irritating sound of the telephone was beginning to annoy him. Finally he gave in against his better judgement. Reaching for the phone, he hoped it was just a telemarketer.

"Hello," Raymond™ said.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, BROK BLOCK!"

Sadly Raymond’s™ worst fear had been confirmed. It was Betsy™.

"Yea, um, I don’t know…" he replied.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck…"

"Yea, I know, but…it’s just…"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck…"

"No it’s not…yea, I guess…no…I can come in."

It wasn’t uncommon for Raymond™ to be called into work on his day off. And it wasn’t uncommon for him to go. On the contrary it was expected of him. "Shit" he said as he looked at his computer. "Maybe tomorrow."

Before he arrived at the CHEF’S PALACE™ Raymond™ already knew who he would be working with. E3-42™ the angry cook worked every Monday morning. Though E3-42™ the angry cook worked every Monday morning he was pretty good. The worst part about working with E3-42™ had nothing to do with his work skills. The worst part about working with E3-42™ had to do with his social skills. Since he had been working as a cook for twelve years E3-42™ was always angry. As Raymond™ entered the kitchen he figured someone else had called in sick. He was right.

"Hello E3-42™" he said.

E3-42™ didn’t answer. He was a thin yet commanding person with strong forearms and weak legs. Though he possessed a certain quality of austerity his thin legs made him look laughable. Somehow he was caught between his sternness and his awkward appearance. This only added to his feelings of anger and aggravated his bad temper. He had short reddish-brown hair and a crimped moustache of the same.

As Raymond™ put himself to work a moment of silence passed.

"CookoidG these hash browns aren’t well done!" bickered a waitress. It was waitron 9 (her actual name was 342-A™). She was griping at E3-42™ who was working at the grill station.

"If you want your god damned hash browns well done then tell the customer it’s going to be twenty minutes!" snapped E3-42™.

One of the good things about being a cook at the CHEF’S PALACE™ was that the cooks had power over the servers. If a waitron didn’t like the way the food looked a cook would often shout at her until she cried. Because of this waitrons usually didn’t complain. Even if the food was burnt most waitrons would rather take it out to the customer than ask the cook to remake it. Of course 342-A™ had no problem asking E3-42™ to remake something because she was his girlfriend. Since they had been seeing each other for a long time they were always fighting. Though they didn’t get a long, they refused to break up and they would fight every time they worked together.

As Raymond™ watched E3-42™ and 342-A™ fighting he was glad the cooks at CHEF’S PALACE™ had power over the waitrons. He had heard of restaurants where the waitrons had all the power. In these restaurants the waitrons would come into the kitchen screaming at the cooks. If a waitron said the food needed to be re-cooked the cook would have to oblige and if he didn’t he would lose his job. In those restaurants the cook labored with even less dignity. Raymond™ shuddered to think about it.

"If they want it cooked so damn perfectly they should stay home and cook the shit themselves!" grumbled the angry cook.

"Yea," Raymond™ replied.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep… beep, beep, beep…"

The lunch rush had started.






The orders started coming in fast that day. They came in faster than usual for a Monday. The lunch rush ended three hours later and E3-42™ had left the line to smoke a cigarette. He had been gone for forty-five minutes and Raymond™ was cooking alone. Before he could leave Raymond™ had to bring new food out of the walk-in cooler to replace the food that had been used during the lunch rush. It was a practice called stocking in the restaurant business and it was common to hear a cook say something like "I’m going to stock the grill side or I’ll be right back, I need to stock pickles. Before he could leave Raymond™ needed to stock. Everything had to be full and everything had to be clean before he could go.

Since Raymond™ had to cook every order that came in, and there were always orders coming in, he couldn’t finish stocking. Since he couldn’t finish stocking he couldn’t leave. It wasn’t that he couldn’t keep up with the new orders coming in that aggravated him. It was easy to cook the food. The hard part was stalking and cooking at the same time. It was possible of course when there were only a few orders but it was difficult when there were more. There were always more. Since it was all he could do to keep up with the new orders coming in, and since E3-42™ the angry cook was gone, Raymond™ couldn’t get any closer to his goal. It was a vicious circle. All a cook wanted was to do a good job. Since he could never be in two places, doing two separate tasks at the same time, he never felt like he was doing a good job. Consequently the cook always felt frustrated. So it went in the restaurant business.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It blasted three annoying beeps. Every time a new order came in the printer blasted three annoying beeps. Raymond™ of course thought it would be adequate if the printer only blasted one beep. The sound pierced him like shards of ice. He could feel them slice through his skin like bullets, tearing at his insides and leaving a dull burn. It was the same feeling a person got when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer or AIDS. It was the same feeling a person got when he knew he was going to die. It was the feeling of a human heart sinking in frustration. Every time the printer sounded a cook lost part of his spiritual essence, part of his soul, if you will. This is why cooks that had been working for many years at the same job appeared lifeless. In reality they had lost their spiritual essence. These "soulless cooks" were ghosts. Only their flesh was alive…but their souls were dead. Though it wasn’t known in the U.S.A. INC™ there was no afterlife for a career cook. When his flesh was dead the process was complete, his soul having died many years before.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer again. Raymond™ felt the sound piercing through his side. His heart sank and he let out a sigh of anguish.

"God damn beefalo!" he cursed.

Beefalo were cattle that contained a percentage of the genetic material of buffalo. They were raised on farms in Wyoming and were the common food source in the U.S.A. INC™. But beefalo was also a cook term for customer, that derived from the manner in which the customers herded themselves through the front door of the restaurant. It also referred to the manner in which customers behaved and their attitudes towards everything from food to politics. To a cook all customers were the same. They were mindless, faceless, repetitious beefalo.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It felt like hot nails slicing through Raymond’s™ chest. His heart sank in defeat. He burnt his finger on the grill but didn’t feel it.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. Raymond™ reached for a burger. He turned and threw a lasagna in the microwave.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. He sunk a little further down. "Beep, beep, beep" sounded the printer.

"Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep."

"God damn beefalo."

"Beep, beep, beep."

"Do you need help Raymond™?" shouted the angry cook. He had been in the back working on the order.

"No," Raymond™ replied.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep."






"Beep, beep, beep."

The next day was much better. Raymond™ was working with his closest friend 8,792,418,362,777™. Raymond™ got a long with 8,792,418,362,777™ really well. The two had many things in common. They read the same books, they both liked music, and they had elaborate conversations about life, love and man’s existential dilemma. They both also shared an affinity for "real names".

Since 8,792,418,362,777™ had a long, ugly numerical trademark Raymond™ liked to call him Carlos™. This suited 8,792,418,362,777™ just fine. Though it was an infringement on copyright laws neither one of them seemed to care. They hated the copyright laws.

"Hey Carlos™ where were you yesterday?" asked Raymond™.

"I we we went to get the title to my car put in my na na na nam e," he replied.

Though Carlos™ was the most intelligent person Raymond™ knew he would stutter from time to time. It usually came in phases and Raymond™ knew by the end of the day Carlos™ wouldn’t be stuttering at all. He usually only stuttered when he was excited to talk about something and since he and Raymond™ both shared agoraphobic tendencies it was probable that Carlos™ was going to tell him about an agoraphobic experience. Both of them hated bureaucracy and both of them struggled with the little things that were easy for "normal" people. Indeed Raymond™ could write a book rather easily because he loved to write but something "normal" like opening a checking account was pure torture. Neither he nor Carlos™ functioned efficiently and since they both feared the little bits of bureaucracy that made up "normal living" they both felt like outcasts. Because they shared this bond they were usually excited to tell each other about the problems they encountered due to their social inadequacies. They were both agoraphobic! Of course Carlos™ had his own terminology. Carlos™ liked to call them "bad chickens".

"Bad chicken" was a term that Carlos™ used because he had grown up on a farm watching how chickens behaved together. On the farm when a chicken was sick, different, or completely ugly it was referred to as a "bad chicken". All of the other chickens would peck a bad chicken to death. Carlos™ and Raymond™ were bad chickens because of their agoraphobic tendencies and fear of bureaucracy.

"How did it go with the car title?" asked Raymond™.

"No, no, not good. I got ag, ag, ag agoraphobic as soon as I pulled into the parking lot and I we, we, went home."

"Ha, ha, ha" laughed Raymond™. "You didn’t even go in…Shit Carlos™ what are you going to…"

"You can’t call him Carlos™!" blasted a waitress. Her name was 709™. She was always reciting the nationalistic company propaganda. Since she was fortunate enough to have a short, easy, numerical name she was always rubbing the copyright laws in someone’s face. Carlos™ and Raymond™ didn’t like her because she spoke without thinking. She had no courage and she listened unquestionably to everything she was told by the media.

"It’s a violation of the copyright laws! His real name is 8,792,4…"

"Shut up you damn waitron!" snapped Raymond™.

"We weren’t talking to you waitron 7!" shouted Carlos™. His stuttering had stopped and wouldn’t come back for a while.

"Assholes!" she asserted as she stormed out of the kitchen.

"Ha, ha, ha."

"Ha, ha, ha."

"Thirty minute ticket times!" shouted Carlos™.

"No tips tonight" laughed Raymond™.

In the restaurant business a ticket time referred to the amount of time it took to cook an order. The standard was ten minutes and generally speaking this was plenty of time to cook an order. Of course the standard existed because the beefalo couldn’t wait any longer than ten minutes. Beefalo were impatient and pretentious. Food was just like everything else in the U.S.A. INC™. Since productivity, quantity, cheapness, and speed were valued over quality, food needed to be prepared quickly. Fast food was better than good food and food was cheap because restaurants kept the cost of labor low.

Anyhow "thirty minute ticket times" was what the cooks said when they wanted a waitron to stop talking. It was more than a threat. It was the way the cooks asserted their power. If a waitron made a cook angry enough he would pull her tickets and wait for fifteen minutes before he started cooking the orders. Since waitrons were paid by tips, and since beefalo wouldn’t leave a good tip if it took a long time to prepare the food, the cooks were able to control how much money a waitron made. It paid to be nice to the cooks!

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer as a new order came in.

"So when is your brother coming back to work?" asked Carlos™.

Raymond’s™ brother had worked at CHEF’S PALACE™ for a long time but had taken a leave of absence to go back to school™. He was due to start back at work the next week. Raymond™ and Carlos™ couldn’t wait for him to get back because he was an excellent cook. He was also a bad chicken and consequently one of their best friends. Though his trademark was B329™ Carlos™ and Raymond™ called him Tomas™.

"Tomas™ will be back…"

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. The sound pierced like cold shards of ice.

"Thomas™ will be back next Saturday," said Raymond™. He made sure to say the name Tomas™ loudly so waitron 7 could hear him. She was trying to ignore him but it was obvious he was getting to her. "Yea Tomas™ is looking forward to coming back."

"That’s great…I look…"

"Beep, beep, beep."

"I look forward to seeing Thomas™," Carlos™ finished.

"Beep, beep, beep."

"Have you heard back from the Book Nazis?" he asked. "And how’s your new story coming along?"

"It’s co…"

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"It’s coming along…"

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer again. The sound stung and made them feel lifeless. It was an order for a table of fifteen.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…"

The diner rush had begun.






Unfortunately the dinner rush hit hard on Tuesday night. It hit harder than usual for a Tuesday and Raymond™ didn’t have any time to talk to his friend. He was disappointed because he didn’t even have the chance to tell Carlos™ the premise of his new book. Since Raymond™ and Carlos™ both worked so much the only chance they ever had to talk was at work. Since they were always busy they didn’t have the chance to talk about much. So it went in the restaurant business.

On Wednesday Carlos™ worked in the morning and Raymond™ worked at night. Wednesday nights usually went smooth and Raymond™ was generally happy because he knew he would be working with Jeffery7982™. Jeffery7982™ was an excellent cook and a friendly person, which was generally enough to brighten Raymond’s™ day. It was always nice to work with someone who knew the job well…but sometimes it wasn’t enough.

Raymond™ though he liked to work with Jeffery7982™, didn’t love the idea. Jeffery7982™ was nice, intelligent and fun but he had a character flaw that made him hard to work with at times. The problem with Jeffery7982™ was that he always felt the need to impress people and he was always trying to prove to people how "bad" he could be. Or more correctly he was always trying to prove to people how bad he used to be.

Since Jeffery7982™ couldn’t afford to get arrested again, being as he had already been convicted of two felonies, and since he had a family to support, Jeffery7982™ couldn’t do the "bad" things he used to. He didn’t smoke crack, didn’t drink or do the drugs he used to, he didn’t steal anymore, and he didn’t get in fights anymore. Though Jefery7982™ didn’t do the crazy things he used to he couldn’t bare the fact they might be forgotten and he had to constantly be reminding people of "how bad he used to be". Sometimes Raymond™ just wasn’t in the mood to listen…though most people usually were.

"Yea if I were you I’d be fucking all these hot little waitresses" Jeffery7982™ said to Raymond™.

"Yea" Raymond™ replied.

"I mean if I didn’t have a wife I’d do it," he said.

"Yea" Raymond™ replied.

"Back in the day, when I was your age, I used to do some crazy shit," he said.

"Beep, beep, beep," the printer sounded.

"Yea" Raymond™ replied.

"Man back when I was snorting Meth every day I used to be fucking ‘em all the time. I remember this one time, when I was running drugs down from Canada™…"

"Not this one," thought Raymond™. Over the years he had heard this same story almost eight times. Though Raymond™ usually didn’t mind listening to Jeffery7982™brag, he just wasn’t in the mood for it this time. As he put a plate of chicken strips up in the window he realized he hadn’t been listening to the story at all.

"Yea…and then we all took turns on her. It was great but we were all so fucked up on Meth. We were so fucked up I can’t believe we made it across the border. Those were the days! Man, those were the days!"

"Yea," said Raymond™. He was glad Jeffery7982™ didn’t notice his lack of enthusiasm.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It was an order for three omelet s, a cheeseburger, a chicken stir-fry salad and an order of onion rings. Raymond™ threw a burger on the grill and started the chicken strips.

"Back when I was stealing cars I could really hold my liquor, shit, we used to get all coked up and we’d go out and find us a nice car to take on a joy ride. Man I wish I were young again. Man those were the days."
"Yea," Raymond replied. "So how are the kids?"

"Shit. Those little bastards are all right. The new one is still sucking on my wife’s tit. Can’t drink out of a bottle. Shit, that little fucker gets to see her tits more than I do…now back in the day things were different."

"Yea," Raymond™ said.

The sad thing for Raymond™ was he knew that Jefery7982™ was actually intelligent behind the façade. Raymond™ really did like him and it was sad to watch him try to impress people in such a pathetic way. For one thing he wasn’t always trying to act bad. When Jeffery7982™ wasn’t trying to impress people he was actually quite fun to be around. But for some reason he was out to prove something. Whether he was trying to prove it to himself or whether he was trying to prove it to the world Raymond™ could never know.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It cut like hard snow. It was another breakfast order.

"So what have you been up to?" Jeffery7982™ asked.

"Not much," Raymond replied.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"I’ve been doing a lot of writing," he continued.

"Shit…writing…back when I was your age we used to…"

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. "Beep, beep, beep."

Raymond™ cut his finger but didn’t realize it. The dinner rush had started.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…"






At the end of the night Raymond™ finished scraping the grill. He was the closing cook and felt exhausted from the nights work. The dinner rush had hit harder than usual that night and Jeffery7982™ had left early. Jeffery7982™ always left early. Of course Raymond™ didn’t care. Though it was extra work, sometimes he would rather cook alone than listen to Jeffery7982™ try to impress him. It just wasn’t worth it.

Just like the cook that had to stock, the closing cook was caught in a viscous circle. It was expected that everything be spotless when the closing cook left. He had to wipe everything clean, cover all the food, turn everything off, sweep and mop the floor. Everything was supposed to be left perfect, fully stocked, and the cook was supposed to be gone exactly when the restaurant closed. Since the restaurant closed at midnight and since all of the other cooks were supposed to leave as soon as the dinner rush was over, the closing cook had to do it all alone. Of course he had to cook every new order as well. There were always new orders.

Again, just like stocking, the frustration stemmed from the fact that the cook couldn’t be in two places at the same time doing two separate tasks. The boss expected the cook to be done as soon as the restaurant closed. The cook tried to get everything done before close but new people came into the restaurant all night and the cook had to make them food. Since the cook couldn’t be in two different places at the same time he became frustrated. If the cook didn’t get everything done before the restaurant closed he was punished by his boss who would tell him to hurry up, yell at him or call him slow in a mocking tone of voice. If the cook did get done on time he was punished by the beefalo that came in to eat just before the restaurant closed. He would then have to unwrap the food, turn everything back on, cook on his clean grill rewrap the food, re-clean the grill, re-clean the counter, turn everything off again and pick up crumbs on the floor. This of course, was after he ran around the kitchen grabbing all of the kitchen utensils, plates, knives, and supplies that he would need to cook the order. These things were supposed to be put away at the end of the night and would be off the line at this point. Indeed, the cook couldn’t win and due to the nature of the viscous circle, the cook was always punished.

In all actuality the restaurant business was just like the publishing business. Restaurant CEOs, just like the Book Nazis, wanted to keep cost low and valued the most for the least. Quantity was valued over quality. Profit was valued over elegance, profit was valued over decency, and profit was valued over humanity. In both cases the final product was cheap and in both cases there was apathy towards beauty.

Raymond™ finished scraping the grill at twelve thirty that night. He was thirty minutes late. As he walked to the sink to wash his hands he noticed a figure moving awkwardly out of the corner of his eye. As it wobbled closer he turned to meet it. With beady eyes and a long wiry neck outstretched she was clucking annoyingly. It was Betsy™. Her blotchy feathers were ruffled as she spoke rapidly. She didn’t even make eye contact with him.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck," she chattered.

"Yea," Raymond™ replied.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck," she continued.

"Yea, I’m done. I’ll be off the clock in a minute," he said.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck."

"What ever!" Raymond snapped as he left the kitchen and punched out.

Walking in the parking lot Raymond™ was surprised to see a figure standing in front of his car. "Who could be waiting for me this time?" he thought. As he got closer he realized who it was. It was Carlos™!

"What’s up Ray™?"

"Carlos! What are you doing here?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted to get a cup of coffee or something."

"Sure! Let’s go!" Raymond™ replied.

Sadly they went to a twenty-four hour restaurant.

It was another problem facing the closing cook. Most cooks avoided going to restaurants by heading straight to a bar after work. If a cook didn’t drink, however, there weren’t many options open to him. Of course, most cooks did drink. Drinking was a form of self-medication that helped cooks forget. And since most cooks had to work double shifts with only a few hours off in between, forgetting was an important concept. Unfortunately because Raymond™ was a bad chicken and because he had had some negative experiences with alcohol, he didn’t like to drink. The alternative was ironic and at times punishing.

As they pulled into the parking lot of the Sunset Cafe™ they were glad not to be spending money in a restaurant owned by VICON™. Never the less they couldn’t help but feel like they were doing something wrong anyway. It felt like they were giving their money back right after they earned it. It also felt like they were committing a crime against a brother. It was the guilt a cook felt every time he walked into a restaurant.

"What can I get you two?" droned the waitron. "The special tonight is the hot turkey sandwich."

Raymond™ had been cooking turkey dinners all night. He pictured Betsy™ wobbling towards him with a plate of freshly cut turkey clucking violently. "Coffee" he said.

"Me too," asserted Carlos™.

Neither one of them could bare the thought of making a brother work any harder.

"So how did it go tonight?" Carlos™ asked.

"Same as always. Jeffery7982™ was talking shit all night and then he left early. He did a lousy job on his clean-up and I got out of there late."

"Same old bullshit. Have you heard back from the Book Nazis yet?"

"I’ve gotten rejection letters from a few of them."

"What did they say?"

"Same old bullshit. They say my book doesn’t fit perfectly into the genre they like to print. They keep telling me to write an Idiot’s Guide™ to something. One company told me my book was too expressive. They said no one wanted to read artistic literature…but I don’t believe it. That’s why I keep writing."

"Damn!"

"Hey did you see the new bulletin they put up at work?" Raymond™ asked.

"Yea! It’s crazy!"

"Can you believe that?"

"They’re trying to turn us into mindless machines!" Carlos™ asserted.

"It’s outrageous! I’m not going to comply with that shit! If they think I’m going to call you a dam cookoid they’re wrong!"

"No shit! If they try to enforce it we’ll just quit!"

"Yea. That place would be screwed if it weren’t for us! I’d like to see them find two competent cooks to replace us!" Raymond™ said.

"They’re not going to enforce it!"

"You’re right…but you wouldn’t believe what Betsy™ said to me tonight!"

"What?" Carlos™ asked.

"She told if I didn’t start getting out of there sooner she was going to make me work off the clock!"

"She can’t do that!"

"I know…but that’s what she said."

"What a witch!"

"Yea, I know! I’d like to see her do as good of a job as I do on the line!"

"She couldn’t!"

"I know…shit!"

"What?" Carlos™ asked.

"Why do we always talk about work when we’re not there?"

"I don’t know! Let’s talk about something else."

After a good long conversation with his friend Raymond™ arrived home. The two of them could have easily talked all night at the Sunset Cafe™ but Raymond™ knew he had to get some sleep before work. It was three thirty in the morning. Wearily he looked over at his computer. Though he would have liked to have worked on his story he was just too tired. "Maybe tomorrow" he said as he walked towards the bedroom.






"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It cut through his side like fire and vodka. It was an order for three skillets, an omelet and a burger.

"Damn breakfast orders!" Raymond™ cursed.

Cooks hated cooking breakfast orders at night. Again it was a vicious circle and the cook was trapped. Since companies in the restaurant business felt they would make more money if they offered breakfast all day long, and indeed it was true, the cooks would have to comply. The problem lied in the fact that most people didn’t order breakfast at night. Since most people ordered dinner specials, burgers, and hot sandwiches the cooks would have to completely rearrange the line before lunchtime. Since there wasn’t a lot of space in the kitchen many of the breakfast items would have to be stashed out of the way in some corner of the restaurant where they wouldn’t get in the way. This made these items difficult to get to at nighttime when a cook needed them. Often a cook would have to drop everything he was doing just to cook one breakfast order. It seemed ridiculous to a cook who had to cook fifty orders at the same time. But so it went in the restaurant business.

Restaurants made more money by making the cooks work harder. The less cooks working the less a company had to pay in labor. More for less was the idea and because of this restaurants were always understaffed. At CHEF’S PALACE™ the kitchen was divided into two areas or sides as they were called, for cooking. One side was the breakfast side. The other side was for lunch and dinner. When the beefalo ordered breakfast items at night the cook would have to leave all the food that was cooking on the lunch side just to cook one order on the breakfast side. This was how the kitchen was designed by the VICON™ central computer.

Since the breakfast cooks were supposed to leave everything clean, and wrapped the night cook would have to unwrap the food, run to the back of the kitchen to grab the cooking utensils he would need, cook the order, rewrap everything and clean the mess he had just made. This would be done every time a breakfast was ordered at nighttime. It made the job harder for the cook but it made the company more money. It also made the beefalo happy. If a beefalo sent a breakfast order back to be re-cooked at nighttime he or she wouldn’t mind consuming bodily fluids.

While Raymond™ was cooking the breakfast order three new orders came in. "Damn breakfast orders" Raymond™ cursed.

Quickly he finished cooking the omelets and ran back to the dinner side. There were two fajitas, a cheeseburger, a chicken sandwich, a baked turkey dinner, and three breakfast items.

"Damn beefalo!" cursed Raymond™ as he started cooking the new orders. He was working alone because the other cooks were late. "Where is everyone!" he grumbled.

"Beep, beep, beep," the printer sounded, fire and vodka. "Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep."
Raymond started cooking as fast as he could. Frantically moving back and forth around the kitchen. He burned himself but didn’t feel it. The dinner rush had begun.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

Every other order was a breakfast order. Raymond™ was still cooking alone.

"Damn breakfast orders!"

He went to start the eggs. There were no eggs!

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"No eggs!" he screamed.

The orders were coming in at a steady pace. Nearly all of them were breakfast orders. Raymond™ was still cooking alone.

"We’re out of eggs!" shouted Raymond™. "I can’t make the omelets!"

"Cook it!" screamed a waitron.

"What?" contested Raymond.

"Cook it!" shouted the waitron. Her skin was melting off her face like cheese sliding off a pizza. He could see her circuits and gears. She was a robot!

"Cook it!" she screamed. Her voice contorted into a robotic shrill.

"But we’re out of eggs," Raymond™ pleaded.

"Cook it!" she shrilled. Her eyes were glowing red and all of the skin had fallen off her face. Her arms moved mechanically as she stammered back and forth.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

In a panic Raymond™ started to cook. He had to get the orders out!

As he was trying his best to cook what he could he went to cut a sandwich. He pushed hard to cut through. The knife wouldn’t cut. Again he tried. The knife wouldn’t cut!

"Beep, beep, beep."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something large coming towards him. It was Betsy™! But she was different! She was gigantic and beast-like. Her feathers were missing in some places and her eyes too, were glowing red.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!" she screeched.

"But we’re out of eggs" Raymond™ screamed.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"Beep, beep, beep!"

Each time the printer sounded Betsy™ struck out at Raymond™ taking one of his fingers or a chunk of flesh in her beak. "What the fuck!" Raymond™ shrieked as he dropped to the floor. Betsy™ began her assault. Instantly she took off two more of his fingers. Blood. Next she moved towards his eyes. She was scratching at his face with her talons while she took out first his left and then his right eye. Blood.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep!"

Raymond™ shot up in his bead sweating profusely. It had only been a nightmare. His heart was still beating fast as he rolled over to turn off the alarm. It was six o’ clock in the morning and it was time to get ready for work.






Work nightmares weren’t uncommon in the restaurant business. Though not all cooks experienced them many cooks did. The worst part about a work nightmare was that it led to feelings of oppression brought on by the monotony of the viscous circle. If a cook worked a double shift one day and he knew he had to return early the next morning, the feelings were even worse. When this happened a cook would often feel like he had never left. If it happened often a cook would lose his sense of reality, dignity and hope. He wouldn’t believe in life away from the job.

Of course sometimes a cook didn’t know of or wouldn’t believe in life away from the job anyhow. Many cooks worked six days a week. These same cooks would also work double shifts as well. To top it all off they would usually be called into work on their day off too. The better the cook you were the more of a chance there was this would happen to you. Since restaurants were constantly searching for a way to cut down labor costs they would often schedule one good cook to do the job of two or three marginal cooks. Though a good cook could do the job of two, three, or sometimes four marginal cooks it did not make him feel good. His energy output was higher, he received fewer rest cycles, and he was called into work on his day off more often. Since all of this was expected of him he never received a pay raise, a thank you, or the praise of a job well done. In this way the good cooks were punished instead of being rewarded.

"It’s too bad I’ll never get my book published," said Raymond™ out of the blue. It was Friday morning. He was cooking with Carlos™ and E3-42™ the angry cook. "I guess this is my future," he said.

"Why are you so pessimistic? Maybe they’ll publish it…you don’t know," Carlos™ replied.

"Ha, ha, ha," Raymond™ laughed. "Yea right…more for less that’s all they want."

"What do you mean?" Carlos™ asked.

"They don’t care about literature. All they see is a market. They want to sell the most books to the largest number of people for the most money by taking the least risk…they don’t care about expression. They’ll only publish books similar to the ones that have made them money in the past. If something is fresh, new and creative it is seen as a risk. If it doesn’t fit perfectly into a publisher’s genre it is seen as a risk. If it expresses something controversial or critical it is seen as a risk…like I said more for less."

"More for less," Carlos™ repeated.

"Quality is sacrificed for profit…just like this lousy food," grumbled Raymond™.

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Carlos™. "I guess so."

"It tastes like garbage."

"But who eats it? I don’t have the stomach for it."

"The robots," said Raymond™. Both of them began laughing.

"Damn Book Nazis!"

"What are you two laughing about?" asked E3-42™ sarcastically. "Don’t you know it’s against the company policy to have fun here."

E3-42™ seemed to be in a better mood than usual.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer. It stung like iodine.

"God damn it!" shouted E3-42™ as he slammed his fist into the cooler door. Things were normal.
"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"New order, two ham omelets, eggs and hash brown scrambled and a veggie skillet" Raymond™ called as a seatbot wheeled up to the window.

"There’s someone here to see him," she said as she pointed a robotic finger towards Carlos™.

Looking out towards the lobby Raymond™ saw a beautiful brunet, with tight fitted cloths and smooth dark legs. She was wearing a revealing skirt and a tank top.

"Mamacita!" Raymond™ said with angst. "Hey Carlos™ your girlfriend is here."

As Carlos™ walked to the lobby to talk to her he looked back and gave Raymond™ a dirty look. He must not have liked the way Raymond™ was staring at her.

"Beep, beep, beep," sounded the printer.

"Where the hell did he go?" muttered E3-42™ bitterly.

"He just went to talk to his girlfriend for a minute…he’ll be right back."

"This is god damn work! He can talk to her on his own time!"

Raymond™ turned his head to laugh.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

Carlos™ had been off the line for about three minutes when Raymond™ looked towards the lobby. What he saw was more than annoying. Trying intensely he could just make out some of the words.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!" yapped Betsy™ as she chattered her beak. Her feathers were ruffled and there was down floating in the air around her. Raymond™ watched as Carlos™ was moving his mouth rapidly but he couldn’t make out the words.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck cluck!…Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!"

Carlos’s™ girlfriend turned away with a look of sad embarrassment on her face and went towards the door. Carlos™ said good bye and came storming back into the kitchen. He seemed angry.

"What was that all about?" Raymond™ asked.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer.

"Bi, bi, bi, bitch!" Carlos™ murmured.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"What happened?"

"She said Jennifer707™ co, co, co, co, couldn’t co, co, come in here anymore!"

"What?" Raymond exclaimed! "That’s crazy! Why?"

"Sa, sa, sa, said it makes the work a, a, a, a, environment bad…said it was a bother."

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"But she’s your girlfriend!"

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer again. It burnt like caustic acid.

Carlos™ and Raymond™ started cooking faster. Carlos™ burnt his arm but didn’t feel it. Raymond™ cut his finger.

"Damn!" he screamed as he punched the counter. "I cut my god damned finger!"

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer.

Raymond™ left the line to clean and dress his wound.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…"

The breakfast rush had started.






The next week Raymond’s™ brother Tomas™ came back from school. On Saturday night Carlos™ Raymond™ and Tomas™ all worked together. Though it was busier than usual the three of them had no problem keeping up since they were all good cooks. It was one of the rare times that three competent cooks were all scheduled at the same time. Since they were all friends it was even better.

"What’s the deal with the new bulletin hanging in the break room?" Tomas™ asked as he flipped a chicken onto a bread set and placed it on the cutting board for Raymond™ to cut.

"Oh you mean the waitrons and the cookoids? I don’t know I guess they’re trying to turn us into robots."

"Waitrons?" asked Tomas™ surprised like. "No…It’s about employee friends."

Carlos™ and Raymond™ both looked at each other. Neither one of them had seen it yet.

"What?" shouted Carlos™ as he and Raymond™ ran back to look at it.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer. It cut like cold frozen glass but neither one of them cared. They knew Tomas™ could handle the new orders while they read the new bulletin. This is what they read:

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"God damn witch!" hollered Carlos™.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"We’ve got to get out of this place!"

"If she ke, ke, ke, keeps this up I’m gonna qui, qui, quit!"

"Beep, beep, beep!"

Maybe the night wasn’t going to be as fun as the three friends had anticipated.

"Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep…"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!"

It was Tomas’s™ first night back.

The dinner rush had started.






Streaming down the highway like the wind, the night air was fresh and it smelled good as it entered through a crack in the window. It felt rewarding for Carlos™ Raymond™ and his brother to be away from work. Even if it was only for a week they were happy. A week was more than most people got. The music was playing loud and the conversation was cheerful as the three friends sped into the night. They were on their way to the Badlands of South Dakota™ for a week of camping.

"How long until we get to the Badlands?" Carlos™ asked.

"Eight hours," answered Tomas™ who was driving the car.

"When will we be in South Dakota™?"

"There’s only four hours to South Dakota™."

"That’s great!" Carlos™ exclaimed enthusiastically. "We’ll get there right at sunrise."

"I told you it was a good idea to leave tonight," said Raymond™.

"Yea maybe so…we would have just spent all night at the Sunset Cafe™ anyhow," Carlos™ responded.

"Besides it’s nice to put some distance between us and the restaurant…that place is evil."

"It starts to get to you doesn’t it?"

"Shit I just came back last week and I’m already sick of it," Tomas™ said. "It feels like I never left."

"Well I didn’t leave and I can assure you it feels much worse than you think," Raymond™ said.

"Ha, ha, ha," chuckled Tomas™. "Maybe you’re right."

"And what’s with those new bulletins? Do they really think we’re going to comply with that crap?"

"We’ll just quit!" asserted Tomas™.

"That place would be screwed if we quit!" said Raymond™ and Carlos™ at the same time.

"I’d like to see them find three more cooks as competent as we are!" said Raymond™.

"Let’s talk about something else" grumbled Carlos™.

"Yea…why do we always talk about work anyhow?"

The night was long with anticipation but nearly seven and a half hours later the drive was almost over. As darkness slowly gave way to light and the sky began to fill with blaze the three cooks approached their destination. They were almost there.

Every quarter mile they passed a billboard for Wall Drug™. Every half-mile they passed a billboard for Mount Rushmore™. In between there was always a billboard for Cosmos™ and Reptile Gardens™. "See Elvis Presley’s™ motorcycle here!" said a sign.

"What a bunch of crap!" said Raymond™ with disgust. "Elvis Presley’s™ motorcycle! Who the fuck would stop to see that?"

"The robots" said Carlos™ with a big grin on his face.

Raymond™ couldn’t help but laugh. Neither could Tomas™.

"But seriously…this state is full of garbage! It’s a bunch of cheap junk! Wall Drug™! Why do people go there? All of these lousy tourist traps are pathetic! It’s the kind of crap you should find in a cereal box! Cheap, ugly and profitable!"
"More for less," said Carlos™.

"More for less," Raymond™ repeated. "It’s just like everything else in this company. People sacrifice quality for quantity. They sacrifice integrity for profit."

"People sacrifice beauty for ugliness," said Tomas™.

"People sacrifice their humanity for nothing."

"Productivity is valued above everything else," said Carlos™.

"No!" said Raymond™. "Profit is valued above everything else… even human lives."

As the three friends pulled through the main entrance to the Badlands National Park their conversation was silenced by natural beauty. The sun, a blazing globe of incandescence, began its assent over broken renegade rocks and desperado mountain peaks. The beauty was overwhelming as the sky filled with a blaze of fire orange. Shades of purple and maroon danced across the landscape like the pronghorn antelope dancing on the grass. The moon, a sliver of silver, languished in part of the sky, dark. She was crowned with blue and glistened in the face of day. It was astonishing!

"Wow!" said Tomas™ as he pulled the car to the side of the road.

"Look!" said Carlos™ as he pointed towards a jagged peak. A big horned sheep was scaling the side of a hill. He stopped standing majestically on the side of a cliff.

"Incredible!" exclaimed Raymond™.






The three friends arrived at their camp sight in the backcountry of the Badlands sometime late in the afternoon. They had made slow progress through the park, stopping often to look at wildlife. The hills were teeming with antelope and deer. The sky was a dark, fresh shade of blue. The hills were painted yellow with wildflowers and spotted gray with jeering rocks. It was a beautiful day.

The travelers had even stopped to stare at a herd of Bison™. Sadly the last of the great free Bison™ had become the center of attention for the beefalo that flocked from all over the company to gawk at them. Being the main tourist attraction the Bison™ were sometimes the only reason people paid to enter the park. As if they were used to it, yet still unappreciative, the Bison™ stood majestically yet annoyed while beefalo from all around the company snapped photos of them.

Though the three travelers had stopped to look at them they became annoyed by all of the tourists that were stopping and they realized the hypocrisy of their actions. Pitifully, the once free Bison™ had become objects of commercialization. Just as the objectification of the labor of cooks made the restaurant owners rich, the Bison™ were objectified by the National Park system to make money for the government™. Sadly the three cooks felt a bond with the Bison™. Since they empathized with the animal they decided to leave him alone. The Bison™ was a symbol! He stood for class struggle, inequality and the estrangement of the cook in the vicious circle of life in the restaurant business! The Bison™ was sacred!

Within an hour the three friends had the tent set up, a pot of coffee cooking on the one-burner and their sleeping bags rolled out. As the sun sunk behind the twisted hills a chill filled the air and the three travelers began to talk. They talked about what they had seen and discussed their plans for the next day.

"What a beautiful place" said Tomas™.

"It really is," said Carlos™. "It’s hard to believe they want to fill it with a strip mall."

"Yea…so it goes in the U.S.A. INC™ I guess," answered Raymond™.

"Ugliness over beauty," said Tomas™.

"So…should we go on a hike tomorrow?" asked Carlos™.

"Sounds great!"

"We’ll head back where there won’t be any tourists," proclaimed Tomas™.

"Into the wild heart of beauty!" exclaimed Raymond™.

As the three friends were talking a shooting star streaked across the twilight sky. "Did you see that?" Tomas™ asked.

"Yea," answered Carlos™.

"Can you believe how incredible it was too see the Bison™?" said Raymond™ rhetorically. "I’ve never felt so connected to a wild animal before. I feel like I understand him…like I can feel his sorrow…I feel like I know his pain."

"You’re right," said Tomas™. "They are majestic creatures yet they carry a sorrow with them."

"And they share our plight," proclaimed Carlos™.

"They are brothers," said Raymond™.






The next morning the three friends were awoken early by the heat of the day. Quickly before it got any warmer they gathered their supplies, plenty of water and set out into the wild heart of beauty. They wanted to get a good start on their hike before it got any hotter. And they knew it would get hotter.

Hiking through the winding trenches of the Badlands it was easy for a person to get lost. It was important to pay attention to where one was going. The land almost had a mystic quality to it. From a higher vantage point everything looked flat but in fact it was not. What appeared from a distance to be a flat plain was really a stretch of twisted crevices and small canyons. In this way the land was mysterious and deceiving. Since it was easy to get lost the three travelers paid close attention to where they were going.

As the they stumbled through the rugged terrain the three friends where overwhelmed by the grandeur of the estranged yet beautiful land. They were surrounded by tall yellow wildflowers. In some places the flowers grew taller than the travelers. As they pushed their way through mat of these "flower walls" they were showered in pollen. The sky was a deep shade of blue and the earth showed barren spots of cracked gray mud. Every so often they would cross the path of a small heard of pronghorn. At mid day they stopped on top of a small plateau to admire the view of a gray cliff face. The dry gray mud of the cliff face was splashed with stripes of deep purple and maroon. As they paused to soak it all in they were comforted by a cool breeze. They were completely alone.

"It’s so nice to be here," said Carlos™ quietly.

"I wish we would have come here long ago," replied Raymond™.

"I wish we could stay," said Tomas™. Raymond™ and Carlos™ gave him a look of disdain. What he had said implied the impermanence of the trip and the undeniable fact that they would soon have to return.

"Do you think this place will exist in fifty years?" asked Raymond™.

"I would like to think so," said Carlos™. "But who knows?"

After a short period of pondering the natural beauty in silence the three friends decided to start back towards the camp sight. They decided it would be a good time to return since they had already exhausted half of their water supply and the inferno heat of the mid day sun was beginning to get to them. There was little shade in the Badlands.

Taking relatively the same rout back but making minor deviations, the three friends stumbled through the rugged canyons and scrambled over twisted outlaw hills. The renegade nature of the environment was rugged and foreboding, yet it held a quality of mystic gracefulness. Though harsh, it was also alluring. Though wicked it was attractive. It beheld a profound sense of balance in this way.

As the three friends were finding their way through the winding twisted ravines they could hardly see eight feet in front of them. The trail zigzagged back and forth like a jaded rattlesnake and they were surrounded by the cracked mud walls of the chasms. As they worked their way over a jagged mound they were shocked into stillness.

Standing in front of them only fifteen feet away was the largest Bison™ they had ever seen. He was a brown majestic giant with a thick mane. He was the Bison™ king. With nothing between him and the three friends the Bison™ had all the power. Defenseless the travelers were at his mercy. The Bison™ could have charged at any moment. But he didn’t.

Silently, without the slightest movement they admired him as he let out a powerful snort and shook his head with vigor. He was the Bison King™. With his dark eyes bigger than an eight ball the Bison™ peered at the travelers cautiously. There was something about those eyes.

His eyes were black globes of power and wisdom. Through them the Bison™ expressed his sadness. As if in a trance the travelers couldn’t look away. A moment passed. It could have been an hour. Towering noble and majestic the Bison King™ spoke to them through his eyes.

He was aged and solitary. Isolated from his heard he was a loner. He was the center of a freak show. Alienated and estranged he was a commercial object. He carried with him a deep sadness. His land had been stolen his people had been hunted. Now he was forced to serve his oppressors, his crystallized labor was the fruit of their wealth. As he shared his sadness he took pity on the travelers. He could feel their pain. He could see their struggle. He could feel the commonality and he knew they were walking the same path. He knew he was their brother!

Having shared all he could the Estranged Bison King™ turned away. As soon as he broke eye contact the connection was severed. As he wandered slowly down the trail the three friends backed away with caution. They would never talk about what they had seen…but they knew its importance.






The trip had been a grand success for the three friends who were now feeling more relaxed than before. The fresh air and natural environment had been refreshing. The sun had been wonderful. The experience with the Estranged Bison King™ had been powerful and moving. Though the travelers felt better they were sad they had to return. The week had passed quickly, too quickly.

Since they had one more night left before they had to be home to work they decided to take their time driving back. They had the whole day to stop and enjoy the scenery. On their way out of the park the three friends resolved to exit through the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation of the Oglala Lakota. The sun was high over their heads and the day was hot. As they drove through the reservation they were mostly silent.

"I wanna stop at the Wounded Knee memorial," declared Raymond™ who was sitting in the front and staring at a map. "It’s just up ahead."

"O.K." said Tomas™.

"What is it?" asked Carlos™ from the back.

"I don’t know much," said Raymond™. "It’s a sight where a mass of Lakota people were slaughtered by the U.S. Cavalry™ in the eighteen hundreds. It was also the sight of a standoff between Native American protesters and the FBI™ in the nineteen-seventies."

"Let’s check it out."

As they ascended up the dusty trail, and passed under the arched memorial they noticed a spirit bundle sitting under the entrance. The three tourists did not touch it. Spirit bundles were offerings to the deceased and though the three travelers did not know much about it, they knew better than to mess with it.

In the center of the graveyard, behind the memorial, was a long rectangular grave marked by an outline of cement and protected by a fence. It was the clandestine grave where the victims of the massacre in the eighteen hundreds lay to rest. Surrounding the immense grave were many other, smaller graves.

"Who are these people?" asked Carlos™.

A voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Many of them are descendants of people who were massacred by the Cavalry™. The others are people who fought during the stand off with the FBI™ or warriors who felt they should be buried here. My brother would like to be buried here."

The travelers turned to see a Lakota man standing behind them. His thick black hair was long and hung past his shoulders. He was wearing old blue jeans and a long sleeved camouflage military fatigue. The three friends were startled, as they had not known he was there.

"I’m sorry," said the man in a deep, calm voice. He spoke softly yet with potent stamina. "Did I startle you? My name is Lauren."

"Nice to meet you," said Raymond™ as he offered his hand. Looking into the dark eyes of the Lakota man Raymond™ noticed he was wearing a look of profound sadness on his face. It was an expression of utter sorrow and deep hurt. Though it seemed as if the man had seen the passing of much hardship, there seemed to be an air of power about him. The Lakota man was strong and noble. Since he had caught the travelers of f guard, and indeed they were on his reservation, the Lakota man had all the power. The travelers were at his mercy. But as Raymond™ looked into his eyes he knew the man could be trusted. There was something about those eyes! It was a feeling all too familiar.

"So what are you guys doing out here anyway?" asked Lauren.

"Were just passing through," said Raymond™. "We’re on our way back from the Badlands."

"It’s good you want to learn," spoke Lauren in his sad voice. "There are lots of things on the reservation to see."

"What else is there?" asked Tomas™.

"I could show you the camp," he said.

"The camp?"

"Camp Justice…it’s not far from here."

"Why not?" said Raymond™ who had taken a liking to the soft-spoken yet strong Lakota man. Formed by a deep sadness and the passing of many hardships the man’s dark eyes expressed the desire to share. Raymond™ knew he was trustworthy.

The others felt the same way.






As they followed Lauren’s van through the town of Pine Ridge they noticed it wasn’t anything like the rest of South Dakota™. Gaunt stray dogs roamed through the streets like hungry ascetics. Many Lakota people did the same, no home, no place to stay. The town was dusty and absent of extensive commercialism. Though many people did not have jobs there seemed to be sense of joy penetrating the depths of hardship. Though reservation life seemed difficult, the reservation was not a lonely place.

As they drove down highway 407 they noticed a man in a wheelchair propelling himself along the edge of the road. He was carrying jugs of water, alone, and had yet two miles to go.

Following Lauren off road the travelers caught a glimpse of the camp nestled in a clump of trees at the mouth of a field. It was right near the border of Nebraska™ and a two-minute walk from the town of White Clay™. The camp consisted of three grand tipis, many tents, a few old cars an outhouse, and a dirt-floored cook shack.

The town of White Clay™ just down the road was in the state of Nebraska™ and was not part of the reservation (according to the people that lived there). It had a population of twenty-two and was built close to the place where the agency™ used to dish out rations, sell alcohol, and enforce the government’s™ law in the eighteen-hundreds. At the turn of the millennium the town carried on it’s tradition by selling loads of alcohol to Lakota people who lived on a reservation where alcoholism was over seventy percent and unemployment was the same. While sick, addicted alcoholics needing treatment scrambled to find cash for a bottle, the bars in White Clay™ ran up large tabs and feasted off the wealth of their business. With a mentality like this, the bar owners in White Clay™ were probably just as sick as the patrons. But they were definitely wealthier. Alcohol consumption was prohibited on the reservation so most people who drank patronized the bars in White Clay™.

After walking around the camp and admiring the tipis the three friends followed Lauren into the dirt floored cook shack. It was already starting to get dark. "I built this place myself" he said as he lit a gas lantern and set it on the wooden table that sat in the middle of the room.

There was no electricity or running water at the camp, though there was a small gas stove in the corner of the room. The walls were decorated with American Indian Movement décor. There was a picture of the seven-tipi design of the Oglala tribe that Lauren’s father himself had designed, and there was an antiquated black and white photo of an old Lakota Chief. On one of the walls hung the red, white, and blue, flag of the U.S.A. INC™. It was hanging upside down.

"Why is this camp here?" asked Raymond™.

"It was founded by my brother Tom after the bodies of our dear brothers were found beaten and hacked to death over there," said Lauren in a deep sad voice as he lifted a finger and pointed towards a gully not far from the shack.

"Murdered? Why were they murdered? Who did it?" Tomas™ asked.

The light from the lantern danced across Lauren’s face mysteriously as he continued. "We have our suspicions," said Lauren quietly. "But there was never a real investigation so we don’t know for sure."

"Never an investigation?"

"The FBI™ was supposed to come…but they didn’t. They didn’t come until a few days before the Civil Rights Commission in Rapid City™. One of the issues they were supposed to address at the commission had to do with the murders on the reservation. They were supposed to explain why they hadn’t investigated the murders. So they sent thirty FBI™ agents out here to do a comb. But they didn’t find anything. That was sixty days after the murders."

"Sixty days?"

"Yea" said Lauren. His face was illuminated by the golden orange light of the lantern. He lit a cigarette as he continued to speak. Like a spirit the smoke slowly lingered as it mixed with his words and traveled upwards towards the wooden ceiling.

"There’s been lots of murders on this reservation that have gone uninvestigated. Of course sometimes it’s the investigators who are the guilty. A lot of the police™ in Rushville™ are racist. There have been a lot of Lakota people who have been beaten by the police™ in Rushville™. And in the seventies the FBI™ headed a reign of terror on this reservation."

As Lauren spoke he sat still in his chair. The glow of the lantern and the smoke had a near hypnotic effect on the travelers as they looked into his dark eyes and listened to the story. There was something about those eyes. Through them, as he continued with the story he expressed a great sadness. His facial expressions themselves were an epic tale of sorrow and heartbreak. As he told his story he spoke quietly but with great power, like the Bison™.

"What we want is for the bars in White Clay™ to leave. It says in the treaties that White Clay™ is part of the reservation. If you look at an old map you well see. It will say White Clay™ South Dakota™. All we want is what is ours, promised to our people by the U.S. government™."

Lauren raised his voice slightly though he was still speaking low. "Most of all we want justice for the murders of our brothers," he said as he made eye contact with Raymond™. "We want an investigation…a real one."

As he continued to speak the travelers were mostly quite as they tried to take it all in. There was a lot of information to consider. A small mouse scurried across the floor.

"We will stay here until we have received justice for the murders of our brothers. We will stay here until we have received justice for our people. Until the treaties are honored, until the murders stop, until White Clay™ is gone, until alcoholism abolished, and until there are jobs for our people, we will be here."

It was completely dark outside, the only light in the cook shack emanated from the lantern on the table and the bright cinder of Lauren’s cigarette. The smoke rising from his cigarette still lingered as it passed over his words like a guide.

"They’re afraid," he said. "They’re afraid because we’re still here. They’re afraid because we are strong…because we have the courage to stand on our own…they’re afraid because after all this time they haven’t been able to crush the spirit of our people…we are still here…we are the Lakota."

What he said made perfect sense and it was true. After boarding schools, BIA™ cultural eradication programs, the FBI™ reign of terror, after Wounded Knee one, Wounded Knee two, and despite the profound poverty on the reservation the Lakota people were strong. Though their language had almost been lost…it was not. They held onto their culture, their religion and their beliefs. They remembered the past and they did not love Big Brother™. They wanted justice.

It was amazing for the travelers to see a people so courageous and strong, staring into the catastrophic depths of Babylon. He wondered how they did it. With no jobs and little money how did they get by in their daily life? How did they eat? How could they support their families and still maintain a fierce demand for justice in the face of the dark empire that oppressed them? Back home people were afraid to quit their jobs. Here there were no jobs. How could they do it? After all they had been doing it for years.

As the night wore on, basking in the incandescent golden glow of the lantern, in the smoke filled room, the three travelers and Lauren spoke of many things. Laughing and telling stories until a late hour they shared much.

Of particular interest was a discussion of Lakota art. As Lauren showed the three friends examples of his beadwork they were shocked by the intricacy of his designs and the quality of the work. Tomas™ shared that he had seen examples of Lakota quill work before.

"It’s very labor intensive work," said Tomas™. "The process of gathering the quills and preparing them alone takes hours…and after that they need to be dyed…and only then can the artist start on her project."

"That’s why I use beads," laughed Lauren.

"I think that’s why a lot of people use beads," said Tomas™.

Lauren just smiled in the glow of the lantern.

Never the less, Lakota artwork was incredible. Moccasins were made by hand, not machines. Beadwork was made by artists and craftsmen, not sweatshops. Some Lakota people made their own traditional clothing for powwows’. Spending hours on their artwork, Lakota artists expressed a pride and dignity not shown in the commercial products made by the factories of the U.S.A. INC™. The Lakota people were impressive. They believed in quality over quantity! They believed in dignity over profit! They believed in beauty over ugliness! And they believed in their humanity! Though many people were poor, and lacking a new car or an unblemished house it could be seen that they understood quality, dignity and beauty better than the rest of the U.S.A. INC™. It could be seen in their artwork!

Though their time at Camp Justice was enjoyable, they had learned much, they had shared some laughs, and they had shared in sorrow, the three travelers soon had to go. It was late and they had to hit the road. Whey would have to drive all night to get home to their jobs. They had to work the next day. After a quick good-bye and the promise of a return the travelers thanked Lauren for all he had shared with them and they set out for home.






"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer. It felt like a tire-iron to the gut of the soul. Since Raymond™ was scheduled to open, he hadn’t slept at all and had gone straight to work when the travelers returned. Tomas™ had the day off and Carlos™ would be in later.

Cooks always hated the first order of the day. It was part of the viscous circle of restaurant life. Since restaurants wanted the most labor for the least amount of pay, the opening cook was supposed to arrive half an hour before the restaurant opened. This gave the opening cook half an hour to have the breakfast side setup, the lunch side set up, everything stocked, everything turned on and primed for the breakfast lunch. The opening cook also had to put away any food brought in by the truck during the morning and do a freezer pull for the next day. When the freezer pull was done all food needed to be marked and dated. So did the food brought in off the truck. Needless to say all this work usually took longer than half an hour and by the time the other cooks arrived it was too busy for them to help. The trick for the opening cook was to get as much of the work done before the breakfast rush started. This caused the cook to feel overwhelmed by a sense of urgency.

Of course all this was intensified by the viscous circle of the night before. Since the cooks and the dishbot from the night before were expected to leave early they often weren’t able to get everything done. If they stayed late to finish they were griped at or mocked by the restaurant manager. Whatever wasn’t finished the night before was left for the opening cook the next day. Sometimes he would even have to wash the utensils he needed. The viscous circle was never broken.

Because of all this the opening cook hated the first order of the day. Since he was trying urgently to get everything done before the breakfast rush he felt that every order was an obstacle. Orders detained him from getting his work done. It was the same vicious circle in which were trapped the closing cook and the stocking cook.

"Damn beefalo," snapped Raymond™ as the first order of the day came in. It was an order of French toast, pancakes and three omelets. All of the omelets were special and required modifications from the norm.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer again. It was an order for a special skillet.

"That’s for me!" droned a waitron that had just arrived.

Another thing despised by the cook was employee food. Since the cook always had a host of work to do on the side, such as the duties of the opening cook, he hated cooking employee food. The cook felt that despite their differences, the waitrons, seatbots, and dishbots were all part of his team. Since the waitrons knew how hard the cook worked, he thought they should help him by making his job easier and not ordering employee food. After all they were a team. It was for this same reason that the cook didn’t sit in the dining room of the restaurant and expect the waitrons to serve him. He didn’t do so because he didn’t want to create extra work for the waitron. Of course the outrageous thing was, if for some reason the cook did sit in the dining room, the waitrons would generally ignore him and he would have to serve himself anyhow.

What the waitrons did to the cook was insulting. They didn’t care if he had to work harder just as long as they got to stuff their greedy little faces. Over and over again the cook would explain to the waitrons the nature of employee food and it’s connection to the viscous circle of restaurant life. But the waitrons never listened. They were not capable of eating before they came to work and they only cared about themselves. When the cook asked for empathy he was called "lazy" or described as an "asshole". In reality, however, the cook was just trying to stay on top of his tasks. He found himself trapped in a viscous circle and he was unable to catch up with his work. If an individual waitron became a problem by incessantly ordering employee meals he or she wouldn’t mind consuming bodily fluids.

Naturally Raymond™ didn’t resort to such tactics. He just grumbled, swore, and screamed when it was busy. Usually he would kick something or punch the ice machine. There were lots of dents in the ice machine. Sometimes, if it were bad enough, he would yell at a waitron and make her cry. But this was only in extreme cases after a waitron had been warned.

Of course in the rare event a cook was caught up with his work, and if he wasn’t busy, a cook wouldn’t mind cooking an employee meal. Sometimes cooks liked cooking employee food "under the table". Though this was similar to employee meals, and indeed off limits when a cook was busy, it was sometimes the source of pleasure for a cook. Though it sounds contradictory in comparison to the cook’s negative feelings about cooking employee meals when he is busy, it is thoroughly grounded by the cooks hatred for the company. But even as a source of pleasure, this too was part of the viscous circle.

Cooks always ate for free, whether it was the policy of the restaurant or not. Usually it was not. The reason for this was simple. Whether a cook was conscious of his estrangement in the viscous circle of restaurant life or not the cook usually felt trapped. Even cooks that believed in the social aphorisms and claimed to be happy were trapped. Whether they faced it or not they were trapped.

Consciously or subconsciously cooks that felt alienated and estranged as a result of being trapped, expressed their frustration through the giving away of free food "under the table". Cooks felt like they were taking revenge on the greedy corporation that kept them oppressed. In this way the cook felt like a modern day Robin Hood™. He would steal from the rich and give to his coworkers. Of course, since waitrons were constantly under surveillance by the manager, the best way for a cook to take revenge on the company was to cook himself food. This is where it became part of the viscous circle.

The more food a cook ate the more of his objectified labor he regained. In simpler terms, the more a cook ate the more he took back from the company. The more a cook ate the bigger was his revenge. This was part of the viscous circle for two reasons. Number one: the cook could never regain what he had lost. He could never regain as much labor as he exerted and he could never regain the spirit essence he had lost. Secondly, the more a cook ate the more he was punished. Since restaurants wanted more for less, and since beefalo only cared about taste, restaurant food was outrageously unhealthy. The more a cook ate the fatter he got. The more a cook ate the higher his blood pressure. The more a cook ate the more cholesterol. The more a cook ate the less energy he had and the slower he became. Sometimes cooks would get sick. Restaurant food was shit.

Since the ideologies behind the concepts of employee food and revenge on the company were sometimes contradicting it was sometimes difficult for the cook to know what to do. It was especially confusing if a waitron were to ask for free food "under the table". Usually it was decided by the amount of work left for the cook to do. If the cook had lots to do this was interpreted as a personal attack, an obstacle to overcome, and a lack of empathy on the behalf of the waitron. If a cook was not busy, which was almost never, the cook would be pleased to cook the food because he would see it as revenge on the company.

Of course it is important to note that employee food that was paid for was always despised. Though the cook could take a small amount of revenge on the company by giving a waitron extra food, this added to the viscous circle by encouraging the ordering of employee meals. Cooks did not want to make their situation worse by adding to the strength of the viscous circle. And besides, orders for food that was paid for were printed by the printer that released the piercing sound that killed the cook’s spiritual essence.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer as another employee meal came in. This one too, was special.

"Fucking waitrons!" cursed Raymond™. He knew there was no way he was going to get everything done before the breakfast rush. He knew he would have to stay late and be mocked by the manager.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer again. He could feel his inner spiritual essence being consumed by voracious cockroaches. They were cutting away at him like rapacious, greedy, little reptiles. Their teeth filled with venom, their bites stinging like burning needles, they were chipping away at his inner spiritual essence with every new order.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer again as Carlos™ walked in.

Carlos™ had arrived early. "Busy today," he said.

"Yea," Raymond™ replied. "God damned waitrons," he said giving a glance towards the orders hanging on the rail.

"Shit."

"Yea."

"Did you sleep last night?" asked Raymond™.

"For two hours? No!"

"Today is going to suck!"

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"So do you think the Book Nazis sent you an acceptance letter while we were gone?"

"No," Raymond™ responded. "That would be good news…shit…I might be able to have my car fixed if that happened."

"Is it giving you problems?"

"Yea…I’m afraid it’s going to be a cold winter this year."

"Ha, ha, ha…don’t worry Ray™. I’ll give you rides. So will your brother."

Raymond™ smiled. It was the first of the day.

"Beep, beep, beep!" sounded the printer.

Raymond’s™ smile faded away.

"God damn beefalo!"

Raymond™ looked out into the lobby and saw it was full. His heart sank. "It’ll be hitting soon," he said.

"Yea," replied Carlos™ solemnly. "I saw them when I came in."

"Beep, beep, beep!"

Raymond™ burned himself but didn’t feel it.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

The breakfast rush had started.






After work Raymond™ went home and fell into a deep sleep. It was five o’ clock in the evening when he had finally been able to leave the restaurant and it was nearly six when he got home. He slept the whole night through. That night the Estranged Bison King™ came to him in a dream.

He was standing on a plain. The grass was dry and brittle under his feet. The flowers were dead. He was surrounded by twisted hills and worn out cliff faces in the distance. The sides of the hills were coated in parched, cracked mud. He was back in the Badlands of South Dakota™. The sky was filled with clouds and everything was illuminated by the pallid blue light of the dream world. Far in the distance he could see the Estranged Bison King™, a dot on the horizon. He was calling Raymond™ with his eyes.

As Raymond™ began his pilgrimage he was overpowered by a sense of fear. He was drowning in worry and laden with apprehension. What was wrong? Was the Estranged Bison King™ trying to tell him something? As he got closer his sense of hearing increased and his fear was heightened. He could hear the crunching of dry cracking grass under his feet with each step. The low breeze was a gust of fury in his ears and he could hear a low buzz or chopping in the distance. Like a fan or a boat-motor the chopping was growing louder as it approached.

Still consumed by a sense of emergency Raymond™ drew closer. He could see the Estranged Bison King’s™ eyes, black globes of sadness. They were calling him. Overhead the chopping had become much louder now. It was coming from the sky! With still much distance between he and the Estranged Bison King™ Raymond™ looked up into the pallid lit, clouded sky. It was a helicopter! It was flying close to the ground.

As it streamed past the grand Bison™ the helicopter turned to make another pass. As the back end of the helicopter began to come around, Raymond™ was able to see in through the side. It was an olive drab military model. Sitting on the side was a soldier dressed in military fatigue. He had a long rifle pointed out the side.

"No!" screamed Raymond™ as he ran like a fever towards the Estranged Bison King™.

Shots rang out echoing through the dream world like an earthquake as the Bison™ fell to the ground gasping for air.

"No!" screamed Raymond™ running as fast as he could towards the fallen Bison™. As the chopping of the helicopter slowly drew away it was steadily replaced with a sporadic buzz. It was the buzzing of black flies that filled the air.

As Raymond™ came upon the Bison™ his heart was filled with sorrow. Scathing tears were streaming down the side of his face. Every breath he took came in slowly as he was filled with grief for the dying Bison™.

The Estranged Bison King™ was lying on his side and breathing heavily. Blood was trickling from his fatal wounds as he struggled to fight the onslaught of death. The Estranged Bison King™ was soon to die. The buzzing of black flies upon him the Estranged Bison King™ drew Raymond™ in with his beautiful dark eyes. He was calling him!

Standing above the Estranged Bison King™, Raymond™ peered into his dark eyes. They were beautiful black globes of power and wisdom. They were globes of sorrow and anguish. Slowly they drew him in. Closer and closer Raymond™ felt himself being lost. The Estranged Bison King’s™ eyes filled him. Soon all he could see was the black darkness of the eyes, nothing but darkness, black.

As he began to find himself from within, he noticed ripples in the darkness. Like a stone in a pond the ripples undulated outwards from the center as Raymond™ slowly drew away. He was staring into a dark well full of blackness…full of black water. Stepping back Raymond™ looked up from the well. The pernicious buzz of the flies still filled the air, they brushed against his face as he stepped away from the well.

Surrounding him was a crowd of dark skinned people. Sickly and diseased their skin hung loosely off parts of their bodies. Some of their eyes were covered with flies. They had bloated stomachs from malnutrition. Like the stray dogs on Pine Ridge they were gaunt and haggard. Their ribs could be seen as they clamored about. They were mostly naked or covered by strips of decadent cloth and their bones shown through their skin. Children were crying and people were screaming as they reached for the wooden bucket that had been used to draw the water. Raymond™ was holding the bucket of black infested water in his hands! A sickly smell of sewage filled the air along with the buzz of flies.

As the people converged around him they were reaching for water from all sides. Their bony arms pushing against him, they were dipping into the bucket with cups and curved pieces of wood. Anything that could hold water they used. And they were murmuring in a foreign language Raymond™ couldn’t understand. Though their screams and cries were loud, they were muffled by the sound of the flies that festered in the air mixed with stench.

The water was almost gone as soon as they converged upon him and Raymond™ was filled with a sense of desperation. He had to get more water. Quickly he dipped the bucket back into the well. There were many thirsty people that hadn’t gotten a drink yet. Driven by the shrieks of women and the sobbing of children Raymond™ moved quickly…but he moved in vane. There was no more water in the well. There was nothing but sand!

Raymond™ fought to stand as the villagers converged on him from all sides. They were reaching desperately for the well, their murmurs overpowered by the buzz of the flies. Struggling to break free Raymond™ could not even move. There were too many of them. Their bodies all around him, they pushed him to the ground as they fervently reached for the well. Soon he couldn’t see. All he could hear were the flies. Bodies, all around him he couldn’t breath as he was being trampled. Suffocated he began to vomit profusely. He was completely blocked from daylight and choking on his vomit. He was completely consumed by darkness!

Lost in the darkness, he slowly began to draw away. He was beginning to find himself. It felt as though he were falling backwards. As the darkness began to subside he felt himself stepping away. He was staring into the dark black eyes of the Bison, no longer powerful globes of sadness, no longer globes of wisdom and sorrow. The Estranged Bison King was dead.

Raymond woke up in a sweat. His body was consumed by a cold fever and his heart was beating hurriedly. Though he felt like he was going to vomit, he did not. He laid back down but couldn’t sleep. A few hours later when he was feeling better he got out of bed. It was eight o’ clock in the morning.

He pondered the dream all morning long. He understood the Estranged Bison King’s message. He knew that the death of the Bison™ meant destruction. It symbolized the harmful destruction of the ecosystem, a mistake that would surely effect everyone. It symbolized the age of over commercialization, the alienation and estrangement of man. As he thought about the plight of the Bison™ in the modern world, Raymond grew sad. It was sad the once great, free Bison™ had been reduced to a few meager herds. It was sad the Bison™ couldn’t roam free across the planes. It was sad the Bison™ was shot by cattle ranchers when he encroached upon cattle grazing land. It was all so sad. As Raymond™ thought about the significance of his dream there was still one thing he couldn’t figure out.

Besides the worldly implications of the dream, Raymond™ couldn’t understand what were the personal implications. The Estranged Bison King was the object of commercialization. He was the brother of the cook. Why had Raymond™ dreamt about the Estranged Bison King? What was the personal connection in the eye of the cook? Besides the worldly implications, what did the dream imply in the context of the viscous circle of restaurant life? Raymond™ wasn’t sure…but from deep within he knew there was a connection. If it was important he figured he would know by the end of the night. After all…he still had to go to work.






That night at work things were going relatively well for Raymond™. Though he was still a little disturbed by his dream, he was in relative high spirits. It wasn’t busy yet and he was working with his two best friends. He was working with his brother and Carlos™. E3-42™ the angry cook was working too, but he was off in the back doing other things. He had recently been promoted to the position of kitchen manager while the three friends were on vacation.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"New order, cheeseburger Swiss, French dip, chicken strips and an order of fries!" Carlos™ called. Carlos™ was working the window, Tomas™ was on the grill, and Raymond™ was working at the sandwich salad station.

"Nothing for me!" shouted Raymond™ triumphantly. "Hey you guys wouldn’t believe the crazy dream I had last night."

"What was it about?" asked Tomas™.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"Shit…I’ll tell you later."

"Have you heard back from the Book Nazis?" asked Carlos™.

"No," replied Raymond™. "I don’t think they’re going to publish my book… more for less…that’s all they care about…anyhow…"

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"Anyhow I’ve got an idea for a new story."

"What’s it about?"

"It’s called The Little Squirrel That Couldn’t."

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Tomas™. "What?"

"It’s about a bad little squirrel that spends his time writing instead of looking for acorns. Anyhow in the end he gets shot by a poacher."

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Tomas™.

"Shit," replied Carlos™.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"I don’t think they’re going to publish it. The Book Nazis don’t care about publishing quality artistic literature…they only want to turn a profit. For some reason they don’t think quality writing in a literate style is marketable."

"What’s up with that anyhow?" asked Carlos™. "Don’t they have any faith in the American™ public?"

"I guess not. They must think Americans™ are stupid. They must think Americans™ aren’t capable of comprehending solid creative writing. They must think Americans™ aren’t capable of understanding literature."

"That’s a damn shame!" asserted Carlos™.

"We’ll it certainly explains all of the Idiot’s Guides™ they have stocked in all the book stores," said Tomas™.

"Yea," replied Raymond™. "What a damn shame. Am I the last person on Earth that believes Americans’™ are smart enough to understand complex literature? The publishers obviously don’t believe it…that’s why they publish all that crap…like Idiot’s Guides™ and Chicken Soup For the Soul™ books. If they thought good literature was profitable they would market it."

"I never thought about it that way," said Carlos™. "They’re undermining our intelligence."

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"I never thought I’d say this…but I think I have more faith in humanity than most people," claimed Raymond™. "At least I think humans can read."

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Tomas™.

Carlos™ was smiling.

Though Raymond™ didn’t know it the situation with his book was more desperate than he had thought. Somewhat ignorant to the complexities of the publishing system Raymond™ didn’t know the exact system that was used to examine manuscripts. He only knew that it would be looked at by someone and then returned. If they wanted it they would let him know.

What Raymond™ didn’t know was that manuscripts sent to the Book Nazis were not even read by humans. Manuscripts sent to the Book Nazis were actually read by fully automated robots called editors. These fully automated robots or editors as they were called would scan a manuscript for desired words and phrases. If enough of the desired words and phrases were found in the manuscript it would be sent to a human who was higher up on the chain of command. But the human that it was sent to did not read it either! All he or she did was scan it into a computer where it was run through programs that corrected spelling and grammar. After that it was ready to print! If Raymond™ had known this he not only would have felt worse about the situation of his manuscript, but also would have felt worse about the situation of mankind in general. But in any event he knew his book wouldn’t be published.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"God damned breakfast order!" snapped Carlos™.

"Oh that’s for me," droned a waitron. "Could you put extra cheese on the eggs."

"That’s not the only extra you’re gonna get," bickered Tomas™.

Sadly her eyes hiding tears the waitron looked back at Tomas™. She could see he was angry. His eyes were full of fire. When a cook looked at a waitron like that she knew he was serious.

"Damn waitrons that order breakfast at night!" griped Tomas™.

"Don’t you worry waitron 9," said Raymond™. We’ll give your eggs special attention."

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Carlos™.

As Tomas™ reached down to turn on the burner to start the eggs his fingers were burned pretty badly on the knob. "God damn it!" he shouted. "They still haven’t fixed this thing! It’s been broken since before we left for the Badlands!" In his rage he started hitting the ice machine.

One of the problems that cooks were constantly confronted with was the problem of broken equipment. Again it was part of the viscous circle of restaurant life. Since restaurants wanted more for less they often wouldn’t spend the necessary money to get something fixed. Instead, as a way to turn more profit, restaurants would make cooks work with faulty equipment long after it had been broken. The longer a cook used broken equipment the more profit the restaurant gained. This was even true when it came to knives that would go long periods of time without being sharpened or replaced. When a cook complained about broken equipment he was never taken seriously. Sometimes he was called a "whiner". There was a poster on the manager’s door that said "No Whining". This meant that managers didn’t want to be bothered with complaints about broken equipment.

Generally managers would never have something fixed until for some reason they were forced to use it. This would sometimes happen when a cook called in sick or when it got busy after a cook was sent home. Sometimes after a manager was forced to use something that was broken he or she would have it fixed…but never before. Even if a cook brought it to the attention of a manager many times it would not be fixed. Of course sometimes, as in the case of the stove, it could be quite dangerous working with broken materials. It was part of the viscous circle.

As Tomas™ finished venting his aggression on the ice machine E3-42™ came onto the line. "What’s all that noise about?" he shouted, his reddish-brown mustache moving up and down.

"I got fucking burned by the god damned stove again!" snapped Tomas™. He was flamingly irate!

"Yea" said Raymond™ sarcastically. "Since you’re the kitchen manager why don’t you get it fixed."

As soon as he said it he and Carlos™ burst out laughing.

"Yea E3-42™ why don’t you have it fixed?" said Carlos™ mockingly.

Of course even E3-42™ knew this was absurd. Everyone knew that the kitchen manager had no power. The title of kitchen manager was a joke! Kitchen managers didn’t look more professional. They didn’t wear a suit. They didn’t have their own office and they didn’t have any special privileges. The only extra duty belonging to the kitchen manager was that of the order. Kitchen managers had to do inventory and order food for the next week. Other than that there was nothing separating the kitchen manager from the normal cook. He couldn’t even tell the other cooks what to do being as they would just make fun of him. In this way the kitchen manager often had less power than normal cooks did. He was constantly the butt of jokes and was always attacked by the other cooks. Since the kitchen manager spent all of his time cooking and wasn’t able to do any extra work it seemed absurd to even have one. Couldn’t anyone do the order? Why did they need to give out the title of kitchen manager?

The real purpose of the kitchen manager was to serve as a scapegoat for the real managers. If something went wrong in the kitchen, or if there was a poor health inspection (and there always was) the real managers needed someone to blame. Real managers were always passive aggressive towards the kitchen manager and they too made fun of him. Indeed the kitchen manager was all alone. The other cooks mocked his power and the real managers stepped on him. It was a lousy position to be in and most cooks would turn it down.

Of course a cook accepting the job of kitchen manager usually knew of his awkward position. He was fully aware he had no power and knew he would be used as a scapegoat. There was only one reason to accept. Cooks that accepted the position of kitchen manager did so for a marginal pay increase and they were often people who were desperate for money. So it went in the restaurant business!

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Raymond™ and Carlos™ as Es-42™ walked away grumbling to himself. They knew he wouldn’t have the stove fixed. Even if he reported it to the real manager they knew nothing would be done about it. It was all part of the viscous circle.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

As it started to get busy the three friends began to move quickly. Orders were coming in fast and the three friends were overwhelmed with a sense of urgency. They had to get the food out quickly!

Sadly, it wasn’t uncommon for a cook to injure himself more than once during a shift. There were always good days and bad days when it came to injuries. Unfortunately, as Tomas™ went to cut a sandwich the dull knife slipped and he cut deeply into his finger. It was an aggravating yet all too common experience.

"Fuck!" he cursed as he stormed off the line.

"Did you cut yourself?" asked Carlos™. Of course he already knew that he had.

"Yea," grumbled Tomas™ as he made his way back to the medicine cabinet.

"Shit," said Raymond™. "That sucks!"

From the back of the restaurant by the medicine cabinet they could hear Tomas™ scream. "God fucking damn it!" he shouted. Of course Carlos™ and Raymond™ both knew what he was screaming about.

The restaurants always wanted more for less. Since it was common for cooks to cut themselves band aids were naturally a big expense and they would be used up quickly. Sadly, restaurant managers didn’t put it at the top of their priority list to make sure the medicine cabinet was always full. Sometimes cooks would have to complain two or three times to get a manager to send someone to the store to buy band aids. More for less was the idea. It was an unfortunate shame and a disgrace.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

"God damn it!" snapped Raymond™ as he walked back to check on his brother.

Tomas™ was holding his finger with a towel and the blood was already starting to soak through. "There aren’t any band aids!" he shouted.

"God damn it!" cursed Raymond™. "This is total bullshit!"

Storming out of the kitchen Raymond™ walked towards the cash register where he saw Betsy™ leaning on the counter. She was talking on the telephone to a friend. She was laughing out loud when Raymond™ approached.

"Betsy™ can I talk to you for a minute?" asked Raymond™.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!" snapped Betsy™. Her feathers were already ruffled and she looked like she didn’t want to be disturbed. Her eyes veered crookedly to the side and she didn’t make eye-contact when she spoke.

"I’m sorry…but it’s just…"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"No…it’s just my brother cut his finger."

Betsy™ hung up the phone angrily. "Cluck, cluck, cluck!" she barked.

"There aren’t any band aids!" snapped Raymond™. "I’m sick of this crap. The medicine cabinet is empty! Everything is broken back there! Two microwaves don’t work! We only have two toasters working, the knives are dull and we keep burning ourselves on the stove knob because it shoots flames out the side!"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"What?"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"If I don’t like my job I can leave!" repeated Raymond™ incredulously. "Maybe I will!"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"What?"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"You can’t fire me for that!"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"All I did was raise a complaint! You can’t fire me for telling you what’s broken!"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"

"FINE!" snapped Raymond™ as he walked to the back and threw his apron on the floor. He had just been fired! He had been fired for complaining about the work atmosphere!

Raymond quickly gathered his belongings from the break room and stormed towards the door. He was full of anger and rage! He couldn’t believe he had been fired! After all of the hours he had put in for the company and after all the work, we was fired for complaining about the empty medicine cabinet. He had worked at CHEF’S PALACE™ for six years!

As he stormed out the back door Carlos™ ran to catch up with him. "Ray where are you going?" he asked.

"I’ve just been fired!" Snapped Raymond. "I was fired for complaining about the work atmosphere!"

In a rush, hardly having muttered the words Raymond was gone. Angrily he left rubber skid marks on the pavement where his car had been parked as he squealed out of the parking lot. He just couldn’t believe it!

Of course it goes without saying that Carlos and Tomas both walked off the job that night. In the middle of the dinner rush Carlos and Tomas left, never to return. They had taken a lot of abuse in the restaurant business over the years, from empty medicine cabinets to eighteen-hour shifts they had seen it all. They had burnt themselves on broken equipment and come in on their days off for years. They had worked with incompetent idiots and cooked thousands of employee meals. But they had their limits. The day Raymond was fired was the day they quit.






Two months after his tenure with the restaurant had ended Raymond was still unemployed. Though he had spent long hours agonizing over what to do next, every job he looked at seemed the same. If they weren’t cooking jobs they were every bit as meaningless and monotonous. Every job he found seemed to operate under the same harsh philosophy of "more for less". Though this had been quite troubling for a long time Raymond found himself on the verge of a grand realization.

On a lonely summer afternoon, still unemployed, Raymond found himself sitting on the stoop to his apartment complex. As he was watching a dark storm roll in, Raymond thought about his situation. He had never fully understood the dream about the Estranged Bison King. That is, he had never fully understood it until now! As he watched the wall of giant black cumulus clouds approaching he noticed the horizon was flashing with tremendous discharges of violent lightning. Yet on the stoop the sun was still shining. As he watched the storm coming he was warm in the sun and suddenly he realized what was important. He realized the personal connection to what he had seen in his dream.

The death of the Estranged Bison King in his dream symbolized more than the imminent destruction brought on by the danger of the Bison™ in contemporary society. For the cook it symbolized rebirth! As Raymond sat and pondered the meaning of his dream he smiled to himself. The viscous cycle had been broken!

While he was looking at the dark sky the smell of rain was upon him. Everything was lit by a pallid blue light on the horizon… but on the steps, where Raymond was sitting, everything was radiantly basking in streaks of gold and orange. The sky above him was majestically coated by a band of deep red and splashed poetically with resplendent blotches of vibrant yellow. The sun was beautiful as it was glowing in the face of the storm!

As Raymond stared at the sky with bewilderment he realized his future would be rough. He knew the Book Nazis weren’t going to publish his book. All they cared about was turning a profit. The Book Nazis were just like the restaurants. They wanted more for less. They stood for quantity over quality. They stood for profit over dignity but most of all they stood for ugliness over beauty. The ideology that governed the Book Nazis was the same ideology that governed the restaurants. It was the same ideology that governed all of society.

He didn’t know how he would pay rent…but it didn’t matter. The viscous circle had been broken! As he thought about it he smiled to himself warmly. He realized he was better off without the job, the job had only served to oppress him. As he stared at the sky Raymond knew he was going to have to face many hardships. His future would be full of many obstacles and he would probably have no money. Though he would be poor he didn’t care. He needed only to look to the beautiful Lakota people for hope. They were everything the Book Nazis were against. They believed in quality over quantity, dignity over profit and beauty over ugliness. They believed in humanity! And they reassured their beliefs through their art! Indeed Raymond had just discovered something the Lakota had known all along. Looking up at the beautiful sky Raymond was filled with hope. He would reassure his beliefs through his writing! He would stand up for what he believed in and he would do his best to do something good with his life.

He wasn’t going to get another cooking job. He was an author and he was going to write! He was going to have to stare into the depths of the dark empire that oppressed him. He was going to have to stare into the face of misfortune, but he wasn’t afraid. Like the Bison he was going to be strong! Like his friends at the camp he was going to fight for what was right. Like the Lakota people he was going to stand proud…and like the beautiful sun he was going to glow in the face of the storm…






Afterward


People lacking political privilege and economic support have had a hard time finding equal representation in today’s media run by Book Nazis. In a nation governed by global corporations it is difficult to express an opinion that might raise a question about the ethicality of alleged abuses of power and distressing social problems. Though most of the names in this novella were changed to emphasize the expressive quality of the beliefs and opinions presented, it is important to note that this work was based on the true story of a struggling artist. Furthermore and of greater importance it is of monumental significance to note that the mentioned Camp Justice is a REAL place and bears the same name. Camp Justice really is located on the southwestern portion of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation next to the Nebraska border and the town of White Clay. The following is the true story of Camp Justice.

On June eighth, nineteen ninety-nine the bodies of Wally Black Elk and Ron Hard Heart were found brutally murdered on the edge of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. Bludgeoned, beaten, cut and stabbed they were left to die just a few hundred yards from the town of White Clay. It was clear they didn’t die without putting up a struggle first. Who killed them? Why? These are questions that still haven’t been answered to this day. Of course this isn’t surprising to the Lakota people of Pine Ridge, since there have been upwards of one hundred unsolved and indeed uninvestigated murders since the nineteen seventies.

Resulting from the large number of unsolved and uninvestigated murders on Pine Ridge it would make sense to ask who’s jurisdiction they fall under? Who’s job is it to investigate these murders? The job belongs to none other than the FBI. Of course the reason as to why the FBI has chosen to treat murders and civil rights violations, also under their jurisdiction with such laxity is only known to the FBI. Does the FBI have a grudge against the Lakota people stemming from historical biases? Is FBI apathy an active political conspiracy installed as a mode of cultural genocide or is it simply the reflection of a society subservient to the values of a predominantly Caucasian and nationalistic ideology?

Of course regardless of the reason for it, it is important to note that FBI indifference (when not blatant hatred) has not just penetrated Pine Ridge during the volatile history of the reservation but continues to pervade even in modern times. Evidence of this can be seen in the case of Ron Hard Heart and Wally Black Elk. For example, why didn’t the FBI launch a large scale investigation until six months after the murders took place? Did it have anything to do with the Civil Rights Commission taking place in Rapid City the following week? How convenient was that! When the FBI gave Tom Poor Bear (brother of Wally Black Elk) a letter addressing the results of the search that had taken place six months after the murders, why didn’t it have a case number? Why didn’t the letter have a contact number or a signature? Since there was never a police line around the murder sight onlookers were allowed to trample on what ever evidence that may have been there. Is that standard FBI practice? I doubt it.

Exactly where the murders took place is still unknown. Were Ron and Wally killed in the spot where their bodies were found or were they killed in White Clay? What does the Sheridan County Police Department have to say about this? Of course many Lakota people are skeptical of the Sheridan County police. There has been long history of racism, police brutality, discrimination, human rights violations, poor police work and intimidation from the Sheridan County Police Department according to the Lakota. Many Lakota people suspect Sheridan County Police Officers may have actually been involved in the murders!

When Tom Poor Bear, the brother of Wally Black Elk initially saw that the FBI and the Sheridan County Police Department were less than motivated to get to the bottom of these murders he decided to seek justice on his own. Immediately, in an effort to draw public attention to the murders, and to express his outrage Tom Poor Bear organized the first March For Justice. On June 26th, 1999 Tom Poor Bear, supporters, members of the American Indian Movement and Lakota people gathered together to march in protest. Together they set out down the two mile stretch of highway 407 linking Pine Ridge and the town of White Clay.

The March For Justice was planned to be a peaceful march aimed at addressing the above issues using non violent tactics. Unfortunately a few of the marchers overwhelmed with hostility started to vandalize and loot a department store in White Clay. These people did so in complete and total violation of the principles of the march organizer Tom Poor Bear who wanted everything to unfold peacefully. The violence that took place during the March was not condoned by supporters of the March For Justice and was not appreciated by the families of Ron Hard Heart and Wally Black Elk. Distressingly the actions of a few irrational protesters tarnished the goals of the march and sadly the Book Nazis in the media gave the vandalism more attention than it deserved. The Book Nazis actually gave the trashing of the convenience store more media attention than the murders of Ron and Wally! If that isn’t a sad example of sensationalism I don’t know what is!

Upset over the negative outcome of the first March For Justice, yet still angry over the tragic inequities shown in police work and favoritism embodied by a biased media, Tom Poor Bear set out again to demand justice for the murders of his brother. Immediately he organized a second march for the following Saturday. It was to be called the Walk For Justice. This time members of the American Indian Movement were asked to serve as security guards in order to prevent a violent outbreak. Violence was not to be tolerated.

A week later on July third supporters came together again to Walk For Justice. Upon passing the spot where the bodies were found Tom Poor Bear halted the march to offer a short prayer for his deceased relatives. After a few brief words the march continued forward. Unfortunately the marchers would not be allowed to reach their destination.

When the Lakota people arrived at the Nebraska state line they were met by a wall of one hundred Nebraska State Police Deputies. Decked out in full riot gear the Deputies held plastic shields and wore helmets. Some of them were carrying M-16 machine guns. There were snipers on the roofs of White Clay businesses and a piece of yellow plastic tape across the road. Though the FBI didn’t find it necessary to use yellow plastic tape to protect evidence at the murder scene, the Nebraska State Deputies found it useful as a means to deny Lakota people their civil rights. The protesters were ordered not to cross the line.

Despite the reluctance of some protesters to cross the police line Tom Poor Bear, his brother Webster and seven others would not yield. All nine were arrested under the charge of "failure to obey a lawful order". Tom Poor Bear was later charged with trespassing. But how could he have been trespassing when he was on his own land? After all the whole town of White Clay, according to the 1851 Fort Laramie treaty, the 1868 Fort Laramie treaty, the Daws Act of 1887 and according to the findings of the Supreme Court in 1986, belongs to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. So why is the town of White Clay allowed to exist and why is it labeled as part of Nebraska instead of part of the reservation? That’s a good question. Could it be the government of the United States of America went back on it’s promise made to the Lakota people?

Immediately after his arrest, after his civil rights had been violated, and after the Walk For Justice had been stopped, Tom Poor Bear set up Camp Justice. Camp Justice is located next to the spot where the bodies of Ron Hard Heart and Wally Black Elk were found. It sits just a stone throw away from the Nebraska state line and is just a three minute walk from the town of White Clay. Camp Justice is a protest camp. It is a reminder of the inequality, poverty and injustices the Lakota people face on a daily basis. It stands to remind us of the uninvestigated murders of Native American people on a reservation where being traditional Lakota has often led to widespread persecution by governmental policies and enforcers of the law.

Tom Poor Bear started Camp Justice alone but it wasn’t for long before he was joined by supporters outraged over the unjust nature of the investigation. In the beginning he made the conviction to stay until the killers were brought to justice for the murder of his brother and cousin. Tipis were erected and tents set up. Shortly there after Tom’s brother Lauren Black Elk built a wooden cook shack. Lauren has since taken the responsibility of managing the camp, keeping a close diligent watch over things and maintaining a constant presence. Camp Justice is a peace camp and operates in the spirit of civil disobedience. It will remain until the Lakota people have received justice for the uninvestigated and poorly investigated murders of their people.

Camp Justice was set up by Tom Poor Bear to address one primary goal: to receive justice for the murders of Ron Hard Heart, Wally Black Elk and the other uninvestigated murders of Lakota people. Since the origination of the Camp strong supporters have used the Camp to draw attention to other important issues such as the illegal sales of alcohol in White Clay and treaty rights/land ownership. Though these issues are important they are not the primary focus of Camp Justice.

Of utmost importance Tom Poor Bear demands justice for the murders of Wally Black Elk, Ron Hard Heart and the many other poorly or uninvestigated murders of Lakota people. As stated before, the reasons for the poor police work are unclear. Is it a an active political conspiracy installed as a mode of cultural genocide or is it simply the reflection of a society subservient to the values of a predominantly Caucasian and nationalistic ideology? Are the inequalities generated by racism? If so why do we allow this as a said free and democratic society? Could the Sheridan County Police Department, with it’s history of police brutality and racist practices be responsible for these murders? Does the FBI sympathize with "Indian killers"? Though the answers to these questions aren’t completely clear, and indeed won’t be until those responsible are brought forth, it remains clear that the Lakota people do not receive the same treatment by the law that is received by people living in suburban America.

Though Camp Justice was created in an effort to find justice for the murders of Lakota people many of the supporters of Camp Justice would like to see to it that the bars in White Clay are dissipated. Ever since the arrival of the reservation system in the eighteen hundreds alcohol has been nothing but a destructive force in the lives of the Lakota people. Bringing poverty, violence, shame and all the other social problems associated with it, alcohol has had a tremendously negative effect on the Lakota people. Alcohol makes people apathetic, indifferent and accepting of social injustices. Flat out alcohol oppresses people and in the case of the Lakota, since the social injustices are greater alcohol serves to oppress them even more so. Alcoholism is a disease and a sickness that can inflict an individual or a society. The extremely high rate of alcoholism on Pine Ridge is unfortunate and it is for this reason that the consumption of alcoholic beverages on the reservation is prohibited by tribal law.

Since alcohol is prohibited on Pine Ridge the bars in White Clay have a lot to gain. To be exact the four bars in White Clay, a town with a population of twenty-two, brings in more than four million dollars per year in gross profit. This is due to it’s proximity to the reservation and is an unfortunate result of the tribe’s attempt to battle the disease of alcoholism by banning it on the reservation. The owners of the four bars in are making themselves rich off of the sickness of those less fortunate. It is a disgusting relationship rivaled only by the parasitic relationship between maggot and flesh. To make things worse the Lakota people who patronize the establishments in White Clay have been subject to discrimination, police brutality, racism harassment and murder. The bars in White Clay need to be dismantled and why shouldn’t they be? After all the town of White Clay rests on reservation land. This brings us to another important issue.

Though Camp Justice was set up to address murders many people are now demanding that the treaties of Native American people be honored. Though it was not Tom Poor Bear's intention to address issues of land reform he has brought public attention to the issue because of his involvement in the Walk For Justice. Tom Poor Bear has been charged with trespassing in White Clay. This raises a serious question. How can Tom Poor Bear be charged with trespassing when four very serious legal documents state that the land where White Clay sits belongs to the Lakota people? How can he be charged with trespassing on his own land? Indeed these are questions that are now being asked in the court of law. Since Tom Poor Bear has pleaded innocent to all of the charges against him, and since he has stated in court that he can not be charged with trespassing on his own land, these issues are being addressed. The court trial has now gone on for nearly two years and this issue still hasn’t been resolved. This causes me to question the legitimacy of the legal process. After all what is there to resolve in regard to the issue of Lakota ownership of the land. Can’t the judge read four straight forward legal documents some of which are signed by the Supreme Court and others which are signed by the former president of the United States? I find it difficult to understand why there is any dispute. These documents were signed by prominent members in the United States government. They are promises made to the Lakota people and they are law. The government of this country needs to set a moral example for all of it’s citizens. By not honoring treaties the government is stating that it is morally acceptable to lie, cheat and steal. For this reason it is of utmost importance that the promises made to the Lakota people be kept.

Until justice is found Camp Justice shall remain. Tom Poor Bear, Lauren Black Elk and Lakota supporters are committed to bringing justice to their people. Their civil rights have been violated. They have been lied to time and time again by the government. They have been subjected to racism, discrimination, police brutality and murder. Their nation is oppressed by poverty and alcoholism. It is oppressed by unequal representation in the media and unequal representation in the legal process. Though the Lakota people face many challenges and their journey is difficult, some of them have the courage to do the right thing. Tom Poor Bear, Lauren Black Elk and the Lakota people have strong convictions. Though it is not easy, they stand up for what they believe in. They have the courage to look into the depths of the dark empire that oppresses them. They are brave enough to stare into the face of misfortune, and they are not afraid. Like the Bison they are strong! They have the conviction to do what is right. Like their great ancestors Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse they stand proud…and like the beautiful sun in the sky they glow in the face of the storm…