Normalization Employeers Productivity Essay

There are several reasons why employers should be careful not to overwork their employers. At the top of that list is securing long term sustainability. Long term sustainability involves mapping out feasible productivity plans that balance workforce output and employee maintenance costs. This means that employers must factor in several other variables aside from net profitability when determining the ideal number of hours that their employees should work. Where having company policies that encourage overtime and consequentially overwork does tend to boost individual employee productivity in the short term, Gunner (2000) showed that the increase was only part of a reverse parabolic trend, where a typical employee would work excessively reaching a productivity peak and then burn out and lose productivity within the next few months. This means that the overall productivity of a particular employee would ultimately be the same or even lower than if the company did not encourage overworking. This is also undesirable because companies also do not generally prefer a very high employee turnover which cripples production continuity and creates a negative image of the company as a temporary stepping stone to greener pastures. The despotic method of overworking employees to get the maximum profitability is not feasible in current corporate climate where it is equally difficult to find good employers as it is to find good employees. Companies should be interested in keeping good employees and this means keeping these employees satisfied with their work and their work atmosphere. Overworking is one of the major causes of stress which in turn is one of the primary causes of employment dissatisfaction (Edwards, 2003). In conclusion, companies should maintain the balance between employee productivity and satisfaction by keeping them from getting overworked. This benefits the company with normalized productivity, prevents workforce burnout, and improves employer profile. Â   References: Edwards, A. (2003). Stress: Causes, Symptoms, Complications. Kennedy & Kennedy. Gunner, J. (2000). Employee Productivity Trends in Southern States Based Corporations. Harvard Press.

Black House Chapter Twenty-three

23 â€Å"ONE MORE !† says the guy from ESPN. It sounds more like an order than a request, and although Henry can't see the fellow, he knows this particular homeboy never played a sport in his life, pro or otherwise. He has the lardy, slightly oily aroma of someone who has been overweight almost from the jump. Sports is perhaps his compensation, with the power to still memories of clothes bought in the Husky section at Sears and all those childhood rhymes like â€Å"Fatty-fatty, two-by-four, had to do it on the floor, couldn't get through the bathroom door.† His name is Penniman. â€Å"Just like Little Richard!† he told Henry when they shook hands at the radio station. â€Å"Famous rock ‘n' roller from back in the fifties? Maybe you remember him.† â€Å"Vaguely,† Henry said, as if he hadn't at one time owned every single Little Richard had ever put out. â€Å"I believe he was one of the Founding Fathers.† Penniman laughed uproariously, and in that laugh Henry glimpsed a possible future for himself. But was it a future he wanted? People laughed at Howard Stern, too, and Howard Stern was a dork. â€Å"One more drink!† Penniman repeats now. They are in the bar of the Oak Tree Inn, where Penniman has tipped the bartender five bucks to switch the TV from bowling on ABC to ESPN, even though there's nothing on at this hour of the day except golf tips and bass fishing. â€Å"One more drink, just to seal the deal!† But they don't have a deal, and Henry isn't sure he wants to make one. Going national with George Rathbun as part of the ESPN radio package should be attractive, and he doesn't have any serious problem with changing the name of the show from Badger Barrage to ESPN Sports Barrage it would still focus primarily on the central and northern areas of the country but . . . But what? Before he can even get to work on the question, he smells it again: My Sin, the perfume his wife used to wear on certain evenings, when she wanted to send a certain signal. Lark was what he used to call her on those certain evenings, when the room was dark and they were both blind to everything but scents and textures and each other. Lark. â€Å"You know, I think I'm going to pass on that drink,† Henry says. â€Å"Got some work to do at home. But I'm going to think over your offer. And I mean seriously.† â€Å"Ah-ah-ah,† Penniman says, and Henry can tell from certain minute disturbances in the air that the man is shaking a finger beneath his nose. Henry wonders how Penniman would react if Henry suddenly darted his head forward and bit off the offending digit at the second knuckle. If Henry showed him a little Coulee Country hospitality Fisherman-style. How loud would Penniman yell? As loud as Little Richard before the instrumental break of â€Å"Tutti Frutti,† perhaps? Or not quite as loud as that? â€Å"Can't go till I'm ready to take you,† Mr. I'm Fat But It No Longer Matters tells him. â€Å"I'm your ride, y'know.† He's on his fourth gimlet, and his words are slightly slurred. My friend, Henry thinks, I'd poke a ferret up my ass before I'd get into a car with you at the wheel. â€Å"Actually, I can,† Henry says pleasantly. Nick Avery, the bartender, is having a kick-ass afternoon: the fat guy slipped him five to change the TV channel, and the blind guy slipped him five to call Skeeter's Taxi while the fat guy was in the bathroom, making a little room. â€Å"Huh?† â€Å"I said, ? ®Actually, I can.' Bartender?† â€Å"He's outside, sir,† Avery tells him. â€Å"Pulled up two minutes ago.† There is a hefty creak as Penniman turns on his bar stool. Henry can't see the man's frown as he takes in the taxi now idling in the hotel turnaround, but he can sense it. â€Å"Listen, Henry,† Penniman says. â€Å"I think you may lack a certain understanding of your current situation. There are stars in the firmament of sports radio, damned right there are people like the Fabulous Sports Babe and Tony Kornheiser make six figures a year just in speaking fees, six figures easy but you ain't there yet. That door is currently closed to you. But I, my friend, am one helluva doorman. The upshot is that if I say we ought to have one more drink, then â€Å" â€Å"Bartender,† Henry says quietly, then shakes his head. â€Å"I can't just call you bartender; it might work for Humphrey Bogart but it doesn't work for me. What's your name?† â€Å"Nick Avery, sir.† The last word comes out automatically, but Avery never would have used it when speaking to the other one, never in a million years. Both guys tipped him five, but the one in the dark glasses is the gent. It's got nothing to do with him being blind, it's just something he is. â€Å"Nick, who else is at the bar?† Avery looks around. In one of the back booths, two men are drinking beer. In the hall, a bellman is on the phone. At the bar itself, no one at all except for these two guys one slim, cool, and blind, the other fat, sweaty, and starting to be pissed off. â€Å"No one, sir.† â€Å"There's not a . . . lady?† Lark, he's almost said. There's not a lark? â€Å"No.† â€Å"Listen here,† Penniman says, and Henry thinks he's never heard anyone so unlike â€Å"Little Richard† Penniman in his entire life. This guy is whiter than Moby Dick . . . and probably about the same size. â€Å"We've got a lot more to discuss here.† Loh more t'dishcush is how it comes out. â€Å"Unless, that is† Unlesh â€Å"you're trying to let me know you're not interested.† Never in a million years, Penniman's voice says to Henry Leyden's educated ears. We're talking about putting a money machine in your living room, sweetheart, your very own private ATM, and there ain't no way in hell you're going to turn that down. â€Å"Nick, you don't smell perfume? Something very light and old-fashioned? My Sin, perhaps?† A flabby hand falls on Henry's shoulder like a hot-water bottle. â€Å"The sin, old buddy, would be for you to refuse to have another drink with me. Even a blindman could see th â€Å" â€Å"Suggest you get your hand off him,† Avery says, and perhaps Penniman's ears aren't entirely deaf to nuance, because the hand leaves Henry's shoulder at once. Then another hand comes in its place, higher up. It touches the back of Henry's neck in a cold caress that's there and then gone. Henry draws in breath. The smell of perfume comes with it. Usually scents fade after a period of exposure, as the receptors that caught them temporarily deaden. Not this time, though. Not this smell. â€Å"No perfume?† Henry almost pleads. The touch of her hand on his neck he can dismiss as a tactile hallucination. But his nose never betrays him. Never until now, anyway. â€Å"I'm sorry,† Avery says. â€Å"I can smell beer . . . peanuts . . . this man's gin and his aftershave . . .† Henry nods. The lights above the backbar slide across the dark lenses of his shades as he slips gracefully off his stool. â€Å"I think you want another drink, my friend,† Penniman says in what he no doubt believes to be a tone of polite menace. â€Å"One more drink, just to celebrate, and then I'll take you home in my Lexus.† Henry smells his wife's perfume. He's sure of it. And he seemed to feel the touch of his wife's hand on the back of his neck. Yet suddenly it's skinny little Morris Rosen he finds himself thinking about Morris, who wanted him to listen to â€Å"Where Did Our Love Go† as done by Dirtysperm. And of course for Henry to play it in his Wisconsin Rat persona. Morris Rosen, who has more integrity in one of his nail-chewed little fingers than this bozo has got in his entire body. He puts a hand on Penniman's forearm. He smiles into Penniman's unseen face, and feels the muscles beneath his palm relax. Penniman has decided he's going to get his way. Again. â€Å"You take my drink,† Henry says pleasantly, â€Å"add it to your drink, and then stick them both up your fat and bepimpled ass. If you need something to hold them in place, why, you can stick your job up there right after them.† Henry turns and walks briskly toward the door, orienting himself with his usual neat precision and holding one hand out in front of him as an insurance policy. Nick Avery has broken into spontaneous applause, but Henry barely hears this and Penniman he has already dismissed from his mind. What occupies him is the smell of My Sin perfume. It fades a little as he steps out into the afternoon heat . . . but is that not an amorous sigh he hears beside his left ear? The sort of sigh his wife sometimes made just before falling asleep after love? His Rhoda? His Lark? â€Å"Hello, the taxi!† he calls from the curb beneath the awning. â€Å"Right here, buddy what're you, blind?† â€Å"As a bat,† Henry agrees, and walks toward the sound of the voice. He'll go home, he'll put his feet up, he'll have a glass of tea, and then he'll listen to the damned 911 tape. That as yet unperformed chore may be what's causing his current case of the heebie-jeebies and shaky-shivers, knowing that he must sit in darkness and listen to the voice of a child-killing cannibal. Surely that must be it, because there's no reason to be afraid of his Lark, is there? If she were to return to return and haunt him she would surely haunt with love. Wouldn't she? Yes, he thinks, and lowers himself into the taxi's stifling back seat. â€Å"Where to, buddy?† â€Å"Norway Valley Road,† Henry says. â€Å"It's a white house with blue trim, standing back from the road. You'll see it not long after you cross the creek.† Henry settles back in the seat and turns his troubled face toward the open window. French Landing feels strange to him today . . . fraught. Like something that has slipped and slipped until it is now on the verge of simply falling off the table and smashing to pieces on the floor. Say that she has come back. Say that she has. If it's love she's come with, why does the smell of her perfume make me so uneasy? So almost revolted? And why was her touch (her imagined touch, he assures himself) so unpleasant? Why was her touch so cold? After the dazzle of the day, the living room of Beezer's crib is so dark that at first Jack can't make out anything. Then, when his eyes adjust a little, he sees why: blankets a double thickness, from the look have been hung over both of the living-room windows, and the door to the other downstairs room, almost certainly the kitchen, has been closed. â€Å"He can't stand the light,† Beezer says. He keeps his voice low so it won't carry across to the far side of the room, where the shape of a man lies on a couch. Another man is kneeling beside him. â€Å"Maybe the dog that bit him was rabid,† Jack says. He doesn't believe it. Beezer shakes his head decisively. â€Å"It isn't a phobic reaction. Doc says it's physiological. Where light falls on him, his skin starts to melt. You ever hear of anything like that?† â€Å"No.† And Jack has never smelled anything like the stench in this room, either. There's the buzz of not one but two table fans, and he can feel the cross-draft, but that stink is too gluey to move. There's the reek of spoiled meat of gangrene in torn flesh but Jack has smelled that before. It's the other smell that's getting to him, something like blood and funeral flowers and feces all mixed up together. He makes a gagging noise, can't help it, and Beezer looks at him with a certain impatient sympathy. â€Å"Bad, yeah, I know. But it's like the monkey house at the zoo, man you get used to it after a while.† The swing door to the other room opens, and a trim little woman with shoulder-length blond hair comes through. She's carrying a bowl. When the light strikes the figure lying on the couch, Mouse screams. It's a horribly thick sound, as if the man's lungs have begun to liquefy. Something maybe smoke, maybe steam starts to rise up from the skin of his forehead. â€Å"Hold on, Mouse,† the kneeling man says. It's Doc. Before the kitchen door swings all the way shut again, Jack is able to read what's pasted to his battered black bag. Somewhere in America there may be another medical man sporting a STEPPENWOLF RULES bumper sticker on the side of his physician's bag, but probably not in Wisconsin. The woman kneels beside Doc, who takes a cloth from the basin, wrings it out, and places it on Mouse's forehead. Mouse gives a shaky groan and begins to shiver all over. Water runs down his cheeks and into his beard. The beard seems to be coming out in mangy patches. Jack steps forward, telling himself he will get used to the smell, sure he will. Maybe it's even true. In the meantime he wishes for a little of the Vicks VapoRub most LAPD homicide detectives carry in their glove compartments as a matter of course. A dab under each nostril would be very welcome right now. There's a sound system (scruffy) and a pair of speakers in the corners of the room (huge), but no television. Stacked wooden crates filled with books line every wall without a door or a window in it, making the space seem even smaller than it is, almost cryptlike. Jack has a touch of claustrophobia in his makeup, and now this circuit warms up, increasing his discomfort. Most of the books seem to deal with religion and philosophy he sees Descartes, C. S. Lewis, the Bhagavad-Gita, Steven Avery's Tenets of Existence but there's also a lot of fiction, books on beer making, and (on top of one giant speaker) Albert Goldman's trash tome about Elvis Presley. On the other speaker is a photograph of a young girl with a splendid smile, freckles, and oceans of reddish-blond hair. Seeing the child who drew the hopscotch grid out front makes Jack Sawyer feel sick with anger and sorrow. Otherworldly beings and causes there may be, but there's also a sick old fuck prowling around who needs to be s topped. He'd do well to remember that. Bear Girl makes a space for Jack in front of the couch, moving gracefully even though she's on her knees and still holding the bowl. Jack sees that in it are two more wet cloths and a heap of melting ice cubes. The sight of them makes him thirstier than ever. He takes one and pops it into his mouth. Then he turns his attention to Mouse. A plaid blanket has been pulled up to his neck. His forehead and upper cheeks the places not covered by his decaying beard are pasty. His eyes are closed. His lips are drawn back to show teeth of startling whiteness. â€Å"Is he † Jack begins, and then Mouse's eyes open. Whatever Jack meant to ask leaves his head entirely. Around the hazel irises, Mouse's eyes have gone an uneasy, shifting scarlet. It's as if the man is looking into a terrible radioactive sunset. From the inner corners of his eyes, some sort of black scum is oozing. â€Å"The Book of Philosophical Transformation addresses most current dialectics,† Mouse says, speaking mellowly and lucidly, â€Å"and Machiavelli also speaks to these questions.† Jack can almost picture him in a lecture hall. Until his teeth begin to chatter, that is. â€Å"Mouse, it's Jack Sawyer.† No recognition in those weird red-and-hazel eyes. The black gunk at the corners of them seems to twitch, however, as if it is somehow sentient. Listening to him. â€Å"It's Hollywood,† Beezer murmurs. â€Å"The cop. Remember?† One of Mouse's hands lies on the plaid blanket. Jack takes it, and stifles a cry of surprise when it closes over his with amazing strength. It's hot, too. As hot as a biscuit just out of the oven. Mouse lets out a long, gasping sigh, and the stench is fetid bad meat, decayed flowers. He's rotting, Jack thinks. Rotting from the inside out. Oh Christ, help me through this. Christ may not, but the memory of Sophie might. Jack tries to fix her eyes in his memory, that lovely, level, clear blue gaze. â€Å"Listen,† Mouse says. â€Å"I'm listening.† Mouse seems to gather himself. Beneath the blanket, his body shivers in a loose, uncoordinated way that Jack guesses is next door to a seizure. Somewhere a clock is ticking. Somewhere a dog is barking. A boat hoots on the Mississippi. Other than these sounds, all is silence. Jack can remember only one other such suspension of the world's business in his entire life, and that was when he was in a Beverly Hills hospital, waiting for his mother to finish the long business of dying. Somewhere Ty Marshall is waiting to be rescued. Hoping to be rescued, at least. Somewhere there are Breakers hard at work, trying to destroy the axle upon which all existence spins. Here is only this eternal room with its feeble fans and noxious vapors. Mouse's eyes close, then open again. They fix upon the newcomer, and Jack is suddenly sure some great truth is going to be confided. The ice cube is gone from his mouth; Jack supposes he crunched it up and swallowed it without even realizing, but he doesn't dare take another. â€Å"Go on, buddy,† Doc says. â€Å"You get it out and then I'll load you up with another hypo of dope. The good stuff. Maybe you'll sleep.† Mouse pays no heed. His mutating eyes hold Jack's. His hand holds Jack's, tightening still more. Jack can almost feel the bones of his fingers grinding together. â€Å"Don't . . . go out and buy top-of-the-line equipment,† Mouse says, and sighs out another excruciatingly foul breath from his rotting lungs. â€Å"Don't . . . ?† â€Å"Most people give up brewing after . . . a year or two. Even dedicated . . . dedicated hobbyists. Making beer is not . . . is not for pussies.† Jack looks around at Beezer, who looks back impassively. â€Å"He's in and out. Be patient. Wait on him.† Mouse's grip tightens yet more, then loosens just as Jack is deciding he can take it no longer. â€Å"Get a big pot,† Mouse advises him. His eyes bulge. The reddish shadows come and go, come and go, fleeting across the curved landscape of his corneas, and Jack thinks, That's its shadow. The shadow of the Crimson King. Mouse has already got one foot in its court. â€Å"Five gallons . . . at least. You find the best ones are in . . . seafood supply stores. And for a fermentation vessel . . . plastic water-cooler jugs are good . . . they're lighter than glass, and . . . I'm burning up. Christ, Beez, I'm burning up!† â€Å"Fuck this, I'm going to shoot it to him,† Doc says, and snaps open his bag. Beezer grabs his arm. â€Å"Not yet.† Bloody tears begin to slip out of Mouse's eyes. The black goo seems to be forming into tiny tendrils. These reach greedily downward, as if trying to catch the moisture and drink it. â€Å"Fermentation lock and stopper,† Mouse whispers. â€Å"Thomas Merton is shit, never let anyone tell you different. No real thought there. You have to let the gases escape while keeping dust out. Jerry Garcia wasn't God. Kurt Cobain wasn't God. The perfume he smells is not that of his dead wife. He's caught the eye of the King. Gorg-ten-abbalah, ee-lee-lee. The opopanax is dead, long live the opopanax.† Jack leans more deeply into Mouse's smell. â€Å"Who's smelling perfume? Who's caught the eye of the King?† â€Å"The mad King, the bad King, the sad King. Ring-a-ding-ding, all hail the King.† â€Å"Mouse, who's caught the eye of the King?† Doc says, â€Å"I thought you wanted to know about â€Å" â€Å"Who?† Jack has no idea why this seems important to him, but it does. Is it something someone has said to him recently? Was it Dale? Tansy? Was it, God save us, Wendell Green? â€Å"Racking cane and hose,† Mouse says confidentially. â€Å"That's what you need when the fermentation's done! And you can't put beer in screw-top bottles! You â€Å" Mouse turns his head away from Jack, nestles it cozily in the hollow of his shoulder, opens his mouth, and vomits. Bear Girl screams. The vomit is pus-yellow and speckled with moving black bits like the crud in the corners of Mouse's eyes. It is alive. Beezer leaves the room in a hurry, not quite running, and Jack shades Mouse from the brief glare of kitchen sunlight as best he can. The hand clamped on Jack's loosens a little more. Jack turns to Doc. â€Å"Do you think he's going?† Doc shakes his head. â€Å"Passed out again. Poor old Mousie ain't getting off that easy.† He gives Jack a grim, haunted look. â€Å"This better be worth it, Mr. Policeman. ‘Cause if it ain't, I'm gonna replumb your sink.† Beezer comes back with a huge bundle of rags, and he's put on a pair of green kitchen gloves. Not speaking, he mops up the pool of vomit between Mouse's shoulder and the backrest of the couch. The black specks have ceased moving, and that's good. To have not seen them moving in the first place would have been even better. The vomit, Jack notices with dismay, has eaten into the couch's worn fabric like acid. â€Å"I'm going to pull the blanket down for a second or two,† Doc says, and Bear Girl gets up at once, still holding the bowl with the melting ice. She goes to one of the bookshelves and stands there with her back turned, trembling. â€Å"Doc, is this something I really need to see?† I think maybe it is. I don't think you know what you're dealing with, even now.† Doc takes hold of the blanket and eases it out from beneath Mouse's limp hand. Jack sees that more of the black stuff has begun to ooze from beneath the dying man's fingernails. â€Å"Remember that this happened only a couple of hours ago, Mr. Policeman.† He pulls the blanket down. Standing with her back to them, Susan â€Å"Bear Girl† Osgood faces the great works of Western philosophy and begins to cry silently. Jack tries to hold back his scream and cannot. Henry pays off the taxi, goes into his house, takes a deep and soothing breath of the air-conditioned cool. There is a faint aroma sweet and he tells himself it's just fresh-cut flowers, one of Mrs. Morton's specialties. He knows better, but wants no more to do with ghosts just now. He is actually feeling better, and he supposes he knows why: it was telling the ESPN guy to take his job and shove it. Nothing more apt to make a fellow's day, especially when the fellow in question is gainfully employed, possessed of two credit cards that are nowhere near the max-out point, and has a pitcher of cold iced tea in the fridge. Henry heads kitchenward now, making his way down the hall with one hand held out before him, testing the air for obstacles and displacements. There's no sound but the whisper of the air conditioner, the hum of the fridge, the clack of his heels on the hardwood . . . . . . and a sigh. An amorous sigh. Henry stands where he is for a moment, then turns cautiously. Is the sweet aroma a little stronger now, especially facing back in this direction, toward the living room and the front door? He thinks yes. And it's not flowers; no sense fooling himself about that. As always, the nose knows. That's the aroma of My Sin. â€Å"Rhoda?† he says, and then, lower: â€Å"Lark?† No answer. Of course not. He's just having the heebie-jeebies, that's all; those world-famous shaky-shivers, and why not? â€Å"Because I'm the sheik, baby,† Henry says. â€Å"The Sheik, the Shake, the Shook.† No smells. No sexy sighs. And yet he's haunted by the idea of his wife back in the living room, standing there in perfumed cerements of the grave, watching him silently as he came in and passed blindly before her. His Lark, come back from Noggin Mound Cemetery for a little visit. Maybe to listen to the latest Slobberbone CD. â€Å"Quit it,† he says softly. â€Å"Quit it, you dope.† He goes into his big, well-organized kitchen. On his way through the door he slaps a button on the panel there without even thinking about it. Mrs. Morton's voice comes from the overhead speaker, which is so high-tech she might almost be in the room. â€Å"Jack Sawyer was by, and he dropped off another tape he wants you to listen to. He said it was . . . you know, that man. That bad man.† â€Å"Bad man, right,† Henry murmurs, opening the refrigerator and enjoying the blast of cold air. His hand goes unerringly to one of three cans of Kingsland Lager stored inside the door. Never mind the iced tea. â€Å"Both of the tapes are in your studio, by the soundboard. Also, Jack wanted you to call him on his cell phone.† Mrs. Morton's voice takes on a faintly lecturing tone. â€Å"If you do speak to him, I hope you tell him to be careful. And be careful yourself.† A pause. â€Å"Also, don't forget to eat supper. It's all ready to go. Second shelf of the fridge, on your left.† â€Å"Nag, nag, nag,† Henry says, but he's smiling as he opens his beer. He goes to the telephone and dials Jack's number. On the seat of the Dodge Ram parked in front of 1 Nailhouse Row, Jack's cell phone comes to life. This time there's no one in the cab to be annoyed by its tiny but penetrating tweet. â€Å"The cellular customer you are trying to reach is currently not answering. Please try your call again later.† Henry hangs up, goes back to the doorway, and pushes another button on the panel there. The voices that deliver the time and temperature are all versions of his own, but he's programmed a random shuffle pattern into the gadget, so he never knows which one he's going to get. This time it's the Wisconsin Rat, screaming crazily into the sunny air-conditioned silence of his house, which has never felt so far from town as it does today: â€Å"Time's four twenty-two P.M.! Outside temperature's eighty-two! Inside temperature's seventy! What the hell do you care? What the hell does anyone care? Chew it up, eat it up, wash it down, it aaall â€Å" comes out the same place. Right. Henry thumbs the button again, silencing the Rat's trademark cry. How did it get late so fast? God, wasn't it just noon? For that matter, wasn't he just young, twenty years old and so full of spunk it was practically coming out of his ears? What That sigh comes again, derailing his mostly self-mocking train of thought. A sigh? Really? More likely just the air conditioner's compressor, cutting off. He can tell himself that, anyway. He can tell himself that if he wants to. â€Å"Is anyone here?† Henry asks. There is a tremble in his voice that he hates, an old man's palsied quaver. â€Å"Is anyone in the house with me?† For a terrible second he is almost afraid something will answer. Nothing does of course nothing does and he swallows half the can of beer in three long gulps. He decides he'll go back into the living room and read for a little while. Maybe Jack will call. Maybe he'll get himself a little more under control once he has a little fresh alcohol in his system. And maybe the world will end in the next five minutes, he thinks. That way you'll never have to deal with the voice on those damned tapes waiting in the studio. Those damned tapes lying there on the soundboard like unexploded bombs. Henry walks slowly back down the hall to the living room with one hand held out before him, telling himself he's not afraid, not a bit afraid of touching his wife's dead face. Jack Sawyer has seen a lot, he's traveled to places where you can't rent from Avis and the water tastes like wine, but he's never encountered anything like Mouse Baumann's leg. Or, rather, the pestilential, apocalyptic horror show that was Mouse Baumann's leg. Jack's first impulse once he's got himself back under something like control is to upbraid Doc for taking off Mouse's pants. Jack keeps thinking of sausages, and how the casing forces them to keep their shape even after the fry pan's sizzling on a red-hot burner. This is an undoubtedly stupid comparison, primo stupido, but the human mind under pressure puts on some pretty odd jinks and jumps. There's still the shape of a leg there sort of but the flesh has spread away from the bone. The skin is almost completely gone, melted to a runny substance that looks like a mixture of milk and bacon fat. The interwoven mat of muscle beneath what remains of the skin is sagging and undergoing the same cataclysmic metamorphosis. The infected leg is in a kind of undisciplined motion as the solid becomes liquid and the liquid sizzles relentlessly into the couch upon which Mouse is lying. Along with the almost insupportable stench of decay, Jack can smell scorching cloth and melting fabric. Poking out of this spreading, vaguely leglike mess is a foot that looks remarkably undamaged. If I wanted to, I could pull it right off . . . just like a squash off a vine. The thought gets to him in a way the sight of the grievously wounded leg hasn't quite been able to, and for a moment Jack can only bow his head, gagging and trying not to vomit down the front of his shirt. What perhaps saves him is a hand on his back. It's Beezer, offering what comfort he can. The rowdy color has completely left the Beez's face. He looks like a motorcyclist come back from the grave in an urban myth. â€Å"You see?† Doc is asking, and his voice seems to come from a great distance. â€Å"This ain't the chicken pox, my friend, although it looked a little like that while it was still getting cranked up. He's already exhibiting red spots on his left leg . . . his belly . . . his balls. That's pretty much what the skin around the bite looked like when we first got him back here, just some redness and swelling. I thought, ? ®Shit, ain't nothin' to this, I got enough Zithromax to put this on the run before sundown.' Well, you see what good the Zithro did. You see what good anything did. It's eating through the couch, and I'm guessing that when it finishes with the couch, it'll go right to work on the floor. This shit is hungry. So was it worth it, Hollywood? I guess only you and Mouse know the answer to that.† â€Å"He still knows where the house is,† Beezer says. â€Å"Me, I don't have a clue, even though we just came from there. You, either. Do you?† Doc shakes his head. â€Å"But Mouse, he knows.† â€Å"Susie, honey,† Doc says to Bear Girl. â€Å"Bring another blanket, would you? This one's damn near et through.† Bear Girl goes willingly enough. Jack gets to his feet. His legs are rubbery, but they hold him. â€Å"Shield him,† he tells Doc. â€Å"I'm going out to the kitchen. If I don't get a drink, I'm going to die.† Jack takes on water directly from the sink, swallowing until a spike plants itself in the center of his forehead and he belches like a horse. Then he just stands there, looking out into Beezer and Bear Girl's backyard. A neat little swing set has been planted there in the weedy desolation. It hurts Jack to look at it, but he looks anyway. After the lunacy of Mouse's leg, it seems important to remind himself that he's here for a reason. If the reminder hurts, so much the better. The sun, now turning gold as it eases itself down toward the Missis-sippi, glares in his eyes. Time hasn't been standing still after all, it seems. Not outside this little house, anyway. Outside 1 Nailhouse Row, time actually seems to have sped up. He's haunted by the idea that coming here was as pointless as detouring to Henry's house; tormented by the thought that Mr. Munshun and his boss, the abbalah, are running him around like a windup toy with a key in its back while they do their work. He can follow that buzz in his head to Black House, so why the hell doesn't he just get back in his truck and do it? The perfume he smells is not that of his dead wife. What does that mean? Why does the idea of someone smelling perfume make him so crazy and afraid? Beezer knocks on the kitchen door, making him jump. Jack's eye fixes on a sampler hung over the kitchen table. Instead of GOD BLESS OUR HOME, it reads HEAVY METAL THUNDER. With a carefully stitched HARLEY-DAVIDSON beneath. â€Å"Get back in here, man,† the Beez says. â€Å"He's awake again.† Henry's on a path in the woods or maybe it's a lane and something is behind him. Each time he turns to see in this dream he can see, but seeing is no blessing there's a little more of that something back there. It appears to be a man in evening dress, but the man is frightfully elongated, with spike teeth that jut over a smiling red lower lip. And he seems is it possible? to have only one eye. The first time Henry looks back, the shape is only a milky blur amid the trees. The next time he can make out the uneasy dark swim of its coat and a floating red blotch that might be a tie or an ascot. Up ahead of him is this thing's den, a stinking hole that only coincidentally looks like a house. Its presence buzzes in Henry's head. Instead of pine, the woods pressing in on either side smell of heavy, cloying perfume: My Sin. It's driving me, he thinks with dismay. Whatever that thing back there is, it's driving me like a steer toward the slaughterhouse. He thinks of cutting off the lane to his left or right, of using the miracle of his new sight to escape through the woods. Only there are things there, too. Dark, floating shapes like sooty scarves. He can almost see the closest. It's some sort of gigantic dog with a long tongue as red as the apparition's tie and bulging eyes. Can't let it drive me to the house, he thinks. I have to get out of this before it can get me there . . . but how? How? It comes to him with startling simplicity. All he has to do is wake up. Because this is a dream. This is just a â€Å"It's a dream!† Henry cries out, and jerks forward. He's not walking, he's sitting, sitting in his very own easy chair, and pretty soon he's going to have a very wet crotch because he fell asleep with a can of Kingsland Lager balanced there, and But there's no spill, because there's no can of beer. He feels cautiously to his right and yep, there it is, on the table with his book, a braille edition of Reflections in a Golden Eye. He must have put it there before first falling asleep and then falling into that horrible nightmare. Except Henry's pretty sure he didn't do any such thing. He was holding the book and the beer was between his legs, freeing his hands to touch the little upraised dots that tell the story. Something very considerately took both the book and the can after he dropped off, and put them on the table. Something that smells of My Sin perfume. The air reeks of it. Henry takes a long, slow breath with his nostrils flared and mouth tightly sealed shut. â€Å"No,† he says, speaking very clearly. â€Å"I can smell flowers . . . and rug shampoo . . . and fried onions from last night. Very faint but still there. The nose knows.† All true enough. But the smell had been there. It's gone now because she's gone, but she will be back. And suddenly he wants her to come. If he's frightened, surely it's the unknown he's frightened of, right? Only that and nothing more. He doesn't want to be alone here, with nothing for company but the memory of that rancid dream. And the tapes. He has to listen to the tapes. He promised Jack. Henry gets shakily to his feet and makes his way to the living-room control panel. This time he's greeted by the voice of Henry Shake, a mellow fellow if ever there was one. â€Å"Hey there, all you hoppin' cats and boppin' kitties, at the tone it's seven-fourteen P.M., Bulova Watch Time. Outside the temp is a very cool seventy-five degrees, and here in the Make-Believe Ballroom it's a very nifty seventy degrees. So why not get off your money, grab your honey, and make a little magic?† Seven-fourteen! When was the last time he fell asleep for almost three hours in the daytime? For that matter, when was the last time he had a dream in which he could see? The answer to that second question, so far as he can remember, is never. Where was that lane? What was the thing behind him? What was the place ahead of him, for that matter? â€Å"Doesn't matter,† Henry tells the empty room if it is empty. â€Å"It was a dream, that's all. The tapes, on the other hand . . .† He doesn't want to listen to them, has never wanted to listen to anything any less in his life (with the possible exception of Chicago singing â€Å"Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?†), but he has to. If it might save Ty Marshall's life, or the life of even one other child, he must. Slowly, dreading every step, Henry Leyden makes his blind way to his studio, where two cassettes wait for him on the soundboard. â€Å"In heaven there is no beer,† Mouse sings in a toneless, droning voice. His cheeks are now covered with ugly red patches, and his nose seems to be sinking sideways into his face, like an atoll after an undersea earthquake. â€Å"That's why we drink it here. And when . . . we're gone . . . from here . . . our friends will be drinking all the beer.† It's been like this for hours now: philosophical nuggets, instructions for the beginning beer-making enthusiast, snatches of song. The light coming through the blankets over the windows has dimmed appreciably. Mouse pauses, his eyes closed. Then he starts another ditty. â€Å"Hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of beer . . . if one of those bottles should happen to fall . . .† â€Å"I have to go,† Jack says. He's hung in there as well as he can, convinced that Mouse is going to give him something, but he can wait no longer. Somewhere, Ty Marshall is waiting for him. â€Å"Hold on,† Doc says. He rummages in his bag and comes out with a hypodermic needle. He raises it in the dimness and taps the glass barrel with a fingernail. â€Å"What's that?† Doc gives Jack and Beezer a brief, grim smile. â€Å"Speed,† he says, and injects it into Mouse's arm. For a moment there's nothing. Then, as Jack is opening his mouth again to tell them he has to go, Mouse's eyes snap wide. They are now entirely red a bright and bleeding red. Yet when they turn in his direction, Jack knows that Mouse is seeing him. Maybe really seeing him for the first time since he got here. Bear Girl flees the room, trailing a single diminishing phrase behind her: â€Å"No more no more no more no more â€Å" â€Å"Fuck,† Mouse says in a rusty voice. â€Å"Fuck, I'm fucked. Ain't I?† Beezer touches the top of his friend's head briefly but tenderly. â€Å"Yeah, man. I think you are. Can you help us out?† â€Å"Bit me once. Just once, and now . . . now . . .† His hideous red gaze turns to Doc. â€Å"Can barely see you. Fuckin' eyes are all weird.† â€Å"You're going down,† Doc says. â€Å"Ain't gonna lie to you, man.† â€Å"Not yet I ain't,† Mouse says. â€Å"Gimme something to write on. To draw a map on. Quick. Dunno what you shot me with, Doc, but the stuff from the dog's stronger. I ain't gonna be compos long. Quick!† Beezer feels around at the foot of the couch and comes up with a trade-sized paperback. Given the heavy shit on the bookcases, Jack could almost laugh the book is The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. Beezer tears off the back cover and hands it to Mouse with the blank side up. â€Å"Pencil,† Mouse croaks. â€Å"Hurry up. I got it all, man. I got it . . . up here.† He touches his forehead. A patch of skin the size of a quarter sloughs off at his touch. Mouse wipes it on the blanket as if it were a booger. Beezer pulls a gnawed stub of pencil from an inside pocket of his vest. Mouse takes it and makes a pathetic effort to smile. The black stuff oozing from the corners of his eyes has continued to build up, and now it lies on his cheeks like smears of decayed jelly. More of it is springing out of the pores on his forehead in minute black dots that remind Jack of Henry's braille books. When Mouse bites his lower lip in concentration, the tender flesh splits open at once. Blood begins dribbling into his beard. Jack supposes the rotted-meat smell is still there, but Beezer had been right: he's gotten used to it. Mouse turns the book cover sideways, then draws a series of quick squiggles. â€Å"Lookit,† he says to Jack. â€Å"This the Mississippi, right?† â€Å"Right,† Jack says. When he leans in, he starts getting the smell again. Up close it's not even a stench; it's a miasma trying to crawl down his throat. But Jack doesn't move away. He knows what an effort Mouse is making. The least he can do is play his part. â€Å"Here's downtown the Nelson, Lucky's, the Agincourt Theater, the Taproom . . . here's where Chase Street turns into Lyall Road, then Route 35 . . . here's Libertyville . . . the VFW . . . Goltz's . . . ah, Christ â€Å" Mouse begins to thrash on the couch. Sores on his face and upper body burst open and begin leaking. He screams with pain. The hand not holding the pencil goes to his face and paws at it ineffectually. Something inside Jack speaks up, then speaks in a shining, imperative voice he remembers from his time on the road all those years ago. He supposes it's the voice of the Talisman, or whatever remains of it in his mind and soul. It doesn't want him to talk, it's trying to kill him before he can talk, it's in the black stuff, maybe it is the black stuff, you've got to get rid of it Some things can only be done without the mind's prudish interference; when the work is nasty, instinct is often best. So it is without thinking that Jack reaches out, grasps the black slime oozing from Mouse's eyes between his fingers, and pulls. At first the stuff only stretches, as if made of rubber. At the same time Jack can feel it squirming and writhing in his grip, perhaps trying to pinch or bite him. Then it lets go with a twang sound. Jack throws the convulsing black tissue onto the floor with a cry. The stuff tries to slither beneath the couch Jack sees this even as he wipes his hands on his shirt, frantic with revulsion. Doc slams his bag down on one piece. Beezer squashes the other with the heel of a motorcycle boot. It makes a squittering sound. â€Å"What the fuck is that shit?† Doc asks. His voice, ordinarily husky, has gone up into a near-falsetto range. â€Å"What the fuck â€Å" â€Å"Nothing from here,† Jack says, â€Å"and never mind. Look at him! Look at Mouse!† The red glare in Mouse's eyes has retreated; for the moment he looks almost normal. Certainly he's seeing them, and the pain seems gone. â€Å"Thanks,† he breathes. â€Å"I only wish you could get it all that way, but man, it's already coming back. Pay attention.† â€Å"I'm listening,† Jack says. â€Å"You better,† Mouse replies. â€Å"You think you know. You think you can find the place again even if these two can't, and maybe you can, but maybe you don't know quite so much as you . . . ah, fuck.† From somewhere beneath the blanket there is a ghastly bursting sound as something gives way. Sweat runs down Mouse's face, mixing with the black poison venting from his pores and turning his beard a damp and dirty gray. His eyes roll up to Jack's, and Jack can see that red glare starting to haze over them again. â€Å"This sucks,† Mouse pants. â€Å"Never thought I'd go out this way. Lookit, Hollywood . . .† The dying man draws a small rectangle on his makeshift scribble of map. â€Å"This â€Å" â€Å"Ed's Eats, where we found Irma,† Jack says. â€Å"I know.† â€Å"All right,† Mouse whispers. â€Å"Good. Now look . . . over on the other side . . . the Schubert and Gale side . . . and to the west . . .† Mouse draws a line going north from Highway 35. He puts little circles on either side of it. Jack takes these to be representations of trees. And, across the front of the line like a gate: NO TRESPASSING. â€Å"Yeah,† Doc breathes. â€Å"That's where it was, all right. Black House.† Mouse takes no notice. His dimming gaze is fixed solely on Jack. â€Å"Listen to me, cop. Are you listening?† â€Å"Yes.† â€Å"Christ, you better be,† Mouse tells him. As it always has, the work captures Henry, absorbs him, takes him away. Boredom and sorrow have never been able to stand against this old captivation with sound from the sighted world. Apparently fear can't stand against it, either. The hardest moment isn't listening to the tapes but mustering the courage to stick the first one in the big TEAC audio deck. In that moment of hesitation he's sure he can smell his wife's perfume even in the soundproofed and air-filtered environment of the studio. In that moment of hesitation he is positive he isn't alone, that someone (or something) is standing just outside the studio door, looking in at him through the glass upper half. And that is, in fact, the absolute truth. Blessed with sight as we are, we can see what Henry cannot. We want to tell him what's out there, to lock the studio door, for the love of God lock it now, but we can only watch. Henry reaches for the PLAY button on the tape deck. Then his finger changes course and hits the intercom toggle instead. â€Å"Hello? Is anyone out there?† The figure standing in Henry's living room, looking in at him the way someone might look into an aquarium at a single exotic fish, makes no sound. The last of the sun's on the other side of the house and the living room is becoming quite dark, Henry being understandably forgetful when it comes to turning on the lights. Elmer Jesperson's amusing bee slippers (not that they amuse us much under these circumstances) are just about the brightest things out there. â€Å"Hello? Anyone?† The figure looking in through the glass half of the studio door is grinning. In one hand it is holding the hedge clippers from Henry's garage. â€Å"Last chance,† Henry says, and when there's still no response, he becomes the Wisconsin Rat, shrieking into the intercom, trying to startle whatever's out there into revealing itself: â€Å"Come on now, honey, come on now, you muthafukkah, talk to Ratty!† The figure peering in at Henry recoils as a snake might recoil when its prey makes a feint but it utters no sound. From between the grinning teeth comes a leathery old tongue, wagging and poking in derision. This creature has been into the perfume that Mrs. Morton has never had the heart to remove from the vanity in the little powder room adjacent to the master bedroom, and now Henry's visitor reeks of My Sin. Henry decides it's all just his imagination playing him up again oy, such a mistake, Morris Rosen would have told him, had Morris been there and hits PLAY with the tip of his finger. He hears a throat-clearing sound, and then Arnold Hrabowski identifies himself. The Fisherman interrupts him before he can even finish: Hello, asswipe. Henry rewinds, listens again: Hello, asswipe. Rewinds and listens yet again: Hello, asswipe. Yes, he has heard this voice before. He's sure of it. But where? The answer will come, answers of this sort always do eventually and getting there is half the fun. Henry listens, enrapt. His fingers dance back and forth over the tape deck's buttons like the fingers of a concert pianist over the keys of a Steinway. The feeling of being watched slips from him, although the figure outside the studio door the thing wearing the bee slippers and holding the hedge clippers never moves. Its smile has faded somewhat. A sulky expression is growing on its aged face. There is confusion in that look, and perhaps the first faint trace of fear. The old monster doesn't like it that the blind fish in the aquarium should have captured its voice. Of course it doesn't matter; maybe it's even part of the fun, but if it is, it's Mr. Munshun's fun, not its fun. And their fun should be the same . . . shouldn't i t? You have an emergency. Not me. You. â€Å"Not me, you,† Henry says. The mimicry is so good it's weird. â€Å"A little bit of sauerkraut in your salad, mein friend, ja?† Your worst nightmare . . . worst nightmare. Abbalah. I'm the Fisherman. Henry listening, intent. He lets the tape run awhile, then listens to the same phrase four times over: Kiss my scrote, you monkey . . . kiss my scrote, you monkey . . . you monkey . . . monkey . . . No, not monkey. The voice is actually saying munggey. MUNG-ghee. â€Å"I don't know where you are now, but you grew up in Chicago,† Henry murmurs. â€Å"South Side. And . . .† Warmth on his face. Suddenly he remembers warmth on his face. Why is that, friends and neighbors? Why is that, O great wise ones? You're no better'n a monkey on a stick. Monkey on a stick. Monkey â€Å"Monkey,† Henry says. He's rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers now. â€Å"Monkey on a stick. MUNG-ghee on a stigg. Who said that?† He plays the 911: Kiss my scrote, you monkey. He plays his memory: You're no better'n a monkey on a stick. Warmth on his face. Heat? Light? Both? Henry pops out the 911 tape and sticks in the one Jack brought today. Hello, Judy. Are you Judy today, or are you Sophie? The abbalah sends his best, and Gorg says â€Å"Caw-caw-caw!† [Husky, phlegmy laughter.] Ty says hello, too. Your little boy is very lonely . . . When Tyler Marshall's weeping, terrified voice booms through the speakers, Henry winces and fast-forwards. Derr vill be morrr mur-derts. The accent much thicker now, a burlesque, a joke, Katzenjammer Kids Meet the Wolfman, but somehow even more revealing because of that. Der liddul chull-drun . . . havv-uz-ted like wheed. Like wheed. Havv-uz-ted like . . . â€Å"Harvested like a monkey on a stick,† Henry says. â€Å"MUNG-ghee. HAVV-us-ted. Who are you, you son of a bitch?† Back to the 911 tape. There are whips in hell and chains in Sheol. But it's almost vips in hell, almost chenz in Shayol. Vips. Chenz. MUNG-ghee on a stick. A stigg. â€Å"You're no better'n † Henry begins, and then, all at once, another line comes to him. â€Å"Lady Magowan's Nightmare.† That one's good. A bad nightmare of what? Vips in hell? Chenz in Shayol? Mung-ghees on sticks? â€Å"My God,† Henry says softly. â€Å"Oh . . . my . . . God. The dance. He was at the dance.† Now it all begins to fall into place. How stupid they have been! How criminally stupid! The boy's bike . . . it had been right there. Right there, for Christ's sake! They were all blind men, make them all umps. â€Å"But he was so old,† Henry whispers. â€Å"And senile! How were we supposed to guess such a man could be the Fisherman?† Other questions follow this one. If the Fisherman is a resident at Maxton Elder Care, for instance, where in God's name could he have stashed Ty Marshall? And how is the bastard getting around French Landing? Does he have a car somewhere? â€Å"Doesn't matter,† Henry murmurs. â€Å"Not now, anyway. Who is he and where is he? Those are the things that matter.† The warmth on his face his mind's first effort to locate the Fisherman's voice in time and place had been the spotlight, of course, Symphonic Stan's spotlight, the pink of ripening berries. And some woman, some nice old woman Mr. Stan, yoo-hoo, Mr. Stan? had asked him if he took requests. Only, before Stan could reply, a voice as flat and hard as two stones grinding together I was here first, old woman. had interrupted. Flat . . . and hard . . . and with that faint Germanic harshness that said South Side Chicago, probably second or even third generation. Not vass here first, not old vumman, but those telltale v's had been lurking, hadn't they? Ah yes. â€Å"Mung-ghee,† Henry says, looking straight ahead. Looking straight at Charles Burnside, had he only known it. â€Å"Stigg. Havv-us-ted. Hasta la vista . . . baby.† Was that what it came down to, in the end? A dotty old maniac who sounded a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger? Who was the woman? If he can remember her name, he can call Jack . . . or Dale, if Jack's still not answering his phone . . . and put an end to French Landing's bad dream. Lady Magowan's Nightmare. That one's good. â€Å"Nightmare,† Henry says, then adjusting his voice: â€Å"Nahht-mare.† Once again the mimicry is good. Certainly too good for the old codger standing outside the studio door. He is now scowling bitterly and gnashing the hedge clippers in front of the glass. How can the blindman in there sound so much like him? It's not right; it's completely improper. The old monster longs to cut the vocal cords right out of Henry Leyden's throat. Soon, he promises himself, he will do that. And eat them. Sitting in the swivel chair, drumming his fingers nervously on the gleaming oak in front of him, Henry recalls the brief encounter at the bandstand. Not long into the Strawberry Fest dance, this had been. Tell me your name and what you'd like to hear. I am Alice Weathers, and . â€Å"Moonglow,† please. By Benny Goodman. â€Å"Alice Weathers,† Henry says. â€Å"That was her name, and if she doesn't know your name, my homicidal friend, then I'm a monkey on a stick.† He starts to get up, and that is when someone something begins to knock, very softly, on the glass upper half of the door. Bear Girl has drawn close, almost against her will, and now she, Jack, Doc, and the Beez are gathered around the sofa. Mouse has sunk halfway into it. He looks like a person dying badly in quicksand. Well, Jack thinks, there's no quicksand, but he's dying badly, all right. Guess there's no question about that. â€Å"Listen up,† Mouse tells them. The black goo is forming at the corners of his eyes again. Worse, it's trickling from the corners of his mouth. The stench of decay is stronger than ever as Mouse's inner workings give up the struggle. Jack is frankly amazed that they've lasted as long as they have. â€Å"You talk,† Beezer says. â€Å"We'll listen.† Mouse looks at Doc. â€Å"When I finish, give me the fireworks. The Cadillac dope. Understand?† â€Å"You want to get out ahead of whatever it is you've got.† Mouse nods. â€Å"I'm down with that,† Doc agrees. â€Å"You'll go out with a smile on your face.† â€Å"Doubt that, bro, but I'll give it a try.† Mouse shifts his reddening gaze to Beezer. â€Å"When it's done, wrap me up in one of the nylon tents that're in the garage. Stick me in the tub. I'm betting that by midnight, you'll be able to wash me down the drain like . . . like so much beer foam. I'd be careful, though. Don't . . . touch what's left.† Bear Girl bursts into tears. â€Å"Don't cry, darlin',† Mouse says. â€Å"I'm gonna get out ahead. Doc promised. Beez?† â€Å"Right here, buddy.† â€Å"You have a little service for me. Okay? Read a poem . . . the one by Auden . . . the one that always used to frost your balls . . .† † ? ®Thou shalt not read the Bible for its prose,' † Beezer says. He's crying. â€Å"You got it, Mousie.† â€Å"Play some Dead . . . ? ®Ripple,' maybe . . . and make sure you're full enough of Kingsland to christen me good and proper into the next life. Guess there won't . . . be any grave for you to piss on, but . . . do the best you can.† Jack laughs at that. He can't help it. And this time it's his turn to catch the full force of Mouse's crimson eyes. â€Å"Promise me you'll wait until tomorrow to go out there, cop.† â€Å"Mouse, I'm not sure I can do that.† â€Å"You gotta. Go out there tonight, you won't have to worry about the devil dog . . . the other things in the woods around that house . . . the other things . . .† The red eyes roll horribly. Black stuff trickles into Mouse's beard like tar. Then he somehow forces himself to go on. â€Å"The other things in those woods will eat you like candy.† â€Å"I think that's a chance I'll have to take,† Jack says, frowning. â€Å"There's a little boy somewhere â€Å" â€Å"Safe,† Mouse whispers. Jack raises his eyebrows, unsure if he's heard Mouse right. And even if he has, can he trust what he's heard? Mouse has some powerful, evil poison working in him. So far he's been able to withstand it, to communicate in spite of it, but â€Å"Safe for a little while,† Mouse says. â€Å"Not from everything . . . there's things that might still get him, I suppose . . . but for the time being he's safe from Mr. Munching. Is that his name? Munching?† â€Å"Munshun, I think. How do you know it?† Mouse favors Jack with a smile of surpassing eeriness. It is the smile of a dying sibyl. Once more he manages to touch his forehead, and Jack notes with horror that the man's fingers are now melting into one another and turning black from the nails down. â€Å"Got it up here, man. Got it alll up here. Told you that. And listen: it's better the kid should get eaten by some giant bug or rock crab over there . . . where he is . . . than that you should die trying to rescue him. If you do that, the abbalah will wind up with the kid for sure. That's what your . . . your friend says.† â€Å"What friend?† Doc asks suspiciously. â€Å"Never mind,† Mouse says. â€Å"Hollywood knows. Don'tcha, Holly-wood?† Jack nods reluctantly. It's Speedy, of course. Or Parkus, if you prefer. â€Å"Wait until tomorrow,† Mouse says. â€Å"High noon, when the sun's strongest in both worlds. Promise.† At first Jack can say nothing. He's torn, in something close to agony. â€Å"It'd be almost full dark before you could get back out Highway 35 anyway,† Bear Girl says quietly. â€Å"And there's bad shit in those woods, all right,† Doc says. â€Å"Makes the stuff in that Blair Witch Project look fuckin' tame. I don't think you want to try it in the dark. Not unless you got a death wish, that is.† â€Å"When you're done . . .† Mouse whispers. â€Å"When you're done . . . if any of you are left . . . burn the place to the ground. That hole. That tomb. Burn it to the ground, do you hear me? Close the door.† â€Å"Yeah,† Beezer says. â€Å"Heard and understood, buddy.† â€Å"Last thing,† Mouse says. He's speaking directly to Jack now. â€Å"You may be able to find it . . . but I think I got something else you need. It's a word. It's powerful to you because of something you . . . you touched. Once a long time ago. I don't understand that part, but . . .† â€Å"It's all right,† Jack tells him. â€Å"I do. What's the word, Mouse?† For a moment he doesn't think Mouse will, in the end, be able to tell him. Something is clearly struggling to keep him from saying the word, but in this struggle, Mouse comes out on top. It is, Jack thinks, very likely his life's last W. â€Å"D'yamba,† Mouse says. â€Å"Now you, Hollywood. You say it.† â€Å"D'yamba,† Jack says, and a row of weighty paperbacks slides from one of the makeshift shelves at the foot of the couch. They hang there in the dimming air . . . hang . . . hang . . . and then drop to the floor with a crash. Bear Girl voices a little scream. â€Å"Don't forget it,† Mouse says. â€Å"You're gonna need it.† â€Å"How? How am I going to need it?† Mouse shakes his head wearily. â€Å"Don't . . . know.† Beezer reaches over Jack's shoulder and takes the pitiful little scribble of map. â€Å"You're going to meet us tomorrow morning at the Sand Bar,† he tells Jack. â€Å"Get there by eleven-thirty, and we should be turning into that goddamned lane right around noon. In the meantime, maybe I'll just hold on to this. A little insurance policy to make sure you do things Mouse's way.† â€Å"Okay,† Jack says. He doesn't need the map to find Chummy Burn-side's Black House, but Mouse is almost certainly right: it's probably not the sort of place you want to tackle after dark. He hates to leave Ty Marshall in the furance-lands it feels wrong in a way that's almost sinful but he has to remember that there's more at stake here than one little boy lost. â€Å"Beezer, are you sure you want to go back there?† â€Å"Hell no, I don't want to go back,† Beezer says, almost indignantly. â€Å"But something killed my daughter my daughter! and it got here from there! You want to tell me you don't know that's true?† Jack makes no reply. Of course it's true. And of course he wants Doc and the Beez with him when he turns up the lane to Black House. If they can bear to come, that is. D'yamba, he thinks. D'yamba. Don't forget. He turns back to the couch. â€Å"Mouse, do you â€Å" â€Å"No,† Doc says. â€Å"Guess he won't need the Cadillac dope, after all.† â€Å"Huh?† Jack peers at the big brewer-biker stupidly. He feels stupid. Stupid and exhausted. â€Å"Nothin' tickin' but his watch,† Doc says, and then he begins to sing. After a moment Beezer joins in, then Bear Girl. Jack steps away from the couch with a thought queerly similar to Henry's: How did it get late so early? Just how in hell did that happen? â€Å"In heaven, there is no beer . . . that's why we drink it here . . . and when . . . we're gone . . . from here . . .† Jack tiptoes across the room. On the far side, there's a lighted Kingsland Premium Golden Pale Ale bar clock. Our old friend who is finally looking every year of his age and not quite so lucky peers at the time with disbelief, not accepting it until he has compared it to his own watch. Almost eight. He has been here for hours. Almost dark, and the Fisherman still out there someplace. Not to mention his otherworldly playmates. D'yamba, he thinks again as he opens the door. And, as he steps out onto the splintery porch and closes the door behind him, he speaks aloud with great sincerity into the darkening day: â€Å"Speedy, I'd like to wring your neck.†

Why Romeo’s Mood Change When He Realises Mercution Is Dying

Romeo’s mood changes when he realizes that Mercutio is dying as he suddenly becomes regretful ‘that an hour hath (Tybalt) been my kinsman’ and decides that ‘others must end’ over ‘this black day’s fate’, whereas at the beginning of the scene he is very calm and peaceful and tells Tybalt ‘I love thee’ and that the reason he does excuses the need to react aggressively toward the ‘greeting’ Tybalt gives him calling him ‘villain’ as his hate can have ‘no better term’.Romeo is made ‘effeminate’ by Juliet’s love and so his love ‘excuses the appertaining rage’ so he doesn’t harm the Capulet, ‘whose name I (he) tenders as dearly as’ his own as he is married to Juliet. When Mercutio and Tybalt are fighting he still continues to try to keep the peace, and tells Benvolio to help ‘beat down their weapons’ which links to the fig ht in Act 1 Scene 1 where Benvolio draws his sword to prevent the fighting, showing how they aren’t opposed to force to protect people they care about.When he realises Mercutio is dying he sheds his peace keeping attitude and actively participates in the fight as either him, Tybalt ‘or both’ must go with ‘Mercutio’s soul’ ‘to keep him company’. This also contrasts with the love expressed for Tybalt earlier, as he acts more masculine instead of being ‘effeminate’ as Juliet ‘hath soften’d valour’s steel’and fights to maintain his family’s honour and also avenge the death of his ‘very friend’, which shows two sides to Romeo; one being the courtly lover who is in love with Juliet and the other being an Italian hot-blooded male.

Reinventing the Wheel at Ryan Door Company Essay

Reinventing the Wheel at Ryan Door Company - Essay Example on between the time rate of employees before the training and the time rate of the same employees after the training: with all other factors remaining the same. Should there be an improvement in the work rate; Ryan can be assured that there has been an improvement resulting from the training. The next type of outcome to use is the adherence to instructions. Employees often show since of refusal to stick to instructions if they are not conversant with the technicalities of the work assigned to them (The Guardian, 2012). Training has however been identified to solve such a problem. In this regard, the employees should gain more command over the technicalities of the designing work they do after the training program by adhering more to instructions. Once this is done, it will be a proof that employees now understand the instructions given out to them. Then again, the cost of production should be reduced drastically. If employees gain any improvement in their training process, they will come to understand the importance of value for money. For this reason, they will be mindful of the cost of production as the cost of production goes a long way to determine the output of gain that will be made at the end of each production (Koduah, 2001). There exist a number of evaluation designs that can be implemented by Ryan in assessing the impact of the training program instituted. But for a type of design that meets the current needs of the company, the outcome or impact evaluation design is the most preferred. This is because the aim of using an impact evaluation design is to assess the level of impact that any given program has had on its members (Koduah, 2001). Considering the present urgent need for change in place at the company, such an impact evaluation design will come with a lot of advantage for the company especially as the company is a profit making one and must have value for all its programs and initiatives such as the present training program. With the said impact

The Using Perceptual Maps in Marketing Simulation Essay

The Using Perceptual Maps in Marketing Simulation - Essay Example The purpose of the simulation is to construct a perceptual map for a marketing plan of Thorr Motorcycles. During the first round of the simulation the first step was to create a perceptual map of the company to attract customers due to the fact that the firm was facing declining sales from its existing product, the Cruise Thorr. â€Å"A perceptual map is a visual representation of what the customer thinks of a brand† (Using Perceptual Maps in Marketing Simulation, 2013). The student had to choose four parameters among the following nine parameters: lifestyle image, product design and styling, cool, product uniqueness, service offerings, price, engine capacity, safety, quality engineering. The parameters selected were lifestyle image, service offering, price, and quality engineering. According to the simulation the four parameters selected were the fundamental parameters for Cruise Thorr perceptual map. Lifestyle image was chosen because image plays a fundamental and critical r ole in the buying decisions of customers in this industry. Price is a no-brainer because people purchasing any type of product evaluate its price to determine whether the price is justified for the good or service a person is acquiring. The high price Thorr Motorcycles charge for the Cruise Thorr is obtained due to the brand image of the company and the perception of the customers that they are acquiring a superior product than the competition. The use of a branding strategy enables companies to charge a premium for its products or services (Kotler, 2003). Quality engineering was selected on the fact that this parameter is a good indicator of the quality of the product the firm offers. Service offering was chosen because motorcycle enthusiasts are attracted by companies that offer a wide variety of services. During the second round of the simulation the player was faced with the dilemma of the market position of the Cruise Thorr not being able to target customers adequately to achie ve the desired sales output. The simulation gave the option to either reposition the Cruise Thorr or to introduce a new product geared towards the economical market. The idea of introducing a new product to target young customers by making the motorcycle less expensive is a bad strategy that the company should not pursue. The firm since its inception has worked hard to create a brand value and corporate image beyond what anybody in the industry holds. Introducing an economical model is not aligned with the mission of the company and would be counterproductive because it would deteriorate the sales of the Cruise Thorr and anger the customer base of the company. The decision taken was to reposition the Cruise Thorr. The positioning strategy selected was to provide financing options and increase services. Providing financing options increases the potential customer base of the company because it allows people that cannot afford to purchase the bike by paying cash the ability to acquire the motorcycle by virtue of their credit. Increasing services is a smart move because it increases the value of the product for the customers. The simulation forced the player to choose a marketing mix for the new repositioning strategy. The price of the motorcycle was maintained without any changes. Decreasing the price would hurt the profitability of the company, while an increase in price will create customer dissatisfaction. The following three promotional options were selected: organize

Prime Ministers can never behave like Presidents. Therefore, the Essay - 1

Prime Ministers can never behave like Presidents. Therefore, the presidentialisation of parliamentary democracies thesis is misguided. Discuss - Essay Example 2010). This mounting discontent in several parliamentary democracies is taking place against the backdrop of a popular movement toward individual headship by the chief executive. This has not been complemented by new machineries that would enable the electorate to make their leaders, instead of the parliamentarians and parties, responsible (Mughan 2000). The case of Britain, and existing pre-election movement, reveals these conflicts well. Tony Blair pleases voters on the basis of his reputation, but the electorate cannot reprimand or reward the prime minister directly. Their sole power is to support or oppose his/her party, whose control on its leader is usually viewed as restricted (Flinders, Gamble, Hay & Kenny 2009). This disparity in accountability has broadened over the recent decades. Although political leadership strategies and electoral appeals in Britain throughout the past three decades have become ever more presidential and individualised, the system stays decisively party and parliamentary based (Gunther, Montero & Puhle 2007). The emergence of this ‘individualisation’ of political leadership has been traced by the author of The British Presidency, Michael Foley (2000). He claimed that it is, partly, the politicians’ reaction to the media environment. Policymakers resent the media’s focus on exposing personality conflicts and the manipulative mechanisms of contemporary politics, disregarding policy and ideas, making political issues emergency headlines. There are, basically, similarities and differences between presidential chief executives and prime ministers, but both necessitate two major power machineries to work successfully: control over the parliament, and power within the executive (Samuels & Shugart 2010). In general, the United States, the most prominent case of presidentialism, has an executive which certainly holds the first power source, but

Arnold Schonberg, Adolf Loos and the Viennese Circle Essay

Arnold Schonberg, Adolf Loos and the Viennese Circle - Essay Example On the other hand, music tells a story through a carefully crafted set of audio. The best creations in architecture and music take painfully long to craft and they tell a compelling story that captivates its audience. It is evident that several analogies can be drawn between architecture and music in terms of their creation and impact to the society (Breivik, 2011). Inevitably, music and architecture tend to borrow from each other. Music can be considered as a metaphorical representation of a structure that can be transformed into visual terms and be an architectural piece. The relationship between architecture and music can be difficult to fathom for an ordinary person. Yet, a careful analysis of the underlying principles of any music piece shows a clear correlation with architecture. Music can be analyzed in three key parts that are rhythm, melody and harmony. These three features can be incorporated into architecture and help to create striking pieces. Breivik (2011) and Alexander (1999) pointed out that musical influence in architecture redefines a design and showcases the subtle artistic features that make an architectural piece to stand out. Therefore, it is important to appreciate the importance of the relationship between architecture and music. ... He was a member of the Viennese Circle. The architectural ideas of Loos were shaped greatly by the ideas that were brought forth by the Viennese circle (Schezel et al, 2009). Loos was greatly influenced by the musical ideas of his colleague Arnold Schonberg who was also part of the Viennese circle. Both Loos and Schonberg had great influence on each other. In fact, the intellectual relationship in terms of architecture and music that transpired between Loos and Schonberg has had a great impact on the society up to the present time. Loos and Schonberg were active in their professions during the era of serialism. Serialism was a revolution in composition as it was during those times. Traditional melodic, harmonic and tonal conventions were replaced entirely. Arnold Schonberg developed the twelve note system that was a new thinking in the line serial development. In the serial theory, it was the structural series of notes that made up the overall composition. The ilk of Schonberg revoke d standardized musical devices and instead opted to come with something that was unique. The main emphasis in serial development was order and clarity (John, pp. 87). Schonberg let go of the traditional aspects of music and endeavored to reinvent music in its entirety. Serialism in music was about composers coming up with their own musical language based on their ideas and intellectual inclination. Historical reiterations were not given any consideration. In essence, Serialism in music as embodied in Arnold Schonberg’s work was of disruptive nature in comparison with the conventional music at that time. During the time of Serialism, the cultural environment in Vienna allowed

Criminology Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 500 words - 11

Criminology - Essay Example 59, 60). Social and economic factors in a person’s life play a significant role in the person’s perception on crime. People from respectable social classes will for example perceive crimes as unethical activities that can lead to loss of social ties with friends and relatives. As a result, these individuals will most likely refrain from involvement in criminal activities. A person with poor social conscience will however not care about the society’s perception over his or her criminal activities. Economic factors are also major causes of crimes. Poverty and unemployment for instance limits people’s capacity to provide for their basic needs and wants. As a result, some people engage in criminal activities in order to get finances for the needs (Messner, 2001). Cultural factors, influenced by peer pressure, are other causes of crime in the society. Association with groups with rebellious characteristics particularly transforms people to behaviors of such cultural groups. With a deviant behavior, a person is likely to disobey law and law enforcement officers resulting in criminal activities. Psychological factors also play a role in a person’s decision towards involvement in a criminal activity. The level of motivation in a person for example defines a person’s objectives and economic initiatives that the individual will engage in. While highly motivated individuals will work hard to develop decent professions, poorly motivated individuals lack the drive. As a result, they fail to establish reliable financial background and resort to criminal activities for survival. Negative aspects of â€Å"social, economic, cultural, and psychological† factors therefore cause criminal activities (Messner, 2001, p. 59, 60). A number of factors such as â€Å"cracking down on crime, education, administration, construction, and correction† prevent crimes (Messner, 2001, p. 60). Cracking down criminal activities,

Analog and Digital Formats Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 500 words

Analog and Digital Formats - Essay Example Smith asserts that : . flexibility is one of the chief assets of digital information.   The bits of data can be recombined for easy manipulation and compressed for storage. Digital images will not degrade when copied as analog formats degenerate. Information in digital formats can over access and can be downloaded millions of times. The process of converting analog to digital format is known as â€Å"digitization†. It is also important to note that digital format is best used with electronic communication such as PCs, Ipods , DVD players, and other electronic equipment. The main function of digital recording is the conversion of the analog wave into a stream of numbers and records the numbers instead of a wave. Usually, a device known as analog-to-digital converter (ADC) does the conversion. However, a multimedia PC can also perform the conversion by using audio editing software. There are many formats that you can choose from such as Windows WAVE (.wav)  ,QuickTime Movies (.mov), RealAudio (.ra, .ram, .rp),MPEG Audio (.mpg) Moving Picture Experts Group MIDI (mid) Muscial Instrument Digital Interface, and Windows Media Audio (.wma). The choice of format determines delivery speeds, quality of sound, plug-ins required and size of the audio file. The quality of sound is affected by the sampling rate especially in analog-to-digital conversion. Certain distortions such as noise can happen if the sampling rate is not achieved. The website pctechguide suggests that ideal sampling rate in audio recording for personal use is 44.1 kHz .Due to the different formats available, some players cannot recognize the format, thus, programs like â€Å"codec’ can make this possible. There are many types of codec such as divx codec, avi codec, MPEG-Layer 3 codec depending on the user’s needs and preference. An important factor in converting analog to digital formats is compression. Compression enables your files to download quickly. Compression

People & Organisations Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 2500 words

People & Organisations - Essay Example To this date, the company continues to feel the effects of such actions. This report analyses the role that employee motivation plays in the profitability of commercial organizations. Using Peacocks as a case, the report shows the importance of employee motivations and the ways in which the human resource management can motivate its workforce. Based in Cardiff city, Wales, Peacocks is a large fashion retail chain that has over 400 outlets throughout the United Kingdom and more than two hundred other stores in numerous countries throughout Europe. Prior to 2012, the company had 9,600 employees. Currently, the company has slightly over 6,000 employees in all its outlets throughout the world. Peacocks began experiencing low profitability in 2011. The management could not establish the cause of the problem, as they were engrossed with marketing. The employees were slowing losing their morale and interest with their roles at the company. The growing tension regarding the future of the company affected the morale of the employees further thereby leading to immense demoralization at the place of work. Employees became increasingly clumsy. The fashions and apparel industry is part of the hospitality industry. An employee attitude towards their work is therefore an important feature that influences the profitability of such businesses. The human resource management lacked functional mechanisms of measuring the levels of motivation in their employees. In January 2012, the company laid off nearly half its employees. The spontaneous downsizing and the poor way in which the company treated the employees it laid off was yet another major source of concern to the remaining employees. The company retained with an unmotivated workforce. The employees earned less than their counterparts in competing companies did. Additionally, they worked in fear owing to

Is There Life Off Earth Term Paper Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1250 words

Is There Life Off Earth - Term Paper Example But even it is taken for granted that on some planets in this universe, there prevails an environment like the one on the earth, one cannot be sure of the existence of life on those planet. This paper will devise an experiment to test whether any form of life as defined on Earth could prosper on Mars. This experiment will be conveyed mainly by the theoretical assessment of the possibility of life on Mars. Traditional search for life on Mars as well as in the universe is centered on the quest whether Mars can provide essential conditions of life. These conditions are to be the same as they are required for the survival of life on Earth. In order to life to exist on Mars, scientists suggest that the planet must have water. But the temperature of the planet must not be high enough to evaporate the water. Therefore, liquidity of water must be preserved in order to initiate the existence of life (Stewart 39). This opinion of the scientists is greatly influenced by the hydro-evolutionary theory that asserts that life on Earth has been initiated from the movement of water in the ocean. Also in order to sustain life, Mars must have the availability of elements like carbon and nitrogen, so that the unary organic system like cells can grow easily. At the same time, the planet should have an apparently congenial environment that can sustain life as well as preserve each its evolutionary steps. The question whether Mars can provide the conditions of life is totally based on empirical science. With a highest -600 C temperature that is slightly higher that the lowest -800 C temperature of the Antarctic region, the environment of Mars is supposed to be hostile for most of the microorganism organisms as well as other forms of earthly life. Also having a gravitational force, 38 percent of that of Earth, it has a thin layer atmosphere, .7% of Earth’s atmosphere. Even though there are other dissimilarities,

Health Care Email Essay Example for Free

Health Care Email Essay Thinking back a hundred years ago the history of health care has evolved and has become one of the most demanding fields to work in. The ultimate goal of health care is to treat, prevent or to intervene for those who are ill. Technology is also a major evolution that is now a vital role in the health care system. It allows patients to become more involved with their healthcare. They can follow up on test results, make appointments, and contact their doctors with the progression of technology. Not only has technology evolved but medication is another area that has improved the lives of many, back a hundred years ago the various medication was not available. The future has so much in store for those in the health care field. There are many interesting areas of the health care field. The one thing that interests me most is how disease treatment has changed the path to healing. The idea of medicine has change the look on life of healing and living. Medicine has change the ways we care for our customer know as our patient. In the earlier centuries, epidemics like cholera and smallpox were a widespread across countries; now those diseases are rarely heard of. With the research and implementation of new medicines most of the diseases that were killing thousands of people are now nonexistent. Nurses are the care takers in the health care field. With nurses patients receive one on one care, in many areas of the health care field. Nursing comes from the heart and spirit and truly from within. Healthcare was my number one choice field to work in. After working in a nursing home for many years showed me the reward for caring for others. I have learned many lessons in the healthcare field both positive and negative. . There are many resources and information on the history of health care in the U.S Department of Health Human Services, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and Public Health Services. These are only a few of the resources were information on the  history of health can be found. There are many aspect and field to go into, but you have to know which area of expertise or group and how they all tie into the health care.

Private Lives of Celebrities

Private Lives of Celebrities The first amendment gives U.S. citizens the right of press, and celebrities are exposed the most to people using this right. The press have spent their career trying to get their audiences the inside story of celebrities public and private lives. Celebrities should be able to keep their private lives safe and out of the press. Being in the spotlight itself can have a negative effect on celebrities. Celebrities have had negative psychological effects due to being in the spotlight of the media, paparazzi, and their fans.According to Dr. Christina Villarreal, celebrities suffer no privacy, lost sense of self, loss of challenges, imposter syndrome the feeling of being an imposter because one does not feel they deserve their success and the quest for media spotlight immortality.Celebrities end up in a negative state of mind about themselves or have no privacy outside of their homes or have the fear of fading away in the eye of the media.Jennifer Lawrence was quoted, I knew the paparazzi were going to be a reality in my life. . . . But I didnt know that I would feel anxiety every time I open my front door, or that being chased by 10 men you dont know, or being surrounded, feels invasive and makes me feel scared and gets my adrenaline going every day. (Should Celebrities Have Privacy? A Response to Jennifer Law rence)Anxiety is distress or uneasiness of mind caused by fear of danger or misfortune, which Lawrence was quoted having just from opening her front door. Jennifer Lawrence suffers from anxiety from lack of privacy outside of her home. Lawrence isnt the only celebrity, and isnt the only one who suffers from lack of privacy just because their . No human should suffer from their job. There are laws about taking pictures about normal everyday people.In some states you can not take pictures or personal information of people without their permission, which does not seem to have any effect on the paparazzi.Missouri recognizes three separate types of violations of the right of privacy pertinent to photography: intrusion upon seclusion, public disclosure of private facts, and misappropriation of a persons identity. (Legal Issues In Photographing People) Missouri is one of the states that have regulations on photographing and the private information of the ordinary person. According to Legal Issues in Photographing People, In the state of Missouri, photographer will be liable in a civil action if he or she takes a photograph of a person and in doing so violates that persons right of privacy, takes and uses a photograph of a well-known person, or be held responsible for trespass if he or she onto the property of another without permission to take a photograph of a person even if the photographer could have taken the same photograph from public property. There are specific regulations that any photographer needs to follow when taking pictures of people. Celebrities deserve to be treated like any other person on the street, though for celebrity photographs it seems the paparazzi and press have put regulations aside. Celebrities private lives might peek interest in the press, media, and the public eye, but that doesnt given anyone the right to intrude to get the pictures and stories of celebrities private lives. There is still the debate of rather or not the first amendment protects press and paparazzi showing and telling the private lives of celebrities. The right to press and the right to speech are both given to us American citizens, though never says the photography is part nor a need of either one of those.Newspapers and books are speech, yet they are sold too. What if one wanted to sell a non-consensual photo taken of a Congressperson caught red-handed in a crime? We would likely not want to restrict that. Maybe we can limit the law to non-consensual photos that are not of legitimate public concern (Should Celebrities Have Privacy? A Response to Jennifer Lawrence). Professor Solove mentions that the limit of non-consensual photographs, when not legitimately a concern to the public eye, coul d be limited. In all reality non-consensual pictures with no true public concern should be limited. Former Friends star, Jennifer Aniston, found herself unknowingly baring it all back in 1999 when she was sunbathing topless in her own backyard. An overzealous photographer decided to scale her neighbors fence and take pictures of Aniston using a high-powered lens. He then sold the photos and they were eventually published in several magazines (10 Times When the Paparazzi Truly Crossed the Line). Jennifer Anistons privacy was intruded on by the paparazzi, the fact she was in her backyard was no true public concern. The first amendment gives American citizens the right of speech and press, but if it is of no legitimate concern to the public photographs and stories taken without consent should not be okay. Celebrities shouldnt have to worry about the press or the paparazzi in their private lives. There have been a multitude of times where the press and the paparazzi have gone too far to get the story and/or picture of a lifetime.According to Camille Moore these are a few cases where paparazzi truly crossed the line. Chris Brown And Tori Spelling: While in two separate places and separate situations, the two celebrities were both victims of being in a car chase with the paparazzi and ending each with the respective celebrity crashing into a wall in an attempt to get away. Arnold Schwarzenegger: Schwarzenegger and his wife were boxed in the car they were driving by the paparazzi and were trapped for hours while the paparazzi took as many pictures as they could. Justin Bieber: In 2014, a photographer was killed after being struck by car while chasing a car he thought to belong to Bieber. Nicole Kidman: Kidman was hit by a paparazzo on his bike going 20 MPH when he could not stop fast enough after following Kidmans car. Lindsay Lohan: While trying to get a photograph of Lohan, a paparazzo sped through traffic and purposely crashed his car into hers. While not all paparazzi and photographers are this desperate to get their pictures, it does show that many have stepped the line and,in some cases, got themselves and/or others harmed. The story of Princess Dianas fatal run in with the paparazzi is perhaps the most tragic of them all. In 1997, Princess Diana and her friend, Dodi Fayed, were followed by a group of photographers. Although her driver attempted to lose the group, he lost control of the car and crashed in the tunnel. The crash resulted in the death of Princess Diana, Dodi Fayed, and the driver. (10 Times When the Paparazzi Truly Crossed the Line) The story of Princess Dianas death, and the fact that the paparazzi just stood and took pictures, is the ultimate proof that around the world celebrities private are put in harms way, causing worry about their lives away from the public. Many celebrities have been in harming or, in some unfortunate cases, fa tal outcomes with press. The private life of anyone should be one that is safe. The spotlight life of a celebrity can have negative effects on any and each celebrity. There are laws about taking pictures about normal everyday people, which should be followed for celebrities too. Celebrities private lives might peek interest in the press, media, and the public eye, but that doesnt given anyone the right to intrude to get the pictures and stories of celebrities private lives. Celebrities shouldnt have to worry about the press or the paparazzi in their private life. In conclusion, Celebrities should be able to have a private life that stays safe and private. Works Cited Gerdelman, Bernald W. Legal Issues in Photographing People |. St. Louis Divorce Attorney. Paule, Camazine Blumenthal, P.C., 09 May 2016. Web. 06 Feb. 2017. Moore, Camille. 10 Times When the Paparazzi Truly Crossed the Line. Celebrity Toob. Celebrity Toob, 28 July 2015. Web. 09 Feb. 2017. Solove, Daniel J. Should Celebrities Have Privacy? A Response to Jennifer Lawrence. TeachPrivacy. TeachPrivacy, 04 Aug. 2015. Web. 06 Feb. 2017. Villarreal, Christina. The Psychological Impact of Being in the Spotlight the Emotional Struggle of Celebrities. Dr. Christina Villarreal. Dr. Christina Villarreal, 26 Mar. 2010. Web. 02 Feb. 2017.

Issues with Going Professional in Athletics Career

Issues with Going Professional in Athletics Career Do you think that high school athletes should be able to go professional right after they are done with their high school career? This question is a big argument between many people through out the sports world. This is a big debate because nowadays athletes are becoming bigger, stronger, and faster right out of high school. This is happening because athletes are some of the highest paid people in the world. People in the world are actually breeding for their kids to be a sort of super athlete. Many kids are starting to be trained early in age for sports and to be able to make it further in the sports world. There are some people who believe if high school athletes are physically ready for professionals in a sport that they should be able to go right into it. On the other side of this argument many people believe that high school athletes need to get there education and should go to college where they can play sports and then be drafted to a professional league after their college career is done. In many peoples minds that if an athlete is that ready for professional sports that the athletes should have no problem in collegiate athletics and should standout. Many people believe that the athletes college career will only give them more experience and will help them be better once they are able to make it to the draft and plus they are also getting their education just in case something does happen and they do not make it in the professionals. Many athletes do not make it in professional athletics and by making athletes go to college they can rely on their career and will still be well off in the world. For example, the NFL will not let you enter the draft until you have completed three years in college or in college athletics. This is a ru le to make sure that athletes go to college but after three years many athletes enter the draft and do not finish their career. This is a huge problem because the athlete will not have their career to fall back on. There are only a couple rules athletes must follow for the NBA draft. The first rule is that they must have been in college for one year in order to be entered into the draft. This is because they want athletes to at least try the college experience and to at least be able to make it to college as well. Another rule for the NBA draft is that the athlete must be nineteen years of age and one year removed from high school. These rules were made in the year 2006 and have been enforced ever since. These rules are a very good idea because it makes athletes go to college, which is a good thing. This can also be a bad thing because some athletes can not make it to college and that is a problem for some athletes. The age requirement is a good idea I think because at eighteen years old I dont know if you are ready to play with people like Shaq or someone like that. This rule can work both ways though because there has been many athletes go straight to the draft at eighteen and did very well f or them. A former player says, â€Å"The special ones who can go pro should be allowed to do it.† (Beck H. (2005, June 28)). A key example for this is LeBron James and Dwight Howard! There are amazing athletes and were drafted straight out of high school and were actually first round picks! There have been many players like this such as Kevin Garnett, Tracy McGrady, and Kobe Bryant. In some ways many people think that the age requirement is a good idea because it gives you an extra year for your body to grow or even your mind to grow. This helps athletes to be ready to be a professional and it lets them train and get even better than they already are. Many basketball coaches believe that the draft rules are very good and could change the age requirement to twenty if wanted. They believe that making the age requirement later will just encourage young athletes to go to college even more and then they might realize the importance of a college degree and what they can do with it after their basketball career is over. Many coaches believe that a lot of young athletes are not ready to compete at that high of a level many are not use to traveling that much or even being away from their family and friends that much. â€Å"If you can go to war and die for your country, or go to prison for the rest of your life at 17, then you should also be eligible to go pro at 17.†(Freeman, M. (2004)) A lot of athletes will still be maturing mentally and physically if able to be drafted straight from high school. A lot of younger athletes still do not take responsibility for themselves and their actions. With great privileges, comes great responsi bilities and many people think that high school athletes are not ready for these yet! The NFL has different rules to their draft than other professional organizations. In the NFL draft you must have completed three years in college. There is really no age limit in the NFL draft because you can enter it when you are a senior, junior or even a redshirt sophomore. The only requirement is the three years in college. There have been some athletes who have made it to the NFL straight from high school but this took place a very long time ago because the NFL has had tight rules on these types of things for quite a while. In the NHL draft which is the draft for professional hockey has slim to none rules on entering the draft. They are one of the only sports you can be drafted straight to a professional out of high school. There have been quite a few people who have done it and a major athlete who has done great things is Sid â€Å"The Kid† Crosby. He was drafted straight out of high school and was a huge impact on the NHL he is an amazing athlete and takes on all the veterans of the sport. It is said his name is going to be more known than Wayne Gretzgys. He is breaking records and making new ones as he is a magnificent scorer. The reason that hockey does not have a so called age limit is because there are young people that are better than the older people and once your good you are usually good for a long time. Then there is the MLB draft for Major League Baseball. In the MLB you can be drafted right out of high school if you are good enough. Usually if drafted straight out of high school the franchise will put you on their minor league team to test your ability and if you do well they will move you up to the majors. You can be drafted at any time as long as you are not enrolled in some sort of schooling at the time. There are a lot of high school athletes drafted to the MLB especially pitchers because they are the most needed seeming their arms do not last very long. The most high school athletes that enter the draft are from California. This happens because California is a huge state and has very good baseball programs. Immigration is a huge topic among sports these days. For high school athletes going professional immigration is a huge deal. In America we have some of the highest paying sports and the best sports in the world. Many Immigrants know this and are come to America just for sports. For instance, Sammy Sosa is from the Dominican Republic and is an amazing baseball player. His parents and he had him come to America to be able to play baseball professionally and to make money off of a career he loved. In the Dominican Republic there is not as much money there and Sammy could not afford just to play baseball, he had to work and help his family make it in tough times. There are many families bringing their kids to America if they are good at sports because they have a better shot here of making it big and doing something they love while making money. There are Immigrants all over in our high school athletes and they are very good. Their families have made sacrifices for them to be here to play the game they love in hope that they will make it professional. Baseball is a huge sport for this and so is football and basketball also. Immigration makes it so that people can make it here in sports and help take care of their families back home and there are many immigrants being drafted to the professional leagues. Some examples of Immigrants who have made it big here in sports are: Yao Ming, Paul Gasol, Peja Stolakivich, and many more. So as you can see, Immigration ties right into this topic and actually affects it a lot more than most people think. Another major role in this topic is what kind of high school you have attended. This is a big deal because there are basically two types of schools. There are public schools and private schools. As we all know most public schools are very poor funded and usually do not have a lot of money to spare. In private schools they usually have tons of money and could spare some. This is a huge factor for athletes; athletes who attend a private school have more opportunities and privileges than athletes at public schools. For example, private schools usually have very nice facilities and equipment and do not charge very much for athletes to play the game. At a public school the prices are a lot and there are not nice facilities and not very much money in the program. At private schools there are just coaches. They teach at the school also but are very intelligent in there sport. At public schools they take volunteers or pay a teacher very little to do it that has really no experience and not v ery well suited for the job. The private schools usually make better athletes because they can spend time, money, and the right training to make them good. In public schools this is hard and the athletes are kind of at a disadvantage. This affects them making to the Professionals and could make them not even be able to play in college. There are many great athletes out there but some have better situations and will make it farther because of that. This is how public schools affect high school athletes. All in all in my opinion I believe that athletes should be allowed to be drafted straight out of high school but I think there should be specific leagues just for rookies or high school athletes. I believe in like football there should be a league like the MLB. They will have some minor league teams and have all their young athletes play in that. Then if an athlete does very well in this league you can bring him up or send him back down whenever need be. I think this will help a lot on this issue. Dont get me wrong I believe athletes should be student athletes but some people are just not cut out for school. It should be the persons choice and they get to decide. The smart athletes that care about their future will still go to college and get a degree or they will do it online or something like that. Athletes will realize that they need a backup plan because their bodies are not going to last forever. So in my opinion I believe they should be able to go professional.