Sticks and Stones

Susan smoothed her dress and glanced at her reflection in the plate glass window. A little tinge of uncertainty nibbled at her self-confidence. Maybe the dress was too trendy... too stylish. She took a second look and felt her cheeks flush with pleasure. No, this was her true self now; it had always been her true self. Smoothing the dress one last time, Susan took a deep, determined breath, grabbed the metal handle of the door and plunged through the entrance of the Classifications Department.

The glare of sunlight was immediately replaced by the dull haze of humming fluorescents. Her confidence was quickly dimmed too by the unexpected paralysis of the atmosphere. Instead of the anticipated bustle of beaming bureaucrats, one lone man hunched over his desk behind the drab counter. As she gazed around the room, Susan observed papers piled and filed in every conceivable nook and cranny. They all seemed quite comfortable, the urgency of their demands having long ago been soothed to sleep. Since the man remained with his back toward her, Susan cautiously cleared her throat. No response. She tried again, this time aiming at the square of his back.

"Yes, I know you're there," parried a dry, curt voice. "I'll be with you in a minute."

"Probably a J-3," Susan thought with a wry grimace. After an annoyingly lengthy delay, the clerk rose from his desk and approached the counter. He was a small, thin man, almost bald, with round wire-rimmed glasses. Susan glanced at his Tag: J-7. "Hmph. Must have some redeeming qualities," she mused.

Peering inquisitively at Susan, the clerk began to rub his hands together. "And now miss," he asked in a most officious voice, "what can I do for you?"

"I'd like to apply for a change of classification."

"Hmmm. So, you'd like to apply for a change," he restated, with an undercurrent of amusement. "I see." He looked at her knowingly. "Win a lottery?!" he suddenly blurted. Then, obviously pleased with his own wit, he gave a little titter of approval. "Why yes, of course, a change," he continued. "Well, you've certainly come to the right place. Now, exactly what did you have in mind?"

"I'd like to apply for a change of Type," Susan stated. "You see, I'm currently listed as an M. But I've come to realize that given the... um... experiences I've gone through in the last few years I'm actually more of an H. It just seems to be the real me and I..."

Susan suddenly stopped speaking and looked at the clerk with a very puzzled and questioning expression. She noticed that the corners of his mouth were twitching, and she had the strong sense that he was trying desperately not to break into uncontrollable laughter. Susan glanced over her shoulder to see if something was going on behind her. She turned back in confusion to the clerk. He seemed to be the model of efficiency and professional detachment, except that his mouth twitched again, ever so slightly.

"As I was saying," Susan continued, "Type H seems to be the real me and I..."

Again the twitching.

Susan began to feel irritated. "Is something wrong?" she asked, in a slightly challenging tone.

"Oh, no miss, nothing at all," the clerk assured her. "So you are currently an M and you would like to be changed to an H."

Susan was convinced that the clerk was inwardly roaring with laughter, though he somehow managed to control everything but the corners of his mouth.

"An H," he repeated. Twitch, twitch.

Sensing that she could be in for a struggle, Susan took the offensive. "Look, this is really very simple. I have finally realized that it's time to finish some business that I've put off for too long. Now, if you could please give me the necessary forms... I'm in a bit of a rush."

"Ah yes, well you see, it's not quite that simple," the clerk responded. "Changes of Type are rather an involved procedure, though a small escalation in Status can be handled fairly readily. Now, I see that you are a 5." He paused and rubbed his chin for inspiration. "I suppose with proper justification we could move you up to a 6, or perhaps a 7... though certainly nothing beyond that."

"What do you mean 'certainly' nothing beyond that?!" Susan questioned, her eyes narrowing with indignation.

The clerk gave a sharp staccato laugh, as if the answer was obvious. "Well, my dear," he began, with great amusement, "it's very clear that your... ahem... I mean that you... uh..." Suddenly the amusement was gone, and he cleared his throat nervously as Susan glared at him. "What I mean to say is that everyone would agree that your... uh... that..." He swallowed hard and glanced around the room.

Susan slammed her palm down on the counter. "Just what exactly do you mean?!" she demanded.

This outburst quite shocked the clerk, and retreating quickly into his official role, he managed to regain his composure. "Now, now, no need to get upset," he soothed, in his most objective tone of voice. "I'm only doing my duty here. But since you insist, I must state that... ahem... uh..." Summoning his courage and deciding to risk life and limb, the clerk boldly declared, "It is quite obvious that your figure would need some serious alterations in order to meet the departmental standard of excellence." However, seeing the wrath rising in Susan's eyes, he quickly blurted out, "Though I've heard you can do a lot with your hair!"

This was the last straw for Susan, who slammed her clenched fist in fury against the counter. "Now you listen to me, buster!" she threatened. "You give me those forms right now, or YOU will be the one who is seriously altered! You hear me?!"

The clerk jumped back a step and began to explain that he was not permitted to authorize a change of Type. "You'll have to see a counsellor for that," he stammered. "But please... please go take a seat in the waiting room and I'll get one right away." Rushing to his desk, he grabbed the phone and began punching in the numbers of the proper extension. Still fuming, Susan turned from the counter while the clerk sought refuge behind a counsellor.

The waiting room was actually a very comfortable lounge that faced the busy street. Through narrow openings in the blinds and behind darkened glass, Susan could watch the bustle of the outside world. Inside were deep, inviting chairs, a rich blue carpet and dark walnut tables. The lighting was serene and subdued. In one corner there was a lamp filled with glowing orange liquid in which lighter coloured blobs slowly rose and fell in a never-ending cycle. It seemed the perfect place for reflection and meditation. Susan began to relax as her rage dissipated.

Scanning the room she noticed the usual supply of magazines and books. There was also a tall wooden rack of pamphlets which had been published by the Classifications Department. She glanced at some titles in an effort to fill the time, but the literature did not seem especially encouraging: How to "B" Happy; From 7 to 9 in Four Easy Steps; Dealing With D-pression; Self-Acceptance: Resignation or Celebration? She turned away and decided it would be better to watch the pedestrians outside.

As she cooled down, Susan began to ponder the reaction of the clerk. What was the big deal? M, H, Q, Z... who cares? Removing the classification Tag which had been pinned to her dress, she held it in her fingers. About the size of a large button, it consisted of an external case - which came in any number of designer styles and colours - and a laminated insert that snapped securely in the holder. She stared at her Tag for a moment and gave a weary sigh. M-5 was stamped boldly in the middle of the official Classifications seal.

She re-pinned it to her dress, closed her eyes and sank back into the welcoming armchair. Was everyone else as dissatisfied as she was? No, probably not; at least, her friends had never mentioned it. Certainly anyone would be glad to move up a notch or two in Status; but what about Type? Susan could not think of anyone who had seriously challenged his or her classification. But she had resented her designation for as long as she could remember. When would she be free? Her mind drifted.

"Susan dear! Come on over here now, please. Don't be shy!" her mom encouraged. "You remember your Aunt Gertie, don't you dear? Well she's come all the way from Twin Rivers so that she can be here for your confirmation birthday. Gertie, here's my little Susan. Isn't she just as sweet as I told you?"

"Why Mary, she's such a perfect little M, isn't she?" oozed Aunt Gertie. "So sweet and quiet, and already five years old. Why I bet you never say 'Boo!' do you dear?"

Susan reddened and mumbled her answer to the ground.

Aunt Gertie pinched her cheek firmly. "You know, you remind me so much of my friend's wee girl, Mabel. She's such a shy wisp of a thing too. Mary, you've made the ideal choice. She's an M to the core. Oh Bill! Yoo hoo, Bill! Over here! Come and meet my niece Susan. She's such a perfect little M!"

Susan shifted restlessly in the chair. How could anyone tell? What gave them the right to choose for her? People put so much faith in the confirmation tests, but they could only evaluate the externals. How much of what she had said and done was due to the whims and demands of others? What about her heart, her desires? No, there was no test for that. And so every result became one more confirmation, forcing her to conform to the mold chosen for her.

As Susan sat in weary reflection, she glimpsed a familiar face sauntering past the door of the waiting room. Immediately she turned away and began reaching for a magazine.

"Suzie, Suzie," a belittling voice prodded, "now what could you possibly be doing here?"

Groaning inwardly, Susan turned back toward the door. "Hello Spencer," she answered flatly. "I'm..." Susan hesitated. Then, continuing with determination, "I'm here to apply for a change."

"Wonderful!" came the cheery response. "Good for you! You certainly could use it!" Spencer laughed. "Just kidding, Suzie, just kidding. But really now, you're not serious are you? What would we do without our 'little Suzie-M' around the office?"

Susan restrained the urge to jump up and throw Spencer across the room. Instead she gave him her "my-aren't-you-funny" smile. "But what about you, Spencer? I don't suppose that you are applying for a change?"

"Well of course," answered Spencer, as if stating the obvious. "You don't really think I'm a T do you? I've been coming here almost every month for about a year, but for some reason I can't seem to get past that obnoxious, irritating clerk. I'm trying to request a change to a Q-9."

In spite of herself, Susan let out a short burst of laughter, which was quickly reined in. She tried to respond to Spencer's glare, but found that she could only snicker again.

Spencer was nettled by this reaction. "You must be related to that clerk, I suppose. I don't see what all the giggling is about. It's perfectly obvious I'm a Q-9! I've always known it, and I'm sure everyone in the office would agree. I mean, look at me! I'm intelligent, talented, good looking..."

Susan tried to hide the smirk behind a finger she rubbed thoughtfully across her lips, but the desperate hilarity in her eyes betrayed her.

"Okay, missy," responded Spencer, with a curt nod of his head, "what about you? I suppose you think you're a Q-9 yourself."

Susan's cheeks reddened as a wave of self-consciousness swept over her. It broke with emotional force, leaving her mind in a foam of confusion. She felt her throat begin to tighten. Glancing at Spencer, she noticed that his previous irritation had been replaced by a condescending expression of amusement. Immediately she understood. Spencer had determined to put her back into the mental slot he had assigned to her. Susan now found that she didn't care what he thought. A deep calm settled in her heart. "No, Spencer," she finally replied. "I am not a Q-9. I believe I'm an H; maybe a 6 or 7. Who knows?" she shrugged.

Spencer snorted. "I suppose that accounts for some of your recent outbursts at work. But don't you worry, missy," he winked unkindly, "to me you'll always be 'little Suzie-M'. Oh, by the way, that dress doesn't suit you at all." With that he turned and walked out of the room.

Closing her eyes, Susan flopped back into the deep, welcoming chair. When would it ever end? Was life that static? With a long sigh she began to process the reaction of her colleague. It seemed that to some people these designations were carved in stone. At least, for everyone else, she thought wryly. Spencer was glad to give himself a new classification. But he would never let her change. In fact, he would never let anyone change. She felt a little surge of anger and frustration. Why not?! What harm did it do him? It wasn't a competition, was it?! And even as she asked the question, Susan knew the answer. Yes... yes it was... to him. The more she considered the truth of this answer, the more she was filled with a great sadness. So many events from the past began to make sense. So many Spencers, each one desperately trying to maintain some sense of superiority relative to her. What fragile worlds they had created in their minds! And they reigned supreme by treating others as inferior subjects. Control was their only defense against reality.

"Susan!"

A rich, cheerful voice broke in on her meditation. Startled, she looked up to see a tall, dark-haired man smiling warmly down on her. His athletic build filled out the stylish suit he wore with casual ease. He exuded a tremendous confidence, yet in his face there was an element of compassion.

"Susan, I'm Bill, your counsellor. Thought we'd lost you there for a minute," he joked as he extended his hand. "Why don't you come down to my office and we can have a chat about your request for a change of Type."

As Susan seated herself in the plush office, she felt her peace and confidence evaporating. Large oak bookcases were carefully filled with matching sets of gold-embossed volumes. The room was well lit by a number of expensive brass fixtures, complementing the thick burgundy carpet which cushioned her feet. Gazing across the imposing desk, with its small pile of neatly stacked documents, Susan glanced at Bill's Tag. With a shock, she realized for the first time that she was in the presence of a B-9. It almost took her breath away. A B-9!

Bill's warm smile steadied her as he placed his folded hands on the polished desk top. "Now, Susan," he began, "why don't you tell me a bit of your story." He paused reflectively. "I guess we all have a story, don't we?"

While Susan recounted her thoughts and experiences, Bill listened attentively, encouraging her with various nods of affirmation and "mhmms" along the way. It took about fifteen minutes, but finally Susan was satisfied that the tale was told. Once again it was apparent to her that she had never really been an M. It was simply a role she had assumed, while the real her, the true H, had been hidden under the costume forced on her by others. With this concluding argument, Susan's eyes appealed confidently to Bill, fully expecting vindication and justice.

There was a silence... a long silence. Tiny droplets began to form on Bill's temples. He rolled his chair away from the desk and stood up. Placing his hands in his pockets, he walked in meditation to the window. He stared through the blinds for a few seconds and then turned to face Susan. It seemed that a great weight of responsibility had suddenly settled on Bill's shoulders. He appeared fatigued and slightly stooped. Returning to his chair at the desk, he bowed his head and began to speak in measured tones.

"That's a very interesting analogy, Susan. I can tell that you've given a lot of thought to your situation. Unfortunately, you are not really understanding the big picture, which leaves me the sad task, as your counsellor, of helping you to get the proper viewpoint."

Tragically, Susan was repeating the mistake of so many others who had only considered life from their own perspective. This was a narrow, self-centered way of thinking that needed to be corrected. The "play of life", to use her analogy, was very complex. In order to present a winning performance, it was necessary that all the actors work together in harmony from the same script.

"So you see, Susan, the role that you play is much more important than you may have realized. Now the Classifications Department is aware of all these intricacies. That is why we are concerned not so much with people who change, as with people trying to appear they have changed. Obviously any official reclassification of Type must represent a permanent transformation, otherwise society would be chaotic. We all know that traumatic experiences can cause genuine life change. But could you imagine, Susan," Bill asked with a warm chuckle, "...could you imagine what the world would be like if we could change our Tags whenever we wanted?"

"But what would be so wrong with that?" Susan responded plaintively. Already she had felt the tide of hope beginning to ebb, its powerful forces drawing her confidence along with it. "Am I not the best judge of who I am, or who I can be?"

Bill gave a heavy sigh and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Susan, I'm afraid I'll have to be blunt with you. Before I came to the waiting room I reviewed your file. Every year, without fail, the Classifications Analysis Testing has confirmed that you are an M. As you know, these tests are 97% accurate."

"Maybe so," Susan persisted, with a growing sense of desperation, "but why don't I get to evaluate myself? I've written many of these tests for others, but the questions are all based on externals, on what people say or do. What about how we think or feel?"

"The problem with thoughts and feelings, Susan, is that it is so easy to fool ourselves." Now Bill's voice had a slightly aggressive edge to it. "The Classifications testing is not haphazard. The individuals chosen for this evaluation process are carefully selected for their unique perspective on your life. Then too, though the questions may seem straight forward, they are actually full of hidden indicators. All things considered, Susan, can the agreed conclusions of ten others really be wrong? What you need to do, is ask yourself in all honesty, if you are not simply wishing you could be different."

Leaning forward across his desk, Bill spoke with self-revealing intimacy. "The truth is, we all wish we could be different... better. Who wouldn't want to move up in ranking? But wishing is not reality. If that 'inner person' is never expressed in action, then what is the value to society? Why should I treat you like an H, if all your life you have lived as an M? Is the H the real person, or merely a self-delusion? And for yourself," he continued, speaking with compassionate concern, "all this striving and desiring, but never acting... what is the benefit of that? All it does is create emotional stress and unrest. Susan," Bill concluded, "are you really an H?"

In the painful silence that followed, hope now completely receded. Susan's heart was left a dark and barren expanse of despair. She felt helpless as she watched something inside herself begin to wither and die. She had been ready to burst into bloom. Life had been full of nurturing sunlight. Now...

"I don't like this system," she responded quietly. Bowing her head, she stared at the floor. "And I don't like my Tag."

Bill rose from his chair and began to pace around the room. With sympathetic understanding he explained to her that, once again, she failed to see the big picture. Through the creation of Tags, the Classifications Department had only made objective and explicit what had always been implicit in society. Everyone was aware, whether consciously or sub-consciously, that people always evaluated themselves relative to others. The net result was a mental determination of classification and an appropriate ranking. What the Department had accomplished, after considerable study, was to clarify and codify the standards by which people were to be judged. On the basis of these findings, individuals were assigned accurate Type and Status designations. The advantages of this system were enormous. Now people no longer had to question their own conclusions, or wonder whether others were pretending. This greatly facilitated honesty in relationships, improved verbal and non-verbal communication, and encouraged harmonious social groupings. The creation of Tags had also given a real boost to business and commerce. Advertising could accurately target its audience! Entrepreneurs could uncover niche markets!

By this time Bill was speaking with rich enthusiasm. "So you see, Susan, what to you is one little change will be extremely disruptive to society. Everyone will have to start treating you differently! You'll probably have to move... maybe even get a new car or find a new job! Isn't that a tiny bit selfish?" he argued persuasively. "You need to think of others. Try to view life from their perspective. Then, in a year or so, after your next set of tests, if you still feel as you do, well..." he shrugged, "you can always reapply for a change of classification. Does that sound all right to you?"

"I don't know, really," Susan heard an empty voice answer. "I guess so." There seemed to be a dull haze in the room and a quiet humming in the background. Suddenly she felt tired... very tired. All she wanted to do was to go home and lie down.

"Fine, fine," Bill continued. "I'll just have you fill out a short departmental form. It won't take a minute." He returned to the desk and sat down in his swivel chair with a victoriously cheerful smile. Reaching over into a lower drawer he pulled out a small sheet of paper. "I'm sure this..." he began. But his voice stopped in mid-sentence.

While straightening up in the chair, Bill's Tag had caught the edge of his desk and popped off. It went clattering across the shiny surface and dropped to the floor at Susan's feet. The Tag must have broken, for it now lay in two pieces. Susan stooped to pick them up and was reaching out to return them when a questioning awareness checked her. She looked at the two pieces in confusion. Glancing up at Bill she did a quick double-take. His face was a deep shade of red, and the victorious smile had been replaced by a storm of anxiety.

"I'll... I'll... uh... take those please..." he quavered, seeking to affect a tone of indifference. "My Tag... please..."

Susan looked down again at the plastic in her hand. Her eyes began to widen and her mouth slowly dropped open. Indignation rising to her cheeks, she raised her head to glare at Bill. His face was now a pasty white. One eye had developed a nervous twitch.

"Could I have those please... please?" his voice trailed off in defeat.

"You have two Tags!" Susan stated vehemently. "You're not a B-9; you're a K-3! Look!" she demanded, holding out one of the Tags. "You're a K-3!"

Clearing his throat, Bill surveyed the desk. "Yes, well it's all very... um... easily explained. You see, I... uh... I..."

"You're a fraud!" Susan interjected, her lips tight with anger. "You were only pretending to be a B-9"

"But I'm allowed to pretend," Bill protested. "It's in my job description. I'm a professional."

"You're a fraud! You rat!" Susan stormed, jumping out of her chair. "Now you listen to me! I'm applying for a change of classification and I want it done right now! Do you hear me?!"

"Yes Susan," Bill answered meekly, "whatever you want. But, can I please have my Tag back? Please?"

Eyes glowering, Susan tossed the pieces on his desk and watched as Bill's trembling hands snapped a B-9 cover over the K-3 Tag.

"So that's how you do it," she steamed. "I don't suppose the general public can use Tag covers?"

"Oh, no!" Bill replied, glancing up with a look of dread. "That wouldn't be... I mean, we couldn't allow that."

"Hmph!" Susan snorted, continuing to glare mercilessly at the beleaguered bureaucrat. "Now what about my forms?"

The new registration took only a few minutes, though it seemed like ages to the heavily perspiring official. When the job was done, he stamped her form and handed it across the desk.

"You can have it processed on the second floor," he directed, "room 203."

"Thank you very much," Susan responded, her words hard as ice. "You've been most helpful." Slamming the door behind her, she left the room.

Bill slumped in his chair. He leaned his head back, and with eyes closed exhaled a loud sigh of relief. He was in the process of wiping his forehead with a handkerchief when the desk phone buzzed. Lifting the receiver, he asked in a hollow voice, "Yes?"

Moments later his countenance changed and he bolted upright in his chair. "No, no... fine, fine, Wilson," he boomed with sudden cheerfulness. "Heh, heh! Just caught me napping, that's all. Yes, of course. What's his name? Daniel? Okay, I'll be right there."

Returning the receiver to its place, Bill picked up his Tag and bounded to his feet. He strode impressively around the office while fixing the Tag in place. "Hello Daniel," he crooned, "how are you today?" He shook his head in dissatisfaction. "Danny?" he mumbled to himself. "Dan?" Taking a deep breath and clearing his throat, Bill lowered his voice from a baritone to a bass and tried again. "So, you must be Dan!" He smiled with satisfaction. Glancing in the mirror, he brushed his suit and straightened his tie. He worked his shoulders up and down a few times, grabbed the door knob firmly and went marching from his office.

On the second floor, Susan handed her form across the counter to an emotionless, coffee-sipping processor. After scanning the paper he reached out his hand. "Tag please."

"Pardon?"

"Your Tag please. You don't want to keep it do you?"

"No thank you!" Susan responded adamantly as she hurried to remove her former designation.

Taking her Tag, the processor tossed it into an empty garbage pail where it rattled around the bottom. He collected her reclassification fee and then, motioning with his hand, blandly instructed, "Down the hall, third door on the right. I'll bring you your new Tag."

Susan was quite surprised by this efficiency; she had expected another delay. However her optimism waned when she reached the door and read: Transition Counselling. Her hesitant knock was greeted by a woman's hearty, "C'mon in!" Opening the door, she was met by a large, dark-skinned lady in a very brightly patterned dress. The woman was beaming as she ushered Susan into a chair.

"So you made it!" she enthused in a melodious voice. "Good for you, Honey, good for you!"

Susan felt immediately at ease and returned the smile. "Yes, I guess I did," she laughed. "But if I had known what I was in for I might have stayed at home."

"Obviously that would have been a mistake," the counsellor responded. "Far better to risk and stretch, than spend your life boxed in by other people's perceptions. But we'll get into that in a minute. My name is Gracie, and you are..."

"Susan."

"Glad to meet you, Susan," said Gracie while seating herself in a large comfortable chair. "My job, as you have probably noticed from the door, is to assist you in your transition into a new life with a new classification. However, the real difficulty will be in assisting others to accept the change in your designation."

Susan nodded her agreement. "Yes, I've already found that out. I happened to meet a fellow from the office who refused to accept that I could change."

"Honey, you ain't seen nothin'! If you think co-workers will struggle with your new Tag, wait until your family hears about it!" Gracie laughed heartily. "My oh my, then you'll be pulling some teeth... and Honey, I mean wisdom teeth! You see, Susan - and now I'm going to talk like a counsellor - people who already know you are used to interacting with you on the basis of your old Type. Over the years they have unconsciously developed patterns of thought, speech and action when relating to you. But now, because of your new classification, these habits have to change. This can be a very difficult shift for some people."

"But Gracie," Susan responded, "it's not as if I picked a Type out of the blue. I think I've been acting more like an H than an M for years."

"That may be true," Gracie countered, "but now people have to accept you for who you actually are. However, once this mental adjustment has taken place, the social transition is usually fairly easy."

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance of the emotionless processor. "Your new designation, miss," he said, handing the plastic Tag to Susan. "You can get a full refund in thirty days if you're not satisfied." He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

After gazing at the Tag in her hand, Susan looked up at Gracie with a radiant smile.

"Well let's go girl!" Gracie clapped her hands enthusiastically. "You get that thing pinned on and tell the whole world who you are! My oh my, would you look at that... H-7! Now you're talkin', Honey, now you're talkin'!"

"Thanks Gracie," Susan said with genuine gratitude. "I wish everyone could be as positive as you."

"So do I, but then, I have nothing to lose."

Susan looked puzzled. "I don't understand."

"Now I don't want to get negative, but the reality is that some folks are going to feel mighty threatened by your new classification."

"Threatened?!"

"Like your friend from work," Gracie continued. "You see, some people come to attach all their sense of self-worth to their designations. They see the classifications system as a barnyard pecking order. So, if someone they know changes her Type or Status, well... they may perceive this as a threat to their own ranking. Then there can be all sorts of different reactions: anger, resentment, bitterness."

"But I'm not trying to hurt anybody," Susan protested. "I only want to be myself... my real self."

"I know that," Gracie soothed, "and I'm not saying that everyone will respond negatively. But I do want to prepare you for what could happen. However," she continued with a reassuring smile, "the most important thing is what we think about ourselves. Take me, for instance. Would you believe that back where I came from I was considered quite a catch? It's true. I may not look like much to you, but I was an 8 in my country. Then, when I moved here, I became a 5! I didn't realize it at the time, but there can be significant cultural deviations in classification. Well, I was some upset for a while! But then I thought, 'Now what's changed here? I haven't changed. It's just the way other people look at me that's changed.' And I decided that I didn't care. I liked myself, and if others didn't... well tough on them!" she concluded, laughing heartily again.

As Susan joined in the laughter, she shook her head with admiration. "I sure wish I had your self-confidence. I would have changed my Type years ago."

"Self-confidence?" Gracie questioned. "Yes, I suppose. Though that is really rooted in our self-image, in a positive acceptance of who we are. But now I have a question for you, and I'd like you to think carefully before answering. Why did you take so long to apply for a new classification? What kept you from making that final official step?"

After reflecting for a minute, Susan responded, "I guess I was afraid. I was afraid of how other people would react... and I really didn't know if... if I could handle life as an H... which doesn't seem to make sense."

"Actually, it makes perfect sense," Gracie corrected. "Nothing attacks hopes and dreams as powerfully as fear; fear as it concerns ourselves and fear in relation to others. This is a big topic because it raises issues of insecurity, conflict and risk taking. Still, you went ahead and applied for a change. Why?"

Susan's face became resolute. "I got angry! Gracie, I nearly came here a hundred times, but I always pulled back. Finally I became so fed up with myself and so furious with others that I had to do something!"

Gracie chuckled sympathetically. "Yes, anger is certainly a great motivator. It'll get you out of your comfort zone in a hurry. Just don't stay angry, Honey. Well I suppose that's enough for today," she concluded, "but we can carry on next week, if you'd like."

"Really?" Susan asked with delight. "Oh yes, I'd love that."

"Good, I was hoping you'd say so. A few more sessions will help ease the pain of those first bumps and bruises. You call me in a couple of days, and we'll set up an appointment," Gracie instructed, rising to open the office door.

Susan paused in the doorway and turned back to hug Gracie. "Thank you for your help. You've done so much for me already."

"It was definitely my pleasure. Now, as a last word of encouragement, remember this: a seed only needs a little water and sunshine to produce a beautiful flower. Chin up, girl!" Gracie smiled warmly. "And by the way..."

"Yes?"

"I really like your dress!"

The Last Nail

Once upon a time, in the far reaches of the Wild West, there was a lovely little town called Status Quo. Nestled in a sunny valley surrounded by high rolling hills, it was an idyllic place in which to live - or at least that is what the locals believed. The truth is, however, that the hills tended to restrict any refreshing breezes, making for a rather stifling and dusty environment. Most of the folks also found the climb out of the valley too difficult and tiring, so they preferred to stay at home and let others visit them. Still, the inhabitants of Status Quo were convinced that their town was the envy of neighbouring communities. Now on almost any given day the valley was peaceful and quiet and comfortably settled in its routine. But not today! At the moment there was a great ripple of excitement and quite a buzz of conversation because of the very startling news that had just reached the community: Change was coming to Status Quo!

"It's true I tell yuh! I see'd him myself!" said Mr. Rumors. "Headin' right this way! He oughta' be here any time now!"

"Sure, sure," responded Mr. Skeptic. "We've heard your stories before. Last time you told us he was coming it turned out to be one of the Superficial brothers on the way to Whitewash."

The crowd that had gathered outside the general store laughed heartily at the memory of that false alarm.

"Well laugh if yuh want, but he ain't goin' to miss us this time! I heerd he was aimin' to visit every single town in these parts, an' today's our day!"

"Then I say he's up to no good!" squawked Mr. Suspicions. "He's got something up his sleeve, and that's for sure!"

"Look!" someone in the crowd gasped. "There he is now!"

Sure enough, riding slowly through the tall grass that crowned a wind-swept hill was the striking figure of Change. Instantly the emotion-charged group began scurrying and bustling around, trying to find the best vantage point from which to view this unusual visitor.

"Oh Marshall," pleaded one Insecurity, "please don't let him into the town. You know how I am with strangers. They unsettle me so, and this man positively frightens me!"

"Now there's no need to be fearful, Miss Insecurity," drawled Marshall Controlling. "If he intends to abide by our rules and regulations, well then this here Change is welcome. But if he don't..." The Marshall's eyes narrowed and he spat by way of conclusion.

As Change eventually rode into town he generated quite a range of reaction. Some of the folks seemed very eager to welcome him, while others were just as eager to see him ride right back out. But the majority of Status Quo weren't exactly sure what to make of him. His youthful appearance was unique, though it did resemble that of others who had passed through on their travels. However, in his bearing he had such a quiet confidence and determination of purpose, even to the point of seeming a little aggressive, that people couldn't decide if his intentions were really for good or evil. Yet, through all these cross-winds of reaction, Change rode calmly on in the direction of the hotel.

Now Novelty was a terrible flirt. She was constantly taking up with every stranger who came through Status Quo, though never with any serious intent. When she saw where Change was headed, she wasted no time in making her way down the boardwalk toward the hotel. As it happened, at that very moment, Predictable was looking out the window of her general store and spotted Novelty hurrying by. She rolled her eyes knowingly.

"What did I tell you, Ma?" she said with a frown. "Didn't I tell you she'd be after him? That girl oughta' be ashamed of herself!"

"Now, now, dear," soothed Familiar, as she gazed out the window from her rocker. "Don't get yourself in a fret. We're all aware of what Novelty is like to do. But at least she's a part of us. Not like this Change fellow. What the wind blows in, the wind blows out is what I always say."

"Now there's a truth spoken!" affirmed Predictable. "And good riddance too! Why who knows what a drifter like Change is apt to do?"

"Grandma," asked Tranquility, who had been curled up in her grandmother's lap, "is Change a bad man?"

Familiar looked down at the contented child and lovingly stroked her golden hair. "Well darling," she mused, "I couldn't really say he's a bad man, just yet. It's only that..." she paused for a moment to clarify her thoughts "...it's only that we're not so sure he's a good man. And that's what has folks so bothered."

Suddenly the twins Boredom and Contempt burst through the door of the general store. These also were the children of Predictable. The twins were guffawing and hooting and almost dancing with glee.

"Oh, Ma!" roared Boredom, as tears of laughter streamed down his face. "Ma, you should've been there! It's the best thing I've seen in years!"

Contempt snorted his agreement. "Yeah, and it serves him right! I can't stand him anyway!"

Predictable gave a fierce frown as she faced the boys, hands squarely on her hips. "Come on now; out with it! You two boys been makin' trouble again?"

"No, no, Ma," replied Boredom, wiping his eyes. "Not this time. It was farmer Mackintosh."

"Well what about him?" demanded Predictable. "We all know that he..."

"Oh, Ma," interrupted Boredom, trying hard to contain his laughter, "Ma, just listen to this! Now here's old farmer Mack a-trottin' into Status like he always does... you know, half asleep and all droopy with his load of apples rockin' behind him..."

Contempt cut in with a sneer. "Yeah, that old Mack hasn't woke up in the last twenty years!"

"Anyway," continued Boredom, "he's a-comin' down the East-quarter line and cuts hard onto Main Street when he runs smack-dab into Mr. Change!"

"Oh, my!" gasped Predictable, her eyes wide with astonishment. "I hope nobody was hurt."

"Hurt?!" Boredom exploded in another cackling fit of hilarity. "No, no, Ma, no one was hurt. But old Mack there, now he jumps up like a scared rabbit and jerks the reins so hard he spooks his horse. Then she swerves off to the side, but the wheels are stuck!" Here he roared again, bringing another flood of tears. "Ma, the wheels are stuck so deep in the ruts that the rear axle breaks! So - smack! - down goes the back end, the horse takes off like a shot down the Main with apples a-flyin' left and right, and old Mack is just a-hangin' on for dear life!" He whacked his knee and doubled over in laughter.

Contempt looked at Predictable with a smug, satisfied smile. "Yesiree, Ma, old Mack got what was a-comin' to him. And I hope Mr. Change wakes up a few more folks around here too! Come on, Boredom, let's go get us a' apple!"

With that the two of them went hooting and snorting back out into the street.

"Well I never!" responded Predictable, as peace descended once again on her store.

Tranquility had remained in her grandmother's lap while the boys were telling their tale. Now she looked up with concern at Familiar. "Grandma," she said, "I like farmer Mackintosh. I think Mr. Change must be a bad man."

By this time, Novelty had made her way down to the hotel. However, she found herself unable to engage Change in conversation because of the large crowd that had gathered. Mayor Domineering was one of the first to greet Change, with the usual hearty welcome and an "all the best" in his future travels. Marshall Controlling was there also, making his presence known and ensuring that the newcomer was aware of some of the long-standing and inviolable rules of the community. Then too, it wasn't long before a none too happy farmer Mackintosh appeared. Unfortunately, he was made none the happier when he could elicit only a cordial apology from Change, instead of the penitential plea which he seemed to feel the situation demanded. With backward glances and many a "we'll see", the red-faced farmer grudgingly departed to attend to his broken wagon.

Finally the crowd thinned out enough such that Novelty was able to make herself known. She fluttered her eye lashes and giggled and flattered, but Change was not at all taken in by her shallow charm. He chose instead to share with her some of his convictions about what the region needed and the benefits that would follow from his proposals. When Novelty realized that he was not the fun-loving and carefree character she had pictured, she wanted nothing more to do with him and quickly retreated from the scene. So, though it took some little time, eventually Change managed to stable his horse, register at the hotel and get settled for the night.

Now initially it appeared that the town was going to be able to carry on quite nicely with Change in its midst. People were friendly and welcoming, and tried to help him adjust to the new community. But by the end of the week it became apparent that Status Quo and Change could never co-exist. For one thing, Change dressed differently, and always seemed to be out of place, creating a visual distraction which amused some and irritated others. Then too he spoke differently from the folks in Status. His strong accent made him difficult to understand at times, and people became tired of asking him to repeat himself. But by far the most unsettling practice of Change was his habit of asking questions, especially the question "Why?" He seemed to be constantly inquiring into reasons and results and relevance. This was very upsetting to some folks because they found that they didn't have any convincing answers. Others discovered that the directives of the founding fathers suddenly seemed dated or inadequate in the presence of Change. This, however, only served to ignite their sense of loyalty to the gloriously great heritage of Status Quo. Well now, as you can see, it wasn't long before tensions were building and accusations flying and something needed to be done in a desperate hurry in order to preserve the town's dignity. As a result, Mayor Domineering announced that the next evening a town hall meeting would be held to decide the future of Change.

On the afternoon of that fateful assembly, an earnest discussion was in progress at the mansion of Mayor Domineering.

"...and I say we lynch him!"

Rolling his eyes, the Mayor exhaled loudly in exasperation. "Now Marshall, that'll be enough of that kind of talk! We don't need to lynch him. We just need to get rid of him!"

"You're absolutely right, dear," agreed his sensible wife Prominent. "Why if he's allowed to stay goodness knows what will become of our town."

A wizened councilor Ego looked with wide-eyed concern through his over-sized spectacles. "Well I don't know about this town," he responded, his rusty voice quavering with anxiety, "but I know what will happen to us! We'll all be turfed out! That's right, every last one of us! Come the next election, if Change has his way, we'll all be turfed out!"

Beginning to feel light-headed, Prominent sank back into her chair. "Oh dear, oh my," she murmured. "What would we do? Where would we go?"

As the group silently pondered these questions, Mr. Stickler rose to his feet and began to pace with slow and deliberate steps around the room. Hands clasped behind his back, he cleared his throat and addressed the gathering.

"Friends, we need to rise above such petty and selfish considerations. What we are facing today is a battle for the very survival of Status Quo itself. Our founding fathers established this town upon good, solid, sensible principles. As a result, we have prospered and flourished, enjoying a tranquility seldom found in other communities. If we allow Change to disrupt the established order of our town and alter our cherished practices, the end will be only chaos and catastrophe. I, for one, am not prepared to give an inch of ground to Mr. Change. But I intend to see, as one duty bound to uphold our illustrious legacy, that every article of our constitution, every regulation of the law, every tradition that guides our great community remains fixed as in stone!"

"And that goes for me too!" shouted Marshall Controlling, leaping to his feet. He drew his revolver and shook it menacingly above his head. "Why if that Change fellow steps one inch out of line, I'll... I'll..." He narrowed his eyes and looked for an appropriate place to spit in the Mayor's parlor. Seeing none he felt obliged to finish his tirade. "I'll run him out of town so fast it'll... it'll make your head spin!"

Then, as an added flourish, he twirled his revolver a few times and jammed it back into its holster. Unfortunately, at that moment his finger slipped and the gun discharged, sending a bullet flying into the floor only inches from the foot of Mayor Domineering. It took several minutes before order could be restored from the ensuing pandemonium, but eventually the group was again seated in relative safety, though keeping a wary eye on the Marshall. After further discussion, it was concluded that Mr. Stickler should lead the way at the town hall meeting, and that the others would support his position as necessary.

When the appointed hour arrived, the hall was packed floor to ceiling with people and emotion. Some were strongly in favour of Change, while others, of course, were dead set against him. But most of the inhabitants of Status Quo really didn't know what to think of him. For, while he tended to make folks uncomfortable in one way or another, there was also something refreshing about him. In fact, many people found that for the first time in their lives, their minds had been opened to consider new possibilities for the community. The assembly was duly called to order with the explanation that, at its conclusion, a vote would be taken to determine if Change should be allowed to remain in Status Quo.

One of the first on his feet was farmer Mackintosh. His tone of voice complementing his beet-red face, the good farmer went on at great length about the inexcusable indignity his business, his reputation and even his family name had been made to suffer at the hands of the notorious Mr. Change. It took some time, but finally he was persuaded to resume his seat and the meeting was allowed to continue. As the evening wore on, a variety of different opinions were expressed. A well-respected Miss Thoughtful presented her reflections on the situation, concluding that some of what Mr. Change had been suggesting was certainly valid, and cautioning the people not to be too hasty in reacting to his ideas. This gave Miss Sheeply the courage to stammer out her tentative approval of his position as well. However, a withering glare from the Mayor's wife sent her scrambling for cover behind what she "really" meant to say. To the surprise of many, Contempt and Boredom also spoke positively in favour of Change.

Recognizing that public opinion was beginning to swing in the wrong direction, Mayor Domineering motioned for Mr. Stickler to take the floor. As he had done that afternoon, Mr. Stickler paced the platform with emotion-laden appeals for loyalty to the resplendent heritage of the past. His oration produced a tremendous flood of deep feeling, which quickly swept the majority to his side. Then, when Mr. Traditions arose to speak, it appeared that the fate of Change was settled. Mr. Traditions was a venerable old gentleman, whose wisdom and sound judgment were recognized by all. Here was one who would stand immovable against the wiles of Change.

"My dear friends and fellow citizens," he began in his usual warm and weighty manner, "this evening we truly are being asked to consider the survival of Status Quo. We have been given a rich legacy, and it is my conviction that in order to ensure a prosperous future we must apply the wisdom of our fathers."

The crowd nodded and murmured its assent.

"Now if I were to take a trip over to our neighbours at Pine Hill, I could travel on foot or in the saddle or by wagon. But I would simply be wasting my time if I didn't know why I was going there. It seems to me we can debate all night about how things are going to be done here in Status Quo, but if we don't know why we're doing them we might just as well ask a fox to guard the chickens! Friends, our town fathers knew where they were going and why, and they chose the best means of their day to get there. But many of us have forgotten the destination, and most of us can't remember the reason for going there! Instead we're all running up and down the road making the ruts deeper and deeper. Now I believe that Mr. Change here is exactly what we've needed to make us rethink what we're about. I'm all for loyalty, friends, but we can still be loyal to the ideals, convictions and goals of our forefathers without having to ride in their wagon!"

As Mr. Traditions finished speaking, a great silence of thought descended on the meeting. Unfortunately this did not include the Mayor who sat glass-eyed in shock, stunned by this apparent betrayal. For most people, however, the clouds of confusion had finally blown away and they began to realize how serious the situation really was. If a vote had been taken at that moment of clarity, Change would have easily won a majority. But before a motion could be made, one of the Traditionalist brothers was on his feet, arguing with salesman-like proficiency.

"Friends, I agree wholeheartedly with what has just been said, yessir I do. Couldn't have said it better myself," he twanged. "Only trouble is there warn't enough said! Why our forefathers not only did the right thing, they did it the right way!"

As he warmed to his speech, Traditionalist began gesturing pointedly.

"Now if they'd tried to get to the wrong town in the wrong wagon, where'd we be today? Any fool can see they must've had the right wagon, else we wouldn't be here! And I, for one, plan to stay in their wagon so that I get to the right town the right way! You get my meanin'? Now as for this Change fellow, if he wants to ride along with us, I say he's welcome. But I ain't about to give him the reins! And if he don't like our company he can hop down and travel however suits him best!"

This line of thinking was immediately followed-up by Mr. Skeptic who snorted out his doubts that Change would be able to drive even if he had the reins. Then Mr. Suspicions voiced the insinuation that this mysterious stranger must surely have some secret, dark motive for wanting everyone to get out of the wagon. Well by the time Insecurity told of her fears and Predictable spoke of her vexations, the whole gathering was thrown back into a fog of confusion. At this critical juncture Marshall Controlling moved that the meeting conclude, and a vote was speedily taken. Soon a smug and sorrowful Mayor Domineering appeared, announcing, with regret, that unfortunately Change would have to leave Status Quo, and expressing his sincere desire that in the future, as the young man matured in his outlook, there would be a welcomed happy reunion.

For some reason, at this very moment, it began to dawn on the crowd that Change had not said a single word through the entire meeting. As a matter of fact he had sat quite calmly and unperturbed while the storm of controversy raged around him. Now, as he arose to leave, it was hesitatingly suggested that perhaps he would like to address the good citizens of Status Quo. There was a strange grief in his eyes and a sadness in his voice that reached out and subdued the assembly.

"Friends, I like your little town here very much; I really do. And I can assure you that I only ever had your best interests at heart. The fact of the matter is that I was sent here by the Governor of Society himself, to explore some of the outlying localities of this region. Unbeknownst to you, there is a great new wave of settlers headed in this direction who are looking for a place to call home. The suggestions I have proposed to you are the Governor's own. In rejecting them, you have closed the doors of this community to the benefits of new life. Now you may yet have another opportunity to respond, but I will definitely assure you of this: if you persist in your determination to perpetuate the past, the very future you desire will elude you."

With grief still written on his face, Change quietly left the hall.

The next day broke fair and blue, with even a faint stir of a breeze. As Change secured his saddle bags, old Mr. Traditions came by to wish him well.

"I want you to know that I'll be leaving soon too," he confided.

"Oh?" responded Change, though not with surprise.

"Yes, I believe I've done all that I can for this town. I'm hoping that maybe my experience will be of benefit to another group of folks somewhere down the road.

"My friend," said Change with heartfelt earnestness, "why don't you come with me? My work in this region is almost completed now and I would welcome a companion of your years and wisdom. Then, when the Governor selects a location for the new settlers, we could move there and both help to build up the community. Won't you come with me? I know that our thinking has much in common, but I need the balance your experience would provide."

After further discussion it was agreed that the two of them would set out together. And so, when all the necessary arrangements had been made, the travelling companions rode their horses out of town, climbed the high rolling hills and left the valley far behind. Now it also happened that Mr. Traditions was not the only citizen to leave the town. Before long Miss Thoughtful departed, followed by both Boredom and Contempt, and a number of others. But when the exodus ended and the dust from the last stagecoach finally settled, Status Quo returned to its quiet, comfortable routine and was never heard from again. However, Change and his friend Mr. Traditions were eventually appointed to a long and useful service in the town of Vision, where, in fact, Mr. Change became the Mayor and Mr. Traditions his trusted advisor.

Wisdom's Children

It had been a beautiful summer's morning... blue sky, fluffy white clouds and a long leisurely walk around the park. Now Shannon was relaxing contentedly at the shaded picnic table, enjoying a cool glass of lemonade with her son. Timmy was five years old and the joy of her life. At the moment he was relating his great "a'venture" that had taken place the other day at his friend's farm. Shannon listened with delight while Timmy enthusiastically recounted all the details of tractor rides and jumping in the hay. Beginning to describe the various animals he had encountered, his eyes grew brighter and wider.

"And they had a turkey too, mommy, with black feathers and a red head. Peter said it was a daddy turkey and his name was Tom! And he chased the dog!"

"Oh my!" Shannon responded with appropriate amazement. "He must have been a big turkey."

"He was, mommy!" And puffing up his chest and flinging his arms wide, Timmy enthused, "He was THIS big!"

In the excitement of the moment Timmy forgot about the refreshments on the table, and his little hand crashed into a glass full of lemonade and ice cubes. Pink liquid sprayed through the air as the glass flew off the table, shattering against the concrete patio. There was a moment of horrified silence while mother and son stared helplessly at the spill. Shannon's eyes began to water and she whispered in despair, "Oh no, Timmy. Oh, Timmy."

"I'm sorry, mommy!" he quailed. "It was a' accident! I didn't mean to!"

"It's okay Timmy, it's okay," her voice quavered. "You run in the house and play while I clean up. Daddy and I will deal with this later."

When Daryl returned from the store he could immediately tell from the subdued atmosphere that something was not right. A teary-eyed Shannon came to give him a hug and broke down sobbing on his shoulder.

"What are we going to do, Daryl? It's the third time! Timmy spilled his drink for the third time!"

He held her close while processing the information. Finally, with a deep breath and a long sigh, he reached his decision.

"We'll have to call them; it's what we're supposed to do."

"But Daryl," she pleaded, "they don't have to be told. He's just a little boy. Boys do things like that. It's only normal."

"I know, Shannon, I know. I used to feel the same way, but maybe they're right. You've seen the ads on TV, and we've already had a long discussion about the pamphlet they mailed us. I think we need to call... for Timmy's sake."

He gave her a reassuring hug, then headed into the kitchen. After a momentary hesitation, Daryl picked up the phone and dialed. He was soon greeted by a pleasantly efficient voice.

"Hello, Bureau of Family Affairs. How may I help you?"

Daryl cleared his throat, "Ahem, yes... I'd like to report an acci... uh, I mean an incident."

In less than an hour the doorbell rang. Daryl opened the door with some trepidation and was met by a young, slightly over-weight, unsmiling man. The short black hair and dark green uniform gave him a definite military bearing. Under his left arm he carried a large zippered binder, while his right hand rested casually on a polished black holster. He removed his reflective sunglasses to reveal intense blue eyes.

"Mr. and Mrs. Becker," he began with authority, "I'm officer Switt, Ken Switt. I'm an investigative agent for the Bureau of Family Affairs. I believe you reported a disruptive incident."

"Yes, that's correct," affirmed Daryl. "Please come in."

As the trio entered the living room, officer Switt spoke up, "I want to assure you that you did the right thing to call the B.F.A. No doubt it was a difficult decision, but we can't let these incidents go unchecked."

Rather than sitting in the chair offered to him, officer Switt chose to stand, hands clasped behind his back. It was clear that he was scrutinizing the environment, his eyes darting from floor to ceiling to furniture. Pressing his lips together and nodding silently to himself, he placed the zippered binder on a coffee table next to his chair, but continued to stand.

"I'd like to see the offender, if I may," he half-ordered. "I assume he's still here."

"Yes, of course he's here," Shannon answered, with a worried glance at Daryl. "I'll go get him."

Moments later Shannon returned, her reassuring hand resting on Timmy's shoulder. At the sight of the officer, the boy did his best to hide behind his mother. He clung to her leg and peeked anxiously at the shiny black holster.

"Timmy, this is officer Switt," Daryl explained in a gentle voice. "He's here to help us."

The B.F.A. agent remained in the same attentive posture, again nodding silently to himself. Then he squatted down and, to Shannon's surprise, spoke with sincere concern. "Timmy, I understand you spilled your milk today."

The boy tried to stammer out an answer, but the words wouldn't come.

The officer continued, "Timmy, it's okay to feel embarrassed and ashamed; that's only natural. But I'm here to help you, Timmy. I'll be your friend. And when I'm through with you, you'll never spill your milk again. How does that sound?"

The boy looked up at his mother, his eyes nervous and uncertain. He tightened his grip on her leg and continued to remain silent.

"Mrs. Becker, maybe it would be best if you sent Timmy out to play... but if you could come back please." As Shannon turned to leave the room, officer Switt rose to his feet. He glanced at Daryl and again gave a knowing nod with his head. "Yep," he sighed, "see it all the time."

"What's that?" asked Daryl with concern.

"Ownership, responsibility," the agent replied in an authoritative tone. "Offenders who can't admit the guilt of their actions. Serious, very serious. But we'll get him through it, won't we? Yes sir, you can count on that!" Then, clapping his hands loudly and rubbing his palms vigorously together, officer Switt finally sat down. He unzipped the binder and drew out a pen and a pale green form. After giving his chin a thoughtful rub, he jotted down a few brief notes.

Soon Shannon returned and took her place next to Daryl on the couch. The trio spent several minutes getting properly introduced. Officer Switt led them through some necessary formalities and was beginning to question them about the events of the day when Shannon interrupted him.

"Oh, excuse me, Ken, but I almost forgot. Timmy wanted me to tell you that it was actually lemonade he spilled, not milk. He was trying to correct you but, you know, he was a little too shy to speak."

"Lemonade?"

"Lemonade," Shannon confirmed.

The agent threw a suspicions glance at the couple on the couch as if still not convinced. Picking up the pale green form, he studied it briefly. "The Bureau says it was milk," he declared.

"Lemonade," Daryl affirmed.

Ken smirked as he picked up a pen and made the correction. "I don't know what's wrong with those people at the office. Happens all the time. Must be some kind of typing fatigue I guess. Now, let's get down to business."

Officer Switt, speaking as an experienced professional, was convinced that Timmy had already developed ingrained spill habits in his muscle memory. This could be demonstrated by the undeniable fact that he was a three-time offender. The solution was to enlist him in a strict training regime which would effectively counteract these tendencies.

Shannon felt compelled to speak out. "Isn't this a bit extreme? I mean, he's only a five year old boy and accidents are just a part of life. We certainly never reacted like this when I was a child," she added with irritation.

The Bureau agent responded in a gentle, fatherly tone. "Shannon, I know people used to think that way, but times have changed. There are some current studies which demonstrate that repeated drink-spilling can lead to serious self-worth issues. Also, you need to consider the cost to society when there are spills in public places, such as restaurants, which can require extensive restoration to clothing and carpets. And what about large gatherings for special events like weddings and parties? My goodness... kids at parties!" He rolled his eyes. "You might as well turn a pack of starving wolves loose in a delicatessen! No, clearly Shannon, enrolling repeat offenders in a rehabilitation program is in the best interests of all."

"But he's only a little boy," Shannon persisted. "It's not like he's trying to make a mess!"

"Yes, but little boys become big boys, and big boys become adults. We can't have adults running around wreaking havoc on society, spilling coffee and beer and who knows what else all over the place. However, with the proper guidance and training we can turn all the 'Timmys' of the world into fully competent members of society. Now the way to begin is to change our thinking by no longer referring to a spill as an accident, but as an incident. The very word 'accident' implies accidental, which means 'not on purpose', which means 'not my fault', which means I don't have to accept ownership for my actions. So you see how even our choice of words can have such a subtle effect on our judgment. But 'incident'," he stressed triumphantly, "avoids all these escape mechanisms!"

Shannon was about to respond again when officer Switt quickly raised his hand.

"Now, now, Shannon," he soothed, "I'm sure this is very confusing and distressing for you, but the process is much simpler than it may seem. In the first place, we need to deal with the individual's self-image. It is quite likely that Timmy is thinking of himself as a klutz, and may be convinced that he'll never learn how to drink properly. Our counsellors will gently probe his fragile psyche in order to uncover the root issues and help restore a positive self-image."

Daryl now appeared quite interested and leaned forward on the couch. "And how would your counsellors do that?"

"Oh, Rorschach inkblots or self-awareness questions. We want the offenders to get more in touch with their inner selves." Ken gave a little chuckle. "One of my favourites is to ask kids to describe themselves as a type of food. Seems to be a lot of macaroni and jello images out there. Anyway, the kids love it and it really opens them up to some deeper issues."

Closing his eyes, Daryl slumped back into the couch.

Officer Switt carried on without noticing. "So first we deal with the mental issues, and then the physical. Now, in this second area of concern, what the Bureau wanted to achieve was a way to develop new muscle-memory habits while avoiding the possibility of a spill. Therefore the B.F.A. has created the consistent-movement retraining cup!"

Shannon responded to this momentous revelation with a blank stare.

"It's really quite a wonderful idea," Ken continued with admiration. "The child is assigned a sturdy, stainless steel cup with a snap lid and a rubber-lined hole for a straw. Then the cup is secured in a track which allows it to slide back and forth..."

"A track?" Shannon interrupted.

"Uh, yes... somewhat like a curtain rod I suppose."

"A curtain rod?"

"Well, not exactly..." The agent's face suddenly brightened. "Look, I have one of these units in my car. Why don't I go get it and then you can see for yourselves how it operates."

Jumping to his feet, Ken almost ran to his vehicle, returning in a moment with a box of clanking metal parts. He popped open the lid and began removing the various pieces. His military manner had apparently been left outside and he was acting more like a child with a new toy.

"Hey, just look at this baby!" he announced with pride, pulling out what appeared to be a section of toy train track. "Now we bolt this to the table..."

"Bolt it?!" Daryl asked in shock.

"Oh, don't worry, don't worry," Ken assured with a wave of his hand. "Piece of cake. Drill a few holes; get a couple of wrenches, no problem! Of course, some people might think the bolts are unseemly, but really they are a touching indication of concern for the welfare of others. I think we're all willing to be inconvenienced a bit if it will help restore someone to functional wholeness. So anyway, you bolt the track to the table, lock the cup into place, snap on the lid and... voila! Notice how the cup slides effortlessly on these ball bearing rollers. But... oh wait... that one's a little stiff. Hang on now, no need to get excited," Ken continued with confidence. "We merely use a little of the silicone spray provided in this convenient aerosol can and... presto!... no more sticking. Now the child simply slides the cup along the track, thereby developing the proper muscle memory, takes a sip through the straw and moves the cup back into its proper place away from the edge of the table."

Officer Switt was glowing with delight and satisfaction as he looked across the room at Daryl and Shannon. There was a moment of deep silence while the benefits of this marvelous creation sank in on the stupefied audience.

"But why does it have to be bolted to the table?" Shannon asked weakly.

"Oh, that was a step we felt we needed to take after running several trials with our prototype. One of the children was holding on to the cup when he fell off his chair. Not only did he end up spilling his milk, but he hit himself in the head with the track and had to get stitches. However, with this design," Ken boasted, "not even Mr. Universe could rip that track out of the table. No sir, this baby ain't goin' nowhere!"

"Well, I see," responded Daryl, trying to appear impressed. "That's really quite an invention you've got there. Uh... honey... how about some coffee? I could use a coffee. How about you, Ken?"

"Why sure, I'd love one."

While Shannon left to put on the coffee, officer Switt repacked the various metal components of his retraining cup into the box. Then, zipping shut his binder, he relaxed back into the arm chair. His childlike enthusiasm had now been replaced by a look of pleased and fatherly benevolence. By this time Daryl had begun to reconsider the wisdom of his decision to contact the B.F.A. He realized that he and Shannon had not yet made any documented commitment to a specific course of action. Maybe it would be possible to find some other solution if he could build rapport with the agent.

"So Ken," he began with chatty familiarity, "how many children do you have?"

"Actually, I don't have any, Daryl. I'm not even married. And even if I was I'm not sure I'd want any kids."

"Really? Why's that?"

"It's the job, Daryl. The truth is, if you knew what I know about kids... well, frankly, you'd be afraid to let Timmy get out of bed in the morning."

Realizing that this approach was unsuccessful, Daryl decided to try another subject. "Did you see the big game last night?"

The tragic sigh of officer Switt was not the response he had hoped for. Ken answered sadly, "Yes, I watched until half-time, but then I had to turn it off. I was too upset."

"Your team losing, eh?"

"No, not that."

Daryl was mystified. "So what was the problem?"

"Maybe you'll remember, just before half-time, the camera panned across the fans and focused in on that overweight, shirtless gentleman... the one who was painted all green with the yellow face."

"As a matter of fact I do remember that."

His voice heavy with pathos, Ken continued, "Well what did he do the second the camera was on him? He jumped up, started waving his arms around like a crazy man, and spilled his beer all over the lady in front of him."

"So?"

"So?! Daryl, don't you see? That could be Timmy ten years from now! Well, maybe not ten, but that's beside the point. Think of the cost to society, the psychological damage! Clearly that was a man who needed certified retraining."

"What?! All he needed to do was drink less beer."

"No Daryl, no!" Officer Switt spoke with such earnestness that there were almost tears in his eyes. "Think about it. Spilling beer in a public place, on national television... that's a cry for help! Obviously there are deeper issues involved."

"Yes, I'm beginning to think so," Daryl muttered to himself.

"Eh?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. Say, where do you people get your training?" Daryl asked cheerily. "I mean... uh... you picked up right away on that fan's... deep personal problems."

"Yeah, we get pretty fine-tuned at the Bureau. It's hard to turn it off sometimes. But I guess that's the cost of being a highly skilled professional. After all, we go to school for weeks taking all sorts of B.F.A. courses. And we're in class the whole day too, like nine to five!" Ken snorted. "But then with this type of work we need that heavy-duty training in psychology and counselling."

Now Daryl was intensely interested. He sat up straight on the couch, rubbing his hands on his knees. "Hmm, I find that very fascinating. You see, I'm a psychology professor at the college in town. I suppose that after your 'weeks' of training you must be well acquainted with all the various schools of thought... you know... structuralism, functionalism, behaviorism. Of course those are only the early 20th century beginnings in psychology, and there's always a new theory on the horizon, isn't there?"

Ken remained silent, but responded with a nervous nod.

"So how do you choose?" Daryl pursued.

"Choose?"

"What I'm wondering is, how does the Bureau decide which theory to use as the basis for its program? I can see that your department must work in the area of developmental psychology, but the connection between overt and covert behavior has never been definitively explained. Then, of course, there is the critical connection with the other behavioral sciences of anthropology and sociology. So, as you must know, it certainly makes for a difficult decision."

Officer Switt was struggling to reply when he was rescued by the arrival of Shannon with the coffee. Though Shannon had missed their conversation, she knew that something had developed by the twinkle in her husband's eye and the perspiration on Ken's forehead. The agent hurried to fix himself a cup of coffee and proceeded to take several large and noisy gulps.

"Honey, I'm glad you're here now," Daryl said pleasantly. "You missed a really intriguing discussion. Fortunately, Ken was just going to tell me how the Bureau has solved a problem that has baffled psychologists for decades."

Realizing that he was in a tight spot, officer Switt decided to go on the offensive. He did his best to resume his authoritative, military manner and launched a counter-attack. "I'm sorry Shannon, but we'll have to postpone this little chitchat about counseling theory for another time. I still have a second appointment today and we have yet to choose which program of rehabilitation to pursue. After all, you did call us voluntarily to ask for help for Timmy."

"Hardly!" Daryl responded with irritation. "Since that waitress reported the spill in the restaurant last week we had only one chance left. As you well know, after a third documented offense, families must register with the B.F.A. or have their benefits reduced to cover social costs. We thought maybe the Bureau could offer some sensible advice."

"Daryl, I can understand that at first glance our program might seem unreasonable, but you need to consider the larger picture. If the government is going to take care of society as a whole, it's unavoidable that individuals will have to surrender their... uh... I mean, some of us may at times have to give up our... uh..."

"Rights," Shannon suggested.

"No, no! I don't mean that!" the agent quickly responded. "But it would seem only reasonable that we may have to lose... certain..."

"Freedoms," Daryl offered.

Officer Switt looked like a man whose canoe had just capsized as he floundered around to find the right answer. Taking another big gulp of coffee, he wiped his perspiring forehead with his hand. Suddenly he snapped upright in his chair. "Privileges!" he almost shouted. "Yes, privileges! You see, as... as loyal citizens of out great democracy it becomes necessary to... uh... that is, it becomes necessary in the best interests of the larger community to relinquish certain personal privileges, so that the government can better care for the needs of the whole!"

Now, feeling relieved and triumphant, Ken resorted to a more fatherly and soothing tone. "Daryl, Shannon, the truth is, sometimes we need to be protected from ourselves. That's why I'm here, and that's why together we are going to help Timmy overcome this ingrained disorder. So please, take a few minutes to examine these forms, and when you're ready you can sign at the bottom."

He handed a copy to each of them and sat back to relax in his chair. While the couple perused the documents, officer Switt sipped his coffee and hummed quietly to himself. He was beginning to refill his cup from the carafe on the table, when he broke into a delighted chuckle. "Hey, would you look at that!"

Daryl and Shannon glanced around the room. "What?"

"This coffee cup! I never noticed till now, but it's a souvenir from Oak Island Fishing Resort. See the little gold print? I went there last summer!"

"Oh, yeah," Daryl nodded with indifference, "I was there a few years ago."

"Boy, that's really too bad!" Ken continued with surprising earnestness.

Daryl was baffled. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Well, it's too bad we can't use these mugs at the office."

"What?" Shannon laughed. "Why not?"

"Too hazardous. You know, if you drop them and they shatter... glass everywhere, people getting cut. At the Bureau we use only pyramidal lead-bottom cups. Can't spill those babies! And even if you did drop them, that titanium alloy is indestructible. They won't melt either if... uh, ahem," officer Switt seemed slightly embarrassed and his voice trailed away, "if somebody happened to leave one on a hot plate or something."

Shannon looked over at Daryl and rolled her eyes. "Those sound like a really great... invention," she offered.

"Well, I don't know about that," Ken responded, "but they sure are better than those magneto-mugs we tried at first." He gave a short burst of laughter. "Now those ones had a battery operated electro-magnet in the bottom with a circuit-interrupter switch on the handle. We installed steel plates on every desk, and I'll tell you those cups stuck to them like glue. The only problem was the mugs had a design flaw and sometimes they wouldn't work. Well you can imagine the aggravation and office tension created by people yanking at their coffee cups and not being able to budge them. Then, of course, the switch would suddenly click in and staff would be throwing coffee all over the place! We had so many lawsuits that we had to replace the mugs before their design could be perfected. In a way it's too bad," Ken mused, "because they had a small heating coil embedded in the cup to keep the coffee warm... though, then again, that's probably why so many people got scalded!"

Daryl, who had been trying to follow this ramble, still remained puzzled. "So you would rather use an Oak Island mug?"

"Oh, sorry," officer Switt answered, "I got off topic a bit. No, I have no problem with the Bureau's PLB cups. It's just too bad we can't have any designs on them. They only come in solid colours."

Daryl and Shannon, now both hopelessly confused, could only react with a questioning stare.

"Designs are too distracting," Ken explained. "Oh, you've probably seen it yourself at work, Daryl. You know, people walking around the office trying to read each other's coffee cups and bumping into things and tripping." His face beginning to redden at the thought, Ken quickly changed topics. "So what were you fishing for at Oak Island?"

"Actually I was happy to catch anything. I'd never been ocean fishing before, but some of my buddies were after salmon. I guess they have some real trophies up there."

Officer Switt's response was so enthusiastic that it made Daryl and Shannon jump. "Trophies?!" he boomed, leaning forward and slapping his knees. "You'd better believe it! When I was up there last summer we were pulling out some monster salmon! Why some of those beauties must have been THIS big!" As he swept his arms wide for emphasis, Ken's right hand crashed into the freshly-filled cup of coffee. Brown liquid sprayed through the air, showering the wall and carpet.

Arms spread, mouth open, the Bureau agent stared at the mess in stunned silence. He looked helplessly at Daryl and Shannon, only to be met by the same silent unbelief. His voice cracked like an old crow as he offered weakly, "I'll... I'll take care of it... no... problem..." But still everyone was too much in shock to move.

Now officer Switt's hands began quivering like his voice. "You wouldn't report this little accident, would you?" he queried.

"Accident, Ken?" Shannon prodded.

"Incident!" he blurted. "I mean incident!"

Realizing the leverage presented by the situation, Daryl quickly countered, "But you said 'accident' Ken. What would happen if we did report this... accident?"

"No, please!" officer Switt begged. "It's the third time this week. I don't know why. I can't help it."

Shannon appeared to be shocked. "Ken! What about ownership?!... responsibility?!"

"But it's not my fault... really! It's my sister! She used to call me a klutz and..."

Jumping to his feet, Daryl snatched up the portable phone from the table beside him. "Clearly there are some serious issues here! Officer Switt, I'm afraid we have no choice but to call the Bureau!"

"No! No! Wait!" Ken leaped in terror from his chair and began fumbling around trying to gather up the forms. He shoved the binder under his arm, grabbed the box of parts and began backing toward the door. "If you don't report me, I won't report you!" he bargained. "I promise! I was never here! And I'll get treatment! Really! You'll see! I'll be a new man! I'll..."

But by this time he had backed his way to the front door. Clawing at the handle, he threw the door open and ran to his car. Seconds later, motor roaring, tires squealing, officer Switt disappeared down the street. Daryl and Shannon remained standing on the porch until a voice from behind interrupted their laughter.

"I don't like him," Timmy said. "Will he be back?"

"No, honey," Shannon comforted, kneeling down to give her little boy a hug. "I'm sure we'll never see him again."

"That's right, Timmy," Daryl affirmed. "You don't have to worry about officer Switt. We're your mom and dad, and we'll take care of you."