Besop's Fables by Barry Daniels - HTML preview

BESOP’S FABLES Fables for the Third Millennium

 

by Barry Daniels

Copyright © 2009 by Barry Daniels
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. AN ORDINARY DAY

A Fable for the Third Millennium

Benny looked into his own eyes as he shaved, and counted his troubles. They buzzed around inside his head like a swarm of angry bees. His youngest son, Michael, needed expensive orthodontistry, and the dentist had warned that ‘right away’ would not be too soon. Benny didn’t even want to think about next year, when his oldest boy headed for college, or the fact that the last decent winter coat his wife Diane had bought was approaching its ninth birthday. And he still could not see how he was ever going to find the money. A raise was out of the question, and so was an advance on his salary. Given the rumours which were circulating at work lately he’d be lucky to keep his job. He could sell his old Chevvy, as Diane constantly urged him to do, and take the bus to work, but then how would they cope with all the afterschool activities for the kids? With hockey games, Soccer practice, Riding lessons, Judo classes, the old car spent little time parked on the driveway. And then even if he sold the car he would be lucky to get half of what the Orthodontist had estimated. A sharp pain in his lower abdomen reminded him that he should have seen the doctor about these recurrent attacks long ago! He could no longer pretend that the pains were getting easier to bear, or that the attacks were coming less frequently. But what if he needed surgery, how was he going to find the money for that? What if it was something which could keep him off work for a long time, or even? … well, let’s not even think about that possibility. He’d opted out of his company’s health insurance plan, needing every penny of his take-home pay just to cover the day-to-day household expenses. In hindsight, that looked like an exceptionally bad choice on his part, as Diane frequently pointed out to him.

He dressed quickly and walked through the kitchen to the driveway, skipping breakfast once again and trying to ignore the hard glare which his wife directed at his back. The Chevvy turned over sluggishly but fired before the battery gave up trying (his neighbour had told him that the last boost he’d supplied was definitely the end of the road) and limped along the freeway into the city.

Arriving late for work he found the office empty, and followed the sounds of activity into the boardroom. This at least was not unexpected. The threat of layoffs had been hanging over his small company for months now, but the faces of his colleagues told him, even before he read the message on the flip chart, that the news was even worse than expected. The company was on the verge of bankruptcy, holding out only until the employees cashed their final paycheques before filing the papers. Benny picked up the small envelope from the desk by the side of the chart and left the room. There was nothing to stay for, nothing left to discuss. And nowhere to go but home, to try to explain to Diane that even the small paycheque which she so despised was no longer available to sustain them.

Crossing the bridge out of the city his engine gave several long groans and quit. Benny prayed that the car had enough momentum to carry it over the top of the hill and then let gravity take over. He knew that the bridge was constantly monitored, and that a tow-truck would be dispatched as soon as his stalled car was spotted, but he knew also that the bill would need to be paid at once, or his car would be impounded. His prayers were, as usual, unanswered. The Impala rolled to a stop twenty feet from the summit. He considered trying to push the car over the last few feet, but knew that as soon as he released the brake, well before he could jump out of the driver door, his heavy automobile would have rolled backwards into the car behind. Horns were honking, drivers were climbing out of their cars, smoke was now pouring from the Impala’s ruined motor, and Benny gave up. He crossed in front of the dying car and leaned out over the metal railings. He looked down to the fast flowing river, hundreds of feet below, and saw his only available option. He climbed the fence.

* * *

When Benny opened his eyes he hovered for a few seconds in the fuzzy space between dream and waking, unsure of anything, waiting for the world to come into focus. He shook his head to clear the dream and the world came into focus with a bang. Literally. That last one had been far too close to home. Dust drifted down from the concrete ceiling of the bunker, and he lifted his hand to shield his eyes. Other, more distant bombs could be heard and felt as the morning barrage of the city continued. Next to him on the makeshift mattress Diane stirred and came awake. On the upturned crate which functioned as a bedside table he saw the small envelope which had arrived yesterday by military mail, informing him that young Mikey had now been taken from them. All of his boys were dead now, died fighting a senseless war which would never end. Benny got up from the blankets and limped to the far corner of the bunker, relieved to see that there was enough water for a cup of coffee, at least. Later he or Diane would have to make the terrifying trip above ground in search of provisions. Diane would probably insist on going again, as Benny’s range of movement was very limited since the shrapnel had taken off half of his left foot.

Diane stirred and got up from the bed. She looked fondly at her husband. They had gone though so much together in the years since the war had started. “You’re up early, Benny,” she said, coming up behind him to slip her arms around his waist. “Did you have bad dreams again, darling?” “Bad dreams?” Benny replied, “Not this time; quite the opposite, in fact. I dreamed of the old days, before the war, when the only things we had to worry about were dental bills and that old Chevvy clunker I used to run. I dreamed of that time I got stuck at the top of the MacDonald Bridge, and the cops thought I was going to jump, and brought me home in their cruiser.”

“I’m still not convinced that you weren’t going to jump, you know,” Diane said. “I remember how upset you were about Mikey’s dental bills, and then losing your job. And wasn’t that about the time you had the emergency appendectomy? Well, I’m just glad that you came home safe that day, Benny. Think of what you’d have lost if you’d jumped! You would never have opened your own company and made all that money!”
“Yes, you’re right,” Benny said, thoughtfully. “Our troubles seem so trivial when we look back on them. Still, it was wonderful to be able to spend some time back there, back then, even in my dreams.”

Another explosion close to the shelter shook more dust and debris from the ceiling. “Yes, I wish I could have been with you, darling, if only in a dream.” Diane said. “Those were good days, with the family all around us. Good days.”

* * *

’Good’ and ‘Bad’ are never absolutes. ‘Good Days’ and ‘Bad Days’ are meaningless terms unless there is a yardstick against which they can be measured. Before determining which kind of days you are living in, be sure to set a point of reference.

* * * CHIT-CHAT

 

A Fable for the Third Millennium

Mrs. Noble didn’t notice Mrs. Thomas until the two bumped into each other on their way out of the train station. As they walked the last quarter mile to their homes in Hawthorne Avenue the two women fell into step.

“It’s been ages since we had a little chat,” said Mrs. Noble. “I don’t know if I’ve seen you since our Michael got the Nobel prize. Did I tell you about that? He got it for his work on the new AIDS vaccine.”

“Well that’s nice,” Mrs. Thomas replied with a smile. “You won’t have heard, then, that my Sam is out on parole. He’s glad to be back on the street, but he’s very bitter about the way the coppers framed him with that cocaine they slipped into his pocket.”

“Michael is back home now,” Mrs. Noble continued. “He quit his job with the Research group when they denied him patent rights, but the day after he left he got three new job offers. One of them is in New York, at five times the pay, but the others are for very good money, and nearer to home, so he’s taking a few days to think about it.”

“Of course our home life is a little more hectic with Sam back at home and his Dad still on night shift. I suppose you’ve heard the fighting that goes on. Still, it’s nice for me that the old man has another target at home now, if you see what I mean. Sam does like his music loud, though, and when his Dad is trying to get some sleep… Well, that’s why the police car was round at the house yesterday, I expect you noticed.”
“The local lab, it’s quite small but they pay their people very well, and the perks are very good. They told Michael that he could have use of the company jet any time he wanted. That would be nice for the three of us, swanning off for a holiday in our own jet. Well, you know what I mean.”

“The old man is recovering from the knife wounds, though he did need a lot of stitches. Sam is a bit too fast to pull out that big knife of his, I think. Mind you, our Sam is probably the way he is as a result of the beatings he got from his Dad growing up. I mean, you can’t keep clubbing a kid on the side of his head without doing some damage, can you?”

“Oh, here we are on Hawthorne Avenue. My, your lilac hedge looks lovely this year, have you been feeding it something special?”

“What? Oh, the lilac. We cut it way back last autumn, and it seems to have benefitted from that. We just put the usual fertilizer on it, but it does seem to have done a lot better than usual this spring.”

“Well, bye now, Mrs. Thomas. Nice chatting to you.”

 

“You too, Mrs. Noble. I enjoyed our little conversation.”

 

* * *

Mr. Thomas put down the newspaper as his wife came into the room. “Was that Mrs. Noble you were talking to in the street. What’s she been up to then.”
“What? Oh, nothing much. Her son’s out of a job, apparently. He’s back living with his parents. I thing she said he’s got AIDS.”

“Always knew he’d never amount to anything, that one.”

 

* * *

Mr. Noble turned off the television as his wife came into the room. “Was that Mrs. Thomas you were talking to in the street? Did you find out what that business with the police cars the other day?”

“What? Oh, no, she never mentioned that. She was just telling me about her lilac bushes, that’s all.”

 

“Yes, they do look good this year.” * * *

Taking turns talking is not necessarily a conversation. For a true information exchange it is necessary that two pairs of ears are also brought into the equation, and that ‘input’ and ‘output’ systems on both sides are connected to functioning brains, which are attuned and receptive.

* * * MOMMA SAID…..

 

A Fable for the Third Millennium

 

Management Training? Who needs it! Just remember what your Momma told you, all those years ago.

The Company’s Employee Handbook says : Our objectives can only be achieved by the application of effective intercommunication and teamwork; by setting aside individual priorities in favour of working together towards corporate goals;
Momma Said: “Now, you children play nicely together, d’you hear me!”

The Handbook says: Remuneration is determined using a graduated scale which takes into consideration such factors as education, length of service, annual
performance reviews, and objectives achievement. Consistently high performance ratings will in most cases result in positive salary reviews.
Momma said: “ Do your chores, and then we’ll talk about increasing your allowance.”

The Handbook says: The office copying machine is to be used for no more than ten copies per original document. Longer runs are uneconomical and can result in employees waiting in line for significant periods of time. Be considerate of the needs of your fellow workers. Momma said: “Share your toys, and take turns on the Playstation.”

The Handbook says: Do not expect that you will always be given the ‘plum’ assignments. Your Division Chief will assign projects to staff who are best qualified to handle them. By the nature of the company’s operations you will occasionally be asked to handle a difficult or onerous task; performing such tasks with enthusiasm and dedication will bring you the approbation of company management.
Momma said: “ I’m not asking you to like it, just eat your broccoli.”

The Handbook says: In most cases retirement age is sixty five years. Occasionally (e.g. due to health or
compassionate grounds) an employee may become eligible for retirement at an earlier age, with an appropriately reduced pension.
Momma said: “I know it’s not your bedtime, but you’re falling asleep where you sit. Come on, let’s get you up to bed, young man.”

The Handbook says: It is to be expected that you will occasionally feel that the instructions you receive from your superior are in some way flawed. For example you may think that you know a more efficient method of achieving the company’s objective. You are encouraged to share your view with your Division Chief. Mature discussion of the alternative with your superior can benefit both parties, and your point of view will receive all due consideration. However, always remember that your superior has the last word in such situations, and his/her decision is final.
Momma said: “Because I said so, that’s why!”

* * *

When searching for new methods, new procedures, new ways of doing old tasks, don’t immediately discard conventional wisdom.

(Momma said: “Momma knows best.”)

 

* * * NATURAL INSTINCTS

 

A Fable for the Third Millennium

By the start of the twenty second century the Agency For Worldwide Political Correctness had reached and passed all of its major milestones. Children were dressed in head to toe bubble wrap at birth and remained so clad until the morning of their eighteenth birthday, which was also the date at which they were first allowed to go outside. Movies of children using ancient playground equipment were shown to first graders as a reminder of the black old days when scraped knees, bruised elbows and even broken bones were commonplace. Counselors were always on hand at these showings to ensure that fragile childhood natures did not become traumatized by the frightening depictions of young children wearing bandaids. Screaming classes were held for young children to ensure that they could reach a level of 180 decibels in the event that an adult not known to them should try to engage them in conversation. They were also trained in the correct use of Mace and Pepper spray.

No dictionary in any language anywhere in the world contained any word in which the letters M, A, and N occurred in sequence. Any institution in which the male/female ratio varied more than 0.5% from the standard 50:50 was subject to severe penalties, including imprisonment of the governing board for up to twenty years.

The Directors of the A.F.W.P.C. declared themselves moderately well pleased and began to seek other outlets for their creative energies. Their eyes fell on Nature, which even at a casual glance seemed to be in dire need of their attention. Field Agents were dispatched to the fields.
The situation at the Beehive was atrocious. The Male/Female/Neuter ratio was so far removed from standard that the Agent first thought someone was playing a joke on her/him. The utterly male dominated workforce was reminiscent of the bad old days of the twentieth century. Unfortunately, the Queen Bee stood adamantly in favour of the status quo, and even sent a swarm of soldier bees in pursuit of the Field Agent when his/her persuasive efforts became excessive. Although several worker bees expressed an interest in the AFWPC’s efforts, none of them could be induced to lay eggs, and the Agent was eventually forced to withdraw.

At the stables the mares overwhelmingly refused the Agency’s overtures, explaining as patiently as possible that stallions were interested in only two things: Grazing and mating. Furthermore, the mares’ dominance had been established as a result of extensive efforts on the part of their ancestors, and was not something they would now give up lightly. When the stallions were asked for their viewpoint they refused to comment until they’d had an opportunity to discuss the issue with their wives.

Zebras gave much the same response to the PC advocates, pointing out that their close cousin, the Unicorn, would not now be extinct if it had not been for the intervention of an early PC advocate who insisted that Noah had no right to refuse entry to the Ark of Horace and Arthur, who constituted a legal pairing and had even been married at a ceremony in Canada.

The Praying M**tis advised the Field Agent that she would get back to him/her as soon as she had finished devouring her mate. When the M**tis added “Stick around, dearie; you look quite tasty,” the Agent withdrew with as much grace as he/she could m**age while running as fast as possible backwards.
The Cats were insulted by the very idea that those howling, brawling, night crawling, one-track-minded Toms could in any way be considered equal to the females. They suggested that the Agent should take up the issue with the lionesses, or any other of the big cats, and advised the wearing of all-encompassing steel plated body armour for the interview.

The Vixen barked out loud at the suggestion that instead of staying in her warm, comfortable den with her adorable chubby children, she should join her mate, out hunting in the cold, dark, rain-drenched forest where predators and/or traps waited behind every second tree. At that point in the interview the mate arrived, dripping wet, shivering with cold, dropped his catch into the middle of the hungry pack of cubs, turned and went back to his search for food. The vixen merely raised an eyebrow, and the Agent, seeing the futility of further argument, left. In the end the AFWPC abandoned these efforts and decided instead to focus on the development of a Time Machine, which would allow them to mount a vigorous Campaign For Political Correctness in the Dark Ages. Early results were promising, and a dozen PC Field Agents were dispatched to feudal England. At the time of writing none have yet returned.

* * *

Nature Is Not Politically Correct.
* * *
Join the Campaign Against Political Correctness today, before it’s too late: http://www.capc.co.uk/

* * * THE PERFECTIONIST

 

A Fable for the Third Millennium

Six young students, accompanied by their Science Master, were touring a building site. They watched huge trucks unload stone, brick, wood and other building materials and listened in awe to the site engineer and the architect, who patiently explained the basic purpose and function of their jobs. Now left to their own devices the youngsters adjusted their hard hats and followed their teacher into the working area of the site.

The first workman they met was an electrician, who explained why it was important to have all of the wiring in place before the interior walls were installed, as there would be no access for the wiring when the drywall was in place. The second man was a bricklayer, but when politely asked what he was doing he said only “I’m laying bricks; what does it look like I’m doing?” Despite the surly reply, the students watched in awe as the man speedily spread mortar, tapped the brick into place, removed excess mortar and moved without pause to the next brick. Where a partial brick was needed the man chopped off a suitably sized portion and set it in place without breaking stride. The students and their master were impressed with the fluid grace of the craftsman.

Moving on, the group spoke with a carpenter and a plasterer, a plumber and a general labourer, discovering how each of these men blended their particular skills into the creation of a new building.

Just before leaving the site the group came upon a second bricklayer, but the contrast between this man and the first was substantial. The man selected each brick from the pile beside him as though he were choosing the ripest fruit from a greengrocer’s stall. After he had selected a brick he carefully applied a layer of mortar and set the brick in place like a jeweler placing a diamond in its golden setting. Then the man stepped back, examined his work, made a small adjustment and reached for the next brick. While the students looked on the bricklayer removed several bricks from the top level of the wall on which he was working. He turned to the group and said: “Not good enough,” and set about rebuilding the defective section. “What are you doing?” one of the students asked. “I am building a great palace,” the bricklayer replied. “A building that will last a thousand years; a place where people will come to marvel at the quality and
craftsmanship; a standard which lesser builders will equal only in their dreams. That is what I am doing young man.”

“You see,” the science master addressed his students enthusiastically, “That is the difference between a common craftsman and a master of the trade. Attitude. That is what determines quality. One man is ‘laying bricks’ while another is ‘building a palace’. Remember this lesson well.”

The following week the science master brought a second group of students on the same tour. They interviewed various craftsmen, including the surly bricklayer, and made their way out of the site. Looking for the ‘builder of palaces’ the group found a different man working in the area, laying bricks in the same fashion as the first man, with practiced efficiency. The site foreman was passing by, so the master called to him and asked what had happened to the palace builder. “That moron!” the foreman growled. “I gave the fool his cards last week. We have standards on the site and your palace builder had completed less than ten percent of the daily requirement for his trade.”
“But surely, with his attitude to work, his walls were of the highest quality! After all, the man worked as though he were building the walls of a palace.”

“A palace, yes,” the foreman laughed. “I have no use for a builder of palaces. We’re putting up an apartment block. I need a man who thinks he’s building garage walls.”

* * *
What a terrible waste of time and effort it is to do with great attention to detail something that does not need to be done at all.

* * * PROJECTILES

 

A Fable for the Third Millennium

“So you see, Henderson, you’ve nothing to worry about.” Despite the assurance, Myles Henderson still looked worried. He had spent the previous four months in a fruitless attempt to track down the few surviving members of the lost tribe of the Oobijumbi, thought by many to be extinct. Henderson and his small band had followed rumour and myth, tales of possible sightings and old wives tales deep into the Amazon jungle – all without success. In pursuit of yet another slim possibility the party had built a makeshift raft and braved the rapids of this section of the river, only to lose the raft, all of their provisions and each other in the process. Lost and semidelirious, Henderson had stumbled along a barely visible trail into a Oobunti village – and found Sir John Farquar. The famed explorer, long since given up for dead, had set up house in the village and gone native. After food and sleep, feeling more or less human again, Myles met up with the Village Chief only to find that Sir John and the Chief were one and the same. When Myles explained the nature of his quest Sir John had amazing news: “The Oobijumbi? Of course I know where they are, old boy. They’re neighbours of ours. You’ll find an Oobijumbi village about five kilometers upriver, if you’re still interested. I should warn you, though, they’re a very warlike tribe, and are as likely to greet you with poisoned arrows as open arms. One word of advice, go alone for a better chance of survival. Go in force and you’ll all be dead before you see an Oobi.”

“My God, Farquar! Are you telling me that I’ve spent all of this time and effort to locate the Oobijumbi and I’m likely to end up as a poison arrow pincushion?” “Now, now!” Sir John said. “Calm down old chap! It’s not nearly as bad as it sounds. You see, the Oobijumbi are an extremely logical tribe. They prize reason above all else, and since I convinced them some years back that it is impossible to shoot an arrow into a man who is running away, all you need do is turn and run, and return later when the tribe is in a better mood. After a big feast, say.” Henderson frowned. “Sorry, old chap, but you’ve lost me there. You say that if I turn and run the tribesmen will not fire at me because,,, I didn’t quite catch your drift in that last part.”

Sir John spoke slowly, as though to someone of limited hearing or mental competence. “It’s simple, Henderson. I merely explained to the Oobijumbi warriors that firing off an arrow after a running man is a waste of time since the arrow can never catch him. Let’s suppose there are two chaps facing the hunters, and the Oobijumbi fire their arrows. Say for the sake of argument that one of the chaps stands firm and the other turns and runs off. Now follow carefully what happens. When the arrows reach the spot where the chaps were standing, the one who is still there gets skewered. but the one who turned and ran, well he’s not there any more so the arrow can’t touch him.”

“Yes, but……”

“Stay with me here, Henderson. The arrow, of course continues to fly towards the running man, who is now, let’s say twenty feet further away and still running. Right? So the arrow must travel those extra twenty feet to catch him. But, lo and behold, when the arrow crosses that twenty feet, the chappie’s moved on again. Let’s say he’s now covered an additional five feet. So, on goes the arrow, five more feet, but the chap has moved yet again, let’s say two feet this time. Then, same old story. He’s never there when the arrow arrives, you see, so he’s perfectly safe.”

“But this time he’s only moved a few inches, and next time…..”

“A few inches is still a few inches, and don’t you see, Henderson, it never comes down to zero!! Even when you’re measuring in nanometers it never gets to zero. There is always a tiny, tiny fraction of an inch between the arrow and the running chappie’s hide. Now, the Oobijumbi, knowing this, won’t waste their arrows on a futile shot, so the running fellow is safe as houses.”

Myles frowned. “But I’ve seen antelope brought down by a skilled bowman. How can……”

“So you refute my logic, do you Myles?” “Well, not exactly, Sir John. But are you certain it’s safe?”

“Absolutely, old boy. I’ve done it many times myself. Never fails.”

 

“Very well, if you can lend me a canoe I’ll set out tomorrow morning.”

 

* * *

By the time Henderson had paddled the few kilometers upriver the sun was high in a cloudless sky. The Oobijumbi village appeared exactly where Sir John had said it would, and Myles beached the canoe within sight of the huts. Before the explorer was half way towards the village, twenty armed tribesmen appeared from the huts, bows drawn and arrows notched. Obviously he had arrived at a bad time. Remembering his colleague’s advice, he turned quickly and began to run back towards the beach, waiting with trepidation for the arrows to find his back. The arrows never came. Risking a look back over his shoulder Myles found to his amazement and relief that the Oobijumbi had lowered their bows.

All except Jerome. The Oobijumbi considered Jerome to be a strange boy, always questioning, never satisfied with a pat answer, always pushing his boundaries. Rather than sit down and analyse a problem Jerome tended to jump right in with a process he called ‘Trial and Error’. The boy was a disappointment to his parents and a cause of frustration to the village elders, who had come to the conclusion that it was simply a waste of time trying to educate Jerome in the ways of reason and logic. Jerome took aim at the retreating white man and loosed his arrow.

* * *

When the arguments against you seem compelling, when you’re pretty much convinced that what you’re trying to do is flatly impossible – remember Jerome. Damn it all, give it a shot anyway, just to see what happens!

* * * RIGHTS OF PASSAGE

 

A Fable for the Third Millennium

By the time Archie cut the motor the breeze