Make No Mistake

If you limit your actions in life to things nobody can possibly find fault with, you will not do much. - Lewis Carroll

Bekky was a miracle to behold. She could fix anything. She had found her calling early in life. As a kid, she often took apart the mechanical alarm clock sitting by the side of her bed. Unlike most kids though, she could also put the clock back together, instead of throwing the forever discordant parts in a soon to be forgotten junk drawer. As she grew older, she gained a well- deserved reputation as a child prodigy, fixing whatever mechanical things her talented father couldn’t; automobiles, the lawn mower, the dish washer, the electronic dog fence, you name it. If it had parts, she could fix it, and often make it better than new.

She was puzzling over a call she had just received from her overly macho friend, Dr. Carlton Charleston III. His name was Carlton, not Carl he’d quickly point out to anyone unfortunate enough to make that mistake. He was a well-known community figure. He had the ego and inflated bank account to prove it. He’d always had money, and he had always wanted more, so growing up he had toyed with the idea of becoming a lawyer or a politician. He didn’t like people all that much though, so he became a surgeon instead. Although mysterious and quite vague on the phone, he had promised Bekky, the” biggest challenge of her life” if she would just lend her support to the project he was putting together.

Cortez was a physicist, whose specialty was “integrated molecular based structured analysis of inherently desultory quantum mechanics”. He was currently very irritated with his acquaintance and occasional friend, “Carlton the Charlatan”. What a pain! As a result of his talents, hard work and diligence; Cortez had discovered something totally unique and quite special just the week before. He had mistakenly communicated his amazing discovery to the double C dipstick. One short week later, Dippy Doodle the third was taking full credit for Cortez’s work, and was calling his many contacts to participate in ‘A new project of magnanimous proportions”. Cortez had soon realized the real truth, that if you saw Carlton in just the right light, you could see the dollar signs flashing neon green greedily in his eyes. Sometimes, it was he all could see, or care to see.

Charles “Firestarter” Jahnston could be found most days working the control stick of his Lockheed Martin FX76C Stealth Viper. He’d earned his moniker in his early days as a cadet at the esteemed Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He had displayed a propensity for starting conflicts among his fellow cadets, and then standing back and reaping the unkind fruits of his actions. As one of America’s finest, he’d developed an expectation that most people in the room should understand and appreciate his stature and greatness. Virtually all Air Force junkies spent a fair amount of their time in uniform, and so, like actors and politicians, they expected people to react to them. It didn’t matter much if the reaction was negative – as long as people reacted. Thanks goodness most cadets weren't like that at all.

Sparky McKeon returned home late from another day’s labors. He’d earned his nickname years ago while working onsite at a new engineering facility that Hughes Aircraft was building in El Segundo, California. He’d screwed up royally by incorrectly splicing the high voltage wires, and had been knocked on his keister. He wound up losing his left pinky and ring finger to the unforgiving electricity. As an electrical engineer with Bechtel, he now designed power grids similar to, but more advanced than the one that had cost him his digits. Dropping his keys and ID badge on the kitchen table, he was surprised to find his answering machine light blinking. Antisocial by nature, he hardly ever got any calls. He was already sure he didn't want this one.

Traveling through the mystic plains of sleep, Scooter encountered a middle-aged man housed in a mental health ward. Well, maybe encountered was the wrong word. Observed would be more correct. The fellow had long stringy unkept blonde hair. When he leaned over, it hung to the floor like a dirty mop. His clothes, soiled and minimal, hung limply on his gaunt body. His feet were grimy and bare, with fingernails like claws and toenails like talons. Crouched over, facing the far corner, he appeared to be in a rigid catatonic state.

Just outside of the isolation chamber was a group of what appeared to be enthusiastic scientists. Not something you encounter every day. It was the late 21st century, and these five people were calculating their chances of success. The doctor, quantum physicist, pilot, electrical engineer and mechanical whiz were contemplating the impossible. About to attempt the impossible.

Fred (the gentleman in the corner of the room) had been mostly catatonic for a little over seven years. Their goal was to communicate with him. Since they couldn’t talk to Fred, their plan was to use the mini-portal Cortez had accidentally discovered the previous month, to enter into his consciousness. They hoped to communicate with their experimental patient this way. Confident dreams of the Nobel Prize were spinning round in their heads.

Carlton, the good doctor, performed his best and most expensive tests on Fred, then declared him safe for the “operation”. Doc then rumbled off for a bit of shut-eye. He’d left instructions to be awoken in time to see the conclusion of their experiment.

Cortez, the proud and precise physicist conducted several measurement tests on the mini-portal, verifying the transport zone was about ten feet in length. This basically meant there was only a six-foot long by six feet wide area in which to operate all the equipment they would need to perform the experiment. The subject himself (Fred) would need to be within the transport region as well. It promised to be tight spaces.

Firestarter, the cautious and sometimes anal pilot moved the automated steering device with its associated viewer within three feet of Fred, barely squeezing within the zone. He would use the device to remotely direct the “mini-portal teleportation” probe. He was also responsible for verifying the recording portion of the experiment was being conducted properly.

Sparky, the talented electrical engineer was also arranging things. Both the teleportation module and the mini-portal containment field consumed large amounts of energy. Three gigantic batteries, recently acquired from a number of antiquated US Sherman tanks, were transported on a specially modified-eight-wheeled hospital gurney. These batteries would assure there would be enough stored energy to get the probe safely into and out of the mini-portal once the containment and transport zones were activated, and electricity from the outside world subsequently lost.

Finally, Bekky, the attentive mechanical whiz, was checking and double-checking every piece of equipment in the room. Chewing on the end of her pencil and checking her slide rule once last time, she declared the state of the experiment as a ‘Go”. She gave her companions the thumbs up, asking with her eyes for confirmation. Seeing three nodding heads, she sent for the doctor.

It was theorized that for the person or people in this case, time spent in the portal would seem anywhere from several minutes to several days. The actual time in the real world would only be a few moments. Some kind of weird time bending, space rendering, quantum mechanics effect.

Thus, the doctor had to be summoned. He would be grumpy. It had only been about 30 minutes since he’d gone off to take his catnap.

As predicted, the good physician reappeared, stomping into the room like an ill-tempered papa bear.

“I’m going to charge twice my usual fee, for having to deal with you bozos!” offered the petulant doctor. “Well Doc”, countered Firestarter, “I heard from a reliable source that you got your surgical skills by neutering dogs and cats”.

The doctor spat back “Nope, it was hamsters. And if I need any retraining, I’ll be sure to keep you in mind. You’ve got just the right sized equipment!” Dismissing the pilot with a parting shot “The best substitute for lack of brains or aptitude is silence my clueless friend”; Carlton stood ready for the experiment to begin.

Properly chastised, Charles plopped in the corner just for a moment, and muttered under his breath this pearl: “Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough”. The words were spoken so low, so soft, that only the fly on the wall could hear them. Soon enough though, Charles was up and doing his part to make the experiment a grand success.

The mechanical whiz had the honor of flipping the switch that started everything into motion. As Bekky flipped the switch, the containment field surrounding the mini-portal dissipated. It was replaced by the shimmering transparency that was the portal. The shimmering meant that it was ready for transport. The vigilant pilot, gazing into his mini-viewer, fed coordinates into the computer. Cautiously, Firestarter began to guide the probe toward the portal, slowly approaching the great unknown. Once inside the portal, the coordinates fed into the computer would be the probes’ only directions home.

As the probe slipped into the portal, the viewing screen provided an insider’s view of Fred’s consciousness.

The scientists stared in amazement.

They realized as one that their experiment was a smashing success! Mouths agape, this is what they saw:

Driven insane by years of inadvertent abuse by an insensitive family and so-called friends and colleagues, the man sat facing the corner of his room, oblivious to the world around him. His entire life, he had been berated at work and at home for making mistakes.

He grew to believe that he couldn’t do anything right.

After a time with so much negative reinforcement, it became easy for him to justify his uselessness. A support group that could have helped him find his way didn’t exist. Fred was so far gone he never even thought to seek help. No one reached out to assist him.

He wasn’t worth saving anyway.

Most people got a kick out of giving him a hard time about his blunders and faults, never realizing the damage they were causing. They even made fun of his name. “Better dead than Fred” they’d say and then laugh hysterically, never noticing that Fred didn’t join in.

Years of imperfection and not so innocent fun bore on the man. Finally, it became easier for him to shut himself down than deal with the hassles of the world anymore. Facing stark nothingness in his corner of the world, he no longer made mistakes. He no longer experienced life. It was enough for him. No one made fun of him anymore. It was the best he could hope for in this wretched life.

So, it might be wise to file these final thoughts in your head to ponder during a future rainy day.

The last perfect being on this world got crucified. So, perfection isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Doing your best is. Part of the human experience involves making mistakes. It’s how we grow and learn. And we need to be aware and patient if we can, to not be so careless with our words or emotions.,

It’s also good to laugh at yourself once in a while. At least once a day works for me.

Those play barbs you habitually bombard your loved ones, friends and work-mates with, sometimes turn in a heartbeat from fun to cruelty. Sometimes it’s a razor thin line. You just need to be aware, and not so insensitive. We are all guilty of this I think, including me.

‘Be Here Now’ really does make a lot of sense. Seeds casually sown with unforeseen consequences often yield the most rancid fruit.

One of his longest dreams yet, Scooter didn’t know what to make of it. So strange, the thoughts in his head these days.

With the ending of Scooter’s dream, came a fond remembrance of an old Navajo saying he’d once heard at a powwow in Taos, New Mexico: “Be careful when speaking. You create the world around you with your words.”