Desperate Student, Episode 16: Cupid Loveline

This continues the Desperate Student series. Get caught up here before proceeding. Or you can just wait for the book.

I hate medic planes.

You would too if you contracted the obscure VIRUS 200 (vernacular: Orangutan flu) during a job-related safari and woke up on your way back to the states for extensive medical testing.

I don't remember most of it. I recall waking up - always with a nurse standing next to my bed with a clipboard - and being asked all kinds of fairly intuitive questions like "Would you have a beer with a pony you'd never met?" and "What color are triangles?"

You know. The sort of questions you ask people with Orangutan flu.

When we finally landed, my arms, chest, and back were pocked with needle marks and there were about thirty little sensor things taped onto various parts of my head and torso. I had an IV running on each arm and a third, smaller one on my left thumb. There were staples holding together a fresh scar near where my appendix presumably no longer hung out. Everyone was now wearing blue face masks and the light had been dimmed.

"Wh ... whuh hathibined?" I asked. My jaw was numb.

"We ran some tests," Said the nurse with the clipboard.

"I'm guh be okay, righ?"

"You were never in any danger. Orangutan flu is like a severe head cold."

"Buh theh why dih you do all thah? I nevah gay you puhmishuh."

"Yes, you did, sir. We have a signed consent form given to us by your former employer."

Jane was more wily than even I'd given her credit for. "Cah I go now?"

The nurse shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

"Wuh abow ah this stuff ah me?"

"You're welcome to take it off, sir."

"Wew ah we?"

"O'Hare International Airport. We'll disembark in a few moments."

"I wan go now."

"Suit yourself." The nurse tossed her clipboard onto the table next to my cot and walked off into another room. I noticed zebra doodles all over it.

With great effort (I was feeling pretty weak), I yanked all the probes and needles out of myself and staggered to my feet. It felt like the room was whizzing by; I fought to stay standing and took a hesitant step forward, steadying myself against the cot.

"Careful," the nurse called from the other room. "You've lost a lot of blood."

I reached the door to the plane and sagged against it. The plane was about a quarter mile from the bustling O'Hara airport B terminal. With careful deliberation, I took the first step onto the stairs down to the tarmac.

I awoke on the tarmac with pieces of asphalt embedded in my forehead. I stood slowly and staggered across a vast expanse of criss-crossing runway to a chain link fence, which was made of chain link, the bottom of which was poorly buried. I yanked up a section and wriggled under. Then I wandered for a few hours with a vague understanding I needed to get away from anything related to Jane Goodall.

I awoke at the foot of a rundown white building in an old metropolitan section of town. A burned-out sign outside read: "Chicago Herald."

Now I don't expect you to believe this. I suppose if you believe I once took a bullet for the president this might not seem like that big a jump. But to me, what happened next was the most extraordinary and absurd thing I'd ever experienced since my episodic autobiography began. There was a fifty-dollar bill slid under my left hand. No unique markings. No note. No one around. I just suddenly had fifty dollars. For a moment my mind flashed back to the tales of King Midas. But King Midas never forged Mexican citizenship papers so he could work as an agricultural laborer.

I slowly pushed myself up to my feet, weighing the bill in my hand. Besides this bill, I was at rock bottom. And even with it I couldn't go home or survive for very long. This was no time to be conservative. I studied the money for a long moment. Ulysses S. Grant stared back at me with unblinking eyes that seemed to give me quiet reserves in inner strength.

"Go ahead, son," He seemed to be saying. "I didn't split the confederacy in half by eating taco bell until my funds ran out." It wasn't so much the words so much as the fact that Grant seemed to be talking that really got me. I knew I needed help. I had to shake things up. I crumpled the bill tightly into my fist and walked deliberately into the Chicago Herald office.

There was a payphone in the corner. I checked the number, then walked to the receptionist and spoke through clenched teeth.

"I want to take out an ad - the best you can get me for tomorrow's circulation with fifty dollars."

"For 47.99 I can give you an inch-by-half-inch with simple text."

"Perfect. I want it to say: 'Don't like what you see? Stop the blind search with a personal matchmaker. Professional, discreet, guaranteed happy match within two weeks. (847) 334-6991.' Can you fit that into an ad that size?"

"That's a bit wordy."

Eventually she got me down to a more reasonable ad. It ran:

MATCHMAKER (847) 334-6991

Very economical.

Satisfied, I went back to the somewhat dilapidated couch and passed out. I was awakened at ten o'clock by a janitor. "Can I help you?" He asked.

"Hm? No. Thanks. I'm waiting for somebody."

The janitor looked dubious but nodded and moved on. I passed out again.

At around eight the next morning, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver before the first ring ended, then spoke, trying not to sound too eager:

"Hello?"

"I saw an ad in today's paper for a matchmaker?"

"You've got the right number. That is, I'm him. I am he. This is him."

"My name is Wade Roberts."

"I'm ... Cupid ... Loveline."

The man sounded confused. "What should I call you?"

"My friends call me ... Cupid."

"Can we meet?"

"How about we just discuss over the phone. It's faster."

"All right. What do you charge?"

I thought fast. "Five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred!"

"Well, yes, I mean ..."

"That's a fraction the cost of the last person I called."

"Well I mean, five hundred for the basic service. It's two thousand for the premium service."

"What do I get with premium?"

"Most of it is behind the scenes. We use a complex process to bring your chance of success from ninety percent to ninety-nine percent."

"I want the premium. Sign me up right now."

"All right, Mr Roberts ..."

"Call me Wade."

"Wade. So tell me a little about yourself."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"You mean you don't know me already?"

"Should I?"

"I mean everyone knows me. Just everyone! You haven't heard my music?"

"I don't think so ..."

"Last Time I Kissed You? I Could Be The One?"

"I don't think I've heard those."

"Why, that's amazing. You're one in a million. I'm very popular. That's why I want a matchmaker. I want to use a forged name so I don't get swarmed by adoring fans."

"They won't recognize your face?"

"Uh ... well ... I mean there's always that risk. But people don't seem to recognize me generally. I mean I go out all the time and no one takes another look. It's because I'm so reclusive. It's what A-list celebrities do."

"So what are your interests? Your hobbies?"

"What, am I on a date with you now?"

"No, I just wanted to know a thing or two about you so I could match you."

"Listen Cupid. You're the professional. I don't pay you to make small talk. I pay you to find me the girl I'll be happy with until a highly publicized and messy divorce in four or five years. Make it happen!"

"All right - well what kind of a girl are you looking for?"

"You know - sweet, pretty, smart, fun, talented, a good smile, looks good in blue jeans. Also I want someone who will hang on my arm and announce all my achievements at parties so I don't look quite so boorish. And stare at me across the room with an adoring look. And call me all the time when I'm out of town. And leave me sweet little notes in random places. And she needs to be good at yoga."

"I can get you a girl like that within the week, Wade."

"Fantastic!"

"Let's talk about payment."

"Half now, half when we're engaged?"

"Fair enough. Where do you live?"

"In the ritzy section of town."

"I'm out of Chicago on a private mansion. I'll send one of my lowly servants out to meet you halfway to pick up the money."

"Where's halfway?"

"Oh, shall we say ... the Chicago Herald Office? It seems fitting somehow."

"That's not in a good section of town."

"It'll be good for you. Oh, and bring cash." I hung up hastily. My hands were cold and clammy; I rubbed them together briskly. Someone was coming with a thousand dollars to my location. Maybe life was finally starting to pick up.

I waited outside for half an hour, then a black limousine pulled up and a tall beefy man in a suit with sunglasses got out. He walked straight to me. "Cupid Loveline?"

"I work for him."

"Please deliver this briefcase on behalf of my client, Wade Roberts." He handed me a light but promising black leather briefcase. I tried to accept it as casually as possible, wondering in the back of my head if I'd ever been this close to so much money.

For several minutes after the limo drove away, I stood on the sidewalk holding the suitcase in an agony of indecision. A big part of me wanted to jump ship - to take my thousand dollars and fly away and pull the same hoax on someone else later on. But for some reason I stayed. I'm not sure if it was the chance of more money later on down the line or a vague sense of moral compulsion. But I was contracted as a matchmaker, and I was going to follow through.

Cupid Loveline was going to make Wade Roberts a happy man.

Desperate Student, Episode 15: Schmoozer

This continues the tragic tale of the Desperate Student. If you're not up to date, read up. Matthew, this is your chance. Start at Episode 1. Heh.

The problem with being stranded in Zimbabwe is that it's a lot like being stranded in Zimbabwe.

It doesn't get much worse than getting lost in a war-torn African country with a flimsy one million Zimbabwean currency (read: 7.81 USD), an angry world explorer on the loose, and the national police hunting for your rebel face.

Of course, I am a Desperate Student. I was undaunted by these apparent challenges. Other, less motivated people might have turned themselves in to the authorities or gone running to Jane Goodall for forgiveness. But not I. I was determined to see this through. Somehow, someway, I would get back to the states, and when I arrived I'd have enough money to treat Suzy the way she deserved to be treated.

Sticking to the shadows, I wended my way downtown in search of the American consulate. If I announced myself as a US citizen, I reasoned, they might have some sort of program to get me back to the states. It was worth a try.

I shouldn't have been surprised to find the consulate surrounded by concrete barriers, barbed wire, and machine guns. The building had a net suspended a yard from the outside wall to catch RPGs and a dozen soldiers with M16A2s were milling around outside. One of them extended his hand palm forward when I got close and I stopped instantly, overwhelmed by authority.

I felt a faint scratchiness in my throat. "I'm an American citizen," I said.

"Let's see a passport."

I stopped cold. I hadn't been issued a passport in years and certainly hadn't packed one when Jeeves had come to pick me up - was it just a few days ago? I thought fast. "Our 17th president was Martin van Buren. Independence Day is ..."

"I can't let you in without ID," The guard said.

"I lost it!"

"Then I'm glad I'm not you."

"Wait. Hang on. I have a driver's license." I reached for my back pocket and found myself looking down the business end of the guard's rifle. "Just getting my wallet," I said.

"You're in no rush."

I slowly retrieved the wallet and opened it. The guard studied for a moment. "Seems valid," He conceded.

"So do I get in?"

"No. A license isn't enough to prove you're a citizen. You might be from California."

I paused for a moment, temporarily stymied. I knew I would get into the consulate. I just didn't know how yet. It was at this moment of consideration that an unwelcome face appeared at the door behind the guards. It was the one person I least wanted to see - the person with the power and the motivation to ruin my life forever - the person who could make a hardened criminal quake in fear. I had seen her throw my co-workers to piranhas and shoot at RFCN contributors without fear or remorse.

"He's one of mine," Said Jane Goodall with a slight smirk on her face. "I've been expecting him."

"You know," I said, "I actually ... you're right. I'm an illegal immigrant. I got this license in California. You're so right. Nice catch. I'll be going ..."

"Not so fast," Said Jane. "This man is a criminal. He made off with my equipment a few hours ago in the jungle with a few of his cronies. Place him under arrest immediately."

"You can't let me into the consulate," I said, digging frantically through my wallet. Then I found what I was looking for. I produced the Mexican citizenship documents I had collected from a blackmailed mayor in a previous episode. "See? I'm not a US citizen."

"We still have authority to take you into custody," Said the soldier, grabbing my arm. I struggled, so a few more men came up and smashed the butts of their rifles into my ribs a few times. That took the fight out of me a for a moment. As I was dragged through the gate into the courtyard beyond, I screamed: "I want my phone call! Call the Mexican government! When they find out I'm here, they'll ... uh ... be ... all ... sad for me!" Then I shut up.

I was taken into the building and over to an elevator. The guard punched B2 and we went down two floors. We opened into a dismal concrete corridor with steel doors marked with ominous titles like I, II, III, and even IV. I was put in IV. The room was small with a low ceiling and a single naked light bulb hanging down at head level. There was a table with two chairs. I took one. Jane took the other. The guard stood behind me, ready to strike.

"Can we talk about this?" I asked, extending my hands in a pleading gesture.

"Let's," Said Jane with her usual impeccable coolness. She slowly raised one eyebrow. "Where do we begin?"

I cleared my throat again. The scratchiness was intensifying. "How about where I beg for forgiveness and ask you to please spare my life."

Jane studied me for a long moment as if she had just noticed something new. "You should know by now that I never forget."

"I ..."

"I'm not finished, do not interrupt me."

"Sorry. I'm really sorry."

Jane waited a moment as if to make sure I was done talking. "You should know by now that I never forget and I never forgive."

"But surely there's something I could do - some way to redeem myself."

"There is not. Someday, I will destroy you. Until then, you may live in fear."

"You mean ... you're not going to throw me in jail right this instant?"

"No. Not if you agree to a little bargain I have in mind."

"I knew it! Thanks, Ms. Goodall ... you won't regret it."

"You have not yet heard my offer."

"But I have accepted it, so tell me what to do."

"If only you were so willing this morning."

"I was shoveling monkey doo this morning!"

"No, you were collecting it, which is hardly the same thing."

"You don't want me to go back, do you?"

"Not at all. I have something much more ... American for you to take care of."

"Name it then."

Jane laced her fingers and rested her chin on them. "On the roof of this building, several local dignitaries are attending a party. Two of them are of special interest to you. The first is named Jared Woone. He's an assistant to the American consul. He's smitten with an attractive young Zimbabwean named Amadika. He has tried to meet her several times but she has rejected him. In fact, she has rejected all other men who have approached her. They are both at the party. You will arrange a meeting between Woone and Amadika."

"... Why?"

"For reasons known only to me. Convince Amadika to have a drink with Woone, and I will refrain from jailing you."

"But you'll still ruin my life."

"Eventually."

"Consider it done. Show me the way."

Jane led me back into the elevator and punched a button marked R. We went up six floors and got out on a roof-top pool party. The population consisted of fat people in suits and party dresses and skinny people swimming. Jane quietly pointed to a white guy in an expensive blue pinstripe suit standing in the corner nursing a whiskey and scowling.

Then she pointed to a gorgeous African girl sitting at the bar looking bored. I mean, we're talking Beyonce meets Ashanti. I was really intimidated. I'm not good with women, in case you hadn't noticed. But they don't call me Desperate Student because I only do what I'm good at!

After a moment of deliberation, I walked confidently up to the bar and plopped myself into the seat to Amadika's left. I cleared my throat once. The scratchiness in my throat hadn't gone away. "Well," I said, "Here comes the next contestant."

Amadika turned slowly to face me with a bored expression. "And what's your story?" She asked with a delightful Zimbabwean accent.

"I was born in a hospital with white sheets. Then some stuff happened. Then I met you."

She waited for a second, then smiled slightly. "That's actually kind of a good one."

"Good enough to let me buy you a drink?"

"All right."

"Well, I'm not going to buy you a drink."

"... Okay?"

"But I know a guy who will."

"What, did someone send you here to talk for him?"

"The man I'm about to mention, I've never even met."

"Then, what is this?"

"I saw him watching you across the room and I saw you sitting here alone."

"Jared Woone?"

"Yes."

"I won't drink with him."

"I think you could have a great conversation! Come on, Amadika. Just one drink."

"How do you know my name?"

I hesitated for a second. Then leaned forward. "Listen, I'm going to tell you something that sounds totally ridiculous, but it's true."

She crossed her arms skeptically. "Try me."

"I'm a Mexican citizen. I was taken into the consulate for committing crimes against Americans and secured a deal for my release. I have to convince you to have a drink with Jared Woone or they'll lock me up and throw away the key."

"You're right, that does sound ridiculous."

"But you believe me, don't you?"

"You seem honest." She studied my face for a moment, tapping her lips with her finger. "You're from Mexico?"

"No, I'm a Mexican citizen."

"And you were arrested for crimes against Americans?"

"Of which I am guilty."

"What crimes?"

"I stole an armed jeep and a bunch of weaponry and assisted in the attempted assassination of the President of Zimbabwe."

"Why?"

I reached into my pocket and produced a handful of loose change. "For this."

"You need money?"

"I need to get back to America."

"You mean Mexico."

"No, America."

She looked very confused. "If you were lying you would have come up with a better story than this. I believe you, Mister ..."

"Just call me Desperate Student."

"I believe you, Mister Student. I will have your drink with Mister Woone."

I clapped my hands in exultation. "Thanks, Amadika. You won't regret it!" And with that, I dashed off in Woone's direction.

"Woone!" I cried, grabbing his arm. This was a bad way to start. The man jumped backward in surprise, spilling whiskey on himself.

"What on earth?" He muttered, brushing at his tie. "Of all the nerve ..."

"Amadika wants to have a drink with you."

"You are sadly mistaken," He scowled.

"No, I'm serious. I just talked her into it."

He studied me more closely. "You? Why?"

"It's really complicated. Don't keep her waiting! Come on!"

"You listen to me," Said Woone, grabbing the front of my shirt. He paused with his finger in my face, then slowly released my shirt and wiped the hand on his pant thigh. "If you're having me on," He growled, "I will personally throw you off the building."

"It's for real. Honest."

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and backed up. "How do I look?"

"Smashing," I lied. "Go to her."

He brushed his hands through his thinning hair nervously. "All right. All right I will." He waddled briskly off toward Amadika, as if to get it over with as quickly as possible. I shook my head sadly. Poor guy. He didn't stand a chance.

I turned and walked back to where Jane and the unnamed guard were watching with raised eyebrows and slight frowns.

"Well done," Jane said, surprised to hear herself say it. "I will drop all charges against you."

"Sweet! So can I go?"

She found what I said amusing. For the first time, I saw Jane flash a genuine smile. White teeth flashed, which she covered with her hand. "Of course. Good bye."

The guard showed me back to the gate of the consulate. I stepped out with a feeling that, though I hadn't escaped the country, I had done a good deed. I had given Jared Woone a chance with the girl of his dreams and I had cleared my criminal past (one portion of it, anyway - I don't suppose we should count my terrorist attack against a gas station in Episode 6).

I stepped back into the road in war-torn Harare and took a deep breath. It tickled something deep in my lungs and I coughed. My throat was very scratchy. Something was wrong. A coughing spell overtook me and I fell to my hands and knees. The force of the coughing built with every moment. I smelled the jungle. I gasped for breath. Then the street faded away.

I woke in a cot with white sheets. A nurse was standing next to my bed with a clipboard. I looked around for a moment and then focused on her. She made a check mark on the page.

"I'm Nancy," She said.

"Where am I? What happened?" Speaking hurt.

"You've contracted a rare, virulent disease. It's officially called VIRUS 200, but around here we call it Orangutan Flu. We're flying you back to the states, where you will be placed under indefinite study as a specimen."

I could almost hear Jane Goodall laughing.

Desperate Student, Episode 13: Dung Collector

This story continues the sad, sad story of the Desperate Student. If you're not up to speed, catch up here.

Warning: This episode contains brutally vivid descriptions of desperate survival in the wilderness. While this tale of human tenacity and hardiness may inspire some, it will probably be unsuitable to our more disturbable readers. So, as if you needed anything more than the title to warn you: proceed with caution.

We pitched camp in a man-made clearing several miles from a war-torn Zimbabwean airport, deep in native-infested jungle. Jane was a beacon of assurance and stability. She stood calmly on the hood of the jeep cradling her sniper rifle, supervising the men and giving orders without raising her voice. I'm sure that without her, we would all have panicked and started killing each other. Our Nikes would have squished with blood.

Anyway, we eventually got the two large tents erected. One was for storing and testing the samples and equipment. The other was for living quarters. The latter tent had a partition running halfway down the middle, delineating men's and women's areas. In retrospect, it seems a bit strange that no one complained about how much space Jane took up.

We slept an uneasy and very sweaty six hours. Uneasy because we were surrounded on all sides by loyalist soldiers, well-armed rebels, and extremely indigenous tribal peoples. Sweaty because Jane's partition didn't give the thirteen of us enough room to spread our sleeping bags so we ended up lying all over each other like someone forgot to put away the lincoln logs. I kept waking up with a start, believing I'd heard a low whistle - which everyone knows is the signal to move in quietly and kill everyone in their sleep - and then Vince, who was mostly on top of me, would shout: "Ginger! Ginger don't leave me!" and everyone else would wake up grumbling.

"Join up, she say," Muttered Xavier, whose head was under Gordon, the burliest man there. "It'll be fun, she say."

We used the crack of dawn as an excuse to crawl out of the tent to catch some hot and muggy morning breeze. Jane was already awake, still cradling the rifle. She had erected a small table in the middle of camp, on which she was lighting a small propane stove. Her makeup was flawless.

"Oatmeal will be served in ten minutes," She said. "Go clean yourselves up."

"How?" Vince asked. I noticed that he was the only male who looked even remotely well-rested. "There's no showers anywhere."

"There's a river half a mile north of here. Just watch for piranha. They're especially voracious in the morning."

We all moved away from the camp into the trees, half expecting to be stabbed by tribesmen before we even reached the river.

"Watch out for piranha, she says." Muttered Xavier. "It'll be fun, she says."

"Well, I don't know about you guys," Said Vince, "But I'm all for telling her we cleaned but actually just hiding in the jungle for ten minutes."

"She'll know," I warned.

"Better than being thrown to the carnivorous fish!"

"That's debatable," Said Ned, a tall fellow with thick glasses.

"He's got a point," Vince conceded. "So maybe we should just splash water on ourselves from the shore."

"And get out hands eaten clean off?" Xavier cried.

"Good point," Vince conceded again. "Maybe we should rub ourselves with large, juicy leaves."

Seven minutes later, we licked ourselves clean.

The moment I looked Jane in the eye, I knew she saw right through our cheap scam. The corners of her mouth turned down slightly but she said nothing. We ate our breakfast in awkward silence from biodegradable bowls. Then we dug a compost pit and put the bowls in, followed by the coffee grounds and Gordon's sleeping bag.

With that, we got down to the business of collecting samples. Jane split us up into groups of 3 and four and had us spread out with 2-way radios in search of Orangutan habitat, the defining characteristic of which would be big orange monkeys lounging in the overhead canopy. I went with Vince, Xavier, and Ned. Ned took the walkie, the rest of us used machetes. We brought meals and water, but everything was gone by noon.

We wandered all day. The going was definitively arduous. The sticky heat melded skin and shirt together. The tough vines yielded only to several harsh blows from our machetes. We left a sweat trail so deep we were afraid the piranhas would use it to catch up to us.

Eventually we reached a place where the overhead canopy was thicker, which meant it was cooler down on the floor and the vegetation was sparser.

"I say we take a break here," Said Vince, collapsing against a tree.

"She'll know," I warned.

"And she'll probably have you thrown to the natives," Ned added.

Vince slid slowly down until he was lying on his back. His eyes rolled back into his head. "There's no way she'll know if I just take a half hour break. And even if she does - I really don't care anymore. You know, this has got to be the worst job ever! I can't believe I agreed to come here for minimum wage!"

"Look at the bright side," I urged. "At least you're not ..."

At that moment, Jane appeared up ahead, with Gordon, Bob, and Harry in tow.

Vince had his eyes closed and didn't notice. "There is no bright side," He said. "We're being paid a pittance to collect mammal mud in blazing heat with all manner of flora and fauna out to kill us! Jane Goodall is a loon."

"Gordon," Jane said calmly, "Throw Vince into the river."

"Oh great," Said Vince, not opening his eyes. Gordon scooped Vince up and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then marched toward the river.

"How goes the search?" Jane asked.

There was an awkward silence. Everyone was watching Gordon and Vince disappear into the trees. Then Ned shook himself as if from a daze. "We have yet to find any habitats, ma'am."

She nodded, unsurprised. "Keep looking." Then, with a motion to Bob and Harry, she pushed on into the jungle.

We searched for the rest of the day, and never encountered anything bigger than a chihuahua. Note that we didn't see a chihuahua, either. We returned to camp suffering from near-total exhaustion and ravenous thirst.

Jane was by the picnic table, staring calmly at the jungle with her ever-present rifle ready. Bob was lying face-down in the mud and Harry was pulling two blue arrows from his back. Three others were leaning against trees looking like they were in a London bombing shelter listening to the Luftwaffe overhead.

"Hey guys," I said. "What's up?"

"Injun attack," Said Ferguson. "They got Ian's squad - him, Jack, and Wes."

"They weren't injuns, you doofus," Cried Bob, lifting his head from the ground enough to speak clearly. "They were natives. Injuns don't run this far south. Where were you in fourth grade?"

"Learning how to save you from injuns," Said Ferguson stubbornly.

"That's a burn," Harry reported, yanking the last arrow out with a satisfied grunt. "Nice one, Ferguson."

Jane stirred from her place at the table. "Three of our men perished in the jungle due to carelessness and poor coordination with the rest of the team. I'm sure the rest of you won't make the same mistake."

"We won't," Said Bob, rising slowly. "Say, where's Gordon and Vince gotten to? Shouldn't they be here by now?"

"It matter little," Jane said. "This team was deliberately overstaffed in anticipation of near-certain casualties. Now, let's focus on the task at hand - collecting samples of Orangutan dung for further study. Ferguson's squad spotted an excellent habitat about three miles north of here. Ferguson, your squad will rise at dawn and go to the position to collect samples. Ned, your squad will relieve him at noon. We will relieve you at four with further orders. Are there any questions?"

There weren't any.

"Then get some sleep. We have a big day tommorow."

We all crawled glumly into our side of the tent. "Get some sleep, she say," Growled Xavier. "It'll be fun, she say."

"I heard that," Jane said calmly from the other side of the partition.

We passed the night in silent discomfort. Of course, with five of the team members missing, we had a lot more room than we'd had the night before.

Ned shook me awake around eleven the next morning. Without getting too disgusting, let me just say that peeling my sleeping bag off preempted breakfast. I joined Ned and Xavier outside and we followed Ferguson's well-macheted trail to the Orangutan breeding grounds. We found our hapless team members engaged in an activity that made even me pause. I can honestly say that in all my history - serving as everything from Santa Clause to an assassinated body double - orangutan dung collection may have been the worst job I have ever held down to date.

Ferguson briefed us on the details, and then he and his boys fled down the trail, screaming.

The job was this. We patrolled an area covering approximately a square quarter mile. It contained perhaps twenty orangutans, which are sloths which orange shaggy fur. When we suspected that one of them was going to do its thing, we would signal to the others, and together, we'd hold a tarp under the creature and collect the specimen. Then we'd wrap it up, label and date it, and put it in a pile near the trail head.

A few things that made the job nasty: First, the obvious downside of collecting monkey doodoo. Second, the heat. Third, the bugs. Fourth, the humidity. Fifth, the swampy river running straight through the patrol zone, which forced us to swing across like Tarzan while crocodiles watched from below with greedy eyes. Sixth, the obvious downside of collecting monkey doodoo.
It was four of the worst hours of my life, perhaps comparable only with the time a bunch of FDA freaks spoon-fed poison into my eyes. Finally, Jane made her much-anticipated appearance, with a haggard Bob and Harry close behind. She took one look at the specimen stack and sniffed disdainfully. "We'll have to step up the collection pace," She said.

"Hey, come on," Xavier whined. "You can't just snap your fingers and make these things ..."

"I am perfectly aware of what you can and cannot do to communicate to Orangutans. May I remind you that I spent six months among them in disguise until they incorporated me into their culture."

"You what!?"

"Come on," I said, tugging him by the arm. "Let's go."

"Yes," Said Jane. "Go back to camp. Ferguson picked up signs of increased hostile native activity. He's fortifying now. Help him dig rifle pits. It'll be fun."

We double-timed it back to camp. My utter misery grew more intense with every step. I wished I'd never taken this job. Unemployment was a better option. Why had I accepted, anyway? It wasn't like I needed to fool Suzy into thinking I was financially solvent. She'd already dumped me.

Camp was deserted. I didn't see any signs of fortification, but most of the supplies were gone and there was a trail of dropped provisions running down the path back to the airport. The stuff that had been left behind - mostly scientific equipment - was covered with tooth marks made by very large jaws.

"Fortify, she say," Xavier moaned. "It'll be fun, she say."

It took us about five minutes to salvage what was left from the camp and load it into the other jeep. Ned got behind the wheel with Xavier riding shotgun. I loaded into the back and readied the machine gun.

We were about to punch it when Vince came back into camp from the direction Ferguson had left. He was covered with chew marks and pieces of him were missing all over, but he was still going strong. "Dinosaurs," He rasped, pointing ominously down the trail. "We ... we'll all die!"

"Not if I can help it," I said, grimly patting the top of the gun. "Load up, Vince. Let's get you out of here."

Vince loaded up, looking totally defeated, and pulled a few grenades out of his pockets. "Just in case," He explained, putting them on the floor between the extra gasoline tank and the dynamite.

"Hit the road, Ned!" I cried. Ned floored the gas. Moments later, we were whizzing through the dense jungle as fast as the four wheeler could take us. I watched the path ahead with total concentration, ready to shred anything that moved. Eventually we lost the trail. I don't pretend to know how it happened. The path ahead was simply not penetrable. It took me just seconds to find a solution. I squeezed the triggers and poured a whithering hail of lead into the foliage. The leaves and branches stripped and tore, then collapsed on themselves. Within seconds, the line of fire had opened a new path through the jungle.

"Go!" I shouted without releasing the triggers. We pushed onward, with me clearing the way. We went about twenty miles, during which time more damage was done to the rain forest than had been in done in the past decade by global warming, acid rain, urbanization, American Imperialism, and the Ford Motor Company combined. Finally the jungle began to thin out, and moments later, our jeep leapt from the cover of the trees and out onto the airport tarmac.

The terminal was in flames, and dozens of rebels were dancing around Jane Goodall's plane squeezing shots off into the air. I stopped firing and Ned slammed the brakes. We stared at each other for a full ten seconds of very awkward silence, punctuated by the hiss of the barrel as it cooled.

"Hit the road, he say," Xavier whispered. "It'll be fun, he say."

One of the rebels who appeared to hold a position of authority signaled to the others. A dozen rebels pointed the AK-47s in our direction with menacing grins.

"Gentlemen," I said quietly, "No matter what happens, I want to make sure you know that I regret coming to Africa. This was a waste of time and an unworthy cause to die for. I should have stayed home eating Milky Way bars and collecting unemployment benefits."

"Amen," Said Vince solemnly. We shook hands all around and prepared to meet our fates.

Desperate Student, Episode 12: Mercenary

This post picks up where previous episodes left off. Make sure you're caught up before proceeding.

Well, I'm back from Africa. But this story will take at least two episodes to tell.

I awoke bright and early, ready to face the day. Then I got a wiff of room 7 in the It'll Have to Do Hotel, and life got dull and dreary right quick.

I heard a knocking outside my window and stumbled over. A black limousine was parked outside. A uniformed chauffeur with a massive forehead stood by the open door, staring at his watch with impatience. I pulled on my clothes, which were starting to smell pretty bad, and stumbled out into the parking lot. The chauffeur straightened and sniffed the air.

"Do you have any baggage, sir?"

"Only the emotional kind," I said, brushing past him into the car. "You're with Jane Goodall, right?"

"Yes, sir." The man dutifully closed the door and went around to the driver's side. I stretched myself out on the luxurious leather upholstery as the car pulled out of the lot and toward the highway. The ride was surprisingly bumpy. I had expected limos to be more comfy.

The ride to the airport was reasonably uneventful and mindlessly boring. We parked near the entrance in a reserved parking spot, and the chauffeur opened the door.

"I am to escort you to the plane," He said stiffly. I nodded and followed him into the main building. The chauffeur, whose name I later learned to be Jeeves, produced two boarding passes at the security checkpoint.

The TSA agents made me strip down to my underwear and put everything in ziploc bags, which were put into rather less-than-sanitary gray bins. The gray bins were put onto a conveyor belt and went under some hanging rubber flaps into a machine. Then came a beep, a flash, and a puff of smoke. I never saw them again.

"Step forward, please," Said an agent, motioning to have me go through a metal detector.

"Will that do the same thing to me that you did to my clothes?"

The agent frowned. His left hand slowly moved across his belt toward his baton. "Step forward, sir."

I stepped forward. Nothing happened. The agent winced and had me step through again. This time, there was a beep. I threw my hands up to my face reflexively and felt hot air rush over my near-naked body. I pulled my hands slowly away. They were covered with hair.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Sterilized you," The agent said casually. Then he frisked me.

Forty minutes later, we ran across the tarmac to a private jet painted with two apes grooming each other. I was wearing a plain blue jumpsuit that Jeeves had ingeniously produced the moment we got through security. Jane Goodall stood at the door of the plane in regal splendor, arms folded. She looked like Hera surveying her domain.

I ran up the steps quickly with Jeeves in tow. "Hey, I'm the Desperate Student."

"And I am Miss Goodall. I look forward to working with you."

I felt like I was in the presence of one of the greatest scientific minds of our age. "Uh ... likewise. Shall we go?"

"Not just yet. We're waiting for the other team members."

I went into the plane, which was luxuriously furnished, and took a seat on one of the couches. Two hours went by. Then tires squeeled outside, doors slammed, and a flurry of shouts and pounding boots sounded up the steps.

"Come on, come on! We're gonna be late!"

"You already are," Said Jane quietly as a dozen men in blue jumpsuits bustled past her into the plane. "You will never be tardy again." Her voice was packed with authority. The men skulked toward their seats with guilty expressions.

Jane took the front. "My friends," She said, "Thank you for your interest in this expedition. The information we are about to collect on orangutans will do wonders toward filling in the gaps in our understanding of these enigmatic and rare animals, and help us build a picture of what steps need to be taken to ensure their continued survival into the next millennium. The work will be difficult, dangerous, and dirty. Your total enthusiasm in this operation is its only hope for success. I'm sure I can count on your one hundred and ten percent effort." Everyone looked around. I got the sense that my fellow team mates were as stupid and lazy as I was. Jane nodded with a slight frown. "Very well. Off we go!"

I fell asleep during the very long ride. No one talked. Nobody really moved. One of the blue jump suit boys shook me awake as we landed.

"Hey, I'm Vince."

"Nice to meet you, Vince. Where are you ..." The wheels slammed into the tarmac, and the whole plane shook and rattled violently. Vince and I were thrown up into the ceiling. Then the couch slid out from under us and down the hall, and we landed face-first on the thick carpet. Vince got up slowly, nose bleeding. The plane had stopped.

"Crash landing?" He asked.

Jane materialized in the doorway, the picture of calm. "There's been a coup," She said. "The airport is in turmoil. Collect the gear and meet me at the cargo bay door in three minutes. We'll have to disembark under fire."

That didn't sound good. I followed Jane to the hold and helped her pack supplies into two rugged jeeps. The other crewmen, led by Vince, and the two pilots appeared soon after. I heard automatic gunfire outside. It didn't sound far off.

Jane took a position in the front passenger seat and pulled a briefcase from the glove compartment, from which she produced an easy-to-assemble sniper rifle. "Who knows how to use a machine gun?" She asked. No one raised their hand. She pointed at me. "Get in the back and ready the .50 caliber." I dutifully loaded up and pulled a massive gun and tripod out of the trunk. The tripod bolted to the floor and gave me an excellent position for laying down fire anywhere the jeep was pointing. Vince hopped up next to me and loaded a belt into the side. Someone else got into the passenger seat. Two more people hopped onto the back bumper armed with sub-machine guns.

"Did you know we'd need all this weaponry?" I asked nervously as our comrades piled into the other jeep and got the rocket launcher ready.

"This is Africa," Said Jane. She reached out with the butt of her rifle and threw a lever on the wall. The back of the plane lowered; the driver tromped on the gas.

We drove out into an open tarmac. We had the only plane on the ground. A dozen vans with red flags were parked alongside the chain-link fence that surrounded the airport, and men with red and white bandannas were shooting in toward the terminal, taking cover from behind their vehicles and the occasional rock or bush. I looked back over my shoulder and saw a desperate handful of Zimbabwean soldiers, most of them armed with pistols, making a stand on the roof. They were being massacred.

I heard a terrific cracking noise and looked down to see Jane calmly chambering the next round into her rifle. "You may fire as soon as you find a target," She said quietly. I squeezed the triggers to the machine gun. Long yellow streamers leapt from the barrel, shredding everything they came in contact with. The whole gun shook violently and my teeth chattered against my tongue. I had a hard time focusing as the jeep careened toward the fence, gaining speed by the second. A rocket whizzed by overhead, leaving a scorching hot exhaust trail, and pounded into the nearest van, sending shrapnel in all directions. I saw white and my ears started to ring. The jeeps raced through the new hole in the fence and off into the foliage beyond. I heard the people in jeep two hosing down the rebels from behind with their SMGs. I became dimly aware that my fingers were still on the triggers. I released them sheepishly and looked over my shoulder. The hail of bullets had decimated a hundred square feet of rain forest. Jane sniffed but said nothing.

Vince slammed the next bullet belt into position and cranked the gun. "This thing is hot," He said.

I nodded. "Well, I think we're done firing it for awhile."

I saw a flash of blue to my right and pivoted the smoking barrel, ready to unleash heck at the slightest provocation. Jane raised her hand and the driver stopped.

"We're being followed," She said. We all stopped and listened to the very loud and chaotic rainforest for several seconds. I wanted to fire in all directions at once, so I didn't fire at all. Finally, Jane nodded. "Continue."

Alas, we only made it a hundred more feet before the bumper riders were forced to walk ahead, slashing the trail with machetes. The going was unspeakably slow. The day was hot and sticky. The men (including myself) removed as much as we thought Jane would allow and guzzled water from the canteens. Jane sat calmly in the passenger seat nursing her rifle. She didn't even break a sweat.

Nightfall brought little relief from the heat. We turned on the jeep headlights and kept pushing, taking thirty minute shifts with the machetes. I don't think we went more than two miles per hour.

They attacked at sunrise.

The foliage was just starting to lighten when I heard a twang behind me. A bright blue arrow thudded into Vince, who fell to the ground, frothing at the mouth. It took me just four seconds to get the machine gun turned around and working. Hundreds of bullets tore the foliage, ripping the jungle to shreds. The air heated around me. I saw distortion above the gun.

Someone fired a rocket. It detonated against the wall of trees, and the blast lifted two unlucky crewmen into the air. Their flailing arms tangled in the vines overhead and stayed there. I saw a tall, half-naked savage jump into the path we had cut into the jungle. His aspect was hideous - his body smeared with blue paint; tooth necklaces dangling from his neck; a curious horn design tattooed onto his face. He raised his bow to the canopy above and released a savage yell. I swiveled and blasted away.

For about ten seconds, no one moved. The bullets seemed to hit anything and everything but the savage. Then Jane leveled the rifle and fired. The native yelped and ducked into the trees. A few moments later, he was gone. A few moments after that, the gun jammed.

"Report!" Jane ordered. No one moved for a moment. I noticed she was looking at me.

"Uh ... we were attacked. By savages. Can't have been less than a dozen. They killed three of our men. I think we nicked one. We should probably keep moving before they tell the others."

"You are an imbecile," Jane reported. She didn't say it maliciously. She just wanted to let me know. "There were two of them. They fired a single arrow, probably as a warning. No one was seriously hurt."

"... oh."

"In the future, you will emulate my accuracy in all your reports."

"Okay."

"You didn't recognize the markings?"

"Uh ... no."

"Those were contributors to the humor blog Really Funny Class Notes. I doubt they'll be back."

Vince got up, wiping his mouth, and pulled the shaft from his back. "Itches," He reported.

"Let us proceed to the campsite," Jane ordered.

We kept going until around noon. Finally, we reached a modest sort of clearing, which appeared to have been carefully situated in the exact middle of nowhere. Jane nodded approvingly and dismounted.

"Pitch camp," She ordered. "Tomorrow, the hard work begins."

Desperate Student, Episode 11: Agricultural Laborer

This continues the epic saga of the Desperate Student. If you aren't up to speed, read up.

Life comes at you fast. One moment, you're the darling of the city, so popular that the mayor is almost forced to hire you. The next, you're running for your life. Okay, maybe you isn't the right word in that context. A better word would probably be: me. Yes, me. Me used to be popular, but now me's running for me life.

Actually, me might not be the right word, either.

I woke up groggy and itchy in the It'll Have To Do Hotel and wandered down for the two star continental breakfast, which consisted of orange juice and coffee. Then I dutifully checked FCN. Gummi had a helpful comment on my last episode. He/she observed that I should try a career as an illegal alien, and get a job in a vineyard or something. I had heard Michael Savage tell me that the illegals were stealing American jobs. That sounded great. I wanted in on the action. A little snipping, a few burritos ... what was the danger in that?

So I waltzed on down to a phone booth, reached into my pocket, and came up short. It took fifty cents to place a call, and I only had a quarter. The universe was out to get me. What the universe had neglected to remember was that I was desperate, and desperate people multiply their resources. I plugged the quarter into a newspaper stand, popped it open, and lifted the whole stack. Then I went to the nearest stoplight and knocked on the door of a hummer. The driver rolled the window down. It was a middle-aged blonde woman with bags under her eyes.

"Can I help you?"

"Uh, yes, hi. I was wondering if you'd like to buy a newspaper."

She obviously didn't know how to handle that information. I decided to give her more. "It's for the Salvation Army. The proceeds go to Africa to help feed starving African babies from Africa."

She wrinkled her nose, hesitating. I moved in for the kill. "Please," I said. "I'm desperate. My dad's in jail, my mother's sick, and my little sister isn't eating so we can have enough money to buy grandma's medicine. I really, really need this. Please."

"I thought you said the proceeds were going to Africa."

"Right, right. I guess I did say that. Well, it's complicated. Charity type stuff."

After some more hesitation, she nodded. "How much?"

"Just a dollar, but you can buy the whole stack of a dozen for just fifteen bucks." More hesitation. "You can send a little African boy to college with that money." She nodded and started counting me the bills. The light turned green, cars started honking. She handed me a twenty.

"Keep the change." Then she drove away. I didn't even get to give her a newspaper. So I cracked the twenty into loose change off a helpful motorcyclist in a parking lot, then went back to the machine and put the papers back. Then I hit the phone booth and called a local ag labor foreman.

"Hello, this is Jose."

"Hey, uh - yeah, hi Jose. I'm looking for work."

"You do cherry harvesting?"

"I'm a regular pro at it."

"Where are you from?"

"Central California, why?"

"Sorry, I don't hire workers from those parts."

"But you work here! You don't hire workers from around here?"

"Buh-bye now."

I slammed the phone into the cradle, aggravated. Then gummi's advice flitted through my fertile brain. I dialed the number again.

"Hello, this is Jose."

"Hola. Yo esta una worker dudo. Yo esta searcho for worko."

"Who is this?"

"Una worker dudo! Mucho dudo!"

"Can you harvest cherries?"

"Si!"

"Where are you from?"

"Deepesto, darkesto Mexico."

"You were born there?"

"Si. Born and raisedo."

"So you speak spanish pretty well then?"

"Si! Esta mi native linguo. Comprende?"

"Something's not right here. You're an illegal immigrant, right?"

"Ja, ja!"

"Mexican?"

"Oui!"

I could hear him hesitating over the phone. Finally, he spoke. "Then show up for work tomorrow at six. The orchard is on the north corner of Redman and Beetle. Don't be late."

"Gracias, senorita! You'll no regreto esta!"

"One other thing. When you show up, bring proof of your current Mexican citizenship. If you can't produce, you're off the crew. Got it?"

I was in a pickle and we both knew it, but I had faith in my desperation. "Uh, mucho bueno. Yo see usted tomorowo, okay?"

"Yeah. See ya."

I hung up and pondered the situation for several minutes. Then I picked up the phone and called one of my many former employers, Mayor Sanchez. The good mayor was almost as desperate as I was. On his agenda: making sure that I stayed as far away from him as possible so he wouldn't be implicated in a dog-related incident the week before.

A snotty female voice picked up. "Sanchez' office, who's calling please?"

"This is former dog catcher ..."

"Please hold."

"Sanchez here. What is it? What do you need? Passport to another country?"

"Close," I said. "I need Mexican citizenship papers."

"I'll file it myself and overnight them over."

"No, I need them by six tommorow morning."

Sanchez sputtered for several seconds. Then he sighed. "All right. All right, all right. I'll drive it over tonight. Where do I meet you?"

"I'm in the It'll Have to Do Hotel, room 7."

"I am so there." He hung up.

I went back to my room and watched Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen (starring Lindsay Lohan), during which I used up an entire roll of tissue wiping away my tears. Soon after the movie ended, I heard an urgent knock on the door. I opened to find the good mayor with a manila envelope.

"I think you'll find everything is in order," He said. "And if there's anything else, please don't hesitate to call. Do you have my cell?"

"No."

Sanchez looked both ways nervously and started edging away. "Fornixeleveree. Call any time."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch the area code." He was already gone, pelting down the hall with his arm in front of his face.

I showed up for work the next morning with a decidedly sunny disposition. The orchard was about sixty acres, or slightly bigger than the state of Rhode Island. Several very tired cars were parked on the edge of the orchard, and various workers were standing around with hand crates. I pulled up and got out. A man with a huge white cowboy hat (No, not a sombrero. I can tell the difference. Thank you very much.) approached me, hand extended.

"You still saying you're an illegal?"

I shoved the papers in his face with a satisfied smile, grabbed a crate, and got to work, leaving him blathering meaninglessly by the side of the road.

We worked for four hours. The work was pretty simple. We just pulled cherries off the trees, popped them in the crates, then stacked the crates at the edge of the orchard and went in to do it again. It was boring, but not fatiguing or challenging. I was starting to think I might make an excellent agricultural laborer. Life got even better when the taco truck showed up. It played a delightful little ditty, and everyone dropped what they were doing (which probably bruised the fruit) and made a mad dash for the truck. I was slow to react and ended up being last in line. I had to wait for a whole forty seconds for the entire crew to be served. Then it came to me.

"What'll it be?" Asked the man in the truck.

"Uh ... what do you suggest?"

The man studied me for a moment, then cracked a wide smile. The ends of his moustache pointed straight up. "You're new?"

"Just this moment arrived."

He laughed. Not a friendly, how-do-you-do laugh. Not an amused, that-was-pretty-funny laugh. It was more like a devious, I-just-found-the-secret-ingredient-to-make-the-undead-
birthday-cake-that-will-blow-up-the-world sort of laugh. I didn't like it.

"I have just the thing for you," He said. Then he turned back into the kitchen. I heard him rattling around in the back of his cabinets. There was a chopping sound, then an oink, then a squirt. A hot, steamy pile of something was handed to me, wrapped in oily paper. It smelled awesome. The food was pretty powerful, but I honestly can't remember what it tasted like now.

I gobbled it down, shrugged, and got back to work. An hour later, I noticed that I still had some of the lunch on my fingers. It had turned from brown to a sort of glow-in-the-dark green. It itched. I rubbed it off on the side of the crate. We continued another hour, during which the heat became so strong it made Arizona look bad. The sweat ran down my face and drizzled into the cherries.

Finally, we stopped. I was paid just under minimum wage and scooted on back to the It'll Have To Do Hotel. Then I clicked on the news. There was a breaking story about some contaminated cherries in the area. People were getting sick and dying. Whole blocks were being quarantined, but the toxic nastiness was spreading all over the city. I realized that I might easily have harvested those very cherries. I was pretty darn fortunate not to have been exposed.

The phone rang. I picked it up. "Hello?"

I heard the friendly voice of a mature woman. "Are you the one that worked for the FDA on eyeballs?"

"Probably."

"Do you still do that kind of work?"

"No. Ha! Just kidding. Yes, I do. Are you hiring?"

"My name is Jane Goodall. Let's talk."

We chatted for another fifteen minutes. Jane was a delightful woman. She painted beautiful word pictures about a world where all creatures great and small were equal and where the little guy in the world had a fighting chance against the best of them. I got all excited. When she asked me to travel to Zimbabwe with her team to collect samples of Orangutan dung for study, I immediately agreed.

So that's where I'm headed. I fly out early tomorrow, just as soon as I'm done checking FCN and downing another coffee-orange-juice suicide. I'll be gone for several weeks, during which I leave this blog in the hands of my capable co-writers, who are both slobbering morons. I'll join Jane and her team in the Zimbabwean rainforest to do some of the most grueling, disgusting work known to homo sapiens.

Goodbye, America. Maybe I'll send a postcard.