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credit system suicide [Apr. 20th, 2010|10:48 pm]
     I keep the map in good shape, but it’s growing, as though it’s alive. Which makes sense considering how it started. I use to just keep a picture of my street with a star over my apartment, the caption above the star read "bad place to think about anything."
     In my better days I decided I was going to need a more thorough display of where one could go, when presented with certain lines of thinking. So I started with the basics. Everything split off from Interstate 35 like dominoes. West of the highway is the only place to go when presented with work problems. The east I sectioned off for family bullshit. The north would be for women and the south for death.
     I kept a small compass in my pocket. I had taped on the various labels to the directions, just in case I had to know rather quickly. The major problems arose when I would run into people on a daily basis. I run into Baskins everywhere I go. The problem there is that he is part of both work and death. So I have to be in a really rigid area of the land, somewhere perfectly south west. You would be surprised how far a person will trail behind you, walking incredible distances, talking the entire time. When someone has a point to make, it wouldn’t faze me if they jumped out a plane with you. Talking the whole way down, never using a period or a parachute.
     That’s what Baskins did when he run up on me at William Cannon Drive.
     "Hey Will, hey Will, hey Will", you would have to be blind not to see him coming.          Dressed in all white, he tends to shine like an annoying prism. Just look for the contrast in his teeth. It’s like being smiled at by a hole in a rainbow. You'd think I’d anticipate him coming, I don’t know how he snuck up on me.
     "Hey will, will, will!"
     “Baskins, you only need to say it once, I understand that you are talking to me."
     "Well excuse me, I figured the light of me coming might have startled you. With as many lives as I save, some people react strangely when they see Jesus coming."
     "I don’t think Jesus had tooth decay."
     "No matter there, with the new revisions at work, we’re all going to get kick ass dental plans."
     "Baskins, don’t talk to me about work here, you bring a lot to the plate and I don’t have a place for both work and the deceased...”
     But that didn’t stop him, he rattled on how the company is losing money and that our living customer quota was slipping, they were going to have to implement new ways to save money.
     I tracked across the train yard with Baskins trailing a white Sudafed color behind me talking and talking. I kept a good check on the compass, and made sure my direction was continually southwest. You can’t travel in a straight line through an entire city though. I occasionally had to veer south or west. When I would go south, I would feel the pressure of work wearing me like a strait jacket. To the west, the death dial tone.
      Baskins kept rattling on. I started laying things in his path to thwart him. I would turn over abandoned shopping carts, break discarded beer bottles, I even tried to scale a barb wire fence but he was already on the other side by the time I got stabbed by barbs. Nothing is worse than fake work friendships. You associate with those people the way cashiers associate with condoms. They really have nothing to do with each other but under formally uncomfortable circumstances, they interact.
     He kept incredible proximity to me, talking over the sound of planes, traffic, sirens, radios, and my own migraines. Nothing could stop him, a person touched by hand of persistence is worse than a staph infection. Some people are just continually grazed by screeching ideas and high pitched nasal voices.
     The amount of time it took to get southwest was unbearable; I made it just in time for my head to start pounding, and Baskins the talking staph abscess was still with me.
     He went on, "Because we have a pretty bad selection of employees, the county is pulling some funding on account of us having a bad staff."
     "Baskins, you don’t even know what bad staph is."

     I used to dream that the district manager at the call center was a robot. A robot with a really well defined mustache, like tick tock from Return to OZ. He talks like a textbook. Always in soccer coach quotes, full of effervescent maxims and happy time citations. He could make a terminal illness sound like a luxury cruise with a brochure.
     "Alright gather it around here people, lets bring this meeting in.
We have some wonderful news to cover and few changes, nothing too upsetting, it's all for the better good."
     Baskins sits next to me, shining white like a decolorized diamond.
     "We are no longer on a hiring freeze. With that in mind, we are going to stab some new life into this project!"
     People don’t usually associate stabbing with life. But then again, antithetical statements usually escape joyful people.
     Baskins whispered into my ear, "Jesus gets some disciples; spread the good word, the king of rings is open for business"
The joyful boss hears our one way whisper and addresses me,
     “Will pay attention, we are going to come up with some ways to end the freeze and stab this office with some new blood and as such, we are going to be open to a few suggestions. Since you’re so lively Will, got any?"
     "You could freeze your blood and then stab it into me", sometimes I forget if I really said it, but I keep in mind, that disgruntled over worked employees sometimes phase things out of their minds. No one must have heard it because others started making suggestions on ways to save the company money.
     From what I could gather, it seemed that the general population was calling in more and more. People were getting worse other there, repeat callers, killing themselves in increasing installments. Made sense to me, unhappiness can be airborne, travel by boat, spread out across all demographics. If people were continually calling in, the same people, it could mean a few things. Either we were really good at convincing themselves not to kill themselves, or we were a terribly inefficient operation. I think it‘s possible to proficient and pathetic simultaneously.
     The boss was still prattling on,” The majority of the turnarounds…” that’s what he called them, "…are centered in this part of Austin. The general south west."
     He was pointing at a map, I thought back to mine. The south west is where I would go to think about work and death. It's likely that the two are related. I raised my hand.
     “Is it feasible, that the reason people are calling in more, is because we are pretty horrible at this job, and that the callers are generally in worse shape after they call in?"
     The robotic mustache panned the room and said, “Anyone care to comment on this?"
     Baskins stood up, its amazing, how bright he was, in the fluorescents. I think his clothing could outshine through a black hole, almost every part of him would survive, except the teeth; those are definitely fodder for the singularity.
     "I think I can identify the threat here. It's not that we are bad employees, maybe some of us more than others at least. We can’t all be all smiles across the bulletin board. If the main problem is a lack of funds, it’s pretty simple. We need to diversify the operation. It can be profitable for people to call in. We should set up a payment option, for a reasonable fee, chargeable across all the credit mediums; we could turn this drop in funding around pretty quickly",
     Baskins makes an interesting point. Even though, it would be cheaper if we all did a better job, than there would less suicidal people in the city. Despite the obvious ethical implications of charging for an anti suicide service, you had to respect his ingenuity.
      He was still rattling on, "... reasonable payment options, some options for yearly subscriptions, layaway…"
      Another employee jumped in,” What if they can’t pay?”
     "Well we can ascertain a certain sense of collateral, cars, houses, boats, etc."
     "And what, repossess them if payment isn't received?"
     "We have no other option."
     "Wont that make people more depressed?"
     "Maybe, but hey at least they would still be alive."
      A third employee started talking, "This is wrong. This entire idea is the opposite of what we're trying to do here. What we need, is side sales; a department for suicide prevention that could transfer a turnaround to a different department. That department would sell them satellite television packages. Once they were identified as a non threat, we could credit qualify them for all sorts of sales."
     "I’m hearing some good things here people.", the mustache boss interjected, “You’ve got some class ‘A’ ideas, lets pick it up again tomorrow."
     The prospect of sales was gnawing at me; I don’t have a section of city for thinking about ways to rip people off. When I lived in Florida, the entire state was ok for that sort of thinking. Thinking about sales is almost worse than a credit system suicide. I would rather deal with potentially dead people than try to sell anyone anything. Most people would rather be handed a free razor blade on fire to kill themselves with than to be sold something.
     Man, ascertaining collateral, this was all getting too heavy. I’m going to need a new map. Collateral... How much is life worth? In economic terms, the company would profit more from the death of a turnaround than from an actual prevention. Is being alive worth two car payments? A townhouse on Town Lake? A one man sailboat? All the employees could drive to the funerals of the failed turnarounds in repossessed company cars.
     Baskins was parading down the hall like a returning war hero, I think heard I heard pats on the back being delivered. He was absolutely glowing, more than he normally does. I think that perhaps the final stage of being a salesman is having a savior complex.
     Being involved in saving money is still an involvement in saving on some level. I caught a glimpse of him standing in a sunbeam from a nearby office window, taking in the high cost of lethal living.


click on will

saving lives across phone lines [Apr. 18th, 2010|06:56 pm]
O4/17/2010 (its a work in progress, but its something)

     "Because I save lives Will, that’s why I love lifesavers candy.”
     There is essentially only one thing you will be trained on to work at the
Suicide prevention call center. “Identify the person as a threat to themselves or others.”
     Beyond identification, there is no other training.
     I get curious, because I view this job as like a low level doctor, saving lives across phone lines. I asked, once we verify that a person is a threat to themselves, what do we do?
     "You transfer them to a trained self harm counselor".
     You have to ask questions; have to get them to talk about themselves.
     Identify the threat is our motto. Baskins always wears all white. White car, white pants, white everything, except for his teeth.
     "I guess you didn’t hear", enthusiasm in his voice makes me feel sick; "I pulled three people this morning from the grips of death. I am Jesus.” He laughs and points at the bulletin board. Next to his name were three happy face stickers. Far beneath his name was mine, with empty space and a few sad face stickers, because I’m not very good at this job.
     "Will, you got to step it up out there, you’re on the line, a few more bad calls and it’s to the teen runaway hot line with you. The junior leagues mang.”
     I can’t think about teen runaways in this part of town. South 5th street is the only place you can even kick that thought around.      The lights in here just aren’t right for that line of thinking.
     The boss man with the beard stops me on my way out.
     "Where are you going will?"
     Mustaches are the most invasive body feature around.
    "Its only 11, I hope its somewhere close by.”
     "South 5th street."
     "Why the hell are you going there?”
     "To think."
     Driving down Oltorf Drive, I see the same homeless couple at the same corner every day. People in their cars pretend to be reaching for something at the foot of their car as they pass.
     A different sign this time.
     "Need money to buy fuel for leer jet”, written in permanent marker. The sign of vagrancy is always permanent.
     Not bad. The car in front is pretending to be looking at a map instead of making eye contact with them. It’s in the face of tragedy that everyone is the busiest. This part of town is always a tumble of fragments. A lawn worker is on a phone near a gas station and as I pass I hear him say, "…and I respect that. I respect that.”
     The radio is blaring about the music festival going on right now.You can’t really think about transferring to the teen runaway department unless you’re on Fifth Street. There is an angle of the hilly streets that really lets you ponder downward mobility. The timing of the lights really clears your mind of the fact that you will be counseling angry rich spoiled brats who are thinking of hijacking their parents SUVS to go sleep in the woods until they allow them to have a cell phone.
    There’s a part of this town for every line of thinking. Don’t end up in the wrong part of town with the wrong dilemma on your mind. A few weeks ago I was at Zilker Park when the office forwarded a voice mail to my phone. It was the call who offed herself on my message machine, slicing an artery in her leg.
    I listened to her go, she spoke about a garden she had when she was a kid and the color of the flowers. You can’t run death through your head at a park. I started to get the most painful headache imaginable. I felt as though I was the one bleeding to death. The only place to really get that through is Lamar and Manchaca. I park at the CVS and just start walking toward Congress Blvd. A girl passes, then another one. They remind me of Mary.
     One has the same face, the faded lines of years running in stream with eroded grey eyes. A dame across the street through the glass of a clothing store has her stance. It’s a hybrid stance, half person, half cheetah. The posture says "I am interested in fabrics and fashion," but the tensing in leg muscles says "I am interested in speed and slaughter".
     Some things are harder to notice than others. Other things are just ruinous by nature.
     I notice things. The more people I see, I see a fragment of every girl I’ve ever known, in the face of every girl I see. A reflection of sunlight on a dress here, a tone of voice there, it’s always something. But this is the wrong part of town, to remember old girlfriends. You need lush quiet, opulent green and capacious meadows. It will take me at least forty minutes to get to a park from here, but then, I run the risk of getting another forwarded death mail on my phone from there. My brain is just going to hurt no matter where I go. In the face of dilemma, sometimes you just have to stand still. The chances of your geography matching with your gambit are pretty slim.
    Before I can even begin to mobilize, my phone rings. I stare at the screen. It’s the office, the ringtone sounds like prerecorded death.
    "Will," mustached words, still as annoying, "there’s a verifiable shit storm down here. Get back, the lines are flooded.”
     Impossible, I haven’t any time to think about anything except for where to go to think.

     "Ok people lets group it up, remember, its life and death out there let’s take those calls in a timely fashion. Let’s stick to the script, because after all, it is a proven way to prevent suicide."
     My phone lights up orange on the line display, I transfer the call in and go into the script.
    It’s a girl, and she’s rather upset. She tells me that she loves alcohol so much that she is actually pouring it into her vagina right now. A habit of liters a day and no job, her life is in several pieces of disarray. She says she is not choosing death, but that her lifestyle will become death. A person in turmoil will usually have the best way of stating their predicament
     "So if you will forgive me for a second, I want to know, how are you pouring liquid up? I mean do you have a pump or some kind of MC Escher painting going on there. How are you defying gravity; what are you working with?
     A clank of bottles comes through the receiver, she takes a breath and says, "I’m standing on my head and catching an arc of vodka spraying up from a super soaker". I can hear Lou Reeds "Perfect Day" playing in the background.
     "It's a rainbow of alcohol flowing into me. It’s like a fountain at a fancy hotel" she adds.
     I look at the mission statement poster on my cubicle wall.
     "Identify the threat" it says in bold blue letters. Well, I can't really decide if this contortionist display of water works is a threat or not. It is certainly a feat of physics, more impressive really than threatening. When you decide a person is not a threat, you have to move on, in the nicest way possible.
     Another call is waiting; I can see the orange light blinking on the base of the phone, another suicide waiting to talk. But this girl won’t let me leave. For obvious reasons, you can’t hang up on them, which would look very confusing on a coroners report.
     Still, when you see a blinking light on your phone, you start to wonder how the hold music is affecting the potential suicide. Sometimes, they hang up; the light blinks off, the line disconnected. Then you really start to examine your life.
     I need something to keep; Angela was her name, Arc Angela busy.
     "See if you can get it sideways. Then you can call back and we can talk some more." She hung up and I switched over to the fresh save.
     The line was dead, just a dial tone, and my own fatigue from so much death in the wrong part of town. I don’t even know what I would do if someone called in who was serious about going through with it; I might even get a little job satisfaction. I wonder if waiters feel this way when people come in to eat. At least they actually eat the food that they arrived for. Here, they just want someone to talk to. They are mostly interested in explaining the holes in their lives. There is more to say when someone is talking about a lack of something, there’s more in a void than in a beautiful life. A hole is fuller than a landfill.
     You have to fill out an affidavit to work here; you have to promise never to call in yourself. There are just not enough workers to respond to their own employees. I called in myself once, but I just got routed to my own empty desk.
     I left a message.

     June thinks she is a heroine out of a Dostoevsky novel. She speaks as though a soap opera soundtrack is playing in her mind. She told me last night when I took her to dinner that she dreams she is dressed in Victorian gowns, standing in a room of diplomats, and that she is setting fire to bags of money.
     I never tell her where I am working, I worry too much that she would call me there and my streak of sad face stickers would be interrupted. So I just tell her I work in customer relations, which is true in some sense.
     June has short yellow hair, sticking to the sides of her face in flapper folds. Grey heavily washed jeans and a blue non-descript shirt wears her like a skin. I think her eyes are blue, but I’m colorblind, they could be anything. I think I prefer to know less.
     All my dates with her feel sterile, as though we're courting in a morgue. But you have to talk to women sometimes, even if at it all tastes like porcelain and stainless steel. Kissing June is like kissing the door of a refrigerator, but a kiss still.
It’s ok to go over this in my head here, because I am in north Austin.
     You need to be far north to think about women. If you get wrapped in the recourses of estrogen anywhere south of 51st street, you might as well just give up. You'll be so engrossed in highway and sirens that you’ll end up thinking killing yourself is a better alternative to thinking about June. But don’t call me at work, you'll just get voicemail.
     All the while I am pondering this June is still talking about her dream. I tune in at the anti climax of her story, "... and they can tell I mean business, I mean... just look at this dress, and the fire, THE MONEY ON FIRE! They’ve never seen such presence in their 18th century lives.”

hello [Apr. 12th, 2010|10:56 am]
I am almost done scanning the typewriter pages of my story that Im going to post soon.
In the mean time, you can look at this merchandise from the book Im published in. It has things like mugs, shirts, even buttons with the art from my story and my name on it. Its a little weird to look at a shirt with my name on it. Especially considering the fact that I want to wear it. Is that egotistical? Anyways, look at it.


alright [Apr. 9th, 2010|08:15 am]
so i havent posted a new story in quite some time because all of my time has been going into school and my band. However, I did write a really interesting long story when I still lived in florida that I plan on uploading soon. Sorry for the wait.

Ragdolls on the radio [Mar. 12th, 2010|02:56 am]
Ragdolls on Fire (Will Terry and John Fitz) will be guest hosting on 95.9 FM with Ntropy. If you like drum and bass/ i.d.m/ all things electronic be sure to listen in. If you want to stream it to your computer, you can go to http://www.kaosradioaustin.org/ and tune in over the internet.

new song posted [Feb. 2nd, 2010|09:46 pm]

its called

its me reading one of my stories over some music i made.
anyone who has read the stories might not be able to tell which one it is.
its sort of three stories rolled into one. not very discernible, but very pretty sounding.

there is a new song about a girl i used to know [Dec. 12th, 2009|10:35 pm]

book im published is available now [Nov. 7th, 2009|04:07 am]

its available here


if you buy it from this link, it will help me get a book deal.

if youve already read this story and buy it anyway, thanks for supporting aspiring writers (like me)

another story published at [Nov. 2nd, 2009|03:24 pm]

some new writing [Sep. 12th, 2009|01:49 am]

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