Day 1 of 6 — The Cactus Is on Fire in a Desert That Is Also on Fire
Featuring Mr. Germlin and Jerry “The Ankle Biter” Silverhand
There are workplaces that occasionally have bad days.
There are workplaces where communication sometimes breaks down.
There are workplaces where employees occasionally become frustrated, clients occasionally ignore instructions, supervisors occasionally get pissed, and paperwork occasionally multiplies like somebody fed a stack of incident reports after midnight.
And then there is Haus Morgenrot.
Haus Morgenrot isn't having a bad day.
Haus Morgenrot is a cactus on fire.
Except somebody planted the cactus in a desert.
And somehow the desert is also on fire.
And there are two EMS trucks parked beside the desert.
They're on fire too.
Everything is on fire.
And somewhere in the middle of this magnificent ecological impossibility stands one extremely tired creature known as Mr. Germlin, holding a clipboard, a Diet soda, and approximately three remaining fucks carefully reserved for situations in which federal law requires their expenditure.
Standing beside him is his completely unauthorized spiritual advisor:
Jerry “The Ankle Biter” Silverhand.
Jerry surveyed the flames.
Jerry: “You gonna put that out?”
Mr. Germlin stared at the burning cactus.
Then the burning desert.
Then the burning ambulances.
Then the burning building.
Then back at Jerry.
“Damn.”
Pause.
“That's crazy.”
Welcome to Day 1 of 6.
BACK INTO THE SIX-DAY ADVENTURE
Thursday, August 20th.
The beginning of another six-day stretch at Haus Morgenrot.
Six days.
Twelve-hour shifts.
Hallway cats.
Groups.
Headcounts.
Meals.
Late trays.
Paperwork.
Rules.
Rules explaining other rules.
People misunderstanding the rules.
People understanding the rules perfectly well and simply deciding they don't particularly give a fuck.
And somewhere among all of it:
Mr. Germlin.
My strategy going into this cycle was not complicated.
Be boring.
Follow policy.
Don't freestyle.
Do the job.
Go home.
I've also been carrying around a phrase that has become increasingly useful:
Listen with interest, not investment.
Somebody tells me something?
I'll listen.
Somebody tells me something ridiculous?
I'll still listen.
Somebody tells me something with complete confidence even though I have absolutely no way of knowing whether it's true?
Interesting.
But I don't have to purchase emotional stock in it.
I don't have to turn:
“Someone told me X.”
into:
“X is definitely true and now I must reorganize my entire emotional state around it.”
Jerry calls this Fuckonomics.
Jerry: “Your fucks are a finite resource.”
Mr. Germlin: “I know.”
Jerry: “Historically you've made some questionable investments.”
Mr. Germlin: “I know.”
Jerry: “I'm recommending a diversified portfolio.”
Mr. Germlin: “What's in it?”
Jerry: “Nothing.”
Mr. Germlin: “Nothing?”
Jerry: “Keep your fucks in cash.”
Sound financial planning.
And for the first part of Day 1?
That worked pretty well.
Then somebody informed me that I needed to go pee in a cup.
THE GREAT RANDOM UA ROAD TRIP
Apparently Mr. Germlin had been randomly selected for a drug test.
Wonderful.
Nothing says WELCOME BACK FOR ANOTHER SIX-DAY ADVENTURE quite like being told that today's opening side quest involves transporting your bladder across Houston.
The Random UA Expedition consisted of:
Mr. Germlin.
The Twenty-Year Tech.
The HR Lady.
And the morning SOD.
This was either a workplace compliance trip or the opening scene of the world's least profitable road-trip movie.
Either way, we climbed aboard.
And away we went.
Approximately forty minutes.
To pee.
Thankfully, I was prepared.
Not intentionally.
I hadn't trained for this.
There wasn't a Rocky montage where I ran through downtown Houston drinking bottled water while Jerry chased me screaming:
“HOLD IT, GERMLIN! YOU GOTTA HOLD IT!”
No.
I simply happened to possess an extremely cooperative bladder.
For once, my body looked at the assignment and said:
“I got you, boss.”
During the drive, the morning SOD and HR spent a good portion of the trip teasing each other and generally being stupid in the harmless workplace way people sometimes become stupid when trapped in a vehicle together.
Driving came up.
Bad driving came up.
And apparently one upper-management lady has achieved legendary status for treating automobiles with the same long-term attachment most people have toward disposable napkins.
At least according to the stories being told.
Cars apparently fear this woman.
Insurance adjusters allegedly sense a disturbance in the Force whenever she picks up her keys.
Again:
I cannot verify any of this.
Listen with interest, not investment.
But sitting there hearing these tales, one thought entered my head:
Goddamn.
I wish I had wreck-another-car money.
Not because I want to wreck cars.
I just want the part where apparently you can look at catastrophic automotive inconvenience and go:
“Eh. I'll deal with it.”
Meanwhile Mr. Germlin is over here calculating transportation expenses like a raccoon operating a small accounting firm.
The Twenty-Year Tech mostly minded his own business.
And so did I.
There are certain workplace conversations where the wisest thing an employee can contribute is:
Nothing.
I didn't need to join the roast.
Didn't need to add a story.
Didn't need to create a quote that could somehow crawl out of that vehicle six months later wearing my name tag.
So I sat there.
Listened.
Occasionally laughed.
Stayed professional.
Eventually we arrived.
I entered the facility.
Presented myself to the sacred Cup of Employment.
And unleashed the reservoir.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
Mr. Germlin had successfully urinated in accordance with workplace policy.
The Republic endured another day.
I returned to the vehicle.
Sat down.
Shut the fuck up again.
And because the highway gods apparently felt generous, traffic moved pretty damn well on the return trip.
We made good time.
Got back to Haus Morgenrot.
And I even made lunch.
Random drug test:
DONE.
Lunch:
DONE.
No catastrophe.
No drama.
No flaming vegetation.
For the moment.
WAIT A MINUTE.
Somewhere around the earlier afternoon—roughly the 1-to-3 portion of the day—something happened that became considerably more ironic later.
One of the HHSC clients came through with medication.
Medication that had apparently made it past the front lobby.
I asked him directly whether he had medicine on him.
He did.
Well.
That's important.
So I took possession of it and brought the issue back toward the morning front-lobby tech.
Because that isn't something I want floating around as a surprise.
My basic message was:
If that had continued through, both of us potentially could've been in trouble.
I'm not saying that because I wanted somebody's head on a stick.
I'm saying it because this is exactly the kind of place where something small travels through three sets of hands, becomes something large, and suddenly everyone is standing in an office reconstructing the Zapruder film of how a bottle of medication got from Point A to Point B.
I caught it.
I dealt with it.
I informed the appropriate person.
Moved on.
At the time, it was simply another little Haus Morgenrot moment.
Later?
After getting a lecture about accountability?
The irony would become considerably more noticeable.
Jerry quietly scribbled something onto his clipboard.
Mr. Germlin: “What are you writing?”
Jerry: “Foreshadowing.”
Mr. Germlin: “Oh, fuck you.”
MEANWHILE, ANGEL THREW THE DEUCES
At 1:45 in the afternoon, while I was working through my own Day 1 adventure, my Angel sent me an update.
She'd quit her second job at the nursing home the night before.
She'd tried to make it work.
She'd tried getting along with coworkers.
But from her perspective, people kept finding things to use against her.
Eventually?
Enough.
She left.
Management would have to figure out coverage and find somebody else.
And honestly?
Sometimes that's what leaving looks like.
Not a movie speech.
Not throwing a chair through the manager's office window.
Not walking away while the building dramatically explodes behind you.
Sometimes it's simply:
I'm done.
And you throw the deuces.
Around 3:19, Demon finally had an opportunity to answer Angel.
I told her I was sorry she'd had to deal with that.
She'd tried.
If leaving was what she believed was best for her, then I hoped putting that job behind her would bring her some peace.
And most importantly:
Don't let a place you've already left continue occupying space in your head.
Take care of yourself.
Focus on whatever comes next.
Demon is rooting for you.
Sweet.
Supportive.
Mature.
Emotionally responsible.
Naturally, I then ruined the entire respectable tone by invoking the ancient scriptures:
DEMON 3:16 SAYS SO, MOTHERFUCKER.
Accompanied, naturally, by wrestling foolishness.
Because romance is alive.
Jerry looked at the message.
Jerry: “That was almost wholesome.”
Mr. Germlin: “Almost?”
Jerry: “Then Demon 3:16 showed up.”
Mr. Germlin: “Demon 3:16 improves everything.”
At 4:42, Angel responded:
“Aww love u.”
And that was enough.
She had her own workplace chapter closing.
I was still sitting inside mine.
Little did I know that Haus Morgenrot was preparing to demonstrate exactly why my own advice to Angel wasn't exclusively advice for Angel.
THE AFTERNOON: COUNT THE CATS
The afternoon schedule continued.
Group.
Class.
People where they were supposed to be.
People not where they were supposed to be.
People appearing to regard schedules as creative suggestions written by overly ambitious bureaucrats.
Then came headcount.
Approximately 2:45.
Now, headcount sounds simple.
You have people.
You count the people.
The number of people should equal the number of people.
Beautiful.
Except these are hallway cats.
And hallway cats operate under different laws of physics.
The moment you need them somewhere?
Gone.
The moment you don't need them?
Six of them suddenly appear asking questions.
Attempting to count clients at Haus Morgenrot sometimes resembles attempting to count cats inside a house where every door has been left open.
“One... two... three... where the fuck did four go?”
"Bathroom."
“Okay. Five... six... wait, where's two?”
"He went looking for four."
“WHY?”
Eventually the count cleared.
Civilization survived.
And the afternoon continued.
FOUR TO FIVE: SURPRISINGLY NOT TERRIBLE
Four to five?
Pretty good.
I'm not even going to disrespect it.
Haus Morgenrot produced an hour that did not actively attempt to consume my soul.
Good job.
Gold star.
Five to six?
Eh.
Beginner difficulty.
Not wonderful.
Not terrible.
If Haus Morgenrot were a video game, five-to-six was the tutorial level where the game teaches you how to block before later introducing an enemy that shoots flaming cacti out of its ass.
Then came six-to-seven.
More people were out.
More people were moving.
More people were not going where they were supposed to go.
The temperature of the metaphorical desert increased approximately twelve degrees.
Then came 7:10 to 7:40.
And that's when somebody poured gasoline on the cactus.
CAN I HAS SNACK?
The last group was a hot fucking mess.
People skipping.
People late.
People wandering.
People asking to use the bathroom.
People going to the bathroom and then apparently deciding that returning promptly was a concept for lesser mortals.
People wanting snacks.
People wanting exceptions.
People wanting explanations.
People wanting whatever happened to be located somewhere other than where they were supposed to be.
And somewhere in the chaos arose the immortal cry:
“Can I has snack?”
Yes.
HAS.
Not:
May I have a snack?
Not:
Could I get my snack?
No.
CAN I HAS SNACK?
At this point I was no longer supervising human beings.
I was running an animal shelter.
Jerry appeared beside me.
Jerry: “Have you tried pspspspspsps?”
Mr. Germlin: “Jerry.”
Jerry: “They're hallway cats.”
Mr. Germlin: “They're grown men.”
Jerry: “Both statements can be true.”
I hate when he's right.
THE BATHROOM WARS: ACCOUNTABILITY EDITION
Then came the conversation with the SOD.
She was unhappy with me.
The problem was clients leaving group to use the bathroom and then getting away with more than simply using the bathroom.
Here's the important distinction:
I cannot stop someone from using the bathroom.
If you've gotta go, you've gotta go.
I am not standing between another grown adult and the porcelain throne.
That sounds like how lawsuits are invented.
But policy also requires accountability.
If someone leaves group, goes to the bathroom, and then decides to transform that bathroom trip into The Fellowship of the Wandering Hallway Cat, that's a different issue.
And according to the SOD, I hadn't been consistently holding people accountable when I should have.
She made it clear that she could write me up.
Straight to HR.
Considering I've already had disciplinary adventures at Haus Morgenrot, I understood exactly why that mattered.
Another write-up isn't something I can casually shrug away.
It could potentially become serious.
Could potentially.
And that's important.
Because another lesson I've learned recently is:
UNCERTAINTY ISN'T CATASTROPHE.
Something could happen.
That doesn't mean it already has.
A write-up could happen.
HR could become involved.
Consequences could follow.
But I don't need to mentally fire myself before anybody else has even made a decision.
Deal with what actually happens.
Not every possible future simultaneously.
So I didn't explode.
Didn't curse the SOD out.
Didn't argue myself into a deeper hole.
Didn't transform into Angry Germlin and begin hurling office furniture through drywall.
I listened.
Understood the expectation.
And said, essentially:
Okay.
That's what I'll do.
Bathroom?
Fine.
Violation requiring accountability afterward?
Document.
Simple.
Painfully simple.
Boring.
Predictable.
Exactly how I need it.
“I'M LEAVING TOMORROW!”
Wonderful.
Congratulations.
I'm happy for you.
May tomorrow arrive swiftly.
But there's a peculiar phenomenon that occurs when certain clients get close to discharge.
They begin treating the facility rules like a software license agreement they've decided not to renew.
“I'm leaving tomorrow.”
Yes.
Tomorrow.
Do you know what today is?
NOT TOMORROW.
Until you actually leave, you're still here.
Try behaving like a civilized human being for the remaining seventeen hours of your sentence to Haus Morgenrot bureaucracy.
We had people leaving with pink badges.
Loss of privileges.
Still leaving.
Fine.
We had people with loss-of-privilege status apparently wanting vending-machine access they weren't supposed to have.
Because apparently a pink badge is not a restriction.
It is merely a fashion accessory.
This is where my investment ends.
I can explain the rule.
I can enforce whatever I'm authorized to enforce.
I can document the violation.
But I cannot manufacture another adult's desire to give a fuck.
And I'm increasingly realizing:
That isn't my job.
Some of these people will leave and do great.
I genuinely hope they do.
Some may struggle.
Some may come back into the system somewhere.
I hope they don't.
But Mr. Germlin cannot personally repair every human being who passes through Haus Morgenrot.
I work twelve-hour shifts.
I do not possess the Infinity Gauntlet.
THE FRONT-LOBBY TELEPHONE GAME
Then came luggage.
Or property.
Or belongings.
Whatever title we want to give the next side quest.
The night front-lobby tech informed me that the SOD had told her to tell me that I needed to retrieve property for several clients who were leaving.
And immediately my internal alarm went:
DO NOT FREESTYLE.
Because here's what I know:
The front-lobby tech told me the SOD said it.
What I don't know is the exact conversation that happened before that information reached me.
Maybe that's precisely what SOD said.
Maybe something got lost in translation.
Maybe nothing got lost.
I don't know.
And therefore I'm not going to turn suspicion into fact.
Listen with interest, not investment.
Going forward, there's an extremely simple solution.
“SOD told you to tell me? Okay. I'll verify with SOD.”
That's it.
No accusation.
No argument.
No workplace courtroom drama.
Verify.
If SOD says:
“Yes, Mr. Germlin, get the property.”
Roger.
Property acquired.
But that evening, I was already frustrated.
Still, I didn't explode.
I calmly informed the front-lobby tech that I was going to use the bathroom first.
Yes.
Mr. Germlin also has bathroom privileges.
Then I would get the property key.
Then I'd retrieve the stuff.
And that's exactly what happened.
Bathroom.
Key.
Property room.
Seven sets of items.
Six?
Easy.
Right there.
Beautiful.
The seventh?
Buried down toward the bottom because of course one motherfucker had to become the final boss.
Still wasn't difficult.
Maybe fifteen minutes total.
By roughly 9:00 or 9:01, I was finished.
Seven out of seven.
Property retrieved.
Crisis concluded.
No buildings collapsed.
No one needed FEMA.
Nobody even had to activate the National Guard.
Done.
What irritated me afterward?
Not even a simple:
“Hey, thanks.”
Nothing.
Now, I'm not entitled to a parade.
I don't require the mayor to declare Mr. Germlin Property Retrieval Day.
But after all the back-and-forth, a basic:
“Thanks for getting that.”
would've been nice.
Didn't happen.
Fine.
Jerry shrugged.
Jerry: “You want me to bite her ankle?”
Mr. Germlin: “No.”
Jerry: “It's literally in my job title.”
Mr. Germlin: “Stand down.”
Jerry: “Coward.”
YOU WANT ACCOUNTABILITY?
Okay.
Let's fucking account.
After the earlier conversation with the SOD, I had people who needed documentation.
A lot of people.
Apparently around twenty clients by the time Mr. Germlin's Administrative Wrath had completed its final form.
Not angry write-ups.
That's important.
I don't need:
CLIENT IS A FUCKING DUMBASS WHO MADE ME MAD AT 7:23 PM.
That's not documentation.
That's a Reddit post.
Paperwork should be boring.
What happened.
When.
Where.
What instruction was given.
What followed.
Done.
Because if management wants accountability?
There it is.
So I wrote.
And wrote.
And wrote.
Jerry watched the stack grow.
Jerry: “Are you writing a novel?”
Mr. Germlin: “No.”
Jerry: “War and Peace?”
Mr. Germlin: “No.”
Jerry: “The Complete Unabridged History of Motherfuckers Who Wouldn't Go to Group?”
Mr. Germlin: “First edition.”
Jerry: “Hardcover?”
Mr. Germlin: “Collector's edition.”
And writing wasn't the end.
Room inspection.
Done.
Copies.
Done.
Originals routed where the originals needed to go.
Copies routed toward the higher-ups who needed copies.
Paperwork sorted.
Administrative ritual complete.
You wanted accountability?
Please enjoy the literature.
DINNER WAS ASS
Somewhere in all this, Mr. Germlin attempted nourishment.
Tonight's culinary offering:
Okra and sausage.
Absolute ass.
Hot trash.
A gastronomic hate crime committed against my remaining morale.
The corn?
The corn was good.
The corn did nothing wrong.
I hereby pardon the corn.
The rest of the plate may answer for its crimes before God.
Jerry stared at my dinner.
Jerry: “What is that?”
Mr. Germlin: “Dinner.”
Jerry: “No, seriously.”
Mr. Germlin: “I don't know.”
The corn quietly received asylum.
9:50 PM
Eventually everything was done.
The property.
The write-ups.
The copies.
The originals.
The room inspection.
The hot-trash dinner.
The groups.
The wandering.
The bathrooms.
The snacks.
The questions.
The hallway cats.
By around 9:50, I started packing.
Bag.
Stuff inside bag.
Lunch bag downstairs.
Lunch bag placed beside backpack.
Everything ready.
I had already ranted some of the day's frustration out.
And then I did something remarkably dramatic.
I picked up a book.
And read.
That's it.
No final argument.
No triumphant speech.
No staring angrily at Haus Morgenrot's walls.
I simply read.
Eventually my watch said:
10:00.
But I know my watch.
That sneaky little motherfucker runs about two minutes fast.
I could've looked at it and gone:
GOOD ENOUGH.
No.
Because that would be freestyling.
So I waited.
Two more minutes.
Actual 10:00 arrived.
I put the book away.
Got my things.
And performed the most beautiful action available to a working man:
I CLOCKED THE FUCK OUT.
Ten o'clock.
Not 9:58.
Not watch-ten-o'clock.
Actual ten o'clock.
My contractual relationship with the cactus had concluded for the evening.
NIGHT SHIFT LEARNS A NEW PHRASE
Later, when I was already away from the day's nonsense, I talked with a few night techs I trust.
And I explained my professional assessment of Haus Morgenrot:
“This place is like a cactus on fire.”
They had never heard that expression before.
Understandable.
Because I'm pretty sure I pulled it directly from whatever diseased part of my brain is responsible for Germlin English.
So I informed them:
“Well, you can put it in memory now.”
Educational moment.
Knowledge transferred.
Professional development completed.
One day somebody at Haus Morgenrot is going to walk into work, witness complete chaos, and quietly say:
“Cactus on fire.”
And somewhere miles away, Mr. Germlin will suddenly smile without understanding why.
A legacy.
THE DESERT WAS ALSO ON FIRE
Eventually I was outside waiting for my Uber.
Two EMS trucks were nearby.
I had zero remaining interest in Haus Morgenrot.
None.
If somebody had approached me and said:
“Hey, did you hear what happened at Haus Morgenrot?”
My response would've been:
“Who?”
Never heard of her.
Don't know her.
Sounds fictional.
At this point the cactus wasn't merely on fire.
The desert was on fire.
The two EMS trucks?
Spiritually on fire.
The parking lot?
Probably on fire.
The moon?
Under investigation.
Jerry “The Ankle Biter” Silverhand stood beside me watching the imaginary flames consume the horizon.
Jerry: “That's getting pretty bad.”
Mr. Germlin: “Yep.”
Jerry: “Somebody should probably put it out.”
Silence.
Jerry: “You gonna do it?”
I looked at Jerry.
Then at the cactus.
Then at the desert.
Then at the ambulances.
Then back toward Haus Morgenrot.
And there was really only one answer.
“Guess who's gonna put it out?”
Jerry waited.
“Not me.”
The Uber approached.
Jerry looked back toward the inferno.
Jerry: “The cactus is still burning.”
I opened the car door.
“Damn.”
Got inside.
“That's crazy.”
Door closed.
WHEN THE ROOTS ARE DEEP
For all the jokes, anger, paperwork, bathroom adventures, and flaming desert vegetation, Day 1 left me thinking about something more important.
A line I've been carrying:
“If a root is deep enough, you no longer have to be afraid of the wind.”
That doesn't mean nothing scares you.
It doesn't mean nothing pisses you off.
It doesn't mean you become so emotionally detached that you stop caring about anything.
The wind still exists.
Today the wind looked like:
A random drug test.
A medication issue.
Headcount.
People skipping group.
Bathroom problems.
An angry SOD.
The possibility of another write-up.
A confusing secondhand instruction.
Twenty-ish write-ups.
A front-lobby situation that irritated me.
Bad dinner.
Clients testing boundaries because they're almost leaving.
People with restrictions behaving like the restrictions don't exist.
And the endless low-level friction of twelve hours inside Haus Morgenrot.
The wind blew.
Hard.
But here's what didn't happen:
I didn't scream at the SOD.
I didn't turn the lobby disagreement into a shouting match.
I didn't refuse to retrieve the property.
I didn't leave the documentation undone.
I didn't clock out early because my watch gave me a convenient excuse.
I got frustrated.
Very fucking frustrated.
But I finished.
That's what the root means to me.
Not invulnerability.
Stability.
The wind can blow without deciding who I become.
And there was another lesson sitting right beside it:
Listen with interest, not investment.
I can hear people's stories.
I can hear complaints.
I can hear explanations.
I can hear excuses.
I can hear workplace gossip.
I can hear someone tell me that somebody else told them something.
But I don't have to absorb every statement into my bloodstream.
Verify what needs verification.
Document what needs documentation.
Handle what belongs to me.
Leave the rest where I found it.
MAYBE I SHOULD TAKE MY OWN ADVICE
The funny thing is that earlier that afternoon, I had essentially told Angel:
Don't let a job you've already left keep taking up space in your head.
And then at 10:00 PM, Haus Morgenrot wanted to climb into my backpack and come home with me.
No.
You don't get to.
I can reflect.
I can learn.
I can laugh about the ridiculous parts.
Hell, I can write an absurdly long Bear Blog post turning the entire experience into the tale of a flaming cactus.
But the actual workplace?
The anger?
The personalities?
The chaos?
They stay there.
Angel threw the deuces to something that wasn't working for her.
I'm not at that point yet.
I've still got responsibilities.
I've still got a paycheck.
I've still got tomorrow.
But the underlying lesson applies either way:
A workplace gets the hours I'm paid to give it.
It doesn't automatically get the rest of me.
DAY 1 OF 6 — COMPLETE
So what happened on Day 1?
Mr. Germlin began another six-day adventure.
He traveled forty minutes to perform a professionally supervised pee.
He listened to the Random UA Road Trip Comedy Hour while wisely contributing almost nothing.
He returned in time for lunch.
He caught medication that had slipped through the front lobby and routed it back where the issue needed to go.
Angel announced that she'd thrown the deuces to her second job.
Demon responded with emotional support followed by:
DEMON 3:16 SAYS SO, MOTHERFUCKER.
Hallway cats became temporarily uncountable.
Headcount eventually survived.
Four-to-five behaved itself.
Five-to-six was mediocre.
Six-to-seven began deteriorating.
Seven-ten-to-seven-forty became a flaming dumpster pushed downhill toward a gas station.
Clients discovered bathrooms.
Clients discovered wandering.
Clients discovered the ancient linguistic construction:
CAN I HAS SNACK?
The SOD introduced Mr. Germlin to the exciting new expansion pack:
Accountability: Bathroom Edition.
Mr. Germlin accepted the correction.
Property needed retrieving.
Mr. Germlin retrieved it.
Seven sets.
About fifteen minutes.
Done around 9:00.
No thank-you.
Fine.
Twenty-ish people needed documentation.
Mr. Germlin wrote.
Room inspection.
Copies.
Originals.
Distribution.
Done.
Dinner attempted murder through okra and sausage.
Corn was acquitted.
Around 9:50, Mr. Germlin packed his belongings.
Then he read a book.
His watch lied about the time.
Mr. Germlin did not accept the lie.
Actual 10:00 arrived.
CLOCKED. THE FUCK. OUT.
Trusted night techs were introduced to the phrase:
“Cactus on fire.”
The phrase entered the cultural lexicon.
Outside, two EMS trucks joined the metaphorical inferno.
The desert caught fire.
The cactus continued burning.
Jerry asked whether Mr. Germlin intended to extinguish it.
He did not.
Because sometimes the healthiest possible response to a catastrophe that no longer belongs to you is simply:
“Damn.”
Pause.
“That's crazy.”
Then get in the Uber.
Jerry “The Ankle Biter” Silverhand looked through the rear window one final time.
The cactus burned brightly against the Houston night.
The desert glowed orange.
The imaginary EMS trucks crackled beautifully.
Haus Morgenrot disappeared into the distance.
Jerry: “Tomorrow's Day 2.”
Mr. Germlin sighed.
“Yep.”
Jerry: “Think it'll be better?”
I considered the question carefully.
Thought about the clients.
Thought about the groups.
Thought about the bathrooms.
Thought about the paperwork.
Thought about Haus Morgenrot.
Then I leaned back in the seat.
“Listen with interest, not investment, Jerry.”
Jerry nodded.
Jerry: “And the cactus?”
I looked out the window.
“Still not putting that motherfucker out.”
DAY 1 OF 6: COMPLETE.
One down.
Five to go.
🌵🔥
— Mr. Germlin & Jerry “The Ankle Biter” Silverhand