DAY 2 & 3 OF 6 — DON’T CHASE THE HALLWAY CATS
Saturday, August 29 – Sunday, August 30, 2026
There are certain lessons you learn after seven months at Haus Morgenrot.
Some are written in the SOP.
Some are explained by supervisors.
Some are learned through trial and error.
And some apparently require several grown-ass men, a burning cactus, a clipboard, one and a half cups of coffee, two hostile house cats, a mandatory meeting at the ass-crack of dawn, and a red flying demon from a Capcom game released before half the people involved were fucking born.
This weekend provided all of the above.
By Sunday evening, I had accidentally developed an entire new workplace philosophy:
Do not chase the hallway cats.
But we'll get there.
First, Saturday.
DAY 2 OF 6 — THE RACCOON DECLINES ASSISTANCE
Saturday morning began normally enough.
I woke up around 8:15 AM, let Bruno the Chihuahua outside, brushed my teeth, took the medications I actually had available, and continued being annoyed about the medications I didn't have available thanks to the ongoing HCA Northwest / VA / pharmacy bureaucracy.
That particular cactus remains planted in another garden.
🌵
I was getting ready for another 10 AM–10 PM shift at Haus Morgenrot when Sis offered me a ride to work.
She also made a perfectly reasonable point:
I should learn to accept offers sometimes because it saves money.
And she's right.
Twenty dollars is twenty dollars.
The Act Broke Doctrine recognizes the continued existence of twenty-dollar bills.
But I'd already planned my transportation.
So I thanked her.
Told her I appreciated it.
Wished her well.
Told her to drive safely.
And reminded her that Sunday I'd be working 6 AM to 6 PM because apparently somebody at Haus Morgenrot had decided the techs needed to be summoned before sunrise.
Then I ordered my ride anyway.
Jerry: “You know accepting a free ride would have saved money.”
Me: “Yes.”
Jerry: “And your philosophy is Act Broke.”
Me: “Yes.”
Jerry: “So—”
Me: “Act Broke does not mean reorganizing everybody else's morning because I discovered twenty dollars exists.”
Jerry: “Fair.”
Me: “I budgeted for the ride.”
Jerry: “Also fair.”
Me: “Now get out of my fucking financial planning office.”
There was another funny layer to Sis offering me rides.
Long before this, she used to offer fairly often.
And for roughly six months, I had another reason for politely declining.
According to the mythology I had constructed, Mr. Germlin worked at:
SPROUTS.
S-P-R-O-U-T-S.
Yes.
For months, this woman could have reasonably imagined me going off every morning to participate in the honorable distribution of organic kale.
Meanwhile:
🦝📋
I was actually scurrying around Haus Morgenrot counting grown men.
Jerry: “This doesn't look like Sprouts.”
Me: “Specialty Sprouts.”
Jerry: “That man is wandering around the hallway.”
Me: “Free-range produce.”
Hallway Cat: “You're a piece of shit.”
Me: “Organic.”
Eventually the cover story went away.
Which is good, because maintaining fictional produce-sector employment indefinitely starts requiring an uncomfortable amount of lore.
THE JOB ISN'T ACTUALLY THAT FUCKING HARD
Here's the weird thing about Haus Morgenrot:
For as much as I bitch about it, the actual job itself isn't particularly complicated.
Show up.
Know the SOP.
Follow instructions.
Don't freestyle.
Do your assigned shit.
If something happens and you aren't sure what you're supposed to do, ask the SOD.
If something requires documentation, document it.
If it doesn't involve you, doesn't violate something you're responsible for, and doesn't require your intervention:
🌵🔥
Damn. That's crazy.
Keep moving.
The problem is that the written policy may remain black and white while the operational rules of the day can change depending on whatever the hell Haus Morgenrot is doing.
Normal day:
Don't eat in your rooms.
Retirement event:
Here's your sack lunch. Go eat in your room.
Normal programming.
Special programming.
Somebody leaves.
Somebody retires.
AFLAC descends from the heavens to explain insurance.
Suddenly the ecosystem rearranges itself.
This is precisely why I stopped trying to reconcile every contradiction like I'm writing a fucking Supreme Court opinion.
Ask what today's instruction is.
Follow it.
Document whatever needs documenting.
Go home.
I'm paid $17 an hour.
At no point on my paystub does it say:
INSTITUTIONAL PHILOSOPHER — $17.00/hr.
THE AUGUST 7–14 CACTUS
There is also a serious reason I've become so committed to boring.
Earlier this month, I spent that August 7–14 stretch dealing with an allegation and investigation over a pat search.
That wasn't funny while it was happening.
I genuinely didn't know what was going to happen with my job, and the anxiety from that uncertainty was real.
That experience did something useful, though.
It made me much less interested in improvisation.
I had half expected some grand formal retraining afterward.
Perhaps Haus Morgenrot would gather everybody together.
A supervisor would descend from Mount Sinai carrying the Sacred Pat-Search Tablets.
There would be a projector.
A laser pointer.
Perhaps a forty-seven-slide presentation:
PAT SEARCHES FOR DUMMIES
Slide 1: Please Do Not Fuck This Up.
Slide 2: Seriously.
Slide 3: We Just Said Seriously.
In my experience, no grand retraining ceremony happened.
So fine.
I know what the written policy says.
I follow the policy.
I don't freestyle.
Boring tech.
That's me.
Boring like the textbook you open at 10 PM and wake up six hours later wearing it as a hat.
SATURDAY: HALLWAY CATS DO HALLWAY-CAT SHIT
Most of Saturday wasn't bad.
There was ordinary programming.
Ordinary movement.
Ordinary grown-ass-men-being-grown-ass-men activity.
And somewhere around the shift-change/dinner territory near 6 PM, the usual gravitational disturbance occurred.
People crowding around.
People wanting things.
People complaining about things.
People expecting me to resolve something another tech allegedly wasn't doing.
And this is where I have developed another important skill:
I AM NOT THE HALLWAY CAT SHEPHERD.
I will pull my weight.
I'll pull additional weight when something actually needs doing.
But I'm not going to spend twelve hours compensating for every perceived deficiency in the fucking building.
If somebody breaks policy?
Name.
Time.
Behavior.
🖊️📋
Done.
They don't agree?
Fine.
There are supervisors.
Go appeal to somebody with a larger kingdom.
I am not:
Haus Morgenrot Customer Satisfaction & Appeals Department.
THE TEN-SECOND COURT OF APPEALS
I've also started giving hallway cats a short opportunity to explain themselves before I finish certain write-ups.
Roughly ten seconds.
Sometimes I literally count.
This is not because Mr. Germlin has opened a fully accredited law school.
It is because occasionally somebody has information that actually changes what happened.
That's relevant.
I want relevant information.
But there is another phenomenon called:
LGC.
Long Goddamn Conversation.
The hallway cat does not provide new information.
Instead, the hallway cat begins oral arguments before the Supreme Court of Mr. Germlin explaining why the rules should temporarily cease to exist.
No.
You get your window.
Tell me something relevant.
If what you say changes the situation, I'll consider it.
If not:
Thank you for visiting the Ten-Second Court of Appeals.
Judgment affirmed.
Next cat.
This is the same reason I keep coming back to:
Listen with interest, not investment.
Hear them.
Don't become them.
THE BATHROOM WARNING
Saturday produced roughly seven write-ups, which compared with some previous shifts was practically a fucking vacation.
Some were the familiar group/bathroom variety.
My warning remained straightforward:
“While we cannot stop you from going to the bathroom, according to the COO and the SOD, we will have to hold you accountable.”
That's it.
I'm not blocking the bathroom.
I'm not wrestling anybody to the ground in front of the toilet.
I'm giving you the information.
One hallway cat hears that and decides:
🐈 You know what? I can hold it.
Excellent.
Another hears exactly the same warning:
🐈 Nah, I'm going.
Also excellent.
I don't need to care which decision you make.
You are an adult.
I gave you the information.
You made the decision.
My pen possesses no emotional attachment to the outcome.
🖊️
Some left group and returned.
Some didn't return.
Some disappeared near the end.
Movie night produced its own bathroom migrations.
Approximately seven write-ups total.
Light work.
I DIDN'T GIVE YOU THE BADGE
Another recurring phenomenon is the hallway cat who receives loss of privileges and then talks as though I personally handcrafted the consequence in my bedroom.
“Damn, you gave me this badge.”
No, sir.
I did not.
You earned that badge.
🏆
ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED
FUCKED AROUND
Reward: Loss of Privileges.
I document behavior.
I do not run the Hallway Cat Rewards Program.
If your behavior earns a consequence, congratulations on your achievement.
I'm not negotiating the badge.
I'm not refinancing the badge.
I'm not accepting the badge as collateral.
Next hallway cat.
SATURDAY ACTUALLY ENDED NORMALLY
And here's the miraculous part:
Nothing fucking happened at 9:49 PM.
No EMS.
No secret boss.
No post-credits sequence.
No cactus suddenly gaining sentience.
The clock simply approached ten.
And at 10 PM, I left.
That was important because the following morning Haus Morgenrot expected my ass back at:
SIX.
IN.
THE.
FUCKING.
MORNING.
Mandatory meeting.
Purpose?
Unknown.
Techs summoned?
Apparently.
My plan:
Wake around 4 AM.
Get ready.
Uber around 5 AM.
Arrive before six.
Attend the mysterious council.
Work until 6 PM.
And at six?
🦝💨
Throw the deuces.
If the cactus catches fire at 6:01:
🌵🔥
I wish the cactus and the incoming shift tremendous success.
DAY 3 OF 6 — OPERATION DAWN RACCOON
I think I went to bed around 11:30 PM.
Which would have been fantastic if I hadn't needed to get up around four.
So Sunday began with approximately:
FOUR HOURS OF FUCKING SLEEP.
Yay.
I arrived at Haus Morgenrot barely interested in human speech.
I think I talked to one person.
Mostly I scurried around like a raccoon checking whether any trash cans had been left unattended.
🦝
My brain had not loaded.
Windows was installing updates.
Please do not unplug Mr. Germlin.
I figured my body might eventually realize around 10 AM:
OH MY GOD. WE'RE ACTUALLY AT WORK.
The emergency caffeine strategy was modest.
No Monster.
The Monster Rotation remains buried.
I eventually powered through Sunday on approximately one and a half cups of coffee.
Not one and a half gallons.
Not four Monsters and a honey bun.
Coffee.
And spite.
THE SIX A.M. MYSTERY IS FINALLY SOLVED
At 6:00 AM, the mandatory meeting began.
And after all the speculation, it wasn't some grand:
WHICH ONE OF YOU FUCKERS DID THIS?
meeting.
The central message, as I understood it, was much simpler.
Haus Morgenrot has a contract with TDCJ.
That means certain requirements aren't optional just because staffing or circumstances make them inconvenient.
If Haus Morgenrot wants to remain Haus Morgenrot under that arrangement, it has obligations.
You signed the contract.
The contract does not become a motivational poster.
So Sunday's Sacred Tablets included things like:
Clothing inventory needs to match what's documented at the front desk and Tech Station 3.
If clothing is issued, clients aren't supposed to casually exchange it afterward.
If clothing is borrowed, it needs to be returned.
Staff need to actually be at their assigned posts.
And then came the schedule sermon.
SIX TO SIX MEANS SIX TO FUCKING SIX.
Not:
6–2.
Not:
6–4.
Not:
6–“My contribution to the organization has spiritually concluded.”
6 AM to 6 PM.
Meanwhile, I sat there as the weird little 10-to-10 goblin who has spent seven months trying to achieve the legendary:
PERFECT 10–10 RUN.
As for time off, the message was essentially to plan it around the appropriate off days rather than casually carving up scheduled workdays, with things such as medical appointments handled appropriately and requested ahead of time.
Then eventually we exhausted the productive portion of the meeting.
Which meant we transitioned into the second phase of every workplace meeting:
BULLSHITTING.
Donuts were present.
I acquired one donut.
At approximately 7:10 AM, the Council of Dawn adjourned.
Mystery solved.
AND NOW THE ENTIRE MORNING IS FUCKING LATE
Of course, holding a 6 AM meeting while the facility normally has things to do in the morning has an interesting side effect.
The morning becomes:
late.
Breakfast normally should have occupied roughly the 6:30–7:30 AM neighborhood.
Instead, it was closer to 7:00–7:30, with the general morning disruption stretching toward eight.
And somewhere around or immediately after that delayed breakfast period, one hallway cat began loudly discussing:
CRASHING OUT.
Apparently this gentleman doesn't normally get in trouble.
This information was delivered while he was simultaneously running his mouth about crashing out, killing somebody, and assorted other material generally not associated with a quiet Sunday breakfast.
I already had him mentally on the radar.
But here's the thing:
I wasn't interested in joining the performance.
I wasn't going to debate him.
I wasn't going to become emotionally invested in whatever theatrical production was occurring.
Eventually I supplied one piece of professional Mr. Germlin guidance:
“NEXT TIME YOU CRASH OUT, GO PUNCH A CACTUS.”
🌵
Other hallway cats heard it.
Excellent.
Haus Morgenrot now provides agricultural counseling.
THE PUNCH-A-CACTUS DOCTRINE
The underlying point wasn't:
I hope you punch a cactus.
The point was:
If you're determined to crash out, do not drag me into your crash-out.
I can want you to succeed.
I can hope you finish the program.
I can answer a legitimate question.
I can correct something.
I can intervene when necessary.
What I cannot do is want your success so badly that I start risking my employment to save you from your own choices.
Which produced another line:
IF YOU'RE GONNA FAIL, FAIL ON YOUR OWN TERMS — NOT MINE.
That doesn't mean I want somebody to fail.
Quite the opposite.
But I'm not tying myself to your ankle before you jump off the fucking boat.
SUNDAY PROGRAMMING: THE HOUSE CATS AWAKEN
Once the meeting and delayed breakfast finally cleared, Sunday started resembling an actual Sunday schedule.
Breakfast.
Personal hygiene.
Headcount.
Room GI.
Free time.
Facility GI.
Free time again.
Lunch.
Recreation.
And that is where apparently some of the TDCJ hallway cats experienced a brief identity crisis.
They looked around.
They saw movement.
Perhaps they saw HHSC clients doing something different.
And their internal operating system concluded:
🐈 Oh.
🐈 It free time?
No, sir.
It is not free time.
You possess a schedule.
A schedule containing activities.
Possibly even times.
I would ordinarily recommend consulting this miraculous document.
Except apparently I have been promoted.
WELCOME TO THE MR. GERMLIN INFORMATION KIOSK
Current Activity: Recreation.
Current Time: Look at the fucking clock.
Scheduled Activity: Look at the fucking schedule.
Complimentary Service: I will tell you once anyway.
Premium Service: Pen touches clipboard.
And sure enough:
12:58 PM.
🖊️📋
Write-up.
Then, because nine minutes is apparently enough time for the educational value of the first demonstration to evaporate:
1:07 PM.
🖊️📋
Another write-up.
Jerry: “Nine minutes.”
Me: “Yep.”
Jerry: “Did the first write-up function as a warning?”
Me: “Apparently it functioned as a fucking movie trailer.”
The distinction matters.
If one population is operating differently, that doesn't automatically rewrite somebody else's schedule.
I'm not interested in an hour-long debate about it.
You have recreation.
Go recreate.
Thank you for visiting the kiosk.
ROBOTECH WITH A CLIPBOARD IS ALSO NOT THE GOAL
At the same time, I don't want to become the tech prowling Haus Morgenrot hunting for microscopic violations.
Untucked shirt?
Tuck your shirt in.
They tuck it?
Done.
Hat where it isn't supposed to be?
Take the hat off.
They take it off?
Done.
Something minor that can be corrected immediately does not always need me standing there like RoboCop:
DEAD OR ALIVE, YOU'RE COMING WITH ME TO THE FUCKING WRITE-UP FORM.
Repeated behavior?
Deliberate refusal?
Something genuinely actionable?
Different story.
But I'm not going fishing.
I'm not chasing hallway cats around corners hoping somebody commits a violation so I can fill another sheet of paper.
That would be exhausting.
And stupid.
Which brings me to Capcom.
THE RED ARREMER DOCTRINE 👹
If you've played Ghouls 'n Ghosts, you know the bastard.
Red Arremer.
The little red flying asshole.
The mistake is chasing him.
He wants you reacting.
He hovers.
Circles.
Baits.
Flaps toward you.
The younger ones can send their little baby cousins around, come toward Arthur, perform their little U-turn, and keep moving.
You start panicking and chasing?
Congratulations.
You're playing Red Arremer's game.
Instead:
Stand still.
Watch.
Don't bite on the bait.
Let him circle.
Let him commit.
Take the opening.
THUNK.
Reset.
The grandfathers from the original Ghosts 'n Goblins are another fucking matter.
Those bastards are much more inclined to look at Arthur and say:
FUCK THIS. DIRECT FLIGHT.
But the principle remains useful.
And somewhere during Sunday, I realized that's basically how I want to handle hallway cats.
DON'T CHASE.
Don't hunt for violations.
Don't let somebody bait you into a pointless argument.
Don't turn every smart-ass comment into a personal feud.
Don't become invested.
Watch.
Correct what needs correcting.
If somebody actually commits to something requiring intervention:
Respond to what actually happened.
Not what you think might happen.
Not what happened last week.
Not what another hallway cat did.
What happened.
Then:
THUNK.
Back to neutral.
The Red Arremer Doctrine is basically:
Listen with interest, not investment — now with 100% more Capcom.
HAUS MORGENROT SUNDAY CIVILIZATION
The afternoon continued.
There was more free time.
From roughly 1:30 PM until 4 PM, Computer Club was operating.
Elsewhere, people were in the lunchroom doing Bible study.
So Haus Morgenrot briefly became its own tiny sovereign civilization.
💻 Computer Club.
📖 Bible study.
🏃 Recreation.
🍫 Hallway cats attempting unscheduled snack commerce.
🐈 Free-range institutional wildlife.
And wandering through the middle:
🦝📋
One sleep-deprived raccoon running on one and a half cups of coffee.
Jerry: “What's your role in this society?”
Me: “Presence.”
Jerry: “Anything else?”
Me: “Sometimes I know what time recreation is.”
Jerry: “A scholar.”
Me: “Fuck you.”
I took my own lunch around 3 PM.
At around 4 PM, back to business.
Approximately 4:20 PM, headcount.
Then dinner.
And by this point, something miraculous had happened.
My body had finally started waking the fuck up.
Not really around 7.
Not really around 10.
Somewhere closer to 4 PM and afterward, my nervous system apparently completed boot-up:
GOOD MORNING, MR. GERMLIN!
Motherfucker, we have been here for TEN HOURS.
FIVE O'CLOCK
Dinner.
Final stretch.
I can see six o'clock approaching.
After getting up around four in the morning, I'm nearly there.
One hour.
The raccoon can smell freedom.
🦝
And that's when two hallway cats see each other.
🐈
🐈
There is apparently history.
Because one of them starts hissing at the other one.
Fine.
I intervene.
Separate them.
Situation handled.
Theoretically.
Except one of the hallway cats apparently circles back and decides:
No.
I HAVE ADDITIONAL HISSING.
Hair raises.
Paw comes out.
Clawing/pawing behavior starts toward the other one.
MRRRRRRRRROOOOOOWWWWW.
🐈💢🐈
Goddammit.
Mr. Germlin retrieves the metaphorical broom.
🦝🧹
Separate the cats again.
At this point I notify the owner—SOD—that these two particular house cats need:
THEIR OWN FUCKING FOOD BOWLS.
Far.
Far.
Away.
From each other.
Jerry: “Perhaps mediation?”
Me: “Separate bowls.”
Jerry: “Conflict-resolution group?”
Me: “Separate bowls.”
Jerry: “Restorative justice?”
Me: “SEPARATE.”
Jerry: “But—”
Me: “FUCKING.”
Jerry: “Understood.”
Me: “FOOD BOWLS.”
What had started in write-up territory had now graduated.
🎓📋
CONGRATULATIONS!
YOU HAVE BECOME AN INCIDENT REPORT.
INCIDENT REPORT: ROAD RUNNER EDITION
There is a special kind of motivation available to a man who has been awake since four in the morning and sees 6 PM approaching.
I wrote that incident report like the Road Runner had discovered amphetamines.
MEEP FUCKING MEEP.
📋💨💨💨
Hallway cat wants something?
Not now.
Another hallway cat has a question?
Please consult the Mr. Germlin Information Kiosk during regularly scheduled business hours.
Somebody needs to explain seventeen minutes of backstory?
I wish you tremendous success.
I am documenting Cat Fight II: Electric Boogaloo, and then I am getting the fuck out of this building.
This wasn't laziness.
The incident was mine to handle.
So I handled it.
The paperwork was mine.
So I completed it.
SOD needed to know.
SOD knew.
The cats needed separation.
The cats were separated.
Mission complete.
And unlike the previous week, the battlefield had not changed into something requiring a new mission.
Therefore:
SIX O'CLOCK MEANS SIX O'CLOCK.
Uber activity was around 6:08–6:11 PM.
🦝💨
The raccoon had escaped.
THE CACTUS WAS NEVER MY ENEMY
And that's probably the actual lesson of Days 2 and 3.
I'm starting to understand that there's a middle ground between not caring and caring so much that you make everybody else's choices your problem.
The hallway cats aren't my enemies.
Most of them are just people trying—sometimes successfully, sometimes spectacularly unsuccessfully—to get through whatever brought them to Haus Morgenrot.
I genuinely hope they succeed.
But I'm not their friend.
I'm not their parent.
I'm not their defense attorney.
I'm not their parole board.
I'm not the Information Kiosk, despite mounting evidence to the contrary.
And I'm certainly not going to chase them around looking for reasons to punish them.
Don't chase Red Arremer.
Let him fly.
If somebody needs a correction, correct them.
If they fix it, great.
If somebody has relevant information, listen.
If somebody violates something that actually requires documentation, document it.
If two hallway cats suddenly decide they're reenacting National Geographic at 5 PM, get the fucking broom.
Then reset.
No vendetta.
No emotional investment.
No carrying the interaction home.
THUNK.
Neutral.
AND THEN MR. GERMLIN WENT HOME
Sis had cooked something.
I saved it.
I broke down the dinner I'd bought at work, gave Bruno what was appropriate for Bruno, washed the dishes, swept the kitchen, and eventually made myself something.
Because apparently after:
Four hours of sleep,
a 6 AM mandatory meeting,
a twelve-hour shift,
TDCJ contractual commandments,
one donut,
one and a half cups of coffee,
delayed breakfast,
a man discussing crashing out,
Punch-a-Cactus Counseling,
personal hygiene,
headcounts,
room GI,
facility GI,
free time,
lunch,
recreation,
two recreation write-ups nine minutes apart,
Computer Club,
Bible study,
unauthorized snack expeditions,
another headcount,
dinner,
two hallway cats attempting to reenact a territorial dispute,
and an incident-report speedrun—
the final boss was:
DISHES.
🦝🧽
Jerry: “You survived.”
Me: “Yep.”
Jerry: “You made it through the 6 AM meeting.”
Me: “Yep.”
Jerry: “No Monster.”
Me: “No Monster.”
Jerry: “You separated fighting cats.”
Me: “Twice.”
Jerry: “Completed the incident report.”
Me: “MEEP MEEP.”
Jerry: “And now?”
Me: “There's shit in the sink.”
So I washed it.
Because that's the glamorous life of Mr. Germlin.
Not king of the world.
Not master of Haus Morgenrot.
Not savior of the hallway cats.
Just a tired fucking raccoon trying to build his little den, collect his paycheck, keep his nose clean, and eventually accumulate enough money that employment becomes something he can choose rather than something holding a knife to his finances.
Until then:
Show up.
Be boring.
Know the SOP.
Follow the current instruction.
Don't freestyle.
Listen with interest, not investment.
Don't chase the hallway cats.
And if somebody is absolutely determined to crash out?
🌵
I hear cactus punching is available.
DAY 2 & 3 COMPLETE.
Hallway cats observed: Many.
Hallway cats chased: Zero.
Recreation write-ups: 12:58 PM and 1:07 PM.
Sunday coffee: Approximately 1½ cups.
Mandatory meeting: 6:00–7:10 AM.
Donuts: One.
Cat fights broken up: Enough.
Incident reports speedrun: One.
Monster resurrected: Absolutely fucking not.
Raccoon extraction: Approximately 6 PM.
Cactus status: 🔥
Mr. Germlin's official response:
DAMN.
THAT'S CRAZY.
🦝🌵🔥