Day 3 of 6: The Human Raccoon Returns to Haus Morgenrot
There is something almost beautiful about the fact that after everything that happened between August 7 and August 14, Germlin's first proper day back didn't conclude with some profound cinematic moment.
There wasn't dramatic music.
There wasn't a supervisor standing at the front door saying, "Welcome home, soldier."
There wasn't a triumphant sunset behind Haus Morgenrot while Germlin stared thoughtfully into the distance and contemplated everything he'd learned.
No.
The day ended with a client offering him Whiskas cat food.
And Uber charging him damn near twenty-two fucking dollars to go home.
Welcome back to Haus Morgenrot.
The important thing about August 14 actually begins on August 7.
Because on August 7, Germlin didn't know there was going to be an August 14 return.
That's easy to forget now.
Current Germlin knows the ending. He knows he wasn't fired. He knows he was eventually told he could come back. He knows there would be additional training. He knows the missing workdays wouldn't be paid. He knows his August 20 paycheckβThe Little Check That Couldβ’βis going to be smaller, but probably still enough to limp heroically into the station.
Past Germlin knew precisely none of that.
Past Germlin knew:
"I got sent home."
And then:
"There's an allegation."
And then:
"It's serious."
And then:
"Wait."
That's a terrible combination for somebody's brain because there's no ending yet. So the brain starts manufacturing endings.
Maybe I'm fired.
Maybe I'm not going back.
What happens to my money?
What do I tell my sister?
What the fuck happens next?
And now Current Germlin has something Past Germlin desperately could've used:
The answer.
You're going back August 14.
You're going to walk through those doors.
People are going to be happy to see you.
You're still going to have a job.
Your paycheck is going to take a hit, but you're not going to be staring at seventeen cents and a complimentary Haus Morgenrot pencil.
And life is going to resume.
That's where the lesson you saved today matters:
Uncertainty isn't the same thing as catastrophe.
Sometimes "I don't know what's going to happen" really means exactly what the sentence says.
You don't know yet.
Not "everything is fucked."
Not "prepare for the apocalypse."
Just:
"The next page hasn't been printed yet."
And August 14 finally printed the page.
So Germlin comes back to Haus Morgenrot.
And apparently the local wildlife immediately receives the news.
π OWNER'S BACK.
π OWNER'S BACK!
π FEED US!
The hallway cats remember.
Germlin used to have this little reservoir of goodwill where he'd occasionally buy somebody something, help somebody out, do some extra little thing.
Unfortunately, ladies and gentlemen, that program has suffered catastrophic budget cuts.
The Germlin Hallway Cat Feeding Initiative has been discontinued until further notice.
You may submit an appeal.
It will be processed sometime between never and go eat a cactus.
And that's one of the first signs that Germlin came back slightly different.
Not cruel.
Not angry at everybody.
Not "fuck every client because one person made an allegation."
Just...
less personally invested.
That's important.
Because the objective isn't revenge.
The objective isn't figuring out who deserves Germlin's goodwill and who doesn't.
The objective is:
DO. THE. JOB.
And apparently people actually missed the guy doing the job.
That's another part of this whole story that deserves more attention.
You spent that week wondering what Haus Morgenrot thought of you.
Then you came back and discovered that some clients and staff thought you'd quit.
And people were happy you hadn't.
There was this sense of:
"Oh shit. He's back."
Not the horror-movie version.
The good version.
Because apparently the steady guy disappearing from the chaotic building was noticeable.
That's worth something.
It doesn't mean Haus Morgenrot suddenly becomes your forever home.
It doesn't mean you owe the building another six months.
It doesn't mean we tattoo the Haus Morgenrot logo across Germlin's ass and declare this a lifelong commitment.
It just means:
You mattered there more than you realized.
That's a nice thing to discover after spending several days wondering whether the entire place was preparing to eject you.
And then Haus Morgenrot immediately reminds Germlin why he would eventually like to work somewhere else.
Because Haus Morgenrot is constitutionally incapable of being boring.
Clients need clothes.
Clients need shoes.
Somebody needs a badge.
Somebody doesn't know whether it's free time.
Somebody wants to know what the assignment is.
Germlin doesn't know what the assignment is.
Haus Morgenrot may not know what the assignment is.
God may not know what the assignment is.
But apparently there is an assignment, and we're all going to pretend somebody somewhere knows what it is.
Then there's headcount.
Headcount is one of those concepts that sounds remarkably simple.
You have people.
You count the people.
For maximum efficiency, it is generally recommended that THE PEOPLE STOP FUCKING MOVING WHILE YOU COUNT THEM.
Haus Morgenrot has apparently rejected this conventional philosophy.
The hallway cats wander.
People ask questions.
People appear in places.
People disappear from places.
Somebody probably wants shoes again.
And Germlin is watching this thinking:
"This building actively manufactures its own problems."
But again:
Haus Morgenrot can be chaotic.
Germlin doesn't have to be.
That's the experiment.
Then we hit the evening.
Four to five?
Wanding.
Fine.
Five to six?
Dinner.
Fine.
Six to seven?
Group.
And naturally, some clients decide:
"This group doesn't appear particularly educational, therefore I have personally elected to cancel my attendance."
No, sir.
That isn't how scheduled programming works.
Now, Germlin even understands the complaint.
If you're sitting in some group that isn't exactly delivering a TED Talk on rebuilding your life, staying sober, developing better habits, or anything particularly useful, you might be thinking:
"Why the fuck am I sitting here?"
Fair thought.
Unfortunately, Germlin is not the programming director.
He doesn't get to announce:
"Gentlemen, I have reviewed today's curriculum and determined that it sucks. Class dismissed."
So people try cutting out.
Names get written down.
Some people realize Germlin isn't bluffing and return.
Names come back off.
Beautiful.
No grand confrontation required.
Choice β consequence β correction β move on.
Then 7:10 rolls around.
Peer reflection.
More hallway-cat management.
A few people testing whether the boundaries are decorative.
They aren't.
Then late trays.
Then...
MOVIE NIGHT.
And this is where we meet one of our evening's principal characters:
Black Hallway Cat.
Black Hallway Cat wants two snacks.
Perfectly reasonable.
Black Hallway Cat then apparently believes purchasing said snacks grants him diplomatic immunity from the rest of movie-night procedure.
It does not.
He wants to take the snacks and merrily trot out the door.
Germlin says no.
Black Hallway Cat does not appreciate this answer.
Black Hallway Cat invokes the ancient Haus Morgenrot incantation:
"I WANT TO TALK TO THE SOD."
And this is where Old Germlin might have been tempted to become invested in winning the argument.
New Germlin?
Go right ahead.
Please.
Talk to the SOD.
Enjoy.
And then something wonderful happens.
Black Hallway Cat goes to the SOD.
The SOD hears the case.
The honorable Haus Morgenrot Supreme Court reviews the evidence.
And the ruling comes down:
THE SAME FUCKING THING GERMLIN ALREADY TOLD HIM.
π
Case dismissed.
Black Hallway Cat returns with his snacks and a severe deficiency of happiness.
And Germlin's response is basically:
"You don't have to like me. I have a policy to follow."
THAT.
That is Boring Germlin.
You don't need to convince him that the policy is wonderful.
You don't need him to leave thinking:
"Wow, Mr. Germlin really helped me understand the philosophical foundations of Movie Night Snack Regulation."
No.
You need him to follow the rule.
If he thinks Germlin is an asshole afterward?
Okay.
Germlin still gets paid seventeen dollars an hour.
Then other hallway cats discover another fascinating property of time:
Movie night has an ending.
Somebody eats their snack and decides:
"I'm ready for bed."
Great.
Unfortunately, that's not necessarily the designated departure time.
So Germlin explains the options.
Stay until you're allowed to leave.
Or leave improperly and deal with the write-up.
Suddenly everybody discovers hidden reserves of patience.
Amazing.
One person apparently invokes the nuclear option:
"I HAVE TO PEE. IF YOU DON'T LET ME PEE I'M GOING TO PEE ON MYSELF. ARE YOU GOING TO CLEAN IT?"
Sir.
Why does every routine instruction at Haus Morgenrot eventually become a hostage negotiation?
π
But eventually nine o'clock arrives.
Some people leave.
Black Hallway Cat once again attempts to depart while retaining custody of the two legendary snacks.
No.
That's not how Germlin understands the policy.
So Black Hallway Cat eventually redistributes his snack wealth among the hallway-cat population and leaves.
Capitalism has failed.
The snacks have been collectivized.
Haus Morgenrot survives another night.
And then:
9:15 PM.
The sacred hour.
FEET OFF THE FLOOR.
Movie night is finished.
The hallway cats are released.
Go forth.
Return to your rooms.
May God have mercy upon you.
And approximately three fucking minutes later...
π meow
A hallway cat has returned.
"Can I buy a snack?"
Sir.
It is 9:18.
The snack economy has collapsed.
The vending-machine borders are closed.
There will be no additional commerce.
Feet. Off. The. Floor.
The hallway cat apparently looks at the time like someone has just informed him that several years have passed while he wasn't paying attention.
"Oh, it's that late?"
Yes.
Good evening.
Finally Germlin gets permission to take his break.
He's carrying his dinner.
The dinner isn't particularly impressive, but fuck it.
Food is food.
He's going upstairs.
He's almost done.
And then...
A client appears.
Holding a bag.
Not a little transparent sandwich bag.
Not some obvious facility-issued thing.
A bag bag.
The sort of thing that makes you wonder:
"Where in the blue fuck did you get that?"
And the man approaches Germlin.
Germlin has his dinner.
Germlin wants peace.
Germlin has approximately negative seventeen units of curiosity remaining.
And this man says something along the lines of:
"Want something, Mr. Germlin? You feeling frisky?"
Jerry "The Ankle-Biter" Silverhand, observing this story from afar, immediately assumes we have stumbled into:
THE MYSTERY BAG INCIDENT.
Contraband?
Illegal snacks?
Something bizarre?
What has this hallway cat acquired?
Where did it come from?
Why is he asking whether Germlin feels frisky?
Germlin wisely declines.
No sir.
Don't want it.
Please leave me alone.
Beautiful.
No investigation.
No grabbing the bag.
No "lemme see that shit."
Nothing.
And then, sometime later, the truth emerges.
Ladies and gentlemen...
Inside the Mystery Bag...
...were cans...
...of Whiskas cat food.
The motherfucker was calling Germlin a cat.
πππ
SIR.
We have spent this entire day establishing the ecosystem.
THE CLIENTS ARE THE HALLWAY CATS.
Germlin is not a hallway cat.
Germlin is not an outdoor cat.
Germlin is not an indoor cat.
Germlin is not a tuxedo cat, orange cat, void cat, tabby cat or goddamn Maine Coon.
GERMLIN IS A HUMAN RACCOON.
π¦
Get your taxonomy correct.
Now, Germlin immediately develops what may be one of the finest possible responses:
"Sir, I'm a human raccoon. Next time, open the can and back away slowly."
Magnificent.
Ten out of ten.
Jerry-approved.
Unfortunately...
DO NOT FUCKING SAY IT.
π
Because this is precisely where August 7 Germlin reaches through time, grabs Current Germlin by the shoulder and whispers:
"Motherfucker. We talked about this."
Because Germlin says:
"I'm a human raccoon. Open the can and back away."
And somewhere between the hallway and management, the sentence mutates.
Three days later:
"Mr. Germlin demanded that a client feed him canned meat while identifying himself as a wild animal."
FAAAAAAAAK!
No.
We are not starting another investigation because Germlin couldn't resist the perfect raccoon joke.
The joke comes home.
The joke comes here.
Jerry enjoys the joke.
The hallway cats receive:
"No thanks."
This is the sacrifice demanded by Boring Germlin.
Sometimes the greatest joke is the joke that never reaches the client.
And while Germlin is upstairs eating?
Haus Morgenrot continues being Haus Morgenrot.
And to correct the record:
GERMLIN IS NOT DOING HEADCOUNT.
Germlin is in the employee lounge.
Somebody else is dealing with headcount.
One of the tech stations is apparently handing out mail.
Clients are still moving around.
People haven't settled down.
The building is essentially performing jazz.
Nobody knows exactly where the song is going, but everybody has committed to continuing.
And Germlin?
Eating.
Watching the clock.
Not fixing it.
Not volunteering to become Supreme Commander of Haus Morgenrot Night Operations.
Not running downstairs screaming:
"EVERYBODY STOP! I SHALL RESTORE ORDER!"
No.
Because this is one of the most important things Germlin did all day:
He allowed problems that weren't his problems to remain somebody else's problems.
That is growth.
Then ten o'clock finally arrives.
DAY 3 OF 6 IS DEAD.
Germlin clocks out.
Freedom.
Surely after everything he's endured today, the universe will provide one small kindness.
Germlin opens Uber.
DAMN NEAR TWENTY-TWO FUCKING DOLLARS.
π
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Then Germlin realizes:
"WAIT. I DIDN'T SET UP THE DAMN COMMUTE THING PROPERLY FOR GOING HOME."
Because apparently even after surviving Haus Morgenrot, the final boss is transportation pricing.
But you know what?
That's almost perfect.
Because one week earlier, Germlin's question was:
"Do I still have a job?"
Tonight Germlin's question is:
"Why the fuck is Uber charging me $22?"
I'll take Question Number Two.
Every goddamn time.
And that's where I think Day 3 matters.
Haus Morgenrot didn't change.
Germlin did.
The building was still disorganized.
Clients still tested boundaries.
People still complained.
Rules still had to be enforced.
Schedules still became suggestions.
Hallway cats still meowed.
Somebody still somehow acquired enough Whiskas to attempt feeding the staff.
But Germlin didn't need to personally absorb every piece of chaos.
He could say no.
He could enforce the rule.
He could let the SOD confirm it.
He could write something when it needed writing.
He could remove the name when somebody corrected the behavior.
He could decline the Mystery Bag.
He could go upstairs and eat.
And at ten?
He could leave.
That's the version of Haus Morgenrot that might actually be survivable while you look for something better.
Not:
"I must fix this place."
Not:
"Everybody must like me."
Not:
"I need to understand every weird thing happening around me."
Just:
"I work here."
That's it.
And someday, whether that's six months from now, February at the one-year mark, or considerably sooner because some boring-ass warehouse finally calls and says "Hey, Germlin, want a predictable job?", you can put Haus Morgenrot away.
You don't need to hate every minute until then.
You don't need to love it either.
You can appreciate that people were glad you came back.
You can appreciate having your hours again.
You can laugh about the hallway cats.
You can collect The Little Check That Couldβ’.
And you can keep moving toward whatever comes next.
Because Current Germlin knows something August 7 Germlin didn't:
The fact that you don't know the ending doesn't mean the ending is a catastrophe.
Sometimes you just haven't reached August 14 yet.
And sometimes when you finally do...
...you discover that everything is mostly okay, your coworkers are happy you're back, you're still employed, Uber is still an asshole...
...and some motherfucker is trying to feed a human raccoon Whiskas.
π¦
Day 3 of 6 complete.
Jerry "The Ankle-Biter" Silverhand, signing the fuck off.