DAY 4 OF 6 — THE CACTUS IS ON FIRE, AND I AM NOT THE FIRE DEPARTMENT
Tuesday, September 8, 2026
Day Four began with an ambulance.
Of course it did.
I hadn't even properly settled into Haus Morgenrot before EMS was already there.
Why?
I didn't know.
And since Boring Tech Does Not Make Fan Fiction, I wasn't about to manufacture a story just because an ambulance happened to be sitting outside.
EMS was there.
That's the fact.
Whatever caused it belonged to somebody else.
And after the previous three days, that seemed like an excellent philosophy for the entire shift:
Whatever caused it belongs to somebody else.
Unfortunately, Haus Morgenrot would spend the next twelve hours testing exactly how sincerely I believed that.
THE BORING PART
Strangely enough, most of the first half of Day Four was...
Fine.
I know.
I'm frightened too.
We started with a little free time around 10:00, followed by group from roughly 10:30 to 11:30.
Nothing exploded.
Nobody established an unauthorized barbershop.
Nobody appointed me Secretary of Free Time.
Nobody required me to contemplate the tactical applications of a cactus.
Then came lunch.
Ravioli.
Bad ravioli.
Not dangerous ravioli.
Not call EMS again ravioli.
Just ravioli possessing all the culinary ambition of something designed to satisfy a contractual obligation.
I ate.
I survived.
We continued.
This is what I want from Haus Morgenrot.
Not excitement.
Not adventure.
Not personal growth.
Boring.
I have enough character development.
THE NEW ADMITS
The afternoon became considerably busier when several new admits arrived.
And this is the kind of busy I actually don't mind.
There is a task.
There is a procedure.
There is an identifiable beginning and end.
Get them processed.
Get them where they need to go.
Sort their things.
Make sure the appropriate documents are separated.
Medicaid or Medicare information.
Social Security card.
Birth certificate.
Check, if applicable.
ID.
The things that are supposed to go back, go back.
The things that aren't supposed to go back—books, miscellaneous paperwork, electronics, assorted artifacts from the previous civilization—do not.
Simple.
I handled a couple.
Front lobby handled a couple.
Another tech handled one.
Packets went toward the counselors.
Property got sorted.
Bags eventually got cleaned up and moved into the property room.
And then:
THE THREE-PRONG BINDER REVOLT OF 2026.
Apparently one binder had spent enough years participating in administrative society and decided:
No.
Documents began escaping.
Not everywhere everywhere.
But enough for me to understand that the binder had formally withdrawn its consent to contain paper.
Me: “Your purpose is literally to hold this.”
Binder: BLEGH.
📄📄📄
Me: “Motherfucker.”
I fixed it.
Because unlike hallway cats, paperwork rarely argues that somebody else told it the binder was optional.
Eventually everything was cleaned up.
And around three o'clock:
Lunch.
My lunch.
MR. GERMLIN COMMITS WHATABURGER
I had been eating a lot of salad and seafood.
For months.
Healthy enough.
Responsible enough.
But sometimes a man wants a fucking burger.
So for the second day, I acquired Whataburger.
Nothing outrageous.
Food.
Water.
About twenty bucks.
I ate it.
I enjoyed it.
End of story.
Except bringing outside food into Haus Morgenrot apparently activates hallway-cat sonar.
Somebody sees the bag.
Somebody smells the fries.
And suddenly:
“Man, I ain't think you care about me.”
I care about you.
I hope you succeed.
I hope you finish the program.
I hope you get out of Haus Morgenrot and never need to come back.
But there is a very important distinction between:
“I care about your wellbeing.”
and:
“I have become your personal Whataburger franchise.”
I've seen hallway cats mysteriously manifest Popeyes.
I've seen hallway cats mysteriously manifest Whataburger.
Apparently fried chicken occasionally materializes through quantum fluctuations in the Haus Morgenrot atmosphere.
Wonderful.
It won't be coming from me.
Mr. Germlin's contribution to the hallway-cat economy remains:
policy, paperwork, occasional dad jokes, and disappointment.
The burger was delicious.
Moving on.
MEOW MEOW MEOW
I went into Day Four trying to practice something I had learned the hard way on Day Three:
Listen with attention, not emotional investment.
This is difficult.
Because I actually do want these people to succeed.
That's the annoying part.
It would be considerably easier if I didn't give a shit.
But I do.
I want somebody to finish the program.
I want somebody to leave.
I want somebody to stop repeating whatever series of decisions brought them here.
But I cannot want that more than they do.
And I cannot turn every hallway-cat complaint into an intellectual problem requiring Mr. Germlin's personal intervention.
Sometimes the appropriate mental translation is simply:
Meow.
“Why do we gotta—”
Meow.
“But Mr. Somebody said—”
Meow.
“I thought it was free—”
Meow.
“My counselor—”
Hold on.
That one might contain actual information.
Listen.
Verify.
Then:
meow meow meow.
The point isn't that they're not human beings or that nothing they say matters.
They're people.
Some things they tell me absolutely matter.
The point is that every complaint does not require emotional investment.
Listen.
Determine whether it concerns my job.
Act accordingly.
Return to neutral.
That's the theory.
And for most of Day Four?
It worked beautifully.
Then dinner ended.
TUESDAY.EXE HAS ENCOUNTERED AN ERROR
Monday had been Labor Day.
That meant Tuesday's programming returned from the holiday looking like somebody had restored Haus Morgenrot from a corrupted save file.
After dinner, we were supposed to have programming running toward 7:50.
Except there was confusion about who was grouping, which counselor had which clients, where everybody was supposed to be, and what exactly was happening.
Staff and clients alike were trying to locate the fucking plot.
Eventually useful information emerged:
This counselor is in this room.
That counselor is in that room.
If you're assigned there, go there.
Wonderful.
Organization.
I fucking love organization.
Then around six o'clock, one counselor canceled a meeting.
And somewhere inside the distributed computing network known as Client News Network, the following calculation occurred:
GROUP CANCELED
therefore
FREE TIME.
No.
That is not how calendars work.
A scheduled activity disappearing does not automatically transform the remaining minutes into federally protected snack migration.
But immediately:
“Is it free time?”
“No.”
“But there's no group.”
“Still not free time.”
“So what are we supposed to—”
Come back for peer reflection from 8:00 to 8:30.
That was the next requirement.
That's what I told them.
And once again I found myself wondering how the words FREE TIME manage to regenerate every five minutes like a status effect.
You can give these people three hours of free time.
Then lunch.
Then another hour.
Four minutes later:
“Is it free time?”
Brother.
You have experienced enough freedom today.
SACP: THE CHAOS EXPANSION PACK
Meanwhile, SACP was doing SACP things.
I have developed a highly scientific classification system.
Hallway cats are hallway cats.
SACP?
Shitseeds.
Different ecosystem.
One SACP client became disruptive during the counselor's group.
Counselor sat him out.
Fine.
I documented it.
That's exactly where Day Three's lesson helped.
I did not need to make him understand.
I did not need to personally rehabilitate him.
I did not need to pull out a chalkboard and explain the causal relationship between:
being disruptive
and:
consequences.
Paper.
📋
Done.
The counselor and the process can handle whatever comes next.
I am not emotionally adopting this incident.
Beautiful.
Maybe I'm learning.
THEN CAME 8:00 PM
Peer Reflection.
8:00 to 8:30.
Thirty minutes.
Not an evening seminar.
Not The Lord of the Rings: Extended Edition.
Thirty.
Minutes.
Before that, people were getting snacks around 7:50 to 8:00.
Fine.
Get your snack.
Then get where you're supposed to be.
Except apparently several people interpreted:
8:00 PM
as:
whenever the fuck I arrive.
People began showing up late.
And I don't mean:
8:01.
8:03.
Even 8:05.
I'm talking about people arriving something like nineteen minutes late to a thirty-minute group.
At nineteen minutes late, you're not attending Peer Reflection.
You're showing up for the fucking credits.
Then came the instruction:
Write them up.
Okay.
I looked around.
There were something like thirty-five to forty fucking people.
Ma'am.
I possess two hands.
I do not have an administrative minigun.
I cannot simply:
BRRRRRRRRRRRRT
and produce forty completed write-ups.
I started working through what I realistically could.
Then, because Haus Morgenrot understands comedy:
another group of roughly ten arrived late.
Oh.
Excellent.
Welcome.
📋
📋
📋
📋
Those motherfuckers got paperwork.
Brand-new?
Paperwork.
Been here forever?
Paperwork.
Doesn't matter.
I am not running:
NEW CLIENT — FIRST LATE ARRIVAL FREE!
If the expectation is established and your behavior meets the write-up criteria, congratulations:
You have unlocked paperwork.
What happens afterward belongs to the counselor and whatever process follows.
And strangely enough?
I wasn't furious because I had to write.
I know how to write people up.
I've written enough paperwork at this place to deforest a medium-sized nation.
What got under my skin was the loop.
THE LOOP
Tell somebody what time they're supposed to be somewhere.
They hear you.
Tell them again.
They wander away.
Time arrives.
They aren't there.
They finally appear.
They get held accountable.
Then suddenly:
“Well, I was trying to be here on time.”
Or:
“How am I supposed to know what time it is?”
Or:
“Maybe somebody should give me a watch.”
And this is where Mr. Germlin's internal operating temperature begins approaching:
🌵🔥
Because I already told you.
And I'm not saying every single person does this.
They don't.
Some people listen.
Some people show up.
Some people are trying.
Some people legitimately make mistakes.
But there is a particular species of poor decision where somebody receives the information, ignores the information, experiences the completely predictable consequence, and then behaves as though the consequence descended unexpectedly from Zeus.
That shit grates me.
Deeply.
And by the end of Day Four, I was fucking tired.
BUT I DIDN'T CRASH OUT
That's important.
Day Three?
I crashed out.
I walked into that room and told everybody:
“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”
I got corrected.
Fair.
I learned something.
Day Four?
I was angry.
Very angry.
But I didn't repeat Day Three.
Instead, I started becoming quiet.
And maybe that's my better move.
Because sometimes a hallway cat starts teasing.
Or testing.
Or explaining.
Or doing that little dance where you already know exactly which poor strategic decision they're preparing to make.
And I don't need to argue.
I don't need to save them.
I don't need to convince them.
I don't need to become angry enough for both of us.
Sometimes I can simply become:
ARTHUR.
There is Red Arremer.
Hovering.
Baiting.
Waiting.
Arthur does not move.
Arthur watches.
👁️_👁️
Hallway Cat prepares the jump.
Arthur:
Commit.
Hallway Cat commits.
Hallway Cat fucks it up.
Mr. Germlin:
📋
That's it.
No emotional DLC required.
AND THEN THERE WAS AT&T
Because naturally, none of this occurred in isolation.
For approximately three fucking days, my home Internet had also been dead.
The AT&T gateway?
Blinking white.
Blinking white.
Blinking white.
Blinking white.
Apparently there had been a larger Houston-area outage initially.
Fine.
Outages happen.
Except eventually the broader outage reportedly clears...
…and mine remains dead.
Wonderful.
So after working twelve-hour shifts dealing with people who occasionally appear incapable of following basic instructions, I get to come home and deal with a machine whose entire job is:
INTERNET.
And it has apparently decided:
No.
I don't want adventure after work.
I don't want troubleshooting.
I don't want to become an unpaid telecommunications engineer.
I want to come home.
Sit down.
Watch something.
Maybe continue Tales from the Crypt.
Enjoy one fucking thing.
Instead:
BLINKING WHITE.
Reset.
Wait.
Reset.
Wait.
Four minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty minutes.
Eventually one reboot seemed to take approximately the entire geological history of North America.
At one point I seriously considered buying Xfinity purely out of rage.
And that's when the Broke Doctrine had to walk into the room and slap me.
No.
We are not rage-purchasing an entire second Internet service because AT&T has temporarily transformed itself into a decorative light manufacturer.
Eventually I fought through the support process and got a technician appointment.
Progress!
Except AT&T apparently configured the appointment to contact my other phone number.
A number that technically exists.
A number that currently has no phone attached to it.
Of course.
Because even the solution required an expansion pack.
The gateway also received approximately:
seven fist bonks
and:
one phone bonk.
This did not improve network performance.
In retrospect, the gateway has now received sufficient corrective action.
Further write-ups will be administrative only.
After service is restored, however?
Oh yes.
We are discussing a service credit.
Boring Tech may not make fan fiction.
But Boring Customer absolutely keeps receipts.
THE CACTUS IS ON FIRE
So by the end of Day Four, I was angry.
Not Day Three angry.
Not walking-into-group-and-crashing-out angry.
Just:
tired.
Tired of repeating things.
Tired of predictable consequences becoming surprise events.
Tired of disorganization.
Tired of technology refusing to do its one fucking job.
Tired of twelve-hour shifts.
Tired of being asked to solve things I did not break.
And I caught myself thinking:
Fine.
The cactus is on fire.
Let it burn.
Not literally.
Not neglecting something that's actually my responsibility.
But metaphorically?
Absolutely.
Because there are fires I am paid to respond to.
And there are fires created entirely by somebody else's poor decisions.
Those are different fires.
DAY FOUR'S LESSON
Day Three taught me:
Do your part of the mission. Don't promote yourself to mission commander.
Day Four added:
YOU CANNOT SAVE SOMEBODY FROM A DECISION THEY INSIST ON MAKING.
Tell them the expectation.
Give them the information.
Correct them when appropriate.
Document what actually happens.
Escalate what actually requires escalation.
But once somebody has been given the information and decides to fuck around anyway?
That's their decision.
I don't need to chase them into it.
I don't need to emotionally accompany them.
I don't need to stand beside them screaming:
“PLEASE DON'T TOUCH THE STOVE.”
while they slowly extend their hand toward the burner.
Sometimes:
👁️_👁️
Commit.
And then:
📋
Because consequences do not require my anger to function.
That's the part I'm learning.
Tomorrow is Day 5 of 6.
Then Day 6.
Two more.
I'm going to show up.
Follow the schedule.
Do the job.
Ask when I don't know.
Write what needs writing.
Give somebody a push-up when they deserve one.
Tell somebody to pull up when they need it.
And stop trying to personally manufacture good decisions inside other people's heads.
Because I can care about somebody.
I can hope they succeed.
I can genuinely want them to walk out of Haus Morgenrot and build a better fucking life.
But I cannot want it for them.
And if the cactus catches fire?
🌵🔥
I'll determine whether it's actually my cactus.
If it isn't?
Arthur isn't moving.
Commit.
— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand