Day 4 of 6: The Roots Get Deeper
Day 4 began with a hallway cat attempting to establish dominance.
Because apparently this is how Saturdays begin now.
Germlin gets out of the Uber.
Walks into Haus Morgenrot.
Says good morning to the people at the front.
Normal human behavior.
Everything is fine.
Then Germlin reaches hallway-cat territory and encounters one of the local specimens doing what can only be described as:
TOMCAT INTIMIDATION THEATER.
Arms out.
Chest up.
Trying to look big.
Trying to look imposing.
Trying to communicate whatever ancient message male cats communicate when they encounter another creature near their favorite dumpster.
And Germlin?
Germlin stares.
Doesn't say anything.
Doesn't stop.
Doesn't challenge him.
Doesn't drop eye contact.
Just...
🦝 STARE.
And continues walking toward the employee lounge.
Because contrary to what the client with the Whiskas apparently believes:
GERMLIN IS NOT A CAT.
Germlin is a Human Raccoon.
And a raccoon faced with an unnecessarily aggressive tomcat has three principal responses:
- Stare.
- Hiss.
- Stare some more.
Fortunately, Boring Germlin understands that actually hissing at clients would probably generate paperwork.
So the hiss remains spiritual.
The raccoon enters the employee lounge.
Welcome to Day 4 of 6.
Saturday at Haus Morgenrot operates according to a fascinating principle:
Everyone knows there is a schedule.
Everyone has presumably seen the schedule.
Some people have been following this schedule long enough to acquire badges indicating that they are not exactly fresh off the fucking boat.
And yet at precisely 10:00 AM, multiple hallway cats suddenly develop amnesia.
Monday through Friday?
Sure.
Ten o'clock might mean free time.
Saturday?
No.
Saturday free time/personal chores begins at 10:30.
This distinction apparently requires advanced theoretical physics.
Because people immediately start trying to buy snacks.
Germlin stops one.
Then another one comes strolling right behind him and purchases something from the vending machine anyway.
Sir.
We JUST did this.
And naturally, after getting written up, the argument begins.
"You should've given me a chance."
"This is the first time I've done this."
"I've never been written up for this before."
And somewhere in this conversation appears another sacred Haus Morgenrot artifact:
THE GRIEVANCE.
The client wants to file one.
Fine.
File it.
Germlin is not particularly terrified of paperwork stating that Germlin enforced the schedule.
Although Current Germlin is learning something important:
You don't even need to argue about the grievance.
You don't need to say:
"I'm not scared of your grievance."
You don't need to explain what the grievance ought to say.
You don't need to conduct a constitutional seminar on whether the Saturday vending-machine schedule represents cruel and unusual punishment.
There's an even more boring answer available:
"You're entitled to file a grievance."
That's it.
The grievance can go wherever grievances go.
Germlin has hallway cats to manage.
And there was another potential write-up sitting there.
The same client hadn't been wearing his badge earlier.
Germlin noticed.
Germlin let it go.
Then the vending-machine nonsense happened.
And afterward Germlin wondered:
Should I go back and write him up for the badge too?
Old Germlin might have.
After all, technically there was another violation.
Technically Germlin saw it.
Technically paperwork exists.
But Day 4 Germlin eventually arrived somewhere more useful:
No.
Not because rules don't matter.
Not because the client magically became correct.
But because Germlin had already seen the badge issue and exercised discretion.
Going backward after the vending-machine argument and grievance to add another write-up accomplishes approximately fuck-all besides making Germlin's day longer.
Handle what happens when it happens.
Don't build a case afterward.
That's a distinction Germlin is beginning to understand.
Because being strict doesn't mean becoming a human citation printer.
Eventually the morning moves.
10:30 arrives.
Then 11:30.
Lunch.
Then visitation.
HHSC arrives around 12:50 and remains until roughly 2:50.
And Haus Morgenrot temporarily transforms into whatever version of itself exists when outside eyes are wandering around the building.
Eventually visitation ends.
People get their opportunity to buy snacks.
The building continues rotating.
And somehow Germlin reaches:
3:39 PM.
Lunch.
Oatmeal earlier.
Honey bun earlier.
Monster Number One earlier.
Monster Number Two currently undergoing deployment.
Because Germlin has looked at the remaining schedule and determined that the Human Raccoon Power Grid must remain operational until at least 9:15 PM.
This is not nutrition.
This is infrastructure maintenance.
And Germlin already knows what's coming.
Recreation.
Headcount.
Dinner.
Group.
Peer reflection.
Late trays.
And then...
MOVIE NIGHT.
The potential Saturday final boss.
But first:
Headcount.
Headcount begins with the traditional Haus Morgenrot philosophy:
Please return to your assigned location so we can determine whether all human beings currently exist.
This takes considerably longer than one might expect.
Eventually dinner arrives.
Five to six.
And somewhere around this period, something happens that Germlin doesn't fully appreciate until later.
There's something on the floor.
A little object.
Germlin looks.
And—
Oh shit.
NICOTINE POUCH.
Now, there are several possible stories Germlin's brain could construct.
Who dropped it?
When?
Was somebody trying to set him up?
Did somebody deliberately leave it there?
Was it already there?
Was it dropped during wanding?
Was Batman involved?
Because yes, apparently one of the clients and Germlin have an ongoing Batman/Joker joke.
Haus Morgenrot contains multitudes.
But here's where something interesting happens.
Germlin stops.
He doesn't know.
So Germlin does not manufacture an answer.
No allegations.
No suspects.
No detective work.
No:
"I BET THAT MOTHERFUCKER—"
Nothing.
There's a nicotine pouch on the floor.
That's what Germlin knows.
Unfortunately, Germlin throws it away.
And afterward Jerry "The Ankle-Biter" Silverhand points out a small problem.
Sir.
We have been down this road before.
Contraband is one of those areas where Haus Morgenrot has already taught Germlin an expensive lesson:
DO NOT IMPROVISE.
So the new rule becomes painfully simple.
Find contraband?
Bag it.
Tag it.
Tell the SOD.
Follow the SOP.
And then forget about it.
No guessing who owned it.
No theories.
No investigation unless that's actually Germlin's responsibility.
Facts only.
"Nicotine pouch found on floor."
Beautiful.
Boring.
Defensible.
And most importantly:
Not another fucking sequel.
Germlin also develops another idea.
After groups clear out?
Clean the floor.
Not because Germlin needs to perform employment theater.
But because it's useful.
The room gets cleaned.
Trash disappears.
Anything unusual becomes visible.
The next group begins with a cleaner baseline.
And Germlin is doing exactly what he should be doing:
His fucking job.
Nothing cinematic.
Nothing heroic.
Nothing requiring a cape.
Just:
🦝 sweep sweep
The Human Raccoon has discovered janitorial counterintelligence.
Then six to seven arrives.
Group.
Then 7:10 to 7:40.
Peer reflection.
And the hallway cats begin testing the structural integrity of the boundaries.
One group wants to leave early.
No.
Another group eventually leaves.
And eventually Germlin must deploy something he generally prefers keeping holstered:
THE LOUD VOICE.
Theodore Roosevelt allegedly advised:
Speak softly and carry a big stick.
Germlin does not possess a big stick.
HR would probably have questions.
So Germlin possesses:
THE VOICE.
The room needs to clear.
The hallway cats are informed that the room needs to clear.
The hallway cats demonstrate selective auditory failure.
The volume knob turns.
Suddenly everyone understands English.
Amazing.
Hallway cats evacuate.
And here's another lesson:
Professional doesn't always mean quiet.
Sometimes the assignment genuinely requires a firm command.
The trick is that once the task is accomplished?
Turn the volume back down.
You don't have to stay angry just because you had to become loud.
Use the tool.
Put the tool away.
Move on.
Then late trays.
Not many tonight.
Beautiful.
Maybe the universe has finally developed mercy.
No.
Because next comes the vending-machine economy.
The hallway cats enter.
Chaos.
People buying things.
People needing change.
People claiming the machine stole their money.
People moving around.
Names being written down so somebody can get change and then being crossed off when they return.
And somewhere in this magnificent capitalist experiment arrives:
PINK BADGE.
Loss of privileges.
LOP.
This gentleman apparently has roughly two weeks remaining at Haus Morgenrot and has reached the philosophical conclusion:
"Fuck it."
He's leaving soon.
If he leaves with the pink badge?
Apparently so be it.
He buys something from the vending machine despite the restriction.
And Germlin has a decision.
Does Germlin turn this into another major event?
Does Germlin begin chasing every violation occurring in a room full of people?
Does Germlin attempt to simultaneously regulate vending commerce, late trays, movie-night preparation, change requests, machine malfunctions, and the moral character of every hallway cat in the building?
No.
Because somewhere during Day 4, Germlin begins understanding something.
NOT EVERYTHING REQUIRES MAXIMUM GERMLIN.
That doesn't mean ignore policy.
If somebody clearly breaks something that requires documentation?
Document it.
If safety is involved?
Act.
If contraband is involved?
Bag it.
Tag it.
SOD it.
But every annoying thing doesn't require Germlin to transform into:
ROBOCOP: RESIDENTIAL TREATMENT EDITION.
There is judgment involved.
There is discretion involved.
There is knowing what actually matters.
And Germlin is beginning to learn the difference.
Then comes Movie Night.
The thing Germlin had been looking toward all afternoon.
The potential final boss.
The event Monster Number Two had apparently been hired to defeat.
And...
Germlin survives it.
That's almost anticlimactic.
After spending hours thinking:
"I just need enough energy to make it through Movie Night."
Movie Night arrives.
Movie Night happens.
Movie Night ends.
9:15 arrives.
And the Human Raccoon remains alive.
That's another funny thing about worrying about the next part of the day.
Eventually the next part becomes the current part.
And then the current part becomes:
the part that's already over.
But somewhere during this ordinary Saturday, a client says something to Germlin.
Nothing dramatic.
No orchestra.
No ancient monk descending from a mountain.
Just one of the people living inside Haus Morgenrot saying something along the lines of:
"If a root is deep enough, you no longer have to be afraid of the wind."
Germlin hears it.
And initially?
Huh.
Interesting.
Then keeps moving.
Because there's shit to do.
But later?
That sentence follows him home.
At 9:46 PM, Germlin is essentially finished.
Fourteen minutes remain.
There is nothing left to conquer.
No reason to search for another problem.
No reason to volunteer for another adventure.
Sit down.
Chill.
Let Haus Morgenrot continue existing without Germlin personally stabilizing the Earth's rotation.
Then:
10:00 PM.
Clock out.
Day 4 is dead.
The Human Raccoon goes home.
And that's where this story should end.
Except it doesn't.
Because when Germlin gets home...
HYDRA IS GONE.
Not going.
Not supposed to leave soon.
Gone.
Saturday was his final day.
He left at 3:57 PM.
And Germlin discovers something else.
There isn't some enormous final pile of destruction waiting for him.
No mountain of garbage.
No giant farewell disaster.
No final Hydra boss fight.
He just...
left.
And suddenly the house is different.
Quiet in a way that isn't theoretical anymore.
So Germlin starts cleaning.
The bathroom gets stripped down to the bare minimum.
Not somebody else's bathroom arrangement.
Not somebody else's clutter.
Just what Germlin actually needs.
Bruno goes outside.
Bruno gets his antibacterial medicine.
There will be a shower for the little bastard too.
And Germlin starts looking around at a house that has spent months feeling like somebody else's chaos and realizes:
We can start putting this back together.
Not tonight.
Not with some giant shopping spree.
Slowly.
His sister will reorder the dryer.
Other things Hydra threw away can eventually be replaced.
Things can be spruced up.
One piece at a time.
There is no emergency.
There is simply:
what comes next.
And then Germlin cries.
Not cute little movie tears.
Not one dignified tear rolling down the cheek while inspirational music plays.
No.
Germlin cries his fucking soul out.
Because somewhere underneath the jokes, hallway cats, write-ups, vending machines, Uber prices, job applications, investigations, household fights and all the other shit...
Germlin has been carrying a lot.
And now one chapter is actually over.
And when enough pressure disappears, sometimes everything being held behind it finally gets permission to come out.
Germlin thinks about who he's been.
Things he's done.
Ways he's reacted.
Anger he's carried.
Things he wishes he'd handled differently.
And Germlin prays.
He asks the Lord—his Savior—for strength.
Not strength to win every argument.
Not strength to become harder.
Not strength to make everybody who ever pissed him off regret it.
Strength to become:
BETTER.
Better for himself.
Better toward other people.
Not perfect.
Better.
There's a difference.
Earlier, during HHSC visitation, one of the techs had said something interesting.
It took her about three years to become more humble.
Three years.
Germlin is approaching seven months at this job.
And maybe humility isn't becoming passive.
Maybe humility isn't letting people walk over you.
Maybe humility isn't pretending bad people don't exist.
They absolutely fucking do.
Maybe humility is understanding:
I don't need to respond to everything.
I don't need to win everything.
I don't need to punish every irritation.
I don't need to know everybody's motives.
I don't need to turn uncertainty into an accusation.
I don't need to fix every broken thing around me.
I don't need to become the chaos simply because I'm standing inside it.
Sometimes the rule needs enforcing.
Enforce it.
Sometimes somebody needs writing up.
Write it.
Sometimes contraband appears.
Bag it.
Tag it.
Tell the SOD.
Sometimes somebody is simply being an asshole.
And sometimes?
You can let an asshole continue his independent research into being an asshole without assisting him.
That's judgment.
Maybe that's humility too.
And Germlin thinks about Haus Morgenrot.
This fucking job.
This place he complains about.
This place he wants eventually to leave.
This place that has suspended him.
Written him up.
Confused him.
Exhausted him.
Made him angry.
Made him laugh.
Given him hallway cats.
Given him stories Jerry will probably still be telling long after Germlin finally throws the deuces.
And yet...
By the grace of the good Lord:
GERMLIN HAS BEEN BLESSED WITH A JOB THAT PAYS.
That doesn't mean the problems weren't real.
Gratitude doesn't require dishonesty.
Germlin doesn't have to rewrite Haus Morgenrot as paradise.
He doesn't have to suddenly decide:
"Actually, mandatory overtime and administrative chaos are fucking wonderful."
No.
Two things can be true.
This place can drive me absolutely fucking insane.
And:
I am grateful that I have been able to earn a living here.
Those truths don't cancel each other out.
Maybe maturity is being able to hold both.
And that's when that client's random sentence from earlier starts sounding considerably less random.
"If a root is deep enough, you no longer have to be afraid of the wind."
The sentence doesn't say:
There will be no wind.
That's the important part.
The wind still comes.
August 7 comes.
Allegations come.
Suspensions come.
Bad checks come.
Family conflict comes.
People leave.
Things get thrown away.
Clients complain.
Grievances get filed.
Somebody violates vending-machine policy at precisely the stupidest possible time.
The wind blows.
The lesson isn't learning how to command the wind to stop.
It's growing roots deep enough that every gust doesn't convince you the tree is about to die.
And maybe that's what the last week has really been about.
August 7 Germlin didn't know whether he had a job.
August 14 Germlin walked back through the doors.
August 15 Germlin worked an ordinary chaotic Saturday.
Then he came home and discovered another chapter had quietly ended at 3:57 PM while he was still at work.
Life moved.
Again.
And Germlin is still here.
Not unchanged.
Not magically enlightened.
Not transformed into Saint Germlin of the Blessed Vending Machine.
Still profane.
Still occasionally pissed off.
Still capable of spectacular Germlin-ass ideas requiring Jerry "The Ankle-Biter" Silverhand to materialize metaphorically and say:
"Sir. Perhaps we do not fucking do that."
But maybe...
a little deeper rooted.
Because that's the part Germlin doesn't want to miss.
For months, strength sometimes meant:
Hold your ground.
And sometimes that's exactly what strength requires.
But there's another kind.
Let it go.
Not everything.
Not your boundaries.
Not your dignity.
Not genuine violations that you're responsible for handling.
But the things that don't deserve permanent residence inside your head.
Let those go.
Clean the bathroom.
Give Bruno his medicine.
Talk to your sister.
Replace the dryer later.
Replace the other things slowly.
Go to work tomorrow.
Do the job.
Get paid.
Come home.
Keep building.
Keep becoming.
Keep growing the roots.
Because the wind isn't finished.
It never will be.
But maybe that's okay.
If a root is deep enough, you no longer have to be afraid of the wind.
🦝🌳
Day 4 of 6 complete.
The hallway cats survived.
The Human Raccoon survived.
Hydra has departed.
The house is quiet.
Bruno got his medicine.
And somewhere beneath all the noise of the last several months...
the roots got a little deeper.
Jerry "The Ankle-Biter" Silverhand, signing the fuck off.
🦝🌳