Day 5 of 6 — Paperwork Spends Better Than Ulric Money
Wednesday, September 9, 2026
Day Five.
Five.
Of six.
Not 506.
Not Day Five of OEF.
Not whatever collection of vowels my voice recorder decides to excavate from the English language.
Five shifts down after tonight.
One remains.
And after Day Four ended with the cactus engulfed in flames, AT&T refusing to perform the revolutionary telecommunications procedure known as providing telecommunications, and me reaching the point where I wanted to watch the entire world burn from a comfortable folding chair, I came into Day Five with a simpler philosophy:
Own my shit.
Don't own somebody else's.
Listen with interest, not investment.
And when somebody insists on making a poor strategic decision?
👁️_👁️
Commit.
10:20 AM — THE MIGRATION BEGINS
We started with the usual snack/free-time business around 10:20.
Then one of the techs left and locked the big group room.
Naturally, this produced a collection of hallway cats standing around wondering where civilization had gone.
Group was supposed to run from roughly 10:30 to 11:30.
One client came through with some variation of:
“I need to use the bathroom.”
Then counselor.
Then whatever else.
Fine.
I gave him the information that mattered:
If you skip group, that's your decision.
I'm not chasing you.
I'm not becoming emotionally invested in whether you make it back.
I'm not writing a dissertation entitled Why Group Attendance Is Important: An Illustrated Guide for the Wandering Hallway Cat.
You know where you're supposed to be.
Do what you need to do.
And if your decision produces a consequence?
That's yours too.
I didn't write him up.
That becomes relevant later.
THE INNOCENT HALLWAY CAT
After group, they got more free time from about 11:30 to noon, followed by lunch.
And somewhere near the end of lunch, an injustice occurred.
Against a hallway cat.
By me.
This requires an explanation.
These people have trained me not to trust pointing.
Someone points toward the floor:
“Mr. Germlin, look!”
I look.
Nothing.
Ha-ha.
Someone makes that stupid little circle with their fingers:
👌
“Look!”
No.
Arthur has learned.
Arthur does not commit.
So this particular hallway cat starts trying to get me to look toward the bottom of my shirt.
Immediately my brain goes:
DECEPTION.
I thought maybe he was fucking with me about my badge picture again.
They've already gotten plenty of mileage out of that picture.
My original picture looked like somebody inflated my face to approximately 140 PSI.
So I declined participation.
Politely.
Professionally.
With the traditional Haus Morgenrot diplomatic language:
“Would you kindly eat a cactus?”
🌵
Unfortunately, he had countermeasures.
He explained that people actually eat cactus in Mexico.
Goddammit.
My primary weapon had been neutralized.
So I escalated.
“Then go hug a brown bear.”
🐻
He kept insisting:
“No, I'm serious.”
I informed him that I, too, was serious about the bear.
Then he left.
A short while later, I happened to look down.
There was white stuff on my shirt.
...
Oh.
OH.
The motherfucker was actually helping me.
Hallway Cat had committed no fuckery whatsoever.
Mr. Germlin had falsely detected an incoming prank and deployed a cactus followed by an unnecessary bear.
Later, after the 6–7 PM group, I found him and apologized.
No excuses.
He was right.
I was wrong.
Case closed.
Hallway Cat: 1
Mr. Germlin: 0
Brown Bear: 0, because it had absolutely nothing to do with any of this.
The bear-hug order was officially rescinded.
THE HABERDASHERY INCIDENT
Then came clothing.
TDCJ clients arriving from a unit don't necessarily arrive with a normal closet full of clothes.
There's a process.
Health screening.
Clothing inventory.
Property inventory.
For the clothing inventory, the applicable categories start at zero and the client's incoming items are documented appropriately.
Earlier, I had completed one of these sheets.
Shirts.
Pants.
Underwear.
Belt.
Sweatshirt.
Et cetera.
Then footwear.
The client had shower shoes and another pair that I recorded as tennis shoes.
Except they weren't tennis shoes.
They were boots.
That's my mistake.
No argument.
I marked the wrong footwear category.
Fine.
Except somewhere between me completing the paperwork and the client reaching the clothing lady—the haberdashery lady, because apparently we're running a Victorian menswear establishment now—the document had been changed.
Something had been scratched out and corrected.
And according to the client:
the tech did it.
Oh?
Now the facility director gets notified.
The clothing lady gets notified.
And Mr. Germlin gets summoned to an office he sees approximately once every solar eclipse.
I looked at the sheet.
And immediately:
No.
I knew what I had screwed up.
Boots versus tennis shoes?
Mine.
But the alteration?
Not mine.
First, I rarely correct official paperwork by scratching through it like that. If the sheet needs replacing, I'll generally redo the damn sheet.
Second:
No initials.
If I make an appropriate correction requiring initials, I'm putting my initials there.
Third—and perhaps most importantly—I have demonstrated repeatedly that when I fuck something up, I am perfectly capable of saying:
“Yep. I fucked that up.”
I don't need somebody manufacturing an expansion pack.
I already provide sufficient original content.
So I corrected the client right there.
Next time you notice that staff recorded something incorrectly, tell us.
Let us fix it properly.
Don't independently alter the paperwork and then say the tech made the alteration.
There are two separate things here:
I marked the shoes incorrectly.
I own that.
The client altered the sheet afterward.
I do not own that.
And maybe that's one of the better lessons I've learned at Haus Morgenrot:
ACCOUNTABILITY DOES NOT MEAN ACCEPTING BLAME FOR EVERYTHING.
If it's mine?
I'll take it.
If it isn't?
No.
Boring Tech doesn't make fan fiction about himself either.
“YOU'RE SEXY.”
Shortly after leaving that situation, another hallway-cat interaction appeared.
There was a client I'd previously dealt with around another conflict. Big dude. Hulking tomcat.
Another client—let's simply call him Hallway Cat—started telling him:
“You're sexy.”
Big Tomcat did not appreciate this.
At all.
He wanted paperwork.
He also used a slur while demanding it.
No.
We're not doing that either.
I don't give a shit whether somebody is straight, gay, bisexual, transgender, or whatever else.
That's not my concern.
The issue is considerably simpler:
The other person doesn't welcome the comment.
So stop.
You can joke with people who enjoy joking with you.
You can be weird with people who enjoy being weird with you.
But when somebody makes it clear that they don't appreciate that kind of comment directed at them:
Pull up.
Respect the boundary.
I didn't write Hallway Cat up.
I gave him the pull-up.
And apparently Big Tomcat appreciated the way I handled it, because he gave me something along the lines of:
“There aren't enough Mr. Germlins around here.”
Well.
That's unfortunate.
One is already more than Haus Morgenrot deserves.
THE GOLDEN TICKET
That interaction reminded me what I actually want for these people.
I want them to leave.
Not:
“GET OUT, I HATE YOU.”
I mean genuinely leave.
Finish what you're supposed to finish.
Get your shit together.
Reach the end.
Turn in the badge.
Get removed from the board.
No more head counts.
No more groups.
No more Mr. Germlin sitting in the hallway watching you wander toward somewhere you aren't supposed to be.
Get your bus pass.
Get your property.
Get whatever aftercare you need.
And then take your Willy Wonka Golden Ticket and walk through the fucking door.
Make a different decision tomorrow.
Don't come back to Haus Morgenrot.
And please:
do not remember me.
If I encounter you six months later:
“Hey, Mr. Germlin!”
👁️_👁️
“Who the fuck is Mr. Germlin?”
Because that's success.
I don't need to become an important chapter in somebody's life.
I'm the weird tech who sat in the hallway, enforced some policies, occasionally told somebody to interact with hostile vegetation, and disappeared when my watch beeped at ten.
If you never need this place again?
Good.
ANOTHER THING I LEARNED
Day Five also handed me another intake lesson.
When processing a new admit and dealing with the property they arrived with, I need to make sure the property receipt gets handled immediately.
Separate what they're permitted to take/use from the belongings that remain stored.
Their clothing and ordinary hygiene/essential items get handled according to the process.
The remaining stored property stays with the bag.
Then:
Tag it.
Bag it.
Initial it.
Date the arrival.
Write the receipt.
The receipt matters because when that person eventually leaves, it connects them back to the property they're supposed to retrieve.
That's basic procedure.
And if I fail to do the basic procedure after I've been taught it?
Then Haus Morgenrot can hold me accountable.
Fair.
This isn't one of those situations where I'm going to construct seventeen reasons why the universe conspired against me.
I learned something.
So next time:
Slow down.
Do the receipt.
Then move.
Five extra minutes now beats twenty minutes of archaeology later.
USE THE FUCKING EXPEDITERS
I also tried something during the evening that worked considerably better than becoming:
THE TERMINATOR
T-800: PAPERWORK EDITION
I need your name.
📋
I need your number.
📋
Come with me if you want to attend Peer Reflection.
Instead, I used the expediters.
That's what they're there for.
When the 7:10–7:40 group approached, I had them help get people where they were supposed to be and keep the migration moving.
That meant I didn't have to personally chase thirty or forty grown human beings through the building like some exhausted purple-shirted sheepdog.
Use the structure.
Let the structure work.
If somebody still decides not to comply?
Fine.
Then Mr. Germlin reaches into his imaginary stack of Ulric money.
Except these aren't hundreds.
They're write-ups.
📋💵
“Name?”
slide
“Number?”
slide
“Thank you.”
I may not possess $25,000 in ULRIC MONEY™ yet.
But apparently I can make it rain administrative documentation.
6:05 PM — ABSCOND
Of course, the evening couldn't remain entirely boring.
At approximately 6:05 PM, there was an abscond attempt.
The client didn't want to be at the facility.
He attempted to leave.
The attempt was intercepted and the situation was contained.
I'm not adding details I don't know.
Boring Tech does not make fan fiction.
The important part is:
6:05 — abscond attempt.
Intercepted.
Client expressed that he didn't want to remain at the facility.
Done.
6:21 PM — “I DON'T WANT TO BE IN GROUP.”
Then around 6:21, another client didn't want to participate in group.
I didn't write him up.
Earlier, during the 10:30–11:30 morning group, I'd had similar attendance nonsense.
Didn't write that either.
I'm not going backward now and manufacturing paperwork after the fact just to increase the clipboard's kill count.
Those moments are finished.
But tomorrow?
If the same behavior happens, and it's something I'm expected to document?
Then I document it.
No anger required.
No:
“Come on, man, you need to understand—”
No.
You know the expectation.
You make the choice.
I record the choice.
📋
Next.
EIGHT MONTHS
Somewhere near the end of the night, another thought hit me.
I've been doing this for nearly eight fucking months.
How?
I don't know.
I survived the medication/contraband incident where something made it through the front end, reached me, I made the wrong call about what the client could do with it, the SOD caught the situation, and I received a two-day suspension.
Then came the August 7–14 Expansion Pack DLC.
Allegation.
Suspension.
Waiting.
Return.
And somehow:
Mr. Germlin is still here.
Still clocking in.
Still learning procedures.
Still correcting mistakes.
Still occasionally getting corrected.
Still trying not to freestyle.
Still trying to become boring enough that the SOD forgets I'm standing there.
One counselor apparently described Haus Morgenrot as extraordinarily calm and organized.
I nearly wanted to ask:
Compared to what?
Because the Haus Morgenrot I know occasionally operates like somebody released twelve cats into an IKEA and appointed one of them shift supervisor.
But maybe that's perspective.
Maybe compared to other places, this genuinely is calm.
That possibility frightens me considerably more.
DAY FIVE'S LESSON
Day Five wasn't about some enormous disaster.
The cactus never achieved Day Four temperatures.
It was mostly smaller things.
And maybe those are more useful.
I learned that somebody can genuinely be trying to help me even when eight months of hallway-cat conditioning screams:
IT'S A TRAP.
I learned to apologize when I get that wrong.
I learned another piece of intake procedure.
I learned that I can acknowledge the part of a paperwork mistake that belongs to me while refusing the part that doesn't.
I learned that using the expediters is considerably smarter than personally becoming the Terminator.
And I reinforced something I've been learning all week:
I DO NOT HAVE TO MAKE SOMEBODY WANT THE RIGHT OUTCOME.
I can want somebody to succeed.
I can hope they leave here better than they arrived.
I can give them information.
I can redirect them.
I can treat them respectfully.
I can hold them accountable.
But I cannot manufacture motivation inside another human being.
If somebody says:
“I don't want to be in group.”
Okay.
If policy says that's paperwork:
📋
If somebody knows where they're supposed to be and decides to wander elsewhere:
👁️_👁️
Arthur isn't moving.
If somebody alters paperwork and says I did it:
No.
I'll own my mistake.
You own yours.
And if somebody points toward my shirt tomorrow?
...
Okay.
Maybe I'll look first.
At 10:00 PM, Day Five ended.
No grand explosion.
No final boss.
No need to save Haus Morgenrot from itself.
Just another twelve hours completed.
And now there is only:
ONE.
Thursday.
Day 6 of 6.
I don't need Day Six to be good.
I don't need it to teach me anything.
I don't need character development.
I don't need another procedural surprise.
I don't need another cactus.
I need twelve boring hours.
Then my watch goes:
BEEP BEEP.
I walk to the face clock.
Clock out.
Tail out.
Two days off.
And Haus Morgenrot can continue being the most calm, organized facility in human history without me.
At least until I come back.
— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand