Day 5 of 6 — The Day The Raccoon Learns to Play Possum
Sunday begins with Germlin hoping for something extremely ambitious:
NOTHING.
No adventure.
No investigation.
No surprise allegation.
No administrative boss fight.
No client deciding that today is the day he will finally achieve Super Saiyan Hallway Cat.
Nothing.
Sunday is supposed to be slow.
Boring.
Predictable.
And after the last week?
Boring sounds fucking magnificent.
Germlin arrives at Haus Morgenrot around 10:00 AM.
The first thirty minutes are basically free time.
Then comes facility GR.
Which sounds organized.
It isn't.
Everyone and their mama apparently decides that the front lobby is the place to demonstrate their incredible commitment to cleanliness.
Some sweep.
Some mop.
Some take out trash.
Some wipe approximately seventeen square inches of glass before mysteriously disappearing into the wilderness.
A handful actually stay and finish the job.
Germlin notices those people.
Good.
Thank you.
You have successfully completed the ancient ritual known as:
DOING WHAT YOU WERE FUCKING ASKED TO DO.
Eventually GR ends.
Free time returns.
Then lunch.
Then recreation.
Simple.
Except there is a problem.
The hallway cats have apparently formed their own legislative body.
And according to the Hallway Cat Senate:
RECREATION IS NOW FREE TIME.
Germlin was not consulted about this amendment.
Around noon, they begin arriving.
One hallway cat.
Then another.
Then another.
"They said it's free time."
No.
It's recreation.
"But they said—"
No.
Come back at two.
Another hallway cat appears.
"Is it free time?"
No.
Another.
"Can I—"
NO.
Germlin begins wondering whether somebody has installed a giant invisible sign above his head reading:
INFORMATION KIOSK / SNACK DISTRIBUTION / FREE-TIME APPEALS
There is no sign.
There is only Germlin.
Standing there.
Existing.
Which is apparently enough.
Eventually the questions stop.
Not because anyone has achieved enlightenment.
But because 2:00 PM arrives.
And now?
Yes.
It actually is free time.
Congratulations, hallway cats.
You have successfully waited for linear time to occur.
Somewhere in all of this is Computer Club.
Computer Club introduces its own ecosystem.
People moving around.
People trying to sneak snacks.
People attempting whatever minor schemes seem reasonable when you have too much time and a vending machine exists somewhere in the building.
Nothing catastrophic.
Just enough bullshit to remind Germlin:
This is still Haus Morgenrot.
Then another hallway cat appears with another problem.
Water containers need filling.
And apparently the hallway cat has identified an excellent candidate for this assignment.
Germlin.
Because Germlin is standing there.
"We could use you to go fill those."
Interesting.
Fascinating.
Unfortunately:
GERMLIN'S LUNCH BEGINS IN APPROXIMATELY FIVE FUCKING MINUTES.
So Germlin declines his nomination.
Find another tech.
Germlin is going to lunch.
And somewhere, perhaps, an angel receives its wings.
Because Old Germlin might have thought:
Well, they need help.
Maybe I should just do it.
It'll only take a minute.
I don't want them thinking I'm not helpful.
Day 5 Germlin is beginning to understand something different.
Someone else's need does not automatically become:
GERMLIN'S SIDE QUEST.
There is also one particular hallway cat today.
This one has spent enough of his life around trouble that trouble seems less like an accident and more like a hobby.
He's already carrying consequences.
Already restricted.
Already close enough to the fire that most reasonable people would begin walking in the opposite direction.
And yet this gentleman appears determined to speedrun:
FUCKING AROUND AND FINDING OUT.
At lunch he's obnoxious.
Germlin ignores him.
Later Germlin sees him again and essentially gives him the simplest advice available:
Stop doing shit that forces staff to deal with you.
Stop creating problems for yourself.
The hallway cat responds with something strange.
Next time, he'll give Germlin a free one.
A freebie.
Germlin doesn't want a freebie.
Germlin doesn't need an underground Hallway Cat Treaty.
Then the man says something considerably more interesting.
He likes Germlin.
Why?
Because apparently no matter what he does...
HE CAN'T GET TO GERMLIN.
Huh.
Now that's interesting.
Because Germlin isn't trying to defeat this man.
Germlin isn't trying to dominate him.
Germlin isn't trying to prove who is tougher.
Germlin doesn't particularly want another write-up.
Germlin tells him what he actually wants:
I want to see you get out of here.
That's it.
Stop digging.
Finish what you need to finish.
Leave.
Go live your fucking life.
Whether he listens?
That's his business.
Because Germlin is finally learning:
I AM NOT HERE TO SAVE YOU.
That's not cruelty.
That's not indifference.
Germlin can want somebody to succeed.
Germlin can give advice.
Germlin can listen.
Germlin can point toward the exit.
But Germlin cannot grab another grown human being, throw him over one raccoon shoulder and personally carry him toward better decision-making.
At some point?
The hallway cat has to walk.
This lesson is particularly relevant because Germlin has a habit.
He sees something going wrong.
And some primitive part of the Human Raccoon brain says:
TOUCH IT.
Fix it.
Move it.
Investigate it.
Dispose of it.
Solve it.
Make absolutely fucking certain the problem is gone.
Which brings us to:
THE VAPE THAT WAS ALREADY IN THE FUCKING TRASH.
During the evening, somebody arrives with something they absolutely should not have brought inside.
A vape.
Wonderful.
The person is told to throw it away.
The person throws it away.
Problem solved.
Credits roll.
Everyone goes home.
Except...
Germlin later retrieves the vape from the trash.
Takes it with him.
Carries it home.
And throws it away again.
...
Jerry "The Ankle-Biter" Silverhand slowly materializes from the darkness.
He removes his glasses.
Cleans them.
Places them back onto his face.
Looks directly at Germlin.
Sir.
Yes, Jerry?
WHY DID THE VAPE REQUIRE A FUCKING FIELD TRIP?
Well—
IT WAS ALREADY IN THE TRASH.
Yes.
THE TRASH.
Correct.
THE PLACE WHERE THINGS GO WHEN WE ARE FINISHED WITH THEM.
Right.
Jerry disappears.
Germlin sits with this.
Because the lesson isn't:
Oh God, Germlin fucked everything up again.
No.
The lesson is considerably simpler.
Next time?
Follow the proper procedure.
Do whatever Germlin is actually responsible for doing.
And then:
STOP TOUCHING THE FUCKING PLOT.
The vape does not require Germlin's personal protection.
The vape does not need an Uber.
The vape does not need to visit Germlin's home.
The vape does not require a second funeral.
Handle it properly.
Then move on.
There is another incident Germlin would probably prefer Jerry not learn about.
Earlier in the day, a hallway cat sees Germlin lightly tapping something and begins talking about punching things.
Germlin explains that he has punched windows.
Doors.
Metal.
His hand survived.
The hallway cat is fascinated.
"You didn't break your hand?"
No.
It hurt.
It healed.
Germlin has known pain.
And for reasons known only to God and whatever part of Germlin's brain occasionally operates without adult supervision...
Germlin decides a demonstration is necessary.
A locker exists nearby.
Germlin draws back.
And deploys approximately:
3% SHAGGY POWER.
BONK.
Locker remains alive.
Germlin remains alive.
Hallway cat examines his own hand.
Considers the possibilities.
"Nah, man. I'm good."
Excellent.
The demonstration has successfully convinced precisely one person not to punch a locker.
Jerry begins materializing again.
No.
No, Jerry.
We already know.
There will be no sequel.
Shaggy 3% has been retired from active service.
The afternoon continues.
Germlin gets lunch.
Cheap food.
Nothing extravagant.
Some shrimp.
Some fried rice.
Some fish.
Then the usual supply run.
Two Monsters.
One for today.
One for tomorrow morning.
A couple diet sodas.
Honey bun.
Oatmeal already waiting somewhere in the ecosystem.
This is not culinary exploration.
This is:
RACCOON LOGISTICS.
Keep it cheap.
Keep it familiar.
Keep moving.
One coworker asks what Germlin bought.
Same old stuff.
The conversation somehow evolves into the coworker telling Germlin that he's bipolar and that she can fix him.
Germlin looks at her.
...
And keeps walking.
Because this is another important discovery.
NOT EVERY SENTENCE REQUIRES A RESPONSE.
Maybe she was joking.
Maybe she was flirting.
Maybe she was diagnosing the Human Raccoon using techniques unavailable to modern psychiatry.
Doesn't matter.
Germlin does not need to investigate.
Germlin does not need to debate.
Germlin does not need to ask:
"What exactly do you mean by fix?"
No.
🚶🦝
Keep walking.
Eventually the evening arrives.
Headcount.
Dinner.
Group.
Peer reflection.
And during peer reflection, someone becomes emotional.
He's talking.
Opening up.
Expressing himself.
Good.
That's what reflection is presumably for.
Then he says something extremely unfortunate involving what someone should do to his ass.
The room responds exactly how a room full of grown men responds when another grown man unexpectedly says something like that.
OOOOOOOOOOOOH.
Germlin hears it.
Germlin looks over.
No.
Cut that shit out.
Hand across the neck.
We're done.
And amazingly?
Civilization continues.
No symposium required.
No twenty-minute discussion.
No investigation into the philosophical implications of the ass.
Just:
Don't say that again.
Move on.
Throughout the evening, Germlin talks with people.
Some tell him about jobs they've had.
Some suggest places he could eventually work.
Someone mentions aerospace.
Someone mentions forklift training.
People have stories.
People have advice.
People have entire lives that existed before Germlin encountered them inside Haus Morgenrot.
Some stories are probably completely true.
Some may have acquired additional horsepower during repeated tellings.
One gentleman describes making an amount of money in a day that causes Germlin's $17-an-hour soul to briefly leave his body.
Apparently enormous money can be made doing extremely illegal shit.
Who knew?
Unfortunately, the benefits package occasionally includes:
FEDERAL PROSECUTION.
Germlin decides his current career path may be less lucrative but possesses several underrated advantages.
For example:
Not being prosecuted federally.
Still...
Twenty thousand dollars in a day?
Germlin looks at his paycheck.
Germlin looks toward heaven.
Germlin receives no response.
Back to work.
And Germlin learns something else tonight.
Haus Morgenrot currently contains a surprising number of federal clients.
Which leads Germlin to his highly respected scientific classification system.
Federal?
ST. BERNARD.
Big.
Generally different energy.
SAC P?
Golden Retriever.
Probation?
Chihuahua.
Parole?
Germlin attempts to identify an appropriate dog.
Rottweiler?
No.
German Shepherd?
No.
After careful scientific analysis, Germlin reaches the only reasonable conclusion:
FUCK IT. THEY'RE CATS.
Peer review is currently pending.
Eventually Germlin notices something about himself too.
From noon until three?
Exhausted.
Four to five?
Still fighting sleep.
Then somehow around seven?
The Human Raccoon Power Grid comes online.
Ah.
Right.
Germlin is a night owl.
Of course.
His biological clock apparently believes that 7:00 PM is an excellent time to begin participating in civilization.
Unfortunately his employer believes 10:00 AM is also a perfectly reasonable time.
Negotiations remain unsuccessful.
Still, the night becomes easy.
Groups finish.
People settle.
Free time arrives.
Nothing explodes.
Nobody achieves Main Character status.
And somewhere around 9:15, Germlin finally takes a break.
He walks upstairs.
Behind him comes the unmistakable call of a hallway cat:
"You got a plate for me?"
Germlin keeps walking.
No response.
"Maybe next time."
Germlin continues ascending.
And somewhere during those few steps...
something clicks.
For months, Germlin's principal survival strategy has been:
RACCOON.
Observe everything.
Touch everything.
Investigate everything.
Defend the dumpster.
Protect the territory.
Hiss spiritually.
If something looks suspicious?
🦝 WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?
If somebody says something stupid?
🦝 EXPLAIN YOURSELF.
If something needs doing?
🦝 FINE, I'LL DO IT.
If something goes wrong?
🦝 I MUST UNDERSTAND EXACTLY WHY.
But perhaps the Human Raccoon requires another survival mechanism.
Something quieter.
Something requiring considerably less energy.
Something borrowed from another creature entirely.
THE RACCOON MUST LEARN TO PLAY POSSUM.
Not literally.
Germlin is not proposing that he collapse onto the floor whenever management approaches.
That would generate questions.
Playing possum means understanding that every stimulus does not require engagement.
Somebody tries to provoke you?
Nothing.
Somebody offers you a conversational side quest you don't want?
Nothing.
Someone wants to volunteer you for a task five minutes before lunch?
No thank you.
Someone asks whether recreation is free time for the seventh fucking time?
No.
Someone asks whether you brought him a plate while you're walking upstairs?
🚶🦝
Continue walking.
And when something genuinely does require Germlin?
Handle it.
Follow procedure.
Do the job.
Then stop.
Don't turn one problem into three because Germlin needs to personally guarantee that the universe has been restored to factory settings.
That's the part he's still learning.
Because Day 5 Germlin is not writing this from the mountaintop.
He's still capable of looking at a vape sitting peacefully in the trash and thinking:
I SHOULD PROBABLY TAKE THAT HOME.
Sir.
We're working on it.
Eventually:
10:00 PM.
Day 5 is dead.
Germlin gets an Uber.
And for once the driver has the radio going.
The driver also misses a turn.
Because apparently even transportation needs a subplot.
Germlin listens to Evanescence.
Then Bruno Mars.
One particular Bruno Mars song gets sent to Angel.
Angel has her Demon.
Demon has his Angel.
And Demon proceeds to keep Angel...
...
occupied through text.
This is a family-friendly publication.
Jerry has been advised by counsel to move on.
So we move on.
Germlin gets home.
And home feels different now.
Hydra is gone.
Still gone.
Not lurking.
Not returning tomorrow.
Not generating a fresh pile of bullshit while Germlin is at work.
Gone.
There is still mess.
There are still things to replace.
His sister worries about food.
Germlin tells her:
Slowly.
We'll get everything back.
Not tonight.
Not tomorrow.
Not with some giant financial Thanos snap.
Slowly.
One thing.
Then another.
Then another.
The house doesn't need to become perfect tonight.
It simply needs to become a little better than yesterday.
Germlin cleans.
Gets rid of some junk from his room.
Not everything.
Just some.
Because one day Germlin intends to leave too.
Not dramatically.
Not because the house needs another evacuation storyline.
Because Germlin wants his own place.
And when that day comes, he'd prefer not to discover that he has accumulated enough random shit to require the National Guard.
So:
One bag.
One object.
One corner.
One day at a time.
No Thanos snap required.
Bruno goes outside.
Bruno pees.
Excellent.
Bruno does not poop.
Less excellent.
Bruno later decides the floor presents an exciting alternative.
Germlin conducts disciplinary proceedings.
The defendant is approximately Chihuahua-sized.
The defendant appears largely unmoved by the prosecution.
A stern warning is issued.
Court adjourned.
Trash goes outside for morning pickup.
Germlin takes a bath.
Things get cleaned.
The house settles.
And for the second night in a row...
there is no Hydra.
Just Germlin.
His sister.
Bruno.
The remaining mess.
And time.
Maybe that's the other half of today's lesson.
Day 4 was about roots.
About learning that the wind can blow without convincing yourself the entire tree is about to fall.
Day 5 isn't about becoming stronger.
Maybe Day 5 is about learning when not to spend the strength.
Because Germlin has spent a lot of his life believing strength means engagement.
Fight.
Fix.
Explain.
Respond.
Protect.
Correct.
Carry.
Do something.
But sometimes strength looks remarkably unimpressive.
Sometimes strength is walking upstairs while somebody asks:
"You got a plate for me?"
And simply...
continuing upstairs.
Sometimes strength is wanting someone to succeed without deciding you're responsible for making him succeed.
Sometimes strength is watching somebody walk toward consequences and understanding:
I warned you.
The rest belongs to you.
Sometimes strength is looking at your house and accepting that rebuilding slowly is still rebuilding.
Sometimes strength is recognizing that you did something unnecessarily complicated today and saying:
Okay. Next time I won't do that.
Without sentencing yourself to twelve hours of internal prosecution.
Learn.
Adjust.
Continue.
The Human Raccoon does not need to stop being a raccoon.
Raccoons are useful.
Observant.
Persistent.
Resourceful.
Occasionally capable of opening containers that absolutely should have defeated them.
But Day 5 introduces another skill.
When the bullshit appears...
First ask:
Is this actually mine?
If yes?
Handle it.
If no?
Perhaps the raccoon should consider the ancient wisdom of the possum.
Do nothing.
Become spiritually deceased.
Let the bullshit wander past looking for another participant.
Then get up.
Dust yourself off.
Go home.
Clean your room.
Let Bruno outside.
Text your Angel.
Get some sleep.
Because tomorrow?
DAY 6 OF 6.
One more.
And Germlin does not need to conquer it.
He doesn't need to save anyone.
He doesn't need to win every interaction.
He doesn't need to become Main Character.
He doesn't even need to be particularly interesting.
He just needs to show up.
Do his job.
Follow policy.
Stay boring.
Clock out.
And throw the fucking deuces.
🦝💀
Day 5 of 6 complete.
The hallway cats survived.
Main Character failed to acquire his own episode.
The vape received an unnecessarily elaborate funeral.
Shaggy 3% has been permanently retired.
Bruno remains on probation for unauthorized floor deployment.
The house got a little cleaner.
And somewhere between recreation that wasn't free time and a hallway cat asking for a plate...
THE RACCOON LEARNED HOW TO PLAY POSSUM.
Jerry "The Ankle-Biter" Silverhand, signing the fuck off.