Day 6 of 6 — Spaghetti Any%, Fashion Souls, and the Blessed Extraction
As recorded by Mr. Germlin, with editorial interference from Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand.
There is something spiritually dangerous about reaching Day 6 of 6.
You start rubbing your hands together.
Not metaphorically.
Actually rubbing them together.
You haven't even survived the day yet, but your brain has already smelled freedom coming over the horizon. Twelve more hours. One shift. One final pilgrimage through the sacred halls of Haus Morgenrot, and then you get two entire days where nobody can ask you a question, lose something in front of you, report something to you, wander somewhere they aren't supposed to wander, or somehow turn a perfectly ordinary meal into a logistical crisis.
Just twelve hours.
That's all.
Naturally, I arrived to find a fire truck.
FAAAAAAAK.
This is the appropriate response when arriving at Haus Morgenrot and discovering emergency vehicles already occupying the map before you've even loaded into the level.
My Uber driver was trying to navigate the situation. People were moving around. Vehicles were moving around. Emergency personnel were doing emergency-personnel things.
Meanwhile, my contribution to this elaborate ballet was essentially:
"Just put me over there. You'll have enough room to turn around. Godspeed."
I exited the vehicle.
Then I saw EMS.
FAAAAAAAK II: THE RE-FAAKENING.
I didn't know the resident involved. I didn't know what happened. I didn't need to know what happened.
That last sentence is important.
Haus Morgenrot will constantly offer you optional side quests.
You must learn not to accept them.
THE UNIFORM OF QUESTIONABLE FRESHNESS
Before entering the building, I had another matter requiring investigation.
My uniform.
I gave it the sniff test.
Look.
Don't judge me.
There had been a period where I genuinely didn't know when—or whether—I would be wearing the damn thing again. Life had taken one of those sudden turns where your normal schedule stops being normal, uncertainty starts breeding more uncertainty, and clothes that usually have a very obvious purpose suddenly sit there waiting for further instructions.
But there I was.
Back in uniform.
Back at Haus Morgenrot.
And somehow already on Day 6 of 6.
I was grateful.
I was tired.
I was also mentally standing at 9:59 PM despite it still being morning.
This is an advanced employee technique.
Your physical body remains at work while your spirit is already waiting beside the time clock.
BORING IS A BUILD
I have developed a philosophy about places like Haus Morgenrot.
Some people arrive at work wanting to be heroes.
Some want to be everyone's friend.
Some want to know everything.
Some want to fix everything.
Some want to become Sherlock Holmes because somebody moved a packet of oatmeal three feet to the left.
Mr. Germlin?
Mr. Germlin wants to become boring.
Boring is underrated.
Boring clocks in.
Boring follows procedure.
Boring documents what needs documenting.
Boring doesn't investigate rumors because somebody whispered, "Hey, you know what I heard?"
Boring doesn't become emotionally invested in every hallway mystery.
Boring doesn't chase every cat.
And Haus Morgenrot contains many cats.
Not literal cats.
Well, sometimes there are literal cats too.
That's a separate problem.
I mean hallway cats.
Residents wandering around, appearing beside you, disappearing around corners, suddenly possessing information nobody asked them for, and occasionally looking at you as though you personally control every mechanical device, meal schedule, administrative decision, and law of physics governing the facility.
I don't.
Mr. Germlin is Tech Support for approximately none of existence.
HAUS MORGENROT STANDARD TIME
Lunch was late.
Why?
I don't know.
Dinner was late.
Why?
I don't know.
This is Haus Morgenrot Standard Time.
You see, ordinary clocks measure seconds, minutes, and hours.
Haus Morgenrot operates according to a more sophisticated temporal system:
Whenever The Hell It Happens.
Headcount apparently decided it needed approximately fifteen additional minutes.
Fifteen minutes doesn't sound like much until those fifteen minutes are sitting directly on top of dinner.
Now you've got hungry residents.
You've got staff.
You've got trays.
You've got schedules colliding with other schedules.
You've got spaghetti somewhere wondering what the hell it did to deserve this.
And then the SOD arrived.
Suddenly, mankind rediscovered efficiency.
I have never seen spaghetti achieve terminal velocity before.
Dinner went from:
"We're running behind."
to:
SPAGHETTI ANY% SPEEDRUN — NO MAJOR GLITCHES
Residents were moving.
Food was moving.
Staff were moving.
Somewhere, I imagine a speedrunner slammed a stopwatch and screamed:
WORLD RECORD!
Amazing what happens when the right person walks through the door.
THE ECONOMY OF HAUS MORGENROT
There is money circulating around Haus Morgenrot.
I don't understand it.
I don't want to understand it.
One day somebody is broke.
The next day somebody has money.
Then somebody who had money is broke.
Then somebody who was broke appears to have money.
Items circulate.
Things are traded.
Vending machines consume dollar bills as ritual sacrifices.
Residents report losses.
The economy continues.
I have stopped attempting to understand the deeper mechanics.
If someone reports that a vending machine ate their money and there is something I'm supposed to record, I'll record it.
That is the boundary of my empire.
I am not the Federal Reserve of Haus Morgenrot.
I am not Treasury Secretary Germlin.
I am not launching an investigation into the mysterious disappearance of Dollar Bill Number 472.
But near the end of the evening, I found myself documenting a couple of vending-machine casualties.
And that's when the new warranties appeared.
That's what I call the new residents with the fresh badges.
Warranties.
Still under factory protection.
Haven't accumulated enough mileage yet.
One of them was being encouraged to tell me about money he'd lost.
He wasn't particularly worried about it.
Fair enough.
Then somehow the conversation moved toward his shoes.
His.
$1,700.
Shoes.
Jerry, please bring me my blood-pressure medication.
— No.
Thank you, Jerry.
ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLAR SHOES.
I needed to repeat the number several times because my brain kept rejecting the packet.
$1,700.
For shoes.
Sir.
For $1,700, those shoes had better file my taxes.
They should have heated seats.
They should provide turn-by-turn navigation.
I should be able to tap my heels together three times and teleport directly home.
Meanwhile, I am perfectly capable of buying twenty-dollar shoes and experiencing happiness.
Do they protect my feet?
Yes.
Do they remain attached while walking?
Usually.
Can I wear them without financing them over 72 months?
Excellent.
Five stars.
FASHION SOULS
This is one of the strange things about Haus Morgenrot.
Everybody wants to play Fashion Souls.
Not Dark Souls.
Fashion Souls.
The ancient art of looking magnificent regardless of whether the equipment makes any practical sense.
In an actual Souls game, Fashion Souls is sacred.
If a boss is going to pound you seventeen feet into the pavement, you might as well look fabulous while it happens.
That is the responsibility of a GUD GAMER.
G-U-D.
G-A-M-E-R.
You die.
You learn.
You adapt.
You return wearing a completely impractical hat because the hat looks incredible.
Eventually you kill God with a broken spoon.
That's gaming.
But real-life Fashion Souls?
Different economy.
I'm looking at $1,700 shoes and thinking about everything else $1,700 can become.
Bills paid.
Savings.
Emergency cushion.
Computer parts.
A meaningful contribution toward replacing Grandpa PC.
Grandpa PC has served honorably.
Grandpa PC has seen things.
Grandpa PC remembers ancient drivers.
Grandpa PC wakes every morning, stretches his GTX 1070, lights a metaphorical cigarette and says:
"Back in my day, son, eight gigs was plenty."
I love Grandpa PC.
But Grandpa PC cannot remain immortal.
So when I see $1,700 strapped to somebody's feet, my brain doesn't see shoes.
My brain sees:
PARTIAL GRANDPA PC SUCCESSOR FUND.
That's why I would rather eventually have $25,000 sitting somewhere than $1,700 walking around on my ankles.
The goal isn't to look like you have money.
The goal is to have money.
Quiet money.
Boring money.
Money that sits there doing absolutely nothing dramatic.
Beautiful.
BLOODHOUND GERMLIN
I explained something to the warranties that evening.
There are two things they should know about Mr. Germlin.
One of them is this:
If I remember your name, the bloodhound instincts have activated.
This can be good.
It can also be bad.
If you're consistently doing what you're supposed to do, I learn who you are.
If you're consistently generating chaos, unfortunately I also learn who you are.
But I've had to modify the bloodhound philosophy.
Just because you smell something doesn't mean you chase it.
That's how bloodhounds end up three counties away.
Sometimes something around Haus Morgenrot makes my brain go:
Hmmmmmm.
And the correct professional response is:
Hmmmmmm.
That's it.
No sequel.
No corkboard.
No red string.
No Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand kicking open the office door carrying classified documents.
— Coward.
Quiet, Jerry.
I've learned that sometimes I put my thumb into somebody else's Kool-Aid without knowing the flavor.
When that happens?
Pull the thumb out.
"My mistake."
Move along.
You don't need to win every conversation.
You don't need to demonstrate that your thought was reasonable.
You don't need closing arguments.
You can simply recognize:
Ah. Not my Kool-Aid.
And depart.
That might be one of the most useful skills I've picked up.
THE FINAL HOUR
Eventually the clock reached 9-something.
Then 9:09.
Then 9:20-something.
And suddenly the whole atmosphere changed.
I could smell freedom.
There is a special kind of peace that arrives near the end of Day 6 of 6.
The building is still the building.
The residents are still residents.
The vending machine remains hungry for legal tender.
Somebody somewhere probably needs something.
But psychologically?
I'm already halfway through the front door.
Around 9:30, I had a plan.
Chill upstairs for a few minutes.
Go downstairs around 9:40.
Read my book.
Do nothing stupid.
Do not discover a mystery.
Do not accept a quest.
Do not accidentally become responsible for the geopolitical stability of Haus Morgenrot.
Simply exist.
Then clock out at 10:00 PM.
That's it.
The final objective.
SURVIVE UNTIL EXTRACTION.
DAY 6 OF 6
Was the day boring?
No.
Of course it wasn't.
That would have violated Haus Morgenrot policy.
There were emergency vehicles when I arrived.
Lunch was late.
Dinner was late.
Headcount borrowed fifteen minutes from the future.
Spaghetti briefly became an esport.
Vending machines consumed offerings.
I met new warranties.
Someone revealed that they were wearing the approximate resale value of a respectable used computer on their feet.
And somewhere along the way I had a few moments where I realized I'd stepped slightly farther into something than necessary.
So I stepped back.
That's probably the part worth remembering.
Not every mistake requires punishment.
Sometimes the correction is simply:
"Ah. Too far."
Step backward.
Continue.
There is a tendency to imagine growth as some enormous cinematic transformation.
Music swells.
The hero understands everything.
Lightning crashes.
The old self dies.
The new self rises.
Nah.
Sometimes growth is standing in a hallway thinking:
"You know what? This isn't my Kool-Aid."
And walking away.
Sometimes it's recognizing that your job doesn't require you to solve every mystery.
Sometimes it's documenting the vending-machine dollar and resisting the temptation to become Detective Germlin.
Sometimes it's buying the twenty-dollar shoes.
Sometimes it's allowing chaos to exist without volunteering to become part of it.
And sometimes it's reaching the sixth consecutive twelve-hour shift, looking at the clock, and realizing:
I made it.
Not elegantly.
Not silently.
Certainly not without profanity.
But I made it.
At 10:00 PM, Haus Morgenrot continued existing.
The hallway cats continued hallway-catting.
The mysterious internal economy continued circulating.
The spaghetti recovered from its world-record attempt.
The $1,700 shoes presumably remained $1,700 shoes.
And Mr. Germlin?
Mr. Germlin clocked the fuck out.
Two days off.
No alarm for Haus Morgenrot.
No uniform.
No headcount.
No spaghetti logistics.
No optional quests.
Just freedom.
I rubbed my hands together and smiled.
Day 6 of 6: complete.
✌️
— Mr. Germlin
Editorial note from Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand: Grandpa PC has formally requested that all future $1,700 footwear expenditures be redirected to the Department of Give Grandpa Better Fucking Hardware. His petition is currently under review.