Chapter II
At the Bottom of Every Pokémon Card
“If I wasn’t able to be anonymous here, I woulda peaced it a long time ago,”
- Benny Benzo
Get a piece of glass that’s small enough to fit underneath your sock. And I can’t put enough emphasis on the word small - small enough that you can step on it without it cutting you. Think “grain of sand”. That’s pretty small, so get to work. It might take you a few tries, but it must be fashioned, by you, out of an actual piece of glass. You’ll get one small enough, trust me. You’re the one who’s going to be walking on it after all. So I trust that this step is something you’ll be extra mindful of.
Funny enough; this step is actually the only step in my (ahem) cutting edge study habit:
Voila! there you are, you’ve awakened into a brand new happenstance of fear, anticipation, lucidity, awareness.
Everybody I know who has actually gone through with it and forged for themselves a Shard and trusted the resulting implement to fulfill its intended purpose, has gone on to achieve incredible things much too momentous to get into here - they all at least partially credit my study technique for their success, however.
How and why will this piece of glass change your life?
Walking from place to place will no longer be the mindless bore it always was. You’ll attain higher awareness, if not a completely new lease on life. If the piece of glass you have fashioned cuts you on the first, or even the tenth step, then it is much too big.
Trust me. You will get one small enough. You’ll make sure of it.
A piece of glass that will injure or harm you is much too large for the study habit I am trying to teach you. Think smaller. Think harder.
The perfect-sized piece of glass will allow you to walk freely and confidently because it will make you appreciate the value and gravity of every step you take henceforth. In other words, you’ll be so braced for the inevitable, unmistakeable piercing pain of the minuscule shard you’ve planted in your shoes.. it’s almost as if that shard were your newest teacher. Ideally, you will not feel anything for a long while. At first it won’t be easy but you’ll want to just get on with your day eventually. Do not share with anyone what you are hiding in your shoe unless it cuts you right in front of them and you have to explain what just happened. Then explain it - but until then, don’t address and try not to even acknowledge it. Just go on with your day when you are able. The idea is that with enough time you may even forget the glass is even there, and continue on living as if you aren’t concealing a tiny piece of glass in your shoe. No longer will you ever deign to make an unnecessary step. In time you will learn to harness, focus, and distribute your energy much more effectively, and people will no longer ask pointless favours of you and neither will they ask you to go somewhere you do not want to go, nor play on a volleyball team equipped with some of the worst girls in the entire school, maybe in all of existence.
Do not tell anyone about the glass in your footwear. Just forget about it. That’s part of the habit. The study habit you are forming is not for one class, and honestly not even just for school. It’s for life. Yes, indeed. This incredibly tiny piece of glass will tantalize you and drive you insane if you’re not able to forget it… and it will surprise and inspire you if you are. Our data actually demonstrates that it will more than likely change your life.
There’s only one real obstacle.
Schools.
Schools have been advising against our promotion of this impeccable and accessible study habit for obvious reasons. They keep losing enrollment to students who injure themselves. The popularity of this study method might have to do with how the budget quarter is coming up, a short but consistent period where contracts are signed, grants are given, budgets and resources and products allocated.
We’ve run tests and our numbers so far, strongly suggest that the glass-footed participants in many different written and tactile tests of basic cognitive skills like memory, reaction time, puzzle solving, risk assessment, you name it, always do better with the piece of glass.
A skew in data may be noted regarding the fact that it is almost always the most delinquent, low-scoring section of the student body who participate in this glass-bearing study habit. It is in fact growing in popularity, because eventually, after whatever ordeal the glass usually imposes on them who undertake it gives way to a more serious, aware, and keen mindset, and the habit is largely observed to have this effect. It is as if the children are triggering their own healing with an injury, without even realizing it. Of course at first this was a complete nightmare at the beginning. Nurses’ offices were getting flooded with children and teens clutching their feet and gasping painfully. Enough of them had the same story about glass that it was concerning. At the same time, they seemed, at least some of the nurses, to go absolutely wild with hysterics, but not those characteristic of struggle or trauma - they often laughed reportedly harder than they ever had in their entire lives.
The nurses were entirely confused and even shaken, especially when the numbers ramped up. These were mainly nurses who’d aimed for jobs at schools, so they were largely selfish and unprepared for such a sudden, mysterious profusion of illness. Schools were supposed to be Buddhist monasteries in comparison to hospitals. Hadn’t we been told as much?
More and more students succumbed to the outbreak of what nature their superiors could not designate, and so those field doctors who went in all over the country came out with always the same story:
Kids kept coming in clutching themselves, hopping on one foot, shimmying on their fours, anything to avoid putting any pressure on the foot with the glass in it.
Even stranger developments occurred. Many students began showing up, clutching like all the others. Crying; going outright stupid. But there was no glass in their feet. The nurses were sure that some students were faking. Especially the younger ones, often they didn’t have the nerve or the know-how to actually procure a tiny piece of glass in the first place but they willingly copy their older siblings naturally; if what they’re doing seems interesting, even if they don’t understand what it is, they will copy. That’s what makes this study habit so controversial. It’s dangerous. But it does work.
And it’s here already, whether we like it or not. This PSA exists to that you are better informed, and that you might better understand Glass Foot Syndrome. Many parents dismiss their children’s claims of GFS, and it backfires horribly. Others aren’t privy and aware of its signs and effects, and aren’t able to address a bad case before it gets really bad.
In the interest of our children we must be open about GFS because some, a great number, and an increasing one at that, are trying the study habit for themselves, and don’t trust their parents not to react inordinately. Remember: it is normal for children to reward their parents for stepping in in an instance of potential harm or danger: that much is clear. However it seems that not only are children not aware of GFS as an illness or a potential danger, they understand it as something adults don’t understand. Perhaps because of its association with the fictional character Cinderella, perhaps for another reason entirely. But many children actively resent their parents for not letting them try GFST, the Glass Foot Study Technique. It causes them to partake in the practice beyond their parents’ awareness and thus create a safe dissociative space for the child.
Trust the nurses. These children are laughing, they’re going wild in hysterics, and the other children who hear it from down the hall have a very strong and natural inclination to figure out why. But the nurses say, these kids are genuinely laughing. Especially the ones who are faking.
Some kids accused others of installing one or multiple pieces of glass into their footwear. Others blamed themselves. But the vast majority couldn’t blame anyone because they couldn’t even talk, couldn’t get a word out.
They were laughing too hard.
Before I let you go ahead and try it out I will draw your attention to the most important thing: if the glass cuts you, take note of when and where you are, and try to speculate as to why it might be at that particular moment your glass finally stopped hiding and broke through to you.
Once you test it out with a few paces around your house or up and down the stairs and it still hasn’t cut you, just forget about the entire thing. That piece of glass will do its job when the time’s rich. It’ll lodge itself right into you when you need it the most.
One day my stepmom was extremely mad at me. Anger was common among my household but some kind of perfect storm happened that day. Of course I wasn’t expecting it. I can’t say it’s because whatever amount of force she put into hitting me. That actually felt less than usual. But she was just so mad, she meant those hits. She meant them and really wanted each one to change me, and she was tired and weak with anger. All I feel is resent, and some pity.
It changed me in a small but fundamental way.
When I came downstairs I hadn’t dressed for school, and it was getting late. She’d force-offered me a ride. “I’ll walk,” I said.
Instead of answering me or serving my breakfast she smashed it on the sink in front of her. Glass flew everywhere.
I woke up, right there on the spot. I knew I was in for it. There I was, having just seen her deliberately smash this plate full of delicious hot eggs and cheese and stuff right to pieces and not only this, I go on to see her act like this whole thing just happened to her.
And then several of the most quiet breaths I’ve ever heard go by before she said anything. An hour or so passed. I swear I wanted to clean up the mess and help us get going with our day but at the same time I didn’t want to let such an acquiescence enable more erratic and violent behaviour. Maybe she knew that and was even proud of me or something for not just bending down and sheepishly starting to clean up the broken glass from the floor.
My stepmom didn’t laugh very much for someone in customer service. She was just yukking her head off this time though. First the plate broken, then just deep breathing techniques, and then whaddaya know: laughing her goddamn skull off. And then she takes me by the ponytail and just drags me down, by my head, right down to the floor level.
Not into the floor, though. You can’t picture my mom ramming my head into the floor - that’s not what happened - she brought me down to floor level, and that part did hurt, by the way. But it was more to prove a point than to hurt; so that what she was about to tell me would sink in even more than it would have. And I guess she really was right about that. My mom was a really, really effective teacher.
After that day I did what I call Glass Feet. She made me fashion tiny pieces of glass with a knife or scissors or something and I’d get one that was so small it wouldn’t even actually go inside me. Like a piece of glass that was not even the length of the thickness of my skin. And so I’d find a piece that felt suitable and stick in in my shoe. Sometimes left sometimes right. But I’d spend all day with that little piece of glass in my shoe and wait for it to eventually drift into my sock, and then, at some point in the day, it makes its way, and you know, starts cutting me.
After that started, nothing she did would hurt me. She could just wail on me and I would just laugh in her face. Trust me, that was all I needed to lift my head up enough to get the fuck out of there. But let me tell you one more thing about that one day. It really felt important. It’s the one good thing I come up with when I think of that day.
“She wanted me to know how close my face was to the glass, first off. Then she said that none of this was worth doing if I didn’t feel like showing up to class on time. She motioned all around her and I remember her listing things: the fridge, the counter, the garbage can and the compost bin, she said none of it was worth it if I was going to have a shitty attitude. And I realized her hands had been cut and she even included it in her little speech: she actually said none of these cuts on my fucking finger wrist elbow and chin would be worth it if I didn’t care to show up to class and be a good student.”
“But she never actually said it was worth it, though, didn’t even have it in her to say anything positive, so she’d have to do these double-negatives.”
“When she realized I’d cut my face on the glass, she snapped back into reality so I guess that’s good. For one moment she looked like an angel. Luminous - I was basically dismissed, but I was hearing “sorry, baby,” as I filed back up the stairs and got ready for school as my mom scurried around and cleaned up my ruined breakfast and swept and vacuumed up the glass.
“Just study. Just be the smartest girl in your fucking class, it’s not that hard. How many other girls can there even be? 9? You’re telling me you can’t be a standout when all of your competition could literally pile onto a single golf cart?
She started actually laughing. Turned back into herself; I swear. The laughter, if it keeps up, might even kind of turn us back into friends.
III
“Another lousy day, huh?” N. asked.
I knew my face made it obvious. N was never one to idly overlook something obvious.
“I told my boss to fuck off today, and wound up having to cut early. He was this close to firing me.”
N’s expression soured. It was weird to me that he cared so much about my y
A few friends I visited kept me from Zz free era ending it. They weren’t people I expected to show u p anymore. I barely knew them: or so I thought, they wanted to relax but I eventually could tell my awful presence unsettled them so much that ever so much more eventually, even I was grateful to them for how patient they were being. They’d heard me blubbering desperate please not to hate me for this; they exude patience, enough to remake you. The old friends you have have a grace that is unique and individual, a way of caring that makes time not seem to pass.
“Promise you won’t hate me or stop being my friend?”
“I’m tired. I just want to sleep, L.”
“Okay,” I said feeling awful, then just to be slightly dandy; “you better just get on home, buddy. I’ll be asleep before you even get back home.”
Our eyes were all red from blazing all day and not sleeping.
And eventually I married and divorced someone who said:
“Was it really too much trouble to just get your degree or something?”
Books and classes never much agreed with me.
“What, you have to kill people now to make your life feel worth it?”
I shrug.
Her phone has been buzzing left and right but you can tell she has no desire to attend to anything outside of this very conversation. Which is fine, except for that - first off - I’m completely gassed from work today and now blasted drunk as well, and additionally it’s one of those rare days I have to get up early. I check my watch; I could easily find it in me to leave in a hurry if she would just give me an out.
The restaurant she chose doesn’t ever close; this has to have been intentional on her part.
I need an out. Come on, Arie. Where is it.
She adjusts tactically, clears her throat, utters;
“Well, I won’t even bother dancing around it.”
Her face is angled right at me but her eyes remain downcast. She’s been waiting to say this a long time, it would seem.
“
“You don’t have to get into it. It’s not essential: I don’t need you to be getting in trouble or anything.” She maintains her merciless downward gaze despite how much she used to love and overlook my desperate pleas.
A big grin from me, not what she is used to.
“Nah, I won’t get in trouble. I don’t have enough clearance to even need to sign an NDA, for example. Even if they made me sign one of those it doesn’t mean they know who I do and don’t tell. But since you brought me here-”
“Invited.”
“Yeah. I, um, just didn’t think you’d believe me for even a second.”
“Well, I’ll believe what’s true.”
Her stare didn’t waver much for having just downed a third of the drink menu. She just kept going. Her hand would shoot up gracefully enough. None of the waitstaff even blinked. They’d seen much more belligerence transpire in this lounge. Incidentally. Or maybe they thought she was ordering drinks for both of us. Either way, Arie, as done up as she looked in her red dress, had a special way of withdrawing, allowing herself to carry on almost completely unnoticed. I somehow admired her for that.
The next drink she got looked really lousy: it was a gimlet with some sort of whipped chocolate froth absolutely sparkling with cinnamon and cheap golden glitter. The really sparkly cancerous looking stuff.
Upon sipping it, I had to admit, rich people have some of the worst taste imaginable. What the hell kind of place was this? There were lava lamps spewing uncomplimentary colours. Paper menus with no prices on them, low hanging chandeliers.
“Before I ask you why; which kind of people fall under your, uh, target demographic?”
“Target… demographic?”
“It’s not really like that. Doesn’t matter really. I’ve gone on all kinds of calls, and still don’t see any discernible pattern within the people I’m assigned. I’ve not really been at this company to be able to draw out averages, or have a real frame of reference as to which type of persons are being requested the most. But I think it’s the Demonstrators. I think that’s who the Board is actually targeting, even if they try to conceal that fact or act like they’re not concerned specifically with that party.”
“Are you certain of this, Hiroko?”
“I’m getting to be,”
“But how do you know?”
“Well I’ve been here for a while now. But I’ve never heard anyone use the word Demonstrator before. Not one time.”
“Have you said it?”
“I’m almost afraid to, now.”
You finished your next drink in maybe three sips while I scratched my head for answers, new and plausible considerations.
“It’s just, whoever they profile for me, I take a fair amount of time to draw a detailed description of their personality, routines, but also at the end of the day most times I’ve hit 4 or 5 Demonstrations, just ran up numbers. No one’s even said anything to me about it.”
“What if they’re just completely unaware?”
“I mean yeah. There’s no proximity clause that binds me from passing them on the street or talking to them. The company gives me a lot of two things: information, and leeway. Not even leeway: I’d almost call it authority..”
“So you basically get to decide where, when, and how you kill these people?”
“I mean, for the most part. They’d rather it take a while and go smoothly, than to rush it or micromanage me and leave a bunch of loose ends for someone else to have to tie up. That’s often harder than the actual job.”
“Huh, I see.”
“No, I’ve got it pretty good. As long as they end up in a bodybag, I’m paid. Never been compensated this well, honestly, not even close.”
“I’m just kind of in shock. They just give you a task, like a persons name and picture? Like a… list?” Arie for once in her life, takes a discreet glance, surveying our immediate surroundings.
“Look, I said they give me two things. Right? Information in order to do the job, and a bunch of grace periods in case I can’t figure out a suitable plan. I don’t run around shooting people so that’s absolutely not what I want you to be picturing. I’ve never even shot a gun.”
“They don’t give you a deadline?”
“Well, actually they give me something called a lifeline,”
Arie asked what that was and ordered yet another drink to prepare for whatever detail I spun next. This number was bright pink, full of ice and served in a giant bulb of a glass with tons of ice. She downed it and we ordered three more because they looked so good, I had to have one too.
“If someone overpowers me or sneaks in some kind of fatal maneuver like maybe throws me over a balcony, I’m supposed to dig out this little button from my pocket, and - here - see that light? I press on the button apparently and this notifies the Board that I’m in some sort of trouble.”
I showed her the little device for full disclosure. I couldn’t not show her the only physical object they’d given me. The DOB, besides, would’ve made it abundantly clear if I wasn’t allowed to show anyone this little gadget- they had rules and guidelines for everything under the sun; I knew they wouldn’t forget this one thing.
“Anyhow instead of letting me die and screw up the job, they actually intervene. The D.O.B. They told me only to use it if I really think I’m done for, because once I see the technology they have to use to wrangle me out of certain disaster, I technically advance to another Division. They won’t say it’s a higher Division, but I’m certain it is.
“So what if you make a false attempt and let your target attack you? Then push the button and see what they do… seems like an automatic promotion if I’ve ever heard of one.”
“They would rather not have loose ends to clean up,” I murmured
“Why do you kill people?”
“Honestly. I thought about this for a while. Before I took the job I didn’t even think about it. I just knew I’d be good at it, and there were no further issues. Didn’t think any would crop up. I hate complications, but there they all were disorienting me and taking me apart until I had no choice left but to admit I was going crazy.”
“You didn’t want to admit you felt bad,”
“No, actually. The opposite. I didn’t want to admit I felt good. I felt good and I did good and performed better than any new recruit they’ve ever had. And then the craziness started throwing me off my game. I would make stupid mistakes that even rookies wouldn’t make. So I knew- everybody knew I needed a break. There was nothing else to do. If I didn’t figure it out I’d never sign another death warrant, never prove myself to anyone.”
Arie’s eyes were finally glowing, she finally must’ve forgotten where she was. Who I am. How low things got for us as well.
“During the time of I came to realize I hated people. I absolutely hated them. Their noise. Their indiscriminate pollution and warfare and exploitation, the privileged way they raise their young, the thought of an urban populace filled with their clamour; I admitted this hatred instead of suspecting it. I allowed this to be a truth instead of wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Hating my own species - funnily enough in my youth, I thought it unthinkable. So you can see how backwards I probably felt. I thought something must be wrong with me, so I repressed and hid all my hatred and made kindness and compassion my entire thing, and I couldn’t have felt less so; and then through the first weakness in the mask of kindness I wore, hatred would burst out of me in compensation, as ordained by my own self.”
“I hate their pavement, they’re ugly orange cones and grey buildings.” Arie began to say.
“I hate their fakeness”
“yes,”
“And their nerve.”
“And their rudeness,”
“They’re telephone wires and the awful noise it takes to build those ugly cages they call homes.”
“I realized that the D.O.B could really use an honest employee. I thought they existed on behalf of the humans, so I was afraid of admitting to them that I actually despised us all so much.”
“That makes sense.”
We rested our heads for a while on the black marble countertops, each of us on our unused napkins folded up.
“Are the D.O.B.” familiar with Gin & Tonics?”
“What?” I peeled my one ear up.
“Aw, never mind.”
The dark restless drunk people in the restaurant couldn’t have depressed me more. I was ready to cut every last one of them off. They looked like a bunch of lab rats who’d just been fed poison or something. Just aimlessly meandering around as if that corner of the bar was more interesting than this one. None of them were drinking as much as I, nor would they ever hear a word I was saying even if they tried sticking their ears right in our goddamn mouths as we talked.
Arie’s eyes were so green. All the longing was gone though. I felt just as sorry for her as every last one of these condemned patrons in this condemned bar.
“You don’t have another reason? That’s just such an awful job. I have to say. I feel like it’s gonna come back to bite you.”
“I’m just really good at it, Arie. I’m not sure there’s any other way of putting it. Let’s just try to enjoy ourselves.”