Alcoholism and Smoking Essay Example for Free

Alcoholism and Smoking Essay Looking at the health hazards, including lung cancer, impotency, asthma and heart disease, which smoking can cause, banning it in public places is long time due. However, this is just one of the viewpoints. Most smokers and many restaurant owners will sing an altogether different tune with regards to banning smoking in public places. So, lets get to the bottom of this debate by looking at its pros and cons. Arguments for Lets start with the advantages of banning smoking in public places. The number one being that it will not only help in saving smokers from various kinds of health conditions and diseases, but will also is beneficial for passive smokers. Whether the smoker is using public transport or is in a restaurant, the people around him are bound to inhale the smoke coming out of his cigarette, thus making them prone to all the diseases an active smoker gets. Thus, if smoking is banned, spread of these diseases can be checked. Another argument is that it will put pressure on the smoker to quit. Since, he will be unable to smoke in public places; he will learn how to live without smoking a cigarette for long hours. Moreover, when a smoker does not see anybody around him smoking or smelling of cigarette, it might reduce his urge to smoke too. Thus, one of its major advantages is that it forces people to quit smoking. One of the smokings in public places facts is that it influences non-smokers to take up smoking, especially adolescents. Since teens are in an impressionable age, when they see people around them smoking, they get instigated to try it and then it becomes a habit, increasing the incidence of teen smoking. Moreover, asthma and ear infections are commonly seen in children who live around smokers, so if it is banned in public places, these places will become safe for children and teens, health-wise. Looking from the economic point of view, since smoking is a major contributing factor to many diseases, it leads to absenteeism from work. Moreover, employees smoke tend to take breaks now and then to smoke, thus lowering the number of hours they put in their work. So, if employers want to increase work productivity and want to make sure that their employees remain healthy, they should ban and stop smoking in and around office premises. If you see from the environment point of view, yes it should be. Smoking cigarettes adds to the air pollution, so if its banned, it will help in saving the environment from further deterioration. Arguments against Smoking is a personal choice of an individual. If the government forces people to quit smoking, it is encroaching on individual freedom. Secondly, banning smoking is actually a financial loss for the government as it collects a lot of revenue through the taxes on cigarette sales. Another argument is that it is human tendency to do exactly those things which are forbidden. So, if smoking is banned in public places, adults and teens are more likely to smoke and find their own means to evade this law to continue with the habit. From the economic point of view, restaurant, pub and cafe owners will not be able to cater to everyone. This will reduce their sales, thus causing them losses. Places where smoking is banned might see a reduction in tourist arrivals as well. Lastly, when smokers who are habitual and addicted, may experience smoking withdrawal symptoms such as irritability, anger, etc, if they cannot smoke immediately. Thus, in this condition and under stress, they might pose a problem to others. In spite of the above arguments against the ban, looking at the harmful effects of smoking, it would be better if it is. However, for such a ban to be useful, the key lies in implementing it effectively. Alcoholism Alcohol and drugs have been for many years been abused by many people Alcohol is a depressant that slows the function of the central nervous system. It blocks some of the messages trying to get into the brain which consequently alters a person’s perceptions and emotions. People that I have known overuse alcohol have undergone intoxication. Intoxication makes one to be aggressive and angry. Due to this many alcohol users have ended in prison. Alcoholism can be divided into three main stages namely Early stage of alcoholism Here a person depends on alcohol to affect their mood. Most people at this level drink for relief from problems. Most people experience gradual increase in tolerance thus increasing the quantity . The body loses its ability to deal with high alcohol levels and as a result it leads to deteriorating body functions Middle alcoholism stage The need and desire to drink becomes more intense. Their tolerance decreases because of intoxications. A few individuals recognize that there is a drinking problem but they are unable to stop. This stage is characterized by hangovers, blackouts and stomach problems End stage Alcoholism The alcoholic at this stage has become obsessed with drinking to the extent of excluding all other activities. The mental and physical health of the alcoholic is deteriorating due to the damage of most body organs. The alcoholic will consequently suffer from malnutrition and if the alcoholic continues to drink alcohol will cause the death of the alcoholic in one way or another. These range from suicide, accidents and damage of body organs etc. Death is the final stage of alcoholisms (Marlatt Donovan 2005) I have actually noted through observation that there are adverse effects of drinking alcohol. Most people who are alcoholic experience bad health effects, such as burnt hips. Too much alcohol within a short period of time may cause alcohol poisoning which is characterized by violent vomiting, extreme sleepiness unconsciousness, difficulty breathing, low blood sugar and even death. Alcohol users especially the young people are venerable to risks such as unsafe, unprotected sex resulting to pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases such as the deadly AIDS those results to the end of lives. Alcohol can make you react in some terrible ways. You do and say things under the influence of alcohol and cant even remember, and thats pretty sad.

IT Corporate Strategy for Competitive Advantage

IT Corporate Strategy for Competitive Advantage IT Strategy – The Corporate Strategy for Competitive Advantage? The last few decades have seen a tremendous advance in the field of information technology. The rise of internet and the developments in the field of information technology have had a great impact on business. New methods of communications and managing business operations have changed the face of business. This increased use of technology resulted in an awareness of the need for technology strategies, and many companies soon realised that a coherent IT strategy was required in order to put technology to good use. There is now widespread awareness of the strategic importance of information technology. Bakos and Treacy (1986) pointed out that the opportunities arising from information technology are threefold: improved efficiency and effectiveness of the organisation, out-manoeuvring other participants in the industry, and the advantage an outsider can give themselves when trying to enter the industry. They further point out that these opportunities represent three major strategic views of corporate strategy: internal strategy, competitive strategy and business portfolio strategy. Evan and Wurster (2000) state that the new economics of information blows traditional business structures to bits and the pieces of will then recombine into new business structures. What this translates to is that, the varied possibilities offered by information technology breaks up traditional reach and supply chain structures – an ever widening target market can be reached using the new technologies, and the economics of supply and delivery is broken with the new technological methods of delivery . Once example of this is the newspaper business. The delivery of online news reaches a much wider audience, while the economics of traditional newspaper delivery is lost. Another side effect of the increased reach offered by information technology is that the need for intermediaries is greatly reduced. The newspaper business will probably need fewer outlets to physically sell their newspapers. The economics of using intermediaries also changes substantially. Another industry that has experienced a revolution caused by information technology is the travel industry. Package holiday travel agents on the high street have faced severe competition from competitors who have used technology to gain great competitive advantage – there are many business selling airline tickets, hotel bookings, etc. online; the companies that do business online have great advantages in various areas such as reach, cost of conducting business, the advantages provided by instant updates for both the busi ness and customers, etc. Johnson et al (2005) in fact regard technological changes as one of the change elements of the (business) environment. Environmental analysis is usually done using PESTLE analysis, scenario analysis, SWOT analysis, etc. Analysis of technological change is one of the pillars of PESTLE analysis. Johnson et al (2005) further point out that the SWOT (Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, Threats) analysis for LINK, the network of UK ATMs, revealed that the threat it would face was from a competitor with the capability to develop more advanced technologies to capture the future market. This is in fact an example of the strategic gap the gap between the capabilities of an organisation and the major environmental factors of change. The extent to which an organisation keeps up with the state of the art developments in its field often creates a strategic gap. The strategic gap is important because it measures the gap between the now, the organisations current position, and the desired, the o rganisations desired position. Globalisation, that phenomenon of increased integration of markets around the world, is often attributed to free trade and economic treaties between most countries of the world; however, information technology has also been a major enabling factor in globalisation. New technologies have allowed instant communication, the transfer and dissemination of information to wider audiences and to audiences that have been otherwise out of reach, and correspondingly, have resulted in wider markets with reduced costs and greater reach. Thus technology has facilitated the creation of global networks, which has lead to the term weightless economy and virtual enterprise being applied to modern business (Dransfield, 2001, Lefebvre and Lefebvre, 1998). The dot-com boom and bust has now subsided, and businesses do understand that technology is not the magic wand to success, but is a powerful tool that can bring great advantages. The advantages offered by the Internet simply cannot be ignored. It is also widely accepted that the implementation and use of technology requires a coherent IT strategy. Many large organisations today have the specific top executive post of Chief Information Officer, who is responsible for developing the IT strategy. Hagel and Brown (2001) point out that old IT management assumptions will be overturned by the stream of new Internet based services that offer great cost savings and new opportunities for collaboration. Old ERP (enterprise resource planning) systems have solved some problems, but have created new ones, especially because they are very restrictive. The Internet on the other hand, has a very defining characteristic of being open and flexible – it is based on open standards, has email and w eb servers distributed all around the globe, and anyone can easily set up servers that offer web services. Hagel and Brown further say that businesses should effect a transition to a new IT strategy based on Web-based services. They recommend a strategy that builds on the companys existing systems, starting with the peripheral operations, and the use of common platforms for collaborations. They predict that the early use of Web services focused on reducing costs will be followed by its use for efficiency. The development of a new IT strategy however, has to be in alignment with the business strategy. Louis et al (1998) bring a strategic alignment perspective to the study of successful management of information technology and stress the need for internal consistency between IT strategy and business strategy. They define four types of alignment between IT strategy and business strategy Business- strategy-led, Conservative, Organization-led and Technology-led. Plant (2000) identifies one key issue of strategy execution that is often overlooked by an organisation – content ownership. He states that content may be king, but the best content often comes from an acknowledgement that it is the total environment within the organisation that contributes and supports to the development of that content. This in fact can be said to be the cornerstone of the strategy for management of information. Plant also rightly points out that e-commerce organisations require a much more adaptive struc ture than traditional command and control structures. He suggests that the formulation of Internet strategies must vary according to whether the organisation was born on the Internet, has been established and is now moving to the Internet, or forming new collaborations on the Internet, and describes in detail the process each type of organisation can adopt to formulate their Internet strategies. Dell Computers is a company that has leveraged on the Internet and created a business model that has given itself a very powerful competitive advantage over its competitors. It is a very good example of a company that has formulated a very good business strategy that uses the Internet to specifically gain advantage over its competitors. Michael Dell, who set up Dell Computers famously said that Think of the Internet as a weapon there on the table. Either you pick it up or your competitor doesbut somebody is going to get killed. (Burrows, 1999). Arora et al explain that the presence of markets for technology conditions the IT strategy as well as the corporate strategy of companies. The markets for technology increase the strategy space, as companies have a choice about the use of technology. This in turn has implications for the management to formulate a strategy for more proactive management of technology. They further point out that at the industry level, markets for technology may lower barriers to entry and increase competition, which has important implications for the companys broader strategy as well. As society evolves and becomes more technology dependant, businesses have to evolve correspondingly too. It is no longer sufficient to simply be the best – change happens, and companies have to adapt to this change in order to maintain their position. Technology is one of the biggest factors of this change and this makes it very important that corporate business strategy and IT strategy of a company are in alignment for a company to succeed. References Arora, A., Fosfuri, A. and Gambardella, A. (2001) Markets for Technology and their Implications for Corporate Strategy Industrial and Corporate Change, Vol 10, Number 2, pp. 419-451 Oxford University Press Bakos, J.Y., Treacy, M.E. (1986) Information Technology and Corporate Strategy: A Research Perspective MIS Quaterly Vol. 10, No.2, p.107 Burrows, P. (1999) Michael S. Dell BusinessWeek Online, September 27, 1999 Issue (Available online at http://www.businessweek.com/1999/99_39/b3648052.htm last accessed May 2007) Dransfield, R. (2001) Corporate Strategy Harcourt Heineman Evan P Wurster T (2000) Blown to Bits, How the New Economics of Information Transforms Strategy Boston, Mass. : Harvard Business School / London McGraw-Hill. Hagel, J. and Brown, J.S. (2001) Your Next IT Strategy Harvard Business Review Oct 2001, pp. 105 – 113. Hee-Dong Y., Mason, R.M. (1998) The Internet, value chain visibility and learning Proceedings of the Thirty-First Hawaii International Conference on System Sciences, 1998. Vol. 6 pp. 23-32 Johnson, G. and Scholes, K., Whittington, R. (2005) Exploring Corporate Strategies Harlow: Prentice-Hall, 7th Edition Ma, L.C.K., Burn, J.M., Galliers, R.D., Powell, P. (1998) Successful management of information technology: a strategic alignment perspective Proceedings of the Thirty-First Hawaii International Conference on System Sciences, 1998. Vol. 6 pp. 13-14 Boddy, D, Boonstra, A. and Kennedy G. (2005) Managing Information systems: An Organisational Perspective Harlow: Financial Times/Prentice Hall. 2nd Edition Laudon C. and Laudon, J.P. (2006) Management Information Systems Upper Saddle River, NJ : Pearson/Prentice Hall, 9th Edition

The Contemporary Family as More Democratic and Equal Essay -- Sociolog

The Contemporary Family as More Democratic and Equal In the course of this essay I shall be looking at the role of the family. In doing so I shall be examining various studies carried out, showing what the role of the family should be. This will include views by Willmott and Young, and contrasting ones of such authors as Ann Oakley, a feminist. The family is often looked upon as a social institution, a bond that joins individuals into families. This bond is reinforced by marriage, economic co-operation and sexual activity leading to the eventual conception of new life. This is typical of the viewpoint taken by functionalists such as Murdock, who saw that each member of the family had a role to play in order for it to be a success. This was a positive outlook for the family, however feminists such as Oakley believed this was not the case. From the late nineteenth century until the 1950’s traditional relationships between a man and his wife could best be described as male dominated. This â€Å"Patriarchy† was based around the view of this era that the father was the undoubted head of the household. Whatever his viewpoints, values and needs were these would always be listened to and met. The views of women on the other hand were very much repressed. Fletcher, pointed out that both women and children were frequently exploited both inside and outside the family and conditions within the home were deplorably inadequate. (â€Å"The family and marriage of Britain†) Women therefore were regarded as inferior to men and their main roles were as housewives looking after the home, mothers looking after the children, and as wives looking af... ... available. This is why this important issue is being recognised more and more. In contemporary society too, let’s not forget the fact that family life is moving further away from what was the norm, being the nuclear family consisting of a male and female and their children. Nowadays the rise of divorce rates, pregnancy outside marriage and co-habiting are all major issues in contemporary family life. Also the more recent upsurge and proliferation of gay and lesbian relationships and marriages cannot be ignored. All these issues show how family life in the twenty-first century has radically changed. BIBLIOGRAPHY PAUL TAYLOR ,SOCIOLOGY IN FOCUS JOHN J MACIONIS AND KEN PLUMMER, SOCIOLOGY, A GLOBAL INTRODUCTION FLETCHER, THE FAMILY AND MARRIAGE OF BRITAIN OAKLEY, HOUSEWIFE, 1974 WWW.SOCIOLOGY.ORG

Legalization of Marijuana for Medical Use Only Essay example -- pro me

The history of U.S. policy toward mind-altering substances has followed cycles of tolerance and intolerance ever since the mid-19th century. The medical use of the cannabis plant goes back at least 5,000 years to ancient China. It has been used by most of the world’s cultures for its healing properties (Medical Marijuana Cases 1). Today such conditions as Migraine headaches, Glaucoma, Cancer, Epilepsy, Asthma AIDS/HIV, Spinal injury, Muscle spasms, Insomnia etc., could be treated for symptomatic relief with cannabis or cannabis extract. However, marijuana is still considered an illegal drug in most states in the United States. Marijuana usage may have been common 20-30 years ago, but it really isn’t any longer. Judy Foreman states that a hardy band of activists seeking legislative approval of perennial bill that would bring Massachusetts in line with 34 other states in letting patients with certain conditions smoke marijuana (1). 2 What was known, as the â€Å"wicked weed† of the sixties can be good medicine . Marijuana certainly seems safer than may other drugs, even aspirin that causes gastrointestinal bleeding, killing hundreds of people every year (Grinspoon/Bakalar 4).3 There are lots of drugs American society does not let people use except under doctor’s care, for instance, cocaine, Demerol, est. No one thinks we have legalized cocaine because we let surgeon or anesthesiologists use it. Therefore, the notion that there is a link between medical use and whether people should to be able to legally get stoned is nonsense. One situation does not necessarily include the other. Nevertheless, there has not been a single death by overdose (Foreman 4).2 As an enlightened society, we must reconsider the legalization of marijuana for medical use only as it eases pain and suffering of many illnesses.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   To effect changing the attitudes within our society about marijuana, one must be realistic about the legislation of our own bodies. Right now cocaine and morphine are prescribed legally as medicines, and those legal uses are not adding in any significant way to the country drug problem. While experts debate the medical use of marijuana, patients in Santa Cruz, San Francisco and Alameda County are lining up at Cannabis Buyers’ Club to receive the drug. Despite the coffee house atmosphere at the Cannabis Buyers’ Club marijuana remains illegal. Although some ch... ...ting a combined total of almost 10,000 physicians statewide endorse the proposition (Don’t Jail Med 5).9 What can we do to help? We must stop building prisons instead we must rebuild our lives. Works Cited 1. Mikki, Norris, and Chris Conrad. Medical Marijuana Cases. N.p.: Inernet mario lap, 1996. 2. Foreman, Judy. â€Å"Medical Marijuana (Acure or Curse).† Boston Globe [Boston, Mass.] 7 Oct. 1991: 25-26 3. Grinspoon, Lester, and James B. Bakalar. â€Å"Marihuana as Medicine A Plea for Reconsideration.† American Medical Association.† 273 (June 1995): 1875-1876. 4. Donnelly, Kathleen. â€Å"The Cannabis Prescription.† San Joes Mercury News, 6 Feb   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   5. Schlosser, Eric. â€Å"More Reefer Madness.† Atlantic Apr. 1997: 90-102 6. â€Å"Deglamorising Cannabis.† Editorial Lancet 11 Nov. 1995: 1241. 7. â€Å"Marijuana as Medicine.† Editorial San Francisco Chronicle 31 Jan. 1997: A24. 8. Morganthau, Tom. â€Å"The War Over Weed.† Newsweek 3 Feb. 1997: 20+. 9. â€Å"Don’t Jail Medicinal Marijuana Patients†. Online NORML Internet. 21 Nov. 1996. 10. Mikuriya, Tod. Marijuana Medical Handbook. N.p.: Internet. 11. Postrel, Virginia I. â€Å"Reefer Madness.† Washington Post 3 Mar. 1997: 4.

Mimosa :: essays research papers

Separation from their original home was one of the many past events that caused tensions and turmoil between a father and his two daughters. While each individuals thoughts about each other fluxuated between both positive and negative, one thing remained constant through out the progression of the poem, the ever enduring presence of religion, faith and its beliefs. Religion has always had a place in the life of Vito and his family, he had his own ways of using his faith to comfort himself as well as his own visions on what a heaven would be to him, while his daughter also held a strong faith in religion. Just as the weak Mimosa plant needs support to grow or face death, each of Vito’s daughters , especially Lucia, has attached themselves to a faith, a religion to support and help themselves through life. Vito like many, have found a place for his faith. He believed that a true heaven would be back in his homeland, back in the garden that he cared for so dearly. This garden in fact acted like his own garden of Eden. For his character was like that of the tender Mimosa plant, which when faced with the slightest touch or trouble from an outside source, would recoil its leaves and take a defense position close to the garden that it grew within. Vito would retreat to this garden to escape the troubles of the outside world when they became unbearable. He describes the garden to us as; “The garden that kept them little children even as adults;'; This could be taken as that it did not actually affect Vito physically young but rather it altered him mentally. He would become like Adam and Eve before evil and like that of a young child, all ignorant of all troubles. Complexity and all other dilemma’s that plagued their lives. So in this garden he would escape his troubles through the means of ignoring them and not acknowledging their existence and thus a bit closer to peace, and less degrees of separation between himself and his God.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Though his daughters once also joined him in his “light';, in essence his garden, it is said that his daughter, Lucia (an cleaver metaphor of Lucifer?) Is that of a luckless fallen angle, refusing to join him in his light. Lucifer himself was a fallen angle, and now Lucia clutches to

Bag of Bones CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Devore was mad, all right, mad as a hatter, and he couldn't have caught me at a worse, weaker, more terrified moment. And I think that everything from that moment on was almost pre-ordained. From there to the terrible storm they still talk about in this part of the world, it all came down like a rockslide. I felt fine the rest of Friday afternoon my talk with Bonnie left a lot of questions unanswered, but it had been a tonic just the same. I made a vegetable stir-fry (atonement for my latest plunge into the Fry-O-Lator at the Village Cafe) and ate it while I watched the evening news. On the other side of the lake the sun was sliding down toward the mountains and flooding the living room with gold. When Tom Brokaw closed up shop, I decided to take a walk north along The Street I'd go as far as I could and still be assured of getting home by dark, and as I went I'd think about the things Bill Dean and Bonnie Amudson had told me. I'd think about them the way I sometimes walked and thought about plot-snags in whatever I was working on. I walked down the railroad-tie steps, still feeling perfectly fine (confused, but fine), started off along The Street, then paused to look at the Green Lady. Even with the evening sun shining fully upon her, it was hard to see her for what she actually was just a birch tree with a half-dead pine standing behind it, one branch of the latter making a pointing arm. It was as if the Green Lady were saying go north, young man, go north. Well, I wasn't exactly young, but I could go north, all right. For awhile, at least. Yet I stood a moment longer, uneasily studying the face I could see in the bushes, not liking the way the little shake of breeze seemed to make what was nearly a mouth sneer and grin. I think perhaps I started to feel a little bad then, was too preoccupied to notice it. I set off north, wondering what, exactly, Jo might have written . . . for by then I was starting to believe she might have written something, after all. Why else had I found my old typewriter in her studio? I would go through the place, I decided. I would go through it carefully and . . . help im drown The voice came from the woods, the water, from myself. A wave of lightheadedness passed through my thoughts, lifting and scattering them like leaves in a breeze. I stopped. All at once I had never felt so bad, so blighted, in my life. My chest was tight. My stomach folded in on itself like a cold flower. My eyes filled with chilly water that was nothing like tears, and I knew what was coming. No, I tried to say, but the word wouldn't come out. My mouth filled with the cold taste of lakewater instead, all those dark minerals, and suddenly the trees were shimmering before my eyes as if I were looking up at them through clear liquid, and the pressure on my chest had become dreadfully localized and taken the shapes of hands. They were holding me down. ‘Won't it stop doing that?' someone asked almost cried. There was no one on The Street but me, yet I heard that voice clearly. ‘Won't it ever stop doing that?' What came next was no outer voice but alien thoughts in my own head. They beat against the walls of my skull like moths trapped inside a light-fixture . . . or inside a Japanese lantern. help I'm drown help I'm drown blue-cap man say git me blue-cap man say dassn't let me ramble help I'm drown lost my berries they on the path he holdin me he face shimmer n look bad lemme up lemme up 0 sweet Jesus lemme up oxen free allee allee oxen free? PLEASE OXEN FREE you go on and stop now ALLEE OXEN FREE she scream my name she scream it so LOUD I bent forward in an utter panic, opened my mouth, and from my gaping, straining mouth there poured a cold flood of . . . Nothing at all. The horror of it passed and yet it didn't pass. I still felt terribly sick to my stomach, as if I had eaten something to which my body had taken a violent offense, some kind of ant-powder or maybe a killer mushroom, the kind Jo's fungi guides pictured inside red borders. I staggered forward half a dozen steps, gagging dryly from a throat which still believed it was wet. There was another birch where the bank dropped to the lake, arching its white belly gracefully over the water as if to see its reflection by evening's flattering light. I grabbed it like a drunk grabbing a lamp-post. The pressure in my chest began to ease, but it left an ache as real as rain. I hung against the tree, heart fluttering, and suddenly I became aware that something stank an evil, polluted smell worse than a clogged septic pool which has simmered all summer under the blazing sun. With it was a sense of some hideous presence giving off that odor, something which should have been dead and wasn't. Oh stop, allee allee oxen free, I'll do anything only stop, I tried to say, and still nothing came out. Then it was gone. I could smell nothing but the lake and the woods . . . but I could see something: a boy in the lake, a little drowned dark boy lying on his back. His cheeks were puffed out. His mouth hung slackly open. His eyes were as white as the eyes of a statue. My mouth filled with the unmerciful iron of the lake again. Help me, lemme up, help I'm drown. I leaned out, screaming inside my head, screaming down at the dead face, and I realized I was looking up at myself, looking up through the rose-shimmer of sunset water at a white man in blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt holding onto a trembling, birch and trying to scream, his liquid face in motion, his eyes momentarily blotted out by the passage of a small perch coursing after a tasty bug, I was both the dark boy and the white man, drowned in the water and drowning in the air, is this right, is this what's happening, tap once for yes twice for no. I retched nothing but a single runner of spit, and, impossibly, a fish jumped at it. They'll jump at almost anything at sunset; something in the dying light must make them crazy. The fish hit the water again about seven feet from the bank, spanking out a circular silver ripple, and it was gone the taste in my mouth, the horrible smell, the shimmering drowned face of the Negro child a Negro, that was how he would have thought of himself whose name had almost surely been Tidwell. I looked to my right and saw a gray forehead of rock poking out of the mulch. I thought, There, right there, and as if in confirmation, that horrible putrescent smell puffed at me again, seemingly from the ground. I closed my eyes, still hanging onto the birch for dear life, feeling weak and sick and ill, and that was when Max Devore, that madman, spoke from behind me. ‘Say there, whoremaster, where's your whore?' I turned and there he was, with Rogette Whitmore by his side. It was the only time I ever met him, but once was enough. Believe me, once was more than enough. His wheelchair hardly looked like a wheelchair at all. What it looked like was a motorcycle sidecar crossed with a lunar lander. Half a dozen chrome wheels ran along both sides. Bigger wheels four of them, I think ran in a row across the back. None looked to be exactly on the same level, and I realized each was tied into its own suspension-bed. Devore would have a smooth ride over ground a lot rougher than The Street. Above the back wheels was an enclosed engine compartment. Hiding Devore's legs was a fiberglass nacelle, black with red pinstriping, that would not have looked out of place on a racing car. Implanted in the center of it was a gadget that looked like my DSS satellite dish . . . some sort of computerized avoidance system, I guessed. Maybe even an autopilot. The armrests were wide and covered with controls. Holstered on the left side of this machine was a green oxygen tank four feet long. A hose went to a clear plastic accordion tube; the accordion tube led to a mask whi ch rested in Devore's lap. It made me think of the old guy's Stenomask. Coming on the heels of what had just happened, I might have considered this Tom Clancyish vehicle a hallucination, except for the bumper-sticker on the nacelle, below the dish. I BLEED DODGER BLUE, it said. This evening the woman I had seen outside The Sunset Bar at Warrington's was wearing a white blouse with long sleeves and black pants so tapered they made her legs look like sheathed swords. Her narrow face and hollow cheeks made her resemble Edvard Munch's screamer more than ever. Her white hair hung around her face in a lank cowl. Her lips were painted so brightly red she seemed to be bleeding from the mouth. She was old and she was ugly, but she was a prize compared to Mattie's father-in-law. Scrawny, blue-lipped, the skin around his eyes and the corners of his mouth a dark exploded purple, he looked like something an archeologist might find in the burial room of a pyramid, surrounded by his stuffed wives and pets, bedizened with his favorite jewels. A few wisps of white hair still clung to his scaly skull; more tufts sprang from enormous ears which seemed to have melted like wax sculptures left out in the sun. He was wearing white cotton pants and a billowy blue shirt. Add a little black beret and he would have looked like a French artist from the nineteenth century at the end of a very long life. Across his lap was a cane of some black wood. Snugged over the end was a bright red bicycle grip. The fingers grasping it looked powerful, but they were going as black as the cane itself. His circulation was failing, and I couldn't imagine what his feet and his lower legs must look like. ‘Whore run off and left you, has she?' I tried to say something. A croak came out of my mouth, nothing more. I was still holding the birch. I let go of it and tried to straighten up, but my legs were still weak and I had to grab it again. He nudged a silver toggle switch and the chair came ten feet closer, halving the distance between us. The sound it made was a silky whisper; watching it was like watching an evil magic carpet. Its many wheels rose and fell independent of one another and flashed in the declining sun, which had begun to take on a reddish cast. And as he came closer, I felt the sense of the man. His body was rotting out from under him, but the force around him was undeniable and daunting, like an electrical storm. The woman paced beside him, regarding me with silent amusement. Her eyes were pinkish. I assumed then that they were gray and had picked up a bit of the coming sunset, but I think now she was an albino. ‘I always liked a whore,' he said. He drew the word out, making it horrrrrrr. ‘Didn't I, Rogette?' ‘Yes, sir,' she said. ‘In their place.' ‘Sometimes their place was on my face!' he cried with a kind of insane perkiness, as if she had contradicted him. ‘Where is she, young man? Whose face is she sitting on right now? I wonder. That smart lawyer you found? Oh, I know all about him, right down to the Unsatisfactory Conduct he got in the third grade. I make it my business to know things. It's the secret of my success.' With an enormous effort, I straightened up. ‘What are you doing here?' ‘Having a constitutional, same as you. And no law against it, is there? The Street belongs to anyone who wants to use it. You haven't been here long, young whoremaster, but surely you've been here long enough to know that. It's our version of the town common, where good pups and vile dogs may walk side-by-side.' Once more using the hand not bunched around the red bicycle grip, he picked up the oxygen mask, sucked deeply, then dropped it back in his lap. He grinned an unspeakable grin of complicity that revealed gums the color of iodine. ‘She good? That little horrrrrr of yours? She must be good to have kept my son prisoner in that nasty little trailer where she lives. And then along comes you even before the worms had finished with my boy's eyes. Does her cunt suck?' ‘Shut up.' Rogette Whitmore threw back her head and laughed. The sound was like the scream of a rabbit caught in an owl's talons, and my flesh crawled. I had an idea she was as crazy as he was. Thank God they were old. ‘You struck a nerve there, Max,' she said. ‘What do you want?' I took a breath . . . and caught a taste of that putrescence again. I gagged. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it. Devore straightened in his chair and breathed deeply, as if to mock me. In that moment he looked like Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now, striding along the beach and telling the world how much he loved the smell of napalm in the morning. His grin widened. ‘Lovely place, just here, isn't it? A cozy spot to stop and think, wouldn't you say?' He looked around. ‘This is where it happened, all right. Ayuh.' ‘Where the boy drowned.' I thought Whitmore's smile looked momentarily uneasy at that. Devore didn't. He clutched for his translucent oxygen mask with an old man's overwide grip, fingers that grope rather than reach. I could see little bubbles of mucus clinging to the inside. He sucked deep again, put it down again. ‘Thirty or more folks have drowned in this lake, and that's just the ones they know about,' he said. ‘What's one boy, more or less?' ‘I don't get it. Were there two Tidwell boys who died here? The one that got blood-poisoning and the one ‘ ‘Do you care about your soul, Mr. Noonan? Your immortal soul? God's butterfly caught in a cocoon of flesh that will soon stink like mine?' I said nothing. The strangeness of what had happened before he arrived was passing. What replaced it was his incredible personal magnetism. I have never in my life felt so much raw force. There was nothing supernatural about it, either, and raw is exactly the right word. I might have run. Under other circumstances, I'm sure I would have. It certainly wasn't bravery that kept me where I was; my legs still felt rubbery, and I was afraid I might fall down. ‘I'm going to give you one chance to save your soul,' Devore said. He raised a bony finger to illustrate the concept of one. ‘Go away, my fine whoremaster. Right now, in the clothes you stand up in. Don't bother to pack a bag, don't even stop to make sure you turned off the stoveburners. Go. Leave the whore and leave the whorelet.' ‘Leave them to you.' ‘Ayuh, to me. I'll do the things that need to be done. Souls are for liberal arts majors, Noonan. I was an engineer.' ‘Go fuck yourself.' Rogette Whitmore made that screaming-rabbit sound again. The old man sat in his chair, head lowered, grinning sallowly up at me and looking like something raised from the dead. ‘Are you sure you want to be the one, Noonan? It doesn't matter to her, you know you or me, it's all the same to her.' ‘I don't know what you're talking about.' I drew another deep breath, and this time the air tasted all right. I took a step away from the birch, and my legs were all right, too. ‘And I don't care. You're never getting Kyra. Never in what remains of your scaly life. I'll never see that happen.' ‘Pal, you'll see plenty,' Devore said, grinning and showing me his iodine gums. ‘Before July's done, you'll likely have seen so much you'll wish you'd ripped the living eyes out of your head in June.' ‘I'm going home. Let me pass.' ‘Go home then, how could I stop you?' he asked. ‘The Street belongs to everyone.' He groped the oxygen mask out of his lap again and took another healthy pull. He dropped it into his lap and settled his left hand on the arm of his Buck Rogers wheelchair. I stepped toward him, and almost before I knew what was happening, he ran the wheelchair at me. He could have hit me and hurt me quite badly broken one or both of my legs, I don't doubt but he stopped just short. I leaped back, but only because he allowed me to. I was aware that Whitmore was laughing again. ‘What's the matter, Noonan?' ‘Get out of my way. I'm warning you.' ‘Whore made you jumpy, has she?' I started to my left, meaning to go by him on that side, but in a flash he had turned the chair, shot it forward, and cut me off. ‘Get out of the TR, Noonan. I'm giving you good ad ‘ I broke to the right, this time on the lake side, and would have slipped by him quite neatly except for the fist, very small and hard, that hammered the left side of my face. The white-haired bitch was wearing a ring, and the stone cut me behind the ear. I felt the sting and the warm flow of blood. I pivoted, stuck out both hands, and pushed her. She fell to the needle-carpeted path with a squawk of surprised outrage. At the next instant something clouted me on the back of the head. A momentary orange glow lit up my sight. I staggered backward in what felt like slow motion, waving my arms, and Devore came into view again. He was slued around in his wheelchair, scaly head thrust forward, the cane he'd hit me with still upraised. If he had been ten years younger, I believe he would have fractured my skull instead of just creating that momentary orange light. I ran into my old friend the birch tree. I raised my hand to my ear and looked unbelievingly at the blood on the tips of my fingers. My head ached from the blow he had fetched me. Whitmore was struggling to her feet, brushing pine needles from her slacks and looking at me with a furious smile. Her cheeks had filled in with a thin pink flush. Her too-red lips were pulled back to show small teeth. In the light of the setting sun her eyes looked as if they were burning. ‘Get out of my way,' I said, but my voice sounded small and weak. ‘No,' Devore said, and laid the black barrel of his cane on the nacelle that curved over the front of his chair. Now I could see the little boy who had been determined to have the sled no matter how badly he cut his hands getting it. I could see him very clearly. ‘No, you whore-fucking sissy. I won't.' He shoved the silver toggle switch again and the wheelchair rushed silently at me. If I had stayed where I was, he would have run me through with his cane as surely as any evil duke was ever run through in an Alexandre Dumas story. He probably would have crushed the fragile bones in his right hand and torn his right arm clean out of its socket in the collision, but this man had never cared about such things; he left cost-counting to the little people. If I had hesitated out of shock or incredulity, he would have killed me, I'm sure of it. Instead, I rolled to my left. My sneakers slid on the needle-slippery embankment for a moment. Then they lost contact with the earth and I was falling. I hit the water awkwardly and much too close to the bank. My left foot struck a submerged root and twisted. The pain was huge, something that felt like a thunderclap sounds. I opened my mouth to scream and the lake poured in that cold metallic dark taste, this time for real. I coughed it out and sneezed it out and floundered away from where I had landed, thinking The boy, the dead boy's down here, what if he reaches up and grabs me? I turned over on my back, still flailing and coughing, very aware of my jeans clinging clammily to my legs and crotch, thinking absurdly about my wallet I didn't care about the credit cards or driver's license, but I had two good snapshots of Jo in there, and they would be ruined. Devore had almost run himself over the embankment, I saw, and for a moment I thought he still might go. The front of his chair jutted over the place where I had fallen (I could see the short tracks of my sneakers just to the left of the bitch's partially exposed roots), and although the forward wheels were still grounded, the crumbly earth was running out from beneath them in dry little avalanches that rolled down the slope and pit-a-patted into the water, creating interlocking ripple patterns. Whitmore was clinging to the back of the chair, yanking on it, but it was much too heavy for her; if Devore was to be saved, he would have to save himself. Standing waist-deep in the lake with my clothes floating around me, I rooted for him to go over. The purplish claw of his left hand recaptured the silver toggle switch after several attempts. One finger hooked it backward, and the chair reversed away from the embankment with a final shower of stones and dirt. Whitmore leaped prankishly to one side to keep her feet from being run over. Devore fiddled some more with his controls, turned the chair to face me where I stood in the water, some seven feet out from the overhanging birch, and then nudged the chair forward until he was on the edge of The Street but safely away from the drop off. Whitmore had turned away from us entirely; she was bent over with her butt poking in my direction. If I thought about her at all, and I can't remember that I did, I suppose I thought she was getting her breath back. Devore appeared to be in the best shape of the three of us, not even needing a hit from the oxygen mask sitting in his lap. The late light was full in his face, making him look like a half-rotted jack-o'-lantern which has been soaked with gas and set on fire. ‘Enjoying your swim?' he asked, and laughed. I looked around, hoping to see a strolling couple or perhaps a fisherman looking for a place where he could wet his line one more time before dark . . . and yet at the same time I hoped I'd see no one. I was angry, hurt, and scared. Most of all I was embarrassed. I had been dunked in the lake by a man of eighty-five . . . a man who showed every sign of hanging around and making sport of me. I began wading to my right south, back toward my house. The water was about waist-deep, cool and almost refreshing now that I was used to it. My sneakers squelched over rocks and submerged tree-branches. The ankle I'd twisted still hurt, but it was supporting me. Whether it would continue to once I got out of the lake was another question. Devore twiddled his controls some more. The chair pivoted and came rolling slowly along The Street, keeping pace with me easily. ‘I didn't introduce you properly to Rogette, did I?' he said. ‘She was quite an athlete in college, you know. Softball and field hockey were her specialties, and she's held onto at least some of her skills. Rogette, demonstrate your skills for this young man.' Whitmore passed the slowly moving wheelchair on the left. For a moment she was blocked out by it. When I could see her again, I could also see what she was holding. She hadn't been bent over to get her breath. Smiling, she strode to the edge of the embankment with her left arm curled against her midriff, cradling the rocks she had picked up from the edge of the path. She selected a chunk roughly the size of a golfball, drew her hand back to her ear, and threw it at me. Hard. It whizzed by my left temple and splashed into the water behind me. ‘Hey!' I shouted, more startled than afraid. Even after everything that had preceded it, I couldn't believe this was happening. ‘What's wrong with you, Rogette?' Devore asked chidingly. ‘You never used to throw like a girl. Get him!' The second rock passed two inches over my head. The third was a potential tooth-smasher. I batted it away with an angry, fearful shout, not noticing until later that it had bruised my palm. At the moment I was only aware of her hateful, smiling face the face of a woman who has plunked down two dollars in a carny shooting-pitch and means to win the big stuffed teddybear even if she has to blast away all night. And she threw fast. The rocks hailed down around me, some splashing into the ruddy water to my left or right, creating little geysers. I began to backpedal, afraid to turn and swim for it, afraid that she would throw a really big one the minute I did. Still, I had to get out of her range. Devore, meanwhile, was laughing a wheezy old man's laugh, his wretched face crunched in on itself like the face of a malicious apple-doll. One of her rocks struck me a hard, painful blow on the collarbone and bounced high into the air. I cried out, and she did, too: ‘Hai!,' like a karate fighter who's gotten in a good kick. So much for orderly retreat. I turned, swam for deeper water, and the bitch brained me. The first two rocks she threw after I began to swim seemed to be range-finders. There was a pause when I had time to think I'm doing it, I'm getting beyond her area of . . . and then something hit the back of my head. I felt it and heard it the same way it went CLONK!, like something you'd read in a Batman comic. The surface of the lake went from bright orange to bright red to dark scarlet. Faintly I could hear Devore yelling approval and Whitmore squealing her strange laugh. I took in another mouthful of iron-tasting water and was so dazed I had to remind myself to spit it out, not swallow it. My feet now felt too heavy for swimming, and my goddam sneakers weighed a ton. I put them down to stand up and couldn't find the bottom I had gotten beyond my depth. I looked in toward the shore. It was spectacular, blazing in the sunset like stage-scenery lit with bright orange and red gels. I was probably twenty feet out from the shore now. Devore and Whitmore were at the edge of The Street, watching. They looked like Dad and Mom in a Grant Wood painting. Devore was using the mask again, but I could see him grinning inside it. Whitmore was grinning, too. More water sloshed in my mouth. I spit most of it out, but some went down, making me cough and half-retch. I started to sink below the surface and fought my way back up, not swimming but only splashing wildly, expending nine times the energy I needed to stay afloat. Panic made its first appearance, nibbling through my dazed bewilderment with sharp little rat teeth. I realized I could hear a high, sweet buzzing. How many blows had my poor old head taken? One from Whitmore's fist . . . one from Devore's cane . . . one rock . . . or had it been two? Christ, I couldn't remember. Get hold of yourself, for God's sake you're not going to let him beat you this way, are you? Drown you like that little boy was drowned? No, not if I could help it. I trod water and ran my left hand down the back of my head. Not too far above the nape I encountered a goose-egg that was still rising. When I pressed on it the pain made me feel like throwing up and fainting at the same time. Tears rose in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. There were only traces of blood on the tips of my fingers when I looked at them, but it was hard to tell about cuts when you were in the water. ‘You look like a woodchuck caught out in the rain, Noonan!' Now his voice seemed to roll to where I was, as if across a great distance. ‘Fuck you!' I called. ‘I'll see you in jail for this!' He looked at Whitmore. She looked back with an identical expression, and they both laughed. If someone had put an Uzi in my hands at that moment, I would have killed them both with no hesitation and then asked for a second clip so I could machine-gun the bodies. With no Uzi to hand, I began to dogpaddle south, toward my house. They paced me along The Street, he rolling in his whisper-quiet wheelchair, she walking beside him as solemn as a nun and pausing every now and then to pick up a likely-looking rock. I hadn't swum enough to be tired, but I was. It was mostly shock, I suppose. Finally I tried to draw a breath at the wrong time, swallowed more water, and panicked completely. I began to swim in toward the shore, wanting to get to where I could stand up. Rogette Whitmore began to fire rocks at me immediately, first using the ones she' had lined up between her left arm and her midriff, then those she'd stockpiled in Devore's lap. She was warmed up, she wasn't throwing like a girl anymore, and her aim was deadly. Stones splashed all around me. I batted another away a big one that likely would have cut open my forehead if it had hit but her follow-up struck my bicep and tore a long scratch there. Enough. I rolled over and swam back out beyond her range, gasping for breath, trying to keep my head up in spite of the growing ache in the back of my neck. When I was clear, I trod water and looked in at them. Whitmore had come all the way to the edge of the embankment, wanting to get every foot of distance she could. Hell, every damned inch. Devore was parked behind her in his wheelchair. They were both still grinning, and now their faces were as red as the faces of imps in hell. Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Another twenty minutes and it would be getting dark. Could I keep my head above water for another twenty minutes? I thought so, if I didn't panic again, but not much longer. I thought of drowning in the dark, looking up and seeing Venus just before I went under for the last time, and the panic-rat slashed me with its teeth again. The panic-rat was worse than Rogette and her rocks, much worse. Maybe not worse than Devore. I looked both ways along the lakefront, checking The Street wherever it wove out of the trees for a dozen feet or a dozen yards. I didn't care about being embarrassed anymore, but I saw no one. Dear God, where was everybody? Gone to the Mountain View in Fryeburg for pizza, or the Village Cafe for milkshakes? ‘What do you want?' I called in to Devore. ‘Do you want me to tell you I'll butt out of your business? Okay, I'll butt out!' He laughed. Well, I hadn't expected it to work. Even if I'd been sincere about it, he wouldn't have believed me. ‘We just want to see how long you can swim,' Whitmore said, and threw another rock -a long, lazy toss that fell about five feet short of where I was. They mean to kill me, I thought. They really do. Yes. And what was more, they might well get away with it. A crazy idea, both plausible and implausible at the same time, rose in my mind. I could see Rogette Whitmore tacking a notice to the cOMMUNITY DOIN'S board outside the Lakeview General Store. TO THE MARTIANS OF TR-90, GREETINGS! Mr, MAXWELL DEVORE, everyone's favorite Martian, will give each resident of the TR ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS if no one will use The Street on FRIDAY EVENING, THE 17th OF JULY, between the hours of SEVEN and NINE P.M. Keep our ‘SUMMER FRIENDS' away, too! And remember: GOOD MARTIANS are like GOOD MONKEYS: they SEE no evil, HEAR no evil, and SPEAK no evil! I couldn't really believe it, not even in my current situation . . . and yet I almost could. At the very least I had to grant him the luck of the devil. Tired. My sneakers heavier than ever. I tried to push one of them off and succeeded only in taking in another mouthful of lakewater. They stood watching me, Devore occasionally picking the mask up from his lap and having a revivifying suck. I couldn't wait until dark. The sun exits in a hurry here in western Maine as it does, I guess, in mountain country everywhere but the twilights are long and lingering. By the time it got dark enough in the west to move without being seen, the moon would have risen in the east. I found myself imagining my obituary in the New York Times, the headline reading POPULAR ROMANTIC SUSPENSE NOVELIST DROWNS IN MAINE. Debra Weinstock would provide them with the author photo from the forthcoming Helen's Promise. Harold Oblowski would say all the right things, and he'd also remember to put a modest (but not tiny) death notice in Publishers Weekly. He would go half-and-half with Putnam on it, and I sank, swallowed more water, and spat it out. I began pummelling the lake again and forced myself to stop. From the shore, I could hear Rogette Whitmore's tinkling laughter. You bitch, I thought, you scrawny bi Mike, Jo said. Her voice was in my head, but it wasn't the one I make when I'm imagining her side of a mental dialogue or when I just miss her and need to whistle her up for awhile. As if to underline this, something splashed to my right, splashed hard. When I looked in that direction I saw no fish, not even a ripple. What I saw instead was our swimming float, anchored about a hundred yards away in the sunset-colored water. ‘I can't swim that far, baby,' I croaked. ‘Did you say something, Noonan?' Devore called from the shore. He cupped a mocking hand to one of his huge waxlump ears. ‘Couldn't quite make it out! You sound all out of breath!' More tinkling laughter from Whitmore. He was Johnny Carson; she was Ed Mcmahon. You can make it. I'll help you. The float, I realized, might be my only chance there wasn't another one on this part of the shore, and it was at least ten yards beyond Whitmore's longest rockshot so far. I began to dogpaddle in that direction, my arms now as leaden as my feet. Each time I felt my head on the verge of going under I paused, treading water, telling myself to take it easy, I was in pretty good shape and doing okay, telling myself that if I didn't panic I'd be all right. The old bitch and the even older bastard resumed pacing me, but they saw where I was headed and the laughter stopped. So did the taunts. For a long time the swimming float seemed to draw no closer. I told myself that was just because the light was fading, the color of the water draining from red to purple to a near-black that was the color of Devore's gums, but I was able to muster less and less conviction for this idea as my breath shortened and my arms grew heavier. When I was still thirty yards away a cramp struck my left leg. I rolled sideways like a swamped sailboat, trying to reach the bunched muscle. More water poured down my throat. I tried to cough it out, then retched and went under with my stomach still trying to heave and my fingers still looking for the knotted place above the knee. I'm really drowning, I thought, strangely calm now that it was happening. This is how it happens, this is it. Then I felt a hand seize me by the nape of the neck. The pain of having my hair yanked brought me back to reality in a flash it was better than an epinephrine injection. I felt another hand clamp around my left leg; there was a brief but terrific sense of heat. The cramp let go and I broke the surface swimming really swimming this time, not just dog-paddling, and in what seemed like seconds I was clinging to the ladder on the side of the float, breathing in great, snatching gasps, waiting to see if I was going to be all right or if my heart was going to detonate in my chest like a hand grenade. At last my lungs started to overcome my oxygen debt, and everything began to calm down. I gave it another minute, then climbed out of the water and into what was now the ashes of twilight. I stood facing west for a little while, bent over with my hands on my knees, dripping on the boards. Then I turned around, meaning this time to flip them not just a single bird but that fabled double eagle . There was no one to flip it to. The Street was empty. Devore and Rogette Whitmore were gone. Maybe they were gone. I'd do well to remember there was a lot of Street I couldn't see. I sat cross-legged on the float until the moon rose, waiting and watching for any movement. Half an hour, I think. Maybe forty-five minutes. I checked my watch, but got no help there; it had shipped some water and stopped at 7:30 P.M. To the other satisfactions Devore owed me I could now add the price of one Timex Indiglo that's $29.95, asshole, cough it up. At last I climbed back down the ladder, slipped into the water, and stroked for shore as quietly as I could. I was rested, my head had stopped aching (although the knot above the nape of my neck still throbbed steadily), and I no longer felt off-balance and incredulous. In some ways, that had been the worst of it trying to cope not just with the apparition of the drowned boy, the flying rocks, and the lake, but with the pervasive sense that none of this could be happening, that rich old software moguls did not try to drown novelists who strayed into their line of sight. Had tonight's adventure been a case of simple straying into Devore's view, though? A coincidental meeting, no more than that? Wasn't it likely he'd been having me watched ever since the Fourth of July . . . maybe from the other side of the lake, by people with high-powered optical equipment? Paranoid bullshit, I would have said . . . at least I would have said it before the two of them almost sank me in Dark Score Lake like a kid's paper boat in a mudpuddle. I decided I didn't care who might be watching from the other side of the lake. I didn't care if the two of them were still lurking on one of the tree-shielded parts of The Street, either. I swam until I could feel strands of waterweed tickling my ankles and see the crescent of my beach. Then I stood up, wincing at the air, which now felt cold on my skin. I limped to shore, one hand raised to fend off a hail of rocks, but no rocks came. I stood for a moment on The Street, my jeans and polo shirt dripping, looking first one way, then the other. It seemed I had this little part of the world to myself. Last, I looked back at the water, where weak moonlight beat a track from the thumbnail of beach out to the swimming float. ‘Thanks, Jo,' I said, then started up the railroad ties to the house. I got about halfway, then had to stop and sit down. I had never been so utterly tired in my whole life.

Defining Experience

I have always considered myself an open and welcome person who treated everyone fairly. Other people that I knew would often express views that people, who lived in the United States, whether legally or not, should learn how to speak â€Å"our† language. While I tended to agree with them I never gave it much thought, until I found myself in a foreign country, and unable to speak the language. It was there that I learned, not only how it felt to not be able to communicate easily, but to be more tolerant of other people’s non-native speaking. I have always loved to travel with family and friends, and there was no better time than when I was living and working in Serbia. While I worked with people from many nationalities most, if not all, spoke the English language. I took this for granted, and while I made some attempts to learn new languages, I did not try too hard. After a particularly stressful month of work I felt the need to get away from it all, to rest and relax, and to broaden my perspective of the world. I made reservations for six solo days of scuba diving in Croatia. I was excited, nervous, even a little scared of traveling alone. I told myself that I’m 36 years old, have two kids, and lived in another country, so I held my head high, bid my friends farewell and took off. Upon arrival in Croatia I picked up my rental car at the airport in Zagreb. I got on the A1 motorway and pointed the Fiat Punta south towards the small fishing village of Rocogniza. I arrived there late in the afternoon and promptly found the dive shop that had arranged all my accommodations. I settled in and then set off into the village to explore and buy food to prepare for dinner. The sun was shining and felt warm as I parked my car started walking towards the village. I traveled past centuries old houses, a large stone Orthodox Christian church, and into the village. Once in the village I saw the bustle of people coming to and from the outdoor market and the fisher men peddling their catches along the dock. There were people of all ages in the town centre, young kids playing, and elderly people sitting at the cafà ©Ã¢â‚¬â„¢s talking. I walked through the market and saw a very old lady selling fresh fruits and vegetables. I stopped at her cart and she was very warm, with bright eyes, a big smile on her face, and arms opened as if she were going to hug those around her. I said hello to the old lady who only nodded and I realized that she did not speak English. Even though there was a language barrier I was able to purchase the fresh fruit and vegetables that I would need for the next few days. I then walked to the docks and again I was greeted with a warm welcome by the fishermen. I bought several mackerel, red mullet, and bukva, more that I needed, thanked the fishermen and bid them farewell. After making my purchases I stopped at a small cafà © to have a coffee. The waiter Mario, whose brother was always living and working in Kosovo, spoke almost perfect English. I sat at that cafà © for several hours talking with Mario. Mario told me about the people of his village, how they had survived through the war, and how the Croatian people generally loved having foreigners visit their great land. Although I hated for our talk to end, I had to bid Mario farewell, and head out before dark. As I left the village I turned back and looked towards the small fishing village that I had just visited. I thought about the warm and welcoming reception that I had received and that I would always remember the people that I had met. I also thought about those people who come to the United States to either visit or in search of a better life for the families. I vowed to myself that I would learn some of the local language while traveling in other countries. This experience also changed the way that I would interact with people who were in my own country and did not know how to speak what we consider â€Å"our† language.