Damned Lies!

by Dennis Liggio

  And that was awesome.

  Rick stayed in the control room with the master controls. Normally he'd have to set things up, then get in the robot, sometimes going back and forth. With an extra set of hands around, things were easier. He could do the technical stuff, and I could fulfill a lifelong dream I never knew I had: having complete control over a few hundred foot mechanized suit of armor.

  I'll admit that we had to wait a few minutes before starting the tests. My first few minutes in the cockpit had me screaming "OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD", bouncing in my seat, and feeling the pure mad joy of actually being inside the pilot chair of a giant robot. After that I leveled out and could take direction. Rick was patient through all this. He'd seen it before.

  The control system had been made in the Seventies and upgraded in the Eighties, so the interface wasn't fancy. No holograph readouts, no touch displays, no internet searching for porn via satellite internet. This was more about buttons, levers, control sticks, and pedals. What computers were in there were for balance calibrations and displaying readouts. The main interfaces were two control sticks on my left and right side. They were on long gyroscopic arms, so not only could I move the stick, but I could also pull the entire arm in, out, forward or back. The sticks themselves had more buttons than a flight stick. In front of me was a console with additional buttons and a display. I won't even begin to describe the complicated setup of pedals.

  So it turns out that piloting a giant robot is actually really hard and complicated. Who knew? I always figured it was more about having your fighting spirit aligned with your mind. But no, it's about yanking control sticks, hitting the right button on a whack-a-mole console, and then pressing the right pedals. I had the advantage of a harness to keep the robot from falling over; otherwise it would have toppled over during my first few minutes of trying to figure out the pedals.

  "Pull on the sticks slowly and smoothly," came Rick's voice from the speaker.

  "I'm trying, but I think these things need to be oiled. I either need to yank really hard or it won't move."

  "The sensitivity is where it needs to be," he said, "you need that range for all the movements. The pilots would typically build some good arm muscle to be able to push and pull the arms where they need to slowly and smoothly."

  Awesome. Rick just denied me a ticket to the gun show. It turns out hobo fighting does not build the correct muscle mass for mech combat.

  I held down a trigger on a control stick. I heard the minigun spin up... and then do nothing but stay spun up. No bullets, no hot screaming death. I watched with sadness as the minigun spun impotently.

  "Guns aren't loaded," said Rick.

  "I noticed."

  "Good thing too, since you're currently pointed at a few million dollars of maintenance equipment."

  "What's the point of being in a giant robot if I can't destroy things?" I whined.

  "Driving two thousand tons of mechanized armor should be its own reward," came Rick's voice. "Weapons are just the optional extras."

  I still held down the trigger and watched the minigun spin with glee for another minute before I would move onto the next step.

  Ultimately, all I got to do with the robots was the equivalent of calisthenics: right arm up, check, right arm down, check, left leg up, check, left leg down, check. The robot never left its harness, which means I didn't even get to walk the length of the cavern. Once done, we repeated with the other robot.

  It was a sad moment when Rick cut the power on the second robot. The display disappeared, the controls became nonfunctional. The purr and throb of massive engines ceased and I was alone in a gigantic tomb of metal. Something bright and mechanized went out in the world. I stayed there contemplating our world's loss of giant robots until Rick opened the hatch and pulled me out.

  My pensive silence where I contemplated the cruelness of a mech-less world lasted through our trip back up the elevator. Once we drove out of the hangar onto the open road, the sadness left me. Maybe it was the fresh air, maybe it was the sun. But once the malaise left, I found myself energized. Well, hyperactive. I had just piloted a giant fucking robot! I was high on pure mech-love. I remember talking Rick's ear off telling him about every robot movie I had ever seen, every giant robot cartoon, every Godzilla movie, the entire plot of Robotech through Southern Cross and the Invid Invasion, including any other excited tangential thought related to the subject.

  He merely sat and nodded. He wasn't annoyed or anything. He almost seemed used to it. I think he had seen the manic excitement of the first time someone pilots a robot before, so it was expected. He simply drove for hours, first out of the middle of nowhere, then on windy roads that felt like they turned us all around.

  It was night before he finally dropped me off in front of a truck stop diner.

  "This is as far as you go," he said. "It's home for me. But you should be able to get a ride from there."

  "Thank you, Rick," I said, still enthralled by my mania. "I mean, really, thank you. That was a once in a life time experience."

  "You're welcome," he said, and got ready to leave.

  "Aren't you going to say something like, 'Don't tell anyone', or 'That was all top secret, so MIBs will track you down if you say something'?"

  He give a little chuckle. "Boy, who would believe you?" He threw the truck in gear and drove off.

  I'd believe me.

  Back to Civilization

  August, 1994 - Diner

  I love diner food. I'm not necessarily talking the chains of diner-type food, the pancake- and breakfast-franchises of massive corporations. I'm talking about individual, locally owned diners. And that's not from some go-local thing. It's about the food, the attitude and decor. I love those diners still decked out in the silver chrome, looking like they're right out of a yesteryear that never existed. I love the bright lights, the bar stools, the glass cover to the pies on the counter. I like the heavily fried burgers, the drowned cheese fries, the authentic vanilla shakes, the breakfast menu that is never closed.

  Not all diners are like this, of course, and it's a vast overgeneralization for all the wonderful ways they differ. But a good diner will always be better than a chain, a good diner will always be better than fast food. The burger and fries or breakfast omelet you get will always be exceptional and feel sort of like home.

  The diner Rick dropped me off at was one of the more traditional types. Like some mythical beast of stainless steel and neon, this oblong trailer-shaped building was the traditional mass produced pre-fab diners that they shipped all across America via railway cars, plopping them down whenever there were hungry people and some entrepreneur willing to make a buck off said hungry people. To say they don’t make them like this anymore is an understatement. Whoever did own this one kept it well-maintained. The street lamps around it made it shine in the darkness. A pink neon sign proclaimed it the “Nighthawk”. At least I knew it would be open no matter the time.

  I passed by the handful of cars and trailer trucks parked in front of the diner; some were parked on the small square of concrete that the diner sat on, while others were parked in the well-worn dirt around the diner. I felt something akin to glee as I walked up the steps, glancing in the windows at the well-lit inside drowned in fifties nostalgia and neon. I lovingly touched the stainless steel door handle with its uncomfortable grip. I paused for a second, took a deep breath and opened the door.

  I lingered a moment in the doorway, looking around, causing some of the customers to stare at me.

  “Large Marge sent me,” I said.

  After a long pause where nobody got the reference, I sat down at one of the stools in front of the counter. Real faux red leather seats, just like they used to make them, long ago in a time before I was born. But part of the whole vintage fad is being almost religiously affectionate towards things that allow you to reminisce about times when you weren’t born, so I think I was covered. I spun a full 360 around in the chair, trying to not be too loud with my “Wheeeee!” exc
lamation.

  I got a dirty look from the burly fellow on the stool next to me. On second thought, with the girth and size of the man, I have no way of know if he actually just took up the stool next to me, he could easily take up both that stool and the stool next to it. Sure, I could make jokes about the sheer enormity of the man’s gut[9] and ass[10], but he was a big man all over. His forearms seemed the thickness of my neck, covered in a coarse hair I’m sure he sold for use in wire brushes used for the most extreme hair styling catastrophes. He wore a collared flannel shirt and a dark, coarse beard which removed any suggestion of a neck to the point where viewers would begin to wonder if he still had a neck, or if it had collapsed under the weight of his enormous head, that head coming to a wobbly rest on the massive slab that was the man’s torso.

  Upon his head he wore a rather worn baseball cap which proclaimed his name to be “Bill”, which would have been a surprise to no one. He was clearly a trucker, and here in the heartland of America (I still assumed), he fit a stereotype. All the fat redneck truckers had names like Bill, or Biff, or Joe Bob, or Carl, or Rex, or Big Jim. They never seemed to differ. Of course, I know by saying that, I would now meet some exception to the rule. I’ll be sitting in a roadside diner, and a trucker will walk in with the name Thelonious stitched into his hat, a name given to him by overzealous jazz enthusiast parents. Willing to drop my stereotypes about truckers, I would ask him about jazz and the works of his namesake. Turning to me with a sneer of disgust, he would remark, “Jazz is for fags,” then he would burp right in my face, poisoning me with toxic beer fumes before returning to his chicken fried steak.

  Surprisingly, this particular instance of the Platonic trucker stereotype, our Bill, was not eating chicken fried steak. Instead he was eating apple pie, which would have looked delicious, if I actually liked apples. Of course, that did not rule out him having chicken fried steak earlier. Chicken fried steak would have actually helped to nail down what state I was in, since it was a southern dish, particularly in Texas and Oklahoma.

  I realize that some of my readership may never have heard of chicken fried steak or if they have heard of it, they have never actually seen it. I know when I first heard of such a notion, I had imagined something different. I had imagined a thick, juicy, rare steak that had been flash fried in the same way someone might fry a Twinkie (also a southern delicacy) or fried ice cream. Instead, chicken fried steak relies on a very thin cut of beef, some flour, and a pan frying. Historians and chicken fried steak haters would suggest that it really is a form of schnitzel, but don’t believe their lies. When chicken fried steak is drowned in the appropriate amount of white pepper gravy[11] it is one of the most American foods out there; assuming your America is both southern and heavily fried.

  I put my hand on one of the menus on the counter, both to check for chicken fried steak and maybe order something, but the waitress materialized out of nowhere and placed her hand on it.

  “No offense, Sugah, but you look pretty rough. I need to confirm you can pay for things before you order them.”

  I sighed but understood her point. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled ten dollar bill I had found in the boot by the side of the road. I placed it on the counter.

  “Welcome to the Nighthawk, Sugah,” she said, taking her hand off the menu and wandering over to another customer.

  I’d like to point out that it is not simply writing for local color that causes me to write “Sugah” for her dialog, Dear Reader. If you had met her, you would know the way she said that word, no letter “R” was within twenty miles of the word. “R”s had been deported to Europe, and we can get along fine having sugah in our coffee without them. Seriously though, she was a doll. Older, so not one I would go for, but as sweet as the “Honey”s and “Sugah”s she repeated continuously. I’m pretty sure I could create a fairly successful internet meme of edited footage of her saying “Honey” and “Sugah” set to “Sugar Sugar” by the Archies.

  I did find chicken fried steak on the menu. I had hoped for some of the rumored things I have heard of that I wanted to try, like chicken fried bacon, but alas, not on this menu. I settled on a regular burger, which was within my price range and still left me a dollar or two afterwards.

  When she took my order, I asked the waitress the pertinent question: “Where the hell am I?”

  She started, “Well, the highway will run a few more miles before it hits – “

  I stopped her. “I mean,” I said sheepishly, “What state am I in?”

  She pulled her head back and looked at me like I was crazy, then laughed the sweetest laugh. In backpedal mode, I lied some story about how I was hitchhiking, and some crazy guy decided in the middle of nowhere that I had to get out of his car immediately, and since I hadn’t been paying attention to the road I really didn’t know where I was. It sounded plausible, if not rambling. Still, it got me an answer.

  I was in Nevada.

  I’d have a joke here, if I had any knowledge of Nevada besides Vegas, which I was pretty sure I wasn't near[12]. But I got nothing. There’s no TV or school textbook stereotypes of Nevada outside Vegas. If you know more about Nevada, please think up your own joke and mail it with a self addressed stamped envelope to the address at the end of the book. Please allow six to eight weeks for me to ignore it.

  After she took my order, the waitress, who I knew now as Audrey, came back and talked to me. Hearing an account such as mine demanded she try to get as much of my life story as possible. Obviously, there would be believability issues if I told her the entire thing, so I told her the relevant parts. She learned that I was without resources and a thousand or so miles away from home. I had taken far too long on this summer trip, and now I just wanted to get home.

  Sure, I embellished for purposes of drama, making myself seem more of a lost and hopeless case than maybe I was. Then again, as I thought in my mind of my actual experiences, they were so outlandish that I had no way of knowing that I hadn’t been slipped a drug at some point and then spent the past few months in a ditch somewhere hallucinating fanciful experiences. So yeah, maybe I was that hopeless. I knew at this point I had only two fifty to my name and a backpack full of scavenged items.

  Whatever the reason, Audrey took pity on me and decided to help. As she put my hamburger on the table, she said she’d try to find a ride for me. She wasn’t sure how far, but perhaps a regular might take pity. I thanked her as I bit down on my burger. I wasn’t sure where things were going to go, but sometimes it’s hard to be too depressed in the face of a tasty burger.

  After I finished my burger, a plate of rhubarb pie showed up "on the house". Audrey explained she was still working on a ride, but I was welcome to hangout for a while, even though my food was done. She explained that it was just her and the chef Carl on the night shift, and Carl didn't care if I loitered or not, once I paid my tab of course.

  I didn't mind. It was nice to rest for a while and not worry about where I was going, if only for an hour or two. As it got later, I actually caught some sleep in one of the unused booths.

  A friendly hand shook me awake.

  “Mom?” I said groggily, wondering when my bed had become so uncomfortable and covered with red faux leather.

  There was a giggle and then a drawling response. “I ain’t your mom, Sugah. Don’t make me feel so old.”

  I squinted out the windows and saw it was morning – just barely. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, the daylight much more gold than I had ever seen it. If I hadn’t been so tired, my eyes so red, I would have enjoyed it more. Instead I found myself searching my backpack to see if I had sunglasses. No luck.

  When I had gotten more of my bearings, Audrey came back over to me. “I did find you a ride, Sugah. Never let it be known that Audrey doesn’t come through.”

  I stood up, grabbed my backpack and thanked her profusely. She handed me a paper bag with a muffin which she claimed was “on the house” by way of it being a day old. That was fine with me
. I continued thanking her before stepping outside into the blinding morning to find my ride.

  It was a nun.

  Sound Advice

  There's a nun I see sometimes around the hospital. I've never spoken to her myself, but I've seen her walking down the corridor, her black habit swishing around her like Darth Vader. She walks slowly, but with energy and purpose. She is wizened and old, but even in that slowness she seems to have the pep of a much younger person.

  She's not in the hospital for last rites or terminal patients. I asked Nurse Angela specifically about that. While the old nun would surely comfort those about to die or offer wisdom to those facing the road to the next life, she usually leaves that to a priest. I am told that she comes to the hospital purely to bring company and inspiration to those who desire it. She stays out of the way of hospital staff and those that don't want her company, but she gives of her time and positive attitude to any who wish it. She comes to the lonely, the sick, the morbid, the dying, the discomforted and gives them the one thing the hospital staff doesn't have to give: her time.

  Normally I'd have some snarky comment, but I really can't criticize that. It is her choice and not some order from someone in her organization or a dictate of the religion. She's doing it because she has chosen to, and she is doing it without getting into anyone's face or trying to press her beliefs on anyone else. I can respect that, and with how lonely hospital patients can be, I feel it's admirable. I would never make that choice myself and I am hardly a religious person, but I can respect that in others. I respect choices over any faith, any logic, any fortuitous but blind luck.

  Among those in spiritual callings, there are different vocations. Some are called to ministry, some to teaching, some to inspiration, some to healing. Others are called for reasons known only to them and that part of them they feel they answer to. Their callings are so much different. The nun I rode with was one of those different ones.