Crucial Conversations: Political Reach - Obligations and Permissions By Mark Farenbaugh

                    Crucial Conversations: Political Reach - Obligations and Permissions

By 

Mark Farenbaugh

I was working in the U.S. Embassy in Colombia as part of the Air Force Mission of the US Military Group (USMGP). The year was 2000, and I had been deeply immersed in counterdrug operations that were highly important due to the nature of US politics at that time. Counterdrug operations were well accepted as belonging to the US military mission due to their ability to verify, track, and react. Simply said: To the State Dept, the military is an extension of politics. 

Closely associated with counterdrug operations were counter-terrorist operations, but at that time, they were only conducted by the State Department, meaning the CIA. The CIA and the military operated under separate funding authorities, which allowed them to exchange information but were restricted from conducting joint operations unless their mission sets had the approval of the U.S. ambassador.

However, from the Colombian criminal perspective, those two mission elements had no distinct identity; the ever-emergent leaders within the dark world of drugs and terrorism were there for a mixture of power and money. Violence and death always accompanied their efforts and were commonplace.

Our ambassador (Chief of Mission) and her Deputy Chief of Mission kept a close watch on which resource (military or CIA) was targeting which criminal element. Therefore, I stayed in my lane as much as I could unless I was asked to deviate.

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One long day was ending at the embassy compound in Bogotá, and I was moving slowly toward the exit gate when my cell phone rang from an unidentified number.

“Hello,” I answered, not giving my name.

“Is this Lt Col Farenbaugh?” asked a kind and professional female voice.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This is the ambassador,” said the soft voice. "Mark, where are you?"

“Just departing the embassy at door 2, Madam Ambassador.  How can I help you?”

“Oh, that’s good. Could you please come to my office?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way.”

I turned and stepped up my pace. Ambassadors don’t make direct calls without an urgent need. I knew in the back of my mind that this wasn’t going to be accompanied by pleasantries. It had to be operational, or I knew something the ambassador didn’t, and it couldn’t be voiced over open comms.  

My mind raced: Did any of our counterdrug operations drift into counter-terrorism areas?

I entered the ambassador’s front office, where her secretary was smiling pleasantly. “Hello, Colonel Farenbaugh.”  She knew me well. “Please go right in, she’s waiting for you.”

I continued to the closed office door, then gently knocked and entered.

“Hello, Madam Ambassador.”

“Hello, Mark. Please close the door.”  

I closed the door. The ambassador stood up as I approached her desk.  I could see that she was anxious.

“This will take only a minute to explain, but I need you to get to the highest-ranking person in the Colombian Air Force and get permission to allow our CIA aircraft to land at the Colombian base in the Eastern part of La Guajira at Buenavista Air Base.”

She went on to explain that one of the CIA’s observation vans (meaning clandestine spy vans) was attacked by a group of Colombian members of the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia – FARC). The CIA was in the middle of an operation and was in a location that was close enough to collect major information needed by the US Embassy to prevent a terrorist attack. The FARC somehow found them and riddled the van with machine guns until all were dead, then departed the area on foot. 

The ambassador was livid and directed a quick response. Only the CIA’s death squads could do this, and time was limited for any success. Her intel was that they were headed to the border of Venezuela, where CIA operations might lose them. She needed permission to land some assets as close as possible without letting the (compromised and corrupt) Colombian police forces know; that meant landing them at the Colombian Air Force base.

“I understand, Madam Ambassador. I will immediately head to the CAN (Centro de Administración Nacional – basically, the Pentagon of Colombia), where the Air Force Chief of Operations is still in his office. Will they need to land this evening?”

“Yes, they are refueling in Barranquilla and can take off immediately. Please do your best to get their permission to land and possibly recover there as well. One night only. Their tail number is N122971.”  She knew I would need that, but telling me this in her office meant something else.

“I will do my best, ma’am, and let you know.”

“Thank you.”

As I turned to exit, the ambassador spoke again.

“Oh, Mark, would you please leave your cell phone with me?”  It was not just a simple request. She didn’t want me to be tracked as leaving her office and heading to the CAN, then returning to her office.

“Yes, ma’am. Of course.” As I placed my cell phone on her desk, I thought of a possible obstacle.

“Ma’am, if the Colombian general denies my request, what response should I give him?”  I needed this for leverage, knowing how the Colombian Air Force detested the CIA.

“Tell them that we will give the final three Schweizer aircraft to the police.”  Perfect!

The U.S.-built Schweizer aircraft is a special-mission surveillance platform ideally suited for counterdrug operations. It resembles a miniature U-2—much smaller and slower—but can stealthily loiter above a target at 5,000 feet without making a sound. It can remain aloft far longer than the pilots’ bladders can endure. As part of my Foreign Military Sales (FMS) projects, I had already delivered two of the five aircraft promised to the Colombian Air Force.

I turned and departed the ambassador’s office, but decided to stop by the military attaché’s office on my way out of the Embassy compound.

“Hi gentlemen, how are you doing?”  I knew they would be there late, since I had once been an attaché and knew the hours were long.

“Hello, sir. How can we help you?”  They knew me and wondered if I was there to give them some “material.”

“I am headed to the CAN.  May I have a bottle of Jonny Walker?” The attaches have an unlimited supply of alcohol for their representational events.

“We will need a name.”

“Can I give it to you later? In person, of course.” 

“Yes, sir. Just let us know.” They had no problem giving me the bottle, since they knew that I knew the rules:  Not for personal use.

--------------------------------------

I knocked, then entered the front office of the Colombian general with whom I had conducted many counterdrug operations. His very pleasant—and beautiful—secretary recognized me and greeted me with polite salutations.

“Buenas tardes, mi coronel. ¿Cómo está?” Her smile could melt stainless steel.

“Muy bien, Sandra. Gracias. ¿Está disponible el general?” — Very well, Sandra. Thank you. Is the general available?

The Colombians who frequently worked with gringos understood that we are more direct than Latinos, and my arrival at such a late hour was a signal that my purpose was either serious or important. Absolutely no time for flirting.

She smiled brightly and tried her best English. “Please, to enter,” she said, as she escorted me to the general’s closed door and opened it. Her perfect form was, indeed, a distraction.

The general seemed somewhat surprised to see me. He controlled all the radar information in the country and knew there had been no intrusion by a narco target – there was therefore no operational reason for me to be there. Good, he did not hear about what happened in the Guajira.

“How are you, Colonel? How can I help you?”  he asked, his eyes drifting to the bottle of whiskey in my hand.

I stepped up to his desk and set the bottle on its corner in silence.

“General, I hope all is well. I have a small problem—we’d like to land a couple of CIA aircraft at Buenavista Air Force base tonight.  In fact, as soon as possible. They’ll be taking off and landing periodically and would also need to remain overnight—but just one night.”

The general’s smile turned into a frown. He did not like the sound of it. After a few seconds of thinking, he started shaking his head. “Impossible.”

“Sir, this is an urgent request from the embassy. I do not control the CIA nor any of its operations.”

“No. Debemos mantenernos alejados de la CIA. Está en conflicto con nuestra política.”  No. We must keep our distance from the CIA. It conflicts with our policy.

“Sir, I need to emphasize the urgency of this request. If we can’t use your airfield, I’ll have to inform the embassy — and they’ll divert the remaining three Schweizer aircraft to the police.”

His facial expression turned from stern to shocked.

He knew I didn’t have the authority to redirect FMS assets. That would have to come from the ambassador. His eyes focused on various parts of his desk, obviously trying to quickly digest what the risks were, then finally on the desk phone.

Without a flicker of emotion, he lifted the phone and called the base commander at Buenavista. Permission was granted.

He hung up, then looked at me as if realizing he’d never asked me to sit.

“Please, sit down, Colonel.”

“I wish I could, sir, but I’ve got more work to do.” I needed to get back to my cell phone.

I said my goodbyes and left, leaving the whiskey where I had placed it…..hoping the gift would take some of the political sting out of the cards dealt to the general.

Writing a Book by Ricki T Thues

Writing a Book - a collaboration

by Ricki T Thues 2025

Every book we bring into the world teaches us something about ourselves.

It started, as most quiet revolutions do, with a blinking cursor and a promise.

I had agreed to help a friend publish his novel, A Death in Home Park — a manuscript that had been sitting in digital limbo, neatly typed but not yet born into the world. The author had written the story over time, poured into it the kind of lived wisdom that only accumulates after decades of paying attention. All that remained was to “format and publish,” as if that were the easy part.

But I knew better. I had traveled the long road of publishing before — had wrestled with Kindle Direct Publishing’s (KDP) formatting demons, danced with Word’s invisible paragraph marks and paragraph indents. I had stared down the dreaded “TOC not detected” warning that haunted so many self-publishers. Still, I said yes because some stories deserve to live in print.

The first days felt familiar, almost comforting. I opened the manuscript and began shaping it — checking the margins, setting styles, making sure each chapter heading would show up when Amazon’s algorithm went sniffing for structure.

The story itself was compelling — a Los Angeles mayor with her finger on the pulse of something real. But formatting the manuscript proved to be its own kind of puzzle. The page numbers refused to align. The title page would shift like a mischievous cat, curling itself around the copyright notice without the precise insertion of page breaks.

At one point, I discovered that modern eBooks require a Table of Contents (TOC) for e-readers to navigate the prose, even though the chapter names were just numbers. The KDP previewer blinked its digital eye and whispered No TOC found. I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and consulted Noema, my trusty assistant. She had the simplest of solutions when and where I needed them. So I stripped the TOC of its page numbers, linked it cleanly to each chapter heading, and hit “Update.” This time, the KDP previewer smiled.

I thought about all the unseen hands that try to bring a book to life — the author, the editors, the proofers, the designers — each one trying to coax words into a form that would travel gracefully through readers’ minds.

As the days went on, I began to see the project not just as a favor but as a kind of quiet collaboration — a bridge between my own lifelong love of language and my friend’s vision. I found myself absorbed in the rhythm of the work: checking line spacing, adjusting gutters, making sure mirrored margins behaved on both left and right pages. Every technical tweak carried a deeper question: What does this story deserve to look like?

I remembered my own books — Skydivers Know Why Birds Sing and Technically Human — and the lessons they had taught me about patience. Publishing wasn’t about perfection; it was about integrity. About giving a story a vessel worthy of its contents.

When it came time to create the cover, I faced a different challenge — scale. I knew that KDP required specific pixel dimensions, but I also knew the image had to breathe. It had to feel right on a Kindle or a large e-reader screen, not stretched or cramped. I tested sizes — 2560 by 1600 pixels, then 3200 by 2000 — holding each one up to my imagination like an artist comparing brushstrokes. The art itself, and KDP’s flow algorithm, would do the rest.

By now, A Death in Home Park was beginning to take shape, not just as a file but as a presence. The story was coming alive in new ways, echoing through KDP previews and PDF proofs. The characters, long confined to a desktop document, had found their way to the surface. And so had I.

There were setbacks, of course. KDP’s review messages arrived with the tone of polite bureaucracy: “Your eBook does not contain a linked Table of Contents.” “We detected an irregular layout.” “Your copyright page follows the title page — please verify order.” Each time, I would take a breath and remember the larger picture. This wasn’t about rules. It was about preservation — ensuring that a voice from one corner of the world could reach another.

I revisited the story late at night, not to fix it but to feel it. A Death In Home Park came more alive each time, reflecting something universal about people, focus, politics and purpose.

It was, in its way, a story about curation — and how easily it can slip through our grasp unless someone chooses to hold it steady.

The day the proof copy arrived, I cleared a space on my desk and opened the package slowly, the way one might unwrap an old photograph. There it was — a book. Solid. Tangible. The cover gleamed softly under the lamplight. The spine aligned just so. The interior — the fonts, the spacing, even the page breaks — looked right. It wasn’t perfect, but it was true.

I turned to the first page and ran my hand over the print. Every moment of frustration, every technical fix, every “why won’t this align” had led to this small miracle — a story that could now outlive its creators.

I sent a message to my friend: “Your story’s out there now. It is live.” The reply came a few minutes later — just a short note of gratitude, but one that carried weight. “Thank you for giving it a home,” said my friend.

That night, I sat by the window with a bottle of beer, watching the glow of my computer fade into darkness. I thought about how many stories never make it this far — how many manuscripts linger in drawers or drives, waiting for someone to take them the last few steps. Publishing isn’t just about formatting. It is about faith — faith that the written word still matters, that even the smallest stories can ripple outward into lives we will never see.

I opened my own notebook and began jotting ideas for my next iMentor Hints and Rants post. Maybe I’ll call it Making A Book. Maybe I’ll just write about how each project, no matter how technical it seems, is really an act of love.

Either way, I smiled as I wrote the first line:
“Every book we bring into the world teaches us something about ourselves.”

And somewhere on a shelf, A Death in Home Park waits to be read — printed, bound, and alive at last.

  

Parallel Lives by Mike Freeman

 Parallel Lives

By Mike Freeman

I live a parallel life with Jimmy the Giraffe and Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear. I know them through stories my father tells me. They must be delightful company. We share many of life's interests and adventures.

I am four years old. Our family moves into a new house with a huge dirt backyard. There is buried treasure in that yard. I have no doubt. Grabbing my father's shovel from the garage, I begin digging holes. I know a few shovel-fulls of dirt are the only thing separating me from my prize. My parents find my efforts amusing.

"It is just a matter of time." I think. "Keep digging, keep digging, keep digging."

One weekend, a lawn, a few fruit trees, and splashes of colorful flowers miraculously appear in the backyard.

The transformation amazes but does not change anything. I snatch my father's shovel and start digging holes. I know treasure riches are imminent.

I am digging my fourth hole when my father runs out from our house.

"What are you doing?" he asks desperately.

I am perplexed. I am doing the same thing as always. Persistence leads to success. Why get upset about a few dug-up flowers or patches of lawn? There are jewels to discover. Why are my parents now unhappy with my efforts?

My dad introduces me to Jimmy the Giraffe and Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear at bedtime that night. By sheer coincidence, they dig holes too! They dig deep holes because they know treasure is always deep in the ground.

Digging one day, they hit a buried sprinkler waterline. They are drowning in the hole. Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear climbs on Jimmy the Giraffe's back, escaping a horrible water tragedy. Jimmy the Giraffe keeps his head above the water with his long neck. He yells to their fathers for help.

Their fathers arrive and pull them out to safety.

"What do you think of that?" my father inquires with a knowing smile.

"Wear water wings while digging in the backyard?" I speculate. I look at my father's bewildered expression.

He explains that Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear and Jimmy the Giraffe are no longer allowed to dig holes in the backyard, and neither am I.

I feel miserable for us. So many buried treasures left undiscovered!

There is a small park behind our backyard fence. It features playground equipment, a sparkling community pool with diving boards, and an enormous open grass area ideal for neighborhood football and baseball games. This situation is good and bad.

The good part is that climbing over our backyard fence is the shortest way to the park. The bad part is my parents peeking out of our home's second-story windows. Mom's prying eyes see everything we do at the park.

I am now five. I go to the park. Some teenagers invite me to join them. One of them hands me a cigarette and asks if I would like to smoke it.

"Sure," I say.

They think it is hysterically funny to watch a five-year-old smoke a cigarette. Over time, I enjoy it. When they offer one, I accept. I assume everything is great.

My parents disagree. They call me home and ground me for one day each time they catch me smoking. I am up to 10 days. My father pulls me aside, into the kitchen.

"Smoke this!" he commands, handing me a just-lit cigar.

I take the huge stogie and smoke it to completion. My ashtray overflows.

I think, "This is a great development. My dad hands me punishment-free cigars to smoke!"

I don't remember this next part, but my parents do. My dad alleges I asked him for another cigar. He is despondent.

That night, I received another Jimmy the Giraffe and Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear story. They like to smoke cigarettes too! They do it even though it is not healthy.

Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear develops a serious hack. Jimmy the Giraffe gets a horrible, sore throat. They decide to stop smoking. I join them. That night, all three of us made a tremendous decision to cease the sickening habit.

New homes continue to show up in our neighborhood. Occasionally, I gather scrap wood with my new friends to create fires. We find this very entertaining. Our parents do not. Their threats and guidance cause us to stop. At least for a while.

We evade parental discovery by lighting indoor fires on the concrete floors of garages. One time, my Mom walks in as we initiate a roaring blaze. I don't know how she found us. I remember suffering incarceration for several days at home.

I am pleased that Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear and Jimmy the Giraffe are also playing with fire. As my dad tells the story, they start a fire and accidentally burn down a house. The fire department and police show up. It does not end well for either of them. I decide to stop starting fires.

Two weeks later, my fire-creating friends congregate in a garage and accidentally set it on fire. My parents and I are ecstatic that I am absent from this grand event. I tell my dad that Jimmy the Giraffe and Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear must have attended.

A few years later, new neighbors move in. George and I instantly become best friends. We enjoy swimming at the park, building forts, and creating explosives with my chemistry set.

There is an alley walkway between our homes connecting our cul-de-sac to the park. George and I decide to build underground bunkers in our backyards and connect them with a tunnel underneath the walkway.

Digging commences immediately. There are no sprinkler lines in this part of the yard. Once the hole is over our heads in depth, we begin digging the tunnel to George's yard and future bunker.

My dad tells another Jimmy the Giraffe and Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear story later that night. Miraculously, they are digging a deep hole like George and me. Their hole collapses and buries them alive. Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear scrambles under Jimmy the Giraffe's belly. He survives there in a small air pocket.

Jimmy the Giraffe's neck is just long enough to keep his head above ground so he can breathe and scream for help. Their fathers come to their rescue and pull them out of the deep, dark, dangerous hole.

The next day, our dads fill up our hole. They tell us to go to the park and play.

As an adult, I learn life lessons from God, my wife, family, and friends. I miss my dad's stories about Jimmy the Giraffe and Fuzzy-Wuzzy Bear. I still hope to meet the two someday. We would have so much fun.

I can see us sitting around a crackling fire, in a beautiful landscaped garden with a deep swimming hole, drinking beer and smoking cigars.

Planning by Brian Brown

 Planning

They drove away from the clinic in silence, the son driving and his father sitting silently on the passenger side. He had not wanted to do it, but his son had insisted. better to know than not, he had said repeatedly, at least that way everyone can plan. He felt fine, he insisted, there was no need for this. After three minutes the son said

 

“Well at least now we know. So we can plan accordingly.”

The father glanced over at him with near contempt. “Yeah? I didn’t need this. I didn’t ask for this. This whole goddam thing was your idea. Or maybe your wife’s. She is clearly the one running the show here.”

“C’mon dad, don’t start this again. You’re almost 80, it’s time we knew. This new technology makes it so much better for everyone, we can plan.”

His rage broke. “Fuck you and your precious planning! I have made all the plans I need, but by God now I may make some changes. My trust is revocable, I can change anything anytime I want. I may do some new planning of my own. Better tell your wife not to go shopping for that kitchen remodel yet. At least I’ve got time to do that.”

“Jesus, will you just calm down, you don’t have a lot of time, no sense in wasting it being mad. Don’t go off and do something stupid.” 

“Oh I’m not wasting it, you can count on that. As a matter of fact it feels really good to be mad. Really good. I may do more of this. You know, settle some scores, get real with the people who have made my life harder than it had to be.” He stared steadily at his son. “And reward those who have brought me some happiness. That kinda of thing. Sounds like a good way to spend the next 9 days.”

    9 days, that is what the the clinician had said was the best guess. Give or take 2 on either side. The complete report was on his device, already downloaded for the customer’s convenience. They didn’t even call them smartphones anymore, he had noticed. Everyone had one, because now everyone was required to carry one. There was little you could do day to day without your device, and of course we had all been told for years that they make our lives more convenient and accessible. But accessible to who and for what? Those questions never got answered, even after years of meaningless debate by the talking heads. 

     It had only been 15 years since the dawn of the AI revolution, that golden leap in progress that was going to free us from the mundane tasks, do all the dreary stuff for us, and make all of our lives simpler and more productive. AI had exploded in all directions; good and bad, meaningless and profound, productive and useless, dangerous and comforting, and on and on. It knew every inch of every life that had ever been recorded on the old internet, as well as its much improved progeny, Planetweb. 

    Governments had tried various ways to limit the reach of the AI programs within their own borders, but there was really no effective way to do this. The various bots and algorithms, now called algobots, had been linked together in ways no one had anticipated, and now the genie was truly out of the bottle. The bots and algorithms were regularly linking themselves together, anticipating the moves of the humans to police them and rendering them useless. Now, every piece of information ever entered on a keyboard and stored on any device anywhere since the dawning of the computer age in the 1970’s was accessible. And, every image on every security camera ever recorded was there too, along with all recorded conversations, phone calls, pictures posted, everything. It was the great equalizer and the great terrorizer, 24/7, always there, accessible to those who had the means.

    Amid the chaos this was causing, some very good things had also arisen. Digital thievery had disappeared, there was simply no way to do it anymore. False claims and advertisements only lasted a few seconds on Planetweb before they were vetted and taken down. Medical advancements, legitimate ones, were posted and instantly available to everyone. This brought his thoughts back to the clinic they had just left.

    Less than a year ago, a pioneering medical firm announced that it had developed a breakthrough algobot which could, they claimed, predict the time of our deaths to within less than a month. It was instantaneously applied to hospitals, rest homes, and hospice facilities and found to be defensibly accurate. The implications for humanity were profound and immediate, as people scrambled to do all the things one would do if you knew this piece of information. Billions of dollars were made and changed hands as attorneys and legal firms were inundated with work. Churches overflowed or emptied out, depending. Stock in funeral industries soared, as clever planning now made it possible for them to discretely know the trajectory of their business flow. The implications had rippled through the economy on all levels.

     Then 6 months ago the medical firm had announced that their ever improving algobots had narrowed down the predicted date of ones death to within 10 days. Soon, they could probably tell you within 3 days accuracy, and if so desired, would give you their best guess about precisely what day you would die. 

    How was this possible? The algobots first gleaned every piece of information ever recorded about an individual. Your birth weight, you and your family’s genetic history and weaknesses, your entire school history, including any athletic participation, binge drinking episodes in college, all medical exams ever recorded, marital relationships, driving habits, job related stress factors, alcohol or drug usage, exercise routines or not, time spent in the sun, elevation where you lived, everything. And of course all medical records from birth until the current moment. From this data they applied their proprietary algorithmic calculations, which they had been quietly testing against the death records of the samples of the human population they were tracking. This model was then refined constantly, emphasizing some factors and downsizing others, until their predicted dates of death for the subjects begin to get closer and closer to the real data collected from death certificates. When they were reliably within a month of accuracy, they made the announcement, simultaneously opening a network or clinics, where for a significant fee they would run your data and give you the results. For an extra fee they would also tell you what the cause of your death was most likely to be. 

     Enormous amounts of money had been made by the investors who got in on the ground floor, and arguments by the millions had exploded all over Planetweb, but they made no difference. The technology was here and it was going to be used. With further refinement their algobots had now gotten accurate to within 10 days, and the initial pricing for the service would be slashed by 50%, making the service available to most people. 

   So his son had badgered him into getting the test done. Yes, he was almost 80, but a remarkable specimen for his age. He ate well, exercised, hadn’t had a drink of alcohol in years, and was mentally as sharp as those around him. But 9 days, the man had said, give or take 2 on either side, a new level of accuracy, he had said, smiling. So possibly as few as 7 days. It would be a massive cardiac event or stroke. 

    They had been riding in silence for more than 5 minutes when his son spoke up. 

“How do you want to spend the time that you have?”

No expression of sympathy or love or sorrow, the father noted.

“ I don’t know yet. Just take me home. I have some things I want to do. Some calls I have to make.”

“To who?”

“None of your concern. Personal matters.”

“Look, I hope you don’t go off and do something stupid, I mean you said that your Will and Trust were both current, so…” His father cut him off.

“This may be news to you, but there are other concerns here besides my money. And it is still my money, for 7 more days at the least. If I were you I’d be careful that YOU don’t do anything stupid, like really piss me off. That reminds me, I have to get ahold of Marnie and let her know.”

“Really? Last I heard she was on Santorini or Crete with her boyfriend. Why get her involved?”

“ Jesus Christ, because she’s my daughter. And your sister, by the way. She has a right to know, maybe she can get back here before I go.”

“Oh she’ll come back alright, to get her money,” the son muttered. 

He turned and looked at his son again, a long assessing look. He realized how much he disliked this person his son had become. He wanted to be away from him. 

“You know it’s true, how often do you see her? Once every 6 months? Less? I don’t doubt that Daddy’s little girl will come running back home now. But Goddam it Dad, we aren’t kids anymore. This is real life, and she’s still out there running around like some college girl on semester break.”

“She has her life and you have yours. You’re both doing what you wanted, I suppose, so no real need for all that resentment. You’ve got your family, and your house, a couple of decent cars, and whatever else is on your wife’s list.” 

“Hey, that’s not fair, she’s doing a good job with the house and the kids. It’s not like she’s just waiting around for you to die. But the reality is that it’s unbelievably expensive to do anything these days. We’re just trying to build some wealth like everyone else.” 

“Just be quiet and take me home. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” 

“Aw c’mon Dad, don’t be that way. There’s not much time left. This is the time we should be talking about things. Important things.“  After a moment of silence he said, “Aren’t there some things you want to say to me, maybe to your grandkids?” 

His father looked out the window and turned his back on him as much as he could in the car seat. “I have nothing to say to you. Just take me home or drop me here and I’ll get a rideshare.”  

They rode the rest of the way in silence. When they pulled up to his home, he opened the door without a word. Then he turned to his son and said again, “I didn’t ask for this.”  Frustrated, his son just nodded in silence, and murmured, “ OK, alright,“ then slowly drove away. In the mirror he saw his father staring at him as he drove away, then he turned and walked toward his house.

    He spent the first two days contacting old friends or relatives he had maintained contact with. He told them matter of factly what was going on, and how little time he had left. They all agreed that it was a shame, but what could anyone do? They wished him their best, or told him he was loved, which was nice.

 

     On the third day his daughter arrived from somewhere in the Mediterranean. She wept and he comforted her, which also felt nice. They talked easily and caught up on each others’ lives. She had a partner, a man whom she said was steady and reliable, and had the wanderlust like her. He assured her that her inheritance was in place, and that her share of the assets he had would flow to her once he was gone. She shook her head and waved the conversation off, saying it wasn’t important and she would be fine, no matter what happened. He marveled at how different she was from her brother. How could two children with the same parents who grew up in the same household be so completely different. 

     They took several leisurely walks together, and eventually the father and his two children got together for a somewhat uncomfortable meal. With his death imminent, they engaged on irrelevant small talk as if they saw each other every day, and no one seemed to know a way forward to a meaningful conversation.

 

     On the fifth day he realized that he was bored. His affairs were in order, everyone had been notified, and now… what? No time to take a trip. He had between four and six  days to live, and could not think of what to do with himself. He over-ate when he felt like it, because it pleased him. His daughter puttered around the house, and his son stopped by daily after work. No one seemed to have anything significant to say. Here was this giant opportunity to say exactly what they wanted to each other and no one did. He pondered that, and did not know what to make of it.

 

     With two days left, he went for walks in their local park, it was a fine time to be outdoors. He would miss this, he decided, more than he would miss most of the people in his life. On the eighth night they all had a dinner together at his house, including his son’s  wife and his grandchildren. He had never grown close to the woman, despite trying in the early years. They tolerated each other because they had the grandchildren in common. They all agreed that in  retrospect he had lived a good life, and though he had lost his wife early, he had soldiered on and made a good showing in his second chapter as a widower. He decided to get a little drunk, and after three  glasses of wine and nursing a fourth he was feeling downright merry. That helped a bit, and at the end of the evening they all expressed their love for one another, but strangely there were no tears. Eventually he went to bed, wondering in the darkness if he would wake up.

 

     He did, a fact that genuinely pleased him. His daughter made him a huge breakfast, with bacon and everything else, and why not? After the big breakfast and feeling a little bleary from all of the wine, he decided to take a late morning nap, and later that day his daughter found him. He had passed in his sleep, a good way to go and everyone’s choice, if we got to choose our exiting strategy. The plans in place were initiated, and as he had told her everything flowed as it should. The house would be sold and the assets disbursed, and the two children could get on with their lives.

 

     Ten days after his death, his daughter went back to her lover in the Mediterranean, and his daughter-in-law began making plans for a serious remodel of their house. One day the son got a message on his device asking him to drop by the clinic one final time. He was annoyed, he was quite sure he had paid the bill out of his own pocket. But he wanted to wrap up all of the loose ends of his father’s affairs so they could get on with their lives, especially that remodel. 

     When he got to the clinic, the same technician who had dealt with his father happened to be chatting with someone in the parking lot. He waved him over in a friendly manner, and said a quick goodbye to the other person, who walked away. 

“Hey, thanks for coming by, how are you all doing?”

“We’re all fine, thank you. Listen, I’m in a bit of a time squeeze here, what is this about?”

“Oh, right, I just wanted to let you know that your results are in and I just need your ok before I send them to your device.”

“ Results? What results?”

“Your mortality calculation. Didn’t you know?”

“Know what? The calculation was for my father, not me.”

“Right, but your father paid for a test to be run on you also, a few days after we told him his results. Didn’t he tell you?”

The son was flabbergasted. The implications were already swirling in his head. 

“No… no one told me anything about this. So.. you have a date for me? I mean, you have a number?“

“Yes, of course, that’s what we do here. I just need your ok to send it to you. Shall I send it?” 

The son was speechless. A moment ago he had been thinking about kitchen counter tops. 

“ Wait, I didn’t ask for this. I’m 44, for. Chrissakes. I don’t need to know this. I’ve got small kids. Why the hell would you do this?”

“Well, as you told your dad, it’s good to know for planning purposes. Never too early to get your plan in place.”

He felt a rage building. Suddenly someone else was in charge of his life. It wasn’t his choice anymore.

“Goddam it, I can’t believe you people have done this without my consent. Maybe there is some liability here somewhere. Maybe I need to contact an attorney.”

“ Hey, look, calm down, the information has not been released to anyone. As your technician, I am literally the only person on earth who knows. If you don’t want me to send you the date, then I won’t do it. No need to get unpleasant.” 

“Unpleasant? You think this is unpleasant? You little jerk, you and this freak show here you work for had no right to go prying in my affairs. I didn’t ask for this, what the hell gives you the right?” 

The technicians face darkened as he absorbed the insult. He said slowly,

“One more time, your father, a client, paid for our services. He even paid a little extra on the condition that we wait until after he had passed before telling you. I guess maybe he wanted to return the favor.”

The son, now enraged, thought he detected a slight hint of smugness in the man’s voice. He exploded.

“Fuck this place and fuck you, you little asshole! You’ll be hearing from my attorney!”

“So I guess you won’t be wanting to see the results? You might want to just take a quick look”

“Wasn’t I clear enough?” He screamed, “Fuck you and fuck this place! “ He shot a middle finger at the technician, then began to drive away. As he did, their eyes met in the rear view mirror. The technician took a quick glance towards the clinic, and seeing no one, he held up ten fingers to the man, and then turned and walked into the building.