WHO WAS THAT?

"Jordan," I felt like I was shouting, 'what music was that?"

"Don't you remember that guy Wild loved to listen to? Don't you remember your father.."

I shut him off with a glance.

"Jordy, please don't make me cry at work. It aggravates me, plus I get in trouble."

"The Basement has a lot of answers, Peter. And it's not that scary to go down there."

I busied myself with files.

Odd thing, Jordan didn't have a speck of dirt on him.

Music?

It's over. AnnaCorvo and Sam do not know us anymore.

Rayman issued a warning "Miss Worthington" - he tried to say be careful. (Phoebe pg. 432 vs.517).

Jordan had already bolted down to The Basement, then back, before I had time to panic.

After Sam, and sighing with the inevitable fact that we were not all going to make it, he talked about the music down there.

"It's dark," he said, "different, not the loop we have lived on for years." He put his face in his hands.

"Dark? Jordy, do you think we need more dark?" I asked, having to admit that Haydn and Mozart were not exactly dark.

"No, no, this is not some classical icon. Just different," he grinned, leaning in close. "Here, he whispered. "I taped it, it feels like a waltz. Want to dance?" I could see him holding back tears.

"No, honey, let's just listen."

God,.....this time of year. He leaned on me for a moment, the went back to the Waltz, smiling, somewhere far far away.

They're Back.....I think

Oh my god, they're back. I see AnnaCorvo at her station, Sam is getting up to pour himself a cup of coffee. I am whispering into this hand held automated computer so I can give the information right in the moment, and obviously I cannot rush up to say hello, but Jordan just pushed his chair back and followed Sam into the lunchroom. I feel like crying with relief.

I am watching Jordan talk with Sam through the glass doors. They both look confused. Jordan is leaning in and speaking quietly in Sam's ear, and Sam looks, well, kind of blank. He not only looks confused, he looks like he doesn't even know who Jordan is.

Uh-oh, a whitecoat. Shit. I gotta go.

THE NOTE

I am freaking out. Yes, it's Thanksgiving, but we don't celebrate holidays at the WME - we're lucky if we get a weekend off. They don't like us to be out in the world for prolonged periods of time.

I had taken the note that AnnaCorvo and Sam had found and shoved it in my pocket, not daring to open it up in the restaurant. When I got home I opened it up and tried to read it, but it had been so badly crumpled up it was almost impossible. Plus, it had dirt on it, like it had been buried. All I could make out were the words "CDC controlled chicken farms", "meeting scheduled," "poultry imported", and a list of grocery stores - Kroger, Costco, Wal-Mart Super Store, Jon's.....

I am posting it as I first received it from AnnaCorvo. You, fellow American, can click on it and it may come up larger on your computer. I feel that every handling of it should be photo-documented for clues, especially now. Perhaps you will find something I have missed. So far, I believe it has something to do with the infected chickens, but I am having trouble concentrating.

See, the note is a mystery, but the bigger, horrifying mystery is.....AnnaCorvo and Sam have not been at work since that night. I went to work the very next day wanting to ask them how and where they found it, I had a plan all set up so that we could talk freely for about five minutes, and they were not there. Not that day, not the next day, not the next.

Jordan has been doing everything he can to contact them - walkie talkies, the throwaway cell phones, everything. He left the coded message "Let's not forget Margo's precious lost earring (lost? - Little Miss Evil swiped it!).

("Phoebe" pg.122, verse 292-293) - this is the code phrase for "where are you? Worried sick that the soul snatching WME has done something to you! Please call back ASAP!".
We have all dreaded the day we have to use that code, and Jordan has left it every single day. Nothing.

Now we have a note possibly indicating that flu infected chickens are being shipped to lower income markets, AND our two comrades have vanished.

Jordan is ready to do the most risky thing a person working here can do.

He is going to ask someone.

I have been pleading with him not to, but he is getting adamant.

"Peter, it will look suspicious if we don't," he said, stapling papers with unnatural force.

"It will be suicide if we do," I answered under my breath, what little I have left. I swear, I am holding my breath all the time these days.

He was silent, staring at the stack of papers in front of him.

"The Basement," he said, not looking up. "We have to get down to the Basement."

I shut my eyes.

I didn't expect it to end this way.

"Don't worry," Jordan said, reading my mind. "We're not done in yet."

I wish I had his confidence.

"Okay," I whispered, resigned. "When?"

"Soon. Just act normal."

How can I act normal? Normal was no longer part of my life the day I started working here.

"Okay." I repeated.

Americans, please. I may not be back, so this holiday season, please choose ham as your main dish.

Friday night, ya-hoo

Tuesday, November 15th, was a full moon. AnnaCorvo, Sam and I decided to have dinner after work - it was not something that would be too terribly suspicious, especially since Anna informed me that all this time I have been spelling her name wrong.

"I was trying to keep your identity a secret," I defended myself pretty well.

"Whatever." She gathered up her files and went to her locker. "I'm over it."

We spaced our clock-out time and met at a new place, good food, cash only. Perfect.

Anna told us about the turkey give-away.

"Look," she reached into her pocket, giving us a dirty, folded piece of paper. Sam gestured towards me.

"Yuck, you guys." I shied away from the paper, my gut telling me it was not dirt that was spoiling my appetite.

PHOEBE 2002

Okay, I have to explain what has happened here in installments. First and foremost, Jeffery Conway is one of three authors of the highly acclaimed epic poem/essay "Phoebe 2002" He and fellow writers Lynn Crosbie and David Trinidad worked for many years on it, and it was finally published in 2003. Long before I came to the WME to work, Jeffery and I had lived in the same building, and had enjoyed many good times together. Jeffery left for New York, I worked in the film business for a bit, then came here to work for the WME.
When I called him to tell him of my career change, he was upset.

"The Weapons of Mass Euphoria? I have read some horrifying articles about them, really creepy information that gets killed long before it even winds up on the back page of mainstream media, Peter. I don't like you working there, I don't like it at all."

"Jeffery," I had been both amused and touched by his concern, "you can't believe everything you read. Seriously, we're not Russia or the Middle East, this is America! If the WME were a shady governmental operation it would be exposed! Remember Watergate?"

(god I am sitting with my head in my hands, how could I have been so naive and stupid and young? Redundant, isn't it)?

"Well," he had said, "stay in close touch."

I did, and as the work situation became more horrifying, I told him about it. He was frantic for me to get out, but it was too late. So he has written into "Phoebe 2002" coded messages both for escape, and for us to use to communicate. As installments go along, when our little group is talking and we say something that seemingly makes no sense, I will indicate that it is from "Phoebe", why we are using it and what it means.
We are now eight - turns out RayMan was found by Jeffery - Jeffery told him our story and RayMan immediately took on the assignment of getting us out of here. It's still going to take awhile, and I will continue to report everything I can, but the thought of escape is causing a high quiver amongst us all, and we really need to tone it down. I hate to admit it, but everybody has been dipping into the lunchroom candy dishes pretty liberally since RayMan showed up with "Phoebe". But there are two new feelings that we don't want to numb out - happiness and hope. It's been a long time, but the last time anyone acted too happy down here they were assigned to the basement, so we HAVE to keep it under wraps. Someday I'll tell you what was in the basement, besides the proof that Marilyn Monroe was murdered.

"What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed!" (Phoebe 2002, pg.69)

From this point on that quote is the only way to reference the Marilyn information.

it may get confusing, but in the long run we are all much safer.

For now.

NEWS FROM THE OUTSIDE!

Bobby D. just flew in with great news. RayMan is cool, he is one of us, and he has the book. We have been waiting for the book for years. All I can say now is what Bobby is whispering in my ear......
"Jeffery finished it, it will be here soon....."

We have no answers

Holy Cow, what a day. I am assuming everybody saw the emergency press conference yesterday, OH MY GOD! It has been quiet as a tomb down here, no ruckus, no freak-outs, and we are all completely in the dark. To have that group up there disagree about the bird flu issue AND get into a row about medications and if the public should take them, well, it is just unprecedented. Dr. Eudaimonia and the administration are so far in each other's pockets, they would NEVER have a public spat! I mean, they are all spouse swappers, for chrissake!

Well, we have nothing to report on the truth about the bird flu. We do not know if it is real or not, although some weird signs ARE pointing to some governmental nastiness in there, but we have nothing solid. All we have is a recent photo of Kim Jong-Il strolling on the beach with his mysterious lady love.


Doesn't really look like a guy who would hurt an innocent chicken, does he?