Mindfleet Below Decks E1: Crew Evaluations

Author’s Note: While the senior officers of the GMS Coastal Voyager are busy being "legendary," on the mental bridge of my limbic system, formerly known as my mind, the junior-grade officers on the lower decks are busy having nervous breakdowns. It's a common pastime.

At 0700 hours, every junior officer’s PCD shrieked in Neon Pink Comic Sans, the font reserved for mandatory compliance and psychological warfare.

Crew Eval-Protocols Commence Immediately
Emotional Integration (40%)
Crew Cohesion (40%)
The Unresolved Incident Review (20%)
Note: Failure to participate results in automatic demotion.

Ensign Regret stared at the screen until the pixels burned into her retinas. She found Ensign Anger in the mess hall, where he was aggressively stabbing a pile of lukewarm scrambled eggs.

"They know," Regret whispered, sliding into the booth.

"They don't know," Anger snapped, though his left eye was twitching.

"The 'Unresolved Incident!' It can only mean that time we accidentally swapped the Captain’s personality matrix with a sentient toaster. The bridge smelled like burnt sourdough for a week!"

"That was a hardware glitch!"

"You threw the toaster out the airlock, Anger. That’s a 'humanware' glitch."

The Paranoia Corridor

As they hurried to their duty stations on Deck 7, they spotted Captain Amy and First Officer Reason lurking near a maintenance hatch.

"These performance levels are offensive," Amy barked. "I’ve been patient long enough. I want these useless dregs purged before we begin the evaluations."

"Agreed," Reason replied. "I'll speak to Chief Engineer Anxiety. He will know what to do with them without violating the Prime or any other directive."

Regret and Anger froze. "We’re the dregs," Regret whimpered.

"They'll not assign me to the deepest pit of Engineering," Anger hissed. "I'll resign my commission first!"

Do you think she could be talking about the ventilation filters?" asked Regret. "Do you think the filters have exhausted her patience, Anger?"

The Assessment

Later, Regret and Anger were scheduled to meet the evaluator, Commander Clarity, in a room that was entirely too white and smelled suspiciously of lavender and judgment.

"Ensigns," she said, her voice like a cool breeze that makes you realize you forgot your jacket. "Tell me about the incident. You first, Regret."

Regret cracked immediately. "It was all my fault! I wavered! I over-processed! I made the toaster feel inadequate about its browning levels!" She covered her face with her hands.

Anger slammed his fist down. "Blame me!" he said. "I used 'Percussive Maintenance' on a sentient appliance! I'm a disaster, but I will not go quietly into the darkest reaches of Engineering. You can turn me into space dust first!"

Commander Clarity looked blindsided and remained quiet for an uncomfortable minute or two, blinking too often and too quickly.

"I was actually referring to your failure to file a 'Deep Space Litter' report after an unidentified toaster was reported drifting past a viewscreen on the bridge."

She slid an official-looking document across the table with malicious grace and explained, "You were recorded on by the security imaging system tossing the toaster into an airlock, so there was never any question; only the lack of a report from you." Silence filled the evaluation room for several million picoseconds. "However," she eventually said, "Your self-reported 'Humanware Glitches' are fascinating."

The Verdict

Immediately, upon being dismissed by Clarity and entering the passageway, Anger stepped in front of Regret and demanded, "You didn't file a litter report! You told me that you did. Why oh why did you lie about it?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know why. I guess I hoped that no one would notice a missing toaster; not even one that takes requests for pop songs while it browns bread."

"Yeah, well, because you didn't want to bother with a report, we've been ordered to spend 20 hours in group therapy with Dr. Downer."

"At least we aren't assigned to Engineering," Regret said, trying to be optimistic and failing so hard she pulled a muscle.

"Dr. Downer?" Anger whispered, his face turning a shade of gray usually reserved for moon rocks. "The man whose therapeutic motto is 'It’s probably going to get worse'?"

"Do you think it's going to get really bad? I mean, we might enjoy it. We might even learn to work together without bickering."

"Enjoy it? I've got news for you, Regret. There's a sign on Dr. Downer's door that says, 'Bring your own tissues. Dr. Downer does not believe progress is made inside your comfort zone."

Captain Amy's Resolution

On the bridge, Captain Amy sipped her coffee with a rare expression of delight on her face.

"Lieutenant Reason, Engineering finally got things done properly. That 'Ensign-Grade' coffee has been replaced with an exceptional roasted blend that has been married to a new, sentient espresso machine; far superior to the old coffee replicator."

"Yes, Captain. The performance levels are back to 'Legendary.'"

"Superb!" said Amy. "I don't have the patience for more bad caffeine."

Down on Deck 7, Regret and Anger shared a silent, relieved cafeteria muffin; one made from recycled ground coffee beans. They were headed for Dr. Downer’s office, and they were headed there together.

The Golden Hour Social Club

There is an hour in the backyard that belongs to everyone. It arrives quietly, slipping in between the late-afternoon feeding frenzy and the approach of dusk. The light changes first—that honey-gold glow that softens the edges of fence posts and turns ordinary oak leaves into stained glass. The air itself seems to exhale, releasing the urgency that drove the day's dramas.

This is when the Golden Hour Social Club convenes.

I've witnessed their gathering many times, though I doubt the members themselves know they belong to any such organization. There are no meetings called, no agendas set. Yet somehow, in that liminal space between day and night, the backyard transforms from a feeding frenzy to a tranquil sanctuary.

Breezer sits motionless atop the fence, his usual mischief set aside like a coat he's temporarily outgrown. His tail, which spends most daylight hours flagging provocations and territorial claims, drapes behind him in gentle curves. He seems to be staring into empty space, his dark eyes reflecting the amber light. There's a stillness to him I rarely see, as if he's trying to hold onto the moment before it slips away.

Below him, the dove sisters have settled near the feeder, their soft cooing reduced to occasional murmurs. They're not eating, not really. One or two might peck halfheartedly at scattered seed, but mostly they simply occupy the space with their gentle presence. Their usual nervous energy has dissolved into something approaching peace.

Even Woodrow, the red-bellied woodpecker, has gone quiet. His silhouette against the golden sky looks almost contemplative, his proud red chest softened by the forgiving light.

From somewhere beyond the back fence, the sound of children playing floats on the evening air like dandelion seeds, punctuated by the excited barking of dogs who've been invited into the game. But the sounds are distant, muffled by the space between us. It's auditory soft focus; present but dreamlike.

A Carolina wren makes one last appearance at the feeder, taking a few seeds with unhurried deliberateness. She doesn't sing her usual proclamation. She simply eats, pauses, looks around with what I can only describe as satisfaction, and disappears into the jasmine.

What strikes me most about the Golden Hour Society is the complete absence of competition. For these few precious minutes, no one is defending territory or staging raids. The peanut wars are suspended. Even Ziggy, who spends most of his waking hours perfecting new ways to create chaos, sits quietly in the crape myrtle, his energy on hold, waiting for morning.

"They're all so peaceful," Ms. Wonder said, and there was something in her voice, a kind of reverence, that acknowledged something sacred for all creatures.

I think about their lives, these backyard citizens of ours. They wake to urgency: food to find, rivals to outmaneuver, threats to avoid, territories to defend. Their days are measured in survival, avoiding predators, defending nests, and securing a meal. The hours between sunrise and this very moment are filled with the exhausting business of staying alive.

But here, in this golden hour, they're released from that urgency. The light itself grants permission to simply exist without purpose, to be present without agenda.

The children's laughter rises again, closer this time, then fades as they run in a different direction. A dog barks—not in alarm, but in pure joy. Somewhere, a screen door closes with a gentle thump. The sounds of evening domesticity weave through the golden light like threads in a tapestry we're all part of, whether we have feathers, fur, or opposable thumbs.

The sun drops lower, and I can feel the society's adjournment approaching. Soon the squirrels will retreat to their dreys, the doves will settle into their roosts, and the songbirds will tuck themselves into protective branches. 

But for now, for these last few minutes of golden light, the backyard holds its breath.

The Golden Hour Society has adjourned without a word, as it does every evening, to reconvene tomorrow when the light turns honey, and the air exhales and the world, for just a moment, remembers how to be still.

And I'm left with the feeling I always have at this hour—a gentle melancholy mixed with gratitude, the bittersweetness of beauty that can't be held, only witnessed and released.

Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'

"Only minutes before the whole thing began, I was seated at a table near the cafe door and wearing a mood that would stop traffic had there been any."

Those words opened a post I wrote several months ago, illustrating what P. G. Wodehouse (yes, him again) calls “buzzing.” I’ve always felt a kinship with one of his characters, a certain Ronald Eustace Psmith, known as Rupert in many of the novels. He explains that the ‘P’ in Psmith is silent, as in Psummer and Pshrimp. Wodehouse calls Psmith a “buzzer,” a label that fits me, too.

“You talk too much,” my business partner once told me—ironically proving my point. I never imagined then that I’d use his words in a blog post.

“Yes, I know,” I said, and I meant it. Why deny something that could so easily be proven against me in court?

It wasn't one of my best replies, but I’m sure you’ve noticed how difficult it is to come up with just the right comeback when you're put on the spot. Planning is of the essence in tight social situations.

Some people think I buzz just to be the center of attention. And really, who doesn’t? But that’s not the full story. I buzz to spark amusing conversations and liven things up.

After all, you always “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’,” as Michael Jackson made perfectly clear in 1983.

Buzzing doesn’t require planning—just loud, non-stop talk. Throwing words and metaphors together in odd smashups will reliably stir people up, no matter the circumstance.

Adding humor to the buzz can be a powerful way to blow your boring life sky-high on those occasions when you've had all you can take. And yet, it’s perfectly harmless, inconveniencing no one, and doesn't leave a mess for you to clean up later.

Brian Green, the author of Until the End of Time, is convinced that all human behavior is driven by our realization that life comes to an end. That's simply not true for the Genomes.

Although I experience the full spectrum of emotions ranging from depression to high anxiety to hypo-mania, it's not because I know I'm going to die one day. It's really because I know that life can become boring, and it often happens without warning.

The most important practice I've adopted to keep life interesting is to talk early and often. Sometimes I assume facial expressions and adopt body language that augments my speech, but there are times, like writing The Circular Journey, when I only have words.

In these blog posts, I resort to jumbling words and mixing myths and metaphors. I mangle common expressions and misquote authors, poets, and songwriters. Anything to get people's attention.

Another example of the buzz in my writing comes from that same post referenced in the first paragraph of this one. It reads like this:

“It was Princess Amy who loves to arrive in a whirlwind of drama. Amy wasn’t literally driving a van. An almond-shaped cluster of brain cells can't get a driver's license in the Carolinas. You know that.” 

It may seem to those who don't know me well that my verbal slips are the result of not paying attention in class, but regular visitors know that, in truth, it's all intentional.

Some writers stick to the facts and dig deep into life, unearthing hard truths and not giving a damn. Not me. I approach writing the same way I approach life: as a musical comedy, cheerfully ignoring physical reality altogether.

What I write is always true, if not strictly factual. My words carry meaning, although you may have to hunt for it. I write to make people smile, and even my occasional drivel (yes, it happens) is chosen to lighten the mood.

"Genome always gets lost in public when we're on business trips," my manager explained to our client host. 

"We usually find him talking to a complete stranger in the hotel lobby, in a coffee shop, out on the street; you never know where he'll be, but it's guaranteed he'll be talking to someone.”

So there you have it. The 'P' in my approach to life is silent, and like Psummer, life arrives whether you're ready for it or not. And so, I’ll continue to say far too much to people I've never met, cheerfully ignoring physical reality altogether. After all, you Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.

Mission: Implausible

Only minutes before the whole thing began, I was seated at a table near the cafe door, wearing a mood that would stop traffic had there been any. It wasn't my usual morning brood. No, this was deeper angst, the kind that follows you out of a dream and sits down uninvited at your breakfast table.

The dream had involved Amy. They usually do involve that little cluster of gray cells in my brain that serves as the seat of strong emotion. There had been a mission, a title conferred, and certain promises made regarding the sewer harpies, those ancient, implacable forces of chaos and ill timing that have been dogging my steps since approximately the third grade. I'd woken with the unsettling conviction that something had been decided about my future without my full participation.

I'd finished two double espressos, mulling the thing over, and still the outlook was dark. Even wearing my new beret hadn't helped as much as I'd hoped. Don't get me wrong, the latest choice in head joy did make me feel slightly better than otherwise, but the mood remained in the cellar. I'd become convinced that the Universe was taking advantage of me and not in a good way.

Into my awareness, there slowly crept sounds of commotion coming from the alley behind Port City Cafe. I could hear a dog barking and crows raising a ruckus. I decided to check it out and walked around the building to the delivery dock.

As soon as I rounded the corner, a cargo van came screeching into the alley. The turn was so sharp that the van tilted up on two wheels and plowed through a row of garbage cans before coming to a stop.

You surely recognize the MO. It was Princess Amy, who loves to arrive in a whirlwind of drama. Amy wasn't literally driving a van; an almond-shaped cluster of brain cells can't get a driver's license in the Carolinas, you know that. But her arrival in my head was precisely as subtle as the scene described above.

"Well, you certainly don't see that every day," I said to her as she crawled out of the wreckage. I had to say something complimentary after she'd gone to so much trouble to impress me.

"Thanks," she said, brushing her blouse and jeans. "Kind of you to say so. I feel much better now."

"I'm sure you do," I said.

"Now," she said with a deep breath, "what's all this nonsense about you not having a purpose?"

I admit the question took me by surprise. I recoiled slightly and searched the databanks for the appropriate response.

"Well, in the dream, you said that..."

"Save it," she said. "And now you listen to me. You are my chosen minion, just like I told you in the dream."

"I am?"

"Just not the minion of revolution and wholesale social change," she said.

"But in the dream...," I began.

"It's more like redirection and subterfuge," she said. "And so from now on, you must listen to me and do exactly as I say, and everything will be fine."

Well, I knew this was nonsense and pure piffle. I may be the lead squirrel in the race to the nut tree, but I'm not stupid.

"But what about...?" I said.

"You let me handle that," she said.

"What if...?" I said.

"I'll take care of it," she said.

I regarded her in the long, careful silence of a man who has just been told not to worry about something he is absolutely going to worry about.

Amy climbed back into the driver's seat, started the engine, and as she drove away, called out, "Next time you see me, I'll be driving a semi. Have a good morning." And with that, she was gone.

"What about the sewer harpies?" I yelled after her. Those grim, cackling agents of misfortune who had figured so prominently in the dream and who were, as far as I could tell, still very much at large.

She was too far away to hear me. Or pretending to be, which with Amy amounts to the same thing. I went back inside, ordered a third espresso, and wondered if minions got vision and dental.

Trickster On The Fence

Every culture has its trickster, a clever, mischievous figure who delights in chaos and pranks, often just for a laugh. They're exceptionally bright, mischiefiously playful, and they refuse to take the world too seriously. In French folklore, it’s Reynard the fox. West African tales celebrate Anansi the spider. Native American traditions honor Coyote. In the American South, Brer Rabbit has the title. 

Here in Brunswick, the mantel is worn by Breezer, the trickster squirrel.

The morning sun had barely cleared the roofline when I spotted him atop our back fence. It wasn’t his usual casual surveillance. He was up to something. He crouched low against the weathered wood, body flattened as if to disappear, eyes locked on the neighbor’s yard with the intensity of Ms. Wonder studying her abstract photographs.

Near the fence, the neighbor’s dog, Wyatt, was methodically tracking a scent, nose pressed to the grass as he followed a zigzagging, invisible trail. Breezer held perfectly still for several minutes. Eventually, the scent trail pulled Wyatt away from the fence, his back turned to the squirrel. Instantly, Breezer darted along the fence top, closing in on the unsuspecting dog. This wasn’t his routine patrol. This was deliberate, strategic, and intentional.

When Wyatt finally turned back toward the fence, Breezer’s tail began to twitch, slowly at first, and then, rising like a flag and sweeping in clear, calculated arcs.

Wyatt spotted the motion and exploded toward the fence in a storm of high-pitched yaps, hurling himself across the yard with all the ferocity he could muster.

Breezer fidgeted and twitched, tail whipping, but he held his ground. He waited until Wyatt was leaping uselessly at the fence before he casually sprang into the nearby oak, pausing on a low branch to survey the chaos below.

It was unmistakably calculated mischief: provoke, incite, escape.

I'm not merely humanizing a squirrel. Research shows squirrels are far more intelligent than you might imagine. They possess an impressive spatial memory, remembering thousands of nut caches. If they suspect they’re watched, they fake burying food in one spot while hiding it in another.

Urban squirrels go further. Within a few generations, they’ve learned traffic patterns, mastered bird feeders, and, it seems, discovered the entertainment value of teasing neighborhood dogs.

Their communication is more than chatter. Tail positions, posture, and varied calls all carry meaning. When Mutter and Breezer talk along the fence, they’re exchanging information, not just chattering to announce themselves.

Yesterday, Ziggy discovered he could rocket through the gutter downspouts, producing a thunderous rattle that sent the crows into comic confusion. It wasn’t useful or necessary in the evolutionary sense, but he kept at it for half an hour, refining his technique, obviously pleased with the racket.

That’s not instinctual behavior; that’s planned strategy and play.

Woodrow, the red-bellied woodpecker, does the same in his way, drumming complex rhythms on the metal drainpipe. It’s not required for territory marking. Maybe he likes the sound. Maybe he’s experimenting with composition. Either way, it’s more than survival.

The animals in our yard aren’t cartoonish nut-gatherers. They’re problem-solvers and strategists, communicators and small-scale agents of chaos. They remember, learn, adapt—and they play.

Breezer knew Wyatt would chase him. He chose his position, revealed himself at just the right moment, and timed his escape perfectly. He staged the entire event.

Was he laughing on that oak branch while Wyatt barked himself hoarse? I can’t say. But I’d bet he’ll repeat the stunt tomorrow.

The sun is higher now; the morning feeding is over. The dove sisters have retreated to their leafy convent. The crows have flown off with their ill-gotten loot.

And Breezer? He’s back on the fence, crouched low, watching the neighbor’s yard with familiar intensity.

Wyatt is being let out for his afternoon constitutional.

Here we go again.