[CSX] Car Problem  

You’re walking on the new bike trail behind your subdivision (Panther Ridge) when you notice a man passed out on the train tracks below the overpass. A runaway train (likely from the phosphate processing plant a few miles up the road) barrels toward the man, but there’s no way to reach him in time. Instinctively, you pull out your phone to start recording but notice a control switch that could divert the train onto another track. You look around to see if someone else will take charge. When no one else stops jogging or even slows down slightly on their golf cart, you walk over to the lever. However, when you look down the other track, you notice 2 panthers (a mother and her cub) have their paws caught between the wooden slats. The only way to save them is to let the man die. You look around to see if anyone’s recording you contemplate the choice. 

[Variation 1]: Your cousin (a veteran of the Iraq War) is the man passed out on the track. Beside him is an empty bottle of vodka and a cardboard sign with something in chicken-scratch on it. His red-checkered flannel is faded, hair greasy. You thought he was getting help through the VA—how’d he get out? It seems like he was stumbling back to that makeshift camp a few yards from the track—a few navy blue milk crates stacked around a tattered yellow tent. Didn’t the governor just outlaw living in tents? Look at him, just another statistic: 1 of 30,000 people in the state living on the street—most of them children and seniors (at least, that’s what you heard on the news the other night).

[Variation 2]: There is only one set of tracks, and the runaway train barrels toward the panther and her cub. You notice a large man standing on the overpass. You recognize him as the CEO of a data center promising to bring thousands of jobs to your struggling town (a decades long decline since the quarries closed). The CEO is on the phone with his pals in Tallahassee right now—their pinstripe suits sharp as thorns. You notice the CEO is standing in front of a lever that could stop the train. You politely tap him on the shoulder and motion for him to pull the lever. Annoyed that you’ve interrupted him, the CEO puts the phone to his shoulder and turns around to face you. When you kindly ask if he can pull the lever or, at least, step aside so you can save the mother and her cub, the CEO looks down at the lever, then to the panthers, then back at you. He says the train is inevitable—the train is the future and there’s nothing we can do to stop it, so we’d better get on board. 

Schrödinger’s [Mouse] 

140 million tourists are placed inside a peninsula. Within the span of one week, they barf all over theme parks, beaches, restaurants, bars, stadiums, convention centers, seafood festivals, boat shows, & grocery stores; they buy t-shirts, keychains, seashells, gasoline, cheeseburgers, bathing suits, travel-sized toothpaste/toothbrush/mouthwash/body-wash/shampoo/conditioner/ hairspray/& hand lotion; they ride in rental cars, air boats, buses, planes, trains, trolleys, taxis, ferries, ferris wheels, four wheelers, & jet skis; they (in a sense) create jobs for cops, construction, retail, realtors, bartenders, cabana boys, travel agents, hospitals, & all kinds of hospitality; their taxes pay for potholes, stop signs, beach restoration, & bridges; their trash ends up in drainage ditches, spillways, creeks, culverts, oceans, lakes, landfills, rivers, forests, gutters, gulfs & in the stomachs of sharks/seagulls/sea turtles/squirrels/catfish/gators/ducks/dogs/ deer; the function of the entire system leaves the peninsula both more and less alive week after week. 

[transactional interpretation]: Inside the peninsula, there are rental houses/town-homes/duplexes/apartments/condos/hotels/motels that are air-conditioned, whether there is a vacancy or no vacancy. 

[relational interpretation]: You pull into the hotel parking lot, drive around to the back of the building, swipe your badge at the gate labeled employee parking. You’re dressed in all black so as to be invisible—a part of the set. You and your uniform blend into the backdrop of black velvet drapes behind the stage. You’re the same shade as the tablecloths, laptops, cameras, microphones, even the tape placed over the cables on the carpet. Abandoned on the big round banquet tables are keychains, t-shirts, pamphlets, pens, notepads, and stress balls with a company’s logo. When the last client has left the banquet hall, you walk over to the serving station and make a plate of shrimp, steak, garlic potatoes, and green beans. Quickly, you take your plate to the back-of-house with the rest of the banquet staff, just in case a client happens to forget a briefcase or re-usable water bottle and catches you eating the food they paid for, but that will be thrown away in grey industrial trash cans, whether you eat what’s left or not. 

The [Cruise] Ship                               

There’s an island in the middle of an ocean—the kind of place on a postcard (tropical, exotic, inviting). On the island is a bustling port. Over time, the local shops are replaced one by one. A fisherman, for example, can no longer afford the fee to dock his boat where the cruise ships pull in. He decides to rent jet skis instead. Soon enough, the other merchants at the port face similar dilemmas; the fruit stand where the fisherman ate lunch every afternoon is forced to close or start selling seashells; the market where the fisherman sold his catch is turned into a restaurant and bar that serves bottomless mimosas; the butcher, baker, and seamstress are all priced out by shops that sell things the cruise ship passengers enjoy such as beaded jewelry, t-shirts, keychains, and knock-off handbags. Eventually, none of the original businesses remain. Yet, the port remains as busy as ever. The cruise ship passengers return home with trinkets and tan lines thinking they have traveled to distant shores (surprised by the level of comfort {and safety} they felt). If the locals can no live as they have (for hundreds {even thousands} of years) can they still call the port home?