A long time ago, in high school, Elke read a story and the author said God's breath smelt of ambrosia. Lies, she fumed. The breath of God would be Murphy's Oil Soap.

The nasty children were gone for their Thanksgiving holiday, home to be coddled by indulgent parents. Disgusting.

Elke was raised to believe in hard work, the satisfaction of order. Above all, though, greatest of virtues, was cleanliness. Finally the old dormitory was redeemed by her firm, attentive hand. Prior to the weekend, it had been unlivable, a barnyard for spoiled, nasty children. During those times, Elke hid in her apartment, only emerging to inflict some sense and decency upon the disgraceful hallways when things were at their most quiet, those hours when honest people were awake and dilligent, when the students slept off the reprecussions of their collective depravity.

Elke smoked long cigarettes, a lady's cigarettes. With spare grace, she set herself down on the back porch, outside the kitchen, bucket of soapy water at her side like a silently empathetic comrade. Indeed, they fought the same never ending fight. No words need pass between them, both understood that the war against the nasty children was an incomprehensible hell. No words could describe it.

Across the parking lot, branches on the edge of the woods spit out the gangly shape of a boy. Elke shuddered at the sight. Like a rat, she thought, too stupid to see his filthy vermin friends have gone, he wanders looking for them, nervous little beady eyes rolling in his idiot head.

He approached her, diseased little whiskers a-twitch, curious what he could beg or thieve. He mumbled something, placing a hand on his bony hip, leaning over Elke with a foolish grin that granted her a view of repulsive teeth. It was no wonder the nasty children didn't take better care of their shared home; they couldn't even be bothered to attend to their own hygiene. The wind shifted and Elke's eyes stung at the scent of the boy's body odor. It very nearly made her ill.

"You have to speak more clearly. I can't understand you," Elke glowered.

"I said, do you got, like, a spare smoke?" The febrile smile remained.

"What's the matter? You are ill? You cannot work, buy your own cigarettes, hm?" No answer appeared forthcoming. "It doesn't matter, as I have no 'smoke' to give to you."

He looked slighty wounded, then angry. Good, Elke thought.

"Geez, man. Like, chill out. I was just, like, asking. Geez." He began to walk away, in the opposite direction, toward the campus, then stopped and turned again to Elke. "You're trapped in a capitalist lie, man. They want you to believe you have to work, but you don't. Like, live off the land, man, self-sustaining, you know? When you buy into their system, you're just, like, legitimating their crimes."

"Who are you talking about? Who is they? I work hard. I have something to be proud of. Look at you, dirty, you smell like scheisse, and look at me. I am proud of my work. I earn what I have, not try to beg from everyone else."

He, and his stench, were back in her face. "They, man! The government, the corporations! They're feeding you bullshit! You gotta wake up, cause it's all going down, and you don't even know what they're doing! You should be afraid, man, you should be worried!"

Elke curled against the side of the steps like a close parentheses, trying to edge upwind. When he waved his arms around, it got worse. "Go away. I am not going to give you a cigarette, and I do not want to listen anymore to your stupid talking."

He snorted, but backed off again. "Fine, man, suit yourself. But you should wake up."

Elke watched him lope off, big stupid head. She crushed the cigarette against the greasy concrete and picked up her bucket, double-checking before she went in to be sure the nasty boy had gone. All the talking she overheard, the nasty children blaming everyone else for their problems, made her itch to box their ears, take them over her knee the way her own mother had done. They would never have to work, and thus, they would never know what it was like to be proud of something.

In the study lounge, she cleared the tables, dumping left-over plates and pizza boxes into the trashcan. She kept the water bottles, though, the ones with water still in them, and lined them up against a wall by height. The water bottles could stay. They looked clean.


Half for Anarchy Jordan, half for every crazy fastidious German lady I've ever worked for.