dalia evelyn smith

THE CONFIDENTIAL FILES OF:
DALIA EVELYN SMITH
twenty nine / thought police

____________________

Dalia approached the mic, her fingers twisting nervously in her skirt, and in a meek voice, spelled out the word autochthonous. The sound of applause filled the auditorium and children lined behind her drooped their shoulders in sadness as she claimed the trophy seat for 1995. On that day, no one would have guessed at the woman she would become. No one would have thought that this smiling, shy girl, would become the hardened, all-business woman she is today. I count it my fault, that she lives as she is. But then it isn’t any more my fault as the boy who lost that last sprint for the SCRIPPS title.

It might have been after the fire. Maybe it was her mother – she didn’t emerge from the hospital the same as when she went in. Regardless of when it started, I think it took longer than expected. It just all built up. She pushed through the pain and sorrow, the rage and anxieties – stronger, she thought, than those around her who poured their grief into others’ arms. Maybe she pushed too hard. It was that battle – the battle to hold onto consciousness and not delve deeply into the ever ready cushions of depression – that sent her down a path much darker than those who suffered around her.

As I said – it took longer than expected. She shut it out, everything, everyone, finally losing contact with those she’d loved but could no longer face. And then one day I saw it. She snapped, but not as in ‘mental’. She shut down, indeterminately. Maybe one day she’ll snap out. Even so, she seems determined to keep herself to this way of living.

‘But Dalia is twenty years old’, I thought. ‘She cannot be this way forever.’

____________________

I think I’m the only one who can get away with making Smith do things. I mean, it isn’t like I go over to her flat and make her up all pretty then drag her out to some bar where we can see and be seen. Okay, those were the old days. But these are the new days. The good days – the golden days. It’s more like I call on her for anything and she’s there, dressed for the part and everything. Like they say – she’s a tool, someone you can trust to get things done, and to get them done perfectly.

That doesn’t mean that just anyone can call her up for something, though. If you’re below her, you might get your question out, but then there’s that laugh, and then a click, because she’s just hung up on you. But for people with any bit of authority over her – she’s all you’d need, really.

I think she puts up with me because I understand her, and I don’t push her or try to talk things out with her or annoy her with questions like ‘why are you so quiet?’ and ‘why do you think things don’t upset you?’ I watch and I listen, but I don’t make her feel like she’s being evaluated either. She’d know if I was evaluating, too. I save that for later.

I’ve never seen her upset. Not really. When something happens that she doesn’t like, it doesn’t seem to affect her. She rolls with the punches. I’ve never seen her cry. She doesn’t smash things or raise her voice when she gets upset, but if she did, I promise it’d only be to scare the shit out of you. I think the only evidence I’ve ever seen of her getting upset is when she can’t get something right the first time. But she doesn’t fuss over it. She’s always calm – always. I think her way of getting upset is to push through things, and fix it until it’s perfect.

Her brows furrow a bit when she’s focusing. You’ll see it, maybe – she doesn’t mind letting it show. But when she’s done, and she’s completely focused, there you go – her skin is smooth as slate, her brows arched naturally over her catty eyes.

I remember the first time I gave her a birthday present. Only time I’ve seen her awkward. She shifted her hips a bit, then looked up at me and gave this half smile. ‘Thanks, Dobs’. That was the last I heard about it. It’s normal now, but not a ta da sort of thing, like with a lot of people. We have a routine, you could say. Give the gift over, open it. Thanks. And then it’s done. You’ll never hear about it again.

To be honest, I don’t know if I’d like to know why she’s the way she is. Someone that cold, that closed off – pretty things don’t come to mind. Maybe one day she’ll snap out of it, but I don’t think so. She’ll go on making people check their closets for her until she’s eighty-two, if she doesn’t die first.

____________________

‘She’s perfect for it – I promise you. Nothing – nothing – gets to this girl, I swear. Like a robot. She won’t be affected – probably one of the best you’ll see for a long time. Heartless. Remember the CIA? Yeah, their poster child – no lie. Eats puppies for breakfast. Kill your grandpa without a thought. She could do it too. Clean, seamless. No mistakes. Too calm to make them. Has a great right with a .22 – left too, come to think about it. You won’t be sorry.’

The hiring manager and clerk made introductions, but Smith was silent. They were wary of her – that was obvious. They moved through the building to a windowed office. The manager settled in and looked down at the paperwork before him and smoothed down his tie. The clerk opened her paper pad and settled into the chair. Her eyes kept sliding in Smith’s direction. She looked nervous. Dalia Smith took her seat, and that was the last time she moved.

School.
Brown.
Training?
SFUA
Experience?
Corporal, US Marine Corps and SFUA completion, petty officer for the Central Intelligence Agency.
Psyche level?
Undetermined.
The man arched his brows, just the slightest, but kept scratching at his pad of paper.
Why do you think they put you up to the job?
I’m their best. I’m unaffected.
What do you know about the job?
Only that it’s along my expertise.

A knowing smile.

The woman – tall and slender, her shoulders straight like they were tied to the back of her seat – gave straight answers. No fluff, no extra. She didn’t say anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Her eyes, when she looked Amelie’s way, were icy and slick. They made you feel naked – like they knew everything you were thinking, every move you might make, how you felt about your carb-loaded breakfast, even. Terrible. Made you tremble.

It was clear that, even after as short a time as the interview allowed, Martin knew she could only be an asset. Her references were enough to speak for her, sight unseen, but in person – she was just scary. Made the man across from her shift uncomfortably, even as he knew that she wouldn’t be above him. Of course she’d have the job. Of course she’d be perfect, just as Amelie had said. Maybe I’d been wrong.

____________________

She hadn’t made many friends in college. Nor in the corps or training, even the centre. She hadn’t needed them. Maybe it was my fault. I could have come forward, gotten her out. And now look at her. Smart as a whistle, yes. Eyes like a hawk. Slender enough to look good in a slinky dress, but she’s got enough stamina to take down someone twice her size. Could dance circles around her trainer. Has some sort of built in radar, too – no one’s been able to scare the shit out of her since high school. And that’s some tough shit – kids are all over that stuff.

But friends. Few get beyond that line, the one where you can just approach her and say ‘hey’ and get away without a sharp look and a smile that says ‘you’ll get it when you least expect it’. Dobs is probably most successful there.

I wonder sometimes if she knows just how well she guards herself. I can’t see her marrying. She can’t trust anyone enough. She’s not one of those girls you ask out for drinks after work. She isn’t one of those people you invite to a get together. She’s a computer – one of those people you go to to get something done, and you’ll know they’ll do it too, but then you don’t talk to them until you need them again. Sits on a shelf in between jobs.

I think she likes it that way. Or maybe she’s trained herself to like it that way. More like Big Brother’s poster child than the CIA’s. Obedient. No nonsense. Oh, she can crack a smile. She can look good doing it, too. But she never looks safe, never looks inviting, even as she’s clean and perfect and everything you need her to be. Careful? Maybe. Thoughtful – not so much. Sympathetic? Look elsewhere, mate. Again, maybe that’s my fault more than anyone else’s.

dalia's memory

Sunlight streaked through the blind slits, landing on the wall opposite. The random papering of the wall was first dark, then light, then dark – Dalia counted the stripes as voices filtered in one ear and out the other. She may be able to hear you … We can’t be sure how much longer … Dalia, do you remember that story …. Papa cracked that rainbow lolly right over her butt – she was red with spite … Dalia? Dalia? Dalia?

Dalia wasn’t listening. She stared at the wall, counting the stripes, the swatches of colour, the texture of the paper. The hand in her own was stiff, puffy. It wasn’t fine and slender anymore. It was pink, like it was under too much pressure. She ran her finger across the knuckles – they were so dry. The nails were strong and white. They’d said that was a good sign. They’d said it like it was a sign from God. And here they were. Some God.

Maybe if she’d been there all along she wouldn’t have been so shell shocked. She regretted that now. All the kid who cried wolf things and warnings and tears. They were nothing to her now. When her grandmother edged up to the bed and patted the woman’s thick black hair, she didn’t make a sound. Go to the Lord, honey. We’ll see you there.

The cries sounded fake. Everything sounded fake. How did one respond to something like this? A heady, nauseous feeling made Dalia double up. She turned to the sink and gagged, but nothing came up. Someone patted her back and hugged her, wiped at her face. Was she crying? What was the use in crying? She looked grudgingly at the form in the hospital bed. We’ll be taking her to the morgue now. She looked up at the doctor, dazed. He looked sad, sympathetic. But they were in such a hurry to clear a bed. One more bed. One more spot for someone else to take.

The light outside was too bright. The birds still whistled and fluttered, the daffodils still turned their yellow heads to the sunshine. Someone ushered her into a car. She was frozen. Her eyes were puffy, her gaze blurred – it was hard to see. Her lids closed over her empty gaze. It hadn’t happened yet. It hadn’t realized in her mind, that she was gone.

She’d never borrow her clothes again. They’d never go for doughnuts at Krispy Kreme’s. Black Friday wouldn’t be the same anymore. They wouldn’t watch the stop motion Christmas shows together. They’d never catch Bare Essentials on QVC again. It was over. Their time had passed. The only thing she had left was gone. The only person who understood her. The only person she truly, deeply loved.

Did it matter? Was it real. Now, more than ever, she had the sense that she was not really there. The leather of the seat beneath her was a mere imagination, and the people crying around her were only pigments. She was numb to it all – or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she simply wasn’t really there.

Dalia escaped from the others, and made her way up to her room. They’d painted the hall walls yellow, two years ago – in the summer. The bathroom they’d painted blue. Robin’s egg blue. Light and airy – lively. She sunk onto her bed and pulled her knees up to her chest, heedless of how it might crinkle her dress. Everyone sounded far off. Chatter filtered up to her room, muted and monotonous.

They all watched her, like she might do something drastic. She’s been that way since Sunday. They shook their heads at her, all of them. The poor girl. She has her hair. I never noticed. Damn bastards. Shut up. They didn’t know what they were talking about – they didn’t know how they sounded.

Everything was in patches. She remembered nibbling at a watercress sandwich. This morning someone had brushed her hair. Mimi wore periwinkle. Alice wore yellow. Yellow, like the halls they’d painted that summer. Yes, everything was in patches.

She didn’t mind, though. She’d get past it. There wasn’t any call to break down. There was nothing one could do. Maybe it was better that way – maybe it was stronger. Maybe it was what she’d have wanted.

Dalia sat up. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there anymore. She made her way over to the mirror, her hands running across her face like she might smooth it. The once olive skin was now pale and washed. She pinched her cheeks. The colour surfaced, but began to fade. No. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there anymore.

Dalia headed out the door, down the stairs, and across the foyer. No one noticed. They were all plunged into their own grief, discussing how they were affected. Showing off. I’m worse off than you are. Yes. she thought. You are obviously worse off than me.

Dalia didn’t want to be one of them. She wouldn’t fight to show that she was worse off than any of them. It was all fake. It was terrible – traitorous. She’d always been worse off, and now she was gone, people were falling in line to take her place. Like they didn’t care. Because they’d been her best friend, always, like she’d trusted them most. They knew all the stories. They knew how she laughed and what her favourite film was. Just because they’d been there for the worst of it.

Dalia would ring true. That was the plan. She wouldn’t grieve – she was done with that. She would be strong. She would live on, unaffected for once. There would be no soiling of memory. There would be no dwelling - not for her.

Mrs. Astor Regrets

Seated between two bores at a dinner party? Getting an earful of office gossip? With all due humility, a lady of impeccable manners—please call her Mrs. Astor—suggests some rules to put the "polite" back into polite society.

by Brooke Astor June 1999

Astor, Brooke. "Mrs. Astor Regrets." Vanity Fair June 1999. 10 Mar. 2009 .

If this were the Utopian world that as a child I supposed it was, I would not be having a word on manners. Manners, I was told, are instinctive—they come from a good heart and a desire to reach out to one's fellow man. No one should have to be taught to be nice to people. I am not assuming the role of a Master of Etiquette. I have met peasants in Italy, plantation workers in Jamaica, dirt farmers in our own West, who were born with a natural courtesy, so it is

humbly that I write this small monograph, hoping that it will be helpful, even though here and there I cannot resist indulging in a bit of humor.

Behavior at a Dinner

When you are invited out to dinner, you are asked because your host or hostess likes you and thinks that you will add to the evening. You may be asked because you ar

e a very important person—a politician, a novelist, newly rich, a media tycoon, a beautiful woman, or a famous wit. Whoever you are, and no matter how important your host thinks you are or how important you think you are, there is still only one reason to be there: you are supposed to add to the evening.

You may have had a frightful fight with your spouse before you left, or your best beau may have let you down—too busy to lunch with you tomorrow—or your children may have been rude, or your dog may have bitten you. Forget these disasters; they are part of life. Nothing is mea

nt to be too easy. You must take these incidents in stride—tonight you are dining with friends.

It is in the worst possible taste to be a sullen guest at a party—even if you are seated between two bores, or between people you have never been able to talk to. The host or hostess does not know your problems, nor were you intentionally put between two bores. Unless possibly you did that to them and they are taking their revenge. If this is the case, they won't get it if you appear to be having a good time. If your placement is bad unknowingly, then you are simply doing what is expected of you.

My advice is, if you cannot add to the evening, you should stay home and listen to the news. Perhaps you will be cheered up by listening to news about victims of rape, mu

rder, aids, and economic disaster. The news is always useful. You can congratulate yourself that you are safely in bed.

Introducing People

It is difficult in our society today, when meeting new people, to know ju

st who they are. When I was young, when you were introduced to someone, you were called by your last name: "Miss Smith, this is Mr. Jones." Today, it is simply, "George, this is Jane." I find myself being introduced to young people, young enough to be my grandchildren, as "Brooke." There is no difference between being 18 or 80! I have grown accustomed to this, but there is no civility to it. We might as well all be called "Fido." Far worse is to be introduced by first name to someone whom you have avoided for years, or to someone you have heard all about and don't particularly want to know. Instantly, these people have the same relationship t

o you as an old and valued friend. The pleasure of being able to say to someone you like, "Please don't call me Mrs. Smith anymore, call me Mary," has vanished, along with the real feeling of warmth and fellowship that lent meaning to such a gesture.

As I have said, we are all Fidos now, so why not wear dog collars with our names engraved on them? We might have licenses too.

How Men Have Changed

Thirty years ago, men still wore hats, which were, in a way, a symb

ol of deference to women. When a man saw a woman he knew in the street, he raised his hat and smiled, even if he was with someone else. If he had been by himself and joined the woman, he would keep his hat off while with her and would put it back on only if she said, "Do put your hat on. It's frightfully cold," or, if it was hot, "The sun is so hot." A man always took his hat off in an elevator if a woman was in it, and that was de rigueur, regardless of the class, creed, or color of the lady.

In going in to a formal dinner, a man was given the name of the lady he was to sit next to, so he could seek her out when dinner was announced and offer her his ar

m. When they arrived at table, it was his assignment to pull out her chair and see that she was seated comfortably. Why then do we now have an endless cocktail hour—and I really mean an hour, in some houses an hour and a half? The reason is that the men during that hour talk business—they make deals and catch up on the market or the latest political gaffe—and pay no attention to the women.

I attribute these changes entirely to women. They are competing in the business world, and most of them think that they are smarter than the men they work with. The men, even if they appear to like the women, resent this. If a woman is holding forth at the office and giving her advice forcefully, whether it is taken or not, why then should men tip their hats to her in the street?

If a woman wants style in an office, she should dress simply and as well as she can afford. If she has an important position, she should be nice to everyone working in the same office, including the younger women secretaries. She should have lunch with them occasionally, and once a year have a little women's "office party" in her apartment. If she becomes private secretary to the boss, she must never forget where she started. If she becomes a vice president, she should be even nicer.

Office gossip can be as irritating and boring as social gossip, and the easiest way to avoid it is to smile at everyone and make everyone feel that you were once a secretary yourself. As for the boss, if he looks twice at a pretty girl, he will be accused of sexua

l harassment, so he must watch his step very carefully. The poor fellow: when his secretary steps into his office, he usually keeps the door open and his voice down. It is safer.

Walking on a Street

There is nothing that humans can do in which they can totally ignore manners. Take walking down the street. You should choose one path and stick to it. Don't wa

nder all over the sidewalk, walking slowly one moment and rushing the next. Don't walk with the pointed end of an umbrella sticking out from under your arm, which could easily put out the eye of a child, or rip off a piece of a lady's dress. Confine your jogging to a park. Don't loiter on the street corner after the light has turned green—thereby becoming an obstacle for those in a hurry. If you wear a huge knapsack on your back, keep away from the shopwindows. You are obstructing the view of others and risking breaking a window.

If you see a person with a white stick, it means that they are either blind or nearly blind. Stop and help them cross the street. Smile at a young mother pushing a baby carriage. Give some money to a beggar. Stop and talk to an old person in a wheelchair. These small courtesies will give you an upbeat feeling which will help you as you continue your walk down the street.

A Note On The Article

I haven't ever really read Vanity Fair, to be honest. I'll search through their photos to see if there are any that I would like to use in making graphics, but I rarely read the articles, save for those I happen across and can't help but read, like the one on Johnny Depp where they are featuring him in dapper costuming and elegant state rooms. I think I would like to start going through the late Mrs. Astor's writings. They make plenty of sense, I think, and having grown up under the watchful eye of my own grandmother, who made sure I knew the difference between a dinner and a salad fork and how to serve tea as a junior companion to a group of elder ladies, I find myself wondering why children aren't taught such things in our days. I don't know anyone my age who wasn't taught basic manners as a child, of course. However, there is that extra step that bestows the more classically refined social graces that my generation seems to be lacking.

I have friends from all over the world, though most of them are from the states. I have one who is from Arizona, and has not too long ago moved to the very city I am from. I know that are sort of supposed to be second nature everywhere, but if there is one thing the South is known for, it is the hospitality. This one friend found it decisively quaint and yet not the littlest bit odd that complete strangers held doors open for her if she was entering a building in their wake. I personally am used to this, and even find it odd and rather offensive when someone fails to do such a simple but polite act. Even so, it would seem to me that someone, not just a man, but women as well, should let the person behind them enter the building first, unless of course a man were following a woman.

It makes me sad to see that these higher graces are rather lost on today's young people, and even the baby boomers of yesteryear. Of course one can argue that it is woman's fault, as Mrs. Astor does, and I agree. Women spent so much time and energy trying do prove that they could handle the exact same things as a man that they didn't really stop to think about what that might change about how men treated them on a daily basis. If they did think about it, they must have seriously underestimated the fall out. We traded out the deference relayed to us by the gentleman population for a somewhat easier go at the workplace, yet we remain with the same expectations to take care of our offspring and the household work. I would be lying if I said I thought that whatever steps we have gained for equality between the sexes should discount the deference we used to be able to demand. I think, though, that at the same time, it seems that women with such severity in the workplace are served this little peg rightly. Nobody said that we had to take the workplace by buffing ourselves up to be 'just like men'. We aren't just like men, and for a good many reasons, and I don't think it is too much to ask that women gain their equality decently and stop trying to act like they can handle everything in very much the same way as a man would. We are different from men, and they are different from us, and we need to stop acting like this is a bad thing.

Sorry for the little tirade, but it is quite true, at least in my opinion.

So I just applied to college, at Art Institute Pittsburg, their online section. It's weird because I got a call from this girl this morning, where I was half dead, half asleep, and then here I am a few hours later applied to a college. It's weird how they get things moving, eh? But I'm excited. It's school, and I miss school. I miss having a goal to meet and the feeling that I'm moving forward, toward something. Something that can get me somewhere else. I miss feeling successful. I miss succeeding. It's a sad thing, to be in this perpetual state of stillness, to not really have any goals I'm meeting other than those set for sites I'm on. But fifteen years down the road, those goals won't matter so much. I want goals that will still matter fifteen, twenty, fourty years down the road. I want goals set up for success. I want to be looked up to and I want to have people running to me to approve things and find out what we're supposed to do about this and that and I want to be one of the pit stops on the way to a completed project. I want to be a big factor in the chain of how things are done and I want to leave my mark. I'm excited to be moving again.

the international

So I saw The International last night. Clive Owens, right? Usually equals a great movie. Arthur. Great movie. Derailed. Great movie. So I was actually pretty excited to go see it, if not for that it looked like it might be good all by itself.

So the movie opens with two guys, Clement and Schumer, in a nice car. You know the whole 'meet the anonymous insider' kind of thing. They don't really seem to get anything done, or maybe I just missed it. Because, usually, when they show a meeting, they swap packages or info or something. I guess they decided to show us one of the earlier meetings in those kinds of things, I don't know. What happens next is kind of cool, though. Schumer (Burfield) leaves Clement (Bigot) in the car and makes his way toward Salinger (Owens). At this point, I noticed the guy walk behind him, and a little 'thwp' noise, but I think I would have to go back and watch it again to see if that was really the movie or not. Schumer throws up his innerds, clamps onto his arm and falls over. This part comes up later, because apparently Salinger knows the signs of a certain kind of poisoning. Later in the film he freaks out a little because he thinks the same thing happens to him, which might have been cool for plot reasons, but it is really just him being paranoid. Anyway, he and Whitman (Watts) go on the goose chase to try and come up with hard evidence that the IBBC is a big bad bank that wants to control the weapons market and put down a few annoying people on the way. Of course, the characters don't seem to have ever seen movies before, as it's pretty clear that a bank like that has it's dirty little fingers dipped in every organization and government from here to Pluto.

So they track down Calvini (Barbareschi), a politician from Italy who's running for some government position or other, and of course he is more than willing to help them out ... until some idiot goes and assassinates him. You pretty much know this is going to happen, I mean they have all of the security looking around and there are the frenzied shots of the speaker and the crowd going wild and all - it's imminent. So yeah, assassination, and Salinger and Whitman end up chasing down one of the snipers, who of course gets away. There seems to be a little bit of discontinuity there since it seems the driver turns one way and Salinger somehow ends up ahead of him, but again, I'd have to go back and watch it again. Things happen and time passes a little, and they end up in New York, chasing down their assassin, played by O'Bryne, but I can't remember his name in the movie. They come across a few names, but IMDB names him The Consultant, which I think is ridiculous seeing as they actually do name him in the movie ...

Anyway, they track 'The Consultant' down to one spot in NY, and then happen to see him walk by and follow him to the Guggenheim. Now this is about the only part where I forgot I was watching a movie. This was the part that was cool and had your blood pumping and got you to jump in your seat a few times. Oh, and if you aren't that awesome with blood, be careful because there are a few parts that are just like >gah<. Especially the part where Salinger shoves his thumb into some guy's bullet wound. I got just enough of that to make me gag before I shut my eyes. But that's just me.

After this, well ... everything sort of just goes downhill. It's seriously a botchy job. Salinger gets to interview Wexler (Mueller-Stahl) and then goes off to hunt down Skarssen (Thomsen), and yeah it's not even interesting enough to recount in general detail. All in all, they could have done a much better job. The movie kinda crashed, and it was a huge disappointment. I felt like, even though The International was about two hours long, it still had about two or three more hours before it wrapped up into a sufficient story. Oh, and at the end, when it blacks out and you're like ... where's the rest, and then they put up the 'directed by' and all of those titles, they show you news paper articles that are sort of supposed to complete the story. I know they did that in 27 Dresses, and it was really a cute idea. But see, 27 Dresses finished their story. So they were allowed to do that. The International does it more as a 'here, you finish it and we'll save a few bucks'. Kind of sad.

I'm not blaming Owens. Or any of the actors really, though I've never really been a fan of Naomi Watts. The acting was good. It was believable, which is the first step to good acting, I think. The cinematography was good, camera angles, all of that. It's just the plot. The plot could have been good. But in its final form, it just sucked. Sadly. Because I had pretty high hopes. With all that said, this is one of those movies that you don't go see in theatres, you don't buy, and you don't even rent. You wait till a friend rents it and borrow it from them. Rent something else if you want to see something worth spending your money on.