“No.”
“Good. Perhaps you would like to start right now. Why don’t you take that little seat over there in the corner and you just think about whom you want to be when you grow up. And when you have decided please let me know. In the meantime, we will go on with our lessons.”
Feeling very small, Metrissa went to the chair in the corner. It was a very small chair and not very comfortable.
“Oh, girl,” said Mrs. Charity, “turn that chair so it faces the wall; I don’t want the class to distract you.”
And so Metrissa sat. And thought. And sat.
And thought.
And thought.
And as she thought she turned into the wind and blew out the open school window into the tumbling fall day outside. She whooshed and spun across the schoolyard out of control in the vast pandemonium that she had discovered. She blew over walls. She roared like a train and the roars she roared spread themselves all about her and she felt like a spirit moving over the earth.
I will be the wind she said to herself. I am the wind. I am everywhere. I am nowhere at once. I am moving always. I am the sky when the sky starts moving.
And then she was back in her seat at school staring into the wall. Behind her she could hear Mrs. Charity talking.
“Yes. That is right. They did not intend to let you sit like lumps on your seats just because a substitute teacher arrived, even though I know that’s what you were all expecting. Mrs. Charity knows that’s what you were hoping for when you heard that your regular teacher was sick. You probably didn’t even feel bad when your teacher was ill; you were so smugly pleased that you would have a substitute and could sit like lumps on the chairs and throw spitballs and pass notes amongst yourselves snickering all the time.”
The Girl Who Did Not Know Who To Be became a bursting brilliant ball of light and she was suddenly traveling away from school and town and earth into and through the blue brightness of a fall day, and then suddenly through the sky and into the nimble black regions behind the sky where the stars were. She shot forward so fast that she split the night universe, planets whizzing past to either side and the hoary brilliantine stars ahead quickly gone like signs passed by a rushing train. The speed was so fast that all sounds died and she could not feel her toes and then the black regions opened into a blinding homecoming where all light finally comes home to rest.
And she was back in her seat at school.
“That’s the way it is today but that is not the way it has to be. There was a time you know before there was Xbox and iPads and children had to spend their own energy to get something done. That’s what they had to do and that what they did. No one should be surprised if you can’t think for yourself when they haven’t given you marching orders.”
Metrissa poured like golden liquid amber from the room, running in syrupy flowing waves across the school courtyard and into the brilliant undulating light that was waiting there. The light and the amber syrup mixed together with layers of blonde on honey blonde all glowing from the center as if there was a light in the center of the amber honey flowing Metrissa girl.
And then she was back.
Metrissa slowly looked over her shoulder. Mrs. Charity was standing at the front of the room and was holding a globe in her hands as if she was big enough to hold the world. Metrissa turned slowly back to the wall.
“Oh no you don’t” said Mrs. Charity. “I saw you looking. I saw you looking at Mrs. Charity. I saw you wondering if I would let you come back and join the class. Hoping that I would let you come back and join all the children who want to be something when they grow up.” Mrs. Charity gestured with the globe. “Stand up. Stand up. Have you decided what you will be?”
She stood up. The children were all looking at her. She did not say a thing. All her words were in front of her.
“Please answer Mrs. Charity. Have you decided?”
Metrissa said, “I have decided.”
“Well don’t keep us waiting dear, what is it that you want to be?”
“I will be a word maker,” Metrissa said, “I will make words.”
“Why how odd of you, dear. Surely you don’t mean that. We don’t make words. We just, we just, we just use them dear. Why if everyone could just make words then no one would know what anyone meant by them. Don’t you see Mrs. Charity’s point?”
“I think that it will be easy to make words. When I make a word people from all over will know what I mean and they will want to use the word and they will ask me for permission.”
“Could you be thinking that Mrs. Charity is too old to know what you are doing? Could you be thinking, Miss Doesn’t Know What To Be, that Mrs. Charity won’t just realize that her leg is being pulled…”
“Yoooouuuccchhh!” yelled Teddy Cumberbun from the back of the classroom.
They all turned to look. Teddy was standing on his desk. A small green plastic item like a little pencil sharpener was stuck on his finger.
“What is that?” Mrs. Charity demanded.
“It’s a…, it’s a…” Teddy said but he trailed off.
All around his classmates tried to help.
“It’s a peashooter.”
“It’s an eraser.”
“It’s, it’s, it’s…”
“It is a mortan hand bangle,” said Metrissa. Everyone stopped and looked at her. They knew just what she meant.
“And what,” Mrs. Charity asked, “is a mortan hand bangle?”
“A hand bangle? Seriously? You never?” piped up Jonston Lucree. “You mean it?”
“She doesn’t dilly.” Metrissa said. “I can tell. Just by the jurly look.”
Jonston whistled. “Big time. Let me hear that one again.”
“You heard the hopster. Hankopeebee.” Metrissa said.
“Are you making fun of Mrs. Charity, Little Girl Who Doesn’t Know?”
But Metrissa was busy wordmaking the piano commotion in the classroom. “It’s all so bumper glide mizmat,” she said, “You know what I bigger bobble?”
Mrs. Charity smacked the desk with the book in her hand so hard that the thunderboom of the big sky class headroom wardeled around in the high sound snippet. “I will not have this jilly bizmat here!” she shouted in tundra glee.
The classroom exploded in laughter.
“No really tob chocks!” Mrs. Charity screamed.
All the children laughed louder.
Mrs. Charity looked hard in all directions until the noise emptied out of the room.
The room was clip clop quiet. No further understanding passed the class. But Metrissa was still on the loud wagon. “Stick-o-business! It’s a billion bizzles for free. Stay julip, melville.”
“That’ll neber belittle, sticks,” said Mrs. Charity. “That’ll neber belittle.”
Metrissa was well beyond the puzzle. The names were bigger than their meaning. She turned and hopped on a hovering hozzle. And over she sped the classroom and the missing connections and now there was no Charity and none the need, for there was no gap in the admiration she had for this spinning amber planet bearing all to who they were going to be.
And Metrissa was going, too.
Jay Duret is a San Francisco based writer. His stories have appeared in a number of journals and magazines including The Citron Review, Cigale Literary Magazine and OutsideIn. He blogs at www.jayduret.com.
(Back to Table of Contents)
Triple's Blog
by Todd Outcalt; published May 7, 2013
After posting the latest installment on his blog, Gary Triple rose from his desk chair, yawned as he stretched his twenty-nine year old frame, and then padded into the company kitchen for a beer. The lights were dim — per company policy — so that employees would have difficulty ascertaining the time. Clocks and other time-devices were forbidden, but most people had learned to tell time by the sun and moon. A half-mile below ground, Triple proceeded to the office periscope and peered up into the sleepy city as he whispered to himself, “Midnight, give or take f
ifteen minutes.”
He’d been blogging for five consecutive days, without sleep, getting by on coffee and pretzels. His eyes were sand. His fingertips numb. Still, it was what he was paid to do, though he’d never met his employers and had never actually talked to anyone in the firm. His instructions came in hourly installments through other blogs, with facts and figures that were meant to provoke him to write a blog directed against the latest political decision. Someone out there in Washington D.C. fed him the information and he jumped on it. He posted his thoughts, and others read what he had to say.
Deep underground, he was alone in the office, as usual, and he was only allowed to surface every few months. But the company provided for his needs.
Triple tugged at a drawer in the darkness, reached inside, and brought out something cold. Holding it up to the dim light, he could ascertain that it was some kind of vegetable — green and limp — and he bit into it and swallowed before his taste buds could adapt to the taste. He had no idea where the food came from. It just appeared in the drawer every few hours. Then, at the end of each month, Triple received a bill for what he’d eaten and the amount was deducted from his pay.
The office was a round module cored deep in the earth, bunkered down in ten feet of slate and concrete, and on a clear day, peering through the periscope, Triple could see all the way to the Atlantic. Over there somewhere, political decisions stirred the country, and he stirred the decisions with his blog. His employers, a mega-conglomerate of pharmaceutical activists and lobbyists, paid his salary and provided the space for his work. He hammered keys and kept the juices flowing.
When he was hungry, he opened the drawer and pulled out an egg or a chicken bone. When he got thirsty, he drank a beer.
Momentarily, an icon flashed on the computer screen followed by a crisp sound that was reminiscent of ice tinkling in a glass, and Triple returned to his post, hunched over his station again. He posted his final blog just as the senators were departing from their chambers and the long session at the nation’s capital drew to a close.
Pharma-Century continues to offer the best in erectile enhancement drugs and sleeping aids. The Tassler Bill (No. 5877-347C), while offering a wider range of options to the public, fails to recognize the patent rights of various medications, including Thera-blend B, Qualvista, Nitrexidone, and Sherpaxalor. The public interest would be best served by a majority vote to defeat this bill. See also Nitrexidoneblog and Vistablueblog for additional details and to order free samples.
Triple secured his keyboard for the evening, yawned again, and considered taking a nap. The senators would not be in session until morning, and if he needed to rise early to get a head start on his next blogging session, he could always take a time released wake-up pill. But a little fresh air might clear his mind, he thought. His nerves twitched with caffeine, his brain stem stirred by the medical concoction that the firm provided through an intravenous drip. And after five days, his body was beginning to shut down. He knew the signs.
Thumbing through the policy manual, Triple noted the small print of his contract and gave special attention to Section Twelve, which provided the protocol for his sleep deprivation and the number of surface hours he would be permitted each year — a stipulation difficult to gauge without the benefit of clocks and calendars.
Rigging up the periscope again, Triple squinted through the lenses into the dark interior of the city and scanned the horizon for signs of life. There was movement, but faint, and he wondered if he would encounter anyone on the surface to talk to. He lowered the scope, snapped it into its locked position, and slipped on his shoes. He’d not showered for a week, but he crept into the small bath next to his workstation and splashed a bit of pungent cologne on his neck. Before coding his exit pass into the elevator, he drank another beer and gargled the suds until his teeth shone.
The lift whined as the doors closed around him, and then oscillated in pitch as the elevator rose more rapidly toward the surface. No music. Triple heard nothing but the steady grind of the cables and the successive chugging of the motors’ cogs.
When the doors opened, he was standing on a street corner surrounded by dark, deserted buildings that rose toward the stars like obelisks. He swigged a lungful of air, held it there for a moment as if inhaling a cigarette, and released it was a sigh. Nothing in the area presented an immediate danger or fear, and so he made the quick decision to walk the block. Maybe, he thought, he’d encounter another person. It would be nice to have a talk. His vocal chords stirred in anticipation.
Shuffling up the cracked sidewalk, Triple eased past broken windows and busted street lamps. He lingered under cones of yellow light and breathed deeply, studying the moths that danced beneath the bulbs like a chorus of sparks rising from flame. After some minutes — if indeed they were minutes — he turned toward the heart of the city and noticed a curious neon sign that, periodically, flickered in the darkness like a beacon.
Triple followed the siren song of light past gaping manholes and the stench of sewer breath and eventually found himself standing outside a bar. It was an old establishment, like something out of a movie. Red brick façade. Checkered drapes. Oily windows. Standing in the allure of history, Triple took it in before pushing through the front door. Inside, he found himself facing a near empty room — just a bland sprinkling of wooden tables and chairs, a few glowing candles, and a smattering of deserted wine glasses and beer cans. Behind the oak bar — a beautiful piece of wood polished to a bright gloss — stood a tall man in an apron. The man’s eyes sagged inside circles of wan, forgotten brows and sallow cheeks. He grunted as Triple approached.
“Nice evening,” Triple said.
The bartender didn’t respond, reached over and slid a small card toward Triple.
My name is Avery, the card read. What’ll you have?
“A beer,” said Triple.
The bartender reached for a mug, angled it under the tap, and pulled on the keg lever until a head formed. He blew some of the foam toward Triple as he slid the mug across the bar.
“Kind of hot for a September evening,” Triple commented.
The bartender’s eyes narrowed in anger and Triple wondered if he was pressing too hard to make meaningful conversation. In fact, Triple knew that he was bordering on the illegal by trying to talk to the bartender. And so he determined to get at the issue another way. “Is there anyone here I can talk to? I’m willing to pay for a proper English conversation. None of that abbreviated stuff. I need some real talk, if you know what I mean.”
The bartender gave a faint smile when Triple flashed his Maximus gold card. “I’ll give you twenty free words,” said the bartender, who spoke in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“And what are they?”
“You can talk to Daisy. One dollar a word. She uses full sentences. No abbreviations. She’s in the back room.”
Triple counted the free words the bartender had afforded him. The number was spot on.
Pinching his beer, Triple rose from the bar and crept toward the back room. He lingered at the threshold for some seconds until his pupils could adjust to the low light, and then stepped into the room where, center stage, an alluringly beautiful woman in full makeup reposed on a silken couch. She wore a low-cut red dress with spiked heels, and was polishing her fingernails with an emery board. A tiny lamp at the head of the couch illuminated her voluptuous body and her long tanned legs.
“Are you Daisy?” Triple asked, sidling up next to the couch. When she didn’t answer, he flashed his Maximus gold card again. She snatched it, swiped the card through her wrist scanner, and handed it back. She smiled, then pressed a start button on her wrist scanner before she spoke.
“Yeah, I’m Daisy,” she said, her voice soft and polished. The wrist scanner emitted three muffled beeps—one beep for each word that Triple had spoken. A red LED counter on the wrist scanner then recorded the rise and inflection of Daisy’s voice, and, like a taxi meter, kept a running tab on the price of the conversation.
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
“Huh?”
“How long has it been since you talked to a real woman?”
Triple paused. He’d never actually considered time. It wasn’t in his nature to break the law, but he noted that Daisy also sported an ankle watch. The timepiece was probably hot, or stolen from a museum, but she wore one nonetheless. Triple feigned a casual disinterest, but then gave it a quick glance to confirm that the hands on the watch were ratcheting forward toward one in the morning. He didn’t let on. But he was proud of his ability to tell time by the stars, too. He was never off by more than a few minutes.
“Well … it’s your money, sugar,” Daisy cajoled.
“Oh, it’s been … wow, probably three or four months since I actually talked to someone in a proper way,” Triple confirmed nervously. He was whispering in case the room was bugged. But as for time itself, what did it matter?
“Then you must be starved,” said Daisy, beckoning him to take a seat at her feet.
Triple thumped down in one of the rickety wooden chairs before he could change his mind. There were several subjects that interested him. “Would you be willing to discuss foreign policy?” he asked.
Daisy, a woman who appeared to be in her mid forties, offered a pouted lip. “Honey,” she whispered, “why would you waste your money on water when you can drink the wine?”
Triple brushed a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I see what you mean,” he continued. “I have other options.”
“All drivel,” said Daisy.
“Well then,” Triple wanted to know, “what would you suggest?”
“How much are you willing to spend?”
“I can go as high as seven hundred and fifty dollars,” Triple told her. “That’s a day’s pay.”
“Big spender,” she said, eying the meter on her wrist calculator as it tallied every word she spoke. “Let me see … how about discussing us?”
“Us?”
“You know — us!”
Triple’s puppy-dog face flushed; he gave a quick glance into the corners of the room to make sure there were no cameras, no microphones. “I’m afraid,” he said, “there really is no us. We just met. How can we talk about us?”