Another One of Those Novels

The

Watched

Potboiler

By Heff Munson

December 6, 2011 – February 16, 2012

(Arthur Jeffrey Munson)

TWP1

The cluttered room seemed somehow empty.

A few minutes earlier, there had been a merry forest procession, singing and chanting a convoluted rhyme, followed by some snappy-sounding patter, but that had all dissipated. A message, “WHAT UP BRO?” had flashed onto an imaginary handheld device and disrupted the fragile continuity of the proceedings, and everything, the chanting, the procession, the patter, even the handheld device, had faded into disappearing echoes. The daylight of the forest dream was gone, and now there was the darkness of night, interrupted only by the smallish screen with the slow-growing text and the tiny sidebar announcing the time of 3:45 AM.

It was a narrow little room, containing a bed along one side and a cluster of computers along the other side. There was a tiny two-drawer dresser behind the head of the bed, then a couple of small bookcases, then the rear wall with its single window. Just beyond the foot of the bed was the front wall, which had a couple of additional shallow bookcases. There wasn’t room for much else, just the narrow path that separated the bed from the computer cluster, interrupted by a small wooden chair that blocked the passage when it was in use.

Everything seemed dark and empty now, but it was no matter. The return to the little bed would soon bring another dream, and the room would again fill with lights, images, and voices. That’s the way it was now: wakefulness was like sleep, and sleep was like wakefulness.

TWP2

The procession went merrily along. To some it must have looked like a fine parade of grand pianos. To others it no doubt was a fleet of sturdy ships at sea. Still others concluded that it was a caravan of long, flat wagons traveling through a pleasant wood. It was a matter of perspective. Some thought that the others were obviously at sea. Some others felt that their companions had been in the woods for too long. And still others expressed concern over the lingering effects of too many renditions of the Moonlight Sonata. And each felt that one of these interpretations was an entirely satisfactory description of their own situation.

As darkness fell, the fireflies amused themselves by creating various illusions all around. It was quite a varied gathering of fireflies: some glowed green, some blue, some red, some yellow, some orange, some violet. Sometimes they blinked in a rapid twinkling sequence. Other times they made dazzling simultaneous flashes. There were rainbow patterns, kaleidoscopic transitions, sometimes eerie in appearance, sometimes festive. Soon the night air was filled with their insect song:

We’re fabulous!

Simply fabulous!

When you see us in the light of day,

You call us bugs and say go away,

But in the dark when we start to glow,

You take one look at our show,

And say:

We’re fabulous!

Simply fabulous!

We can make you think you’re on the seas,

Or gliding along between the trees,

Though you can’t say what’s right or wrong,

You’re mesmerized by our song,

And say:

It’s fabulous!

Simply fabulous!

Fabulous!

And no-one ventured to argue.

For one thing, it was hard to get a word in.

For another thing, nobody spoke Bug.

TWP3

Melancholia.

Echolalia.

Euphonia.

Encyclopaedia.

Miscellania.

Millenia.

These were the names of the Six Pretty Fairies who rode in their enchanted carriage at the front of the procession. Everyone agreed that the view was incredible. Some were describing the antics of the fireflies, and others were describing the Six Pretty Fairies themselves.

“It’s like traveling through the inside of a Christmas Tree,” said Encyclopaedia.

“In a deep and dark December,” said Melancholia.

“As I look back, and remember,” said Euphonia.

“Remember, remember, remember,” said Echolalia.

“November, September, Distemper, Sic Semper,” said Miscellania.

“This could go on for years,” said Millenia.

“Well, this is interesting, being Fairies,” said Encyclopaedia. “I mean, we could have been Faeries, or Fayres, or even Fayeryes.”

“It’s rather sad, really,” said Melancholia. “So many missed chances.”

“Like a list of lost romances,” said Euphonia.

“Romances, romances, romances,” said Echolalia.

“Dances, Trances, Plantses, Elephantses,” said Miscellania.

“And we shall never forget,” said Millenia.

“I wonder what kind of Magical Fairy Powers we get,” mused Encyclopaedia.

“Invisibility seems to be one, based on our career so far,” said Melancholia.

“So far, and yet so near, the trail of our career,” said Euphonia.

“Career, career, career,” said Echolalia.

“Sincere, veneer, paneer, brassiere,” said Miscellania.

“Enough, already,” said Millenia. “I thought it might be interesting to have actual names, but I never imagined we’d get trapped in such narrowly-defined dialogue.”

“Dialogue, dialogue, dialogue,” said Echolalia.

“I think Echolalia enjoys it,” said Encyclopaedia.

“I think she does it just to depress me,” said Melancholia.

“I think Melancholia also enjoys it,” said Euphonia. “She’s staying in character, anyway.”

“It’s hard to tell with Melancholia,” said Miscellania. “She might really find the repetition depressing, but the way she’s defined, that just highlights her character.”

“Adversity builds character,” said Euphonia.

“That’s an old one,” said Millenia. “I guess I should know.”

“Know, know, know,” said Melancholia.

“Hey, cut that out,” said Echolalia. “That’s my racket.”

“Racket, bracket, packet…let’s see, now…” said Melancholia.

“It’s harder than you’d think, isn’t it?” said Miscellania.

“Yes, but it makes me happy,” said Melancholia.

“That’s nice to know,” said Millenia, “but for now, let’s just enjoy the fireflies.”

Captain Eddie and Lady Artifice were also enjoying the view from the next schooner in the fleet.

“That’s quite a view, isn’t it?” said Captain Eddie.

“Are you referring to the fireflies or the fairies?” replied Lady Artifice.

“Well, both, actually,” said Captain Eddie. “How do you like it?”

“It’s all quite enchanting,” said Lady Artifice.

The firefly show went on for awhile, but then the lights began die down as the fireflies began to leave as they retired for the night.

Only a couple of flickering lights remained. They continued for quite some time.

“It seems that, in every group, there are always exceptions,” said Encyclopaedia. “There are always the outliers...”

“That’s us,” said the Pink Firefly. “We’re the OutLiars.”

“Yessirreebob,” said the Brown Firefly. “I can Out-Lie any fibber in this forest.”

“That’s a pretty tall tale, Brown old boy,” said the Pink Firefly.

“Well, Pinky, I’m a Pretty Tall Teller,” said Brown. “I used to work in a bank.”

“You, in a bank?” said Pinky. “I doubt that. How come you’re not there anymore?”

“Well,” replied Brown, “As I said, I was a Tall Teller. It seems that one day I got so tall I went right through the ceiling and busted a hole in the roof. Then the wind started blowing in.”

“You mean…” said Pinky.

“Yep, that’s right,” said Brown. “All that wind caused this huge overdraft, so they kicked me out of the bank.”

“That’s nothing,” said Pinky. “I used to be Big Fish in a Big Pond.”

“Shouldn’t that be a Big fish in a Small Pond?” said Brown.

“Not Me,” said Pinky. “I was the Biggest Fish in the Biggest Pond of all. I was supposed to swallow some prophet guy who was going to live inside me for awhile, but I got kind of carried away.”

“You mean…” said Brown.

“That’s right,” said Pinky. “I ate up all the prophets, so I got kicked out.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Brown. “Well, I used to be a firefly.”

“Huh?” said Pinky. “So what are you supposed to be now?”

“A Fantasy”, replied Brown.

TWP4

Meanwhile, Eddie drifted off to sleep, and entered a fantasy of his own. It was a most unusual fantasy for him. It was:

AN ADOLESCENT FANTASY

“Gee Whiz, Golly, and his brother Shucks,” said the Adolescent Protagonist. “Here it is, the first day of Summer, and I don’t have any money;a little extra change, maybe, but no real money kind of money.”

“Well now, Proto my boy,” said a kindly old voice, “Why don’t you go out and try to earn some more money?”

“Some adolescent fantasy THIS is,” said Proto. “I wish for more money, and you tell me to go out and earn it. With dreams like this, it’s hardly worth going to sleep.”

“But that’s how you’re going to have your Adventure,” replied the voice. “You’ve got to go out to have adventures, Proto my boy.”

“That’s another thing,” said Proto. “I’m supposed to be the Protagonist, spelled P-R-O-T-A---you get the idea. So how come you call me ‘Proto’ instead of ‘Prota’?”

“’Prota’?’” said another kindly old voice. “That’s a girl’s name, Dear.”

“Okay, okay,” said Proto. “I’m going.”

And soon Proto found himself standing in front of the neighborhood grocery store.

The store itself didn’t look so very big. It seemed to be a two-story dark brick building occupying about half the block, with the entrance to a parking garage alongside. It wasn’t particularly inviting, and there was no “Help Wanted” sign, but Proto decided to go inside anyway and try to bluff his way into a job.

The interior was old, but clean, with a stairway leading up to the second floor. There was only one cashier present, graying and disinterested. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as Proto approached him.

“Aren’t you gonna buy anything?” growled the Cashier.

“Maybe,” bluffed Proto, “but right now I’m wondering if you guys need any help around here.”

“What we could use is some more paying customers,” said the Cashier, “but that’s just my opinion and I just work here. You want a job, you go upstairs.”

Proto glanced up the stairway, and saw a smallish interior compartment marked “Office”. He thanked the Grumbling Cashier and made his way up to the second floor.

The second floor was nearly deserted except for a couple of feeble-looking retirees trudging along an aisle marked “Incontinence”. From the look of them, Proto thought, they probably didn’t need to buy any. He turned his attention to the door of the office, which was closed. There was no sign indicating whether the office itself was open or closed, no posted hours of operation, and no doorbell, so Proto decided to hazard a knock and see who would get angry and chase him away. If the Grumpy Cashier had been chosen as the face to be seen by the public, Proto reasoned that the occupant of the back office must be either a gnome or an ogre.

So Proto was surprised when his knock was answered by an attractive young lady. Attractive wasn’t quite the word. Proto could have sworn that he recognized her from a music video he had seen a year or so ago. She was clearly a couple of years older than Proto, with a kind of precocious world-weariness that enhanced her offhand glamour.

“Aren’t you the one---“ started Proto.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” replied The One. “I had one good year, then we got tired of touring and the band split, and I’m just resting for awhile, and I won’t give you an autograph.”

Proto didn’t go away, so she said “What else?”

Proto was too smitten to think of anything witty to say, so he just said, “I’ve come here for a job.”

The One regarded him with a kind of disinterested respect. At least the kid said what he wanted, and didn’t try to kiss-up.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t run the place; I just work in the office part-time. The boss isn’t here, and you’re lucky, because he’s probably run you off.”

“A regular ogre?” said Proto.

“Kind of, with some gnome mixed in,” replied The One. “I’ll tell you what. The boss is gone for the day, but you could try cleaning out the parking garage in the basement this afternoon. If you do a good job, maybe he’ll decide you’re worth paying for. I’m not promising anything, but I can try to put in a good word for you once you’re done.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Proto, trying not to appear too stage-struck.

“The brooms and other stuff are already down there in a little cabinet. The Goof-Offs can show you”, said The One as she headed back to her desk.

“The Goof-Offs?” asked Proto.

“In the parking garage, in the basement,” said The One, sounding a little distracted but not quite annoyed. Not yet, anyway.

Proto decided not to press his luck with any more questions, and quietly made his way out of the office, down the steps, and out through the front door.

“I knew he wasn’t gonna buy anything,” grumbled the Cashier.

As Proto’s eyes adjusted to the dark of the underground garage, he could make out a couple of younger-looking kids leaning against the side of a tall storage shed next to a smallish dumpster.

Proto approached them uncertainly, but they didn’t get any bigger or more impressive, so he decided to come on confidently.

“Hey,” he said, “Are you guys the Goof-Offs?”

The smaller boy just shrugged, but the taller of the two drew himself up slightly. “We are the Interns, if you don’t mind,” he replied stiffly.

Proto backed down a little. “No offense,” he said, “but the lady in the office –“.

Now the smaller boy spoke. “She sent you down here? We’re not fired already, are we?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Proto. “I’m supposed to clean out this parking garage, and she said you guys could help me find the supplies and stuff. I think we’re supposed to be co-workers.”

Now the taller boy showed a little interest. “What’s she paying you?” he asked.

“Nothing, for now,” replied Proto, “but she says that if I do a good job she might put in a word for me with the boss.”

“Oh, then that’s okay,” said the taller boy. “That’s how we wound up here.”

“We’re supposed to keep an eye on things and make sure nothing happens,” volunteered the smaller boy.

“Yeah,” said the taller boy as he regarded the smaller one. “Shake hands with LoiterBoy. When he’s around, absolutely nothing happens. That’s for sure.”

“Oh, yeah?” replied LoiterBoy somewhat hotly. “And I guess that makes you…The Ineffectual Suburban Prince Of…Of…Something!”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” replied the Prince. “I figure it this way: We don’t getpaid, therefore we don’t do anything.”

“Then why do you stay here?” asked Proto.

“Sometimes a customer drops some loose change,” said the Prince. “Sometimes they drop a can of soda or something.”

“And you pick it up for them?” guessed Proto. Wrongly.

“No way,” replied the Prince. “We pick it up after they’ve gone and keep it.”

“Plus, everywhere else we go to hang out, we get chased away,” offered LoiterBoy. “It’s not much, but it’s hot outside, and cool in here, and there’s nothing else to do anyway.”

“How long have you been working here?” asked Proto.

“Coupla hours”, said the Prince.

“Tell you what,” suggested Proto, “if you guys help me clean out this garage, maybe we can all make some money.”

“Maybe,” shrugged the Prince. “Brooms and stuff are right inside this door.”

Proto opened the shed, and took out three brooms. He handed a broom to each of his companions, and walked straight back along the east wall and started sweeping at that distant corner.

Proto’s energetic effort was fueled by visions of The One beaming at him with admiration at the completion of his heroic labors. She would see him for what he was, a real person, a good, hard worker, standing apart from the lesser layabouts with whom he was temporarily allied, for he, Proto, would clean this garage like it had never been cleaned before, and She would recognize in him Something Grand, Something Magnificent, and before her eyes he would suddenly appear as a True Friend and Trusted Ally, even a Knight, even a Hero, and so Proto swept up a storm and vanquished many a dirt-dragon, and through the clouds of dust he raised he could see the lit entrance of the garage drawing nearer and nearer and ever nearer as he worked his dirt-pile back toward his goal, his destination, his triumphant rendezvous with…

He found the Goof-Offs still leaning on the storage shed beside their brooms. It was obvious from a glance that they had not budged.

“I said ‘MAYBE’,” mumbled the Prince.

“What’s the deal?” said Proto.

“It’s not my fault,” said LoiterBoy. “He said I had to go sweep the dark corner, and I don’t want to.”

“You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?” chuckled Proto.