by Pera Barrett
A breeze floated by, it smelled like mandarin peels and fun.
Where before his eyes had sat panicked and timid behind their two spectacle lenses, they sparkled now like champagne in as many flutes. Before, his white hair had lain flat, but now, the wind puffed it out in thick waves of wild energy. It seemed to move in time with his words. “You wanted to be a builder once, Matthew, no?”
“Erm, yeah I guess I did.”
“And a magician too, if I recall correctly?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Yeah. Doesn’t every kid?”
“Well, Charles followed his mother’s fearless lead. He was a magician. And he was a builder. He was a creator! He created chaos for the most part. He would build forts in the trees surrounding their farmhouse that would collapse in time for the following summer, then rebuild them and repeat the cycle again. He would sneak into the hay barn at night, pry open the cans of paint tucked under his father’s workbench, and paint glorious forgeries of his mother’s paintings on the barn walls. He took apart the old farm equipment from their piles behind the outhouse and built boats that floated through seas of cutting grass on the property.”
I thought of my own childhood, painted mostly by flickering TV hues and computer game landscapes. Growing up in the city was different, I supposed.
The Old Man lifted his eyes to the sky. “Good soil is only the start though, Charles had a purpose. When his father’s bravery was repaid to him and his mother with nothing but a posthumous medal, and a thoughtful letter of sympathy from the Prime Minister, he figured out early what most of you take too long to understand.”
He looked me in the eye and but I felt like he saw much more than that.
“Any of you can break at any time. And not-done dreams don't do themselves. It is most unfortunate but mostly common that the same lesson is only learnt through unfortunate events. But his father’s passing gave our friend Charles such a purpose, such drive. Purpose is to you, to Charles, and to all other dreamers, what the sun is to the rose. It keeps that thick stalk growing, stops it wilting or bending in the wind, and makes a flower others can’t help but enjoy. Purpose is the antidote to all those sneaky little poisons that people have put into the world’s soil. It is what stops you from breaking.”
He coughed and shifted his tie from left to right.
“Don’t wait to be reminded that you aren’t here for long. Because the longer you wait, the less time there is for doing. Be. Do. Do the things that make up the dreams I send. Too many—”
Pop.
I blew an accidental bubble with my gum. The Old Man coughed again.
“Too many of you wait out your lives thinking something different or something good will happen soon,” he said. “Then you realise too late you’ve been watching the world through your window. You're like the dog that sits in the car patiently and obligingly on his final visit to the vet to be put to sleep. But the difference is you know where that car’s going, you all do. Go and chase tyres. Run through the trees.” He was rubbing his thumb from side to side on the leather of his briefcase handle like he was starting a game of pea knuckle with an invisible handed opponent. “But, where was I? Ah yes, our young friend Charles.”
Three birds sat overhead watching, (and maybe listening) intently.
“Charles spent years working on his swing designs, and years being made fun of by the townsfolk. While he was painting chalk ideas on blackboards, they laughed, called him names like ‘Crazy Charlie’, and pitied his poor mother.
But he had his father’s bravery. Where his father had faced down enemy rifles, bayonets, and barbed wire borders, Charles faced the norm, status quo, doubt, anxiety, and nay-sayers. He marched against them all, just like his dear old dad had done. And he won. Then, ever the humble soul, Charles dedicated his first park and swing set to those very enemies.”
The Old Man looked up and recited:
“To the non-believers that ridiculed dreamers;
thank you for being proved wrong.
Without you, I’d have rested 'fore this dream was ‘ere tested,
and made a reality you could all sit upon.
His second set was dedicated to his mother and father.
200 kilograms this set doth hold,
because as mother said of swings, ‘one is never too old'.
Father; you gave your life for our good,
Telling me time doesn’t wait, so never I should.
How the world used to be,” The Old Man said with a smile and a faraway look. “Enough reminiscing though, we’ve got dreams to find and a world to rescue,” he snapped back to, and back at, his surroundings as if they were to blame for his little trip down memory lane.
We carried on walking through the park. Past a green and red see-saw, seats wet with last night’s rain. Around a wooden fort complete with swing-bridge and slide – a half-deflated soccer ball was wedged between the slide’s ladder and the bark chip grounds. We marched through the final gate-post of trees and back onto the road.
The town and surrounding streets were like a deserted movie set. No cars struggling to keep to the 50km speed limit. No bikes leant in their usual place against the streetlights. The sign for ‘Mrs. B’s Shoes’ swung from the shop’s overhang, its chain rattling in the breeze. The front window of the store showed the latest heels and handbags, and an interior empty of people. Two balloons hung limply from a cardboard sign taped to a power pole: GARAGE SALE 18 TASMAN ROAD — 10 AM SATURDAY, written in thick red felt.
There was no human life to be seen, just lots and lots of birds. Crows dotted every power line and sat bunched together in an unnatural number on every tree branch we passed.
“Quiet day in town,” I said.
We kept walking until we reached the beach, a small sandy bay, fenced by a bank lined with low-hanging trees.
“The real start of our journey,” The Old Man said.
I wondered what the rest had been.
6 YELLOW, GREEN, OR RED
Green looks fine, yellow don’t mind,
Things in the red aren’t good.
No time, no rest, book-shelf to the desk,
Get the dreams down like we should.
- The assistants’ song
————
Two of The Old Man’s assistants rushed around the room next to his. The Device sat hunkered in the middle of the floor, its pipes snaked out to the ceiling and walls and rattled like an old coal boiler.
The wall blinked. Yellow, green, yellow, green, red. It stretched for miles. Hundreds of round windows popped out of the wall like port holes on a ship; inside each was a half circle meter with a needle like a car odometer, and a round light that glowed green, red, or yellow. Panels and panels of colours, and needles. Most of the meters moved between the thirty and one hundred mark. Most of the lights were solid, some flashed. There was an empty step ladder on wheels in front of the wall, just tall enough to reach the uppermost row of panels.
The assistants’ faces (if you could call them faces) didn’t have mouths, but that didn’t stop the chatter. They made noises that sounded like gravel being crunched under running feet, punctuated with lifts in tone, like questions being asked.
A needle fell back to zero, its light flickered red. The rattle of The Device became a rumble. One of the pipes to the wall started wobbling, and white steam hissed from its joint. With the point of its folded triangle hand, an assistant reached out and tapped the meter next to the light. It shouted in short high-pitched bursts. A screen in the centre of the wall lit up; FALLING DREAM flashed in urgent red letters.
Ordinarily, the assistants would rush in a disorganised panic to The Old Man’s room, pull a book from the shelf, and push it in front of him. They would wait as he wrote. Or do as he told. But for the first time in forever, The Old Man wasn’t there. They stood still, staring at the red glowing screen, black outlines of sketched feet rooted to the spot. Their leg lines trembled, their chattering stopped, they looked at each other and shook.
<
br /> 7 FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT
“Fact is, I’ve done both now. Woken up to put on those ugly overalls and headed on down to the factory. And woken up to turn on the Marshall amp and finished a song that’d make your mumma cry. They ain't worth comparing. There ain’t nothing similar about them.”
- Nate Cooksley, 41 years old.
————
David stopped at the coffee machine on his way back to the office. He glanced up at the giant digital clock on the wall, plenty of time. Which really meant plenty of room left to rush.
He pressed the button on the machine and smiled at the sound of the beans grinding and the smell of caffeine as it squirted into its little plastic cup. It was like hitting a reset switch after a relocation run.
Simon was walking past and stopped when he saw his friend leaning over to fill his cup.
“There he is. Another one for the wall aye, Dave?” Simon said, in his too-loud-for-an-office voice.
“Hey, Si.”
Simon was in his ‘dress for the job you want, not the job you have’ suit. David always assumed it was his only one.
Simon pointed his index finger at David like a gun. “Buddy, you’re a goddamn celebrity in Office Six this morning. Three in one week! The boss is asking if we can get you over to talk to the teams about how you do it. I told him don’t bother 'cause I taught you everything you know.” He laughed his loud, across-the-office, laugh. It was the sort of laugh you hear at a business lunch in your favourite cafe, and even your eggs want it to stop.
“Of course you did, Si.” David laughed. “I tell ya though, those dirty dreamers are getting more and more arrogant. This last one was just a few blocks from here. Boy, did I sort him out, though. Transformed on me too, so he made me get a sweat up, the prick.”
Simon’s eyes widened. “He was one of them? An Inspired? I heard they were becoming more common, but still...” He shook his head and whistled softly. “Nice work, I don’t know how you do it, man. They’ll be looking at you for Regional Manager next, I reckon.”
David shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. I do miss the old days where all it took was a shout and they moved along like they should.”
Simon punched his friend’s shoulder playfully. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks now.” He lowered his voice. “And I wouldn’t say that too loudly, either. I’ve heard what the Lady in Grey does to lowly Cog Turners when they don’t want to move up. I reckon she’d throw you out the window if she heard you say that.”
David’s eyes widened and he turned his head from one side to the other. “Don’t let her catch you calling her that. Oh hey, any chance you can drop off that spare couch for Jane’s play room?” He narrowed his eyes. “Do it, and I might stop feeding your boss clues about where all the food from the Supplies and Snacks room is going.”
“Ha-ha, yeah my bad - let’s tee something up for next weekend, I do want to bring it around, it’s just taking up room in my garage.”
“Lock it in.”
“Anyway, more sheets to fill, more downtime to kill. Keep fighting the good fight for us, Buddy!” Simon stepped in close for a high five then turned back in the direction he was going. “I’ll drop you a message once I’ve talked to Shelly,” he said loudly, then carried on down the hall.
David arrived back in Brigitta’s office without a collar or nerve out of place. He tried to recall the busker’s face but couldn’t. He thought he should feel something. Regret, guilt, shame? But there was nothing. When he thought back to any of his relocation runs, it was as if he was watching them through plastic film stretched tight over his eyes. They played like instructional videos in his mind, with all emotion removed.
Brigitta had her back to him and was thumbing through a printout, in black and white of course; as she always said, “Colour printing is an unnecessary cost.” She stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by the high-pitched hum of monitors and the beautiful sound of machines printing various beautiful reports.
“Well done on the relocation, David. He looked like a tough one, but you took care of him like I knew you would.” Brigitta turned to face him.
He wondered how she always knew when he was near.
“I’m pleased to see you making the most of your latest promotion,” she said with a smile that looked to David like it knew something he didn’t. He bowed his head in appreciation.
“I know our approach can seem heavy-handed sometimes, my Dear, and I know it can take its toll, but ours is important work.” Brigitta leaned forward. “It carries the price tag of rare value. The world is relying on us, don’t forget that.”
David thought back to a month ago when Brigitta had promoted him in this very room.
————
“Step inside, please, David.” Brigitta’s request had been typically short, she probably saw no need to explain herself further. She had pointed to one of the black plastic chairs. “Sit down, please, I have good news.”
David moved to where she pointed and caught a note of her perfume, a spicy and light scent, citrus and jasmine maybe.
“Your supervisor has been most impressed with your performance, David. As have I.”
David tilted his head in a shallow nod. “Thank you, Ma’am. I have a good team.”
“Oh, he didn’t mention your humility. I don’t enjoy modesty, so please keep it to yourself. Regardless, David, I am promoting you to Second in Command for Millington City.”
David’s eyes widened. “Wow. Thank you. Ma’am. This is. It’s. It’s a surprise.”
“It shouldn’t be,” Brigitta said. “Hopefully you’re not slow-witted as well as humble? Now, your new title will allow you to make a significantly bigger impact when it comes to relocations, and will give you a stronger general defence against the enemies of productivity and industry.”
David had nodded, not entirely sure what she meant.
————
The following month was a blur of fighting and pushing and breaking and blood and bundles of bodies in boots. David went on countless relocation runs, the skin on his knuckles scabbed over and hardened along with his views. The people he was moving were inferior, a waste; they were taking up space and distracting the Cog Teams from work, real work. He remembered his first fight since the promotion, a cartoonist. It was a grey, rainy day, and the young boy had hidden, trembling, behind his easel as David approached. David had reached out to rip the wood and canvas shield away from the child, and at that instant, the cartoonist had changed into an Inspired; his eyes had shuddered, his shoulders grew wider, and the clothes on his body started steaming in the rain. The scrap had been vicious, at one point David was within seconds of losing, the cartoonist had him locked in a chokehold from behind. David couldn’t move. Too tight to twist, the forearm against his neck, too strong. Couldn’t shift it. Couldn’t breathe. His head was getting lighter. He should have blacked out and drifted away. But he had felt the cords in his neck tighten and harden like tree roots. His feet had suddenly felt solid on the ground. Awake! He had snapped his head backwards, hard skull base into soft nose.
Smash.
Grunt.
The grip on his neck had loosened. The rest had been easy.
The second and third fights were similar, he grew stronger with each one. His cheekbones felt thicker, every jab he threw seemed to go further and faster, and he was moving so quickly that most of his opponents’ punches missed or slid off.
He had grown so powerful in such a short time. That wasn’t normal, was it?
————
He snapped out of his reverie.
“Ma’am, I’ve got a question, if I may. It’s kind of personal, is that alright?”
“But of course, David.” Her glossy lips slid over perfect white teeth, and she shone the same smile at David that she beamed at cameramen, and newly-redundant workers, alike. It was the kind of smile that felt like a favour, and you never knew what would be asked in return.
“Please, know that you can a
sk me anything. That’s why I’m here,” Brigitta said.
“OK, it’s just that… why am I so strong now? That sounds silly, I know. I mean”—David let a sharp breath out through his nose—“Does it always happen like this? Is it the training that’s made me so good at fighting?”
Brigitta put her smile back on. “Why, David, you didn’t think I would send you into battle without a few tricks of your own did you? We couldn’t let those dreamers have all the fun. Look, I’m not going to go into the specifics because it’s not something you need to worry yourself about. Just know that the more practice you get, the better you will become.” She leant forward. “I see great things for you ahead, there are further… development opportunities for you within the company.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” David wasn’t quite sure he understood her response but asking Brigitta to explain herself a second time was never a good idea. His punches broke more bone, and his kicks flew higher than before. He might not know why, but he knew he liked feeling like a man. A real man. The kind who can hurt another without trying. The kind who can make a difference.
“Now, business. What do we know about The Old Man and this new player?” Brigitta said.