by Porphyro
The only thing they all share in common is that none of them look like Ruthie. There.
RUTHIE. What are you thoughts about, anyway?
THE GNOME. They’re good thoughts. They’re profound thoughts. Very, very good thoughts.
RUTHIE. Yes, but what specifically about?
THE GNOME. Well, about hopelessness really.
RUTHIE. Hope…lessness?!
THE GNOME. Yeah. ...don’t look at me like that. Someone’s got to say it!
RUTHIE. Say what? That things are hopeless?
THE GNOME. Sure! It comforts the soul when there’s somebody else out there who shares your beliefs. Everyone always acts so cheery. Look at that stupid dog over there strutting about, tongue wagging and everything.
The Gnome points at a dog briskly walking about on two legs. It does look sort of goofy.
THE GNOME. Look at that idiot. Hey! Hey! You! Stop, doggeh! Thoughts for sale! Good thoughts! Deep thoughts!
But the “doggeh” continues on its merry way. It wears such a vacuous expression, one wonders if it has ever suffered.
But stop it, Ruthie! Stop judging peoples and critters for being happy. The Gnome is rubbing off on you.
THE GNOME. (grumbling) It’s rather hard for a sorrowful fellow. He feels lonesome in this “happy” world. Well I alleviate that. I think about despair. I think long and hard about it. I think about unalterable fate, brief lives, meaningless existences, long deaths, and eternal pains. You could say that I’m quite the fatalist! Quite!
RUTHIE. Quite…the…!
THE GNOME. Yes. Quite!
RUTHIE. But sir? Who would willingly purchase such thoughts?
THE GNOME. Someone will. Someone eventually will! They have to. If only you’d quit distracting me!
The Gnome shoves her out of the way. He resumes his embarrassing arm-waving.
THE GNOME. Thoughts! Thoughts for sale! Good thoughts, deep thoughts! Thoughts for sale!
RUTHIE. Sir?
THE GNOME. Thoughts for sale!
RUTHIE. Sir? For what purpose are saving up?
THE GNOME. For the purpose of buying myself a ticket on that airship!
Wait just a minute there! Does that mean The Gnome is also from…?! But no. No. It’s impossible. Utterly impossible. There’s no one alive with such a ginormous nose. Not where Ruthie’s from, there’s not.
He must be going elsewhere.
But at this rate, he’s going to end up going nowhere.
RUTHIE. (swallowing her nerves) Just one minute, sir.
She grabs one of his dark, depressing orbs.
THE GNOME. Hey! Hey! No, no, no! Don’t touch!
Ruthie tries to hold it up to the crowd, but the orb is too heavy.
Just like last time, though, she tries her best to hold on long enough.
THE GNOME. Come back here with that!
Is The Gnome stupid? Or is he really that stubborn? Does he really think his ideas will sell?
THE GNOME. Come back here! I’ll bite ya! I’ll bite ya!
Luckily for Ruthie, the orb starts turning a splendent color. It isn’t quite the stunning pink it was last time. It’s more of a purple, really. But it’s still quite beautiful to look at.
RUTHIE. (holding the orb up) …thoughts for sale!
For once, the crowd of passersby seem interested. This slows The Gnome down. He’s not so eager now to chomp down on Ruthie’s leg.
RUTHIE. Thoughts for sale!
A group of three “boys” in particular seem especially excited to check out her wares.
(I say “boys,” but who knows what they really are? They could be “girls,” to tell you the truth. And they could also be “adults.” The Gnome, after all, is a miniature man. And I’m sure he isn’t the only one. These little tykes are shorter than The Gnome, but they could also be older than The Gnome as well. Who knows? Who knows? It’s exasperating. “Boys,” “girls,” and “adults.” Which one is it? It’s impossible to tell. You can’t put these bizarre little people squarely into one category or another. It’s impossible. Why? Well because they’re strange little critters. That’s why. One of them looks like a flower, for crying out loud. Another one looks like a coffee bean. Well what does an adult coffee bean look like? Even a child can be roasted and ground. But how morbid! Stop it, stop it, stop it! I’m hitting myself over the head. You can’t see it, but I am. My apologies--really. The Gnome is rubbing off on me. Anyway, we will call them “boys” because Ruthie calls them “Boys.” She doesn’t even give it a second thought. The moment they run up to her and ooo and ah, she thinks of them as “boys.” How is she so self-sure? How is she so confident? Who knows. Ruthie is a smart girl. Much smarter than I am.)
RUTHIE. Hello there, boys!
COFFEE BEAN BOY. Zee yong ma zuey ma fa la?
FLOWER PETALS. Ar yoo mo nizong ma na.
THIRD BOY. Zemnay! Zemnay!
RUTHIE. Would you like to hold one?
Ruthie motions towards the thought she’s cradling in her hand. She figures it’s a good way to market her goods--a little sample here and there; a little taste of something good.
But is it actually good? Ruthie doesn’t know. She holds the thought, sure. And she influences it. But she doesn’t really register it much.
What does the thought think?
THIRD BOY. Zerbo er ma zoo fuey fuey.
RUTHIE. Go on! Take it!
The Gnome is outraged.
THE GNOME. Now who said you could give away my goods?! You’ll have to pay for that one! You will.
What does the thought think? She’ll watch the boy’s face and see for herself. If his lips pucker, she’ll assume it’s a sour idea she’s given him.
THIRD BOY. (taking hold of the thought) Zay! Na fuey ma mo zay! Zay!
His face lights up considerably.
In fact, the whole orb lights up considerably. It’s bright, bright, glorious shine.
THIRD BOY. Zay! Na zay!
By the look of things, it seems like a good thought. Quite a good thought. This makes Ruthie happy.
THIRD BOY. (awed) ...na zay...!
The boy gazes at her with wonder.
THIRD BOY. Zomena er gua fo me la? Joqua? Duqua?
He gives her a warm smile.
THIRD BOY. ...cinqua?
RUTHIE. (unsure) Oh.... Sure! (she nods)
The little boy reaches into his little pocket and pulls out a hefty little sack. Then, not knowing where else to put it, he shyly drops it at her slippered feet.
THIRD BOY. Zonka, zonka, ye boo hua!
The Gnome can’t believe his eyes.
RUTHIE. Oh! Thank you, little boy!
Looking pretty darn self-satisfied, the little boy walks away with his brand new purchase. Jaunty, jaunty, jaunty. The boy has a funny little walk. It’s like his butt wiggles. Jaunty, jaunty, jaunty.
His two friends jealously tag along. Their butts don’t wiggle, though; no, there’s nothing jaunty about their steps. In fact, they seem to rue the day they were born to poor parents; not everyone can just drop a hefty little sack of coins at any ol’ street vendor’s feet.
THE GNOME. (rubbing his hands) Hoo-hoo!
As the boy walks away, Ruthie’s just beaming. She’s beaming. That hefty little sack is so pretty! It’s red and has a gorgeous little bronze medallion stuck right on the front. It’s tied so neatly and elaborately, too! It’s probably worth a good amount around these parts, and that’s just the little sack itself. The coins inside--hoo-hoo! It’s a hefty little sack. Hefty!
THE GNOME. We’re rich! I’m rich!
Ruthie can’t help but feel her spirit swell. She doesn’t care much for money. It’s not that, it’s not that at all. It’s that she’s done something! Even accomplishing such a little feat…ah! It’s
enough to half-elate her.
And the crowd responds accordingly. They’ve seen how pleased the boy looked with his purchase. And they see how radiantly cheerful the vendor is. And so they can’t help their curiosity. Murmur, murmur, murmur. It’s obvious they’re telling each other, “Let’s go get one!”
They approach Ruthie and they throw little red hefty sacks at her feet and they wait to receive their thoughts. Murmur, murmur, murmur. “I wonder if she’s any good!”
The Gnome jumps up and down with glee. He’s practically clicking his heels and squealing with joy.
THE GNOME. I’m rich! I’m rich!
Ruthie goes over to the thoughts. It doesn’t take her as long this time around to convert each one. She’s so very radiant, you see. She almost overwhelms the poor orbs with her overabundant energies.
They turn gold! Gold! Not silver, not blue. Not pink or any other pretty color. They turn gold! Gold! The precious color.
Little does Ruthie know what she’s doing. Without meaning to, she’s imbuing each orb with a most positive idea. An idea so very positive, in fact, it could have only sprouted from the blackest soils of despair. You see, prior to this most recent magnificent success, Ruthie was actually starting to think she was going to be stuck in this strange world forever.
But now? Now Ruthie is starting to see the way out. She’s so sure of her eventual success, so certain she’ll turn out a winner, it’s almost as if she’s already home.
Oh! She can see Papa in the corner of her eye.
Do you understand, then, what a wonderful idea she’s implanting into each orb? It’s the same idea--that most wonderful idea--that each prisoner harbors in his heart; it’s that hope he tries to kill his fist night in a cell in order to make his new life bearable; it’s that dream he has from time to time, so convincing it forces him to cry. It’s the thought of freedom. Freedom! Not just any old weak, ailing one: the freedom to laze about; the freedom to sleep, to eat, to die. No, no. This was a more meaningful freedom. This was the freedom to escape. A desperate freedom! A freedom desperately fought for!
Whoever held one of Ruthie’s golden orbs was immediately injected with this happiest of feelings, this most important of thoughts. Their souls floated! Their souls!
How could she not sell out in minutes?
THE GNOME. Wait!
Suddenly, The Gnome is holding his head. He looks to be in terrible pain.
THE GNOME. Wait! Please! Don’t…!
But Ruthie is much too consumed by the moment to notice him, let alone to hear him. She keeps converting and the little hefty bags keep piling and everything, everything keeps going so well.
THE GNOME. Wait! Please! Don’t sell all of them!
He grips his head hard with all ten fingers. But what’s going on? Was The Gnome greedy enough to try and sell every single one of his thoughts? Once Ruthie’s done, will he have anything left in his head? Will he be able to speak? To remember himself?
THE GNOME. Owwww!
And that’s all he has left. Because before he’s able to say anything else, anything at all--even a moan!--Ruthie has sold out.
RUTHIE. We’re done!
4.
After everything is done with and the crowd’s dispersed, Ruthie looks absolutely triumphant. There are stars in her eyes; stars that twinkle and gleam. Stars! (I could also be talking about her shining teeth; she’s the widest grin about her right now, Ruthie does.)
She feels deserving of some praise. Yup, some pretty heavy praise....
As she turns to look at The Gnome (smirky expression, told you so), she doesn’t quite expect him to clicking his heels and squealing with joy, but she does believe he’ll be happy, happy, happy. After all, what else could he be?
See, Ruthie doesn’t know much about this whole Gnome business--not yet, at least. And so she certainly doesn’t expect him to be sleeping. But there he is, dirty nose to dirty ground. He doesn’t even bother laying face-up.
RUTHIE. Oh! Mr. Gnome! You should at least bother laying face up!
Ruthie goes over and tries to stir him.
RUTHIE. Mr. Gnome! Mr. Gnome! (she shakes him) Why oh why are you sleeping at such a time as this? This is our moment of triumph, sir. (she shakes him) We should celebrate. We should bless our misfortunes for turning into fortunes. We shouldn’t be so callous. We can’t take such things for granted. (she shakes him) Sleep can come at any time, sir. At any!
But no matter how hard she shakes him or how much she talks, The Gnome refuses to budge. Is he still alive? All that pressure can’t be good for his nose….
She goes over to the pile of bags and cradles a good bunch into her arms--enough to make a pillow. Not the most comfortable pillow, mind you. But a pillow nonetheless.
RUTHIE. (dropping the sacks into a neat pile) There!
And then, without much effort, she flips The Gnome over onto his makeshift pad.
Now, when I said that Ruthie is smart, I mean it. Had I been in her position, I would have thought it all simply came down to a very gnome thing to do. The Gnome is grouchy? Well that’s because gnomes are grouchy; not just this one in particular, but all of them. This gnome’s ‘much in need’ of money? Well that’s because all of them are. Why? Eh. Who knows? Who cares? Some superficial reason or another. This Gnome just happens to fall into a catatonic sleep in the middle of the day? Ah. That’s because all gnomes are strange, strange sleepers. Either that or all gnomes suffer from a susceptibility to sensory overload; if they’re around too many people, they drop. They plop. Their gnome brains can’t take it.
That’s what I would have thought. I wouldn’t have worried about him too much. He sleeps on his nose? Well that’s because it’s so big and padded, it’s his very own pillow. “Nature provided it for him,” I would have said to myself. No need to make him one out of the little coin sacks like Ruthie did. Nuh-uh. No way. I would have opened those suckers up and counted them.
See, I wouldn’t have even noticed how unusual it was that everybody paid with the same little sacks. Same color, too! I wouldn’t have spent a single second contemplating the matter. I would have been much too busy opening those suckers up and counting them. 1...2.... All these coins for me! 3...4.... Tee-hee!
But look how greedy I’ve become! Bah! The Gnome is rubbing off on me. My apologies.
Well Ruthie considers the bags. She spends quite a bit of time contemplating them, actually.
She also spends quite a bit of time contemplating The Gnome. And after a while, she comes to a rather startling conclusion--the right one, in fact.
She wasn’t thinking, “all gnomes” this, and “all gnomes” that. She was thinking, “this gnome.” There was something up with this gnome--this one in particular. For one, he had given away his thoughts. Hmm. Ruthie stuck a contemplative finger to her temple. Hmm. Whenever she was sleepiest, she was most pained to think; every idea was a hurt to have. She just wanted to sleep, to sleep, to doze. It was a pain to think.
And the opposite was true as well. Whenever she was most excitable, she was most pleased by her quick stream of thoughts. In those happiest, most frenetic times, thoughts would come four, five, six at a time. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.
So hmm. This gnome. Hmm. He’s completely out of it. He doesn’t even twitch his nostrils or flutter his dozy eye or lick his slumber lips or anything like that. He sleeps like a stone. Stiff and dead--so much so even his huge floppy nose has a rock-like aspect to it. Hmm.
He doesn’t even have enough neurons to snore. Was he really so greedy he sold everything? Everything? He probably even sold his dullest memory. Hmm. But do memories count? If they do, Ruthie supposes The Gnome could probably sell all sorts of things like dreams and hopes and…but she’s getting distracted. What she needs to figure out now is if he’s ever going to wake up again.
Ah! But there’s no time to think! Not anymore there’s not. DROP, DROP, DROP, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN. Ah! What the...? Wasn’t it j
ust super sunny with clear, blue skies? DROP, DROP, DROP, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN. It seems the weather around these parts is perplexingly unpredictable. (Everyone says that about their parts of the world. “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. Haw, haw, haw, haw.”)