by Pasha Malla
Sure, save an exorcism I would likely be possessed by these hysterical creatures the rest of my days, which I’d also be forced to slog through in twenty pounds of footwear, and if I were ever chased by anyone or anything (a mugger, a cougar, even a sloth), I would invariably be caught and robbed/devoured before I could unbuckle my feet, release the ghosts and float to safety. But Gary had done his best. I could not fault him for that.
Standing there between these two great allies, I felt it was appropriate to make a speech—something rousing yet gracious, the sort of rallying oratory that leads armies into battle or commemorates the historically relevant figures of a given age, that is quoted down through the generations in times of strife and/or triumph (for humility), that is recorded to tape and played whenever, say, someone about to give a speech is in need of inspiration. So I puffed out my chest, fixed my gaze on a space equidistant between Gary and D. Lee, and began:
Friends, I spoke, accomplices, helpers, allies. Mammals cloven-hoofed and bipedal. Mall-affiliates, basement-dwellers, employees thereof and the logistically unemployable. Those of you lost, and those of you found. (Here I eyed D. Lee.) Those of you still searching. (Gary.) We are all so much small change in the pocket of god, if we imagine god’s kingdom to be this mall and its various subterranean levels, and god him- or herself to be the weird overseers that run the security cameras and pen letters of acceptance to its residency programs and decree a baffling rubric as to how one’s time should be spent there, viz. “making work” and “engaging the public.” But small change accumulated in a large jar, over time, eventually accrues to an amount adequate to buy something pretty decent. And together we are pretty decent.
(Here I looked around, nodding, and paused to let the full effect sink in.)
Sure, I continued, I could walk, one plodding and ridiculously ballast-encumbered step at a time, out the door of this room, literally turn my back on you both, even “flip you the bird,” and never see either of you two beautiful souls again. But what kind of person would I be then? (Rueful chuckling.) A bad one. An ungrateful one. The sort who probably deserves to be torn apart by buzzards or humiliated by cats. Or shredded in a thresher. Instead I offer you this: an opportunity. Think of it as a hand extended. That is, think of it not as a hand extended at arm’s length, palm out and fingers slightly splayed in a stop gesture, then the fingers turned down and flicked thrice in a sort of shooing motion, as if brushing crumbs from the shoulder of an imaginary jacket. No, this extended hand is an invitation. (I extended my hands, one toward Gary and one toward D. Lee.) Come. Come with me. Let my truth set you free.
(Neither the pony nor the clerk made a move. I assumed they thought I was being rhetorical, such was the stunning and, dare I say, humbling effect of my words. So I lowered my hands and gave them more of what they so clearly craved—more speech, more wisdom, more earth-shattering oratorical power.)
Yes, friends, I intoned (I was certainly intoning now!), the three of us together will become what I alone cannot: a threesome. For three is stronger than one. Take bones, for example: take any old femur and bend it to its breaking point and the thing will snap in half like a twig. But stack three together? Harder. You’ll break your own hands just trying. So imagine us as those three femurs bundled together, unbreakable, resolute and stalwart. If we were an actual leg nothing could stop us—we’d be that tough.
(I looked from Gary to D. Lee and back again, eyes blazing with righteousness.)
So what do you say? Will you join me?
D. Lee put up her hand.
Yes, I said, you there, behind the glass.
Just a question?
Please.
Join you…in what?
Why, I said, join me in…overthrowing the mall.
D. Lee looked aghast. She told me that the mall was where she worked. How she won her bread. If we overthrew it, what then? Who would sign her paycheques? Me?
Me? I said.
Who did I think I was, D. Lee demanded, to try to take that away from her? Me, some blithe and feckless stranger breezing peripatetically through the mall. To think I’d taken advantage of its charity only to deem the place unworthy of its current leadership and worthy of overthrow! And say my rebellion succeeded, said D. Lee, what then? My residency was scheduled to end in a scant two weeks. So off I’d go, leaving the mall in disarray and upheaval in my wake. That is, she added with a cynical laugh, if I were even able to put my scheme into action.
This word—scheme—made me twinge. Of course there was no scheme. Only a vague instinct, a sense of disrepute that my inclinations toward propriety resisted. I worried that I’d allowed personal vendettas to overwhelm my senses. Certainly Mr. Ponytail was due for comeuppance. But the whole mall? What would I do, burn it to the ground?
While my mind rambled through these thoughts, D. Lee continued, seeming less offended by my suggestion than exhausted. I felt like a schoolchild being scolded by a beleaguered headmistress—you shan’t lick your classmates’ things!—and, inhabiting the role of the unruly child, I tuned her out, her admonishments washing over me in a formless mist. Meanwhile I fixed my eyes on Gary: would he “be mine” still, despite everything?
The answer seemed to be no. Even my trusted steed was edging away—toward the elevator, shockingly, to flee my presence for good. The speech I’d delivered with such passion and fervour—and a flailing of hands that I’d believed to be the hallmark of effective oration—had convinced no one. In fact it seemed to have achieved the opposite effect—that is, convinced them only of my lunacy. My former cronies were now “jumping from my ship” and eyeing me with the wary angst of a fellow in a meat tuxedo edging past a hungry lion.
But before Gary could board the elevator, the doors closed and the thing went clanging up toward the main floors of the mall.
I spun upon D. Lee. Her unwillingness to meet my eyes confirmed it: she’d summoned someone. Perhaps with a hidden button or bell expressly designed for such purposes. Betrayed! And of course, as she well knew, my options were to stand heavy-footedly in place in my boots, at the mercy of whoever was intent on my capture, or, unshod, bequeath myself to the whims of the ghosts and float around the room like a stupid balloon. And suddenly the whole thing struck me as a scheme. Gary, D. Lee: these supposed allies were in fact merely slaves to the mall—of course they’d been planning to turn me over to the authorities.
My god, was that a ponytail tucked up under D. Lee’s hat?
My tongue-hair began to twitch.
Grimly we waited for the elevator, the three of us: pony, clerk and whoever or whatever I was supposed to be. A resident? Hardly, as D. Lee had made clear. I was barely a person! And if I’d ever been a floater, I wasn’t now, disabled by boots. Though had I ever really been one? Sure, I’d done some floating, but I’d never really got the hang of it, never felt comfortable lofting up in the air, never had much control over where my body gusted. And while the ghosts were still for now, even with the false gravity of my footwear they would still stir to life once I got moving, reminding me again of their control over my whole existence—physically, yes, but also emotionally (since the actual feeling of “butterflies in my gastrointestinal tract” made me just as anxious as the metaphorical version).
There had to be something more that I could say or do as the elevator fetched whoever waited above and began plummeting back to the Lost &/or Found. My speech had come up short—but maybe there was something else to be added, some summation or recursion or rhetorical flourish, that might sway D. Lee and Gary back to my side. But the elevator, I sensed, was nearing, and nothing came to mind. I could only wait—for whom? Judge, jury, executioner. The powers-that-be. A demon or a god. And whatever punishment they had planned for my insolence.
D. Lee stood on the other side of the glass, eyes on the elevator doors. She wouldn’t meet my gaze—understandably, I thought. Betrayal is embarrassing. I mean, I felt embarrasse
d that I’d betrayed her, or tried to, or at least overestimated the depth of our allegiance to one another. And she’d “told on me” and occasioned some sort of, no doubt, even more humiliating fate. Never mind what was almost certainly a ponytail flopping freely from the back of her cap and over her shoulder.
The elevator dinged. My judgment had arrived. Gary withdrew against the wall. In my peripheral vision, I sensed D. Lee retreating into the stacks.
The doors opened. I squinted: blackness, shadow. The elevator was…empty.
No, that was not the case. It was teeming—teeming with hair. Hair gathered into ponytails. A thousand ponytails or more. And here they came, a vast and seething army, ropey and squirrelly and galloping one over the next, flowing upon and over me, suckling onto me like leeches, grasping wherever they could—one over my eyes, another over my mouth to muffle my screams—and dragging me into the elevator.
The last thing I sensed before everything went black was a faint, disturbed whinnying from the Lost &/or Found. Through the haze, swimming at the edges of consciousness, I peered out into the room and met Gary’s eyes. He surged into the middle of the room, and as the elevator doors were closing he reared back on his hindquarters, forelegs pawing the air, and snorted and neighed.
A cry of solidarity, I felt, as the ponytails closed over me completely.
A gift.
A last, triumphant glimpse of liberty before I was dragged back to the surface, my insurrection was quashed, and my life of subordination, servility and duty resumed as before.
PROGRESS REPORT #7
If there is a creature more noble, more resplendent, more honourable, more elegant and, frankly, more virile than a horse, I wish to never know its name. For there is only so much space in my heart to admire any species other than my own, and that space is currently carved into the shape of a horse. (Try to cram an elephant in there and I’d need an angioplasty.)
Superlatives aside, it is a horse’s various utilitarian functions that make it so impressive. Think of all that one can do with, on and to a horse! Ride it, stroke it, go to war atop its back. A horse can deliver your mail. It can swim. It can whinny and it can prance. A human and horse together can compete in a joust or Olympic. Horses can love and they can laugh. They can even be carved into steaks and feasted upon.
Though this isn’t a recipe. It’s a love letter to horses.
If you are unconvinced of the supremacy of the horse, consider the lowly, moronic cow. As insipid a creature as has ever stalked the earth. Who has ridden a cow? A drunk on a dare, perhaps—right into a ditch. At best! Mount a cow and prepare for disappointment. Cows don’t canter. They stare. If a horse ever fixes its gaze on anything, it’s to devise a strategy for dominance: “How will I dominate this cow,” for example. If nutrition is your pro-bovine argument, beef can be replaced with a dozen things—yak, squab, a clot of beans—and with a confident grip a farmer can milk almost anything.
Have your cow. I’ll keep my horse. It was a stupid idea for a trade anyway. How would I get home? While you were galloping off into the sunset, there I’d be hopelessly hitching sleigh to udder. And even when I screamed “Hi-ya!” the cow would only regard me inanely over its shoulder and moo. By the time I’d lashed the thing into motion, you and my former horse would be at home, feet up, sharing a delicious bowl of salt.
Horses are afforded dedicated pastures where they frolic and graze. Such dignity! Especially compared to goats, chewing garbage from the chain-link. Think, too, of the refinement of a stable vs. the putrid squalor of a barn’s great bestial orgy, where the ducks and dogs and every species in between (ram, ass, etc.) spend their evenings rutting in dung-matted hay or slurping one another’s waste from a trough. Meanwhile the horses are sedately trying on saddles and enjoying a supper of apples and cubed sugar.
And fish? They can’t even neigh.
The most sophisticated animals wear shoes: people and horses. No one else! Oh, sure, sometimes you’ll catch a monkey trying on a boot—but that’s usually just mischief or confusion. It’s no coincidence that the horseshoe is a symbol of good fortune. You’d never catch even the most downtrodden loser treating a dog’s leash as a luck-suppository—but “there’s a horseshoe inside you” is one of the finest compliments you can pay another person.
Since ancient times the horse has helped till the fields, get people where they need to go, and also with logging. One rides into battle atop a stallion; one rides through the dead of night to rouse the blind-drunk veterinarian to deliver another elegant foal. Horses save lives. They make life worth living. To see a horse galloping at full speed is like witnessing god him- or herself streak wildly around a meadow. To hold a horse in one’s arms is to feel the pulse of life itself in its purest, cleanest form. To ride one is to dream.
Horses! There’s no other animal I’d rather own or love or be.
Also ponies.
SO THIS WAS THE STATE OF THINGS NOW.
Like a tidal wave carrying me to shore, the ponytails deposited me back in my quarters and then went slithering off into the shadows. An entire day had passed. It was evening. The mall was empty. Desperately I banged out the week’s Progress Report, finishing it just in time: K. Sohail arrived, collected it with a rueful look and silently locked me in.
No goodnight.
Cast as I was unceremoniously into the abyss, my sleep was deep but hollow. Eight hours later I found myself hauled up from it, like a corpse from a grave, to a great cacophony of noise.
While my quarters remained locked up and the caretaker was nowhere in sight, the mall was a hive of activity. Drills whined and hammers clapped around the idle chatter that makes such labours tolerable. While I couldn’t make out any particular phrases, I imagine the exchanges to have been along the lines of: How’s your spouse? Good. Where’s your dog? Home. Whom do your children favour? My spouse. What’s your favourite colour? Green. Are you lonely? Etc.
As I’ve mentioned elsewhere and at length, I’ve never been one to crave the casual camaraderie of the workplace—or the playplace, or any place, really. And yet trapped in my quarters—or cell—I felt palpably excluded by all that transpired outside. What was going on?
With heavy, slow steps I trudged in my boots over to the grating and peered through. The mall was being revitalized: teardowns and rebuilds were underway in all of the nearby stores, and the hallways were lined with pallets stacked chin-high with cling-wrapped boxes of fresh and sundry goods. I craned and peered but couldn’t see any members of the mall’s new workforce—foremen and/or -women, day labourers, aspiring proprietors, whoever had infiltrated the mall with their vigour and toolkits—at work, as they were, inside all the stores.
But even if I’d spotted one of these dames or fellows, what might I have done from inside my cell? Hailed them cordially? (Hello, I’m a jovial character who would welcome you properly were I not effectively jailed—improbable.) Insinuated myself into their banter? I wouldn’t even know where to begin! So with a sigh I withdrew from the grating, but not before I noticed, perched on a stool just outside my quarters, the stoic visage of K. Sohail (that is, her entire body, crowned with said visage).
She seemed to be guarding me. From the rigid way she sat, staring straight ahead with the dead-eyed tenacity of a flash-frozen corpse, I could tell that she detected my presence; she just wouldn’t acknowledge me. Was it guilt? This was the woman, keep in mind, who for bedtimes upon bedtimes, once upon a time, tenderly—dare I say adoringly—would wish me the sweetest, goodest nights. No longer. Things had changed. No longer my caretaker, she had become my jailer.
I cleared my throat. No response. The woman was a statue. The sounds of de/construction clattered through the halls. I waited some more, and when still she refused to budge, I plodded back to my desk and sat. Rejected. Bereft. And starving: I’d not had any chicken in ages.
What to do but sublimate my sorrows in work? With both of my atte
mpts at insurrection thwarted, maybe it was best to “grind my nose on a stone” and simply perform the role assigned to me. Another week, another Progress Report. Though perhaps an especially strong entry would secure my release; K. Sohail would read its pained and powerful words, recognize her own loneliness, fling open my cage and set me loose like a lobster from its trap. Though instead of pinching her with my talons, I’d gaze into her eyes and tell her, gently: You are forgiven.
But what to write? With only two weeks left in my residency, I ought, I felt, to be reaching a conclusion with my “work.” If, that is, the two-month term was still in effect after my attempts to overthrow the mall. Perhaps, even as I sat there, the powers-that-be were determining my fate. Maybe I’d be banished. Or, worse still, sentenced to a prolonged stay. Reviewing my Progress Reports to date, they’d identify an impostor who’d failed to fulfill any of the official obligations re “engaging the public” or “making work,” and who’d also tried to pull a fast one by bundling said requirements together in the very same Progress Reports.
What Progress had I really made? I’d engaged a woman in an ornately florid hat—that was irrefutable; she’d been rapt. And I suppose I’d engaged Dennis, but our transactional introduction had so quickly developed into friendship that he was barely ever “the public” at all. Also he’d died. I’d engaged Gary, but was a pony “the public”? Unlikely. As employees of the mall, D. Lee and K. Sohail weren’t “the public” either—and now the latter wouldn’t even engage me with a cursory greeting. I could summarize my alleged Progress thusly: a failed investigation, a failed insurrection, a consumption of ghosts that required remedy by boot, and a humiliating relocation by ponytail mob. And now I was a prisoner in my own (albeit temporary) home.
To make matters worse, my rival evinced an innate mastery of the residency and its requirements. How did Mr. Ponytail go about “engaging the public” and “making work” so naturally? The dastard simply seemed built for it, so much so that he’d reached cult status and likely inspired the mall’s rejuvenation. Had that been my purpose here too? Maybe my failure to engage some slavering, mindless public had forced the powers-that-be to invite a second resident. But “saving the mall” was not one of the terms in my Acceptance Letter! How was I to have known?
