New People of the Flat Earth

by Brian Short

  I turned, I started, a little.

  Emerged, bald, from the room-edge in shadow, the gray wash of light shone on his pate, flashed twice in a lensing of glasses. The same shiny jacket. The tie.

  “Your receptionist,” I said, “told me I should set these up in here.” Picturing her finger, piercing space. Small muscle twitch of impatience. I could see her through glass, talking on the telephone.

  “Ah. Ah-hah. I see.” He adjusted the tie, stepped some further forward, fully revealed. “Well, if that’s the case…”

  Spiderwebbed. These were eggs. I began to take the small squares full of lunch from their sacks, each container stamped by ink: BOX, BOX, etc., BOX.

  “I’m sorry, is this not…?”

  “No, please, continue. It’s of no importance.” A wave of a hand. Small hand, small figure. Bones, delicate, now that I’d noticed. Had I thought him a spider? Only a moment. Now he seemed more like a bird. Or birds. Amusement lingered. His face, amused. Watching me. I thought he thought I must be funny, but I was not, so far as I knew, that funny. All the same, I fumbled out the food, aware of his eyes on my person. Here was a thing done every day by someone, now by me. “I’ve not found,” he said, “reason yet for complaint over the quality of your service. You’ve done well enough. You bring the food, it’s true. You set the food out… And we are happy.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Relief.

  “But of the food itself? The stuff? Well. What can one say? Were anyone to actually eat it, perhaps…”

  “I’ve wondered that more than once,” I said over my shoulder, bent into my work, “myself. Since it seems that no one does. Eat it, that is. Now that we’re dead.”

  Hands in his pockets. Small hands. He rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet.

  “I take it, in that case, that you no longer eat either?”

  “I don’t. Not a bite. No need to. Don’t sleep either,” I said, “at least so far as I know. My memory is not so clear past yesterday, perhaps the day before.” A scratch of the head in puzzlement.

  “Yes, memory. It is an agitation.” He nodded. “Pity…”

  “Pity? What?”

  “It’s one of those things,” he said, “of life I once thought fondly. Eating is.”

  I’d finished setting the boxes out over the long, oval table, one per seat, with accompanying napkins and plasticware each, brought from the bottom of one sack. Studied, modified, deliberate. Done. I stood back, studied again. It was okay.

  “No more of that, I suppose. Yet there will be a lunch meeting?” I asked.

  “Oh, naturally.” Folding the arms across his chest. “Much in our industry, driven by necessity – the product as much as the process – much as it was formerly by preference. A thing you need or a thing you choose over another. What a market decides, for instance. A streamlining at some point in the process occurs, or has occurred. What is unnecessary, you see, becomes no longer… possible. Yet what is necessary… You’d think there would be more of it, only there’s less. Only what is possible is, in a word, necessary, and that much is absolute. What must be must be. Which is, I suppose, a kind of preference. The preference of what our condition allows. In death, as unlike life, it is what has, so far, driven our success. If success is what you call it. But then, come about, another day, and there’s lunch again. And meetings over lunch.”

  “Which is…”

  “Neither possible nor necessary. Yet it is, and there you have it.”

  “I see.” Although, in actuality, I did not.

  “I watched you looking out the window,” he said, pushing his glasses askew with a finger and scratching at his eye.

  “It is really quite a view,” I said.

  “It changes every day. Every day, a new city, seen from a different place.”

  “It isn’t real…”

  “Of course it isn’t real. No one ever said it was. Quite the opposite. Although without memory, it could be always exactly the same and we’d be no wiser. We’d think ourselves each day a fresh, new, brave bug, come into the world to face the thing that’s not ourselves. The stuff of heroes, every one of us. But it’s not the city you’ve been watching, is it?”

  “Come again?”

  “You’ve been looking up, not down.”

  “You see it too?” I asked.

  “What do you think?” The light glimmered off his circle-lensed glasses.

  “No one else seems to notice it. If they do, they never say anything.”

  “You imagine it belongs to yourself alone?”

  “Not like that,” I protested. “It’s just… I do feel it’s so familiar.”

  “It knows what you know, and it knows you.”

  “So you say, and I might imagine as much. But really I know nothing about it. Less than that, even, except that it’s always there and I can’t forget it. It’s the one thing. I wonder…”

  He removed his glasses from his head and held them tilt-wise, and with these off now, I could see that his eyes were not almond-oval as my own but narrowed some, slanted a bit, at least a little Asiatic. Or was he squinting? No, he was not squinting. I took another quick glance at the view outside.

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder,” I continued, “that it has authority here? In this place?”

  “Interesting.”

  “I mean, it seems to be watching.”

  “Is that what it does?”

  “Don’t you think? I mean, what else?”

  “It’s not mine to say,” he said.

  “But you know, don’t you? You know what it’s doing.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You do.”

  He took a step back, still smiling. Another step and the shadows had begun to enshroud him once more. He lingered there, liminal, the gleam on his glasses, which now he’d replaced, remained, as did the halfsmile. Cheshire-face, Cheshire smile. Remain. I was still amusing, somewhat; enough. I would be asked back again tomorrow, I knew that much.

  SEVEN

  The World

  [Late Winter, 2006]

  When young Byambaa led him from the restaurant, she let him pay for their meals, and moments later they’d emerged onto the street, she ahead, he behind – she, a small, bright being in her puffy jacket, a red dot in movement, a smile stuck bright on her face, teeth bared against the sun; he, mumbling, shambling, stooped, and shuffling wildly to keep up with her small, quick steps. His hands were in his pockets. He peered up over his nose to keep her in sight, despite the effort it cost him.

  At the corner where they met the busy street, she stopped and looked back, held out her hand for him to take. He took it, confused. It seemed so tiny. In his own hand – not large by any measure – hers was engulfed entire, and seemed so fragile as to break it by squeezing.

  People by the millions swarmed around them.

  “I. Am. Not. Who finds. Your soul,” she told him. “I will take. You. To him.”

  Proteus nodded. He nodded and nodded.

  “My uncle…” Her small eyes widened.

  “Yes,” Proteus said, “your uncle.”

  “He takes. You. To. Your soul?”

  “I…” Proteus felt his heart grow quicker, his face turn colder, his skin grow ashen, and a strange little fluttering inside of his head.

  “You will tell me. The future.” She smiled brightly, bright, bright; a reflected twinkle in her eye of something overhead: the sky, the sun.

  Panting now: “Okay. Yes, okay.”

  “Come.” She squeezed. Her little hand. In his. Little hand. She. And pulled him into traffic.

  •

  Midway through the unceasing press, she stopped and stopped him also and waited. They stood on the line dividing the lanes as behind them a bus sped past, scarce inches away, then more and smaller cars following that, meanwhile in front, no more than inches to that side either, a dump truck, a town car, a black car, two Land Rovers, another bus, etc., all shot past, a blur, unconcerned, it seemed o
bvious, for their safety. When a momentary crack opened between moving vehicles, she shot ahead and pulled him along. He was ballast. He tried not to drag. He knew his life hung in the balance. They crossed four busy lanes this way and remained intact, if barely. And at the other side, she took him to the big mushroom.

  •

  It stood, a toadstool, taller than any person about, and was green with red-splotch dots painted over its curved topside. The underside was painted with gills. It seemed it must be made of metal and set permanent into the pavement of the sidewalk, which it was. He assessed these features as they came to face it, as it had a front-side after all, with a sort of open window in the wide stem, inside of which stood a small, old man. His wrinkled face peered out and scanned the sidewalk, looking toward some faraway thing before noticing them; before, that is, he’d seen his niece, who bounced up suddenly in his face and shouted, “Uncle!” – or some such thing in Mongolian.

  The old man’s eyes turned toward her and he broke into a wide smile, all the deep-etched lines of his face conspiring in the expression. He’d seen much sun and wind, it was clear. Here he was: a thing of the desert. Now he waited inside a mushroom. The two exchanged words, bantered back and forth. She crossed her arms over her chest and rocked from side to side as if cradling something to her breast. He beamed and smiled, beamed and nodded. His speech was spare and unhurried, while hers was breathless, nearly frantic, a long jumble of words. It was clear, the fondness between these two. Proteus, meanwhile, waited at the edge. He was half in the crowd. He felt bodies moving past, too many. Some touched him. Some brushed against him. He was jostled. He was, more than once, run into. He felt hands pat him down, everywhere a pocket might be. When he checked for it a moment later, his wallet was gone. He couldn’t bring himself to think much of it, and didn’t know yet if he cared or not.

  Proteus noticed at some point that the old man and Byambaa were both looking at him, the old man quizzically, the young woman discomposed. He wondered what he’d done. She waved him closer. He moved in closer. The older man took a good and careful look at him, looking deep into his eyes, and he said something. It may have been a question. It wasn’t anything Proteus understood. He didn’t know how to respond, so he simply stared back. His eyes must have told the old man everything he needed to know, however, because in a moment something was, to the old man’s apparent satisfaction, settled. He then spoke in English, telling Proteus, “Everything done already.” When Proteus’s eyes narrowed because he still didn’t understand (and even more so now) the old man spoke again and said, “Everything. Already done.” He nodded once then, slowly, to drive home the point.

  Byambaa’s soured look made her seem like a different person. Her face had this quality: that each expression, extreme as they were, could appear as someone entirely new. Now she was this. The displeased girl. Proteus put it down to his incomprehension.

  “What is it?” he asked Byambaa.

  “He says. You have been fixed.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “He says. You are not broken. Anymore.”

  “When?”

  “He says. This has happened. Another time. To you.”

  “But how?”

  “Another time. Before. Don’t make. That face.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with my face.”

  “Come. On.”

  •

  And they stalked the sidewalk now, more slowly, no hurry, and she led him, pulling Proteus closely to her side. She turned back once and waved to her uncle. Proteus looked back and saw the old man wave to her, scowl at him, then disappear into his mushroom stem. “This is good. News? Do you. Think.”

  “I don’t… know. Why?” He felt her side against his side. They walked. He felt light. Knowing that his wallet was gone made him seem weightless. Maybe she was holding him down, fast to the earth.

  “You are fixed. There is. Nothing wrong.”

  “But I don’t feel better.”

  “Nothing wrong. Shaman said.”

  “But… you said I was… broken. I was… missing… pieces.”

  “All fixed. Now. Already. See?” She held up and open her two hands: see?

  “But… no. Why… was the man… inside the mushroom?” He noticed he was limping. He didn’t know how long he’d been limping.

  “He sells. Magazines. He sells. News-papers. Cig-arettes. You did not. Notice?”

  He limped. Weightless. She held him close, side to her side, their bodies in contact. They were two people walking. The crowd opened up before them and spread around, passing in numbers to either side. They gave them room, her, and him. She turned a corner and he with her, and there it was: the stadium. The Wrestling Palace, so called, all domed and in the center of everything, the weighted center: solid, shimmering. It was both more and less real than anything around it.

  “Oh,” he said, and he stopped.

  Byambaa pulled at him. “No.”

  “Why does it do that?”

  “Your eyes.”

  “No,” he said, “you see it too. You said you see it. You did see it…”

  “It does that.”

  “Why?”

  “Now you. Will. Tell-me-the-future.”

  And he was walking again, and she was not needing to pull him. They walked toward the stadium. They fell into stride, her hip to his – that is, at his thigh – their sides touching. They were close. And though there was nothing overtly sexual about it, his erection began to swell. “Oh,” he said at this.

  “The future,” she said, looking up at him. She blinked. Her eyes were wide ovals, wide like the coal-black beads of whiskered, furry sea-creature eyes.

  “Have I seen him before?”

  “My uncle. Is. The Shaman. He maybe. Has. Seen you.”

  “Oh.” A warm thickness at his crotch; not fully hard, neither was it soft. He wanted to touch her. The air was like thick liquid.

  “The future. Now you. Will tell me.” She blinked. “You agreed.”

  He sighed and looked at his shoes. There was no avoiding it now, not any longer. So he told her what he saw. In the future.

  •

  The look on her face, he couldn’t see. He wasn’t watching. He stared forward, toward the city’s horizon, there, toward the dome. Young Byambaa had let go his arm. She disengaged herself, stopped walking, fell behind. He continued, feeling cold now at his side where she’d been. He knew better than to look back. He knew better. And the sound, he wasn’t certain – what could’ve been a sharp intake of breath, a sudden gasp, a sob – it could have been any number of things, maybe not her; things half-heard, half-imagined in the city’s blanket cacophony. But it wasn’t, and he knew it. He’d expected as much.

  He’d known it was a bad idea; he’d told her so.

  No one should know the future. Now he was on his own.

  She might recover. Or she might not. He would never know. Proteus was quite certain that he would never see little Byambaa again.

  The dome loomed. It loomed all the more the closer they’d come. Now it seemed to wobble in air, to wobble and waver. Here/not here. If not here, where? Shimmer. Why? The closer he got to it, the more he felt the pressure, like his head filled with gas, and the less he felt that he was exactly where he was either. So he determined to turn down the next side street and then to double back, back to his squatter’s lair in the sheriff’s abandoned apartment. Only there were no side streets. He found only the main avenue that led directly to the dome. And he should’ve simply turned around right there and walked back the way he’d come, but he couldn’t. He would’ve had to confront the wreckage he’d left behind him, and he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face it. Even if she wasn’t there, if she’d gone away, crawled away to somewhere dark, still, he could not look back. Call him a coward; he was, he knew it. That left one direction only: forward, into the thing. It was getting closer, and getting closer still, as he drew closer to it. As much as he could not turn back, neither could he stop h
imself. Something within him had let go to the pull of it, had no desire to do anything else. Maybe it was the loss of his passport and wallet. Maybe he was drifting away. The lack of documentation left nothing to hold him, no tether. Forward, further, toward the Wrestling Palace – and what sort of name for a place was that? – this would suit him just fine. Closer. He moved closer. He was almost there. It was there/it was not. The left foot, right, and he… He. Proteus. He considered the damage, because yes, there had been damage. And the shimmer. See it. Here/not here. His footsteps took him forward, no matter how he wished or didn’t, or might wish to avoid, the damage, or rushing toward, or from, or in –

  EIGHT

  From the Journals of Sheriff Friendly

  [Early Winter, 2005]

  THE EXPANDING HEAD. IN WHICH THE EXPANDING HEAD. EXPANDS TO POINT OF EXPLODI BURSTI – oh, i.e., that is, I mean – BURSTING (pop!) BURSTO (pop!pop!) BURSTOPEN (ouchmyhead and ohthathurts) and brainstuff falls, skin, hair, face all falls GOODCHRIST allblown, yes that was my – all of it falls, splat, to the floor.

  Ohmydot. Wholehead, comma, dot. Hurts BLOWN dot OPEN dot. Signals from the top, cop, elevation. I’ve stop stepped through. I’m not here, not really real – not without a HEAD – oh, goodsweetchrist and for godsake now BLOWN UP and BROKEOPEN ohthathurts and What Just Happened? HE LIFTS A HAND TO TOUCH HIS FACE AND IT’S NOT THERE SO FINDS NOTHING.

  Now What? Just? goodsweet

  NINE

  Fake City

  [Outside Time]

  Never, I’d said. I’d said it to myself. I wouldn’t know how to use these things, I’d said. I’d told myself this. I wouldn’t even want to touch them. What could be the use of the law, of protection, or of a gun in a place like this? I wouldn’t know what to do with the magic; not me, not here. But still, I had these sacred objects, and I supposed they’d been left here for a reason, if for one I couldn’t understand. The place was a table. The objects were in light. The light was of a silvery sort, and creatures crawled across them: brown, gray, red, the cockroaches, big-skitter, little-scatter. They had a sort of shimmer, the objects did, and with the crawling creatures too, in the light, that made them somehow more of something, though of what I didn’t know. I liked them, I supposed – the fact that they were, and that they were there, even if I didn’t understand them.