Let me preface this by saying that this chapter in particular is very much not set in stone. Cuts may be in order and I am also considering adding a scene where Gregor talks to Tom Basket about quitting, but I still need to work out those details. Other scenes and information may get shuffled around and put in different contexts with different details, etc. Again, this is not set in stone. Just what I have right now.
He woke up to his cat on his chest, its green eyes staring straight into his. He rolled his eyes to the right and found the glass ball. The red orb had changed. Now encased inside were long, drooping petals of a red flower, the same color the orb had been, their ends touching and pointing in a single direction. He picked it up and found it warm to the touch. He also discovered that no matter how he handled it — rolling it over and over in his hands, shaking it, tossing it gently onto the bed — the flower inside did not move; the petals remained fixed in their direction.
They pointed north.
When it was time, he took this ball with him on his walk to work, along with Macata and Buzby, the latter chirping a cheerful tune. The ball continued to lead him in the exact direction of Tom Basket’s Hardware Emporium. When he passed through the entranceway the flower swirled back into the red yolk. And when it was time to go home, it pointed him back. He did not know what to make of this.
The next morning he passed by Daniel Clayton Clooney. Gregor nodded in greeting to the detective.
Except the detective didn’t recognize him.
“Who are you?” Clooney replied to the nod.
Gregor had nothing to answer him with.
He lived a simple but tiring life. After a time he started to learn and remember names.
“Hello, Mrs. Nebeker. How are you doing today?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Looks like we got some tape,” — BEEP — “some scissors,” — BEEP — “a couple of cleaning solutions,” — BEEP, BEEP — “and a bulb.” BEEP. “That’ll be all today?”
“Yes sir, it surely will.”
“There you go, and have a nice day.”
“Thanks, you too.”
“And here, looks like some sweet-smelling flowers for Mr. Williams’s garden. How are you today, Mr. Williams?”
“Fine, thanks.”
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
“That’ll be all?”
“Yep.”
“There you go, and have a nice afternoon.”
“Take it easy.”
“Will do, thanks. Just the two buckets of paint today, ma’am?”
“Yes...”
“Long day?”
“Oh yes. The final errand of the evening.”
BEEP. BEEP.
“Well there you go, and have a good one. Get some rest. Mr. Willer, a magdrill this late at night?” BEEP, ka-thunk. The sound of security deactivation. “Have a good night, sir.”
“Good night.”
He scanned hammers, he scanned wrenches, he scanned saws — bricks, wood, concrete, nails, screws, dowels, more hammers, more wrenches, more saws, drills, screwdrivers...
Days passed. Weeks passed. Maybe months. The days became indistinguishable. After a time he could not remember how long it had been since he had first awoken. The futility of his life wearied him, nagged him. He was alone in a cold and dreary world.
And nowhere did he feel worse than in the very midst of his peers.
Tom Basket called for a store meeting one day. Everyone had to attend. It took place right after the store closed. Gregor sat in the middle of the group, pen and notebook in hand. They were his only friends here.
“Guys, I want to congratulate you all. This past quarter we’ve achieved 150% of our sales goal. Totally unexpected, out of the blue. You’ve really done something monumental. You gave excellent customer service . And as a reward — ”
“Are we all getting raises?” someone called out. Everybody laughed.
“No, no — ” Tom chuckled.
“Then some kind of party cookout?” said another. The same response.
“No, not exactly, although I suppose that’s not out of the question. No raises right now, no free food, but you’re all getting bonuses. When you help me, I help you. I just want to be clear on that. I appreciate all the work you do, and I know the customers do too. Customers first, remember. Keep them happy, keep them coming back. In these last few months, you have. Let’s keep doing it. Thank you. Thank all of you.”
And then Tom Basket proceeded to hand out awards for “jobs well done.” Gregor watched as the workers whooped and clapped for each winner, calling out jokes and making each other laugh. Gregor alone did not laugh, neither did he smile.
And so he vented his feelings onto his notebook.
I am a stranger here. I do not belong. I’ve known this from the first day, and the feeling has never changed. I am a stranger. I do not belong. I do not belong. I do not belong.
This mantra repeated through his head just like the Sentence. But unlike the Sentence, every iteration signaled pain rather than hope. And in this context the Sentence mocked him, bit at him, tore at him, for its distance, its vagueness, its obscurity.
Then he asked himself a question.
Do I want to belong?
He found the answer more complex than he thought originally.
I do want to belong. I want to have what they have. I want to have friends. I want to be recognized for the work I do and be respected by my peers. But I feel so removed from this world. I really don’t belong. And as much as I want to be a part of them, I know I want something different. Not higher or better or superior, just different.
That was how he retained some semblance of humility. By calling what he wanted “different.”
I’m like an outcast, but worse: someone nobody knows or notices. Not an outcast but a nothing. A zero. I want to get out. I want to leave. I want to be someone higher and do something better. Something that matters. Something that’s important.
This is a job. It gets me money. Money so I can buy food and other things. Things that keep me alive. Alive so I can continue working as a cashier. So I continue to get more money.
And now these people are getting so excited and worked up about something that has no, absolutely no significance. All these awards mean nothing. I suppose that’s their choice, to value this work, and they have the right to be contented about it.
I’m not contented by it. But I wish I got one anyway.
He went home that night and would have cried himself to sleep if he knew how to cry. But his pets, truly his only companions, gave him sufficient comfort. Macata the cat and Buzby the bird provided the only true emotional connection he had. While not always in his immediate vicinity (cats being curious folk, and birds liable to explore the sky), they always came back, and joined him in his daily journeys to and from town. They slept when he slept, and awoke when he awoke. They played together, as best a cat and bird can. Macata would try to catch Buzby with a surprise pounce, and Buzby had a great time pretending to be unaware until the last possible moment, only to flutter away, just out of reach.
And always, every single night, he would examine and explore the strange window. Touching it gave him just the slightest inkling of peace, and it reminded him that there was indeed something different about him, something that set him apart. The lines of shadow, on the other hand, gave him a sick, almost fearful feeling whenever he saw them. And so he avoided that sight as much as possible. He much preferred the window and the glass ball, even if it were the latter that kept him going back to Tom Basket’s day after day.
I don’t know why I keep following it. I don’t know what it is, or why it changes directions, but every time I follow it I get a tiny inkling of peace, really tiny, infinitesimal. But it’s there. I take it as a confirmation that this is right. And that’s the reason I haven’t gone anywhere else. It tells me to stay here, to keep going to work, and to keep going home again.
It pointed me in a different direction today, though. This morning I woke up late, or so I thought, and ran all the way to work to be on time. This I did on instinct, without thinking at all. If I had thought about it I would have either realized I wasn’t scheduled that day, or I would have wondered why I would be running to go to a place where I feel so dead and empty.
When I found out it was my day off, I didn’t know what to do. So I brought out the ball, and it pointed up north. I followed it to the waterfront beaches. On an impulse I went for a swim, something I could not ever remember doing. It was a new experience for me, but I found it soothing and even therapeutic. I think I’ll do it more often. And I’ll keep on following where this ball tells me to go.
The work remained ordinary, faceless, nameless. It trapped in the small talk he was required to give. He greeted the people with pleasantries, and waved them off with valedictions, always the same, never varying in structure or tone. It wasn’t long before he was burned out. He considered quitting, but he knew next to nothing of the outside world, and didn’t know where he could find anything more.
He was never met with any awkward situations regarding his memory. Conversations at Tom Basket’s were never very deep, nor very personal, and he got along with an instinctually quiet, almost shy demeanor as he absorbed everything he heard said. This must have been how his former self behaved, because nobody ever asked any questions.
One time he overheard a conversation about amnesia, and speculation about what it would be like. A co-worker said it would have been “a waste of the first thirty years of my life. I would have lived all that time for nothin’.” His fellow said jokingly, “Would there be a difference? You still ended up here.”
The listeners laughed, but Gregor was unnerved, for he was thinking almost the exact same thing, but not jokingly at all. Then he chided himself, berated himself, because those people had real relationships, families and friends, people in their lives that made it all worthwhile, and he didn’t, and that, that was the key. Or at least an essential part of it.
I’ve seen families come into the store. What they have makes me envious. There is something in that image that speaks to me, calls to me, makes me want to be a part. Today I saw two young people, a father and mother, a little older than I figure I must be, holding hands, with a little boy running around, and a little girl looking around at the world with large, innocent eyes. I want to have that someday. I want connection. I want family. I want love.
He found it interesting how most of the conversations he heard, and even those he initiated with the customers, began with such supposedly caring words, and yet no true feelings ever emerged, no confidence was ever kept, nothing new was ever discovered.
“Hey man, how’s it going?”
“Good. You?”
“I’m good.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothin’, nothin’.”
“How are you doing today?”
“I’m fine, thanks. And you?”
“Doin’ well, doin’ well.”
“Today going okay?”
“It is what it is, man. It is what it is.”
“Cool. Catch you later.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much, what’s up with you?”
“Just work.”
“I know what you mean. What’s your shift?”
I learned Tom Basket’s real name today. It was only about ten years ago that he changed it. He was in a garden shop and saw the words “Tomato Basket” on a label, but the first word was shortened to just “Tom.” That was his real first name shortened, so he decided right then and there to make that his name if ever he started over, career-wise. His full name is “Tomalion Nisonechte Maceta.” He said he doesn’t use it because “Tom Basket” is so much more catchy and casual, and it speaks more to the common folk. It just simplifies everything.
Gregor would remember this bit of trivia for a long time to come. A unique name exchanged for a common one. Heritage for mediocrity. Splendor for insignificance. Majesty for mundanity.
He waited. He waited on the shift, he waited off the shift. He waited at his station, for customers to pass through. He waited in the break room until it was time to return to the front.
The breaks weren’t valuable in and of themselves. Nothing productive was ever accomplished during them. A little bit of a rest, sure, from standing for hours on end. All they did was serve as an end to look forward to, a small, miniaturized end that led him through the rest of the day.
That’s all he really lived for. An end, somewhere, to all of this.
Death?
“Hey, Gregor. Someone was looking for you yesterday. Did he ever find you?”
Gregor, in the break room, looked up from his notebook, where he was about to touch pen to paper. “Someone was looking for me?”
“Yeah. I guess he hasn’t caught you yet.”
The high, nasal voice belonged to Zissner, the decorated cashier.
“No, no one found me...” Gregor said, trailing off. His eyes flicked back and forth, focusing on nothing, while his thoughts raced to and fro, no finish line in sight. Then his gaze once more fell on his co-worker. “Do you know who it was?”
“The guy who came in here? No, never seen him before. If he was from Middleton I would know him. Wore a green cloak and he had an eyepatch. I’ve never seen a guy with an eyepatch before. And I’ve been in this town my whole life.”
To Gregor Townsend this information was like an electric current suddenly coursing through him. His visage brightened, but his mind lost focus on his immediate surroundings and responsibilities. They seemed, somehow, to matter less than they did before.
-----------------
As regarding his job, that day ended successfully: nothing different happened; he kept the status quo; he fulfilled his primary role as cashier. And again he left work disappointed, but this time a little more than usual.
The next day he made a point of people watching, observing everyone he passed in town as he walked to work, and everyone who went through either his line or his co-worker’s. He even went and asked Tom if he knew anyone with an eyepatch, anyone who might be looking for him. Tom merely shook his head and looked back down at his clipboard. Gregor sighed, and went back to the front.
On his way there he fell in step with an embarrassed couple dragging a screaming child out of the store. The scene struck him, and immediately upon reaching his checkout station he withdrew his notebook and sketched some thoughts.
I don’t know what the kid was screaming about. Probably something trivial. Something that didn’t actually matter very much. But to him, it was everything. He was screaming his head off. That’s a sign of real pain. He couldn’t have what he wanted, what he felt he needed. So it really must have been a kind of torture for him. He doesn’t know better. But — his parents know he’ll be perfectly fine without it. They know he’ll get over it. They know he’ll forget about it. They know the pain will pass. Perhaps even within a few minutes afterward. And in the long run he’ll be better off for it. It won’t matter anymore and he’ll have learned discipline, and he’ll have learned patience.
He wasn’t quite sure why it hit him as it did, but the parallels gradually began to come into focus...
But before his thoughts could get anywhere substantial, a woman came up and placed a few things on his desk. He didn’t even bother to raise his eyes to meet hers. Just started adding everything up. A few potted plants, flowers, shrubs. “That’ll be...” some price or other.
“Thank you,” she said. "The flowers smell so nice, don't they?"
Gregor could hear the smile in her voice. He looked up into sad but twinkling pale blue eyes and a world-weary face. Her long blond hair was turning gray and she had the appearance of having aged rather quickly.
The past several months and his own story had taught Gregor that it was futile to identify anybody with a simple adjective. Very few can be realistically judged solely on their outward demeanor. The words of the Middleton philosophers floated in the air around him, words from his roundabout with Daniel Clayton Clooney, words about perceivers, how everybody lives in their own universe, their own world filled with totally unique experiences and associations and pains and paradigms and talents and failures and needs and wants and histories....
The woman’s smile widened as she focused on Macata, who came trotting up to her out of nowhere.
“I’ve heard of you two before,” she said in a ghost of a voice, weak like a whisper. She knelt down to pat Macata on the head and scratch behind his ears. “This is Macata. And you are his Gregor.”
Gregor glanced around; no one else stood in his line. “Um, yeah, yes,” he said.
“Albus told me about you.” Her fingers moved under the cat’s chin. “Said a few people wondered if Macata was one of mine. But this animal did not come from me.”
A name flashed in his mental vision. “You’re Caroline?” he asked.
She looked up at him. “I am. And this is MacGregor.” She nodded at the cat.
“I’m sorry?”
“Since he is Macata and you are his Gregor, his full name is Macata Gregor. But he would like to be called MacGregor. He feels very attached to you.”
MacGregor. Hearing the name made another piece of the puzzle connect. It felt right. It felt authentic. He didn’t protest.
“MacGregor.”
“Yes,” she nodded, and at once Gregor could see pain behind that weary smile, behind those twinkling eyes.
“Thank you,” he said. “I, uh, hope those flowers work out.”
“I’m sure they will nicely. If not, I’ll be back!”
“Have a good afternoon.”
She left. Gregor’s fellow cashier came up to him.
“What did Caroline have to say?” he asked.
“Just stuff about my cat. Who is she?”
“You don’t know who Caroline Sanderplumb is?”
“Come on, I just forgot.”
“I guess you haven’t been around here forever.”
Gregor caught himself before saying I haven’t? “So who is she?”
“She’s the cat lady. Lives up more towards the woods, northwest. Takes care of her son alone. He’s been sick for a long time. Husband died in that war in Ganothra six or seven years ago, or something like that. Technically he just went missing, but who goes missing for seven years when the last place anyone saw him was in battle?”
Battle. A war. Ganothra. All new to Gregor.
“How do you know all this?”
“Common knowledge. She’s kind of famous in this town. It’s about time you’ve seen her. Comes into the store sometimes. I’ll point her out to you next time she comes in.”
“No, I don’t think I’ll forget her anytime soon. But, uh, thanks.”
The co-worker shrugged and went to help a customer. Gregor turned back to his own station. Thoughts barely began to swirl when another voice called out behind him, this one clear and masculine.
“You are Gregor Townsend?”
Gregor’s head turned upwards so fast he nearly hurt his neck. A man wearing a green cloak and an eyepatch stood before him, matching the co-worker’s description perfectly.
What his co-worker hadn’t communicated, however, was simply how cheerful this man looked. An odd thing to notice in such a situation as this, yes, but he radiated warmth with every facial expression he made. His kind features, though adorned with an eyepatch on his right eye, were made up in curves incredibly easy on the eyes. His bright, remaining left eye and open, impish grin exuded so much happiness that it spread onto Gregor like sunlight. From the briefest glance you would think of this fellow as a man who could retain a positive outlook on life no matter what sorrow or darkness happened to afflict him.
“Yes, I am Gregor Townsend,” Gregor said slowly, his heart in his throat. “And you are...?”
The man ignored Gregor and stepped to the side. He pressed his finger to something small and red near his ear and said words that made Gregor’s heart beat faster than it ever had before:
“The white-haired one is in Middleton. He works at Tom Basket’s Hardware Emporium.”
Then he turned back to Gregor.
“Thank you,” he said through a grin, and with a bow of politeness he walked away, out of the store, his green cloak swishing behind every step.
Gregor stared dumbly after him, completely bewildered. It had happened so fast! And now there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing except to run after him. But his hopes for greater knowledge had already disappeared along with the man into the bustling crowd.
Back to waiting. Back to stagnating.
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