Min Min Light

Here's an idea that came to me while depressed at my part-time job. I typed it up to post here, but I don't like how it's turning out. It's too long, for one. I want to compact it. My style is probably too PG, but I like the characters. Most importantly, the original ending was too fairy-tale, so I thought of two more and can't decide on which to keep.

The working title is Indulgence, but there's not a shred of decadence it in. I suppose the genre is slightly surreal comedy, or light-hearted social commentary (?).

---

I gradually realized that I was wide awake in bed and staring at the ceiling. In the brightening light of almost daybreak, I turned to look at the clock on my dresser. 4:28. I was up two minutes before the alarm would sound. Thinking that two extra minutes of sleep weren't worth fighting for, I turned the alarm off and left to take a shower. I would sleep on the train ride.

Once washed and refreshed, I returned to select my work outfit for the day. Today was the twentieth of September, which meant grey pinstriped jacket and skirt. It was there at the front of the closet, ready to go. Once dressed, I opened the blinds of the room to look down at the view of the city awhile. I leaned on the windowsill with glasses in hand, staring through the reflection of a dowdy woman, and at the rows of studios identical to mine. Outside of my window was a billboard of the god Jerome Dover, his fake courtesy smile forever mocking me and my decision to move to the city.

It felt like years since I'd come here. How long had it been now? Why did I move here? Why am I wasting time gazing out the window, I'm going to miss my train.


“You wanted to see me, Jim?” The man in front of me was Jim Skettler, a thin, lanky guy who was always grinning. I called him Slim Jim in my mind. He never complained or frowned, and rarely divulged his personal life. He rather reminded me of a stick figure.

“How's the training going?” He asked. I thought back to the day's prior events. My conclusion was simply that if I heard Jeannie's ‘which button was it again?’ one more time, I would start tearing my hair out. She had just come out of college, and I failed to see how she managed even that. But this is her uncle I'm speaking to.

“Just great.”

“Wonderful. Now, the reason I wanted to talk you is something even better. Did you know that today is the anniversary of your first day here?”

“No.” That long, huh?

“But yes, it is. And you're lucky, because we have a special treat for those who work as hard as you have this last year.” Slim Jim was acting chummy with his arm around my shoulders, trying to prolong the suspense. Meanwhile, he was guiding me to the back of his office with those slick strides of his.

“Do you know what the indulgence system is?”
Well, I'd heard of it...

He read my face. “Apparently not. Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of. I'll break it down for you right now.

“The indulgence system is a common facet in many corporations; e.g., ours. Through hard work and good reputation, employees can build up credit with which they can buy ‘indulgences,’ little peccadilloes that the company allows them to have. And that's the gist of it.”

“I take it this is nothing like a bribe.”

“No cigar, Katie,” (the nickname of choice for those who can't pronounce my name,) “Indulgences are not underhanded at all; they're rather like a game. It's amazing that you haven't noticed how common they are. You know Aaron in tech?”

“The one who's always late?”

“Ever wonder why? Or you know Gene of the Cuban cigars? Or Virginia of the too-short mini-skirt? Or Walter of the afternoon siesta? Marcy-Who's Always-Chewing-Gum?”
I nodded at each of the dropped names. It was odd how I recognized the names of coworkers who certainly didn't remember mine.

“Even I have a couple such indulgences under my belt,” he patted his flat stomach as though swallowing one.

“How much credit do I have then?”

“Well, your reputation could stand improvement. Get out more, socialize, talk to your co-workers.” He slapped me on the back cheerfully. “But your performance is just perfect. Always punctual or early, almost every deadline met, does more than her share of work. You're like the perfect machine, Katie!”

He tossed down on the table a catalog as thick as a phone book.
“The Book of Indulgences. Look through it. Pick one you want. You have thirty thousand credits, Katie. You can buy four level ones, two level twos, a three and a one, or a really annoying four. Or you can save it up for next year and become a true pain in the neck. Enjoy!” Slim Jim made his exit, leaving for wherever it is that stick figures go.

How ridiculous. A book of ‘quirks for sale.’ I could buy myself the right to arrive late, constantly wear baseball caps, or never apologize, but why would I bother? The one thing that caught my eye--and this only because of the sheer inanity of it--was the Indulgence of Exemption from All Work. It would take twenty five thousand times the credit I had, but it intrigued me.

When I tell Slim Jim my decision, no doubt he'll joke about my saving up to become a nuisance.


Echoing out of the lady's restroom was the sound of someone softly crying. My immediate decision was to ignore it, but I recognized the back of my clueless work-in-progress, Jeannie. Crying too easily is an indulgence, I recalled as I passed her on the way in. And her mode of crying should be another indulgence in itself. She sounded like she was hamming it up to call attention to herself.

“Keep that up, and you'll lose your job,” I scolded her while washing hands.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She rubbed her face with her sleeve, smearing her makeup even more. “I know I'm going to lose my job. That's why I'm crying. I know I can't do anything right, I know I'm clumsy and stupid, and I know I'm useless. Why can't I be more like you, Ms. Suzuki?” she bawled.

I reached to comfort her, but on second thought, I didn't want to touch her. No, on third thought, I could at least pat her on the back. I did so.

“Cheer up. To err is human, they say. You're just really, really human.”
She tried to smile despite her tear-streaked face. A sob escaped from her mouth even as she did. I felt sorry for the kid.

“Are you busy tonight? How about we go out for a bite at the Juggling Panda? I'll pay. You can forget all about...” ...Being a hopeless klutz. “...Work. How about it?”

She nodded in reply. “No more crying, okay?” She nodded again, but this time it looked as if she had to stop herself from giving me a running hug. I should hope not.


Jeannie arrived clad in a cat-eared hat, red high-tops, blue jean shorts, and a T-shirt of the god Jerome Dover. The picture of Dover was even the very same one on the rooftop outside my window.

She stood diffidently with her arms behind her back, only showing her hand for a quick wave. “Hello, Ms. Suzuki.” Jeannie only sat down once I did.

It was the same stock photo, though. What were the chances of that? I hated that face so much that I would slug it if it didn't mean punching the poor kid in the stomach.

“I see you like my T-shirt,” she assumed. “Are you also a follower of J.D.? He's going to descend to the Eastwood Mall this Saturday. I'm definitely going to meet him.”

“Actually, I am an atheist,” I declared as the first few dishes were brought in. “I do not follow any gods. It's not as though worshipping them will bring me anything. In fact, I believe that if everyone would simply stop worshipping the gods, they would lost whatever powers they have and revert to normal people like us. Other than the fact that they're worshipped, there's no difference between us and them. That's what I think.”

Jeannie clearly wanted to reply, but had her cheeks stuffed like a winter chipmunk. She chewed and swallowed in a hurry to speak, throwing in the towel about halfway through and talking anyway, “You have some wild ideas, Ms. Suzuki. Do you mean to say that if people suddenly started worshiping you, you'd become a god?”

I decided not to give her any looks. I was supposed to be cheering her up. But stuffing her face like that, talking with food in her mouth; she was an indulgence free-for-all. “Of course I'd need a reason first; I'd need to be the god of something. But other than that, yes. If I had epics written for me and tributes hung about the town and devotees on my tail, even I would be a god.”

“I'll be the first and we'll see if we can make it happen,” Jeannie suggested. She had sauce on her face.
After eating my wallet well into a negative balance, Jeannie asked me, “Hey, Ms. Suzuki? Why are you treating me to dinner?”

“For strategic purposes,” I unfolded my hands to pick up a single wonton with chopsticks. “I believe I am supposed to turn you into another perfect machine, and I need to find the best approach.”

“Oh.” She had her elbows on the table, and her head in her hands “I want to be just like you, Ms. Suzuki.” How old is she, seven?

“Trust me, you don't. Around the office, I am known as a bootlicker.” Truthfully, I heard myself referred to as a bootlicker once, by Virginia of the too-short mini-skirt. It was probably because I called her a hussy. At the time, I thought that it was an understatement.

“Oh, I don't think you're a bootlicker, Ms. Suzuki. But you're kind of boring. I think you should buy a couple indulgences to make yourself interesting.”

“Isn't that abusing the system?”

“No, that's exactly what they're for. You should try it, Ms. Suzuki.”

“I'll think about it.”

That was the last substantial thing I contributed to the conversation. She wanted to vent and I let her vent. I spent most of the time thinking to myself or watching her. I didn't eat as much either. So when I finally saw the bill...

“You should've been born a god,” I told her. “You eat like one. Who else could afford all this?”

She hunched her shoulders and gave a nervous smile.


She was crying the next time I decided to have a talk with her. Slim Jim, of all people, had berating her: “Don't think you can get away with doing nothing, just because your father asked me to take you...” It was none of my business. I staked out the bathroom she always used and waited. Jeannie came into view, holding back tears that were easily inferred from the rest of her expression. Jeannie detected me and tried to straighten herself up before speaking.

With a half-smile, “How are you today, Ms. Suzuki?”

I shrugged. “So-so. And you?”

“I'm fine.” She chose a bad time to sniffle.

“Is that so?”

She couldn't speak, and so nodded.

“Odd. You don't look as chipper as you usually do, Jean.” I tried to examine her face, but she turned away from me each time. “If you asked me, I'd say you were a bit down.”
“You're teasing me, Ms. Suzuki,” she bawled, and hid her head in her hands, hair occluding her expression.

“Okay, I am. Here, this is a token of apology.” I presented her with a surprisingly plain-looking piece of paper.

She accepted it, looked at it; “This is an indulgence!” she exclaimed as though it were stolen. It was an indulgence, the one for constant clumsiness. “I can't accept this!”

“Take it. You know how they work, right? Just show it to anyone who asks. In this case, I think you should pin it to your back. It would take years of credit to gather up all the indulgences you have, but this will get the largest one out of the way.”

She thrust the paper back at me. “No, you should take it. I said to use it on yourself.”

I moved away, trying my best to sound casual. “It's too late now. I have no desire to be clumsy.”

Jeannie persisted in sticking the slip in front of me. “No, you can still have it exchanged, Ms. Suzuki.” I pushed it back, “Keep it you, ditz. Otherwise, you won't last a month.” I tried to muscle past her, but she's actually quite taller than me.

“Ms. Suzuki.”

“Keep it.”

“Ms. Suzuki!”

“Keep it!”

Predictably it wound up on the floor, drenched in something I'd rather not describe. The drying tears on Jeannie’s face returned, running stronger than ever. “I'm sorry, Ms. Suzuki.”


“I'm sorry, Ms. Suzuki.”

“Stop apologizing, Jean,” I repeated.

“But I really am sorry. I don't know how much that cost, but I'll definitely repay it, Ms. Suzuki, I'll try to--” She leaned forwards and her voice grew in volume and emotion.

“Just forget about it.” I commanded her. “I wasn't going to use the credits anyway.” She was pouting at me, so I made an effort to avoid eye contact. The clicking of glasses, the bustle of waiters, couples sitting across from each other at white-clothed tables, the smells of olive oil and fresh pasta... why did I take her out to dinner again? I know very well she eats like a horse.

“I wish I was a god,” Jeannie was musing. “Not only are they rich and beautiful, gods get unlimited indulgences, don't they?”

“That's why they're gods. Except they've got scribes to report on each and every little one. The public just eats it all up.”

“Say, Ms. Suzuki.” With a reflective look quite unlike her, Jeannie turned to face me. “Do you remember when you said that gods were just humans being worshipped? I have my own theory about the gods, but it's completely opposite. I think that the gods are the real humans and we're robots.”

I looked into her eyes. She was serious. I tried not to laugh but it was too late. Snorts and snickers were escaping from my mouth no matter how much I tried to hold them in. Jeannie's expression: the cutest thing ever. Her jaw had dropped slightly and her eyes showed mild offense. I popped a piece of ravioli in my mouth, and had calmed by the time I swallowed.

“Elucidate for me here.”

“It's not that ridiculous!” she felt the need to insist. “It came to me when you said I was ‘really, really human.’ Wanting to cry and making mistakes and those sorts of things are part of having a personality. And gods are even called Personalities. They're also called Names and Somebodies and other things that suggest they're the real humans. All we're doing is working for them, doing the things that are too much trouble for gods to do. Like robots.”

“Gods and humans are generically the same. We both bleed red.”

“How would you know? Did you ever meet one and stab him?”

“Jeannie, do me a favor and please grow up soon.” I called to the waiter, “Check, please.”

“No, wait, I'm not finished.” Jeannie turned her mind to her food and dropped the subject that easily.


I later found out that I couldn't forget it that easily. The concept entered my dreams that night. There were the Masters, who alternated between drinking iced tea on shaded verandahs and whipping their slaves, who included me. The male Masters dressed as Romans and the female Masters dressed as Southern Belles, and I was Egyptian, Indian or Babylonian; I couldn't tell which. The language we had in common, however, was something from Central or East Europe. Not Polish or Russian, it was...

“Czech,” I realized, lying awake in bed. “There's a connection somewhere. Czech, slaves, labor. Czech, slave, labor. Czech, slave labor...

“Robot.” It was four-twenty, so I decided to stay awake.

FollowingShadow

Hey! You just f*cked yourself over! Take that back!

Seriously, plow it out. Throw some words, get it down. If you start liking what you write, or you find you can just keep going, it'll get there.

C'mon, post it. But write it first. =)

Min Min Light

Okay, I brought it back. I still don't know how to end it, though.