Arthur stared into his reflection in his cup of coffee and tried not to look at the huge gelatinous blob behind the counter.
He was sitting at the bar in a diner with a nineteen-fifties feel to it. The floor alternated black and white squares like a chessboard. A shiny blue jukebox sat along the side wall. The walls and corners were filled with paraphernalia for some beverage called Clock: metal posters, old calendars; a giant bottle with the logo emblazoned on it (an orange clock-face) sat in the corner. The only other patrons had granite-hued faces, square jaws, and Cro-Magnon brows. They wore white coveralls stained with some kind of slick that, instead of black, shined vibrantly in all the colors of the rainbow. The rock-people stood like pillars around the diner, drinking Clock and watching some unfamiliar sport on a flatscreen floating lazily in the air. Glasses floated in formation behind the counter, attached to nothing and immobile. The huge blob wore a dirty white chef’s uniform and was cleaning glasses with several pseudopodia.
Arthur was an accountant from Chicago, Illinois, USA, in the twenty-first century, AD, and he had no idea how he had gotten here. He worked for the accountancy firm Edgars, Eggers, and Edwards, and had recently been driving to an appointment to be held at the office of the firm’s newest client, a Mr. Maxwell. The appointment was at five, and on the way Arthur had gotten stuck in rush hour. Desperate not to be late, he pulled over and attempted to cover the last couple of blocks on foot. Whether he made it or not he did not know; the next thing he could remember was stepping out of a green tube that went far down past the floor and up into the sky, and finding himself on a sidewalk several thousand feet in the air.
He was staring at a vast, dizzying cityscape, comprised of untold levels of colossal curved metallic buildings. Cars suspended on cables or flying through the air swooped and whizzed across canyons that fell into darkness, the height of the buildings finally blocking out the light of the sun. Multiple levels of enormous terraces with shops and walkways lined the buildings’ exteriors. Huge billboards and floating video screens displayed products Arthur didn’t recognize; bright flashing colors hung in the air like radiation, an afterglow that bounced off stained glass, plastic, and mirrored surfaces of multiple hues. Venders called out products; newsstands and restaurants were mixing olfactory emissions of decomposition and steamed comestibles. City-noise and music formed abstract avant-garde soundscapes that fought against the wind-tunnel vacuum echoing up the chasms. The wind was pushing forcibly against his body. Arthur began to feel confused and frightened. He had lived in Chicago all his life, but this was a little too much to take.
He started to notice the people. His eyes fell randomly from one pedestrian to the next, constantly being drawn to the next by some bizarre new feature. One person was dressed in what vaguely resembled punk fashion, with a Mohawk that didn’t seem to be a Mohawk at all, but a red shark’s fin sprouting from his skull. Another wore a business suit not unlike Arthur’s, but instead of Arthur’s drab brown patterning, the suit was neon purple. Another seemed to have a skin disease resembling the surface of a microchip. One had eyes of an opaque solid color, another mechanical arms, another wires growing from her back. Arthur saw a pair of dogs walk by holding a conversation in what sounded like German; a six foot humanoid dog creature stared at them and grimaced. A small dinosaur scampered by. One eight foot tall creature had no eyes, nines fingers and black shiny skin. It wore no clothes, and walked with an unnatural grace—as if gravity were a source of minor annoyance.
As Arthur watched these and other strange people walk by, he started to drift into a state of shock. His mind going blank, his eyes fell upon a figure that stood under a lamppost growing unbidden from the edge of the ledge. The figure wore a loose-fitting yellow suit with red and off-white pin-stripes, a white boater hat with suit-matching ribbon, and alligator shoes. Tall and solidly built in a masculine fashion, the figure stood stock still in stark juxtaposition to the flurry of motion behind it, staring out over the canyon before it, it hands held behind it, its head moving slowly back and forth across the panorama with the precision of a metronome. It was a sight that was, if not completely familiar, at least relatively mundane.
The figure turned and, across the stream of bodies between them, looked directly at Arthur. The face was a shiny metallic egg-shape, with only the faintest hints of nose and cheekbones. Instead of a mouth there was a long rectangular speaker, protected by a sturdy metal grill. Instead of eyes there was a pair of deep-set clock-faces, illuminated from behind by a dim blue light. As if to mimic human puzzlement, the robot tilted its head slightly to the side.
With the sudden realization that he was being watched, and embarrassed that he himself had been caught watching, Arthur quickly looked away, then wandered off into the crowd.
Arthur was not aware of how long he wandered, but eventually he came to the diner, which was the first thing that looked even vaguely familiar. Above the front window, which was the size of the entire establishment, was a red canopy with the words Joe’s Diner written in white. Whatever part of his brain was still working at that point ordered a coffee, and it wasn’t until afterwards that he noticed he was being served by a huge gelatinous blob.
While sitting there staring into his coffee, his brain started to calm down, his initial shock at his situation started to subside, and he started trying to think through just what kind of situation he had gotten into.
He decided to take things slow.
Okay, he had coffee, or at least he thought it was coffee. It looked like coffee. So wherever he was, he was in a place that had coffee. And he had ordered coffee, which meant that they understood what he said—the huge gelatinous blob understood what he said—so people spoke English around here. Things spoke English around here. Other than that he couldn’t really think of anything he could definitely say about wherever he was.
He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers over his hair, which he felt sure was thinning. He looked at the wall beside the bar, which was a mirror that ran all the way to the ceiling. His suit looked worn and sweat-stained. Well, he had run to Mr. Maxwell’s building, hadn’t he? No, his suit was too worn for it to be just that. It looked like he had been living in it for months.
He checked his watch. The date function had stopped working but the time read 10:51. He checked the clock on the wall of the diner, which also read 10:51. Perhaps only eighteen hours had past? Or maybe eighteen plus some unknown multiple of twelve? Maybe not. Maybe his watch had just somehow matched up with the time where he was, skipping ahead or backwards or something. He couldn’t think of why that would happen. Still, maybe he couldn’t trust his watch.
How long had he been gone?
Where was he?
“No, no. Take it simple,” he thought. He looked around for his briefcase. He knew he had had his briefcase. He remembered clutching it against his chest as he ran. But it was nowhere in sight. Maybe he left it behind in the green tube. Now that was depressing; there went all the papers for—
His appointment with Mr. Maxwell.
He grimaced. He had never missed an appointment before, and had prided himself on being punctual. So much for that.
But maybe that was the least of his problems. What if he never got back? What if he stayed lost wherever he was? What if he died here?
“No, no. Focus, Arthur,” he told himself. “You’re used to dealing with this kind of thing. You can deal with this. You’ve been through therapy. Just, just concentrate on the little things.”
He checked for his wallet. Still in his side pocket, where he always kept it. There was his driver’s license, his picture of mom and Gwen, the picture of father, credit and debit cards, about sixty dollars cash …
Then it hit him. The weird people, the aliens, the futuristic buildings …. Wherever he was , or whenever he was, there was very little chance that they would accept his currency.
He had no way to pay for his coffee.
“Ya want anythin’ else?”
The huge gelatinous blob was staring down at Arthur, who stared back up with an ashen, quivering expression.
“No,” said Arthur, tersely, feeling ill. “No thanks, I’m fine.”
“Ya sure? Ya don’t want pie or anythin’?”
“No! No, I’m fine. Just the coffee, thanks.”
“Well, if that’s all then, yer bill is thirty credits.”
“Uh, ok.” Arthur stared at the mirror again. Maybe if he didn’t look at the blob, it would go away.
“Would ya like ta pay now?”
“No.” Arthur started to sweat.
“Ya sure? I can just ring up the transaction if ya produce yer credits card.”
Credits card? Not credit card, but credits? Maybe it was just a colloquialism, but Arthur felt sure he was in very big trouble. “No, no thanks, I’ll pay later. When I’m ready to go.”
“Well, if yer only gettin’ the coffee, why not pay now? That way, ya can just leave when yer ready. No hassle. I can take care of it while yer drinkin’ yer coffee.”
“No, no that’s all right. I’ll just pay when I leave.”
“But if ya pay now, ya can leave whenever ya feel like. And ya can sit there as long as ya feel like. No rush.”
“Well I don’t want to inconvenience you right now…”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m not doing anythin’ right now. In fact, I might be busy whenever ya want ta go, so …”
Arthur stared at the countertop. His hand tensed around his mouth, and his cheeks ballooned. He wondered how exactly they dealt punishment in this place. Did they cut off your hands? Lock you in jail? Maybe the blob would just make him wash dishes. Why, oh why, did he have to come in here and ask for coffee? He could have just kept walking.
He felt the huge gelatinous blob’s hoards of eyes stare down at him, its head draw closer. “Ya are planning on payin’, aren’t ya?” it asked, a edge creeping into its voice.
A bell rang behind Arthur.
“Oh, quiblaatz,” muttered the huge gelatinous blob.
Arthur turned around and saw what looked, at first glance, like a giant gray moth walk through the door. An anxious murmur rippled through the rock-people.
Arthur looked again. It appeared to be a man, tall and athletically built, wearing some type of suit made of thick gray material with the texture of felt—except stiff, like armor. It wore a helmet with large opaque eye-coverings reminiscent of a fly, or a fencing mask. Where a mouth presumably would be were three vertical slits, the middle one slightly longer than the exterior two, all three between one and two inches. On its back was what could only be a rocket pack, which was positioned between a formidable pair of large mechanical wings which, though taking up as much space as they were, appeared to be folded up. It walked up to the bar and sat down next to Arthur.
“Hey Joe, how is it going?” asked the moth-man, with voluminous warmth and cheer.
“Listen, I thought I told ya ta stop comin’ here,” said the huge gelatinous blob. (The blob was Joe?)
“Really?” The moth-man leaned back in surprise, then shrugged. “Must have slipped my mind. May I have the usual?”
“No, ya can’t have the quibblin’ usual. Yer a menace ta society and, and wanted by the Clockmen. I’m not servin’ ya, just like I told ya last time. Now, zoom off!” The huge gelatinous blob was quivering.
“Menace to society?” The moth-man sounded confused, but no less cheerful. “Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
“I doubt very much that everyone says much of anything. They disagree too much.”
“Oh, crips what everyone says. It’s still a fact that yer a menace.”
“On what evidence?” The moth-man sound hurt.
The blob seemed astonished by the question. “Ya destroy everythin’ ya come in contact with!” it spurted.
“This place is still around,” said the moth-man casually.
The blob paused. “Is that a threat?”
“No, an observation. I’ve come in contact with this place before and it’s not destroyed, therefore I do not destroy everything that I come in contact with. May I have my usual?”
The huge gelatinous blob—Joe—looked flummoxed. Several of the rock-people had quietly slipped out of the bar.
“Can I just have my usual? You know I’ll pay.”
“Look, I can’t serve ya. Yer a terrorist.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes, ya are!”
“I never try to terrorize anyone. It’s not one of my goals. I am trying to set people free from the totalitarian forces controlling their lives and choices.”
“Well, it’s still a fact that ya terrify people.”
“That’s not my fault. I make no attempt to control anybody’s mind but my own.”
Joe sighed.
“Look at it this way, I will be out of your hair sooner if you just serve me.”
“I can’t serve ya, yer a terrorist!”
“Fine. Serve me my usual or I blow this place up. See? Now you are serving me under duress. You are now longer responsible for your actions.” The moth-man said this with no more malice than he had placed in his initial greeting.
Joe sighed. “Fine.” He turned around and started fiddling around with utensils and levers.
Arthur stared quietly into his coffee, not moving. He didn’t want to attract any attention from a terrorist. The moth-man sat with his chin resting on his hand. Arthur started to sweat again.
“My my my,” said the moth-man, “it’s so hard to obtain sensible service in these parts.” He was looking right at Arthur.
“W-what?” said Arthur.
“I said, it’s so hard to obtain sensible service it these parts.”
“Uh, yes, I suppose so,” replied Arthur, shaking.
“It seems sometimes as if we have all gone mad, lost all sense of perspective,” said the jolly moth-man. “And thus, afflicted by our delusional perceptions of the dimensions of reality, are rendered incapable, or are made unwilling, of giving aid to our fellow creatures.”
“Uh, yes,” said Arthur, still hesitant. “I suppose so.”
“Ah! A kindred spirit!” cried the moth-man. He offered Arthur his hand to shake. Arthur, not seeing any way out of it, returned the gesture. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said the moth-man, shaking vigorously. “My name is Dadalus, by the way.”
“Daedalus?” asked Arthur, waiting for the shaking to stop and thinking only about his crushed hand.
“Oh, no-no,” said the moth-man, stopping immediately. Da-da-lus. I am dactylic, you see, not amphibrachic.”
“What?”
“Nevermind.” Dadalus waved his hand, as if shooing off a pesky bug. “Enough about feet. And your name is?”
“Uh, Arthur.”
“Just Arthur?”
“Uh, no. Arthur Walpole.”
“Ah, I knew it! Most people have more than one name. Mind you, nothing wrong with singular names of course. It is just that people usually have an honorific, or a patronymic, or a professional title, or some vestigial remnant of one of the above, that they tag onto their given name. Sometimes they have additional ones they often leave out of conversations. Any interior names Arthur Walpole? Or just a pair of bookends?”
“Uh, well, I have a middle name. Luther.”
“Oh, excellent! Very appropriate! I myself have at the moment no additional names per se, but I have developed a tendency towards picking up titles. I am most often called Dadalus, the Pteranarchist.”
“Ah,” squeaked Arthur, nodding to himself. He stared down at his coffee. What had he gotten himself into? He looked back up. Dadalus was still looking at him, his head resting on his fist. “Look, can I help you with something?”
Dadalus started. “What?”
“Uh, can I help you with something?”
“Hmm, what an interesting question.” He stared directly at Arthur. Into Arthur’s eyes, maybe, but Arthur couldn’t really tell. “You know, I don’t think I have been asked that in a very, very long time. ‘Can I help you?’” He looked off in wonder.
Why had he said that? Why was he talking to this, this thing? Was it just politeness?
Terror. It was terror. He didn’t want to be destroyed.
Best to be polite.
“Well,” said Arthur. “It’s just, you know, you were staring at me, and it seems, that is, I mean, you had trouble getting served and, well, I don’t know what exactly I could actually do, but I thought it appropriate to…” Dadalus was now staring directly at Arthur again. “…ask?”
Dadalus put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said.
“You do?”
“Of course.” Dadalus solemnly raised a finger. “For you see, Arthur Walpole your question is a perfect encapsulation of the state of Anarchy.”
“What?” Arthur was not expecting this at all. “It is? How?”
“Well, you see, Arthur Walpole,” began the winged creature, settling into his seat, “when we are faced with the stark reality that we are lost, hopelessly lost, in an ocean of chaos, in a winding twisting labyrinth of experience, and we feel so turned and twisted and tossed that we have no idea where we are or where we are going, we occasionally, briefly, come upon that startling realization that all those we see, that seem like the crashing waves and the hard, high walls, are just as lost as we are. In the same predicament. And like the rays of the sun, the realization hits us that we are all one. Our suffering is theirs, and we are all in this together. And when this inspiration is followed down its pathway, we arrive at the center of all things: the beatific state of Anarchy.”
At this point Joe the huge gelatinous blob, glaring angrily at Dadalus, came by with a coffee and pie.
. “Thank you!” said Dadalus cheerfully.
“Curl ya thank yous,” said Joe the blob, and turned toward Arthur. “Don’t listen ta a word he says, ya hear? He’s a terrorist.”
Dadalus sighed. “We’ve been over this already. And some of your other patrons need help at the other end of the bar. Shoo.”
Joe slid to the opposite end of the bar grumbling. Dadalus turned back towards Arthur, bouncing slightly, and continued.
“You see Arthur, Anarchy is not a state of Chaos, as it is commonly misrepresented. It is a state without rulers. For when we all realize we are one, the need to place one being above another disappears. The real state of Chaos is this.” Dadalus waved a handed outward, toward the diner window and the vista beyond. “When people submit to rulers, they submit to Chaos, for they are deciding that they need control to be kind. Rulers are not order; rulers are control. In Anarchy, one decides not to submit to Chaos, but to be oneself. In such a state, rulers become unnecessary. You see?
Arthur shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Dadalus shrugged. “That’s ok. I’m certain it will make sense eventually. I’m fine.”
“What?”
“You asked me earlier if I need anything. I never got around to answering until now. And I am fine. Thank you for asking.”
Arthur nodded. “Oh.”
“And how are you?” Dadalus leaned forward.
“Me?” asked Arthur sheepishly.
Dadalus nodded solemnly. “Yes. You asked me if I needed help. It is only sensible that I ask you the same.”
A flickering hope appeared in Arthur that this could be a way out of his predicament. Perhaps he would be ok! But … he really couldn’t see himself getting mixed up with a terrorist or an Anarchist or something, so.… “Uh, well, I really don’t want to trouble you for anything….”
“Nonsense!” said Dadalus waving a hand in the air. “Let me pay for your coffee.”
The hope flickered bright again, then went dim. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.…”
Dadalus threw a couple of orange coins on the bar that he seemed to draw by sleight of hand. “Oh no, I insist.…”
Suddenly, a commotion could be heard from outside. The sounds of running and low metallic voices were coming closer, the voices speaking loudly but indistinctly to people as they approached. Dadalus looked up, leaned back and stared out the window.
“Oop,” He said. “Looks like I have to be going. It was fun chatting, Arthur Luther Walpole. Pity we couldn’t continue this conversation, but then, existence is fleeting and transitory, isn’t it?” He threw some more orange coins on the bar. “Keep the change, Joe! Arthur, you are welcome to my coffee and aval pie.” Then, turning and looking straight at Arthur, he said “Be seeing you.”
Dadalus jumped up and ran through the window. Glass flew everywhere. He ran towards the edge of the terrace and, his wings expanding, jumped off without a moment’s hesitation, diving down into the vortex of billboards and street lights below.
“Jesus, he just broke all that glass!” cried Arthur. He turned to Joe, momentarily forgetting that Joe was a huge gelatinous blob. “He just broke all that glass!”
“Yeah, he does that a lot,” said Joe, sighing glumly. “Don’t worry, the glass will reform in a bit.”
Arthur turned back. As he watched, the shattered fragments floated up into the air from the light blue pavement. With patient precision, they each retraced the path of their descent and took their original positions in the windowpane. Silently, the fissures disappeared. It was like watching a film played backwards in real space.
“Oh,” said Arthur. “Neat.”
He turned back towards Joe, who was absorbing the orange coins into his protoplasm.
“Well, glad that’s over with,” said Joe. “Ya want anythin’ else?”
“Uh, no. No thanks.”
“Awight, well, take yer time.” And the huge gelatinous blob slid away.
“Well, that certainly was odd,” thought Arthur. He stared down at the counter, where sat two coffees and a slice of pie. Carefully, he took a sip from one the coffees. It tasted exactly like coffee. He tried the pie, which, despite being a bluish grey paste upon a yellow crust, tasted uncannily like it was made with fresh apples. Feeling better, he ate the rest of the pie, gulping it down in huge mouthfuls, and drank both of the coffees in quick succession. On the wall, the clock hands changed from 10:59 to 11:00. The clock face lighted up a dim shade of blue.
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