The Wheel and the Wing [12-17]
[my last days of fun]
12*
That morning, Mitka found her arguing with
a man, begging to be let in. Where had Mitka
heard that voice before? He peered doorward
where they bickered, but Desde’s wings were
so broad that she blocked the two, like a river
between two continents. He saw nothing but
the man’s shoes, too fancy to be jamming doors,
tippy-toeing in a failed attempt to overlook her.
As Desde shielded Mitka, he wondered
whether it was he who got between her visitor
and her. Was her face more vehement than
her back that Mitka got? Only when
she turned her head did the men both get
her profile, each on different sides. Once
She saw Mitka was up, she shoo’d the man
off––she’d only given him until that time.
The man turns away, then enters back
into the ken of feeds, his pate as hollow as
a crown. The door closes just in time
to catch her as she falls on it, sliding down
and curling up, tight as she can without
the arms to wrap around her knees (yet even if
she had the hands to, who could say
she wouldn’t have slid her fingers under
the door, where dawn was shining through?)
Mitka later asked at noon––[M]: Wasn’t that
the mayor? [D]: I’m surprised it took you
that long. Are you not familiar with him?
[M]: Only surprised you knew him in that way. Did
you know him before his fame? [D]: He knew me
before I was Desde. He was just Denis, then.
Once or twice, we––[M]: What else could burn
a bridge so sturdy, but an old flame? Tell me––
[D]: Mitka, hurry up with my soup! If it’s cold,
I’ll damn you with the heat that left it.
[M]: You were the one who veered off-course.
[D]: It’s not enough for servants just to do,
but to remind us what we made them do.
[M]: Of course. I’m next door, at the cafe––
I’ll grab it soon. [D]: You’re being watched. #
She hung up. In truth, she watched the feeds
less than between their cracks, peeking at
the door for his coming, the thousand faces
lighting up her own. Hunger wasn’t the only thing
that made her feel light-headed! The more
she peeked, the more the tips of her wings
fluttered and the more butterflies she had
within! and if men dream of butterflies
that dream of being men, then what stops
a butterfly from having harpies in its gut?
O what a trade she’d made––on a gut-feeling,
feeding him for it! Had she coddled him
too much? First a room and now a share
of food, giving him as much as her Father
gave her. How she felt like Him, providing for
Mitka! After all, it was His wallet that she got
to wag. She gave some of her allowance
to Mitka, and his thanks to her Father. To be
both host and guest required her to be trans
parent as a ghost. Desde wondered:
Could coddling him make her the less coddled,
and turn him to the one who’d make of her
her own? What a middle-man she played! Mitka,
meanwhile, relayed her food. He eavesdropped
on two offduty guards, who regretted at
Just missing Denis’ landing. Unwilling
to wait for Desde to explain, Mitka began
to research on the Mayor and his laws,
which meant to clarify all stages of
an Abiettan’s life. Denis had ruled
for life to start six months after conception;
for five years of puberty before yes
really means yes; and four decades of in-
fertility before nurses could pull the plug.
Three signposts in a life were thus erected:
two delays, and one dead-line. Before,
the times had been blurred by common view;
Denis had simply honed it with his pen.
People had puzzled on when life began,
and when the choice to make life started;
when a girl had it in her to say yes, and when
she couldn’t say no to what was in her; and if
a mother could be killed just on her daughter’s
menopause. Less was altered by the law
than news of it, two months before it passed––
including Mitka, who was born a week
before it did. What a blind-spot for him,
then! He felt out of his depth, even among
the brain-dead and fetuses with only question-
marks for brains, choosing to wait patiently
for Desde’s order. She waited on him, but he
was waiting for them to call her name. Then,
He felt a rumble that he first thought was
his gut. in his pocket, he found that desde
Called––and that his order buzzed. The box
was wide enough to hog both armrests.
As he returned, he looked up at each camera
in the hall, and at its lens that piped its feed
down Desde’s glasses. Why did she watch him
if she trusted him enough to sleep inside?
So many things had been discovered by those
who look away from him. Even the homeless
stopped their begging around him. He rolled in
as Desde set his fork down with her last talon,
holding the straw she’d made him get. O table,
beast of burden, whose saddles are below it!
She’d been meditating on how to apologize
for what she’d said to him before when he
barged in, telling her sorry for being late––
damn, he beat her to it! Even when he gave
more time for her rehearsal. Before he
came in, she’d been repeating her mantra
to herself: that the disabled were not burdens,
and that she’d known leaf-rakers who were
less keen on cleaning than having a third leg
of broom––if they existed, why couldn’t those
like Mitka help furrow the dirt? The sky’s
no limit, so why should caring be above her?
How can we be as weak as the strongest,
if we cannot be as fast as the slowest? The
disabled and the doers both laugh at those
who merely can! How foolish she’d been
at poking fun. None of her pranks were meant
to madden––even if maddens her, when
she’s told to stop. Ah, if only Desde could
applaud him without lifting off the ground!
Stupid wings, that made her incapable
of bowing. She sat before his late delivery:
stiff meats, and a soup that did not steam.
[Mitka]: I can tell you’re not pleased.
Did I interrupt something? [D]: Yes, my wait.
Why were you late? [M]: I was filling out
a job application––[D]: Ah, you should’ve
asked me! Many resumes have I seen,
and even more I’ve taught to advertise
beyond their greed of degrees. You need
Well-roundedness to shield some spike of talent
that, high enough, spreads out its fronds
to shade your lower fields of expertise. [M]: It’s
too late! I’ve already sent it. But why
does your advice sound like apologizing––
[D]: And don’t leave out your prior work
with masks! [M]: I didn’t forget. I just didn’t. I
only put my line of work I left to make masks.
[D]: What did you do before? [M]: Let me eat,
before I tell you––let me grab [D]: What,
is it slipping from you? [M]: You’re slurping
too fast and making the fish-balls duck under
my fork! Stop using your straw to starve me.
[D]: Tell me what you’re hiding, and I’ll stop
to listen. [M]: Let me first grab a noodle.
They’ll help me with this story and recall
the skill I used to brag about. It takes only
an instant for one wire’s end to register
the other’s jerk––yet how much more, to reel
the whole spool up! Before you, what suckers I’ve
pulled in––[D]: Were you a fisher? [M]: Though
in enticing, I lose my appetite. [D]: A teller,
with his yarn? [M]: You might think the line
leads to a fish, rod, pen––but how about
a puppet? [D]: You were a puppet? Is that why
your legs––[M]: No! A puppeteer. But before that,
a watcher of their shows, storming to theirs
so early that even the crew felt late, so hard
that they thought that it had rained. Yet it
was only when I overslept that I was brought
into their world. The shadow of my wheelchair
looked like bikes as I barged in, so mid-scene
that even the puppets craned to me before
they fought, neck-and-neck. At their climax, I
leaned in so close that my chair tottered
and would’ve fallen on the stage, were it not
for the hand of the One that picked me as
his student. If only I could re-enact
his rescue! [D]: Your hands are less gesturing
than performing it! Who was he? [M]: He was
the One who taught me until I had good wins,
but better acts. It was easy for Him to aid me
to be difficult––And what hell I gave!
The good are able to express a puppet with
one hand, while the better need only a finger.
Soon, all I needed was a nail to nail
the backflip and the victory lap. I’d even
delay the win, stretching my hands before
the final blow, just to get better applause.
[D]: When I make anthems, they must fight
as they’re declared. In that game and genre,
yell is over plausibility. You fight to lie,
while I lie in order to fight! [M]: Battles betted on
involve all arms to dodge a stalemate––but
in mine, where outcomes are fixed, they must
be barely won to have the most applause.
How else did masks warm up to me, but as
a way to dampen all their claps and scam
my face out from their minds? It was my way
of handling the first inklings of fame. Masks
were venues, but a vessel, too: a shield
to face fame and fit the many clothes of clout;
a way to hide and a way to catch less eyes.
yet as I made more, I found myself not just
hidden from the public eye, but losing
my eye for puppets. I felt behind a mask,
making puppets move; it was only
carving masks that I truly felt tugged
by strings above. [D]: They sure don’t hide
your crippled legs! [M]: No, but they do hide
who’s the cripple. I was past calling myself I,
but not ready to refer to myself as Mitka
without cringing. Just past starring as others,
but before others began to star as me.
Friends who believed my words would soon
believe my works, and doubters of my works
would soon only doubt my life-story. I wished
to make the land my father fled lament;
between a mother and a fatherland, to make
not just one proud, but two fight over me,
as if I were land. Graves, looted in the war
to find my bones! so strongly did I think I would
remain, so as to be not just remains. The troupe
made fun of my wild dreams and masks, but I
wore none the day I left them. It was on a stage
much wider than its broadcast; my Mentor
had moved from the backstage to the front-row
to cheer me as I beat my rival, whose wires
slacked while mine were tight enough to hum.
My puppet raised the blade, yet swung it back
as if cutting its own hair. My rival squealed
not from defeat, but fear of going off the script
as my dagger cut each of my strings, one
by one, until the only one was the one that raised
the hand that held the hilt; and that one
last. Some fainted in the crowd, as if in its fall
others followed. Only the masses flooding out
could slow my mentor’s anger. Yet I beat him
to his office, ready to resign. He held back,
paced and paced, asking where I’d go without
him, in the parks or parking lots. He paced
in as many circles as it took for my wheels
to leave his office. Ah, if only he knew
the one he once shouted out has become
a shut-in! had I won the match and bowed
like I had promised all the audience,
It would have been my last step in. Instead,
I disobeyed, and took my first step out. #
Desde thought Mitka would tell a sob-story
but didn’t expect him to portray himself
a little like a boss. She hoped he got the job;
He was scared of his disability running out
on him––and worried that, to make ends meet,
he’d have to ferry meals on wheels. Though,
Wouldn’t a job hamper his mask-making?
[M]: Not if it gives me food to make them, and
makes the job more bearable. [D]: So you’d have
your hobby motivate you? [M]: What’s wrong
with that? It’s what a passion does. [D]: Shouldn’t it
be flipped––that life makes passion bearable?
[M]: Elaborate. [D]: It’s redundant when I say
I need something to live; yet if I said
I need something to die, such elaboration would
be wholly needed. You use your passion
as cure to your career––Yet to my own
position, it is poison. My question is––
would you rather have mask-making as much
of a necessity as food, or place food
on the level of indulgence? Would you rather
elevate your passion to a need, or have it
reduce all other needs to wants, as if hunger
were a hobby? [M]: If I could have both, It’d be
a dream. [D]: That’s not how you answer
a ‘would you rather’! But It’s better than
saying neither. [M]: Do you find these options
at odds? What’s your passion? [D]: Nothing
but knowing need itself. How need could be
unwanted, yet more than want––such quest
ions drove me from my manor, asking not
whether I could afford it, but afford
to afford it. My living now is watching others
need––and one that gets me by, instead
of buying. Mitka, If you’re to be a trader, I’d
advise you sell what others want for only
what you need. [M]: Limit myself to just
necessities! How could I sell what others want
without the profit reaching so much more
than what I need? I think the only one
with needs much larger than what others want
Is you. [D]: If only I were better keeping secret
how spoiled I really am! It was what drove
Denis away. he left his friends just to come
to me––the same friends who left him to
be mine, after we split! [M]: We ought not jinx
my job-prospects by talking about splits. And
please! don’t ruin my last days of fun. #