Burnout (Part II)

          The next thing I knew, Joy was gone. I never read the note she had asked me to deliver to “Slim,” whoever he was, but simply folded it up and tucked it inside my tunic.
          I had wandered into this wide-open space to find inspiration to write, but what did I have to say? Nothing. No point in scribbling away about Joy. How ridiculous.
          I sat with my back against a prickly tree. With the nib of my stylus, I traced the patterns of my fingerprints, each one different. So what.
          The wind must have turned very gradually, or else I wasn’t paying attention, for I never noticed the weather change until I began shivering violently. I was miles from home—how many miles?—and I couldn’t think what to do.
          “Go back home? Go to work? I wish it mattered what I did.” I spoke aloud, as if to a phantom. “But there’s nothing to be done about it. I’m wet and cold. Probably always will be. Doesn’t matter where I go or what I do.” The more I talked, the worse I felt.
          Then—what a strange day—a second person appeared in the distance, from the opposite direction of Joy. I couldn’t recognize her through the cold mist, though I sensed some familiarity, like a recurring dream. Why I stood and waved, I cannot say.
          The sound of tinkling metal reached me first, followed by the skip of bare feet and a carefree laugh. Another unusual woman! Only this one wasn’t gasping for air. Unlike Joy, she had two full arms and two normal legs. She held a sparkling red umbrella that matched her lips, and three clever braids that swam through her hair. Tiny bells hung from the hem of her bright blue dress, which swished as she walked and wasn’t even wet from the rain. The clouds parted when she arrived, and my skin tingled.
          “You called?” she said, loudly.
          With a hand to my forehead, I searched my memory but found nothing.
          “So good to see you again.” She bubbled with confidence.
          What was she talking about? Again.
          She laid her umbrella aside, her cheeks glistening pink beneath the slanted rays of the late afternoon. Then she drew close, by delicate, silent steps, until the heat of her breath fell upon my ear. The fragrance of lilacs burst open and soaked me like a rainstorm. “Spin and descend,” she whispered. “Check off every box in life, TAT! Visit every land. Take a trip to Burnout—a quick stay, no more. Don’t miss your chance, but seize the day, instead! Then report back to me that you’ve gone there.”
          My pulse quickened. She knew what I ought to do. She had given me clear directions, and I desperately wanted to please her. “What’s your name?” I asked.
          “There, there. You know me. I am the Whisperer.” She kissed me on the lips. “Remember now?” She directed my gaze toward my place of employment. Into my ear she spoke again, ever so softly, “Work harder, TAT. There, there.” And I started walking.

*          *          *

          The best way to Burnout is not to follow any map, but to spin in tight circles at your regular job as fast as you can. Every job requires spinning—usually clockwise—though it’s often called something else, like a “Quality Initiative” or “Five Nines of Certainty.”
          Start spinning immediately.
          You can’t schedule an appointment in Burnout. But to purchase your ticket for the fastest trip down, you should not only spin full speed at work, but also within your own home. The direction in the home doesn’t matter. Get as dizzy as possible, to the point of nausea. Keep spinning until all balance is lost, then stop abruptly and follow the downhill.

*          *          *

          I headed over the lip into the vast Valley of Burnout. In the distance, I spotted several others heading in the same direction, all staring straight ahead. No one looked my way.
          There was a hum and vibration as I slid across slimy mud, slicker than anything I ever knew. I picked up such enormous speed that full descent became inevitable. The only way out of Burnout was down.
          The heat rose steadily as I plunged. The air thickened, stung my throat, and burned my lungs. All sense of perspective vanished in the smog. I felt as if I was still spinning—doing my office work—for my mind was fuzzy. No doubt, I would have remembered none of this were it not for one, most fortunate event. By the purest coincidence, as the air blackened and my skin heated up, I thrust my hand inside my tunic and felt around until I found, not only my stylus, but also something papery. What was it? Why, the very letter Joy had asked me to pass to Slim!
          Joy—the dark-skinned woman with golden hair, two sets of knees, and missing one arm below the elbow. She didn’t think much of me, but she knew things. Funny how her musical voice suddenly seemed more memorable than the Whisperer’s.
          I gripped that letter tightly, and the texture of the paper cleared my mind. I determined then to cling to whatever was in my hand lest I forget myself—lest I lose all memory of Burnout and fail to deliver Joy’s message. Whoever Slim was, I would find him and bring him the letter.
          With a thud, I struck my face into a wooden beam and bloodied my nose. To stanch the bleeding, I pinched my nose with my left hand but, for the moment, kept my right tucked within my tunic. I sat upon a broken sled at the railpost of a decrepit wooden building, labeled in weathered, foot-high lettering: Slim’s Bar and Grill.
          Tied to the rail beside me were half a dozen lizard creatures, with blue scales, approximately the size of horses, longer, counting the tails, but only half as tall. They had dagger-like claws on their rear feet and stout legs that stuck out widely, likely a man on all fours with elbows wide. Most of them were harnessed. One lizard nipped at me with his pointy beak, breaking through my clothes and skin. I pulled away in time to save my arm. Then the animal struck me on the side with its tail and flung me clear of the other beasts.
          As I spat the dust from my mouth, the crack-bang of a screen door drew my attention. A wide-bodied man emerged onto the porch, hands on hips.
          “First drink’s always free,” he said, “and I’m all you’ve got.” He passed me a canteen half full of lukewarm yellow liquid. “Well?”
          High slopes arose about me in all directions, the distances vast, and the tops hidden. The heat beat down on me like a club, though there was no sun. My mouth was like sand, so I drank and followed Slim onto the porch.
          Inside the bar, people sat in silence, stewing in their thoughts, most of them alone. Some sat in pairs facing each other. I observed no children and heard no talking. Litter covered the dance floor. A broken stringed instrument hung from a nail on the wall.
          Weeks passed, then months. I lost all sense of time. Perhaps I stayed a year. Any thought of action vanished like smoke. I forgot my purpose. If I could have conjured the image of my family and friends, I would have, but it was beyond me. The walls of the Valley rose higher every day. Slim’s Bar and Grill became my home and my fortress.
          One day, Slim approached me for payment, his patience exhausted. His width was like three men, and his arms were comparable. “Well?”
          I had no answer, and I couldn’t fight him. So Slim threw me out, off the porch, into the dust. As I scrambled from the hind feet of the largest lizard, I rediscovered the letter I had been carrying, the message from Joy, and drew it from my tunic. Slim scowled.
          I tried to hand it to him, but Slim jerked away and turned sideways, his shoulder toward me. To my amazement, I discovered then that Slim’s entire body was only one inch thick, no different from a door. If I had dared, I could have pinched him anywhere between my fingers and my thumb.
          “Just read it,” Slim said. As he looked toward me, his face returned to its normal width.
          I unfolded the letter.

          Slim threw me his canteen. “Take it and go,” he said. “Tell Joy I don’t need no help. Burnout’s as good a place as any. It’s her own fault she lost her arm—she should never a fought me.”
          Slim pivoted on a heel. His body vanished as he rotated to the side, then his backside reappeared as wide as the front, but it had no clear shape—only width. He took the side stairs onto the porch, ducked inside the bar, and the screen door banged behind him.
          I shouldered the canteen and headed out, but I knew not which way to go.

To Be Continued . . .

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