Chapter Six:
No Way But Up
For every person synonymous with success that started from nothing, you'd always have someone who became nothing AFTER starting from success. For contexts' sake, via contrast & compare, consider the very first Australians on one side, and our 'hero' on the other.
Keeping it short, simple & basic, one side had down cold the three Ts of true grit; toughness, tenacity & tirelessness, playing their roles to perfection. The other had nary a single shred of either.
One side, via complex customs & rituals, had taken hundreds of ragtag tribes and brought them together as a thriving society. The other, by mostly his own hand, had split off & become a shiftless drifter.
Last of all, one side had only arid wasteland, a diligent work ethic and bright optimism for the future, while the other had the whole world in their hands, but never the desire nor attitude to seize it.
And those days, it wasn't just the ancient Australians that would leave him behind either…
Even when those aboard the First Fleet & beyond—through horrible, hostile & hard-hearted diseases, seizures and 'heroics'—had threatened to erase them entirely, those first Australians and their kin never lost that resilience and defiance, soon sharing succinct stories that showcased their struggles, and eventual triumphs, quite well.
One would pen down the classic thousand-mile journey along Western Australia's Rabbit-Proof Fence. Another could list The Freedom Rides in New South Wales. Historians through the worlds of sports, politics & artistry took care to track every single effort paid by those dedicated souls.
And given a choice now, Mayfield would've traded his degree for those three Ts beyond the halls in a single heartbeat. Never prepared himself for the inevitable, and had paid a dear price for it.
His bird wings clipped and steps muddled once out of Leela's sight, he cared not for the minutes or hours, nor for where he wandered, nor for the same sidewalk wolves who snarled at his steamy presence. Felt fits & begged to fight anyone, but just kept stepping forward, screaming inside himself all the while. Least until his feet found gravel paths and, beyond that, quite a stately building.
How he found it, he didn't know nor care, but the first thought was that it couldn't get any better than an abandoned mansion to squat in. Least until his eyes caught the faded front sign for 'Cookieville', whatever that was. The first of what would become many faults; to spot, smell & sneer at.
Dust-layered broken windows, bone-dry fields, haunted trees bereft of life, and an air of condemnation inside every room he peeked into. Yep, that was his perfect visual analogy, so beat-to-hell and left to die, and yet it still stood to survive today.
But since the fates were fond of foiling his future, the door had been padlocked, and even at a full head taller, he had neither the face nor fitness to scale those windows. The only shelter slipping through his hands, he slid down the stonework, heavy heaves of dread in his chest. Stood up to search for a hole, until a maintenance shed, shaded behind some rotten trunks, flashed in his peripheral vision.
A rare boon of good fortune, to notice an open door and the perfect tool for squatters, a twenty-pound sledgehammer. Still starved and sapped, he could only drag it behind, and whatever lift & swing he could muster just reeked of weak desperation. Neither the lock nor the door had budged an inch, as he could only give an unintelligible scream of sorts.
"No, not now! I've failed enough… Shamed myself enough… Hurt them enough…"
Stopped when some quote from long ago surfaced to mind, a mantra he began to chant: "Let fury have the hour, anger can be power, d'ya know you can use it?"
Remembered the stand-up under his own strength, the defiant gesture towards his assailant, the continued push forward even without food & water. Stirred a surge of adrenaline within him, a force that, in great discomfort, summoned a stable, stronger squeeze upon the sledge. And, in a would-be cry of war, enough swears & screams to embarrass a sailor.
"To hell with the lock, I… WILL… BEAT THIS!"
His face & feet on fire, and eyes following suit, he knew no worse agony in his fight to force or splinter that door open. Mere minutes crawled like months after each pound against the wood, until he chipped enough to squeak his sledge & his stout self through. Though relieved, a single breath almost had him recoil & race out.
Made his jacket come smelling of roses, and that forgot about the sticky, squelchy floors that sagged beneath his shoes, that sickly-green mould on the walls, and those creepy, head-turning owls, curious to the intruder.
Cookieville; sweet by name, rotten by nature. But beggars & choosers, it was a roof over his head.
Anger and adrenaline aided his every stomp forward, as no door was spared from a man who'd take any bed over cold concrete, any chance to strip that rancid outfit from his skin. Perhaps picturing that lady's face each time, a despicable fantasy he'd admit, he downed a dozen doors before calling dibs on one; a shared bedroom where, on opposite ends, lied ten rather cast-off beds.
Only seconds passed before small splatters of wet sick smeared the walls. In those black unsullied trunks, he finally felt free as he hopped into the window bed, not that it stopped a most regretful eye-roll.
To say nothing of sticking a good foot over where kids & teens used to sleep, his desert throat, empty stomach & fractured face had killed off any chance for rest. Then of course came the presence of one intruder, one of other, omnipotent ideas. First annoyed by a rousing babble, then alarmed by a horrible scraping of wood, enough to sit up and scan around.
Sighed & gave a growl in spotting jack-squat, but when one goes looking for trouble…
In between perhaps his 70th toss & turn, and a fateful focus on some furry black creature, he first gave an indifferent shrug, then a sprung-up shriek upon register, scared stiff. One that, despite not looking much taller than his ankle, gave off a deal of sombre importance in some galactic blue jumpsuit, their judgemental stare, and scratches upon a toe-sized clipboard.
Babbles became big sentences; his voice for an ankle-biter had a chasm-deep, pompous air to it… Royalty he guessed, and what a throne to hold court, sitting in the palm of his hand.
"Dear Gods, you're a greater mess than even I feared."
A thought of 'Gee, no shit?' circled Mayfield's head, but could only grit "W-w-w-w-what on Earth are you?" in mumbled response.
Flat out ignoring him, the creature flicked through some papers, some featuring similar surnames, and checked his off, all-business if nothing else.
"You must be, hmm, let's see, Thomas Mayfield I presume?"
The addressee's eyes bulged before gritting out another answer, one which prompted the creature to act.
"Okay, hang on, what I'm going to do is transmit your thoughts to speech, so don't be alarmed."
Mayfield had readied his eye-roll until his disembodied voice reached his ears. His sarcasm stopped, his spine stiffened, from the creature a smug smirk of knowing. At that point, Mayfield began his questions.
"The hell is happening now?! Anyway, yeess, that does happen to be my name, how did you know?"
"We're quite an ancient and powerful race, we know lots of things. And in due time."
"Seriously, little guy? Screw your 'due time' nonsense, and Gods-damn start explainin' now! For hell knows how long, I've been covered in vomit, I haven't drank or eaten a damn thing, I got cut off, confronted and castrated by the 'animals' on these streets, I've been walking on bleeding blisters and cuts, and I was beaten to within a millimetre of my life… Well?"
The creature's own eye-roll spoke volumes: "Oh, very well then. I am Lord Nibbler, of the planet Eternium, now current Ambassador to planet Earth. You were chosen as part of our latest venture, a series of experiments..."
"Wait, I'm sorry, experiments? So everything I faced since last night… That was just some stupid game you put me in just to educate yourself?"
"In particular, one we've called 'Project FTTP'. A series of humans from past periods of time brought into the future, to see how well they'd cope. We're testing the theory that, given any new setting humans could never experience before, they can not only survive, but they can also thrive."
"Oh, for sweet Christ's sake… So it was you assholes who ripped me out of my life and sent me here?! No dollar to my name, no clothes to my back, no food or water and my face caved in? Do I look like I'm in any position to survive, never mind thrive?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes, we take responsibility for your new fate. And I guess that's up to you."
"Okay, aside from your deserved dose of screw you, why didn't you explain any of this to me sooner?"
"WE DID, or at least tried to! Where you landed, we placed a metal box not five feet from your face! You'd have saved yourself those hours of headaches, heartache, & horrendous struggle if you just opened it. Indeed, we were actually afraid you'd be dead before we even had the chance to talk."
"Forgive me for my rudeness, Your Furriness, but sure was nice of you to tell me NOW, instead of upon first arrival! Between waking up to some tiny metal box buried in the ground, and this GINORMOUS Gods-damned city, where do you think I'm going to wander? Surely you're intelligent enough to have foreseen that! Nothing like I've ever seen before, now that I think about it..."
"Many orders above you, young one. And as for what you've seen, and when & where you are, this is New New York, in the early 31st century. I'd give you a full history lesson, but I'm afraid you'd die before I finished it."
"Intelligent my ample ass! Hell, aside from the fact that you completely failed your future guinea pigs, in such a careless and irresponsible way…"
Nibbler only shrugged as his subject's palms pressed gently against their face, their chest compressed by cold winds of realisation. Even before the cyclops, was obvious that the world was much different, but this much? Hated to imagine the twisted games those tiny creatures were pulling…
"Great, a whole new city nearly 1000 years later… What the hell do I do from here then, dress in drag and dance the Macarena?"
"It is your life, do with it as you please. However, beyond the very basics, I cannot help you further, and since our race cannot go back in time, I'm afraid we can't send you back either. Though judging from how we found you, I'd be surprised that you'd ever want to go back."
A rabid frothing of fierce anger in reply: "Are you for fuckin' real?! Sure, I just lost my job. Sure, I was behind on several payments. And sure, I might've been homeless within the week…But you really think you did me a world of favours bringing me here, without any knowledge or even resources, to this shit-scary new world? I'll kill you, you mongrel bastard!"
"While you've every right to express your frustrations, you were more or less dead when we found you! A little gratitude for saving your life would be nice, but even for your lack of knowledge, we cannot leave you so empty-handed. As part of my responsibilities as Ambassador and Supreme Fuzzler, I must advise of the care package that we've left under your bed."
"Yeah, shove your gratitude up your arse, freak… More or less dead, at least the suffering would've been over. And you honestly think your dumb care package would be enough for forgiveness? Some Band-Aid to my life's machete wound? What made you think I graduated summa-cum-laude in stupid?"
A stare of suspicion to the fuzzy one's severe annoyance, before Mayfield, to his surprise, had proven merit to the creature's words. Quite the journeyman's loot; freshly washed, citrus-and-linen outfits, a cell phone & contact details for services & businesses, and some currency to spend that featured horrible blob monsters, men made of brains, and classic Benjamins on their fronts.
Even in grave disappointment that Big Ben had slimmed down somewhat, the 20s, 30s and 10s in his hand still gave him $1,000. Though paltry, more than he knew in some time.
"Huh, well better than nothing, I guess. Don't s'pose you know of anywhere I can sort out some immediate concerns, do you?"
"Most of those concerns should be in your book, and there might be an opportunity in due time. That's all I can advise. Good luck young Mayfield, I sense you'll do fine here… I mean, it's not like you could do worse."
"Save your stupid lack of faith, you snot-nosed little squirt. I don't want to hear it!"
"If your path continues the same way, you're going to."
Another heated glare and promised threat, before Nibbler disappeared and Mayfield stood, in big black briefs, to pursue this lease on life. After a quick wipe of his hands, a slide-on of the new shirt & jeans, and a call to the cab company, he sensed sudden plans snap into place, amidst the scents of summer orchards & second chances.
Immediate priority was to begin weeks upon weeks of recovery, and hope he could afford to, at the doctor's office. Speak again if he were lucky. Next, by grace or great efforts, a gorging of glorious food & drink to settle his starved stomach, since his stink would be disguised. And finally, just to make extra sure, a thorough shower, shave & scrub to clean up.
While waiting, he felt a panic upon some odd shakings & rumblings, before a constant, loud honking by the door had reassured him. Gave himself the once-over, seized his cash, stumbled down the stone steps and scurried into the back. Any prying from a curious cabbie shut down in moments with a move towards the mirror.
"Whoa okay, don't ask… I've got the picture, doctors it is."
Clicked the meter and whirred up his drill, before burrowing through the earth & soil. Poor Mayfield bounced & bumped along in pain, and was mighty grateful for the rocky ride to be over after a quick mutter of "That'll be $15, pal."
Paying him a Blob and leaping out the cab, he stepped into the clinic, got a number & waited, surprised at the total silence upon his arrival. An entire ward of people, a spare seat to park himself, and not a single complaint… Only yesterday, he might as well have been an Al-Qaeda agent.
Now he had to have been dreaming. Found himself pondering over how cold water and clean clothes could change a man, before a "Mayfield, T." sounded over the PA. Only wide eyes & slow steps before he headed in… Certainly no mistake made, but could've been for how quick he'd been seen. Doctors in his time took twice as long for a tenth of the patients.
But before he could even outline his concerns, the doctor took a look, sighed, and rummaged through his cupboard. Not even a countdown nor a warning, before two large syringes were stabbed into his forearms. one red & blue, the other green & gold, which had earned him a scream & stares of contempt.
"Give those fifteen minutes or less, and you'll be fine. Next patient!"
Mayfield was about to protest, but he'd been ushered out, door shut in his face, before he could get a word in:
"Uh, thanks doc," was all he could murmur.
How ludicrous to think that they'd fix his face & feet… Least before the whirs, buzzes & whees started up in both head & body. This, pointless to say, made him flip; started seizing his head mouthing "SHUT UP!" while rushing into the bathroom, not a single care given for the piercing, or petrified, pairs of eyes staring him down.
In so-called privacy, he seemed to shout, growl & panic upon all the noise, and yet, he found the sounds go silent in mere minutes. Stared in the mirror and shot back; to say nothing of looking perfectly fine, he twiddled his jaw, took deep, purposeful breaths, squeezed his head and even slapped himself for good measure. Save for a red handprint over his cheek, no injury seemed to remain.
Blasted a faucet of cold water in his face, before being struck by sudden inspiration. Quickly took his shoes & socks off, and almost had an arrest upon finding not a single scratch, never mind those big, bloodied blisters, on either foot.
"Nah, nah, just imagining things…" By accident, a clear & perfect speech. "Sweet thundering blazes, I spoke? What the FUCK is happening?!"
Any other time, even he—quite frankly, no brain surgeon—had considered that he'd suffer something between permanent scarring & brain damage, given how long he was out. Yet right now, between those two syringes, that soothing sensation coursing through, and a little time for the treatment to work, he was basically good as new.
Even drew a crowd of sorts, and got one rapping their knuckles on the door: "Hey buddy, you mind sparing us your one-man show?"
Covered his mouth after the fact, borderline embarrassed, before he left with a timid whisper a "Sure didn't intend it."
Said palm never left his mouth as he stood to pay the doctor's fifty-five dollar fee. To the receptionist's worry, he copped another fright upon seeing his two 'Braino' notes scanned. In mere moments of magic, not even sleight of hand, they combined & exchanged into a $5 Lincoln note. Upon Abe himself giving the famous Gettysburg Address, the famous foreword of four score and forever years ago, Mayfield bolted backwards again, breathing fast.
"It's just your change, sir, no need to get so worked up."
"Yeah, yeah, totally natural for my money to do magic tricks & TALK… So no cash registers now?"
"Oh boy… Look, whichever century or world you're from kid, I'm not paid to give history lessons, okay? Now please move along, you're holding up the line."
Could only pinch his nose and mutter while walking the streets, not sure what to say or think. Sure, they were still harsh & rude, but that was relative civility, daresay concern, compared to what he knew… Was he still in New New York at all? Then to achieve near-perfect health, compared to last night, in almost an instant? What happened in the thousand years since he left?
"Look Ma, no wiring…" he whispered above while pointing to his jaw.
Could only ponder & puzzle it all before he paced towards Alien Overlord & Taylor, a department store much like the plazas of his heyday. Soon as he stepped inside and scanned the map, he had a finger-snap set of ideas strike him; eating, hunting down hygiene products, and perhaps a shave & haircut all at once.
Given those clear in mind, he found a top-floor McPluto's and gazed over the menu, letting others order ahead of him. Had enough social problems, stammering in line would make them worse.
After hearing the orders of some ten people, he knew. Two large burger meal combos, two large sundaes for dessert, and two large waters, where upon payment & getting his tray, his eyes shone in gluttonous glee. Even for all the junk he ate back home, he never felt more appreciative of those deep barrels they called 'cups', and those bottomless chasms called 'containers', than now. Would've been disgusted before, not that it stopped a fellow female customer's disdain:
"Damn, that's enough food for a starving Earthican nation, you pig! Have you no shame?"
No-one would ruin this moment if he could help it: "Then fuck off and feed them, lady… I paid, it's mine, end of story."
Given no further protests, it wasn't long before the storms & swirling tides of empty stomach cramps were quelled. Only a bite, chomp, munch or slurp followed by a gulp, and sometimes punctuated by rare cries—tears too—of "Oh, man!" for the long time he sat enjoying that food. If it tasted this good, maybe he wouldn't care to cook… Had him remember the days of scholarships, airport travel, and hunts for food.
Grateful for filling that giant gap in his guts, he carefully sipped those big waters while hunting for hygiene products, perhaps a large backpack to carry them all. Given the mental list for his head, teeth, body and face, and the hour spent searching for everything, he gave a surprised "Wow" when he got the total… At $150, he'd have bet on double or triple even back home.
Spotted a first-floor barbershop, and a soul-man sort of character sweeping hairs. Age didn't weary him, even though his sign made him out to be much younger:
"Sit down partner, come on in! How can I clean you up today?"
"Uh, just a clean shaved head, clean my neck up, and a one-and-half for my face, please. And just quickly, do I smell off in any way?"
"Honest truth? Yeah, you do. Though not even close to the worst customers I've cleaned up."
"Huh, sure wasn't expecting that." A curled lip & eyebrow in consideration.
"Just don't break foul on me, dig? That said, I do enjoy a good-and-simple to start the weekend. Let me tell you a story…"
Thought he'd talk about the 1970s, but was more like the 2970s. Still, sounded like a great decade; they had the re-discovery of disco—just add rockets & hovercars!—which washed like warm water over his scalp. Was just about to shut his eyes, slip off to sleep, and take himself there…
"And you're all done, my man!"
"Good grief, already? Damn, was enjoying that." A little sad that story-time had ended, Mayfield checked his reflection. A person he didn't know, younger & prouder, had stared back, which perked him up a great deal:
"Thanks, thanks so much… What do I owe ya?"
"It's $15 for a cut, but first time's free."
"Loved the story though, so have a Blob on me."
Excitement in his veins, as he gave a large wave and stepped out towards some showers. Scared him shitless to return to that gym; he'd never forget their first reactions. Very distrustful, he approached the counter and got some prices, baulking at the rates. Still, the money he'd pay to be clean again…
"So I understand, it's $100 for one month's membership, unlimited showers included?"
"Yeah, that's right. But look pal, you'd get much more with our…"
"Don't you DARE upsell me! If you gave me a chance to speak yesterday, I'd have only wanted a shower. You think you'll convince me that we're best friends, while I still remember you spitting me onto the street? If that's what you're going for, then save your breath, got it?"
"Back off, sir. Not like you couldn't go home & shower before coming here last night."
"Don't patronise me! And you don't think I'd have done that already, given the option? Tough to believe, I know, but I despised the smell too. Then there's been all the other bullshit I'm still sorting and…
"Look man, I don't care for the story, but I'll give you one free shower if you just get out of my hair, alright?"
"Perfect, thank you."
"You'll get 15 minutes, and that's it."
"More than enough. Don't think I don't appreciate it, alright?"
Though he hated the strongmen showering either side of him, giving audible snickers & none-too-subtle peeks, his serious gratitude of getting to thoroughly scrub, soap down & soak his skin didn't waver. Every minute of the fifteen spent to make sure that no stink of his past would simmer over his shoulders again.
Stuck those same scented, sweaty clothes on, before taking every effort to scrub & floss his rather nasty teeth… About a half-hour or more for that, and then a half hour's walk back to the Orphanarium, his most successful of first full days behind him.
A little later on, a shovel in the shed and an empty field out front gave him another idea, one for a symbolic rite of burial… Balancing his ruined clothes and setting them aside, he dug a deep hole for his old life, and stood still, hand to heart:
"To the former life I leave behind, may I return here one day a better man. We've been through many moments of madness & misery, most of my doing, and this day shall mark my new journey. Farewell forever."
Dropping them in & filling the hole, he squeaked back inside to enjoy a good lie-down & nap. But unbeknownst to him, only minutes from the moment he stumbled into bed…
His most unwelcome past was about to come knocking.
