The Threat
A man brandishes a calculator, raising it in one hand, incapable of doing sums with the device in the position he selects. Everyone in the room draws back. I am there only to keep the horses calm enough to get in and out of the door. Since, at the moment, the danger the man poses is only theoretical, and it is neither time for the horses to enter nor exit, I am unworried. My employers, however, did not anticipate a man with a calculator. They sit at their private tables, adding in their heads the likely surcharge for this peril.
Transit
It takes so long for the bus to reach this station that when you catch it, you do not know whether it is today’s bus or yesterday’s. The riders are no clue: the bus holds the same clientele each day. Perhaps there is a girl in a bright dress that you know was not on board yesterday. But everyone is as drab and un-commendable as every day. Knowing you rode the bus yesterday, you look for yourself, hoping, if you find yourself, the seat beside you is available. There, you might chatter with yourself about what is meant by today.
Trap
He finds himself caught in a herd of oboists. There seems no way out. All the oboists play solo compositions, perhaps well, perhaps not. He cannot tell, as each composition is different, the notes fighting each other. One melody strangles to submission another. Enough playing, even if perfect, produces chaos. He shuffles along with them, none noticing he has no instrument. How to get out? Rushing forward, he might find the head, or racing back, the tail. To one side or the other might be best, but which? He needs to get out before someone hands him an idle oboe.
Value
He lives ably with his brokenness. Quibble helps around the house when he can. Natalie often cooks too much, shuttles the overage yard to yard to leave it wrapped on his back porch. It is easier for him to navigate through the rapids of his house to the back porch than to the front. He signals his gratitude in notes and calls, praising workmanship, utility, comfort, culinary artistry, ending with apology for his necessity. He believes his neighbors do too much for him. He gives them opportunity to grow their humanity. With little difference, it could go the other way.
Weariness
Quibble enjoyed his previous years as a shell objector. Like all developing experts, he had originally objected to only the most misshapen of shells. Over time, he learned to capture more minute imperfections, the number of shells he objected to grew. Collectors originally appreciated his appreciating talent. But in recent years he has come to understand attitude and origin, to imagine the creatures that at one time created and lived within the shells, began to object to shells based on ethereal stature. Collectors could not readily understand his judgements. They began to resent his mercurial expertise. His job satisfaction ebbed.
Being Persuaded
Quibble stacks his politics on the corner of his porch. National issues at base, regional issues next, town politics atop these, and kitchen-table politics last. Only with this topping collection does he have any say, and then precious little. Public boundaries exist to keep the illusion of freedom simmering, yet constrained. Every so often a neighbor or two will stop by, inspect Quibble’s stack, and ensure its equivalency to his or her construction. If everything agrees, they complement each other. If not everything agrees, they still complement each other. Others are watching. Discrepancies can be waffled into place in solitude.
DoubleSpeak 