04. WRITING
–
The Universally Lost and Sometimes Found
“Welcome, Malcolm Henley, I am Random Generator, but you may call me R-A-N for short. Welcome to the Universally Lost and Sometimes–” A strange voice said from the shadows.
“Where am I? What the hell is going on?” Malcolm Henley asked, in a commanding tone.
“Execute Ice Breaker Joke 17A-3. Error 1-H7J. Ice Breaker Joke 17A-3 not found. Oh, how embarrassing. Execute Witty Retort 7X-J135! Executing: 'If I had a quarter every time I heard that, I'd be rich!' No? How about a tour then! Your type usually get something out of the tour.”
Last week, Malcolm celebrated another birthday he barely remembers. I guess I am lucky to be alive. Still alive at thirty-five “My type?” He said, in a glossy haze, perplexed at the bustling fortress enclosing him. His feet circled all the way around, stopping at an eight foot robot, the mysterious voice had emerged from the shadows.
“Alive. Human. Let the tour begin,” Ran began the tour among brass pipes, pumps, off shoots, and monitor, “And this is what I call the ground level or central welcoming.”
The second level operated on rotating circular disks connected to levers and a modal-design-interlocking-cube array.
Ran clinked his head upward, as if calling to the endless inky black sky. “Above the array, multilateral walkways, little devils go every which way, including straight up...nowhere.
Below, we have every color of the rainbow.” They extend their arm-shaft.
The multimedia of colors rose from furnace slits in the circular encasement, like bubbles escaping the briny deep.
“Quite a site. I take great pride in the Universally Lost and Sometimes–”
A small squat sized robot with two mismatched arms and a bowling ball shaped head glides across with several gold watches, darting right in front, seconds from crashing into them.
“Good evening Helper Unit-Sigma, still got that arm broken, I see,” The larger tour guide laughs with no emotion, “I know all of the staff, or I should. I am the Overseer of the Universally Lost. Anything and everyone.” Ran's eyes shutter.
“Anyone?” Malcolm watches as the helper unit fades away, back into the hustle and bustle of the Universally Lost. He runs to get back to the Overseer.
“A-Ha! There's a spark. This way.” Ran adds a lite spring to his clomp as they enter another area. “The lost socks from the dryer, coins from couches, magazine coupons, diary entries, song noodles, electronics, everything that is, was, or could have been.” Ran clutches his chest.
A small piano starts to play, whisker-quiet, leagues away from the tour in progress.
“Ah, Excellent timing! Look up and you will see my favorite lost item, phone numbers exchanged at establishments with the right to sell Alcohol.”
Malcolm stares up, “Nowhere.” He was unsure how he had arrived, but he felt a strange comfort with Ran. More help than the doctors…he thought.
Seconds later, thousands of small paper snowflakes come down from the black emptiness. Some flutter as others, the crumpled into a ball, fall down faster.
Malcolm reaches for one as they all then burn. Poof! A puff of smoke is all that remains.
“Funny, the need you crave to socialize, share a tender moment, feel human, all reduced to numbers on a crumpled napkin.”
Towering from plumages of smoke–A massive blast furnace door with a circular glass window blocks their way forward.
“Never go in there. This is the writers' struggles. Ideas are incarcerated, they can live and die, and live again. You see, the problem with a writer, they overthink,” Ran buffs the window, “They come up with an idea, jot it down in a flurry, and before you know it–into the universal waste basket it goes.” Ran spats as a gloomy fog overtakes the blast chamber view from the other side. “Does the writer stop there, make things easier for me? Absolutely the opposite! They curl over backwards trying to remember the idea they came up with, days! Even months later... and the more they think, the more the idea metastasizes into something otherworldly and dangerous. See for yourself,” another buff of the glass, “In the corner, right there!”
A small bunny hops closer to the door.
Malcolm's eyes go wide as he sees the bunny dissolve into a sea of puss.
Resurging fog bubbles from the pulsating rabbit's corpse.
This time, Malcolm rubs the window only to see the bunny alive and then repeat its vile end.
“I think it was from a poem, something about nuclear pollution...that never got finished. Oh, and look there!” Ran points above the horizon to two dragons drag racing. “Failed alliteration. Shame, really. Some beautiful worlds in there. Maybe next time, your kind will know the value of saving your work.”
“Are these real?” I need to get out of here. Few things were worse than what Malcolm witnessed. He had his own horror stories: into and out of hospitals where doctors had no answers for why Malcolm was so ill. One day everything went black and when Malcolm opened his eyes, he was in a gown at the Urgent Care where he lived. A few days and a couple overnights and he was sent home with a clean bill of health, but that was only half true. Months later, another episode, another stay, and another clean bill–He was left to hop on his own, from one doctor to the next, hoping to be saved.
“Why, of course they are real, just like you.” Ran said as their eyes seemed to scan Malcolm, a familiar clinical gaze.
The silence between the two goes on as they continue their walk. Ran continues the tour.
Malcolm barely hears any of it. He was trapped, only this time he was not in Urgent Care. Am I dead? The thought left him cold and lonely. How many others had faced similar fates?
“And, here we arrive at the most troubling wing. Also the largest. The lost. The unheard. The missing. Your stop, my tired friend. They are all alike, the chronically ill...You scream so much into the void, advocating, often for your own chance to live another day. Eventually, I see it more and more, a lot of you end up here.” Ran opens the wing.
The Lost are dressed for all occasions. While some are in hospital gowns, shuffling with IVs and dried out pick lines, crying out to a nurse that is no longer there, most are in fairly nice clothes. They do not appear upset or even disheveled.
“Can we ever be found?” Malcolm’s hand holds on to the door of the Lost Wing.
“What kind of question is that? Of course you can be, did you not hear where you are? This is the Universally lost and sometimes–”
“New Human approaching the South Docking Bay,” the loud speaker blares all around.
The walls shake a few seconds after the Welcome Hub alert goes quiet.
Another one, just like me. Like all of us. Malcolm’s head dips as he steps forward into his new home, draped in a chilling blue silhouette.
“I must be going. I like to greet all the lost. It tends to soften the blow. Good luck and if you have any questions...” Ran's voice echoes as they have already left.
A soft woman's voice pulls Malcolm from his residence of the Lost Wing, “Thank you so much for holding sorry about the wait, Mr. Henley. Umm, your appeal to your denial was found. Can you please state your birthday and mailing address to confirm your identity?” The financial claims delegate asks, from the other end of the call.
Malcolm yawns as he separates a letter from the pile, “I also have my medical I.D. number.” He cracks his fingers and takes off a Blood Pressure Cuff from his left arm, tachycardic, and throws it to the couch.
A small semi-circle of light reflects off the T.V. from the corner of his room, and blinds Malcolm.
It is 3:00 in the afternoon in his stale apartment. Everything is where he left it. An ambient mess. Clean clothes intermingle with the piles from weeks before. There are dozens of pill bottles and untouched packets of pseudo-health and homeopathic remedy. Next to two empty urinals are a pair of socks with a safety pin and note.
The note reads, “I thought you might like these. Safe Journey Home. Below are three initials. R-A-N.”
[Found in an unfinished novel that was burned in a factory fire]
