Kihō no Monogatari

Prompted by I Wrote Mr. Tambourine Man by John Craigie, and perhaps Yokohama Kaidashi Kikō.

They say that a calling is a job you'd do even if you didn't need to work.

I guess we all work for different reasons.

Money, of course. Recognition. Satisfaction? The feeling of helping someone? Raw enjoyment?

Does anyone really enjoy a job so much they'd do it just for that, alone?

I feel like wouldn't call that a job any more.

But what do you call this, then?

It's been three years, you reckon.

You were worried about food, at first, but it turns out the ash is good for growing things. You'll run out of cans eventually, but you think you'll be okay.

It's not that no one notices you, of course. There's not so much to talk about as I'd have expected. The weather's more of a constant drain. But you attempt it, now and again. Sometimes there's a basket of zucchini. Sometimes, you offer water or tea.

You don't try to talk about your work.

It's not that it's private, really.

It's more a habit, a compulsive tick you haven't confronted.

It's not like any of them would try to steal it, or have anything to do with it if they did.

But old burns linger.

Most of the daylight, you're quiet and alone. You tend your plantings, listen to the raw breeze. You take short trips, these days more to know the land than to scavenge. You pump water. You hum half-remembered songs.

And then you go back, to your basement beneath a ruined office building surrounded by gourds and apple trees.

Sit in the dark, there, with your guttering lamplight.

Your dusty, heavy, slightly moldy books.

Your binders and binders of notes.

And write briefs for a shattered court that's been empty and ash for three years.

Prompted by Bottomfeeder by Amanda Palmer.

"That's not how karma works," she said. "There's not some Universal Karma Authority that measures how much you tipped your last cab driver and adjusts your expected time to hail your next cab accordingly."

It was raining, of course. I told her to stay in the shade. We didn't have any sunscreen.

"They did an experiment, you know. Goldfish and catfish."

I was halfway in the street at this point, with my arm outstretched. Another cab drove past. Its light was on, there was no one in the back seat. The driver didn't even slow down.

"Goldfish can only remember things for three seconds, and catfish are immortal."

I reminded her the goldfish thing was a myth. I decided against bringing up lobsters.

"So they make the fish play prisoner's dilemma, see."

The woman at the desk had assured me that a cab was on the way, would arrive at any minute.

"Each fish can push two buttons, and they get food based on the result. Then they play again the next day."

I pointed out the foolishness of iterating assuming short memories.

"That's exactly the point."

By now, my jacket was soaked through. A speeding car splashed me up to my knees.

"The goldfish do way better than the catfish."

By playing randomly, I supposed.

"No, dummy. Goldfish have karma."

Another empty cab drove past, ignoring my frantic gesturing.

"See, goldfish can't remember because they're backwards. They pick based on the future."

I told her to get back in the shadow. A cab drove past while I was distracted, but I couldn't tell if it was occupied.

"That's why they don't mind when we kill them, too."

I saw a flash of lightning out of the corner of my eye.

"So, here, your problem is you're going to tip poorly because you're in a bad mood."

I insisted that was none of her concern.

"Lend me $40. I'll pay the tip."

A burst of thunder echoed lazily.

"'Cmon, the sun's getting high already."

I shrugged, pulled my wallet from my sodden pocket, and handed her the money.

"See, it's all about credible intention."

I shook my head, looking down to try to keep the water out of my eyes.

Just then, a cab pulled up, slowing down enough to only splash my shoes.