Little Fidget and the Lonely World
Little Fidget is left alone at the end of the day, and as the sunset runs like a forgotten child down the hillside, he ponders what is left to do with his time. He thinks to build a tent in the main room, but the light from the corner lamps make awful shadows against the entry flap. He could cook something, but doesn’t trust mayonnaise well enough to heat it in a pan. What to do?
The manual, of course, still eludes him. And this nagging fact becomes the cornerstone of the evening. He runs all over the house, dislodging pillows, books, drapes – anything to discover its whereabouts. In the end, he lies panting by the wicker chair, with his legs splayed out in front of him and his hands loose by his side. He quickly fabricates a filter that sorts everyone he knows, and why they could possibly be in possession of the manual: the car occupants, the people who bring him the folders, the old people at the park. His filter fails him, and his eyes focus and unfocus in the gathering darkness.
He can’t leave, knowing that the garden paths all curve suddenly away from the tall front door. He looks out the window, seeing the first bright lights from Town begin to sparkle far off in the valley. "When are they coming back?" he asks himself, "they’ve been gone longer than is good for anyone."
They have been gone for exactly one half of an hour. Fidget knows this because of the readout. The readout tells him many things: what time it is, what city he is in, what his name is. He writes his name in a paste made from mayonnaise and ground up crackers on the tabletop:
"F-I-D-G-E-T"
and then goes to pull out the small tent from the closet down the hall.
The manual, of course, still eludes him. And this nagging fact becomes the cornerstone of the evening. He runs all over the house, dislodging pillows, books, drapes – anything to discover its whereabouts. In the end, he lies panting by the wicker chair, with his legs splayed out in front of him and his hands loose by his side. He quickly fabricates a filter that sorts everyone he knows, and why they could possibly be in possession of the manual: the car occupants, the people who bring him the folders, the old people at the park. His filter fails him, and his eyes focus and unfocus in the gathering darkness.
He can’t leave, knowing that the garden paths all curve suddenly away from the tall front door. He looks out the window, seeing the first bright lights from Town begin to sparkle far off in the valley. "When are they coming back?" he asks himself, "they’ve been gone longer than is good for anyone."
They have been gone for exactly one half of an hour. Fidget knows this because of the readout. The readout tells him many things: what time it is, what city he is in, what his name is. He writes his name in a paste made from mayonnaise and ground up crackers on the tabletop:
"F-I-D-G-E-T"
and then goes to pull out the small tent from the closet down the hall.
posted by Stefush at 1:27 PM
1 Comments:
Fidget spends many days alone. Alone, except for the pinging of the readout, which he has adopted and named Ping Ping. Without it, he could be anywhere, and that can’t happen. As long as Fidget has been alive, the readout has been at his side.
Fidget doesn’t really understand his connection to the readout. He seems the same. He wakes up in a room each day, sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller. Ping Ping makes a noise, and Fidget is allowed to move. When the sun reaches halfway up the window, Ping Ping chimes again and Fidget is brought food. Later, when the sun has already fallen, Fidget travels and most likely begins to sleep.
The next day begins anew, with Ping Ping always letting him know it is okay to move again.
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