Written and copyright by Mel Reichler 2002
Ashley found herself in front of what, (if she had been home and not, as far as she could tell, deep in, — well deep in — the computer) looked like a park. There were benches and trees and a pond and to the side of the pond there was a playground. It was very beautiful but there was a fence around it.
What made the scene very strange was that hovering above the playground and in back of it, like a backdrop in a play, she could see could see the inside of her room. If she squinted, she thought she could even see her computer, the computer in which she was lost.
“It could be one of those strange kinds of mirrors that showed reflections that are not there,” she said to herself, “one of those phantom visions that people had when they were macarooned in a desert. I remember reading about people who were lost in the desert and they had this mirror and when they looked into it they thought they were home but got even more lost.” There was always a problem in trusting mirrors to tell the truth. Even though they showed you exactly as you were, they usually got something wrong.
As far as she remembered deserts were sandy places with camels. She looked into the corners of the park to see if there were any camels drinking at the water fountains, but could see none. “It’s not a mirror,” she decided, at least the kind she had to worry about. The absence of a camel made that clear. “And if it’s not a mirror it must really be a park.”
There was a brightly colored little play house and curved bridges that spiraled between clusters of swings and play mountains and hills. And there was a real wading pool and there were slides and swings and everything that makes a playground a playground.
But as far as she could see the playground was empty, which was as bad as if it were a mirror since, if things were right in any world she knew of, hers or the computer world in which she was lost, there would have been at least one child running freely over what he or she took to be their own special kingdom. At the very least, there would be a homeless person who was living in the park sprawled out on a bench.
Ashley tried to think about where she could ask for directions or for help, not to get home directly, but to get somewhere, perhaps into the playground to start with. She might be able to think better if she could slide down one of the slides or swing on one of the swings, or get a better picture of where she was by climbing one of the Jungle Jims.
In all of places in all of the world as far as she knew, parks were run by people and there was a little house, no matter how small, where the people who ran the park stayed while they were running it.
“Now where is that house?” she asked herself. And because she did not know the answer and nothing else was around who said anything, she complained.
“It certainly is difficult to take things for granted here. At least,” she said, “there ought to be a sign that says where the house is.” And since no voice interrupted her she continued. “In some places there were signs where you certainly didn’t need them, and they told you all sorts of things you were not interested in at all. And now, when a person could really use a sign, there are none around, not even the silent kind I am used to.”
As she stood looking at the park, a butterfly fluttered up over her shoulder and rested on the fence in front of her. On the butterfly’s wings in a powdery gold dust she made out a message. “If you have any questions,” the message read, “and for the location of the parkies and other information LOOK DOWN” — and an arrow pointed down toward her feet. The butterfly was beautiful. Ashley moved her hand toward it. “I wonder if it would mind if I…”
The butterfly fluttered it wings and Ashley heard a very loud, low roar. “I see,” she said, “Thank you for the information” she said politely as the butterfly flew away.
Ashley looked down and saw a turtle with a piece of cardboard taped to its back. “It is difficult to read,” Ashley said a little critically. The turtle crept out of its shell and walked around and pulled on the tape to straighten the sign “Some people,” it said in a very sharp voice, “some people…”
The sign whispered, “For help Call 123-4567”.
“How strange,” Ashley said. “I was lost before because I could not find the house with the parkies and now I am just as lost because to find the house with the parkies I have to find a phone booth and…”
The turtle climbed back into its shell again and started off, lumbering sulkily toward a footpath which meandered into a clump of trees. “It’s this way,” it hissed. “You don’t know much about butterflies, do you,” it said.
“No,” said Ashley, “only to look at, really.”
“Let me tell you about them, while we’re walking. About the butterfly,” it said, as it lifted a front foot and took what seemed to her a very long time in putting it down.
Butterflies may marry if they want and whom they want and when,
then off they fly, a flower high to marry still again.
For nature gave the butterfly a flighty character but a sense style.
While bees busy themselves making honey, the butterfly makes you smile.
Some small things look tiny but if you use your eyes
you’ll see they’re really big things, wearing a disguise.
Some small things are small things you squash and then forget,
other things you try to and they fill you with regret.
Some small things are big things, artfully made
to appear they do not matter so they don’t make you afraid,
like a bolt holding up a building, the look in your lovers eye,
a greetings on a postcard, and the little butterfly.
But don’t tick off a butterfly, try not to make it mad,
for an angry fluttering butterfly is sure to make you sad.
The anger of the butterfly is gross beyond belief
an angry fluttering butterfly causes endless grief.
It kicks up storms in
and chaos rules in English schools and it slobbers on romance.
It raises Cain in
the trains won’t go in Ohio, and lovers wait in vain.
It spoils the rice in China, in Holland tulips die,
and games aren’t fun for anyone, the comics make you cry.
Cigars sprout wings in Cuba, the lobsters drown in Maine,
And in Soho the art won’t grow, and laughing causes pain.
With a butterfly be gentle, look, but do not touch
let it have the breeze,
don’t yell, don’t sneeze,
don’t move around too much.
Let it do its butterfly business with the gentlest of glances
smile, try not to offend it, and don’t take chances.
If it wants to rest on your shoulder let it,
but if you have any ideas of taking it home
and making it a pet,
forget it.
By the time it had finished the poem it had moved a few steps but it stopped and climbed out of its shell and turned to Ashley. “It’s just around the bend,” it said. “ You can’t miss it. I’m off,” and began pushing its shell into the woods.
Ashley had a hard time recognizing the phone booth when she came to it. “It certainly does not look like the parkies’ houses I am used to. What is worse,” she continued, “it does not look like a telephone booth either.” On top of it was a sign that said ‘Phone Booth’ which had been crossed out and the word PARKIES crudely chalked in over it.
The booth had been smashed down and spread apart as if a very fat man had made a very long distance call for a very, very, long time. A cat was curled up on a chair that was pulled up in front of the phone. The cat’s legs dangled down and rested on the back of a shaggy, long-haired dog that looked like it was struggling with a muzzle, Next to the dog on the floor was a pig wearing a tie and glasses. The pig seemed to be lying on a pile of books and snacking on a fruit skins and nuts that were piled on a newspaper beside it. On the phone box, where the coin slots were, was a head without a body running its hair on a comb stuck on the wall. Each of them, except the head resting on the telephone, had a cap on their head that said PARKIE.
“It’s broken, it’s broken,” the cat screamed loudly as it saw Ashley walking toward the phone booth. “Broken, caput, gone, dead.”
Ashley paid no attention to the cat at all and walked up to the phone booth.
“Close the door,” the cat screamed bouncing up and down on the dog’s back.
The pig yawned lazily. “There is no door. There hasn’t been a door on…Well since…since the fat man called France.”
“Broken,” cried the cat turning back to Ashley.
“If it’s broken why are you all in here,” Ashley asked.
The dog looked up at Ashley. It was grinning from ear to ear. “Grumpl drions sher,” it said
“I beg your pardon,” Ashley replied, “but I can’t understand dog language.”
“He wasn’t speaking dog language,” the cat replied. “He was speaking English. You can’t understand him because of the dumb grin he’s gotten stuck on his face. I’ll translate. He said ‘We are expecting a call. Go away.’ “
“If the phone is broken how, could you be expecting a call?” Ashley wanted to know.
“It’s not completely broken,” the cat said, “not in all directions.”
“Can’t call out — except to Beluchistan,” the pig squeaked— “but if you are expecting a call it works.”
The dog sat up and put its paws on its face. “Urzst dsands,” it said.
Ashley looked at the cat
“We’re expecting a call” the cat said. “Are you expecting a call from anyone?” it demanded to know.
“I’m lost,” Ashley began to say. Before she could finish her sentence, the phone gave a loud jangle.
A voice floated out of the head perched on the top of the box where the slots for the coins usually were. It looked at Ashley and its lips moved as it said in a loud voice. “It’s for you.”
Ashley looked around for something that you could put to your ear to hear with and something you could talk into. “Just talk,” the head said. “You talk and they hear; when they talk, I talk and you hear.”
“It’s not very private, is it,” Ashley complained. She recognized the mouse’s voice. “Are you home yet?” it asked.
“No,” Ashley said.
“Well I was just checking, the mouse said. “Just to make sure. You might look under the doormat for a key, if there is a door. There’s a key there usually.”
Ashley heard a click. “Well that didn’t make any sense at all,” she complained to the head.
“I told you it is broken,” the cat said haughtily.
The phone jangled shrilly again. “It’s for you again,” the head said. A voice Ashley recognized as that of the octopus said, “I don’t remember. Did the balloon break?”
“It did,” Ashley said, “It certainly did,” she added.
“I thought so,” the voice replied sadly. “Because of the song of the painted objects. I wasn’t sure. Well, you never know, do you,” it said. Then there was a click. “We’re in deep…,” the talking head said but Ashley could not tell if it was the last words of the octopus or a comment by the talking head.
“Does that mean you’ll be hanging around waiting for more phone calls?” the cat asked, after a tiny silence. Its voice was a little anxious.
“I’m sure I will not,” Ashley said.
“Well, it’s not as if you had anything better to do,” the cat said in a huff. When it finished the sentence, it screwed up its face and took a deep breath and tightened all of its muscles.
Ashley could make no sense out of the cat’s behavior. “Perhaps it’s sick. If it’s a disability, it wouldn’t be polite to call attention to it. It might be very sensitive about it.”
“I’m lost,” Ashley said changing the topic.
“That’s what I meant,” the cat said. “It’s easy to tell that,” it added impolitely.
“Do you run the park?” Ashley asked.
“As much as anyone runs the park,” the talking head said bluntly. “It’s broken too.”
“How can a park be broken?” Ashley asked.
“That’s what we are waiting to find out. You can see there’s no one in it. If it weren’t broken, it would be…”
“Packed,” the head said.
“Full of people,” the pig added.
“Grup jingle,” the dog coughed out.
“The fence is locked,” Ashley said. “That is why there are no people in it.”
“That’s what you know,” the head said, turning itself down to look at Ashley. “We locked it when we found out it was broken.”
“Have you always been…?” Ashley asked the head.
“Don’t ask,” the head said in an offended voice, “and I won’t tell.”
“What are you all doing here?” Ashley inquired, changing the subject.
“You are really nosy,” the cat said.
“I mean if the park is broken what are you doing here? Why aren’t you fixing it,” Ashley explained.
“We only run it when it is working,” the pig said, lifting its head from the book it was reading.
“I see,” Ashley said. “I would think,” Ashley whispered under her breath, “that people who run something ought to know how to fix it if it breaks. “
“I heard that,” the cat said “and it is absolutely wrong. Most of the things in the park come from Japan in boxes. When they are working, they run themselves. When they break, someone comes and fixes them. It’s the law of the Jungle Jim,” the cat explained
“I see,” Ashley said. She looked at the cat. “Can I call you puss, cat?”
“You can call me anything you like,” the cat said haughtily. “Sticks and stones and all that. But I’m not a puss. I’m a morph.”
Ashley thought a moment: I’ve heard about moths, Greek moths especially. The Greeks seemed to have a lot of moths. Perhaps it was the climate. But I don’t remember hearing about any that looked like cats. She tried to remember the Greek moths she had heard about.
“Myths,” the cat hissed. “You are thinking about Greek myths. I’m not a myth, I’m a morph.”
“If I remember there was a one-eyed giant who played with sheep and two ladies of the sea named Celia and Cheryl.”
“Scylla and Charybdis,” the pig corrected.
“Morph,” the cat hissed.
“Did I say myth?” Ashley asked, “I meant moth. But you don’t look like a moth either,” Ashley said. ”Even Greek moths had wings.”
“Morph not moth,” the cat yelled as loudly as it could. “Moths are silly creatures that flap their wings and cause chaos. They are worse than butterflies,” it screamed, “especially the Greek moths. Awful creatures,” it insisted. “Morph. I am a morph not a moth or a myth.” The cat spoke the word loudly and very distinctly opening its mouth and showing its tongue and its teeth.
“I’m not sure I’ve heard about morphs ever,” Ashley said, drawing the ‘r’ out and wondering why the animal got so upset.
“I’m a morph,” the cat said, “so is he,” he said pointing to the dog who seemed to be wrestling with its face. “A morph is separate things that look like a single thing because they are a single thing somewhere. We live in computers nowadays. “
“That does not make sense,” Ashley said
“It does not make a lot of sense but it makes some sense,” the cat said condescendingly. “Things don’t have to completely make sense all of the time, especially at first. A morph is a single thing that is made up of different things. It’s a blend a combination, a portmanteau.” The cat said this last word very slowly. “It makes more sense if you are the front of the morph and a little less if you are the middle part of the morph and less still if you are the back end of the morph. But if you are completely outside the morph it should be clear as day.”
Ashley shook her head.
“What is so difficult to understand?” the cat demanded to know, curling its tail around its neck. “You can always put pieces of things together into a new thing. You can make up a word that begins with the front part of one word and ends up with the back end of another. Stick half of one and half of the other in the middle,…you can do it with a sentence too,” it added. “Start with a sentence and put a word in front or behind and you have…”
“Trouble,” Ashley said so loudly that the cat uncurled it tail and arched its back. “People do that all the time,” Ashley said more softly. “At least it seems to me they do. It’s very easy to do with the computer except…”
“The hard part is making a morph with something other words,” the cat continued, not paying attention to Ashley’s comment.
“People do that all the time too,” Ashley insisted.
The cat ignored her. “A morph,” the cat continued,” is half one thing, half another thing and half of both together.”
Ashley did a quick calculation in her head. “How could a thing be half one thing and half another thing and half still another thing?” Ashley demanded to know. “In mathematics two halves make a whole. It’s a law of fractions.”
“Well it depends on what kind of a morph you are,” the cat said.
“That,” Ashley said, “is nonsense A thing can only have two halves.”
“Of course,” said the morph. “That is for things that are only one thing to begin with. But for something that is a lot of different things all pushed together, each one has a different half. Together, they have a lot of halves. Of course, each of my different halves has a half so that there could be more than two halves even of a thing that is not a morph. If you paid more attention to logic, you would have no trouble at all understanding it,” the cat said. As Ashley watched it screwed up its face again and took as deep a breath as it could.
Ashley wondered if whatever was making the cat behave so oddly was catching. But she reminded herself it would not be polite to ask about it.
“That argument does not seem correct,” Ashley said, trying not to show that anything was odd about the cat’s behavior.
“It may be a specious argument you just do not understand, “ the cat said.
“I knew a species of logic,” the pig said “in which when you added two things like one and one you got one.”
“A species of what,” Ashley asked.
“Of cats’ arguments,” the pig said.
“Grump hrztra,” the dog growled.
He said that “A species argument is reproduction of the worst kind,” the cat translated.
“But If you know arguments you wouldn’t be so sure of that. In the old days before we morphs evolved very far, we were pieces of animals, My ancestor— a chimera— was part lion, part goat, part serpent, and part moth,” the cat said. “But we’ve evolved since then.”
“Every thing evolves,” Ashley said. “We learned that in school.”
“Everything evolves more or less,” he added. “But we have evolved more than most, especially girls of a certain age.”
“What age is that?” Ashley inquired.
The cat ignored her. “We come a long way. Now morphs are made up of pieces of everything, buildings, stones, vegetables, governments, sounds, smells bits of cloth, marbles. You can’t look at anything any more and be sure it is not a morph of a different color”
“I’m not sure I would like to be made up of bits and pieces of things.” Ashley thought out loud. “You could never tell what a piece of you was thinking about.”
“As the red queen remarked the other day, under the sprinkler when the sprinkler’s were working, we morphs have won the evolutionary game,” said the morph in a satisfied tone. “ Bye the bye,” the cat said “if I were you I would try to get back into the computer again.”
“Do you mean I’m not in the computer?” Ashley asked.
“I didn’t say that, did I?” the cat asked the dog.
“Jugs tran,” the dog muttered.
“Exactly,” the cat repeated. “It’s not a matter of being in or out, It’s a matter of knowing whether you are in or out. If you try to get back in and don’t succeed you know you not in and that is what matters. If you knew where you were you wouldn’t be lost. If you get in there’s no harm done, or not much anyway. Three halve’s of nothing are nothing or something so small you wouldn’t know the difference. You do want to get home?”
“I was quite sure I was in the computer,” Ashley said. “But to tell the truth it’s hard to be completely convinced about it because I’m not certain what the insides of a computer really look like.”
“Of course not,” the cat said. “Almost no one who uses a computer ever looks inside of it when its working,” he said in a self-satisfied way. “The only time people look inside of a computer is when it’s broken and then of course there’s nothing interesting to see. As far as most people are concerned, there are no insides of a computer.”
“I saw a computer open once,” Ashley said, “but all I can remember is a lot of wires and a lot of little black boxes. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention I have to admit though. But when I ‘m using it doesn’t look like that at all. Could it be that a computer has different insides depending on…”
“Well if you aren’t sure what the insides of a computer looks like you are lost in the worse way,” the cat said.
The dog growled again.
“What is he saying?” Ashley asked.
“He agrees,” the cat announced.
“With what?” Ashley asked.
“With whom. With me of course,” the cat purred. “But that grin makes it very hard to understand what he is trying to say.” As the cat said this it screwed up its face again but this time twisted itself as far backwards as it could go. When it had to breathe it let itself go and sank back onto its seat.
“How did you get here in the first place?” it said as if nothing had happened.
“Well I was doing my homework which was to write an essay…”
“Cut to the chase,” the cat said “which means…”
“...about a foreign country,” Ashley continued, “and …”
The cat interrupted her. “Do you know the poem about foreign countries?” he asked. “It might explain what happened.”
A foreign country, a familiar shore
paces slow and measured.
Shut the window, bolt the door
gather what you treasure.
A foreign country, a familiar face
streaked as if it’s cried.
Gather up your loved ones
and find a place to hide.
A foreign country, a familiar scene
electrons seeping from a paper sack.
Run, run, run away,
and don’t look back.
“Did that help any?” the cat asked.
“Not really,” Ashley said, “although it made foreign countries more real.” After the cat did not reply, she picked up her story again. “I was doing my homework, which was to write an essay about a foreign country and the mouse hung onto a word and I hung onto the mouse…”
“Not very likely,” the cat said critically. “But of course the world consists entirely of very unlikely events put together so that they seem familiar. I would try to find the mouse again. If not the mouse, the tail. If you find the tail maybe you can follow it back. It’s not too difficult to follow a tail back to its beginnings.”
“I met the mouse again,” Ashley stated. “but he had changed.”
“He was a morph probably,” the cat said.
“Well…”
“...from the tail end or from the end of the tail,” the cat added. “I’d follow the tail until I couldn’t go any further. Then I’d be home. Or, I’d have the mouse, tail and all for lunch.”
As the cat was talking to her, it began to screw up its face in a wild contortion of grimaces.
Ashley couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Are you sick?” she asked.
“I’m trying to grin,” the cat said screwing up its face. “All famous cats grin. If I could only grin, it said then the part of me that is a cat wouldn’t mind having a back end that looks like a wombat.” It screwed up its face with a horrible screech.
“What was that?” Ashley asked.
The cat screwed up its face like a spring again. “A grin in the making, I hope,” it said.
The dog broadcast a low wail.
“What is wrong with him?” Ashley asked
“Well,” the cat said with a disgusted look on its face. “I am trying to grin and he…” — he poked the dog with a paw, “he was poking around in the garbage and there was this grin that someone disposed of improperly, tossed out, and it stuck to his face and he’s trying to get it off. He may be showing off just to make me feel bad. Don’t pay any attention to him.”
“What do you think?” the cat asked as it scrunched up its face again and turned toward Ashley.
Ashley smoothed down her dress. “Well I think you have to practice some more.”
“Maybe it looks better from the side,” the cat said pulled itself up from the seat and twisted sideways. “What do you think now?”
“You look like a puss completely to me,” Ashley said, ignoring the whole issue of a smile. “Where are the other parts of you?”
“Not all of me is in the same place at the same time. It’s much easier being a morph if not all of you is in the same place at the same time. But if you can’t see that I’m a morph it’s no wonder you got lost. You need glasses.”
“Well, I’ve never seen a morph before.”
“I expect you never seen of fuzzy logic either or Julia sets or Klein bottles or fractals…”
“I’ve met a fractal recently,” Ashley said, “at least it claimed to be a fractal, although it looked a lot like an octopus to me.”
The cat’s face twisted and turned as it tried to grin. Its face didn’t change but its body shimmered.
“Would you happen to know of a way out?” Ashley asked “I am lost,” she said.
“It would be better if you said ‘ I am looking for the way home, would you happen to know the streets around here’” the cat shot back. “Then I would say, ‘Down here is Maiden Lane, the next block is…’”
“No,” Ashley said, “not lost by block, lost in an entirely different way. I was writing an essay,” she started, “on a foreign country. And I had just written puff…and it…”
“I’m going to move the topic along if you don’t mind,” the cat said. “It’s nice to meet an honest little girl,” the cat continued. “Most people who are lost don’t admit to it. They say they are trying to find themselves, as if they just put themselves down and forgot where. And most children around here are certain about where they are, and where they were, and where they are going. It’s disgusting.”
“They learn that from adults,” Ashley said.
“Perhaps,” the cat said. “Perhaps. But I would never make that mistake.”
“What mistake,” Ashley asked.
“Learning such an important thing as where you are from adults. Adults only know where you ought to be if you were lost where they are lost. By the way, why did you get yourself lost?” the cat asked casually.
“I didn’t get myself lost,” Ashley complained. “I got lost.”
“It certainly sounds like the same thing to me,” the cat said. “I certainly didn’t get you lost,” it asserted. “Did you?” it asked the dog.
“Gadflkj dnsdf,” the dog got out between tugging on the grin.
“He says he did not get you lost,” the cat exclaimed.
“I certainly didn’t,” said the pig turning a page of the book.
“Nor I,” said the head distractedly.
“I don’t see anyone else around so that leaves you,” the cat concluded.
“It just happened,” Ashley said. “Like his grin,” she added, pointing at the dog. The dog pulled furiously at the grin that covered his face. “I got lost because I was trying to…”
“Well if you were trying to, that would explain it. It is easy to get lost when you are trying.”
“Trying to,” Ashley began again, “to make a word behave.”
“Well that’s an even better explanation,” it said. “You start out trying to make words behave, then books and shirts and genes and suddenly you get lost.”
As the cat said the word ‘lost,’ the pig snorted loudly. It was lying with its belly pressed onto the ground tracing the words of a book with one of its hooves. It held the book down with the tip of its snout while it shoved lumps and scraps (from the pile on the newspaper) into its mouth with its other hoof. “Lost, Lost,” it squealed. “You’ve made me lose my place. Would you please keep quiet, I’m trying very hard to read. It’s very confusing hearing one thing and reading another at the same time.”
Ashley who had never seen a live pig up close before (reading or even just lying on the ground ) was very curious. She looked at the animal and tried to figure out where the pieces of the pig she knew about were when the animal was in one piece. “That is probably where the cutlets are “ she thought to herself “and the chops are probably there, certainly, but where, she asked herself, are the sausages?” She tried to be discrete about her investigation but the pig got very upset.
“I hope you are not one of those kinds of creatures,” the pig said, “who has nothing but recursion or morphing on their mind.” He said this has he scooped a wad of nuts and dried fruit into his snout. “I hope you are more refined,” it said, “and can think about reading and literature and not advertisements and shopping.”
“Grupt hrump,” said the dog.
He said” Erst kommt der fressen dann kommt die moral” the cat said.
“I don’t understand,” Ashley said.
“Eating first, literature afterwards,” the cat said critically, looking at the pig.
“I was thinking about shopping, “ Ashley said, thinking about a pocket book her mother carried.
“A waste of time,” the pig grunted and when Ashley said nothing, it turned back to the book and started scanning the page with its hoof. “I’m going to read aloud,” it said But the words Ashley heard did not seem to be coming from the pig.
She looked up and saw the head was following the movements of the pig’s snout and saying the sentences the pig read.
“You are not reading,” Ashley said to the pig who was in the middle of a sentence.
“Of course I’m reading,” the pig insisted. “I am just not saying the words out loud. I am reading and the head is saying the words I read.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Ashley insisted.
“Of course it does,” said the pig. “It makes as much sense as when you are writing and your fingers are moving the pen.”
“How does it know what to say?” Ashley asked.
“It says what I read,” the pig said as if he were explaining the simplest thing to a little child.
“Why don’t you read the words out loud yourself? “Ashley asked.
“It takes a lot of work to read and speak at the same time. I save my energy to make sure the words are read right.”
“What are you reading?” Ashley inquired.
“I can tell you the name of the book. It is called Vermeers. Here is the sentence I just read. “Arguing that machines can’t think because they can’t think like men, is the same as arguing men can’t fly because they can’t fly like birds.”
“What does that mean?” Ashley asked
“I haven’t a clue,” the pig said, “I only read the words I don’t know what they mean. That’s someone else’s job entirely. Usually he — he straightened his tail and shifted his rump so that it pointed to the cat — can tell us what the meaning is. At least as much meaning as there is in a story. A lot of stories don’t have any, you know.”
“Start again from the end of the book,” the cat yelled. The pig hoisted the book and flipped the pages to the end.
Ashley moved closer to the cat and asked. “Why do you want him to read the book from the end?”
The cat shushed her. “I‘m trying to listen, quiet for a minute.”
The pig started to read.
“I think I’m hurt, “Superman complained.
“Don’t be such a wuss,” Strayte said.”Get up and try again. I can’t wait around. I’m going on.”
“Crawling, Nick.”
“Crawling. You can come when you’re ready.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for crawling,” Superman said.
“Suit yourself,” Strayte said, “but for the time being I think it may be the only way to inch ahead. I’ll see you there when you get your wind.”
“Where?” Superman asked.
“Wherever,” Nick Strayte answered.
“Good bye, Strayte,” Superman said.
“Good bye, Superman,” Strayte said. “Good Luck.”
“I’m lost,” the cat wailed “Try the middle now, read from the middle of the book.”
The pig flipped the pages to the beginning and started counting. “One two…”
The cat interrupted him. “Not necessarily the exact middle, any middle will do.”
The pig closed the book and let it fall open and started reading.
“What is it like here?” she asked.
“Actually, not bad. No one is trying to kill you. It’s a lunatic asylum. Everyone’s pretty crazy. But I’m starting not to notice. After a while you stop seeing the bizarreness around you. It’s the human Achilles heel. The real Turing test. As long as something is real, you adapt, you adjust. There are drawbacks, of course. A person’s mind can adapt to things that a person’s body can’t adjust to. We adapt to things we shouldn’t adapt to. Then nature adjusts and…” He made a slicing gesture with his hand.”
The cat listened for a while. “The beginning now,” it cried. The pig dutifully flipped the pages to the beginning and read.
“Once Nick Strayte got this idea into his head he could not get it out. The only way not to think about it was to wrench his mind out of it, but the effort exhausted him and left him panting and drenched in a sour, sweaty confusion about whether he had the idea or the idea had him. Either way, it didn’t make any sense.”
“That makes no sense at all,” cried the cat. It should begin…”
“I met Nick Strayte where you meet everyone on campus, in the…
Ashley interrupted. “Where I come from, things go from beginning to the middle to the end. The beginning is the place the thing starts, and the end is where it ends, and the middle is where it goes through to get from the start to the finish.”
The cat sneered. “In a well-written story,” he hissed, “the end always comes first. How would you know what the beginning was the beginning of, if you did not know the end. The middle is there only to connect the end to the beginning. That book was a complete muddle. Besides we’ve heard something like that story a hundred times.” It threw a stone at the pig. “More.”
“I’m tired of reading,” the pig said the closed the book and put its head down and fell asleep.
“Enough reading,” the cat cried. “Shall I tell you a story?” the cat asked Ashley.
“That would be nice,” Ashley said not really sure.
“Once upon a time,” the cat began and stopped.
“And?”
“And nothing,” the cat said.
“That is not a story,” Ashley said.
“It is as much a story as I can tell you in one sitting. I could tell a lot more but I’m not sure you could listen to much more. You’re distracted because you are lost.”
“Well I’ve listened to a lot of stories that were a lot longer than that was,” Ashley insisted.
“You can fill in the rest. Stories don’t become really clear until the middle. I can give you that right away,” the cat said. “It fell down while everyone was looking except the crazy man and the mouse who were watching the doorway very carefully.”
“That doesn’t make much sense,” Ashley said.
“That’s because you weren’t paying attention. You’ve got to pay close attention. If you want, I can retell the middle again.” Not waiting it began. “But the time they got around to picking up the pieces there were very few pieces to pick up.”
“That makes even less sense,” Ashley said, “and I was listening very carefully.”
“Probably too carefully,” the cat said. “Would it make more if I mentioned they came a lot.”
“And went a lot,” Ashley added.
“Camelot and went a lot, a lot of comings and goings. It’s an adult story. That reminds me of another story.”
“I don’t want to hear another story,” Ashley said.
“I wasn’t going to tell one the cat said, pointing at the pig and the head who were asleep already. “It’s nap time. He curled his tail around its legs. Ashley looked at the head which had closed its eyes and tilted so that it was resting on the shoulder of the telephone. The pig’s head had fallen on the book
“Grupmph zryzit…” the dog said and was quiet.
“Nap for a while. A rest can do wonders for you,” the cat whispered and fell asleep.
Ashley looked for somewhere to put her head. Taking a nap seemed like a good idea.It seemed to her that she had not slept for a long time. She thought of using the rump of the pig as a pillow but decided against it and settled for putting her head over her arms on the table in front of her. Just as she put her head down and closed her eyes the cat sprang up. “Nap time is over, its time to play a game.”