Chapter One

I’ve spent a lot of time, lately, feeling sorry for other people.

I’m not sure why. I never used to care so much. You wouldn’t blame me if you were in my position, either: I work the IT desk at a college. I have to deal with whiny assholes all the time, seldom receiving any thanks or praise for my work. As part of the customer service industry, I’ve learned to tune out the feelings of others and focus on the job.

But now… now I can’t help but care. My heart is bursting with emotion for everyone. What the hell happened?

It all started on Tuesday. Some preachy Philosophy student had dropped his laptop on my support desk, demanding I fix the thing. Nothing new, that – I have to coax dozens of laptops back to life every day. Whether I’m successful or not I feel the same: happy. Happy, because some time has passed, bringing me a little bit closer to clocking out. Focus on happy thoughts in-between, like going to the cottage or something.

But this was different. I actually cared. I wanted to make this poor guy happy. I wanted to fix his laptop, I really did. But no matter what I tried, I couldn’t pry the back panel open. My fingers could barely grasp my screwdriver, let alone turn the damn thing. I felt helpless, and very, very sad for the student.

So I jumped over the desk and bit him instead. It seemed the most natural way to make him happy. A big ol’ piece out of his shoulder would fix him right up, I thought, though I only managed to nibble his neck before he pushed me back and ran.

Now I’m at home without a job. I don’t really feel like getting a new one, either: that will just distract me from making people happy. Happiness is my goal.

But how? How can I bring joy to others? How can I show them that life doesn’t need to be a constant hustle-bustle, but something to enjoy? How can I prove to the world that it’s doing the wrong thing by ignoring all that should be embraced?

I’m not sure. So I’m stuck at home, thinking, trying to turn on the television. Maybe the news will give me hints. But I can’t seem to hit the buttons properly. This doesn’t bother me, though it is curious. My hands have lost all of their manual dexterity, like I’m trying to change the channel with an oven mitt strapped over my fingers.

And christ am I hungry. I’ve rooted through the fridge a dozen times today, lurching out of my seat every ten minutes to find… something. Anything. The week-old pizza and leftover hamburger patties aren’t doing it for me today, however, and each time I slap the door closed and return to my couch empty-handed. Nothing in my apartment will get rid of the itch tickling the roof of my mouth.

Then I think of the Philosophy student. Mmm. He tasted pretty good, even though I only got a sample of his skin. Maybe a little sour. I bet that comes from his pissy attitude. You’d think a student of the mental arts would learn how to chill out.

Feeling distinctly antsy about the unhappy state of the world, I head for the streets. The door’s a strong opponent, but with enough fumbling I manage to claw it open. This doesn’t frustrate me, though, as I marvel at the intricacy of my body, and the effort that goes into even simple tasks. I bet nobody else thinks about firing synapses or ever-moving muscles. They’re too busy worrying about their wallets.

It’s dusk outside. The air is cool against my skin, but not unpleasantly so, so I drop my jacket at the door and walk into the streets. I don’t bother closing the door, however. Everything in my apartment can be replaced, and I get the feeling that I don’t need most of it anymore anyway.

I won’t be surprised if I come back and find most of my stuff missing. I live in a poorer part of town, the buildings all last century in construction and fading quietly into the sunset. The streets aren’t abominable, but they’re not absolutely safe, either. Normally I wouldn’t risk wandering about without a pocketknife, but tonight… tonight I think I trust people. I trust them not to get too crazy.

My trust is tested ten minutes later when, as I’m picking my way through an alley, I’m confronted by some young thug.

I’ve seen his type before, even though he’s wearing a bandana over his face. Short-cut hair. Wiry, thin muscles under a white wife-beater. Shaky as hell, the poorly-cut lead pipe in his hand trembling crazily. He could be the Philosophy student who got me fired, for all I know. My eyes are hazy, and can’t pick out details.

“Gimme your money, man. Don’t have to get hurt.” It’s a lame threat. He’s trying to sound gangland, but I can tell by his accent that he’s at least somewhat educated.

“You don’t want to hurt me,” I reply, stretching my hands in supplication. “You’ll get tossed in jail. Your life will go down the tubes. And I don’t have any money to give you.”

I turn out my pockets to show him my lack of wallet, but he doesn’t seem to understand. He backs off, his eyes tighter, warier. “What the hell are you saying? What’s wrong with you?”

“Can’t you see?” I insist, tugging the white insides of my jeans as far out as they’ll go. Christ, this is like a cartoon. “I’m broke. You’re wasting your time.”

He doesn’t get it. He’s scared now, and not for the same reason as before. It’s like he doesn’t know what I’m saying, and in his ignorance he’s retreating. He keeps looking down the alley; I suspect he’ll sprint away if I say anything else.

But I don’t want him to leave, not yet. Maybe I can show him what I’ve discovered, that the world doesn’t have to run on consumer goods. I want to share the dozens of subtle epiphanies I’ve had in the last week, ever since I came down with a cold on Monday. It’s funny how colds can completely change your perception of the world.

These revelations don’t come shackled to a pulpit, however. There’s only one way to get my message across: I lurch forward and bite him. Because, god help me, that neck of his looks really tasty. The itch in my mouth demands that I give it a nibble, and my brain insists that it’s all for the best. If I bite him, he’ll get what I’m saying.

Like the young Philosophy student, he screeches and backs away. Unlike the Philosophy student, however, he has a lead pipe. He mashes it against my shoulder, and I hear a bone pop out of place. Pain blossoms in my wound, but not nearly as much as I would have expected. I’ve bumped my toe on a doorframe, not dislocated my arm.

The young man is running down the alley as I slump against the wall of a warehouse. I could follow him, since he’s leaving a trail of blood, but I suspect that’s unnecessary. Give him a day or two and he’ll see the light. I doubt he’ll be mugging anyone again tonight, and that should be enough time to lead him into a better, simpler life.

I wish I could have steered him a little better. Maybe mentored the guy. I have spare time. Right now, though, I have a more pressing concern: I can’t seem to get up.

My arms and legs feel like jelly, particularly the shoulder the thug attacked. There’s strength in me, I can feel it, though it doesn’t want to reach my extremities. Nobody’s around to help me, either, which is no surprise. I only used the alley as a shortcut to get to the park. I always use the alley.

Should I, though? Mankind is all about shortcuts. We look for the fast way to get things done. My manager always emphasized that shit: “We want every student satisfied pronto. There’re a lot of the little buggers waiting for repairs, and you need to be efficient. Go by the checklist and get ‘em in and out. Don’t clog the desk.”

I used to believe in that creed. It gave me more time to think about going to the cottage. Now? Not so much.

I should have stuck to the streets. I don’t have anything else to do right now. The park wasn’t going to disappear like Cindarella’s pumpkin coach if I didn’t get there in time. It would’ve been waiting, and rather than staring at the refuse of mankind – literally, as my head’s jammed against a garbage bag – I could have watched the birds in the trees lining Main Street.

But this isn’t so bad, laying here. Even a garbage bag has its upsides. It’s a pleasant shade of green, for starters, and though the scent of three-day-old tortellini is wafting out the top it’s still a natural smell. The garbage bag is a self-contained world, one that boils down to the essentials of life. Eat, breathe, sleep, reproduce, survive.

I don’t feel like doing any of those things right now, except for eating. I’m still clutching a sample of the thug’s neck in my teeth, chewing it happily. It has the same rubbery texture as freshly-baked turkey skin. Mmmm.

It’s so important to enjoy the simple things in life. To not let extraneous shit get in the way of being happy. And as I lay there, my face pressed to the garbage bag, only half-heartedly attempting to stand, I decide that I should share this philosophy with the world. The park can wait.