|Posted on Tuesday, September 02, 2003 - 09:31 am: |
It wasn't much of a living, working on the salvage and reclaiming of outmoded machinery. Bold Bot Hassford was not even able to get full information about what was done with the equipment he was reconditioning. Who profited, and why did his business exist? He didn't know, and for him that was the hard part. He felt like he was living in some kind of satire, pursuing such employment as he had.
So he quit. You'd do the same. One day he walked in and told the boss, "I'm quitting your job!" And he threw the hard hat down on the counter, that was the signification of his employment, and walked out.
The only thing was, what would he now do for a living? That hadn't occurred to him. You have to work in order to live. If you don't work, you starve. It doesn't have to be communism. The same thing is true of any way of life.
He wanted to find a new job---one that he could relate to better. But there were no employment agencies that it wasn't a full-time job to process through, with something no one would want, would in fact quit, just as he had, at the other end. Nor were there any openly visible possibilities. Those had been swallowed up by the employment agencies. They had jobs finding other people jobs! Well, let them alone at it, such a position didn't have very much security to it probably, but looking at it made one feel kind of gloomy about the employment prospectus.
So he got an idea. He would go where the existence was truly marginal, down where the sham enterprises were, that did little or no business but just existed, and find out how they made out, and get some kind of job like the ones they had. Such a job would suit his mood better. It would admit what existence was like to be doing some kind of a mox nix job that no one would care about or respect or do any real business with. It would match life as it was enough to be comfortable.
Maybe, if you are an attentive and a gentle reader, you thought he would end up running a computer chat room, but it was not so. The first place he went to, was full of curiosities that beat all, it was like the Old Curiosity Shop. And he asked "Do you sell many of these?" picking up some piece of nameless bric-a-brac.
"No, but when we don't sell them, we still have them, and we like having a lot of interesting things. It's getting where money would get us from the start. And when we do sell something, that's money in the pocket clean, because we own the inventory."
He broke loose, he spilled. "I'd like a job like it."
"Well, there's no openings here, either, and you have no opening inventory." But they proved kindly. (There were several people answering him, not only one.) "But you could have something nobody else wants, and as we need a guard, you could set up in the guard post that's over there partly into the woods, and be a lookout with an alarm system at the same time you sell the unwanted goods."
"That sounds ideal." So he waited while they took out the unwanted inventory and showed it to him. They were little colored egg-like things with a great interplay of transparencies and translucencies and complex maze-like innards such as a game-cube might have, and they had a quality of being strange to the touch, rather lighter than they should have been and giving the impression that they would move, like a Mexican jumping bean or a gyro that is rotating. He took it and asked them what it was.
"Nobody knows. They just came in from the shipping one day. There's no way of sending them back."
"I might be able to sell some. I think I'll call them Eon Eggs." And he set up display chambers, these again out of unwanted materials---he was a sort of artisan--and advertised his Eon Eggs. He called them that because it seemed to him his employment position was one that would only occur at the end of an eon, so he called what he sold eon eggs. Eggs symbolize rebirth---better still. He would say that in his spiels.
And they sold. He made a whole lot of money. In fact, he was turning over money hand over fist, being a great wage-earner.
There was only one problem with it. They really were eon eggs. And their purpose was to upset the twilight-zone culture in which he and all the other people lived.
Now everyone wants to know who he sold those eon eggs for.
|Posted on Wednesday, June 09, 2004 - 05:41 pm: |
Well, he was working for Vaps and feeling out of place. But someone was having both.
Post Number: 129
|Posted on Tuesday, August 05, 2008 - 05:31 pm: |
I've got biff and zow
Post Number: 130
|Posted on Tuesday, August 05, 2008 - 05:34 pm: |
I fetched this old topic back from 2003. I've got a better version of it now, called "The Lavalite Aeon-Snatcher".
I'm sure Gordon Van Gelder wouldn't be interested in the new version. In fact, the only editor I can think of who might like it was Bill Hamling, who might have considered it for Imaginative Tales. But I like the story, myself.
I've got biff and zow