In the low-angled sunlight of a hot afternoon, the front door of the cramped eatery creaked open. The guy who walked in, he looked like a cat hairball that had been pushed around until it was roughly the shape of a man. From the reaction of the woman at the front register, he smelled about the same.
After a moment, at a table nearby the Tin Man felt someone's eyes on him. It was just a little vibration in his tin-can chest that made him sit up straighter -- and stop nudging the oil can around on the cafe's well-worn table nervously. It had been a warm summer by anyone's account, but here, after things had traditionally let up for finer climates, out of all rationality came a spike in the temperature. But defying all rationality was not particularly surprising, as this was Oz, and Oz was rarely about making allowances for reason. The heat had sent the poor locals into the shade, and the rich locals out of the city and into their vacation cottages. The city was half deserted.
When the Tin Man was approached by the beast, he felt no apprehension; the golem of matted down hair shuffled closer to the small table, and paused. "The trees are marching. They're moving. This morning, they had come as far south as the Red Ridge. That's only a day away from her place."
As he turned to face the newcomer, a series of small squeaks issued from the Tin Man's various joints and grating noises from where his surfaces rubbed against each other. "What do you expect me to do about it?"
The hairy, oozing thing stood there.
The Tin Man thought this could go down a couple ways; either he asked for details on what was happening, and that meant everyone here would also get an earful of news, or he could just get up and go with the hairball, because he knew he was going to end up going to help "her" anyway. There just wasn't any scenario he could see where he didn't end up helping her. So why not go?
The Tin Man stood up and started walking for the door, the hairball shambling in close on his shiny heels.
Elsewhere:
Flying monkeys. Yeah, they were bad when they were flying for the Wicked Witch of the West; they'd make the children cry and the horses and orzlewumps would freak out, but it was worst living right near the WWW's castle, because those monkeys would always relieve themselves of extra weight before setting off for a long flight. So being just outside the castle meant roofs covered in flying monkey feces. No one thought about the monkey crap.
As jobs go, cleaning flying monkey crap off the roof tiles wasn't so bad. Tum had come to be Sole Turdscrubber when his partner-and-cousin, Tam, had put too much effort into scrubbing an edge tile, slipped off the roof, and landed upside-down in a barrel full of stewed cherries. Tam had drowned, and at the funeral there was still a smell of sweet-brandied cherries issuing from the otherwise plain pine box they buried Tam in. Tum was just hard-working enough that no-one set out to find a new turdscrubber, and just lazy enough that he was never going to be in danger of dying from straining to reach an edge tile.
Today, with the heat, the old stuff was especially hard to scrub off, and the new stuff was producing a funky smell that at once reminded Tum of both the latrine at the inn and the burning metal smell of the metalworker down the road. Steam was rising off from it. He hit those first, since they were easier to clean, and hit the older piles with some tepid, sudsy water in the hope that they'd soften up for him.
The biggest downside of Tum's job was that no-one really wanted to spend much time with a guy who dealt with feces all day and was notoriously not fastidious about clean up, roofs or otherwise. It wasn't a big problem, as much of the town near the Wicked Witch of the West's castle were not hugely concerned with hygiene as much as they were about keeping Her Magical Highness satisfied and off their backs.
The old guy who owned the place Tum had just stopped working on had been out on the cobblestones below the whole time. Now he sees Tum coming down the ladder, and walks up to meet him at the base, saying, "That's not done. You call that done? I can see streaks and gobs and clots. I think I even see a fez up there that one of them dropped. How can you call this done?" Tum just gave him a half smile and packed up his brushes and buckets, and left the old man stewing in his silence.
After a moment, at a table nearby the Tin Man felt someone's eyes on him. It was just a little vibration in his tin-can chest that made him sit up straighter -- and stop nudging the oil can around on the cafe's well-worn table nervously. It had been a warm summer by anyone's account, but here, after things had traditionally let up for finer climates, out of all rationality came a spike in the temperature. But defying all rationality was not particularly surprising, as this was Oz, and Oz was rarely about making allowances for reason. The heat had sent the poor locals into the shade, and the rich locals out of the city and into their vacation cottages. The city was half deserted.
When the Tin Man was approached by the beast, he felt no apprehension; the golem of matted down hair shuffled closer to the small table, and paused. "The trees are marching. They're moving. This morning, they had come as far south as the Red Ridge. That's only a day away from her place."
As he turned to face the newcomer, a series of small squeaks issued from the Tin Man's various joints and grating noises from where his surfaces rubbed against each other. "What do you expect me to do about it?"
The hairy, oozing thing stood there.
The Tin Man thought this could go down a couple ways; either he asked for details on what was happening, and that meant everyone here would also get an earful of news, or he could just get up and go with the hairball, because he knew he was going to end up going to help "her" anyway. There just wasn't any scenario he could see where he didn't end up helping her. So why not go?
The Tin Man stood up and started walking for the door, the hairball shambling in close on his shiny heels.
Elsewhere:
Flying monkeys. Yeah, they were bad when they were flying for the Wicked Witch of the West; they'd make the children cry and the horses and orzlewumps would freak out, but it was worst living right near the WWW's castle, because those monkeys would always relieve themselves of extra weight before setting off for a long flight. So being just outside the castle meant roofs covered in flying monkey feces. No one thought about the monkey crap.
As jobs go, cleaning flying monkey crap off the roof tiles wasn't so bad. Tum had come to be Sole Turdscrubber when his partner-and-cousin, Tam, had put too much effort into scrubbing an edge tile, slipped off the roof, and landed upside-down in a barrel full of stewed cherries. Tam had drowned, and at the funeral there was still a smell of sweet-brandied cherries issuing from the otherwise plain pine box they buried Tam in. Tum was just hard-working enough that no-one set out to find a new turdscrubber, and just lazy enough that he was never going to be in danger of dying from straining to reach an edge tile.
Today, with the heat, the old stuff was especially hard to scrub off, and the new stuff was producing a funky smell that at once reminded Tum of both the latrine at the inn and the burning metal smell of the metalworker down the road. Steam was rising off from it. He hit those first, since they were easier to clean, and hit the older piles with some tepid, sudsy water in the hope that they'd soften up for him.
The biggest downside of Tum's job was that no-one really wanted to spend much time with a guy who dealt with feces all day and was notoriously not fastidious about clean up, roofs or otherwise. It wasn't a big problem, as much of the town near the Wicked Witch of the West's castle were not hugely concerned with hygiene as much as they were about keeping Her Magical Highness satisfied and off their backs.
The old guy who owned the place Tum had just stopped working on had been out on the cobblestones below the whole time. Now he sees Tum coming down the ladder, and walks up to meet him at the base, saying, "That's not done. You call that done? I can see streaks and gobs and clots. I think I even see a fez up there that one of them dropped. How can you call this done?" Tum just gave him a half smile and packed up his brushes and buckets, and left the old man stewing in his silence.
Comments
Post a Comment