Neurotica Page 9

“It” sat in the chair, motionless. “It” wasn't thinking about anything in particular. “It” rarely did. “It” was content. Suddenly, the telephone rang.

  ‘That must be the United States!’ “It” thought excitedly.

  Under close observation, one might notice “It” moving, ever so slightly, as the telephone rang on. Yes, “It” stirred, almost causing the chair to rock, ever so slightly. But “It” restricted movement. Why bother expending energy? In fact, why be excited? A call from the States could only mean one thing: “It” would have to do something.

  Luckily, the assistant picked up the telephone before “It” became too flustered. “It” wasn't accustomed to so much activity within the office, at least not all at once.

  ‘It's the President of the United States,’ the assistant called over to “It”, cupping his hand over the receiver. ‘Should I tell him you're in?’

  “It” quivered ever so slightly, like “It” usually did when the President called. The assistant, highly trained and accustomed to such matters, took this as a yes. He brought the telephone over to “It”. Not knowing quite where to hold the telephone (he never did) he simply held it as close to “It” as possible. You see, “It” had no ears. The assistant could hear the President on the other end of the line hollering to be heard. The President knew full well that “It” was hard of hearing, having dealt with “It” many times in the past, yet he was also fully aware that “It” was highly cooperative and seldom argumentative.

  As things turned out, the President had called regarding matters pertaining to the Free Trade Agreement. The President needed “It’s” permission to build several thousand American owned and operated department stores in Canada, all selling clothing made exclusively by peasant labourers in Mexico. In return, thousands of minimum wage part-time jobs would be created for Canadian citizens - something for everyone to cheer about.

  “It” agreed immediately, quivering all over. The resulting part-time jobs would be greatly appreciated by those hit hardest by recent cut-backs - including the poor, the homeless, the unemployed, the working class, the middle class, students, recent graduates, doctors, nurses, teachers, farmers, fisherman, and anyone else living in Canada. Of course, the Mexicans stood to gain as well; since none of them could afford the clothes they made, they might as well sell them in Canada and let the Americans profit.

  At this point, although it's hard to believe, “It” almost fell off the chair. This often happened when “It” got too enthusiastic. Being a good diplomat, “It” usually kept extreme displays of emotion at bay. Of course, “It” never spoke either, for lack of a mouth. This added to the effect, making “It” a very popular diplomat indeed. But don't think this means the assistant had to relay “It’s” response to the President. The President hung up shortly after stating his intentions, confident that “It” would go along with his plan, and not wishing to waste time listening to silence - or “It’s” assistant, for that matter.

  By now, “It” was exhausted. Although “It” had no eyes (how could “It” be expected to have eyes?) “It” sensed the assistant moving towards the door. Was it time for him to leave? “It” didn't know. “It” had no concept of time. Even if there was a clock on the wall, and there very well could have been, “It” was too dim-witted to figure out how to use something like that.

  As it turned out, the assistant was not leaving after all. Instead, “It” sensed yet another person in the room. But “It” couldn't be sure. “It’s” senses, if they could be called senses at all, were somewhat distracted by what “It” detected, rightly or wrongly, as a subtle change in the climate within the office. Chances are it was just an air-conditioner kicking in, thus exciting “It’s” primitive nervous system, if it could be called a nervous system at all.

  And now the problems arose, which were not uncommon at this high level of government. The assistant (who “It” finally learned to recognize just last week, by the way) had to convince “It” that a visitor had arrived. “It” had to be convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt, before allowing the assistant to sign anything or order Parliament to take action, if action was needed. As a result, a battery of tests was implemented, taking several hours. The assistant, by now accustomed to the process, used every trick in the book including: electrical shock, rigorous rubbing, screaming and yelling, flicking the lights on and off, stomping up and down, and finally a failed attempt at normal conversation. These combined tactics worked wonders. In less than three hours - a new record - “It” realised that the visitor was Mr. Morningfeather. In a matter of nanoseconds (not that “It” would understand what they were) “It” computed Mr. Morningfeather's politically correct name, which was The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow. Yes, that was “It’s” strong point - coming up with catchy phrases and titles to amaze colleagues and thrill reporters.

  “It” had few memories. Most became lost when “It” had to ingest breakfast through the slow, painful process of osmosis. Yet, “It” strained - if you could call it straining (no, in fact, “It” quivered) - and recalled that the Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow was the Minister of Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow Affairs. “It” had granted him the position after he wrote an agreeable article in a multi-cultural magazine, a magazine that was funded, produced, published, and written by the government, except for the article in question, which The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow was allowed to sign his name to.

  Yes, “It” was proud, or maybe just content (it was always hard to tell). And “It” was never as proud as when the press came flooding into the office. This was the only time “It” got up - or even moved. The general feeling of approaching press, even from several metres away, caused “It” to rise to the occasion. Pure instinct - that's why “It” was in charge! And the cameramen went wild, seeing “It” posing next to the Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow.

  This would make “It” popular with all sorts of people. And why not? After all, “It” gave The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow his seat in the House of Commons, which was near the back, in the corner. Actually, there wasn't a seat there at all – it was a stool from the cafeteria. And when the House of Commons got busy, which it always did, space was limited, so The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow had to sit outside in the hallway. But he could get into the House of Commons when things had ended and everyone filed out. Then he might sit and relax for awhile in the silence, contemplating his situation, perhaps thinking up new legislation to better the lives of his people and end discrimination of all types. This sort of thing was permitted, but not encouraged. The janitor would ask The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow to return to his office. And when he said his office he meant the janitor's office, because they had to share.

  Perhaps more importantly, and on an optimistic note, all the other ministers spoke highly of The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow, if they spoke of him at all. Most of them commented favourably on the fact that he was always on time, as they raced past him - seated in the hallway, trying to get in before the doors locked. Of course, none of this had to reach the press.

  The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow’s moment in the sun quickly ended. The assistant cleared the press out. “It” returned to the chair. The photo op with “It” was over. Back to business as usual. The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow, figuring incorrectly that he'd been called upon to perform some function, decided to air his grievances. The list was a mile long. But before he could get a word out, he was knocked down from behind.

  Mr. Pockets walked over him, annoyed with anything standing in his way. Mr. Pockets could see “It” whenever he wanted to - without question. No press, or Young North American Indian Environmentalist-type fellows, could take priority over him. “It”, quivering all over, was obv
iously glad to see Mr. Pockets. Of course, “It” had a politically correct term for Mr. Pockets as well, one which was developed eons ago, one which “It’s” semblance of a memory allowed “It” to recall. Mr. Pocket's politically correct title was: White Corporate Fellow with Heavy Briefcase, Alcoholic Wife, Three Kids, and No Intentions of Giving it Up. Well, as it turned out, White Corporate Fellow with Heavy Briefcase, Alcoholic Wife, Three Kids, and No Intentions of Giving it Up had arrived for business - as usual.

  ‘What's this I hear about a deal with the United States and Mexico?’ he laughed, slapping “It” on the shoulder, if you could call it a shoulder. “It” was polymorphous at best.

  “It” quivered, because “It” was excited and because “It” had been slapped - sending shock waves through “It’s” gelatinous structure. “It”, of course, was too dim-witted to wonder how White Corporate Fellow with Heavy Briefcase, Alcoholic Wife, Three Kids, and No Intentions of Giving it Up could have known about a top-secret call from the President that occurred just a few minutes ago. But the White Corporate Fellow with Heavy Briefcase, Alcoholic Wife, Three Kids, and No Intentions of Giving it Up, sensing the assistant's curiosity - and catching a suspicious upward glance from The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow, still sprawled across the floor - explained himself in due time.

  As it turned out, the White Corporate Fellow with Heavy Briefcase, Alcoholic Wife, Three Kids, and No Intentions of Giving it Up had “It’s” telephone tapped. When he heard about the deal, being an honest businessman, he simply had to make sure he'd get his fare share. Rifling through “It’s” desk, which was pretty much empty, he didn't bother to pursue his case further or make any concrete demands whatsoever. He felt assured that just by making an appearance he'd benefit accordingly. Besides, further negotiations with “It” would be difficult and time consuming, to say the least.

  In fact, if the truth be known, he didn't even like being near “It”. He wished he hadn't touched “It”. Now he would have to get his Armani dry-cleaned. Ignoring the assistant, stepping over The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow, he made his way out. At dinner, later that day, he'd tell his relatives how disgusted he was by “It”, just to get on their good side. He'd tell the same story to his workers at the factory the next morning. Of course, to him, the workers and his relatives were one-in-the-same, because all his relatives were working for him.

  Now that White Corporate Fellow with Heavy Briefcase, Alcoholic Wife, Three Kids, and No Intentions of Giving it Up had left, “It” could finally relax. Some relaxation was long overdue. The assistant, sensing “It’s” fatigue, helped The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow up and showed him out. The assistant encouraged him to make a future appointment, or to bring matters up in the House of Commons, if he had a grievance. But, at the same time, the assistant warned him about getting too optimistic about his position. The Young North American Indian Environmentalist Fellow, in a daze, just nodded, not knowing what else to do, letting his feet carry him blindly down the hallway.

  The assistant turned to “It”, as he usually did at the end of a hard day's work. Quite often, they'd discuss, in the loosest meaning of the word, the day's events and plan upcoming events. But “It” appeared to be asleep. Of course, it was very hard to tell, since “It” was devoid of eyes or eyelids and made no sounds whatsoever, let alone breathing - which no one knew how “It” managed. The assistant decided to leave “It” alone and head out.

  Is “It” asleep or awake? Alert or subdued? Effective or just there? These were the questions that coursed through the assistant's head, as he closed the doors to “It’s” office, sighing deeply. He couldn't help but think that his thoughts were shared by all Canadians. But, then again, they voted for “It”.

  The Trial