The Rich Man’s Dilemma

         One day an orphan was walking in the dirty snow of the city when she happened on an abandoned refrigerator, which sat on its side in the driveway of a rich man’s home. The day was especially cold, and the soles of her shoes had worn clean through to the socks, so the orphan decided to take a short nap in the appliance.
         Now the rich man had such and abundance of money that he could afford to spend much of his days seated at his computer, and because of recent technology, he was able to keep his yard under video surveillance. And so when the orphan disappeared into his old refrigerator, he immediately put on his best robe and headed out to the street.
         “Hello in there,” he said, opening the refrigerator door. “It’s very warm in my house and it’s very cold in my appliance. Why don’t you come inside and enjoy my amenities?”
         The orphan did not open her eyes for she was sleeping. “Why would I want for something that is not destined to be mine,” she said. “Don’t I have everything essential?”
         “You need warm food and a safe place to defecate,” said the rich man.
         “Much can be accomplished with the imagination,” the orphan replied.
         The rich man went back to his home and began gazing at his computer screen. He watched the snow come down in a flurry, which soon submerged half the refrigerator. Then the rich man put on his coat and snow-shoes and headed back out to the street.
         “Hello in there,” he said, opening the door with some effort. “Besides what I have already told you, today is trash day, and in a few hours a truck will take you away to the dump, where you will be forgotten amongst the materials that have outworn their welcome. This is not your fate. Why don’t you come inside?”
         “Never have I darkened any door,” the orphan said, with closed eyes and lips. “For if I entered your home, your vanity would be quelled but not satiated, and I would soon be made a slave.”
         “You are correct,” said the rich man, “but the offer remains.”
         “Leave me be,” said the orphan.
         The rich man went back to his home and removed a little penknife from his bureau. He sat in front of his computer and angrily cut little lines into his skin, watching the snow completely submerge the refrigerator. No garbage truck arrived on that day for the snow was too deep.
         Three days later the sun began to shine, and all the snow melted away from the streets. The rich man put on a colorful shirt and sandals and headed out to the street. Inside his refrigerator he found the orphan frozen and pale. He carried her inside and lit a fire in the hearth and turned on his heater, and soon he was sweating and the orphan was beginning to lose her frozen shell. When she revived, she was immediately frightened, for never before had she darkened any door. But then she looked all around her at the amenities that the rich man had to offer, and quickly became glad.
         “The choice only appeared to be yours,” the rich man said. “Welcome to my home.”
         But the orphan did not respond, for with happy, flashing eyes she was occupied with a curious piece of technology. By summer of that year they were married, and soon the rich man’s house was filled with many children. One should memorize this story, because it is from this union that our great generation descended.

Bridge Tale

         Once, not long ago, a man and a woman had a conversation on a stone bridge. The river beneath the bridge was green, polluted, toxic in places, but the water had some place to go; it ran swiftly through the city on its way to somewhere else. As for the two people, the lady was sickly and pale and the man was not so sickly or so pale, but neither could one, upon seeing him on the street, say, “That man is healthy.” Although they had not met before this afternoon, both had ruined their health looking for things that they were unable to find. The woman, whose speech was often interrupted by a raking cough, had lost her child, a boy, who had fallen off this same bridge when he was young, which was many years before. The man, his loss less severe, had dropped his gold ring into the river as he adjusted his tie, crossing the same bridge several weeks before. “What will you do when you find your child?” said the man. “I’ll teach him not to disappear,” said the woman. “I might even keep him in a jar.” “What will you do if he leaves again?” said the man. “I’ll teach myself to disappear,” said the woman. “What will you do when you find your ring?” “I’ll return to my job,” said the man. “I’ll re-unite with everyone I?ve pushed aside.” “What will you do if it leaves again?” said the woman. “I’ll drag them all along with me,” said the man. Both unsatisfied with the answers to their questions, the man and woman began to try and impress one another with miraculous visions. “Look,” said the woman, “I see seventeen angels skimming upon the water.” “Look,” said the man, “I see a bicycle cycling with no rider upon it.” “Look,” said the woman, turning bashfully to the man, “I see a child sleeping underwater with a ring around its finger.” “My ring is not in the river,” said the man angrily. “Neither is my child,” said the woman. The man looked dejectedly down at the water. “Will you promise to never cross this bridge again?” he said. “I will,” said the woman. “Will you promise to never cross this bridge again?” “I will,” said the man. So the woman went her way, and the man went his way, and only once did they look back at to see how the other was getting along. The water beneath the bridge did not show any sign of having known it was the cause of their sorrow; it kept flowing. The man and woman are still alive even today: mad, wretched and searching. This is not the usual way in which this particular tale is told. It is usually presented as a riddle, which reads as follows: A child sleeps in green water with a ring around his finger. They know every secret, every one. If they are not in the river, where, then, are they hiding?

The Balloon Ride

         The Boy King and his assistant are on vacation in the Serengeti, taking a ride in a hot air balloon. They are alone together in the creaking gondola, which is suspended from the balloon by braided rope, and adorned with the colorful flag of Santalina, the country in which the Boy King reigns. Below them the yellow grasses of the Serengeti bend and sway with the same lazy wind that pushes the balloon. According to the assistant’s elevation meter, which he perpetually keeps clipped to his robe, even on land, they are precisely one hundred feet above the earth. He relates this information to the Boy King, who lowers his eyelids and regards his assistant suspiciously.
         “Higher,” he says, adjusting his crown.
         The assistant wearily adjusts the valve on the burner, and the two are gradually lofted up. “Better?” he says.
         “Much,” the Boy King says. “For now.” He removes his slippers, which are made of gooseberry felt, and walks toward his assistant. “I’d like to take a view,” he says.
         “Of course,” the assistant says, sliding carefully out of the way. As a sign of deference he also kneels on the wooden floor of the gondola.
         The Boy King smiles with closed lips, titling his head thoughtfully. He leans over the rail of the gondola. “There’s something I haven’t seen in a while,” he says under his breath, and the assistant assumes, incorrectly, that he is referring to a sight below.
         “Do you like it?” the assistant says, still kneeling.
         “Let me decide,” the Boy King says.
         “May I join you at the rail?”
         “You may.”
         The assistant joins the Boy King and they gaze down at the passing yellow plains. The Boy King points to a tree in the distance. “Supply me with the name of that,” he says.
         The assistant searches his Serengeti travel guide for a tree with a long black trunk and foliage that looks like a head of bushy green hair. “Petermore,” he says decisively, closing the travel guide.
         The Boy King turns to face him. “Show me the passage,” he says doubtfully. A sudden, stiff wind strikes the balloon from the side, and the assistant loses his grip on the travel guide, which is ejected from the balloon and falls one hundred and twenty seven feet below to the soft grass. “Petermore,” the assistant says, more decisively.
         The Boy King turns back to the railing. He stares at the endless swales. “Might this be for sale?” he says.
         The assistant joins him again at the rail. “Yes. We may purchase the balloon, if it’s to your liking.”
         The Boy King inhales deeply through his nose in frustration. “I don’t give a wibble about the balloon. These plains, are they for sale?”
         “Your highness,” the assistant says incredulously, “this is a sovereign nation. There are over twenty million people here, not including the wild beasts. Their chief export is horsehair stew.”
         The Boy King turns to face his assistant, tears forming in his eyes. “I hate horsehair stew,” he says. After a long silence he says, “Oh can’t we just annex the fucker?”
         The assistant nibbles at his lower lip. “I’m afraid, your highness, that might require a full scale invasion.”
         The Boy King gazes hatefully at the plains. “What are the people like?” he says. “Are they useful?”
         The assistant swallows hard. “If you remember, your highness, I have misplaced the travel guide.”
         The Boy King hurls his crown from the gondola, where it glides elegantly in the breeze and disappears into the yellow plains. He points to the burner, where a blue flame dances. “Higher,” he says, feeling a swoon coming on.
         “But your highness,” the assistant says, looking away.
         “Higher.”