NEWDIE STEADSLAW

Now, your universe might sprawl out to unfathomable distances in the infinity of expanse, an endless cosmos replete with mysteries and secrets, impossible cogitations at the end of eternity—but within the realm of private relativity, such an option was not like to be, as the whole of the world—barring some clouds and solar glare—was seeable at once, and past that was rock forever—and so it was inward that the unknown dwelt, as it always does. Thus did the strange passages of the maze burrow within toward unknowable routes, entwine upon themselves in unlikely geometries, space folded into impossible dimensions, a meandering maze of endless paths, all comfortably contained within the walls of the Palais Foop—which meant that even if Traycup and them could solve the labyrinth, they’d still have to get through the lobby without succumbing to the allure of the all-you-can-eat breakfast.

And so it was that Traycup wandered for either several years or several minutes—it doesn’t matter which and there’s no way to tell them apart—and then his lostmanship was interrupted as he arrove near to a porcelain collection, and stopped to admire it, for it had been displayed so lovingly that it’s owner’s concern was obvious, and he felt it diskind to leave it in ignorance, and so came to lean over the setting-place, and took in the sight with earnest stupidity.

“’tappears to be a fine set of bowling,” Traycup said, not knowing what one would be like, or what one would like, were he to meet one, but he guessed that a bowl as fine as this would yearn to be filled and to have its self put to use, the purpose of its making fulfilled at last. Traycup glanced about for a fluid to enplace into the bowls, and there was nothing handy save only a Collins glass of aluminum oil—but as he’d had a bath once or twice before, maned wolves could not visit a closed-up muffler shop, and so there was nothing to do but hope for better next time.

Two ladies were nearby, one a knower of knitting—as is too classic too often—and the other some manner of stromboli-maker, and they said, “Oak, ocher, ocarina! Well, you’ve come to a place, and that’s a bridge too far to say any more! So, you think you’ve got a gumption? Here’s a clean display!” They put some spackle on the sheet rock, for there’d be hell to pay if this job wasn’t done by noon and up to code to boot, and said boot watched idly nearby, waiting and dreading to be used—but its time would be at an end soon enough.

The ladies continued, saying, “A stucker’s born every minute! Are you looking for the freighter? Because it won’t be along until after the postman gets his due!” The ladies exchanged eyes while no one was smelling.

“G’d otherfolks,” said Traycup, “you’re found gladly, for I’ve got some spatial distortion to my name—lostwise is what I am, and if you’ve a light to put ’pon my shroud, I’d be a gladman!” He said this with a smile and a courteous curtsy—the adjective and noun, like every word, like every other living thing, spawned from the same, all echoes filling creation as best they can, their whispers lasting forever even as they pass into the Planck domain—Planck stuff is still part of private relativity, so it’s fine to talk about, they just don’t call it that here, I’m just translating for your convenience—but there are better things to worry about than the age of words.

The two ladies, sans itching powder, extruded a marble statue for Traycup to sit upon. They put it between them, decorated it with boughs of parsley and sprigs of sage, lit an iceberg beneath it, and glazed it with gin rummy. They made grins with as many teeth as they could—it was definitely more than some, so make sure you’ve got the right pic’.

“That’s atempt!” said Traycup. “But alas, I’m less keen on remnants, and aimed toward some expeditions. Now, if youc’n, say where the way out’s at?”

“Oh, bold choice,” said the ladies, “but there’s none of that! Here’s a place to start the full fossilization process. Kick up all your feet! Peel off your whole shoe! The time of languor is upon you.”

Traycup clapped all of his hands and said, “Lad’es, that’s a succulent plan, if I can put a right angle on it! I’ve some pals to consult, how’ver, and it remains rather soonish for retirement! I must bid you adieu—or ado, if you do—and find my way themward!”

The ladies picked up the cards and said, “We shall not stop you if you wish to leave—no, we shall stop you if you wish to leave.”

Traycup binocularlessly looked about him, and he saw everywhere different paths, some of which he was already walking down upon, and he knew not whether he saw himself past or future, neither or both, or if some cunning chicken nugget had come by and made quite convincing man-e-quins. He had not before encountered one of those infinity mirrors, and even if he knew about them, this wasn’t one.

But ere he could plumb a trail, both the ladies sprang up from their ski lifts and threw donut holes at him—no, not the cute marketing gimmick, but the true negative space in a normal holed donut—and Traycup was forced to carve like an industrious caveman, or at least went under a desk for too long—he wasn’t even allowed a fletching tutorial. It made sense, but was never explained, or if it was explained, it went forgotten too soon. And speaking of “too soon”—

“Don’t clash so fast, i’you please!” said Traycup, painting a bracket on a croissant. “There’s at least a better way to get indifferent to snowpals.” He took the longest spaghetti and gave it a better name and sent it off to school in the mountains, where summer was never ending and every holiday happened twice as often and twice as hard. The spaghetti excelled at school, so much so that it disappeared within the walls one day, and though it was never seen again, oft was it rumored to wander the halls and hills still, within darkened spots, unreachable, past a hidden door that blockaded the path to the capital-letters old building. I’m not going to capitalize “old building”, no, even though it thinks it deserves it. It has to do more than be to earn that distinction.

One of the ladies wailed and the other lady whaled, but neither in the right direction, and when they ran back to get more smoking guns, Traycup took the opportunity and put it back on the high shelf where no one could knock it down on accident, and just in time, too, for he then tripped over every shoelace and fell into a new and different hallway, and the garage door snapped closed after his passing, so when the ladies returned from their spin class, Traycup was fully gone, and they knew not where he’d passed, and they quickly lost interest when Tedsteve came by for a private performance.

“I think I’ve been d’sm’ssed,” said Traycup, dusting a cheese wheel and climbing atop a valise. “That’s a place ’spected! The next is all the more likely to be an outage, then.”

He chose a different corridor based on his own criteria and ambled along down it.

Elsewhere—or at the same where but elsewhen, who knows, this place is weird—Roby stood alone in a quiet spot where the hallway went in every direction, and she looked around and saw no one, and so said to herself, “Well, this thing is fine! I will find time to wind high and low if I go to the show or to show, and so I have a mind to bide my time, and besides—” She opened up her picnic basket wherein was found a steaming-hot bowl of shark fin soup, and even she was impressed that she had kept this secret—but she had not long to savor the victory, for there was Ben Garment, coming from over there. Roby packed her picnic and panicked a bit.

Ben Garment perceived Roby and made a bee’s line toward her, and upon his arrival he said, “Well, it’s Roby. Now we’re joined, but no less lost, eh? Get unspooled some more, won’t you?”

“I am not spooled, I am no fool,” lied Roby. She meant well, at least.

“We’re lost in a not-our house,” said Ben Garment. “Say a plan for getting away from it, if you’ve got one.”

“I have not one,” said Roby. “My claim is done.”

“No plan? That’s as well, but I have one,” said Ben Garment, “and it’s this: ride within a housemobile, and be at the gates of Oopertreepia in a slew of seconds! With speed like it’s got, that’s as plain a plan as a lungfish’s tattoo!” His fins shook with the vibrato of a wine-taster’s repressed longing. “But, we’re housemobileless now, aren’t we? A careless expense that stodges our trek!”

“Place no blame upon me!” said Roby. “In that case, I was forced to flee. The life of a lady of nobility was traded for healing and civility.”

Ben Garment scoffed scoffishly—or perhaps just fishly—and said, “Tut! It’s shameful, at a rate. The housemobile would have been a grand boon. Too, Traycup had a plane near his palm, but butterscotched that finale!” He ignored a not-too-near Jenga tower so creamily that it toppled of its own accord, and then abashedly tried to reassemble itself. Roby kindly helped, and thought a thought in the meanwhile; she felt the attackment on Traycup’s behalf, bound to him as she was by the matched names, so says she; and, moresoever, she knew Ben Garment had had command of a fine blimp once upon a time, and only recently was part of losing bussable transport—though the bus’s destination was one of low liking. She mentioned none of these things—on purpose, of course.

“Let us find flight,” said Roby, “afore we start to fight.”

“Yes,” said Ben Garment suitishly, “that’s sense. So! Look upon the too-many paths of this weirded place, and tell me if you know which one’s right.” Ben Garment gestured to the myriad corridors and hallways which tangled all about them. It was a grand and sweeping gesture. It had to be.

“I know that not,” said Roby, “so here is a thought: knowing not which is right, we maybe—just might—be able to go along any without going wrong!”

Ben Garment peered at the joints of a frame of a painting—it was an amateur job, and he could tell. “I can retrace your step! But I think there’s a flaw there. I’ve thoughts different. This maze is clever enough to stymie any path. So we’ll go pathless! We’ll build a hut here and call it a home, hat-hanging aplenty. Thus enshrined, we’ll be lost no more!”

“Is that the plan you have in hand?” said Roby.

“A plan and a plot,” said Ben Garment.

Ben Garment searched for some supplies, and nearby was Special Catt, the brick seller who lived in a brisket cellar (not pictured). Special overheard this through a toothpaste tube and said, “Oh, we’re planning building? I’ve got wares to spare!” He pulled a napkin off a snail and said, “Behold, if you wish, good enough goods to do your best!”

Ben Garment came over and saw what Special had to offer: seven bricks, each more than the last, in all the colors, give or take. He examined them with a boxer’s eye and said, “They’re as fine as folding! But, say a cost, for it’s likely unachievable.”

“Like as not,” said Special, “so these are offered guiltless, but say only a promise: put that house here, dwell close enough to be neighborly, and share a visit with me come any given holiday.”

“Materials for but the cost of friendship?” said Ben Garment. “Oh! Are the Lopkits the only adders? Seems the throne’s stowed! Seller, it’s dealt.”

And so Ben Garment took all the bricks and from them fashioned out a housable home, and settled in to watch T. V., hoping to tune into the curling championships in time to see the bloodbath. Roby was there, too, but she had nothing to do with the planning or construction phases of the house’s birth, and only watched. Not T. V., just, y’know. Stuff.

Ere the first commercial break, Roby had to get uprooted. “Well, Ben!” said Roby. “Listen! Calling this a home will just keep us alone! Getting out of here is a mission all hold dear, so we ought to schedule a meet-up with Mario, Phillippo, and Traycup!”

“A meet-up! Aye! And here’s the spot for it!” said Ben Garment. “In a place of placeless placing, here’s a place with our whole name on it. Behold! I’ve labeled our mailbox appropriately—we’re as legit as boots!”

Roby saw the mailbox, which was not fanciful in any interesting way, and in fact was too new to have borne any dings and scuffs of a well-lived life. In a way, it told its own story with silence—but for the label bearing both her and Ben’s names, and their newmade address: One Any Way.

“Merely Traycup must send a letter,” said Ben Garment, “and then, if he’s got a bone in his brain at all, follow the post-officer, and find his way usward! Then, we’ll be joined.”

Not Roby nor Ben Garment were adequately familiar with Traycup’s difficulties with the post office, and so, while this plan seemed a bit of a stretch, they couldn’t plant their finger on the flaw entirely, and so Roby settled down on the couch and tried to watch T. V. at last, but alas, as T. V. and couch both were made of brick, the show went unseeable—not that they would have been around to see it at all, for around that moment came the wind of shining letters and grand breeding, and the H. O. A. arrove.

“Lo!” cried the H. O. A. “Newmade homehaver, know this: all ways and means. Your violations are instantly manifold, so say them or see them increased!”

Ben Garment said, “Well, here’s new trouble of the make that may draw wanted attention.”

“What ill have we done now?” said Roby. “May we not just be pals?”

“Lo!” cried the H. O. A. “Multiply your silence. Become cognizant of your failure, which is dire indeed: the colorization of the exterior of your abode matches not the destiny forelain in novellas prior. What say you to this crime?”

They looked at their rainbonic house, which spanned the spectrum, and contrasted it to Special Catt’s domicile, which was as translucent as no pearls, and a little less like wood than you’d think.

“I beg your pardon,” said Roby, “but we have just started, so give us some moments, and we shall right this onus!”

“Lo!” cried the H. O. A. “The damage is done. Become cognizant of your failure, which is terrible truly: the fontical style of your addressian appellation is dismatching to thy neighbors’. What say you to this crime?”

Special Catt was at the liquor store at that moment, but Ben Garment and Roby looked at his house and saw the freshly mounted numerals adorning the same, which used a copyrighted font face that could only be used by licensed users—which Ben Garment was not, and no one in the history of the Inverted Earth had ever trusted Roby with a license to anything.

“Oh, come!” said Ben Garment. “Numerals written in full lettering are a gross obligation, in any case.”

“Lo!” cried the H. O. A. “Only obedience is acceptable. Become cognizant of your failure, which is massively monstrous: it is Sunday. What say you to this crime?”

Roby and Ben Garment looked at each other.

“As suspected,” said the H. O. A. “As expected.”

“It seems like excessive documentation,” said Ben Garment correctly. “Can it be that this comes to an end?”

“An end?” said the H. O. A. “There shall be no end.”

Then the H. O. A. cast its cloak about the district, and covered up all the fluorescent lights, and glued the blinds shut—a bit useless, as there were no windows until the fall—and a river came washing through. A great river? It could not be known, but seeing it made them realize they’d been thinking all wrong. If they stopped to watch the water, they’d never be finished. If they got wet once, they’d never dry out. And wasn’t this all the more captivating than watching the game? And wasn’t this all the more captivating than playing the game?

“Ben Garment,” said Roby, “the battle is met! Do you know how to fight the way a warrior might?”

“I’d rather be estranged,” said Ben Garment. “Our tenancy’s ended, Roby, so we’ll succumb to your plan!”

“The plan I had was very bad!” said Roby.

Meanwhile, the H. O. A. had grown in the shadows, the tendrils of its menace crawling through hidden grooves, peeling apart the layers that kept the imagery settled, changing the colors, soiling the masses, and rending the soft unseeable weight that held fast the perpetuity of all custom. It belched and made such a stink that none of the dogs lingered to see what would come next. It sweated and made such a flood that the dock was swamped and gave itself over to rot.

“I see wisdom in your choice,” said Roby, “to take heed of my voice!”

Roby gathered up all of her coats and Ben Garment revved all of his wheels, and with a cartoon sound effect, they were off.

Special Catt crept out of his hiding place and switched off the projector.

“Hey,” he said, “thanks for the house!”