John Waterfall<\/p>\n
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There\u2019s a shuffler in the station. A strange moving thing that works its way up and down the corridor outside the mess hall, stopping for moments in front of each door. I haven\u2019t told anyone yet, I\u2019m not sure if there is anyone left to tell. And besides, I\u2019m not paid to talk about things like that. I\u2019m paid to clean the station, spick and span, and launch bags into space \u2013 black for trash, white for recycling \u2013 which, now that I think of it, really doesn\u2019t matter out here, out here where we just launch it all into the sun and claim victory. That\u2019s what I\u2019m here for, annihilating garbage down to the particle.<\/p>\n
But ever since the Shuffler started doing what it’s doing things have gotten more difficult, mostly because I have to basically live in the mess hall. Going back to my cabin might involve meeting the shuffler. Which I don\u2019t want to do.<\/p>\n
So I live in the mess hall now, which makes my job difficult, lashing the door shut with some chains I took from the hangar, so that when the Shuffler stops by it doesn\u2019t get in. Not that it\u2019s tried. It really just stands there, two foot shadows blocking out the under-door light. Maybe that\u2019s all it is, some strange object shaped like under-door foot shadows. Maybe the whole station\u2019s filled with them now, standing in front of all the doors, little inch-high black stretches, crawling around on minute tootsies.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m going to be honest with you here. It\u2019s been awhile since I left the mess hall.<\/p>\n
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A brief inventory of the things that are keeping me alive physically and spiritually:<\/p>\n
Salisbury Steak<\/em>: 3,476. How? Why?<\/p>\n Water<\/em>: Theoretically infinite as long as there is power and I have urine.<\/p>\n Power<\/em>: Infinite. As long as the Sun doesn\u2019t fry anything. Sometimes it fries stuff.<\/p>\n Birthday Candles<\/em> (inedible): 18. Not sure why they\u2019re here as we never celebrated any birthdays. And there is no evidence of cake. And why eighteen? Perhaps hold over from previous crew? Perhaps there were celebrations and nobody thought to invite me? Stay positive, Dunk.<\/p>\n Charcoal biscuits<\/em> (inedible): A lot. I\u2019m not going to count them and get all dirty.<\/p>\n On a Pale Horse by Piers Anthony<\/em> (inedible): My one and only treasure.<\/p>\n One picture of bohemian pare<\/em>nts (inedible): 1. Makes me regretful and sad.<\/p>\n One of those dipping bird tchotchkes<\/em> (inedible): 1. Functional as long as I have water.<\/p>\n Notice of dereliction of duty signed by Captain Avinash<\/em> (inedible): 1. Jerk. Received for doing too good of a job. It\u2019s not my fault I launched his daughter\u2019s poem into the Sun. Like I told everybody, If you don\u2019t want it launched into the Sun don\u2019t leave it on the floor.<\/p>\n Lucky half oyster shell that is proving to not be that lucky <\/em>(inedible): 1.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n I\u2019ve drawn my conception of the under-door creature. I had to use napkins and a combination of water and pounded charcoal biscuits to draw so it didn\u2019t come out exactly like I had it in my head, but tonight when the Shuffler comes, I\u2019m going to slide it under the hatch as a sort of \u201care you this thing?\u201d gesture. Now, I do concede that this isn\u2019t a foolproof plan, and that I am perhaps revealing myself to the Shuffler, which probably has murdered everyone else on the station \u2013 otherwise they would have come for me \u2013 but I\u2019ve come to the realization that I simply cannot live in the mess hall for eternity and subsist on what appears to be an endless supply of flash-frozen Salisbury steaks. (I am so, so tired of Salisbury steak.) And I left the rest of my Piers Anthony in my cabin. I guess what I\u2019m saying is that this really isn\u2019t living and I don\u2019t want to do it without Piers. All right I hear it now, I\u2019m going to initiate the experiment.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Okay, well, I slid the picture of the under-door creature, you know the concept of the foot shadows as an actual physical rubbery animal thing? Well I\u2019m pretty sure the Shuffler noticed it because it moaned for awhile, than shrieked for awhile, than made some sort of undulating warbling for awhile, and then slid the drawing back under the hatch to me, covered with some kind of green slime rune which either means, \u201cNice to meet you, I\u2019m not going to murder you,\u201d or, \u201cBoy, I can\u2019t wait to murder you.\u201d Honestly it\u2019s hard to interpret anything that\u2019s going on. Maybe none of this is going on? Well that\u2019s a stretch. You know, maybe the Shuffler was asking a question. Maybe it thought I was an under-door creature, that I had drawn a picture of myself? Because if it looks that way to me I probably look that way to it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n I have another theory as to why nobody is coming to get me. Perhaps instead of being murdered by the Shuffler they simply evacuated and forgot about me. Which would go hand-in-hand with me never being invited to any of the birthday parties that might have occurred. Of course, there is always the possibility that no birthday parties occurred and I am simply being oversensitive. Is it bad to wish that everybody died instead of forgetting about me? It\u2019s bad.<\/p>\n I wonder if my bohemian parents are still alive. Before I left for space, my mother told me I was sending myself to the corner. That was my punishment when I was a kid. To stand in the corner. My dad would hold a kitchen timer by my ear as an additional wrinkle of punishment. I miss them.<\/p>\n I think, when you\u2019re trapped in a mess hall by what might be a vicious alien menace, it\u2019s important to feel as many different emotions as possible so as to not to go crazy. So I\u2019m glad I\u2019ve got this photo, which makes me feel horrible whenever I look at it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n I\u2019ve decided to test the Shuffler\u2019s intelligence with a rudimentary trash experiment. I\u2019ve written an approximation of a math equation on a napkin using charcoal paste concerning the precise weight limits necessary when launching trash into the vacuum of space. You know, it\u2019s really not a math problem. I don\u2019t know why I said that. It\u2019s basically a cave painting of me throwing garbage from a Colonial-style window lodged in the side of the doughnut-shaped station. It\u2019s, of course, not realistic, as we have no colonial style windows, but I couldn\u2019t accurately depict what the station windows actually look like. I don\u2019t think window is even the correct term in space. Anyway, here it comes again, I\u2019m going to initiate the experiment.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Okay, well that was a waste of time and charcoal paste. Once again, the Shuffler decided to puke symbols all over the drawing I spent a very long time making. I\u2019m not upset. I’m not. But I think it\u2019s rude. A little rude. Especially if the Shuffler has killed everyone. In that case I\u2019m dealing with a very unsavory character who could\u2019ve just pretended to like my drawing. Anyhow, I think the root of the problem is a lack of basic understanding. I\u2019m going to try to create a shared alphabet for the two of us to communicate with, or rather a simple way for it<\/em> to understand my<\/em> alphabet.<\/p>\n Let\u2019s see here, I\u2019ll start by\u2026 how\u2026 do I\u2026 do this? Hmmmm\u2026. Morse code! That\u2019s it. I\u2019ll teach it Morse code, my own special version because I don\u2019t know Morse code, asides from the beeps and the dashes. I\u2019ll simplify it. Only beeps! No dashes! So one beep for A. Two for B. Three for C. Four for D. Five for E. Six for F. Seven for G and so on. Here it comes! I\u2019m going to initiate the experiment.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n So I shouldn\u2019t have started with \u201cWho are you?\u201d because the W alone was twenty-three beeps and by the time I finished beeping the Shuffler had finished screaming and was gone. I don\u2019t think my beep alphabet is a fully functioning idea. How\u2019s the Shuffler supposed to know what an A is to begin with? Or a B! Or a C! Or a D for that matter! I think I\u2019m getting hysterical. Oh my God, I\u2019m trapped in here, I\u2019m actually trapped in here\u2026<\/p>\n Maybe I could do one beep for yes and two for no\u2026 That\u2019s a better start. Or I could just stick with pictures, something simple. A happy face and a sad face. A sick face and healthy face. A face eating questionable Salisbury steak and a face puking it all up into a series of strange alphabetic signatures.<\/p>\n There is always the final solution. Always the opening of the door and saying hello. Here it comes. I\u2019ve got my faces ready, they\u2019re simplistic and I don\u2019t think I\u2019ve got the contours of the Salisbury streak and the puke just right, but it\u2019ll have to do. Here let me circle the one that represents how I feel. The puke face. Dear Shuffler, I feel like the puke face.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Apparently the Shuffler feels like all the faces as it puked a slime rune on each and every drawing and slid them back. Perhaps it is trying to teach me its<\/em> alphabet! I will say that it\u2019s a very corrosive alphabet. I got a little bit on the tip of my finger and it burned the skin right off. As it stands I\u2019m simply accumulating an acidic pile of garbage in the corner of the mess hall. Which, sooner or later, may or may not burn a hole through the hull and eject me into the vacuum of space and into the Sun. Which is the most poetic demise that I can think of. Regardless, I think I\u2019d like to avoid it.<\/p>\n My bohemian parents must be so disappointed with me. If they\u2019re not dead. They wanted me to be an artist. Or a rock star. Any kind of creative genius. And instead I chose to do nothing. To be nothing. I chose the simplest, most non-offensive occupation in the entire universe. But that was the point. I think I\u2019m being too hard on myself. I think I\u2019m too hard on myself. I invented<\/em> a way of producing charcoal paste! That\u2019s something.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n If this experience has taught me anything it is this inarguable rule of the universe: if left alone for long enough, a Dunk will find a way to create charcoal paste.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Because I have literally nothing else to do besides attempt communication with a possible alien menace, I\u2019ve decided to make physical contact with the Shuffler. I\u2019ve got four pairs of latex dishwashing gloves on so I should be okay if I get slimed. Whatever happens at least I\u2019ll know how hostile it is. Here it comes! I\u2019ll just slip my fingers under the hatch and wiggle them a bit and\u2026 WOW! That feels\u2026 different. OUCH! There\u2019s a great deal of pressure\u2026 and\u2026 suction\u2026 and\u2026 feels like each of my fingers is in a separate orifice that\u2026 really, really enjoys them being there\u2026 I don\u2019t think I\u2019m comfortable with this anymore\u2026<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n I have two theories about what just happened. A: The Shuffler tried to eat my fingers. B: The Shuffler made earnest sexual intercourse with my fingers. Regardless it\u2019s a good thing I had protection. Unfortunately, the gloves are now smoldering in the acid pile and I am no closer to understanding if I\u2019m dealing with an enemy. How does one do this? How do I communicate with a living thing that isn\u2019t a living thing I\u2019m used to. What would a scientist do? A linguist? What would Piers Anthony do? These are the things I need to know and don\u2019t. I should have paid attention in school. Or school should have paid more attention to me. I should have made choices that didn\u2019t result in living in the orbit of the sun, launching garbage into it with impunity. I should have worked at a bird hospital with those monks that refuse to step on bugs.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n My first girlfriend humiliated me when I didn\u2019t know the difference between \u201cyour\u201d and \u201cyou\u2019re.\u201d I was twenty-four. I am completely unqualified for anything, especially this.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n I realize, as the Shuffler now moans and warbles at my door, that the one thing I have not tried to do is talk to it. Most of my attempts at communication have been non-verbal or nonsensical. Perhaps I am over-thinking things. Perhaps all it needs is to hear my voice. Perhaps that\u2019s what I need. Like soothing horses.<\/p>\n While I cannot know if the Shuffler is a threat to me, I can know that I am not a threat to it. I can decide that. To not bash it over the head with the fire extinguisher. That\u2019s an okay thing. To not be a threat. That\u2019s a hard thing for a person to do. Listen to me Shuffler, here is how and why I came to be a janitor in space:<\/p>\n When I was a kid, before I squandered my opportunities and became a disappointment, I spent my summers in Chesapeake Bay with my wealthy bohemian parents. Across the water, in the parts of Delaware nobody was using anymore, I could see the great shapes of starships under construction. The clouds of greasy smog their construction necessitated blanketed the sky in a constant green-grey swirl, coated the choppy Atlantic whitecaps with greasy rainbows.<\/p>\n Our neighbor was a leather skinned, speedo-wearing old man whom the neighborhood kids knew as Dr. Dove. He was a former software executive living out his days in self-imposed exile after the company he chaired defrauded billions of clients in a global financial collapse.<\/p>\n As penance, he farmed oysters. Day and night. Trudging up and down his rickety docks in the windswept, tropical swelter of late twenty-first century Maryland. And that was all there was to him. All that was left. His oysters and his speedos.<\/p>\n He didn\u2019t sell his oysters, rather he used their filtering powers in a tragicomic attempt at purifying the putrid bay of toxicity. No amount of oysters were capable of doing this, so he simply accumulated more and more till his estuaries became a series of small, than large reefs that obstructed personal watercraft. One of those reefs eventually killed a famous football player on a jet-ski joyride.<\/p>\n Each day at lunch I watched Dr. Dove from the fringes of his property, our two lawns mismatched squares of green, his sickly and near yellow; ours thick, emerald and forest-like. Back and forth he\u2019d go, back and forth, from his house to his estuaries all hours of the day, a madman in a speedo, muttering under his breath. And I\u2019d just watch, a distant little shadow munching on a ham sandwich.<\/p>\n The day the football player died, the day before he was arrested for manslaughter, crazy Dr. Dove spoke to me. He was walking back from his docks cradling something in his hands. He shouted something unintelligible at the sky and fell to his knees. The way he was kneeling, the way his old skin folded over itself, made it impossible to see that he was wearing a speedo. Do you know what he looked like Shuffler? He looked like a sad, naked old man. He looked like a Gob. He looked like how I imagine I look now.<\/p>\n From my patch of luscious green grass I called to him.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you okay?\u201d I asked. He looked up and muttered at me and at nothing. Than muttered the same thing only louder and crazier. Than he got up and lumbered towards me and made me pee my pants a little. From a few feet away I could see that his eyes were rheumy and yellow and not-at-all healthy looking. He spoke again, clearly this time, in a way that seemed to explain the mysteries of existence. He said \u201cI am the destroyer of worlds,\u201d than he placed a dead oyster at my feet and went back out into the bay and inadvertently murdered a professional athlete.<\/p>\n What he said was a quote from a famous dead person who helped invent a way to kill the world. That\u2019s how Dr. Dove saw himself, because despite trying to create good, all he created was a way to kill oysters.<\/p>\n The next day, when they took him away, ranting and screaming and mostly naked, I took a look at the starships in the distance and decided that there wasn\u2019t much left to do where I was. I decided that if I was going to do something pointless I was going to do it far, far away. I still have the oyster, a putrid reminder of how to do no harm in the world. To do no harm is to do nothing.<\/p>\n It took me a couple of days to realize that it wasn\u2019t a rock, but a thing that had once been alive. Maybe that\u2019s what they\u2019ll think about me when they find my digested bones. Here are the remains of a nobody that used to be alive.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Last night, after hearing my story, the Shuffler proceeded to knock on the mess hall door twenty-three times, which, as you may recall, is the symbol for W. So there is hope. There is hope for peace.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n I\u2019m going to unchain the door, and wait, wait for the creature that is either my friend or foe, with enough Salisbury steak for the both of us and all eighteen candles. It may not understand me, I may not understand it, but it will understand kindness. Anything can understand kindness. And so I am throwing the Shuffler a birthday party.<\/p>\n I think I left Earth because I wasn\u2019t the right person to do anything. To help anything. So I went someplace where what I did didn\u2019t matter. Now here, on the eve of first contact, with no expertise in anything, I find myself to be the exact perfect person for the job.<\/p>\n Thank you Dr. Dove. If I escape. Not if. WHEN I escape. I’m going to retire to Chesapeake Bay. And I\u2019ll farm oysters like you did. Not for the bay mind you, but for the oysters.<\/p>\n Here it comes, I\u2019m going to light the candles, I\u2019m going to initiate the birthday party.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n A flash version of \u201cThe Shuffler\u201d originally appeared on the Ripples in Space <\/em>podcast.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n JOHN WATERFALL<\/strong> is a writer living in Manhattan and a student at the New School’s creative writing MFA program. His interests include genre fiction and literature about animals. A proud father of two cats and one baby girl. His work can be found in Crack the Spine<\/em>, Drunk Monkeys<\/em>, and Coffin Bell<\/em>. Follow @JohnCWaterfall.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" John Waterfall There\u2019s a shuffler in the station. A strange moving thing that works its way up and down the corridor outside the mess hall, stopping for moments in front of each door. I haven\u2019t told anyone yet, … Continue reading