Studies in Pity: A Man Named Kelly

(Herodotus: Episode 4 soon!!)

It is simple truth that there are the rulers and the ruled, the powerful and the oppressed, master and slave. Most of us are slaves, though few of us will acknowledge this fact. On we toil, those above enriched as we below are impoverished. Labour enervates, time diminishes, yet our humanity is preserved by one grace: struggle. In our chronic rebellion, in our straining at the fetters that bind us we achieve a measure of dignity. "No," we say, "we have some power. My body is flesh, weak, but my mind is steel, hard, and it bends for no other." The body is chained, the soul free. Humanity endures.

Those who do not participate in the struggle, who embrace their servitude, these we call thralls, willing slaves. Their soul is bent to the master's lash, quivers at his mere approach, desires nothing more than to please. We are disgusted. We explain to the thrall the nature of the their condition. We shout. We weep at their betrayal. All to no avail: the thrall glows with satisfaction. Even the cruelty of the master is explained: this is for my betterment/I should have known better/the master's ways are not mine. The body is flesh and the mind is flesh, each awaiting the imprint of the master's steel. Not a trace of humanity in this one.

Thus Kelly.

***

Endless prairie road lies behind you. The roar of the tires on cracked asphalt is a sound so familiar that silence will seem strange. The paper coffee cup, now empty, at each bump threatens to fall; you would welcome the excitement. The licence plate on the RV in front of you has by now given up all its secrets: you've rearranged the characters into every possible combination, turned them upside down, seen which configurations spell naughty words. Your back is sweaty, throat dry. You've fantasized thoroughly about several women (some stunning, some mousy and strange), even had enough time to imagine dinner and the inevitable breakup (always tearless). Your eye passes over the console: still going ten klicks over the limit, engine temperature still good (you guess?), oil pressure still nominal, gas... ah, that's almost empty. Dammit. Why didn't you fill up in Rat River? Or was it Rat Lake? Rat Falls? These towns all look the same: aluminum shacks lining the main street, Greyhound depot at the corner, yokels riding ATVs through the ditches, drunk on love and probably beer. You think of the colour grey when you think of Rat River (Ratford?) - someone obviously put great care into choosing the name. The day is grey.

After another hundred acres of canola, a sign appears on your right: DONNA'S GAS, 10 KM INTERSECTION OF HWY 1 & RT. 77. Good. Maybe there'll be a phone there. You think of calling your wife, but why? She'll have been watching TV all day. You'll get the report. Who got kicked off the island. Who lost the most weight. Who ate the roasted horsehair. The baby kicked. Terrific. When are you coming home? Soon. I miss you. I miss you, too. Wait, that's a lie. The leaden inevitability of it all makes your head hurt. You have a sudden urge to ride an ATV through a ditch, drunk on beer and love. You fantasize about Donna.

The sign was prophetic. Grateful for the exercise, you press the brake and turn into Donna's Gas. Before you lie two sets of gas pumps, each with four handles. You pull up beside the set on your left. You open the door and emerge into afternoon greylight, and blink. It feels good to stretch. You indulge yourself, and then pick up the pump handle. The pump beeps. You select a grade of gas. You turn, and a grey blob fills your vision. The blob is bounding toward you. It has legs, arms, a head. No ordinary blob, you realize. Greasy blond hair whipped by strong prairie wind. Coke-bottle glasses. Prodigious acne. Short stubby legs eating up the distance in clumsy strides. Footfalls whisper-quiet, silenced by orthopedic slippers. A nametag pokes out of the grey: KELLY. The tag has three little metal pump tokens attached to it. Awards, you realize.

The blob stands before you, trying to catch its breath. Its lower jaw separates from the rest of the head, revealing yellowed teeth and a tongue caked with white. It speaks in curious, awful arpeggios, now tenor, now castrato. You cringe.
"HELLO sir, WELCOME to DONNA'S GAS. MY name is KELLY, and i'd be GLAD to HELP you out. how ARE you on this GLORIOUS day?"
You mumble. Fine, just fine. What does the blob want? You're a grown man. You can pump the gas. You move to put the pump handle into the filler neck of the gas tank.
The blob gasps.
"SIR! it is my DUTY to INFORM you that you are CURRENTLY at a FULL-SERVICE pump. The SELF-SERVICE pumps are THITHER." He swins his flabby arm out and points at the other set of pumps.
It's fine, it's the same gas right? I can handle it.
The blob is unmoved.
"the GAS from the FULL-SERVICE PUMP, beside WHICH you are currently standing, IS DISPENSED at a price FOUR CENTS greater than that of the GAS from the SELF-SERVICE PUMP. i simply CAN NOT allow you to PUMP this gas on your own. it would amount to NEGLECT of my DUTIES as an EM-PLOY-EE of DONNA'S GAS."
The blob is out of breath again.
You scratch the back of your neck. Alright, well, I'm already started here, so why don't you finish it up. I'm going inside.
"SIR! do you NEED me to check your OIL or WASHER FLUID or even TRANSMISSION FLUID? may i WASH your WINDSHIELD, SIDE WINDOWS, and/or your REAR WINDSHIELD?"
Sure, whatever.
"OKIE DOKIE, no troubles, no worries at all! be DONE in a JIFFY."
As the gas pumps, the blob pulls a brush from the water bucket. With expert L-shaped strokes he cleans your windows, even takes the time to buff out imperfections in the glass. You turn to go inside.
The blob gasps.
"SIR! i'm AFRAID that with the hood CLOSED, i am UNABLE to determine the levels of EITHER your OIL or TRANSMISSION FLUID, or indeed your WINDSHIELD-WASHING LIQUID."
Grumbling, you turn back and open the car door. You pull the hood-release. In one smooth motion the blob unlatches the hood and props it up. The blob says something, but you can't hear him from inside the car.
What?
The blob, now bent over your engine, straightens.
"i SAID this is a FINE automobile. you made an EXCELLENT purchasing DECISION."
The blob beams.

You go inside. A bland-faced red-haired teenager is reading a car magazine at the counter. You approach him.
You jerk your thumb over your shoulder. What's the deal with that guy?
Oh him, yeah that's Kelly, nobody likes him.
What's his problem?
The teenager thinks.
Clearly something. I don't know, he wants our boss to love him.
But the customers must hate him. I hate him. Doesn't that make the boss hate him?
The teenager shrugs.
He sells the right things to the right people, somehow.
You struggle with the illogic of it all.
The door opens. The blob comes bounding in. You turn.
"sir your OIL and TRANSMISSION FLUID are just PEACHY." His face darkens. "however, your WINDSHIELD-WASHING LIQUID is DANGEROUSLY low." Now it brightens. "may I suggest a bottle of DONNA'S BRAND WINDSHIELD-WASHING LIQUID?"
How much?
"MERELY FOUR DOLLARS and NINETY-NINE cents."
Outrageous. But you tell him to put it in.
"EXCELLENT, sir. you will also get FIVE *ADDITIONAL* AEROPLAN PLATINUM CLUB TRAVELING REDEEMABLE POINTS."
Well, now I can fly to Rat River, you joke, lamely.
The blob lets loose a peal of booming laughter. His body is convulsed by the effort. Several gasping breaths later, he wipes a non-existent tear away from his eye.
"VERY humourous, sir."
The blob bounds out of the building, windshield-washer fluid in hand. You turn to the kid again.
Seriously, what does he get out of this?
The kid shrugs.
I don't know, it's like his whole life. He takes care of his mom and he comes here to pump gas and stock shelves. I guess it's his form of pride.
But I mean, there's pride and then there's this.
Well, you bought the fluid, didn't you?
The kid turns back to his magazine.
You watch the blob through the plate-glass windows. With aplomb he fills your washer fluid, not a single drop escaping the reservoir. A flourish and he replaces the cap on the bottle. He moves to go inside.
As he approaches the building (bounding, of course), you see three figures advance toward him. Teenagers. They're running, carrying something. They whoop and cry as they make their way toward the blob.
The blob turns. His expression, horror.
The teens let fly from their cargo as they pass the blob. Eggs. In seconds he is drenched head to toe in shiny egg white and runny yolk. They run away, laughing.
The blob enters the building, dripping and sticky.
"those HOOLIGANS have BEFOULED my GARMENTS. a THOUSAND CURSES on them, I SAY!" He storms off toward the back of the store.
The teenager, unimpressed, approaches the register.
With the washer fluid that's forty-two ninety. Anything else?
As he processes your credit card, you can hear the blob talking on the phone in the back.
"NO, MOTHER, i *DIDN'T* fight them. yes, MOTHER, i'm wearing clean underwear. No. NO. mother. MOther. MOTHER. *MOTHER*. GOODBYE, MOTHER."
You hear him slam the receiver.
Stepping over the now-hard egg, you get in your car and drive away.