I. Martel’s Position
Martel’s position is a strange one, very strange. Yes, strange, strange is the only word. You see, almost every morning when he wakes up (and, mind you, he often sleeps for days on end, so “every morning” is not quite right) he finds himself hovering a number of feet above his bed, suspended between the mattress and the ceiling. It wasn’t always like that. There was a time when he slept confidently rooted to the bed, but for years now he has had to live without a fan. As a result, it gets terribly hot in his room, but what choice does he have? His room is far too small to fit a floor standing fan of any consequence. He could leave a window open, but then again, he might slide right out. He has often thought of lashing himself to the bed at night but the whole thing seems like such a bother, and besides, hovering isn’t so bad, it provides him with a nicer view of his cramped room. Really, the whole situation is quite agreeable. It’s amazing how much space people leave untouched, he often thinks. His entire apartment, aside from the bathroom, is contained to one room, allowing only for a single bed, a small stove (never used), a stool, and a dresser. By hovering in the mornings, Martel is able to open up the room by mentally dividing it into different planes, rendering the space almost infinitely large, with each slight gradation of height offering a new perspective.
Yes, hovering certainly has its benefits. Getting down however, presents difficulties. Often, Martel will be suspended in one of his mid-room planes and no amount of concentration will suffice to bring him down. Some days the most advisable course of action is to simply go back to sleep. Every now and then, Martel wakes up from one of these post-sleep naps and sees that he is back in his bed, but this practice can not be reliably replicated and more often than not he wakes up in exactly the same spot as before. Although his doctor tells him that it is best not to strain (advice that, in all other instances, Martel follows most rigorously), Martel’s position requires a great amount of exertion. In order to ground himself, Martel must extend his arms like tentacles and feel around the floor until he finds the base of his stool. Once found, Martel must wrap his wriggling arms around the legs of the stool until he feels comfortable enough with his grip to pull himself down. Often times the struggle to get back to the bed is so intense that Martel needs to spend a few hours lying down recouping his strength. He is prone to drifting off to sleep during this recovery period, which fairly regularly requires him to begin the whole process over again. On such an occasion, hovering again, Martel prefers to go back to sleep. Better not to strain, he says to himself.
II. Martel Takes Out The Trash
Tuesday is garbage day on Martel’s block. Martel does not generate much garbage except for the q-tips, tissues, soap boxes, and eye drop bottles which he uses to meticulously maintain his personal hygiene, and the remnants of the apricots on which he sustains himself. In as large a bag as his apartment will allow, he gathers his trash and dutifully brings it to the curb every Tuesday that he manages to make it out of his room. When going downstairs this Tuesday, he is taken off guard by the sight of the garbagemen congregating by the dumpster. Usually they haven’t started this particular route by the time Martel throws away his trash-bag, but this Tuesday they arrive early. Martel’s doctor had told him to avoid surprises, as they can often cause unnecessary stress, so the sight of the garbagemen is quite upsetting. Perhaps I ought to turn around and go back to sleep, he thinks. Besides, I don’t have so much garbage that I can’t wait another week. After a moment’s reflection he reconsiders. But I am already startled, it would be even more strenuous to go back to sleep!”
Martel bows his head to avoid any further unpleasantness and hastily shuffles his feet towards the dumpster, barely raising them off the ground, as is his habit, in order to minimize the otherwise forceful thud produced by each step. One of the garbagemen approaches Martel, who does not see him until they are almost colliding. “What are you doing,” the garbageman asks. “I’m just taking my trash to –” the garbageman interrupts Martel mid stammer, “You’re late. Can’t you see that you’re late? We’ve been waiting for ages now, you ought to be more considerate. Here, show me.” Martel hands over the bag to the garbageman who immediately begins inspecting its contents with his colleagues. “Where is all the food? The envelopes? The newspapers, the matches, the cigarette packages?” the garbageman asks. Martel wishes he’d stayed asleep. All that straining to get out of bed just for more worries! Martel lifts his head only long enough to give a reply. “I eat very little, only an apricot or two each day—you’ll find the stones in the bag—and I have no correspondences. My doctor tells me that I shouldn’t smoke because fire only leads to stressful nastiness.” He is sure he has resolved the matter, but the garbageman begins shaking his head and muttering, “No, no it’s most irregular,” then, turning to Martel, he says, “please stay here until we can get the manager.” Almost immediately, the manager appears from the back of the garbage truck. He wears the same forest green jumpsuit as the other garbagemen but with the addition of three stripes on the arm and a star on the lapel. Struck by the uniform, Martel stands at attention and puts his hand up to salute. “Put your hand down,” the manager snaps. The other garbagemen give a quick salute by briskly tapping their right hands to their left shoulders and bowing their heads. “What’s the problem, why have you woken me from my nap?” asks the manager. The garbagemen pass the trash-bag to the manager. He looks inside, pulling out items at random and inspecting them closely. “No, no. This is all wrong. Have you asked him where everything is?” the manager asks the garbagemen. “He insists that this is all he has,” the garbagemen say. The manager takes out a notepad and begins to write. “Sir, your name?”, he asks without looking up. “My name is Martel. I have been depositing my garbage here for years without incident and I assure you that I have no intention to violate regulations.” Martel is beginning to feel a little faint. Still harassed by the specter of sleep, he longs for his morning bath. Due to the stress of these official dealings, Martel is already struggling to remain standing. “Martel, you’re going to have to come with us,” the manager says. The garbagemen vigorously nod in agreement. “We aren’t authorized to finish the investigation here, and besides, you’re going to have to sign some paperwork”. The manager gestures towards the back of the garbage truck and instructs two of the garbagemen to help Martel in. They position themselves on either side of his body and take him under the arms, pressing their weight into him in such a way that he cannot move without their consent. In this manner, they drag him to the truck and sit him in the back among the trash-bags they’d collected earlier in the day. “Is there not a seat that I could have? I’m quite dizzy and car rides only seem to exacerbate the problem—my doctor has advised me against them all together” Martel asks. “No,” the manager smiles, “the only seats are up front and it would be improper of us to allow someone under investigation to ride in the front, wouldn’t it? It’s comfy back here, I’ll ride with you.” “Yes, yes. Thank you,” Martel replies. The manager grabs Martel’s trash-bag and hops in the back of the truck.
III. Martel At The Station
Shortly after arriving at the garbage station Martel begins to sign documents. “This one affirms that the inspection occurred without impropriety. This one is to confirm your identity. This one is to confirm the contents of the bag. This one is a confession that has been prepared for you by the court. This one is to confirm the garbage route in which the incident occurred.” The chief inspector motions to the line marked with an “X” on each form. Each form is thick with pages, but the chief inspector assures Martel that he needn’t read them, only his signature is needed. Martel signs them all as quickly as he can write but hesitates at the confession. “I don’t mean to cause trouble, but I should like to know what I am being accused of before I confess to anything,” Martel says. He is only just beginning to regain some of his strength after the very strenuous truck ride and thinks that he ought to assert himself while his spirits last. The chief inspector smiles and painfully, quite painfully, claps Martel on the back. “It is far easier for everyone involved if you sign the confession. Frankly, we already all the evidence we need and,” the chief inspector pauses and looks around, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the judge is always easier on people that sign the confessions. I suspect it’s because he’s grown a bit lazy in his old age.” He offers Martel a friendly wink. The chief inspector seems nice enough, Martel thinks, and anyways, it will be much easier for everyone if I just sign the confession. The doctor has warned me to avoid all legal matters, especially trials. Better just to listen, I would hate to strain. “Yes sir”, Martel says. But before he can sign, the chief inspector catches his hand and hisses, “That’s ‘yes chief inspector.’” “Yes chief inspector. Sorry for the trouble, chief inspector”, Martel whispers—then signs. The chief inspector gathers the papers in his hands and walks out of the room. Martel is left alone in the white washed office. The sickly yellow hue of the overhead light gives the walls the color of urine. I ought to drink more water, Martel thinks. Now that he has a few moments to himself, the weight of the day begins to hit Martel with all its force. He crumples into his seat and, grasping at the table, falls asleep.
Martel is jolted awake by a sharp scream from below. The chief inspector has returned to find Martel hovering in the fetal position a few feet above the chair. The chief inspector calls some garbagemen over and they begin to viciously prod Martel in the back with their pointed sticks. “Down! Immediately!” the chief inspector yells. Martel tries extending his arms but every time he exerts himself the pain in his back becomes too much to bear. “I can’t, you need to pull me,” he wheezes. The garbagemen begin to pull at his legs and, even though Martel is an unnaturally small man—he has the gaunt, hollowed out body of an ascetic—the garbagemen must expend an immense strength to bring him down. Martel worries that the garbagemen will tear his legs from his body before bringing him down, and it is only with a great deal of effort that he keeps from crying. Finally, by pulling simultaneously on his legs and head, the garbagemen are able to ground Martel. The whole thing is quite embarrassing, really.
IV. Martel Before The Judge
The judge sits at an ordinary office desk at the front of a room not unlike the one Martel had just come from. “I understand the accused has signed a confession?” the judge asks as he peruses the documents. He wears the same uniform as the manager, but with four stars on his lapel instead of one, and a white seaman’s cap with the sanitation department’s insignia, an eagle holding a large number of sticks in its beak, printed on the front in a deep, coal black. “Yes your honor,” replies the chief inspector, “but there was a complication.” The judge frowns. “A complication?” “Yes, the accused attempted an escape attempt while I was filing the documents. He was caught hovering above the chair, and when we attempted to apprehend him he put up a furious resistance.” Martel’s eyes begin to tear as he gasps for breath. His words come out in a flurry: “Chief inspector, sir, no, no, I was not trying to escape. No, no, no I had only fallen asleep and I am prone to hovering, you see, when I sleep. You must understand. My doctor thinks it’s because I worry too much, but that’s only speculation. I would never so rudely…never would I…I take out my trash as regularly as I…as regularly…and I have never once before violated regulations, not once! Please, you must understand–”
Martel is interrupted by the judge. Addressing the small room as if a full auditorium, the judge speaks: “Enough! The words of the defendant cannot be taken as truth. In light of recent revelations, nothing in the defendant’s testimony remains uncontaminated. The defendant not only undermines the hallowed room of this court, but the entire institution of sanitation. Mercy has always been in our interest, a deeply held value, a mission, even. But in the present case, presently, the court’s patience and propensity for mercy is tested.” Turning now to Martel, the judge continues. “You now contradict the very confession that you signed not moments ago, which plainly states not only the nature of your violation, but also, plainly, stating that is, that you have attempted to resist arrest. Do you spite us, Martel? Do you spite our mercy? Our necessity? Right here it is written, Martel, right here, a full confession. Sanitationary Improfligacy. Reprehensible. Only for the most unrepentantly, incurably reprehensible such as you. It would not shock the court if the chronic anxiety diagnosed by the good doctor were a result of the deterioration of your soul, gnawed away by guilt and malevolent, most malevolent indolence. Such sin weighs heavily upon a man, and your case, your case is no exception. Now, do you wish to disturb the court further, or will you confirm the confession?” Martel steadily begins to take on the jaundiced look of the office walls. Yellow and trembling, he replies, “Yes sir, I’m sorry sir. I confess sir.” The chief inspector glares and snaps, “That’s ‘your honor.’” “Yes, your honor, sorry your honor,” Martel whispers. “No! Address me as ‘chief inspector’ and his honor as ‘your honor,’” the chief inspector cries. “Yes, chief inspector. I’m sorry chief inspector, I’m sorry your honor. Thank you, your honor.” The judge gives a nod of approval to the chief inspector. The chief inspector beams. “Good,” the judge says. “Chief inspector, draw up the papers.”
V. Martel At The Executioner’s
“Night lilts and crawls but morning moves in leaps and bounds,” says the executioner. “What?” asks Martel, slightly blinded by the rising sun. “I said, it’s morning already. How did you sleep?” The courtyard is bare save for some patches of grass, a pile of discarded metal parts, and the executioner’s machine. Martel rubs his eyes. “I’m not sure if I slept at all. I think I drifted in and out. I managed to stay on the ground all night, however. So perhaps I didn’t sleep at all, but then again, sometimes I’m able to stay grounded through the night. So who knows. I’m unsure –” the executioner cuts him off, “yes, you’ve said that already…but as they say, repetitio est mater tua repetendi.” The executioner walks over to a panel of controls and begins tinkering with the switches. “If you could just step on to the conveyor belt,” the executioner motions. “Yes sir executioner”, Martel replies as he steps onto the machine. “There’s no need for such a formality: ’sir executioner!’ The executioner shakes his head and laughs. “Call me whatever you’d like.” “Yes, sir executioner. Sorry, sir executioner,” Martel answers.
“Would you like any last words?” the executioner asks. Martel thinks for a moment. “No, thank you, sir executioner but I can’t think of anything to say.” “Oh, I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood,” says the executioner, “we don’t allow the condemned to speak just before disposal. I was asking if you would like any last words from me.” “Of course, of course sir executioner. Please, last words,” Martel says, blushing at the humiliating misunderstanding. The executioner thinks for a moment, then clears his throat, “Death waits smokey and bent in the orange…blue…—no, no. Let me start over. Waist high in the garbage lot rubble ruins, crooked arms and folded feet, death…no. I’m so sorry, it seems my words have failed me. Let me try something else. A rhyme, maybe? Once more. In tavern doors of pine and oak, larvae grow and winter chokes, phantoms stumble just outside and find there’s nothing else at all besides.” Martel plucks at a loose hangnail. “A rhyme always helps, but the meter is off. But you get the idea, yes? The sentiment, I mean.” Martel looks up from his hand. “I’m sorry sir executioner, but what does that mean. I would like to know what that means before I go.” The executioner is looking down at the controls, readying the machine. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t the slightest idea,” the executioner replies, distracted by his mechanical duties. Then, without further delay, the executioner pulls a lever and the machine begins to whir. The bitter smell of oil and weathered gears sullies the air as the conveyor belt lurches towards the chamber. The steel doors slide open; then, once Martel is just inside, they snap shut and go about their business.
Jake Romm is a New York based writer and the Associate Editor of Protean Magazine. Twitter: @jake_romm.
minor literature[s] 