In Need of Oiling
A volunteering opportunity may be more than it seems
The patter continued on the corrugated metallic excuse for an awning that had dislodged itself from its original place and descended from its 20th-storey, heavenly position just to shelter me. Well, most of my shoulders and whatever else fell under its jurisdiction. It wasn’t much, but I wasn’t complaining. I was grateful. It could have been worse.
You would think scrapyards had more to offer, but not this one. This was full of rusting junk, with only a few identifiable items in slower states of decay protruding from here and there. And a 25-storey building from which top CEOs with upturned noses watched the piles in the landfill grow higher and higher with waste—piles of garbage whose stench chased the rising heights of the building—but those upturned noses were always in the lead so they would never have to smell what was down there and never have to see rock bottom.
The unexpected rain cloud had appeared out of thin air, and followed me insistently until I reached the open stretch of the landfill, completely vulnerable. It was worse than when air conditioners targeted you to take a leak whilst you waited at a crossing in the city. No, this was an ongoing, never ending, persistent pisser of a cloud with too much water and a relentless mission to aim its miseries onto me, causing me to take refuge under the God-sent piece of metal.
The air was stifling. It was as if the Higher Ups had invisible dental assistants hovering around with suction pipes to snatch away even the smallest amount of spare oxygen. Where were the profits in that? I sighed.
Where was everyone? What kind of an orientation was this? Just because I was a volunteer nearing my forties, it didn’t mean I didn’t deserve some basic courtesies. I was beginning to regret my resignation letter from my data entry position. The corporate world was still the corporate world, no matter which rung of the ladder you stood on.
Who was I kidding? Being on the lower rungs sucked. There was little protection from mud splatter and telemarketers and personal loan sellers and worst of all: the recent torrential rainfall that promised to make everything wet and miserable, until all the stagnant water seeped into the pores of every aspect of life, making all the good ooze out of it, until it began to fester and rust.
Something shuffled under me. My eyes grew wide like two alarmed clock-spheres. What in the world?
The shuffling object (I was too petrified to acknowledge it was probably a creature) had attached itself to me like Velcro.
It’s probably just someone’s unwanted garment or costume or toy I’m resting on. I wondered how many times my tongue would have to repeat that statement until it tasted true.
As I tried to reposition my knee, a squeak erupted from underneath me. I froze.
Was it a rodent? Please, at least let it have blunt teeth, or even better, let it be toothless. I could handle a toothless rodent. Without claws. And maybe even without eyes. Yes, I could take on a blind, baby rodent.
I forced my rain-soaked face to look down.
Orange bulbous eyes stared up at me, with a pinched, humanesque expression, wordlessly accusing me of betrayal. Okay, so not a rodent, then. But what was it?
A slippery voice slithered into my head.
“All this time I defended you from my species, and you go right ahead and act like the idiot they all think you are!”
I blinked. Clearly, getting drenched in the rain activated one’s imagination and pushed it into overdrive. Am I hallucinating? Are the acid levels in the rain potent enough to cause such levels of delusions? Or is it the cumulative stench permeating the scrapyard?
“You’re also quite slow. We will have to find out which part of you to oil for that—for better performance in the future.”
Until now, the creature had camouflaged itself against me, but it moved, revealing multicoloured prickly bristles, like that of a fuzzy bath mat.
I opened my mouth, full of questions. The creature lifted its hand—a long-fingered, orange hand!—and clamped my mouth shut.
With an authoritative voice, it announced “End of simulation.”
The insistent rain stopped. The air returned to space, and the stifling pressure lessened.
The creature emerged from beneath me, flat as the bath mat it resembled, but fully operational. It slithered and floated as if it had command of gravity.
Oh, gosh. Did it?
“I do,” it said, giving me a cheeky grin, showing off navy blue, thorn-like fangs that suddenly vanished.
I felt faint.
“Way to go, Stallion. You broke this one as well. Now how will we finish our research?” A new creature spoke in a crisp, formal voice with a British accent.
“That’s Archie—Archibald Frister, my annoying research partner,” the first creature explained. Then it turned to its partner and insisted, “I didn’t break it, Archie. It’s just…buffering…”
“The truth is that after seeing 47,822 broken sample human specimens, it is not hard to tell if this one is damaged or not. Open your eye-bulbs!” The Archie creature stretched his own eyes, to demonstrate.
I believe that’s when I found my voice, and shrieked until my throat was hoarse. Were these machines? Aliens? Alien machines? Did it matter? Where were the humans? Where was Mr. Pinquin Tang, the person that signed off on my welcome email, telling me how lovely it was for me to volunteer, validating my choice to resign from my job of 13 years and become a supporter of science? Was he just a bot? I should have done a background check!
I looked at the two creatures in front of me, wondering which one was the HR rep.
Archie was scribbling, speaking his notes aloud. “Emits strange loud noises when distressed. Consistent with all previous findings. Slow to respond. In desperate need of oiling, but which oil? The essential oils? Cooking oil? Crude oil? Olive oil?”
“Let’s try them all!” Stallion suggested.
I knew part of my volunteer duties were to participate in experimental processes, but it was never established that I would be the one things were tested upon. And what kind of test was this? Oiling?
“Wait, I don’t need oiling,” I cried. “I’m human, not a machine! You’re making a big mistake!” I shouted.
“I can’t take it anymore, Stallion. I’m pressing the mute button!”
And just like that, the sound was sucked out of me. I was lifted—flailing arms and all—by a claw crane, as I wordlessly protested. I inched closer and closer to a gargantuan vat. Then all my ambitions were slowly cast into the worst possible choice. Castor oil.
Reena Bhojwani is a wordsmith. She pens children’s lit, horror for adults and everything in between. She’s currently writing a middle grade novel. For more details, visit: www.inspiredmusehk.com.
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