Now, the first thing you need to know about this story is—well, I guess the first thing you need to know, technically, is that it is a story, but I don’t want to give too much away right at the start. Pedantry aside, consider this: you’re familiar with a universe governed by general relativity, right? At a very basic level, at least? Dirt ball in space, gravity curving time, that sort of thing. Well, what if there was private relativity? It’d be the same basic principle but at the opposite end of the scale, down at the bottom, in the muck and mire, where the rank of the brass matters less than little. That would mean that if general relativity gives you a world that’s but a speck of dust floating in endless nothingness, then with private relativity we have the reverse: a bubble of air wrapped in an infinite expanse of rock, at the center a little glowing core that functions like a sun—albeit one unmoving—and so it bathes this, let’s say Inverted Earth, in everlasting noon, and makes it a nightless and sleepless world, one whose surface—inner surface, remember—is replete with the otherwise familiar concepts of plants and animals, nations and peoples and cities, mountains and rivers, oceans and plains, hills and dales and forests—all the usual whatchacallits.

Anyway, that’s enough with the science and geography lessons for now. I’m not writing a textbook here—though it is a book with text, technically speaking—but we’re being pedantic again. And, “technically speaking,” I’m not technically “speaking”... Well, as I tried to say, this is a story, and our main character is in-media-resing.

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And so, Traycup Lopkit sprang up with a start and just in time, too, for he’d be late for work if he wasn’t already dressed for the job, and indeed he kept upon his self all his working clothes at all times—even his once-fine hat, whose finery had departed in haste the very day he donned it—and so by now Traycup looked as if he’d just been hiking, biking, and to malaria competitions, and come laundry day he’d kill two birds with one stone and just wear them in the tub. His clothes, not the birds. No right-minded person would do that, of course, but since there were no carpenters nearby to determine the plumb lines of Traycup’s mindedness, barring better evidence, it could only be supposed that he was so garbed as to present a convincing costume—but, for whose gain remained unknown. And so Traycup sauntered from his commode through his front door and into the city, en route workward.

Now, Traycup’s house was planted smack-dab off-center in the great big city of Howlistune, a modernal place with its sky-scraping buildings and paven roads, a spacious sewer system and electrical hoses strung up on poles as if they’d done unstylish crimes, and at least several brooms. The place was jammed with crowds and folk traveling hither and yon, to and fro, and even some daring to risk traveling there and back again—but those ones had already seen the rest on offer. It had some offices, some factories, several million museums, at least part of one coffee-shop, and even a bowling alley—truly, it was a diverse and open-mindless place, with something for everyone and everyone else besides.

These details of Howlistune’s culture were not lost on Traycup, for though it was an everly familiar sight, there was always novelty to be sought, and so he kept watch for some as he skipped down the sidewalk amongst the scenery on his way to work. It was his first job, though not his first day, and he had already gotten the hang of things and knew well what he was doing, and he forwardly looked toward doing it again—and perhaps even getting paid for it eventually. So, after a certain amount of time—definitely less than a day and probably less than a week—Traycup reached the crosswalk at one of the town’s misnamed triangled squares, and there he saw something between a throng and a mass gathered in a specific fashion around Nivold the scapegoat manager. This was barely expected, and might dispense a piece of jollity, and so, job-going notwithstanding, Traycup positioned himself to acquire the spectacle with multiple senses.

“Well, now, this’ll be something for looking!” said Traycup with cheer, although the other witnesses about him heeded not his comment, for they knew that information already, and were already engaged in lookment.

“Seers and hearers,” shouted Nivold, “behold and beware, if you dare, and if not, well, there’s a next time for everything! I require abundant attention for the following, and it’s for you to render it tendered!” Nivold held in one hand a quite-full matchbox, and in another a blunted needle, and in another an as-yet-unbitten clay tablet. Significant portions of the crowdish folks leaned forward to improve their viewing experiences. “Who amongst you can withstand this challenge?” Nivold beamed—a smile, that is, not lasers—content that his challenge would go unchallenged, and indeed it went to its end without comment, for folk had places to be and things to do, after all—many of them soup-related—and besides, they had seen better, oftener.

Traycup remained emplaced and awaited eventuality. “That’s,” he said, “as like to be some show as not, or else I’m unguessed as to the right way!” He laughed and remembered what seeds were, clapping a hand.

Nivold went over to Traycup and loomed at him, for the one had the mass of a whole highway, and the other a curiousing gaze. A long-sought response. It was time, at least, to exude some problems.

“Here,” said Nivold. He gave Traycup some ham. “For the ’burgers,” he explained. “And here,” Nivold went on, giving Traycup some cheese. “For the other ’burgers. Get them right, or there’s expenses!”

Traycup grinned at some brocade. “Doubly-typed meat? Well, let’s let that lesson get learnt!” he said. Then he saw two new ways, and massaged the ham and the cheese into one the other, and built up such a fangled invention as had been seen before and forgotten just as soon, a dime’s worth of times. Nivold tut-tutted him and took the eerie combination from his hand, tossing it over his shoulder and into an open manhole. It went quite unheeded, for by now the crowd had transformed into motional passersby, each element of which trending toward its individual destination, and skipping entirely this streetish charade.

“I trust this isn’t the way to deceit,” said Nivold. He perplexed part of a mustache with division.

“I’ven’t the plan for’t!” said Traycup. “But let’s get said that there’s no better way to be behind, or not even at once!” He put the cap on some brimstone and sold a bucket of sand to a noble philanthropist, who, despite the task of spelling during the long winter months, kept his house right in the field where the jellyfish could find it. Could find it, in theory, but they never did, not even with a damaged compass.

Nivold chuckled like a bottle. “That’s the spirit! Now, keep it up, and don’t get low when the time comes!” He put Traycup into a tin can and rolled him across the street, through a doppleganged sock store, and into the path of an oncoming puma.

“Hey!” shouted the puma. “You obstacle!” He honked his horn, and although pumas don’t have horns, he found a way, probably a mutation—oh! Actually, this is a good opportunity to talk about the question of how natural selection and the process of evolution transpired under the realm of private relativity. We can squeeze another lesson out of this part, I think. So, what happens is—wait, wait, wait. Never mind. I can see the zipper; the puma’s wearing a costume. So in fact, it wasn’t a puma at all, but what it was will never be known, because just then Traycup sprang into a nearby parking meter, in case there were seasons, and with that nonsense out of the way, the puma—or “puma”—could finally unroll the carpet and find a good place for the couch. It put it in the corner, which was ideal practically, but made for some bad feng shui, which the “puma” was too decoded to know about.

“Now, that’s good and tricky—or’t least a good trick,” said Traycup to himself, prying his way from the parking meter and placing himself squarely on the safety of a sidewalk. It was dangerous to wander about the street when pumas might be about—some were out for more than blood could pay. But “might” paved a wide road, so what could be done, after all? Traycup vacuumed his knees, cleansing himself from the preceding ordeals, and was soon back on his way to work. It was a staggeringly long journey that would possibly take him weeks or months to complete—or maybe only a few minutes, who really knows? It all depended on what the cards had to say.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” said the cards.

“You’ll talk, or we’ll make you talk!” said some bakers.

This didn’t impact Traycup’s commute, and as he strolled on by he idly stared in their direction—not at them, but they couldn’t tell, and they judged him suspect, making note of his face for later, just in case.

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Now, around there the sidewalk passed underground, into an ancient mine, all packed rock and winding darkness, choked with old dust, where even a lit match was no better than a vivid aftershock of a neutron bomb, and digital watches were wont to run backwards a little bit, though it was hard to tell, since it was always noon—although no one knew which. But there, in the deepest depths of the mine, where the darkness was just utterly pitch, Darnello the unicorn had a ferret stand.

“How long I gotta stand here?” said the ferret.

“Half a whole time,” said Darnello, “or until you know how to become one.”

“Nuts up that tree!” said the ferret. It was sick of standing, and as soon as it saw Traycup round the corner—ferrets can see in such darkness, of course, thanks to the surgery—it scampered over to him and threw some dirty laundry on him.

“There!” said the ferret. “Can you believe how long that has to soak? To get the stains out? Foolhardy, I say!”

“Call’t unjustice!” Traycup said, nodding. “Want a tip?”

“If it’s cold hard cash, then yes,” said the ferret.

“I’m too unmoneyed for that giving,” said Traycup, swaying.

“Tip’s off!” said the ferret. “Maybe it’s time for knife practice. How’s your belly? Soft? Unprotected? Gee, I’m full of ideas, now!”

Darnello gave the ferret a car battery. “Happy birthday,” it said. Then, to Traycup, it said, “Pardon me, sir, I’ll get the spray.”

“It’s n’mind,” said Traycup with a smile. Traycup’s collection of silver linings made him quite immune to such mustelid-based attacks, and moreover, he knew the ferret meant well—though it should be noted, for the reader’s consideration, that the ferret did not, in fact, mean well. But while the unicorn grabbed the cattail spray for the clothing bites, Traycup simply wrote a short jingle suitable for a commercial for a window rental service, or perhaps one where a restaurant mocks a restaurant that doesn’t exist. Too often hope is stillborn.

Darnello hung up a dart board and said, “Will you be having any weather today, sir?”

“I’ll not—I’ve an,” said Traycup, “errand. I’ll be happy to some other time. In the winter?”

“Absolutely,” said Darnello, smiling with relief. Then it turned to the ferret, which now had a loupe in each eye and was doing some really advanced pottery. This stuff even included stickers! It was pretty impressive, even for it. “Is that adequately aerobic?” Darnello said.

“Yeah, sign here,” the ferret said, presenting the unicorn with a regulation-length end user license agreement. Darnello, not to be fooled, sold the entire property to a family of leprechauns. It would later be seen smoking a pipe and counting its cash while sitting on another, larger pile of cash—I’ll let you know when that happens, keep your eyes peeled.

Traycup bade his new acquaintances farewell and departed from them at last, and encountered the next event: it seemed that someone had built a windmill in the middle of the freeway. The ancient mine’s exit opened up directly on the median, right into the basement of the windmill itself, so when Traycup expected to reach the surface and was prepared to play froglike to get to the safety of the sidewalk, he now found himself in the middle of the mill, grinding corn, and was now a farmer of some fashion, though not haute couture.

“It’s honest work,” said Traycup, “but I can’t be expected to build my own irrigation system and tide-track to know when it’s harvest time.”

Curly Frantoes, the mill’s co-owner, was there, and he spit on the floor and said, “Tray! I ain’t hired you for that kinda lip! Keep them wheels fed! We got empty wheels, the grindstone’s like as not to kick up a spark! Whole place’ll go up in flames, then down in flames!”

“That’s as avoidable as it gets!” said Traycup, and he lounged for a bushel of grains to sprinkle upon the mill wheel. “Lounged”? That should be “lunged”. I can’t type today, sorry. He lunged for a bushel of grains to sprinkle upon the mill wheel. There we go.

Anyway, meanwhile, outside on the highway, all the traffic was stopped—of course it was, there was a windmill in the middle of the road again—and the traffic jam reached for over a dozen miles, several kilometers, and even a furlong or two. It was a dire situation; if someone didn’t do something soon, it might get up to a rod. The traffic jam voted its opposition to the windmill’s existence with an orchestra of beeps and honks—actually, “orchestra” is a bit too kindly wording the noise produced by the dystopic parade, but I’m planning to use “cacophony” later, when it’ll count for more. The jam, as a person, had no opinion on the quality of lightly-used pantyhose, but it was probably negative. All its opinions would have to be negative.

Traycup ran to the window. “Oh, there’s a sight! Seems we’re holding up traffic,” he said.

“We’re holding up society,” said Frantoes.

“We’re holding back society,” said Traycup.

“You got lymph nodes, ain’t ya?” said Frantoes. “Well, use ’em!”

At Frantoes’s encouragement, Traycup flexed his lymph nodes and coaxed the windmill into inventing a new cipher that could only be solved by comparing breakfast cereal mascots, or flirting with the librarian while your accomplice slipped all the overdue books back on the shelves, no one the wiser.

“We are all the wiser this day,” said Frantoes. “Now, Tray! Engage warp drive!”

“I eye, captain!” said Traycup. He made for the engine room, halibut in hand, leaping over the doggie gate outside the bathroom hall, and threw the fish underhand out the window. However, it suddenly broke out in mushy halibut syndrome, took a sharp ninety degree turn, and landed in the mayor’s soda. The mayor—a geode named Yonilicus—gazed upwards and found Traycup standing there, redly-handed.

“You’ve done a dire sin, you poltroon!” said Yonilicus. “Say what your name is, so you can be cursed at length!”

“Traycup it’s,” said Traycup, as much a fan of justice as he was of turpentine.

“Your name will be added to a book,” said Yonilicus, “and later I’m going to read all the names in the book, and if your name is still in the book, I’ll send a fleet of checkers-loving zombies to steal everything you value, tear up all your carpet tacks, and teach you the real meaning of tail feathers!”

Now, no one can listen to such a withering threat without reaction, and when it’s seen that Traycup had no reaction at all, rest assured that the poor lad was quite in shock, and knew not how to respond. Such a thing was detrimental to his future, and he wouldn’t last long at the mill with the mayor out to get him. Moreover, there was no telling when they’d start reading the names in the book—it could be as soon as the next century, or, less superstitiously, later that day.

Frantoes looked at a brick. “Quittin’ time,” he said.

“All right,” said Traycup, “then I quit. I’ve a job to do, after all, and this is itn’t.”

Frantoes packed up the windmill, clearing the whole road, and the relieved traffic all floored it at once, which really just made things a lot worse. Frantoes hitched a hike back home and found, waiting for him at the door—well, this isn’t his story, so never mind.

At longest last, Traycup started the final leg of his journey, kayaking through the sewers—I’ll gloss over the sewer level, don’t worry—we’ll be back here later, anyway. Aside from one or two gunfights, this was an uneventful trip, and he successfully arrove at his destination: his own backdoor. See, Traycup lived at work, of course, but the connecting door was locked, and he had lost the key. The short route would take him from the front yard and straight into the back, which would require stepping on the grass, and Traycup was too conscientious to damage the greenery so brusquely, and so the only route available was the meandering one previously seen. At any rate, he made it to work on time, so he punched in and got started.

So. This was Traycup’s job: he sat in a chair and looked out a window at a tree. It was a small window and it was a very thick wall, so his field of view had limitations and all he could see was the tree. It wasn’t a very interesting tree, honestly. His job was to watch it, and, if he saw something, report it. It was a good job, he thought. It was an important job. Probably. He had a shift of a hundred and forty-four hours, so he got all of his blinking out of the way ahead of time so he’d be able to watch the tree nonstop all day. He’d been looking forward to looking toward it.

In all his months or weeks or however long he’d had this job, he never saw anything other than the tree. That was good. That was easy. That meant everything was fine and safe and there were no problems... right? Maybe it meant everything was bad and the fate of civilization hinged on him ever seeing anything other than that tree. He wasn’t sure—he hadn’t been given a lot of instructions, just the job. He had been given it, hadn’t he? He had it, that’s a given.

The following hundred and forty-four hours consisted of the kind of doldrums that dock managers and cat herders could only wish for over too many candles, for, once again, Traycup didn’t see anything. One hour went by, and he saw nothing. Two hours went by, and he saw nothing. Three hours went by, and he saw nothing. Three and a half hours went by, and he saw nothing. Thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, thirty-seven, forty-three—those are some of the numbers of hours that transpired without Traycup seeing anything. Traycup dutifully sat in a regular chair in a bare room looking out a small square window that faced only a tree, and he saw nothing but the tree for a hundred and forty-four hours.

Well—not quite. He saw nothing but the tree for a hundred and forty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes.

Then he saw something.