Chapter 6
During the following night the pile grows even more. Nobody knows how it happens, because of course nobody who’s asked about it is the kind of person who would throw their garbage on a pile, that’s the kind of thing only other people do. On Facebook all the building tenants express their outrage, but no one makes any suggestions about how the pile might be removed, because everyone is too busy arguing about whose fault it is in the first place. By coincidence, those people who complain the second most seem to be the ones who’ve just recently bought new frying pans. But, of course, the people who complain the most are people who don’t even live in the area, but would still love to guess what kind of people are throwing away frying pans, which somehow always seem to be people who don’t look like the people who are doing the guessing.
Several neighbors call the police, but the police claim to have more important things to do, so the neighbors then call the most powerful legal authority in the country, a small man who works at City Hall.
The small man from City Hall is carrying documents and rings Lucas’s doorbell early one morning. When Lucas doesn’t answer within four seconds, the small man rings the bell again, as though he thinks Lucas’s apartment is the size of a closet.
“I have been informed that you are responsible for the pile!” the small man says impatiently when Lucas finally opens his door.
“I’m really, really not.” Lucas yawns, dressed in his pajamas.
This is information that the small man completely ignores. Instead, he exclaims in an authoritative voice:
“I am here to inform you that there is nothing City Hall can do about it. Unfortunately, the pile is too big to be classified as a pile.”
“What does that mean?” asks Lucas sleepily.
The small man throws out his arms, as if this should be completely obvious.
“We have received complaints from neighbors in the area about a small pile of junk. But after my inspection it is clear that this is, in fact, a large pile of junk. In fact, it is so big that it is actually not plausible that it even is a pile of junk.”
“I’m not following,” Lucas admits.
“It cannot be a pile of junk,” the small man states.
“But . . . you do see the pile?” Lucas tries.
“Yes. But it is not plausible,” the man informs him.
“But it’s . . . there,” says Lucas.
“Plausibly: no,” the man corrects.
“But you can see it!” Lucas insists.
An impressively large sigh comes from such a small man when he answers:
“That is not how the city’s classification system works. We only take into consideration what is plausible. If there were to be a pile of junk as big as this one is, there would be no laws deciding what the city should do. Because there are no laws covering things that aren’t plausible.”
Lucas is starting to get a headache.
“But the pile is right there,” he reiterates, but at this point even he is beginning to feel doubtful.
The small man then proceeds to imitate Lucas in a really somewhat mocking manner, if you ask Lucas.
“The pile is right theeeeeeere!” the small man whines.
“It’s kind of immature to mimic people,” Lucas mutters.
The small man steps forward and reaches up and puts his index finger on the tip of Lucas’s nose, growling:
“You know what is immature? Telling city officials how to do our jobs! I am sure it is very convenient for you citizens that you get to assess what is reality according to what you can see with your own eyes! But we city officials actually have a responsibility to stick to what is p-l-a-u-s-i-b-l-e.”
Lucas backs up a little so the tip of his nose is out of finger range. Then he asks as politely as he possibly can bring himself to:
“Then how would you classify the pile? If it’s not a pile?”
The man throws his arms out again.
“According to the city’s assessment, it is more plausible that it is a hill.”
“A hill?”
“It is not plausible that it is a mountain, because it is simply not plausible that there would be a mountain here in the city that the city is not aware of. And if it is not a mountain, and also not a pile, then it has to be a hill. And hills are not the responsibility of my department.”
“Then whose is it?” Lucas asks.
“Plausibly it would fall under the jurisdiction of the Agricultural Agency,” the small man says with great certainty.
He then picks up a pad, tears off the top sheet of paper, and hands it to Lucas.
“Here is the ticket for your fines.”
“Fines? For what?” Lucas exclaims.
The small man rolls his eyes.
“When I inspected the hill, I looked for junk with a name on it, because my department is not permitted to classify anything as junk if we don’t know who the junk belongs to. Junk without an owner could very well be things , which is a completely different matter. And the only items I found with names on them were two surveillance cameras. It says they belong to the president of the Pile Committee, and then it gives your address.”
Lucas starts to sweat.
“Yes . . . yes, the board of our building set up cameras to monitor the pile! So someone who wanted to throw garbage in the pile must have taken them down, so they wouldn’t be caught on tape, and . . .”
“That seems plausible,” the man agrees.
“Well then?” Lucas nods with relief, trying to hand the ticket back.
The man shakes his head with bureaucratic determination.
“Rules are rules. It is illegal to dispose of cameras on a hill.”
“BUT IT’S NOT A HILL!” Lucas says, possibly in all capital letters.
“It is illegal to shout at a city official,” the man informs him.
So Lucas gets another ticket. Then the small man walks away, and the plausible hill stays put.
Chapter 7
Over the next few nights the pile keeps growing. Despite crime scene tape, surveillance cameras, and several angry notes from the board saying that this will under no circumstances be tolerated. Early one morning the board stands outside Lucas’s door again, this time announcing that the whole building is really very disappointed in Lucas’s performance as president of the Pile Committee. The board demands that Lucas come to a meeting and explain himself to all the neighbors. This, of course, Lucas doesn’t do. Because Lucas is not completely insane. Instead, he opens a nice bottle of wine and eats some pad thai with extra peanuts and continues playing his video game. Like a normal, happy person.
At night, the pile keeps growing even more. The next morning it’s so big that the top of it is almost level with Lucas’s balcony. At lunchtime the doorbell rings, and there stands the board, angry as a Santa Claus who has just been told by a child that he doesn’t exist. The board informs Lucas that since he didn’t come to the meeting last night, several neighbors have demanded that he be removed as president of the Pile Committee.
“That sounds fantastic! Thank you!” Lucas says.
But then Head One of the board animal snarls:
“No! You can’t remove someone who isn’t at the meeting!”
“That wouldn’t be in good democratic order! The accused must be there to defend himself!” Head Two nods.
“But many of the neighbors were very angry. One said that you should die,” Head Three chirps.
“Not now, Linda, please,” Heads One and Two whisper in unison.
And so Lucas is informed that he’s still very much the president of the Pile Committee, and then the board of directors serves him with a new fine from the city.
“It’s because we put up angry notes saying that littering is forbidden. Unfortunately, those notes blew down. And now the city says that they count that as littering on a public hill,” the board explains.
“But that’s not my fault!” Lucas protests.
“Unfortunately, it does fall under your responsibility as president of the Pile Committee,” says Head One.
“Thank you for your commitment.” Head Two nods.
“What is it that smells so good? Is that pad thai?” Head Three asks.
“Mmm,” Lucas says, disgruntled.
“With peanuts?” Head Three asks.
“There are no peanuts in pad thai, Linda,” Head One says condescendingly.
“Then it’s not an authentic pad thai,” Head Two chimes in.
Lucas clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth grind.
“It’s precisely the peanuts that MAKE it a pad th . . . ,” he begins but gets cut off by Head Three.
“I usually keep my peanuts next to a jar of peanut butter, so they understand what I’m capable of!”
“Well, look at the time. We need to go,” states Head One, as if it is Lucas who has been ringing their doorbell and not the other way around.
And so the board animal disappears. Lucas closes the door. He almost has time to go back to being happy before the doorbell rings again.
Chapter 8
He-he-hello! Ugh . . . I hate stairs . . .” The woman in the purple dress is panting.
Lucas is standing in his doorway looking slightly confused, because he sees that there are two men standing behind her, and when the men see Lucas, they immediately fall to their knees and start crying.
“Now who are these people?” Lucas sighs the way you do when you’re just starting to realize that you’ll probably never, ever get to finish your video game.
The woman in the purple dress smiles awkwardly, leans forward, and explains in a low voice:
“Well, you know . . . this is a little embarrassing, but I’m in this Facebook group about good neighbors. You know how social media can be so negative, but this is a group where people give examples of all the good things in the world. It’s called Are There Angels? It’s intended to be humorous. It’s a very joyous group, really. So anyway, I posted there about how you’d given me the password to your Wi-Fi. And then I wrote that you were a real angel.”
Lucas tilts his head.
“So you admit it’s my Wi-Fi?”
The woman frowns.
“Let’s not get hung up on that now. You’ve got bigger problems.”
She gestures at the two men. They look like they are worshipping Lucas.
“What’s . . . happening now?” whispers Lucas.
The woman adjusts the purple dress slightly around her stomach.
“Yes, well, I’m just getting to that. So, I’m also in a couple of other Facebook groups like Are There Angels? And unfortunately I accidentally posted the message about you to the wrong group. I posted it in a group called There ARE Angels!, which these two men are members of. It’s, well, how can I put this? It’s not quite as joyous a group as Are There Angels? The members of There ARE Angels! believe that angels are very real. So now . . . well . . . to make a long story short: they believe that you’re an angel.”
Lucas looks at the weeping men, looks back at the woman.
“But I’m not,” he says firmly.
The woman nods apologetically, whispering:
“Of course not. But you see, the problem is that the more you try to explain that, the more these men here will interpret it as proof that you are. It’s very typical of angels to be humble.”
Lucas leans forward, placing his palms on his knees, looking as if he might vomit.
“Please. I just want one free day. I’ve got this new video game, I . . . ,” he begs.
The woman peeks into his apartment and spots his TV.
“Oh? I’ve played that. What level are you on?”
“Thirty-two,” Lucas mutters hopelessly.
“Wow! Wicked! Is it because of your angelic superpowers, do you think?” The woman whistles, impressed.
“I don’t have . . .” Lucas sighs, but the woman has already turned to the weeping men.
“He doesn’t like it when I refer to his superpowers as superpowers. Angels are supersensitive about that, you see.”
At this point Lucas is starting to feel that enough really has to be enough.
“Thank you for coming!” he says.
The woman whispers back:
“What you really mean is ‘go away,’ right?”
“Yes.” Lucas nods with absolutely as much politeness as he can muster.
The woman nods seriously and whispers:
“You absolutely cannot say that to members of There ARE Angels! They’ll do anything an angel says. If you tell them to go away, there’s an actual risk that they’ll run out into oncoming traffic and become nonliving.”
Lucas looks like he is talking to someone who communicates by picking random words out of a hat.
“You mean that they’ll . . . die?”
“Oh, no, you can’t say that online anymore, Lucas. It’s considered very inappropriate. The term is nonliving ,” the woman corrects.
Lucas puts his palms on his knees again.
“Okay. But then maybe just tell these nice gentlemen to go and do something fun, okay? Have a beer, watch a good movie, eat something nice . . .”
One of the men immediately clears his throat and calls out:
“Eat what, angel?”
“Pad thai?” Lucas suggests exhaustedly.
The other man asks:
“Does that have peanuts, angel?”
“Yes.” Lucas sighs.
“I’m allergic to peanuts, angel! Can I replace them with cashews?” the man asks.
“Sure. Do whatever you want,” Lucas says with a hopeful nod and tries to close the door.
But then the other man calls out:
“I’m a vegetarian, angel! Can I replace the chicken with Halloumi cheese?”
“Sure, sure.” Lucas nods.
“Is there a gluten-free option?” the first man wants to know, at which point Lucas loses his patience and exclaims:
“I thought people who believed in angels were a bit more fundamentalist than this!”
The woman in the purple dress smiles sympathetically, whispering:
“It’s really hard to find good cult member these days, Lucas. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
One of the men raises his hand and asks:
“Sometimes I’m lactose intolerant. Can I replace the chocolate with something else?”
“There’s no chocolate in pad thai,” says Lucas.
“I see, angel. So what should I have instead?” the man asks.
Lucas groans.
“You can have whatever you want. Isn’t that what the religious scriptures say? That man has free will?”
“We try not to use those kinds of labels,” the second man says in a suddenly stern tone.
“Believing in God is optional in our Facebook group.” The first man nods, slightly annoyed.
“But you believe in angels? Don’t those things go together?” Lucas asks, confused.
“Don’t be so prejudiced, Lucas, they don’t like that on the internet!” the woman in the purple dress warns.
And that’s the way it happens, when two weeping men set up camp outside Lucas’s door, eating gluten-free, lactose-free pad thai with cashews and Halloumi without chocolate.