The Wobblers

The paper cup I hold in my hand is half full. I need to make money to pay Caroline, the concierge, to stay at the hostel on Bishop Street tonight. I must be quiet. I can’t scare the Wobblers, or they won’t share their coins. Their coins allow me to sleep in a bed.

Suddenly, the redheaded Wobbler who passed by me a few minutes ago is back.

“I bought you water. It’s hot today . . .  Global warming,” she says nervously.

“How do you hold that bottle when you have no hands?” I blurt.

I grab the bottle, which makes the redhead flee in fear.

“God damn them,” I scream. “Those Wobblers never answer my questions.”

Why did I just lose control like that? I rely on the generous Wobblers. They are better than the most populous Wobblers: they go through life with smartphones attached to their ears and vacuous expressions on their faces. That kind of Wobbler never shares anything with humans like me.

It must be lunchtime. I can see my older Wobbler friend coming down the street. Every day, he comes to keep me company. Sadly, the senior ones have shriveled-up faces, so you can barely see what their features look like.

Meanwhile, I stare at the clock on the bank across the street stuck at 2:00 p.m. It annoys my friend as much as it does me.

That is why I like him.

“Do you want to go to the park and eat?” he asks after finally crossing the street.

“Sure, Sir” I answer. I figure it is safer to say, yes: I do not know what he will do if I offend him. Like usual, I walk in silence with him to the park while he rolls. The Wobblers look like those dolls that came out decades ago; they have somewhat normal heads and round-bottomed bodies. But mostly, I think of them as cartoonish versions of the “Venus de Milo.”

Once seated, Sir offers me his food. I politely refuse. If I eat the Wobblers’ food, I’m afraid I might become one of them. Sir does not realize that he was biologically altered when the grocery chains closed due to hyperinflation. Some savvy businesspeople came out with formulated all-you-need shakes, bars, and flavored water to replace real food. The FoodX chain monopolized the food market.

I prefer to eat and ration the fruit and vegetables the government hands out weekly. And to keep stealing from the trash of those who can afford whole foods from the specialty shops.

As I munch on my pear that has slightly begun to wither, Sir asks, “Why do you stand on that particular corner, Marianne?”

It amazes me how he knows my name. I never told him. Not even once.

It’s frustrating that he asks me this question every time I see him. But I keep answering because he feels familiar and safe to me. And he is the only Wobbler who has been nice to me.

“Sir, I grew up on the top of that street with my sister. Right at the end of the mountain . . . You know this already.”

“Do you still see your sister?”

I shiver. This is the first time his questioning includes my family.

“Um . . . No.”

“Do you have parents?”

“My father should still be alive. I lost my mother when I was a teenager.”

I cry.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m truly sorry,” he says after a long pause.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. But I still miss her.”

“Why don’t you reach out to your dad or your sister?”

I do not answer him.

I can’t tell him that my husband and family tried to admit me into one of those food conversion facilities. FoodX finances them. They liquify everything and force-feed you through a tube in your nose. They could never get me past the front desk registration; I kept hitting the staff who tried to convince me to admit myself. Their scripted marketing lines sounded like a hoax to me. So, I eventually just ran away. Why would I trust people whose heads wobble?

Sir sees that I am sad and begins counting my money to break the tension that has arisen between us.

“How much do I have?”

“Sixteen dollars.”

“I better get back to work.”

“Your day is over,” he says. And a 100-dollar bill flows from his pocket into my cup. “You can go to the hostel and rest.”

I am in awe of how he can make money appear in my cup out of nowhere when the younger Wobblers cannot fix a clock. Don’t the banks have tons of money? At least, they did before the Wobblers came into existence a decade ago.

His words soon interrupt my oscillating thoughts.

“My intent wasn’t to upset you. I just want to help you reunite with your family. I’d feel better if you lived in a safe place.”

I hug him to ease his guilt and worry, even though I can’t get my arms completely around his round body.

“I need to go now. It’s getting too hot for me outside.”

He stares at me melancholily.

I wave goodbye.

I need to walk 22 blocks to the hostel. As I walk, I realize that I forgot to ask Sir about his daughters. He once told me that one of his girls was ill.

Entering the hostel, I feel relief upon seeing Caroline’s serene face at the front desk. She is not a Wobbler and neither are the travelers who lodge here. FoodX was not able to modify all of us with their products full of plastic and other dubious ingredients.

 We know more of us will eventually break due to hunger and accept the new normal way of eating. It has not been easy surviving with one meal a day and some snacks. I guess for some turning into a Wobbler might be easier. They could forget what life was like . . .

 So, when I see another human at a public library or coffee shop, I simply nod discreetly in commiseration.