The Gray House

“Enough! Out, all of you. I need some time alone with the loot. Horse, thank you, I’m in your debt. Angel, thank you too. For keeping company.”

Angel, deeply offended, rolls his eyes so hard they’re pointing at the back of his head. Horse smirks, salutes me, and rolls the wheelchair with Angel, temporarily blinded, to the far side of the Coffeepot. Guppy stays in place, frozen, desperately hoping we’re going to forget he’s there.

I take out the box with the scale models of my collection and position them on the table. Mermaid drags her chair closer and we proceed to shift the models this way and that, trying to incorporate the rat skulls. It takes us a while. Guppy gets tired of the show and dozes off.

“No,” Mermaid says finally. “Doesn’t work. We need to figure out what it is first.”

I drape the strap over my neck. Then wrap it around my head. Then sling it around my waist.

“Definitely not around the neck. And not as a belt. And it’s supposed to latch to something right here, see this spot?”

“What if it really is a hex?” Mermaid says. “Then it’s not no one’s, but the owner is never going to admit it’s theirs.”

“Wherever did you see a hex like this? They’re not pierced, they’re not cracked, they’re perfectly whole little skulls in great condition!”

“How would I know what a proper hex is supposed to look like? I’ve never used them on anybody.”

“Then listen to those who do know, and you’ll never go wrong.”

Mermaid puts her head on her hands and stares at the models scattered across the table.

“There’s only one thing I’d like to know. Where do they come from, these experts on all things? Those who know everything about everything.”

“Not everything,” I say modestly. “‘A lot’ would be more correct. And they are in fact forged in the crucible of experience.”

“I see,” Mermaid says, nodding. “Except to acquire this much experience it would be necessary to live for a hundred years and make some pretty impossible acquaintances. So that’s what I’m trying to find out, where does it grow, this experience?”

“You’ll know when you’re older. Or not. Depending on your luck.”

“That’s the song I’ve been hearing all my life from all sides,” she scowls. “And surprisingly, the ones singing it to me are uniformly way older than I am. Not.”

I gather the cardboard toys and return them to the backpack.

“Let’s go. Nothing more is happening here. Lightning never strikes twice in one day. We can go check how it fits with the rest.”

Mermaid collects the cups and takes them to the counter. I fiddle with the ties on the backpack.

Time doesn’t flow the same way in the House as in the Outsides. This isn’t talked about, but there are those who manage to live to a ripe old age twice in what for others would feel like one measly month. The more often you fall through timeless holes the more you’ve lived, but only those who’ve lived here for a while know how to do that. That’s why the difference in age between old-timers and newbies is so drastic here. It doesn’t take a great feat of perceptiveness to see that. The greediest can Jump several times a month, and then trail several versions of their past after them. There probably isn’t anyone in the whole House greedier than I am, which means there’s no one here who’s lived through more loops than I have. It’s not something to be proud of, but still I’m proud. Greed this extraordinary is an accomplishment of sorts.

Mermaid returns and looks at me expectantly. I say that I’m ready, and we depart the Coffeepot leaving Guppy snoozing at the now-empty table.

Every time I pack and unpack the things I realize that this is a completely pointless endeavor. The actual contents of the backpack play almost no role in it, the important thing is the process itself. Take something out, smell it, put it aside. Take out, feel, put aside. And then when you try to stuff everything back it won’t fit. That’s an interesting but separate conundrum. And so on. It acquires an almost meditative quality.

It used to be called “One Bag Syndrome.” A very serious disease. As I observe its symptoms in myself, I don’t quite understand what could have caused it. There are no luggage restrictions, either by weight or by size, for the graduation. And still I fret immensely that the backpack obstinately refuses to accommodate the kite. I guess that’s the mind playing games. A distracting tactic. You huff and puff and count the loot, and gradually forget what it was you started the whole repacking over. Instead a lot of other things bubble up to the surface, because each item means time, events, and people compressed into a solid form and requiring a proper place among its own kin.