=== [ MAGNOLIA ANTHOLOGY ] ===
=== [ âSide Jobsâ ] ===
Iâm not sure how to explain what I do for a living. Itâs difficult because I donât have a right word for it. If I were to say that I constantly change my job, doing one thing to another in the next day or hour without committing to only one, you would probably call me a drifterâbut Iâm not. If I then continue that my payments are decent to exceptional, you would probably think that Iâm some sort of mercenary, but I have standards that I live by.
Perhaps the best word would be that Iâm a freelanceâa jack of all tradesâthough I like the first one more; it sounds kind of professional, without the expense of making me look intimidating. The point is, I donât have a single career, but rather I handle many tasks and requests from people.
Like a side-job, if you get what I mean.
As of the moment, I am hanging by a building with only a single rappelling rope to keep me alive and suspended. The feeling of my weight suddenly pushing me downwards caught me by surprise as I stare back into reality in the shape of a large sign right in front of me that I assign myself to fix. A fine Choirtech piece of work it was; it had long glass tubings that snaked throughout the board with intricate and hectic wirings and other gadgetries beneath it that connects all tubings together with itself and a single Choristone, the power source. In case it wasnât clear, this is my current side-job that I am working on.
I feel like Iâve called a lot of things as a side-job that it might as well lose its actual meaning. The one I got here was from two days agoâa Thursdayâafter finishing watching over some Mumesian floras owned by an old lady and then going over my schedule, I came across an old man. We were both in some sort of Midlight stores that sell Choirtech wares, I believe.
He looked puzzled, like a kid in a store except the store sells crap that made no sense to him; so absolutely lost that I couldnât help but approach him and offered him help out of pity; turns out he was actually lostâclueless, more specifically. He told me he needed some help in a place heâs running, a restaurant, that his well-aged Choirtech sign was busted. Said that the light was fading away and having no idea on how to repair it himself.
So, of course, I helped him.
The man, a Tamarixan, came here to start his own business: cooking his home delicacy for a decent price, according to the menu I saw by the doorâat least, in my standardsâI mean, Iâve seen more ridiculous price tags elsewhere before. The place wasnât too bad for Midlight standards too: well-lit, clean, rather poshâa lot of green furniture were used tooâthough it complimented the porcelain-white floors, walls, and ceilings. I believe the place was attempting to recreate some sort of luxurious Tamarix aesthetic, like a royalty or somethingânot sure honestly, I donât know much about royalty in Tamarix and its culture.
The waft of stews and spices glides out from the restaurantâs main entrance and window, all blending with the plucky odour of sewers, smokes, and people out and about. Not exactly the greatest smell, especially when Iâm hanging two-storeys above a buildingâit almost made me feel like vomitingâwouldnât want that to happen, of course, that would be very unprofessional of me.
âHowâre things going?â A voice comes out from below, when I look down I see a man staring at meâitâs the owner of the place. He had a dark skinâlike blackened woodâa sharp point as the chin, coated with a thick and bushy moustache that resembles the whiskers of a Northern Nivalen Daggered Seals and a long-patched goateeâpainted in silver with streaks of crimson. Heâs wearing what I think is a long white garb with a dark-brown apronâprobably a traditional Tamarix apparelâit goes so far it conceals his footwear.
âHello there Mr. Ariqâ I cry back from above, letting myself lean back in midair to make myself a little comfortable, âIâll have you know that things are going just fine, how are you?â
âAbsolutely good Miss Tessie. Is⊠Everything okay? I apologize if I asked too many times but Iâm a little worried thatââ
âDonât worry about me Mr. Ariq, Iâve been doing stuffs like these ever since I was just a kid.â I assure him, going back to work on the sign, âItâs not too bad as well, by the wayâthe sign I mean. Besides, Iâm almost halfway done with this whole thing and soon it should be back in no time!â
âI am glad to hear that.â Mr. Ariq comments, âIs there perhaps anything that I can do to help you up there?â He adds. âNo Sir, Iâll be just fine right here!â I smile, giving out a thumbs up. âVery well, I understand, but if there is anything you need feel free to find me inside.â He waves to me before going back inside the restaurant.
âHalfway doneâ, in the language of craftsmen and tinkerers, is a common phrase used vague enough to appease their customers; in this instanceâmore specificallyâI currently have somewhere around five things or four if I were to ignore the plan of finding a new replacement for the Choirstoneâs container because I assumed itâs still in a good condition.
The big things that I look for when I started were the wirings and the casings. Luckily, it seems that there arenât any faulty wiringsânothing burnt nor cut-offâso thatâs nice. The casing, however, had its fair share of experience; there were clear signs of age, things like cracks and rusts were rather prevalent around it. Patching all of that shouldnât be much of a problem as long as I have time and materials to spendâwhich I have just about right.
There are, of course, many other things to pay attention to when fixing somethingâespecially when dealing with a Choirtech; things like the isolizers, transporters, Choirstoneâs integrity, to name a few. Theyâre a bit tricky to deal with those Choirtechs, but admittedly they have a good reason to be so popular nowadaysâwith it being so energy conserving and so unique that it might as well be magic.
It reminds me of stories about how different it was back before the discovery of Choirstones, it was a curious time, one that I would like to know a little bit more of. My dad often tells me how much of a big deal he was back then, said that his workshop could get crowded in a matter of seconds; prides himself as one of the top of the line in terms of fixing and crafting (at least, thatâs what he told me). When Choirtechs became a thing, he had to learn and start all over again, because at that point almost everyone has some sort of Choirtech with them and when itâs broken they donât take it to some normal mechanic, it had to be a special oneâa Choirtech specialistâas they say.
But he didnât mindâtold me that itâs all part of the experienceâhe was eager to try understand what made the new things big and how they work. Because thatâs the cycle of being a craftsman. In addition to that, what made my dad love his hobby-now-a-job, is knowing that what he does could help out others, making them smile and be happy, even if it means pulling out a little more effort to it. Thatâs what he taught me.
Heâs a fine man. But I believe thatâs enough about him for nowâI have my own work to do right in front of me and I wouldnât want to waste too much time. In order for me to get things done quickly, I picture myself a collection of all the bits and pieces thatâd normally be found and are necessary in a Choirtech machinery. With everything gathered nicely in my head, I gaze at the sign like a painted canvas intentlyâlike a critic staring at some oblique artâanalyzing its full form before narrowing down from one large piece to a smaller one. Because what makes the big world, is the little people that inhabited it.
Thatâs also what my dad taught me. And indeed, I am making use of everything he taught me.
Going from one piece to another, slowly swinging from one end of the sign into the other and back, I was able to juggle my task well enough into a manageable scale. What would probably feel like a voided experience suddenly became an encapsulating moment, an experience where I canât lose track of both time and space; like my whole body is moving on its own as it throws out my consciousness, knowing exactly what to do and how to do it. Not sure if thatâs a developed second nature from all my long-term exposure to tinkering or Iâm just into it. Like a hook, it reels me in, a feeling so therapeutic and so one-of-a-kind, something you just canât get from anywhere else; a package that goes through your senses with a good kick to it. The kind of kick whereâ
Wait a minute. Iâm done?
The abrupt realization showed myself holding a transporter box on my left and a thermic-pen on the other. I gave the transporter box a final inspection, a one last looksie for any little bits I missed inside before I plug it back into its original spotâmaking a soft and extremely satisfying ker-clunk sound. Now that everything is in place; I push myself backwards from the sign, slowly and gradually lowering myself towards the groundâboth of my feet felt weird thereâlike it missed the feeling of standing up straight.
Into the restaurant, I look to the right of the entrance for a number of switches planted by a wall, between the window and the entrance. Finding the switch for the sign, I flick it up to activate it; the next thing that I hear is a steady buzz slowly evolving into a series of humming tones that assemble an abstract melody. Heading outside, the tune grew louder and it came from the sign itselfâthe Choirstone, more specifically.
The slim glass section of the Choirstoneâs container sheds out a sharp violet glow, and at its bottom, a hazy flow of the stoneâs energy wraps around the connector like millions of thin tendrils. It grew longer and longer with some tiny traces dispersing out, but soon it reaches the maze of wireâs starting line and trailblaze it, scattering from one point and now all over the sign itself; next thing you know, the entire glass pipelines light up. Shining the building and the entrance with soft but spectacular lights, with writings that spells out the restaurantâs name: âYetthroâs Houseâ.
âIs it working? Is it done?â A familiar voice appears again, I look back to see Mr. Ariq quickly waddling towards me with wide and interested eyes. I guess he noticed me staring and admiring the sign.
âIt sure is.â I smile, âIâm guessing this is what your sign is supposed to be doing right?â
Mr. Ariq walks out and looks upward, his whole face suddenly completely showered under the light. Itâs almost blindingâbut I catch a glimpse of his smileârelieved and satisfied with what he sees. A signal for a job well done.
âIt looks perfectââ Exclaims Mr. Ariq, âJust like the way I remembered. Thank you very much, Miss Tessieâ.
âAnytime Mr. Ariq.â I dust off my suit and vest before continue my comment, âThe entire thing was actually fairly manageable, and the problems that I found werenât anything ridiculous; just deteriorationsâwhich is expected with any machines throughout timeâespecially through excessive or poor use. I suggest you try to take a little more care for it. Something like⊠Donât leave it on for the whole day, or turn it off or on at certain times. As a little advice, of courseâ.
âOh, one more thing, just as a heads up from meââ I snap my fingers as I remember something. I let out the inner salesman inside me, going through one of my pockets for a small card that shows my workshopâs address and cable-phone numberâto promote my little business! âIf you ever need any helpânot just to fix things, I mean anythingâ feel free to give me a call,â I give him my little business card, âI am more than willing to lend out a helping handâ.
âI appreciate your kindness, Miss Tessie.â Mr. Ariq takes the card as he greets me. âThis reminds me, I must pay you for your works. Please wait inside for a moment⊠How much do I owe you again?â
âAs promised originally: 500 Prosperasâan extra hundred âcus I had to replace one of the isolizersâ.
The two of us walk inside into the restaurant again, with Mr. Ariq ahead and in front of me, he shuffles off quickly into a door by the end of the roomâpresumably leads into the kitchen, or the staffroom, or his office, whichever it isâwhile I patiently wait standing in the midst of the slightly crowded restaurant, all filled waiters serving and getting orders and customers eating and asking their orders.
I make myself busy by browsing through the restaurant itself; an activity where I essentially have my eyes go from one object of interest into another and analyze it for reasons unknown except to occupy timeâkind of like what I did back then when I was working on the signâexcept now I do it on purpose and not subconsciously spaced-out out of nowhere. Iâll admit, it is a slow burner, feels like time is actually crawling and putting weights around my joints the moment I start; but after unnecessarily analyzing at three things, itâs all smooth sailing from there on out.
I just notice that a lot of the furnitureâparticularly the green tablecloths that are everywhereâhave golden embroideries by the edges. It had a sleek geometrical design to it that turns into angular diamonds as an occurring pattern. Neat.
I count fifteen peopleâboth customers and staffsâhave some part of their bodies augmented. Auggies, theyâre sometimes called, pretty common in Sorrel.
I spot a woman, in her prime years with short and blonde hair, has a booger hanging by the edge of her nose and she doesnât notice it. Thatâs funny.
I see an old man coming towards me, holding an envelope on one hand and a paper bag on the otherâboth of which appears like itâs filled with somethingâand it looks like heâs approaching closer and closer to be right in front ofâ
Oh wait, thatâs Mr. Ariq.
He hands both of the items to me, âYour payment.â he says as he bows down in gratitude. Iâbeing slightly puzzled by the old manâs need to bowâreactively bow back to him as well. I count the money inside the envelope once I took it, after counting the expected amount I tuck it deep under the back of my belt to be concealed by my suitâkinda like shoving a contraband up your rear, but Iâm not because thatâs gross and this is my paycheck for goodness sake.
âThank you but⊠Whatâs that?â I ask curiously, pointing at the bag.
âA gift.â Mr. Ariq answers, âFor your considerationâ.
I grab the paper bag with both of my hands, with curiosity and interest finally taking over me, I decide to roll it open to see what exactly is inside. To my surprise, a puff of warm and sweet scent suddenly flies out of the bag, looking closely into it I discover something fantastic: a trove of bunsâbarely even the size of a handâall neatly packed in an orderly fashion. After a smelling a gust of strange spices that I probably donât know; I notice that the buns have a golden-brown colour, and each has this rough gravelly texture as the surface for the bread, giving the bun a cartoonish appearance of a round brown rock. I couldnât help but be in awe and also confused as to what this is.
âSandbreads!â Thatâs a silly name. I like that. âA common snack back in my country. These are made with my familyâs recipe!â
âHow nice!â I compliment him, âAnd you want me⊠To have it?â
My head backs up and tilts just hearing that, âOh wowâŠâ I begin, eyes widening now, âthatâs very kind of you but⊠You sure about this? I mean Iâm just doing my job and itâs no big deal andââ
âOh but please do!â He interrupts me, âI have paid you for your services, I should at least pay you someway for your generosity.â He explains, his arms gradually reach into the bag and gently push it farther to me; he clearly insists for me to have it, âHad you not come to me back then, it might take longer just for me to fix that sign!â
Heâs actually right, now that I think about it. I did approach Mr. Ariq back then in that random store in some random place on a random afternoon Thursday; it wasnât just me who approached him, it was my spontaneous burst of generosity that led me all the way here.
One of my conscience, the Humble One, reminds me that I shouldnât take too muchâespecially since my work isnât all too special. But another conscienceâthe Logical Oneâhas some good arguments to the table. Itâs not a matter of me wanting it, but a matter of me deserving it.
The third conscience though. The Hungry One. Bursts in with its own opinion, telling me that the sandbreads look delicious and I should take the helm and give it a try.
Embracing the crumply paper bag goodness filled with even more baked bread goodness, I can feel the heat of the sandbreads barely piercing out the bagâit was clearly fresh out of the oven. A smile grows on Mr. Ariqâs faceâequally as warm as the buns Iâm holdingâand I couldnât help but do the same.
âWell. Guess Iâll be taking it then. Thank you, Mr. Ariq.â I thank him, shaking his hand before heading out as quickly as possible, remembering that I have something else to do in mind.
âThank you as well, Miss Tessie!â
Bustling out from the exit, I try to check for the time, the only problem being that there isnât anything for me to tell. I could try looking at the skyâwhich I didâbut I only find a drab and foggy atmosphere stained of squeamish green; with pale yellow lights beaming down into the urban jungle, blending together with the buildings and other artificially made colour palettes across Midlight, as the only sunlights Sorrel could ever get.
Counting the numbers of the sunlight beams and judging the properties of the light. I make an unintelligent guess that it might be nearing 3 past afternoon. It looks like I have enough time. Hopefully.
I creep towards the nearest alley that I can find, the one I chose seems to lead me to a shadowy and littered pathway with an upward stairway at the end. Stairs are key to finding your way through the mess of a place that is Sorrel, because they either take you to a major walkway or in this case, another inconspicuous alleyway.
Stopping in the middle of the stairway, I look around to see if thereâs anyone around me, just to ensure that I wonât be causing too much scene. I kneel down to reach for my duffel bag, the place where I keep mostâif notâall of my tools for work. I dig down through all of the gadgets that I kept inside it, making clamoured and jumbled noises of clinks and clangs with a pling-plongs and a plinkityâitâs rather annoying admittedly, but I have nothing else for me to use. As I go deeper and deeper, I finally find it:
An empty gun, and a collection of loaded magazines.
I reach for the gun and give it some quick care and inspection to make sure that itâs still in good condition. I wonder to myself just how much will I need the gun later; for now, I choose myself a number of fiveâfive magazinesâand pull four out from the bag and evenly put them in both of my sides and one into the gun, cocking it before I give one last look at the gun.
I stand up and have some half-a-minute worth of stretching after I close the bag. The gunâs place into a holster at the side of my belt, conveniently hidden by the suit Iâm wearing. With everything in place, itâs time for me to head straight for my next job.
Itâs more of a side-job, but Iâm sure you get what I mean.
