Norman was sitting in the corner of a room that was suspended high in the air by a very long string. The room was filled with his brothers and sisters and cousins, all of them wearing linen clothes with identical red and white horizontal stripes from head to toe. Some of his sisters had blond hair, some of his brothers had black hair, some cousins had brown—a couple even had orange—but everyone wore stripes. Norman wore stripes too of course, but they didn't fit him because he was fat.
The room was dim and crowded, but no one noticed except Norman. The walls were painted a stale, green color and the floor was a darkly stained wood. It was covered in a layer of dust that prevented anything from shining. There were no windows. The only light in the room came from a single bulb hanging from the string located in the precise center of the ceiling.
The wall opposite the corner Norman was sitting in had a small door. It was about two and a half feet tall and two feet wide—and it was made of the same color wood as the floor, but its finish showed more cracks. The door opened once every day, at some time or another, and a basket of fresh, fluffy rolls coated with a wet honey glaze would appear, then the door would close. None of Norman's brothers or sisters or cousins ever paid any attention to the door, except for when the basket came in. But even then, the door was only part of the background—they were focused on the food. The basket came filled with exactly enough rolls for everyone and so they all took theirs. Norman, too.
Norman ate exactly the same thing—and exactly the same amount—as all his brothers and sisters and cousins, but he got fat and they did not. Every day he'd slowly rise up to get his moist roll and trudge back to his corner. When he was finished eating, he tried his best to divert his attention away from the prattling of his brothers, sisters and cousins that crowded the room. His weight difference did not annoy him. But the shrill sound of their voices, their tight, oblivious smiles and the nonsensical games they'd play grated on him more and more with every basket delivery.
While they played and squeaked and clapped their hands, Norman spent hours with his back-fat squeezed between the walls, staring at the tiny door across the room, wondering about that state of his belly button, which was peeking out from the bottom of his red and white striped shirt.
Norman's brothers and sisters and cousins used to invite him to join their games, but he always refused—often doing so in ways that they found rude. Each day Norman refused, he was paid less and less attention to and the room became more and more of a burden. He sat in the corner hoping the noise would stop. He wished the crowd around him would disperse so he could have some peace and quiet. But the room only got louder and louder, and appeared more and more cramped with every feeding.
Norman glared at the door and tried to shut everything out until the tension of his stare caused sweat to slide through the deep folds of his body. He was the least likely person in the room to be able to fit through the miniature opening, but he was also the only one who thought about trying.
On the day he made the decision to leave, Norman felt the dizziest he'd ever felt from the pitterpattering of the red sneakers and white shoelaces surrounding him. His headache was unbearable. His suffering had no release.
He heaved himself forward into a crawling position. His stomach drooped between his limbs, swaying just a couple of inches above the floor. He felt the dust on his hands, wiped them on his chest, then began creeping forward. Norman carefully wriggled through the crowd, managing not to bump into anyone, and reached the door. The volume of his breath and the thumping sounds of his limbs against the floor were dulled under the commotion.
A plump uneasiness built in Norman's gut when his hand inched toward the doorknob. He had no idea whether or not the door would even open. He had no idea what was on the other side. And he certainly did not know how he was going to fit through the small portal in front of him.
His trembling hand rose gradually, but he quickly drew it back toward his waist before making contact. He tried again, this time letting his fingers caress the wood as they traveled toward the knob.
Norman's grip, now firm, twisted the doorknob with a light motion of his wrist. He pulled his elbow backward and the door trailed along with it. Bright light shined right into his face, forcing him to squint. He let go of the door and lifted his open palm in front of his face to block the harsh glow. Norman turned his head to see if anyone was paying attention to him or to the light coming from the door, but they were not. They were busy.
Norman's eyes adjusted, exposing a vast field of blue all around him. He didn't know what to do with himself now. In that first moment, he imagined that a descent through empty sky was not a viable alternative to the discomforts that tethered him to the corner—but then he looked down and that moment ended. He looked outward at the beautiful, ornate pattern on the velvety rug. It stretched farther than he could see. It appeared to be a path, levitating amongst the clouds, and it landed right at the threshold of the tiny doorway of this room. He sucked in the fresh air, drawing in hope and adrenaline with it.
Norman stuck his hand through the door and pressed it against the rug. It sank, like a mattress would have under similar pressure, but it was definitely sturdy enough to walk on. He stretched his other arm out the door and grabbed a firm hold of both edges of the rug. With fibers tickling the space between his fingers, Norman exerted all the strength he could and pulled forward. His chest made it through the frame.
"Hchee, hhchoo."
He pressed his elbows back and braced them against the smooth cement bordering the door, then pushed his arms out to propel further. The lower door hinge caught Norman's shirt. It tore the fabric and pierced a straight groove through his skin. The heat from his blood rushed out of his wound and Norman felt a slight relief of pressure from the split in his shirt. The widest part of his body was at the threshold.
"Hchee, hhchoo."
Norman lunged his arms forward and grabbed hold of the edges of the rug again to brace himself for another pull.
From the outside, the room with all the brothers, sisters, and cousins living in it looked like a floating box with a boundless, richly colorful tail—and Norman was now laying on it. After his final pull had propelled his waist through, Norman shook his legs past the door frame, then rolled over onto his back. He picked his neck up slightly to try and get a look at the hole he'd just come out of, but his head quickly collapsed back down past his shoulders.
It took several desperate breaths before Norman rolled over again. He propped himself up on all fours, crawled over to the door, reached in and gently dragged it shut behind him. It was completely quiet.
He struggled while he lifted his body to its feet. Once standing, he took another look around and brought more clean air deep into his lungs. As he dusted himself off, Norman's thumb paused at the tear in his shirt and the naked wound behind it. He twisted to investigate the damage. He was still bleeding slightly, but any pain he had was gone. He was ready to begin walking. And so he did.
Moving one foot after the other, each separately and gently sinking into the rug, Norman's steps gained a rhythm. He was walking and consuming the unfamiliarity everywhere. He spent large portions of his time looking down at his feet, allured by all of the repeating vibrancy surrounding them. And in the moments that Norman paused to look up, he marveled at just how infinite this path could be. He was exhilarated by the boundless space around him. The longer Norman walked, the deeper he fell into a blissfully hypnotic state.
Norman walked for two days in this condition. He paid no attention to how tired he was. He didn't notice how heavily he was breathing or how wet he was from sweating through his clothes. He did not realize that he hadn't eaten. He just kept on walking along, nourished by the freshness of the air.
Norman walked until he noticed the vulture that began circling above him. It was the bird's squawk that penetrated his trance. The sound reminded him of the squeaking and prattling that he'd left behind, causing his body to shudder. He shook his head so rapidly that it returned him to an ordinary consciousness—and his cheeks lagged just a moment behind. Norman's mouth was brimming with the driest sensation that he'd ever tasted. The vulture squawked again. Norman looked up at it and it looked back down at him. His breathing became audibly heavier with every slowing step. He needed to stop for rest.
Norman placed his hands on his knees and eased his body into a seated position. The rug dipped considerably when Norman's buttocks made contact. He sat there, still, and heard the vulture squawk again—and then again, louder and louder. It started accelerating towards him. Norman cringed and curled up into a soft, protective ball. He stayed like that for several seconds while the bird flew towards him. The breeze caused the torn fabric of his shirt to flutter. But as the vulture got closer, its flight slowed down.
When the vulture landed on Norman's shoulder, his reflexes sent his arms thrashing to defend himself. He swatted at it frantically. But, while Norman was flailing, the vulture calmly took flight and hovered above his right shoulder until the swatting stopped. When it did, the bird landed again—and the whole sequence repeated.
Norman was approaching breathlessness, but he continued swinging his arms. The vulture lifted off, lingering just beyond Norman's reach until he'd stop, waiting for an opportunity to land again—behaving with complete submissiveness to the spirits that nourish fat, tired and hungry men. After a wheezing fit, Norman finally realized that this big ugly black bird with a skinny bald pink head was not going to hurt him. The vulture persisted to rest on his shoulder and Norman, needing rest of his own, was content allowing the bird to join him in doing so. He was so tired and so hungry.
The vulture's claws tightened slightly when Norman stood up to move forward. He was frightened and uncertain about his path. Fresh, wet, sweet glaze seduced his memory and, for the first time, he started to miss his corner.
The vulture flapped its wings occasionally, but Norman ignored it. He tried to refocus on the magnificence surrounding him. He stared at his feet, at the rug, then at the sky and clouds. The sights sprinkled him with some of the joy, hope, and adrenaline that they had before, but the distressing dryness in his mouth was too powerful of a distraction. His lips were cracked and bleeding.
Norman hunched over and weakly gasped for air. The vulture still clung to his shoulder. When he started returning his posture, Norman's eyes met with the bird's and began seeing it with his hungry eyes. It now occurred to Norman that this was an opportunity for a meal. The vulture shook its feathers a bit, then calmly flapped its wings back into tranquility. Norman continued staring at it, until finally grabbing hold of the loose flesh around its neck. The vulture did not resist. It remained still, gripping Norman's shoulder with the same, even force. Norman's grip, however, began to tighten. It exceeded the pressure of the vulture's claws and compressed until he snapped its neck.
Norman sat down in preparation to eat. He cradled the dead vulture in his left arm and plucked out each of its feathers. Norman could not stand to imagine what this bird's feathers tasted like.
Immediately after his first bite into the fresh meat, he felt re-energized. And with the pink, partially eaten carcass in hand, Norman continued walking. He had enough servings of bird flesh to sustain walking and marveling for a few more days without tiring. The vigor and enthusiasm of his first days returned and he settled back into bliss.
Norman walked for six more days like this. He had just about finished eating when he spotted an outline of a grey structure in the far distance. It was precisely at the horizon line, where the pattern vanished into the clouds. It was a distinct vertical disruption at the edge of his sight and Norman wondered if he might get his next meal there. The thought of rolls flooded his gut with optimism. This was his purpose now. He took his last bites off the now bony carcass and dropped what remained at his feet. He stepped over it and began moving toward his new ambition.
The structure gradually appeared closer. Would it be like the room where his brothers and sisters and cousins still lived? Could he have gotten turned around at some point and gone backwards? The sweat beads grew larger all over his body while he wondered what was going to be inside. Moving one leg past the other, carefully and rhythmically, he continued.
The outline was clear now. The entrance was in sight and Norman was relieved to see that this was not the place he came from. It was not a cube. It looked very similar to a cube, but it was obviously taller, and probably thinner, than the place he left behind.
Getting through this door's narrow span would certainly be a squeeze for Norman, but it would easily fit his height. He gripped this unfamiliar door's knob and twisted it tenderly to his right, afraid of what was on the other side. But once the door swung open, he turned his body ninety degrees, stuck his arm through the door, sucked in his gut as firmly as he could, and inched through the frame.
As his body squeezed through the door, the heads behind the blowing smoke, belonging to the shiny-shoed feet that were resting on each of the four stools became clearer. There were two men and two women. All of them were wearing berets and black cotton turtlenecks. They all sat there smoking long cigarettes and all of them were now staring blankly at Norman.
Other than lifting their cigarettes to and from their mouths, none of the four flinched when he entered the room. He rubbed his eyes, irritated by the heavy smoke. He stared at each of them for a few moments, alternating between them, before cautiously turning around to shut the door behind him.
Norman tip toed toward the broken stool toppled on its side in the corner of the room and turned it upright. He needed to jump slightly in order to plant himself firmly on the seat. The stool creaked a bit when he landed, but did not collapse.
He was back in a corner, staring around a room again, but felt even more alien in this place now. He sat staring at the smoke coming over the backs of the men's and women's berets and watched it dissolve into the walls, which were just as windowless as the last room he was in. This room, however, had two doors. One was the entrance he came through, the other was on the exact opposite wall and formed an identical, mirroring shape.
The only noises Norman heard from his corner were the exhaling of smoke and the creaking of his stool. After an hour or so of relentless tension, the other door opened. Norman jumped back in shock. His stool teetered on each leg, but did not fall. While Norman calmed down, the four others stood up and walked toward the door that had just opened. They each bent down, picked up a fluffy, sweet roll, placed down their cigarettes and returned to their seats.
Norman waited a few minutes before getting up to look in the basket. He tiptoed toward it and slowly peeked inside. A single roll and a long, thin cigarette remained in the basket. He looked back at the four stools to make sure that everyone had their portion and was eating. They all did and they all were, so he reached into the basket, took the extras, and cautiously went back to the corner to eat and observe.
When Norman finished his roll he was left with a cigarette, but nothing to light it with. He noticed sparks coming from the hands of the bodies on the stools and wondered if he should go over to ask them for help. Norman had never smoked a cigarette before. He was curious and became eager to try. He walked over to the woman sitting on the far right.
"Excuse me, miss," Norman said. He cleared his throat, surprised to hear the sound of his own voice. He hadn't spoken for so long.
"Excuse me, ma'am?"
All four of them turned their heads to look at Norman. The woman on the far right stared directly into his glossy eyes. She made Norman quiver. She swiped a matchstick across the box to ignite it, drew the lit flame over to his face, painting it with an orange glow, and lit his cigarette. She shook the hand holding the match to put out the flame, then let it fall to the floor. The four of them resumed their blank stares on the stools and continued smoking. Norman returned to his stool and waited until he sat down to take his first drag.
He coughed profusely, but none of the four turned around. His lungs were hot and uncomfortable. He did not like the charred feeling in his chest. He threw the cigarette to the ground and put it out with his heel. After a few more lingering, fluttering coughs, Norman resumed his normal breathing, but the unpleasant taste of fire remained on his tongue.
Norman continued to stare, now in even more wonderment than before, at the four stools and the four shiny sets of feet and the four clouds of smoke forming just beyond the four backs in front of him. He could not understand their silence and became more and more uneasy about it as time ticked on. Norman's eyes were tearing from the heavy smoke. Rubbing them was temporary relief, but he quickly became tired of doing so. He watched the other door, fixated on thoughts of a prismatic rug and dreaming about a forest of clouds he hoped continued on the other side.
The stool fell when Norman hopped off. The loud crash echoed throughout the room. The four berets turned their attention to the noise simultaneously. Norman's plump cheeks blushed guiltily. He directed his embarrassed grin toward the center of the room. The four of them stared silently back at him, before turning around to resume feeding the cloud of smoke above their seats. Norman stood still for another moment, waiting for the sting of scrutiny to dissolve, then kicked a few cigarette butts aside and headed toward the unventured door.
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