aww Ինչ かわいい

He-ey what’s up, hi, how are you doing tonight? I’m here to tell you that you can be doing much better. Or infinitely worse.

Ever heard of bipolar disorder?

[the audience laughs] My dad had it. My dad had bipolar disorder. For most of his life, he didn’t know that he had it. No one did. Everybody just thought that he was mercurial and eccentric and like a phoenix. They all called him that. Phoenix. Pyunik. ‘Cause he’s like, flying all majestic and writing a linguistics monograph non-stop for three weeks, and making crazy money on some weird-ass scheme everyone thought would fail, and then he’s dead ashes for a week and doesn’t call anyone. Rinse and repeat. Phoenix, amirite!

[the audience laughs] The fucking enablers. Don’t you just want to pummel your fellow humans sometimes? For their willful ignorance and indifference? Don’t you just want to scream in their faces about how they ruined your best friend in the entire world and sent him to an early grave? Just fucking smother them? Don’t you just wanna murder people sometimes? Others or, you know, yourselves?

[the audience laughs] Totally. So anyway, this ever happened to you? There’s a disease that runs in your family, and there’s a fifty percent chance you’ll get it too. Well, in my family we’re pretty lazy, so it doesn’t run, it just meanders and creaks and complains about politics.

[the audience laughs] And then you’re born, and for that one long minute after trading your fontanelle for a level one skull and before realizing that you never asked to be born and that there is no meaning and no god, you’re like: ‘oh my god, I can’t believe my luck!’ Sitting upright for the first time in your crib, wearing stylish dungarees, and going: ‘seriously? Despite the overwhelming chances of this shit being hereditary, I’m not bi like my dad? Score!”

Score indeed, because here’s the thing, my dudes... and dudettes.

[the audience laughs] Don’t you just start believing it sometimes? That god is a joker? I would, too, if I believed in a God above. Okay, so bipolar disorder. Let me mega-simplify and be entertaining in the process, so there’s a better chance to teach you something useful.

[the audience laughs] An average bipolar person is either on the highest of highs or on the lowest of lows. What’s that? Medication? Medication is great. But unless you mean licking a battery in the morning — which doesn’t work, just so you know if your lithium prescription is running out — not a thing where I’m from. Not a thing. Not until very recently. It’s super funny, you guys! People with mental health issues are, like, swept under the rug all over the world.

[the audience laughs] Bu-ut compared to most people like my dad, especially compared to my great-grandma who killed herself at the ripe old age of twenty-four, he got so-o-o lucky. His manic episodes lasted for weeks or even months and he rode them like a champion surfer. Other bipolars go looking for god and stuff. He wasn’t looking for god, he was looking to become god, and wasn’t even trying that hard. Top of his class? Stratosphere! Date the hottest girl in his school, who by the way doesn’t date? Done. Oops, she lied to him that she’s on the pill, ‘cause she wanted to ensnare who she thought was the coolest guy, yeah, she was so insecure, you know, due to the whole patriarchal culture and society telling her she’s worthless unless she finds a man and starts procreating, and the man can’t be some dirty stupid foreigner— [the audience laughs]

—and she didn’t believe he’d stick around otherwise, so yeah she lied and she got pregnant, but... Phoenix, bay-beee! And hey, that’s me they made! Based on a damn lie! Randomly! His Little Star! Wooo! Go Dad! Get married at seventeen? No problem! Raise a child when you yourself were a child yesterday, and so was your bride? Easy peasy! Learn four foreign languages without assistance, one of them via damn cartoons? Small potatoes! Who the fuck needs university education! Not he, but why not get one anyway, through a correspondence school, of course! Get a successful business running too? Done! Two businesses! No one. No one but the closest friends and relatives knew the truth about him. Just how dumb are human people, huh?

[the audience laughs]

My mom really liked to pretend that everything was fine and normal. Outside of our home especially, she was obsessed with pretending. So whenever dad would go into a depressive episode, she’d put us on lockdown and lie and lie and lie to everyone and not let anyone see the Valley Below, because had they seen it? They’d have all renounced and abandoned him. Mom knew wazzup. Street smarts off the charts!

[the audience laughs] Well, he didn’t want anyone around but me either way, didn’t want anyone to know, to see him just lying in bed like a plank and crying for days. And I didn’t care, okay? I didn’t care that he was like this. I just wanted to take care of Dad until he’d become himself again. ‘Himself’... Hah. Hey, I was a child. I thought: whatever, god can be allowed to be sad. I just wanted to care for him. Although Mom wouldn’t let me. She preferred to send me to those lame camps and boarding schools for neglected kids. And I hated going. I hated it, because I was bullied there.

[the audience laughs] But Dad always pulled me out of those whenever he’d get manic again. Hours after it hit. And he’d told me what to do. He said: be funny. Be funny, nobody bullies the jester. He said: most people don’t want depressing, they don’t want sad. They’re terrified of sad and depressing and emotional and vulnerable, ‘cause those remind them of their fragility and their mortality. They just want to be entertained, to be distracted. He said: just accept that. And find someone who will accept you when you’re sad too. He said: someone who also gets sad. He said: find an astronomer who is so fascinated by the stars that he doesn’t care whether the star is big or little. He said: you don’t need a whole phoenix, nobody does, you just need one little feather. And he said: unfortunately, yes, you need to eat your okra, but it’s okay to hate okra together with someone who also hates to eat it... Uuuh so anyone who’s ever had okra and has functioning taste buds and isn’t insane, then?

[the audience laughs] Like, not super poignant metaphors, Dad, and you said a million other things that can’t be applied anywhere and to anything and were basically gibberish, ‘cause you were manic as all hell and blasting out the randomest pseudo-wise word salad every single day, and confirmation bias and pattern-seeking are kicking my ass, but whatever. All things considered, it’s a legit miracle that I don’t believe in psychics or god nowadays!

[the audience laughs] You guys, my dad was my best friend. My best friend in the entire damn universe. My father was god to me, to my eyes, my mind. And then he died. God just died one day. The person you love the most. One day he’s there, and then he’s just gone and never coming back. And you realize that it’s inevitable, death is inevitable. Isn’t it funny?

Well? Isn’t it FUNNY?

[the audience laughs] Woo, yeah of course it is! See, this guy knows what I’m talking about. And this gal. And you. And you too. Almost every one of you knows what I’m talking about!

And if you don’t know yet?

You’re going to learn.

You will know.

Yes, you.

Sooner or later, you will know.

Super funny how that is!

[the audience laughs] And then I’m like hey, hey uh, Mom? Maybe wait a bit? At least forty days? No? Can’t hear me? Already sucking face with Dad’s old business partner? Faaan-tastic, good for you, Mom! Whichever defense mechanism works! Just gimme a call when you’re done, okay? I’ll be crying in the gutter eight thousand kilometers away while trying to become a psychiatrist so that I can prescribe mood stabilizers and other medication to people, so they’d get properly treated and don’t die of a heart attack at thirty seven because month-long manic episodes had stretched them too thin, toodles, Mo-om.

[the audience laughs] Yup, I decided to become a psychiatrist! But guess what. Turns out, you need to actually be super smart to become a doctor? What?! And to hate sleep? You need to really hate sleep!

[the audience laughs] Then I thought, fuck it, I’m already on the right track, and I’m going to kill myself if I don’t learn to help better, so I’m like: I’m going to studyyy — dun-tun-tuuun! — psychology! I’m gonna become a therapist! So I could help broken fucks like me to not be in pain! No meds, yeah, whatever, at least some right words. Some solutions. For me, first and foremost. Nobody should be in so much pain, and if you can do anything about this, you do it, am I right? Yeeah that’s the spirit! But just so we’re clear, by ‘doing something’ I don’t mean suicide. I mean, like, therapy. Or finger-painting. Or cocaine. Or start a cult.

[the audience laughs] Counterintuitive, I know. And then I actually did! I became a licensed mental health professional through the power of breakfast and grief! And boo-yah, I got out three years earlier than doctors do! After having discovered that there are no solutions except for ‘deal with it’!

[the audience laughs] Just eat your damn okra, you sad sod. Each of us has to either eat our okra, or opt out and starve to death. Learn to love it, you doomed bastard. Convince yourself that it’s good for you and that you need to eat your okra. And then maybe you’d get some dessert, nevermind that you’ll be full and miserable by that time! That’s all, that’s what is at the root of every single so-called solution.

[the audience laughs] Hey, you guys wanna know what are the only efficient ways of dealing with PTSD? Moving your eyes like you’re a frog, eating poisonous mushrooms from the tropics, or becoming an actor. Just kidding... No I’m not.

[the audience laughs] So I graduated, and then I’m like: now what? Well, first of all I discovered this tiny pile—I mean the biggest pile of bullshit ever. The wildest misconception about therapists. That therapists are always equipped to help themselves and never struggle with their own mental health problems.

[the audience laughs] And that it’s uuuh much easier to help others than to help yourself? Because if it’s you, you can’t give advice and just run off? You need to actually be present, to be there for yourself? The FUCK? And the lack of self-compassion is at the root of almost every problem? Hence, being there for yourself means learning to like yourself, first and foremost? So you need to learn that? In order to get better, you need to legit learn to like yourself, and it has nothing to do with self-esteem and accomplishments or god forbid, self-absorption? That it’s about radical acceptance? About learning to accept yourself the way you are, with no buts and what-ifs? To never berate yourself for anything, and be your own best buddy, and be chill? Otherwise you’re legit stuck in an abusive relationship for life? Because the relationship you have with yourself is the defining relationship? WHAT?!

[the audience laughs] Also, I worked with teenagers for a time, and let me tell you, being a teenager? I do not recommend it. As someone who was a teenager and also worked with teenagers, I’m an expert, and I’m telling you: avoid that shit. Please avoid being a teenager. Hm? What’s that?... Ouch. Well, sorry, dude, but that’s your personal problem, the rest of us would never be this stupid.

[the audience laughs] [the heckler dies on the spot] [demons arrive and drag the heckler’s soul to hell] [the demons are politely quiet and non-disruptive] Where was I? Oh, right. Then that worldwide pandemic happened. All of you lost your jobs, or lost someone you loved, or everyone you loved, or got unreasonably into baking, or acquired a buttload of mental health issues. Meanwhile, I acquired... a steadier online connection, a microphone, a camera, and a lot of money. Mwah! Thanks, you guys! Please never stop being broken! Never stop hating yourselves! ‘Cause I’m saving up for a boat now!

[the audience laughs uproariously] Okay, fast forward to two years ago, I’m just minding my own business of excruciating loneliness and passive suicidal ideation— [the audience is hysterical]

—while doom-scrolling, and all of a sudden I read on the news about this town, right? About how this town such-and-such somehow drove out a foreign company that was drilling for oil and murdering coral reefs around their island. Just drove them the fuck out after at least three years of struggling with that company’s presence. And that they turned that company’s former office into a library storage or something. And that they’ve got a crowdfunded state-of-the-art museum and are a model town and all, despite being super remote, you know, all of that typical Praise The Little Guy Who Could stuff, almost a puff piece, great, yeah, what an ass-end of nowhere paradise, whatever, bu-ut that’s not what drew my attention at all, because check it: the town is called

Starlet.

As in, little star. That’s literally what my name means. Poof, mind blown. So I’m like, hold up hold up, there’s a town out there that has my name on it? What?! This is a sign from the universe! I’m moving there right this fucking instant!

[the audience continues being hysterical] Was I manic? My dudes, I wondered that myself, but no. No. Was I high? Drunk? I was legit sober. So—ber. So yeah, I became obsessed with this idea while one hundred percent sober. Just how obsessed? I contacted a real-estate agent! Who found a lil seaside cottage in the listings, newly built! I contacted the town’s Governing body! New and newly elected! I asked if their town had a resident counselor, and no they didn’t, and they were like: sweetheart, get over here now! We know you’re not allowed to make friends with your patients, but get over here now and do NOT be our friend!

[the audience is wheezing] I was this close to wiring the money for that cottage, which was most of the leftover money I’d inherited from my dad — you know, the dead one — when a friend barged in and told me, hey Astghik, excuse me uuh are you out of your fucking mind? What is this, like, you’re an adult, act your age, not on whims. Start acting your age. And I said, yes yes you’re right, you’re absolutely right, my dearest friend who totally exists and totally isn’t my mom trying to shame me, yes, I need to get my shit together.

[the audience is wailing] So it was a wake-up call, after which I got my life back on track, which was a slow process. Hard to accomplish but worth it, I got more help and a nine to five job, finally, so that’s why you folks don’t see me around that often— Psych! Hahahaha, naaah, I said screw it, wired the money, and moved to that town anyway! Look, I’m not manic. Not insane. I don’t even believe in fate! I’m not even a narcissist! I was just that fucking lonely and broken! And just that willing to grasp at any straws to find some order and meaning! Pathetic, sure, especially when we all know that the universe and our lives are random, pointless, and devoid of order and purpose and meaning, amirite? Amirite?

[the audience is sobbing] Yeeeah. But hey, you gotta appreciate that this is rare. If the majority of people had a penchant for descending into this type of magical thinking, if it was the norm, and if there were enough towns named after names, hey, can you imagine? Like, how overpopulated Kenji would be, huh?... So you wanna turn your village into a bustling metropolis? Name it Mary! Can you imagine? Nice to meet you, buddy, I’m Jose, I’ve recently moved to Jose, and this is my new best friend Jose, and here’s our poker group: Jose, Jose, Jose, oh and that’s Jose. Welcome to Jose, bud, what’s your name?

[the audience is in pieces] Ahh the town that shares my name, what a place it turned out to be. Let me tell you all about it. Let me tell you about the first time the little star met him. The astronomer.

[the audience is in my head] ~*~

“The joke,” I echoed, dumbfounded. “What’s the punchline?”

“That thing you said. About surreal humor and punchlines. What was it?”

A sense of languid satisfaction permeated me, making my thoughts meander, and for a few seconds I continued dozing off. But there would be no napping now by the side of the pond, I realized; a number of people, including chaperoned children, appeared on the bank with their own picnic blankets, and they were loud and energetic. Some of our neighbors looked like they were still chatty and might try approaching us later, too; which personally I did not mind, but Wakuu’s battery was tapped out for the day. Well, at least the ‘woke up from an outdoor nap and is running in circles frantically looking for a loo’ part would not be in the plans for today.

“Which part? That surreal comedy is characterized by the absence of traditional punchlines?”

Creaking and cracking his shoulder blades as he unbent himself and sat up, Wakuu frowned, straining his memory. “You said that sometimes there is a punchline, but it’s not funny initially, it’s absurdist, and that—”

“Repetition makes it funny, which is counterintuitive! Oooh, right. Sorry, I’m a bit cidered.”

Nodding, he offered me his hand and said through another held-back yawn, “M-me t-too.”

“I was kinda hoping for a nap right here, but.”

Emitting high-pitched shrieks of excitement, children were already chasing bugs in the vicinity.

“We can get a nap. No, we should.”

“My place or yours?”

“Not sure. If within an hour, then probably yours,” said Wakuu. And pointed up, the way he’d done multiple times today. This once, however, he meant the Climb. More specifically: ‘walking uphill is undoable at the moment, I may or may not be in a food coma’.

Sitting up and leaning against the trunk again, we looked around and decided to stay for a bit longer and just talk. Until we’d actually need the loo.

“May I ask why you’re asking? I need to know, in order to explain better. It’s a long story.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. So this confusion started almost as soon as I arrived. The Mayor approached me and asked on which days I had time to help with the communal gardens, because every resident was helping with some communal work, no exceptions, and I was like: sorry, I’d love to contribute, but maybe I should just pick garbage or sweep, ‘cause I don’t know anything about gardens or plants or landscaping, I can’t even grow a potted cactus. He said no-no it’s okay and that he’d entrust me with stuff that doesn’t require any knowledge or skill ... What an optimist. I’m just on garbage picking now. But before you and I started interacting on the regular, he kept on trying and failing to prove me wrong about the whole plants thing. Initially he had me on watering duty. Which I got booted off of almost right away.”

“You were overwatering?”

“I was overwatering. Anyway, during my first week, I was by a pump, trying to fill a watering can with something other than my sweat, and he approached me and went: ‘Ohhh my-y, you’re almost as good at this as The Farmer’. And started chuckling. And left. Chuckling. I was overheated and delirious and aching all over, so I barely registered his words. Not like I’d run after him, either way. But then someone else said a similar thing later, like, ‘he-ey, this shovel work is worthy of The Farmer!’ My shovel work at that moment was okay ... Before I dislocated my shoulder ten minutes later. So at first I thought they meant ‘A farmer’, like someone who does this for a living, and were either being sarcastic or giving me these empty encouraging compliments. Platitudes. But the tone was strange. Their reactions too. Disproportionate. I mean, the compliments were so redundant for an adult. Not just awkward and faux-polite, and not sarcastic, but kind of. Conspiratorial-sounding? I thought: is this a euphemism? What or whom precisely do they mean? ‘Wow, you’re almost as good a listener as The Farmer!’ or ‘You run faster than The Farmer’ and so on. And the former was actually true. I am a good listener, I mean ... Duh doy.”

Wakuu gave a gentle snort as I shrugged and continued, “I started keeping an ear out and soon heard people giving those strange compliments to each other. All the damn time. Some stuff was neutral. Some grand. And some was just so random and untrue. It made no sense without context. I once asked Ben, but he just gave one of his signature placid smiles, you know? And patted my shoulder. Nothing else. That night by the bonfire, while you were away for skewers. I asked Millie, but... Zippity-zip. Same with Jim who just scoffed. And his daughter did say a thing, but. Not allowed to relay her words. Plus, those words were evasive. Point being, not one of them answered the question directly, either, and we were on a timer. And that was it. So. Yeah. I thought I’d do the sensible thing and just ask you.”

“I see.” He twitched both eyebrows at me. “You’re smart, so perhaps they thought you’d figure everything out by yourself?”

“Oh, indubitably. As you know, I am a world-famous genius and could solve all the secrets of the universe, including this one, if only I had two minutes to spare. But I thought I’d graciously allow you to save some of my very important time by telling me. It’s an honor. You’re welcome.”

Laughing, he snapped his fingers. “What is this called. What you did. The opposite humor you taught me. I keep on forgetting the word.”

Tipping to the side, I smooched his cheek and drew away. “Self-aggrandizing humor?”

“Ri-ight, yes. The opposite of. Self-deprecating humor?”

“Yeah. Two sides, though,” I reminded him.

“Same coin,” nodded Wakuu. “I wonder if The Farmer had started as one or the other. Because the truth is,” he reached out for my hand, and we threaded our palms together on the patch of blanket between, “at first the joke was not that surreal. Or funny. Hmm. I once nearly told you. In Tosaka. When we found the mushroom.”

“Oh. Tha-at joke!”

“Yes. I forgot to elaborate later, although I wanted to. What if the people you asked, all abstained from telling you because they considered that joke embarrassingly bad in comparison to your jokes? Or thought that their delivery would be lacking? You are, after all, quite funny.”

“The second funniest.” I gave a theatrical thumbs-up, then sighed. “That sucks. Like I would ever judge them. Especially if it was a coping joke.

Was it a coping joke?”

“Yes,” exhaled Wakuu, unsmiling as he watched the youngest kids and Taco wading in the turquoise water. “It was. Bad. Unfunny. Birthed by grief. We were too angry, too desperate to laugh, yet kept on making that joke anyway. Some of the initial iterations were black comedy and involved Eva committing murder.”

“Wait, what?!”

“As I said,” a grin, customarily painted over by a brushstroke of melancholy, split Wakuu’s face, “a long story.”

Which he finally started telling me as Taco attempted to chase one of those local gigantic red moths — and flopped into the pond belly-down, disturbing a few pink lilies.

“One needs to die: our planet or capitalism. This statement is applicable on a smaller scale too ... It all happened after I returned from uni.”

Overfishing, illegal logging, an oil rig, poachers, palm-oil farming, freighters dumping trash in the nearby waters: the island was dying, having sold its soul and body to overseas imperialists and their infinite pursuit of capital.

Back then, the town’s population was barely fifty people. A freshly acquired diploma in hand, looking to settle in a peaceful harbor next to his dad, Wakuu returned to what was rapidly transforming into a plundered barren shell of a Giving Up Memorial retirement home. The island was broke — and getting broken into pieces. The governing body kept on choosing the easy path of acquiring emergency money, while saying that there was no other choice.

“There is always a choice.”

The elders were making an active choice of selling out the island, likely because they did not need or want to worry about the consequences for themselves. Indeed, two of them would be dead within a year.

“Old age negates the human mind’s capacity to fathom a future,” concluded Wakuu, right as Taco got pulled out by Luke and several kids below the age of five. Daycaring Erika, who was in charge of the kids, cheered from the bank.

“Yeah. Especially if one is self-absorbed or despairing.”

“Despairing?”

“Hurt people hurt people, Wakuu. Think warmongers, shmonservative politicians, women voting against women’s rights ... But also, think smaller. Think Jim.”

“Yes. But Jim got better.”

“He did. Not my doing, though. His own doing, his own choice ... What about your dad? I mean, back then, was he—”

“Apathetic. Some, like my father and the current mayor, believed themselves powerless. Not out of malice, but out of—I don’t know. Fear. Remember how you explained that ‘alone in the crowd’ feeling? How after so many bad outcomes the brain chooses to not try again and instead makes you feel that hollow feeling?”

“Yeah. I remember. I hear you.”

“I would never blame them. Him. But yes, they just sat around idle. Either apathetic. Or waiting for things to blow over. The way some humans wait for aliens to arrive and solve all of this planet’s problems.” Wakuu fell silent.

“But no one is coming,” I whispered, dispersing the pause, and looked at him, away from the children who were allowed to stay and splash in the shallow pond while Taco got burritoed into a towel.

Wakuu was looking in the same direction, but turned to me and met my gaze in a second, and nodded with ninety percent eyelashes, ten percent chin. “No one is coming. No one will save us from ourselves. It’s only us.”

I had to. I had to, I had to. Not to be obnoxious, not to shut him up or distract him. Not even to disperse the Terror. But just because I loved his smile, and I loved it when he blushed, and I loved it when he kissed the laughter off my lips, and I loved him. “Awww shikes! So no one will ever churn my soft virginal insides with wriggling appendages while my hips are moving as if all on their own, oh no oh no not there please oh no I’m starting to like it, and no one will ever lovingly impregnate me with a clutch of alien eggs?!”

Two to three minutes later, he composed himself, wiped off the equally doofus grin, flattened his expression, sat back up, and went on talking while I adjusted my clothes again. “The oil spill. It was a wake-up call.”

The oil spill had nearly eradicated the last corals and most of the island’s indigenous species, making the remaining human inhabitants realize that their home was doomed — unless they’d get off their asses and take measures right that instant. Unless they’d make one united attempt to save the island, to drive out the vultures, via bringing in resources and sponsors not tied to the destruction of the environment. At least, not directly and not their environment.

“Not like we could eradicate the system overall. Small steps.”

“It’s downright heroic what you did,” I insisted, for the umpteenth time, having known some details of this story for a while, but only getting the full picture now. “And yeah, I’m aware of how sad this is. That people uniting for a cause that directly involves their lives and wellbeing is considered quote-unquote heroic. Okay, so that was how and when Da Bomb happened, then?”

“Over half a year later, yes. The fact that I brought in the wealthiest sponsor was an accident. I got luckier than most, that’s all. In the end, everyone contributed. That’s how the island survived.”

At the point of despair, they held a town-wide meeting. After hours of yelling and arguing, everyone under fifty took an oath of sorts. That each of them would contribute, to the absolute best of their abilities. That they would work every single day, as hard as they possibly could, on saving the island. That they would either save the island or die trying.

“I remember how the elders scoffed, judged, and tried to discourage us. Yet I do not remember who told that joke for the first time. No one remembers. Was it during that meeting or later? Someone just said:

‘or we could instead wait for a strongman to come and solve all our problems’. A mean, sarcastic jab at the older generation’s complacency and inaction. Followed by a bout of contemptuous laughter. The joke was not supposed to stick around. But it did. And it kept on carrying us through. In the end, it saved us. The Farmer saved all of us.”

Initially, overfull with rage, they made up a sardonic version of the well-known white-savior imperialist fantasy, about a solitary strongman from a big city showing up in a small town, becoming the most amazing and capable person there, in comparison to every yokel local, fixing everything and changing those dumb provincial hicks’ lives, as if they weren’t fully capable adults and never knew any better. Oh, and then splash in a supplied-by-lessers sea of validation and praise and authority, of course.

In order to pacify their anxiety when someone noted that this wretched scenario was a very real thing that could happen, had happened in a way, and had very real and very bad ongoing consequences, they collectively invented the first details, deciding that this once, it would all be different. If an evil person arrived, Eva would lull them with her sweetest, guileless ways and then proceed to—

“Decapitate? With a shovel?!”

“Yes.”

“Why a shovel?”

“I’m not sure,” said Wakuu, a bittersweet smile lingering on his lips. “Perhaps because of the bread shovel? Rafi would chop up the body—”

“B-but Rafi doesn’t even eat meat,” I mumbled, eyes like Rafi’s doe eyes, cutting in (pun not intended) without meaning to.

“Bear with me. Us. He’d chop up the body with his legendary battle ax. Or pulverize it with a legendary battle hammer. Battle blacksmith-style. The iterations vary.”

“Uh-huh. Bearing,” I said in a high-pitched squeak, gulping down a chuckle. Damn, absurdist humor was ever the best.

“Then Theo would take the chopped-up body out into the sea on his boat. In a sack. Maybe with a P-Fish logo. To implicate them in murder. He would dump the sack overboard. The foreign fishermen infringing on our waters would find it and uh, get an infection. Somehow. Don’t ask. And die. Or their boats would be sunk by the evil spirit.”

My shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “You sick, disgusting motherfu—” As they toiled away, as their slow struggle went on, the scenarios were just-as-slowly taking a turn away from the dark and veering into the comforting — the more blisters they acquired, the more their hands bled, the less sleep they were getting. The more caterpillars they saved. The more trees they replanted... The more tangible and real results they were seeing.

When the illegal loggers were driven away, when the story with the fishermen aired on television, gained traction, and even caused a minor international scandal, when the town managed to bring in lawyers and jump-start the legal fight against the oil people, a consensus was reached: the incredible Hero Mcstrongface who would cometh and single-handedly saveth them all and make millions for the island and the town, was a simple, salt-of-the-earth farmer.

“Farming what? Like, drugs? ... Oh damn, I love your smile so much, so mu-uch may I please tell ten jokes right now so you’d keep on smiling?”

Disregarding the witnesses, we proceeded to once again engage in some slightly inappropriate public behavior, and it took us more than a minute to stop.

Wakuu blew a final delicate raspberry into my neck, drew away, and answered, “No. Not drugs. I don’t know. Simply... farming. Fresh produce. Fruit. Pineapples... I don’t know.”

‘Farming’ could not have saved them, ‘farming’ was neither profitable enough nor sustainable for the time being, and of course, in reality no one, least of all a lifelong city-dweller, would be able to run even a small farm alone, or to dive head-first into running a farm in the first place. Or be interested in doing this kind of torturous thankless work with no guarantees of success. Or survival.

But reality was a nightmare, so they continued to distract themselves with a tale they’d invented together, and ‘farming’ felt safe and neutral; less of a self-obsessed strongman and more of a hero of the people.

“Wait, okay, so then would you all be farmhands, and help?”

Shaking his finger and head at me, Wakuu tsk-tsked, a wry smile on his lips. “We would do nothing of the sort. The Farmer would do everything for us. All of the heavy lifting. Every need, every errand, every problem.”

Like a space alien or a god, arriving out of nowhere and being embraced and accepted and bathed in respect and a solemn promise of belonging, The (safely-strong and silent) Farmer would solve everyone’s problems while hardly breaking a sweat, allowing the townspeople to rest and relax all day every day and not worry about anything except which one of them would get to date that amazing hero and become a millionaire through marriage.

“One person doing everything and never complaining, while we loiter. In a way, we were collectively writing pulp. Or—In conjunction, I recently thought of paperback naval adventures I read as a child. Where, for instance, a carrack is somehow run by a twenty-seamen crew. There’d be two hundred, at least, but some readers manage to skip over this aspect and simply enjoy the story. What’s it called? Sorry, I’m almost out of charge.” Yup. He rubbed his temple. “What’s that called, about logic in a noose, but not quite that.”

Welcome, a new expression in our shared language.

“What you said,” I assured him instead of spelling out ‘suspension of disbelief’.

“It can’t be.” Wakuu’s brain and eyebrows and tip of the tongue continued contracting over the word, in reflex. “Wait, I got it, it’s ‘suspension of disbelief’.”

“No it isn’t. Not anymore. It’s ‘logic in a noose’.”

Raising his head, he looked into my eyes again, and the creases flattened. Wakuu bumped his nose into my cheek, and I remembered: ‘you’re a good person’ — ‘right back at you’. And I had to fight not to cry. Again.

“Anyway...”

Some were, in fact, questioning. Like God or aliens, the Farmer existed in the collective imagination, and the sum of what The Farmer was and why, similarly depended on how healthy the minds that formed this collective were. Amidst the mutually supportive positivity, a hint of anxiety lingered, poisoning the comfort. Some could not find it in them to accept the silly and the affirming. Some could not shake off the scary version: but what if The Farmer would betray us all and actually choose the oil people in the end? Fortunately, those pessimists were few and far between. Unfortunately, their pessimism was caused by ingrained trauma which they needed help with. Fortunately for my wallet— As time went by, as the ‘joke’ was told and retold by everyone to everyone, new details would emerge, new leaves would sprout, slowly becoming more and more fantastical. ‘Capybaras in the pool’, huh.

The Farmer could grow every kind of fruit and vegetable and berry, all in the same soil, without rotation, and in days! The Farmer only needed five hours of sleep per night. The Farmer was also a rancher, but ethically pescatarian. The Farmer kept a pig only as a pet. The Farmer’s pet pig was able to find truffles all year round. In the tropics. The Farmer’s cows and goats were giving milk every single day without giving birth every year. The Farmer could run like the wind, swim like a fish, fish like Wataru, carry ten times their weight, and do physical work for hours and hours without drinking water or sitting down, much less dying. The Farmer was a jack of all trades and a master of all. The Farmer was an outstanding fisherman, miner, paleontologist, decorator, and cook. The Farmer was resourceful, wise, smart, and tireless. The Farmer possessed a strong body, beautiful face, and unblemished skin. The Farmer was a great warrior and fearless defender... The Farmer fought real non-metaphorical monsters. The Farmer was immune to all viral diseases and never broke bones. The Farmer was child-like in spiritual purity and worthiness. The Farmer was able to communicate with deities and spirits, to summon ancient forces of nature, and to free sacred creatures from their entrapment in the profane. The Farmer was going to save every leaf, caterpillar, and tadpole through talking to dolphins and parlaying with the Mother Goddess directly. The Farmer would bring a big plate of tacos as an offering to the Goddess, of course... The Farmer would never shun or ridicule other people’s vulnerability, never judge anyone for emotional dysregulation, always listen to the self-deprecatingly titled ‘trauma-dumps’ without sass or complaints or calling them ‘trauma-dumps’, and be striving to become everyone’s dearest friend. Every townie of appropriate age — which varied from person to person but never exceeded thirty-five, because of course The Farmer was young — was destined to fall hopelessly in love with The Farmer, no matter the temperament, gender, idiosyncrasies, personal preferences, etcetera. The Farmer would give out casual gifts, not for holidays, not for a reason, but just because, out of the blue... The Farmer would magically read everyone’s thoughts and know what they liked best.

“Wakuu. Wakuu. W—” Having grabbed his sleeve, I shook him as the realization dawned on me. For the second time in the span of two hours, I felt like I was soaked in the holy light of the Universe and absorbing an Ultimate Truth. “The uwabaki! The bouquet that I gave to Eva! You both looked so weird! I remember how I thought: what the heck am I missing, and—”

Swaying like a ragdoll under my assault, he grinned at me and blew a strand of hair off his forehead. “Yes.”

The heck I had been missing back then: shared context.

“So. That’s the joke,” he concluded once I’d calmed down. “What do you think?”

I thought of how much more magical than magic was this notion: people banding together to save something dear to them. That what they had created and retained by working together was much more fantastic and awe-inspiring than any fantasy.

“I think it’s great. Only, it isn’t a joke anymore, if it ever was. It’s no longer even a fairytale tinged with postcolonialism. It’s a folktale, a legend. It’s mythology in the making. And it’s Great, capital G ... Hold on. Who would you be? Or what would you be like?”

“Hmm?”

“In a fantastical magical world, surely you would also be different. Everyone would be different.”

“Oh. That makes sense,” said Wakuu, considering, squinting, and peering away, at the calmed-down commotion and lined picnic blankets by the other bank. I could see that he’d never thought about this notion before. “I think I would be—First of all, my hair would be healthy. No matter how many times I’d dye it, my hair would be fine.”

I gave a thumbs up. “Awesome.”

“I would also be. Covered in stars.”

“Covered in stars,” I repeated, endeared yet confused. “Tattoos?”

“No. All of my accessories would be star-shaped. Star-shaped earrings, keychains, rings, belt buckles, you name it. The way one can tell a wizard by his clothes. So that anyone who sees me would go: of course, he’s The Astronomer, which means a ‘kind and smart person fascinated with the stars’, so nice of this man to let us know. As in, no one would consider these fashion choices stupid or cheesy. Introducing myself would be easier. I would not need to toil over a degree or to spend years away from home, either. I would not need a license or any other arduous-to-obtain documentation to occupy an observatory on my own. I’d be a simple fixture in a simple observatory. There would be no control room. No noise. No sound isolation and no need for it. Just an antique telescope, to look at the stars. I’d also spend a lot of time outdoors and would never get sunburns. I’d have a lot of time to spare, in general. Oh, and. The most important magical pa-art—” He trailed off into a massive yawn.

“You’d be getting regular sleep hours there,” I guessed, heart full of compassion and Relating Very Hard.

Wakuu nodded even before he was done growling and stretching his arms. “Yethh-a! Ma-a-agic! Whah abouth you?”

Yawning: the most infectious disease ever. With a grin on his face, he watched and waited for my recovery.

I shook my head, sniffled, and blinked several times. “Hmm?”

“What would you be like in that fairytale version?” he repeated, getting up.

I let him pull me up to my feet. “I wouldn’t be there.”

His eyes widened, and his hand froze halfway to the blanket’s edge. “What, why?”

Because I liked reality better, even with all of its shortcomings. Especially today. Today, real was extra hot.

“Come on. It’s a happy folktale. Name one folktale that has a mental health professional in it.”

He couldn’t, and neither could I. Although every single folktale I knew would have benefited from a mental health professional.

“Maybe you'd be the town itself. Or maybe a little star in the sky. As in, a glowing meteoroid—”

“And you'd show me to The Farmer to woo them.”

"That’s a great idea.”

In silence, we helped each other shake and fold the blanket and gather the trash.

We’d need to take the blanket back to the pile, then find a loo, walk Professor Stavrou to the bathhouse or the inn, and finally maybe possibly oh-please get that nap.

“I can name a dozen tales with a similar archetypal character,” he said all of a sudden, after a long break in the conversation. “They are wise, know the real truth, see underneath the surface and behind veneers, and always call everyone out.”

“Fairy godmothers?”

“No.”

“Woodcutters! Woodcutters?”

“No.” With a soft smile, he reached for my hand.

I took it. “Wolves?”

“Royal jesters ... Your place or mine?”