Chapter 5: The Right Diet

Why is forbidden fruit, restricted, reserved, so damned tempting? Linda wads the nutty tourism proposal while shaking her head in denial. Figuratively tossing the unanswerable perplexing question out of her head, she shoots the stupid wadded up scheme into the trash. If she won two points for every drop in the basket, she’d be a star. She never misses. Her round file isn’t a wastepaper basket, it’s a thirty gallon drum already nearly half full. A barrel of shit, it’s the bane of her office. The discarded daily influx of useless, time wasting reports, suggestions, proposals, and complaints. The drum is emptied each night and the contents incinerated. Linda wishes she could consign the interminable paperwork to the flames of Hell. Continuing to shuffle papers, she sternly forces herself to focus and read them all. Whittles down the stacked papers on the floor slowly.

No more room, not for them, on the overcrowded desk top.

Nobody will volunteer to assist her. No one needs to work, and there is no money to pay anyone, and nothing to buy if money existed.

Linda has assigned herself, a lonely, helpless, solitary task.

President Linda wishes she’d never accepted this infernal office job.

She also wishes office hours were already over and she could call it quits for a day. Disgustingly, it’s only now noon.

Noon? Time flies whether you’re having fun or not. Ask anyone with a pending deadline. Lunch anyone? A welcome excuse to escape drudgery for an hour, or maybe longer today, an hour and a half? She’s president. Two lunch breaks deserves executive order status. Luz and Jan quit their desks to accompany her to lunch.

Wati joins them at a long table in the Crescent City’s Presidential Palace. In formerly the City Hall’s basement lunch room. Everyone brought their own brown bagged home made lunch, except for Wati. Wati has more class and tables a handmade cornucopia basket.

“Please. These I intend for you ladies, so help yourselves”.

A triumph of brilliant colored varieties, tropical fruits in bountiful cascade, spill from the woven wicker trumpet out onto the table.

“Can I keep the beautifully made basket? It’s gorgeous work.” Linda begs. Her bid has first nibs.

Wati shrugs, a gesture of insignificance. Sure. The unimportant basket is of little value and no consequence. She’s welcome to it.

“How goes the search, ladies? Any good leads?”

Jan and Luz look dejected. Lot’s, SCADS, of cross-culture folklore and fairy tales suggest this planet was once home to many clans and factions of Wee folk. Yet not one clue exists for where they went. Nothing regarding where to and when-why they may have disappeared, or what might have happened to them, has come to light. Absolutely zero of informational value has been uncovered.

Discouraged but not deflected, they’re determined to ride down and eventually collar the truth. A lead, any lead, no matter how insignificant, would give them some avenue of inquiry to follow. History concerning the Wee, on this world, seems to have been eradicated, and maybe deliberately wiped clean! By whom? The Wee themselves? They refuse to be deterred from their search. Too much evidence supports the fact, Wee were once populous here. Extinct? Unacceptable! Hiding? Perhaps. Where? Keep looking.

“I wish I could be of help. Good luck hunting, ladies. How’s your day going, Linda? Better than Luz and Jan’s I hope.”

“I could use some help.” Linda looked him straight in the eye.

“Wati neither blinked nor volunteered. Crossed his arms and waited for Linda to break silence first. Wati won the face off.

“Any word from Erik? How’s his recovery coming? When is he coming home?”