Fire & Feast

Hey, I’m at Disneyland! What ever could go wrong?

That I’m at Disneyland is by itself an indicator things are about to get fucked. That the floor of the hotel I’m staying at is on fire, is another indicator. I had a box of juju in that room. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Check in, place locked box on bed, go downstairs for food. None of the restaurants are open yet. Okay, I’ll walk around.

When I was a kid, I loved Disneyland. Then I learned about propaganda techniques and behavioral advertising. I now loathe Disneyland. Do Not Get Me Started on their business of copyright domination. In fact, just don’t get me started on anything Disney at all.

Anyways.

I’m at Disneyland. ~sigh~

I see little kids having fun. Older kids with younger siblings celebrating the younger siblings’ fun. Older kids without younger siblings starting to choose between the cognitive dissonance of manufactured joy, and the realization the sole purpose of the park is to separate you from your money.

Did I mention I loathe Disneyland?

I’m not having fun.

In fact, I’m pretty much invisible here.

I have no children of my own to pander to. I’m not interested in the souvenirs. The staff identify me correctly as “not worth the trouble” and focus their attention on parents with more money to spend.

After more walking around, I smell the tummy teasing scents of frying potatoes. Looks like the restaurants are open. Walking back to the hotel, I look up and see the top floor entirely in flames. The worst of the fire on the 10th floor, is in the suite 2 floors above mine. To my dismay, I see the windows of a 9th floor suite shatter as flashover claims the room.

I gotta get my box.

The building has been evacuated. Hotel staff are keeping everyone far from the immediate grounds. Which is a good thing. Everyone is safe from the falling glass. But the safety zone is open and visible to all. I can’t sneak my way in.

The fire has spread to the 9th floor. I can’t sneak in to save the box of juju. While the box itself is fireproof, some of the contents are temperature sensitive. Down right explosive if mixed improperly, like say, temperature expansion cracking the delicate glass jars.

Time to take a chance.

I have the trinket of a servitor in my purse. I withdraw to a mostly quiet location. (Cameras be damned, I’ll just tell them I’m praying if they get nosy.) Hold the trinket and whisper the servitor’s Name.

“Go to the Fire above my room, the Fire that is threatening to descend onto my box. Go to the Fire and ask it what would it like in exchange for sparing my box. Tell it if it consumes my box and releases what’s inside, it would release a Water spirit. The firefighters are mundane, the Fire spirit will be free to come again into this world later. If it releases that Water spirit, it’s fucked as the Water spirit will empower the firefighter’s hoses.”

The trinket lightens in weight and pales in color as the servitor leaves with my message.

At once, the suite on either side of mine explode from flashover. My heart sinks. I see flames from the bedroom. I hold on to the tiniest of hope.

The trinket becomes heavy in my hands again. “It felt the mana in the box, and was making its way down to it to feast on it. But your warning came just in time. It asks for the rest of that floor in exchange, and assumes you will agree. It said it likes to come to this hotel often, and play with the firefighters that come after it. It will spare the box, will not come near it. But everything else in the suite is surrendered.”

A fair exchange. Out of my hands, anyway. I thank the servitor, and promise it rum later in the day. The flames coming from my room no longer bother me. I see they are normal flames, not the devouring of flashover.

After a few hours, the firefighters finish their battle with the fire spirit. They have ceased its manifestation, this time. I swear, I heard the fire spirit laughing as the last lick of flame was extinguished.

It takes some sweet talking, and some sugared tongue, to be escorted to the remains of my suite. The manager personally leads the way. “The 8th, 9th, and 10th floors are destroyed. I shouldn’t even let you up here to see if anything is left. Everything above us could come down any second.”

I notice most of the supporting beams have been destroyed by the fire. Except for a thin lane of access, from the stairs to my suite. How thoughtful of the fire, to not only spare my box, but give me an easy means of recovering it.

“If it’s there, I’ll grab it and leave. I count everything else a loss, but I must recover my box!”

The door is damp powder at my feet. The bed is half missing. The covers are still smouldering. But there is the box, only slightly warmed, sitting on an unburnt section of bed in the middle of the room. The manager is agape with wonder.

The rest of the room is destroyed. Melted pools where the television used to be. Charcoal and cinders for the table and chairs. The walls are gone, revealing the steel used to frame the room.

But the box is untouched.

“How? But! The fire! Lady, what’s in that box?”

I pick it up by the warm handle. “It’s a Box of Wonder, of course. You’re wondering what’s in it, and that’s why it’s named as such. Many people wonder, but only I know.” He wrinkles his face as I move past him to leave. “I have the box. Assume the floor is going to collapse the moment the box enters the stairway.”

I start forward. I can hear the ominous creaking already. He stands there a moment more. Long enough for dust to settle on him from above. He wipes it off absentmindedly, then looks up and pales. Despite my headstart, he beats me to the stairwell.

The door barely closes behind me when the building shakes. The 10th floor has collapsed onto the 9th. By the time the manager and I are back at ground level, the 10th and 9th floors have collapsed onto the 8th.

The manager asks me if I’m going to file a claim against the hotel. “Why should I? I lost nothing. I had no clothes in there. I only brought me, my purse, and my box. And that’s what I have now.” My stomach grumbles. “That, and a need to be fed.”

Surprisingly, he hands me vouchers for other Disneyland restaurants.

I lock the box in the trunk of my car, and set alarms and traps. Going back to the restaurants, I look for something to eat. I’m glad he gave me the vouchers, this food is quite expensive. I look for the standard cheap fare. Hotdogs and french-fries.

A “child’s meal” of such was $12. Before tax. I continue looking and realize most of the offerings to the “general public” were very salty. As if the food was meant to make you thirsty. I know I regard Disney as evil, but surely they’re not that evil.

Yea, they are. Who am I kidding?

I move on to the more upscale restaurants. The food looks more palatable, but I’m once again, put off. Not by the food, but by the patrons. They all had a hollow look to their faces. As if they are trying to pretend they’re having a wonderful time, but with they could be anywhere else but there.

The scene reminds me of an story where a king had a party, but told all invited to bring a skin of wine. The wine would be poured into a communal vat, and all would be served from this vat. When the combined wine was served, and everyone raised their drinking bowl, all that was tasted was water. But they had to pretend it was wine. (I can’t find the source, maybe I should write it down.)

Anyways, I redeemed the vouchers, and was given a private table. The hotel manager must have had some pull, because I found myself seated in an exclusive area, sitting among important people, being served by a personal waiter for the night. The voucher even covered the waiter’s tip. I wasn’t to spend a single cent of my own money.

Freshly broiled lobster, and thick medium rare steak was placed before me. A plate of vegetables so fresh, I could feel the echoes of the field rising in the steam. A glass of water. A glass of red wine. Fresh dinner rolls, still warm from the oven, and a little dish of butter. Smelled lovely. My mouth watered.

So, why did I feel so guilty?

It is because I knew of the working conditions of those that harvested the vegetables? I knew of the over harvesting of the seas? I knew of how many people this chunk of meat would feed if portioned properly?

Yea, that too.

I felt guilty because I didn’t do anything to deserve this windfall, in my own eyes. Here I was, sitting among the lofty and the powerful. And because I sat here, everyone around me assumed I deserved to be here, because if I didn’t, management would not have let me in the door. And yet, I felt like a thief.

I wondered then, if this was what the look on the other patrons’ faces was from. Some internal nagging that reminded them they were only here because they had bullshit their way in. Or some serendipity had elevated them here, like it had me.

Fuck all about this guilt.

I pushed it to the side, and decided to enjoy this moment. I even managed to ignore my usual disgust of anything Disney. I had sweet lobster, and blood-rich steak to devour. I will thank whatever forces lifted me into this place, and make my eating of the food, a testament and an offering.

I didn’t make a pig of myself. But I ate every last bit. And I allowed my pleasure to be read off my face.

When I finished, I looked around. Many faces immediately ducked down to face their own plate. They had been watching me eat. A few faces didn’t flinch from my casual glance. I smiled at them, and they returned the smile with a magnitude’s increase. Now elevated themselves, they turned to their plate and began eating with the same confident gusto as I had.

I turned to my personal waiter to ask, but he had foreseen the question. He whispered in my ear, “Madam, most of those that sit here to eat, are afraid. They often feel they are out of place. That they must put on great airs to prove they are worthy of being here. But Madam has no need for such plasticine faces. Madam sits as the rightful queen Madam is. This has been evident from the start. When Madam smiled at the other patrons, Madam has extended her internal blessing upon them. Giving them permission to enjoy themselves, as Madam does see.”

I wanted to correct the waiter. To tell him what I was feeling. But when I examined myself again, I found I wasn’t the timid beggar that had first sat down. Granted, I would never be able to afford this luxurious dinner, and would never be sitting here again. But dammit, I’m here now, and damn right, Madam is Queen!

The epiphany continued to cover what I would do when I left here. When I got home, and had to try and stretch my food budget. Even if all I could do was sit down with a bowl of ramen and dollar store bologna, I would do so as a Queen.

Money can buy a lot of things. But it can’t buy inner confidence.

It was at this point, I realized I was dreaming. I looked over the dining room with open eyes, and understood the point the dream was trying to make.

“Madam?” I looked up at my asking waiter. “Madam has many offerings in wait tonight. Will Madam be ending her meal now, or shall Madam continue?”

“I shall continue. I would like to see what other tastes and delights lay in wait for me. I would like to taste of them all.”

The waiter bowed slightly, and smiled slightly. I got the feeling that he wasn’t just background scenery, but another player on this stage. He reached behind him, and picked up a full plate from a waiting tray. As he lowered it before me, the dream suddenly faded into darkness and I fell into deeper sleep.

Make of that, what you may.