One Thing In This Place Right Now

The Story of Birthday World

I’m one of these unfazed looking guys. You know, those guys, who, when unlikely circumstances are thrust upon them, take a huge hit of equanimity, set their face into a passable imitation of old George W on the old Mount R, and say something like “hello.”

“Hello,” I said to the woman who was sitting at my dining table, “how did you get in here? Who are you?”

She did not respond for a second. It did not seem like she was in my home to steal something from me, though she could have been a distraction, allowing for some other blaggard to grab my most expensive possession, a holiday edition Boysmells Hinoki Fantome candle (half burned ($35)). I looked around for some other blaggard. No blaggard to be seen, nor a ruffian, thug, or miscreant. I relaxed my pinpoint sphincter.

“Sorry,” she said. “I get a bit woozy when I travel. Is this Brooklyn?”

“Yes,” I said. “Please explain what you’re doing in my home. I went to the bathroom and when I came out you were here. I did not hear the door. How did you get in?” I wasn’t going to be some kind of Republican and escort the woman out of my place. My incredible libtard mind knew that all property is communal 👬 and that she had just as much of a right to be there as me.

“I appeared here,” she said. “Sorry, could I have some water?”

I obliged. Appeared here? I thought.

“Appeared here?” I said.

She took a big slurpy sip. “Yes,” she said, unfolding a paper from her purse, which was a rather bright shade of purple. “Here, check this out.”

Upon the paper, near the top of the page, lay one sentence typed out in 12pt Times New Roman. I am an inhabitant of Birthday World.

“Why do you need the paper?” I asked. I looked inside myself real quick to see if there were any worthwhile emotions, like confusion or something, but shit was pretty blank tbh. Information seeking mode.

“It’s my passport,” she said. “I’m from Birthday World. I’m visiting your world.”

“Like, another planet?” I didn’t understand why an alien would come to my apartment.

“No, it’s like another universe.” She sighed. “I have an hour or so. I didn’t realize I’d end up near one of you. I can answer your questions for you.”

“What do you mean one of you?” I said, reacting slowly to the “other universe” bit.

“Someone from this world that doesn’t already know about Birthday World.”

“Right, and what is Birthday World?”

“Okay, so Birthday World is where I’m from. It’s another universe, or dimension, whatever. It’s obviously like your world, and there are humans, plants, trees, bugs, lions, mouses, deers, mooses, etc.”

“Why is it called Birthday World?”

She sighed, a big one. “Okay, I’ll get into it. So I’m led to understand that your world and society is not organized this way, and that your geography is different. But basically, Birthday World has a contiguous strip of land that goes around the whole equator. The north half of the globe, and its attendant oceans, are entirely separated from the south half by this strip of land. We following so far?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Did you guys build a canal? Like the Panama or Suez Canal?”

“Sure, we have some canals, and some rivers too. Boats can pass through. But you know, for like general geographic purposes we can consider those canals and rivers part of the land mass. But also: the land belt around the planet is useful context for you to understand the actual most important part of all of this: The social organization of Birthday World is entirely birthday-dependent. So if it’s your birthday, you’re in the richest and most powerful cadre of people on the planet.”

“Wait,” I said. “What the hell? What on earth? What does that have to do with that land belt?”

“Well, when it’s your birthday, you live in an amazing billionaire’s mansion. You have servants who attend to your every whim. You can do anything you want, and the entire material culture of the planet is more or less determined by your desires,” she was getting excited, describing how great it was to be the birthday person. It clearly was a bit of a fixation. A bit legendary.

“Ok, so you have to move into that mansion when it’s your birthday?”

“Right, you move every night. That’s a big part of the whole thing.” She grabbed a piece of paper from my paper pile and a pen from my pen pen. “Look, let me draw it to make it easier to understand.”

“Wow, your handwriting is pretty bad,” I said, smugly.

“I have the best handwriting in Birthday World,” she said, seriously.

She had drawn a big arrow marked PASSAGE OF TIME, circling the globe. It looked like all the houses were built on the equator line, and that one big giant castle was marked BIRTHDAY HOUSE. There was a small box next to BIRTHDAY HOUSE marked POST-BIRTHDAY HOVEL in chickenscratch, and a large-ish looking house marked BEFORE BIRTHDAY. I was starting to understand the social organization of Birthday World.

“Okay,” I said. “So every day you move houses?”

She nodded. “Every day, we wake up, grab our Life Bags, and head over to the next house, 1/365th of the globe away. They get nicer as you go, all the way up to the birthday castle. So your social class and lifestyle are entirely dependent on how close your birthday is.”

“But then after your birthday…”

Her face fell a little. “Yeah, we call it the Cliff. You have to move to a tiny hovel without running water in an extremely poor agricultural community in a harsh climate. Those are the Lumpen Days—no working, which actually makes the poverty harder to bear, because there’s nothing to do to pass the time. After a few days, you start farming. Then various forms of agricultural and industrial labor for about half the year, then service work, then professional work, and then high level and status-y strategic or artistic work. Our jobs for the day are assigned, as are our homes.”

“Wow. I mean, I’m still reeling at the idea of another universe. But that seems like an insane way to organize society,” I said. “Wait, what’s your name?”

“Dalton Trumbo,” she said. “It’s actually the most common name in Birthday World. It’s Dalton Trumbo, then Ottessa Moshfegh, then Vigdis Hjorth, then Squeak Carnwath, then Mohammed Lee. No relations to your world. Just random that it worked out like that.”

“Right, Dalton. My name’s Chabeel. Well, what about freedom? And like, having… freedom, I guess.”

She shrugged. “I feel free enough.”

“Word,” I said. “Word. So how’d you get here?”

“Well, there’s a big need in Birthday World to move really fast. Like, people in olden times used to have to walk to their new house every morning and it ate up a lot of time. So then this guy named Dalton Trumbo (no relation) made one giant conveyor belt, like a hundred years ago, powered by steam engines, and everyone steps on it at 8am and then it takes you 1/365th of the planet further so you can set up your station and get to work quickly. That enabled our scientific revolution. There was another issue in that the consumption and production of goods were on opposite sides of the planet. Someone tried to fix it by digging a hole straight through the planet, but when they dropped the first shipment of eggs through the hole they just ended up floating at the superhot core of the planet and not falling through to the other side. You know how gravity be…”

“No, I do. I do,” I said reassuringly.

“Yeah, so… long story short, someone was trying to invent a teleporter and they accidentally invented some kind of universe portal thing. So sometimes we come to your world, for tourism. It’s weird as hell here. Nothing makes sense at all. Like 🤣 you’re telling me you’re just going to stay in this house tomorrow.”

“So there is a multiverse?” I asked.

“Nah, just the two, I think. I’m here to see the Pluribus activation that’s supposed to happen today at Rockefeller Plaza. Apparently Tim Cook is standing there and will call you ‘Carol.’”

“Oh wow!” I said, beaming for the first time. “I was just also about to head to the Pluribus activation. I love living in New York City, where amazing cultural events happen and the thriving arts scene provides the ability for a personality-and-interest-free tech worker like moi to consume consume consume. Well, your story is crazy, but I must take you at your word. Birthday World sounds like a special place. I’d like to go there sometime. A society where all share the burdens of all classes. A beautiful dream.”

Dalton Trumbo looked a bit weirded out at the way I spoke, but that’s normal. We bundled on our coats, excited for the Eddy Cue kissing booth at the Pluribus activation. I opened the door, and suddenly a blaggard, a knave, a cad, and a reprobate rushed in and grabbed my holiday edition Boysmells Hinoki Fantome candle!! I tried to fight off the roughnecks, but alas, was stabbed many times in the stomach. As I lay on the carpet bleeding out, I motioned Dalton Trumbo closer to me, whispering directly into her ear.

“Does Birthday World have advanced medicine or something that can cure me? Can you take me there?”

She looked at me funny. “What’s medicine?” she asked.

“Ah, damn,” I said, blood pouring from me guts. “I guess I assumed you were more advanced in lots of fields, because you guys had invented a teleporter and stuff. But maybe your development has been asymmetric. Because the fact that you invented a worldwide conveyor belt and universe portal traveler and stuff while having not even invented the first medicine is actually insane,” I said, falling dead.

Nabeel’s Footnote

Almost Ritam’s birthday. Bro is about to be 30. Can already see the portent of an addled, twitchy mind—so bothered by the fact of being 30. It’s all good, man. It’s chill.