Low Elf Esteem

Low Elf Esteem

By G Quick (2013)

An elf sat in a factory and worked at his station, in a nation: unknown, its location or zone a mystery to all who sought it out, and brought to doubt those who insisted it existed at any point in history.
His tools laid out; on a stool he went about assembling another of the latest ‘cool’ toys, which would bring joy to some boy or girl out there in the world who would never know how hard he’d toiled.
Wheel to axle, axle to wheel. The work was taxing, his fingers blistered and peeled, yet They insisted he’d feel some sense of satisfaction knowing his actions would yield a preposterous reaction from some spoiled spawn of a prosperous fraction of the earth with little to no understanding of worth.
Dejected, he hunched over and inspected a photograph and reflected upon the picture of a model aircraft around a metre and a half in size. In the plane, eyes wide, sat a young elf, and he recalled, again, his childhood self. How he’d exclaimed whilst riding in the plane that he would grow up and train to be a pilot.
His father had patted him on the head and laughed at what he’d said and proceeded to elucidate that the young elf was destined for the factory. It was his fate, his rite. A fate he shouldn’t try to fight. That he’d never fly. That flight was for reindeer. That, like his father, making toys was his career.
The elf stuffed the photo back in his pants and stole a glance at his colleagues, in the boundless expanse of the workshop. It was vast. Lines upon lines of elves. Each one, more cheerful than the last, busily working and chatting amongst themselves.
How any of them found pleasure in their work was bewildering. How they could leisurely build a thing a million times and keep smiling like jerks? Incomprehensible! It was baffling! Just not sensible! He was grappling with the notion when the whistle blew and, like an elven ocean; out from the factory they spewed.

If there was one thing the elf hated more than his work, it was his spouse. Worn, weary and jaded, he trudged into the house and, like every night, he begrudgingly endured his wife: nagging constantly about balancing work and life. Flagging the issue several times, whilst steadily poking her finger into his chest like the deadly stinger of a wasp.
But… Tonight was not exactly like the others. As his wife slept he extracted himself from the covers and skulked silently down the hall, pulled a small ball of belongings from the laundry hamper and deftly scampered through the bathroom door.
He stood, for a moment, beholding the bowl before him, then boldly stepped into the toilet and swore as the cold water leaked into his shoes and seeped between his toes. He scrunched his nose, took a deep breath, stretched himself into the narrowest possible shape, pressed the handle, and made his daring escape.
Perhaps “daring” is too strong a word, for an elf being flushed down a toilet like a turd, but one had to admire the courage required for him to attempt to retire, since no elf prior – not one – had held such a desire.
Either way, death or liberty, if he ran out of breath he was willing to accept it. Regardless of how septic the suffering. No matter how ripe or disgustingly deranged an expiry. He wouldn’t have any gripes if he came to his end in the dung-ridden pipes. He just wanted change.

A vision of horror, like an alien species, all covered in urine and viscous faeces. His hair caked in crap, paunch plastered in poo. A spectre of scat, as he emerged from the loo. He gasped for air and immediately regretted the choice as he inhaled something fetid. But still he rejoiced and quickly clambered out of the latrine.
He cleaned himself as thoroughly as he could then hurriedly made for the exit, but there stood, in the doorway, the imposing figure of a man, several times the elf’s size. His eyes scanned the elf, assessing his presence. His nose twitching slightly as it detected the essence of the coalescence of the contents of the colons of many, many men.
Despite first impressions the man was really quite relaxed, and once the elf had freshened up and explained all of the facts the man offered the elf a room, rent free, as long as he tried to remain stench free, and on the condition that he sought the counsel of an expert who could help him to exert his skills to fulfil his ambitions.
The next day the elf made good on his promise and visited a careers advisor named Thomas, to whom which he revealed his yearning, his burning desire, to be earning a living as a flier. All this was discussed and, to his disgust, he discovered that despite his ambition his diminutive condition would mean he’d never be an aerialist. Never pilot a plane over an islet in Spain, nor fly in an Air Race, not in a dogfight, nor space.
Any disagreement was met with some platitude about his poor attitude towards a normal occupation. The advisor strongly encouraged an immediate cessation of this flirtation with aviation and to find a vocation more suited to a man of his stature and station
Devastated, the elf wandered home and wondered. He bemoaned his attempts to live out his dreams. He pulled the crumpled old photo from his pocket and screamed. He didn’t care what or where he’d fly, how fast or how high! In fact, if he couldn’t. If it was futile. If it was truly beyond his grasp…
He’d rather die.

Back in his rented room he designed and invented some demented doom-dealing device, spliced together from household objects. A vicious abstraction of a pernicious contraption. A complex blend off stuff from the kitchen and shed, assembled in such a clever, quite frankly genius, way which would certainly render him dead.
The elf sat in the machine, forlorn. He knew that nobody would grieve or mourn. His passing would pass by unnoticed. Children would continue to receive toys on Christmas day, whether or not he had passed away. Some other elf, probably infinitely more cheerful than himself, would take his place. No one would be tearful that he’d taken his own life. Especially not his wife.
He depressed a button and all of a sudden the rig whirred into action. The mechanical motions of the elf’s life extraction. Cascades of blades approached, yet he remained placid, waiting for his corpse to be poached in a deluge of battery acid.
Just moments away from impending doom, the man walked aimlessly into the room and knocked over an integral appliance and brought the whole contrivance to a screeching halt. The elf sat, bolt upright, and stared, stunned, at the man who stared back at him in kind. The man surveyed the room, dismayed. Cleaver blades on poles still swinging with momentum, the monumental structure was insane: curtain rods, ironing boards, chains. Some wicked looking liquid sat bubbling in a vat, troubling the man to no end, wondering what that would have done to his friend.
If anything the man was seriously impressed by the genius engineering skills of his guest. The elf’s years of constructing remote control cars, rockets and other things, from miniature gears, servos, sprockets and springs had imbued him with a talent for all things technical. A mastery of mechanics, construction, design, physics and aerodynamics.
The man insisted the elf allow him the opportunity to find him a worthwhile and productive place in the community. He assured the elf he could find a job he’d enjoy. Not involving toys or games. All he asked was for a month, after which if his claims fell short, then sure, it was up to the elf to decide to keep on living or suicide.

Wheel to axle, axle to wheel. The elf repaired the steel landing gear of a jumbo jet, and yet, although he wasn’t in the cockpit, preparing for ascent, he was relatively content. If flying a jumbo was out of the question at least, thanks to his friend’s suggestion, his work brought him closer to his obsession. And it paid well to boot.
With an acute knowledge of aircraft and their mechanical systems, his puritanical passion for hydraulics and pistons and all things aeronautical kept him well employed. It may not have been his dream, but he had found a job and a life he enjoyed.
A house of his own, with a curiously long driveway. In an industrial zone, positioned below a busy flyway. Certainly, it wasn’t to everyone’s tastes, hearing every flight throughout the night, but for an elf who loved planes it was just great. And if you happen to stay, and manage to creep away from his barrage of avian ardour, you might spot, hidden in the dark of his garage, a tiny tail, wee wings and a miniature fuselage.