To get the full story, start with EPISODE 1
Ah, the job center! The place where you need to tread through only ankle-deep hope. A place normally reserved for those unfortunate souls who thought majoring in Humanities would be a good idea. Now, chock full of former super heroes who’ve suddenly discovered that they’ve always had a passion for gardening or carpentry or some such.
‘Look at them! I mean, just look at them!` Buga was apoplectic. So, having known her for more than five minutes, and having grown cautious, we did just that. Much like the oversized buttons she sew on tiny, wafer-thin lapels, Buga was also just barely hanging by a thread.
‘Dungarees with zippers! How can they live with themselves?’
Frankly, I never understood how anyone could be seriously bothered sartorially. Sure, the trousers might be a bit funny around the crotch area because of some sort of disagreement between your body and the apparel, but in my experience, it is overwhelmingly the scorn of fellow humans and the disdain of the effortlessly chic people that tends to inspire suicidal thoughts.
‘Right,’ Bifidus intervened, ‘so this is what we need to do. We make people wear dungarees with buttons…’
‘No dungarees!’ I found myself joining Buga.
‘Ok, fine! Their loin cloths or whatevers, but they use buttons…’
‘Use? USE?’ Buga inquired mortified and maybe just a touch disappointed we still didn’t get what buttons were all about.
‘Appreciate, ok? Then all the panties get fixed, super heroes can get back to super heroeing and people with strangely long fingers and retired serial killers can then resume their gardening, everyone’s happy, we kiss, we smooch, we hug and we all live happily ever after. Done! Bam! Let’s do this!’
‘Yes! Wait, what?’ Buga had just pulled the break on Bifidus’ rousing speech, scratched the disk of his motivational uplifting soundtrack, pulled the carpet from under his winged-sandaled feet.
‘But isn’t that what we need to do?’, Bifidus asked in a voice that had a hint more despair lurking in it than I felt comfortable with.
‘No. that is perhaps what you WANT to think is needed right now. But not necessarily what needs to be done’, she went, mercilessly cutting down the rain forests of scope and life meaning we thought we had grown ourselves.
Truth be told, at that point, I barely knew Buga, but I couldn’t help putting her in a box. Not because I like to judge people, but simply because it is so much neater to store them away like that for when I actually do feel like judging them. Sometimes, I also put a lid on the box. You know, to stop it getting too dusty. It also, conveniently, muffles the noise of their protest.
Miss Rubidoux was the sort of person I always thought appropriate to admire – despite my natural hatred for their very existence – the sort that very early on in their life decide what it is they want to do and channel their efforts in one particular direction. Sounds so right, doesn’t it? Purposeful and very ‘as it should be’. And it is, provided you want to be something you have a fighting chance to be good at. Buga was the sort of person whose lack of above average skill in her craft was compensated for by her ability to be a visionary.