Around

How long do you think weve been pushing this wheel? One of the men said.
Obviously not long enough, said another. Or theyd have let us stop now.
Whos they? Asked a third man.
Talk was rare, on the wheel. While pushing the wheel was not arduous, each
man pushing the large bar in front of him, walking in the dirtish, sandish soil that was
trenched by the path of the men before him, it was still physical, and even if it did not
require all of ones strength to do ones share, it required some of ones strength, and so
talking (while not forbidden, and not encouraged, either) was sparse.
After the third mans question, the talk ended, and each of the men, individually,
focused on whatever it was he chose to focus on: the men in front of him, stretching out,
at about five-foot intervals, off into the distance: man, and then man, man man man
man man man before it became a blur and a haze, or he focused on the curve of the
wheel, which was just barely visible, one could almost perceive it as a curve even
though that was maybe more a mental impression than a physical one, knowledge that
the wheel must be a wheel because they were, after all, pushing it and it seemed
improbable that they were pushing a giant line (or, some would think, line segment) in
the same direction, each man walking in the well-worn groove of the dirt made by the
footsteps behind him, each man a little deeper in that groove than the one before him, a
little shallower than the one behind, each maybe contemplating how many men had
come before and how many came after, and then contemplating whether there was a
before and/or an after on the wheel.
Mightnt each man be first?
Or last, sure.
But who was to tell?
And yet each man had he been asked would have told you no, he probably was
not first, or last, he was in the middle, maybe shading a bit more towards the front, first
20% perhaps, but no not the first, no, not him.
Some of the men might ponder, as they walked, whether they had gone in a
complete revolution yet, whether they would ever do so, whether they had done so ten,
twenty, fifty, or just six, times since they began pushing the wheel.
No man, it should be said, ever wondered when he began pushing the wheel, as
natural as that seems a subject for inquiry, or as unnatural, for no man could remember
anything but pushing the wheel and could not remember how long he had been there, in
his spot, pushing against the bar ahead of him, a push that required a decent amount of
strength but not all of it, just enough to let him know he was pushing, but not so much
as to make him wonder whether someone, somewhere (someones somewheres) were
not doing their job.
The wheel itself was set in the middle of a large plain, a grassy field full of the
kind of grass that exists only in August, but when it exists in August it exists
everywhere, pretty much, at that time the same way: knee-high, green for 2/3 of its
length, brownish white at the top where it has started to die from being too close to the
sun, stiffened with age and reminiscent of the promise of early summer, while not yet
doing more than implicitly warning of fall.
This grass never grew higher than it was now, and did not die off. There was
never snow. There was never rain. There was sometimes a breeze, the only change in
the weather ever on the wheel, a slight breeze that cooled their brows. The men
appreciated that breeze when it came, did not bemoan their lot when it did not.
Off in the distance, if a man looked, was only grass: grass, and grass grass grass
grass grass grass grass until the greenish-whitish-brownish line of the field met the blue
edge of the sky.
There were no meal breaks. There was no water. No man ever got thirsty or
wondered why he did not get thirsty. It simply never occurred to them to get thirsty. Or
hungry. What occurred to each man was this: push. And so each man did, and what he
thought as he pushed was not too similar to or dissimilar from what the others thought
as they pushed, although they exchanged few enough words that nobody really knew
this universal truth.
But something was different, now, and it took a while for a man, any of the men,
to realize it.
Whos they
Was different.
Whos they a man had asked.
And then the talk had stopped and they had continued pushing the wheel
(clockwise, although no man had ever seen a clock) and walking in the bare dirt where
the grass had been trod down, walking, and pushing, and walking and pushing, walking
pushing walking pushing walking pushing walking pushing walking pushing walking
pushing, and so on throughout the day that never became night.
Whos they one man had asked.
Now each of the men in turn began to think that, down the line, Whos they:
Whos they
Whos they
Whos they
Whos they
Whos they
Whos they
And the thought would pass, quickly, nobody speaking it aloud again, but like the
breeze, it came back and like the breeze it represented a change, or a return of a
change, and the man (each man, as he began to think it for the first time or again)
would think
Whos they
And how each man reacted to the thought was up to that man but many of them
either stood a little taller, looking over the bar he pushed and ahead to see the backs of
other men, some of whom were themselves standing a little taller and trying to see
ahead, too, or there were men who began contemplating the prints in the dirt, the
groove where foot after foot, foot foot foot foot foot foot had walked and wondering
about the numbers of feet and how each man had come to be ahead of him, for looked
at that way it seemed like each other man was ahead of him, even the man directly
behind him, who may have been first on the wheel, leaving that contemplative man,
thinking as he was, to be last.
Still others wondered about the wheel, whether it was really curved. Is it
possible, each man who thought about this wondered, possible the wheel could be
straight? Are we pushing this somewhere or are we circling around? Have I been in this
spot before? Will I be here again? Or am I moving forward, never to return?
Some of those men thinking that, stood up straighter (still pushing with the right
amount of strain, no man shirked) and tried to see over the wheel, to see if someone
could be seen on the other side, whether there was another side. What if it was curved
and they didnt come back around?
What would happen when they came around the curve?
Some of the men wondered that.
Whos they multiplied and then some of the men wondered not just whether they
were going in a circle but also why they were pushing the wheel at all, and inwardly
those men gasped at their own daring, at the sheer boldness of such a thought, one that
had never occurred to him before: why are we pushing some of the men thought, and
though they continued pushing now their mind tried to think what the wheel would be
for, what they were doing?
Were they opening? Closing? Grinding? Powering? Turning? Steering?
They were pushing. Pushing and pushing, pushing pushing pushing pushing
pushing pushing and kept on doing so while they thought these thoughts
Whos they
Will I come back around
What is this for
Whos they
Where are they one man asked then, breaking the quiet. It was never silent on
the wheel: there was the sussuration of the grass and the grooneling of the wheel and
the pladdling of the feet, and sometimes talk, but it was quiet nevertheless, and so when
one man asked Where Are They many men heard it.
Where are they?
Whos they
Will I come back around
Where are they
Echoed in the soft slappy sound of bare feet on dirt, whispered in the folded
noise of grass stirred by breezes, bounced implacably off the internal creaking and
bending of a giant wooden wheel as large as their only world.
Slowly, one man straightened up, still putting his back into pushing, his hands
calloused and creased and a bit sweaty on the wood in the bright, warm sun, and he
looked ahead of him at the backs of the man in front and the man in front of him and the
man in front of him and the man in front of him and the man in front of him and the man
in front of him and the man in front of him, and then this man looked over his shoulder
and for the first time ever met the eyes of another person, staring back at him.
They looked at each other, and then the man behind him turned and looked over
his shoulder and saw the man behind him, and this continued on, and the first man ever
to look behind him turned back forward, staring at the backs in front and wondered if it
would go around the wheel, how long it would take before it worked its way all the way
around if it would, and he would see the face of the man in front of him.
He could have said Hey turn around, could have told the man to do that, but he
wanted to see if it would happen the way it should, and did not reflect on how it would
only take one man not turning around to see the man behind him to break that chain.
He simply waited.
Elsewhere on the wheel, a man stared at his hands, calloused and sweaty and
pressed against the bar, and rather than stand up straighter and look around he
hunched down a bit more, and pushed and kept his head down and pushed and kept
his head down pushed, head down, pushed, head down pushed, head down pushed,
head down pushed, head down pushed, head down and then
He darted a little look to the side and without trying to think about what he was
doing he darted out his hand
He took his hand off of the wheel for just a bare moment trying his hardest to still
push as he should
He brushed his hand against the grass
He tore a blade of grass
He put his hand back
The blade of grass was between his first two fingers,
He could feel its dry, waxy length under his palm, he could feel the base of the
part he had torn tickling his wrist, he could see the end of it, whiteish brown, bobbing up
and down and up and down and up down up down up down up down up down up down,
and he walked and walked, walked walked walked walked walked walked and kept
pushing and wondering what had caused him to do this thing and then he realized that
the man in front of him was looking back at him, and that the man was looking from him
to the blade of grass, eyes up at his face, down at the blade, up at his face again
Questioning
The man felt his face flush and wondered if he should say I never stopped
pushing but then he wondered if the man behind him had seen him and was frightened
that he had been seen, that then each man on the wheel would find out and he would
be ashamed, in trouble.
Where are they
Who are they
And he almost didnt look behind him but he did and when he did he saw that the
man behind him was looking at him and that that man, too, had a blade of grass in his
hand and he smiled at that and then the man behind him smiled and then the first man
laughed and then the man behind them both reached out and grabbed his own blade of
grass, laughing
Others were laughing, now, too, each quickly grabbing a blade of grass, down
the wheel, the wheel still turning but some men pushing against handfuls of grass and
when the breeze sprang up some men took their tufts of grass and tossed them into the
air and watched them drift away, ahead and behind, or across, and over, and grabbed
more and they looked at each other and smiled and threw grass over their shoulders at
each other and then one of the men without thinking about it took a blade of grass in the
hand hed grabbed it with and before anyone knew what anyone was doing he lifted up
his left hand, the one towards the inner part of the wheel and pressed the blade of grass
between his hands and blew into it and a long loud sweet whistle came forth, striking
through the day like a feathery twist of electricity, causing hairs to stand on end at the
bases of the heads of men who heard it and the man, delighted, did it again but then
realized
His hands are off the wheel
He looked at the man behind him and the man ahead of him looked at him and
the whistle-man quickly pressed his hands back against the bar and he put his
shoulders into it pressing harder to make up for the moment hed not been doing his
share but already the effect rippled beyond him because each man who had seen this
had seen that the wheel had kept moving, that the loss of one man had not affected it at
all, that each man who had seen the momentary cessation of pushing by one man had
not felt his burden any greater and could not even tell that the one man, just one man,
one man! Had stopped pushing for just one moment, one moment!
And then the man behind the whistler lifted his palms off of the bar,
experimentally, and held them up and then held them over his head and kept pace with
his walking, his feed pladdling along in time with the others but he was not pushing, not
at all, and he laughed then and the whistle-man already, he was the whistle-man, not
just a man looked back and he smiled and kept pushing, maybe doing just a tiny bit
more than he had before to make up for the tiny bit less the other man was doing, and
hands in the air, that man wiggled his fingers and nodded, feeling his arms up over his
head, straight up in the air for the first time ever in his existence.
Behind him another man did the same and a third, and a fourth, fifth sixth
seventh eighth ninth tenth and so on and along the wheel somewhere up ahead (or
behind) as a man waited for the man in front of him to look back, as another man
wondered what had made that whistling sound, as a third man wondered about the
sound of laughter on the breeze, as man after man after man after man after man after
man after man after man after man grabbed at grass and looked around and up and
down now men began taking their hands off the wheel, walking for a moment.
Some grew worried, or even scared, and quickly put their hands back and took
up their burden again, feeling as though he was letting the others down or might get in
trouble
Who
are
they where
are
they who are
They
While others felt the momentary lack of contact with the wheel grow longer and
longer and almost could not bear to put their hands back, this new way of living
exhilarating in its sheer freedom and lack of burden, walking along with the wheel
grooneling alongside them, and those men stretched that moment out, a step, another,
step step step step step step, before reluctantly putting his hands back on the wheel,
and each such man wondered how long before he could, in fairness, take his hands off
the wheel again and feel that wonderment of not pushing.
The day continued to be the day.
The meadow continued to be the meadow.
The wheel continued its revolution, amidst grass flying and men laughing and
some men lifting their hands and man after man after man man man man man looking
up, looking around, looking back, and then one man lifted his hands and stepped off the
track.
He walked out into the grass.
He walked out into the grass more.
He stepped, stepped, stepped stepped stepped stepped stepped stepped into
the swishing slicing grass that brushed against his bare legs, that flattened and bent
beneath his bare feet and then sprang back up behind him marking his path but hiding
it, too, and he walked off into a direction that had not been trod before him, walking
away from the wheel, and the men who saw him felt their hearts nearly stop beating
behind their breastbones, felt their minds skip a bit
What
What
What What What What What What
And then another man left the wheel, too, and another and another another
another another another another, each walking into the endless grass that surrounded
them to the horizon, each man feeling the strangeness of walking over ground that had
never been touched by another foot, each man feeling the oddity of grass touching his
calves and toes and ankles, some men stopping and kneeling or even rolling in the
grass, others beginning to jump or run or move in circles, some fanning further away
from the wheel and some pacing it, and then one man touched another on the shoulder
and motioned to leave the wheel and then the men were hugging and shaking hands
and just touching each other on the back or the palm, reveling in the sensations that
contact with something other than the wheel promised.
Some men feared that they would come and put an end to this.
Some men wondered if the wheel would stop.
Some men felt bad about the others, now taking up their burden.
But nobody arrived.
Nobody told them to get back to the wheel.
Nobody told them to stop.
The grass did not complain about being walked on, rolled on, run across, patted
down, picked up. The breeze continued to come intermittently, and as the wheel turned
and new men came to the place where the other men had walked out into the grass, the
newcomers gaped in wonderment at the ever increasing spread of men fanning out into
the grassland, and then joined them.
Elsewhere on the wheel men continued to turn to see each other or had bits of
grass sprinkle from the breeze onto their face and some men were able to perceive,
perhaps, a slight increase in the amount of work it took to push the wheel, infinitesimal
but real, and those men paused a moment before putting their shoulders into it and
wondered perhaps what was going on, while behind them (or in front of them) in their
past (or in their future) men left the wheel in increasing numbers, heading off into the
bland blank thrilling frightening grasslands that stretched off to the sky.

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