the weight of wings
by James Sutter

The alarm clock, unused to being ignored, was still pleading loudly for his attention. Johnson rolled out of bed and turned it off. Most days he would stay in bed and stretch for the closet, trying to get dressed without ever touching his apartment’s cold linoleum floor, but this morning a taut bladder demanded immediate release. Blurry eyes open just enough to keep from stubbing his toes, Johnson shuffled into the bathroom, his wings unfurling behind him. They ruffled the shower curtain while he leaned one arm against the wall and let everything he’d ever drank flow back out. The harsh fluorescent light made his brain ache, but he refused to close his eyes while peeing in the morning. That felt too much like sleeping, and once you started subconsciously associating the two, it was only a matter of time until you wet the bed.

Turning to wash his hands, Johnson caught sight of himself in the toothpaste-flecked mirror. He might have been considered handsome, if not for his permanently glazed expression. It was the kind of glaze you find on pottery, not doughnuts- still young enough to go a few days between shaves, he already had a reputation at work as courteous but cold. Ruthless ambition had helped him advance quickly up the company’s polo-shirt hierarchy, and if women found that intimidating, well, there was always porn. Looking closer, Johnson realized that the shimmering white backdrop of his wings effectively drew attention away from his receding hairline. Score one for the pinions.

Dressing presented a bit of a challenge, but a couple quick slashes with a steak knife were sufficient alteration to let his yuppie uniform accommodate the new plumage. Foregoing the toothbrush in favor of mouthwash, Johnson grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door. On the elevator down, he ran into the young woman who lived down the hall. He knew it wasn’t polite, but he couldn’t help but stare at her pair. Full, soft, and white, the wings resembled his own, yet seemed somehow more feminine. He noticed how nicely they balanced her admirable bosom, and wondered if it was weird to find it arousing. Then the elevator doors opened into the building’s glass-walled lobby, and neither could hold his attention.

Stepping out into the gray morning, Johnson raised his hand to hail a cab. Above his head, a few slackers wasted the day riding the thermals formed by gusts of wind dashing themselves against skyscrapers. A taxi pulled up and Johnson got in, shutting the revelers easily out of his mind. There had been more of them when the wings first appeared a month ago, but Johnson had lost interest once he discovered that cabs were still faster. He gave the cabby his office’s address.

The driver made a few aborted attempts at conversation before giving up. Johnson sat in silence, gazing slowly out the window at the billboards. Huge and flat, the ads stared back at him, their pretty faces and enormous wings expressing just how meaningless life would be without The GAP, McDonalds, and the latest energy drink. Red Bull: it gives you even MORE wings.

Arriving at his building, Johnson got out and paid the driver. Next to the office steps sat an old homeless guy in a rusty lawn chair. At least, Johnson thought of him as “the Homeless Guy”- he tried to avoid actually talking to him if at all possible. Walking past, Johnson’s usual practice of averted eyes and carefully constructed obliviousness was interrupted by the realization that the Homeless Guy was the only person in sight without a pair of wings. Johnson looked around to gauge other people’s reaction, but the rest of the crowded sidewalk was doing a flawless job of ignoring them both. The old black man noticed Johnson’s gawking and gave him a cheerful nod.

“Mornin’, sir! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Mortified at being caught staring, Johnson hurried up the stairs and into the office building. The place was always a beehive in the mornings, and the comparison was even more striking now that every employee in sight bore a pair of wings almost the length of their own body. Johnson took the elevator up to the third floor, where his cubicle lay nestled amongst a score of others. No family photos or children’s artwork adorned the carpeted walls. Everyone hoped to move upwards as fast and possible, and personal touches were a sign of defeat.

He had just set his briefcase down when the partition in front of him made a tremendous honking noise. Leaning easily over the flimsy wall, Johnson found himself face to face with a grotesque parody of a coworker. Puffy red eyes, dripping nose, and a face covered with massive hives clashed with a neatly pressed suit and tie. The man dropped the used tissue into the garbage can and reached for another one. Wings drooping with exhaustion, he gave Johnson an apologetic look.

“Sorry.” Another terrific honk. “Allergic to down.”

Johnson sat back down, but had scarcely opened his neat attaché case when his manager, a red-nosed, balding ape with an overwhelmingly large pair of wings, popped his head into the cubicle. “Ah, Johnson,” he said with what he probably thought was a fatherly smile, “I’m about to head over to the offsite meeting and give your presentation. I’ve got good feelings about this.” Without waiting for a response, he turned around and was gone, leaving behind nothing but traces of Old Spice and cigar smoke.

Johnson managed to spend the rest of his morning working without interruption, and it was with a heady sense of accomplishment that he finally logged off his computer and took his lunch break. Exiting the building, he studiously avoided the homeless guy’s gaze and crossed the street to the little delicatessen where he bought the same lunch every day: sandwich, chips, and a diet Coke. The little Asian man who owned it always made a big production of greeting customers by name, a strategy that struck Johnson as blatantly obvious and surprisingly effective. He paid and went back across the street to his office.

This time he wasn’t as fortunate, and the man in the lawn chair greeted him with a white-toothed smile as he walked past.

“Headed back to work, eh, sir? Fine day for that. Fine day indeed.”

Feeling empowered by his sandwich purchase, Johnson stopped and struck a righteous pose.

“Yes I am, and yes it is. So why don’t YOU get a job instead of wasting your life in that chair?”

“Why, sir,” the man replied, “I’ve got the best job there is!”

That wasn’t how this sort of dialog was supposed to go. Where was the shame? Caught off balance, Johnson’s pose faltered. Making a visible effort to regain it, he asked, “Oh? And what might that be?”

“Why, I’m busy all day just lovin’ everybody!” The Homeless Guy let loose with a wheezing cackle so powerful that it doubled him over in his chair. Embarrassed, Johnson quickly made his way back up the steps into his office and tried to distract himself by reading the newspaper while he ate. Naturally, every article revolved around the wings. The Church was, of course, taking the appearance of wings as a sign divinity; a sign that their bearers- most of the Western world- were that much closer to angel status. The only real twist was that several of the more saintly church officials had failed to sprout wings of their own, an occurrence which the rest of the flock took as proof of expertly hidden sin. Investigations were underway. Scattered amongst the articles were advertisements for cosmetic surgeons, each one touting themselves as “the safe, painless way to add inches to your wingspan”. At the expense of the ability to fly, of course, but that wasn’t stopping anybody.

Work continued as normal for the rest of the day, a struggle in which Johnson liked to imagine himself battling to rescue the beautiful Princess Profit from the clutches of the evil Consumer. At three he attended a meeting, and spent the next two hours analyzing data and trying desperately to ignore the itch between his shoulder blades. It had been irritating him for weeks, but his wings got in the way and kept him from reaching it with anything less than a salad fork. With five minutes left on the clock, he had already turned off his computer and begun packing up when his boss popped his head over the partition once again.

“Johnson” he barked. “Your presentation failed. The client elected to go with our biggest competitor.” He tossed a cardboard box over the wall, on to Johnson’s desk. “Pack your stuff and leave your ID card at the front desk. You don’t work here anymore.”

Just like that, it was over. All the education, the work, the hours spent lying awake at night strategizing, and here he was back at square one again. For a long time after the boss left, Johnson sat there and stared at the cubicle wall. The cubicle, not his cubicle. Not anymore.

Too embarrassed to let anyone else see him with his pathetic box of belongings, Johnson waited until everyone had left before opening his drawers and relieving them of their meager contents. A handful of blue pens. An unopened package of sticky notes. A stapler. His life.

Out on the street, low clouds and light rain had emptied the skies of people. Those who needed to be elsewhere hailed cabs or hurried from overhang to overhang. Johnson stood at the bottom of the office steps, clutching his little box to his chest and staring vacantly at the gray sky.

“Wonderful day to be alive, isn’t it?”

Johnson turned slowly to face the Homeless Guy, still sitting in his little chair, while the rain rolled off of his bald brown scalp.

“How can you say that?” he asked.

“How could it be otherwise?” The old man laughed and tilted his face upwards, closing his eyes in ecstasy. “Feel that rain. Feel the air you’re breathin’. Sure do feel good.”

“You don’t understand,” Johnson protested. “I just lost everything.”

“Well, now.” The old man looked straight at Johnson. “Maybe you did, and maybe you didn’t.”

“Look at this.” Johnson held out the box with both hands, a child displaying his teddy bear. “This is all I have, all I’ve got to show for my life so far.”

“So?” the Homeless Guy challenged him. “All I’ve got is this chair. You know what the difference between us is? Sometimes people see me and smile. I’m happy where I am, and that makes them happy. You follow?”

Johnson stared at the ground and let the old man’s words sink in. Somewhere, in an unused storeroom in the back of his brain, a light went on. A white feather floated in a puddle at his feet before swirling down into the gutter.

“All of us” the man continued “are gonna die. When we do, our possessions, our prestige, and our fame gonna die with us. You think anybody cares who was on the cover of Forbes last year? We don’t care because we live in the moment, and that doesn’t affect us anymore.”

The Homeless Guy bent over in order to meet Johnson’s downcast eyes.

“If you make an impact on another person, though… then you’ve altered the course of their lives, eh? Just a little bit, but everyone they interact with from then on is changed a little, too. That cycle never stops; it goes on forever and ever, gets passed down from generation to generation. Understand? If you make one person happy, you can live forever.”

Deep in thought, Johnson hardly noticed the rain that slid gently down his cheeks. The old man gave him one last long, scrutinizing look, then stood and began folding up his chair. Startled out of his reverie, Johnson took a step forward, kicking through the shin-high pile of feathers.

“Wait, I thought sitting here was your job?”

“It is” the man replied, “and I reckon I just finished.” With his chair under one arm, the Homeless Guy turned and began loping down the street, singing to himself. Johnson stood by himself on the sidewalk for a moment, smelling the damp and the asphalt. Still gazing in the direction that the old man had gone, he reached back and scratched his itch before turning around and heading for home. Behind him, the last traces of his wings slowly settled to the ground.