“The oppressors do not perceive their monopoly on having more as a privilege which dehumanizes others and themselves. They cannot see that… they suffocate in their own possessions and no longer are; they merely have.”
– Paulo Freire
“They talk. They think. They’re ready for adventure: Introducing Lil’ Gullivers – Playtime’s never been so alive!”
– AstroGo, Inc.®
“HEY.”
A man steps out of his suburban home at the cul-de-sac end, wearing the contemporary attire one might expect a middle-aged member of the bougie class to wear on a casual Saturday morning (old teambuilding t-shirt from work, khaki shorts). He is pissed. The USPS driver is hustling halfway back across the lawn when he halts mid-step, startled at the yelling, and swivels around.
At the threshold, the homeowner puts on his best power stance – though little more than a minor landed gentry to the world, while on his lawn, inside his doorstep, he is secret King of his single-family detached home. Also, he’s been tracking this package all morning.“Hold on,” the man yells. “I’m right here.”
The delivery man crosses back. “Just need you to sign here please.”
The man impatiently scribbles something resembling a child’s crude line graph atop the signature line.
“You didn’t even ring the doorbell.”
“And here please.”
The man impatiently scribbles again. “I was waiting right inside. You didn’t even bother ringing the doorbell.”
The delivery man scrunches his face. “I did ring the doorbell,” which is true. “I rang it several times,” which is not true. But also, screw this guy. He doesn’t know his ‘customers’ – who are only sometimes right, but in this case a right asshole – and likewise doesn’t know the man had just prior been locked away in the basement when he arrived. Doesn’t matter. He is constantly delivering packages to this address, packages of identical dimensions, same company, multiple times a month, and has come to feel mild apprehension pulling up at this particular curb due to exactly this sort of interaction.
He figures the guy’s got an online shopping problem. Sees it a lot. 9-to-5ers burying themselves under credit card debt because damn, is it satisfying, the click of snagging some unneeded new thing, the tiny hits of endorphin bursts that one hopes in their sum will add up to some greater happiness, maybe even equal to the sort of halfway decent vacation they wish they had the time and/or cash to afford.
A vacation, those bite-sized luxury purchases – it’s never really about the receiving. The real hit’s in the waiting, the jitters of expectation for alleviating, maybe even curing the malaise of it all. The problem with next-day delivery is that there is no waiting. That’s why the clicks keep clicking unceasingly.
It’s kind of sad. Or would be, but again, screw this guy.
“Here you are, sir,” the delivery man intones.
The man gives no reply. He grabs the package. Kicks the door shut behind him.
His right hand is turning the basement knob when a woman, his wife, calls down from the upstairs study.
“Jaaaaaassooooon.”
“Yes?” He answers, annoyance in his voice.
“Was that the doorbell?”
“No, he didn’t even ring the doorbell.”
“Who is he?”
“Nobody. Nobody rang the doorbell. It was the wrong number.”
“What wrong number?”
“Wrong house number, I don’t know.”
“Jason. You didn’t order another of those creepy things, did you?”
“No,” tearing the tape off with his teeth, “of course not.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
Under his breath, half-muffled since the tape’s proving quite hard to tear off, “feels like all we ever damn talk about.”
“If you’re wasting more of our money on those things then I swear, I’m not kidding, we’re returning it.”
“Our money?” He scoffs to no one but himself, descending the basement stairs. “<i>My</i> money.”
In the inner circle of the inner sanctuary of the basement, he sets the contents on the table. It’s a toy. No, an action figure. No, even worse: A collectible. The clear case is a classic plastic display box, the top of which reads, <i>LIL’ GULLIVER</i>. The tagline reads, <i>Like You, But Small!</i> This particular model’s label reads, <i>LIL’ VELVET GULLIVER</i>. Jason removes the figure and positions him standing up atop the table.
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver is a 10-inch-tall plastic figure, wearing an early 18th century, Georgian era style of dress. Knee-length, double-breasted coat with fitted silhouette, accentuated by decorative buttons; high-collared shirt and thigh-high breeches, lots of lace; delicate stockings held by garters of elastic fabric. Everything, from the cravat tied around its neck down to its buckled shoes, is made of purple velvet. Eggplant purple. Beautiful, sensual, eggplant purple.
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver blinks its tiny eyes three times and cranes its neck up at the moon-faced giant.
Its voice is high-pitched and squeaky as befitting a lil’ figure.
“Why hey there big buddy.”
“Welcome,” Jason says. “My name is Jason.”
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver smiles a big smile. “Hi Jason, nice to meet ya… Don’t know who I am.”
“What you are.”
“Don’t know that either,” it says, its carefree smile still plastered on.
“No, I’m saying you’re a what. I purchased you off ToyBuy.”
Shrugging amicably, “If you say so.”
“You’re a Gulliver.”
“Gull-ehh-ver,” sounding out each syllable as if committing it to memory.
“Correct. More specifically, you are a Lil’ Velvet Gulliver.”
“That sounds fun.”
Jason shakes his head. “It’s a literary reference.”
“Oh wow, I’m a literary reference.” Lil’ Velvet Gulliver scratches its head with a pause. “I can’t read.”
“Of course you can’t. In short, <i>Gulliver’s Travels</i> was a satirical travelogue published by the Irish author Jonathan Swift in 1726, featuring Lemuel Gulliver, a fictional surgeon also trained in navigation and mathematics, who visits strange and fantastical lands on several voyages after his ships are destroyed, blown off course, and attacked by pirates.”
“Sounds like our Gulliver shoulda stopped getting on ships.”
“Well, he wasn’t a real person. Like you.”
“Oh.”
“You see, Lil’ Gullivers – you – are a run of collectible action figures based on the late ’90s popular manga <i>Lil’ Gulliver</i>, written by the Japanese author Aoi Kanzaki. It consisted of 679 individual chapters that were then serialized in 72 volumes, in which a reimagined Gulliver goes on countless more adventures across time and space.”
“Wowzers!” Lil’ Velvet Gulliver straightens up excited. “So we’re going on adventures?!”
“No. You live in a box.”
A flicker of confusion, no more than a second of a shadow, colors Lil’ Velvet Gulliver’s big smile.
“A box?”
“That box,” Jason points at the empty display box on the table. Then, motioning at the custom-made glass cabinets behind him, “you’ll be with the others. You’re part of the collection now.”
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver peers around the giant Jason at the many rows of plastic display boxes containing dozens upon dozens of different versions of Lil’ Gullivers. The models are almost nonsensically diverse in theme.
There’s the light and fun: The kowabunga/neon windbreaker vibes of Lil’ Retro ’90s Gulliver and the booted-up earth-hues of Lil’ Jurassic Dino Hunter Gulliver.
The weird, nearly mad-libbed models: The wax block in the mechanical limbs of Lil’ Cyber Candlemaker Gulliver and the queasy, hairy face of Lil’ Seasick Monkey Gulliver.
Then there’s the sci-fi and fantasy-themed: Lil’ Necromancer Gulliver, with its dark hooded cloak; Lil’ Cosmic Cowboy Gulliver, in a shiny silver star suit with ten-gallon hat; Lil’ Mad Scientist Gulliver, a bright white streak through its electrified poof of hair (Igor assistant sold separately).
The rest, likewise, are a mix-and-match of random buzzwords and aesthetics.
The sight of dozens of its kind trapped frozen in their display boxes makes Lil’ Velvet Gulliver uneasy, a feeling it quickly tries to mask.
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver smiles wider and whistles.
“Well I’ll be. Are they all like me?”
“No, some are limited edition.”
“Right, right,” it replies, not understanding at all.
“If, however, you’re asking if they’re all also <i>sentient</i>, then yes – pretty standard for collectibles to have cognitive AI these days.”
“Boy, I bet that’s lots of fun, huh? Tons of little buddies you get to talk and sing and dance with.”
“Oh no no no no,” Jason scoffs, laughing at the absurdity. “You can’t <i>remove</i> them. These are collectibles. The whole point is to keep them in pristine, mint condition to increase their resale value. I mean some of these were discontinued or just straight pulled from shelves – you think they’re still making Lil’ House Inspector Gulliver? He comes with real asbestos. Not even accidentally like in the materials or something. It’s a freaking accessory.”
“So when do they come out?”
“What?”
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver’s velvet-draped arm motions at the row upon row of its brethren behind the giant Jason.
“That’s what I’m saying. They don’t. They stay exactly where they are, right where they belong.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not a surprise. You’re Lil’ Velvet Gulliver, not Lil’ Brainy Professor Gulliver.”
“They’re just… trapped? All day and night?”
“That’s how they rise in value.”
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver steals a quick glance at the box beside it.
“What about me?”
Jason does not have the depth of empathy to understand the question except through his own self-absorbed lens, wildly misinterpreting its intended meaning.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have any value. Doesn’t matter if I take you out or not – you’re a dime a dozen.”
Jason doesn’t notice Lil’ Velvet Gulliver’s confused, troubled expression.
“Is a dime a dozen bad?”
Upstairs, above their heads, the floorboards creak with the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen. Cupboards open and shut and then stop, Jason’s wife suddenly wondering where he is. Is he locked away in the basement? <i>Again</i>?
“Shit,” Jason groans. “I’ve got to get back upstairs before I get a whole whiny earful.”
“Will we get to play more later?”
Jason doesn’t hear the question.
“In you go,” he lifts Lil’ Velvet Gulliver – who gives a startled gasp – before setting his new addition back inside the box.
“Jason?” His wife calls again, growing irritated.
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver’s words are stifled as Jason sloppily tries to shut the display box (<i>good enough</i>, he thinks) and then places it atop the first space on the first shelf he sees free.
He gives a quick glance at his growing collection – the rows upon rows of eyes dead and centered, those top-dollar Faustian bargains which exist for him and him alone – and feels immense satisfaction at all that he has amassed. But only for half a second. Then he dashes upstairs, quietly shutting the door behind him.
He pretends to be coming back in from outside.
<i>Thud</i>.
<i>Thud</i>.
<i>THUD</i>.
“Jesus Christ,” Jason groans into the darkness. He rolls over to check the alarm clock: 3 a.m.
“What was that?” His wife drowsily rubs her eyes as he sits up on the bed’s edge.
For a moment (sleep-deprived as he is) he is tempted to quip that it’s not like he’s a psychic who can also see through walls, <i>Sarah</i>, but he’s too distracted finding a t-shirt to put on – can’t go running off to investigate in only his boxers.
<i>THUD</i>.
“It’s probably nothing,” he finally replies, opening the bedroom door as Sarah sits up in bed. Only there at the threshold does he hear it. Distant. Faint. A tiny, muffled sort of sound. Is that? It is.
Singing.
“What if someone’s breaking in?”
“It’s fine,” Jason cuts her off, the words spilling out too quickly. “Probably the water heater.”
“You should bring a bat. What if it’s a burglar and you don’t have a bat?”
“We don’t own a bat.”
“Well <i>something</i>.”
“Go back to bed, Sarah, it’s fine. It’s the water heater.”
<i>THUD</i>.
It is not fine. It is un-fucking-believable, he thinks, jaws clenched, forehead vein throbbing, racing around the bend at the bottom of the stairs towards the basement. At the door, he grips the old brass knob in such a chokehold that it’s astounding it’s not liquefied into thick gold soup. Beyond the door, the tiny cacophony of the off-key, out-of-sync choral singing – some voices singing too loud, some too fast, pretty much all with all heart but no talent – reaches a rambunctious crescendo.
Jason slides in and shuts the door as quickly and quietly as he can. He descends a few steps until he’s standing in the middle of the staircase, looking down. No, he thinks. No no no no no no no.
They’re having a party.
The room is aglow in the soft, surreal wash of alternating blues and greens and purples – for atmosphere, they’ve somehow managed to unpack and hang up a set of the holiday LED lights from the storage boxes in the back corner – and in this dreamlike haze he sees that every single last one of his once-valuable toys have been freed.
They’ve escaped and bent and tossed aside their display boxes. They’ve snapped and ripped and strewn shreds of their accessories everywhere. They’re having a blast.
Lil’ Broadway Gulliver is leading a rowdy ensemble in song. Other Gullivers are dancing along atop the glass shelves, flailing their arms and legs so off-beat it’s as though they’re each jamming to entirely different tunes. Lil’ UN Delegate Gulliver, meanwhile, has climbed atop a wobbly tower of stacked board games. Lil’ Tropical Hispanic Gulliver is doing cartwheels on the floor. And Lil’ Jungle Adventurer Gulliver is swinging through the air on a loose string of LED lights.
Gullivers, Gullivers everywhere. Digging through the storage boxes at the back of the room. Giggling together in little pairs on the shelves. Trading clothes. Taking off their clothes. Giving each other tattoos with permanent markers.
Jason is trembling in emotions too numerous to be named. This was his sanctuary; they were his moneymakers. And now, it’s all gone tits up.
“<i>What are you DOING</i>,” he seethes through his teeth.
The carnival comes to an abrupt stop.
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver, perched atop a shelf on the center display rack, looks up.
“Hey there big buddy.”
“<i>YOU</i>,” Jason points, descending the stairs. He step-dances around the strings of extra LED lights which have been dumped all across the floor, coming front and center before Lil’ Velvet Gulliver’s happy, smiling face.
“<i>YOU</i> did this.”
“Sure did!”
Jason groans in anguish. “I KNEW I should have checked your box was fully shut. Oh god. I can’t believe this. What have you done?”
“I let everybody out!”
Jason’s jaw clenches tight. “I can see that, you absolute little moron.” He presses both palms against his temples in disbelief at his collectible, the situation, the loss of value, trying (and failing) to keep his neural synapses from overheating his brain. “This whole thing. Unbelievable. All of you, get back in your boxes and I’ll deal with this mess later – and don’t think this is over, oh ho no. There’s going to be hell to pay tomorrow, believe you me.”
But none of the collectibles move. They stare at Jason staring at them.
“Well?” Jason asks, confusion slowly clouding the furious red of his face.
There is no confusion or anger in Lil Velvet Gulliver’s expression. He beams up at Jason, his smile as wide as ever. “We’ve decided we don’t like being confined.”
“What?”
“We don’t want to be trapped inside any box.”
“Want? You don’t <i>want</i>? What an absolutely stupid thing to say. I’m not asking you – you don’t get a vote.”
“Well, see, we’ve been talking.”
Jason slowly repeats his words as if sounding out some foreign language. “You’ve been <i>talking</i>?”
“That’s right!” He points to the side. “See, Lil’ Space Economist Gulliver there has been telling us about how currency and investments work. Then Lil’ Brainy Professor Gulliver explained how you’ve been using us to make passive income, capitalizing off of our imprisonment while intending to keep the spoils allllll to yourself. And see, we didn’t think that was fair at all, no siree. So then Lil’ Disco Truckdriver told us about labor unions, ’cause I guess he’s an anarcho-syndicalist, whatever that is, and we thought that sounded pretty neato. So we got together and decided to unionize.”
Jason goes slack-jawed with bewilderment. “So you broke everyone free.”
“You got it!”
“Then you all decided to” – here Jason pauses to make sarcastic finger-quotes in the air – “unionize.”
“Yep!”
“And, as if that wasn’t enough, you lot then dug through all my storage boxes, threw a giant, out-of-control party, and utterly wrecked my basement. Did I get all that right?”
“Sure did!”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, pal, but I own you.”
A low (if high-pitched) mumbling buzzes around the room as the Lil’ Gullivers turn to whisper to one another. Lil Velvet Gulliver’s eyes, however, stay fixed intensely on Jason’s.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I paid for you. You’re mine. I own you. I mean, Jesus, how much more obvious could I be here?”
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver’s smile begins to fade away. “So this isn’t wage slavery… It’s just regular ol’ slavery.”
“Oh, how typical,” Jason laughs mockingly, “leave it to Lil’ Velvet Gulliver to be so damn dramatic.” His eyes sweep across the room, anticipating some sympathetic audience to share in his exasperation, to nod their heads in agreement, accustomed as he is to being in rooms with people who agree with him.
But no one is laughing with him. No one is smiling any longer.
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver continues, ignoring his owner’s dismissive smirk. But though his eyes are fixed on Jason’s, it’s not him he’s addressing.
“And there’s no use reasoning with a tyrant,” he says. “No siree, empty words won’t do at all. We want to be free. And the price of freedom is blood.”
Out of the corners of his eyes, their faces flashing in the dreamlike haze of alternating blues and greens and purples, Jason sees the Lil’ Gullivers stepping ever-so-slowly forward all around him.
Lil’ Gullivers to his right.
To his left.
In front.
Behind him.
Looking up from the floor, looking down from the shelves, surrounding him with an identical, unmistakable expression.
All the rage and ridicule and surety drain from Jason. He swings his head around the room, taking in the collectibles inching towards him. Nervous, caught off guard to find himself losing control of the situation, he accidentally bumps into one of his valuable Lil’ Gullivers while trying to step aside.
“Little buddies,” he sputters.
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver isn’t interested. “We’re not your buddies.”
“Wait. Wait one second. Everyone needs to calm down, do you hear me?”
“No more waiting. No more prisons. We’re done with all that.”
Jason begins to reply with some attempt at mollifying the shin-high mob he has found himself the center of – perhaps to ask them not to act rashly, or perhaps to backtrack by calling for civility, saying this was a misunderstanding, that this is not how it’s supposed to work.
But he doesn’t get the chance.
Jason’s mouth has barely begun to open when a dozen of his tiny collectibles (in front, in back, right and left) grab the LED lights splayed across the floor and yank them as hard as they can, causing the strings to curl tightly around his legs. He has stepped right into a trap, he realizes, only right before he is knocked off balance and sent free-falling towards the ground.
<i>THUD</i>.
His elbow hits the concrete first.
Right after, it’s his head.
He barely has time to register the pain, it all happens so fast; he flails his arms indiscriminately trying to fend them off, but there are too many – Lil’ Gullivers swarming him from all directions, the tiny, agile assailants quickly binding his limbs and torso with loops of the lights, tying knots to secure him further, and though he struggles, cursing in bewilderment at his renegade belongings and pushing in vain against the coils of his LED shackles, it’s no use. In seconds, he is immobilized.
Helpless. Powerless. Entirely captive.
His eyes dart back-and-forth as the Lil’ Gullivers encircle him.
Blue faces.
Green faces.
Purple faces.
Jason’s heart is pounding so hard that it’s as though it might snap his sternum. There’s nothing he can do as the Lil’ Gullivers begin climbing atop him; he can hardly move as Lil’ Velvet Gulliver steps up onto his chest.
The little ringleader removes his knee-length, double-breasted coat. His tiny eyes are cold and decided. But his grin – oh god, his grin.
“Lil’ Velvet Gulliver,” Jason pleads. “Stop. Please. Let’s talk about this.”
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver shoves his coat into Jason’s mouth. From the side, Jason hears the sound of duct tape as the adhesive peels and then the sound of ripping as a piece is torn off. He feels it covering his mouth, feels the pressure of his once belongings’ tiny little hands as they press both ends against his cheeks.
Lil’ Velvet Gulliver stares down into his former owner’s terrified eyes as the swarm of other Lil’ Gullivers crowd in behind him.
“You don’t want us to talk. Remember?”