(let me take you by the hand)
The ACME Company was everything to everyone around it. As fundamental as water to our very being, there were utterly no revolutionaries against the peculiar establishment. After all, a human would not get particularly far if he eschewed water and fluid; so the same applied to the necessity of ACME to Petey, Georgie and the rest of their charming ilk.
ACME provided all residents with their wishes. Orders ranged from food (oversized hams and indistinguishable mush remaining the most common), entertainment, furniture and even weaponry (of which the honed and protected Anvil™ design still dominated the market). The Company created these, and diligently provided them, using materials made available through prosperity. Looking at concepts in such a simple summing up has a habit of making their more ludicrous details void. In human existence, with greater prosperity and creativity flows success and contentment. It matters not that involved in this sequence are factories, labour, documentation, bureaucracy, corruption, politics, arts and a continuing list of ins and outs that make it feasible and indeed fallible.
The only difference in our subject Petey’s reality was the nature of the materials, where they would originate from and how. As a matter of fact, these metaphysical building blocks with which ACME used to create all of their numerous wares – not to mention build a society – flowed through the main centre of the factory in a veinistic pipeline. It pumped its barely tangible ether endlessly, rippling waves corresponding to the level of success and life satisfaction. A symbiotic process not free from its torrential ebbs and flows, ACME had always seemed to work. And so, it was assumed, it would continue.
You must be careful, when considering this existence, not to get hung-up on constructs we would take for granted in their necessity and prevalence. Sleep, Petey would have no concept of. Occupations, monetary economy, happiness, misery – all small examples of salt off which our ‘civilised’ society has thrived for time immemorial. Petey would not only ask what they were, but his biggest and most aching inquiry would be “why should I care?” We have not answered our elusive meaning of life, and neither (fortunately) had those that existed around ACME. But, as a limited omniscient, I have the dubious pleasure of giving you the more shadowed backdrop behind the confused flux of ACME existence.
Petey was entertainment. Material being, as anyone with a toe dipped into the quantum knows, is merely a representation of a far more abstract plane where even physical location is schizophrenic. Existence is an indistinguishable cloud of waving possibilities, weaving complex tapestries around their generality so the conscious may have a playground. This is speculation (as mentioned my omniscience is limited) – but are we, with our personality politics and pop idol call-ins, merely the material representations of a coagulated and separated mind’s confusion? If such is the case, as I am beginning to suspect, Petey’s world magnificently and farcically played symbolic ambassador to this speculative mind’s humour and immaturity. And as we shall see much later, it was not the first.
There, their antics were their very being. Georgie never considered why day after day he strove to steal the sweet, steaming cherry pie that old Mrs. Misserly cooled on her sill. He certainly never lost faith when every day he met a humiliating, catch-phrase laden end, in which the approach of night was signalled by a slow fade to black and morning was announced with a rapturous theme tune. The blare of that brass fanfare to him was as natural as the rising of morning light, and equally as jarring. Occasionally, but rarely, Georgie found it just as beautiful as we may regard a meandering sunrise.
Did Petey know he was written? He had a vague grip of the idea, but no more than you or I may fancy, on an existential evening, that our entire life has already had its stage directions meticulously planned; us being puppets desperately unaware of the strings. Did Petey know that as he faded into a rolling decline, so too did a connected being in an entire other dimension? His weathered, drying pen slowing on the page (“My legs aren’t what they used to be, Douglas”), coughing blood and tar onto a carved desk and shovelling coffee to avoid penning another episode (“I called him Sally… my memory’s slipping”). How could Petey ever understand his final season of life was complete whim? His autumn years one final creative fart from his lazy, now money-obsessed God? Forever associated – a Creator who never considered his work and Petey, a golem existing on the bubbling madness of a very oblivious power.