No Rice for All
- Feb 17, 2023
- 7 min read
by Jane Camoleze
Alarmed by the increasing evidence of sunlight, Ro-ro gave up on tickling the man´s cheek after the fourth attempt to wake him up, daring her antennae further and further into the cavity of his right ear. It was a Sunday. In one interesting exception, the man had an event to attend, and given his long-term mistrust of alarm-clocks, it was Ro-ro´s duty to make sure he was up when he had to, regardless of the calendar, so she swung her antennae left, right, left, right again, again and again inside of that big, semi-hairy, poorly washed ear of his till he opened his eyes at last. ‘Morning, love,’ she said. Not long ago, under the same circumstances he would’ve yelled ‘fucking roach!,’ and Ro-ro, under the shadow of a strapless flip-flop, would’ve begged ‘please, I have children,’ but today, as a result of consciousness, magic, and in-betweens, not to mention the fact that she had proven herself the ablest of wives — humoring him, feeding him, not only acknowledging but also fostering his ambitions — the man said ‘hungry’ instead, to what Ro-ro replied ‘but pizza first thing in the morning, love?,’ prompting him to get up to take a leak.
Would that he had found her sooner — he lowered his shorts, and pissed reflectively — and that every man on Earth had a Ro-ro of their own. A man whose wife helps him focus on his dreams is a fortunate fellow, and speaking of fortune, his mind was set to make his by the end of the year: he had planned the particulars and deliberately chosen every single item on his wish list, and that being too long of a list to recall first thing in the morning, he summarized it with ‘I manifest.’ The man knew words had power. He also knew manifest was the single most powerful verb in the world: by saying it, thoughts would grow legs, and knock on your door, and that was not negotiable — all men fell under the effects of the same unbiased energy that ruled the Universe. ‘Here’s what y’all should know,’ he would say to the occasional moaners, ‘one, life’s an echo; two, it is what it is.’ And knowing A echoed A, the man shook, and said it yet one more time: ‘I manifest.’
He stumbled his way to the kitchen. Across the rickety stool he sat on was the collage of the things he wanted to echo: a large pizza box occupied most of it, leaving room for two modest columns on the sides of the chart only. In the right upper corner, an ID-size picture of his very face, which had already hosted bodies of athletes, firemen, and even a naked model’s, was today attached by a piece of blue tape to the neck of a headless body wearing a suit, flapping super-hero like whenever the window was open. Below his provisional feet, there was a fading picture of a random model Ro-ro thought to be his late mother back in the day; below her, tittier and ever smaller ladies lied scattered in diverse positions, making it hard to tell one’s limbs from the other’s. As if reiterating his wishes on impulse, the pictures on the left column were not sorted in any particular way — cars, a big house, a big burger, more models Ro-ro believed to be part of the family, and men in sunglasses with a swagger were all intertwined. The man had a taste of pizza and women in his mind, said ‘I manifest,’ and turned to the table set before him: breakfast awaited.
If in the past he had been bitter about the poor outcome of long working hours, today he was a gold magnet who needed no boss, nor such a thing as a job, though he had consciously, willingly, and openheartedly decided to keep his — ‘hard work works miracles,’ he’d say, ‘it’s the shortest cut to abundance;’ and on days bread was what money could buy, then bread was the wise man’s feast: he split the loaf in mid-air, and shoveled the bigger half all at once chewing rhythmically on one side of the mouth, drank water to ease the lumps down lest he might choke, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scratched his cock, then his chin, then his cock again, and got working on the remaining half. While he ate, Ro-ro leaned against the stool legs collaborating with the Divine Providence. Crumbs fell down blessing her efforts. The man deliberately threw some more, manifesting generosity. While she ate, he gulped the rest of the water and laid the sauce jar down.
The man blew Ro-ro a kiss, and left. According to the Pamphlet, the event would take place at the former city hall square at 8 a.m., and ‘only those committed to empowerment and compelled to keep the revolution going were summoned to attend.’ The man was very much compelled to keep the revolution going, and being himself both witness and evidence of empowerment he wanted to secure if not a proper seat, then at least a spot close enough to see His Fellow Leader without the need of a LED screen: that was the very man ahead of their Nation, the commander in chief, and one currently addressed to as Mister President: a model citizen, artsy-craftsy father, loyal friend, husband, former guru and motivational coach. Once a stranger to politics with strong opinions, the man had today clarity on the current political scenario — stable for over a decade — and a fair understanding of what had happened before.
He locked the door behind him and felt something slippery under his foot; the newest edition of the Sunday Pamphlet had already arrived. After the nation had decided to get rid of the vicious dangers of the internet, and presses, along with their loud misleading ruckus, were discouraged, the Pamphlet became the Government’s official channel — never had the man felt such peace as he did upon this decision. The noise ceased. Doubts went away. Multiple voices, and their attempt to convey false messages phased out under the ideal of freedom. Information required no further action, it was not meant to be problematized, but rather to inform. On that note, the Sunday Pamphlet was devoted to the truth: tasteful images, crossword puzzles, recipes, and even letters from fellows across the nation were food for his brain, and his wife — Ro-ro loved nibbling on it.
The cover of this week’s issue was flat yellow with the drawing of a mountain, the word gratitude stood on one of its slopes in thick red letters. On the foot of the mountain, white sentences read: Gratitude is the Universe’s most powerful tool. / First, you’re grateful for what you want to manifest, then you manifest it, not the other way around. / Gratitude puts you in tune with the Universe, it gives the Universe no choice but sending what you want your way. / It’s the key to abundance. / Revised Edition. The man peeked on the first page of the Pamphlet, and saw a picture of Mr. B — a man wearing a navy-blue suit smiling next to an impressive pile of gold. According to the caption, Mr. B woke up on a regular Tuesday just to find a pile of gold in the middle of his living room. He had been thankful for it for the past five years when it finally happened. He is sure there’s enough gold in the Universe for everybody, as long as everybody wants it. ‘A pivotal moment in my life was when I stopped thinking of myself as a victim, and realized I already had everything I needed inside of me. Miracle is a matter of perspective, as is luck. I call it science. What you’re grateful for?’
The man slipped the Pamphlet under the door and left home knowing that like Mr. B and his pile of gold, or the fellow who won the lottery two hundred and seventy-five times last year though could swear he didn’t buy any tickets, he was ready to manifest his thoughts into the real world. ‘I am grateful for pizza,’ he said with lots of intention, picturing himself on the Sunday Pamphlet: He is sure there’s enough pizza in the Universe for everybody, as long as everybody wants it. ‘Just a word of caution: the Universe is literal, so if pizza is what you want, then pizza is what you get. In my case, that came with quite a few pounds.’ The man has been eating nothing but pizza for the last three months in a row, and says he won’t stop till he has tasted all available toppings.
He walked and thanked the Universe, walked and thanked the Universe. The former city hall square was just blocks away, soon purple banners were everywhere — there was no getting any closer, so the man stopped behind the crowd and leaned against a tree. A large screen displayed His Fellow Leader sitting in Lotus position on what looked like a yoga elephant mat, around him, rows and rows of people sat on the floor in the same position. The humming sound from the speakers got more evident till all voices went silent. ‘What do you want?’ asked the Fellow Leader at last. Mesmerized, the man muttered ‘pizza’ along with the short momentary hubbub. The Leader smiled. ‘That is indeed a great question; but while looking at the future with clarity is necessary, not letting the past fade into oblivion is even more so. Our past has taught us a lesson. It has taught us many lessons. Let us never go back to the dark ages of so-called democracy; let us never rely on pocket money to get by on the bare minimum; let us not be deceived ever again by institutions that want nothing but to run the show; and let us not — by any means — let go of the great truth that has been revealed: I’m grateful, I manifest. What do you want?’
The man reiterated: ‘pizza.’ Knowing that His Fellow Leader would always open His speeches with lines from the presidential debate that led Him to a smashing victory years ago, he made an effort to memorize them — conveniently, they could be found on the back cover of the Pamphlet. He waited for the Leader to ask ‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life getting by on pocket money or do you want the truth?’ so that he could say the lines from the now extinguished opposition party out loud with the crowd and an unexpected shrill voice from the speakers: ‘By pocket money, sir, I presume you’re referring to the benefits that have fed many in this country. What is your unemployment agenda, may I ask? Every man for himself? No rice for all?’ His Fellow Leader walked to the edges of his mat twice and took a big breath before continuing: ‘Your welfare gives rice, and in exchange takes away our every opportunity of having all — then no rice for all! This nation is ready to abandon the narrative of misery and victimhood. It is ready for revolution. Let’s set an example to the world by showing what the Willpower State is capable of.’ The man’s heart was beating fast. The crowd roared WPS, WPS, and he joined in screaming at the top of his lungs. Overall, he felt pretty hopeful about his pizza.
Jane Camoleze is a Brazilian writer, and this is her first published piece. She lives in São Paulo.
