Chapter 6
D
uring the following night the pile grows even more. Nobody knows how it happens, because of course nobody who’s asked about it is the kind of person who would throw their garbage on a pile, that’s the kind of thing only other people do. On Facebook all the building tenants express their outrage, but no one makes any suggestions about how the pile might be removed, because everyone is too busy arguing about whose fault it is in the first place. By coincidence, those people who complain the second most seem to be the ones who’ve just recently bought new frying pans. But, of course, the people who complain the most
are people who don’t even live in the area, but would still love to guess what kind of people are throwing away frying pans, which somehow always seem to be people who don’t look like the people who are doing the guessing.
Several neighbors call the police, but the police claim to have more important things to do, so the neighbors then call the most powerful legal authority in the country, a small man who works at City Hall.
The small man from City Hall is carrying documents and rings Lucas’s doorbell early one morning. When Lucas doesn’t answer within four seconds, the small man rings the bell again, as though he thinks Lucas’s apartment is the size of a closet.
“I have been informed that you are responsible for the pile!” the small man says impatiently when Lucas finally opens his door.
“I’m really, really not.” Lucas yawns, dressed in his pajamas.
This is information that the small man completely ignores. Instead, he exclaims in an authoritative voice:
“I am here to inform you that there is nothing City Hall can do about it. Unfortunately, the pile is too big to be classified as a pile.”
“What does that mean?” asks Lucas sleepily.
The small man throws out his arms, as if this should be completely obvious.
“We have received complaints from neighbors in the area about a small pile of junk. But after my inspection it is clear that this is, in fact, a large
pile of junk. In fact, it is so big that it is actually not plausible that it even is a pile of junk.”
“I’m not following,” Lucas admits.
“It cannot be a pile of junk,” the small man states.
“But . . . you do see the pile?” Lucas tries.
“Yes. But it is not plausible,” the man informs him.
“But it’s . . . there,” says Lucas.
“Plausibly: no,” the man corrects.
“But you can see it!” Lucas insists.
An impressively large sigh comes from such a small man when he answers:
“That is not how the city’s classification system works. We only take into consideration what is plausible. If
there were to be a pile of junk as big as this one is, there would be no laws
deciding what the city should do. Because there are no laws covering things that aren’t plausible.”
Lucas is starting to get a headache.
“But the pile is right there,” he reiterates, but at this point even he is beginning to feel doubtful.
The small man then proceeds to imitate Lucas in a really somewhat mocking manner, if you ask Lucas.
“The pile is right theeeeeeere!” the small man whines.
“It’s kind of immature to mimic people,” Lucas mutters.
The small man steps forward and reaches up and puts his index finger on the tip of Lucas’s nose, growling:
“You know what is immature? Telling city officials how to do our jobs! I am sure it is very convenient for you citizens that you get to assess what is reality according to what you can see with your own eyes! But we city officials actually have a responsibility to stick to what is p-l-a-u-s-i-b-l-e.”
Lucas backs up a little so the tip of his nose is out of finger range. Then he asks as politely as he possibly can bring himself to:
“Then how would you classify the pile? If it’s not a pile?”
The man throws his arms out again.
“According to the city’s assessment, it is more plausible that it is a hill.”
“A hill?”
“It is not plausible that it is a mountain, because it is simply not plausible that there would be a mountain here in the city that the city is not aware of. And if it is not a mountain, and also not a pile, then it has to be a hill. And hills are not the responsibility of my department.”
“Then whose is it?” Lucas asks.
“Plausibly it would fall under the jurisdiction of the Agricultural Agency,” the small man says with great certainty.
He then picks up a pad, tears off the top sheet of paper, and hands it to Lucas.
“Here is the ticket for your fines.”
“Fines? For what?” Lucas exclaims.
The small man rolls his eyes.
“When I inspected the hill, I looked for junk with a name on it, because my department is not permitted to classify anything as junk if we don’t know who the junk belongs to. Junk without an owner could very well be things
, which is a completely different matter. And the only items I found with names on them were two surveillance cameras. It says they belong to the president of the Pile Committee, and then it gives your address.”
Lucas starts to sweat.
“Yes . . . yes, the board of our building set up cameras to monitor the pile! So someone who wanted to throw garbage in the pile must have taken them down, so they wouldn’t be caught on tape, and . . .”
“That seems plausible,” the man agrees.
“Well then?” Lucas nods with relief, trying to hand the ticket back.
The man shakes his head with bureaucratic determination.
“Rules are rules. It is illegal to dispose of cameras on a hill.”
“BUT IT’S NOT A HILL!” Lucas says, possibly in all capital letters.
“It is illegal to shout at a city official,” the man informs him.
So Lucas gets another ticket. Then the small man walks away, and the plausible hill stays put.