Thneedless 1: Rank and File (pt. 2)

See, this was one of the main reasons he liked Barth and the others so much. Sure, he could watch the world whip by on the bus to school each morning and afternoon, but things never changed. Well, that wasn't true. He's pretty sure the dust has gotten dustier.
Onceler presses his hands against the cold glass of the window, watching the orangey dust plume in a great tail from behind the wheels of the bus. The older kids don't like to sit in the very last seats, because it's too bouncy and they're too grumpy, but he likes it back here, thanks to all the windows. At least, he did. He got bored pretty fast. But it's fun to pretend there's wolves or roadrunners or silver deer keeping pace outdoors, and on his especially good days he can almost pretend this isn't the middle of nowhere.
This isn't one of those days. Mondays never are.
A hand connects with the back of his head, and Onceler looks up with a yelp to see Chet dangling over the back of the seat and bearing quite a resemblance to a baby gorilla. "'Ey, Oncey, give me your pudding cup from lunch!"
"I told you guys I don't like it when you call me that." Onceler folds his arms over his chest and pouts in the way that somehow seems to win over grownups like no one's business. He tried it in mirrors for what must have been hours, and finally came to the conclusion that it must have been either his freckles or his nose, but he actually was kind of lovable like that, sort of like a cartoon character.
Chet scoffs from under his baseball cap. "Why do you let Ma do it then?!"
"That's because she's Momma and I actually like her, not like YOU guys." He scowls and turns his attention back to the outside world huffily, only for Chet to paw at the side of his face impatiently, trying to regain his attention. "Ow, hey, stop it!"
"Make me, shrimp!"
"I'm as tall as you and you're nine!"
"That's 'cause you're a freak! Freaky freak freakface!"
"Am not! You're a freaky- freakycheek- jerk guy!"
"You know what the guys in my class say?" Chet's obviously got something big stored up here- the dopey grin says so.
Onceler ducks his chin to his chest and clamps his hands over his ears. "No, and I don't wanna."
"They say that you're a big, fat, scaredy girl." Onceler bites down on the sleeve of his shirt in a nervous habit, choking on a response. Chet whoops with laughter. "They think you're a girl! Isn't that just a laugh, baby Oncey?"
"STOP IT!" Onceler practically screams, shoving Chet's overall-strapped shoulders down and switching to the adjacent seat before he could recover. He swings his backpack between himself and the aisle as a sort of wall. It doesn't shut out the continued taunts of 'Princess Oncey! Cutesy little girl!'
He stays like that, huddled, shaking from the effort of trying not to shake, until they reach the school. Their little town holds Doctor Samuel Snell Memorial Elementary School, which in turn holds every kid between five and thirteen in a twenty-mile radius. Coming from the outskirts of that radius is hard, to say the least. People are too scared of Brett and Chet to call them rednecks or hillbillies or anything, but they know for a fact that Onceler feels terrible after he so much as swats a fly, and so he walks around like the fattest deer in the forest during open season.
Onceler swings his backpack over his shoulder and pushes past the twins as soon as the bus rolls to an unsteady stop, doing his absolute best to shrug off the jeers, and stumbles past the other kids, out on the pavement as soon as he can possibly be. The bus driver shoots a reprimand at his rush after him, which sticks just as effectively as anything else.
Only eight more hours to go, then four more days, then one more week, then nine more months, then ten more years… Better not to think about it.
He does his best to blend, to become just a face amongst the four hundred, but when you're head and shoulders above some of the kids three years older than you it's not easy. Onceler scurries up the halls and down the stairs, tripping on the ungainly soles of his worn-out sneakers and earning a snicker from a cluster of pink-festooned girls, before finally arriving in Miss Mackelwho's second-grade classroom and slumping into his back-corner desk.
Miss Mackelwho is pretty nice. Not as nice as Mrs. Tapshoe, but he thinks that all first-grade teachers have to be really nice. Miss Mackelwho doesn't know as much about drawing and coloring and things like that, and sometimes she takes away his things before they're finished and hangs them out of reach on the wall, but nice, all the same. She's writing out the schedule on the whiteboard, like every morning. "Miss M, is Johnny back yet?" he says eagerly.
She turns in a swish of her golden curls and long denim skirt. "Oh, good morning, Onceler. I'm afraid your little friend is still out with the measles. Some of the other boys said they visited him, though- maybe you should too, you certainly like him enough, and you miss him an awful lot, don't you?"
Onceler feels his face fall, outside of conscious control, in that way it sometimes does. He turns his gaze down to the eraser-shaving-peppered surface of the desk. "Um, no, that's okay. I can just wait until he's all better. I, um, don't wanna get sick."
Miss Mackelwho puts her hands on her hips, an unidentifiable look on her face. "Oh, Oncey, I keep telling you, you don't have to be so shy, especially around your friends."
"I'm not shy," he mumbles, hugging his arms around his chest. "Just careful."
"Hmm." Miss Mackelwho puts a final flourish on the word 'history' and clops back to her desk atop wedge heels. "You know, even if your friend isn't here, I think you could make a new one today."
That's another thing that makes him a little uncomfortable. She has really high expectations of him. Onceler turns in his seat to follow her back around him. "Uhh… I don't think so, Miss M. I've already talked to everyone else, and they don't really like me very much, except Johnny."
His teacher smiles a small smile. "Oh, I think you'll be surprised, Oncey."
Onceler pauses, bites his lip in thought, raises an eyebrow. "I, uh… What the heck do you mean?"
Miss Mackelwho just starts humming to herself cheerily, deliberately avoiding his gaze. Onceler stares a little longer before sighing through his nose in that habit he has and turning back towards the front of the classroom, staring at the words on the board like he expects them to change. Gilbert is cramped in the front pocket of his backpack and he considers freeing the poor fish, but decides against it, choosing to wait until recess, when no one will bother him.
The first bell rings and his classmates file into the room, a riot of color broken into little groups, chattering and laughing. They all take their seats one by one and slowly the room fills to capacity. Onceler stops, looks over the seats. Funny, there's an extra desk, other than the one Johnny usually sits at. Everyone certainly seems to be here, but he's not much for counting. Maybe someone caught the measles too?
The second bell breaks into his thoughts and Miss Mackelwho tirelessly trots back up to the head of the class, cheery smile across her painted pink lips. "Good morning, everyone!" she practically sings.
"Good morning, Miss M," replies the collective voice of the second grade.
"I hope you're all awake, because I have some very exciting news for you all this morning!" Onceler sits up in his seat, no longer leaning his head on the heel of his hand. News? That's… new.
"We're getting a new student today! Your new classmate wasn't able to be here at the beginning of the year due to a little bit of trouble with getting settled, but now you're all about to have a new friend!" Someone else? Maybe another boy like him, who would rather look around at the world than run all over it and kick soccer balls at everything. Miss Mackelwho stretches onto her tiptoes, gaze locked on the door. "Ah, here we go! It's okay, you can come on in now!"
The door swings open slowly, and Onceler almost stands up, trying to see past the kids between him and it. They're all on the edge of their seats, agreeing entirely on something for once, and despite his vertical advantage it's still hard to get a clear view. Miss Mackelwho waves her hands, gesturing towards the front of the class, and finally he understands the difficulty.
It's not that he wasn't tall enough. It's the opposite. The girl in the front of the class is tiny, easily the new shortest kid in the class, with a mane of messy auburn hair as big as she is (to coin a phrase). She's wearing a white dress with a black collar, hem, and sleeves, and there's a pocket like you'd see on a sweater with a white paw print emblazoned onto it. Other than that, all she's wearing is a pair of flip-flops, and all she's carrying is a silver lunch pail. She watches the classroom with wide green eyes.
"Everyone, this is your new classmate, Rose," continues Miss Mackelwho in her singsongy voice. She looks down at the girl with her warmest smile. "Rose, say-"
"HI!" Rose's face blossoms like the flower she's named for into a straight-toothed white grin, and she bounces on the balls of her feet, waving frantically with her free hand. Definitely no shrinking violet, Onceler thinks to himself in amazement, then groans at his own terrible joke. Everyone seems to have drawn the same conclusion, staring at the new girl with slack-jawed awe at her absolute ease and face-splitting smile. Even Miss Mackelwho looks a little alarmed.
"Wow, you're not nervous at all," she finally comes up with in response, obviously used to quiet kids on their first days.
Rose shakes her head emphatically. "Nope!" Her face turns to confusion for a brief instant. "Why would I be?" She starts bouncing her way towards the extra desk, the smile never leaving her face.
"Weirdo," whispers Lauren Backelstein in the row just in front of Onceler. Her best friend agrees with a nod.
Onceler looks up and blinks. Rose is smiling at him like she's smiled at everyone else, and at the eye contact she gives a little wave.
Slowly, uncertainly, Onceler smiles back.
Rose sprawls into her seat like she owns it and everything in the surrounding area, her lunch box hitting the ground with a clatter of metal. Miss Mackelwho regains some of her composure. "Okay, class, I hope you'll all make Rose feel at home! Although she doesn't seem to need any help with that. If you'll all take out your math from last night…"
Onceler shakes himself out of the confounded stupor and reaches down to his backpack, shuffling through the scrap paper and uncovering his math workbook. Despite the interruption, the morning proceeds as it usually would, with Rose eagerly asking and answering questions like she's been there all along. Onceler, as per usual, can't find his tongue long enough to even have a reason to raise his hand, and he stays in the back, scribbling out portraits of porcupines and pine trees.
The lunch bell rings and he's glad to stretch his legs. No one else seems to ever get tired of sitting around all day, but by the time the opportunity rolls around he feels like he's about ready to bust a seam or two. He misses the younger grades, when you could walk around in circles all over the classroom without ever being told to sit back down. Onceler grabs his backpack and follows the class outside, to the picnic tables on the playground, where lunch is held in decent weather.
He isn't all that hungry. He never is. Momma isn't much of a cook, and he doesn't really like peanut butter; it makes him feel sorta like his jaws have been glued together. He peels open the sandwich and scrapes off the marshmallow fluff, which he actually does like, then digs Gilbert out of his bag and swoops off through the maze of bars and slides.
The third-graders are already out here for their lunch. He's learned through repeated experience that they don't take kindly to intruders, although talking will get him nowhere fast. A colorful group of kids sitting on top of a slide takes heed of his streaking path at ground level.
One of them, whose bulky build leaves him questioning how exactly he's staying up there without snapping the plastic in two, jeers. "Hey, it's that little girly boy Chet was talking about! How you doing, princess?!"
Another rolls his eyes. "Leave him alone, dude, he's little."
"Shut up, Kyle! It's none of your business what I do!"
"So what?! You just want me to sit here and watch while you treat people you don't even know like you treat ME?" Voices are raised, fights are brewing. Onceler keeps walking, doing his best to ignore it.
A third. "Come on, guys, we're on a slide, do you really want to fall off?" Despite his better instinct, Onceler looks back. Three of the older boys are practically growling at each other, imaginary hackles raised. He fights the disgust down, replacing it with pity. Exactly like his brothers. So many scenes like this, every day, not even just the boys- everyone. He'd never be like them.
One last kid is perched on the uppermost opening of the plastic tube, arms draped over the base. He's resting his chin between his arms and himself so his face is all scruffy hair and outsized eyes, watching everything below, quietly observing the scuffle between his friends. He looks down at Onceler and waves. He does every time he catches his eye.
Onceler thinks that's more what he'd like to be.
He makes it through the minefield and to the other side of the playground, past the makeshift basketball half-court, to the awkward knoll between the school's property and the town's fencing. What lies beyond- well, actually, there isn't much question to it. Just dust and brush and roads. Like everywhere.
But when he closes his eyes, there's an imposing wall there, beyond the fence- a glacier, a tree line, a waterfall, anything. Onceler plunks down in the patchy grass and digs out Gilbert from his bag.
Gilbert breathes. He slips from Onceler's hands and expands exponentially, splashing into the ocean that wasn't there before. Onceler sits back on the sandy shore and watches his golden silhouette beneath the choppy waves, diving far offshore. Eventually he breaches near the boy's toes, and opens his needle-lined jaws to reveal a veritable treasure trove of shells and sea glass and relics from the ocean floor. Onceler smiles and a baby turtle smiles back, leaping out of the treacherous holding chamber and back into its watery home.
He reaches forward, scooping out the contents of the fish's maw, turning a doubloon between his fingers. Gilbert smiles a fishy smile and leaps with a back flip. Onceler turns to set down the findings on the sand beside him and whacks his hand on a very bony knee.
"Ouch. You have an awfully funny way of saying hello!" Onceler tries to yelp but only manages a mousy squeak before his throat closes off and he has to resort to falling backwards like he's been pushed. There's a face full of white teeth and green eyes about two inches from where his nose just was.
Rose cocks her head, looking baffled for a second before realization replaces it. "Oh. Oh, did I scare you? I thought you realized I was there. Sorry!"
He struggles to get his voice in working order again and manages a creaky "Erm, uh, no, I guess, I was kind of, playing…" He trails off weakly and bites his lip, realizing how childish he sounds to most ears.
But, to his surprise, Rose nods vigorously. "I know! You looked like you were having fun! That's why I came over here." She pauses for a moment. "Uh, I think I saw you in class earlier!"
"Yeah… uh, my name's the Onceler."
Rose's eyebrows furrow in a reaction that isn't nearly so unexpected. Onceler is already braced for the jokes, but instead the only thing she says is, "Is the 'the' part of it?"
"Well, um, yeah, but you don't have to say it. Lots of people don't. My mom hardly ever calls me by the whole thing unless she's really mad," Onceler explains meekly. He knits his fingers together and stares down at his knuckles, the common consensus of his life returning: this silly, scary name doesn't suit a very shy seven-year-old boy in the slightest.
Rose giggles, obviously familiar with that particular parental habit. "All right then, I'll just have to figure something out! My name's Rose, like they said." The confusion returns for the third time. "Hey, what's your last name? You didn't tell me it."
Onceler stares blankly.
"Like… my name's Rose Miranda?"
He blinks. "You have two names, too? Why? No one will explain it to me."
Rose grins awkwardly. "I guess they don't know. I sure don't. It'd be much easier to just be Rose, like you can just be Once." She looks quite contemplative at her careless usage of the nickname. "Can I call you that? Once?"
Onceler considers. "My momma calls me Oncey most of the time, so I guess I don't mind. If I can call you Rosie, that is."
Rose titters. "Rosie? Why?"
He just shrugs, trying a simple "'Cause?"
The new girl smiles genuinely, mussed hair waving gently in the wind, and Onceler can't help but think, just for a moment, that he might just be able to make a second friend. Slowly she opens her mouth, lips peeling back over white teeth.
"As long as you don't call me Rosy Cheeks like my grandpa."
Onceler bursts out laughing so hard it hurts, so hard it jumps to Rose with all the contagiousness of yawning, so hard that in moments they're rolling in the grass, and, strangely enough, he doesn't even care about the grass stains.



Of all the false emotions one runs across regularly in their lives, there is, perhaps, none more frustrating and dangerous than forced calm. It spreads like wildfire, it's incredibly hard to put a stop to, and it's too close to lying for comfort.
Without being a bold-faced lie, of course. That, he can stomach just fine.
The Onceler stirs his tea idly, watching the loose leaves spiral on their courses, only half-listening to the conversation bouncing around the table. It's funny how, the harder you try not to pay attention, the easier things worm their way into your ears, so to truly tune out is an art that literally cannot be forced.
The head of Malwedge Nationwide (and the second most important man at the table, which could easily be described as 'pretty sad') sets his glass on the table with a little more force than is necessary. "I'm telling you, we don't have enough sway here in Marsaltoo to get a deal in the mall with our budget!"
"If you can just get a deal, then you won't ever have to worry about budget or sway ever again," insists one of the faceless army collectively referred to as the PR people, furiously chomping down on a slimy-looking oyster.
"I believe Mr. Malwedge made it perfectly clear that getting a deal isn't what matters here, since it won't be happening." Malwedge's employees aren't famous for their temperaments.
Another professional conniver slams his fist on the table, rattling the dishes, actually standing up from his chair slightly. "You open a Thneed shop and you'll have the most lucrative business this town has ever seen!"
"But that's irrelevant!" growls Malwedge. "All we can get you is a brand extension into one of our preexisting stores or a kiosk. There's just not enough money in this town-"
"Enough," the Onceler interjects lowly, setting down his tea on its saucer. It's the first thing he's said in something like a half-hour, and the two companies fall silent at the voice of their shared employer. He takes his time, choosing his words with a businessman's care and a millionaire's lack thereof.
"My shops are successful enough to turn a dustbowl like this one into a tourist's hotspot with the right marketing. They've been doing it for years. Money is not the issue. I could fund a two-story megastore on the spot and hardly feel a dent, but I doubt you'd like the interest rates very much."
Malwedge squirms uncomfortably in his seat. The old miser. "So what's the alternative?"
"It seems you intend to get your handsome compensation after all." One corner of the Onceler's mouth inches upwards. "Fund an event at a successful store. Strike a deal with the mall's superintendents. Have them pay for it out of their own pockets, tell them you'll pay them back after the event." He holds up one suede-coated finger, stifling the old man's incoming indignancy. "Once it's over, tell them that the attendance rates, no matter how high, fell so dismally short of the projected that they won't be able to continue their internment in Marsaltoo, and clear them out. Put down a Thneed Centre and you'll have more than enough profit to make your little world go around for a few more years."
Malwedge looks like he's been hit over the head with a frying pan. He gapes in an excellent impression of a dying fish before finally creaking out, "But isn't that dishonest?"
The Onceler lifts one eyebrow. "I know for a fact that Reamus Sweaters has just gone bankrupt due to a certain rival product. They're phasing out all their stores, including the one in Marsaltoo Main Street Mall. Your investments in the company went bad; surely you must hold a little resentment towards the cause of your loss, despite your precious profit margin, fickle as you are. And am I to understand that you'd never lie?"
He can make out the conversations at tables twenty feet away. He loves this moment.
One of Malwedge's entourage raises a hand. "Check, please?"
Deals are signed, checks are written, a pair of gloves signs a famous name in a practiced routine, separate of their master's mind. The Onceler says nothing else. Not in the restaurant, not in the town, not in his limousine. The world moves along without instruction. It's nice.
He leaves the chauffeur to his tasks and strides out on the pavement. The lunch got started late and ran even later, making this one of his less productive days, respectively. He strides out on the open pavement, the gale blowing from the spent valleys sending the tails of his suit lashing. He passes the main entrance entirely, leaving the tar and scuffing though the ashes, which fade seamlessly into beat-down grass. The world comes into color as he walks around the rear of the compound, the smog at the horizon lightening to reveal the setting sun. He comes to a stop with his feet in two bare patches of soil, where he's stood every day for five years.
The Truffulas stand in all their mediocre glory, warm pastel tufts atop charcoal-striped trunks, cool green grass forming a contrast to all the red and pink and gold above. The sun sets beyond impossible mountains, still untouched, stretching into the distance, directly opposing where he now stands. The sky harmonizes with the trees, the painted streaks of light matching the tufts, contrasted with the slashes of bark-gray clouds.
A sudden, gentle wind makes the grass and trees an ocean, and the Onceler feels his hair brush gently against his forehead in that unobtrusive way only nature itself can manage.
"Sir?" The call comes from behind, towards the door, but he doesn't bother turning.
"What?"
"Sir, if you're busy, I certainly don't mean to interrupt-"
"What." He raises his voice for the first time all day, all the meekness and dodging suddenly irritating. As much as he hates to admit it, he hates to be interrupted out here. Just five minutes a day without interruption- is that so much to ask?
"Sir, you have a letter. It's from your grandfather."
The Onceler starts. He stares off blankly towards the sun for a few beats before turning, stalking back towards the main hall and past the assistant, who closes the door behind him with a slam. He breezes down the hall, past his mother, past the looming portrait of himself, past the constantly ticking Thneeds-sold counter, and into his spacious, yet mostly bare office. He swings the top hat off his head and onto a coat rack before slumping into his enormous, luxurious chair and edging towards his desk.
There's a blueprint for a city towards the opposing edge, there's a gold-embossed nameplate, there's a sheet of glass covering an inset where his old axe rests. And there's a single envelope. No return address, just his name and locale.
As always.
The Onceler slits the envelope with a fingernail and pulls out the plain paper within.

To my grandson,
Today I was sitting in town and reading my newspaper when a girl walked by wearing a pair of your wonderful little inventions around her arms like gloves. To see a thing like that all these many miles away- I figured that must mean it's about time to send you another letter.
I understand your birthday is coming up soon. By your old grandfather's figuring that means that's about 6 years I've been in touch with you and 20 I haven't. While I can't make up all those years I missed, at least I can start to catch up. Try to relax for a couple of days and celebrate for once!
How are your brothers? From what the tabloids are saying you're shaping up to be a lot more like your father than they are. He was a smart young man. I just wonder where he ended up sometimes- you certainly didn't get your drive from him!
Remember, Onceler- no matter what happens your grandpa's proud of you, so I say this with only your interests in mind- are you absolutely sure that you've got enough trees to go around? I read recently in my paper that you've sold 1 billion Thneeds. How many of those beautiful trees are there? Have you tried any other materials? You could find some interesting alternatives in the process, expand a little.
Just keep trying new things- use that inventor's brain of yours. Change the world, kid!

Love, your Grandpa Leroy

The Onceler stares at the signature before refolding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope, before opening a drawer of his desk and stashing it away. He'd never met Grandpa Leroy. He'd never met any of the family who didn't live in their country home, actually- especially no one from his father's side of the family. He'd learned not to ask questions, with Brett and Chet the way they were- just be happy with the few good people he knew. Though he had to wonder about the half of him he'd never met.
Which was why it came as an immense shock when an old man on the other side of the world sent him a letter, explaining how he'd seen his picture in his ever-familiar newspaper and recognized him instantly as his son's child he'd heard about before. While he couldn't (or wouldn't) explain what had happened to his father, Grandpa Leroy provided support and advice and an interesting perspective, sometimes in pages or just a single paragraph.
Grandpa Leroy was a wealth of information, considering he couldn't write back and therefore never asked questions directly.
Someday, maybe, he might even want to.
He needs to take his mind off of all these stupid emotions that seem to break down the floodgate whenever he gets another letter, or else he'll do something just as dumb, like go find his ancient beat-up… certain hat that isn't a top hat… and stare at a mirror like he did a while ago. He could practice piano, but that requires attention he doesn't have. He could go harass the psychiatrist, but he's actually had enough of messing with people's heads for just a little while.
But he does have a reason to celebrate.
The Onceler opens the top right-hand drawer of his desk and pulls out a simple cedar box, sliding open the top to reveal eight cigars and a matchbox. He bought this set of twelve five years ago, when he stopped in a town for a bitter celebration of his worst birthday ever and ended up with more than a few reasons to remember it. In all that time, he'd only smoked four, for major milestones.
He'd say a billion Thneeds and two hundred shops is worth a little self-vandalization.
The overwhelming urge to cough is quickly overtaken by the heady flavors of a good high-quality cigar. The Onceler leans back against the dark leather of his seat and swings his legs onto his desk, staring up at the ceiling, out the skylight with its crisscrossing metal supports. The smokestacks aren't too far away from that vantage, chugging out their own pollution.
He joins them and exhales a plume of gray.
Where there's smoke, there's fire.
The fires of a factory keeping up a supply for an endless demand.
Or a man on fire, burning up the country faster than anything in history, totally unstoppable, with the world on a string.
He doesn't know what he's prouder of.