Creativity Cutter

 

Assignment: We had to write a short story centering around a character with a conflict. My character is Joe Bloggs and he lives in a world of originality, which can be a problem.


Genuine originality, stupendous in nature and unpredictable in magnitude. A way with ideas and so much creativity it spewed from the gullet― these were things Joe Bloggs consistently asked for on Christmas. Well, it was officially renamed Creativimas, or some other name along those hipster lines, but the people of Joe’s bottom caste called it by its archaic name. It made sense they would do so― bottom feeders were re-users anyways.


Unfortunately, Joe had such a severe case of mediocrity that he never came close to getting his wish. Of course, Joe frequently went to the doctor’s (by that time, the Medical Bureau was owned by IDEO) in hopes of getting some sort of treatment for his boring nature, but they all turned out somewhat along these lines:
“Mr. Bloggs, I hate to repeat myself but there is no formula for creativity. If there was, you and I would be at the top of the system right now.”
“There has to be! I can’t stand living in all this gray matter; give me the color to get to the top caste,” Joe would plead.


The doctor would shake his head pitifully, and send Joe off to the pharmacy to buy books on creativity and the creative process, all of which failed. Joe read the books, did creative write ups, even wrote an angst filled blog, but could not, inexplicably, become the genuine original person, stupendous in nature and unpredictable in magnitude that he so dearly wished to become in order to get into the legendary top caste, filled with those characters of color and creativity. He always ended up boring in the end.


As Joe was heading home after a standard eight hour work day from his standard salary job (he really didn’t know or like what he did, but all the good jobs went to the top caste), he decided to stop by the local pub for some watered down beer. He slid onto the plastic stool and asked the bearded bartender for the normal beer, who slid it to him with a grunt. Joe sipped the beer, and soon enough, the buzz that came with intoxication hummed quietly in his head. He drank more and more, when suddenly, the door burst open.
A woman, wearing red plaid all over her body, stumbled through the door, giggling raucously as she walked in. She swayed from side to side, then suddenly stood still with a puzzled cross eyed expression; and burped for a long ten seconds, the smell of cheap wine reaching Joe’s nose. Joe noted that she had neon purple hair (quite a deep contrast from his black) implying she was a member of the top caste who had the creativity to dye her hair an outrageous color. As she came closer, Joe respectfully stood up and gave her his stool as protocol dictated. She sat down, giggled and pulled his sleeve. A sharp tug, really. Joe winced; and it occurred to him that she wasn’t drunk at all, as she stared up at him with keen eyes. The buzz from the beer began to hum louder.


“You should know I absolutely hate it when people are respectful to me,” she said. “It’s so mainstream― being respectful to your higher ups. No wonder you’re so low in standing,” she continued as she looked him up and down; from black hair, to black overalls, to black shoes. “Not a sprig of color on you at all, huh?”


“Really, I’m so sorry,” he stuttered, appalled at her forthrightness. “If you want, I can insult you? Have a more condescending tone?” He looked at her with earnest eyes.


She laughed. “It’s not about what I want,” she giggled. “You have no idea what originality is, do you? If you did, you would have understood that to be original would to not do what I would like you not to do, but rather do something that I realize I wanted you to do all along, without knowing it,” she said, as she inspected a bright lock of purple. “I’m Hazel, by the way.”


“Joe.” Pause. “Aren’t you part of the higher caste?”


“Again with the predictable questions, Joe,” she said, shaking her head. “Yes, yes I am, and don’t you dare ask me what I’m doing in this pub with an unoriginal bottom feeder like you. Yes, yes I’m in the top caste, but really in my opinion all this hierarchy and social order stuff is so so so mainstream, really, I don’t think I should belong with anything; really, I’m unique.”


“I would give anything to be in your shoes.” The buzz in Joe’s head was ringing louder.


“As if I didn’t expect that answer. Joe, come on, if you want to be in these shoes, you have to do things your shoes would never expect.”


“Excuse me?”


Hazel sighed. “Everybody wants to be in the top caste― no doubt every Creativimas you must ask for the originality that would propel you there― but to be at the top you have to be wholly genuine, spontaneous, a serendipity of sorts― you must be the event that causes the world to ask itself what it ever did without you. Be unexpected.”


“...I don’t quite follow.” Joe’s head was beginning to hurt. He rubbed his temples and sipped more beer. The thrum of the beer grew steadily louder.
“Of course you don’t. Listen harder Joe, I’m telling the secret of success here,” Hazel said. She slapped him upside the head. Joe whimpered, and his headache intensified.


“The doctor always told me there was no formula to being creative,” Joe said.
“He was right. There is no formula to being creative, and thus being powerful, except the formula is that there is no formula,” she said. Her voice grew uninterested. “You have to realize that the reason our society is like this was essentially to break the cookie cutter man― to at once destroy homogeneity and cult following.”


“So right now I’m the cookie cutter man?” Joe’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. God, it’d be so much easier to follow her comments if his headache died down.
“No, Joe, you’re the cookie. You’re the hulk of raw dough that asks to be shaped by the cutter of creativity, to provide an unique and genuine person who is worthy to be in the top caste of originality. No Joe, you need to be the cutter.”


Joe paused for a moment. Something didn’t feel right. Maybe he had drunk too much beer― his vision was beginning to be a bit hazy.


Hazel continued. “Joe, to be in the top caste, you have to be the shaper. You have to essentially redefine what creativity is, apply that to yourself, and make society convinced of it. Like what I just did to you―”


“But wait! If I redefine creativity to be shaped by a single ‘cookie cutter,’ as you put it, aren’t I essentially creating identical replicas of what originality is?” Joe interrupted. “Doesn’t that take away from what being original and genuine is, if everyone is being unique? If everyone is unique-” The buzz from the beer morphed into a roar, and stars appeared in Joe’s vision.


“Then nobody really is,” Hazel finished quietly. But Joe never heard her finish his sentence, because Joe had fainted on the floor. Hazel got off the stool, and took out of her pocket a razor. She knelt down next to Joe.


Joe woke up a while later. He groaned, and rubbed his forehead. His hand touched something soft and alien, and Joe shook his head, imagining an insect on him. No insect; but a strand of purple hair fell into his line of vision. Joe grabbed his head, felt his hair, and ran out into the street to look into the bar window.


Purple hair.


He walked back inside. The bearded bartender that had given him the buzzing beer looked up at him, with sadness.

 

“Welcome to the top,” the bartender said.