THE STORY OF BUD
By Kimi Zoet
There was once an old fishing village on the outskirts of Lisbon that was knocked down by the Collins brothers to establish the world’s largest crayon empire, distributing vibrant wax sticks to every corner of the globe. The fishermen and fisherwomen who had lived in the area stopped their fishing activities and stored away their rubber boots, replacing them with The Collins Crayon Company’s uniform: a colourful one-piece suit.
Bud’s parents were the second generation of Collins Crayons’ employees, so Bud was born and raised on the Collins industrial estate. It was a place you never really had to leave, as it had everything you could need: a school, a basketball court, a doctor’s office, and a cinema. It was a little concrete world right on the edge of the seashore.
When Bud was just a boy, after finishing school, he would sit on a patch of grass on the industrial estate and weave daisy chains. From this spot, he could watch the colourful smoke billowing out of the tall chimneys of the Crayon factory, bleaching the sky with a thick rainbow. Bud could only dream about what it would be like to work at Collins Crayons. You see, his entire life seemed to be leading up to it. At school, he was only taught four subjects: crayon wrapping, coulor mixing, machine fixing, and crayon testing. Among these, crayon testing held a special place in Bud’s heart, as it involved colouring pictures of people he had never seen and places he had never been. When the boy returned home from school, his fingertips often bore traces of the waxy sticks, much like his parents’ hands, stained from their work at the factory.
In his final year of college, Bud did an exam in each subject, passing with a distinction in colouring, and before he knew it, the boy was put to work.
Beep beep, beep beep. Bud’s red rusty alarm went off at six forty-five. It was his first day, so he sprang out of bed and slipped into his crisp overalls, proudly wearing a daisy chain he had woven the previous evening around his head. He walked ten minutes across the estate to get to work. The gravel crunching beneath his sturdy boots. Nerves churned in his belly like a washing machine banging around, thoughts racing through his mind, a rabbit running out of time. He wondered what he would be asked to colour in. Maybe a dinosaur? He was good at those.
He arrived at his workplace, took a deep breath, and pushed open a large metal gate. The grand doors, cold to the touch, swung open.
I am sad to inform you, that the reality inside Collins Crayons was greyer than Bud had expected and much louder. He noticed that the Collins Brothers had positioned the windows so high, that they couldn’t be looked out of. But Bud’s natural good nature and optimism allowed him to enjoy his initial months of employment; being paid to colourin, now that was fun! But it didn’t take long for Bud to start feeling numb. Doing the same thing, day in and day out, wore him down—his mind, body, and soul.
Thankfully, the kind-hearted fellow never lost touch with his hobby of making daisy chains. In fact, his passion had evolved. Each year, he improved his skill at creating floral headdresses. By the time he was a man, Bud was weaving intricate wreaths from roots and plants he had foraged from the sparse bushes and trees that grew within the grey, concrete complex. He
also collected discarded waste, seashells, coca cola lids, and glass to adorn his crowns. Bud never stopped wearing his creations to work. Some factory workers would laugh, poke and prod him but Bud didn’t care. He knew these people were bitter because they were burying bits of themselves to fit in.
It was early one morning; years had passed in the blink of an eye, and Bud was sixty. The old man was carefully weaving a headdress, whistling a tune to himself, when he heard a letter slip through his postbox. It was from Collins Crayons, stating that the factory would close immediately. Upon reading the letter, Bud felt shocked. He sat down on the old, tattered armchair he had salvaged from a skip many years ago and pondered what he should do.
He glanced around his home, which had become an explosion of wreaths; dried floral headdresses hanging in every corner and hibernating in every crevice. Jam jars and teacups were brimming with old Coca-Cola lids. Bud then peered out of his tiny window, gazing at the rainbow chimneys that puffed their smoke for the last time. Perhaps he should start a new life? Work in a new factory? Bud contemplated his situation for quite some time, until an idea settled in his mind like a seed on moist soil.
The gentleman looked down at his stained hands, no longer coloured from play but from work, much like his parents. He looked around his home, at all the flowers he had collected throughout his life. His imagination sparked, picturing the beautiful plants that could thrive in the absence of the clacking monster. Perhaps he should stay?
The gentleman spent the next few weeks watching people as they packed their belongings, leaving the estate. Bud, on the other hand, didn’t move a single item from his home. Instead, he wandered around the complex, collecting plants to create more wreaths. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. The factory worker now lived amidst the rubble of the abandoned buildings, each day weaving his way through the crumbling towers, watching wildlife cautiously crawl in. Like waves carrying pebbles to the shore, Bud watched as plants peeked through the cracks in the pavement, flowers bloomed amidst the skeletons of empty barrels, and colonies of slugs reclaimed their land. Bud learned how to forage in the new landscape and fish in the sea. What’s more, the cupboards of the factory workers who had hastily departed, were filled with an abundance of baked beans. He felt colour spill back into his life, like a dam breaking open.
One day, after twenty years of living in the wasteland he called home, Bud felt that his heart was tired, perhaps ready to stop beating. It was spring, and he gathered olive branches, dandelions and daisies from nearby trees and shrubberies.
Clutching an abundance of plants close to his chest, Bud made his way to the same small patch of grass he used to sit on as a child. Now it was full of wildflowers, tall green grasses, bugs, slugs, and foxholes. Breathless, he satdown and began to bend the branches, a familiar ritual that welcomed him like an old friend. The sun set just behind Collins Crayons, and Bud watched the yellow orb sink below the horizon, spilling orange hues across the abyss. He listened to the sound of birds and the hum of bees as he nestled into the night.
Lying down, the long grass cradled him like a mother, singing him to sleep. Bud was ready to go, to say goodbye and so, gazing up at the warm sky, he whispered, “Thank you” before finally closing his weary eyes.