Mark Reinvents the Wheel

When his boss told him there was no need to reinvent the wheel, Mark did it anyway, because his boss liked people who went the extra mile, and Mark wanted to please his boss. Unfortunately, no one liked his wheel, on the account that it had already been invented. So, Mark had googled “backward communities,” hoping to find a place where his wheel would be helpful, and found Eastrock, Wyoming.

Now here he was, about to unveil his life-changing invention to the gathered villagers. They were an odd lot, dressed in worn animal hides and carrying crude stone tools. Mark didn’t notice any wheels anywhere, except the ones on his car, which meant he’d come to the right place. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present, the wheel!” Mark exclaimed and held up his invention like a fifth grader holding up a science fair participation award to his parents. 

The residents of Eastrock stared at Mark like he was touched in the head. Hmm. Not quite the effect he’d been hoping for. 

Apparently, Eastrock was a community formed by folks who had taken the philosophy of Henry David Thoreau a bit too seriously, and had been living in a self-imposed stone age ever since. Perhaps that explained why the villagers weren’t jumping with joy and groveling at Mark’s feet. 

Mark waved his wooden wheel, showing off the almost symmetrically arranged spokes, and did a little jig. Dancing always hyped people up, he reckoned, but Eastrock remained silent. Hmm. Perhaps a demonstration was in order. 

Mark pulled out three more wheels, threaded axles through them, and attached them to the cart he’d also reinvented. A couple of curious individuals leaned forward, smiling with wonder as Mark pulled his cart back and forth. His boss would be proud. 

“See here, ladies and gents, instead of carrying heavy loads on your back, you can use a cart with wheels to pull it along. Much easier!” 

The villagers began to chatter, pointing at Mark’s cart until a bulky, stout man cleared his voice. Holding a rock-blade spear, the man stepped out in front of the crowd, and a hush fell. 

“Do you have a question, sir?” Mark asked, assuming he was the leader of Eastrock. 

“Where do you hail from, lad?” the man rasped. 

“I hail from San Francisco, sir,” said Mark, liking how sophisticated using the word hail made him feel.

The leader scowled and spat. “Pah! So you come from the Land Beyond? That devil-infested swamp?”

“I wouldn't say Silicon Valley is devil-infested. Well, unless you count the CEOs–”

“And what in tarnation is your purpose here?”

“See, according to Google, Eastrock is a backward community, so I thought y’all might find this wheel helpful.”

“We don’t want your wheel.”

Mark took a step back. Why would they not want a wheel? Other community members also turned to the leader in surprise. 

One woman said, “But Chief! We have been breaking our backs, tunneling new caves, and hauling rocks out. Surely the wheel will be of great aid to us.”

“Hear, hear!” another man chimed in. 

“We have carried on perfectly well without this wheel, and will carry on well without it,” the Chief said, voice as flat as paper. 

“Yes, but we could carry on better with the wheel,” said the woman. 

Mark wished he had some popcorn. This was so exciting!

“Bira,” the Chief said, turning to the woman. “Are you proposing that we abandon a method that has worked for decades in favor of this wheel invented by a stranger from the Swamplands?”

Bira shrank back.

“Are you?” thundered the Chief.

“No,” she squeaked. 

“This wheel,” boomed Chief, “is dangerous! We will not use it!”

Mark said, “Sir, this wheel isn’t dangerous! It’s a helpful tool.”

“Hear, hear!” piped the same man from earlier.

“Don!” yelled the Chief. “Bring me a wheel.”

A man next to Chief bounded to Mark, wrenched a wheel off the cart, and handed it to the Chief. The Chief took the wheel and slammed it over Bira’s head, the woman crumpling to the ground like a wilted flower. Everyone gave a collective gasp.

“See? Dangerous!” cried the Chief. 

“But, sir!” Mark protested. “That’s only because you used the wheel as a weapon. If you use it like that, it’s no different from the spear you carry.”

“Hear, hear!” said the man from before, and a few villagers nodded

But the Chief was adamant. “It is different!”

“If you use it like a tool, this wheel is no more dangerous than a speck of dust,” continued Mark. 

“Not dangerous if you use it like a tool?” asked the Chief.

“Yes.”

“Fyn!” Chief yelled at the man who kept saying hear, hear. “Stand to the side.” Fyn did as he was told and Chief turned to Mark. “Reassemble your cart.”

Mark took the wheel Don had taken off and reattached it to the axle. Chief took the cart’s handle, walked over to Fyn, and rolled the cart over Fyn’s bare feet. Fyn yelped and hopped from foot to foot, cradling his bruising feet. 

“See?” the Chief shouted. “Already two of our villages have been injured with this wheel. It is dangerous!”

Mark cried, “But sir! That’s only because–”

“Silence, swampling! Take your cart and wheel, and return to the hole you crawled from. Leave us be!”

The villagers cheered and followed the Chief back to the caves. 

Mark sat on the ground next to his cart, stunned at the turn of events. Fyn sat down next to him. Bira regained consciousness soon, and Mark and Fyn helped her up and got her some water. 

The three of them watched the villagers hack at the stone walls with crude pickaxes and haul out heavy loads of debris on their backs. 

Bira shook her head. “They are stupid. The wheel will improve life tenfold!”

“It’s something new, and too different. Plus, it’s hard to trust an outsider like me,” Mark said. 

Bira said, “Chief is too concerned with order and stability. We must convince them that the wheel is a good thing!”

“Hear, hear!” said Fyn.

So, Mark, Fyn, and Bira began tunneling their own cave and using Mark’s cart to speed up their work. Still, the villagers refused to see the wheel’s value and spat at them wherever they went. 

A week later, Mark decided it was time to go home. He couldn't wait to tell his boss all about it. Even though Eastrock hadn’t accepted his wheel, Mark’s boss would be proud of his initiative. Maybe he’d get a promotion!

Bira and Fyn expressed their sorrow at Mark’s departure, but vowed to keep fighting for the wheel. 

On the morning of his intended leave date, Mark awoke to smoke. He rushed out of the cave towards the smoke, only to discover that his red Toyota was on fire. 

“My car!” he cried. 

Mark ran all over Eastrock, looking for Fyn and Bira, but they were nowhere to be found. His heart hammered as he trudged back to his car. How was he going to get back now?

As he stared at the burnt husk of metal, the villagers of Eastrock gathered behind him, Chief at the forefront. 

Mark turned around and gulped at the glinting spears in everyone’s hands. 

“Did you burn my car?” he stammered. 

“We will not tolerate Swampland strangers with dangerous wheels!” the Chief screeched.

“Where are Fyn and Bira?”

“We will not tolerate Swampland strangers shaking up our hard-won order!” the Chief roared.

The crowd echoed, “We will not!”

Spears held high, they began to advance on Mark.