“He wants what?” a tiny voice cried. “When? Well, we’re just going to have to see about this!”
I was sitting at a table in the kitchen, contemplating biting into a cold chicken leg, when I felt a tug at my pants leg. I looked down and found one of the three elves standing by the chair.
“Kid,” it told me, “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but the magic has definitely gone out of our relationship.”
I looked around to see if anybody had seen the elf. “Get back down to the library,” I angrily hissed. “I’ll be down in a minute, and then we’ll talk.”
The elf reluctantly disappeared. I put the chicken leg away and descended into the depths. “Now,” I reasonably asked, “what seems to be the problem?”
“This story idea you sent down to us,” one of the little people told me, “you want Dire Straits, Ladybird Johnson and the House Un-American Activities Committee in the same story…”
“That’s right,” I said. “That should be a piece of cake for you guys, right, Fyodor…?”
“I’m Germaine,” the elf corrected me. “That’s Fyodor.”
“I’m Sorry,” I hotly responded, “but you all look alike.”
“Hey!” Germaine loudly retorted. “We’re a matched set!”
“Look,” Fyodor continued, “we just can’t do it.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Fyodor sighed. “Because some subjects just don’t work. You seem to be under the impression that what we do down here is magic…”
I was surprised. “You mean, it isn’t?”
“Are you kidding me?” the elf chided. “Get real! Writing is hard work. It takes research, the application of imagination and a lot of hours sweating over a hot typewriter.”
“Aren’t I living up to my end of the bargain? I feed you every day,” I pointed out. “And, I let you out every so often…”
“Big deal,” the other elf said, bitterly. “How much do three elves eat? A few potatoes…a little bread. Some wine every two or three days. And, as for letting us out for a few minutes every other month -”
“Look, Fyodor -” I started.
“I’m Chuck,” the elf interrupted. “He’s Fyodor.”
“Alright,” I said, exasperated. “I could give you more food, I guess. And…and, I’m willing to let you out…once a month, if that’ll make you guys happy…”
“It’s not that,” one of the elves insisted. “Not really. What we really want is some appreciation for what we do. Words don’t just flow onto paper, you know: they have to be carefully chosen, sometimes even agonized over…”
“Come on,” I stated, “you guys don’t work that hard. I know – I have to read the reviews.”
“Okay…okay,” the elf admitted, “but, do you see our point?”
“What is it you really want?”
“We want recognition,” one of the other elves answered.
“Well, Chuck -“
“I’m Fyodor.”
I was getting fed up with this argument. “Be reasonable,” I tried to be tough. “I can’t give you something I don’t have myself.”
The elves thought about this for a moment. “Alright,” one of them finally responded. “We can see that. But, when the big bucks come in, we expect a part of them. Understand?”
I said that I understood.
“And, no more of those crazy conceptual pieces,” the elf continued. “They give us a collective headache.”
“But,” I argued, “they really stand out as original.”
“Maybe, but they take too much effort. A simple narrative can be knocked off in an hour or two, but some of this conceptual stuff takes hours and hours to get right.”
“I think readers appreciate the effort,” I insisted.”
“Excuse us.” The elves huddled together by a bookshelf. Eventually, they returned their attention to me. “We’ll have to take it to the union,” one of them told me. “But, if you’re willing to meet us halfway on this one, I think we can settle.”
“Union?”
“The Elf Writers Union of Canada.”
I must have looked shocked. “I…I never knew.”
The elves shuffled about. “We resisted for the longest time,” one of them apologetically told me. “But, eventually, we decided that it could only be to our benefit to organize.”
“In solidarity, there is strength,” one of the other elves said, its high-pitched voice quivering with emotion.
“Well, union rules,” I allowed. “I…I hope this doesn’t spoil our unique relationship.” The elves hemmed, hawed and generally stared unencouragingly in a variety of directions. “Listen, if you aren’t going to work on the story idea I gave you, what am I going to use?”
Fyodor grinned. At least, I think it was Fyodor. “You’ll see,” he said, laughing a little elf laugh. “You’ll see.”