North by North Pole

Marquel, TPVs NYTimes Fresh Minty Breath Section correspondent, was chewing some mint gum, when he read A Harsh Climate Calls for Banishment of the Needy. While the rest of Norway has generous welfare programs, in the frigid territory of Svalbard, unemployment and homelessness are illegal, which officials say reduces crime. Even retirement is illegal unless you can prove you have sufficient funds to support yourself until death.

Marquel thought this must be an amazing place to live until he learned it was almost at the North Pole and snows into the summertime. Getting there seems impossible so Marquel consulted his friend Mufi, the Jewish Chinese cook at a restaurant in Bayard Street who also spent time on the payroll of the intelligence agencies of several different countries, including a few sworn enemies.

Mufi asked Marquel to hold on tight to the end of some noodles he was twirling and said, “Svalbard! It’s been years since I was there. Wonderful place.”

“I thought so, too,” I said, “what made you leave?”

“Bad breath,” he said.

“Bad breath?” I wondered.

“It’s against the law in Svalbard,” he said.

“Wow,” was all I could say.  When we finished with the noodles, we sat down to some Sichuan frogs legs and Mufi explained how one gets to Svalbard from Newark Airport. I followed his instructions and a day later, and feeling stiff from sitting in a seat that seemed made out of a shovel, I tottered out of Svalbard airport and took a taxi to the mayor’s office.

The mayor couldn’t have been nicer but, for a socialist, he seemed a bit rigid in his thinking. I asked about the bad breath.

“Definitely illegal,” he insisted, “but you have to realize this is a truly tiny community at the top of the world with only polar bears ready to eat us as our nearest neighbors.”

“But couldn’t you just send somebody outside if their breath was that bad?” I questioned.

“Good question,” he answered, “No. You would freeze to death. We live together, essentially or at least spend a lot of time together. Bad breath would ruin our social cohesion.”

“Someone on the plane told me it was also illegal not to have your shoes tied.” I mentioned.”That’s an exaggeration,” he said, and I felt a little better. My optimism was destroyed, however, by his next statement.

“They have to be tied securely.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, “destroys social cohesion?”

“No, not at all,” he said. “A few years a man was eaten by a polar bear when he ran away but tripped on his loose shoelaces.”

That made a little sense. I went into town and had a beer at the local pub. I readied to leave when the bartender pointed out the beer left in my glass. “It’s okay,” I remarked, “I’m done.”

“You could get arrested,” he said.

“For what? I’m perfectly sober,” I said.

“I certainly hope so,” he answered, “but it’s illegal to leave beverages unconsumed.”

I drained the beer and went into the street. It was mid July. A hurricane was turning cars in their tracks and the snow made it difficult to see. Someone grabbed me. “Was I jaywalking?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the man in Norwegian tinged English, “but that’s okay. We have no crosswalks here. But you were going the wrong way. That way there’s nothing. You must go south. North is nothing but the Pole. You’d have been lost in five minutes.”

“This is a strange place.” I said.

“Certainly is. You should come to town council tonight. They’re considering the smile law. In fact I think it’s up for its third reading.”

I had no idea what to expect but the hotel told me where the monthly meetings were held and I decided to go.

I was late for the meeting. I didn’t hear the law read for its third time, meaning that it would become law in six months if no changes were made in the interim. During the meeting a sullen man stood up and said,

“I don’t know how we can pass this. If I have to smile whenever I’m in public, I’d have to smile. I haven’t smiled in fifty years. I don’t know how to do it. Am I to stay indoors the rest of my life?”

The public was silent until a woman said,

“He’s right. We are Norwegians. What do we know about smiling? We are a dour people. We don’t smile. Liv doesn’t remember how to smile. I never knew. What are we to do?”

Another said,

“She’s right. We are Norwegians and we don’t smile. Look around the room.” She swept her hands in a circle. She was right. Nobody was smiling. Her hands stopped at me.

All eyes were on me.

“Except for one,” the speaker said, “but he’s obviously American. Only Americans smile all the time. They smile in their sleep. They smile when they’re hurt. They smile when killed, and when killing. There is no way we can be Americans. We cannot smile.”

I maintained whatever I looked like. Perhaps I had been smiling. Whatever it was I kept at it for fear of breaking a law.

A third stood up and said,

“I suggest a change in the law. A six month period during which people will either remember or learn how to smile. That seems long enough. If Americans can do it all the time, we can do it when in public. We can scowl at home.”

A fourth suggested,

“What about Truk the Comedian? During that six months why don’t we have Truk visit those who are having trouble and tell jokes. When they laugh, we can easily convert it into a smile.”

The crowd murmured. The mayor made some notes. The law was read for a fourth time, but technically its first time in its new form, incorporating the six month grace period and Truk’s efforts to be compensated by a certain amount of beer per month.

The crowd was happy, the town content. Still nobody smiled, but soon they would. The cohesion of the community was saved, even enhanced. And I was there to see it happen. I suppressed a smile and left town the next morning. I knew it wasn’t true that people around the world are all the same. In fact, they are wildly and uncomprehendingly different. Mufi was waiting for me at Newark. We went to Bayard Street and drank some Chinese beer.

***

BY MARQUEL: North by North Pole