Who's Dreaming?

The buzzing lights outside of Rich's apartment flicker violently, then go dark. The term apartment is a bit of an anachronism, to be honest. It's more of a pod. Four walls. Only four walls. No interior walls or dividers, those are too expensive. Only the wealthy have walls and privacy. Thin sheet metal separates Rich from his neighbors, their children scream all night, the static of foreign tongues makes it that much more grating.  

Rich rests his feet on a stack of pizza boxes, rummages through a pile of empty cigarette packs to find the video game controller. The familiar chord chimes as the box lights up. A fleeting hit of dopamine gets released. You can almost see a smile on his face, maybe it's just the shadow from the TV. Nobody smiles anymore. You're never really happy here. At best, you get a few minutes of being less miserable. 

The news marquee scrolls as the game loads, "21 dead in gun raid," "New Somali Constitution Party wins in a landslide," "white population down to 7% in the US," "All Guatemalan cast wins the SLA diversity award.”

Rich reaches into the micro-fridge, "damn, last Centipede beer." He logs into Nile Primacy to place an order. 

"Order denied due to social infractions on PlayMachine Live, please try again after 72 hours.”

“Fuck.”

Rich’s childhood friend, Patrick, joins his lobby. “hey man, what’s new?" through the headset. It’s the most interaction most of our people have anymore. Online, in a heavily monitored and censored environment, with an old friend or two. If you’re lucky enough to have one.

“Ahh, not much mate. Trying to figure out if I can make it 3 days without a Primacy order, or if I should risk a walk down to the corner store."

“What happened? You get banned again?”

“Yeah, 3 days this time.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll drone you some extra rice and diet-soda I have.”

"Thanks man, means a lot."

***

Rich wakes up sweating. Cold. He sits straight up, the sheets drift onto the dark hardwood floor.

“What’s with this fucking video game dream and eating bugs living in some boxcar?”

The pup sleeping next to his bed stirs, then looks at him with a confused expression. The old floors gently creak under their feet, they are the fourth generation to live in this old Georgian home.  He goes downstairs to get a jar of water and looks across the yard towards the barn. A rooster struts around, “Guess it’s later than I thought.” He pats the pup on the head, lets him outside, watches him run towards the barn to meet the rooster, much to the rooster’s chagrin, he tolerates the young dog. 

He throws a few more logs in the hearth, enough to warm the entire house. There is a crisp bite some mornings, like this one.

Rich and the pup walk down the cobbled street into town.

“Hey Pat!,” Rich sees his childhood friend letting out his elderly neighbor’s dog and throwing cracked corn to the chickens.

"Hey, Rich! Hold on, I'll go to the market with you. I'm almost done here."

Rich and the pup sit on the old bench under an iron lamppost. He looks down at the date stamped into the solid base, 1947. Still working today. Things last if you take care of them.

Pat runs out of the house, swings the gate open, scarf flying behind. They walk together along the narrow cobbled lanes laughing.

Approaching the coffee-shop entrance at the market a stranger with a big smile holds the door open, “morning.”

“Morning, thanks.”

A cute blonde, university age, with long braids takes their order. They take the coffees to go today.

“Hey Pat, grab some eggs from the barn, will you? The bread I made should be done, we'll eat breakfast at my place today."