Let's Eat

It's oh-fuck o'clock and I've just looked up. I'm hungry and I want to eat something. There is food in this apartment. You already know this. You are not ready to know this yet. Staggering over to the fridge, I rub the kinks out of my body and stare out the window to the city below. 56 stories down, rain is pooling and smoking. It's an ugly night. Again. * Acid rain was officially rebranded "Atmospheric Precipitation Events" in 2029 following extensive lobbying by the Umbrella Manufacturers of North America. The rebranding did not make it less acidic. It did make it significantly more expensive to complain about. But I'm wearing my fuzzy bunny slippers, my lucky coding cap, and I have high hopes of foraging a meal out of my supplies. [[I open my fridge]]

And there is nothing there. Nothing edible anyway. A lonely {reveal link: 'pickle', text: 'I hate pickles. I have always hated pickles. I do not remember buying a pickle.'} sits floating in a brine-filled, filthy jar. It is watching you. * Studies show that 74% of refrigerator pickles are purchased by a previous version of yourself that you no longer recognize or respect. The other 26% simply appear. Science has no further comment. There are empty takeout {reveal link: 'containers', text: 'containers — from Sloppy Sams and Angry Bob, but all they seem to be are greasy cardboard exo-skeletons of meals now gone.'} scattered across every shelf. Even the box of Baking Soda in the back is yellow and crusty, stuck to the dirty glass shelf. Close the door. You know what's in here. You've always known. I close the fridge door and move to the window, peering out through the nearly horizontal slashes of acid rain scouring the glass. Sneaking a peek at the meter label on the pane, it shows {reveal link: 'Holding!', text: 'Holding! — 80 percent. Contact Super if above 95 percent. Do not attempt to fix or manually adjust.'}. I have a choice to make: [[Go Out]] [[Order In]]

This means I have to take off my fuzzy bunny slippers and coding cap and get into my Hazard Gear. At 80%, skin burns on contact with the rain. * The city's official tolerance threshold for skin contact with Atmospheric Precipitation Events is 82%. The difference between 80% and 82% is, according to the Bureau of Citizen Integrity, "within acceptable parameters." The Bureau of Citizen Integrity was dissolved in 2031. Its website still loads. And I've got to take a decontamination shower when I get home, meaning I've got to nuke my food. And that sucks because nuked food is dirty food and I will have to rad test it. You could just eat the pickle. No. [[Thinking]]

Ordering in seems smart — but I bet everyone is doing that based on the weather. I turn on the radio and spin the dial looking for the 24-hour weather report. It's the only good thing about radio now. Everything else is {reveal link: 'shit', text: 'shit — propaganda reports, daily Rad levels, and old timey band music played at a volume suggesting the DJ is compensating for something.'}. Plus, I will have to pay at least $50 for delivery in my building. {reveal link: 'Scavengers are still working the ground floor', text: 'Scavengers are still working the ground floor. They charge everyone $100 to ride the elevator if you are not a resident. They charge residents $50. This is called a discount.'} You could just eat the pickle. Not a chance. [[Thinking]]

I decide to wait and see what the radio says. It doesn't take long. The radio burps. {cycling link, choices: ['music', 'data', 'static']} * All three are, technically, the same thing now. The station's broadcast license covers "audio content broadly defined." This has not been challenged in court because the court also broadcasts on this frequency on alternating Tuesdays. {reveal link: 'What the radio says', text: 'It is going to rain all night. Citizens are advised to stay home unless all they have in their fridge is a sketchy pickle floating in dirty brine. If that is you — consider going out.'} The radio knows about the pickle. Everyone knows about the pickle. [[Shit or get off the Pot]]

I try calling Nukem Joe's on the corner. The line is busy. I jump on the web and try contacting Sloppy Sam's but the site says they aren't open, even though it's not that late. * Sloppy Sam's website has displayed the message "Back Soon!" since February 2028. The domain is currently owned by a shell company registered in a city that no longer exists. I flip through all the local spots, all of them showing: {cycling link, choices: ['CLOSED', 'BUSY', 'DESTROYED']} The rain is wrecking everything. In the fridge, something waits. It has nowhere to be. It is not in a hurry. It has never been in a hurry. I have no choice but to: [[Put on my Rain Gear]]

The gear is in the hall closet behind the broken Peloton and three boxes of stuff I keep meaning to donate. * The Peloton has been broken since 2027. It is now legally considered load-bearing furniture. I find it eventually. It takes me {cycling link, choices: ['four minutes', 'nine minutes', 'an embarrassing amount of time']} to get into the suit. The bunny slippers don't fit over the boots. I leave them by the door like two soft pink sentinels. The coding cap stays on. It fits under the hood. This is non-negotiable. I look at myself in the hallway mirror. {reveal link: 'I look incredible.', text: 'I look like a sentient condom in a construction zone.'} You are doing this for food. Remember that. Food. Not the pickle. Real food. You are going outside for real food. [[Take the Elevator]]

The elevator is broken. Of course it is. {reveal link: 'A handwritten sign taped to the doors', text: 'OUT OF ORDER — AGAIN — DO NOT CALL SUPER — SUPER KNOWS — SUPER IS DOING HIS BEST'} * The elevator has been out of service 14 times this year. The building's warranty covers "mechanical failure excluding acts of weather, acts of God, acts of scavengers, and elevator-related acts broadly defined." It was last serviced by a man named Phil who has not returned anyone's calls since October. I find the stairwell door. 56 floors. Down is easier than up. You keep telling yourself this. [[Floor 55]]

Someone has left {cycling link, choices: ['a dead fern', 'a single boot', 'an unplugged mini-fridge']} outside their door. The building smells like wet concrete and other people's cooking. I am already hungry in a new and more specific way. {reveal link: 'The mini-fridge hums.', text: 'Wait. It is plugged in. Via an extension cord snaking under the apartment door. It is running. Someone has put a mini-fridge in the hallway and it is running and there is a small paper sign taped to the handle that says TAKE WHAT YOU NEED.'} [[Floor 55 — The Mini-Fridge]] [[Floor 40]]

I open it. Inside: one cold slice of leftover pizza, a can of generic cola, and a sticky note that reads *"Stay strong out there. — 5512."* This is the best thing that has ever happened to you. I eat the pizza in the stairwell in my full Hazard Gear. It is cold. It is slightly stale. It has an unidentifiable protein on it that I choose not to investigate. * A 2031 study by the Institute for Urban Nutritional Solidarity found that food left in hallways with handwritten notes is 340% more satisfying than food obtained through normal commercial exchange. The study was funded by the Sticky Note Manufacturers of North America. This does not make it wrong. I stand there for a long time. Then I go back upstairs. In the fridge, the pickle watches the door. It has time. It has always had time. {reveal link: 'In the morning', text: 'In the morning I slide a note under 5512. It says: Thank you. I owe you one. They slide one back two hours later. It says: We know about the pickle.'} THE END. (The good one. You got lucky.) {restart link, label: 'Begin again'}

I stop to rest. I am going *down* the stairs. This should not require a rest stop. {reveal link: 'It does.', text: 'Fifty-six floors is fifty-six floors in either direction and my knees have opinions they have not been asked for.'} Someone on 40 is cooking something that smells like garlic and butter and everything good in the world. Do not knock on that door. I stand outside their door for {cycling link, choices: ['a moment', 'longer than I should admit', 'an actually concerning amount of time']}. [[Floor 40 — I Knock Anyway]] [[Floor 20]]

I knock. There is a long pause. The door opens four inches, held by a chain. One eye regards me through the gap. The eye takes in the full Hazard Gear. The coding cap. The general situation. * In a 2030 survey of urban apartment dwellers, 94% reported that an unexpected knock at the door during an Atmospheric Precipitation Event represented either "a scavenger, a threat, or a person who has made several poor decisions in sequence." The remaining 6% said "probably fine." The 6% were wrong every time. "Yes?" says the voice behind the eye. "I, uh," I say. "Something smells incredible." The eye blinks. The door closes. You knocked on a stranger's door at oh-fuck o'clock in full Hazard Gear to compliment their cooking. You did this. You chose this. I stand in the hallway for a moment that lasts several geological epochs. Then I go back upstairs. The pickle is right where I left it. Of course it is. {reveal link: 'It has moved slightly in the jar.', text: 'You are imagining this. Probably.'} [[The Pickle]]

The fluorescent light on 20 is doing its thing — that anxious, failing flicker that suggests the building itself is nervous. * Maintenance request #4,847. Submitted March 2024. Status: Received. Estimated completion: When Phil comes back. There is a child sitting on the stairs eating a granola bar and staring at me with complete contempt. Do not ask the child for food. You are an adult. {reveal link: 'I ask the child for food.', text: 'I ask the child for food. She stares at me for a full four seconds. She takes a deliberate bite of her granola bar. She chews. She does not offer me any. She will remember this moment. She will tell this story at dinner parties for forty years.'} [[Floor 20 — The Granola Bar Incident]] [[The Lobby]]

[after 3s] I stand in front of the open fridge for a long time. [after 6s] The jar is where it has always been. [after 9s] The pickle floats in its brine with the specific calm of something that has been right all along and always knew it. [after 12s] You could have just eaten the pickle. You always could have just eaten the pickle. The pickle was here. The pickle was waiting. The pickle never pretended to be closed or busy or destroyed. The pickle did not charge you fifty dollars. The pickle did not judge you in a stairwell. The pickle has been here this whole time. [after 16s] I take the jar out of the fridge. I open it. The brine smells like vinegar and victory. [after 19s] * The pickle, scientists have noted, is technically a cucumber that has been fundamentally changed by its circumstances. It cannot go back to being a cucumber. It has accepted this. It has, in fact, thrived. [after 22s] I eat the pickle. [after 25s] It tastes exactly like I knew it would. {reveal link: 'It tastes like being right.', text: 'Of course it does. It has been right all night. It has been right since before the night started. The pickle was always going to be the ending. The pickle knew. The only one who did not know was you.'} [after 28s] I put the empty jar on the counter. [after 30s] I go to bed. [after 33s] In the morning, the jar is clean and dry on the counter. You do not remember rinsing it. You do not remember putting it there like that. Neat. Deliberate. Like a period at the end of a sentence. [after 34s] THE END. (The pickle won. The pickle always wins.) {restart link, label: 'Eat the pickle again'}

I stand there. She stands there. We regard each other across the vast gulf of a shared stairwell and our mutual disappointment in me. You asked a child for her snack. In a stairwell. While wearing a hazmat suit and a lucky coding cap. At oh-fuck o'clock. * There is no footnote for this. Some things do not require historical context. Some things simply are. She finishes the granola bar. She folds the wrapper into a perfect square. She puts it in her pocket. She goes back inside her apartment. I go back upstairs. The pickle is waiting. It always knew it would come to this. [[The Pickle]]

The lobby smells like wet boots and bad decisions. The Scavengers have set up near the front doors — two of them, folding chairs, a card table, a space heater pointed at their shins. They look comfortable. They look like they have *snacks.* * The Lobby Scavenger Guild (Local 7) operates under a charter granted in 2030 following the Elevator Incident, the details of which are sealed pending litigation. Their rates are posted clearly and revised monthly. They accept cash, trade goods, and personal information of moderate sensitivity. {reveal link: 'They clock me immediately.', text: 'Of course they do. I am a sentient condom in a construction zone wearing a lucky coding cap.'} One of them raises an eyebrow. "Toll's fifty," he says. "$100 if you forgot your wallet." [[I Pay the Toll]] [[I Forgot My Wallet]]

I pay the fifty dollars. The scavenger pockets it without looking and jerks his head toward the door. * $50 in 2034 is approximately equivalent to $12 in 2019 dollars, or one (1) artisanal coffee and a sad muffin. This does not make it better. It makes it more specifically worse. I push out into the rain. [[Outside]]

I forgot my wallet. Of course you did. The scavenger nods slowly, the way people nod when they are not surprised at all and want you to know they are not surprised at all. "Back upstairs," he says. He does not say it unkindly. This is somehow worse. * The Lobby Scavenger Guild's policy on wallet amnesia has been consistent since 2031: "We don't do credit. We don't do favours. We don't do IOUs. We do do a group rate if there are three or more of you, but there's only one of you, isn't there." There is only one of you. I go back upstairs. 56 floors. Up is harder than down. You already knew this. You knew this the whole time. The pickle is waiting. It has not moved. {reveal link: 'Or has it.', text: 'It has not moved. You check. You actually check. You are checking to see if the pickle has moved. This is where the night has taken you.'} [[The Pickle]]

The rain hits the suit like gravel. At 80%, it sounds angry. At 80%, everything sounds angry. You are outside. You did this. You left the apartment, descended 56 floors, paid $50 to a scavenger, and now you are standing in angry rain at oh-fuck o'clock for food. Real food. Not the pickle. Never the pickle. The city spreads out below and around in every direction, orange and grey and wet, the way it always is, the way it has always been. * The city's nighttime precipitation aesthetic has been described by three consecutive Mayors as "atmospheric," "a character in its own right," and "fine, it's fine, we're working on it." Nukem Joe's is half a block away. I can see the sign. {reveal link: 'The sign is on.', text: 'The sign is on. The sign is always on. Nukem Joe has never, in recorded history, closed. There are rumours that Nukem Joe does not sleep. There are rumours that Nukem Joe is not entirely a person. These rumours are not investigated because Nukem Joe is open at oh-fuck o'clock and that is what matters.'} I check the suit seals. {cycling link, choices: ['Good', 'Fine', 'Concerning']} [[Suit Breach]] [[Nukem Joe's]]

The seal on the left wrist gives. It gives quietly, the way terrible things often do — not a dramatic tear, just a soft, wet whisper of failure, and then the rain is on my skin and my skin has opinions about the rain. You knew. When you clicked Concerning, you knew. Some part of you chose this. I run. * The recommended response to a Hazard Suit breach during an Atmospheric Precipitation Event is: (1) do not panic, (2) return to shelter immediately, (3) initiate decontamination protocol within 15 minutes, (4) consider whether the food you were going out for was really worth it. Step 4 is not in the official documentation. It is implied. I run back to the building. The scavengers watch me go. One of them raises a hand. I cannot tell if it is sympathy or a wave. I take the stairs. All 56 of them. I strip in the hallway. I decontaminate. I stand in the shower for a long time. In the fridge, the pickle has not moved. It did not need to. It just needed to wait. I open the fridge. [[The Pickle]]

The door opens with a sound like a pressure seal releasing. It is warm inside. It smells like fryer oil and something that might be meat. The lights are a yellow that suggests they have always been this colour and will never be another colour. Nukem Joe is behind the counter. Nukem Joe is always behind the counter. * Nukem Joe has operated this establishment since 2019. He has never explained the name. He has never been asked to explain the name. There is an unspoken civic agreement that some things are better left as givens. {reveal link: 'Nukem Joe nods at me.', text: 'It is the nod of a man who has seen everything and made peace with all of it. It is the most comforting nod I have ever received.'} "The usual?" he says. I do not have a usual. I have been here twice. You have a usual. You have always had a usual. Some places just know. "The usual," I say. [[The Meal]]

It comes in a container that has seen better days but is warm and solid in my hands. Inside: something fried, something sauced, rice that has been sitting long enough to develop character. * A 2033 nutrition study classified food obtained between the hours of 2am and 5am as its own category: "Necessity Calories." The study noted that Necessity Calories are, calorie for calorie, 200% more satisfying than food eaten at conventional hours. The study was peer reviewed. The peers were also hungry. I eat it standing at the counter. Nukem Joe does not speak. I do not speak. The rain hammers the window. It is not a good meal. It is not a bad meal. It is the exact meal that was available and you went and got it and that is something. That is, in fact, quite a lot. I put the container down. "Good," I say. Nukem Joe nods. {reveal link: 'I tip him forty percent.', text: 'I tip him forty percent. It is oh-fuck o'clock and it is acid rain and he is open and he was here and the usual was ready and some things deserve acknowledgment.'} I suit up. I check the seals. Twice. I walk home through the rain. * The pickle was still there when I got home. I put it in the back of the fridge. Behind the baking soda. It did not complain. Pickles do not complain. They simply wait. But I swear, as the fridge door closed, something shifted in that jar. Something settled. Something that sounded almost like: next time. Next time. THE END. (You earned this one.) {restart link, label: 'Begin again'}