Love and Poverty on Distant Worlds Ch. 02

The manager squinted through the murky crimson. He meandered to his side and inspected the neat pile of fillets and nodded. "Good work," he said.

John tried to say something, but instead made a hacking cough. His lungs were beginning to feel like the cold insides of a fish. He croaked out: "Did you pay me?"

The manager nodded. "Yeah, I did, check your pockets."

John lowered his hands into the overall pockets, but he couldn't find any sign of currency. He continued to dig deeper, feeling the bottom hem.

The manager shook his head sadly. "I can't help you if you lost it."

John searched for a memory of getting paid, but it was absent.

Those days seemed to be composed of sleeping in the back alley and the fish gutting room, between nights and the darkness of crimson. When he did sleep even John's dreams were tainted red. The meadows and inhabitants of his imagination lived under a red sun. Fish bones crunched beneath his feet wherever he walked. Flowers let off a murky, oily pollen as he passed by.

His rare free hours were always at night. Between the gutting room and the alley, he took walks along the dusky sidewalks of closed groceries and bakeries and chocolate shops. In the displays he didn't admire the cakes and candies but the fresh fruit and bread. His lips smacked at the prospect of a cold glass of water and a bite into a crisp apple. He searched behind the stores for dumpsters. He popped the lid off of one and found a bit of day-old bread. He ripped into it, enjoying the feeling it had in his stomach. His saliva tasted like fish, but the mere sensation of chewing and swallowing was ecstatic.

But it seemed alright. As John worked cheap and lived cheap he felt a warm sensation in his pocket: money. Now he had many crumpled bills... some denominations of 100 or more kilocredits. It added up to a little under 2,000... whether he deserved more he had no idea of knowing... he had lost count of the fish he'd been gutting... it was quite possible he was earning less than a kilocredit per fish. It certainly felt up to this point he'd done considerably more than a thousand fish.

But still, he did it, each day, under a sickening red light, in a haze of ichor and guts.

"I'm really glad to have hired you, my Mavidian friend," said manager Shigeru.

John was busy pulling out fish entrails.

He nodded with satisfaction. "To think we may have stepped into an entirely new business model. I should start hiring only Mavidians from now on. We can call it 'hand-art carved fish'."

"What is a 'hand-art'?" asked John, slicing through another fish.

Shigeru lifted an eyebrow. "It's... uh... it's a skill you learn by hand. Why? Don't you have hand-arts on Mavid?"

John shrugged. "Everything is a hand-art on Mavid."

Shigeru had a thoughtful pause. "Perhaps that's why you Mavidians are such good workers. I mean, you are like a machine yourself..."

"Why am I losing my hair?" asked John.

"Hmm?" Shigeru squinted at John's hair. There were patches of baldness appearing at odd spots on the side of his head. "Oh, it's probably just the red lights. Special preservative effect on flesh, y'see, but eats at hair roots. Don't worry, it doesn't cause cancer or anything."

John groaned.

"Don't be such a baby," Shigeru shrugged dismissively. "Don't you know that baldness is fashionable? All the kids are doing it now. You'll look cool." Shigeru grinned as he rubbed his own bald dome.

John looked down at his hands... black miasma now stained his fingertips, on hands which were calloused and bony. This is what my body looks like, he thought.

"I'd like a day off," said John.

Shigeru sighed. "C'mon! Wouldn't you want to make money instead? I thought we had a good thing going."

"I'm feeling sick. My throat is sore."

"You know," said Shigeru, "if you do that, I don't know if I can continue to work with you," he raised a suggestive eyebrow, "I have machines that don't make those sorts of demands."

John gave a sputtering cough. "I guess it can't be helped then," he said as he put away the knife.

Shigeru gave out an whine. "C'mon... don't twist my arm like this! Alright, you get your day off, but don't get used to it."

Shigeru left the cell, leaving John to his work. The excitement of a day off propelled him, it gave him the power to push a little further. He finished perhaps an hour earlier than normal, received his pay, then collapsed in the alley, under a pile of boxes.

For the first time in a long while, John awoke with the sun in his eyes. As his blinking eyes adjusted, he could see it was suspended just over the fishery, in the afternoon. It was a soft, warm reminder that he did not need to be anywhere today. That realization alone felt quite good.

It made John almost forget that it was, in fact, an alien sun. And hardly anyone spoke his language.

He stumbled out of the alleyway. He walked amongst the bright, glassy buildings that mirror the sky, the cute bleached shops that lined the avenues, the faux-adobes that were common on Niyan's beach communities. But he was oblivious to the stares of alien faces, mothers grabbing onto their children as John passed.

John went past a street vendor that was frying... something. John couldn't read the menu, so he pointed to the thing that appeared to have smallest number next to it. A minute later, John had several ball-like things in his hand, and when he bit into one, it was creamy, a little greasy, tasting like a salty yam. It was good, but John was not used to having something so rich. When he swallowed it, it seemed to almost seemed to push the fish-taste out of John's throat, and he could later feel it dissolving at the pit of his stomach.

But just in the corner of John's eye, he caught sight of the ugliest lime-green suit, past the elegant and officious black-and-white ones that were on display in a little store. He pressed his nose against the glass. It was so bright, so gaudy, John perversely found himself wanting it.

He fished through his pockets. He had about 2,000, and he knew how little it would last him (the yam-like balls had cost him 200). Still, considering what he had gone through to get it, it seemed to be almost an absurd amount of money. Money that he wanted to spend.

He pushed through the door. There were no customers in the little boutique, just a saleswoman who grimaced as her heels clicked against the hardwood floors. Her eyes slid onto John, and he suddenly found himself frozen by the threshold.

She said something in Niyanese to him. It didn't seem friendly, still, awkwardly, John began to walk towards the green suit.

The lady didn't seem to like that. She walked between him and the suit, and said something angry.

"...Suit..." he said in Niyanese, pointing at the lime-green coat.

The woman rolled her eyes. "...Clean!" she said back. "Clean!"

The woman pointed at a sign. He couldn't read the Niyannese script, but he assumed it had something to do with customer being clean.

John had forgotten he stank of fish.

Still, he pulled out his cash and proffered it to the saleswoman. She raised an eyebrow, then suspiciously lifted a corner of one of the notes to check the denomination. She laughed.

John felt rather offended at this and only more forcefully held the money out to her. In response the woman showed him the tag of the green suit: "25,000KC"

John shut his eyes morosely. When he opened him, the lady was biting her lower lip.

"Reserve it?" she said suddenly in a heavily accented Mavidian.

"What?"

"Reserve. 500 kilocredits. Reserve."

John pulled out five notes and gave them to her. She checked through them and pocketed them.

She pulled out a notepad. "Name?" she asked.

"John Waylon."

She scribbled it on her pad, pulled off the piece of paper, then strung it through the clothes hanger.

"Sixty days," she said.

How could he possibly be able to afford a 25,000KC suit in sixty days?

On the sidewalk, John squatted to pick up a 100KC bill that was pushed like a leaf by the wind. He held it tight in his hand, watched the crumpled corners flap lazily in the wind.

Everything was more expensive on Niyan by an order of magnitude. Even a candy bar that sold for 200KC here would be 15KC on Mavid. It made sense now that Mavid's best and brightest made the journey for the opportunity to clean toilets.

John had in his pocket enough money to last a month on Mavid. In Niyan he could blow it on a single trip to the grocery store.

How could money be so cheap?

When he unfolded his hand, it was just a crushed up note.

He lifted his eyes, and he saw her walking towards him. The woman in the blue suit, the one that had fed him and clothed him that day. She stopped on her heels for a moment to appraise him slowly. The sun hung a little above her head, and so she appeared to be a black-clad silhouette.

John squinted and held his hand up against the sun. She had given him a suit. He suddenly felt ashamed he had not been wearing it.

He took a step forward. "Sorry..." he said quietly.

She pinched his sweaty t-shirt and shook her head. "Let's go," she said after a moment.

"Where?"

She said nothing but gestured for John to follow.

They went into a little restaurant. The wide windows let the orange light of the descending sun in. They both took a booth with a good view of the street.

A waiter came to place menus on the edges of the tables.

John could not read a single item on the menu -- the Niyanese script may as well have been alien. Each character looked like it was drawn with the foot of a dead chicken. The manager's wife looked up and noticed his consternation. It was enough to make her chuckle politely.

She pinched a corner of the menu. Suddenly the writing evaporated and up came a visual display of each item. Niyanese technology -- John hadn't even realized that it was an electronic device. He began to flick through the menu.

"What do you like?" she asked.

"Not fish," answered John reflexively.

She gave another chuckle. John hadn't even meant to say something funny, but he found himself smiling slightly. It faded soon after... even with the pictures, none of the food looked recognizable. Much of it was the literally alien seafood of Niyan, others were "staples" of Niyanese cuisine, a western-Asian fusion that had evolved to the point where it was far removed from anything on Mavid.

She noticed that, too. "I suggest?"

He nodded.

She summoned the waiter and gave a few orders, and he nodded and walked away. He had no idea what to expect when he came back.

When the waiter was gone, there was a moment where John didn't know what to say. He smiled politely. She smiled back then looked out the window.

Her eyes gleamed with the light of the falling sun, her skin tinted with the soft gold glow. She was older than him, only slightly. He looked at the lined texture of her face, and he sensed that these were not age lines, but those carried by someone who did not experience much joy. The deepest ones were around her eyes, when she did not smile or frown, but simply looked on at the world passing by.

She was quite beautiful.

John averted his eyes. He did not want to stare. "What did you do today?" he asked dumbly. He winced at his own awkward attempt to fill the silence.

She looked at him strangely. He thought he could not stand it, but thankfully, the waiter came back with two cups of hot tea.

He sipped deeply, while she contemplated the wafting steam.

They did not talk, but it was not awkward like before. There was some mutual incomprehensibility, so there was only so much talking could accomplish. Instead, John looked out onto the skyline, onto the city he avoided when he first arrived on the planet. The booth offered a good view of it now, the sun actually seemed to make the buildings look like great solemn monoliths with dramatic strokes of molten gold. It was majestic now, where it had once seemed cold.

They did not talk until the waiter brought their meal... it was a strange thing, a steamer made of wicker material, and inside it was a bowl of very hot mixed vegetables and pork, with two buns sitting atop. Despite John's peckishness, he let the woman go first, who graciously began to pick through for choice bits.

The steamed vegetables were mixed with a pepper and a salty sauce whose taste John could not recognize. It was quite good, though unusual for John. He grabbed his bun and bit in. It was a pork bun and it was so moist inside that steam exploded from the bite. It was strange and delicious.

They eventually finished the meal. They felt satiated, and the waiter only passed by to refill the tea cups. It was now night.

"You come from far," she said finally.

He was surprised by her sudden question. "Yes," he answered.

"Why?"

John took a deep sip. He even paused a moment as the cup rested in his hand.

"To please my mother," he answered.

She looked extraordinarily confused for a moment. Then, suddenly, she broke into an adolescent smile. Years fell off of her face as her entire face brightened.

"We are the same!" she chuckled.

Though John had no idea what she meant, her laughter was infectious. He felt himself smiling, too.

When she was done laughing she let out a sigh. "I have a gift for you," she said.

He lifted an eyebrow. She pulled up her purse and took out a tiny earpiece, and placed it into John's outstretched hands. He looked at it.

The label said "Learn Niyanese" right in plain Mavidian.

It was a mini-book, little things that would fit over your ear and narrate for you. They were disposable, but not cheap, at least not for John.

"Thank you," said John.

He hadn't realized he'd spoken his native tongue, but she seemed to understand it. She nodded gracefully.

John licked his lips nervously. Then he said, again in his native language, "I don't have the words to express myself in your language, but I want you to know I appreciate your help. You've been the only nice -- rather, good person I've met here. I don't why you're helping me, but I don't really care to ask."

She looked at him with confusion. The waiter came by and placed the check on the table.

They looked at each other for a moment. "I pay," said John, switching to his poor Niyanese.

"No," she said, pulling out her wallet.

She stopped when John reached over and grabbed her hand. "Please," he said.

For a moment she was frozen, just looking into the seriousness of John's expression. She lowered her wallet.

The check was for 1500KC. It was almost everything he had.

He took out the crumpled bills. They were stained with ichor fingerprints, but worth just as much as a crisp one. He also put another 100KC bill. A tip.

It was painful to John, knowing how much effort had gone into that money. But it would be far more painful to leave such a kindness unpaid. It seemed that she had sacrificed something too, and he didn't want for her to forget that.

"Thank you," she said. "There was no need."

He smiled and nodded his head.

It was late. They departed ways after that.

John entered work the next day refreshed. Although it would take quite a bit of work to earn back all that money, but he didn't mind. He had begun to get used to lifestyle, as intolerable as it would have seemed to begin with. Besides, he only needed just enough money to make his way to a new city, with new work, new people.

John entered through the back (thus avoiding any regular workers) and pushed against the gutting room door... it wouldn't budge.

He pushed against it again. He could feel the heaviness of a lock behind the door. What was going on?

He didn't care if he was spotted by the workers. He marched to the manager's office. Mr. Shigeru sat behind a desk. When his head turned, John was taken aback as his eyes narrowed to slits and his face twisted to disgust.

"Why is the door locked?" asked John.

"You don't work here anymore," he answered back.

John suddenly felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed it down, but he could sense that there was something very, very wrong.

"Why?" he choked.

Shigeru laughed bitterly. "I provided you with what you needed, piece of Mavidian trash that you are. You people come here to our beautiful planet, expecting to be treated like native Niyanese? You're common, you're all no good," he said hatefully. "If you were good, you'd fix your own damn planet without coming and ruining ours."

John clenched his fist tight.

"Oh yeah, you act all angry," said Shigeru. He suddenly stood up, his chair nearly buckling backwards. "What're you going to do? Strike me? All I need is to call the police and tell them you assaulted me for them to shoot you dead. They don't care about a dirty immigrant."

It was surreal, seeing Shigeru's sudden and utter hatred. Still, John suddenly felt a deep, deep shame, when he realized that somehow, someway, he'd found out. There was no other way.

"I didn't sleep with her," said John.

Shigeru flopped back on his chair like a dead fish. He gave a bitter and raspy sigh. "If you had slept with her, I would understand better what you did to her."

John didn't know what to say.

"Get out of here," said Shigeru.

John did what he asked.

It was the early morning, the sun rising over the ocean. He tossed a rock into sea, which obliterated in a tiny plop.

He'd been lying to himself the entire time. Even without sex, even without romance, it was still an act of infidelity.

He sat on the sand, beside him his package of all his belongings. The mini-book and the suit were all the possessions he cared to have right now. Both of them were given to him by that woman.

He cared for her, he realized. And he had never asked for her name.

That city of mirrors on the hill, it always seemed to catch the sun. It was beautiful now, not cold. A new place for a fresh start, far from the hell this town had become. It was something to struggle for, a place to reach.

He looked in his pocket. He had less than 20 kilocredits. On this planet, it was not even worth carrying. He bent down and buried the coins under the sand, a sacrifice to the universe for good luck. Almost immediately the ocean lapped at mound, erasing it from existence. Then he walked on the long road to the city on the hill.