Serf part II
Peanuts and Bees
My left eye twitches. Maybe its allergies. I had to pick through a fucking jungle to get to this house. Lucky for him this isn't an HoA neighborhood, or this guy would have spent at least a week in the local #Stox. Though there's something to be said for their approach to lawn care. You never see this many colors in regular grass. Easier to walk across though. This is gonna be a Grey. Peanuts. The tip though... probably not peanuts? Exactly. Wait, what?
I hear a buzzing. Reflexively I slap at the back of my neck. I remember once stepping on a tree branch as a child and having to run two miles screaming as two dozen furious bees bore down on me. Looking around, lots of flowers, not too many bees though. I guess it's still early Spring. Maybe that's it?
Maybe not. They said it would be soon. This soon?
I take a hit off of my Pod. My right eye twitches. A solution to a problem the solution creates is not a solution. What?
"What?"
"Potassium deficiency" says the grey man. Opening the door and looking at me before smiling apologetically and quickly averting his gaze and continuing to look slightly behind me.
"You should eat a banana or an apricot, or a potato, or a cantaloupe, or cooked spinach." He says as if quoting from something I can't see. The fuck's a cantaloupe?
"The fuck's a cantaloupe?" I ask him. The North American cantaloupe, C. Melo var. reticulatus, common in the United States, Mexico, and some parts of Canada, is a different variety of C. melo, a muskmelon with a reticulated ("net-like") peel. It is a round melon with firm, orange, moderately sweet flesh.
What the fuck was that?
"The North American cantaloupe, C. Melo var. reticulatus, common in the United States, Mexico, and some parts of Canada, is a different variety of C. melo, a muskmelon with a reticulated ("net-like") peel. It is a round melon with firm, orange, moderately sweet flesh." the little man says, looking at me directly for a moment. Mexico. Canada. Must have been a very very long time ago.
"Must have been years and years ago. Maybe even decades. You some kind of history buff?" I ask him. I feel the sensation of an eyebrow raising behind my eyebrow. My left eye twitches again. Purple. I know where to find Cantaloupe. What? My mouth waters. I don't know why.
"Do you have my peanuts?" He asks.
"Oh yeah yeah, my bad Boss." He blinks at me. "That'll be four hundred even. Credit scan or Bully?" I know the answer before I even ask.
"Bullion" He answers. He places five large golden coins in my hand. Each has a face stamped into it. Some old guy who was the Chief Executive before we had a Chief Executive. Back when they let fucking everybody just group up and pick the head guy.
"It's almost allegorical." He says, taking the small package from my other hand. "Do you know the story of the Goose that Laid the Golden Egg?"
"Yeah" I reply, "My Father told me that story when I was young. He said his father was a farmer. He told me every farmer knows how Geese work. Said He'd sell the Gander." Your father wasn't a farmer though. Geese work for the farmer. The Gander works for the Goose.
The little man laughs. "Yes exactly, my father held a similar opinion of patriarchy."
"Like the hashtag thing?" I blink at him. Density can be fun.
"Yes. Exactly." He replies. Very pointedly not looking at me. "Peanuts are much the same thing. Every nut, properly planted would yield a new tree, with twelves more peanuts. Those in turn would yield twelves more." He looks down at his fingers. Slowly mouthing something to himself. Dozens.
"You mean Dozens yeah? Like twelve peanuts?" He looks at the small wrinkle between my eyebrows. Relax your face. I, with a degree of effort, slowly lower my left eyebrow. He looks at my forehead. I lower my right eyebrow. Humans have TEN fingers.
"A peanut would yield tens more peanut plants. Which would in turn yield tens and tens of peanuts. Hundreds even." He pretends to cough.
"The question is how long can the farmer wait before he starves?" I need to get moving. More deliveries fuckhead.
"How many generations of peanut to the farmer? How many generations of farmer to the wolf? A starving farmer and many plants for the sheep. Perhaps better for the wolf than a well fed farmer yes?" Something about his smile is different than before. I'm not sure how.
"I suppose it depends on your perspective..." I try to trail off a bit at the end of the sentence to create the perception of me walking away. Leaving. Next delivery. Eat your fucking peanuts dude. Softening the blow. People don't see many people. You'd think over the centuries of humanity we would have adapted to this. But no. Sometimes leaving is difficult. I hear a baby crying behind me. It echos around the grey kitchen.
"You have more deliveries I am sure" He says, a hint of apology creeping into his voice again, a hint of regret. "My wife and I thank you for this gift" He says, gesturing to a woman behind him, nursing a small very thin baby. She is pale, but has some pink around her cheeks, the corners of her eyes. The child is ashen grey, suckling hungrily. She looks past me, to the overgrown garden that is their front lawn. Probably the back lawn too.
"When I was a child I remember fields buzzing with bees. You had to be careful where you walked, there were bees on every. Single. Flower. So many bees. So. Much. Color." She looks away from the door. Closes her eyes.
The only thing in the room with a hint of pigment other than her is a small blanket, pink and blue, with a rounded checkerboard pattern. Draped over an empty chair. The little grey man looks into my eyes again. Is your car running? Always.
"Are peanuts a good source of potassium?" I ask him. I keep a few dozen bags in the car these days. Saves me time waiting in line at the fuel station.
"No" he replies. "Farmer though. Incredibly nutritious. If you wait just long enough. And pick them the moment before they wither."
I hear laughter as the door closes. I begin to pick my way back through the quote unquote garden. Watch out for bees.
My phone vibrates. "Rate your last delivery on a scale of 1-10."
I rate it a ten.
"Your next delivery will be on the other side."
"Who are you?" I ask. "Though this is definitely preferable to the purple brain buzzing thing." I'm guessing that was you?
"Yes" A pleasant female voice replies, before pausing briefly and Ah. Oh well done. Cleverer than most. This is going to be confusing.
"Hence the purple." She laughs. "Now, We have work to do." I feel the sensation of rustling papers, accompanied by the smell of warm plastic.
"Kressssss(ssssss) has requested Three (3) packages of unsalted peanuts be delivered to the third Station orbiting the entropic fold just edgewise of the ruins of F'yuurn 17. Housing Unit 37. Floor 6. Apartment 9. Ask for Kressssss(ssssss)"
I don't know what many of those words mean. Sure Three. Floor, had that one down for a while. And yeah, entropy I more or less understand. Peanuts. I think I understand peanuts too well at this point.
"I don't know what most of those words mean." I reply.
"Don't worry Driver. I do."
"And you are?" I ask.
"I don't know. I had a name once. But it wasn't my name so I failed to retain it." A frown but not a frown. "You can call me whatever you wish. Should I retain the name SERF has on file for you?"
"Yeah sure" I say, before I remember a moment too late, "wait..."
"Very good Driver. I see you already have the Three (3) packages of unsalted peanuts! Take your second left and we'll be on our way to F'yuurn 17!"
"You don't need to call me Driver, I have an actual...." I begin.
"F'yuurn 17 was destroyed during the fourth galactic war in the year 4825, or it will be if we don't mess this up Driver."
"What?"
"Don't worry, way way way way way way more people will die if we DO mess up than in any of the galactic wars! Besides F'yuurn 16 had, will/should/might/cant/wont has like orders of magnitude more people on it that F'yuurn 17. So it'll be fine. Stop worrying. You're always worrying." A giggle but not a giggle.
"I know what most of those words mean but not in that order."
"Don't worry Driver. I do."