Published: 23 Sep 2024.
by Gerry Gaffney
I think the dispensary is borked.
I stare into the frosted panel, not blinking, but the dispensary just says,
"Your next allotment will be available at 3 pm."
3 pm is nearly three hours away.
I try my other eye but get the same message. Maybe the iris scanner is dirty. I wipe the panel with my sleeve. But I still get the same message.
Then I see Simon from number 53 coming along the walkway. "Hi Janet," he says. I nod. He looks scruffy and unshaven.
"Using the dispensary?"
"Nah," I say, "I think it's borked."
"Oh." He looks worried. "Mind if I try?"
"Knock yourself out."
He looks into the frosted glass.
Instantly the machine says,
"Please wait."
It makes various noises. Clicks and scrapes, something liquid, something powdery, then a ping.
A slot opens and a small package is extruded.
Simon takes it, pockets it.
"See ya," he says to me.
He doesn't want to know about my problem. He just wants to get back to number 53 and take his allotment.
There's no point asking him to share. Nobody shares because everybody has just enough to keep themselves going.
And anyway it wouldn't work. Everyone's allotment is unique, matched to their individual genotype.
Maybe Simon unborked the machine, I think.
I try again but I get the same message.
"Your next allotment will be available at 3 pm."
I kick the dispensary machine a few times. It says nothing. It's designed to withstand kicks and thumps and various forms of abuse.
It's a squat matt gray box, firmly embedded in the wall. It has no visible hinges or seams. Even the slot is almost impossible to see when it's closed, and it's impervious to being prised open.
Each floor has a dispensary. If I look across the quadrangle at the drab apartments opposite I can see their dispensaries, identical to this one. The apartment block is a square. Forty-eight floors on each side, times 4 means 192 dispensaries.
Once, a couple of years ago, our dispensary was borked and there was a sign on it to use the one on the floor below. On level 27. That worked fine, and everybody was able to get our allotments until ours was unborked again.
Maybe that will work for me now, I think.
I mean, I really know that it won't work but desperate times.
The lift won't take me to level 27 without an access pass so I traipse over to the fire stairs and walk down the 24 steps to the next floor.
You're not supposed to do that if it's not an emergency but I don't care.
I prise open the door to the walkway on that floor and go to the dispensary.
I look into the frosted panel and it says,
"This is level 27. Your allotment can only be accessed from the dispensary on level 28."
I try with both eyes, but the message is the same.
I traipse back upstairs.
I decide I'll give it another try on my home floor. Just in case. It just gives me the same message.
I feel twitchy. I need to go for a walk, but I don't want to go out into the world feeling like this. I settle for a shuffle along the walkway. The dispensary is halfway along. I walk to the left. Number 56 is Elisa the potter. In her window I see some misshapen pots. Probably rejects that didn't fire properly. 55 is Denise the florist. There's a faint unpleasant scent of vegetation from her open window. 54 is Angelo. I don't know what he does. 53 is Simon the composer. There's an awful racket coming from his apartment, raucous and grating. I feel it in my teeth. I give up on my walk and double back. As I pass the dispensary machine I try once more, even though I know it's pointless. The dispensary is not going to change its mind.
I go into my apartment, number 58, and close the door behind me.
I look at the clock. 12:45. How will I last until 3?
There's a painting on my easel. It's a horrible mishmash of random colours and brush strokes. Why did I think it was going to turn out well? Why would the city pay me for such a painting? I'm not being modest, the painting is hideous. Nobody could possibly value such a monstrosity.
My whole apartment is ugly. I go into the tiny ugly kitchen to make some coffee.
My hands are shaking and I can't concentrate. Do I boil the water first? Or put in the coffee powder? There are two mugs in the kitchen cabinet. An ugly blue one and an ugly red one.
I use the ugly red one.
The coffee tastes awful, bland and dusty.
Is it really like this, I wonder, or does it taste like this because I've run out of my allotment?
Does the allotment make me think it tastes better, or does the allotment actually make it better? Is my sense of taste faulty now, or faulty when I have my allotment?
I'm confused.
I pour the coffee down the sink. My hands shake as I rinse the mug and put it on the draining board to dry.
I have a headache and my mouth is dry.
I look out the window. I open it as wide as it can go, a couple of centimetres. From the city below I hear the grinding noise of engines. I can smell their heavy fumes.
I see rows of apartments and factories and in the distance grimy hills with exhausted-looking trees, brownish-green and shivering in the wind.
I close the window against the noise and dirt.
The hands on my clock have stopped moving. I go into the tiny bathroom and turn on the shower, but the chemical smell of the water is disgusting. I turn it off without getting in.
I go to my bedroom and lie on the cot, cover my eyes. I set an alarm for 2:58 pm even though I know I won't fall asleep.
I lie there shivering and shaking. I must fall asleep because I have a vivid dream.
I'm standing in my swimsuit on a wooden pier by a lake. The sun is beaming down through a perfectly clear sky. I'm 16. I've been swimming and water is dripping off me. I'm untainted and full of life. My body is young and strong and beautiful. I look across the lake to the mountains. I can smell the eucalyptus trees. I decide that I will concentrate on my painting. Tomorrow I will return with an easel and a canvas and I will render this landscape. I will dedicate myself to this task and when it is finished I will paint another scene. With diligence and application to my craft I will become an artist.
The alarm wakes me at 2:58. I get up and hurry to the dispensary. Elisa the potter is there before me. She wants to do idle chit-chat. I shift my weight from foot to foot, willing her to hurry up and go away. She gets the message.
Once she gets her allotment she says, "Call me later if you want to go for a stroll."
"Okay," I say, although the very concept of a stroll in our ugly city is alien to me.
Finally it's 3 pm. I stare into the iris scanner. I am shivering in fear and anticipation.
"Please wait."
It makes its noises.
The slot opens and my package appears.
Back in my apartment I open the package. It contains three envelopes, labelled 3 pm, 10 pm and 9 am.
I shake the contents of 3 pm into the mug on the draining board and add water. The powder dissolves quickly and I drink it down. I add some more water to rinse any remnants, and drink again.
Nothing changes but my jitters and anxiety immediately fade and then slowly disappear completely.
I look out my window towards the hills. The forest looks inviting. One day I really must hike over there with a sketch book and some charcoals and pencils. But once the current painting is finished I have another commission. There's always work to do. A good complaint, but I should really try to fit in more time to explore new subjects.
I turn to my easel. I don't know why I wasn't happy with the painting earlier. It's coming along very nicely. I think I'll probably be able to finish it tomorrow, get the courier to come and pick it up. It's always nice to finish a task, and to get paid of course.
I pick up my brushes and become absorbed in my work.
The light is fading, it must be around 7, when there's a knock at the door. Its Elisa.
"Want to go out for a bite to eat?" she asks.
I ask her to come in and wait for a few minutes. She looks around my apartment and takes a seat.
"Nice and cosy," she says. "I always like what you do to the place."
"Thanks," I say, but I stay focused on my brush strokes for a little time.
Then I put the brushes aside and start to clean up.
"Won't be a minute."
"I really like the painting. Is it done?"
"Just about. I'll finish it tomorrow. Let's go."
There's a pleasant evening light on the walkway, the sunset bronzing the far side of the apartment block.
As we pass Elisa's I see the pots in her window. They're beautifully coloured, a whimsical set.
"Have you sold these?" I ask, pointing.
"Yes. I'll be sorry to let them go to be honest, but they're getting picked up tomorrow or the next day. I have a new commission to start on."
"Let's invite Simon," I say on a whim.
In high spirits we bang on his door. "Simon! Simon!"
We can hear a snatch of beautiful complex-sounding music from inside his apartment. Then it stops and we hear footsteps.
"Is there a fire?" he asks, opening the door.
He looks every inch the composer, unruly black hair and a stubble of beard. And beautiful white teeth.
"Come on Mozart, we're going to get something to eat, maybe a drink or two," I say.
"Silver tongued devil," he says. "Do I need a jacket?"
We take the elevator to the ground floor and walk out into the bustling street.
I can smell bread and coffee and spices, slightly offset by a whiff of petrol fumes and the dust of busyness.
Walking between Simon and Elisa, I grab their arms and pull them skipping and laughing along the street.
How lucky we are, I think, to live in a city where we artists can make a living doing the work we love.
Copyright © Gerry Gaffney 2024