Rats in the Pipes

Three: Home Sweet Home

I returned the key, the bag and the coat to Dom. I told him I'd had no trouble and made my way home. I live on 29, the lowest residential level of Mid Cit. It's not great but it's safe. The main concourse on each level goes three quarters of the way round the central spine of vators and scalers. It's surrounded by booths,shops and eateries and the four main spokes that run out to the perimeter lead off it north west, south west, north east and southeast dividing each level into four quadrants. The central spine also contains the garbage chutes and other service utilities which is why the concourse only goes three quarters of the way round. The other quarter is the service area. There's an open space but instead of shops and eateries there's a cleaning depot and the garbage bins and chutes; nicely tucked out of sight of everyone except me. I live right opposite them in a two storey block of one room apartments originally designed to house cleaning operatives. 

Half of them are empty. There's hardly a housing shortage in the lower levels of the City due to the falling population and who'd want to live with the constant whiff of garbage unless they had to. The rest are inhabited by people like me who have only a precarious toehold in the security of MidCit. Mine is the one on the end where the service ramp comes down from level 28. It cuts off the top of the block of apartments at that point so it's only one and a half storeys high. There's no room for an apartment above mine and that is a bonus. It means the ceiling of my apartment is high enough for there to be a sleeping platform which, since the room is only four metres by four metres, is luxury in my view.

Once inside I leant against the door breathing deeply and just glad to be home. I took off my boots and made my way over to the couch. I sat massaging my feet. Both my boots have splits in the soles and they are beginning to be uncomfortable. I'll spend rest day patching them but I wondered how much longer I could make them last. I've mended them so often they are more patch than sole. Bare feet would be more comfortable but that would contravene the city codes on appearance and dress. I sighed and pulled off the beanie hat I wear to hide my hair. I removed the stretchy band that keeps it pulled back into a knot and shook out the mass of curls that when they're not tied up fall around my shoulders. I ran my fingers through them and then fell back on the couch. I needed to make something to eat but I was just too tired. The Workforce Control and Management Department regulate almost every aspect of life. The City Code simply says citizens should present a neat and efficient appearance, in keeping with age, gender and work status. WCM however are always varying the exact nature of the dress and appearance regulations depending on which corporation has bunged them to promote their product. This gives them a double profit since they can administer on the spot fines for non-compliance with the city code, which is a social crime and anything else they decided might increase their take home pay. It goes without saying that most of the fines never go further than WCM personnel's pockets.

Long hair is a five cred on the spot fine, ten if, like me, you sometimes shoot your mouth off about it. I shouldn't do it. I can't afford to get into serious trouble but I need the adrenaline rush from time to time just to remind myself I'm not dead. Still since I slipped up and got on three monthly performance review I decided to wear a stretchy cap that covers my hair. Lots of people need to keep their hair covered for work so they're permitted by the City Code. I'm not cutting my hair just to conform to their stupid rules. Nobody challenges anything. Everyone conforms because if you don't life gets even harder. No-one wants to have anything to do with you if you don't comply. The only person that speaks to me at work is Dom. None of the other boys give me the time of day. Frightened they'll catch my weirdness I suppose.Well fuck them.

Eventually I couldn't ignore the growling in my stomach and I heaved myself up and made myself a drink, found a packet of flat bread in the cupboard and spread it with spicy paste. After I'd eaten I turned on the vid screen. If I had any choice in the matter I would never fry my brain with the garbage on the vid feed. Citizens are, however, obliged to watch for at least two hours a day or at least have their screens on.If you don't then you get a visit from WCM Personnel to find out why you aren't contributing as an active citizen. There is nothing about listening as well so I mute the sound. I spend my days running round the city with my ears and eyes assaulted by the cacophony of strident, flashing advertising displays. My home is a sanctuary of peace and quiet. I stripped and sponged myself down. I really wanted a shower but water is expensive. I didn't bother to dress again just left my clothes on the couch and climbed up to my sleeping platform.

I lifted the loose board revealing my stash of savings; seven cred in scrip tokens, half way to one new boot. I added my today's tip to the pot. Showers are nice so are proper hot meals but I can keep myself clean and fed without either of them. I can't earn a living without boots. Then I lay down flat and reached under the floor, as far as my arm would go to where the catch that holds the wall panel in place is located. I turned it and heard the click as it released. I lifted the panel out; this is my real stash place. I keep some things in there that a good law abiding citizen really shouldn't have. Tonight I just wanted my xylophone. It's a rare and beautiful instrument, over three hundred years old. It's made of real wood and it has a range of four octaves. Unlike the other stuff in there it's not illegal for me to have it. It's just incredibly valuable. It is my beloved, my joy, my escape.

I play in secret for myself alone. No, that's not quite true; my upstairs next door neighbour knows I play. She's heard me through the wall but she said she doesn't mind, in fact she likes it. She's never seen my xylophone and I guess she thinks it's one of the cheap plastempal ones. She's been working nights as a street cleaner for nearly three years now so we don't disturb each other, not that we did so even when she was working days at the shitty warehouse. Nobody lives in the downstairs apartment next to me so my private life is how I like it, private. I drifted into playing a pastorale. I like the thought that once there were green fields and trees and not the stench of the lowest levels of LoCit. I wondered who Dom's friend had wisped on and whether he thought it was worth the stink hole where he ended up. Whatever ideals you start out with you end up just doing what you need to do to survive. I have no illusions about myself. If I'd had to exist down there I'd have done whatever it took. I might have been one of Nico's gang, or worse. That led me to speculate about my unlikely rescuer. He was a conundrum. People like that don't exist in Esperance or if they do they certainly aren't Forcers. I shook my head and gave myself over to the music.