To Eat And To Share

Cracked Egg. Photo credit: Quinn Daedal 

Cracking an egg is its own challenge. 

But to crack an egg, one has to first acquire an egg. 

Or 72 crates of eggs. 

It’s why the Aunties-in-Maxi Collective approved the 3 hour 45 minute walk to the Enclave of the Dollar Uncles. See, in the Before Times eggs were a cheap and reliable source of protein. But in the World Post the Riot and the Rain, commercial poultry farms have not existed for a few years now. 

The indiscriminate use of antibiotics in the poultry industry had been a concern for decades 

before the predictions of a few wayward scientists became reality all but wiping out the industry as well as those who depended on it for income and nutrition. And because of the way global supply chains work, the collapse of one industry can lead to what the History Teller calls 

“The Ripple Effect”. 

The Ripple Effect is also what you call the strange thing that happens in your chest every time the History Teller sneaks into the Kitchen to grab a snack after her classes. 

How the Uncles managed to acquire 72 crates of eggs is anybody’s guess. They claim that they are safe to eat. Their evidence being that the Enclave has been eating them for months with no side-effects. But now, they need more than protein. They need labour. 

Perhaps, the Dollar Enclave is only full of Olds?   

As the Kitchen Person of the Reclaimed Residence, you can understand why you are part of the Negotiating Committee for Eggs. The Committee comprises 3 venerable Aunties-in-Maxi. But you wish you were back in the Kitchen now, eating a hurried, if late, breakfast, waiting for the History Teller to finish her classes. But here you are instead. The Serendipitous Dog has tagged along on the excursion as well. He is revered for always being right where he is needed. You, on the other hand, feel like you are always in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s not like you have any Negotiation Skills. You aren’t even that brave. You nearly passed out at the check-points leading up to the Enclave. 

Heck, even back then, when the Riot of the Starving Giggers started, you didn’t even consider lending a hand, let alone… gulp… actually Rioting. No, you… you had chosen to hide. And in many ways, that’s what you are doing even now. 

Uncle from Upstairs had told you that hiding is nothing to be ashamed of. People do the best they can with what they have. After all, he hadn’t joined the rioting either. But Uncle from Upstairs was an Old, so it isn’t exactly the same thing.

You try to shake away the Bad Thoughts. 

You’re not particularly good at that, but it’s the trying that counts you have been told.  

You try to pay attention to the exchange before you. 

“The Nala People are willing to do it for thirty, you know?” the Dollar Uncle says, in a mild, almost cheerful manner. 

He and 5 of his fellow Enclave Uncles sit in bamboo armchairs. The bamboo armchairs lounge in the verandah of a single-storey house. The single-storey house is nearly as big as a hostel at the Reclaimed Residence but seems to house far fewer people. In the single-storey house, in the verandah, in their bamboo armchairs, the Uncles are protected from the blazing sun. The Aunties squint at them from beneath their umbrellas while keeping their maxis off the ground and their Dupattas of Office balanced across both shoulders. 

See, in the World As It Was Now, “Uncle” and “Auntie”, are no longer gendered terms. Each term describes a particular sort of person – one who gets things done and the other who… pretends to, mostly. And once you have seen the Auntie-in-Maxi Collective running things at the Reclaimed Residence, you have no problem figuring out which is which. 

You pet the Serendipitous Dog for moral support. Only to find he is straying off somewhere. You reckon you better follow. 

Hungry people often didn’t have too much respect for other people’s pets. Meat is meat after all. You don’t think the Enclave of the Dollar Uncles is starving, if the looks of the Uncles before you are any indication, but still why risk it? 

An AyeAyeTee-an had once asked if someone could leash the Serendipitous Dog. Now he follows Auntie Purple around on a leash. You don’t have a problem with that of course. They both seem happy. It’s just a little awkward when it’s your turn to play fetch with him. 

The Po-lis at the Check-Points had warned you not to stray from your intended destination. But they aren’t around to stop you. You follow a likely path. Transformers with too many wires stand like robotic  scarecrows, guarding heaps and heaps of garbage. The amount of garbage in itself is astonishing. But a lot of it seems… fresh? 

The History Teller would probably explain this better, but everyone knows that Quickie Comm Giggers had been the first to Riot. They were very quickly joined by the Garbage Collectors. And the Domestic Workers. And then every other group of people forced to be cogs in a machine they had no role in making and whose benefits they did not enjoy. And so they destroyed it, this machine. The point is, the Enclave Residents had had a long time to figure out a solution to their garbage problem that wasn’t predicated on the compliance of those who had no choice. 

The names of all the First Rioters are listed in the Book of Heroes. A handwritten tome kept in the most sacred of spaces – a cloth bundle store at the very back of a Steel Cupboard at the back of the Auties’ Room.   

There are rats here. Almost as big as the Watch Cat back at the Residence. Waddling around just as nonchalantly. At least that confirms that the Enclave Residents are not hunting them as a source of protein. But the smell and the sights leave you wondering if you need better documentation of the situation. That’s when you hear the Serendipitous Dog borking. 

Oh no! Is he fighting a rat? You hope not! You stand no chance in a fight with those things. 

You are running before you can think. Things crunch and squelch beneath your feet. You definitely don’t think about them. You run into an alley that ends in a pile of garbage. And there he is, borking at a… well it is a person, of that much you are sure, but it’s hard to assess what kind. The borks sound friendly to you, like when the Serendipitous Dog is inviting the Watch Cat to play. The person does not seem to share your knowledge. They stand with one hand out to ward away the Serendipitous Dog, who is quite a few feet away with his tail wagging. The person’s other hand clutches what looks like an oily red paper box to their chest.

Wait, these people still have food delivery? What kind of place is this? 

The person is dressed in branded clothing. The kind that stopped being produced once the Sweatshop Workers rioted. 

You really wish the History Teller’s stories didn’t keep rising to the surface of your already overstressed mind at inopportune moments like this one.   

You take a deep breath. You have a protocol for encountering Unknowns and you follow it. Your hands move, slowly, spreading out in surrender. 

“Leave me alone!” The person shouts. Amidst the rustling garbage, the shrill tone of desperation startles you. You swallow. 

You’ve heard voices like that before. Often right before a fight broke out, usually over food. 

Slowly, you sit on your haunches, hands always visible. 

“Come,” you say. 

The Serendipitous Dog turns to you. Smiles. 

“Come,” you repeat.

His tail begins to wag faster. 

“Come!” You grow more anxious. 

The Serendipitous Dog borks one and comes. Then turns right around and proceeds to jump his forelegs up on the person. The person panics, flinging the red box away to collapse into a foetal position by the garbage pile.

Your eyes track the unmistakable yellow form of French Fries as they fly across the alley. 

So then they do have Food Delivery. You’ll have to warn the Aunties. But first…  

You stride forward and body-check the Serendipitous Dog, who is trying his bestest to enthusiastically give the sobbing person the Lick-n-Sniff of Reassurance. 

“No,” you say firmly, holding out a strict finger, “Back, stay!”

You’ve used what the History Teller calls your Bedroom Voice and just like her, the Serendipitous Dog listens. 

You ponder your approach for a few moments. Then you crouch down by the person. Their head peeps out from under their arms. They cast a wary look around to verify the Serendipitous Dog’s position. 

The Serendipitous Dog, his job done, has settled quite nicely, a serene smile on his dawgie face. 

Serendipitous Dog. Photo Credit: Rajesh S Balouria

“A-are you hungry?” you ask. 

The person sniffs and sits up. “Isn’t everyone?” they reply. 

You consider the question. There is a correct answer to the question. You know that answer. Thanks to living at the Reclaimed Residence with the Aunties-in-Maxi Collective. But you realize that now is not the time for data.    

“I have a sandwich, if-if you’d like.” 

Since the trip was so last-minute, you made last-minute sandwiches with whatever you had at hand in the Kitchen. The Baking Person had recently managed to mill some flour from cattail seeds, which meant there was fresh bread at least. 

The Rule at the Residence was always to pack two portions per person for every Travel Meal. One to eat and one to share. You had already eaten your sandwich, so now it was time to share. 

You hold out a paper-wrapped package from your satchel. The person doesn’t pounce on it. Instead they take it slowly, like they are afraid it will be taken back. They look at the package and then back at you. Their eyes don’t shine. But it’s a near thing. You look away. Noticing for the first time bits of green pushing through the cracks in the concrete and between the things thrown away. 

“The Uncles force us to eat their rotten eggs,” the person whispers, “we got so sick, we couldn’t eat them anymore.”

“There’s more of you?”

“A handful still survive, we stay across the Nala.” 

“Well, let’s-let’s go get them then?”

“The Uncles won’t let us go… they need us to-to…”

“It doesn’t matter, we’ll think of s-something.”

“You don’t know the Uncles.”

“Your Uncles don’t know my Aunties.”

“Some of us can’t move. We’re very hungry.” 

“We’ll find a way to h-help… I’m certain.”

Technically, you are not certain. But it isn’t your job to be certain. You are the Kitchen Person of 

the Reclaimed Residence. Your job is to cook and feed everyone in the Residence. And when new people find their way there, the Aunties-in-Maxis Collective expect you to feed them too. That much you can manage. The rest, the Aunties, the Olds, the History Teller and the Others will figure out. Of that, you are certain.

“Oh and-and we’ll take the eggs too.” 

You know ways to separate bad eggs from simply old ones. And good uses for both kinds. It is about time you cracked some eggs. The rest will be handled later.