The Barn

Men ravaged with age, slurping white corn and frozen veggie soup, a blend of little taste, dipping stale bread, spoons in the creases of crow’s-feet mouths, slurping, heads down. The woman, beaten up and bruised, riddled with stories of selling themselves, and deep within themselves, pretending it never happened. It was dinner time at the barn.

“Yeah, back in the day, you could go to jail just for loitering,” a tiny old man says, “Basically ruined my career. Couldn’t find much work after that. Nothing good at least.”

“You know I finally found a doctor that’ll look at my teeth,” says another man. “Can’t find many doctors that’ll look at you without your ID card. They took that from me last time I was locked up. Said there was no use being on the outside with it, that’ll be back in there in no time. Wouldn’t you know it, I ain’t never been back. 15 years and they still haven’t caught me for nothing. You know, kid, it’s not that you ever learn to follow the rules and obey the law and find a job. Can’t find no job, not a convict like me. The thing is, you get better at crime. You learn what you can and can’t do. What’ll they think is serious enough to even waste time bringing to trial,” he continues, smiling his disfigured smile. “All things considered, my teeth aren’t even that bad, 'cept this one,” wiggling his front tooth, “Yeah, took a good shot in the face from a guy who thought I was hitting on his girl. He even kicked me while I was down, “ he laughs.

Mark furrows his brow, doesn’t say anything, just nods. It was his first night at the Barn, so hungry he had finally given up and admitted he needed a meal. 30 years old, and he could see where the country was going: more Barns being built, more mass layoffs, and more men like him wandering the streets. Kicked out of his room five weeks ago. Ten years ago, he remembers when you could find a place to work. More automation, but less information, contradicting the title of ‘The Information Age’. More content, but less substance, pumped out through the AI revolution. Food being bulldozed into landfills to jack up the prices. He vaguely remembers a time as a kid when you could get a fresh tomato with real flavour, light-years apart compared to what you could find now. Food had to be faster than ever: processed meats, from unknown origins. Even if you could afford a hot meal, it never felt right. The Barns we’re like piles of trash on the street, scattered with rats hunting for anything to eat. Even tea and toast weren’t the same. People down and out used to be able to at least get themselves a bite of toast with tea, but now, as Mark watches the men slurping their soup, the liquid trickling down the sides of their mouths, he knew nothing was the same. And he felt it might not ever change back to the way it used to be.

“How many beers did you drink last night, Russ?” the man with bad teeth asks the old man.

“Oh, I don’t know…maybe four. Was my dinner.”

Mark looks at the small 110-pound man and can tell it wouldn’t take much for him to get drunk.

“You know me and old Russ here always compete to see who can drink more. One day, we gotta sit down and have a real drinking contest. Like back in the day,” laughs the bad teeth. “You know Russ came in for dinner one night and had a giant gash on his head. I asked him what happened, and he said he drank 6 beers the night before and fell and hit his head off a table. Imagine that, at 70 years old, and he walks it off like nothing. He’s a real tough son-of-a-bitch” he says.

Russ shrugs, his eyes dim inside. Almost dead. More than anything, just tired.

“I don’t know if I’ll drink tonight. Probably just go home and sleep.”

“Yeah, you look like you’re ready to fall asleep right now. Russ here is a lucky one: They keep him in one of those old bunk-houses. Got a shelf-bed and a little TV.”

“I don’t care much for TV. Most of the time I just lay down and look at the bunk above, waiting 'till it's time to sleep,” yawns Russ.

“You got a place to stay?” the man asks.

“No, not really. Had a room not long ago. I think I might be able to get something when the government sends out the next cheque, but who knows.”

“They cut me off from those cheques years ago.”

“How do you survive?” Mark asks.

The man laughs.

“You haven’t been on the streets long, have you?”

“Not really.”

“Well, guys like us have to stick together. I can show you a trick or two. Name’s Mark, by the way. What’s yours?

“Mark.”

The man laughs.

“They used to call fools at a carnival ‘Marks’. I guess, we’re just a pair Marks, victims of a carnival society.”

“That’s a pretty profound statement. What are you, a philosopher or something?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“How do you know what a philosopher is?”

“It’s just something I heard about.”

**

Rebecca rolls out of bed to the sound of her alarm clock: another work day. Rubs the sleep out of her eyes and sits on the edge of her bunk a moment, insides churning as she winces in pain. Nothing can be done. Out of bed, dress, out the door, on the bus, people coming in and out, heads down, stop, another stop, the homeless sleeping and jittering in the back, her stop, two blocks walk, at her workstation at the restaurant. Her friend pours her a cup of brew, steaming hot, adds the sprinkling, the white coloring adds a tint to the black. She drinks, sighs, and starts working the grill. Burgers. Grey. Tomatoes. Brown. Bread. White. Flips burger over. Black on one side. Flips again. Slides on bun. Adds white vegetable shredding, sauce, and serves customer. Another burger. Grey. Flip. Black. She lets out a sigh. Slurps her brew. Flip. Black. Brown tomato. Sigh. Burger. Another customer. Flip. Black. White vegetable shredding. Slurp. Sigh. Another customer. Lined up around the corner. No one talking to each other: waiting for food on their work breaks.

She looks at the poster above her head.

The words: ‘Happy Customers Guaranteed!’ above a picture of the smiling CEO, wearing a work uniform.

The men and women outside, in line, looking forward, straight ahead, directly at the backs of the heads and shoulders of the person in front of them, without a smile in sight.

**

“So what did you do to end up on the streets?”

“I’ve been out here for years, don’t really remember much of living indoors.”

“Shit, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I don’t even care. I’m used to it.”

“I can’t stand it. I got to find another job soon and get a room somewhere.”

“Where you going to work?”

“I can see if the new TECH-Li-co factory is hiring. It’s fucking hard though, everything is automated now. Fuck, how does the government think a man can survive if you give his work to a robot?”

The man with the bad teeth takes a drag off his cigarette and doesn’t reply. The two man are outside the barn, smoking after their meal.

“I’m surprised all those factory jobs aren’t completely automated at this point. I would’ve thought mindless labor would’ve been automated before thought,” says the man.

“Thought?”

“Yeah, thought. And art.”

“You mean like pictures?”

“They used to be created by people.”

“They were?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“I think I heard something about that…when I was younger.”

“Just like you heard of philosophers?”

“Yeah, I’m not even sure what that means, but it’s something to do with thinking in a different way…or what’s the word…profoundly?”

“Still got a brain in there, eh? Come on inside kid, I want to show you something. I want you to take a look around and tell me what you see.”

The pair flick their cigarettes and head back into the barn. On a desk, a man with his jacket pulled up over his head sleeps, short videos play on the computer screen. People browse through the short-stock, finding brain-stimuli to rent. A janitor mops, and the woman at the front desk clicks away at a keyboard, speaking into her headpiece, as the computer autocorrects her mistakes: the constant daily battle of machine vs human.

“Do you know what this place is?”

“A Barn?”

“Yes, but do you know what it really is?”

“A place where people come to use computers and check out brain-stimuli?”

“But I mean the history?”

“I don’t know, I never thought about it.”

“I’m sure you haven’t. Probably came in here and checked out the brain-stimuli stock, too. Sat in your room, plugged yourself in, and laid back in your bed, staring at the ceiling.”

“Of course.”

“How big are rooms nowadays?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how big was the room you used to rent. Where you used to live?”

“Just the bed, the TV on the wall. A little bathroom in the corner.”

“I haven’t been in a room in years.”

“You’re in a room right now,” laughs Mark.

“Smartass, eh?” laughs the Man, “But seriously, these Barns, they’re nothing but old public resource centres and libraries. They used to serve the communities, had programs for kids, taught writing, and all kinds of stuff. They were places where people could come and check out books. But no one reads anymore…no one even thinks.”

Mark frowns. The man’s attitude is enough to make Mark want to punch his teeth out. Then he won’t need to get them fixed. Who does he think he is? Asking goofy questions like he knows something: like he’s better than a man with a job. There’s nothing in the world a man without a job can tell him. A job pays enough to live indoors, away from the street-gremlins.

“Believe it or not, that meal we had was probably the realest meal you’ve had in a while,” the man says, “ They act like it’s unwanted food, but it’s the opposite. The food they sell, the restaurants, it’s all chemicals they pump into you, to mess with your brain.”

“Mess with my brain? What the fuck are you talking about? My brain isn’t the one fucked up here.”

“Calm down, big guy, I didn’t mean anything by it. I want to show you something, though.”

“No, I don’t know…you’re kind of creeping me out. I don’t usually come to these dinners, you know, I’m just in between jobs. I’ll get back on my feet.”

“You don’t understand, I’m not judging you, I’m warning you. They’ll put you out of work, just so they can bring you back at an even lower wage. You, being so grateful, won’t even realize what they’re doing: you won’t even remember that you used to make more. Have more. They’ll give you more brain-stimuli, even less nutrition, until you’re paying for the vitamin pills. You won’t even realize what they’re doing. What those pills are.”

“What are you talking about? I ain’t like these other people. I’m not a bum.”

“Pride…pride. I see it. You know what a barn used to be? It used to be a place where a man would store and feed animals. Now it’s where they store and feed us because we refuse their vitamins. But even the people here…most of them don’t see it. Most are so addicted to Giga and other drugs that they’re just as much in the dark. Sure, I’ll drink beers like old Russ, but guys like us grew up on that shit. That shit is still real in some way. But the food today, ain’t the same.”

There was something in the way he spoke that was no longer annoying Mark: a sort of sincerity. Wasn’t food different before? Ripe, red tomatoes, lush green lettuce, brown beef…maybe the man wasn’t crazy. Even the corn soup tonight…didn’t corn used to be yellow?

“You know, I was just thinking that at dinner.”

“I see something in you…You’re not gone just yet…I want to show you a secret. You asked how I survive, well, I’ll show you how. I may be the last person in town that even knows how to do this. It’s my little secret. We’re going to have to go for a little walk, though.”

**

Lunch time. Rebecca and the staff converge in the employee break room. The bigwigs are in to congratulate everyone on a job well done. Employee Appreciation Day. Free food: from the company. They give their pep talk, with smiles on their faces. A buffet of food as a gift for another strong quarter. “Next quarter will be even better!” they say. “Keep up the good work!” The employees eat in silence as the bigwigs laugh and sit among them. They make small talk and laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. They all eat, sharing as one. When it’s time to go back to work, Rebecca gets back to her station, but realizes she’s forgotten her employee name tag in the break room and has to go back to get it because any employee found without a name tag and accompanying employee number could face disciplinary action, and without the job Rebecca knows she can’t go back to her parents who have recently been forced out of their home, can’t find anywhere else to work, and in a panic she rushes to retrieve her name tag, but stops at the break room door because she hears the big wigs talking in tones she’s never heard before and the frightening inflection of words is a dissection of everything they’re talked about today, only now they speak the truth among themselves and Rebecca, behind the door, trembling, hears the truth and knows they didn’t eat what they ate at lunch. Knows there is no happy customer guarantee. Knows nothing will ever be the same again. White as a ghost, she zombie-walks back to her workstation as coworkers stare at her. She whispers something into the ear of the woman working the grill, and her jaw drops as the burger flipper falls from her hand and crashes on the floor. The woman runs out of the restaurant and screams to the lineup of people waiting to get their food, and, finally, everyone knows the truth.

**

“Kid, let me show you what a real barn is,” says the man with the bad teeth.

In a field overgrown with grass, the man leads Mark into a big wooden structure with decaying wood and an unfamiliar smell. His eyes itch; he hears the clucking of chickens, but these don’t look like any chicken he’s ever seen on TV or brain-stimuli videos. In the corner are potted plants, thick with sprouts and vines protruding in every direction, as chickens walk around, jiving their heads in motion with their clucks. A large cow in the corner chews on hay. The pair walk over to the potted plants, and the man picks a tomato as Mark stares in wonder. He remembers red tomatoes.

“Can’t grow too much outside, if I ever get caught, I’ll be arrested for sure. Back in the day, everything was grown out in the open. I got some carrots, potatoes, and onions out around the left corner there, but these babies I have to keep hidden. My tomatoes, my peppers, my broccoli and cabbage: I gotta keep it all here. But this is it, kid. This is how I survive out here. I grow and sell real food to the highest bidder, people who know that real food still exists. I may be the last person in town that know how to grow vegetables or take care of chickens. I grew up on a farm as a kid. But don't take my word for it... here, take a bite,” he says, handing the tomato over.

Mark holds it, staring gently, before taking a bite, and as nutrients hit his system, tears fill his eyes.

“It’s real,” he cries… “I see the truth. I remember the past…I remember this from my childhood. I fell, I feel…I feel alive!” he yells as he falls to his knees.

The man with the bad teeth smiles.

**

Lying in the fetal position, back to nose and knee, back to nose and knee, like shrimp on a skewer, the line to the restaurant. Customers lying on the pavement. No one says a word. Breathing, eyes open. Paralyzed. Police enter the restaurant. The sound of the fryer sizzling, and the smell of something burning fills their nostrils. The cops sniff the air, looking at each other, as if they suddenly realize the truth, too. Employees lay in different corners, beside the fryer, underneath tables, in the backroom, on the floor in the fetal position. Breathing, eyes open. Paralyze