Harvard Smith and the Sleep Machine

Harvard Smith only half remembered what the embrace of a human being felt like. It was a distant memory, the glow of a fire across the tundra at night, with no way of approximating its distance. He was certain he had once had two parents but only remembered the man. Sometimes he thought all the old films he spent all day with had merely seeded those archetypes of the nuclear family in his head, though he wasn’t sure.

The man had certainly been real once. The silver heart locket with his image in it was proof. The man had shown Harvard all types of things like how to plug into the sleep machine, how to open supply drops and what each type of siren meant. If it wasn’t for that man Harvard would most likely be dead. He had seen what happens to people that can’t open the boxes or have broken sleep machines and they often don’t last long. That’s why he was shaking and stuttering on the day he opened his box and found nothing inside of it.

No food. No water. No soap. An empty box. It must have been a mistake. But who’s mistake?

He waved the heart locket furiously in front of the latch again and again before processing that it was in fact open. Of course that wasn’t the problem- the heart locket worked for everything; It opened his domicile, let him log onto the internet and turned on his sleep machine. The key wasn’t the issue, the empty box was. Harvard wasn’t aware of the history of the locket but it was originally designed as a non-fungible token many years ago. As a unique signifier, it was a convenient way for families to store shared data and pass it down. This hub was useful for digital currency, emails, passwords and even family scrapbooks. Fast forward several generations and it was taken for granted that these family artifacts were the keys to everything including food and shelter.

Looking around he saw the other dozen people from his corner of camp but none of them seemed to also have an empty box. Frank wasn’t the nicest but he was the oldest as far as anyone could tell. If anyone had advice it would be him. Harvard approached in the typical manner with his eyes averted and his fingers splayed out at his side. Other approaches had been known to incite violence. “Frank,” he said hurriedly, “ev... ever see empty box before?”

Despite spending most of their day watching films and therefore being immersed in mock human interactions, all of the humans at the camp were very cold and awkward with one another. They fled from the outside world into their twenty square foot bunkers to drown out the sirens, robotic guard dogs and the shame of one another. All of them lacked the ability to share their pain in a therapeutic way. Their longing for affection wasn’t completely satiated by the familiar faces of their favorite actors yet it had become the devil that they knew. A damp blanket on a cool night but a blanket, still.

Frank briefly and angrily looked toward Harvard and stopped, half afraid because he would have made eye contact if Harvard was looking up and half surprised that anyone would speak to him now, right after the supply drop. The black birds had just left and their whirring was still audible. The violent wind was both a trigger for feelings of love and horror. “What?! No, no. Never.”

Harvard felt terrible making his problems Frank’s. He desperately wished he was strong enough to buttress the situation on his own. “The birds won’t return soon… water? Please?” He gently raised a hand toward Frank who was actively leaning away from him.

Frank slapped Harvard’s hand in a knee-jerk reaction that confused the fight or flight from thousands of years of scarcity with the perceived threat of forgoing a social nicety. Embarrassed but unsure how to correct the situation, Frank took a loaf of bread and two water bottles out of his box and tossed them toward Harvard before stumbling back into his bunker.

Harvard dropped to his knees and looked out past the fences at the green-tinged sky. Camp was cold most of the year and that day was no exception. He felt so many conflicting things. The shock of the empty box still hadn’t left him but what was front and center in his attention was the warmth and sting in his hand. It was the first time he had been touched by someone in well over three years and he was ashamed to enjoy it. He ruminated on the warmth as it was in stark relief with the cold night air. Had he any tears left they’d have been cried.

After a moment he picked up the water and bread and ran towards his own bunker as the night sirens rang out. It was time to return for the evening and he normally refrained from dallying at the supply drops. He knew everyone was looking at him but the boy refused to acknowledge them. Once inside his bunker he switched on the wall screens to his favorite show, Pop’s Garage. It was a sitcom from a far-removed era about a father and son that fixed cars and trucks. The other thing Harvard watched all the time were instructional videos for automotive repair. He had never seen a car in person but he could have rebuilt the engine of a 2038 F690 pickup if he had all the right tools.

Pop’s Garage used canned laughter in a tongue in cheek way as a throwback to when it was a common occurrence but Harvard didn’t really understand that. He was too removed from the cultural context of the things he enjoyed. He barely understood the colloquialisms let alone the puns but something about the show’s cadence and characters comforted him and he needed it more than ever after the box and the sirens. He looked at the water but knew he’d have to go without it until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He thought about the man who had taught him how to use the locket and the boxes and somehow felt like he had let him down. It didn’t make sense to blame himself but he did so automatically as a way to process the trauma, given no recourse for unanswered questions.

The audience's laughter interrupted his thoughts but felt like a lullaby. The sting in his hand was gone though he clung to the memory. He decided to indulge in another past time: using the locket to peruse the man’s histories. Bank statements, internet searches, letters to friends and family- most things were preserved forever in a private database accessible with the locket. Harvard used a portable kiosk so he could keep Pop’s Garage going on the wall.

The boy was compelled to do something he didn’t often allow himself and that was looking at pictures and letters from who was most probably his mother. He knew wars were going on when he was little and he and the man got separated from her. Occasionally he’d have glimpses of real memories but they frightened him more than they sparked his wonder. More than anything he wished to hide from every real aspect of himself.

Coming across a letter from his father he was reminded of something- drones were used in wars. He hadn’t even heard that name in a long time and it took him a moment to realize they were the same machines they called black birds. Why would anyone use them to send both food and bombs? It didn’t make sense to him. Harvard’s brain was so splintered that when things took too many steps to untangle he often became anxious and stopped thinking altogether.

Harvard looked at the sleep machine. It was a little earlier than he typically used it but he thought it necessary. He used the locket to sign in and unlock the sleep chamber. It was like a bed but also like tupperware and reminded him of some things he had seen in old movies about space. It cost fifty credits to unlock but he’d earn that much per hour of sleep and he thought that was pretty fair.

Sleep set in quickly and brought the only true relief anyone in the camp knew. Sure, the shows were fine, they distracted well enough. But they were still a constant reminder of their own failures and inabilities. Sleep was different: it was nothing. Harvard thought briefly about where he went when he wasn’t awake. The thought, existing with no sounding boards and no prospective answers, was terrifying. Thankfully, the blackness set in.

A headache jolted Harvard awake and was surprised to see it was three hours before his sleep timer was supposed to go off. Worse, it seemed all the lights were out. He removed the stickers at his temples and lifted up the hatch of the sleep chamber. Nervously he made his way to the door and opened it a crack after using the locket to undo the locks. Smoke rose from the central camp and dissipated toward the cold, green sky. The Sun wouldn’t be up for another hour or two but, coming from darkness, Harvard’s eyes adjusted more quickly than anticipated.

The boy carefully walked out several steps and waited. Did he expect anyone else to emerge from their bunkers? Perhaps he hoped for it. It would mean he wasn’t alone. He began hurriedly walking toward the other bunkers and listening for any signs of life. He saw light coming from the cracks of one and heard the sounds of the films left on through sleep. It was true that he was alone in this experience.

Unsure what else to do, Harvard stumbled toward the south end of the camp. It had some shrubs and occasionally some flowers that he would make a point to walk by on warmer afternoons. He looked at the bunkers and the camp while he leaned on the fence. No sooner had he sat down a robotic dog approached him and a human voice came from within it crying “Back to your bunker!” flanked on either end by sharp lights and clicking noises.

“Why was my box empty, huh? Why?” Harvard yelled at the metal beast. Somehow the words felt good though he was shaking so hard he couldn’t see straight. “Why is my sleep gone? Why me?”

“We got a sleepwalker,” the voice said, seemingly to someone else, and Harvard now had more questions than ever.

A mist whafted from the dog’s eyes and once again the blackness set in for Harvard.

Harvard awoke in a sweat. The lights were back on but the headache was still there. Part of him thought he had just imagined the night’s events but his smouldering rage was proof. Proof that he had asked questions and got no answers. Proof that his hands were forever tied behind his back in this world. Proof of his unending impotence.

The boy picked up one of the water bottles and drank the entire contents without stopping to breathe. Swinging open the bunker door he was temporarily blinded by the Sun that burned green spikes of light toward his eyes. He spotted Frank when his eyes focused and wasted no time in marching toward him.

Frank was stunned and dropped the laundry that he was bringing to the communal laundry room. He was amazed that the boy refused to avert his eyes. A wild haymaker would put him on the ground. He covered his face with his hands but dared not fight back.

Harvard, gripping the locket in one hand, would keep swinging with both as they became warmer and warmer, returning the affection that was once given to him. The camp’s people couldn’t look away. After a moment, they would quietly shut their doors and turn on their favorite shows.