Station Hoppin' Blues

Foley steps off their bed onto old wobbly knees, a consequence of drug induced stasis and a decade since they last indulged. Their mattress sits beside an abandoned church organ, who’s keys thud anticlimactically when Foley uses them to balance. Shaking away the pins and needles in their legs, Foley heads to the bathroom and twists the tap for water. Nothing.

They try another sink. Nothing.

“Who forgot to pay the water bill?” They ask the congregation of junkies squatting inside the church. All too spaced out or pissed off to respond.

“So it goes, I suppose,” Foley says to themself.

Returning to the bed by the organ, they collect a pair of sunglasses, straw hat, and… phone? Foley swipes away empty boxes of prescription painkillers to grab their phone perched against a makeshift mortar and pestle.

Approaching the entrance of the Church, Foley turns around to address the congregation.

“I’m going to the store for some water. Any takers?”

Silence.

“Well, okay th…”

“Wait!” cries a faint voice.

Foley stops to see a skeletal man emerge from behind the pew, clearly awakening from his own stasis. He struggles to say, “the Clover on Montrose... could you give this to, Sylvia?” Indicating to the piece of paper in his hand.

Looking into his sullen eyes, Foley recognizes him as the one who regaled them with story after story when first arriving to the church (how ever long ago that was). Interest faded as their high did, but the tales brought comfort to Foley when they sought refuge from their thoughts. Foley always referred to him as “The Author” in their head.

“I doubt I’ll be going that far,” Foley responds.

“Please? I would… not like this” The Author says, but what Foley hears is, “I can’t miss the next pill delivery”.

Regardless of motive, they grab the letter and say, “if I pass by.”

Foley reads the note written on tissue paper, “I always appreciated your support. Sorry I gave up”. Looking back to The Author, Foley gives him a farewell tip of the hat.

As they exit the church, it begins to rain, then instantly dries up and is replaced by vivid sunshine. The harsh change in brightness bypasses the low level of codeine in Foley’s system, producing sharp pain in their eyes. The glasses and hat help, but cloud cover offers true relief.

Passing the Church's “For Lease” sign (reading, “practice your faith here, with Milky Reality [a subdivision of the COSAC corporation]”), Foley looks up through the holes in their hat as the sky overhead glitches wildly, freezes and is replaced by solid blue casting the whole station in a cobalt hue. A loading bar stretches across the horizon. Foley pulls a cigarette from their pocket as their phone projects the message, “COSAC STATION MANAGEMENT APOLOGISE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE, AND ASSURE OUR RESIDENTS, THE SKY WILL BE BACK SOON!” The same message pops up in front of everyone along the street, but seldom seem to care.

“The Galactic Centre really is a shitshow.” Foley comments, taking another drag of their cigarette, instantly regretting the decision as it aggravates their throat and thirst. At least this station has more mini-marts than the last one they were on. Across the street is a C7 [a subdivision of the COSAC corporation], with windows advertising “Earth Water: fresh from the source of life!” and a picture of a pristine bottle on a bed of dewy moss.

Fluorescent yellow mixes with the blue emanating from the sky, flooding the C7 in a sickly green light which leaks onto the street. Foley enters the store and searches for water, but the shelves are empty. Frustrated, they yell to the comatose clerk behind the counter, “Have you got any water out the back, or even a tap?”

Sloth like, the clerk responds, “Still waiting on a delivery. No tap, either. We got plenty of Sodi Colas [a product of the VENUS corporation].”

“I need water, not sugar,” Foley says as they exit the store, paying no mind to the clerk’s recommendation of Sodi Cola Nil [a product of the VENUS corporation] as replacement.

Following their phone to the next C7, Foley's eye is caught by a puddle of rainwater on the curb. Desperate to quench their ravenous thirst, Foley dives for the concrete oasis, but before they can reach the ground, the water’s absorbed into the pavement for use in the next rain cycle.

Still kissing the curb, “fuckin’ shitshow.”

Turning onto their back, Foley sees the loading bar on the horizon finally full and in an instant, “natural” blue sky returns. With the light, comes a familiar pain in Foley’s retinas, alerting them how dangerously close sobriety is. They stand up so fast, blood rushes to their head, and once settled back into their body, they enter the narrow paths of the station's shopping district.

Crowded alleys boast of treats, clothes and treasures from across the galaxy, all densely packed by well dressed shoppers and competing holographic advertising. The most egregious ad promotes, “THE NEBULA CYCLE. The latest series by the best selling INFINITE MONKEY machine [a product of the COSAC corporation], and perfect for your next summer read”, the text is surrounded by colourful swirling nebula. As the advertisement dissipates into nothingness, it's absence reveals the red and yellow branding of C7. With little regard for anyone in their way, Foley marches towards the store.

The pale yellow fluorescent makes the green light of the previous C7 seem welcoming, but Foley’s doesn’t care about aesthetics right now. They v-line for the fridge, licking their lips in anticipation of hydration, but are blocked at the last second by an elderly person reaching into the fridge for the last bottle of water.

“I’ll buy that off you!” Foley offers so loud it makes them jump.

“Excuse me?” they ask.

Pointing to the bottle in their hand, “That water, I’ll pay you double for it!”

The elderly person looks perplexed, until they clutches the bottle towards their chest and say,

“Make it triple.”

Unsure whether to be impressed or appalled, Foley reluctantly agrees. Both hold up their phones to transfer funds, but the beeps that ensue are too high pitched and frequent for it to have worked. Foley finally clocks how much they are charging, and their jaw almost hits the floor.

“You lil’ extortionist, how do you justify charging that?”

The elderly person shrugs and points to the shelf where they picked up the bottle, “we agreed on triple.”

Foley compares the $40 price point to the $96 in their name. “Forget it,” they relent and lets the shopper make their purchase uninterrupted. Foley considers questioning the clerk on how they could charge so much, but realize they’d have better luck convincing a wall it’s the floor.

Returning to the maddening crowds ebbing and flowing from shop to shop, Foley stops dead at the flash of familiar auburn hair. “Kathleen?”, they ask no one. Forgetting all circumstance which brought them there, Foley chases the hair through the cramped alleys.

Eventually, it stops at a stall smelling of tofu so foul, it curls Foley’s nose hairs. The auburn locks turn to reveal the face underneath. It’s not Kathleen. A tidal wave of memories and regret wash over Foley, the biggest being Kathleen’s face reddened by tears.

“NOPE!” Foley yells as they begin hitting the side of their head violently. A few shoppers stop with fleeting concern, but none actually help. After enough hits, Kathleen’s face is replaced by desires for water and pill-shaped relief. Foley opens their eyes to a stranger’s phone recording their every move, and bow before taking their exit.

Leaving the shopping district, the sky glitches it’s best attempt at a sunset, and Foley lights another cigarette while finding their barring's. The smoke leads their gaze to the street sign above them, “Montrose Rd”. Remembering The Author’s note, Foley reaches for their pocket, but is overcome by a coughing attack which turns their throat into a raging inferno. Heat and pain settle in as Foley regains composure to check around for a source of water.

A block away, as if lite by destiny itself, Foley sees the four illuminated pedals of “Clover Mini-mart: proudly independent!”. Despite all the aggravation, Foley can’t help but laugh at the ironic exclamation of independence, knowing stores like these exist on every station as a case in point for the, “What monopoly?” defense of whichever conglomerate owns it.

Entering the empty Clover, Foley runs toward the refrigerator to see it full of life giving water! Not wasting a moment on decorum, they grab a bottle and pour it’s contents down their throat with such gusto, swallowing can’t match the incoming liquid. The overflow cascades down their neck and saturates their clothes, but their esophagus is too relieved to care. Finally breaking for a gasp of air, Foley checks the price ($20, a pop) and grabs as many bottles as their wallet will allow.

Watching from the counter, the clerk gets more apprehensive as this drenched cowboy junkie approaches and leans forward to read her nametag.

“You’re Syliva,” Foley exclaims! Their excitement putting her even more on edge.

“I have a message for you!” Fumbling through their pocket, they pull out a dripping piece of white fiber and place it on the counter, trying to flatten it back out again. Foley’s erratic cursing of The Author for using such flimsy paper, causes Sylvia to place her finger on the emergency button under the till.

“Ah damn it all,” Foley yells as the tissue becomes more mush than paper. “Anyways, it’s from…” remembering, The Author, is not actually a name. “Uh… someone. Who says…Um... They appreciate you giving up. Sorry.”

Hearing the words out loud, and seeing the bewilderment on Sylvia’s face, Foley says, “No no, not that,” and begin repeatedly hitting their forehead with their palm, hoping to jog their memory, but no luck.

“FUCK!” Foley yells so loud, Sylvia shudders and accidentally presses the button. Her eyes widen as she’s not entirely sure what happens next. Clocking her unease, and where her hand is, experience tells Foley it won’t be long before the station’s HR come to take them away. Wasting no time, they grab all the water from the counter and bolt out the store without another word to Sylvia.

Enjoying a cigarette back at the “for lease” sign, Foley watches the night sky shift between several star formations before reverting to the solid blue from earlier and another loading bar on the horizon. Swiping away the apology message from management, they enter the church and are greeted with expectant stares from the congregation. All turn in disappointment when they realize it’s not the delivery they were hoping for, except The Author who smiles as Foley approaches.

“Did you…” his eyes shimmering with such hope, Foley dare not dim them.

“I did.” The Author falls back with an expression of pride in finally doing something worthwhile.

“Thank you… I’m glad she… knows… ” He says. As The Author falls back asleep, Foley places a water bottle by his side and returns to their spot by the organ.

Thoughts of The Author and Sylvia, lead to Kathleen. Rather than fight it, Foley pulls out a small ball from their pocket and presses the button on it’s surface, projecting a large holographic map of the galaxy before them. Hundreds of markers fill the map, indicating different satellites, planets and stars. All the stations from Earth to the centre of the galaxy, have a green tick by the name of the company which owns them. All except for one at the very centre of the milky way, orbiting the black hole, Sagittarius A*. Foley leans in to read it’s name, AZZIOM 34-XE.

“Time to open the box and see what’s inside, Kathleen.”