Bacon Lettuce Tomato

How do they make tomatoes grey? Shit. I said that one out loud. Can almost hear Gobshite's brain, whirring into action. Being a know-it-all is the one thing he values above his time. He'd happily waste his few daily minutes to tell me exactly how they do it. 

As if I don't already know. They tweaked the pigmentation genes over the years, breeding out the colour. Same as the grey lettuce and the grey pigs, at least the bread's still white. 

Gobshite turns around, pushes his glasses up on his nose. He means business. Well, actually, they—

I hold up my hand, smile, give a little shake of my head. You're alright, Gob ... er, Gavin. It was rhetorical. I know how they did it. Gobshite shoots daggers at me, turns back to his screen and clicks into his next call.

I take another bite of BLT. Did it always taste like this, back when tomatoes were red? How can a sandwich and a pear and ice cream all taste basically the same? Shouldn't they taste less generic, of something more than ... food?

I know the answer. Pretty sure I do. It’s the colour, or lack of it. Nobody else seems to mind, I'm obsessed. I wake up every grey morning in the same grey bed, put on the same grey clothes, and walk the same grey streets to the same grey office. Is it any wonder I'm grey too. That all of us are? One homogenous, colourless, lifeless blob.

I heard there’s a museum somewhere that preserved everything. Yellow taxi, red postbox, even a little patch of green grass, apparently. You can walk on it barefoot. Supposed to feel like nothing you've ever experienced. Of course, nobody knows where this museum is, or what it's called, or even if it exists in the first place. Probably an urban myth, like that actor and the hamsters.

A message pops up on my screen. OPERATOR #22, YOU HAVE BEEN INACTIVE FOR NINE MINUTES. KINDLY RETURN TO WORK WITHIN SIXTY-SECONDS OR YOU WILL BE TERMINATED WITH IMMEDIATE EFFECT.

A countdown begins: 60, 59, 58...

Terminated? So bloody dramatic. Although, would it be that bad if I was? I'm sure I could find a different grey job in a different grey building, selling different grey shit to different grey people. Couldn't I? I could just forget about work altogether. Eke out my days doing, I dunno what.

40, 39, 38...

Weird that bread's still white, now I think about it. Isn't white made up of all colours, same as black? Or are they both shades, rather than colours? Am I thinking of light beams? No idea. Can never remember this stuff. Sure Gobshite would know. Anyway, seems like a grey area to me. Pun intended.

30, 29, 28...

I look out at the charcoal sky, the mosaic of ashen buildings staring back at me. Two almost-black birds smudge across the window and back again. I take another bite of sandwich, trying to imagine it in colour. Imagine how that would taste. Impossible. Can't imagine colour with no point of reference. Can't create something from nothing.

20, 19, 18...

Should be careful thinking about all this. Who knows when they'll start using our thoughts for more than advertising. It's not worth thinking too much about anything, best to just get on with it. Life. Relentless, pointless, colourless existence.

10, 9, 8...

I stuff the last bite of sandwich into my mouth, barely chewing. Dry swallow. Breathe.

5, 4...

I put on my headset, take a gulp of coffee, press the button.

Good morning Mrs Smith, you recently had some thoughts about weight loss. Well, I'm calling from Skin-E-Jab, with a special offer that aligns perfectly with your own mind. Click.

Not interested. Nobody ever is. When will they realise that we have no intention of acting on our every thought? You'd have to be mental to do that, believe everything you think. People don't need to be pressured anymore, if they ever did. If they want to buy shit they will. What else is there to do?

Even though I've used up all my minutes, I think about a toilet break. Could argue it's an emergency. But, how long could I drag that out, realistically. Is it worth the hassle? Maybe I should just quit after all. Live on UBI like half the country. Survive on it, I suppose, can't really call it living. Though, I'm not sure there's much difference these days. 

I force a very clear thought, just in case. Actually, I can wait. Can't be doing with another digital bollocking. This job is important to me. No matter how futile and meaningless everything is. I am making a difference.

Suppose I could jump out the window. End it all in a big monochrome splat on the pavement. What colour is bone?

I rub my temples, my eyes, my face. Slap my cheeks, hard. A few people turn to stare at me, a second passes, they go back to their screens. I roll up my shirt sleeves. Take a deep breath in, breathe out a little, press the button.

Hello Hugh. Shit. We are glad you finally called. We have been waiting. This isn't meant to happen. Do not say anything. Continue to think about your sandwich. How do they make tomatoes grey? Listen. You are right. Is white a colour or a shade? There is more, much more, and we will show it to you. What about black? Once we hang up this call, count to five, then walk to the window. Was that actually bacon? The answers will be out there. Click.

One ... two ... fuck ... was ... that?

I take off my headset, ignore the message flashing up on my screen, walk over to the window. I stare out over the desaturated city. The answers will be out there? Can't see a thing. Just the same grey buildings, same grey sky, same grey clouds. On the washed-out streets below, little grey ants go about their little grey lives.

I'm actually surprised we don't get more cranks and pranks. Suppose most people aren't sitting around, script in hand, waiting for a mind-marketing agency to call. Ready to fuck with us before we fuck with them. Still, this guy got me good. I'm probably already terminated. I step slowly backwards, towards my desk. How did they know my name?

A crack appears at the top of the window in front of me. I inhale a sharp shard of air. The crack is a colour, I think. Red, maybe? The red crack swells and grows into a red object. A feather, rolling down the pane of glass, grey sky healing over behind it. I'm sure it's red. Looks warm, powerful, like blood's supposed to.

I turn and look around the office. Is everyone seeing this? No. Everyone is perfectly still, paused, even Gobshite. There is no movement and no sound. I try to breathe, no air. 

Somebody once told me that, in a vacuum, a bowling ball and a feather would fall at the same speed. What about a body? 

The red feather spins and trickles out of view. I turn and sprint through the office, taking two steps at a time down to the next floor. I burst through the door labelled ACCOUNTS and run to the same grey window. The feather is nowhere to be seen. I press my face against the glass. Look up, look down, already two floors below.

Back out into the stairwell, I rush down the remaining floors and spill out into the lobby. I hurry past Big Dave, staring at motionless screens, dodge a couple of suits standing in frozen conversation, and spin through the door out onto the street.

It's cold out here. Bright. My eyes strain up against the vibrant grey sky. At the single drop of red falling towards me. I open my palms and let the feather settle onto them, my hands crash together around the weight of it. How heavy is brick? 

My whole body begins to vibrate internally. Nothing else moves. My veins surge with energy. I am locked in place. Arms out in front, hands clasped tight, glowing bright grey. Like I'm holding a lightbulb, or the sunrise. 

Warmth seeps into my palms and the glow begins to change. The grey becomes something else. Colour. My hands glow the colour of old skin. It bleeds up onto my wrists, my forearms, my elbows. Dampens the sleeves of my shirt with another pale colour, blue?

It flows over my shoulders and across my chest. What colour is this tie? I feel the warmth of colour flow down my torso and up to my neck. The colour, the energy, laps against my face. It's all too much. When did I last take a breath? 

I open my mouth. Try to breathe. Colour bursts out of me. Too many colours to name radiate from my body, flooding the whole city. Windows reflect the now bright blue sky, buildings are washed in various earthy tones, the yellow-orange sun warms a rainbow of faces. 

Air returns to the world and I desperately gulp a big breath of it. Things start to move around me. Bluebirds swoop and sing, dogs chase each other across the park's green grass, a siren rings out somewhere in the distance, no doubt accompanied by flashes of red and blue. 

I stand for a moment and drink it all in. All the intoxicating colours. Nothing has changed. People carry on as if this was just another regular Wednesday, running their errands, dashing between meetings, staring vacantly into phones. Completely oblivious to their own vibrant uniqueness.

The tide of energy inside me lulls to stillness. I pull my hands close into my body, open them, gently. The bright red feather stares back at me. I didn't even know there were red birds. I bring the feather up to my eyes and examine it, looking for more. Looking for the answers. Finding none.

I slide the red feather into my shirt pocket and cross the road. The deli door opens with a familiar ping. Tony's smile greets me, warm as ever, a little confused. Can I get another BLT, please? And a black coffee.