One Afternoon Calm in 2067

“No. I can’t talk about it.”

“Sure, you don’t have to… but seeing that you’re the only one, out of a few lucky survivors in your country, able to speak in English, we simply cannot waste time any longer. I know how time has suddenly become precious to everyone.”

Indeed, there is no point for Willy Eugenio to even think about what had happened during the past seventy years. He does not even know when he is turning 98, for it has been a while since calendars were manufactured and delivered into the small town of Pelaez. In fact, nothing has been manufactured and delivered, for there were no more manufacturers and deliverers able to do so. Some say the culprit is lung cancer, others heatstroke. Even a few proclaim hunger. His neighbors and their noisy children have gone missing, no surprise to him. Nevertheless, Willy treated the formal man with disregard. With his mouth open, he sat deaf inside his humble hut and stared blankly at the windy fields, eagerly awaiting his demise. The curious interlocutor, a representative of a global organization, took a smaller chair and rested, observing Willy and the house’s interior. The unknown man’s suitcase had ‘Chua’ written on the handle.

“What year is it?”, Willy asked.

Chua checked his phone and replied, “Today is June 30, 2067.” Willy nodded and resumed staring blankly at the fields. Chua glanced at the broken wooden mantel and examined the dirty objects from afar. Two boxes of matches were stacked beside an old lamp. Below the mantel, books and parchments had brown, oaky pages. On the wall, a peppered moth remained still. A round, dead clock hung nearby. Its arms have fallen inside, trapped by the glass. If a battery is inserted on the back, Chua thought, time will move but will never be told.

“Look, we just came here for answers. We are ready to provide anything you need or want, for free. We will give you food, we will fix your health. We can take care of your fields. We can give you a new home.”

“No doctors... no one to take out the trash… there’s no hope… I’m staying here. I’m dying here.”

“Alright, you can stay here. It’s just… there’s nothing to lose, you know, when you give us information? These are simply your memories. This is history. This also makes it your legacy.” Willy shared nothing but silence. Chua drowned in such awe and confusion, even he questioned why he was there. As much as he wants to sympathize, he must still make the taciturn elder speak. Further silence ensued as Chua attempted to adapt to the environment. He hears faint orchestral echoes from great distances, wondering if they were real or hallucinatory. The afternoon had them feeling warm yet chilly.

“I know it’s been tough. I’ve lost children myself.”

“I never had any children,” Willy interjected. “I’ve met women and I had loved one, but my duty was more important to me. Ever since my friend had died in the pandemic, I swore that I will live a life of service.” A wistful sigh. “He was truly extraordinary. He helped a lot of people in our old neighborhood, fixing their machines and making them feel safe. Unfortunately, heroism in this world is abused.” His jaws trembled.

“Which pandemic are we talking about?”

“Not the COVID-19 one, the one before that, it was around 1990.” Chua took notes of the minor details.

“And how was it, living here, in the aftermath of that other pandemic?”

“It happened slowly, but everyone knew it was happening. It started earlier but no one really cared until later. When I biked in my thirties, the highways reeked exclusively of light, sweat, and smoke. For every hour I was outside, I drank at least two bottles of water just to feel refreshed. As I started my own farm in my forties, flash floods in the nearby towns were all over the radio. It was strange when I went to the district market, seeing all these people walking around, looking down on some small screens. Around 2020, maybe it was 2022, drought had affected my tomato and kangkong plantations for about four months. Then potatoes and rice followed, then okra. My television stopped working in 2027, as I remember it. After that, the rains had only worsened. It’s only a miracle that that old rusty water pump outside is still working.” Chua had stopped scribbling. He took his phone and tapped on an app.

“Around 2030, what had happened?”

“I saw it all coming. No one cared, but I did!” Willy’s melancholy turned into hopelessness. For once, he had the freedom to explain. “Since I was 21 or 22, I had always left my plates clean after eating. I know what food waste means, and I never took food that I cannot finish. People didn’t.” Willy creaked and grunted as he stood up. He took small, calculated steps as he paced towards the water pump.

“Who are you?”

“People call me Chua.”

“Follow me.” Chua pitied. He brought his shoulder over the senile man and accompanied him for a quarter of an eternity.

“I’ve long prepared for the worst and the most obvious outcome. People like you, however, like to take your time. You take your time so much until you have no more time left, and then you ask me where all the time has gone. Amazingly shortsighted and ungrateful. Your politics brought you nowhere. Where is my kettle?”

Chua swiftly went back inside and found it, a coal-coated container, appearing to be on the brink of breaking. He brought it hurriedly to Willy, whose stiff fingers were worn down from setting the charcoal on the small stone furnace. He can’t help but inquire.

“You use coals for cooking?”

“Why yes, because I planted this in the forests back in 2006 and it fell down last week. Look over there.” Behind the hut, a lush green scenery is painted over the horizon. “I planted all of that. I dedicated a whole year of my life planting saplings in that patch of land.”

“Is this land yours?”

“My dead friend, his family entrusted this to me. Give me the kettle, go over there, and push the lever down.” Chua put the phone in his pocket and struggled.

“Push it down again. Again!” Chua did it once more, and water swished towards the kettle. “Stop pushing! A single drop of that costs more than your life.” Willy carefully carried the filled kettle and set it atop the furnace. The two men sat on the dry, silty soil and shared the warmth.

“Your parents, what happened to them?”

“I never knew who my parents were. I had worked at a junk shop throughout my childhood, always accompanied by my friend’s father. I was not legally adopted but since then, I had assisted the family in their many attempts at small businesses. Things like starting an eatery or doing laundry. Many years passed and soon enough, my friend had treated me like a brother, and his parents had treated me like a son.”

“What was your friend’s name?”

“…I don’t remember.”

Willy weakly rubbed his hands and faced his palms towards the heat. Chua followed suit. The water bubbled for a few minutes.

“Do you have any more details in your life from around 2030?”

“All they cared about is how great they looked. How good everything seemed to be. How fun it is to be ignorant. People only care about what is immediately visible. No one cares about foul-smelling sewers and towering landfills. No one talks about dark skies when most only see blue. From oceans sprung organisms, to humans spilling oil and gas, an asinine ‘thank you’ in return. Glaciers flow slow, but icebergs melt quick. Corals and stalagmites take years to grow yet only seconds to die. No one talks about all the extinct species. Dinosaurs, sometimes. Blame carbon for giving life and causing death. Information at your fingertips, reality out of reach. Identity confusion, mass hysteria. To be human is an error. Seeking to do everything. Tired of doing nothing, tired for doing nothing. Regenerate cells, extend lifetimes. Exponential growth, exponential decay. War and peace, coming soon in theaters. Theism, deism, atheism. Hedonism, stoicism, nihilism. Intelligent but reckless. Use and waste energy, use and waste mind. Learn garbage, recycle history. Live life to the foulest. Forget the past, forget the future.”

Chua zoned out.

“Those are corn stalks,” said Willy as he pointed on the windy fields. The sad kettle whistled. “Do you have a cup?”

“Indeed, I have it in my suitcase,” Chua said. As he rushed inside, the peppered moth stood atop Willy's upside-down glass. He warded it off and took the glass promptly. He also pulled out from his suitcase a white ceramic mug, which had an imprinted image of a woman and a man kissing, and two children smiling. A giant heart laden with red and white roses hung in the background. Chua examined its minor details.

To swallow was a struggle, but Willy emptied the glass. He then asked Chua, “Do you want some water?”

“I’m good.” For a moment, the two men looked at a distance. The wind had stopped.

“Is that your family?”

“Indeed, they were.” Chua took a deep breath. A lonely tear traversed his cheek. “You’re right, everyone knew. At the time, it seemed that no one did anything because…”

“…because only a few people did something, so it would still appear as if no one did anything.”

“Right.”