The Dry

I stumble over the entrance, one foot almost in front of the other. The absence of noise shocks me, as always, and I look around in stunned awe despite my familiarity with The Dry. I both yearn to be at and despise this bar. With its multitude of mostly empty seats, large tanks with enough tubes dangling off them to appear like the mythical Octopus, and of course it’s pure, crisp, delicious air. I gulp it in recklessly, declining the warnings pasted on the front door – “short, sharp breaths”. Could one really be expected not to indulge in that which sustains them?

I realise I have fallen into a hunch as I desperately fill my lungs, my hands gripping my thighs for purchase in a manner tight enough that I knew on some darker level of my conscious I should be able to feel. I lurch upwards, eyes taking in the brightly lit room through their frantic blinks. The rainbow colours of the occupant’s clothes alone were enough to hypnotise, yet it was the cleanliness that I fixate on. White floors gleaming in a manner I saw nowhere else. A matching white roof from which rows of bulbs shone, illuminating the place in a harsh manner. Squinting, with eyes now watering, I next appraise the plush white armchairs scattered about. Or no, they were tactically placed in groups around those Octopus Tanks and low round tables made from glass. A tripping hazard I would imagine if they weren’t all sparkling in the light, seeming to reflect the occupant’s clothes as they lounge in their comfortable, luxurious seats. All only large enough to seat one, this was a den of cleanliness and purity of course. Even the walls were white and clean and shiny, and I knew from past experiences that if I trailed my hand along one for balance it would come away clean of any grime. The smell as well, or rather lack of, was another wonder. Neutral was The Dry, and I had never smelt anything quite so delicious.

In the absence of the muck of life, I grow faintly aware of the growing awareness of my mind, which will not only contain transient thoughts much longer.

My gaze continues to flicker about the place as a man within the semi-circle of tile upon which I stood smiled down upon me, his mouth moving in what was sure to be a greeting or warning; perhaps both. His eyes are deeply green, hypnotising. I realise it’s the fact that they are so clearly green, his pupil’s mere black dots within a meadow of grass. Well, as I would imagine a meadow to be lush and vibrant from a recent rainfall, scattered with bright yellow glints from the daisies which appear to shine as the sun catches the wet dew and absorbs the few droplets through it’s warm light. My mind spins as I imagine trailing my hand through the dew-covered grass, skipping through the daisies and rolling down a hill. I’m smiling, laughing, happy. With these thoughts still bouncing around my head I am positive my eyes are almost fully black, pupils stretching wide to collect every ray of light they can. Almost as greedy as the sun itself.   

Dreadfully high, and now slightly giggling at the beauty before me, I grasp his hand as he guides me forward toward a grey marble basin atop an equally grey post. The water in it is faintly warm and full of tiny bubbles which flee my fingertips as many times as I manage to pinch them. I imagine the bubbles feel weightless as they journey upon the waves my hands make. What a wonderful feeling that is, I know. Weightless and free and floating in peace, without a care in the world. It is incredible, and encourages my already grinning face to split further with joy. Until the invasion of dirt from my hands muddies the water and decimates the bubbles in a chase to the edge of the basin.  

As awareness continues to sink into my consciousness, I realise that the room is not silent at all. The sombre faces of the sober people who are dressed in ridiculously colourful long-suits have been filling the silence with soft yet earnestly spoken conversation this whole time. And indeed, what I thought was the remnants of the noise outside ringing in my ears is actually a timer trilling.

“Welcome again”, the man’s voice finally reaching me through the haze of my thoughts, “You are now deemed sober enough to interact with the others. First dress and then proceed.”

I realise I had not been aware I was being held back from the rest of the room. How was that something that I only recognise in retrospect? I am sure that must not be a new screening method. Of course, it hardly matters, it’s not like anyone entering from the haze of chemicals outside would ever be able to push past the dizzying shock that the air within The Dry gives you. It is almost worth the putrid, heavy, wet intoxication of the outside air to experience the wonderous refreshment of oxygen. Was that a depressing thought? I guess my first of the evening. It is a shame what sanity drags up from the depths.

Carefully I step into a uniform blue long-suit, pulling it up over my body which is beginning to ache. It hangs loose. My feet slip into a pair of white, somehow fluffy, slippers and I slowly, still verging on a stumble, make my way over to the most familiar corner of the room. Three pairs of eyes assess me in varying degrees of judgment and sympathy.

“You’re late”. Oli, always accusatory in his orange garb.

“How dare I”. With a roll of my eyes I plop myself as gently as I can into the nearest chair, grasping a tube from the Octopus as I lower myself. A short inhale further dries out my mouth and clears my head. “Green eyes is new. What happened to Trevor?”

“Seems sanity got to him in the end. I think I saw him hanging around the pool today” Liz mumbled, fumbling with the cuffs of her lavender suit. “Fuck I swear these suits are getting bigger. I can barely poke my fingers out.”

“I wish. We are just getting smaller. When was the last time you ate?” Gabe in his green, as blunt as always. “I bet that storm the other night was man made. Planned to distract us all from the lack of rations. I swear even the machines are slacking off these days”

“Fuck G, they don’t need to plan shit. Every day they pump more chemicals out there through those blasted machines trying to make our meagre rations and clean whatever they pass as water for us to drink. Unless we stop drinking and eating and shitting and the whole entire world completely stops still tomorrow those storms are just going to keep on coming.”

“Seriously, you’ve just got here, ease into it will you?”

Right as always. 90 precious minutes of air a week, not including the quarantine time. Wouldn’t want to ruin the experience by giving myself a reality check too early in.

I was sweating now. Funny how the quick detox dries up my insides yet leaves my skin all wet and sticky. I sometimes like to think it’s a healing effect, all the badness being drawn out and pushed through every pore of my skin, leaving me clean and cured and finally safe. Sadly it’s not, it’s just a swift and forced withdrawal. And it’ll kill me quicker than the outside if I stay here too long.       

“You are late though. We only have 20 minutes left.” Oli sighs, “Where were you?”

Right. Confession time. The reason I didn’t meet them at the market (a less popular squatting building around the corner) to sleep last night, as we had agreed to do every night before our weekly sessions at this bar so that we didn’t become like so many of the rest of our generation; caught up in the drug fuelled mayhem of life that we forget, either on purpose or not, to attend our government mandated free session of “dry air” per week. Meant to boost our immune system and maintain motivation – motivation to do what I’m not so sure. It’s not like they bother to force us into labour anymore. All they seem to do is encourage us to keep up social interactions and attend our life-extending sessions. A life of no work and free ‘health care’. The government’s sick farse of an apology for getting us in this mess. All play and no work. No need for them to try to clean up the rest of the atmosphere now, not when they can get paid by those rich health fanatics who frequent these bars and sometimes even stay the night in a lodging room upstairs. How they could stand to be sober for that long amazes me. To have enough generational bank that they breathe fresh air often enough that the extended periods of sobriety don’t send them into suicidal ideation, or worse, hours of withdrawals which they may not recover from.  

I drag my brain through the pain of the last week. Memories hazy as always, however a single important fact is glaring at me. “He died. My brother. He’s gone”. Silence stretches. They know I don’t want any sympathy. Sympathy only highlights the sadness. The only thing useful to us when we are in here is rage.

“He jumped in the pool. I saw it. Decided that he couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe. That, or he was so fucked from 5 months of no detoxing that he jumped in without realising”. I shrugged. It happens sometimes. One of the risks of missing your mandated 90 minutes of sanity is that you start living fully in hallucinations. Forgetting to eat. Forgetting that everything around us is noxious, especially the large bodies of water like the pool. Exposed to the elements it is so contaminated that I am surprised it doesn’t bubble over like a witch’s cauldron. At least it’s meant to be quick.

“Bastards”.

Oli doesn’t clarify who. He doesn’t need to, it’s a fair enough description of anyone higher in the food chain than us. The original government who 40 years ago dismissed the global chemical crisis warnings despite community protests. Those posh snobs who believe they have enough wealth to sustain them through this period, and that only the poor will suffer. Or our parents, who lived before this toxic age and have long since met their demise, but who abandoned us long ago by not fleeing to the country before quarantine measures set in and all methods of transport beyond your own two feet were banned in an attempt to halt the pollution in the air. This anger is of course misplaced. They didn’t have any more of a choice than we do right now, but the alternative is grief that knocks you down faster than the blink of an eye.

“It’s happening quicker. How old was he, 33? I thought they predicted we would make it to 40 before ideation sets in. Fuck this. I think I’m turning 30 this year.” Liz’ words fall faster out of her mouth as she twists her fingers frantically in her cuff. “All this time I really still believed it you know. That the halt was going to work. The world just needed to section off and let the chemicals fucking dissipate. I mean what the hell. What the fuck is going on we don’t travel, we barely eat, nothing new is being made, what the fuck is still polluting the air, I don’t get it”.

“Liz, settle or you’ll be kicked out early. Don’t worry, he was always sad. And he stopped coming for his air. We won’t stop. As long as we all keep coming, we can’t stop.”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry. I need to leave. I can’t think anymore. I have to stop thinking or I’ll be right there with him. I’m sorry. I’ll be here next week I promise”. Liz stood fast, swaying as she drops her tube. She isn’t meeting my eyes. Face sunken, her lips so swollen with sores it looks like they really have been her only meal this week.

Gabe grasps her hand as he too stands. “I’m coming, we only have 5 minutes left anyway.” He doesn’t hesitate to pierce my eyes with his gaze. “You have to stay. You haven’t been here long enough and it sounds like you need it. I’m taking her to the theatre, try to remember to come after you finish?” His smile was a grimace, but it was welcoming enough.

“Okay. Make sure she eats”. After the bar is the only time we genuinely feel hunger through the persistent high.

Oli squeezes my shoulder, tighter than expected. He doesn’t speak. I feel the squeeze move through my upper arm, and a dull ache settle into my bones.

They leave.

My mind is blank. I didn’t check the time when I came in, but I must have an hour left at least. A pit forms in my stomach that is not the hunger I was hoping for. I wipe the sweat collecting around my eyebrow, but my hands are too wet. Too shaky. My eyelashes don’t protect fully from the wetness and my eye begins to sting. I try to lick my lips but my mouth is now so dry my tongue only manages to scratch and irritate the sores. The pit of my stomach is now a swirling wind. It’s sucking the air right out of my lungs. I feel a familiar weight settle onto my chest as my lungs seem to collapse in on themselves. A wheezing registers in my ears and I know I am hyperventilating now.

I shake my head, lean over, head between my knees and focus on slowing my breath. I need to last longer. I need to take advantage of the air my body is now refusing to take in. I can’t end up like him. I have to hold on.

My whole body is trembling with the effort. Finally the wheezing subsides. I am breathing again, but my mind is no longer blank. No longer distracted and it’s the darkest pit, full of jagged thoughts that are painful and mean and I know this is why I can’t be late, its never worth it to be late. It’s impossible to sit with sanity alone.

I rise. Green eyes gives me a sad look. He knows there is no point trying to convince me to stay.

I’m ripping off the stupid suit before I even make it to the entrance. I kick off my slippers and feel the tiles cool beneath my feet. Despite my desperation I force myself to pause. I relish the cold, knowing it’ll likely be the last sensation I register for the next week. One last big breath in. Out. Yet again ready to be swept up in the cacophony of sounds, smells and sights awaiting me. Needing to forget. Desperate for oblivion.