“I knew you’d come back!”

“…”

“Why did you come back? You wanted to see me—us! right?

“This place is different from what I remember… it’s… dirty,” said Moon.

“Well, we don’t get as many… it’s, it’s like they’ve forgotten about us, honestly- Sucks, it Sucks.”

Moon looked down at the ground, eyes wide open.

“Come this way, come over to my office! Come in and sit down. We’ll have a drink!”

Green took Moon by the arm and walked him down a long, concrete hall. The building was mostly concrete. Paintings by famous artists hung on the wall: Chagall, Rothko, Soutine. The last poster, however, looked like some sort of blueprint—a preliminary blueprint for a large, geometric building—probably to be made from concrete. It wasn’t this building—to be sure— but one similar to it.

Green directed Moon into her surprisingly spacious, but cluttered, office. The office was filled with knick-knacks and books and “cat furniture.” As Moon entered, a couple of cats napping on loose papers woke up and made their way under some chairs.

“Aw, come on out of there. Avram! Maya!” Green gestured with her left arm, swiping at the air. “They’ll come out later,” she said.

“Cats take a while to warm up to strangers,” said Moon. “I don’t expect them to like me.”

Green touched her long, frizzy, salt-and-pepper hair and said, “I have a bottle of wine.” She then shuffled a stack of papers and began moving an old computer tablet from her desk, placing it on the floor beside a “cat tree.” “Sit down”, she said, pointing to an ancient leather chair on the other side of her desk. Moon sat down.

As Moon made himself comfortable, he peered out a window behind Green’s desk; It was a large window, larger than most at least. Moon could barely make out the skyscrapers in the far distance. The towers were long since abandoned, yet still standing. Nearer than these metallic megaliths, however, was a small settlement; smoke billowed from the chimney’s of the modest, closely spaced homes. It must be warm and cozy in there, Moon thought.

“you seem a little distant,” said Green.

“…”

“Moon?”

Moon snapped to attention. “huh?”

“let’s play a game, shall we? I’ll throw out a word and you tell me the first word which comes to your mind,” said Green.

“That sounds familiar,” said Moon

“Ok, I’ll begin now. Cat.”

“Dog.”

“Flowers.”

“Weeds.”

“Cake.”

“Bread.”

“OK, Moon. You look a little bored.”

“Birth.”

‘What do you mean?”

“I thought we were playing a game?”

Green drank wine from her glass.

“Do you even like wine?” She asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t really like wine—not really.”

“OK. That’s OK, I’m not offended if you don’t want any. So come on, tell me, how is life? Do you need a recommendation or anything? Or—.”

Moon’s eye’s looked straight through Green. Some people, many people, had “soulless eyes.” Or at least that’s what they used to call them. Moon didn’t have eyes like that. His eyes were blue, and in addition to that being unusual in itself, they betrayed something.

What’s going on in that mind of yours, Moon? Green thought. What’s behind those pretty eye’s, those … What Green was about to think, she did not allow herself to think.

“You’d give me a recommendation?” He asked.

Green smiled.”So that is why you came!”

Moon leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath.”Times are difficult. The storehouses are low. Do you have any comrades up north? If I could get a lead on a new place–I heard things are better up there. I’m sorry, I hate having to ask.”

Green’s brow furled. She gave a smile. A smile which nearly wrapped around her entire face, showing her large teeth; some stained with wine.

“Don’t be sorry, I have lots of comrades–” Green pronounced comrades as if it rhymed with knife blades. “–up north. In fact, I’ve been thinking of visiting them. Would you like to meet them? Hey! We could go on a road trip together, what do you say?” Green leaned forward in her chair and looked into Moon’s eyes. “Do you have a tent and a sleeping bag?”

…

The rain had stopped and the wind was now blowing away the clouds. Luckily, however, the street Moon and Green had been walking down was canopied from rain by large elm trees. They had been passing through what must have been quite an ancient town—relatively speaking. They had seen a few beggars since they had entered early that morning, but no one else. The buildings of the town were mostly brick and close to one another. Many homes were in ruin or otherwise abandoned. None was more than a few stories tall. None was concrete—pill-box like—as Moon had been accustomed to most of his life growing up in a youth housing combine.

“Aw! there, look!” Green pointed down an alley to their left. “There’s the Main Street.”

“Main street?”

“Sorry, old-fashioned term. It’s where the council houses would be.”

“So the storehouse would be there?”

“Yeah, sure, it’ll be there, we’ll take a look, but don’t be disappointed.”

They turned down the alley; it was a gravel road, full of mud puddles, patches of weeds and grass. There was even a rusted out car. It was starting to get hot.

…

Moon and Green emerged onto Main Street. It was much wider—and in much better shape—than the potholed residential streets they had been trudging through all morning. They peered in either direction. Down the right side of the road, they could see tall buildings; a couple of commune houses maybe, probably also the Council House and the Storehouse, perhaps a communal kitchen.

Green started walking backward in front of Moon as they turned right and headed towards the center of town. He found this slightly annoying but tried not to show it.

“If there is a Com Center, I can send a message to my comrade, let them know we’re gonna pay a visit. Wouldn’t want to show up unexpected I guess. Or do we? I don’t know, what do you think, Moon?”

“Do you think you could ask them if there’s a cement factory in town?”

Green stopped and stepped to the side. Her brow furled, her head titled. Then, suddenly, she smiled and laughed. “Why? You want cement for some reason?” Green immediately appeared concerned again,  even worried. “I mean, come on, cement? Cement? You wanna learn to make cement?” She let out a sigh. “Honestly, Moon, I don’t know if there is much social use for cement these days. Why create something that doesn’t provide for a desire?”

Moon’s face was now red and he was breathing through his mouth. Looking down at the ground, his eyes scanned. Then, suddenly, he continued walking. Either Green didn’t notice how upset he was, or she didn’t care; she may have even been a little amused at his response. Waiting a moment—and with a smile—she began jogging to catch up.

Moon’s eyes suddenly darted up at Green’s as she caught up with him—she was still smiling. His embarrassment—if that is what it was—faded. “Well… I was just wondering because I heard from a comrade that there was a cement factory and they had a nice kitchen and big commune house and I figured I would check it out but if that’s not true, that’s OK. Maybe it was more of an excuse to leave my district in the first place. Thanks for coming with me.”

“Haha. Ok, Moon. If that’s what you want. My comrade-friend I was telling you about; they live in a nice commune-house. I think they have a comfy couch or some space we could stay for a while. Wouldn’t you like to do that?” It was more a statement than a question. Green kicked a few pebbles.

Moon looked away. “Well. OK. I guess you’re right. Can we at least take a look around the city when we get there?”

Green tossed back her hair and smiled. “I’m sure my friend would show us around if you asked.”

…

The Town Square was similar enough to the typical, modern style. Roadblocks blocked the entrance from each street which intersected the Square. They were unmanned. A large wooden stage sat near the center; a modest steel cage was fixed to its northwest corner.  This Red Square—they were always called Red Square—was special, however, for its ornate fountain. Perhaps a relic from the ancient past, thought Moon. Unfortunately, it wasn’t turned on.

Green poked Moon in the side. He glared at her. She didn’t seem to notice. “look, right down there.” She pointed straight ahead. “There’s the storehouse, Gotta be it.”

“OK, let’s check it out,” said Moon.

…

Sitting at the front desk of the storehouse was the keeper, drinking shots of whiskey by himself.

“Good afternoon, Comrades.” He looked over his shoulder. “My name is Patchouli. I go by the pronouns, him/he.” Patchouli chuckled, exposing some missing teeth. Green frowned.

Moon, finding this slightly amusing, smiled back at the storehouse keeper. “Comrade, I go by Moon. My preferred pronouns are they/them.” He said this without a bit of irony.

The keeper looked around and then cleared his throat. “Nice to meet you.”

Then Moon looked around and leaned forward. In a quiet voice, he said, “we need food and water.”

Patchouli paused and took a deep breath. “The main task I’ve taken—put upon myself—for the good of the Human Community, comrade Moon, is to ensure no exchange whatsoever takes place. Now, uh, um, i-if, there is no work, the proletariat having self-abolished–” The comrade store-keeper paused. “–therefore, access to consumption, to the means of… reproduction… cannot be i-indexed to any human work performed, which, anyhow, has been abolished…. i-it’s only, i- incidental if production occurs and products happen to be consumed, eh? Right?”

Moon and Green looked at one another and shook their heads in agreement. Patchouli drank a shot of whiskey, opened a drawer, and pulled out an automatic pistol. He then loaded a magazine into the automatic pistol and chambered a round. The Comrade store-keeper then placed the pistol onto his desk with the barrel pointing in the general direction of Moon and Green.

Carefully, Moon reached into his backpack. The keeper leaned forward, watching Moon. Moon, ever so slowly, pulled out a bottle of vodka and then carefully placed it onto the desk. “We need 4 days worth of Food and Water,” he said.

The keeper shrugged. “Another important aspect of my chosen activity is the prevention of any accounting. There can be no distributionist accounting of the consumption of goods. A-accounting leads to measuring p-productivity, measuring productivity l-leads to, uh…. well, you know what I mean.” He looked over his shoulder, again.

Suddenly, Green smiled at Patchouli “Can I have a shot of that Whiskey?”

He sighed and then turned toward Moon. “Uh, well, if you ask me, comrade Moon, from an advice sort of p-perspective—for two people. You said three days?” He picked up the bottle of vodka and searched for the alcohol content on its label. “I would say three pounds of black beans, three gallons of water, three cans of v-vegetables, and one three ounce p-pack of beef jerky. That’s. My. Advice.” The storekeeper then poured a shot and offered it to Green.

…

Moon and Green approached what looked to be the last checkpoint on the road out-of-town. It was the only manned checkpoint they’d come across. The two militiamen manning it, however, appeared to be asleep at their chairs, hunched over, caps covering their eyes. Cigarette smoke billowed from an ashtray on the desk. Quickly, but quietly, Moon and Green walked straight past the guard booth, never looking back.

…

The sun was beginning to set. Moon and Green stopped at the banks of a small river to pitch their tent and gather firewood. The river wasn’t far from the Highway they were walking along. They had at least two more days of traveling.

After Moon had finished pitching the tent and Green had started the fire, they sat down to eat their beef jerky and canned vegetables; they didn’t have the time or patience to boil their dried beans.

Moon gazed at the fire. “You think your friend got the message?” After they had left the store-house, Green stopped by the com center to send an email to her friend up north. The “com center” was little more than a digital kiosk outside the district council building, but it seemed to work.

“Oh, totally, don’t even worry about it. Ze’ll check hir email in the morning probably. That’s when I check mine.”

Moon bit down on his beef jerky.

“You wanna hear some jokes?” Asked Green. “I’ve got a good joke. Have you seen the movie Constipated?”

Moon rolled his eyes. “No.”

“It hasn’t come out yet.” Green burst into laughter. “Oh my god, I love shit jokes! Don’t you? Everybody shits you know. Right, Moon?”

“Yup.”

“So Moon—” Suddenly, Green was pretending to be serious. 

Now what is it? Moon thought. She sat down next to him. He shrugged a little.

“I’m really impressed by how you handled that situation at the storehouse today.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, really. Now, would you like to smoke some pot with me?”

…

Not many cars had traversed the highway that day. Moon and Green had counted maybe one or two per hour. They tried flagging them down in an attempt at hitchhiking—which proved futile. Dark clouds were rolling in fast, which likely meant rain.

“Hey look, it’s a truck! That’s the first one this morning,” Green said as she peered over her shoulder. “I’ll bet you they’ll give us a ride. Truckers always pick up hitchhikers, don’t you know?!” Moon stuck out his thumb in the manner Green taught him early that morning.

The truck passed them at high-speed, but then it began to slow down; it even pulled over and began slowly backing up towards Moon and Green—they smiled at one another and jogged the difference.

The truck driver was young, which seemed odd to Moon for some reason; he just couldn’t figure out why. The truck’s engine was very loud. “Do you comrades need a ride!?” yelled the driver, leaning out his window.

“Are you headed towards Cleavertown!?” Green shouted.

“Yes, get in!” Replied the driver.

…

The rain had finally set in. We got lucky we found a ride, otherwise, we’d be wasting time sheltering under an overpass, Moon Thought. The driver wasn’t much of a talker—similar to Moon in that regard. He also seemed about the same age, more or less.

Green was beginning to look bored. “So, what’s in the truck? Anything?”

The driver turned to look at her,”Stuff, things, you know.” He turned his eyes back toward the road.

“Well, no, not really. Not unless you get a little more specific,” she said.

“Why are you two going to Cleavertown? You have friends there?”

Green drew a breath, but Moon spoke before she could respond, “Yes! Green has some friends up there. We’re gonna stay on their couch while I uh—so I’m looking for a new activity.”

“Oh sure, I see what you mean. Well, good luck, the city’s packed right now. Do you do any construction? Some comrades I know on Huey P Newton Block are trying to get a crew together to build a new combine. See what I mean, comrade-friend? You’re new to the city, so you should make some friends. I’m a good friend to know.” He looked at Moon, expressionless.

Green shot a glance at Moon. She seemed a little nervous. Why is she upset? Moon thought. Is she mad at me?

“So, do you two go back? You seem to know each other pretty well.” The driver then fiddled with the heat dial.

Moon looked at Green. She was ignoring him now, study the landscape out the side window. “She was my care provider at the youth combine—ever since the creche’, in fact.” Moon suddenly felt sick for some reason.

“Oh wow, ok,” said the driver. “So you’ve always known her then?”

Moon then grew red in the face, he felt hot. There was a long pause, then Green turned toward the driver. “Do you wanna hear a joke?”

“Ok, you tell me a joke,” he said.

“Why do people like camping?”

“Uh, I don’t know, why?”

“Because it’s fucking in tents.”

…

Moon had dozed off. When he awoke, they were still driving. The trucks’ clock said it was four in the afternoon. Green was asleep. They appeared to be driving through a small district now, mostly abandoned and in ruin. Piles of bricks and rotten wood littered the sidewalks. Up ahead, concrete walls lined the street on either side. But these too looked to be in semi-ruin. What did these walls protect? Moon thought.

As the truck began to pass between the barriers, they slowed down, there were many potholes and quite a bit of debris, the driver had to be careful. Moon then began to notice the walls were covered in graffiti. They were old political slogans, mostly. Many of them were painted huge and covered large sections of the walls. Some were difficult to make out, they had to have been quite old by now. Moon made note of each phrase.

Fall in love, not in line

All you need is Dynamite

Ready to Kill

General Strike!

Death to Fascism

Die Cis Scum

Queer Love Wins

Moon could barely make out the last one. Love wins, he repeated that phrase in his mind. Love. Wins. He closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep. They had made their way to a much smoother road—fewer potholes.

…

Moon had just woken up when the driver cleared his throat.

“OK guys. We’re coming up on the first checkpoint into Cleavertown.” He took his foot off the gas peddle, allowing the truck to slow.

“Driver, do you make these trips often?” asked Green.

“Sometimes. By the way… my name is Che.” There was an awkward silence for about thirty seconds, then Green pinched Moon’s side.

“Time to wake up, sleepy head.”

Moon grumbled. He pulled the bag of jerky out of his pocket, stuffed the rest of his share into his mouth and handed the rest to Green.

“You got any for me?”  Asked the driver.

Green feigned a despondent look, “I’m so sorry, but this is our only bag and—”

“Ya, OK, I get it.” He said

Green quickly ate her share.

As they slowly approached the checkpoint, the militiamen emptied from their shack. One had a machete, another a bat, a third had something that looked like a revolver, only it was orange.

“What kind of gun is that?” Moon asked out loud. The trucks’ breaks squeaked loudly, they crept to a halt about twenty feet from the checkpoint.

“looks like a flare gun,” the driver mumbled as he leaned forward, eyeing the armed men. Green held onto Moon’s arm.

The militiamen slowly approached the truck. The one holding a flare gun wore an old green uniform of some sort. A genuine looking military outfit, although it was totally generic and without markings. The one with the bat was dressed in a white t-shirt, khaki pants, and sandals.  The one with a machete wore camouflage pants with black boots. He was shirtless and his dark black chest looked wet, or oily—it was shimmering in the sun. His hair hung down in long dreadlocks. He reached behind himself into his back pocket and pulled out a mask. He then held the mask in front of his face; it was some sort of white skeleton mask with red and blue feathers glued on top. The man with the bat started laughing.

Moon’s heart leaped into his throat. He froze in his seat.

“Shit, Fuck.” the driver said under his breath. The armed men were spreading out, slowly surrounding the truck.

“Turn it off!” Yelled the man with the flare gun. He then raised the gun, pointing it at the driver. Green looked away and buried her face in Moon’s arm. Moon could feel her hot tears.

The truck driver slams his foot on the gas and they lurch forward toward the gunman, who was still aiming right at them. He pulls the trigger and the flare gun explodes in a small ball of smoke and sparks—rather like a firework. He leaps to the side and falls to the ground, screaming in pain and fright, hands clasped together. The other men fall on their knees laughing; the truck is already far down the road by now and nearly out of their sight.

…

It was late in the evening when they arrived outside the commune-house of Green’s friend. The truck driver had let them off a few miles away—he was running low on gas. The sky was clear, although the streets were still wet from an earlier light rain. It was humid and the water was evaporating, filling the air with the smells of the street: cigarette smoke and burnt wood, urine, feces, rust—or was it blood?

Moon felt uncomfortable, he was ill at ease in such a large and cluttered city. Drunken youths were fist-fighting on every other corner it seemed. Some were merely destroying— battering old cars with bats or throwing rocks at shuttered storefronts and row houses. Others just sat around on the sidewalks, sharing cigarettes. Does anyone sleep in this district? Moon thought. He now felt entirely alienated from his own generation. His own cadre. His own cohort. This wasn’t at all what he expected up north. He began to despair. First of all, he had thought the distinction between town and country no longer existed; whats more, in the previous mode of production—capitalism—the city was supposedly the more civilized arrangement. Given that, this isn’t merely a case of “backwardness,” but some form of pathological, counter-revolutionary behavior on the part of the youth of the new human community which occupies this geo-localization.

Suddenly, Moon felt a sense of self-disgust; he felt a profound sense of self-disgust at his own thoughts. Why am I thinking like my 13th grade professor? This is exactly what she would say. Moon smiled and began to chuckle, his sense of despair had instantly dissipated. Fucking intrusive thoughts. Moon laughed.  

“What’s so funny, Moon?” Green asked.

“I was wondering, Green; your name, do you have a first name?”

“Yes, I do, actually. What? You trying to remind me how old I am?”

“Ok, uh, I wasn’t exactly sure.”

“Gertrude. It’s Gertrude. I never liked my first name, but I didn’t want to choose a new one, so I decided to go by my last name. It’s more gender neutral anyway. Come on, let’s get inside before someone wants to start a fight with you.”

Green grabbed Moon by the arm and they walked down the block until they reached the front door of a 10 story, concrete building. It was surprisingly modern—whatever that meant these days. The units had to have been tiny; small windows covered the facade. Each window had a tiny balcony not large enough to hold more than one, maybe two, people. This commune-house, clearly, was fully socialized. Moon recognized the style from his own district—he was quite familiar with places like these. Once reaching puberty, Moon was assigned his own cell as all “directly-social individuals” are who are deemed suitable for a fully socialized environment.

…

Moon and Green entered the commons area of the building, after being buzzed in at the door by Green’s friend. It was full of people sitting around, drinking, shooting heroin, smoking, playing card games, many of them were yelling and cackling at one another. It was hard to tell if they were being friendly or about to brawl. It was always hard to tell with these people.

Walking up the stairs to find the right cell, Moon and Green had to avoid trash, vomit and a few rodents on the steps—or half-dead cats or something. Again, it was hard to tell. Loud music was blasting form not a few of the cells. It also was quite obvious that many of the “cells” were actually combined to form larger living spaces; through a few open doors, Moon noticed many of the walls had been broken down or punched through with holes to connect to other cells to form these improvised, multi-cell units. Moon thought it was a clever idea, although it seemed quite reactionary. Doesn’t this negate the purpose of the cell versus the communal space arrangement? On the other hand, what difference did it really make? Doesn’t communism mean the total negation of all previous socially-constructed life-ways of existence for the achievement of total freedom through said life-ways total deconstruction? Isn’t communism never truly achieved, that is, it is not a static state, but a continuous unfolding of processes of progress and reaction, in other words, a dialectic of infinite becoming—we may never know when… Moon caught himself thinking too hard yet again and hated himself for it.

…