The Corner Cafe at the top of Bean Tower wasn't really a cafe. Green-and-white striped canvas triangles provided gentle shade to a collection of tables and benches, as well as a bar, bar stools, and a small building. Many of our gardeners left extra produce in the stacked wooden boxes in the shed. There was a small kitchen there as well, perfect for making finger foods.
In a small woven basket—probably one of Chen's—someone had left a few dozen homemade cassava chips. I took a ginger bite of one. They were perfectly crunchy and had probably finished drying earlier today, tasting a bit nutty, spicy and sweet, with just a bit of salt and hot pepper. From the wood boxes I took a handful of bright red tamarillos, one big, juicy tomato, an onion, and a bruised, pale-yellow citrus that might've been yuzu. Rinsing off a knife and cutting board in the small sink, I started chopping.
Sinclair took a seat at a stool under the awning, across the bar from me, where I was chopping. "Can I help?"
"Should only take a minute." I swiftly chopped up the fruits and vegetables, and scraped the bright pieces off the cutting board, into a wood bowl. I finished the mixture with a squeeze from the citrus, and a sprinkle of salt from the shelf under the bar. "There we go." Just before rinsing the cutting board and knife, I took a piece of chalk by the chalk board near the basket of cassava chips. Awesome cassava chips! I wrote. Great recipe! Thank you! - Evan
I grabbed the bowl of salsa and basket of chips, and brought it around the bar to sit with him. "Sort of a version of pico de gallo. And spicy cassava chips." I took one, scooped up the fresh pico de gallo, and popped it in my mouth. A rush of sweet, salty, earthy, and spicy hit my tongue, making me smile. "Don't worry, it's not too spicy," I told him. I had a feeling Sinclair wasn't a huge fan of assertive foods.
He took a small chip, and what might've been the tiniest bit of pico de gallo possible. Still, he nodded. "It's really good. Thank you."
"You're welcome." I smiled and swiveled my bar stool around to gaze at the garden growing tall and lush all around us.
"Is all of this..." He trailed off, taking out his notebook again. "Well, I was going to ask if this was free. But..."
I wiggled my eyebrows. "I think you're getting it."
He took a breath, studying the scratched surface of the bar instead of the garden, thinking. His lip pulled down, an expression of hesitation I hadn't yet seen in him. "Look, all of this is very nice. It's beautiful. Who wouldn't love it here? But..." he looked up at me, expectant.
I met his gaze. "But, what?"
He tilted his head. "Come on. Free energy, free food, no work, no crime..." He raised his brows at me now, his look serious. "I'm a journalist. And if someone won't tell me what the catch is, I'll find it. That's my job."
I nodded slowly. It sounded like a threat, which I wasn't accustomed to here, perhaps the most peaceful place I'd ever known. For a moment it felt like a travesty, like speaking something heretical, in a place that sheltered peace. But, I still didn't think Sinclair was malicious, or had a grudge against The Sink. In fact, since meeting him in person, I got the feeling he was the opposite; he was trying to protect people, no matter how much he might've denied it. I couldn't help but like him a little for that.
I let the offense of the threat, then my frustration, wash over me, then fade. Taking a breath, I looked at Sinclair, and let my respect for him—and maybe a little bit of attraction towards his sharp, dark, guarded eyes—come and go as well. Then, I thought of the last article he'd written, before ever speaking with any of us, and how it had hurt me. That feeling came and went as well, whisked away on the sweet-spicy breeze around the garden.
"The people here seem happy," he went on. "But I've seen people in other places that seemed happy, and they were being exploited."
I took another chip. "I can see that you're an investigator," I told him. "And I respect that. But I wonder if you were investigating when you wrote your last article." I paused, considering my next words. Were they out of anger, or did I want the truth? "Or maybe you just saw a group of people you didn't like."
He blinked. Looking away, he took a chip, this time with a more generous helping of salsa, and ate it. Then, he shook his head. "I was--I am--suspicious, I'm sure that's no mystery. But, no. I don't dislike you or anyone here. How could I? I don't know you."
My lip twisted. "And, yet, you wrote about us, anyway."
"I--"
"It seems like, sometimes, the things people don't know anything about are the things they dislike the most," I interrupted. "And, when I read your article, I think that's what you were doing. We haven't done anything wrong, people are happy here, and, somehow, you--and plenty of other people--don't seem to like that. I think it's because it scares you." I wasn't trying to hurt him, or retaliate, I could feel that in my chest. But I did want to tell him what I thought, and it felt good to say. The expression on his face, as cool and unperturbed as ever, gave me nothing.
He thought for several seconds, and I just gazed out at the garden, waiting.
"Maybe you're right."
I turned back, surprised.
"It wasn't my best work," he admitted. "It was cynical and catty and people like that. I didn't think about it--I didn't investigate it--as much as I should have." Leaving his notebook on the table, he raised both hands, open. I wasn't sure if it was a shrug or a surrender. "Nobody does their best work all the time, all right? Sometimes I cut corners, too. But, I'm here now, and I'm not doing that. I want to know what this is, how it works, what goes on. But only if it's the truth. I don't want some polished, put-on, press-release. Do you know what I mean?"
I leaned closer. "Sinclair, I've only been honest with you." Was that true? It felt true, but maybe there were things I'd been nervous to show him or tell him. "But, I'll admit, I'm a little nervous. You called The Sink a cult, and I'm a little worried that you're invested in that opinion, and I'm not sure there's anything I could do or say to change your mind."
"I said, The Sink 'conjured suspicions of an eco-cult.' I didn't say it was an eco-cult."
I passed him a long, silent look.
"All right, look, I'd be a rotten journalist if I couldn't change my mind. But I'd also be a rotten journalist if I was convinced too easily. I just want answers." He took up his notebook again. "People clearly do work around here." With his pen, he gestured towards the rich gardens. "But they aren't getting paid. So, how does that work?"
"Well, a lot of the work is done by robots. Which I'll show you later. The watering, some of the weeding and pest control and harvesting, is done by robots," I explained. "We also use pest traps--like simple water traps--and farming methods that discourage weeds. Also, we divide the work up into very small segments. A lot of people--especially people who enjoy gardening--don't mind doing it for an hour here or there. Especially when they can grow things they like, and enjoy the things they grow. But, a lot of these plants produce more than enough food for one person, or even one family. So," I gestured to the chips, salsa, and the many fruits and vegetables left in the cafe, "they share."
"Okay. What about the people who don't like gardening? Who don't participate? Seems unfair to give them a share when they didn't help."
I frowned. "I don't think most people come to the garden with that thought-process. People garden because they enjoy it, not because they have to. I don't think most people mind sharing when their needs are met and they're doing something they enjoy anyway, you know?"
"Hm." He wasn't convinced. "Basket-weaving, gardening--these are hobbies, I get it. People enjoy them. But there are some jobs, let's be honest--doing dishes, laundry, fixing broken stuff--that nobody enjoys. How does that get done?"
I gave a small smile. "Plenty of people enjoy fixing stuff, Sinclair. I don't know about cleaning. But, a lot of cleaning is also automated. A lot of tough jobs are automated. And, that's not new. Roombas, dishwashers, laundry machines--none of these are new. And, sure, we've made some big improvements but, the big thing is, we've created a space to actually take advantage of the time-savings from these technologies."
He tilted his head, a sarcastic twist to his lip. "So, you're saying somebody fixes washing machines because they just love it?"
"A whole bunch of people work together to fix washing machines--and design washing machines to be repairable, by the way--because they like solving problems, and they like the feeling they get from making things better." Was that such a foreign concept? Maybe, to him, it was. I felt my affection for him slipping.
"Tch," he scoffed, "look, I've heard this before." He waved a hand like he was waving a magical wand. "'Do a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life,' right? Let's be real--the 'dream job' is capitalist propaganda designed to get working-class people to equate their work with their self-image, and make them work for less, and demand less. There is no 'dream job.' People don't dream of labor."
I shook my head a bit, surprised. Maybe he was cleverer than I thought. And maybe some of his cynicism had found the right target.
Maybe there was hope for him yet.