So we dropped a BBQ off the side of our balcony today… A full, lit, flaming, meat filled BBQ. It’s a bit of a long story, so I’ll explain:
Yesterday when Pete got up at around noon (which is early for him) we chatted for a bit and reminisced about the BBQs at our parent’s places outside the city. For us now it’s been a good 3 years without a BBQ. (This does not include when we climbed up to the very top of the Arcology and roasted sausages above a barrel fire.) So after a bit of wishful thinking I remembered a BBQ that I had seen for sale somewhere on 22 (level 22 that is). So while Pete had a shower I went down to 22 to find this BBQ.
Elevators run up and down the core and on 3 sides of the Arcology, I almost always opt for the centre bank of elevators as they are repaired the most frequently and the stories of getting stuck for days and having to have relatives come and bring you food (if they find you) are less.
22 isn’t a bad level by any means, the people who live there take good care of their level and have organized a ‘neighbourhood watch’ to deal with any ‘undesirables’ coming to party in their back yard. Really the only downsides about 22 are the lack of proper lighting, which has been redone with LED Christmas lights, and the lack of any view of the outside world. I’m sure there’s a few apartments that can get a glimpse of the sky but you could probably count them all on one hand. So stepping out of the lift on 22 I am greeted by several intimidating men who, not so politely, want to know what I’m doing on their floor. As it turns out they know the lady with the BBQ and are willing to escort me to her flat.
Knocking on the door to the apartment and waiting a few minutes yields the reward of a nostril full of spice and an air dried shell of a little Asian woman who answers every, literally every, question with yes… until I try and lower the price. Half way through our debate a cat darts between the woman’s legs and makes a break for freedom. Suddenly the hall is filled with the loudest Asian language I have ever heard; the small shell of a woman yells so loud that the cat freezes mid stride, turns and runs back to the apartment with an ashamed look of kitty humiliation on its down turned face. Not wanting to incur such a wrath myself I agree to a price of $4USD for the BBQ.
Lugging the thing back to the apartment isn’t so bad, while I was out Pete went down to the market and grabbed some sausages and veal. Veal? You ask? Well, we would too, but we’ve learnt better now, so don’t ask.
Now for any of you who went back and read old posts you might be wondering… ‘how are you going to put a BBQ on your unfinished, suicide inducing, balcony?’ The answer: A butane torch. That’s right we’re melting it in place.
Billiant?
As it turns out… no. Back to the beginning of this blog: Pete and I watch in horror as the BBQ topples end over end, glowing orange coals and our sausages establishing an orbit, before knocking off someone elses balcony and becoming the equivalent of a US white phosphorus barrage. So instantly the possible new headlines for the next day go through our minds: ‘Orphans horribly scared by burning coals.’ ‘Propane stores blown sky high.’ ‘Arcology burnt to the ground.’ ‘Millions dead’
So of course we rush down to take care of the problem. Rushing down takes about 15 minutes due to elevator delays. Running out onto the terrace of 3 which is where the bbq landed we see a huge group of people standing around. The pavement is wet where hoses have been brought out and all the coals (and my sausages) have been extinguished. Disaster averted… or not. Just we have decided to cut our losses and mourn the loss of my $4 we hear a revolutionary yell. A man has stood on the stone bench next to the mob and is yelling something about those bastards on 12 taking things too far. So what to do? A) Jump up and down claiming responsibility and risk the possibility of being tomorrow market special. Or B) Yell ‘Viva la revolution’ and make a break for the door.
So, one ‘option B’ later we’re back in our apartment debating what to do about food. Pete goes to roll a joint to calm our nerves and I go sit on the edge of our unfinished balcony to see if I can see any burning effigies.
Just another day in the Arcology.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Looks like the rain didn't let up last night; walking out onto my unfinished balcony (a spectacular 43 story vertical drop) I can see the rust filled droplets still clinging to the underside of the support beams. But oh, what a view! The sun’s just rising over the bay now, which is about 2 miles away and the clouds and humidity have turned the sky orange with the sun, a yellow ball of fire, hanging in the middle. There’s the hum of people doing their thing and far below; packed streets host rows of honking cars and millions of feet all pounding away at the sidewalk trying to get somewhere in a hurry.
Other parts of the Arcology are still being built up through the hard work of private companies and tenants with marginal technical skill. Even as I write this I can see some old man in his boxers, a vest and tool belt climbing on to his roof with a power saw. Looks like he’s cutting his roof off… (no idea)
Pete, my roommate, is just back from work. He works in healthcare, taking care of record banks so patients can be swapped and shipped back and forth between hospitals without getting lost. Pete works from 11pm until 6am and gets home at roughly 7:15am. He’s just joined me now to watch the sun rise and smoke a joint before heading to bed. We chat of online games, touring through space marking out territory and eliminating rogue drones in our favourite MMORPG, or of Magic a collectable card game from our youth. Eventually I head to get breakfast from the kitchen followed by a shower and Pete heads to bed, not to be seen for several hours.
I’m heading down to the markets today; rows of stalls selling every vegetable you can think of and several selling things that would never come to mind. The market itself is about the size of a city block and has the concept of an open courtyard, 3 stories of windows rise up the walls before being capped by the level above. As is typical of the Arcology, the level above, which once occupied the roof, has been cut away to let some natural light in… but not much, so everything still needs to be lit by little electric lights hanging from EVERYTHING. There are stalls of sushi being made by elderly Japanese women who speak no English beside little glass huts where younger Chinese women make dumplings at break neck speeds; their husbands beside them frying or boiling them and collecting money from hungry passersby. Children huddle around feet playing with plastic toys bejewelled with coloured lights and stickers; occasionally a family member will hang out from a window above and yell something in a foreign dialect or drop supplies to the stall below. Many stalls communicate with walkie talkies so one can almost always hear the uninterrupted squawk of static emanating from every side: Grandmothers with battery operated units yell at grandsons to bring down supplies while old men with precariously wired walkies seem to drone on about nothing in particular. Due to the improvised nature of everything in the Arcology a great tangle of wires hangs over the market, powering everything from 7th hand bread ovens to the little one bladed fan that attempts to cool the ancient in the lotto hut surrounded by dancing anime figures and blinking Christmas lights.
Drops of water constantly fall from above so every stall has its own form of awning or overhang. It’s loud, it’s crowded and there’s no better place to take in all the people who live in this ridiculous civil setback. I bet if it was ever quiet you could hear the electric hum of a thousand shoddy wiring jobs. You might think that at night it would be a bit better but having ventured down here I can tell you it’s not. There’s always someone selling something or people getting drunk off cooking wine in the dark corners.
*Due to air system designs, floors 49-51 are constantly covered in water and some days you can walk into full blown fog. I don’t know the specifics but it means that water’s always leaking down everything and more often than not it’s raining somewhere inside!
Other parts of the Arcology are still being built up through the hard work of private companies and tenants with marginal technical skill. Even as I write this I can see some old man in his boxers, a vest and tool belt climbing on to his roof with a power saw. Looks like he’s cutting his roof off… (no idea)
Pete, my roommate, is just back from work. He works in healthcare, taking care of record banks so patients can be swapped and shipped back and forth between hospitals without getting lost. Pete works from 11pm until 6am and gets home at roughly 7:15am. He’s just joined me now to watch the sun rise and smoke a joint before heading to bed. We chat of online games, touring through space marking out territory and eliminating rogue drones in our favourite MMORPG, or of Magic a collectable card game from our youth. Eventually I head to get breakfast from the kitchen followed by a shower and Pete heads to bed, not to be seen for several hours.
I’m heading down to the markets today; rows of stalls selling every vegetable you can think of and several selling things that would never come to mind. The market itself is about the size of a city block and has the concept of an open courtyard, 3 stories of windows rise up the walls before being capped by the level above. As is typical of the Arcology, the level above, which once occupied the roof, has been cut away to let some natural light in… but not much, so everything still needs to be lit by little electric lights hanging from EVERYTHING. There are stalls of sushi being made by elderly Japanese women who speak no English beside little glass huts where younger Chinese women make dumplings at break neck speeds; their husbands beside them frying or boiling them and collecting money from hungry passersby. Children huddle around feet playing with plastic toys bejewelled with coloured lights and stickers; occasionally a family member will hang out from a window above and yell something in a foreign dialect or drop supplies to the stall below. Many stalls communicate with walkie talkies so one can almost always hear the uninterrupted squawk of static emanating from every side: Grandmothers with battery operated units yell at grandsons to bring down supplies while old men with precariously wired walkies seem to drone on about nothing in particular. Due to the improvised nature of everything in the Arcology a great tangle of wires hangs over the market, powering everything from 7th hand bread ovens to the little one bladed fan that attempts to cool the ancient in the lotto hut surrounded by dancing anime figures and blinking Christmas lights.
Drops of water constantly fall from above so every stall has its own form of awning or overhang. It’s loud, it’s crowded and there’s no better place to take in all the people who live in this ridiculous civil setback. I bet if it was ever quiet you could hear the electric hum of a thousand shoddy wiring jobs. You might think that at night it would be a bit better but having ventured down here I can tell you it’s not. There’s always someone selling something or people getting drunk off cooking wine in the dark corners.
*Due to air system designs, floors 49-51 are constantly covered in water and some days you can walk into full blown fog. I don’t know the specifics but it means that water’s always leaking down everything and more often than not it’s raining somewhere inside!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Chapter 1: A tour of the property.
It all begins, as most things worth reading about do, in the rain. More specifically it begins with me, walking in the rain.
As life is complicated so is the rain: The city around me lies drenched and oozing after a particularly heavy downpour; the kind that makes people smile as they huddle together against walls and in the recesses of doorways.
I walk with my head down; scanning for puddles, perilous debris or the ever present ‘urban fauna’, just emerging into the cool of Evenfall. I watch the patches of the night sky reflect in the puddles: Burning halos of neon Chinese characters ripple across miniature oceans as my footfalls indiscriminately distort the bustle above me. A very hung over youth mumbles something about change to me, while apparently squinting from the effort or some infection; ignoring him I spy my salvation reflected in the ground beneath me.
Noodles!
Right now I’m writing to you from the front window of a noodle restaurant downtown. There’s a wireless signal here with the password ‘password’. Yes, I was astonished too. A funny thing I should mention about my downtown is, it’s much more ‘down’ than most; you see I live in a partially complete Arcology.
“Arcolo-what?” Well, I live in part of the world with a massive population density problem, so to compensate the government is building this ‘hyper-structure’ (honestly it’s called that) which is more or less a pyramid with crap loads of government housing and small dark secluded spaces jammed inside it.
Does this sound like a good idea to you?
No, didn’t think so, hence why it’s partially complete: The lawsuits.
First crime skyrockets as people start to live in an unfinished industrial wasteland without proper utilities, supplies or police; then to make things more interesting, the place starts falling apart due to the use of ‘sub standard’ construction materials.
What does this mean for us loyal reader?
It means low rent and great noodle joints.
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