Ashton sat at the bar, nursing his stout stoically. The bartender across him was busy wiping down the glasses, dutifully following his request in leaving him alone.
Friday night. A typical night of reverie and fun, as people take a break from the week-long work-fest, but for a couple of hours.
The bar was as dead as a nun's sex life. Pandemic rules. There was a limit of no more than twenty five people allowed at a bar the size of this one, and even then, there was still a hard limit of table sizes of no more than five.
That ruled out the usual TGIF after work gatherings. So most people did not even bother to come out.
Ashton didn't care. He just wanted his stout. He had been deprived of it for nearly six months when he was forced to be working from home. It wasn't that he missed the stout, but that he missed the autonomy that he had from just going places after work that was not his home.
His girlfriend of five years had left him. Said that it couldn't work out. He thought of protesting, but gave up in the end.
What was there to protest? A relationship involved two people; if one did not have the commitment, how could the other change anything?
It also did not help that it happened during the time when the city was forced to do a month-long lock down to curb the rise in infected cases as emergency legislation and budgets were being put together to reduce the socio-economic impact of it all.
How could he do anything in those circumstances?
Ashton took a gulp of his stout.
The sole waitress was lounging about at a corner near the bar, responding to someone's requests every now and then. There were less than fifteen present, and it was clear that she was more than enough for them, especially since the bartender did double duty and helped with serving as well.
Ashton saw, but he did not care enough. That was just how things were, nothing for him to care about there.
Life was slightly less meaningless before when he had a future life with her to look forward to. But with her having left him, and the great pause in social life from the pandemic, and the rising economic uncertainty that was bound to come, life was more meaningless than before.
But what was Ashton to do?
Saturday, 26 September 2020
Friday, 17 July 2020
After Work
Aaron sat on the hard bar stool at the bar, nursing the sole shot glass of Jamesons while the crowd around him started coming in. It was a Friday evening, and work for the day was just completed. He could have gone home, but why should he? There was nothing there waiting for him anyway---Lucille had just passed on a couple of weeks ago, and he had cremated the only living creature other than his mother who had loved him unconditionally. She was an old dog who had been with him since his late teens, when it was not quite the age that was popular for holding on to pets, let alone getting a brand new one.
He was lonely then. He and his mother lived together in a small one room apartment that was left behind by his father, who had died about ten years earlier. It was the one good thing that he could remember him by, the leaving of the apartment. It was small, no doubt, but at least it was home. His father was always out working at odd hours of the day, so Aaron never really had a chance to know him. Even on weekends, he would barely see his father at all.
Aaron took another sip from his shot glass, feeling a little sorry for himself for no real reason at all.
In many ways, he was lucky. He was middle-aged, but he still had the one room apartment to call home, especially during this time when the economy was tanking due to the global recession that came from the trade wars between China and the US. His mother had gone two years prior and left the apartment to him---he had cried himself ugly at her wake, but he didn't expect to be crying himself to sleep that night after he got back from the cremation. Lucille had snuggled up to him for the whole night, being extra tender, as though she knew that something terrible had happened.
But now Lucille was gone too.
Aaron stared numbly ahead. At least he still had a job. Sure, they had given him a pay cut as part of their overall cost control measures, but he still had a net income after all---the same thing could not be said for quite a few people.
But what's the point money in a job when there's almost nothing to look forward to after it all?
When Lucille was around, he'd happily spend money on getting treats for her, and for getting toys for her. He would do his job in the office, then when he was done for the day, would quickly grab dinner before rushing home to meet Lucille, who would always great him with the most enthusiastic of reactions. She would literally brighten up his day---no matter how bad the day was, there was always Lucille to look forward to at the end of the day. He would play with her, take her out to the park for a long walk, sometimes bring a frisbee or a ball to play catch with her.
It was the happiest days of his life.
But she's gone. And everything was just different.
Aaron didn't have many friends to begin with. It wasn't so much of him being antisocial, but more that he found little in common with most people. He preferred reading over everything else, spending a lot of his free time not playing with Lucille being deeply engaged with a book, sometimes with Lucille in his lap, or more often, napping at his feet. It became more and more of a problem as time went by when people he knew slowly drifted off along their own paths when they found that they could not really click with him that well---most of those whom he knew had given up on reading in general ever since they were done with school.
A pity.
Aaron took another sip from his shot glass, stared at it forgetfully, before just downing the whole shot. The fierce fire from the concentrated alcohol burned in a pleasant way as it went down his gullet and into his belly, where a satisfying warmth spread its way throughout his body, tingling his senses. He savoured the fleeting moment, and contemplated getting another shot.
It was tempting to do so.
But he decided against it---it just wasn't worth it. He had to face reality eventually, and it was better to face it on his terms than to be forced to.
Aaron signalled to the bartender to close his tab. The latter came by with the bill. Aaron gave a quick glance at it before passing him his credit card. The transaction was quickly concluded and Aaron left the bar for home.
It was going to be a long night again.
He was lonely then. He and his mother lived together in a small one room apartment that was left behind by his father, who had died about ten years earlier. It was the one good thing that he could remember him by, the leaving of the apartment. It was small, no doubt, but at least it was home. His father was always out working at odd hours of the day, so Aaron never really had a chance to know him. Even on weekends, he would barely see his father at all.
Aaron took another sip from his shot glass, feeling a little sorry for himself for no real reason at all.
In many ways, he was lucky. He was middle-aged, but he still had the one room apartment to call home, especially during this time when the economy was tanking due to the global recession that came from the trade wars between China and the US. His mother had gone two years prior and left the apartment to him---he had cried himself ugly at her wake, but he didn't expect to be crying himself to sleep that night after he got back from the cremation. Lucille had snuggled up to him for the whole night, being extra tender, as though she knew that something terrible had happened.
But now Lucille was gone too.
Aaron stared numbly ahead. At least he still had a job. Sure, they had given him a pay cut as part of their overall cost control measures, but he still had a net income after all---the same thing could not be said for quite a few people.
But what's the point money in a job when there's almost nothing to look forward to after it all?
When Lucille was around, he'd happily spend money on getting treats for her, and for getting toys for her. He would do his job in the office, then when he was done for the day, would quickly grab dinner before rushing home to meet Lucille, who would always great him with the most enthusiastic of reactions. She would literally brighten up his day---no matter how bad the day was, there was always Lucille to look forward to at the end of the day. He would play with her, take her out to the park for a long walk, sometimes bring a frisbee or a ball to play catch with her.
It was the happiest days of his life.
But she's gone. And everything was just different.
Aaron didn't have many friends to begin with. It wasn't so much of him being antisocial, but more that he found little in common with most people. He preferred reading over everything else, spending a lot of his free time not playing with Lucille being deeply engaged with a book, sometimes with Lucille in his lap, or more often, napping at his feet. It became more and more of a problem as time went by when people he knew slowly drifted off along their own paths when they found that they could not really click with him that well---most of those whom he knew had given up on reading in general ever since they were done with school.
A pity.
Aaron took another sip from his shot glass, stared at it forgetfully, before just downing the whole shot. The fierce fire from the concentrated alcohol burned in a pleasant way as it went down his gullet and into his belly, where a satisfying warmth spread its way throughout his body, tingling his senses. He savoured the fleeting moment, and contemplated getting another shot.
It was tempting to do so.
But he decided against it---it just wasn't worth it. He had to face reality eventually, and it was better to face it on his terms than to be forced to.
Aaron signalled to the bartender to close his tab. The latter came by with the bill. Aaron gave a quick glance at it before passing him his credit card. The transaction was quickly concluded and Aaron left the bar for home.
It was going to be a long night again.
Wednesday, 5 February 2020
Print Me: Part I
Liubo looked at the carton that was just deposited on his door step by the delivery person just a short moment ago with great anticipation. It was a dream come true to him---it was the one thing that he had saved nearly six months for, and it was finally here after waiting anxiously for the delivery web portal to display its slow progress from Shenzhen, where these things often came from.
The carton itself was roughly a cube with sides of around forty centimetres all around. It was sized in such a way that a relatively strong person could probably lift it in a type of bear hug, but the shape of the box was deceptive in the mass that was contained within.
Eagerly, Liubo read the airway bill that was stuck on the top of the carton, despite already knowing what it was---that the delivery person had to use a trolley to move it around was a big hint. The sender field had the clearly printed text of ``Shenzhen Molecular Printing Company'' on it, and the contents had four line items, the first of which stated ``Molecular Printing Device (small): 1pcs'', the second was ``Molecular Printing Gel, Organic: 1kg'', the third was ``Molecular Printing Gel, Base Metals: 500g'', and the last was ``Molecular Printing Gel, Precious Metals: 5g''.
And on it was another important field: ``Net weight: 30kg''.
Liubo closed the main door to his apartment and bolted it, before carefully dragging the carton across the living room towards his work room. It was a small apartment, only two bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen, and a single shower-toilet. It was definitely not a large living space, but it was something that Liubo was proud of as he had bought it under his own name as an unmarried adult from the government. The housing policy was something of a sticky point for him, but now that he had reached the age threshold to own his own apartment under the lease-hold scheme, he was somewhat satisfied.
The living room was spartan, and had a clear path that led from the main door to his work room. In stark contrast, the work room was a cornucopia of controlled chaos, where every available wall had a rack or a shelf set up with various tools and projects in different states of assembly/disassembly, while every floor space that was not immediately contributing to the basic movement path was co-opted as additional storage for even more tools and projects.
Liubo dragged the carton up to the centre of the room and looked at the table space that he had set aside a week ago on one side of his main work bench. The new device, the Molecular Printing Device (or just the molecular printer) was going to be the centre piece of his latest set of experimentation. On the opposite side of the same table sat the forlorn plastic filament based 3D printer that he had owned for nearly ten years. It was the state-of-the-art when he had first purchased it, and as time went on, he used it to assemble parts that could be used to upgrade it. But fundamentally, that 3D printer could not overcome a fundamental problem: it was based on physical processes only, which limited the precision to something that was at the high sub-millimetre scale. But for finer objects at the nanometre scale, it was basically impossible to improve upon the 3D printing technology to get that far.
Liubo pulled his utility blade from his work bench and carefully sliced open the carton at the packing tape seals and carefully opened up the flaps. Immediately greeting him were the small tightly sealed cannisters that contained the three different printing gels---the largest was the organic printing gel, the middle sized one was the base metals printing gel, and the last was the precious metals printing gel. He carefully removed each cannister from the packing, pausing each time to marvel at their composition, and the fact that he was literally holding them in his hand, before setting them aside. The cannisters of printing gel were useless unless the molecular printing device itself were assembled.
Below the cannisters was a layer of molded expanded polystyrene that helped with packing the materials snugly. Liubo gingerly removed the molded styrofoam, being careful not because of its fragility, but that it made the most horrific shrieking sound when it was in friction with other surfaces. With the layer of packing styrofoam removed, he looked into the carton and paused at the majesty of the most complicated device that one could own in the home without spending a king's ransom on.
(Story continues here.)
The carton itself was roughly a cube with sides of around forty centimetres all around. It was sized in such a way that a relatively strong person could probably lift it in a type of bear hug, but the shape of the box was deceptive in the mass that was contained within.
Eagerly, Liubo read the airway bill that was stuck on the top of the carton, despite already knowing what it was---that the delivery person had to use a trolley to move it around was a big hint. The sender field had the clearly printed text of ``Shenzhen Molecular Printing Company'' on it, and the contents had four line items, the first of which stated ``Molecular Printing Device (small): 1pcs'', the second was ``Molecular Printing Gel, Organic: 1kg'', the third was ``Molecular Printing Gel, Base Metals: 500g'', and the last was ``Molecular Printing Gel, Precious Metals: 5g''.
And on it was another important field: ``Net weight: 30kg''.
Liubo closed the main door to his apartment and bolted it, before carefully dragging the carton across the living room towards his work room. It was a small apartment, only two bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen, and a single shower-toilet. It was definitely not a large living space, but it was something that Liubo was proud of as he had bought it under his own name as an unmarried adult from the government. The housing policy was something of a sticky point for him, but now that he had reached the age threshold to own his own apartment under the lease-hold scheme, he was somewhat satisfied.
The living room was spartan, and had a clear path that led from the main door to his work room. In stark contrast, the work room was a cornucopia of controlled chaos, where every available wall had a rack or a shelf set up with various tools and projects in different states of assembly/disassembly, while every floor space that was not immediately contributing to the basic movement path was co-opted as additional storage for even more tools and projects.
Liubo dragged the carton up to the centre of the room and looked at the table space that he had set aside a week ago on one side of his main work bench. The new device, the Molecular Printing Device (or just the molecular printer) was going to be the centre piece of his latest set of experimentation. On the opposite side of the same table sat the forlorn plastic filament based 3D printer that he had owned for nearly ten years. It was the state-of-the-art when he had first purchased it, and as time went on, he used it to assemble parts that could be used to upgrade it. But fundamentally, that 3D printer could not overcome a fundamental problem: it was based on physical processes only, which limited the precision to something that was at the high sub-millimetre scale. But for finer objects at the nanometre scale, it was basically impossible to improve upon the 3D printing technology to get that far.
Liubo pulled his utility blade from his work bench and carefully sliced open the carton at the packing tape seals and carefully opened up the flaps. Immediately greeting him were the small tightly sealed cannisters that contained the three different printing gels---the largest was the organic printing gel, the middle sized one was the base metals printing gel, and the last was the precious metals printing gel. He carefully removed each cannister from the packing, pausing each time to marvel at their composition, and the fact that he was literally holding them in his hand, before setting them aside. The cannisters of printing gel were useless unless the molecular printing device itself were assembled.
Below the cannisters was a layer of molded expanded polystyrene that helped with packing the materials snugly. Liubo gingerly removed the molded styrofoam, being careful not because of its fragility, but that it made the most horrific shrieking sound when it was in friction with other surfaces. With the layer of packing styrofoam removed, he looked into the carton and paused at the majesty of the most complicated device that one could own in the home without spending a king's ransom on.
(Story continues here.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)