It was dim inside the cabin. Plants hung from the lintel, and the air was thick with the moist smell of mold. Plastic bottles, partially-eaten bread, a helmet, clothing that had been taken off, tinted glasses, and other items were littered about the floor of the room, which they realized was a Japanese-style one from the tatami mats barely visible beneath it all. The Chinese St. John’s wort arranged in a vase on the dresser drooped languidly.
The two of them were straining their eyes until they acclimated to the dark when they realized there was a man in a corner of the room, sitting in front of a desk. He was at his computer. On his desk were stacks of CD cases and books, as well as what appeared to be pills scattered around.
They inched closer so they could get a good look at his face.
The man’s mouth hung slack in the glow of the display, and he had yellow St. John’s wort flowers blooming from both eyes. Tomaso and Johann flinched at the way he appeared to be intently typing something on his keyboard. Though the man was the exact same height as Tomaso, his slim wrists and hands made him look more like an old, withered tree.
“We’re here to pick you up,” said Tomaso, but the flower man didn’t respond.
Johann pointed at the man’s lower half. “It seems like we’re too late,” he stated. Roots had sprouted from the man’s ankles and firmly planted themselves in the holes that had rotted through the tatami mats.
“I want to take you to Polaris.”
When Tomaso spoke to him a second time, the flower man stopped typing. For a moment, it seemed like he’d understood what Tomaso said. Then, the man suddenly popped one of the pills on the desk into his mouth and began typing on his computer again.
It didn’t seem like their voices were getting through to him. I guess we really are too late, thought Tomaso, discouraged.
The man, Tomaso realized, was himself—his journey to different planets as he headed for Polaris was actually a tour of his own past. He observed the dim, gaping, moth-eaten holes in his memory bitterly.
The disgust that permeated the room and made him want to look away was the disappointment, resignation, and desperation Tomaso had felt before. It was a swamp, one he became more stuck in any time he struggled to get out. And yet, despite having lost any self-respect from doing little more than wade through the muck, the man clung to what little life he still had left.
Feeling the weight of it all, Tomaso turned back. Though Johann’s young eyes continued staring at the flower man as if there was something he wanted to say, Tomaso headed for the entryway. He brushed away the dangling plants with his hand, then stepped outside alone.
The purple sky on Antares was strangely fitting for the gloomy mood Tomaso was in. Definitely nighttime, he thought to himself.
Johann left the room sometime after him. He quietly apologized for keeping him waiting, but Tomaso simply said, “On to the next one.”
All Tomaso wanted to know was what laid beyond the night.
