The Farm

I shivered in the bitter, winter air as I waited at the city’s closest Elevation Station, or (ES for short) to my house.  I closed my eyes, hoping for the monorail to pull around the corner of the tracks that wove across the sky above the city like a large net.  They were fast modes of transportation; rushing to and fro, carrying citizens everywhere across the area.  Their biggest flaw?  Their engines were temperamental in extreme temperatures like the one I was experiences today.  I pulled my scarf tighter as a harsh, chilly wind swept through the air.  I shoved my stiff, dry hands into my pockets in a fruitless attempt to warm myself.  Like a sudden overcast cloud, anxious thoughts filled my head. 

Where is the train? I had thought in worry.  I lifted my phone, which was condensed into the size of an old wristwatch that I wore around my arm, using my other hand to wake the screen up and read the time. The train was late.  I shivered violently as a fiercer gust of wind blew, chilling my bones to the point that my coat and scarf seemed useless.  I knew I was going to be late for work.  The sudden realization chilled me almost as much as the freezing blades of wind.  This was the worst, most inconvenient time of year to run late, for it was harvest time.  Chills swept across my skin, reminding me of why this time of year was so busy that the workers had nicknamed it “harvest time”.  With temperatures like this, everyone turned to stocking up on lots of food so they wouldn’t have to face the dangerous roads or slippery walk to an ES to catch a train. 

I checked the time again.  Ten minutes behind schedule. Eleven Minutes.  Twelve minutes.  At thirteen minutes past, the white monorail slowly pulled around a tall office building.  My eyes briefly skimmed the lively sides of the vehicle, advertising the city’s local farm and a “better, healthier future”. 

My heart sped up urgently as thoughts of walking in late spread through my mind, and my cold hands shook with desire to be aboard the heated vehicle.  Finally, the train came to a screeching halt in front of the all the people clustered together, impatient to get out of the cold. The various doors of the train slid open simultaneously, and I hurried on, a sense of relief settling over myself as warmth spread through my body. 

“Next stop: APF Farms,” the driver spoke through the intercom.

I sighed in relief.  The trip to my job was a quick one. If I were lucky, nobody would notice my absence for the first bit of the morning shift.

As the bus lurched into motion, my scattered thoughts drifted off toward the farm I worked.  The lines of produce straight and orderly.  All the farmers weaving in and out of each row, attending to their assigned task.  Big machines collecting the ready to go produce, and dropping the collections onto long conveyor belts, and other workers briefly checking the packages as they sped past on the belt, about to be shipped off to store’s worldwide.  I thoroughly liked my job as a farmer.  It meant no college, no degree, no paperwork, and a big discount on food produced by the APF Farms.  It was easy.  Of course, the manager had very little tolerance for lateness this time of year, given this was the busiest of all for the farm.  Freezing temperatures, dry icy air, and winter all were signs of harvest time.

Suddenly, I felt a change in the speed of the train, and I wiped the glass of my window clean so I could see outside.  The Farm.  There it was, nestled between four towering city buildings.  People dressed for their jobs in the offices walked briskly around past the farm, hurrying into their buildings as though the cold were chasing them away.

The monorail stopped completely in front of the Farm’s parking garage, and I, along with a handful of other people, stepped off the bus and walked into the escalator, which rode us down to the ground.  Hurriedly, we ran to one of the many elevators inside the garage. As the doors slid open, I was about to take a step in when the older woman standing next to me shot out an arm to stop me.