Ashes and Tomatoes

Melvin liked to say that the world hadn’t gone crazy all at once, but it had eased into madness the way a man eased into a too-hot bath: one grumble at a time, then a full-body wince once the heat truly settled in. Anyone watching him from the outside would have seen just another Elder walking home from the grocery store, broom in hand, like some unofficial scepter.

But inside, Melvin carried a whole library of observations about how things used to be, how they’d changed, and how people had changed along with them, some willingly, most reluctantly, and a few still kicking and screaming.

He’d cleaned floors at that store for six years now. That was before the rating system had become the gospel of public life, before being labeled an Elder was mandatory, like wearing a seatbelt or recycling plastic.

The word wasn’t insulting, exactly. It was the only term permitted for people of Melvin’s age, and refusing to use it would lower your score faster than a negative customer review. In a world where digital currency was chained directly to social compliance, a dip in points was a dip in dinner.

His score, the last time they notified him, was 1.81, barely above the danger line. Anything below 2.0 meant you weren’t allowed to access bank funds for simple things like grocery shopping.

Anything below zero meant re-education jail. Melvin had been there once.

Not for a crime, but for—well—for being human. Melvin might have forgotten to thank someone for holding a door, or maybe he’d thanked them too late.

He couldn’t remember anymore; the system didn’t care much for nuance. But Melvin was still here, walking, thinking, and growing tomatoes.

He’d told Charlie that story earlier—about the tomato thrown at him during one of his trudges home after work. At first, he’d been grateful for the food, even if it came as an insult.

But as he’d bitten into it, some half-forgotten memory about gardening had bubbled up.

“I realized it wasn’t just a tomato,” Melvin had said. “It was potential.”

Charlie had scoffed at that. Not because he didn’t understand it, but because hope tasted too bitter when you were twenty-six and on your way down, fast.

Charlie’s score was 1.998—dangerously low, only two thousandths of a point above the cutoff. Melvin remembered those days, too. When every gesture, every word, every blink had to be measured and curated because the system, invisible and yet everywhere, measured and curated you in return.

Now the two of them stood by a rusted burn barrel in the middle of an open field behind the hills, an unofficial gathering place for people like them.

The fire hissed and popped as grocery flyers curled into ash. The setting sun threw long shadows across the dirt. Around them, nothing but brittle grass, distant rooftops, and a quiet you only heard in unwanted places.

Charlie kicked at a rock and muttered something that the system would’ve flagged as “unsocial speech.” Melvin didn’t react. He’d heard worse from his own mouth.

Charlie continued pacing, face tight with frustration. “If I could just get my device back,” he said, “I could appeal the score drop. I had a 3.4 last year, you know. I was doing fine. I was working. I had plans.”

Melvin nodded softly. Story as old as the rating system itself: lose your device, lose your score. Lose your score, lose your device. A loop tighter than a noose.

“I had a friend once,” Melvin said, conversationally, “who tried to get his score back up by doing everything the system recommended. Courteous interactions. Community tasks. Microvolunteering. All that stuff. He drove himself mad over it.”

“What happened to him?”

“He climbed back up to 2.3,” Melvin said. “Then one day he called the system ‘silly.’ Just the word. Silly. Boom. Back down to negative. Straight to jail.”

Charlie dragged a hand through his hair. “See? That’s exactly it. It’s rigged. It’s all rigged. And I’m supposed to act like everything’s normal?”

Melvin gave a slight shrug. “Why bother?”

Charlie blinked, thrown off. “Why bother? Because if I don’t, I starve.”

“Maybe,” Melvin admitted. “But starvation comes in different forms. You can lose food, or you can lose yourself.”

The fire crackled. A breeze carried the smell of smoke and faint earth.

“Look,” Melvin continued, leaning slightly on his broom handle like it was a walking stick. “The system wants you to care about the score because caring makes you predictable. That makes you manageable. But once you stop caring, really stop caring, something strange happens.”

“Yeah? What?”

“You start feeling free.”

Charlie snorted. “Free? With a score under two?”

Melvin chuckled. “It’s not about the number. It’s about the weight you give it.”

“And what? You don’t give it any weight?”

“Not anymore.” Melvin nudged a piece of scrap paper deeper into the flames. “I used to. I used to care what strangers thought. I cared about the little rating bubbles, the public behavior guidelines, the way people would flash a smile not because they meant it but because they wanted a good reciprocal score. It was like living in a play where everyone forgot they were actors.”

Charlie stared at him carefully. “And you just stopped?”

“One day I realized I didn’t respect any world that told me how many points my humanity was worth.” Melvin tapped his temple. “So I stopped letting it inside.”

Charlie sat down on an overturned bucket, elbows on knees. “But doesn’t it bother you? Being stuck in poverty? Not being able to access your retirement?”

Melvin thought about that for a moment. “I used to think those things mattered. But now? I grow tomatoes. I talk to neighbors. I walk to work. I breathe air that hasn’t been filtered through a rating system. Life’s not what it used to be, but it’s still life. And I don’t need anyone’s approval to live it.”

Charlie didn’t respond, but Melvin could see the idea working its way through him, slow as sap in winter, but steady.

“You know,” Melvin added, “conversation like this, that’s the real wealth these days.”

Charlie lifted his head. “Talking?”

“Talking,” Melvin said, smiling. “Sharing. Being human without calculating it.”

Charlie watched the fire for a while, shoulders gradually untensing. “Maybe you’re right,” he said quietly. “Maybe this, here, talking to you, is better than fighting with a system that’s already decided I’m not worth the hassle.”

Melvin chuckled. “I’ve been telling you that for half an hour.”

A long silence settled between them, peaceful, not heavy. The kind of silence that stretched comfortably, like an old sweater around the shoulders.

Finally, Charlie said, “You know, maybe I’ll try growing something too.”

Melvin’s grin widened. “Now you’re getting it.”

The fire burned low, as the sky dimmed to dark. And for the first time in a long while, Charlie felt something he hadn’t dared since losing everything: possibility.