The old man sat on his nondescript couch in his white, square apartment, resting complacent at a perfect 72 degrees Fahrenheit with cool blues shooting at him from his television and resting on his brown eyes. The news was on, and some reporter in a gray suit was saying something about how the war was nearing completion. Not too much, of course. Information could be dangerous in the wrong hands, and the general population might find such issues distracting, causing work productivity to decline. In the kitchen, the plates from the instant meal he had eaten were being cleaned and his clothes for the morning were being prepared. With modern technology, there was no excuse for perfection not to be the status quo.
The old man sat depressed. Nothing beautiful was ever perfect, he thought. There is no such thing as a perfect performance, and even the masters made mistakes. Of course, no one ever came out and said that this strive for perfection was stifling creativity, but no one could deny that art was dying. The only controversy in the art world world was that over the lack of controversy, but those debates were only allowed to go so long before being put to and end.
Frustrated, the old man started at his off-white door. It was 9 P.M. and he should begin preparations to sleep so he could be his most productive at work. But the drive for routine was absent tonight. Outside. Hardly anyone went outside for pleasure anymore. With so much to keep a person busy, the least efficient thing to do would be to idle about outdoors, and approved paths of transportation did their best to keep people’s thoughts from wandering. Nevertheless, this peculiar feeling would not subside. The old man took steps towards the door, and steeling himself, opened it.
The moon shone cooley along the pale white sidewalk, the street lamps responding with a shimmer of their own. Every brick, every lamp, and even the streets were perfectly symmetrical down both sides of the street. He walked down the evenly lit street and pausing for a moment, he arched his neck back and gazed at the starless night sky. The air was chilly, but pleasant despite. Weather was one imperfection that yet remained, and the old man smiled when it rained, or the wind blew the leaves about in a chaotic manner. He continued into the night, amongst the identical rows of houses, wondering if he could ever really escape. As he wandered, he thought about the beauty of imperfection.
He can recall memories of himself during his childhood exploring the woods, valleys with small creeks and rushing waterfalls, creating adventures and wild stories in his mind. He would do this everyday, certain that the future would be just as exciting. But life continues and dreams are forgotten. If that place from his childhood still existed, the location was long forgotten, the details of its whereabouts replaced with mundane facts for his job.
“Excuse me, sir.” A voice from the distance.
Eyes once again looking at his present surroundings, the old man noticed several men in uniforms approaching him. It was of no use to run; even if he managed to physically evade them, they had his deed and description in their database already.
“Sir,” a second voice said, closer in proximity. “It is 9:15 P.M. and you are not in your residence. Please give a reason.”
“I just wanted to take a walk outside,” was all the old man could muster.
“Is your climate control malfunctioning?” one of the voices asked.
“No.”
“Are you experiencing difficulties with the television?”
“No.”
“Is any structure in your domicile not up to code?”
“No, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my residence,” the old man took on a sarcastic, and therefore risky tone. “My clothes are being laundered, my dishes washed and placed back into my cabinets, and my morning routine is programmed into the house computer. Tomorrow will be another day of unpredictability.”
“And you are outside, where any number of things could go wrong, of your own mind?”
“Yes, I like it out here.” The old man’s voice had gone from sarcasm, to desperation now.
“Sir, one figured approached even closer, with clear intentions. “I’m going to have to ask you to come to the Station with me.”
“I have done nothing wrong here. What is my crime?”
“Your behavior tonight requires analysis. Now please…”
The old man had to get away. In spite of his previous thoughts that escape was futile, he would not allow himself to stand and do nothing against the harassment being brought down upon him.
He ran. He ran throughout the identical streets, past the rows of identical houses and attempted to slip through the identical trees. He ran, imagining that his running was part of some childhood game, so that if he did get caught, he would merely have to face the playful mockings of his friends, and the game would begin again. It would go on until they were tired of running, and decided to do something else; maybe they would explore the creek, or return to their fort to plan something for the next day.
Suddenly, one of his friends appeared before him. He was strange in his looks, but the face couldn’t have belonged to anyone else. The friend spoke.
“I can help you get away from all this. You need to come with me now.”
“Adam, is that you?” The old man could not believe what his eyes were showing him. “You have no idea what I’ve been up against these past years. I need to escape this perfection, this routine.”
“I know, I’ve been keeping track of you for a while now. But you won’t be able to get anywhere without my help. Come with me now.”
“But how will we…” the old man started to protest.
“I know of a way. I have been researching it for years, but I can’t do it alone. Come.”
And so the old man and his best friend of many years ran together. They ran through the streets, past the residential zone and into the back alleys of the city. They ran through places the old man had never seen before, and during that time, the old man was reminded of how he used to feel as a kid. But something was familiar about these places, and feeling as if none of this was completely new.
Finally, after they had ran forever, the two came to a door.
“Alright,” Adam finally spoke. “Go through this door and wait for my return. If this works, you’ll be free for the rest of your life. The both of us will be.”
The old man was nervous; after all these years, why should things be so easy now? But, feeling as he had no other choice, he entered. And waited.
The heavy steel door made a loud clank as it slammed shut. Turning around, Adam stared up at the bright lights of the detainment center. Feeling mixed thoughts of relief and guilt, he quickly exited the room, not looking back at what he had done.
“The prisoner has been detained and is now in custody,” he told the official at the Records Desk.
“Very good. You are dismissed.”
Sighing, Adam walked out the door, into the perfect, starless night.
The old man sat on the other side of the door, awaiting the arrival of his friend. After all these years, he finally recaptured a part of his childhood, his happiness. He would wander the woods, swim in the creek, and other things that were looked down upon today.
And so he waited, smiling.