Maslow's Star Wars Stories: Just a Simple Man

Maxen Hitomi sits in his usual seat, third row from the back, second seat to the left. Council chair Kaibara reads through the agenda, others assenting or objecting as their passions are piqued. The small crowd sometimes responds to the dealings and are always hushed immediately. Sari Ken walks out dramatically when hushed, no doubt hoping that, this time, the vids would catch her at a good angle, and she could use the footage in her next campaign run. Oriko Reimi diligently scribbles notes for her next broadcast. Stormtroopers who drew the short straw stand at attention, numb by now to the boredom of the assignment. And Maxen Hitomi sits in his usual seat, third row from the back, second seat to the left, oblivious or perhaps just indifferent that there are several entirely empty rows in front of him. Yes, all the characters are in their place. Running in place.

When the floor opens for new business, Maxen takes his creaky bones to the line extending from the podium. Was it really new business? No, but it was Maxen’s only business. Some let him shuffle ahead of them in line, while some insist he wait. Maxen was fine with whatever. He’d talk when it was his turn.

He approaches the microphone, his amplified voice scratching everyone’s ears. All the council members nod respectfully, then they decline his request. Not important to enough people. Not important to the right people. They’d love to help, but their hands are tied. Do they even make parts for that any more? Doesn’t matter. A refusal is a refusal. Maxen turns around and walks out. Those he passes say they’ll see him next week, In his usual seat, third row from the back, second seat to the left, in an almost-empty assembly hall.

It’s spring, so Maxen meanders through the park outside, his stick and knees clicking with every step. His worn, red cowl reflects the illumination lights. The wide park is full of people: Families, young lovers, children, workers on their break. Maxen remembers being them all. He nods and waves to those he passes by. He’s a regular here, too. A man stands and offers him his bench – he was just leaving anyway – which Maxen takes gratefully. He leans his walking stick against a charging station as the man unplugs his droid and leaves with a bow. Maxen reaches into his pocket and takes out a box of crackers. He eats one and tosses the rest on the ground. Brilliantly colored Flegim noisily gather round, pecking curved beaks to eat. Nearby children shriek at the commotion. Maxen looks up and smiles at them. He recalls his own.

He chatters with the Flegim, or has he fallen asleep, until a warm wind whips by. Looking up, the park is emptier than it was, and the black sky has turned to orange and red. Artists have set up their canvases, hoping to capture the moment. Maxen remembers being them, too. Everyone at least gives it a try. He says farewell and stands, causing the Flegim to scatter and take flight. Taking his walking stick he goes toward the tram station.

It is unavoidable. He must check it. It breaks his heart every time, but to avert his eyes would be to deny he ever had a heart. Love lasts longer than the loved, and Maxen has lasted very long indeed. He looks. The fountain is dry.

The ferrocrete is from Kessel, and the blue rock has a dull shine. It’s carved into the shape of a space ship. The water had spurt from the engines in the back, and Maxen had made many true wishes in the basin. But time had taken its toll and age charged insurmountable interest. The fountain is dry.

The sun begins to peak over the far mountains, and Maxen feels its passion on his brittle skin and groans. Some of the artists hear him and put down their brushes and come to help. One brings his canvas to act as an umbrella. They kindly hurry him into the safety of the tram station, turning around only after the blast door closes completely. He remembers when the sun didn’t usually hurt so much, when his skin could take it. Or maybe it had taken too much?

The tram arrives. Its doors hiss as they open, and the cold air comes out invitingly. Two boys stand up and bow and he quietly thanks them and takes the seat. The tram descends deep, deep into the planet. Other planets, he knows, have livable surfaces. But what did that matter? There was little enough for him here – what could be found out there?

The tram opens to the large square. Caverns to rival the old Senate, he had been told. Forced underground, his people had learned how to live nonetheless. They had everything they needed for a life: Food, water, and culture. The walls were decorated with paints made with ground up minerals. Sculptures had been created with whatever metals traders brought, or which crashed into the surface. Dramas telling local histories, or far off tales, could be seen most weeks. He walks by a poster advertising the story of two Clones who fall in love. A lesson in the decommission of the old machines, and the hazards of love. A barker yells from a corner, selling tickets. When Maxen gets close, he quiets his voice.

Maxen turns to go into Jun’s Tavern. He is welcomed warmly by staff and customers alike. Jun, who likes to be called Shimmy for reasons even he now forgets, puts out a stool for him at the corner of the bar. Maxen hangs his walking stick on a hook meant for coats and sits down. A pair of musicians on the stage blow horns and a group of men play sabaac in the corner.

Shimmy places a steaming bowl of stew in front of Maxen, who slowly picks at it with a fork. The talk is of the latest news, the increasing boldness of the Rebels, and a hope they stay far away from their sector. Maxen smiles and nods, and joins the applause at the end of each song. When he’s finished, Shimmy comes by and apologizes. He’ll have to pay this time; business has been slow. Maxen hands over a few dozen Fusks and tells him to keep the rest as tip. When the next song is over, Maxen carefully descends his stool, takes his walking stick, and heads to the door. On his way he waves good bye to the other handful of regulars, who wave back and bid him good night.

Finally arriving home, Maxen unlocks his door first with his key then, a handprint ID, and a finally voicecode. What does the old man have to protect? Only memories. The security is more for his heart than for his home. Sometimes he imagines they’re all inside, waiting for him to come home. As soon as he opens the door, though, the emptiness is too obvious.

He puts on a recording of an old drama and sits in his big chair. It’s the story of a Jedi who wants to feel. Maxen knows it well. A youngling who came to the Jedi with dreams of saving the galaxy, but in the end he decides all he wants is to know love. But he’s too far in his training. It has a sad ending, but the Jedi isn’t sad, because he’s a Jedi and can’t feel anything. Maxen can’t ever decide which he prefers, to be sad at the right and at the wrong times or to never be sad at all. Today, he envies the Jedi.

When it’s over he rises and goes into the bedroom. He readies for sleep and lays down on the bed, walking stick leaning into a groove carved into the bedside table. He turns the light off and pulls the covers over him, but he but feels Beyza’s absence too clearly to rest. He feels everything as his loss comes rushing back in the dark silence. Earlier, the feeling would deplete him, but now he knows how to soften its crush. He turns the light on again and slowly turns on his side toward the bedside table. He opens the drawer and reaches a gnarled hand in until he feels the figurine. He takes it out and twists the crank on the back. His fingers sting with each turn. When it’s all wound up, Maxen places it on the table. A blue image of Beyza projects from the ballerina and appears in his bedroom. It begins to dance and sing. He watches for a little while, remembering, before turning off the light and closing his eyes. He falls asleep to his wife singing Thousand Degree Rock.

***

Except there is a special guest appearance today. Imperial Governor Whozit. No one cares to remember his real name. His hologram projects forward and Maxen hears the Stormtroopers move to give a salute. Fools, he thinks. As if the governor would waste his time; This message is scripted and pre-recorded. Still, everyone has a part to play.

Maxen recalls when these interruptions to the assembly’s rhythms weren’t as useless. Their Senator used to give live broadcasts from Coruscant, relaying Galactic concerns to the people and listening to their local concerns. Senator….. Whatshisface? Maxen groans. And did he really ever listen? Maybe uselessness is a reality some don’t want to get rid of.When the floor opens for new business, Maxen takes his creaky bones to the line extending from the podium. Was it really new business? No, but it was Maxen’s only business. Some let him shuffle ahead of them in line, while some insist he wait. Maxen was fine with whatever. He’d talk when it was his turn.

It’s summer, so Maxen hurries through the park before the short night can end. A warm breeze moves his light green tunic as he makes his way through the park. It is almost empty. The Flegim have long left, migrating along their regular pattern. Any people who remain are the daredevils – artists ready to catch the deadly sun on canvas, teenagers daring each other to stay out longer and longer. They turn when they hear his walking stick, but he gives them a wrinkled smile and waves them off. He was once them. He won’t waste their precious surface time.

It is unavoidable. He must check it. Lifting his face, he feels a weight move from his mind to his heart. Guilt replaced by sadness, and sublimates back. The fountain is dry, and not just because of the season. Back then, during the summer, the water steamed even in the pipes, coming out as grey vapor. This made the fountain appear as if it was a spaceship caught in a nebula. That’s what Takashi had said once, anyway. Such an imaginative boy he had been.

Maxen arrives at the tram station and the doors slide open for him. The cold air welcomes him from the outside. According to the neon sign, he just missed the tram, and will have to wait for it to come back around. Turning to the angled windows, he sees the sky begin to change. The illumination lights dim and Maxen watches the artists hurry to work, as if they are racers and the morning light was their starting gun in a short, deadly sprint. He sees the teenagers cajole each other and smiles. Another dangerous sport. Even through the glass he feels a change in temperature.

Suddenly the windows, alerted by some unknown sensor, tint to keep the sun’s harshness out of the station. Turning around, he waits a few more minutes for the tram to arrive. He grips his walking stick tightly, as he’d often held Beyza’s hand while waiting for the tram at this very station. But in his mind her hand was still smooth, firm, and young. It’s only Maxen who has begun to waste away.

The tram arrives. Hissing doors and mechanical announcers. A businesswoman stands up and offers her seat with a bow. He quietly thanks her and sits as the tram descends. Inoffensive music plays, a kind of drum leading a harp. Maxen clicks his tongue to the melody a bit, but stops when his jaw begins to pinch.

The tram opens to the wide square, now patrolled by Stormtroopers in their impeccable armor. The Rebels continue to elude the Empire which increases its presence even in the outer-lying systems. These reinforcements do not stay chiefly in their orbital any more. Like ants, the Stormtroopers have spread themselves all over the caverns looking for any hint of trouble. What could the stormtroopers hope to find here? The only thing on this planet was life, death, and the memories of what happened between.

Kokoro would have sympathized with the Rebels, Maxen knew. In that way he was glad she was gone already. She had been in love with her ideals and was industrious enough to follow them. She never let reality get in her way, an admirable and tragic trait. The Rebels promoted a return to the Republic – to restore democracy. Every week at those damnable meetings Maxen saw how democracy failed those it pledged to serve. If he was ignored when he was in the room, how could anyone hope to be represented on Coruscant, which might as well be a million parsecs away?

The painted walls had been plastered by machine-printed posters about the Emperor and his accomplishments: An end of the Clone wars; Stability in the Senate for a generation; Faster trade routes; Cheaper fuel; An end to the Jedi, whose council had secretly run the Senate behind the scenes for who knows how long. Maxen muses there are no posters talking about the higher taxes, or the children sent to their death. A repeating hologram message in the middle of the square reminds residents to report any Rebel activity right away, for a nice reward. It almost made Maxen wish he knew a Rebel. Then, he could pay to fix the fountain himself. But then he thinks of Kokoro and is filled with shame.

Other posters describe new upcoming dramas, also commissioned by the Empire. One tells the story of the Emperor’s rise from an isolated system to leader of the Galaxy. Another tells a supposedly exciting story about trade route taxes and Senate votes, portraying the old ways as an entertaining game for those involved, while the people suffered below them. It ends, so he heard, with the Stormtroopers executing a cabal of puppetmasters. A barker calls out that a rancor and his trainer can be seen just through this door. Ever seen one sir? They’re mighty big. When Maxen shows no interest the barker shoos him away.

Maxen goes to Jun’s Tavern and sits down. A few booths in the back overflow with Stormtroopers, whose harsh laughs drown everything else. Shimmy brings Maxen his usual. The stormtroopers are good for business, when they pay. Tonight they’ve paid in advance, celebrating some promotion among the troop. Maxen won’t have to pay tonight.But the stormtroopers’ noise isn’t the regular noise. No friendly banter or casual exchange of faraway news. For the stormtroopers everything is a war. Maxen shivers as he wonders if Takashi had survived to be drafted. Of course, he would have had children of his own, maybe, by the time the Empire began to decommission the clones. Maxen turns away as he blinks a tear for his unborn grandchildren, taken to serve an Emperor who’d never know or love them, to die in a battle that would mean nothing.

Shimmy looks up and sees Maxen has left without even saying good bye, his purple stew unfinished. Business is good, but the atmosphere is bad.

Maxen secures the door behind him when he gets home. Settling into his chair, he turns on the radio for company. The host gives an update on the results of the latest podrace circuit. Maxen lets the words wash over him, recalling when the outcome all he cared about. It had never mattered, but oh it had mattered so much. Only the young are blind enough to understand the true value of a thing.

The station goes to the news. Sari Ken is giving an interview on how things must change, and that she’s the one to bring it. Maxen chuckles as he turns it off and goes into the bedroom. Would she be any better for him than Kaibara?

He changes into a deep purple night robe and lays down in the bed, turning the light off and pulling the covers over him. He closes his eyes, but hears Kokoro too clearly to rest. Her optimism haunts him. He turns the light on again and slowly turns on his side toward the shelf. He opens the drawer and reaches a knotted hand in until he feels the datadisk. He takes it out and clicks the buttons on top before placing it on the bedside table and turning the light off again. Takashi’s graduation speech plays through the room. Top of his class! Maxen listens to all the jokes and aspirations, remembering and mourning them. The sound becomes a haze as his mind slips. He falls asleep to his son ready to take on everything life threw at him. Except death.

***

He approaches the microphone, his amplified voice scratching everyone’s ears. All the council members nod respectfully, then they decline his request. Not important to enough people. Not important to the right people. They’d love to help, but their hands are tied. Doesn’t he realize how dangerous things are now? Doesn’t matter. A refusal is a refusal. Maxen turns around and walks out. Those he passes say they’ll see him next week, In his usual seat, third row from the back, second seat to the left, in an almost-empty assembly hall.

It’s fall, so Maxen walks through the park leisurely. He nods to those who acknowledge him, and finds an empty bench. Even before he takes out his box of crackers the Flegim begin to swarm him, flapping their wings and churring noisily. They remind him of Takashi and Kokora when they were young – loud and attentive. He tosses crushed crackers and remembers. Screaming as they run through the home. Laughing as they sit in the park. Sighing as they fall asleep on in the high chair, face falling towards a plate of half-eaten food. He wished he had been a more diligent recorder in their youth. It’s the silence he feels most painfully. Sometimes he can picture their toothy smile or recall the feel of their hand in his. His life had been good, for a long time. So had theirs – until everything wasn’t.

A hand on his shoulder wakes him. Seeing the color of the sky he knows he has dozed dangerously long. Another hand gives him his walking stick, which he accepts with a thanks and then walks off, firmly declining any more help. He walks past the painters who try to capture terrible glory; past the young who are enticed by hot passion, unaware of its burns; past families urgently gathering their children for the trip downside.

Maxen enters the tram station, then onto the tram and onto an empty seat. He looks at a young family, asleep on each other’s shoulders, and he sighs longingly. At first Maxen had hoped duty would drive the council to fix the fountain. As years carried on, he hoped pity would stir them. Now, he mostly hopes they fix it just to shut him up.

The tram opens to a busy square. Most of the stormtroopers had abruptly been recalled; apparently their intrusion needed elsewhere. Those who remain, defeated by a mixture of boredom and failure, now keep to their orbital whenever possible. There are no Rebels here to find.

The people are eager to reclaim what is theirs. A group of citizens work to tear off the Imperial posters and to restore their painted walls. Maxen sees Sari Ken among them, no doubt talking up her own candidacy. Where is Kaibara? She would have a point, for once.

Their eyes meet and she gives him a wave. He nods back, then turns to enterJun’s tavern. Seeing him enter Shimmy sets out a stool and orders some patrons to move to make room. It’s a busy night – a busy month, really. The departure of the Stormtroopers had really livened up the place.

The talk turns to the return of the old times. The war had left them, and the people hoped it would stay that way. The old dramas will return. Galleries will return to their regular hours. Did you hear they found a droid that tries to tell jokes? They aren’t very funny, but that’s why it’s funny! The band sings a local favorite and no one has to wait to see if the Stormtroopers approve before they cheer. Maxen claps as loud as his hands will allow him. When he’s finished with his meal he leaves a tip for Shimmy anyway and leaves, waving good bye to the big crowd, who holler back at him.

Then he walks down the paths to find his home and slowly unlocks it. Maybe this has all been a dream? A night on the town gone on too long. They’ll be there when he gets in, right? Of course they will. Where else could they be? The final lock slides away, and he forces himself to push the door open, unable to avoid it any more. The automatic light as he enters shows the empty room. They are still dead.

He puts the radio on. The host is explaining fashion over the past few decades. Sighing, he gets up to get ready for bed. He didn’t have an eye for fashion and had never understood it. At least he won’t have to get ready in silence. However, certain bits get into his head and he remembers. The host says the tightly cut clothes of long ago, when Maxen was a boy was one of the last times the core’s fashion had penetrated the system. The bright colors of his bachelor days had come from an experimental fashion artist named Hootha, who had sold their wares specifically to systems whose inhabitants largely lived underground, in some sort of psychological experiment about cheer. The results were mixed.

He remembers Beyza on their wedding evening. Her sheer white gown dimming the colorful outfit underneath. A small bump visible if you knew where to look (and they were careful not to tell anyone to look until they’d been married a few weeks). After the ceremony she took that gown off and they had danced in their colors long into the night on the surface, the cool spring air rushing by as they leaned and twisted. In his nightclothes, Maxen holds a wrinkled hand out and pretends to spin his partner, singing what he remembers of the songs that night. He wishes he still had that dress but knew he had donated it soon after she died, along with almost everything else. An old mistake of his.

Cheered by this unexpectedly happy trip down memory lane, Maxen feels brave enough to listen to that message. Tightening his robe, he reaches to the highest shelf, bony fingers grasping beyond his sight. When he feels the disc he gathers it in his hand and brings it down. He inputs it and sinks into his chair.

An image of Kokoro materializes before him. He feels his throat tighten, and he takes a moment to steady his breath. She is tall and thin and there is that energy to her movements he always reveled in. Her voice is matter-of-fact, but loving. He listens as she explains again, but it still doesn’t make sense to him. It never has. Things had been going so well here for everyone. Maxen had been newly promoted. Beyza had been cast in a drama with a singing part. Takashi’s thesis had been accepted by the academy. Kokoro had just graduated school, with her whole life ahead of her. And yet she had insisted on leaving.

He tries to think of the situation from her perspective, but he knows he never can. It had never occurred to him, in all his life, to leave the system. He had hardly left the planet. But Kokoro needed to see more.

Even as she speaks of a wide galaxy, even as he sees her excitement on full display for him, like a shadow passing over his eyes he sees the tragedy unfold in front of him. He’s seen the news vids enough to know it from every angle. A shuttle drowned in lasers until the shield gives in and the ship explodes in red and orange and white with his whole family onboard. He should have been there.

He should have been there, but he had been angry at her. It was easy to concoct an excuse to miss takeoff. She’d be back, he knew. He thought. He had believed. He remembers imagining her return. After sowing her wild dreza she’d come back. She’d find a place here for herself, her wandering soon a brief memory. But none of them would ever return. His family had been blasted without so much as a warning shot. Was it smugglers? Pirates? Hutts? There was no finding out. The attackers left the system immediately afterwards.

The message ends and the image freezes. Maxen wipes an eye and sits there, adoring his daughter one more time. He tries to picture what she would look like now. If only she had waited, the Stormtroopers could have brought the Galaxy to her. She would see the horror of it from the comfort of a park bench, under a cool winter’s moon, and she would be safely satisfied.

With a great effort Maxen turns the image off. He takes the disc and returns it to its high shelf. Out of sight out of mind, they say. Maxen wonders if he went blind if he’d forget everything, too. He wonders if it would be easier if he did.

Under the covers, Maxen pulls a musicron from the bedside table and presses play. As the soft music begins he takes out a projector and flips through the choices. Finding what he wants, he sets the projector on the table and turns off the light. A family holo, from decades ago, glows on the ceiling. Maxen quietly sings along with the old songs as he stares at the repeating image. Beyza kisses him while holding little Kokoro, whose pudgy arms reach up to her mother’s face. Takashi balances precariously on his shoulders, and Maxen sees himself pull on one of his legs to keep him steady. He imagines he hears their laughs and he doesn’t feel so alone anymore.

***

When the floor opens for new business, trust me, nothing actually new happens.

He approaches the microphone, his amplified voice scratching everyone’s ears. Does it scratch yours by now? Whatever. A refusal is a refusal, blah blah blah. Everyone is in place, running in place.

It’s winter, so Maxen heads to the park, nodding to everyone he sees. He sits on a bench, takes out a box of crackers, and tosses them until the Flegim are swarming him.

And then something new happens. Sari Ken sits down next to him on the bench.

The two of them aren’t so different. They both want change. They are both dismissed by the council which seems to do nothing for anyone but themselves. But among the community Maxen is known and even respected.

The old man is taken aback. It had been so long since he’d received a real compliment. When they first died it was all pity and sorrow. Then it was understanding and deference. But that soon turned to charity and a distant reverence. No one but Shimmy even asked him personal questions for fear of reminding him of the tragedy.

Sari went on. Elections are coming up. Maybe he’d support her campaign? In return, she’d make sure that fountain was fixed. What did he have to lose?

So Maxen Hitomi takes on a new part. He talks about Sari in the tavern, in the park, and even on the tram. The other passengers eagerly listen, surprised by the old man’s passion. Teenagers eager to make their mark, now compete for signatures, not burns. Painters lend their skill to the campaign. Shimmy lets Maxen speak in between songs by the band, glad to see the old man looking forward for once. Patrons who used to come to the tavern to forget now come to engage. Kaibara comes by once to give a response and is booed out before both feet can step into the tavern.

Maxen also takes trips to other caverns, caverns he hadn’t visited in years. He finds his tragedy has preceded him. The man who stayed out of the Galaxy’s way, who stayed home, who still lost everything. If he supports Sari, why not we, too?

And now when Maxen is home he entertains a few visitors: Voters still on the fence; Other council members seeking his endorsement; Oriko Reimi interviews him twice for the broadcast. When they leave, of course, he is still alone. But it’s somehow less lonely, as if the echoes of their conversations keep him company long after they’re gone. The only difficulty he still has is when the lights are off and the dark silence creeps in. But missing them, in those moments, isn’t so bad. Better that than move on and forget them entirely. What happens to the dead when they are forgotten?

***

It’s spring, and Council chair Sari reads through the agenda, others assenting or objecting as their passions are piqued. A large crowd sometimes responds to the dealings, and are always hushed immediately. Kaibara Hosotani walks out dramatically when hushed, but everyone laughs at this. Oriko Reimi diligently scribbles notes for her next broadcast. Stormtroopers who drew the short straw stand at attention, numb by now to the boredom of the assignment, eager to return to their orbital. But despite the increased attendance, a chair in the third row from the back, second seat to the left, is empty.

Sari Ken made good on her promise, and even made a few benches close to the fountain so Maxen could easily sit and watch and listen to the water gurgle. And he did. At all times of the night, until that fierce sun rose, Maxen sat at the fountain and he listened and he remembered and he fed the Flagim when they were there.

One night one of Sari Ken’s campaign staff comes out and sat with Maxen on the bench. After a time he says, “Somehow, I thought it would be bigger.”
“Yes,” Maxen says casually. “It isn’t exactly how I remembered, either. Still, it’s back.”

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I consider this story still a draft. I edit it occasionally. If you have any feedback for me, I'd love to hear it! Email me at armaslow@gmail.com. Please put "Star Wars Stories" in the subject line. Thank you!

Maslow's Star Wars Stories

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Friday, April 30, 2021

Just a Simple Man