I would be super great to work with. I’d never be late for work, and I’d always show up each day smiling because I’d be so happy to be working on ‘Interstellar Passenger Carrier 211’ to Proxima Centauri B.
This job would be my whole world. It’d for sure be better than the world we’d left behind. My tiny berth would be a million miles better than my sleeping bag, which is rolled up and tucked behind a dumpster down the road. I’d forget all about it, tucked back there, except that sometimes I’d think back about it and hope someone else would have found it and maybe used it until they didn’t need it anymore.
After a year, or maybe a little more, I’d get myself one of those one-size-fits-most twelve setting shoulder massagers. Not that I’d show it off, or even need it, really, but I would lend it around to my colleagues who might be a little short that month, a little bit stressed. Maybe they’ll have tight shoulders from carrying too many heavy pots, or they might have spent too many credits on card games and late night company. I wouldn’t be judgy at all. I’d offer to let anyone use it, and they’d know I was a good friend.
I’d volunteer during my time off. Get involved in making food for events. The advert says this will be a really big ship. So, there would be birthdays, holidays, weddings even. I guess maybe funerals, too. They’d all need people to staff them, and I would be there for it, even though I only ever went to one funeral, and it was when I was really little, and then there wasn’t anyone else left in the family, really. On this ship, we would actually celebrate people’s lives, not just collect their bodies up and throw them down old mine shafts and cover them in concrete just in case they’re still contagious.
After two years, I’d be ready to move from kitchen assistant to cook. I’d know all there is to know about lab-grown fungus and vat-grown algae. I’d be so excited to move to whipping up batches of mushroom muffins or spirulina pasta every day for the canteen.
I would feel safe at my job, where they couldn’t just fire me because I told the boss no, or I’d have to move because the whole neighbourhood got wrecked in a flash flood. Plus, I’d be able to show up to work clean, because I’d feel safe in the bathrooms, which would actually have private stalls, and be maintained by people who also really want to be on an intergalactic voyage. There would be things I need, like shampoo and conditioner and tampons. I could lock the door when I need a pee, or when I need a shower. I’d never need to keep a shiv with me in the public washrooms, just in case. I’d have my own towel, and it would always be clean and dry.
I would have a few photos of people who might be my family, not that anyone on board would know one way or another, and I’d stick them to the walls of my cosy little berth. It wouldn’t matter that I didn’t always remember their names, because lots of people on the ship would be making an effort to forget the people they left behind. We’d all be looking to the future, not thinking about the past. Just like it says in the job advert.
After three years, which would be maybe twenty or a hundred years back on Earth, I’d ask about moving up to catering for the top brass. It would be a bold move, but my colleagues would support me, because I’d always been so great to work with. I would always be in a good mood, always there to help. I would have learned so much, so quickly, they’d be keen to help me move up.
I’d meet all the ship’s head honchos, and they’d be impressed with the things I’d learned to whip up with such limited ingredients. I’d tell them that I’d learned a lot from the chefs in the kitchens, and also I’d say that I’m really resourceful: how I’d lived off two or three ingredient meals for years back on Earth, how sometimes I used to cook in a tin can with a piece of glass on top to focus the sun and heat it all up.
Some time after that, maybe a few months or so, I’d get chatting with one of the deputy engineers, and he’d invite me out to a meal, and it wouldn’t even be me who had to prepare it. He’d talk to me about things like the ship’s computer systems, and I’d nod along, and the next day he’d leave a sweet note in my berth, and I’d never ask how he got access to it, because at least he was nice and not creepy. We’d do a lot of talking, and soon everyone would know we were an item. Eventually we’d be a serious couple, and I’d move to his cabin which would be bigger than my little bunk, with space for some of my stuff, like my shoulder massager, except maybe I’d give that away to a friend. I’d bring the photos I’d stuck up on my walls with me, but I’d always forget to hang them. I’d tell him that he was my family now, along with my lovely colleagues, and eventually the babies he’d like to have once we reached the new planet, which would be a few years down the line.
Until then, I’d grow some herbs in little pots, maybe start a vertical garden in our little cabin, so I could practise giving things love.
I would keep smiling at work, and keep volunteering in my time off. It would feel natural by then. I’d have the time to give. It would be my gift to the people and the ship. I’d be the happiest junior pot-scrubber-turned-head-chef in the galaxy.
If you hire me.
This story was originally published in Nature:Futures.