“Stop
looking at me, you bitch.”
“Let’s
have a drink.”
He
laughs, bitter and hoarse. “What do you think this is?”
“I
don’t know. But it’d be better with a drink.” I hold his eyes.
“Tell
me where it is.”
“I
will take you to it.”
“Tell
me, bitch!”
“My
name is Clair.”
His
rough hand probes inside my bodice. “Not much here,” he says.
“Does size
matter?”
“You really are a
cunt, aren’t you?”
“So some say. You
ready for that drink?”
He casually shakes
my detached hair from his fist and picks up his jacket from the chair as I
resist the urge to jump and claw the knife from its leather case on his belt. I
can get that belt off. I can get him vulnerable. There are very few women left
and some of these neo-men really prefer a woman, even if she’s old and dried
up. I have lots of options, I just have to stay calm and find the best one.
He follows me up
the porch steps and into the boarded up farmhouse, poking his finger into my
back, which I imagine I’m supposed to believe is his knife. This guy may be
cunning, but he’s not that bright. Still, he’s a survivor for a reason, and I
must respect that.
He watches as I
light the kerosene lamp, gradually illuminating what used to be my mudroom. All
the rooms are mudrooms now, dark and gritty.
“Get on with it,”
he orders at the back of my neck. He seems unconcerned that a protective man
may be waiting in the murky shadows. He’s been watching--watching long enough
to know I’m alone here at night.
That I am a fool has
been long known. I go my own way, I always have. Sometimes I refuse to accept
that the world is constantly spinning. There are small communes of sorts,
safety in numbers and all that. What I can’t stomach is the infighting and
backbiting and the constant push and pull between leaders and their hopeful sycophants.
I’ve taken more than one beating for this resistance. Yet, here they come every
day for lessons, and here I remain as instructor and as example, the latter
having more weight in the long run, as this youth little remember the concept
of parents. Some days it seems so hopeless.
“Please, have a seat.”
“Fuck you. Give me
the booze.”
“Not until you
sit. Humor me.”
“Just remember who’s got the knife.” He throws
himself into the old blue recliner and I pause beside the dirty, ancient
breakfront, suddenly remembering its odd assortment of contents.
“You’ll never find
all the goodies I have stashed if you kill me too soon.”
He ignores this
almost cheerful comment as I produce two etched aperitif glasses from a lower
cabinet along with a bottle filled with a greenish liquid. I set them on the
ledge.
“You gonna give me
that little glass?”
“This is strong
stuff, a few little sips are all you need for a high.”
Choosing his own
fate, as we all do, he quickly stands and grabs up the lamp, whisking it around
the perimeter of the room. I have glancing glimpses of the stained sunflower
wallpaper and the old oil painting of sailboats over the scarred mantle. He
hesitates when the light reveals a tall china cabinet, hazy glass inexplicably
intact, just like the breakfront. He yanks at the door.
“You have to turn
the key.”
“Jesus, what’s the
point of this?”
“It’s fun. It’s a
relic. It promotes the idea there’s something valuable inside.”
He scoffs as he
turns the small key. The door pops open. Holding the lamp higher, he contemplates
the dusty contents lined up on the shelves. I hope he doesn’t disturb the
dancing frog I got for my fifth birthday. He selects a tall tumbler, a singular
reminder of the sixties. Its color was called “avocado,” and it’s the last of
the set my mother left me. I was saving it for a rainy day celebration. I guess
that’s today.
“This is my glass,
you use the tiny one.”
“Sure, whatever
you want.”
He makes his way
back through the gloom and plunks the glass on the narrow ledge. I consider
briefly knocking the lamp from his hand. The thought of burning down this decrepit
old house, even with him in it, is more than I can bear. And I’ve borne a lot.
I am the only
elder in this little community; the only one who clearly remembers the Space
Age, or even the Digital Age, for that matter. Standing between me and the next
oldest is at least sixty years. The Baby Boomers, as near as I can tell, have
all died off save me, along with the two generations in between. My children
and my grandchildren, should I have had any, would be gone. These kids know
nothing but chaos and confusion and misery. They will eat each other if
necessary, and many do. I stopped asking ‘why me’ about the time I stopped
feeling sorry for myself, maybe a decade ago.
“Fill ‘er up!”
As I pour, I
remember the sunny summer day I picked the Artemisia preserved in this
everclear, 90-Proof alcohol. It was before Nibiru swung past the Earth in its
long elliptical orbit, before the oceans reared back and roared forward. It was
before the planes fell from the skies and The Great Diaspora. It seems long,
long ago, back in another--
“Give it here!” I
twitch at his raspy voice in my ear.
As I hand the
glass to him, I ask, “How old are you?”
“None of your goddamn
business.”
I shrug, “Just
making conversation.” He probably hasn’t a clue; maybe sixteen?
“Well stop it. I
want to drink, not talk.” He takes a huge gulp, which he barely manages to
swallow. He struggles for breath.
“What kind of crap
is this?” he gasps, “it tastes like shit!”
“It’s absinthe.” Close,
but still a lie.
“What’s that?”
“It’s what the
famous artistes used to drink in the old days. They loved it.”
“It tastes like
shit.”
“You said that.”
“You expect me to
drink this?”
“Suit yourself.”
His grimy hand
shoots up and lands on my neck. He squeezes. Try as I may, I can’t hate him.
There’s some advantage to that.
“Would you like a
cigarette?” The hand drops.
“Where’d you get
tobacco?”
“Grew it.”
I see confusion
overtake suspicion.
“It’s a plant, thus
it can be grown. The leaves can be smoked.”
“I didn’t know
tobacco was a plant.”
I briefly bite my
already bitten tongue. “Most people don’t know. Now you do.”
“I thought it was
just illegal substance.”
“Do you know what
‘illegal’ means?”
He takes another swig;
he’s up to about four now. I sip. I’m not really sure, but I think it’s best if
I get him back outside.
“I don’t give a
shit what it means. It’s from the Old Days. None of that means squat now.” He
throws his head. “Whew, this stuff is strong.”
“You know there
used to be laws and cops and courts and stuff?”
“I heard that. Our
side killed all the cops.” He lifts the glass once more. I watch his Adam’s
apple bounce.
“How about we take
this bottle to the picnic table? It’s stuffy in here.”
I open the upper door and bring out
a scarred wooden box. “I’ll be able to see good enough to roll you a cig.”
“This
better not be a trick.”
“Now
why would I want to trick you? You have the knife.”
“Let
me see the box.” I hand it to him and watch as he fumbles with the catch.
“I
suppose this needs a key, too.”
I
reach over and flip the clasp sideways. He opens the box and holds it up under
the light. Looking satisfied, he rises.
I
pick up the old wine bottle, cork it and slip two fingers under my glass. “Bring
the lamp.”
“Stop
bossin’ me.”
My
few teeth clench as I wait.
“Well,
what are you waiting for? Git!”
I
quickly move to the back door and out onto the porch.
The
screen door slams. “Stop here. Put that down on this table.” He motions towards
a small end table between the two much-painted rockers my father had crafted in
better times. We sit and he holds out his glass for me to replenish. He hands
me the box.
“Roll
me a cig.” I take the box on my lap, quickly depositing brown crumbles onto
thin paper. I lick the edge and hand him the finished product. He drinks again.
“How
do I know this isn’t dope?” We waves the cigarette past my face.
“Maybe
it is.”
“LOL,”
he says as he seizes the worn matchbook I had placed in the lid. After he ruins
two damp matches, I light it for him. He draws deeply. He knows nothing of
email and cell phones and the actual meaning of LOL. He takes another profound
drink from the special green glass and sits back.
“This
is pretty nice. Maybe you’re not such a bitch, after all.”
“I
can be pretty good company. I can teach you to make this stuff, to distill
alcohol, if you want.”
“Why
would I do that when I have you?” He has a point. He drains the glass quickly
and swipes a dribble from his scraggly beard. The cigarette drops from his
fingers and sparks on the porch floor. This is going much faster than I
expected.
“Ops,
get that for me, willya?”
I
pick up the butt and place it back between his trembling fingers.
“Fill
this glass. Ain’t you gonna smoke?”
“I’m
too old for that. I did enough of it when I was your age.”
“What
was it like when you were my age?”
His
question takes me by surprise. “Why, I was a lot like you.”
“How?”
“Just
young. The world was my oyster.”
“What’s
a oyster?”
“You’ve
never had an oyster?”
“Naw,
I don’ even know wha’ tha’ is.”
“Never
mind, it’s just a figure of speech.”
“Wha’s
a ‘figger of speech’?
“Well,
it’s when you say something that represents something else.”
He
tips and swallows. “I betcha you could teach me a lot.” He belches loudly.
“If you wanted to
learn, yes.”
“Right now I jus’
wanna--” The cigarette drops again, but this time he seems unaware. I move my calloused
heel carefully to squash the ember. The tumbler is balanced precariously on his
lap, his fingers lax upon its sides. His eyes are closed.
If he survives
this, maybe I’ll tell him about high school dances and Chevys drag racing on
country roads and JFK; maybe I’ll explain keggers and skinny dipping and the
excitement of blasting the Rolling Stones from transistor radios. Maybe I’ll
tell him about college and disco and my friends killed in the wars and air
travel and the rise and fall of the American Empire. If he survives this
humbling--
Suddenly, the tumbler rolls from his lap and crashes
miraculously intact onto the porch floor. Maybe they called it a tumbler for a
reason.
He moans and
lurches forward off the rocker, projectile vomiting over the porch railing. The
back of his jeans fill with brown liquid, propelling a disgusting odor and saturating
the denim all the way to his beat up sneakers. He seems not to notice as I jump
up and free the knife from its sheath, flinging it into the side bushes. His
energetic exploits persist until he slips exhausted to the floor in an agonized
heap. He moans. He wails.
“You bitch!
Uggghhh—“
I slide my rocker
upwind of the stench, to the other side of the porch, and return for the box.
Before it held tobacco, this was a shipping box for medicine, received by
Grandpa’s pharmacy and considered only trash fit for the heap. How it’s
survived all these years is beyond my simple comprehension. Sometimes the years
tumble, too, I guess. I arrange the small pillow and sit back and roll myself a
smoke. The moon is setting over in the west and the stars fading as the sky
lightens. I can make out the cottonwood trees down by the stream. I take a
shallow but satisfying hit. The breeze shifts and I catch a whiff of my young
house guest. They’re all young these days.
Back when I first
started to teach, they didn’t know that eggs came from chickens, that potatoes
grew under the ground and that plants had chemicals that could not only keep
one alive, but actually cure illness. They didn’t know why the few babies they
were able to birth were dying shortly thereafter. They marveled at the pictures
in the books but could barely apply the knowledge I translated from the pages. It
is better now, they’re better. As their bodies improve, so does their humanity.
I inhale the sweet
tobacco perfume. He retches weakly. I should’ve asked him his name. Funny I
didn’t think of that.
I have books--lots
and lots of books, to teach me what I haven’t already committed to memory. I
used to worry about the library being stolen and then I realized that most of
them can’t read well enough to decipher even the most simple of instructions.
They need me to teach them the plants; how to concoct the elixirs. I have
become an important and integral part of their New Society. We are under such time
constraints here. If I take the time to teach them to read, they might die of
starvation. I must let someone else take that burden, although I know not whom.
My job is food and the preservation thereof. My job is to live long enough to
see healthy babies. My job is the reason I’m still on this planet.
Randy the rooster
begins his morning serenade. They will be here soon, dragging their attitudes.
They will free the cows from the barn and milk them. They’ll shovel the shit
and turn the compost, and pick the strawberries and grind the grain and bake
the bread.
They’ll pull
buckets of water from the well and wash the porch and bury the dead.
Shuddering and
quivering, the boy’s body continues to leak its contents in an orgy of
putridity. I rise and step around the mess to cork the bottle. I rescue my
mother’s glass and toss what’s left of the wormwood tincture into the bushes
after his vomit. I watch as he convulses one last time. Soon, I will experience
a much milder version of this boy’s encounter with wormwood and expel any worms
that may have made their home in my gut. Like any herbal medicine, wormwood is
best ingested in tiny increments.
