Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

And there were lizards and rats and birds to catch. And rabbits.

But his favorites were the grasshoppers. The old man remembered the time before he was the last of his people, when he and his brothers and sisters would take their sharpened sticks and dig deep pits in the earth. Then they would form a big circle and pound on the earth with their sticks, driving the grasshoppers into the pit, where they could be easily caught. There were many ways to eat grasshoppers: crush them into a paste, boil them in a soup with sweet grass, roast them on a rock in the fire, or set them out to dry in the sun. Or if they were very hungry and their father was not looking, they would simply pop a live one into their mouths and chew.

But those were memories, and now there were no brothers or sisters to help and it was harder to catch the grasshoppers. And soon the snows would come and he would have to stay in the mountains away from the white men and it would be very cold. He had to kill many rabbits for their warm fur as well as their meat. And perhaps soon he would take his bow and his sharpened stick and try to kill a mountain sheep, because he no longer dared to sneak down into the valley and take one of the white man’s calves. Not when he could be easily tracked in the snow.

Shoshoko, “Digger”-that was his name, although he had not heard it spoken in many years-picked up his sharpened stick and headed back toward the cave.

Neal thought that shopping was a wonderful thing. He hadn’t thought this when he lived in New York City, three blocks from a grocery store, or even in Yorkshire, where the grocer and butcher were a pleasant twenty-minute stroll away, but he sure as hell thought it now, after two months of having to procure, preserve, and store food. Now he thought the cans of Dinty Moore beef stew stood among humankind’s highest achievements, right up there beside the pyramids, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and Hormel chili. He had also developed a high opinion of the Jolly Green Giant’s cans of green beans, peas, and those peach slices floating in the sweet, sticky juice-especially the peaches, after a day or so in a canvas bag in cold, rushing water.

And what genius, Neal wondered, had come up with peanut butter? Could it really have been some dork named Skippy? Never mind, it was a major cultural advance. Let the food critics, the health food nuts, and the yuppies whine and scoff at canned food. To Neal canned food meant freedom, the ability to live at arm’s reach from civilization and still survive. Canned food let him live in his cabin and have plenty of time to read great books, fish, and take naps instead of spending all his time scratching in the dirt, or hunting, or guarding his crops from vermin.

Steve Mills thought so too.

“I’m happy to see,” Steve had said when he saw how Neal had stocked his larder, “that you’re not one of these purists we get up here who arrive with their Whole Earth catalogues and plans for a geodesic dome. They figure they’re going to grow their bean sprouts and their organic vegetables and live in harmony with nature. Only thing is, nature never read Diet for a Small Planet, so the deer and the rabbits and the bugs eat the whole crop instead of restricting themselves to their socially responsible share. Then one of these ‘alternative life-stylers’ kids named Sunshine or Raven gets an ear infection that herbal tea can’t cure, and so I find myself hauling them to the doctor in my air-polluting, gas-guzzling truck so he can write them a prescription for some nonorganic chemicals they can’t pay for anyway, so half the time I end up writing a check from the capitalist profits I make from selling my murderous, unhealthy red meat. And about the only thing that grows naturally up here that the animals don’t like is dope, so these purists are stoned half the time anyway, unless they have the sense to sell it instead of smoking it. So they end up either starving, dirty, malnourished drug casualties or wealthy capitalists running bales of marijuana into Reno in custom vans that cost more than my whole house. So I’m glad to see that you like Dirity Moore stew.”

Joe Graham had a different take on the purity issue. “You heard that saying about not taking the easy way out?” he’d asked Neal. “Sometimes the easy way is the best way. A lot of smart people have put in a lot of time making things easier. People who tell you not to take the easy way out are the same people who’ll then get on a plane to the West Coast instead of taking a covered wagon, which would be a lot harder.”

Neal didn’t care much about the philosophy of the whole thing. He just wanted to live in the cabin, not see people unless he wanted to, and read books. So he stocked up on his favorite canned food, bought a six-pack of bottled beer, and picked up his week’s supply of newspapers.

Steve Mills pulled his truck up alongside the sidewalk. He’d been down at the gas station, stocking up on surreptitious cigs.

“You ready to head back?”

“Why not?”

Neal slung his pack into the bed of the pickup and hopped into the passenger seat.

“Thought I’d work on my fluid intake at Brogan’s for a minute,” Steve said.

“Sounds good to me.”

Brogan was asleep in his chair. Brezhnev was asleep at his feet. The flies on the window screen were awake, though.

Brogan cracked an eye open as the door shut. “Help yourselves, leave the money on the bar, and remember that Brezhnev can count,” he said, then shut his eyes again.

Brezhnev raised his heavy head at least a centimeter and looked at Steve and Neal with a proprietary interest. Neal hopped over the bar, poured two bourbons into greasy glasses, and left a five-dollar bill on the bar.

Steve tasted his drink, decided he liked it, and tossed it down. “There goes another year of my life. I think I’ll give ‘em my ninety-ninth, what do you think? So what are you planning on doing up there in January when the pump freezes and there’s two feet of snow on the ground?”

Neal sipped at his drink, savoring it. He’d decided against buying any hard booze for the cabin precisely because he thought he’d use it. Like every hight. But the one or two he had at Brogan’s, or the odd drink at the Mills’ house sure went down well.

“I’ll let January worry about January,” he said. It sounded just as stupid out loud as it had in his head.

“Well, you know I ain’t much for worrying, but now is the time to start getting your firewood together and figuring out a dry place to store it. You’re going to need a hell of a lot of it. And then there’s cabin fever.”

“I won’t get cabin fever.”

“Tell me after you’ve spent a winter by yourself out there. That is, if you’re not still talking to little men who live in the walls.”

“Oh.”

“Everybody around here gets it to one extent or another. It’s the cold, the wind, the darkness, the monotony of snow, snow, and snow. Hell, I get it, Peggy gets it, Shelly would get it if she wasn’t teenage crazy already. But I’ve seen some of these survivalists and Vietnam vets and hippies who’ve tried to winter it alone around here. By the time spring springs, they’re already sprung, you know what I mean? Do you suppose Brogan has any more bourbon, or did we drink it up already?”

Steve took Neal’s glass with him and came back with two more drinks. He sat down, lit up a cigarette, and tilted his chair back against the wall.

“Why don’t you come down and stay with us for the winter? I could use the help, Peggy would like to hear a new set of lies for a change, and Shelly thinks you hung the moon anyway.”

“What help do you need in the winter?” Neal asked doubtfully.

“Well, I can’t drink all the bourbon myself.”

“I’ll be okay, Steve. I’m used to being alone. I like it.” Besides, he thought, I need my privacy.