Michael Bunker - WICK

“Clay. Clay Richter,” he said, smiling back and nodding his head. He wasn’t ready to shake hands with the man, mostly because of the knife, but he was ready to make conversation.

“Richter?” Clive said, smiling. “Hmm… Kraut?” Seeing Clay’s eyes narrow a bit, he added, “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m one of those old fellas that just blurts out whatever he thinks without passing it through some filter. What I meant to say is—are you of German extraction, sir?”

“Way back,” Clay answered, showing that he wasn’t offended at all. “My grandfather on my father’s side came here in 1929 to escape… things going on in Germany.”

“He a commie?”

Clay laughed this time. “No. He was a Republican, in the Charles Lindbergh mold of Republicanism. He may have been a fascist, but he certainly didn’t like or approve of Hitler.”

“My kind of guy,” Clive said, laughing at his own joke. “Where you headed?”

“Upstate. Not far from Ithaca. Escaping the city,” and before he could stop himself he added, “and not because of the storm.” For some reason, Clay, who had been so reserved in his interactions with people along his journey—even with Veronica, despite her kindness—found it easy to talk to this cowboy.

“Hmmm… a mystery. I like it. So you’re the grandson of a fascist and you are starting off on your Luddite life in the wake of the worst hurricane to hit New England in recorded memory. Interesting, to say the least.”

Clay looked down at the ground and kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He watched as the pebble rolled across the pavement and came to rest under the treads of one of Clive’s brand new tires. “Maybe it’s not quite like that,” he said through a grin. He didn’t know why he felt the need to open up to this old guy and spill the beans, but he did. “I’m just heading home. I’ve been gone a long time, and I’ve had enough of cities and consumerism and the whole charade of progress.” He paused for a second. “And if I hear another word about this election, I’m seriously going to snap. In fact, that’s been one of the few benefits of the storm… it has changed the subject off the horse race.”

“Like I said — a Luddite!” Clive nodded and laughed straight from the belly, “and an anarchist to boot!”

“I haven’t thought it out that far yet, but maybe I’m heading in that direction.”

“Well, maybe you should have said that when I asked you which way you were headed,” Clive said, folding the knife and putting it back in the front pocket of his jeans.

“Maybe I should have,” Clay nodded and shifted the backpack on his back, nervously pretending to adjust the straps. “Oh, and thank you kindly for the apple.” He hesitantly turned to leave still feeling like he shouldn’t, or maybe it was that he didn’t want to.

“Well, hold on there a minute, Ned Ludd,” Clive said, wiping his hands on his jeans and tidying up the tailgate. “I’ve got enough gas to get us down the road a bit. I know you’re not an axe murderer because, well, I just know, that’s all, and because you were willing to take an apple from a guy with a knife. That makes you either stupid, brave, or insightful, and I don’t think for a minute that you’re stupid. So that leaves brave or insightful. Either of those makes you better company than most of these jokers on the road. I like a little conversation when I drive. So what I’m saying is… are you up for a ride?”

Clay hesitated.

“I don’t know how much gas I have left in the tank, but hopefully it will get us to Liberty, which should cut your walk down quite a bit. It’ll save you two to three days of walking, at least, maybe more. I’ve got another—well, let’s just say—another form of transportation picking me up in Liberty. But I might be able to get you that far. And anyway, at one of the stores I stopped at last night they were saying that there’s another storm coming. Don’t know nothin’ about it, but they said it could be bad. So what do you say, young Mr. Ludd. Would you rather hoof it than keep an old man company?”

Clay looked around. Maybe Clive was right. He’d heard about things turning south really fast after a natural disaster, and Clive seemed like a nice enough guy, even if he was peculiar.

Clive looked at him, shrugged, and said, “Well Ned, if you insist on walking, let me give you some more fruit for your bag.”

“I’ll ride, Clive.”

“Well, then! Good. Let me get my gear and we’ll saddle up.”

The ride was smooth and nice, and the pickup truck was plush and comfortable. The conversation was as peculiar as Clive but in a way that Clay was growing used to. Clive was a regular fountain of information, and he seemed to know more about disasters and psychology and the ins and outs of social disintegration than a cowboy from Georgia should. He wasn’t exactly sure how much cowboys should know about such things, but he was pretty sure that Clive knew more.

Just outside of Sloatsburg they passed a couple of cars on the side of the road with the hoods lifted. The flashing hazard lights on both of the cars said they had been recently abandoned. “Probably out of gas,” Clive said matter-of-factly. “When they write the epitaph on this civilization it will read, ‘They Ran Out of Gas.’ And speakin’ of, we’re getting low on petrol ourselves,” he added, “but this ol’ truck’ll go a long way on empty.”

As they drove, they passed occasional walkers and hikers, and Clay turned to look into their faces and tried to read their thoughts. Where are they going? How far do they have to go? What are they leaving behind? He wondered whether people had thought the same things about him yesterday when he’d been walking on the long road. His mind visited memories of news clips about refugees in war time in places like Rwanda and Sudan. Displaced and fleeing. He thought that he just as easily might be a refugee on this same road, and he wondered whether catching a ride could mean the difference between life and death for some of these people. He wondered to himself if maybe they should stop and pick some of them up.

Clive answered his thoughts, as if he had heard them. “We can’t pick them up, Ned Ludd,” he said, sadly. “I know I picked you up, and it seems the neighborly thing to do and all, but we’re going to float into Liberty on fumes, if we make it at all. Besides, like I said, some of these folks ain’t gonna be nice to be around starting pretty soon. You don’t have time to eat an apple with each one of ’em and size ’em up on the side of the road.”

“I understand,” Clay replied, and he really did. He liked to think of himself as the helpful and friendly kind, but he really just wanted to get home. And anyway, if they couldn’t find more gas, the truck wasn’t going much farther. They’d be refugees themselves soon.

“Listen Clay,” Clive said, all of the sudden speaking very seriously, “this whole world exists in a hologram of civility. If you don’t mind an ol’ cowboy quoting Thoreau… Thoreau said that ‘the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’, and that was more than a hundred and fifty years ago.” Clive waved his hand outward, indicating everything. “This is all pretty simple, even for an ol’ horseman, and I hope I don’t bore you with my opinions, but this world has a long history of empires rising, followed closely by empires falling. Believe me, they make a bigger mess falling than they ever made rising.”

Clay looked at him and thought for a moment about the red-haired man on the bike and how he had not recognized the resemblance before, but he sure did now.

“Do you mind me waxing philosophic, Clay? We’ve got some time to pass, and I’ve got this speech memorized, and perhaps I can put words to some thoughts you’ve had yourself. Judging from what you said earlier, I mean, about the city and consumerism and such.”