Michael Bunker - WICK

Clay looked over at Clive and just rolled his left hand with his forefinger extended in a small loop like he was rolling the tape forward, indicating that Clive should continue. Clive smiled, and did.

“Man always starts simply. He works the ground, raises his crops, tends his animals, and loves his family. His children, who probably didn’t work too much to build the farm, don’t generally recognize the same value in it, and they work it only begrudgingly. His grandchildren hate the farm, and either they or their children move to the city and end up automating the world. They can’t be blamed much. It’s in the nature of things. They build up a system of just-in-time delivery of goods made widely available and priced cheaply through the coercion of economic power and the largesse of wars of conquest and mechanization. They think they’re building on the family legacy when really what they are doing is destroying.”

Clive smiled at Clay, and continued, “You with me? What I’m saying is: that’s the history of America, brother. I don’t mean to speechify even though I do, but this ain’t the first time we’ve seen this rodeo. Man’s been down this little trail before. Just go ask the Greeks and the Romans. Folks that think we’re on to something new ain’t been paying attention. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but when it was built, it was built on the back of the countryside, and it sucked out the life from the country to feed its appetites. Your politicians, be they Democrats or Republicans, fight over the fumes of the excess once built up by the hard work of families and the labor of farmer poets. The bankers and factories eventually sell everyone weapons so they can kill one another because there’s good money in that, no denying it. Then one day, after the fires go out and the stench of death wafts over the planet, the survivors start over, and a man works his piece of ground, raises his crops, tends his animals, and loves his family. Then we’re off running to the next go-round. You got me?”

Clay sat silently for a minute, thinking and looking forward through the windscreen then back to Clive at last. “You have given this speech before. Go on,” he said.

Clive reached forward and tapped on the gas gauge, shaking his head. “Oh no, I’m not really trying to convert you or anything. Don’t think that. Besides, I have the feeling we are already on the same page. This ain’t a recruitment. I’m just sayin’ that there’s some things coming down, Clay. Real soon. Maybe even now, today, this minute. And when these things come down, you don’t want to be in the city. You don’t want to be in this truck on this highway neither. You want to be far away from the masses of people living their lives in quiet desperation. Anyone whose life is dependent on the system —what did you call it? ‘Cities and consumerism and the whole charade of progress?’—you just want to be as far away from that person and that charade as possible. Especially when those people live in bunches, stacked on top of one another in those cities and suburbs like a house of playing cards set to tumble.”

Clay nodded his head, thinking. He looked out the window and watched a hawk swoop across the sky in a long lazy circle, coming to rest in the top of a barren pine, his large wings dropping and turning in a way that made his tail turn under him, sending his body upright. “I can’t say I disagree with you much Clive, but then, you somehow already know that about me. These are things I’ve thought for some time now. In fact, some of that is the reason I’m heading home.”

“Well,” Clive said with a smile, “I kinda did know that about you. That’s why I called you ‘brother’.”

They rode in silence for a time, noticing aloud to one another the increase in foot traffic on the sides of the highways. It was going in both directions now, and there was a look of urgency on the faces of the passing strangers. Every now and then they’d come upon a fallen tree or a collapsed billboard or some other damage from Hurricane Sandy, but all-in-all things seemed remarkably peaceful, considering.

It was becoming painfully obvious that gasoline was going to be a huge problem. Every station they passed was lined with cars and people holding gas cans. Many truck stops and filling stations had large 4’ x 8’ pieces of plywood out by the road that read, “No Gas!” in bright-colored spray paint. Clay thought that there ought to be no reason for stations that have electric power to be out of gas.

Clive looked over to him and shook his head. “Pumped dry by thousands and thousands of scared folks and profiteers along with a few intelligent folks who see that things might go bad. They’re all getting every drop of life-blood they can get. You can tell what people love and need the most when you see what they rush to get or save when bad things happen. This society is hooked on gasoline and electricity. It is the vital drug of this culture. Crack cocaine isn’t even as addictive to the wide world of people grown dependent for their very lives on stuff like cellphones and video games and other gadgets. Stuff that hadn’t even been invented when Thoreau wrote Walden , or when the first bridge was built across the Mississippi up in Minneapolis.” He paused, letting that sink in.

Clay rode along silently, watching a handful of refugees sitting on a fallen tree on the shoulder of the road smoking cigarettes and cutting up. He wondered whether they had just met, or if they’d been traveling together. He was thinking about what Clive was saying, but didn’t know exactly what he thought about it… or even what Clive wanted him to think about it.

Clive glanced over again, noticing Clay’s pensive look, and said, “Oh, I know! I know! I’m a hypocrite. We all are. I use the tools that are available to me, even while my mind and my heart wars against ’em.” He leaned forward, stretching his back and re-adjusting the seat belt across his chest. “But what I’m saying is no less true whether I’m a hypocrite or not. This age-old social experiment in empire building and civilization is heading for a very big crash—just like Athens and Rome before it—and I have to tell you brother, it’s coming really soon. There ain’t nothing new under the sun.”

As he finished this last sentence, Middletown, New York appeared, and Clive pulled the truck off at the next exit. He was going downhill, so he cut the engine off and coasted for almost half a mile before pulling into the parking lot of a small, family restaurant with a sign out front that said, “Sorry. We’re Open”.

Inside they sat down in a wide booth covered in maroonish pleather, and were met there quickly by a woman in an apron upon which the name “Madge” had been embroidered in thick green thread. A waitress in a hurry with a pen and paper at the ready. “We have turkey sandwiches and coffee. No water. That’s what we have,” she said. Madge looked at them impatiently and was already walking away when Clive said, “We’ll each take two of everything that you just said.”

When Madge showed up ten minutes later with the food, Clive asked her if anyone in town had any gas. Madge just shook her head negatively and said, “Twenty-five for the sandwiches and coffee, and exact change will be appreciated if you got it,” and she was gone before either of the men could say a word.

Clive pulled out his wallet before Clay could even reach for his own stash of money, and threw a fifty down on the table. “I got this, Brother Clay. And she can keep the change because that paper money will be worthless in a week anyway.” Clay thought the comment was strangely specific, but the two were back on the road before he could ask Clive about the tip or the comment on the impending worthlessness of cash. Just as he was about to do so, the old man started up the conversation where he had left it off.