Joshua Gayou - Commune - Book One

“I think you’re right,” he said looking into the bowl. “Oh well; in for a penny, in for a pound, right?”

He deposited a dab of oil into the skillet, swirled it around inside, and placed it over the fire. I offered him the bowl, which he took and upended into the skillet, stirring the result with the spoon as he passed the empty bowl back to me.

Two things happened at this point: the mixture began to take on an orange tint, and the texture looked nothing like improving.

“I think it’s getting worse,” I muttered.

“It is doing that…” he said.

I began laughing as he struggled with the mixture. “Are we really going to eat this?”

“Oh, I think we must try. Look how far we’ve come.”

This comment surprised more snickers out of me, and I struggled to respond. “But what if…whoo! What if we end up shitting ourselves to d-death?”

I was done in by this point, laughing like a mad idiot. Jake stoically continued to stir the concoction with his spoon, smiling his serene smile. Occasionally, he would lift up a spoonful to smell and give me a thumbs-up, which sent me off laughing again. Over time, however, the eggs went from looking all wrong to looking maybe okay. The smell coming from them was more than okay.

“Hey,” he said. “Maybe this is coming out right, huh?” The eggs were starting to fall over each other appropriately as he stirred.

“Well, don’t just stand there, man, throw in some of that sausage!” I urged. My stomach was beginning to growl painfully.

He smiled and did so. He cooked the whole thing for a little while longer before he pulled it smoking from the fire and dumped it all onto a plastic plate. He divided the pile, spooned one half onto another plate, and passed it to me along with a fork.

We sat there facing each other in two chairs looking down at our plates. I finally said, “Well, are you going to try it?”

“I’m a little afraid to. Shitting myself to death sounds like a horrible way to go.”

“Don’t start that up again,” I said while suppressing a fresh round of the giggles. I lifted the plate up and breathed deep, taking in the aromatic heaven. The smell was too good to ignore, so I shoveled in a mouthful.

I’m not going to pretend that the stuff tasted exactly like eggs ought to taste, but it was certainly close enough that my eyes rolled back in my head and I moaned involuntarily.

“Good?” asked Jake.

“Oh, man. All it needs is a little Tapatio.”

“Yeah, think we have some. Hang on…”

“If you find any, you’re my new bestest friend,” I called to his back.

When he returned he said, “No luck, unfortunately. There was just this Pico Pica stuff.”

I held my hand out. “It’s not the same, but it will do fine in a pinch—you can still be my friend. Thanks!”

“Sure thing,” he said and took a bite from his plate. He coughed and looked up surprised. “Wow! That’s not bad.”

“Right?”

I wolfed half of my portion down before I realized what was happening. I stopped suddenly, thinking about Lizzy.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jake.

“I should save some of this for Lizzy.”

“No,” Jake said. “Eat it all if you’re still hungry. The best thing you can do is keep your strength up. You can’t protect her if you’re starving. I can make more for her.”

What he suggested went against years of conditioning on my part, but it made sense. We ate the rest of it in silence, enjoying the feeling of the cold morning air and hot food in our bellies. That’s one of the things I always appreciated about him; he didn’t insist on small talk. He was just perfectly happy to sit quietly in your company if that’s what the situation felt like. I asked him about that once, in fact, and he said that he always thought of small talk as “one of those needless constructs we all inflict on each other to reinforce the idea that we belong.”

He opened up the bag of powdered eggs again, poured double the previous amount into the bowl, and said, “You want to wake the others? I’ll get some more going for them all.”

We were all finishing up by the time Billy and Otis returned in the truck (even Robert, whose attitude went from sullen to confused when Jake handed him a plate of food with a “good morning” and a smile—he’s always been pretty easy to forgive most things for as long as I’ve known him). I saw there were a few more gas cans than before in the back of the truck and suspected that the morning excursion was successful. They were stacked precariously on top of all the other gear, tools, and backup supplies, shifting around as the truck rolled toward us over the dirt.

Billy parked the truck nose to nose with the Jeep, and they both hopped out to come join us. “How’d you do?” Jake asked while whipping up a fresh batch of egg snot in the bowl.

“Really good,” said Billy. He sat down in a chair by the fire and looked over at what Jake had going. “Oh, you got the eggs figured out, huh? Nice.”

Otis hauled two five-gallon gas cans out of the truck bed and carried them over to the minivan. “Billy got us all setup, guys. We got the tools, and we got the talent.”

“I caught that reference. Winston Zeddemore, right?” asked Jake.

Otis pointed in Jake’s direction and laughed. “There you go!” He walked back to the truck to retrieve a jack and some drip pans.

“Not just that,” Billy said. “I finally got some jack stands. We can refuel safely now. Hey, is that coming out alright? It looks awful…” He was looking at the concoction Jake was whipping up.

“No, it’s fine. Trust me; I’m getting the hang of this now. It’s my third batch.”

“It definitely does not suck, you guys,” said Ben, throwing out a thumbs-up to emphasize the point.

Jake finished up the third batch of breakfast and shared it around. Billy and Otis took their portions, followed by the kids coming in for seconds. I began to scold my daughter for taking a second round (those habits we learn growing up tend to die hard), but everyone assured me it was fine and that the food would go to waste otherwise. I relented, and she happily tucked in, reinforcing that age-old lesson that all Hispanic children eventually pick up on: Mom is much nicer around company.

We loitered around as the last of the food was eaten. Jake kicked out the fire, bustled about the area packing up the “kitchen,” and ensured that all gear was stowed for when it was time to depart. I noticed he was moving slower than usual—stalling. We all seemed to be stalling in our own way. It was yet another lesson of change in this new world that I was coming to understand. Every experience was now more intense; more extreme. I believe we were all uniquely aware that there was a chance that each thing we did could end up being the last time we did it. People had been rendered a rarity by the events of the world and relationships with good people had become rarer still. This would not be the last time I experienced a long, lingering goodbye.

With nothing left to put away, Jake called over to Robert and asked him to come away from the camp for a bit. Samantha tensed up at this, but Jake put out a reassuring hand to calm her. They went to a distance of fifty yards out and stood toe to toe, talking. Jake looked serious but not unkind. Robert started the conversation with arms crossed over his chest and a stony face. I was distracted by Billy speaking over to my right and looked in his direction. He was talking with Otis.

“Here,” Billy said and handed Otis a folded up piece of paper. “That address is in Jackson, Wyoming. It’s right on the border with Idaho. If you don’t find the folks you’re looking for in Oregon… or, hell, even if you do find them—you can find us there at that address. There’s plenty of room, I have a well, good hunting. It’s an option, anyway,” he trailed off.