Макс Брукс - Devolution - A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

“I’ve been saving these.” She came out with an ice cube tray of toothpicks poked through cellophane. “The last of the lavender berry lemonade pops.” Palomino took one with a smile. “Please,” she said, proudly holding out the tray for us. “All from our garden.” Summer, that’s what it tastes like. I savored every lick. Mostar, on the other hand, crunched through hers with one bite, thanked her quickly for the “extra sugar ration,” then asked for a broom and dustpan.

As Mostar swept the kitchen floor, I asked if I could get to work on anything upstairs. Bobbi said it didn’t matter. “I’ll be sleeping on the couch until Vincent gets back.”

“Are you sure?” Mostar called from the kitchen. “Maybe you’d like to stay with me?”

“That’s very kind.” Bobbi smiled and glanced through the living room window. “But I’d hate for him to come home to an empty house.”

I didn’t like the idea either, but not for the same reason as Mostar. She was all about security. I was about emotion. The look on Bobbi’s face, the same as Pal and her parents. I got it now. A longing.

Need.

“Bobbi, are you still up for having that community dinner in the Common House tonight?”

Three people looked at me like I was crazy. Nothing to do but press on.

“Just… you know… to remind ourselves, each other that… well… we got us.” I couldn’t believe I’d actually said that phrase. We got us.

When I was little, Dad bought us the DVDs of the old Muppet Show . And in one of the episodes, when that guy, Dom DeLuise, I think, is trying to comfort Miss Piggy about something, he says, “You’re here, I’m here. Us is here,” and when she repeats “Us is here?” he doubles down with a song: “We Got Us.” [29] The Muppet Show, Episode 211, “With our very special guest star, Mr. Dom DeLuise.” That was our song, our family anthem, and though I’d tried to forget it since the divorce, it was now playing at full volume in my head.

“We…,” I blathered nervously, “…we’ve been pooling resources, right? Food, skills… but there’s another resource…,” directly to Mostar, “…and I know we blew it off in the beginning because we had to handle the practical stuff… and we still do… But we can’t forget… we need…”

“Comfort.” Mostar came forward with a look I recognized as contrition. “You’re right, Katie, we need that as much as sharpened sticks.” She reached up to wrap her arms around myself and Bobbi. Pal completed our little huddle, grabbing my hand while clinging to the waist of a trembling, sniffling Mrs. Boothe. “Togetherness, belonging…” Mostar repeated, with a hint of whimsical fascination, “We got us.”

Of all the ironies. Wouldn’t Yvette, the old Yvette, have just died for a moment like this? And we tried! The first thing after breaking our circle was to march, all four of us, right next door to invite them. Naturally we got no response. The doorbell rang without answer. The methodical, eternal zzzzzp s of the elliptical never ceased. I even coaxed Bobbi (who I figured had the least emotional baggage with them) to shout through the door about community and healing and everything they’d preached at the first emergency meeting.

Oh well.

At least the rest of the village agreed, and it couldn’t have felt more comforting. Food, wine, and friends… and more wine. Everyone brought a bottle, all of us talking about how “every calorie counts.” Even Pal had a few sips from her little glass, prompting an approving “How French” from Reinhardt.

The food, portion-wise, was nowhere near what we’d eaten our first night. Anyone in normal circumstances would have looked at our puny dishes as appetizers. It was so gratifying that everyone wasn’t just obeying the rationing guidelines, but doing it enthusiastically. To quote Carmen, “El hambre es la mejor salsa.” Hunger is the best sauce!

Hunger aside, her egg frittata was delicious. Brilliant idea mixing in ground-up veggie bacon. So much better than ours, which was essentially just scrambled eggs with salt and pepper.

And hunger had nothing to do with enjoying Mostar’s dish. It was legitimately scrumptious. She calls them “siege fries”—deep-fried sticks of compressed dough. I noticed that Bobbi didn’t eat much of her share; either she didn’t like them or, maybe, it was Mostar’s comment about “the best substitute for potatoes.” Does she still feel bad? That feels like a hundred years ago. Anyway, she gave the bulk of her fries to Pal. “You’ll probably like these more than what I brought.”

She didn’t have to bring anything. We’d agreed on that at her house. But she’d whipped up another noodle soup. It was thicker, darker, and rougher than her soba. She explained that she’d tried to make naengmyeon but apologized for using too much arrowroot starch. I don’t think anyone cared. I didn’t. For the first time since the eruption, I felt the bliss of a full stomach!

And it was also an entertaining dish, because when I looked over at Pal and exclaimed, “Oh look, worm soup!” the whole conversation shifted to eating bugs. Effie asked if we’d had any chance to dig for garden worms, which jump-started Carmen on a Washington Post story about the insect element of the real “paleo diet.”

Dan brought up the time he’d tried a dish of fried crickets at this restaurant in Santa Monica. (I’d been there and politely declined to partake.)

Effie asked if anyone had heard about cricket flour, and Bobbi joked, or not, that she’d consider cheating on her veganism for a dish of grubs. “Some curry powder, or soy sauce…”

“Or Vegeta,” I added, to Mostar’s approving nod.

That really got Dan going. “We should totally try it! Wash them good, cook them, all that protein! There’s gotta be, like, tons of grubs under all those rotted logs out there.” He glanced out at the dark window, then at the suddenly cooling faces. One step too far, mentioning the woods. I felt bad for Dan. He blew it and he knew it. Under the table, I supportively pressed my knee against his.

He tried to recover though, adding, “Obviously not now, tomorrow, when it’s light and…”

And it was Reinhardt, of all people, who rescued the mood of the group.

“While we’re all clearly eager to become orthodox insectivores”—he patted Dan’s back—“might I suggest making do with…”

Like a magician, he made a dramatic gesture of approaching the small Common House freezer, waving his hands in the air, then opening the door to reveal six pints of, I’m not kidding, ice cream!

We all stared. I think Dan even said, “Whoa…”

I just stuttered. “Waitwhat… where?” I’d gone through every inch of his kitchen!

“My apologies.” Reinhardt raised his hands in mock surrender. “I hope you’ll forgive the prevarication of concealing this cache in my inner sanctum.”

“A freezer in your bedroom?” Mostar chuckled with a shake of the head.

“Decadent, I admit,” Reinhardt began, scooping the containers out in one arm, “and empty now, I assure you.” He placed them all in a ceremonious line down the center of the table. Halo Top ice cream!

Oh, the cravings I’ve been having!

For a second, we just ogled it, like treasure hunters opening the pirate’s chest. I don’t think anyone has run out of frozen desserts by this point. I mean, it’s only been a week and a half since the eruption. But the psychology of rationing, I get it now. I understand what Mostar was trying to tell me about our country, and why we were all so grateful for Reinhardt’s gesture. For just this moment, we could go back to normal, to have as much as we wanted, to feel American again.