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

Effie also spent a lot of time and attention on Palomino, their daughter. The name, according to Carmen, is a “place holder,” which they gave her during the adoption. I sensed a little bit of defensiveness, especially when Effie elaborated that a “place holder” name was something Palomino could change if she ever found one she loved more. Carmen explained that when they first met her in the orphanage in Bangladesh, she was clutching a worn and torn picture book on horses. I tried to ask her about horses, and Dan about how she liked living here. Neither of us got an answer.

You know that famous National Geographic picture of the Afghan girl with the green eyes? Palomino’s eyes are brown but have the same haunted expression. She just stared at us with those eyes and didn’t say anything for a second, then went back to her “fidgeter,” a little homemade beanbag. Effie gave her a hug and began to apologize. “She’s a little shy.”

Carmen cut her off with, “And it’s not her job to please us with conversation.” And went on to tell us about how the book was one of her only possessions, that and a loaf of bread in a plastic bag. When they met her, she didn’t know when she was going to eat again. Effie shook her head, hugging the girl again, and said she’d been so malnourished, all these vitamin deficiencies, mouth sores, rickets. She started to talk about what her people had gone through, the “Rohingya” minority (which I’ll have to google later) at the hands of the Myanmar government. Carmen shot her another silencing look and said, “But we don’t need to trigger her with those memories. What matters is she’s safe now, healthy and loved.”

That prompted Alex Reinhardt to comment on the deplorable state of many ethnic minorities in South Asia. Have you ever heard of Dr. Reinhardt? He looks like the Game of Thrones author, without the Greek fisherman’s hat. He does, though, wear a beret, which, I guess, he’s entitled to. I’d heard his name a couple times in school, seen his books advertised on Amazon. I think I might have caught the end of his TED Talk someone next to me on a plane was watching.

I guess he’s kind of a big deal. His book Rousseau’s Children was apparently “groundbreaking.” That’s the word Tony Durant used. Reinhardt gave a slight, almost embarrassed shrug at that, but went on to describe why it essentially launched him into the academic spotlight.

I hope I get this right. I’ll try to relate what he explained to me. Jean-Jacques Rousseau—not be confused with Henry David Thoreau as Dan did that night—was an eighteenth-century French philosopher. He believed that early humans were essentially good, but when humanity began to urbanize, separating themselves from nature, they separated from their own nature as well. In Reinhardt’s words, the “ills of today can all be traced to the corruption of civilization.” In Rousseau’s Children, Reinhardt proved him right by studying the Kung San hunter-gatherers of Africa’s Kalahari Desert. “They have none of the problems,” he said, “that plague our so-called advanced societies. No crime, addiction, war. They are the embodiment of Rousseau’s thesis.”

“And unlike Rousseau’s ideal, the women aren’t reduced to being virtuous sex slaves in a male-dominated society.” That was Carmen. She said it nicely, smiling, but with a sarcastic roll of the eyes. Effie giggled at that and Reinhardt, reaching for another helping of quinoa, looked like he might have been working up to a less than friendly comeback.

“Rousseau was human,” said Tony, “but he did influence countless generations in countless fields, including Maria Montessori.” That diffused the situation, that and his unbelievable smile. His eyes. They turned to me and I actually felt my forearms prickle.

“Alex here,” Tony said, and clinked Reinhardt’s glass with his own, “was the spiritual inspiration for Greenloop. When I read Rousseau’s Children, it codified my vision for sustainable housing. Mother Nature keeps us honest, reminds us who we’re supposed to be.” At that, Yvette, his wife, slipped a hand around his arm and gave this gentle, proud sigh.

The Durants.

Oh my God… or Gods!

It’s ridiculous how beautiful they are. And intimidating! Yvette—she looks like an Yvette—is angelic. Ageless. Thirty? Fifty? She’s tall and slender, and could have walked right out of Harper’s Bazaar. The honey blond hair, the flawless skin, the bright, sparkling hazel eyes. I shouldn’t have googled her beforehand. It just made it worse. Turns out she actually was a model for a while. A couple of older magazines called Cargo and Lucky. Figures. All these insane fairy-tale pictures of her on Aruba and the Amalfi coast. Nobody deserves to look that good in a bikini. And no one who looked, looks, that good should also be so nice.

She was the one who’d invited us to dinner in the first place. Right after I got back from my hike, all sweaty and gross with Dan sleeping on the couch and boxes of crap everywhere, the doorbell rang and there was this glamorous, glowing nymph. I think I said something eloquent like “um-uh” before she gave me a big welcoming hug (which she had to stoop down for) and told us how happy she was that we’d chosen Greenloop.

And if her light, upper-class English accent doesn’t already make her sound like a genius, she’s also getting her PhD in psychosomatic illness therapy. I don’t know who Dr. Andrew Weil is (one more thing I’ll have to look up), but she used to be his protégé and invited me to take her daily “integrative health yoga” class, which, of course, gets armies of online subscriber views a day.

Gorgeous, brilliant, and generous. She presented us with a housewarming present called a “happy light,” which is used to simulate the exact spectrum of the sun to dispel seasonal affective disorder. I bet she doesn’t need it, either for depression or for keeping her flawless overall tan.

Tony joked that he didn’t need one because Yvette was his happy light.

Tony.

Okay, I’m supposed to be honest. Right? That’s what you told me. No one but the two of us will read this. No barriers. No lies. Nothing but what I think and feel in the moment.

Tony.

He’s definitely older. Fifties maybe, but in that rugged, older movie star kind of way. Dan once told me about this old comic book— G.I. Joe ?—where the bad guys took DNA from all the dictators in history to create one perfect supervillain. That’s kinda the opposite of what I feel like they did with Tony, only Clooney’s skin, Pitt’s lips. Okay, maybe Sean Connery’s hairline but that never bothered me; I mean, I tolerate Dan’s man-bun. And those arms, they kind of remind me of that guy Frank used to have a poster of in his room. Henry Rollins? Not as big and buff, but ripped and inked. When he reached out to shake Dan’s hand, I could see the muscles rippling underneath his tattoos. It was like they were alive, those tribal lines and Asian characters. Everything about Tony is alive.

Okay. Honest. It reminded me of Dan. How he used to be. Energized, engaged. How he used to effortlessly command a room, every room. That speech he made to our graduating class. “We don’t have to be ready for the world. The world better get ready for us!” Eight years? That long ago?

I tried not to compare, sitting there next to who he’d become, across the table from who he thought he’d be.

Dan.

Writing this now, I feel guilty about how little attention I paid to him during dinner, and how I didn’t even as a reflex reach out for him when the ground began to shake.

It was just the tiniest of jolts. The glasses rattled, my chair wobbled.

Apparently, that’s been happening on and off for the last year. Just a slight tremor they said came from Mount Rainier. Nothing to worry about. Volcanos do that. It reminded me of our first month in Venice Beach, when the bed started rolling, not shaking, rolling like a ship on rough seas. I’d heard of the San Andreas Fault but didn’t know about all the mini fault lines crisscrossing under L.A. I can see why so many easterners don’t survive their first earthquake. If Dan wasn’t so set on “Silicon Beach,” I would have totally packed it in. I’m glad I stayed, glad I realized the huge difference between a few shakes and the supposed Big One. That little tremor in Greenloop, less than a truck rumbling by, reminded me of what you said about the difference between denial and phobia.