David Gates - Jernigan

“So,” he said.

Stuff of his was some smooth, boy.

“So how have you been,” said Martha.

“Good,” he said. “Things are good. Except for the fact that we may get our asses sued by the Grant Wood estate.”

“You said,” said Martha. (And when might that have been?)

“You seen January yet?” he said.

Martha shook her head. “It’s good?” she said.

“Give you one before you go,” he said. “Yeah. I think so. Very good piece on dealing with zoning boards. Thing on new ways to cook the stuff you canned. I figured it’s the time of year people are starting to get bored. And, let’s see. More stuff on keeping warm.”

“God,” said Martha. “Part five thousand.”

“Hey,” he said, “burning issue number one, no pun intended. Premise is that what you thought would work back in October may not be cutting it now that the real cold weather’s here.”

“Wow, is that ever true,” she said. “So what kind of ideas?”

Out came the wolf teeth. “Read the piece,” he said. “Then we’ve got one called ‘Cutting the Cord,’ which is about rethinking electricity. The idea being that you really can go all the way with this thing. It’s like they say the power’s cut off, right? We don’t have any power . Which doesn’t have to be true. It’s like, you can cut them off. And then of course what the implications are in terms of stuff like food preservation, running water, et cetera, et cetera. Places you can still buy hand pumps. Smart research in that piece.”

“By anyone we know?” said Martha.

“Ah,” he said, “you know me too well.”

“And people are really interested in this stuff anymore?” I said. “I mean, not to knock what you do.” I looked over and the kids were whispering again. “I just sort of think, you know, 1970s.”

“They buy the magazine, what can I tell you,” he said. “Off the record, I have my doubts that very many of them actually do much of this stuff, but they sure as hell read about it. If you’re really doing the whole program, you don’t lay out three-fifty a month on some magazine: you go to the library. Though of course all the library ladies think we’re Soldier of Fortune or something. I suppose we’re dangerous in our own way, but still.”

Danny set his glass on the tabletop. “Clarissa said to ask you,” he said to this Tim, “if we can go in and watch videos. Do you mind, Mrs. Peretsky?”

I minded, but there didn’t seem to be any way to get that into the record.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he said, baring the old canines at Clarissa. “We were being boring, and it’s probably not going to get any better. You know how to work the thing, right? I forget what-all is in there that you might like. Just rewind it after, okay?”

Clarissa got up and just about pulled Danny through the door where the coats had gone.

“You know I counted them up the other day?” said this Tim. “In that room, I have got: seventy-three movies. It is unbelievable . Samuel Goldwyn didn’t have seventy-three movies in his bedroom. Or maybe he did, but Jesus. The changes.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re in any hurry to rethink electricity,” I said.

Martha gave me a look.

“Hell no,” he said. “Total pleasure pig. I just try and be efficient about it. You know, don’t pay for stuff with your life.”

“But you don’t mind telling other people to give up electricity.”

“Read the piece,” he said. “I’m not telling people to do anything . All I’m saying is: here’s what you can do if you want to do it. If it’s worth it to you. To you . Obviously if watching videos is a priority to you, you don’t cut off your electricity. Or making eggnog in a blender. Or cooking in a microwave — speaking of which, let me know if you’re getting hungry. Dinner’s not for a while, but there’s cheese and all sorts of stuff. So anyhow, where was I, gadgets. If you’re into gadgets, which I definitely am, then maybe you cut out something else, right? Not that electricity’s all that expensive now , but hang on to your hats when they start decommissioning the nukes and having to shut down the coal burners at the same time. So maybe that’s the point at which you want to think about getting a generator that’ll run on methanol. Or some kind of solar setup. Windmill, maybe, provided you’ve got the proper location. And that way you’ll have a little juice on hand when you want it and still be able to say fuck the power company. Or don’t , you know? Keep your job, keep your retirement package — if you believe it’s still going to be around. But I guess I do assume that anybody who picks up the magazine at all is probably a little discontented.”

“Hey,” I said. “If that’s your target market, you’re going to be a wealthy man.”

“I’m keeping my head above water,” he said. “Course I do have to cook the books some.”

“Hey Tim?” said Martha, holding up her glass. “This is so yummy. Could you get me a little, little more?”

“I can get you more,” he said. “Don’t know about a little.”

“Speaking of more,” I said. I was beginning to like this Tim. I drank off the last of mine and held up my glass too. He took them out to the kitchen. “Weird place,” I said to Martha.

“It used to be a drive-in theater,” she said.

I didn’t get it. “How so?” I said.

“See, he bought the whole land,” she said, “and sold off the part where they had all the posts sticking up. You know, with the speakers? And the screen and everything. This right here was like the refreshment stand and the bathrooms and the office. And I guess where they had the projector and everything. Rusty said he used to remember coming here on dates.”

“Hey Marty?” this Tim called. (Marty?) He came out of the kitchen. “This is sort of embarrassing. I just remembered there’s a couple of, like, adult things in there along with everything else. I don’t know if you worry about that stuff, but I thought I’d better tell you.”

“Oh,” she said, looking around at the closed bedroom door. “Gee.” She got to her feet.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I said. “Sit the fuck down.” I patted the sofa cushion as if I’d meant it to sound comradely.

She sat. “I guess it is kind of like closing the barn door,” she said. “I mean, they aren’t like S-and-M ones or anything, are they?”

“Please,” Tim said, and went back to the kitchen.

“God, listen to me,” she said, shaking her head. “Hey Tim?” she called. “How much are you putting in those things anyway?”

“No comment,” he called back. I heard the blender go on.

“Christmas,” I said.

“You’re having an okay time, aren’t you?” she said. “Anyhow, we’ll go home after and open our presents, okay? Or we could wait till tomorrow morning if you rather. The only reason I like doing it Christmas Eve is ’cause that’s when we always used to open stuff.”

“Who, you and your sainted husband?” I said.

“My mom and dad,” she said. “Rusty was like you. He liked Christmas morning.”

“I just think it hangs together better,” I said. “I mean, Santa’s supposed to come while everybody’s asleep, no? How did your folks finesse that one?”

She smiled, closed her eyes and put her head back against the cushion, her face turned up as if she were sunbathing. “What my dad used to do,” she said, “at some point on Christmas Eve he’d go out to the kitchen for a drink, he said , and all of a sudden we’d hear—”