Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(18)
Then she turned to Dan. “Do you know how to fix anything? Do you know how this house works?”
Dan, blank-faced, shook his head.
“Learn.”
The word felt like a thousand pounds.
“There’s probably a manual,” Mostar continued in her flat, curt tone, “but it’s probably”—her hands waved to the sky—“in the ‘clouds.’ So, you’re going to have to use your head. Plumbing, electricity, all the crazy computer stuff that you kids should probably already know.”
Dan was about to say something, but Mostar bulldozed in with, “And if you don’t already know, learn.”
Dan’s lips moved. Her finger shot up. “But not now! First things first.” And that finger lowered in the direction of our garage. “We can’t use my workshop. Too much to move. I’m guessing yours is practically empty, so it’ll be easy to build a garden.”
Garden? Wait, what!
“Go on then,” and she gave him a gentle shove toward the garage. “Whatever’s in there, get it out, clear the floor. And get out a shovel, if you have one.”
Before I could say anything, before I could even think, that pointing, smacking hand had wrapped around my wrist.
“Let’s go, Katie.”
And we were off to her house.
“Keep the curtains drawn,” she said as soon as her kitchen door slid shut. “Don’t let anybody see you. We can’t let anyone know that we’re in this together.” I finally did manage to speak, something forceful and brilliant like “Uh…”
“We can’t have them turning against you, not yet.” She continued, this crazy little tank rolling over me, “You’re a peacemaker, and we’re going to need those skills first thing tomorrow.” She let go of my wrist long enough to hand me a pen and yellow legal pad. “But first things first.” And with a sweeping gesture to the pantry, cabinets, and fridge, she declared, “Go through it all. Catalog everything edible, right down to the last calorie. You must know how to do that, you’re an American girl. I bet you’ve been dieting all your life.” With a gentle shove toward the fridge, she headed for the back door. “Go home as soon as you’re done and do the same with your own food!” As she turned to leave, I blurted something like, “But…wha…”
And she stopped, looking at my face and seeing all the confusion and, yes, anxiety leaking out from every pore. She sighed deeply, put a hand on my shoulder, and said, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Of course, I was expecting her next words to be something like, “I’m sorry I’m acting crazy. You’re right. I’ll stop. Go back home. Forget my meltdown. I’m sorry I scared you.”
If only.
“I’m sorry I’m not more prepared.” She scowled, clearly annoyed with herself. “I trusted Tony and Tony trusts ‘they.’?” She shrugged. “And maybe he’s right. Maybe ‘they’ are cleaning up things right now. Maybe ‘they’ will be here tomorrow to fix the Internet and apologize for the inconvenience.” She smiled sarcastically. “And then you can thank me for keeping your mind occupied with this engaging little project. And you’ll even have a funny little story to tell your friends about the crazy old woman next door who thought the world was coming to an end.” She looked ready to laugh, but sobered quickly. “But if I’m right…” Another shrug, a pat on my cheek, and then she tramped back to my house while I stood flustered and alone in hers.
That was two hours ago. I cataloged everything: eggs, cheeses, salami, bread. She has a lot of bread. And a lot of pickled stuff: cucumbers, peppers, and something that looks like sauerkraut. I even went through her juices and soda (no diet versions there) and logged every condiment and spice I could find. From jams to oils to something called “Vegeta.” I’m not sure what the calorie count on that one is, but I’ve dieted enough to guestimate everything else. It’s all so heavy, especially compared to our, my, calorie-negative stuff like celery and LaCroix.*2
There’s not a lot though, I should make that clear now. I’d say under normal conditions, three meals a day and snacks, she has enough for maybe two weeks at most. It’s a little surprising, but Frank already warned me about that. He said that Greenloop’s drone deliveries and smaller pantries were specifically designed to combat food waste. What was the number he cited? Thirty to forty percent of American food is thrown out each year? Thirty million tons?*3 I don’t see how Mostar could contribute to that. It reminded me of East Coast city living, where people run to the local bodega for one tomato or a handful of string beans.
Still, her food stocks looked positively decadent next to ours. We’d thrown out so much before leaving, so many sacks and cans of stuff we’d never eaten (more waste). Now all we have at home is this week’s delivery and the leftovers from the welcome dinner. It shouldn’t take too long to catalog that. Which I’m about to do.
I’m in our own kitchen now, as Mostar and Dan work around me.
They’ve cleaned out the garage. And now they’re filling it with dirt.
Yes. Dirt.
They’re outside right now, scraping up soil with stainless steel mixing bowls (neither of us has a shovel) and filling the plastic cleaning supply buckets we both have under our sinks. They’re working at it like crazy, going back and forth across a bridge of Mostar’s bath towels that she’s laid from the kitchen door to the garage.