Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(22)
Knowing me, I wouldn’t think to open the window and slide out to run. I’d probably close the door, close my eyes, convince myself it wasn’t happening as the metal and glass squeezed around me. Smashed, drowned, boiled alive.
But then I realized that nightmare fantasy couldn’t have happened because the eruption had been at night. Most people wouldn’t be on the roads. That’s what our neighbors told us about the Northridge quake. When we first moved to L.A. Who was it? That old couple across the street who had to sell their house. What were their names? Hadn’t the wife said something about how lucky the city was that the quake hit at night when everyone was safe at home? The idea gave me a moment of relief, a very brief moment because then I pictured those homes in the path of the lahars.
Would they have been asleep, like us? Dreaming? I pictured myself, snug in bed, translating the rumble into whatever subconscious story I was living. Would I have woken in time to see the roof collapsing down on me? The sharp edge of a snapped beam or splintered stick of furniture lancing through my chest?
Hopefully, I wouldn’t have woken up. Hopefully, a lot of them didn’t either. But the ones who did. The ones who might still be alive, pinned under rubble? How many were hurt? Trying to call for help? Gasping with one lung? Coughing up blood? Broken bones. Pain. Fear.
Why do I go there? Where’s my, what do you call it, “ego-defense mechanism”?
Maybe I was trying to build one on that hike, surround myself with a wall of pleasant senses, positive memories. I should have realized it would only make things worse. Rainier was smoking now, angry. Standing on the top of the ridge, I could see little black columns rising in the distance behind it. Forest fires? Burning homes? The mountain’s smoke was darkening the sky, a gray blanket blotting out the sun.
As I turned from the sight, heading farther down the trail, I tried to find the blackberry bush from before. It was there, but all the berries were gone. Even the hard, little green ones. I tried pulling one of the branches aside, pricked my finger on a thorn. Reflexively I drew my hand to my mouth. The wound wasn’t deep, but enough to taste my own blood. The flavor made my stomach rumble. I realized then how hungry I was, and that sensation sent my mind swirling back to last night’s calorie list.
After cataloging all our food, Mostar’d told me to come up with a “ration plan.” I figured that was simple enough. No different, I thought, than any of the thousand diets I’d been on my whole life. I calculated our ages, heights, levels of physical activity, and approximate fat reserves, which I can’t believe I’d actually written down! I even used the two calorie calculators on my phone (yes, I have two), which allotted 1,200 for me, 2,100 for Dan, and another 1,200 for Mostar although I’m not really sure about her exact age.
I thought I was being harsh, but when I showed it to Mostar, she just shook her head and laughed. “So American.”
I felt myself flush. I’m proud that I managed to push back. I explained the dangers of crash diets, the risks of long-term health damage.
Again, she clucked. “This isn’t dieting, Katie, this is rationing. Dieting is choosing to eat less. Rationing is eating less because you don’t have a choice. It can drive you crazy, that lack of control. Especially for Americans. You’ve never known starvation, not like the rest of the world. Not even in the darkest days of your Civil War, when you still grew enough wheat to sell for profit.”
How does she know that? Why does she know that?
“Here”—she swiped the pad from me and started scribbling—“I’ll show you what I mean.”
Eight hundred calories for Dan.
Five hundred for Mostar.
And one thousand for me.
“Not right away,” she explained, “not while we’re still setting up. But in a week or so there’ll be nothing to do but sit back and digest ourselves, which is why I’ve given you the most, bye the by, since you’ve got the least,” and she reached over to tap my butt. I gave a surprised squeak, turned to say something about violating personal space, but she was back outside for another pot full of dirt.
I should say that I actually had no intention of following her crazy punishment plan then. Just another diet to cheat on. But now, after hearing the news and realizing that this crazy old lady might not be so crazy after all, I started to rethink everything she’d said last night. I even started to feel guilty about expending so many calories on this hike!
And as I looked for other bushes that could have been missed before, I realized, angrily, that I might very well be standing in the middle of a natural buffet. The leaves, the bark, the mushrooms. So many mushrooms! White, black, brown, pink, purple. Purple! Are any of them safe to eat? How would I know? So much for my so-called smartphone, this useless little rectangle I still carry out of habit.
All right, not entirely useless. But even though it still functions as a clock, calendar, flashlight, step counter, Dictaphone, notepad, camera, video recorder, video studio, videogame arcade, and God knows how many other applications that would have been mind-blowing just twenty years ago, the one thing I need it for, the one thing it was originally designed for was communication.
“Siri, what can I eat here?”
I don’t know what made me feel worse, that I suddenly didn’t have the world’s knowledge in my pocket or that up until that moment, I’d always assumed I was entitled to it. I couldn’t have been more grateful for the hummingbirds that flew across my vision. They were darting around those same flowers, giving each other those little loving kisses. I was so happy at first, hands to lips. Thank God! That’s what I was thinking. Thank God there’s at least one beautiful thing left. But then I looked closer and saw that they weren’t kissing. One was trying to kill the other, stabbing rapidly with its needlelike beak. That was what they’d been doing that first day, when I’d only seen what I’d wanted to see.