Wick - The Omnibus Edition

by Bunker, Michael

  The long walk out of New York had affected him, and the cheerful optimism of the morning before had fled. Seeing the blank and fearful faces of people he’d passed in the gas lines yesterday replaced the optimism with a feeling of—what was it? Dread? He’d watched a man throw hot coffee through the open window of a van at a woman with her children in tow who had tried to cut in a gas line. He had seen police cars and fire trucks and ambulances rushing down country roads, and National Guard helicopters flying overhead. He had heard the words “war zone” used far too frequently to describe too many places along his route. It felt like the eye of the storm had passed and the winds were now reforming, only this time they were driven by people’s hot air and their ungracious impatience. “Blow, blow thou winter wind,” Shakeapeare wrote, “thou art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude.” Clay worried that if that ingratitude turned nasty, things could go downhill fast.

  After packing up his things and tightly lacing his boots, he strapped on his backpack and stepped out into the bright sunlight of Day 3 of his walk. He stretched a little and took in his environment, noticing the cars in the parking lot and even a couple of tents on the greenbelt leading into the motel. I’m not the only one on foot, he thought.

  Despite the sunshine, the day was cool and brisk and portended change. Maybe it was the warning that Veronica had implied (“Not everyone is as nice as you are…”), but he got the sense that something was out there, something dangerous, or at least something with that kind of potential.

  Thinking this as he stepped outside, Clay didn’t want to get caught up in chit-chat or to engage with any of the assorted characters that were milling about outside of his motel room as he stepped across the parking lot toward the lobby to return his key. There was a man who looked like he could have been a travelling salesman, wrapped up in tension and angst and jargon, talking in loud tones on a phone with someone who didn’t show sympathy for the fact that he might not get to his next appointment, and if he didn’t that he might not make his number, and if he didn’t that he might not keep his job. There was a man who walked around his eighteen-wheeler, flexing his tattooed arms and checking the cables to see if his load had loosened in the night and that his tires were all inflated, all the while glancing across the lot to the window of a diner where a waitress stood taking orders. Neither of these men, nor any of the other people who were milling about, were dangerous in themselves. Rather, it seemed that the environment, the system, the whole machine made up of the sum of its parts, was the problem. It was like an engine knocking but you couldn’t really tell from where or what piece needed replacing.

  Clay couldn’t help noticing, despite his general unwillingness to put up with any foolishness this morning, the guy two doors down from his room. He was sitting on the tailgate of a pickup, cutting up fruit with a pocketknife and sticking the pieces of apple in his mouth. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he looked out of place.

  The man was possibly in his 50’s to early 60’s, but fit, trim, wearing starched and faded blue jeans and cowboy boots. Wherever he was, Clay thought, this man was there on purpose. He wore a dark brown cowboy hat and a starched, blue dress shirt, and he smiled from under his heavy mustache and waved at Clay. He indicated with his pocketknife as pretty and matter-of-factly as you please that Clay should come over there and eat some fruit. Even as he did so, he had a look of indifference on his face, as if to say, “Suit yourself. If you want some, it’s sitting there waiting for you.” In some odd way this indifference was reassuring.

  Clay couldn’t imagine why he would be responding affirmatively to a man waving a knife at him, but almost without any conscious thought or hesitation he strolled over to the back of the pickup and stood there uncomfortably with his hands in the pockets of his coat. He shifted in the backpack and looked at the man, and then at the fruit, and then at the dust on his boots.

  “Get you some fruit,” the man said, smiling in a way that you could only really identify because of the wrinkles near his eyes. It was impossible to see the smile itself because a mustache extended down over the man’s mouth, obscuring it from view. Clay stared at him for a few seconds. The man looked like Sam Elliot, he decided, although, even as he decided this, he wondered why every cowboy in the world somehow looked like Sam Elliot. Still, the impression was unmistakable. He sounded remarkably like him too, with his deep gravelly voice and his as-yet-unidentified southern drawl.

  “Go on. You look like you could use some, and fruit might get hard to come by here pretty soon.”

  Clay hesitated for a moment, like a dog that’s not sure whether a man is going to kick him or pet him, and then he moved forward and took a chunk of apple. He stepped back to his safe spot and took a bite and started to chew.

  Sam Elliot looked at him and smiled with his kind blue eyes, mindfully chewing on his own piece of apple. The two strangers awkwardly continued in this manner for what seemed like a very long time. In reality it was only a minute or so, but it seemed like it took forever, the two of them sitting around eating apples together like strangers who’ve met in the parking lot of a cheap motel after the worst natural disaster in memory. Breaking the moment of profound silence, the older man looked around and motioned to nowhere in particular with his pocketknife. “I’m Clive Darling.”

  Clive Darling then looked around and nodded towards the tents on the greenbelt. “Things seem peaceful and serene now, but they probably won’t stay that way for long.” With that, he narrowed his eyes and wiped his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Most everyone here is out of gas. Even the stations that still have power are plumb out, and the last few stores I stopped in have been nearly stripped bare.”

  He looked back at Clay and sighed deeply. “This is that moment when things could go either way. If things go bad, some of these folks might get right desperate and things could get ugly.”

  Clay didn’t tell him that he’d had some of the same thoughts.

  “I give it 48 hours or so, and then it probably won’t be safe on the roads after that. Least, not if things get worse.”

  Savannah, Georgia. That’s how Clay pegged him. His accent was right out of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. It was that slow, but exceedingly proper southern drawl, the one that made people sound rich but not stupid and caused anything they said to come across as critically important and wise no matter what it was they were saying. With a Savannah accent, one could say, “I do believe I’ll go pick a peach from that tree over yonder,” and it would sound as important and fascinating and even historical as, “Why don’t we all gather together and just open fire on Fort Sumter?” It was the kind of accent that had import.

  Clay took in more of the picture. Clive was rich, or at least he looked it. You could tell from the way he handled the knife, the way his shirt was tucked, the angle of his hat. Very particular, like a man who had leisure to worry about such things. Despite the fact that he looked like he was used to having money, Clive seemed comfortable eating apples from the tailgate of a $50,000 pickup truck. Maybe he made his money in cattle, say, or corn or lumber. Maybe he was used to watching from a ridge, up high somewhere along a look-out, as the workers in some valley below pushed the livestock or the produce or the timber into trucks that would haul them away to market. Maybe he sat and ate apples as he figured out profit margins and devised economies of scale. Maybe, or maybe not. Sizing people up isn’t a science if you don’t get paid for it, Clay thought. Nevertheless, the man was impressive in a way that could not be denied.

  “Clay. Clay Richter,” he said, smiling back and nodding his head. He wasn’t ready to shake hands with the man, mostly because of the knife, but he was ready to make conversation.

  “Richter?” Clive said, smiling. “Hmm… Kraut?” Seeing Clay’s eyes narrow a bit, he added, “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m one of those old fellas that just blurts out whatever he thinks without passing it through some filter. What I meant to say is—are you of German extraction, sir?”

&nb
sp; “Way back,” Clay answered, showing that he wasn’t offended at all. “My grandfather on my father’s side came here in 1929 to escape… things going on in Germany.”

  “He a commie?”

  Clay laughed this time. “No. He was a Republican, in the Charles Lindbergh mold of Republicanism. He may have been a fascist, but he certainly didn’t like or approve of Hitler.”

  “My kind of guy,” Clive said, laughing at his own joke. “Where you headed?”

  “Upstate. Not far from Ithaca. Escaping the city,” and before he could stop himself he added, “and not because of the storm.” For some reason, Clay, who had been so reserved in his interactions with people along his journey—even with Veronica, despite her kindness—found it easy to talk to this cowboy.

  “Hmmm… a mystery. I like it. So you’re the grandson of a fascist and you are starting off on your Luddite life in the wake of the worst hurricane to hit New England in recorded memory. Interesting, to say the least.”

  Clay looked down at the ground and kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He watched as the pebble rolled across the pavement and came to rest under the treads of one of Clive’s brand new tires. “Maybe it’s not quite like that,” he said through a grin. He didn’t know why he felt the need to open up to this old guy and spill the beans, but he did. “I’m just heading home. I’ve been gone a long time, and I’ve had enough of cities and consumerism and the whole charade of progress.” He paused for a second. “And if I hear another word about this election, I’m seriously going to snap. In fact, that’s been one of the few benefits of the storm… it has changed the subject off the horse race.”

  “Like I said – a Luddite!” Clive nodded and laughed straight from the belly, “and an anarchist to boot!”

  “I haven’t thought it out that far yet, but maybe I’m heading in that direction.”

  “Well, maybe you should have said that when I asked you which way you were headed,” Clive said, folding the knife and putting it back in the front pocket of his jeans.

  “Maybe I should have,” Clay nodded and shifted the backpack on his back, nervously pretending to adjust the straps. “Oh, and thank you kindly for the apple.” He hesitantly turned to leave still feeling like he shouldn’t, or maybe it was that he didn’t want to.

  “Well, hold on there a minute, Ned Ludd,” Clive said, wiping his hands on his jeans and tidying up the tailgate. “I’ve got enough gas to get us down the road a bit. I know you’re not an axe murderer because, well, I just know, that’s all, and because you were willing to take an apple from a guy with a knife. That makes you either stupid, brave, or insightful, and I don’t think for a minute that you’re stupid. So that leaves brave or insightful. Either of those makes you better company than most of these jokers on the road. I like a little conversation when I drive. So what I’m saying is… are you up for a ride?”

  Clay hesitated.

  “I don’t know how much gas I have left in the tank, but hopefully it will get us to Liberty, which should cut your walk down quite a bit. It’ll save you two to three days of walking, at least, maybe more. I’ve got another—well, let’s just say—another form of transportation picking me up in Liberty. But I might be able to get you that far. And anyway, at one of the stores I stopped at last night they were saying that there’s another storm coming. Don’t know nothin’ about it, but they said it could be bad. So what do you say, young Mr. Ludd. Would you rather hoof it than keep an old man company?”

  Clay looked around. Maybe Clive was right. He’d heard about things turning south really fast after a natural disaster, and Clive seemed like a nice enough guy, even if he was peculiar.

  Clive looked at him, shrugged, and said, “Well Ned, if you insist on walking, let me give you some more fruit for your bag.”

  “I’ll ride, Clive.”

  “Well, then! Good. Let me get my gear and we’ll saddle up.”

  ****

  The ride was smooth and nice, and the pickup truck was plush and comfortable. The conversation was as peculiar as Clive but in a way that Clay was growing used to. Clive was a regular fountain of information, and he seemed to know more about disasters and psychology and the ins and outs of social disintegration than a cowboy from Georgia should. He wasn’t exactly sure how much cowboys should know about such things, but he was pretty sure that Clive knew more.

  Just outside of Sloatsburg they passed a couple of cars on the side of the road with the hoods lifted. The flashing hazard lights on both of the cars said they had been recently abandoned. “Probably out of gas,” Clive said matter-of-factly. “When they write the epitaph on this civilization it will read, ‘They Ran Out of Gas.’ And speakin’ of, we’re getting low on petrol ourselves,” he added, “but this ol’ truck’ll go a long way on empty.”

  As they drove, they passed occasional walkers and hikers, and Clay turned to look into their faces and tried to read their thoughts. Where are they going? How far do they have to go? What are they leaving behind? He wondered whether people had thought the same things about him yesterday when he’d been walking on the long road. His mind visited memories of news clips about refugees in war time in places like Rwanda and Sudan. Displaced and fleeing. He thought that he just as easily might be a refugee on this same road, and he wondered whether catching a ride could mean the difference between life and death for some of these people. He wondered to himself if maybe they should stop and pick some of them up.

  Clive answered his thoughts, as if he had heard them. “We can’t pick them up, Ned Ludd,” he said, sadly. “I know I picked you up, and it seems the neighborly thing to do and all, but we’re going to float into Liberty on fumes, if we make it at all. Besides, like I said, some of these folks ain’t gonna be nice to be around starting pretty soon. You don’t have time to eat an apple with each one of ’em and size ’em up on the side of the road.”

  “I understand,” Clay replied, and he really did. He liked to think of himself as the helpful and friendly kind, but he really just wanted to get home. And anyway, if they couldn’t find more gas, the truck wasn’t going much farther. They’d be refugees themselves soon.

  “Listen Clay,” Clive said, all of the sudden speaking very seriously, “this whole world exists in a hologram of civility. If you don’t mind an ol’ cowboy quoting Thoreau… Thoreau said that ‘the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’, and that was more than a hundred and fifty years ago.” Clive waved his hand outward, indicating everything. “This is all pretty simple, even for an ol’ horseman, and I hope I don’t bore you with my opinions, but this world has a long history of empires rising, followed closely by empires falling. Believe me, they make a bigger mess falling than they ever made rising.”

  Clay looked at him and thought for a moment about the red-haired man on the bike and how he had not recognized the resemblance before, but he sure did now.

  “Do you mind me waxing philosophic, Clay? We’ve got some time to pass, and I’ve got this speech memorized, and perhaps I can put words to some thoughts you’ve had yourself. Judging from what you said earlier, I mean, about the city and consumerism and such.”

  Clay looked over at Clive and just rolled his left hand with his forefinger extended in a small loop like he was rolling the tape forward, indicating that Clive should continue. Clive smiled, and did.

  “Man always starts simply. He works the ground, raises his crops, tends his animals, and loves his family. His children, who probably didn’t work too much to build the farm, don’t generally recognize the same value in it, and they work it only begrudgingly. His grandchildren hate the farm, and either they or their children move to the city and end up automating the world. They can’t be blamed much. It’s in the nature of things. They build up a system of just-in-time delivery of goods made widely available and priced cheaply through the coercion of economic power and the largesse of wars of conquest and mechanization. They think they’re building on the family legacy when really what they are doing is destroying.” />
  Clive smiled at Clay, and continued, “You with me? What I’m saying is: that’s the history of America, brother. I don’t mean to speechify even though I do, but this ain’t the first time we’ve seen this rodeo. Man’s been down this little trail before. Just go ask the Greeks and the Romans. Folks that think we’re on to something new ain’t been paying attention. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but when it was built, it was built on the back of the countryside, and it sucked out the life from the country to feed its appetites. Your politicians, be they Democrats or Republicans, fight over the fumes of the excess once built up by the hard work of families and the labor of farmer poets. The bankers and factories eventually sell everyone weapons so they can kill one another because there’s good money in that, no denying it. Then one day, after the fires go out and the stench of death wafts over the planet, the survivors start over, and a man works his piece of ground, raises his crops, tends his animals, and loves his family. Then we’re off running to the next go-round. You got me?”

  Clay sat silently for a minute, thinking and looking forward through the windscreen then back to Clive at last. “You have given this speech before. Go on,” he said.

  Clive reached forward and tapped on the gas gauge, shaking his head. “Oh no, I’m not really trying to convert you or anything. Don’t think that. Besides, I have the feeling we are already on the same page. This ain’t a recruitment. I’m just sayin’ that there’s some things coming down, Clay. Real soon. Maybe even now, today, this minute. And when these things come down, you don’t want to be in the city. You don’t want to be in this truck on this highway neither. You want to be far away from the masses of people living their lives in quiet desperation. Anyone whose life is dependent on the system—what did you call it? ‘Cities and consumerism and the whole charade of progress?’—you just want to be as far away from that person and that charade as possible. Especially when those people live in bunches, stacked on top of one another in those cities and suburbs like a house of playing cards set to tumble.”