Dystopian Cornucopia
With a civil war regiment invading, three liberal families pool their resources and try to make an orderly kitchen.
For JP.
“Maybe we should pull down this road and see what’s there,” commented JR.
“It’s not the route,” she answered, as if that were enough.
“I know, but I want to get a feel for the area.”
“And get lost? That’s how you get a feel?”
JR hadn’t gotten a feel for, nor from, Bobbie in more than a year. She had the body and demeanor of a splintered fence picket, and seemed to treat him like the enemy. Maybe she had real feelings for the actual enemy that was currently searching them out.
He sighed, and let the road pass. But he didn’t turn off his signal. Small victories.
It had been defeat for him, leaving their beloved house. She thought it was a good idea; he suspected it was because he’d feel defeated. She left all too easily, as if it had been nothing to her, those 27 years.
There were 2.8 miles to go, she informed him, before they reached the WHORE, the Wholesome House of Refuge and Ethnicity. “The whore house,” his friend Gregor liked to call it to make him laugh. It usually did. The very idea seemed absurd in modern America: That more than one family, even if they were friends, could build a household. But trying and failing to build a functional household was better than being burned black at a gathering of right-wing fanatics celebrating the savings they’d enjoyed by not having build and maintain war prisons. It was easier to burn people, even children — though for some it was difficult at first.
Gregor was riding out the firestorm at his, JR and Bobbie’s, house, under the auspices of housesitting, even though the house was a known target, according to Bobbie, and would require more than watering flowers and cleaning mouse traps. How had she known that? Had she attended meetings?
She certainly had been gone a lot. He’d thought she was attending dances and mahjong nights at the retirement home he knew she’d long fantasized living in. Maybe she was doing both. After all, the retirement home was full of old, white Americans, the most savage people in the history of mankind.
But weren’t they, being oldish and white? Well, they weren’t all going to be white at the WHORE house. The Badmintons, a family he’d never met but that their hosts, the Wallaces, were quite fond of, would be joining them. The Badmintons were African-American. That would make them, the rest, not as savage. It would also make them more conspicuous.
JR thought of his knives, for the tenth time over their 25 mile drive. They were in a canvas bag in the trunk. He decided not to bring their case, on which he’d replaced the lock a few months ago for fear of Bobbie submitting to temptation and cutting him into pieces as he slept. And perhaps roasting and eating him. He knew she’d been sneaking meat for years. Even liverwurst.
Anyway.
The email that went out urged each adult in the household to bring some sort of weaponry — nothing too savage, like assault rifles or clubs, but elegant, sharp kitchen items or maybe a hoedad.
He’d recently gotten his knife collection sharpened by Will the Knifesman, who’d lived down the road and spent all his time in his forge rather than in front of a TV or playing with his toddler daughter Alice. How much had he, JR, considered he might have to use them, the knives, in battle? Could he? Were they stabbers as well as slicers? He’d forgotten to ask Will, and now Will was dead.
Seven Cumfederate people who’d suspected him of treason for not listening to talk radio as he worked had stormed Will’s workshop and thrown him into a forge, facemask and all, turning him to molten metalsmith before he knew what was happening. At least his daughter wouldn’t miss him too badly, since over her short life it seemed he was always working. Didn’t even sing to her, even though he’d been in a few folk bands.
His wife Glee and Alice survived by running into a culvert, where they still remained. Their dogs mauled and ate a few of the Cumfederate troops. Overall, a victory in the War of Whatever It Was. Now they stood as sentries at either end of the culvert.
“Mortal Combat.”
“What? Where?” asked JR.
“Mortal Combat,” repeated Bobbie, exasperated. “The video game I couldn’t think of.”
JR drove and said nothing.
“For James.”
“Hm.”
“Your nephew.”
“Oh yeah, right.”
“Hello? It’s his birthday tomorrow?” She was even further exasperated now.
JR usually sent a few granola bars and maybe a $20 bill each year to James, whom JR had never really liked. This year he’d been distracted. That was no excuse. Nothing ever was.
“So you have to order it online,” continued Bobbie. “Today.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. I know what that ‘okay’ means. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She sighed, shook her head, and looked out her window. A man standing in his yard watched them, holding a pitchfork. He followed them with his eyes and pretended to foist the implement their way a few times. This had happened a few times over their journey.
Then she watched the sun perch just over a not-so-distant hill, seemingly setting on their previous life together.
It wasn’t just a metaphor. It was an analogy. It told a story, the story of their marriage. At what was supposed to be its height, weird clouds appeared out of nowhere and blocked the light. The clouds seemed to mirror the persistent fog in Bobbie’s head that kept her from seeing the love she’d felt for JR when they’d met and a few days after. Only when the love subsided could either recognize it.
And her breasts were small and misshapen, seemingly intentionally. Was she binding her chest?
By the time they pulled into the driveway of the WHORE house, it was dark, and hard to figure where to park. “Not there,” said Bobbie, and JR reversed and pulled next to a Subaru Outback with residue marks all over it left by bumper stickers hastily scraped off.
“Can he get out?” asked Bobbie, who had never been content with JR’s ability to park their car.
“I think so.”
“What if he has to leave at night, in a hurry?” And now they were both thinking of it, the possibility of late-night flight. To where? Neither knew for sure.
When they’d finally agreed on a parking space, half under a trampoline set off the driveway, they got out and found their way to the front door. Through its window they saw two couples sitting at a table, sharing a bottle of red wine. “Oh god, they’re drinking,” sighed Bobbie, who then tapped lightly, feebly on the oak door.
One of the women at the table waved them in. As JR reached for the knob Bobbie grabbed his hand and got between him and the door. “Please don’t drink too much tonight,” she said, looking up. “Can we limit it to one glass? We can’t be making a bad impression, not now.”
JR agreed. He might let slip something awful about Bobbie in front of their new housemates. With Bobbie there, unleashing darts from her eyes. It could start a chain of events that would ruin everything.
As they followed their host, everyone else at the table stood to welcome them. “Elvin Ainsworth, and this is my wife Anke.”
He was a slight man, or slightly a man and slightly a teenage tomboy with white hair. His wife was a knockout and he couldn’t look at her lest he be down for the count.
Before he lost his mind to sudden love, a black hand extended from around the couple. “Hello,” said the hand’s owner. “Buddy Badminton.”
“Hello,” said Bobbie, beaming. “My husband is John Robert. And I’m Bobbie.”
“JR,” said JR, quickly correcting his wife, something he’d pay for later. “Good to meet ya.”
A black woman sidled up to JR and hugged his torso from the side. “Hi sweetie. I’m Rachel.”
She smelled so good! Or was it the weed pesto he saw in a bowl resting on the table? These people knew what food was.
“We have you all set up here,” said Anke. JR and Bobbie sat down. Why was she placed at the head of the table, facing Buddy Badminton?
Maybe it would do wonders for her. Whereas normally Bobbie was a picky eater flirting with a food disorder, she now heaped helpings of mashed sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, satay, creamed cabbage, mushroom samosas and peppered cornbread onto her plate, and set about devouring them while everyone else pretended not to notice.
“Was the drive in problematic at all?” asked Buddy.
“I don’t think so,” JR replied. “Bobbie had the route all planned out, so there were no distractions. (Not to mention adventure, he mused miserably.)
“We’re so lucky,” said Anke, and JR could focus safely on her face, which was lovely. So soft, so gentle. A hint of hurt, the deep kind. Womanly. He could take that face in his hands and just, well, now he had not picked up why she thought they all were so lucky. He was lucky just to be seated at a table facing her.
“Yeah,” he said, hoping that was enough.
Bobbie laughed, spraying her plate with cabbage. Then did the cover-cough thing that has become part of the American vernacular.
Elvin chimed in with an observation: “We were saying that there is safety in numbers, and now I can say without reservation we made a good choice in inviting you.”he
“I’m so very glad,” said JR, stealing another glance at Anke as chewed on a samosa.
“Will you still be able to work?” asked Buddy.
“Ha, work,” said Bobbie, swallowing a spoonful of casserole too soon, which broke her into a coughing fit that saved JR from contradicting his wife in front of everyone. He actually would be able to work from his laptop, once he got the kitchen in proper order.
“Are you okay dear?” asked Anke, sincerely concerned. Bobbie’s face was scarlet red and tears streamed from her face.
“Yes, dear, okay, are you?” added JR, not looking at her.
“The potatoes are fantastic,” said Elvin. Everyone but Bobbie grunted in assent.
“I do want to work tomorrow,” said JR, “but I really want to pitch in getting things in order.”
Buddy and Anke raised their eyebrows. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Anke. “We’re pretty close to getting things ship-shape around here. You worry about the things you need to take care of.”
The things JR needed to take care of involved the arrangement of glasses in the doorless cupboard. It was an absolute hodgepodge, tumblers mingling with pint glasses and even a ceramic coffee cup. The knives were set up as if by a drunken hunter just having carved up a deer. He wondered if he could last in such a place. “Well,” he said, unfurrowing his brow, “I can knock of early and get that kitchen functioning.”
“It’s functioning fine,” blurted Bobbie. “Put up with a little disorder for once, would you?”
“It is!” agreed JR. “I guess I just want to pitch in.
“Anyway.”
“We would welcome any help from anyone having expertise in anything,” said Anke. “And thank you.”
JR was mollified and completely in love.
Rachel, Anke and of course JR drank too much wine, and bedtime was fraught with missteps and uncomfortable hugging. Bobbie, who’d had a few herself, decided to stop talking to JR, which was fine. She ambled up the stairs and closed their bedroom door before JR could get in. Was he supposed to find somewhere else to sleep? He certainly didn’t know where, and he certainly wasn’t going to sleep in the car again.
Once in the bed, they assumed their usual knife and fork position. JR was reading a noir novel, something about an alcholic ex-con and his three floozy girlfriends. He found contentment there until he heard a muffled sob. It was Bobbie’s. When he didn’t respond, there was a louder one, then an even louder one, and he lay flat and ignored them until he drifted off to sleep.
He awoke to Bobbie standing silhouetted in the bedroom’s sole window. She seemed to sway with the breeze. “I hope you’re happy.”
“What?”
“Happy. Humiliating me.”
“Uh, no, I’m not.”
“So you know you did.”
“I figured I did.”
“You figured you did. So you could have stopped yourself.”
“Probably not.”
“You hate me.”
“No.”
“You act like you hate me.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“It amazes me how some people can sleep.”
“A lot of people can’t.”
She walked back to the bed, and squatted before him. “What are we doing here?”
“Trying to survive.”
“We just had a drunkfest downstairs. Is that about survival?”
“I think it’s a coping mechanism.”
“If they come for us, we’ll probably all be drunk.”
“That might actually help.”
“How are you so sure you’re right?”
“About what?”
“Them being so wrong.”
“Who? The Cumfederates?”
“I hate that name. Why do you have to call them that?”
“That’s what they call themselves.”
She stood up and walked to her side of the bed. “Well, it’s disgusting.”
“Sure is.”
“Why bring sex into it?”
“Because they are coarse and vile. They think they’re funny.”
“Well, I know some of them and they seem fine.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“Did you go to meetings?”
“Is that what you think I do? You think I’m against you?”
That made JR laugh.
“You think I’d betray you?”
“Oh man. Let’s just go to sleep, okay?”
Bobbie lay down, and the sobs resumed. But they were rhythmic, and it helped JR fall into an even deeper slumber.
Back at their house, Gregor succumbed to the allure of the bars right around the corner. He walked to Low Yoyo and took a seat at the corner of the bar.
Near him, a long-haired neo-Hippie with a white goatee was draining his pint glass. Gregor ordered two Long Trails from the very young barmaid, advising one of them be delivered to his only company in the place.
“Thanks, pal,” the guy said. “Haven’t had one of these in a while.” He was wearing a Springsteen T shirt and a US flag headband. A real throwback.
“You should get back on the Trail,” said Gregor, who took a lengthy draw from his own glass.
The hippie slid over two seats to join him. “Did you see that documentary on The Boston Tea Party?”
“The Ken Burns one?”
“The whobee whatee?”
“It was on PBS a while back.”
“No, this is a new one.”
Gregor didn’t really come to Low Yoyo for a political discussion. Newly divorced and in love, he didn’t really need that kind of stuff any more.
“Did they find out the Tea Party was actually a bunch of hoodlums?”
“No, just the opposite. They were made up from New England’s most learned scholars.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. It would be like Socrates and Plato rounding up a posse to overthrow the corrupt government.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“I’ll say. Hey, name’s Burger.” He stuck out his hand.
Gregor took it. “Gregor. Burger?”
“Yeah.”
“Ever accidentally order a hamburger at a bar when you meet someone new?”
“Ha ha ha ha, yeah.”
“It must be tough.”
“Hey, someone’s gotta do it!”
Gregor forced a laugh.
“So did you come over from around here?”
“Yeah. Just around the corner.”
“Which house?”
“The cement one. It’s not mine; I’m housesitting.”
“For who? Always wondered about that house.”
“JR Schaffer.”
“Oh him, yeah, I know him. In fact, I still have his lucky cap.”
“What? You do?”
“Yeah, I need to get that to him.”
“Oh, well, he’s gone for a while.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, he’s joined up with a few other families ’til all this” — Gregor gestured at the MSNBC broadcast on the TV — “blows over.”
“Think it will?”
“It usually does.”
Burger laughed. “Listen, I’d love to drive out and see my ole buddy. Is JR hunkered down close to here?”
“Not too close. A place off Longleaf Pine Arbor Road. East of town.”
The hippie imbibed a long draw. “Funny, I’m headed up that way tomorrow. Let me know the house number and I’ll swing by and give him the cap.”
Gregor felt a twinge, but attributed it to the bean salad he’d had an hour ago. “Okay, 2342 I believe it is.”
“Great, thanks.” Burger lifted his phone close to his face and texted someone. “Can’t wait to surprise him.”
“Cool.”
“Tell me. Why didn’t you find a hideaway? Things look like they’re gonna get serious.”
“Eh. Not too worried about it.”
“You’re quite the cool cucumber.”
“The Cumfederates always fuck up. You can pretty much guarantee there’ll be a breakdown in command.”
“Really.”
“Yeah.”
“Good to know. Welp!” The hippie settled his tab, clapped Gregor on the shoulder and exited.
No one is certain how Gregor died. He was found the next day in a trash bag on some train tracks. Well, some of him. Authorities assumed the missing parts of him were dead too. They did not rule out dismemberment by train.
Talking Heads — the band, not the pundits — once sang a song called “Life During Wartime.” It described the frantic pace of civil war. “I got some groceries, some peanut butter/to last a couple of days.” The protagonist didn’t even have vinyl records.
But at the Ainsworth’s, there were all kinds of cheeses, breads, souffles and and imitation meats; the record collection spanned all genres of music. JR chose some soft Brazilian samba to accompany the Merging of the Kitchens. It would foster a kind of brotherhood that wasn’t pushy or aggressively stringent or orderly. He wanted to show he was ready to “roll with it.”
“What’s this?” laughed Buddy. “A cheesy version of ‘Day Tripper!’ Hilarious, JR! Touche!”
Sergio Mendes’s version of “Day Tripper,” not to mention “Fool on the Hill,” was by far JR’s favorite. So he wasn’t sure how to respond except, “I’m glad it pleases you.”
He was holding his treasured canvas bag of knives. The others, the housemates, were out looking for kindling for the night’s fire. The two men were tasked with blending their respective families’ plates, cups, ladles and of course knives into the already-well-functioning network of the kitchen.
“So,” said Buddy. “Whatcha got there.”
“Oh, what, these? These are just some knives that I guess I want everyone to consider.”
“Never a dull moment with you! Or knife!” Now JR wondered if Buddy was one of those guys who makes a joke out of everything. These were serious times, what with the melding of kitchen philosophies and the sacrifice of one’s own will, even at the risk of cutting tomatoes and their just kind of poofing and collapsing under the dull weight of a bad knife.
“I guess,” said JR uneasily. “So, do you want to see them? I have all kinds. And if you like one but you need it serrated, I have a serrater.”
“A serrater! Who would have such a thing!” Buddy’s laughter rang through the house, unnerving JR to the point of putting a hand to his forehead.
“Um, me, I guess.”
“Oh, hey! Man, sorry. I love serraters. Used one back in grad school when my roomie grew some damn fine tomatoes. Drove me nuts we couldn’t cut ’em right.”
“Sometimes you need a serrated knife,” said JR, brightening a bit.
“Absolutely!”
“Anyway….”
“Yeah, so, I was thinking we’d take their knife block, pull out the knives, and find the ones most suited amongst all the knives to fill it, then chuck the rest. Yeah?”
“Well, I’m not chucking any of my knives.”
“No! Of course. We might find your knives are all keepers.”
“Okay, well, let’s see.”
Buddy Badminton pulled the knives out from the block while JR carefully laid his out on the granite countertop all parallel and gleaming. For a while, they studied them.
Finally, Buddy said, “You know, how many knives do we really need? Right? I mean — ”
“We need them all!” said JR, who then felt bad about shouting. “We need a lot of them. I mean, we don’t want to use the same knife for a melon that we would with raisin bread.”
Just then, Bobbie walked in and stood there. JR looked at her. “Hello.” He waited for her to leave.
Bobbie realized what was going on, then snickered. “Again with the cutlery,” she sneered, then left the room.
“But don’t you think we’re going to limit the variety of what we eat?” asked Buddy. “I mean, come on, it’s practically a civil war.”
“Okay, but does that mean we just give up our standards?”
“No, but maybe we need knives more than” — JR gestured to the cappuccino maker, the blender and the three crock pots — “all this stuff.”
“All this stuff?” asked Buddy, incredulous. “What do you mean?”
“Do you think we’ll be making three soups at once? In what world does that happen?”
“A world where you don’t want to just slurp the same thing all day.”
“And really? We need four wooden spoons?”
“They’re works of fine craftsmanship. One of them is Shaker.”
“And a cappuccino machine? We really need frothed milk? Really? What happened to black coffee?”
“We improved on it!” cried Buddy. “We decided we weren’t pioneers any more.”
“But yet three knives would be enough for you,” said JR in a low voice.
“No. Maybe not, but now it just seems…excessive.”
The two men faced each other, neither backing down.
Finally, JR relented, a bit, as he had too often over his marriage. He reached for his canvas bag. “Fine. You know, I’ll just put the knives back, and maybe I’ll do my slicing and chopping in my bedroom.”
“Whose bedroom?”
“The bedroom I’m staying in. Of course, I know I don’t own the bedroom.”
The knives ended up back in the bedroom in which he and Bobbie were staying. He found a safe in the back of the walk-in closet. No one would see the knives now; they would remain safe (in a safe) from disparagement. He closed the door; he would get the combination from Elvin.
As he left the room, Buddy was standing in the hall. “Look man,” he said. “Sorry. I know those knives mean a lot to you.”
“Okay, maybe, yeah.”
“Can we start over? I want to know more about the knives.”
“All right,” said JR. “I just need to get the combination to the safe they’re in.”
“Combination?”
“Yeah, there’s a safe in our — I mean, the closet in our — the bedroom.”
Buddy began to laugh. “You locked them in the safe? You know Elvin doesn’t do safes, right?”
“So he wouldn’t know the combination?”
“No! He was just saying last night he needs to get rid of that albatross.”
JR, in a panic, ran back to the closet. In vain, he pulled at the safe’s door, which of course didn’t budge. He then tried to pick up the safe, failed, and felt a pull in his lower back. “Goddamn….” he cried, wincing.
“Oh no!” yelled Buddy from the hall. “What is it?”
“Nothing! Just a little twinge in my….”
“Your what?”
“Just a….”
“Just a what?”
“It’s nothing.”
He walked gingerly to the bedroom window and looked out. Three of his housemates had emerged from the woods and were making a sprint for the house. They weren’t holding any kindling. This probably wasn’t good.
“Hey!” yelled Buddy from downstairs. “Something’s happening!”
“Oh god,” JR muttered, noting that four men in camouflage and holding guns stood at the woods’ edge. He went back into the closet and shut the door.
He heard Buddy’s muffled cries, and maybe a rummaging through drawers. Was this happening? They would actually have to defend themselves? For what? What did they do?
Then there came the muted stampede of affluent, liberal adults figuring out what to do in a crisis. There were shouts, cries and curses. Bobbie screamed. How he hated that scream.
A set of footsteps came up the stairway and entered JR’s bedroom. (Not actually his.) JR peeked through a keyhole and saw it was Anke. He heard what sounded like a wooden spoon striking a skull, then gunfire. Then machine gun fire. He flung the door open, grabbed her, and pulled her in. “Thank you!” cried Anke. “Here! In here!”
She pushed him through the wall that wasn’t a wall, but rather an entrance to a vault. She joined him, and before he could get a grip on what this was, she was kissing him. Not only kissing him, but devouring him. He kissed her back, and then she was disrobing him, first his favorite long-sleeve T shirt, then his sweat pants. His back felt better.
It seemed only right he do the same for her. Soon they were naked, squirming into each other on the carpeted floor of the vault. Their lovemaking was passionate, and limited the amount of air they would have later.
They wouldn’t need it. They needed this.
