“For Blade Runner (And the Want of a Decent Cup of Coffee)”
By Drew Miller
Seven o’clock in the morning comes early, or so the saying went which no longer seemed to apply to me or hardly anyone else I knew for that matter. According to the old windup clock on the living room wall, it just happened to be that time and--through no planning or reason of my own--I just happened to wake up about fifteen minutes ago.
Since it was bright and early, a beautiful early October morning, I decided to celebrate the moment with a cup of dandelion root “coffee.” I learned awhile back that every part of the dandelion is edible, a fact that served me well over the years. I also learned that a coffee substitute could be made by grinding up dandelion roots.
I seemed to be the only one stirring about, and I was pretty sure no one would be too thrilled with me if I used the gas stove to boil water for nothing more than a morning beverage for myself and no one else, so I got that thought out of my head. Instead, I went to the back porch, threw a few twigs in the rocket stove, and lit it. Thanks to the past couple of rainy days, there was plenty of water stored up, so I was fine there. I filled the teapot about a quarter of the way full and, in a short time, I had hot water for my “coffee.”
Dandelion root made a poor substitute for the real thing. In fact, all the supposed substitutes did. Chicory? Nah. All substitutes had been nothing more than a reminder to me that there really were no substitutes. The morning cup of coffee was the morning caffeine jolt and smile on my face. I enjoyed everything about my morning cup back in the day: grinding the beans, figuring just the right amount to put in the coffeemaker, how much water to add. It was more an art than a science, and one hundred percent ritual.
But anyways, I had the supposed next best thing and, since it was better than nothing, I wasn’t about to let that fact or anything else ruin the beautiful sunrise I set out to enjoy in the first place. I walked out to the front porch and smiled through the bitter first sip. Oh well, somehow it always seemed worth trying, or so I liked to kid myself anyways. I still had the warmth of the cup in my hands—at least that reminded me of my back-in-the-day morning fix.
“Whoa, you’re up.” Samson, my young friend/student/apprentice, was standing behind me. Whether he meant to or not, he managed to sneak up on me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sort of.” He was right. It was early for me. He knew he caught me off guard, and knew me well enough to know I hated it when it happened. It amused him.
“What are you drinking?”
“My dandelion house blend,” I said, holding up my mug. “There’s enough in the pot for another cup if you want some.”
“No thanks.”
I didn’t blame him. He tried to hide the sour look on his face as he headed back in the house. The warmth from my cup had just about dissipated, and I tossed what was left on the elderberry bush off to my left. I reminded myself that we needed to start the sheet mulching in another month or so. Indiana seasons always seemed to sneak up on you. It would be fall one day and, just like that, winter the next.
The sky was a beautiful bright orange with hints of pink coming through the gray clouds. Maybe it would rain again later but, even after all these years, I was still terrible at making those determinations. For the moment in time, it was just pretty and relaxing.
Samson barged through the front door again, a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other.
“What’re you eating?” I asked.
“Oatmeal.”
“Whipped it up pretty fast. Heat up any water?”
“Uh uh,” he replied, shoveling it in.
“It’s too nice out right now,” I said. “We should take advantage of it.”
Samson grunted.
“How about as soon as you finish that up, you meet me out back and we’ll get in some jo practice?”
Samson scraped up what was left in the bowl, downed it, and held up his spoon like there was a reward for speed eating. “Done.”
I had to smile. As quickly as he was growing up (much quicker than I had to), he was still a kid.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll see you out back.”
“Remember to be patient,” I said. “It’s all about keeping your distance and waiting for the right opening.” I might as well have been talking to myself. Samson was a natural athlete but an impetuous one. His eagerness to get in the first strike often threw him off balance and a simple dodge and counter was all it would usually take on my part.
“See?” I said after a counter strike to the side of his head. “Even with the helmets and measured strikes, it still tends to ring.”
“Yeah. No kidding.” He shook it off.
“If you ever get that aggressive in a real fight, the end result might not be so pleasant.” We used rattan staffs for training, but they could still rattle your brain.
“It is all about patience,” I said. “Keep a distance and let the opponent make the first move. Or better yet, let him back down all together.” I thought I was a pretty good instructor, but to tell the truth, I was self-taught. In the early part of this century, I decided to add self-defense—open hand and jodo (or ‘the way of the short staff’)—to my set of “must have” skills. Unfortunately, small towns rarely offered much in the way of any kind of martial arts instruction, so it was up to me to improvise. All I can say is thank God for libraries and, at the time, the internet. Also, I had lived overseas for a while during my military days and I learned some combatives as a part of my training, but—I hate to say this—what they taught us was pretty worthless. Books and Youtube videos proved to be much more helpful.
Samson didn’t need to know any of this. All that mattered to him and his youth was that I was as an ex-army guy. I had been to Korea and Iraq. I had worn a military uniform and carried a gun and that was enough for him. It was also enough to give me the confidence I needed to play instructor, even as I was often times training myself right along with him.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s just keep going.”
And we did. I mentioned earlier that he was athletic. He was a strong kid, but it was as much the result of desire as natural ability. Whether his parents meant to do it or not, they made a good call when they named him Samson. Early on, as a youngster in Sunday school, he learned of the biblical character who shared his name and he was fascinated. Realistically, he knew it was impossible for him or anyone else to obtain the strength of the Old Testament judge, but that never stopped him from trying.
I kept a full Olympic barbell set and an adjustable bench in the basement. A couple of years ago, when he was finally old enough, I put him through some paces and taught him which exercises to do for which body parts, and the importance of rest and progression. I sometimes thought it was safe to say that the basement gym was his real church—and that his namesake was his real role model. He even went so far as to grow his hair out long; he kept it tied in a ponytail.
It started to warm up some. The sun was out from behind the clouds and the sky had turned a clear blue that seemed to have no beginning or end. The garage door opened and Sarah, one of our housemates and just a couple of years older than Samson, poked her head out.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Early,” I replied. “But not that early. How’d you sleep?”
She didn’t answer and she really didn’t need to. She just had that squinty-eyed, annoyed look. James, a young man of roughly the same age as her, showed his face at the door too. His expression didn’t say “well rested” either.
“What are you guys doing?” he asked.
I just held up my jo. Football helmet, safety glasses, jo…I figured it was pretty obvious.
He rolled his eyes and turned around. Sarah shut the door and followed. It hadn’t been their turn to watch the garage last night but, more often than not, they volunteered. They were just at that age where they wanted some space to themselves, among other reasons.
While it was still called the garage—and it was hard for us old timers to think of it as anything else no matter how much times changed—it was actually a makeshift barn. We had a rabbit hutch and a chicken coop in it along with garden tools and enough space for a couple of cots. Fortunately, we had good neighbors but you still had to keep an eye out. We liked to be generous and giving when it was possible, but we couldn’t afford to be overly trusting either. Like anyone else, we had to be mindful of our food sources.
Samson shrugged his shoulders. Oh well. He was used to being thought of as a black sheep and so was I.
“The others will be up soon,” I said.
I looked around and it hit me. Today was Thursday and that usually meant “open market” at the old Walmart parking lot. If the weather was bad, they’d hold it inside what was left of the old big box store but this wasn’t one of those days. It was nice out and unseasonably warm. I had a feeling it would be a good day to find and maybe even get a good deal on something I’d been craving—like coffee.
“Enough of this,” I said. “Let’s head in to town.”
Years ago, when I saw the writing on the wall, I made the decision to join a church and not because I felt that the answer lied in Jesus. Well it did, but not in a religious, soul saving kind of way. I didn’t grow up in that kind of a household. But as the system itself started falling apart, it became clear to me that I probably couldn’t make it on my own. I needed to find a supportive community and, in my hometown of Carterville, that meant joining a church.
I wish there had been a more secular solution but there was none to be had in Carterville or any small Indiana town for that matter. Join a church or struggle through the upcoming lean years on my own; it was that simple. So that decision was made for me. The part that I actually had a say in was “Which one?”
I wanted one that was not too small and not too big. I wanted to see a lot of people close to my age and younger, people who had lived in town all or most of their lives and who planned on staying put. I wanted it to be an accepting and close knit unit. And also, I didn’t want to join one that was too evangelical or “end times” in its preaching. That kind of church might be the worst in a long emergency. I was looking for one that was more like a Jesus-themed social club. The Trinity of Life nondenominational church was friendly without being pushy, and appeared to be more about bowling leagues and softball than fire and brimstone. It would do nicely and became my new home away from home.
It turned out to be a good idea. As the years went by, and times became leaner, people—surprisingly enough to some—quietly adapted to the changing demands. Energy did indeed become more expensive but that didn’t mean people rioted; it meant they doubled up on their living arrangements. If necessary, a one family home could easily hold two. Two families and you still couldn’t pay the gas and electric bills? Add more housemates.
Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t pleasant in the beginning, especially for us old timers who grew up with the belief that if we didn’t have a college degree, a successful career, a house, and a car by the time we turned thirty then we must be losers. It was a tough line to toe, and many of us who couldn’t make it work had to rethink everything we’d ever been told. But most of us proved to be resilient. We made concessions where we had to and a lot of back-in-the-day necessities became luxuries—such as one family to a three bedroom house.
And that was where my joining a church turned out to be one of my better decisions. When the going started to get tough, I already had my future roommates. There were fifteen of us living in what was supposed to be a single family home. The average family in the year 2031 was well priced out of the old time lifestyle, and it had a decision to make: one family to a home and struggle, or live with multiple families and--while still struggling--at least pay the bills. More often than not, they sided with keeping the heat and lights on.
And that was how we adapted for the most part. Double up on your living arrangements or better yet, triple and quadruple—whatever you could manage. And no, that didn’t mean cable tv and lights on all the time. We still had to conserve. And garden. And maintain livestock. Some of us adjusted better than others but, like I say, we did what we had to.
So yeah, it was a good idea on my part to join the church. I couldn’t have made it this far on my own; no one could. We all had to find our tribes.
“Did you ask around, get a list?” I asked. It wouldn’t be right for us to go without knowing if anyone needed or wanted anything.
“Yeah,” Samson replied. “Vinegar…and a melon or two if they seem all right.” I knew someone would request a melon. Surprising to some, but Indiana was home to some of the best cantaloupes you could get anywhere. Sweet and juicy and, any more, we weren’t afraid to push the growing season. Indiana melons were a welcome treat any time.
“That’s simple enough.”
We were on our way. Jos in hand, and rabbit jerky and canned tomatoes stuffed in my backpack as trading material, we walked down our block, nodding our “hellos” to the multitudes that made up our neighborhood. Lots of people of all ages, lots of moving about—lots of plain old sitting around too. It was a beautiful day and why not take it in? Kids were playing touch football out in the street with little worry of watching for traffic.
And that’s how it was: one whole block of homes with lots of activity…followed by two or three blocks that were plain empty. Some of them were shuttered up and in desperate need of renovations—and these were the good ones. Most had been ransacked and were little more than foundations and eventual firewood (you could forget about the copper). As we walked by, we could see kids on the porch of one of them pretending to sweep up and garden. I laughed.
“Kids today,” I said. “When they play house, they play house.” The comment was lost on Samson. And why wouldn’t it be? He hadn’t known any different. He did the same at one time. Empty homes were “forts” too.
It wasn’t lost on me though and, even after all these years, it never would be. I knew those homes when they were still someone’s (and some bank’s) property. My memory just went back a little farther. But that was then. Nowadays, it was one block alive, two or three blocks dead. Except for the kids playing house and fort, that was just how it was.
The old Walmart parking lot was plenty active by the time we arrived. Every few parking spaces or so, there was a truck with its tailgate down or a van with its side door open. Tables were set up in the spaces between, many of them under the cover of a makeshift canopy or tarp that made a rustling noise whenever a slight breeze came through. I recognized a lot of the people who were milling about. I knew them from church activities, softball and such. Some I’d seen at WorkOne or just simply around. They’d smile at me and I’d smile back.
A lot of the sellers were from out of town, or at least I assumed they were. Very few that I recognized and they seemed to be on their guard. I saw a couple with guns holstered but, anymore, it didn’t really bother me. The way I saw it, some people were just extra cautious and I had no intention of giving them any reason to pull it out.
I pulled a couple of medium-sized bags of jerky out of my backpack and a couple of folded bills out of my pocket. “Here,” I said to Samson. “Vinegar and a couple of melons if you can.”
“All right.” He made a beeline for the eastside of the lot, where most of the farmer’s market was set up.
“Meet me back here in about an hour,” I called out to him. I wasn’t sure if he heard me but I wasn’t too worried. Neither of us would leave without the other.
I looked around me. These markets were fairly predictable in their offerings any more: Cooking utensils of all kinds, sturdy ones, like thick cast iron pans and dutch ovens; leather boots, some that had been resoled; winter jackets, especially wool ones, every now and then a gore-tex; portable generators; camping gear, blankets, sleeping bags. The key word was sturdy; anything that was in demand had to be built to last. And yes, gas and diesel. They were available, if you arrived early enough and could meet the going black market rates. There were some artisans too. A cobbler shop was set up to resole boots and more than a couple of sewing machines were taking in work too.
Sometimes I felt like I could just kick myself. Of all the skills I set out to obtain, it never occurred to me to learn how to use a sewing machine. Anyone who owned one—and was skilled with it—could get through the times just fine.
“How’s it going?” I asked of the seller closest to me.
“Good.” She smiled. Her round face was hidden behind dark sunglasses and I couldn’t tell if she meant it or not; seemed to me that most of the sellers were wearing them.
Stacked behind her were her offerings: old movies. VHS tapes mostly and some DVDs. I was a sucker for old movies.
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Not really,” I said. “I just like to browse and hope something jumps out at me.” The only thing that jumped out at me was how big of a John Wayne fan this lady must be. When it came to the Duke, I always felt that if you’d seen one of his westerns, you’d seen them all.
“There’s more in the van.” The sliding door was open, and more were stacked up to the roof all the way back to the hatch which was also open. The seats had been removed. The van selection was a little better: some family-oriented stuff that would be passable for movie nights at the church, but nothing that really grabbed me. And it was just as well. I’d rather have my rabbit jerky to chew on than on old video tape I’d watch maybe once.
A stack of flyers off to my left did grab my attention though…
RICHFIELD ART THEATRE
Olde Richfield Mall on National Road
Harrison Ford Week
Thu., October 5th Raiders of the Lost Ark
Fri., October 6th Blade Runner
Sat & Sun., October 7th and 8th The Star Wars Trilogy
*Showings throughout the day
I looked it over. Blade Runner? You’ve got to be kidding me…It had been ages since I last saw it. I remembered seeing it in the theatre—the exact same theatre—when I was maybe eleven or twelve years old. I went with a couple of my friends and, as was usually the case with kids seeing R-rated films, one of my friend’s older brothers was the “guardian.” I couldn’t remember much other than I liked it and the special effects had me thinking how I couldn’t wait for the twenty-first century to come around. I couldn’t wait to get my flying car.
I took one from the stack. “When did they start this up?” I asked. “I mean the art theatre.”
“A while ago.” Her look said You really don’t get out much do you?
And she was right. It had been a while since I set foot in Richfield. I just didn’t have much of a reason to go any more.
Then again, thirty miles wasn’t really that long of a trek. Back in my army days, I had to do a twelve mile road march in under three hours while dressed in “full battle rattle” and carrying my rucksack (a requirement to get my air assault badge). It wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t too terribly difficult either. At fifty-eight, I wasn’t that young soldier any more but I was still in good shape. It was doable. I felt a punch at my shoulder—Samson.
“How’d you do?” I asked. He held up a gallon of vinegar and, in a plastic bag, a couple of melons.
“Don’t suppose you saw any coffee?”
“Instant.” Instant? Naaahh. I was sure I could do better in Richfield; yet another reason to go.
“Oh well. It’s all good,” I said. “There’s a change in plans anyways.” I handed him the flyer and he looked it over.
“Ever seen it?”
“No,” he handed it back. “Never been to Richfield either.”
“Well here’s your chance to do both,” I said. “And you can’t tell me you’ve never thought of going.” Richfield was a town maybe four times the size of Carterville, with a population of roughly 40,000, but to a kid like Samson it might as well have been New York or even Tokyo—a huge foreign metropolis offering excitement, or at least something beyond local parking lot bazaars and church activities.
“How would we get there?”
“The same way we got here,” I replied. “How else?” Our church owned an old pickup and minibus but using them was out of the question. Neither got much use and even then, only if it was absolutely necessary.
“Mom would never let me.”
“Yeah she will,” I said. “Leave it to me.” He seemed doubtful but something got the wheels in me turning when I picked up that flyer. Making this trip felt more to me like a calling. I was making a pilgrimage that I couldn’t quite explain. It was my dharma.
“It’s what, about ten now?” I asked to no response. “We got time, plenty of time. Let’s head back and prep.”
Samson wasn’t sure what to think. I had always stayed close to home—walking thirty miles to see a movie wasn’t a part of my character. But adventure had always been a part of his and one that had no real outlet till now.
He smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
It was only a ten minute walk back to the house and I let Samson’s mom know what was going on. Sounded kind of flaky to her—and I suppose it was—but she didn’t put up to much of a fuss either. I assured her we’d be all right and besides, what else was going on?
I still had some money saved up from the last short-term revolving labor I’d managed to get (doing laundry for the regional hospital); between that and any bartering I might have to do, I really had no worries.
We packed quickly and kept it light. In my backpack I had one of my lighter sleeping bags, a wool blanket, a towel, and a change of clothes including a couple pairs of wool socks. As far as food went, I packed some rabbit jerky, a few apples, and some hard bread. I secured a gallon jug of water to the outside of my pack with some nylon cord. I figured the money I planned on bringing would be enough, but I also packed a few trays of razor blades in case some trading was called for.
I decided on an old wool pullover that had seen better days. Still, it was warm yet breathable, and I could always take it off if it got too warm and replace it with the flannel shirt I’d packed. And that was it. A wise man once told me “If you don’t have much, you don’t need much.” Those were words to live by for this time and age. I also strapped a knife to my left calf and pulled my cargo pants leg back over it. You’d never know it was there. I didn’t expect to pull it out, but why take any chances? Samson decked himself out about the same. And we had our jos of course.
We didn’t waste any time hitting the road. It was a straight shot from the house—about twenty blocks—to state road one and the quickest way to Richfield. The old state road was one of the town’s main strips at one time, which isn’t saying much; nothing more than a grocery store and a couple of fast food restaurants and gas stations. The grocery store was still in operation so to speak.
“When do you think it’ll stock up again?” Samson asked.
“No clue.”
Every couple of weeks or so—no set schedule as far as I could tell—a truck or two would pull in, usually late at night or really early, and make an offload of foodstuffs. No sooner would the shelves be restocked before a line (if you could call it that) would form that wrapped around and filled half the parking lot. Whatever the truck, or trucks, managed to bring in was easily gone within a few hours, even with limiting the number of purchases per person. The situation with the gas stations was much the same only even more intense. Sometimes myself or someone from the house or church would go, but it hardly seemed worth the trouble half the time. Honestly, it seemed best to just stretch what we could manage to scratch from the yard, garage, church, other churches, friends, bartering…as I said, it was difficult at first, but a lot of us adjusted all right and now it seemed natural.
No matter how much time passed however, I never could get used to seeing the fast food restaurants I grew up with now standing before me as salvaged pillars of my childhood. The boxy outlines were there, the drive-thru windows, and even some of the counters but that was all that remained. It always made me shake my head. How many times had I drove through and picked up a burger and fries with no thought of the future? It was just how it had always been and how I always expected it to be. It was so ingrained on my psyche I couldn’t picture it any other way.
“You can remember eating there,” said Samson, nodding towards the nearest one. “Was it any good?” He would always ask this.
“It was all right,” I answered, same as always. “Honestly, it was all pretty salty and I usually downed it too fast to really taste it all that much. After a while, they all tasted the same to me—didn’t matter which one I went to.” As an aside I added, “You didn’t miss much.”
He gave a smirk that said he wasn’t too convinced, and I was never sure that I could blame him or anyone else in his generation whenever an old timer like myself said those words: You didn’t miss much. I guess we just didn’t want those who came later to be too mad at us. And they knew it.
We walked past it all, and took a left at the National Guard armory. Half a mile later, we were on Parisville Road and outside the town limits.
Parisville Road was one long straight bumpy stretch of cracked and broken blacktop with nothing but cornfields and wood lines alternating on either side. The dips and hills made it near impossible to judge its length. It was one of those country roads that seemed to have no end, and the clear blue sky overhead only made it seem that much more expansive. Just standing there before it was intimidating. It felt like I was floating in space more than standing on firm ground.
“Having second thoughts?”
“No,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
I didn’t want to disappoint my young friend. Still, I didn’t like that I couldn’t see an end to this road, this road I’d travelled by car so many times in the past to get to the very same mall that was our destination. This was just different somehow. There was no engine rumbling or protective metal casing surrounding me. I was realizing that, in all my years, this was the first time I was actually seeing this road. All the other times, I was zooming through in my truck. Being on this same road—on foot—forced me to be present in the moment. All these years, and it was hitting me for the first time. The journey began with a single step from each of us and we were on our way with no turning back. I wanted to see Blade Runner. And maybe get some decent coffee.
“How long do you think it’ll take us?”
“Wish I knew for sure,” I replied. “I used to make the drive in around thirty minutes. At the pace we’re going now…we’ll get there with time to spare. Should have time to look around.” I figured we could do it in fifteen hours—not including breaks--which could seem like an eternity to a seventeen year old kid; probably best not to give an estimate.
Like I said earlier, I was terrible at making determinations concerning where the weather was heading, and now I was wishing I had paid more attention to those dark grey clouds. They were still there, and not just over head, but out in front of us. Up ahead, they seemed to be winning the fight with the clear blue sky that seemed to have an end after all. The road was still one long stretch though, and each step felt lighter and lighter. It felt like I was floating into a black hole, and I told my mind to stop playing tricks on me.
We walked in silence and took in the scenery. There were noises here and there, and we could here water running from the creek that ran through the woods off to our right.
“How far out does this road go?” Samson asked.
“A few miles or so.”
We’d walked for couple of hours without so much as a farmhouse or barn, but I knew there were a couple, or at least there were at one time. The cornfields were still there, for the most part. I worked the ones—along with a good number of people—we’d already passed, the ones closer to town. The further away we got, the more they seemed to be overtaken by nature.
“How are we getting back?”
“The same way we came,” I answered. “Having second thoughts?”
“Nah.”
“Looks like we’re going to have company soon.”
Earlier on, two small dots had appeared from the horizon and they were getting nearer and nearer. Couldn’t make out their faces yet, but they looked to be no bigger or different from us in any way. Only difference was they were walking away from the grey skies and we were walking towards them. “Don’t cross the road,” I said. “Either way, we’re going to cross paths with them.”
I wanted to believe in the best in people, but there was no one else around. Just hope for the best and stand your ground if it’s called for. They would disappear with each dip and then reappear with each rise—each time getting bigger. It was an older man about my age and a younger man who was perhaps Samson’s. I just wished I could get a read on them. All I wanted was to pass by them without incident.
“Hey,” I said. I wanted to keep it friendly and hopefully, just walk on by.
“Heyhey,” the older man replied. “Looks like you two are set for some travelling.” He put his hands in his pockets. It made me nervous. His eyes were sunk back and said he hadn’t slept or ate in a while. The boy he was with looked a little nervous as well.
“Some,” I replied. I could see Samson out of the corner of my eye. He looked even more nervous than the skinny kid opposite us. Great.
“Don’t suppose you got a light?” The older man pulled his right hand from his pocket and I was relieved to see a pack of cigarettes.
“Wish I did,” I replied. “Got some water and food, if you guys are hungry or thirsty at all.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
I removed the gallon jug from my pack and passed it to him. “Get a good healthy swig in ya.”
He did and he passed it to the boy. Our eyes never left each other. I took a small bag of jerky from my right cargo pocket and handed it to him.
“You look like you’ve been travelling some yourselves,” I said.
“Some.”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know you’re just a short walk from town,” I took the jug back from the boy, smiling the whole time. “Stay on this road and take a left at the end of it. Walk a little ways more and you can’t miss it.”
Their eyes lit up a little and I sensed desperation being replaced with hope. A sense of relief washed over us all. No one wanted any trouble.
“How far?”
“Not far,” I replied.
He pondered this. Samson and the young kid looked nervous as hell. It was between me and the man.
“Well,” he finally said. “Guess we got some walking to do.”
“You’ll make it in no time,” I assured him.
He nodded to the boy and they seemed relieved to get by us. We were all relieved I think. We watched them walk away from us, and get smaller with each dip and rise till they were ant-sized.
“Were you worried at all?” Samson asked.
“Not too,” I lied. I wanted to believe in the best in people, but I just couldn’t let myself. Now I was wishing I’d parted with more of our grub. They needed it more than we did.
They did give us something in return though. The grey skies that were following them were now overhead and I could sense the first hints of rain. The broken blacktop and dirt mixed to offer a “rain smell” that was unmistakable.
We had more endless dips and hills ahead of us and there was no turning back as far as I was concerned. I had no intention of missing Blade Runner. We continued walking but there was no rain, just the threat of it and a gust of wind blowing our way.
Up ahead was a farmhouse with a light in the front window. Behind it was an old white barn with a light shining from inside—I didn’t see any activity and I just wanted to get by it as well. I recognized it from all the times I drove up and down this very road back in the day and, after all these years, it didn’t look any different to me.
An oak tree was in the front yard and, crazy enough, there was a ladder propped against it with an elderly lady—short white hair and wearing a black turtleneck--about halfway up it. I could see what she was doing: there was a cat that wouldn’t come down. The poor lady looked like she was in her eighties and didn’t stand a chance. I nodded to Samson and we turned on to her property.
“Need any help?” I called up to her.
“Lots of it.” She must have had eyes in the back of her head. She didn’t appear startled at all.
“Come on down from there,” I said. “I’ll get her.”
“Him.”
“Okay. I’ll get him.”
I climbed up the ladder and got a better look. The cat was pure black down to its whiskers and gave new meaning to the words cat’s eyes. It felt like he was staring right through me. He was up there and I had to kid myself that I was ten years old again to get to him. Fortunately, the branches were strong and he didn’t put up too much of a fuss. I got him down and handed him to her.
“Perfect timing,” she said.
“Guess so.” I thought I felt the tiniest of rain drops.
“You from Carterville?” She asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Walked clear out here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “And a ways more to go too. Heading to Richfield.”
“Ah,” she said, as in Ah, you must be crazy. Yeah, well…
“You’ll be absolutely soaked by the time you get there,” she said. “Are you two in any hurry?”
“Not really.” She looked us over and her brow curled in thought. Now that I was facing her, I could see that--as old and petite as she was--she exuded a sturdiness that didn’t need me or anyone else to fetch that cat. Curled in her arms, the cat still had its eyes on me.
“I sure don’t do this too often,” she said. “But why don’t you come inside? It’s about dinner time anyways and I’m sure you won’t turn that down.”
Samson smiled and I knew his answer. “No, ma’am. We definitely appreciate the kindness.”
“Follow me,” she said leading us to the house. As we approached the front of the house, I saw a man close to my age coming towards us from its rear. I noticed there was no light coming from the barn now, so he must have finished up whatever he was working on back there; that or he wanted a better idea of what was going on. He was dressed in dirty coveralls and horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like a middle aged Buddy Holly but without the goofy grin. He smiled, but it didn’t hide his not being too thrilled with us strangers on the property.
“This is my son, Thomas,” she said as we got in handshaking distance. “And it didn’t occur to me
to ask your name.”
“Eric Flint,” I said. “My friend here is Samson.”
“I’m Sara,” she said. “Sara Lighty.”
"Hi," Samson said, shaking hands with both of them.
"Eric Flint," Thomas said, mulling it over. "Sectionals in '89."
"Yeah, that's right," I replied. "You've got a hell of a memory." He was talking about the
Indiana high school basketball sectionals, basketball being close to a religion in the state (or at
least it was at one time). I was a sixth man, a kid who was good for hitting the three-point shot or
knocking down some free throws and not much else. I was lucky enough to hit a last second three-
pointer to get us out of the sectionals. I wasn't so fortunate in the same situation during the
regionals. He brought up the former instead of the latter, so I took that as a good sign.
The home's interior was "country homey" and the Lightys were genial. Dinner was fried
chicken, cornbread, and mixed vegetables. Thomas and me talked basketball. He graduated a
few years after me and never played himself. Both he and his mom worked at the Toyota plant
for a few years while maintaining the small farm. His father, her husband, died a few years back
and I didn't inquire.
"You're awfully quiet," Sara said to Samson. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Still in school?"
"Working," he replied, and by "working" he meant summers in the fields and whatever
short-term labor he could manage: a couple of days here, a week or two there. We were all in
the same boat when it came to employment.
I was sitting at this table with these nice people talking about my "glory days" and, as I
looked over at Samson, I felt bad. He was the same age I was when I hit that shot. I spent my
days in school and my nights cruising around--dates at Pizza King, no worries. Life was just one
big game on and off the court. This should be his time to enjoy the same things. Instead, he was
trekking through the countryside with an old man to see Blade Runner. I couldn't help but feel
guilty.
The Lightys had a guest room they let us stay in. I looked out the window. The grey skies
and rain were gone, and a clear, starry night took its place. I thought about the beginning of our
trek, and how it felt like floating in space. It still did, but I didn't mind it now so much. Somehow,
I felt safe.
The next morning, Thomas drove us the remaining ten miles into town. The main strip
looked the same, only largely deserted. The strip malls were stripped malls--empty. There was
the occasional truck loaded up with goods and people, all heading to what was left of the mall.
We thanked Thomas for the lift and said our goodbyes.
The lot was like the old Walmart lot; a truck every few spaces selling its wares. People were
coming and going through the main entrance. The inside reminded me of the alleyway bazaars I
saw in Korea and Iraq--lots of tables, lots of activity with no real sense of order, but it just made the
experience more exciting and enjoyable. I did manage to get my coffee. I bought a pound for five
trays of razor blades. I took a whiff and let the aroma and hints of caffeine wash over me.
No bartering to get in the theatre. I spent close to the last of my cash to get us in and I
found a seat close to the screen. LOS ANGELES, NOVEMBER, 2019 the opening assured us as a
futuristic city literally exploded every couple of seconds with gulfs of fire shooting into the air,
adding more filth to the polluted sky. LA was lit up as though it were its own galaxy. I smiled as
flying cars approached two dystopian pyramids with giant beams of light escaping their tops.
Wow, did we ever get it wrong. 2019 was nothing like that. But as I sat there, I didn't mind. No,
we didn't have any flying cars--or renegade androids for that matter. It was 2031 and I didn't
have a car period. But it was okay. I had family. And friends. And a community. I liked my life in
2031, and I decided that I preferred my flying cars on celluloid.
