I slept for several days. In my sleep they had managed to feed me with honey water.
The whisky had probably pushed me over the edge. I was moved from my spot on the grass into a hut and given a soft bed of hay and chicken feathers. They covered me with a quilt made from plastic grocery bags stitched together in a thick mat. In my fever I tried to take stock of the room. There didn't appear to be any electricity as there were candles used for lighting and no electric appliances could be seen. The furniture was wooden and rudimentary but felt like it was influenced somewhat by modern designs that had been copied but not quite worked out. It all felt makeshift. I guess two and a half generations is not a long time to develop a culture. Somebody stayed with me the whole time, though I couldn't see her face, there was something in the way she moved that felt comforting.
The comfort of my companion was interwoven with a dystopian nightmare. I was driving late at night on the PCH. The skies were nuclear pink crystals, and the road was a flat ebony bone inlaid with crushed skulls of cattle. The signs were all in a language no one had ever seen. I felt an urge to find a bathroom, so I took the next exit. There was only one light bulb at night in the entire town. It hung over the windowless door to a saloon with a parking lot full of black shiny cars like beetles in hibernation. I turned the key off and felt the engine stop. The silence and stillness were primordial. The air was arctic and I could see my breath forming my words in the air before me. They were all gibberish and I felt like an idiot.
I opened the door of the saloon. It was dimly lit and full of shadows. I went to the bar. The bartender would not turn to look at me but took my order with his back facing me. My drink appeared on the bar before me without so much as a twitch from the man behind the counter. I took it and looked around the darkened edges of the room for the door to the bathroom. I found it outlined in silver as though lit from behind by a spotlight. The drink in my hand turned into a tarantula and I shook it off and shivered. There was a cloud of laughter in the bar as though someone had just made the biggest joke.
I put my hand on the handle of the bathroom door and felt a vibration from within. The door swung open, the room behind me filled with light and dissolved entirely, violently, as though turning to dust in an atomic blast.
Before me was a room lit from a high ceiling with thousands of long fluorescent tubes. A massive factory floor full of rows of stalls for what looked like miles. Each one tiled in a warm light beige four-inch by two-inch subway tile with dirty white grout. The pony walls between the stalls varied in height as if in a fun house. Some of them were only about two feet tall and the separation seemed comical. The place was as full as a train station on a weekend. Men in suits roamed between stalls, talking as though they were content to spend their entire lives in this public restroom between realities.
I had the urge to piss, but every stall I tried, someone would come up to the door and talk to me through the panel, or if it had short walls they'd come over and try and start a conversation over the wall. I couldn't find anywhere there wasn't one of these bastards ready to engage me on some subject. They all had this peculiar plastic grin and would stand well within my bubble of personal space.
#
When I awake my hosts tell me I have slept for a week. I am very hungry and now quite convinced that I will not be served any more raw coyote by hallucinatory mistake. They bring me a bowl of soup and instruct me to eat slowly, which is difficult because I am starving, but the pains in my stomach after just one bite of the tasty concoction convince me to put down the spoon for a moment and wait for the wave of anguish to pass. After that they bring me a shot of more whisky. I look into the eyes of the woman who brings me these things and tears begin to form in my eyes. I feel a blurriness come over me. I'm not big on emotions, so I don't know exactly what is happening. Some kind of relief at my temporary reprieve from death at the jaws of mother coyote, I imagine. It makes me uncomfortable to know I am such a simple creature.
A few days later, the boy, accompanied by his trained dog, comes to see me. They are a quiet pair. The dog sniffs at my bed, my feet. Then it licks my toes, which makes me groan. The boy looks at me, then at the dog and he says, perro, no. No lo lamas. The dog cocks its head the way dogs always do, which has got to mean something. It does not lamas me again. Instead, it sits on the floor at mild attention should I make any regrettable moves.
The boy is about ten. He reminds me of my own son at that age. Willful, smart, not yet entirely destroyed psychologically by the divorce that was surely about to erupt in his little world. I wondered who this kid's parents are. Surely, I have seen them among the crowds, though he seems to be an emissary apart and on his own. A boy king surveying his domain. I say, what's your name?
He looks at me. Puedes llamarme Mani.
Okay Puedes, I say. What's your dog's name? Que perro?
He looks at me like I am an idiot and had just said the most perplexingly stupid thing ever. In fact, he shakes his head and doesn't answer me. Instead, he says, Abuela says you are troubled, that you come here from another universe, and that in that universe your spirit died a long time ago. Now that you are here, your spirit in this universe will come to claim you.
I didn't know you spoke such good English, I say, as though everything he had just told me were an exercise in a book.
Ah! he says in frustration. It's like talking to a child. The dog makes a noise that starts with a long whine and ends in a growl and a gurgle and a yawn. The boy looks at it and nods. It stands up and they walk out.
If he wants to come into my recovery room and make up stories, as elaborate as they are, he really should expect to be treated like a little boy telling stories. I may not know where I am, but I know what I know. I can smell food cooking and rouse myself to go and search it out. Not having eaten for almost two weeks I am quickly regaining my stomach for it. I find that they have folded my stolen overalls and placed them on a stool made from lemon-wood branches tied together with vines. Hanging on the back is the denim jacket, still two sizes too small. I get dressed. There is no mirror and I have yet to see my face at all since I've been abducted. I begin to wonder if I still have the same one. The air is warm; the sun is beginning another trip across a cerulean vault. It is big and yellow. Its rays comb the back of my eyes and make what's left of my hair straighten up.
The village is quiet, but not still. There is a large cauldron bubbling in the center of everything. A small group of children are tending it and the fire. Another group is setting dishes, an acrylic set of bowls that look like they came straight out of a lunchroom cafeteria. Green and brown in the shades of disinterest. They begin ladling big scoops of breakfast porridge into the bowls and handing them out to passersby. No one seems to be forming any kind of chow line, so I just walk within a few feet of the cauldron and get handed a bowl. It is steaming hot. The porridge is golden and smells of lemon blossoms. I blow on it. There are no spoons for breakfast. I see everyone using their fingers to clean out the smooth plastic bowls. So, I do the same. It is sweet and heavy. I still have to eat slowly and by the time I can finish the mix is cold and stiff, but still fragrant and delicious.
After finishing, my head feels woozy and I sit down on the ground for a minute and hold my face in between my hands, with my elbows propped on my knees. It is an undignified position, but I'm not in any position to demand much dignity from my life at this point. I look around. Men and women are going to work. The division of labor is not clear. I don't think they decide based on gender. The women are strong. The men are wiry. The day has begun.
I gather my stomach and head back into the threadbare sack I've been carrying them around in. I get my feet under me and stand up. I go for a walk. I can see the edge of town, sloping down this gentle hill, some miles of orchard below me. It looks like every other tree has been excised, probably for lumber or firewood. And there are plots of farmland devoted to other crops as well, tobacco, beans, tomatoes, corn. This is a fully functional post-industrial permacultural community. But what is the rest of the planet doing? I stop a man, about five feet tall, with a bag of tools in his hand. Excuse me, I say, what happened to Malibu?
Esta in la mer Pacifico, he says.
Que? I ask.
Terremoto big, he says.
When?
Cuando todo comenzó.
That's not helpful, I say.
He shrugs and moves on.
The boy and dog find me staring after him.
Hombre, he says. Abuela quiere conocerte. Ahora, vamos.
I say, I'll follow you, Puedes.
He scowls at me and turns to lead the way to a smallish hut in the center of town. Though it isn't any bigger than any of the others, it is brightly decorated with gifts: idols, effigies, charms of good fortune.
Casita Abuela, he says. He bows before the door and says loudly, Abuela, estamos aqui!
Ven, says a woman's voice from the other side of the door. He pushes it open and leads me inside. I duck as I cross the threshold. The inside is full of smoke. There is a bowl of incense burning and Abuela is smoking a joint. To my surprise she hands it to the child.
He takes a big puff and hands it to me. I say, oh, no thank you. He makes his eyes bigger and pushes it at me again. I take it from him and pretend to take a hit. When I go to hand it back, he looks at me and shakes his head. So, I look for an ashtray.
Abuela says, please, you smoke it. Your spirit is trying to find you.
Oh, that's what Puedes here said earlier, but honestly, I'd rather if whatever you think is looking for me might take a little longer to find me. I'm not sure I'm ready for all that yet.
Puedes? she asks. His name is Mani. You don't speak Spanish very well; I remember that about you. You are also not a good man. You are not a doctor either. I look at her face. Something is familiar. I have seen this woman only a little more than a week ago, but she has aged about fifty years.
You are the pregnant girl, I say.
Yes, she says.
You couldn't have been more than twenty last week.
I was a teenager in your world.
Um, come on. Abuela, please stop with that. I’m not a moron! I know that somewhere in this cottage there are cameras hidden, and whoever put me here is laughing their asses off right now about how stupid I look being given the mystical treatment and swallowing every bit of it. Well, I'm not. So, you can take that back to your employers, whoever they are. Whoever I pissed off enough to do this, you can fuck off. I know you're listening.
You are a moron, she says. The kid laughs. The dog, startled, looks around at him at her at me. I lift my eyebrows at it, and it snarls at me. What gives, dog? The boy puts his hand on its back, and it quiets instantly. I hear a noise from another part of the cottage. I hadn't been aware of another room, but apparently there is because from inside that room comes a short and wizened old man. He is wearing a gold Movado watch. He comes into the room and sits down and says, ¿donde esta Waldo? Estoy aqui.
Waldo, you prick! You left me to die back there. Do you know what happened to me?
He waves my complaints away, says, ¿sabes lo que nos paso?
I don't sabes nada, I say. A spray of spittle flies from my s’s. My hands are shaking. A cold wire wound around the base of my spine. The dog has his head lowered and his eyes raised in my direction. Abuela has closed her eyes and seems to be meditating or praying.
Waldo says, ¿quieres tu reloj?
Shit, I say, keep it.
Cuando nos despertamos no estabas ahí.
My Spanish is terrible. Teriblay, I say.
He says when we woke up you were gone, says the boy.
I don't believe you, I say. None of this is real.
Quieres creer que los árboles cambiaron de la noche a la mañana, says Abuela.
Él cree que somos actores, Waldo says.
Los árboles son actores también, she laughs. The boy says, que es un actor?
I figure that I have to move the plot of this ridiculous charade along. I say, what do you want from me? What do I need to do?
Nothing, says Abuela. Just wait.
I cannot just wait, somewhere out there I have a family and a life to return to.
Just wait, says the boy. Abuela is very wise.
Waldo picks up the joint from the platter I had set it on and lights it, inhaling deeply. He hands it to me. Solo espera y mira, he says.
I take the joint from his fingers. They are smooth from years of labor. Everything smells intoxicating. I put the joint to my lips and inhale deeply. This is the game apparently.
The kid says, let's go. There is someone who wants to see you.
Again? I say, but he is already on his feet, and the dog stands up and puts its nose in my leg, prodding me.
Pushy animal, I say. It growls low and the boy snaps his fingers.
Hasta noche, says Waldo.
Hasta, says Abuela.
See you later, I say. Thanks for all the food and restorative care.
You are welcome, says the boy.
He takes me through the small village to a hut on the outskirts. It looks nearly like the others but sadder somehow. The boy says, Oi!
A voice of an elderly man rises from the other side of the plank wall. He coughs and speaks. Yeah, ven. The boy swings the door open on its leather hinges. It makes a forlorn noise like a lost animal. Sitting on a cot is my son. He is older than I by twenty years. He says, sit down papa, and points to a lemon branch chair next to the bed. I dither. I consider running again. Fleeing into the lemon grove, such as it is, and taking my chances with the coyotes, with the world outside this village, whatever has become of the earth I can live with, but somehow facing this man feels impossible.
He says, dad, sit down please. I need to talk to you.
Each foot feels like it is pushing through concrete as I walk toward the chair by the mattress. I say, Chet? What have they done to you?
Heh, he says, saved me, raised me up from a state where I felt forever stuck in the shadow of a man I could never please and who never seemed to recognize me for myself. But that's all water under the bridge, dad.
I blink. This is not my son. That much is obvious. This is some look-a-like brought in from backstage. I bet they think I'm some kind of easily broken simpleton, softened up by years of effete living, giving orders and sitting back on my ass. Being obeyed has never softened me. Let's see your birthmark, I say. He smiles, which I don't like.
You'll have to help me. I can't stand on my own, he says.
So, they're gonna make me molest a cripple. So be it. I have nothing to lose at this point except a pair of overalls and a bedazzled denim jacket. I lean over his prone form and draw back his blanket. The smell of old man is strong and mingles strangely with the flowers which work their way into every crevice of this village. He's wearing a paper-thin pair of hospital pants underneath. I swear he had the same pair in his twenties, used to bring them on camping trips to lounge around campfire in the evening. I say, you know what I'm gonna do next?
You're gonna pull down my pants and pick up my pecker. Maybe while you're down there, I can get you to pull on it a few times, no one else will.
You are one sick fuck, I say. I pull the blanket back over his groin and sit down in disgust. If you are my son, how the fuck did you get here? I ask.
Well, that's simple dad. Those people, whoever it was you fucked over in your bid to be emperor of fucking Malibu or the West coast or whatever, they picked me up the day before they got you.
Thoughts raced through my head. Lisa and the girls. What about Lisa and the girls? I asked.
That is just like you. You never gave a fuck about me. Did they torture you, Chet? Did you get in any good kicks Chet? Nope. All you care about is the women, who you can't stand in person any more than anyone else, but they offer a convenient distraction when I'm around.
Boy, you are bitter. Come on, what about Lisa, and the girls?
You see those people out there?
Who?
The fucking villagers dad.
Yeah, of course.
We're all related kinda.
You don't mean...
I mean that most of them are your grandchildren in one way or another... or both.
What do you mean, both?
I mean when things got real isolated around here we all got very familiar.
Fuck you. Where the fuck is Lisa?
Listen dad, I'm seventy-seven years old. How old would that make Lisa if she were still alive?
What about the girls?
Tammy died from coyote attack twenty years ago. She lived a happy life and had lots of babies by every man in this village who was of age at the time. Cherie lives in the village. Though she barely knew you when she was abducted. It's funny how these abductions were meant to destroy our family, but they only ended up preserving it when the rest of the global system fell apart.
Are you saying that there is nothing anywhere else? That we are the last family on earth?
I'm saying that we've seen others, but they weren't always coherent, and they weren't always human.
Not... human? I ask as though he has gone too far and must know it. Expect me to believe one unbelievable thing and then everything else, though fantastic and unbelievable, will be true by default.
You know what dad, I'd like you to fuck off for a while now.
You can't just drag me in here... I begin to protest but I'm cut off by the kid and the dog, who growls at me as if it knew English and were an avid conversant. I look at the dog and say, hey, cut it out, dog. To my surprise he snaps his jaws at me and lunges a bit before the kid smacks him on top of his head and he retreats, angry. I look at the boy. There is something inescapable about him. He is three and a half feet tall. He has furtive eyes like an animal, but they are also intelligent. I wonder, would he be my great grandson?
They escort me outside. I say, what now? I'm getting rather tired from all this meeting people.
He motions me to follow him. We stop outside another hut. He points to the door. Rest here, he says. With that, he walks away with the dog. The animal looks back over its shoulder at me as if to make sure I do what I am told. I give it the finger, half expecting it to run back over and bite me for my insolence. Fuck you dog. You should see what I do to dogs, dog. I'll eat your fucking intestines, dog.
I go inside. The hut smells strongly of the flowers, as though they had been used to cover the scent of a death. I mean, why else would there be a conveniently empty hut right here in the center of town if someone hadn't died. I wonder for a minute if it was Lisa.