Chapter Eight

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I am up at dawn and I go straight for the Tylenol. Ah, bourbon you cruel mistress.

I have black coffee on the deck, which is covered with tiny beads of dew. The fog hangs like a grey blanket, it feels very maritime. I am still trying to manage life with less sugar, I give in to my sweet tooth and sneak a cube from the cupboard. It cuts the bitterness just enough and I go back to watching wisps of fog.

Merida meanders through the yard seeking the ideal place to do her business. Something odd pops into my head -- coffee doesn't grow here, a lot of things don't. It's a fairly respectable agricultural region, plenty of farms and greenhouses, good soil, long growing season, but coffee, citrus fruit, anything that thrives in warmer climes, these are not locally produced. I start thinking about all the things in the kitchen right now that are only available because they have been imported. Turns out it would be much faster to count what can be obtained locally. I can live without coffee, but I would rather not. If that is a genuine reality of the near future, I should see if I can stock up.

It's quiet enough that I can hear the waves on the break wall in the distance. Water on rock, the perpetual symphony of background music when you live near the water. The massive white stones seem the stronger of the two; passive, immovable, turning the crashing surf aside time and time again. But the waves are unrelenting and over time, their persistence pays off, the stones become sand and the water remains, unforgiving and unrepentant. At least water shouldn't be a huge problem, I have twenty-six-thousand square kilometers of dihydrogen monoxide a short walk from my door, but ensuring potability could require some extra work.

Mental note: water purifier, iodine tablets, bleach

Kate is also up, fussing about the kitchen packing a lunch and eating breakfast at the same time. She excels in this sort of multi-tasking. She has to get to work today, they have expanded her role at work and she's now part of a small committee dedicated to emergency preparedness planning. She tells me the work is very interesting, but scary at the same time. I don't tell her how much I can relate. She takes a break and sits with me briefly to finish her coffee. She's obeyed the house rules, her coffee is truly black. I need to convey to her Ari's warning without conveying this sense of dread that hangs over me.

"We need to be a little better prepared, in case things get worse." I start. "I'm going to stock the pantry downstairs with some more food. I think I will take your Dad up on that chicken offer too. How hard can that be. I just have to build a coop, get some chicken feed and keep the cats away - right?."

"Something like that, my Dad will know what you need to do, I'll call him from work. My mom has some preserves for us anyway, she's been doing a lot of canning this summer, so if you are out and about, swing by and pick that up. Great dinner last night, oh my God - those olives!"

"Yeah, you really did a number on those olives."

"If you see Ari today, be sure to thank him again for me. It was such a nice evening."

Nice, sure, right up to the point where he brought up the end of the world. I'm in no rush to visit Ari today. "Sure, I'll tell him that your really enjoyed yourself."

I spend the day busying myself with every task and chore I can conceive in an effort to avoid the inevitable visit to Ari's house. I wish to avoid more doom and gloom, or maybe avoid another dose of reality - they may well be the very same thing.

Our cable is still out, which means no Internet either, which sucks for me because I wanted to download plans for a chicken coop. I could hotspot my phone, but I just don't want to make the effort, so I rough draw a chicken coop on paper instead. I check it over a few times to make sure I haven't accidentally designed some sort of M.C. Escher nightmare. Satisfied that that is not the case, I turn my attention to seeing if I have all the supplies on hand to cobble this thing together.

Heath comes out to the garage every five minutes to interrupt my flow and declare, yet again, that his TV shows don't work. On the fourth visit, I lose what little patience I have, yell loud enough to send him scurrying back inside with a face full of tears. It takes about five seconds for the guilt to sink in, so I sit down and call the service provider. I get an auto-attendant and the usual prompts, but I cannot break through to any human agents. I vow to try again later and head inside to talk things out with Heath. I get him to agree to come outside where I set him up with some tools of his own so he can "build" something.

I get the coop built and setup in the back yard, I've only smashed my fingers with the hammer half a dozen times, which is actually quite good. Heath is pretty excited about the chickens and about visiting his grand parents, visits to the farm are always an adventure.

We pack up and jump in the truck. We take a slow, leisurely (economical) drive out to the farm, taking mostly back roads. I don't pass a single other vehicle on the way. At the farm I barely get Heath unbuckled from his seat and he's off like a shot, pausing only long enough to give his grandma a very brief hug. Then he's off again, harrying the chickens and guinea hens and searching behind every bush, under every shrub and all throughout the barn for the cats that have all run and hidden to avoid his overly affectionate and much unwanted advances.

"Kate tells me you are going to give the chickens a try." Kate's mom, Vivian, says as I approach.

"Yeah, I can't turn down free eggs any longer."

"Earl is just around back in the garden, he'll get you all set up. I'll go box up some food for you and Kate. You like peach marmalade?"

"Love it." I lie.

I find Earl in his garden, which is bigger again by half than my entire back yard. He has spent his entire life on the farm and could likely grow crops in the desert. The garden is row upon row of lush, food-producing plants, less the varieties that have already run their course and been harvested. I catch up to him between rows of cabbage.

"Bumper crop Earl." I say.

"Hi Connor, grab a hoe." He says. He does this almost every time I visit; I immediately get thrown into some kind of farm labour. Takes me back to my teen years, where summer jobs almost always involved the local agriculture. I do as requested and move a couple rows over and start weeding. "You have a place for the chickens?" He asks.

"Yes, just built it."

"Is it vermin-proof?"

"I don't know about 'proof', but it's surrounded with chicken-wire."

"Are the nest-boxes raised?"

"The what?"

"Where the hens are going to nest and lay the eggs."

"Oh, didn't think about that. Should be easy enough to modify." He glances my way, it's the look I get from time to time that says, 'why did my daughter have to marry such a city slicker?'. Which is a little unfair, I grew up outside the city, just not on a farm.

"Make sure you can secure the hen house at night, you will lose a lot of chickens in short order if something gets in there."

"Good to know. I'll lock it down."

I finish my row, getting three blisters in the process. Earl doesn't believe in gloves so none were offered and I sure as hell wasn't going to ask for any. He already likes to retell the story about the time I came across a Fox snake in his garden. It was a bit of a sissy moment, I will admit. Kate made it worse by walking over, picking it up and moving it to another location. Snakes, ugh. Still makes me shiver.

Earl inspects my work, nods and heads to the barn.

"Pull your truck back here."

I do as he says. He puts a few yellow chicks in a box and two laying hens in another and loads them into the truck bed. This is followed by a couple bales of straw, chicken feed, a watering dish and a healthy dose of sage advice about chicken husbandry. About a third of what he tells me sinks in.

"You want a cat?"

"Uh... no. Do cats and chickens go together?"

"Not entirely, but the cat might help with vermin."

"I'll hold off on the cat."

"Suit yourself. You're all loaded up, I gotta get back to the garden. Have a good day - don't forget to stop by the house on the way out, Viv has some stuff for you." With that, he turns and heads back to the garden.

"Thanks, Earl." I call after him. He just raises his hand without turning back.

 I collect Heath and drive back up to the house. Inside I find Viv has piles of boxed foodstuffs. As soon as we walk in the door she starts.

"Zucchini doesn't keep, so I made lots of zucchini bread - four loaves in this box here." She hands it to Heath, he almost topples over, I catch him just in time. "Sorry dear, that too heavy for you?"

"I got it." I say.

"This box is marmalade, pickles, jams, beets. The box below it is more of the same. Take that all out to the truck. I have a couple pies I know Heath can carry. Rhubarb and cherry."

"Thank's, that's a lot of food. You sure you should give this all away?"

"I am running out of room in the root cellar. The garden has had a very good year, Earl is so proud. We've even had to take quite a bit to the downtown market. We go at least once a week, if it weren't for the price of gas, we would go more. Have you been?"

"No, not yet. Is it good?"

"Yes, lots of people buying and selling goods. Many people are just willing to trade, so if you have something worth selling, you can do quite well. Fresh food sells very well."

"I'll have to take Kate and check it out."

"You should. Well, let's not keep those chicks waiting." She grabs a box herself and more or less shoves me out the door. After a couple trips we are all loaded up and we are off again for another slow drive home. Not slow enough though, I know Ari is still waiting for me.

* * * * *

I waste as much time getting the chickens squared away as possible, but Kate arrives home and I have no more ways to postpone my visit. I bring Merida to give Big D some company and a few minutes later I'm on Ari's porch again.

The dogs go out back and Ari takes me back out to the garage. I have spent all day trying to mentally prepare myself for another onslaught of bad news. I don't know what I am expecting, I have butterflies, he's not really saying much, but that's not unusual. He stops, I stop. My throat is dry, it feel like a have a lump of coal caught in my esophagus.

Ari puts a skipping rope in my hand. "Skip." He says.

This is unexpected.

"Cripes I haven't jumped rope since childhood. I could barely do it then."

"Then you have your work cut out for you. Skip." It's not an order, but it is. I skip. Clumsily at first, I can hardly pass the rope under my two left feet three times before I screw up.

"I will leave you to it, you don't need a spectator. Keep skipping until I come back."

Skipping is damn tiring. Some kids make it look so damn easy. It's not, it's a punishing ritual akin to self-flagellation. And since I already have the rope in hand... I spent all day dreading coming here and listening to Ari's next page of Revelations (not part of the Jewish bible, by the way, I looked that up), but now that I am looking at death by skipping, I wish Ari would come back and chat. Any topic would be fine.

Ari returns saving me from further self-abuse and humiliation. I'm gasping for breath, my calves ache and I'm drenched in sweat. He gives me a glass of water.

"Now your heart is pumping, good. Also you did not die, that is good as well." Ari says. I can't discern if he's being humourous or if he really thought the skipping might do me in.

"You need more skipping, you have no endurance. Not good."

"Yeah." I gasp. Not so much agreeing that I'm an out of shape wuss (I am), but saying yeah is the easiest non-obligatory thing I can manage. I do think I might be dying.

He takes me to another room in the basement next, the floor is thickly padded, a heavy bag hangs in the corner from the exposed floor joists. The walls are still bare cinder block and two fluorescent tubes provide the only source of light. There is a bit of a dank smell. The pump in the corning clicks on, pumping the water out from the sump.

"Life can be hard." He says, beginning a monologue. "You have to be hard, you have to match the challenges with ferocity equal to them. You know the sheep dog?"

"Yeah."

"Sheep dog - gentle among the lambs. Safe, passive, quiet, peaceful. But come the wolf and another dog comes out. Equal to the wolf, fearless, aggressive... dangerous. This is what you need to become. Right now, you are like, what's the word - uh, weinerdog?"

"Dachshund." I correct him. Maybe it's because I'm hot and tired and cramped up, but I find his current tract a bit offensive. "They can be vicious."

He scoffs at my retort, dismissing it. "Then maybe you are like fat, old beagle? A bit slow, broken teeth, no bite."

I'm getting more irate the longer he talks, I don't see what the taunting is all about. "I'm not a goddamn fat beagle, Ari."

"So are you dangerous Connor? Are you a sheep dog? What are you made of?"

I shrug. I think about just leaving him here, he can be rude Yoda all he wants, I really want no part of this, Armageddon or not.

Ari reaches around to the small of his back and pulls out an Airsoft pistol. Looks exactly like a Glock. He points it at my chest.

"Take the gun from me."

"Huh?"

"You're a dangerous man? A vicious Dachshund? I have a gun, you do not. Take my weapon, disarm me." He goads. "Be the dangerous man. Be a man, any kind of man. Take the gun. Take it!"

The gun in inches from my chest. I watch his eyes, I wait, I wait. Just one distraction is all I need. I'll show this old fucker who the fat beagle is. My eyes dart back and forth between the gun and his eyes. Wait... Wait...

The sump pump clicks on. I make my move. I slap the barrel of the gun downward with my left hand and grab his forearm with my right. I get both hands on the weapon and wrench on it with all my strength, it breaks free and I have the gun. I just disarmed some bad-ass ex-IDF dude.

"Ain't no fat beagle." I say, triumphant.

Ari is nodding slowly. He has to concede I am not as weak as he thought.

"No Connor, you are a dead beagle." He says, pointing at my chest.

Sure enough there is a little red stain, pretty much where my heart is. Gun must have gone off at some point. I didn't feel a thing though. "Damn."  I say, trying to be contrite.

"Okay, same drill." Ari says. "Point the gun at me. Head, chest, groin - wherever you like."

I take two steps forward and point the gun right between his eyes. I'm a bit pissed, I know it, he knows it. I kind of figure he will back down, not wanting to lose an eye. My mistake. My arm is wrenched with such a violent movement that my entire body involuntarily throws itself in a wide arc. The entire world spins and then I am on my back, Ari has a knee on my neck and the gun is now pointed right between my eyes.

Goddammit, I am a fat beagle.


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