cocktail lounge 2,500 kilometres away from home. Online he was such a charmer. Karen had thought he would touch her body gently and methodically — this body that needs some hands on it quickly — as though he were at the bank counting a stack of twenties.
Warren’s hands were rubbing the rim of his highball glass. Rick appeared and, to her surprise, handed Karen her second drink of the afternoon. Warren asked, “Feeling better?” and, oddly, she was. And that was the point when Warren yelled out, “Jesus H. Christ, oil just went to $250 a barrel!”
Warren and Karen sat transfixed, watching a CP24 newscaster interrupt regular news to show images of OPEC leaders fleeing a São Paulo hotel dining room after a large explosion of some sort. The news crawl beneath it reported light crude oil listing on the Dow at US$251.16 a barrel.
Warren said to Karen, “Is that for real? Holy shit . Just like they said.”
Rick looked at Karen and asked with genuine amazement, “They? Who’s they?”
Karen said, “Actually, it was just this one guy named Hubbert.”
Rick asked, “Who’s Hubbert?”
Warren said, “Dr. Marion King Hubbert was a Shell Oil geologist who predicted in 1956 that US domestic oil production would peak around 1970 and that global production would peak around 2000.”
“And . . . ?”
Warren continued, “That production peak is called Hubbert’s Peak. And it looks like it’s finally happened.”
As an aside, Karen said, “The 1970s oil shock set his calendar back by a decade. But he was right.”
“How on earth do you people know this?”
“It’s kind of weird,” Karen said. “We met in a — God, this is so embarrassing — a Peak Oil Apocalypse chat room.”
“Man,” Warren said, “wouldn’t Hubbert freak to see oil over $250 a barrel.”
Rick said, “You mean you two actually did meet in a Peak Oil Apocalypse chat room?”
Warren said, “Yeah, so what? There are a lot of collapsitarians like me out there.”
Karen, slightly embarrassed, added, “I was in a dark patch — visiting the doom and gloom sites — we all do that sometimes. God knows there are enough of them.”
“Look!” Warren shouted. “Look at the crawl: oil just hit $290 a barrel!”
And then the bar’s power went out, just long enough for everyone to think, Oooooooooooh . And then the power returned, but the TV’s cable connection was dead.
Rick
Rick looks over at the high-tipping Mr. Trainwreck now trying to pick up Miss Ginger Ale, or . . . or what, exactly, is going on there? What’s the deal with Miss Ginger Ale? None of her gestures make any sense to Rick; she seems to have some kind of genetic malfunction; she’s like one of those Japanese department store greeting robots he’s seen on YouTube.
There is a lull in their conversation, so he heads over that way, and Miss Ginger Ale looks at Rick and says, “Did you know that every human being on earth is related to a single woman who existed 160,000 years ago in a place we now commonly call France?”
“Seriously?” said Rick. “Related to every person on earth?”
“Yes.”
“Man, she must have been one total slut.”
Mr. Trainwreck snorts, then swallows the Scotch in his mouth and has a belly laugh, which seems to confuse Miss Ginger Ale. But Rick has done his job as bartender — enlivening the lives of his guests — and he walks to the rear of the bar and inspects the ice machine, which has been on the fritz of late. While fiddling with its guts, Rick is, of course, wondering, Where is Leslie Freemont? Is Leslie Freemont bailing on his meeting with me? Rick looks at his phone: Leslie is fifteen minutes late. Where is he! Where is he! Where is he! And for that matter, where is all the gardening equipment that was stolen along with my truck? And for that matter, where is the better version of myself that I’ve been hoping for since high school?
In moments like these, when time slows to a crawl, Rick wishes he could start
Warren’s hands were rubbing the rim of his highball glass. Rick appeared and, to her surprise, handed Karen her second drink of the afternoon. Warren asked, “Feeling better?” and, oddly, she was. And that was the point when Warren yelled out, “Jesus H. Christ, oil just went to $250 a barrel!”
Warren and Karen sat transfixed, watching a CP24 newscaster interrupt regular news to show images of OPEC leaders fleeing a São Paulo hotel dining room after a large explosion of some sort. The news crawl beneath it reported light crude oil listing on the Dow at US$251.16 a barrel.
Warren said to Karen, “Is that for real? Holy shit . Just like they said.”
Rick looked at Karen and asked with genuine amazement, “They? Who’s they?”
Karen said, “Actually, it was just this one guy named Hubbert.”
Rick asked, “Who’s Hubbert?”
Warren said, “Dr. Marion King Hubbert was a Shell Oil geologist who predicted in 1956 that US domestic oil production would peak around 1970 and that global production would peak around 2000.”
“And . . . ?”
Warren continued, “That production peak is called Hubbert’s Peak. And it looks like it’s finally happened.”
As an aside, Karen said, “The 1970s oil shock set his calendar back by a decade. But he was right.”
“How on earth do you people know this?”
“It’s kind of weird,” Karen said. “We met in a — God, this is so embarrassing — a Peak Oil Apocalypse chat room.”
“Man,” Warren said, “wouldn’t Hubbert freak to see oil over $250 a barrel.”
Rick said, “You mean you two actually did meet in a Peak Oil Apocalypse chat room?”
Warren said, “Yeah, so what? There are a lot of collapsitarians like me out there.”
Karen, slightly embarrassed, added, “I was in a dark patch — visiting the doom and gloom sites — we all do that sometimes. God knows there are enough of them.”
“Look!” Warren shouted. “Look at the crawl: oil just hit $290 a barrel!”
And then the bar’s power went out, just long enough for everyone to think, Oooooooooooh . And then the power returned, but the TV’s cable connection was dead.
Rick
Rick looks over at the high-tipping Mr. Trainwreck now trying to pick up Miss Ginger Ale, or . . . or what, exactly, is going on there? What’s the deal with Miss Ginger Ale? None of her gestures make any sense to Rick; she seems to have some kind of genetic malfunction; she’s like one of those Japanese department store greeting robots he’s seen on YouTube.
There is a lull in their conversation, so he heads over that way, and Miss Ginger Ale looks at Rick and says, “Did you know that every human being on earth is related to a single woman who existed 160,000 years ago in a place we now commonly call France?”
“Seriously?” said Rick. “Related to every person on earth?”
“Yes.”
“Man, she must have been one total slut.”
Mr. Trainwreck snorts, then swallows the Scotch in his mouth and has a belly laugh, which seems to confuse Miss Ginger Ale. But Rick has done his job as bartender — enlivening the lives of his guests — and he walks to the rear of the bar and inspects the ice machine, which has been on the fritz of late. While fiddling with its guts, Rick is, of course, wondering, Where is Leslie Freemont? Is Leslie Freemont bailing on his meeting with me? Rick looks at his phone: Leslie is fifteen minutes late. Where is he! Where is he! Where is he! And for that matter, where is all the gardening equipment that was stolen along with my truck? And for that matter, where is the better version of myself that I’ve been hoping for since high school?
In moments like these, when time slows to a crawl, Rick wishes he could start
Similar Books
