logical expectation that—barring exceptional circumstances typically to do with previously accumulated wealth—the new generations would enter the workforce as soon as humanly possible and contribute, through the acquisition of financial security, to the progress of the human race. It took only the briefest look in the boy’s direction to determine the crushing futility of any instruction, no matter the type.
“I don’t know,” she said. “A degree is a degree.”
“A degree is not what I was put on this planet for.”
“I see. What were you put on this planet for?”
“Right now,” he said, rolling on top of her, “for you.” And while the attention pleased her, Anna couldn’t help but privately lament the transformation of an entire generation of would-be men into drifters and vagabonds.
She’d had the conversation with Richard Strand, of all people. He’d married at age twenty-five. By age twenty-seven, he’d held his first son in his arms. Richard Strand came from money but, still, upon marriage he’d secured a job at a bank and brought in his first paycheck. Later he’d opened a restaurant, worked eighteen-hour days, cajoled waitstaff and dishwashers, upgraded to a full liquor license, brought in chefs, changed menus, made big bucks.
“It was never a thought,” he’d said to her, “never a thought that you wouldn’t get a job and work your ass off. You had to work your ass off. You had to make money. You had a wife who wasn’t making any money. You had a kid who was a couple decades away from making any money. You had to make money. Then women started making money and look what happened.”
“Drifters,” said Anna.
“Vagabonds,” said Richard Strand.
Later that day, Anna and Ree examined the contents of six photographs on Anna’s phone. Ree shook her head. “I’d get a tetanus shot before going back in, man.”
“It’s like the apocalypse, the second coming. What kind of person manifests this kind of mayhem?”
“A kid who just dropped out of college?”
“I don’t know. I nearly dropped out of college. No place I ever lived in looked remotely like this.”
“He’s a guy. A guy living with two other guys. What are they like, by the way?”
“Major overachievers. Future pillars of the community. One picks up trash for a living, the other one grooms dogs.”
“What about him?”
“He waits tables.” They sat in silence as a shot of primordial slime on the living room carpet faded slowly to black.
“Why did he drop out?”
“We’re running out of potable water.”
Ree gave her a long, uncritical look. “I get it,” she said, “I get it. What’s he going to do with a degree in accounting when we end up with no water?”
“What’s he going to do with his bike?”
“Same thing as a degree in accounting,” said Ree, “but after a shit ton of fun.”
At home, Esperanza and Eva had the cleaning channel on. “Mamma, you need to get Espi Mop & Glo.”
Suddenly attuned to the elapsing nature of things, to the brittle ecology of all sanctuaries, Anna was quick to acquiesce. She needed these two sitting on the couch, she needed the improbable blues and oranges of the cleaning channel, she needed the dog staring miserably from under his brown cap with holes for his ears, she needed them inside with her and the rest of it outside, cast out, banished like the dark to the outer edges of her property, where the coyotes skulked and screamed and a wolf had once made a ghostly appearance in the middle of a storm, sitting immobile for hours under a thickening mantle of snow.
“I don’t like tomatoes,” Eva said at dinner, and Anna nearly gave her little girl a standing ovation, so in keeping with tradition was the objection.
“Eat your dinner,” Esperanza said, spearing a fingerling potato and examining it from every angle and in this way confirming the solidity of their arrangement, the fixity of time and space within the narrow confines of their
“I don’t know,” she said. “A degree is a degree.”
“A degree is not what I was put on this planet for.”
“I see. What were you put on this planet for?”
“Right now,” he said, rolling on top of her, “for you.” And while the attention pleased her, Anna couldn’t help but privately lament the transformation of an entire generation of would-be men into drifters and vagabonds.
She’d had the conversation with Richard Strand, of all people. He’d married at age twenty-five. By age twenty-seven, he’d held his first son in his arms. Richard Strand came from money but, still, upon marriage he’d secured a job at a bank and brought in his first paycheck. Later he’d opened a restaurant, worked eighteen-hour days, cajoled waitstaff and dishwashers, upgraded to a full liquor license, brought in chefs, changed menus, made big bucks.
“It was never a thought,” he’d said to her, “never a thought that you wouldn’t get a job and work your ass off. You had to work your ass off. You had to make money. You had a wife who wasn’t making any money. You had a kid who was a couple decades away from making any money. You had to make money. Then women started making money and look what happened.”
“Drifters,” said Anna.
“Vagabonds,” said Richard Strand.
Later that day, Anna and Ree examined the contents of six photographs on Anna’s phone. Ree shook her head. “I’d get a tetanus shot before going back in, man.”
“It’s like the apocalypse, the second coming. What kind of person manifests this kind of mayhem?”
“A kid who just dropped out of college?”
“I don’t know. I nearly dropped out of college. No place I ever lived in looked remotely like this.”
“He’s a guy. A guy living with two other guys. What are they like, by the way?”
“Major overachievers. Future pillars of the community. One picks up trash for a living, the other one grooms dogs.”
“What about him?”
“He waits tables.” They sat in silence as a shot of primordial slime on the living room carpet faded slowly to black.
“Why did he drop out?”
“We’re running out of potable water.”
Ree gave her a long, uncritical look. “I get it,” she said, “I get it. What’s he going to do with a degree in accounting when we end up with no water?”
“What’s he going to do with his bike?”
“Same thing as a degree in accounting,” said Ree, “but after a shit ton of fun.”
At home, Esperanza and Eva had the cleaning channel on. “Mamma, you need to get Espi Mop & Glo.”
Suddenly attuned to the elapsing nature of things, to the brittle ecology of all sanctuaries, Anna was quick to acquiesce. She needed these two sitting on the couch, she needed the improbable blues and oranges of the cleaning channel, she needed the dog staring miserably from under his brown cap with holes for his ears, she needed them inside with her and the rest of it outside, cast out, banished like the dark to the outer edges of her property, where the coyotes skulked and screamed and a wolf had once made a ghostly appearance in the middle of a storm, sitting immobile for hours under a thickening mantle of snow.
“I don’t like tomatoes,” Eva said at dinner, and Anna nearly gave her little girl a standing ovation, so in keeping with tradition was the objection.
“Eat your dinner,” Esperanza said, spearing a fingerling potato and examining it from every angle and in this way confirming the solidity of their arrangement, the fixity of time and space within the narrow confines of their
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