We Are Unprepared by Meg Little Reilly Page B

me laughing around a rustic wood table, and I became suddenly aware of my aloneness. Normally, I wouldn’t mind having a beer on my own, but I wasn’t up for it at that moment, so I kept walking. When I got to Polly’s, the darker, sadder townie bar several doors down, I opened the door.
    Polly’s smelled like old cigarettes and my feet felt sticky on the worn carpet as I stepped to the bar. There was one other patron in the room—a large, red-faced man at the far end of the bar who was busy circling things in the classified newspaper pages before him.
    â€œWhat can I getcha?” a petite, female bartender asked me as I took a stool. “We have draft Bud. Everything else is cans and bottles.”
    She wore a tiny cropped shirt that appeared to be constructed of macramé over a denim miniskirt. It was distracting how much of her body I could see and I was grateful for the curtain of dark hair that hung behind her. How old could she have possibly been—twenty-two, maybe? I couldn’t tell.
    â€œBudweiser is fine, thanks,” I said. “Are you guys always this quiet on Tuesdays?” I couldn’t think of anything more interesting to say than that.
    â€œYep, until the preppers let out. Then we get another wave.”
    I tried to look casual in my curiosity. “Oh right, the preppers. So what’s the deal with them anyway?”
    She handed me my beer and started drying glass mugs, one hip gently leaning against the sink in front of her.
    â€œThey’re freaks,” she said matter-of-factly. “I get some weirdos in here, you know? But these guys are, like, totally paranoid. And they never shut up about it. They come in here all fired up after their meetings and lecture me about how I need some kind of bunker for when the end of the world comes. I tell them, if the apocalypse comes, I’m not sticking around this shitty world anyhow.”
    â€œYeah, they sound really weird.” I nodded into my beer.
    She stopped drying mugs for a moment and looked up at me. “So what’s your deal? You’re not our usual type. You hiding from a girlfriend or something?”
    â€œKind of,” I said.
    â€œThat’s what I figured. Not like it’s such a genius guess—most guys are doing that. But you’re more of a Frog type,” she said, referring to my original destination. “I bet you guys live up the hill in an old house, and you’ve got a little organic garden and some nice wine in your basement. What’s wrong with your life that you gotta hide? Sounds nice to me. Did you cheat?”
    It was embarrassing and somehow emasculating to be summed up so neatly by this tough little girl.
    â€œNo, I didn’t cheat. And we hardly have any nice wine at all!”
    I smiled and she tossed her head back to laugh. This was the first time I had spoken with anyone other than Pia in days and the conversation was refreshing.
    â€œI just needed some air, I guess,” I said, sipping my beer.
    â€œThat’s what everyone says when things are going bad.”
    â€œOh, no, things aren’t bad . I wouldn’t say that. Just not good tonight.”
    â€œSounds like the same thing to me, but what the hell do I know?” she said. “I’ve been living in this town my whole life.”
    â€œI love it here.”
    â€œSure, because you don’t have to be here,” the bartender said as she dried one mug after another with great efficiency. “I wouldn’t even care if I was in another shitty town, you know? It just wouldn’t be the one I grew up in. That’s the difference.”
    I was sure that I didn’t know what she meant, but I nodded my head like our problems were all about the same.
    â€œAnyhow,” she went on, “I got a friend who runs a fancy bar on Martha’s Vineyard, and as soon as I have enough savings, I’m going to meet her there. I figure it will be like a working